Suspicious Minds (Stranger Things Novels #1)(3)

“?‘Why’ is always a question that moves science forward,” Dr. Brenner said. Chad the newbie nodded, and Brenner added, “Although one should be careful about asking it of your superiors. But I will tell you why. It’s important we all understand what we’re here to do. Does anyone have a guess?”

His treatment of Chad kept them quiet. He thought for a moment the woman might speak up, but she simply folded her hands in front of her.

“Good,” he said. “I don’t like guesswork. We’re here to advance the frontiers of human capability. I don’t want the common Mus musculus of humans. They are not going to give us extraordinary results.” He swept a gaze around the room. Everyone was intent. “I’m sure you’ve heard of some of the foibles elsewhere, and your own lack of results are why I’m here. There have been embarrassments, and a great many of them can be sourced to inadequate subjects. Whoever thought prisoners and the asylum-bound would tell us anything we need to know were fooling themselves. Draft dodgers and potheads aren’t any better. I have a few more young patients transferring here for a related program, but I’d like a range of ages. There is every reason to believe that a combination of chemical psychedelics and the right inducements can unlock the secrets we need. Think of the intelligence advantages alone if we can persuade our enemies to talk, if we can make them suggestible and exert control…But we can’t get the results we want without the right people, period. It is nothing to manipulate a weak mind. We need those with potential.”

“But…where will we get them?” Chad asked.

Brenner made a mental note to have him dismissed at the end of the day. He leaned forward. “I will set forth a new screening protocol for identification of better candidates from our feeder universities, and then select the subjects we use going forward myself. Soon, your real work here begins.”

No one objected. Yes, they were learning.





1.


Terry pushed open the screen door and winced at the fragrant haze of smoke inside the apartment. Her waitress uniform—reddish pink with a white apron—would go from smelling like stray grease spatters and coffee spills from the diner to smelling like weed in no time. She added laundry to the next day’s list. At least summer session meant less homework.

“Finally, babe, you’re here!” Andrew waved to her as he handed off a joint to the person next to him. His enthusiastic greeting earned him a smile. His brown hair had gotten long and shaggy and it cradled his jaw on either side like parentheses; she liked it. It made him look a little dangerous.

“Did I miss anything good?” she asked, shimmying through the crowd as the people she knew said hi. Her sister, Becky, sat in the recliner, glued to the 19-inch black-and-white television Andrew’s friend Dave had gotten as a hand-me-down from his old man after he upgraded to a new color screen for this momentous occasion. Apollo 11 had landed that afternoon.

“Are you kidding?” Dave shouted. There was music playing too, CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising” wafting out from a turntable, blending with the excited babble of Walter Cronkite from the TV. “Everything! Our men have been on the Moon for hours now! Where have you been?”

“Working,” Andrew said, and pulled her into his lap. He smoothed her dirty-blond hair back and pressed his lips to the side of her cheek. “She’s always working.”

“Some of us don’t have parents sending rent money,” she said. He and Dave did, and it was why they had such a nice place instead of a dorm room.

Becky met her eyes, an acknowledgment, before turning her attention back to the TV.

Terry planted her lips softly on the side of Andrew’s neck. He murmured approval.

Her roommate, Stacey, tottered over, obviously a few beers and joints worse for the wear. Her curly black hair hung in a frizzy ponytail on its way to falling down, and her shirt was untucked, the underarms soaked with sweat. She’d had the day off and had clearly enjoyed it.

“We need to get you less sober,” Stacey said, stabbing a finger at Terry.

“The woman has a point.” Dave tried to pass back the joint.

But Stacey intercepted it and took a long toke. “Get her a beer. Terry doesn’t smoke.”

Before Dave could argue, Andrew said, “It makes her paranoid.”

Which was almost true. Terry’s first experience with getting high had been the dictionary definition of unpleasant. Everyone else called it a hallucination, but she still believed she’d seen a ghost…or something like one.

But she wasn’t into other people making her mind up for her.

“It’s a special occasion. The moon and all.” She reached out and plucked the joint from Stacey’s fingers, took a brief hit and managed not to cough, then handed it back.

“I’ll get my own beer,” she said, jumping up and making her way to the kitchen. A toy chest filled with a waning supply of ice and beer sat in the middle of the floor. She picked out a can of Schlitz and rubbed it against her cheek as she walked back to the living room. The summer heat was compounded by the crush of bodies in the apartment, no match for the single window A/C unit.

By the time she got back to the couch, Stacey was in the middle of a story.

Terry sat back on Andrew’s lap to listen.

Stacey waved her hands around. “So this lab-rat guy gives me fifteen bucks—”