^Paolox3_

For Your Own Good

Chapters 7-10

Chapter 7

Ned confirms a shocking theory or two, and Michael looses something else very dear to him.

What he had seen on the computer in the ICU ward stayed with Michael long after he and Cheng returned to their dorm and their daily routine. No one had caught them, and although badly shaken at what he had seen and done, Michael nonetheless tried to put it behind him and move on. One day bled into another with no track of time at all. Cheng's speech continued to deteriorate as Michael began to accept the fact that he was now a eunuch and gay as well. He admitted to himself that he had enjoyed what he had done with the Asian eunuch, although time and scheduling didn't offer them any opportunity to do it again. He was plagued by the occassional headache now and then, usually when he was strung out and feeling anxious or horny. He had no idea what affect his castration would have on him, but he didn't notice any appreciable change after returning to his dorm. The others were all still there, including the guard Bolton, and life resumed its normal course at IO for them.

It was some time afterwards, during the routine of getting up and showering one morning that Michael noticed something. Usually he awakened with an erection every morning, and continued to be erect during the shower. Passing his hand over his fully healed and shrinking scrotum was exciting to him, as well as watching the others. Even though he was now fully one of them, the very sight – especially of Cheng – excited him. Until that morning that he was soaping up and found that he wasn't erect. He rubbed his remaining scrotum in the usual way, looked his roommates over, and although he tried to stimulate his penis into its usual routine, nothing happened. His heart began to pound. It was Sam who noticed.

"Whaz wrong, Mikey?" he asked, a broad grin splitting his face, "Things not comin' UP like they should?"

Michael blushed. "Does this always happen?"

Surprisingly, it was Joey who answered him. "Well since they cut your balls off, yea, it happens. It's only a matter of time before you can't get it up anymore. Pretty soon you won't even be lookin' at anybody."

They looked at him in surprise. Usually, Joey didn't say two words to anyone all day long unless he was called upon in class or had to talk to a counselor. "I think I counted up 45 days or periods or rotations or whatever you wanna call it in this damn place," he continued, "after they cut me. One morning I just couldn't get it up anymore." His face flushed, and he turned the water off and reached for a towel. He sighed loudly and went back to his bedside to dress. Joey, it seemed, was very self-conscious of his defect. Sam just seemed to accept his and move on, and Cheng – although his condition was deteriorating quickly – still seemed perfectly happy as a complete total eunuch. He smiled at Michael, who found himself surprised that he was feeling hot; his penis, however, made no reply.

Sam was shaking his head and still grinning. "Might as well get IT cut off too, Mikey, it ain't never gonn' work again for ya."

Cheng laughed, and stumbled over to the towel rack. He made a gesture with one hand meant to imitate a pair of scissors cutting at the index finger of his other hand. He was grinning broadly. His coordination was failing fast, and Michael guessed that it would only be a matter of weeks before he was confined to a wheelchair. No one told them anything, but it didn't look promising. He was still having headaches, unlike Sam and Joey, and Cheng was just falling apart. Michael had had only one jolt of ULF for mouthing off in jest with a counselor, but still the nagging headaches wouldn't leave him. Ned had told him during his last exam that he would look into it, and that he had a theory. Michael had thought that he was acting rather strangely, but didn't mention it. He had also vehemently denied knowing anything about the virus-ridden CD that he and Cheng had viewed in the ICU. The thought of what they had done there made him flush again, and the feeling was there. Nothing else happened though. "Thanks, but no, guys, I think I'll keep it for a while. I might get HRT when I get out, you know."

Cheng shook his head and made the gesture again. Michael stared at him, a slow heat rising up in him. His penis began to erect a bit, slowly, and a slight twinge passed through his left eye. He shook his head again, looking away, the thought of having his penis cut off as well finally bringing him up to a full erection. He wrapped his left hand around it, and stroked it a few times, but it didn't last. Cheng sighed, shaking his head again.

Sam laughed and cupped his own large balls. "I got all the HRT a body could need right here. Damn…" then he sighed, "Why you have to be so cute, Mikey?"

"Dunno," Michael replied, shrugging his shoulders, "but I am."

He could see Sam's face turning a slighter reddish tint of brown, but he couldn't tell if it was water from the shower or beads of sweat on his smooth shaven scalp. Michael went for a towel, and Sam ran a hand over his scalp as he passed. His hair had since been cut back to ¼" [6 mm] on top and faded down to 0 below his ears. He liked the haircut, and was glad that they had let him keep it. Michael turned to face his penectomized friend, suddenly curious as to how the black youth must feel. "What's it like?" he asked softly, staring at Sam's somewhat unique groin.

Sam sighed again. "Feels like it's all still there, sometimes. I wake up and I can feel it, just like it's still there and touchin' the covers. Then I reach down to touch it thinkin' I'll just whack off a couple 'o times and there's nothin' there. But it feels like it should be. I still get horny, but cain't do nothin' 'bout it. And tell you what, seein' you all in the shower every mornin' don' help either!" Then he laughed. "Oh well, if I DID have it still, you know where it'd be!"

Michael felt himself flushing again. He certainly didn't feel like his balls were still there, and the thought of never having another erection bothered him. What he and Cheng had done was still large in his mind, and he found himself frightened as well that he wanted to do it again, but might never be able to. He couldn't begin to imagine Sam's frustration. Then, without warning, Sam moved a bit closer and put his heavily muscled arm around Michael's slight shoulders and shook him. He rubbed the eunuch's head again, then slapped his butt. "You too good for this place, Mikey," he said, "and too cute to tease ME."

Cheng laughed aloud at that.

"I'm sorry," Michael apologized, "I don't mean to." Suddenly he was afraid of Sam, and he didn't know why. The incident with Harvey was long past, but it came to the surface with shocking clarity. Sam was almost graduated, and it worried him. Who would take over when Sam was gone, and what would Sam do? How would he act once he was full Staff and not a trainee? Would he pursue medicine more, or stay a guard? It was too early to think about such heavy matters.

They were almost dried off when Michael heard Cheng whimper. He pulled his towel from over his head so that he could see, and saw Cheng kneeling on the floor. There was a stream of blood coming from both sides of the Asian eunuch's nose, and he was pounding both fists against his temples. Sam called out, "Medical emergency!" as Joey, startled by Cheng's sudden cries, ran to the door and began to call for Bolton. Michael knelt beside of Cheng as Sam pulled the eunuch's hands behind his back. His thin arms weren't strong, so it wasn't much of a struggle. Michael put a hand on his forehead and pushed it back, pinching his nose and wiping at it with a towel. Cheng's was hot. Michael could feel it in his hand – the small Asian was burning up. He was shaking, and trying to say something. Then he fell forward, and Michael caught him as Sam pulled back on his wrists. "L-l-lhegggo!" he cried. Sam did that. As he released his wrists, Cheng wrapped his thin and longish arms around Michael's neck. Michael pulled him into a tight embrace, saying, "Help's coming, it'll pass." He didn't know what else to do. He stared up at Sam, but Sam was shaking his head. The black boy turned away. More blood suddenly shot from Cheng's nose, splashing Michael all over his shoulder. It ran down his chest and dripped onto the floor. "D-dhon' l-l-let gho," Cheng sobbed, choking as a new fountain of blood erupted from his mouth. Michael held his friend tighter, despite the mess that was going on all over them. "Where ARE they?" he screamed, beginning to rock back and forth with Cheng in his arms.

Michael tightened his grip, as if thinking somehow that he could actually do something. Cheng's shivers and cries of pain became less intense, and when the door opened to admit Bolton and an orderly, Cheng fell limp in his arms. His lips were moving, but he was making no sound. Michael bent closer, placing his ear on Cheng's blood-soaked lips. "L-lhuv yhhu, Muh-hikey," he whispered. Then, without warning, he screamed one last time.

For the rest of his life, Michael would remember that terrible, agonized wail.

Then Bolton and the orderly were upon him, pulling him back, but it was Sam who spoke. "It's too late."

Ned stared at his computer and picked up his cell phone. He dialed up his friend Jason, who had written the ingenious virus code for the CD that he had left for Michael. There it was in front of him with stunning clarity, so easily seen once he noticed it that he couldn't believe that he had missed it. He had to have another opinion, however. Jason's mind worked like a computer, and if he saw the pattern as well, then it would have to hold true. Finally, Ned knew how to save Michael, even if Cheng was already too far-gone.

Jason agreed to come over as soon as he could and have a look at Ned's findings, which were catagorized and printed neatly. He stared at it in wonder. It was so easy. There before him was the answer as to why some of the boys at IO reacted so badly to therapy and to ULF. Ned also theorized that it was his findings that explained why some of them deteriorated into vegetables and some died. It wasn't common, but there were cases. IO's mortality rate was running at 3% a year. Three boys of every 100 died in IO before they graduated. And finally, Ned knew why. The answer lay in the combination of the ULF waves, endorphine levels in the brain, testosterone levels, and one other very important thing: sexual preference. Looking back, Ned realized that in all the time he had been at IO, he had seen two boys deteriorate into vegetables and one die. He thought of Cheng, then of Michael. He remembered the boy who had died, and another aspect of his plan began to form in his mind. Impatiently, he waited for Jason to arrive. While he waited, he studied more of the results that Jason's virus had gotten from the Mainframe for him.

The cases of the last twenty deaths at IO over the years were summarized very simply. Ned had printed them out via name and age and age at time of death. It also listed each boy's sexual characteristics. It looked like this:

Ned wondered how he had ever missed it. He laughed at himself for all the nights he had spent studying the records until he had run across the article about the hypothalamus of the brain in gay men. All down the terrible list, the names changed. The genital cutting of different boys varied, but one thing was NOT on the list: Penectomy only. The ages didn't seem to matter. Each boy was either castrated or emasculated fully and gay. There was not one single death that read "hetero" by the boy's name. There was also no listing of a death for any boy who had kept his balls only. It all fit together so well. Ned sighed again and picked up his tape recorder. He began to speak.

