Playing God

The basement of the Genetics Institute was clear of Rovers, as the team quickly discovered, much to their relief. It was home to the usual utility closets and generator room, with a couple exceptions. There was a Protectron, standing silently in its sealed docking bay, the bright blue forcefield keeping it locked away. There didn't seem to be a way to unlock it, not that it would be of use against Rovers. They'd shred it in seconds.

The other surprises in the basement were a rather nice break room, one half of it sporting some couches, tables, and TV's, along with some lockers, and the other half, through a doorless threshold, had two bunk beds. The three of them had ended up spending the rest of the day and following night in the room, almost a full 24-hours after leaving Pariser Platz.

The basement's final surprise was a large, sturdy door, wide enough for two people to walk through side-by-side. Sealed and locked, a keypad to the right of it. Without the code there'd be no entering, though there were more pressing matters for them to attend to anyway.

"By now the council's probably written us off as dead, I'm sure. Hope we still get paid when we get out of here" Walter said, sitting on one of the couches, his Madsen leaning against the armrest. Hilda was in the back, standing in front of a mirror mounted to the wall between the bunk beds, tending to some minor cuts she'd suffered.

"Let's focus on actually getting out of here," Hans said, standing by the door. "Four grenades, one Panzerfaust, and two mags for your Madsen, plus the ammo Hilda and I have. Good odds, if those two that chased us here are the only ones around, which we know isn't the case. Dahlem's home to dozens of the damn things."

"Heh, maybe those guys in the vertibird will come back for us" Walter said, and Hans took a seat on the other couch, one leg on his knee as he always did.

"Don't put any money on it."

Walter leaned forward. "Alright, well, let's see how about getting into that locked room down the hall. There might be a way out in there, or something we can use to help us escape. Someone somewhere wrote down the number for that door. Or we could try blowing it up, if that'll make you feel better."

"It would, but we'll try to find the code first. Coming with, Hilda?" Hans asked, and a moment later she appeared, SMG in hand. She nodded and the three of them left the room, heading for the stairs. The fire escape stairs were closest, and it was only a short trek up to the first floor. The door, still wet with Rover saliva, was open far enough for each of them to squeeze through, and the hall was clear.

"Lots of offices and such here. Those rooms are where they'd keep all their files and shit" Walter said, and Hans nodded. The first door had a breakroom behind it (how many fucking breaks did people need before the war?) so they moved on. The second door they checked was the entryway to the reception area, the desk and filing cabinets a complete mess. There was another door behind the reception desk, and it led into the breakroom, so they kept going.

"This could take hours or days, and what if the code is on one of the other floors?" Hilda asked.

"Then we'll keep looking. The only other option is to run for it, and I'm not taking any chances on the mood or hunger of any Rovers outside."

The next door contained a conference room, but next to it was a lab and office. The floor of the lab was absolutely covered in shattered glass, from beakers and test tubes and the window and the lightbulbs. The cupboards and storage cabinets were all missing their doors and drawers, creating even more of a mess. On the right side of the room, a cracked counter beside it, was a door leading to the office. At least, there used to be a door. It'd been smashed open by a Rover long ago, the scratch marks faded. The office was in much of the same state as the rest of the building; dilapidated, destroyed, demolished. A water pipe in the ceiling had burst at one point, creating significant water damage, though it had run dry long ago. The desk was missing half its siding, showing the wires underneath running to the terminal on top of it, still intact and functioning after so many years.

"Jackpot" Walter said, and stooped in front of the terminal. It wasn't even locked, and as he began to click through it Hans looked over the few intact books in the room. As expected, they were on all genetics and biology, with titles like 'The Human Condition and the Influence of Genetic Structure' and 'The Human Ladder: How the Human Genome was Mapped.' Exciting.

"Never mind, no jackpot. A bust, in fact."

"Let me take a look."

Walter stepped aside and Hans knelt in front of the terminal, the feel of the keys awkward to his hands. How long had it been since he'd even seen one, let alone use one? Five years? Ten? They were all the same and pretty easy to use, but he figured at some point someone would've got tired of pecking keys and invented a device to make it easier to click through the screens. Maybe a handheld device, with buttons on it. And a wheel to scroll through the menus. Now there's a thought.

Most of what was on the terminal was financial reports, useless jargon, and schedule info ('colonoscopy on Monday, remember to ask for female nurse.') Thrilling. There were, however, some notes and personal diary entries and such, and Hans clicked on the first one.

