The Gender Experiment: (A Thriller) (15 page)

His version of a smile?
“What did you do to those pregnant women? And why?”

“If you excel in our program, you’ll earn the clearance to know about our research. For now, I’ll ask the questions.” He gestured for her to sit.

Taylor glanced at Devin, who was still doing pushups.

“Now.” The major didn’t raise his voice, but his glacial tone unnerved her.

Taylor eased into a chair, and a moment later, Devin took the seat beside her, making an effort to control his breathing.

“All you need to know at this point is that you’re part of our program. You can work with us to serve your country—” The major paused and locked eyes with her. “Or not.”

Cooperate or die.
Taylor shuddered and cried out, “Why me? I’m not a soldier. Or a spy. I have no skills and I can’t help you.”

A flash of frustration in the major’s eyes. “You’re an investigator. You’re the first person to realize that numerous intersex people had been born at the same time.” The older man nodded at Devin. “The first thing we need to teach her is confidence. Start with body awareness and defense sessions. Then Marissa will teach her to blend, adapt, and seduce.”

Taylor’s heart accelerated with each casual word. This was insane. Whatever it was, she couldn’t do it. Sobs threatened to take over her exhausted body.

A phone on the desk rang. A landline. Two cell phones sat next to it. The major picked up the landline receiver. “Blackburn speaking.”

A long pause while he listened. Then he placed his hand over the mouthpiece, looked at Devin, and said, “It’s time. The last operative is in place.” One corner of his mouth turned up. “Phase Two of the Peace Project is about to begin.”

Devin shot out of his chair. “Excellent news.”

The major nodded at Taylor. “Get her out of here. We have details to discuss.”

A surge of pleasure ran through Blackburn’s body. He’d been working on this project for decades, and it was about to pay off. Not in an immediate way such as winning a battle, but he would see the incredible results in his lifetime. He wanted to pump his fist in the air and shout “Huzzuh!”—but not in front of his son. The boy tended to be too emotional and needed a strong male role model. Training him as a sniper and covert assassin had gone a long way toward suppressing Devin’s girly side. Blackburn would make a man of him yet.

“Which quarters do you want her in?” Devin’s weak voice never failed to annoy him.

“The A block. Get her settled and come right back. I want to discuss your assignment.” Devin hadn’t reported the journalist as dead yet, so his son had obviously failed that part of his mission.

“Yes, sir.” Devin grabbed the new recruit’s arm and steered her toward the door.

The girl looked terrified. Blackburn hoped he wasn’t wrong about Lopez’s potential. Even more, he hoped he didn’t have to terminate her. He’d been startled when he’d scanned her file and realized who her father was. Taylor had been born a soldier, she just hadn’t accepted it yet. Out of respect for Officer Lopez, Blackburn had brought Taylor into the program rather than eliminate her. When she was ready, he would tell her father she was here.

When Devin and Lopez had left, Blackburn picked up his work cell phone and called his most frequent contact. The project’s designer answered before it rang a second time. “Good morning, major.”

The peacekeepers of the free world were all light sleepers.

“Rashaud. It’s time. The last operative is ready.”

“On my way.” The phone went dead.

Captain Ahmed Rashaud was the only lower-ranking personnel who didn’t have to call him “sir.” They’d been working together on this project, and others, for so long, the formality had dropped away, and neither had ever commented on it. As a psychologist, Rashaud had probably noticed and analyzed the trend, but out of respect, never brought it up. Blackburn opened a bottom desk drawer and pulled out a half empty bottle of Glenfiddich and two shot glasses. Regardless of the hour, this called for a celebration.

Moments later, Rashaud stepped in. A compact man with black hair that had gone silver at the temples and brown skin that had lightened after years of working underground. Rashaud gave a victory salute but didn’t sit down. His eyes flashed with excitement. The psychologist had been born in Syria, but had moved to the states with his parents when he was twelve. Rashaud understood the root problem better than anyone else in the research complex. In fact, he’d been the one to suggest the long-term mission when Blackburn had shown him the powerful pacification effects of the drug, especially on male lab animals. What an exciting day that had been! The mixed gender issue that affected some of the subjects was a side effect, but one that would ultimately enhance their peace goal, since most hermaphrodites couldn’t reproduce. Still, proving ImmuNatal could work in humans had taken another twenty years.

