Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 124341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
To put it bluntly, the ADHM kids had been guinea pigs for the drug that, in the end, had never gone to market because of its adverse side effects. Of course, its experimental use had been justified by the fact that they were dying anyway. The risk-reward ratio was one that favored trying anything. Risking anything. Giving them any possible chance. But what if it hadn’t really helped them at all? What if it had only made things worse?
What if there were some who knew in fact that it did but considered those children of such little value that they continued to give it to them in the name of their experiment anyway?
I’m a nurse. Or…I was. But I’m also a mother. And a mother knows when her children are naturally sick…and when they’re being poisoned.
Salma’s words again. And a reminder that it was possible not only were sick children being made sicker, but healthy children were being made ill as well.
Mark sat back, rubbing his temples, suddenly feeling ill himself, as though thinking too hard about those phantom children who may have been put in more pain than they already suffered was bringing on a sympathy headache.
He stretched his neck from side to side, intent on getting as full a picture as possible before postulating any further.
Mark went back to the page of articles featuring Dr. Heathrow’s work with ADHM kids, scrolling down the page and then clicking on to the second. More articles about ADHM…interviews…a dinner where Dr. Heathrow had been the guest of honor and recipient of a humanitarian award. Mark paused in his scrolling, something of interest catching his eye. He clicked on it and read the first couple of paragraphs. His stomach dipped, that feeling of disquiet he’d had moments before ratcheting up. It seemed in his early career, before ADHM or drug protocols, or Tycor Lab, Dr. Heathrow had authored several studies on human augmentation.
Mark performed another search, clicking until he came to a PDF file. “Bingo,” he said, opening the document authored by the doctor himself.
He leaned toward the screen, reading through it quickly, just enough to digest the gist. He’d print it out and read through it more closely later. The paper went into proposed methods of adapting technology and materials only previously used in bone fusion and limb amputation to revolutionize and drastically enhance human performance.
Why did Mark have the feeling many of these buzz phrases that read like scientific marvels stood for ideas that were decidedly much darker?
There were diagrams of limbs, torsos, and other body parts that Mark only briefly examined. It was all out of his area of expertise, but he got the idea. In essence, the doctor had proposed ways to make super soldiers.
“Jesus,” Mark breathed. This was not a coincidence. Mark could feel it.
He scrolled to the end of the paper and then went back through it, looking for the part that discussed ethical concerns with such technology, but no discussion existed. Sadly, he wasn’t surprised. Angry, yes. Surprised, no.
Mark spent another twenty minutes looking for more information on Dr. Heathrow’s continuation of research into enhanced human performance, otherwise known as genetic engineering. The man had attempted to obtain grants but was unsuccessful. After that, Mark could find no further proof that he’d pursued the field. Evidently his interest in that area of study had diminished and he’d turned to other endeavors.
Or had he?
Had he given up on engineering humans because of a lack of financial backers? Or had he figured out another way? Or perhaps been approached by others who’d expanded his funding options? And more chilling, expanded his potential client base: sick children with no parental oversight.
The deep chill that snaked down Mark’s back had nothing to do with the wind that suddenly gusted in the window, lifting the curtain next to his chair and then dropping it back into place.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Another week passed by, and the weather grew cooler. Sam continued to heal. Autumn was encouraged by the fact that he continually scratched at his stitches. “Tap them,” she reminded him. “I don’t want you to tear them open. But if they’re itching, it means they’re healing well.”
“Yes, I know,” he answered.
She studied him as he closed his eyes, laying his head back. Yes, of course he knew. He had likely healed more times than almost any other human.
Autumn passed the time by reading and by adding to the back of the journal Sam had made her—lists of avenues she wanted to go down as far as researching the program Sam had told her about, including Dr. Heathrow himself. Sam seemed both protective of the man and troubled when she brought him up, quick to move the conversation to other places. She could understand why, she supposed. The doctor had healed Sam, but he’d also hurt him. And others too. There was a cloud of mystery surrounding the man, and whenever Autumn recalled him, a shiver of disquiet scurried down her spine.