The Walls of Orion

by T. D. Fox

  Day 801.

  Subject M appears physically healthy, but theriomutation sessions are growing increasingly unstable. Subject has become violent and unpredictable. Doses temporarily suspended.

  Day 803.

  Subject has forgotten his own name. Physically assaulted and injured one of the nurses. Mental deterioration has progressed beyond probability of recovery. Pulled from program.

  Courtney flipped to the next file. S.J.

  Day 1048 of human trials.

  Subject J. Female, 21 years, volunteer from United States Navy.

  Subject began showing symptoms after fourth injection. Personality changes apparent. All physical vital signs normal after fifth injection. Declined to be removed from program.

  Day 1052.

  Continued to sixth injection. All vital signs normal.

  Personality changes increased, but no violent tendencies.

  Day 1053.

  Subject J comatose. Confirmed brain death at 0100 hours. Family notified of service to country.

  Courtney let go of S.J.’s file, and it slipped closed. She stared at the initials on the front for a long moment.

  Twenty-one years old.

  Family notified? Service to country? So that made it all better. Of course, the White Coats wouldn’t tell Subject J’s family their daughter died testing an experimental drug. An experimental drug for the military, it looked like.

  On a whim, Courtney opened the file again and flipped back to the first page. Subject: S.J., 21, volunteer from United States Navy... Her eyes skimmed lower. There. The date.

  She had to reread the year a few times before it registered.

  That had to be a misprint. She pushed the file aside and leafed through the next several, to the first pages where the dates were listed. All of the files were the same, dated within a five-year span, with the first one dating back three decades.

  Thirty years ago. Why would W have files about Changers from thirty years ago? Changers didn’t even exist thirty years ago.

  Forgetting for the moment her original search, she searched for the newest. When she found it, she gave the initials on the front a cursory glance—and stopped.

  J.W. That was the newest file. The first entry was dated twenty-two years ago.

  J.W. If that stood for Jasper Wade, Courtney knew he was only twenty-four. So unless they’d started experimenting on a toddler in Oregon...

  None of these files had anything to do with him.

  She opened it.

  This file looked less professional than the others. The rest were typed, except for some doctor’s notes scribbled at the bottom of a few. This one was written entirely by hand.

  Day 1822 of human trials.

  Subject W. Male, 5 years.

  Oral doses instead of injections. Previous trials indicate a prerequisite to metabolize the gene serum for full effects. All vital signs normal. Oral doses to be continued biweekly for twelve weeks. Subject under twenty-four-hour supervision.

  Day 1904.

  Subject does not appear to feel any effects of the gene serum. All vital signs normal. Biweekly doses continued.

  Day 2140.

  Subject W, 6 years.

  Subject’s mother has grown suspicious. Biweekly doses now administered through food, instead of drink. Dosage increased. Still no symptoms observed.

  Day 2928.

  Subject W, 8 years.

  First theriomutation observed! Further case studies needed to determine gestational period necessary for full DNA metamorphosis. Subject W has withstood the process phenomenally well. Normal vomiting, vertigo, and sleeplessness symptoms. Mind and personality appear unaltered.

  For further research: Emotional intensity appears to be a trigger for theriomutational change. But only once serum has reached full gestation in the system. More trials necessary.

  The writing grew sloppier. There were a few cross-outs here and there, enough to make reading a struggle.

  Subject’s mother now monitors all food given to Subject W. Doses will have to be administered in an alternate way.

  No matter. It is too late to stop the process now. She will realize soon enough that our child is the flashpoint in realizing the next scientific age. Humanity and science will thank him for the rest of history. No great advance was made without sacrifice.

  Those cowards at the lab

  James was born for greatness. He is Edison’s final light bulb; he is Yuri Gagarin; evidence that a thousand failures will not prevent success.

  The naysayers

  Our success will prove

  My beloved wife, I hope someday you can forgive me.

  The final note was penned in the shakiest scribble.

  Courtney reread the last entry, struggling to picture who was writing. A scientist. That much was obvious. But then, it sounded almost like... a father?

  James. Edison’s final light bulb. The greatest piece of evidence.

  Who would refer to their own child as a piece of—

  She dropped the folder. It slipped off the counter and hit the floor.

  James.

  J.W.

  I happen to share the same initials as my father.

  “Can’t sleep?”

  Courtney shrieked, spun around, and almost dropped the rest of the files. She caught them on reflex.

  W sat half-turned in his chair. He hadn’t moved from the table, still leaning on his elbow over the mess of papers. He glanced down at the folder in her hands. Then back up at her.

  Courtney felt the files start to slip. She’d pinned them awkwardly against the edge of the counter, half caught by her middle and index finger. Slowly, she inched them back until they weren’t about to fall. She kept her eyes glued to his.

  The more the silence stretched, the more her heart slammed at the strange expression on his face.

  He didn’t look mad. W’s face had changed since the early days she’d known him: the wild expressions and crooked grins that never touched his eyes abandoned. The flat affect was unnerving, but now she’d give anything for his usual blank face. Or even one of his false Cheshire smiles. She could prepare herself for anger. Or a frightening show designed to intimidate, like that night back in the alleyway when she’d first stumbled on his secret. A confident, threatening W was something she had experience with.

