by Hope Anika
And any part of the puzzle she’d begun to piece together just fell apart.
She was still angry, still determined to get answers. But those, too, would simply have to wait.
Bigger goddamn problems.
“There is also something to be said for the fact that these are human beings we’re talking about,” she replied evenly. “Children who are more than these assholes’ science experiment.”
Ruslan’s pale gaze met hers. “There is always sacrifice in the quest for knowledge.”
“That’s just fucked up,” she told him.
“Perhaps we should agree to disagree.”
Yes. Because kicking him in the shin would be childish and wrong.
Still mad. And disappointed. Which she shouldn’t have been—Ruslan was skin stretched over ice. Other. She knew that. Expecting compassion from him was a fool’s errand. Hell, she couldn’t even get a grain of truth from the man. And she was looking for empathy?
She might as well wish on a stinking star.
Considering his recent revelations—the CIA and MI6 and clandestine organizations that specialized in ideological, privatized terrorism...things he was obviously quite familiar with...well.
He might as well be an alien. Because, seriously, who the hell was he?
And what did he want?
That Charlie might have saved his life—and who knew for sure?—was not a surprise; Charlie had saved many lives. What Ash wanted to know was everything else: how, when, where, and—as she’d so pointedly asked—why.
So many questions. And not one real frigging answer.
I had to come. I could do no less.
Bah. Whatever that meant.
He sat beside her now in his exquisitely tailored, three-piece suit and hand-made leather boots, that seductive, wintery scent emanating from him. The intensity of his presence was visceral, and wholly undiminished by the coldness that cloaked him. A man far more lethal than she’d initially comprehended (air horn and all); a man she couldn’t trust. He could have been cast in bronze: hard and perfect and impervious to the world around him.
If she’d mistakenly assumed his armor hid a man discomforted by human interaction and ill at ease with physical contact, she understood now it hid a man who’d very deliberately chosen his isolation.
Something she’d best not forget.
“The pertinent question,” he continued, “is what any of this has to do with Joseph and Eva Pierce.”
Ash looked at the papers spread across the desk. There was a sheaf of documents marked Confidential from GenTek Industries, a small pile of newspaper articles and clippings, several black and white photos, and a leather-bound book no bigger than a paperback. The Mission Statement had been at the top of the pile, and reading it hadn’t made Ash feel any better—or any clearer—about anything.
“This isn’t about Joe,” she said quietly, very certain of that. “What if Eva is a Primary?”
Ruslan set aside the Mission Statement. “We have encountered no evidence to support that assumption.”
“My gut says it’s true.”
He said nothing. Instead, he focused on the next document, and Ash sighed. She leaned a little closer, just to make him stiffen, and began to read.
Research Team
Dr. Anson Grant, M.D., Ph.D., Lead Researcher
Dr. Reginald Kline, M.D., Ph.D., Secondary Researcher
Dr. Bethany Little, M.D., Ph.D., Associate Researcher
Each name was accompanied by a small biography and a black and white photo. Only Anson Grant was smiling in his picture; both Kline and Little were somber, as if the weight of their chosen task to perfect the human genome was one they bore with grave brevity.
Grant looked somewhere in his early forties, good looking in a game show host kind of way, with wavy silver hair and eyes that looked bright and inviting even in black and white. In contrast, Reginald Kline was slender and balding, his features fine-boned and narrow, except for his nose, which protruded from his face like a large eagle’s beak. His gaze was dark and intense behind the round, wire-rimmed eyeglasses he wore.
Bethany Little was beautiful. Dark hair, dark eyes, pale ivory skin, her mouth a perfect rosebud. Even her severe expression couldn’t dent her sublime beauty, and something about that expression bothered Ash. Her seriousness, perhaps, as if she viewed her destiny of such significance, nothing else mattered.
Certainly not the lives she engineered in search of that destiny.
Ash didn’t care what Ruslan thought: manipulating the very essence of life in effort to obtain some arbitrary formula of perfection would only lead to disaster. There were some lines you simply shouldn’t cross, and this was one of them.
“Who decides?” she wondered aloud, staring at Bethany Little’s faultless features.
“Decides what?” Ruslan asked.
“Who decides what perfection is?” She tilted her head, studying him. “Is it blue eyes or brown? White skin or black? An A cup or a D cup? By whose definition is it decided?”
“The research is designed to eradicate disease and genetic defects only.”
She snorted and waved the Mission Statement at him, “‘To design through genetic manipulation a viable embryo free from genetic defect while maximizing attributes of superior intelligence, physical strength and form, mental acuity, and longevity.’ Boy genius.”
“You are ascribing it motives beyond that which it aspires to do.”
“Don’t you know your fellow man at all?” Ash cupped her chin in her hand and eyed him. “And what about those so-called genetic ‘defects’? Down’s syndrome, autism, Asperger’s...there are those who would argue that there isn’t anything wrong with those people, that any definition of an optimal pathology or design is based on the assumption that anyone who is different is damaged, instead of just unique.”
Ruslan blinked at her.
