Specimen 16
Andy Bigwood
I looked at the blood pooling in my left hand and the ornate knife that I held in my right, beautiful blood, ruby red, full of promise and chaos. My gift...
‘Sixteen....’ said an eager voice.
I gasped in pain as the inevitable migraine took hold; instinctively cradling my hand against my chest so that they couldn’t see.
“You ok back there, kid?” asked Joe, the paramedic in the passenger seat, peering through the glass partition that separated us.
“I’m fine” I lied, waiting until the paramedic had turned back around before checking my left hand.
The thin cut-shaped rash was already fading away, as I’d expected. I’d had that particular dream before, and the imaginary wound never lasted long.
I’d gone to the doctor a few days ago to get aspirin for the headaches. I’d been careful not to tell him about hearing voices or dreaming about knives and self-harm. I hadn’t expected an ambulance and a trip to a medical research centre
Running through the trees, barefoot amongst the pine-needles, young branches whipping at my legs and arms. Nothing could catch us, nothing.
I tasted blood; I’d bitten the edge of my tongue this time. A second dream so quickly after the last one was unusual; normally I’d go for at least a couple of weeks without anything.
The Sign at the hospital said:
The Calcutt Institute -
Dwelling on the Beach of Eternity’s Shore
I had no idea what the second line meant. It sounded like pretentious twaddle to me.
By contrast to decrepit Pittsburgh, the Institute was clearly designed for the executive elite; it was way beyond even my Dad’s pay-grade. It looked as if it had been transplanted stone by stone from Europe. As I clambered out of the ambulance, I wondered what the fuck I’d gotten myself into.
“James Conway?” asked a beautiful voice behind me.
I turned to see that the voice’s owner was at least as attractive as her voice had been. Judging by the business dress, my guess was that I was looking at some high-up’s Personal Assistant.
“Uh, yes, that’s me, Miss...?”
“Ms. Jenson” she replied, emphasis on the ‘mzz’, “If you’ll follow me please, Doctor Calcutt is expecting you.”
The doctor sat behind a large desk, a predator with steel grey hair, studying a folder full of hardcopy. After what seemed like hours, he closed the folder and examined me with piercing blue eyes.
“It says here that you have headaches...” He paused, waiting for a reply. “...I’m not interested in headaches” he continued, dumping one of the folders in his waste bin. “What I need are employees who fulfil certain very specific criteria. He paused, looking up my name. “James...”
A job offer? I hadn’t even graduated yet and I ‘knew’ I wouldn’t be winning any academic awards. That said, I had the distinct feeling that saying ‘I don’t want this job’ might easily be interpreted as ‘I don’t want any job ever’.
“Uh, thank you doctor, uh sir. Um, what’s involved exactly?”
“I’m afraid I can’t go into specifics until you’ve signed the contract; intellectual rights you understand” Calcutt explained, pulling a sheaf of papers from a drawer and sliding them across the desk along with an uncapped fountain pen. His expression was unreadable, rather like a poker player who’s just flopped a pair of kings.
I picked up the contract, fully intending to read it closely, looking for the inevitable loophole.
Employee: Mr./Mrs./Ms. of (heretofore referred to as Medical Specimen:16) shall act as....
Sixteen... Sixteen... Sixteen
The number echoed in my head and something seemed to go ‘thunk’ in there, sort of an archetypal version of déjà vu.
Looking down, I found that I’d already signed, without consciously doing so... and I hadn’t even finished reading page one yet.
I passed the contract back, trying my best to look competent.
And that was that, I was doomed.
My apartment (Room No. 16) wasn’t exactly large, but for someone who’d lived at home for all seventeen years of his life, it looked magnificent. The wardrobe contained several sets of gym clothes, each with my number in large red letters. I expected to have another of my ‘dreams’ that night, something about semi-clad primitives drawing intricate pentagrams, and calling upon deep powers, but instead, I slept like a babe and awoke feeling ready for anything.
The rest of the numbered specimens were waiting for me at breakfast.
