Present

"Colonel MacKenzie, I wasn't aware you knew Mr. Webb."

"It's no longer 'Colonel' or 'MacKenzie'. I resigned my commission when I married Captain Rabb. And yes, Mr. Webb and I are acquainted. But enough pleasantries. I want to know what's happened to my husband. And I want to know now!"

Between Mac's rising voice and her stubborn stance, it didn't take the former Admiral long to realize that keeping Sarah Rabb out of the loop wasn't an option. Looking towards Webb, Spencer rubbed his temples in an effort to quiet his thoughts. "I'll tell you what I can."

Using the chair to again block the only exit of the room, Mac warned, "You'll tell me everything you know! Including why Harm thinks you're dead."

Webb shrugged his shoulders, threw up his hands, and plopped down on the bed, "Please, by all means, enlighten me too."

"I presume you've heard of Bluebird, Artichoke, and MK Ultra?" Spencer asked.

While Webb didn't flinch, Mac sat up straight, thoughts of the 'Manchurian Candidate' infiltrating her head. The 1962 movie had suggested a person could be instilled with multiple personalities. Certain personalities, unknown to the others, were then used for covert intelligence operations. After the film's debut, a segment of the general populace came to believe the CIA was involved in such mind control research for real. And they were right.

Spencer had just rattled off three such programs, all funded by the CIA, and all from the same era. Their themes included behavior modification, drug therapy to aid interrogations, as well as those to create amnesia. Then there was the psychic spy program the Agency had dabbled in. When the CIA dumped the program for lack of results, Navy Intelligence picked it up. They tagged it 'Stargazer' and turned the program over to Admiral Harrison Spencer to continue theoretical research on the concept.

"Has the Agency renewed their interest in Stargazer?" Mac asked, frustrated with the man's plodding pace.

"Let's just say it's not out of the realm of possibility. But for the time being they are more interested in my other area of expertise. If you recall, I have a doctorate in Chemical Engineering, specifically the pharmaceutical area of the field."

"I don't understand the significance," Mac said.

"The Company assigned me to Staszow."

"And your path crossed with Harm?" Mac asked.

"Yes. But at first I didn't know it."

---------------------

Two Years Earlier

"I just passed Gregor with 48. Are you sure he's ready?" Harrison Spencer asked.

"Gregor knows the routine," Cynthia answered.

"I meant 48. He looked like he didn't have anything going on upstairs. What's his replacement memory?"

"Look, I can't give them all a full framework. Sometimes there just isn't enough to work with."

"So what's 48's story going to be?"

"He'll be returned to the market area, dazed and disoriented."

Spencer looked distastefully around the room. "I don't know how you can work in here," he said, pulling his lab coat tighter before rubbing his hands together for warmth.

"No choice. You know that."

What he knew was the procedure worked better when the men's body temperatures were below normal. The cold muddled their thought process, slowing brain function to trackable levels. Hence the reason why the air-conditioning was cranked up and the room was filled with four naked men all shivering in their beds. Like an efficient assembly line, they were perfectly aligned, their heads turned toward the wall, wires coming from their heads automating the work. Only the uncoordinated timing of their audible protests marred the otherwise symmetrical setting.

"How's it coming?"

"Fine," Cynthia answered, working at the head of the bed.

Seeing the man slobbering like an infant, Spencer shook his head in sad resignation. The stench from his diaper indicated Gregor was needed. Unable to offer him any encouragement or help, he was the first to break eye contact. He would never get use to the uncivilized treatment and longed to resume work on his own project soon. The Agency assured him they were interested in revisiting the Stargazer concept. But in the meantime, he'd have to put in time elsewhere and for now that meant Staszow. But there was a bright side to the dismal environment -- Cynthia McPherson's MemorySweep process had some parallels with his own work.

"Do you have 52's medications ready?" Cynthia asked impatiently, hating the time being wasted on the imposter. Attaching the electrodes was doubly boring considering this subject was nothing more than a ruse to have Spencer do the work up on the real 52's blood.

