The Edge

People said that The Vestibulum was a dangerous place to work, that it drove some people mad. The months spent without natural light or air, the sterile environment and the isolation of deep space had tested many a Developer’s limits and, tragically, broken more than a few. Safety measures were in place to try and ensure all staff and crew remained as healthy, mentally and physically, as possible, but even with regular testing, social events, exercise regimes, controlled diets and strict limits on the number of working hours, incidents still happened.

Rumours floated about the decks like children's ghost stories, a strange thing considering so many of the staff were scientists and had little time for superstition. Perhaps they were encouraged by the Board as a warning to all that to neglect your own health could have serious, deadly, repercussions. They told of paranoid delusions, grisly suicides, violent outbursts, even murder. Whispers still circulated of the Developer who went mad and gouged the eyes out of his lab assistant in the middle of the mess hall. They said that even after three Guards wrenched him off the woman’s blood-soaked, screaming body, he had still kept trying to attack and would not stop until he was heavily sedated. Working on The Edge could make even the sanest people do crazy things.

Doctor Stephen Cole still felt fine, though. The Edge provided him with opportunities unavailable anywhere else, and, 14 months into his contract, he was as healthy and happy as he had ever been. His test scores had fallen slightly, it was to be expected, but they remained in the high 80’s and he had lost some weight too. So long as he continued to perform well, his future aboard the ship was safe.

The Project had given Stephen incredible focus, something he’d been lacking for years while working on Earth, and as result he’d made huge advances in areas which caused other Developers trouble. So far, Stephen had successfully reduced the production stage of his Subject by several weeks and had even extended the life cycle by almost an hour. He was the only Developer aboard who had successfully brought his subject out of hibernation and into fully formed consciousness.

There was a problem, though, and one Stephen had, as yet, been unable to prevent. He hadn’t reported it, he wanted to continue his work in peace and feared any announcement would bring unwanted attention, but It wouldn’t be long before questions started being asked and he would have to provide the answers.

The last failed Subject was now laying naked on the table. There was no real need to go through the process of autopsy anymore, he knew the cause of death did not come from any malfunctioning body part or mutated cell, but it was a part of his routine now and he found the practise relaxing. It allowed him time away from his notes and to work through his thoughts.

The Subject’s skin had begun to take on the thin, papery quality of all synthetic flesh during decomposition; He wouldn’t have much time before it fell apart completely. Grabbing a fresh set of gloves, he began the process by wrapping a clump of brown hair in one hand and pulled sharply until it tore from the scalp with an audible rip. He bagged it, labelled it, dated it and logged it. Next he reached into the subject’s mouth, pried open the jaw, and inserted the long metal swab down the Subject’s windpipe. He scraped at the lining of the throat with the clawed end until enough tissue had been collected, then he emptied it into a specimen pot, labelled it, dated it and logged it.

He continued to work in silence for the next hour, systematically removing body parts and documenting each with care and attention. He cut out the heart and lungs, and removed the brain. He wrenched several teeth from the Subject’s jaw using heavy metal pliers, and slid the nails off each finger with long, thin tweezers. Finally he flipped the body onto its front so he could score and peel a large enough piece of undamaged skin from the Subject’s back. Then he rolled the body over again, put the skin sample on a slide, labelled it, dated it and logged it.

Once the logging was complete, he sealed the body up and put it with the contamination bag from last night, ready for the disposal crew to collect in a few hours time. The process for the next subject had already begun, but it would not be ready for over a month. Until then he could only hose down the containment room and wait.

Six weeks later, Subject 44 was ready. She’d been in active hibernation for almost 23 hours, her body constantly adjusting and attempting to gain control of itself as the Pod began to systematically shut down its life support systems. While she slept, Stephen dutifully checked the monitors and recorded her vital statistics, comparing the results with past versions to ensure she was progressing as she should. He’d made the mistake of assuming the process was flawless before and had lost two subjects needlessly. Now he took no chances until he was sure she was safe and, even then he felt nervous that it might still go wrong.

She was now sat on the edge of the pod, eyes wide with wonder and fear as she gazed around the brightly lit containment room. Her body was drying fast and the room was heated to prevent her feeling cold, but she clung tightly to the towel he’d provided, anyway, and tried to hide her modesty.

