Skin Tight (6 page)

He saw her calculating that response, trying to factor it into what she knew of the situation. She really was impressively clever, and if he wasn’t careful, she would wind up destroying everything he’d dedicated his life to achieving. Her kisses weren’t sweet enough to take the risk.

But he would.

“So do I look like I’ve been making out with the boss?” she asked, surprising him.

If pressed, he would’ve predicted that she would ask him to elaborate on his previous answer. Instead, she appeared content with his response, making him wonder what she’d surmised. His inability to read or influence her made him uneasy, as if they faced each other as equals.

He surveyed her flushed cheeks, tousled hair, and smudged lipstick. “You do. I have a private washroom through there if you want to freshen up.”

“Thanks. Then I’d better get back to work. They’re going to wonder what we found to talk about so long.”

He watched her walk away from him, hips swaying with a rhythm that offered an invitation he desperately wanted to accept. This attraction was unwise. She probably hadn’t forgiven him; it was likely a ruse to get close and persuade him to drop his guard. He knew how it was done. Rule one—get close to the mark. Find out what he needs and offer it. After all, he’d worked that angle many times. But as she sauntered out of his office, he knew he was going to ignore that prudent voice.

Mia Sauter was going to prove a distraction he didn’t need, but he was incapable of turning away from her a second time.

The facility was
dark, just as Dr. Rowan liked it.

In the cells, the overhead lights had gone down hours before, leaving the subjects to their own thoughts, should they be fortunate enough to own any. Most of his colleagues preferred the daylight, but so deep beneath the ground, it wasn’t like sunlight ever touched any surface here.

Sometimes he likened it to working beneath the sea. Some people simply were not suited for extreme environments. Those who flunked out of the Foundation’s training program also failed at life, but they never wanted to admit they hadn’t read the fine print.

It was deliciously quiet. Each cell had been soundproofed, so he didn’t have to listen to their whimpering all night long. The ones who could speak were fascinating. A few of them had even earned higher privileges through exemplary performance.

Gillie was his favorite. She’d kept her name, instead of a number like the failed experiments. She retained all her faculties and, indeed, possessed a rather whimsical charm. Instead of a cell, she had an apartment at the end of the hall. She had books and television, but no Internet. They couldn’t take the risk that she’d try to get a message past their blocks and firewalls. While she seemed content with her life—and she’d known no other since she was a child—it would be unwise to consider her a willing guest. Still, he knew she harbored a strong fondness for him; whether it matched his regard for her, only time would tell.

Dr. Rowan couldn’t take the credit for her or any of the other successes. He’d been brought into the research late, but he’d seen the promise of it at once. Forced evolution—a chemical compound that could jump-start the process and within a single lifetime offer incredible advances? It was nothing short of revolutionary. He imagined the thrill the serum’s inventor must have felt when the first test group went live in Pine Grove. Free vaccinations were incredibly alluring to lower-class parents, and when one added in a private clinic, it became irresistible. No government red tape?
Sign us up
.

It had taken years to collect the subjects they now held. One disadvantage the initial team hadn’t foreseen: underprivileged children had a way of slipping through the cracks. Their parents didn’t file taxes or hold down jobs with any regularity. Oh, the parents had signed releases, but they went off the grid thereafter, making them difficult to track. The arbiters of the tests had reckoned impoverished individuals would lack the resources to move around. Clearly, they hadn’t researched the hypothesis enough. Dr. Rowan would not have made that mistake.

So sometimes it was too late by the time they tracked their subjects down. The change had begun, but without proper treatment, their prognosis was irrevocable. Still, they must be studied until they could offer no further insight into where the serum went wrong.

Dr. Rowan went over the test results a second time, but he didn’t like them any better. His findings were conclusive: test subject 34-Q needed to be put down. Her psychosis had grown worse, and she was no longer responding to the medication. She had become violent when offered physical contact. If released from the facility, which wasn’t an option, she would become a burden on the state, a shameless abuse of resources.

He’d known her most of her natural life. They’d scooped her up five years after the initial trials in Pine Grove. Fortunately, many test subjects lacked a caring nuclear unit, part of the reason they’d wound up getting free vaccinations in the first place. The parents of 34-Q hadn’t argued when the Foundation quietly proposed to assume responsibility for her care. And for years, he’d tried to salvage her. He
hated
to admit failure.

But she was inferior stock. Instead of completing a successful transformation, she’d splintered into fragments. She sat and rocked, nothing more, and if one tried to touch her, she screamed. She’d long ago lost the ability to speak.

He watched her now on the camera in her room. Her dark hair was lank and tangled, her blue pajamas soiled with sweat and other effluvia. She was a thin, wretched creature, roiling with fear. Her eyes had sunk into the hollows of her head, so when she rocked back into the light, she looked like a monster out of a child’s nightmare.

Dr. Rowan sighed. It was a shame to waste a subject, but he could see no alternative. Her care had simply proven more expensive than her continued existence was worth, and though he ran this place with a free hand, he still had to justify expenditures to the board.

They were growing impatient with his process. The idiots didn’t understand the need for him to document his work; the world would one day want to know exactly how he had created a super-race that was faster, smarter, and unspeakably gifted. The board didn’t care about any of that; they just wanted him to produce a cash cow. Gillie certainly qualified. She was paying for the year’s payroll in a single month, and if he could stabilize her condition, she would earn even more.

He couldn’t have 34-Q draining that profit. Whether he liked it or not, science had become the province of big business. Like anyone else, he had a bottom line to consider.

Decision made, he flipped off the monitor in his office, turned, and filled a syringe. After capping it and slipping it into the pocket of his lab coat, he went down the hall. Rowan passed nobody in the bone white corridors. It was late; the day crew wouldn’t arrive for hours yet. Just as well, for this work was best done in the dark.

