Chapter 5 Memory Bleed

They came for me at dawn—four handlers in protective gear, Dr. Finch supervising with a grim expression. I recognized the preparation protocol for the combat demonstration, but today was different. The handlers moved with heightened caution, and the syringes they carried contained a viscous red liquid I'd never seen before.

"Triple dose of the aggression compound," Dr. Finch instructed. "Ms. Quinn's orders. Military representatives will be observing from the secure gallery."

One handler approached with the syringe. I backed away, growling.

"Subject is resistant," he reported. "Recommend sedation before injection."

Dr. Finch shook his head. "No time. Use the restraint protocols."

They activated my collar, sending a paralyzing current through my nervous system. As I collapsed, unable to move, I felt the needle pierce my skin, followed by liquid fire spreading through my veins. The world turned red, sounds becoming distorted as the drug took effect.

Through the haze, I heard Dr. Finch speaking: "The enhanced combat formula increases aggression by 300% while maintaining cognitive function. The subject will understand exactly what it's doing, but will be unable to resist the violent impulses."

They transported me to the underground facility beneath the mansion—what the staff called the "arena." A reinforced glass enclosure surrounded by tiered seating, like a miniature colosseum. As my paralysis wore off, I saw the observation deck filling with people in military uniforms and business attire.

Vera stood at the center, immaculate in a crimson suit that matched the color now pulsing behind my eyes.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she announced, "today you will witness the culmination of Cross Biogenics' consciousness transfer program. A human mind with full cognitive abilities, housed in our advanced canine platform, enhanced for combat applications."

The crowd murmured appreciatively. I searched desperately for Damien among them, but he was nowhere to be seen.

"For today's demonstration," Vera continued, "we will showcase the subject's aggression response against a live opponent."

A door on the opposite side of the arena slid open. Another dog entered—larger than my form, scarred from previous fights, eyes wild with the same drug-induced rage I felt coursing through me.

"Both subjects have been enhanced with our combat formula," Vera explained. "The winner will demonstrate the superior genetic platform."

The other dog—another victim like me?—circled warily. Was there another human consciousness trapped inside, forced to fight for survival? Or was it purely animal, bred for this purpose?

I fought against the chemical rage, trying to maintain control. The other dog lunged suddenly, teeth baring for my throat. Instinct and drugs took over; I dodged and countered, feeling muscle and tissue tear beneath my teeth.

The crowd applauded as blood spattered the arena floor. Somewhere distant, beyond the red haze, I felt myself screaming—a human scream trapped in a canine body.

The fight continued, brutal and swift. My enhanced form moved with precision the other dog couldn't match. When it was over, my opponent lay motionless, and I stood bloodied but victorious.

The military observers were on their feet, applauding. Vera smiled triumphantly.

"As you can see," she announced, "the human-consciousness model provides superior tactical thinking, even under extreme combat conditions."

I stood trembling in the center of the arena, the drug beginning to wear off, horror at what I'd done washing over me. This was what they wanted—not just a successful transfer, but a weapon they could control, point, and release.

"We'll begin accepting development contracts next quarter," Vera continued. "Imagine your most skilled soldiers operating in these enhanced forms—fearless, powerful, and ultimately disposable."

Disposable. The word echoed in my mind as handlers entered to secure me. I didn't resist as they led me from the arena, too consumed by shame and revulsion.

They didn't return me to my usual enclosure. Instead, I was taken to a small, soundproof room deep in the basement—the "Silence Room," I would later learn, where problematic subjects were isolated for behavior modification.

"Three days, no food," instructed the handler. "Ms. Quinn's orders after the biting incident."

Biting incident? Through my drug-addled memory, I recalled snapping at someone as they led me from the arena. The image clarified: Vera, approaching to inspect me, my teeth grazing her perfectly manicured hand as she reached out to touch my blood-matted fur.

The door sealed behind me, leaving me in near-total darkness. The room contained nothing but a water dispenser and a drain in the floor. No bed, no comfort, not even the minimal amenities of my laboratory enclosure.

Three days of starvation. Another form of control, another humiliation. I curled up on the cold floor, exhaustion overtaking me as the combat drugs fully dissipated.

I don't know how long I slept. Hours or days might have passed in that lightless room. I woke to the sound of the door opening, light spilling in painfully bright.

Damien stood in the doorway, his expression a mixture of anger and confusion.

"Get her out of here," he ordered someone behind him. "Now."

Dr. Finch appeared, looking anxious. "Sir, Ms. Quinn specifically instructed—"

"I don't care what Vera instructed," Damien snapped. "This isolation protocol was never approved. And the combat demonstration—that wasn't what we discussed for the military presentation."

"Ms. Quinn felt a more dramatic demonstration would be more effective," Dr. Finch explained carefully.

"Where is she?" Damien demanded.

