Ultraxenopia (Project W. A. R. Book 1)

by M. A. Phipps

  “Is that why I’m here?” I whisper.

  He stares at me, his eyes piercing as he seems to consider my question. “Yes.”

  He rests back in his chair as that forced smile reappears. I lean forward in response, scrambling to find an excuse that might get me out of this.

  “What happened was a misunderstanding! I’m really sorry, and I promise to sit the exam again—” I fumble my words, and I can feel my cheeks flush as I become increasingly panicked.

  I stare at him in desperation, hoping my plea will be enough to get me off the hook. But any hopes I had are destroyed once I see the amused expression creeping across his face.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he says with a small laugh.

  My heart seems to drop into the bottom of my feet. I swallow. The confusion and fear mold into one twisted mess and contribute to the lump now rising in my throat. I watch Dr. Richter carefully, trying to find something beneath the mask he’s worn since the moment we met. Something about him seems off, and I can tell that his kindness is insincere. It isn’t natural, despite how hard he tries to make it appear as if it is.

  He breaks eye contact with me and peers down at the tablet placed on the table in front of him. His fingers tap against the screen three times. “Could you confirm the following, please?” He looks back up at me and smiles. “Name?”

  “Wynter Reeves,” I answer, wondering why he’s asking me when he already knows the answer.

  “Identification number and date of birth?”

  “73956241. October 14, 2040.”

  He wavers for a moment to look down at the tablet. “Blood type?” he asks.

  “O negative,” I murmur. But as I say these words, I remember what that woman said before.

  “Her blood type. It’s . . . changing.”

  Suddenly, I’m not so sure.

  Dr. Richter simply nods his head and proceeds with his line of questioning. “Mother’s name?”

  I think of my mother. Of what she did. Of how she didn’t even defend me: her daughter. Her only child.

  “Evandra Reeves.” I’m unable to keep the sharp edge out of my voice.

  “Father’s name and date of death?”

  I stare at him, both confused and alarmed as to why he’s asking me this. I swallow, trying hard not to make it obvious that the question has upset me. “Freston Reeves,” I stammer. “September 9 . . . 2047.”

  “Address?” Dr. Richter continues without pause.

  “A19, Unit 34, Zone 2.”

  “And what business did you have at W. P. Headquarters?”

  Now I feel annoyed. He knows the answer, so why ask? What’s with all the formalities? What exactly does he want with me? Gritting my teeth, I decide I have no choice except to humor him for the time being.

  “I was sitting my placement exam,” I grumble.

  He immediately glances up and meets my gaze, looking significantly more interested than he did a moment ago.

  “What sector were you projected to enter?” he asks. There’s a genuine curiosity in his voice.

  “Financial. The banking branch,” I answer flatly.

  He smiles, but there’s something about this new expression that’s even more unsettling than the forced grin twisting his lips.

  “You must be very intelligent to have been designated to that particular career,” he croons. “Financial often leads to a very stable and fulfilling life.”

  His eerie tone causes a shudder to run up my spine. A wave of relief washes over me when he looks back down at the table. A few moments pass in silence until we reach the very topic I’ve been hoping to avoid.

  “Could you please explain what happened during the exam?”

  His eyes fix on mine, and I find myself debating about whether or not I should tell him the truth. Biting my lip, I try time and again to swallow the lump blocking my throat. Should I tell him? What will happen if I do? But then again . . . what will happen if I don’t? Besides, I want to know what happened to me just as much as he does. If I tell him, maybe I’ll finally get that answer.

  “I don’t know,” I whisper, my voice just audible. “One minute, I was fine. The next I had a splitting headache, my vision was blurring, and . . .” I hesitate.

  “And?” he presses.

  “And then . . . it was like I was someplace else. I was seeing things that weren’t physically there, even though it felt like they were. Then I was back in the exam room.”

  I look up at Dr. Richter. His eyebrows are scrunched together as he seems to mull over my words.

  “What did you see?” he asks.

  All of a sudden, I’m not sure that I made the right decision. I think back on what I saw. I remember how terrifying it was. How real. But it couldn’t have been real. It was nothing more than a bizarre side effect of an ill-timed panic attack. Was that really worth getting myself into more trouble over?

  But real or not, it’s too late to back out now. They already have me.

  It’s too late.

  “Destruction,” I breathe.

  I notice his eyes widen before he clears his throat and adjusts his glasses. He nods his head but doesn’t speak. I’m not sure whether I should be alarmed by his silence, but I can’t find the nerve to say anything more to him.

  An awkward hush fills the room, and I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Goosebumps prickle my skin, and I realize that the suspense hanging between us is even worse than my fear.

  I’m about to speak up—to say anything to break the silence—when he begins to drum on the tablet. His fingers swipe at the screen, and in one swift movement, he turns it toward me.

  “I’d like you to examine the following documents,” he says. “Let me know if anything from this information seems familiar to you.”

  I stare down at the tablet, feeling weirdly on edge about what he’s asking me to do. My fingers tremble as they hover above the screen. I look back up at him uncertainly, but he simply jerks his head, reiterating for me to do as he’s asked.

