What is it they say about the unexamined life? Well, I think I’ve been examining my life too goddamn much lately. Joined the Army and got married right outta high school, did three tours overseas, got divorced between the second and the third. Tried to sign up for a fourth tour, got hit with a PTSD diagnosis and an involuntary medical discharge. Back in the so-called real world, no one actually seems real. After all the futile job interviews and empty happy hours, just once I’d like to hear a genuine human voice.
Nothing human about the voices on any of the corporate radio stations that are the only thing you can get out here in darkest exurbia where my appointment was. As I drove past the endless strip malls and besieged greenbelts, I kept hopping stations until I found a steady pounding pulse to keep me focused.
I’d met with this outfit before, but at an office back in the city. The name on the building directory there said “Orbital Solutions,” so I thought it had something to do with space research, but the recruiter said, “Not that kind of orbital.” Once we got down to the paperwork, however, all the forms said “V-Labs” at the top. That’s where I was heading now, if I could find it out here in the dark.
The directions were really sketchy. I was supposed to find this public storage facility, then go to the back of the parking lot. Sure enough, an unlit access road ran from the lot through the trees for a half-mile before ending at a one-story windowless slab of a building. No signs, just one set of metal doors illuminated by a single sodium lamp.
I parked next to the other dozen cars in the lot, over half of which sported DoD permits. I eyed the tree-line warily as I walked toward the building. The doors were unlocked, but immediately inside was a serious security checkpoint manned by three armed guards, all of whom exhibited a familiar alertness as I entered.
“Hi, I’m Zack Morris,” I said amicably. “I’m looking for V-Labs?”
“Sure,” one of them said. “Just hold there a minute.” He walked around behind a desk while the other two watched me motionlessly. The first guard clicked on something and looked at a screen, then back at me. Finally he keyed his chest-mike. “Morris is on site,” he said.
He came back out in front of his desk and took a position exactly halfway between his squad-mates. “You’re good,” he said with the same mirthless smile as the others. “Just be a sec.”
“Cool,” I said, reflexively trying to match their bravado. After a few moments, however, I remembered how fatiguing it was to keep up that face, and I stared blankly through the bulletproof glass door.
I heard her heels first, echoing down the featureless corridor. I tried not to move suddenly as I craned my head up to look in the direction of the footsteps. What was I expecting? I thought I was done expecting things forever.
A woman wearing a lab coat turned the corner and looked straight at me as she approached the checkpoint. She had pale skin with shoulder-length blonde hair. Without the heels I guessed she came to about five and half feet.
I squared my shoulders as she swiped her card to unlock the door, but I didn’t move from my position. She stepped through and held the door open.
“Sergeant Morris?” she said with a genuinely warm smile. There was a trace of an accent there, but I couldn’t place it.
“Just Zack, please,” I said, slowly approaching her. I kept my eyes on her face, pointedly ignoring any reactions the guards might have had to the mention of my former rank. If they had read the daily briefing, there shouldn’t have been any.
I was about to offer my right hand but the woman was quicker and extended her left. How did she know I was a southpaw? They must have pulled my weapons qualification records. Her grip was firm and warm.
“I’m Dr. Hart,” she said. “Thanks for coming on time.” Her curt nod to the desk guard was both rote and civil.
She pulled another security card out of her coat pocket and handed it to me. It bore a copy of the photo I had posed for back at Orbital Solutions, my name in tiny type, a bar code, a magnetic strip, and in bright red 24-point letters, the word “SUBJECT.”
She smiled toothlessly as I clasped the badge to the collar of my polo shirt. “Follow me, please,” she said and turned on her heels. A floral whiff hit me as her hair swept around. Gardenias, I thought.
We proceeded back around the corner and down the hallway from which she had emerged, then a secured elevator ride down three floors, where the lighting was noticeably brighter. Apart from Dr. Hart and the entry guards I hadn’t seen anyone else on the ground floor, but Sublevel 3 was a hive of activity. Two more security checkpoints, lots of lab techs, and at least two guys who dressed and carried themselves like the special contractors I had run into overseas. Those guys would do anything if the price was right.
