Subject 5691: Petri: Edgeworld Chronicles, #1

1

Subject 5691 prowled the room. The small red light in the corner flashed once, an insidious reminder. The scientists were watching again—always watching—eager to record his every word, twitch, and expression. They watched in the stark silence of the laboratory, fervent and waiting while the soulless docbots with their blank faces and dead, digital eyes jabbed him with more needles than he knew existed. They stared and recorded and whispered as the bots drew blood, tissue, and screams while he fought against the restraints. Against his will, he gave them all they could ask for and more.

The light blinked again. It was a warning and a demand all at once—taunting him to respond, daring him not to. He stared, unseeing, into its pinpoint of crimson, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Once more he was there, begging for respite from their daily torments. He’d wept until there were no more tears left in his body. Begged until his dignity lay in as many tatters as there were splotches of blood on the floor and table of their pristine lab. They ignored his cries and offered him nothing for his pain.

No, those butchers recorded it all with a sadistic eagerness that carried more than a hint of carnal pleasure. Their avid gazes devoured his naked body while he writhed in torment. They spoke of his stamina, his strength, and his recuperative abilities as one might a salacious night with a whore. But they weren’t the only ones who watched. He watched as well, and his strength grew alongside his hatred.

No longer did he ask why. They could offer no answer worthy of his torment. No excuse, however well-crafted, could justify his constant misery. Though their instruments stabbed into his flesh and burned into his brain, he learned to lay silent. He gathered his agony close and allowed it to feed his anger. His pleas had fallen on deaf and uncaring ears, so he ceased his cries. They did nothing to ease his pain. He refused to further their version of science.

Turning his back on the flashing light, he made another pass around the room. Fifteen steps to the corner; another twenty along the length. The chip dangling from the cord around his neck gave a single, low-frequency beep. He suppressed a growl. Nine steps to the door. His fingers twitched.

He’d removed that cord once in a futile show of defiance. How long had his muscles twitched after they beat him with their pulse batons? A day? Three? Two steps took him past the portal to freedom…or shackled to a cold metal slab and hooked to their machines. He suppressed his shudder. They’d rewarded his defiance with extra hours in the lab. More needles, more probes, each procedure more painful and humiliating than the one before. They rationed his meals to the bare minimum needed to keep him alive. He healed slower and their cruel reminder of his helplessness did its job. He didn’t try to remove the chip again.

The tinny chirp broke the silence of the stark room once more. Again, he ignored it. They knew he heard it—their tests proved his hearing surpassed that of a normal human’s—and he knew they knew. This knowledge figured greatly into his small acts of defiance. It infuriated them when he refused to cooperate. It threw off their baseline, whatever that meant. He had few amusements in this place. Making his tormentors uneasy or unhappy was one of them regardless of the cost.

Another lap, another glance at the blinking light. As much as he hated their surveillance, the rhythmic flash provided a break in the bleak whiteness of the room. He let his gaze wander the stark interior, but it all blended into a vast expanse of nothing. Closing his eyes did little to stave off the affects for it was an even exchange of white to black. He knew colors. Of course he did. The red of the light, the black of the soldiers’ boots, the brown of the lead scientist’s hair. In this room, he questioned that knowledge.

He trailed his fingers along the wall. Yes, here was the seam, imperceptible to most, which defined the outline of the door. He gripped the edge of his cot and traced its shape where it jutted from the wall. They’d painted the cold metal to blend into its surroundings, but it matched the one in the lab, right down to the shackles at each corner. He knew its shape, had lain upon its unyielding surface, but struggled to incorporate what he knew with what he saw. He stepped around the cot with a silent snarl. The room made a mockery of his senses. He was certain his watchers planned it that way.

Taking an abrupt turn, he raised his hands to trail over the metal bars surrounding the room’s light source. Two chirps sounded in quick succession. They didn’t like it when he messed with the light cages. When he first awoke and realized what he was, he’d destroyed a dozen or more of the iridium-filled wands in his rage-filled madness. The scientists meted out a swift and brutal punishment, blaming him though they were at fault. They created him. They controlled his every move, his every thought. They placed him in this room, this stark white prison, with nothing to protect his sensitive eyes from the harsh glare and they expected him to do nothing.

