The Praegressus Project: Part One Read online

  They made a mistake, the words whispered through his thoughts, along with something else, a familiar word, a horror from his childhood.

  Cancer.

  The memory of his father’s illness still lay heavy on his mind – the wasting sickness, the slow loss of strength, of life. Despite its ferocity, his father had fought back, had even won, for a time. But cancer was like a weed, always there, waiting to return. It wore you down, drew the life from you one drop at a time.

  And his father, once larger than life, had been laid low.

  Now as the hours ticked past, Chris watched with horror as the lumps on his back grew. It could only be cancer. Vicious and unrelenting, it would spread through their bodies, poisoning their blood, robbing them of strength, until there was nothing left but empty husks.

  Lying on the bed, he held Liz in his arms, each alone in their own thoughts.

  The next day, they woke to the first pangs of pain. It began as a soft twitch from the centre of his back, radiating outwards from the strange protrusions. The ache pulsed, flickering with the beat of his heart, but growing sharper with each intake of breath. Hour by hour it spread across his back, threaded its way into his chest, until it hurt just to breathe.

  For Liz, it was worse. When she woke she could barely speak. Her skin had lost its colour, even the angry red marks beneath her collar had paled to white. By lunch she could no longer lie on her back. When he touched a hand to her forehead, her skin was burning hot with fever.

  Each hour the lumps grew. Their skin stretched and hardened around the protrusions, darkening to purple bruises. Each bulge was unyielding to their scrutinising prods, and soon tiny black spots appeared on their surface.

  When the lights flickered on the morning of the third day, Chris could hardly move from the pain. Agony wove its way through his torso, spreading out like the roots of a tree, engulfing his lungs, reducing each breath to a battle, a desperate fight for life.

  The next time a guard arrived with food, Chris could no longer tell whether it was breakfast or dinner. Forcing open his eyes, he blinked hard in the light, pain lancing through his skull. The room spun and then settled into a double image of two guards. His stomach churned as two images of Liz stood over him and offered a bowl of dark looking stew. He saw her waver on her feet, and blindly took the bowl before she fell.

  Sitting back, he raised a shaking spoonful of broth to his mouth, but there was no taste when he swallowed. His stomach swirled again, then he began to heave. He barely made it to the toilet. A moment later Liz was at the sink beside him.

  Afterwards, Chris slid to the ground, his head throbbing in the blinding light. Liz slumped beside him, her head settling on his shoulder. For a moment the pain faded, giving in to a wave of warmth. He closed his eyes, savouring Liz’s closeness, but the relief did not last long. His stomach lurched again and releasing Liz he crawled back to the toilet.

  The click of the lights going out was a welcome relief.

  Stomach clenched, lungs burning, head thumping, Chris crawled back to the beds. Stars danced across his vision, but he hauled himself into a bed, no longer caring who’s it was. The room stank of vomit and spilt food, of unwashed bodies and blood. The scent of chlorine had long since been overwhelmed.

  Caught in the clutches of fever, Chris lost all track of time. At some point he felt Liz’s body beside him, though he could not recall whose bed they slept in. His fevered mind drew comfort from the heat of her presence, in the closeness of her face. Then her face warped, his own body distorting, and he forced his eyes closed.

  Wild colours spun through his mind as time passed. At one point he remembered calling out, begging the guards to help them, to bring the doctors, to bring anyone. But no one came, no one responded, and he soon stopped asking for help. A short while later, he started asking for death.

  In his dreams, he saw his body slowly decaying, watched his veins turn black with death, his arms begin to rot. Then he would find himself whole, riding in the passenger seat of his father’s 68 Camaro, his dad driving, an infectious grin on his youthful face. A moment later he was in a hospital, the smell of bleach and beeping of machinery all around. And his father lay in a bed, his arms withered, his face lined with age. Only the smile remained the same.

