Callsign: Queen - Book I (A Zelda Baker - Chess Team Novella)

by Robinson, Jeremy

  The man nodded and Queen uncovered his mouth, but kept the gun trained on him.

  “Is this place safe for us to talk?” she whispered.

  “Perhaps,” he replied in a soft voice. “Our directors are in their offices and seldom have reason to come this way. And security…” He shrugged. “I have not seen them in the last hour or so. They all seem to be outside.”

  “Don’t worry about security. Tell me, is this place run by Manifold Genetics?”

  The man blanched at the name. “Yes, but how did you know?”

  “That doesn’t matter. Fill me in on what’s going on here.” Her trigger finger itched. She wanted to get busy cleaning house, but it was important to learn as much as she could about what Manifold was up to and what, exactly, they’d managed to accomplish. “Are you making these oborots, or werewolves, or whatever they are?”

  The man swallowed hard. “We should go to my office. If someone should pass by this place and hear my voice, they might investigate and there is nowhere for you to hide. They are accustomed to hearing me talk to myself or to the subjects when I am working in my office. It will be safer there.”

  “Is it far?” Queen wondered if he was up to something, but she saw no deceit in his eyes. In any case, she couldn’t stay here forever. Sooner or later, she’d have to risk it.

  “Not far. You can put on one of the lab coats.” He indicated a stack of neatly folded white coats. “It will be less noticeable than what you have on. My colleague is about your size and her hair is only a little darker. As long as no one gets a good look at you, they will probably take you for her at a glance.”

  “She’s not going to come walking in on us, is she?”

  The man’s face darkened and he shook his head. “She will not interrupt us, no.” There was something he wasn’t telling her. He looked up at her and frowned. Queen thought he had noticed the skull brand on her forehead, but then he explained. “You should probably wash the dirt off of your face.”

  Keeping her weapon trained on the man, Queen grabbed a container of germicidal wipes and gave herself a quick scrub. This time he did notice the brand, and his eyes widened, but he made no comment.

  “You have a name?” Queen asked as she removed her small pack, stuffed it into a medical waste bag, slipped into the lab coat, and buttoned it over her ragged t-shirt.

  “Slifko.” His voice was tight and scratchy.

  “All right, Slifko, let’s get this straight. You are to lead me straight to your office. If you try anything at all, you’re a dead man. My gun is up my sleeve and aimed at the center of your back, but know this,” she stepped in close and the taller man seemed to shrink before her, “I don’t need a gun to take care of you.”

  Slifko nodded, sweat beading on his forehead and his complexion going from fair to pallid. “I understand,” he gasped.

  It was a short walk down a quiet hallway of unrelenting white to Slifko’s office. They did not encounter a soul, and when Queen closed the door behind her, she allowed herself to relax just a little. Above the fastidiously organized desk on the far side of the room, a row of monitors hung on the wall, each displaying a roomful of holding cells, Each cell housed an oborot. Queen did not have time to examine them closely, but she could see at a glance the obvious differences between the various groups. Some were fully bestial, fine hair and rippled muscles coating their bodies. These were enraged, pounding or hurling themselves at the walls of their cells. Others retained more of their human traits, with only a moderate amount of body hair.

  “Time to sing, little bird.” Queen motioned at Slifko with the barrel of her gun. When her order was met with a puzzled expression, she dropped the idiom. “Tell me about this place. Why is it here and what are you trying to do?”

  Slifko cleared his throat and began his explanation.

  “I worked at Pripyat Hospital when the disaster at Chernobyl occurred. I was at work when soldiers came for me. They told me of the accident and said I was needed to tend to one of the victims. I presumed the person was merely an injured worker and was puzzled that they had not brought him directly to the hospital. What I found was something very different.” His eyes took on a faraway cast and, Queen thought, a gleam of excitement. “A worker at the Chernobyl plant had been exposed to a heavy dose of radiation and was undergoing what could only be described as a transformation. He looked like the subjects you see here.” He pointed to the monitor that showed the most violent group. “It was the most fascinating discovery of my career—a condition like none I had ever seen.” She could hear the wonder in his voice and it turned her stomach.

