Chapter 15
Susan Bouchard opened her eyes slowly, seeing very little in the molasses-heavy blackness that surrounded her. She waited for her eyes to adjust and eventually identified what looked to be splinters of blue light. The light reminded her of the underground bullet train stations on Earth, which used a similar shade of blue in an effort to calm the crowds that gathered there—the government’s cheap attempt at crowd control—but like so many other people, she hated the feel of the stations, and their singular use of the colour made the platforms seem dark and even more claustrophobic than they were.
She wasn’t sure where she was, but she certainly wasn’t in an underground station: she couldn’t hear the whine of the train riding the magnetic tracks or the hum of the crowd waiting for the train to arrive. What she could hear, when she turned her head in a particular direction, was an unfamiliar grinding noise far off in the distance.
She was not alone, that much was obvious: the smell of stale body odour was almost overpowering. Careful to breathe only through her mouth, her eyes roamed as far as they could see. She could just make out the silhouettes of other people—rows and rows of them—silently suspended in what looked like a huge warehouse. She considered calling out, but thought better of it—unsure she wanted the attention until she knew more about where she was. She sensed no other movement around her.
She tried to move her body, only to discover that she was restrained—at the wrists, the ankles and round her torso. A swell of panic rose from deep within. Where was she? Why was she tied up? Who were the others?
Joel! Susan remembered her colleague who had boarded the spacecraft with her. So was she on the passenger ship to Exilon 5? Where was Joel? She felt neither hungry nor thirsty. If this was stasis, she may have come out of it inadvertently. That would explain her confusion.
But where was Joel? She tried to speak, but her throat was too dry. She remembered the notice to transfer and her avatar’s eagerness to discuss its contents. Perhaps there was a hidden extra that she hadn’t been aware of and that she’d prevented her avatar from telling her about. Suddenly she regretted the way she’d left things.
She tried to recall the moment she’d arrived on the passenger ship, but could only remember the connecting flight on the spacecraft. As she’d sat beside Joel on the journey up to the ship, her inner voice had nagged at her—something hadn’t felt right. She should have paid attention to it.
She tried to piece together her last conscious moments. There must have been a clue—something said at the transfer facility or mentioned on board the spacecraft—about where they were going. Maybe the pilot had informed them of the change of plans mid-air.
What she could remember was that they had selected a seat in the middle of the spacecraft because of Joel’s motion sickness. The pilot then made a safety announcement. Seeing so many genetically similar people—blonde hair and blue eyes—had unsettled her long before she boarded the craft, but they were ordinary men and women heading for reassignment, weren’t they? The spacecraft had left the Toronto docking station, but even after it had settled into its flight path Joel still struggled with his motion sickness. Susan recalled how he had closed his eyes to stave off the worst of it. Then a strange odour had filled the craft—an underlying chemical odour lingering beneath a sweet sanitised smell.
Now here she was, and with no memories after that moment. As her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, she could make out more clearly what looked like stasis pods. These ones looked different—less inviting—than the ones she’d seen in the Light Box promotions for the transfer programme, where they’d depicted the journey to Exilon 5 as a comfortable trip in a bright and airy room. New edges appeared in the darkness, turning rough shapes into definitive ones.
‘Joel—’ she croaked. She coughed. ‘Joel, are you awake?’
She could hardly believe what she was seeing—rows of unconscious people, wearing identical jumpsuits, suspended in bucket seats above and below her, to the front and to either side; how many, she couldn’t tell. Well, at least we’re not naked, she thought, suddenly grateful for small mercies.
‘Joel, are you there?’ she whispered loudly.
The blue light was stronger now. Its purpose was to illuminate a number at the bottom of each bucket seat. A force field surrounded each seat—she could hear it crackling and feel the tingle of it on her body. Seeing the people trussed up in this way unnerved her. It was all wrong. She counted along her own row as far as she could see—at least forty people suspended on either side of her. What she couldn’t see was how long each row was or how densely the rows were packed. There might be thousands of people in there!
