Immutable

by Cidney Swanson

  Releasing her final patient for the evening, Martina turned to wash her hands one last time.

  It had been three months since Hansel and Georg had, to use the common phrase, gone rogue. They had left before Pfeffer had offered Immutin in exchange for a new life and education. Maybe they would have accepted Pfeffer’s proposal, after all, given the opportunity. But probably not. They had never been satisfied with their circumstances.

  Martina wasn’t sure she was satisfied, exactly, with her present life, but she didn’t know what she would choose instead. She wasn’t ready to run, as Hansel and Georg had done. Sometimes, she thought she helped Pfeffer to see things from her perspective, from that of her fellow Angel Corps siblings. She thought she was making a difference. And Martina yearned deeply to make a difference.

  Sometimes Pfeffer seemed open, seemed ready to listen. But was he just fooling her? How would she know the difference? It came back to trust. How could she trust someone she didn’t even know? Pfeffer, at least, she saw with some regularity. She hadn’t seen de Rochefort in months. She suspected he held the actual power between the two of them, but of his plans for the Angels, she was completely in the dark.

  And that was the root of the problem. Trust was a two-way street. It had to be reciprocal for it to mean anything, but Pfeffer (and de Rochefort) refused to grant trust to Angel Corps members like herself. They dispensed Neuroprine, not trust.

  And so, she did not trust them, either. But she could continue to argue with them for greater autonomy.

  Martina sometimes thought if it hadn’t been for her arguments with Pfeffer following her brothers’ defection, Pfeffer might have just started dosing the three of them with Immutin without telling them. She’d argued with Pfeffer—and with de Rochefort, too—that this sort of “playing God” was what had driven Hansel and Georg away in the first place. Her half-brothers had resented Pfeffer’s assumption that he knew what was best for the world, and therefore best for them.

  Who was Pfeffer, or de Rochefort, to make such an assumption? They were acting just like Helmann in this regard.

  She dried her hands for the last time that day. It was not yet midnight. She was glad—she loved to hear the bells of Nice at all hours, but there was something magical about the twelve strokes echoing across the cobbled streets of the old city. And of course, she had her evening of invisibility—another sort of magic.

  She planned to do what she always did: wander the streets and alleys of Nice to perform small acts of kindness for the unfortunate, who streamed endlessly through the clinic doors.

  Several times, she had come close to telling Pfeffer of one deed or another performed under cover of invisibility. What was it about him that seemed to invite such disclosures? She supposed it was his compassionate nature.

  All right, all right. So Pfeffer was no Helmann. Martina knew that. But she didn’t think he or de Rochefort should have so much power over the sleeper agents they claimed to be “helping” integrate into society. Martina was well-integrated at this point. Yes, the world was a very different place from what she’d been taught, growing up in Helmann’s tightly controlled compounds. And yes, she’d learned things that terrified and amazed her; people, in particular, were both uglier and infinitely more beautiful of soul than she’d been taught.

  You are special, Helmann had told them again and again.

  You are chosen.

  You will change the broken world into paradise.

  Martina no longer believed these things, but she knew that if it came down to a choice between contributing to the brokenness or the healing of the world, she would choose to heal. So that meant sticking with Pfeffer. For now.

  Not that she had a choice; even if she wanted to leave, she couldn’t. Thanks to her body’s inability to produce a critical enzyme, she would die if she didn’t come back for her injections every two weeks. She cursed Girard Helmann’s memory for this cruel bequest—designing all of the Angels so that they were dependent upon regular injections.

  Now, though, this was another thing she held against Pfeffer. He’d said, Not yet, when she’d asked if he would tell her which enzyme her body couldn’t make on its own. Would he, one day, demand she submit to treatment with Immutin in order to receive her enzymatic treatment? The thought sent a tingling, icy sensation through her.

  But tonight was going to be a good night, she reminded herself. Enough brooding.

  She shut herself in the clinic’s linen closet, locking the door from the inside with a latch she’d illegally installed for privacy. No one noticed it because no one but her made a habit of secreting themselves in the closet.

