Three Years with the Rat (10 page)

I realize that if through science I can seize phenomena and enumerate them, I cannot, for all that, ___.

I know this. I remember this. An argument between Grace and Nicole. A talk with John. I've even read this recently: Camus. But I can't remember how the quote ends. I try typing
understand reality
but the system warns me it will lock me out after two more failed attempts.

“Goddamn it,” I say to myself, “your head is full of garbage.”

I click back to the list of names and try John's log-in instead. His user hint displays as:

The street where I grew up led to a ___.

I type
dead end
and hit the Return key. John's account opens up to me.

I laugh out loud and clench a fist in victory. I am the detective, the spy.

John's desktop background image is a complex geometry of white and grey lines, and the brightness of the monitor makes me squint. There are three program icons along the left side of the screen and many document icons along the right side. I click through the programs, past the spreadsheet and statistics software, and double-click on the icon labelled
Telemetrics 4.0.
A four-windowed program opens with a large
START
button in the top-right corner. Clicking it pops open a message window in the centre of the screen:

Place telemetry device on reader and press OK to continue.

My head doesn't feel so full of garbage after all.

I grab a notebook and pen from the lacquered shelf above my head. The notebook is mostly blank and I tear a sheet from it and write:
I'm coming for you. Hold on.
The shelf and bench are full of supplies but there are no elastic bands, only silver duct tape. I pull a piece of tape from the roll, fold my note into quarters, and adhere the note to the tape. Then I press it against the base of Buddy's neck until it sticks to his fur. Buddy is unhappy with the sensation and spins a few times in discontent. I scoop him up one last time and press my thumb against the hard, manmade nub buried in his belly.
Place telemetry device on reader.

I walk him over to the black plastic cube and slide open one wall. It's no surprise to find that the inside is covered in mirrors, glinting from the reflection of the artificial lighting above me. Without complaint or hesitation, Buddy scrambles down my arm and into the box. He turns and stares at me, waiting.

I say, “Bring me back something useful, Buddy.”

Then I slide the box's wall back into place.

Back at the computer, clicking the
OK
button causes the program to flash
Connection found.
Jagged lines begin to draw themselves across the screen—the telemetry device in Buddy's belly is transmitting its signal and the computer is receiving it. Each line on the screen is labelled:
ECG, EEG, EMG, TMP.
It reminds me of the inscrutable algebra written inside John's lab notebook, how I'd briefly considered that it might be a code, except that none of the “words” repeated and thus substituting letters had revealed nothing.

The jittery lines continue to arc across the computer monitor, presumably some measures of Buddy's well-being, along with a stopwatch measuring the duration of his time in the box.

I minimize the Telemetries program and look at the many files on the desktop of the computer. Most are named by time and date, and when opened reveal only a spreadsheet of numbers. But one file's name is vaguely familiar,
Tabula Recta.
I open it and immediately remember it from John's apartment:

“Fuck me,” I say. John's notebook
is
in code. I don't fully understand yet, but somehow the code is moving, shifting, which is why none of the “algebra” seems to repeat.

The computer tower beeps to report an error. Back in the rat-monitoring program's window, the message
Connection lost
is
blinking in the bottom-right panel. The jagged lines have all flattened out and become unresponsive. Buddy's signal is gone, and I'm not sure if this is what's supposed to happen.

I approach the cube in the middle of the room. Even leaning with an ear close reveals nothing of what's happening inside the box. I wait one more breath and then slide a wall upward. Sure enough, aside from my reflection, the box is empty.

“Can I help you?” a voice asks from behind me.

My body startles without my consent, head pulled down, shoulders up, eyes pinched half-shut. I set my jaw and pivot on one heel.

In front of me is the young woman I met at the entrance. A surgical mask and blue hairnet conceal most of her face but she's still recognizable. She's wearing a yellow gown over her hospital clothes.

“What gave it away?” I ask.

“Your eyes,” she says. “I mean, you sort of look like her, but the eyes are exactly the same.”

I curse myself silently.

“And we've met once before, haven't we?” she says.

I think back but nothing comes to me. She continues.

“You were holding some party for John. I was with a few colleagues and one of them interrupted your little get-together.”

This jolts my memory. “Shifty's, last year.”

“She'd been gone awhile, then. I couldn't get over how similar you looked. It was eerie.” She takes a step forward, pulls down her surgical mask. “Did you use one of their codes to get in?”

I nod. “John's.”

“Then you don't have much time. Security'll notice his number in the system and come take a look.”

She takes another step into the procedure room. She looks past
me, into the small box where Buddy used to be, and her eyes widen.

“Did you put an animal in there?” She speaks again before I can answer. “
What
animal did you put in there?”

“We always just called him Buddy.”

She gets animated now, visibly excited, and paces around the room. Then she asks, “Do you have any idea how long we've been trying to make this thing work again?”

“About a year, I'd say. Since John stopped coming to the lab.”

“What are we missing? There must be another component. Why does it only work with John's animals?”

