A Host of Furious Fancies

by Mercedes Lackey

  Well, I can’t forget it.

  She tried. But all that left her was the realization that she had nothing at all to say to her former tormentors. The only connection she’d had with her classmates was being their scapegoat, and now she didn’t even have that. They had shaped her more than she had ever understood and left her to cope with the result. Freed of constant peer pressures, Jeanette sought new pressure as instinctively as the flower seeks the sun. She drifted into things that appalled her, but she couldn’t summon up the interest in her own actions to stop. She couldn’t even take refuge in a romantic self-image. She’d always longed to—she dressed the part—but it required a level of self-delusion that Jeanette Campbell had never had. She was not and could never be the thing she loved most.

  Unless she found the answer.

  That there was an answer was something she’d never questioned. She’d read all the books, the ones that told her the human mind had powers which, if she could only unlock them, could transform her life. She’d started studying the mind then, reading the classics in the field. The brain was a biological machine. It could be reprogrammed with the right tools.

  She’d grown up at the tail end of the period that considered drugs recreational, and for a while she’d thought that was the answer—the right chemical cocktail could do what she wanted and needed it to, unlock the hidden powers of her mind and make them available. A few semesters at the community college had given her the rest of the tools she needed to pursue what she thought of as her Research, and as soon as she had the basic tools for her quest, she’d dropped out. She already knew that legitimate research wouldn’t divulge what she sought. For one thing, it frowned on human experimentation.

  And she had experimented—first on herself, then on others—a combination of loneliness and rage pushing her down the easy road from science geek to outlaw chemist. Bills had to be paid, and research took money. But she knew the answer was there, somewhere. If she only had the courage and the discipline to find it.

  The answer was in the hallucinogens. She’d always known that, from the first time she’d dropped acid. But LSD alone wasn’t enough. It was too diffuse, too variable, too soft. She’d added mescaline, crystal meth, cocaine, trying to come up with the right cocktail that would let her push through all the barriers and claim the lightning for her own. She’d known she was on the right track, but every time she had a compound she was ready to try, it failed somewhere along the way. Sometimes people died, but she hadn’t cared. She worked frantically, desperately, knowing her time was running out, because life on the street just wasn’t safe, and when you were supplying illegal drugs, the working conditions and your co-workers left a lot to be desired. Sooner or later somebody would sell her out, and she’d go down.

  But in her own strange way, Jeanette was heroic. Inevitable arrest and imprisonment didn’t faze her. Finding the key was all that mattered.

  Then Robert Lintel came, and that changed everything.

  She’d been in the back room of a garage somewhere in New Jersey, cooking up a batch of methamphetamine in a makeshift kitchen. She’d had to move three times in the past month because of the Feds, and the last time she’d lost her whole lab. If the Sinner Saints—the bikers who were her protection and distribution network—hadn’t tipped her off, she would have lost more than her lab, but her product was pure and consistent, and they knew that if she went down she’d sell out as many of them as she could.

  Won’t live to see thirty if I do, but I don’t think that matters, do you, Jeannie?

  Of course, they might kill her themselves to keep that from happening. Even without the psychic powers she coveted, Jeanette could tell that. She could almost hear Road Hog thinking that, when he set her up out here in the middle of nowhere. But the Saints were greedy, and already had a deal in place for this current batch. She was safe at least until it was done, and maybe longer if the heat died down.

  When the door of the garage opened, she looked up, irritated, thinking it was Road Hog or Hooker coming back to chivvy her along. But it was someone she’d never seen before, a well-manicured man in an expensive dark grey suit, walking in like he owned the place.

  Her hand had crept toward the gun in her knapsack—people in her profession always went armed—but she hesitated for a crucial second, because the room was full of acetone and ether and the muzzle flash from a shot would send the whole lab up like the Fourth of July.

  And he’d smiled at her, like there was something that he wanted. Her hand closed over the gun, and she pulled it into her lap, behind the desk where he couldn’t see, but she didn’t fire.