  “Why you?” Queen could not keep the distaste from her voice. The man clearly had no regard whatsoever for his human subjects. “Was it the luck of the draw, or was there a particular reason they chose you?”

  “My reputation preceded me. I have always been drawn to the legend of the oborot. Years ago, I came across a journal, written in the thirteenth century, by a man named Kurek. He recounted the story of his friend being killed by an oborot-like creature. It happened in this region. Furthermore, he told of dark rumors regarding the families in this area. I believe most legends have a basis in scientific fact, and I was convinced there was something to Kurek’s account. I focused my research on the area around Pripyat and Chernobyl. In time, I came to be known by some as the crazy wolf hunter.” He stared at the monitors, lost in memory. “We took him to a secure facility and observed him. I did not have sufficient resources to determine what caused his condition, but I was now certain that the oborot could exist. Rather, that a condition existed that explained the legend. Perhaps the traits had been lying dormant in his genes until exposure to just the right amount of radiation brought about the change.” He continued to gaze at the screens. “So I learned all I could about the man and his ancestors. They were from this area, and were one of those families that had been regarded with suspicion, if not outright fear. I was on to something, but I could do little more though, without adequate facilities and funding. I needed financial support for my research.”

  “I can think of a few snags you might have hit,” Queen said.

  “More than a few.” Slifko nodded. “Under the old Soviet government, I tried approaching various elements through intermediaries, but without success. After the fall, I made similar inquiries to corporations, but was met with outright scorn. It was a long time before I found a man who took my work seriously.”

  “Richard Ridley.” The name was bitter on Queen’s lips. The sick bastard already had much to answer for, and here was yet another example of his evil at work.

  “Correct. I do not think he held out great hope for my work but I had enough research to convince him it was a worthwhile investment. He granted me a modest budget and set us up in the shadow of Chernobyl in a place close enough to find subjects for study, but also a place where we were unlikely to be discovered.”

  “Hiding in plain sight.” Queen frowned. Something he had said bothered Queen. “What do you mean by ‘close enough to find subjects to study’?” The malice in her voice was unmistakable, and Slifko took a step back.

  “Subject Alpha, that’s what I labeled the first patient, hails from this region. I was able to study other members of his family, and that is how I made my breakthrough. Once I learned what was going on inside their bodies, I was able to initiate those changes in test subjects.”

  “What happens to them? Obviously they don’t turn into wolves.”

  “No, nothing so mysterious.” Slifko settled down on the counter that ran the length of the left-hand wall. If he still felt himself in danger, his enthusiasm for his subject seemed to have overcome it. “You have, of course, heard the many stories of people who, under extreme duress, do amazing things? Lift a car off a loved one, for example.” Queen nodded and indicated he should continue. “This is caused by contraction of the deep fascia, a thin, fibrous membrane that holds our musculature in place. Our fight or flight response, for example, involves a temporary in
crease in the stiffness of the deep fascia, which allows us to perform those feats of strength and speed that greatly surpass our normal capabilities.”

  “I know all about this,” Queen growled, reaching into the medical waste bag and removing a thumb drive from her backpack. “Move on. I don’t have much time, and you’re beginning to bore me.” She gave him a cool look. “You’ll find I’m not the most patient audience, and you won’t like my heckling one bit.”

  Slifko’s eyes darted to the barrel of the Mark 23, now aimed at his groin, and gasped. “Yes, of course.” He took a moment to compose himself. “How and why the deep fascia contracts is not completely understood, but in the case of our subjects, it involves agitation of the myofibroblasts.”

  “Which are?” Queen moved to the computer and settled into the swivel chair, still keeping an eye on Slifko.

  “A myofibroblast is a cell that carries some of the properties of a smooth muscle cell, the ability to contract, for example, and the properties of a fibroblast, a cell that serves many functions. Fibroblasts provide structure for connective tissue, produce and secrete fibers and play a critical role in cell maintenance and metabolism, particularly in healing.”

