Written for DaniellaT as part of the 2018 Gatchamania Gift Exchange in response to her prompt: "An Anderson Fic."
"Children!? You want him to experiment on children so they can fight in a war?"
"They won't be children by the time the war gets here."
A few years earlier…
"Doctor Anderson, come look at this. I think we've finally figured out a solution to that protein binding issue. If these calculations are correct, we should start seeing a reduction in implant rejections."
I look up from the test results I'd been studying to see Kevin Opeka standing before my desk, a barely suppressed grin on his face. Knowing that he's not normally one to exaggerate, I allow myself a small smile in return. "How big of a reduction are we talking about, Kevin?"
"We're cautiously estimating about seventy two percent!" he replies beaming excitedly.
I blink, caught off guard. "Seventy two? Are you sure?" I was expecting to hear ten to fifteen, not seventy two and I can only imagine that I misheard him.
"Yeah," he agrees, nodding. "I didn't believe it either until I ran the numbers myself. That's why I wanted you to take a look. Make sure we didn't miss anything in our assessments."
By this time, we've reached his workstation and with a few keystrokes, he pulls the data up for me to review. Almost immediately I find a mistake and point it out to him. He sits down before the monitor and frowns for a moment. Amazingly, it appears that correcting the error actually reduces our expected rejection rate even further. Now instead of a seventy two percent reduction, the calculations are showing an eighty percent reduction in rejection rates. Finally, after years of research and computer modelling, we're starting to see enough progress to request approval for live testing on mice. And to think, just last month we were worried about our funding being pulled completely.
We've been implanting mice for nearly a month. It's been a trying and disheartening process. Not only are our rejection rates higher than we'd expected based on the initial research, but the rejections are proving fatal. I watch as Kevin wheels yet another cart of mouse remains from the lab to the disposal center. Meanwhile, I take the tray of failed implants and store them in the sterile freezer so that we can examine them later. It's getting late and I have no confidence in our ability to find the cause of the rejections tonight.
By the time Kevin returns, I've decided that we all need a break. Tomorrow's Friday, so I give everyone the day off with instructions to do something fun and relaxing. Within minutes, the team of research assistants have shut down and secured their computer terminals, finished stowing their lab materials, grabbed their personal items, and filed from the room. Kevin alone remains and I can feel his eyes on me. I know he's just itching to tell me to follow my own advice, but I don't want to hear it, so instead of acknowledging him, I turn away and head to my office.
"So, is this another 'Do as I say, not as I do' situation?" he asks as he leans insolently against the doorframe.
"Kevin, I'm not in the mood so don't start with me," I growl. Landing heavily in my chair, I pinch the bridge of my nose and remind myself that my contacts are long overdue for a good cleaning.
"Bill, you can't carry this whole project on your own," he says quietly as he makes his way behind my chair. His hands fall gently to my shoulders and begin to expertly knead the knots from my muscles.
"It's my project, Kevin. It's my research. It's my responsibility."
"Be that as it may, you need to take a break. You're wound up tighter than I've ever seen you." He takes his hands from my shoulders and it's all I can do to keep from whining in protest. "Hey, why don't we go away to that bed and breakfast upstate this weekend?" he asks, his fingers resuming their massage. As the tension slowly seeps from my muscles, I'd be tempted to agree to anything just to keep him from stopping again.
I'm about to tell him so when a loud ding shatters the moment. What a time for an email to come in. It's from the head of Galaxy Security and flagged urgent. It's all I can do to keep my hand from shaking as I click to open it.
"Sorry, Kevin, looks like I have a meeting with Chief Roberts first thing in the morning. Any plans will have to wait."
The next morning, I arrive at the Security Chief's office. His assistant is waiting for me and ushers me directly into a small conference room. She points out the beverage service set up on the sideboard, where coffee, tea, fruit, and assorted pastries are all neatly laid out, and invites me to help myself. I browse the offerings, but as tempting as they are, I'm entirely too anxious to do more than that. Within moments, the door opens again, and Chief Roberts enters along with Admiral Weggs and Secretary Barstow.
Once they have their refreshments, we adjourn to the table and it takes every ounce of self-control to keep from fidgeting as I wait for the Chief to say something. But despite the many scenarios I've imagined so far, I'm completely unprepared for what he actually wants from me.
"I'm going to get right to the point, Anderson," he begins, his eyes boring into mine unblinkingly. "You need to start implanting humans."
"But, sir, our rejection rate in mice is still way too high! We need to find a way to get the acceptance rate up before we start human trials."
"There's no time for that," Admiral Weggs growls. "Put out a call for volunteers, let them know the risks, and get started with the procedures!"
"But, Admiral, with all due respect, the risk is death. Every single rejection has resulted in the test subject dying. And it's not a quick or painless death either." I shudder as the images of violently convulsing mice flicker through my memory.
Secretary Barstow and Chief Roberts exchange glances before looking back at me. "We understand that," the Chief says calmly. "But we need to speed up the timetable. War is coming and we need to be ready when it gets here."
And with that dire statement, he dismisses me.
A few hours later, Kevin finds me in the lab, head in my hands, my computer screen flashing the word 'REJECTION' in big red letters.
"There you are. I should have known. You were supposed to let me know when the meeting was over." He sits in one of the chairs across the desk from me. "So, what happened?"
"They want us to start human trials."
"What?!" he shouts, bolting from his chair and pacing in the cramped space. "But our rejection rate, our death rate, they can't be serious!"
"They don't care. They're calling for volunteers and want us to start in no more than two weeks."
One month later…
"Complete rejection," Kevin announces, his voice hoarse. "Remove the implant and bag the body," he instructs, jotting down the time so I can file the death certificate later.
It's been a tough month for everyone. While we haven't been able to reduce the rejection rates, we have been able to reduce the death rate. Rejections don't always result in deaths now, but those that survive will never be the same.
A soft clink draws my attention to the small implant that has just been removed from our latest failure. It's a relatively new alloy, a ceramic metal hybrid that the military has been effectively using in their armor plating for the past year. Barely larger than a grain of rice, it taps into the brain's signals, augments them, adjusts biochemical balances, and through some quirks of science, allows for enhanced reflexes, healing, and strength when the implantation is successful. Even though I helped design it, it still amazes me to see the improvements we've experienced when the subject is able to accept the device. Unfortunately, those successes have been too few and far between.
