Welcome to the Madhouse

by S. E. Sasaki

  “No, indeed not,” Grace said.

  “Okay . . . Hack completed. Ready for you to ‘experience’ when you wish.”

  “Are you all right, Grace?” Bud gasped, panic and concern etched on his face. He was staring, in huge-eyed horror, at a spot underneath Grace’s left breast where blood had soaked into her shirt.

  “Yes, thank you, Bud. I am fine. Luckily, it is merely a scratch. The Captain poked me with one of his claws, but it really only broke the skin. Thank you for coming in the nick of time, though.”

  “I . . . I . . . I,” the android said, consternation and almost terror appearing on his face. “You should have one of the other doctors look at that, Grace. Immediately!”

  “It really is nothing, Bud. I can look after it myself. Let us quickly get Captain Lamont onto my bed, secured and in restraints. I suspect, when he awakens, he will have no memory of what happened, but let us get him into the manacles, just in case.”

  “I need to see your wound! I need to see how deep it went!” Bud said.

  “I am fine, Bud,” Grace said, flushing.

  “I need to see that it did not pierce your lung, Grace! I need to see how bad it is!” Bud insisted.

  “My breathing is fine, Bud! It was just a scratch!” Grace argued, feeling like a glowing beacon.

  “I need to see . . . that you are all right, Grace,” Bud almost wailed.

  “All right!” Grace snapped. She pulled up the shirt of her scrubs to reveal the scratch just beneath her left breast. Bud peered at it closely and touched the spot where the blood was already clotting. He gently poked at the wound, secretly sending in a few of his nanobots. Grace winced a bit, but said nothing. He placed his fingers against her chest wall, firmly, and froze, as if listening. Then he sighed.

  “Your heart and lungs are fine, Grace,” Bud said, in a tone of great relief.

  “I told you that,” Grace grumbled, pulling down her shirt, and looking away. Why was her room so hot? Who put up the temperature?

  “Can you please put Captain Lamont on my bed now, Bud?” Grace asked, fanning herself.

  Bud bent down and effortlessly picked up the huge tiger, as if the captain were a small child. He placed Lamont on Grace’s narrow bed, where he was too wide to fit and too long, as well. Surprisingly, the android was very gentle, as he arranged the still-unconscious captain onto the pallet as comfortably as possible. Grace checked all of the Lamont’s incisions, making sure they were all still intact.

  Behind her, Grace heard the door to her quarters whisper open and then close. Bud returned to the bedside, titanium restraints in hand. Silently, he attached the manacles to the captain’s wrists and ankles and secured them to her bed.

  “There is a very high probability that the captain will snap your bed frame, Grace. This bed is not nearly as sturdy as the hospital beds, which are made for these soldiers,” Bud warned.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t be alone with him. I will have you send two big security androids to stay with me at all times, and I am sure Nelson Mandela will let you know if we have any trouble. I am sure he will be keeping an eye on me.”

  “You are definitely not wrong there, Doc,” the station AI said.

  “The captain was given a post-hypnotic suggestion, Nelson Mandela?”

  “I think you will have to draw your own conclusions after viewing the session, but it is imperative we take some blood samples from the captain. You may be surprised at what you will find floating around in his bloodstream. But you must hurry. The pharmaceuticals that the captain was given have very fast half-lives and may be quickly metabolized from his system. In an hour from now, there will be no evidence left to indicate the captain was drugged. I know what to analyze for. I just have to get a ‘droid to draw the blood sample immediately.”

  “That is what I am here for,” Bud said. “And I will not be leaving you alone with Captain Lamont,” Bud said firmly to Grace, as he withdrew venipuncture equipment from a pocket on his coveralls and bent over to draw a blood sample from the sleeping tiger.

  “You must, Bud,” Grace insisted. “All the experiments involving the virus and its treatments and vaccine production still require your supervision. This incident does not take precedence over that. And I need you to appear to be investigating my ‘attempted murder’.”

  The android’s eyes widened and blinked at Grace. “Is that why you want Nelson Mandela to create a video showing you almost getting killed? What did Nelson Mandela call it? A ‘snuff vid’? I could not find any references in my memory.”

