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A short science fiction story I wrote for an anthology. It wasn't picked up, but I quite like it, so I thought I would post it here. There are a few concepts and ideas in it that I'd like to explore further in future works.
BE WARNED: This story contains strong language, short descriptions of intrusive surgery on children, and other possibly disturbing scenes. Reader discretion is advised.
October 15, 2084
Redondo Beach, California
Agent Mathers stripped off the bright green radiation suit as the decontamination system cycled off. Mathers wasn’t sure what he had done to piss off his superiors this time, but trudging through the irradiated cesspool that had once been called Redondo Beach was definitely not what he’d had in mind for his first assignment for the Agency after his promotion.
The Director always was a bit of an asshole, Mathers thought as he hung the suit on a wall-mounted hook.
This was probably the fucker’s idea of a joke – sending Mathers back to the town where he’d been born, way back before the Soviets turned the West Coast into a nightlight.
Mathers wasn’t about to give him any satisfaction, though, no sir. Agent Mathers was a professional through and through, and he would see this assignment through to the end like any other.
The real joke was the assignment itself. “Tour the EWD facility in Redondo Beach and assess its viability for continued funding,” his orders had said. Mathers had barely been able to hold back a groan when the file reached him. As far as Mathers was concerned, the Extranormal Warfare Division was a bad joke, a load of science fiction crockery that had abused the panic and fear the war created to suck money away from pursuits that might actually produce results.
Truth be told, Mathers was looking forward to seeing the look on the Facility Director’s face when he broke the news that the EWD’s suckling of the taxpayer’s teat was finally, mercifully at an end.
Mathers glanced around the antechamber. It was a dimly-lit room with grey walls and a greyer floor. The only object decorating the unwelcoming chamber was a desk, which more closely resembled a granite slab. Mathers reasoned that there was meant to be a receptionist or greeter sat at the desk, but there was none to be found. As a matter of fact, there did not seem to be anywhere to sit in the room at all.
“With luck that’ll translate to a short wait,” Mathers grumbled. “The sooner I can leave this dump the better.”
At that moment, as if in response to Mathers’ complaining, another man entered the room.
The man was dressed like some sort of mad scientist, clad in a long white coat, a clip-on tie, and crooked glasses with lenses as large as a man’s fist. Upon his hands the man wore rubber gloves, white but stained with red, with which he was idly polishing a long, flat knife.
Mathers’ eyes were drawn to the man’s lips, two fat sausages crowned by a thick, unkempt moustache as black as jet.
The man’s mouth was curled into a particular sort of smile, the sort that Mathers had learned to know as fake at a glance.
“Agent Mathers, I presume,” the man said. His voice was coarse and rough, like sandpaper. He set the knife down on the desk and pulled his gloves off – snap, snap – before extending his hand for Mathers to shake.
Mathers did not shake his hand.
The man offered a curt smile. “Ah,” he said, “this is going to be one of those visits, I see. And here I was hoping we could be friends.”
“You Dickenson?” Mathers grunted, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his coat and retrieving one to light.
“Dr. Charles P. Dickenson,” the man nodded. “Head researcher for the EWD and director of this facility – which I’m afraid is strictly non-smoking.”
Mathers, who had been about to light his cigarette, grumbled and flicked his lighter closed. “Any reason why?” he asked.
Dickenson laughed, plucking the cigarette from Mathers’ mouth and crushing it between his fingers. “The smell disturbs the subjects,” he explained. “If you’re so keen to give yourself cancer, Agent Mathers, you need only step outside.”
“Subjects,” Mathers repeated, raising an eyebrow.
Dickenson motioned for Mathers to follow him down a narrow, faintly-lit corridor. “How much do you know of the work the EWD does, Agent?” the director asked with an air of condescension.
“Not too much,” Mathers shrugged. “Most of the files that came into the Agency were so heavily-classified that I wasn’t even allowed to look at the folders they came in. The few I was allowed to look at just seemed like a load of sci-fi hogwash.”
“They all seem to think so when they first come,” Dickenson chuckled, “but I do believe that I can make a believer of you yet.”
Dickenson stopped in front of a scratched-up iron door that looked like it belonged in a submarine more than anywhere on land. “Despite how it might seem, what we do here is far from fiction, Agent Mathers,” Dickenson said. “I recognized the look in your eyes when I first saw you. I’ve seen those eyes more times than I can count in the years I’ve led this program. You don’t believe in the EWD, and so you feel we ought to be shut down.”
“If there’s a point, I’d advise getting to it,” Mathers snapped. This tiny stick of a man was beginning to get on his nerves.
“My point, Agent Mathers, is that a great number of men have come to this facility intending to shut it down,” Dickenson explained. “As we enter this room I would advise you to ask yourself why each and every one of them left wholly convinced of the need America has for the EWD.”
Dickenson’s fingers curled around a heavy metal bar on the right side of the door, and, with supreme effort, pulled against it until it slid across the door with a metallic groan and the portal swung slowly open.
“Make no mistake, Agent Mathers,” Dickenson said as he stepped through the doorway, “what we are making here is no less than America’s only hope for survival.”
The room was small and sparsely-furnished, with a short bed in the corner and a footlocker at its foot. A stout, understocked cherry-wood bookshelf sat next to the bed, with a lamp atop it.
Those details weren’t surprising, however. What was surprising to Mathers was the sole occupant of the room.
She was bald, and her head seemed larger than was normal, but the room’s tenant was, unmistakably, a young girl. She wore an olive-green jumpsuit and lay flat on her stomach, kicking her legs idly as she rolled a toy truck back and forth in front of her.
“’America’s only hope,’ doc?” Mathers grimaced, folding his arms. He shot the doctor a skeptical look. “This is just a-"
Dickenson held up a hand to silence the agent. “Appearances,” Dickenson smirked, “can be deceiving, Agent Mathers.”
From his coat pocket, Dickenson produced a small blue object adorned with a single yellow button.
“What’s that?” Mathers asked. “Some sort of… ‘Transformatron?’ Are you going to turn that little girl into some sort of monster?”
“Heavens, no,” Dickenson gasped. The man seemed genuinely shocked by the suggestion. “Nothing so crude as that.”
“Then what?”
Dickenson smiled. “Observe, Agent Mathers,” he said, and clicked the button twice.
Immediately, the girl’s eyes widened, and she leapt to her feet. Sparks of electricity flashed around her hairless scalp as she wrapped her arms around herself and squeezed, her expression contorting with seeming pain.
Mathers gaped and backed away slowly. “What the hell is going on, Dickenson?!” he yelped. He turned and attempted to flee through the doorway, only to find his path blocked by an invisible but inarguably solid barrier. Mathers pounded his fists against the barrier to no avail, struggling in futility to escape.
“Shut it off!” Mathers shouted at Dickenson. “Whatever it is, shut it off!”
Another two clicks from Dickenson, and the barrier vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. Where Mathers had seconds ago been leaning, now there was nothing but air, and the agent fell awkwardly to the ground.
As Mathers rose to his feet and dusted himself off, he observed the girl, now lying on the ground curled in the fetal position and breathing shallowly.
“What the hell was that?” Mathers demanded. “What did you do to her?”
“Calm down, Mathers,” Dickenson said. He clapped a hand on Mathers’ shoulder, which Mathers was quick to shrug off.
“You’d better start talking,” Mathers said, “and quick.”
