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Contravene Birth 05.04
Posted By: russ687<russ687@hotmail.com>
Date: 18 December 2005, 8:01 am
Read/Post Comments
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Contravene Birth
05.04
No man truly knew fear until his life was on the edge of demise. No man honestly could proclaim that they had seen unmistakable terror, endured unbearable dread, or undergone excruciating strain and fright until they had faced death itself. Such a realization was now two-fold for the doctor, who stared distantly at the skirmish before him, watching with hazy awareness as men fired unquestionably at one another. It was hard to even understand why division and dissension had befallen them in the wake of a much larger war that consumed lives every waking moment, but the incomprehension of their actions was irrelevant. Disunion was upon them.
Director David Marcus knew full and well of his stagnation, and the dire consequences if he did not move, yet despite his recognition of the grave fault that was subjecting him to extremely high odds of death, he could not force himself to move. The constant cracking of gunfire and the screams of pain meshed together in a taunting scene that froze every muscle and every nerve, and instead of moving as he knew he should, the director stood motionless, caught up in the unforgiving fear that had so many times ended the lives of good men.
A flash emanated nearby, causing his once unresponsive eyes to blink. The blackness washed over him, clearing the images from his vision and returning the lost control of his body to the mind that had desperately fought to retain it. The split-second in this blackness felt like hours, and in that instant he felt his legs tremble with fright and his heart race in panic. He felt his fists clench around the cold weapon in his hands and his lungs inflate furiously, trying to keep up with the demands of the body. In this second of darkness, he felt every muscle, every nerve, and every breath. And throughout this prolonged moment, his mind concluded for the first time with complete understanding what he had suspected his whole life. Men were not meant for war.
The eyes opened to see the same sight of a second ago, but this time his body was not frozen in panic. This time his arms and legs responded to his will, and he moved. Thankfully enough, as well, as a guard exiting from the other side of this warehouse-like room spotted him, the man's arm raising and the small pistol firing. The flash of the weapon and the whistle of the round passing inches from his head were nearly concurrent, and Marcus ducked down in defense, raising his own weapon at the newly acquired foe. The pistol kicked back with a force he was unprepared for, sending the first round aimlessly in the man's direction. The second kick was no better, but the return fire was enough to suppress his enemy's offense.
Marcus squinted his eyes as he pulled the trigger a third time, intently watching his enemy as he doubled back for cover. The round fired from his weapon clearly impacted the bullet-proof glass next to his target with a distinct chink and not his foe, but the man keeled over abruptly anyway. The doctor shot a look to his right, seeing the pistol steadily in the hands of Keith Dillon recoil slightly as he fired again at the threat.
He looked forward once more at the scene before him, seeing the once spotless white floor now littered with bodies and blood spatter. The sight was repulsive, but his stomach didn't have time to churn before he found himself walking forward, following Dillon's advance to secure the entire expanse of the room. Nobody was left standing as far as they could see, and rather only half a dozen bodies littered the room, none of them moving. Dillon eyed the area carefully, turning back and forth with his weapon outstretched, almost as if waiting from someone to appear.
"Freeze!"
Both Marcus and Dillon turned unexpectedly to see a guard suddenly exit from one of the side doors, his sidearm up. Though from his demand it was easy to tell that this man was not among the dissenters, since those treasonous madmen had taken no effort in ordering a surrender.
"Stand down," Dillon ordered, also realizing that he would already be dead if this man wasn't on their side. "We're not one of these betraying fanatics."
"Commander, how can I be sure?"
"Because I would have shot you by now if I was."
Both men stared each other through their three-point sights, neither budging. Marcus took a deep breath in and lowered his own weapon, gesturing for them to do the same. "Whoever was against us in this room is dead; lower your weapon." Slowly, the guard and the Security Commander let their weapons sink until they were pointing at the ground.
Dillon looked around them for a moment before motioning for them to follow. Marcus stayed close behind him, and the lone security guard followed cautiously, looking around for anyone else who was willing to kill for some reason still unknown to him. The three went into one of the side doors, entering the checkpoint control room. The director stared distantly at the single corpse in the room, shot in the back of the head. The body was slumped over onto the controls, and Dillon carefully pulled him back, wincing at the blood that now covered his hands.
