Midnight by Dean R. Koontz

Watkins was unbowed by the criticism. “It was a life-or-death situation here. It couldn’t have been handled differently.”

He seemed angry to a degree inconsistent with the personality of a New Man, though perhaps the emotion sustaining his icy demeanor was less rage than fear. Fear was acceptable.

“Peyser was regressed when we got here,” Watkins continued. “We searched the house, confronted him in this room.”

As Watkins described that confrontation in detail, Shaddack was gripped by an apprehension that he tried not to reveal and to which he did not even want to admit. When he spoke he let only anger touch his voice, not fear “You’re telling me that your men, both Sholnick and Penniworth, are regressives, that even you are a regressive?”

“Sholnick was a regressive, yes. In my book Penniworth isn’t—not yet anyway—because he successfully resisted the urge. Just as I resisted it.” Watkins boldly maintained eye contact, not once glancing away, which further disturbed Shaddack. “What I’m telling you is the same thing I told you in so many words a few hours ago at your place Each of us, every damned one of us, is potentially a regressive. It’s not a rare sickness among the New People. It’s in all of us. You’ve not created new and better men any more than Hitler’s policies of genetic breeding could’ve created a master race. You’re not God; you’re Dr. Moreau.”

“You will not speak to me like this,” Shaddack said, wondering who this Moreau was. The name was vaguely familiar, but he could not place it. “When you talk to me, I’d suggest you remember who I am.”

Watkins lowered his voice, perhaps realizing anew that Shaddack could extinguish the New People almost as easily as snuffing out a candle. But he continued to speak forcefully and with too little respect. “You still haven’t responded to the worst of this news.”

“And what’s that?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said that Peyser was stuck. He couldn’t remake himself.”

“I doubt very much that he was trapped in an altered state. New Men have complete control of their bodies, more control than I ever anticipated. If he could not return to human form, that was strictly a psychological block. He didn’t really want to return.”

For a moment Watkins stared at him, then shook his head and said, “You aren’t really that dense, are you? It’s the same thing. Hell, it doesn’t matter whether something went wrong with the microsphere network inside him or whether it was strictly psychological. Either way, the effect was the same, the result was the same He was stuck, trapped, locked into that degenerate form.”

“You will not speak to me like this,” Shaddack repeated firmly, as if repetition of the command would work the same way it did when training a dog.

For all their physiological superiority and potential for mental superiority, New People were still dismayingly people, and to the degree they were people, they were that much less effective machines. With a computer, you only had to program a command once. The computer retained it and acted upon it always. Shaddack wondered if he would ever be able to perfect the New People to the point at which future generations functioned as smoothly and reliably as the average IBM PC.

Damp with sweat, pale, his eyes strange and haunted, Watkins was an intimidating figure. When the cop took two steps to reduce the gap between them, Shaddack was afraid and wanted to retreat, but he held his ground and continued to meet Watkins’s eyes the way he would have defiantly met those of a dangerous German shepherd if he had been cornered by one.

“Look at Sholnick,” Watkins said, indicating the corpse at their feet. He used the toe of his shoe to turn the dead man over.

Even riddled with shotgun pellets and soaked in blood, Sholnick’s bizarre mutation was unmistakable. His sightlessly staring eyes were perhaps the most frightful thing about him yellow with black irises, not the round irises of the human eye but elongated ovals as in the eyes of a snake.

Outside, thunder rolled across the night, a louder peal than the one Shaddack had heard when he’d been crossing Peyser’s front lawn.