  Queen inserted the thumb drive into the computer, switched her weapon to her left hand so she could use the mouse with her right, and double-clicked on the icon that popped up. The program was a simple one that would search out and copy all data files from the computer, and any part of the server, to the thumb drive while also initiating an upload of the same data through a satellite uplink. It wouldn’t bypass the better firewalls, but it was a useful tool when time was at a premium.

  “What are you doing?” Slifko scowled.

  “Don’t worry about me, just keep talking.” The program now initiated, Queen turned back to Slifko. “You know, myofibroblasts, werewolves, sicko experiments on human subjects. Make me understand. Your life depends on it.”

  Slifko’s Adam’s apple looked like a buoy bobbing in rough water as he attempted to swallow his fear. “Under certain circumstances, the number of myofibroblasts inside our subjects’ bodies multiplied substantially, and entered an agitated state of contraction, resulting in an extreme and prolonged contraction of the deep fascia, granting them strength and speed bordering on the superhuman.” His eyes darted to the computer screen where the upload had begun, and then back to Queen. “Unlike those brief feats of heroic strength that people perform in emergency situations, this state can last for hours at a time.”

  “Is it caused by the full moon?” Queen smirked.

  “Yes, at least that is the most common inducement, and it is one of the things we do not fully understand. For some time now, the medical community has used photobiomodulation, or low-level laser therapy, to stimulate healing. We know that through specific wavelengths, fibroblasts can be transformed into myofibroblasts. In our subjects, something in the moonlight actually causes the fibroblasts to produce myofibroblasts and send them into a state of contraction.”

  “Wait a minute.” Queen held up her hand. “Moonlight is just reflected sunlight. If it’s nothing more than a certain wavelength of light causing this, it should happen in sunlight as well.”

  “The moon is not a perfect mirror. It reflects unevenly, due to absorption of certain wavelengths. We believe that something in the full spectrum of sunlight serves to balance out the wavelengths that initiate the creation of the myofibroblasts, and suppresses the reaction.”

  “What about the hair growth? Some of these people really look like werewolves.” Queen inclined her head toward the monitors.

  “The reaction stimulates the rapid growth of vellus hair, the fine hair that grows all over our bodies beginning in childhood. We assume it is a side effect of the fibroblasts’ metabolic functions. With our limited budget, we have focused on the strength and speed effects. Excess body hair is not a hindrance, so we have not studied it.”

  “Are all these people related to Subject Alpha?” Queen reminded herself that these were not merely beasts, but human victims of Manifold Genetics.

  “Oh no. We have very few of those subjects. These are people in whom we have been able to replicate the condition, and even stimulate it through the use of artificial light.” He saw the fire in Queen’s eyes and hurried on, hands raised in a defensive posture. “Please understand, we are not kidnappers pulling people off the streets to perform experiments on them. The first subjects, those from Subject Alpha’s genetic pool, were volunteers who hoped we could find a cure. They were well-paid. Since then, all our subjects have been prisoners: murderers, rapists, the lowest of the low. Darius, our director, secured them for us.”

  “Did you snatch a boy from the streets tonight? A dark-haired kid about eighteen?”

  “I don’t think so. Understand, I do not secure the subjects. Darius sees to that.”

  Queen didn’t like it. Even if the guy was telling the truth, who was he to turn human beings into raving beasts?

  “I’m assuming Manifold isn’t interested in turning people into werewolves. You must have promised them you could produce super-strong, super-fast soldiers.”

  “We are almost there,” Slifko said. “The subjects, however, lose their minds during the transformation, and become crazed, much like the oborots, or werewolves, of legend. After regression, some of the madness remains. The more frequently they transform, the more they lose of themselves when they are in their normal state. After enough transformations, the person is reduced to an animal-like state. When we can eliminate those problems, we will have succeeded.” He shook his head. “If Darius did not waste precious funding on his so-called defense systems, our progress would be much more rapid.”

