Ashes by Estevan Vega Page B

Sanctuary was a basement in some alley. Some time passed, and it became part of something greater. Salvation Asylum assumed the location of the once hospital, after a gas leak on the lower level completely left its former existence in ruin, providing them with a new arena to play. The asylum was reconstructed under new ownership—government ownership. The outside world would believe it to have been funded by private businessmen, and they’d be half right. But these businessmen were among the most powerful leaders in the world. Hoven irreverently referred to them as the Magnificent Seven. No one knew their true names or even what they looked like, only that they kept the media out of the asylum staff’s hair and checks in their bank accounts.
    Back in the days of the alley, Parker had been trying to bring dead things back to life. Then his obsession shifted to injecting potential regenerative qualities into certain species of plants and living creatures. It started with flowers of any kind; then pets, living or dead; reptiles, warm-blooded, cold-blooded. If it moved, walked, or crawled, it could be tested. But he argued never to test humans until they were sure the experiments could work successfully.
    You’re not sure , Krane’s thoughts intruded. His conscience had become a frequent interloper.
    The chief concept behind Henry Parker’s work was his notion that the sum of the human person resided in the mind. All actions, reason, will, and soul. He reasoned that humans did what they did because their minds birthed certain ideas and told them to. Much of life resided in the blood, Krane knew, but the purpose and control of that life rested in the mind. A reciprocal miracle.
    Project Morpheus was born less than five years later. “If I’m right, this machine will act as a filter for the human psyche,” Parker said. “It will not only articulately study brainwaves, but in time, I believe we will be able to take pictures of the real landscape in one’s mind. We will essentially harvest one’s dreams and thoughts and memories.” The possibilities were endless. One day, he believed that they’d be able to record such sessions in real time and dissect them piece by piece . “If what I’m telling you is true, Morpheus might confirm that the potential for something far more special than mankind has ever dreamed of resides within our psyche. A link to the supernatural.”
    This mechanical god of dreams was constructed before Parker discovered what they would call the Source, also known as Subject 217. Krane was just out of med school, still wet behind the ears. He had his doubts. “Sir, that’s not possible,” he argued then. But it wasn’t until the Source that the trials began to show signs of producing significantly positive results. He knew that now. Still, a long time had passed since the more progressive cerebral scans.
    â€œMy research, my life, has led me here. I am telling you, we are finally getting our hands dirty for real. Think of the questions we might answer; think of the power we might create.”
    That was it—create. It sounded like a simple, pretty idea back then.
    Krane blinked, coming back to himself. He was so tired, so faithless. What if we’re wrong? What if we’re wrong about all of it? Maybe the vast human race, with all its intricacies and its fragility, couldn’t handle this new shift in genetic structure. What if it weren’t possible at all?
    But we’ve already done it , his mind reminded him. We can do it again.
    He found his reflection once more, blurred by the recent smudge of blood and mucus mixing on the glass. Krane washed his face, startled by the skeleton of a man staring back. A middle-aged soul with no real power and no true form.
    He was far from insane. He wanted to finish what he’d started, to play his part in the game Parker forfeited long ago. But Krane knew he had to ensure that