ARC10

Chapter 13.3

When we step into the sterile environment, the bile rises. Without question or ceremony, we are led into another one of the ugly rooms with the sharp-tasting air. I don't even bother sitting before my blood is drawn and the results are read.

"Negative again," the Maroon Coat says, frustration evident in his voice. "We made sure we used the brand new one on you this time. But still, let me have a go at the other arm."

I sit for the barrage of two more withdrawals after the first one. My heart can't fathom a reaction, so it stays dormant, beating, pumping blood, and otherwise avoiding any emotional ruptures. Dean stews at my side. For some reason, even though I was sure, completely positive, one hundred percent in understanding that this was it, there's nothing.

More Coats enter, they observe the machine, take some readings of my vital signs, Dean's vital signs, and come to the enormous conclusion that we need one more shot.

"You both have been cleared as fertile and extensively compatible matches. There is no scientific or logical reasoning behind your inability to conceive."

I point to Dean's pants. "Drop 'em."

He scowls at me while addressing the team with their hands in their maroon pockets. "I don't think I understand. Are we the only couple this has happened to?"

The main Maroon Coat the rest have been orbiting observes Dean over the rim of his thin, silver-framed glasses. He raises a single bushy, blond eyebrow. "Pardon my boldness, but what do you think 'one-hundred-percent success' means, Captain?"

Worry and frustration mar Dean's features. We have a window, a tiny window in which to actually make this whole contract not interfere with the precarious position we've found ourselves in.

"There is another option." The medic interrupts our silent, shared panic. "It's new technology, still in its experimental phase. We envisioned it for victims of this exact scenario."

We listen intently.

"The process itself is archaic—we'll need specimen from both biological contributors to form an embryo. Once we have the required materials, we create the embryos and return them to the host uterus."

We both sit in shock.

"That's possible?" My nails dig into my palms. They could have made this thing somewhere else a long time ago, and they didn't. I clench my fists.

"There's a chance the embryos won't—"

I blanche. "Wait, you keep saying embryos as in plural."

"Traditionally, Captain Lorn, a few embryos are created to increase the chance of at least one attaching."

"What if they all stick?"

"Our research shows that that has been a very realistic scenario. Multiples are normal for our outcomes regardless. Our rate of twins from conception with our fertility booster has nearly doubled in the last five years."

"I can't carry more than one at a time." What can we say to back out of this without explaining exactly why having multiples inside of my very active-duty body would be the worst option?

"It's very possible, Captain. In fact, the female body is a wonderfully strong piece of equipment that can withstand a spectrum of critical ordeals. From high pain tolerance, perpetual maintenance, and coping mechanisms beyond any of our comprehension, it's, in essence, a perfect machine."

I stare at him but can't correct him as he still has about eleven months before he finds out what this particular machine is up against.

"Sir—" Dean clears his throat.