Dr. Hart led me into what she called a briefing room. Table, chairs, coffee, someone’s workstation, and a very poorly concealed one-way mirror. “Please have a seat,” she said. “Can I get you some coffee or water?”
“No, thanks,” I said, sitting down at the table and ignoring the mirror. I had nothing left to hide.
She sat down across from me and picked up a familiar-looking stack of paper. “I realize you signed the Affirmation of Consent and all these releases with the notary,” she said, “but the protocol requires me to re-apprise you of the basic parameters of tonight’s experiment.”
I nodded wearily. Her generous smile stuck with me as she began her recital. “The first phase of the experiment shall consist of your body being exposed to the proprietary process known as Asymmetric String Molecular Refraction. We estimate that this phase will last from thirty to sixty minutes. You will be under general anesthesia and unconscious for this and all other phases of the experiment. At the end of Phase 1, your body will be greatly reduced in size.”
It sounded like bullshit back in the city and not even Dr. Hart’s clinical tones could make it sound any more plausible. They claimed they couldn’t tell me how it worked or show me the apparatus because they were “trade secrets.” They did show me a video of a dog being prepped for the experiment, then a bug-sized dog in someone’s palm, and then they trotted out the dog restored to full-size for me to pet. I’d seen more adroit throws in the barracks back in boot.
“We anticipate that your reduced height will be four percent of what it is now,” she continued, “and your weight will be at 0.16 percent. Phase 2 will consist of recording your basic measurements and vital signs and general observation for approximately one hour. Phase 3 will be a mirror-negative exposure of your body to the process that will restore your body to its original size.”
Yeah, sure. I was going to be knocked out for the whole thing, so as far as I would ever know they could give me anal probes and post videos of my gape all over 4chan. I went through worse, two weeks into my first tour.
“Do you consent to participate in the experiment I just described?” she asked.
I rolled my eyes in the direction of the one-way mirror, then smiled at Dr. Hart. “Sure.”
“Please sign here,” she said, sliding across the table a form identical to the one I had signed back in the city. I signed again. She collected the papers and stood back up. “Thank you, Sergeant. And now it’s time to get you prepped. This way, please.”
I followed her back out into the hall and around two more corners. Everyone I encountered spotted my badge, darted a look at my face, then averted their eyes, all in the space of 1.5 seconds. Just like that last walk off the base, my discharge papers in my pocket.
We arrived at what looked like a small hospital room with an adjustable bed and vitals monitors, a chair, and a small set of drawers. Dr. Hart gestured to a flimsy gown at the foot of the bed. “If you would like to change into this, Sergeant, a technician will be in shortly to administer the preparatory medications.”
“Zack, please.”
She tilted her head and smiled, then extended her left hand again. As I shook it, she said, “Good luck, Zack.”
“Thanks.”
She closed the door behind her as she left. The room seemed chillier even before I began to disrobe. I had barely finished changing into that pointless gown when the tech entered without knocking. He was wheeling a small cart with an IV pole attached.
“Lie down,” he said dully.
I lay on the bed and watched him get his injections ready. The stubble on his scalp was almost as short as that on his chin. He stuck me four times and never once made eye contact. Must have been the good stuff because I was out before he left the room.
I returned to awareness in that antechamber of consciousness where you discard your dreams and remember who you are. I hadn’t dreamed, however, and I felt no urgency to remember myself, either. I was hiding out where no one could find me. There were no responsibilities in that subconscious limbo, no debts, no insistent memories.
They say dreams transpire very rapidly, a few seconds for hours of subjective experience. Who knows how long I managed to ward off wakefulness, pressing my mind’s temple against a stone floor, but all at once I was re-floated by a tide of recognition.
“Za-ack,” said a voice from no discernible direction. It surrounded and lifted me, loosening my limbs and energizing my spine. It was a woman’s voice, but no woman was ever so commandingly present. Her gentle call was more than enough to bear me up into consciousness.
