“She’s all yours,” said Chave, waving me toward Sherman. “Get her an ultrasound and make sure she’s in the cafeteria at one. Beyond that, I don’t care what you do.” Then she turned and stalked away.
Sherman watched her leave, waiting until she was out of earshot before sighing longingly. “That, my darling Sal, is a woman who needs an infusion of fun in her life. Possibly accompanied by a pitcher or two of strawberry mojitos.” He clucked his tongue. “Anyone that tightly wound is going to be a tornado when they finally let go. Imagine being the lucky bloke—or bird—on the receiving end of that storm warning.”
“I think we have very different ideas of what makes a fun evening,” I said.
“Probably so,” Sherman agreed, and turned to lead me back toward the elevator. “Have a good day so far?”
“No worse than usual, and I guess I’ll call that a win.” I sighed. “I just keep reminding myself that I don’t have to do this again for six months. It helps me get through the day.”
“That’s good.” The elevator doors slid open. Sherman waited until they closed again before saying, casually, “Word is that Banks is trying to hire you on for the research department. Can’t imagine you’d be too thrilled about that.”
I stared at him. “Just how good is the rumor mill around here? We only talked about that a few hours ago.”
“Nothing happens in a vacuum, especially not when you’re talking about a company this size.” Sherman looked at me thoughtfully. “Are you going to take it? You’d be around here a good bit more. But you wouldn’t have to worry anymore about whether you’d have another emergency. It might take a bit of the edge off.”
“Yeah, and I’d be on site when I cracked from the pressure of all those eyes looking at me all the time. That would make it so much easier for them to get me into a nice padded room.” The elevator dinged, signaling our safe return to the subterranean domain of the scientists. “I’d rather worry a little now than freak out a lot later on.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say,” said Sherman, and stepped out of the elevator. I followed him, and together we made our way to the dressing room outside the ultrasound lab. “You get changed; I’ll go make sure the science mooks are ready for us.”
“You got it,” I said, and slipped inside.
The ultrasound machine surrounded me like a huge, comforting hand, holding just tightly enough that I didn’t need to be afraid that I would somehow lose my grip on the surface of the world—that gravity would fail or an earthquake would mysteriously flip the building upside down and send me plummeting into empty space. I could move, to a degree, crossing or uncrossing my arms and ankles, but for the most part, I was safely confined. I raised one hand to check that my rebreather was solidly in place, and closed my eyes.
Some people apparently found full-body ultrasounds invasive and claustrophobic, and would go to any lengths to avoid them. I had the opposite response. If I’d been able to trade all my other tests for additional time in the ultrasound chamber, I would happily have done so. According to Sherman, that was one more reason for the company technicians to view me as a freak of nature.
The full-body imaging department at SymboGen consisted of two different sections: the MRI room and the gel ultrasound room. I had undergone both at one time or another during my visits to SymboGen, and the gel ultrasound was definitely my favorite of the two. MRIs meant lying on my back for up to an hour while the machine took its snapshot images of my body, trying not to move as my weight seemed to press me deeper and deeper into the metal bed. There was no padding in an MRI tube; that might interfere with the readings.
People who found MRIs claustrophobic apparently freaked out completely during gel ultrasounds, which required a rebreather and that the subject’s eyes remain closed for the duration. The techs would even glue them shut for you if you asked them to, to make sure you wouldn’t give in to the urge to look around and see what was happening. After you were fully prepped and inside the tube, it was flooded with a bioresponsive plastic gel modeled off the biological structure of slime mold. It was hypoallergenic, nontoxic, and as harmless as possible.
Gel ultrasounds were infinitely more comforting than MRIs. I relaxed, slowing my breathing as I allowed myself to go totally limp.
There was a clicking noise in my left ear just before the head technician’s voice came through the side of my rebreather: “You ready for us, Sally? Clench your left hand for ‘yes.’ ”
I obediently clenched my left hand. I liked the ultrasound technicians. They were nice, although they treated me with an odd reverence. I had asked Sherman why that was once, after a particularly relaxing session in the ultrasound chamber. He’d laughed and replied, “Because, my sweet Sal, you are the only person ever to fall asleep in their gooey torture chamber. They think you’re either bloody insane, or that you’ve got balls the size of boulders.”
