No Chains Shall Bind Me (The Good Doctor's Tales Folio Seven)

by Randall Farmer

  No Chains Shall Bind Me

  (The Good Doctor’s Tales

  ~ Folio Seven ~)

  Randall Allen Farmer

  Copyright © 2012 by Randall Allen Farmer

  No Chains Shall Bind Me

  (The Good Doctor’s Tales

  ~ Folio Seven ~)

  Author’s Introduction

  The events in this short novel occur from April 10, 1968 to August 20th, 1968. The events overlap the period covered by “No Sorrow Like Separation” (Book Five of “The Commander”) and the first several sections of “In This Night We Own” (Book Six of “The Commander”). The Focus in this short novel is referenced in the May 1968 letters section of “No Sorrow Like Separation”, in a letter from Gilagmesh to Stacy Keaton, in the following paragraph:

  I am well and gathering information, although my Crow mission goes slowly. I found one of the things on your interest list to pass along to you: a previously unknown top end Focus. Her glow is more complex than that of Focus B or Focus R and is nearly Arm bright. Only there’s a big problem: she only transformed about a month ago…the Focus in question just moved herself and her household to a farm near Ann Arbor, Michigan.

  Transformation

  (1)

  Gail Rickenbach busily adjusted copy in the University of Michigan’s Lit building copy room. She had finished writing the story, Terry had signed off, and her piece would make tomorrow’s edition of the Michigan Daily. After she turned in the story, she would turn the piece into a term paper for her Politics and the Media course – but only if she could get the copy lined up the way it was supposed to go. Gail, a senior at the University of Michigan, was less than a semester away from her B.A. in Journalism.

  Except for Gail, and the murmurings of Melanie and the witch bitch Mrs. Grimm back in the office, the Lit building was quiet. The copy room was large and open, located behind the Lit, Sciences and Arts office. A big table dominated the center of the room, made from four tables pushed together, where people laid out copy. A couple of drafting tables sat off to the side, as well as a light table. Four desks with typewriters huddled off in the corner. They didn’t have the facilities to produce a newspaper here; the presses were over in the Michigan Daily offices over on Maynard, but most of the prep equipment was available. The journalism students all used the room to lay out copy and sometimes to type up stories. At the end of the term, the copy room was a busy place. Right now, with four weeks to go in the term, the copy room stayed quiet most hours of the day.

  Gail pushed her long brown hair back from her ordinary no-makeup face. Adjusting copy wasn’t hard for someone who had lived off her brains all her life, but she felt terrible this afternoon, like somebody’s three day old pizza, half eaten and left behind a bed in some freshman’s dorm room. Normally, she was at her energy peak on Mondays, not like this.

  “There you are!” Sylvie said, walking into the copy room. Sylvie Dejung stood four inches shorter than Gail’s five six, with long blond hair hanging down to the middle of her back. Her 500-watt smile reflected the intensity she applied to everything in her life, and she was stacked in a way Gail could only dream of, with ample hips and breasts. She recently had married an old friend of Gail’s, Kurt, though Gail still didn’t know why they bothered with the ceremony. Probably because they wanted to have babies. Yuck. Overpopulation, Syl? Remember?

  Gail winced at the volume of Syl’s voice and glanced up from her story. No way could she be hung over. Not from two glasses of wine and a single joint. She sure as hell felt hung over, though. She wondered if she might be coming down with something. Gail had avoided any excesses last night; even though her lover, Van, did invite everyone over to their place, she had still gotten a lot of studying done.

  “What are you doing in here?” Sylvie said. “You missed Beckman’s test, after you spent half the night studying.” Beckman taught Modern Myth, and she was a bitch and a half. “With only a half semester left before you graduate, you don’t want to blow Beckman!”

  “What?” Gail said. “Class isn’t until 2:00.” She glanced at her wristwatch, and her old beaten-up birthday present said, incriminatingly, 3:15. She put her head down on the table, her long brown hair spilling around her head. “Oh, hell.” This she didn’t need. “I’ll tell her I was sick. Maybe she’ll let me do a makeup test next week.”

