“Talk.”
“We…I mean the government, the military, see the way things are going. The biosphere is critically wounded. Global warming is only the beginning. That’s the pop culture talking point, but it’s a lot worse than that. Seas are dying because pollution has interrupted or eliminated key links in the food chain. Plankton and krill are dying off while sea-borne bacteria proliferate. Coral reefs are dying, the sea floor is a garbage pit, and even third world countries are building centrifuges by the score to refine uranium.”
“Yeah, I watch CNN. Life sucks. Get to the point.”
“Some key people in government want to ensure that no matter what happens we’ll still be able to maintain an effective military presence capable of response under all conditions.”
“What kinds of conditions?”
“Extreme. Deep pollution, blight, even post-conflict radiation environments.”
“Meaning?”
Goldman’s face was bleak. “Meaning, that if you can’t fix the world, then alter the inhabitants to adapt to the ambient circumstances.”
I sat back and laid the pistol on my lap, my finger outside of the trigger guard.
“How?” asked Bunny. “How do you make people adapt?”
“Transgenics. Gene therapy. And some other methods. We explored some surgical options, but that’s problematic. There’s recovery time, tissue rejection issues, and other problems. Genetic modification is less traumatic.”
“Let me see if I get this,” I said. “You and your bunch of mad scientists down here alter the genes of test subjects to see if you can make them more adaptable to polluted and devastated environments.”
“Yes.”
“What kinds of genes?”
“Insect, as I said. Insects are among the most successful life forms. Not as durable as viruses or as hardy as some forms of bacteria, of course, but otherwise, they’re remarkable. Many can live on very little food, they can endure great injury, and there are some who are highly resistant to radiation.”
“You mean cockroaches?” Bunny asked.
Goldman shot him a quick look. “Yes and no. The idea that cockroaches would survive a nuclear war…that’s a distortion based on urban myths. Cockroaches are only a little more resistant to radiation than humans. Four hundred to one thousand rads will usually kill a human. A thousand rads will cause infertility in cockroaches. Sixty-four hundred rads will kill over ninety percent of the Blattella germanica cockroaches. No…for increased resistance to radiation we explored genes from wood-boring insects and the fruit fly. Some species of wood-borers can withstand forty-eight to sixty-eight thousand rads without measurable harm. It takes sixty-four thousand rads to kill a fruit fly; and if you’re talking real endurance, the Habrobracon, a parasitoid wasp, can withstand one hundred and eighty thousand rads.”
“Hooray for garden pests,” Top muttered.
“We experimented with various gene combinations and got mixed results. Many of those lines of research were terminated. We did come back to the cockroach, though,” he said, and again he licked his lips with a nervous tongue. “Not for radiation resistance, but for other qualities.”
“Like what?”
“They can run at incredible speeds. Even ordinary cockroaches can run at a speed of one meter per second. That's like an ordinary man running at one hundred and forty miles an hour. And they can change direction twenty-five times per second! Nothing else in nature can do that. Their elusiveness is one of the things that explain how they've survived in so many situations in which other animals were destroyed. They can also climb walls because the tiny pillus on their feet allow them to adhere to surfaces as if they’re covered in suction cups. It’s like Velcro. They have light receptors in the ultraviolet range. And the list goes on and on.” He took a breath, clearly caught up in the excitement of his life’s work. “As we mapped the genome from the desired source animals we began to see the potential emerge. A true super soldier. I—”
“Soldier?” Bunny interrupted.
Goldman turned to him, momentarily flummoxed. “Yes, of course….didn’t I make that clear? All of our test subjects are soldiers.”
“Whose soldiers?” asked Top.
“Why…ours, of course.”
I leaned toward him. “Did they know?”
Goldman recoiled, but his voice was firm. “Of course! They all knew that they were volunteering for genetic experiments designed to make them better fighters. We had to tell them. There were letters of agreement, and every man signed.” He looked at me accusingly “You think we’d do this without telling them? God, who do you think I am? Josef Mengele?”
I wanted to hit him. I wanted to drag him and his whole team into a quiet room and work them over.
“What went wrong?” I said, keeping my voice even.
He was a long time answering. He and the other scientists exchanged looks, and Halverson studied the floor between his shoes.
“They were all screened,” Goldman said softly. “They knew the risks. But…gene therapy isn’t yet an exact science. Mapping the genome isn’t the same as truly indexing and annotating it.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “What happened to them? Did they get sick?”
“Sick? No. No…they’re very healthy. It’s just that they…changed.”
“Use the word, dammit,” said Halverson in a fierce whisper. Apparently he wasn’t as fully on board with all this as the science staff.
“Some of the insect genes coded differently than we expected. Most of the changes were mild and mostly irrelevant. Some skin changes. Thickening of the dermis, some color changes, follicular alterations. We tried to correct the problems with more gene therapy, but…we couldn’t control the mutations.” Goldman sighed, and said: “They mutated.”
“Oh man,” said Bunny. “My daddy wanted me to stay in Force Recon. Worst that could happen there is I get shot.”
Top gave Goldman a hard look. “Why are they attacking your people? If they’re volunteers…”
Goldman shook his head, and nothing that I said could make him say it out loud. The rest of the science team looked ashamed and frightened. A few were openly weeping. None of them could look at us except Halverson. I saw the muscles at the corners of his jaw bunch and flex.
“Tell me,” I said. We were past the point of threats now.
Halverson wiped sweat from his eyes. “These…scientists…had a protocol for incidents involving extreme aberrations. The entire project was to be terminated, along with any potentially dangerous aberrant forms.”
“‘Aberrant forms’?” I echoed. “God. You idiots were going to terminate a dozen U.S. soldiers? Citizens?”
“No,” said Goldman. “They signed the papers! That officially made them property of the United States Army. And, besides…they were no longer soldiers.”
“You mean that they were no longer people?”
He didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
“You’re a real piece of work, Doc.”
“Look,” he snapped, “we’re at war! I did what I had to do to protect the best interests of the American people.”
Suddenly there was a low rumble that shuddered its way heavily through the walls. The cement floor beneath our feet buckled and cracked. Dust puffed down from the ceiling, pictures fell from the walls. The scientists screamed and started from their chairs, but there was nowhere to run. Top and Bunny yelled at them to shut up and they cowered back from the two big men with guns.
Halverson and I hurried to the door and peered out. There was a faint flickering red glow from down the hall. I could smell smoke. “Christ!” Halverson said. “I think that’s the generator room.”
There was a high whine from distressed engines and then the lights dimmed again and then went out. The staff room emergency lights kicked in after a few seconds, weak and yellow, giving each face a sallow and guilty cast.