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Author's Note: This story evolved from a particularly vivid and disturbing dream that I had perhaps ten years ago; it's taken me this long to actually frame it with a real plot and write it all down. I hope it was worth the wait. The story is essentially straight-ahead science fiction with a transgender sub-theme, as opposed to a transgender sci-fi story, if you get the distinction. If you're looking for a little transgender titillation, you're not likely to find it here. Sorry. Credit where credit is due: The "Legend of Washan" mid-way through this story was inspired by a passage in Russell Hoban's brilliant novel "Ridley Walker", while the overall mood and "vibe" of the red desert world herein came from Peter Gabriel's song "The Rhythm of the Heat", which I listened to repeatedly as I was writing; a fragment of which opens every chapter. Also, to any reader who may think I am trying to make a political statement here, I'm NOT. I wrote this story strictly for the entertainment value, such as it is. This is a long story, and I am taking the unusual step of posting it all at once because of something that happened after my last three-part posting. When I posted the first part, it generated a flurry of response (and controversy) in the Reviews section, but parts two and three generated no response at all, and I can't help wondering if, for some reason, the avid readers of part one simply missed the subsequent installments. Anyway, here the reader can obtain the whole story at once, and read it as his or her leisure. Finally, since I have been working on this story for the better part of six months, I decided to take out an interim copyright, so please, if you wish to copy this story or post it on another web site, contact me first. My Fictionmania bio information contains my email address. THE PANDORA PROJECT CHAPTER ONE Looking out the window, I see the red dust clear High upon the red rock stands the shadow with a spear... - The Rhythm of the Heat - Peter Gabriel Red sand, red rocks. Crimson sun hangs low on the horizon, casting long shadows the color of dried blood. My throat is parched; I am very thirsty. I am crouched behind a rocky outcropping that overlooks a dry, desolate valley. There are others around me, similarly concealed. In my right hand is the shaft of a spear. I find its weight familiar and comforting, yet somewhere in the back of my mind something is screaming that this is very wrong. The sun is the wrong color; the desert is nowhere I know. And yet at the same time, I feel I know every nook and cranny, every rock, every hiding place, better than I know the faces of my own family. My clothes are ragged, as are those of my companions. Each of us wears a red and gold scarf on our heads. The others are armed also, with spears, bows and arrows, scimitars, long knives. I glance to my left. Beside me is an older man, thin to the point of gauntness, long, graying hair and scraggly gray beard. He too, holds a spear. Wordlessly, he gestures toward the valley. Below us in the distance, a long line of people files slowly past. Their stumbling, hesitant gait suggests extreme fatigue. The old man hands me a long tube with glass at each end, decorated with chipped gold filigree. I put it to my eye; it is a crude telescope. I can see the line of people much more clearly. They are all dressed like me, tattered garments, red and gold scarves on their heads. Most walk in a somnolent shuffle, heads bowed, feet dragging through the dust. All are shackled together in a long chain. Around them, black clad horsemen ride up and down the line, shouting - although I can't hear any sound from where I crouch - and occasionally lashing out at the captives with long, evil-looking whips. I lower the telescope and look at my companion. He meets my gaze and nods significantly. I nod back. We watch until the line has passed our position and begins to disappear into the gritty, russet haze in the distance. Then we creep down the incline behind us. Far below, several horses are tied to a group of blackened stumps that encircle a shallow pool of muddy, rust-colored water. I make for one of the smaller mounts and untie him. My throat feels like it is full of sand. The old man, who has stayed at my side the whole time, gestures toward the water and utters a few words, which I do not catch. He crouches and, cupping some water in his hands, drinks. I do the same. As I gaze into the water, I catch sight of my reflection. I am scarcely more than a boy, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, with long, straight black hair that flows out from under my headscarf. An amulet, some sort of polished, translucent stone, sits at the base of my throat, held by a leather thong around my neck. I am very thin. My thirst somewhat slaked, I stand and return to my horse, then swing easily up onto its bare back and grab the reins. The errant voice at the back of my mind expresses surprise. I am utterly at home on the back of this horse; it is familiar to the point of nonchalance. I raise a hand to my forehead and rub it dazedly, as if to clear my thoughts. The rest of the group is mounted. I urge my horse forward, and we start off. --- I opened my eyes and squinted into the darkness. The dimly glowing digits on my alarm clock indicated 2:17 AM. I swung my feet around and sat up on the edge of the bed. Although bathed in sweat, I was shivering, and a residual image of red sands and red sky danced in the blackness before my eyes. The sheets felt wet. "God!" I breathed, "That was some dream..." Although there was little enough real content in the dream to upset me, nevertheless I felt deeply disturbed. For one thing, it was incredibly vivid. I could recall every detail of every sensation, the hot sun on my face, the desiccation in my throat, the rough feel of the crude wooden spear shaft, the coarse abrasiveness of the horse's hair on my calves. I discovered that I really was desperately thirsty, and rose to get some water from the bathroom. Amazing how your own experiences can come together to form a dream of such intensity and detail, I thought. Of course, my own thirst would have accounted for the desert imagery and the thirst I felt in the dream. Earlier that evening I'd watched "The Red Planet" on HBO, which naturally accounted for the red desert locale. I guess my mind just filled everything else in. Why was I a young boy? I wondered. Ah, I have it. Earlier that afternoon I'd played softball with some of my colleagues from work. In the middle of the second inning I'd driven an unbelievable line shot up the middle, over the pitcher, over the second baseman, over the center fielder. I knew that if I really moved I could turn it into a triple, perhaps even a home run. I ran like hell, and as I rounded third I could feel my heart pounding, my breath coming in shallow, rasping gulps. I remembered thinking to myself, "I'm sure not a teenager any more!" Undoubtedly, my subconscious nostalgia for my younger, more athletic days had translated itself into my youthful image in the dream. There! Fully explained. But what I couldn't explain was the dread and terror that I felt as I gazed down at that long line of captives shuffling slowly across the desert valley. The very sight of them had sparked a sensation of near-panic in my dream-self. Oh, well, I shrugged, I guess some things will always elude an explanation. I lay down again on the bed and closed my eyes, but the images of that red desert world continued to dance before me in the darkness, and it was a long time before I got to sleep. --- The incessant buzzing of my alarm clock woke me at the usual time, 6:30 AM. My eyelids felt glued together; my mouth parched and foul tasting. As far as I could remember, no further dreams had invaded my sleep, but nonetheless I felt drained, enervated. Slowly, I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower. I washed, then nerved