The clock upon the wall struck eleven, but nobody seemed to notice. It was not a particularly hot day in Stanford, in fact it was rather cool and damp, but this did not deter beads of sweat from forming in the underarms and upon the brow of every man in the room.
The room itself was large and plain, as far as rooms go. A large filing cabinet sat in the corner, and a few chairs littered the floor here and there, all taken. Cigarette smoke filled the air. The most intriguing thing about the room was not a physical characteristic or object, but rather the invisible partition that seemed to exist straight down the middle of the room.
On one side stood maybe ten or twelve men, all wearing white shirts and black ties, all carrying notepads and pens, and all with their gaze fixated on the situation unfolding across the invisible partition. Every once in a while one of these men would light up a cigarette, or look at their watch, or make an attempt to shuffle closer to the small window located at the back of the room, but not once did any emotion cross their faces.
On the other side sat two men sitting across from each other. One of the men was an exact counterpart to the others, with their white shirts and black ties. This final man was an odd specimen. In contrast to the appearance of everyone else in the room, he was dressed informally, wearing military boots and a green shirt that was half tucked into his faded blue jeans. His face was worn, despite being only eighteen or twenty, and it looked as though he hadn’t shaven or showered in weeks. Remnants of a meal eaten at an earlier time were still found at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were glossy and his whole face had a look of serenity about it, as though he possessed no thoughts of worry or doubt. The man across from him opened his mouth.
“What country do you currently reside in?”
“The United States of America.”
“Where are we now?”
“Stanford University, California.”
“Who are you?”
No answer. The look on the unshaven man’s face had turned from serenity to confusion, and the lines on his brow tightened while he searched for an answer.
“Who are you?”
Again, no answer. A look of despair had crept upon the man’s face, his eyes wide, his mouth quivering. The man across from him jotted some notes in his notepad and opened his mouth again. The clock struck noon.
“Do you believe in God?”
The man asking the questions had transformed. He was no longer dressed in a white shirt and black tie, but in the robes of a priest. His pen and notepad had been replaced with a crucifix, and his unemotional gaze had turned into one of anger and contempt. The unshaven man sunk back into his chair. He realized he was now facing the inquisition, and with one wrong answer he could be deemed a heretic and burned at the stake. He would have to be careful.
The inquisitor moved on, but the unshaven man did not. Between pauses, question after question was posed, each one met with silence, each one prodding deeper and deeper into his personal beliefs. The man did not ignore these new questions out of fear, however; it was that the first question was still churning in his head.
Do I believe in God? He thought to himself, his thoughts clear, his decision not. How can there be a God watching over a world such as this? When there exists such poverty in the world, such war, such injustice, how can this be? Would God claim responsibility for this? Would He let this happen? Would He not try to change this?
The man gulped and looked around the room, aware that the gaze of everyone in the room was fixated on him. He turned back to face the inquisitor, his mind still racing.
The whole of man is responsible for these crimes, and in turn, would this not make God responsible? And what kind of God would that be? We do not possess proof of God, only proof of the evil of man. But should I say this? Do I want to die? Is the truth not more powerful than God and man?
The man began to turn green and convulse, the endless questions in his head weighing upon him like the world entire, his mind spinning out of control.
“Do you believe in God?” the inquisitor returned to the first question.
Another voice crept into the man’s head now, an unfamiliar one of confidence and clarity. Say it. He looked deeply into the soulless eyes of the inquisitor and a flash of anxiety waved over him for a split second. It was as though he was drowning in the blackness of those eyes, as if those eyes were responsible for all the sins of man. He gave his response.
“Man is God.”
A look of serenity began to creep across the man’s face once again, his mind calming. He looked to be completely at peace, as though he knew the fate that awaited him. He was content.
The inquisitor’s crucifix began to melt away in his hand, taking the shape of a pen and notepad once again. He scribbled down his verdict and parted his thin, peeling lips to speak.
“Very good. Put down your pens and papers everyone, it’s lunchtime. I expect everyone to be back here within the hour. We have much to discuss.”
I took a deep inhale of my cigarette and looked down at the blank piece of white paper before me. Exhaling slowly, I repeated my question.