Dickenson sighed as he tucked his device back into his coat. “I assure you, Mathers, I am not responsible for the power you just saw. No one at the EWD is. We’ve merely… honed that power. Brought it under our control and direction.”
Dickenson stepped back through the doorway and beckoned for Mathers to join him. “That was Molly,” he said. “She’s our newest arrival, only came to us a few months ago, but her abilities are already progressing admirably.”
Mathers halted suddenly, slamming a fist against the wall. “I’ve had enough of your bullshit, Dickenson!” he bellowed. “I want a straight answer now! What the hell is going on in this place?!”
“Keep your voice down, please,” Dickenson chided. “You’ll disturb the subjects. If you’ll kindly join me in the surgical theater, I can provide you some of the answers you so furiously demand.”
The theater was more of a small balcony, overlooking an operating room several meters below. On the table now was what seemed to be a deformed young boy, every possible extremity securely restrained, squirming as much as he could against the doctors who currently had his head opened up to examine and operate on his brain. Instruments poked and prodded at the boy's exposed organ as his mouth opened and closed, screaming silently in protest. He did not appear to have a tongue.
Mathers clapped his hand to his mouth, aghast. “You’re operating on that child’s brain?” he asked a stoic Dickenson. “Without anesthetic?”
“It is necessary, I’m sad to say,” Dickenson said, though Mathers could find no sorrow in his tone. “Raymond down there has a severe allergic reaction to most common anesthetics. It’s common among our subjects. As a result, we must perform our studies without using them. I do wish there was some other way, but for our research to bear fruit we must know as much as we can about how the minds of the subjects operate.”
“What are these ‘subjects?’” Mathers asked. “They look like children, but that girl… that power…”
“It is as you say, Agent Mathers,” Dickenson replied. His eyes were not on Mathers, but were focused intently on the procedure below. “These are children.”
Mathers felt queasy. “But…”
“I call them my ‘Children of the Atom,’” Dickenson continued. “I do so love flaunting my literary knowledge. As you’ve seen, these are no ordinary children. They are children born to individuals who were exposed to tremendous amounts of radiation when the New Soviet Union bombed the United States. Not all such children were born like Molly or Raymond, but a few – just a few – emerged from the womb with the potential for incredible, immense amounts of psychic power.”
“Psychic…” Mathers shook his head. “This is comic book stuff, Dickenson,” he protested. “You can’t seriously believe that stuff like- like psychic powers are real.”
“I’m more surprised that you don’t,” Dickenson replied. “After all, you saw Molly’s abilities firsthand.”
Mathers had to admit that Dickenson had him there.
“Molly has only been with us for a few months,” Dickenson continued, “yet already her powers have grown exponentially – and thanks to our efforts, we have been able to guide that growth on a path that is both safe to her and of use to the United States.”
“Useful?” Mathers echoed. “Useful how?”
Dickenson’s expression darkened. “A final stop on our tour, I think,” he said. “I’ll explain on the way. Come, Mathers.”
Mathers caught a final glimpse of the boy, Raymond, before he left. Tears were streaming down the boy’s face as the surgeons cut into his brain. The scene made Mathers’ stomach churn, and as he exited the theater the image of Raymond on the operating table remained seared into his mind.
“I’ll be blunt with you, Agent Mathers,” Dickenson said harshly as he guided Mathers back down the hallway. “The UN may have been able to broker a temporary peace, but the writing on the wall is clear as day. By the end of the decade, war between the United States and the New Soviet Union will break out once again. I’m sure even you can see that.”
“Sure,” Mathers admitted. “But from how I’ve heard the higher-ups talk, it sounded like we were putting together some sort of secret weapon to make sure that the US comes out on top.”
“Indeed,” Dickenson laughed. “And, put simply, the EWD is that secret weapon. I predict that the first strike will come from the Soviets – a vicious salvo of bombs and missiles on our major cities that will render most of America an uninhabitable wasteland. It will be a pyrrhic victory for them, of course, since our own warheads will pay them back in full. Still, given the chance to avoid America falling victim to nuclear holocaust, I don’t feel any sensible individual would fail to take advantage.”
“Take advantage…” Mathers mused. “Of these… powers?”
“Allow me to give you an example,” Dickenson said, leading Mathers down a twisting, winding corridor. “You were able to observe Molly’s force-field abilities firsthand. When she came to us, Molly was scarcely able to shield herself from harm. Now, her power has increased such that… well, you saw for yourself. Within a few years, possibly as quickly as a matter of months, Molly’s psychic abilities are projected to grow to the point where her field will be able to cover an entire city.”
That was impressive, Mathers had to admit.
“In the event of nuclear attack,” Dickenson began, before reconsidering and correcting himself, “in the inevitable event of nuclear attack, the EWD will be ready. Do you know how many subjects are held in this facility, Agent Mathers?”
“I never had a head for numbers,” Mathers remarked sardonically.
“One hundred and six,” Dickenson replied. “The force-field Molly demonstrated for you is the very first thing we train them to do. By the time the Soviets decide to launch their missiles, the EWD plans to have seeded our subjects along a grid of major American cities, expanding their fields as far as possible. We will transform the country itself into an impenetrable bunker, a feat only made possible through the work we are doing in this facility.”
Dickenson shot Mathers a smile that almost looked cocky. Mathers rolled his eyes.
“Save me the sales pitch,” he said. “I’ve got no interest in buying any bridges.”
Dickenson sighed and ceased his stride, rubbing his pronounced forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “Still you doubt me?” he despaired. “I must commend you on the resilience of your skepticism, Agent Mathers.”
“Look,” Mathers said, jabbing a finger at Dickenson. “I won’t deny that girl pulled some crazy shit, but you really expect me to believe that shield of hers could stop an atomic blast?”
“The simulations we’ve run would seem to corroborate that theory, yes,” the scientist said confidently. “My Children of the Atom will shield America from nuclear annihilation, and that – that is just the tip of the iceberg.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mathers asked.
Dickenson smiled another of his unnerving smiles. “All in good time, Mathers,” he said. “Come, come, we still have our destination ahead of us.”
The scientist’s evasiveness was growing more wearisome by the minute. Well, Mathers could be obnoxious as well. He was getting his answers, one way or the other. He only hoped, for Dickenson’s sake, that some of them would be able to relieve the growing unease he was feeling about this whole operation.
“You keep talking about ‘training,’” Mathers said. “You still haven’t given me any details on what, exactly, you mean by that.”
“We have a variety of methods,” Dickenson replied. "For efficiency’s sake we try to apply as universal a system as we can, but the nature of the subjects means that a personal touch is often required. The subjects’ powers never stop growing in strength, you see. Unchecked, they could become a danger to themselves or others. If our usual methods prove ineffective to confine the growth of their powers to the path we have laid out, we try something else. Raymond, for example, has shown a great deal of obstinacy and rebelliousness, and often flies into an uncontrollable rage – he no longer has a tongue because, in one such rage, he bit it off. As a result, we have been forced to conduct controlled lobotomies on Raymond to ensure that he no longer threatens our staff or the other subjects. The process has also rendered him much more amenable to training, so really it’s a win all round.
“Of course, such drastic measures are almost always a last resort,” Dickenson was quick to clarify. “The vast majority of techniques we use are no different from the sort you would use to train an animal, with a few things taken from ancient government programs like Stargate or MKULTRA. Useless in their own day, but essential for our own purposes. We’ve made great breakthroughs, for example, in hypnotherapy and subliminal messaging – ah, I believe this is one of our ‘classrooms’ here. Shall we have a peek inside?”
