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.

I share in his brief moment of anxiety. What if they stick? What if it's two, three, five, nine? Oh my Lady, what if it's ten embryos, and they all stick, and I'm forced to—

"What if none of them survive?" he asks. Dean notes the Coat with steadfast calm, clearly playing out the different scenarios in his head.

The Maroon Coats search for the answer in the space between them. "In the unlikely case that this doesn't work, Captain, we aren't sure. As I've said, getting this far is unprecedented in the Human Hope Project, and we are positive we can turn this around right here. Today, even. We are going to make your case priority number one." He smiles and enthusiastically pats me on the shoulder.

Dean shifts next to me. "What do we need to do?"

"How experimental are we talking?" I squirm under the heavy hand, freeing my shoulder from his sweaty hold.

"We've had wild success in clinical bovine trials."

I leap off the table. "I'm not going under the needle as your first human test subject. No way."

The head Coat activates his PAHLM, absently scrolling through data across his wrist. "That's fine. It's essentially up to you and your level of commitment to furthering the survival of the human race."

My jaw drops to the floor.

"There has to be some other way." Dean says this as if there's a joke hidden somewhere in his words. He finds my eyes, and I understand. He's nervous, too. He's so nervous, he's toeing the periphery of terror and wondering if there's anything he can do to speed this up to make it less horrible.

"I'll give you a moment's privacy to decide." The medic exits the room, his Maroon jetstream at his heel.

Dean turns to me once we're alone. "I don't like it."

"Neither do I, but our window is closing."

He bites his upper lip, deep in concentration. At last, he exhales one long breath. "There's no choice, is there?"

I shake my head. "You catch on quick."

We wait in companionable silence for the Maroon morons to return. We're on the same page, so we remain here, waiting for the weirdness to begin.

"What have you decided?" The medic asks without preamble. He questions us as if there was some alternate option we uncovered on accident.

"Let's get it over with," I say, sliding from the table and standing next to Dean. I shift close enough to feel his arm against mine.

They lead us down the hall, cutting through a door I've never seen before. The HHP lair gleams pristine white with black buttons and red, blinking lights interspersed. The further we follow them into the depths of their turf, the more frenzied my panic becomes. I'm practically ready to launch myself backward and high-tail it out when we stop before a fork in the hall.

"Captain Freyer, you will follow Medics R and W that way. Captain Lorn, you will follow me through here." The head Coat points to a door on our right.

"Can't we do his thing first and then do mine?" I ask, hoping they can't hear the panic in my voice.

The medic glares, unamused. "No."

Dean's fear clouds his eyes. I can read it as clear as if they were words on ticker tape running across his forehead. There's no point in two of us being terrified shitless.

"See you on the other side, Freyer." I salute him with a lazy hand and march away, hoping my levity will calm his storm.

It does nothing to dampen mine. My arms prickle as another chilled draft smacks against my skin. I enter the room that stinks worse than the dankest prison cell. Brown water stains streak the walls of the concrete room. Rows of piercing white strands of light line the ceiling, illuminating the rust and grime. My fear doubles when I register the presence of the upright table in the middle of the room—leather cuffs on the top, middle and bottom flop open like starving bellies waiting to be filled.

"This way," the medic ushers me to the table and directs me into the straps. Another medic emerges from the shadows to strap me in. The thundering clank of the table's gears throws me into a frenzy. I struggle against the restraints.

"Calm now, Captain. This is will be over shortly. You won't feel a thing. This is the only request your government asks of you in exchange for your safety and your community. Relax." He strokes my face, pulling my dark hair away from my eyes.

"Such pretty green eyes," he says, trailing his finger across my brow. "I'm sure your progeny will be lucky enough to inherit them."

He clasps a band across my shoulders. Blue pixels akin to those of my PAHLM illuminate my body. My stats flash, covering me like a canopy.

"Excellent. Just breathe." He rolls my sleeve, exposing my forearm. Another maroon coat approaches with a mask attached to a dirty hose.

My throat stings from the fear balling up inside it. I clench my fists and try to hold my terror at bay.

The coat presses the mask over my mouth and nose. I want to scream as a cold flow of air fills the space between my lips. It stings as it slices through my lungs and stuffs my head with noxious cotton. My breathing quickens. Not because I want it to. Because I want this to end. I want to pull my hands from the restraints. I want to rampage. I don't want to be here. I want—