“Finally woke up, huh, Sixteen?” said the nearest guy, arms folded across his muscular chest. “I’m Eleven. These here are Twelve, Fifteen, Fourteen and lucky Miss Thirteen there on the end.”
“Go screw yourself, Paul” snapped the girl. “He’s Paul, that’s Calvin, Jeaki, he’s Korean, and Salil from Saudi”
“I’m Sixteen.” I replied. “I mean uh James... I’m James”
Slipping into my seat, I took my first swig of orange juice and set about finding out what exactly I was supposed to do for my pay. It turned out that none of us knew exactly what we were here for. The others had all arrived in the last few days, but hadn’t been given any duties as such.
Just as I was finishing my food, a man in a doctor’s coat walked in briskly, looking overly tall and a bit too thin. Introducing himself as Dr Blake, he instructed us to follow him. I instinctively took a dislike to Blake; something about him set me on edge.
Blake guided us to a sub-basement level that, if anything, seemed even bigger than the mansion above. We were taken to a room that was like a gym, but with loads of extra monitoring stuff. Three further doctors were waiting for us.
“Good morning” said a fat one. “I am Dr Gupta; this is Dr Hart, and on the end Dr Clarke. I am certain that you are wondering why you have been selected.” We all nodded, or made noises of agreement. “You have noticed all, I am sure,” continued Gupta, “that the number of lethal diseases has been escalating exponentially over the last decade or so… what the media call terrorist ‘bio-weapons’” His speech was formal, as if he was briefing a CEO.
Suddenly this was serious and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one wondering how deep in the shit I’d just fallen. I wish I’d read that contract.
“The truth is that there are no bioweapons,” Gupta said. “They don’t exist. What is happening is that the human genome itself is changing. Immune response failure is the most obvious symptom. More importantly, fertility levels have dropped off a cliff. Babies are still being born, true, but almost all are severely premature and need incubator care. Looked at from an evolutionary viewpoint, we are already technically extinct.
We all shifted uncomfortably in our seats.
Gupta smiled. “Fortunately, there’s still hope. Every teenager in our Education Program was tested for genetic markers and certain other telltales. You six, I am happy to say, are all significantly healthier than the average and not suffering from any infertility issues that we can detect. We propose to test you in detail, both physically and mentally. Our intention is to identify the specific gene sequence that makes you special. Once we have that, we can create an aggressive gene therapy and tackle B.I.I.D.S. head on.”
“Bids?” I asked
“Bigger Infertility and Immune Deficiency Syndrome - B.I.I.D.S.”
I glanced at the other ‘volunteers’ and then back at Dr Gupta. “Given the stakes, I guess the only question is ‘when do we start?”
For the next five days we were physically tested, mostly under Dr Clarke’s supervision.
On the sixth day (a Sunday), Dr Blake stuck bio-monitor pads all over us and cheerfully announced that we were free for the rest of the day. The other specimens headed out like school kids released early, apart from Sarah who hung back waiting for me.
“Now that we’re alone,” she said, “I need to ask you something.”
“Sure, what’s bugging you?”
Sarah paused and looked me dir
ectly in the eye “What are you hiding, Sixteen? Why do you fear the researchers?”
I looked back at her, trying to gauge how much to say, whether I should laugh it off, say nothing, or tell all.
“I dream, Sarah,” I replied, kind of surprising myself that I was opening up to her, “and sometimes those dreams are utterly alien, like I’m still ‘me’ but my reactions to the things I see are, like, way wrong. I’m worried that they’ll think I’m unstable and kick me out.”
“I did some poking around the other day,” Sarah confessed, changing topic abruptly. “Our medical records make interesting reading; particularly the section on paranormal ability. Each of us has an entry. Paul for instance is listed as a ‘short range clairvoyant’, and I’m listed with a talent for ‘truth divination’.”
“Weird. Do you really have superpowers?”
“I just know when people are lying to me. I’d call that a curse not a talent, trust me. Want to know what yours said?”
“Me?” I asked
“It said ‘subconscious precognition’ I figure they must think those dreams of yours are significant.”