“What do you think?” I’d asked.
“I think it’s a little bit of both.”
I smiled around my rebreather at the memory, and allowed the last bit of tension to seep out of me as the ultrasound whirred to humming, buzzing life. My breathing slowed further once the humming began. The sound set up minute vibrations through the liquid, faint enough that they didn’t interfere with the machine’s readings, but strong enough for me to feel them eddying against my skin. It was like being at the center of my own private tide pool.
At some point, I drifted away, down into the dark, which reached up to claim me like a lover, folding itself around me and pulling me into itself. I didn’t fight. I was safe, I was surrounded and safe, and nothing was ever going to hurt me again.
I didn’t dream. Not there in the ultrasound tube, with the warm gel buoying me up and the sound of the machine lapping against my skin. Instead, I just drifted, and dozed, and let the world pass by around me.
It was gravity that brought me back: the strangely wrenching sensation of gravity reasserting itself as the gel began draining out of the ultrasound tube and my body settled down onto the hard metal bed of the machine. I managed not to start squirming, but it was hard. This was always the tricky part, keeping still until I was given the clearance to start moving again. Move too soon, and I risked either dislodging my rebreather and giving myself a lungful of plastic gel, or opening my eyes and getting an eyeful of the stuff instead. It wouldn’t actually hurt me, but it could make breathing—and seeing—remarkably uncomfortable for a short period of time.
“You all right in there, Sally?” asked the voice in my ear. I responded with a very small nod, feeling the motion set up waves through the remaining gel. The level was still dropping, faster all the time; it was around my ears now. My exposed skin felt overly tender, and the air was cold after the comforting warmth of the gel. I shivered, despite trying not to.
“Just hold tight,” said the voice. “We’re almost done draining the gel, and we’ll have you out of there as soon as it’s done.”
I nodded again, more firmly this time. Seconds ticked by, and the gel level dropped, until I was lying totally exposed, shivering and faintly gooey in my one-piece swimsuit. The machine whirred as it responded to a new set of commands, and the tube that I had been lying in for the better part of an hour began moving slowly outward. The air quality changed, getting even colder. I continued to shiver, but didn’t open my eyes until a damp, warm washcloth was pressed against them, wiping away the remainder of the goo.
Hands gripped my rebreather. “Release, please,” said the technician’s voice, clearer now that it wasn’t being filtered through the gel. I unclenched my teeth. He pulled the mouthpiece away, and wiped my mouth and chin with another cloth.
I opened my eyes.
The first thing I saw was the ceiling. Turning my head slightly, I saw the two ultrasound technicians: a short, freckle-faced man with a mop of red curls, holding my rebreather in one hand, and a tall, rail-thin woman with medium-brown skin and dark brown hair that she wore raked back into a no-nonsense bun. I off
ered them a hesitant smile. “How did I do?”
“Splendidly, as always,” said Dr. Sanjiv, and offered me her hand. “Your clothes are waiting in the changing room, although I strongly recommend you shower, as usual, before you even think about going near them. You’re slimier than the average bivalve.”
“So why are you touching me?” I asked, grasping her fingers and letting her pull me out of the ultrasound tube. The squelching sound made when my back broke contact with the bed of the machine was unnerving, no matter how many times I heard it.
“I don’t mind bivalves, whereas Marvin here,” she indicated Dr. McGillis, “dislikes them on general principle.”
“I only eat food that had visible eyes before it was cooked,” said Dr. McGillis, unruffled. “It seems more sporting that way. Thanks again for being such a good sport about all this, Sally.”
It was all I could do not to hug him on the spot, all-encompassing slime or no all-encompassing slime. “It’s my pleasure,” I said. “You guys are my favorite stop here at SymboGen.”
