Ophelia

by D. S. Ryelle

  Both men stared.

  “Leave, before I have my bodyguard remove you.”

  The two men wasted no time in departing, grumbling all the while about their supposedly indestructible badges.

  “Go away, Ophelia.”

  Harry didn’t bother to look up when she entered.

  “Is that any way to talk to your sister?” Ophelia asked. “Or your new superior?”

  “That stuff you said in the attorney’s office was bullshit,” he replied. “I’ve never heard a bigger fairytale in my life!”

  “You are about to hear a bigger one.” Ophelia leaned over Harry’s desk and said in a low voice, “Have you heard the tale of the boy who was arrested for trespassing? I hear it is intriguing.”

  He finally met his sister’s gaze. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I did not…”

  Harry smiled.

  “…but I saw my executive assistant dialling her mobile as I walked in here.” Ophelia smirked. “I believe she was intent on ringing the Gardaí.”

  “If she wasn’t, there were about a dozen of your employees who were,” David added.

  Harry’s face fell. “You don’t deserve OsCorp.”

  “And you do not have the intelligence required to run it! We have a bit of a problem, it seems!”

  He stared at her until Natalie peeked through the door.

  “A Detective Wilson to see you, Ms. Osborn.”

  ~*~

  “I hear you had some excitement this morning.”

  “If you call an uncooperative brother that required the presence of a bleachtaire—a detective—before he would relinquish his hold on the company, then yes, I suppose I did.”

  “A welcome replacement, I am sure.”

  David had agreed to stand outside Ophelia’s office as she interviewed each of the members of management. Up to this point, the process had been tedious, but Ophelia was beginning to wonder if she wanted to part from this gentleman any time soon.

  “Not to say that Mr. Osborn wasn’t perfectly capable,” Richard Welker demurred. “But Dr. Osborn spoke so highly of you that I had begun to think that we would be receiving a rare jewel if something ever happened to him.”

  “Thank you, Doctor, but I ask that you reserve judgment until you know for certain whether I am worth all the compliments.

  “You have been with OsCorp Industries for…twenty-two years, now?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “I am sorry…your file must be out of date. How long have you been a member of management?”

  “Since the early nineties.”

  “Your position…manager of central city projects?”

  Richard nodded.

  “In your honest opinion, could the company do without such a position?”

  “I see few actual projects. My position seems to require filling out a lot of paperwork that probably any assistant could do.”

  “Excellent. Yours will be the first position I eliminate.”

  Richard’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You are absolutely right. Why have a gentleman with a doctorate in chemistry perform tasks that any menial could do? You will be of much more use elsewhere. That is why I will reduce my personal responsibilities by making you chief administrator of the Ophelia R. Osborn Laboratory Complex.”

  Ophelia’s previously grave demeanor broke into a smile. “I trust you will like it in New Rochelle? Especially when there is a signing bonus included that will facilitate your move?”

  The doctor’s sigh of relief was nearly audible as he rose and held out his hand. “It would be my pleasure, as your new administrator, to take you on a tour of the tower.”

  “All the research and testing has been taken out of this building?”

  “Research and development has been moved to the engineering compound on Long Island. The main building in Commack has three floors aboveground and two levels of basements, extending some miles belowground. As you might imagine, the laboratories have all been moved to the complex in New Rochelle, save for the small, low clearance level laboratory here in the tower.”

  “Is it used very often?”

  “Not since Dr. Osborn and the rest of the executives assembled the current set of laboratory regulations.”

  Richard opened a door and graciously waited for Ophelia to pass.

  “This particular laboratory appears to have become a sort of ‘testing graveyard’,” he continued as he glanced through a door at the end of the passageway.

  “While it appears largely unused, I understand that some of the equipment in here has been utilized as recently as this past fall.”

  Ophelia’s eyes followed Richard’s encompassing gesture. The laboratory floor was littered with old machines and burnt-out computers covered haphazardly with sheets; in the center of the room, however, stood a few items that were clean enough to have been used the day before. One was a complex setup that Ophelia recognized as an inefficient way to monitor vital signs, while another was a glass-paneled chamber that easily cleared eight feet.

  “Do you know where these items came from?”

  “One rumor says that the tank was utilized in an engineering bay in Commack; the other says that it is a vaporization chamber that was used in lab C35 in New Rochelle.”

  Intrigued, Ophelia stepped lightly down the stairs. As she drew closer, the new chief science officer discovered that the chamber had two entrances—a large pair of folding doors in the back and a set of smaller, narrower doors that could only be entered if the subject was strapped onto the gurney that currently stood inside. She walked around the chamber, careful not to touch a centimeter.

  “Any ideas what this was used for?”

  “None,” Dr. Welker replied. “As I said before, I have very little idea of what went on down here and what goes on in the laboratory complex. Dr. Osborn loved his secrets.”