“Holy crap! What about the others?”
“Just ‘further evaluation required’.”
“I see. Have you asked Paul about this clairvoyant business?”
“No. I wanted to talk to you first. Paul’s a bit…” her voice trailed off
I nodded despite myself. Paul tended to be a jerk. My mind was still spinning. If Calcutt and Gupta already knew...?
“Do you think they’re right about your dreams?” asked Sarah
I shrugged “I don’t see how they can be. It’s more like seeing glimpses of life on a different planet... one with magic and all the people are like these weird elves, but without the pointy ears. You might just be good at spotting lies, and my dreams are probably just intensely weird dreams. Let’s go ask the others and see what they think.”
“....and that’s basically what the med-records say” I concluded, “So fess up, any of you got talent?”
*Telepathy* said a very faint whisper in my head.
We all looked at Jeaki, whose face appeared to have drained of colour.
“It takes considerable effort” he replied, leaning against the wire fence for support. “My sensei believed that this ability drains my ‘chi’, my soul energy. He recommended that I should not use this gift frequently.”
“Is the fertility thing just bullshit?” asked Salil suspiciously
“No,” Sarah replied firmly “I was focusing on Gupta; he was telling the truth.”
“So what do we do ‘bout this, then?” asked Calvin
“Nothing” I said. “We’re getting paid and fed. That’s all that counts these days.”
I figure they had us bugged. The next day there was no more physical testing. Instead, we were asked to perform the sort of psionic testing you see on bad science fiction shows. Dr Blake explained that it was almost like a new stage of evolution; good fertility, health and odd mental abilities seemed linked. Paul made a bad joke about X-Men. No one laughed.
“Blake’s not telling the whole story.” Sarah told us later
“His mind is not on us” added Jeaki “He is anticipating something.”
Upon entering the cafeteria I was surprised to see it crowded, instead of the usual near-empty. Five of the tables were filled with tough-looking men wearing the black uniform of Citadel Garde Securitae, the CGS. These were the guys you called in when you expected terrorists for dinner, or had one in a cell that you didn’t want to get loose. My vision seemed to tunnel in on the muscular CGS man on the far table, I’d seen him before.
Dead sightless eyes looking up at me. I kicked the corpse anyway. Scum.
Feeling deeply sick, I ran from the room and proceeded to throw up in the restroom sink. It wasn’t that I’d just seen a dead man walking, it was the lethal hatred the dream-me had had for the alien on the floor.
Heading back to the psionics lab, I was about to turn the corner when I heard two familiar voices arguing.
“It’s not ethical!” hissed Clarke
I slowed my pace, and then stopped entirely. I’m a sucker for good gossip.
“We’re becoming extinct, David. We don’t have time to pussyfoot around anymore.” replied Hart “The fastest way to get the data we need is to use Six and go straight to live tests; that’s what I’ve recommended to Calcutt.”
“Calcutt? Jesus Christ, Jon. What if you get it wrong?”
“I’m not wrong. Besides, it won’t be that fast-acting; we can flush it with a full blood replacement.”
“It’s bad science and I won’t be a part of it. You don’t know the dosage; you don’t even have a defined outcome. As a friend, Jon...”
“Nonsense; if a bunch of streetscum can synthesise it, it’s hardly rocket science. Besides, once we know how the Wraeththu’s designer drug transcribes, we will have the perfect delivery system for Gupta’s DIIPS Antidote.”
Back down the corridor, the elevator door dinged and a CGS trooper emerged. Hastily I resumed my walk to the lab. As I came into sight, the two doctors glanced at me and clammed up, clearly waiting for me to pass.
I wish I’d paid closer attention to the science stuff, but right then mention of a ‘Six’, presumably a Specimen Six, was all that interested me.
“So, who’s this Specimen Six guy, then? Can we meet him?” I asked as soon as I got to the lab
“Who told you about Six?” snapped Dr Blake
“Dr Clarke and Dr Hart were arguing about him in the Corridor.” I shrugged
“How come we ain’t met this guy, then?” asked Calvin
“It was felt that he’d be a disruptive influence. We thought that it would be better if you settled in before you met him.” explained Blake.