Dickenson slowly pushed open yet another submarine door, holding it open for Mathers to peer into the room beyond.
The room did indeed look something like a classroom – or at the least, a harsh parody of one. A ‘teacher’ sat at a desk on the far side of the room with headphones covering her ears, clicking away on a computer – taking notes, Mathers presumed, though what the content of those notes could be, he could only guess.
The ‘students’ were still more children, each as bald and big-headed as Molly or Raymond, each one strapped tightly, chest, arms, legs, and head, to a seat resembling a dentist’s chair. The children sat facing a screen at the end of the room upon which a series of flashing images were being displayed at a dizzying speed. The children twitched and wriggled in their
seats in seeming discomfort, but not a one made a sound. The room was filled with a noise that sounded almost, but at the same time not at all, like music, a constant buzzing of white noise that made Mathers’ head hurt and stomach do backflips.
Dickenson tapped Mathers’ shoulder and tilted his head to indicate that it was time to move on. Mathers pulled away from the classroom. Before his gaze left the room, he could have sworn he saw an image of a mushroom cloud flash on the screen.
“Rather an impressive setup, isn’t it?” Dickenson smiled. The hall was widening gradually now, and Mathers suspected that it would not be long before they reached their destination.
“That’s one word for it,” Mathers replied. “You the brains behind it?”
Dickenson nodded. “How did you know?”
“Lucky guess,” Mathers muttered under his breath.
“For most subjects,” Dickenson said, apparently unable to resist the urge to brag, “the conditioning takes within three to five sessions at a frequency of around eighty-seven percent. Once I’ve prevented Armageddon, I believe I’ll propose a similar system for prison.”
“You sure have lofty ambitions, Dickenson,” Mathers remarked.
Dickenson laughed. “The work I and the rest of the EWD do will save America from destruction,” he said. “Is it wrong to take pride in that?”
“Depends on how you end up doing it,” is what Mathers wished he had said. Instead, he simply said “sure.”
“Ah!” Dickenson cried happily as the pair reached a large, imposing metal door at the end of the hall. “Here we are, Agent Mathers. Allow me to present to you the Proving Grounds. It is within this room that we test our subjects’ ability to use their powers for offense rather than defense, so far to great success.”
Mathers could no longer stay silent. “What?!” he exclaimed. “Dickenson, defense is one thing, but- listen, doc, are you saying you’re training these kids to be child soldiers?!”
“I wouldn’t phrase it in such a crass manner,” Dickenson frowned. “I think that once you’ve seen one of my Children in action, you’ll be a bit more open minded.”
“About child soldiers?!”
Dickenson closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “You’re refusing to see the bigger picture, Mathers,” he scolded. “The war will not end after we’ve stopped the bombs. If the Soviets cannot annihilate us in a single fiery salvo then a conventional war will inevitably follow, one which will be a quagmire and claim countless American lives, but as you will see if you will simply follow me into the Proving Grounds, even that does not have to be the case.”
Mathers pursed his lips and glared, but said nothing as Dickenson opened the door to the Proving Grounds and ushered him inside.
The Proving Grounds were a spacious room walled by gleaming chrome, its floor covered in spots of red paint, variously shaped like x’s or targets. The meaning of the markings was lost on Mathers.
At the other end of the room from the entrance was a pair of sliding doors, to where Mathers could only speculate. On either side of the sliding doors, as well as the door through which Mathers and Dickenson had entered, stood two combat simulation robots, each one armed with the best assault weapons government money could buy – and of Russian make, Mathers noted. Another two robots were stood with their backs to the Proving Grounds’ right wall.
On the room’s left side was an observation bunker, its more earthen steel coloration clashing violently with the sleek, futuristic aesthetic the rest of the chamber paraded. Whatever else he may be, Mathers thought, Dickenson is sure as hell no interior decorator.
The bunker bore a pair of windows on its front face. Reinforced glass, Mathers assumed. Couldn’t risk a stray bullet flying in and piercing some egghead through their brain – as ironic as that would be.
It was into the bunker that Dickenson guided Mathers. As soon as the door was shut and locked, Dickenson turned to an intercom on the wall and pressed his finger to the button.
“Dr. Song,” Dickenson said, “is Subject Xi ready for the single squad exercise?”
“Affirmative, Dr. Dickenson,” came the reply from the other end.
“Excellent,” Dickenson smiled. “Send her in and fire up the tin cans. Oh, and let Riley know that she can feel free to put on a bit of a show today – we do have a guest, after all.”
The voice on the other end laughed. “Will do, Dr. Dickenson,” it said. “I’ll get things started now.”
“Take a seat,” Dickenson said to Mathers as he slid into a plush red chair facing the window. “I want you as comfortable as can be for the, ah-heh, main event.”
Mathers did as he was bid and took a seat. No sooner had he done so than the doors at the end of the room slid open, allowing yet another of the ones Dickenson called his ‘Children of the Atom’ to enter the Proving Grounds, clad in a tiny set of combat fatigues.
As Mathers had come to expect, the child was hairless and big-headed, but the oddities of her appearance did not end there.
The girl’s eyes were sunken in to an alarming degree, and her nose impossibly flat, to the point that it scarcely appeared to exist at all. Her lips were tiny and pursed, and she seemed somehow much shorter than she ought to be, even without knowing her age.
“She looks like an alien,” Mathers breathed in shock. Dickenson shrugged his shoulders, as if he could not help but agree.
“Xi – Riley – was one of our first subjects,” Dickenson explained. “They tend to deform more as they age. We’re still not entirely sure why. It might simply be something inherent to the mutation.”
“Yet you put more time into conditioning and lobotomizing them than finding a way to stop these deformities?” Mathers asked.
“We are actively pursuing research to stop these deformities,” Dickenson countered. “As I have repeatedly stressed throughout our time together, our priority is preventing the destruction of America by atomic fire. You’ll forgive me for finding that a bit more important than aesthetics.”
I’m not the one whose forgiveness you should worry about, Mathers said silently.
As Riley reached the center of the room, the robots whirred to life and took step after mechanical step. They advanced until they formed a ring around the girl, surrounding her.
“PREPARE FOR THE SINGLE SQUAD LIVE-FIRE EXERCISE,” boomed a tinny voice over loudspeaker. “ALL EWD PERSONNEL ARE ADVISED TO VACATE THE PROVING GROUNDS. THIS EXERCISE WILL INCORPORATE LIVE AMMUNITION. SAFETY CANNOT BE GUARANTEED.”
Mathers wondered if that warning was required by law, or if there was a story behind it.
“BEGIN,” the voice declared, and in half a second the robots had their weapons raised and firing.
Their bullets would not reach their target, however, bouncing off of an invisible barrier Riley had formed around herself. It was the same power Mathers had seen Molly demonstrate, just on a smaller scale, and like Molly, Riley was wincing as sparks flew around her head.
Without warning, Riley thrust a hand forward in the direction of one of the robots, fingers curled into her palm. She furrowed her brow and yelped, and before Mathers could figure out what was happening, the robot began to spasm and sputter before exploding into scarlet fire and dark black smoke. She repeated the process for each robot in turn, and within minutes all that remained of the mechanical soldiers were a few charred pieces of scrap scattered around Riley’s feet.
