by Jade Kerrion
She chewed on her lower lip. Kir was right. They needed time apart, and she needed to sort out the confusion in her head and in her heart.
“And, Jem,” he said quietly.
She looked up at him.
“I’ll be here if you ever need me.”
She turned her face into the soft touch that caressed her cheek. “I know,” she whispered.
“All right.” Kir stood up. “Kav, let’s get going.”
“Okay.” Kav threw his arms around Jem’s neck. “I’m going to miss you, Jem.”
“You’re going to be living at my big house now, and I’ll be back as often as I can to see you.”
“You promise?” Kav asked, his smile wide.
“Yes, I promise,” Jem said, smiling at Kav. She hoped Kir knew that her words were meant for him as well.
Jem watched Kir and Kav walk away; her dull heartache was assuaged by the certainty that the Davos brothers would always be a part of her life, even if their ultimate roles seemed as yet unclear.
Rio Loren came up behind her. “Jem?” he said quietly. Apparently sensing her melancholy, he slipped an arm around her waist and drew her close. He held her, not asking questions.
Rio knew her so well. He had loved her first.
Jem leaned into him, relaxing in his familiar embrace. She released her breath in a soft sigh, and smiled. “I’m all right, Rio. I’m finally all right.”
Kir looked back only once before he stepped out through the door. He flashed her a smile, and then, with Kav beside him, he vanished into the darkness.
THE END
* * *
Enjoy more award-winning novels by Jade Kerrion, including this excerpt from PERFECTION UNLEASHED.
Perfection Unleashed
Double Helix #1
On another Friday night, she would have been out at a Georgetown bar, accepting drinks from attractive men and entertaining their delusions that one of them might be the lucky man to take her home.
Tonight, she had work to do.
The hem of the white lab coat brushed about her legs as she strode toward the double doors that barred entry to the western wing. No one paid her any attention. Scientists and lab technicians scurried past her, nodding at her with absent-minded politeness. On Friday evening, with the weekend beckoning, no one thought about security.
Where men faltered, technology kept going.
The corridor seemed endlessly long, and the security cameras pivoting on ceiling-mounted frames bore into her back. She knew her image featured on one or more of the many monitors at the security desk, but a combination of training and steady nerves kept her pace from quickening or faltering.
Each step brought her closer to a glowing red eye on the security panel beside the door. Undeterred, she waved her badge over the panel. Moments later, the security panel flashed to green and a heavy lock slid back. Another small triumph. It took a series of them to make a victory.
She lowered her head, ostensibly to look down at the tablet in her hand. Her long, dark hair fell forward, concealing the lower half of her face from the security camera as she walked through the open door. “Entering the western wing,” she murmured, trusting the concealed microphone to pick up on her whisper.
“Good luck,” Carlos’s voice responded through the tiny earpiece inserted in her right ear. “All’s clear out here.”
“I’m really glad the security pass I programmed for you actually worked,” Xin added, a whimsical tone in her voice.
Zara was glad, too. She had a solid plan; two of her finest associates backed her up—Carlos Sanchez waiting in the car concealed off road outside Pioneer Labs, and Mu Xin poised in front of a computer in her Alexandria home—but she had a list of a half-dozen things that could still go wrong.
“I’ve finished checking the employee log against the National Mutant Registry,” Xin continued. “You’ve lucked out, Zara. Apparently Pioneer Labs isn’t big into hiring mutants. You won’t have to contend with any telepaths or telekinetics tonight.”
Good. She could strike that concern off her list.
Another long hallway stretched in front of her, but the glass-enclosed research station on the left drew her attention. Two lab technicians huddled around a network of computers, their attention focused on the output pouring from the whirling terminals. Her gaze drifted over the lab technicians and focused on Roland Rakehell and Michael Cochran, the famous co-creators of “Galahad”, the perfect human. The two scientists stood in contemplative discussion in front of a liquid-filled fiberglass chamber.
The man floating within the sensory deprivation tank, his head encased in a metallic hood and his face covered by breathing apparatus, writhed in agony. Wires monitoring heart rate and brain waves trailed from his naked body. Jagged edges leaped off the computer readouts as mind and body convulsed, shuddering with madness and pain.
One of the lab technicians spoke up, “Professor, his brain waves indicate that he is waking.”
Roland Rakehell glanced at his watch. “Right on time,” he said, his voice tinged with disappointment. “I guess the miracles can’t come thick and fast every single day.”
“We made him human, not superhuman,” Michael Cochran said. “Besides, we don’t really have time to record a miracle today.” He glanced at the two technicians. “Roland and I are meeting investors for dinner, and we have to leave now. Take Galahad back to his room. Make sure he gets something to eat.”
Zara pushed away from the viewing area and continued down the corridor. Her stride did not falter though her thoughts whirled.
Galahad.
She would never have imagined it, but apparently the scientists had no qualms treating their prized creation like a common lab animal.
“Xin?” she whispered.
“Right here,” was the immediate response.
“Approaching the suite.”
“I’m one step ahead of you,” Xin said. “I’ve gotten through the security system and rerouted all the cameras in the suite to a static video feed. You’re clear to enter.”
