Psion Alpha (23 page)

“Get
used to the taste, Byron. Only little girls can’t stand blood. Are you a little
girl?”

Byron
would have said yes if he believed it would stop her from hitting him again.
Instead, he ignored the question and wiped his nose. A moment later, his butt
hit the mat, hard.

“I
asked you a question!” she barked.

“No,
I am not a girl.”

The
answer was followed by a roundhouse kick to the face. That one hurt worse than
any of the others. Byron hit the mat again, and his blood spattered the floor
in neat droplets like a burst of fireworks. He got back up, his vision so
blurred that he barely saw her foot greeting his face again. Every part of his
face and head ached with the pains of a hundred hammers tinkering on his skull
one at a time in rhythm.

“Dismissed
for the day,” Nicoletta said. “Get ice and prepare for the same tomorrow.”

Byron
groaned something unintelligible and crawled toward the door. Once he reached
her office, he picked himself up and staggered out of the dojo, ignoring the
stares of dozens of other students. He went to the infirmary and requested an
ice pack and something for headaches. Once he had medicine, he headed for the dorm
to check on Trapper.

“What
happened to you, man?” his roommate asked when he entered their room. The
bruising and cuts on the left side of Trapper’s face were healing well, but his
right side was still gruesomely puffy and purple. “You look like my twin.”

Byron
almost smiled, but couldn’t manage it. The meds hadn’t kicked in yet, and his
face felt like a huge stubbed toe. “Clardonsky decided to make me her pet
project. Said the best way to start is to hit me in the face for an hour. Yay
for me.”

“What?
Her pet project? Why?”

A
groan came from Byron’s throat. He hadn’t thought of the best way to tell
Trapper that he’d been hiding something from him for the last eight months.
He’d hoped he had a few more days to prepare.

“Because—well—the
thing is.… ” Byron searched for the right words. “I was supposed to keep it a
secret from everyone, but after you got jumped, Commander Wu gave me permission
to tell you. Not because you got jumped, but I think he wants me to be able to
defend myself better in case something happens again.”

“Just
tell me what it is, man.”

“I
wish it was easier to explain, you know?”

“Byron.
Tell me.”

“It
would probably be easier if I demonstrate it. Maybe with a tennis ball.… ”

“Just
say it!”

“Fine!
I have special abilities.” Byron grimaced as soon as he said the words. “Wait—”

Trapper
laughed hard, clutching his stomach as he did so. “That is so funny! Did Otto
put you up to this? Holy—Oh, it hurts to laugh!”

“That
came out wrong. I meant I have something like superpowers—”

This
made Trapper quake so violently he began to cradle the side of his face that
had been badly beaten.

“Look,
I have a hard time describing it,” Byron said testily. “If I can show you.… ”

“By
all means!” Trapper wheezed.

Byron
glanced around their small room and saw the pile of papers sitting on the edge
of Trapper’s desk. He pointed his palm toward the stack and pushed the energy
at it, sending them sailing through the air. Trapper’s amusement stopped as he
stared at what Byron had done.

“How’d
you—?”

Taking
aim at a single sheet of paper, Byron did it again. The force hit one sheet and
several others, tumbling them higher and faster above his roommate’s bed. He
did this several times as Trapper watched in amazement.

“I
never—I can’t—how are you doing that?”

“I
have no idea how it works. It started about nine months ago. Pure energy comes
from my hands and feet when I want it to.”

“Do
it to my hand!” Trapper said as he put his hand up in the air.

Byron
shot a burst of energy at Trapper’s palm, causing his friend’s hand to fly
backward.

“Holy.
Crap. It’s real. I can’t believe it’s real. And you’ve been keeping this from
me since you got here?”

Byron
shrugged. “No choice. Wu made me promise.”

“Freak,
man. Holy crap!”

“If
you say ‘holy crap’ one more time, I will hit you.”

“HOLY
CRAP! MY ROOMMATE HAS SUPERPOWERS!”

“
Shh!
”
Byron grabbed Trapper’s shoulders. “Hey, you can tell
no one
. I mean it.
Wu will expel me if this gets out. Not Otto, Emerald, or Xian. Promise me.”

