Chapter Six
Dr James Dawson sat awkwardly on his over-cluttered desk, a coffee in one hand and a men's interest magazine in the other. He had gone well over his twenty-minute lunch break, but continued to turn the pages with almost clockwork frequency. He slowed from time to time, to look over anything that caught his eye, but his mind wasn't fully switched on. The amount of reading that took place was almost non-existent. Sometimes he considered retreating to his dormitory quarters with the magazine, but he would be called upon eventually. The pieces of fuck that ran the place always found him: they had fucking cameras everywhere.
There was a knock on the door of his office. What did they want now? Another fucking stool sample to be taken? He shifted in his seat, knocking several papers and magazines on the office floor. Cursing, he shouted for the knocker to enter. A tall man in smartly pressed military uniform craned his head around the half open door frame. Bender, thought Dawson.
"Sorry to disturb you sir, but you've been requested by the medical bay." The soldier paused for a reaction. Receiving none, he continued, "I've been ordered to accompany you there."
The Doctor gave no indication that he had heard the uniformed man other than a sharp curse that lead from his pursed lips. He continued to look at his coffee cup for a few seconds longer, as though considering one last sip, until the gangly soldier prompted him again.
"Sir?"
Dr Dawson finally rose, rather clumsily, from his desk, sending yet more magazines sliding along the polished ground towards the soldier's feet. He walked noisily toward the door and allowed the escort to hold it open for him before storming off down the silvery-grey corridor, his large and ungainly form moving from side to side. The soldier closed the office door as swiftly as his highly trained movements would allow before marching with difficulty after the fast-advancing medic.
Dawson had always thought it goddamn queer how cheerful, almost happy, the other doctors seemed to be with their jobs at the complex. To him it was do this, clean that, carry the shit through here, pick your money up on the way out over and over, with only one of those actions appealing to him in any way. The others daydreamed their way around the place like it was their idea of heaven, a heaven that they'd built. Hell, they even talked to each other about it. He knew all the looks they gave him when he turned his back rather than join in their admiration for the base and its history. Pity him? They should take a good look at themselves, fucking puffs.
He passed the vending machine and slowed his pace. He had only had one burger for lunch in his haste to get back to the magazine. He stopped and checked his pockets for change, looking longingly at the last Mars bar.
"Sir?" The soldier addressed him again. Ignoring him, Dawson counted out thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-six cents. Damn, just short. "They said it was urgent," the soldier continued. Fuck you sergeant, Dawson thought to himself.
"I'm sorry, Sergeant," said Dawson, fully aware that the soldier fell well below that rank. He allowed himself a giggle at his joke. "I'll just be a second." He imagined the look on the fucker's face as he searched his shirt pocket.
The guard waited patiently for Dawson to find the extra four cents he needed from his pants pocket and slot three of them into the machine, and then for him to retrieve the fourth from underneath the vender.
"Want a bite?" Dawson asked of the soldier when he finally pulled the chocolate from the vending flap.
"Sir, we should be moving on," the man replied. His face remained as without emotion as he could manage. "They expected you five minutes ago."
Dawson took a second to indulge himself in a fantasy of the soldier before him dying of AIDS in a lonely military hospital with only his male bitch and a few superiors waiting for him to pass on. Maybe then they'd take the rod out of his ass.
"Yes Sergeant," Dawson smiled again. "Sorry Sergeant."
They walked on through the winding corridors and twisting narrow staircases of the base toward the medical wing, Dawson munching his Mars bar slowly. When they finally arrived at the entrance, the officer stepped to the side of the sliding doors opposite another guard. They saluted upwards as Dawson walked between them. He shoved the empty chocolate wrapper into his pocket and felt it stick to the trouser leg lining. He wiped his smudged hands on his pants and grinned at the two guards, before stepping swiftly through the retracting automatic door.
The blue light struck Doctor James Dawson's eyes like an I-beam and made him turn his head away. Bright lights had always made him nervous. Just then, someone called his name and, turning to the right, he viewed his addresser. Although the light had skewed his vision momentarily, he instantly recognised the man as his immediate superior, Doctor Alan Monroe. It was common knowledge that Monroe, having worked with and under some of the best medical doctors in the western world (including one David Rene), was a capable but arrogant physician. He'd come far since his days as a military field medic, and didn't let many forget it. Even worse in Dawson's eyes, he was black. Just what he needed, today of all days: a nigger with a superiority complex. His temples twinged with aggravation.
