“…they wouldn’t need to breathe air! They could tolerate all sorts of temperature changes, and changes in atmospheric pressure! Think of all the possibilities. Simply implant the best traits of each species on earth into these people. We could send them to mars, or into nuclear wastelands. They wouldn’t be able to get sick! They’d be indestructible!”
Dr. Farlan looked around the table. Amused, fearful, hateful looks met his gaze.
“It could work…” Dr. Farlan stammered.
Dr. Beufont answered Dr. Farlan’s desperate attempts to convinced his colleagues of the potential of his project by clearing his throat before saying, “You’re right. It could work. But do we want it to? I’m not sure if this is ethical, wise, or even appropriate. I don’t think the population would disagree with me.”
“But think of what it could do for mankind; what it could do for the world!” Dr. Farlan argued.
“Dr. Farlan,” this time it was Dr. Berrins trying to convince her associate of the error of his ways, “I think, that overall, none of us want any part of this. Think of the repercussions that an act like that could—would surely produce.”
Murmurs of agreement swirled around the table.
“Fine. I understand. I see why you would not want to be a part of this wonderful shift towards knowing the secrets of the universe. I shall just take my ideas elsewhere. It has been quite a learning experience working with all of you, and I thank you for it,” Dr. Farlan acknowledged.
He then picked up his black briefcase filled with white papers, straitened his suit, and waltzed as affably as he could out of the conference room’s door.
The other scientists said nothing after Dr. Farlan’s departure. They stared out the windows providing a panoramic view of the polluted city beneath their high-rise headquarters, they fiddled with their pencils and pens, they coughed, but no one broke the awkward silence. One by one, the scientists filed out of the conference room, saying nothing to each other.
Dr. Farlan’s feet hit the tiled floor of the International Collaboration of Science’s hallway with ferocity. Whack, whack, whack. He enjoyed the pain sparkling at the end of his toes. Whack, whack, whack, ding! The elevator door opened automatically for him ten paces before he reached it. When the glass tube felt the pressure of Dr. Farlan’s body on its floor, it shot itself downwards. The elevator started to slow. The doors opened and Dr. Farlan stepped into the massive building’s lobby.
People roamed throughout the white-tiled lobby in crazy patterns; attempting to weave their ways through the tightly packed crowd. Protestors, employees, police, guards, and other scientists filled the large room. Dr. Farlan set his sights on the side door. It was much closer to his current position then the front doors, and the path towards them was the tiniest bit less crowded. He didn’t hesitate. Quickly, Dr. Farlan weaved through the crowd in an experienced manner. Once he was through the plain side door, it was merely a matter of fifteen minutes before he was at his house; fifty miles southeast of Seattle.
Dr. Farlan’s gaze swept over his extensive property with pride. He enjoyed looking at his manicure lawn, small glades of quaking aspens, and his romantic two-story white house. Soon, though, he snapped his eyes off the splendor of his abode, and got back to work. His self-directed car pulled to the end of his extensive driveway. Dr. Farlan exited the car. Walking briskly, Dr. Farlan found himself in his home office within a minute. A call was made. It was a call that would change the world.
Markyallen Shautab was surprised by Dr. Farlan’s phone call. Surprised, but always poised. It had been ten years since Markyallen had last spoken with the professor. There had been a seminar at the headquarters of the International Collaboration of Science. They were fast friends. Phone numbers had been exchanged, along with pledges to assist each other in their scientific endeavors whenever possible.
The call had only lasted about two minutes. Fast and direct had always been the two scientists’ personalities. Markyallen had been quick to offer what his colleague Maurice Farlan was desperately in need of, people to conduct tests on, guinea pigs. With a snap of his fingers, Markyallen had three white slaves by his side. He spat at their disgusting, pale skin.
“I giving you to a friend of mine. His name is Mau—you will address him as Dr. Farlan,” Markyallen stated.
“When do we leave, sir?” a younger, and less wise, slave asked.
Markyallen glared at the brash slave with hatred before slowly saying, “The three of you will leave immediately. Dr. Farlan wants you in his possession as soon as possible, so, I’m going to have to Cyberport you all. Besides, it will do the science world well to know that the new technology of Cyberporting is still behaving as it should, that is, if you arrive in Seattle in your original state.”
The three slaves glanced nervously at each other before bowing towards their master and leaving his presence. Cyberporting had only been tested three times, and only on slaves like them. Since Markyallen was one of the richest men in South Africa, he owned a Cyberporting terminal. The slaves assumed, or at least hoped, that Dr. Farlan owned one as well.
The testing started off with ease. Dr. Farlan received his first three subjects the day he had been rejected by his colleagues at the International Collaboration of Science. From then on, when he needed more “subjects” he simply called Dr. Shautab. He’d buy a few slaves at the market, and then Cyberport them to Dr. Farlan. Dr. Farlan would send a check in the mail.