myself to turn the hot water off and stand under the icy flood for thirty seconds, hoping that it would wake me up to some useful level of consciousness. I donned shorts and a t-shirt and went for my morning three-mile jog along the deserted roads and footpaths of the installation, but after barely a mile I gave it up and walked back to my apartment. I showered a second time, then dressed and walked down to the cafeteria. At this hour it was deserted save for the staff. I ordered my usual breakfast, but could manage little more than juice and coffee, and finally I left with much of the meal untouched. My digs were on the second floor of a long, low building that resembled a rather upscale motel. Although it was not mandatory, the project staff was encouraged to live there, onsite, for better security and, as a bachelor with no ties, I was more than happy to comply. The facility offered spacious rooms, a pool, sauna, hot tub, tennis courts, a private cinema, baseball diamond, and a fully equipped health club, not to mention a fine cafeteria that offered excellent meals. As a consequence, most of my immediate needs were met, and I rarely left the grounds, except to drive into town occasionally to do a little shopping. The installation itself, the "Saguaro Biomedical Research Facility," was nestled in a small valley high in the mountains to the east of Los Angeles. It occupied much of the valley floor, but most of the land was empty of buildings or people. It was said that coyotes outnumbered the human inhabitants by about ten to one. The property was surrounded by several rows of electrified fence, the gaps in between patrolled by guard dogs and military personnel driving jeeps and armed with formidable-looking machine guns. Signs on the outside every fifty feet or so identified the land as a "Restricted Area". Signs on the innermost fence were more to the point. They simply said, "DOD Property. No Entry. Trespassers will be shot". I made my way over to The Lab, across a large quadrangle of landscaped gardens already baking beneath the hot morning sun. Although the building was known locally as "The Lab", the name didn't really do it justice. It was a single enclosed space, large enough to be a commercial aircraft hangar. Resembling a Quonset hut but much, much larger, it was over six stories high at its central point. Once past security and inside the building, I passed through decontamination, headed to my locker and donned a white jumpsuit, security clearance tag and radiometer badge, before passing through an airlock into the dust free environment within. The vast interior space was littered with equipment around its periphery, but the center was dominated by what looked like a gigantic, hollow, translucent ice cube. This impression was not wholly inaccurate, for the cube was actually composed of many smaller cells several feet thick, filled with millions of gallons of pure, distilled water, kept just a few degrees above freezing. As I drew nearer, I could feel the temperature drop perceptibly and my breath became visible. Finally, I passed through a second airlock, and I was inside the cube. The sight that greeted me was one that would have made any science fiction enthusiast gasp in wonderment. At one side, mid-way up one inner wall of the cube and spanning its entire width was the control center; slanted windows looked down upon the experiment floor. It was full of consoles, computer equipment, monitoring gear. A ring of eight giant superconducting electromagnets circled the room below, each trailing a bundle of thick electrical cable that ran through a series of glass insulators up and out of sight to a high voltage power supply on the roof of the building. In the center of the ring, a raised dais was surrounded by wheeled carts containing computer consoles, measuring equipment, and more esoteric devices. At the center of the dais were two identical chairs that looked as if they would be at home in a dentist's office. Wires trailed everywhere in an untidy mess, and over each chair was a large metallic dome that contained a number of conical glass-like projections on the inner surface. They pointed downward toward the chair's headrest. I exchanged greetings with a few of my colleagues, who were already bustling about and readying the equipment for the morning's roster of experiments. Then I spotted Shannon, my "opposite number" as it were, for this series of tests, and went over to say hi. She was talking to Scott Miller, the project director, and going over a list of items that he was showing her on a handheld display. "David!" she said warmly when she saw me, "How are you, luv?" Shannon was British; she sported the most delightful cockney accent, and used the English idioms that I found charming. She almost always called me "luv". She was petite, with thick blonde hair cut in a short, businesslike bob, and a face and body that could make heads turn whenever she entered a room. Beside that, she was sweet, intelligent, witty, and one of the all-around nicest people I'd ever met. Her presence on the project, together with my incredible good luck in drawing her as a partner, made my work here much more than bearable. Yet, despite our closeness and obvious liking for each other, our relationship had never advanced beyond the "friends and colleagues" stage. "You look like you've just hiked over the mountains, luv," she stated flatly, "Up late watching the telly, were you?" "I slept badly," I admitted, "What about you? You don't look so chipper yourself, this morning!" "I had a horrendous night's sleep too!" she responded, "One awful dream after another!" "Me too." "Well," Scott broke in, "Just as long as you're up for this morning's run-throughs. I don't want anyone falling asleep on the job!" "We'll be fine!" she said, putting a friendly hand on his arm, "Don't worry, luv." She called everyone else "luv" too. We had little to do for at least an hour while the capacitor banks charged up and the technicians verified the field synchronization, so we filled the time chatting. "What was your dream like?" I asked her. "Well, there were several," she began, "In fact, I've had very similar dreams before. I was part of some sort of harem, it seemed..." "Sounds pretty good so far!" I broke in. "Well it wasn't, Mister Smarty-Drawers, and don't interrupt!" she chastised, waggling a warning finger at me. "Sorry." "I was dressed in some sort of Persian costume, you know, billowy gauze pantaloons and skimpy top, rather like that show... what was it called? The one with the genie in it, and the astronaut?" "I Dream Of Jeannie," I supplied. "Really? Well, if you say so. I was in a room with several other women, courtesans I think. The room was decorated in some sort of middle- eastern style, lots of tapestries and urns and things. But the strange thing was, when I looked in the mirror, I wasn't me! My face, body, everything was completely different! I looked middle-eastern as well, and I was quite young, a teenager, perhaps. It was the oddest experience. "Anyway, we were all lounging around on these pillows and things, when this man came in. He was huge and swarthy, and wore a scimitar or something shoved into his sash. He looked around the room and then pointed to one of the other girls and beckoned to her. And she was terrified! I'll never forget the look on her face! She was frightened out of her wits. I became terrified too. And that's when I woke up. It took me ages to get back to sleep again. I was shivering like a leaf on a tree." "Is there anything else you can remember?" I prompted. "Yes! Something else that was rather odd. I remember going to the window at one point. The sun was nearly set, but I remember noticing that it was huge, and a very deep red color... and it had a companion star! A tiny, bright white star that hovered nearby the big one. It was brighter than the big star, but so small that its light was nearly drowned out." "Sounds like a binary star