On his own initiative, Ivar had grabbed a large ziplock bag full of dog kibble from a grad student’s locker who thought that if kibble was good for dogs, it must be just as nutritious for humans. Ivar had thought that weird six months ago when he first saw the guy eating it, but now he chewed a handful and tossed a few to the rats, and they seemed to like it, too.
Burns didn’t seem to need food.
The rats, his nonhuman company, were watching him. He was sure that they turned their heads to the door as he left and seemed to wag their long pink tails whenever he returned, dragging a cart full of wires and circuits and whatever else he was told to scavenge.
He’d given a couple of them names although he didn’t know which were girls or boys. The cute one who wiggled her whiskers at his every return he’d named after a girl he’d pined for in high school but had never spoken to: Susan. The one who looked big and strong he thought of as Ivar.
The other two he just thought of as the other two.
Ivar picked up an old half gallon of milk he’d found in the fridge in his old lab and took a big swig, pleased that it was nonfat and not rancid. A bit sour, but nothing he couldn’t stomach.
He giggled again, realizing he was eating dog food and worrying about spoiled milk. Susan, the rat, stood and stared at him as he giggled, and he swore her little pink nose was wiggling and he felt happy. Tired, but happy. He was accomplishing something BIG here.
He had a feeling he was missing something important, between Burns from the government, the collar around his neck, and the thing he was building.
On order, Ivar got on the bike and started pedaling backward. It had been hard at first, but he’d finally gotten the rhythm of it down. He was able to go faster and faster. He heard a low hum. A golden haze filled the incubator.
Burns got up and grabbed one of the rats, one with no name, and tossed it into the gaping mouth of the incubator.
Ivar kept pedaling.
The rat scurried along the bottom of the incubator for a moment, claws scrambling for a hold, then the gold haze became more solid and coalesced around the rat’s head. Which disappeared from sight. The glow moved along the body, as if consuming it, until there was only the quivering tail wagging frantically. Then even that was gone.
“Whoa!” Ivar said. “That was cool.”
“Keep pedaling.” Burns went over to the control panel and made some adjustments.
Ivar kept backward pedaling, faster and faster. The golden haze pulsed. Burns grabbed no-name number two and tossed it toward the incubator. This time the rat snapped out of existence as soon it hit the maw of the glass container.
Then he picked up Susan, her eyes full of trust.
“Not Susan,” Ivar protested.
“‘Not Susan,’” Burns mocked with a strange smile twisting his face, more blood seeping from wounds. “Then Ivar.”
“Oh no,” Ivar said, looking at the rat.
But Burns had his gun up, level, pointing right between Ivar’s eyes.
“Ivar,” Burns said. He paused as the gold pulsed larger than before and a rat came back out, a tiny one, a fifth of the size of the one that had just gone in. As they watched, it scrabbled up on the glass, and Burns, still keeping the gun pointed at Ivar, reached in and took it out of the incubator.
He placed it on a desktop and it expanded, filling out to normal size.
Burns smiled, drawing more blood from his wounds, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Ivar,” Burns said, wagging the gun.
Ivar blinked, finally getting it. “No way, man!”
“Just put your hand in,” Burns said. “It will do the rest. You’ll be fine.” He pointed at the rat. “It’s fine.”
Ivar swallowed.
Burns lowered the gun and Ivar felt a moment of relief, thinking he’d reconsidered. But Burns pulled a small device out of a pocket and flipped up the lid covering a toggle switch. “I wouldn’t waste a bullet on you,” Burns said. “I’ll just pop your head off.” He rested a finger on the toggle.
Ivar couldn’t get his hand into the opening of the incubator fast enough.
The hand started shimmering and Ivar’s eyes got wide as the golden haze climbed up his arm and then rapidly covered him.
With a flash, Ivar was gone and the golden glow went back to its original size.
Ten minutes later, a tiny human hand came groping out of the golden ball. Followed by an arm, and then a tiny Ivar, a foot and a half tall, stood in the incubator, clearly dazed and confused.
Burns reached in and lifted Ivar out, setting him on the floor.
Ivar’s mouth was moving but no sound was coming out.
Ivar began expanding. He reached normal size in less than twenty seconds. And now he could speak.
“Fracking unbelievable!” Ivar exclaimed, blinking hard and shaking his head.
“Get on the bike,” Burns ordered.
Ivar staggered, still dazed, but did as ordered. He got on the bike and began pedaling.
“What—” Ivar started to say something, but realized he had nothing cogent to say. He kept pedaling.
Thirty seconds later, another tiny human hand appeared out of the gold ball, scrabbling at the glass. An arm followed, then a head and torso.
“Oh frack!” Ivar exclaimed, stopping pedaling in his shock as he stared at a miniature version of himself. Burns helped it get out of the incubator, as he had done with the rat.
As he watched, it grew larger and larger, expanding until it equaled his size.
“Good job,” Burns said. He went to the landline and dialed a number. Ivar only got to hear this end of the brief conversation:
“My friend,” Burns said. “Your investment is working. But it will be threatened.”
Burns listened, then replied. “I will tell you where it is this evening. Be prepared to defend it. There is still a lot of work to be done before it’s truly ready.”
Another pause. “I cannot tell you what it is. But you will be quite amazed.” Burns looked at Ivar, the original, and smiled, more blood flowing, as if the two of them were in on something. Which they were.
“You will see tonight,” Burns said and hung up the phone.
Ms. Jones had Pitr read the report to her one more time about the interview with Simmons.
“What do you think?” she asked when he was done.
“Burns could have made her give him the drive for the money, but he didn’t.”
“He wanted to take down the Courier,” Ms. Jones said, “which means he wanted us to know about it.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Pitr said.
“We have to make sense of it,” Ms. Jones said. “Remember Mister Eagle’s Sherlock Holmes quote. Something is right in front of us and we’re not seeing it.”
“He’s taunting us for firing him,” Pitr said.
“If it were only that.” Her eyes were closed. They often were, as if simply keeping them open drained her energy.
“Why didn’t you make her wet?”
Ms. Jones eyes flickered open. “The girl? That was Mister Frasier’s call. That is Mister Frasier’s unique talent. That girl will never again stray.”
“People are dead because of her.”
“Ah,” Ms. Jones said. “She was only one of seven things in Doc’s Rule of Seven. She did not kill anyone. Burns killed them. For the innocents, they cannot imagine what a man like Burns is capable of. Nor can they imagine what we are capable of. The difference between us and Burns is Ms. Simmons is still breathing. What we must figure out is why is Burns acting this way?” She closed her eyes. “Has Support hacked into Doctor Winslow’s phone yet? Made sense of those papers?”
“Not yet.”
“Let me know the results as soon as they do.”
“I will,” Pitr promised. “Now you must rest.”
Ms. Jones gave the ghost of a smile. “Another line from the team’s favorite singer, Mister Zevon: I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”