His subjects were always nervous at first, but trust between them was quickly established. The feeling, along with the memories and the knowledge of how to speak, must have been buried deep down inside the tissue he used to create her each time, passed on from one Subject to the next.

“Do you know who you are?” He asked.

44 shook her head and tried to mouth the word “no” but only managed a feeble croak.

“Do you know who I am?”

Again she shook her head.

Stephen took his notebook from the side and began to search for a pen. He was constantly losing them and instead of wasting anymore time, took a fresh one from the desk and sat down before her, making notes.

She watched his hands carefully, fascinated by their movement as he scribbled onto the pages.

“We were married, you and I,” he explained. “There was an... accident.” It felt less like a conversation these days and more like a script, although only he knew the lines.

She frowned. “Is that why I can’t remember anything?” Her voice still sounded small, but it was growing stronger.

“Partly. It’s all a bit confusing. I’m here to understand what happened.”

She smiled and the sight of it nearly broke Stephen’s heart in two. He would devote the rest of his life to creating Subjects if it meant he could keep seeing that smile.

“What happened?” She asked and he hesitated. It was always this question which troubled him, but before he had chance to answer, the nearest monitor let out a beep and the last of the monitors turned from amber to green. He breathed a sigh of relief; Saved by the bell, as always.

“Do you remember anything?” He asked.

She brushed her dark hair back behind her ear and looked at him with her soulful eyes. “No,” she whispered.

“You were at home. Do you remember our home?”

She shivered and shook her head.

“Can you try and remember us living together?”

She concentrated hard for a minute or two and finally clawed a word from her memory. “River. We lived beside a river.”

He nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, we did. Can you remember anything else?”

“It was summer?”

He checked her response against the notes in his pad. She was answering exactly as she always did, word for word.

“Is this our home?” She asked curiously. Her question, though legitimate, was loaded with doubt which meant the memories were starting to surface.

“No, I’m afraid it’s not. We’re a long way from home now.”

44 nodded to herself as if his words confirmed her suspicion. “It was evening, when it happened, wasn’t it?” She went on.

“Yes it was.”

“Six? Something about six.”

Stephen leant forward, encouraging her to work through her thought. She was getting closer and that was good.

“Not six,” she said abruptly and shook her head. “Sex.”

“Do you remember sex?” He asked.

“Yes, but...” She frowned. “But not with you.”

Stephen began to chew the end of the pen and watched her face as it screwed up in confusion. She mouthed words silently to herself and rubbed her head with the palm of one hand, desperately trying to organise her thoughts.

He felt his stomach tighten as he asked the question, “Sex with someone else?”

“I don’t know.”

He glanced at the clock on the wall. Time was ticking away steadily, her expiration was fast approaching. “You’re doing really well, I just need you to remember, OK? Who was it?”

“I’m don’t know,” she repeated. “I remember you kept shouting at me.”

Stephen stood and walked towards the glass, looking down at her hunched body. There was so much to ask and time was running out.

“Forget what I shouted. Try to remember.”

She looked up at him, sensing the urgency in his voice, and as she pushed her mind to recall the last memory she had, her voice broke with emotion. “You called me things. Cruel things.” The memory crashed through her mind like a wave.

He pressed his face to the door.

“You were crying,” she went on. “You were angry and throwing things and upset.”

His fingers slid to the handle of the door. “Who was it?” He asked again. He whispered them gently, trying not to break her train of thought.

Tears began to roll down her face. “You said... you said you’d known for some time. You called me heartless. Selfish. A whore.”

Stephen pulled the door back and stepped inside. “It doesn’t matter about that anymore, just tell me who it was.” His words were so quiet they could barely be heard over the noise of the fans in the room. He knelt beside her to repeat himself and put one hand gently on her knee, but the moment he touched her, she recoiled and looked at him with distrust.

“Tell me who it was. I have to know.” He growled.

“You said you wanted to see me suffer,” she went on. Her words began to grow more frantic. “You said you wanted me to feel the same pain I’d caused you.” Confusion and fear clouded her mind.

