"Funny, but I don't feel particularly innocent."
"You might be brighter than most people, Aid, but you're still just a kid. That wasn't on you."
"I didn't know what I was getting into, true," I said. "But now I do. If I go down that road again and someone gets hurt, that will be on me."
"CE can't force you do it. And they don't need you. They can find another hyper."
"I'm under contract with them. They could sue me – or us – couldn't they?"
"They might threaten that. But Alan and his superiors know the score. They can't afford the negative publicity. Remember – what they had you do was illegal."
And yet you agreed to it, I thought. I shook my head. My mom had been under her own pressures. We had to stick together now.
"What do you think I should do?" I asked.
"I think you should make your own decision. Whatever it is, I will support you one hundred percent."
I took that helpful advice with me on my drive to Sacramento and into Dr. Blumenthal's office. He rose from behind his redwood desk, smiling as always, and shook my hand. We settled down facing each other like two cogs falling into place.
"It's been a while," he said. "How's everything with you these days?"
"I cost my basketball team a place in the finals, but other than that, not too bad."
Dr. Blumenthal chuckled. "I read about that. Quite unfortunate. But hardly your fault that you missed the last shot. You had a stellar game, otherwise."
"It felt like my fault."
"Classic 'selection bias.'" He spread his hands on the desktop in a magnanimous gesture. "Emphasizing your least successful plays and ignoring the successful ones."
I smiled a little. Not a bad way of putting it.
"In a way, that's why I asked you to come in today," he said. "We – my office and Development Division – were guilty of focusing on the positives of the serum we developed from your hard labors" – he paused to add emphasis to his smile – "and chose to overlook the negatives. With your help, we'd like to make things right."
"You want me to provide more serum samples."
"Yes. We would appreciate that deeply."
"I don't think so, Dr. Blumenthal. I really don't want to go through that again."
Dr. Blumenthal leaned back and placed his hands together in either reflection or supplication, appearing unsurprised.
"I know it was a lot for someone your age to process," he said. "And for what it's worth, I thought you did an admirable job of it. However, I'm sure you realize you are under contractual obligation to us."
"I know. But I'm pretty sure you can't make me do something illegal."
"Ah, but we've addressed that issue."
He removed an envelope from his top drawer and handed it to me. I opened it. The letter inside bore the DNA spiral-enclosed egg logo of the Reproductive Safety Agency. I skimmed down the page. The gist was that CE had been granted an exemption for "scientific experimental purposes" to sexual contact involving underage hypers (including me by name) and "lab partners" while being "under the supervision of scientists working with or for CellEvolve, Incorporated." Jeez.
"As you can see, it was – and is – all perfectly legal."
"Since when?"
"Check the date in the document. Near the top."
It was dated last June, two months before I started the "close encounter" part of the project.
"Who'd you have to bribe to get this?"
Dr. Blumenthal released a low, appreciative chuckle. "I wouldn't know anything about that. But the point is, it was and is perfectly legal for you to do the nasty within our hallowed walls or under our supervision."
"It wasn't at the time, was it?"
"Why of course it was," he said with a broad smile.
"Strange that no one mentioned that to me. I had the impression the whole time it was illegal. So did my mom."
Blumenthal waved his hands in the air once as though to make the issue disappear via prestidigitation.
"Even if it's legal, you can't force me to do it."
"Of course not. But we could certainly sue for recompense."
I imagined my bank account balance disappearing with another wave of Dr. Blumenthal's hand. I swallowed down some chilled air. Still, there was my stock certificate.
"If our Reprise campaign fails, your stock certificate, currently worth 1.2 million dollars, wouldn't be worth the paper it's printed on."
D'oh. I wondered if mind-reading fell under his administrative talents.
"There's also the question of your mother's legal liability, not to mention employment," said Dr. Blumenthal. "Remember, she was a signatory on the contract, since you were a minor. That means CE could sue her as well."
