Altered Reality

by Eliza Green

  ‘Oh for goodness sake, Felicity!’ the doctor grumbled, holding out her hand again. Then she caught the expression on her assistant’s face and wheeled round.

  ‘What the f—?’ Dr Finnegan slapped her hand over her mouth.

  Deighton feigned surprise with silent jazz hands, then gave them a teeth-only smile. He rubbed his hands together gleefully as the smile vanished from his lips.

  Instinctively, the Galway team backed away from him—he had that effect on people. With her hand still clamped over her mouth, Dr Finnegan looked at Deighton’s security team, then back at him. The girl clamoured to her feet, unassisted.

  Basking in their obvious discomfort, Deighton oozed politeness. ‘Oh, don’t worry about them,’ he said, nodding at the four security men. ‘They won’t bite.’ But he knew it wasn’t them they were afraid of.

  ‘I … I … I’m sorry. We weren’t expecting you today,’ Dr Finnegan said, trying to regain her composure.

  ‘So I see, my dear,’ said Deighton with a little smile.

  ‘We aren’t ready for you yet,’ she added.

  They rarely were when he dropped by unannounced. The smile faded. ‘What do you mean you aren’t ready for me?’

  Dr Finnegan held up a finger. ‘Hold on,’ she said and rushed over to the monitor where the current data stream was displayed. ‘MOUSE, bring up the two sets of DNA.’ Deighton could hear the tremor in her voice.

  ‘Doctor, there is only one set,’ MOUSE said.

  ‘No! Bring up the young boy’s DNA too, as we discussed.’ She forced a smile. ‘I want to show it to Mr Deighton.’

  Deighton frowned. ‘Your assistant told me there was only one compatible match.’

  ‘Yes, but further analysis showed that the boy’s DNA might be a better fit,’ she said hurriedly. ‘He’s younger and his IQ levels are very high.’

  ‘Fine. Show me what you’ve got,’ Deighton said abruptly.

  ‘Dr Finnegan,’ MOUSE interrupted.

  ‘Not now, MOUSE.’

  ‘But there’s only—’

  ‘I’ll talk to you later, MOUSE,’ Dr Finnegan said. She gave a little nervous laugh. ‘Felicity, mute the sentient programme, please. I need to speak to Mr Deighton without any interruption.’

  Felicity hit a button on a control panel.

  ‘Both compatible subjects are sedated for the moment. I’ll take you to them now,’ Dr Finnegan said, motioning him towards the door. ‘I’d like to talk to you about the preliminary results we’ve had with a partial merge. While the woman’s DNA structure looks better on paper, I think the boy’s is cleaner and will accept the changes faster.’

  ‘After you, Doctor,’ Deighton said, waving her in front of him. He instructed his security team to stay put. ‘This won’t take long.’

  Dr Finnegan brought Deighton to the hydroponics bay first and introduced him to a gardener. He had to stand there and listen to the man ramble on about growing real vegetables—and worst of all he had to shake the man’s dirty hand. Then she took him on a circuitous walk around the upper floors; she was clearly stalling him. Deighton zoned out as the doctor nervously reamed off a list of medical terms that he didn’t understand. He nodded as politely as he could, feeling his patience wear thin. As she talked, his mind drifted elsewhere.

  He marvelled yet again at how easy it had been to hoodwink his way into the most powerful organisation on Earth. His early thirst for adventure had almost got him killed, but he discovered to his surprise that it was the danger—the thrill of almost getting caught—that excited him the most. That was the point when he realised how stifled he was by his sheltered upbringing in Surrey. Intrigued by the reputation of the World Government and curious to delve deeper into its secrets, Deighton had enrolled on one of their management training courses, and it was while doing the course that he’d met Andrew Cantwell, the son of a World Government founding member. When they’d first shook hands, Deighton knew exactly who Andrew was. Then one lunchtime Deighton casually brought it up in conversation that he’d heard the World Government was looking for a Chief Executive.

  ‘Yeah, I know. My father’s pushing me to apply,’ Andrew had said unenthusiastically. ‘That’s why I’m doing this management course—he thought it would be a good stepping stone.’