The second door opened into a large suite pressed up against the western wall of the laboratory complex. No gentle ambient lighting, just harsh pools of unforgiving white light blazing over the bed and table, leaving the rest of the large suite in muted shadows.
Was it through deliberate design or neglectful oversight that no attempt had been made to humanize Galahad’s living quarters? Empty shelves lined the wall. The small metal table and matching chair were severe, the narrow bed unwelcoming. She had seen third-world hospital wards offer far more comfort to its occupants.
Footsteps echoed, drawing closer, and paused outside the door. She dashed across the room, slipping into the shadows that obscured the far side of the suite moments before the door slid open again.
The two technicians she had seen earlier half-dragged, half-carried Galahad into the room. It staggered with exhaustion, trying to stand on its own. The technicians hauled Galahad up and dumped it in a wet, shivering heap on the bed.
One of the technicians cast a backward glance at the unmoving figure on the bed. “Pete, are you sure he’s going to be okay?” he asked the other.
“Eventually. It usually takes him a while to recover,” Pete assured the younger man. He pulled out two sealed nutrient bars from his pocket and tossed them onto the table. “Let’s go.”
“I think we should at least get him a towel or put him under the sheets.”
“How many times do I have to say it? Let him be, Jack. He doesn’t want to be helped, though God knows I’ve tried often enough. He wants to be able to do things for himself, at least here, in this room. It’s the only dignity he has left; let’s leave that to him.”
“It was bad today.”
The older man inhaled deeply, sparing a quick glance back. Galahad trembled so hard it seemed as if it would shatter. It curled into a fetal ball, perhaps to protect itself from further violation. “I know. And the best thing we can do for him right now is leave
him alone,” Pete said as he stepped out of the room and allowed the door to seal shut behind them.
The impact was thunderous—not audibly—but she felt it nonetheless. It was the sealing of a prison cell.
Zara had wondered what kind of luxuries and privileges the incomparable Galahad—the pinnacle of genetic perfection—enjoyed. Now she knew the answer.
She watched in silence as Galahad stirred. It stood and leaned on the wall for support as it staggered toward the bathroom. She had yet to get a good look at its face, but the blazing light did not leave much of its body to imagination. It was slender but well muscled, powerful and graceful, in spite of its obvious exhaustion—the promise of perfection come into fruition.
With the patience of a hunter, she waited through the sound of running water. It returned to the room ten minutes later, dressed in loose-fitting white cotton drawstring pants and a tunic of the same material. As it stepped into the blazing circle of light, Zara’s eyes narrowed and a faint smile curved her lips.
She had studied the surveillance video feed Xin had hacked from the central computers of Pioneer Labs the day before, but the wide-angle lenses had not captured anything approximating the full impact of Galahad’s beauty. Its rare and lovely color—pale blond hair paired with dark eyes—stood out and attracted immediate attention, but the longer she looked, the more beauty she saw in its exquisitely chiseled features, as flawless as a Michelangelo masterpiece. Galahad was beautiful—would be stunningly beautiful, whatever the color of its hair or eyes. The scientists had certainly picked its physical template well.
Galahad made its way over to a rattan chair, moving with greater ease. It was regaining its strength, though she did not think it was anywhere near optimal form, not when it had almost collapsed with exhaustion on the way to the bathroom. It curled up in the chair and closed its eyes, looking oddly content, despite the fact that it did not fit very well into the chair. Within a minute, she realized from the even rise and fall of its chest with every breath, that it had fallen asleep.
Time to get to work.
Galahad did not stir as she silently crossed the room. A*STAR had demanded fresh DNA samples obtained as directly from the source as possible. Hair or skin samples were acceptable, and both were abundant in a bathroom. She pulled test tube and tweezers from the pocket of her lab coat and knelt to examine the bathroom counter.
Something flickered in the corner of her vision.
Instinct and trained reflexes took over. In a flash, her dagger was in her hand. She spun, the black serrated blade slicing outward.
Galahad dove to the side, dropped into a roll, and came up in a battle crouch. Her dagger slashed through the air where Galahad had been standing a moment before. Galahad’s dark eyes narrowed as it assessed her. Its body shifted into motion, preparing to defend itself.
She too reassessed, readjusted. Her attack should not have missed. Galahad’s battle instincts had clearly been trained and polished to perfection. Apparently it was more than a common lab animal.
Her dagger lashed out once again in a snake-like motion, but Galahad evaded by twisting away. The blade sliced through the air so close to Galahad that it must have felt the chill breath of the dagger’s passing against its skin.
Galahad’s silent movements were driven by so much speed and agility that strength—although abundant—was superfluous. It matched her, step for step, dodging each attack with a grace that made their deadly waltz seem choreographed. In spite of its obvious fatigue after a long and difficult day, Galahad possessed flawless timing and impeccable spatial precision, allowing it to escape injury by fractions of a second and a hairsbreadth. It taunted her with its proximity and tempted the kiss of her blade, never straying too far as it sought an opening.
Its dark eyes glittered. Instinct told her that something in it had shifted, had changed.
She thrust her blade at its face.
