“Doctor Fanshaw, is the test subject ready?”
The voice makes me jump, and I almost fumble the precious vial. Booming over the loudspeakers, it’s like the voice of God. Worse, it’s the voice of an impatient CEO who’s already used phrases like “project overruns” and “termination of contract.”
“It’s, ah – it’s all ready, Sir. I mean, the test is ready to proceed.”
My hands still shake as they clip the vial of silvery liquid into the retort stand. The assistants beside me exhale. I don’t blame them. The chemical costs more than some countries make in a year. With a nod, one of the lab assistants opens a small metal case. Nestled within is a tiny white shard, bright against the dark blue lab gloves and yellow full-body protection suits that became mandatory after that first accident that changed everything. She slowly drops the fragment into the vial, moving gently and reverentially as if it were some holy relic.
I mean, she might not be wrong, all things considered…
My eyes can’t help but flick to the other lab assistant. Well, not really a lab assistant. Whatever training the stocky man has, he never learnt it in a chemistry lecture. The only equipment he’s checking is the gun holstered to his hip.
The shard is extracted from the vial via a pair of needle-like tweezers. Even after half a dozen tests, I expect it to, I don’t know, glimmer, or buzz, or something. Instead, it just sits on the small metal plate.
Waiting.
“Proceed.”
With a terse nod, I take the plate and move towards the glass cube in the center of the room. Inside is a pudgy, middle-aged man, sitting awkwardly on a chair and trying not to dislodge the sensors stuck to his scalp or flash his privates through the flimsy green hospital gown. The glass door opens, and the security assistant shuffles inside, carefully watching me as I hold the plate in trembling hands and risk a look back at the far wall. Above the slew of lab equipment is a wide, opaque window. Somewhere behind it, Michael Ivonak, CEO of the entire corporation, is watching.
Six human trials of the Archetype Treatment. Six test subjects, without a clear success. Well, seven, really, but we try not to talk about the accident anymore.
The shivering man nods, seeing my hesitation.
“It’s going to be all right, Marie,” he whispers. “I want this. I do.”
“Jason, are you really sure? The treatment barely worked on the first three, and of the others, two almost died. The last never even amalgamated the memories! He’s still stuck in the seventeenth century! He thinks he’s a slave trader!”
“Well, to be fair, the researchers did say that the sample came from a merchant. Look, I know the risks, alright? I’m certain we’ve got it right this time. All we needed was the right calibration.”
I turn and face the blank grey window overlooking the laboratory, but my voice is barely a squeak.
“M-mister, uh, CEO. I mean, Mister Ivonak. And, and fellow researchers. I can’t, actually, aha, see any of you up there, but…”
My voice trails off, and it’s hard to swallow. Beside me, the security guard fidgets.
“Today marks the seventh test of the Archetype Treatment. As you know, the unlocking of the transitional symmetry state at a molecular level, initially designed for organic computing capable of interfacing directly with the human brain, initially resulted in, ah, unexpected results.”
Don’t think about it. Just keep going.
Try as I might, the memory betrays me. I can still smell the sweat and matted hair of the woman who discovered the Archetype Treatment’s unexpected effect. All it took that time was an eyelash, the eyelash of an old researcher that had fallen into the first test mixture. What was her name, again? Charlotte, that’s it. Except Charlotte wasn’t Charlotte anymore. Instead of becoming a living supercomputer, she gained the memories of a 60 year old Albanian neuroscientist. The mixture was unstable, of course, and she soon slipped into schizophrenia, trapped in boyhood memories of a war that she never lived through.
They still show her to new starters as a cautionary tale.
“Are you going to continue, Doctor?”
My voice comes out as a panicked squeak.
