A Twist of Destiny Bk. 01

I nodded gravely. "I'm sorry, doctor."

"Think nothing more of it," she said with a dismissive wave. "Except, of course, when us normals are nearby. For now, no harm was done."

"So..." I began, "are you satisfied with the results you've seen so far?"

"Oh, certainly!" she said with a bright smile. "You have far exceeded every expectation, remarkably so! At this rate we may be able to introduce you to the rest of the team in a few days."

I nodded in agreement. "I'd like that a lot," I said. "Actually, I was kind of curious: how many subjects are on the team, anyway? And how long have they been working together?"

"Oh, not long, really," she said off-handedly. "We only assembled them last month, but they're getting along pretty well. The goal has been to have a representative from each branch of the military represented on the team. You are the fourth, and final, piece of that particular puzzle."

I raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Four? Really? Only four candidates managed to survive the change? I find that hard to believe."

A dark look crossed the old scientist's face. "No, much more than four survived, NightShade. Unfortunately, only four individuals were left mentally intact enough to work with. Some ended up in a comatose state, others went insane, one in particular was so psychologically impaired that he now functions as little more than a savant."

"What became of them?" I asked openly.

"Most are in a permanent state of induced vegetation," she told me, her voice tinged with sadness and regret. "Some had to be cryogenically frozen due to the fact that their ability to heal blocked all known narcotics. Some suffered only minor psychological scars but still function within the project with an eye towards recovery through therapy. We have high hopes for some of that last lot, actually."

"How many... failures...?" The doctor nodded politely at the term and I continued. "How many failures are there, exactly?"

The doctor took a deep breath through her nose and let it out with her mouth. "You are concerned with the possibility that one or more of them might escape and cause harm," she said. It wasn't a question.

I shrugged. There was no point in denying it or trying to obfuscate the fact. "It's a logical concern, don't you think, doctor? There's no way of knowing, really, how any of those individuals have changed. If, God forbid, one of them escapes, I'd like to know what I'm up against."

Dr. Lamb nodded tiredly. "Very well. There's twenty-six in all," she said and her words sounded hollow, like she hated admitting it. "We're reasonably certain of all their manifest abilities, but the idea that some might be holding back or haven't been fully tested yet has a great deal of merit. While we don't foresee that ever happening, we begrudgingly realize that it's a possibility. And, as you say, God forbid if it ever does occur, we'll do our best to let you know precisely what you'd be facing."

"You look beat, Doc," I told her. "I should probably retire back to my room and see if I can get some rest, too."

Dr. Lamb cocked a curious eyebrow at me. "Are you tired, NightShade?"

I offered her a smirk. "Not in the least, doc, but rest never hurt anyone. Besides, I could stand to have a little time to myself so that I can think some things through."

"That, young man, sounds very sensible indeed." She reached up and patted me on my upper arm, gave it a gentle squeeze. It wasn't a come-on, more like the kind of doting attention a mother might give her son- very matronly and tinged with pride. "I can't begin to thank you for the things you've shown me today," she said with quality of softness in her voice. "I've been working on this project for almost two decades now and you... you've pushed it forward a hundred times faster than anyone ever has. I can't begin to express how much you, as a subject, mean to me. As a person, I get the feeling that you're pretty decent, too, which always helps. I just can't get over how perfectly suited you are for this project!"

I smiled broadly at that and gave her a shrug. "Before we start getting into debates about fate versus destiny, you should probably get going, Doc. I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early." I indicated the doorway in a gentlemanly manner. "After you, Doctor Lamb."

Chapter Nine : The Shape of Things

I hadn't slept the whole night but wasn't tired at all, just bored. I was too jazzed from the previous day's discoveries and eager to learn more about my new self. Part of me wanted to get outside and really cut loose, but I understood the necessity of learning about my powers in a controlled environment where they could be documented, measured and refined. In truth, I didn't expect to be doing much else all week long, but I could hardly wait to get back home to Holly and show her the new me. The hardest thing about being changed on so many levels, I realized, was not having someone to really share it with. Dr. Lamb was enthusiastic and beside herself with joy at my performance, but she was looking at me through the lens of a scientist, no matter how friendly she might seem. To her I was the culmination of years of research and work, her creation. To Holly, though, I would be something more and that kind of appreciation was something I thirsted for in the way that an alcoholic yearns for a shot of whiskey after having been deprived against his will for far too long.

