Primal Instinct

By Minerva Hart

First-place Winner of the ABR Book Excellence Award for Best Science Fiction and Urban Fantasy

 

A speculative dystopian fiction in a near future where the environmental assault of man has finally destroyed the planet, and those who have survived no longer have any of the benefits enjoyed during the time of the Dry World. America now has only two masters: the polluted, acidic muck of water that has invaded the land, scorching and killing, and the tycoons who have bought themselves modern-day fiefdoms of what remains, complete with entire populations reduced to slavery. Science has taken some weird turns and the splicing and dicing of DNA to cross mutate what's left of man and what's even less left of animal has created characters like Freddie: a mostly human, scaled anomaly who appears to be the only individual that a captured siren does not want to immediately shred and eat alive. It will be their strange friendship that compels Freddie to finally take a stand against the unfair system. But he has to hurry. Every day away from the ocean weakens the mermaid, and she's not the only one intended for experimentation.

 

"Primal Instinct is a creative and outstanding urban fantasy novel with a riveting storyline, original, well developed and interesting characters and an ending that will satisfy and have you begging for more from this talented author. Science fiction readers will love its multifaceted characters and unpredictable plot." — Artistan Book Reviews

"It's a terrifying, beautiful, heartbreaking, and uplifting story with all the electricity of an Electrophorus. Or at least one with the same type of tail. Very highly recommended." — Asher Syed of Readers' Favorite
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Minerva Hart
• Release date: Apr 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781393400271

Minerva Hart

Minerva Hart is a millennial author currently living in Italy with her husband. She is a John Cabot University alumni with a degree in English Literature. Minerva is also a self-confessed bibliophile. 

Book preview

Chapter One: Scales and Songs

October 9th, 2099

Lying in a bathtub filled with cold saltwater, Freddie Molloy screamed in agony as his skin turned to scales.

His hands grasped at the tub’s slippery, chipped ends, his knuckles turning white. They were the only part of him that could keep still. Everything else was movement. His legs kicked about, splashing bucketfuls of water onto the cracked tiled floor. He threw his head back, baying like a dying sea lion. His chest and stomach heaved and stretched, his ribs sticking out. His skin rippled against his muscles, changing and shimmering beneath the flickering lights.

Almost done, Freddie’s feverish mind whispered, cutting through the fog of anguish. Goddamn it, you can do it. Almost done.

And then, at last, Freddie could eliminate the almost part. The agony stopped, as suddenly as someone had flipped a switch. Freddie leaned back into the blood-tinged water, panting and hissing as though he had just fled a pack of hungry lions. His hands still gripped the tub’s sides, albeit in a loosened grip. Shaking some damp hair out of his eyes, he glanced at the clock.

It was five-thirty. He had to be at the lab by eight. Good. He had time. If he wasn’t going to be in here for at least an hour, then he could expect to repeat this entire ritual tomorrow instead of next month. Freddie looked down at himself. Completely hidden beneath the seawater was his now scaly body, shimmering like polished nickels. He ran a hand down his arm, which was now slippery and cool to the touch. It felt no different from the thousands of fish he’d handled in the lab, syringe and scalpel at the ready. And yet, it wasn’t enough. He still had two legs instead of a tail. He lacked gills and webbed hands.

Ten years, and the failure still stung as it had that day.

Freddie scowled. An old, black anger, as familiar as a lifelong friend, flickered within him. Fuck, he spat out, free for the moment to say anything he wanted. Then, taking a deep breath, he submerged himself completely beneath the rippling surface. Silent. Dark. Frigid. He lay there, beneath the saltwater, with his lungs contently filled with air. The coldness numbed his scaly skin, burning through to his muscles. But it was better than acid. Freddie had learned from past mistakes and resolved to collect water farther out into open sea. The bay and port were surrounded by little more than acid.

Did it hurt when you walked out into that storm, Mother Dearest? Freddie’s voice, made raspy by anger, hissed soundlessly. Did the acid burn through your skin and muscles like they were paper? Did your bones melt like wax? Was that enough to convince you that you’d fucked up, or did you embrace it? Grateful to be at death’s door instead of with me and Dad?

I hope it hurt. I hope it fucking hurt like hell.

