"Harm, it's Lenny. Do you know where you're at?"
"Home," Harm mumbled, trying to steady the trembling coursing through him.
"Can you tell me what happened?"
"Car accident," he answered, his breathing rapid and shallow.
"I see," Lenny replied, not yet ready to share what little he knew had been done to his friend. "I'd like to start an IV in your arm. You're pretty dehydrated."
"No! Just leave me alone."
"Okay, no IV. But you'll need to drink some juice instead. Meanwhile, what hurts?"
Harm wanted to scream 'my heart', but instead said, "Go away."
"What hurts, Harm?" Lenny asked again, this time using his 'take no guff' flight surgeon voice.
"My head and ribs."
"Any numbness in your arms and legs?"
"Some."
"Okay, either you let me examine you or I pull rank and we go to a hospital. I need to check your blood pressure too."
"No hospitals."
"Then that leaves me," Lenny said, voicing his selection as the lesser of two evils in Harm's mind.
Letting his morose patient continue to lie curled in a ball, he cleaned his own hands with the potent smelling disinfectant from his medical bag. He then secured the inflatable cuff around Harm's arm. Moments later he wasn't surprised when he found both an elevated blood pressure and heart rate. Later when he had Harm squeeze his hand to check his strength, he was expecting the weak grip, but not the faint white band of skin where he expected to see a wedding ring.
The knock at the bedroom door interrupted his just-underway examination. Opening the door revealed an anxious looking Mac holding juice, a concerned Connie ready to slip him a synopsis of the satchel's contents, and an annoying CIA agent pacing impatiently with a basin of hot water. On the positive side, the smell of soapy suds wafted gently through the door, signaling its readiness.
Accepting the juice from Mac and the folder from Connie, he only let Webb step foot into the room, mouthing an apologetic 'Not yet' to the women before he closed the door.
"Set that on the bed," Lenny directed as he started to untie and pull off Harm's one shoe. "Then help me undress him."
(((strong, cheap labor!)))
Not appreciating his newly acquired status as indentured servant, Webb doggedly used the opportunity to pursue the information he'd set out for days ago. "Harm, what do you remember?"
(((Webb's hungry lips devouring Mac's neck!)))
Harm yanked his foot from the doctor's grasp, sending the contents of Connie's manila file folder off the bed and overturning the basin of water over his sore torso.
(((The demure smile on Mac's face suggesting she was enjoying Webb's advances!)))
Lenny scowled angrily at Webb for taking liberties with his patient and setting off the chain reaction. A reaction that now included Harm moving into a crazed, challenging crouch on the bed. "Harm, what's wrong?"
(((What else do you remember!)))
Oblivious to Lenny'a concern, Harm launched himself at Webb. "You sonofabitch!"
(((A photo of Mac … Never!)))
"Rabb! What the hell?" Webb yelled just before Harm's arm curled tightly around his neck.
(((What else do you remember!)))
Mac entered the room on the run, with Connie right behind her. "Harm, let him go!"
(((Like every other woman you've known, she's run for her life!)))
"Captain Rabb! Stand down!" Lenny ordered, trying to break through Harm's frenzied behavior.
His airway severely compromised, Webb instinctively elbowed his attacker in the gut.
"Ugh!" Harm doubled over. Losing his balance, he stumbled forward, his trembling hands landing on the photos.
(((Do it for him.)))
He gasped for air, his strangled cry permeating the room.
(((I certainly didn't copulate with you!)))
He pushed away the arms that reached out to help him.
(((Are you positive?)))
The perspiration running off his forehead ran into his watering eyes. Through his blurred vision, he stared at his trembling hands.
(((His wedding ring hidden deep in his pocket!)))
Unsteady on his feet, he faced the mirror and focused on the lipstick traveling down his neck and staining his collar. He looked mournfully at Mac who stared back aghast.
(((An intimate weekend tryst with his mistress!)))