Susan studied the people in the row in front her, making out their faces now. If she hadn’t been restrained, she could easily have reached out and touched them. She scrutinised their faces closely, even though doing so sent shivers down her spine. Equally restrained in their seats, they were posed most unnaturally, almost as if they were dead.
Oh God, I hope they aren’t dead! Another wave of panic flooded her body, followed by a sudden bout of claustrophobia. She tried to shrink away from the others, but the restraints on her upper body only afforded her slight movement. Instead, she took a deep breath and reminded herself that she was a lab technician and trained to deal with death. She noticed, with relief, that their chests were rising and falling. She shifted her focus to the four colour-coded tubes that had been placed in each person’s left arm, including her own. If they were delivering nutrients, it would explain why she wasn’t hungry or thirsty. She wondered why she was the only one awake.
Slight movement in front of her broke her concentration. Her eyes darted to the face of the young man sitting opposite her. Had his eyes been open a second ago?
‘Joel?’ she called out, her voice gaining in confidence.
She heard a grunt close by and her eyes darted round. There was another grunt. She leaned forward.
‘Joel, is that you?’ Her eyes honed in on someone two seats up from her, in the same row.
‘Jesus, my head,’ he groaned.
‘Joel! I’m so happy to hear your voice!’
‘Susan? Is that you?’
‘Yes!’
‘Where are we?’
‘I don’t know. I’d like to say we’re on the passenger ship, but it doesn’t feel right.’
‘I can’t see properly yet,’ Joel said. ‘Owww, my head. Why does it feel like I’ve been slapped around the face?’
‘Perhaps you were being your usual charming self,’ Susan said, trying to make light of the situation. She felt someone else watching her.
‘Hello?’ she called out. ‘Who else is awake?’
There was no answer. She studied the face of the young man opposite her; his eyes were still closed. ‘Excuse me—you in front of me. You were looking at me a second ago. I saw you. Who are you?’
Tentatively the young man opened one eye, then the other. His fear was apparent.
‘Don’t be afraid. Joel and I can’t hurt you.’ She wiggled her wrists in the restraints. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Robbie—Robbie O’Shea.’
‘How old are you, Robbie?’
‘Twenty-two.’
He was on the edge of tears; she could hear it in his voice. She watched him struggle pointlessly in his restraints. The more he twisted, the more the bucket seat swung around and the more he panicked.
‘Shush,’ Joel said suddenly.
Susan heard a whirring noise and saw liquid begin to travel down the translucent yellow tubes into the arms of the people around them. None seemed to be heading for her or Robbie’s arm; she wondered about Joel.
‘What the hell is going on? Where the hell are we?’ Robbie whispered.
‘I’ll tell you where we’re not,’ Joel piped up. ‘We’re not on the passenger ship. I got a tour of its stasis room a few years back—my cousin works there—and this is not what I saw.’
‘What was that noise we just heard?’ Robbie asked, tears not far away.
‘They’re topping up the sedative to keep the rest of them under,’ Susan said in the tone of voice she normally used with patients.
‘So what are all the tubes are for,’ Robbie asked.
‘Well, the red one is most likely for nutrients. The yellow one is a liquid sedative of some kind, the blue one is probably to keep us hydrated, and the green one—’ She leaned forward to look at Joel.
He shook his head. ‘Haven’t the foggiest.’
‘Shouldn’t the nutrients feed directly into our stomachs?’ Robbie asked.
She heard Joel sigh heavily.
‘No need,’ Susan replied. ‘Our stomach acid breaks down food until it’s small enough for our bodies to absorb nutrients from it. The body then gets rid of what it doesn’t need. It’s likely that the compound they’re giving us has already been broken down so the blood stream can absorb it straight away. They use the same technique for stasis—it reduces body waste. The only thing you should be excreting right now is urine.’ Susan idly wondered about the nutritional makeup of the red tube’s contents.
