Copyright 2023

The Lab: Part One

Josephine Rubinsky

Sweat drips from my forehead as I struggle through the hundredth push-up. My arms and chest burn as I exhale, pushing all my weight up. It hurts but in a good way. At least I know I’m getting stronger as I feel my muscles ripping apart inside my arms and chest.

I look up as the sweat drips from my forehead onto the concrete gym floor. Arman, a kid with eyebrows that seem to grow into one another, creeps in the gym door. He is frail looking, skinny, and weak. I know that he was genetically modified in languages and not in strength, but I wonder how he has lived his entire life here trapped in this place and never lifted weights in the gym out of sheer boredom once.

“What’s up, Arman?” I asked, annoyed, feeling his eyes watching me finish out the last couple of push-ups.

“Dr. Daleheart wants to see you.”

“I’ll be in the lab in like an hour.” I retort, “Today’s my day off.”

“He said he needs you there now. He wants both of us there.” He says clinically.

“Fine.” I say, rolling onto my back taking long deep breaths, “Fine, I’ll be there in five.”

“I’ll walk over with you.” He waits there.

Pushing myself off the cold floor, I figure it isn’t worth taking a shower to get the sweat off because I know I will want to wash the smell of the lab out after I’m finished helping the doctor with whatever he wants on my only day off.

“Let’s get going then.” I motion to Arman to walk out the door. He is so weird, but I try to be at least cordial because I don’t think he has many friends. He spends way too much time in the biochemistry lab with Dr. Daleheart.

Our shielding was once a large high school until the Disaster Control Bureaucracy turned it into what they call a “Shielding,” which is a more politically correct word for this prison where they keep human science experiments. All the adolescents here have been genetically modified to serve the United Socialists of America. Some are skilled fighters, some the state made extra smart, and others have multiple skill sets the state uses to its advantage. We’re lucky because our shielding has lots of windows where we can watch the snow come down all winter and a big recreation area in the back that we use if the sun comes out. The Grandmaster has told us that some shieldings have no windows at all, especially in California, where the summer sun is so abusive that they can’t walk outside for longer than twenty minutes in the summer without third-degree burns. After years of climate change, windows are deadly in the desert, which is why I am glad to live here in North Dakota, where at least summer is livable. Arman and I climb the three flights of stairs up to the bio-lab. The lab was a classroom years ago before the DCB converted it into our study lab. All the tables are still lined up just like they would have been in a high school chemistry class because, in a way, this is still a classroom. Bio-Chemist Joseph Daleheart teaches those the state modified in his field of Biology here now. Unlike a high school classroom, our experiments are dangerous and untested.

Daleheart stands behind an oversized microscope gazing at who knows what. I imagine it must be interesting because he doesn’t look up at the racket of the squeaky door closing behind us. Joseph Daleheart is a rather large man who always wears his navy blue DCB lab coat with his name and title sewn onto the pocket where he keeps several pens. He is not only an instructor but also the chief nuclear Czar for the state. He deals mainly with nuclear energy because most weapons we develop are chemical, not nuclear.

“You wanted to see us, sir?” I ask, slipping on a lab coat. This lab coat is too small around the arms and barely goes past my calves, but it looks rather baggy on Arman. The doctor must not have heard me because he hasn’t acknowledged that we are there.

Arman glances at me and then at the doctor, “Dr. Daleheart?” Arman speaks up.

The doctor jerks up from the microscope at squints at us for a moment before finally saying, “Oh good, you are here.” He waddles over to the lab vent with an Erlenmeyer flask full of some blue viscose substance that smells like metal waving us over with two fingers, “I am glad you two came in a timely manner. You see, I just returned from a trip to the capital.” He pauses to place the flask in the vent, “Azariah, will you please hand me that volumetric flask?”

I turn to where he is pointing. I’m not sure which one he is talking about because there are at least twenty glass tubes on the table behind me, so I reach for the first one.

“No! Not that one! The volumetric flask with the long neck and the yellow liquid in it.” He points more harshly to the right.

I touch my fingers to the glass lightly to make sure the glass isn’t scolding before I pick it up. I’ve made that mistake too many times when the doctor has conveniently forgotten to tell me that a reaction may have made the flask warmer than the skin on my hand prefers.

I hand him off the tube, “What can I do for you, sir?”

“As I was saying before, I was interrupted.” He hisses, pouring the vials together, “I have just returned from the capital, and the new government has proposed a marvelous plan that they want us three to head up.”

Arman pulls out a little notepad from his back pocket to take notes, making me feel unprepared. I don’t think I even have a pencil with me now.