  Not... this.

  There was a weird light in his eyes. Actually, a lack of light. He looked thinner than normal. If that were possible. His cheekbones stuck out more sharply than ever, eyes rimmed with a shadow that made him look... weary. When he noticed her perusal, he sighed, and stood.

  Courtney skittered back. Which was hard to do, backed against the counter, so she ended up scooting sideways. But W didn’t move toward her. He headed for the cabinets above the sink.

  “I find,” he said, rummaging through the topmost one. “Nights like these have only one remedy. I’m having a hot drink. Want one?”

  She watched him pull down a box of cocoa, two mugs, and a saucepan from the cabinet. He set them by the stove. Wordlessly, he filled the little pot with water from the sink, and set it on a burner. He lit the gas stove with a match.

  “I’m sorry,” she said without thinking.

  “For what? I was going to get up and make one anyway.”

  His voice sounded softer than normal. But not scary soft. Just tired.

  “I’ve never seen hot chocolate made in a pot.” She was doing it again. Talking. Fumbling for words, unable to shut up even as her heart pounded out silent alarms for an impending explosion—which she wasn’t sure now was coming.

  “Pots are nifty,” W said. “You can heat ’em over a fire in a trash-can on a freezing street. Or you can heat ’em over a gas stove. Kettles aren’t so versatile.”

  Wasn’t he going to accuse her at all? He’d seen her with the files. Part of her burned to ask, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to throw herself under the bus if he was willing to let it roll by.

  Subject W. Subject W. The label bou
nced around on a loop inside her skull.

  “Are you going to put a ton of sugar in it again?” she asked instead. The first safe question she could think of. She could have picked something a little nicer.

  W’s weary smile almost looked real. “Just plain old hot chocolate. Add whatever you like.”

  He shook out some cocoa powder from the box into the pot. The water had started to steam, but he hadn’t waited for it to boil. Courtney smelled the warm aroma as soon as it hit the water.

  “I remember something about you,” W said. He stirred the cocoa. “You would go home, in the middle of a blackout snowstorm, streets full of looters, to make yourself a cup of hot chocolate. Between diamonds on the floor of a jewelry store and digging yourself out of debt, you picked hot chocolate. In fact, it was the only thing deterring you from a life of crime. The knowledge that you had a working microwave.”

  She blinked. “Wow. That... was a long time ago. I forgot I even said that.”

  “I didn’t. As much as I tried to, I didn’t. You don’t give yourself enough credit, Courtney. You think you’re ordinary. In fact, you’re a hard woman to forget.”

  The smell of cocoa filled the kitchen. For the first time, Courtney was at a complete loss for words.

  “I tried to avoid you,” W said. “The day you gave Margo your coat I realized that, interesting as you are, you don’t belong in my world. C, the funny little barista bored with her ordinary life. You’ve got dark parts and bright parts. You’re not a saint. But you’re not a sinner, either. Not like me, anyway. You’ve got your demons. Your ugly parts, that maybe a little more time in the rougher places would bring to the surface. But you’ve kept your head above the crazy. Somehow, in a city like this. And yet there’s one ugly part I can’t let alone. Perhaps the ugliest part of all. An unhealthy fascination with me that’ll lead you down the real road to crazy.”

  Courtney found her tongue. “I do not have a fascination with you.”

  It sounded weak even to her own ears. W killed the flame beneath the pot, and tipped the cocoa into the two mugs beside the stove.

  “And if... if somehow I ever did,” she admitted. “It’s not there anymore.”

  W turned to her. “Glad to hear it.” Handing her a mug of steaming cocoa, he smiled. “Cheers.”

  She took the mug. Her fingers brushed his, and he jerked back—not enough to spill the mug, but enough to make her blink. She looked up. He was already moving away, back toward the table. She remained at the counter, frowning after him.

  “Feel free to sit,” he said. “I’ll clean up my mess.”

  Courtney’s eyebrows rose higher when he reached forward and pushed some of his files out of the way, clearing a space by an empty chair.

  Unsure what else to do, she headed for the table.

  “I have a question,” she said, sitting.

  “I may or may not have an answer.”

  Courtney gripped the mug until it burned her palms. “Is your name James?”

  Don’t throw yourself under the bus, the rational part of her exploded. She forced herself to look at him until he looked at her in return. He already knows I read the file.

  W didn’t avoid her gaze for once. He sighed. “Drink your hot chocolate.”

  “If I do, will you give me an answer?”

  “Maybe.”

  Bracing herself for that syrupy hit of sugar, she lifted the mug to her lips. It tasted different. Oh—she’d forgotten he hadn’t dumped in the extra packets of sugar. The sweetness was inoffensive this time. She took another sip.

  Would all hot chocolate taste weird now that she was a Changer? Without an extra boost of sugar? The thought made her absurdly depressed.

  “To answer your question,” W said. “No.”

  She peered over the mug. “No, your real name isn’t James?”

  “The answer to your question is no, I will not answer your question.”

  “That’s sort of an answer in itself.”

  W smiled. “Is it?”

