Brother to Dragons, Companion to Owls Part 17

Tour completed, I sit on the bed. After the activity of the last several weeks, the abrupt stillness galls. The green curtain of foliage gives me no sense of time and I have nothing with which to amuse myself.

Idly, I stretch my hearing to find what the room might say, but it only reeks of newness. All I learn are the locations of the concealed monitors. Betwixt and Between are correct; anything done in these rooms will be monitored.

Unwilling to talk, I activate Athena and lose myself in the owl's pleasure in flight. Gradually, I slip out of my concerns and into a simple world, dodging after dust motes in the sparkle of the sunshine.

They leave me alone for several days; two, I think, but it might be three. Meals arrive on some irregular schedule and though Betwixt and Between complain about the blandness of the fare, I do not care what I eat.

The thin paper receptacles the food arrives in crumple into brown dust after a few hours, but until then I can fold origami figures, remembering b.u.mblebee teaching me and Chocolate how to make them one night when it was too wet for even the Tail Wolves to go out and do business.

I eat and sleep and play, but refuse to speak, and after some time, they come to me. More specifically, she does: Dr. Haas.

She comes into my cell, white, golden, emerald. My eyes are hungry for color after the dull, tan room, the unremitting green without. She is some relief and as such I study her.

Seating herself on one of my spongy chairs, she flashes her white shark's smile at me.

"You know, I don't believe we've ever been introduced-even though we've met several times. I'm Lea Haas and I'll be working with you here at the Inst.i.tute."

I refuse to play her pretty game and sit mute. Betwixt and Between hiss "b.i.t.c.h" and Athena hoots soft agreement. Allowing a faint smile to curl my lips, I study her. Was that the faintest blush on the alabaster skin?

Before I can decide, she has shifted, crossing one leg over the other. "Sarah, you are due some explanation. Since you cannot-or will not-converse with me, I am forced to lecture."

I say nothing and she sighs. "Being difficult will not help you, Sarah. It may even hurt."

Again pause. Again I stay silent. Again the sigh.

"As you may remember, Sarah, you were born in the Inst.i.tute's original complex. What you may or may not know is that you were part of an attempt to breed for some very specific and very improbable talents. Enhanced memory and empathy were the lesser qualities; the goal of the project was to maximize what has been dubbed 'magical thinking,' the ability to obtain impressions from what are commonly termed inanimate objects."

I must have given some signal that I understood, for she stops her lecture and looks at me.

"I see. You know something of this. Interesting."

Inwardly, I growl, unwilling to show any more. Dr. Haas studies me for a moment more and then continues.

"There were various attempts, but finally success, or something close, was achieved with three children. Even with these three, the results were less than ideal. The eldest, a girl named Eleanora, did show potential, but her main talents were in memory. The youngest-you, Sarah-showed incredible potential, but was unable to communicate. The middle, a boy named Dylan, was highly talented, but so sensitive that he was p.r.o.ne to collapses. Still, the project intended to develop all three.

"Then came a budget cut that severely crippled the Inst.i.tute. Eleanora was dropped from the project. Sometime later, after another cut, Sarah was also dropped. Since she was nonfunctional, she was inst.i.tutionalized. Independent funding was found and work on Dylan was continued. Eventually, he gained control of his abilities and proved invaluable."

She stops and I am suddenly aware that I am leaning forward, waiting for her next words. I gesture impatiently, tired of the farce, tired of being strung along.

"What next?" she interprets, smiling thin-lipped. "Dylan was working for the Inst.i.tute on a sensitive project when he suddenly died."

I cry out, an inarticulate thing that is pure pain.

"Yes, your brother is dead. But the Inst.i.tute needs to finish his project and only someone with similar-or greater-talents can do his work. That's you, Sarah."

Squaring my shoulders, trying to ignore my dragons' weeping, I sit up straight, proud for once to be locked away from such people by my insanity. For once, by saying nothing I truly speak as fully as I wish.