“How much did you give him?”
“About 400 micrograms.”
“And he’s dead?”
“As a doornail.”
I paused to take another inhale. Fuck. This complication was not to be dwelled on long, however. There would be no consequences; just a mark in a file, a lesson learned, and one sad mother. Not even the media would get their grubby hands on this story. The government had its ways.
“So can you explain to me exactly what happened?”
“Well, there’s really not much to be said about it. We administered the dosage, 400 micrograms, at ten o’clock sharp yesterday. We waited an hour, and questioning began at half past eleven.”
“And how did that go?”
“Fine, I guess. We didn’t get much out of him, but that’s becoming more and more common as we’ve been increasing the dosages. Just after noon we broke for lunch, and let him go home. He seemed content enough. Then just this morning we got a call saying he was dead, found in bed by his buddy.”
“Suicide?” It wouldn’t have been the first time; our collaborating team at McGill University in Canada had reported several. I had always thought of suicide as more of an intellectual pursuit, but these results had somewhat challenged this belief.
“We can’t rule it out, in fact it’s very possible. I still can’t fucking believe it. I can only imagine the amount of bullshit paperwork the higher ups are going to expect because of this. I hope you don’t expect me to handle it.”
I tried my best to keep a straight face. Jimmy could be a real lazy twat when he wanted to. A subject under his supervision dies, and the first place his mind goes is the paperwork. No wonder his ass hadn’t made the grade in med school.
“Alright. Let me know if you hear anything else. And close the door behind you, wouldn’t ya?”
I let out a sigh and butted out my cigarette in my ashtray. It was a nice one. Sterling silver, from Tiffany’s. My aunt had given it to me as a gift for a birthday, or graduation, or some other occasion years ago. I had another just like it at home, along with a whole chest of similar gifts given to me at such empty events. To me, my whole life previous to this had been a series of gifts and meaningless milestones. Luckily for both me and my legacy, this was no longer the case.
Project MKUltra; the first time I’d heard of it was about 2 years ago, during the summer of ‘56. The United States government was recruiting graduate students and post docs all across the country and I was one of the (un)lucky few that signed up. Now, at only 27, I was one of the heads of the project at Stanford.
The project itself had started out as a product of the Cold War. After the synthesis of lysergic acid diethylamide, or LSD as it was called around campus, the United States government was eager to put it to the test as a mind control drug or some kind of truth serum. What we were testing was a weapon of war.
The first test subjects were for the most part military, but since then they’ve come from everywhere. Mental patients. Convicts. And once word got out around campus, every longhaired freak and fruit wanted to be a part of it. It was a circus. We actually had willing participants for this. Get that.
The kid who had died this morning had been one of those types. Naïve, eager, bright eyed, ready to “expand his mind”. Just look where that got him. I can’t help but have sympathy for the kid, though. Lord knows I didn’t have my head on completely straight at that age. He hadn’t even seen it coming; one extra drop from an eye dropper was all it took.
Ringggggggggg. Unlike the kid, I had the gift of foresight. I knew that this was coming. Ringggggggggg. The higher-ups had heard about the death, now they (or I) would have to clean up their mess. Ringggggggggg.
“Hello.”
“We heard about your little mishap.”
“Yes sir. Must have been the dosage sir. Won’t happen again sir.” I hate saying that fucking word.
“It better not happen again. This is going to be a mess.”
“I understand sir.”
“I expect a full report on the subject in question sent up to Washington by the end of the week. Truth is, we’re growing tired of your antics down in California. This is a project sanctioned by the government of The United States of America, not some fraternity house community project.”
“I understand sir.”
“Good. On that note, I expect a full report on all your recent findings sent up here by the end of the week as well. And it better be significant.”
“Yes sir. Will do sir. Bye.”
I slammed the phone down on the receiver and lit up another cigarette. Three days. Three fucking days. How was I supposed to write two full reports in three days? Sure, I had my staff, but most of them were useless. On top of that, we had almost nothing to show for our past few months of work besides some incoherent notes and a corpse. As I exhaled it seemed as though the smoke waltzed across the room, mocking me to my face. I knew we were close; we just had to fix the dosage. There was promise, especially in the earlier subjects. I wasn’t about to let my name and work be tarnished by this hiccup. We were going to have to make this a fly by night operation. Picking up the phone, I dialed the rotary. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Four.
