For Your Own Good 10

Ames swept his arm across his desk, sending papers flying in every direction. The single noise that he made was somewhere between a snarl of human fury and that of an enraged animal. He glanced at his watch, kicked the chair, and headed back out through his half open door. He paused, returning only long enough to pick up a few of the scattered papers and cram them into his pocket. The Mainframe was still down, the only lights coming from the scarcely functioning emergency systems, and Ames was at a loss to do. The inmates could only entertain themselves for so long, he mused, before a general riot broke out. He was certain that no one could get OUT, since he couldn’t even get out, but the potential for disaster was enormous. He sighed, and started down the hallway. Certainly the media had been alerted by now, and visions of reporters and locals milling around outside the front gates didn’t sit well with him. Ames was a man that was accustomed to being in control. Matters had now, much to his chagrin, spun OUT of his control. His only concern at that particular moment, however, was getting everyone back to his room and under lock-down for the next several hours. With no way to get the next shift of employees into the complex, it wasn’t going to be easy. His thoughts were dark as he headed for the gym, and the face from the papers that Ned had left for him hovered in his mind like a restless ghost.

“Hello, all, I’m Linda Johnson,” the tall brunette with the microphone announced to the running camera, her white teeth flashing and her hair perfect. “Coming to you live once again from outside the IO Rehab Center for Boys, where inmates and staff alike still remain trapped inside the complex due to a total computer systems crash. Joining me now are Jason Means, whom we met earlier, and Max Garrison of CyberHound systems, the company which built the Mainframe computers which run the IO complex. Mr. Garrison, what are your plans now that the front gate has been, well, forced? Do you feel that you can gain entry to the buildings and restore the computer systems?”

Max Garrison looked at Linda, then at the camera. “Well Linda, getting through the doors are going to be the hardest part, since IO is designed to be totally escape-proof. Once we get in, I am confident that Jason and I can restore the system.”

“The system that, according to advertising, is crash-proof?” Linda dug in.

Max flushed. Jason snorted and grinned. “That’s the one,” he said wryly.

“What do you think you’ll find inside?” she continued, smiling at the camera.

“It’s hard to say,” Max began, “From the sounds of it, I’d say we’re looking at replacing the main processor and probably most of its secondary systems as well...” but she interrupted him.

“No, I mean with the boys and staff. We’ve heard some pretty odd rumors about this place, and we can’t seem to get any interviews with former inmates. Do you think there’s likely to be any escape attempts or a riot?” Her tone was demanding, and she shoved the mic back at Max, who had no clue what to say.

“Well ... uh ... I’m not sure, ma’am. I just work on the computers,” he fumbled.

It was Jason who rescued him. “From what my buddy, Ned, who’s on staff here, tells me, Linda, I think we’ll probably find a lot of boys with a small taste of freedom trying to find their way out, or at least find their way to safety. There are boys of all ages in there, and the smaller ones, even thought they’re criminals, are sure to be frightened if some of the larger and older boys are causing trouble. You know how prisons can be.”

Linda seemed to take this statement well. “Gentlemen, we won’t keep you from your work any longer. Good luck on finding your friend, Jason, and luck with restoring the systems. Joining me now is Lawrence Taft, Director of Social and Rehabilitation Services for Juveniles and Chairman of the Board of Directors for IO, in case you just joined us, which is a prison for youthful offenders that has been effectively shut down and sealed off by a total systems failure of the Mainframe computer that runs the place. Mr. Taft, your thoughts on this situation?”

Lawrence Taft was not a large man, in fact, he was small of stature and looked somewhat like a rat. He squirmed under Linda Johnson’s stern gaze, and the cameras frightened him. He didn’t much care for the sound of his squeaky, nasal voice, and this Linda person definitely made him jumpy. Jason and Max were headed for the destroyed front gate, when all of them were interrupted by a thunderous explosion. The noise was dreadful, and smoke and pieces of rubble fell here and there. Linda coughed and wave her hand. “We’re IN!” a voice shouted. Linda composed herself, and despite a small chunk of plasterboard that had landed atop her overdone hair style, smiled at the cameras through the cloud of dust and smoke. The cameraman zoomed in on the main door through which Michael and the busload of others had been taken. Men in riot gear were clearing away wreckage and fanning at the smoke and dust. “Cut to commercial,” someone said. Taft was trying to look demure and stepping backwards, slowly. The red lights on the cameras went off. “We’re back in 2 minutes, Linda,” someone announced.

