Chapter 23 #3
I clicked to open it. Inside the folder was a simple Word doc informing the reader that documents for Novagen Trial 54B were stored in the physical archives.
There was a reference to an ethics board that was dissolved after I'd pointed out numerous violations they'd turned a blind eye to.
At the bottom was a simple note indicating the specific location and which physical archive.
I closed the file and the folder. Stared at the ceiling, forcing myself to breathe. To still the panic bubbling in my chest. I copied the project code onto a sticky note and slid it into my pocket.
The file was stored here.
My phone's buzz made me jump.
I can almost smell you thinking about doing something dangerous.
I grumbled at the pendant that revealed my racing heartbeat to Quin.
I think I've found something.
Define 'something' Havoc.
Might be nothing, maybe just a typo.
Are you trying to convince me, or yourself? What does your gut say?
That it's something.
I'm not emotionally prepared for you to unleash Havoc in the lion's den.
I won't.
Why doesn't that make me feel better?
I waited until most of the building was at lunch.
I'd found the archive room the first week, but without knowing what you were looking for, it was more than a needle in a haystack, it was impossible.
It was clear no one bothered to organize the massive room.
Filing cabinets lined all four walls, leaving only space for the door.
Overhead fluorescent lights bounced off row upon row of metal racks, each one with banker boxes precariously stacked as high as they would go.
Novagen conducted an average of twenty trials a year, each one involving multiple locations and thousands of participants. Every location had its own records, as well as copies of the other locations' records.
Most everything was digital, but the paper trails were extensive. Corporate espionage, especially surrounding new and innovative therapeutic programs, was a constant threat. Not to mention participant privacy.
I started with the filing cabinets, which were at least in some sort of order.
Trials with an A label were directly to my right, so I walked down the line until I reached B.
I slid out the drawer where 54B should be but wasn't. I tried to think like an underpaid staffer confronted with a filename that didn't quite conform to the standard convention.
I wouldn't file it as usual. In a scientific setting, B54 and 54B were worlds apart. I would leave the file nearby, though. I searched through the three boxes stacked on top of the filing cabinet, but it wasn't there either.
I turned and made my way into the row of shelving, trying not to stir up a tsunami of dust as I went. Faded stickers were layered over each other in the center of each shelf—someone's attempt at labeling that was abandoned long ago. I ignored them and focused on the boxes themselves.
My heart skipped a beat when I found a box with 54B written in faded marker on the side.
The others had project names and dates, but this one was devoid of anything other than the trial number.
That in and of itself was weird. I debated what to do next.
Did I take the box back to my office? Rummage through it here?
I pulled it off the shelf, sneezing at the dust it kicked up.
There wasn't a table to set it on, and it was too heavy to think for long.
With as much confidence as I could muster, I walked back to my office.
I saw Patrick, the least friendly of the three security guards, walking toward me down the hall.
My shoulders tensed, but I pretended I didn't see him as I slid inside and set the box on the corner of my desk.
"Is that from the archives?"
I schooled my features into a semblance of annoyance before I turned around. "Yeah. I'm chasing down a labeling error. If I have to redo another report because someone can't follow compliance protocol—" I rolled my eyes.
He chuckled, and that sound startled me more than having a security guard in my office after I took something I shouldn't have from archives.
"Make them redo it."
I sighed dramatically. "I wish I could, but I'm the compliance officer so..." I shrugged.
With a grunt, a nod, and a commiserating "Good luck," he turned and left.
I sagged into my chair and willed my racing heart to calm. My phone was buzzing like an agitated hornet as a flurry of texts came in. I could guess what the messages were, and I was right.
What's going on?
Your heartbeat is all over the place. Are you okay?
Now you're breathing weird.
You have 1 minute before I send Kendal after you.
Seriously, Havoc. What's happening?
Fine. I'm on my way.
I'm fine, Quin. No cavalry needed.
The dancing dots of his writing started, stopped, started again, and then disappeared. After half a minute of waiting for a response, I set the phone down.
I flipped the lid on the box and stared at the files packed inside before taking a deep breath and diving in.
Most of them seemed ordinary: Program Overview, Study Design, Protocols, Eligibility Criteria, Baseline Characterization, Parameters, Variant Mapping, Response Profiles, and Deviation Reports.
One at the back was very abnormal and made my stomach drop. Mate-Bond Compatibility Index. I slid the folder out and laid it flat on my desk, opening it like I thought a snake would strike—or, more realistically, an alarm would sound somewhere.
Neither happened. The first page was a participant profile.
Name, date of birth, address, and various other information was listed next to a picture of a smiling woman.
On the back I found another photo—this one of the same woman, crouched in the corner of a small room, tears streaming down her face and a look of horror etched on her features.
In a section labeled 'Observations' was a paragraph that made my blood turn to ice.
Subject 001 placed in containment with asset alpha at 0800 hours.
Sedative wore off at 0821. Subject 001 was disoriented at first, but as she became aware, she immediately started crying and calling for help.
Asset Alpha retreated to the far corner of his containment cell and crouched in an apparent attempt to appear smaller.
He did attempt to speak to her, but every attempt was met with more calls for help.
Subject 001 remained in containment with Asset Alpha until 1407. No attempt to mate was made, and no signs that either party was receptive were observed.
On the next page, another woman's smiling face looked out at me. I didn't turn it over. The file was thick and I couldn't bear the thought of reading all of those women's experiences of being caged with a wyrfang.
I flipped to the very last page. Subject 432 was a smiling blonde. My hands shook as I turned her page over.
Subject 432 - Non-viable outcome
Due to a non-viable outcome rate exceeding acceptable thresholds, the program has entered strategic reorientation, with alternative pathways prioritized for subsequent validation. See trial 55B for further details.
I replaced the file in the box and carried it back to the archive room.
I hoped the box for trial 55B would be close to where I'd found 54B, but it wasn't. I checked the entire row of shelving.
Lunch was almost over and I should go back to my office and pretend to be a good worker bee, but I couldn't shake the obsession to find trial 55B.
Their first attempts at getting a wyrfang to mate with a human were unsuccessful.
Something in my gut told me that I had a page in Trial 55B's Mate-Bond Compatibility Index file.
And I was determined to find it.