"After long study, I have come up with a theory as to what is causing the slow degeneration and eventual deaths of several boys at the IO Rehab Facility. It seems to be a combination of factors. It has been found that the construction of the hypothalamus of the brain is different in homosexual men – and boys for that matter – than it is in heterosexual men. There seems to be a difference in a small lobe at the base, and this lobe is different in homosexuals. When subjected to the ULF bursts that are used to induce pain in misbehaving inmates, the brain prepares to release endorphins upon termination of said pain. Once these endorphins are released, they cause a feeling of intense relief. The boy is thereby encouraged to behave. However, these endorphins also seem to react with the other endorphins that are generated by sexual activity. As everyone knows, sex feels good. This is caused by the endorphins and pleasure centers in the brain. Due to their age upon admission, as everyone knows, a teenage boy is a walking mountain of hormones and sexual desire. It is standard procedure to castrate inmates, or to emasculate them as Administration sees fit. Some of the boys have their penises cut off, but retain their testicles. This leads to interesting hormonal insights. Usually, a boy will lose his sex drive shortly after castration, since none of the eunuchs at IO are given HRT. They have low amounts of testosterone in their systems. The boys who still have their testicles, but no penis, have normal to high testosterone levels, along with the other hormones that the testicles manufacture. But what of the boys who do NOT lose their sex drive totally after castration? It's almost like a car that can run with no gas in the tank. The boys may not be very well able to perform sexually, but they WANT to. Their brains continue to release these pleasureable endorphins, whether they are able to reach a sexual climax or not. Seemingly in cases where the boy has the desire but can't reach orgasm, the effect is even worse. Perhaps because he tries harder. It seems that these sexual endorphins combine with the ULF-released endorphins and the resulting mix of chemistry is further intensified by ULF treatments. Even the nighttime therapy via the subliminal transceivers in the inmates' pillows seems to play a role in this. This 'endorphinal mix' appears to elevate to toxic levels, resulting in degeneration of brain tissue. The boys affected first begin to become disoriented but overly happy, easily confused, begin to slur their speech, and lose motor control. Eventually, they lose the ability to speak and ability to walk. Shortly thereafter, their coordination fails and they begin to lose more memory. It seems that within 1.5 to 2 years, depending on the boy, two things may happen: the boy dies, or he becomes a vegetable who is nearly brain dead. Death in these cases usually happens as a complication of something along the lines of pnuemonia."

Ned paused. He wished that Jason would show up, because the next phase of his plan was going to need a very, very good computer hacker to get him into IO's Mainframe.

"So what is the conclusion? Very simple – gay boys who get castrated and don't lose their desire for sex are going to die from the ULF treatments and abnormal hypothalamus activity. Heterosexual boys, castrated or not, seem to immune – as do the penectomized – only, bigger boys like Sam who are planning to become Staff members. The key seems to be testosterone – somehow this main male hormone interacts with the deadly endorphine/ULF mix and neutralizes it. For a gay inmate at IO, testicular castration can be a death sentence, depending on how much the boy steps out of line and gets ULF punished."

There was a knock at the door and Ned put aside his recorder. It was Jason. Ned showed him the table of information, and Jason immediately reached the same conclusion. "Looks like gay boys who get castrated at that place where you work die inside of 2 years to me," he observed, "but the ones with balls don't?"

Ned sighed and nodded.

"So out with it, man, whatcha need now?"

"I need to hack the IO Mainframe and change some records," Ned replied.

Jason's eyebrows shot up and he whistled. "Why?" he asked.

"I have to get someone out," Ned replied, "Someone I don't think should be there."

Jason paused and looked up from the pile of papers. "No straight boys dyin' in there, huh? So you wanna save one little faggot that got put away because he was a criminal? You're almost a full-fledged doctor, Ned. Why risk it for one rottten kid? He's getting' what he deserves."

"NO, he's not getting what he deserves!" Ned retorted vehemently, "He was ignored, neglected, and left to fend for himself. No one came to rescue him. His only crime was being born to the wrong parents and being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He's being terrorized, having his brain messed with, and for God's sake, Jason, I had to cut his balls off! He trusted me, and I betrayed him. Just like everyone else. That boy, queer or not, is going to die in there just like these others unless I do something!"

"There's something else, Ned, out with it. We've known each other too long. Why THIS boy? Why not the Asian kid you keep talking about, or the Andy or André or whatever whose mom's a lesbian? Why MICHAEL?" Jason dug in, his words relentless.

Ned sat down heavily in his computer chair and spun around. He felt the tears welling up in his eyes. There was a lump rising in his throat, and emotions that he had supressed since Jason had begun to write the virus-laden CD suddenly came rushing back up to assault him. He brushed the papers off of the desk with a despairing groan and inserted a copy of the same CD that would reformat itself once played. He clicked on MICHAEL when the screen came up and left the room, saying only "Watch the damn movie. I'll be back."

The media player opened up and Jason, who knew that Ned was studying a specialty in urology, watched.

On the screen, two burly black guards were escorting a boy of small build. The boy had pale hair, and he was thin and puny looking. His hair was shaved very close to his scalp, in a very short buzzcut. The boy was naked, and the guards held him, one each having a hold of the boy's upper arms. They half led, half carried him into the room. His head was drooping, and it appeared that he had been drugged. Then the image zoomed itself up. Jason could see the angry looking and large red welts on the sides of the boy's head. One of his eyes was blackened, and his lower lip was busted. There were bruises here and there on his slight frame. The boy moaned now and again as the guards lifted him up and placed his limp body on a metal-framed table of sorts that looked like some type of Midieval torture device. There was also a large, tough looking man there whom Jason did not know. He assumed that it must be the "Ames" fellow that Ned often mentioned with contempt. He was wearing a white lab coat and carrying a clipboard. He looked over the unmoving boy, made a few notes, then began to secure the boy to the exam table.

Jason could hear the press and rip of the Velcro cuffs as Ames adjusted them about the boy's wrists and ankles. He then secured a larger strap across the boy's waist, two over his upper thighs, and a collar about his neck. Lastly, he placed a thinner strap across the boy's forehead. He then paused as someone else entered the room. It appeared to be some other doctor, or perhaps a male nurse. Ames handed him the clipboard and stepped back. With practiced efficiency, the man in white took a tray of various instruments and moved closer to the boy on the table. He looked the boy over, and turned back to his tray. Ames watched as the man in white placed an IV in the back of the boy's left hand. He then produced a long tube from the tray. Jason cringed as he watched the screen, as the man carefully catheterized the boy. The shot was zoomed up, and Jason noted that the boy showed no outward signs of puberty. Once he had secured the catheter to a collection bottle, he picked up another longer, thinner tube and began to insert it up the boy's nose. The boy on the table moaned a few times, but didn't wake up. Somehow, although he had never been in that bad of a shape, Jason felt glad that the boy was so far out of it and oblivious to what was being done to him. The man in white looked over his handywork, nodded to Ames, and left. Some time later, as Ames was making more notes and entering data into a computer on the far side of the room, another man entered.

It was Ned.

"He's all ready for you," Ames was saying, but Ned was just standing there onscreen staring at the form of the unconscious boy on the table. His eyes looked haunted.

"Oh God, what have you DONE to him?" Ned asked in a hushed but anguished tone.

"Nothing he didn't deserve," Ames replied, "Let's get this little fuck castrated and see if that settles him down. He flipped out talking to his counselor this afternoon and got hysterical. He wouldn't listen, so we punished him. It was for his own good, you know."

Ned was staring at the boy with a look of horror on his face as if something had come back from his own past to haunt him. With a trembling hand, he picked up a hypodermic and found a vein. He took a blood sample.

"What's that for?" Ames demanded.

"I want to test his serum testosterone levels," Ned replied, for a before/after comparision.

Ames grunted and nodded. "Just cut his balls off and be quick about it."

"He's in too bad a shape," Ned replied, his voice hot, "Just look at him! He looks like he's been beaten half to death! He's in no shape for surgery!"

"It's a simple procedure and almost bloodless, Ned. Need I remind you of your obligation and who is in charge here? The boy's balls have to come off, and come off now. He's a bad boy, and it's policy anyway. That is, unless you intended to take MORE off than just his balls?" Ames tone was suggestive.

"Of course not," Ned snapped, "His records say he's HRT pending upon release. How's a total emasculation going to rehabilitate him? He isn't in for sex crimes. He's just an abused child whom no one wanted."

"Do it your own way," Ames replied, shrugging. "Just be off with his balls. You need any help?"

"NO!" Ned snapped, "Not with this one."

Ames was leering at the boy on the table. "You like him, don't you?"

"Yes, I do 'like' him, but not in THAT way, Ames."

"Uh-huh," Ames answered. "Oh well. Another day, another castration. Excuse me, if you will. I have another busload of inmates coming in later on this evening. Have fun." And with that, Ames turned and left.

Jason watched the screen as Ned moved closer and gently laid a hand on the boy's forehead. He stood there for a long while, gazing upon the bruised face that was as yet unbroken by a single whisker. Jason could see his friend onscreen, shaking, as if not wanting to do what he had called upon to do. It was another simple castration, was it not? Jason thought. He started, not ready for the sound of Ned's voice from the screen. It had been quiet for so long…

"I'm SO sorry, Michael," the Ned on the monitor whispered to the unconscious boy, as he picked up a bottle of Betadyne and began to cleanse the boy's scrotum with it.

Jason saw that Ned's hands were shaking as he moved the scalpel along the side of the boy's scrotum. With a practiced hand, he slid the left testicle out into his own gloved hand and pulled it down a bit. He tied off the cords, then severed the testicle with a cauterizing scalpel. He closed the small wound with two stitches, and repeated the task for the other side. He then cleaned up the boy's blood-flecked groin, inspected the catheter, and carefully bandaged the wound. He called for someone to advise them that he was done and to take the boy to ICU. The same two guards entered the room with a gurney, carefully slid the boy onto it, and left with him.