“This deserves a toast.” Blackburn poured two shots and handed one to his project partner. They lifted them in silence.

“Congratulations,” Rashaud said. “Placing the operatives and manipulating them into position was the most challenging component. Well done.”

“The CIA did their part, and the original idea was yours. This is your celebration.”

They downed the scotch and eased into their chairs.

“Waiting has been the hardest part,” Blackburn said. “Remember the day we realized some of the mixed-gender kids were pyromaniacs? You wanted to give up.”

Rashaud laughed politely. “You were pretty stressed too.”

Blackburn shook his head. “I still don’t know for sure what caused the pyromania and hyper-sexuality in that first group, but the hormone somehow affected their mesolimbic pathways and allowed for high levels of dopamine.” He straightened his shoulders, not wanting to focus on their setbacks. “I never doubted the mission. Any synthetic drug can be modified.”

Rashaud raised his glass again. “You succeeded. “So far, the second set of subjects has shown no signs of either issue.” He rapped his knuckles on the desk for luck. “At fifteen years old, we would be seeing the problems if they existed.”

“What’s the latest on the third group of subjects?” They were only ten years old, but their personalities had developed enough by then to know their true nature.

Rashaud raised a hand in victory. “A perfect score, so far. Not one incidence of violence or aggression. Not even a single fist fight.”

“And the gender-neutral rate?”

“It has stayed consistent at thirty to thirty-five percent.”

Blackburn nodded. Not only had they refined the pharmaceuticals to make them water-soluble, they’d also tested the hormone in non-military mothers in the second trial and third trials. There was growing evidence that soldiers with PTSD passed the trauma to their children through their DNA. But the entire Middle East was experiencing the devastating emotional effects of war, so they couldn’t control for that.

Blackburn was ready to move forward, even if the new version of ImmuNatal still had moisture concerns related to the packaging. Rashaud was the cautious one. But the future of his people was on the line, which was why they’d never developed a pure infertility drug. They wanted peace, not annihilation.

“Phase Two will take even more patience,” Blackburn added.

“Another two decades.” The psychologist let out a small sigh.

“We’ll see the difference in fifteen years,” Blackburn countered. “The terrorists are recruiting them younger than ever, so their ranks will thin as the last of the violent generation takes casualties.” Between the coalition air strikes and supporting tenacious Kurdish fighters, the frontline managed to keep the terrorists in check. But it wasn’t enough to ever declare victory. Blackburn continued. “Their recruitment efforts will start to collapse in twelve or thirteen years. Twenty years from now, all the extremist cells could be gone.”

Rashaud nodded. “Is it time to conference with General Northup and Director O’Brian to launch the peace drug?”

They had needed help from the CIA to place and monitor the young operatives, and only one out of the twenty they sent out had gone dark. They still didn’t know what had happened to him. He could have been killed and his body never found, or he could have joined the enemy. Was it time to inform the higher command that Phase 2 was about to launch? As eager as he was to move forward, Blackburn hesitated. “Let’s check with the lab and make sure the scale-up batch is ready. We have to hit every source at the same time.”

“They’ll never detect it,” Rashaud assured him. “We’ve designed it that way.” The psychologist paused, then asked. “Did Devin complete his mission?”

“Not yet, but he will.” Blackburn stood, ready to move on.

“The journalist has to be the priority.” Rashaud got up too. He cocked his head and quietly asked, “Can Devin handle it, or do we need to send a more-experienced clean-up man?”

Blackburn bristled. Only Rashaud could suggest his son was incompetent and not suffer a demotion—or worse. “Devin will take care of both remaining targets today. I assure you.”

Blackburn reached for his work-only cell phone, and it rang in his hand. The ID said
Bohmer.
The monitor assigned to Seth Wozac. Blackburn snapped, “What is it?”

“It’s Bohmer, sir. We have a problem.”