  “I do not know what a ‘snuff vid’ is. I thought snuff was something people used to sniff up their noses,” Grace said with a smile.

  “You are going to pretend that you were almost killed, Grace?” Bud asked, his features exhibiting puzzlement. “That the attack was almost successful? Why?”

  “Yes, Bud. It is very important that it looks like the Captain was very close to succeeding in his mission.”

  “But . . . but why? I do not think I will ever understand humans,” Bud lamented.

  “Ditto!”

  “Let me explain,” Grace said, and proceeded to lay out her plan.

  Chapter Seventeen: The Poet

  When it was announced that Dr. Grace Lord’s life was hanging on by a mere thread, the news spread through the medical space station like wildfire. Many personnel wanted to come and visit her, but it was strictly forbidden. The young surgical fellow had been attacked by an assassin, who was also alive and in custody. The assassin was unconscious but would be questioned, via mind-link, as soon as he became conscious. Video was shown on the newsnet of a violent attack in a dark room, leaving a woman lying prone on the floor in an enlarging pool of blackness and a huge, shady figure departing the scene. Authorities were quick to capture the assailant, who was badly injured in the struggle.

  It was announced that Dr. Lord and her assailant were both being held in a highly-secured area in one of the Intensive Care Units under guard. No one would be allowed to gain admittance to the ward, to see either person, unless they had top level security clearance. They could only be admitted, if the station AI, Nelson Mandela, gave permission.

  On the Intensive Care Unit of Ward E10, Dr. Grace Lord was fighting for her life, surrounded by security ‘droids that operated under the strict commands of Nelson Mandela. No other patients were being treated on this unit, except for the assassin, who was also in critical condition and under armed guard, having been captured by security ‘droids. The assassin was in a separate, locked and guarded room, at the opposite end of the ward and situated between the two rooms was a veritable army of security androids and robots.

  Almost immediately, the psychiatrist, Dr. Jeffrey Nestor, contacted the station AI and expressed dismay and regret, regarding the attack on Dr. Lord. He requested permission to see both patients, one because she was a dear friend and colleague for whom he cared a great deal, the other because he was a patient, whom Nestor had been treating right up until the day of Dr. Lord’s attack.

  The psychiatrist said he felt terribly guilty that he did not pick up on the patient’s intentions. Dr. Nestor admitted that he was aware the patient felt strong anger towards Dr. Lord, because of the body-altering surgery performed upon him leaving him more machine than human, but the psychiatrist would never have suspected the patient would actually go and attack his surgeon. Dr. Nestor claimed he felt partially responsible for Dr. Lord’s injuries and wanted to help her in any way he could. He wanted to be by her bedside and offer what comfort and loving attention he could, while she struggled for her life. After all, they were in a ‘relationship’ together.

  Also, as the assailant’s acting psychiatrist, Dr. Nestor felt he should check up on his patient and determine whether this assassination attempt was at all related to his Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

  The station AI, after much dissembling, consented to give permission for Dr. Jeffrey Nestor to enter Ward E10 to visit Dr. Lord and the assassin, but for only brief visits.
Both patients’ conditions were very critical, at the moment, and were not likely awake enough for the psychiatrist’s visit to have any real relevance. Dr. Nestor insisted he had to see them. The station AI finally acquiesced.

  At the entrance to the E10 ward was a host of security droids. One took Dr. Nestor’s retinal, finger, and voice-prints, as well as his identification and security clearance codes. Then with four large security droids surrounding him, the psychiatrist was directed first towards the assassin’s room. Outside the attacker’s door, Jeffrey Nestor insisted that all the security droids, robots, and nurses wait outside. This was not permitted. One large security droid came inside the patient’s room, but placed itself just inside the closed door.

  The psychiatrist strode silently toward the bed, where the sole illumination was shining dimly over the patient’s head. The tiger captain lay unconscious, amidst tubing and pumps and monitors and computer consoles. His head was wrapped up in bandages, as were his chest and his right arm. His eyes were closed.