'February 17, 2052

The financial department got back with our earnings for the previous quarter, and things aren't looking good. With most of the human genome having been mapped already there's precious little to learn, besides identifying harmful genetic traits and early markers for disease and ailments. Most of our income comes from those chasing their ancestry, trying to prove they're related to Wilhelm II or Otto von Bismarck or Adolf Hitler (who wants to find out they're related to him?!). If we don't find new sources of revenue soon this institute is in trouble. Perhaps there's merit in doing genetic research for the government.'

There was another.

'March 20, 2052

There's talk of war everywhere you turn, what with the Americans invading Mexico and the Chinese agitating in the South China Sea and Pacific. The Middle Eastern countries keep raising the price of oil, claim it's all running out. Hogwash. The Arabs are just hoarding it all; have been since the days of T.E Lawrence. The United Nations keeps brokering for what little peace remains, and they're doing a good job of it. Not sure what good a war would do for genetic research. It'd probably bankrupt us, in all honesty, and with my two boys being military-age I'll be ending all my nights looking through the bottom of a glass bottle before long.'

Hans clicked on the final entry.

'June 27, 2052

War came alright. The EC had had enough and invaded the Middle East a couple months back, and member states are dropping out of the UN like flies. My one son's already dead, killed by some Arab in some backwards ass desert like Jordan or Uzfuckistan or who knows where. My other boy, Heaven help him, is a truck driver, away from the front lines. I hope it stays that way.

The government ended up sending out contracts to firms like ours, but the research they want us to conduct is unlike anything I've ever seen before. They want to find ways to make people faster, stronger, more resilient. Most institutions will probably turn to chems that inhibit pain or increase adrenaline, but a firm like ours... Most doctors would tell you that genetics should be read-only, but some of the work we do here could...alter life. Permanently. Theoretically, of course. I can't say it'll be ethical. I want to believe it will be, though. I told Charilette to accept whatever contract the Reichstag sends over. She said we'd need more lab space for whatever they want us to do, and I decided to renovate the room in the basement we use to store samples. I changed the door code to Theorodic's birthday.

This is for you, son.'

The second floor was clear for now, fresh debris all over the floor from the earlier grenade explosions on the floor above. Hans had actually caught a glimpse of a Rover as it sauntered into a room down the hall, but if it had noticed them it didn't care. Being that there were mostly labs and examination rooms on the second floor it was a safe bet that the secretary's office wouldn't be there, so up they went again to the third floor.

Their flight from the Rovers had left the upper floors even more trashed than they'd already been, though not as bad as the top floor itself. The body of the Rover that the unknown gunmen had killed earlier was undisturbed, its blood coagulated. Hans crouched next to the body and looked it over, hundreds of bullet wounds marking it from head to paw. What was odd was how small the bullet holes were, much smaller than anything Hans had seen before. All across the German wasteland the two most popular cartridges were 9mm Luger and 8mm Mauser, encompassing everything from pistols and SMGs to rifles and LMGs, respectively. Beyond that was 8mm Kurz, for the various Sturmgewehrs that littered the country after the war.

Entry wounds for the two 8mm cartridges were largely the same, only slightly smaller than the entry wounds for the 9mm Luger. The wounds on the dead Rover were twice as small as either, almost pinpricks. Some American guns could be found in Germany, Hans knew from experience. Mostly 5.56mm assault rifles, and the bullets they fired left rather small entry wounds, which he also knew from very personal experience. These wounds were even smaller.

"Any surprises?" Walter asked from behind, and Hans stood.

"Whoever those shooters were, they were packing some serious firepower. Something I've never seen before. Between the complete lack of shell casings plus their vertibird evac, they've got access to stuff the average wastelander will never even see" Hans said, and Walter nodded.

"Hilda's already checked the rooms. She found an office she thinks has the code for the basement door."

The two of them headed down the hall and joined Hilda as she stood in a doorway, Erma in hand. She stepped back to allow the boys to enter, and Hans took in the office. It was a little small, but stately. There was a door directly opposite the first one, a desk to the right of it. The terminal on top of it was busted, the case shattered by errant shrapnel. Hilda walked around to the back, rifled through the drawers, and shook her head. A dead end.

Hans pushed open the second door, revealing a proper office beyond. This office had suffered somewhat from the collapse of the roof, its ceiling partially buckled and large chunks of drywall and wood scattered about. An air conditioning unit from the roof had come down as well, stopped only by the thick ceiling support beams. Some of its internal mechanisms had spilled out, smashing the main office's terminal into scrap and warping the desk.