"Dawson," he repeated sharply. Dawson squinted and murmured an acknowledgement. "What took you so long?"
"Damn guard," Dawson replied. "Had to stop to tie his bootlaces." Monroe looked at him strangely. As part of his regimen, Monroe always addressed people by their surnames. People said it was a sign that you had not yet earned his respect, an assumption Dawson would regard as bullshit.
"Be that as it may, we needed you here ten minutes ago," Monroe barked. "The subject has completed his second session."
"With what results?" Dawson inquired with feigned interest.
Monroe gave him another piercing glance. "The same as the other fifty- fucking-two today: negative. He's not cracking." Monroe sighed, and turned his head toward the floor. "It only took Ling twenty-five to make that other sumbitch say he was "no-one"." This was not a sign of disrespect: hardly anyone spoke of Ling by his first name.
They began to walk towards the interview room's door. "What's Ling saying?" In the years he'd known Doctor Ling, Dawson only ever had one opinion of him: stuck up, scary bastard. But he'd never known him to fail.
"He's saying that the results are bound to be different. This one is the real deal, the other was merely a failed test."
"I knew he'd have an excuse. He'll be blaming Clark again next." Dawson sniggered.
Monroe was silent. Everyone knew how much he respected Ling, but it was also everyone's knowledge that Monroe would reach to the moon and back to kiss a Patriot backside.
They came to the cell's retinal scanner. Monroe went first, placing his cranium in the scanner's blue beam. The beam turned a light green, and did so again when Dawson squeezed his head into the socket. If Dawson was alone he would have been unable to enter, such was the base's security levels.
The interview room, gleaming with steel reflective light, had earned the nickname "The Cell" among medical staff and privileged guards who had chanced to see it. The metal beams bent the Cell upwards into a spherical shape, and the steel bars that ran across gave the room the appearance of a round jail cell window.
Strapped to the furthest wall from the entrance was a man, or at least the semblance of a man. His head, once covered in long brown locks, had been shaved bald to the scalp and hung limp on his chest. He was naked, and looking at him made Dawson nervous. His entire body was blanketed in electro-burns.
"Is he unconscious?" Dawson asked. The air around the prisoner was humid and smelled of burned meat.
"Yeah," Monroe answered. He began to undo the man's manacles.
"I don't care what Ling says," Dawson iterated. "He looks exactly the same as the last one." Monroe undid the last strap, and the man slid to the floor, facing up. His eyelids flickered irregularly, and the bloodshot whites of his eyes could be seen. "'Cept the other one never did that."
"Apparently, he calls out in his sleep too. Something about a liquid." Monroe lifted him by his arms. "You gonna just stand there, Dawson?"
Dawson gripped the man's legs and together they lay him down on the table that rose from the Cell's floor. The cold metal froze Dawson's hands, and he pulled away quickly.
"Shall we do this formally?" Monroe inquired. "Or just fix the bastard up?"
"Might as well fill out the papers," Dawson grunted. It's more than my fucking job's worth with Ling around, thought Dawson.
Monroe sighed and raised his personal mike to his mouth and announced: "Subject number: 2A. Personnel: Monroe, Alan Malcolm, PhD and Dawson, James, MD." Monroe clicked the mike off. "Now shall we begin?"
Dawson didn't feel like exchanging pleasantries. "Subject covered with electricity burns, possible third and second degree..." he began, prompting Monroe to once again click his mike on. "...On both arms, right leg and upper torso."
"Personnel Monroe applying iodine," Monroe unscrewed a bottle of dark blue liquid and dabbed it on to the subject's numerous wounds before bandaging them with surgical aids. "Ready to turn him over?"
"Let's do it." Dawson pretended to help Monroe turn the man's body over but actually let the surgeon do it himself. When the man was face down, Dawson immediately noticed the thin cut in his back. It looked like something had been slid clean through the skin. "Penetration wound to the lower abdomen, possible knife attack"
"We've already treated that," Monroe growled, switching the microphone off as he said it. "He had that when Ling brought him in." This surprised Dawson. The wound was pretty deep, and it looked fresh. Fucking cowboys.