Spencer grunted disgustedly. Medications – ordinarily the term suggested a helpful, constructive purpose, a positive approach between practitioner and patient. But in this setting, in her hands, nothing was farther from the truth.

"Well are you going to tell me?" she prompted.

"What?"

"Is there anything abnormal I need to worry about?" she clarified, wondering where the older man's mind sometimes went.

"He took care of himself before he arrived here. Glucose, cholesterol, electrolytes are excellent. However, he is a little anemic."

"I don't care that he needs a little more iron in his diet. Do you have anything relevant for me?"

"Yeah, he's going to be tough to break."

Cynthia's head shot up. "Why? What did you find?"

"I've never seen enzyme levels like his. His GGT and SGPT are out of this world."

"So he's good at building walls. What did you do to compensate?"

"I tweaked the amphetamine mixture and upped the EA-1729."

"Anything else I should know?"

"Yeah, you might want to put him on the other nutri-aid. This one's going to keep coming right out of his system."

"Fine. From here on out he'll get the pink stuff instead. My satchel's on the table. Put the ampoules there. And if you see Gregor, tell him it's time for bed. I swear he never sleeps."

'Like his sister' Spencer thought but kept the retort to himself. Instead he left the room and headed to his quarters to contemplate his professional ethics.

-----------------

Alone in the dark, his joints aching from the cold, the fingernails of his right hand scratched the bed sheet. The meager movement kept him sane, a fine thread connecting him with his detached body. But the effort it took to achieve the paltry victory instilled little hope of winning the war against the paralytic drug and further victimization.

Sometime earlier (he had lost track of time), he had ceased screaming when his most efficient method of breathing had been blocked. Once the wad of gauze was removed from his mouth, his head had been left facing the cave wall, as if in some absurd form of punishment. If he had been able to raise his arm, he would have been able to reach out and touch every familiar crack and undulation on its imperfect surface.

With the removal of the gauze, the prolific flow of saliva resumed. Running down his chin, it was eventually absorbed by the cloth placed on his bare shoulder. The material's drenched state indicated Gregor would be by soon with a fresh replacement. Not liking that particular picture in his head, he let his mind drift amidst the virtual fog that had enveloped him.

The hazy stupor made it difficult to dwell on the specifics of his current situation. But evidently past events were well within his grasp and, despite not wanting to, he found himself revisiting those that had indirectly led him here.

Webb, Mac, his resignation, Paraguay, Chegwidden's scathing words, unemployment, working for the Agency. That pretty well summed it up. Hating his weakness and knowing the thoughts could serve no positive purpose, he fought hard to reinforce the walls that kept them isolated. Sometime during the effort (he had lost track of time), he finally dozed off.

Later (he had lost track of time), the despised ammonia capsule awakened him once more. Lying on his side, he found he had been turned yet again, like a pig on a spit. Evidently bed sores were not part of his future, but staring at the increasingly mind numbing wall was.

Again rolled onto his back (he had lost track of time), his head tried to follow suit, but a finger applied to his face prevented it from doing so. When the same finger checked the state of his diaper, he knew it would come up dry. He hadn't experienced another violent defecation ever since the pink mixture replaced the orange sometime earlier (he had lost track of time). As if on cue, another bag of the Pepto-Bismol colored mixture snaked into his nose, on its way to bolster the energy reserves the relentless cold and shivering sapped.

Subject 52. Day 4. Time 0130. BP is 140 over 90, respiration erratic, heart rate 150, temperature 95.5. Subject is showing some motor capacity. HR4K dosage will be increased by 15 milligrams. Phase 1 mapping has been underway now for 72 hours. Phase 2 mapping will commence in thirty minutes and will run for an additional 72 hours.

"Why … are … you … doing … this?" Surprised his mouth had audibly functioned, he tried to get his mind around the fact he had been in limbo for only four days. It felt like forty.