“All
right. All right. I promise.” Trapper’s arm went up again and formed a square.
“But I have to ask something.”

“What?”

“Can
you block this?” Trapper grabbed the water bottle sitting on the shelf next to
his bed and flung the water at Byron’s face.

Byron
reacted by using a gentler push of energy, resulting in less force, something
he’d done only a few other times with moderate success. This time it worked
perfectly. The water from the bottle hit an invisible wall and slid down to the
carpet. When the boys saw this, hilarity ensued. Trapper chucked pillows, a
baseball, and several books at his roommate, whatever he could reach. Finally
he grabbed a baseball bat from the closet.

“You
want to try this?” There was a wild, crazy look in Trapper’s eyes as he stepped
toward Byron.

“Whoa,
Trap,” Byron chuckled. “I think you’ve had too many painkillers.”

“For
all we know, you can stop bullets midair. This bat is nothing.”

“Maybe
we should try some other things first. Build up to it.”

Trapper
frowned and stepped back toward the closet. “Yeah, you’re probably—think fast!”
He swung the bat at Byron’s chest.

Byron
reacted quickly, shooting the energy with all his force, blocking both the bat
and shooting his roommate onto the bed. Trapper hit the mattress and rebounded
into the wall with a loud
THUD
. The students on the other side of the
wall banged hard.

“Keep
it down, freak,” one of them cried, “or I’m gonna make the other side of your
face look even worse.”

Trapper
sniggered in such way that Byron could tell the medicines had, indeed, made him
loopy.

“Not
funny, Trap. You could have hurt me.”

“Looks
like I’m the one who got hurt.” He touched his nose and showed Byron the blood
dripping from it onto his finger.

“Still
… not cool.”

“I’m
sorry, man. I’m just tired and … feeling weird.” Trapper put the bat back in
the closet and collapsed on the bed. “Nap time, I think. Then study time.”

“Not
me. I gotta go check on Xian again. Then I told Emerald I would meet her in the
flight simulator for an hour or two.”

Trapper
closed his eyes. “Practice? What does she need practice for? She’s a natural.”

“She
ought to be. Her dad was a pilot.”

Trapper
smiled sleepily. “What are you talking about, Byron? She told me months ago …
her dad was an actor … who committed suicide.”

CHAPTER
TWELVE
– Genetics

Friday, November 15, 2086

THE
Queen
sat on the couch in her living room cleaning her guns and watching reruns of
The
Andy Griffith Show
when her com beeped with Clyde’s text:

Can’t
wait to see you! Pick you up at 18.

The
Queen read it and set the com back down.
What a pathetic man
. Every time
they went out, he repeated some iteration of, “I’m so lucky to be your
boyfriend. I don’t know what you see in me.”

She
wanted to laugh each time she heard it. So much irony. Instead she would kiss
him, look him in the eyes with her most adoring expression, and say, “No, I’m
the lucky one. Brains, body, and beauty. You’ve got all those, and you’re a
good guy.”

Each
time she said it, she imagined a laugh track playing like on the old
black-and-white TV shows she enjoyed so much. Unfortunately for Clyde, he
couldn’t hear it.

She
put down the jigger she’d been cleaning, cracked her knuckles, and surveyed the
table in front of her. All of her equipment was spread out on its surface:
climbing gear, night vision, a fingerprint manipulator, and more. She had a
pack that held all these. It would be stowed in the small apartment in Seattle
for retrieval after dinner. She certainly could not wear it with the stunning
violet evening dress she’d purchased for her date.

Speaking
of Seattle
.… She glanced at the clock and saw she had only an hour
before her air rail left for the Seattle station.
I’m right on schedule.

After
finishing her preparations, she donned plain clothes and took the rail from her
home to Seattle. She walked from the station to her apartment and changed into
her dress. Her only jewelry tonight was a modest pair of earrings and a small
broach, which also concealed a camera. Seconds after putting the final touches
on her outfit, a buzz came from the speaker on the wall.

“Kellie?”

She
hit the button to answer. “Coming right down, baby.”

During
the drive to dinner, the Queen and Clyde discussed the work week and other
events. Clyde, despite his lack of self-esteem and general tendency for all
things geeky, had a knack for conversation once they got to know each other. He
picked a swanky joint in downtown Seattle, the exact place she’d hinted she
wanted to try on their last date. It wasn’t far from his work, which meant it
would be easier to convince him to go to his lab after they ate.