"How did we capture him?" Dawson asked. "Isn't he an international terrorist?" Dawson knew just enough about current affairs to recognise the man as the sinker of the tanker Discovery a few years back. Dawson never understood why everyone saw the sinking as such a big deal: a few dolphins get their gills an extra oil coat, so what?
"We got lucky. Our agents were doing a routine surveillance check of Manhattan and found this mutherfucker kicking seven shades of shit outta some poor hobo."
Great, thought Dawson. First this guy coats a few seagulls, now he's clearing up those lazy homeless bastards. "Hope he goes after the niggers next," murmured Dawson.
"Huh?" Monroe gave him another look.
"Nothin'." Dawson thought about the queue-less vending machine. "You wanna turn the tape back on and we can finish up?"
The recorder was once again turned on with a swift click.
"Bruises to the back of the head... did our boys do that to him?" Monroe spoke, switching the recorder off in mid-sentence.
"Musta done," Dawson said. How the fuck was he supposed to know? All he was ever told was which way it was to the bathroom, and even then they hid the toilet paper. "Superficial lacerations to the temple."
"Who did that?"
Dawson was about to get really annoyed when the hum of the Cell's far door announced that company was to be expected. Both men rose from their standing slouches when they saw who it was. Dawson even began a vain attempt hold in his stomach, but gave up when the futility of it struck him.
"Gentlemen," the cool, crisp voice of Dr Nicolas Ling echoed eerily around the room. "I'll be brief. I have received word from Our Mutual Friends. I have new posts for each of you."
Dawson broke a sweat. He looked across the table at Monroe. His hands shook like feathers in the wind.
"James," Ling had begun to walk towards him. A more fitting description would be stroll: Ling walked like he hadn't a care in the world, occasionally stopping to roll his head up at the ceiling. He had the stance of a man who was taking his Sunday morning walk through the local park. "You've been removed from the project. You'll now help train our newest member and aid her in the assistance of our new subject."
"What... what about this subject?" Monroe's voice cracked. "Are we disposing of him?"
"Results have not been positive. His purpose has been altered." Ling spoke in such a manner of fact way that Dawson was surprised when Monroe spoke again.
"This new member... is it Rene's prodigy that you told us about?"
Ling paused for a few moments, before finally answering: "Your assumption is correct."
This conversation was passing Dawson by, but he wouldn't have it any other way. Talking to Ling sent chills down his spine. Monroe looked bigger in his eyes than ever before. But then, he hadn't just been assigned to baby sit one of Rene's snot-nosed kids.
"And what is my new job?" Monroe grew bolder. "I thought that I was gonna work here for the next six months at least?"
The corners of Ling's mouth curled into a strange smile, one the likes of neither man had seen before. The cold grey of his eyes transfixed them both.
"I shall show you to your new quarters myself," Ling finally answered.
"But Doctor, we haven't finished the autopsy..." Monroe began, but his voice trailed off when his eyes once again fell on Ling's. Ling beckoned with his hand, and Monroe left the table and walked gingerly towards the door, shaking uncharacteristically like a leaf. He exited first, but just before Dawson was about to be left alone with the patient Ling turned and held up his long, twisted index finger, as though he had forgotten something.
"Dawson, your new occupation will start the day after tomorrow when Ms Markova arrives. She is young, headstrong, but will be easily moulded." Ling smiled again. "Even by an ill-educated buffoon such as yourself."
"Yes, sir, Doctor Ling," Dawson repeated robotically. He daren't even think anything against Ling while the old conjurer was occupying the same breathing space, let alone say anything. He held his breath again, wondering momentarily where Monroe was being taken. The man on the autopsy table began to stir.
Ling turned to leave, but once again stopped. "Oh, and James?" He began. "Sedate this worthless bastard and strap him back up against the wall." He motioned at the man on the table, and left without another word.
--
Author's note: So, what do you think? Longer, wasn't it? More satisfying, do you feel? Tell me what you think in your review. Now.
