WARNING: One portion of this chapter contains some material that might be offensive. I needed to spell something out that plays into an upcoming chapter. However... if there is a problem... I will gladly remove it. -- elle

Chapter 87

Watcher Compound

"This deal is getting increasingly messy," Julius Wilderman muttered to Claire Romney. "I truly think this man is mad."

Claire nodded almost imperceptibly but said nothing. Around here… even the walls had ears.

Wilderman punched mathematical formulas into his PPC and grimaced. "We are moving too fast with this project. There are too many variables. Why won't he listen to me?"

"He wants results," Claire replied evenly, hoping that those words could not be used against her.

Wilderman sighed. "I'll get the other one. You finish up with number 47." His eyes traveled over the restrained form of this specimen. At first, Rawlins had wanted to save this one until they had all the problems solved… until they fully understood what was happening. But in the last twelve hours he'd railed and insisted it was time.

"Without his dream partner… we may get nowhere," Wilderman had warned Rawlins.

"You said you were beginning to force them to cooperate… true?" When Wilderman nodded, Henry Rawlins had smiled. "Then force this one. Double the doses again… but force him. Drag his partner into the dream with him."

"That much will kill him… or leave him brain dead," Wilderman had explained.

"If he dies… he'll be back. And if his brain dies… you'll follow him into death. Do whatever it takes Julius. I have faith in you… but I want results."

So Wilderman had no choice. He'd spent the past few hours observing older and older specimens as they bent to his will… as they entered the dream scenarios and performed as expected… no longer fighting the stimuli. Following the last several experiments… one of every pair had flat-lined. They still lived… but whether they'd ever have cognitive minds again was uncertain. He had to do something… or all his data… all his hopes for the future… for mankind… would be lost in one man's mad desire for understanding.

Wilderman stopped at the cubicle of number 12 and swept the curtain aside.

Jacko… number 12's handler jerked his hand from between her legs and looked at Wilderman guiltily. Wilderman let out a small controlled breath. He'd known for some time that some of the handlers were mistreating the specimens. Some in shaving their charges purposely sliced them open and watched wide-eyed as they healed. Some had taken to betting on how long it took for certain specimens to revive if they were killed. And then there was this. The female specimens were often raped or fondled. The males sometimes stroked as handlers tried to elicit responses from them. Wilderman did not condone any of this… but as it did not impinge on his experiments… he'd turned a blind eye to all of it.

"We need number 12," he said flatly.

Jacko looked askance. "But I thought she was to be saved for later."

"So did I… but her test has been moved up. I need her in fifteen minutes." Wilderman pivoted and marched out… his stomach in knots as he thought about what he was allowing to go on in this place. Was this any more humane than what the Nazis had done during World War II? He shuddered, recalling those days of his childhood and the camps. For a moment he smelled again the stench of the ovens. He'd sworn when freed that never again would anything like that ever happen.

"These aren't people," Rawlins had insisted when they'd begun gathering the specimens. But they were people. The tests had proven it. They were just people who couldn't die permanently unless their heads were removed. Other than that one that Rawlins had insisted on killing for the data… the specimens lived… if one could call it living. Wilderman feared he had become his own worst enemy. He had become the new Joseph Mengele. His name would now be spoken… not in honor… but in hushed and horrified tones by others. Julius Wilderman… he's the scientist who tortured the immortals. Tears sprang to Wilderman's eyes and he ducked into a cubicle where only a flat-lined immortal lay. Placing a hand over his own eyes… Wilderman sobbed for himself… for his dreams of a Nobel Prize… and for the lives of these people that he was destroying.

-----

Jacko ran warm water into the basin and added the soap. He rubbed the soap against the sponge and then stared at his charge.

"It seems our time is nearly done." He always talked to her. He was, in fact, fond of the woman… in his own way." He dragged the sheet from her and leered at her perfectly formed body. He let one hand trace along her side softly until it cupped one breast. Closing his eyes he massaged it. It was important to massage and work the limbs of the charges… so that they maintained muscle tone and strength. Or so he'd been told, although he didn't think the teachers at the nurses training school had meant this sort of massage. He pinched her. Her placid face showed no response.

In the early days, they'd responded to some physical stimuli. But when some of them had begun to fight their way out of the drugs… the dosage had been increased. Now… none of them responded any longer.

Jacko squeezed the sponge and began to wash her. He'd shaved her head yesterday… so that he would not have to do that today. That gave him a few precious moments.

Glancing at the closed curtain Jacko rested the sponge high between her legs and inched his fingers around it to caress her. With his other hand… he reached up and slowly stopped the flow of drugs. He'd have to be careful… but he'd already put the restraints on… there was no way she could get free.

