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  The one thing that remained absolutely constant throughout each and every test tube that he checked was this ‘DNA Complex-strand 21’ thing. The amount that had been given to every adjunct-Marine was always, precisely, to the microgram, exactly the same.

  Solomon came to the last test tube—his own—and paused for a moment before he put it on the medical scanner bed and ran the test. A part of him didn’t really want to know, but he knew that he had to. He had come this far, and there was every reason to believe that his results would be exactly the same as everyone else’s.

  He hoped, anyway.

  ENTRY: “DNA Complex-strand variant 21”

  SOURCE: CMC Medical Database v5.1

  Last Updated: 9 days ago.

  OVERVIEW:

  The Complex-strand variant 21 is a synthetic chain of DNA, able to be gene-edited and shaped to attach to specific parts of the host’s own genetic structure. Unfortunately, as any mammalian genetic structure is encoded throughout the body (in each individual cell), multiple and some might say excessive doses of said variant 21 have to be administered to get a full-spectrum coverage. Discontinued in 2183, for this reason, and for the Confederate Health Investigation Report 781, which claimed that such genetic-editing was tantamount to ‘a crime against the species of humanity’.

  ORIGINATOR:

  American Confederacy, Virginia.

  USES:

  Discontinued, but has led to the development of more site-specific gene-editing complex strands. Variant 21 was used as a means to increase metabolic rates, auto-immune functions, cell regeneration, and neurological development, as well as enhance general mammalian healing and recovery properties. Deemed too expensive to be of use and was taken off of public licensing database.

  SIDE EFFECTS:

  Brain seizures. Fits. Convulsions. Auto-immune system collapse. Neurological disorders (paralysis, fatigue, migraines). Death.

  PROPIETOR:

  Neuro-Tech Biofirm (originally); rights since bought by Confederate Marine Corps (current).

  DEVELOPMENT:

  Variant 21 has shown to produce astounding performance results in higher mammalian species, but has lacked the ability to maintain said higher results over time as the synthetic gene strands break down. Possible avenues of development have seen this lifespan of the effects spread for longer periods of time, but nothing longer than 12 years has been reported.

  Continual administering has been the favored route of action, during which time individuals naturally plateau at their new levels of peak performance. Possible avenues of development include ways in how to administer smaller doses to have more permanent effects.

  “Twelve years, eh?” Solomon frowned at the screen. Which was funny, because that was precisely the amount of time that the Outcasts were given as their military sentence. At which time they would be more or less free to return to civilian life, with their criminal records, if not expunged, then at least obscured a good bit.

  The Confederacy had bought the rights to this experimental gene therapy drug. Solomon’s mind, honed and trained through years of working out complicated cons and now working out battle strategies, put the pieces together.

  And then they created the Outcasts… Which were an experimental Marine outfit made entirely out of ex-convicts and attached to the Rapid Response Fleet of the Marine Corps. The unit who had to bust in first and do all of the dirtiest, messiest fighting in the name of Earth.

  Who better than a bunch of life-long criminals that Earth has already exiled to use as guinea-pigs for their experimental, illegal drug? Solomon saw. It made sense to use people that no one else cared about, right?

  We get twelve years of being superhuman, Solomon realized. Superhuman in the name of Confederate Earth, that is, he corrected. And then when the drug started wearing off and their bodies gave up and returned to whatever shabby state that they had been before, that was when they got retired from the program.

  And then what happens? If he was a betting man—which he wasn’t, at least, not with money anyway, only with his life—then he would say that one of the reasons why Warden Coates was pushing them so hard was to prove results from this Serum 21 to his paymasters further up the paygrades. If he could show that Serum 21 worked, then why not fund more development into it to make the results permanent? Or administer it to every Marine in the Confederate Corps?

  Or maybe they’ll just pick up another batch of exiled cons set for Titan. Solomon thought that was a much more likely scenario. Why bother creating permanent superhumans, who one day would leave the service and could get in to all sorts of mischief out there, when you could just simply have any number of convict super soldiers for your little army?

  The idea was pretty genius really, Solomon thought. He was annoyed that he hadn’t realized it earlier!

  “But I’m not liking that list of side effects,” he muttered at the screen, as the scanner reached the end of its cycle on his own test tube.

  “Paralysis. Fits. Brain seizures. Death,” Solomon sighed. He wondered if there was a way that he could stop eating the protein gunk. How many Outcast adjuncts had they already lost so far? Ten? Twelve? And not all of them had been busted out to Titan, either, he knew. Word was going around the bunks that some of those empty bunks had been the result of their occupiers being ill.

  Had been having some sort of seizure, in fact… he thought with a fair bit of dread. Would he be next? Would one of his squad just never wake up?

  The screen above him flashed as the readout of his own, uniquely-administered Serum 21 test tube appeared. He read through the exact same facts and names just as before, finding small differences in the amount of potassium or B-vitamin or antibiotic that the doctor thought his body needed.

  And then he coughed out loud, and suddenly felt faint.

  There was one huge difference in his own test tube results. Something that was different from each of the previous three other adjunct test tunes that he had seen. Their percentage levels of ‘DNA Complex-strand variant 21’ had been imperceptibly small. And always the exact same number: 2.3%.