Ned watched them go.

Once alone, he collapsed into the chair with his face in his hands – still gloved and bloody. Jason watched in amazement as his friend wept like his heart had just broken, his body wracked by choking sobs. Then the screen went dark and the CD auto-destructed and ejected. Jason didn't understand.

"Well?" came the voice from behind him.

"I don't get it, Ned. You just cut his balls off. Big deal. How many boys in there are castrated?"

"All of them, in one way or another," Ned replied.

"So what's up with this Michael kid?"

Ned, who had since found a cup of coffee, sat it on the endtable and walked over to the desk. He handed Jason another paper from a separate stack that he had not scattered earlier. It was a lab test sheet, complete with DNA codes typed out and graphics. Above the first set was the name 'Michael Baines'. Above the second set was Ned's name. Jason felt a cold chill pass over him as he read the medical terms that he didn't understand. Seeing a pattern on a table of data was one thing, but this was quite another. "So?" Jason asked.

Ned sighed. He took a long drink of the coffee.

"When I was little, my dad left us. Shit, I don't even really remember his face, he left so early in my life. My mom worked hard for years until she met a good guy with a good job. We lived well then. I never knew what happened to my dad, he never called, never came back. I always figured he found someone else and didn't love us anymore, so we moved on. My stepdad was a great guy, Jason. He loved mom and me with all his heart and when she had HIS baby, it didn't change a thing. He loved us equally. I always wondered, though, where MY dad went and why he left. What became of him? Where did he go? But I never found out. All that my mom ever said was that he was worthless and didn't like to work. My stepdad helped me get into a good school, took great care of his own son, hell he even legally adopted me when I was six. It was the typical American dream, Jason. For someone as smart as you are, you arent' drawing the conclusion too well."

Jason thought for a moment. "What about your little half-brother by this guy then?"

"He died of leukemia when he was nine."

"And?" Jason asked, gesturing for more information.

"Patterns, Jason," Ned said very softly, look at the pics, the DNA prints, and look for patterns."

Jason did that. On the screen was a picture of Michael Baines, the boy at IO that had Ned so upset. He compared the picture to Ned's. He stared into the DNA prints. Slowly, a suspiscion came over him. He copied the IO picture of Michael and opened up Photoshop 5.5 on the computer. Then he imported the picture of Ned. He cut and pasted Michael's face onto Ned's to add more hair, then pulled up both images side by side. He grabbed up the papers with the DNA analysis again.

"I ran that right before I castrated him, Jason. The sample I stole," Ned explained, "I had to know."

"Holy shit!" Jason exclaimed, waving the papers at the computer's monitor.

Ned bowed his head and sighed.

"You don't mean that this kid is…"

Ned nodded. "I'm 99% sure. Read the back of the DNA printout sheet."

Jason stared at the back of the paper, his eyes wide. He hadn't thought before to check both sides. Ned and he had been friends since high school. He hadn't heard Ned talk about his half-brother before, didn't even know the story of Ned's father situation. He was beginning to wonder what else he didn't know about his friend who was asking so much of him. "But your surname isn't 'Baines'," Jason exclaimed.

"My stepdad adopted me when I was six, remember? He changed my name too," Ned choked out.

"Oh my God," Jason replied, "You mean that this – this Michael kid is…"

"Yes, Jason. The time frame is just about perfect. What you just watched – what I did to him – why I HAVE to get him out of there…" but Ned was overcome before he could continue. Somewhat uncomfortably, Jason put his arm around Ned's shoulders as the man surrendered to another onset of crying. Jason concluded what Ned was unable to say.

"Your dad left you when you were a toddler, then. He was havin' an affair and left you and your mom. She remarried, you were adopted by her new husband … your name used to be 'Baines'?"

Still unable to speak for his tears, Ned only nodded.

Jason looked back at the screen and the two faces smiling back at him.

"Then this 'Michael Baines' kid is your little brother."

Chapter 8

Events begin to close in on Ames, and a computer error at IO turns Mikey loose in the lower complex as Ned makes an attempt to liberate his little brother before he dies there.

The wind was soft, very nearly a breeze, as a bright and silvery moon made its way across a clear night sky without a single cloud to impede its progress. From seemingly everywhere, yet nowhere in particular, crickets chirped and an occasional tree frog croaked. Carried on the soft wind was the slight fragrance of some sweet flower, its shape and color unknown, hidden in the darkness. It was the perfect night, the type of night that poets wrote about and lovers fantasized about. There was a slight chill to the air, not actually amplified by the breeze. All of this was lost on the man making his way up the walk, however. For him, this night was anything but peaceful or romantic. It was a turning point in his life, and the utter serenity of Nature's perfection did absolutely nothing for him.

He twisted his key in the locked door, entered the apartment that he could scarcely afford, and re-locked the door. He switched on only one small lamp, making his way more by feel than anything else to his desk in the corner of the small living room. He switched on another small lamp near the computer, and snatched the yellow Post-It note off of the screen. He read it half aloud, his breath catching as his mind stumbled over the words. Although he was tired and his body cried out for rest more so than his overworked mind did, he still had work to do. Work, and the thoughts that he knew would deny him any good sleep. Good sleep had been harder to come by of late, although that was nothing new. He touched the computer's mouse, and the screen came to life. There was work to be done.

It was a simple setup. There was no happy wallpaper on the desktop to greet him. Instead, there was only a cyan-colored background with a very few icons scattered across it. Deep within the computer's tower, however, other things were happening. As he read the note over and over and went in search of some coffee, three 1-gig multi-processor chips and over 1,000 Megs of RAM sensed the mouse movement and came to life. Somewhere, a DSL modem made connection and began to download his email into a browser that had begun to run. One instant messenger program with only two contacts on the list came to life as well, marking him as "available." The CD rewriteable drive, a uniquely modified invention that his friend Jason had made for him out of spare parts as a technology project, spun up the CD that waited inside of it. It was a blank CD-RW disk, but by the time the coffee was done it contained over 400 megabytes of nasty and aggressive code that would viscously assault any other system that they came into contact with. Even the best anti-virus software would stand no chance against Jason's coding, which had just arrived via the DSL modem. The lights dimmed briefly then came back up. He sipped his coffee and sighed.

"Phase 1 complete," he murmured, "THANK YOU, Jason."

His friend, Jason, in building this contraption, has demonstrated beyond the shadow of a doubt that he had far too much free time on his hands and was too intelligent for his own good. An email came in, notifying him that the same data was also awaiting him on a CD-RW in his computer terminal at work, which no one would be able open it anyway without help.

There in the darkness, he waited. He switched off the one lamp near the computer and sipped his coffee. Quietly he contemplated the moonlight spilling in through one of the windows and sighed again. Although he really needed sleep, and was off from both work and school the following day, he couldn't bring himself to rest. There was just enough light to see the pictures on the end table.

In the center was a picture of himself as a child. He didn't recall the date, and there was no writing on the back of it. He guessed himself to be about twelve years old in the image. To the left of his childhood picture was the image of another little boy. This one he knew well. He took another long drink of the warm coffee and felt the tears welling up in his eyes. The boy in the lefthand image was smiling back at him, almost as if trying to give him comfort at this odd hour. He looked so happy, so healthy and alive. But he wasn't. Flashing in the man's mind was another picture – an image of the same boy but with his facial features drawn and pinched and his soft and thick blonde hair all gone. Unlike the real picture, his facial tones were not the magenta-tinged tan of youth at its best. Instead, they were gray and sickly. In his mind, the glittering slate colored eyes were closed and sunken. For all that he now knew, for all that medical science had known then, nothing had been able to save his little brother from leukemia. But on the right of his own childhood image was still another face; a digital print, but quality nonetheless.

The tears that had welled threateningly in his eyes finally spilled over as his gaze fell upon this last picture of a boy with severely buzzed blonde hair and mysteriously colored eyes. This was the face that now haunted his dreams. Instead of the boy on the left, it was now the boy on the right. No longer was the haunting question that he heard over and over in his sleep, "Why did you go away when I was sick?" Now when he attempted sleep, he heard, "Why did you castrate me and leave me in here?" His mind raced. His eyes jumped from image to image. There was no doubt, despite the varying haircuts, that the three boys were brothers. The set of the forehead, the shape of the nose… and the eyes. He found himself lost in those eyes, and unable to tear himself away from the gaze of those penetrating eyes in the image to the right, he became lost.

He saw himself, an eternity ago. He looked left. It was the shape of the face, his mother's nose. He looked right. It was the set of the forehead and the eyes. Left – the ears. Right – the shape of the mouth. He cursed his own father for abandoning him when he was little, and cursed the unknown man again for siring another boy whom he would not care for either. Perhaps he had sensed it. Perhaps something had brought them together, fate, karma, God… who knew ? Perhaps it had been something else. He thought of his stepfather, warmly, and of his mother. He bowed his head, his mind full, his senses waning, but far from rest. "Oh, God," he whispered, "Oh, Michael, if only I'd known sooner!" The soft moonlight fell across his face, but he failed to notice it.

It was with a start that he was pulled from his reverie by the obnoxious UH-OH sound of his instant messenger program going off on the computer. The message was simple. "It's done. You know what to do next. Whenever you're ready. I still don't know why you wanna do this for a boy you hardly know." He didn't reply. Instead, he turned back to his contemplation of the three pictures. Of the boy in the center, he remembered love. Of the boy on the left, he remembered more love and sense of family, later torn apart by unbearable pain. But of the boy on the right he remembered only pain. He hadn't known this boy for long, and if his plans failed, he wouldn't be knowing him for much longer. Of that he was sure. The tears continued to fall silently down his cheeks, and he remembered that other than the night before, when he had announced his discovery to his friend Jason, that he not cried since the funeral. Or had he? Yes, he had; he just didn't want to think about it. Another image arose in his mind, an image of one of those boys – beaten and unconscious – being taken out on a gurney. Not since the boy on the left, his little brother, had died, had he been moved to tears. Not until the boy on the gurney, the boy on the right, had come into his life. Not until he had castrated that same boy.