He began to lick his lips and breath shallowly as he worked his hand.

A small gasp escaped from her parted lips. He leaned to kiss her… inserting his tongue into her mouth and teasing it about. His hand worked faster. Her leg muscles tightened and her hips began to tilt. He worked faster. One hand on the IV… ready to open the flow once more… one hand massaging number 12. He began to shiver himself and knew that her responding to him this day would surely mean he would as well.

Her eyes snapped open as she stared at him wildly. He opened the flow and then slammed his free hand over her mouth as he continued to caress her.

Her eyes glazed over and she lay as one dead.

Jacko pulled back the hand over her mouth and took care of himself… groaning in pleasure. When finished… he calmly took the sponge he'd been using to wash her and washed himself.

He adjusted his uniform… kissed number 12 goodbye… and wheeled her down to the laboratory area where he left her with the technicians there. He watched as they inserted probes into her head and tightened the restraints. They hooked a new set of solutions to her IV, and inserted a barrage of medications into the line as certain levels were reached. Glancing at the fabled number 47, Jacko had no hope that his charge would emerge with her mind intact. Sadly he kissed his fingers, aware of the scent of her still on them, and gestured toward her. "Goodbye number 12," he said, pivoted, and walked away.

In the lab area behind him… Jacko could hear Wilderman's voice as he counted down until they'd begin the experiment.

Above on the catwalk… Henry Rawlins smirked in anticipation. Finally… he would have his answers. He nodded at the attendant who'd brought number 12… chuckling over the man's apparent fascination for his charge. Rawlins had seen everything. He always did. He was himself a bit excited. Perhaps he'd get one of the female technicians to help ease his tension later in celebration. He eyed Claire Romney. She was close to Wilderman… perhaps he could get some information out of her that Wilderman had yet to share.

Rawlins breathed out raggedly, aware that he was more worked up than normal. Too bad there wasn't time before this experiment for a real relaxation. Rawlins closed his eyes briefly and recalled the very talented Meaghann Reilly. Once finished here… he thought he just might pay another call on her… or have her brought to him. She was in a cell on one of the upper levels. He'd kept her alive… hoping against hope for the day when he could use her to trap MacLeod. That day had never come. But, as he'd told her years ago, she had other talents, and other ways to keep him happy.

-----

Athens

Ursa stared nervously out the gate. He'd been increasingly nervous and aware that he needed to be elsewhere. He didn't know how… and he didn't know why… but the oldest voices within him were screaming that Nestor was free once more.

Ursa did not believe this. They had to be lying to him. Usually the Old Ones said little… and what they did say often made no sense to him. But Nestor was dead. His voice lived in Nick… but was trapped. He couldn't be free.

Ursa held his hands to his head and closed his eyes. He moaned as the yammering of a thousand tongues lashed at him in unknown words. He whirled about the small courtyard… slamming into the table and upsetting the chairs. He had to stop this before it went too far. He had to get to Nick!

Sweeping his great bladed scythe from where it rested, he strode across the courtyard and pulled mightily at the locked gates. They broke free with a wrench. Ursa tossed the gates to the ground and passed through the opening.

Behind him he heard the small one cry out… begging him to stop and stay with her. One of a thousand voices reminded him that he was to protect the small ones until the Gathering. He shook his head and continued down the street… oblivious of the stares. His walk became a lope and his lope was finally a slow run down the narrow winding streets. His eyes were on the ocean and the boats. They'd come by boat… he'd get a boat and go back. Somehow he'd know where to go.

He heard whistles and cries about him as men held others back while some men closed about him. Ursa swung his great blade with a roar. Why didn't they understand? Didn't the others know he would protect them as well? They should withdraw and let him go on his way. But as it had always been… from the first of the memories he still had… the others surrounded him. They pushed at him… they poked him… and now… today… they fired stinging pellets at him. He swept them all before him. He would not be stopped. The others hung from him his arms and his legs. Hands grasped at his head and the pellets kept coming. Finally he staggered. His strength ebbed. Blood poured from a dozen small holes. He fell to his knees.

"Stop it!" he heard the small one say and attempt to her way through to him. "Stop it… don't hurt him?" she cried.

One of the uniformed others swept the small one into his arms and carried her away. Ursa could hear her calling for him. But it was time to sleep. Everything was so very dark. Everything was moving so slowly. Even the voices and cries of the others were slow and deep as his own. He swept his blade before him once more and then tumbled into darkness.

On the edge of the crowd… a man spoke into his cell phone. "Found him!"