A Frankenstein Story
Dr. Fredrich Rief removed his glasses and rubbed his red eyes, tired from another long Thursday night of lab work. Through the glass of his office he waved and forced a weak smile to the cute tour guide and her train of attentive students. There were a whole gaggle of them following her around, eagerly scribbling down notes from her memorized spiel which explained the different nanotechnologies to be seen throughout the facility. From the catwalk upon which they walked, the tour could see all of the different happenings of the laboratories. Rief was annoyed by the constant supervision by the inexpert masses of people that came through each day, and he was always worried that one of the kids would spit in the experiments. Already he was keeping his eye on a troublesome-looking straggler who seemed little interested in what the tour guide was saying about the nanofiltered water that was served from the drinking fountains there. There was nothing he could do from here though, and he was too tired besides. It had always been the policy of Longshot Technologies, Inc. that the public be kept aware at their own convenience of what was being currently developed in the name of science.
Rief looked back to the screen of his computer, which was still analyzing the countless DNA proteins and identifying those that would be harmful if spliced with a human’s. This month it had already identified over a hundred different viable traits that would safely strengthen or otherwise improve the subject to which they were applied. Anyway there was no way he was going to get any work done with the computer’s processor tied up the way it was. He rested his eyes and lay his hands on the keyboard anyway, in case the tour was watching or, worse, a supervisor. The tour guide’s voice carried faintly over the whirring of the various machines about the lab.
“To your left here you can see below you a whole tub of experimental nanorods, which are used in modern gene therapy.”
“What’s gene therapy?” asked one of the denser students.
“Gene therapy is when we introduce new DNA to a cell’s nucleus, which then reproduces and splices itself with the genes of its own accord,” explained the patient tour guide. “Nanorods are simply a method of delivering the foreign genes to the chosen cells. It is essentially a very small rod, made half of nickel and half of gold. To the nickel we attach whatever DNA we want to splice with the cell, and to the gold we bond a protein which tells the cell to absorb it. The end result is that the cell pulls in the protein, gold, nickel, and DNA into its nucleus and splices itself and replicates with the new DNA. With this technology we can help sick patients regain their physical capability and then some, or make anyone better, stronger, and faster. You’ll be able to witness this firsthand in one of the next several rooms, where we will be treating Steve Austin: astronaut, a man barely alive…”
Not a bad explanation for such an ignorant audience, thought Rief. I may have to remember that next time someone asks me what I do. What was that? His eyes shot open and he turned his head. He thought he had heard a creaking noise. Or was it more of a wrenching noise? He looked up to the catwalk to see that the straggling trouble-maker had gotten a little restless during the tour guide’s speech and had stupidly unscrewed a wing nut from the railing-- the one he had been leaning on. Now he was barely hanging on to the single rail, which had swung out over the vat of frothing nanorods. The now panicking tour guide ran off to the security desk as quickly as her heels and tight skirt would allow her, but before anything could be done, the child dropped, sending a sheet of technology all over the Doctor’s window. Rief ran to the scrub room to get his gloves to fetch the child out of the cauldron, cursing to himself the entire way. By the time he had returned, the rather scared-looking child had climbed his own way out, and was on all fours trying to blow the nanotechnology from his nose. Rief put his own labcoat over the rapscallion and led him by the shoulders as quickly as he could out of the lab, bitterly noticing that one of the other children, now without supervision, was spitting into one of the experiments beneath the catwalk. Rief was too disgusted with the troublesome child to even ask his name and through his rage all the doctor could do was violently scold the hooligan and ask what in the hell he thought he had been doing up there. Finally at their destination, Dr. Rief couldn’t even look at the now rather abashed-looking child. He said only “Stay here” as he pushed him rather brusquely into a containment chamber and closed the door.
Back at the security desk he reiterated what the tour guide had surely already told the security guards, but the men hadn’t the heart to interrupt him. Find out who he is. Call his school. Call his parents. Call the insurance company. For God’s sake don’t you dare call the supervisor until we get this mess sorted out. Don’t let the kid out.
It had been a long night and it looked to be the start of a long day, so Fredrich Rief took sick leave to sleep until it was all over. Back at his house the doctor unplugged his phone and fell onto his bed and did not rise again until noon the next day, Saturday. He kept himself busy not thinking about the accident all weekend until he walked back into work Monday morning.
Rested and only slightly nervous about the day, Dr. Rief strolled with a confident gait through the sliding glass doors to the facility and pulled out his worker’s identification card to show to the security guards at the desk. It startled him quite badly to find that there no guards were there. He began to stride purposefully down the hall to the quarantine area, his pace quickening as his anxiety grew. Panic struck the doctor when he reached the confinement chamber only to find the door swinging open with a large hole punched through it from the inside.
Shouts came from down the hall and the doctor ran in their direction, only to be stopped dead in his tracks by the shrill, bawling screech of a child, bitter from scorn and neglect, echoing through the corridors.
“Stop him!” a voice called in distress. Rief began running again, leaping over the overturned tables and trashcans that littered the hall.
“He’s too strong! Ahhhhh!” Rief felt himself becoming lightheaded, and he stumbled, steadying and pushing himself onward with the wall.
“Hurry! Shoot him! Shoot! Now!”
“I can’t, he’s just a kid!”