  Martina settled her mind and chose a melody to ease her out of her fleshly existence. Would she disappear? One of these days, she might have lost enough weight or had some other metabolic change that meant the Neuroprine lasted as long as it was meant to last.

  She felt the temperature of the room shift.

  Ah!

  Invisibility again! It was magical.

  And then Martina went out, passing through the door of the small closet, passing through the stone walls of the clinic—Ahhh! How it tickled!—passing into the night to perform her small acts of charity, her small thefts and … redistributions.

  One of these days, she suspected, her conscience would catch up to her. It was still stealing, even if she only took things from stores whose proprietors she knew cheated their customers. For now, she was engaged in outrunning her conscience and hoping it wouldn’t catch up. Anyway, the famille Rosen needed diapers for their new enfant. And papa Ngo had been shorted by his employer again, which meant small Amelie had received only a pastry to celebrate her birthday. Martina rather thought she would prefer a doll. She placed one in the family’s tiny kitchen, complete with a tiny label: Joyeux Anniversaire, Chère Amelie.

  Through the streets, Martina wandered, dispensing presents practical and wildly not practical to the needy, the deserving, the suffering. She would be tired tomorrow.

  But tomorrow, she would not be able to do what she did tonight. Tomorrow her veins would flow with Neuroprine.

  Invisibly, she smiled and hurried to her next destination.

  8

  NEAT AS A PICKPOCKET

  Nice, France

  Martina was, indeed, very tired the following morning at the clinic.

  She spent the hours before Dr. Pfeffer arrived administering tetanus boosters to a group of school age children whose parents had neglected to keep their children’s vaccinations up to date. Tetanus shots were mandatory in France, and Martina was excellent at delivering them in as pain-free a manner as was possible.

  If she’d been a tiny bit sleepier, she might never have come up with The Plan.

  If she’d been a bit more awake, her conscience might have had more to say.

  If Pfeffer had been better rested, he might have noticed what she was up to.

  The idea came to her as she completed her sixth vaccination. The tetanus toxoid and Neuroprine vaccines were bottled in identical vials. Well, except for the prominent label on one, stating that it contained tetanus toxoid. Pfeffer did not label the Neuroprine vials. It was sloppy of him, but there it was.

  There, too, was the genesis of The Plan.

  Prior to Pfeffer’s arrival, Martina requested and was granted a fifteen minute break. She spent every one of those minutes scrubbing a label off of a tetanus vaccine. When she’d finished and given the vial a quick shake, it looked exactly like the small vials used every two weeks to prevent her from vanishing. In fact, the more Martina examined the turbid, whitish-grey liquid, the more she became convinced she could get away with a quick swap-out.

  She would need a distraction, of course.

  She returned to her work, the now unlabeled vial safely tucked in a pocket. Pfeffer must have been detained at his meeting with her brothers. She didn’t hear his familiar rap until fifteen minutes after she’d expected him.

  “How are my brothers?” asked Martina, as she opened the d
oor to admit Pfeffer.

  “They are well,” replied Pfeffer. “Quite well. I wanted to run additional tests…. Oh, dear. I’m late, aren’t I?” The corners of his mouth turned slightly downward. That was classic Pfeffer—he existed as if in a perpetual state of disappointment with himself.

  “It’s fine,” said Martina, smiling and rolling up her sleeve. “I’m all caught up, for the moment.”

  Pfeffer opened his old-fashioned doctor bag and then, shaking his head at himself, closed it again. He turned to the sink to wash his hands. After drying them quickly, he opened his bag once more, removing the required vial, syringe, and other components.

  Martina felt a familiar chill, left over from a childhood filled with too many sharp things. Matron had been none too careful administering the childrens’ required enzymes, the ones their bodies had been genetically designed to not produce. Martina swallowed as if to rid herself of the memories. Pfeffer, at least, was very gentle with needles.

  “And how are you managing to fill your evenings, now that your siblings are busy studying?” asked Pfeffer.