“Where do you think YOU’RE going?” she demanded of Taft.

“Excuse me?” he replied.

“You’ve got questions to answer for Mr. And Mrs. America out there, Taft.”

“I don’t have to tell YOU anything,” Taft snapped.

Linda Johnson smiled, a sweet but ironic smile. “Oh but you do, Larry, you do ... and for starters, I’m going to rip your liver out on national TV and feed it to the press. The tabloids will be here any time, now, Larry, and you know how they are. Better to talk to me live than answer for them next week, don’t you think? Now, let’s warm up. We’ve got a minute. What’s this I hear about castration at IO?”

Taft groaned. “Just don’t call me ‘Larry,’” he asked.

Linda smiled, her white teeth very reminiscent of fangs. Taft had a brief mental image of being torn apart by lions or tigers and his remains picked over by vultures.

Max flashed his badge at the wrecking crew, and they made way for them. They entered the destroyed front door and were confronted with a dust-filled, dimly lighted hallway that seemed to slope down. There were doors everywhere. “Which was do we go?” Jason asked.

“I have no fuckin’ clue, dude,” Max replied, looking over a map with a penlight.

Ned and Bolton made their way back to Michael’s room. Once Ned had stripped the unconscious boy and tucked him into bed, he began to mutter under his breath. What he needed now was a blood sample, and some way to analyze it. He looked over the young eunuch’s white and very dirty sweatsuit, staring at the red spots. Then he sniffed it. He sighed a great sigh of relief. Michael’s clothes smelled like every boy he had contact with - at least marginally in need of a bath. Then he laughed aloud, and sniffed the red splatters a bit closer. He then licked at one. He laughed again, and bent down to kiss the sleeping eunuch’s forehead.

“Whas’ so funny? You flippin’ on me, man?” Bolton asked.

“Spaghetti sauce!” Ned laughed, catching the large and bulky black guard in a rough embrace and waving the soiled white sweatshirt at him, “It’s only spaghetti sauce and chocolate stains!”

“It sorta be lookin’ like blood to me,” Bolton replied.

“Nosebleeds are the second sign,” Ned replied.

“Sign of what?” Bolton asked.

“First is the psychotic episodes, then the memory lapses, then stuttering. Then comes the nosebleeds and the mood swings. I was afraid that Michael had hit the nosebleed stage.”

“He did seem t’ be havin’ a hard time talkin’,” Bolton agreed.

“The endorphin levels in his brain are reaching critical levels,” Ned replied.

“I dunno what you be drivin’ at, Ned, but you know what I think?”

Ned stared at the guard. He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.

“I’m just a guard, but I was a former inmate, ya know. But what I think is that our Mikey here’s turnin’ out gay, and usually the gay boys who don’t be good or get punished a lot in here die. I saw it lots, back then. Cuttin’ their balls off has somethin’ to do with it, cause no one like Sam who got da balls ever died, like Cheng did. I think the gay ones that don’t lose the desire, the ‘want to,’ die from somethin’ to do with being shocked with that ULF thing. Why only the gay ones, I don’t know.”

Ned stared at Bolton, his mouth open. He had studied and dug for months before coming up with his theory, and it had taken another month of exhaustive research to put together a paper. What had taken him all of that time, Bolton had merely observed on his job. He grunted. “There’s a bit more to it than that, Bolton, but you’re almost totally right.”

“You shot him up full of some kinda fake hormones, din’cha?”

Ned nodded. “It’ll take time, and time’s something that Michael doesn’t have. Dammit! Look at him, Bolton! How can a castrated boy like him develop a sex drive?”

“Maybe he had it BEFORE you cut his balls off,” Bolton supplied, “and that was what really really tripped it for him. Harvey dint have no balls either, and he got in trouble a LOT for being caught with other boys. If Sam hadn’t done his ass in when he did, he’d be in the same shape.”

“But it’s happening so damn FAST for Michael, here. I don’t understand it.”

Bolton thought for a moment. He was about to say something when his radio buzzed. Both of them jumped. “It’s still working?” Ned asked.

“Batteries,” Bolton explained, turning the volume up.

“Attention all guards. This is Mr. Ames. Please round up your respective charges and take them back to their dorm rooms. It’s bedtime. Help is on the way, and everything should be back to normal tomorrow. Repeat, all guards round up your respective charges. Remain armed, AND, if anyone steps out of line, use whatever force you deem necessary to maintain order. All inmates are to be put to bed immediately, with the exception of near-graduate trainees if you need to have their help.”

