Skin Tight

CHAPTER 9

Test results didn’t lie.

Dr. Rowan ran the printouts through the shredder, bagged them, and called Silas to take them to the incinerator. In the usual course of things, he wasn’t so careful. After all, he was in charge down here, and nobody questioned him. But he did report to a board of directors, and he never knew when one of the custodial or maintenance staff might’ve taken a bribe to report on him.

He couldn’t afford to let them know what he was up to, at least not until he succeeded. Years back, he’d gone beyond his original parameters. Oh, Dr. Chapman had been a visionary, seeing boundless human potential within their small minds, but Rowan saw further still. Why settle for one mutation?

His work would put Dr. Chapman’s in the shade. Five hundred years from now, people would talk of his accomplishments with wonder and awe. By the time he was finished, Homo superus would be acknowledged as the greatest scientific discovery since they split the atom. He would need to fudge the research a little, hide the evidence of his failures, but the day would come. He just needed to be patient, methodical, and determined. Though he’d gotten his hands on a number of weak specimens, he couldn’t let their failure deter him from the goal.

He would prefer to conduct his experiments on children, but they were difficult to procure these days. Even third-world orphanages were paying closer attention to their adoptions, and they wanted more than a check. It was damned inconvenient, but he was coping. There was no shortage of drifters and street people; nobody missed them. Nobody wondered what had become of the guy who used to sleep in the alley. Rowan would take the world’s detritus and create lasting greatness.

He took a deep breath, imagining it. His race would be stronger, faster, smarter. They’d possess all kinds of special gifts. Just imagine the good they could do in the world.

For a moment, he indulged himself in the fantasy, and then he got back to work. This crop of subjects showed no signs of responding to the combination of drugs and radiation. He’d thought for sure that was the key to taking their abilities to the next level.

Instead, they were developing lesions, and their psychoses were intensifying, just like the one he’d terminated a few days ago. As he passed her cell, a woman pressed her face up against the glass, whimpering like an animal. He’d have to do something about her.

The board didn’t know about this control group. They thought these cells stood empty while he worked on honing the abilities of the successes they’d collected. And certainly, he devoted some of his time to training when their mental state permitted it, but he needed more to occupy his attention and considerable intellect. If that had been his sole pursuit, he would’ve long ago lost interest in this place.

As he walked, he considered. So the radiation wasn’t working. Neither were the drugs. By the time he reached his lab, inspiration had struck.

Dr. Rowan tapped the intercom. “Silas, are you there?”

“Yeah.”

“Bring T-89 to me in the testing room, but be careful with him. He’s still healing from the last round.”

“Yeah.” Silas never said much, and he seemed thick as a post, but he was obedient. Rowan had seen to that himself.

Rowan liked that in his support staff. In fact, he preferred it. An inquisitive orderly would have proven very inconvenient. While he waited, he adjusted the equipment, making ready for this test. He documented his hypothesis first, outlining what he intended to do and what he expected to result from the procedure.

As Silas brought T-89 into the lab, Rowan saw that the subject looked remarkably good, considering everything he’d been through. His color was fine, eyes focused, and the lesions had already begun to heal. This one might make it, Rowan mused. A thrill ran through him.

You might be the first of your kind. Homo superus.

“Sit him down here.”

The subject was too weak to resist, though the glint in his eyes said he wanted to. Rowan rarely spoke directly to them. Doubtless a psychologist would have had a field day with that, claiming he objectified his test subjects to make it easier to rationalize what he did to them in the name of science. And perhaps that was correct. It wouldn’t stop him, however.

Silas complied, lifting the man bodily and depositing him into what looked like a modified dentist’s chair. Rowan adjusted the lights overhead so as not to cause the subject unnecessary discomfort. He waved the orderly out without thanking him; it was the man’s job to do as he was told, after all.

Dr. Rowan strapped T-89 in himself. There was some risk to what he was planning. He accepted the potential loss of T-89 as a result. It would be worth it to test out his hypothesis. He tilted the subject’s head forward and shaved the back of his skull. Next, he cleaned the site. There was no such thing as too much care in such matters.