Hans crouched by the desk and started pulling open drawers. There were a couple ledgers in the first. Pointless. A few books of blank paper for writing in, plus some pencils, in the second drawer. Useless. Some handwritten notes on loose papers in the third. Irrelevant. In the final drawer, however, was the prize. Inside was a book, 'Understanding the Human Body', which he handed to Hilda. With any luck it'd have some medical knowledge she'd be able to use.

"I can't read."

Hans was about to reach for the ledger that had been underneath the book when Hilda spoke, and he looked up at her. "What?"

"I can't read, Hans."

"Oh... I'm sorry. I guess we'll have to teach you, then" he said, and took the book back from her. He reached back into the draw and pulled out a thin volume containing passwords for every terminal and electronically locked door in the building, including the basement room: 01302031.

"This is the jackpot" Hans said. He stood and slipped the ledger into a pocket. "Let's get back down there and see if we can't find a way out." The three of them headed back for the door, Walter in the lead, M30 Drilling in hand. With his ammo low he'd left the Madsen back in the breakroom. He peeked out into the hallway for less than a second before ducking back into the room, gun trained on the door.

"Trouble."

Hans eased into position next to him and took a look. Standing in the hall, his back turned to them, was a person dressed in some serious armor. Easily seven feet tall, the armor hand-painted in dark green. There wasn't a single inch of skin exposed anywhere on him. The armor suit had hoses running from a pack on the back to his arms, legs, and torso. On the right pauldron of the armor was a sigil: a square of green with a white circle in the middle. In the center of the circle was a black skull, eyes glowing red, an Iron Cross on the forehead: sword in the middle. In his hands was a gun that Hans had never seen before.

The machine-man was standing by the corpse of the Rover, looking down at it, when a living one squeezed through a doorframe down the hall. It bared its teeth and growled, and the man lifted his gun to his shoulder. The hall, slightly dark from the many busted ceiling lights and the rapidly fading light of the evening sun, was suddenly cast in a brilliant and nearly blinding flash of light as the man opened fire. There was a high-pitched stuttering whine and bright orbs of blue plasma flew through the air and slammed into the Rover, melting bones from flesh. With just one burst the creature was dead, missing huge chunks of its body, the holes glowing and simmering. An Energie-Maschinengewehr.

"Sweet fucking Jesus..." Walter whispered.

The man stepped over the body of the bullet-riddled Rover, his steel boots crunching the tile underneath, and he disappeared into a side room. Hans and the rest of the team wasted no time, beating feet in the opposite direction to the fire escape. They rushed down and down the stairs, quickly reaching the basement. Walter ducked into the breakroom to grab his Madsen and some sundry supplies, and then they were all crowded by the locked door, Hans punching the code in with firm jabs of his finger.

The locks released and the door slid down into the floor, revealing a large lab room beyond. The three of them rushed in and sealed the door behind them. Assuming they had the only copy of the door code then the unknown man wouldn't be able to follow them, if he even knew or cared that they were there.

"What the Hell is going on around here? Can anyone answer that? Goons outside Saint Michael's, a whole U-Bahn station disappears, goons in this building, vertibirds, a fucking machine-man, and everywhere we turn that same damn insignia. Thought the Iron Cross went out of style years ago" Walter said.

"I don't know. What's more, I don't want to know. We're getting out of here, soon as we can" Hans said. He set his rifle down on an operating table and took in the room. Almost all the lights were still functioning, casting harsh white light into every corner of the lab. There were several operating tables, each big enough to hold two men on them, and numerous cabinets and countertops. All along the left side of the room were holding cells, the gates wrenched open, the bars twisted from top to bottom. There were a couple terminals as well, all of them functioning and on.

"Did you see the size of that gun he fired? It was bigger than him! And a fucking plasma rifle, no less" Walter grumbled. He was crouched down, opening any cupboards and cabinets he ran across, rummaging for loot. Hilda was inspecting the cages, which left Hans to check the terminals. While still on, most were completely devoid of anything, displaying only blank screens. There was one, near the center of the room, that was locked. The password was written on the side (what the hell was the point then?) He punched in the password and checked the entries.

August 1, 2055

The work that the Bundeswehr wanted us to do didn't translate well to humans. There were marginal improvements to things like stamina, height, metabolism, but nothing substantial. And, nothing that would improve a person's combat performance. The scale is just off. The changes are incremental, minor, and don't work well when you consider just how much genetic variety humans have. What we need is something with fewer genes but a longer sequence. Dogs, maybe? I've put a request into the Reichstag and Bundeswehr to see if they'd be willing to fund canine alterations. Dogs may not make good soldiers (unless we can modify them to use guns?) but they must have some other use on the battlefield.

