Bernard Frankenheimer Center Series Page 2

  “Get back here, you little bastard,” he hisses, making another grab.

  Suddenly, I see a crack in the wall, and I make a beeline for it, zigzagging as I go.

  “Serpentine, serpentine, serpentine,” I say to myself, panting with exertion and fear.

  The crack looms ahead of me, just wide enough for me to slip through. He’s halfway beneath the desk now, I can feel his breath on my back. It stinks, like stale fast food. I push myself faster, long legs taking loping strides. I’m going too fast and I can’t stop myself in time. I collide with the wall, bouncing off it ungracefully. Stumbling backward, I catch myself and surge forwards, sliding through the crack into the darkness.

  A few feet, or inches I suppose, into the crack I stop, panting in the pitch-black. I hear Dr. Slickberg curse angrily and the wall shakes as he pounds his fist on the ground. I sag against the wall, grateful I managed to outrun him.

  Suddenly, I hear the fridge door open and the soft clinking of glass. He’s stealing my research I realize, despair washing over me. He’ll claim everything for himself. He has access to all my files, all my videos, notes. Everything.

  Enraged, I throw myself against the wall, pounding it with my fists. Once. Twice. “Damn it!” I scream, my throat raw with the force of my cry. Months of my life, gone. My life, over. Suddenly, I feel nauseous as the severity of my situation hits me. I double over, hyperventilating. Holy shit. I’m the size of a cotton ball. My life’s work has been stolen from me. And now, I have to find a way to survive. I think I’m going to throw up.

  No. No. No. I take a deep breath, trying to calm down. I clutch my head. I’m an adapter. I can adapt to this situation. I’m a scientist. I can find a solution.

  Swallowing my disappointment and anger, I turn away from the light of my lab and head farther into the darkness, away from my life.

  2

  Russell

  The Present

  “Hey! Fuck you!” a man shouts angrily, leaning out the window of his beat-up sedan behind me.

  I grin, raising my arm high and flipping him the bird as I scream down the highway on my bike, weaving in and out of the cars.

  His furious exclamations are lost to the hum of my bike and the sounds of the vehicles stalled in traffic. I take a sharp right turn to speed carelessly between two semis. The drivers honk angrily as I fly past. I ignore them, pulling the same maneuver a few cars ahead.

  I glance at my watch, the face barely peeking out from the cuff of my leather jacket. I’ve got ten minutes to get to the campus of the Bernard Frankenheimer Center to make my appointment with Dr. Taylor Slickberg, my new boss. I rev the bike, pushing it up to eighty, streaking down the shoulder to a chorus of angry honks and yelling.

  Finally, the exit appears ahead of me. It, too, is backed up with traffic from the morning commute. What a bitch. I stick to the shoulder, carefully directing my bike through the narrow space between the cement wall to my right and the cars to my left. I glance at my reflection in one of the side mirrors I pass, just an anonymous biker, decked out in a black, leather jacket with a tinted helmet on my head.

  The stoplight at the end of the exit ramp flares green and the cars slowly make their way through the intersection. I jump off the shoulder and unintentionally cut off a bland, silver vehicle to make the right turn onto the boulevard that leads to the Center. Thankfully, the road is clearer than most since not many people work at the Center. The private scientific research center is extremely secretive and exclusive.

  I think back to the first call I got from Dr. Slickberg, inviting me to finish my PhD at the Center. I hadn’t even applied to the position. My passion is research, not the development of new technologies to be patented and sold. No, money isn’t what drove me to pursue particle physics. It was the mystery, the drive to discover the unknown, that pushed me into the field. And although the Center isn’t purely research focused, I’ll be able to devote myself to research in the pursuit of new tech. It was the best I could hope for, seeing as my other applications to research universities had been rejected.

  I grind my teeth. I was tired of not being taken seriously because of my pet project as the Rock n’ Roll Physicist. In my opinion, my work teaching the concepts of science in a fun and easy to understand manner should have made me a more desirable candidate. But apparently the stiff and formal world of doctoral studies did not agree.