"Oh." Dr. Haas almost laughs. "You wonder how we're going to manage anything because of your 'autism.' There have been many advances in the years since you left us, Sarah, and some of them are going to take us right inside your head. You'll be able to say all you want, just as freely and fluently as you-or as we-wish. Think about it. Won't it be wonderful? And while you're thinking, I'll be setting things up for your first session."

She leaves and I fall back, trembling, on the bed.

"She wasn't telling the whole truth," Between says.

"I agree," Betwixt adds. "She's hiding something."

"But I couldn't catch what," Between says. "I tried, but she's too good. One thing she was lying about was Dylan's death-at least she didn't tell the whole story."

"He is dead, though," Betwixt replies sadly. "I'm sure."

I roll over and bury my face in the beige bedding, my own instincts agreeing with what the dragons are saying. Yet, I don't have any answers or even any free will. I suspect that if I do not at least go through the motions of cooperating, they will have ways prepared to force me.

So when two of the navy-uniformed guards arrive, I jump to my feet and smile. They do not stop me from taking Betwixt and Between and only hesitate slightly when I set Athena on my shoulder. That they do not refuse me my petty a.r.s.enal confirms what I have deduced. Even if I were to win my freedom, there is nowhere for me to go.

Our first stop is a room tiled white on walls and floor. The only furnishings are a chair with padded arms and headrest and a long table covered with various pieces of unfamiliar gear. Another of the blue uniforms, a stocky, brown-haired woman, is waiting.

"Now," she says, her voice hardened with some nasal accent, "I know you don't talk, but I hear y'do hear, so listen up. The word is that you are to have your hair shaved clean off. There are two ways we can do this. One is you can sit down pretty and pretend you're at the beauty parlor going for a flipping avant-garde look. The other is me and my buddies sit you down, strap you in, and you lose the hair just the same."

I walk and sit, clutching Betwixt and Between and wondering if there is some reason for this process or is it only a bit of malice intended to humiliate me. The machine in the woman's hand buzzes merrily and my hair drops off in heavy, cream-colored chunks.

As she works, the barber and the guards discuss some ongoing poker game, without a single word to me beyond "tilt your head" and "raise your chin."

I had nearly forgotten how the sane treat the insane during my time with the Pack, but I fall into the role of malleable dummy easily enough. When she finishes, she holds up a hand mirror. The jade eyes that stare out at me are all the rounder within a face unframed by hair. I lift a hand and rub the naked, smooth surface. It feels strange, and softer than it looks.

"Pretty, eh?" the woman grunts. "Now, next you go over into that corner shower and wash off any hair. When you're done, put on the wrap you'll find in there and bring all your old stuff here."

Obediently, I go over and am relieved to find that there is a curtain I can draw, providing at least an illusion of privacy. After washing, I towel off and find the "wrap." This proves to be a knee-length robe and a pair of loose drawstring trousers made of soft, grey cotton.

Once dressed, I bring my denims and shirt, which whisper to me of the Jungle, out to the woman.

Wrinkling her nose, she accepts them, "Right. March her up to Comp-C. Dr. Haas and Dr. Aldrich are waiting for her."

As we walk, I try and recall if I remember a Dr. Aldrich and decide that I do. Vague memories of a very tall man with a soft, deep voice come back. He must have been very important for me to recall him so immediately upon hearing his name.

Although the complex is able to house many people, we pa.s.s relatively few, making me believe at least some of Dr. Haas's tale of economic hardship. Comp-C turns out to be an antiseptic upper floor filled with the subliminal hum of electricity and large machines. Almost everything that is not white is painted a brilliant neon orange that shrieks at my eyes.

My guards escort me to a door that opens in antic.i.p.ation of our approach. I step in alone. Dr. Haas, in her familiar lab coat and predatory smile, awaits, but I dismiss her to study the other.

He is not so tall as in my memory, but still he towers over me. Like many very tall people, he stoops forward and the stoop has been permanently frozen into his bones, nearly concealing the incongruous potbelly that juts from his skinny frame.

"Sarah," he says, holding out a hand. "Welcome. I am Dr. Aldrich-you may remember me from years ago."

