by James C. Clar
Storen, Director of the Institute for Advanced Biological Studies, feared that an already difficult faculty meeting was about to become even more contentious. Around the conference chamber, eyes watched him with predatory alertness.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “we now come to item number five on today’s agenda: an announcement of the board’s decision regarding the practices of vivisection and dissection.”
A ripple of unease shimmered through the room. This was what they had all been awaiting. For weeks the board had deliberated behind closed doors.
Konstan, the chair of the Anatomy Department, began the assault. “Storen, this is such a sham. We all know the decision was made before the board even began its so-called ‘debate’.”
Heads bobbed in agreement.
The director drew in a deep breath, adjusting his tone.
“It goes without saying,” he began, “that given the technology available to us today, physical dissection of lower life-forms – not to mention experimentation on living creatures – has been rendered obsolete.”
There was a brief, brittle silence.
Then Palanquin rose. A zoologist notorious for melodramatic displays, he lifted his hands theatrically before lowering them to the table.
“With all due respect, Director,” he said, “that is simply because you have been out of the lab and the classroom for so long. You have perhaps forgotten how vital hands-on experience is in our fields.”
Storen felt irritation prick along his spine. He swallowed it. He would not be baited, not today.
“Colleagues. I assure you the board considered all arguments. Their decision was neither as predetermined nor as one-sided as you assume.”
Konstan scoffed loudly, but Storen pressed on.
“In the end,” he continued, pausing to make sure every eye was fixed on him, “fiscal constraints overrode all other concerns.”
Storen exhaled, deciding to rip the bandage off with a single tear.
“Given the current state of our economy,” he said, “continued trips to the third planet to obtain specimens have become too expensive.”
There was a stunned beat of silence.
Then the room erupted.
“What?” Konstan was half-standing. “You can’t be serious. The third planet, off limits? We need a continuing supply for longitudinal …” The old anatomist was beside himself. “Does the Planetary Council ...”
Storen held up a hand. Reluctantly, the voices quieted.
“Yes,” he said. “Their projections show that even one more retrieval mission would exceed our annual operations budget.”
Konstan slammed a palm on the table. “We can’t teach proper anatomy without fresh specimens!”
“We have decades of archived data,” Storen replied.
Konstan snapped. “You can’t replace the tactile understanding of musculature or neural pathways with a hologram!”
“There is no choice.”
No one spoke.
Eventually, Palanquin asked, “What of the specimens we already possess?
Storen sank back into his chair.
“That,” he said, “is to be determined. At our meeting next week, the board has requested that we consider the disposition of our remaining specimens. Especially the bipedal ones.”
Konstan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Disposition? What do you mean?”
Storen spread his hands. “That’s all I have been told.”
Several of the scientists looked shaken. The thought of releasing the specimens back to their distant blue-white sphere was unthinkable. But the alternative?
“Before we adjourn,” Storen continued, firmly changing the subject, “We need to review the proposed reorganization of the Genetics faculty.
The researchers’ eyes glazed slightly as their neural ports activated.
Storen exhaled. The worst was over. The issue of the specimens was not to remain academic for long. Somewhere below in the Institute’s holding vaults, the board’s irrevocable decision was being carried out. Next week, he’d present the faculty with a fait accompli.
In addition to his contributions to Sudden Flash, work by James C. Clar has appeared in Bright Flash Literary Review, The Yard Crime Blog, 365 Tomorrows, Antipodean SF, The Magazine of Literary Fantasy, The Blotter Magazine, Flash Digest and Freedom Fiction Journal.
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