Stephen observed her coldly. “I said that I would make you pay for what you did,” he snarled, “if you didn’t tell me who it was.”

44 pushed herself up from the edge of the Pod as Stephen rose beside her. “Does it matter?” She asked.

“It matters to me.” He felt the same coldness sweep over him that he’d felt the first time they’d had this conversation. It was eerily similar, only their location had changed. “How could you do it?” He sobbed. His cheeks were now wet with tears as they played out their roles once again. “How could you break my heart like that?”

44 began to edge away. The expression on Stephen’s face was a mixture of raw anger and pain and it worried her. She tried to piece the memories together, tried to understand what had happened, but it was all happening too fast. He was advancing quickly, squeezing and rolling the pen between fingers and palm.

“Stephen, please don’t.” She whispered.

On hearing her speak his name, a fresh wave of emotion crashed through him. “Tell me!” He screamed and lunged forwards.

44 staggered sideways, desperately trying to avoid his grasp, but managed only two steps before her knees buckled and she fell to the floor with a painful thud. Her legs were still too weak, and she knew he was too close to try and do it again. She reached out with both hands and tried and pull herself away, but before she could get a grip on the smooth floor, she felt his hand wrap around her hair.

Stephen gave it a violent tug, snapping her head backwards. He hauled her to her feet and pointed to the clock on the wall outside the containment room. The bank of monitors below it were already beginning to flash red and the hands were almost at midnight.

“Tell me what I need to know.” The sound of his own tears sickened him. Even after all this time, the memory cut deep. “There isn’t much time,” he hissed. “Tell me who it was.”

He could feel the panic flowing through her body, could feel her heart beat faster and faster. She struggled and tried to pull away again, but his grip was too tight.

“If you don’t, I will make you suffer, over and over again for what you did.”

He raised his right hand high, the pen still firmly in his grip.

“No, please...” The words fell from her lips between ragged gasps. Her mind span, recalling images of the two of them stood in their sun dashed kitchen back home. She could feel the wind blowing through the open window, smell the aftershave he had been wearing and see the glint of light as it reflected off the metal knife in his hand.

“Stephen, you don’t want to -”

With tremendous force he brought his hand crashing down and cut off her words. She screamed in agony as he plunged the pen deep into her torso. The pain from the past and the present mixed, tore her mind apart, and she gagged as she tried to double over.

Stephen yanked her upright again, refusing to let her collapse, and dragged the pen down, tearing a hole into her midriff. Her hands squeezed and pinched and beat against his, but he battered them away with ease, pulled the pen from her body and watched the crimson blood drip from the wound onto the clean, white floor.

44 groaned and Stephen slammed his fist into her again, and again, stabbing and cutting as her body tried to fight for its life. Each wound released another wave of the vital blood which had once coursed through his cheating, lying, heartless wife’s veins.

The monitors outside began to beep loudly as the pen punctured her left lung. She wheezed painfully, unable to fight off the frenzied attack. He stabbed at her heart, breaking the nib into a jagged shard of plastic as it crunched against her ribs, then raised it once more and thrust into her stomach. He cut through her body until the warm wave of blood soaked his hands, then felt the fat tubes of her lower-intestine slip out and hit the floor with a wet splash.

Gasping for breath, exhilarated, Stephen dropped 44’s body and watched her expire amid a chorus of whines from the monitors below the clock.

Midnight. Another subject gone.

Stephen began to casually undress in the middle of the containment room, then sealed his blood-soaked clothes and the pen into a contamination bag, ready for collection in the morning. He stepped calmly into the shower, washed his face and hands until he was clean, then put on a robe and headed straight to bed. Tomorrow he would do an autopsy on the body, hose down the containment room, and begin the process for the next Subject, but right now he needed sleep.

As he slipped beneath the crisp, clean sheets of his bed, he wondered if the rage would ever go away. Even after all this time, even after all these Subjects, it still wasn’t enough for him. He had no choice but to continue until he felt satisfied. And with that he closed his eyes and slept with a smile upon his lips.

Living on The Edge provided Stephen with opportunities he couldn’t get anywhere else.