Chapter #19Memories Are Made of This by: imaj   Six years ago
You check the array of monitors attached the specimen, tapping at the screens, checking the values. Everything reads within acceptable parameters, if not exactly healthy. The specimen is a little too bruised and battered for that word to apply any more. You turn to the gurney, where the specimen is restrained. A drip in her arm feeds sedative directly into her blood stream too, but you've learned that you can't have too many precautions with this one. Not after that escape attempt two months ago managed to breach the containment unit. Only quick thinking by the Spartacus team on site in the facility prevented the specimen from making good her escape.
She has been sedated near constantly since then, sometimes with a level of dosage that would fell a bull elephant. You've decided you don't really need her co-operation any more. Not since your team started building the device shortly after that last escape attempt.
"Stop fussing," you complain to the tech adjusting the settings on the machine. The plans came from Pendleton, and given the limitations in his intellect that means they came from somewhere else. Whether that was the result of interdepartmental cooperation or rivalry doesn't matter to you. All you remember caring about in the doctor's memories is that it opened up a new possibility in your study of the specimen: Dissection.
"Let me see," you say impatiently, shooing away the technician. In truth the blueprints Pendleton passed to you were incomplete, only a partial guide that hinted at a final shape. As you fiddle with the dials yourself, you can't shake the feeling that what your team has built is only an inferior copy. No, worse, it's an inferior copy of an inferior copy. The uncharacteristic moment of doubt is only fleeting though. You are close now, close to cracking this specimen open and taking what you want from her: The means to enhance the Cabinda strains. "Well don't just stand there," you say to the tech you displaced from the machine only a few moments ago. "Attach this to the specimen."
The tech opens his mouth to say something in reply, but wisely shuts it straight back up when you glare at him over your glasses. You fold your arms and watch him closely as he starts pulling ribbed tubes away from the pump at the centre of the device. The tech plugs each hose into the thick leather collars of the specimen's restraints - one at each of her wrists and ankles and the biggest of all at her neck. He tightens them all carefully, acutely aware of your watchful eye over proceedings.
He backs away silently when he's done. You shoot him one last glare before checking everything yourself. It all seems to be prepared correctly, but you've no way of knowing for sure what will happen when you turn the device on. You look at the mirror on the wall - The observation room is behind it. "Start the cameras," you say, the instruction addressed to the other researchers beyond the mirror. You press the switch and the machine chugs into life. You watch for a moment as pump labours then walk out of the containment unit.
Four hours pass before you return to the specimen's side. You turn the machine off before looking at her. Her cheeks seem a little more sallow, her hair a little more faded and skin a little more pallid. You make a tsking sound before turning back to the machine. Kneeling beside it, you open a little flap at the back and reveal a small flask plugged into to a complicated array of glasswork. You unscrew it from its fastenings and hold up the flask to look inside. A tiny little dribble of liquid skulks at the bottom of the flask, glowing ever so faintly.
"Bring in the sample," you call.
The door to the containment unit slides open and another technician arrives, pushing a metal trolley with a plant sample on it. Dark green, blade-like, leaves sprout from a clay pot. This one is relatively harmless, you recall, and therefore perfect for what you want to do next. You pour the fluid from the flask onto the plant.
The leaves wave appreciatively and you smile.
Five Years ago
"I wanted to congratulate you," says Pendleton. "You've done a grand job."
You don't look up from your desk. The lab notes there, the genome sequence from sample four and the observational notes detail its exposure to what you have dubbed the hyperflora serum, are far more interesting than anything Pendleton could say to you.
You don't mourn the specimen's passing and you certainly didn't attended the internment held for her last week. By the time you were finished with the device, the specimen was an emaciated thing - a shrivelled bundle of bones and skin with wispy white hair. No, you are more irritated at the loss of the specimen as your sole source of the hyperflora serum.
"How long do you think you can eke this stuff out," he asks you, unwilling or unable to take the hint. "Your ambrosia extract."
You narrow your eyes. That's what some of the more credulous lab assistants have taken to calling the hyperflora serum. "At the pace I intend to proceed at, directing the development of the various Cabinda strains we have now, then I expect the remaining supplies of the hyperflora serum to last years. At least four, probably more. And that is assuming we find no use for the other fluid we filtered out from the hyperflora serum. None of my samples have reacted to exposure to those dregs."
"Grand, that's grand," replies Pendleton distractedly.
You finally turn round to face him. "This is all in the last report I wrote you David." He nods. "So why are you here."
"Security."
"Security," you parrot. "Why is that even an issue."
Pendleton circles round you. "Hilda Gunnarson..."
"Tsk, the specimen," you interrupt.
"The specimen," nods Pendleton. "She was one of the Stellae Errantes. Now, they ain't looking for her, because Diana placed a doppelganger when they caught her but..." You sigh impatiently and peer over your glasses. "It's complicated. Someone from Diana confessed to me they've lost contact with Hilda Gunnarson's replacement. I don't want anything leading back to us," he finishes, stressing the last word ever so slightly.
"Well, I'm hardly about to tell anyone am I David?"
"Hmmm, not what worries me Joyce," he replies. "You don't need to want to tell someone for it to be a problem. Not with what these Stellae are capable of." He must catch the look of disbelief you give him, for he elaborates. "They can get your secrets out of your head without your consent Joyce. You don't want them to find out what you did to their colleague. I don't want them following your trail back here."
"Does it really matter," you ask, making your own opinion clear. Pendleton nods gravely. "Fine. I assume you have something in mind, and don't say 'flensing'."
"No, too indiscriminate, too much risk of wiping out memories that we need you to keep and way too big a time period to flense out anyway. Frankly Joyce, you're too important to Ishtar to flense." You permit yourself a small, smug smile. "Eh, might be appropriate for some of the technical staff though. Besides, some of the memories we might want you to get back at some time in the future."
"You have something else in mind, don't you," you ask.
Pendleton grins like a shark. "There's a memory repression technique that's kicking about for people at our level. It's already been used to stop managers and senior staff at Fane operations leaking knowledge about other projects and groups. You remember I told you about Nerio's Stateside operations being hit. That would have gone a lot worse for all of us if the manager hadn't agreed to memory repression before taking the job."
You nod thoughtfully. You can see why that would appeal to the Fane higher-ups and their obsessive secrecy.
"It doesn't wipe the memories, but it hides them," explains Pendleton. "You can't remember them, you won't even notice their absence and it can stop you even thinking about whatever the memories were about. If you get asked about something that's been repressed, you can honestly say you know nothing. I mean honesty. As far as you'd know you'd be telling the truth and that means no lie detector, living or mechanical, can spot the lie."
"How do I get them back," you ask. In truth, the idea of willingly inflicting amnesia on yourself horrifies you.
"The right trigger," explains Pendleton. "And we can hide that too, otherwise you could have it tortured out of you and the whole exercise would be pointless." He reaches inside his suit pocket and pulls out a ping pong ball. One half has been painted red, the other yellow.
*****
"I should hit you for that," you tell Pendleton as the rush of memories subsides.
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