I realize that it was a bit narcissistic of me to want an audience, for lack of a better word, but I was just as awed by these magnificent changes as anyone else would be. Down there, in the bowels of Project Odyssey, everything I did felt like work, part of the job. There was some personal joy and fun involved, but none of it was shared. I remember reading in a book this phrase: pain shared is halved, joy shared is increased; thus do we refute entropy. Too much more of this testing and studying, too much more of being a guinea pig, and I'd end up getting depressed and feeling like a kept lion, my own personal entropy.

Dr. Lamb came into my room at 0800 on the button, looking fresh as a daisy and much rested. "Good morning, NightShade," she said cheerily. "I trust you slept well?"

"Actually, doctor, I didn't sleep at all. Didn't feel the need for it. I tried, but it just didn't happen." She didn't look surprised at that but remained silent. "I did, however, leave a urine sample for you. I turned it in to the nurse's station down the hall."

"I got it, thank you. It's being studied as we speak. The results should come back to me in a few hours. What about a stool sample?" Now she looked a bit more hopeful.

"Sorry, Doc. Nothing there. I think my enhanced metabolism might be a factor in that department, though."

Again, she nodded understandingly. "We've determined the same thing. Apparently the bodies of every team member are much more efficient now. Bowel movements occur, on average, only once a week. But I can't be blamed for being a little optimistic."

"Indeed, you can't," I said. "When I feel the urge, doctor, I'll be sure that you're kept in the loop." It felt a bit weird talking about taking a shit as a part of my evaluation phase, but I suppose it could have been worse. At least she wasn't asking for-

"How about a semen sample, then?" she asked. "Shouldn't be too difficult to produce one of those, I don't think."

I blinked at her for a moment, suddenly feeling very embarrassed for some stupid reason. It was, after all, not an unacceptable request, considering the circumstances. Every bit of biological fluid, excretion and nuance was of value to the doctor's studies. I knew that on an intellectual level, but it didn't help to make me feel any less like an object rather than a person. At any rate, I gave a self-conscious nod of understanding. "I think that can be managed. Would you like one now?"

"After breakfast, perhaps," she said casually, as though we were discussing the prospect of me spitting saliva into a cup rather than my reproductive essence. "And, speaking of which, we had the presence of mind to have breakfast ready this time." From behind her came one of her assistants, who carried a tray that was filled with all manner of breakfast foods. No part of the tray's surface could be seen for all the food that had been piled on to it. He set the tray down at the foot of my bed and walked back out of the room. "I'll leave you to your nourishment and go check on that urine sample. When you're done, go to the nurse's station and they'll point you in my direction."

I ate quickly as soon as she left me alone and, when I was done, I followed her instructions. At the nurse's station I was given a small cup and an expectant look- she really did want a semen sample after all. I blushed a little as I took the cup from the nurse and, after fifteen minutes of some alone-time, I handed it back to her while trying not to look even more bashful than before. Of course the nurse behaved in a perfectly clinical and professional manner, but the skeptical look she gave me when she realized just how much was in the sample cup didn't go unnoticed. One of the other nurses at the station lead me down a labyrinth of hallways to the room that Dr. Lamb was in. When I walked through the door she smiled at me and indicated a chair. The room was little more than a cubicle, white walls, with a tray of surgical implements, some gauze and the aforementioned chair which had its mate facing it. In this room, also, was a small security camera that had been placed in a corner of the ceiling. I began to realize that there wasn't a single place in the complex that wasn't under constant supervision.

Dr. Lamb sat down opposite from me and asked me to hold out my hand. I did so willingly and she picked up a simple pair of nail-clippers from the tray. "We'll start off small and work our way up to bigger things. If my suspicions are correct, this won't take long at all," she told me. Without further ado, she attempted to clip one of my fingernails- and found herself straining with the effort. After a few more attempts she conceded defeat, put away the clippers, and picked up a magnifying glass to inspect the fingernail. She hadn't even made a scratch. "Fingernails are impervious to conventional collection attempts," she said out loud, I presume for the benefit of the security camera that watched over us.

