The Lab (Agent Six of Hearts)

by Jack Heath

  The concrete below him hiccuped.

  Blam! The explosion of the land mine hurled the armored jeep up into Six. It hit him feet first, and like a rocket taking off, the ground burst into flames and the jeep shot into the sky. It was like being inside a elevator traveling up at hundreds of kilometers an hour. The jeep’s metal floor bent and twisted underneath him, warping with the force of the explosion, and suddenly he was below it, surrounded by dust and chunks of concrete.

  And a very long way above the ground.

  Six twisted the already loose and rattling roof, and ripped it free of the chassis, suddenly making the jeep a convertible. The roof spun out into the void. He clambered towards the backseat as the car spun heavenward through the air.

  It flew higher, and higher, and higher.

  When he looked up, he saw the dust cloud he had arisen from. As the car flipped forward, he was looking at the sky. Then as the wreck of shredded steel whirled to one side, he found himself looking at the helicopter, which was moving slowly away.

  The wind howled in his ears as the ground below disappeared. The wind blasted his hair back flat against his head, and he squinted against it. He leveled his silver pistols, waiting for the right moment as the jeep spun up through the night.

  Then, as he saw the massive Drifter missile looming in front of him, he fired three times.

  The first shot pinged off the underbelly of the Drifter. The nose cone rose a few degrees towards Six.

  The second whizzed across the side of the missile, redirecting it away from the helicopter in a shower of sparks. The jeep was slowing down in the air—Six could feel in his stomach that it was reaching the upper limit of its trajectory. The missile roared slowly towards him. There isn’t much time, he thought.

  The third shot made a last-second adjustment to the course of the Drifter; nose slightly down, and left.

  The jeep stopped, hanging in the air for a precious second, almost two hundred fifty meters above the surface of the earth.

  Six dropped his pistols and launched himself into the void, jumping as far as he could towards the helicopter…as the Drifter collided with the jeep.

  BOOM!

  Six was surrounded by a storm of blazing chemicals and burning air.

  The helicopter vanished.

  The sky vanished.

  Six couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe. His skin and flesh were cooking on his bones.

  And then the true blast reached him—and his body was smashed out farther into the air.

  Six felt his chest being crushed like a tin can, every bone in his body being broken or pulled from its socket. The heat squeezed his flesh against his skeleton. He held his eyes shut for fear that the force or the heat might blind him. Behind his closed lids he was still dazzled by the blazing light.

  It was like being in heaven. Everything was so bright that all Six could see was pure, clean white. And the noise was so loud that he could hear nothing. Silence. The explosion had deafened him, maybe even torn off his ears.

  And still the firestorm blazed around him, inside him, through him, all over his body. He curled himself into a ball, using his disintegrating arms to draw up his legs, trying to protect his internal organs.

  Six gritted his teeth as he felt flames lick across his back. His clothes were no protection at all against this much heat. The buckle of his buzz-belt and the blade of the combat knife attached to his shin were burning hot. His wristwatch melted—liquid plastic seared his arm. Six realized he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore, and hoped they were still there.

  He reached out with both hands, but they gripped only empty air. Scalding, empty air.

  As some of the smoke cleared, Six forced his burning eyes open against the heat, and saw the helicopter above him.

  He had jumped as far as he could, but had missed the helicopter.

  Agent Six’s luck had finally run out.

  He knew he had begun to fall, he could feel it in his guts, though the familiar sensations were overpowered by the agony of his burning flesh. But which way was he falling—which way was down? He didn’t know.

  He was going to die.

  “Nooooooo!” He expended what breath he had left by howling against the fiery wind. He flailed his arms and twisted and turned in the searing air, screaming silently.

  Superheated carbon dioxide roasted his lungs as he tried to breathe, and he choked. His tongue dried and cracked in the heat, and he shut his mouth, but his lips still burned.

  His head ached with the force of the thoughts racing through it. Still a hundred ninety meters above surface, he thought furiously, falling speed of twenty-seven meters per second, accelerating by nine meters every second. He’d be at sixty-three meters per second when he hit bottom. He could flatten his body, create as much surface area as he could to slow him down…if a moment before impact he pulled up his legs and put his arms forward, it would break his bones but he might survive…he had to somehow get his head up, he must be falling headfirst right now, and if he landed like this, he’d be killed instantly.

  But he realized there was nothing he could do. A fall that far onto concrete would kill anything, no matter how strong. If a creature could live—it could die.

  This time there would be no miracle. He was headed for solid concrete. He had no padding, nothing to cushion the blow. No dangling chains to grab hold of. No crane to ride. No parachute to open. No falling car or jeep to hold beneath him. His hands gripped the burning, empty air. He had nothing.

  His mind turned briefly to his old fantasy, riding a speedboat out into the open ocean, looking for new lands to conquer. His burned and torn lips twisted into a smile as he pictured it.

  He bowed his head in acceptance. His time had come.

  I hope the others made it out okay, he prayed.

  CRASH LANDING

  The guard watched, dumbfounded, as the falling kid slammed into the ground like a rag doll. His left arm flopped sickeningly, no longer completely attached to the shoulder.