Robbie shuddered. ‘So why do we eat food at all if it isn’t really necessary?’ he asked.
‘Because it’s the one pleasure we humans still have,’ Joel said. ‘Never tasting food again—even replicator food? Now that would be almost as torturous as having to listen to you ramble on for hours with your mind numbing questions.’
‘Are we the only ones awake right now?’ Robbie turned to look around him.
‘Yes, it would appear so,’ Susan said.
‘Who are you? Who’s that other person with you? Why are we restrained?’
‘You need to calm down. Stop struggling. It won’t do you any good. My name is Susan Bouchard and that’s Joel Taylor to my right.’
Susan watched Robbie for a moment; this experience was probably more frightening for him than for her or Joel. They had seen many things at the genetic testing facility in Toronto, where they’d both worked for the past three years. Their lab had recently commissioned a series of genetic trials to better understand the limitations of the human genome. The trials had been designed to target people like Annie Weber, who carried genetic abnormalities that normal nanoid treatments were unable to fix. While gene therapy had eliminated defects in human genetic code, seven per cent of the population still responded poorly to the treatment. Their trials set out to understand why seven per cent of the population seemed to be resistant to the nanoid delivery and repair system. Susan’s role had been to recruit and test volunteers; Joel was an analyst. Susan had been hired mainly because of her ability to connect with people. She’d always had that gift, even as a small child. If she could calm Annie Weber, she could console a frightened young man.
‘It’s going to be fine,’ she said soothingly. ‘You’ll only hurt yourself if you keep struggling.’
‘Okay,’ Robbie conceded through sniffles.
Susan allowed a few moments of silence to pass while she waited for Robbie to settle, take it all in, get used to the strangely lit space.
‘Shit, I just thought about a cup of tea and now that’s all I want,’ Joel suddenly said, licking his lips.
Susan threw him a dirty look. ‘So Robbie,’ she said, ‘you seem a little young to be on the transfer list.’
‘That’s what I was thinking,’ Joel said. ‘Did your family transfer with you?’
Susan had been wondering the same thing.
‘No, I transferred alone.’
‘Are they already located on Exilon 5?’ she asked gently.
‘No. They’re still on Earth. Why?’
Susan drew in a quick breath. It made Robbie start crying again. She ignored him.
‘I don’t understand, Joel. The transfer programme isn’t supposed to break up family units. Why the separation?’
‘I’ve no idea, Suse,’ Joel said. They both knew the transfer programme was supposed to move government employees, skilled workers and labourers first, to help normalise the cities.
‘This looks like a stasis room, but a modified version of it. There’s an extra tube here—the green one,’ Susan said, nodding down at her arm. ‘That isn’t necessary to keep people in suspended animation.’
‘Yeah, the same thing crossed my mind,’ Joel replied. ‘Are you thinking accident or design that we’re awake?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t believe in coincidences.’
‘What are you two going on about?’ Robbie said through his tears. ‘Where are we?’
‘Easy kid,’ Joel said. ‘We don’t know exactly.’
‘Are we on the passenger ship?’
‘No,’ Susan said.
‘Are we in stasis?’
‘No. It’s a little too sterile for stasis, I think,’ said Susan.
‘Exactly!’ Joel said. ‘I couldn’t put my finger on it. So what the hell are we doing here? Why have they got us trussed up like animals?’
Susan’s previously calm and soothing voice had a new edge to it. ‘Well, if I knew that we wouldn’t be debating the issue.’
Robbie sniffed. ‘When are we getting to the new planet?’
‘Oh God,’ Joel groaned. ‘I sense another Annie Weber in our midst. Susan, you take this one. You’re good with the crazies.’
‘Joel!’ Susan scolded him. ‘He’s just a kid, and he has a right to ask questions.’
Joel grunted.