“It was an idea that a scientist friend had that he called Operation Advancement. This is my chance to be a great scientist if we can figure it out.” He yells, turning the vent on.

 The vent is tremendously loud, making the doctor talk louder, “We shall begin on this project at once!” He wabbles away, “Arman, I need you to start researching the issues with the chemical weapon that was a disaster last week. Find out why you two didn’t execute my perfect formula flawlessly.” He then turns to me, staring wide-eyed, “Jones, I need you to follow me for a moment.”

The noise in the pale hall greatly diminishes, “I want you to be my main man for this project.” Before the lab door shuts, he starts, “This project needs your brains. I have the perfect test specimen lined up, and the formula must be perfect by the end of the month. As you can imagine, I’m a bit worried about that time frame, so you in?”

“What is the project?” I ask, trying to adjust my tightly fitting sleeves.

“You’ll find out more detail in time, but I need you to develop a chemical weapon that only reassigns a certain specimen.”

“What kind of specimen are you talking about?”

“The state wants an injection that finds and gets rid of imperfections in the human population.”

“So, a DNA-specific weapon. Like a weapon that attacks certain cells.”

His eyes light up, “Yes, some kind of formula that destroys imperfect cells.”

“I’ll work on it first thing in the morning.” I attempted to escape the conversation; the cafeteria should open for dinner soon.

He waves his chubby fingers dramatically, “No, no, this formula must be perfected by next week. We don’t have hours to waste! Plus, my test specimen should arrive by Friday, so I’d like you to have it ready two days from now.”

“I’m sure the lab rat will be just fine in the cage for a few extra days before we torcher it to death,” I say honestly. It makes me angry watching Daleheart test chemical weapons on those mice. They are just mice, and he says they don’t feel much pain, but I know they do. Of course, they feel pain; scientifically, they have nerves like every other mammal. If I was a little more insubordinate, I think I would release the lab rats just for the heck of it. I try and reason that the lab rats serve a greater purpose, but it still feels wrong to watch Daleheart murder all those little mice.

“I’ll get cracking on that chemistry right after dinner, I promise.” I step toward the stairwell when Arman pops his head out of the lab door, “Doc, I have a question about that research.”

I interrupt him, “Come on, man, we will work on this after dinner. Come eat in the mess hall with me.” He needs to get out of that lab. He practically lives there.

“Go eat,” Daleheart says with a bitter undertone.

I wish we would’ve gotten down here sooner because the line to get food is wrapped around the room now that we are ten minutes late. The room that was once a high school cafeteria has remained relatively unchanged despite years of civil war between Texas and the United Socialists of America. The room still has all the original state-funded tables and chairs from when it was a school. This is my favorite room in the entire shielding; a massive window facing what was once a football field lets all the summer sunshine flood the room. We find the back of the line, and I stand with my arms crossed and my head high. I am a foot taller than everyone, so people-watching is easy. A group of girls is in the back of the room by the oversized windows facing the gated field. I can hear laughing and messing around. One girl stands out to me; her hair is cut short, almost to her ears, and she has pale skin and freckles. Heather Dawnly, that’s her name. I remember because we had a sparring class together. The state is training her to be a striker, which is State slang for an over-glorified political cop. That’s my best guess at what she was modified for because she’s built fierce and strong looking. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile. Her eyes glance in my direction, and my eyes dart away. 

 The line moves up a bit as Arman starts to blather on about the importance of his research to the state. I half listen, nodding my head every couple of seconds. I really should listen and at least try to be a better friend to him, but it’s quite apparent to me why he always eats alone; his voice is exhausting to listen to. 

My eyes wander back over to the table by the window. Bow, a detainee who was just named head striker last week, moves in on the table. He has an unnaturally perfect smile that is white and straight. He looks too perfect to be real. The four girls sitting next to the window giggle, and one fixes her hair as Bow flirts. To my dismay, he picks the empty seat right next to Heather. I was thinking of sitting it there. Not that I would have had the courage, but at least it was an option before.

Instead of sitting at the lively table by the window, Arman and I find a nice quiet table close to the trash. Arman starts the conversation by sharing his plan to help me reach the latest weapon the doctor has us working on.

“You got any hobbies, man?” I asked under my breath just to wear he can’t hear me.

“This Operation Advancement is going to be our big breakthrough. Who knows, maybe after we accomplish this, we will get promoted to scientists at the DCB.” He pushes his food around.

“I would go anywhere if it got me out of here.” I joke, glancing out the window, but I don’t let my gaze go as far as to see Bow flirting with the girls.

