The chair waited in a room that looked more like an operating theater than a laboratory. Medical equipment surrounded it. Quantum computers hummed with energy that made my teeth ache. Cables snaked across the floor like technological serpents waiting to strike.
The boy sat in his wheelchair beside the chair. Seventeen tubes connected him to life support. His skin was pale. Almost translucent. The genetic conditions were killing this body faster than previous iterations.
"You came," he said. His voice carried surprise. "I calculated sixty-three percent probability you would refuse. That Dr. Marcus Chen would convince you noble sacrifice was preferable to pragmatic cooperation."
"Your father wants you dead."
"My father wants the son he remembers back. That son died eight years ago when q