I do and only with the greatest self-control can I offer my hand in return. He beams, seeming unaware of my discomfort.

"I see you've had your hair done. Very good. For the next several weeks, we are going to do numerous-painless-brain scans on you. All that thick, lovely hair would have gotten in the way. Once we know what we need, you should be able to grow it all back."

He is lying. I can tell this so easily that I am amazed that he even bothers. Dr. Haas only smiles.

The next hours are a blur to me. I am lightly strapped into a chair and various things are attached to my shaved scalp. Some hurt, most do not. Some of the tests seem remotely familiar, but the rest mean nothing. I think that I am doped because when I begin to focus again, the light from the one high window is gone. Dr. Aldrich is musing aloud to Dr. Haas.

"So, the language block is genuine, not an act. It's a wonder she has as much control as she does."

"We will be using the direct link then."

"No choice, I'm afraid. Should be fascinating. Wonder how she'll take it?"

"Wonderfully, I'd guess." Dr. Haas chuckles. "My guess is that she'll find it quite addictive."

"Yes." Dr. Aldrich sounds bemused. "Dylan did, didn't he."

Hours spin into days as I am shuttled from test to test. I come to recognize the staff regulars and guards. Only three are really important: Dr. Aldrich, Dr. Haas, and Jersey.

Jersey must have another name, but I never learn it. He is a chunky man, overweight, with watery grey eyes-he also is as bald as I am. Jersey is the operator and, I think, designer of the machine by which Dr. Aldrich plans to circ.u.mvent my inability to speak as other people do.

Despite his sloppiness and the fact that he smells like rotting potatoes, I like Jersey. Perhaps because, as with Head Wolf, I recognize that he is utterly insane.

"We're not going to bother to explain what we're doing, Sarey," he says one morning, "because you wouldn't understand it. What's going to happen-now, that's important, so tune in and listen carefully."

I fold my hands around Betwixt and Between and sit very straight in my chair so he will know that I'm listening.

"Now, in a bit, we're going to link you up with my computer here. Dr. Haas'll give you some stuff to make you drifty and mind that you take it, otherwise the probes don't feel so good. I know, I've done it both ways. You'll feel like you're going to sleep and then do you know what will appear?"

"A miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer?" I suggest.

He grins. "Nope. Better. We'll be in a nice, comfortable room and you'll know it right off because it'll have a picture like this one on the wall behind my chair."

Taking a card from his pocket, he slides it across to me, "Know it?"

I shake my head.

"That's Van Gogh's Olive Orchard Olive Orchard," he says with a sigh, "one of my favorites, and I've got it-there at least. When you see it, let it be a sign to you that you are able to talk and we'll have a chat. Got it?"

I nod slowly, still confused.

"Don't worry," he smiles. "It'll be flipping great. In fact, why should we wait and let you get nervous? C'mon!"

He goes to the intercom and pages the doctors. There is some brief discussion, then argument, but when he comes back to me, he is smiling again.

"We'll be ready in an hour. I'm to either send you to your room or keep you distracted. Your choice."

I study him, reaching, sense no threat or hidden motive. Wanting a friend in this place, I smile.

"G.o.d Almighty first planted a garden," I offer. "And, indeed, it is the purest of all human pleasures."

"You want to garden?" Jersey asks incredulously.

"I am tired of four walls and a ceiling," I explain, feeling a pang as I recall Professor Isabella using the same words. "I have need of the gra.s.s."

"Okay," he says, "but only the roof garden. I'm no jungle beast."

I smile and if he wonders at my amus.e.m.e.nt, he does not say.

The roof garden is hot and humid, the air heavy with a thousand scents. Betwixt and Between puff their approval from where I carry them. We walk around on the gravel paths, looking at orchids pale and bright that evoke images of prom dresses and weddings. This continues for nearly a half hour, until Jersey is streaming with sour sweat.

I return indoors without protest, knowing cooperation is essential. Once we are in, I struggle for words to try and thank Jersey.