"SHOOT!!" Shots rang out, and then again, deafeningly loud now to the doctor. As he turned the corner he collapsed to his knees and cried out in horror. Before his eyes lay a terrifying scene of blood and gore that defied pleasant description. The now grotesquely muscular child lay on the ground, bloodied and mutilated by multiple gunshots. He had died from the only thing that had stopped him, a massive head wound that evidenced itself all over the floor about his now still cadaver. Dr. Rief cried out once more, this time in despair, before he lost consciousness and crashed to the floor in shock.
Rief looked back to the screen of his computer, which was still analyzing the countless DNA proteins and identifying those that would be harmful if spliced with a human’s. This month it had already identified over a hundred different viable traits that would safely strengthen or otherwise improve the subject to which they were applied. Anyway there was no way he was going to get any work done with the computer’s processor tied up the way it was. He rested his eyes and lay his hands on the keyboard anyway, in case the tour was watching or, worse, a supervisor. The tour guide’s voice carried faintly over the whirring of the various machines about the lab.
“To your left here you can see below you a whole tub of experimental nanorods, which are used in modern gene therapy.”
“What’s gene therapy?” asked one of the denser students.
“Gene therapy is when we introduce new DNA to a cell’s nucleus, which then reproduces and splices itself with the genes of its own accord,” explained the patient tour guide. “Nanorods are simply a method of delivering the foreign genes to the chosen cells. It is essentially a very small rod, made half of nickel and half of gold. To the nickel we attach whatever DNA we want to splice with the cell, and to the gold we bond a protein which tells the cell to absorb it. The end result is that the cell pulls in the protein, gold, nickel, and DNA into its nucleus and splices itself and replicates with the new DNA. With this technology we can help sick patients regain their physical capability and then some, or make anyone better, stronger, and faster. You’ll be able to witness this firsthand in one of the next several rooms, where we will be treating Steve Austin: astronaut, a man barely alive…”
Not a bad explanation for such an ignorant audience, thought Rief. I may have to remember that next time someone asks me what I do. What was that? His eyes shot open and he turned his head. He thought he had heard a creaking noise. Or was it more of a wrenching noise? He looked up to the catwalk to see that the straggling trouble-maker had gotten a little restless during the tour guide’s speech and had stupidly unscrewed a wing nut from the railing-- the one he had been leaning on. Now he was barely hanging on to the single rail, which had swung out over the vat of frothing nanorods. The now panicking tour guide ran off to the security desk as quickly as her heels and tight skirt would allow her, but before anything could be done, the child dropped, sending a sheet of technology all over the Doctor’s window. Rief ran to the scrub room to get his gloves to fetch the child out of the cauldron, cursing to himself the entire way. By the time he had returned, the rather scared-looking child had climbed his own way out, and was on all fours trying to blow the nanotechnology from his nose. Rief put his own labcoat over the rapscallion and led him by the shoulders as quickly as he could out of the lab, bitterly noticing that one of the other children, now without supervision, was spitting into one of the experiments beneath the catwalk. Rief was too disgusted with the troublesome child to even ask his name and through his rage all the doctor could do was violently scold the hooligan and ask what in the hell he thought he had been doing up there. Finally at their destination, Dr. Rief couldn’t even look at the now rather abashed-looking child. He said only “Stay here” as he pushed him rather brusquely into a containment chamber and closed the door.
Back at the security desk he reiterated what the tour guide had surely already told the security guards, but the men hadn’t the heart to interrupt him. Find out who he is. Call his school. Call his parents. Call the insurance company. For God’s sake don’t you dare call the supervisor until we get this mess sorted out. Don’t let the kid out.
It had been a long night and it looked to be the start of a long day, so Fredrich Rief took sick leave to sleep until it was all over. Back at his house the doctor unplugged his phone and fell onto his bed and did not rise again until noon the next day, Saturday. He kept himself busy not thinking about the accident all weekend until he walked back into work Monday morning.
Rested and only slightly nervous about the day, Dr. Rief strolled with a confident gait through the sliding glass doors to the facility and pulled out his worker’s identification card to show to the security guards at the desk. It startled him quite badly to find that there no guards were there. He began to stride purposefully down the hall to the quarantine area, his pace quickening as his anxiety grew. Panic struck the doctor when he reached the confinement chamber only to find the door swinging open with a large hole punched through it from the inside.
Shouts came from down the hall and the doctor ran in their direction, only to be stopped dead in his tracks by the shrill, bawling screech of a child, bitter from scorn and neglect, echoing through the corridors.
“Stop him!” a voice called in distress. Rief began running again, leaping over the overturned tables and trashcans that littered the hall.
“He’s too strong! Ahhhhh!” Rief felt himself becoming lightheaded, and he stumbled, steadying and pushing himself onward with the wall.
“Hurry! Shoot him! Shoot! Now!”
“I can’t, he’s just a kid!”
"SHOOT!!" Shots rang out, and then again, deafeningly loud now to the doctor. As he turned the corner he collapsed to his knees and cried out in horror. Before his eyes lay a terrifying scene of blood and gore that defied pleasant description. The now grotesquely muscular child lay on the ground, bloodied and mutilated by multiple gunshots. He had died from the only thing that had stopped him, a massive head wound that evidenced itself all over the floor about his now still cadaver. Dr. Rief cried out once more, this time in despair, before he lost consciousness and crashed to the floor in shock.