  Deighton saw his opportunity. ‘You don’t want to do it?’

  ‘It’s not usually about what I want. Most of the time, my father gets his own way.’

  ‘I’m sure it wouldn’t be as bad as you think,’ Deighton had said, but he was already plotting and planning in his head.

  ‘I don’t really see myself as a leader. I’d rather be doing engineering, or architecture. I prefer the hands-on stuff.’

  Deighton had read about the infamous Peter Cantwell the Third: one of the original board members of the World Government who went on to represent Western Europe at executive level. Ten other board members had been recruited at the same time, each covering a different part of the world. Only one position remained to be filled—the most important one in his mind. Deighton understood why Peter thought his unambitious son would be perfect as CEO; Andrew was quiet, timid, disliked making waves—all perfect character traits for a figurehead. And understanding the way Peter’s mind worked was Deighton’s key to getting his attention and manoeuvring himself into a position of trust.

  Andrew had been an agreeable sort of fellow, something that, deep down, Deighton had always liked about him. His lack of interest in the job made it easy to convince him to help Deighton get it, and so Andrew coached him for the interview. By the time Deighton went before the board members, he was ready. His performance was pitch perfect; it was a bonus that he quite enjoyed the show he put on. Peter Cantwell’s endorsement and Andrew’s lack of interest were the icing on the cake—the board unanimously voted him in as the CEO of the World Government, and there he’d stayed ever since.

  An ethereal voice penetrated Deighton’s consciousness—‘The nanoids have added the additional genes to the young man. The changes are holding steady’—It was the sentient programme speaking. It had been taken off mute. The tour was finished and they were now in the medical bay where the two human hosts waited.

  The sentient continued, ‘But I think I should mention—’

  ‘Thank you, MOUSE,’ Dr Finnegan said, cutting it off. ‘That will be all.’

  There it was again—the doctor was hiding something from him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He searched for a reason to give into his urges. ‘Is there something you’d like to tell me?’ he asked.

  ‘No, nothing,’ said Dr Finnegan. ‘My sentient programme is a little eager to get moving, as am I. We have waited a long time to get to this point. I’m sure you’ll agree.’

  Deighton fixed the doctor with his best stare, but his effect on her seemed to lessen over time. ‘So you’re saying the boy is a better fit than the older female?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Deighton didn’t look at the boy. ‘Fine, proceed with the—’

  ‘Mr Deighton,’ MOUSE said. ‘I need to tell you something.’

  Dr Finnegan opened her mouth but Deighton raised his hand. ‘Let it say what it wants. It must be important if it’s so persistent.’ He noticed the doctor stiffen. He felt a tingle of excitement again.

  ‘Mr Deighton, the doctor has been misleading you,’ said MOUSE. ‘The woman is the best candidate, not the boy. We should proceed with the woman. It makes no sense to use the boy. His DNA code is weaker. He is not the best candidate.’

  Deighton turned to the doctor. He noticed her cheeks flush pink. There it was, the reason he needed. ‘I assume you can explain,’ he said calmly.

  Dr Finnegan nodded. She opened her mouth, but Deighton held up his hand again. ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  Half an hour later, MOUSE had prepared Susan Bouchard for the change, and Deighton and Dr Finnegan waited together in the lab. His security team remained in the corridor outside; he didn’t want them spoiling his enjoyment of what wa
s about to happen next.

  ‘The extra genes have been added to the woman,’ Dr Finnegan said softly, a new weariness in her voice. ‘She needs to remain under until we’ve uploaded her brain with new memories.’

  Deighton tapped his foot impatiently on the floor. ‘I don’t have all day—and I don’t need to remind you that we would have finished more quickly if you hadn’t tried to trick me.’

  He did have all day. He had all year, if necessary. He had all the time in the world to wait to meet his new creation in the hopes that her DNA would help fix his own health problems. And then there was the other thing—his urge.

  ‘Give me ten minutes,’ Dr Finnegan said.

  ‘I’ll be in the kitchen. Call me when you’re done.’ Deighton was certain of one thing: the doctor had single-handedly ruined her entire team’s chances of ever travelling to Exilon 5.