system. A red giant and white dwarf. The combination is not that uncommon in the universe, although I don't know what causes them. It's strange that you should dream something like that, though. One typically places dreams on one's own planet, in familiar territory, don't you think?" "I suppose. What was your dream about?" she asked. I felt a slight twinge as I realized that the sun in my own dream was also red, and much larger than normal. "Well," I began, "It's kind of an odd coincidence, but..." I gave her a brief summary of my own dream, making sure to mention the similarity to hers. She looked thoughtful. "I wonder... could there possibly be a connection to what we're doing here? I mean, we haven't had a lot of success thus far, but perhaps we're making a connection on some sort of subconscious level..." "I hadn't thought of that," I replied, "I wonder if we should mention it to Scott." But the opportunity to do so was gone. One of the technicians motioned to us that they were ready to proceed, and Shannon and I took up our places in the two chairs on the dais. A cluster of workers in orange jumpsuits surrounded us and began applying wires to us. EEG sensors were affixed to our heads, and EKG sensors to our chests through strategically placed flaps in our suits. More sensors were clamped to our index fingers, across our chests and to our legs. It was a long process, and it was nearly three-quarters of an hour before we were ready to go. The technicians hurriedly pushed their equipment well behind the electromagnet ring, then the brilliant spotlights that were trained on the dais were extinguished, and the area was plunged into semi- darkness. A loud, rumbling hiss began, and the towering electromagnets surrounding us quickly acquired a layer of frost, and began to shed coils of vapor that poured down their surfaces and across the floor, giving the area a kind of "Frankenstein's laboratory" ambience. As I attempted to relax, a rising hum filled the room, and the bluish glow of a brush discharge began to form around the towers. I could feel the hair on my head and arms begin to stir. The temperature in the room began to fall, and heating elements in the chair came on to compensate, an attempt to keep us relatively comfortable for the duration of the test. The inward pointing spikes in the dome above my head began to glow, first a dull red, then brighter, until they were intense enough to hurt the eyes. There was a loud snap, and an electrical discharge jumped from the dais to a series of insulated metal rods that surrounded us, bleeding off the intensifying electrostatic field in which we sat. Above the hum, a voice began counting down seconds. "Ten, nine, eight..." Despite my best efforts to stay calm, a knot formed in my stomach, and tightened with each count. "...Three, two, one, activate." I closed my eyes; there was a blinding white flash, then utter darkness. I found myself floating in space, an inky void with no form or substance. All sense of my corporeal self had vanished; I was simply a tiny node of self-awareness, surrounded by a vast... nothingness. I tried to see, but there was nothing to see. I tried to hear, but there was no sound. I cast my mind out into space, searching for another consciousness. Nothing. I floated. I seemed to have no awareness of time. A million years or a split-second might have passed. I knew not. Then... something. I became aware of the presence of another intelligence, somewhere in the vast emptiness, and I tried to move toward it. I could somehow sense that I was moving, but the awareness was so elusive that I couldn't explain how or why I felt it. The sensation of another presence gradually diminished, until I was once again utterly alone. A terrible sense of overwhelming loneliness descended upon me. I was alone in the universe. There was no other but me, there never was, and there never would be. There was nothing but utter desolation. Had I eyes, I would have shed tears. Had I a voice, I would have cried my despair to the blackness. But I had neither. --- I opened my eyes. The overhead lights were back on, and I was surrounded by orange-clad technicians, who were staring at me worriedly. "How long was I out?" I tried to ask, but the words would not form, just a hollow croak. "Just relax," one of the technicians said reassuringly, "The doc's right here." I swiveled my eyes, the only movement I could make at the moment, and saw Doctor Chandra at my side. The cuff of a sphygmomanometer was around my upper arm, and he was examining the blood pressure gauge attached to it. "100 over 65," he announced, "Not bad, considering. Pulse is back to normal too. I think he's coming out of it." "How's Shannon?" I managed to croak. "She's okay," said the doctor, "She came out of it a few minutes before you did." "How long?" I whispered. He didn't answer immediately. He looked over at one of the techs and raised his eyebrows. The other shrugged. "Try to relax," he said soothingly, "You're going to be fine, you just need some rest, that's all." "How long?" I repeated. He sighed. "About seven hours," he said. Shannon and I spent the rest of the day in our apartments, sleeping. The longest period of unconsciousness either of us had previously experienced following an experimental run-through was about 45 minutes, which we had by now come to expect. Seven hours, on the other hand, was a truly frightening figure. I woke around eight P.M. feeling famished, so I dressed and made my way to the cafeteria. Shannon was there, sitting alone at a table near the windows, and after picking up some food, I joined her. "So," I began, "What did you think of THAT little episode?" "Scared me silly," she responded immediately, "That's the longest either of us have been out, by a long chalk. What about you?" "I'm just surprised they haven't tried to debrief us yet. That's almost as scary." "I'm sure it's coming," she replied, "Probably tonight. What did you experience this time? Anything?" "As a matter of fact, yes. I'm sure I felt the presence of another consciousness. Positive, in fact. I tried to move toward it, but I must have moved away instead. Anyway, it got fainter until I lost it completely. The feeling of loneliness was much more intense than usual, too, maybe because of my sadness about losing that one contact. I don't know." Her eyes had widened as I spoke. "Yes!" she said excitedly as I finished, "I felt it too! I'm sure there was someone else there! Could we have been sensing each other, I wonder?" "It sure is possible," I mused, "I mean, that's what the experiment is all about, isn't it? Trying to locate and enter one another's consciousness. Maybe we're making some progress at last." "I don't know," she continued after a pause, "But it's encouraging, don't you think? You know, I keep thinking about what might happen if we succeed. We could be working on a cure for mental illness, schizophrenia, autism, psychosis, maybe even a way to help coma victims! Imagine a world where all these things could be virtually wiped out, using this technology!" "You already know my opinion on that," I responded, "I'm sorry Shannon, but I really think you're being naive. I don't know if you've noticed, but this place doesn't exactly look like a medical research facility, despite its name. 