Invasion

by Eli Constant

  I decided to peek in on Acorn.

  He was awake and laying on his side. He kept relatively motionless. Someone had hooked a water bottle and feeding trough to the side of the cage. I removed the food; it really was too soon after the surgery for him to try eating.

  The drinking tip of the remaining bottle poked through a small hole in the side of the plexi-glass. Acorn’s body was pretty close to the metal tip. I assumed he’d moved to get a drink and I was glad he was feeling well enough to move and drink of his own volition.

  When I was completely satisfied that Acorn was on the mend, I headed for the exit doors to continue my exploration. I was about to leave when I saw a flash of light from another door in the lab. A single, silver door to my right- quite mysterious, I thought.

  Curious, I strolled over and peeked into the door’s small window. The lab inside was dim except for a dull glowing emanating from a large aquarium. I tried the knob and found myself turning it and pushing the door inwards.

  I was going to have to walk quite a bit closer to make out the contents of the aquarium. A monitor was scrolling through lines of code and seemed to be recording and feeding commands.

  Unlike the cages in Lab-3, bright light did not instantly turn on as I approached. Instead, a blue glow radiated above the tank and provided just enough illumination to see an outlined form floating in thick fluid.

  As my eyes adjusted, the details became clearer.

  The form seemed to be a human child, well past the normal gestation period. It was roughly the size of an 18 month old toddler, maybe a tad smaller… or bigger. It was hard to tell through the distortion of water and curved tank walls.

  There was a feeding tube connected to the lower abdominal area that stretched to the side of the tank where an external device pumped nutrients. The hair was under grown for the age and floated away from the scalp- about two inches in length.

  Something in the appearance of the child wasn’t quite normal. The face was a tad too elongated and the fingers a bit too bony.

  The reality of what was before me hit me like a freight train. I staggered back in horror and fell over my own feet. My ass hit the ground hard and my tailbone ached from the impact. The jolt gave me a reminder of my not-so-healed ribs and bruised side.

  “No… no way. No way did they do… what I think they did.”

  I got up from the ground and stumbled to the monitor. The lines of code and command had stopped. In its stead was an analysis report on subject: Sheila-2.

  I moved the cursor around the screen. When it hit the subject name, an underline appeared. I clicked and the screen shifted. Now I could see a conception date, vitals history, and a link to a genetic profile. That link confirmed my fears.

  The human genome had been crossed with undergrounder and not by splicing or cloning. It had been achieved through basic fertilization of Sheila-1 eggs with Anonymous-XY sperm. I had a feeling I knew who that XY might be. One of two candidates…

  Like a bad accident on the highway, I couldn’t stop looking at the data.

  Sheila-2 was growing at a fast rate, but not nearly as fast as a pure beastie. Obviously, the human factor had tempered that growth. The vitals were stable. The heart beat a little faster than the average human heart, but not so much that Sheila-2 could be identified as nonhuman during a normal physical.

  I was pouring over the makeup of the synthetic amniotic fluids (which had been modified to accommodate new needs), when I heard a door open in the distance and lights spring to life in Lab-3.

  I quickly flipped the screen back to the analysis report and ran. Then I realized that this lab only had one exit- and that exit involved strolling right through Lab-3.

  “Shit.” I exhaled the word softly and scanned the room desperately. Another door in the back. Thank goodness. This door had no window. Inside was dark and small… a closet.

  I worked my body between obstructions on the left and right and ended up contorted and restricted, but able to pull the door closed behind me.

  I heard voices in the laboratory. Funny. Outside these walls, I hid from undergrounders, but inside these walls, I hid from very different monsters.

  I wished I could make out the words, but the voices were just a continuous string of mumbles punctuated by sporadic pausing.

  I was stuck in the damn closet for well over an hour. I waited quite a while after the talking died down. Better to be cautious.

  It took forever to wiggle out of the closet. I knocked something over on the way out. Whatever it was hit the ground with a resounding crash.