  I’m pulled from my thoughts as the Bernard Frankenheimer Center comes into view ahead of me, surrounded by a ten-foot cement wall. The metal gate is open and I speed up the drive to the parking garage. On the first floor, the parking spaces are almost all taken, but the ones reserved for motorcycles are all empty. I grin; looks like I’ve got VIP parking.

  I pull into the empty space, my Magpul Ronin’s roaring softening to a throaty hum. I swing my leg over the seat and take a long, wistful look at the bike. She’s new, fresh off the factory floor, and I’m still only warming her up. But damn. She rides like the best sex I’ve ever had. A concept bike, one I could hardly afford if not for my adopted parents’ sympathy for my troubles finding a graduate program. I’d reject their sympathy, except the Ronin is the perfect accessory for any roguishly handsome rebel, like myself.

  With my bike parked, I take the elevator to the lobby, where a staff member will meet me so I can get my badge and access keys to the facility. I tug the helmet off my head and tuck it beneath my arm, shaking out my brown hair until it’s mildly presentable. I’ve unzipped my jacket, revealing the button-up beneath, my sad attempt at professionalism. The doors open with a light ding, revealing a large room with modern white leather furniture, brightly lit. I step out onto the white tiled floor as a young woman with mousy brown hair hurries forward, sharp eyes fixed on me.

  We meet halfway. She reaches out a delicate hand and I take it, careful not to squeeze too tightly when I feel her fragile bones. “Russell Quinn, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says, releasing my hand. “I’m Sarah Jones. I’ll be your assistant.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I smile, not quite believing it’s finally happening.

  “This way,” she says a little bluntly. I follow her as she marches past the desk toward a discreet door in the back. She runs her badge across a small pad to the right of the door and it slides open with a hiss. “First, we’ll need to get you your access badge.”

  “Sounds great.” I nod as she leads me to a nearby office with a camera set up and several computer terminals. The computers themselves are wireless, like everything in this building seems to be. The white chrome gleams in the fluorescent lights, casting an expensive, high-tech sheen over all the equipment. Except it’s not a sheen.

  “Stand there and smile, frown, it doesn’t matter,” she says sharply, pointing to the wall across from the camera.

  I plaster my most charming smile on my face as the camera flashes. After the picture is taken, I join her at the computer. “How do I look?” I ask jokingly, leaning over her at the terminal to peer at the screen.

  She gives me an emotionless stare, her blue eyes the shade of an ancient glacier. I twist my lips into an apologetic frown. Is everyone at the center this cold? I wonder.

  Suddenly, her cell phone rings, interrupting the awkward silence. And just when I was about to apologize.

  “Yes, I’ll bring him up right away, Dr. Slickberg, we were just getting him his badge,” Sarah says. Her voice has a professional tone, but there’s an icy edge to it. It feels like the room temperature drops five degrees as she continues the conversation.

  Dr. Slickberg? I didn’t realize he was going to meet with me so soon, I’d expected him to pay a visit in a day or two. Unlike most department heads, he must be very involved in his researcher’s work. I feel a wave of excitement at the prospect. Dr. Slickberg is world-renowned for his research into a variety of fields. He’s the youngest scientist to dabble successfully in topics ranging from biotechnology to theoretical physics. I have to suppress an ecstatic grin, I don’t want to get ahead of myself, the shoe might still drop.

  Sarah’s sharp tone interrupts my thoughts and I’m pulled back to the present.

  “But I haven’t finished his badge, Doctor,” Sarah argues, her manicured fingers tapping against the desk irritably. “Alright,” she concedes. She stands abruptly and slips the phone into her pocket with an aggressive exhalation.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, suddenly nervous that I’ve lost my position without even starting.

  “Dr. Slickberg wants to see you right away, we’ll finish your badge later,” she says, sweeping out of the room.

  At least I’m not fired already, I think.

  “So,” I say as we leave the room. “Have you worked here long?”

