He never understood why she had two distinct styles, but it may have had something to do with her mood at the time. Perhaps all humans do that subconsciously—changing body language and strides depending on the emotions swirling within. Granted, Four seemed to be embellishing her movements, but his theory may have been valid.
He’d seen much the same thing on the battlefield, with bullets whizzing overhead and blood spraying all around. Of course, the stride in play at the time wasn’t that of a primate—more of a fight-or-flight panic state, taking over and governing the troops around him.
Regardless, it was all about emotions in control. And experience, something all creatures learn to value.
The Nomad continued working through his theories as he lowered the drum on its side, keeping the twist cap’s side pointing up.
Four snatched the handle of the metal box, then leaned to one side as she carried it to his position, using unbalanced steps to support the weight. She put the box at his feet, then took a hop back with her face energized in red.
“What we need is,” he said, unhooking the latches on the box and flipping open the lid, “something to make a hole.”
He dug through the scattering of tools and past a spool of duct tape before moving a coil of bare copper wire out of the way. A center punch sat beneath it, its wooden handle and a stout tip lying horizontal.
“This ought to work,” he told Four, taking it out and putting it aside.
When his hand went back into the box, he wrapped his fingers around the rubber grip of a four-pound sledge and held it up, making sure Four had her attention focused.
“A man can accomplish a lot with a hammer and duct tape. Remember that, Four. It’s the same advice my old man gave to me. God rest his soul.”
She must have understood the death reference, her eyes losing their intensity an instant later. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn he saw a welling of tears—something a cannibal never does.
But then again, Four wasn’t the same meat eater he’d first rescued from The Factory. She’d evolved, like they all had in varying degrees, beginning to find their natural right of humanity. He gave her a nod, appreciating her compassion and how far she’d come.
The Nomad crouched to one knee, then took the punch and pointed its end against the drum on the same side as the twist lock cap. The tip was about an inch from what would have been the bottom of the drum, if it were standing upright. “The key here is to keep the hole small.”
He brought the hammer up and slammed its head against the handle of the punch, using what he considered medium force. A loud clang ensued, but the tip never penetrated, only making a dent.
“Okay, now a little harder,” he said, doubling the force of the next strike.
When the metal gave way, the punch sank deep inside, smashing his fingers against the side of the drum. He pulled the implement free, shaking his hand in the process. “Yeeeoow, that hurt.”
Four kept a close watch, never flinching after his sudden outburst.
Nomad put the tools aside and stood, his fingers still throbbing. “Now for the moment of truth.”
He bent down and leveraged his hands under the drum, using the strength in his thighs to tilt the container upright, keeping his movement slow and measured. “Fuel is lighter than water, so they don’t mix. If we go slow, we should see the water running out first.”
The hole along the bottom did its job, releasing a stream of clear fluid. He smiled at her. “Nice catch, Four.” He continued tilting the drum higher until the liquid turned a darker color.
He lowered the barrel back to the dirt with the punched hole angled up. “That’s it. Simple, really. All thanks to you.”
She spun around in a circle, grunting over and over.
“Now we need to see if we can pump this shit into the tank without it leaking everywhere.”
CHAPTER 29
Boyd Craven adjusted his eye patch before walking the length of the all-brick hallway. Thirty-eight steps later, he turned and headed into the security checkpoint.
Two pre-adolescent Scabs came forward on all fours to sniff his hand, then their handlers yanked them back on a rope-style leash. One of the guards waved him through.
When he’d first embarked on this genetic experiment, Craven had no idea how well the younger Scabs would take to tracking and reconnaissance, using their enhanced sense of smell for tactical purposes.
Plus, they didn’t eat much and were easier to control—an added bonus—making them the perfect security tool. At least until their rapid aging kicked in, sending their bodies into an intense maturation process.
Craven entered the Research and Development Lab next, passing a string of tables filled with beakers, test tubes, flasks, microscopes, syringes, and surgical equipment before turning left and zipping by what he called The Wall of Failures.
Liquid-filled five-gallon glass jars sat next to each other on four levels of shelving, chronicling his experiments from the first attempt to the last, each one containing a bioengineered fetus.
Some were grotesque in their malformities. Others looked almost human except for their missing noses, yet all of them had suffered a cellular breakdown.
Another doorway led him into the processing plant, where the infirmed and the expired were to be converted into meat units for trade and consumption.
He nodded at the two men using their skills to carve up the day’s losses and add a precise blend of seasoning and other trade secrets.
Once those steps were complete, they’d flash-bake the units and put them into the towering smoker to add the expected flavor, keeping the buyers unaware as to the true nature of the meat supply.
His pace continued, taking him to the string of observation windows that provided a close-up view into the Maturation Control Pod, or MCP.
Craven stopped to run a visual check of the beds inside, each row containing twelve bodies strapped to wire-mesh frames.
He counted only eight adults, meaning the balance of inventory belonged to what society used to call preschoolers, each of them ready to undergo their first rapid maturation process.