Better and better. Not that I couldn't have predicted everything Blumenthal was saying. Still, hearing him say it out loud added a big sickening dose of reality.
"You actually want to force me to do this?"
"My mother always told me that honey attracts more flies than vinegar." Dr. Blumenthal reached into his desk of plenty once again and dropped a checkbook on the table. "Care to name a figure that would make you feel more voluntary?"
I'd always been attracted to large numbers – and the factors which produced them – being mathematically minded. Several figures flashed in mind. Mathematically absurd figures, which only made them more attractive.
"One hundred million?" I ventured.
Dr. Blumenthal laughed. "I won't accuse you of thinking small. But there are limits, young Aiden Stevens, even to our deep pockets. How would you feel about a quarter of a million dollars?"
Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to have sex with a bevy of beautiful women. And I was fighting him over that? Were my moral principles that strong?
"It's not as if we're asking you to sacrifice your firstborn, Aiden," Dr. Blumenthal said with a knowing raised-brow smile.
I looked into his eyes and sighed. "I know. But last time I did this, someone died."
"You're blaming yourself for some depressed girl killing herself?"
"She didn't seem that depressed to me."
"She had a prescription to Celexa." Blumenthal held up his palms and made another disappearing gesture. "Regardless of her issues, I'm more than optimistic that we can avoid a repeat by selecting and vetting women who joyfully volunteer – of whom, I feel quite confident in predicting, there will be no shortage. Would that assuage your moral anxiety?"
Dr. Blumenthal hadn't lost his touch for making me feel about eight years old.
"Really?" I asked him. "Aren't you a scientist, Dr. Blumenthal, not a..."
The word that completed the sentence loomed in the space between us. I knew from his tired smile and nod that he knew what the word I didn't say was.
"Touché, my young friend," he said with what was as close to a sigh as I'd ever heard from him. "Look, believe it or not, Aiden, I truly do like and admire you. If it were up to me, I'd say 'screw it' and let you walk away and keep what you've earned. You've done plenty – more than plenty – for this company already. But it's not up to me. I'm just the messenger" – he offered a strained smile – "or pimp, if you prefer."
"If I refuse, they'll come after us?"
"Quite probable, I'd guess. Or they might just let it slide. The gods can be fickle, as they say. You have to ask yourself how important taking this stand is to you – and how much pain you and your family are willing to suffer."
The more I thought about it, the less powerful my 'moral anxiety' seemed. What was the big deal, really? How terrible could it be having a ton of orgasms with hot girls and blowing my "junk" into lab specimen containers?
"I guess I don't like the feeling of being owned, Dr. Blumenthal."
"I know the feeling. The sad truth is, however, that all of us are owned in a variety of ways – by our families, spouses or 'significant others,' employers, and even random circumstances. The salient question is what we get in return."
My chin was slumpi
ng against my chest under the weight of his adult alleged wisdom. I hated it when older people used their age/experience to justify spouting authoritative-sounding crap. The problem was, I couldn't defeat his Dr. Blumenthal's logic – not at the moment, anyway.
"How long would this new program go on?" I asked.
"As I'm sure you can appreciate, there's no way of knowing. My best guess is that it would roughly follow the previous pattern. Don't worry – we're not going to work you to death. You'd have plenty of breaks and time off for good behavior."
"I wouldn't extend our contract. I'm out at eighteen."
"Understood. No need for any new contracts. Just cooperate with us and cruise through to your eighteenth birthday. I'm sure the time will fly."
"Okay," I sighed. "I'll do it."
"Excellent. Let me just write out your bonus check and it's onward and upward."
I suddenly remembered Ragnar's sarcastic "You could've asked for five million and they probably wouldn't have blinked an eye." I wasn't sure about that – and I wasn't that greedy, but –
"Dr. Blumenthal," I said, clearing my throat. "If you wouldn't mind, would you make the check out for two million dollars?"
Dr. Blumenthal paused with his pen hovering over the checkbook, his brow arched in disbelief. "If I wouldn't mind?"