Breaking the surface for air, Freddie leaned back again. Trying to relax, he pushed his wrath in the back of his mind where it belonged. When he was underwater, cut off from all sights and sounds—distractions—certain thoughts came out to play. Thoughts that felt good to indulge in from time to time, but could easily drive him mad. Freddie raked a hand through his drenched hair, working through a couple of knots. Might as well enjoy the peace while it lasted. In a little less than an hour, he would have to climb out of the tub and towel himself off. Once his scales were dry, they would revert back to skin. The pain would return with all the sudden and terrible force of a thunderbolt. And all he could do was scream until it stopped.

He would forget that terrible pain by the time breakfast was cooking. That is, until next month.

***

The city began to awaken as the tea kettle began to whistle. Funny. Freddie thought his shrieking would have woken everybody up five times over. Maybe they were all used to it by now. Perhaps they wrote it off as a ghost. Or maybe, they knew what he was and gave him a wide berth. Just like everyone else except for Dad (and even then, his companionship was mostly born from guilt and pity).

Whatever the reason, Freddie welcomed the solitude. For the most part, he didn’t like people.

As the sky paled from indigo to cerulean, Freddie worked by the light of a small, ceramic lamp. His latest discovery, found in a thrift shop two miles south. White and veined with pale lavender, it may have once decorated an old granny’s parlor. Now, it formed a halo of warm light as Freddie prepared some Earl Grey. The hot mug and familiar scent immediately put him at ease. Chased his thoughts further away. Holding it close for warmth, he raided the cupboards for something sweet. Ah, triumph! The last pack of chocolate biscuits.

As he claimed three, his mouth watering in anticipation, Freddie saw how little food he had left. It was only thanks to his latest dinner with Dad (just two days prior) that he had anything left in the fridge. Specifically, it contained half a homemade pizza, and two small plates of brownies. Not much by any stretch. Just as well. Three more days, and a month will have passed. Once that happened, all he had to do was go to the food department, show his documents, and claim his food rations for November.

Freddie had been told that he was one of the lucky ones. After all, he got housing, food, free schooling for his future kids (though he wasn’t holding his breath on that one), and semi-decent healthcare. All he had to do in return was let the government keep his fees to cover his past education, plus interest, live in a bugged apartment, keep his mouth shut, not say a word when his pension would undoubtedly disappear, and do whatever his current paymaster ordered. That was more than what most people could say. Still, he found it a bit hard to be grateful.

Chomping greedily into the first biscuit, stale and scant in flavor, Freddie took to the window. Pushing the curtain aside, and making a mental note to wash it soon, he took in the early morning. Situated as high as he was, Freddie felt that he could almost reach out and touch the thick, lead-colored clouds. Out in the distance, dwarfing everything around it, was a cluster of buildings that gleamed like slabs of volcanic rock. That was where the wealthy lived, with everything they could possibly need (from supermarkets to private clinics to gyms) under the same roof. It was no wonder they almost never left.

It would be all too easy to wipe them all out, with some careful planning and a few powerful, home-made explosives. But Freddie was a geneticist, not a chemist. All the same, fantasizing about those buildings going up in flames, the upper-crusts screaming as they died, their money unable to save them for once, gave Freddie the same kind of relief as a shot of heroin or a drag of a cigarette. He gave it a withering look, imagining one person in particular living there, before lowering his gaze.

Fifty-odd feet below, the ocean churned. Dark as ink, frothy and white-capped. No headlights out yet, or so few that they made not a lick of difference. The docked boats and water scooters looked like children’s toys as they bobbed to and fro, powerless to the current. Even though he could not see it from this height, Freddie knew that his own water-scooter was down there, chained to one of the Anemone Apartments’ many metal hoops. No fancy self-driving limo-boat for me, no sir! Because unlike some, I don’t have oil pumping through my veins!

He could hear the ocean roar even from up here. It was subtle, almost a hum. But it was always there. Nobody could get away from it. Not completely. They had summoned it through decades of greed and willful ignorance, and now it was here to stay. Like stupid kids that play with Ouija boards and wind up tormented by demons. Not that Freddie believed in demons. He didn’t believe in much of anything.

The tea was cooler now, and that biscuit was getting lonely in his belly. Freddie downed his beverage in three deep gulps, scalding his tongue, and chewed his way through breakfast. He had no idea how he would break his fast tomorrow. Just as he didn’t know whether or not he would be able to stock up on food today. Hell, he might not even manage tomorrow. The lab was getting close to its deadline, and that would no doubt call for double shifts and all-nighters.

