CHAPTER 29
Boyd Craven adjusted his eye patch before walking the length of the all-brick hallway. Thirty-eight steps later, he turned and headed into the security checkpoint.
Two pre-adolescent Scabs came forward on all fours to sniff his hand, then their handlers yanked them back on a rope-style leash. One of the guards waved him through.
When he’d first embarked on this genetic experiment, Craven had no idea how well the younger Scabs would take to tracking and reconnaissance, using their enhanced sense of smell for tactical purposes.
Plus, they didn’t eat much and were easier to control—an added bonus—making them the perfect security tool. At least until their rapid aging kicked in, sending their bodies into an intense maturation process.
Craven entered the Research and Development Lab next, passing a string of tables filled with beakers, test tubes, flasks, microscopes, syringes, and surgical equipment before turning left and zipping by what he called The Wall of Failures.
Liquid-filled five-gallon glass jars sat next to each other on four levels of shelving, chronicling his experiments from the first attempt to the last, each one containing a bioengineered fetus.
Some were grotesque in their malformities. Others looked almost human except for their missing noses, yet all of them had suffered a cellular breakdown.
Another doorway led him into the processing plant, where the infirmed and the expired were to be converted into meat units for trade and consumption.
He nodded at the two men using their skills to carve up the day’s losses and add a precise blend of seasoning and other trade secrets.
Once those steps were complete, they’d flash-bake the units and put them into the towering smoker to add the expected flavor, keeping the buyers unaware as to the true nature of the meat supply.
His pace continued, taking him to the string of observation windows that provided a close-up view into the Maturation Control Pod, or MCP.
Craven stopped to run a visual check of the beds inside, each row containing twelve bodies strapped to wire-mesh frames.
He counted only eight adults, meaning the balance of inventory belonged to what society used to call preschoolers, each of them ready to undergo their first rapid maturation process.
In the early days, the MCP team installed mattresses for comfort, but ditched that plan after learning a solid eleven percent of the Scabs would defecate when hit with the intense pain. Defecation meant more time and expense, something Craven wouldn’t tolerate, not when it was easier to just hose down the floor.
The Scab closest to the first window was a dark-haired boy, his face twisting and contorting as ‘The Surge’ ravaged his body. The violent process resembled a helium balloon being inflated in increments, making its size and shape pulsate in heaves.
Craven watched the process reach the bones in the subject’s back, then listened for the expected scream that shook the glass.
Someone else might have taken a step back when it happened, but Craven’s feet held firm as a thin smile found its way to his lips. He knew the warrior stage was about to begin, increasing the value of each Scab ten-fold.
Craven held silent, watching the spectacle spread from one Scab to another, working its way across the room to the other inventory.
The last of the assets to change were the older Scabs, transforming them from warrior into food source. This was the second and final surge of their existence—the one that carried only an aging component, not a structural reconfiguration, meaning far less violence. One could argue the reduced pain was a reward for those who’d survived the first surge, having proven themselves during adulthood.
Either way, it was the final step in what Craven considered the perfect four-stage circle of life: one that ran from rapid incubation to tactical tool to warrior state to food source.
“The ultimate re-provisioning cycle,” he muttered, where nothing was wasted. Just as it always should have been, if the Universe had any sense of order.
Craven made a mental note to stop here later and survey the results, when this round of surges was complete. He knew he wouldn’t recognize the younger subjects, each one tripling in size and age.
The other eight would wrinkle and lose their aggressiveness, making them easier to handle for final processing. An unplanned benefit of the engineering, but he was thankful for the luck.
He turned and continued his trek, arriving at his destination—the incubation lab, the most secretive chamber in the facility.
“How’re we doing?” he asked the blonde, forty-year-old chief geneticist Wilma Rice, one of only two dozen staff members in the facility. She had the biggest eyes he’d ever seen, even if they were hidden behind a thick pair of glasses.
“Batch five-twelve is nearing conclusion,” she answered, her braided ponytail draped across the front of her shoulder. “My calculations indicate we’ll yield another female in this round. Percentages are holding steady at eleven hundred to one. I’m not sure why that’s the case, but it’s too consistent to be some random event.”
“No, I think not.” Craven walked to the cabinet behind her and opened the pair of swing doors, where he found a pack of glass vials inside. Six, to be exact. He grabbed one and held it in front of his eyes, twisting the container for inspection. He turned to Rice. “Two are missing.”
“Had a contamination issue during transfer.”
“Fletcher won’t be pleased. He ordered eight.”
“It couldn’t be helped, boss. At least this version is thirty-two percent more effective than the first. That might make up for the partial delivery.”
Craven nodded, not wanting to berate her. There were more important items on the agenda and he needed her to focus. “What about your efforts to forestall The Surge?”
“I expect to see a marked improvement soon. Something north of twenty percent.”
“That’s damn good progress, Rice. Gives us more time for training during the docile period. Nice work.”
“I appreciate the kudos, sir, but I can’t take the credit. It’s simply a byproduct of your groundbreaking genetics, plus a bit of unexpected evolution mixed in.”
“Always the modest one, I see,” Craven said, taking in the numb expression on her face. “We both know where this technology came from.”
“Yet you recognized the value and took action when your former employer wouldn’t.”
“Good thing I did too, with The Event right around the corner. Can you imagine if I hadn’t stepped up?”
“That’s the mark of a visionary. Seeing the future when others can’t.”
“For a bunch of PhDs,” Craven said, shaking his head, “they had no idea what they had. They were too busy looking for that pie-in-in-the-sky cancer treatment to ever see what they were missing. Well, I didn’t and now here we are, all thanks to you.”
Her shoulders dropped as her voice turned sheepish. “I’m only the facilitator, sir.”
Craven shook his head, wishing she’d accept the compliment. “I may have seeded the science, but you ran with it. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the brains behind this operation. So I say again, nice job.”
She smiled, though only for a moment, her face turning serious once again. “If my latest adjustments prove fruitful, we may see a more sustainable output from the next round of hybrid inseminations.”
Craven smiled, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Excellent. Your timing couldn’t be better. I’ll let the boys know to start saving up. But I have to wonder, will we see a decrease in semen production this time around, after our recent ramp-up?”
“Doubtful. Reproductive biology doesn’t stop simply because you’re part of an insemination chain.”
“True, but I’m sure the men miss the old ways of doing things. A little one-on-one time, if you know what I mean.”