by Ted Kosmatka
Guthrie made some response, but the sound was yanked away. Guthrie ducked as he ran beneath the spinning blades. A common, involuntary reflex. Though Martial was a few inches taller, he stood upright and walked slowly, reaching up to hold his hat onto his head.
He’d done the math when he’d first bought the helicopter. He was six foot one. The blades, at their center, were eight feet off the ground. Therefore, he didn’t need to duck. Later he read of a man who’d died in a windstorm, his head taken off by the overhead prop. For though the blades were eight feet high at the center, they drooped while the helicopter idled down; and during gusty weather an idling helicopter could be rocked ever so slightly by the force of the wind, producing a slight pitch. Blades that were eight feet off the ground in the center might be suddenly, on one side of the helicopter, only five or six feet at their spinning tips. Martial took the news as a lesson: When God wants you, he will take you.
The three men in suits walked forward to greet them.
“Sir,” the first man said. This was Scholler. As big as he was dedicated, and one of Martial’s longest-serving personal guards.
They shook hands. “I trust you had a good flight, sir.”
“We’re here, aren’t we?”
“And glad to see it, sir.”
Behind Scholler was Ekman. Blond, serious, unsmiling. He looked younger than his actual age, as much boy as man, but he was the one Martial trusted to handle the more difficult operations. A diagonal scar split his upper lip. To Ekman’s left was Phillips, who really was as young as he looked. A newer asset. Ex-military and kept the crew cut.
They crossed the helipad to the waiting doorway. Once inside, they took the stairs down. “How were the latest trials?” Martial asked.
“Negative,” Scholler said.
Martial nodded, accepting the news. “And how is he?”
“The same, sir.”
“The others?”
“Another numbers reduction, sir.”
“Cause of?”
“We haven’t finished the autopsy yet but we’ll—”
Martial cut him off with a raised hand. “What do you think?”
“Probably the same as the others. Methylation imprint. Unbalanced base-pair alignment.”
“Which is another way of saying you have no idea.”
“Yes, sir. You could say that.”
There were men in Martial’s shoes who did not sweat the details, who ran their companies like drivers raced cars, foot on the gas, aware only of the output of their machine rather than the intricacies of its inner workings. Martial prided himself on looking under the hood. To be any other way made no sense, considering the circumstances.
“I was hoping for good news,” he said.
“Sorry, sir. The new trials are scheduled to begin next month.”
Martial shook his head dismissively. “The price of progress. There’s an old saying, If you want to achieve the impossible, you must first accept that you may fail.”
They took the stairs down to the third floor. At the doorway, Martial paused and turned toward the smallest man. “Ekman, I’d like a word.” The others continued down the stairs. Only Ekman followed Martial into the hall.
“The problem I tasked you with,” Martial said. “I’m told you took care of it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the mess?”
“Cleaned up as best we could.”
“Did you talk to him first?”
“Yes. We sat in the kitchen and had a chat.”
“And your opinion?”
“My opinion, sir?”
“Of Manuel. His state of mind. His motive. Why did he do it?”
“I think he was crazy.”
Martial nodded. “It seems to be an occupational risk.” He stopped at the door of his private quarters. “And our property was recovered?”
“Yes. Deceased. The autopsy will take place at the same time as the others.”
“Excellent work. I appreciate the efficiency with which you handled the situation.”
Ekman dipped his chin slightly in response.
“Is there anything else I need to know?”
Ekman gestured toward the door. “She’s waiting for you, sir,” he said.
“Wait outside.”
“Yes, sir.”
Martial stepped through, and Ekman closed the door after him.
Martial kept apartments at several of his facilities. It made the travel more bearable. They were small and functional and clean. Everything his life wasn’t. He wandered into the kitchen and mixed a drink. A tall one.
In his office, he found Sacha. She was standing at the window. She’d lost weight. They kissed awkward hellos on the cheek. “Joseph,” she said, using his middle name. His Christian name. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself and pulled away.
“How have you been?” he asked.
She smiled. “As you see.”
“You’re looking healthy.”
“Ah, the glow of docetaxel. They should market it to all the girls. Also, it keeps you thin. A wonderful purgative. And if you’re lucky, the burst capillaries in your eyes give you that perfect come-hither look.”
“You’re particularly sarcastic tonight.”
“Particularly?”
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing that a few months won’t cure.” She stared out the window for a moment before continuing. “I saw it again.”
“Why do that to yourself?”
She stayed silent.
“I told you not to go down there again.”
“But still I went, didn’t I? Imagine that. A world where not everyone does what you say. The thought of it must keep you awake at night.”
“Why did you go?”
“I heard it was sick.”
“It was. It got better. And how about you?”
“I’m fine,” she said. Though of course she wasn’t. “That thing,” she whispered, “it’s not natural.”
Martial took a sip of his drink. “Are any of us anymore?”
