 |
About This Site
Daily Musings
News
News Archive
Site Resources
FAQ
Screenshots
Concept Art
Halo 2 Updates
Interviews
Movies
Music
Miscellaneous
Mailbag
HBO PAL
Game Fun
The Halo Story
Tips and Tricks
Fan Creations
Wallpaper
Misc. Art
Fan Fiction
Comics
Logos
Banners
Press Coverage
Halo Reviews
Halo 2 Previews
Press Scans
Community
HBO Forum
Clan HBO Forum
HBO IRC Channel
Links
Admin
Submissions
FTP Uploads
HTTP Uploads
Contact
|
|
|
Contravene Birth 03.04
Posted By: russ687<russ687@hotmail.com>
Date: 22 October 2005, 6:47 pm
Read/Post Comments
|
Contravene Birth
03.04
It was tiring to stare at the screen, and the sore eyes readily responded to every movement in a fit of pain. It was impossible to ignore, but quite impossible to give in to, and the determined mind rejected the soreness and plunged forward in defiance. Perhaps if it wasn't for the new weather front sending thick drops of rain onto the window, or the odd and utterly uncommon wind gusts that whipped the uncut grass back and forth, the co-director of the facility could concede to a moment of relaxation and briefly forget the complicated world he was stuck in, but reality—as always—was proving to be quite insolent.
The luxury of daydreaming or distraction was not granted to the doctor this wet morning, and the constant pounding of wind-driven rain against the windows kept his mind alert. His body called for a break, for a chance to just fall into a darkness that would at least temporarily ease the seemingly perpetual headache, but such an opportunity did not exist. No, a break or even a mere moment away from this work, from this constant contemplation, was not an option.
Even as the self-determination drove the mind on and on, his pragmatic side called for an intervention—maybe an interruption so as to avoid this painstakingly tedious and unattractive work displayed on the screen. Though even as the weariness called out, the fortitude to probe deeper responded with a wave of resolve to answer the gnawing questions that flooded the forethoughts. Subconscious needs were put aside—food, water, sleep—and the gap was filled with the curiosity found in a child. Or, even better recognized, the curiosity found only when darkness preyed about, grasping at anything and everything that had the ability to comprehend its presence.
Marcus knew full and well the crux of this darkness, of this distressing force that seemed to occupy his mind. It was the reason he hadn't slept in two days, and it was the reason he sat in his spacious office staring at his computer screen; something drove him beyond the mundane, beyond the norm. He couldn't quite put a finger on it, or even offer a generalization to himself for this surge in exertion, but he couldn't deny its presence. One thing he could confirm, though to little comfort, was its existence—an existence shrouded in unmistakable obscurity.
Were these premonitions of a grave future? He didn't want to believe something of such eccentricity, something that defied his beliefs and instincts on reality and the invisible realm of forces that surrounded the physical world. He had drawn conclusions to what he believed long ago, and the crux of those concise yet acute conclusions rested upon the acknowledge of a supernatural energy or entity, which meant that he couldn't deny what he felt and perceived now—despite his certain dislike for the inexplicableness of the situation.
So maybe he could draw a rough and unsupported supposition that the apparent darkness flooding the minutiae of this project was in actuality a forewarning, a presentiment that directed his attention to the gravity and potential disaster looming on the horizon. While his conventional mode of thinking fought to deny anything mystical about this undertaking involving the nemesis of humanity, there was simply too much pulling him towards the foreboding clouding his judgment and perception. In any case, on what grounds was he to reject these dark premonitions? Perhaps he should stop thinking so analytically about this and just concede to accept the omen casting its menacing shadow over this entire facility, since disavowing it only brought upon deeper fears.
But enough of these premonitions driving him, since considering them was somewhat pointless—at least right now, it was. What mattered was the information in front of him, since he had questions to be answer, and there was no other person capable of rendering a remedy. Everything he was going to resolve, whether it be about this alien or the successful assassination of it, was going to come from his own study into it. As much as it would have helped, Dr. Swanson was not available or even interested in the anonymity of this alien's past and its delivery to them, not to mention the gaps still in Dr. Sheene's untimely killing of the developing being. There was so much more to this, yet Swanson's rigorous and somewhat outlandish plan to resurrect the alien seemed to overshadow the mystery that still abounded.
Marcus tapped quickly on his keyboard and closed the files open on the computer, finally deciding to take a break from the large and extensive information packet they had retrieved from Sheene. It was time to start thinking about the slaying of this alien, since there were still enormous gaps that still called for explanation. Despite the tremendous importance of the alien itself and its revival—something that Swanson had devoted his time wholly to—Marcus still recognized the equally important and pertinent side that no one else seemed to realize: the treason. Granted, this alien was the greatest thing to befall them, but the sedition and betrayal by one of their own was no minute event either.