'Trespassers will be SHOT'??? This place isn't medical, it's military. You and I both know that they want this technology to use as a weapon. They want to be able to do things like take control of a trusted individual within an enemy government, and make him do things to corrupt or damage their power structure, perhaps even assassinate key personnel. If there's any medical spin-off from this, it's years away, if ever. They'll never let this technology into the public domain until they've exhausted all of the military applications." Shannon's face clouded as I spoke, but she did not reply. "So," she said after a time, "What's up for tomorrow? Meetings, as I recall." "Yeah," I replied, "We've got our weekly physicals tomorrow morning, then we're supposed to meet with Scott and his team to discuss what might have gone wrong today." We talked well into the evening, mostly about the project. As it turned out, we weren't called to a debriefing session, so around midnight we parted company and retired to our separate apartments. --- I am standing in a large tent-like enclosure. It is nicely decorated; a wide sleeping pallet lies in one corner, surrounded by gauzy curtains. There are large velvet pillows scattered about, ornate furniture, tapestries; oil lamps hang from the interior tent poles. I am shivering, even though the air is quite warm. Outside, I hear faintly the neighing of a horse. Before me stands a beautiful woman; she appears but a year or two older than me, late teens perhaps. She wears a flowing skirt of richly patterned material, a silky garment that looks rather like a halter-top, and a short, embroidered velvet vest. Her waist-length black hair gleams in the soft light, her red and gold headdress sparkles. Her full lips have been colored a deep, velvety red; kohl outlines her large, almond shaped eyes. She wears long gold earrings of intricate design and many bracelets on her wrists. She is lovely. I wrap my arms around myself in an attempt to stop shaking; I am completely naked. I look at her and she smiles a beautiful, warm smile. She speaks. It is a strange, guttural language. I can understand her perfectly. "Kasha," she begins, "We are all so proud of you! You are the key to a new life for all of us. You shall complete your task and our people will be free! You are so very brave." She comes forward and embraces me, kissing me on the cheek. "And remember, you are not alone, Kasha," she continues, "There are many that will help you. You must learn well, because your success, and your safety, lies in the lessons we shall teach you. And do not be afraid! You shall complete your task and return to us. You will be safe. This I know. I have foreseen it. You will find help where you least expect it, so always be alert, and always be on your guard." I nod uncertainly. "And now, come. We must begin your first lesson," she says. She opens a large trunk before us. She pulls out first a white linen underskirt and wraps it around my waist, fastening it with an ornate gold clip. Next, she removes a long, gauzy skirt like her own and fastens that around my waist as well. Richly decorated sandals are next. She slips rings onto my toes, and fastens ornate ankle bracelets around my ankles. The tiny bells on them tinkle softly in the silence. She produces a blousy pink top similar to the one she wears and slips it over my head. "You have no breasts," she explains, businesslike, as she continues to dress me, "So this garment will not fit properly as yet, but Al Sa?d will take care of that later. He is very skilled, so you mustn't worry about that, either!" A short, richly embroidered velvet jacket, similar to her vest, follows. Its sleeves barely cover my shoulders, and it is short enough to leave my belly exposed. She fingers one of my earlobes. "The holes have healed nicely," she said, "There is no suppuration of the wound." She reaches up and removes a pair of tiny gold hoops that I was wearing, and replaces them with long ornate silver earrings. Many bangles on each of my wrists follow, then rings on my fingers. My shivering stops and the knot in my stomach begins to untie. Finally, she bids me sit beside her on an ottoman near one wall of the tent, next to a chest of drawers. She picks up a pot of some ochre liquid and a tiny brush, and paints the deep red color onto my lips. Taking a tiny dab on the end of her little finger, she rubs it onto each of my cheeks. A vial of dark, smoky-smelling liquid follows. Kohl, I think to myself. Using a fine brush, she lines my eyes, above and below, and strokes a few wisps onto my brows. "We will leave your hair for now," she says, running her fingers through it, "In the future, you must be very careful to keep your hair thoroughly clean, and your body as well. Remember that you must be CHOSEN in order to perform your duty. If you are not clean, you will not be chosen." I nod again. "Now!" she says brightly, a smile coming to her lips, "Now, come! See what we have wrought!" She takes my hand and leads me to a tall mirror that hangs on a tent pole. She stands beside me. "See?" she says excitedly, "See? We could be sisters! You are beautiful, more beautiful than I!" "That is not possible," I say shyly, for she is surely the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, but I do gaze in wonder at the reflections in the mirror. I wonder for a few seconds which image is really my own, for I have not gazed into very many mirrors before. Two beautiful women stand before me within the frame; they do look very similar, although one's hair is much longer than the other; hers, I realize. They are dressed in similar clothes. Their eyes and lips virtually the same, their sumptuous jewelry gleams at their ears, necks, and on their wrists. "You see?" she says triumphantly, "Al Kamar asks, and it is done! Oh, I am so proud of you! You will return to us a hero, and your name shall be sung by our balladeers until the end of days!" She takes me in her arms and hugs me tight. "Now, come!" She takes my hand again and leads me through the doorway and into the world beyond. A cluster of people is standing around the tent; at their center, the tall old man with the gray beard. On seeing us emerge, he comes forward. He looks me up and down. Although he is old, I realize that his piercing gray eyes are sharp as scimitars, and miss nothing. Up close, I see that though thin, he is well muscled, his back straight, his gait strong and firm. He walks around me in a circle, still looking me up and down. He presses a finger into my spine, hard. He grasps my shoulders and pulls them back sharply. Then he stands before us, and looks over his shoulder to the others in the crowd. One by one, they nod, then he turns to face me and nods as well. "Good," he says, "Very good. You have done well, Saree!" he continues, turning to the woman beside me. "Thank you, Al Kamar," she says modestly, bowing her head slightly. He turns back to me. "Kasha," he says solemnly, "You have been chosen by God to perform this sacred task. The fate of our people will be in your hands. You have seen the outrages that have been perpetrated upon us. You have seen with your own eyes the lines of captives as they are taken to the city to become slaves. You have heard how they are beaten, tortured, and killed. It is on you to rid our people of this curse. God will guide your hand. You will be victorious. "But hear me! You must dedicate your life, from this day forward, to this great mission. You must learn well from your teachers. There are many here who will help you, and give you the guidance you will need. They will ask much of you. They will be firm, but patient, and you will learn. Saree will be one of your most important teachers, and you must heed her well. She has great wisdom, and she will give you all that she can of that wisdom. You must learn from her. The success of your task, the future of our people, and indeed your very life, will depend on it." He pauses. "Now, what must you do?" My stomach is knotted with fear, but I answer firmly, "I must dedicate my life to the task. I must learn well from my teachers, for my success and my life will depend on it. I must pay attention and learn my skills well. My teachers will be firm, but patient, and I must not fail them. Saree will teach me her skill and wisdom, and I will heed her well. I will do this thing for our people, and I will be triumphant, because God will guide me." Al Kamar breaks into a grin. "Good!" he says warmly, placing a hand on my shoulder, "Very good, Kasha!" He turns to the crowd and announces, "It is begun. We must remember Kasha in our prayers from