“Tell me,” Aspen commanded.
They’d looked at me like they’d known me. Because theyhadknown me.
Silence filled the room as the light shuddered and beat.
“I’m her, aren’t I?” I said, breaking.
Aspen started laughing, a broad smile slitting her face.
The light flickered off and then burst back on.
“Welcome back, Isabelle,” she said. “Now, where the fuck is Charles?”
IVTHE OTHER SIDE
4.1MASS HYSTERIA AND CONSPIRACY THEORIES
Can we get control of an individual to the point where he will do our bidding against his will and even against fundamental laws of nature such as self-preservation?
—CIADOCUMENT,PROJECTARTICHOKE, 1952
I sat stunned, disbelieving, and in such shock that I could barely feel my limbs. What the hell was happening to me? I was Robin Quain. I was a historian. Wasn’t I? No, I was someone else. Whatever had been done to my memory, it hadn’t worked all the way. Things had crept through in my dreams, and it was those dreams more than anything that made me sure I really was Isabelle. And there were other clues. I thought back to Finn, to his telling me how someday I’d regret asking for the truth about Isabelle. Even my favoriteTwilight Zoneepisode was a clue, as if I was trying to shout the truth at myself, though it consistently fell on deaf ears.
“Charles?” I whispered, and memories flashed before my eyes—the two of us laughing in his office at NYU, only it wasn’t NYU. It was here, in some kind of lab. Drinking vodka in the Russian bar, only it wasn’t a bar, was it? It was my cabana, and we were elated about the progress we were making. We weregeniuses, weren’t we? Going to go down in history. Then staring into his eyes near the sundial in Washington Square Park, only it wasn’t a sundial, and it wasn’t Washington Square Park. Still, the snow fell in thick, mournful waves.
“I’m Isabelle?” For some inscrutable reason, I looked over at Lexi for confirmation.
“Whip-smart, this one,” she said with her characteristic snarkiness. “Took you long enough.”
“Who is Charles?”
“Your best friend.”
“Well, other than me,” said Lexi.
“She’s joking,” said Aspen. “Lexi hates you.”
“Honestly,” said Lexi, examining her nails, “most people hate you. I was one of the few who didn’t until, you know, I did.”
Blinking slowly, as if trying to see through a thick haze, I asked, “If I’m Isabelle, why do I think I’m Robin?”
“Hell if we know. Something happened to your brain. You and Charles disappeared the night of the breach, which is unfortunate because you’re the only ones who know the code.”
I tried to make myself understand what Lexi was saying, but my eyes were gritty, and I had no clue what was happening to me.
“But Charles is in New York. He was my best friend in grad school.”
“No,” said Lexi. “He was your best friend here, but there is something you’re hiding from yourself about him. We think that’s why he carried over into your screen memories.”
“Screen memories?” I tried to sit up, but my head was spinning, so I lay back down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I am completely freaking out right now. I don’t understand what’s happening to me.”
Aspen looked over at Lexi. “I don’t know how much we can tell her.”
Lexi shook her head, a warning.
“Please.” Desperately, I looked over at Aspen, hoping she could throw me some kind of lifeline before I completely lost touch with reality.
“Okay,” said Aspen, calmly sitting down and making eye contact with me. “Listen to me carefully. I know this is hard to understand, but you aren’t Robin Quain. You’re Isabelle Casimir. You’re a neuroscientist and you used to work here with your best friend, Charles. There was a security breach. I can’t tell you more about that until you remember it yourself. The night of the breach, you and Charles disappeared, and we need one of you to tell us the code so we can seal the breach.”