“You don’t like the shielding? I mean, here we are protected, educated, and fed. What more could you want.”

“Your right. It was a stupid comment.” I say it loud enough for the cameras to hear it cause little comments like that are dangerous.

That night after I talk my mandatory 7-minute shower, I trudge back to the dorms. The water only flows for 7 minutes, and then it cuts off. In the shielding, we learn to shampoo in the cold shower quickly because the other kids will tease us if we walk out with soap still in our hair.  The dorm was once a school gym, but now the DCB has accommodated us by stocking the gym full of rows of bunk beds. We are all assigned a bed, and our clothing fits in a small compartment under each bunk, so we don’t have many personal items. The only personal thing I have is a pin I stole from my grandma. It is just a yellow pin that all the words have faded off. I only have it because the day my mom dropped me off here, it was in my pant pocket. I decided to keep it to remind me what my life was like outside of here. Miserable. Mama was three sheets to the wind when she dropped me off. I bet she doesn’t even remember it. She was so high, or maybe she was drunk, or both. I was ten, so the memories are obscured by time and flawed human psychology. The pin is a good reminder when I think I hate it here and that it was worst for me out there.

The dorms still have the old rubber smell of a school gym, even though it has been a shielding for at least twenty years. Our shielding was the very first, but now there are tens of them all over America. I’m lucky enough to have a bottom bunk that no one is currently sleeping on top of. The girl who used to sleep above me was reassigned after she broke her femur bone in sparring class. The state ruled that her recovery time was too long, and she had been deemed a waste of resources which means euthanasia in the shielding. That was my first taste of shielding reality. I think I cried a little the first night. I didn’t have anyone to talk with, but then I learned that the ones who survive don’t care about the weak in the shielding. We are just animals like the lab rats to the DCB. That is the religion of the shielding; we are animals who are only useful if we benefit society. The sooner I accepted that reality, the easier it was to survive. Maybe that is why I have so much sympathy for those mice that Daleheart and Arman torment because I am one of them to the DCB. I turn the yellow pin over in the palm of my hand as I lay down to try and sleep even if the lights are still on. My mom was a drug attic, and my dad died before I turned eight, so as much as I hate being part of the DCB’s experiment, at least they gave me purpose, a warm place to sleep, and food during times of famine. Remembering that is enough to be at least thankful.

I fall asleep with the sound of kids still laughing and talking all around me and the lights fully on. It’s regretful, almost like a bitter taste in my mouth, to know I have work in the morning. I savor my one day off each week, but those days seem to fly by the fastest.

Morning greets me at the same time every single morning. 5:25 am. That is when I get up, go for a three-mile run around the indoor track, and then go to breakfast by 5:40. After breakfast, I am expected in the lab today. On regular days, I would go to all my classes and work with Daleheart in the afternoon, but this week he has requested my presents every waking moment.

“How is the work coming?” The doctor asks as he moves to the whiteboard where Arman is scribbling down something. I sit bent over several notebooks chalked full of equations and formulas, trying to wrap my head around the chemical compounds I need.

“Not going to lie, doc, this is a tough one,” I admit looking through my formulas.

He nods with his hands behind his back, “I know, but I’ve faith you will be able to crack this code.”

“Maybe taking a walk will help me better understand the math here. I need a drug smart enough to kill off bad DNA and not touch perfect DNA.” My knee hits the desk as I stand, rattling all the test tubes on the table.

“Careful, you almost spilled that potassium.” Arman snaps at me, and for good reason; if that purple liquid had hit the floor, we would all be dead, genetically modified or not.

“I’ll be back in ten.” I let them know as I grab Arman’s notepad from the desk in case some random ingenious thought catches me while I walk around the track.

“Could you make it five?” The doctor asked, tapping his watch face, “Deadline is Friday! That’s when the test subject will be arriving.”

I nod and fight the temptation to roll my eyes. I still don’t understand why he is making such a big deal about having these lab rats wait around a couple of days.

The hallways are empty, but I hear the kids buzzing around in each classroom. I can’t decide whether I would be trapped in a mundane day of classes or with Doc and Arman in the lab. Both are dismal choices. If I could be anywhere, it would be somewhere outside in nature, surrounded by trees and a garden, but until the DCB releases me from here, I will have to be content with an afternoon walk around the track.

Outside is a perfect 75-degree day with the sun looming in the middle of the blue sky. The sun’s rays feel blissful on my skin as I walk toward the track. Several muscular guys modified for fighting and girls with genetically perfect features stand around tossing a ball and exchanging small talk near a big yellow pole once used for football games. I wish I were good at talking, but I’m far too awkward to intrude on their conversations. Plus, they wouldn’t be interested in listening to a long discussion about Biochemistry, so I brush past them and walk alone.