“He’s lying,” Ned said softly, turning his attention back to Michael.

“I gotta go get the others for this ward,” Bolton said.

Ned nodded and sat on the edge of Michael’s bed. He stroked the boy’s short blonde hair a few times, then bowed his head. The sounds of the boy’s pitiful howls for help and cries that he promised to be good were still echoing in Ned’s ears, and tears that were not totally sadness welled up in his eyes. Unbeknownst to Ned, Bolton paused in the doorway and stole a quick glance back at the doctor and the prisoner who almost looked like brothers.

Outside the main gate, Linda Johnson was, metaphorically, having Lawrence Taft for dinner. She hit him with question after question that he was unprepared to answer. The truth, Taft knew, was far too shocking to reveal to anyone, much less this carnivorous news reporter. “So you deny the rumors that boys are routinely castrated upon admission to IO?” she asked, twisting the knife of the question in him. Taft cringed a bit, and she saw it. “Is there any truth to this rumor, Mr. Taft?”

“Nothing is done to boys here at IO that is not for their own good, Ms. Johnson,” Taft replied, “We employ a broad range of counseling and therapeutic techniques to rehabilitate our young offenders so that may return to society to lead productive lives.” It sounded good, by the book, but Linda wasn’t swallowing it.

“Just how broad is ‘broad’?” she bored in. “And what of the recent suicides of a group of inmates who were just released? Any explanations?”

“I am not aware of any suicides of former or current IO inmates nor staff, ma’am,” Taft fumbled.

“Allow me to enlighten you then, Larry,” she plowed on, still smiling for the camera. “In the last month, there have been four suicides in this and the surrounding areas. The first was three months ago, a young man who had just been released after serving 3 years at IO. He blew his head off after a broken engagement to the girlfriend who had awaited his release for those 3 years. He had been free for 5 months. The second was a 15-year-old boy who had been released after serving a year for one count of sexual misconduct with a minor, another boy. He drank himself to death with a few bottles of Everclear. His autopsy was very, very interesting, if you know what I mean. I could go on, but for our viewers, join us for our Channel 9 X-Treem segment on crime and punishments. The topic, ‘Is it really for their own good’?”

“I was not aware of this, ma’am,” Taft choked.

“Perhaps you’d care to join up for taping then?” she demanded.

“CUT!” someone yelled.

Linda sighed. “We’re off the air now, Larry. I’m going to do this segment for the special, and let me tell you something - your office is going to be getting a lot of calls over what I’m going to say and delve into. I think I’ve finally got a line on a former inmate who went in as a boy at age 12 and came out without his balls 2 years later. This autopsy I mentioned, the interesting one ? Would it shock you to learn that this boy who drank himself to death didn’t have ANY genitalia at all when they cut him open? He didn’t have much of a liver, either. I happen to be dating the coroner, you know...” and she left that hanging.

Taft paled.

“You can’t get away from me, Taft,” she threatened, “This has got ‘Pulitzer’ written ALL over it, and I’ll eat you alive if I have to to get it.”

Jason and Max made their way down the hallway, forcing open each door as they went. For the most part, they were confronted with empty rooms with more doors. In a few, they found what looked like waiting areas, and nothing more. “This could take forever,” Max muttered, “The floor plan they gave me wasn’t too good. I think we’re going to be lost soon.”

Jason smiled. “I helped test this system, Max. I think I can find it.” He then pulled a small device which was about the size of a garage door opener from his pocket and turned it on. It lit up, chirped a few times, then a green light began to glow on it.

“What’s that?” Max asked, fumbling with his map.

“Something I added to the CyberHound2 when I tested it with them,” he replied, “I thought it might come in handy someday. You know, when this is all over, I think I’ll take that job with Symantec.”

Bolton entered the gym, and was not surprised to find a great deal of the IO inmates already having given up on their various diversions. Many of them were lying down on the floor, and a few of them looked to be asleep. His eyes scanned the room until he saw Sam, who was sitting up against the far wall with Joey at his side. The smaller white boy was laying over with his head in Sam’s lap, and he looked to be shaking. As Bolton approached, he could see that Joey was crying.

“Whassup?” he asked Sam.

Sam looked up for a moment, and something passed between he and Bolton as their eyes met. He took the smaller boy in his strong arms, and helped him to his feet. Joey pulled his hood up, and kept his eyes on the floor. It looked to Bolton as if Joey had been crying for a long time. “Looks like Jonestown in here,” Bolton observed, happy NOT to see any blood anywhere.