  Sylvie shook her head. “Beckman? No way. She wouldn’t let her own mother take a makeup test. You’re going to need to ace every test for the rest of the term.”

  “Yeah,” Gail said, her head still on the table. Acing every remaining test was doable, with a hell of a lot of work. Not how she wanted to spend the rest of her last term at U of M. She had better things to do with her life than keep Beckman happy. Sylvie was right, though. No way would Beckman allow her to make up a missed test in Modern Myth. Not without far more groveling than Gail suspected she had in her.

  “What are you doing here?” Sylvie said, again.

  “I got it,” Gail said, a conspiratorial whisper.

  “You got it?” Sylvie’s answer was a squeal of delight. Gail picked her head up off the table again and the temporary tragedy of the missed test fled her face as if the problem had never landed on her young skin.

  “Yah.”

  “Holy shit,” Sylvie said, whispering back. “You’re getting the piece in the Daily?”

  Gail nodded. “The article will be in by 5:00 today. Archie said if I got all the confirmations, he would run it as the headline tomorrow. He said he thought the Free Press might even run the article.” Getting a story picked up by the Detroit Free Press, Detroit’s major newspaper, was the ultimate sign of success. Practically a guarantee of a good position as a reporter at some real newspaper, somewhere, once she graduated. A position covering politics, maybe, or international affairs. Not scrub level stuff, like charity socials and congressmen’s wives.

  “I got the call from that finance guy in New York this morning. That’s my last confirmation. The proof’s right here.” She indicated the copy in front of her and smiled, her headache forgotten for the moment, happy and angry both at once. “The headline: U of M investing in South Africa. They’re making their money off the backs of poor oppressed blacks. The colonist whites are forcing the native blacks into practically slavery, and our fearless leaders are making money off them. They’re making their money from other people’s pain, and they don’t care, because the workers are black, and far away. They must figure no one will spot their little game, or if they do, they won’t care.” The happiness vanished, now, along with the flush of success. All that remained inside Gail was the anger, that a bunch of men in suits could care so little about how they made their money. Amid the war protests and talk of social revolution, no one seemed to care about the oppressed blacks in South Africa. It was high time someone finally took the Man to task for this shit.

  This sort of story was the reason she chose journalism. So much in the world needed fixing. She couldn’t fix everything, but, dammit, she wanted to fix something.

  “Did you know,” Gail said. “I talked to one guy in the finance department, and he didn’t understand the problem. He didn’t even see it. He thought it was perfectly all right to use other human beings this way. He said, quote, ‘I don’t see what the problem is.’ His statement’s in my story now.”

  Sylvie shook her head, unbelieving. “They’ll see the problem now, once this gets in the paper.”

  “Uh huh. We’re turning on the lights and we’re going to watch the cockroaches run. Even if the old men in suits think this is all right, the students won’t stand for this. Th
is story will blow their conspiracy all wide open.” Gail’s face sprung alive with passion. Beckman’s test was a little thing. She had the chance with this to do something real, something capable of changing people’s lives.

  “5:00,” Sylvie said, bringing Gail back to reality.

  “5:00,” Gail said. She would head out to the Daily’s office on Maynard around 4:00. “Archie knows the article’s coming.”

  Gail glanced over the story again, one last check. The passion faded from her face as the dragged out sensation came flooding back. Gail wished she wasn’t so damned tired. She hadn’t been this exhausted since she caught mono back in her sophomore year. Nor felt as cold. The building couldn’t be warmer than 50. She eyeballed her copy and sighed.

  “So what are you doing here?” Sylvie said.

  “I’m polishing this up,” she said. “Did I tell you I’m using the article for my Politics final, too?” Politics wanted the story, but they wanted the full layout and front page design. She might struggle a little with Modern Myth, but she would ace Politics.

  “Gayyyl.”

  “As soon as I finish this last bit here, I’ll head over to the Daily. Then I’ll go home to bed.”

  “Just don’t miss any more tests, okay?” Sylvie said. She reached over to Gail and hugged her. The hug was a good thing, Gail thought, hugging Sylvie back, lost in the comfortable warmth. She felt so completely burnt-up rotten, and she hadn’t realized someone holding her would help so much.