“You’re different,” she pointed out. “Doesn’t it bother you, that they think anything which deviates from their defined norm should be eradicated?”
“No.”
“Why not?” she demanded. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“You do not know me.”
His tone was so cold that goose bumps washed over her. “You don’t think you deserve to exist?”
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, “I have often thought it would be better if I did not.”
“If you’d never been born?”
His pale eyes sliced into hers. “Yes.”
In her chest, her heart squeezed with sudden, breathtaking intensity. “Why?”
He only shook his head and looked away, back at the pile of paper in front of him. Ash stared at him, her heart beating painfully hard, and her hand lifted but then fell, knowing he wouldn’t want her to touch him.
Which shouldn’t have bothered her, but did. In spite of the fact that she didn’t know him. And didn’t trust him.
It made no sense, this urge to comfort him—in spite of her mistrust. Especially when he wasn’t a man to take comfort. And when she was the only one who would be comforted. Goddamn it.
She leaned into his line of sight, until he was forced to look at her. “I’m glad you’re alive, if that counts.”
Something she couldn’t define flickered in the crystalline gray of his gaze. “You don’t even like me. Remember?”
He watched her so intently, she felt a blush sweep into her hairline. The awareness he drew hummed through her, bristling the fine hair at her nape, making her skin prickle.
“I was angry,” she said and shrugged. “I still am. I don’t like that you won’t talk to me. That you’re secretive and stubborn and expect the kind of blind faith you would never give. That doesn’t mean I wish you’d never been born.”
His brows drew low. “I am not stubborn.”
She waved a hand. “Oh, please.”
“Explain,” he said.
She smirked at him and adopted his flat, remote tone. “‘I will take whatever action I
deem necessary. And I will not ask permission first.’”
“That is my job,” he said stiffly.
“No,” she told him. “Your job is to do what you’re told. Not what you want.”
He only stared at her.
“See?” she exclaimed. “Stubborn!”
“I am very skilled at protecting people,” he said after a moment.
“Good for you,” she replied and smiled sweetly. “Then you should go protect them.”
Again, she was subjected to his silent, unwavering stare.
“Yeah,” she said and sighed. “That’s what I figured.”
“I owe Charlie,” he insisted. “It is not personal.”
“Yeah,” she repeated. “That makes it so much better.”
She dug out the next document and placed it between them.
Primary Design Project Year Three Summary
This abridged report is being provided to update GI Board members regarding the progress of the Primary project. A complete record of the project’s data is available to the Board.
Now at the end of its third year, the Project has surpassed any and all expectations. We have successfully engineered five Primaries and anticipate the implantation of Primary No. 7 at the first of the coming year. Primary No. 6 is due via C-section eight weeks thereafter.
To date, every Primary has been born into the world defect-free. Not only are they genetically superior, they harbor none of the traits that have become commonplace in the past two generations—i.e. asthma, ADHD, autoimmune disorders—and we’ve had no instances of degradation or anomalous mutation. The children are perfect in physiology and, I’m not ashamed to say, quite beautiful in appearance.
Surrogates report that the Primaries are extraordinarily serene infants, with no bouts of jaundice or colic; all have hit their milestones an average of eight to ten weeks early. Just on the cusp of age 3, Primary No. 1 has recently begun to read. He has also shown an uncommon aptitude for music. The secondary stage of testing will begin within the next year, which will allow us to observe and evaluate learning speed, emotional maturity, social interaction, and physical dexterity.
Surrogates also report that the Primaries are unusually communicative in nature, even before they form the ability to speak coherently, and they appear to learn quickly, without the need for repetition.
Full reports of each Primary are available to the Board, and I urge every member to review them.
None of the Primaries have exhibited any abnormal behavior.
I am excited to watch these children grow and learn; they truly are the best of all of us. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to contact me.
Dr. Anson Grant, M.D., Ph.D., Lead Researcher
“Snips and snails and puppy dog tails,” Ash said.
Ruslan looked at her. “Pardon?”
“That’s what little boys are made of,” she told him.
He only blinked.
“Never mind,” she said and pulled the next paper toward them.
Primary Design Project Year Six Summary
This abridged report is being provided to update GI Board members regarding the progress of the Primary project. A complete record of the project’s data is available to the Board.
The Primary Design Project is proving a unilateral success. We have ten, defect-free Primaries currently in testing, and all have exceeded any expectations we might have had. We anticipate the birth of Primary No. 12—our last and final Primary—in February of next year.
In all, the genetic formulation (the “Primary Principal”) has proven an effective blueprint for eradicating genetic and hereditary defects, although there seems to be some debate among my colleagues with regard to the loss of genetic diversity, and its possible repercussions. Dr. Kline is concerned that the loss of diversity could lead to unintended consequences for future Primary generations, while Dr. Little believes any lost diversification can be offset by future manipulation of the Primary Principal.