I opened my eyes to a dark room, lit only by a thin square of light outlining the edges of the far wall. It was immediately obvious that I wasn’t in the same bed where Igor had put me out. The mattress was wider and stiffer, and the blanket was made of some weird scratchy fabric. I could tell it wasn’t the same room, either; different smell, felt stuffier.
“Hello, Zack,” came the voice again. I thought I was awake, but the voice still surrounded me, as if I were in a movie theater. She must be on a speaker system, as I couldn’t see anything resembling a person in the dim light.
“This is Dr. Hart,” she said. “We met the day that you arrived.” Day? How long had I been out? I sat up and felt for my extremities to make sure they were all there. There was no pain, but every muscle took extra effort to move, even some I didn’t know I had.
“Zack,” she continued, “I must ask that you remain lying down for the moment.” Despite the urgency of her words, her cadence and tone shut out all anxieties and put me instantly at ease. She could be explaining evacuation procedures during an actual plane crash and I would calmly hang on her every word.
“The experiment has been interrupted,” she said, as if my bus had been delayed. “For reasons we still don’t know, the sensors did not accurately record the resonances of the particle strings of your body as they interacted with the refraction process. Consequently, we cannot presently apply the correct inverse resonance of the final phase of the experiment.”
I had no idea what that meant but she made it sound like they knew what they were doing. I could have laid there listening to her lecture on calculus until they figured it out, however long it took.
“Do you understand what I said, Zack? I can hear you; just speak normally.”
It took me a minute to get any words out because my throat was so dry. “Not really,” I croaked. “What happens next?”
“Well, Dr. Singh thinks he can apply a series of transformations to the recorded data to arrive at the correct resonance, but there is disagreement amongst the team. Some want to try with an animal subject first, while others insist on determining the cause of the faulty recording before proceeding with anything else.”
“Okay,” I said, baffled.
“We are going to do everything we can to help you, Zack. We have the smartest people in the world here.”
“What, why do I need help?”
There was a brief pause. “The experiment isn’t over, Zack,” she said calmly but deliberately. “We have only completed Phase 1.”
“So?”
“So,” she replied patiently, “your body is still only 0.16 percent of its original mass.”
A chill gripped my chest, and my inner ear warned me not to try standing. I looked around the gloom, trying to recognize anything.
“Where am I?” I asked weakly.
“You’re in a cupboard on top of a table in one of the biology labs. I am seated at the table about a half-meter away.”
I turned the phrase You’re in a cupboard over and over in my mind. It was simultaneously both more immediately real and ridiculously far-fetched than 0.16% of original body mass. Any attempt to dismiss the full implications of Dr. Hart’s words was quashed by the all-encompassing timbre of her voice.
Fuck, a cupboard? I instinctively scooted back along the mattress until my back was against the wall. No, not a mattress. A sponge.
Oh shit.
My heart began to race and I might have started hyperventilating, but Dr. Hart spoke again. “Zack? Are you alright?”
“Uh-um,” I said, taking deep breaths as I could. “Just how tall am I?”
“As a matter of fact,” she said softly, “I need your help with determining that, as well as a few other measurements. When you’re ready, I’ll open the cupboard so you can come out onto the table.”
The light creeping in from the edges of the far wall seemed to intensify. Not a wall, I reminded myself. A cupboard door.
As I contemplated standing up, I finally realized that I wasn’t even wearing the gown that I had on when Igor knocked me out. As if being small enough to fit inside a cupboard wasn’t humiliating enough.
“Zack?” Dr. Hart’s soothing voice again commanded my attention. “Are you coming out soon? Should I come back later?”
“Don’t go!” The words blurted out before I could think. Her calm, even voice was the only source of mercy in this nightmare.
“Are you alright?” she asked. The relief I felt was dramatic and immediate.
“Yes,” I said apologetically.
“Are you coming out?”
“Gimme a minute.” I stood up and grabbed the not-a-blanket and tried wrapping it around my torso like a toga, but it was too wide and too stiff. I ended up just wearing it like a hoodless cloak.