  Grateful for the opportunity to sit down, Deighton leaned back in the chair, crossed one leg over the other, and allowed his mind to drift to thoughts about the first hybrid. Their experiments had been plagued by teething problems: some of the additional DNA hadn’t integrated into the host DNA, so after a few weeks, the cells discarded it and the effect was lost; other DNA integrated well but disrupted other genes or simply activated cancer-causing genes. They soon figured out that using the nanoids as a vehicle was the only safe way to make sure the body didn’t reject the new DNA.

  Stuck with an exoplanet they couldn’t live on while the Earth’s ecosystems were beginning to fail, the more conservative board members were forced to share Deighton’s vision of a genetically altered future. There were few options left—they had to intervene with nature. Where the board members and Deighton differed was in their approach to the end goal.

  In the run up to the original hybrid’s creation, getting results had been agonisingly slow. While the World Government laboratories wasted their efforts testing those with a weaker genetic code, Deighton believed that success lay with the stronger genetic types—their bodies adapted and accepted new manipulation techniques more quickly. One by one, he persuaded each board member to accept his ‘faster’ way of doing things.

  A long time had passed since the creation of the first hybrid, and it went through many changes before they settled on the final Indigene design. Since then, the attitudes of the board members had relaxed, probably because there were new faces around the table. They all agreed that the information from Anton’s baseline data would advance their research by ten years. An interesting debate had ensued, and in the end, few were against the idea of cherry picking the best from the Earth’s population to live on Exilon 5—it would eliminate the risk of genetic abnormalities contaminating future bloodlines and create the perfect high-functioning race. Naturally, the board members had included themselves among that special group.

  But Deighton had sanctioned the creation of the latest prototype without the board members’ knowledge or approval, and he’d done it for two reasons: to address his health concerns, and to show them what could be achieved. What better way to convince them it was the right thing to do than to see a walking, talking example. It no longer troubled him that he might have taken his authority a step too far; they would come to accept his latest proposal, as they had done before. They didn’t have much choice. Neither did he.

  Reluctantly, Caroline Finnegan fetched Deighton from the kitchen. He seemed to be deep in thought when she entered the room.

  ‘Is she ready now?’ he asked. ‘I want to see her. Wake her up.’ His tone was calm, but there was an underlying menace to it.

  Caroline tried to stall him. ‘If we wake her before the memory transfer is complete, she’ll be traumatised and we’ll have to start over.’

  ‘I don’t care about that. Take me to her.’

  They arrived at the room where the new prototype was being held and Deighton ordered both her team and his own security men out of the room. ‘I want some privacy,’ he barked.

  Caroline nodded at her own people—she wasn’t about to argue with Deighton. She led him into the containment area where Anton and Susan Bouchard lay on beds placed side by side in the bubble.

  Susan’s golden hair was already thinning, her pink skin bleaching to a ghostly white. Soon, it would become translucent. The alterations to her appearance were happening right in front of Caroline’s eyes, and much more quickly than they had in the earliest creations. Caroline had a lump in her throat. I tried, Susan. I’m sorry. She still couldn’t believe MOUSE had double-crossed her like that. She would never trust another sentient programme again.

  Deighton let out a small squeal of pleasure when he saw the female Indigene, but it rapidly turned into an anxious roar: ‘When will she be awake?’

  ‘Soon I expect,’ Caroline said. She spoke to MOUSE, being careful to hide her anger. ‘Are the memory downloads complete yet?’ She avoided looking at what was left of Susan Bouchard.

  ‘Yes, Dr Finnegan. They finished five minutes ago. Shall I wake her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Get on with it then,’ Deighton snapped. ‘I need to speak with her.’ He watched Anton closely.

  Caroline had spent enough time with Anton to know when he was pretending to be asleep. If you can hear me, stay that way. Protect yourself.

  ‘Nice to see you again, old boy,’ Deighton said, patting Anton’s arm.

  Anton opened his eyes. Caroline barely stopped herself from swearing out loud.