  “Jeanette Campbell? Hi. My name is Robert Lintel. I’ve got a business proposition for you.”

  With those inane words he’d changed her life. So that now she could look in a mirror, and not flinch quite so hard.

  The lights in her office flared to full merciless brightness, and Jeanette blinked and squinted up at the figure in the doorway, laying her guitar aside.

  “Hey, Campbell. What are you doing sitting here in the dark?”

  There was an edge to Robert’s voice, but there always was. He’d rescued her years ago, but it was for reasons even more selfish than her own, if that were possible.

  While she wanted the powers that were hers by right—and God help anyone who stood in her way once she had them—Robert wanted Ultimate Power. She wanted the power for herself, Robert wanted to control the powerful people. He saw himself in charge of a group of perfect psychic spies, assassins, and saboteurs, whose work was undetectable . . . and whose skills were for sale to the highest bidder, though he never said that.

  He didn’t have to. Jeanette, better than anyone else, knew how his mind worked. Hadn’t he sought her out back there in Jersey because he’d gotten to see the research notes she’d left behind in the lab the Feds had seized, and knew she could be a means to his ends?

  Just so.

  There was no love lost between predators.

  “Thinking,” Jeanette answered sullenly. She gestured toward the primate cages waiting on the other side of the glass. The experimental animals were only one of the things here that shouldn’t be. When she’d been a street chemist, she had to make do with what she could get, with random customers as her experimental subjects. These days things were much more satisfactory: absolute immunity from the law, pure chemicals to work with, the best apparatus, and an unlimited budget.

  But no human subjects.

  “It’s too dangerous,” he’d said, and for years she’d accepted that. There’d been too much else to do—first, catching up on all the schooling she’d sluffed off, then re-documenting and refining her previous research, as what good was a breakthrough you couldn’t replicate at will?

  She’d made do with primates—chimps siphoned to Threshold from other projects or bought on the black market. On paper—and more or less in fact—Threshold was a small pharmaceutical research company. Most of its employees were engaged in legitimate research into the neurochemistry of the brain. Few of them even suspected the existence of the Black Labs that occupied the cellars of the building, the place where Jeanette Campbell did research that went far beyond simple cures for ADD, narcolepsy, clinical depression, bipolar disorder, and the like. Some of the hundreds of primates shipped to Threshold every year even went to the careful legitimate experiments of the people in the labs upstairs, but more of them went to the Black Labs.

  The brain structure of a chimpanzee was similar to that of human beings, and some of them even knew sign language. Jeanette wasn’t interested in talking to them, but language use modified the deep structure of the brain and gave her a benchmark by which to measure the effects of her drugs.

  She had three consistent results from her drug protocols to date: dead chimps, crazy chimps, and superficially unaffected chimps. She’d lost count of the number of brains she’d centrifuged, looking for results and reasons. But she was getting closer. That was all that mattered.

  “Thinking,”
Robert echoed scornfully. “You want to get up off your dead ass and do a little more than think? Beirkoff told me you were going to be ready for another trial today.”

  Beirkoff was Jeanette’s personal assistant—somebody had to do the record-keeping gruntwork who was in on Threshold’s big secret—but she’d always known he geeked for Robert. It was how the world worked.

  “Yeah, well, I am ready,” she said, getting up and putting her guitar down. The reflection in the glass mocked her like an evil angel, showing her the hated reality so far from her dreams. “Beirkoff should have the chimps prepped. I can shoot them up and leave the cameras running, then check them out in the morning. It’s better to do this sort of thing at night, anyway.”

  No need to put into words the nebulous feeling, not even a hunch, that something about the drugs would just work better in the small hours of the night when most people were asleep. Once upon a time she’d fancied herself a magician, but in the years since then Jeanette had put both magic and superstition behind her. She worked entirely with what was, abandoning dreams.