Without moving toward the door, I took a couple of breaths and said, “Okay, you can open it now.”
She opened the cupboard slowly, but by the time my eyes had adjusted to the light the entire wall was gone. I looked around the cupboard first, but the only other object besides the sponge was a plastic bottle cap half-filled with water. I’m glad I hadn’t used it as a bedpan. In one of the upper rear corners was a black metallic bulge, probably a night-vision camera and a mike.
Turning to the open door, I felt another chill as I identified Dr. Hart’s upper torso and arms. She was wearing the same lab coat and badge, probably a different top, but I couldn’t remember. She was holding very still, but I could nonetheless determine that this enormous person was sitting just over there, waiting for me to come out into the light.
Oh my god.
I don’t know how long I stood there frozen, but eventually she spoke again. “Zack, it’s okay. I’m going to take care of you. I just need to examine you and take some measurements.”
Each word surrounded me and warmed my chest. She spoke at a regular pace, her unidentifiable accent spinning off her words with unimpeachable sincerity. Her voice awoke in me a level of trust of which I had forgotten I was capable, and it drew me out.
At first I kept my head lowered as I negotiated the step down to the metal table without losing either my balance or my grip on my fabric wrap, which I finally identified as a dried-out sanitary wipe. Only after both my bare feet were firmly planted on the cold surface did I look up.
From my perspective, seated she still towered over me by fifty feet or more. Her hands were folded before her on the tabletop, and her long blonde hair was tightly bound up behind her head. I was immediately seized, however, by her kind and curious face.
It was slightly rounded at the cheek bones, narrowing along her decisive jaw to her strong chin. Her wide smile would have been disarming if it weren’t capable of engulfing me whole. Most reassuring, however, were her slate-blue eyes, wide with attention and care.
“It’s nice to see you, Zack.” Hearing my name issue from her enormous throat and watching her tendons flex as her mouth formed the words was fascinating.
Looking up at her, suffused by her mindful gaze, I momentarily forgot my terror. “This is a dream,” I said, almost to myself.
“I’m afraid not, Zack,” she replied, startling me with both her volume and her earnestness. “Please follow my instructions in order to collect the necessary data. The entire team is waiting for it to proceed with their computations.”
I whirled around, expecting to be surrounded by giant scientists staring down at me, but there was only Dr. Hart in the room. My heart started pounding again.
“It’s alright, Zack,” she said, lowering her face closer to me. “No one’s going to hurt you.”
I turned back to face her house-sized head and felt my shoulders relax. “Thank you, Dr. Hart.”
“Please, call me Irina.”
Her words were a warm shower of solace. “Thank you, Irina.”
“Now,” she said softly, sitting up straight, “let’s get you weighed.” She reached to one side with an arm the size of an 18-wheeler and picked up a digital scale, setting it gently in front of me. “Do you think you could climb up on that?” she asked without a hint of condescension.
It seemed an odd question—it was a trivial height, provided my muscles still worked the same at this size and gravity had no surprises for me—until I realized the implied alternative was to be picked up and placed on the scale. By Irina.
“Uh, sure,” I blurted, not too forcefully I hoped. Clutching my “cloak” together with my right hand, I stepped onto the base of the scale and reached up with my left hand to pull myself high enough so I could throw one leg up over the edge of the top. I gracelessly rolled the rest of my body onto the cold instrument and stood up.
Glancing up at Irina, she still had that beatific smile even as she paused to clarify her instructions. “Uh, Zack, we need to find your weight without—without your wrap.”
Of course. I knew that. I started to turn away from her, but then I realized that was silly. It was just a physical exam and she was a professional, albeit twenty-five times taller than my last examiner. Standing sideways to Irina, I released the sanitary wipe and let it tumble over the side of the scale.
I turned to face her and she was all business, entering the data on a laptop the size of a three-car garage. I diverted myself from my surreal situation by trying to guess what kind of database the lab was using. I couldn’t recognize it; it seemed very primitive, but Irina didn’t seem to have any difficulty with the interface.