‘Stop talking about me like I’m not here,’ Robbie moaned. ‘Where are we?’
Susan sighed. ‘My guess is that we aren’t going to Exilon 5. I reckon we’re still somewhere on Earth.’
‘And?’ Robbie wasn’t going to be fobbed off like a child.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What about the rest of it? Why are we here?’
‘What did you do before you were called to transfer?’ Susan asked him, trying to change the subject.
‘I work … I worked as a trainee in a food replication company.’
‘And your father?’
‘He works in an obsolete technology processing plant. Why?’
‘Doing what exactly?’
‘He’s an engineer.’
‘No, I mean, specifically?’
‘I don’t know. Building stuff, I guess.’
‘Is it high end stuff? Does he work with the garbage processing plants or does he build autobots? Help me out here.’
‘Em, I don’t know.’
‘Try to think. Please.’
‘I think it’s all high end stuff, like military hardware, software.’
‘Okay.’
‘I can hear the wheels turning, Suse,’ Joel interrupted. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘The work we do has to be linked somehow,’ Susan explained. ‘The boy is quite intelligent’—Joel grunted—‘His father works in a high tech company. So we’re all important people with the same genetics.’
‘So you think it’s to do with genetics testing? But that’s what we do,’ said Joel sounding a bit miffed.
‘Yes, but our tests concentrate solely on people with genetic anomalies—that the government regard as misfits. You and me, and this boy here, don’t fall into that category.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘It can’t be a coincidence that we’ve been rounded up like sheep. Here we are, a bunch of genetically similar people who’ve been brought together—but for what purpose? I didn’t make anything of it when Deighton changed the transfer selection criteria recently. I keep thinking about the early twentieth-century human trials—a Nazi dictator and his doctor, Josef Mengele—except in this century, we use volunteers. We don’t test people against their will.’
‘Who’s Josef Mengele?’ Robbie asked.
‘They nicknamed him the Angel of Death,’ Susan went on. ‘During World War II, Adolf Hitler ordered Mengele to create an Aryan master race of blonde-haired, blue-eyed people. The doctor had a serious fixation with pregnant women and twins, and brutally butchered both so he could identify the genetic code that produced twins.’
‘Oh, yeah, that mad psycho. He and Annie Weber would have been perfect for each other,’ Joel said, snorting. ‘I read reports that he’d practised medicine in Candido Godoi in Brazil, where there were unusually high twin birth rates. But the reports were later disproved. They reckoned that he’d actually been testing in Rio de Janeiro all along, where twin births were easier to hide and Candido Godoi was an elaborate smokescreen.’
‘What does some doctor who died centuries ago have to do with us?’ Robbie whined.
‘Are you saying we’re going to be butchered?’
‘Shut up for a minute, kid—the grown-ups are talking,’ Joel snapped. He turned to Susan. ‘Okay, so if they’re genetically testing us, what are they testing for? Some particular trait?’
‘I reckon intelligence is a key marker for them,’ Susan said. ‘We know the new treatments have limited success in those with sub intelligence. After that, I really couldn’t guess what they’re planning to do.’
‘The kid here is very young,’ Joel said. ‘Not that intelligent, though’—Robbie let out a string of expletives—‘Any thoughts?’
‘Lack of empathy in teenagers? Maybe the differences between our adult brains and his juvenile brain are of interest to them. If it was me doing the testing, it’s one of the things I’d check for—how genetic manipulation affects brain activity in adults who have an active medial prefrontal cortex, as opposed to teenagers that don’t.’
‘How do you know all of this?’ Robbie narrowed his eyes.
Susan sighed wearily. ‘Joel and I are lab technicians, working for a subsidiary group of the World Government. We administer and monitor results in humans when new genetic code is added.’
Robbie swallowed hard. ‘So what’s likely to happen to us?’
Susan had to admit she didn’t have an answer for that one. This was new territory for her. ‘We’ll have to wait and see,’ was all she said.