"Oh, | see plenty that is unethical about that...by conventional 
ethics, at least," he said with a grim smile, "You see, what most 
people don't realize about SCP-231 is that it isn't a single pregnant 
female. What everyone in the general public knows about SCP-231 
is, in fact, incorrect. The general public, and frankly most of the 
enlightened public, yourselves included, are unaware that SCP-231 
is actually designated SCP-231-7. She is the seventh and last of the 
women we contained with the SCP-231-X designation. The others 
all died. They died either due to a break in the containment 
procedures we designed, by their own hand, or by our attempts to 
remove the...fetus. On one occasion, SCP-231-1 actually did give 
birth. The resulting incident caused hundreds of casualties. Were 
you aware of this, sir?" 


The panel remained silent, absorbing the information. 


"And were you aware that each fetus has had the potential to cause 
or has caused more catastrophic damage than the last?" 


The panel sat still, silent, fidgeting slightly. The bald doctor now had 
the upper hand. 


"You can all fact check me when you have clearance, as trite as that 


sounds." 


The panel looked uncomfortable for a moment more before the man 
at its center spoke again. 


"Doctor, this body will determine that for itself. Even taking into 
account what we now know about what your organization termed 
‘reality benders,’ we find it hard to believe that any being under the 
age of ten has enough to power to, as some of your peers have put 
it, 'vaporize my head' despite the information you have provided. 
Additionally, whatever the hell you're doing to the person that you 
have objectified as 231 will stop as soon as this body has the official 
power to do so." 


But they were a little less sure, a little less full of themselves, Feldon 
could see it. He felt the power shift in the room. This was his stage 
now. 


"Very well...sometimes seeing is believing. But if you find out you 
are wrong, what then do you intend to do?" he asked smugly. 


"Dr. Feldon, this hearing is not about what we as a body intend to 
do. This hearing is about you and your peers and your decidedly 
unethical treatment of many human beings of many nationalities. As 
such, this avenue of discussion is closed. Is that understood?" 


"Of course. Do you have any further questions?" 
"Do you contain anything that doesn't destroy the world?" 


"Well, we have a two-person llama costume wearing galoshes. 
Before we took it into custody, it was being used for psychic- 
dissociative recreation, but then its users overdosed and died." 


"...what?" 
"Never mind. Any further questions?" 


"Yes. To the extent of your knowledge, do any of the containment 
procedures you've authored or revised contain intentional harm to 
human beings?" 


The panel as a whole frowned at this. 


"And do any of the containment procedures you've authored or 
revised place other human beings in danger?" 


"Yes. But we—" 


"And do any of the containment procedures you've authored or 
revised involve cruel or unusual treatments of human beings?" 


"__.define ‘cruel and unusual'." 


"Doctor, that statement in itself is enough to convince this panel that 
you are of questionable moral judgment. Your actions have been, by 
your own admission, unethical." 


"So, in light of this, in light of the possible deaths of hundreds or 
thousands or more, that could be caused by one of the entities we 
contain, what is ethical? What is right and wrong? What is cruel and 
unusual? Are you prepared to ask these questions every day for the 
rest of your time?" 


The panel was silent for a long moment again. 


"As the Ethics Committee, were you not trusted to keep the 
Foundation ethical? In this, you failed.” 


"You think | failed? Wait until you know. You'll want me to come 
back, to take your jobs from you." 


"Because of your statements Doctor, let it be known this committee 
is recommending that you be permanently dismissed from any work 
with the Foundation in its current iteration. Additionally, we are 
recommending a full psychological evaluation in an institution of our 
choice. Should any problems be found, treatment, regardless of 
length, is mandatory. Remove him." 


Two large men, the ones who had brought Feldon into the room, 
escorted the former Ethics Committee head out of the room to a 
waiting vehicle that would take him to a mental institution, one of 


length of the tube. If we weren't wearing the hard suits, we'd have 
been crushed, but as it was, we were held so tight we could barely 
move, even with power-assist. | managed to get my head up enough 
to see the kid's face. His faceplate was covered in vomit, poor 
bastard had puked in his suit.3 | started yelling for him, trying to get 
him to say something. He managed to tell me he was all right. He 
was sobbing like a baby. 


| started doing some calculations. Based on my dead reckoning 
tracker and initial sonar scans, we were moving about a meter every 
minute. That meant seventy two hours until we came out the other 
side, assuming we did. We had the air, our rebreathers could keep 
going for days. What we didn't have was the power to keep the suits 
warm for that long. If the heat went out, hypothermia would kill us... | 
dunno, look it up, in any case we'd be dead. We needed to conserve 
power. 


