from there.”
“I’m afraid, Ms Carr. This is all very new to me.” A woman’s voice over the speakers. “Please hear me out.”
“How many of you are up there?” The Fixer turned to again face the light. “I came here to meet with Jones. Just Jones.”
“And that’s what you have. I came alone.” A child’s lilt from the speakers. “Tell me a voice your comfortable with, Ms Carr. I can give it to you.”
Curiosity pulled The Fixer back a few slow steps. “What have you got up there, Jones?”
“Whose voice do you like, Ms Carr?” A woman this time. With a thick Irish brogue. “Try me.”
The Fixer stepped forward in challenge, captivated with the technology suggested. “Let’s hear Barbara Streisand.”
Nearly a minute passed in silence. The Fixer wrestled an inner warning to find the nearest door and run.
“Well hello, gorgeous.” The voice over the speaker was unmistakably Barbara Streisand’s. The cadence was slowed, as if each word was pieced together from an infinite library of the diva’s iterations, but the inflection and tone were perfect. Anyone over the age of twenty-five would be certain they were listening to the superstar.
“That’s some gadget you got there, Jones. But I’m going to have to see you if you want this conversation to go any further.”
“If you could indulge me, Ms Carr.” La Streisand asked. “Please. Watch this.”
The light that had been tracking The Fixer went dark and was replaced by the glow of a large television mounted on the side of a catwalk above her to the right. The image of a middle aged man filled the screen. Late 40’s she’d guessed. Fit, handsome, and with the body of an athlete. His face unlined and his suit custom-tailored. He walked with the easy grace of someone who knew he turned heads. There was no audio as the man ascended to a podium. He shook hands with several people before taking his place behind a lectern. He smiled into the camera and pulled note cards from his pocket.
“That’s Fred Bastian.” The speaker now projected a man’s voice. Soft southern accent. “Some say he’s the best in his field. Maybe destined for the Nobel Prize some day.”
“But you say different, I suppose.” The Fixer wanted to get to the reason for the meeting.
“Dr. Bastian is a butcher, Ms Carr. A fiend. A sadist of the highest order.”
“What is it you want, Jones? By the way, is it Miss or Mister Jones?” The Fixer grew weary of the game.
“Jones is fine, Ms Carr.” This time a woman with the nasal inflection of a New Jersey housewife. “Bastian is chair of neuroscience at the university. He’s built his career identifying and locating the molecular substrates of human emotions. Most of his work is with animals. ‘Non-human primates’ he calls them. He does most of his experiments on monkeys and chimpanzees.”
The Fixer knew of Bastian’s lab. Over the years it had been the target of demonstrations by animal rights activists. She recalled an investigation by the National Institutes of Health a few years earlier.
“I’m listening.” No need for Jones to have any indication of her knowledge of the scientist’s work. “What do you have in mind?”
The response came as a female voice from the heartland. Devoid of accent as any network anchor. “Bastian’s lab has as many as fifty primates at any given time. Caged. Chained if necessary. Screaming for their freedom at first. Soon learning they’re helpless and submitting to captivity. Huddling in the corners of small crates. Some starving themselves to death but most succumbing to the seduction of survival and performing for their captors who come twice a day with kibbles and fruit.”
The television switched to another video. Bastian smiling into the camera as he gave a tour of his lab. Green porcelain tiles covered the walls. White-coated assistants stood behind black-topped utility tables. The audio was muted, but The Fixer assumed Bastian was pointing out various instruments or explaining his theories or research protocols. She watched Bastian go to a large steel door, key an entry code into an electronic panel, and push the door open.
The audio blared into action as Bastian entered his holding rooms. Unseen dogs barked. Monitors beeped. Bastian spoke directly to the camera with an assured voice. “And now the stars of our little show.”
The camera tracked dozens of cages that filled the sterile room. Monkeys peered out as Bastian walked by and identified them for his audience. The small macaque and tamarinds. The proboscis and squirrel monkeys. Several with shaved heads. Two with implanted electrodes. Faces of pleading fear captured in heartbreaking close- up by the zoom lens.
“Here are my larger specimens,” Bastian led the way to another room. Four monkeys were in individual cages. “First, a male and female baboon.” Bastian put his hand on top of their respective cells. “They allow me to measure the hormonal contribution to emotions.” He turned away from the cowering animals and directed the camera to the final set of cages.
“Meet Frost and Nixon”. Bastian smiled at the two captives. “Chimpanzees. Ninety-six percent of their DNA held in common with humans. Very social animals in the wild. They form clans of 100 or more. Like families. The information we get from them is as close to humans as possible.” The camera framed the two chimps. Electrodes protruding from their skulls. Catheters inserted into their arms and penises. Nixon held his arm out, reaching through the cage in supplication.
The video went blank. The Fixer took two deep breaths and tried to shake the images from her mind.
“Okay, so Bastian’s an asshole,” she called up to the rafters. “I don’t get involved with the politics of academic research. Contact some sort of review board.”
This time a woman with a soft English accent. “Bastian brings millions in grant funding to the university. The regulatory agencies are under-funded at best. Apathetic at worst. Even the newspapers aren’t interested.”
“Lots of universities conduct animal research, Jones. It’s an evil, I’ll give you that. But it doesn’t warrant my involvement.”
“Think back to your history lessons, Ms Carr.” This time it was the patrician tones of a Boston male speaking to her. “Back to the beheadings in ancient Rome or during the French Revolution.”
“Your grace period is long past, Jones.” The Fixer wanted her prospect to know her irritation. “You want to waste my time on a Western Civ review or do you want to tell me what you want?”
“When I’m finished, Ms Carr, you’ll have no question about the need to rid the world of Dr. Bastian’s work. Indulge me, please?” Sincerity rang through the synthesized plea. The Fixer gave a reluctant nod.
“Recall the scene re-created in countless epics. The defeated led to the chopping block. The blood-thirsty mob gathered to witness their payback. The victor grabbing the severed head and holding it aloft for the cheering crowds.”
“What’s this got to do with Bastian?” The Fixer stood with her hands on her hips. “You’ve got two minutes before I walk out of here.”
“Common lore has those severed heads held high so the crowd could savor their revenge.” The Boston- accented man had the perfect voice for this history lesson. “However, the act served another purpose. You see, the victims’ senses continued to work for as long as a person can hold their breath. What’s that, Ms Carr? A minute? Perhaps ninety seconds? The victor could turn the poor soul’s gaze for a horrifying view of their own headless body. One last exquisite torture before the great abyss.”
The Fixer swallowed hard. The list of ways humans could be cruel to one was as endless as the heavens. “What’s this have to do with Bastian? I won’t ask again.”
“You’ve seen the monkeys in Bastian’s lab. You’ve heard the dogs. I’m sorry they’re not enough to convince you. Let me tell you about Ortoo.”
The video came to life again. The Fixer took a shuffled step back as the screen filled with a colossal hairy face.
“Ortoo’s a Silverback Gorilla. A rare specimen in the wild, let alone in captivity. Silverback’s are between 98 and 99 percent genetically identical to humans. Our closest cousin.” Jones fell silent as The Fixer watched Ortoo pace back and forth in a room-sized cage.
“Ortoo was somewhere around 20 years old when this video was taken. Full in his prime. Did you know, Ms Carr, that gorillas live 50 years? Some more. They have individual fingerprints. They even have face-to-face sex. I’m sure you’re aware that it’s possible for them to learn sign language and communicate thoughts and feelings with us.”
The Fixer watched Ortoo grab the iron bars of his cage in his massive hands, yanking on them as he roared