  “What’s your hurry, anyway?” she asked incuriously.

  “I’m not paying you to sit around playing that damned guitar,” Robert said grudgingly, and Jeanette smiled inside, though she allowed no vestige of that expression to reach her face. In fact, Robert was paying her to sit around playing that dammed guitar, and whatever else she wanted to do with her time. Her work was as much inspiration as anything else—and the accidental discoveries along the way had proved her worth. She’d come up with a compound that induced abject terror in its subject and one that destroyed the sleep centers. Both killed the subject in anywhere from 24 hours to a week, but Robert had liked them, even though they’d never be mentioned in Threshold’s quarterly report to its parent company. He’d taken them off somewhere and never told her what he’d done with them, but Jeanette knew those discoveries were what had bought her a free pass for the foreseeable future.

  “I’m going to go down and inject them now. Want to watch?” she said.

  Robert gestured, indicating she should precede him. It was one of the few things she actually liked about Robert. He wasn’t squeamish.

  She walked out of her office and down the grey-carpeted corridor to the room that held the airlock that would let her into the primate lab. She didn’t bother with a clean suit—the whole fantasy of biological contamination was just a useful fiction for any of Threshold’s legitimate employees who might stumble accidentaly onto her work area. No one but Robert and Beirkoff really knew what it was she did here, and neither one had the brains to follow her science. Secrecy was power. She remembered that from her magical days.

  When she walked in, the full-spectrum lights brightened slowly to their daytime levels, washing every corner of the main floor in pitiless illumination, illuminating the row of cages so brightly that their contents seemed like unliving mannequins. The room was warm, and smelled strongly of ozone, ammonia, and fermenting fruit. She looked up, and saw the blinking red lights of the cameras. They’d record every move that anyone made in this room from half a dozen angles, no matter the light level, and store the images in digital computer memory for instant retrieval, so that later Robert and Jeanette could scrutinize and speculate about every squeal and twitch of the subjects. The oldest files were purged on a six-month rotation, leaving no trace of themselves behind. Robert ran a clean operation.

  Her subjects were in the five cages along the wall, brought in from the larger primate lab at the other end of the building. Beirkoff had sedated each of them an hour ago, so that now they were torpid and manageable, but most of the sedative had already been processed, so that chemical residue wouldn’t screw up her study.

  Satisfied that everything was in readiness, she went over to the big refrigerator at the end of the room—past the stainless-steel exam table with its drains and shackles—and punched a nine-digit code into its locking key pad.

  The light at the top of the pad turned from red to green, and Jeanette opened the door. Inside, it looked like any other lab refrigerator, with anonymous bottles and bundles neatly stacked and labeled on the shelves. She pulled out the jar she wanted. It was half full of a sparkling white powder, as pure and anonymous as salt. “Threshold 6/157” was written on the label. Sixth year of trials, test 157.

  From the cupboard beside the refrigerator she took a fresh bottle of distilled water, and mixed and measured until she had a seven percent solution of T-6/157. She filled five disposable syringes with the liquid, and then advanced on her subjects.

  She’d had a lot of time to get good at wrestling primates in the last six years. Pop open the cage door, make sure the damned thing wasn’t lying doggo, find a vein, drop her load, snap the cage door shut again. The chimps’ bodies were warm and flaccid in sleep, their muscles relaxed. It was over in less than five minutes, the subjects twitching and restless, rousing to wakefulness under the tonic effect of the injection. The temporary restlessness would pass—T-6/157 was a minute variation on a previous recipe, and she knew the spectrum of effects almost by heart—and the subjects would fall into a brief coma. In about fifteen minutes the compound would begin to take effect, though most of the subjects continued to sleep for several hours. The effects would pass completely within twelve hours. Then they could review the tapes and start again.

  “What are you waiting for? Brass bands?” she snapped. This was the part that always got her down, when she injected the drug and nothing happened. She knew she couldn’t expect anything to happen right away, but it still depressed her.