  Opening the door lightened the shadowed closet a bit. I could see the outline of shelving. When I was officially un-stuck, I found the closet light switch and flipped it upwards. I stared at the shelves. They were lined with gigantic mason jars, each containing a malformed fetus. At my feet lay the broken remains of one of those jars.

  I was standing on a tiny arm, a tiny arm with tiny fingers.

  If I was hoping to leave no trace of my presence behind, I failed. Not only did I leave glass, fluid, and flesh, I also left a pleasant smelling and steaming pile of vomit.

  Funny how much I vomited nowadays.

  Control

  Before I could catch my breath, the next day had come and almost gone.

  I’d walked on pins and needles and did my very best to avoid Dr. O’Toole and Peters. I’d managed it most of the day.

  When I did run into them, the conversation was clipped. No mention of broken jars or barf. They were either purposely letting me stew or they hadn’t opened the closet yet and found my dirty secret. I was not looking forward to going to the lab that evening.

  I counted down the minutes to the inevitable.

  After only a few days at the facility, meeting the girls for meals had already become routine- with Allison grabbing them at noon and five then meeting me in the cafeteria.

  My daughter’s days changed only minutely, but I listened raptly all the same; feigning enthusiasm at every small accomplishment or activity.

  At dinner tonight though, I was self-consumed and Allison picked up my slack, smiling and laughing at Megan and Kara’s stories.

  Michael was settling in for the evening when we arrived at our room after supper. Allison immediately left my side and walked to him, pecking him sweetly on the cheek. Michael hugged her and then they left for the bathrooms together, hand in hand.

  Jason wasn’t there- likely a long night in the hangar playing Mr. Fixit. It was nice to know that I could leave my daughters and not worry about their safety.

  Michael and Allison were back before I’d finished the evening rituals and tucked Megan and Kara tightly into bed. I’d been so preoccupied; I’d forgotten to take them to brush their teeth.

  Kara was already cuddled down under the covers, but Megan was adamant that her mouth feel minty fresh before bed. I let her walk to the bathroom on her own. While she was gone, I laid down next to Kara. I told her a story, trying my best to remember her favorite fairytale.

  Megan was back too soon for my liking. I wanted my daughter with me, of course, but her return also meant that it was time to face the music.

  I walked as slowly as possible, dragging my hand along the white walls, but I couldn’t procrastinate forever. A few feet from the lab door, I pulled my palm away from the cool wall and let just my fingers feel the smooth surface. My hand dropped too my side as I reached the entrance.

  I took a deep settling breath and pushed through the double doors.

  I expected a bombardment of accusations. But none came. Was it possible that the doctors still had not stumbled upon the incrementing evidence? I sure as hell wasn’t going to bring it up myself.

  As a group, the doctors and I went over Acorn’s vitals set from the past 36 hours. Peter’s had been in charge of monitoring and recording his recovery. Acorn had stabilized about six hours after surgery and his breathing and behavior had remained consistent: regular eating and drinking. His periods of restful and active behavior were
well balanced. The stitches were holding nicely and would dissolve over the next week. All in all, Acorn seemed to be doing beautifully.

  Personally, I would have given the squirrel several more days to heal, but once again, O’Toole and Peters were anxious to move forward.

  I glanced at Sheila-1 and pictured Sheila-2 in the adjacent lab.

  The other incarcerated undergrounders were vegetating on their respective beds. Sheila-1 was slowly turning pages in a large picture book.

  Sheila-2 would be so much more… so much more like a human child. My mind flashed to an impossible image- my Megan huddled in a viscous solution, destined for life as a lab rat. Something was stirring in the back of my brain.

  Something that meant safety at NORAD was going to be short lived.

  Peters cleared his throat. “Elise? Are you alright?” My glance must have turned into a lengthy, contemplative staring. I mentally shook myself and focused on Peters.

  “Yes, I’m fine. I was just thinking about Sheila.”