But that was life for those like him: Hard work. Ass-kissing. And the occasional taking of what wasn’t offered.

***

Freddie got to work half an hour early, and easily found a spot in the enclosed parking lot. The only other water vehicle was a Neptune 2000, a swift, high-tech, and resistant speedboat that cost more money than most families got in a year. Painted a brilliant turquoise, it greedily sucked up the misty morning light and used it to shine all the brighter.

Immediately, Freddie was on guard. Nobody at Gaia Corporations had this kind of money. Even their fucking dreams were scrabbling for pennies. Gaia Corporations was a cauldron of different sciences. Even though Freddie did not particularly like any of his colleagues (except dear old Dad), he knew that this contained the wealth of the city’s knowledge. But it was not the city’s source of literal wealth; the rich had that on lock-down. Fucking dragons sitting on piles of gold, ready to reduce anyone who came nearby to cinders.

Thus, the Neptune 2000’s presence could only mean one thing: One of the elite had descended from their luxurious towers and come to pay them a visit. Oh, yippie! If it was who Freddie suspected, then they were all in for a scolding. And threats. There were always threats. As if that could magically bring them closer to finishing.

Just. Fucking. Wonderful. Sighing, Freddie ran a hand through his shaggy, dark blond hair. Trudging up the steps, he made it to the front doors. Shifting his attention to the door labeled STAFF ONLY, he pressed a button. There was a moment’s pause. Then, a robotic voice spoke to him through the microphone. "Name and print." The screen beneath the button glowed green.

Freddie yanked off one of the gloves of his anti-toxins suit. Pressing his bare thumb on the screen, he leaned close to the microphone. By design, the nozzle of his helmet did not muffle his voice. Fredrick Molloy, assistant to Dr. Martin Molloy.

He felt a thin band of warmth rush beneath his thumb as it was scanned. Then, there came a mechanical chirrup. With a hiss, the door was unlocked. "Welcome, Freddie Molloy. Please enter and await decontamination."

Freddie passed through the front door, removing his helmet and tucking it under his arm as he did so. The door swung shut behind him. For a split second, the chamber was dark. Then, fluorescent bulbs blazed with life above his head. He squinted at the sudden brightness, already turning in a circle as the sprinklers went off. Freddie felt the disinfectant soaking him through like a warm rain, dampening his hair and running down his cheeks. It stung his chin where he’d shaved that morning. Wincing, he continued to spin like a ballerina in a music box. He counted to ten.

Once he got there, the sprinklers were promptly shut off. He stopped moving, already facing the elevator. Hot gusts of wind blew in from all directions, trapping him in a powerful vortex. He stood as still and strong as a pillar, feeling the cleansing fluids dry. At last, the elevator unlocked with a click. That was his cue. The doors slammed shut the moment he got in.

There were a total of eighty floors above sea level in this building, and over a hundred and forty beneath it. Each floor tackled a different, scientific purpose. Agriculture. Births. Engineering of various sorts, from environmental to medical. Computer and informational. And so on. Unless you were the head of your own department, you could only go where your job required you.

Being the son of the head of the genetics department did not grant Freddie that privilege. But Freddie didn’t mind. Besides the fact that he could not bring himself to care even if his life depended on it, he had still heard the stories floating about the concrete walls. No matter the specific branch, science was the city’s single mother with three jobs. It worked tirelessly to provide, only to be screamed at by red, hungry mouths. Always demanding more, more, more, not caring how that ‘more’ was obtained.

One such mouth was there right now. Arguably, he was one of the biggest mouths out there. Both literally and figuratively. Freddie heard him before he saw him. As usual.

It’s been three weeks, Molloy! He was shouting. How much longer do I have to wait?!

I-I-I know, Mr. York. I’m t-terribly s-sorry. But we’re d-doing everything we c-can. Freddie knew that voice. Unlike a certain woman who had decided that death was preferable to living in this shitty world with her family, that voice’s owner had been there through it all. Every scraped knee. Every lightning storm. Every food shortage. All of it. It was almost soft, like wool. On the rare occasions in which Freddie had really pushed his luck, that voice had yelled. But in moments like these, when the voice’s owner was stuck between a rock and a hard place, it would stutter.

Well, Freddie cracked his knuckles, guess it’s time to step into the phone booth. Or whatever it was. God, the Dry World was weird!