  Unable to control herself, Ophelia reached for one of the panels…and immediately lost her breath.

  A high-pitched scream rinsed her ears as she struggled to find her way through a green haze. The screamer drew breath, but an animalistic roar cut off the second strain. Words were spoken, their meanings lost on Ophelia. She took a step closer, then jumped three back as an enlarged image of her father’s rage-contorted face raced toward her.

  “Ms. Osborn? Ms. Osborn, are you all right?”

  Ophelia floated back to consciousness just in time to discover that Richard was holding her tenderly in his arms.

  “That was not real? A vision only?”

  The doctor looked at her blankly.

  She tried again. “Are you positive that you do not know where this equipment came from or for what purpose it was used?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

  Ophelia squeezed Dr. Welker, as if hugging him for reassurance…or possibly because she was struggling to get to her feet.

  “Very well,” she replied shakily. “Summon my bodyguard. I believe I need to go home.”

  ~*~

  “Did you enjoy my little vision?”

  Ophelia glared at her father, seemingly unbothered that he appeared to be wreathed in an unholy light.

  “It was psychometry and nothing more.”

  “Look at me, Ophelia.” Norman spread his hands, indicating his sumptuous robes and the great, dark throne upon which he sat. “If I have the power to invade your dreams, certainly I can send you a waking vision! It isn’t so hard to remind you of your destiny.”

  “Guttural roars and screaming men are my destiny?”

  “You fool!”

  Ophelia reeled as if she had been slapped.

  “That was my transformation! The beginning of greatness…what got me where I am today!”

  “Dead, in other words.”

  The fog, which had been drifting lazily though the room and clouding Ophelia’s vision, suddenly thickened. Her father cackled, but instead of being thrown out of her dream, Ophelia found the fog growing thinner in places. She tried
to move and discovered that she had been transported elsewhere…and that she was strapped to a table of icy steel.

  “Athair?”

  Ophelia struggled to look around and discover whether her father was responsible for this new illusion. Not a soul hovered nearby. Ophelia unwittingly looked up and discovered a mask descending toward her, green vapor pouring from inside.

  “Ophelia! Ophelia, stop screaming. You’re having another nightmare.”

  She did not need to open her eyes to know that her bodyguard was holding her. Ophelia buried her head in David’s shoulder.

  “Go get her a glass of water!” he ordered the stricken butler.

  David forbore questioning her until Bernard had returned and departed once more. Supposing that she had lost her command of English, David spoke to Ophelia in her native language.

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Since before we left,” she murmured into his shoulder. “Eduardo tried persuading me to seek help, but I always said that it was stress, or that I did not have enough time.”

  “Have your nightmares always been this severe?”

  “In Australia, they were almost always about my father dying. I see him now, but it is as if he was still alive and giving me orders. Tonight, I tried to argue and he…he…”

  Ophelia shuddered and looked up at her bodyguard.

  “Is it possible for a shade to kill you?

  “You would know better than I,” he reminded her, stroking her hair. “I merely stood guard outside the Temple…an acolyte in name only.”

  Seeing her pleading glance, David added, “If it is possible, I have not heard of it.”

  After a moment, Ophelia sobbed, “I cannot go on like this!”

  He kissed her forehead.

  “We’ll figure out what do to…even if I have to persuade Eduardo to return in order to do it!”

  Three

  Late January 2003

  “Where did this come from?”

  “Pardon?”

  “This.” Ophelia held up a crackling, flaky red binder with a peeling label that read Project Rose.

  “That wasn’t on the pile when I grabbed it!” Natalie said, surprised. “I can get rid of it, if you like.”

  “No, no…that is okay,” Ophelia replied almost wistfully as she placed Project Rose back on her desk. “I will review it and then you may dispose of it as necessary.”

  “Don’t forget, you have an appointment at three.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Ophelia waited until she was alone to open the binder.

  Stacks of yellowed pages detailed her father’s thoughts; some appeared to be reviews of various studies. There were a few newspaper clippings about Dr. Osborn’s achievements in genetics; but a thin spiral notebook tucked into the bottom of the pile proved the most interesting.

  Marriage was always for people who had nothing better to do with their lives, the first page read.

  No matter how many times Margaret brought up the subject of settling down, I never thought about it. I was busy looking for venture capitalists and ironing out a business plan when she decided to discuss the matter in earnest.

  The writing changed.

  “I am trying to get my company started Margaret. I don’t have time.”

  I saw a frown crease her careworn face. My mother hated the fact that I avoided terms of endearment.

  “That’s what I mean!” she replied. “Every time you visit, it’s ‘OsCorp this’ and ‘OsCorp that’. I really worry about you, Normie!”

  My fingers clenched on the back of the dining room chair. Margaret always knew she could get revenge with my childhood nickname.