He retrieved the CD from the computer and put it in his jacket pocket. He paused only long enough to email the computer at work that he had forgotten something and was coming back in for it. He then turned to go, but paused for one more look at the three images. As he locked the door and stepped out into the perfect night once again, he wondered what that boy in the right-hand picture was doing. The boy, he knew, certainly wasn't enjoying the night, locked up and lost in a building with more stories underground than most had above. A building where the interior lights never went off, and there was no night or day. A place where there was no full moon shining down on his face, or a soft breeze ruffling his hair. Not even a window. And, like himself, where one was unable to even dream of something better.

"Not again," Ned choked, as the fragrance of that unknown flower came to him on the wind, "I won't bury another little brother."

The boy sat curled up in a chair, his arms locked about his knees which were drawn up under his chin. Although the temperature of the room never varied by more than a degree or two, he was shivering. He wore an all-white sweatsuit and white ankle length socks. His sweatshirt's hood was pulled up over his closely cropped blonde hair. He sat rocking back and forth, his head pounding and tears streaming down his face. He was all alone in the rec room. Everyone else was either in class or with a counselor. He himself should have been in History class at the time, but somehow in light of what had happened, he just hadn't been able to bring himself to go to class. Surprisingly, they had relented to his pleas to simply be left alone. He was seldom alone in this strange place. If he wasn't asleep, he was in the company of his roommates or in class. If he wasn't in class, he was with a counselor. If he wasn't with a counselor, he was in the rec room with at least one roommate and or a guard. If not that, then he was in bed.

Bed. The word stuck in his mind. His own bed was so comfortable and warm, but yet he didn't want to be in it anymore. He thought of his old bed at home, lumpy and hard and not very good for the back. He never thought that he would miss it, but as he rocked himself in the deserted rec room, he realized that he did. At least there, he had dreamed. Here, he didn't. He thought of his bed in the ICU, which he had occupied for weeks, or so they had told him. He thought of the bed there where he had, only so recently, discovered sex and the pleasures that it could bring him. Pleasures, that despite his castration, were still available for him. He had not had sex nor even masturbated until that time, that very first time.

And then a fresh storm of crying overtook him. The slight boy's body was wracked by violent sobs as he choked on his own breath, his entire body shaking. Gooseflesh broke out all over him, the tiny hairs that he had here and there on his body standing on end. He had promised himself that he wouldn't let them see him cry anymore. The constant pain in his head intensified, and he pulled himself up into an even tighter position. They might have relented and allowed him his time alone to grieve, but they hadn't mentioned this. It was one of the worst punishments he had yet endured at IO. Unable to help it, he gave in and wept.

Michael Baines, eunuch, aged 13 years and IO inmate was breaking his promise to himself.

He had no idea of how long he had been alone in the rec room. No one was playing pool. No one was playing with the Playstation – but how much fun could one have with games like Poke'mon red and blue and yellow and nothing with any action – he wondered silently. He wished that there was a TV or at the very least a VCR with prerecorded movies, even anything G-rated. But there wasn't. There was no contact with the outside world. Michael found himself suddenly wishing desperately for a window, to see the sun or least something green. He was so tired of white. White, gray, pale yellow… and red. He was so sickened by red. He had seen far too much of it already.

He shot one spiteful glance at the mirrored globe in the center of the ceiling and bowed his head once again. Although he hadn't had a religious upbringing – if his previous life could even be called an upbringing at that – he found himself praying to Someone, Anyone, who would listen to him. He wasn't sure if God was there, or Jesus, or any other religious figure for that matter. He simply cast his thoughts silently in the direction that he thought was up, hoping that there really was a Heaven and that Someone there was listening to his desperate cries for help. He made no sound as he prayed, yet his ears were still filled with one horrific sound in the empty rec room that was as silent as Death itself, save for his own crying. And even though his weeping eyes were tightly closed, he saw before him that same image… that red image of the tiled shower floor as he pressed his ear down near Cheng's mouth. And then the scream. It filled his mind, and suddenly Michael realized that it was probably a good thing that the therapy transceiver in his pillow wouldn't let him dream anymore.

He thought of the beds again. He thought of what he had done, albeit at Cheng's insistence. It all seemed like a fading dream, although he couldn't remember having had a dream since his arrival at IO. A wave of sudden confusion welled up in him, to be followed shortly by anger. He had done what he had done, and – he finally admitted to himself – he had liked it. Never before had he given any thought to the fact that he himself might turn out gay, but as one hand instinctively moved to his crotch at the very memory of it, he was reminded also that he was now a eunuch. This only served to add to the confusion in his mind, which was scarcely functioning anyway. He thought of how he had been told that once castrated, men lost interest in sex – yet he hadn't. He had just discovered it, and after the fact at that. He remembered the pleasure, but could feel only the current pain. He tried hard to remember the smile on the Asian eunuch's face, but all he could see behind his closed eyelids was the red floor. With a struggle, he tried to remember the sound of that stuttered goodbye, "L-lhuv y-yhu…", but all he could hear was that final scream of sheer agony. The pain in his own head was almost unbearable, and although he cursed himself for it, he couldn't stop crying.

"'At least no one's here to see me,'" he thought, half aloud.

But Michael was wrong.

In his office several floors above, Ames stared at the monitor. He sipped his strong coffee and lit a cigarette, punching a few keys on his control panel which controlled the level of ULF waves that were slowly, and without any real tissue damage, tearing through Michael's brain and putting him in extreme pain. Although mercy was not really in his nature, Ames had suddenly had a second thought as an alarm went off. "SHIT!" he exploded, spilling coffee in his lap. The alarm was to remind him that he was going to have to cease the ULF punishment for the time being. He couldn't prove it, thanks to the glitch in the camera in the ICU, but he was almost certain that this new inmate, Michael Baines was – despite his castration – inclined towards homosexual behavior. Ames couldn't tolerate a great deal of things, and 'faggots,' as he called them, were very near the top of his list. "Dammit anyway," Ames mumbled to himself, blowing smoke at the monitor, "I guess we'll have to adhere to the manual and just let the death of your little butt-buddy be punishment enough for now." Ames slowly rose from his chair, wiped himself off with a napkin, and left the office muttering to himself about fags and rotten kids and castrations and the assorted values of things like hangings, firing squads, and the like.

Several floors below, Michael fell out of his chair and lay sprawled and gasping on the floor, his brain flooding with endorphins as the pain suddenly stopped. "Thank you," he whispered, his body shaking with relief. Of course he knew it was coming – it always did – but that didn't lessen the fact that they had decided to punish him for merely begging for some time alone to grieve the loss of his friend. "I didn't think I was messing up when I asked!" he cried aloud as the tears started again. But if anyone heard him it would only have been God, for Ames had left his station.

Outside, where Michael couldn't see it, a cloud slipped in front of the moon and the breeze died as Ned pulled up to the main gate, allowing the guard on duty to scan his badge.

"MICHAEL," the auto-voice said from everywhere and nowhere in the rec room. The boy on the floor didn't reply. He merely stared at the ceiling. "MICHAEL BAINES – report to the mess hall for supper." He thought about it, considering what might happen to him if he refused to move, and thought better of defiance. He stood up and straightened his white clothing. He tugged at the legs of his sweatpants, noticing that they were getting a bit short and riding up to the tops of his socks. He was definitely growing, but then again Ned had told him that he was being injected with growth hormones and being made to exercise more lately. What they hadn't told him was the fact that the lack of testosterone in his youthful body would encourage that adolescent 'gangly' look; there would be no male hormones to put the brakes on the long bones of his arms and legs, and they would grow a bit disproportionately over time. He was incarcerated until age 18, and if nothing happened to change that, Michael was going to grow more than expected. He sighed and allowed the door scanner to read his ID bracelet. The door chimed and slid open, and then it happened.

Without warning, the lights went out. Michael found himself plunged into pitch darkness, and for a horrible moment before the emergency systems came online he thought that the ULF punishment system had blinded him. Although it took only a few seconds for the dim emergency lights to power up, to the frightened boy it seemed like an eternity. He screamed as the lights came back on and jumped through the door into the hallway. Surprisingly, there was no guard at the desk. There was, however, a steaming cup of coffee and a burning cigarette. There were also papers scattered over the floor, and the rolling task chair was flipped over. Michael looked around and called out, "Hello?"

No one answered him.

"Hello, is anyone here?" he asked.

No response. Then he remembered one of Sam's tricks. He didn't know if it would work for him, but he didn't know what else to try. "MAINFRAME," he shouted to the ceiling, "What's wrong?" The reply of the auto-voice nearly made him wet his pants.

"System failure, emergency backup routers have taken over. Implement disaster Protocol C-1. Verify ID…"

Suddenly emboldened by the words "system failure," Michael committed – considering his circumstances – what was an act of sheer and utterly insane defiance. "NO." he replied as he saw the red lights of an ID scanner flashing at him. He picked up the cup of coffee and took a long drink. He let the bitter taste linger in his mouth, finding it potent and refreshing compared to the constant bland diet of dull foods and milk or water that the inmates were routinely served.

"VERIFY," the auto-voice demanded again.

Michael ignored it. He tried the door to his room, but it would not open. He tried the door to the elevator, but it would not open either. The light level was, he guessed, not even a quarter of the norm. It was almost like walking around outside when the light had almost totally gone after sundown. Suddenly an idea came to him. "System failure" might mean that escape was possible, and if not escape, then perhaps a bit of outside air. He might get a look outside. The idea thrilled him, and his body shuddered at the thought. Slowly, looking over his shoulder every now and then, he took the cup of coffee and went back to the rec room. He tried all of the doors there, but none of them would open. He took another drink. He then went back to the desk and picked up the cigarette.