His question was ignored as his legs were spread apart, creating a work space on the bed. The familiar leather case was unrolled between his knees and ankles, its multiple small pouches visible from the corner of his eye.

He tried another approach. "Why … me?" he asked, his teeth chattering as Cynthia withdrew one of the glass ampoules, inserted the syringe into the vial, and slowly drew up the colorless liquid.

If his body was being rotated to prevent the telltale signs of bedsores, so too were his injection sites changed to hide the needle tracks. He felt her hand squeeze his left foot and hold it firmly while a finger slipped in and pried open the necessary space between two toes. The alcohol swab followed. This time it would be the right side of his second toe that registered the prick.

"Don't …"

The pitiful plea died on his lips as the paralytic entered his vein and returned his body to the state of uncooperative shell. The woman then grabbed the laptop connected to the EEG machine, leaving the portfolio of drugs open between his legs, the detail an unspoken harbinger that more drugs would be dispensed.

Earlier (he had lost track of time), he had caught a glimpse of the waterfall of symbols scrolling down the laptop's screen. The wavy lines were a visual representation of the electrical impulses given off by his brain. Far too fast for anyone to read, they were likely being funneled into special software for interpretation.

Power spectral analyses were completed at 100 seconds of artifact-free EEG epochs. Mean amplitudes in the theta, alpha, and beta frequency bands were computed using Fast Fourier Transfer analysis. Data acquisition thus far indicates electrical potentials in the T1 and F4 regions show promise. All receivers have been recalibrated to those areas. Harassment planned for Phase 2 should identify the Corridor.

God! Promise for what? Harassed how? What corridor? Why was it needed and where did it lead? Now wouldn't be too soon for the cavalry to arrive!

Subject 52's complete Naval and CIA files, including medical records from Bethesda have been assessed. Assets include a full MRI and brain scan performed due to memory loss after Subject ejected from an F14 in May 2001. Also reviewed were psych evals completed following a ramp strike in 1991 which involved the death of Subject's RIO; and one completed in 1996 following Subject's captivity in China.

All pleasant memories he scoffed.

More so than the others, Subject 52's background is rich with useful scenarios. His experiential matrix contains aspects suitable for breeching the McPherson Corridor. The key, as always, will be to use these scenarios to zoom in and find a pathway to circumvent the firewall.

What scenarios?

During Phase 2 mapping, a full course of flunitrazepam will be administered concurrently with sleep deprivation, HMD visualizations, and audio representations. Some tactile stimuli are available if needed.

Rohypnol!

This time the needle was inserted into the left side of his third toe on his right foot. He mentally screamed for help as the syringe's plunger was depressed, releasing the hypnotic into his bloodstream. From his toes to his head, he willed himself to rebuff the creeping relaxation and fight the erosion of the mental barriers he had worked so hard to reinforce.

Fighting the drug's incursion with the techniques taught at SERE school and honed in China, he focused on the HMD. The head mounted display's appearance was not unlike those used with the best virtual gaming software and flight simulators. But that's where the similarities ended.

Dispassionately, his head was lifted from the pillow and the device's band secured firmly around his head, and by necessity, over some of the protruding electrodes. The woman worked quick, connecting the HMD to the laptop's USB port.

A very fine wire was taped to his eye lid and another was wound round his finger, both leading to a disturbing black box next to the laptop. Then the head mounted display's faceplate was positioned snug over his eyes, casting him into blackness. With the additional wires and hardware, he felt more like a developing cyborg and less like a man. His mind wandered as the drugs encroached upon mind and body.

The whole thing was right up Bud Robert's alley. Under far different circumstances they would be drinking it in together with unrestrained enthusiasm. Circumstances like the night they were tired and punch drunk, working late to satisfy another of Admiral Chegwidden's budget report requests. Their creative financing ideas had morphed to non-regulation uses of Bud's artificial leg, which in turn led to discussions about Star Trek, which resulted in a Google search on what their names would decode to as cyborgs or man-machine entities.

