Remember

by Karthikeyan, Girish

  Remember

  Girish Karthikeyan

  This novel is purely a work of fiction in every way possible. Any characters, settings, objects, or ideas resembling anything fictional or real are solely coincidence.

  Copyrighted 2016 Girish Karthikeyan.

  For my family.

  Contents

  All Things Must Come to an End

  Murder?

  Life Support

  Cause and Affect

  20 Questions

  Dreamed Regrets

  Legal Representation

  Conflict of Interest

  Disrespect

  Anxiety

  Due Process

  Hostile Psychology

  Pep Talk

  Do No Harm

  White Hat

  Closing Arguments

  Victim

  Opposing Points of View

  Blank Slate

  New Reality

  Road to Recovery

  New Day

  Finally, Answers

  Pressure Testing

  Tech – abbr. technology

  Technical Issues

  Discharge

  Home

  Nothing but Questions

  Naming Ceremony

  Non-resident Aliens

  Dreamed Woes

  Survival Instinct

  Pieces of a Puzzle

  Assimilation

  New Faces

  Office Politics

  Tech Rescue

  Indoctrination

  Mental log of Agent 7429

  Answers

  Epiphany

  Absolution

  Test Results

  Dream State

  Tiresome Questions

  Insider Info

  Doubts

  Entanglement

  Unconscious Musings

  Motive

  Empty Promises

  Offer Tendered

  Mental log of Agent 7429

  Foreign Relations and Diplomacy

  Accommodations

  Natives

  Logistics

  Persuasion

  Closure

  Recruitment

  Compulsive

  Mental log of Agent 7429

  Complications

  Dead Drop

  Gun Shy

  Looking for Something?

  Hard Sell

  Assembly

  Romanticism

  Mental log of Agent 7429

  Questions

  Physical Rigor

  The Day Job

  Interruptions

  Reality

  Noontime Highlights

  Kiss and Tell

  Mental log of Agent 7429

  Murphy’s Law

  Surreality

  Newborn Anxiety

  Sheep's Clothing

  How was Your Day?

  Ricochet

  Reunion

  Back at Work

  Aftermath

  Fallout

  Hypnopompic State

  Veracity

  Mental log of Agent 7429

  End of the Line

  Mercifully Sunset

  Creation Story

  The Question of Treatment

  Preparations

  Necessary Treatment

  A Woman's Secret

  Extracurriculars

  Finding Claire

  Experienced Partners

  Unnecessary Distractions from Real Life

  Looking Within

  Things Don't Stop, Ever

  Nonsensical Muse?

  Stuff that Really Matters

  Under the Influence

  Last Minute Choices

  Confessional

  True Intentions

  New Lives/Lies

  Epilogue

  Nothing Left to Say?

  Acknowledgment

  About the Author

  Learn More

  The possible reasons for dreaming:

  Possible future outcomes and possible responses to those outcomes.

  A message from the unconscious mind that the conscious mind frequently ignores.

  An attempt at making sense of a past occurrence.

  A cohesive creation from a conglomeration of random electrical impulses.

  Always keep in mind that the unconscious mind makes different associations than the conscious mind. Their whimsical and fantastical nature stands in place of concepts very real to life.

  Human perception is colored by feelings at the time, the relationship between the individual and elements of the environment, above all past experience. It is impossible to experience reality without this filter.

  All Things Must Come to an End

  Murder?

  Thurs 8/31/17 8:57 p.m.

  I climb the stairs to the office. Knowing from experience, confidence is the key to going unnoticed, just the perfect amount. Reaching the top and heading in offers one last look back. I shutter all the windows and get to work.

  I extract my crack drive onto the desk and put myself in front of the computer. Yesterday, I obtained the log on info from Dr. Mekova, in fact. Logging on to her subject database and any frequently accessed docs lands me in an endless scroll. I can’t sort through the docs looking for the right group of subjects. It proved nearly impossible yesterday. Just copy the whole thing.

  Come on.

  Come on.

  And get done.

  The longer I persist, the closer I’m to discovery.

  There is just too much to explain.

  What am I doing here?

  I nervously check the transfer.

  How did I access her computer?

  Who are you?

  Who am I?

  A year ago, I could tell.

  Now, it's just what other people tell me.

  Everything else remains unclear.

  God, it’s almost done.

  I disconnect and pocket my drive. No one should be interested enough to look for a security breach. I work here. Everything starts falling into place. In a few weeks, I will know what happened.

  The events of the last few months changed me.

  I can’t even recognize myself, sometimes.

  With this info, I will finally get past it.

  Enough thinking back, make it to home base.

  A wave of relief washes over me, I’m out of her office. Each step carries me one step closer to safety. Just a few minutes' walk needed to reach my desk, which grants me time to think about my future.

  What will I uncover?

  What happens after the fact?

  The root of the matter rests with me. I just feel not like myself. This info could mean nothing at all, just a confirmation of what I already know.

  I’m just a normal person afflicted by unfortunate circumstances. At the other end of the possibilities realm, I’m a forgotten lab experiment.

  What are the odds of that?