He yanked open his shirt and fingered his mottled chest before moving on to his marred face.
(((His wrecked SUV.)))
Not learning his lesson, Webb asked again, "What do you remember?"
Harm grabbed his scrambled head with both hands and sought refuge in the farthest corner of the room. Meanwhile, Webb was sent involuntarily from the premises, the others in the room kicking him out on his six. He was gone by the time Harm's knees buckled and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Lenny, Connie, and Mac caught his unconscious form before he hit the floor.
-----------------
"It's no wonder he has all the classic symptoms of withdrawal, I found multiple needle marks between his toes. But I think he'll sleep through the rest of the night," Lenny shared, accepting the hot soup his wife offered. Mac declined the same offer, choosing to remain holed up on the livingroom chair where she could keep an eye on Harm's agitated form in the next room. Using her left hand, she rubbed her thumb over the date stamp and 'Subject 52' notation on the graphic photo while her right arm hugged her knees to her chest.
"I had to start an IV to get some fluids into him. I don't think he's had much to eat or drink in the past few days. His vocal cords are strained too. And you saw his torso is covered with contusions. A couple of ribs are badly bruised; but none are broken and there are no signs of internal injuries. Physically he'll be fine," he added.
Mac glared at him, her expression making it clear that she hadn't missed the fact he didn't include 'mentally' in the positive prognosis. "What about …," she gestured to the picture, unable to get the words out.
"I can't confirm he was molested."
"This time!" Mac retorted. "Then again, why add sexual assault to the list when that woman ransacked his soul," she added bitterly.
Pondering the statement, Connie and Lenny stared at the black, leather satchel and had to agree with the assessment. Whether Cynthia McPherson seized Harm's body or not, it was clear she had seized his mind and possessed him in the most violent of ways.
Shaking his head in disgust, Lenny reached into his shirt pocket. "This was in his trousers."
Mac dropped the picture and grasped the wedding band. Enclosing it in her hand, she brought it to her heart. "I need to know what happened," she whispered.
"What do you mean?" Lenny asked.
Mac directed her answer to Connie. "I need to know what she did to him! What he went through!"
"Mac--," Connie started to caution.
"No! I need to know. Otherwise I won't know how to help him!"
Connie picked up the picture from where it lay at Mac's feet. She set it with the others that were arranged amongst the medical paraphernalia, ampoules, and syringes organized on the coffee table. To their left sat the satchel itself, its gold embossed lettering proclaiming 'Cynthia J. McPherson' as its owner.
"I can theorize from the drugs in the satchel, glean information from the photos, and incorporate what Harrison Spencer told you. But I'd be basing a lot on assumptions and protocols used for similar experimentation. As well as drawing from first-hand accounts of others held against their will. Do you understand?"
Mac swallowed hard and nodded. "You're all I've got to go on right now."
Connie knew Mac had no idea what she was asking for. But there was some truth in what she said about helping Harm. So while Mac kept a death grip on the ring, Connie took a seat next to her own husband. He reached for her hand, signaling he was there for her should she need him. She returned the gesture before launching into a speculative narrative that would drain them all.
"Cynthia McPherson delved into the field of computational cognitive neuroscience. It's a relatively young field. The dominant approach is based on the simple computer metaphor which holds that human cognition is much like the processing in a standard computer. Think of the cortex as being the CPU; and the billions of neurons, with their synapses and neurotransmitters, being the bits that are directed by a binary, on-off, electrical system."
"But her process started at a much more primitive level. This empty ampoule contained a paralytic that rendered Harm totally incapable of communicating or defending himself. Even swallowing was beyond his means. So he drooled, the saliva having no where to go but down his chin and onto his chest."
"Before McPherson went too far, she would have needed to make sure he could withstand the stress. So she pulled this stethoscope from the bag and opened his shirt to listen to his breathing and heart, having no desire to inform him of his whereabouts or reason for being there. In fact, she never viewed him as anything more than a lab rat, a specimen upon which to extend her research. A point of view that was continually driven home by the video camera pointed at him 24 hours a day and the clinical recordings she made."
