^Paolox3_

For Your Own Good

Chapters 11-12

Chapter 11

Revelations are made as the IO Mainframe comes back online, and Ames begins to confront his past as the boys, free from fear of punishment, begin to tell stories.

"Why the subterfuge, Bolton?" Ned asked.

"Conditioning," Bolton replied, "The slightest gesture or wrong word will shut him up just like a clam. It's part of what they get when they're asleep." Ned's eyes grew wide. Sam gasped. Joey didn't move.

"That's why no one ever heard about this place before," Bolton offered.

Michael, however, was deep in thought. He was shaking a bit, but it was from pure rage and not the least part fear. In his piping and unbroken voice, he began to tell his story of his recovered memories.

Lawrence Taft's cell phone rang all the way home and continued to ring as he entered his opulent and overdone house. The butler met him at the door, took his coat, and advised him that there were a great many messages on the machine. Taft snorted. "No calls," he snapped, heading up the stairs to his study. He entered the room, it's walls lined with bookshelves, and seated himself at a polished table of dark wood. He turned on his computer, and began to call up records. For the better part of the night, he read. He looked at prisoner profiles. He looked at medical charts.

Finally, he turned on his instant messenger under invisible mode. A flood of offline messages met him, very nearly choking his computer. Most of them were from HIS boss, the Governor, who WAS online. With a grimace, he picked up the cell phone. The screen was full of 'missed calls' error messages. Most of them were from his boss as well. The phone rang. He sighed deeply and answered it. "Taft," he said flatly.

"TAFT!" An angry voice shouted through the phone, "Just who in the name of Hell IS this Linda Johnson and what the hell were YOU doing on television talking to HER!?"

"Sir, we have a problem," Taft whispered.

"You're damn right we do. IO is the premiere institution in this country for rehabilitating juvenile offenders, and the wicked witch of the whatever-the-hell-direction she came out of is trying to make us look like butchers and murderers. What the hell have you got to say for yourself?" Taft thought. The faces on the screen stared back at him, or most of them did. Many of the boys in the IO pictures had their eyes downcast.

"Are you aware that this Erik kid on TV is suing us? He and his parents? Did you see the late news? That boy was on TV talking about castration and aversion therapy. He even offered to show this Linda woman his wound in private! We're talking class-action here, Taft, and believe you me, mister, it's not MY ass that's gonna get bitten off on this one! Something has gone very very wrong here, Taft. Are you listening to me?" the Governor demanded.

"Sir, I was unaware of what was happening inside of IO. I am fully aware now, and becoming more and more aware by the minute. I think you should look into the secure database files from the remote server," Taft replied weakly.

"Hold on," the Governor replied in an irritated voice.

Taft could hear clicking and pecking in the background.

"Standard data, the usual procedures. Now what I want to know is HOW this Erik kid got onto national television and ended up blind and…" but Taft, suddenly sick to his stomach, found his last remaining nerve and interrupted him.

"Standard procedures?" he screamed into the phone, "YOU knew? You call genital mutilation and torture and memory altering with attempted mind control standard? You say it's all for their own good? Have you seen the death rate report? Sir, I had no clue this was happening. The whole board of directors had no clue. I think you need to speak with the man in charge, Joe Ames. Find out what HE is doing in this matter. After all, HE is the one running the show at IO! How dare you lay this at MY feet?"

There was a deadly silence on the phone.

"Don't tell me YOU didn't know, Taft. I put you on that board for a reason. You and Ames go back a ways. This Linda Johnson is in the way, Taft. She's trouble. So is this Erik kid. I think it's time that Erik reverted to his fire-bugging ways, don't you? And maybe Ms. Johnson should be silenced as well? She's in the wrong place at the wrong time, Taft. Do something." The cell phone beeped and read 'call terminated'.

Taft buzzed his intercom. "Slocombe," he called.

"Yeeeees?" the butler's voice answered.

"Did you tape the news on channel 9?"

"Of course," the butler drawled.

"Bring it up to me at once," Taft ordered, startled by a beep from his computer. On the screen was a monkey animation, and it was holding a large pipe wrench. It was smiling at him.

Taft turned from the computer as Slocombe arrived with a VHS tape. He popped the tape in and watched in horror as the boy in dark mirrored glasses stumbled through a bizarre story that he swore was the truth. Taft very nearly fell out of his chair when the boy paused, took a deep breath, and said, "I'll show you, Linda, to prove it. You have to do something about them. They did THIS to me…"

"Did what?" Linda Johnson's voice encouraged the now-crying boy on the screen, "Something related to your having the aneurism?"

"No, C-castrated me," Erik replied, leaning heavily on his father's shoulder.

Taft watched the tape again and again. It was around 3:00 AM that he sorted through his messages and missed calls. He dialed up one number. The phone rang and rang. A groggy voice answered, finally. "Yes?" a soft feminine voice asked.

"Ms. Johnson, this is Taft."

"TAFT?!" she exclaimed, sounding fully awake, "My God, man, did you see Erik's interview?"

"I just finished it, Ms. Johnson. I had no idea. I'm so sorry," Taft choked.

There was another of those deadly silences.

"You really are, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yes."

"It's all coming out, Taft. Erik was just the first. The rumors are beginning to be substantiated. You've got a certified eunuch on your hands, Taft, and he's talking. So far there's no word from the techs inside of IO, but I'm on call. Would you like to meet?" she inquired sweetly.

"I-I- don't know," he stammered, "It's so terrible. Please believe me, Linda, I had no clue. It was Ames' doings. I can't get that boy's face out of my mind. Meet me at IO's front gate ASAP, Linda. Bring a crew, and call the cops. Don't be alone. Hurry!" And with that, Taft slammed the phone down and dialed 911. A sleepy sounding operator took his call with the usual blather which was usually long enough to kill someone. Taft demanded a 'Code-black-G-supervisor,' and the operator gasped and transferred him.

"G-man," the voice replied.

"Taft," Taft said flatly.

"Understood," the supervisor replied.

"Send fire and police to the residence of the IO parolee from tonight's news NOW!" he demanded in his shrill voice, "I believe there's about to be an attempt on his life." Taft hung up the phone. He turned to shut his computer down, but the screen was solid red and a document was rolling out of his printer. Taft watched it finish, and then the computer quietly died… its last message being 'Monkeywrech.exe is now shutting down'.

Slowly, he picked up the paper and read it.

Jason and Max, at the urging of Jason's tracking device, forced a door that was at least ten floors down inside the IO complex. They entered the room, and found several workstations and huge pieces of computer equipment all along the walls. Max whistled. "There's gotta be 2000 square feet [185 m²] in here, at least," he commented.

Jason nodded, shining his flashlight around the dimly lighted room at the near-dead systems. "2,328 [216 m²] to be exact," he replied, "I helped test it, you know."

"Let's just fix it and get the hell out of here," Max responded, "This place almost feels haunted to me." Jason seated himself at a workstation, and while Max was digging through his briefcase, he plugged his laptop into a dead terminal's network card.

The laptop spun to life, and the CD in its drive kicked the terminal into life. The usual start up screen came on, but Jason quickly executed a file from the CD called, of all things, 'Banana Boat'. Max heard the beep and spun around.

"We got a pulse," Jason joked.

"You won't have for long," Max replied, pecking at some DOS commands on another terminal that Jason had resurrected. "The main processors are shot, and so are most of the secondaries. It seems that only emergency systems are operating, and only lights and air flow are being controlled.

Everything else is FUCKED! Man, this CANNOT happen to a CyberHound 2!"

"Well, something sure happened," Jason said wryly.

Max had pulled an access door open on one of the huge wall-mounted banks and had stuck his head inside. "Oh God, no," he mumbled.

Jason laughed.

"What?"

"Man, this thing has been smoked! I mean toasted! Get me the case with the spare parts in it, we're gonna need 'em all." Max sighed.

Jason, however, had his own agenda. As Max worked to replace dead hardware, Jason's 'Banana Boat' program began to make repairs of its own.

"You're as good as out, Mikey," Jason thought to himself.

"I'm d-done n-now," Michael choked, his story over.

They all turned back to face him, and even Sam's face was pale. Michael was shaking, his eyes wild and filled with tears. "A-ahw-ll I did w-w-was s-steal some st-st-stuff," he sobbed, his anger ebbing, giving way to fear and remorse, "a-and they p-put m-me in h-here and m-made y-you c-c-cut my b-balls off! I d-didn't mean t-tuh b-be…" but he couldn't finish. Ned gestured to Sam, who came and unwound the shaking form of Joey from his left arm. Joey attached himself to Sam then, his eyes tightly shut and his slight frame shivering badly. Ned poked around in his case, and pulled out another needle. Michael whimpered. "Noooooo…"

But Ned took the young eunuch in his arms and quietly whispered, "It's only a light sedative. It won't put you out, but it WILL settle you down a bit. Michael, listen to me – you're sick. You're sick, like Cheng was. I know it hurts, and I know they've done some rotten things to you in here. I know you miss him bad, that he was your friend and more, but he's gone. I'm sorry you had to remember it all this way, but there wasn't any other choice. BUT – you cannot get EXCITED, Michael! Listen to me!" Michael faced Ned and nodded, wiping at his eyes. He pulled the cover back and allowed Ned to inject him.

"If you keep staying so keyed up, you're going to have another episode.

The ULF punishments and the lack of hormones in your body from the castration are combining to – well – let's just say it's messing up your brain's chemical balance, OK?" Michael nodded. "Add to that some physical things about the structure of your brain, and you've got a deadly mix going on in there. We have to keep you calm, and get you some hormone replacements, or otherwise, what happened to Cheng is going to happen to you. There's much more, but I'll have to tell you later. I can't have you getting worked up anymore. Promise?" Michael nodded again and looked over at Sam, who was still holding Joey.

The pale boy was shaking his head. "I can't," he cried, "Please don't make me. He'll find out and hurt me. If I talk, he'll get me." Sam pulled the pale eunuch closer, rubbing a large black hand over the boy's stubbled scalp.

"C'mon, Joey. Computers be down, hell, they dead. No one gon' find out.

Spit it out. Mikey did, and he's still here," Sam encouraged him.

"Give him a shot of this, Sam," Ned ordered, passing the young black guard-to-be a needle.

"Tranq?" Sam asked.

"A light one, like Michael got," Ned replied. Sam did that.

Joey whimpered. "I hate shots," he said in a quiet, but flat voice. "I hate shots and being naked and everyone looking at me. I hate being poked at every week and that damn hot water hose you stick up my ass every week too."

"I know, Joey. I know," Ned replied, "But it's my job. I have no choice, not yet. Tell us what you know, Joey. We need to know if we're going to help you."

"No," he shouted, "I don't know anything! Leave me alone! Get away from me and stop bothering me! He'll find out, he always does! He hates me and he'll kill me!"

Sam held fast to the now struggling pale eunuch. He was amazed at how strong the puny boy really was. "I be holdin' him 'til that shot kicks in," Sam observed.

"Don't talk to him or look at him," Bolton reminded them, "He's been conditioned the worst. Hell, the poor boy's been broken."

Joey coughed, and his shoulders slumped. "That's just it," he said, "I'm NOT a boy. Not anymore, and I hate it! HE saw to that." One small hand made its way under the blanket, and they all knew to where it went. "Why'd he do it to me?" he asked of them all, looking from turned face to turned face, "I didn't do anything bad."

"You mean castrate you?" Bolton asked.

"Yes."

"All the boys in IO get cut, Joey, you know that," Bolton answered carefully, "And WE know, so YOU can tell ME." Ned heard the tone in Bolton's voice, and he realized that the guard had just tripped a subconscious trigger in the pale eunuch's conditioned mind.

He picked up his pad and pen.

"But why ME?" Joey demanded, "I'm not a criminal. I just did what he told me. I was good, I tried to be, but it was never enough for him, and I tried SO hard."

"And?" Bolton prodded.

"When my mom died, he got into his work more and more. I was left alone, or with the neighbors. He was never home, never had time for me. One of my uncles was gonna adopt me, but he had a fit over that. Finally, they said something and he started taking me to work with him. I'd stay in his office, follow him around. When he was off, or had a break, we'd go outside. I had to wear this red sweatsuit when I came in with him. I never saw anyone but guards in gray and adults, like teachers. Sometimes we'd play ball or stuff out there on the grass, but I was never good at that.

He'd get so mad at me. All the doctors here looked me over, but they said I was fine, just small. Then one day he was talking to one of the guards and he said I wasn't 'boy enough' for him and he was going to have to do something with me because he didn't have time for taking care of a baby."

Joey paused to catch his breath.

"So yo' momma died, and yo' daddy didn't have time for you? Maybe HE was hurtin' too?" Bolton urged softly. His accent seemed to be resurfacing.

"No," Joey continued, "him and mom didn't talk much. She was always yelling at him, they fought a lot. They said bad things to each other, lied to each other. Finally, she said she was leaving and taking me with her. He said 'good, go, just don't come back.' Then she got sick after we moved out. He came and took me home, but whatever she had was bad. They said it was cancer, and she died a little while after. It was so fast."

The pale young eunuch paused again, leaning heavily on Sam. His eyes were drooping, and he was crying again.

"So he come got you back, then he ignored you?" Bolton asked.

Joey nodded. They all seemed to realize that this ordeal was taking a great deal out of the usually reticent youth, and Ned wondered how long it would be before Joey came right out and said what Ned already knew.

"Why you think he brought you to work with him?" the guard asked.

"I was riding my bike one day while he was at work and a car hit me. I wasn't hurt, but he had a fit. Then he started taking me with him most days, and trying to do more with me, but I wasn't good enough. He made me play sports, but I sat on the bench most of the time. When I did play, I wasn't good and I got hurt a lot. He was always mad at me and yelling at me, saying he didn't know what he was going to do with me. When I started going in to the office with him that last summer, I lived in it mostly. He made me wear those red clothes, and I was always by myself, except for another employee sometimes, like the secretary or a guard would talk to me. I slept on the couch in his office at night, and when we DID go home, he left me with the neighbors." Bolton drew a deep breath, and Ned almost knew what was coming next.