  I pause near my desk, feeling uneasy here in an abandoned office well after 9. Maybe caused by the dim lighting. In general, I reek of guilt. The doctor helped me.

  It just feels like a complete betrayal, just as she has done to me.

  I have to make it back and deal with the consequences as they arise. I get my stuff together, dig through the drawer, looking for a pad with some notes. A sickly liquid creeps by on the floor. It appeared during my little jaunt. What does this? Right behind my desk lays the epicenter. The light from the door allows me a view of Dr. Mekova on the floor. The dark red liquid stands stark on her snow-white jacket. I hurry over to her to make sure she’s okay. Everything else means nothing. The tech already says she isn't breathing or has a pulse. I check her pulse and breathing anyway, putting my face near her mouth. No breathing sounds or warm air coming out. Not breathing! I searc
h for her pulse at the carotid. Nothing! Do something!

  I inhale a deep breath, prepping myself. What is this? I don’t know what that puck-shaped object is at the moment. I stare at it for a sec and throw it somewhere. What to do about the doctor? A stream of info floods my mind. Take a deep breath. What is important, right now? Get her breathing. Start CPR. It has been a long time, but the info returns. 2 inches above the base of the sternum for the compressions. Chest compressions first, right? Blood flow to keep up circulation, then breaths, check. I start compressions, four times then breaths. Use more pressure than I think. The tech says something in my ear. Calling emergency services and furnishing relevant info. Dr. Irena Mekova found unresponsive, doing CPR, sixth floor, Stephens Institute for Neuroscience Research and Treatment.

  One… two… three… four.

  Breaths. I yank out a plastic sheet from my pocket and frantically reach for scissors that I know are there. I can’t find them and toss the bag aside, no time to think of myself. Here goes! I start the breaths.

  One… two… three… four.

  I forget to check if her airway is clear. Good, all clear. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve. Do compressions, again.

  One… two… three… four.

  Go back to breaths.

  One… two… three… four.

  Wipe mouth. Compressions:

  one… two… three… four.

  Breaths:

  one… two… three… four.

  About to start another round of compressions, I feel a heartbeat. I check the carotid and confirm the tech assessment. It weakly throbs against my fingertips. She isn’t breathing yet. More breaths! I almost have her back. Breaths: one… two… three… four.

  Recheck her breathing to hear one raspy, raggedy breath, then nothing. Breaths, again: one… two… three… four.

  She begins breathing now regularly, just a little ragged.

  She’s stable, for now. Where is all this blood coming from? I locate the relative source, the stomach or abdomen from the stains on the jacket. I unbutton her shirt to find a small cut, oozing blood — just below the sternum. Get her scarf to staunch the flow, the most I can do for her.

  A shadow blocks the limited light from the hall. I find a person standing there. They immediately turn on the lights. Happiness floods me to see the paramedics. She moves across the room to help Dr. Mekova. A hand rests on my shoulder.

  Life Support

  Thurs 8/31/17 8:07 p.m.

  We got it from here. Thanks for your help,” a deep voice says at my shoulder.

  “I’ve done CPR. Dr. Mekova is stable.”

  “Thanks for all your help. You can take a seat. She’s in warm hands.”

  “I’ll just be over here, if you need anything.”

  “I’ll be sure to let you know. And you are?” he says.

  “Conor Abby.”

  I reluctantly step back, my job concluded and owing her nothing more. The array of desks moved out of the way, a pinched oval in the back wall transforming it into an archway. I keep a vigilant watch on Dr. Mekova. They attach a square frame to her top half, across the waist, up both sides, and across the collarbones. Her clothes under the frame melt away, showing an orange patch over the cut. A white fabric forms under the life support frame. She connects a bag of fluid with the attached IV tube. A three dimensional image coalesces above Irena of her internal organs, highlighting her heart in the orange of the frame, meaning her heart needs help pumping blood.

  I gaze down at my hands, covered in blood with something yellow. My knees soaked up even more yellow than my hands. What is this yellow stain made of? I hunt for the source, inspecting the room and locating a row of two bottles filled with a yellow liquid that leaked onto the floor. A few lie down across the tabletop. This must be the stuff.

  I hear a loud steady tone, familiar, but hard to pin down. What is that sound? It comes as a surprise to me, flat-line. The EMT’s jump into a flurry of activity. They franticly try stabilizing her.

  “Just follow the procedure. Get one milligram of epi, GP.”

  “You got it, Coop.” They slide their hands past each others.

  Coop injects epinephrine into Dr. Mekova system. “Clear!” A blue light hovers over Irena's body as she goes stiff and relaxes. The rhythmic heart beat sounds reignite. She’s stable, again.

  “Her blood pressure is dangerously low, I’m going to increase the fluids,” Coop says

  “I’ll get the stretcher.” GP says. A stretcher enters through the arch. It has a black slab base with hundreds of legs supporting a column to a neatly tucked narrow stretcher bed.