  ‘Well, I had hoped for a little begging, pleading perhaps,’ Deighton said flatly.

  A chill ran up Caroline’s spine. Anton stared blankly at Deighton.

  ‘What are you going to do with this one?’ Deighton asked, jabbing a finger in Anton’s arm.

  ‘We’re going to wipe his memory of the last three months, like you asked,’ Caroline said.

  ‘Wonderful,’ Deighton said moving closer.

  Caroline could see Anton recoil from Deighton’s old breath. She felt a sudden remorse for everything she had put the male Indigene through.

  ‘Did you know their abilities are heightened if they’re exposed to life-threatening situations?’ Deighton asked.

  Caroline had analysed all the collated data from the other medical facilities but there had been no mention of that. ‘No, I didn’t,’ she replied.

  ‘I’m not surprised really. The information you received on the entity was incomplete.’ Deighton was still looking at Anton, searching for something in his eyes. ‘When they’re in mortal danger, it triggers something inside them, like it does in us, that helps with their survival. But the changes they experience are more widespread and permanent than ours.’

  Caroline was too distraught to respond. How had she allowed this to happen? She had played with two people’s lives for the sake of science—Susan’s and the young boy’s—and the male Indigene was next. She needed to make reparations. She would start by explaining to the board members what had really been going on at the facility.

  ‘Will the new prototype do what I need her to?’ asked Deighton, switching his attention to Susan—to the new Indigene.

  Caroline shuddered at the word ‘prototype’. ‘Yes,’ she replied feebly.

  ‘I can see her rousing,’ Deighton said excitedly. He clapped his aged hands together.

  In an attempt to protect her, Caroline left Anton’s side to stand beside Susan. She studied her face for signs of the woman she’d spoken to just recently.

  ‘Joel … Robbie … where are they?’ Susan whispered, her gaze sharpening for a split second.

  ‘They’re fine—they’re on their way to Exilon 5 as planned. They won’t remember ever having been here.’ Susan’s gaze softened and Caroline could see that all traces of her colleague were now gone. She wondered if Susan had understood, or even heard her. The new Indigene’s eyes fluttered gently before opening fully. Her eyes flitted around the room and then relaxed as they came to rest on Caroline’s face.

  ‘Where am I?’ she asked.

  Caroline took hold of
her hand and squeezed it, a lump in her throat. ‘Don’t worry, you’re safe. You’re on Earth. How do you feel?’

  Deighton shot Caroline a quizzical look. ‘How does she feel?’ he shrieked. ‘What does it matter how she feels?’

  Caroline quickly let go of the Indigene’s hand. ‘I’m just checking her vitals. She must feel quite disorientated. She’s looking through new eyes.’

  Deighton shot her an odd look, his eyes narrowed. ‘When will she be ready to transfer to Exilon 5?’

  ‘Very soon.’

  MOUSE spoke up. ‘I have named her. She has a name. Ask her.’

  Deighton leaned in and Caroline caught a whiff of his sickly sweet smell. The female Indigene recoiled just as Anton had.

  ‘What’s your name, dear?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Serena.’

  ‘Serena,’ Deighton repeated. ‘Yes, that is a beautiful name. Isn’t that a beautiful name, Doctor? It’s derived from Latin. It means tranquil, serene.’

  Caroline agreed the name was beautiful, but her stomach turned as she imagined the real Susan Bouchard inside, the colleague she had come to know and like, still present and fighting to get out.

  Deighton turned his attention to Anton. He locked eyes with the male Indigene once again. ‘Your memory will be erased. Then we’re going to send you home with a little gift for one of your people. What do you have to say about that?’

  Anton blinked.

  ‘There’s no need to be like that,’ said Deighton, frowning hard. ‘The bastard has it coming. I just wish I could be there to see the look on his face.’

  Overcome with sorrow and regret, Caroline backed out of the containment field.

  Deighton’s head whipped round. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m just going to get a drink of water,’ she said. What she really needed was fresh air; the room suddenly felt claustrophobic.

  Deighton looked at Serena again and recalled Caroline with a quick wave. ‘This one’s getting restless. I need you to hold her hand.’