this day forward!" The others nod in agreement and begin to drift away, heading to their own tents. Saree takes my hand and squeezes it. "You were wonderful!" she says in an undertone, "Al Kamar is very proud!" She retreats back into her tent, but I do not. Instead, I walk away from the village and climb up the nearby ridge. I am sensing everything intensely. The dry smell of red dust on the air, mingling with the cooking smells from the village behind me. The bells on my ankles tinkle softly, as do my bracelets. My skirt swirls around my legs in the evening breeze. I feel the unfamiliar tug of my earrings, the bittersweet taste of the ochre liquid is on my lips. My mind is a whirl of conflicting thoughts and emotions, my heart pounds. I seek a calm place. I reach the top of the hill and gaze across the shadowed valley. Beyond the far mountains, the suns are setting. CHAPTER TWO The land here is strong, strong beneath my feet It feeds on the blood, it feeds on the heat... - The Rhythm of the Heat - Peter Gabriel Officially, the place where I worked was called the Saguaro Biomedical Research Facility, but the name was rarely if ever used. There were no signs by the entrance, it appeared on no maps, and even our letterhead didn't mention it. Around there, everyone simply referred to it as "The Facility" or "The Installation." If anyone outside the project ever asked, we were supposed to say that we were engaged in "medical research", and leave it at that. It was not a difficult lie to maintain. The only access to the installation was by way of a long, dusty dirt road that led in from the main highway almost 20 miles away. Any curiosity seekers who drove down that road were not likely to make it very far before being intercepted by humorless MPs in jeeps, who would strongly encourage them to turn around and go back the way they came. Some bureaucratic drone in the Pentagon had named our research the "Pandora Project" back when it was first approved, no doubt alluding to the belief that we were tampering with unknown forces of nature, and that nobody could predict what kind of evil we might unleash on an unsuspecting humanity. Like the name of the installation, nobody ever used it, not even Scott, the project director. I have a background in high-energy physics, with a PhD from Stanford. I even did my doctoral thesis on Z particle interactions at CERN with Carlo Rubbia's team back in '96. I taught physics for a while at UCLA before being selected to participate in the project. Shannon, too, has her doctorate in biophysics, and did research at the University of Genoa before joining our team. I suppose this was part of the reason the two of us were chosen from a field of over one thousand candidates. But despite my training, I freely admit that the physics of the project was well beyond my comprehension. Oh, I understood the basics, and much of the equipment in the lab was familiar to me, as was its purpose. I knew, for example, that the giant, water-walled cube in which we worked was intended - in combination with the specially-designed walls of the building itself - to shield the experiment floor from virtually every kind of radiation, even a small amount of which could corrupt a test run. Within the shielded chamber, the eight electromagnets that encircled us generated a precisely synchronized, oscillating magnetic field, one of the most powerful ever created anywhere on the planet. The magnet towers were made of some sort of doped, conductive ceramic core, wrapped with spiraling hoses carrying the liquid oxygen that cooled them until, at minus 230 degrees Celsius, they would begin to superconduct. The glass-like, conical projections on the interior surface of the domes that loomed above our chairs were made of a carefully designed honeycomb of semiconducting silicon layers. When activated, they created something called a "Briggs field" that was precisely focused on the location of our hypothalamus - the supposed "seat of consciousness" - as we sat beneath them. There were no electrical wires powering the Briggs field generators; they were energized entirely by inductance from the powerful electrostatic field created by the magnets. The generators got intensely hot when they were running, over 1000 degrees Celsius, but were shielded by a layer of highly insulating material that was similar to glass, but much, much harder, a substance some wag had dubbed Adamantine, after the legendary unbreakable substance of Greek mythology. One memory stands out from our first week onsite, during orientation. We were in the Lab building, which at the time was still under construction. The technician who was showing us around produced a sheet of Adamantine about four inches square and perhaps an eighth of an inch thick. He heated it for nearly a minute with the flame of a blowtorch, then picked it up barehanded and passed it to me. It was barely warm. Then he tossed it onto the concrete floor of the lab and, grabbing a sledgehammer that leaned against the wall, struck it with all his might. He picked it up of the floor and we clustered around to have a look. There wasn't a mark on it. "NASA would shit themselves if they knew about this stuff," the tech said smugly, "But they're not going to. Not until we're good and ready to tell them!" That day we also toured the data processing facility. At first glance, it looked much like any large data processing center anywhere in the country. But the reality was far more impressive. Our tour guide went to one of a row of machines, unfastened an element out of several rows of circuit cards, and pulled it from its slot. He handed it to Shannon, who looked at it curiously. To me it looked similar to any of the computer circuit boards I'd seen many times before, but larger. "This card," explained the technician, waving it under our noses, "contains over sixty-four thousand closely coupled parallel RISC processors. As you can see, each machine has thirty-two of them. That's over two million processors per machine, if you're counting. And as you can see," his gesture took in the entire machine room floor, "we have sixty-four identical machines here. That's one hundred and twenty eight million high-speed processors under one roof. Not bad, huh? And as you just saw, they're hot swappable. You can pull a card out, and the machine won't even hiccup. The load is simply transferred instantly to one of these eight hot-standby processing boards on the bottom row here. These machines have enough bandwidth to inhale the entire contents of the World Wide Web in under a second. Can you believe that? Three hundred terabytes a second! "I tell you," he continued, bluntly, "the data processing gurus at the NSA would give their left nut to get inside this place You know how they're always saying that it would take a million years for the fastest computers in the world to crack an AES-encrypted message? Well, guess what. The machines in this room could do it in about seven to ten days, if they were all working on it together. So, forget about sending any PGP-encrypted emails, folks! If we want to know what you're typing, we'll know!" The idea behind the Briggs field was based on an esoteric branch of physics called M-brane theory, which was in turn derived from the many variants of String Theory. The underlying idea is that our Universe is an eleven-dimensional manifold: a seven-dimensional enfolded, or "compact" space, superimposed on our own familiar four-dimensional space-time. According to the theory, multiple "alternate universes" are said to exist in the higher dimensions, separated from our own by thin "membranes" of enfolded space-time. It was once thought that this mathematical model of the Universe was just a quirky theoretical attempt to smooth out the paradoxes inherent in String Theory. But a more recent mutant brand of physics, called "Super M-brane" theory, brought together M-brane and a rather bizarre branch of mathematics called Knot