"Well, it's like you said, you know. If you're going to be owned you should be well-compensated."
"That wasn't exactly what I said."
"But it captures the essential meaning, doesn't it?"
Dr. Blumenthal's perpetually amused smile had acquired a peevish edge. Our gazes locked. I had no idea whether I looked determined or like a scared rabbit – I felt like one – but I tried for a confident, pleasant smile. I wondered if there would be any personal cost to Blumenthal for writing a larger check, or if he was even approved to write it. I guessed I'd find out.
Dr. Blumenthal sputtered out a laugh. It didn't sound happy. But I thought I saw grudging respect in his eyes.
"It appears that young Aiden Stevens is growing up," he said. He shifted the pen between the fingers of his right hand. "You might consider, however, the ethics of compelling a company to pay you to honor your contract."
"You were the one who offered the bonus."
"True. For $250,000." His grudging smile hardened. "You might also consider the wisdom of playing hardball with a company such as CellEvolve."
I strained not to squirm under his gaze. I knew I was squirming inside.
"You can always say no." I squeezed the words out of my throat.
"And if I did?"
"Then I would need to think about this some more?"
"May I ask how you came up with the two million dollar figure?"
"I was thinking five million, but that seemed too greedy."
Dr. Blumenthal snorted under his breath and with a sharp shake of his head set pen to paper. I tracked the bobbing pen as it arced up and down across the check. Was this real? Had I really just pushed an executive of one the world's most powerful pharmaceutical companies into giving me a bonus eight times what they'd originally offered? I felt as if I'd passed some kind of manhood rite or something.
Dr. Blumenthal slid the check across the desk. I stared at the figure, parsing out the figures. Had I just sold my soul to the devil? That was the only thought holding back a tidal roar of elation.
"I should also confirm that you'll be attending the Ellsworth Conference on May 7th, a few weekends from now."
"It's on my calendar."
"Good. Then I'd say we're done here for today. We'll let you know when we've arranged for suitable lab partners."
I started to rise from my chair, but then hesitated. "About that."
Dr. Blumenthal affected a world-weary look. "You have more conditions?"
"Well, I would like to be part of the, uh, selection process. You know, for my 'lab assistants.'"
"You're welcome to talk with Acquisitions about that."
"How is Acquisitions planning to find them?"
Dr. Blumenthal opened his nearby laptop, punched a few keys, and swung it around, edging it over to me. A classic Wolfram Hypersphere rendered in various shades of gold filled the page. Surely, one of the most striking website logos ever designed.
"The Hypersphere," I whispered reverently.
Some of Dr. Blumenthal's usual amusement returned to his smile. "This time around, Acquisitions wants to involve a larger pool for the selection process, I understand."
"Could I pick at least some of them? Of course, you would vet them."
"I don't see any problem with that. Perhaps you and Acquisitions can both form your own lists and make ultimate choices from them? Needless to say, do not name this company or any specifics in your communications."
"Okay. I would keep it very general."
This was almost starting to sound fun. Which worried me. One thing I'd learned in dealing with CellEvolve was that there was always a price to be paid, no matter how much money I got or how good things sounded.
For some reason, my gaze turned to the RSA papers lying on the table beside Dr. Blumenthal's computer. It might be a good idea to have proof of my supposed legal immunity. Just in case.
"Could I have a copy of that?"
Dr. Blumenthal traced my nod to the document. He slid it across to me.
"Take it," he said. "It's just a copy. But keep it somewhere away from prying eyes."
"Not a problem."
THE HYPERSPHERE.
I rested my fingers on my keyboard in the semi-darkness of my bedroom. It was late, and my sister and mom were asleep – or at least in bed – out of harm's way. The forbidden object of my desire lay at my fingertips. The furthest I'd ever gone on the website before was perusing a few pages of description. No images until paid your five hundred dollar subscription fee. That had been a stumbling block before. Not so much now.