He remembered how hard they laughed when they found such a site at 'cyborg. How they nearly wet their pants when Bud typed in 'Harmon' and the result came back H.A.R.M.O.N. -- Handcrafted Artificial Repair and Masterful Observation Neohuman. How amongst their laughter, he could barely get the words out after keying in Bud's name and came up with B.U.D. – Biomechanical Upgraded Device.

He remembered how their boisterous escapade drove Sturgis from the building while their roars of mirth brought tears to their eyes and the appearance of an MP to the bullpen. How gasping for air, unable to explain their plight, they could only thrust the printout at the confused man who stared at the block letters proclaiming S.T.U.R.G.I.S. – Synthetic Transforming Unit Responsible for Galactic Infiltration and Sabotage. And how they had simultaneously snatched the paper away before the man could read A.J. – Artificial Juggernaut. After which Bud ran awkwardly to the men's room. They didn't get any more work done that night.

In the midst of recalling the memory, the HMD's dark display flickered to life before his eyes. A series of files began cycling through, files containing images and audio clips which to his stressed being all referenced bleaker happenings in his life. With each successive reminder, he more than ever longed to be transported back to the happier time he had just revisited.

Stressor montage commenced at 0230.

… His father's picture … He sat in the jet on the Hornet, his father by his side … 'Tell Harm, I love him' … a headstone with no inscription … his father's name on a black granite wall … a photo of Jem … a non-descript girl lying face down with bullets in her back … a photo of Mace … a photo of Mace and he sitting wide-eyed with excitement in an F14 … a ball of flames … 'Eject! Eject! Eject!' … a headstone … Mace's headstone … a photo of Diane … a typed coroner's report … Diane's typed coroner's report … a zippered body bag … her bloody crime site photo … her handwriting … a letter to him … a letter from him to her … a picture of Jordan … his Change of Designator request … his orders to the Patrick Henry … a headstone … Jordan's headstone … a photo of Renee … a photo of Annie … a photo of Mac … a photo of Mac and Brumby … another photo of Mac and Brumby … an engagement announcement … a formal invitation … 'Eject! Eject! Eject!' … a photo of Loren Singer … her crime scene photo … a headstone … Singer's headstone … the steel bars at the Anacostia Brig … his inmate processing photo in orange garb … a tiny six by eight cell … Webb's photo … Mac's photo … his resignation papers … the Paraguayan airport terminal … Mac's photo… Webb and Mac together … his CIA badge … His father's picture … He sat in the jet on the Hornet, his father by his side …

The images cycled through again. He blinked rapidly when the HMD blinded him with white light whenever the three, interspersed audio clips played. The images cycled through again. Some of them were obviously acquired from his apartment. The images cycled through again. Others were likely from Mac's apartment or her office. The images cycled through again. Some, like the headstones, were staged. The images cycled through again. Others were evidently acquired from personnel records. The images cycled through again. The scanned DOD documents were no doubt from his files, files now in the woman's possession.

The images cycled through again. He counted them. The images cycled through again. There were 48. The images cycled through again. Each was frozen in the viewer for precisely five seconds. The images cycled through again. Four minutes -- that's how long it took before his father's picture reappeared. The images cycled though again. The slideshow was consistently interrupted by the blaring audio files each time. (Time – he lost track of it.)

The images cycled through again. He forced himself to look at them objectively. The images cycled through again. He forced himself to look at them without remorse. The images cycled through again. He forced himself to look at them without emotion. The images cycled through again. Why did he have to look at them at all!

He closed his eyes. Blackness. Relief. Respite. Calm. Pain! PAIN! Back-arching, scorching pain, screaming down his arm! He forced his eyes open. His hips immediately returned to the mattress and the electrical shock ceased.

The images cycled through again. They were the same ones. The images cycled through again. He cautiously closed his eyes. One-thousand-one; one-thousand-two; one-thousand-three … PAIN! It seared his arm again. His eyes shot open. The physical agony relented.