"Harm's initial confusion was followed by fear when she next produced blood collection supplies. At some point she screwed the needle into the blood tube holder and then strapped this rubber tourniquet around his arm. Eventually she slid the needle into a vein and slowly drew up the blood. She filled three or four tubes, more than enough to insure she had an adequate supply to determine the most efficient combination of drugs needed."
"He was awake when she stripped him naked. It seemed to him that she treated his clothes with more regard than himself, particularly when his body temperature dropped precariously close to inducing hypothermia. The cold was always present, made worse by frequent applications of water to saturate his body and the mattress upon which he lay. As intended, the cold muddled his thought processes and sapped his energy."
"When the feeding tube was inserted into his nose and the first bag of Nutri-aid filtered through, the realization hit home that he was likely facing a prolonged stay. When the first diaper validated the fact, he wanted to scream but couldn't."
"His anxiety built as each additional electrode was affixed to his head. The ones inserted into his ears made him nauseous. Up until this point, he hadn't allowed himself to think about friends and family. He had kept the motivational mechanism tucked away for when he really needed it. When he realized electrodes would also be embedded in his cheeks, he finally grasped that lifeline."
Mac gasped, her hand covering her mouth to stifle the cry that was on the verge of escaping. Using the date stamp on the image excerpted from the video, she had already done the calculation in her head. It had been taken during Harm's five month stint in the CIA. Specifically the period she had called him 17 times with no luck in reaching him. Her thoughts turned to his lukewarm reception when she showed up at his door with the Carolyn Imes files. Had she even been on his mind during the ordeal? And if so, were they good or bad remembrances?
flashback
M: Look, I know you're mad at me.
H: I'm not mad at anybody.
M: So what? You just decided to move on, leave the rest of us behind?
H: Just trying to get on with my life, you know.
M: I know you're upset.
H: You don't know anything about what I'm feeling.
M: Well I would know what you're feeling if you talked to me.
H: Hey, I thought we'd done our talking. You made that pretty clear.
end flashback
"Mac?" Connie asked concerned.
"I'm okay," she replied unconvincingly. Sniffing, she added, "Please go on."
Connie looked doubtful, but continued. "Despite the analgesic, he could feel the needle as it was carefully guided in and slowly backed out, leaving behind a thin wire beneath his burning skin. Knowing what to expect, the placement of the second wire was worse."
"The nasopharyngeal electrode was put in last. It was particularly difficult because of the feeding tube already in place, so this endonasal scope was used. After fifteen minutes of probing, blood spurted from his nose and ran down his throat. His heart rate skyrocketed. From the on-going recording, he learned his sinus had been perforated. He was on the verge of fainting when an ammonia capsule assaulted his abused nose. Revived, he had no choice but to endure the thin wire snaking up the same path until it rested against the lining of his brain."
"It was at this point Harm might have seen the 'transmit' switch on the EEG and experienced the most terrifying emotion he could know – the belief he was powerless to avoid his annihilation as a person. Already stripped of his clothes and his dignity, he was forced to stare at the machine that was there to strip his selfhood as well."
"During the first four days he was left to stare at a blank wall, shivering in a hazy stupor. Lonely and scared, he revisited the past events that had directly or indirectly led him to the hell hole, finding them easier to grasp than dwelling on the specifics of his current situation. Meanwhile the EEG kept a voyeur's vigil, obsessing over every one of his thoughts."
"He lost track of time. Additional injections and feedings, and his body occasionally being turned to prevent bedsores, became his only means of sensing the passage of time. But no matter how he was positioned, the stark wall, inches from his face, was all he was permitted to view."