He released a small snort and followed the geometric pattern of the protective cage. For humans who preened about their grand intelligence, they showed disappointing bursts of stupidity. They were also woefully predictable in their management of things they wished to control.

Cages and prisons. Shackles and cells. They protected an owner’s property—like the light tubes, like him. It was what they did best. It was all he knew; all he had ever known. That would change soon. For now, he waited. He didn’t know why or for what, but he knew the time wasn’t right. It didn’t look right; it didn’t feel right; it didn’t taste and smell right. When it did, he would escape this stark, desolate purgatory and reach for the one dream he refused to relinquish: freedom. It was a siren’s call to his soul.

The chip beeped several more times. He reacted to some and ignored the others with deliberate randomness. His fingers lingered on the intricate cage surrounding the iridium wands. If he concentrated on the shape, the twists and turns of the cool metal, he could ignore the blinding whiteness that surrounded him. It grounded him and gave him purpose. Each monotonous, yet focused pass yielded a new curve or an undiscovered spiral. It was a pathetic amusement, but it was better than dancing to the scientists’ whims.

He drummed his nails along the edge of the cage. The metallic pings broke the monotony of the silence and the downward spiral of his gloomy thoughts. They offered no advantages to his current situation. Distracting himself with the pattern, he followed an elaborate whirl of metal with the tip of one finger and over a small bump.

His fingers froze at the discovery. The half sphere protruded near the top of the cage and marred the symmetry of the decorative pattern. His breath caught in his throat. What was it and why had he never noticed it before? His thoughts spun into all directions as he forced his feet to continue their methodical plodding. It would not do for his watchers to see him as anything other than calm.

This could be the key he’d been waiting for, his one chance for freedom. He needed to inspect that bump, measure it, and press it. Would it work as he anticipated or was this another scrap of false hope to go with all the others? He stole a glance at the flashing light through his bangs. It wouldn’t be beyond those monsters to create yet another experiment at his expense. Oh, yes. He could easily imagine how they would hide behind their vidscreens and snicker over his despair! He chewed on the inside of his lip, his fangs scraping against the tender flesh. Experiment or not, the bump was a puzzle worth solving. It was better than staring at the white walls and slowly losing his sanity.

He made three more passes before he was satisfied. Fifteen bumps lined the circumference of the cage. Fifteen small bits of metal that retracted when pushed. Fifteen steps closer to freedom. He stopped the smile before it crept over his lips. Closed his eyes before the accursed scientists noticed their inhuman glow. He would not alert them to a change in his routine. He would not lose his moment, his chance, now that he knew it for what it was.

More pacing, but with a purpose. Subject 5691 raised both hands over his head, skimming along the metal cage as he bowed his head in thought. After their last assault on his brainstem, they’d allowed his hair to grow. He had cursed their decision during the itchy, uncomfortable stubble stage, seeing it as another form of torment. Now, he cheered in silent stoicism. The long strands hid his face and eyes from their intruding cameras and let him plot.

He pressed every other bump along the narrow cage, unslotting it from its assigned notch. His movements were fluid, his fingers nimble, and the metal rewarded him with blessed silence. His bracelet flashed. A warning that his tormentors were on their way. A signal that time was running out. Three more passes and he had released all but the end tabs from their notches. The iridium wands were an efficient source of light and an excellent, if crude, weapon. The soulless butcher who visited him this night would meet a horrific, agonizing death. This time, he allowed the smile to curve his lips. One way or another, it would soon be over.

As the beeps from the coded lock filtered into the small cell, Subject 5691 turned to face the door. His hands remained over his head, braced on the metal cage. His fingers caressed the remaining two protrusions. When the scientist entered the room, his smile grew. The points of his curved fangs pressed against his bottom lip.

Subject 5691, why didn’t you respond to the signal?

He looked from the mousy scientist to the two burly guards outside the door. His former compliance worked in his favor. They stood with their weapons secured in their holsters, chatting about their plans once they went off-duty. Excellent. He ran his tongue over the tips of his fangs. He could already taste their blood, savor their final heartbeat. His fingers pressed the two metal bumps and released them from their notched cages. Now he waited for the perfect opportunity.