“Pretty good day off, man,” Sam stated, “Bedtime?”

Bolton nodded.

“You need help?” Sam asked, with Joey still leaning heavily upon him.

Bolton nodded again.

“Any word on the computers?”

“Nope,” Bolton replied, drawing himself up and taking a deep breath. “Alright kids,” he bellowed, his voice filling the gym, “ bedtime. Line up and let’s go. Everybody follow your respective guards and back to your dorms. Goodnight and sleep tight!” he grinned. All around the gym, the boys lined up and filed out with their respective guards and trainees. Some of them had to be awakened, and many of them had confused looks on their faces. Bolton sniffed.

“Damn, I wish we had hot water,” he observed.

“A shower does sound good,” Sam agreed, as he and several other boys formed up in front of Bolton and they left the gym.

Joey clung to Sam the entire time, and Bolton, bringing up the rear, was shocked to see this emotional outburst from the boy who hadn’t said ten words to him in two years.

Jason turned his strange little device this way and that. “We need to go down,” he told Max.

“I think you’re right,” Max agreed, turning his map over and over.

“I know I am.” Jason laughed.

Max thought for a moment, then his curiosity got the best of him. “Just WHY is this place so dependent on the computer? I mean, geeez, how stupid can the be? Haven’t they heard of manual over-ride?”

“I think they’re hiding something here,” Jason replied. “Ned has a theory or three or four that we’ve been working on. I think we might even find something in what’s left of the Mainframe when we get there. Let’s see if we can find a stairwell.”

They found some stairs at the end of the hall and went down. The stairs were made of metal, and one could see down through them. There was a guardrail, and looking over the edge in the dim light made Jason think of the scene from one old sci-fi movie that he had seen a long time ago. A sense of vertigo set in, and he resolutely decided NOT to look out of the edge again. His small device chirped again, and the green light grew brighter. Max sighed and tossed his map over the edge.

“This place gives me the creeps,” he said, “I think I’ll quit when this is over.”

“Imagine being locked up in here for years,” Jason mused.

“I can’t imagine ever working here part time,” Max replied.

“Think of how the boys feel,” Jason responded.

“I don’t want to,” Max said, looking over his shoulder as if he expected someone to be following him. The darkness was eerie, and try as he might, he couldn’t stop shivering.

They paused on the next landing to rest. Max sat down, and immediately pulled his hand up and yelped. Jason laughed, picking up an empty Coke can and waving it at the startled Max. “What a mess!” Max complained, “What’s up with that?” He then looked around at the rest of the landing. Here and there in the metal gridwork of the landing were bits of white lint, along with the spilled Coke, and surprisingly, an empty hypodermic. Max picked it up carefully and read the label.

“It’s got code all over it, says Ativan though.”

“Looks like they knocked out an escapee down here,” Jason mused, “You ‘bout ready?”

Max nodded and got up, wiping his hand on his pants leg. They started down again.

Ames had returned to his office after making sure that all of the inmates were on their way back to their dorms. Something was nagging at him, however, and he couldn’t get his mind off of the strange sound that he thought he had heard earlier. Although he knew it was futile, he started back up to the front door which was the only way in or out of the main complex. As he walked, he glanced this way and that in the dim light and began to grow nervous. He thought he heard a voice, but dismissed it to lack of sleep and worry. He stuck his hands in his pockets, and felt crumpled paper there. He cursed once, pulling the paper out to stare at the print and into the face of a young boy who had not looked up for the ID camera. His mind wandered back a few years, back to a time when work had not been the main focus of his life. He thought of happier times, before so much had gone so wrong. He cursed again and jammed the paper back into his pocket. “Fuckin’ brat,” he muttered, “you can spend the rest of your miserable life in here for all I care.”

Then he stopped and sniffed. Something didn’t smell right. The usual smell of cleaning solvents and antiseptics that usually mixed with the smell of boys in need of a bath and constantly recirculated air wasn’t quite right. There was something too fresh about it, too cool and spring-like. He quickened his pace, all thoughts of his previous tirade evaporating. He ran up a flight of stairs, found the door to the main hall forced open, and blinked as the bright light of day poured in on him. There was a bit of dust hanging in the air, and the sound of heavy equipment filled his ears. He blinked several more times, and when his eyes finally adjusted, he saw that he entire face of the main entry way had been blown to bits. There were police and construction workers all over the place, and red and blue lights flashed here and there amongst the throng of people. He ran towards the opening, fearing the worst - that someone might have escaped. He broke through the ruined doorway and ran straight into the awaiting clutches on Linda Johnson.

