David Robbins - Boston Run

“How do I fit into the picture?”

“I assume you know about our Impregnation Program?”

Berwin frowned. “Yeah, I know about it,” he said distastefully.

“Well, twenty-five years ago we combined certain aspects of the Impregnation Program with the Human Genome Project. The result was an elite squad of perfect soldiers, our HGP Unit.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Imagine, if you will, a squad of highly trained commandos, every one of which is a perfect physical specimen,” Milton said. “We started screening embryos two and a half decades ago, looking for those without genetic blemish. The task hasn’t been an easy one. With so many thousands of heritable diseases, finding embryos totally free from such traits is akin to looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.” He paused. “But we have been moderately successful. There are currently eighteen soldiers in the HGP Unit. Supersoldiers would be a more accurate description, physically superb in every respect. Each one is the equal of four ordinary soldiers. Their strength, their endurance, their mental alacrity are all far above normal.”

“I still don’t see where I fit in,” Blade observed.

“We’ve discovered that we increase our chances of obtaining flawless embryos if the paternal factors contributing to the production of the embryos meet certain criteria. For instance, impregnating a healthy, intelligent woman with the sperm from a man who is endowed with an above-average intellect and a healthy body greatly increases the odds of producing a perfect embryo. Impregnating a slovenly cow with the sperm from an imbecile defeats our purposes,” Milton stated, and smirked at his last comment.

Berwin slowly stood, his fists clenched at his sides. “You were planning to use me in your program? You were going to use my sperm to breed your supersoldiers?”

“Yes,” Milton confirmed. “General Malenkov came up with the idea.

First he wanted us to extract all the information we could pertaining to the layout of the Home for the HGP Unit to use when they conduct their raid. Then the general wanted us to extract semen, which we would use to impregnate selected females. We ran two complete series of tests on you, and our tests have proven you to be an ideal candidate for the HGP

Project. Which wasn’t very surprising. You’re seven feet tall and endowed with a herculean physique. On top of that, your IQ is in the genius range.”

“Says who?”

“Don’t be modest. You know you’re superior to ninety-nine percent of humanity.”

“I know nothing of the sort. I’m no better or worse than most people.

I’m just ordinary.”

Milton laughed. “Sure you are! Who’s deluding whom?”

Berwin folded his arms and studied the scientist, thinking of additional questions he needed to ask. “When is the HGP Unit slated to conduct the raid?”

“The general is waiting for the data I was to extract from you. He thought it highly appropriate that information you supplied would be employed to destroy the Family.”

“Where is the HGP Unit based?”

Milton did a double take. “Why do you want to know?”

“Answer me,” Berwin said, his tone low and grating.

“They’re billeted at Gorbachev Air Force Base, northwest of the city.

They’re kept on alert status twenty-four hours a day so they can depart whenever the need arises. A fleet of helicopters is always at their disposal,” Milton said. “They utilized one of their specially modified choppers when they captured you, a helicopter with an extended flight range. I was told they refueled in Illinois, then flew close to the Home. One of the women pretended to be in distress and you responded to her cries for help.”

“There are female supersoldiers?”

“Certainly. Would you accuse us of genetic discrimination?”

“No. I could accuse you of being immoral genetic fascists, but that’s beside the point. What happened after the woman yelled for help?”

“You were suckered into the forest and shot with a tranquilizer dart.

Actually, you were shot with three tranquilizer darts. They misjudged the proper dose required to render you unconscious, and you proved difficult to subdue. Two of the HGP Unit sustained broken limbs,” Milton divulged.

“After you were down, they carted you to the helicopter. You were flown directly here, except for a few refueling stops.”

“Who administered the Memroxin to me?”

“I injected it.”

Berwin leaned down until his nose was an inch from the scientist’s. “I should do the world a favor and kill you right here and now.”

Milton swallowed hard and squirmed in the chair. “I don’t want to die.”

“Do you think I care what you want? How many American women have you impregnated against their will? How many people have suffered as guinea pigs in your damnable experiments?”

“I’m not personally involved with the impregnations,” Milton said defensively. He detected a steely cast to the Warrior’s gray eyes, and he expected those brawny hands to clamp on his neck again. Fearful for his life, well aware of the Warrior’s reputation, he frantically sought a diversionary tactic, anything to take the giant’s mind off of his part in the HGP Project. He blurted out the first thing that came into his head.

“Would you like your own clothes back?”

“Do you have them?”

“In there,” Milton said, and nodded at the closet.

Berwin walked over. “Which ones?” he asked, scrutinizing the uniforms and other clothing, none of which he recognized.

“The black leather vest and the fatigue pants hanging on the far right side are yours,” Milton revealed. “So are the combat boots on the floor in the right corner.”

Berwin moved a white smock aside and found the vest and pants. For a second he thought he recalled wearing the vest before, but the second passed and the blank slate mocked him again. He took both garments and placed them on the oaken desk, then retrieved the combat boots. Eager to remove the uncomfortable clothing he had on, he glanced at the scientist.

“Bend over.”

“What?”

“I don’t want you to try to escape while I’m changing,” Berwin explained. “Bend over, wrap your arms around your legs, and close your eyes. If you so much as twitch before I give the word, I’ll split your skull open.”

“I won’t give you any trouble,” Milton promised as he bent down. “I’ll help you in any way I can. Just don’t kill me. Please.”

“Be quiet,” Berwin directed. He hurriedly stripped off the flannel shirt, jeans, and brown boots, discarding them on the floor, and donned the fatigue pants, the black leather vest, and finally the combat boots, sitting on the desk as he tied the laces. “Are there any weapons in here?”

Despite the injunction to keep his eyes closed, Milton looked up, his features reflecting alarm. “Weapons?”

“Yeah. You know. Guns. Grenades. Tanks. Atomic bombs. Anything?”

“This is my office. I’m not a soldier.” Milton said.

Berwin stood, his suspicions aroused by the scientist’s evasive behavior.

“So there aren’t any weapons in here?”

“No,” Milton asserted, and glanced at the desk.

“I hope you’re telling me the truth,” Berwin stated, stepping around to the opposite side. There were six small drawers, three on each side.

“The guard has a gun,” Milton mentioned hastily.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about the guard,” Berwin remarked.

“Why is he wearing a blue uniform from a place called Acme Security instead of a Russian uniform?”

Milton gripped the arms of his chair tightly, watching the giant’s every move. “We issued civilian security guard uniforms to every soldier assigned to corridor duty in case you were to stumble onto them.”