  Two people stroll into the room, stationing themselves next to the arch with the presence and attire of security (black on black suits). It isn’t that unusual. Why are they just loitering there? The paramedics use a backboard to move her up to the stretcher. Coop starts rolling Dr. Mekova onto one side. Apparently, she doesn’t have a spinal injury. GP lowers the stretcher all the way down.

  Coop lifts one edge of the board, the other end follows, and he slides her onto the stretcher with ease. The EMT’s pack up all their stuff into their geometric backpacks and security stays behind. The best time to get ready to leave presents itself. I go out into the hall, head for the restrooms to wash my hands. This works well. The yellow stains just needs extra scrubbing. The matching stains on my clothes don't come off, despite trying everything possible. I go back into the carefully arranged office (back to normal, three rows of twelve desks) for my notepad, dig around in the drawer searching, until someone approaches my desk. I find the Security Agents right in front of me.

  Cause and Effect

  20 Questions

  Thurs 8/31/17 8:15 p.m.

  “We’re going to ask you some questions about the events of the night. Is that okay with you?” the Agent on the right asks. Both of them seem exceptionally fit with low heart rates and breathing rates.

  This makes next no sense. I just saved her life, so I humor them for now. “No problem.”

  “What is your full name?” he continues. A list of his questions appears to his right, in mid-air.

  Really, don’t they already know this stuff? “Conor Abby.”

  “Sorry, we forgot to say our names. I’m Agent Michaels and this is Agent Davidson. Don’t mind him.” Name tags and badges appear floating above their left shoulders. Michaels nods to his partner. “He’s always on the phone." Davidson stands solemnity with his eyes closed. "Please detail the series of events that led to you calling 911, this evening.”

  This seems like protocol. The phone call makes me a little suspicious there is something more. “I was just working late. I finished putting away some supplies in the warehouse. Dr. Mekova asked me to get her some files from the archives. I did just that. I came into the office space to get my pad and headed home. I found Dr. Mekova bleeding and unconscious. I subsequently called 911.”

  “Was anyone else in the office, except you two?” Agent Michaels asks.

  They must have the footage by now. They are fishing. “I’m not sure. The warehouse is across the hall. Even if someone was here, I wouldn’t have known about it. I didn’t see anyone else. You’ll have to check the security logs to be sure, though.” Why doesn’t Agent Davidson just get off the phone? Isn’t Dr. Mekova important enough for his full attention?

  “When did you last speak with Dr. Mekova?” Michaels questions me.

  “Just at 7:30 p.m. she called me about a data retrieval.” I need to bug out, gracefully.

  “Can I check your call history?” Michaels holds out his hand.

  Might as well. “Here it is.” I swipe my hand past his. This transfers data between people with full documentation.

  “Yes, I see.”

  A list of phone calls from me and my tech appears to his left. I twitch at sudden movement from Davidson. He aims his weapon at me, a ring of light around his wrist. What is going on?

  “Freeze! Put your hands above your head! Easy! Now, move towards the wall,”
Agent Davidson commands.

  I execute his commands and stare back at them. Why are they doing this? They force my hands forward, down, and together. Michaels rolls a metal bar off his fingers onto my wrists, where it dimples down the middle and surrounds my wrists, leaving a gap I can't get my hands out of. I'm handcuffed and off to jail. What?

  “You are charged with the attempted murder of Dr. Irena Mekova. Anything you say, can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult with an attorney, if you can’t afford an attorney, one will be provided to you. Do you have any questions on these rights?” Davidson says with authority.

  “Do you have any questions?” the other Agent says.

  “No.”

  Dreamed Regrets

  Mon 10/5/17 3:51 a.m.

  Walking in through the industrial-designed door, passing over the id scanning arch, reaching up to my forehead for a quick itch when something forgotten returns. Security wants me in for a new badge and posterity pic, some mundane ritualistic occurrence right over there at the guard's station. On my way, a few sips halve my remaining third cup of lukewarm coffee. Norm as the badge says, parses the screen before him for my id scan, relevant data, and why I should stand before him. The mute Norm points to a lighted X just beyond the faux stone securities desk. A blinding flash of light averts my gaze with the classic id pic's grimace.

  Someone trapezes back and forth over the security scanner, each time flashing bright red sans alarm, until the gate arch engages green, the pacer crosses over, and approaches the stone faced counter alongside me. A hand on scapula tells me this person — whoever he is — knows me, but I haven't seen his visage yet. I turn to Brian Whalen, the glassless math geek, college roommate, the always confidence of someone born with good looks, cleft chin, meaty eyebrows, the remembered mane trimmed to something corporate worthy, a bow tie with the black suit on white, a briefcase, and a bear hugger (familial trait). There it is. My face blushes with the blood rush from a breath dislodging bear hug.

  I wait over, by a couple of sunk-in chairs festooned over the lobby, while Brian sorts his badge issues, drinking the dredges of the bitter waker-upper, and plotting the incidence vector for a cup tossed into the open garbage, toss, and yes. Next, dispossess myself of this grey messenger bag and wait for the approaching Brian. He settles within the low-slung chair opposite, assuming a similar crouched position, rid his black combination briefcase onto the equally low table. Then the reason for the wait.