Dr James Dawson sat awkwardly on his over-cluttered desk, a coffee in one hand and a men's interest magazine in the other. He had gone well over his twenty-minute lunch break, but continued to turn the pages with almost clockwork frequency. He slowed from time to time, to look over anything that caught his eye, but his mind wasn't fully switched on. The amount of reading that took place was almost non-existent. Sometimes he considered retreating to his dormitory quarters with the magazine, but he would be called upon eventually. The pieces of fuck that ran the place always found him: they had fucking cameras everywhere.
There was a knock on the door of his office. What did they want now? Another fucking stool sample to be taken? He shifted in his seat, knocking several papers and magazines on the office floor. Cursing, he shouted for the knocker to enter. A tall man in smartly pressed military uniform craned his head around the half open door frame. Bender, thought Dawson.
"Sorry to disturb you sir, but you've been requested by the medical bay." The soldier paused for a reaction. Receiving none, he continued, "I've been ordered to accompany you there."
The Doctor gave no indication that he had heard the uniformed man other than a sharp curse that lead from his pursed lips. He continued to look at his coffee cup for a few seconds longer, as though considering one last sip, until the gangly soldier prompted him again.
"Sir?"
Dr Dawson finally rose, rather clumsily, from his desk, sending yet more magazines sliding along the polished ground towards the soldier's feet. He walked noisily toward the door and allowed the escort to hold it open for him before storming off down the silvery-grey corridor, his large and ungainly form moving from side to side. The soldier closed the office door as swiftly as his highly trained movements would allow before marching with difficulty after the fast-advancing medic.
Dawson had always thought it goddamn queer how cheerful, almost happy, the other doctors seemed to be with their jobs at the complex. To him it was do this, clean that, carry the shit through here, pick your money up on the way out over and over, with only one of those actions appealing to him in any way. The others daydreamed their way around the place like it was their idea of heaven, a heaven that they'd built. Hell, they even talked to each other about it. He knew all the looks they gave him when he turned his back rather than join in their admiration for the base and its history. Pity him? They should take a good look at themselves, fucking puffs.
He passed the vending machine and slowed his pace. He had only had one burger for lunch in his haste to get back to the magazine. He stopped and checked his pockets for change, looking longingly at the last Mars bar.
"Sir?" The soldier addressed him again. Ignoring him, Dawson counted out thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-six cents. Damn, just short. "They said it was urgent," the soldier continued. Fuck you sergeant, Dawson thought to himself.
"I'm sorry, Sergeant," said Dawson, fully aware that the soldier fell well below that rank. He allowed himself a giggle at his joke. "I'll just be a second." He imagined the look on the fucker's face as he searched his shirt pocket.
The guard waited patiently for Dawson to find the extra four cents he needed from his pants pocket and slot three of them into the machine, and then for him to retrieve the fourth from underneath the vender.
"Want a bite?" Dawson asked of the soldier when he finally pulled the chocolate from the vending flap.
"Sir, we should be moving on," the man replied. His face remained as without emotion as he could manage. "They expected you five minutes ago."
Dawson took a second to indulge himself in a fantasy of the soldier before him dying of AIDS in a lonely military hospital with only his male bitch and a few superiors waiting for him to pass on. Maybe then they'd take the rod out of his ass.
"Yes Sergeant," Dawson smiled again. "Sorry Sergeant."
They walked on through the winding corridors and twisting narrow staircases of the base toward the medical wing, Dawson munching his Mars bar slowly. When they finally arrived at the entrance, the officer stepped to the side of the sliding doors opposite another guard. They saluted upwards as Dawson walked between them. He shoved the empty chocolate wrapper into his pocket and felt it stick to the trouser leg lining. He wiped his smudged hands on his pants and grinned at the two guards, before stepping swiftly through the retracting automatic door.
The blue light struck Doctor James Dawson's eyes like an I-beam and made him turn his head away. Bright lights had always made him nervous. Just then, someone called his name and, turning to the right, he viewed his addresser. Although the light had skewed his vision momentarily, he instantly recognised the man as his immediate superior, Doctor Alan Monroe. It was common knowledge that Monroe, having worked with and under some of the best medical doctors in the western world (including one David Rene), was a capable but arrogant physician. He'd come far since his days as a military field medic, and didn't let many forget it. Even worse in Dawson's eyes, he was black. Just what he needed, today of all days: a nigger with a superiority complex. His temples twinged with aggravation.