  A solution of 2.3% concentration of the gene-editing strand in each of the test tubes, all apart from his.

  His stood at 48%.

  “What!?” Solomon gasped as he looked at the screen. Surely there must have been a mistake. He read the numbers again, then scrolled back up to see that yes, the previous concentrations of the drug had all been exactly the same, apart from him.

  He was sorely tempted to start going though each and every adjunct-Marine test tube that he had in the cupboard behind him to see if he was the only one, but he could feel, deep down in his gut, that he already knew the answer.

  Doctor Palinov had been the one to defend my actions to the colonels, when they were arguing about whether to dismiss me and send me to the Titan prison camp. Solomon’s heart was starting to race. Was this what a seizure felt like as it started?

  She must have known. She must have administered the high dose to him, after all. And she had argued to keep him here on Ganymede, under her watchful supervision so…what? So she would get a pet experiment to play with? Did she want to see how far she could push the drug? What would happen if she completely went beyond all safe limits?

  Other Outcasts have already started dying thanks to this serum, Solomon thought darkly. Had they been on the 2.3% dose, or the same as him, the higher 48%?

  He was busy having his own personal panic attack when the next thought hit him. Why am I not dead yet?

  And a moment later, he heard the distant, muffled sound of footsteps coming down the hall.

  “Frack!” He seized the test tubes, punched the computer off, and stuffed the tubes back into their cupboard as the footsteps got closer and closer. They weren’t pausing or halting beside one of the other medical laboratories. With a sickening feeling, he realized that whomever it was, they were coming right to him.

  It has to be Palinov, he thought. Could he reason with her? Stop her from reporting h
im?

  All hope failed in that eventuality, as Solomon could hear, muffled through the dark window, the angered tones of Warden Coates himself.

  “…still don’t know why you couldn’t schedule the meeting for the morning, Doctor…” Coates sounded annoyed and tired.

  Great, Solomon thought dourly, his eyes scanning around for somewhere—anywhere—to hide in this small room. The last thing he wanted was a grumpy Warden Coates in charge of his electro-shock command unit. It was bad enough when he was in a good mood.

  There. The other side of the desk was half-walled with a line of metal container boxes, boxing off one corner of the room. So long as the warden and the doctor didn’t decide to do any furniture arranging during this meeting of theirs. He dove for the other side of the metal crates and wedged himself as small as he could against the corner of the wall, wishing that his heart wasn’t about ready to punch its way out of his chest.

  “Strange, I don’t remember shading the windows last night…” the hiding Solomon heard Palinov mutter. “I must have been exhausted.”

  “I hope this doesn’t mean that your work has been suffering, if you are allowing yourself to get exhausted all the time!” Warden Coates snapped at her in his usual snide voice.

  He really isn’t a happy bunny when he’s missed his beauty sleep, is he? Solomon thought.

  “Of course not, Warden,” Palinov’s voice floated over the metal medical crates as they walked into the room, and the door whisked shut behind them. She did sound tired, but more exasperated with the warden. Solomon could almost feel a sort of pity for someone in her position, having to work with such a nasty little man as Warden Coates But then again, she was the person who was experimenting on him and putting him in danger of imminent death at any moment of the day, so he wasn’t that sorry for her.

  “Anyway. What is this all about?” the warden snapped.

  Solomon heard their boots slapping forward into the room, and then scrape to a stop abruptly. He hadn’t turned the scanner off! The thought speared through him. Would she notice?

  She did.

  “Too many late nights,” he heard her mutter as lighter, softer feet moved swiftly to the other side of the desk, uncomfortably close to his hiding place. There was the diffusing hum of the medical scanner as Solomon presumed that Palinov had turned it off. There was an impatient sigh from behind her, and Solomon found himself thinking that it was almost encouraging to find that the warden was a complete prick to everyone he worked with and not just him.

  “Well, you know the general told us to report back to him on the development of Serum 21,” Palinov said, her voice sounding tense.

  Solomon’s ears pricked up. I knew it!

  “Well, I just got the latest analysis through to my personal screen this morning, which is why I brought you down here. The results are…significant.”

  “Explain,” Warden Coates said.

  “Here, I can show you.” There was a flurry of tapping and typing, and the soft electric hum of one of the screens firing up. “You see, here…?”

  “No, I really don’t, Doctor. What am I looking at exactly?” The warden was not a happy man when he first woke up, clearly.

  “That is a radiological map of one of the gene structures, you can see the RNA and DNA strands here in red and orange…”

  The warden made an interested, but exasperated, noise.

  “RNA can be thought of as read-only memory. Like a data-stick. You plug it in and use it, and when it’s done what it is supposed to do, you don’t need it anymore, right?” the doctor said. “Whereas DNA is the unchanging, permanent codes that actually dictate how the body can function. Meta-commands, if you will. The problem with most mammals is that there is no efficient way to dispose of RNA. You end up clogging the gene structure with what they call ‘junk’ DNA strands—mostly RNA—and it’s this, uh, genetic static that leads to minute failures of communication, which leads to eventual gene atrophy and misalignment.”