  Again the image faded, and Chris was back in the cell, back with the pain. Looking at his arms, he wondered what was real, what was not. One instant it was night, the next the blinding light of day, then back to black. At times he would wake, gasping for air, shivering beneath the blanket, and know in his heart he was dying.

  Once, he dreamed that he was flying, that he was soaring through mountains, far from the nightmares of their prison cell.

  And then he woke.

  CHAPTER 29

  It took a long time for Chris to decide he was no longer dreaming. The cold air wrapped around him, sending a shiver through him, but otherwise there was no discomfort. The pain had vanished, and for a second he considered the possibility he was dead. Then a low groan came from someone nearby, and he knew he was not alone.

  Squeezing open his eyes, he peered out from the shadows of his bunk bed, searching for Liz.

  The first thing he realised was that they had not been alone in their fever dreams. Someone had entered the room while they slept, cleaning the mess of vomit and blood that had stained the room. Liz lay in the opposite bed, covered now by a blanket of black feathers. She shifted beneath it, then blinked across at him, raising a hand to shield her face. Her lips parted, her tongue licking her cracked lips.

  “Chris?” she croaked.

  “I’m here,” he replied, his throat raw. A desperate thirst clutched him, and he looked across at the sink, wondering if he had the strength to reach it.

  In the other bed, Liz shifted, the blanket of feathers moving with her. Dimly, Chris made to do the same, but a weight on his back pushed him down. Reaching back, the soft points of feathers brushed his hand. He shrugged, trying to dislodge the blanket, and struggled to his hands and knees.

  Chris paused, a distant thought tugging at his memories. Before he could catch it, it faded into the darkness. He looked across at Liz, eyes questioning, but she had fallen silent. He clenched his fists, feeling a wrongness about himself, but unable to trace its source.

  Shaking his head, Chris pushed the last of the fever dreams from his mind and rolled out of the bed onto his feet. To his shock, the weight came with him, pushing him forward. Off-balance, he crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs and feathers.

  “Chris?” Liz’s voice shook.

  Head spinning, Chris looked up from the floor, unable to understand what had happened. Confused, he pulled himself up, but the weight still clung to his back. Only sheer determination kept him from toppling over again. Looking at Liz, he froze at the look on her face.

  Liz sat half-crouched on the bed, eyes wide. Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Her arm shook as she raised it and pointed. Shivering, he looked back, fear of the unknown rippling down his spine. But his bed was empty, the feather blanket trailing out behind him.

  Chris blinked, started to turn back towards Liz, then paused. He blinked again, staring at the tawny brown feathers of his blanket. There was something wrong about the way they hung between himself and the bed, something not quite right.

  Stretching out a hand, Chris tried to dislodge the blanket from his shoulders. He flinched as his hand brushed against something unexpected, something hard beneath the blanket. Withdrawing his hand, he looked at Liz, but she only sat in silent shock, her mouth still agape.

  Holding his breath, Chris reached behind his neck and ran a hand down his spine.

  He found the growths where they had been before, midway down his back. But they had grown now, changed, becoming long shafts that stretched out beyond his reach. A soft down of feathers covered their length, sprouting from his flesh as though they had every right to be there.

  Wings.

  His mind spun. He shook his head, refusin
g to face the truth, though they lay stretched out before his eyes. He trembled, and watched the shiver run down the wings, the tawny brown feathers quivering in the cool air.

  He turned as a muffled sob came from the other bed. Liz had struggled to her feet, revealing the long black wings hanging from her back. They stretched out either side of her, each at least ten feet long, the large black feathers tangling with the sheets on the bed. Where the feathers bent, Chris glimpsed soft white down beneath, small feathers curled in upon themselves, gripping close to her flesh. The feathers shone in the overhead lights, seeming almost aflame, as though Liz was some avenging angel descended from heaven.

  Wings.

  Warmth spread through Chris’s chest to mingle with the horror. A profound confusion gripped him; a disgust at this fresh violation, the further loss of his humanity – but also wonder, an awe for the trembling new limbs on his back.

