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Replication: The Jason Experiment

By Jill Williamson

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Martyr stared at the equation on the whiteboard and set his pencil down. He didn’t feel like practicing math today. What did math matter when his expiration date was so near?

His wrist still throbbed from Fido’s teeth. Martyr touched the strip of fabric he’d ripped from his bedsheet and tied around his wrist to stop the bleeding. He hoped the wound would heal before a doctor noticed it. A trip upstairs to mend it would be unpleasant, as the doctor would likely use the opportunity to perform tests. Martyr shuddered.

To distract himself, he glanced at the other boys. Every Jason in the classroom except Speedy and Hummer scribbled down the numbers from the whiteboard. Speedy sketched Dr. Max’s profile, staring at the doctor with intense concentration. His hand darted over the paper, shading the dark face with a short, black beard.
Hummer—as always—hummed and rocked back and forth, hugging himself. Martyr never understood why the doctors made Hummer take classes instead of putting him in with the brokens. Perhaps it had to do with Hummer’s being so much older than the other brokens, or the fact that he could walk and didn’t need special medications.

Movement at the back of the room caught Martyr’s attention, and he twisted around to get a better look. Dr. Kane stood outside the locked door, looking in through the square window. A stranger wearing glasses stood beside him, much shorter and a little rounder than Dr. Kane. The man’s head was also shaven like Martyr’s, but the way he carried himself next to Dr. Kane showed he was nothing like a clone. Martyr’s pulse increased. There hadn’t been a new doctor on the Farm in a long time.

Dr. Kane opened the door, and both men stepped inside. Martyr gasped. The new doctor wore color! A narrow strip of fabric ran from his neck to his waist. Martyr jumped up from his desk and headed for the stranger.

“J:3:3!” Dr. Max’s tone slowed Martyr’s steps. “One mark. Take your seat immediately.”

Yes, but one mark was not so bad. Martyr quickened his pace. If I could just touch the strip once …

Dr. Kane shooed the new doctor back into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him. Desperate, and knowing the door would lock once it closed all the way, Martyr stepped into the shrinking exit. The door slammed against his bare foot, and a sharp pain shot through his ankle. He winced and wedged his torso into the crack.

He was met by Dr. Kane’s hand pressing against his chest. “J:3:3, return to your seat this instant. Two marks.”

But the color on the new doctor was too tempting.

Something indescribable stirred inside Martyr. “He has color, Dr. Kane.” He tried to remember the word—like carrots, like the caps on the doctors’ needles, like the slide. “It’s orange!”

Martyr pushed the rest of his body through the doorway, and Dr. Kane moved with him, keeping his imposing form between Martyr and the new doctor—the same way Martyr did when a Jason picked on Baby or another broken.

Chair legs scraped against the floor, and the Section Five math class rushed from their seats. With a quick glance that seemed to hint more marks were coming, Dr. Kane reached around Martyr and yanked the door shut before any other Jason could escape, leaving Martyr in the hall with the doctors.

Identical faces filled the square window, but Martyr could barely hear the Jasons inside. The silence in the hallway seemed to heighten the severity of Martyr’s actions. He glanced from Dr. Kane’s stern expression to the new doctor, to the strip of orange color.

The man stepped back, face pale, eyes wide and slightly magnified through his thick glasses. He clutched the orange fabric with both hands as if trying to hide it. “Wh-What does he want?”

Dr. Kane rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “It’s my fault, Dr. Goyer. It’s been so long since I hired someone. Years ago we stopped allowing any adornments below level one. They were a danger to the doctor wearing them. Plus, the boys don’t encounter much color down here. It causes problems, as you can see.” Dr. Kane turned to Martyr with a tight smile. “J:3:3 is harmless, though.”

Dr. Kane’s casual tone emboldened Martyr to carry out his plan. He reached out for the orange color, exhaling a shaky breath when the doctor allowed him to touch the fabric. It was smooth, softer than his clothes or his sheets or the towels in the shower room. A napkin, perhaps? Maybe it hung there so the doctor could wipe his mouth after eating. “What’s it for?”

