Asteron Alpha

I close my eyes and concentrate on the familiar hum of the computers. The electrical whine of the monitors almost drowns out the Captain’s voice and the stale tobacco carried with every word he speaks.

My head throbs behind my left eye. I push my glasses higher on my nose and try to remember when my current shift began.

“How long before we can introduce another subject?”

I keep my eyes on the data feed. “I can’t give you a reliable estimate, sir. The current results are still developing.”

“I didn’t ask about the results.”

I inhale before I can stop myself. The smell reaches the back of my throat, bitter and damp.

“No, sir.”

“So answer the question.”

“The next participant has already been cleared by the board. We can begin immediately.” I enlarge the biochemical panel on my screen. “I strongly advise that we don’t. Oxytocin, dopamine, and vasopressin levels in the previous subjects are still rising. Subject 12 exceeded the upper range of our equipment forty minutes ago.”

The Captain steps closer. “Begin the trial.”

The clipped order catches an old reflex. Years out of the military have not changed how quickly my body responds to that tone. I look at the removal log in the corner of the screen.

Subject 12 was transferred from the trial room at 03:14. Sedated. Stable. Awaiting observation.

At least, that is what the log says.

“We don’t know whether the exposure is cumulative,” I say. “Even through a filtered feed.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

The answer is quiet. It leaves less room for argument than shouting would. I bring up the holding-cell controls and enter my authorisation code. My finger pauses over the final command. The Captain says nothing. He does not need to. I press Enter. The camera feed changes to Holding Cell 4.

Subject 13 sits alone on the bench. She is younger than I expected, perhaps twenty-five. Her dark brown hair is tied into a neat ponytail, and she keeps rubbing one thumb over the knuckle of her other hand.

She has been told she is participating in a visual-response study. Her consent form mentions temporary distress, nausea, elevated heart rate, and possible disorientation.

It does not mention Subject Alpha.

I pull the microphone closer and activate the intercom.

“Please proceed to the trial room. Follow the green line on the floor.”

Subject 13 flinches and looks towards the camera. For a moment, she appears embarrassed by her reaction. Then she stands, straightens the front of her robe, and follows the illuminated line into the corridor. Behind me, the Captain’s lighter clicks. The fresh smoke reaches me a few seconds later. I switch to the next camera.

Subject 13 walks more slowly now. The green line leads her through the final checkpoint and stops at a sealed metal door. She looks back along the empty corridor, then up towards the camera. My hands rest on the keyboard. The trial-start command waits on the screen.

Subject 13 shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Her pulse rises from ninety-two to one hundred and six. Nothing unusual yet. For twelve seconds, neither of us moves. A dry cough sounds behind me. I press Enter, and the door slides open.

I switch to the trial-room feed and keep my attention on the entrance. The image has been filtered to reduce colour depth and remove several frequencies associated with the earlier responses. According to the technical report, indirect exposure should produce no significant effect.

The pressure behind my eye disagrees.

Subject 13 enters several seconds later. Her steps have shortened. She presses her hands flat against the front of her robe and looks back before the door closes behind her. At the centre of the room stands a red button. Beyond it hangs a thick black curtain.

There are no written instructions. No furniture. Nothing else that could reasonably be mistaken for part of the trial. Subject 13 studies the button. Her heart rate reaches one hundred and nineteen.

For a moment, I think she may refuse. She looks towards the camera again, waiting for reassurance that I do not provide. Her hand rises, falters, then settles over the polished surface.

The payment was transferred into escrow this morning. She loses half if she withdraws after entering the trial room. She presses the button. The ceiling clamps release. The curtain falls. I look away too late.

My jaw tightens until my teeth hurt. A sensation passes through my chest, not warmth exactly, but the memory of warmth. Something familiar enough that my body recognises it before my mind does. Behind me, the Captain stops exhaling. Subject 13 remains motionless.

Tears gather beneath her eyes. Her shoulders loosen. The fear leaves her face so completely that, for several seconds, she looks even younger. I activate the intercom. “How does seeing the subject make you feel?”

She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. Her pulse reaches one hundred and fifty-three.

“Subject 13, can you hear me?”

“It’s beautiful.”

The word comes out as a whisper. I glance at the biochemical feed. Dopamine activity is climbing too quickly for the software to graph cleanly.

“Do you feel loved, or in love?”

She smiles. It is not the expression recorded in the previous trials. Subject 9 laughed. Subject 10 began praying, though she had listed no religious affiliation. Subject 11 tried to break through the observation glass with his forehead. Subject 13 holds out her arms.

“I feel everything.”

A tear falls from her chin and strikes the floor.

“Please,” she says. “Please take me.”

She steps towards Subject Alpha.

“Remain where you are.”

She does not appear to hear me. Her fingers find the knot at the back of her robe. I bring up the trial-termination controls.

“Subject 13, proceed to the exit. The trial has concluded!”

The robe slips from her shoulders and gathers around her feet. Her heart rate reaches one hundred and eighty-four. I enter the release code for the opposite door. A hand closes around my shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

The Captain’s voice is close to my ear. I turn far enough to see him reflected in the dark edge of the monitor. The skin around his eyes is grey from fatigue. The cigarette rests between his lips, its ash hanging longer than it should.

“Her vitals have passed the termination threshold.”

“Continue.”

“At the current rate, cardiac failure is likely within five minutes.”

“Then we have five minutes.”

I look back at the screen. Subject 13 is no longer standing where I last saw her. She is pressed against Alpha, her arms buried somewhere within the folds of its central mass. Another pair of arms encircles her from the opposite side. I enlarge the image. Subject 12 stares back at the camera. The removal log still shows that Subject 12 left the chamber six hours ago. On-screen, Subject 13 turns her face towards him. Their foreheads touch. A pale membrane stretches between their cheeks, thin enough for the capillaries beneath it to show. The cigarette slips from the Captain’s mouth and lands beside my chair.

Subject 13 attempts to lift one hand. Her skin rises with it, drawing a translucent sheet from Subject 12’s shoulder. Beneath it, their tissues are no longer separate. Muscle fibres pass from one body into the other in fine red strands. Her heart rate begins to fall.

One hundred and seventy.

One hundred and forty-two.

Ninety-eight.

She does not scream. She closes her eyes and presses herself deeper into him. Subject 12 smiles over her shoulder. Behind them, something inside Alpha moves. The entire mass contracts once, slowly, as though swallowing.