  Robert had already turned away. As he reached the door, he tapped the switch, and the lights went back to nighttime levels. Jeanette followed him back into the hallway, in the dark.

  The sound of the bedside telephone woke her. Jeanette groped for it in the dark, but at her first flailings the night-lights went on, motion sensors activating a strip of illumination all the way around the floor. With that to guide her, she grabbed the telephone. The clock on the bedside said 4:07.

  “Get down here. Now,” Robert said.

  The cab ride down from Central Park West—the posh uptown apartment had been Robert’s idea, not hers—took about twenty minutes at this time of night, but it was plenty of time for Jeanette to think. Obviously, something had happened—fire? —break-in? At any rate, something big enough that Beirkoff had freaked and phoned Robert—which was as it should be. Threshold was Robert’s baby. He was the CEO, and she (on the books at least) a lowly researcher. She even had a tiny office upstairs, with a window looking out over the river, and attended the monthly staff meetings that were a part of Threshold’s legitimate side. But her real work was here, down in the Black Labs, alone and unconnected to the rest of the company.

  But in that case, why had Robert phoned her?

  She came in through the night entrance, using her passcard, and Beirkoff met her at the doorway. His eyes glittered with excitement and she realized that whatever was going on here, it was really huge. Big enough to get Beirkoff excited, anyway, and most of the time the technician approached his job with all the verve of someone working the counter at McDonald’s.

  Sometimes Jeanette wondered where Robert found all these people. Beirkoff didn’t seem to have any life outside Threshold. The security staff were hardcase mercs like she’d never seen working the sunny side of the law. Dr. Ramchandra, who handled the medical side of the Black Ops project, smiled a lot, but from living outside the law Jeanette knew a stone cold spook when she saw one. And she wouldn’t have the first idea about how to pull a crew like this together.

  Either Robert had a lot of backing, or a complex secret life, or maybe both.

  “Mr. Lintel says you should meet him downstairs—” Beirkoff began.

  An unfamiliar emotion filled her—hope—and she pushed past him and headed for the executive elevator. She had to present her passkey again, but once she had, the elevator descended into the secret world beneath the street, the one that most of T
hreshold didn’t even suspect was there. Robert was waiting for her in her office, looking as immaculately corporate as ever.

  “Tell me,” she said, when she saw his face.

  “Look for yourself.” His eyes were shining with the same light that was in her own: the glow of pure triumph. He turned off the lights, and in the darkness it was easy to see through the wall of glass into the small lab.

  “Nobody’s gone in there yet. I gave orders,” Robert said. His voice was hoarse with sheer stupefied emotion. “Nobody’s gone in there since you left, four hours ago.”

  For a moment she didn’t understand what she was seeing. At last her eyes and brain worked together to tell her what she saw.

  This was what success looked like.

  The room was a mess. Drawers and cabinets had been torn open, their contents strewn around like a fall of strange snow. The wheeled cages were scattered around the room, as if someone had been shaking them, and blood, urine, and chimp feces were spattered everywhere. But most of all, there were only four cages, and four hours ago there had been five.

  Four. Yes. She was sure of it.

  There was movement in the corner of the room—since no one had gone into the room, the lights were still nighttime dim—and she saw it was the fifth chimp. He was moving slowly, as if he were ill.

  “How did he get out of his cage?” she asked aloud. And where’s the cage?

  “Keep looking,” Robert said, his voice filled with unholy glee.

  She turned her attention to the other cages. One was empty, its bright yellow plastic security seal still intact. In two of the others, the animals were obviously dead, having ripped themselves to pieces with their own teeth and nails. She’d seen that side effect often enough.

  But in the fifth . . .

  Its occupant was an older female chimp, obviously once somebody’s pampered pet until she had grown too inconvenient. Her body was smeared with red, and for a moment Jeanette mistook it for blood, until her disbelieving mind finally admitted what she saw.