Michael Baines found himself wandering down the brightly lit hallway with no idea of where he was or where he was going. The doors to the elevator had opened for him when he had allowed it scan his ID bracelet, and since he had become bored with the limited things to do in the rec room, he had decided to look around. He rode the elevator for a moment, and got out the first time that the doors opened. The thought of spending the next five years in this place didn’t sit well with him, and it seemed that everyone was going out of his way to make sure that he stayed lost and confused. He began to walk down another long hallway, but stopped in his tracks about halfway down when he heard a muffled scream. He gasped, not sure what to do. Finally, his curiosity won out and he began to follow the noise. He stopped at a door on his right, listening for a while. It sounded as if someone were being tortured behind that door, so he decided to move on. He reached the end of the hallway, and found that it split in a T formation. In front of him was what looked like a refrigerator, and he opened it. Inside he found a few cans of Coke and box of snack cakes. “This isn’t right,” he muttered to himself, but he did take one of the Cokes.

He turned left, and walked on, his stockinged feet making no sounds on the tiled floor. It was warm in the hallway, and despite his worries, he felt pretty good as he drank the soda. Certainly someone would miss him soon and come looking for him, since he wasn’t sure, after so many turns and doors, where he was nor how to get back. He assumed he would be in trouble for straying, but certainly, since the computer didn’t recognize his ID, that he wouldn’t be in THAT much trouble. He came to a door marked SEV BEHAV MGMT, but passed it by. He tried another door at the end of the hall, and found himself on a metal gridwork landing of some kind. There were stairs going up and down for what seemed like forever, and the lights were very bright. He shrugged and started down. “Geeez,” he muttered to himself, “Not a fuckin’ window in this place.” Down he went, slowly drinking his pilfered soda.

Ned watched as Michael sighed in his sleep and rolled over. It was a good sign, meaning that the boy had gone from unconsciousness and into normal sleep.

He went down several flights of stairs, meeting no one, until he finally came to a door marked STORAGE / EXPER. It scanned his ID, beeped in confusion, but the door opened. Michael wandered in, throwing his empty can into a waste basket. There was not much in the room except for another door which refused to open and several large cabinets that sat back into the walls. He opened one, and found it full of strange looking jars. It was also cold, as if the cabinets were huge freezers. He read over the numbered tags on the shelves, until he came to one marked 23. He saw what looked like names mixed in with the codes. He looked closer at the jars. There were four of them in each small group, and something was in each jar, suspended in a cloudy fluid. He pulled his hand back up into his sleeve, and picked up the jar marked CHENG amongst the other numbers, letters, and bar codes. He wiped the jar off, as it fogged up, and stared into it. He didn’t know what it was, but it didn’t look nice. What it looked like was a piece of meat suspended in the cloudy fluid. He turned the jar this way and that, and then the cold reality of what he was seeing struck him. What was floating in the jar were the Asian eunuch’s severed genitalia.

His heart beginning to pound, Michael replaced the jar and stared at the others. There was one marked SAM, in which floated a rather large severed penis. In the one marked JOEY was Michael assumed to be a set of testicles. Then his eyes fell on another jar. This one matched his own ID bracelet perfectly, and floating in it were another set of testicles. Michael gasped, his hand going to his crotch. His balls were still there. He remembered asking the doctor is he was going to castrate him, and the doctor had told him no. Was he lying? Michael’s mind raced. Something told him that he was seeing things that he shouldn’t, and slammed the door. He took a step back, but before he could turn, someone grabbed him.

“What are YOU doing in here?” a gray uniformed guard asked him.

Michael’s mouth dropped open and he just stared.

“Answer me!” the guard shouted, “How did you get IN here?”

Michael shook his head. The guard pulled out what looked like a nightstick of some kind and waved it at him. Michael made an attempt to run, but the stick hit him in the back.

Michael moaned and tossed in his sleep, but Ned didn’t wake him. Instead, he held the young eunuch’s hand and fought down his own tears.