“Hello?”`
“Hey, Jimmy. We’re going to need a new participant for tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Because the old one is fucking dead and Washington just called, they want a report – two actually - by Friday.”
“Are you serious? We have nothing!”
“I know, I know. Just get it done. Make sure Keith knows. I’ll be there for this one.”
“Alright boss. I’ll see what I can do.”
A smile crept across my face as I heard the word boss, especially from a guy like Jimmy. I might be the captain of a sinking ship, but I was still the captain. Butting out my cigarette, I propped my feet up and sat back in my chair. My gaze was fixed on the door across from me, but my mind was elsewhere.
I’ve always been a daydreamer. From the earliest I could remember I would fantasize about being a hero; getting the girl; changing the world. I guess that’s probably why I can be such an asshole. I set my expectations so high and each time they don’t come true I lose a little more faith in mankind and myself.
Today I was fantasizing about winning the Nobel Prize. I could see it in all its golden glory. I might spew some bullshit to a broad I’m trying to impress or my friends or cousins about how I work at Stanford for the “pursuit of knowledge” and “academic opportunity”, but in the end all it comes down to is what I leave behind. The thought of failure sends chills down my spine.
The buzz of a television set from a few rooms over interrupted my dream. Snapping back to my empty office, I cursed the thing. Not since the Middle Ages had a plague spread so rapidly throughout the known world. Television was nothing but a distraction, a box filled with talking heads whose voices were programmed to rot the brain. Turning my frustration into a sigh, I stood up and put on my jacket.
There was nothing left for me to do on campus. Jimmy would find a new subject for me; some of the others would put together some questions. I’d go home and prepare the report we’d send to the feds, and probably end up bullshitting my way through half of it. After all, I had the imagination of a scientist, but lacked the precision of a poet. The higher-ups knew it. I was no author, except in flashes of brilliance. I only hoped there would be no setbacks.
Thinking about what I could make for dinner, I sped down the spiraling stairs leading to my escape. With such a cushy job, and my life seemingly in check, one would probably imagine that I’d be returning home to a warm meal, a loving wife, and Fido, but that was not the case. Despite numerous advances from a wide array of women in my life, I had yet to find one I thought fit to marry (though that wasn’t to say there’d been flings or yearnings; I’d given it the old college try). I wasn’t looking for a housewife with painted lips and a winning smile; I was looking for someone who could make me smile. And while I wasn’t sure she existed, I hoped crow would be on the menu in the near future.
The air was cool and calm as I stepped outside and began my trek home. There wasn’t a single person out and about around campus. It was almost eerie, like the calm before a great storm washed everything away. As I sparked another cigarette and put it to my lips, my mind began to wonder yet again.
Never before in human history had the future been so bleak and uncertain. Rumblings from Russia and threats of a nuclear strike poured in almost every day. Rumbles from the South, where newly communist Cuba was set to make a play on the world stage painted the papers. Rumblings from all over America, where civil rights issues were beginning to come to the forefront and protests were rampant. All this strife, and I didn’t care one bit.
The idea that Russia or Cuba would actually start a war with America was laughable. In a war that assured mutual destruction, there would be no victors. Despite this, the fear would continue to be perpetuated by idiots and warmongers, but I wasn’t complaining. I received my livelihood and would eventually derive my legacy from these chumps. As for the movement going on in America, I could care less. Call me selfish, but I felt it didn’t affect me one bit, and I wasn’t about to stick my neck out to win a fight I didn’t have a dog in. The reason the future of the planet was so bleak wasn’t because of these events, but because of the idiocy, fearfulness, and selfishness of the people living on it.