I leave Kevin to handle the rest of the cleanup and I head over to the training center. After the violence of the last subject's rejection and subsequent death, I need something positive to focus on. Entering the physical therapy facility, I nod to the physician overseeing the patients' integration training.
Phil is standing with his arms crossed as he watches a therapy session. As I approach him, the young patient begins pulling back on the resistance bands, but instead of stretching them slowly and smoothly, they jerk forward clumsily, nearly toppling the machine they are affixed to. The therapists rush over, catching and righting the structure before it can hit the floor.
I turn at Phil's soft sigh and raise an eyebrow in question. Dragging his attention from the activity across the room, he faces me with a frown. "I'm at a loss," he begins. "Mike was your first implant success. We've been working with him daily for over three weeks and we aren't seeing any improvement in his ability to control his strength or in his coordination. At this rate, it's going to take years just to get him close to where he was before you implanted him. I can't make any promises that he's ever going to be able to properly, much less completely, harness the enhancements to make him into a super soldier."
Great, just what I wanted to hear. I came over hoping for a positive to latch onto and instead I get more bad news. "I understand, Phil," I say, even though I really don't understand why things aren't working according to plan, "You're doing the best you can. Just keep at it. Kevin and I will keep tweaking the implant programming in the meantime."
"I think I'm onto something. Look at how the protein chain changes when I replace this bit of code," Kevin points to the screen excitedly as he speaks.
He begins the simulation again, running the new and old results side by side, and he's right. The new programming is having a major impact. "But that shouldn't be," I mutter, "that part of the code doesn't have anything to do with protein chains."
"Yeah, I know that, but biology doesn't always follow logic, Bill. You know that as well as I do." When I blink in reaction to his use of my first name in the lab, he shakes his head and gestures to the empty room. "Take a look around, we're alone here. In case you hadn't noticed, it's late. Everyone went home hours ago."
He's right of course. It's not the first time we've burned the midnight oil hoping to find an answer to both the implantation and the integration problems we've been experiencing. I look back at the screen as he reruns the simulations again. "Fine, then let's load the new program onto an implant and we can give it a try tomorrow."
We always think there's plenty of time, until there isn't…
It's midafternoon before I realize that Kevin isn't in the lab and hasn't been all day. Wondering where he could be, I stop one of the research assistants as she rushes past. "Wanda, do you know where Kevin is? I need to ask him about something."
"Kevin called out today. Said he had some personal business come up suddenly that needed his immediate attention. Didn't he tell you about it?"
"No, he must have gotten distracted before he had a chance to call me," I hedge, before going back to my office to see if I'd somehow missed an email from him. I scroll through my inbox, my deleted folder, and the spam file, but there's nothing. It's not like Kevin to forget to tell me when he's going to be missing a day at the lab. It's especially concerning since we were here late last night and he never once mentioned anything then either. But before I can think more about it or call Kevin for an explanation, I hear shouting coming from the surgical theater across the hall. I know we had an implantation scheduled for today, but they've become so routine that I rarely bother to attend them anymore.
It only takes me a few seconds to reach the operating room and realize what all the commotion is about. It's Kevin. He's the patient that's just been implanted. "What's the meaning of this?" I demand, once I have use of my voice again. "How and why did Kevin just become our latest test subject?" There is a roaring in my ears and even years later I would never be sure how I managed to stay on my feet.
"We didn't know, Doctor Anderson. You know that standard procedure is for test subjects to be prepped and brought in anonymously. Since they're already face down on the operating table and I don't get more than their basic medical information in order to do the surgery, I didn't recognize him until I was finished. I was shocked when I turned him over to send him to recovery. If I'd known it was Kevin, I'd have refused to do the procedure," Doctor Sanders, the lead surgeon, babbles as she fights back tears and wrings her hands before her.
"It's not your fault, doctor. You couldn't have known," I tell her in what I hope is a reassuring manner. "Get him to recovery. Do whatever you can to be sure he doesn't reject the implant." I'd love nothing more than to tell her to get that damned thing out of his head, but I know as well as she does that that isn't an option. Every implant we've removed has resulted in the death of the patient. His only chance of survival now is for his body to integrate the chip.
I stumble blindly back to my office, fighting a losing battle to keep my emotions under control. The door closes with a soft click of the latch. After I make sure that the lock is engaged, I give in and drop to the floor as the tears begin streaming down my cheeks. "Kevin," I whisper between sobs, "why didn't you tell me you were considering this? …Because I'd have tried to talk you out of it, that's why," I answer myself.
I don't know how long I allow myself to sit there on the floor, indulging in my grief and confusion. What I do know is that I still have work to do. Pulling myself together, I wipe my face on the sleeve of my lab coat and take a seat at my desk. There's an urgent message from Secretary Barstow waiting for me in my email. Great, just great. I cover my face with my hands and stifle the small scream that I just can't hold in.
An hour later, I'm in Secretary Barstow's office, nervously fidgeting as I wait for her to tell me why I'm here. She takes a few deep breaths and seems to be working to compose herself. Finally, she meets my gaze and I can see that her eyes are red rimmed and slightly swollen. "Th-there's," she begins, her voice breaking. After clearing her throat, she tries again. "There's been an accident," she tells me quietly. "The security chief," she chokes out through a sob, "he's dead."
I don't know how to react; this wasn't something I was expecting. I was expecting to be asked for an update on the implant program, expecting to have to figure out how to keep Kevin's condition secret, expecting just about anything but this. "How?" I ask.
"He was visiting Riga, getting intel on the forces building in the Crab Nebula when his plane went down. There were no survivors."
I find myself at a loss for words, my thoughts on the Chief's wife, well, widow now, I suppose, Amanda.
"There will be a service next week, once his remains are returned to Earth. Amanda's already left to claim them." Secretary Barstow takes a deep breath and bites her lower lip, releasing it from between her teeth slowly. "I'm sure you're wondering why I didn't just tell you this via email or phone call."
"The question had crossed my mind," I reply, wondering what else prompted the need for her to call for a face to face meeting.
