Spectrum - A Science Fiction Short Story

Wednesday 26th April

Two sleeps into my new surroundings and I was already beginning to brighten at the prospects. I had living quarters on the west wing of the floor with the other women. The room was bright, if not spacious. It was smaller than advertised but more comfortable than a pissy mattress that clawed at your back for attention. The first two days were all about orienteering. There was a matron type that hovered in the background, but she wasn't needed. After all, we were all adults and well adjusted. Well, most of us were.

The other women that I met during social hours, which was 10am-6pm, were like me. Broken childhoods, addiction problems, on the fringe of society and suffering from some degree of mental trauma. Some had been there for weeks. One, I found out, had been living in the compound for two years. She was a bit scatty, but the gist of what I got was that she was happy to donate her body for medical research – vital funds to help pay for her teenage daughter's college tuition. When I probed deeper to understand why she would sacrifice two years of her life without seeing her daughter, she remained unmoved, "she's gonna get the life I never had."

I hadn't started any of the medical tests yet. The matron, a kind doughy sort with squeaky shoes, visited each dorm room after dinner. Lights out happened at around 10pm, although there were no clocks. All watches were taken before we settled into our new surroundings.

The men were located on the east wing. The only interaction we had with them was for an hour each day, shortly after lunch when we were able to go up onto the rooftop. If the women were odd, the men were even worse. They clustered to one side of the walled perimeter, shaded from the sun and spent the hour that we had talking among themselves. The women had the rest of the block to roam in the sun's rays. Sun worshippers seized the opportunity to top up their tan. Those suffering from a little bit of cabin fever, jogged the perimeter, giving the men a wide berth.

Me? For that first couple of days on the roof, I sat and watched. I didn't go out of my way to impress or impose myself on anyone. I was happy to acclimatise, and clear my mind though it wasn't easy. Without booze or cigarettes, I was already beginning to withdraw hard. I half expected some contraband to be floating around. But this wasn't a prison and I wasn't a prisoner.

On the second day, I was getting some glances from the men. I could feel their stares on me, the newbie. Fresh meat. Cameras supervised us from the four corners of the high walls that enclosed us. I didn't doubt that we were all being watched. Why and for what purpose, I didn't know. Perhaps it was the reason that the men kept their distance. Not wanting to act on their impulse.

That was also the day they I met Jill. She actually hit on me that first time on the rooftop. My monosyllabic grunts must have suggested to her that I was in the 'playing-hard-to-get' camp. It wasn't obvious to me then that she was a lesbian. I've seen some of the girl's flip personality after a round of meds. Jill was one of them. We would call her Jill Jekyll. Her alter-ego was a sex crazed, short-fused bitch who aroused herself by rubbing her crotch against table edges and seat backs when matron wasn't looking. She had sleeves of tattoos, which I couldn't help noticing, again something she probably confused as interest on my part.

We had our choice of clothing. Our original clothes and possessions were taken on entry. They provided the bare essentials. It wasn't exactly spa treatment but a bed, clean clothes (the dazzling choice of either grey, charcoal or white) and cooked meals were worth the sacrifice considering the money on offer.

A few of the names I learned in those opening days hadn't been there very long. Margareth, a Guatemalan immigrant who was one paycheque from the street when Philip visited her housing estate. Deeply religious, she considered him to be a messenger from God. Then there was Maribel, a young turgid Latina with a scarred forehead. She was found in a soup kitchen, filling up her tank before hitting the streets to find a drunk, loaded customer. There was Stacey, a divorcee - three times over. She rocked bleached hair from an eighties rock music video. Her black roots bit into her skull. She looked like she had gone on one of those crash diets and lost a massive amount of weight in a short space of time. Despite that I could tell when I saw her on that second day, she might be fun to get to know. Whenever she came back up for air after rabbiting on to her friend, I'd watch her grind her teeth and see it pass across her eyes – the grip of addiction.

We all shared one thing. We didn't have a pot to piss in and needed the cash. I learned quickly that we weren't all assigned to the same medical program. Jekyll had been trying a new form of contraceptive pill. They didn't tell her what was in it, or what improvements they had hoped to make to the existing one. But she was fair game. More than happy to donate her ovaries to science – "Not like I'll be expecting kids anytime soon," she told me, which again should have made me twig that she was a lesbian. She was happy to dance along to their tune for the tidy sum of $800. Not bad for a month's work.

Margareth, who spoke very little English and needed one of the other girls to translate, had signed herself into a program for a new type of moisturiser and body lotion. That day had actually been the first she had been applying it to her skin and when we were called back inside, I walked behind and noticed she had broken out in a rash of angry hives on her neck.

Maribel was sold the dream ticket of fat loss pills. She was delighted with her choice – something she might have paid for voluntarily if she had the cash. She was keen to get started and the princely sum of $200 for a week's work wasn't too shabby, considering she'd be sitting on her ass.

Stacey went one step further. She seemed to be suffering the most, at least that was the impression I got from the two days we had been together at that point. She was receiving intravenous shots of a liquid drug that had the catchy title of 'Profofil-Z14-TL'. Marketing team might have their work cut out with that one. She was getting $1400 for a six-week residence, with around the clock supervision and plenty of tests – blood, urine, you name it.

That was also the day when I found out what BioLuminary had in store for me. They had a chance to assess my condition and results showed that I was an ideal candidate for two programs. It was Philip who explained them to me. I hadn't seen him since the induction and he came to the top floor and took me through a couple of electronically locked doors until we found a little unoccupied office off the corridor. It was the first time I had left the little habitat.

He said that it was part of the terms of the contract that the patients be kept in a secure environment. They couldn't allow any outside variables to interfere with the results of the tests. He presented the two programs like he was a travel agent selling a packaged holiday. The smug smile was still there, and the buzz words rolled off his tongue.

The first option was a tanning lotion. It had a potent ingredient sourced from the sweat of a frog from the Amazon, designed to protect the skin but magnify the effects of bronzing. He didn't explain it quite like that but that's the translation I heard. I'm not fond of the sun. I've spent most of my life trying to avoid beaches. I can't think of a worse combination than sand and sun lotion. Actually, that's a lie. I once had Absinthe and root beer as a mixer.

The second option, I knew I was going to take. He led with the money shot. $1500 which got my attention. It might also have whacked my bullshit detector because I soon found myself nodding along as he described the study, one that apparently fit my exact profile type. Someone that was 18-30, in relatively good health and with vision that was less than 2020. He went on to explain that tests revealed that I was marginally near-sighted. Something that I probably hadn't noticed until now, but could later affect my life if it wasn't corrected.

The procedure included two steps. The first was to administer eye-drops to the volunteer, a new organic chemical which had been lab tested and successful in early trials to correct the anomaly. If that wasn't successful, a second and final step would be used – a small surgical procedure which would take seconds to perform, aligning the sight to its proper state.

I was still thinking about how I was going to spend the $1500 and had zoned out. The two-week stay that was required seemed worth the investment given the money on offer. However, it was the word 'surgical' that managed to hook me back into the game. Philip was quick to stress that it was the worst case scenario, which actually wasn't all bad. It would be like laser eye surgery, something that would improve my life – "We'll be paying you to let us fix your eyes."

No brainer right?