  Wings.

  He looked at Liz. Her eyes were wide, glistening with tears. Her lips trembled as a shudder ran through her body. Through her wings.

  For the first time he realised they were both naked. Strangely, that no longer seemed to matter. After all they had suffered, all that had been done to them, Chris’s body hardly felt like his own. He felt apart from it now, separated from his nakedness.

  A tear spilt down Liz’s cheek, and he knew the same thoughts were filling her mind. He stepped across, struggling for balance, and drew her to him. He shivered as her arms went around his waist and her head leaned back, drawing him in.

  A fire ignited in Chris’s chest as their lips met. His hands slid up into her hair as her tongue darted out, sliding between his lips. The taste of her filled his mouth, and the intoxicating scent of her hair toyed with his nostrils.

  After a long minute, Liz pulled back. Raising a hand to her face, she wiped away her tears. Turning, she looked at her wings, her lips twisting in thought. They hung limply from her back, feathers quivering, and he knew what she was thinking.

  Sucking in a breath, Liz closed her eyes. Her face tightened, the muscles of her jaw deepening. Her brow creased, and behind her the black-feathered wings gave a twitch. Then they began to shake, lifting slightly and half opened. There they paused, as though lacking the strength for more.

  Liz bit her lip, her eyes still closed, and persisted.

  And bit by bit, her wings spread, until they seemed to fill the cell. Combined, they stretched more than twenty feet wide, twice the length of the beds, so that their tips poked out through the bars into the corridor.

  Twenty feet of jet-black feathers, of curly white down, of a majestic, undefinable magic.

  When Liz opened her eyes again, Chris saw the wonder there, the fear falling away before it.

  At a nod from her, he shut his own eyes and sought to do the same. Reaching down into the depths of his consciousness, he followed the tingle that came from his back, from the newfound limbs hanging across his bed. As he concentrated, the tingle spread along his spine. The hairs stood up on his neck as new connections formed within his mind, as neurons flared into life, recognising the presence of new muscles and bone and flesh.

  A tremor went through the weight on his back. There was a wrongness to that weight, an awkward presence to it, like clothes that did not quite fit. But opening his mind, he sought to accept it, to embrace it.

  At last, Chris opened his eyes. A sharp crack tore the air as his wings snapped open, unfurling to fill the room. Feathers as long as his forearm brushed against the far wall, touched the bars of the cell, and he felt it, sensed the pressure against his feathers.

  Turning, he grinned at Liz, unable to keep the wonder from his face. She grinned, laughed, opened her arms to embrace him.

  Then with a deafening shriek, an alarm began to sound.

  CHAPTER 30

  Angela strode around the corner and started towards the wide iron door at the end of the corridor. Heavy locking bars stretched across the dull metal, and a guard stood to either side, watching her approach. Each held a heavy rifle and wore the familiar trigger watches on their wrists. With a flick of their fingers, the men could activate any collar in their immediate vicinity, incapacitating any threat the prisoners within might pose.

  Or at least, that was the idea.

  Today, the watches had been reduced to worthless pieces of steel and glass. Just ten minutes before, Angela had entered her code to deactivate all the collars inside the facility. Halt, in his arrogance, had thought her cowed by his violence.

  Instead, Angela had resolved to act.

  Left alone in the padded room, fading in and out of consciousness, Angela had finally seen the true futility of her research. It had never been about a cure, or a weapon to fight the Chead. It had always been about this, this need for power, for a weapon against their enemies.

  And Angela knew, threats or no, she could not allow the Praegressus project to continue.

  Climbing to her feet, the weight of regret heavy on her shoulders, Angela had settled on a new path.

  Now the time had come to act, and she knew she could not hesitate.

  Ahead, the guards pulled back the heavy bolts, and with a screech, the iron door swung open. Angela walked past the guards without breaking stride, nodding as she went.