It was obvious that Gregory Sheene had not acted alone, and he could deduce that much from the rather impossibility of achieving such a deed single-handedly. Too many factors were lined up that contradicted the assumed-truthful account that Sheene had given after he was caught; the main computer failing to record the event, at the very least. Someone else, someone with access to the most restricted portions of the mainframe had to have helped him pull this off.
But who? It was impossible for just anyone to access the main computer, since only the maintenance technicians could gain admittance—yet, all four technicians had already been cleared by Chief Security Investigator Bruce Tobias' findings. Who did that leave?
Marcus sat forward quickly, taking a second to stare out the large windows of his office at the beating rain. Aside from the technicians, certain Security personnel were authorized to log on in case there was ever a security compromise. That had to be the missing link he had not thoroughly explored, because every other lead had been a dead end.
His hand slapped the solid oak desk, Marcus rebuking himself for being more distracted with Swanson's revival plan than the collateral problem that had set them back in the first place. This suspicion would explain the rather lacking response by the Security in the first place, as well as the seemingly missing entry logs to the chamber from the computer. And, should this conspiracy prove true, it would also explain why the investigation steered so conveniently away from Security itself, in addition to the late report that was required from the Security Investigator. But how deep did it go? Who could he trust just in case this did prove to be the clincher?
That was an imperative question to consider, since it would make the difference between getting to the bottom of this scheme or hitting a deflective wall. On the other hand, did he really have a choice about who to go to? It wasn't like he especially knew anyone on the Security Forces, and the only one he really conversed with—ever—was the Security Commander himself. What did that leave?
Sheene.
Knock. Knock.
The sigh was barely audible from this side of the closed door, but nonetheless receivable. Marcus waited impatiently as the footsteps gradually got louder as the man on the other side approached the door, keeping his long black trench-coat's collars up around his neck as the wind blew against him, the rain only stopped by the small entrance covering.
The director stood before Dr. Gregory Sheene's on-site housing residence. The adequately large and decently up kept residence buildings that lined this side of the surface portion of the facility were largely uninspiring, but quite nice compared to the housing provisions he had seen at other facilities. The thick brown door cracked open a bit after the deadbolt snapped back, half a face coming into view. Marcus cringed as another cold blast of wind swept around him but kept a hard eye on the man under house-arrest.
The eyes got large and the door opened all the way. "Director Marcus," Sheene said unwarily. "I wasn't expecting you."
Marcus just took a step in, causing the younger man to step aside and allow his boss to enter. The director closed the door behind him and took in a deep breath, relieved to be out of the chilling wind and drenching rain. A quick look around revealed a very organized and clean one-bedroom-plus office residence, something he didn't really expect from this man.
"What can I do for you?"
After removing his coat and hanging it on the nearby hanger, Marcus motioned towards the living room. "Let's have a seat." Sheene nodded obediently, but it was already easy to see his nervousness. "I have some questions for you, Gregory, and you need to give me the full and complete truth."
The younger doctor looked away uncharacteristically, confirming Marcus' suspicions. "I'll do what I can to help."
"Good," the director replied quickly. "Now what if I were to suggest that I knew you weren't alone on this little endeavor—" Sheene looked back at him abruptly "—and that these accomplices were still out there, roaming my facility; what would you have to say about that?"
"I don't know what you're tal—"
"Really?" Marcus leaned forward. "So then you can explain why the mainframe didn't record your entry to the chamber?" The expression on Sheene's face was exactly what Marcus had predicted—and hoped for. "Or maybe explain the tardiness of Security?"
"I'm in the dark, what are you implying?" His words were carefully selected, but his tone betrayed the underlying furtive truth.
"I'm implying, Sheene, that you are withholding some extremely pertinent information." Marcus leaned back. "I do believe you recall the events of yesterday, as well as the conversation you had with us about this developing being and the suspected infection, and as I remember you weren't facing extreme penalties since we understood your position, despite the illicit measures taken. Do you want to jeopardize your future? You and I both know that you could be in a nice, cold cell somewhere serving out a pleasant, lengthy sentence for your actions."
"Of course I don't want to jeopardize this—"
"Then you will recognize that your silence is not an aid to your personal future."
Sheene took a deep breath. "What assurances do I have?"
"My assurances," Marcus replied. "Pending your full cooperation."
The younger man looked away, his mind divided and his allegiance decaying. "They told me not to talk to anyone."
"Who?"
Sheene stood up hastily, rubbing his face. "I shouldn't be talking about this—I can't be talking about this…"
"Don't push my patience,' Marcus retorted quickly, trying to break what loyalty to his comrades lingered.
"I did this to stop that being from coming to life; I've already told you why. They were just helping."
"So they knew about the infection?"
Sheene sighed. "Well, not really."
What? Marcus could sense where this was going. "What do you mean 'not really?'"
Sheene began pacing across the small living room, his apprehension clear. "I told them something was wrong with it, something that endangered everyone's safety at the facility."