Theory. Essentially, Knot Theory helped to explain why some dimensions are compacted, and some (the ones we live in) aren't. This gave rise to the idea that perhaps there might be some way of penetrating these membranes of space-time and, using higher dimensions (the alleged "multiple universes") as a conduit, we could then "tunnel" through our own space-time continuum and link to locations that were, to us, apparently physically separate, but actually adjacent to one another in alternate realties through a process called dimensional enfolding. Picture a huge, flat sheet of paper; this is our universe. Now, picture walking from one corner of the paper to the opposite corner. That's the traditional way of traveling, the one we're all familiar with. Then, fold the paper so that the opposite corners touch. Now, simply by hopping from one corner to the other across the fold, we can arrive at our destination with virtually no travel at all. We've used a higher dimension to move between locations that are apparently distant, but are actually touching when seen from a different dimensional perspective. However, while the paper is a two-dimensional universe folded through a third dimension, the idea behind Super M-brane involves a four- dimensional universe folded through many higher dimensions. To travel between points in our own space-time, we would have to somehow get access to dimensions that we cannot normally perceive. The Briggs field was supposed to allow this to happen. The physics degrees that Shannon and I held probably helped us get chosen as the experimental "guinea pigs" of the project. But without doubt a more important factor was that we both scored very high on the Stratton-Enfield "psi" test, a measure of extrasensory ability. The idea of the project was that, once our consciousness had moved into n-space - the rather abstruse name given to the black void that appeared to exist between reality frames - we would be able to use our psychic abilities to locate and home in on another consciousness, should one be present within the same reference frame. Once we made contact, the geometry of n-space would allow us to merge together, to occupy the exact same location in space-time. Then, (so the theory goes) our brain functions would synchronize, and we would share the same thoughts, feelings, and emotions. We would be, in effect, "in each other's heads." This was only the interim goal. Ultimately, the project team hoped that a "dimensional traveler" would be able to detect a consciousness that was NOT also in n-space, and merge with it. In other words, we would be able to find someone, anywhere on the planet, and enter their minds. It was this final objective that convinced me the project was in fact guided by the military, or perhaps the CIA, with the intention of using the technology as a weapon. "The theory is sound," Scott announced to us on the day we met him, "and the equipment is very likely going to work. We have some of the best people in the field working on it. But, in spite of all that, it still comes down to you two. You're the key. It's going to be up to you to learn to do whatever it takes to make contact with each other. Nobody's ever been through this particular looking glass before, so nobody can tell you what to expect in n-space, or what you'll need to do when you get there. You're going to have to figure it out on your own. It all depends on you, folks." --- It all depends on me. Jesus. When I awoke from the latest dream, I glanced at the clock, and was rather surprised to see that, as before, it read 2:17 AM. I sat up and swung my feet over the edge of the bed, trying to make sense out of my memories. But I couldn't focus on anything. I felt dizzy, disoriented, and more than a little queasy. The image of the last thing I saw prior to waking still danced before my eyes in the darkness: two suns, sinking slowly behind a rim of mountains. They were binary companions, a red giant and a white dwarf. I recalled uneasily that Shannon had made a point of mentioning that there had been two such suns in her dream. Could my subconscious have been influenced by her remarks? Probably, I decided. Just what the fuck is happening? I wondered. This dream, like the previous one, had been incredibly vivid. I could recall every nuance, every detail, every sensation. I could hear the old man's voice in my mind, but the sound of his words no longer held meaning for me. I could only remember what they meant to my dream-self. So it all depends on me, does it? God. That's just great. I can't even get a decent night's sleep any more. I'm probably losing my fucking mind. I went to the bathroom and drank a lot of water, then made my way back to bed, my head still feeling as if it had been filled with cotton wool. I lay down and closed my eyes. After a time, I slowly drifted off to sleep, the taste of fear still in my mouth. --- Shannon and I spent a good part of the morning being poked and prodded by Doctor Chandra. He had us run on a treadmill for half an hour, breathe into a device that measured our lung capacity, submit to every kind of medical measurement I'd ever heard of, and dozens I hadn't. He inserted tubes and scopes into every bodily orifice, shone lights in our eyes, ears, nose, mouth, jabbed us with needles, took blood, urine, saliva, more blood. By eleven o'clock I felt like I'd been run through a car wash. "Come," he told us, as we got dressed, "We have to discuss your EEG traces from yesterday." We followed him down the hall to a conference room, where we were joined by Scott and a couple of other section leaders. As we sat down, Scott announced bluntly, "People, we're scheduling another run-through for tomorrow morning." Shannon and I must have looked shocked, because he went on hurriedly, "Now, I know yesterday was a little scary, but the doc here has given you a clean bill of health. He can't find a damn thing wrong with either of you, so it looks as if the whole thing might have been a fluke. And if it wasn't, we'll be on the lookout for any anomalies, and be better prepared to take action should something weird happen again. Any questions?" Shannon and I stared at each other, then shook our heads. "Okay. Now, I believe the good doctor has something to show us. Doctor Chandra?" Chandra stepped forward and spread an EEG chart along the length of the conference table. "Look at that," he told us, "What do you see?" "What are these spikes here?" I asked, pointing. "Exactly," he cried triumphantly, "Exactly! What ARE they?" "That's what I just asked YOU," I replied grumpily; much of my body was still sore from the physical and I was feeling a little short-tempered, particularly after Scott's announcement. "Well," he said, more subdued, "The answer is, I don't know. Notice how regular they are? They are precisely 2.27 seconds apart. I have tested the monitoring equipment, checked the shielding on all of the sensors... I've replaced them all, just to be on the safe side," he added, looking at Scott, "and I've talked to all department heads. There is nothing onsite that causes any event that happens at that kind of interval, nothing. I've gone back through the static discharge logs, and they do not follow any pattern such as this. There is no link to any obvious cause. "But observe! There is more!" With a flourish, he produced another chart and holding one end, he flung it down the table so that it unrolled beside the first. "The first chart is David's. This is Shannon's. What do you see?" We all saw it at once, but for a few seconds nobody spoke. "My God," said Shannon at last, "They're in sync." "They sure are," I agreed. "Wow. Could it be possible that we're actually making contact, but for some reason we're not consciously aware of it?" she asked. "I don't know," I replied after a moment, "But one thing is for sure, these spike patterns look like they're almost identical." "Exactly!" said Chandra, "They are synchronized to within a few