"Joey, how old was you when yo momma died?"

"10."

"How old are you now?" Bolton asked.

The pale eunuch looked at the ID bracelet on his left wrist. "It says I'm 16." Bolton, who had glanced briefly at Joey, nodded. "Six years is a long time for somebody who din't DO anything."

"It didn't matter WHAT I did, I wasn't good enough for him," Joey choked, "So he brought me in one day and left me alone in a room with just a chair. I don't know how long it was, hours, but finally a voice came from the ceiling and told me to take off my clothes and get in the chair." Michael, although he knew he wasn't supposed to say anything, spoke up.

"He brought you HERE 'cause he didn't want you?"

"Yes," Joey replied, his voice shaking.

"But that's what they did to ME when I got locked up in here! The room with the chair and the voice!" Michael exclaimed.

"Joey," Bolton said softly, "tell US who HE is and why HE left YOU here."

"He didn't want me. He hates me. He told me if I hadn't been such a bad kid, or been so hard to deal with, that him and mom wouldn't have split and she wouldn't have got sick." Joey was clinging tightly to Sam now, and despite the sedative, he was still shaking. "He'll find out, he always finds out. So I don't talk. He'll punish me."

"YOU can tell US," Bolton urged, "Prisoners TELL the guards about problems." Joey took a deep breath, glanced nervously about the dimly lighted room, and then pulled the blanket up over his head again. Ned felt a lump rising in his throat. He was afraid that the confession that might be too much for the young eunuch.

"HE brought you to work with him, you said, where there were guards in gray?" Bolton urged.

"Yea, one day he said 'you're going in to work with me today, son' and when we got here, he left me in that room without making me put on the red clothes. I never knew why I had to wear them until the next day after – it was to set me apart from the boys in white. Then voice made me sit in the chair. I didn't want to, but my head started to hurt really bad and then when I sat down, it stopped. Then it told me to take off my clothes, and my head started to hurt again. I did it, and sat back down and the chair grabbed me and locked me in. I couldn't get up and nobody came for me." Ned noticed the change of Joey's tone. His shy and hurt voice was taking on a darker tone, and he could tell that the eunuch was getting angry. Ned made a note. Joey didn't seem to suffer from what Cheng had and Michael did. His records indicated that, as well as having labeled him as 'straight'.

Joey went on, and Ned knew where he was going. Sam and Michael listened, hardly breathing. Ned suspected that Bolton had put two and two together already.

"You said 'here'," Bolton commented.

"Yea, HERE!" Joey announced, "Here where the bad boys get put, he told me. Where I belonged, he told me, because I was bad and because I wasn't much of a boy anyway. Here where you wear white clothes and you don't know what time or day it is and they shave your head and doctors pick at you all the time and counselors nose into your life. He came in while I was in the chair. I was almost asleep, and it was cold. He just looked at me and said something like, 'get used to it, son, at least if you're in here I can work in peace and not have to worry about you.' I didn't understand it. I started crying, I was so scared. I just wanted to go home, but he said I was home, in a new home. He'd see me every day, and since I wasn't turning out to be the boy he wanted, he said, it was just as well and it was for my own good. Then a man came in and he shaved my head and they took me to a room like Ned's doctor office with a shower and they…"

But Michael interrupted him. "H-holy Christ, m-man! Your d-dad worked h-h-here and he d-d-dumped you here to g-get rid of y-you? Can they d-d-do that?" he asked Ned.

"Shit," Sam interjected, "dis ain't no orphans' home! You can't just be puttin' any ol' kid in here!"

Ned nodded. "But Joey's dad can do anything in here," he coaxed.

Michael stared at Joey with a look of abject horror on his face. Sam and Bolton had turned to face him, since Joey still had the blanket pulled up over his head. Michael might have been ignored by his own parents, but what had been done to Joey was far, far worse. "You m-mean…"

"He STILL works here," Bolton supplied, his large white eyes bright with anger as the clues fell into place.

"Yes," Joey whimpered from under his blanket.

"Y-you're si-six-six-t-teen?" Michael groped.

"Yes," Joey answered, "Don't look like it, do I?"

"Oh, G-g-g-god," Michael stammered.

"Shit!" Sam exclaimed, "Dat means dat… dat Ames is…"

"Mr. Ames is my father," Joey answered with a choked sob, "and he hates me."

Michael and the rest of them were almost in tears at the end of Joey's story. The cruelty with which Ames had dispatched his own unwanted son was almost beyond belief, yet there in front of them sat the proof. "I-I don't g-g-get it," Michael offered.

"It's simple, Michael," Ned answered, "Ames sees in our Joey here exactly what HE isn't himself. He had his own concepts for a perfect son and an ideal life, and he didn't get it. He and his son are almost exact opposites, and he can't stand that. His ideals of masculinity, strength, perfection, perhaps – all of which Joey is nearly the antithesis of. He sees, in Joey, failure – and that's more than his ideals of perfection can take."

Ames had shut his cell phone off on the first ring. His sense of duty told him that he should back the IO Complex, watching the repair technicians, if nothing else. He was confident that the staff on duty could handle the boys, however, since he had long since weeded out the slackers in his employ. With the main entrance blown open, the next shift would be able to get in and relieve the exhausted workers who had been trapped by the computer crash. There was no worry there, and since he had not been home in days, he decided to check his house. Besides, there wasn't much chance that anyone would call or come looking for him there. The Ames house at 4548 Parkway was almost always empty now.

He pulled his black BMW sport sedan into the driveway slowly, watching the automatic garage door raise. Another button informed the security system that he was home, and as the door sealed shut once again, he got out of the car and went into the connected breezeway. He paused to kick off his shoes, flexing his toes with some degree of relief, but then gasped as he kicked one of them out of his way. The discarded shoe flew off to the side of the room to land beside the box where shoes were put when taken off. It landed right next to a polished and black, but very dusty and long-unused, size 5 little boy boot.

Ames bent and picked up the boot, blew the dust off of it, and placed it in the box next to its mate. There was a scuff on the toe of the boot he had picked up, and as ridiculous as it seemed, he wiped at it and reached up to the small cabinet above for a bottle of black scuff patch polish.

The boot repaired, he placed it back in the box so that it could continue to wait, if for another six years, for the boy who probably wasn't coming back to wear it again. "Damn kid never took care of anything," he muttered.

But the image was there. In his mind's eye. When he walked into the house, some lights came on, and another met him. The 11x14 print hanging on the opposite wall stared at him. The little boy in the image was wearing a neatly pressed white dress shirt and a black tie with tan khakis. His polished boots gleamed with catchlights in the toes from the studio lighting, and his eyes sparkled with mischief. His white teeth shown brightly and in abundance. The gold stud in his left ear glittered, and Ames gasped. In his mind, he saw the pale and thin eunuch with the shaven head, the one who had not dared look right at the ID camera, much less smile. But the boy staring back at him was fleshy and happy, and was smiling broadly into the camera, his jet black shoulder-length hair shining and slightly curled at the ends where it was pulled back away from his face and behind his ears. Ames shook his head, and cursed the automatic lighting and security system. He pulled the picture of Joey, the boy who had left a boot out on the floor six years before, off of the wall and deposited it in the kitchen can. "Why that bitch couldn't get him a HAIRCUT I'll never know! He was a boy, for Christ's sake!" he yelled at the empty house. The house made no reply.

Somewhere a heat pump kicked over, but then there was silence.

He made his way through the forlorn dwelling to the stairs, and headed up to take a bath. A hot bath would certainly help, he told himself, as well as a short nap in a good bed and not the divan in his office. Lights came on ahead of him, and he stopped by his bedroom to turn on his computer. It came obediently to life, and connected itself simultaneously to its ISP and its remote IO server, which still seemed to be up and running. Ames breathed a sigh of relief and headed for the bath. As he turned his back, a very happy and musical monkey came onscreen, banging a pair of cymbals.

In his virtual teeth, he carried a pipewrench.

Ames ran himself a bath, steam filling the room. He lowered himself with a groan into the sunken bathtub and closed his eyes. "Fuckin' take me AWAY! Least something took HER away… not before she ruined my life though," he shouted to the empty house. There was no reply. He leaned back in the tub, feeling the tension drain out of him. He thought, naturally, of work; as the tension drained, he thought of how SHE and her son had drained him as well. But HE could fix it, of that he was sure. Jason and Max would have the Mainframe up again soon, he told himself, then everything would be back to normal. He didn't even notice when the transdermal patches on his upper arms came loose and floated off amongst the suds of the bath water.

He soaked for perhaps half an hour, and then he heard it. From somewhere down the hall came a muffled cry, no more than a whimper. Ames' eyes snapped open, and he cocked his head. There was NO way anyone could be in the house, not with the security system online. Again, the small cry, despairing and small. Jumping from the tub with a vile curse, he snatched up a towel and secured it about his waist. Even though he knew that he was alone, subconsciously, he despised his own nakedness. He crept down the hall, looked into his bedroom and saw nothing but the glow from the computer screen. He checked the closet, he checked the guest room. He checked the half bath connected to the guest room. Again, the small and faint cry came to his ears. He stared in disbelief at the last door on the second floor, a door that had not been opened in six years. It was a plain wooden door, thick and sound dampening and unremarkable like the rest – of which it matched in set. It was unadorned, but he was reluctant to open it. He approached it as if there were venomous snakes on the floor, glancing often over his shoulder.

"Why?" came the choked whimper from behind the door.

Ames jumped and yelped.

His towel came undone, and he stood naked in the hallway, gasping for breath. A sharp pain shot through his chest, and he shivered. His flesh rose up in goose bumps, and he began to tremble. His penis rose as well, not quickly, but he paid no attention and the erection went unnoticed.

Slowly, he reached for the dusty brass doorknob. It was cold under his damp palm, and it turned with reluctance, almost grudgingly. The hinges squeaked as he pushed the door open. No light came on. He fumbled along the wall inside of the doorway and he flipped the first switch he came to.

Unfortunately, it was the master switch that was tied into the house's security systems, and the dutiful electronics – sure that their young master had finally come home at last – turned on everything else in the room.

From the stereo came a song with some boys singing about "You got the right stuff, baby…" and the VCR began to autoplay as the TV snapped on.

There came a startled voice from the TV, "Michelangelo, you have much to learn…" Ames jumped again. There was a thin layer of dust over everything in the room, and he snorted in disgust at the noise. He tried to switch off the stereo and TV/VCR, cursing the absent inhabitant of the room for his irresponsibility. Instead, he pressed the wrong button and skipped to the next CD in the player. A man's voice said that "Lightning crashes, and an old mother dies…" He listened to this song for a moment or two, until the singer mentioned "the baby down the hall." Then he found the OFF button. "Right stuff, my ass," he swore. He looked around at the semiorganized chaos which was a part of the bedroom of every young boy who had ever lived. There were clothes laid out on the foot of the bed, and with a start, he realized that they were same clothes from the 11x14 picture which he had disposed of. A blue baseball cap with a white letter "A" on the front of it lay on the pillow of the half made bed. The bedspread was covered with images of green humanoid turtles in multi-colored masks, all of them holding weapons. The curtains, which were closed, were done in the same motif and the dark green carpet looked as if it could use a vacuuming. At the head of the bed leaned a new baseball bat, and on the night stand was a dusty glove and an unscarred ball. On the pillow next to the cap sat a bright red action figure with a silver face mask and silver boots.

Ames looked down, and saw the size 5 white cleats there, not in the box out on the porch where they belonged. They were worn, but very clean. He swore again, but went rigid as he heard the voice once more.

"Why?" It seemed to come from all around him. He glanced nervously around the room, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. From in the hallway he heard, "Daddy's home!"

"I need a drink and a nap," he muttered, leaving the room and slamming the door. After a few minutes, the systems assumed that the boy had gone to bed or had left. The lights went out. The fact that they had not come on in six years didn't concern them in the least.

Ames picked up his towel, made his way back to the bedroom, found a bottle of scotch, and retired back to his bath. The water had cooled, and he turned up the heat and ran a bit more of hot water. He leaned back once more, taking a long drink. "Better," he sighed. Then he heard the breathing. Slowly, he turned his head and opened his eyes.

Standing in the bathroom doorway was the boy.

He stared for a moment, his mouth open in disbelief. The boy's white shirt was torn, and his black tie was wrapped around the back of his head and in his mouth like a gag. His scalp was shaven, and his long black hair was laying on the floor at his bare feet in piles. His left earlobe was torn open. His tan khakis were stained with blood which ran freely from the crotch, dripping from the cuffs and pooling up in the hair clippings at his feet. In the boy's hand was a scalpel, bloody and sharp. He took a few steps towards the tub, his small bare feet leaving bloody footprints on the white tile floor in his wake. There were tears, unshed, standing in his eyes. One of them was blackened, an angry bruise surrounding it, and his lower lip was swollen. "Why?" he asked, the sound of his fragile voice muffled by the necktie gag, "I tried so hard." A sharp pain shot through Ames' chest again, and he pressed himself against the back of the tub. The bottle of scotch slid from his hand to sink below the soap suds. "This… this isn't possible!" he shouted at the boy.

The tears in the boy's eyes broke free and ran down his cheeks. He nodded.

"How can you hate me when I love you?" the once-dapper boy asked, waving the bloody scalpel.

Ames shook his head. "You're not real," he defended himself, "Too much work. Too much stress…"

"But I tried, Daddy, I really did," the boy replied, inching his way closer, leaving more bloody little footprints. An irrational thought flared in Ames' mind.

"Everywhere you go, you make a mess!" he yelled.