  “Oh, you know. This and that. A bit of additional volunteer work.” Additional volunteer work, indeed. With a side of breaking and entering.

  Pfeffer nodded, donning gloves from a box on the counter. He hadn’t dried his hands very well and had trouble with the gloves. Martina wondered, as she did with every visit, what would happen if she refused the Neuroprine. She was fairly certain Pfeffer wouldn’t resort to restraining and forcing her. But then, he didn’t need to restrain her. He had a sure means of convincing her to accept Neuroprine. He administered it first, before offering the enzyme treatment that kept her from becoming ill and, eventually, dying a painful death.

  Pfeffer had finished putting on his gloves.

  Her pulse picked up. The moment for action had arrived. If she roused Pfeffer’s suspicions, she didn’t know what he might do. Use Neuroplex on her instead? Force her to accept the course of Immutin gene therapy? Martina was pretty sure he did not, as a rule, keep pre-drawn vaccines in his pockets.

  “How’s your week going?” she asked, her heart beating hummingbird-fast. “Is your knee still troubling you?” As she spoke, Pfeffer assembled the disposable syringe and needle. Then he picked up the vial. It was now or never.

  Pfeffer grunted. “Aging knees are a nuisance. I’ve been over at—”

  Pfeffer didn’t have the chance to say where he’d been. Martina, pretending to shift her weight, suddenly pushed forward, her hands grabbing as though for a handhold to what was just in front of her: Pfeffer’s extended forearms.

  And there it was: neat as a pick-pocket, Martina forced objects to move in exactly the directions she wanted. Pfeffer dropped the vial (from one hand) and the syringe assembly (from the other hand) to catch Martina.

  “Oomph!” she gasped. “I’m so sorry.”

  The vial rolled lazily and unevenly and oh-so-perfectly under a cabinet.

  “Let me get that,” she said, reaching down to grab (and switch) the vial.

  “My knees are in your debt,” said Pfeffer, emitting a soft grunt that might have been laughter.

  Martina rose, having retrieved the errant vial. Having, also, pocketed it. She handed him the unlabeled tetanus toxoid vial in place of the Neuroprine one. Pfeffer accepted the vial and began to draw the liquid from it.

  “Have you reconsidered my offer?” asked Pfeffer as he swabbed a section of her upper arm. “It still stands, you know. Friedrich seems very happy.”

  “They’re both very happy. But I’m still not interested.”

  Martina felt a sharp stinging sensation as the needle delivered the tetanus toxoid. She wanted to laugh aloud; she was getting away with her plan! With great effort, Martina kept her expression neutral.

  “Right,” said Pfeffer. He placed a small Band-Aid over the injection site. “I still think you’d make a fine physician. The offer stands. And you can choose to go somewhere else. Nothing’s keeping you tied to Nice, you know.”

  Nothing except her two remaining siblings.

  “I want to reconnect with others,” she said. The words slipped out before she knew what she was saying. “Other members of the former Angel Corps.”

  Pfeffer nodded, silent. He disposed of the used syringe, the empty vial, his gloves. “I think you would be a positive influence. You have a level of … determination that might be encouraging to the others.” Here, Pfeffer frowned, his hands on his hips, and looked at the floor. “Some of your half-siblings are having a difficult time finding purpose and meaning. Your strength—I think it would encourage them.” Pfeffer’s mouth turned slightly upward into a sad half-smile.

  “I’d like to try,” said Martina. Did she mean it? Her heart beat faster as she uttered the words. But was that because she was dissembling, distracting him from suspecting what she’d just done, or was it because she was eager for the change of occupation? It felt like either. It felt like both.

  “Thank you, Martina. I’ll mention it to de Rochefort. I’m favorably impressed with your progress. On many levels.” He smiled. His was a kind smile.

  She smiled back, wondering how impressed he would be if he knew what she’d just pulled off.

  “I promise to speak up for you,” said Pfeffer. He turned to wash his hands. “And you have no objection to … leaving your remaining siblings?”