hundredths of a second, the limit of our equipment's sensitivity... I would like to order a new more accurate EEG machine," he added, looking at Scott. Scott frowned for a moment but said nothing. Chandra hesitated briefly, then continued, "And here's something else that you might not pick up on immediately. These EEG traces do not look like they are from an unconscious person. They look more like extremely active REM sleep. Very, very different from the traces we've seen in previous experiments. The Alpha waves look to be almost in sync as well, but it's difficult to tell with this level of resolution." He looked over at Scott again hopefully. After a few moments thought, Scott shrugged. "Okay, go for it, Doc," he said, "Write up a P.O. for a new EEG and have it on my desk in an hour. I'll rattle a few cages and make sure it's here by tonight. I'll post an extra shift, and by tomorrow morning it'll be properly shielded and on the floor, ready to go for the morning run-through." Chandra beamed, and Scott winked at me, "Nice to have unlimited backing, isn't it? Which reminds me, Doc. I have to fly up to Washington next week to go before some stupid-ass Pentagon subcommittee on project funding. Could I use these graphs as proof that we're making progress?" --- There were no dreams that night. I woke to my alarm feeling refreshed and ready to take on the day. I jogged as usual, completing my circuit in near-record time. I showered, dressed and ate a hearty breakfast in the cafeteria. By 8:45, I was at the Lab and in my chair, Shannon beside me in hers. Chandra hooked up his new test equipment, then with obvious embarrassment, reached into his briefcase. "I would like you to wear these," he said, blushing. In his hands he held a pair of beanie caps shaped out of aluminum foil. Despite my usual pre-experimental tension, I howled with laughter. "Holy shit!" I hooted, "What do you think is going to happen? Aliens are going to read my thoughts and hypnotize me into killing the president? We're not in Roswell, Doc!" Shannon was looking at the foil beanies and laughing as well. "Please!" Dr. Chandra insisted, somewhat flustered, "This is quite serious. I am afraid that the shielding on the EEG sensors is not adequate. This cap, when properly grounded, will provide additional shielding against static. The Briggs field will pass right through it undisturbed; I asked one of the theoreticians. Please!" "Oh, all right," I assented. Chandra smiled in relief and placed the cap on my head over the EEG pads. He did the same to Shannon, who accepted her new headgear with amused good grace. Then Chandra attached a wire to each helmet with an alligator clip, and clipped the other end to the wide copper grounding strip that circled the platform. Satisfied, he smiled gratefully at us and retired to his console. Scott stood in the middle of the floor next to the dais and raised his hand. "Okay everybody, we're ready to go!" he announced, "I want everyone back behind the red line. We're going by the book this time... All stations, preflight! Medical!" "Go," I heard Chandra's voice. "Logging!" "Go," came another voice. "Cryo!" "Flow control is now on automatic. Go." "Uplink!" "Online. Go." "D-feed!" "Go." "Field shaping!" "Symmetrical. We're ready to rock." "A simple 'go' will do, thank you. Environmental!" "Nominal. Go." "Control room!" "All test sequences completed and passed. Go." "Okay ladies and gentlemen, we are GO! Clear the area please!" He and the remaining technicians retreated well behind the bank of electromagnets, leaving Shannon and me alone on the dais. The towers began to pour forth vapor, my chair began to warm, and the cycling whine began. "Briggs generators online," said a voice over the P.A., "Ten, nine..." I looked at Shannon; she was looking back at me. She smiled encouragingly and mouthed, "See you soon!" "Three, two, one, activate..." Flash. --- We were out for nearly seven hours, again. We awoke feeling weak, but otherwise okay, and were able to make our own way back to the apartment block unaided, after promising to meet the following morning to discuss the results. Once in bed I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, awaking around 9:30 in the evening. I ate alone - Shannon was likely still sleeping - then soaked away my various aches and pains in the hot tub before retiring to my room by 11:00 P.M. I lay in bed still feeling wide awake and read a few pages from a novel, then pulled out my laptop and began making notes for tomorrow's meeting. I was wide awake and typing like mad when suddenly, sometime around 1 A.M, I went out like a light. --- Pain. My whole world is filled with pain. I am lying on my back. My eyes are closed and I hear my own breath coming in high, whimpering gasps. My thoughts are blurry and confused, and I know I have been given something for the pain, but it only removes the keenest edge. It is still a greater agony than I have ever experienced before. I feel a hand clutching mine tightly, and I squeeze it. "It is nearly over, Kasha," I hear Saree's voice, and the hand holding mine gives an answering squeeze, "You are so very brave!" I open my eyes and see Saree's face staring down anxiously into my own. Above is the glow of many oil lamps. Another pair of eyes, set in a lined and weathered face and full of aged wisdom, sadness and compassion, looks down at me also. It is the healer of our village, Al Sa?d. I squeeze my eyes closed again, tears coursing down my cheeks. More pain, then, "It is done," I hear the old man's voice say. "He is very strong, and very brave. We have chosen well." "Thank you, Al Sa?d," says Saree, "Yes, he is brave. We are all very proud of him." I keep my eyes closed. My head begins to swim; I feel dizzy, and slightly sick. "You must be sure to rub this on the wounds six times a day," says the old man's voice, "or else they will suppurate. Give him this twice a day to keep the poisons out of his blood, and this for the pain. If you run out, come and see me for more. He may run a fever. If he does, give him some water, but not too much! If the fever lasts longer than a day and a night, or if he gets very hot, send for me immediately. Get some sheep's fat and rub it into the skin, otherwise it may dry and crack. I will return tomorrow to examine him. But do not worry, Saree! It went very well; he is young and strong. There will be no problem. Good night. God be with us." I hear the tent flap stir, and I know we are alone. "Oh Kasha!" sighs Saree, "My poor, brave Kasha, you are wonderful! Rest now, and dream of your triumphant return to the village! Think of the honors you will receive! Sleep now." I close my eyes, and for a time all I see is darkness, interspersed with bright but disjointed images that I cannot understand. --- When I awoke, the alarm clock again read 2:17 AM, but as I stared the 7 turned to an 8. My reading light was still on, my laptop upside down on the floor next to the bed. The memory of the pain was so intense that I reached up and rubbed my chest, and was mildly surprised to discover that there was no pain and I felt perfectly fine. With each dream, the vividness seemed to intensify. This time, the memory was so sharp that the events might have been part of my real life, and my head swam with the confusion of it. I felt a little less drained this time, perhaps because less happened in this dream than in the others. Only the memory of that intense pain stayed with me, troubling my thoughts. As I reviewed the events of the dream, I marveled at the fact that I actually experienced my dream-self's sleep while I myself was asleep. I was sure that the blackness and hallucinatory images that filled the last half of my dream was a "waking" experience of sleep. God! I thought. There is no limit to the creativity of the human subconscious. It made my head swim to contemplate. But where are these dreams coming from? They must have something to do with the project, I decided. Maybe