  Post-hug, Sylvie went over to one of the typewriter desks, the good one, right under the window. She sat at the desk with one of the newer model IBM Selectrics, the one typewriter in the copy room manufactured in this half of the century. Sylvie did a weekly column for the Daily called Campus Life, one of those scrub jobs Gail despised, the university equivalent of charity socials and congressman’s wives. If Sylvie got a job as a reporter when she graduated, she would probably do a gossip column by choice. The thought gave Gail the willies.

  Gail shivered, trying to warm herself. She went back to fixing her copy once Sylvie began typing. Or rather, she went back to looking at her copy, in a fog of blind inertia. In a moment, she would go back to fixing copy. After a little rest.

  Sylvie typed for about five minutes before she spoke again. Or murmured, rather, almost too quiet to be heard.

  “I’ve got a little bit of news, too.”

  Gail didn’t move from her copy. She heard Sylvie’s quiet voice, but Gail, lost in her fog, didn’t comprehend a word of what Sylvie said.

  Sylvie twisted around in her chair to Gail. “I said I have some news, too,” she said, this time louder.

  Gail still didn’t react. Sylvie got up out of her chair and went back to Gail.

  “Hey,” she said, waving her hand in front of Gail’s face. “You there? Gail?”

  “What?” Gail came back to herself with a jolt.

  “I said, I have some news, too.”

  “Oh. Sorry. What news?”

  Sylvie sat down at the table next to Gail, lowered her voice back down to the quiet murmur she first used. The voice of someone who let a secret slip they weren’t quite sure they wanted to tell. A good voice for confidences and secrets, to lure forth curiosity, and the urge to coax out mysteries.

  Of course, you first had to make sure your prospective coaxer was paying attention.

  “Kurt and I, well…” Sylvie’s voice drifted off.

  “Hmm?” Gail said, more from habit than anything else.

  “Well, last night, we started trying.”

  “Huh?” Gail said, her thoughts considerably slower than normal. “What are you trying?”

  “To have a baby, of course.” Sylvie’s face widened with a canary-eating-cat grin, happy as a clam.

  Gail didn’t know what to say. She thought Sylvie and Kurt getting married was a waste, when they could just live together. All because they wanted babies. Lots of babies. However, trying to make a baby now? They were both still in college, for crying out loud. They should at least wait until after they graduated. Besides, nearly four billion people crowded the world. The last thing this mess of a world needed was more babies. What a world to bring a child into!

  Truthfully, though, when someone says something like that, Gail knew of only one thing to say back.

  “Oh, Sylvie, I’m so happy for you.” Her comment was considerably less sincere than Gail would normally manage, but Sylvie didn’t notice.

  “We’ve always wanted kids. Both of us,” Sylvie said, eyes glowing with happiness. Gail knew their dreams, but she always figured they would change their minds, or at least have the grace to wait until they were old. Like thirty or so.

  “Good. I know you do.”

  “So we talked. We think we want six. Can you imagine it?” No, Gail couldn’t. Six? The idea of six kids almost made Gail wince, too old fashioned to be real. “A whole house full. We decided that if we wanted six, we’d better get started.”

  Six? Six? Gail still couldn’t get her mind to accept the idea. Had they even thought about money? Kids were expensive. Had Sylvie given up on the idea of a career? Four years of hard work thrown away to get a Mrs. degree?

  “Oh, Sylvie, I’m so happy for you.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” Sylvie said, ignoring Gail’s repetition. “You don’t know how much it means that you’re so understanding. I know some of our friends think we’re being selfish. Or stupid, for trying for a child. Thank you for being such a good friend.”

  Gail forgot about Sylvie’s ridiculous desire for babies and held her.

  Off in the other room, Gail overheard the tick-tick of keys, as Melanie typed on a typewriter in the office. Melanie, a Lit department clerk who invariably wore a conservative plain pastel A-line dress, had a good typewriter, not one of the ones they let the students use. In the distance, Gail heard the stiff tones of the witch bitch, as she informed some freshman he couldn’t change classes this late in the term, even to the same course in a different time slot, and no, it didn’t matter that his work schedule interfered. The witch bitch was an expert in saying no to students. Even her ordinary cranky voice sounded comfortable right now. Gail drifted, happy to stay like this all day.