He had smoke a few times before, to look cool, but had never actually inhaled the smoke. As the crippled computer system desperately tried to restore itself, demanding that the unknown person in this section identify, Michael took a drag and inhaled deeply. "SHIT!" he choked, seized by a coughing fit. He coughed for several minutes, then another idea came to him. There were other doors in the hallway down from the door that opened into his dorm room. He smiled.

Very slowly and deliberately, Michael began going down the hallway trying doors. The fifth door he tried opened and he stepped through it.

In his temporary office, Ned smiled and got up from his computer. He pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket and made his way towards the propped-open door. He listened as the auto-voice demanded that he identify and called for implementation of disaster Protocols. "Five, four, three, two, one…" he said…

and as he said 'one,' the emergency lights went out. The auto-voice died. Ned turned and looked at his computer, running off of it's power supply backup that he had installed a few days before. The CD drive was happily spinning, throwing more and more of Jason's handiwork into the system. The program had been named MONKEYWRECH.exe, and to Ned it was very fitting. The lights flickered on and off. The auto-voice stuttered. "Emergency… primary system failure… backup system failure………" the auto-voice tried to say, it's voice slowing and dropping like an old fashioned vinyl record winding down. Somewhere deep in the bowels of the mainframe, the main CPU was trying to desperately save itself. For every recovery protocol that it could activate however, ten other 'monkeywrenches' jumped in to smother it, however. Then, as the lights went out for the final time, Ned smiled broadly. "Fuck you," he mumbled and left his office for the last time.

He screamed again as the dim lights failed altogether. It was totally black now, and Michael had no clue at all where he was. There had been a momentary surge of power when he had pulled the mystery door open and stepped through, but the surge had also closed the door behind him. Common sense told him to sit and wait. He did that.

In the mess hall, Joey stared into the darkness and calmly asked Sam, who had been sitting across from him, "So what now, boss?"

"Fucked if I know," Sam replied, "Hey Bolton, dude, you got a light?"

There was a scraping sound, and a single flame appeared in the darkness. It was followed by a few flashlights here and there as other staff members broke into emergency boxes. "Thanks," Joey replied, continuing to eat his dinner as if nothing were happening.

Ames made his way back to his office, a stream of obscenities coming from his mouth. Things like this couldn't happen, they had told him. The Mainframe CANNOT crash, they had told him. "Bullshit," was the nicest word that he said as he rummaged through his desk in search of a flashlight. He found one. Images of chaos filled his mind. He could only imagine what was happening, inmates running loose in the corridors, doors not locked – anything could happen. It was utter chaos just waiting to explode. "Stupid fuckin' computers," he swore. Fumbling in the darkness, he found his flashlight and made his way to the far end of the office. He screamed at the scanner on the wall, demanding that the Mainframe do something, anything. Instead of the auto-voice, however, he got music. From everywhere, the sounds of the song Before You Were Born by the group Toad the Wet Sprocket from the album Fear began to play. Of course, this analogy was lost on Ames, but several of the inmates – who showed a remarkable amount of good sense and calm – recognized it and laughed aloud. Some of them. As the lyrics "Goddamn the people who left you in pain… Goddamn the father, without face without name…" rang through the halls, Ames continued to swear again. "This has got to be someone's idea of a sick joke," he muttered, instinctively going for his cell phone. The red NO SIGNAL lamp was flashing. "FUCK!" he screamed, realizing too late that cell phones didn't work inside the IO complex. He picked up the real phone. Dead.

In the mess hall, the inmates of Sam and Joey and Michael's ward continued to eat and then sat in the dark chatting about this that and the other. No one was stupid enough to try anything, since the guards were still there and they were armed. The song went on and on, and a few of them recognized it. Sam was sitting next to Bolton, who had lit another cigarette. By the dim light, Joey could see Sam rocking to the tune. "Not bad fo' a white band," the boy commented.

In the darkness of his unknown surroundings, Michael waited. He then got brave. He put one foot out, tentatively, and felt floor under his sock. He took another small step, and found floor. After ten paces, he found a guard rail. One more pace told him he had come to stairs. He began his descent, unknowingly, into the bowels of the IO complex.

Ned ran through the familiar corridors with flashlight in hand, headed straight to where he now knew Michael would be. Once he had come inside, he had realized that it was dinner time. He had placed his CD into the computer, and ran the MONKEYWRECH.exe program. He then had planned to go and find Michael, and confront Ames with some rather interesting custody papers that his lawyer had drawn up on short notice. Legal loopholes could be such wonderful things, once one found them. Of course, he had nothing solid yet, but in haste, his lawyer had been able to find one legal glitch in Michael's sentencing concerning notification of kin and custody. It was a slim chance, but then again, if the MONKEYWRENCH program did what he expected, he wouldn't need much to make Ames pull a few technical and electronic strings that would release Michael Baines into Ned's custody. Computers were wonderful data gathering devices, and from what Jason had been able to tell him via cell phone on the drive to IO, there were some things that Ames would really NOT want to go public about. Ned smiled again as the music played. "Goddamn the lovers, who never showed up…" the speakers blared. "And Goddamn the brother who never knew," Ned added, his pace quickening as he neared the door, which once forced open, would lead him into the mess hall where Michael was.

He expected chaos when he arrived, but didn't find it. As he passed his flashlight around the room and heard the click of drawn weapons, he announced himself hastily. The weapons clicked again. Everyone in the cafeteria was seated around their usual tables, chatting as if nothing had happened. The guards, however, looked wary. "Ned, dat you?" he heard the familiar voice of Bolton asking, and a light was shining in his face.

"Bolton? Put the light down. Yea, it's me." He aimed his own light at in that direction and saw Sam and Joey, but no Michael. A brief pang of regret hit him when he didn't see Cheng. "Where are Michael and Cheng?" he asked, perhaps a bit too anxiously.

There was a long silence.

It was Sam who broke it.

"Cheng died this morning."

Ned felt as if his legs had gone numb, and in the darkness thought he was falling. He hadn't expected it so soon. What had triggered it? What had set off that last final release of endorphins that had killed the Asian eunuch? A million thoughts passed through his mind, but only one came to the forefront. "Where's Michael?" he demanded again, shining his light at various tables, although he knew that the slight boy, despite his recent growth, wouldn't be far from Sam.

"Not here," Bolton replied, "He begged to be left alone, so Ames locked him the rec room instead of making him go to class today. He should still be there."

Ned's heart sank. He knew what Ames had no doubt done to the boy to punish THAT request.

"Did he see it?" Ned asked.

"Yea," Sam replied, "It was awful. It was in da shower – Cheng died in his arms."

"How?" Ned asked, feeling the terrible need to know.

"He just fell down, screamin' 'n poundin' at his head. Then he rolled over and started shakin' and coughin' up blood. He got quiet, then Mikey picked him up and he screamed…" but Sam's voice failed him, and he was unable to go on. Joey sighed deeply.

Ned cringed inwardly. "So he was left in the rec room?" he asked, with a sinking feeling again.

"Yea," Bolton replied, "And with the system down, I don't think he could get out."

Ned moved closer, whispering in Bolton's ear, "None of the doors are secure, Bolton. The locks are electronic and the whole system is DEAD in the water."

Bolton took a step back. "SHIT!" he exclaimed, "We need to GO!"

Bolton called another guard, and told Sam to behave and score some points. The bald black youth nodded. "Need all da points I can get."

Ned and Bolton left the cafeteria, forcing the door through which Ned had come. He had thought that the issue of doors would be obvious. "I doubt he's still there," Ned said as they made their way down the short connecting hallway.

"I don't know, Ned. Ames was being pretty hard on him with the punishment when I saw him last. Poor kid. It's not like he did anything wrong by askin'. All he wanted to do was be alone so he could cry. They was close ya know."

"I think I can guess how close, my friend. Right now, if Michael is still there, we need to get to him. He's in need of medical attention before what happens to Cheng can happen to him."

Bolton stopped. "You onto somethin'?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" Ned countered.

"Lotta boys die in here, and I think dat most of 'em be gay or somethin'."

Ned thought, and answered carefully. "I think so too. I read some stuff, in the public domain issues about a few deaths here. I did some research; it's what I do, you know. I'm not sure, Bolton, but there's a commonality in the boys who died here, if you think about it."

"Well," Bolton thought aloud, "Let's see. Cheng was a null, smooth as you can get down there. No hormones. A few ULF punishments, but a good kid. Happy, mainly quiet. He was kinda proud of his state, though. I know that Harvey kid was into him some, bastard. They shoulda cut all of his off too before he got to Cheng, but I guess Sam got him in the end. Cheng loved attention though, and he liked to be touched. Most boys cringe, but not him. You think he LIKED what happened to him?"

"I think he just wanted affection, and that's no crime," Ned replied, "What happened to him was a mistake. Some boys don't endure the punishments too well, though, and that's what I'm driving at. A link."

"From what I seen, I think the ones who die be gay and I think THEY already know it, if you know WHO I mean," Bolton theorized.

And then they were there. They found the door to the rec room open, and Ned sighed. He shined the light into the room, his heart in his throat. Michael wasn't there.

In Ned's office, a data stream was torn from the Mainframe as it desperately tried to regroup and throw off the invading Monkeywrench program. As a last-ditch effort, the Mainframe had tried to shut down and reboot, but the relentless virus would have none of that. Things were going to happen according to Jason's plans. The data was transferred to Ned's computer, sent out via DSL modem to his own computer, and the virus-laden CD, it's work done, reformatted. The music stopped abruptly. The CD ejected. The files that Ned would need in his fight to save Michael were safe and sound and being burnt to another CD somewhere in Jason's system as well. Then Ned's computer shut itself down as well, feigning its own death. Mercifully, Jason had had the foresight to let the Mainframe recover only its emergency protocols. The dim emergency lights came back up, the phones came back to life, the air circulation units kicked back on, and the Monkeywrench program gave the IO Mainframe once last blast of digital CPR and made sure it was limping along in emergency mode. It's work then done, the Monkeywrench committed digital suicide.