  Coming up to the left side of the bed, the psychiatrist addressed the patient:

  “Captain Damien Lamont? Captain Lamont? This is Dr. Jeffrey Nestor. Are you awake? Can you hear me?”

  There was some slight change in the tiger’s breathing, but that was the only visible response. Reaching out his right hand, the psychiatrist grasped the left arm of Lamont, who was bound in titanium restraints. The patient still did not awaken. The psychiatrist bent towards the patient’s head and spoke something softly into his left ear. He then palpated the carotid pulse on the left side of the tiger’s neck and squeezed his left shoulder firmly.

  “I will come back and see you later, Captain Lamont, when you are more alert,” Jeffrey Nestor said, warmly. He then casually put his hands into his pockets and moved towards the door.

  As he was leaving the room, Dr. Nestor said to the security ‘droid, “I would like to see Dr. Lord, now.”

  They made their way down the long, grey corridor to the other end of the E10 Intensive Care Unit, the four large Security droids again surrounding Nestor. When he reached Dr. Lord’s room, Nestor again demanded privacy. He was again refused. An android followed Jeffrey Nestor into Dr. Lord’s room but stood just inside the doorway.

  This room, too, was dark and poorly lit. Grace Lord’s face was in shadow. The heart monitor, hooked up to Grace, beat regularly and the patient’s vitals were shown on a screen above her head as well as a host of other indices. Dr. Nestor scanned the readouts on the screen, before approaching her bedside. All of Grace’s readings were normal.

  Nestor looked back out through the glass wall of the Intensive Care suite. Seeing no one, he quickly approached the bedside. He bent forwards and spoke clearly and loudly.

  “Grace? It’s me, Jeffrey. How are you feeling today, my love?”

  Grace did not respond, other than with an increase in her heart rate.

  Nestor stuck his hands in his pockets and went to the medication console near the head of Grace’s bed. He studied her med chart. Withdrawing his right hand from his pocket, he reached out to grab the tubing running into Grace’s intravenous port with his right hand.

  Suddenly, his right arm would not move. He felt as if the bones in his right forearm were being crushed, and the tiny palm syringe, filled with a clear liquid, was pried out from between his lifeless fingers. Jeffrey Nestor cried out and fell to his knees, his right arm held in the air by the iron grip of an android. The android handed off the small syringe, a little auto-injector bulb that sat neatly between two fingers, to a robot that proceeded to insert the contents of the needle into its chemical analyzer. After a few seconds, the robot emitted a few beeps.

  “You are under arrest, Dr. Jeffrey Nestor, for the attempted murders of Dr. Grace Alexandra Lord and Captain Damien Lamont,” Nelson Mandela, the station AI, announced. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to legal representation.”

  “This is ridiculous!” Nestor sputtered in outrage, his left hand reaching up to grab his crushed right forearm, still entrapped within the android’s steely grip. The android dragged the psychiatrist to his feet and away from the bedside.

  “How dare you? This is preposterous! I have no idea what you are talking about! I came here, to see my patient, Captain Damien Lamont, and my colleague, Dr. Lord, to care for them, not harm them,” Dr. Nestor announced.

  “How did you know the assassin was Captain Damien Lamont, Doctor Nestor? How did you know Captain Damien Lamont, your patient, was responsible for the attack on Dr. Lord?”

  “Why, the name was released, when it was announced that Dr. Lord had been attacked,” the psychiatrist said.

  “No, it was not, Dr. Nestor. The assailant’s name was never released. There were only three humans who knew who the assailant was: Dr. Grace Lord, Captain Damian Lamont, and the person who made Captain Lamont attack her. No one else. The only way you could have known the identity of the attacker, was if you were the one who put him up to it.”

  “That is insane. How could I have done that?” scoffed the psychiatrist.