  “Five years,” she says, leading me to the elevator. “I was the assistant of another doctor here. Up until six months ago.”

  “Oh? And since then?” I ask.

  “Helping out here and there.” She jabs at a few keys on the keypad by the elevator.

  We use her access codes to make our way to the fifth floor, where my new lab will be. I’ve never had my own professional lab, I can’t help the grin on my face at the prospect. We pass through a door into a small office, hers I assume, spotting the purse and coat draped over the back of the desk chair. She drops her badge onto the desk and leads me to a second door across the room, a plain metal door with a glass window. There’s a sign next to the door, a name and a title typed on it neatly. Charlie Fawn, PhD, I read as we pass.

  She catches me studying the name. “Charlie quit unexpectedly six months ago. I’ll have the sign replaced by the end of the day,” she explains, her eyes lingering on the plaque.

  I shrug, not particularly caring about the fate of Charlie Fawn. His office is mine now, and it’s got a great view.

  The lab has wall to wall windows overlooking the front of the complex, lawns of green grass stretch out all the way to the wall. I turn in a slow circle, taking in the space. Each wall is lined with stainless steel counters and there’s a large island in the middle, a couple stools hidden away beneath. I spot microscopes, a fridge, scales, and various other scientific equipment organized neatly throughout the room. It’s the state-of-the-art lab of my dreams.

  3

  Charlie

  My eyes are locked onto the dusty wrist watch I pushed up against the wall a month ago after filching it from the lost and found. The second hand, as tall as my own body, moves slowly. Tick. Tick. Tick.

  With a few seconds left, I hurry to the old, hardened contact lens on the dusty ground, toothpick in hand, ready to stir my concoction. The ticking of the watch is loud at this size, making it an excellent timer but also an annoying background noise. I hear the final note and dip the toothpick into the liquid in the lens, stirring it carefully for sixty seconds.

  My arms burn with the effort, the toothpick grows heavier with each stir and my sweaty hands are losing their grip on the slick wood. At the sixty second mark I pull the toothpick out and set it aside on a gum wrapper. It wouldn’t do for my equipment to become contaminated with dust molecules on the ground. Or for the remnants of the solution to spread the organisms on the cement floor. No, that would cause some minor setbacks and intense clean-up.

  Quickly, I peer at the liquid, squinting to get a better view of what’s happening at the micro-level. The globular shapes within ripple violently before suddenly splitting into two separate organisms. They return to their leisurely drifting in the liquid, oblivious to the molecular change that just occurred. I frown, that wasn’t supposed to happen. Yet another failure. I run my hands through my brown hair, sighing. For the past three weeks, I’ve been working on a new project, a solution to reduce the amount of oil excretions from hair follicles, but so far, no dice. My own greasy hair is begging for a shower, but I’ll have to make my way to the nearby restroom for that.

  Disappointed, I leave the lens and stomp toward the corner of the hole in the wall I call my kitchen. It’s where I store the crumbs I find and the droplets of water I have to haul away from the drinking fountains. At this size, my water consumption is a tiny fraction of what a regular-sized human needs. I can get by on a fifth of a droplet for an entire day. I pucker my lips and press them lightly against the shining surface of the liquid and suck. It certainly takes more effort to inhale water in this manner rather than just downing a glass the way I normally would. It’s messier too. But, when in Rome. Satisfied, I pull away from the droplet and wipe my mouth with the sleeve of my lab coat.

  I stare around at my home, the hole in the wall. My lab takes up the majority of the space. I’ve got matchstick box cupboards lining the walls, all manner of objects and chemicals inside. Every single item in the space has been looted from the garbage, underneath desks, or from other scientists’ cupboards.

  Even at this size, I need to continue my work. And being small has its perks. I can conduct experiments on a miniscule scale, I need less of each substance to do so and I don’t even need a microscope to study the reactions. Plus, if I didn’t work, I’d go insane from boredom. It’s not exactly riveting to be this size.