| told the kid to turn off his helmet lights, lock his joints, and turn 
down his heater to minimal. He started crying. He didn't wanna do it. 
| didn't blame him, but | told him we had no choice. We finally 
agreed to shut down everything but our internal helmet lights, at 
least. It seemed to calm him down, and honestly, that extra 0.1 
percent power wouldn't make a difference. 


| think that was the worst part. We spent at least a day like that, 
locked in our suits. Couldn't move our arms and legs. No sound but 
the thing's gurgling and your own breathing and the sound of your 
rebreather. The puke on the kid's faceplate started to dry up and 
flake off about an hour or so in so | could see his face. He looked 
tired and scared. 


| think... check the logs, Sarge, | think it was about thirteen hours in 
when the kid started talking again.4 Kid started babbling. Apologized 
for stealing my shorts. Said you guys made him sneak into my 
quarters and take it from me as a dare. Why the hell did you guys 
make him do that? | mean, | don't mind if you haze the new guys, 
Bill, but did you always have to do it in a way that reminded them I'm 
a chick? It was hard enough trying to get them to listen to me as it 
was. Anyway, Bill, it's all there in the log. You know what | told him. 
They were lies, of course. Jokes. He laughed too. Joked back. | 
hope he was joking. | don't know what | would have done if we'd 


many that former Foundation employees were being sent to 
regularly following the new necessity of following international laws. 


The man who had served as the head of the panel looked at the 
members gathered alongside him. 


"Bring in the next one." 


Two weeks later 


HEADLINE: FORMER 
FOUNDATION 


"ETHICS" COMMITTEE HEAD 
RELEASED, RETURNED TO 
SERVICE 


May 10, 2014 


Today, Dr. Robert Feldon, the former head of the 
Foundation "Ethics" Committee was released from the 
institution he was placed in following the UN Committee 
hearing two weeks ago and restored to his former 
position. The majority of the panel declined to comment 
on their decision to repeal their choice and return Dr. 
Feldon to his former position, replacing panel and 
Committee head Gregory Rexin as leader of the UN New 
Committee on the Ethical Containment of Anomalous 
Objects, Events, and Creatures. 


When questioned, Rexin said only, "In this world, this 
world in which everything we know is turned upside 
down, what is ethical? What is right and wrong and how 
do we define cruel and unusual?" 


Further comment was declined. Cont. pg. 2A ETHICS. 


Ethics 


The man in the bush is sleeping in the fetal position, shivering. A 
light snow, the first of the year, swirls on the wind. The man's 
blanket is pitifully thin, and there's only a square of cardboard 
between him and the frozen ground. Johnson doesn’t have to wake 
him up. He can feel the man’s wariness, like an animal’s. 


“Hi,” Johnson says, casually. “Pretty cold out here, isn’t it? | work for 
the shelter. Can | take you somewhere you can sleep inside?” 


It takes the man almost a minute to sit up. He’s shaking violently. 
Might not have survived the night had Johnson not come along. He 
finally pulls himself, coughing, into an upright position. Hugs his 
knees. 


“Do you smoke?” Johnson crouches next to the makeshift bed. The 
man shakes his head, still coughing. 


“Good, good for you. That’s good. Well, how about it? Can we go 
inside?” The guy nods, once, and struggles to his feet. It’s hard to 
guess his age through his shaggy beard. He definitely looks under 
35, though, which is important. 21 is the ideal age; fully developed 
physically, with minimal extra wear to control for. Americans 40 and 
older are always a total crapshoot, in terms of fitness. You take what 
you can get, in any case, but younger is better. Finding better 
candidates means doing a better job. Doing a better job means 
everything. 


The van’s about two blocks away. Five others are waiting inside, 
enjoying the special heaters that work when it’s turned off, so they 
can’t steal it. The van has numerous anti-vandalism measures like 
that discreetly worked into its interior. You never know what these 
people will try to do. 


“My name is Ben,” the man says, though Johnson didn’t ask. 


Six in one night is a pretty good haul, even for Johnson. Three of 
them look to be in decent health, including a female. She’s younger 
than he’d have preferred, but you work with what you've got. It’s 
hard to find females outside the medical system, and they’re always 
in demand. 


“What kind of music does everybody like?” Johnson asks cheerfully 
as the van pulls away from the curb. 


Would you harm one person to save two others from harm? 


It's raining. Johnson always thought it was just something people 
said, about always raining in Washington, but that’s what the 
weather's like every time he comes. 


The guards at the prison eye him up and whisper to each other as 
he passes by. He recognizes a couple of them; he’s been to this 
prison before. He’s sure the guards hear things, just like him. A 
secret known by a dozen people just isn’t a secret anymore. 