The new doctor tugged the orange fabric from Martyr’s grip. “It’s a tie.”

“Enough questions, J:3:3,” Dr. Kane said.

Martyr cocked his head to the side. “A napkin tie?”

“Three marks, J:3:3. Back against the wall, or it’ll be four,” Dr. Kane’s deep voice warned.

Martyr inched back and glanced down the hallway. Rolo jogged toward them, clutching his stick at his side, his large body bouncing with every step. Johnson, the other day guard, loped along behind.

Martyr fell to the ground and immediately wrapped himself into a ball, covering his head with his arms. His curiosity had gotten him in trouble again. Three marks meant three hours of lab time. All to touch the orange napkin tie.
It had been worth it.

“What’s he doing?” the man named Dr. Goyer asked.

Rolo and Johnson’s footsteps on the concrete floor drowned out Dr. Kane’s answer.

Rolo jabbed the stick between Martyr’s ribs. “What’s up, Martyr?” Another jab. Rolo liked when the Jasons fought back. “Getting into mischief again?”

Johnson’s familiar crushing grip pried Martyr’s arm away from his face, despite Martyr’s efforts to keep it there.

Rolo stopped poking long enough to whack Martyr on the head, sending a throbbing ache through his skull. “Get up, boy.”

Martyr complied as best he could with the stick still poking his side. He hoped the stinger wouldn’t engage.

Rolo grabbed Martyr’s other arm, and Martyr bit back a groan as the guards dragged him up and pushed him against the wall.

Rolo slid his stick under Martyr’s chin and pressed up, forcing Martyr to look at him. “See, now? We’re not so awful, are we?” Rolo’s eyes were clear and cold. Martyr knew it was best to nod.

Johnson smirked at Martyr over Rolo’s shoulder. Johnson had thick brown hair, a bushy brown beard, and a mustache. The boys were not allowed beards or mustaches or hair. They visited the groomers once a week to be shaved—to keep from looking like Johnson.

“These are our day guards,” Dr. Kane said. “Robert Lohan, known as Rolo to the boys, and Dale Johnson. Men, this is Dr. Goyer. He’ll be starting next week.”

“Was it necessary to strike him?” Dr. Goyer asked Rolo. “He wasn’t being violent.”

Martyr looked from Dr. Kane to Rolo, then to Rolo’s stick. Rolo always used his stick. Most of the time it wasn’t necessary.

Rolo snorted, like Dr. Max sometimes did when one of the boys asked an ignorant question. He tightened his grip on Martyr’s wrists.

“The guards know how to keep the boys in order,” Dr. Kane said. “I don’t question their methods.”

“But why sticks?” Dr. Goyer asked. “Why not something more effective? A taser?”

“We use tasers if things get too far.” Johnson bent down and snagged up Martyr’s pant leg, revealing the stinger ring on his ankle. “They’re remote controlled, and each has its own code. Lee, up in surveillance can turn each one on manually or in a group. If the boys gang up on us and manage to swipe our weapons, the tasers knock ’em flat in a hurry.”

Dr. Kane put his hand on Martyr’s shoulder and squeezed. “But J:3:3 doesn’t cause those kinds of problems. He sometimes gets a little excited, that’s all. Take him up to Dr. Goyer’s office, Robert.” He turned to Dr. Goyer. “This will give you a chance to try our marks procedure and get to know one of our subjects.”

Martyr eyed Dr. Goyer. Would the new doctor be angry that he had touched the orange napkin tie? Would the marks be miserably painful?

“What do I do with him?” Dr. Goyer asked.

The guards pushed Martyr toward the elevator, and he struggled to look over his shoulder at the new doctor.

Dr. Kane’s answer made Martyr shiver. “Whatever you want.”

* * *

End of excerpt, not chapter.

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