tried to pull my arm back but she held it surprisingly tight).
What are you doing to me?
Keep still. (She plunged the needle into a vein, and I could only watch as the strange green liquid flowed into me).
Is this going to kill me? (I was all too aware that I was sweating despite the cold. I tell myself I don’t fear death until I have to look it in the eye, when its insane, infinite blackness makes we want to weep). Am I going to die?
S(he walked back to her desk). I told you, you are weak (She sighed). You read the form, you signed it, when Andy brought you in. No, you’re unlikely to die, not from this at least. There are, of course, risks – we are after all dealing with an experimental process, but the chances of fatality are minimal. Satisfied?
(I looked at the spot of blood on my arm). What are you doing to me?
(She flicked her hair away from her eyes and looked at me for a moment, as if deciding whether to give me any of her time). We are in the final testing stages of Project Bridge (finally, at least acknowledging that I knew what she meant). We need to understand the impact on the human body of entering the bridge, before we can call it safely operational. (She snapped the file she was holding shut with an air of finality).
So, I’m…?
Yes, you will be the first human being to go to G, for a few seconds at least, before we bring you back.
But… what if… I mean, if I’m the first person, how do you know it’s…?
Safe? Safe? Is that what you want to know. You are able to swap living in a cell for the rest of your life with being a pioneer for humankind, for a chance to experience the infinite, and you want to know if it is safe?
And what about you? (I raised my voice). What about you? You talk about me being weak, you talk about my chances, you look down on me with scorn, and yet it’s me you’re sending! You’re not going there yourself, are you? You’re not stepping into the void! What about you?
(Quietly) Some of us have to stay. I’m needed here. When the time comes, I will go. You had your chance. We brought you in, we trusted you. You repaid us with betrayal. Why don’t you just accept your punishment, why can’t you be a man?
Why can’t I be a man. The last words Alice Stevens spoke to me as she led me out of that room and into another chamber with metal walls and a metal chair in the centre, with a small window high above and strange, disturbing stains on the floor. She pushed me roughly into the chair, although I was thankful that she didn’t strap me in, as she turned around brusquely and left, leaving me by myself. I looked up at the window and thought I saw a flicker of movement but it was too distant and faint. The chair, despite its looks, felt welcoming and comfortable, although it, this whole room, reminded me of something far more dangerous and sinister, and I felt a worrying sense of déjà vu. It was that which forced me to get a grip on myself and I tried to pull myself out of that chair, although even then it felt like a herculean effort, even then my body was screaming at me to sit, to let my muscles listen to the impulses of my brain saying give in, give in, give in. Why can’t I be a man, I thought, as tears welled in my eyes and I screamed at myself to listen, to take control as I felt my arms stick to the chair like glue, like there were lead weights holding my feet on the ground, as my vision blurred and distorted and everything was telling me just to let it go, just to give up, except for a small voice deep in my head that that was screaming with pain and with fear, and the words I heard were if you give up now you will die
and what is death but an arbitrary line that we draw, a medical definition based only around the limits of human imagination, what is death except the unknown that we have yet to discover, that our magic and our technology have not yet caught up with… we only fear the unknown because it is made to look frightening by those who still want to control us, when really it should excite us, we should be screaming and clamouring to take that final walk and see what it brings us, to go on the greatest journey
and yet I still fear it as it shackles me tighter than any chains; it wakes me, crying in the night in terror; it owns me and controls me. I don’t have the strength to reach out and control it. I don’t have the strength to own it. I don’t have the strength to lift my head up and look it in the eye, to face it and smile. I am a weak man. I am defined by death and not life and that is what they want
my one chance
my one chance to succeed
my one chance to be a man, to burn a candle for Sylvia, to make them accountable for what they have done
my only chance
is now
I ripped myself out of that chair and stumbled unsteadily around the room, to the metal walls, banging against them and screaming at them until suddenly someone was there, a man, tall and slight, with a thin neck and a gaunt face, his black hair cropped short on his head, but he was strong, and he was punching me in the stomach, the face, the arms, until I was on my knees, blood gushing from old wounds re-opened, then he had a black hood in his hands, and we fought, he had strength but I had fear and though my arms were weak and my legs were heavy, I kicked and punched him and headbutted him until my eyes were filled with blood and he was kneeling on the ground and he was whispering stop, please stop and I took a step back and kicked him in the head, and his head snapped back and he fell to the ground, jerking once, and then he was still.