He felt himself falling, but he couldn’t get up. The guard’s hands were on him, grabbing him and hauling him up by the hood of his white sweatshirt. He tried to focus his eyes, but couldn’t. The guard was calling for help, and carrying him back up the metal grid stairs. Others came then, and someone was there in the hall, taking hold of him. It was a man with a rough voice, and he was yelling at him. “What did you see?” the man demanded. Then he hit him. As they dragged him down the hallway, the man continued to scream at him and strike him. He tried to curl up and protect himself, but the man wouldn’t let up. He found himself being dragged into a room where two other boys were already restrained upon tables of some kind. He saw someone taking a boy in wheelchair out the opposite end of the room, a small and pale boy with closely buzzed dark hair. The boy was whimpering, and there were ugly red welts on his head. The boy on the first table, next to the one upon which they were securing him, was writhing in his restraints. He had a large rubber plug in his mouth, and an orderly was placing some kind of clamp around his forehead.

The angry man slapped his face again, demanding he tell what he had seen or what he thought that he had seen; Michael, however, was too frightened and confused to answer. The repeated blows had hurt him, and all he do was cry. He mumbled about his ID and being lost, but the angry man would have none of it. Then he heard a crackling noise, and saw the boy on the table next to him having what looked like a seizure. The orderly pulled the clamp off of his forehead and picked up a large and long needle. Michael watched in horror as the orderly handed it to a doctor who pushed it into he boy’s head, just behind and under his ear. The long needle went all the way in, then the boy screamed and fell still.

Someone was spreading cold jelly of some kind on his forehead, and the horrible clamps were placed on him as well. “P-please, no!” he cried, “I didn’t mean to, I was lost!”

“That’s what they all say,” the angry man answered, “We’ll just have to a bit of conditioning and make you forget some of what you saw. This is going to hurt, Mikey, it’s going to hurt a LOT, but, it IS for your own good.”

Michael cried out in his sleep, unable to rouse himself from what he couldn’t decided was real or a dream. Ned grasped his hand tighter. If his theory was right, Michael was remembering things - things that might prove useful later on.

The shock ripped through his body, and the last thing that Michael remembered was seeing the boy on the far table. His head was shaved smooth, and there was a red line all the way around it. He fought the urge to vomit and chewed on the rubber plug on his mouth as he saw the top of the boy’s head pulled totally off. Then the shock tore through him again, and he felt a hot stab behind his ear. He tried hard to scream.

And he succeeded. Michael’s eyes popped open and in the waking world, his scream made Ned jump. He felt the warm hand on his, and although he wanted to run, he suddenly realized that he had awakened from another bad dream. Ned was there, and he felt himself pulled into a tight embrace. He didn’t fight it. Memories came flooding back in on him, and he let Ned hold him, feeling - for some strange reason - safe. Then he was pushed away, and felt warm hands on each side of his face. “Michael, it’s Ned.” There were tears standing in his eyes, which the boy didn’t understand. “Are you OK?”

Michael nodded, Ned’s grip on him tight. Then the man pulled him close again, pulled him into his lap and held him as if he were afraid that he might run away. A wave of shame overcame the eunuch as he remembered something - the episode on the landing. He had been afraid of Ned, and said terrible things to him. He remembered the beatings. He remembered the shocks. He remembered the horrors he had seen. Surprisingly, as it all came back to him, it didn’t frighten him. It made him angry. He had no reason to fear Ned; Ames was the one to fear. “I’m sorry,” he spoke into Ned’s shoulder, since the man wouldn’t let go of him. Then he felt a hand on top his head, and Ned was staring into his eyes. He noticed that their eyes and hair were almost the same color.

“Michael, what do you remember? How do you feel?”

“I’m f-fine, I think. I had a b-bad dream, but it’s over.”

“Michael,” Ned said in a quite voice thick with emotion, “I’m so sorry for what I’ve put you through. Please don’t hate me for it.”

Michael thought for a moment, still trying to sort out his jumbled memories. Ned had been there when he had arrived. Ned had checked him over. Every week, Ned had examined him. Some of the things that Ned had done to him were unpleasant, but he understood that he was the prisoner and Ned was the doctor and that it was procedure. Ned was there, however, and he listened. Often, during the exams, he had talked to him and then listened. Ned had never punished him, either. And even though Ned had been the one who had castrated him, after saying that he wouldn’t, Michael understood something else - Ned had had no choice in the matter, and Ames hated them both. He remembered the beating, and something that Ames had said in passing when he had thought that the boy was unconscious. “Ned doesn’t ENJOY his work, we should replace him.”

“It’s not y-y-your fault, Ned. They m-m-messed up my head b-bad,” Michael offered.