"And then one day another syringe and an ampoule of Rophynol were pulled from the bag. He watched as she inserted the needle into the vial and drew up the colorless liquid. Her fingers pried apart his toes, looking for an untainted vein. Then she slid in the needle, concentrating on a slow, even delivery of the drug. He stubbornly resisted, finding some way to voice his objection. In the end, it only earned him a stronger dose of the paralytic."
"More cold water was applied before the head mounted display was tightened around his head. It contained images meant to invoke and exploit complexes repressed within his unconscious. They're kept there to maintain mental balance. We all have them. Harm's were invoked by images of his father, reminders of Diane, his ramp strike, the death of his RIO. On top of that, his constant state of being wet and cold became a tangible reminder of being lost in the Atlantic and any baggage associated with that ordeal."
"Forced to focus on the memories, the impersonal machine took full advantage of his mind, splayed open and vulnerable, its pathways there for the taking if his walls could be fractured."
"The HMD displayed the images over and over. Just as he began to drift off to sleep, more ammonia would awaken him … The images played over and over. Just as he began to drift off to sleep, he'd feel an electrical shock scorch his body … The images played over and over. Just as he began to drift off to sleep, he'd hear a piercing sound in his head … On an on it went. He fought desperately to maintain control, hoping help would arrive it time."
"The battle wasn't waged over hours, it took another five days amidst more drugs, more stressors, more diaper changes, more water."
"At times he'd lose hope. And when that happened, he imagined he had caused huge damage to those he loved. He wanted to weep, but learned crying would not purge his emotions. Then once again inner rage would take over. All the while the EEG was honing in on where his neural network had stored the tumultuous events."
"At some point the harassment stopped and the EEG machine powered down on its own. Beaten, he now saw himself as Subject 52. He heard 52's whimpering. He felt 52s tears make their way down 52's face, past 52's lips, past 52's chin, finally pooling with the drool on 52's neck."
"The nine days had been spent making a blueprint of his brain, to find out who Subject 52 was and why Subject 52 behaved as he did. The schematic also gave McPherson what she needed to hack into the sectors where Subject 52's memories were filed. And once breeched, she was ready to delete, create, and modify 52 at will."
"Don't call him that!" Mac yelled, immediately regretting her outburst when Harm began groaning in the other room. He immediately quieted when calm was restored in the living room.
"I'm sorry, Mac. It's how she saw him and, unfortunately, likely how Harm saw himself at times."
"I know," Mac whispered. Shell-shocked, she rocked herself in the chair and asked, "How much more is there?"
Connie glanced nervously at Lennie, whose mouth had long since gone dry. His somber gesture indicated in for a penny, in for a pound. So she answered Mac's question.
"Given the number of empty vials and factoring in what was used this weekend, I'd guess he was held captive for another 15 days. Eight of those days were needed to erase the memories she no longer wanted him to have and to impress a new set of experiences in their place. Though he wouldn't have been aware of them, the other seven days were used to counter his withdrawal symptoms and deal with any drug residue in his system."
"Tell me about the eight then."
Knowing any argument to do otherwise would fall on deaf ears, Connie continued.
"The Rophynol and paralytic were still being administered. But it was during this leg of the process that LSD, PCB, and Mescaline were added to the mix. The dosages and schedule of injections was designed to have the greatest impact on his individual psyche."
"He knew it was the beginning of the end. Still he fought as long as he could; telling himself over and over that he would remember, yet unsure how he would survive the days ahead."
"The LSD caused his fingers to tingle until they actually started vibrating. He knew where he was at but didn't feel a part of it. His stomach felt funny. At some point his bowels violently purged. Triumphantly, this is when she made sure he watched as she flipped the switch to 'transmit' and initiated the micro voltage and ultra short pulses from the EEG."
"The LSD loosened his mental structure, allowing in an assembly programming language. The electroconvulsive 'therapy' reconfigured a new mental model. First his familiar sense of being 'Harm' was reduced to an unconvincing memory. Then everything they wanted him to forget was overwritten with new experiences."