I stepped back in shock at what I had done, seeing the crushed, ruined body of someone I didn’t even know, and I’m not trying to absolve myself but I it was as though things were happening automatically, as if my body was doing what it needed to do in order to survive.
I am with death, but I am not death.
I ran out of that room just before the door disappeared, I ran, stumbling, down a corridor until I saw another door cut out into the wall. I looked through the window and saw a figure huddled in the corner and recognised it instantly as Beryl. ‘Beryl!’ I shouted, I screamed, at the door, as I heard the first noises behind me. ‘Beryl!’ as I kicked at the door with such a force, ‘Beryl!’ as I punched at the glass with my bare hands, as my knuckles bled yet a tiny crack appeared, ‘Beryl!’ as she eventually got up and stood, in ragged broken clothes, looking uncertainly at my insane face and my fist punching, punching until the glass shattered and she was saying ‘Sylvain!’ and then I felt the first arms behind me, pulling me back, as I held onto the broken window and pulled a shard of glass from my bleeding hand, as I stabbed wildly behind me until I felt something rip and tear and the pressure ease, as I pushed and shrugged off the man that had been trying to kill me, as he fell to the ground, writhing and moaning and I kicked him just to make sure, before turning back to the cell, and looking through the window for Beryl. But she was no longer there, she had crumpled back to the floor and lay like a heap of discarded clothes, and I realised that she must have been very badly hurt. I needed to get her out of there, desperately and I reached in through the window, not caring that glass was tearing at arm, as I urgently tried to feel for a lock or a catch that I could use. There was nothing, and so I turned back to the guard, or whoever he was, lying on the ground, I pulled him up close to me and I growled at him, asking him how to open the door. He could only stare at me and cough up blood, and I let him drop back to the ground and started searching through his pockets for a key or something similar. There was nothing, not even a key card, not even a radio, or a gun, or anything remotely useful. I kicked at the now inert body again, mostly out of despair, and returned to the cell. ‘Beryl’ I said, but she didn’t move. ‘Beryl, I can’t get in, but I’ll come back for you, don’t worry’ I said, and turned to go. The corridor seemed eerily quiet as I stepped over the body and walked down it slowly; somehow the energy and urgency of earlier was dissipating, leaving me with nothing but a crushing tiredness. The corridor ended in a steel door that was almost certainly locked, but with nowhere else to go and a sense of dread I walked towards it until its faceless bulk stood in my way. I reached forward and pushed, tentatively at first and then harder as I could feel its bulk b
egin to move outwards, not willingly, but without dreadful resistance, until there was just enough room to squeeze through to the space beyond. I still held my glass weapon in my bleeding left hand, and instinctively I tightened my grip on it, ignoring the pain as it cut further into my hand. I stepped through.
Don’t shoot said a familiar voice; it took me a while to see what was around me. I was in a large, white room, empty except for three people, all stood together, all looking at me. Two, dressed in a black uniform, both had automatic pistols that they had trained on me. They flanked the third man, stood in a dark suit and white shirt, who was Mark Forth.
You (I breathed).
Who did you expect? (he smiled). I see you have picked up a taste for killing, Sylvain. You see, it was always in your blood.
I didn’t know what to say or how to react. Here he was, live, flesh and blood, proving again that I was right and was the victim of a conspiracy. He was here and he could listen to me, listen to reason. I took a deep breath. It’s not too late, Mark, I said, talking through my bleeding gums. It’s not too late. Tell them it was you, just let the police know, and then I can walk away. You can escape anyway. You don’t
An Innocent Man Page 38