  My home is empty, no sign of Sarah bringing me take out after I’ve forgotten to eat for two days. I haven’t had a conversation with anyone for six months. I pretend it’s fine, but I know eventually it will take its toll. Humans are social creatures, and although I’ve never been particularly social, I can’t overcome my most base psychological needs. A kind word from another person, a touch.

  I frown sadly, eyes staring blankly at the space. My thoughts return to that day, when Slickberg showed his true colors and stole my research, ending my career and my life. Metaphorically.

  But there’s no time to dwell on this life. I can only accept it for what it is. I turn back to my failed experiment.

  I need to dispose of the composition and maybe head to the restroom for a quick trip to the sink. I carefully lay plastic wrap over the makeshift bowl and secure it shut. I drag the contact lens behind me carefully, making sure the liquid inside doesn’t come too close to the rim of the lens where it’s more likely to spill. Sighing, I think back to how easy it was to do these things when I was regular-size. Before Dr. Slickberg shrank me. Anger floods through me as I picture his face in my head. The way he leered at me when his boot was poised to crush my shrunken body.

  He already published my work as his own. Two weeks ago I found the article in a scientific journal. Defeating Anti-Biotic Resistant Strains of Bacteria: Revolutionizing the Way We Heal by Dr. Taylor Slickberg. My lips curl angrily as I picture the article in my head.

  It had taken me over an hour to read the entire article, even though it was only a blurb, a few pages long. I had to run back and forth across the pages to read it at all, one word at a time. Committing it to memory to torture myself with late at night.

  Dr. Taylor Slickberg perches on his stool in his laboratory at the Bernard Frankenheimer Center, surveying his miracle drug. Semi-Synthetic Amenopeben, or SSA. He smiles charmingly. ‘It was a long process, but I hit my stride a few months ago. I’m excited for SSA to help, that’s my motivation.’ He emphasizes by pounding a finger on the table. ‘It’s to help others.’ Dr. Slickberg is a highly creative genius with degrees in…

  It was maddening, but I was in the best shape of my life. I feel my muscles flexing beneath my clothes as I drag the lens. All the layers of fat from a sedentary lifestyle had melted away, courtesy of the extra work it took to do even the most mundane things, like read or stir a solution. My physique could never lend itself to becoming obviously muscular, but my frame had changed from thin and wiry to lean and strong.

  The crack leading to my lab and the closest drain in the floor looms ahead of me, I pause and listen for any signs of people. For the past six months, after Dr. Slickberg had emptied my lab of all my research and cleared out all my personal things, it’s been empty and easy to use. But, now, I’m hearing the low rumble of voices.

  Outside my makeshift home, it’s imperative I exercise caution. I’m still worried Slickberg is prowling around the Center, looking for me. For the first three weeks after I was shrunk, he returned to my lab and office often, looking for me.

  Hesitantly, I drag the lens out into the lab, still safe underneath a counter. From my position I see two pairs of shoes, Dr. Slickberg’s Italian leather pair and the scuffed sneakers of a second person. The floor drain is directly underneath the table in the center of the room, where they’re talking. I’ll have to wait to dump my failed experiment until they clear out.

  I groan aloud, there’s no sense in worrying that they can hear me. I could scream at the top of my lungs and wouldn’t even make a squeak audible to their ears.

  “This is an impressive lab. I’m excited to buckle down and get to work,” the man in the scuffed, casual shoes says.

  Get to work? I purse my lips. So, Dr. Slickberg has found someone else to steal research from. I want to get a peek at the new arrival, so I make my way to the leg of the table and hide behind it, staying out of sight, leaving the contact lens behind. Carefully, I peek around the metal pole and study the two men.

  Dr. Slickberg appears no different, still dressed in his expensive slacks, but a carefully trimmed moustache now graces his upper lip. I make a face, he looks even creepier with facial hair. Turning my attention to the second man, I feel heat in my groin, a sensation I haven’t felt in a long time. My heart suddenly pounds loudly in my chest and my face flushes.