Page 61 of Rescued By Four Alphas
"Impressive growth," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "The accelerant works more efficiently on your physiology than on the standard Omega subjects. The second-generation formula appears to have eliminated the cardiovascular stress we observed in the earlier trials."
Earlier trials. The other women. I hear them sometimes, their cries echoing through the ventilation system, or when the door opens at just the right moment. Yesterday, there was a scream so primal and agonizing that it cut through my drug-induced haze and set my heart racing like a trapped animal.
"Your fundal height has increased fourteen centimeters since yesterday," Reid continues, making notes on his clipboard. "At this rate, we should be ready for extraction within four to five days."
Extraction. Like the babies are resources to be harvested.
"You can't take them," I break my silence. My voice sounds strange and raspy from disuse. "They won't survive outside the womb yet."
Reid looks up, his expression mildly surprised, as if he'd forgotten I could speak. "Actually, with the synthetic hormones we've administered, lung development has accelerated significantly. We estimate they're physiologically equivalent tothirty-two weeks' gestation at this point, though chronologically you're only at twenty-two weeks."
"That's still premature," I argue. "Their nervous systems need more time to develop properly. Their immune systems aren't ready."
"We have state-of-the-art incubation units," Reid dismisses my concerns with a wave of his hand. "And we don't need them to survive indefinitely. Just long enough to complete the primary examination protocol."
The casual way he says this, like he's discussing a routine lab procedure and not the lives of my children, makes bile rise in my throat. I swallow it back, knowing that showing weakness only interests him more.
"Actually, before the routine ultrasound," Reid says, "we need to collect an amniotic fluid sample today. The accelerated development means we can analyze genetic markers in real-time."
The leather restraints bite into my wrists as I pull them against them. "Amniocentesis at twenty-two weeks is dangerous. The risk of infection, membrane rupture, or triggering preterm labor..."
"Is approximately one in three hundred," Reid interrupts, checking something on his tablet. "That's an acceptable odds given the unprecedented scientific value of your specimens."
He signals toward the door, and two technicians enter, pushing a cart loaded with medical equipment. I recognize the ultrasound machine, but the other items make my stomach clench. A metal tray holds a long, hollow needle, eighteen-gauge and at least six inches long. A collection tube sits beside it, labeled "Subject 1A."
"Dr. Baldwin, amniocentesis is a standard prenatal procedure," Reid says, pulling on latex gloves. Each finger slides into place with a soft snap.
"Standard for diagnostic purposes," I snap back.
"The terminology is irrelevant." Reid nods to the first technician, who begins connecting additional leads to my chest and abdomen. Cold adhesive patches stick to my skin as she attaches monitors for heart rate, blood pressure, and uterine activity.
The second technician wheels the ultrasound machine closer. The screen flickers to life, casting gray-blue light across Reid's face as he squirts gel onto my swollen belly. The familiar cool wetness spreads across my skin.
"We'll extract from Baby A," Reid murmurs, pressing the ultrasound probe firmly against my abdomen. "The largest and most developed specimen."
On the monitor, my baby appears in shades of gray and white. His tiny features were visible, like the curve of his spine, and the flutter of a heart beating rapidly. One hundred sixty beats per minute. The sound fills the room through the machine's speakers, fast and strong.
Reid adjusts the probe, hunting for the optimal angle. "We need a clear pocket of amniotic fluid, away from the umbilical cord and fetal limbs. There... perfect positioning."
The technician hands him the needle. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, the metal gleams like a weapon. The tip tapers to a point sharp enough to pierce skin, muscle, and membrane with minimal resistance.
"Please don't do this," I whisper, but Reid's attention remains fixed on the monitor.
He presses the needle against my belly, just below my navel. The point dimples my skin without breaking through. "The needle will penetrate approximately four centimeters through the abdominal wall, then pierce the amniotic membrane."
Pressure builds as he pushes harder. My skin stretches, then suddenly gives way. The needle slides through with a sensation like it's tearing fabric. Heat blooms from the puncture site, not quite pain yet, but a deep, wrong feeling of invasion.
On the ultrasound screen, I watch the needle's bright white line advance through the gray landscape of my body. Deeper, deeper, until it approaches the dark pool surrounding my baby.
"Stop," I gasp, but Reid doesn't so much as flinch.
The needle pierces the amniotic membrane with a pop I feel rather than hear. Immediately, clear fluid begins flowing back through the hollow core. Twenty milliliters. Thirty. Forty.
"Excellent sample volume," Reid observes, watching the collection tube fill. "The amniotic fluid contains fetal cells shed from the skin, lungs, and urinary tract. We'll analyze the DNA for the unique Alpha genetic markers."
The needle withdraws with a wet sucking sound, and some of the liquid mixed with blood from the puncture wound trickles down my side.
"Very adequate sample for comprehensive analysis," Reid declares, holding up the tube to examine the clear fluid with its floating particles.