Mac rubbed her forehead, physically groaning as she imagined the violation.
"Mac, are you alright?" Lenny asked.
Rather than answer, she said, "Admiral Spencer said it would have been like a section of a picture puzzle in his head being taken apart, piece by piece. Each facet examined, turned, flipped over, sorted, and repainted; then made to fit back together again where they don't belong."
Connie sighed. "He was being kind. More likely Harm felt like a million parts of him were bouncing off a bug zapper for a year's worth of hot summer evenings."
Mac and Lenny gasped at the graphic picture she painted. Realizing she had upset everyone, Connie concluded her exhausting, hypothetical recitation. "Whatever he experienced, he knew his mind was being taken over and coerced until it was no longer his own."
-----------------
In the quiet stillness of the room, Harm's eyes again made the same circuit they had been making for the past 30 minutes. He stared at an uncomfortable looking Lenny and Connie McCoy who were sound asleep in chairs that had been moved in from the living room. He then glanced down at a worried Mac as she lay curled beside him, tightly holding his right hand in both of hers. His gaze then moved back to his bare left hand which flipped through the photos he had found between his and Mac's bodies.
The date stamped on the most disconcerting photo was during his stint with the CIA (((I'll remember!))). The one of Mac in Webb's arms at the recent Embassy party was the most heart-wrenching, particularly when paired with one of her with her male colleagues in Paris (((Never))). Then again, coupled with his missing ring, he felt his vague, troubled reaction was akin to the pot calling the kettle black. (((Weekend tryst))). The most confusing of the pictures was the young boy, a poster child for good looks and brains. (((Do it for him.)))
His awakening half an hour ago had preceded his willful removal of the IV needle from his hand. None of his caretakers had stirred then or later when he shifted to a sitting position to stare at the photographs. The ticking clock, now striking noon, likely meant they'd all had a very late night – a night he couldn't recall other than a passing blur of a car accident. In fact, the entire weekend was embedded in a shadowy haze.
If he didn't have to go to the bathroom so bad, he might have delayed waking them. Not because he felt they needed to sleep, but because he so feared finding out what they knew and he didn't. His dilemma took care of itself when Mac accidentally elbowed him in the ribs.
"Oww."
"Harm!" The three said simultaneously.
Evidently they were light sleepers after all. Hearing the chorus of concern and needing to lighten the 'walking on eggshells' expressions they all wore, as well as quell his own increasing anxiety, he smirked awkwardly and said, "I'd say 'Good afternoon' but I don't think it is."
When they continued staring uncertainly, he gingerly touched his swollen face and sighed. "This wasn't from an airbag." Then pointing to his bruised chest, he added quietly, "And this wasn't from a steering wheel, was it?"
"How do you know?" Mac asked cautiously, avoiding at all costs 'What do you remember?'
Even so, he visibly flinched at the question, before answering. "If I really was in a car accident, Lenny would have insisted on a hospital (((no hospitals!))). And then there are these," he whispered, warily nodding to the corroborating evidence in his hand.
Realizing what he had seen, Lenny, Mac, and Connie exchanged nervous looks. It was finally Lenny who decided his friend was up for the truth.
"You're right. It wasn't a car accident," Lenny said frowning at the pictures as well the discarded IV. "We'll explain what we can. But first, how do you feel?"
"Like I have the mother of all hangovers and missed the party," Harm answered. "Then there's the little matter of desperately needing the bathroom." (((Hold it, or make another stain.)))
Trying to shake the confusing cobwebs loose, Harm closed his eyes and shook his head, but doing so only exasperated his pounding headache and elicited a groan.
Mac tightened the grip on his hand, but he quickly freed it. "I really do need to use the bathroom."
"Do you need help?" Lenny asked.
(((strong, cheap labor)))
Harm grinned weakly and answered "Not since I've gave up diapers." He immediately sobered when he saw himself again in the picture. Somehow he knew it would be the last jest he made for quite some time. "I'm going to shower too. We'll talk when I'm done."