The
Queen ordered a salad with vinaigrette and declined any alcohol. She needed
full control over her faculties and couldn’t risk heavy foods making her tired
or bloated. If her plans went accordingly, a long night awaited her. Flirting,
on the other hand, she participated in quite generously. She used all her
charms to keep Clyde as enamored and aroused as possible. His glass of wine was
never empty, and if her foot wasn’t rubbing his leg, then her fingers were
brushing his hand or biceps.

When
Clyde was just drunk enough to be as pliable as she wanted him, she traced her
finger up his arm and gave him her smokiest, sultriest smile. “You know what
really heats me up, baby?”

Clyde
gulped audibly and, with a croak, asked, “What?”

“Laboratories.
I love them. I’ve always wanted to …
you know
… inside of one.”

Cheeks
red and teeth white in a goofy grin, Clyde leaned in and whispered, “Are you
serious, Kellie?”

The
Queen stared him down and lowered her voice until it was husky and wet. “Very.”

“My
lab—not far—walking distance. You want—?”

“Yes.”

Clyde’s
head shot up as he searched for the nearest waiter. “Um—um—hello? Can we—can I
please … check?”

Ten
minutes later, the frigid winds of late autumn whipped her dress and his tie
about as they crossed the street to the large N building, which towered above
most of downtown Seattle. Despite the cold, Clyde’s palms sweated copiously as
he clutched the Queen’s hand and dragged her toward his building. No security
was required to get inside the main lobby decorated with the typical gold and
purple explosion she’d seen in every N building. The Queen knew where the
cameras would be located, and tilted her head at the right angles so no facial
recognition software would pick up her profile. They reached the elevator at a
near jog.

Once
in the elevator, the Queen embraced Clyde, keeping her face pressed into his,
her back to the cameras. She raised her arms high to wrap them around his head
and block more of the view. Clyde barely had time to press the button of his
floor. When they came to a stop, she wasted no time pulling him out with her
right hand while the left reached into her purse for a small piece of
equipment. He fumbled with the keypad, entering in his four-digit pin. The
Queen observed each number: 4261. He cleared his throat before announcing his
name to the speaker. At the same moment, the Queen turned on her recorder and
held it right behind his head to capture every sound:

“Clyde
Engelman,” he said with a noticeable tremor in his tone.

When
the computer accepted his voice pattern, he pressed his finger against a
scanner and waited for the light on the pad to turn green. She didn’t worry
about his fingerprint. She’d captured it three weeks earlier and had already
transferred the print onto her manipulating device. Before he turned to grin at
her while opening the door, she slipped the recording device back into her purse.

“Behold
my enormous laboratory!” he bellowed as they walked inside, arm in arm.

“I
love it already,” she hissed at him. “Show me around.”

Clyde
pulled away from her slowly. The last thing he wanted to do was show her
around. “What do you want to see first?”

The
Queen gazed around with wide eyes. Excitement was not difficult to conjure in
her voice. “Everything.”

As
they walked around the room, motion detectors turned on lights every few
meters. The Queen grimaced at this. They stopped first at his office. Clyde
lingered in here longest in case this was the spot she’d choose to give him
some action. When she felt they had been there long enough, she said, “What I’d
really love to see is your experiments. Teach me some things. Show me stuff
that will blow my mind!”

Clyde
gestured to another door. “I think we have two or three things in here that can
do that. Follow me.”

His
laboratory spanned the entire floor, partitioned off into several sections by
impenetrable walls with thick bulletproof windows. “The quarantined sections of
the office have top notch security. Voice, print, and retina scans.”

The
Queen knew all this already. She had the voice and the print. As for the
retina, she anticipated resorting to cruder methods to acquire that.

“It’s
a good thing, too. Lots of other companies would love to get their hands on our
tech. We’re unmatched in gene-splicing. Only a handful of others are doing
similar business, but, in my opinion, their product is garbage compared to what
we’re putting out. Our animals live longer, healthier, and we can produce them
at a lower cost because of our better tech.”

