asked, what they bargained for, and that would be it. The deal paid in full. Then he was free.
The notion excited him. He could barely hide it from filling his eyes. It had been so long since he was free of the tedious work, free of the criticism, the speculation and paranoia. Free of them.
The doctors never really accepted him, not fully. His judgments were always under scrutiny, always an eye watching. It was as if they were expecting him to fail them. As though they knew there would be a time when the protocol would be tossed aside so nonchalantly; as if his mere presence jeopardized their projects.
They are smart.
Doctor Barton smiled as he rounded a corner and came to a door, entering at once. Inside the lab were tables holding vials and tubes with colored liquids, some bubbling, some moving strangely, some steaming. Others were just dark and still. Cabinets lined one side of the room, DNA charts plastered to their doors. Diagrams of the human body’s muscle groups were scattered on the tables, notes and hand drawings plastered them. It was a scientist’s room, where calculation and risk were equal. So were success and death.
An old man stood working against one of the tables on the far side of the room. He turned as Barton walked over towards him. “It went well, I take it.”
Barton wiped the excitement off his face. He stood across from Doctor Whitmere, watching him pour his solutions into other liquids. “As expected.”
Whitmere looked up from his work to meet Barton’s eyes, just for a second, and then went back to work. “Good. I was worried.”
“There’s no cause for it. He was brought in quickly and administered at once. I will check on him shortly, of course. But all will be well. Initiation is not a concern anymore.” Barton stated flatly. His voice was like thunder compared to his counterpart’s.
“It is you that I worry about,” Whitmere returned.
Whitmere stopped working, setting his cylinder-shaped vials into holders. He was tall, standing slightly hunched, but his wire frame was misleading. He was powerfully strong and moved with fluency and agility. His slender hands were wrinkled faintly, the skin smooth and delicate, but the grip was firm like iron. His eyes were a dark brown, as were the small spots on his bald head.
“Why?”
Whitmere said nothing, he just stared into Barton’s eyes. Barton held his gaze, refusing to break away or back down. He wasn’t intimidated by Whitmere and enjoyed letting the other know. Barton was nearly twice as thick as the old man, with hands large enough to grasp the other’s neck easily.
After a few seconds, Whitmere pointed to a long flask. “I have a new serum I need to test.”
“As you well know, my last patient is here, already underway.” Barton kept his poise.
“Darryl? Was that his name? I don’t recall.” Whitmere smiled.
Barton shrugged. It was a game that the old man played to see how close to the patients he had become, how attached, how closely he interacted. Barton knew the game well. Knowing the patient’s name would reveal a side of him that they wanted destroyed. It was something that he had fallen for only once.
“He’s just the end digit in a very long number.”
“Bring him up to phase two tomorrow. I want his memory tested.”
“The patient,” growled Barton, “is initialized. I’m done here. You know that.”
Whitmere gave him a look as though Barton had missed something entirely. He sighed. “You must see the patient through to completion, Barton. That is what we agreed.”
“That is not what I agreed!”
“Do not be angered. You will have your liberation soon enough. But right now, I need you to finish-”
“No!” Barton was furious. It was happening again.
Whitmere raised a hand to calm him. “I know you must be angry. But you know the rules.”
Barton thought about choking the old man to death. He had dreamt about it, envisioned it for so long now that it was a taste in his mouth and he was starving to feed. He could wrap his hands around Whitmere’s scrawny neck and squeeze until his palms met.
At that point, he almost leapt across the table and did so. But that would close and seal a door for good.
“I need you,” Whitmere said.
Barton knew the old man was manipulative, but this time it wasn’t going to work.
“I am tired of your need of me.” Barton took control, as he was so fond of doing. “This is my last patient. I will do what I can for you, but then I am leaving. Your promises will not be enough to keep me this time.”
In the seconds that followed, Barton saw the shift in Whitmere’s eyes. It was like watching the light at the end of the tunnel turn black. Barton felt trapped, helpless once again.
“We shall see.”
