Marcellus Grenham could not remember a single instant in his entire existence when he'd felt such absolute terror for his life.
'Joelle, honey, I hope someday you forgive me if this goes wrong.'
He couldn't flatter himself that she'd approve, but maybe she'd understand. There are some days when you just have to go with your gut.
Not that she'd ever find out the real truth of exactly what had happened to him. He was fairly sure of that much.
As he sat at his desk, watching first realization and then intention well up in the two sets of eyes directly opposite him, he knew that he'd taken a risk that could only be described as 'insane'. For sure, he had the stun-gun to hand, but heck – he was no quick-on-the-draw gunslinger. He'd never even aimed the cursed thing, let alone fired it; he left that to his juniors, who were trained in its use. His chances of hitting both of the – he resolutely called them prisoners, because that's what they were, but primal instinct screamed killers! – if they charged him at once were frankly laughable. He was hoping just the threat of it would ward them off if necessary, but some serious doubts about that were beginning to creep in.
The male moved first. 'Heck, I'm going to find out what his name is if I get through this,' the crazy thought flittered through Marcellus's mind as he watched the lean form begin creeping forward. It should have looked laughable, watching a human stalking him on all fours, but it didn't. It looked horrible. 'I can't call him "Hey, you, the one with the dick" if I'm starting up a conversation.'
He was out of the cage.
Almost involuntarily, the doctor's fingers moved towards the stun-gun. The blazing gray eyes noted that movement, and also that it was halted before touching.
He stopped.
"Hi." Marcellus hoped his voice didn't sound as quavery as it felt. He tried to infuse a bit more confidence into it. "My name's Grenham. Doctor Marcellus Grenham. I'm here to treat you."
There was no reply. He hadn't expected one.
The eyes did not change. They simply watched him.
With the hand that wasn't resting close to the stun-gun, he gestured towards the new cages that had been built to his specifications. "They'll be much more comfortable. I hope we won't have to keep you in them long, but I can't just let you go; if you get out of here they've got orders to shoot you on sight. I'm so sorry this terrible thing has been done to you. I'll do everything I can to help you recover."
He didn't flatter himself that the words in themselves were understood, but the prisoner did not attack. The eyes watched him intently, the head turning slightly like that of an intelligent dog as it tries to understand. With an effort, he broke the stare, lowering his gaze to the guy's arms. At least the right hand was resting on the floor now, so his surgery had achieved that much. The second op had been long, and more scary in parts than he'd let on, but he'd done his homework and the results had looked good. There would need to be at least one more, depending on tests, and months of physiotherapy would be required before complete use was restored, but the prognosis for a full recovery was hopeful.
More movement almost brought his eyes up again, but he realized just in time that this would be the worst move he could make. The female was moving up to join her companion, and any look at her could too easily be interpreted as an invitation to attack.
He watched with his peripheral vision. She pressed up against the male, who licked her face tenderly. Their gladness at being able to touch freely again was obvious.
They weren't going to like being caged again, and separated. But unfortunately, for a while there were no other options open. They had to be dealt with separately until they were rehabilitated enough to understand that he was here to help them. Hopefully, if his plans bore fruit, that wouldn't be too long.
This perilous experiment was expressly designed to show him where he had to start.
If he survived it.
Green eyes and gray stared at him. The prisoners were hardly three meters away from him. Their silence was terrifying.
Somehow he unlocked his tongue. "Go home." Slowly, making the movement as unthreatening as he could, he pointed to the new cages again. How could he explain that though he'd deliberately switched off the cameras before starting this, if he didn't call out within the next half an hour to say the situation was secure, the room would be flooded with gas to knock out everyone still alive inside it? Presumably by that time those outside would assume he was past assistance; if he hadn't succeeded within that time, he probably would be. Also, at a guess, the new cages would be dismantled and taken away. His replacement probably wouldn't bother with kindness. It would be drugs again, and shock therapy.
The medical logs he'd studied had made him feel physically sick. It couldn't be right to use these methods on human beings. No matter what the justification. There had to be a better way. Drugs, certainly, would have to be part of it, but coupled with care, kindness and above all, compassionate treatment. And he didn't give a damn how long it took, or what Harris thought.