"Well, you've been chosen as his successor. Think you're up to the challenge?"
"W-what?" I blink furiously and shake my head. "Me? Security Chief?"
She chuckles softly at my discomfiture. "Yes, you. The Chief had been planning to start grooming you as his replacement once your implant project progressed a little further and didn't need as much of your time."
"I, I don't know what to say. I had no idea," I mutter.
"Listen, I know this is sudden and unexpected, but for what it's worth, I think you'd make a great Security Chief. You don't need to decide today, but time isn't a luxury we have in abundance right now. Take a day or two to think about it and get back to me with your decision."
It's been a week since Kevin's implantation procedure and things don't look good. He still hasn't regained consciousness and it's taking every ounce of effort by the medical team to prevent him from rejecting the chip. Doctor Sanders has tried every trick she knows to convince his body to accept the device, but nothing has worked. And that's why I now find myself facing the doctor across my desk. I rearrange the stacks of folders and papers on its surface, hoping to stall this conversation just a little longer. She sits silently, watching me, patiently waiting for me to finish.
When I eventually stop and look up, there is sympathy in her eyes. "Chief Anderson, you know what I'm going to say. You've read his medical records. The best we can do now is to keep him on life support, but there isn't any indication that he's ever going to wake up again."
I nod, not trusting my voice right away. Of course, now that I'm the head of intergalactic security, I'm going to have to get used to making tough decisions and finding ways to keep my emotions from getting the best of me. Removing my glasses, I close my eyes, and center myself. When I open them again, I'm calm and rational again.
"Kevin is the first person who hasn't either accepted the implant or immediately rejected it. That's important. We need to know what's allowed him to remain in this comatose state. For now, we'll keep him alive so we can run tests and learn as much as possible. He wouldn't want us to waste the opportunity to study this breakthrough." I sign the paperwork she'd handed me when she arrived and hand it back to her. "In the meantime, I'll have the rest of the team go over every line of code to see what we can learn from the implant until it's time to remove it."
Clutching the folder to her chest, Doctor Sanders stands and leaves my office without another word.
"Chief Anderson, you can't be serious!" blurts out the well-dressed man sitting across from me.
I hold his gaze for a moment, waiting for his outrage to subside before saying anything else. Once he calms a bit, I let out a heavy breath. "I'm completely serious. Spectra is developing a plan to destroy the Earth's Van Allen Belts. They're referring to is as the X-3 project. I need you to infiltrate and get those plans back to us so that we can develop counter measures."
"But why me? You know I have a family. Mark's only four years old for crying out loud. Do you have any idea the danger this would put him in?" Commander Michael Heyworth shouts, rising to his feet and doing his best to loom over me menacingly. He may be one of our best fighter pilots and spies, but an even demeanor is not something he's known for.
"At ease, Commander," I order sternly. "This isn't up for debate. I need someone to go to Riga and carry out this mission and you're the one best suited for the job. You knew the risks of being called for a long term undercover operation when you accepted your rank." I don't have the time to deal with his reservations. The bits and pieces of information we've managed to get on the X-3 plan have been enough for us to list it as one of the biggest threats we're facing from the planet Spectra and therefore one of the highest priorities to counteract. The faster I can get someone out to Riga, the better.
"Well, you have a point there," Michael concedes, "I am the best person for the job. Just, give me a couple of days to spend with my family before I leave."
I nod, silently acquiescing to his request, wishing that I'd had the luxury of a few extra days with Kevin before he turned himself into a human guinea pig. "I'll start working on the paperwork today. Be ready to leave by the end of the week."
"One more thing, I don't want Mark to be at risk over this."
"We'll do everything we can to protect him. I'll begin the search to find him a foster home at once."
"No!" he shouts, interrupting me. "Look, Bill, we've known each other for a long time. Mark trusts you," he swallows hard, "I trust you. I want you to take him."
"Mike, that's out of the question. How would it look? I send you on a mission and take your kid while you're gone. People will talk."
"That's not exactly what I had in mind. I can't just go to Riga and leave Mark here. People will speculate on what I am doing there. I need to disappear. I need there to be no reason for people to even think I'm on Riga. Assign me to a test flight at the end of the week. I'll simulate a malfunction and crash into the ocean. When no remains are recovered, it will just be assumed that the ocean disposed of my corpse. Michael Heyworth will be dead, lost to the risks every test pilot faces."
I narrow my eyes as he outlines his plan, the details too well thought out for this to be a spur of the moment idea. "How long have you been planning this, Mike?"
"Faking my own death? Long enough. Anyone with any idea of the situation developing on Spectra has to know that something like this was a possibility. Just because I don't want to leave my family doesn't mean that I haven't been planning for the likelihood that I'd have to." He paces before my office windows, stopping to stare into the distant clouds. "Just promise me you'll take care of Mark. I don't want him lost to the system. Please, Bill. That's all I ask."
Commander Heyworth, strike that, Colonel Cronus has been on Riga for six months now. His new identity within the Red Rangers has been firmly established, and here on Earth, Mark and I have come to a reluctant understanding of sorts. But, since I'm still deeply involved in the cerebonic implant project, I don't have time to devote to him in the amounts that an energetic young boy requires. So, I've enlisted another old friend, Dr. Reginald Harlan, and his wife, Miranda, to help me raise Mark. They're recently married and hoping for a child of their own. Mark will either be good practice for them or dissuade them the notion of becoming parents altogether. I'm pretty sure their feelings fluctuate from day to day.
In the meantime, we've been gathering information from Kevin's implant, searching for answers. Not that it's been providing many. But the one thing it has taught us is that age seems to play a major factor in acceptance of the device. When we compared the data from the failed implants to what we pulled from Kevin's and the other surviving subjects, we found that the newer the neural pathways the programming was attempting to integrate with, the higher the success rate. In order to get a better understanding of what was happening, we decided to take a step back from human trials and start testing on rats again.
"Here are latest test results, Chief," Samantha Reynolds sighs as she flops into the empty chair in my office.
"Give me a summary, Sam. Is there anything useful in there?"
"Useful, maybe, positive, no."
I stare at the yellow file folder as it sits atop the piles of paperwork on my desk then lift my gaze to meet Sam's again. "Elaborate, please," I command, my patience fading quickly.