Barton swallowed hard. He slowly walked around the table, standing close to Whitmere. “There’s nothing left to see.”
“I have a new serum to test. I need it to work. And in order for it to be successful, I need you. I wish it were otherwise, but I have been given my orders.”
Barton wanted to scream, wanted to run around the lab and break everything he could, wanted to see it all burn, wanted to inflict a pain so terrible on the other that he would never recover. An ache began to form in his heart; everything hurt at once. Breathing became difficult.
“It could take years for it to work,” he growled.
“We are breaking ground on new developments. You’ve shown us so much. Your talents are irreplaceable.” Whitmere placed a hand gently on Barton’s shoulder. “We can do more than just tissue alterations and memory displacements. Our nanomachines can be anything. We are unlimited. Think about that for a moment. Think about what we’ve done already. The blood cells, the membrane. We are unlimited. Stay. Stay with me and let’s create together. You are invaluable to us. But you already know that.”
“You can’t keep doing this to me,” he whispered coldly.
“I don’t intend to.” Whitmere held his gaze.
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because I can speak to the Council and inform them that you are no longer needed. I can convince them that it is time for you to leave us. And they will listen to me.” Whitmere smiled sadly. “No one here wants you to keep you against your will, doctor.”
Barton hesitated. “What’s stopping me from walking away right now?”
“Can you?” Whitmere knew he had him right then.
Barton broke eye contact.
“Just one more.” Whitmere promised. “Then I will give you exactly what you want.”
“When?” He kept his gaze on the floor.
“She arrived with the male. A young woman. She will be the last. I promise.”
“Your promises seem to lack something,” Barton shot back.
“Not this time.”
“If you break your promise, bad things will happen.”
They were quiet for a moment. No one moved. The tension could be felt between them. Whitmere’s face held nothing of what he was thinking. Barton’s told everything.
Then suddenly it ended. Barton smiled as if nothing was wrong. Have your moment, old man. You don’t have many left.
“Settled then.” Whitmere’s smile was not genuine. It was professional. “It won’t be as bad as you think, old friend.”
Barton turned, walked out the door and down the hallway with his fists balled into rocks and his face flush with boiling anger. Once in his lab, he unleashed a nightmarish scream then pounded his fists into a table until it was dented beyond repair.
Whitmere’s words echoed in his mind. He didn’t believe any of them. They would never let him go; they had never intended to. He was trapped.
He spun and wildly flailed his arms into vials and liquid filled tubes, watched them shatter, watched the liquids mix and begin to steam, watched it eat through the paper it had spilled on. Within seconds the paper vanished in a hissing vapor.
Barton felt as if his life was the paper. He would do as the old man ordered. One last patient.
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The corners of his lips tugged upwards. He might kill the doctor after all.
T W O
The bed was hard and uncomfortable. It felt no better than a metal table. It certainly was not meant for relaxing. The room was dark, and silent, save for the low steady hum of the tall, square machine beside him. A white sheet covered his body from the chest of his dingy white T-shirt down to his ragged ankle-socks. His arms rested on top of his blanket, his fingers twitched involuntarily. Dark hair coats his arms, almost hiding the dried blood covering the dozens of scratches. His brown eyes lazily opened, half aware of someone watching just beyond the fog swirling his peripheral vision. The drumming in his head was still present, aching like nothing he’s ever suffered. It was getting worse, even though they said it would lessen two days ago. He struggled to swallow against the dryness invading his mouth and throat.
His body ached through and through. It was more than just the pain from being in the car accident. This was deep internal damage. Things inside his body were not functioning as they should. He could feel something was amiss. But so far, all the doctors could tell him was that the accident left him injured in more ways than the amnesia.
“Who’s there?” Darryl asked, his voice like glass scratching a chalkboard.
Darryl balled his fists to push himself upright but the dizziness washed away his will and his eyes closed against the pain. Through his own groaning he could decipher footsteps. But he was still too tired to open his eyes fully, too hurt to care enough to make the effort. Sleep was coming again.
The side of his bed moved slightly. Darryl felt a