“Yes! Sorry, Sir, ah, CEO sir! For today’s test, my colleague will trail a treated bone fragment. I am aware of the problems that occurred with the last sample-” It’s hard not to wince through the words “-but the archaeological team has assured me the test material is from a Wisconsin farmer from the Nineteenth Century. In future, we may be able to research the memories of human history; talk to the Pharaohs, listen to a great saint, or even dive into the very beginnings of human evolution. For today’s test though, we may be able to ask about what kind of vegetable crops will be grown this season.”
The silence only isolates my empty giggle. God, I want crawl into a lab cupboard and hide till this is all over.
Behind me, Jason coughs.
“I’m ready.”
It’s all I can do not to drop the tray as I offer up the tiny chip of silvery-white bone. Jason catches my eye for a moment, just a moment, then reaches out and picks up the fragment.
There’s that jolt. I’ve watched the recordings of the other human tests a hundred times by now. The eyes roll back, the jaw locks, the tendons in the neck bulge out there and there. His breathing comes in short, sharp gasps.
In the other test subjects, this is where things went wrong. This is where they went into cardiac arrest, or started dribbling cerebrospinal fluid out of their nostrils, but – but…
But this time the breathing slows. The eyelids flutter, then finally open. Jason’s hand is still clenched around the tiny shard.
“J-Jason?” I whisper. “What do you see? Is it – the past?”
The pudgy man gasps, then looks around the lab, blinking in confusion.
“I – I remember,” he whispers. “I remember all of it. The dirt on my hands. Cornfields, waving and dancing in the wind. Horses. I had two horses. A wife… no… what did they – what did they do to my wife?”
“It’s all right, Jason.” My eyes flick to the assistant outside of the cube, who looks up from her screen and gives a silent nod. “You’re amalgamating the memories. Just stay calm.”
Beside me, the security assistant changes stance, his hands dropping to the weapon at his side. Jason’s eyes narrow.
“Are you threatening, me, sir?” he whispers. His voice. It’s – lower. Measured. Deliberate. The vowels have lengthened, with a slight hitch at the end of the sentence. “D’you know what happen to those unlucky enough to cross the Wisconsin 7th?”
“No, Jason – Jason! You’re still here. It’s me, it’s Marie, it’s-”
“Oh, I do recognise you, Miss Fanshaw. But I do not know who this gentleman is, who feels it proper to point a weapon at a free man. Are you a Southerner, Sir? A Confederate?”
“Jason! Stop! You just need to focus, I – ”
A rough hand pushes me aside.
“All right, Doc, that’s enough,” growls the security assistant. “Now as for you, lie down on the ground with your hand behind your head, understand? I said, lie – ”
Then there’s a green blur, a sickening little crunch, and the stocky yellow figure is down, he’s dropped the gun, his hands grasping his neck as he gasps for air.
It’s – no, it can’t be.
“You dare try and threaten a member of the Iron Brigade?” Jason snarls, picking up the gun and cocking it. “Your firearms may be different, sir, but any man who fought for the Union knows how to handle a weapon. Battlefield rules, sir. Your life is forfeit.”
“Dammit, Jason, listen to me! The war is over! Please!”
It’s no use. As he raises the weapon there’s a sharp crack and the glass around me shatters. Jason whips the gun up and around, looking past my shoulder, then he stumbles back as something thwips past my mask. The green gown is already stained red as he slumps back over the twitching security assistant.
“What? No, all of you, stop! This isn’t-”
“Doctor Fanshaw, please step back.” orders a voice from behind me.
I know that voice. When I turn, a silvery middle-aged man, flanked by two guards, is looking down at Jason. It’s Michael Ivonak.
He’s smiling.
“Sir! This wasn’t – I mean, the test, was, was – ”
“Was a success,” finishes the CEO. “How soon can you put the Archetype Treatment into full production? I want numbers on my desk asap.”
It’s all I can do not to stare down at the tangle of green and yellow bodies.
“For, uh, further historical research, sir?”
“No, Doctor Farnsworth,” he murmurs, rubbing his chin and staring at the spreading pool of blood. “I have a very different market in mind.”
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