by Ellen Datlow
“I … haven’t been given permission,” Malpass said in an under voice. “I’ll need to get it if I’m going to explain what it is the Old Man needs to know.”
This was the first time Weybridge had ever seen Malpass display an emotion akin to fear, and in spite of himself, he was curious. “Why should the Old Man care what I remember? He has me where he wants me, doesn’t he?”
“Well, sure, but we don’t want you to have to remain here indefinitely,” Malpass said uneasily, attempting to make a recovery. “We’re all … doing our best for you.”
Weybridge shook his head. “That’s not enough, Malpass. You’re holding back too much. I don’t want to say anything more until you’re a little more forthcoming with me.” It was exciting to defy Malpass, so Weybridge added, “I want the lights out at night. I need sleep.”
“I’ll see if it can be arranged,” Malpass hedged, moving away from the bed, where Weybridge sat. “I’ll let you know what we decide.”
What had he said? Weybridge wondered. What had caused the change in the affable Mr. Malpass? He could not find the answer, though it was obvious that something he had triggered disturbed the man profoundly. “Is there something you’d like to tell me, Malpass? You seem distraught.”
“I’m … fine, David. You’re probably tired. I’ll let you have a little time to yourself, before they bring you your supper.”
Was it Weybridge’s imagination, or was there a trace of malice in Malpass’ tone of voice? He watched Malpass retreat to the door and hover there, his hand on the latch. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Malpass said fervently.
“I’m interested in what it is the Old Man wants to know. Find out if you can tell me. Maybe we can all work together if you’re not so secretive with me.” He was almost light-headed with satisfaction as he saw the door close behind Malpass.
The afternoon hours dragged by; Weybridge remained in solitude, the IV unit by his bed his only company. He would have liked to have something to read, but this had been refused when he asked the first time, and Weybridge had not renewed his request. He lay back against the skimpy pillows and stared up at the ceiling, trying to make patterns and pictures of the play of light and shadow there.
About sunset, Dr. Cleeve entered the room, his pursed mouth giving him the look of an overstuffed bag with a hole in it. “I see you are alone,” he said.
“Is that unusual?” Weybridge asked angrily. “Did you think someone else would be here?”
“Under the circumstances, yes, I did.” Dr. Cleeve said with great meaning. “The Old Man isn’t satisfied with your progress. He’s about ready to give up on you, and so is Malpass.”
“Give up on me? How? Why?"In spite of himself, he felt worried by this announcement.
“You’re not telling them what they want to know, what they need to know. They think you’ve been turned and that you’re simply playing with them to gain your new masters some time.”
“That’s not true!” Weybridge protested, trying to get to his feet. “It’s not possible! I don’t know what I did, I don’t know why I’m here, I don’t even know who you are, or who I am. What do I have to do to make you believe that?” His pulse throbbed in his head and his eyes ached. There were the images, the memories of so much horror that he could not to bear to look at them directly, but that proved it—didn’t it?—that he was not deceiving them.
“Mr. Weybridge,” Dr. Cleeve soothed. “You’re overwrought. I can understand how that would be, but clearly you can see that you are not on very firm ground.” He reached over and patted Weybridge’s arm, just below the place where the IV needles were taped. “I see that your veins are holding up fairly well. That’s something. A man in your condition should be glad that we do not yet have to cut down for a vein.”
“It…” There was a fleeting vision of arms and legs, tattered remnants of bodies floating on a sluggish current, catching against river reeds, piling up, then drifting on.
“What is it, Mr. Weybridge?” Dr. Cleeve asked intently. “What is happening to you now?”
Weybridge shook his head. “I… it’s gone now. It’s nothing.” He felt the sweat on his forehead and his ribs, and he could smell it, hating the odor for its human aliveness.
“Mr. Weybridge,” Dr. Cleeve said, folding his arms and regarding Weybridge through his thick glasses, “are you willing to let me try an … experiment?”
