subject: g

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
my first story to have a cool name.

Submitted: January 18, 2017

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Submitted: January 18, 2017



Martian sunrises are beautiful. The fusion of red and pink is really something to be admired. Ray Bradbury once said that Mars is heaven and he definitely wasn't far off. This morning, right now, I should say, I sit with a good friend as we chat about next to nothing while sipping peppermint mochas. Our chairs are lazyboy-good, the temperature is perfect and the recycled air is better than the real stuff. And the women who work at this outpost, whoa god-fuckin' damn is all I can say.

Yeah, we've all got it pretty good out here. And things got a whole lot more interesting a few months ago when everybody started a gentle buzz about something called “subject: G”. It's supposed to be something the docs are working on in the basement labs. Some remarkable new anti-biotic meets nano technology that can predict viral mutations before they even happen. Well, that's heaven for ya. And, by the sheer nature of rumours, some say it's experimental technology that will enable the Terran military to quickly manufacture soldier cyborgs from dead enemy and friendly bodies. I asked Jonathan last week, who had already been chief of security for three months, if he knew anything about it. He told me it was called subject: G because subjects A through F were duds. I gotta say, some of the banter around here is more fun than sex.

I knew I had to get up at six, so I went to bed at eleven. I woke up at 5:01. I didn't need to, I just did. I sat up and swung my legs off the side of the bed and tried to remember why I felt I needed to wake up an hour early. In my mind I felt I needed to find something so I clapped on the lights. I looked around my room for whatever it was I needed to find. I knew it had to be something close by. A note or something. Something I had written down on what I'm pretty sure was a sticky note. I rubbed my eyes and got off my bed. I checked the nightstand and the dresser. Then I looked behind the nightstand and inside the dresser. I looked both above and below my clothes. What the hell and where the hell is it? I laid back down in my bed again and didn't bother to pull the covers over me. I just clapped off the lights and went back to sleep.

At 8:35 AM I received a text message from Dr. Robertsen, the station's psychiatrist. I had spoken to him several times since I arrived. Good man. Great sense of humour. The message said “Pardon us for waking you up so early. We will try to avoid that.” I decided to toss this one up as one of those “things” we experience every now and then; strange but not particularly alarming. I've gotten quite used to “things” over the years.

I had a very nice dinner date with Allesandra whom works at the Starbucks. At its closing I was unable to persuade her to come back to my place, but the goodnight kiss was almost lethal. And next Friday would be another date.

I didn't have to work the next day so I stayed up watching TV until about three and went to bed with the radio on. When I stirred awake I noticed the that the clock, for the second day in a row, said 5:01 AM. Total coincidence I thought. I closed my eyes and rolled over. And then I felt it. The same feeling from twenty-four hours ago. The feeling I had to find something. A small memo to myself I had written to remind me to do something today. But I didn't bother getting out of bed this time to find it. “Christ,” I thought to myself. This has to be the ultimate fuckin' case of de ja vu. But the urge to find whatever it was wasn't as strong as yesterday morning. I could feel that as well. A few minutes later I was sawing logs.

I woke up again. 8:09 AM. Two seconds later my phone was playing the generic jingle it had always played when I get a call because I never bothered to personalize it. I answered.

“Good morning, is this Jake Campbell?” I recognized Dr. Robertsen's voice.

“Yeah,” I said a bit like Elmer Fudd.

“It's Dr. Robertsen. Sorry for calling so early on your day off, but I'd like to speak with you for just a moment.”

“Go for it.”

“You remember the transneural data emitter implanted in your brain five years ago?”

“Yes,” I said, quite lacking enthusiasm. “It still beeps from time to time.”

“Well we just switched it back on an hour ago, but it might take a day or two to fully reactivate.”

“Okay,” I said.

“The cool thing for you is you now have access to all levels and locations at this station. But there is something we definitely want you to stay hush-hush about.”

“Mm? What's that?”

“We're makin' cyborgs down here. Remember: hush-hush.”  



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