The boy halted his approach, looking down at the floor. His free hand went to his crotch. "You did this, not me," he said.

"It isn't real," Ames gasped, hugging his arms to his chest, not noticing the pale shaven spots on his arms where the patches had been.

"Was it because YOU were in there too, when you were MY age?" the boy asked, "Was it because YOU were bad once?" Ames' head began to throb. Unbeknownst to him, the monkey on the screen of his computer was asking the same questions, its virtual mouth moving in time to the phantom boy's own. "Is that why you did it to ME, too?" the boy pressed.

"I did it for your own good!" Ames shouted, the pain in his chest and head increasing.

"Noooo…" the small voice whispered through thin, red lips and shiny white teeth.

Ames groaned. The pain was unbearable now, and getting worse. His breath came in ragged gasps as the monkey asked, as the boy asked, again and again. It wasn't possible. He was seeing things, he told himself. He just needed a bit of rest and some word from the technicians.

Then the boy turned away, dropping the scalpel on the floor. It clattered loudly across the bloody tiles, and he sighed. "I love you, Daddy," he said through his necktie gag, the words oddly muffled and sounding like "Iy Wuf oo Dead-ee." Then he passed through the open door and vanished. A few seconds later, from down the hallway, came music – "Heroes in a halfshell… Turtle Power!" Ames screamed.

Max slammed the last circuit board into place and crawled out from under the nerve center of the IO Mainframe. He threw a master breaker, waited for one minute, then threw it again. Lights came on all over the room, and the computers began to whine. From somewhere deep inside of the fresh processor parts and memory chips, Jason's Banana Boat program watched as the IO programs booted up. Very subtly, it modified them. The room's main lights came on, and a voice spoke from overhead. "Emergency reboot in progress. All inmates report to dorm rooms and beds. All staff report to stations. Prepare to identify. 90 seconds to full operation. Repeat… the computer continued to blather, even as the IO ISP server came up. As the system tried to regain control of the Complex, delicious bits of data began to head for Ned's and Jason's computers at home, which dutifully wrote it all to CD R's this time. Their printers began to run, and pictures and facts began to pile up. Max scratched his head in puzzlement.

"Why is there a large banana on all the screens?" he asked Jason.

"Dunno," Jason replied, "must be a glitch." The lights suddenly all turned red and an alarm began to wail. Outside the shattered remains of the front gate and office, Linda Johnson jumped.

Lawrence Taft very nearly wet his pants, and Erik's parents – all of them summoned in the middle of the night with full police protection – tried to comfort their panic-stricken son. Linda recovered herself first.

"Hello again, I'm Linda Johnson, once more on location at the IO Rehab Center for Boys, where it seems that something is happening inside the complex. Earlier in the night, the Complex was breached and new employees made their way in to relieve the staff that had been trapped inside when the main computer crashed. We also met with Mr. Ames, the director of the IO Center, who seems to have gone home to refresh himself. Comments so far have been that no one has been hurt, and that things are well in hand.

From the looks of it, with all the lights coming back on, I'd say that the two technicians who went in have restored the systems. We'll have a full story in the morning, but for now…" Linda, however, was interrupted by Erik's father. They approached her, surrounded by armed police officers. "Linda, we have to get Erik somewhere where he can rest. If you need us, can we do it NOW?"

"We can tape now, yes," she agreed.

"Erik," Taft asked the boy, "Tell Linda what you have to. Don't be afraid of her." The blind boy nodded, adjusted his mirrored glasses, and tried to collect his thoughts. "My name is Erik Anderson," he began, "and I got put in IO when I was 12. I set an old barn on fire. I was released a couple of months ago when I was 15. I know it sounds stupid, but I didn't even know how long I was in there. When I got put in there, they shaved my head and gave me complete physical. Every week, we got examined by a doctor. Not long after I got put in, the doctor who took care of me cut my balls off.

All the boys in there are castrated, or the bigger ones who want to graduate and become guards only get their penis cut off. They didn't feed us very well, and they had something that made us have bad headaches if you were bad or broke the rules. If you saw things you shouldn't, or talked too much, they would strap you down and shock your head. Sometimes, they just put you in a straight-jacket and left you alone in a padded room while that ULF thing – I think they called it – tried to make your head explode. Sometimes it went on for days. No food, nothing. I know one boy in my dorm died while I was there, his name was Jon-Paul and he was gay, he said. I know some other boys died too, and they were gay as well. Mr. Ames hated gay boys. I think he hated us all, really."

Taft put a hand to his brow and bowed his head. "I had no idea, Linda," he offered.

Erik's father let the boy lean on him. "They did things to me, after they castrated me. They used to stick needles in my head, up under my ears. They shocked me a lot. My doctor says that's why I had the aneurism and why I can't see now," he finished, panting for breath. "Dad, Mom, can we go home now, please?" he begged, tears coming from under his dark glasses.

Linda Jones then turned to Taft, who handed her a briefcase.

"What's this?" she demanded.

"Your Pulitzer Prize, Ms. Johnson," he said flatly, then turned to Erik.

"Mr. & Mrs. Anderson, Erik, Linda, there's something else you all should know. I've never been a brave man, not until now. Not until I found out that Ames was butchering children in there for his own pursuits, God only knows what they are. They always told us 'it was for their own good,' what they did in there, but I swear to you I didn't know. Tonight, I was told by the Governor himself to dispose of YOU, Linda, and to have someone set fire to Erik's home, making it look as if Erik has backslided into arson. It was supposed to look like retaliation to his family for letting him be put in IO. That's why I called you all here and the police as well," he addressed the officers. They all nodded and looked around. "I've never been brave, as I said earlier, but I've called the FBI on this one. Ames has much to answer for, as do I. You'll all be safe now, I hope. Be well."

They all watched in shock as Taft went back to his car, the cameras following him. From the remote news van, a voice called out, "We've got CNBC uplink, Linda, feeding now, the tapes, and getting ready to go live!" From somewhere in the distance, there was a roaring of an engine getting closer, and suddenly the sky was alight with the landing lamps of a helicopter. The camera men followed it, the live feed went online, and the helicopter made a dangerous landing near the front gate. A man with male pattern baldness stepped out of the craft before it even settled, and ran towards the group.

"What's happening, dad?" Erik asked.

"I think the big guys just got here, son," he breathed. "My God, what IS this place they put you in, and who IS this Ames person?"

"My friend Joey's dad," Erik replied, as if that explained it all.

The balding man approached them, flashing a badge. "Skinner, Federal Agent!" he called out, and the police lowered their guns. Linda Johnson greeted him cooly, professionally, and asked, "Are we live?"

"Yes, CNBC in fact," she answered.

"Good. Get on FOX too. The Governor should be here shortly."

The lights went back to normal, and the Auto-voice, as the boys called it inside of IO, ordered them all to identify. "Normal operations resumed," it announced. Each boy in turn let the scanner of his room read his ID bracelet. Then the guards all called in. The Mainframe was running happily, unaware of just how badly IT had just been castrated by a virtual knife known as the Banana Boat. Jason smiled at Max as the screens all went to the geometric screen saver pattern. "I think we did it," he said.

"Good. Let's get the hell out of this hell hole!" Max replied.

In Dorm 23, Joey screamed and clung tightly to Sam. He was shaking so badly that Ned had to inject him again. He screamed again as the needle pierced his skin, and Sam held him tightly, keeping his stubbly head pressed against his muscular shoulder. Michael, his eyes drooping, leaned back against the wall. "I'm n-not put-t-t-tin' m-my head on th-that p-p-pillow," he stammered.

"No, if all goes well, you don't need to," Ned replied.

"What u be up to?" Bolton asked.

"Let's just say that the Mainframe isn't really firing on all 8 cylinders right now," he replied cryptically. Bolton smiled, his white teeth bright.

"Go to sleep boys, sweet dreams!" They all looked confused, then Sam smiled as well. "SHIT!" he exclaimed.

"N-no," Michael said, shaking his head, his blonde flat top not quite long enough to wave as he shook it.

Ned laughed and handed him a stack of papers from his bag. "Read these when you wake up, little brother," he said, pulling the young eunuch into a rough embrace. "Read 'em and think." Michael looked confused as he took the papers and put them on the night stand.

Bolton, however, was laughing, a rich throaty laugh that was full of mirth. "I KNEW it!" he cried, "You two looked it to me!" Ned, still holding Michael close, watched as Joey slid from Sam's arms.

The burly black youth tucked the boy into bed, ran a hand over his forehead, and sighed. "I think we need to get you some gray clothes in the morning," he told Sam.

Bolton was still laughing. Sam smiled again, but Michael still looked confused. "B-b-broth-th-ther?" he asked.

"I think the stutter will be gone in a few more weeks, Michael," Ned replied, "Nothing a little fresh air and sunshine and few shots of testosterone won't cure. After that, we'll see how the patches work for you." Michael raised one eyebrow. He yawned, and despite his burning curiosity, he didn't resist as Ned tucked him in and kissed his forehead. "I'll be right here all night long, just me and the laptop and Jason on the other end with Linda Johnson," he assured the slight eunuch. Michael reached out to take Ned's hand, and Ned noted the length of the eunuch's arm and fingers. "You're growing fast, little brother," he said softly, but Michael was already asleep. Ned stretched out on the vacant bed that had been Cheng's, and ran Winamp, selecting a few soothing MP3's that might help to induce pleasant dreams for his charges.

"What 'bout Ames? He gon' be PISSED!" Sam said.

But Ned shook his head. "Ames isn't coming back, Sam. He wont' be hurting Michael, or you, or even Joey ever again." Sam looked at the still form of Joey, the pale eunuch's breathing being slow and regular. "His own dad… damn. How could he?"

"Takes all kinds," Bolton replied, "But I shoulda seen it comin' when we graduated IO, I guess."

"WE?" Ned asked, "Bolton, what am I missing here?" But the large black guard was laughing again, harder this time.

"Hooooooooo-eeeeeeee, shit, Ned! Here I thought you had it ALL cookin'! Dint'chu know Ames was a prisoner in here from age 15 to 21? We was BOTH on the graduate/career list together! Hell, we was roomies for 4 years at the end!" It was Ned's turn to be startled that time. Dumbly, he shook his head.

Then he glanced at Joey, who by rights, shouldn't even exist if Ames had done time in IO as a boy.

Sam whistled in surprise. He sat up in bed, pulling his sweatshirt off to reveal his hard and muscular upper body. "Dis I gots to be hearin', dude!" he exclaimed.

"Bed check, LIGHTS OUT," the Auto-voice ordered from above.

"Piss off," Ned replied. There was a beep, but the lights stayed on. Then a strange voice came over the system. "Come, Mr. Tally-man, tally me banana…"

"Two chimps, two gorillas and me," Ned replied.

"Make it a split," Jason replied, and Ned said, "Thank you. Now, Bolton, why don't YOU tell ME about Ames and what HE did?"

Chapter 12 – Conclusion

His eyes drooped, but Ned forced himself to stay awake just a bit longer.

He leaned up on one arm, holding his weary head upright, watching his little brother sleep. His brother, whom he had not even known existed until Ames had done what he had done to them. Michael was laying on his back, his head – with its neat blonde flat-top haircut – turned slightly to the left. His chest rose and fell slowly and evenly, and Ned watched as his eyes twitched this way and that under the lids. With the Mainframes's pillow transceivers not working, the boys were free to sleep and dream with no artificial memories or conditioning being implanted into their minds. A slight smile crossed the dreaming eunuch's face, and he sighed softly. Ned wondered how he had not noticed the change of hairstyle before, and what Michael was dreaming about. Then he too fell asleep.

He was walking down the hallway, some unknown hallway in the vast and confusing IO complex. He was naked, but he didn't seem to mind. There was, irrationally, a cool breeze blowing and it felt good against his bare skin. He shook his head and tossed the shaggy blonde hair out of his eyes, rubbing a hand up under the 'skate cut' hairstyle at the stubbled scalp beneath. For a brief moment, he worried that someone might find him and punish him again. He thought that he wasn't supposed to be out of his room alone, yet he continued to walk. He felt something else odd, and stopped to look down. Instead of the smooth, white tiled floors of the IO complex, he was walking barefoot on green grass, and suddenly the sun shone on his face. He squinted and raised a hand to his brow, seeing someone standing far ahead of him. This other was naked as well, but it didn't matter. It was someone he knew. In disbelief, he glanced around again. Yet instead of the brick walls, all painted dull yellow or gray, he saw deep blue sky. An intense yearning began to grow within him, a terrible longing for something that he knew he must have – what all boys must have – but what had been, always before, denied to him. The other figure began to approach as well, and the wind picked up. They drew closer and closer, until Michael could make out the face of his friend – perhaps the only REAL friend he had ever known. Tears of joy welled up in his eyes as they met and embraced, tightly, their mouths joining in a kiss of the kind that is only experienced by two persons who are beyond friendship, beyond family.

"Michael!" the small Asian greeted him.

"Cheng!" the blonde boy choked, holding onto his friend with all his strength.

Eternity seemed to pass as they held each other, Infinities ended, and Time itself seemed to lose all meaning as they stared into each others' eyes.

"I miss you," Michael finally cried, his sense of time distorted by the not quite lucid dream.

"I know," Cheng answered, "I wish it could have been different." As if reminded by those words, Michael glanced down at the Asian's smooth and empty crotch, and moved a long-fingered hand up to his own – feeling where his balls should have been. His penis became slowly erect, and he stared down it in wonder. He remembered the time in the ICU.

Cheng smiled. "Part of the cure," he offered.

The sun shone down on them, filling Michael's teary eyes with vivid colors that he had not seen in so long; for how long, he didn't know. They pulled back a bit, still holding hands, to look around. Michael looked down at those hands, clasped as if nothing would tear them apart again, and saw that neither of them were wearing ID bracelets.

"Are we outside?" the blonde eunuch asked the Asian.

