Choices. That’s what made a man. Wasn’t it?
Marlowe strolled over to the model and busied himself with perfecting the alignment of the buildings. “In the laboratory, we could study you. Study your blood. Run you through a conditioning program and a battery of tests.”
“And what would I get out of it?”
Marlowe frowned at a Winged Victory statue that was seemingly out of place. He picked it up and the angel hovered over the model fairgrounds as its creator searched for a spot to place it. “We’ll fine-tune to make sure that you don’t ever suffer the same fate as the others in the Daedalus program. You won’t end up like your friend Sergeant Lester.”
“Leonard. Sergeant Leonard.”
“Right,” Marlowe said. “Of course. Sergeant Leonard.”
“But so far, I’ve done fine with just the serum.”
“Indeed. You’ve done just fine. But what if you could do more than fine, Jericho? What if you had the chance to be extraordinary? Exceptional. The sort of extraordinary, exceptional man Miss O’Neill couldn’t resist.” Marlowe’s eyes gleamed. “I assumed when you mentioned her there was a reason.”
Jericho didn’t answer.
“When you stand on the stage at the exhibition and demonstrate how superior you are, there won’t be a girl in this world you can’t have. That’s the law of the animal kingdom: The stronger beast wins out,” Marlowe said, placing the Victory statue in the center of the model.
Jericho glowered. “I’m not a beast.”
“Now, now, don’t get sore. I mean it as a compliment.”
“I don’t want to be your exhibit. I only want to have a normal life.”
“Normal!” Marlowe thundered. He loomed over the table. “No man worth his salt wants to be ‘normal,’ Jericho. Be remarkable! Aim high. After all, do you honestly believe that your young lady wants a normal, ordinary life? Not from what I’ve seen. How funny that she’s Will’s niece. They’re as different as chalk and cheese.”
“Like you and me,” Jericho snapped.
“Am I really so repugnant to you?” Marlowe said quietly.
He was hurt, Jericho realized with a mixture of pride and shame.
“It’s… it’s not that I’m not grateful for what you’ve done for me. Sir.”
“It’s not your gratitude I want, Jericho,” Marlowe said. “I remember the first time I saw you, lying on that bed in the hospital. You didn’t cry, and you didn’t complain. They told me you were smart and that you liked to read, particularly about philosophy and machines—you’d gained an interest in helping your father fix things around the farm. And I asked you a question to start us off. Do you remember?”
Jericho did remember. It was the morning that he’d truly realized the full, intractable horror of his situation. For an hour, he’d stared at the ceiling, fighting desperately to hold on to his thinning hope in miracles. But as he listened to the moans and cries of those around him, he understood that hope was not a construct of faith meant to bring man closer to God but one of denial and delusion meant to keep him from accepting that God did not exist. He wondered if he stopped eating, if he let himself slip away, if that could be considered suicide, which he’d been taught was a sin.
But was it a sin if there was no God?
He’d heard the tap-tap of shoes coming closer. He could have turned his head to see, but he continued staring at the ceiling. Suddenly, the smiling nurse was standing beside his paralyzed body, saying, “There’s someone here to see you, Jericho.” Jake Marlowe’s face loomed above his, blocking the light.
“Hello, Jericho,” Jake Marlowe had said.
Jericho hadn’t answered.
“Now, Jericho, where are your manners? Mr. Marlowe has come all the way from Washington to see you,” the nurse tsked, and Jericho imagined her falling off a cliff.
He still didn’t say hello.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Marlowe,” the nurse said. “He’s not usually so disagreeable.”
“That’s all right, Miss Portman. Could you leave us for a moment?”