“Disruptive? I don’t understand”
“Let’s just leave it at that for now. You guys take a break. I have to speak to Dr Calcutt about this.”
As soon as Black had left, I turned to the others, who looked as bemused as I did.
Sarah shook her head before I could ask.
In fact it was closer to an hour and a half before Dr Blake returned; looking stony faced. “Director Calcutt wishes to observe your interaction with Six over the security monitor,” he said. “Follow me. I’ll take you down now.”
Blake ushered us down a level past several CGS checkpoints and into a room, where three walls were made of metal and the fourth what appeared to be one-way glass. The only furniture in there was a single chair.
Beyond the glass, we could see another room, where a teenager sat cross-legged in a meditative pose, his beautiful face serene. He’d clearly been given a uniform identical to the one I was wearing. The difference was that he’d ripped the garment to shreds, creating a sort of loincloth and long thin strips of fabric that he’d tied around his wrists and biceps, with shorter lengths tied into long rat-tails of hair that started near his ears and dangled down as far as his navel.
The prisoner (or patient) had managed to cut himself and had used his own blood as ink to draw arcane designs over every surface of his room; it looked like something straight from a film, one with cannibals or warlocks.
One of the squiggles of blood spelled the word Aghama and it felt almost like a drug-high to think that word. I kept my mouth shut.
“This is Six. He was a member of a Wraeththu gang,” explained Dr Blake in a near whisper “We were lucky to acquire him – they are slippery customers – but this one slipped up. He’s useful to us, not least because he’s also a fully bipolar hermaphrodite. Genetically that makes him even rarer than you lot.”
“I assume he’s psionic as well?” asked Paul
“Oh yes. In fact if it weren’t for Six’s indeterminate gender, he’d rate as near perfect in all our tests. His immune system is extraordinary, but outweighed by his infertility as far as the main project goes.”
With almost liquid grace, Six got to his feet and walked to the glass wall, ta
king his (her?) time inspecting each of us in turn. The one-way glass might as well have been transparent.
“Still giving out numbers so that you don’t have to think of your victims as people, Doctor Roger Philip Blake?” he asked.
Blake looked away, clearly reluctant to meet Six’s gaze.
Six turned his attention back to us and seemed to be looking me in the eye as he spoke. His gaze was steady and full of compassion.
“My name is Ashlem. I am Wraeththu, a har of the tribe Unneah. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances, but here we are, and I am unable to provide proper hospitality in this place.” He gestured with both hands, and then grinned widely
It was odd, really odd. He was Wraeththu, streetscum of the lowest order. Murder, theft, drugs and wild partying were supposed to be all they cared about, everyone knew it; and yet Ashlem appeared to be more than that, honourable and blindingly charismatic.
I felt the glass under my fingertips and blinked, I’d stepped closer without realising I’d done so.
Ashlem stepped close placing his own fingers against the glass, his fingertips positioned so that they would have touched my own had the mirrored glass not separated us.
“I can’t stop them, not yet. I will help if I can, when the time comes.” he whispered
Something like static electricity stung my fingertips and I snatched my hand away.
I wriggled my fingers still feeling an odd tingling in the tips. Dr Blake didn’t seem to have noticed anything odd and I definitely didn’t feel like mentioning it.
“Now that you’ve met Number Six” said Dr Blake “We will start the tests. Focus on Six psionically and report anything you detect.”
“Roger Philip Blake, you idiot!” snapped Ashlem, hitting the glass with his palm “They’re untrained, they don’t have the first idea how to do what you’re asking.”
Dr Blake smiled in a predatory way. “You’ve had training? Interesting.”
Ashlem glared at Blake, clearly angry that he’d revealed something that he’d wanted to keep hidden.
“This won’t end well, Roger Philip Blake.”
Paragenesis: Stories of the Dawn of Wraeththu Page 18