“Now,” she chirped, “let’s see how tall you are.” She reached past me and selected an aluminum ruler and stood it behind me, the metal cool against my bare shoulder blades and ass. To read my precise measurement, she brought her face lower and closer to me than she had ever before.
The scrutiny was overwhelming. My knees buckled.
“Stand up straight, please, Zack,” she said, like an infinitely patient mountain.
My hand instinctively moved to cover my crotch, but I quickly dropped it as I became lost in her immense face. Everything about me felt so insignificant when confronted by her magnified features. I marveled at the infinitesimal blemishes on her skin and the ultrafine hairs along the underside of her chin and her delicately sculpted eyebrows. Her full lips remained empirically pursed, but her eyes sparkled with perception.
“Seventy-six millimeters,” said Irina softly, her warm breath flowing over me. She lifted her head back up and I briefly felt abandoned. Turning back to her laptop, Irina typed my puny height into the database. Concentrating on her work, she seemed like a distant monument, but soon enough she turned her attention back to me.
“I need to take your pulse, Zack, and I think that will work best with you lying on your back.” She lunged forward and I took an involuntary step backward, but she was only reaching into the cupboard to retrieve my “bed.” Her scent enveloped me as a loose lock of her hair dropped over her shoulder. I furtively glanced at her looming clavicle until I realized that I was beneath her field of vision.
Irina leaned back but the fragrance of gardenias lingered, mixed with a distinct laundry scent. She set the sponge on the tabletop close enough to the scale that I was tempted to jump straight down onto it. However, I remembered that she wanted to take my pulse, and exertion would probably distort that. I therefore clambered down slowly, only slightly conscious of how my extended limbs must have appeared to Irina.
I lay down on the sponge, and from my supine position Irina looked even more gigantic, a tower of strength, intelligence, and curiosity. Lying naked before this titanic woman, I felt my heart-rate start to increase, threatening to spoil her data after all.
She fitted her stethoscope into her ears then favored me with a reassuring smile. “It’s going to be okay, Zack,” she said with that steadying voice of hers. “We’re going to get you back to normal.”
I took a few calming breaths and imagined her kindness flowing into my lungs and my bloodstream. My heartbeat slowed but remained strong. I nodded imperceptibly, but she caught it nonetheless and returned it with a gentle nod of her own.
She raised the end of the stethoscope with the diaphragm facing down, then brought it over my torso and carefully lowered it until it was touching but not weighing on my chest. As her huge fingers bracketed the instrument, I could feel their heat and strength, imagining how easily they could curl and enclose my entire body into her palm. Oh please yes.
After she had counted enough of my heartbeats, Irina lifted the stethoscope away, but not before brushing the stiffy I hadn’t realized I had. Did she touch it with the instrument, or with the side of her finger? I searched her expression, but it remained calm and seemingly unaware of the contact. Again I moved my hand toward my erection, and again I overrode the instinct lest I draw her attention.
I sat up and swiveled my legs over the edge of the sponge, hoping my cock was sufficiently concealed. Irina turned back to me with a professional regard. “Now, Zack, I need to take your temperature. I think I can apply my digital thermometer to your back.”
I just nodded and gave her a thumbs-up. She pulled the thermometer out of a drawer and polished the reader surface with a wipe. It was still cool but I steeled myself not to jump when she pressed the device to my back. The beep was startlingly loud in my tiny ears, however.
Irina entered my temperature into the database, then let out a deep breath. “I’d love to get your blood pressure, but I think even an infant sphygmomanometer wouldn’t be sensitive enough.” It would also probably break my ribs when it inflated.
She nodded her decision to herself, then broke out a beaming smile. “How about some lunch? Are you feeling hungry?”
I was. I’d had a very light dinner the evening of the experiment, and I couldn’t remember who many hours Irina had said had elapsed. I should be ravenous, but it wasn’t until Irina brought it up that I felt any pangs at all. “Yes,” I said distinctly.