“You don’t understand, Mikey - Michael - I’m sorry, it was all my fault - what Ames did to you,” Ned explained. He didn’t know how much the eunuch remembered, but his own battered conscience would wait no longer. Michael stared at him.

“I was messing with the computer, Michael. Jason and I. We had some suspicions. Your ID was offline when you wandered off that day ...” but Ned couldn’t finish. He looked away, ashamed of himself for what his need to know had done to the boy, the boy who was his little brother. How could he tell him now, after his quest to confirm the boy’s identity had almost killed him?

“It’s OK, N-ned,” he said softly, moving closer to the man who had always seemed to like him well enough, the one man on staff in this living nightmare who had ever had a kind word for him, “You didn’t m-mean to. YOU didn’t m-make Ames b-beat me or try to f-f-fry my brain.”

Ned nodded, but said nothing, his arm still wrapped protectively around the eunuch’s shoulders. The young eunuch felt safe and secure in Ned’s embrace, and he almost felt, if things were different, that he could stay in that embrace for the rest of his life. Then the door was forced open and Bolton escorted Joey and Sam in. Michael watched them. Ned wiped his eyes and turned to face them. “I see he be alive, yet,” Bolton observed. Sam was smiling, but Joey, whom Sam was supporting, simply went to his bed. He stripped and got in, nodded to Michael once, and rolled over; he pulled the covers over his head. Ned tightened his grip on Michael, not sure how sane the boy was yet.

“Hi, Sam,” Michael said.

“You OK, Mr. Adventure? Wanderin’ off again, huh?” Sam asked.

“I remember the first time,” Michael stated flatly.

Sam whistled, his eyes wide. Bolton’s mouth fell open.

“How much of it?” Ned asked.

Michael hesitated.

“The computers are still down, Mikey,” Sam supplied, “No one can punish you now,” Sam offered.

That comment brought a gasp from Joey’s bed. They all turned to look at him, as, very slowly, Joey sat up and uncovered his head. His eyes were wide, and he wasn’t shaking. “What did you say?” he asked Sam in a small voice, as if afraid that someone might overhear him.

“I said the computers are all down, Joey. Man, what’u think’s been goin’ on all day?”

“You go first, Mikey,” the pale boy whispered, his eyes pleading.

“What do you remember?” Ned asked again.

“All of it, I th-think,” Michael replied, and as Ned picked up a notebook, Michael Baines began to talk.

“...so with two technicians headed into IO to try and fix the computers ...” Linda Johnson was saying, smiling into the camera as usual. She stopped however, when she saw the man come running out through the ruined entryway. It was a man that she knew from her research. Her gaze landed on Ames, and he looked up and saw her. Both of them froze, then Linda recovered herself. “Ah, and here we have Mr. Ames, the Director of IO himself, the first to emerge from the disaster!” She waved, and ran to Ames, the cameras following her. “Mr. Ames! Mr. Ames!” She shouted, “How did you get out? Have the techs restored the Mainframe as of yet?”

Ames took in the scene with great chagrin. “Ye gods, the media,” he thought to himself, watching Linda Johnson descend upon him like a hyena at a lion’s abandoned kill. “Mr. Ames, what can you tell us? The entire state is holding its collective breath awaiting word of what’s going on inside!” She shoved the mic at him, almost hitting him in the mouth with it.

“Well, uh, Linda - is it ? - Everything is under control. The boys are all happily in bed and worn out after a day off, really. Recreation all day, you understand. We’re a bit concerned about the staff being on double shift, but that happens sometimes, bad weather, call-ins, sick days, you understand. Everyone is fine, in fact, we were just discussing the repairs with the techs when I came out to see how things were going. I knew there would be concern,” Ames lied glibly. If Linda wanted to play, he could play too.

“So no one is hurt, and things are just fine? I find that hard to believe, Mr. Ames,” she retorted.

“Well, Linda, it’s just a matter of maintaining discipline. The boys know what they can do and what not to do, and the staff is fully trained for emergency situations. Everything is under control, and in fact, if the next shift wishes to report for duty, they may enter. They’ll just have to take some flashlights and push some doors open is all,” Ames countered.

Several awaiting employees, however, went over to a black van and began to pull weapons from it, arming themselves as if to go into battle. One of them, taking in the ranks of the guards ready to go in, ordered, “Alright, men, riot protocol ONE. Let’s not have any surprises. They may all be asleep as the boss says, but let’s do it by the book. Remember, don’t shoot the two computer jockeys in the lower levels.” And with that, they entered the ruined doorway.

