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They had started with one hundred. Von Alvensleben had said one hundred was a nice round number. Then, as the tests began and one hundred dwindled to ten, to five, to three, they realized New Mecca would need a great many more children for Project Chronos. The first survivor, the first Gamma, was Subject Zero. You know his story. Here are the others, those who survived the tests:
Twenty-two, a Beta, fought for three years through Cromag artillery bombardments and raid actions alike before a three-stage mine took off her foot and sent her and her twin combat knives flying. She chose to retire on what was then a generous government salary and a metric ton of NDA’s. This was before things got bad, before the “Chrono Kids” were sent places they shouldn’t have been, before the Corglen Tapes were leaked to the media. So she was able to retire, mostly.
The Government gave her mandatory psychiatric counseling along with a small supply of Chronos, and she found work in a sushi shop as a chef. As it turned out, Chronos helped deal with the evening rush, and her accident-prone assistant, who had cut off his fingers sixteen times so far. Beyond nightmares of the War, she seemed fine. Another success story, a productive Second District New Meccan citizen with a Purple Star and a mechanical foot that needed frequent oiling. They found her frozen at her cutting board, arms clenched bone-tight around the handle of a knife and staring sightlessly into space. Despite multiple therapeutic treatments, Chronos injections, and the usage of Compound T, she never spoke again. She didn’t even blink, though her heart continued to pump, so for all technical efforts she was still alive in her hospital bed.
Sixty-seven, another Beta, smothered her and turned himself in to his psychiatrist the next day. He’d worked with Twenty-two several times, but he didn’t say they were close. He had no sexual relations with her during or after the war. She was NULL, like him, and it was simply something he’d needed to do, to end her suffering. It wasn’t something he was unfamiliar with, after all. He’d been a field medic for the Alphas and Betas, and he’d been good at it. The Chronos had allowed him to reach squads just before their platoon leader was about to bleed out, or to stop them from stepping into shit-covered spikes that would have caused lethal infections in two of them. The lesser NULLS were strong, but their systems couldn’t tolerate a full Chronos dosage. They couldn’t watch every second of the future, so they split up the time amongst themselves and as a medic, he’d taken his fair share of watches. He was placed in a military prison and the Government soon had all the remaining NULLS visiting psychiatrists. Just in case.
Fifty-two, it turned out, was a horrible liar, even if he was a Gamma NULL. His sessions and eyewitness at first placed him as a reasonably profitable stockbroker in the First District, but he’d been careful with his Chronos. Never too many purchases or too large of a deal, just enough for an apartment, a large dog, and a respectable savings account. It was what he’d done when the Chronos ran out that sentenced him to an unmarked grave in a trash compactor. He’d spent his evenings as hired muscle for Tilvan Kaleemo, a Third District mob boss who’d somehow snagged a case of Chronos that had “fallen off the back of a truck”. He'd used Fifty-two’s loyalty to crown himself the new king of the Third District’s Subjunction 29. The Government sent Twelve, Seventeen, Six, and Ninety-Two and they cleaned up the operation in the span of a week, as pretty as you please. If Six had died to Fifty-Two’s guns, and Ninety-Two had bled out on the helicopter ride, well, that was the cost of letting NULLS clean up their own messes.
Two weeks later, there were more frozen NULLS across the city, everyone from janitors to cops to librarians. Alphas, Betas, Gammas, none were spared. There were furious discussions in sealed board rooms, Internal Investigations, and a great deal of burnt files. Al-Qasim hired Seventeen, the Headhunter, as a bodyguard, and several other executives followed suit. The Government ceased further production of Chronos. Psychiatrists across the city suddenly had a great deal more billable hours to add to their expense reports. Leon von Alvensleben wrote a few programs, made a few videotapes, and froze himself like freshly-bought chicken thighs.
Fifteen disappeared.
Twelve went on a Chronos-fueled spree across the Second District’s massage parlors and Gentlemen’s Clubs, then continued into the Third District’s brothels until his heart gave out from the exertion. He left the Government with an impressively long expense report and six pregnant women, all of whom were taken into custody for further study.
By contrast Nineteen-Oh-Six and Four-Fifty-Three got married at a ceremony no one else was informed of, filed the relevant paperwork with the laziest Third District Clerk on roster, and departed for the Neiwart Islands, for all the good it did them. Even when they’d pooled and rationed their Chronos, they still only lasted another six months in their seaside bungalow before they too, were frozen in the jungle once more.
Eight was found in a concealed blind by a construction crew with an empty sniper-rifle, seven spent shells, and a crushed throat.
The Government closed ranks and started making new lists. Shorter lists, that got shorter every day. Fa Yuan’s lawyer had gone to the media and made enough noise that disposing of him wasn’t immediately viable. Still, his trial was in six months. Plenty of time for the public and the bleeding-hearts to lose interest.
Thirty-one and two other Alphas killed themselves at the unveiling of the Memorial Statue, in front of the cameras and it was messy. They’d been clever enough to direct the shotgun blasts upwards, so civilian deaths were unlikely, and the cameras got a clear shot of their matching shirts. The Government is killing us.
The New Mecca Veteran’s Association had a very busy month.
Zero dismantled his pistol, threw the parts into twelve separate dumpsters across New Mecca, and went hunting for an antique store. He found what he was looking for on the sixteenth iteration of the fourth store and walked home with an armor set of dubious strength and a battle-tested katana. His psychologist’s next report was much thicker than normal.
As time passed, so too did the NULLS pass from the life of the city. No librarians who knew exactly what book you were looking for, no punctual postwomen, no successful gamblers, fewer crime-hunting vigilantes in olive-green. Eventually the news stopped reporting on the cases of frozen veterans and “Cromag Comas” dropped off entirely. But the blue glow of Chronos did not disappear from New Mecca. There were too many lists that were still too long, and the leash of a syringe kept a few alive.
Zero’s psychologist suggested they move to daily meetings. After all, time stops for no man.