Three seconds. That was to be the extent of any reprieve. The images cycled through again, and again, and again. His eyes closed for three seconds, opening them just before the current pulsated through his body. The images cycled through again, and again, and again. The need for sleep became too great. The images cycled through again. His eyes became impossibly heavy. The images cycled through again. His body was giving in, despite his mind telling it otherwise. The images cycled through again. His eyes closed.

One-thousand-one; one-thousand-two; one-thousand-three; one-thousand-four! one-thousand-five … one-thousand-fifty-two … one-thousand-ninety …one-thousand…

Oddly, he was revived by a whiff of ammonia, unable to recall how high he had counted. Those were the good times. The images cycled through again. The cool liquid descended down his throat. The images cycled through again. His diaper was changed. The images cycled through again. He was turned onto his side. The images cycled through again. His toes were pried apart. The images cycled through again. His eyes closed. PAIN! Once again his disobedience was repaid with the flame coursing down his arm. The images cycled through again. He never knew which method to expect. The images cycled through again. Another diaper … images… another feeding … images …. another toe … images … turned on his side … images … drool wiped away …

His toes were pried apart. The images cycled through again. His eyes closed. A respite. A lull. Nothing. Ammonia. The images cycled through again. Another diaper… images… another feeding…images….another toe…images… He was turned on his side …images…drool wiped away.

The images cycled through again. And like every other time (time, he had lost track of it), he forced himself to dissect each image for its quality, its size, its readability. He concentrated on identifying objects in the background, articles of clothing, the computer edited color of his prison jumpsuit, furniture, anything but the emotional baggage each image held. The images cycled through again. He smelled her as she approached his bed.

Subject 52. Day 7. Time 0300. BP is 160 over 100, respiration shallow, heart rate 180, temperature 94.5. Phase 2 mapping using the stressor montage has been underway for 74 hours. Little progress in identifying the McPherson Corridor has been made. Augmentation by increased tactile stimuli is necessary.

… a picture of his father (the gold, oak leaF insignia on his collar, its seven petals arranged star-like) …

He felt himself rolled onto his back.

"Gregor, come here."

… he sat in the jet on the hornet, his father by his side (the flag in the baCkground flew unfurled in the wind) …

"Gregor help Sissy. Gregor is strong, cheap labor."

… 'Tell Harm, I love him' (i love you too, dAd) …

He felt another bag of liquid filtering down his scorched throat, keeping him alive for God knew what.

"Remove his nappie."

… his father's name on a black granite wall (joSeph lapcevic's naMe was below his father's) …

"Gregor just changed 52's nappie."

… a photo of Jem (a button missing from her bLack tunic) … a non-descript girl lying face down with bullets in her back (the thiCk jungle) …

"I didn't say change it! I said REMOVE it!"

… a photo of Mace (government-issued rAYban sunglasses) … a photo of Mace and he sitting wide-eyed with excitement in an F14 (a flag in the backgROund lying limp against its mast) … a ball of flames (pirated from a stAR wars movie) … 'Eject! Eject! Eject!' (robotic soundiNg, as if compuTer generated)

He felt Gregor's big hands fumbling to remove the recently changed diaper.

… a headstone (taken at ArlingTOn) …

Despite the lack of need, he felt the area thoroughly cleaned again.

… Mace's headstone (next to peTer seyMore's wHO died at 24) …

The cold air was noticeable on his exposed privates.

… a photo of Diane (reguLAtion Gold earRings) …

"Bring me those two buckets."

… a typed coroner's report (the leTTEr 'o' needs clEAned) … Diane's typed coroner's report (tHE Letter 'e' iS worsE) … a zippered body bag (NcIs steNciled on tHe side) … her bloody crime site photo (the medals wERe out of FOCus) …

"Gregor help Sissy. Gregor will get the buckets."

… her handwriting (thE maUve papEr) … a letter to him (foLdEd in THirds)… a letter from him to her (the yelLOW legal PaD paper) … a picture of Jordan (the NaVy sweatshirt) … his Change of Designator document (dATed April 24, 1999) …

He was so scared.