Her eyes betray her busy mind, straying from me for just a moment. Then she collects herself. “Listen to me, now. I can help you escape the facility without any chance of getting caught. I know a way out.”

I can guess where this is going, but I ask anyway. “And why would you help me?”

She says slowly, deliberately, “The animal. I want it. We need it.”

Her cheeks are smooth and clean and fresh. She's probably a little younger than me.

I gesture to the empty box. “As you can see, I have no rat to give you.”

“You know how to get it back,” she says.

“I need him, too.”

“What could a person like you possibly need him for? His data?”

I laugh once, in part because I'm offended and in part because I'm amused. She sounds like Grace.

I say, “Christ, are all scientists so condescending?”

“I could make you a copy of all the data,” she tells me. “John's files. Whatever you need.”

Her offer is exactly what I came for but something doesn't feel right. Deep in me is a gnawing sensation. It takes a moment for it to come to the surface.

“What will you do with him?” I ask.

She grunts. “The animal? Look at its data, sacrifice it, see what's possibly different about this particular subject.”

Sacrifice it.
Kill Buddy. I say, “I can't let you do that.”

She coughs. It sounds like she's trying to hold back a laugh. I like her less and less with every passing moment. How can someone so young and fresh be so callous?

She takes a deep breath and composes herself. “It's a lab rat that was bred for one reason. It belongs to this lab. It's stolen property, for god's sake! And you don't want me to have it because of sentimental reasons?”

“Yes. Exactly. He's my last connection.”

She stiffens up and sighs. “Fine, then. I'll go get security. We'll figure out how to bring the animal back on our own. And all you'll get out of this is a criminal record.”

She says it as a threat, a last chance for me to strike a deal. I don't move or speak or acknowledge what she's said in any way. Her face registers growing surprise, then furrowed annoyance, and finally she clomps out of the room.

I don't have much time. Buddy needs to come back, and quickly.

“Come on, detective, spy,” I say to myself. “Think.”

And then I realize the ugly reality of what must be done. My mouth goes dry, my heart hammers, and I resist the thought for a moment. Then I take a deep breath and get to work.

I remove one panel from the Plexiglas cube and replace it with the piece that has a rubber-lined hole. The box no longer looks rat-sized, but instead looks wrist-and-hand-sized. The procedure room seems to throb with damp air, and tears of sweat trickle down my ribs. This is an idiotic plan. And before I can back out of it, I rush forward and jam my right fist into the box.

At first there's no difference, but soon the temperature drops inside the cube and my hand stings with coldness. I splay my fingers
into the depths of the box but, strangely, nothing is in reach. Judging with my eyes, my fingertips should be able to touch the opposite inside wall of the box. I slide my arm a little farther but still I cannot feel the mirrored wall. There is no doubt now that the inside of the box is bigger than the outside. My stomach turns.

“Oh Christ,” I mutter, because of what I'm seeing, and because of what I'm about to do.

I move my arm slowly but steadily forward. The rubber-lined hole in the box envelops my forearm, then elbow, then bicep, but my fingers never reach the inside boundaries of the box, and they never pop out the other side. From my perspective it appears that my arm has been removed and replaced with a small cube of black Plexiglas. The sight of my body without my arm is horrifying. The only comfort is the sensation I'm receiving from my hand, the chilly bite of what seems like outdoor air, the feeble grasps into the unknown abyss. I bend my arm at the elbow, into a ninety-degree angle, and sweep my hand in as wide an arc as I can make.

The computer beeps again. I crane my head around to see the blinking message on the screen:
Connection restored.
Buddy is coming back to me. My arm is now in the box as far as it will reach, and my ribcage is flush with the Plexiglas wall. I reach upward until my hand would be above my head, if it were on this side. I stretch it down low.

My fingers brush against something frayed and wet. It takes closing my eyes to determine what I'm touching: it's grass, dewy with the night air. The blades of grass feel rigid, as if they're close to a frost. Suddenly something small and warm and moist presses against the back of my hand. I feel whiskers brush against my skin.

I turn my hand over and Buddy climbs in, a lump of fur and flesh in my palm. He is wonderfully warm and I can't help shouting with satisfaction. It's a relief when I pull back and watch my bicep and elbow reappear on this side, in the lab.

And then the most bitterly cold fingers I have ever felt wrap themselves around my wrist. They're so icy that my bones ache with the touch. I yank hard, try to escape that grasp, but my arm doesn't budge. The hand has clamped onto me like a vise and I imagine my wrist blackening with frostbite until it freezes solid. Buddy remains cupped in my palm.

Then I feel a cold piece of metal running up and down my forearm while the grip holds me in place. It is only a cold scratch at first but soon it burns as if my skin is splitting and the muscles are falling out. I scream from the pain and the sound dies quickly in the small procedure room. Inch by inch my arm is creeping back out into this world, and it is bloody and ragged. Now only my wrist and hand are inside the box, Buddy included, but the grasp is still draining the warmth out of me and will not let go. The jagged piece of metal continues running along my skin narrowing my attention until I recognize the action I must take.