“So
this is the only floor in the building devoted to genetics?”

“Oh
no!” Clyde laughed condescendingly. It was a sharp contrast from his usual
demeanor. The Queen recognized it as the behavior of a typical male, who feels
master of his domain. “We have a dozen floors for research and testing. This
is—well—I guess you can call it the showroom. The products of all that work
come up here to be finalized, perfected, and shown off for retailers and
government officials who dole out lucrative contracts.” He swiped his finger
over the pad, gave his name, and scanned his eye.

“Access
granted,” said a deep, tinny male voice.

Clyde
paused before opening the door, grinning as he enjoyed the dramatic effect.
Inside, the only light came from rows of dimmed glass capsules. Hundreds of
them. Movement came from within each capsule.
Cages
. They ranged in size
from mouse-sized to prison cell-sized.

“Are
you going to introduce me to all your friends?” she asked.

“We’ve
got dozens of different animals in here. Most of them are part of our product
lines. Maybe a hundred or so are custom orders. Another large portion is
weaponized species.”

“Weaponized?
Oooh. I must see.”

They
walked past rows of designer pets. Dogs with human-like hands, cats that glowed
pink or blue in the darkness, parrots able to repeat words almost perfectly.
Clyde briefly mentioned details about a few of them as they moved along, and
how some of them were his own creations, best-sellers which had propelled him
up the ranks.

“It
also helped that the last chief researcher dropped off the planet,” he
explained. “Someone said she tried to sell company secrets, but the word from
the top is that she went nuts and bought an RV. Living off-grid somewhere in
the mountains.”

The
Queen felt a touch of pride. Amanda Price was the name of the last chief
researcher in the Seattle office. The fox had ordered her death when Price sold
blueprints of N Corp designs to AnimalTech. How she’d thought she could get
away with such a thing, no one knew. The Queen had handcuffed her, dragged her
to the nearest Thirteen cell, and dissolved her body in acid while she was
still alive. Watching it had been gloriously amusing.

“Here
we are,” Clyde pointed ahead. “The thylacine is probably the coolest thing
we’ve done. Took DNA from an extinct species, brought it back to life, and then
modified it. Every time I see one, it reminds me how we’ve only scratched the
surface. The sky isn’t even a limit anymore.”

The
Queen surveyed the animal without interest. She’d seen the fox’s thylacine,
Lacy, dozens of times. It had a funny scent and didn’t like her. From somewhere
farther down the lab came the screeching of monkeys. Their cries were full of
rage. Directly across from her was a large, empty capsule. On the digital
display, she read:
ONCHAMELEON
.

“What’s
that?”

“Oh
… another one of my pet projects. If I can brag, a pretty brilliant combination
of—hey, you want to see the clones we’re using in the war?”

The
Queen tried to act surprised. “Of course I do! Let’s see them.” She rubbed her
hands together lightly, hoping they were getting to an area of the lab that
held something of actual interest to her.

They
ventured deeper into the building’s research “showroom” as Clyde led her into
an area marked
Human Clone/Splicing
. As
he opened the door, she licked her lips and brushed the tips of her fingers
sensuously down Clyde’s shirt. She felt his muscles tense up and form goose
bumps. As they entered, she took his hand. This room stayed dark despite their
presence. Capsules occupied the room as well—dozens of them in rows filled to
the brim with fluid. Suspended in the fluid were human bodies of varying size.
All of them in their various states of age resembled Sammy to some degree. The
Queen wanted nothing more than to burst the glass tubes open and slit each
throat. Instead, she asked questions.

“What’s
so special about these clones?”

“The
spliced DNA we use is what makes them remarkable. I can’t say much more than
that without getting into a lot of trouble.”

“What
type of insertion techniques are you using? Hybrid or super-selection?”

Clyde
chuckled politely as if she’d told a silly joke. “We’ve developed our own
techniques far surpassing what you’ve been learning in your PhD program.” The
Queen imagined clawing his eyes out.

“So
when will we see people walking around with gills on their necks?”

“No,
nothing like that going on here. I don’t think we’re ready to put functioning
gills on humans. But what we’re doing is astounding, too. I can’t say much more
than that. But these clones.… These guys are very, very cool.”