The words were out before he could stop them. Sacha had tried to kill herself three times already. Three times in seven years, each attempt more serious than the last. So when cancer had struck, it came to her as both a shock and a relief. The medical team told him before they told her. A thin medical report on his desk that explained exactly how she would die. Later, she’d found him in the cell lab, and he’d given her the news.
“If I’d only known,” she’d said. And he’d understood that she was talking about the three wasted attempts. That last one a nightmare of blood and razors. When all she’d had to do was wait.
And then, with genuine surprise in her voice, she’d said, “But I thought only the good died young.”
Now Martial took a seat on his couch.
“It’s been a while since you’ve visited the lab,” she said.
“Three months. Not so long.”
“Time isn’t the same here. I think you’re avoiding me.”
“Don’t be silly.”
She sat next to him on the couch. She laid her head in his lap, and he touched her hair.
“I worry about what will become of you when I’m gone,” she said.
It was sarcasm again, he thought at first. But when she stayed silent, he was no longer sure.
Sacha had been a call girl once. Then something more. Then something less.
She had two months.
“You collect things,” she said. “These fascinations. And then you never let them go.”
“I let things go.”
She shook her head. “One day you will be solely comprised of what you hoard.”
“You can go anytime you wish.”
“Is that what you tell yourself? You have always been a great liar. Even to yourself.”
She was the only person who could speak to him like this. She was the only person with nothing left to lose. Soon, she would be gone. Perhaps this is what she’d meant when s
he’d said she worried what would become of him. That there would be no one left to tell him what he didn’t want to hear.
“We’re doing our best to keep you comfortable.”
“The drugs are good, Joseph, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s my memories that aren’t comfortable. Can you do something for those?”
She stared at him, ice coming off.
He knew that she hated him. She’d hated him for a long time—for at least as long as she’d felt anything else toward him. This felt fitting to him. It felt deserved.
“Have you seen it yet?” she asked.
“Not yet, no. I just landed.”
“It’s changing.”
“What do you mean?”
She was about to say something but stopped. He studied her. An oval face, pretty but too thin. She might have been a model once, if things had gone differently. She had the bones for it. There was a look in her eyes now that he’d never seen.
“I don’t think you have any idea what you’ve done,” she said.
“I know better than anyone.”
“Better than me?”
Martial took another sip of his drink.
“You can’t quite bring yourself to claim that, can you?” she asked.
“Everything happens for a reason.”
“If you really think that, you’re a fool.”
There was a time when hearing those words, spoken in that tone, would have driven him into a rage, but now it elicited only the beginnings of a tired irritation. Still, she’d pushed him far enough.
“Your mouth is not the ocean,” he said. “But still it can drown you.”
The phone on his desk rang. He didn’t move. He tried to remember if he’d ever heard that phone ring before. He hadn’t realized the apartment even had a phone. After five rings, it stopped.
A moment later, an alarm began to sound. It came from somewhere in the distance. It wasn’t a fire alarm. The phone rang again.
“I better get that,” he said.
He stood and crossed the room.
He picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“There is a problem.” It was Scholler.
“What kind of problem?”
“You better get down here.”
“On my way.” Martial hung up and turned to Sacha.
Just then, a new alarm sounded. Louder, closer.
Sacha’s smile made Martial think of bitter almonds. “It’s changed,” she said again. “You’ll see.”
Martial walked out of his quarters. In the hall, a strobe light flashed red. He broke into a run, thousand-dollar shoes on tile floors. He panted as he ran. Within a hundred feet, his lungs spasmed, breaths coming in a series of high-pitched whistles. He slowed but didn’t stop. When God wants you, he will take you.
Ekman found him in the hall. They ran together. They rounded the bend. It was a nightmare he’d once had. Down two flights of stairs. Lab lights flickering. A dream he woke sweating from. Only in the dream his feet were swollen and sticky, mired to the floor. In the dream, he couldn’t move at all. They pushed through a double set of doors and entered the lab.
An Asian man stood swaying in the hall, holding an obviously dislocated shoulder. He was in shock, his white lab coat red with gore. From the other side of the wall came the sound of screams.
“Where are you cut?” Martial asked, catching his breath.
“I’m not,” the man said.
Martial’s other two guards burst into the room. Phillips, the youngest, didn’t hesitate. He ran ahead, toward the screams.
Martial and his remaining guards followed.
The researcher shouted after them, “Don’t go in there!”
They pushed through another set of double doors, the word ANTHROPOGENY stenciled across the white surface.
Inside, a woman clutched at the mangled gore of her wrist. Her hand dangled at an obscene angle. “It bit me … it bit me” was all she could say.
Farther in were more researchers. He knew some of their names. Others he couldn’t be sure of.
Behind him, the woman continued, “It bit…”
Another researcher stood at the shattered glass doors. He didn’t seem hurt, but he looked dazed.
“What happened?” Martial snapped.