He activated the biofeedback equipment, a little black box attached to his PC. The computer-which wasn’t networked to any other in the facility-would record T-89’s cerebral responses to the procedure, giving Rowan an indication when he reached the subject’s maximum tolerance. Some people had a high capacity for electrical shock, and it took more voltage to induce seizure. Others could withstand very little without being irreparably damaged. The degree depended on their bioelectrical fields.

His implements lay arrayed before him: a three-pronged metal probe connected to a length of copper wire, which was affixed to an electrical source. He administered a muscle relaxant and a general anesthetic first, pure kindness on his part. Insertion wouldn’t hurt much, but he wanted to spare T-89, whenever possible. Though the male wasn’t his favorite-not like Gillie-Rowan wasn’t a sadist. He was a scientist.

T-89 pulled against his restraints, but this subject didn’t scream. In fact, Rowan couldn’t say whether he’d ever heard the man speak a word. “Stop that,” he snapped. “You’re going to tear a ligament. Do you want me to sedate you? Give the medicine time to take effect.”

He’d set his voice-activated recorder on the table beside him, so it switched on with his verbal warning. The subject stilled. Rowan didn’t know if that had occurred because of his chastisement or the muscle relaxant; either way, it didn’t much matter. More importantly, he had the result he wanted.

Rowan decided he might as well make use of the device while he waited for the drugs to finish their work. “T-89 is alert and strong. He received the serum as an adult, unlike Dr. Chapman’s first control group, in a special free flu shot program. Thus far, no special talent has emerged, but he has survived the change. At this time, I plan to introduce a current through the right side of his brain in an attempt to stimulate development of suprahuman traits. The combination of radiation and chemical treatments has produced no result to date.”

With his left hand, he pressed T-89’s head forward. In one smooth motion, he pressed the metal spikes into the right side of the brain. Rowan felt pleased when the subject didn’t even flinch. He checked the depth of the connection and judged it sufficient for his purposes.

He adjusted the controls on the small generator. “Beginning the procedure with a low-intensity sixty-cycle pulsating current.”

Anticipation blossomed as T-89 jerked. Today could be the day Rowan made history.

“It’s time.” The disembodied voice sent a cold chill through Gillie.

Horror flickered through her, but she knew better than to resist. If she didn’t stand ready at the door of her quarters, Silas would take her against her will. Resistance only pissed Dr. Rowan off. He liked to pretend her compliance was voluntary-that she wasn’t a prisoner here. By his reckoning, she was a “special guest,” performing an invaluable service. That might be true, but they put a price on it right enough. They just didn’t pay Gillie for her time or her gift.

She knew the truth: they believed her a commodity, not a person, one to which they owned sole rights.

Taking a deep breath to brace herself, she stood by the door, and a few moments later, Silas unlocked it. She stepped out, letting him escort her to the medical lab. Though she’d done this many times, the wrongness of it never paled. Silas said nothing as they walked, a dead-eyed giant who did as he was told.

Once she’d thought he might save her. He’d take pity on her and find a way to smuggle her out of here. But as the years passed, she decided Rowan must have done something to him, something that kept him silent and loyal.

Now he opened the door and said, “They’re waiting for you.”

Of course they were.

“Thanks,” she said with gentle sarcasm.

Silas gave no sign he understood she wasn’t being sincere. He merely turned and walked away. Her hands trembled as she stepped into the pristine white room. The lights were too bright. Everything was sterile and shining, except for the bed shrouded in the blue wraparound curtain.

That was to protect the privacy of the client. She never saw the faces of those whose lives she saved. Rowan claimed it was for her protection, but she knew better. It was really to keep her from going after them, should she ever manage to get out of here. Though Dr. Rowan didn’t believe that would ever happen-hence, him relaxing enough to permit the semi-privacy of her apartment-he was a cautious man by nature.

His offer to provide candid videos had surprised her, but she had no doubt the faces would be blacked out when they reached her, preventing her from identifying any of them. It was a sop to her isolation, nothing more. And she had to pretend it meant something-as if any kindness could make up for what had been done to her. Sometimes it was so hard to keep from going mad like so many of her peers. Sometimes the weight of the anger seemed impossible to carry.