"Well, as you know, we used the data from the human trials to modify our testing procedures. It turns out, the new results corroborate the theory that the younger the brain, the higher the acceptance and integration rates." She rises and moves to stand at the window before continuing. "According to the most recent tests, the only way to get full integration is to implant before puberty. Ideally, under the age of ten."
I don't know what to say or think at this point. It's like the floor has fallen away beneath me. This new revelation essentially ends the project. There is no way we can implant prepubescent children. I dismiss Samantha and send a message to Admiral Weggs, Secretary Barstow, and President Kane requesting a meeting as soon as possible.
"… so I'll start the process to wrap up the project."
"No," President Kane says quietly. "The project will continue. It must continue. It's our only option. Our sources show that the planet Spectra is rapidly running out of resources and seem to be channeling what dwindling supplies they have into arming themselves. There have already been reports of incursions into some of the systems closest to them. While not an immediate threat to Earth, there's reason to believe it's only a matter of time before that changes."
"But, you can't be seriously asking him to implant children?" Secretary Barstow gasps. "At least adults can give informed consent and understand the risks they're being asked them to take. How can we justify risking the lives of children? And to turn them into soldiers? This isn't going to go over well when the public finds out."
"Then the public can't be allowed to find out," I grit out reluctantly. As much as I don't like the idea of experimenting on children, I realize the president is right. I've seen the reports myself and come to many of the same conclusions. "We don't have a choice. A war is coming and we need to have every possible advantage in place when it gets here. And if we start now, they won't be children anymore by the time we need them to be soldiers. I'll ask for parents willing to volunteer their children."
"No, we can't ask that of parents. Visit orphanages and foster programs. Look for children without living relatives," Admiral Weggs suggests. "Once you've worked the kinks out, we can reach out to parents if we still need more test subjects."
The meeting ends with an uneasy silence, the four of us all too uncomfortable with the decision we've just made. And just like any pact made with the devil, it's best left spoken about as little as possible.
When I inform Doctor Sanders and Samantha Reynolds of the new direction the project has taken, they respond exactly as I'd expected they would; with incredulity, outrage, and anger. But, after offering them the opportunity to leave the team, they both opt to remain in their current roles. In order to do our best to reduce the possibility of rejection in our young patients, we redouble our efforts to look for genetic markers that all our most successful patients have in common.
It takes months, but we're able to come up with a DNA profile that looks promising. Samantha and I begin visiting orphanages in the area, looking for children who match our profile, but the combination we need is rare and luck isn't on our side. After visiting all the orphanages within a day's drive of the lab, we've been unable to find any potential candidates.
"What about cloning?" Samantha suggests hesitantly as we drive back from our latest failed field trip.
"Cloning? Don't you mean genetic tailoring? We'd have to take donor tissue from multiple sources in order to artificially create the genetic profile we need."
"Well, it's not like we're drowning in potential candidates this way. Maybe we need to create our own. It's not like this project isn't already an ethics nightmare. Besides, you know what they say 'In for a penny, in for a pound'…" she finishes, turning to watch the scenery fly past the window as we drive.
I don't say anything immediately as I concentrate on the road ahead, bringing up and answering all the questions that pop into my head as I drive. "Alright, start looking through our existing test subjects for the characteristics we need and begin gathering the tissue samples."
Kevin doesn't even flinch when we take samples from him. But then again, I didn't expect any reaction from him. It's been almost a year since the implant procedure put him into this coma and any hopes I'd had to see him open his eyes, laugh, or smile again have long since faded away.
"Thank you, Kevin," I whisper as I leave the room. With any luck this experiment will work and at least a piece of him will live on with the project.
Mark sits on the living room floor, swinging a toy plane through the air as he does his best to mimic the engine noise. Frankly, it sounds more like someone blowing bubbles in a bathtub, but he's happy and not demanding my attention for the moment.
I watch him play for a few minutes before returning my focus to the computer in my lap. As I read through Phil's latest report on implant assimilation, I receive a notice of an incoming message from Mark's pediatrician. It's a routine update from his latest physical containing all the normal information one would expect; height and weight charts, immunization records, and family disease histories. Scanning through the email, a thought occurs to me and I send a message back to the doctor asking for her to run additional tests on the samples she'd taken from Mark.
The genetically designed embryo is growing nicely in the lab and should be ready to implant in the surrogate soon. We've been monitoring it since day one and it's showing all the genetic markers we'd been hoping for. Now we just have to wait while it gestates.
The team has been asking to name it, but I've hesitated, wanting to wait until we were sure it was viable before acknowledging it as a person. Not that that has stopped them from labelling it anyway. The child is male and, as a way of paying tribute to Kevin, someone has stuck a piece of masking tape with the name "Kev-Op" on the main monitor. But the handwriting is sloppy; the 'v' looking more like a 'y' than anything else. "Key-op," I whisper to the screen, letting the name roll from my tongue, testing the sound with my ear and head and it seems fitting.
Pulling up the master file, I enter it into the name field, making it official. From this moment on, the child will be known as Keyop. I think Kevin would've liked that.
"Chief?" Samantha calls as she taps on my office doorframe. "Everything alright? You've been just sitting in here for quite a while."
"Huh? Oh, yeah," I mumble, the implications of the email I'd gotten that afternoon still sinking in.
"Want to talk about it?" she asks as she crosses the room to take the chair across the desk from me.
I search her face, seeing genuine concern reflected in her eyes. "You know as well as I do that we haven't been able to find orphans who meet our genetic criteria. We created Keyop, but he's still just an embryo and the surrogate won't give birth to him for months."
She nods, her eyes downcast, but doesn't say anything.
I chew my lip for a moment, unsure if I'm ready to speak the words aloud. "I had Mark tested for genetic compatibility with the implant."
Sam's head jerks up in shock, her mouth falling open soundlessly.
"He's a match, Sam. He fits all the criteria for the program, orphaned," my throat constricts a bit on the word, knowing that I'm stretching the truth, "under age ten, with all the genetic markers."
"You can't be seriously considering this, can you? I know he's technically an orphan, but he has a family. His father left him to you when he died. He's not an orphan in the system…"
"I know, but we need viable subjects. I'm going to have him implanted. He's our best option right now."
