The Procedure

The Physiological Engineering and Improvement Station, a Foggistani outpost nestled in a small wooded region within the borders of Econometric Elation, was a four hour hoverdrive away from the Helo-Fleet Headquarters. Peter woke up at 0400 hours, left at 0500, and reached the station promptly at 0900. “Good morning Commander,” said Jessica Bangs, First Assistant Neuropsychologist, shaking Peter’s hand as he arrived.

“Morning,” said Peter, looking at the woman carefully. “Jessica?” The woman nodded, a broad smile on her face. Her title was First Assistant Neuropsychologist (what other scientists at the Station dubbed “a FAN”), yet she couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. Her white-blond hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, exposing a broad, philosopher’s forehead, and her prominent cheekbones and perfectly straight and pearly teeth made her smile seem all the wider. Based on her rank, not to mention the tone of her electronic messages prior to his arrival, Peter had been expecting a woman well into her thirties, maybe early forties.

“Expecting someone older, were we?” Jessica asked.

Peter narrowed his eyes. “A Psychic? Really?” Jessica’s nodded, her ponytail bobbing in the wind. Peter chuckled to himself, intrigued but at the same time slightly uneasy by the fact that Jessica had already used her power to peak into his mind.

“Don’t worry, I’m not reading your mind. I’m reading your face.”

Peter started. “But—but didn’t you just—”

Jessica laughed, an amusing, rather squeaky sort of laugh that reminded Peter of hiccupping mice. “Your face, not your mind,” Jessica repeated. “I’ve been working on the Perception Enhancement project for some time now—you’d expect to pick up some perception-related skills along the way, don’t you think?”

Peter smiled. “Well you’re pretty good.”

“Thanks,” said Jessica, grinning. “Follow me!”

Peter turned to absorb his surroundings as Jessica led him up the granite stairs to the Station. The Station itself was a rectangular, entirely unimpressive glass building located in the middle of a broad valley surrounded by low wooded mountains. The day was bright, almost painfully so, and the sky was clear for miles around. “Is it always this hot around here?”

“Always this hot, and always this dry,” said Jessica, her glasses reflecting the bright morning sun. “This is one of the more optimal spots for continuous communication with the Foggistani Space Station. And the nature of the work performed here oftentimes makes our experiments and procedures extremely susceptible to shifting weather patterns—and the weather here is incredibly stable. So…”

Jessica led Peter into the glass building, through a lobby that was almost indistinguishable from every other Foggistani lobby Peter had ever walked through, and down a narrow, brightly lit corridor. “It’s a very simple procedure,” Jessica said, a glass door opening before her, “But you’ll have to fill out a few forms first, and complete a series of physical exams.”

Peter nodded. He had been thoroughly briefed before arriving at the Station. He had no worries. He was more concerned about the quilaire, and how to mention it to Jessica. Her electronic messages had been so professional—stiff even. But in person she seemed pretty friendly, almost perky, and the fact that she was several years younger than Peter had expected made her considerably more approachable. Still, Peter couldn’t be too careful. And it was Latvia’s quilare he was carrying—not his own. He couldn’t risk having it confiscated by the Foggistani government.

So for the next several hours, Peter spent his time at a desk in a small room, filling out forms and a number of psychological surveys, all the while thinking mainly about the quilaire. He was feeling oddly protective about it, his hand reaching into his jacket pocket every other minute just to ensure the small, rectangular red box was still where it was supposed to be.

And then, a sudden urge caused him to pull out the box, open it, and take a look at the quilaire. Lying there, motionless in its bed of ordinary white wrapping paper, the quilaire was instantly recognizable as anything but an ordinary spoon. Its smooth surface shimmered, as if the metal within the quilaire were shifting and swirling while the object itself maintained its unchangeable spoon shape. It glowed, even, though the room Peter was in was lit by nothing but a few fluorescent tube lights—the quilaire seemed to be capable of absorbing the world around it, and reflecting it back in the form of pure, unadulterated beauty. It was mesmerizing.

Peter felt the urge to touch it.

“You done?” Jessica peeped in.

In a startled instant, Peter scooped the bare spoon from its packaging and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. A split second later, he thought “Oh shit.” He had touched the quilaire, with his bare hands.

Jessica gave Peter a curious look. “What have you got there?” she asked, observing the rectangular red box.

“Chocolates!” Peter blurted. He was cursing at himself top speed in his head. “Sorry, all out!” he said as he closed the box and tossed it in the trash bin next to his desk. He couldn’t believe how stupid he had just been. But nothing seemed to have happened… yet.

“Well, looks like you’re done.” Jessica said. “It’s ti…me for your… phy...sical…. ex…..aaaaaam………s…..s…..s.” Peter suddenly felt ill.

Blackout.

An explosion.

Peter Pidgeons opened his eyes. He was lying on his back on the floor, wrapped in smoke and orange flickering light. His ears were ringing. Ringing—noise—chaos—

Screams.

Spirals of black smoke billowed above him. He couldn’t see the ceiling—he couldn’t even sit up. He didn’t know where he was. He tried to breathe—the air was acrid—his lungs burned.

He tried to turn onto his side—

He winced. Something on his chest stung, terribly.

He called for help. He couldn’t hear his own voice. Things around him were falling. Collapsing. Burning.

He coughed. His chest seared again. He clutched at his shirt—it wasn’t a shirt. He was wearing some sort of thick body suit. He touched his chest—and screamed. The world around him spun. “HELP!!” he cried again. The pain was unbearable. He didn’t know where to go. He didn’t know where he was. He couldn’t remember.

He squinted through the flames and pillars of black smoke. “Can anyone hear me!?” he cried. HELLO!” The building around him groaned. It was about to cave in. “SOMEBODY HELP!!!”