  “I’m concerned that the love of your company is scaring away women!”

  I was thankful that my father was in the living room, too distracted by the television to add his coarse remarks to the conversation.

  “I’ll worry about that later. There will be plenty of time for women once we’re under way.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that!” Margaret warned. “I heard some of the ladies talking at the beauty operator’s. A lot of them work as maids on the Upper East Side, you know.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “If you want to succeed in Manhattan, you’ll have to join the upper class, Normie, darling. And you won’t be able to do that unless you agree to an arranged marriage.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “Of course I am!” Margaret replied, reaching for the last of the dishes. “That’s all they talk about…which family’s child got paired off with which other’s by the matchmaker!”

  The writing changed a second time.

  It didn’t matter to her that I had been at the top of my class at Columbia every time—Margaret wanted a daughter-in-law. Worse, my mother wanted grandchildren.

  Despite my protestations to the contrary, I found myself paying a visit to the matchmaker shortly after; steeling myself for the first meeting later on. Margaret promised to persuade Ambrose into providing most or all of the bride price…all I had to do was marry the girl.

  Much to Ophelia’s surprise, the informal diary continued at length about her father’s marriage to a quiet, shy graduate student from Ireland. There was a bit about how the opening of OsCorp gave him excuses to avoid his parents, and then:

  After floating blissfully along for a time, my marriage came crashing down around my ears. Before I knew it, my wife of three years and I were lying in bed, discussing the possibility of progeny. If there was anything I wanted less than marriage, it was children.

  Eventually, I grew to realize that having at least one child was necessary. Much as I longed to be immortal, I knew that I was no closer to the achievement than anyone else and would therefore require an heir. The gender was irrelevant—so long as he or she was completely capable of taking over OsCorp.

  Then a plan began to form…

  Ophelia’s surprise evolved into shock as she continued reading. Her parents had been perfectly fertile…Norman had simply paid the physicians to vacillate, so that he would have time to create the perfect heir.

  The feds would have my ass if they knew I was working with primates instead of rodents, read a later entry.

  …but I can’t take the risk with rodents. They’re not close enough to humankind.

  Intelligence in test subjects has increased by 30%, but I would like to see it closer to 45. Speed hovers around 15% and agility isn’t faring much better. I just hope that I can get the numbers up there before Emmeline finds out. (Is 50 too much to ask?)

  My only concern is strength—the primates I’ve been working with are naturally strong. How will I know when I’ve achieved a proportionate increase of 40% or more?

  And what about aging?

  The journal went on for several more pages, going into great detail about Norman’s experiments, but Ophelia knew the outcome without reading further. She threw the notebook aside, disgusted.

  “I am a mutant…a freak of nature!” the young woman shrieked. “It is not a wonder that Athair had nothing but complaints for Harry…my deartháir is probably normal!”

  Ophelia left her desk and began to pace.

  “Is any part of me real? Everything I have earned has only been for the glory of my athair!”

  Her gaze fell on the open pages of the notebook, where it had landed halfway across the room.

  Ophelia is everything I could wish for. More precious than gold.

  But her eyes…they’re violet. Where did I go wrong?

  She screamed in frustration. “Even my loveliest trait is nothing but an error!”

  Ophelia felt the unmistakable chill of loneliness. She could try to move beyond her father and his legacy; to try to create, be and achieve all for herself…but she had a sneaking suspicion that she couldn’t. That the specter of being nothing more than an experiment would hang over her for the rest of her life.

  Part of her wanted to go home and cry, but the vast majority knew that crying wasn’t the way a
n Osborn dealt with things. Thus chastised, Ophelia fought the urge to break something; instead letting out a long, loud invective that encompassed several languages.

  “Ms. Osborn? Are you all right?”

  Ophelia whirled about and discovered her bodyguard and her assistant hovering in the doorway, their faces painted with concern.

  “My problems are none of yours, Ms Thomas,” she snapped. “Return to work.”

  Natalie bowed her head and slipped out of the room. David remained, mouth open as if to speak, but Ophelia quickly ripped into him, too.

  “Westbrooke, you are more overprotective than my máthair could ever hope to be! You do not have to be on me every moment of every day like a second skin!”

  She stopped to draw breath, her voice so horrible that anyone other than David might have been tempted to flee.

  “I am done with you. Get out of my sight!”

  “Ophelia…”

  “GO!”

  He left her weeping anew.

  Four

  Late February 2003

  “Your brother has arrived, Ms. Ophelia,” the butler announced. “I showed him into the parlor.”

  “Thank you, Bernard.”

  Ophelia glanced at her bodyguard, mildly surprised that he made no move to accompany the butler. Andrew Whitaker had said fewer than twenty words since his arrival three weeks ago—scarcely enough to identify himself and say that David had asked him to fill in until further notice.