  The guard peered through his rifle scope as the bot bent over the body. No hope, he thought. He didn’t see—

  Movement?

  The boy was moving. Definitely.

  It looked like an after-death spasm. The boy’s body twitched momentarily. Then there was nothing.

  The bot touched him, apparently scanning for a pulse.

  The guard held his breath.

  Could this mysterious boy have survived the whole ordeal?

  Even as the Lab ambulance screeched towards the scene, the bot was standing up. It jumped, and then disappeared into the darkness, leaving the dead boy sprawled uncomplainingly on the concrete, like a child in a soft bed who hadn’t slept for days.

  THE PERFECT SOLDIER

  I think, therefore I am.

  Descartes. He meant that he could be deceived about the nature or existence of anything around him, but he could have complete faith in his own existence, because in order to be deceived about anything, he must first exist.

  I can think, too. I am thinking. I think, therefore I am. I am thinking. Therefore I am alive.

  Agent Six opened his eyes.

  He ached and stung in every joint, every limb, every muscle—and he felt as weak as a newborn kitten. There was ringing in his ears and throbbing in his head. But he was thinking. He was breathing.

  He was alive.

  He checked to see he had feeling everywhere. He blinked his eyes. He wrinkled his nose. He pursed his lips and moved his jaw and wiggled his ears. So far, so good.

  He tested his mind for brain damage. My name is Agent Six of Hearts, I have no family, I live east of the Square: 87 multiplied by 379 is 32,973.

  Six gently moved his shoulders and flexed his forearms. He curled his fingers and bent his wrists. Slowly he worked through every muscle until he reached his toes. Excellent. All his limbs were still attached, and his spine was in one piece, at least. All his joints were very stiff and sore, but apart from that, he seemed to be in good shape.
/>   His eyes narrowed. Unsettlingly good shape, he thought, as he remembered the fall from the sky. What was going on here?

  Six sat up. Blue walls. Glass ceiling. White tiled floor. He was in a cell similar to the one in which he had met Kyntak. But this time, the door was locked. He was wearing a white T-shirt and grey cotton track pants. He had no weapons anymore. They had all either been stripped from him or he’d lost them in the fall. He checked his calf. Even his combat knife was gone. Only the magnetic binders he’d used to sheath it were still there.

  That was a bad fall, he thought. I should be dead.

  He glanced around. There was a digi-cam in the room, a directional microphone, and a guard, who was pointing a Hawk at Six’s head.

  The guard nodded to Six. “You’re awake,” he observed.

  “I’m as surprised as you,” Six said, stretching his neck by tilting his head from side to side. He was sure that he was fine, but it would perhaps work to his advantage to appear incapacitated.

  Then he recognized the guard. Muscular but small, dark hair and eyes, and a scar on his neck. Six tensed up his muscles, preparing to fight.

  “Don’t bother,” the guard said. “I am aware that you recognize me. You held your ground impressively through that chase, although you lost out in the end. But please, Agent Six, relax. You have passed your final test.”

  Test? thought Six.

  “I know how well armed you are even in the absence of weapons,” the scarred man continued. “However, I want you to hear what I have to say. If there’s fighting to be done, believe me, you will neither start nor finish it.”

  Six raised an eyebrow.

  “In other words, my brother,” the man continued, “you are out of your depth. Attempt to fight me and you will never leave this building.” He shrugged. “But, as I’m certain you are aware, if I planned to kill you, you would be dead by now. I have a proposition for you.”

  He put the Hawk on the floor and kicked it under his chair.

  “I’m listening,” Six said.

  “You have been invited into the employ of the Lab. Should you choose to accept employment, you will receive very handsome sums of money in return for your services to us, which will come in two separate categories.”

  Six screwed his eyes shut. No way. “Guinea pig, and…?”

  “A crude analogy, and far from accurate. You would indeed be studied and rated for the benefit of the company, as an employee, as a creation, and, of course, as a threat. Hence the gun.” He smiled icily. “No offense, I hope.”

  “None taken.” They want me to work for them, Six thought. Things were starting to make sense.

  “The second part of the package is much like your previous job—espionage, undercover work for us. You would be assigned to duties of protection for the company. Much like the common Lab soldiers, but with more emphasis on the, er…offensive side of things. The best form of defense is attack, after all.”

  “Explain some of these duties,” Six said.

  “That’s why I’m here. As you no doubt have guessed, I am the offspring of the same experiment as you—Project Falcon. As such, I am useful to the company, and my usefulness is well rewarded—”

  “Why don’t you look like me?” Six asked.

  “Plastic surgery.” The man’s expression was unreadable. “Just a precaution. Some examples of the jobs I do are…” He paused, as though pondering. “…protecting Methryn Crexe. I am present at all of his prescheduled events. I have also often been assigned to liberate research from competing companies, although they are becoming few and far between. Sometimes a scientist stumbles across an idea that can be remembered without computers, and I am asked to eliminate them inconspicuously.” He grinned wolfishly. “I’m told that your organization doesn’t do that sort of thing, so I’m sure you will be pleasantly surprised at how well it pays.”

  Six said nothing.

