BDP33
Finding Moira's apartment had been difficult; since the only think he knew was that she lived on base. Ian had broken into the office of the Housing Director and hacked his files to get an address. She was, as he suspected, in the set of buildings closest to Research and Development.
In the future, that would make his life a great deal easier, not to have as much distance to cover without being detected. Even as good as he was, it only took one person at the wrong place at the wrong time, and he would be discovered. Military personnel were more alert than civilians, and harder to make them believe you were where you should be, when you weren't, once they saw you.
Jimmying the lock to Moira's apartment had been much easier than it should have been. Ian would have to remember to tell her to get a better lock. He moved across the living room silently, admiring her decorating style. It was hard to get a feel for color in the moonlight, but the accents were natural wood, so he suspected the furniture was actually in natural colors like unbleached linen. There were a few pieces of art on the walls. Most were Fitzpatrick prints.
One small painting stopped him. It was an original done in oil instead of a print. It showed a stone circle in winter, snow piled on the plinths. The only color was a tiny red fox sleeping in a hollow under the altar stone. The style was different, harsher and less stylized than a Fitzpatrick. There was a sense of great power at rest, as if the stones were merely sleeping, like the fox. He checked the usual places, but it was unsigned. The more he looked, the more familiar and compelling it seemed. Was it one of the circles he had seen while traveling with Irons?
He moved away with reluctance, knowing he had more important things to discuss with Moira than a painting tonight. Ian moved down the hall, ignoring the creak of a floorboard. He was only trying to be silent enough to keep the neighbors from knowing he was here; he didn't care if Moira heard him moving around.
Ian pushed the bedroom door open. The blinds were closed tight, and even less light penetrated the room. He paused to let his eyes adjust, waiting until the dark lumps resolved into dresser, bed, and bedside table before moving forward again.
"Moira, wake up, love." Ian whispered as he drew near the bed.
"Ian?" the response was soft and filled with surprise. Moira rolled over, all pretense of sleep forgotten.
He moved the rest of the way to the bed, ready to embrace her at last. Instead of reaching for him, Moira held out one hand. "Just a minute accushla. Let me put this somewhere safe."
A glass vial glinted in her hand as she opened a drawer and placed it carefully within. Ian watched curiously, "What is that?"
"A little insurance policy I took out. I know I'm no commando, so I'm working with my strengths. Chemical warfare is something I understand very well." Moira looked up at him, and even in the darkness Ian could see the fear and determination in her eyes.
"Why do you think you need 'insurance'?" Ian rolled the word around on his tongue, not liking the taste it left behind.
"In a word, Casca. I've got a few cousins in strange places, and I asked them to look into the bastard and the company he's here representing. People who cross him tend to have very short careers and lives. If he decides I'm more trouble than I'm worth, or if he has some kind of plan for me," Moira paused grimly, and it was clear how likely she thought it was, "When I go down, I'm taking as many of his people with me as I can."
Ian would have liked to say something comforting, but she was right. Casca was a ruthless man, and he did whatever it took to accomplish his goals. He wasn't sure what she meant by plan though. "Moira, what kind of plan do you think he has?"
"Before I can explain that, I have to cover some background material with you. Firstly, the truth about what's been done to you. You were actually told the truth, as far as it went. What we didn't tell you was that increased activity in these areas of the brain are linked to certain forms of insanity. Enlargements in these same areas usually lead to strokes and aneurisms. That's just if one area is affected, but we've tampered with the entire archipallium. There's a thirty percent chance that because everything has been increased equally, you will be fine. No paranoia, no delusions of grandeur, no aneurisms. However, that means there's a seventy percent chance that you will experience one of more of these problems." Moira looked at him in concern. This was an abiding fear of hers that they should suffer, even die, for a mistake she helped make.
"What can be done to improve our odds? Should we quit the program? I do not care for the idea of being mad or crippled." Ian sat on the edge of the bed, face full of concern.
"At this stage, I don't think it would make a great deal of difference. The damage has been done. Even if you stopped taking the drugs right now, your brain will never return to its original size. At best it will decrease somewhat, and in an even fashion. In the worst case, it would decrease unevenly, leaving you with varying levels of sensory input and an unequal structure of the archipallium. You could end up a great deal worse off." Moira settled her hand over his, it was all the comfort she could give him.