  She took another sip of hot chocolate. “Did your father work for AITO?”

  “No.”

  “Would you tell me if he did?”

  He settled back in his chair. “Probably not.”

  Courtney let the quiet fall between them. She was feeling less anxious by the second.

  “My turn for a question,” W said.

  He was going to ask about the files. She braced herself, half hiding behind her mug, and tried to find it in herself to be afraid. Fear felt like an old acquaintance she couldn’t quite place.

  “Why him?”

  “Who?”

  “You were never a hard read, until now. It’s obvious your old man caused you a hell of a lot of pain. And yet, of all people, he was your trigger. The idea of losing him turned your world upside down.”

  “He’s my dad.”

  “That means nothing.”

  “It means everything. I think he’s the only person I hate and love at the same time. And the more I hate him, the more it hurts. Because I love him, but he’ll never know, because my own pain blocked the way.”

  W laughed. For the first time, she heard through the sound. It was a very empty noise.

  “I’ve never seen someone psychoanalyze themselves so efficiently. Well done.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why?”

  Courtney hesitated over her mug. The warm smell of cocoa drifted up with the steam. He was right; it did help. She could already feel the edge of the adrenaline wearing off, sleepiness starting to set in. What time was it? Two a.m.?

  Oh. Right. He’d asked a question.

  “I’m sorry about your father,” she said. Her thoughts felt fuzzy.

  W stared at her. The smile was gone.

  “What happened to you was wrong. A father is s’posed to... ssss’posed to...” Her words tumbled into each other. Frowning, she tried again. “F’wssss...”

  The mug slipped out of her hand and shattered on the floor.

  W stood up.

  She tried to cry out, but an incoherent rasp was the only sound that emerged.

  She fell. He was there in an instant, before she hit the floor. She felt, more than saw, the world tipping around her. He lifted her away from the shattered mess on the ground and set her down a few feet away.

  The lights swirled with the shadows. She shut her eyes.

  It had happened so fast. She’d had no time to react... to suspect...

  Her thoughts dulled as the noises did. She couldn’t even hear W’s footsteps, just felt the vibrations as he walked away, and then returned. A light touch at her cheek. His voice sounded oddly pained, echoing from very, very far away.

  “Goodbye, Courtney.”

  It was the last thing she heard.

  20. WHO YOU GONNA CALL

  DOES THIS PERSON have a pattern of running away or disappearing?”

  “I already told you,” Dina snapped. “She’s never done anything like this before.”

  “Does Miss Spencer have any history of mental illness? Is it possible a depressive episode could have been triggered by her recent loss of a family member?”

  “No.”

  “Miss Ramirez,” sighed the officer. “I see you are very agitated. Our detectives are extremely busy—”

  “Jasper isn’t busy.”

  “Detective Wade has a personal interest in this case, and is only cleared to investigate the cases we assign him.”

  “That’s a load of crap. You just said this wasn’t a real case, and that I should come back and report her again in seventy-two hours because no one can get a thing done in this city.”

  The officer stood. “Miss Ramirez, I’m going to have to escort you out.”

  Dina threw back her chair, whirling before he could take her by the arm. She marched out of the office, door banging shut behind her.

  The detectives at the desks outside the office looked up.

  She felt their eyes flick over her: a quick, sharp appraisal. T
iny, red-faced and shaking as she strode toward the exit, she must not have seemed like a threat, because most went back to their paperwork.

  Before she hit the stairs, she paused at Jasper’s desk. Bright blue eyes held hers. He sat ramrod straight, fingers drumming on a stack of papers.

  “I’ll walk you out,” he said.

  She nodded. He rose without a word and escorted her to the stairwell. As soon as the door shut behind them, Dina’s voice rocketed around the concrete hollow.

  “This is such bullshit! They won’t let you look for your own girlfriend, and they won’t assign anybody else to look for her because she’s one more drop in the bucket, another person in a sea of missing people they can’t account for and don’t give a—”

  “They can still hear us,” Jasper muttered, taking her elbow and urging her down the stairs. They emerged into the main lobby. He nodded to his fellow officers as they crossed the precinct, steering her along. She realized she looked like an unruly civilian being escorted outside. Nobody gave them a second look as they exited, and with her flushed, angry face she didn’t have to try too hard to play the part.

  Before this weekend, she’d only hung out with Jasper a few times in person, and always with Courtney in between. Now, they’d seen more of each other in the last two days than anyone else. Dina hadn’t found anyone who knew or cared enough about her best friend to bother fighting the odds to find her in a city that swallowed people whole without a trace. But even Jasper’s resources in the OCPD were wearing thin.

  He pulled her aside once they got out into the rain. “Commissioner Van de Graaf is an inch away from firing me.”

  “Why? For caring about your own girlfriend?”

  “I can’t blow up this case any more than I already have, or I’ll lose my chance of finding her.”

  “I’ll blow it up as much as I need to.”

  “Dina, you said it yourself. They don’t care. The department is too jaded to pile all their resources into finding one more missing person.”

  “Then what are you going to do?”

  He hid his face with one hand, pulling at the skin below his eyes. “I... don’t know.”

  “That’s not good enough.”