my mind is trying desperately to make sense of the strange and sometimes terrible experience of n-space; trying to cope with something that no human being ever experienced before. Maybe our minds are not equipped to handle this, I wondered. Maybe these experiments are harming us psychologically. The thought was not comforting, and I resolved to bring it up for serious discussion at tomorrow's meeting. I tried to sleep, but my worries kept surfacing and consuming my thoughts. Finally, I got up, dressed and went for a walk. The mountain air was crisp, the blanket of stars overhead spectacular. The moon had set, and beyond the rows of lights that crisscrossed the installation, I found the darkness comforting. I began to relax. A flashlight beam clicked on suddenly, and shone directly into my face. "Dr. Conner? Is that you?" said a cautious voice. "Yes Roy, it's me," I responded, shielding my eyes with one hand, "Just out for a stroll. I couldn't sleep." The MP approached and lowered his flashlight. I noticed that he'd un- slung his carbine and was carrying it at port-arms. "That's fine, Dr. Connor," he said, somewhat uncertainly, "But you know how twitchy some of the guards get around here. If I were you I'd let Security know before taking any midnight strolls in the future. I'll do it for you now." He reached for his walkie-talkie, but I held up my hand. "That's okay, Roy. I think I'll just head back to the residence. Thanks for the tip, though!" "I'll walk with you," he replied, shouldering his weapon. It was not a suggestion. We exchanged pleasantries as we walked back together, then parted company at the main doors to the apartment block. But I still felt restless, so instead of returning to my rooms I headed down to the pool. I unlocked the door with my key card, and after stripping down to my underwear, dove in. I swam several lengths, enjoying the exercise and the coolness of the water on my skin, then I climbed out and sat in the hot tub for a while, feeling the tension gradually seep from my body at last. --- Shannon and I met outside the conference room door and, after exchanging greetings, entered to find that Scott, Dr. Chandra and several of the project physicists were already in there. Several charts were strewn across the conference table; a heated discussion was in progress. Also present was "Dr. Beth" Gauthier, the team psychologist, whom I hadn't seen in a couple of weeks. We exchanged smiles of greeting, and as Shannon and I moved down the table and sat next to her she rolled her eyes and tilted her head toward the physicists, as if to say, "Do they EVER shut up?" One of them was scribbling frantically on the digital tablet in his hand. "Look," he was saying, "I can PROVE that time in n-space loops every two and a quarter seconds. What we're seeing is just the same moment in time repeated over and over again..." "But..." began Chandra. "WRONG!" another physicist broke in, "It's obvious these are not repeated patterns. First of all look at the graphs in between these spikes." "But..." said Chandra again. "And!" the physicist continued, "Look here!" He gestured at the first part of the EEG graph, "For the first five seconds they're NOT in sync. The new machine proves that here they're a few thousandths of a second out, but here..." he pointed to a black vertical line drawn in marker pen on the paper, "here they sync up perfectly. It's obvious that we're NOT looking at a repeating sequence." "But..." Chandra tried. "Look!" said the other, "if you assume a brane thickness of 200 nanometers, like we proved at Fermilab, the change-of-state transition will take about two seconds!" "B..." was all Chandra got out this time. "No way!" a third physicist broke in, "we proved that whole idea was based on faulty math at Bell Labs during the first run-throughs. Look at the Barney Project!" "Yeah, that was a BIG success..." the other said dryly. "Barney?" Shannon whispered to me. "Yeah," I whispered back, "Barney the hamster. He was the first live experimental subject, at the Bell Laboratories about four years ago. They don't want us to know this, but I found out that at one point Barney completely disappeared from the test rig. Permanently! Nobody can figure out where he went." "Shit," she muttered, "That's encouraging." While the discussion continued loudly and even more confused, I leaned over to Dr. Beth and whispered, "Shannon and I would like to talk to you about something, when you have a moment." "Absolutely," she responded immediately, "Is it anything you can talk about right now, or would you prefer some privacy?" "I think privacy would be more appropriate, Beth," I replied, "I'm not sure I'm ready to share this with anyone else yet." "Understood," she replied, "How about my office, this afternoon, say, around two?" "Good," I said, "We'll see you then." The noisy conversation washed over me and I sat sipping my coffee while ever more esoteric physics arguments passed back and forth at the other end of the table. I pricked up my ears when Dr. Chandra finally managed to get a word in. "But look!" he cried loudly, "Look at the traces in BETWEEN the spikes!" They looked. "So?" said someone. "These are waking-state EEGs!" he practically shouted, "This is NOT the brain activity of someone who is unconscious! That is the big quandary here! "Now," he continued as the room became quiet, "I have taken the liberty of sending these data to Dr. Sanchez at Trinity Medical..." Scott's face went beet red, and he looked as though he was about to have a stroke. "You WHAT???" he broke in, "You did WHAT???" "Please!" Dr. Chandra begged holding up his hands, "It is okay. He has received the highest clearance from our head of security. Of course I checked first!" "Of course," mumbled Scott, his color returning to normal. He looked away, no doubt in embarrassment, "Sorry. Please continue." "Well, I have arranged a video conference call with him at 9:30 our time, and," he glanced at his watch, "he should be standing by now." He opened a laptop and clicked on a few things. Shannon and I crowded around behind him, as did Scott, Beth and the others. A window on the screen cleared, and the face of Dr. Eduardo Sanchez, director of advanced research at the Trinity Medical Center, appeared. "Buenos Dias!" he boomed heartily, "Hello Dr. Chandra, Dr. Connor, Dr. Miller... Dr. Keogh!" he exclaimed, beaming at Shannon, "How lovely to see you again!" I knew Sanchez slightly, having met him a couple of times in the past. He had thick graying hair and even thicker mustache, and bore an uncanny resemblance to Joseph Stalin, although unlike Stalin he was almost always smiling, and was seen to be doing so now. "So, Eduardo," Dr. Chandra began, "Have you looked at the EEG data I sent you?" "I have it before me!" Sanchez responded, looking to the side, "It is the traces of two people running the Boston Marathon, and your equipment is faulty, producing voltage spikes every 2.3 seconds!" "What if I told you these people were in a deep coma at the time? Completely unresponsive. Blood pressure at 90 over 45, pulse weak and thready, pupils dilated with only slight response to light." Sanchez's smile faltered for a moment, then broadened. "Ahhh! You are playing una broma pr?ctica on poor Eduardo! ?No me gusta, mis amigos! Please, I have not the time for las bromas pr?cticas! How do you say it in English? The practical jokes. Poor Dr. Sanchez has much to do. Oh, the headaches! Now I have my star cardiologist wanting to resign his post at beautiful Trinity Medical Research Center, and go to work in Africa! Ah, the headaches, my friends, the headaches!" "It's no joke, Doctor," I broke in, "One of the traces is mine, the other is Shannon's, here. We were both out cold for almost seven hours; those traces were gathered during that time. And as for those spikes, we've checked and re-checked every single piece of equipment, every log, every piece of data we have. They don't correlate to anything."