Contents of journal downloaded from fragmented subsystem within Beaulac Clinic network

Day 1
I'll call it Day 1 because I have no idea what day it is, how long I've been here, or really anything else. But this is the first day I'm coherent enough to speak, so "Day 1" it is.

Wherever I am, I seem to have been left this thing for company - a battered old dpad! I miss my minicomp; I wonder why they didn't leave that here. I need to start worrying about when am I, let alone where.

Well, let's answer "where" first. I'm alone in a room that's about three meters by four, with a bed, a desk and a dresser with some nondescript gray clothing in it. Everything's gray, in fact. Damn dull. Gravity is Luna standard, which doesn't mean much except that whoever's holding me here is too cheap to spring for pseudo-gravity. At least I can assume that I'm still home.

There are no windows or doors, and no obvious surveillance devices. On the other hand, who needs cameras when you can plant an ISRAn on the other side of a wall? I've seen old espionage entertainment holos - surveillance stuff is completely pointless now. Between psi and the new tech, we can do anything to anyone. Mess with pseudo-gravity enough and you can induce LAO in a prisoner. Do a little creative morphing holo work and you can show him anything you want to, and make him believe it.

Let me correct myself: You can do all of that to anyone human. That begs the question: Who's out there who doesn't fit that category?

I'm definitely suffering from memory loss. No other obvious signs of trauma, though I wish I had a mirror so I could see my face.

Day 2
The food and water were here when I woke up. No sign of an entrance. There's some itching along my arms and legs, right along where the muscle grooves past the bone. It feel like that impossible to scratch itching you get when a cut or broken bone heals. Was I operated on and healed in a hurry? That kind of healing takes a seriously high powered rex, and there aren't that many of us on Luna.

Us. Us. Why did I think that? I'm onto something here.

Day 3
I'm sure they're reading this. This morning when I woke up, the dpad was moved, and the recorded text scrolled back to Day 1. The obvious question is, "why?" I mean, why have me record my reactions? Why do this to me?

The only answer I can come up with is that this is meant to be subjective data, to go with the objective data they must be drawing from somewhere else. Inside and outside. I'm the control. At least, that's how I'd do it if I were running this experiment.

Why do I have the feeling I created this protocol? But it was for treating Aberrants, not psions. What am I doing here?

I'm a doctor. I shouldn't be a patient. Let me out!

Day 4
The itching is worse. It's along my back now, and it's spread to the area along my shoulders. Trapezius muscles. That's what those are called. Bits and pieces are coming back. I was a doctor. No, I was a psion. An Æsculapian.

What was my name?

I wish this infernal itching would stop.

Day 5
Slept most of the day. I suspect I may be drugged. Itching is worse. Still no mirror. Forgetting what my face is supposed to look like. I know now that it's all part of the protocol. I wish I'd done a less thorough job.

Day 6
Higher dosage. Trazadone? Barely moved today. If I could, I would have scratched until I bled. I suppose they're doing me a kindness.

Day 7
No drugs today. No food or water, either. Heard explosions off in the distance - an invasion? A revolt? Have I been abandoned? I've tried prying at the walls, but it's all ceramic, I think. Can't even get a grip with my nails. If my jailers have decided to abandon the experiment, I'm a dead man. I wish I could remember my name before then. It would make things easier, somehow.

I was one of them. Why are they doing this to me?

Day 8
I'll call it "Day 8," since the previous entry was "Day 7." I really have no idea how long it's been since I was last conscious. Still no food or water. Looks like the power cell in the dpad is running low, but if I don't get some water, it won't matter. Christ, I'm thirsty.

Time to face facts. I'm going to die here. I was a doctor, a psion, and I saved lives, and you know what? It doesn't mean a damn thing, because I'm going to die in this hole. Might as well record this so if, God forbid, anyone finds this, they'll know whose bones they're steping over.

But it's pointless. It's a waste of good experimental subject; wasting me is inefficient. Maybe I've been captured by Aberrants and they've been defeated, and no one knows I'm down here. That would explain some of the facts. In that case, I've died in a good cause.

The hell with that. I don't want to die. I especially don't want to die in a featureless hole a million kilometers from home. I want to go back home. I want to see my parents again, and go back to Basel, and -

Basel. For the love of God.

Montressor!

I know what's going on now. The Aberrant guess was half right. I'm in the middle of the Huang - Marr Project. Jesus God! I've been implanted!

My name is ... it's Doctor Malachi Ross. I am 44 years old, a psion and a doctor trained to serve humanity. I have dedicated my entire life to healing. And I have been betrayed by those I trusted most, and I suspect, by myself.

The question is, which implants was I given? Even more important: Do the damn things work? Time to find out.