Galahad twisted its hand to catch her wrist in an iron grip. It sidestepped, yanked her forward, and slammed its knee into her thigh. Her leg weakened and collapsed. Its superior weight drove her to the ground and kept her there without any visible effort.
In less than a heartbeat, Galahad won; its perfectly sequenced attack executed with precision and speed.
Gritting her teeth against the pain, she cursed the inevitable outcome as it eased the dagger from between her fingers, but it pulled her to her feet, released her, and stepped away from her.
Wide-eyed, she stared at it. Her lips parted but no sound emerged.
An emotion she could not decipher rippled over its flawless features. It flipped the dagger over in its hand and held it out, hilt first, to her. “I don’t know why I’m fighting you. You came to kill me; I should thank you for your kindness.”
Her body moving on auto-pilot, she reached out and accepted the dagger as her mind scrambled to make sense of the situation. Galahad held her gaze for only a moment before it lowered its eyes and looked away. Its throat worked as it fought an internal battle to suppress its survival instincts, before turning its back on her and walking out of the bathroom.
She could have struck the fatal blow. Galahad was offering her the chance. She could pull Galahad’s head back and apply the faintest pressure to the dagger’s blade across its jugular. She could extract the tissue sample she had been sent to collect, and then leave, her mission completed.
Too easy.
She stared down at her dagger—the dagger he had returned to her.
Too difficult.
She could not bring herself to kill Galahad. Something in her wanted it—wanted him—to live.
“Zara?” Xin asked quietly, her tone concerned.
“I’m all right,” she said. “Give me a minute.” She watched him make his way toward the wide windows. He kept his back to her as he stared out at the manicured lawns around Pioneer Labs. Was he waiting for her to strike?
She could play the waiting game too. She followed him and turned to lean against the window as she looked up at him, her gaze coolly challenging.
Several moments passed.
“Who sent you?” He broke the silence but did not look at her.
She had expected the question, but not the calm, neutral tone in which it was asked. No anger. No hatred. No fear. Just a simple question, driven more by politeness than by any real need to know. “Does it matter?”
He released his breath in a soft sigh and tried another question. “Are you from around here?”
“Washington, D.C.”
“I’ve seen media clips of that city. It’s beautiful.”
She offered a shrug in response to his statement. “It’s pretty enough, I suppose. I take it you’ve never been there.”
“I don’t get out much, and the last time was a good while ago.” He too shrugged, a graceful motion that belied the bitterness in his voice. “I’ve seen media clips endorsed by Purest Humanity and other pro-humanist groups. There is no place for me in your world.”
It was pointless to deny the obvious, but before she could open her mouth to toss out a retort, an animal-like cry resonated through the complex. The sound started at a low pitch, like the whimper of a lost puppy and rose until it was a banshee’s scream. “What was that?”
“It’s an experiment in another part of the building.”
“It doesn’t sound like anything I recognize. What is it?”
He tossed her question back at her: “Does it matter?”
“Not if you don’t care.”
“It’s been going on for as long as I can remember.”
His matter-of-fact tone made her grind her teeth. “And you feel nothing? No anger? No pity? You’re inhuman.”
“I thought you’d already decided that,” was his mild rejoinder. “Isn’t that why the pro-humanist groups want me killed?”
She hesitated. Somewhere along the way—she was not even sure when—she had stopped thinking of Galahad as an “it” and had started relating to it as a “he”. She had attributed to him a
ll the responsibilities of being human, but none of its rights or privileges, in effect placing him in the worst possible no-win situation. She recalled his convulsions in the sensory deprivation chamber. How much pity did she expect him to dredge up for another creature in a position no different from his own? Very little. In fact, none at all.
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The anger subsided. “Do they conduct experiments on you too?” she asked.
He stiffened. Without meeting her gaze, he answered the question, choosing his words with care. “I…yes, they do, sometimes.”
“What did they do to you today?”
Galahad averted his gaze. He shook his head, said nothing.
“You looked like hell when they brought you back. I want to know, please.”
He was silent for so long she thought he was never going to answer the question, but he finally spoke in a measured tone. “They gave me a highly concentrated sleeping pill and then injected a hallucinogen, to induce nightmares. They wanted to see if I could overcome the effects of the sleeping pill to wake up.”
“Did you?’
Another long pause. His reply was an anguished whisper. “No.”
“How long did the experiment last?”
“About eight hours, perhaps nine.” He laughed, low and melodic, but it was a humorless sound. “I slept all day, and I’m exhausted.”
“Why do they do that?”
“It’s simple; because they can. Humans and their derivatives, the clones and in vitros, have rights. I’m considered non-human, in large part because of the successful lobbying of pro-humanist groups, and I don’t have rights.” Galahad released his breath in a soft sigh. Long eyelashes closed over pain-filled orbs as he inhaled deeply. He opened his eyes and met her gaze directly, holding it for a long, silent moment. The corner of his lips tugged up again in a bittersweet half smile. “I’m tired. I need to lie down. You can do what you need to do whenever you want.”
“Wait!” She grabbed his arm as he turned away from her. “You want me to kill you?”