  “Through your mind-linking technique, Doctor. You did it by injecting the captain with powerful psychoactive agents and implanting a post-hypnotic suggestion in his head, during your mind-linking session with him twenty-six hours ago. I have the recording of your entire session, Doctor, and I also have analyzed the agent you tried to inject the captain with, just a few minutes ago. Very ingenious. That agent would have stopped his heart and then quickly broken down to undetectable metabolites, had we not gotten the blood sample drawn up quickly enough. Which, unfortunately for you, we did.

  “Captain Damien Lamont is alive, by the way. The antidote was given immediately after you left the room, so he is doing fine.”

  “As for Dr. Grace Lord here, I have already analyzed the agent you were trying to inject into her intravenous and it, too, is a lethal dose of an agent that would have caused severe brain damage, dementia, and ultimately death in Doctor Grace Lord. Do you have anything to say, Doctor Nestor?”

  “This is all a set-up. You are lying and I am being framed. These accusations are totally unfounded,” Jeffrey Nestor exclaimed. “You are completely mistaken, Nelson Mandela.”

  “I sincerely wish I was, Dr. Nestor.”

  It was at this point that Grace chose to open her eyes and look at Dr. Nestor.

  “Grace! Tell this raving AI it has made a huge mistake,” the psychiatrist pleaded, looking at her with those beautiful, beseeching, brown eyes.

  Moisture welled up in Grace’s eyes and blurred her vision. She had to close them to block the sight of Nestor’s distraught yet beautiful face. She shook her head, squeezing her lips together, as she felt large tears track down her cheeks. She remained silent.

  The android took the psychiatrist by the right arm and led him from the room. The psychiatrist was handed off to a host of security androids, who put him in wrist cuffs and led him off to the space station’s brig.

  Bud returned to Grace’s room, where she rose from the bed and dove into his arms. He held her, encased in a hug, until her shaking stopped.

  “I would never have let anything happen to you, Grace,” Bud said, shaking a little himself. “Even though I highly disapproved of your plan, it worked, and of that, I am most glad. But I will never allow you to put yourself in that kind of danger again. I was most distressed.”

  Grace laughed at Bud, tears running down her face.

  He looked down at her upturned face, puzzlement on his features. “Why are you laughing and crying at the same time, Grace? Are you hurt?”

  “In a way, yes,” Grace said, sniffling. “I don’t understand what I ever did to Dr. Nestor to make him actually want to kill me. I just don’t understand, that’s all. It makes no sense to me. He makes no sense. All I ever did was refuse to have dinner with him and refuse to do the mind linking with him. Is that worth murder?” Grace gave forth a deep sigh. “I am p
hysically all right, Bud, but I guess I hurt a lot, inside.”

  Bud shook his head. “I do not know how you humans live with these emotions, every day of your lives. Fear, anxiety, worry, anger, guilt, rage . . . love. These emotions are all so . . . distressing and painful. I find I can hardly control them. I do not think I could have continued to exist, if any harm had come to you, Grace. I could not have borne it.”

  “Then thank goodness no harm came to me,” Grace said, giving Bud another hug and a kiss on the cheek. Then she pulled away. Bud stood frozen, his eyes huge and unblinking. Grace pulled off all the lines and monitors. Whipping off the hospital gown, she was clothed in her usual OR scrubs, underneath.

  “I am going to go check on Captain Lamont, Bud. I want to ensure that he is indeed all right,” Grace said and hurried off.

  Bud had still not moved.

  ‘Bud? Bud? Hey, ‘dro, are you okay?’

  ‘Dr. Grace Alexandra Lord kissed me, Nelson Mandela! Did you see?’

  ‘Of course I saw. I have it on surveillance video, as well.’

  ‘I felt that right down to my toes, Nelson Mandela. How is that possible?’

  ‘Wouldn’t know, ‘dro. I don’t have toes.

  ‘I just don’t know how humans survive with all of these feelings, Nelson Mandela,’ Bud sighed. ‘Nothing is logical. All is in constant turmoil. It’s terrible and wonderful at the same time.’

  ‘They are all out of their organic minds, ‘dro!’

  Bud touched his cheek and smiled wistfully. ‘At least now I think I know why.’

  ‘I think I am starting to feel a little jealous of you, Bud.’

  ‘Heh-heh!’