  The idea of leaving had come tumbling out with no prior thought. But Friedrich and Günter had been around so little since starting classes. It was as if she was already alone in the world. Maybe a change of location would do her good. Maybe she could help others in making the transition to the real world. Maybe she would feel less alone.

  “Think about it carefully, Martina,” said Pfeffer.

  “I will,” she murmured, her brows furrowing.

  Her excitement for the next two weeks was dissipating; she reached for it, but the thought of all she could do and enjoy while invisible felt suddenly dull and flat. Was she ready to say farewell to her brothers? As ready as they had been to say farewell to her? She remembered how unconcerned they’d been when she said she would leave Montpellier to accompany them to Nice. Okay. If that’s what you want. If you’re sure.

  Pfeffer prepped the other vaccination, the one that supplied Martina with the unknown enzyme that would keep her healthy another two weeks.

  “It’s wrong,” Martina said bitterly, staring at the injection site. “What Helmann did to all of us.” Her hands fisted tightly, and her nails dug into her palms. “It makes me so angry.”

  “It’s frustrating to feel so much resentment toward someone we can no longer strike against,” said Pfeffer. “Someone we can no longer repay.”

  Martina’s eyes narrowed. That was exactly how she felt.

  “He was my father, too, Martina. He did things to me. To all of us….”

  “But he didn’t cripple you like this,” said Martina, gesturing angrily at the injection Pfeffer was administering. “Forcing you to depend on others or die.”

  Pfeffer sighed heavily, withdrawing the needle. “There are many ways to cripple a man, child.”

  “I’m not a child,” snapped Martina. She grabbed a gauze strip and pressed it against the injection site.

  Pfeffer placed the flat of his palm over his mouth, gripping his jaw on either side as he looked away. He was upset with himself. “Forgive me. You are not. I think of you all as … as children. So like myself and my brothers and sisters long, long ago. I find it helps me to maintain sympathy with your situation. But you are no child, Martina.”

  “If you’re so sympathetic, why not work on an enzyme therapy that lasts more than two weeks?” Martina asked quietly. Her heart raced with the boldness of the request.

  Pfeffer’s brow contracted. He stepped to the sink and washed his hands.

  She’d pushed too far. This was not the way to gain his trust.

  “I was working on such a therapy,” Pfeffer said, shaking water from his hands.

  M
artina’s breath caught in her throat.

  “But all my research is lost to me now.” He dried his hands carefully. “It remains in Geneses’ keeping. I have considered making the attempt to retrieve it, but Sir Walter thinks the risk is too great.” Pfeffer frowned. “And he is right. But there is, I suppose, nothing to stop me from undertaking my research again, from scratch.”

  Martina’s heart swelled. Would he? And might he allow her to help? If she could learn which enzyme it was her body needed…. Perhaps, in time, she could free herself entirely from Pfeffer, from de Rochefort, from all of them. The thought beat inside her like a caged creature wild for escape. She turned away from Pfeffer, sure her eagerness would give her away.

  “But I must weigh the risks,” said Pfeffer. He closed his old-fashioned doctor’s bag, the snap echoing loudly in the small room. “All the risks,” he added.

  Martina nodded. “I’ll see you in a fortnight, then.”

  Pfeffer’s hand rested on the doorknob. “Actually, I’m remaining here a day or two. I have additional tests to run on your brothers.”

  Of course he did. Tests to make sure her brothers would never, never regain the ability to disappear at will. Something bitter took hold inside Martina. Pfeffer was not her friend. He was not on her side. No one was on her side.

  “Au revoir, then,” she said, a feigned smile on her face. Until we meet again.

  “Au revoir,” he replied.

  And then he was gone, leaving Martina’s mind whirling with thoughts of her future, thoughts of her brothers, thoughts of the possibility Pfeffer might develop a better medication, fears he would discover her deceit.

  But she had no time to follow any of these thoughts. The clinic filled with the sick and the injured, and “that storytelling nurse—the tall blonde” was in constant demand for the remainder of the day.