Such a scene was too absurd, too unforeseeable. It was almost impossible to even think that this could happen here, and Marcus found himself still partly in disbelief of the discord that had infected the minds of those who worked here. He looked absentmindedly through the bulletproof glass to the graveyard just outside, at the bodies that were scattered across the room. Half of those men died not knowing, not understanding why his peers were now hostiles. His fists clenched in rage at the thought of these futile deaths, wondering why such demise was necessary or acceptable to these dissenters.
What did they know? Or, perhaps more importantly, who or what was motivating them into this dissonance? Even he couldn't think of a reward so great to merit such revile and immoral actions, and as such any reason—any reason at all—was left completely incomprehensible to him. If he made it out of this alive, he would find out who or what instigated this. Though the catch of that idea reminded him of the severity of the situation; if he made it out alive.
"Damnit."
Marcus and the security guard looked over at Dillon.
"There's at least two security teams on their way subsurface, and we don't have any teams stationed down there."
"Wait," the guard offered. "How do we know they're not with us?"
Dillon clicked a button that displayed the security camera aboard the large elevator that led under ground onto a screen. Inside that elevator were a dozen security guards with several technicians. "Because protocol dictates that no technician teams are to enter the facility after the alarm has been triggered, and no security teams are authorized to enter unless I permit them to."
Marcus sighed. Three verses twelve were not good odds. He looked at the flashing red lights on the control board for them, squinting as he recalled what they meant. After one moment of thought, his face wrinkled into frustration. "They've triggered the lockdown."
The Security Commander pulled out the semi-recessed keyboard, quickly accessing the mainframe. He entered his identification and authorization code, then proceeded to terminate the lockdown timer now counting hastily away at just over four minutes.
"They've locked it somehow from the mainframe itself. Somebody's already down there, and has cut out all remote access."
"But if everything's about to lock down, then they can't get anywhere down there." Marcus contested, though quickly realized what they were intending to do.
Dillon started walking quickly for the exit, ejecting the clip from his weapon and replacing it with a distinct click. The security guard followed immediately, though Marcus paused inside in thought. The Commander opened the door, but stopped and looked back at the director, his face grim. "Well?"
Marcus shrugged, staring at the screen showing the men exit the elevator and enter his facility. This was his research complex, and it was his responsibility to keep things in control. Now, watching his enemy disperse into the hallways running through the ground, it was evident that he had failed to stop them. The only thing left that was still achievable, that was still within his grasp, was stopping them from getting out.
He turned and marched towards Dillon and his subordinate, taking a deep breath. "We'd better get underground."
The Security Commander nodded approvingly, setting his watch.
"Let's hope four minutes is enough."
The doors parted quickly, and the entourage of two technicians and the co-director swiftly exited the elevator, beginning the run down the white corridors to the T-intersection thirty meters ahead. Each man's heart pounded hastily, clearly reflecting the adrenaline coursing through their bodies as they ran to beat the clock ticking down before everything was literally shut and locked.
While Doctor Swanson fully understood why they were doing this—why they were running down this pallid hallway in an attempt to get to that alien—he could tell the silent confusion wordlessly conveyed from his two subordinates trailing behind him. If there was a way to communicate his own motivation to these two technicians, or some way to concisely enlighten them to the premonitions that drove him to complete this task, he would have jumped at the opportunity in a heartbeat. Yet, as he skidded around the corner and continued rushing down this hallway to the two chamber doors just ahead, he could think no way to inform them, to explain why this was all necessary.
Partly, he could barely convince himself why he was undertaking such an eccentric endeavor, but despite the division that existed quietly though firmly in the back of his mind, he could not turn his back on this. His intuition told him that this was necessary, that this was needed because something greater than himself—than his authority and power to control this facility—was working against his efforts. While it was all vague and mostly indiscernible, the presence of this foe was unmistakable, and it solely was the reason why he ran through his own facility, trying to beat a failsafe alarm that quickly counted down to full closure.
He came to a stop in front of the control panel and quickly slid his card through, following up with the security code needed to complete the function. With a green flash, the two hydraulic doors parted, revealing the chamber beyond. Swanson and his two companions entered the cylindrical room, moving for the divan in the center. Surrounding the divan were computers and equipment, some of which they needed to set up to shock this developing being after they injected the tonic.
Swanson approached cautiously, something he had done every time. He didn't know why, but some discernable fear was over him as he drew close to the alien. Maybe it was his instincts reminding him that before him was an extremely potent enemy, and that all their efforts were in birthing the being. He quickly shook off his fear and stepped up next to the divan, looking down into the cosset at the nearly fully grown alien. Inside the red tainted cosset was the alien that was raging war against them, and the danger of this fiend was not lost in the mixture of excitement and forethoughts. He knew full and well what they were about to bring to life.