Mark's operation is a success. Doctor Sanders, like Samantha, did her best to talk me out of it when I first approached her to schedule the procedure, but ultimately, she accepted the situation for what it was and reluctantly agreed to the necessity of it.
The three of us sit with Mark in recovery until he finally opens his eyes again. "How're you feeling, Mark?" Doctor Sanders asks before I can even open my mouth.
"My head hurts," he slurs, but his crystal blue gaze is clear and focused.
"That's normal after a procedure like this," she reassures him gently. "Do you think you feel up to helping me make sure that the operation worked?"
He nods and gulps, "Wh- what do I have to do?"
Doctor Sanders smiles tenderly at him. "Nothing hard, I'm just going to ask you to move in certain ways."
"Okay."
"Good, first just hold out your right hand, palm up."
Mark obediently does as she asks and looks at her questioningly.
"Perfect, now close your hand into a fist, please."
They continue for half an hour, Doctor Sanders giving Mark instructions and the boy doing as she asks. She has him reach and stretch, checking his range of motion before testing his grip strength. When she's done, she can't contain her exuberant grin. We leave Mark to rest, though I hear him turn the television on as soon as we exit the room.
"It's unbelievable. I reviewed his pediatric records and conducted a few tests of my own before the surgery and his flexibility and grip strength have already shown increases since implanting him. His body has not only has he accepted the cerebonic device, but it's already showing signs of deep integration."
It's fantastic news, but at the same time, there's a part of me that regrets signing Mark up for the life he's now faced with.
The young boy crosses his arms over his chest and turns his back to Samantha before unleashing the full power of his formidable glare at me.
"As you can see, he has a bit of a discipline problem. He's bitter about being here, angry about his parents' deaths, and has a short temper, but he fits the genetic profile you asked us to test for," explains the harried looking social worker as she eyes her charge warily.
"What happened to his parents?" Samantha asks.
"Innocent bystanders in a drive by shooting. A tragic case of 'wrong place at the wrong time'," she says with a shrug. "He has no other living relatives, so he ended up here."
"Jason," I begin, waiting until I am sure I have his attention before continuing, "How would you like to have a chance to prevent things like what happened to your parents from happening to other families?"
He doesn't answer me, but his eyes open a little wider and brighten a touch as he thinks about what I'm offering.
"If you come with us, we can make that happen. You're a special young man, not just anyone is given an opportunity like this. But you'll have to follow our rules, even if you don't agree with them."
I watch as he considers the offer and makes his decision with a curt nod.
"I'll do it," he mutters, "Let's go."
I watch with Phil as the physical trainers put Mark and Jason through their paces. The boys have taken to their implants like fish to water, having no issues with integration or muscle control. The cerebonic enhancements have given them both a level endurance and a grace of movement that dancers and athletes would envy.
Buoyed by their success, we've scheduled them to begin martial arts and gymnastics training programs next week. But we know that the two of them won't be enough; we need to keep looking for more children who fit the profile. Keyop isn't due to be born for another couple of months and even though we can implant him right after birth, he's still going to need time to grow and mature enough to begin training.
Phil and I stand in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. Below us, in the training room, Mark and Jason continue their performance. They seem to work well together, having developed a combination of competition and cooperation that keeps either of them from lagging behind the other. I mull over their fledgling dynamic and ways to encourage and expand it once I bring other children into their group. Suddenly, I'm distracted by a sudden shrill ringing. It takes a moment for me to realize that it's my phone.
Excusing myself, I step into the hallway before answering the call. "Anderson," I bark, not happy about being interrupted.
"Sorry to bother you, Chief, but this is important. You need to come to the medical wing right away," Doctor Sanders says quickly, a quiver in her voice.
"Kevin?" I whisper, unable to keep my own words steady.
"His implant is failing. He doesn't have long left."
"I'm on my way," I choke out before ending the call.
I don't bother to step back into the training facility, instead I flee the building and race towards Kevin's room. I'd known this day was coming for a while now. Without full integration of his implant, we've had no way to update or adjust it. It's always been just a matter of time before it failed as a result.
When I enter the room, Doctor Sanders nods silently and leaves, motioning for the rest of the medical personnel to follow her as she goes. For the first time in months, maybe more than a year, I'm alone with Kevin. He looks smaller than I remember, his chest rising and falling in a slow, yet irregular rhythm. His face is pale and if I didn't know better, I could convince myself that he was just sleeping. But I do know better and he isn't just sleeping.
I take his hand as I sit in the chair beside his bed. The once strong nimble fingers lay limp and cold in mine. I wrap my fingers around his wrist and have to struggle to find his pulse. When I do, it's weak and thready, barely beating beneath my touch.
Sighing heavily, I study him, committing his every feature to my memory. "I'm going to miss you, Kevin," I whisper under my breath as my fingers gently caress the skin of his hand. I don't move again until the shrill scream of the heart monitor lets me know that he's truly gone. Without releasing his hand, I reach over and silence the device, its cry no longer necessary.
Moments later Doctor Sanders arrives, entering quietly and gently placing a hand on my shoulder. I watch numbly as she shuts down the remaining monitors and disconnects them from Kevin's body. "Take as much time as you need, Chief," she murmurs soothingly as she leaves the room, closing the door behind her.
I allow myself a few minutes to indulge in my grief and then I stand, placing Kevin's hand on his abdomen as I rise. A few steps bring me to the door. I stop with my hand on the knob and turn to face the bed once more. "Rest well until we meet again," I say solemnly, then, posture straight once more, I leave the room and that part of my life behind.
The day is bright and sunny, way too cheery for a funeral. Mark and Jason fidget beside me, neither of them comfortable in shirts and ties. Jason whispers something to Mark in a voice far too quiet for normal human hearing. And when Mark responds in kind and turns his gaze in the same direction as Jason's, I know it has something to do with the park that we passed on the way here.
"Boys," I hiss, "settle down. We're here to pay our respects to Kevin. And before you tell me once more about how neither of you ever met him, remember that if it wasn't for his sacrifice, neither of you would be where you are now."
"Yeah, at his stupid funeral," Jason mutters, just loudly enough for me to hear. At least he has the decency to look regretful for the outburst when I glare at him over my glasses.