Oh, you are, are you?! Mr. York snapped, shaking his head. Puh-leeze! After all the money I’ve given you, and after all the fancy new equipment, too, I should be seeing some kind of progress! Instead, what do you have? Nothing! He crossed his huge arms. This is so unfair! I already told Gerald and Ray I’d have the weapon today! But, no. You got nothing.

I-I-I’m sorry! Besides being sorry, Dad sounded downright scared.

"You’re always sorry! Mr. York bellowed. It’s pathetic! Maybe I should look to someone else to get my little project done, hmm?"

You could try. Freddie spoke up, causing the other men to turn around. Dad actually had frightened tears in his gunmetal-gray eyes, and his posture was hunched even by Dad’s standards. As was typical, Freddie felt a mixture of pity and disgust for his old man. He understood why he let himself get pushed around like this. But it still got his blood boiling. Especially when rich assholes like York were so ready to take advantage of his father’s demure nature.

Speak of the devil. Mr. York was his usual, haughty self. His company’s world-famous Dew had frozen his features in his late-thirties even though, in actuality, he was well into his fifties. He wore a three-piece suit made of alligator skin, which stretched to accommodate his three hundred-pound frame. His dyed red hair was slick with pomade, and his plump hands were warted with rings. Mr. York looked nothing like the posters plastered all around the city. In those, he serenely looked onward to a clean, hopeful future. Now, his face was beet-red and his brow was furrowed. Smirking, Freddie wondered what the polls would look like if the city saw Mr. York like this.

Mr. York snorted when he saw him. "I suggest you stay out of this, child. Adults are talking." He smirked as he said this, so eager to dominate the son as he already had the father.

"I’m the child? Freddie asked, trying to keep (most of) his anger hidden. You’re the one who’s kicking up a fuss." He approached them, collecting his white lab coat from the hanger and slipping it over his thin shoulders.

"And for the record, we do have something. We’ve been running tests day and night. You didn’t exactly ask us for the moon, sir, but you did ask for the next best thing. We’re still studying the genetic makeup of every damn species of fish that your men have brought in. Though there are a few possible candidates, we belong to a group of animals that split off from fish some four hundred million years ago."

He offered Mr. York a smile that was barely better than bared teeth. So, we’re going to need something to bridge the gap. And finding one will take time. No matter how much you stomp your feet.

Mr. York’s eyes narrowed. You’d better watch how you talk to me, boy. I was running a fifty-million-dollar company while you were still shitting your diapers. He took a single step forward, pointing at Freddie with a sausage-like finger. With one word, I can erase your fucking birth certificate. Never forget that.

Freddie’s jaw tightened. How can I, when you people oh so love to rub your privilege in everybody’s fuckin’ face?

Mr. York looked like he was about to bust a blood vessel. Now you’ve gone too far.

Freddie grinned wickedly. I’m just getting started, tubbo!

No! Dad planted himself between Freddie and Mr. York, making himself as small as possible. Holding his hands up as if trying to stop a charging bull. Please, sir! Please! He—he’s not feeling well today. He clapped his hands together, bowing his head. "Please, excuse him. It won’t happen again. Please."

Freddie clenched his jaw so tightly that his teeth hurt. Mr. York, on the other hand, looked like the cat that had just got the cream. (By the looks of it, York regularly got the cream; both figuratively and literally.) Thoroughly enjoying the groveling, York played with the rings on his fingers. Humming. Fine. Since you asked so nicely.

Dad looked ready to pass out from relief.

That is, until Mr. York reached forward and grabbed Dad by the tie, yanking him so close that their noses almost touched. You have three months. That’s when Mayor Lovette officially steps down, and a new mayor will be elected. I don’t care that my rivals are also my friends. Give me my secret weapon, and I’ll donate a million dollars to this lab. Fail, and I’ll shut it the fuck down.

Y-y-yes, sir! Dad nodded frantically.

Yeah, whatever. Freddie rolled his eyes.

And for Christ’s sake, get some manners in your failed science project of a son. Mr. York hissed. Or I’ll have my boys do it for you!

Dad whined like a scared puppy. I-I-I w-w-will, sir! I p-promise!

