“Dylan Anderson please report to the Dean of Genetic Research.” a woman’s voice blared from the loudspeaker overhead.

I looked up from the slide I was reviewing to see a crowd of students staring in my direction. A murmur passed through the class. Again the voice blared, “Dylan Anderson please report to the Dean of Genetic Research.” The Dean of Genetic Research and Development was arguably the most powerful person at GeneTech Institute. There were very few reasons to be called to their office and of those that might apply to me, I couldn’t think of any that were good.

My professor’s voice cut through the murmuring students, “Mr. Anderson, I’ll appoint you lab time to pick up where you left off. I suggest you move quickly, before your peers are further distracted.” The sting of the last few words crept into the collective conscious of the class and they quieted down as I made my way to the door, thoughts racing.

Could the GTS have gotten out? Had someone noticed Priscilla’s or Britta’s growth? It didn’t seem likely. Britta had been cooped up in her room for days and Priscilla was on enough meds to tranquilize a horse. Then again, Priscilla lived in a sorority. There was no telling who might run into her and blab to the administration. I plodded across campus, buying time to ransack my memory for some clue as to where I had slipped up. Maybe when I made a growth serum for a crazy sorority co-ed I’d known for less than twenty four hours? True, but not helpful right now, I thought grimly. Nothing that made any sense came to mind by the time I found myself standing in the reception area for the academic council. The secretary didn’t look up from his game of angry birds and said, “Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m Dylan Anderson,” I replied.

That got his attention. “Oh,” he said, looking up. “Third door down the hall on the right. Don’t keep Ms. Stratus waiting, she has already buzzed twice asking about you.”

“Thanks,” I said through a grimace. The secretary notified her of my arrival as I walked by.

I came at the end of the hall and stopped in front of her door. In big block letters It read: Jessica Stratus - Dean of Genetic Research & Development. Hesitantly, I knocked.

“Enter,” a woman’s voice called and I obeyed. 

The wall’s were dense with framed certificates and pictures of important people shoulder to shoulder with a fiery haired woman whose age was difficult to guess. She had a stately look about her that seemed suitable to her role. From behind an imposing wooden desk in the center of the room her eyes bore into mine like drills. “Come, sit,” she said with warmth equal to what one might offer an untrustworthy mutt. I sat down and focused on an area of spartan white carpet between my feet. 

“You have caused me a great deal of headaches the last couple days,” she began in a clipped British accent. “But know that I only want what is best for your future. That is what you want as well, correct?”

Her vague assertion did little to ease my concerns. “Yes,” I replied tensely.

“Good, because its important you understand what a serious impact this is going to have on that future. I have reviewed your application and your science submission in some detail. Your scholarships are well deserved and it is clear to me that you have tremendous passion for what we teach here at GeneTech.”

“I do.” I agreed with soft ferocity.

“Which is why it pains me to remove you from GeneTech’s standard curriculum.”

My throat tightened. They had found out, I didn’t know how but it didn’t matter. The greatest year of my life hadn’t survived a month. I swallowed bile and said, “I see.”

With a fresh brightness in her voice Ms. Stratus said, “I thought you might see it my way. Greatness is built on strong foundations, which is why having you participate in a collaborative study this early would be a huge mistake. I have been fighting to keep you in standard undergraduate studies but our corporate partner insists that your expertise is indispensable on this project.”

I met her frank stare with naked confusion. “What?” I said.

Her eyebrows raised. “They haven’t contacted you?” she scoffed. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. This has been a fiasco from the start.” She slid open a desk drawer and extracted a manila folder fat with paper. “Normally, the administration is notified of research opportunities well in advance of the semester. That way we are able to assist in selecting the ideal candidate for the work-study program. But this,” she shoved the folder onto the desk in front of me. “Was dropped on me at the last minute.”

With trembling hands I peeled back the cover and revealed the letterhead of Fempire Unlimited. I took a deep breath to steady my hands and began leafing through the pamphlet. It was an FDA approved human trial. Sweat beaded on my brow, and I tugged at my collar to relieve the tightness in my throat that had returned with a vengeance.

“You look surprised, but you have to understand that due to security concerns a copy of this information cannot be allowed off of secure servers. Don’t worry though, that isn’t real paper- we use an acrylic fiber for printing. GeneTech Institute is well funded, but we aren’t printing money here,” she said and laughed uproariously at her flimsy joke. 

What the document was printed on was the last thing on my mind, its contents were what concerned me. The trial was for GTS. There was no way they could have obtained so much information on GTS without accessing my personal computer, and if they had done that then it was all over. They had the leverage to do anything they wanted with me. I feverishly scanned the pages, desperate to find a light in the darkness. And then, on a formula covered page, I found something.

The recipe they had for GTS was the first version. They must have pulled it from the computers in the lab beneath Phi Kappa Fum. Without my recent changes there was no way they could verify that I had been tampering with human DNA. The first version required the target organism to be in a pubescent or ‘growth’ state. It didn’t contain any of the modified, and highly illegal, DNA from Priscilla. I heaved a sigh of relief.

“Now, I have done my part to dissuade them from forcing a freshman into a program they are not ready for, but ultimately the decision lies with you, Dylan,” Ms. Stratus said earnestly. “

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m still trying to take all of this in.”

“Of course,” she replied sympathetically, “This is a big decision. It is smart to take your time and think it over.”

“Can I take this with me?” I asked hopefully, hefting the folder. 

Ms. Stratus’s lips drew into thin line and she said, “I suppose I can get another copy from our partner.” Reaching into her desk again she extracted something that looked like an ipod attached to a big plastic paper clip. She fastened it to the folder. “Are you familiar with these?” she asked and I shook my head. “This device will track and secure that document. Taking it outside campus is a felony corporate privacy violation as is attempting to copy or reproduce it in any way. There is mono-filament in the pages that will notify the clip if any go missing from the folder. Also, while I doubt you’re the kind of student who would, don’t bother trying to photocopy or make digital images of any materials- that paper is designed to interfere with those devices. The clip can be used to track the document if you misplace it. If you misplace the clip contact me immediately. I recommend you don’t let any of it out your sight. Understood?”

“I think so,” I replied. It was difficult to believe there was so much secrecy surrounding this research project when Priscilla had handed me a digital version of one of Fempire’s completed projects less than two week’s earlier. Then again, she was the president’s daughter. 

“Good. Sorry to be short with you, but I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes so you’ll have to excuse me,” she said and turned to her computer. 

I departed with far greater haste than I arrived with. The potential of conducting a sanctioned human trial with a formula I had developed was staggering. It was everything I had ever dreamed of. Given enough time I could create a serum that wouldn’t require metahuman DNA like Priscilla’s. A pure formula to help people like me reach their true genetic potential and free them from nature’s freakish penchant for chance.

Maybe I could even use the project to cover up what had already happened with Britta and Priscilla. The thought stopped me in my tracks. That was it. Fempire was covering for Priscilla’s blunder. They didn’t want my ‘indispensible’ genius, they wanted plausible deniability for Priscilla’s sudden growth. I clenched my fists until it felt like my nails might draw blood. 

Could I walk away? What would happen then? The trials would continue without me, I realized. They could use the foundation I’d built to complete a formula of their own. The noble pursuit of genetic justice would be perverted to Fempire’s amoral ends. No, I wasn’t about to let that happen. 

GTS was mine.