"Maybe I can try?" I suggested and she gladly handed me the clippers. The end result: I broke the clippers on my fingernail... and didn't scratch the nail any more than Dr. Lamb had. I looked at the ruined clippers with surprise. "Got anything sharper?" I asked.

Dr. Lamb shook her head. "I'm sure we can come up with something later on, however," she said. "Next: hair." She picked up a pair of stainless steel scissors and snipped at the air for dramatic effect. "Considering what happened with the nail clippers, I think we'll just try a single strand." She got up, walked behind me and selected a single strand of my close-cropped hair. I heard the scissors make their familiar sound and subsequent snip but Dr. Lamb seemed to have nothing to show for it. "Hair also is impervious," she intoned loud enough for the audio pick-ups to hear. "Moving on to skin tests." She sat back down in front of me and took my hand in hers again and, this time, picked up a very sharp-looking scalpel from the tray. She looked up at me to measure my reaction.

I just smiled congenially. "If you are somehow able to pierce my skin, doctor, I have a feeling that it'll just heal right back up almost instantly. If it hurts, I'll be fine. Go ahead."

Doctor Lamb turned my hand this way and that. "Slightly elevated body temperature noted through physical contact," she announced. "Texture and pliability of the dermis feels normal to touch." She placed the sharp surgical instrument against my skin and poked at it softly. All she did was make a small indentation but the skin didn't break. "Skin appears to be impenetrable. Our scans from yesterday," she said conversationally while she applied some more pressure, "showed that your entire molecular structure is denser than it used to be. What I'm doing now is pretty much perfunctory and will merely confirm what we already suspect: you're invulnerable to conventional forms of damage."

I cocked an eyebrow at her. "And what about unconventional means?"

She looked up at me with a small smirk. "We'll get to that shortly." Then she handed the scalpel over to me. "Your turn."

I took the instrument and looked at it dubiously. "Won't the same thing that happened to the nail clippers happen to this?"

Dr. Lamb shook her head. "At best you'll bend it. The scalpel is a single piece of molded metal. In this case the metal is titanium, not surgical steel. Therefore, it should be harder to break or bend."

I gave her a look as though to say, "Well, it's your show" and applied the business end of the scalpel to the back of my hand, where my skin was thinnest and most easily accessible. At first nothing happened and the blade simply slid across the back of my hand harmlessly. I felt its motion, however, and was intrigued by that. I put it back to the spot I'd started from and applied considerably more effort. This time it pierced the skin and traced a small incision as I forcibly dragged the blade through my flesh. It hurt a little bit, but it took all of my effort to accomplish the task. By the time I'd moved the scalpel an inch from its starting point, the blade had been rendered useless, like trying to cut concrete with a straw. And even as I'd moved the blade, the damaged skin had already begun to heal, like watching a blade go through gelatin, the gash sealing almost as fast as I'd made it. Only a few drops of blood escaped.

I held up the ruined scalpel for her to see it more clearly, she announced the results and then took it from me, dropped it into a plastic bag and placed it back on the tray. She also snatched up a cotton swab and claimed the few droplets of blood that stood on the back of my hand, dabbing my skin gently to get as much of it as she could. Her samples collected, she placed the cotton swab, its tip red with my blood, into another bag.

"Blood samples like this are rare," she explained. "We get them when we're able, for more direct study of your genetic enhancements. It's better than looking at urine, which can sometimes have a few dead blood cells in it. Now... how much effort did it take for you to make that incision?"

I shook my head. "It took almost everything I had," I answered. "And I can promise you, doctor: I'm a lot stronger than I used to be. A normal man would have about as much luck stabbing me as a single bee would trying to take down a pyramid. I doubt that even a bullet could puncture my skin."

Her eyes twinkled with a daring look. "Interesting. Would you care to test that theory?"