After a long, long moment, the male moved. Leaving the female on guard, he explored the room, touching nothing. Then, finally, he went warily to the new cages.
Just as Marcellus himself had done, he entered one, and then the other. His suspicious growl echoed in the first kennel before he went inside, but he came out again looking marginally less wary, and entered the second in silence.
He came back to the female. A long, cold stare bored into Marcellus's brain. Then the two of them turned away and went to the cages. Before they separated, they nuzzled affectionately. The male whined, a small, surprisingly gentle sound, and then they went in. Both of them entered their kennels.
Inside each, according to his specific instructions, they would find a bed on the floor. They would also find a pallet on which the mattress would fit, and a small table and chair. On top of the table was a plate with food on it – a polystyrene plate, not a feeding bowl. The steak was cold, but it was lightly grilled, and had the usual accompaniments of an ordinary human meal. There was also a dessert – of fruit, cored, peeled and sliced.
In addition, there was a polystyrene cup beside a water dispenser attached to the wall of the structure. If the cup, or even a finger, was pressed to the large button, water would be produced.
There was also a covered pail for body wastes, that could be safely accessed from outside when necessary. Up till now the prisoners had been obliged to use a litter tray in a corner of their cage, and their expressions had shown their disgust and mortification. It might take a little more thought to work out how to use it, but underneath that induced belief in who and what they were, he already knew that human intelligence was alive and thriving. If they cared enough – and he thought they did – they'd work it out somehow.
The male came out again. He looked at the cage door, which was still open, and he lay down quietly, watching his captor. His expression was still hostile, but it was now overlaid with faint puzzlement.
Marcellus let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Taking a conscious risk, he took his eyes off the cages and turned back to his PADD. As he picked up his place in the text he reflected that James Joyce could have had no idea when writing all those centuries ago in what extraordinary circumstances and to what a remarkable audience his work would one day be read.
He went on reading aloud for another fifteen minutes. There was no movement from either of the captives. The female did not reappear; presumably she was eating or resting.
The timer began winking on his desk, reminding him that others were waiting for his signal. Silently he pressed the 'all clear' and went on reading.
When he'd finished the chapter he put down the PADD and stood up, moving slowly. With deliberation he switched off his computer and all the peripherals. As though he wasn't at the mercy of a killer who had every reason to hate the human race, he went over to get his coat and shrugged himself into it.
When he was ready to leave he turned back again. The male was still lying motionless in his cage, watching him through the open door.
"Sorry," he said apologetically, reaching for the controls on the desk. "I hope we won't need these for long. But I'd rather just play it safe with you for a while. Just till you work out that I'm one of the good guys."
The doors closed. The prisoner made no attempt to dodge underneath. He simply watched.
"Got a little surprise for you, though," Marcellus added. "Being as you've played ball with me today. I was going to save it a while, but I guess you can both do with a treat."
He pressed another button. Slowly the wall dividing one cage from the other rose in its grooves, uniting them again.
The gray eyes followed him as he walked to the wall panel and flicked off the audio receivers one by one. The cameras were already off, and they'd stay off till he came back in the morning. "And you won't have anyone spying on you either. So enjoy."
There was a spring in his step as he walked down the corridor after entering his personal locking code into the security panel. He was under no illusions: there was still a long hard road to travel, for him and for his hapless charges. But today he'd made the first stride, and it was an enormous one.
To call what he'd established 'trust' was stretching the fact like a sheet of elastic. Perhaps 'communication' was a more accurate word. At any rate it was something – something, however fragile, that had enabled both of them to explore at least the possibility of a non-hostile relationship.
Some of the things he was going to have to do in the next few days might tax that fragile understanding; might even shatter it. Much depended on how willing, even how determined, the prisoners were to comprehend what was happening to them. But the bridge had been built. If only for part of a single hour, it had existed. And if he could possibly contrive to prevent it, nothing would happen to damage it beyond repair.
He was home early for once that night. And even though it was far too cold to sit outside, he and Joelle missed the heavy traffic on 23rd Street, and sat on late at the café on the Bay, holding hands and listening to the live band performing there, who were surprisingly good.
Maybe this job hadn't been such a bad move after all.
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