"Your attitude has been most disappointing, Petri."

He snarled silently at the deliberate slur. Petri. A harsh and cruel reminder that he was nothing more than a collection of cells to these barbarians. Humanoid but not human, an experiment to tamper with, dissect, and examine. A creature they could destroy with as much insolent care as they used to create it. He narrowed his eyes, glaring at the despised demon that called itself a man, and eased the cage from around its prize.

If you don’t cooperate, we’ll limit your food intake. Again.

He tuned out the man’s droning voice and its suppressed glee. Hunger changed him in ways that fascinated those sadists in the lab. The last time they punished him in this manner, it took six elite legionnaires equipped with force shields and pulse batons to corner him. Three injections of sedatives before he floated on a hazy cloud between awareness and oblivion. And still, four of those same legionnaires fought to shackle him to the table. Starvation became their favorite punishment.

He slipped the irradiated wand from its housings and caressed the fragile tube. Soon.

Still being stubborn, I see. The scientist completed the order and put the vidscreen away. Let’s see if a few weeks begging for even a sniff will change your attitude.

When a smile played across the evil man’s thin lips, Petri snapped his prize in half. The scientist looked up with a frown. Perfect. Petri’s smile grew. Blood teased his tongue when his fangs pierced his lip. He wanted more. Leaping onto his tormentor’s body, he rode him to the floor. His prey’s fear filled him with heady glee and he inhaled the glorious scent with a hiss. How often had they placed him in this very same position, prone and helpless on their cold laboratory tables? He bared his fangs and the acidic odor of ammonia filled the small cell.

Never again, he hissed.

He plunged the jagged end of his makeshift weapon into the scientist’s left eye. What wonderful sounds it made. The muted pop as the orb shattered. The bubbling hiss of the deadly chemicals seeping into the wound. The high-pitched screams that echoed in the small chamber. Blood coated his hand. For once, it wasn’t his own. He wiped it on the white lab coat, staining the crisp material a vivid crimson. Tilting his head, he drew the swirling design of the light cage with his finger. The contrast was morbidly beautiful.

The guards’ shouts shook him from his fascination. He narrowed his eyes at the pair. They were young, barely equal to his manufactured age, and their inexperience showed. They would be easy to kill…and taste delicious. One shouted into his commlink while the other scrambled for his pistol. The lights in the hall dimmed and then flashed red. Baring his fangs at the pair of frightened guards, he rose from the dying scientist and stepped over his convulsing body.

Petri ignored the first blast that arced high over his head. He licked his lips with a soft growl. How long had it been since he’d felt the warm rush of blood fill his mouth? When was the last time the scientists allowed him a taste of that thick coppery liquid that coated his tongue and flooded his senses with ecstasy? Too long. Far too long and never from the vein. Their blood would taste sweet indeed.

Those eyes, the pale-haired guard whispered.

He smiled and advanced another step. Yes, my tasty little morsel. Look at my eyes. See your death reflected in their sinister glow. The guard retreated but raised his other hand to steady the pistol. The second shot burned along his right shoulder. That one was a bit too close. The poor, doomed fool’s aim was improving. Too bad he wouldn’t survive to celebrate the accomplishment. Petri feinted to the left and then flattened against the wall by the door when the third shot sizzled past. Their inexperience was bleeding out by the second. He chuckled. Much like the butcher on the floor, in fact.

The soldiers approached with cautious steps. Their commlinks screamed with orders to capture and restrain him. A sneer curled his lip. Though he would rather die than allow that to happen, there was no chance this pair could succeed. They knew of his skills, his strength, and his speed but had little means of countering it. They never would.

He gripped the remaining half of the light wand and watched the cell door. The alarms had activated the emergency locking procedures and it struggled to close. It struck the twitching scientist’s body with timed precision. Each meaty thud widened the pool of tainted blood on the floor, the door would chime a warning, it would open, and then start again. Too easy.

The next time the door slid open, Petri reached through the gap and grabbed the nearest guard. The man stumbled over the scientist’s body but managed to fire off several shots with his pistol. One took out the camera. Another scorched along the far wall. The third singed his hair over his right ear.

