I recoiled, but he said, “Look—I have an expiration date. We all do.”
Totally grossed out but morbidly curious, I leaned forward. On the back of Ari’s neck was a tattoolike line of numbers. It was a date. The year was this year, and I thought the month was this month, but I wasn’t sure. Funny how time drags when you’re being held captive.
I thought, Eew. Then, Poor Ari. Then, This might be another trick, another way for them to yank my chain.
“What do you mean, we all do?” I asked suspiciously.
His eyes, looking like the familiar kid-Ari eyes, met mine. “All of us experiments have built-in expiration dates. When someone’s time is pretty close, it shows up on the back of their neck. Mine showed up a couple days ago. So my time is soon.”
I looked at him, appalled. “So what happens on that date?”
He shrugged and stood to start wheeling me forward again. “I’ll die. They would have exterminated me with the others, but my time is really close anyway. So they cut me a break. Because, you know, I’m Jeb’s son.”
His voice cracked as he said that, and I stared straight ahead down the hall.
This was a new low, even for mad scientists.
45
I don’t know if you guys ever tour top-secret evil science labs, like for school field trips or something. But I got a tour that day, and if I had had to write a school paper about it, my title would have been, “Scarier and Far Worse Than You Could Possibly Imagine (even if you have a totally twisted imagination).”
I mean, we’d grown up here. (I thought.) Plus, we’d seen some horrific stuff at the Institute in New York. (I thought.) So it’s not like devastating freaks of nature were new to me. But Ari brought me down halls and up and down in elevators, and we explored parts of the School I’d never seen, never knew existed. And let me tell you, the flock and I looked like Disneyland cast members compared with some of the things I saw.
They weren’t all recombinant life-forms. Some were “enhanced” but not combined with another species.
I saw a human baby who wasn’t even walking yet, sitting on the floor, chewing on a plastic frog while a whitecoat wrote a long, complicated, unintelligible mathematical problem on a wall-sized whiteboard.
Another whitecoat asked, “How long did this take Feynman to solve?”
The first whitecoat said, “Four months.”
The baby put down the frog and crawled over to the whiteboard. A whitecoat handed her a marker. The baby wrote a complicated, unintelligible answer on the whiteboard, something with a lot of Greek squiggles in it.
Then the baby sat back, looked at the whiteboard, and started to gum the end of the marker. The other whitecoat checked the answer. He looked up and nodded.
The first whitecoat said, “Good girl,” and gave the baby a cookie.
In another room I saw, like, Plexiglas boxes with some sort of grotesque tissue growing in them. Brainlike tissue floating in different-colored liquids. Wires were coming out of the boxes, connected to a computer. A whitecoat was typing commands into the computer, and the brain things were apparently carrying them out.
I looked at Ari. “Have brain, will travel.”
“I think they were seeing if people would still need bodies or something,” he said.
I saw a room full of the Eraser replacements, those Flyboy things. They were hung in rows on metal hooks, like raggedy coats in a closet.
Their glowy red eyes were closed, and I saw that each one had a wire plugged into its leg. Thin, hairy Eraser skin was stretched taut over their metal frames, and in some places it had torn, allowing a joint to poke through or a couple of gears and pulleys to show. The whole effect was pretty repulsive.
“They’re charging,” said Ari tonelessly.
I was starting to feel overwhelmed, even more overwhelmed than usual.
“They call this one Brain on a Stick,” Ari said, gesturing.
I saw a metallic spinal cord, connected to two metal legs, walking around. It walked smoothly, fluidly, like a person. At the top of the spinal cord was a Plexiglas box holding—no, not a hamster—a brainlike clump of tissue.
It walked past us, and I heard sounds coming from it, as if it were talking to itself.
In the next room we saw a little all-human kid, about two years old, who had weirdly bulked-up, developed muscles, like a tiny bodybuilder. He was bench-pressing more than two hundred pounds—weights much bigger than he was, probably eight times his body weight or more.