"No, we're dreaming. Well, YOU'RE dreaming."

"But you're… uh… well…" but Michael could not say the last word.

"'Dead?'" Cheng supplied.

Dumbly, Michael nodded, his tears spilling over again.

"I'll always be with you, Mikey." Once again, Michael pulled his friend and first lover close. "I don't wanna go!" he moaned.

"You're not stuttering," Cheng pointed out to him.

The blonde eunuch pulled his head from the Asian's shoulder. Wanly, he smiled.

"Don't see many of those," Cheng observed.

Michael sniffed.

"You have your brother now, Michael. You'll be alright."

"But he said I was sick, like you were," Michael said, recalling the terrible morning in the shower, remembering the dying eunuch's final scream and how it had echoed in his ears for so very long.

Cheng's eyes sparkled in the light, catching the deep blue of the sky and throwing it back into Michael's face. The Asian eunuch smiled, and the blonde eunuch felt all of his cares and anxieties falling away as he stared into that face. His mind recorded every detail, as if some deep, inner part of his Soul knew that it would have to last him a lifetime. He took in the almond-shaped eyes, the cut of his thick black hair, the way his cheekbones were so understated, and finally, the shape of his mouth which moved in whispers that he couldn't quite hear. Slowly, Cheng reached out to touch Michael's smooth face. His small hand ran softly down from the left ear, over the beardless cheek and across the mouth, and then down off of the chin. He sighed. "Everything will be alright, Mikey. I love you." The wind blew stronger, and a fluffy, white cloud passed over the sun. A dark shadow fell across Michael's face then, and he felt a chill combined with a terrible wrench. For a brief instant, there was darkness and the terrible feeling that someone had reached inside of him and pulled out something very important. He shivered. But then, borne along by the wind, the cloud passed and the sun came back out to shine down upon him. He was all alone. The blonde eunuch fell to his knees on the rich, green grass, tears streaming down his face. For how long he knelt there sobbing in the sun-warmed grass, he didn't know; nor did he care. Something told him, deep inside, that his friend was finally gone, and no matter how hard he wished, he could not bring him back. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up into a face – an older face – that looked like his own. He stared, unsure of what to do, feeling that he should know this new face.

He felt a bit embarrassed about being naked out in the open. He also felt his face flush. Then it dawned on him. "Ned?" he asked, in a small and trembling voice.

"Yes, Michael, I'm here. I'll always be here." And then Ned pulled him close, kissed his forehead, and slowly led him back across the vast field of open grass. The grip of his hand upon Michael's, the young eunuch noted, was not unlike Cheng's had been.

Michael awoke sometime during the night to find the lights dimmed, but not totally off. He had to urinate badly, and for the first time since his arrival at IO, he had awakened in the night to find that he had to. He sat up, yawning and stretching, wondering at the length of his arms and how fast he seemed to growing. The facts of all of these things didn't hit him until he was actually IN the bathroom and urinating, his long fingers touching the area under his penis where his testicles had once been. He glanced at Ned, who was asleep on Cheng's bed. For a moment, a brief flash of anger welled up in Michael. Ned was the one who had castrated him, the one who had poked and prodded at him every week since his incarceration, and the one who had lied to him. Yet he had also been the one who had patched him back up when the others had beaten him, and watched over him as he mended. His eyes searched the room, and he saw Sam. The burly, black youth was curled up into a fetal position, and his eyes darted this way and that under the lids. He was smiling, and there were beads of sweat on his shaven head. He made small sounds now and again, and Michael wondered what he was dreaming about. As he shook the last drop of urine out and turned to go back to bed, he suddenly thought that he had a good idea of what Sam could be dreaming about. Then his gaze fell upon Joey. The pale eunuch was lying on his back, and his eyes were not moving. His breathing was slow and even, and he hadn't moved since Sam had tucked him into bed hours before when the sedatives had finally put him under. In the dim light, his face had a pale cast to it and looked pinched. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and his closely buzzed dark hair made him look ill. For one horrible moment, the young eunuch was unsure if the other were even going to draw the next breath. Michael shook his head, his gaze returning to his own empty bed.

It was the site of that bed that triggered the memory. He gasped as he recalled that one time in the ICU, when Cheng had shown him what love was – and that as a eunuch, he needn't be asexual. Hardly healed up from his castration surgery, Michael had discovered sex and the pleasures it could bring with another eunuch, who by rights, shouldn't have been interested at all. He realized that up until then, he hadn't even considered sex with another boy, or a eunuch. He hadn't even known what a eunuch was, in truth. He had been at a point in his life where he was curious, and girls were starting to look interesting, but then he'd been busted. He never thought he would turn out gay, and he stood there, naked in the bathroom doorway, wondering for quite a long time. He was a boy – technically, but was Cheng a boy, or was it different with a full eunuch and since he himself was only castrated… he shook his head and decided not to ponder it. It was a good way to get a headache, he thought.

And then the dream came back in stark clarity. He had not dreamed in so very long, he suddenly realized. He recalled the sky, the sun, the grass… blue, yellow and green – and Cheng. He saw the smile, the red of his lips, and then felt the chill. He then felt the arm, protective, about his slight shoulders and remembered looking up into the face of Ned. His anger died as quickly as it had come, and he felt guilty. He remembered what Ned had told him about not getting excited, that he was sick. But what had he said about a "little brother?" What did that mean ? Michael's mind raced, and all traces of drowsiness vanished. His eyes became alert, and as Ned rolled onto his side, his arm falling over the edge of the bed, Michael remembered the papers that he had put on the stand before the mild tranquilizers had helped him to settle down and fall asleep. Then he remembered the shots. Ned had given him shots, and Michael rubbed at his butt cheeks. He felt several small bumps, knew that two of them were from tranquilizers, but he had no idea what the others might be. Then, his mind still on Cheng and the time in the ICU when they had watched the CD movies, when Cheng had offered to show him how to attain sexual pleasure, Michael got an erection. "Testosterone!" he whispered to himself, patting his left butt cheek, "He gave me a T-shot!" He then yawned and stretched, and his fingers brushed the doorjambs. "Growth hormones," he thought, "He was giving me that too." Smiling, he padded back to his bed, quietly, and began to look at those papers with the help of Joey's small desktop lamp.

What he read stunned him, and he forgot about his erection.

He read his own IO file. He read through all the crimes, the sentencing, the duration of his punishment. He read about his classifications – his routine castration, the medical follow up reports, and finally Ames' classification of him as 'gay.' This gave him pause, but he brushed it off. So what if he was? He'd deal with it when the time came. There were even comments by Ames about his relationship with Cheng – but admittedly, nothing that Ames could prove; it was all speculation. There were even x-ray and cat-scan images, some of which made Michael slightly nauseous to look at. He decided that he really didn't want to know what the insides of skull looked like. As he read, he remembered more. He read about the wandering off and being lost incident, the shock treatments, the cerebral injections. He read reports from his teachers and counselors at IO, and then he read Ned's own observations. A great deal of it made no sense to him, and his eyes were beginning to droop again, despite his anger at what he read – about what they had all done to him – when he came, at last, to Ned's employee file. It was stapled in a folder which also contained Ned's and his own birth certificates, court documents, and a petition for a custody hearing in view of a mistrial. And although he didn't understand it, the words 'custody' and 'mistrial' gave him a chill. Michael stared in amazement as he read the names of Ned's parents, biological and adoptive – and the names of his OWN parents as well. Michael shook his head in disbelief. Ned's assertion of the phrase "little brother" had not been a mere overture at friendship – the doctor had been literal! On both sets of documents and birth certificates was a name in the slot labeled FATHER. It read "Morris Wilson Baines" on both.

"My dad," Michael breathed, scarcely daring to believe it.

He then flipped back to the paper where the courts had decreed "that in the case of the adoption of the minor child, being six years old, Edward Norris 'Ned' Baines, shall hereby be known from this time forward as Edward Norris 'Ned' Hamilton…" the document went on and on, then Michael's eyes landed on the words "... Morris Wilson Baines cannot be found, and citing desertion and neglect of a minor and paying no support nor seeking visitation or custody… this court decrees parental rights terminated and given to Alexander Sean Hamilton and wife – also natural mother of said minor – Charlotte Janenine Hamilton (Baines-Jones)…" Most of the documents were, to Michael's amazement, signed and sealed with the name of 'Donovan,' the defense lawyer who had given up on him and let the judge place him in IO to begin with! Michael stopped reading and bowed his head. His stomach churned with guilt for the feelings of hatred he had felt towards Ned. He wasn't sure for how long, since IO had no clocks nor windows to keep the inmates confused, that he had secretly hated Ned for castrating him after he had said that he wouldn't. He remembered their first meeting, the day he had arrived when Ned had first examined him and how frightened he had been. He remembered Ned's comments on the leering boy from the bus who had been busted in the balls with a gun butt by the guard. "'I hate castrations.'" And he had been telling the truth. Ned hadn't known at first. He had only been doing his job. Upon his arrival at IO, Michael had been just another criminal to process. He groaned as the enormity of what Ned had truly done sank in to his mind – Ned had been commissioned to castrate his own little brother. "Me..." the blonde eunuch breathed, as another idea hit him. This time, the enormity of it made him even more nauseous than the color ct-scans of his brain had. How must Ned be feeling? Michael went back over the papers and read Ned's own report about the "routine castration, removal of testes only, standard admission protocols, inmate Michael Baines, aged 13…" and a long string of coding from his ID bracelet. When had Ned found out? Michael's mind raced. It was AFTERWARDS. Ned's attitude towards him had changed AFTER his castration, and after his time with Cheng in the ICU. Ned had told him that he had been asleep for several weeks, and that he had watched over him. But hadn't his voice been unusually stressed? Hadn't his eyes been more haunted looking? Michael couldn't recall. The nausea turned into an almost tangible pain, and without realizing it, Michael said Ned's name aloud as he neatly restacked the papers on the stand with his conscience howling at him.

Ned had only done his job, and found out after the fact that he had just made a eunuch of his own little brother.

"What's wrong, Mikey?" Ned mumbled, rubbing his eyes and staring at the eunuch.

Michael jumped, scattering the papers again. Taken by surprise, he sat down heavily on his bed, his heart racing and his knees weak. "I-I-I… I w-was j-just r-ruh-eeed-d-ing… y-you t-t-told me t-to!" but Ned interrupted him. If medical school had taught him anything, it was how to get up and get going on only a bit of sleep. He took in the sight of the papers, the trembling eunuch who sat naked on his bed, and the look on the eunuch's face. Ned smiled, which took Michael completely by surprise.

Somewhere in his brain, a preconditioned expectation of punishment went off, and he shrank back.

"I meant when you woke up in the MORNING. You really should go back to sleep, Michael," Ned admonished, "But, I see you've been up reading at night instead. You shouldn't be doing that until college. WILL you stop that?" Ned grinned.

"I-I-I w-was… N-ned, I-I'm s-s-sor-r-ry," Michael stammered, relaxing just a bit.

But Ned only continued to smile at him. "You read it all, then?" he asked, speaking softly so as not to wake the others.

Michael nodded, not trying to speak. His throat was tight, and the stutter was maddening.

"Did you see the pictures?" Michael shook his head. Ned dug through the stack of papers, handing the young eunuch three pictures. One was of himself – before IO – one was of Ned, and one was of another little boy that Michael had never seen. He looked at all three, back and forth from his own image to Ned's and then back and forth from the little boy to his own. The little boy looked like Ned. Ned looked like Michael, but Michael didn't really look like the little boy – yet somehow, all three of them looked similar. Once again, Michael felt tears coming to his eyes. His stomach tightened, and his throat was sore. He tried to speak, but Ned shook his head and held out his arms to him. Michael laid the pictures on his rumpled bed, and fell into his older brother's arms. As those arms closed on him, he heard Cheng's voice once again, "You have your brother now, Michael. You'll be alright." With stark clarity, he recalled the part of the dream where Ned had come upon him alone in the grass.

The young eunuch cried for a while, as Ned rocked him gently back and forth. He tried to speak a few times, but each time Ned's hand passed softly over his lips and pressed his head back down onto his shoulder.

Michael wanted to say, 'I'm sorry I hated you every time you touched me during the routine exams. I'm sorry I hated you and wanted to get you back for castrating me. I'm sorry I hated you for just BEING a part of this damnable place." But as Ned held him and continued the gentle rocking, Michael realized that he'd never be able to say it. Whatever was wrong with him, whatever was making him stutter so badly, would never let him get it out. Ned tightened his embrace, softly stroking one hand over the young eunuch's head. For the moment it was enough, and Michael felt that what he needed to say was already passing between them.

Finally, it was Ned who spoke. He cleared his throat and began slowly, as if searching for the right words that could never hope to undo what had been done. "You can't know how sorry I am, Mikey. Sorry, Michael. I slipped – I know you hate to be called that. Believe me when I say that it was Ames who set us up. For some sick reason only HE knows, he did it to both of us. Any other member of the medical staff could have treated you, but he assigned you to me. I didn't find out who you – who WE – were until after… after I had already castrated you."

"I-I kn-know," Michael replied, "B-but I'm s-s-sor-rr-rry, Ned…" The man stared into the child's haunted eyes, eyes still full of tears and gently asked, "For what?"

"F-f-for h-hating y-y-you 'n b-bein' uh-uh-fraid uh-uv y-you." The child saw the look cross the man's face, if only briefly. It was a look he knew well, having seen it every time he himself passed a glass divider or window in a door and caught the reflection accusing him. It was the look that said 'I hate myself and wish I were dead.' "You had every right to, Michael. I hated myself, more than you can know.