With an unconvinced humph, York let go of Dad’s tie and marched away, intentionally slamming his shoulder into Freddie’s on the way out. With the push of a button, the elevator opened its doors and swallowed the billionaire whole. Unable to resist, Freddie flipped the bird at the doors. Wishing with every fiber of his being that he could do it in front of the fat fuck, without facing guaranteed imprisonment and/or death afterward.

***

Freddie smelled a lecture coming. He crashed in one of the chairs planted in front of his father’s desk, propping his feet against the smooth wood.

I’ve asked you not to put your feet up, Dad reprimanded as he claimed his usual seat.

Freddie shrugged. I’m in trouble anyway. ‘Sides, it’s comfy.

Dad sighed but otherwise did not protest. Unsurprising. Dad had a severe allergy to confrontation. Freddie, on the other hand, had a taste for poking the bear. If nothing else, he could enjoy a good, loud roar before sprinting for the hills. Son, Dad began, the stutter gone, you have to stop antagonizing our clients. We need them.

Freddie ran a hand, roughly, through his dark blond hair. Please. We’ll always have our customers. These people have too much money and too few brain cells. Even if York decides to take his chances without us—and, believe me, Pops, he fucking won’t—some other rich asshole will take his place in a month or two.

Without York’s support, we’ll be shut down by then. Dad replied sternly. What will happen then? Do you know how much the city relies on us to feed them? To give them children? To provide them with energy? Medicine?

If they need us so fucking much, Freddie retorted, then maybe the city council could fork over some damn dough every once in a while!

Honey, I’ve asked you not to swear, Dad scolded, earning him an eye-roll from Freddie. But besides that, son, that’s just not how things work. They barely worked that way in the Dry World, and they certainly don’t work that way now. The city council is at the whims of the wealthy, and the wealthy only care about us when they need something from us. Dad met Freddie’s eyes, his own pleading. Like it or not, son, that’s just the way things are. Try to fight it, and you’ll just get hurt. Please. His cracked voice gave Freddie pause. I can’t lose you, too.

Freddie closed his eyes, exhaling through his flaring nostrils like an angry gorilla (that is, if the Dry World nature documentaries were right; the last wild gorilla died back in the 2040s, and the ones in the zoos were far too cowed to do anything cool like that). He chewed his bottom lip, deciding on a course of action.

He knew that, technically, Dad was telling the truth. This was indeed the way things were, and trying to go against it was foolhardy. But did Dad really have to kneel and beg so readily? Did he really have to be such a submissive bitch whenever the elite so much as looked at him funny?

Much to his relief, Freddie had mostly taken after Dad in regards to appearance. They were both pale and thin, with blond hair (dark blond, verging on light brown for Freddie, platinum for Dad), and large eyes. But Dad’s deplorable upbringing had left him standing at five feet in height, nearly an entire foot shorter than Freddie. Dad also had a cherubic face, the very picture of wholesomeness and sweet naivete. Nothing like Freddie’s thinner, more angular face, complete with an aquiline nose and a resting expression that screamed, go away.

Their faces reflected their innermost selves, and it was in that regard that Freddie felt the most different from his father. Freddie had no problem butting heads with people, no matter how rich or powerful they were. Dad, on the other hand, feared confrontation the same way in which some people might fear sharks or quicksand or heights.

Then again, Freddie supposed that this behavior was to be expected. Dad was a transit. He had been born in the painful transition between the Dry World and their current, noticeably wetter, reality. Like most of his generation, Dad had been born in a survivor’s camp and spent his formative years scrounging for food and evading an endless revolving door of natural disasters.

He’d seen the government sell off parts of America one chunk at a time, to the point that it was stuck with the states nobody wanted. He’d seen the flood drown millions, and leave billions homeless and desperate. He’d seen dozens of horrendous diseases emerge from melted ice caps like swarms of hornets from crushed nests. He’d watched his own parents die of one such ailment when he was half Freddie’s age. Eventually, he had lived long enough to see order be reestablished, with new laws, and an even newer—yet ancient—pecking order.

Still, an unfair system was better than no system at all. Order, even massively biased order, surpassed unbridled chaos. So, Dad, along with everyone else who had lived through the world’s growing pains, bowed their heads and fully accepted their place in this new world. Accepted that they were cattle, so long as a shepherd was there to guide them through the dark. Because, as far as Dad was concerned, dignity and a backbone were small prices to pay for living in relative security.