Although, at first, the testing had been exciting and moving forward with great speed, eventually progress began to slow. None of Dr. Farlan’s tests had worked. He had tested on twelve people. His subjects weren’t affected at all. The scientist’s excitement quickly turned into a feeling of frustrated-angry-disappointment. Attempts had been made to add one positive trait to the human race at a time; attempts had been made to add two, three, or even ten traits at a time to his subjects’ DNA. Nothing worked.
Finally, though, a new thought, a new idea, had popped into Dr. Farlan’s mind. It happened when he had screamed in anger at one of his “subjects” at a lack of a tough shell on his back, even though the lowly servant had been injected seven times with the DNA from an armadillo. The man had cowered in the corner of Dr. Farlan’s home lab until his rage had started to melt away. Exasperated, Dr. Farlan had told the slave that he was now free to leave whenever he wanted, he was of no importance anymore to the doctor. The slave didn’t want to be free in America. He wanted a return trip to South Africa.
“What! You indignant good for nothing… Why do you even want to return to that despicable nation when you could be free in the Land of Promise? Be free in the United States of America?” Dr. Farlan had sputtered furiously.
“My wife and children,” those were the slave’s short sentiments, yet he had triggered a horrible, disgusting, idea in his master’s mind.
“Children… You can have your return trip to South Africa, my good fellow! In fact, I will Cyberport you right this very instant! I cannot promise you your freedom or safety in that country though," Dr. Farlan exclaimed excitedly.
“That is alright, sir. I would still wish to return home.”
The poor, white slave had found himself back in South Africa within minutes. Back in Washington, though, Dr. Farlan paced up and down the marble floor of the hallway outside of the Cyberporting room. He chuckled. He giggled. He laughed in that horrible way that can only be performed by those with the title of “mad scientist”, which the doctor had achieved approximately a month ago, when he first injected that first amount of animal DNA into that first slave.
The air was crisp. The setting sun cast warmth over the quiet town fifty miles southeast of Seattle. A recent rainstorm gave the area a clean feel to it. Summer air carried a certain quality in it unknown to the other seasons. It was the perfect night for a stroll.
Vallerie Carlington’s feet quietly dropped to the white plastic cover of the sidewalk in a hypnotic rhythm. Her stroller glided in front of her. It was not Vallerie that had attracted the three slaves that Dr. Farlan had left (the biggest and most formidable of his original twelve). It wasn’t even the stroller that had attracted them. The stroller’s contents were what they were after.
Vallerie didn’t hear them, because she was gently humming along to her MentalChip, which was playing her favorite songs at the perfect volume. She didn’t see them, for they were directly behind her. The young mother didn’t know what hit her. Attacking viciously, and quickly, one of the slaves slammed a collapsible metal rod into the back of Vallerie’s head while the other two made sure that there were no witnesses. Collapsing his metal rod, the first slave brought the stroller to a stop. Carefully, he removed the slumbering two-year-old from his comfy seat. Then, one of the lookouts took the toddler. Roughly, he placed a hand over the awakening child’s mouth. They were gone before Vallerie woke.
Over the next few weeks, six children ranging from ages two to seven were reported missing in the general Seattle area. People started becoming fearful. Dr. Farlan was scared as well, but for different reasons then the parents of the missing children. He was scared of being caught for kidnapping, but mostly he was scared of failing again.
Dr. Farlan began testing on the eldest of his new subjects. Simmy. A seven-year-old girl who thought princesses were okay, but basketball players were cooler. The doctor was able to administer the first dose of animal DNA on Simmy with ease. A few simple lies about basketball players getting shots every day, and Simmy allowed Maurice Farlan to inject her with a shark’s DNA that controlled the fish’s unending supply of teeth. Doses and lies were given to Simmy each day for a week before she entered observation.
Next came seven-year-old Marcios. Marcios prided himself on being the toughest little guy in his school class. Again, Marcios’s own personality greatly assisted Dr. Farlan. Tough guys don’t worry about shots. After saying that once a day for seven days, Marcios was placed in observation as well.
After Marcios was six-year-old Tomi. Then came four-year-old Laurezen, who was followed by three-year-old Camebridge. Dr. Farlan had no trouble with any of these children. To some, he would feed them lies. To others, he simply poured some sleeping serum in with the milk in the breakfast cereal. He did whatever he had to do; after all, it was for the betterment of the human race and the world.
It was early September when Dr. Farlan started testing on his last subject. He had noted that Laurezen and Camebridge had both responded well to the testing. Simmy, Marcios, and Tomi ended up exactly the same as they had started out. His oldest three subjects had been dropped off at safe public locations in Seattle after Dr. Farlan realized that they hadn’t been affected by the tests. Laurezen and Camebridge stayed in observation. Laurezen’s back was now the thick hide of a rhinoceros, while Camebridge had the eyesight of an eagle, the ability to pick up scents as well as a bloodhound, and the roar of a lion. It was quite impressive, yet extremely disturbing.
