34
DIMITRI
The syringe collapsed under Dimitri's fingers, and as he cursed and dropped it, it shattered into pieces on the lab floor.
For a long moment, he stared at his bloodied fingers, then got up, walked over to the sink, rinsed them under running water, and then washed them with soap. Hopefully, none of the chemicals had entered his bloodstream. He had no idea what those drugs could do to a human, and he didn't want to find out.
What he and Petrov were making bordered on alchemy. Some of it was based on the late Dr. Zhao's work, some of it was what they had developed in Russia, and the rest was what they were developing in Navuh's lab, tweaking and improving the formula until they were ready to use it on a new batch of soldiers.
The tube must have been defective because it had never happened to him before. He hadn't been holding it with enough force to break it.
Taking a couple of Band-Aids from the medical kit, he wrapped them around the injured fingers and returned to his worktable.
He'd been preparing the eight doses of enhancement drug that Dave would need when he arrived for his afternoon injections. It was delicate work, requiring precise measurements and careful calibration. Despite Dave's shared consciousness, each of his eight bodies was different—different weights, different metabolisms, and different responses to the chemical compounds. A dose that worked perfectly for one might send another spiraling toward psychosis.
Dr. Zhao had learned that lesson the hard way, watching other enhanced immortals lose their minds to the drugs. Thankfully, he had left detailed notes that Petrov and Dimitri had learned a lot from.
The key was balance. They needed to provide just enough to marginally improve performance without tipping the scales toward madness.
Dimitri labeled each syringe with the corresponding body number, double-checking the dosages against his notes. Body One was the leader, who did most of the talking. Body Two was slightly heavier and required a stronger concentration. Body Three was the most sensitive to stimulants and needed the lowest dose. And so on, all the way to Body Eight.
The work should have been absorbing, should have consumed his attention. Instead, he kept getting distracted.
The hum of the refrigeration unit in the corner that was for some reason so loud all of a sudden. The incessant drip of condensation from the air conditioning vent. He even imagined the scratch of Petrov's chair against the floor, even though Petrov wasn't there. He'd left an hour ago to escort Mattie to the bar.
Was he losing his mind?
No, wait. The sound was actually the fan in his computer. He'd mistaken it for Petrov's chair.
Dimitri got up, turned around toward his computer screen that was across the room, and froze.
It was at least four meters away, and the text should have been illegible at that distance, especially since Dimitri was slightly nearsighted but hated wearing glasses. But now, as he looked at the screen, he could read every word clearly as if he were standing right in front of it.
Side effects observed in Subject 7: increased aggression, paranoid ideation, auditory hallucinations. Recommend reducing stimulant component by 5%.
Dimitri blinked. Read it again. Still clear.
What the hell?
He walked to his desk, sat down, and opened the drawer where he kept his glasses. He pulled them out, put them on, and everything became blurry. He took them off, and his vision cleared.
A high-pitched whine cut through his thoughts. Tiny, almost inaudible, coming from somewhere to his left. Dimitri turned his head, tracking the sound, and found its source. A mosquito was hovering above the potted plant on Petrov's desk.
He could hear a mosquito despite all the ambient noise of the lab from three meters away.
Without thinking, he rose from his chair and crossed to Petrov's desk. The mosquito was still there, a black speck against thegreen leaves of the plant, its wings beating so fast they blurred. Dimitri raised his hand, not really expecting to catch it. He'd never been able to swat mosquitoes. They always sensed his approach and darted away at the last second.
His hand moved.
The world seemed to slow down, or maybe he sped up, because suddenly the mosquito was there, and his palm connected with a satisfying slap that sent a shock of pain up his arm.
He opened his hand.
The mosquito was a smear of blood and wing fragments on his palm.
Dimitri stared at it for a long moment. Then he looked at his neck in the reflection of Petrov's darkened computer monitor.
Smooth skin. No scar.