In the early days, the MCP team installed mattresses for comfort, but ditched that plan after learning a solid eleven percent of the Scabs would defecate when hit with the intense pain. Defecation meant more time and expense, something Craven wouldn’t tolerate, not when it was easier to just hose down the floor.
The Scab closest to the first window was a dark-haired boy, his face twisting and contorting as ‘The Surge’ ravaged his body. The violent process resembled a helium balloon being inflated in increments, making its size and shape pulsate in heaves.
Craven watched the process reach the bones in the subject’s back, then listened for the expected scream that shook the glass.
Someone else might have taken a step back when it happened, but Craven’s feet held firm as a thin smile found its way to his lips. He knew the warrior stage was about to begin, increasing the value of each Scab ten-fold.
Craven held silent, watching the spectacle spread from one Scab to another, working its way across the room to the other inventory.
The last of the assets to change were the older Scabs, transforming them from warrior into food source. This was the second and final surge of their existence—the one that carried only an aging component, not a structural reconfiguration, meaning far less violence. One could argue the reduced pain was a reward for those who’d survived the first surge, having proven themselves during adulthood.
Either way, it was the final step in what Craven considered the perfect four-stage circle of life: one that ran from rapid incubation to tactical tool to warrior state to food source.
“The ultimate re-provisioning cycle,” he muttered, where nothing was wasted. Just as it always should have been, if the Universe had any sense of order.
Craven made a mental note to stop here later and survey the results, when this round of surges was complete. He knew he wouldn’t recognize th
e younger subjects, each one tripling in size and age.
The other eight would wrinkle and lose their aggressiveness, making them easier to handle for final processing. An unplanned benefit of the engineering, but he was thankful for the luck.
He turned and continued his trek, arriving at his destination—the incubation lab, the most secretive chamber in the facility.
“How’re we doing?” he asked the blonde, forty-year-old chief geneticist Wilma Rice, one of only two dozen staff members in the facility. She had the biggest eyes he’d ever seen, even if they were hidden behind a thick pair of glasses.
“Batch five-twelve is nearing conclusion,” she answered, her braided ponytail draped across the front of her shoulder. “My calculations indicate we’ll yield another female in this round. Percentages are holding steady at eleven hundred to one. I’m not sure why that’s the case, but it’s too consistent to be some random event.”
“No, I think not.” Craven walked to the cabinet behind her and opened the pair of swing doors, where he found a pack of glass vials inside. Six, to be exact. He grabbed one and held it in front of his eyes, twisting the container for inspection. He turned to Rice. “Two are missing.”
“Had a contamination issue during transfer.”
“Fletcher won’t be pleased. He ordered eight.”
“It couldn’t be helped, boss. At least this version is thirty-two percent more effective than the first. That might make up for the partial delivery.”
Craven nodded, not wanting to berate her. There were more important items on the agenda and he needed her to focus. “What about your efforts to forestall The Surge?”
“I expect to see a marked improvement soon. Something north of twenty percent.”
“That’s damn good progress, Rice. Gives us more time for training during the docile period. Nice work.”
“I appreciate the kudos, sir, but I can’t take the credit. It’s simply a byproduct of your groundbreaking genetics, plus a bit of unexpected evolution mixed in.”
“Always the modest one, I see,” Craven said, taking in the numb expression on her face. “We both know where this technology came from.”
“Yet you recognized the value and took action when your former employer wouldn’t.”
“Good thing I did too, with The Event right around the corner. Can you imagine if I hadn’t stepped up?”
“That’s the mark of a visionary. Seeing the future when others can’t.”
“For a bunch of PhDs,” Craven said, shaking his head, “they had no idea what they had. They were too busy looking for that pie-in-in-the-sky cancer treatment to ever see what they were missing. Well, I didn’t and now here we are, all thanks to you.”
Her shoulders dropped as her voice turned sheepish. “I’m only the facilitator, sir.”
Craven shook his head, wishing she’d accept the compliment. “I may have seeded the science, but you ran with it. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the brains behind this operation. So I say again, nice job.”
She smiled, though only for a moment, her face turning serious once again. “If my latest adjustments prove fruitful, we may see a more sustainable output from the next round of hybrid inseminations.”
Craven smiled, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Excellent. Your timing couldn’t be better. I’ll let the boys know to start saving up. But I have to wonder, will we see a decrease in semen production this time around, after our recent ramp-up?”
“Doubtful. Reproductive biology doesn’t stop simply because you’re part of an insemination chain.”
“True, but I’m sure the men miss the old ways of doing things. A little one-on-one time, if you know what I mean.”
“I really can’t speak to that, sir.”
“I’m guessing some of the crew have been hitting on you, too.”
She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, her cheeks flushing red. “Not that I’ve noticed.”
“Well, I’m sure they have. Sorry about that, but those biological urges have been hardwired into us, ever since we first crawled out of the ocean.”