"How did the project get a green light if they knew this would happen to the test subjects?" Ian turned his hand over to grasp hers, and his voice was tight with anger.
"We didn't know. The chimps never responded this strongly to the drug therapy. Actually growth was slow, it took almost eleven months for them to show a twenty five percent increase in the Basal brain. By the end of the two-year project, there had been a sixty-seven percent increase in their aggression levels, strength, and agility. Intelligence only increased thirty-six percent, but that was enough for the Brass to tap us for this project. There was every indication, from our research and projections, that the human brain would respond even slower, that's why this is a three- year project. They thought we would need the extra time." Moira's voice was heavy with irony on the final sentence.
"Why is the reality so different from your projections?" Ian asked, although he was beginning to be distracted by the warmth of her hand in his, the feel of her thigh against his hip.
"I think it comes back to Casca. When the Brass brought in Civilian Advisors from Vorshlag, things changed. Granted, they supplied us with several solutions to our simian to human conversion problems. I know that the formulae were altered based on the information they brought in without any additional testing done. You can bet Pym wouldn't have let that pass if he'd still had control of the project. For all his title, he's not in charge of dick anymore. Casca is. He says jump, and everyone asks if he wants fries with that." Moira rolled her eyes; she was disgusted with the lack of spine shown by her fellow researchers.
"I admit to wondering how they got their information and why it was accepted without question, but they're a global corporation. Their research could have come from anywhere. I've also noticed that Casca isn't surprised by the results, which suggests to me that he knew perfectly well what was going to happen. I know he had the prostitutes lined up. You don't just find women like that on short notice. He's probably had them on retainer since the day we were open for business, which brings me to my first question. Why did you refuse to take the relief offered? I know you are feeling the same as the others." Moira flushed and lowered her eyes.
"They are not whom I desire. My body burns for your touch, and yours alone." Ian's hand tightened over hers, his voice rough with emotion and hunger.
"Please tell me that's not what you told Casca." Moira whispered, suddenly her earlier fears did not seem so groundless.
Finding Moira's apartment had been difficult; since the only think he knew was that she lived on base. Ian had broken into the office of the Housing Director and hacked his files to get an address. She was, as he suspected, in the set of buildings closest to Research and Development.
In the future, that would make his life a great deal easier, not to have as much distance to cover without being detected. Even as good as he was, it only took one person at the wrong place at the wrong time, and he would be discovered. Military personnel were more alert than civilians, and harder to make them believe you were where you should be, when you weren't, once they saw you.
Jimmying the lock to Moira's apartment had been much easier than it should have been. Ian would have to remember to tell her to get a better lock. He moved across the living room silently, admiring her decorating style. It was hard to get a feel for color in the moonlight, but the accents were natural wood, so he suspected the furniture was actually in natural colors like unbleached linen. There were a few pieces of art on the walls. Most were Fitzpatrick prints.
One small painting stopped him. It was an original done in oil instead of a print. It showed a stone circle in winter, snow piled on the plinths. The only color was a tiny red fox sleeping in a hollow under the altar stone. The style was different, harsher and less stylized than a Fitzpatrick. There was a sense of great power at rest, as if the stones were merely sleeping, like the fox. He checked the usual places, but it was unsigned. The more he looked, the more familiar and compelling it seemed. Was it one of the circles he had seen while traveling with Irons?
He moved away with reluctance, knowing he had more important things to discuss with Moira than a painting tonight. Ian moved down the hall, ignoring the creak of a floorboard. He was only trying to be silent enough to keep the neighbors from knowing he was here; he didn't care if Moira heard him moving around.
Ian pushed the bedroom door open. The blinds were closed tight, and even less light penetrated the room. He paused to let his eyes adjust, waiting until the dark lumps resolved into dresser, bed, and bedside table before moving forward again.
"Moira, wake up, love." Ian whispered as he drew near the bed.
"Ian?" the response was soft and filled with surprise. Moira rolled over, all pretense of sleep forgotten.
He moved the rest of the way to the bed, ready to embrace her at last. Instead of reaching for him, Moira held out one hand. "Just a minute accushla. Let me put this somewhere safe."