A few floors below, Michael yelped as the lights came on, dimly. He stared into the darkness, making out the shapes of massive amounts of lines, piping, doors, and stairs that seemed to go on endlessly down into the darkness as if inviting him to step into the depths of Hell. He stood on the landing where two staircases met, and decided to try the one door there. It took some force, but the thin boy was able to slide it open just enough to squeeze through. He found himself in a cool office-type room, empty except for a desk and a computer and few filing cabinets. He pulled his hood back up and shivered. He drank the last of the coffee, and realized that he had to urinate. Looking around, he saw nothing that resembled a bathroom. He took the next best option – he peed in the wastebasket. He flinched a bit as the cool air struck his exposed penis, and let one finger move down to touch his tight and empty scrotum. Under his breath, not knowing if anyone could locate him or not, he cursed Ned, shook the last drop of urine out, and put it back. He was still reminded, with every step that he took, of what they had done to him – and how they had lied to him.

How Ned had lied to him.

And since he had nothing better to do, he began to ransack the file cabinet after finding the computer to be dead.

Ames let his head fall onto his desk as the emergency lights came back on. His computer was still out, though, but he could feel and hear the soft whir of the air pumps. Fervently, he hoped that the doors were working again. A riot was the last thing he wanted. With the Mainframe down, there was no way to punish the inmates, no way to put them to sleep – and worse – what if they went to sleep on their own without the benefit of the conditioning transceivers in their pillows? Ames' mind raced. What could have happened? The IO Mainframe, he had been told, was the most cutting edge piece of penal security technology made. It was virtually foolproof. It was theorized that left unattended, without a single guard, the Mainframe could run IO and keep up to 1,000 inmates in line with no human intervention for up to six months if need be. Then it hit him.

Human Intervention.

"I think I have a mole," he mumbled, "or more like a virus."

One name came to mind, but he didn't get long to think about it. His monitor snapped to life as the last action of the now-dead Monkeywrench program delivered its final message to his terminal.

"What in hell?" he gasped, staring at the screen.

A media file was opening. It was a movie. On the screen, Ames watched a very fast and edited video of Michael's castration. Then it skipped to Ned pouring over files – Ned, a zoom up, with a look of abstract horror on his face. Then Ned was crying. It skipped to an image of Joey, sitting on his bed and staring at his hands in his lap. Michael and Cheng were talking with him, but he didn't look up them or answer them. Then it skipped to a close-up of Joey, tears in his eyes. The image shifted yet again, and the music began to play. Ames swore. "Goddamn the father, without face, without name…" it sang… and the image changed yet again to show Michael and Cheng and Sam in the showers. Cheng was spitting blood out of his nose and mouth all over Michael, who held him close and was sobbing. Sam was turning his back, and Joey was screaming for help at the locked door and the unresponsive scanner at that door. Then there was a scream as the music cut off, a terrible scream of agony in a sigh of relief to be followed by a slight and blood-covered eunuch's choked sobs of indescribable loss. Then a guard was there, pulling the sobbing and bloody child off of his friend who lay still on the red floor. Michael was limp in Bolton's arms as the guard handed him over to Sam, who washed him off and led him to his bed. There was one final zoom, an image too clear for the security devices to have made – a close-up of Michael's small and empty scrotum, and a face-shot of Joey. The music played on relentlessly. Then a voice spoke up from the computer.

"Did you think no one would find out, Ames?"

It was Ned.

"Dammit!" Ames screamed, going for the door. He found it locked, however, and all of his orders would not open it. He couldn't force it either.

"You and I are going to talk, Ames. That is, I'm going to talk and YOU are going to listen. I know what you did to Joey and why. I know what you did to Michael and why, and worse yet, to ME – a contracted employee. I know about the guards, and the trainees like Sam. Most of all, I know what you let happen to Cheng – and to every other boy that turned out to be gay or inclined in that direction in this festering hell-hole you call a correctional institute. I know about the Death you've been dealing in for your own sordid gains, and I'm going to stop you. I know, Ames. I know how and why Cheng died, and how and why Jon-Paul and Timmy and all the others died. Names ring any bells? You don't like 'faggots', do you, Ames?" The voice dug in.

"How DARE you?!" Ames screamed again, slamming a fist on the desk.

"You're having problems," Ned's voice went on, as the screen blanked, "but it's too late. The IO Mainframe is toast, and not even God can make it run again. I can overlook some things, but what you did to Cheng and are trying to do to Mikey and to ME are inexcusable. I'm going to win, Ames, and nothing you can do will stop me. Think about it, it'll come to you. You know what I want."

Ames broke out in a cold sweat and began to shake. But Ned's voice on the disabled computer system had one last thing to say – "How do you like my virus? Wouldn't Mr. Norton just shit himself?"

Chapter 9

Michael found nothing in the file cabinet of interest. Financial records concerning office supplies were boring reading, so he squeezed back through the door and headed back up the stairs. He decided against going further down, since he assumed that up might lead him to at least a window and looking down over the guard rail gave him a feeling of vertigo; he was thankful that the lights were dim. It was getting a bit chilly for him, however, and he decided that a bit of moving around might warm him up a bit. When he came back up to the large landing, he remembered the feel of it from the time the lights had been out and determined that he was right back where he started. He climbed up another flight of stairs, not the least bit winded when he arrived at the next landing. The stairs seemed to go on and on both up and down, and he had no idea where he really was. He didn't even know for certain how long he had been confined in IO, with no clocks or windows and no one to even tell him what day of the week it was. He sighed and forced the first door that he came to.

As he slid the door open, a sense of deja vu passed over him, and he seemed to remember doing this at some other time. He couldn't place it, however, and with a shrug he entered the room.

It was another office, but it was bigger. The computer was dead, as was the last one, but this office was warmer, was carpeted, and had a couch and a refrigerator. The refrigerator wasn't running, but then again Michael realized that the power hadn't been out for too long. His stomach was speaking to him in loud tones when opened the door. "Jackpot!" he exclaimed aloud, staring longingly into the depths of what looked like a banquet compared to what he had become used to in IO. There was a 12 pack of Coke, a box of chocolate covered Hostess Donettes, along with several Tupperware containers. He inspected each one of these as he downed a Coke, belched thunderously, and decided that the stuff that looked like spaghetti of some kind still smelled good. There was even a tray with some plastic flatware in it, so he didn't have to eat with his hands.

After he had downed another two Cokes, and eaten more of the Donuts than was probably good for him, he remembered the couch on the far side of the desk. "This is too good to be true," he said to himself, and with his stomach full, his tastebuds reawakened, and even an afghan to cover up with, Michael stretched out and fell asleep.

"Where do you think he went?" Ned asked Bolton as they returned to the desk that served as the office of sorts for Michael's ward. Ned knew he was speaking volumes with just the tone of his voice, but something told him that Bolton could be trusted. There was something sincere about this very large and burly black fellow that Ned liked, although he couldn't say for certain what it was.

Bolton shrugged. He could hear the desperation in Ned's voice, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out why one of the house med staff would be so concerned over one missing boy. Things were under control, however, even if the Mainframe was totally down. "Dunno," he replied, "But where could he go? He can't get out."

Ned didn't look convinced. "Bolton, all of the doors and security systems are down. Any door in here will open if you push hard enough. If you were him, in here, and suddenly got this dose of temporary freedom, what would you do?"

"I'd go exploring."

"So where do we start looking?" Ned asked, picking up his medical bag.

Ames walked slowly back to the cafeteria. He had to have time. There might still be a way to salvage some of this mess, and his mind was racing. Right now, his main concern was the shift change and what to do with the inmates. He certainly didn't want to put them to bed and have to depend on guards alone all night long, or however long it would take to fix the system. There would be no sleep therapy, and no way to punish any offenders who stepped out of line. In short, there would be no control if anything went wrong. Then it came to him as he himself yawned. Wear them out! Tired boys, eunuchs or not, slept like logs. He quickened his pace, and upon arriving in each unit where the armed guards stood watch over their charges, he made an announcement.

"I would like, in light of what has happened, for everyone, inmates and guards, to proceed to your respective gymnasiums," he said in his rough and loud voice. "Feel free to play games you like, basketball, or whatever. We'll set up some more emergency lights so you can see. We're having problems, and I'd hate to see anyone get hurt in the confusion, so just go to the gym and have a good time until you receive further instructions."

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then much applause and comments.

Ames smiled as the guards escorted their charges to the half- open door. Many of the boys who wouldn't have otherwise looked him in the face openly smiled at him, and a few even thanked him.

"That was TOO easy," he muttered to himself.

On the couch in someone's office with a raided refrigerator, Michael moaned in his sleep. Parts of his brain that had been kept 'shut off' by the sleep therapy and the ULF treatments were reawakening, and for the first time since his incarceration, the young eunuch was dreaming. From his battered mind came the image of Cheng, and the Asian eunuch was smiling at him. He stretched out his small hand, and Michael took it. He wanted to pull his friend close and hold him, but suddenly the hand in his wasn't Cheng's. The grip tightened, hurting his hand, and the guard who had escorted him off of the bus that first day was pushing him along and tussling his thick blonde hair. "Whew, ain't you a scrawny little cute thing?" the man was saying, and his gaze was leering. The man shoved him, and someone else caught him. "Take off your clothes," he demanded. He was grabbed, his clothes torn off, and he was thrown down on a padded chair; restraints sprang forth to seize him. Someone was running bare bladed hair clippers over his head, cutting into his scalp, and he screamed. In the waking world, he had an erection as the dream-clippers cut his hair down to the skin. His hand went to his crotch, and feeling the lack of balls there, the dream shifted.