  Sylvie eventually pulled away. Gail almost fell, still trying to lean against her and missing the wonderful warmth.

  “Hey, I need to go back to work. Don’t tell anyone, okay? You’re the only person I’ve told. Thanks for being so supportive.” Sylvie grinned a huge happy grin and skipped back to her typewriter.

  Gail would have shaken her head if she wasn’t so groggy. She wouldn’t tell because Sylvie asked her not to, and Sylvie was her best friend, but she doubted keeping quiet would matter. Sylvie, gossip central, could no more keep a secret than fly. Half the campus would know by morning.

  Gail went back to staring at her copy while Sylvie typed. After a while, she put her head down on the table. This was so much easier than trying to sit upright. She only wished she wasn’t so cold. I’m working, I’m working, I’m working, Gail thought, the words cycling through her head as she didn’t move.

  The copy room didn’t stay as quiet as it had been. Oscar Giammalva came in for a moment, but all he wanted was his half-completed ad layout. He left after he found it on the drafting table. Dickie Knigge and Sharon Ables came into the room in a clinch, but stayed only long enough to realize the room wasn’t empty.

  Gail still didn’t move.

  Eventually, Sylvie finished her typing, something about a late term frat party. “Hey, Gail, it’s 4:15. Don’t you need to get over to the Daily?”

  Gail didn’t move. Sylvie frowned.

  “Gail, you all right?”

  “Fine,” Gail said, a low mumble. “Just tired.” She shivered in the cold.

  Sylvie came over, still wearing her frown. She laid her freshly typed sheets on the layout table and sat down in the same chair she sat in earlier.

  “Gail, I don’t like this.” Sylvie reached out to lay her hand on Gail’s foreh
ead and got a touch of her skin.

  “Holy shit, Gail. You’re burning up! Come on, we’re getting you to the med center. Come on, up-see-daisy.” Sylvie tried to raise Gail up, but Gail didn’t stand. Sylvie took Gail’s hands, grabbing them from where they lay on the table. Her hands trembled in Sylvie’s grip. Sylvie started to pull her up, but stopped. The best Sylvie could do was lift Gail’s head off the table.

  “No,” Gail said. “I need to finish my story.” Except her words were groggy and slurred, and when she reached toward her story, still on the table, her hands shook.

  “You’re not finishing anything, not today. The story can wait. You’re going to the med center. Come on, let’s go.” Sylvie started to pull her up, but stopped part way.

  “Your hands are shaking like a leaf!” Sylvie stopped and sat down very slowly. “Shiiiiit. Um, Gail, I think you have something serious,” Sylvie said, her voice an octave higher. “We need to get you to the med center. You hear me, Gail?”

  Gail stared off into the distance, Sylvie’s words passing through her mind without stopping. Her hands, still lying in Sylvie’s, shivered and shook, like the tremors of the elderly.

  “This is serious, Gail. You’ve got a really bad fever, and you’ve got… You’ve got…” Sylvie sounded ready to cry. “You’ve got the Shakes, Gail,” Sylvie said, her voice an unsteady whisper. “Your hands are shaking.” The Shakes? The other bad diseases, such as polio, malaria and tuberculosis, had treatments and cures, but the Shakes still walked in people’s nightmares, incurable. Gail couldn’t believe she had the Shakes.

  “Gail,” Sylvie said, again. “Gail, wake up!” Nope, not right now. Gail shivered, and burned, and shook.

  “Gail, come on, Gail. Make the hands stop shaking. This is a joke, right? Just make the hands stop.”

  Oh Sylvie, Gail thought. You’re such a wonderful friend.

  Friends should share everything.

  (2)

  The first thing Gail noticed when she woke up was the glow. She felt the glow even before she opened her eyes, a supernatural warmth surrounding her, bypassing her senses, impossible to miss, directly in her mind. Not seeing, hearing or tasting, because there were no words for what she sensed, the glow a sense she never had, before. A warm, bright, loud, delicious glow.