"And 'they' readily and willingly agreed with your unsupported assertion, enough to help you complete an illegal and condemnable act?"
The man cursed under his breath, growing more angst-ridden by the second. "Well, when I brought this to the plate, they agreed without question, following up with something about how it needed to be removed."
Removed? "Explain."
"At the time I merely assumed that they agreed with the notion that this thing can't be allowed to birth, but now I think…" His voice trailed off.
"Sheene, tell me what they're going to do."
Another foul word exited from the man's mouth. "How could I have missed this?"
"Missed what?" Marcus interjected quickly, annoyed at his stalling.
Sheene conceded to his own frustrations and sat down again. "Last night I called the man I had worked this all out with to let him know I was caught, as well as the question Doctor Swanson had asked before I was locked up here. I can't say he seemed genuinely concerned with my wellbeing, but rather only if I had killed the developing being or not. I told him it was done, but then added—you know, just as a side note, since it seemed to play a big part to what we were trying to do—that Swanson might be developing a plan to revive the alien.
"He then got extremely distressed, as if something was quite wrong. At the time I understood why, because if the alien was resurrected then all of our efforts would be nullified. Now, however, I don't think that was the case—or rather, that it was ever the case." Sheene rubbed his palms together, though not in a fit of excitement but of despair. "He left hastily and said not to talk to anyone about this, and he didn't tell me why. I guess I assumed he was going to try something to get rid of that alien for good, so there was no chance of it leaving its cosset, but that doesn't seem to be the case anymore."
Marcus tried to hold his anger in, now knowing that Sheene wasn't—and wouldn't, for that matter—going to warn them about any further actions against them unless prodded to do so, such as the present. This man truly believed in a cause to keep that alien from leaving its cosset, whether that meant killing it or keeping it dead, and that meant that he was fighting a mind set against that alien. In spite of the ostensibly good intentions of this man, it was now obvious that nothing—not loyalty to his coworkers nor adherence it his superiors—would warrant him to speak up unless spoken to.
Yet that very fact allowed some splinter of hope in the director's mind. Just ask the right questions, and you'll get the right answers. "What do you think his intentions are?"
Sheene looked up, wincing at his own naïveté; an expression that was completely lost upon his boss. "I think they want possession of the alien."
If there was ever a time Marcus want to flat out curse, it was now. These collaborators, these treasonous and defiant and deceptive men were out for much more than what Sheene wanted or believed in—this realization now making the younger man's expression understandable. They hadn't helped him because they too believed in some infection that could jeopardize the facility's staff, but rather because they wanted that alien sitting in the chamber deep under the surface. They wanted possession of that being for their own uses, for their own conquests, for their own endeavors….
They're factionists; separatists with an agenda.
So where did that leave him?
"Who's behind all this?" The director demanded, his tone far more urgent and disturbed.
"I—I don't know. I didn't even know or presume that something was wrong until that phone call."
"Okay," Marcus said slowly, though his words were thick with irritation. "Tell me who it is."
"I don't—"
"Don't say you 'don't know,' Sheene." Marcus interrupted belligerently, the veins in his neck coursing.
The younger doctor was taken back, and paused as he gathered his thoughts. "Okay, okay. But understand that I'm doing this because something greater is at stake, not because I believe you are right in your intentions."
Marcus stood up and stepped over, looking down upon the obviously nervous yet defiant man. "Right here, right now, I want names—all of them."
"Bre—Brent McColluck, Preston Crawford, and—and Bruce Tobias."
Marcus was about to smirk with Sheene's cooperation, but the small victory was lost as a very threatening and inauspicious thought washed over him. Tobias? He fully recognized the name, and along with that recognition came the unnerving and disquieting feelings that forced him to sit down and his vision to blur. It was not abnormal or inconceivable for such distressing feelings to come about—considering the new stakes of this dissension—and Marcus didn't attempt to deny or dismiss the weakening sensation in his legs.
Special Investigator Bruce Tobias, the one man on his entire Security Force that was responsible for examining security breaches and compromises and developing a solution to the infringement. It was his job to get answers, to solve the potentially threatening issues, and to resolve ongoing investigations—such as this incident with Sheene. Though if what he had been told was true, if in fact Tobias was in on this whole conspiracy, then this entire conundrum of names and intentions would magnify ten-fold.
It would explain several shortcomings in the events surrounding the elimination of the developing being. For instance, the still unreported and incriminating facts about the mainframe not recording the entrance to the chamber, as well as the stagnant information about this entire breach that was supposed to be on his desk. It wouldn't be eccentric or even implausible to implicate Tobias in this entire scheme, since the deficiencies surrounding this investigation all fell upon his shoulders.
But if this was the case, if Tobias was indeed working in on this, then the dissenters would have to be more than just three mere men. It was undeniable and rather evident that if this implicated someone near the very top of his chain of command, others below were in on it as well. How far was this corruption into his staff? Who could he honestly trust to help him rectify the situation?