I close my eyes and just try to get lost in thought. Maybe I’ll get a breakthrough with this formula if I let my mind wander.

“Hey, Azariah.” The feminine-sounding voice forces my eyes open. I look behind me, and there stands Heather; her black hair is tied into a ponytail, and sweat drips from her hairline. I didn’t think she would remember my name.

“Hey, I was just…um…taking a walk.” I point forward at the track like an idiot because I’m lost for words. I mean, what do people even talk about to start the small talk?

“Care if I join?” She almost smiles but keeps a stern face.

“No, not at all.” I almost smile, but the stern look on her face tells me that I shouldn’t.

Her feet shuffle on the gravel as she kicks up the red dust, “How have you been? I haven’t seen you in sparring class lately.”

“I’ve been tied up in the lab working on things for the doc. How about you?” I’m doing ok with this small talk.

“I’ve been better. I just got passed up for a striker position. So, you know how that goes.”

I do know how that goes. Reassignment. My mouth goes dry. How do I respond to that bit of information, and why is she even telling me this?

Maybe I should try to reassure her, even if we both know it’s a lie, “I’m sure the state will find you a better spot. You’re still an asset to the state, I would think.”

“I guess we’ll see.” She makes eye contact with me. I look away, but I think she’s still looking at me, “Some of my friends and I have a little hangout tonight after lights out. Be there.” She slips a little piece of paper inconspicuously into my hand.

“10:30 outside the bath hall. Keep it quiet.” The paper reads.

She takes a few steps ahead of me and then turns her head around with a smile, “Be there. I’m not asking.”

I let out a nervous laugh and sighed. I don’t know what I should expect from this, but I know that I must go… for research purposes, of course. I should see what is happening at the shielding since I’m always in the lab.

“Any ideas?” As I step back into the lab, the doctor’s beady eyes lock on me with my lab coat. It always smells like burning hair and ammonia in here, and I hate it. I hate how the smell seeps into my uniform, making it impossible to sleep unless I shower and get a fresh uniform on.

“Not yet, but maybe I’m on the brink of something,” I say with a smile, and in no way am I thinking about his formula.

The chalk that Arman is using makes a horrid noise on the blackboard. He hasn’t looked up that research since it was assigned to him.

I hop over to the board he is staring at, “Hey, man. I have something for you, so come see me at my bunk tonight.”

“Just tell me surprises are unproductive.”

“No, you just have to wait and see.” I jokingly slap him on the back of his head.

Arman flinches, touching the back of his head with a scowl. Maybe I’ve gone too far joking with him, but he needs to lighten up.

“How is the research coming?” I change the topic.

“Fine, I am just researching some AI computer chips the state has built.”

Artificial intelligence. That’s the answer to my formula! I need a drug that’s smart enough to detect things. I don’t need a drug at all. I need a computer chip!

“That’s it!” I mutter and write it all down on the notepad I stole from Arman.

“Dr. Daleheart, I got it!” I yell across the lab.

Daleheart jerks his head up from the textbook he is reading, “The formula?!”

“Yeah, It’s not chemistry at all. What we need is to insert the population with a chip, an AI, that is smart enough to detect weakness in the population and eradicate the specimen with weak genes.”

Daleheart paces momentarily, thinking it over, “It’s genius! Azariah, this could be what graduates you to DCB scientist.”

The wide smile across my face deflates as I see Arman looking defeated, hunched over his hours of research. His eyes are sunken in from lack of sleep, and his hair looks greasy and unwashed. No one deserves more recognition than Arman. The poor kid has no friends. This research is what gets him up in the morning.

“Well, it was Arman’s idea.” I nod at him, and his face lights up.

“Well done, both of you. Now get to work on it! I will have to think of ways to implement this into the population.”

“That is the easy part,” Arman bights on his pencil, “You just make it to where people either get the implant or they don’t get food from the government.”

“We can worry about implementing it later! Right now, I need you to create this software because my lab specimen is coming earlier than expected.” Daleheart rubs his hands together, rubbing in some hand sanitizer.

It takes me and Arman hours, but we finally develop a formula for a tiny microchip implanted in a shot that will kill any non-perfect DNA.

Arman holds up the small clear vile, “I guess we will test it out tomorrow when the lab rat arrives.”