“Riot protocol ONE?” Linda demanded, waving the mic at Ames.

“Standard procedure in an unknown situation,” he replied.

“I thought you said everything was under control?”

Ames shifted and looked around. Everyone was staring at them. “I just came from inspecting the dorms myself, Ms. Johnson. Everything inside of IO is fine.”

“We’re all relieved to hear that, sir. I’m sure we can trust your word. Now, for the sakes of our viewers and some concerned parents out there, what can you tell us about the rumors of torture, mind control and castration inside of IO?” she demanded.

Ames looked at her in confusion for a moment. Then he saw Taft heading for his car, a tan Mercedes that was idling and seemingly waiting to speed off as fast it could to escape Linda Johnson. She seemed to notice this. “Mr. Taft was less than forthcoming, Mr. Ames. It almost leads this reporter to believe that something is afoot that we don’t fully understand.”

“I can assure you, and the public, Ms. Johnson, that nothing unsavory is going on inside of IO and what is being done for the unfortunate boys therein is in their best interest and absolutely for their own good,” he said flatly.

“Mr. Taft said the same things, sir. Now, if you will hold a moment, we’ll go live via satellite to the home of Erik Anderson, a former IO inmate who was released some months ago at the age of 15 after serving 3 years for the crime of arson. Howard, do you have the feed ready?” she demanded.

The cameras cut to Howard at his desk, then to another monitor. On the screen was a headshot of a boy with a severe crewcut. His eyes were haunted looking - blank, and there were dark circles under them. As the camera pulled back, he was seen sitting in between his mother and father, his hands in his lap. Each of his parents had their hands over his. They sat closely together, and there were a few papers in Erik’s father’s lap. “Hello, Erik, this Howard Stein of channel 9 - can you hear and see us alright?”

On the screen, Erik nodded, but he didn’t look up.

“Erik, we have here Mr. Ames from IO. You were released just recently weren’t you?” Linda asked. There was a short delay, and then Erik nodded.

“Hello, Mr. Ames,” Erik mumbled. Somewhere, a technician adjusted the audio and zoomed in on Erik’s face. The boy, who didn’t look 15, stared past the camera and his eyes filled with tears. “How’s Joey and everyone else in 23?”

Ames took a step back. The boy on the screen was the inmate that Michael Baines had replaced, and he was talking! This was an outrage! It was also impossible. Ames fumed inside, trying to control himself. In all of his years at IO, no inmate released had ever spoken a word. Now, here was a paroled arsonist on national television, and Ames feared that the boy was about to start telling a story; few might believe it, but the damage and rumor would be enough. He realized that he was going to have to speak carefully, drawing upon the key words and gestures that were implanted in the paroled boy’s subconscious mind. The right gesture here and there and few key words should silence the boy before he could say anything damning. Ames drew himself up, scratching the tip of his own nose. “I’m fine, and so are your old roomies, Erik. They miss you. How are you today?”

Erik’s shoulder moved, and the camera pulled back a bit. The boy picked up something. It was a pair of dark mirrored sunglasses that wrapped around his face. He pushed them on tightly and leaned back. “I’m sorry, sir, bright light hurts my eyes bad.”

“Erik just got out of the hospital a few weeks ago, Mr. Ames. He suffered a aneurism and the damage to the visual cortex was severe,” Erik’s father replied coldly.

Ames cringed. Linda Johnson smiled and made an indelicate sound. “Are we to understand, sir, that Erik’s aneurism may have been brought on by abuses suffered IO for the petty crime of setting fire to an abandoned barn that was a social hazard anyway?” she asked.

The feed cut back to Erik and his parents. Ames lowered his hand from his nose, a cold fear settling in the pit of his stomach. “From what the doctors tell us,” Erik’s father began, “our son was severely abused, and something that weakened the blood vessels in his brain was done to him. All of his tests are coming up very, very abnormal. He has to have plenty of rest and quiet, so we can’t be long here, Linda.”

On the screen, Erik fidgeted, his hands never leaving his lap.

“Comments, Mr. Ames?” she asked.

Ames looked into the camera. “Why the glasses, Erik?” he wheedled, trying to get the boy to look right at him so he could trip one of the conditioned responses to silence the boy. “A fashion statement, perhaps?”

“I’m blind, sir,” the boy mumbled. “Are you sure Joey is OK?”