A glass vial glinted in her hand as she opened a drawer and placed it carefully within. Ian watched curiously, "What is that?"
"A little insurance policy I took out. I know I'm no commando, so I'm working with my strengths. Chemical warfare is something I understand very well." Moira looked up at him, and even in the darkness Ian could see the fear and determination in her eyes.
"Why do you think you need 'insurance'?" Ian rolled the word around on his tongue, not liking the taste it left behind.
"In a word, Casca. I've got a few cousins in strange places, and I asked them to look into the bastard and the company he's here representing. People who cross him tend to have very short careers and lives. If he decides I'm more trouble than I'm worth, or if he has some kind of plan for me," Moira paused grimly, and it was clear how likely she thought it was, "When I go down, I'm taking as many of his people with me as I can."
Ian would have liked to say something comforting, but she was right. Casca was a ruthless man, and he did whatever it took to accomplish his goals. He wasn't sure what she meant by plan though. "Moira, what kind of plan do you think he has?"
"Before I can explain that, I have to cover some background material with you. Firstly, the truth about what's been done to you. You were actually told the truth, as far as it went. What we didn't tell you was that increased activity in these areas of the brain are linked to certain forms of insanity. Enlargements in these same areas usually lead to strokes and aneurisms. That's just if one area is affected, but we've tampered with the entire archipallium. There's a thirty percent chance that because everything has been increased equally, you will be fine. No paranoia, no delusions of grandeur, no aneurisms. However, that means there's a seventy percent chance that you will experience one of more of these problems." Moira looked at him in concern. This was an abiding fear of hers that they should suffer, even die, for a mistake she helped make.
"What can be done to improve our odds? Should we quit the program? I do not care for the idea of being mad or crippled." Ian sat on the edge of the bed, face full of concern.
"At this stage, I don't think it would make a great deal of difference. The damage has been done. Even if you stopped taking the drugs right now, your brain will never return to its original size. At best it will decrease somewhat, and in an even fashion. In the worst case, it would decrease unevenly, leaving you with varying levels of sensory input and an unequal structure of the archipallium. You could end up a great deal worse off." Moira settled her hand over his, it was all the comfort she could give him.
"How did the project get a green light if they knew this would happen to the test subjects?" Ian turned his hand over to grasp hers, and his voice was tight with anger.
"We didn't know. The chimps never responded this strongly to the drug therapy. Actually growth was slow, it took almost eleven months for them to show a twenty five percent increase in the Basal brain. By the end of the two-year project, there had been a sixty-seven percent increase in their aggression levels, strength, and agility. Intelligence only increased thirty-six percent, but that was enough for the Brass to tap us for this project. There was every indication, from our research and projections, that the human brain would respond even slower, that's why this is a three- year project. They thought we would need the extra time." Moira's voice was heavy with irony on the final sentence.
"Why is the reality so different from your projections?" Ian asked, although he was beginning to be distracted by the warmth of her hand in his, the feel of her thigh against his hip.
"I think it comes back to Casca. When the Brass brought in Civilian Advisors from Vorshlag, things changed. Granted, they supplied us with several solutions to our simian to human conversion problems. I know that the formulae were altered based on the information they brought in without any additional testing done. You can bet Pym wouldn't have let that pass if he'd still had control of the project. For all his title, he's not in charge of dick anymore. Casca is. He says jump, and everyone asks if he wants fries with that." Moira rolled her eyes; she was disgusted with the lack of spine shown by her fellow researchers.
"I admit to wondering how they got their information and why it was accepted without question, but they're a global corporation. Their research could have come from anywhere. I've also noticed that Casca isn't surprised by the results, which suggests to me that he knew perfectly well what was going to happen. I know he had the prostitutes lined up. You don't just find women like that on short notice. He's probably had them on retainer since the day we were open for business, which brings me to my first question. Why did you refuse to take the relief offered? I know you are feeling the same as the others." Moira flushed and lowered her eyes.
"They are not whom I desire. My body burns for your touch, and yours alone." Ian's hand tightened over hers, his voice rough with emotion and hunger.
"Please tell me that's not what you told Casca." Moira whispered, suddenly her earlier fears did not seem so groundless.