By sheer willpower, he made it to the bathroom on his own, his demeanor making it clear he didn't want to be touched no matter how unsteady he was on his feet.
Before he left the room, Mac's voice stopped him. "Harm …"
"What?" (((What do you remember!)))
"Here," she answered, carefully placing a clean t-shirt, boxers, and pair of shorts on the bed.
(((She meticulously marked the bag '52'.)))
Picking up the clothes before entering the bathroom, he mumbled distractedly, "Thanks."
"Captain Rabb, don't lock the door," Lenny ordered, asserting his flight surgeon card, only to hear the deadbolt slam into place seconds later. "Damn."
The scrambled eggs and toast were long since cold, the hot water tank had long since been emptied, and the three vigil keepers had long since grown concerned. Ready to take an ax to the door, they weren't sure what to do when he finally exited, looking totally spent and lost.
In the end, Connie picked up the plate of food waiting for him on the bed and said, "I'll reheat this in the microwave." In return, Harm frowned apologetically. (((bring me the tubing)))
Lenny approached him with a fresh IV bag in one hand and a carton of juice in the other. "Pick one." He chose the latter. (((the liquid snaked through the tube)))
And Mac waited to take him into her arms. But instead, he only let her exchange the white shirt he had found in the clothes hamper, and that was now clutched in his hand, with the wedding ring she placed tenderly in his palm (((he had hidden it deep in his pocket)))
He then stared vacantly and whispered "What was done to me?" (((a weekend tryst with his mistress!))).
----------------
His question went unanswered while Lenny meticulously checked his vitals and re-wrapped his ribs (((don't hurt 52))). His question went unanswered while Connie served him three helpings of food (((it look liked Pepto-Bismol))). And his question went unanswered while Mac put not only fresh sheets but new sheets on the bed (((a cold, soaking wet mattress))). He knew the activities were done as much for his benefit as to delay the forthcoming explanation.
Not allowing them to circumvent the question any longer, he lay back in bed, his upper body leaning against the headboard. "It's time to tell me."
Knowing they could delay no further, they stood protectively around him and tried to fill in the gaps of his life that had been brutally taken and possessed.
Connie took the lead and shared an abridged version of her theories.
To supplement the veracity of his wife's grim scenario, Lenny pointed out two perfectly round bruises -- one on Harm's thigh and the other between two ribs. He speculated they were caused by high-powered darts containing sedatives. He also disclosed the recent needle marks between Harm's toes, explaining the drugs dispensed were responsible for the withdrawal symptoms Harm experienced the night before.
That left Mac to fill him in on what she knew of Clayton Webb's and retired Admiral Spencer's involvement. "Bottom line -- There's something the CIA thinks you know that they're interested in. Even Spencer didn't know what it was McPherson needed you to forget."
"It was in the Navy Times … Spencer's death. He died of a stroke," Harm argued weakly, grasping at straws to refute the entire nightmare. (((the CIA is filled with misfits)))
Mac shook her head forlornly. "Harm, you only recall seeing it in the Navy Times. It was never there."
"She was able to make me believe Admiral Spencer was dead," Harm whispered, stating the conclusion for himself. "She fabricated an entire month of my life and I never suspected!"
The three remained silent while Harm tried to get his head around the fact he had not only lost the previous three days of his life, but the entire month of October 2003 as well. They watched him revisit each of the pictures, hating the struggle that played out on his face as he tried to put them into the context of what he'd just been told.
Meanwhile, from Harm's perspective, he knew they had all seen the picture of him drooling like an infant while lying naked, splayed flat on his back, with no more regard than an unfeeling corpse on a slab. (((or a specimen in an anatomy lab))).
They had all seen the mass of wires emanating from his head, elevating him to the role of unfortunate soul in an old Boris Karloff horror film.