"It's for you own good, Mikey," someone was saying to him, and he saw himself naked and strapped down to an operating table of some kind. There was a man there, someone he didn't know, but thought that he should. He had a mask on. Then the restraint of his left hand broke loose, and Michael's hand flashed up to tear the mask from the man's face. Michael noticed a bracelet of some kind on his wrist – it was made of metal and had code all over it. This next man was Ned, and he was holding a red bag with a long white hose. "Trust me, Mikey," he was saying, "we have to do this." Then he was no longer on the table, but naked in the shower and hot soapy water was being pumped up his ass and his stomach was swelling. The cramps were intense, and he cried out for someone, anyone, to help him. He heard a scratching sound, and he saw Ames standing by the table.

He was sharpening a knife.

"He isn't going to hurt you unless you make him do it," Ned was saying.

There were screams in the hall, from whom, Michael didn't know.

"Uh-are y-you gonna c-c-castrate me?" he cried.

"No," Ned said.

"It's Chapter, Mikey," Ames replied, with two guards coming after him.

He knew one of them – the bald black boy – it was Sam and he was smiling. "Let's cut it all off, Mikey, without balls you can't use THAT anyway! Why you gotta be so cute?"

On the couch, Michael turned over in his sleep and cried out softly for help. None came, though.

After about an hour of searching, Ned and Bolton came to the door that was half ajar. They saw the cigarette butt, and a small bit of coffee stain on the floor. "I think we be on the trail now," Bolton announced.

Ned sighed in relief. "Where does THIS door go to?"

"Down and up," Bolton replied. "We call it 'the maze."

Ned sighed again, deeply this time.

Ames made his way to the front door, and found he couldn't get it open. Shift change would be coming in soon, and he had to find a way to get things under control. What he didn't know was that news of IO's problems had already reached, with help from Jason, the news media. Ames rushed back to check the gym, and that relieved him a bit. Everyone seemed to be having a good time doing this and that. At least he didn't have to worry about the inmates… yet.

The charming brunette checked her hair and adjusted her bra. "How do I look?" she demanded of the cameraman, her very appearance daring him to say something out of line. "Marvelous, Linda," he replied automatically, "we're on in 10." She nodded and took a deep breath. What a story this was !

He counted down on his fingers, and the light atop the camera came on.

"Good evening, I'm Linda Johnson, reporting live to you from the front gate of the IO Rehab Center for Boys. Earlier today, we learned that the main computer that controls this correctional facility for juvenile male offenders crashed today. Inmates and staff alike are trapped inside, and there has been no communication since this happened. We have no word on the conditions inside, of the staff nor the inmates. What we do have are ongoing rumors, however, of barbaric and inhuman practices inside IO that are often employed to control the inmates and allegedly rehabilitate them into good citizens. Rumors of beatings, starvation, torture, and even mind-control and castration have surfaced in the last few years, along with the suicides of a few released inmates. It has also been reported that several boys have died while confined here, but we have no details on that. We have also learned that the Complex here at IO is totally dependent on the computer system. Joining us is local college student in grad work for computer sciences and part time TA Jason Means, expert in computer sciences and head of programming & research at the University. Jason, what can you tell us about the IO Mainframe and how this could happen to a state of the art machine that is so important ?"

"Thanks, Linda," Jason began, "Well, the IO Mainframe is a CyberHound System 2, replacing the prototype System 1 which had a lot of problems. It's basically a huge number cruncher, linked to several scanners and cameras. It's main job is to track each individual at all times, control doors, comm. systems, utilities, that sort of thing. It's also reported to be one of the fastest and most 'intelligent' systems ever built, being – in theory – capable of running the Complex for up to a year without human intervention. It uses redundant isolinear technology, and is reported to be over a million time more 'intelligent' than the DEEP BLUE computer of several years ago." Then he grinned evilly. "It's also reputed to be crash proof."

"But it has crashed?" Linda asked.

"It sure looks like it. My good friend and roomie at school, Ned, is on staff here at IO and inside at the moment. Since cell phones won't work inside, we haven't heard a word from him. You have to wonder, though, Linda, what is going on in there with all of the security offline. Is there a riot happening ? Is anyone hurt ? What are they all doing ?"

"And right now, with the system down, there's no way to know?"

Jason shook his head. "I was on the test team for this monster system, and I don't know what they could be doing but sitting around in the dark talking, really. At least, I hope that's all they're doing. There's also no response from the mini ISP that the system runs for Internet access inside. Hopefully someone from CyberHound will come, or someone can get in through those doors, but from what my bud told me, it's pretty well sealed tight."

"What about laptops, then?" Linda asked, waving her mic like a weapon.

Jason shook his head. "Cellulars don't work inside, dampening field."

"And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen, trapped inside this prison for children, staff and inmates both, with no way to tell what's going on until someone shows up to try and force the main gate and risk security systems that may or may not be working still. We've all heard the rumors of course, about what goes on in here. No one seems to want to talk about it, however, and even former inmates are quiet about it. Remember to watch our in-depth special report this Wednesday night on X-Treem View 9 when we attempt to unravel some of the rumors about IO. I'm Linda Johnson, Channel 9 News. Back to you, Howard."

On the small monitor, 'Howard,' no more than a talking head, nodded. "Thank you, Linda. Linda Johnson, live from the IO Rehab Center for Boys where a computer crash has trapped the staff and inmates inside, with no utilities, communications, or security. One can only wonder how this crisis will be solved. Local authorities advise that anyone seeking information on inmates or staff, please DO NOT call the local police, as they are not affiliated with IO. We will have more on this story in live updates as the story continues to break." Then Howard looked this way and that, and said, "Strange place, we've heard. I know I certainly wouldn't want to be in there right now. Did you guys get a look at that fence?"

"Looks pretty secure to me, Howard," one of the other anchors said.

"Indeed it does, Fred. And in our next story…"

Ned and Bolton squeezed through the doorway and looked around. The stairs went on down into the dimly lit reaches for what seemed like forever, and upwards as well. Ned studied the landing, and seeing another coffee spill on a step, he became excited and pointed. "He went down!"

In his nightmare, Michael was being beaten. Ames was smacking his face, punching his stomach, and screaming at him. "What did you do, you little faggot? I know you did it, so spill it. You saw it didn't you?" Michael curled up into a ball, gasping for breath, but Ames wouldn't stop. You saw them, didn't you, Mikey? You were where you weren't supposed to be and saw them!"

"I was lost !" the boy cried, trying to protect his face with his hands, "Please don't! I didn't mean to, really!"

"You should have called for help then," Ames replied coldly.

A sharp blow caught him in the ribs, and Michael cried out. In the waking world, he tossed and whimpered on the couch, but the parts of his brain that would have normally overloaded and awakened him from an ordinary nightmare weren't doing that. Of course, this nightmare wasn't ordinary, either. It was being brought on by no sleep therapy from the pillow transceiver, overeating, and general stress. When Cheng's death was added to that, it made for the perfect nightmare recipe.

Ames was strapping him back down to the table then, removing his ID bracelet that he worn since the first day at IO. An intern was rubbing some kind of jelly onto his temples and forehead, and Ames was holding a wicked looking set of clamps. The intern forced a rubber grip of some kind into Michael's mouth, and it filled his mouth entirely. He attached it to the struggling boy's head somehow, and Michael found that he couldn't spit it out. Ames put the clamp onto his head, and he felt it through the jelly. He saw a cord running from the clamps to some kind of box. Then an electric shock ripped through his head, and he tried to scream. There was a shooting and burning pain under his left ear, and his head felt as if it were splitting open. He shook and spasmed again, then it was over and Ned was holding his hand. There were tears in his eyes. "What have they done to you?" he was begging, but Michael couldn't answer him. He heard Ned arguing with someone, Ames, he thought. "He's in too bad a shape..."

"Just castrate him and be done with it..."

Then Ned was gone, and Cheng was releasing him from his bonds. There was a video playing on the computer beside the table, and Sam was onscreen. He was also lying on a table, and a masked surgeon was cutting his penis off. Cheng smiled at him, bending down to kiss him on the mouth, but Michael found himself choking on blood as the Asian eunuch fell backwards with a red fountain spewing from his lips, and a dreadful scream echoing through the room.

And that was the trigger that woke him. Michael sat bolt upright, covered in sweat. He screamed once. He was sobbing and calling Cheng's name, but there was no one to answer him. His body ached, and a searing pain shot up from his groin. He reached down, once again felt the fact that he was a eunuch, and cursed Ned between sobs. His stomach ached, and wave a nausea shook him; thankfully, he fought it down. Despite the psychosomatic pain in his body, he got up. He was too afraid to go back to sleep, so he set out again. On the way out the door, he took another can of Coke and realized that he hadn't missed dreaming all that much.

"Look here," Bolton pointed out, picking a small piece of dirty white lint from the plated step.

"It must have come off of his sock," Ned observed.

Then they heard it, but from above. Ned had heard that cry before, and his blood ran cold at the very sound of it. It was Michael, and he was in pain.

"I thought he went down?" he demanded.

"Musta got bored and went back up. Makes sense if he's lookin' to get out," Bolton answered.

They both turned and ran back up the stairs.

As they rounded the landing on which they arrived, they saw him at the top of the next. His white sweatsuit was wet with sweat, spotted with what looked like blood, and he was shaking. They headed up the stairs for him, but his blank and uncomprehending stare made Ned seize Bolton's arm and stop him. "S- st-t-ay aw-w- wway from me!" the boy sobbed, backing up against the rail.

"Michael, it's me, Ned. Remember?"

The boy shook his head, tears streaming down his face. In one hand he held a red pop can, and the other hand was hovering protectively in front of his groin. "Y-yea, I know y-you," he stammered, which set of warning bells in Ned's head. Stuttering was the first phase, and worse yet, it looked as if Michael was having another psychotic episode. For every step that Ned took, hoping to sedate the hysterical boy and inject him with the testosterone that would balance the endorphins in his brain, the boy took a step back. He was shaking violently, and his eyes were wild with fear. "I know y-you, YOU did th-th-this t-t-o me!" he accused, his hand hovering in front of him.