Maybe there was something else that needed contemplation, something equally important and prominent. Why were these men doing this? If they did not even know about the infection, the whole reason Sheene had done this, then what was motivating them to play a part in killing the developing being? Moreover, why was Sheene coming to the conclusion that these men actually wanted possession of the alien? What could they possibly gain from this?
It was inconceivable for this to be a spontaneous act, and furthermore it was quite improbable for this to be an isolated inside act. Something or someone on the outside was in on this, and was obviously offering a reward great enough to merit such drastic and condemnable measures. He needed to figure out why this was happening, because the only way he would be able to beat this was to know the intentions of his newly found foe.
Knock. Knock.
Marcus looked up abruptly, the thumping on the door breaking his thoughts. Sheene looked over, still edgy from this entire discussion but nonetheless unfazed by the unknown visitor. "One of your friends?"
The director shook his head, a certain foreboding washing over him. He didn't jump to premature conclusions—that perhaps this could be some truly uninvited guests, someone wrapped up in this entire connive—but he couldn't shake the gnawing feeling in his gut. He took a deep breath, then nodded towards the younger man. "Answer it."
Sheene nodded and stood up, beginning the short walk to the small hallway that led to his front door, out of sight from the living room.
"And don't be stupid," Marcus added.
The remark caused the younger doctor to pause and look at his boss. After a second, Sheene turned back and continued towards the front door, trying to relax enough to make himself presentable to the visitor.
Marcus listened closely as he sat on the couch, hearing the door open. While his conservative and pragmatic side denied any inclination that this could be a threatening situation approaching, he couldn't shrug off the curiosity and audacious side that seemed to predict something adverse was impending.
"Preston," he heard Sheene say, partly in surprise. "What are you doing here?"
The director immediately jogged his memory, recalling the name from the conversation he had just had. Preston? He thought quickly. Preston Crawford. It was a man he didn't remember ever meeting, and consequently no face came to match the name, but he had already associated antagonistic intent with him.
"From what I hear McColluck talked to you last night."
"Yes," came Sheene's characteristically nervous reply. "I called him after being locked down here, you know, just to let him know that it had worked but I had been caught."
"Right," the deep voice said. "He mentioned to me that you had talked with Director Swanson briefly, maybe giving away how you killed the developing being."
There was a short pause. "Yeah, Swanson approached me before Security dumped me here and asked what I had done to kill it, so I told him we used a narcosis."
"A very unwise move, Sheene."
"I know, I know. I speculated that they would try and revive it—"
"And as it turns out, you were right."
"Really? Well, it wasn't like they couldn't have figured that out on their own—hey, why do you have that?"
Marcus leaned closer as Sheene's voice got abruptly frightful.
"Let's step inside, shall we?" The voice said, more of an order than question.
"What are you doing with that? Security could incarcerate you for—"
The door shut loudly behind the two men as they walked down the short hallway. Marcus didn't even think about staying in the open, and quickly moved into the adjacent room, silently closing the door behind him. The director kept his ear close to the door and listened as the two men paused in the hallway, still wondering if it was a good idea to get out of sight. What if Sheene told his guest he was here anyways?
"Are you alone?"
Sheene paused in guilty awkwardness. "Yes."
"Really? So then you were just out, since this jacket here seems to be a little wet."
Fuck! Marcus could feel his heartbeat double. He had hung his trench-coat on the hanger when he entered.
"That is—"
"Sheene, shut your damn mouth," the man interrupted aggressively. "'House arrest' is a pretty constricting sentence, so a little stroll in the rain is quite out of your power." The footsteps entered the living room. "Who's here?"
Marcus was almost appalled by the barely discernable click that followed. Unless everything his instincts told him were wrong, the man was wielding a quite deadly weapon, which made this entire situation very precarious. What had started as a minute meeting involving a relatively harmless man was now a dangerous predicament involving a very harmful man with a very persuasive weapon. And to make matters worse, simply calling Security was quite out of the question, since the dissenters could be everywhere.
"We're about to move in and finish this, yet you prove to be a problem in spite of the fact that you are locked in your damn house!" The man paused as he grabbed something. "I would have figured that one more day of silence wouldn't be too hard for you, but I was wrong. You, Sheene, are the loose end to all of this, and do you know what we do with loose ends?"
"Wait—wait, you don't want to do this," Sheene pleaded. "I can still help!"
The man laughed coldly. "No, no, no. We don't bargain with them or listen to their begging, we eliminate them. We remove them from the situation so there are no loose ends."
Marcus jumped away from the door as a muffled yet still easily audible crack emanated from the other room, tripping and grabbing a chair to break his fall. It party worked, but the chair resounded loudly as it too hit the floor; loud enough for someone else to hear. The director turned over and rose to his feet, his eyes eagerly waiting for the door that led to the adjacent living room to snap open.
Crack!