“How do you mean, “an experiment’?” Weybridge asked, suspicious in the depths of his desperation.
“There are ways that we can … accelerate your mind. We could find out what had truly happened to you, and what you have done. The danger is that if you have been turned, we will know about it, unquestionably, and you will have to face the consequences of your act, but the waiting would certainly be over.” He studied Weybridge with increasing interest. “It would not be difficult to do, simply a bit more risky than what we have been doing up till now.
“And what is the risk?” Weybridge asked, wishing he knew more about Dr. Cleeve—any of them—so that he could judge why the man had made this offer.
“Well, if the suppressed memories are traumatic enough, you could become psychotic.” He spread his hands in wide mute appeal. “You could still become psychotic just going on the way you are. It may, in fact, be that you are already psychotic. There’s really no way of knowing without taking certain risks, and this, at least, would end the suspense, so to speak.” He tried to smile in a way that would reassure Weybridge, but the strange, toothy unpursing of his mouth was not reassuring.
“I’ll have to think about it,” Weybridge hedged.
“Let me suggest that you do it very quickly. The Old Man is anxious to have your case resolved, and his way would most certainly do you permanent damage.” Dr. Cleeve watched Weybridge closely. “If you have not already done permanent damage.”
“And we won’t know that until we try one of the techniques, right?” Weybridge ventured, his tone so cynical that even he was startled by the sound of it.
“It is the one sure way.” Dr. Cleeve paused a moment. “It may not be that you have any choice.”
“And it is really out of my hands in any case, isn’t it?” He sighed. “If I say yes to you, or if I wait until the others, the Old Man—whoever he is—makes up his mind to put my brain through the chemical wringer. Which might have been done already. Did you ever think of that?”
“Oh, most certainly we’ve thought of it. It seems very likely that there has been some … tampering. We’ve said that from the first, as you recall.” He smacked his fleshy palms together. “Well. I’ll let you have a little time to yourself. But try to reach a decision soon, Mr. Weybridge. The Old Man is impatient, as you may remember.”
“I don’t know who the Old Man is. He’s just a name people keep using around here,” Weybridge said, too resigned to object to what Dr. Cleeve said to him.
“You claim that’s the case. That’s how the Old Man sees it. He thinks that you’re buying time, as I said. He thinks that this is all a very clever ploy and that you’re doing everything you can to keep us from following up on your case.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what the truth of the matter is, but I want to find it out. Don’t you?” This last was a careful inquiry, the most genuine question the man had asked since he’d come into the room.
“You won’t believe it, but I do,” Weybridge said, feeling himself grow tired simply with speaking. He had reiterated the same thing so often that it was no longer making much sense to him. “I have to know what really happened to me, and who I am.”
“Yes; I can see that,” Dr. Cleeve said with an emotion that approached enthusiasm. “You think about it tonight. This isn’t the kind of thing to rush into, no matter how urgent it may appear.”
As Weybridge leaned back against the pillows, he was feeling slightly faint, and he answered less cautiously than he might have under other circumstances. “If it gets us answers, do whatever you have to do.”
“Oh, we will, Mr. Weybridge,” Dr. Cleeve assured him as the door closed on him.
There were dreams and fragments of dreams that hounded Weybridge through the night. He was left with eyes that felt as if sand had been rubbed into the lids and a taste in his mouth that drove what little appetite he possessed away from him, replacing it with repugnance.
Malpass did not come to visit him until midday, and when he arrived, he looked uncharacteristically harried. “You’re having quite a time of it with us, aren’t you, David?” he asked without his usual friendly preamble.
“I’ve done easier things, I think.” He tried to smile at the other man, but could not force his face to cooperate. “I wish you’d tell me what’s going on around here.”
“The Old Man wants to take you off the IV unit and see if a few days on no rations will bring you around. I’ve asked him to give me a few more days with you, but I don’t know if he’s going to allow it. Three of our operatives were killed yesterday, and he’s convinced you can tell him how their covers were blown.”