Arriving at my address, I tossed my cigarette into the gutter. Climbing the concrete steps to my abode, I opened the door to an empty house. This world was changing, however, there was no doubt about that. Even Stanford’s campus was changing dramatically; just two or three short years ago you were hard pressed to find somebody not dressed in a suit and tie walking around campus. These days, the campus was full of every manner of beatnik like the test subject who’d died earlier today. They would make a point to play music and discuss literature and poetry in public so that every passersby could hear them. All of us working on the project hated their attitude, though we did find redeeming qualities in them occasionally. Jimmy would have his pick of the litter for the test tomorrow.
Opening my fridge, I found nothing but leftovers from the night previous. They would have to do for dinner. I didn’t have particularly high standards when it came to food, but at a restaurant you’d better believe I’d order the caviar. Sitting down at my desk, I pulled a chain and turned on my lamp. It was time to get to work.
I awoke to the sound of my phone ringing. For me, it had been another dreamless night. I couldn’t recall the last time I had dreamt; it had probably occurred sometime long ago, before I had even the faintest ideas of my ambitions. Now that they were so close, my dreams had turned to reality, or rather my reality had turned to dreams. My dreams took place during the day rather than the night. Rolling over in bed, I attempted to find my watch, instead only finding my ashtray and a half-empty bottle of bourbon.
Fumbling around, I finally grabbed hold of it. It read quarter past eight. I usually wasn’t in the office for another hour; who was calling? Whoever it was, it had better be important. Jumping out of bed, I sprinted across my dark apartment to the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hey boss. Listen, we’re really up the creek on this one. I tried to find another test subject for today but we’re shit outta luck. I can’t find anybody. The idiots ‘round campus must be smartening up.” What a call to wake up to. Jimmy couldn’t even handle a simple task.
“What do you mean, you couldn’t find anyone? If we can’t find any volunteers, we find somebody and we fucking tell them they’re going to be our test subject.”
“Look, I’ve tried everything. I’ve talked to the state mental hospitals, and they have nobody we can use. Everyone I’ve inquired about either has a family who won’t let us run the tests or is incapable of questioning. We could get a convict or soldier in by tomorrow, but there’s a shit stack of paperwork that would need to be filled out.” Ah, good old paperwork, the bane of our existence. Sometimes I thought that if ethics were less important in modern science, we’d have an answer to the atom bomb and a man on the moon.
“And what about the volunteers? Don’t we have a list floating around the office?”
“Tried them all. No answers. And to make matters worse, some Washington big shot just showed up about fifteen minutes ago. He wants to talk to you and Keith since you guys are in charge. I’m trying to stall him, but you need to get down here.”
The bad news just kept coming and coming. I hated dealing with those stuck up bureaucrats from Washington. They were always giving orders, asking questions, and poking their noses where they didn’t belong. I could do a better job of running the country than those assholes.
“Nobody answered? You’ve got to be kidding me. I thought you said getting one of those beatnik freaks would be a cakewalk. Listen, we need a test subject and we need one now. I don’t care how you do it. Set up a recruitment booth outside the labs; paste a big picture of that smug bastard Uncle Sam on it. Tell the people it’s their civic duty. Find some homeless junkie and offer him a twenty. In any case, get it done. You got that Jimmy?”
“I’ll try, boss.”
“No, you don’t try. You fucking do it. I’ll be down to the labs in half an hour.” I slammed the phone down and let out an expletive. Today was going to be hell. The kid better come through. This was my neck, and more importantly my chance to make it into the history books.
I went to the bathroom and shaved as quickly as I could, still half asleep. Falling asleep and waking up were the hardest parts of my days, but today I had to look at least somewhat presentable for the brass. In sleep I lost my genius, and when woke I had to regain it. Putting on my white shirt, I tied my black tie the same way I did every morning. Quickly, I grabbed a piece of bread and shoved it into my mouth just so I’d have something in my stomach. There was no time for coffee now. Grabbing my jacket, I headed out the door and slammed it behind me.
Pulling my cigarette pack from my pocket, I was reminded that the morning cigarette is either the best or worst one of the day. On most days, when I wake up carefree and content, I look forward to nothing more than a cigarette and a cup of coffee after breakfast. It allows me to relax without remorse. On other days, the cigarette only acts to amplify my stress. It clouds my mind and forces me to wallow in self-judgment. I was playing a game of Russian roulette. As I lit my cigarette and inhaled, the nicotine rush hit my brain like a bullet. I’d lost. Tossing the still intact cigarette into the gutter, I quickened my pace to a jog.