“Even if they did, which they haven’t, I prefer playing for the other team,” she said as if she’d told him that fact before. There wasn’t any hesitation or inflection in her voice, either. Just a matter-of-fact statement about her sexuality. Almost as if she were ordering a ham sandwich for the hundredth time.
Craven hesitated for a few beats, questioning if her somber tone was a cover-up for how she actually felt—annoyed with his preemptive apology and what it meant—or she just wanted him to know she would rather be with women over men.
Then again, perhaps she offered that spin to make it easier for him to stop the unwanted advances by the mouth breathers protecting The Factory. A little deterrence, if you will, as if that would make a difference with the men. Regardless, he decided it was best to change the subject.
“Carry on,” he said, walking the length of the room with his hands behind his back.
He needed to spend some time pondering the Fletcher situation. Deal or no deal, there was a change coming. He knew it and figured Fletcher knew it; at least, that’s what his gut was telling him. Especially after the carnage at the Trading Post. If he was right, then he’d need to expand his territory.
Rice cleared her throat, speaking from across the room. “As to your suggestion from yesterday, you were correct. I did need to tweak the baseline formula in the Genesis Fluid. Nice catch, boss. I think this mix has real promise. Hopefully, the male population will achieve reproductive viability soon.”
“Sounds like we’re getting close to a self-sustaining process. I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. I definitely selected the right person for the job.”
“I also have a new theory for solving the issue with their noses. Or lack thereof.”
“Let’s scrap that for now. In truth, I think that imperfection has actually helped us over the years. A brand of sorts, making it appear frostbite was the cause. Exactly what would’ve happened if our products were all natural and left to fend for themselves in the wild.”
Rice nodded, but didn’t respond.
“If I were a betting man, I’d lay odds that this one defect kept Edison from asking a lot of questions. Frost, too.”
“A reasonable conclusion.”
“I’ve learned over the years that sometimes the smallest imperfections can help sell the biggest cons,” Craven said, pacing as he continued. “Plus, I’m sure our friends at both camps were only focused on the consistent delivery of their supply. Never once did they ask where any of it came from.”
“Except Fletcher. He figured it out.”
“As I intended. Sometimes you have to dangle the carrot for the rabbit to enter your snare.”
“Adjusting the blend now,” Rice said, clicking two switches on the control wall in front of her, then twisting a trio of dials. She moved two steps over and snatched a clipboard from a hook on the wall and turned to page three of the paperwork.
After studying the information for a few moments, she took a pencil from her front pocket and made notes, crossing out the bottom line and replacing it with different numbers.
Craven stopped his pacing, leaning in and over her shoulder to verify the new figures matched the readings from the instrument panel sitting atop a workstation. “Did security figure out how we lost containment?”
“Not yet, but they’re still working on it.”
“What’s taking so long?”
“Not sure. Commander Stipple mentioned something about the last generation being significantly more ingenious than expected.”
Craven shook his head. “Still doesn’t explain the breakdown in security. Good God, it was only one.”
“Technically, sir, it’s been seven.”
“I meant recently.”
She twisted a lip but didn’t respond.
Craven continued. “Regardless, this problem should never have happened. Then or now.”
“I would conc
ur, assuming they’d been there on standby, as I suggested. I tried to warn them about the possibility, but they ignored me.”
“I’ll talk to security and make it clear. What you say goes. You’re the hammer and they are the nail. End of story.”
She didn’t skip a beat, continuing in the same tone, reminding him of a post-graduate lecture. “You might also want to reinforce the fact that if she hadn’t been far more advanced than anything we’ve seen thus far, others might have joined her.”
“You mean a percentage of the males.”
“Yes. Much like with the initial batches, when we didn’t know about The Surge and its effect.”
“—Emergence.”
“This new variant won’t be limited to the females for long. It will cross genders. It’s only a matter of time.”
Craven ran the facts through his head, realizing she may have been trying to rationalize the incremental failures in the technology he’d stolen.
He chose not to dwell on it, knowing that science evolves in leaps and bounds, not in a straight-line path, more so when the original theory is not your own.
The video player in his mind flashed a flood of images, each one a twisted replay of their earliest success stories.
Even though some of his former colleges might have considered The Surge a failure, he didn’t. The same could be said for the new evolutionary step they called Emergence. New paths are often blazed by happy accidents, whether the science is predicable or experimental.
Sure, some of the first batches escaped containment early on, but at the time, his team was still perfecting their protocols and adjusting to the unexpected. “Frost sure took his time to hunt them down.”
“Assuming he ever did.”
“Good point. We really don’t know for sure.”
“Either way, we need to rethink our security measures.”
“Sounds prudent. Though I have to say I have a lot invested in this place, so we can’t afford any more glitches. And certainly, no more detention issues, not with the Fletcher situation heating up. Everything must proceed on schedule. If not, we’ll be exposed and I can’t let that happen.”
Frozen World (Book 2): Silo [Hope's Return] Page 19