"Dawson," he repeated sharply. Dawson squinted and murmured an acknowledgement. "What took you so long?"
"Damn guard," Dawson replied. "Had to stop to tie his bootlaces." Monroe looked at him strangely. As part of his regimen, Monroe always addressed people by their surnames. People said it was a sign that you had not yet earned his respect, an assumption Dawson would regard as bullshit.
"Be that as it may, we needed you here ten minutes ago," Monroe barked. "The subject has completed his second session."
"With what results?" Dawson inquired with feigned interest.
Monroe gave him another piercing glance. "The same as the other fifty- fucking-two today: negative. He's not cracking." Monroe sighed, and turned his head toward the floor. "It only took Ling twenty-five to make that other sumbitch say he was "no-one"." This was not a sign of disrespect: hardly anyone spoke of Ling by his first name.
They began to walk towards the interview room's door. "What's Ling saying?" In the years he'd known Doctor Ling, Dawson only ever had one opinion of him: stuck up, scary bastard. But he'd never known him to fail.
"He's saying that the results are bound to be different. This one is the real deal, the other was merely a failed test."
"I knew he'd have an excuse. He'll be blaming Clark again next." Dawson sniggered.
Monroe was silent. Everyone knew how much he respected Ling, but it was also everyone's knowledge that Monroe would reach to the moon and back to kiss a Patriot backside.
They came to the cell's retinal scanner. Monroe went first, placing his cranium in the scanner's blue beam. The beam turned a light green, and did so again when Dawson squeezed his head into the socket. If Dawson was alone he would have been unable to enter, such was the base's security levels.
The interview room, gleaming with steel reflective light, had earned the nickname "The Cell" among medical staff and privileged guards who had chanced to see it. The metal beams bent the Cell upwards into a spherical shape, and the steel bars that ran across gave the room the appearance of a round jail cell window.
Strapped to the furthest wall from the entrance was a man, or at least the semblance of a man. His head, once covered in long brown locks, had been shaved bald to the scalp and hung limp on his chest. He was naked, and looking at him made Dawson nervous. His entire body was blanketed in electro-burns.
"Is he unconscious?" Dawson asked. The air around the prisoner was humid and smelled of burned meat.
"Yeah," Monroe answered. He began to undo the man's manacles.
"I don't care what Ling says," Dawson iterated. "He looks exactly the same as the last one." Monroe undid the last strap, and the man slid to the floor, facing up. His eyelids flickered irregularly, and the bloodshot whites of his eyes could be seen. "'Cept the other one never did that."
"Apparently, he calls out in his sleep too. Something about a liquid." Monroe lifted him by his arms. "You gonna just stand there, Dawson?"
Dawson gripped the man's legs and together they lay him down on the table that rose from the Cell's floor. The cold metal froze Dawson's hands, and he pulled away quickly.
"Shall we do this formally?" Monroe inquired. "Or just fix the bastard up?"
"Might as well fill out the papers," Dawson grunted. It's more than my fucking job's worth with Ling around, thought Dawson.
Monroe sighed and raised his personal mike to his mouth and announced: "Subject number: 2A. Personnel: Monroe, Alan Malcolm, PhD and Dawson, James, MD." Monroe clicked the mike off. "Now shall we begin?"
Dawson didn't feel like exchanging pleasantries. "Subject covered with electricity burns, possible third and second degree..." he began, prompting Monroe to once again click his mike on. "...On both arms, right leg and upper torso."
"Personnel Monroe applying iodine," Monroe unscrewed a bottle of dark blue liquid and dabbed it on to the subject's numerous wounds before bandaging them with surgical aids. "Ready to turn him over?"
"Let's do it." Dawson pretended to help Monroe turn the man's body over but actually let the surgeon do it himself. When the man was face down, Dawson immediately noticed the thin cut in his back. It looked like something had been slid clean through the skin. "Penetration wound to the lower abdomen, possible knife attack"
"We've already treated that," Monroe growled, switching the microphone off as he said it. "He had that when Ling brought him in." This surprised Dawson. The wound was pretty deep, and it looked fresh. Fucking cowboys.