With trembling fingers I paid the fee, set up my account, and typed in my first search: Hyper seeking single women in Northern California.
I was a little amazed and even humbled when that produced thirty pages – most with thumbnail photographs. I selected a few at random, skipping the non-image ads because I assumed they were looking to hide their identities – possibly from boyfriends or husbands.
The first wore long brunette hair down to her small perky breasts – and nothing else. She looked way too much like Melanie, so I fled with a couple of rapid clicks. The next was a redhead, 27, wearing a pink bikini in a mountain lake setting that looked like Tahoe. Claimed to be an "ad executive" who was physically fit and "sexually insatiable" and "willing to come to you – and I mean that in both senses of the word." I chuckled a little. She sounded like a nice person – not to mention hot – so I saved her.
I saved a lot of people over the next thirty minutes. They were all so good-looking it was hard not to. Still, I decided to narrow my search by adding intelligent, caring, and open-minded to my search terms. That reduced my results by half. I added intellectual, and my results were down to a mere six pages.
I was trying not to feel too intoxicated by the possibilities. What had I done to deserve this?
Picking through the gourmet selection, a few women stood out. Perhaps at the top of my list was G7755, a twenty-seven year old green-eyed blond with short-cropped hair and a fitness-trainer body. She had a serious six-pack. But what I found most attractive about her was her self-description: "I like smart, funny men, who appreciate spirited conversation and debate about issues other than football or weather." I wasn't particularly fond of football, luckily. "I enjoy hikes, being out in nature, cycling, and generally staying active. My ideal date would be climbing up a mountain and having a picnic, and – I'll leave the rest to your imagination." Followed by a wink. "Yes, I have an exceptional sexual appetite, but warning – I am very selective about the kind of person I am willing to consume. You may be a rarity, but so am I." She listed her occupation as "news media."
That was by far the most appealing prof
ile I'd read yet. I even liked the slightly menacing metaphor of "consume." She was discriminating while being open about wanting a hyper. She valued herself and wouldn't take second place even to a hyper was the implication. I didn't want a puppet.
No one else struck me as strongly, but I saved ten others, mainly for variety's sake.
I stretched my fingers, preparing a letter of introduction in my head. Hi, I'm a sixteen year old hyper attending Jefferson High. I enjoy walking on the beach, beautiful sunsets, good music, easy women – mostly older – and contributing my sperm to science...
I had a feeling she probably wouldn't find that funny.
As the cogs slowly turned in my head, I realized that my main mission – selecting women to be "lab partners" – wasn't what I wanted with G7755 or maybe any of the ones I might really like. Of course, that seemed kind of dumb. I'd be having so much sex with my lab partners that I couldn't see having time for a real relationship. Doubly dumb, because what sane grownup woman would want to have a real relationship with a teenage boy?
Damn. I rubbed my head. It was like being trapped in purgatory – a purgatory where you could see heaven a few feet away but couldn't reach it. Eighteen long months before I'd be eighteen and finally free. I was okay with leaving free to be what undefined. The main thing was being free and legal.
What to do in the meantime? I drummed my fingers on my computer table. Should I just put myself on ice? Or should I follow the "nothing ventured, nothing gained" philosophy, on the off-chance that something good might come of it? I liked that idea better.
I started to write a serious letter.
Dear G7755 (I like your name, not sure why!):
I'm Aiden. And yes, I'm a hyper. But that doesn't define who I am, in my opinion. Neither does being sixteen
I lifted my fingers from the keyboard. Sixteen sounded sickeningly young. No way someone as together as G7755 would consider even meeting, not to mention hanging, with a sixteen year old. As much as I disliked it, I'd probably need to lie a little at the outset to get in her "front door."
Neither does being eighteen. I'm currently a senior at Jefferson High in Jefferson, CA, though I'm also taking classes at UC Jefferson. I plan to pursue a degree in microbiology or something related. I'm not sure at this point.
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