  “What about her.”

  Simultaneously, the doctors turned to look at their progeny.

  “It has taken months to humanize her to this point and the other subjects are far behind in progress even though the same time and attention have been paid to their developments. It seems that changing by nurture is going to be vastly ineffective. Which I understand is the reason you have chosen to progress to controlling them by mechanics, but have you explored the possibility of species merging by fundamentally changing the humanoid DNA? They aren’t far from us, they just need certain elements… removed. Maybe the dissimilar chromosomes could be… bred out of them?”

  I was poking around.

  I didn’t want to explicitly mention interbreeding. That would be too obvious. I willed them to bring me into the fold.

  If I could get open access to Sheila-2, I might be able to accomplish something world-altering.

  I continued speaking. “But removing those elements would prove tricky on a large scale. We aren’t going to be able to capture each and every beastie and drag them into the lab. One risk we’d run by changing their DNA is the possibility of rendering them physiologically unviable. But is that really a risk?”

  I walked towards Sheila-1’s windowed room. “If we could, say, develop a nanotech carrying chromosome-specific vectors to eat away at non-human elements; well doctors, I would say ‘problem solved.’ Think about it: every day, our bodies fight off infection and unwanted presences in our bodies. Treat the undergrounders as human and they very well may become… human.”

  The doctors were quiet for a moment, but their looks weren’t contemplative. They were dismissing the idea before considering it.

  “Elise, we’ve explored all the possibilities. It’s not just what we aim to accomplish, it’s what our supervisors aim to accomplish. Making these creatures human or ultimately eliminating them isn’t the target. The objective is to find a way to neutralize them, but also make them a useful, controllable tool. Sheila is just an unexpected result.”

  “But you’ve encouraged her towards learning, towards change.”

  “Well, Sheila is different. She is a happy accident and we believe we shouldn’t waste this opportunity to further explore what the undergrounders may become in the future. Using Sheila as our ‘head of the class,’ we can average her development with a small subset of the undergrounder population. She continues to exist so we can project the future. That’s all. But it’s still not the point of our work here.”

  “So what, the government wants to use the undergrounders as tools? Maybe have them work in a factory, clean up trash… use them as weapons? I guess it’s not much different than fabrication machines or strapping bombs to kamikaze dolphins. Oh wait. It kind of is different. They are human-oids. If in the future, the undergrounders become civilized enough to coexist, what then?”

  “We only have the beginning of the equation. We don’t know what the government intends if all undergrounders become like Sheila-1 or what they plan to do with the undergrounders if we can control them.” Peters directed the statement at me, but focused his gaze on a nondescript area of floor.

  “Sheila-1, Doctor?” I asked. Peters hesitated, having obviously divulged something unintentionally. “Doctor, what did you mean by Sheila-1? Is there a Sheila-2 I should know about?”

  Perhaps my ambiguous probing had paid off.

  “I misspoke. Sheila is… unique.”

  O’Toole looked at Peters and Peters proceeded to walk towards Acorn’s cage, his mouth drawn in a taut line.

  “Are we ready to test our remote controlled rodent?” Peter’s asked in a serious voice, an obvious change of subject.

  He pulled on a pair of heavy canvas gloves and flipped the lock flap downwards. Lifting the cage lid, he murmured softly to the squirrel. Sometimes I saw a side of Peters that I quite liked. People who could show kindness to an animal must have something good in their centers. Right?

  “I’m more than happy to test drive the squirrel. Perhaps afterwards, you both will decide to trust me and let me in on whatever you both are trying to hide. I understand I’ve been less than supportive of your… admirations for a certain dressed-up beastie, but I could prove an ally.”

  “Elise, we aren’t hiding anything, but we are growing tired of your consistent judgment and persistent nature.” O’Toole’s face seemed to permanently frown, but right now the frown was so emphatic that he looked like a living caricature.

  I looked at the doctors for a long time and tried to convey my sincerity. They weren’t having any of it.