He grabbed the guard’s wrist and turned. The man’s hoarse shout muffled the sharp crack of the bone. His pistol fell from nerveless fingers. How brittle these humans were. Petri grinned and squeezed the ruined wrist. How refreshing to hear their screams for once. He added a twist just to hear it again.

The guard stumbled forward and raised the dagger in his hand. Petri chuckled while dodging the first wild swings. The stupid human remembered his training after all. He side-stepped a desperate kick and shook his head in mock dismay. Pathetic. Too bad he hadn’t excelled in his classes. Petri ducked another swing while maintaining a firm grip on the man’s broken wrist. He was rather impressed with this one. The guard’s wrist had to hurt, yet still he jumped to do his masters’ bidding. Was it loyalty that drove him…or fear?

Stand down!

The second guard filled the doorway, his pistol held in a firm grip. Oh look, someone drummed up a bit of courage. How inconvenient. Petri frowned and ducked under the arm still in his grasp. A quick tug and twist and he’d pinned the man’s arm to his back. He was rewarded with a grunt of pain and another ineffectual swipe with the dagger. Enough of this nonsense. He tucked the broken wand into the guard’s waistband and waited for the next attack. With the arm elevated, he directed two hard jabs to the man’s armpit. The dagger clattered to the floor.

I say again. Stand down, Subject 5691.

Petri shook his head and retrieved the broken light wand. Stand down? Give up with freedom so close he could taste it? Over his dead body. He twirled the thin tube in his fingers. The cool glass had warmed where it touched the guard’s skin. His dead body…or someone else’s.

Look. I understand that you’re angry. The guard glanced down at his commlink. I’m sure I would be, too. Why don’t you let Burroughs go so we can talk about it, huh?

Petri arched a brow. Did the human think he was that stupid? No. He narrowed his eyes and focused. The guard’s commlink buzzed with the low hum of voices. No, he hadn’t suddenly grown a conscience. Of course he hadn’t. Petri was a mere experiment, not worthy of such things. The guard was stalling for time, waiting for backup. Well, his time was now up.

He struck with precision, pressing the broken remains of the light wand into the burly guard’s neck. For the briefest of seconds, the flesh resisted the razor-like crystal. The thick skin retreated and allowed entry to only the sharpest points. A twist of the tube, a steady press, and with a satisfying squelch it sank to the hilt. Blood pulsed from the circular wound like crimson tears, leaving a clear path of the man’s life as it fled his body. The acrid scent teased his nose and left his gums aching. The mixture of toxins and blood loss killed the guard in seconds.

Tossing the body aside, he dived for the discarded pulse gun. Since the Alliance designed their weapons to incapacitate but not kill, he would have the pleasure of ensuring this one’s death personally. And it would be a pleasure. One shot sent the man to the floor in a crumpled, twitching heap. Petri dragged him into the room. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, heightened by the scent and sight of the blood around him. Yanking the man’s head to the side, he sank his fangs into the guard’s throat. Thick liquid ecstasy flowed over his tongue. With a soft growl, he drank deep.

Power flooded his body with each heady pull. His skin tingled all over. The mechanical hum of his cell door drowned out the beating of his own heart. He picked out four shades of red in the flashing emergency light. His grip tightened on the guard, and bones gave way beneath his fingers. This was why they rationed his food at every turn. This was their fear.

The guard shuddered and Petri pulled his fangs free. Blood trickled from the small wounds. Tiny pulses of life that slowed, faltered, and then ceased. He drew in a deep breath and marveled at the odors assaulting his senses—the tang of an industrial cleaner, the musky odors of sweat and urine, the acidic sting of iridium, and the coppery allure of blood. He felt overwhelmed. He felt alive.

Now he had to stay that way.

***

Wiping his lips, he slipped the locator chip from around his neck and stuffed it into the scientist’s ruined eye socket. A quick search of the human’s corpse turned up the key to the bracelet. A flick of his wrist and the hated jewelry dropped to the floor. He shoved it into his tormentor’s mouth. The guard’s commlink flashed with incoming messages. They’d gone silent for too long. His chance to escape, already slim, narrowed with each passing second. He had to leave this area or risk recapture.