“It wasn’t me,” Weybridge said firmly, and even as he spoke, he wondered if some of those drastic images stored in his mind where the memories had been might be associated with the loss of the other operatives.
“The Old Man doesn’t believe that. He thinks you’re still following orders.” Malpass licked his lips furtively, then forced them into a half smile that reflected goodwill. “You’ve got to understand, David. The Old Man simply doesn’t buy your story. We’ve all tried to convince him that you’re probably nothing more than a pawn, someone who’s been set up to distract us, but that isn’t making any headway with the Old Man. He’s pissed about the other operatives, you see, and he wants someone’s head on the block. If it isn’t yours, it may have to be mine, and frankly, I’d rather it was yours.” This admission came out in a hurry, as if he hoped that in saying it quickly, he would disguise its meaning.
“And you want this over with, don’t you, Malpass?” Weybridge asked, feeling much more tired than he thought it was possible to be. “I want it over with too.”
“Then you’ll agree? You’ll let them question you again, with drugs so we’re sure you’re telling us the truth?” He sounded as eager as a schoolboy asking for a day without classes.
“Probably,” he said. “I have to think it over. You’re going to have to muck about in my mind, and that’s happened once already. I don’t want to be one of those miserable vegetables that you water from time to time.”
Malpass laughed as if he thought this caution was very witty. “I don’t blame you for thinking it over, David. You’re the kind who has to be sure, and that’s good, that’s good. We’ll all be easier in our minds when the questions have been answered.”
“Will we? That’s assuming you find out what you want to know, and that it’s still worth your while to keep me alive. There are times I wonder if you’re on my side or the other side—whoever my side and the other side may be—and if anything you’re telling me is true. If you were on the other side, what better way to get me to spill my guts to you than to convince me that you’re on my side and that you’re afraid I’ve been turned. You say you’re testing me, but it might not be true.”
“David, you’re paranoid,” Malpass said sternly. “You’re letting your fears run away with you. Why would we go through something this elaborate if we weren’t on your side? What would be the purpose?”
“Maybe you want to turn me, and this is as good a way as any to do it. Maybe I’ve got information you haven’t been able to get out of me yet. Maybe you’re going to program me to work for you, and you started out with privation and torture, and now that I’m all disoriented, you’re going to put on the finishing touches with a good scramble of my brain.” He sighed. “Or maybe all that has already happened and you’re going to see what I wrecked for you. And then what? You might decide that it’s too risky to let it be known that you’ve found out what happened, and so you’ll decide to lock me up or turn me into some kind of zombie or just let me die.”
“You’re getting morbid,” Malpass blustered, no longer looking at Weybridge. “I’m going to have to warn the Old Man that you’ve been brooding.”
“Wouldn’t you brood, in my position?” Weybridge countered, his face desolate.
“Well, anyone would,” Malpass said, reverting to his role as chief sympathizer. “Have you been able to have a meal yet?”
The familiar cold filled him. “No,” Weybridge said softly. “I… can’t.”
“That’ll be one of the things we’ll work on, then,” Malpass promised. “There’s got to be some reason for it, don’t you think? David, you’re not going to believe this, but I truly hope that you come through this perfectly.”
“No more than I do,” Weybridge said without mirth. “I’m tired of all the doubts and the secrecy.” And the terrible visions of broken and abused bodies, of the panic that gripped him without warning and without reason, of the dread he felt when shown a plate of food.
“Excellent,” Malpass said, rubbing his hands together once, as if warming them. “We’ll get ready, so when you make up your mind we can get started.”
“You’re convinced that I’ll consent. Or will you do it no matter what I decide?” Weybridge said recklessly, and saw the flicker in Malpass’s eyes. “You’re going to do it no matter what, aren’t you?”
“I’ll talk to you in the morning, David,” Malpass said, beating a hasty retreat.
There were dreams that night, hideous, incomplete things with incomprehensible images of the most malicious carnage. Weybridge tossed in his bed, and willed himself awake twice, only to hear the insidious whispers buzz around him more fiercely. His eyes ached and his throat was dry.