  “I also have similar tasks regarding people who discover the nature of the company or its experiments. They can be bribed or eliminated at my discretion. I find that both together is the most effective method—the money is easy to reclaim.”

  So, thought Six, I’m being offered money to kill people for the Lab. He doubted that refusal would be met graciously.

  “Now I’d like you to meet Mr. Crexe, so he can explain how valuable you will be to his organization.” The man held Six’s stare. “I can guarantee that you’ll never regret the decision to stay. I didn’t. The work is good, and the money is better. I look forward to having you on our side.”

  The man began to walk towards the door. He gestured at the security camera, and the door swung open.

  “What’s your name?” Six asked.

  The man raised an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

  “You outran me. I like to know the name of someone who has beaten me.”

  “Neither of us has names. You know that perfectly well. But when we are on duty, you may call me Sevadonn. That’s my employee code name, and it’s the only identification I’ve ever had. Life is simpler this way, don’t you agree?”

  The man stepped through the door. Six got to his feet and followed.

  He found himself in a very familiar place. Everything was a clean, crisp white. He was surrounded by monitors, bright lights, staff in white coats, and glass windows with slow, careful activity going on behind them. Six couldn’t tell what was happening in those sealed glass chambers, but he knew it was some type of experimentation, probably dangerous. Certainly immoral.

  Looking up, Six saw that the ceiling was made of glass, and that the next floor was visible. He could see that the floor above also had a glass ceiling, and he could vaguely make out moving shapes above it. He wondered how far underground they were, and how many floors had only glass separating them.

  Wait, he thought, of course. I’m in the tower attached to the Project Falcon lab.

  This sterilized laboratory reminded him of his birthplace. Well, not exactly “birth.” It was thanks to places and people like these that he had never technically been born. Six knew that this couldn’t be the same laboratory he had been spawned in, because that lab had been ransacked and torched. But the resemblance was uncanny—this lab must have been modeled on the last one.

  “Agent Six!” Methryn Crexe grinned from across the room, as he strode in the door. “Finally we meet in person!”

  Six sized him up. Methryn Crexe was shorter and wider than Six, although not overweight. He had a thin, dark mustache and neatly trimmed hair. He wore a symmetrically creased black business suit, with the bulge of a handgun in the right breast pocket. His eyes were dark and sparkling.

  Crexe stepped confidently towards Six. “At last!” he said. He extended his hand, and Six shook it.

  “It’s a pleasure,” Six said. Like most humans, Crexe blinked once every nine seconds. Each time Crexe’s eyes closed, Six scanned the room for threats. There were three armed guards on the floor above—he could see them through the glass, and he had no doubt they were watching him. There was one in the laboratory. He presumed there would be three guards behind the entrance to the room (a steel door), as was the standard practice. One to look one way, one to look the other, and a third to spring into action should one of the others become incapacitated. Six also took into account the gun in Crexe’s suit.

  “I take it Sevadonn has already voiced our offer?” Crexe said.

  “He has,” Six answered. “There are a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

  “Please, be my guest.” Crexe flashed a chillingly perfect smile.

  “First and foremost, how am I still alive?”

  “Ah!” Crexe laughed. “Yes, your stunt in the parking lot. That was most impressive, by the way. You passed the final test with flying colors.” He chuckled. “No pun intended, of course. But in answer to your question, most of you died. You are not who you were two days ago. As soon as we recovered your body, we put it on ice so your brain didn’t disintegrate. Then we grew a clone of you.”
/>   Six’s eyes widened.

  “We replaced most of your organs with new ones from the clone, including your lungs, your heart, your kidneys, both your ears, your left arm, and most of your skin. We did some reconstruction on your other broken limbs, then we started your new heart and thawed your brain. After that we injected you with growth hormones, and then took a large sample of your blood.

  “Your new organs were accepted by your body, so the growth hormones forced your system to burn up the food we were drip-feeding you, and to create more blood. Once the pressure was back up, we returned the blood sample to your body, a bit at a time. The pressure was well above normal, but not dangerously so, and it gave you a sudden burst of energy. Your body started the healing process around all the reconstruction we’d done, and we gave you a few shots of adrenaline and our aging drug to speed up the process. The entire process took less than twenty-four hours, and you’ve been sleeping undisturbed for another fourteen. Of course, a proper human being would have been killed instantly, well beyond resuscitation—even with an identical copy to use for transplanting. But let’s not dwell on that.”

  It made sense, Six thought. The repairs they had done were dangerously experimental, but possible in theory. He was still alive and not crippled or brain-damaged, so it must have worked. Six shivered. This was the closest he’d ever come to death.

  “You did a good job,” he told Crexe, flexing his biceps and shoulders. He stretched each leg a few times, then bent over into a hamstring stretch. On the way back up, he subtly unclipped the magnetic binders from his leg and closed his hand around them. He put his hands behind his back.

  “So why am I still alive? Surely you didn’t perform all that expensive surgery simply to have one more soldier in your crew.”

  Crexe laughed. “Of course not! It certainly was expensive, not worth the life of one employee. In fact, you just cost us more than the average Lab trooper earns in a lifetime. But you’re going to earn us far more than that.