“A routine examination,” he said. “There was the sound of the helicopter outside. We tried to get it back inside … but it … it didn’t want to go.”
Martial stepped through the broken glass doors and moved farther into the room. Somewhere, the screaming man went silent. Scholler pulled out his gun.
Up ahead, Phillips, the new asset, crouched low and kept moving.
“Stay back!” Martial called.
“There are people still alive in there!” Phillips shouted. On the opposite side of the room was another set of doors, bright red, leading to a secured area. Phillips pushed through and disappeared. From inside came a loud clang. Metal on metal.
Martial turned to Scholler. “Give me your gun.”
“Sir?”
“Your gun. Now.”
The guard handed it over. “The safety’s off.”
Martial strode forward and looked through the safety glass, into the next room.
“You should stay back, sir.”
“Get the tranquilizers.”
Scholler hesitated.
“Now!”
The big man crossed the room to the metal shelves.
“No live ammo, tranqs only!” Martial shouted after him.
Scholler opened the metal cabinets, fumbling with the tranq gun. He turned. “Sir, wait!”
Martial hit the button and the doors opened.
“Wait!”
Martial stepped through.
Blood everywhere, a severed arm.
A dead researcher lay spun at an odd angle, neck arched, face a mask of surprise. Scattered around him on the floor were blood and broken glass. Pieces of swivel chair, smashed lights. Broken ceiling tiles. And in the dark shadows farther into the room, a shape. The sound of weeping. This was the behavior lab.
Martial couldn’t see Phillips.
Behind him, Scholler entered the lab, tranquilizer gun raised. Ekman was close behind him, his pale hair standing out in the shadows. Martial held up his hand. “Stop.”
“Sir?” Ekman said.
Lights swung free of their cases, dangling on swaying chords. The sound of moaning. Then a flash of movement near an overturned table. Martial saw Phillips, up ahead, standing near the wall, saw his gun come up, tracking the flash of movement in the shadows.
“Phillips, stand down!” Martial shouted.
“There are people still alive.”
“Phillips!”
The shape moved in the shadows.
“My God.” There was panic in the young guard’s voice, and disbelief. It was the first time Phillips had seen it. The gun came up.
“Stand the fuck down!” Martial screamed.
Phillips fired. The gun went off, lighting the darkness with a muzzle flash.
Martial raised his own gun at Phillips and pulled the trigger.
The gun clicked.
Phillips turned toward Martial, eyes going wide.
Martial pulled the trigger again and again, the barrel pointed at Phillips’s chest—but the gun carried only blanks. Only two guards had loaded guns. Nobody knew which two, not even guards.
Phillips stared at Martial in disbelief—at the gun, the pulled trigger.
“I told you not to shoot,” Martial said, gun still raised.
Phillips raised his own gun toward Martial, a reflex.
There were two pops, in quick succession. Red flowers bloomed on Phillips’s shirt, center of mass.
Behind Martial, Ekman reholstered his weapon.
Phillips crumpled. He was dead before he hit the floor.
“He was raising his weapon toward you, sir,” Ekman said.
Martial nodded.
A flash of movement crossed the room. The dark shape slid behind
a desk that had been flipped onto its side.
Martial moved into the center of the room and sank to his knees. He dropped the gun, which clacked loudly on the tile floor. Around him, the room was a disaster. He saw strange prints in the blood. Something not quite a hand. Not quite a foot.
From the shadows came the sound of sobbing. The scrape of movement, the slap of bare skin on the floor.
“Come out,” Martial said.
The sobbing grew louder. Then a strange voice, almost unintelligible: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Martial said softly. “Just come out. Come to me.”
The dark shape moved into the light.
PART II
FOURTEEN YEARS LATER
There has existed, since the beginning, a finite number of unique creations—a finite number of species, which has, over time, decreased dramatically through extinction. Speciation is a special event outside the realm of natural processes, a phenomenon relegated to the moment of creation, and to the mysteries of Allah.
—EXPERT WITNESS, HERESY TRIALS, ANKARA, TURKEY
7
Gavin McMaster stepped into the bright room.
“So this is where the actual testing is done?” he asked. The accent was urban Australian.
“Yes,” Mr. Lyons answered.
Gavin shifted his weight and glanced around the room. His hair was long, more salt than pepper, worn in a thick ponytail that hung down over the back of his shirt collar. Behind him, the door swung shut with the telltale hiss of positive air pressure—a hedge against contamination.
It never ceased to amaze him how alike laboratories are across the world. Cultures that could not agree on anything agreed on this: how to design a centrifuge, where to put the test tube rack, what color to paint the walls—white, always. The bench tops, black. Gavin had been in a dozen similar labs over the years. Only the people made them different.
“Please wait here; I’ll see if he’s available.”
Gavin nodded. “Of course.”
He watched the small man scamper toward the research team working at the lab bench.