  Inside, a hushed silence gathered over the narrow corridor as a dozen faces turned towards her. Another screech and the door swung shut, sealing her inside. Taking a breath, she started forward, careful to keep to the centre of the hall, beyond the reach of grasping arms.

  Hard grey eyes followed her passage.

  Tension hung like a blanket on the air as she made her way past the cells. Hate permeated the air, radiating from the dark creatures pressing up against the prison bars. There were twelve in all: six boys, six girls.

  Twelve vicious killing machines, hungry for blood, for freedom.

  The Chead watched her as she reached the corridor’s end and turned back. Each had been born in the facility. Each was destined to die here. These creatures would never feel the heat of the sun, nor the cold of snow. Their eyes would never see the beauty of the mountains beyond the walls, their ears would never hear the roar of ocean waves.

  Or at least, that was Halt’s plan.

  Each of the Chead wore the familiar steel collars on their neck. Each of those collars were now little more than decorative necklaces.

  Standing at the end of the corridor, Angela faced the exit. The cells stretched out either side of her, the males to her left, females to her right. Something about the change accelerated the development and reproductive drive of the Chead. Left to their own devices, they bred like rabbits. And though the occupants of the cells appeared fully mature, the oldest was just ten years old.

  Stealing herself, Angela walked back towards the exit. The grey eyes followed her, alive with intelligence, searching for an opportunity. One second, one slip, was all they needed. Several men had lost their lives by wandering too close to the bars. Angela would not make that mistake.

  But she needed them to see her, to be awake.

  To be ready.

  As she approached the entrance, the guard by the door reached out to open it. She gazed at his face for a moment as she passed, a flicker of guilt swelling within her. But it was too late for regrets now. It was time.

  As the door reached its apex, Angela looked down at her watch. It was more advanced than the others, controlled more than just the candidate’s collars. As head geneticist and supervisor of the Praegressus project, she had control over many of the security protocols for the facility. That was how she had stopped Halt earlier, and what she planned to use now.

  Angela pressed her finger to the touch screen.

  Behind her, a buzzer began to screech, followed by the rattling of cell doors opening. Angela leapt forward as the guards looked up, confusion sweeping across their faces. They stared, eyes wide with bewilderment, as Angela stepped past them and began to run.

  The screams of the dying chased her down the corridor.


  ANGELA’S BREATH came in ragged gasps as she took a corner. From behind her came the roar of gunfire and the growls of the Chead. Overhead, lights flashed, and somewhere in the building a siren screeched. Muffled voices came from speakers at intervals down the corridors, a robotic voice asking her not to panic.

  The thump of approaching boots came from ahead. She tensed as two guards raced into view, then relaxed as they sprinted past, guns held at the ready. Their eyes barely registered her, but she saw their fear. Just as well. With a dozen Chead loose in the building, they would be hard-pressed to survive.

  A minute later she drew up outside the other prison block. She had hesitated before detouring there – only two of the seven survivors were located there. But the face of the girl had risen in her mind, and Angela knew she could not abandon her.

  Fortunately, the guards had already abandoned their posts – though whether to face the Chead or run, she wasn’t sure. The door to the cell block had been left open, and she stepped inside, shivering as her eyes swept over the rows of empty cells.

  So much loss.

  Angela closed her eyes, regret welling up within her. How had she been so blind? She had allowed her ambition to surpass caution, to blind her to the atrocities within the facility. Her morals, her integrity, all had been lost before her drive to succeed.

  And these children had paid the price.

  Moving down the corridor, Angela searched for the two she had come for. She froze when she found them, her breath catching in her throat.

  She had seen them in their fever induced sleep, seen the others in their comas. She already knew the experiment had succeeded; that the homeotic genes had taken. Once stimulated, they acted like a master switch, triggering the cluster of genes embedded in the candidates’ genomes. The genes corresponding to wing growth.

  Angela had watched the wings grow, watched the feathers sprout like seedlings from their skin. Even so, she was not prepared for the sight that greeted her.