“We’re quite certain that it works just as well on humans,” Dickenson told Mathers, who stared at the girl with mouth agape, “but no matter how much I pester the Director he won’t let me find out for sure.”
When he got no response from Mathers, Dickenson frowned. “That was a joke, Mathers,” he assured the agent.
Again, Mathers made no sound.
“I suppose it’s natural to feel speechless,” Dickenson considered. “I must admit, I felt much the same the first time I saw the sort of raw power my Children are capable of. Don’t you see, though, Mathers? In conventional combat, my Children will be able to decimate Soviet forces using only their minds – and at the same time, protect themselves from any harm. They are the ideal soldiers, Mathers – they will be unstoppable.”
“They’re children,” Mathers said.
Dickenson shook his eyes. “They’re so much more,” he insisted. “Would you like to speak to Riley? Perhaps she can persuade you more effectively than I can.”
Riley was still standing silently in the middle of the room, awaiting instructions.
“I would like that,” Mathers nodded. Perhaps Dickenson was right. Perhaps trying to get the perspective of one of the children could, somehow, vindicate everything else Mathers had seen today.
Mathers opened the bunker door and stepped over the threshold, approaching Riley with caution. The girl slowly turned her head to stare silently at Mathers, tilting her head like a curious puppy.
“Uh, hi,” Mathers said awkwardly. “You’re Riley, is that right?”
“I am Subject Xi: Riley,” the girl replied in a raspy monotone. Her voice sounded ghoulish and inhuman, yet still somehow carried a trace of the innocence a young girl’s voice should.
“Right,” Mathers said. “What… what’s your last name, Riley? Your family name?”
“I do not understand the question,” Riley answered. “I am Subject Xi: Riley.”
“Yes,” Mathers agreed, “but… surely you have a last name. Or a middle name. Everyone does.”
“I am Subject Xi: Riley,” she insisted. “I am trained to protect and defend the United States against Soviet aggression.”
“Please,” Mathers begged. “Tell me you have a last name… a favorite toy… prove to me that somewhere, somehow, there’s still a normal child in you.”
“I am Subject Xi-"
“I get it,” Mathers said resignedly. “You’re Subject Xi: Riley.”
“I am trained to protect and defend the United States against Soviet aggression,” Riley agreed.
Mathers returned to the bunker, unable to bring himself to look at Riley any longer. Dickenson was waiting for him in the doorway.
“Well?” Dickenson asked. “I’m sure you’re impressed at the discipline we’ve-"
“Why doesn’t she have a last name?” Mathers interjected, his voice shaky.
Dickenson pursed his lips. “It was decided,” he explained, “that such reminders of past family and acquaintances would be counterproductive to the training process and interfere with the overall goal of the project.”
Mathers said nothing for a minute, before sighing and shaking his head. “I’ve seen enough,” he told Dickenson. “I’m ready to go.”
“Very well,” Dickenson answered with a smile, apparently oblivious to the contempt dripping from Mathers’ words. “I’ll lead you back to the entrance. Follow me.”
Dickenson led Mathers back out of the Proving Grounds. Mathers didn’t bother looking back to see if Riley was still there.
Mathers remained silent through the entire trip back to the entrance antechamber, even as Dickenson continued to prattle on and on about his Children of the Atom and the power they would wield in the name of the United States. Truth be told, the agent was no longer paying attention to the scientist. His thoughts were consumed by images of what he had seen in his tour of the building. He could not see past those images, even if Dickenson could. Molly, Raymond, Riley, and the ones in the classroom – children who could never be children.
Mathers wondered how someone could look past that. He wondered what sort of person would be able to look past that.
After what seemed like an agonizing eternity, the two men reached the entrance to the facility. Nothing had changed since Mathers had last been here – even Dickenson’s gloves and knife were still on the desk – yet Mathers could not help but view the room in a different light. A more uncomfortable light.
“Well, Agent Mathers,” Dickenson said, “it’s been quite a day, hasn’t it?”
That was an understatement, but Mathers didn’t comment on it. “Certainly,” was what he said.
Dickenson steepled his fingers, and adopted a solemn expression. “Now, Mathers, before you go…” he began. “Well. I know you must have seen some things today that might have seemed… shocking. Uncomfortable, even. Don’t think I’m oblivious to the fact that some might be opposed to my work. But you must understand – this is far bigger than you or I. As I have reiterated time and again today, everything I am doing is to ensure America’s future. I hope you will consider that when writing your report to the Director, and that you will make the… educated decision.”
Mathers could no longer stand the man’s aloof attitude. All the anger and disgust that had been building within him burst forth in a flood.
“Fuck that!” Mathers roared. “Fuck you and fuck your ‘educated decision!’ I’m making the goddamn right decision, do you hear me? You’ve tortured and brainwashed and experimented on these kids, Dickenson! You stole their childhood from them and made them into – into fucking machines! You expect me to just look the other way?! Christ- how did you monsters manage to stay open this long?!”
“The other agents were willing to look at the larger picture-"
“It isn’t my fault the other agents didn’t know right from fucking wrong!” Mathers spat. “You’re done, Dickenson. Better start packing your things.”
“Mathers, please!” Dickenson pleaded. “I know my work must seem unethical, but surely even you can see that it will do its job – protect America from nuclear devastation!”
“We’ll find another way,” Mathers declared, shaking his head. “Bunkers, or- or fallout shelters, or-"
“But don’t you see?! With my Children, such things will be unnecessary!”
“If that’s what it takes to make Armageddon unnecessary,” Mathers said grimly, “then maybe Armageddon is necessary.” He turned his back to the scientist and retrieved his radiation suit from the hook on the wall.
“I can’t let you shut my work down!” Dickenson cried, tears welling in his eyes.
“You’re preaching to a congregation of atheists,” Mathers said coldly. “The EWD is over, Dickenson, and your little science experiments with it. Nothing you can do about it.”
Dickenson gnashed his teeth and sputtered, but his protests fell on deaf ears. Mathers had no interest in them. As he slid the radiation suit on, he did not even bother looking back at his erstwhile guide.
It was no wonder, then, how he failed to notice Dickenson’s hand, shakily and slowly, drift over to the desk and the long, flat knife that lay upon it.
Date: October 18, 2084
To: Director Foreman
From: Charles Dickenson
Subject: Re: Agent Mathers
In response to your inquiry regarding Agent Mathers’ whereabouts: I fear I have very little information to offer. The last I or any of my staff saw of Mathers was when he left the facility following his tour. If he has not returned to New York, then it is possible, if unfortunate, that Agent Mathers died before leaving Redondo Beach, or before reaching the Safe Zone. The city is filled with dangerous mutated animals and humans, to say nothing of the danger that a breach of his radiation suit could pose. If Mathers was traveling alone as you say, the danger to his person would be quite significant indeed.
It’s quite a shame, as I had quite enjoyed Mathers’ company, a sentiment I am sure was mutual. With luck, the project will soon make enough progress that we will be able to relocate to a less dangerous area without fear of spies or saboteurs. I would certainly hate if an incident like this were to happen again.
In the meantime, I hope it would not be in poor taste to note that the EWD facility technically was not assessed by Agent Mathers in official documentation, and as such another agent will need to come and finish the job. May I suggest Agent McClean? As I recall she got on quite well with the subjects, and I’m certain they would be pleased at a return visit. We might even permit her to sit in on one of our classroom sessions – a rare treat!
I hope to hear from you again soon. Give my best to Francine.