His hands moved up to protect his face as a small hole punched through the door, the glass vase on the table next to him shattering in an array of pieces. He took steps backwards instinctively, his hands still up around his face, as more holes punctured through the thin wooden door, the bullets impacting around him and sending fragments everywhere.
Marcus broke past the fear and panic and crouched down, moving towards the only other door in this room at the end. Splinters from the wood table bounced off his back and fragments of sheetrock from the walls flew over his head as rounds seemingly endlessly poured through the door, the assailant on their other side taking no discretion or thought into who might be in here. Yet, even in his petrified state of trying to get out of this room and out of the line of fire, Marcus knew why the man was going to kill anyone who witnessed Sheene's murder. They wanted that alien, no strings attached.
The director threw himself up against the door, half-expecting it to not open. Though contrary to his expectations, he found himself hurtling through and landing roughly in the following room; Sheene's personal office. He rolled onto his back and kicked the door shut, then rolled over and to his feet, his head turning back and forth rapidly as he desperately tried to find a way out of this house—a way out of his death. There was another half open door that led to the hallway and two windows, and he found himself moving towards the door; by the time he could get out those windows it would be far too late.
He ran through the door and slammed it shut behind him, finding himself in the linear hallway heading towards the front door to his left, to another unknown door further into this small house to his right, or to the open L-shaped kitchen straight ahead. The first door inside the office just behind him flew open with a defining crash, reminding the doctor that he didn't have time to study the situation. He ran forward into the kitchen, sliding around the corner that allowed him to get out of sight from the still closed office door.
The door seemed to explode as the man kicked it open, entering the hallway that he had just darted clear of. Marcus waited tensely as no sound occurred—no movement, no speaking—and kept his body pressed against the countertops, his heart beating faster than he ever thought possible. His mind fought to find a reason for this or maybe the genesis of this violent and determined insurrection among his staff, but his coursing veins and shaking adrenaline reminded him that he was stuck in a reality that searched to eliminate him. There would be no negotiating and no reasoning to end this. There would be no one to save him nor anyone to witness who was about to kill him. Reality, the menacing entity that had preyed over this entire project, that had taken his prized project crux and that was now about to end his own life, beat the fear into him as the soft footsteps begin moving forward cautiously—into the kitchen.
The sound of an ejecting clip resounded from around the corner, and just as quickly as the empty magazine hit the ground another slapped in to place with a dreadfully efficient click. The director closed his eyes, his mind and heart racing as his terminator slowly made his into the kitchen, ready and quite willing to erase him from existence. It was hard to comprehend how fast this had turned around on him, part of him denying all danger involved in the situation, but Marcus didn't need "all" of him to agree that this was his fateful end to know it. It was the surrealistic sense that clouded over him as if this were some dream, producing unfocused vision and limp hands. Yet despite this fateful pre-death surrealism, one thing remained painfully clear: his awareness.
The footsteps slowly resonated closer and closer, the man closing the distance in an excruciatingly slow fashion. Part of him screamed to run, but Marcus knew that doing so was futile; it would only cause his assailant to move around the corner faster and have a clear shot of his back. What did that leave, then? Only death? Was there nothing within his power to stop this?
Before his consciousness even comprehended what he was doing, he distantly watched himself turn around and peer up high enough to see the countertop. Everything was so distant, so dreamlike, so unreal, and as such his shaking hand reaching out was completely unfelt and uncontrolled. It was as if watching someone else through their eyes, and the fear once present with the impending kismet was gone. The feeling in his chest was no more, and the once coursing veins were now imperceptible. It was as if he was no longer controlling himself, but merely watching his final actions before the inevitable occurred.
His outstretched arm grasped the handle of the object, sliding it out slowly to reveal a long, shiny blade. The serrated edge seemed particularly attractive, and as the arm withdrew, the blade found itself in the characteristic thrashing position. The distant knuckles turned white as his hands clutched the weapon with fervency, and his arms twitched with adrenaline as his killer inched closer to the corner, both minds set on one thing. Survival.
There, out of the corner of his eye, Marcus saw the pistol come into view from his crouched position against the counters, and slowly after that came the outstretched arms holding the weapon. In mere inches his foe would be able to see him, so it was either surprise in assault or concede to death, and distantly he watched himself decide in a second. The knife came up as his legs extended with all the force they could muster, and his body was accordingly propelled upward and towards his opponent, causing a shocked look from the man and followed by the wholly welcome and needed second of stagnation. His arm swung high then downward, the tip of the blade arcing towards the man with the speed only provided by utter fear or undeniable fate.
The blurry vision exaggerated by the adrenaline doused into sickening red as the knife slit into the neck of the man, cutting through the skin and veins effortlessly and coming to a grinding halt against the second cervical vertebrae. The puncture from the knife instantaneously gushed with dark red blood as the internal carotid and lingual arteries were slit; the enormous pressure from the main neck arteries forcing blood out the newly formed wound.