Ned shook his head. "I had no choice, Michael. THINK, Michael. You knew it would happen, didn't you? I'm sorry, Michael, I didn't know, and it wasn't MY idea. You don't remember how it was right up to before the castration, do you?"

"H-he b-b-beat me," the boy cried, sitting down on the landing, his feet dangling under the rail and over the edge, "H-he beat m-me and s-said I s-saw some- th-thing I sh-sh-udn huv."

With an intense feeling of dread welling up inside of him, Ned realized that Michael's altered memories were resurfacing. In his present state, he didn't know if the boy could handle it or not.

Ned nodded. In the dim light, he prayed fervently that the boy could see him well enough. "That's right, Michael. You saw something. You wandered off somehow, a glitch in the system. You wandered off, and you saw some things you shouldn't have. That's why they did what they did to you. They were trying to erase the horror of what you saw. But it didn't work too well. You had an episode like this one where you freaked out. We worked for a long time to stabilize you, and we almost lost you."

Michael shook his head, his hands at his temples. "Does it hurt?" Ned demanded.

"N-no, not r-really," he replied through his tears.

Ned took a step forward. Bolton did as well, and Michael jumped up again. His eyes darted this way and that, as if looking for somewhere to run.

"I won' hurt ya, Mikey. You know dat, right?" the guard asked.

Surprisingly, Michael nodded. "You won't let Sam get me, will you?" he asked in a small voice.

"Sam likes you, Mikey," Bolton replied.

But Michael bowed his head and shook it again, his tremors getting worse. "H-he killed someone, b-b-blew his h-heh-head off-f- f, I s-saw it. H-he said th-things to m-me, 'bout h-him not h- having a p-pee-penis any- m-more…"

Bolton nodded. "That's right, Mikey. But he ain't got one, does he ? So he can't use it on you, then, can he? And the computers are down too, so no one's gon' get his head blowed off."

"I… I… did something," the boy began, "What Sam w- wants to do to m-me, I d-did it."

"To whom, Michael?" Ned asked. "What did you do?"

Ned, or course, already knew what Michael meant, but he was stalling for time to inch closer. He really didn't believe it, however, given Michael's eunuch status and his age.

He paused for a moment, trying to ascertain what was real and what wasn't. He then leaned against the wall and slid down with a thud.

Michael choked and whimpered, his head between his knees. Ned's heart felt as if it would break listening to his little brother's cries of anguish, but somehow he felt that he had to make him say it. Somehow, he had to let him know that it was going to be all right again.

"T-to Ch-Cheng," he whispered.

Ned was taken by surprise. For a moment he was too shocked to say anything. "Did you do ALL of it, Michael?" he asked.

The boy nodded.

Ned raised one eyebrow. It seemed that castration hadn't exactly stopped him in his tracks, so to say. In fact, it looked as if it had triggered a sexual awakening in the boy. "Did Cheng like it?"

Again, he nodded. "It w-was his i-iye-de-uh."

"It was HIS idea then? And did you like it too?" Ned pressed.

There was an interminable silence, then slowly, Michael nodded. "I-I think I'm g-gay," he managed to admit.

Slowly, they moved closer. "It's ok, Michael, even if you are and it just wasn't one of those things, no one's going to hold it against you. It might be just a phase all boys go through."

The boy whimpered, and Ned took the opportunity to rush him. He grabbed Michael, and held his arms as the surprised boy thrashed and screamed and tried to get loose. "L-lh-et me go!"

"I'm sorry, Michael," Ned choked, trying hard to keep his emotions under control, "This really IS for your own good. Bolton, the green syringe. Stick him in the ass cheek and shoot it all in !"

Bolton pulled Michael's pants down a bit to expose a cheek and did that. "Now the yellow one," Ned instructed.

Michael was sobbing and desperately trying to get loose. "N- noooooo," he howled, "P-p-pl-please, no, I'll be g-g-good, I s- swear I w-wh-ill!"

Ned stared into that small and tear-stained face, and he could stand it no longer. He turned the boy, who was beginning to relax as the drugs took hold. He pulled the struggling child into a tight embrace, and the boy's head found its way to his shoulder. "Get it out, Michael," Ned encouraged him.

"Y-you did th-this to m-me," he accused, his voice quieter now, "Y-you c-c-cut my b-balls off!" Ned almost began to cry himself then, but he held it in check. "I didn't know it was time, Michael. I tried to get out of it, but Ames brought you in on my shift. You were in such bad shape then…"

And then Ned realized it. What Michael had just divulged began to make sense. Ames had beaten the boy that day, after catching him wandering the halls alone. Ames had done something to him to cause the angry red welts on his head, probably electro- shock. And when he had finished with him, he had brought him to ICU and ordered his castration with the rest of his treatment. He had known, Ned was now sure. The bastard had known, and set him up so that he would be exposed to, and eventually, be forced to castrate his own little brother. In some sick way, Ames was taking delight in the fact that he was driving an insurmountable wedge between Ned and the boy whom Ames had already known was his little brother.

Realizing his time was growing short, Ned dug in. "Michael, think back. Ames hurt you. Before you lost your balls, he hurt you. Why did he hurt you? Tell me, please."

"I r-remember it n-now, b-but I dint before," he said, "I was l-l-lost. I s-saw them w-with some b-boy I don't know. Th-they had th-this thing on h-his h-head and told h-him t-t-to forget."

"Did they shock him?" Ned supplied.

The boy nodded. "H-he d-did m-m-me too. M-made me forg-g-get til now."

"What else?"

"They s-stuck a l-long n-n-needle in his h-head, up under h- his ear."

"Anything else?"

"There w-was another old-der boy, and s-s-someone said he w- was dead. Ames t-t-told them to cut him op-op-pen and find out w- why. They c-cut his h-head op-p-en. S-said if I w-wasn't g-good it would b-be m-me next."

"Did they do anything else to you, that you can remember?"

"M-made me w-watch 'em o-p-pen him up. Then h-h-he b-beat m- me ag-g-gain…"

Michael's shaking grew more violent, his stuttering worse, and Ned suspected that a full blown seizure was coming. He asked Bolton for another yellow syringe, and liberally injected the boy with it.

Ned ran over it in his mind. Michael had gotten lost and seen them doing something to another boy, somehow, shortly after his arrival. Some minor glitch in the Mainframe hadn't recognized his ID bracelet, and had let him wander. They had shown him what would happen, to frighten him, then tried to erase only certain parts of his memory while encouraging others. Then he'd seen Sam dispatch Harvey. And they had beaten him. Combined with the endorphins the boy was already experiencing, it was a wonder that Michael had lasted this long. And Cheng's death, along with Michael's sexual explorations, certainly hadn't helped. No wonder he had had so many episodes. It was this episode, however, this overwhelming fear and whatever had made him scream to begin with, that had brought it all back.

"You'll pay for this one, Ames, God, how you will pay for it!"

Michael's shaking subsided, and his breathing became slow and regular. Ned lifted his limp form and held the boy close to him, protectively. "Let's put him to bed," he said, taking notice of how the boy had grown and how he had put on some weight. He wasn't sure for how long he could carry him.

Bolton nodded. "Where ya think he got dat Coke?"

In the gym, Sam and Joey were sitting on the floor watching the others play ball in the dim light. "So where ya think Mikey is?" Sam mused.

Joey shrugged. "Dunno. Where COULD he be?"

"Probably havin' fun, knowin' him," Sam replied.

Joey shrugged. "He's gonna get in trouble."

Sam thought for a moment. "He was fucked up over Cheng, ya know."

Joey didn't answer. Sam wrapped an arm about the pale boy's shoulders and pulled him close.

Outside the front gate, a team of officers were debating on how to gain entry to the building. They argued for a while, until one of them came up with the wonderful idea of running his rather large and overpowered four wheel drive truck through the front gate and on into the front door, effectively turning the receiving office into a drive-thru. The noise was awful. Linda Johnson faithfully reported to the news anchors that access to the compound had been gained.

Back in his office, Ames was worried. How much did Ned know? And what did he want? He bit his fingernail and leafed through some papers in a folder that he had found on his desk. A chill passed through him as he saw papers about mistrials, notification of kin, custody hearings, miscarriage of justice, wrongful sentencing of a minor… the list went on. Ames began to have second thoughts at that point. Of course when Ned had been hired, there had been a background check. The adoption at age six was public record, and so was Ned's old surname. Then when Michael had been admitted to IO, the Mainframe had promptly reported that Ned and the new inmate, Michael, were half-brothers. Ames admitted to himself that he hadn't really liked Ned from the start, irrational as it was. A urology specialist was just what IO needed at the time, but there was something about his attitude. It had seemed like the perfect way to make a mess of Ned's life, but then again, Ames wasn't really sure – in retrospect – why he hated Ned so much. He leaned back in his chair and laughed a humorless laugh at the idea of Ned being the one to castrate his own little brother, a brother that he hadn't known that he had had until it was too late. "One should enjoy his work," Ames theorized aloud, "And he doesn't. One must learn proper behavior, after all. It's for their own good, after all. Little heathen bastards."

Then he came to a paper with a bright red header. There was a picture on that paper… a picture of a pale white boy with a short buzzcut to his dark hair. The eyes in the picture were downcast, but Ames knew that face. He began to tremble. In stunned amazement that someone had found the file that he thought he had buried so long ago, he read it aloud to himself for mere confirmation.

He stared in shock at the yellow Post-It note on the red header. DID YOU THINK NO ONE WOULD EVER SEE THIS AGAIN, AMES? – NED

Above the picture was a name. That name was Joey.

Below the photo was the full name: Joseph Thomas Ames, Jr.

Chapter 10

Things begin to fly apart at IO and Mikey's memories resurface as the IO techniques come under the scrutiny of media mogul Linda Johnson.

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 three 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 three 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?"

NEXT PART