- Dr. Charles Pygmalion Dickenson, Director and Head Researcher, Extranormal Warfare Division
BE WARNED: This story contains strong language, short descriptions of intrusive surgery on children, and other possibly disturbing scenes. Reader discretion is advised.
Oversight
October 15, 2084
Redondo Beach, California
Agent Mathers stripped off the bright green radiation suit as the decontamination system cycled off. Mathers wasn’t sure what he had done to piss off his superiors this time, but trudging through the irradiated cesspool that had once been called Redondo Beach was definitely not what he’d had in mind for his first assignment for the Agency after his promotion.
The Director always was a bit of an asshole, Mathers thought as he hung the suit on a wall-mounted hook.
This was probably the fucker’s idea of a joke – sending Mathers back to the town where he’d been born, way back before the Soviets turned the West Coast into a nightlight.
Mathers wasn’t about to give him any satisfaction, though, no sir. Agent Mathers was a professional through and through, and he would see this assignment through to the end like any other.
The real joke was the assignment itself. “Tour the EWD facility in Redondo Beach and assess its viability for continued funding,” his orders had said. Mathers had barely been able to hold back a groan when the file reached him. As far as Mathers was concerned, the Extranormal Warfare Division was a bad joke, a load of science fiction crockery that had abused the panic and fear the war created to suck money away from pursuits that might actually produce results.
Truth be told, Mathers was looking forward to seeing the look on the Facility Director’s face when he broke the news that the EWD’s suckling of the taxpayer’s teat was finally, mercifully at an end.
Mathers glanced around the antechamber. It was a dimly-lit room with grey walls and a greyer floor. The only object decorating the unwelcoming chamber was a desk, which more closely resembled a granite slab. Mathers reasoned that there was meant to be a receptionist or greeter sat at the desk, but there was none to be found. As a matter of fact, there did not seem to be anywhere to sit in the room at all.
“With luck that’ll translate to a short wait,” Mathers grumbled. “The sooner I can leave this dump the better.”
At that moment, as if in response to Mathers’ complaining, another man entered the room.
The man was dressed like some sort of mad scientist, clad in a long white coat, a clip-on tie, and crooked glasses with lenses as large as a man’s fist. Upon his hands the man wore rubber gloves, white but stained with red, with which he was idly polishing a long, flat knife.
Mathers’ eyes were drawn to the man’s lips, two fat sausages crowned by a thick, unkempt moustache as black as jet.
The man’s mouth was curled into a particular sort of smile, the sort that Mathers had learned to know as fake at a glance.
“Agent Mathers, I presume,” the man said. His voice was coarse and rough, like sandpaper. He set the knife down on the desk and pulled his gloves off – snap, snap – before extending his hand for Mathers to shake.
Mathers did not shake his hand.
The man offered a curt smile. “Ah,” he said, “this is going to be one of those visits, I see. And here I was hoping we could be friends.”
“You Dickenson?” Mathers grunted, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his coat and retrieving one to light.
“Dr. Charles P. Dickenson,” the man nodded. “Head researcher for the EWD and director of this facility – which I’m afraid is strictly non-smoking.”
Mathers, who had been about to light his cigarette, grumbled and flicked his lighter closed. “Any reason why?” he asked.
Dickenson laughed, plucking the cigarette from Mathers’ mouth and crushing it between his fingers. “The smell disturbs the subjects,” he explained. “If you’re so keen to give yourself cancer, Agent Mathers, you need only step outside.”
“Subjects,” Mathers repeated, raising an eyebrow.
Dickenson motioned for Mathers to follow him down a narrow, faintly-lit corridor. “How much do you know of the work the EWD does, Agent?” the director asked with an air of condescension.
“Not too much,” Mathers shrugged. “Most of the files that came into the Agency were so heavily-classified that I wasn’t even allowed to look at the folders they came in. The few I was allowed to look at just seemed like a load of sci-fi hogwash.”
“They all seem to think so when they first come,” Dickenson chuckled, “but I do believe that I can make a believer of you yet.”
Dickenson stopped in front of a scratched-up iron door that looked like it belonged in a submarine more than anywhere on land. “Despite how it might seem, what we do here is far from fiction, Agent Mathers,” Dickenson said. “I recognized the look in your eyes when I first saw you. I’ve seen those eyes more times than I can count in the years I’ve led this program. You don’t believe in the EWD, and so you feel we ought to be shut down.”
“If there’s a point, I’d advise getting to it,” Mathers snapped. This tiny stick of a man was beginning to get on his nerves.
“My point, Agent Mathers, is that a great number of men have come to this facility intending to shut it down,” Dickenson explained. “As we enter this room I would advise you to ask yourself why each and every one of them left wholly convinced of the need America has for the EWD.”
Dickenson’s fingers curled around a heavy metal bar on the right side of the door, and, with supreme effort, pulled against it until it slid across the door with a metallic groan and the portal swung slowly open.
“Make no mistake, Agent Mathers,” Dickenson said as he stepped through the doorway, “what we are making here is no less than America’s only hope for survival.”
The room was small and sparsely-furnished, with a short bed in the corner and a footlocker at its foot. A stout, understocked cherry-wood bookshelf sat next to the bed, with a lamp atop it.
Those details weren’t surprising, however. What was surprising to Mathers was the sole occupant of the room.
She was bald, and her head seemed larger than was normal, but the room’s tenant was, unmistakably, a young girl. She wore an olive-green jumpsuit and lay flat on her stomach, kicking her legs idly as she rolled a toy truck back and forth in front of her.
“’America’s only hope,’ doc?” Mathers grimaced, folding his arms. He shot the doctor a skeptical look. “This is just a-"
Dickenson held up a hand to silence the agent. “Appearances,” Dickenson smirked, “can be deceiving, Agent Mathers.”
From his coat pocket, Dickenson produced a small blue object adorned with a single yellow button.
“What’s that?” Mathers asked. “Some sort of… ‘Transformatron?’ Are you going to turn that little girl into some sort of monster?”
“Heavens, no,” Dickenson gasped. The man seemed genuinely shocked by the suggestion. “Nothing so crude as that.”
“Then what?”
Dickenson smiled. “Observe, Agent Mathers,” he said, and clicked the button twice.
Immediately, the girl’s eyes widened, and she leapt to her feet. Sparks of electricity flashed around her hairless scalp as she wrapped her arms around herself and squeezed, her expression contorting with seeming pain.
Mathers gaped and backed away slowly. “What the hell is going on, Dickenson?!” he yelped. He turned and attempted to flee through the doorway, only to find his path blocked by an invisible but inarguably solid barrier. Mathers pounded his fists against the barrier to no avail, struggling in futility to escape.
“Shut it off!” Mathers shouted at Dickenson. “Whatever it is, shut it off!”
Another two clicks from Dickenson, and the barrier vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. Where Mathers had seconds ago been leaning, now there was nothing but air, and the agent fell awkwardly to the ground.
As Mathers rose to his feet and dusted himself off, he observed the girl, now lying on the ground curled in the fetal position and breathing shallowly.
“What the hell was that?” Mathers demanded. “What did you do to her?”
“Calm down, Mathers,” Dickenson said. He clapped a hand on Mathers’ shoulder, which Mathers was quick to shrug off.
“You’d better start talking,” Mathers said, “and quick.”
Dickenson sighed as he tucked his device back into his coat. “I assure you, Mathers, I am not responsible for the power you just saw. No one at the EWD is. We’ve merely… honed that power. Brought it under our control and direction.”