The service continues, our exchange unnoticed by nearly everyone in attendance. The crowd is large. Kevin was well loved by those who had the good fortune to spend any amount of meaningful time with him. As a result, there are many people who have expressed their desire to speak at least a few words of farewell. One after another, they approach the podium, share memories of Kevin, then step aside to allow the next person a turn.
The boys begin to fidget again, and just as I am about to comment on their behavior, my phone rings. I thought I'd put it into silent mode before we arrived, so I'm just as surprised as everyone else when the shrill tone cuts through the somber gathering. I quickly pull it from my pocket, noticing that the call is from the hospital. After muttering a warning to Mark and Jason, I step away from the crowd and accept the call.
"Anderson," I say, doing my best to infuse my voice with enough authority for the person on the other end to understand that they're an unwelcome interruption.
"Chief William Anderson?" the voice on the line asks.
"Yes, who's this?" I don't have time or patience right now, wanting nothing more than to get off the phone and return to the funeral.
"This is Doctor Friedman at Center City General Hospital." Doctor Friedman? The name is familiar but it takes me a moment to place it. He's the obstetrician caring for Keyop's surrogate mother. "I know you're a busy man, but Jessica has gone into premature labor and I believe it would be a greater risk to try to halt the delivery than to allow the child to be born."
I reach up to pinch the bridge of my nose, lifting my glasses by reflex. This was the last thing I expected to have to deal with today. "I'm on my way," I inform the doctor.
Slipping the phone back into my pocket, I rejoin the funeral gathering. After whispering a few quick words to Samantha Reynolds, I return to the boys and, grabbing each of their hands in one of mine, drag them behind me as we make our way to the parking lot.
"What's wrong?" Mark asks as I urge him into the car.
"Keyop's about to be born and we need to go to the hospital to be there."
For all the doctor's urgency over the phone, it still takes nearly twelve hours before Keyop takes his first breath. He's tiny, at least partially because of his early arrival. I watch as a nurse cleans and weighs him, then swaddles him in a pale blue blanket. The boy snuggles into the woman's arms and manages to free one of his hands. He immediately begins to suckle on his thumb, his large overbite even more pronounced as he does.
Satisfied that he's healthy and will be well cared for, I make my way to the hallway where I call Doctor Sanders, inform her of the news, and ask her to schedule the implant procedure as soon as possible.
"Princess? What kind of name is that?" I ask Samantha when she hands me the file for a potential new implant candidate.
"No one knows what her real name is. According to the orphanage, she was brought in after her mother died and when they asked her what her name was, she just kept saying 'Momma called me Princess' and refused to answer to anything else." Sam cocks her head to one side, a smirk pulling at her lips, "Besides, it's no stranger a name than Keyop."
"Touché," I concede. "Go meet her and bring her in to be implanted."
"You're not coming along?"
I shake my head. "I have too much to do here. Galaxy Security isn't going to run itself so I'm delegating this to you."
Princess doesn't take long to find her place within the dynamic that Mark and Jason have developed. Much to their consternation, she's assumed the role of peacemaker between the two. I can only assume that there is a reason that they enjoy fighting and bickering so much, but what that reason might be must only make sense in the minds of six year old boys.
Right now the three of them are sitting at the large table in the conference room adjacent to my office working on math and science lessons that would challenge the average middle school student; another advantage bestowed on them by their cerebonic implants. I listen momentarily, feeling both a surge of pride at their accomplishments in the short time since their surgeries and a pang of regret at the reason they are here in the first place.
Colonel Cronus has been sending intelligence reports whenever he feels that the updates are worth the risk of getting caught and having his cover blown. The latest one was bleak. Spectra has been stockpiling arms, stepping up their recruitment efforts, and increasing their attacks on the worlds around them. All because of their rapidly dwindling supply of resources like food and medicines for their civilian population. The saddest part of it is that the Federation would gladly provide them with aid if they would just ask for help and offer to become contributing members of the alliance. Unfortunately, they don't seem to want aid as much as they want to conquer, even if they end up destroying the very resources they claim to be invading to take.
The sound of Jason's raised voice brings me back to the reality of the situation. We don't have nearly as much time before the Spectrans arrive as we'd initially thought and I still only have three young children and an infant to offer as our last line of defense. Samantha's been having trouble finding additional candidates to receive the cerebonic implants. After spending some time with the engineering department reviewing their ideas, we've determined that a five person team is the ideal size for a specialized strike force like the one we're hoping to create. That means that I need at least two more children for this group and four to match up with Keyop. And that's just to give us two teams to employ against an entire invasion force. No matter how I look at it, we're going to have to increase our efforts to find children who match the genetic profile, and that means asking parents to give up their children.
Secretary Barstow, Admiral Weggs, and President Kane listen in solemn silence as I provide them with an update on the increasingly dire situation developing on planet Spectra. As I summarize the information passed along by Colonel Cronus, I also bring them up to speed on the status of the cerebonic implant project. While Mark, Jason, and now Princess, are showing better than expected enhancements at a much faster rate than anticipated, our inability to find enough viable candidates is fast becoming a problem that we need to find a solution for.
"And so, we are going to have to begin asking parents to volunteer their children for the project," I conclude as I take my seat at the table again.
"We can't ask parents to give us their kids to operate on and turn into enhanced soldiers, Chief Anderson. The backlash will be off the scale," Secretary Barstow states firmly. "It's out of the question."
"She's right," Admiral Weggs says, nodding. "However, there may be another solution. What if we ask parents to sign their children up for an advanced science program. We can emphasize the educational aspects and gloss over the military ones."
"Sounds a little underhanded, if you ask me," the Secretary mutters. "How do we explain to parents that we want to implant a chip into their kids?"
"Tell them it's an identification marker," President Kane offers. "And in a sense, it is. You do pull data back from the implants, don't you Chief Anderson?"
"Yes, that's true, the data does move in both directions…" I hedge.
"Then set it up. You need volunteers and we need to keep this from becoming a scandal," President Kane orders. "Now, what's the status of the body armor project?"