“Where is Daleheart?” I look up from my notes for the first time in hours, and to my surprise, it is dark outside. We must have worked right passed dinner. I didn’t feel it in my stomach till I started to think about it, but I guess I’ll have to wait for breakfast.

“Daleheart went home an hour ago,” Arman says, looking at the clock on the wall.

“What time is it?” I ask abruptly.

“10:45” He shrugs with a yawn.

I dart up, “Come with me, hurry, just leave all that there. I’ll get it tomorrow.”

“Where are you going? It’s lights out already!” Arman protests as I drag him by his frail wrist out of the lab.

“Come on, man. We’re going to live a little tonight.” I fly down the stairs fearing I have missed Heather and her friends already.

“I tried,” Arman complains, stomping down the metal staircase.

“Don’t be a baby; come on.” I must drag him through the dark halls to the communal bathroom, the only room with the lights still on.

I stumble into the bright room, squinting. My eyes adjust to the bright lights, but to my relief, I’m not too late to see Heather. Heather stands leaning against the sink turning a throwing knife over in her course hand. Next to her are Bow and her friend Mela. Mela is a trained fighter like Heather. She is tall and skinny with a long face and pin-straight hair. She kind of looks like a Zebra with her oil-black hair against her white uniform.

“I told you to come alone,” Heather says through her teeth, narrowing her eyes.

Arman straggles into the bright room after me. “It’s ok. He’s cool,” I say, trying to convince myself. He deserves at least one friend, and I’m trying hard to be that friend to him, but man, it’s a struggle.

“What are we doing?” Arman whines, slumping his shoulders.

“We are going to have fun.” Heather smiles, stepping away from the sink, “What are they going to do? Reassign me?”

I want to comfort her and tell her the state wouldn’t, but it would be a blatant lie.

“What kind of fun?” I ask, feeling my heart rate increase. I may have gotten us into a bad situation with this. The last thing I want is to be found sympathizing with a rebellion plot against the state.

“They ask too many questions.” Bow rolls his eyes at Arman, who looks half asleep.

“I said they are cool.” Heather defends us, “We heard Daleheart got a package in the mailroom, some large animal for the lab, and I want to see it.”

Arman shakes his head harshly, “No way, that is DCB property. We can’t interfere with that unless permitted by the state.”

“Chill out!” Heather snaps at him but remains smiling, “If we get caught, I’ll take the blame for it. I need to live a little.”

I want to defend her to let her know I won’t let the state reassign her, but I know I’m powerless to do anything.

“Let’s do it. I’ve been under serious pressure this week because of this animal, so I want to see what poor creature it is.” I say almost under my breath.

“Great, I have the key.” Bow holds up a key chain with dozens of keys on it.

Arman nearly gasps, “Where did you get Dr. Daleheart’s keys?!”

Bow smiles with his perfect teeth, “It’s easy to get what you want when your next in line to be head striker, and who could say no to this face?”

“He stole them and had one of the nerds 3D printed a copy,” Mela says in her monotone voice, looking at her white DCB shoes.

“Let’s go.” Heather leads the way down the halls. It’s dark and quiet this time of night with the grandmaster asleep and all the instructors gone. It is almost erring hearing the halls so silent. They’re quiet until Bow whispers something that makes both the girls giggle.

“Be quiet!” Arman snaps, killing their fun. I should teach him how to have more fun, but I have to learn first myself. The only thing that can be heard down the halls is the ghostly humble of the old air conditioning.

Bow leads us as he unlocks the mailroom with the first key on the chain. The mailroom still has a strange sign on the glass door that reads “Teachers’ lounge.” The sign is nearly faded off, but I can still make out the letters in the dark. The darkness vanishes as Bow flips on the lights, and we all rush into the mailroom shutting the door, so the light won’t wake anyone up or draw attention to us. The mailroom is cluttered wall to wall with cardboard boxes and stacks of paper for the large copy printer that sets on the back wall. That machine must be as old as this building, ancient. There is a rather large box that stands out to all of us. It’s about seven feet tall and five feet wide, covered with a moth-eaten tarp.

“There it is….” Bow whispers, pointing to the oversized cage.

I hear the creature make a soft grunting sound. I wonder what it could be… it must be pretty big, whatever it is. Heather doesn’t leave it up to my imagination; she rips the blanket off the cage and stands back.

“Oh my…” She gasps. All the giggling and smiling fade from both the girls.

“What is it?” Bow looks over past the stack of boxes that block his view.

At first, it looks empty, but then I see something lying on the floor, and as I get a clear vision of “it,” I realize it’s not a “something” in the cage; it’s a “someone.”