They had all seen the HMD that scoured his emotions, eroding them until the walls he needed to survive were dismantled.
And worse of all, they had all seen his erection. (((I never copulated with you!)))
The mortification he saw on their faces was just the tip of the iceberg of what he was feeling himself.
Attempting to conjure up a concrete memory, he screwed his face into a grimace, and squinted his eyes in deep concentration. To no avail, he finally asked, "Why wasn't I taken to a hospital? (((Do you like Bazooka Joe?)))
"When we found you last night, you were adamant we didn't," Mac answered cautiously.
"I don't remember much."
"I'm not surprised. You experienced a lot of trauma. But you said much. Are you experiencing anything?" Connie asked, not wanting to pressure him but continuing to see fleeting flashes of some sort of abstract recollections cross his face.
(((What do you remember!)))
"I'd hardly call them memories!" he yelled, the vehement reaction surprising everyone as well as himself.
"It's okay, Harm. Are they like fleeting images?" Connie gently probed.
Harm shrugged in frustration, but answered, "They're more like distant echoes."
"Fragments?" Connie clarified.
Harm considered the description and nodded. "Yes, but with no context to them."
"That makes sense," Connie said.
Mac fidgeted with her wedding ring, noting Harm had set his on the bedside table rather than reseating it on his finger. Not wanting to dwell on the observation, she turned to Connie. "But the point of MemorySweep was to locate the path to Harm's 'McPherson Corridor' so Cynthia could cut and paste new dreams over old memories. If that's so, why is Harm remembering even fragments?"
"Memories aren't stored in any single location in our brain," Connie explained. "The location of a specific memory is always changing. In other words, our recall of an incident now, and more importantly the networks or pathways used to access it, will not be the same as our recall of the same incident in five year's time, or possibly even five minutes. Complicating the entire process is the fact the elements needed to reconstruct a memory are scattered in bits and pieces, fragmented if you will, in different locations of the cortex. We must retrieve and assemble them to come up with a complete picture."
"So MemorySweep has flaws," Lenny summarized.
"Cynthia McPherson did, in a manner of speaking, create and paste new memories over old. But she lost sight of the fact, or chose to ignore, the original memories were never replaced, they just went elsewhere. It's plausible she may never have realized the imperfection because the links to those memories were successfully deleted. Meaning, for all intents and purposes, it appeared her subjects couldn't recall them."
Harm swallowed hard and looked down at the bruises on his chest. (((What do you remember!))) He fingered the red welt below his clavicle. (((WHAT DO YOU REMEMBER!))) He lifted his left hand and studied the ragged scratches. (((How do you remember!))) He rubbed his temples to help evoke a thought just under the surface. (((How? Not what?"))) !
"Harm, are you alright?" Lenny asked, not liking the change of pallor that suddenly appeared on his face.
Instead of answering Lenny's question, Harm looked at Connie and stated with assurance. "She thought her program was perfect and couldn't handle finding out it wasn't."
"Harm, how do you know that?" Connie asked. "Are you remembering more specifics?"
(((How do you remember!))) Again Harm looked down at his chest. The best he could come up with was "I suspect she knew I was remembering things and wasn't happy about it." He winced as he shifted his position. "Will I remember more that just fragments?"
"Maybe. Memory associates things by analogy. Which means all kinds of connections we're not consciously aware of can cause us to remember things. Only time will tell how many of those links or associations are re-established."
Harm could sense none of his caretakers was anxious for a total recall on his part. For it meant he would have to relive the horrors over again. But 'maybe' was not the answer he wanted to hear. The realization was hitting home and hitting hard that memories were the only clue to who we really are. And too many of his were now scrambled and tossed into the wind by an invasive virus apparently propagated by the CIA itself.
Harm again picked up the photo of Mac and Webb. "Where is Webb anyway?" he asked tentatively.
"I'm not sure. But I don't think he'll be back without an invitation," Lenny answered, flexing his scraped knuckles.