  Reluctantly, I begin to scroll through the documents. They appear to be identification records, but they’re all for people I’ve never met or even heard of. I have no idea what I’m supposed to be looking for. The only similarity I can find between them is that they all suffered from one form or other of mental deterioration.

  Or, in other words, insanity.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t recognize any of them,” I whisper.

  “Don’t focus on the people, focus on their traits.” He urges with a wave of his hand for me to have another look.

  I scroll through the documents again. However, just like before, I’m at a loss for what it is that he wants me to see. When a few minutes go by without either of us speaking, I vaguely notice him place an object on the table in front of me. Glancing up, my eyes land on a small mirror.

  “Look into it,” he prompts.

  I raise an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t offer any explanation. All too aware that I have no other choice, I gaze down into the mirror to see my eyes staring back at me.

  One green. One blue. The same as they’ve always been since the day I was born.

  “Have you ever heard of a condition called Ultraxenopia?” he suddenly asks.

  I peek up from the mirror and slowly begin to shake my head. Without saying anything more, he reaches across the table and retrieves both the tablet and the mirror.

  “Like the people in these documents, you have a rare genetic defect known as Heterochromia,” he explains. “To put it in more simple terms, your eyes are two different colors. Although the disorder itself is completely harmless, we are beginning to link it to a far more serious condition. A phrenoextratic disease called Ultraxenopia.”

  He pauses, allowing a brief moment for this information to sink in. The trouble is that I have no idea what any of it means. Just as I have no idea what he expects me to say. I stare at him, feeling even more confused than I already was, and even more concerned about my current situation. />
  A serious condition, he had said. A disease.

  But how serious?

  Dr. Richter clears his throat and folds his hands across the table. His expression is intense. Frightening, even. Another shudder runs up my spine.

  “I believe that the hallucination you experienced during your exam—” He breaks off, but his eyes linger on mine, almost seeming to stare right through me. “I believe it was actually a vision. A glimpse into the future.”

  I gape at him, wondering if this is all actually nothing more than some sick, twisted joke. But as the thought runs through my head, I can’t help but doubt it.

  If what I saw wasn’t a vision, then what was it?

  “That’s impossible,” I gasp.

  Dr. Richter doesn’t seem at all surprised by my skepticism and responds by pulling out a device, which he sets on the table between us. He pushes a button on the side with a single swipe of his long finger.

  I watch as a hologram lights up above it, revealing what appears to be surveillance footage. I instantly recognize W. P. Headquarters. The automated female voice drones in the background, and I can see myself taking the exam as if I'm back in that room. My entire body tenses up as I anticipate witnessing my so-called vision.

  I notice it happening almost at once. I practically relive the pain, remembering the agonizing stabs that shot through both of my temples. The seconds tick by, and my eyes follow my movements as I double over in my seat. When I eventually stand up, I can clearly see the sweat dripping off me, despite the camera being positioned in the far corner of the room.

  Without warning, my body begins to spasm as if I’m having a fit. This goes on for many minutes, until all of a sudden, I stop moving completely. I stand immobile as my eyes wander around the room. A peculiar, almost lifeless expression covers my face.

  At first, I don’t realize that my lips are moving. I peer over at Dr. Richter, only to find that he’s watching me with rapt attention. He nods toward the hologram, and I lean in closer, listening carefully.

  “The end,” I hear myself say in a toneless voice. “The end . . . it’s coming.”

  I repeat this several times. With each repetition, I feel my heart rate increasing as a fresh wave of panic rushes through me. Why can’t I remember that happening? I remember everything else, so why not that?

  My entire body reels back when the version of me in the surveillance footage begins to scream at the top of her lungs. I gape at her in horror, seeing the lack of control in her every movement. Finally, she seems to come to her senses and runs from the room almost immediately after.

  Dr. Richter reaches forward and shuts off the device. The hologram disappears at once, and he stashes it away before looking back up at me. His expression is unreadable, but I can see the anticipation in his eyes. He says nothing, instead waiting for me to react.

  “That’s impossible . . . .” I say again. It’s all I can manage.

  His lips pull up into a tight smile. “Perhaps,” he muses. “However, the tests we’ve already run on you show remarkable things. Things that, quite frankly, wouldn’t be possible if you were normal.”

  I study him, wary of what I now realize he’s about to say to me.

  “Nevertheless,” he continues, his voice a soft purr, “we won’t know for sure until we run more tests. I’d like your permission to do that.”

  I find it difficult to keep myself from laughing. My permission? Like they ever need permission to do anything.

  “Won’t you just do them anyway, regardless of what I say?”

  “Yes,” he admits. “But I prefer my subjects to be cooperative.”

  He smirks at me, and I can’t help but catch sight of the terrifying glint in his eyes. It’s alarming—just like his smile, which is noticeably more forced with each passing second.

  He folds his hands again and leans across the table, his voice now nothing more than a menacing whisper. “You’d be providing a great service, not only to science, but to the State as well.”

  I stare at him.

  Frightened.

  Confused.

  I can’t trust him. I know that. But what other choice do I have? And, if I do cooperate . . . ?