Dr. Rowan took a stamp out of his pocket. Though he was loath to admit as much, using it gave him a thrill. It was very much like playing God. Deliberately, he pressed the inked side against the first page of 34-Q’s chart. A red mark appeared, encircling the word
TERMINATED
.

Using his key, he let himself into the cell. Because she was used to him, she didn’t scream when he approached her. That was more welcome than she offered anyone else who worked down here. But she didn’t stop rocking, either. The sound of grinding teeth came to him over her muffled whimpers. From a distance, the cameras didn’t record the minute signs of her obvious pain. Tenderness overcame him.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “It’s going to be all right. I’m here to make things right.”

He could never do that, of course.

Subject 34-Q gave no sign she understood him. Her face didn’t turn in his direction. Her teeth ground on, as if she wanted to chew through the fabric of her very existence. He couldn’t imagine the depth of her suffering, but it was better that way. A certain amount of human detritus was inevitable when you considered the progress they were making.

The way she rocked, it took coordination to get the needle into her arm. Within seconds, she slumped sideways, her movement stilled. Though it cost a bit more, he’d argued for the inclusion of a powerful sedative in the cocktail that would stop her heart.

There was no need to be cruel, after all.

Dr. Rowan stepped out of the cell and closed the door behind him. His heart felt lighter as he retraced his steps back to his office. Once there, he rang for an orderly, a big guy with a set expression everyone called Simple Silas, although not within his hearing. The first—and last—person unwise enough to use the nickname in front of Silas needed seventeen stitches where his forehead met the wall. Dumb as he looked, he never missed an insult. So perhaps he wasn’t simple after all—merely silent.

Five minutes passed before Silas turned up, towing a mop bucket behind him. “What’s up, Doc?”

No matter how many times Rowan told him that wasn’t funny, the man persisted in the greeting. This time, the doctor ignored it, and handed off the clipboard. “I have a cleanup job for you.”

Silas left the mop bucket beside Rowan’s office door. He knew the procedure well enough. Inside ten minutes, 34-Q would be in the incinerator. Idly, Rowan wondered whether Silas said a few words for their dead, offered a moment of silence, or simply chucked the bodies away. It was hard to know what passed behind those dead, black eyes.

Dr. Rowan sat down at his desk and turned on the computer. They weren’t networked to the rest of the facility. The work they did upstairs was just for show. If anyone managed to get past security, they’d find worthless research on the long-term effects of sugar and caffeine on chimpanzees, among other such red herrings. He was amused at the idea of anyone finding an application for that information. A monkey could tell you that stuff was bad for you.

It was all smoke and mirrors, and it was too entertaining that the faux-scientists upstairs thought they were doing
serious
research for the Food and Drug Administration. They thought they had been commissioned to find more healthful alternatives to foods containing sugar and caffeine, like anyone would pay for that.

With a faint sigh of regret at 34-Q’s ruined potential, Rowan began to type up his report.

 

 

Gillie hated the
nights most of all.

Oh, it meant a respite from the endless tests, no poking and prodding and being hooked up to the machines, but it also meant Dr. Rowan lurked around the hallways, watching on the monitors. Her bathroom had a door, but it didn’t lock. The privacy was never quite enough, and sometimes she went in there and sat in the shower stall just to feel like she was alone. If she lingered too long, an orderly came to check on her.

Things were better than they had been. The suite she occupied was equivalent to a studio apartment, and they’d allowed her to choose a few colors and furnishings so she felt less imprisoned, not that the illusion changed the reality.

At least she no longer had two-way mirrors in her apartment. There used to be an observation area, where anyone could come and watch her, as if she were an animal in a zoo. If she were ever lucky enough to escape this place, she’d immediately join an animal rights group. But the prospect of freedom seemed ever more remote.

Bits she remembered from the outside world were fading. On television, people dressed differently than she recalled; they drove different cars. The automobiles were sleeker now, more aerodynamic, and they had more fiberglass, less metal. She knew these things in the abstract sense, gleaned from books, magazines, and various TV programs. Vicariously, she’d lived a thousand lives and never one of her own.

In here she’d lost track of time, and she was no longer even sure how old she was. Things never changed. They stocked her kitchenette on Wednesday, allowing her to pretend she had some control over her environment. But they regulated her recipes. They wouldn’t let her cook a big, greasy bacon sandwich if she wanted one, or biscuits in gravy. She had no friends, only staff who supervised her.

Shortly after they had first taken her for “treatments,” she wondered what she’d done to deserve this. As a kid, she’d asked God about it, but she’d long ago stopped expecting any answers. Bad people did bad things, and they got away with it.

Except on TV.

The drone of the machine comforted her, and she found it easier to relax with noise in the background. Overall, she slept better during the day. Nights like this one left her tense and fearful, as if she could sense the ill at work in the very air.

There was something about Rowan she didn’t trust, a proprietary gleam in his eye when he examined her, perhaps. She’d grown used to doctors who came and went; it was par for the course. Unfortunately, Rowan seemed to be staying.

He knocked on her door at 5:45 A.M. It was a perfunctory courtesy. There was no lock; she had no way to dissuade him from entering. As king of this underworld, he could do as he pleased, and so, though she didn’t know his first name, she mentally called him Hades. She didn’t like the notion of herself as Persephone, but it wasn’t like she could keep from eating what they gave her.

“You aren’t asleep,” he said by way of greeting. “Would you like me to prescribe something for you?”

She shook her head quickly. “No, I just woke up to use the bathroom. I’m fine.”

Rowan couldn’t read her mind; he didn’t know when she lied, unless he had evidence to the contrary. She didn’t think he’d devoted his whole night to watching her, though he sometimes did. His intensity set off all kinds of alarms in her, but nobody would come if she called for help.