Extinct Doesn't Mean Forever by Phoenix Sullivan (bill gates book recommendations TXT) 📗

through a corridor all in grey, her steps muffled on the thick carpet.

The nurse led her through another set of heavy doors, swiping another card through a reader, typing something, then pressing her thumb on a glass sensor. Lots of security.

The heavy glass door opened. A tall, thin man with grey hair and a goatee gave Lucia a faint smile and opened the door wide. “Ms. Winter. I’m Dr. Andrews. Marcia notified me. Please, come in.”

He stepped inside and around a desk laden with papers and books. He walked to the other end of the long room and opened another glass door.

Hadn’t he understood her? “I was told to go to room 187—”

“That’s the code number for the project.” His voice floated back to her as they entered a dimly lit corridor.

“Those papers I need to sign—”

“They will be brought up shortly.” He walked on and she rushed to catch up. “Do you like children, Ms. Winter?”

Her chest tightened again. “Yes.” She would skin Freddy, then fry him in hot oil. Bastard. “Where are we going?”

He stopped before a glass pane. “Zeph isn’t exactly likable.”

Right. She should turn around and leave. But she hesitated. Maybe just one question, and then she’d go. “Why do you call him an angel? Is he winged or something?” She’d been wondering about that, how different he would be, in what ways. It could be some genetic deviation, maybe due to interbreeding.

Dr. Andrews touched a spot on the panel, activating a window of transparent glass. He peered inside, and his hand hovered next to his face. “You are aware that humans and chimpanzees share 99 percent of their DNA.” He didn’t wait for her acknowledgment, which was annoying. “With this being, this angel, we share even more. He isn’t an abnormal human, if that’s what you’re thinking. He simply belongs to a different branch of the human family.”

A thrill went through her. “Another branch of modern humans? That would make huge headlines. Why say he’s an angel then? Why not tell the truth?”

“Ms. Winter, his DNA has certain … particularities.”

“Particularities. Like what?”

“I don’t know if you’d believe me.”

She shook her head, losing patience. “Listen, I wish you luck with your research, but I’ve got precious little time. Where are the papers? What are we doing here?”

He threw her a sidelong glance, a sheepish grin on his face. “Ms. Winter, Zeph is … difficult.”

“Many children are.” But she didn’t turn to go. She nodded at the window. “Is he in there?”

“Yes.”

Damn it. “I knew it.” Still, she didn’t move to leave.

He turned his attention back to the window. “Zeph isn’t like other children.”

“What’s his problem then?”

“He hasn’t become attached to any of his caretakers. Not even to me.” He sounded wistful. Interesting. It looked like he’d come to care for the boy. “He never speaks. He’s clever and learns fast, but—”

“Not deaf, I assume.”

“No.”

“Autistic?”

He shook his head.

“Atypical autism then?Some syndrome or other?” Sam had some of the symptoms. They’d thought…

“Unlikely. Mild depression was the diagnosis.” Dr. Andrews stroked his goatee. “Certain of his genes have led us to consider that perhaps Zeph’s kind can recognize DNA from the same genetic pool — their relatives — through smell or some other sense we haven’t yet identified. It appears he just realized that there’s nobody around that he can call family. He realized he’s alone.”

God. “What are you going to do? He’s the only one of his kind, isn’t he?”

“That is correct.” Dr. Andrews rubbed a hand over his face. “Ms. Winter, meet Zeph.” He motioned her to the window.

The little boy sat on the floor of a large room with colorful paintings on the walls. His chequered shirt was wrinkled and clashed with his plain brown shorts.

She blinked, her body paralyzed. His hair was a pure white, cut short and spiky. He held a small book in one hand, and rubbed his hip with the other as he knelt in the middle of the room. The harsh light of overhead lamps cast his small face in serious lines, and his lashes cast long shadows on his rounded cheeks.

Six. He was as old as Sam would be. As young as Sam was.

Damn her curiosity, damn her for staying. She knew she had to get out of there before she began to weep. She trailed her fingers on the glass.

The boy raised his head and looked straight at her. His eyes were dark and intense, his mouth a small, soft circle. God, he looked so much like Sam — his eyes, the dimples in his cheeks, the straight brows. “He’s just —” Her voice cracked. “Just a normal kid.”

“With all due respect, Ms. Winter,” Dr. Andrews shoved his hands into his pockets, and chewed on his lower lip, “he surely isn’t. Appearances can be deceiving.”

She leaned her forehead on the cool glass, feeling the floor tilt. The boy never moved. “Can he see us through the glass?”

“No.”

She swallowed hard, licked her lips, tasted her waxy lipstick. “What makes him different?”

“Many of his major bones are hollow with criss-crossing trusses. It gives him a light skeleton, like that of gliding birds.” He raised one hand to rub his forehead. “More fragile, true, but lightweight. And he has air sacs.”

“Like a bird?” She wanted to laugh but the boy’s strangely serious gaze sent chills down her back.

“Yes. Air sacs,” he made a circular gesture, “in his chest. Makes for very effective breathing. They function like bellows, and they store air as well. Birds have them as well.”

Mind going in circles, she returned her gaze to the glass, and gasped. She took a wobbly step back. The boy stood so close to her, only the glass pane separating them. When had he risen and walked there? That had been damn fast. She lowered herself, sitting on her heels. His rapid breathing fogged a perfect circle between them. “What is he doing?”

“He has probably sensed us.”

She took a deep breath. “Isn’t the room sealed?”

“Yes, it is. Yet he always knows when someone is