"How did we capture him?" Dawson asked. "Isn't he an international terrorist?" Dawson knew just enough about current affairs to recognise the man as the sinker of the tanker Discovery a few years back. Dawson never understood why everyone saw the sinking as such a big deal: a few dolphins get their gills an extra oil coat, so what?
"We got lucky. Our agents were doing a routine surveillance check of Manhattan and found this mutherfucker kicking seven shades of shit outta some poor hobo."
Great, thought Dawson. First this guy coats a few seagulls, now he's clearing up those lazy homeless bastards. "Hope he goes after the niggers next," murmured Dawson.
"Huh?" Monroe gave him another look.
"Nothin'." Dawson thought about the queue-less vending machine. "You wanna turn the tape back on and we can finish up?"
The recorder was once again turned on with a swift click.
"Bruises to the back of the head... did our boys do that to him?" Monroe spoke, switching the recorder off in mid-sentence.
"Musta done," Dawson said. How the fuck was he supposed to know? All he was ever told was which way it was to the bathroom, and even then they hid the toilet paper. "Superficial lacerations to the temple."
"Who did that?"
Dawson was about to get really annoyed when the hum of the Cell's far door announced that company was to be expected. Both men rose from their standing slouches when they saw who it was. Dawson even began a vain attempt hold in his stomach, but gave up when the futility of it struck him.
"Gentlemen," the cool, crisp voice of Dr Nicolas Ling echoed eerily around the room. "I'll be brief. I have received word from Our Mutual Friends. I have new posts for each of you."
Dawson broke a sweat. He looked across the table at Monroe. His hands shook like feathers in the wind.
"James," Ling had begun to walk towards him. A more fitting description would be stroll: Ling walked like he hadn't a care in the world, occasionally stopping to roll his head up at the ceiling. He had the stance of a man who was taking his Sunday morning walk through the local park. "You've been removed from the project. You'll now help train our newest member and aid her in the assistance of our new subject."
"What... what about this subject?" Monroe's voice cracked. "Are we disposing of him?"
"Results have not been positive. His purpose has been altered." Ling spoke in such a manner of fact way that Dawson was surprised when Monroe spoke again.
"This new member... is it Rene's prodigy that you told us about?"
Ling paused for a few moments, before finally answering: "Your assumption is correct."
This conversation was passing Dawson by, but he wouldn't have it any other way. Talking to Ling sent chills down his spine. Monroe looked bigger in his eyes than ever before. But then, he hadn't just been assigned to baby sit one of Rene's snot-nosed kids.
"And what is my new job?" Monroe grew bolder. "I thought that I was gonna work here for the next six months at least?"
The corners of Ling's mouth curled into a strange smile, one the likes of neither man had seen before. The cold grey of his eyes transfixed them both.
"I shall show you to your new quarters myself," Ling finally answered.
"But Doctor, we haven't finished the autopsy..." Monroe began, but his voice trailed off when his eyes once again fell on Ling's. Ling beckoned with his hand, and Monroe left the table and walked gingerly towards the door, shaking uncharacteristically like a leaf. He exited first, but just before Dawson was about to be left alone with the patient Ling turned and held up his long, twisted index finger, as though he had forgotten something.
"Dawson, your new occupation will start the day after tomorrow when Ms Markova arrives. She is young, headstrong, but will be easily moulded." Ling smiled again. "Even by an ill-educated buffoon such as yourself."
"Yes, sir, Doctor Ling," Dawson repeated robotically. He daren't even think anything against Ling while the old conjurer was occupying the same breathing space, let alone say anything. He held his breath again, wondering momentarily where Monroe was being taken. The man on the autopsy table began to stir.
Ling turned to leave, but once again stopped. "Oh, and James?" He began. "Sedate this worthless bastard and strap him back up against the wall." He motioned at the man on the table, and left without another word.
--
Author's note: So, what do you think? Longer, wasn't it? More satisfying, do you feel? Tell me what you think in your review. Now.