In contrast to the emptiness of campus the evening before, today it was an epicenter of culture. Professors walked along side students pondering both the mysteries of the universe and simple calculus problems. Our overrated and overpriced football team practiced on the quad. Everyone was bustling save the beatniks, who simply sat lying in their own grassy grove, flowers in their hair.
I just didn’t get it. My entire life, I’d aspired to be the best at something. The first time I’d read a history book, it had set my mind aflame with possibilities. At that tender age, I had no idea how I’d make it into such a book, but I knew someday my legacy would be doused in the musty odor of a tome. That wasn’t even a question.
Elementary school had been tough for irrelevant non-academic reasons involving my mother, but high school was when I had really started busting my ass. I love to bring attention to the fact that I’m intelligent, but I would be lying if it didn’t take a hell of a lot of hard work and sacrifice to make it here. Society, and more importantly my schooling had given me a neat little box that, after years of conditioning and contortion, I could finally fit into whenever I wanted. And these people couldn’t even bring themselves to color between the fucking lines.
Looking at my watch, I found myself arriving at the psychology department in almost record time, for me at least. I could have driven, but I preferred to walk (or in this case jog); it gives me time to think about bombs and beatniks. Flushing the dribble out of my mind, I quickly made my way over to the portion of the department where the labs are located, all the while preparing a speech for our visitor from Washington. I was glad I’d spent most of the previous night bullshitting a report; hopefully the bourbon I was drinking hadn’t overly affected my inhibitions. These men usually weren’t the easiest to please, but I’d have to try. Both my future in this role and my legacy depended on it.
I opened the doors to the lab and was greeted by the faces of Jimmy, Keith, and the scariest bastard I’d ever seen. He looked like the villain from some romantic espionage novel. His face was scarred, and he towered over everyone in the room by at least six inches. I looked at Jimmy, hoping for a positive sign; a nod, a thumbs-up, anything, but as I approached he looked at me with dead eyes and slowly shook his head. God damn it.
“Dr. Fremont, I presume?” The visitor reached out his hand. At least he had the courtesy to call me doctor.
“You’d be correct in that presumption. And you are?” I reciprocated his handshake and nearly had my hand crushed.
“Mr. Anderson. I’ve been sent from Washington to supervise you and your team today. I was wondering if there was a more private place where you, Dr. Keith, and I could discuss some details.” He flashed his CIA badge. It was almost as though the badge gave him permission to be an asshole.
“Sure. My office is right this way.” Turning around, I headed out of the lab.
I knew this was going to be a bloodbath. We were going to get it, and get it bad. I was glad that I had Keith in my corner at the very least, being one of the few people in this place that I actually had a shred of respect for. Keith was about fifteen years my senior, and he had the same kind of no bullshit attitude I aspired for. He was a man of science; a man of reason. He was actually the original supervisor of this project, but had left it in what he called “my capable hands” after he had decided to spend more time on his personal research. The three of us piled into my office and I closed the door.
Taking a seat at my desk, I quickly sparked up a cigarette. I knew it wouldn’t make me feel any better, but I viewed it as a petty act of defiance to our guest. I hoped he would view it as the same. Keith took a seat across from me while Mr. Anderson remained standing.
“Boys, I’ll give it to you straight. Washington is not pleased with what you eggheads have been trying to pull down here. Half the time we get no reports, and the other half of the time we get an incoherent mess! What kind of show are you chumps running?” Mr. Anderson asked, surprisingly calm, though obviously irritated.
“Listen, Mr. Anderson. We’re dealing with new chemicals here, new techniques. You just can’t expect us to get perfect results exactly when it’s convenient for the old boys up in Washington.” Keith responded, more eloquently than I would have.