"Well, engineering has developed something very interesting there. In their efforts to create a more weapons resistant material, they created a material that, when exposed to certain electromagnetic stimuli, can change form. We believe we can use it in both the armor and the vehicles we're developing in order to allow the strike team to hide in plain sight. If we don't have to house them in military barracks on a base, they're less likely to be targets outside of actual combat."
"Fascinating," whispers Secretary Barstow as I bring up an animation of the transmutational properties of the material.
"This one looks promising," Samantha says, passing a sheet of paper to me.
"Donald Wade?" When she nods, I skim the page looking at the child's genetic profile. "He's missing one of the markers."
"I know, but he's the best match out of the candidates we've gotten so far."
I examine the information on the paper once more. The rest of his genetic profile is a good match for the program and the one marker he's missing isn't one that has been linked to catastrophic failures. "Desperate times call for desperate measures. Contact his mother and have him brought in."
"Transmute!" Mark commands, swinging his arm in front of his face. The room is flooded in blinding light and when it fades, his t-shirt and jeans are gone, replaced by a caped flight suit and helmet. He twirls before us, letting the wings billow out behind him.
The Secretary, Admiral, and President watch as he jumps and flits around the room, looking like a baby bird learning to fly. As he continues the demonstration, we quietly discuss the potential of this new transformational material. Suddenly, in the manner of young boys with more imagination than self-control, Mark begins to scale the gymnastics equipment until he finds a perch twenty feet in the air from which to view the room.
The trainer begins shouting for Mark to get down from the dangerous roost he's chosen. And, as precocious boys do, he takes the order literally, and instead of climbing back down, he launches himself from atop the apparatus, spreading his wings, and gliding to a somewhat clumsy landing on the ground. Phil and his team immediately swarm around him, searching for signs of injury, but they find none. Mark is made to transform back into his jeans and t-shirt and the medical staff examine him again, once again finding no sign of injury.
"Unbelievable. Did you know that the suit would give him the ability to glide like that?" Admiral Weggs asks.
"No, and based on the reactions of Phil's staff, I'd say that this was the first time he's tried that stunt," I respond blandly.
"Well, whatever funding research and development needs to refine this material is approved," President Kane states. "Tell them I want to see vehicle prototypes by the end of next month."
Donald Wade's surgery went well and he's quickly adjusting to the enhancements from the implant. It won't be long before he's ready to join the other three children in their training sessions. He's brighter than the others, his mind exceptionally suited to math and science on a level I've rarely seen before. Under other circumstances, I'd be excited to someday add him to one of my research teams, but now, I'm just hoping that he can integrate with the rest of the group. And if I'd thought Jason was standoffish and recalcitrant, I've been disabused of that notion by young Donald.
I'm counting on competition with Mark and Jason, and some subtle peacekeeping by Princess, to help him find his place within the group. In the meantime, he's shown an interest in chemistry, so I have him focusing on that alongside his physical training.
Tossing my glasses onto the piles of paperwork on my desk, I pinch the bridge of my nose and stifle a growl. Sam frowns at me apologetically. "I just thought you'd want to know now instead of waiting until Doctor Peters gives you an update later."
"How many stitches did Jason need?"
Sam's smirk catches me off guard. "Actually, none, believe it or not. Remember how quickly they all healed after surgery?"
I nod and wait for her to continue.
"Well, it seems that just like with all their other capabilities, their ability to heal has been getting stronger and faster too. Jason's wound was practically healed before anyone could try to treat it. And before you ask me if I'm sure that he was really hurt in the first place, everyone who was watching the training session saw the incident and the spray of blood onto the gym equipment. I'm willing to bet that if he hadn't been stunned by the attack, Jason would have made sure that Donald had an opportunity to display his enhanced healing ability too."
"Fantastic, just fantastic. The last thing I need is infighting within the team. Any idea what sparked their dispute?"
Sam shakes her head. "Whatever it was, it was communicated in whatever that code is that they've come up with. No one's been able to crack it yet. And it doesn't help that we can't hear what they're saying unless they want us to."
I sigh and decide to change the subject to something else that I have no control over. "So, any luck finding more candidates to add to our dysfunctional family?"
"Actually, maybe. There's a young boy, Tiny Harper, out in one of the remote fishing villages that seems promising. We're still waiting for his genetic testing results to come in to make sure he has the markers we need. He's currently being cared for by a fishing captain. His mother died giving birth to him and his father was lost to a freak storm a year or so ago."
"Well, that's something at least. If he's a match for the program bring him in and get him scheduled for surgery as soon as possible. I'd like to get at least one full team assembled before the war actually gets here."
Sam just nods, then stands and leaves the room without another word.
It's taken nearly a year, but I have my first team assembled. Mark, Jason, Princess, Donald, and Tiny. Five young children who are expected to be our secret weapon against an alien army. And while Donald isn't integrating into the team as well as I'd hoped, he's all we have for now.
Keyop continues to progress nicely, his implant completely integrated without the learning curve the others experienced. I'm still struggling to find other children to build his team with. I've thought about genetically engineering another embryo, but finding donor tissue is proving just as elusive as additional candidates. And as ethically questionable as this whole project is, I don't want to use samples from the children on the team, so all I can do is wait and hope that fate will smile on me.
Time passes and as the children continue to train, the rift between Donald and the others continues to grow. Meanwhile, research and development has been spending time with each of the children, learning about their interests and preferences as they develop weapons and vehicles for them.
Keyop has begun walking and talking, but he's got a strange vocal tic that seems to be a result of the genetic tampering used to create him. We haven't been able to locate any additional children who meet the genetic qualifications we're looking for, so, in order to get his training started, we've begun including him in sessions with the other five children. I still haven't gotten used to watching a group of eight and nine year olds train for combat, much less a two year old, but it's the reality I've come to know.
"… Happy Birthday, dear Keyop… Happy Birthday to you…"
The six year old blows out the candles on the cake as soon as the song ends.
"So, what'd you wish for, Squirt?" Jason asks, his voice breaking.
"Doot, doot, your voice stop cracking, arooo," Keyop replies, much to the amusement of the other children. With five of them in various stages of puberty at the same time, there is constant teasing about the changes their bodies are going through.