Dr. Cleeve was the first to visit him in the morning. He sidled up to Weybridge’s bed and poked at him. “Well? Do you think you will be able to help me?”
“If you can help me,” Weybridge answered, too exhausted to do much more than nod.
“What about Malpass? Are you going to put him off, or are you going to convince him that my way is the right one?” The tip of his nose moved when he spoke; Weybridge had never noticed that before.
“I… I’ll have to talk to him.” He moved his arms gingerly, taking care to test himself. “I want to do what’s best.”
“Of course you do,” Dr Cleeve declared. “And we’ve already discussed that, haven’t we?” His eyes gloated, though the tone of his voice remained the same. “You and I will be able to persuade the rest of them. Then you’ll be rid of your troubles and you can go about your life again instead of remaining here.”
“Will I?” Weybridge had not meant to ask this aloud, but once the words were out, he felt relieved. “Or am I speeding up the end?”
“We won’t know that until we know what’s been done to you, Mr. Weybridge,” said Dr. Cleeve. “I’ll have a little talk with Malpass and we’ll arrange matters.”
“When?” Weybridge asked, dreading the answer.
“Tomorrow morning, I should think,” he replied, hitching his shoulders to show his doubt.
“And then?” Weybridge continued.
“We don’t know yet, Mr. Weybridge. It will depend on how much you have been … interfered with.” He was not like Malpass, not inclined to lessen the blows. “If there is extensive damage, it will be difficult to repair it. It’s one of the risks you take in techniques like this.”
Weybridge nodded, swallowing hard.
“Malpass will doubtless have a few things to say to you about the tests. Keep in mind that he is not a medical expert and his first loyalty is to the Old Man.”
“Where is your first loyalty?” Weybridge could not help asking.
“Why, to the country, of course. I am not a political man.” He cleared his throat. “I hope you won’t repeat this to Malpass; he is suspicious of me as it is.”
“Why is that?”
“There are many reasons, most of them personal,” Dr. Cleeve said smoothly. �
��We can discuss them later, if you like, when you’re more … yourself.”
Weybridge closed his eyes. “Shit.”
“I have a great deal to do, Mr. Weybridge. Is there anything else you would like to know?” Dr. Cleeve was plainly impatient to be gone. “One thing: how long have I been here?”
“Oh, five or six weeks, I suppose. I wasn’t brought in at first. Only when they realized that they needed my sort of help That was sixteen days ago, when you had recovered from the worst of your wounds but still could or would not eat.” He waited. “Is that all, Mr. Weybridge?”
“Sure,” he sighed.
“Then, we’ll make the arrangements,” Dr. Cleeve said, closing the door before Weybridge could think of another question.
He was wakened that night—out of a fearful dream that he would not let himself examine too closely—by the nurse who had been kind enough to be interested in him and had tried to rub his feet. He stared at her, trying to make out her features through the last images of the dream, so that at first he had the impression that she had been attacked, her mouth and nostrils torn and her eyes blackened.
“Mr. Weybridge,” the nurse whispered again, with greater urgency.
“What is it?” he asked, whispering too, and wondering how much the concealed devices in the room could hear.
“They told me … they’re planning to try to probe your memory. Did you know that?” The worry in her face was clear to him now that he saw her without the other image superimposed on her face.
“Yes, that’s what they’ve—we’ve decided.”
“You agreed?” She was incredulous.
“What else can I do?” He felt, even as he asked, that he had erred in giving his permission. “Why?”
“They didn’t tell you, did they? about the aftereffects of the drugs, did they? Do you know that you can lose your memory entirely?”
“I’ve already lost most of it,” Weybridge said, trying to make light of her objections.
“It can turn you into a vegetable, something that lies in a bed with machines to make the body work, a thing they bury when it begins to smell bad.” She obviously intended to shock him with this statement, and in a way she succeeded.