With swift but efficient movements, he stripped the smallest guard of his uniform, hat, and boots. The clothing swallowed his slender form but would suffice. He held the trousers in place with a tightly-cinched belt. He tore the other guard’s undershirt in half and stuffed it into the toes of the oversized boots. Running would prove awkward but not impossible. Nothing was impossible this close to freedom.

Tucking his hair beneath the cap, he holstered the pistol and stepped to the door. The hall remained clear. For now. The longer it remained that way, the better his chances. He stepped into the corridor, pushed the bubbling swell of flesh that was once a well-respected bio-geneticist into the room, and let the door close behind him with a satisfying click.

Free of his cell, Petri suppressed the urge to run. The narrow walls closed in on him, sending his heartrate into orbit. Flashing lights and the rhythmic blare of the alarm pounded his heightened senses. He drew in a steadying breath and ran his fingers over the holstered pistol. If the scientists taught him anything, it was to maintain control over his emotions. Panic meant mistakes; mistakes meant another trip to the lab. He preferred death over recapture.

Never again.

He scanned the hall. The elevator to his right was not an option. Smooth metal walls, locking doors, and a small vidscreen set into the control panel turned the claustrophobic box into a mobile prison. No escape route, little control, and no way to tell what awaited him outside its doors. He shook his head. Definitely not an option.

The door at the end of the hall, however, was an unknown quantity. He frowned. He knew the blueprints for every ship in the Alliance fleet, most of their allies, and a majority of those belonging to their enemies. Their maintenance corridors, ventilation shafts, and hidden compartments were as clear in his mind as the four corners of his hated cell. Yet according to training, this door didn’t exist on this class of station. Why, and why was it never used? Neither the guards nor the scientists used it, even when the elevator malfunctioned. Why?

He moved towards it to get a better look. As he passed the elevator, he fired a pulse blast into the controls. The doors opened a few centimeters, the small chamber shuddered and sank below the floor level, and then it went dark. Another reason to avoid it. Too fragile. Nodding, he continued down the hall. The unknown door lacked a control panel or scanner. He arched a brow. Manual operation? This could be his way out.

A small sign near the handle sported a stick-figure, staircase, and series of raised symbols. He traced each curve and line with a shaking finger and cursed his creators with newfound fury. They had debated teaching him to read the common intergalactic script. Some supported the suggestion as needed research. Others dismissed it as dangerous. In the end, there was little need to expend the time or effort. They had declared him a failed experiment.

Clenching his fist, he slammed it against the sign. The raised letters bit into his skin and he savored the pain. Each sharp angle and smooth whirl that pressed into his flesh mocked his forced ignorance. Curse them all! Jerking his hand away with a hiss, he gave the sign a last, lingering look and slipped through the door.

A quick glance confirmed it wasn’t an ideal escape route. The stairwell was simultaneously too open and too cramped for safety. He melted into the darkest corner and studied his surroundings. A single door per level provided a means of escape if cornered—a door easily guarded on either side. The small landings hindered maneuverability. There were no walls or furniture to provide cover, and flashing emergency lights offered the minimal protection of recurring and concealing shadows. At least the doors muffled the klaxons and relieved his ringing ears.

No vidscreens or speakers filled the walls on this level. No cameras lurked in the corners to spy on his every move. The biggest threat remained the windowed doors that led into the halls. A stray glance from a wandering guard could prove dangerous for them both. Petri leaned over the railing, checking above and below. The treads blocked clear sight of the landings, but what he saw remained empty. Good. Easing the pistol from its holster, he rolled his shoulders to loosen the tension and started down.

He descended with caution, his speed hampered by the oversized boots and need for silence. Every other level, he peered through the small window to get his bearings and check for guard movement. On most floors, armed men guarded each door along the halls. He shook his head. What were they expecting? He had no intention of storming the laboratories and raining a much-deserved death upon the monsters who worked there. He wanted one thing and one thing only: freedom.

Eight more floors and four more stops teased him with the hope of success. Twice he melted into the shadows beneath the stairs as booted feet clanged on the treads above. Annoyed shouts and angry curses caressed his ears like the finest music. They found the bodies. How tragic. They mourned a monster who had filled his days with pain and torment. Waiting for the stairwell to clear set his nerves on edge. He felt no remorse for the deaths, yet their