Edge of Midnight (McClouds & Friends #4)(131)

“How long is it gonna take?” the younger guy asked.

“Oh, not long at all,” the dark guy said. “A half hour, forty-five minutes at the most. Did you take the pills I gave you?”

“Exactly at ten o’clock AM just like you said.”

“Perfect. Sit down, please. You haven’t eaten, have you?”

“Not since last night.” The guy sat down. “I could eat a horse.”

“Hang on a little longer, and I’ll buy you a steak,” Lab Coat said.

Kev had framed the vid to record the face of anyone seated in that chair. Lab Coat leaned over. They got a good look at his close-set dark eyes as he adjusted a helmet on the guy’s head. “Put your wrists here.”

The guy obliged him, and blinked when the man wrapped on the heavy velcro wrist restraints. “Hey,” he said. “What the hell?”

“Just procedure,” Lab Coat soothed. “Don’t turn your head. I have to adjust the sensors.” The kid sat still while Lab Coat, who had to be Osterman, rearranged the helmet. There were several quiet minutes while he hooked up a tangle of cables to a machine. Craig tried to chat, but Osterman brushed his attempts off with vague, absent replies.

Osterman lifted a helmet onto his own head. “I’ll be wearing one too. I’ll feel everything you feel. It won’t be uncomfortable.” He rolled up Craig’s sleeve and yanked over an IV rack.

Craig looked perplexed. “I’ve already taken the drug, right?”

“No, that was just a mild hypnotic, to prepare you. This is the real stuff. X-Cog Three. The drug that creates the interface.” Osterman taped the needle in place, and winked at him. “Down the rabbit hole.”

Craig’s eyes slowly went vacant, but Osterman’s smile remained, stamped on his face as if he’d forgotten he’d left it there. He snapped his fingers in front of Craig’s face some minutes later. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” Craig’s voice was soft and vague.

“Relax, and follow any impulse that comes to you.”

After a moment, Craig fumbled for the pen that lay next to his restrained hand. It slid from his clumsy fingers. Osterman nudged it back into his hand. “Good boy,” he crooned. “Whatever comes to you.”

Craig jerkily began to write. He dropped the pen, whimpering.

“You’re doing well,” Osterman praised. “Let’s try one more thing.”

Craig’s head flopped from side to side. “No, no, no, no.”

“One more thing, Craig,” Osterman insisted. “Look at me.”

Craig lifted his head. His eyes swam with tears. A thick thread of drool hung from his lips. He shook his head helplessly. “No, no, no.”

Osterman adjusted the IV drip, turned several knobs. “Let’s try this again, Craig. Say whatever comes to you. Just follow the impulses.”

Craig’s fingers scrabbled at the armrests. He looked bewildered. “F-fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth from this continent a new nation,” he said, voice slurred.

“Very good, Craig,” Osterman purred. “Very good. Go on.”

“In the beginning was the word.” Craig’s voice was clearer. “And the word was…and darkness was upon the face of the d-d-deep…” His voice stuttered off. “Darkness!” he shrieked. “Darkness! Darkness!”

Osterman made an irritated sound, and adjusted a knob.

Craig began to twitch and wail. Osterman bent over him, soothing him. He began to scream. They couldn’t see Craig’s face, just his hands jerking against the restraints, the chair shaking, Osterman’s elbows in the air, doing something they couldn’t see. He straightened to reach for something. Miles almost screamed himself.

Craig was bleeding from his eyes, his nose. He shrieked, writhed. Osterman jabbed a syringe into Craig’s upper arm, and the boy flopped forward, eyes blank and blood rimmed. Festoons of blood and snot dangled from his mouth and chin. Osterman stripped off his gory coat, and flung it to the floor. The petulant gesture was bizarre, against the backdrop of Craig’s ravaged face.

A voice offscreen asked a question. Osterman shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with the machine,” he replied. “The interface is perfect. He responded to my motor impulses. It’s the drug that’s not right yet.”

The garbled voice said something else.

“He can’t handle the side effects,” Osterman snapped. “None of them can.” He touched the boy’s wrist. “His heart’s stopped. Goddamn adrenaline spike. I need a shower. Get this place cleaned up. I’ve got another subject coming in an hour. I want this smell gone.”

Footsteps, a door slamming. Craig’s head dangled at a pathetic angle in the awful helmet. Miles stared, his hand pressed to his mouth.

He was used to TV action that came on fast and furious, afraid their spectators would get bored, change the channel. This video wasn’t afraid of boring them. It was a stern, implacable witness. It stared at the dead boy until the blood dripping off his chin slowed…and stopped.

A shadow moved across the screen. It flickered, and went blank.

Miles hung on to himself. He was not going to cry in front of Con and Davy. Or barf. He was cool, he was fine. When he opened his eyes, Connor’s face was buried in his hands. His shoulders vibrated.