Then Ames let something slip, and I started thinking about you more and more – especially your face. When they brought you in after your wandering off ordeal, so battered and helpless, it reminded me of him – my other little brother in the pictures. THAT was when I realized that something wasn't right, and I did the tests, Michael. You were out for so long in the ICU, and we thought we were going to lose you several times. They beat you so bad and did only God knows what else. So I did some tests at school, sneaked tissue and blood samples out of you and out of here. Only then did I know for sure." Suddenly unable to face the child, Ned turned his head. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry!" The blonde eunuch opened his mouth to reply, but Ned's fingers passed over his lips again, and he turned back, shaking his head. "You need to go back to sleep, Michael, I don't want you worked up again." Ned stated in a quavering voice, pulling the shivering child close to him and lying back with him. Once again, Ned kissed him on the forehead and pulled the blanket over both of them. It was warm and the feeling of being held was comforting; Michael didn't resist. "Go to sleep, little brother," Ned said.

"Wh-who's th-the l-litt-tt-le b-b-b-boy?" Michael asked.

"In the picture? You weren't listening. That's my little brother, like you – half brother, by my mom and stepdad. Sorta your step-brother, but not quite." Ignoring his orders to go to sleep, Michael stared at Ned in the dim light. "W-wh-where i-is h-h-he?" he asked, somehow feeling the need to know this little boy who was, technically, no relation to him. He felt, but only slightly, irrationally jealous of this little boy in the picture who had lived with and known Ned, and had two loving parents. No one had loved Michael, nor taken care of him nor displayed him any affection. He wasn't really sure why Ned had suddenly become so attached to him, despite the fact that they WERE brothers, if only by half. Michael also wasn't sure how to deal with it, but from what he felt as Ned held him, when he kissed him, when he spoke softly and kindly to him – he found himself becoming warm and relaxed and really – as much as he hated to admit it – not wanting it to ever end.

Ned sighed and hugged Michael closer. He could feel the man trembling. For an awkward moment, Ned did not reply. When he did, his voice was an agonized whisper, his breath warm and very close to Michael's ear.

"He died. He got really sick and I couldn't be there with him, then he died." Michael felt another wave of guilt. The young eunuch could feel another tightening in his throat, then came the feeling of falling, although he wasn't upright. He then felt the hot wetness of tears that were not his own on his shoulder. "Go to sleep, Michael," Ned choked, still holding him as if he never intended to let go.

The young eunuch took a deep breath, tried to relax and remain calm, and hoped that he would be able to coherently say what he was feeling, despite his stutter.

"I-I-I think I l-like it b-better if you c-call me 'Mikey'," he whispered.

His answer came in the form of a kiss to the forehead.

Not long afterwards, they both drifted off to sleep and dreamt of green grass and blue skies.

As the IO complex was sleeping and the media moguls regrouping, Joseph Thomas Ames, Sr. was slowly losing his mind. At about the time that Michael Baines had awakened to go to the bathroom, Ames had summoned up the courage to check Joseph Thomas Ames Jr.'s bedroom once again. He had seen the boy vanish from the bathroom doorway. He had heard the blast of music from the boy's bedroom. He had cringed in the tub for another hour or so, his skin wrinkling and the water growing cool. He had checked and double checked the bathroom floor, but there were not any small bloody footprints, no hair clippings, and no bloody scalpel to be found. Finally, his courage had returned. He had climbed from the sunken tub with a defiant shout of "Stress! Paranoid delusions brought on by anxiety and alcohol! Overwork!" and then he had grabbed a towel to dry off.

"Insanity!" he had stated to empty house – which didn't seem to care – "I won't find anything in there but a mess that HE left." He had been just about ready to pull on his robe and return to the long-unused bedroom once again to verify his own sanity when he had looked into the full length bathroom mirror.

Ames had gasped and had stood there with the robe in his hand. Instead of the reflection of a well-built and muscular man in his prime, he saw a teenage boy of average build in dirty and torn clothing. Clothing that appeared, at one time, to have been very nice. The boy looked like he had been in a fight, and won. He was shorter than Ames, his hair was much thicker but well cut, and his eyes were flashing in defiance. Then the teen's face had changed, softened, and he seemed to be staring back at the man on the other side of his own reflection with a look of fear sweeping over his face. Ames had closed his eyes and shaken his head, gazing back upon his own reflection. "I need a good night's sleep," he had muttered, "Right after I check that room." And he had done that. He had glanced briefly at his reflection in the mirror, pulled on his robe with a snort of disgust, and marched down the hallway with a defiant stride. He had found the room as he had left it, as Joey had left it, and snorted again. He had slammed the door and gone back to his own bedroom, locking the door behind him and collapsing onto the bed. He had fallen asleep in no time. Unbeknownst to him, however, his computer's webcam had dutifully reported to Jason what was going on. The monkey on the screen began to whisper as Ames began to snore, and the words that it said invaded his dreams.

Jason watched on his auxilliary monitor as Ames slept. Once he and Max had finished the repairs – and his own covert reprogramming – of the IO Mainframe CyberHound System 2, they had left the complex in a hurry. They had stopped and made a few statements to Linda Johnson, assuring her and the press that the system was fine, the staff was on duty, and nothing was wrong. Everything at IO was back to normal, and Mr. Ames would be please when he returned. No one had caught the covert wink he had given Linda, but Linda had smiled and mentioned that she liked banana splits as well, especially free ones. Jason had then left Max and raced home. Ned's coded reply to the System's request for bed checks had confirmed that the Banana Boat Program was working perfectly, and that Ned and his charges were safe in Dorm Room 23. The IO Mainframe appeared to be running, and it WOULD punish inmates if ordered to do so. What it wouldn't do was respond to anyone other than Jason or Ned or Bolton. Jason grinned an evil grin, and picked up his cup of coffee and a stack of files. "Just a bit deeper, Ames, ol' boy. Get into a good REM state where me and Bonzo can really fuck up your sick mind. While we're at it, let's rebuild some data files, too." Jason had read the reports that Ned had requested, most of which had confused him with their terminology. Some, however, had sickened him. He knew what aversion therapy was. He knew what castration was. And as he read on and on, he began to realize what a twisted person Ames was. The file on Joey alone, Ames' own son, was enough to make him nauseous. When he suggested to his friend that he get out of the IO job somehow, Ned had revealed the final horror that had set off their plan. Ned wanted desperately to leave, but he couldn't do that until he had the credits secured, the money in his account, and his little brother safely out of the place. Jason sipped his coffee and watched the screens. Once Michael's records were altered and he was out, and Ames was ruined, it would be over. Linda, whom he had taken into confidence, would expose IO and the horrors within, taking God-only-knew-who down in the process.

It was all so perfect, but Jason did not care about that. The only thing he cared about was getting Michael Baines, younger brother of his long-time friend Ned, OUT of IO alive. The only problem was, if Jason understood the files on Cheng and Michael right, then Michael didn't have much time left to get out. He laughed aloud, however, as his mind wandered back to the time that he and Ned had hacked their high school's computers and overpaid all of the teachers by several thousand dollars. "I've never hacked someone's brain before," he mused, picking up his microphone and running a voice morphing program.

Lawrence Taft had gone home from IO, after giving Linda Johnson all that she would need to know. The documents and records in the briefcase were enough to keep her media crew and Federal Agent Skinner busy for days.

Taft grinned as he visualized the Governor's reaction when they confronted him with their findings. Of course Banner would try and get out of it; it was the nature of politicians to do such. Banner wasn't the first scandal, and he wouldn't be the last. He was impressed with himself, however, for finding the courage that he had not had several years ago when, at the urging of the man's father, he had helped to place Joseph Ames on staff at IO after the inmate had graduated. There had been another one, Bolton – he recalled – whom he had placed on staff as well. He and Ames had been room mates, Taft recalled. He hadn't thought it a good idea, given Ames' test results and psyche profile; Ames' father had been influential however, as rich men in a small community often are. IO brought in federal revenue for the town, wrote paychecks, and Dr. Frederick Ames – chief of medical staff at IO – had been just that. He was both rich and influential. The fact that his own son was a rehabilitated juvenile delinquent didn't seem to matter. Taft remembered a time long ago when he and Frederick had been friends, a time when life was easier and when the IO complex had been nothing but an empty field. Taft then decided that he certainly didn't miss him.

In his study, Taft sighed and gave up on trying to get his computer to run again. He had suspicions about what was wrong with it, but he didn't care.

Instead, he turned on the television and watched on CNBC as Linda Johnson aired the dirty laundry that was the IO Rehab Center for Boys to the world. Her voice cut into him like a knife with each word, yet he couldn't stop watching the broadcast. For some reason, he found himself humming an old tune about news and dirty laundry and tried to remember which rock singer had done it. He ignored his answering machine and cell phone. As Linda went on, the ramifications of what he had done struck him harder and harder.

He had lied to her.

Taft, in fact, knew about some of the procedures employed by IO. A behavioral psychologist himself, before he had gotten into the whole IO mess, he had been the one to design the technique of a Complex where inmates would have no track of time, no contact with the outside world, and live in perpetual confusion and fear. The idea of staffing the complex with former inmates had been his own brainchild as well, and the federal monies that had been saved by not having to pay them a full guard's salary was staggering. The practice of routine castration or penectomy had NOT been his idea, however. That one had come from Frederick Ames – a technique that Frederick had not hesitated to use on his son, Joseph, nor his son's best friend. A technique that Joseph Sr. had not been afraid to use on HIS own son, Joseph Jr. Taft sighed. "I should never have let it go this long," he said to himself, looking at the last printout that his dead PC had given him. It was a list of names, dates of admissions, and dates of death. The print was in pitch size 4, and it filled the sheet of paper.

Taft could hardly read it, but as he stared, he began to realize that those deaths were partially his fault. He had been truthful on one account, however – he had known nothing about the ULF generators or the attempts at mind control. He had sat back and collected his pay for his services and board duties, and he had kept quiet while Joseph Thomas Ames Sr. had turned into a perfectionist monster. "I did nothing," he whispered to the empty house, "I should have done something, before it was too late.

I should have seen it coming when Fred put Joe in there in the first place. I should have exposed Fred when he cut the boy's balls off." On the television, CNBC ran a short rebroadcast of Erik Anderson's interview with Linda. This segment, however, had been edited from when he had seen it filmed.

"I'm Linda Johnson," she was saying as the clip began, "Here at the IO Rehab Center for Boys where a computer crash that trapped inmates and staff inside for a perilous day with almost no security, seems to have been repaired. We've already heard from the technicians who repaired the systems. We have been assured that all is under control and right now the inmates are all in bed and sleeping with the new shift of employees, for the most part, on duty. We've also seen the Administrator of IO, Mr. Joseph Ames, carefully avoid an interview to go home and refresh himself as if nothing were wrong. And we have spoken, finally, to some former inmates and staff members who have – at long last – broken the code of silence that shrouds IO in mystery. Rumors of mutilations, torture, abuse – both physical and emotional – have been confirmed. Stay with me now here on CNBC as we rerun a clip of the interview with former IO inmate Erik Anderson, incarcerated for three years from ages 12 to 15 for the crime of arson, castrated, tortured, his mind altered, and his body and brain so badly weakened that he is now blind from a cerebral aneurism, which nearly took his life as well. Roll the clip, Howard." Taft had watched as the clip was rerun. He then sat bolt upright in shock when Linda announced that "Viewer discretion is now advised, as we are about to show you proof of the practice of mutilation that goes on inside of IO. According to Master Anderson, all youthful inmates at IO are routinely castrated, for their own good, to settle them down and make them easier to control. What you are about to see is real, and graphic."

There, on the television, Linda Johnson had the cameraman zoom in on several pictures of Erik Anderson and a few other inmates of IO. The pictures were ones from the medical files, and they showed varying degrees of healing and scarring as the boys recovered from their castrations. They then showed images of former inmates, who were also IO employees – not all of them were current. Some had left, some had vanished, and some had committed suicide. When they were out of pictures, Erik – his sunglasses hiding his haunted and blind eyes – slowly pulled his pants down to reveal his scarred and shrunken scrotum. Taft let his head fall to his knees, breathing hard.

"It would seem, ladies and gentlemen," Linda was saying on the air, "That the Governor and Mr. Joseph Ames have a great deal to answer for here. Thank you, Erik. We can't imagine how hard this had been for you." Then the clip ended, and Linda was back live. Taft got up and crossed the room, looking for something. When he found it, he came and sat back down in front of the TV. "And if this is not enough, ladies and gentlemen," Linda Johnson continued, "We have also learned that Mr. Joseph Ames has committed his own son, Joseph Jr., or Joey, as Erik called him, to IO for rehabilitation that he doesn't need. According to Erik – who was Joey Ames' room mate for three years – and some other files, he's guilty of no crime other than being a small and imperfect boy in his father's eyes. Joey was placed in IO at the age of 10 and is still, after six years, an inmate here." The cameraman then cut to a wide angle shot of the complex, zooming in on the fence and its warning signs of high voltage.

"Stay with us for more coverage and a look into Joey Ames' files as the dawn approaches here at IO. Now for a word from our sponsors, I'm Linda Johnson…Channel 9 News."

Taft turned off the TV and very calmly placed a one-word note that he written in his lap. He then picked up a .38 caliber handgun from the end table next to his overstuffed chair and placed the barrel in his mouth.

His finger did not hesitate for even a fraction of a second as he pulled the trigger. Blood rain freely from his mouth and nose as the back of his head disintegrated, pouring down his chest to soak the large note which bore only word – "GUILTY."

As he slept, Joseph Thomas Ames, Sr. dreamed. As he dreamed, his sanity slipped further and further away. "What did you expect?" the monkey asked.

Ames groaned and rolled over, pulling a blanket up under his stubbled chin. "He wasn't really YOUR son anyway, you know."

"I wanted a son," Ames spoke in his sleep.

"But you couldn't have one," the monkey replied.

Ames whimpered. "No, dad, please, don't do it to me. I'll do better."

"Then SHE came along when YOU got out of IO," the monkey responded.

"...thought I'd never get out…"

"But he let you out, didn't he?" the monkey asked plaintively.

"I loved her," Ames moaned in his sleep, as he dreamed of walking down the aisle in the huge church with his lovely bride waiting in the wings. Then he turned and saw her, a vision in pale blue who seemed to float down the aisle. The chiseled features of her dark and longish face were hidden beneath the veil, but her wealth of tightly curled jet-black hair spilled out and down her back, framing her oval features with a mystery as dark as midnight. She smiled at him as they said their vows, promising to love, honor and obey for as long they both should live. Then, as they kissed, Ames heard a small giggle. Both of them smiled as they beheld their ring-bearer, her little boy that was just old enough to walk and talk and get into mischief. He bent down and scooped up the laughing little toddler in his arms, pulling his bride closer as the flashes went off. The moment was captured for all time on high grade professional film, and Ames felt himself happier than he had ever been in his life.

"You loved them," the monkey reminded him.

"I love you," Ames moaned, his dreaming mind reliving that day. He saw the candles, the cake, the gifts. He saw the flashes, the wedding party members and how they all posed. His friend Bolton was the best man, and his own father had smiled and nodded for the photographer.

"Yes," the monkey agreed. Although Jason didn't know exactly what Ames was dreaming about, there was enough data in his old IO file – from his days as an inmate from ages 15 to 21 – to supply Jason with a few sensitive spots upon which to lay his finger. He grinned evilly as he read over the father/son issue of Ames' incarceration. Jason adjusted the parameters of the voice morphing program, and suddenly the monkey spoke in Joey's voice.

"You loved me?" it asked, in the high and piping voice of a very small boy.

Ames moaned in his sleep, a sickly sound of loathing. In his dream, he saw her. He loved her, he realized, and the little boy with the black curly hair and the gold earring. And she loved him, and her little son gave all of his love to him as well without condition. Here was his new life, a life he thought he would never have, and in his arms he held the son that he had so desperately wanted and knew that he could never have.

The monkey sighed, a hopeless sound full of loss. "I guess not."

"I did," Ames protested, his head tossing from side to side.

"No, you didn't. If you had, you wouldn't have left me in here."

"I had to."

"Noooooo," the small voice whined, "Daddy, if you loved me, why did you do this to me? Was it because HE did it to YOU too?"

"Please, no, Father," Ames whimpered as he tossed and clutched at his blanket, "I won't do it again, it was Bolton's idea. I'll do better, I swear I will!" Jason dug in relentlessly, throwing question after question into his microphone and letting the monkey speak to Ames in Joey's voice. He watched on the other monitor through Ames' webcam, and when he saw the man shaking and sweating, he delivered his ultimatum.

"The Mainframe's all messed up, daddy, and I'm going to get out and come kill you for what you did to me! I'll kill YOU like YOU killed HIM!"

Ames sat bolt upright in bed, a scream frozen on his lips. He glanced around the dark room, hysterically fumbling for a light switch. His chest was on fire, and his head was throbbing. He heard the voice – that damn kid's voice – but it was impossible! He jumped out of bed, throwing his blanket back. It rubbed over his erect penis as he threw it, and he paused. His heart hammered, his head ached, and very slowly, his penis became harder. He gasped, putting one hand to the long-healed spot under his penis where his testicles should have been. His empty scrotum had long since shrunken to almost nothing, and he felt at his loss. He remembered his father. He remembered Bolton. He remembered IO. With stunning clarity he heard his own father saying, "Castration will be for your own good, son, settle you down some and keep you and that damn buck nigger friend of yours out of mischief… he won't be stickin' that thing where it don't belong anymore, I tell ya."

"It wasn't my fault!" Ames shouted, recovering, if only briefly, his wits.

"I didn't kill him! He was old, he was angry! It was his heart! I have to get back there," he said to no one, since the house was empty, "I have to keep those little monsters under control!"

"Yes, daddy, come back," he heard Joey's voice say softly, "I'm waiting for you in here. I'm waiting like you waited." He jerked his hand away from his crotch, still ignorant of the fact that he hadn't replaced his transdermal patches. He looked around the room with wild eyes as he jerked his clothes on. "It was for your own good!" he screamed, unlocking his door and charging down the hallway. He took the stairs two at a time, his descent rapid. He ran through the empty house, trusting the security system to lock up after he left. As he reached the vestibule, however, he tripped over a pair of shiny black size 5 little boy's boots that were out in the middle of the floor and not in the box where they belonged. "Shit!" Ames shouted as he went down, sprawling headlong on the hardwood floor. His rage was squelched, however, as he heard the voice again…

"My boots!" it said excitedly.

Ames looked up, his head spinning and his lower lip bleeding. Something seemed to be gnawing at his head from the inside, and as he watched in horror, the little boy from the bathroom approached the vestibule from the kitchen. He was not exactly running, but he was in a hurry. His white shirt was pressed and his black tie neat. His khakis were spotless and his raven-black hair pulled back behind his ears to fall across his shoulder blades. He sat down next to the violently trembling Ames and began to pull his boots on, his small white socks bright; he smelled of fabric softener and peppermint, and the gold earring in his left ear sparkled as he smiled. "C'mon, daddy, we're gonna be late for the pictures!" A searing pain tore through Ames' chest then, and he flinched back.

Gasping in agony, he tried to get away from this phantom child – this 'boy' who was less than perfect. This 'boy' who had entered his life and promptly made a mess of it. "No!" he wheezed, his breath catching in his chest, "YOU ARE NOT REAL!" The small boy laced up his boots and stood up. His white teeth shone brightly, and his eyes sparkled. "I'm ready daddy! Do I look OK?" he asked.

Irrationally, Ames replied, "No, you need a haircut and take that damn ring out of your ear!" The boy looked shocked, his mouth hanging open. He took a step back. Ames struggled for breath as tears welled up in the boy's dark eyes, and a terrible bruise appeared around one of them. A trickle of blood ran from his nose, and his lower lip suddenly split and began to swell. "I'm sorry," he cried, reaching into his pocket. Then the blood began to run from the crotch of his pants, soaking his pantslegs and pooling up on the floor around his booted feet. "I'm sorry," he choked, "Please don't hit me! I'll do better, I swear I will!" He then reached up and tore the earring from his ear, blood running down the side of his neck to stain his perfect white shirt.

The pain became unbearable, and Ames sank to his knees again. He watched in horror as the phantom boy took off his necktie and wound it around and into his mouth like a gag with his free hand. "Y don ooo wuf me, dead-ee?" he asked through his gag. Ames screamed and clutched at his chest, his head pounding and his mind racing. The question hung up in his mind, and he couldn't answer it. "Why don't you love me, daddy?" But hadn't he asked the same question as well? He had. He also realized, as his heart fluttered and skipped, that at one time he had loved this boy more than anything else in life. He had loved him so much, in fact, that he had given him his own name.

"Here," the gagged phantom said, pulling his hand from his pocket. In that small hand, he held a bloody mess. Uncontrollably, Ames reached out his own hand. What the 'boy' deposited in his hand was warm and sticky and Ames instantly realized that was his severed scrotum. A dull grey orb slid out of the mass, and the 'boy' whimpered, reaching back into his pocket.

Ames shook, hardly able to breath. The 'boy' was pulling something else out of his pocket, something that flashed in his hand. It was the scalpel he had seen in the bathroom. "Here," he said through his gag, suddenly lashing out and driving the blade straight into Ames' heart.

Ames clutched at the silver handle protruding from his chest, then slowly toppled forward. He rolled onto his back, gasping, but the air would not come. The 'boy' then faded into blackness, and the next to last thing that Joseph Thomas Ames, Sr. saw were the tears falling from his small face.

The last thing that he saw were the dusty black size 5 boots, in their box where they belonged, and his own clean hands which clutched at – not a bloody scalpel – but at nothing. As he let go of his chest, the world went black.

On the computer's monitor in his bedroom, the monkey sighed and blinked off. The screen went red, and then dark. At his desk at home, Jason listened intently at his speakers. He could hear Ames screaming at someone, and amplified the gain. On Ames' computer, the Monkey's ears grew and Jason listened to the strangled sobs and gasping. Calmly, he summoned up a masked version of Dial-Pad and called 911. He sent them to the Ames' residence. Then he got up and went to bed. "I hope it worked," he said to himself, as the 911 operators dispatched EMT's to the Ames' residence and tried to figure out why there was an image of a large banana on all of their screens.

Under emergency protocol, the day shift guards at IO showed up early and began entering the complex. Incoming and outgoing staff reported all inmates present and accounted for and still safely in bed, much to everyone's amazement. There seemed to be some disappointment in the media mavens that there had failed to be a riot. By unanimous decision, it was decided that the prisoners should be allowed to sleep in for a change – behind locked doors – until the total extent of the damage could be surveyed. As Linda Johnson was freshening up after a long night of broadcasting and reading and talking with Agent Skinner, several police vehicles came up the drive to IO's main gate. They were escorting a black limousine.

"Jackpot," Skinner said calmly to Linda, dropping a rather thick manilla folder which he had been reading with a great deal of interest.

She nodded at him, and the cameras began to roll. The long black car came to a halt, and out stepped the Governor himself. He was immediately descended upon by the media, acting with all the grace and poise of a pack of wild dogs. The Governor, naturally, denied knowledge of any wrong-doing and denied knowing about any of the procedures in question at IO. He also promised to launch a full-scale inquiry to get to the bottom of it. It was then that Linda Johnson sank her fangs into him.

"Governor, may I remind you that we are live on Channel 9, as well as FOX and CNBC? I have here a pile of documents, many of which bear your signature. Do the names Frederick Ames or Lawrence Taft ring any bells ? Medical doctor, a la Josef Mengele, perhaps, and a behavioral psychologist, designer of IO's behavioral management practices?"

Governor Francis Banner's face visibly paled. Skinner grinned at him, like a cat waiting for the mouse to come out of his hole.

"Were you also aware, Governor, that Lawrence Taft, the architect of IO's conditioning programs, committed suicide earlier in the wee hours of this morning? He left a note, sir. It said GUILTY. That was all. Right next to it was a list – a list of IO inmates who are dead. The file seems to have come from YOUR computer, sir. How can you explain this?"

A buzz ran through the crowd, and the media converged. A guardsman slapped a cameraman out of his way, shattering his camera as it fell to the concrete drive. Another press reporter was shoved out of the way, falling back into the group. Linda's crew merely adjusted their zoom lenses and continued their live broadcast. Guards shouted warnings, but the press would not be halted. There were civilians there as well, some even parents of inmates demanding to be heard and demanding to see their sons. The protest grew louder and rowdier, the crowd drew closer, and inevitably shots were fired. Linda Johnson grinned, and Skinner gave the order. From the bushes surrounding the drive, armed Federal Agents opened fire, from their better vantage points, on the Governor's men. About half of them fell as the civilians and the media retreated to safety. The driver attempted a getaway as the Governor dived into the car, but a marksman took out his front tires in two shots. Very calmly, Agent Skinner walked up to the long car and opened the door. "Governor, you are under arrest for crimes against humanity. Step out of the car."

"I will not be treated like a criminal!" the Governor shouted.

"YOU, sir ARE a criminal," Skinner replied, "Now get OUT of the car!" Banner did that, and as Skinner took his arm, he threw a punch at the Agent.

Very calmly, waving to his men to stand down, Agent Skinner pulled out his sidearm. "I don't think you want to do that again," he advised.

"I am guilty of NO wrongdoing here, Agent Whatever-your-name-is! I formally disavow any knowledge of wrongdoings. The man you need to speak to is Ames! He runs this place," Banner screamed.

Skinner shook his balding head and smiled. "Ames is dead, Governor. He died in his home of a massive heart attack sometime this morning. My men are already there. It seems that his computer was just full of interesting files that it pulled from your computer via the IO mini-server. Somehow, it printed them ALL out and wrote us a CD right before it died. Some of the stuff I've read is pretty damning."

"You'll never prove this in a Federal Court!" Banner shouted, breaking away from Skinner and reaching into his jacket. "I have contacts and means! What we did here was for their own good! For Society's own good!" Even as his hand reached, Skinner's reached faster. In one fluid movement, he pulled his gun, raised it, and fired. "Uh, Federal Agent, I'm armed," he muttered to the dead man laying at his feet. A rivulet of blood ran from the small hole in Banner's forehead. Linda Johnson raised one eyebrow and whispered "Good stuff!" Skinner turned to her, his face a study in total control. "This sure beats chasing aliens," he said flatly.

Inside of the IO complex, tired night guards began to change shifts. The atmosphere inside of IO was different, and there were media crews as well as police and Federal Agents in black FBI jackets stalking the halls. All of the doors to dorm rooms, however, were locked. After many unsuccessful attempts at the normal protocols, Skinner entered the building. He looked around at the long halls and myriad doors and shook his balding head.

"This place is creepy. I have an agent that would just DIE to be in here now. So what do we do?" he asked generally of the incoming staff.

An outgoing guard, nervous at being stalked by Linda Johnson, replied, "You might try asking the computer, sir. It does have voice command in sort of an NT-like security mode. It may recognize Federal Codes, I don't know. Announce yourself with the word MAINFRAME and see what it says. They said they fixed it, but it just isn't working right. It won't let any of the inmates out of their dorms." From behind them came a familiar voice. "Excuse me, Mr. Night Guard, I'm Linda Johnson, Channel 9… might I have a word with you?" The guard winced.

Skinner laughed and tried that. "MAINFRAME?" he shouted at a mirrored globe on the ceiling. "Specify," a robotic voice answered. "Who's in charge here?" Skinner demanded.

There was a pause, as if the computer were searching for a missing file.

"Dorm 20-23 Guard Bolton is available, rec room 2. Doctor Ned Hamilton, dorm 23, bed 3. The 'Tally-Man' is not here."

"We don't have a 'tally-man,'" a perplexed black guard in grey mused.

"OK, so we find rec room 2, let's move!" Skinner called to his men.

"Paging Level 1 guard Bolton, guard Bolton respond," the auto-voice said calmly.

Over the speakers came a groggy voice, a deep and rich voice that sounded sleepy. "Wha the fuck?" it asked.

"Is this Bolton?" Skinner demanded.

"Dat be me," Bolton replied, "Whassup?"

"Federal Agents in the building, sir. The computer said you were in charge, but it seems, well, a bit loopy. Meet us in the receiving room please. We need to secure the complex." There was the sound of a yawn. "Ah, we be secure, aw-right. Gimme five or so, Fedman."

Skinner looked puzzled, then grinned openly. "I think I like this man," he said to no one in particular. Then suddenly, the halls were alive with red lights and alarms bells. "EMERGENCY!" the auto-voice shouted from everywhere, "EMERGENCY! Multiple medical situations, dorms 4, 10, 28, and 35. All medical personnel to ER rooms. Respective guards to dorms 4, 10, 28 and 35. Repeat, all medical personnel…" The incoming guards went into action immediately. Each one headed for various doors and elevators with Agents in tow. In the rec room, Bolton jumped up off the couch upon which he had spent the night and ran to his desk. He made sure all of the doors to dorm rooms were secure in his ward.

On his monitor, the icons for dorms 4,10, 28 and 35 were blinking red. He breathed a sigh of relief and ran to check 20-23. 24 was vacant. He found everything in order, and jumped when he saw Ned asleep in Cheng's bed.

Then he realized that they had been up late talking the night before and sighed. "Shit, I needs a vacation!" he breathed. As the door slid shut behind him, the sounds of the alarms were sealed off. He shook Ned awake, then glanced up at Mikey's empty bed. He shook Ned again, glancing into the shower area. "Wake up, man, da shit be hittin' the fan! Where's da kid at?" He was startled as Ned sat up, instantly alert and throwing off his blanket. One arm was still around Michael's shoulders, and the eunuch yawned and stretched, rubbing at his eyes. "Da hell you doin'wit' dat?" Bolton inquired, his grin broad and his eyes wide and bright. Michael looked around, not totally awake nor coherent.

"What's wrong?" Ned asked, climbing out of bed, still in his clothes from the night before, and pulling the blanket back over Michael.

"N-ned," Michael began, but Bolton interrupted him. "YOU," the large black man ordered in a flat tone of absolute authority, pointing at Michael, "Get Sam and Joey up. Get a fast shower and all woke up, and I mean FAST.

Take an elevator and tell it to take you to Quartermaster. Get red sweats on when you get there. Get Sam into gray with grad icon shirt and cap.

Take Joey too. Ned, we got problems. We got multiple medical emergencies headed to the ER's, and Feds in the Complex. C'mon, fast! Mikey, when you get done, come back to ER1. We'll need help. Med staff won't be here for hours yet, dat's if'n dey let em in." Ned was immediately moving as Michael jumped out of bed, heedless of being naked, and shook Sam awake. Bolton and Ned were already out the door, Bolton rambling about psychotic episodes and total breakdowns. "Dis ain't good," Sam was saying as they pulled Joey out of bed and half dragged him into the shower as Michael stammered his way through Ned's orders. They washed quickly.

"Why are we takin' a shower if Bolton said there was an emergency?" Joey asked plaintively.

Sam grinned as he dried off. "Well, I don' know 'bout'chu, Joey, but I was a mess," the bald black youth replied, gesturing at the large wet spot on his bed. "I was dreamin' last night!"

Michael smiled. "So w-was I," he replied happily. "Sam, w-what do you th-hink's wrong?"

"Don' know, but I gon' find out," he said, pulling on his pants, "You wan' know what I was dreamin', Mikey?" Sam asked, a broad grin splitting his face as looked the blonde eunuch up and down.

Michael looked at Sam's bed and shook his head.

But Joey was staring around the room. "Something's wrong," he whispered.

He had pulled on his own white sweat pants and had walked barefoot to the door. He let it scan his ID bracelet over and over. The scanner beeped and the red light stayed on. "It's time for breakfast and the door won't open." Sam and Michael joined him at the door. Sam scanned his own ID and shouted "OPEN!" The scanner turned green and the door opened, allowing the red light of the hallway to flood their room, filling it with the sound of alert sirens. "Medical Emergency," the auto-voice was saying, "Dorm lockdown, over-ride 23," it said melodically, "Recognize Sam, grad-level guard." Sam blinked.

"We n-need to go to quar-ter-termasters," Michael reminded him.

As the three of them, dressed only in sweats and barefooted, rode the elevator through a series of downward and side to side lurches, Michael's mind raced. The medical staff wasn't in. The computer was messed up. Ned was probably the only doctor in the place, and he'd need help. Sam had had some training in the area, but Michael had no idea why he wanted him and Joey there. When the doors popped open, they stepped out into a room they had never seen before. There were white and red sweats hanging here and there, gray guard suits, coats, scrubs, and every article of clothing that they had ever seen worn inside of IO. There were even several rows of white slip on shoes. "Ned s-said for m-me and Joey t-to put on r-red and you t-to put on g-gray grad s-suit," Michael said. They did that.

"Shoes?" Joey asked in confusion.

"We be goin' to ER, so yea, I'd say so," Sam replied, staring at the two young eunuchs in red. "You two look aw-right in red, ya know!" Michael grinned. Joey was looking through shoes.

"I don't wear 5 anymore," he sighed, moving up to a 7.5, "I guess I grew some." They had to rescan their ID's when they reboarded the lift. "RECOGNIZE Sam, grad-guard. RECOGNIZE Michael, guest via Ned Hamilton. RECOGNIZE Joey, guest via Ned Hamilton," the Mainframe chimed. They all looked at each other in amazement. "Wow," Joey breathed, "It used to say that when my dad brought me here at first." They got back into the lift and Michael said, "ER1!" loudly. The lift began to ascend.

"You're not stuttering as bad, Mikey," Joey pointed out, shifting his weight back and forth from foot to foot, trying to get used to the feel of the first shoes he had worn in six years.

It was pandemonium when Ned and Bolton arrived in the main emergency room.

Although most aspects of the system were working, it appeared that some of the inmates had not responded well to a night of normal sleep. Worn out from the enforced exercise of the previous day and afraid of what might happen with the Mainframe on the fritz, several inmates had gone into episodes of one kind or another. There were two boys from Dorm 4, one from 10, two from 28 and three from 35. Ned surveyed the room and the one adjacent. Most of the boys had been strapped down to exam tables, and two of them were restrained in wheelchairs. Several guards were, however, trying to get two others under control. Ned picked up two hypodermics, both loaded with powerful sedatives. He handed one to Bolton. The guard nodded. "I got da big one," he offered, "You take da little one." Ned advanced upon two guards who were trying hold down a screaming boy. He was naked, obviously pulled from his room when he awoke, and he was having a full blown episode. "No!" he was screaming over and over, his voice hoarse and his eyes wild, "N-n-no! I d-didn't d-d-do it! It w-was-s-n't l-like th-that! L-l-listen t-to m-me!" Ned's stomach turned as he glanced at the inmate's smooth and empty groin. He was totally emasculated, meaning he was probably in for a sex crime. He was Caucasian and very pale and thin, but the guards were having a hard time holding him. There was blood running from his nose in a slow stream. About that time, as Ned sank the needle into his butt cheek, the doors opened and Sam entered with Michael and Joey. At the same time, the healthy looking black youth that Bolton had called "da big one" got in a well placed kick at the guard's hand and sent the needle flying. Sam went into action, realizing at once that either the Mainframe wasn't working right or that the inmates were beyond feeling the ULF punishment. He pushed his two younger dorm mates back at the doors, and sized up his opponent. He knew him, since he was also on the grad-program with him. Calmly, Sam balled up his fist, sized up his quarry, then drove it into the side of the screaming and castrated youth's head. He went down in a heap.

"Damn, boy!" Bolton commented, hauling the now-unconscious youth up onto a table, "Don' be breakin' his head next time!"

"Sorry," Sam replied, "Seemed to be da thing to do tho." Ned went from table to table, quickly taking in what was going on. All of the inmates were strapped down and screaming, trying desperately to get away. All of reacted with blind terror when they saw him, and Ned's stomach rolled. Most of them were stuttering as Michael was, and Ned wasn't surprised to find a "G" somewhere on each one's ID. He injected them all with powerful sedatives, and ordered Sam to help him start with IV's and catheters. "We're gonna have to keep them out for a long time," he was saying, "I don't know for sure what they must have been getting via the conditioning while they were asleep, but obviously these fellas can't do without it. Dammit, when is the rest of the staff going to get here? "

"Just securing the Complex, no nonessential personnel admitted," one of them replied, watching from a corner, weapon at the ready.

"Nonessential?" Bolton asked in shock.

As the sick inmates all lost consciousness, Ned gestured to Michael. Ned whispered to him, "No one will think you're an inmate with a red suit on.

I want you to take care of the two boys in the wheelchairs. See if you can get them to respond. Watch Joey. Once me and Sam get the others all taken care of, you cover them up and make sure they're secure. Got it?" Michael nodded. Ned and Sam worked as fast as they could, but before they could get everyone attended to, the boy that Ned had struggled with sat bolt upright, screaming. He shook his head, scattering the nearby tables with blood and struggled madly against his restraints. Blood flew freely from his nose and mouth, and his screams were strangled by the flow.

Michael stared in horror, reliving the morning that Cheng had died as Joey tried to coax something out of one of the boys in a wheelchair, who seemed totally catatonic. The Agent stood in the corner, his mouth agape and his face pale. Then the screaming eunuch fell back on the table, his eyes open and his chest still. Sam shook his head and pulled the sheet up over his face. Ned's face was like a thundercloud as he stalked over to the drug cabinet. He pulled out a tray of hypodermics and began to load them. Each one held a large amount of fluid, and he handed half of them to Sam. "Use these," he ordered, and turning to Michael he said, "Mikey, run to my office at ICU. Get the purple CD out of my computer's CD drive. It's working. Bring it here to me, fast!" Michael nodded and ran, a guard following him.

"What is it?" Sam asked.

Ned's face was cold, but softened as he looked at Joey, who was trying to provoke one of the still eunuchs. "A delicate mix of testosterone, serotonin, dopamine, and a lot of Ativan. Procedure be damned, I am not losing any more of these boys to whatever it is that's killing them now that I know how to cure it. I just need my notes is all, and it's all on that CD." They worked for hours under the watchful eyes of the Agents after Michael returned with the CD. In the process, one other inmate, a castrated 16 year old who had been in for two years, died in the same manner as the first. Try as they did, Joey and Michael couldn't get any reactions out of the two in the wheelchairs. Since their vitals were stable, Ned admitted them to ICU and put Sam to watching over them. The bald black youth, his guard crest evident on his uniform, nodded and settled into his duties without question. He was having a chat with the Mainframe in the ICU and working on Ned's workstation when they left him there. His face was a study in optimism. As they headed out to clean up, Ned looked around.

"Where's Ames and the rest of the day staff?" he asked.

"No one else other than guards inside the Complex, sir," a balding man in a black jacket advised him, holding out his hand. Ned shook it. "Skinner, Federal Agent," he introduced himself, "And you would be Ned Hamilton, right?" Ned nodded. "We'll need to have a chat, Mr. Hamilton," Skinner replied, glancing at Joey and Michael in their red sweats and white shoes.

"If I'm not mistaken, Ned, can I call you Ned? Isn't it rather inappropriate to have guests in the Complex at this time? Oh, I almost forgot. Who's next in command here? The computer said it was that Bolton fellow. Ames is dead, and I certainly don't want to do it. This place gives me the creeps. Are things under control here?"

"What?" Joey demanded, his voice uncharacteristically loud, "What did you say?" The balding man turned to face him, looking down at the small eunuch. His eyes widened, and he looked up and down Joey's slight frame at his red clothing. "I said that Ames is dead, son. Is that important to you?" Joey's mouth had fallen open, and his pale face turned even paler. Michael caught him as his knees buckled and they both sank to the floor together.

He was trembling, but his eyes were wide and dry. Then, a strange sparkle crossed them. He lifted his closely buzzed head and looked at Ned. "I'm an orphan now," he said in a small voice. Michael got the pale eunuch to his feet. "I think we'll go and try to find some lunch and head back to our room," he said to Ned. Ned nodded. "If you need anything, ask the Mainframe," Ned said cryptically, "It knows you BETTER now." Then, turning back towards Skinner and a few other Agents, Ned suggested, "You'd better get the kitchen staff in here, or there WILL be full-scale riot." One of the Agents followed the two youngsters in red to the door. "Mikey," Ned called, as he and Joey stopped in the doorway, "when you get there, if there's no one there, break into the back cabinets and find as much milk and cold cereal as you can. After you eat, go wait in the car, the gray Chevy Cavalier out front. It's next to the big red Dodge truck, and I KNOW you know what those are. It's not locked. The man was right, you know.

This isn't a good place for guests right now and the red clothes might not turn the trick." Ned winked.

Joey looked confused, but Michael's answering grin was vicious.

The two left the prep room of the ER as officers, with the help of EMT's, began hauling the unconscious boys out for transport to the local hospital. Ned protested, more out of protocol than anything else, but he felt better knowing that trained neurologists would be taking over for him. He made sure that they had a copy of research to follow, which seemed to be proving effective for Michael so far. Skinner began explaining in detail to he and Bolton about his interim plans for IO and what had taken place outside as the three of them headed off for Ames' vacant office to continue their discussion. "The first issue is what do we DO with all these young fellows…" Skinner was saying.

Epilogue

Nervously, he shifted his feet on the carpet, rubbing the toe of one of his black boots to shine it. On his left sat Joey, dressed the same with his jet black hair gelled in a spiked style and standing up at its ½" [12 mm] length and fading down slowly to bare skin just behind his ears. On his right sat Ned, who held his hand tightly and looked very professional in his dark blue suit. Next to Joey sat Bolton, dressed in a black suit and looking threatening. It was the final day of their joint hearing, and Judge Kitty Gardner was looking rather frayed. Her face was pale, and her hands trembled as she whacked the gavel with a loud noise that made Joey jump and press himself close to Bolton. The large black man kept a protective arm around the eunuch, as if daring anyone to cross him. When the judge spoke, her voice was not as harsh as Michael remembered it. She glanced up from her papers only occasionally, most of the time directing her looks at their joint lawyer, Mr. Donovan.

As she read aloud about IO and its future, most of her comments directed to Agent Skinner and Bolton, Michael stared out the window. The sky was a deep blue, and now and then a stray puffy white cloud would pass by. The trees outside were mostly devoid of leaves, but there were still a few patches of bright red and orange here and there. Michael sighed and looked at his watch, a large heavy metal diver's watch with multiple time zones and a calendar on it. He wore it on his left wrist, in place of the ID bracelet that he had worn for so long. He had lost track of almost an entire year at IO, where each day had bled into the next with no sense of time at all. The watch had been a gift from Ned, and Michael looked at it at least once every two minutes. He remembered watching the news the night before in the hotel room in which they were sequestered, and the weatherman had called for snow within the week. The breeze, Michael recalled, had had that chill to it when they came in that day; a chill that contained promises instead of fear. His thoughts were not of sentencing and custody however; they were of playing outside in the promised snow. It was the chill in the judge's voice, however, that jerked Michael's thoughts back to the drama at hand.

Michael tried to swallow a lump in his throat that simply wouldn't yield.

Had she found a flaw in the falsified records? Had the police found something that they might have overlooked? He had just begun to feel some of relief from the constant paranoia after Ned had taken them out of IO in their bright red suits that day. No one had given them a second look. No one had had any records to fall back on thanks to Jason's handiwork. It had all be so perfect. Ned had made arrangements, but then Skinner had shown up with the police. Just when he thought he was free again, Michael found himself, along with the ones who had liberated him and Joey, under arrest once again. It had been a long set of hearings, but it was about to end. She stared at him. The judge who had put him away almost one year ago, the woman who had sent him to hell – she was speaking to him, and all abstracted and frozen with fear, Michael came to the conclusion that he would rather die than leave his brother. As he had turned from the window to stare at her in blank incomprehension, a terrible fear welled up in the pit of his stomach. He had looked into those eyes before, a year before, when she had said, "It's going to be for your own good." With a great effort, he got the shaking under control and swallowed again, harder than before. He became painfully aware of the sudden strange feeling between his legs, a feeling that he had gotten so used to that he no longer thought about it. I've already been castrated, just please, leave me the hell alone! As the judge drew in her breath and picked up the gavel, Michael came to one final conclusion – If she sends me back or locks me up in another home or prison somewhere, I'll kill myself.

"Listen up, Mikey," she had yelled, waving her gavel at him. Michael snapped upright in his seat, tightening his grip on his older brother's hand. "I take it you learned your lesson, right?" Michael nodded vigorously, not trusting his breaking voice, with his eyes wide. He noticed that Donovan was smiling at him. "I can't begin, gentlemen, to express my thoughts on this matter. This is something that one would expect to read in a history text, almost Nazi-like. Frankly, I have a hard time convincing myself that any of this is real. Had the public known what that madman was doing in there and far it had all gone, I'm sure it would have been stopped long ago. Michael, Joseph, even you, Mr. Bolton, on behalf of the State I apologize to you. Even though we can't give you back the time you lost, or anything else you lost to Ames and IO, perhaps this will help." She picked up another stack of papers and conferred with Donovan for a moment. They both nodded.

"These are unique circumstances," she began, "and certainly a case of punishment not fitting the crime. In fact, due to the mess that these records are in, I'm not really seeing anything here that shows a crime or an incarceration. It's all very confusing. I, of course, remember sentencing YOU, Mikey, but according to the State's files, YOU were never there. Neither was Joey, but we all know better, don't we? If YOU weren't in there at IO, then what are you doing here and why are you in the shape you're in? Very odd. Well anyway, here goes. Michael Baines, stand up!" she snapped. Michael did that, not releasing his grip on Ned's hand. His arms were long enough to make it not uncomfortable.

"It is the decision of this court, that due to… well… BIZARRE circumstances, that custody of you be given in full to your brother, Edward N. Hamilton. I have here papers from your parents, both relinquishing all rights to and of you formally. I think we did that once already when you were put into the foster care system. Anyway, you will remain in the custody of Mr. Hamilton until your are 18 years of age, and you are hereby declared a free citizen, your debt to society obviously more than paid." There was a pained note in her voice, as if she were not telling them everything. Her face was slightly green, Michael thought.

Still, she went on. "It is also the decision of this court that your name be changed to Michael Devon Hamilton, effective this day. Mr. Hamilton, this child is YOUR responsibility now. Since you are a med school graduate now in pursuit of a permanent position, it is also the decision of this court and the State, in having taken over the private IO Rehab Center, with Agent Skinner's approval, that you be employed there as chief of Medical Services. Despite the fact that you were on staff there, you were legitimately employed by a private firm and following policy. Besides, I think that every time you look at your little brother there, and every day that you report to work, you're being punished enough. Also, due to certain mitigating circumstances in your off duty researches which saved lives, all counts of malpractice are dropped. Besides, key records from the IO Rehab Center seem to have not survived the computer crash and the hard copies are all gone. We seem to have lack of evidence anyway, although there are two pieces of it sitting right next to you." She sighed heavily. "Is this acceptable?"

"Yes, your Honor," Michael and Ned replied in unison. Michael's voice squeaked badly on the word 'Honor,' but he didn't stutter. Ned grinned.

The young eunuch sat down heavily, pressing himself close to Ned.

"Joseph Ames, Jr., stand up," the Judge ordered. Shakily, Joey stood up.

He was visibly trembling. The Judge looked at him and shook her head sadly. "Joey, I'm not going to bite you. Relax. I can't begin to say what I think of what your father did to you. I'm sorry, for what it's worth. I know that isn't much, considering he put you away with a lot of criminals – well, for the most part, criminals – when you did nothing wrong to deserve it. But perhaps this will help to erase a bit of the pain of losing the last six, and probably best years of your life. Not only your manhood, but a large chunk of your childhood was stolen from you. But, you're a very rich young man, Joey, did you know that?" she asked.

Joey shook his head, his eyes wide. He turned to look at Bolton, who smiled a bright white smile.

"It seems, Joey, that your mother had some investments. Your father, if you want to call him that, seems to have had even more. And the amount of money that your Grandfather had stashed is staggering. Off the record, the old fart was loaded. But since they're all gone now, and name you as heir, you have a large house in an upscale neighborhood, a very nice black BMW with no one to drive it, and you are 16 now. You might not look it or feel it, but you are. There's no reason you can't drive it, if you can reach the pedals, that is. All in all, you're going to be worth about $28 million dollars, considering what your Grandfather, Mr. Frederick Ames left to your Father, Joseph Sr., and all of the other holdings. This is, of course, only an estimate for AFTER we settle some things out of court and OFF the record?" she grinned. Joey just stared at her. "Of course, you DO need a guardian until you turn 18, and Mr. Hamilton and his little brother could use somewhere to live, other than inside of IO when he takes over there with Mr. Bolton in charge. I've seen Ned's apartment, and I can't drop a minor child into THAT. I think you've all lived in IO long enough, anyway. It's time for a fresh start. You'll also need counseling, Joey, which I know you don't want to hear, but you'll need company as well. What would you say to having a new brother and a new father and a live-in security guard?" About then, the back door of the court room opened and Sam entered, dressed in his formal IO outfit. The Judge looked up. "You're late, Mister!" she admonished him. Sam nodded at her. "Duties, Ma'am," he replied, "I'm sorry. I do have documentation which the Agent can verify." There was no trace of his usual street-wise accent.

She frowned at him. "Do you think I'm stupid, Sam?" she asked, "I don't trust that damn CyberPooch or whatever you call it any farther than I could throw YOU. Sit down and listen." Sam did that, taking a seat next to Bolton. The Judge stared at them and shook her head. "Where was I? Oh, yes. Being a prison guard can be tedious work. Young Joey here is going to need some help putting his life and affairs back in order, and you need somewhere to live as well. The sad truth of the matter is, he's going to need protection. A lot of people out there can be unreasonable, and even with the vast settlements from both the Ames' accounts and the State, there will, no doubt, still be those out there who will want the deaths and/or castrations of their sons avenged. So, it is my suggestion that Sam and Mr. Bolton take up residence as part time guardians of you, Joseph Thomas Ames, Jr. One of them will be with you at all times. Mr. Hamilton will be your legal guardian, until his request for formal adoption goes through. It might only be for two years, but it's important, I think. By default, this will also make Michael Hamilton your brother. Is this acceptable?" she asked bluntly.

Joey just stared at her. He could feel eyes on him. Everyone was watching him. From behind him came a whisper. "Say 'yes'," Erik Anderson told him, nudging him in the seat of his pants with his cane. "Yes?" Joey squeaked, the enormity of it all causing him to take a step back. The backs of his knees hit the bench, and he accidentally sat down heavily on Bolton's lap.

The huge black man folded both of his vast arms around the frail eunuch and nodded, as if daring the judge to say otherwise to him.

"I didn't quite catch that, Mr. Ames," the Judge demanded.

"YES!" Joey shouted, his face lighting up as Michael reached over to take his hand. The sound of the gavel as it struck home was like thunder.

"It is the decision of this court then that temporary custody of Joseph Thomas Ames, Jr. and full custody of Michael Devon Hamilton be given to Mr. Edward N. Hamilton effective this moment. Formal guardianship is also bestowed upon Mr. Tyrone Bolton and Mr. Samuel Prescott. You two gentleman will remain in the employ of the reorganized IO and also reside with and look after Joey for as long as he deems fit. One of you is to be with him at all times. Is that clear?"

"Yes'm'," they said in unison.

"Mr. Hamilton," she continued, "Since you are a medical doctor now, according to what I see here in these slightly disheveled records, and it was YOUR research that led to your curing of several of the inmates at IO, and saving their lives in the process, YOU shall also be responsible for your little brother's and Joey's unique medical needs. I expect you to keep up the regimen of various hormones and injections that I don't understand when I read about it?" she asked wryly. Ned nodded.

"Yes, your Honor," he replied.

He leaned over and whispered in Michael's ear. "You DID remember to put a fresh patch on this morning, didn't you, Mikey?" Michael smiled and nodded. "Yea, and so d-did Joey. Just l-like you showed us." The decreasing stutter was reassurance to both the eunuch and Ned that the injections were in fact curing the dangerous imbalances in his brain.

Although Joey hadn't suffered from the same ailment that Michael did, and that Cheng had had, Ned nonetheless had put the pale youth on a regimen of testosterone and growth hormones. It wasn't beginning to affect Joey yet, but Michael's voice had begun the first stages of breaking.

"Fine, then, everybody get out!" the Judge ordered, slamming the gavel one last time. To Michael, it sounded like a door had slammed shut, forever locking away some horrible part of his life that would never come looking for him again. To Joey, it was frightening. He jumped again and gasped. He clung desperately to Bolton as he realized that he wasn't going back to IO; he wasn't going back to the hotel. Nor was he going home with Ned and Michael to Ned's place, as he had before the arrest. He was going home to house full of ghosts. As they got up to leave, Bolton effortlessly stood , with Joey limp in his arms. Although he was somewhat past 16, Joey was hardly the size of a 13 year old, and Bolton was, after all, enormous. Sam smiled at Joey, holding his hand as they left the courthouse. Behind them walked Ned and Michael, the young eunuch's hand clasped tightly by his older brother. Of course, the entire case had been a media circus. The American public, thanks mostly to one reporter in particular, was as sick of the IO story and hearing about castrations and penectomies as they had been of hearing about OJ Simpson some years before.

As they exited the building into the sunny day with its chill breeze, a hoard of reporters fell upon them. In the forefront, accompanying Jason, of all people, was a familiar face.

"Hello, I'm Linda Johnson of AP WorldNet Live," the tall and threateningly beautiful woman said into her microphone, "Here at the courthouse where the landmark case of the IO Rehab Center for Boys has just been resolved and the Center totally reorganized after an interim shutdown. Joining me is Mr. Bolton, the new Administrator of IO, who seems to have in his arms one of the victims. What do you have to say to our audience who has followed this strange and disturbing tale since it broke?"

Bolton tightened his grip on Joey, who had buried his face in the large man's shoulder. All of the attention in general, and Linda Johnson in particular, frightened him. "Well, Linda, let me invite you personally to my office tomorrow morning and we'll do a story there with a tour. Right now, I have a little boy to take of, if you'll excuse us." Flanked by Sam and Ned, they pushed their way through the crowd to the black BMW which, technically, now belonged to Joey. They got in, with Ned slipping in behind the wheel, and drove away.

The media watched them go, their attention turning to the balding man on the courthouse steps who was wearing a black FBI jacket. No one noticed the man in nondescript clothing who had accompanied Linda and had watched from the back of the chambers, nor seen him when he had left a bit early.

He got into a red Dodge truck, backed out of his parking spot, and began following the black BMW which his friend was driving. He also had a new job to attend to as head of systems and computer maintenance at IO. He smiled a broad smile as he drove, answering his cell phone when it rang.

"Thank you," the familiar voice said, "I couldn't have gotten him out of there without you."

"No problem. Just another day at the office. Judge Gardner is pissed though."

"Why?"

"It seems there's a large banana on the screens of the all the computers in the courthouse."

The End