For some reason, that statement seemed to unnerve them. They exchanged a look laden with some meaning I couldn’t decipher, and Dr. Sanjiv dropped my hand like it had burned her. “Go get changed, Sally,” she said. “We’re finished for today.” She turned and walked quickly out of the room. Dr. McGillis followed her, leaving me standing there dripping gel and utterly confused.
When several minutes passed without them coming back to explain, I turned, shoulders slumped, and walked to the room where my clothes were waiting. Sherman would be outside in the hall, ready to take me to my next appointment. I normally liked to linger in the ultrasound lab, but not today. Today, I just wanted to be gone.
The water in the shower came out of the tap already optimally adjusted to warm without burning. There were no dials to let me adjust the temperature; you took your showers warm but not scalding, or you didn’t take them at all. I stepped under the warm spray, tilting my face up toward the ceiling, and let it rinse away the last of the goo from the ultrasound chamber.
Soap and shampoo were not provided. They also weren’t needed. I had never encountered any substance that got a body as intimately clean as the goo in the SymboGen ultrasound chambers. Something about the way it combined with the vibration of the machine just shook the dirt and dead skin loose. All I had to do was grab a washcloth and wipe the muck away. It ran down the drain in a purple-gel-colored swirl, disappearing into the pipes below.
At home, I can shower for an hour or more, staying in the water long after it’s out of heat, and my skin has started wrinkling up like a bulldog’s neck. At SymboGen, I was in and out in under ten minutes, staying in the stall only long enough to be sure that all of the gunk had been wiped away. They promised me they didn’t have cameras in the restroom, but I wasn’t sure I trusted them. I was almost certain that they collected the things that swirled down the shower drain, taking them off for some analysis I didn’t know about, and didn’t want to know about. All I wanted was to get out of there.
A plush towel almost large enough to be considered a blanket was draped over the bench in front of the locker that held my clothes. I dried quickly, slicking my hair back and tying it into a dripping ponytail before putting my clothes back on. I dropped the towel into the laundry chute, and then I was done; the only thing left on my agenda as I understood it was a trip to the cafeteria to eat with the executives.
Sherman was waiting in the hall. It was his job—he’d be in serious trouble if he left me and anyone found out about it—but I still felt a pang of relief when I saw his smiling face. After the ultrasound technicians ran away the way they did, I’d almost expected Sherman to do the same.
“I’d like to say that you clean up good, pet, but the truth is, you clean up just this side of a drowned rat,” he said, pushing away from the wall. “I’m not sure it’s the good side of the drowned rat, either. Could be you should have taken things the other way.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” I said gravely.
“See to it you do, and come along.” Sherman started toward the elevator. “We’ll get some lunch into you, and then you’ll be about finished for the day. You can head for home and do whatever it is you do when you’re not here hobnobbing with your betters.”
“You mean having a life, doing things I actually want to do, and not being endlessly jabbed by people with needles? Yeah, I’m pretty fond of that.” I sighed, sticking my still-damp hands into the pockets of my jeans. “Really, I’ll just be happy when I’m out of here. You’re nice and all, but…”
“But you’re worried about losing your freedom. I get that.” The elevator doors opened with a ding, and we both stepped inside. “You’re in an interesting position, Sal. I don’t envy you it at all. You’re a bit of a celebrity, a bit of an experiment, and a bit of a cautionary tale, all at the same time. Maybe you lived because of your implant. Maybe you lost your memory because of the implant. Everyone wants to know what’s going on in that head of yours, and no one’s sure they’re going to like the answers.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel good about herself, you know.”
“I try.” The elevator doors closed again. We began to ascend. “Have you thought more about that job offer?”
“I have.”
“And?”
“I’m not going to take it. I just… I can’t.” I shook my head. “I need to be able to go home and not think about this. I’m not defined by the accident. It was six years ago. How long do I have to keep being the girl who had the accident? When do I start getting to be Sal?”