  I was just going to have to bide my time and be as amiable and helpful as possible. My thoughts kept veering to the human-monster mutt in the other room, making focusing on other actions a bit difficult.

  I was reminded of seeing the young undergrounder playing in the park in Eau Claire. Then, I’d been shocked and afraid of the fledging monster; now, my feelings were confused and all the more frightening.

  The remote… did not work. Circuitry problems.

  I had to spend several hours tearing down and rebuilding the remote. By the time it was put back together, my hands were cramped from holding the stiff tweezers and soldering iron.

  I tried to gingerly flex my fingers, but my motility was inhibited by a persistent tingling and aching. “Ouch.” I continued to move them and little by little my hands opened completely. I pushed them flat, palm down against the steel table to really stretch them out.

  I picked up the volt meter sitting several inches from the newly rebuilt remote and checked my connections for shorts. According to the meter, the remote was ready to rock and roll.

  I hadn’t even set the volt meter down before O’Toole had taken the small remote control off my work station. He fiddled with the joy stick and knobs. I hadn’t labeled them, but I’d walked him through proper use beforehand.

  Peters had put Acorn back in his holding cage when we’d had problems with the equipment. I was immensely thankfully that the issues weren’t with Acorn’s implant. I didn’t think he’d survive us going back in for a retry.

  The squirrel was once again placed into the small, makeshift labyrinth. The maze was very obviously thrown together with whatever materials could be salvaged around the complex.

  Some of the separators were made out of the olive-brown plastic bags that held MREs. They were stiff enough to do the job and gave a little pop of color to the other hodgepodge materials. The rest of the maze was made out of cardboard boxes.

  I pulled a small chunk of cornflake bar out of my pockets and placed it at the end of the maze. O’Toole gave me a look, but kept his mouth shut. Bully for him. I was not in the mood to be reamed over rewarding Acorn.

  Peters took notes; O’Toole handled the controller. It sounded very simple to influence left and right turns to navigate the maze, but in reality, it was a crapshoot to think that the connections within the motor cortex were positioned just right to stimulate the necessary areas.

  Alo
ng with that basic stimulation, we’d be transmitting a subliminal command to the control center. Basically, we were smacking the knee and waiting for a kick while simultaneously whispering ‘kick, kick, kick.’ In technical terms, we were initiating a reflex arc- the neural pathway ending in nerve impulse reaction.

  By sending the electrical impulse and embedded messaging, we were meeting two requirements- stimulation of a sensory and a motor neuron. At the end of the day, the brain should be unable to distinguish its own volition versus external manipulation. The conscious order and the automatic reaction in one harmonious union.

  Very technical, but then again, I was a brain expert. One point, Elise.

  O’Toole and Acorn worked through the twists and turns so fluidly, a bystander would assume rehearsal and training.

  When his furry body stopped at the dead end, Acorn happily pounced on the cornflake bar. It might not be a wild, yummy nut, but it was a deviation from the nutrient paste he’d been receiving since his arrival at NORAD.

  We let him finish his treat. When he was safely tucked back into his little plastic room, we all expelled air. Guess I wasn’t the only nervous one.

  O’Toole turned away, grabbed a pen and added furiously to Peter’s comprehensive notes; his tiny scrawl obvious next to Peter’s clear cursive. Peters, on the other hand, took the time to smack me on the back approvingly. I had to smile. I couldn’t help it. Go team.

  “Are we testing on Sheila-1 next?” I made sure to let them know that I’d not forgotten the Peter’s little slip earlier. O’Toole swung around in alarm.

  “Sheila? No… no. Sheila won’t be used in these trials.”

  “Why not? She’s the prime candidate. She’s showing obvious interest in human behavior. She’s over there looking at a picture book for goodness sake. She uses the restroom facilities properly. She’s not just vocalizing, she’s actually saying words. If you implant her, you could have a walking, talking, near-human on your hands. So, why not Sheila?”