I regarded her for a moment and knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that she was absolutely serious. The woman had every intention of having a gun fired at me in the interests of science. When I was normal I would've responded with more than a little indignation. Then, however, I was perfectly amenable to the idea. "Why not?"

She stood and announced, "We're moving to the weapons room." She turned and left, indicating that I was to follow while a lab tech collected the blood sample she'd left on the counter top. I fell in step behind her and she led me a few doors down into a much larger room. At one end of the room was a barrier that had a hole in it, big enough to fire weapons of all manner through. At the other end of the room, on the floor, was a black line. In the space between was a row of cameras. "Stand there, at the line, NightShade. Try not to flinch. On the off-chance that a bullet can harm you, we've got a surgical team standing by," she glanced at my hand meaningfully. "Not that it'll do much good."

I smirked at her morbid joke. If I got shot and it hurt me, then I'd have to suffer from it until my healing ability kicked in. Still, however, I wasn't totally worried. I went over to the black line and stood at attention. "Ready, Doc!" I said as she stepped behind the protective barrier (I realized, then, that the barrier was there to keep people from being hit by ricochets).

"Very well," she called from behind the barrier. "One... two... three!"

The hole in the barrier erupted with a small flash and I immediately felt the bullet hit my shoulder, whereupon it fell uselessly to the floor, smashed from its own impact against my skin. When the bullet struck me I barely felt it, the way that you might feel an eraser tip gently push against your skin. Even the bullet's kinetic energy had been absorbed by my body, so I didn't even get pushed back.

"That was a nine-millimeter round," Dr. Lamb announced. "Are you okay?"

"Fine!" I called out. "Didn't feel a thing." I bent down to pick up the flattened round for her to see. "Can I keep this? I want to keep it as a souvenir. Holly'd love it."

"Sure," Dr. Lamb answered. "Next, we'll try a .45 slug. Ready?"

I put the ruined bullet in my hip pocket for safe-keeping. "Fire away!"

BLAM! Same results. The .45 round slammed into me and fell uselessly to the floor. The sensation, when it hit my shoulder, was exactly the same as when the 9mm round struck me. I called out, "No damage, doctor."

"All right, then. Next is a .762 round, the same thing they use in AK-47's."

There was no change in the results with a single shot or a three-round burst. Conventional firearms proved useless in harming me. In fact, the three-round bursts tickled and I said as much. I didn't bother to mention that my clothing seemed to automatically repair itself the instant a bullet hole was made in it because it was self-evident. After using several types of weapons (a shotgun, a sniper rifle, a .50 caliber rifle, etc.) it became a bit of a bore. When she had the .50-cal put on automatic I decided to play a little. By then I'd become aware that I could actually see the rounds being fired at me. I'd stood fast and let them hit me, but it was interesting to see them ejected from behind the barrier and watch their flight through the air until they finally struck home. When the first .50-cal round came hurtling at me, I waited until it was just a few feet away and then dodged out of its trajectory, plucked the round clean out of the air, spun around 360-degrees and tossed it back with all of my strength at the barrier (above head level, of course, on the off chance that it might fully penetrate). I did the same with the next two rounds, too. All three rounds struck home against the barrier and left very large holes where they impacted. Each bullet made a satisfying "thunk" sound when it finally stopped and was embedded neatly into the wall behind the barrier.

"STOP!" Dr. Lamb shouted. "What did you just do?!" she cried at me as she came from behind the barrier. She had tiny bits of concrete in her hair from where the .50-cal rounds had come out the other side of the barrier.

"I was bored," I said defensively. "And nobody got hurt. Sorry if I startled you, though."

She shook her head in exasperation. "Forget about that, dammit. How did you send those bullets back at us like that? What the hell did you do?"

I blinked at her in confusion. "Didn't you see?" I asked and immediately realized from the look on her face that, no, she hadn't seen anything. I'd been moving too fast for her. I walked towards her, past her to the barrier, and she fell in step behind me. Behind the barrier was, as I had suspected, a video monitor which was being controlled by a technician. To his side was a gunman who looked to be just as curious about knowing what had happened as Dr. Lamb was. "Roll it back to just before firing commenced and then play it forward at its slowest speed," I told the technician.