Dickenson stepped back through the doorway and beckoned for Mathers to join him. “That was Molly,” he said. “She’s our newest arrival, only came to us a few months ago, but her abilities are already progressing admirably.”
Mathers halted suddenly, slamming a fist against the wall. “I’ve had enough of your bullshit, Dickenson!” he bellowed. “I want a straight answer now! What the hell is going on in this place?!”
“Keep your voice down, please,” Dickenson chided. “You’ll disturb the subjects. If you’ll kindly join me in the surgical theater, I can provide you some of the answers you so furiously demand.”
The theater was more of a small balcony, overlooking an operating room several meters below. On the table now was what seemed to be a deformed young boy, every possible extremity securely restrained, squirming as much as he could against the doctors who currently had his head opened up to examine and operate on his brain. Instruments poked and prodded at the boy's exposed organ as his mouth opened and closed, screaming silently in protest. He did not appear to have a tongue.
Mathers clapped his hand to his mouth, aghast. “You’re operating on that child’s brain?” he asked a stoic Dickenson. “Without anesthetic?”
“It is necessary, I’m sad to say,” Dickenson said, though Mathers could find no sorrow in his tone. “Raymond down there has a severe allergic reaction to most common anesthetics. It’s common among our subjects. As a result, we must perform our studies without using them. I do wish there was some other way, but for our research to bear fruit we must know as much as we can about how the minds of the subjects operate.”
“What are these ‘subjects?’” Mathers asked. “They look like children, but that girl… that power…”
“It is as you say, Agent Mathers,” Dickenson replied. His eyes were not on Mathers, but were focused intently on the procedure below. “These are children.”
Mathers felt queasy. “But…”
“I call them my ‘Children of the Atom,’” Dickenson continued. “I do so love flaunting my literary knowledge. As you’ve seen, these are no ordinary children. They are children born to individuals who were exposed to tremendous amounts of radiation when the New Soviet Union bombed the United States. Not all such children were born like Molly or Raymond, but a few – just a few – emerged from the womb with the potential for incredible, immense amounts of psychic power.”
“Psychic…” Mathers shook his head. “This is comic book stuff, Dickenson,” he protested. “You can’t seriously believe that stuff like- like psychic powers are real.”
“I’m more surprised that you don’t,” Dickenson replied. “After all, you saw Molly’s abilities firsthand.”
Mathers had to admit that Dickenson had him there.
“Molly has only been with us for a few months,” Dickenson continued, “yet already her powers have grown exponentially – and thanks to our efforts, we have been able to guide that growth on a path that is both safe to her and of use to the United States.”
“Useful?” Mathers echoed. “Useful how?”
Dickenson’s expression darkened. “A final stop on our tour, I think,” he said. “I’ll explain on the way. Come, Mathers.”
Mathers caught a final glimpse of the boy, Raymond, before he left. Tears were streaming down the boy’s face as the surgeons cut into his brain. The scene made Mathers’ stomach churn, and as he exited the theater the image of Raymond on the operating table remained seared into his mind.
“I’ll be blunt with you, Agent Mathers,” Dickenson said harshly as he guided Mathers back down the hallway. “The UN may have been able to broker a temporary peace, but the writing on the wall is clear as day. By the end of the decade, war between the United States and the New Soviet Union will break out once again. I’m sure even you can see that.”
“Sure,” Mathers admitted. “But from how I’ve heard the higher-ups talk, it sounded like we were putting together some sort of secret weapon to make sure that the US comes out on top.”
“Indeed,” Dickenson laughed. “And, put simply, the EWD is that secret weapon. I predict that the first strike will come from the Soviets – a vicious salvo of bombs and missiles on our major cities that will render most of America an uninhabitable wasteland. It will be a pyrrhic victory for them, of course, since our own warheads will pay them back in full. Still, given the chance to avoid America falling victim to nuclear holocaust, I don’t feel any sensible individual would fail to take advantage.”
“Take advantage…” Mathers mused. “Of these… powers?”
“Allow me to give you an example,” Dickenson said, leading Mathers down a twisting, winding corridor. “You were able to observe Molly’s force-field abilities firsthand. When she came to us, Molly was scarcely able to shield herself from harm. Now, her power has increased such that… well, you saw for yourself. Within a few years, possibly as quickly as a matter of months, Molly’s psychic abilities are projected to grow to the point where her field will be able to cover an entire city.”
That was impressive, Mathers had to admit.
“In the event of nuclear attack,” Dickenson began, before reconsidering and correcting himself, “in the inevitable event of nuclear attack, the EWD will be ready. Do you know how many subjects are held in this facility, Agent Mathers?”
“I never had a head for numbers,” Mathers remarked sardonically.
“One hundred and six,” Dickenson replied. “The force-field Molly demonstrated for you is the very first thing we train them to do. By the time the Soviets decide to launch their missiles, the EWD plans to have seeded our subjects along a grid of major American cities, expanding their fields as far as possible. We will transform the country itself into an impenetrable bunker, a feat only made possible through the work we are doing in this facility.”
Dickenson shot Mathers a smile that almost looked cocky. Mathers rolled his eyes.
“Save me the sales pitch,” he said. “I’ve got no interest in buying any bridges.”
Dickenson sighed and ceased his stride, rubbing his pronounced forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “Still you doubt me?” he despaired. “I must commend you on the resilience of your skepticism, Agent Mathers.”
“Look,” Mathers said, jabbing a finger at Dickenson. “I won’t deny that girl pulled some crazy shit, but you really expect me to believe that shield of hers could stop an atomic blast?”
“The simulations we’ve run would seem to corroborate that theory, yes,” the scientist said confidently. “My Children of the Atom will shield America from nuclear annihilation, and that – that is just the tip of the iceberg.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mathers asked.
Dickenson smiled another of his unnerving smiles. “All in good time, Mathers,” he said. “Come, come, we still have our destination ahead of us.”
The scientist’s evasiveness was growing more wearisome by the minute. Well, Mathers could be obnoxious as well. He was getting his answers, one way or the other. He only hoped, for Dickenson’s sake, that some of them would be able to relieve the growing unease he was feeling about this whole operation.
“You keep talking about ‘training,’” Mathers said. “You still haven’t given me any details on what, exactly, you mean by that.”
“We have a variety of methods,” Dickenson replied. "For efficiency’s sake we try to apply as universal a system as we can, but the nature of the subjects means that a personal touch is often required. The subjects’ powers never stop growing in strength, you see. Unchecked, they could become a danger to themselves or others. If our usual methods prove ineffective to confine the growth of their powers to the path we have laid out, we try something else. Raymond, for example, has shown a great deal of obstinacy and rebelliousness, and often flies into an uncontrollable rage – he no longer has a tongue because, in one such rage, he bit it off. As a result, we have been forced to conduct controlled lobotomies on Raymond to ensure that he no longer threatens our staff or the other subjects. The process has also rendered him much more amenable to training, so really it’s a win all round.
“Of course, such drastic measures are almost always a last resort,” Dickenson was quick to clarify. “The vast majority of techniques we use are no different from the sort you would use to train an animal, with a few things taken from ancient government programs like Stargate or MKULTRA. Useless in their own day, but essential for our own purposes. We’ve made great breakthroughs, for example, in hypnotherapy and subliminal messaging – ah, I believe this is one of our ‘classrooms’ here. Shall we have a peek inside?”