Hans didn't like where this was going. He clicked on the next entry.

November 1, 2055

It's been a few months, and the Bundeswehr has been pestering us for an update. Work has been steady, but slow. The first few specimens showed a marked improvement to size and muscle density, but the pace isn't feasible. We can introduce modifications to the canine genome that'll manifest, in significant quantities, a few generations from now. Trouble is, that'll take years, and the Bundeswehr needs results for the war now. They're asking that we adapt common breeds, like German Shepherds, Rottweilers, and Schnauzers, to the harsh heat of the Middle Eastern deserts as well as for managing things like prisoner control, bomb sniffing, etc. If only we had a chemical or biological solution, one that could rapidly force evolution in a controlled manner. Most chemistry firms are busy designing combat drugs, but maybe we could find one that could spare a few months to develop something for us.

Hans clicked on the final entry.

February 1, 2056

I am absolutely astounded by the progress we've made. IG Farben got back to us after I put in my request to them for a chemical compound that could induce rapid and permanent changes to a canine's physiology. At first they were skeptical, thought that nothing like that was possible, at least not permanently. Plenty of chems can change a living organism's physiology; make them more resilient to pain, or keep them awake far longer than normal, but only for short periods of time.

Despite their skepticism, the folks at IG Farben set to work, and in only three months delivered to us an experimental compound they dubbed 'EvoNext.' They started with somatropin and other growth hormones and adapted them to canine physiology. Combining the growth hormone with amphetamines introduces a state of rapid bone, muscle, and organ development, along with heightened energy levels and awareness. The trick, however, is delivering this formula via retrovirus. The chems are introduced to the host's cells via the retrovirus, which then replicates the process over a number of weeks.

The results are ASTONISHING. Our test subjects grew rapidly over a relatively short period of time, coming out to about the height of the average man. Their energy levels, endurance, strength, and aggression are all on a level far beyond unmodified subjects. Unfortunately, there are some side effects. Their metabolisms are much more active, meaning they need to be fed and hydrated far more often than their unmodified litter mates. In addition to this, their sex drives are staggering. We've neutered our current test subjects, but a more permanent solution will need to be found. For now, the initial test batch has been shipped to the Bundeswehr. The military is going to go WILD when they see them.

One of the lab techs named our first test subject. Called him 'Rover.' It's kind of amusing, actually, seeing a dog the size of a man roll onto its side so you can rub its belly.

Hans sat down in a nearby chair, unable to believe what he'd just read. Evidently, their 'permanent solution' was never found or implemented, and given the nearly destroyed states of the holding cells it wasn't hard to figure out what happened. When the bombs came, test subjects in the facility and in transport escaped into the streets of Dahlem and Berlin, free to hunt and reproduce into the menace they became.

Hilda crouched in front of Hans and looked him in the eye. "You look pale. Are you alright?" she asked. Hans looked up and saw Walter standing by one of the operating tables, looking at him as well.

"The Rovers... Radiation didn't make them, the people who worked here did" Hans said. Hilda and Walter shared a look, confused, and Hans gestured at the terminal. "Read it, read it! The fuckers CREATED those slobbering hellhounds for the military!"

Walter leaned in and read the terminal entries, his expression quickly changing from skepticism to horror. "My God..." he said. "I don't believe it, I... I can't... It's completely insane!"

Hans stood, ran a hand through his hair, and looked around the room. A quick check confirmed none of the other terminals had anything on them, the data either corrupted or erased, and there was nothing else in the room. No books, no journals, no notes. Hans' hand fell to his side and he turned back to his friends, who were watching him. He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed, and popped the clasp of his holster. He drew his P38, and plugged three rounds into the terminal, the case shattering and popping. He fished a matchbook out of his pocket and struck until the terminal was crackling, the flames warping and melting the circuit boards and vacuum tubes. He pushed the terminal off the counter and it smashed into the stainless steel floor, the fire snuffed out. Nothing remained but screws and the case, the computer completely destroyed.

Hans returned his pistol to his holster and his friends nodded at him. "No chances" was all Hans had to say. He picked up his rifle and slung it over his shoulder.

"There's... There's a door, in the corner. A cellar door. There's a slanted tunnel in it, with a ladder. Looks like it leads into the sewers" Hilda said, and Hans nodded. He let her lead them over to the door and she pulled it open. The tunnel was at a 30-degree angle, the ladder bolted to the wall. The sound of gently moving water rose up into the room, the source unseen, and Hans nodded.

"Let's get out of this place."