Specimen 913 by R.D. Harris

 

“One more time, Jeff,” said Corinne.

“A pinch of graham cracker, Doctor, and I would be delighted. I’m famished.”

Doctor Corinne Broadway broke a finger-tip portion from a corner of the snack. She rested a fragment before him and he ate with fervor.

The rodent said, “Thank you. Please proceed with the test. Perhaps something beyond fluid and quantitative reasoning this time?”

Broadway, highly esteemed in zoological research, had long been impressed with Jeff’s intelligence and etiquette.  He’d make a quality human being, she thought. Corrine, though, could never admit such things to a specimen.

“Maybe later, Jeff. Listen to the question, please.” She cleared her throat. “Officials estimate that 430,000 people attended the New Years Eve festival in Charlotte, North Carolina. Another estimate states that fifty tons of trash were left at the event. How many kilograms of trash did the average partier leave at the event?”

Jeff sighed and performed calculations in his hybrid cortex. “1.95 kilograms per person. I would like a challenge for once, Doctor. This drivel is nonsense.”

Broadway was curt. “It’s called research. The foundation dictates my tests, Jeffrey. Your anthropic vocal modulator, your hybrid cortex, it’s all funded by the foundation. They pay, they make the rules,” she said while quickly massaging her neck with a free hand, irritated. The chilly, windowless exam room didn’t help matters.

“Doctors are an intelligent breed,” said Jeff, “but you, Doctor Broadway, are tethered by apprehension and procedure.”

“I’m a neurologist, Jeff. This is my life’s work. Going by the book is what I do.” The fabric of indifference, the one she’d weaved over one year and three months with her specimen, was unraveling.

Jeffrey continued to prod. “Would you like to know what I know about your life’s work, Doctor?”

“What do you know?” Her words held crisp condescension.

“That I will be euthanized this morning. I also know that you will be the one performing the procedure, Doctor Broadway,” Jeff stated matter-of-factly.

The typically stoic Corinne turned away from Jeff. She covered her face as her body seized with abrupt grief. Corinne knew this would happen, knew she would feel this way becoming attached to the brilliant Rattus exulans specimen.

“Why do you weep, Doctor Broadway? I am but one specimen. There were 912 before me and surely my successors will exceed my intelligence and reasoning skills.”

“You were the first,” she snapped before calming herself and turning to face Jeffrey, “the first to have such a… vivid mind.”

The rat stood up and rested his front claws in two of the many breathing holes of the thermaplast enclosure. “That’s something to celebrate, no?”

Corinne wiped her nose on the lapel of her lab coat and said, “It is, Jeffrey, but the unique beauty of your brain caused me to develop attachment.”

“Well, I’m rather charming. Your attachment comes as no surprise.” Jeffrey smiled as much as a rodent could.

His humor shredded the gloom and made Corinne chuckle.

“Ah, there’s a smile. Please do not feel bad for me, Doctor. I’m not afraid.”

“How long have you known this would happen?” Corinne asked, still sniffling.

“For several weeks I would guess. Conversations between the peons here are not what you would call subtle.”

“Why did you not tell me?” Corinne asked.

“No need to interrupt research,” Jeffrey said. “Even though the questions and tests were elementary. I suppose I can forgive all of that given the juvenile fascination most have with my intelligence. You view me as a peer, Doctor. I thank you for that.”

Looking to the medicine wall locker, the young doctor slowly walked to it. The keycard to the plethora of drugs hung on a tack.

Jeffrey watched Corinne with silence and calm.

Corinne removed the proper vial of barbiturate from its shelf. “Do you know the drug administered for euthanasia, Jeffrey?” she asked, knowing he already knew.

“Sodium Pentobarbital of course. Perhaps I should feel lucky. Most of my kind fall prey to predators or man-made traps devised to be humane.”

“Highly subjective word,” said Corinne, filling a syringe with the lethal dose of depressant.

“Humane?”

“Yes. I’ve never considered killing, of any kind, to be humane.”

“What of humans or creatures in poor health? Or those maimed to the point of indignity?” Jeff inquired.

“Well… there are some exceptions. Maybe I shouldn’t be so broad. In your case, though, it seems unnecessary. You have no illness, no ailment of any kind.” Her voice rose in anger before she again calmed herself. “I could get you out of here, Jeffrey.”

“You will not jeopardize your career for me,” the rat replied.

The doctor sagged into a defeated posture. “But why?” she pleaded.

“Nothing lasts forever. Who’s to say I would live longer than a year or even several months? It’s not worth it. I’m only a rat after all.”

Corinne’s mahogany irises reflected a melancholy varnish, on the verge of tears again. I can hold it in ’til it’s over, she thought, choking back her emotion. “Do you want nitrous to ease the pain?”

“I’d rather be lucid in my final moments. Thank you all the same, Doctor.”

Jeffrey rolled over, onto his back.

Doctor Broadway extracted the vial’s contents with a syringe, flicked the air bubbles loose, and approached Jeff’s enclosure. Anger, sadness, and shame escorted her as she opened the plastic top of the box. Jeffrey was better prepared, mentally and emotionally, for his euthanasia than Corinne was.

Even so, she held Jeff with her left hand, steadying the syringe with her right.

The sentient rodent looked intently into Corinne’s eyes. She wanted to look away, but didn’t. Jeffrey stared like he wanted life to be different, to be longer, to be humane.

Corinne slid the hypodermic needle through her specimen’s skin and perforated his tiny heart.

Jeff did not flinch. He simply said, “Goodbye, Corinne.” In spite of the circumstances, the inflection was a positive, if not hopeful, farewell.

Shortly after, the gifted rat expired. Although dictation required technical jargon, Corinne detested the word “expired” as Death’s medical euphemism. Merely an afterthought as she rushed to a restroom stall and cried. She grieved more for her specimen friend than she had for some of her own family members.

Back in the procedure space, she wrapped Jeffery in a small hand towel she grabbed from the locker room and placed him inside her purse. He deserved better than incineration or being rendered into pet food. He deserved a burial.

Doctor Broadway completed her final report at the work station and skimmed it afterward. Corinne was satisfied with her formatting and such, but it needed a personal touch. It needs to stand out like Jeffrey did, she mused.

“Got it.” It came to her.

In a simple, beautiful stroke of subjectivity, Corinne replaced every “Specimen 913” in her document with “Jeffrey”.

She grinned and reflected fondly on the garrulous rat as she e-mailed her report.

—

When he’s not writing, Ryan enjoys time with his kids, watching cartoons, and retro gaming. His work has appeared in Terraform[Motherboard], Galaxy’s Edge, and Liquid Imagination. Even though he is a member of the Horror Writers Association, the only thing scary about him is his verb-subject agreements.