By example: sickle-cell disease, an inherited red blood cell disorder, is considered a ‘defect.’ But when a single copy of the recessive allele is contained with the genotype of an individual with sickle-cell disease, with it comes an immunity to malaria and a resistance to cholera. Thus, the correction of the genetic defect which lends itself to the sickle-cell disease also removes the immunity to malaria and resistance to cholera.
This is just one type of the possible unforeseen consequences of genetic manipulation, and while I believe that Dr. Little is correct, and any negative effect of manipulation can be corrected through future management, it is something we must be cognizant of, lest we create a genetic catch-22 with catastrophic consequences. Thus, we are collecting and correlating all Primary data into the Primary Principal before the implantation of each successive embryo, thereby reducing the likelihood of such catastrophe, or at a minimum, enabling ourselves to self-correct before the loss of diversity proves irreconcilable.
As all of you know, earlier this year we were forced to terminate Primary No. 4. From all of the compiled data—autopsy, toxicology reports and post-mortem brain examinations—we have concluded that the anomalous behavior PN4 exhibited was due to an undiagnosed mental psychosis preexistent within the surrogate. We have added additional testing and changed our screening process for all surrogates in order to prevent future mishaps. We do not believe the anomaly was in any way due to the utilization of the Primary Principal.
The rest of the Primaries continue to surpass expectations. They are faster, stronger, and more intelligent than their peers, mentally, physically and emotionally. Although they are proving a challenge for the surrogates to raise—as would any superior life form—I believe it is best to leave the Primaries in their home environments. I know the Board has spoken of removing the Primaries from their surrogates, but I would urge against this, as I believe it would do great harm to the mental and emotional well being of the Primaries. The removal of any child from its parent creates trauma and irreversible damage; in this, the Primaries would be no different from their peers. Taking them from the people they know as “mom and dad” would do irreparable harm, and I believe would undermine and endanger this project at its most basic level.
Reports detailing each Primary and their progress are available for the Board’s review. I urge all of you to read those reports.
As always, please don’t hesitate to contact me with any questions.
Dr. Anson Grant, M.D., Ph.D., Lead Researcher
“Anomalous behavior,” Ruslan said.
Ash dug through the GenTek pile, but there were only two sheets of paper marked confidential left, and neither appeared to explain what “anomalous behavior” meant, or what had happened to poor number 4.
“Terminated,” she muttered grimly, and the anger that simmered within her flared.
Ruslan’s gaze skewered into her.
“See?” she challenged. “Fucked up.”
He said nothing, and from all appearances, couldn’t have cared less. But he wasn’t arguing. “One has to wonder what type of undiagnosed mental psychosis would manifest in a three-year-old,” he said.
“Yes, one does.” She paused. “You can call it sacrifice. But it’s murder.”
“We don’t know the physical or emotional state of PN4,” Ruslan replied. “Perhaps it was a kindness.”
She wanted to kick him in the shin again. “Now who’s speculating?”
He only pulled the next sheet of paper from her grip and put it between them.
GenTek Industries
Internal Notice of Termination: Primary Design Project
The Primary Design Project is hereby immediately terminated.
This Notice shall serve as a cease and desist to all researchers, assistant researchers, project overseers, lab technicians, and any and all GI employees who are currently employed with the Project. From the date of this Notice, there will be no further studies, testing, experiments, findings, enquiries, analyses, examinations, reports
or research conducted. No further documentation will be sanctioned, and any and all communication regarding the Project is hereby prohibited.
All data, reports, testimonies, narratives, correspondence, statements and evaluations regarding the Project are hereby sealed; access to such information will be confined to Board Members of GI only.
The employment of Dr. Anson Grant has been terminated, effective immediately. If any employee witnesses Dr. Anson on GI property, such employee shall notify security personnel without delay.
Dr. Reginald Kline has resigned his position and will be allowed to vacate his offices within the next twenty-four hours.
Dr. Bethany Little has been reassigned to another division pending an oversight review.
Thank you for your cooperation.
“Ruh-roh,” Ash said.
“An immediate blacklist,” Ruslan noted. He tugged the last piece of paper from her hold and studied it. “Which indicates some type of cataclysm.”
“Shocking,” she muttered. Not. “That’s what you get for manipulating the human genome in order to produce designer baby juice.”
One of Ruslan’s slashing brows rose. “Designer baby juice?”
“What would you call it?” She shook her head. “Never mind. What’s that?”
“A heavily redacted list of names—the Primaries, I presume.” He slid the paper toward her. Twelve thick black lines marred the page, and when she lifted it toward the light, Ash saw it was a photocopy, not an original.
Useless.
“Shit on a stick,” she said. She reached for the photographs, three in total, black and white portraits of three different children: one of a boy who looked about five, another of a boy no older than three, and the last was a photo of a toddler—maybe two years old—with deep dimples and ridiculously long eyelashes. The pictures were marked on the back: PN1, PN4, and PN7 respectively.
She studied the photo of PN 4: a sober, unsmiling little boy with dark hair and dark eyes who stared into the camera solemnly.
“I’m sorry,” she told him softly and brushed his dark gaze with her fingertips.