“Oh, I understand. You need time. Well, here’s the thing: we’ve already given you two years, and copious amounts of funding. What the hell are we paying you for? We’re paying for results!” Mr. Anderson slammed his fist on my desk. He continued talking, getting louder and louder as he did. “And then you went and let some little puke die. If the media gets ahold of this, we’ll have every Joe Blow reporter and his posse making the rounds, both here and in Washington. I can see the headline now: “Government Killing Its Own”. Whether you choose to accept it or not, we’re at war. Dissension is the last goddamn thing we need right now.” There it was. I knew it was coming. He was trying to make us feel guilty by appealing to our patriotism. Unfortunately for him, the only allegiances I held were to bourbon, Marlboro, and myself. I simply nodded.
“We understand. And like I said, we’re doing our best.” Keith again took the burden of responding.
“I’m not quite sure if you two understand the importance of this project. It has the potential to save the lives of millions! With your results, we will have the ability to better interrogate and defer Russian spies! This could give us valuable information, even end the war!” I laughed silently at the thought. With people like Mr. Anderson in charge, wars would not cease. If the current conflict with the Russians ended, America would simply find a new antagonist. The vicious cycle would continue. And we would all keep our glamourous positions and continue to get paid. I felt like giving Mr. Anderson a standing ovation for his performance, but decided I’d rather keep my job. It was my turn to speak.
“We do understand, Mr. Anderson. I have a report prepared for you, and I believe you’ll find it satisfactory. Dr. Keith and I care just as much about the cause as you do, and we’re willing to do anything to support it.” I opened my briefcase and retrieved the folder containing my forged report. Sliding it across the table towards Mr. Anderson, he began to chuckle.
“Dr. Fremont, I appreciate the thought, but we are well past the point where a simple report will satisfy Washington. Sure, you can send it up there. Distribute it amongst your colleagues. I’m here to witness your techniques, to see what the American taxpayers are paying for! And we should be getting started soon, shouldn’t we? Unless there’s a problem?” I looked at Keith and then at Mr. Anderson.
“Of course, sir… If you’d follow me back to the lab, we can begin within the hour.” I got up from my desk and started towards the exit. Before I could reach the door Mr. Anderson had already opened it and was heading back towards the lab. Both of us letting out a sigh, Keith and I started after him. We didn’t exchange a word.
I am not a god-fearing man. I do not and have never found solace in a higher power. In fact, I think it’s almost idiotic. Despite all this, in times of need, I have been known to say a prayer. This was one of those instances.
Just last month an old friend had dredged himself up from the depths of high school. He must have crawled out of whatever hole he was hiding in, as he had always been prone to do. He asked me for money and for help. I gave him a small pittance, but ultimately let him go. He needed to help himself before I could help him, and even then it was a stretch. As I prayed, I imagined that if God did exist, he must feel like what I did then, with me taking the role of my lowly friend. I didn’t blame him if he didn’t answer.
I entered the lab at Keith’s heels, surprised to see that Jimmy was having a nice chat with Mr. Anderson. Together we walked over, both bracing for the news.
“Well, Dr. Fremont, it sounds to me like you and your team don’t have a subject for today’s tests. Did you know about this?” My heart sunk. My prayer must have gotten lost.
“I had some idea sir. I had given James here that task and it seems he’s failed it.” Jimmy looked down at his shoes.
“Don’t place the blame on anyone else, Dr. Fremont. You’re the man in charge. You take the blame if there’s blame to be had. That’s what a good leader does. He steps up to the plate when he’s needed.” So it had come to this. Receiving a lecture from an ignorant monster.
“I’m sorry, sir. I agree completely. We’ll have to run the tests tomorrow or on Friday; there’s just no way we can do them today, not without a subject.”
“I came here to witness a procedure, doctor, and that’s just what I’m going to do.” What was he getting at?
“Like I said, there’s no way. Who or what are we going to test the drugs on? Jimmy’s cat? Yourself?” Mr. Anderson began to laugh. I’m glad he thought this was funny. I was probably toast.
“Dr. Fremont, did you not say just moments ago in your office that you would do anything to support our plight? Did you not just agree with me when I told you that real leaders step up to the plate as their plans crumble around them?” Suddenly, it all clicked. There was no way. Was he joking?
“