Dickenson slowly pushed open yet another submarine door, holding it open for Mathers to peer into the room beyond.
The room did indeed look something like a classroom – or at the least, a harsh parody of one. A ‘teacher’ sat at a desk on the far side of the room with headphones covering her ears, clicking away on a computer – taking notes, Mathers presumed, though what the content of those notes could be, he could only guess.
The ‘students’ were still more children, each as bald and big-headed as Molly or Raymond, each one strapped tightly, chest, arms, legs, and head, to a seat resembling a dentist’s chair. The children sat facing a screen at the end of the room upon which a series of flashing images were being displayed at a dizzying speed. The children twitched and wriggled in their
seats in seeming discomfort, but not a one made a sound. The room was filled with a noise that sounded almost, but at the same time not at all, like music, a constant buzzing of white noise that made Mathers’ head hurt and stomach do backflips.
Dickenson tapped Mathers’ shoulder and tilted his head to indicate that it was time to move on. Mathers pulled away from the classroom. Before his gaze left the room, he could have sworn he saw an image of a mushroom cloud flash on the screen.
“Rather an impressive setup, isn’t it?” Dickenson smiled. The hall was widening gradually now, and Mathers suspected that it would not be long before they reached their destination.
“That’s one word for it,” Mathers replied. “You the brains behind it?”
Dickenson nodded. “How did you know?”
“Lucky guess,” Mathers muttered under his breath.
“For most subjects,” Dickenson said, apparently unable to resist the urge to brag, “the conditioning takes within three to five sessions at a frequency of around eighty-seven percent. Once I’ve prevented Armageddon, I believe I’ll propose a similar system for prison.”
“You sure have lofty ambitions, Dickenson,” Mathers remarked.
Dickenson laughed. “The work I and the rest of the EWD do will save America from destruction,” he said. “Is it wrong to take pride in that?”
“Depends on how you end up doing it,” is what Mathers wished he had said. Instead, he simply said “sure.”
“Ah!” Dickenson cried happily as the pair reached a large, imposing metal door at the end of the hall. “Here we are, Agent Mathers. Allow me to present to you the Proving Grounds. It is within this room that we test our subjects’ ability to use their powers for offense rather than defense, so far to great success.”
Mathers could no longer stay silent. “What?!” he exclaimed. “Dickenson, defense is one thing, but- listen, doc, are you saying you’re training these kids to be child soldiers?!”
“I wouldn’t phrase it in such a crass manner,” Dickenson frowned. “I think that once you’ve seen one of my Children in action, you’ll be a bit more open minded.”
“About child soldiers?!”
Dickenson closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “You’re refusing to see the bigger picture, Mathers,” he scolded. “The war will not end after we’ve stopped the bombs. If the Soviets cannot annihilate us in a single fiery salvo then a conventional war will inevitably follow, one which will be a quagmire and claim countless American lives, but as you will see if you will simply follow me into the Proving Grounds, even that does not have to be the case.”
Mathers pursed his lips and glared, but said nothing as Dickenson opened the door to the Proving Grounds and ushered him inside.
The Proving Grounds were a spacious room walled by gleaming chrome, its floor covered in spots of red paint, variously shaped like x’s or targets. The meaning of the markings was lost on Mathers.
At the other end of the room from the entrance was a pair of sliding doors, to where Mathers could only speculate. On either side of the sliding doors, as well as the door through which Mathers and Dickenson had entered, stood two combat simulation robots, each one armed with the best assault weapons government money could buy – and of Russian make, Mathers noted. Another two robots were stood with their backs to the Proving Grounds’ right wall.
On the room’s left side was an observation bunker, its more earthen steel coloration clashing violently with the sleek, futuristic aesthetic the rest of the chamber paraded. Whatever else he may be, Mathers thought, Dickenson is sure as hell no interior decorator.
The bunker bore a pair of windows on its front face. Reinforced glass, Mathers assumed. Couldn’t risk a stray bullet flying in and piercing some egghead through their brain – as ironic as that would be.
It was into the bunker that Dickenson guided Mathers. As soon as the door was shut and locked, Dickenson turned to an intercom on the wall and pressed his finger to the button.
“Dr. Song,” Dickenson said, “is Subject Xi ready for the single squad exercise?”
“Affirmative, Dr. Dickenson,” came the reply from the other end.
“Excellent,” Dickenson smiled. “Send her in and fire up the tin cans. Oh, and let Riley know that she can feel free to put on a bit of a show today – we do have a guest, after all.”
The voice on the other end laughed. “Will do, Dr. Dickenson,” it said. “I’ll get things started now.”
“Take a seat,” Dickenson said to Mathers as he slid into a plush red chair facing the window. “I want you as comfortable as can be for the, ah-heh, main event.”
Mathers did as he was bid and took a seat. No sooner had he done so than the doors at the end of the room slid open, allowing yet another of the ones Dickenson called his ‘Children of the Atom’ to enter the Proving Grounds, clad in a tiny set of combat fatigues.
As Mathers had come to expect, the child was hairless and big-headed, but the oddities of her appearance did not end there.
The girl’s eyes were sunken in to an alarming degree, and her nose impossibly flat, to the point that it scarcely appeared to exist at all. Her lips were tiny and pursed, and she seemed somehow much shorter than she ought to be, even without knowing her age.
“She looks like an alien,” Mathers breathed in shock. Dickenson shrugged his shoulders, as if he could not help but agree.
“Xi – Riley – was one of our first subjects,” Dickenson explained. “They tend to deform more as they age. We’re still not entirely sure why. It might simply be something inherent to the mutation.”
“Yet you put more time into conditioning and lobotomizing them than finding a way to stop these deformities?” Mathers asked.
“We are actively pursuing research to stop these deformities,” Dickenson countered. “As I have repeatedly stressed throughout our time together, our priority is preventing the destruction of America by atomic fire. You’ll forgive me for finding that a bit more important than aesthetics.”
I’m not the one whose forgiveness you should worry about, Mathers said silently.
As Riley reached the center of the room, the robots whirred to life and took step after mechanical step. They advanced until they formed a ring around the girl, surrounding her.
“PREPARE FOR THE SINGLE SQUAD LIVE-FIRE EXERCISE,” boomed a tinny voice over loudspeaker. “ALL EWD PERSONNEL ARE ADVISED TO VACATE THE PROVING GROUNDS. THIS EXERCISE WILL INCORPORATE LIVE AMMUNITION. SAFETY CANNOT BE GUARANTEED.”
Mathers wondered if that warning was required by law, or if there was a story behind it.
“BEGIN,” the voice declared, and in half a second the robots had their weapons raised and firing.
Their bullets would not reach their target, however, bouncing off of an invisible barrier Riley had formed around herself. It was the same power Mathers had seen Molly demonstrate, just on a smaller scale, and like Molly, Riley was wincing as sparks flew around her head.
Without warning, Riley thrust a hand forward in the direction of one of the robots, fingers curled into her palm. She furrowed her brow and yelped, and before Mathers could figure out what was happening, the robot began to spasm and sputter before exploding into scarlet fire and dark black smoke. She repeated the process for each robot in turn, and within minutes all that remained of the mechanical soldiers were a few charred pieces of scrap scattered around Riley’s feet.
“We’re quite certain that it works just as well on humans,” Dickenson told Mathers, who stared at the girl with mouth agape, “but no matter how much I pester the Director he won’t let me find out for sure.”