Freddie was not wholly unsympathetic of his father. Of course he wasn’t. He was a cynic through and through, and he identified as a misanthrope. But he was not heartless. Especially not towards the man who loved him even though Freddie was unlovable. Who had raised him alone while still dealing with being a widower. And Freddie was aware that he had been a handful. Still was, in most regards.

So, really, he could afford to cut Dad some slack now. Especially since his little scuffle with York had probably frazzled Dad more than helped him as Freddie had originally intended.

Freddie took a deep, calming breath. When he spoke again, it was in a lower tone. Okay, Dad. M’sorry.

Dad’s look of relief made it worth swallowing his pride—not to mention a good chunk of his honesty. Thank you. He leaned back in his chair with a sigh, closing his eyes, reassembling himself. After a moment or so, he ran a pale hand down his face and smiled at Freddie. I’m going to make some coffee. Would you like some?

Love some.

Great. He headed for the espresso machine sitting on a table, eager to tackle an easy, stress-free task. While I’m at it, could you kindly refresh my memory on what we’ve got to do today? If I’m not mistaken, we have twenty specimens of fish to examine.

Sure thing, Pops. Reaching into his lab coat’s deep pockets, Freddie came up with a holographic clipboard. With a few clicks, he summoned the day’s schedule. The glowing letters hovered in the air, color-coded to signal urgency. Deftly, he scheduled the red tasks sooner than he did the orange. Green was left for last. Even if he did want to see how the fish-brain-in-human-body simulation was going. Yeah, you’re right. The specimens we’re looking at today include, with the touch of a finger, he got a list, eel, zebrafish, shark, stingray, and dolphin.

All protected species. All living in zoos and aquariums. Dad sighed. We’d better keep this under wraps, or every environmentalist in the city will bay for our blood.

Freddie shrugged nonchalantly. As far as he was concerned, those clods had been backing a lost cause since society as he knew it came into being. If they wanted to keep kicking up a fuss, then so be it. It’s not like they had ever changed anything.

There came the familiar hisses, gurgles, and churning that came with making coffee. Father and son knew better than to try to talk as the machine got to work. Luckily, they did not have to wait very long. By the time Freddie had counted to ten, the noises had stopped. He heard the tinkling sound of a spoon tapping against a mug’s ceramic rim. Two sugars as usual, or do you want to try curbing that insatiable sweet tooth of yours?

Freddie blushed. "Christ, I got sick from Halloween candy once. Are you ever gonna let that fuckin’ go?!"

Considering it took quite a bit of bleach and several hours to clean up your sick, I’m going to go with ‘no’. Dad chuckled as he claimed the two mugs, bringing one to Freddie. No need to feel shame though, son. When I was a child, I would get sick from any candy I could find.

Freddie took his mug with a nod of thanks. Were Halloweens as cool as you said they were?

Dad sat back down at his desk, a wistful look in his eyes. They were even better, if my parents and neighbors were to be believed. By ‘neighbors’, he meant the people who had lived in tents surrounding his. From what Dad had told Freddie, life in a survivor camp had been hellish in many aspects.

There would be thousands, if not tens of thousands, of people crammed into what amounted to five city blocks. Fighting for literally anything: Clean drinking water, food, a space to sleep, you name it. But every once in a while, in between the desperation and hunger and outbreaks of cholera, typhoid, and osteomalacia, the people there would sit down and talk. The older ones would share stories of the dying world to those too young to have seen it.

Now, all those elders were dead, and their world with them. Not for the first time, it stirred a mixture of curiosity and melancholy in Freddie. Especially where his grandparents were concerned. Did he remind Dad of them in any way? Would they have liked him? Liked the world that he (sort of) called ‘home’? Freddie did not dare ask. Afraid of ripping open old wounds.

Instead, Freddie drank his coffee. Dad did, too. For a brief moment, there was silence in the office. Not quite peace, but an absence of anxiety. Of obligations. In those compressed sixty seconds, they were not the chief of the genetics department and an employee, working on a seemingly impossible project. They were simply a father and son sharing a cup of coffee.

Then, the moment ended.

Dad spoke quietly, almost to himself. Mr. York wants his secret weapon, all neatly packaged with a bow on top. And he wants it soon. His eyes clouded over. If this is his idea of an advantage, I wonder what his rivals will cook up.

Freddie shrugged, uninterested as usual. Each of them already has a slice of this city. Some even have deals in other cities. So chances are, it’s going to be interesting.