… his orders to the Patrick Henry (datED MaY 25, 1999) … a headstone (taken at ArlinGTon) …

He was so tired.

… Jordan's headstone (the gRass cliPPings at its BAse) …

He was so cold.

… a photo of Renee (GuccI sunGlasseS) … a photo of Annie (aLternating bLue and gREen stripes) …

He was so alone!

… a photo of Mac (her BEAUTIFUL brown eyes) …

Finally, a spike! The first complete deviation!

"Quickly Gregor! Pour it over him."

COLD! It was so cold! Too cold to concentrate. Too cold to fight.

… a photo of Mac and Brumby (their eNTwined HanDs, THE RING ON HER LEFT HAND!) …

Temperature is 94. Down another half a degree. More breaks are developing!

… another photo of Mac and Brumby (tellTAle signs of THEIR SWOLLEN LIPS) …

Rolling off his nude body, the slurry of ice water shocked his system and soaked the mattress beneath him. He fought with everything he still had to regain control. (yOu lOse cOntrOl in my wOrld, yOu die.)

… an engagement announcement ('aren't yOu gOing tO wish me luck?' her icy glare) …

"Now the other bucket!"

… a formal wedding invitation (silver and bLue, san-serif letTering) …

"Gregor help. Gregor strong, cheap labor."

Oh God! So COLD! He heard it dripping to the floor, trickling toward the unseen drain. Fight it damn it!

… 'Eject! Eject! Eject!' (it's a monotone, no inflection whatsoever) …

"Damn it! It's leveled off again!"

"Gregor help?"

… a photo of Loren Singer (the white backGround) …

He felt the wire removed from his finger.

"Gregor, you have your own work. Go do it."

… her crime scene photo (the yeLLow Tape) …

He felt a hand.

"Okay Sissy. Gregor, strong, cheap labor."

… a headstone ('ASK ME!' … 'Would you KILL for your BROTHER?') …

Don't.

… Singer's headstone ('YES!') …

The pressure.

… the steel bars at the Anacostia Brig ('YOUR COLLEAGUES … COLLEAGUES … COL … ! FRIENDS ! WILL TESTIFY TO ANGRY WORDS WITH SINGER RIGHT UP UNTIL THE TIME OF HER DEATH') …

The heat.

… his inmate processing photo in orange garb (IT SHOULDN'T BE ORANGE! IT WAS BLUE! ORANGE IS FOR THE CONVICTED! INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN GUILTY!) …

The smell.

… a tiny, six by eight cell (WHERE IS EVERYONE!) …

The hands.

… Mac's photo (DON'T GO!) …

The pressure.

… Webb's photo (IF HE GOT HER KILLED!) …

Can't stop.

His resignation papers (WHAT ARE YOU WILLING TO RISK TO KEEP HER?) … the Paraguayan airport terminal (HARM, ARE YOU INSANE! THIS JOB IS YOUR LIFE. IT'S ALL YOU'VE GOT.) …

The wetness.

… Mac's photo (NEVER!) … Webb and Mac together (LIKE EVERY OTHER WOMAN YOU'VE KNOWN, SHE'S RUN FOR HER LIFE.) … his CIA Badge (GO WRESTLE ALLIGATORS)

A cell phone rang.

"Damn it, not now!"

It rang again.

"What is it! … Now? … For the love of-- … Fine! I'll be there."

"Sissy mad?"

"We have to go."

The images cycled through again.

"But Gregor not done working at hospital."

"Leave him!"

He felt the wire reattached.

"Sissy, where are we going?"

The images continued cycling.

"You're going to your room."

He shut his eyes, but only for two seconds.

"For how long?"

"As long as it takes! And for Gods sake, change your lab coat. You look like a meat butcher gone amuck."

Despite the McPhersons' departure, his crumbling walls continued disintegrating while the images continued cycling.