Not even a fit or scream of pain echoed from the man mouth. Through the red tainted eyes, all that was seen was the spurting stream of blood from the fatal neck wound and the large, wide eyes that stared back. The pistol dropped from the once strong hands as the arms and legs went limp; erratic breathing from the fated man being the only background noise as the distinct clatter of the weapon emitted from the floor. Marcus found himself holding the man up with one hand still firmly on the knife wedged in his neck and his other hand grasping the man's jacket.
The weight became too much to hold up, and the profusely bleeding man fell onto his knees. Marcus watched distantly as he released his grip from the knife and let go of the man's jacket while simultaneously stepping back and away from his would-be killer. His blurred and red tainted vision watched the excruciating seconds of blood flowing from the neck and trickling out the mouth, his mind not wanting to see such a violent seen but his eyes transfixed on the dying man. Only mere more seconds came to pass before the man fell face first into a large pool of his own blood, the body becoming fully motionless as the red circumference of thick crimson slowly expanded outward, covering the linoleum of the kitchen.
Bloody hands raised palm up, Marcus looking down upon them through his red vision in shock. The trembling was easy visible, and the blood stains covering his arms, shirt and tie, and pants were quickly drying. What had he done? It was still even hard to take control of a body that was formerly under control of his instincts—of his will to survive. He was not a killer, he was not a murderer…
Words of self-reproach and words of reinforcement mixed in his thoughts. Was he now responsible for this man's life? Was the blood covering him and pooled on the floor before him on his shoulders? Or was this self defense, his last act to preserve his own life? He couldn't reach a conclusion; his pragmatic side reminding him that this man was after him with the intent of murder, but the undeniable humane side loudly resisted and persisted to assert that he had just killed a man.
What had he just done?
The director turned away from the scene stumbled over to the adjacent sitting room right by the main door. He slumped roughly into a chair and let his head drop, his hands still trembling and his legs shaking from the post-traumatic panic and stress. Great heaves began to exit from his chest as he fought to retain composure. He had never seen a man die right before him. Moreover, he had never killed a man, and the terror of facing down between a killer for his own life—combined with the mental trauma from taking a man's life—was too much. And consequently, the tension was released in deep yet silent lamentations.
What would come next? What would he do with two bodies, one killed by this murderer and the murderer by himself? Possibly even greater, what about these dissenters? From the severity of this very real episode that no man should have to go through, it was easy to see that they meant business. Dozens of his own staff were now at risk of the same thing had had just barely survived, and additionally the very project that had brought this all about was now in danger of being captured for some unknown purpose. How could he fix all this? How could he stop this from happening?
The weary body rose from the chair, the hands still wavering and the weak sensation still overtaking his legs. He walked towards his coat hanging on the rack and shakily put it on, buttoning it up to cover the permanent blood stains covering his clothing. He paused and looked into a small mirror by the front door, staring into distant and empty eyes. An arm came up to wipe the stray blood from his face, and then he turned away, never wanting to see his own reflection again. Would he ever be the same again? Would he ever be able to look at himself and not see those wide eyes just before death of the man lying face down in this house?
Marcus stepped through the door and shut it firmly behind him, cringing at the wind and rain that now surrounded him. Despite the horrors that would forever exist in this house, and despite the terror that would perpetually exist in his dreams, he had to focus and meet this threat head on.
More than just his own life rested upon it now.
It was merely the relative safety of his office, but it allowed the director some faint sense of security from hell that had now engulfed this still unknowing facility. He roughly threw the wet trench-coat on the rack—which failed to catch and subsequently fell to the floor—and began undoing the tie still firmly wrapped around his neck. It took everything within to avoid the seemingly numerous mirrors in his large office, and without much success it came down to simply closing the sore eyes.
For the time being, getting rid of any evidence that would lead someone back to the now-deceased Doctor Sheene's residence was the highest priority. Until the bigger issues were dealt with, he could not afford the damning and quite complex situation that would manifest from someone witnessing the bloody house with two dead former-employees of the facility. Somehow, someway, he needed to find a solution to the much larger problem that abounded, and solvency was proving to be utterly and wholly elusive. Even for his analytical mind, which could process any equation and scrutinize any dilemma, a resolution was far from tangibility.
Marcus discarded his tie and the once white shirt into the trash, moving towards his closet to completely disrobe and redress in fresh clothing. The question that stood out again and again was perhaps the entire clincher to this predicament: who could he trust? Who among his staff was not a dissident or sympathizer, or even a quasi-sympathizer, as Sheene had unknowingly became? If he could come to any answer on this question, there may be a splinter of hope to stop this from unfolding.
Of course, without question, Matthew Swanson was not among this insurrection, but Marcus didn't want to implicate him—not yet, at least. At this point in time, ignorance was safety, and knowledge was a quite deadly yet necessary element. What he needed was someone with the power—that is, physical power—to help him. Now, at this point in this unfortunate situation, mere orders would not get things done; things were now requiring brute force.
