Brother to Dragons, Companion to Owls - Jane Lindskold [71]
When I return inside, I study the guard. Surely he knows the information I want to learn just as Jersey does, but will be equally bound not to tell. The very walls must have answers, but they will not have noticed, not unless Dylan put his mark on them.
I carry my frustration with me, through my meal in my cell, through restless pacing and tossing and turning. No answer comes and when I finally sleep, I dream of the Jungle and its web of lines and hammocks.
I awaken with a contradiction screaming at me. Maddeningly, I see neither Jersey nor either of the doctors, so there is no one to whom I can talk. Feeling truly mute for the first time in my life, I circle the complex restlessly, prompting a comment from my usually taciturn guard about her not being paid by the mile.
The only thing I learn from my wanderings is a confirmation that certain areas, among them what I suspect were Dylan’s rooms, are off-limits to me.
When I am finally taken to Jersey’s computer annex, I can barely keep from urging them to hook me in. Jersey seems concerned at this, but Dr. Haas is pleased.
Dr. Aldrich enters just as the hookup is completed.
“Sarah,” he says, just before Dr. Haas hands me my beaker, “you must get this precisely right. A great deal depends on it.”
I nod.
He shakes his index finger at me. “Precisely right.”
Slurping down the liquid, I have only time to notice that the taste is somehow wrong. Then, without the comfortable sensation of drifting off to sleep, I feel myself being sucked out of my body. I am shifted and strained through something cold and impersonal, reduced to a strand of numbers, each screaming loudly for the others. When I see the grey-greens of Jersey’s Van Gogh, I grab for them like a Cub grasping for a guideline.
My self begins to re-form, numbers becoming pulse and bone, skin, hair, eyes. Eyes that I open to find myself sprawled whole and gasping on the carpet of Jersey’s sitting room.
He reaches down and helps me into a chair, offers me coffee.
I drink gratefully, notice that Betwixt and Between, staggering despite their four stocky legs, are nudging Athena to her feet. I pour them a pool of coffee to lap, not caring what it does to the table’s finish. From under a lampshade, I find a moth that I feed to Athena.
Jersey watches curiously. “Feels like shit, don’t it, Sarey? But I wouldn’t bitch to Dr. Haas even so. Y’see, I did it.”
“You? What?” Words, I am learning, are not always a help.
“Babe, I’ve decided to come down on the side of the angels.” He winks. “That’s you. Look, the whole trick to this interface of mine—well, not the whole trick, but one of the big ones—is in that potion you slug down. Does funny things to brain waves that let a properly set up bit of equipment read ’em. In a sense, Sarey, this ain’t a virtual reality; it’s real reality ’cause you know it is, right down where you are. Get me?”
“Sort of.” I rub my head. “You did that to me?”
“Yeah.” Jersey looks shamed, but only for a moment. “You see, the problem with my ‘potion’ is that it really hurts to be broken down that way, even if you know you’ll get built up again. Do it too much and it can drive you crazy. So I played around with some other things until I found a mixture that eased the transition without ruining the effectiveness of the first drug. One problem.”
“What?”
“It screws up the internal organs and is addictive as hell. Honey”—he looks me in the eyes—“when I perfected the telepathic interface, I really looked like you see me here. What you see out there is a result of the stuff I’ve been taking. Dr. Haas has been upping your dose—today, when she was distracted, I switched it for a more neutral one, but I didn’t get the buffer quite right.”
In the pain and confusion, I had almost forgotten my earlier suspicions. “She hates me. Why, Jersey?”
“Hates you?” Jersey looks puzzled. “I think she just wants the project to go down fine. I don’t think she hates you.”
“No,” I flounder. “Things fall apart, the center cannot hold. I mean, things just don’t fit.”
“Hey,