The gathering is modest, the six children and the various medical and scientific professionals who are or have been involved in their care throughout the years. Keyop is enjoying being the center of attention, cheerfully performing acrobatic maneuvers to the delight of the gathered adults. However, the rest of G-Force, as they have begun to call themselves, aren't as impressed and take the opportunity to try to outdo him. Donald Wade is the sole holdout. Instead of joining in the frivolity, he helps himself to a slice of cake and moves to a corner free of other guests to observe alone.
Over the years, instead of finding a way to forge relationships with the other children, young Mr. Wade has only managed to widen the rift between himself and the rest of the team. The problem seems to be greatest between Donald and Mark and Jason. Princess and Tiny seem better suited to handle his temperamental nature, but even they tend to lose patience with him more often than not. I've been hoping that they will find a way to resolve the issue themselves, but the more I observe of their interactions, the more I realize that I'm going to have to address it myself soon. Maybe instead of building the second team around Keyop, I should try to build it around Donald.
Over the course of the next few months, I start scheduling Donald to spend more time with the implanted adults, hoping that either he will get along better with them or that he will use the opportunity to find a way to mesh with the others his age. During this process, I revert to my old habit of attending more of their training sessions. Each one I observe makes me realize that removing Donald is my best option. The other five work well together. They anticipate the movements and locations of the rest of the group, communicate fairly well, and are starting to present as an organized team. On the days when I have Donald join them, their rhythms are off and it's more than can be accounted for simply by the presence of an additional person. He and Jason tend to spend more time at each other's throats than fighting their simulated enemies. He refuses to acknowledge Mark about half of the time they are in the training chamber and even Princess has started giving him a wide berth, obviously fed up with his dismissive behavior toward her.
"I'm not sure what to do with him, Bill," Phil grunts. "His conflicts with Jason have been escalating and I'm growing more and more concerned, not just about their safety, but about the safety of my physical trainers and judo instructors. With their enhanced abilities, there is a very real possibility that someone is going to get seriously injured."
"I know, Phil, I know. I've actually being thinking about that a lot lately. I obviously can't leave him on the G-Force team. As much as I hate the idea of giving into his isolationist tendencies, I need to remove him from the group. I've tried everything I could think of to help him learn to get along with the others, but nothing's worked so far. I'm out of other ideas," I admit reluctantly.
Phil nods and gives me a sympathetic smile. "I take it you haven't been able to find any other implant candidates?"
"No, and it's been almost two years since we found the last potential subject. I've just about given up hope of finding enough candidates to build a second team."
"That's right, I want the Space Buggy to hangar in the Starboard nacelle… Yes, I'm sure… No, I haven't forgotten how young Keyop is… No, Donald's not going to be part of this team… Yes, I know what I said during the meeting to finalize the plans for the Phoenix… Well, obviously circumstances have changed… Uh-huh… Right… I understand… Thank you," I cradle the phone receiver, probably a little harder than necessary, and turn back to my email.
Running Intergalactic Security isn't just a full time job, it's a full time lifestyle without any dull moments. I scroll through all the messages, flagging some for review later, opening others that need to be handled right away.
A knock on the door interrupts my focus and I look up to see Sam standing in my doorway, her knuckles resting against the doorframe.
"You need to take a break, Chief," she says without preamble as she flops into one of the chairs in my office.
"I'll take a break when I'm done catching up my email," I respond, my fingers flying along the keyboard.
"So that will be when? Three, four years at least? You came in here to answer a few emails five hours ago."
"It's not my fault. Randy from R and D called to discuss my decision to move the Space Buggy's hangar to the Phoenix now that Keyop's been moved to the G-Force team. Wait, why am I explaining myself to you? I thought I was in charge here."
Sam gives me the same look that Kevin used to when he had no intention to listen to anything else I had to say. It catches me off guard and I give in to it out of habit. "Fine, I'll go eat lunch, but I plan to be back here in thirty minutes."
She just snorts and shoos me from the room.
"I quit! I don't want to be part of this whole experiment anymore. I don't care if you have to remove the implant. I don't care if I can't work for Galaxy Security. I don't care about any of it. I want out!" Donald's arms fall to his sides as he finishes his outburst.
"It's not that simple. We can't just remove the implant. It's too well integrated into your system. If I have it removed now, you'll die. And it won't be instant or painless."
"I don't care. I can't do this anymore. I can't perform on command like a trained monkey for whatever high muckety muck you want to impress this week."
I don't say anything right away, biting back my first response only with a great deal of effort. "What do you plan to do if I let you leave Intergalactic Security? Have you thought any of this through?"
"Of course I have," he grits out angrily. "I'll teach chemistry or find a research job somewhere. Maybe enroll in college. I just can't keep training to be a soldier, especially one without a team to back him up."
"You're still part of the G-Force team, Donald. I haven't stopped searching for additional people who can accept an implant and form the rest of your squad."
"It's been eight years since you first had my cerebonics implanted and you haven't found anyone else to join the team. Not to mention the fact that you gave my place on the G-Force team to Keyop. I'm obviously not cut out for this," he says with a sigh, sinking into the plush recliner in the living room of Camp Parker.
I don't move from my seat on the couch as I study his demeanor and body language. And that's when it hits me, he's right, but not because he doesn't fit in, more because he doesn't want to and never has. He bought into the line we sold his mother about wanting him for a science program. That's why he's never fit into the program even though his implant integrated without complication.
"Fine. But it's going to take some time. We'll need to find a way to deactivate your implant and get you integrated back into the civilian world. Not many seventeen year olds have the skill set and knowledge that you've acquired here."
"I understand. Do what you have to do."
It takes nearly six months to process Donald Wade out of the G-Force team completely. He's offered a place in the research department of Center Neptune, but he wants no part of it, wants no part of anything even remotely related to Galactic Security. G-Force tries to throw him a going away party, tries to make him feel included even as he's leaving, but he doesn't attend. Days later he's completely gone from both the program and our lives and I doubt any of us will see him again.
The invasions have begun. The 7-Zark-7 unit in Center Neptune has detected Spectran ships on Earth. They seem to be after our supply of Vitalumous, something we'd gladly provide them if they would only ask. Our robot ships are proving no match for their fighters, so I issue the order that I'd hoped never to give and have Zark scramble G-Force. There's no turning back now. It's time to see what those kids can really do.