Dad sighed. I really hope neither of them comes knocking at our door. Asking us to spill the beans, or to work for them instead. I really couldn’t handle that kind of conflict.

Yeah, but your therapist would. I mean, if you fucking had one. If our bosses gave us money instead of food. Rather than voice his thoughts, even if they were humorous in tone, Freddie opted for reassurance. Poor Dad’s heart had the resilience of a hummingbird (again, Freddie had to base his theory off of Dry World nature documentaries). I’m sure they won’t. And if they do, hey, we’ll deal with it.

That seemed to do the trick. Dad smiled at Freddie once more, sitting a little straighter. Yeah, you’re right. He finished his coffee in a single gulp. Go check on the test subjects and update their statuses if need be. We’ll be having a video conference with some marine biologists soon, and it’d be best if both of us did our chores before then. So, he smiled, jerking his chin at the office’s door, go on.

Smiling sardonically, Freddie gave his father a military salute. Aye-aye, captain.

Don’t get cocky, Dad chided.

Hey, Freddie threw his hands up, I gotta be me, Dad.

Dad chuckled, raising his cup at Freddie. So you do, my little tadpole. So you do.

***

If someone had asked Freddie what he wanted to be when he grew up, back when he was a gap-toothed youngster with a spark in his eyes, Freddie would have said that he wanted to read. Especially fairy tales. He had loved fairy tales as a kid, especially when Dad would read them to him, doing the voices and everything. But he had enjoyed reading them himself, too, breathing life into the words printed on paper, imagining the fantastical lands they described. How easy it had been that these places were real, that such incredible people truly walked among us.

But life has a way of beating the dreams and flights of fancy out of you.

To Freddie, it had happened in the same way in which one falls asleep: Slowly, then all at once.

The books that he had once so lovingly poured over were now balancing the table in Dad’s apartment. Originally, Freddie had wanted to throw the damn things in the nearest dumpster before setting a match to it. But Dad had convinced Freddie to give them to him instead. Why? Freddie hadn’t a clue. Maybe Dad had assured himself that Freddie would one day regain his wide-eyed innocence. Or maybe he still clung to the hope of passing those raggedy old books along to a grandchild or two.

Fine. Let Dad keep them. Let them fuel his own flights of fancy. Freddie had not had any use for them in a long, long time.

Now, if anyone asked Freddie what he wanted to be, his answer would be simple: Alive. And in order to stay that way, he had to trudge through quite a lot of shit. Even if he had studied enough to be able to navigate the swamp, so to speak.

Once again using his thumb and vocal recognition, Freddie entered the updated containment area. Even though he’d been expecting it, the smell still hit him hard. Fish. Seawater. Closed-in and damp, close to rot. It was to be expected: This was the only section of their floor that lacked windows and security cameras. Normally, this would be an open dare to the Department of Sciences. But Mr. York had already paid them all off. Nobody else knew of this ace up his sleeve, and he wanted to keep it that way.

Fine by me, Freddie coolly thought, less paperwork for us. Pulling the collar of his shirt over his mouth and nose, he reached into his pocket. As his hand reappeared, it held two items: His examination glasses, and his pad. He pressed a small button on the former, and slipped them on. Inserting the password (fuckingpassword) into the latter, he summoned the files one by one.

Test Subject Nine was a middle-aged male whose DNA had been spliced with three other animals just three days ago.

Percentage? Human: Fifty percent. Sea turtle: Thirty percent. Salamander: Ten percent. Cow: Ten percent.

The first component was natural. The sea turtle was what they were most interested in. The other two had been added in much smaller percentages in order to bridge the gap between Homo sapiens and Chelonioidea.

Freddie looked up, and his glasses got to work. The creature swimming in the first tank, illuminated by the fluorescent lights overhead, met his gaze with round, black eyes similar to a cow’s. His nose had flattened completely, reduced to two flaring slits. TS Nine’s skin, too, had changed since the alteration. It was much thicker, more leathery, and tinged green. He lacked a shell, but made up for it with the flippers that had replaced his arms and legs. Interestingly, two fingers and a thumb were growing at the ends of said flippers, much like a salamander. Freddie also noted that TS Nine’s size had changed as well. Before, he had been a man of average height; similar to Freddie himself, in fact. But now, he had gone down to maybe three or four feet.

This was all that Freddie could see without help. His examination