"Don't worry, Sarey," he says, smiling mysteriously. "Don't fight for it. You'll be talking easy in just a bit. Now, sit quiet and I'll go and rinse off and be back."

After parking me in his office and pouring me some iced tea, he leaves. When he returns with Dr. Haas and Dr. Aldrich in tow, he has not only showered, he has changed into loose pants and a top similar to those that I am wearing. Patting the back of my hand as he walks by, he grabs a handful of wires and other gizmos and then motions us all through another door.

The annex is twice the size of his office and whereas the one is cluttered with gadgets and related debris, this room is nearly spotless. The walls are painted a restful shade of blue that in no way competes with the array of computer equipment that borders the four walls. The only other furnishings are four strangely sinuous chairs and a startlingly prosaic table.

I am given no time to frame questions or grow concerned. Dr. Aldrich motions me into one of the chairs, his impatience a blunt, musky thing.

Gingerly, I lower myself onto the weird stretch of ebony plastic and gasp when it conforms to me so perfectly that I tap the surface to confirm that I am indeed sitting on something.

Jersey glances from where he is arranging wires and electrodes on the table and chortles at my expression.

"Flip you, did it?" he asks. "Won't bug you with the details, Sarey, but that thing is so sensitive to posture and other comfort signals that it'll react to a fart."

Dr. Aldrich makes a disapproving noise.

"Hey, that's scientifically accurate and necessary," Jersey grins. "When a human is interfacing with the computer, minimal distractions are best. These chairs guarantee that there will be no physical discomfort and the other senses will be dealt with during the hookup. Now, I want you to set me up first so Sarey can see what will happen to her."

Dr. Haas makes as if to protest, but Jersey waves her down. "No, I'm the expert here. If you'd listened to me more in the first place, maybe Dylan wouldn't have..."

He trails off, suddenly at a loss. I look blank, as if I hadn't heard the last exchange.

Hurriedly, Dr. Aldrich steps into the gap. "Fine. You first. Then Sarah. Let's just get onto it."

Although I listen as Jersey narrates the placement of various electrodes about his head and body, I only catch that they will capture some things and monitor others. I am more concerned about why-or how-Dylan died.

When my turn comes, I sit very still, refusing to jump, even though the cream they smear on my scalp is cold. Finally, as Jersey promised, we are each given something to drink.

Almost immediately, I feel a drifting sensation, similar to when I am falling asleep and believe that I am awake only to discover that I have been dreaming all along. The sensation is not unpleasant, and I let myself slip into dreams, coasting away from the annex of Jersey's office into the familiar, sleepy, swirling darkness behind my eyes.

When colors appear in the darkness, I focus on them with idle curiosity. Green-grey and grey-blue drift above a field of brown-gold. As I concentrate, they begin to resolve themselves into twisted trees against a stormy sky growing from a dry field. Nearly as quickly as I recognize Van Gogh's Olive Orchard Olive Orchard, I realize that the picture is hanging on a wall painted a tasteful antique ivory. Beside the picture, a faintly proprietary expression on his face, is Jersey.

But this is and is not the Jersey I know. The omnipresent stench of sour sweat is gone. He is more attractive, flab turned into muscle. His bald head glistens as if polished.

"Welcome, Sarey," he says, "to this cooperative hallucination. You look lovely-but you wouldn't know, would you? Look here."

He turns and for the first time I notice that there is a full-length mirror with a silver gilt frame hanging on the wall. When I see my reflection, I gasp with surprise.

"I have my hair!" I say and then clasp my throat in wonder, for the words are shaped just as I had thought them.

Jersey laughs. "Yes. Guess you didn't like losing it, for all so quiet you were about it."

I continue studying my reflection. My hair is not the only thing to have reappeared. When I reach to touch the heavy cream strands and rea.s.sure myself of their reality, I feel something tickle below my ear. Pushing back my hair, I see that my ivory wolf dangles in its usual place-it had been taken from me when I first awoke after my surrender and I had believed it forever lost. My clothing is unremarkable, jeans and shirt of the style that Abalone had given me.