"In Tokyo for the investor meeting. She left immediately after the demonstration."

Damien knelt beside me, examining me with gentle hands. I was too weak to respond, my body still recovering from the drugs and the fight.

"Get her to the medical bay," he instructed. "Full examination. I want to know exactly what was in that injection."

As they carried me to the medical wing, I caught fragments of conversation between Damien and Dr. Finch.

"...completely unauthorized dosage..."
"...could have killed the subject..."
"...DNA results still processing..."

In the medical bay, technicians cleaned my wounds and administered fluids. Damien watched the entire procedure, his face troubled.

"I want access to Vera's private research files," he told Dr. Finch. "Something isn't adding up."

"Sir, those files are encrypted with Ms. Quinn's personal keys. Without her authorization—"

"I built this company," Damien interrupted coldly. "Nothing is inaccessible to me. Get it done."

Hours later, after I had been returned to my regular enclosure in the laboratory, Damien returned alone. He looked exhausted, his usual polished appearance rumpled, as if he hadn't slept.

"The DNA results are... inconclusive," he told me, as if I could understand—which, of course, I could. "There are similarities to Aria's genetic profile that shouldn't be possible in a synthetic construct."

He paced the laboratory, running his hands through his hair in that familiar gesture of frustration.

"And Vera's research logs are missing key entries. The original memory index files appear to have been altered." He stopped, turning to look at me directly. "Who are you? Really?"

If only I could speak, could tell him everything. Instead, I moved to the glass barrier separating us, placing my paw against it.

After a moment's hesitation, he pressed his hand to the glass opposite mine.

"I need to check something," he said suddenly, turning away. "Stay here."

Where else would I go? I thought bitterly.

He returned an hour later carrying a dusty storage container. Setting it on a laboratory table, he began removing items—old notebooks, data drives, framed photographs. Personal belongings.

"These were Aria's," he explained, though whether to me or himself wasn't clear. "I couldn't... after she died, I couldn't look at them. Vera had them put in storage."

He activated one of the data drives, and a holographic display flickered to life. A video began playing—me, human, smiling at the camera.

"Day 219 of the starship project," my recorded self said. "Damien thinks I'm crazy for keeping these logs, but when we're the first humans living off-world, he'll thank me for documenting everything."

The camera panned to show Damien working on complex calculations, younger and more carefree than the man now watching the recording.

"Stop pretending this is for posterity," the recorded Damien laughed. "You just want to make sure everyone knows it was your propulsion theory that made it possible."

"Damn right," my human self replied, blowing him a kiss.

The current Damien paused the recording, his hand trembling slightly.

"We were going to build a ship," he whispered. "Leave Earth, start over somewhere untouched." He looked at me. "I had forgotten that."

He continued searching through the container, pulling out a small velvet box. Inside was a necklace—a crystal pendant containing what appeared to be two intertwined strands of DNA, suspended in clear resin.

"I gave this to her on our third anniversary," he said quietly. "Our DNA, molecularly bonded. One of a kind." He stared at it for a long moment, then back at me. "Aria died in a laboratory accident. That's what the records show. That's what Vera told me. But I can't remember the details. Why can't I remember?"

He abruptly stood, moving to the laboratory console. "System, access Cross Biogenics medical archives. Subject: Aria Evelyn Hart."

The system hummed. "Access restricted. Biometric authentication required."

Damien pressed his palm to the scanner. "Override. Authorization Cross Alpha."

"Access granted. Warning: files contain corruption indicators."

"Display full medical history."

As data filled the screens, Damien's expression changed from confusion to horror. "These records... they've been altered. There's no death certificate, no autopsy report." He turned to another console. "System, locate all surveillance footage from Laboratory C, dated eighteen months ago."

"Footage unavailable. Files deleted."

"By whom?"

"Deletion authorized by Vera Quinn, Executive Director."

Damien's face hardened. "System alert. Notify me when Ms. Quinn returns to the premises."

"Acknowledged."

He turned back to the container, pulling out a handwritten journal. As he flipped through the pages, something fell out—a small, grainy ultrasound image. He picked it up, staring at it with growing confusion.

"This is..." He checked the date on the back. "This is from just before Aria supposedly died." He looked up at me, his eyes wide with dawning realization. "She was pregnant."

The laboratory door slid open. A technician entered hesitantly.

"Mr. Cross, sir? The system just registered an anomaly in the fetal tissue samples preserved from the subject's original body."

Damien turned sharply. "What anomaly?"

"Sir, despite being separated from the host body for over a month, the samples are showing... well, it's impossible, but they're showing minimal but persistent life signs. The system alert says: 'Fetal life signs not completely terminated.'"

The ultrasound image fell from Damien's hand as he stared at me, the pieces finally beginning to connect.

"Oh my god," he whispered. "What have I done?"