“Think about it this way,” Sherman suggested. “Most of us spend a bunch of years as children. We do what our parents tell us, we live by their rules, and we never feel like we’re setting our own courses. Only then, given time, we grow up. We get to move out and be the people we want to be, not the people our parents want us to be.”
“Most people are children for eighteen years,” I said. “I don’t want to spend eighteen years living like this.”
Sherman sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you, Sal. You didn’t do anything wrong—not the person that you are now, anyway. You woke up in a hospital room, you got a clean slate, and you thought you ought to be allowed to go with that. The trouble is, you still have to live with the mistakes that Sally made. She may have given up on living when she drove her car into that bus, but that doesn’t mean you get to be free of her.”
I closed my eyes briefly. “I hate her.”
“You’re not the only one, pet.” The elevator slid to a stop. I opened my eyes to see the doors standing open, and Sherman gesturing toward the plushly carpeted hallway outside. Chave was waiting there, a sour expression on her face. “Out you get. Enjoy your decadent luncheon, and I’ll see you next time you come by for a visit, all right?”
“Thanks, Sherman.” I darted in and hugged him quickly. He made a startled sound before closing his arms around me and giving me a squeeze.
“Always welcome, Sal,” he said. His voice was warm. It was good to know that someone in this building genuinely gave a damn about me. “Now shoo. Wouldn’t do to keep your corporate masters waiting.”
“I’ll see you next time,” I said. Letting go, I stepped out of the elevator and started toward Chave. Her sour expression had turned outright disapproving, a deep furrow appearing between her eyebrows.
She wasn’t annoyed enough to shout, and waited until I was close enough for her to keep her voice pitched low before she demanded, “What was that about?”
“I wanted a hug. Your job when you’re my handler is to supply me with anything I want or need, within reason. As hugging me did not cause physical or emotional harm to either one of us, it was within reason.” I looked flatly at Chave, anticipating her response to my next question: “Would you rather I hugged you next time?”
Chave took a step backward, looking so alarmed that I thought for a moment she might fall right off her heels. I managed to bite
back my smile. “That would be entirely inappropriate,” she said, half-raising one hand in what looked like an involuntary warding gesture.
It wasn’t necessary; I stayed where I was, watching her as she recoiled. After a moment, she seemed to realize I wasn’t planning to throw my arms around her. Her hand dropped, and her alarmed expression dissolved into her more customary mild hauteur.
“If you’re quite through making your little jokes, it’s time for you to meet Dr. Banks for lunch,” she said. Her voice had somehow managed to become even stiffer than usual, something I would previously have said was impossible. “I certainly hope you won’t try hugging him.”
The idea made my skin crawl. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good. Now follow me.” She turned on her heel, practically stomping toward the doors to the executive cafeteria. I adjusted my grasp on the strap of my shoulder bag and walked hastily after her.
The doors of the SymboGen executive cafeteria were automatic, and slid smoothly open as we approached. The smell of roasting meat and fresh-baked bread wafted into the hallway, accompanied by the sound of gently rattling glasses and the clink of silverware against bone china dishes. It was the sound of money, and it was something I only really had the opportunity to hear on those occasions when I was invited to dine with the company’s founder. Maybe money can’t buy happiness, but it can buy some of the best meals I’d ever eaten, and I wasn’t disappointed to be eating another one.
Chave walked through the door about three long strides ahead of me. I kept trying to catch up, and was moving faster than I should have been when she froze midstep only six feet into the room. I nearly collided with her suddenly motionless form. I managed to swerve to the side at the last moment, and stumbled, going down on one knee.
“Chave?” I looked up at her, my new position giving me a perfect view of her face. She was staring slack-jawed at the far wall. There was no animation in her eyes. She could have been one of the dead fish waiting in the kitchen for the frying pan. Her arms had dropped to her sides, dangling limply now that all of her tension was gone. I was dimly aware that my heart was beating too fast, hammering itself against the inside of my rib cage like something trapped. I was trapped. Whatever was about to happen, it wasn’t something I wanted anything to do with.