"He'll be back," Harm replied. "He hasn't gotten what he came for."
"Harm, you don't have to answer this unless you want to. But what is it that you remember doing in October 2003?" Mac asked with the utmost caution, wanting as much as anything to take his attention away from the picture he was currently studying.
Harm paused and considered the question. Finally he answered. "It was a very busy month. I was on loan to PETS …" he continued as his mind retrieved the fake recollection.
(begin fake memory)
Hearing footsteps echoing through the large hangar, Alan Blaisdell looked up from the map on the table before using his heel to squash the smoldering cigarette butt.
"Well the prodigal son returns."
Harm smirked. "It was only four weeks."
The older man carefully sized up his most talented employee before grousing, "Yeah, but it was a week longer than expected."
"You missed me. I'm touched."
"Dream on. What's wrong with your voice?"
Harm smiled warmly. In the time he had been gone, his newest mentor hadn't changed. Blaisdell's gruff demeanor still did little to hide the sincere concern that lurked beneath the worn, exterior façade.
"Sore throat, last remnants of a bad cold."
"Must have been a hell of one. You've lost weight."
"They kept me busy. I hardly had time to come up for air and grab a bite to eat."
"How did it go?"
"Fine. Do I detect worry?"
"I just don't like my people being pulled out from under me. And not everyone has the constitution for the kind of work Premier Executive Transport Services requires," Blaisdell answered warily, closely watching Harm's reaction.
Harm shrugged and looked around at the few planes in the area. "I can't deny the line of work wasn't my cup of tea, but their hardware sure is better to fly."
"Oh yeah, what did they put you in?"
(end fake memory)
"I circumnavigated the globe ten times over in a Gulfstream aircraft. All unpublished flight plans. That's not unusual when you fly for Air CIA or PETS, especially when they're secret charter missions to transport illegal enemy combatants. Egypt, Syria, Uzbekistan, Romania, Czech Republic, Hungary, Cuba, Afghanistan, Libya, Jordan, Iraq – I flew in and out of them all."
He continued. "Call them what you will – abductions, kidnappings, snatches, extraordinary renditions – it all came down to secretly spiriting suspects to other countries without due process. But it had to be done. And it was my job to do so … I still lose sleep over it, you know."
Harm paused and considered what he'd just said and then frowned. "And now I find out I didn't do it after all."
"You never told me," Mac sniffed, her stomach churning with her own feelings of guilt ala memories of Paraguay and 'never.'
"What good would it have done?" he asked rhetorically, his expression distant. "Besides, most of it is classified ... or not …" Harm sighed, growing more confused by the dual realities.
"Do you … do you remember flying to Stazow?" Mac asked, wiping away her tears.
"Stazow, Poland?"
Mac nodded yes to Harm's clarifying question.
"Yeah, I was there once … It was a simple courier run … if I remember correctly …," he groaned, his ironic answer trailing off when a dizzy spell hit him.
Lenny frowned. "I'm scheduling an MRI for you this afternoon. The electrodes can cause some nerve damage, and I want to be sure there's nothing else we need to worry about. We'll have X-rays of your ribs taken too."
"But—"
"No sense arguing, Captain. I'm also letting General Cresswell know you'll be on sick leave the rest of the week." Lenny pulled a bottle of pills from his bag. "Take these if the headaches and ribs get too bad. You'll need to see Connie, or someone else, on a professional basis too."
"I suppose it goes without saying, you're pulling my flight status," Harm whispered, too wrung out to muster a formidable defense.
"For the time being," Lenny answered, once again taking Harm's pulse and checking the dilation of his eyes. When he was done, Harm curled on his side.
"Harm, this will go a lot easier if you let your friends help you through it," Connie added supportively.
In response, Harm revisited the picture of the two-year old boy. (((Who is Peter?))) He then pulled the blanket tightly around him, sending the clear message he was done talking. (((I never copulated with you! … Are you positive?)))
