GREEN [complete]

CHAPTER 09: Mars

Jones stepped around the gore stain that marred her white, white floors. What was left of the prey was bundled in a black bag near the door, waiting to be collected by one of the janitors. Mars nestled in a contended coil in the corner of his cage. His exhaustion had returned, and his jaw hurt—in fact, his whole face hurt—but he was fed and he was happy.

He would thank Thompson later.

"C9M, you've done well," Jones said, pulling a stool up to his cage. "You've done very well."

Mars opened his eyes and said nothing.

"The investors gave us enough to keep the program running another six months." She let her excitement dangle in front of him and waited for him to respond. She expected him to share it, but six months was not a long time—not when Mars's life was 'the program'. He wanted than six months. When he didn't answer, she prompted, "Isn't that excellent news?"

The muscles in Mars's jaw tried to tense, but the ache won. "Yes," he signed.

"And," she said, "that's only half of it. Do you know what that means?"

"A year?"

"Yes." Then she repeated, "You've done very well." Jones smiled down on him with a kind of pride that made him feel warmer than the heat lamps ever could.
Mars shifted closer to her, moving slowly across the cage and up to the glass wall she sat next to. He lifted himself up, high enough that they were eye-to-eye—probably. It was difficult for him to pinpoint just where her eyes were in the blur that was her face.

Jones pulled a blocky object out of the bag that sat next to her. Mars knew what it was immediately: another book. A gift for him, for having appeased her when the investors came. "You brought me another book!" He motioned broadly, using all four of his hands in his excitement.

"I did." She flipped open a small window in the cage, just big enough to fit a hand (or a book) through. She offered it to him, and Mars accepted eagerly, all but forgetting his discomforts. "Unfortunately," she said, closing the window again, "I do have some bad news."

Mars, reluctantly, tore his attention away from his book and focused on her again. "Bad news?"

Jones folded her hands in her lap. "The second half of the investors' money ... it will only be delivered when they are able to see our success—your success." Her voice was level, her heartbeat was steady, her emotions were in check. This news wasn't hard for her.

"What ... does that mean?" Mars asked, gripping his book a little tighter.

"That means we need to accelerate the next round of trials." Her hands shifted, fingers knotting together, unknotting, then knotting again. "The first will be in two weeks."

Mars recoiled. Two weeks? It had only been a month since the last round was completed. He needed more time. "I'm not ready."

"I know, C9M," she said softly, "I know. But this is important. We need that money if we are going to continue the program ... and you know it's so much more important than that, don't you?"

Mars looked across the room, to the vials filled with neon green on the lab bench. Even with his poor eyesight, he could see them across the room. They glowed hotter than anything else in the room, and he could taste the poison they emitted. He gingerly touched his neck. The last round of trials nearly killed him.
"Why did you tell them I am immune?" He was gentle with his words, he didn't want her to think he was challenging her. He didn't want to upset her.

"You are now. I'm confident in the alterations Warren made to your code." Emotion flecked her composure. She drew a breath that shook so hard Mars thought she might rattle herself apart. "And if you're not? They don't have to know that. You'll still be alive."

Mars shrank down, wrapping himself into the comfort of his coil. "I don't want to hurt anymore," he said with small movements. He clutched his book tight to his chest.

Jones stood from her stool and stepped closer to the cage. She knelt in front of him, reaching out to lay her palm against the glass. "It'll only be a little longer, C9M. I promise." Mars didn't like the smile that drifted across her face; it was a sad thing, one that promised that yes, it would only be a little longer ... but maybe not for the reasons she implied.

An alarm went off in Jones's pocket, startling Mars back and shaking through his rattle. Jones pulled her phone out, tapping the screen to silence the alarm. "I'm sorry, but I have an appointment." She peeled herself away from the glass and straightened.

"Two weeks?" Mars asked. He only used two of his hands, the other two were still clutching his book. It was the one thing that proved she cared about him, that she would fight to keep him alive. She wouldn't bring him books if she didn't care.

"Two weeks," she confirmed.

A sick feeling twisting deep in his stomach. Something that hurt worse than all the pain in his failing organs. He wasn't going to survive this round of trials. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew. "I don't want to die."

"I know you don't, but this is important." She was saying the same thing she had said before: this is more important than you are. "This is really important for your survival. Everyone's." Mars didn't understand. Why couldn't they have more time?

"Please ... please, can I have a little longer?" He formed each word carefully to make sure there was no way she could misinterpret it. She never had in the past, but he needed her to understand. He needed her to agree. He couldn't do another round of tests, not so soon.

Jones pursed her lips and shook her head. "We can't afford to wait. I wish we could, I really do, but we're running out of time." Her shoulders rose with a deep breath. "I wanted to wait, for you, but I don't get to make the decisions. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Mars crushed the book so hard against his chest it bit into his skin.
She didn't say another word. She left the stool where it was, collected her bag, and made her way back around the blemish on the floor. When she reached the door, she cast one final look back at him before slipping out of the lab and into the hallway. The door clicked softly behind her, leaving Mars alone.

Mars rubbed the scar that was forming from his liver transplant. He was coded to heal faster than most living organisms, but he couldn't heal his dying cells. He should have told her that his wasn't the only organ that needed replacing ... he should have told her that everything was beginning to fail. Already. The more trials they did, the faster his body gave out.

He returned to the other side of his cage and set his book aside. He wanted Dylan to come back. He'd trusted them, and they'd been nice to him. They'd called him by his name and read him their favorite books during their breaks—many of them hadn't been converted to braille.

"You're not an experiment, Mars. You're a person," they'd said.

He'd told them he wasn't a person, not really. But he didn't want to be an experiment, either. He wanted to be what Dylan saw him as: a person that deserved to do everything he wanted to do and see everything he wanted to see, even if that including eating other people.

Mars remembered how hopeful they'd been when they told him about the outside world. They described the mountains and rivers and trees beyond containment and how beautiful it all was. They assured him that the rumor that nothing survived outside of containment was a lie—there was more to the world than the government wanted its people to believe.

And Mars did want to see the world. He was afraid, but he wanted to see it. He didn't want to die.