  “We’re not running a hospital here, Doctor. I didn’t hire you to find a cure for cancer.” The warden sighed.

  “Understood, Warden,” Palinov said tightly. “But it is pertinent. Junk RNA leads to such things as cancer, growth defects, diseases, and what have you. It’s the reason why we eventually age and die, as the DNA can no longer transmit its meta-commands out to the rest of the system.”

  “Like I said before, Doctor…” the warden warned.

  “But here, you can see the complex-strand variant 21, colored in green…” Palinov said quickly. “It was designed as a complementary string of genes, see? Ones that attached onto the double-helix. And here, you can see something very interesting: it is replacing the RNA with its own super-structure!”

  The warden grunted in confusion.

  “It’s… It’s…” Palinov was apparently at a loss for words. “What I am saying is that this is incredible. It’s also spreading at a much faster rate than otherwise thought possible. It means that we’ve essentially found a way to create a new breed of human. One that unlocks specific parts of the DNA structure—that we can target!” she said proudly.

  That seemed to get the warden’s attention, at least.

  “So, are you telling me that if I wanted a unit of infantrymen who are strong, tough, resilient, we could program it?” the warden asked.

  “We can tailor it, Warden!” Palinov said excitedly. “We can perform the work of twenty or even fifty thousand years of evolution overnight. Imagine this: Mars is roughly point-eight of Earth’s gravity. The moon is roughly point-four. Both are close enough so that humans can function, and our tactical suits mean that we can adjust for weight and mass, etcetera. But it still takes intensive training to get used to local gravity. That is why the colonists generally are better adapted to their environment. Their bodies have started to lose bone density with every generation, making them more adapted to moving around out there.”

  “Get to the point, Palinov,” the warden demanded, clearly losing patience again.

  “Well, in a few months, we would be able to create a special team of Outcasts perfectly suited to point-eight or point-four gravity, by tailoring their DNA. They would be able to perform better than any Marine ever has, with a fraction of the training!” Palinov stated.

  “That is…interesting.” Coates finally sounded impressed. “It would give us an upper hand against the separatists, at least.”

  “And of course, it will help against…” Palinov’s voice was a low murmur. She seemed hesitant to say just what the serum would be most useful for, and Solomon racked his brain to try and work out who she could mean. The space mercenaries who attacked freighters? Criminal gangs on earth?

  “Perhaps. We don’t know enough about that yet.”

  “Then take a look at this,” Palinov said, and there were more sounds of keys being hit. “These are the physical performance results of all of the Outcasts who have survived the treatment.”

  A shuffle of feet, and a low whistle. “That is one hell of a performance spike, Doctor.”

  “Precisely. Their recovery rates are going through the roof. They need less time to rest. Their reaction times are getting quicker.”

  “What’s that one there? That spike?” The warden’s voice grew frighteningly close to Solomon as he must have leaned over to take a better look at the screen.

  “That, Warden, is Adjunct-Marine Cready,” Palinov said lightly, and Solomon could well understand her hesitation, as suddenly there was the scraping sound of a chair being pushed to one side, angrily.

  “Him! I don’t know what you and the colonels see in him!” Coates burst out irritably. “He’s a murderer. He’s arrogant. He doesn’t understand loyalty, or honor. And he has an attitude a lightyear wide!”

  Well, at least I made an impression, Solomon had to consider.

  “These results are what we see in him, Warden.” Palinov sounded…defensive, almost.

  “If he’s turning into such an amazing solider, then why aren�
��t his training exercises showing the same uptick in performance then, huh?” the warden stated angrily.

  “Well, most of these results are from his recovery rates and reaction times. But with Cready, there is something a lot more interesting going on. These results are his neurological response-times, the effectiveness that his neurons and dendrites in his brain transmit information.”

  “He’s becoming smarter, is that what you’re trying to tell me? That is all I need!” the warden stated, apparently miserably.

  Am I? Solomon thought, He didn’t feel smarter than he had ever been before—especially since all of his brainpower had led him to be currently wedged in a corner, trying not to make a sound at all.

  “Intelligence is always hard to measure. There’s so many kinds—working intelligence, data-retrieval, memory-storage, image-processing, emotional intelligence,” Palinov said in a tone that was the equivalent of a shrug. “But it means that he can think quicker than anyone I’ve ever known. He’ll make an amazing strategist or unit commander one day.”

  “Pfagh!” the warden scoffed. “I doubt that very much!”

  “Warden, with respect, this is exactly the sort of result that the general wanted to know about. Why she sanctioned the Outcasts program in the first place,” Palinov said.

  “We all know why she authorized the Outcasts program, Doctor. And why I was tasked with administering it!” the warden said. It appeared that Palinov had hit something of a raw nerve.

  “The Message,” Palinov agreed.

  What message? Solomon thought.

  “Yes. And as much as I admire what you have done here, Palinov, I cannot ever imagine a future where I put my faith in that schlub of a man Cready to deal with it when we have to!” The warden was worked up now.

  “But, Warden, do we really have a choice?” Palinov asked.