  I nervously lick my lips. They’re cracked and dry beneath my tongue, trembling along with the rest of my body. Dr. Richter smiles once again, waiting patiently for me to speak.

  “If I cooperate . . . will you let me go?” My voice is soft, just above a whisper, and my eyes are wide with unrestrained hope. I watch him, eager to hear that single word. That one simple word that will mean I can go home.

  He looks away from me as he rises from his chair. The metal legs screech against the tiled floor, and he doesn’t bother to replace it before walking over to the door. He pushes a small button on the wall. Within a matter of seconds, the middle-aged man from before reappears in the doorway.

  Dr. Richter turns and smiles at me again, and I know without having to ask that our conversation is over. He inclines his head toward me before exiting the room.

  As I watch him disappear around the corner, I come to terms with the answer he refused to give me. Because, the fact is, he didn’t have to say it. The silence said it for him.

  They will never let me go.

  I TAKE A DEEP BREATH. My heart is racing, and every inch of my body is shaking. I blink nervously, watching as the two female attendants strap me back down to the metal table. The reluctance coursing through me is overwhelming, and I have to keep reminding myself that I agreed to all of this. I agreed to let Dr. Richter run his tests.

  Any sane person would ask me why. I’ve asked myself that very question more times than I can count. But the truth is, even if I had a choice—even if I could’ve walked away, I wouldn’t have. Because, deep down, I want to know what’s happening to me even more than he does.

  I exhale. Out of the corner of one eye, I notice Dr. Richter walking toward me. He stops about a foot away from the right side of the table, and his eyes are fixed on mine the entire time. He only looks away long enough to dismiss the two women with a single nod of his head. They make a few final adjustments to the straps holding me down and then move away, leaving me alone with him.

  “Are you ready?” he asks me. His gaze is overpowering.

  I take another deep breath, preparing myself. “That depends,” I murmur. “What are you going to do?”

  “I want to recreate the experience you had at W. P. Headquarters. Hopefully, that will be enough to prove whether or not you are who I believe you to be.”

  And if it isn’t? I want to ask, but I can’t find the words.

  “How do you plan to do that?” I ask instead, trying to distract myself from the troubled feeling in my stomach.

  There’s an indecipherable emotion in his eyes. It seems to shine, glistening with anticipation. It’s obvious that he’s enthusiastic about the possibilities standing before him—about the advancements in science he might soon discover. Still, I can’t help but wonder if he’s even remotely concerned about me. Or if he cares about the potential price for him to meet those very possibilities face-to-face.

  A price, I alone will have to pay.

  “We’re going to inject you with an inhibitor that will slow down the normal functions of your brain,” he explains. “Once the inhibitor has set in, we’ll send magnetic signals to a localized part of the occipital lobe, where we believe the visions stem from. If all goes according to plan, that will stimulate a response, which will replicate what you experienced before.”

  And if it doesn’t go according to plan? What then? But I’m too afraid of the answer to ask.

  My eyes lift to meet his. I barely understood a word of what he just said, but I grasped enough to come up with one final question.

  I swallow, suddenly feeling nauseous. “Will it hurt?” I whimper. My voice is practically nonexistent.

  He smiles down at me as he gently places his hand on my shoulder. “You’ll feel a minor discomfort at most. Nothing to be concerned about
.”

  I’m not consoled by his words.

  He seems to realize this because a moment later he adds, “You’re doing the right thing, Wynter.” The squeeze he gives my shoulder is a bit firmer than necessary, and his eyes linger on mine for an uncomfortably long moment. Then, he turns away, directing his attention to a nearby computer.

  I try to ignore my pounding heart and concentrate on the ceiling above me instead. I count the lights and tiles, but every attempt to distract myself only ends in failure. All I can truly focus on is my increasing apprehension.

  Leaning my head back, I take another long breath to try to steady my nerves. I almost manage it until one of the female attendants appears beside me once again. She grabs my hand and proceeds to wipe something cold and wet across my skin.

  “You’ll feel a slight pinch,” she says.

  I wince when she inserts a needle into my vein. A second attendant stands next to her, setting up an IV near my head. It only takes about a minute in total. When everything is hooked up, the first attendant grabs a large, ominous-looking syringe.

  She glances over at Dr. Richter. “Everything is ready,” she tells him.

  He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even make eye contact with anyone in the room. I watch him carefully, wary of his silence. A moment later, he turns to face me, and a shudder of panic rushes through my body when his fingers pull down the front of my gown. I begin to struggle against the restraints, but they refuse to budge. He doesn’t seem to notice. Either that or he simply chooses to ignore my resistance as he attaches a few circular pads to my chest.

  My body relaxes as soon as I realize what he’s doing. Within a matter of seconds, the sound of my heartbeat projects from the monitor beside me.

  Dr. Richter returns to the computer. I exhale, feeling his excitement in every long drawn-out moment and hearing my unease in the unsteady palpitations of my racing heart. It sounds frantic, and the tempo increases further when a large metal halo lowers around my head. A number of small bars extend from the inside of the ring and press forcefully against my skull in two-inch intervals.

  A loud gasp flies from my lungs when the cold metal touches my skin.