“You again,” the warden says. “I knew it was something when they 
called me out of bed.” Security knows to wait in the hall, but Johnson 
can picture them outside, ears cocked, straining to be in the loop. 


“I’ve got the forms ready, sir." Johnson reaches into his briefcase. 
“All | need is your signature, and we'll be ready to start loading them 


up.” 


“I’ve heard. | can’t believe you have enough helicopters to lift all 
these men. Where’d you say the crash was?” 


“Northwest, by the border." Johnson's answer doesn’t matter; the 
warden isn’t expecting the truth. “It broke up in midair. We have a 
large area to cover for survivors. Time is important.” 


“Of course." He signs, Johnson hands back the acknowledgment of 
transfer, and three hundred fates are sealed. “I knew it. Had to be 
something. This is a huge order, even for you guys.” 


The way he puts emphasis on “you guys” makes Johnson look up, 
makes him really check the man out. The warden’s face is smug, 
like Johnson’s reaction told him something he wanted to know. He 
wonders just how much the warden’s in on. Everybody hears things. 
The warden might know more than Johnson does himself. 


He’s never met this one before, only seen his name on files here 
and there. They wouldn’t normally go to him, but the maximum 
security pen they normally use just had a shift in management. His 
employers haven't had time to establish connections over there yet, 
and they need subjects right now. They really are going to a forest in 
Washington, and it’s really to grid search, but they’re not looking for 
plane crash survivors. 


Highly aggressive selenium-based organisms have been coming 
from somewhere inside. Approximately every three hours, another 
wave pours from out of the treeline, each exponentially bigger than 
the last. This morning they were coming 8 at a time. In another ten 
hours or so, at the current rate, there will be an attack by more of 
these animals than there are humans on Earth. 


Johnson has no idea what his bosses will do when they find the 
source of the infestation. He's not afraid; they can do anything, once 
they know where to direct their effort. But first, someone needs to 
find out where that is. There’s no time to conduct a search with 
commando teams or set up robots. They need sheer numbers to get 
the job done in time. 


Would you murder 300 citizens to save the country? 


“They'll all be given commendations, and transferred to preferred- 
treatment facilities for the rest of their sentences,” Johnson lies, “so 
you won’t be seeing any of them back here again.” 


The two men look at each other. Neither one moves to shake hands. 


“Well, you'll find compensation for your time in the mail in about two 
weeks. You can’t know what a difference you’ve made here.” 


That part, at least, is true. 


He hates psychiatric hospitals. It’s not the atmosphere, and of 
course they're not enough to creep him out; he just never knows 
what he’s getting recruitment-wise. Prisoners are one thing. They 
aren't as dangerous as one would think, and they're usually in good 
condition aside from drug histories and the odd chronic injury, but 
most importantly they're predictable. Candidates from the mental 
health system, on the other hand, could be irrationally defiant. That's 
bad for timetables. 


“| hope the new home works out for her,” the administrating nurse 
chirps. Johnson was given a list of names that—according to their 
data mining—might fit the requirements for an urgent research 
assignment. One of them is on suicide watch in this hospital. 


“Yes, well." Johnson snaps open his briefcase. “We have a great 
volunteer with a soft spot for orphans. When she heard that, um, 
Michelle had no family to go back to—well, how is she supposed to 
rejoin society without one?” 


“| agree. | totally agree,” the administrator beams. She hands him a 
thick folder, marked with post-its where he needs to sign. “I’m so 
glad you could take her. She's been in and out for years. We’ve 
been trying to find a group home placement for her, but it’s been 
tough.” 


“That’s what we do. Help with tough situations.” 


They just contained a statue that women with a particular blood type 
see in their dreams, once they’ve been near it. When they have the 
dreams, they wake up pregnant with monsters. They tracked the 
carving to an empty fishing village in northern Russia, after the 
dreams started coming to women in the next town. His bosses need 
to find out why the area of effect is increasing, or in a few more 
months there won't be a society for the woman to rejoin. Not 
woman. Participant. D-249-9907. 


“It’s just nice that there are people out there who can help.” the 
administrator takes the papers back and puts them in her desk. 
They’ll be stolen and incinerated by the end of the night. The 
participant will be exposed to the statue, but he’s heard that they’re 
actually studying whether the anomalous embryo can be surgically 


removed before it tears its own way out. They have to do this to 
make an emergency plan, in case the area of effect keeps 
increasing. Or in case another one turns up in the middle of a city. If 
the surgery works, and the participant survives, they'll use drugs to 
wipe her memory so they can use her for something else. 


“I’m glad you're out there doing it,” she says. “You should be proud.”