The co-director turned back to face the two technicians. "Start reconfiguring the defibrillator for maximum power."
He turned back to look at the divan, whispering silently to himself. "You will live."
"Sir, I'm all set up here."
Swanson looked up three stories to the window of the control room, giving the technician thumbs up. In mere minutes they would be attempting something particularly dangerous—to revive an already dangerous beast—and the anticipation and tension began increasing with every second. He could feel his body twitch with exhilaration, and could hardly force himself to be still as the two technicians moved the defibrillator to the alien and turned on the device, a high pitched tone filling the room.
"All set."
The director walked over and checked the setup, nodding in approval as the one nervous technician held both shocking pads, waiting anxiously for this to happen. Swanson almost wished the other man was controlling the equipment—a Brent McColluck—but quickly shrugged it off as nothing. This would do.
"Two minutes left until lockdown, sir."
Swanson nodded, starting to get nervous. He walked briskly through the open chamber doors, looking expectantly down the empty white corridor to where his last technician should come from. As the seconds rolled by, he found his foot tapping fretfully and his hands clenching uncharacteristically, above and beyond his already racing heart and darting eyes. Time was running out, and they needed that convalescent tonic to make this work, odds aside, and if he didn't get it within sixty seconds this would all have been for nothing.
At last the technician came jogging around the corner, his white lab coat flapping up behind him. Swanson let out a sigh of relief and reached out for it as the man came to a short-breathed stop before him.
"Here it is. I must warn," the technician said, pausing to take another deep breath, "that odds of this working are low because we never confirmed the stimulant's potency."
Swanson nodded as he turned and entered the chamber, squeezing the air bubbles out of the over-size syringe and approaching the divan in the middle, surrounded by the two technicians. He took a deep breath and leaned over the alien, looking at its closed eyes, expecting that in a few short moments they would open. He knew that the odds were not good of this even working, but his anticipation and hope that it would drowned out the doubts. This had to work.
The two hydraulic doors shut behind them, drowning out the siren from the hallway. The four men looked at each other for a moment, a new fear washing over them. They were now stuck in this room with an alien they were trying to revive, and the fact was not lost in their expectation.
"Don't worry," Swanson said reassuringly. "We'll be okay."
He reached over and aimed the syringe into the aliens head, pausing to make sure he didn't inadvertently wound the beast. He took a deep breath in, noticing his hand shaking slightly, and tried to steady it as it hung over the alien, posed to enter. Here went nothing.
A hand reached over and grabbed his, stopping it in motion. Swanson looked over at the man who had done it, frowning in surprise at the action.
"What?" He asked angrily.
"This can't be done."
He looked at the technician, Mr. McColluck, condemningly. "Do you care to explain yourself?" Swanson pulled his arm out of the man's grasp and took a step back. The other two technicians stared in silence, the one still nervously holding the humming defibrillator.
McColluck reached a hand behind his back. "This alien cannot birth."
Swanson sighed irately. "Why?"
"Because," the man said, pulling out hand back out. Swanson and the two technicians stared in surprise at the weapon in his hands. Could this get any more crazy? Not only were they trying to revive an alien under lockdown, but now one of his own staff members was wielding a weapon. Swanson almost couldn't believe it.
"This alien," he continued, "will be leaving this facility under our terms."
"Our?"
McColluck nodded. "I'm sorry, director. I was really hoping to see this alien birth here, but there are others who want it, enough to merit our action." The man was earnest, but that didn't justify the weapon in his hands and his confession.
Swanson squinted. "Someone else? Who?"
"Not important." McColluck slowly raised the pistol. "Now, nobody has to die here, so long as you cooperate."
The director could tell that this man wasn't a trained combatant in the way he held his pistol, but it didn't take a soldier to pull the trigger. He stood still, the syringe still in his hands. This was his presentiments coming to life, this omen that had been cast over him ever since that conversation with Marcus on the surface. It was partly gratifying to learn that he was right after all, but that didn't change the severity of the situation before them. Outside, no doubt, were this man's comrades, working to get down here and take his prized project away, and right now he was being held at gunpoint. What could he do?
He took a step forward, causing a quick step back by McColluck and the pistol to settled quickly on him.
"Stay still! Don't make me shoot."
Swanson let a slight smirk rise. "You won't shoot."
"Yes I will! