I'm awake.

 

Or am I? Can't see a damn thing.

 

I blink my eyes, or at least I think I do. Can't feel them. I try waving my hand in front of my face, try touching my face. No sensation at all.

 

Take a deep breath. Can't hear myself breathing. There is a sound, of sorts... a low rumbling whoosh, rhythmic. Unchanging, constant, but it's definitely there.

 

My next thought is, I'm in a sensory deprivation tank.

 

Hard on the heels of that: I know what that is. How do I know what that is?

 

I can't remember. I don't remember much of anything, come to that. What do I remember?

 

English. I'm thinking in words, and the language is English. American. A picture flashes into my mind of typewriter paper, letters. The smell of ink. I know what a semicolon is and how to use it, when to capitalize military rank, using mechanical tabs to fill out forms, how to use a hand-cranked mimeograph.

 

Gunfire. Typewriter sounds like gunfire, but with a different rhythm. I recall the mixed smells of dust and cordite, the horrible stench of a stomach wound. Gasoline. Dead bodies in the summer heat. I know how to unjam an M-16. Dust gets everywhere, clogs... springs, grease.

 

Army. Clerk, quartermaster. Supply sergeant. That's me, it must be. I think?

 

Someone's put me in here. It wasn't me, or I'd remember, wouldn't I? Or maybe... maybe it's not sensory deprivation. Maybe I'm injured, unconscious. Trapped in my skull. I've heard stories, read... seen on television. What was it, Twilight Zone?

 

Anything else this could be? No?

 

Well. Medical head case or a captive being interrogated. Not good either way.

 

So. What to do?

 

Well, if I'm a prisoner, there's nothing much I can do. They want military secrets, I can't even remember my own name. Or rank, or serial number. No sense worrying about it.

 

If I've been injured, the thing to do is communicate, to let people know I'm in here. Anything after that is up to them.

 

I can't move, but can I... yes, I can tighten some muscles here and there. Faint sensation of that.

 

Muscles. Tighten, then release. One side of my body, then the other. Doesn't matter that I can't really feel it; I trust it's happening. One side, then the other. That's right. Do it in sequence, a simple rhythm. One side, then the other. Do it again, and again...

 

Please God, I hope I'm not messing anything up.

 

One side, then the other. One side, then the other. One side... the other...

 

* * *

 

The man from Central straightened his tie and glared across the conference table. "It's rhythmic movement. Can't it just be, I don't know, some sort of reflex?"

 

Civilians! The thought came from five different minds at once with varying degrees of exasperation, but only General Hazen had rank enough to speak freely. Central had a nasty reputation.

 

"Respectfully, sir, that's wishful thinking. The prisoner is conscious."

 

"That can't be true!" Central's representative groused. "Six weeks, we've been setting this interrogation up. Six weeks!"

 

"Nobody's saying we like it," the general observed. "The question is, what do we do now?"

 

The Central man took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Everyone was looking at him expectantly. Finally, he exhaled and looked at the general. "We're under orders to keep the experiment going," he said. "We can't risk abducting a second prisoner, so this one will simply have to do."

 

"Sir—"

 

A tech burst in through the lab door.

 

"The tank is unstable," he reported, his voice cracking. "There's some sort of harmonic event going on. It wasn't designed for these lateral stresses."

 

"What lateral stresses?!"

 

"The nutrient fluid. It's sloshing back and forth, interfering with the hydraulics."

 

"That's a twelve-million credit piece of equipment," General Hazen observed mildly. From his tone, he might have been discussing the weather.

 

"Yes, yes, I know," snapped Central. "What other options do we have?"

 

"We can sedate the subject," suggested a scientist.

 

"You told us that would probably kill him!"

 

"Only probably. But it'll save the equipment, and..."

 

"Not an option. Next?"

 

A debate ensued, during which not much was settled. After a minute two more technicians came rushing in, distressed, but before they could get anyone's attention, a massive crash sounded from behind them. It was accompanied by several cries. The overhead fluorescents flickered, and smoke and the stench of scorched circuitry filled the air.

 

"It seems the decision has been made for us. Gentlemen?" The general stood and motioned the others to go first.

 

The Central man had gone pale. "It's not... not possible," he said weakly. Everyone ignored him. He slumped, cradling his head in his hands.

 

A voice came over the speakers. Alert! Prisoner has escaped the lab. All personnel, be on the lookout for a naked man covered in glowing blue slime...