“I have some food in my office, just down the hall. Go ahead and get, uh, wrapped again.” My stomach dropped as I saw her stand up to her full height and walk out into the hall. Only when I felt my stiffy pressing against my belly did I remember to get up and retrieve my “cloak.”
Standing and facing the door of the lab, I found myself strangely excited for Irina’s return. I craved the protection and reassurance she promised, not to mention the offer of food, but her sheer extent and mass was entrancing to watch in motion.
Then I heard her footsteps approaching, a hundred times more daunting than when they had preceded her at the checkpoint upstairs. Irina re-entered the lab with an expression of calm concern, but her face lit up when her eyes found me. I felt too warm for my wrap, but I dared not discard it again.
She was carrying a mundane lunch box, collapsible and insulated. She set it down on the far side of the scale as she returned to her seat. Unzipping the container, she brought out a small tub of yogurt and a plastic box containing granola. “I also have an apple,” she offered. “I’d be happy to cut some slivers for you.”
It was a bit overwhelming, but hunger won out. “I’d like to try some granola, I think.”
“Sure,” she said kindly. “Let’s see if I can’t make it more bite-sized for you.” She removed the box lid and laid on the table, poured some granola out onto the plastic surface, then took a metal spoon from the lunchbox and rolled the bowl of the spoon over the chunks of granola, expertly powderizing it like an apothecary.
Clutching my wrap, I shuffled over and sat down next to the pile of granola dust, scooped a handful and shoveled it into my mouth. The sweet carbs felt so familiar and comforting that I had to consciously remember not to gorge myself.
Irina anticipated my thirst and filled a bottle cap with water and set it down next to me. I had to hunch over it and cup it with my hands, but I didn’t care. A sudden torpor hit me as the food and water settled into my stomach, and I struggled to sit up to avoid heartburn.
“Would you like some apple? Or perhaps some yogurt?”
I shook my head, but then I worried that she couldn’t discern the tiny gesture. “No, thanks,” I managed.
She started to return the items to her lunchbox, and I asked, “Aren’t you going to eat?”
For the first time I saw a moment of hesitation or uncertainty in Irina’s eyes. Then her kindly smile returned and she replied, “Not at this time.”
I heaved myself to my feet and watched Irina finish packing up her lunch. I felt strangely disappointed, and it wasn’t until much later that I realized I had been morbidly curious to see someone so gigantic chewing and swallowing food. I’m sure I would have gawked openly, making it all very awkward.
“How do you feel, Zack? Did the food help?”
“Yes, but all of a sudden I’m very tired.”
“Perfectly understandable,” she said, nodding. “You have a lot to process.” She leaned forward again to return the sponge to the cupboard. Once she withdrew, I made my way back and stepped up into it. I looked around “my room,” trying to normalize it in my mind.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” said Irina, swiveling in her chair and opening a drawer. She turned back and delicately placed two more containers inside the cupboard near the door. They looked like small petri dishes, only about an inch in diameter; to me they were about two feet across.
“Zack, we need to get stool and urine samples from you. Please use these two specimen dishes, um, separately, if you know what I mean.”
I turned around and tried to be casual about this clinical detail. I hoped she could see my smile as I replied, “I understand.”
Somehow her smile broadened. “Do you need anything else, Zack?”
I needed asylum from the world before I came to this place, and now I needed it even more. I was torn between the relative safety of the cupboard and the constant reassurance of Irina’s presence. In the end, fatigue made the decision for me. “No, thank you.”
“You’re going to be alright, Zack,” she said calmly. “We’re working around the clock on this. Just take care of yourself and don’t worry.”
I raised a hand and waved my acknowledgement of her sentiment. She nodded and smiled as she leaned forward to close the cupboard door. The last thing I saw before I was enclosed in darkness was her steady concerned gaze.
I stood there while my eyes re-adjusted to the faint light seeping in around the edges of the door. I found my water dish and took a few gulps, then sat on my bed. Sleep had always been a refuge for me, but as I lay in that little box on a table in a lab in the middle of nowhere I found myself curiously reluctant to let go of consciousness.