The young boy peers through the opaque glass of his room, struggling to maintain his stoic indifference to the commotion across the sterile corridor. I must not give in to the panic, thats what they want, he thinks. The shouts and curses subside as the occupant of the opposite room is restrained and whisked away. He knows he will never see Fourteen again; he knows what happens when they Manifest. It was supposed to be a secret, but boys and girls that Manifest disappeared forever. Ms. Deerbourne taught that they moved on to another school and encouraged them all as they each tried to Manifest. He had liked her warm energy and constant attention, until he learned it was all a sham. That betrayal had cut deep. A small shiver, quickly suppressed, quakes down his spine as he remembers.
Full awareness was just out of reach, his mind spinning from meds slowing dripping from the IV into his left arm. Something inside burns away the fog and he listens.
Fifty-seven has just Manifested, Dr. Kain, says Ms. Deerbourne, it seems her metabolism takes wild swings when properly encouraged. One minute she cannot sit still, and if forced will start to seize, the next she can barely move. Do you need further evaluation or are we done with this test subject?
I think sequence fifty-seven is too volatile and a dead end, replies Dr. Kain.
I see. Ill make sure Jopal uses the incinerator this time. We cant leave any DNA floating around for either the Feds or Synaptek to find. How is this one doing?
He may be our strongest subject yet. The dat-nuke that managed to circumvent our ware-wall may have actually done us a favor. Its payload corrupted his gene-splice. Were still analyzing the differences, but for now hes our Prime.
Utterly still, he continues to feign sleep, holding his emotions tightly in check. They must not suspect a thing, he thinks, I will not panic. I will control myself. I will not Manifest. I will not panic. I will control myself. I will not
One by one, the others came and went: Eight, with her large brown eyes that wouldnt stop blinking; Sixty-three, who set his lunch on fire; Thirty-one, who giggled at everything, even when she put her fist through the vid-screen without getting cut; and a multitude more. He etched each into his memory, for there was no one else to remember them. Someday, Prime, youll escape and put a stop to this, he promised himself.
I dont understand it, hes in the top two percentile intellectually. Why hasnt he Manifested yet? Are we wasting our time? Hes one of our oldest subjects, now. Hell start asking questions soon if were not careful.
We cant afford to let this opportunity slip through our fingers; we must keep studying this subject. Have you seen the latest results from the rad-scan? His skeletal structure is emitting bursty alphas again. My theory is that Prime is unconsciously undergoing self-directed mutation. His DNA has already evolved the equivalent of seventy generations. That is why he hasnt manifested yet. I just wish we had picked up on the DNA differences earlier. We may never be able to discover the original sequence.
I will control myself. I will not give in to the pressures. I will not Manifest for them he thinks as the overhead lights flare to life. His internal clock tells him hes only been sleeping for thirty-five minutes. Locking down his irritation at the farce he must play, he offers a greeting to his tormenter, Morning, Ms. Deerbourne. Time for Therapy?
Yes, Prime, come along. Dr. Kain has a new regimen he wants you to try. Dont be discouraged. Why, youll probably Manifest any day now! comes the overly cheery reply. He endures sleep deprivation, drug cocktails, shock therapy, and exposure to a myriad of chemicals and gases as Dr. Kain searches for the right trigger.
Snow crunches lightly underfoot as he walks slowly around the courtyard in one of his few respites from Therapy. The courtyard is walled on three sides by the unassuming concrete and glass of the compound. The northern side is open to the forest beyond, guarded by a thick, wrought iron fence that rises to meet the second-story windows on either side. He has been promised a full days break, but he expects that hell only get a few precious hours. I have not lost control, he thinks, but they will start suspecting soon. A few flurries of snow blow down from the leaden clouds to wreath his eyelashes in their cold embrace. His casual walking soon leads him to the fence.
A tech observes the lone subject in the courtyard below. All vitals stable and holding, he states in a bored voice as he reaches for a day-old donut sitting precariously on a mound of paperwork. He watches as the subject stops to stare out at the snow-laden trees, a hundred yards distant. The tech washes down a bite with a gulp of lukewarm coffee. A quiet beeping causes his eyes to focus on the read-outs in front of him.
It must be now, he thinks. He grips the fence in both hands and concentrates. Beads of sweat turn instantly to tiny rivers of ice, coating his face and arms in their brittle cage. The iron fence creaks ominously as a wave of cold causes it to contract. Brittle from the extreme temperature, a section slowly breaks off to shatter upon impacting the walkway. Here are my Manifest powers, now try and catch me! shouts the freed subject.
Upstairs behind his mirrored window, the tech activates the alarm in a panic, his half-eaten donut long forgotten.