“Ah, Gillie.” Rowan turned with a smile. “You’re right on time. We have quite a difficult case today, inoperable pancreatic cancer.”

She shuddered. Don’t let him touch me.

Skirting his outstretched hand as if she didn’t see it, she hopped onto the hospital bed herself. She swung her legs up and leaned back, presenting her arm. Clinical contact couldn’t be avoided, but she refused to let him pat her hand and stroke the back of it with his fingertips, as if she would relish the caress. How she loathed him.

“I can take care of it,” she said quietly.

It wasn’t arrogance; it was the truth.

Rowan nodded. “I know. That’s one of the reasons you’re so precious.”

Sickness rose in her stomach. To fight the feeling, she closed her eyes. Some people might have found that it left them defenseless, but she’d gotten good at building alternate worlds in her mind’s eye. In a flicker of her eyelashes, she could go somewhere else.

“Are you tired?”

He wouldn’t permit her even that escape. “No, I’m fine. Shall we begin?”

In answer, he sank the butterfly needle into her forearm. Gillie knew he used it on her because it looked smaller, but like all of Rowan’s kindnesses, this one was deceptive. A butterfly needle was still twenty-one gauge, and it hurt no less. The inner curve of her elbow made her look like a junkie, so many times had they tapped her.

Deftly, he connected the needle to the IV tubing, and then he pushed through the blue curtain, connecting her to the dying patient beside her. They’d transfuse him with half a pint of her blood. The type didn’t matter.

Her blood was liquid gold, the universal panacea, and they’d never let her go. Now it was attracting the diseased cells inside the patient’s body, gathering them. If the cancer had spread, her blood would bind it into a single mass. This was the easy part, the part that required very little effort. She could lie here and pretend it wasn’t happening.

“Are you ready for the next step?” Rowan asked.

As if she could say no. She extended her hand. To Gillie’s eyes, it was small, pale, and didn’t look as though it could work miracles. Rowan pulled her bed closer, making sure not to tangle the IV lines.

He put her hand on the patient. By the papery, raddled skin, she could tell she was healing an old person, someone with more money than time. This part of the process was automatic. Using the link of her touch, mingled with her blood, the gift activated.

Gillie could feel the sickness pouring into her. She never knew if it came in through the tube linking them or if it melted through her very skin. The pain was real. She knew this person’s suffering and sickness intimately, and it echoed with the memory of so many near deaths when she was a child. She didn’t want to remember the brittle ache of her bones and the weakness that left her unable to lift a spoon.

Death whispered through her veins, and she recognized him, too. He carried with him doleful music and the whispering of wings. The cancer burned in her blood, fighting with the gift. She wished she could heal it herself, but her gift was nothing so clean or lovely. Gillie thought of herself as a magnet, attracting all things diseased and decayed. It wasn’t a gift she’d wanted; the doctors had discovered it as a fluke when she first recovered from a particularly virulent strain of leukemia.

Her parents had been so delighted to have her back, whole and healthy-a normal kid for the first time. They’d been reluctant to let the Foundation run their tests, and when they became suspicious, they’d moved, so many times that Gillie had lost count. But when she was twelve, they took her on the way home from school.

Her gift was too rare and wonderful not to be used, they’d said. She was a natural resource, like oil or diamonds. At first they’d tried to convince her she wanted to help, but Gillie had only ever wanted to go home. Rowan had told her years ago that her parents were dead now, and so there was nothing for her in the outside world anymore. She didn’t know if she believed him.

Now the worst began. Her blood would filter the sickness while she lay near death, suffering someone else’s anguish. That took hours. Hours of agony she hadn’t earned, but the rich clients paid the Foundation handsomely for the use of Gillie. It was said she could cure anything.

The rotten waste resulting from said filtration would have overwhelmed her kidneys, if not for dialysis. Even with her eyes closed, she knew what Rowan was doing now. He was preparing the machine; he needed to be ready when she conquered the old man’s cancer. She knew he watched her while she twisted and suffered. Doubtless he thought bearing witness gave them some kind of connection. It only made her hate him all the more.

“You’ll be right as rain in less than twenty-four hours,” he whispered, brushing the sweaty hair back from her brow.

This, Gillie hated most of all. But then the pain took her, as it always did.