  “Those defense systems wouldn’t involve turning carnival rides into killing machines, would they?”

  Slifko nodded. “Darius is not a scientist. I am told he is former military, and his assignment here is a punishment for something he did that upset Richard Ridley. I do not know much about the man, but I know he is not quite right in the head. I sometimes think he wants us to succeed so that he himself can enjoy the benefits. He often wonders aloud what a group of elite soldiers with the oborot’s strength and speed could do.”

  Queen thought of the experiments Manifold had performed using the DNA of the hydra in hopes of producing soldiers whose bodies could heal any wound. Just like this situation, Manifold had not found a way to control the accompanying madness. She imagined what would happen if the flaws in both experiments were corrected. Regenerating soldiers were bad enough, but regenerating soldiers with superhuman strength and speed? It was unthinkable.

  “Have there been many escapes?”

  “Occasionally, but we have always managed to kill or recapture them. We do not know how the escapes happen, though.”

  “Air vent,” Queen said. “I followed one back inside.”

  Slifko frowned. “That is impossible! We would have noticed the missing vent cover!”

  “Do your cameras point at the ceiling?”

  “No.” Slifko shook his head. “But when we feed them or come in to conduct research, surely we would notice a vent cover lying on the ground.”

  “Maybe they remove the cover at the beginning of the transformation, when they’re mostly human, and replace it after regression. You can’t watch every cell closely all night long.”

  “Why not escape, then? That would be crazy.”

  “They are crazy, Doctor. Your experiments drove them insane.”

  Slifko hung his head. “You sound like my colleague, Doctor Danilchuk. She no longer supported what we do here.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Darius would not let her leave. When she vowed to go in spite of him, he…” Slifko’s eyes drifted to the monitors on the wall.

  “He turned her into a test subject? Unbelievable.” Shaking her head, Queen looked away from Slifko and noticed that the upload was finished. She reached down to retrieve her thumb drive.

  It was Slifko’s reflect
ion in the computer screen that did him in.

  Queen saw a flash of movement as the scientist came at her, his arm upraised. She whirled about and caught his wrist, the needle of a syringe inches from her face. Slifko scarcely had time to cry out before she pressed her gun to the soft flesh below his chin and fired. The silenced round sounded like an explosion in the quiet room, but it was nothing compared to what she was about to do. It was time to burn this place to the ground.

  Chapter 12

  Andrew cried out in surprise and fell out of his chair when the first explosion tore apart the far end of the corridor. Coated in dust, ears ringing, he staggered to his feet and leaned heavily against his desk. His first thought was there had been an accident, but that couldn’t be. The explosion came from the direction of Slifko’s office. He didn’t conduct experiments in there, and anyway, what did he even have in the labs that could explode?

  Then he remembered the woman. She was coming. It had to be her.

  He rummaged through the desk drawer and found the 9mm pistol he’d been issued on his first day on the job. His hands were trembling so violently that it took him two tries to get the pistol out of the holster. He checked to make sure it was still loaded. He’d had plenty of training with the weapon, but that had been at the beginning of his employment with Manifold. Now he felt like he’d never seen a gun before.

  Another explosion, this one closer, rocked his office and he dropped the gun. It clattered across the tile floor and slid out of sight beneath a rolling cart. He hurried over and retrieved it, all the while saying a prayer of thanks that it had not gone off. The safety must have been on, or did that even matter?

  The safety! What was it? What did it look like? In his panic, he found he could remember nothing about the weapon. Hell, he might as well ditch the gun and find somewhere to hide until Darius showed up. If he showed up. Quit being such an idiot, he told himself. You can do this! He found a button on the side and slid it to what appeared to be the firing position. Already he was feeling more confident. Now, should he hold it in two hands like on the cop shows, or hold it sideways in one hand, gang-banger style? He decided on the two-handed grip. It felt steadier. Holding the pistol out in front of him, he stepped around the corner.