But it was imperative to remember that asking the wrong person would only get himself killed. No doubt that whoever was participating in this was going to stay under the radar for as long as possible, so playing dumb would be the only way to get around. Consequently, if he confronted the wrong individual, any opportunity to avoid contest with these men would be lost.
The director finished dressing, tying his neck tie rather loosely this time. It was also important to keep in mind that wasting time trying to figure out who he could trust was just as bad as conversing with a dissenter. He needed to get things rolling as soon as possible, and if he turned down a wrong alley, then all was simply lost. But that didn't appease the gnawing fear in his gut, and the apprehension was still thick over his mind.
I just need a way out of this…
"Doctor Marcus?"
The director almost jumped at the noise from his intercom. He walked over and depressed the button. "Yes?"
"Security Commander Dillon is here to see you." The secretary replied.
Was this a blessing or curse? "Send him in."
Usually, the man called in ahead to see him, which party agitated his already afflicted mind. But this probably wasn't the worst thing that could happen to him, as it would give him an unsuspicious opportunity to feel the man out. He wasn't confident in his subtle interrogation skills, whether or not he would give himself away or simply not get any conclusive evidence at all, but it would be worth a shot. Besides, as he already told himself, time was of the essence.
One of the large double doors opened right as Marcus took his seat behind the sizeable desk, allowing Dillon to enter the office. He took a deep breath as he motioned for the other man to sit, trying to calm himself down not only from the tenseness of this situation, but from the horror of the last.
"Dillon," Marcus began as casually as he could manage. "What can I do for you?"
"Sorry for not calling ahead," Dillon opened with. "I had some issues that didn't fully develop until very recently, and the matter of them merited a more…personal manner of attendance."
Marcus nodded and beckoned for him to continue.
"Yesterday evening, as sort of a recap before we proceeded deeper into our investigation of the security breach, I spoke with Chief Investigator Bruce Tobias to see what his initial thoughts were on the entire ordeal. I can't say that he was outstandingly conclusive, but he did offer that it was impossible for this to be accomplished alone, and suggested that someone with access to the mainframe, probably a service technician, was involved. Now this morning, after he had had a chance to review that potential lead, he called me with some rather startling news."
The director leaned forward eagerly. "And?"
"It turns out," Dillon continued, leaning back, "that Tobias was correct. He said that he has found irrefutable evidence implicating one technician to the plot. Now, of course, the man is denying all charges of this accusation, but I think we may have clinched this." The Security Commander paused as he straightened his tie. "And the finalization should come from Doctor Sheene; if Sheene talks and confirms our suspicions, we will have completely wrapped this up."
Shit. "Have you talked with this technician yet?" Marcus said, concern edging into his voice uncharacteristically; nobody was supposed to go into that house until after this was dealt with. It was the only way.
"No, not yet, but if we just get the information from Sheene directly, we won't need to wrestle with an uncooperative suspect."
You won't be talking with Sheene anytime soon, Marcus thought. And you won't be able to talk with his corpse either. "Well, I would have to disagree." The statement brought a perplexed look across Dillon's face. "I wouldn't want to go so far as that just yet; I think it would be more appropriate to actually speak with this man first. You know, feel him out."
"I understand your reasoning, sir, but Tobias has already done that."
"And with the delicate nature of this matter, I would expect you to follow such serious leads personally."
"Point taken," Dillon replied, clearly confounded by his boss' assertiveness on this subject. "I will arrange to have a quick meeting, and then we can affirm or denounce the man's credibility with Sheene's follow-up."
"Very well," Marcus replied, though the worry was thick on his mind. It was inevitable; someone, somehow, was going to go to Sheene's on-site residence. It was only a matter of time, in all honesty, and in spite of every attempt he could make, that fact was largely unavoidable. So what did that leave him? Confess about the episode? Doing so would surely stop all his efforts to stop the even greater threat presiding over this facility, and he would lose both sides. He needed to start unraveling the predicament before he could start revealing elements, that much was certain.
"Also," the director added. "What made this an explicitly 'personal' matter?"
Dillon shifted in his seat uneasily. "Well, that was my last point to address with you. Despite Tobias's conclusiveness about this technician, there is still a missing link, one that has not been dealt with by anyone." He leaned forward, as if someone could hear their conversation. "I'm not sure how familiar you are with our mainframe system—"
"Familiar would indeed be the word."
"Right. Well, in order for logs to actually be erased from the computer's history—in our case, the chamber entry—you need to not only be accessing the mainframe directly, but you need a security clearance code to affirm that this really is authorized; as sort of a check on the entire system. It was designed as a clandestine verification option, one that was not required to accomplish the function, but one that was definitely needed for validation. Should the person accessing a restricted function fail to enter this code—and I might add that only few people in my command echelon even know about this fail safe's existence—an immediate alert is forward to myself directly and immediately."
