Chapter One
She awoke to blackness - no, to more than blackness, to nothingness. Her eyes were open, but there was nothing to see. Her ears could hear nothing, not even the beating of her own heart. She was neither warm, nor cold. She didn't feel naked, and yet she could not feel clothing on her body. It was as if her body did not exist.
She tried to get up, or even to move and found that she could not. She knew her muscles were trying to move, but she remained in place. Nothing appeared to be restraining her, and yet she could not move.
A sudden, horrible thought flashed through her mind, "Am I dead?!"
She screamed. She could feel her throat vibrating with the intensity of the scream, but she heard nothing.
She willed herself not to panic. What was the last thing that she remembered before the nothingness.
The memories floated up to her slowly out of the darkness. She was chairing a meeting at the university. They were finally going to be able to defund that crackpot Dr. Kamachi and his left over from the sixties, hippie-inspired, sensory depravation labs.
When meeting Dr. Arnold Kamachi for the first time, everyone expected to see an oriental. They were almost always surprised to be greeted by a tall, thin, red-headed eastern European. "The man at immigration had no idea what name my great-grandfather was saying, so he wrote down 'Kamachi' and here I am."
University research isn't what it once was. It used to be publish or perish. Now it is produce and get sponsored or get out. Grants from corporations, the government and the military determined who stayed and who left. Teaching students became secondary to the process long ago. There were always graduate assistants for that.
Dr. Angela Quin was the head of the research assessment committee. Her word could make or break almost any professor or department, and she loved the power that her position gave her. No one was beyond her reach.
She tried to remember the details of the meeting. She had planned this for months. All her ducks were in a row. Liaison representatives were there from the administrative committees for corporate grants, government grants, and military grants. Once she clearly explained just how useless Dr. Kamachi's research actually was, and got it into the record that no one would want to fund such research, then Arnold would finally be finished. He would be off the campus and out of her hair forever.
The last time that Angela had forced a full review of Dr. Kamachi's work, Arnold had claimed that it was a personal vendetta, but that was pure nonsense. Did anyone really think that she would hold it against him that he had tried to seduce her at a faculty Christmas party several years ago. A loud, "No," and a solid, backhand swing that bloodied his mouth reinforced that she would have none of that. Yes, she had way too much to drink that night. And yes, she was snuggled up against him and had even had kissed him softly on the neck. But that doesn't mean she wanted anything more than that.
Angela paused in her silent tirade. Even in silent thought she would not allow any errors. That wasn't exactly true. Yes, she wanted more than that. She often desperately wanted more than that, but she had a career to think of. She was going to make a name for herself. She was going to make a difference for this university. She was going to be remembered forever for ground breaking changes brought about by her calm, sure leadership of the research at this great institution.
Such intense dedication is why she kept herself away from such things as sex, even if they did call her "The Ice Quinn" behind her back.
It didn't matter. Such things did not move toward her goals. Everything was a planned move toward fame and honor. There wasn't time for frivolities in her life.
That's what Dr. Kamachi was. He was a frivolity - something that could not be taken seriously. She strained to remember. What had happened at the meeting? Things had started well. She grilled Arnold about substantive results from his research. As expected there was none. It was all talk of expanding one's horizons and uncovering one's inner self - all useless frivolity.
She was about to call for a vote when one of the liaisons spoke up. He worked with military grants and research. He asked, "Tell me, Dr. Kamachi, is there ANYTHING at all about your research that would make it useful to the military."
"Well," Dr. Kamachi began, "except for the fact that, if it were misused, I could totally re-program a person in twenty four hours and make them do whatever you wanted them to do or tell you whatever you wanted to know, I can think of nothing that would be of use to the military."
That son of a bitch! He wasn't as stupid and naive as she had thought. He had set this up to sandbag her. "I haven't seen any mention of that in any of your status reports, Arnold. Do you have any way to prove this? Or are we supposed to just take your word on it? Our recommendations are due in three days." She remembered smiling sweetly at him, "Unless you can clearly demonstrate the results you claim by that time, I am afraid we will have to terminate your research."
"I have a proposal," replied Dr. Kamachi, "but explaining it would take us through your meal break. Why don't we discuss this over a late lunch and then we can reconvene and come to a decision?"
Dr. Quin didn't want to do that, but the other committee members all agreed. The three liaisons each added, "That would give me time to check with a couple of major grant contributors that might be interested."
By the time the committee was gathered for lunch in the side room of a nearby restaurant that catered to campus faculty, the corporate and government liaisons were both able to report no real interest. The military grant liaison, however, was interested. "I have two possible major grants - very major grants - if your research has uncovered a way to do what you claim. But we need proof."
Angela knew she had him. "Since you have not published or reported any such capability, Arnold, the only proof acceptable would be to produce someone for the grant donors who has been reprogrammed in twenty four hours. That means someone who will do everything that you command them to do. And it has to be something that can be proven to be totally against what they would normally do. I will give you until 6:00 o'clock tomorrow night to accomplish that."
She had expected him to become angry or slink away in defeat, instead he answered, "I'll drink to that. You're on."
He then poured a small amount of wine into her empty wineglass and handed it back to her. He raised his glass and said, "To proof that I can reprogram anyone."
"Here, here," said one of the professors, and they all drained the small amount of wine remaining in their glasses.
Arnold turned to the military liaison and said, "Bring any prospective grant donors to my labs at 6:00 tomorrow night. The committee can reconvene there, I will give you absolute proof that I can reprogram anyone to do whatever I want them to do in twenty four hours or less."
Floating in the dark nothingness, Angela tried to remember what happened next. She could vaguely remember fumbling with her car keys as they walked to the parking lot. Someone asked, "Are you OK to drive?" Someone else - Arnold - said, "I'll drive her home. Looks like the rest of the meeting will have to be postponed."
She had tried to protest, but things were swirling around her. And then... and then... and then she had awakened to blackness. She knew where she was!
"You son of a bitch!" she screamed as loudly as she could. Except for the minor vibration of the throat, she heard nothing and felt nothing. She was in Dr. Arnold Kamachi's sensory depravation tank.
She couldn't see because her face was enclosed in a modified full-face scuba mask. She couldn't hear because there were computerized, sound cancelling earphones in her ears that cancelled out any noise that she made. She couldn't feel because she was wearing a very expensive, specially designed wet suit with hundreds, if not thousands of tiny rubber bands on it that held her exactly in the middle of the tank. And she was floating just beneath the surface of a negative buoyancy salt solution at exactly 79 degrees Fahrenheit. Total sensory depravation.
"Do you think that you can break me with sensory depravation, you crazy bastard!" she screamed. She couldn't hear herself, but the vibrations of her throat felt good and vented her anger.
"You stupid son of a bitch. I've done meditation for years. I could float here in this nothingness for a couple of days before it started to get to me. Twenty four hours from now, your ass is mine!"