When he got no response from Mathers, Dickenson frowned. “That was a joke, Mathers,” he assured the agent.
Again, Mathers made no sound.
“I suppose it’s natural to feel speechless,” Dickenson considered. “I must admit, I felt much the same the first time I saw the sort of raw power my Children are capable of. Don’t you see, though, Mathers? In conventional combat, my Children will be able to decimate Soviet forces using only their minds – and at the same time, protect themselves from any harm. They are the ideal soldiers, Mathers – they will be unstoppable.”
“They’re children,” Mathers said.
Dickenson shook his eyes. “They’re so much more,” he insisted. “Would you like to speak to Riley? Perhaps she can persuade you more effectively than I can.”
Riley was still standing silently in the middle of the room, awaiting instructions.
“I would like that,” Mathers nodded. Perhaps Dickenson was right. Perhaps trying to get the perspective of one of the children could, somehow, vindicate everything else Mathers had seen today.
Mathers opened the bunker door and stepped over the threshold, approaching Riley with caution. The girl slowly turned her head to stare silently at Mathers, tilting her head like a curious puppy.
“Uh, hi,” Mathers said awkwardly. “You’re Riley, is that right?”
“I am Subject Xi: Riley,” the girl replied in a raspy monotone. Her voice sounded ghoulish and inhuman, yet still somehow carried a trace of the innocence a young girl’s voice should.
“Right,” Mathers said. “What… what’s your last name, Riley? Your family name?”
“I do not understand the question,” Riley answered. “I am Subject Xi: Riley.”
“Yes,” Mathers agreed, “but… surely you have a last name. Or a middle name. Everyone does.”
“I am Subject Xi: Riley,” she insisted. “I am trained to protect and defend the United States against Soviet aggression.”
“Please,” Mathers begged. “Tell me you have a last name… a favorite toy… prove to me that somewhere, somehow, there’s still a normal child in you.”
“I am Subject Xi-"
“I get it,” Mathers said resignedly. “You’re Subject Xi: Riley.”
“I am trained to protect and defend the United States against Soviet aggression,” Riley agreed.
Mathers returned to the bunker, unable to bring himself to look at Riley any longer. Dickenson was waiting for him in the doorway.
“Well?” Dickenson asked. “I’m sure you’re impressed at the discipline we’ve-"
“Why doesn’t she have a last name?” Mathers interjected, his voice shaky.
Dickenson pursed his lips. “It was decided,” he explained, “that such reminders of past family and acquaintances would be counterproductive to the training process and interfere with the overall goal of the project.”
Mathers said nothing for a minute, before sighing and shaking his head. “I’ve seen enough,” he told Dickenson. “I’m ready to go.”
“Very well,” Dickenson answered with a smile, apparently oblivious to the contempt dripping from Mathers’ words. “I’ll lead you back to the entrance. Follow me.”
Dickenson led Mathers back out of the Proving Grounds. Mathers didn’t bother looking back to see if Riley was still there.
Mathers remained silent through the entire trip back to the entrance antechamber, even as Dickenson continued to prattle on and on about his Children of the Atom and the power they would wield in the name of the United States. Truth be told, the agent was no longer paying attention to the scientist. His thoughts were consumed by images of what he had seen in his tour of the building. He could not see past those images, even if Dickenson could. Molly, Raymond, Riley, and the ones in the classroom – children who could never be children.
Mathers wondered how someone could look past that. He wondered what sort of person would be able to look past that.
After what seemed like an agonizing eternity, the two men reached the entrance to the facility. Nothing had changed since Mathers had last been here – even Dickenson’s gloves and knife were still on the desk – yet Mathers could not help but view the room in a different light. A more uncomfortable light.
“Well, Agent Mathers,” Dickenson said, “it’s been quite a day, hasn’t it?”
That was an understatement, but Mathers didn’t comment on it. “Certainly,” was what he said.
Dickenson steepled his fingers, and adopted a solemn expression. “Now, Mathers, before you go…” he began. “Well. I know you must have seen some things today that might have seemed… shocking. Uncomfortable, even. Don’t think I’m oblivious to the fact that some might be opposed to my work. But you must understand – this is far bigger than you or I. As I have reiterated time and again today, everything I am doing is to ensure America’s future. I hope you will consider that when writing your report to the Director, and that you will make the… educated decision.”
Mathers could no longer stand the man’s aloof attitude. All the anger and disgust that had been building within him burst forth in a flood.
“Fuck that!” Mathers roared. “Fuck you and fuck your ‘educated decision!’ I’m making the goddamn right decision, do you hear me? You’ve tortured and brainwashed and experimented on these kids, Dickenson! You stole their childhood from them and made them into – into fucking machines! You expect me to just look the other way?! Christ- how did you monsters manage to stay open this long?!”
“The other agents were willing to look at the larger picture-"
“It isn’t my fault the other agents didn’t know right from fucking wrong!” Mathers spat. “You’re done, Dickenson. Better start packing your things.”
“Mathers, please!” Dickenson pleaded. “I know my work must seem unethical, but surely even you can see that it will do its job – protect America from nuclear devastation!”
“We’ll find another way,” Mathers declared, shaking his head. “Bunkers, or- or fallout shelters, or-"
“But don’t you see?! With my Children, such things will be unnecessary!”
“If that’s what it takes to make Armageddon unnecessary,” Mathers said grimly, “then maybe Armageddon is necessary.” He turned his back to the scientist and retrieved his radiation suit from the hook on the wall.
“I can’t let you shut my work down!” Dickenson cried, tears welling in his eyes.
“You’re preaching to a congregation of atheists,” Mathers said coldly. “The EWD is over, Dickenson, and your little science experiments with it. Nothing you can do about it.”
Dickenson gnashed his teeth and sputtered, but his protests fell on deaf ears. Mathers had no interest in them. As he slid the radiation suit on, he did not even bother looking back at his erstwhile guide.
It was no wonder, then, how he failed to notice Dickenson’s hand, shakily and slowly, drift over to the desk and the long, flat knife that lay upon it.
--------------------------
Date: October 18, 2084
To: Director Foreman
From: Charles Dickenson
Subject: Re: Agent Mathers
In response to your inquiry regarding Agent Mathers’ whereabouts: I fear I have very little information to offer. The last I or any of my staff saw of Mathers was when he left the facility following his tour. If he has not returned to New York, then it is possible, if unfortunate, that Agent Mathers died before leaving Redondo Beach, or before reaching the Safe Zone. The city is filled with dangerous mutated animals and humans, to say nothing of the danger that a breach of his radiation suit could pose. If Mathers was traveling alone as you say, the danger to his person would be quite significant indeed.
It’s quite a shame, as I had quite enjoyed Mathers’ company, a sentiment I am sure was mutual. With luck, the project will soon make enough progress that we will be able to relocate to a less dangerous area without fear of spies or saboteurs. I would certainly hate if an incident like this were to happen again.
In the meantime, I hope it would not be in poor taste to note that the EWD facility technically was not assessed by Agent Mathers in official documentation, and as such another agent will need to come and finish the job. May I suggest Agent McClean? As I recall she got on quite well with the subjects, and I’m certain they would be pleased at a return visit. We might even permit her to sit in on one of our classroom sessions – a rare treat!
I hope to hear from you again soon. Give my best to Francine.
- Dr. Charles Pygmalion Dickenson, Director and Head Researcher, Extranormal Warfare Division