This was all news for Marcus, but he took a little comfort in the fact that Security was taking measures above and beyond to keep them secure. Too bad it didn't seem to help.
"And," Dillon continued, "during the incident, or even thereafter, I didn't receive any of the notifications of an unauthorized mainframe action." He lowered his voice. "Someone in my echelon was in on this."
If Marcus hadn't just been through the last event resulting in two dead men, part of him would have thought that Dillon was paranoid. But, in a sickeningly desired way, he was happy that the man was drawing conclusions; conclusions slowly leading towards the truth.
"Who are you suspecting?"
Dillon leaned back. "No one, at the moment."
"Perhaps this implicated technician can shed some light."
The Security Commander nodded.
There was a soft click from the phone on the large desk, followed by the gentle female voice of his secretary. "Doctor Marcus?"
Marcus reached over and depressed the intercom button. "Yes?"
"Investigator Tobias is on line one."
Very few things in life made his heart jump, and it surprised him partly more than the actual call itself. The second he heard the name, it was clear that something was wrong; Tobias rarely called him directly, and knowing that he was in on this dissenting schema only amplified the concern coursing through his body. He looked back at Dillon for a brief second, hoping to see some sort of suspicion, some sign that would show whether or not he had any idea of this.
If only he could just flat out tell him. Everything within screamed at him to do so, yet he knew that doing so would only implicate himself beyond repair. Dillon needed to find this out himself, with or without Marcus's leading, which ultimately left him in a very precarious position; pinned between two consequences.
"Good morning, Mr. Tobias." Marcus said after picking up the phone.
The other man's tone was hushed and cold. "Feeling lucky?"
Marcus didn't say anything.
"I would be if I were you. Avoiding near certain death after witnessing a murder, and furthermore actually killing your killer, is quite a feat, one beyond all odds." The man paused and silence befell the line before he continued, almost in a taunting voice. "I know of your little predicament now, just as you know of mine, and there is only one thing you can do if you want to stay alive."
Marcus looked over at Dillon, who stared back in perplexity at the look on his face. "And what is that?"
"Get the technician teams out of Level Three and the Control Room in one hour, and recall entrance security teams. Do that much for me, and I can assure you that two murders won't be on your shoulders. A simple agreement, director, and don't forget that I can make a scene out of anything." The voice got deeper. "Anything."
Marcus was speechless, he jaws clenching and his hand grasping the phone, revealing white knuckles.
"Then we're clear, director. I would hate to have someone stumble across this mess with your fingerprints and DNA all over the place. If in one hour I do not see the technicians and the security teams leaving their posts, then you will quickly find yourself incarcerated for a very messy, outright sickening crime." Click.
The phone slowly found its way to the desk as Marcus stared out the large windows, not blinking as rain washed down against it. His entire predicament had just changed, and now he no longer held any element of surprise, nor did he hold any real leverage. The only thing he had that could stop them was knowledge of this entire opposition, and if used that knowledge the scene he had left behind at Sheene's residence would be quickly pinned on him.
"What was that about?" Dillon asked, clearly concerned.
How did this transpire? How did these damming and condemning circumstances befall him? Ever since the arrival of that alien, ever since this project began, things had gone horribly wrong. It was as if some ominous darkness had followed that nemesis of humanity, a darkness that infected everyone around it. With this darkness had come premonitions and apprehension, and now, even more pertinent, nearly inconceivable actions on the part of men he used to work beside. It wasn't bad enough that these aliens slaughtered millions of souls across humanity's expanse, and somehow it managed to divide those around it even after death.
"Sir?"
The word cut through his thoughts, and Marcus looked over at the Security Commander. Today would be long and painful, that much he was sure of. "Call Investigator Tobias," he said, his voice hard and flat. "Tell him you would like him there during our questioning of the technician."
"Didn't you just speak with him?"
Marcus nodded, deciding with all the strength left within to fight this one to the bitter end. He would inevitably not make it through this ordeal, but he wouldn't let these dissenters prevail when he knew full and well what they wanted. Perhaps more than his own wellbeing rested upon this decision, perhaps the fate of millions rested upon it, because whoever gained possession of that alien could possibly gain possession of the clincher to this war.
"Yes, but I believe he needs to hear it from you."
The director took a deep breath, knowing that there was no turning back.
"Make sure Tobias shows up."
"…And that," Doctor Matthew Swanson said, underlining the answer on the whiteboard, "is how we can revive the developing being. As long as we have the resources to put this all in place, which I am confident we do, our project may be able to resume its course with significantly yet relatively acceptable offsets."
The technicians and doctors with him in the planning room nodded in agreement.
Swanson rubbed his hands together in excitement, his eyes sparkling and a wide grin spreading across his face. "Let's get to it, gentlemen. In just over one hour we may have resurrected this entire project." He set the marker on the table in front of him and took a deep breath.
"The future awaits."
|