When Dr. Farlan had finished reading the foldable touch-screen of his ePaper, he strolled towards the observation room. He glanced at his two super-children with pleasure, but his main focus was the one child in the room who had yet to have a test conducted on. Alk happily played with his roommates, not at all apprehensive about their strange characteristics. The boy didn’t want to stop playing. Two-year-old Alk was determined to enjoy playing with his friends for as long as possible, thus causing Dr. Farlan to eventually enter the observation room and scoop the little guy up.
“I want to keep paying with fends, daddy!” Alk proclaimed stubbornly at being lifted from the imaginative fun of the three boys.
Alk had started calling Dr. Farlan “daddy” the day he had woken up in the observation room. This was not at all amusing to the doctor, and his three henchmen always had to struggle to hide smiles in the presence of the young boy’s language use. Not only did the boy’s grammar annoy the doctor, but confused him. Dr. Farlan didn’t like to be confused. The boy spent no time whatsoever with him, Alk’s only relationship with the mad scientist being the few glimpses of him watching him through the thick Plexiglas of the observation room’s windows. Alk could have labeled any of the doctor’s three servants as “daddy” (they were all men), yet he had picked Dr. Farlan.
“I have somewhere special to take you today. Aren’t you excited?” Dr. Farlan stated in an obviously fake “happy” voice.
“Yes! Alk be ex-it-id! I can say my name, daddy! My name Alk! Alk, Alk, Alk, Alk, Alk, Alk!” the boy exclaimed, punctuating each “Alk” with a firm thrust of his little thumb towards his chest.
“Wonderful,” Dr. Farlan groaned while hurriedly transporting the toddler to the lab.
In the lab, Dr. Farlan started to strap Alk to the testing table. This caused a problem, because Alk could no longer move either of his tiny arms. He couldn’t punctuate his “Alks” with happy gestures towards his green shirt and denim overall covered body.
“No! No! No! Noooooooo! You be a poopy-pants,” the little boy screamed, capitalizing his statement with a raspberry at the end.
“That’s not a very nice thing to say to your daddy,” Dr. Farlan attempted to play off of Alk’s own views of the doctor, while strapping his legs to the table.
“Let me goooooooooo! You poopy-pants, you poopy-pants, you poopy-pants! You don’t ove me! Why awe you doing dis, daddy? You don’t ove meeeeeee!” Alk roared.
“You’re right, I don’t ‘ove’ you, and I’m not your daddy!” Dr. Farlan screamed.
Alk started to ball. He screamed and thrashed wildly while salty tears flew from him as his head slammed back and forth.
Dr. Farlan’s very small and hollow heart twisted in his chest. He set aside his guilt at the ferocity at which he had yelled at such a happy, innocent, little boy. The doctor removed a needle from one of the glass cabinets attached to the wall farthest away from the testing table. The needle was slowly filled with a thick liquid that contained a chameleon’s DNA.
Alk’s frenzy intensified; “I no wanna shot! Nooooooo! Go away you poopy-pants! You not my fend!”
Maurice Farlan sighed. He grasped the needle, and quickly thrust it into the boy’s stomach. The doctor ripped out the needle violently and observed the boy. His eyes were wide in such a way that made them look as if they were erupting from his skull. Alk’s screams changed tone; from anger to sheer pain. His thrashing developed into seizing. Dr. Farlan slowly started to back away from his subject.
“Help me, daddy!” Alk screamed, terrified.
“I can’t,” Dr. Farlan cried helplessly.
That’s when Dr. Farlan viewed the most horrid sight he had ever been shown in his whole life. The boy exploded. One minute Alk was wailing, the next minute he was chunks of steaming flesh flying around the room. Blood soaked the pure white walls, forever staining them. Ashes floated aimlessly throughout the room. Only the young child’s head remained intact and his eyes stared at Dr. Farlan, willing him to help him. That’s when, Dr. Farlan went crazy.
Dr. Farlan didn’t run around acting like a lunatic. He didn’t start chewing at his own flesh. He didn’t sit down and sing. But he definitely went crazy. The doctor removed the straps from the testing table. With the straps, he made one long rope. Maurice Farlan opened one of his glass cabinets, removed paper and pen, and wrote his suicide note:
Death, come slow,
I do not know,
How the devil entered,
But he clawed at my soul.
He made me kill a child,
He made my thoughts gruesome.
He said I was doing good,
But lie, he could and would.
They found Dr. Farlan with a rope cinched tight around his neck, sitting on the floor of a blood soaked room, with his mouth agape and his eyes pinched shut as if he would perpetually be screaming.
No comments:
Post a Comment