Three hours earlier, Colorado Springs

Seth Wozac paced his apartment. Fourteen steps and turn. Fourteen steps and turn. The space was too damn small, and his body felt like it would explode. Being outside had been even worse. In public, he’d felt exposed, like people could see right through him and know he had a foreign thing inside.
A uterus!
How the hell had he ended up with a fucking uterus? A doctor had discovered it the day before when they’d done an MRI at the emergency room. Seth still couldn’t believe it. But he’d seen the image, and the doctor had even showed him how to feel for it under his skin.

Repulsive!
Seth punched himself in the gut. The blow didn’t faze him. Meth dulled his pain. But not yesterday. He’d crashed into a tree at the skate park and ended up with a branch sticking into his gut. He’d been straight at the time, and it hurt like a motherfucker! But if it hadn’t happened, he wouldn’t know about the damn uterus. Now that he knew, he had to take action.

Seth curled his hand into a fist again. He wanted to punch that smug doctor in the face! “It happens sometimes,” the bitch had said with a shrug, as though the uterus was a third nipple or something sick-cool. When Seth had demanded she remove it, the doc had given him a snotty smile and jabbered on about the expense of elective surgery, especially for the uninsured. Then she’d suggested he simply forget about it.

Like that was possible. The rage brewing in his body burned with a new intensity. The uterus had to go. It was that simple. He was a man, for fucks sake! He had chest hair, an eight-inch cock, and a hard-on for girls. How the hell was it even possible to have female junk inside him? But not for long. Seth pulled his stash from the canister in the kitchen and laid out another line of meth. He preferred the needle, but he didn’t have the time or patience to cook a hit right now. He’d been up all night and he wanted to act now. With a short, plastic tube, he snorted the meth, half in each nostril. The burning sensation was soon overtaken by a joyous energy. He could do anything! Including operate on himself. He’d been thinking about it all day. He’d even watched a video of a doctor performing an appendectomy on himself. The dude rocked. Balls the size of fists.

What did he need? Towels to put pressure on the bleeding, a mirror, and his suture kit. He’d been doing his own minor skin repair since he was fifteen. As a skateboarder, he’d scraped the pavement a few times, but he hated doctors and refused to see them unless the damage was beyond his skills. Like a broken arm or a branch broken off in his gut.

Seth raced around his studio apartment and gathered everything he thought he would need. His mind kept jumping ahead to the surgery—watching it play out in bloody technicolor. He had to cut quickly and not be timid. And to be careful and not hit his aorta. The thoughts were coming so fast he could hardly process them.

Plunge the blade all the way through the skin and fat and make one clean cut. The meth would override most of the pain, and he could ignore the rest. What if he bled to death? So what if he did?
A
life of mental illness, anxiety, and self-loathing was far worse. This could be his final act. Cut out the alien thing and die a real man. At least now he understood all those girlish impulses he’d had as a kid. Once this thing was gone, he might find some peace. Maybe call his mother. His parents had divorced because of him and his weirdness. But his father was a fuckwad and could rot in hell.

He didn’t really want to die. He had a long-board competition this weekend. Maybe he should call 911 right after he made the cut, just in case. As long as he got the damn uterus out before the paramedics arrived, the hospital doctors could put him back together and he’d be fine. Maybe he would do this in the bathtub so he didn’t have to clean up afterward. And he had to hide his stash, in case things went wrong.

Fire!
He needed to see and feel a flame to calm himself enough to make the cut. Seth lit a candle and his body inhaled the beauty of the flickering light as he passed it under his palms. Better, for now. He would go out and light a real fire as soon as he could. That was another thing that was wrong with this apartment—no fireplace! How was a person supposed to live this way?

Focus!

He ran his knife blade over the flame to purify it, then gathered his supplies and rushed back to the bathroom. He stripped off his T-shirt, climbed into the tub, and lay back against the cold porcelain. With his fingertips, he located the area where the foreign lump of tissue lay under his skin. The medical image of the thing was burned in his brain. He would start on the outside and cut toward the middle, making a three-inch incision. The uterus was only connected by a few small arteries. He would just yank it out and shove a small towel into the hole to stop the bleeding.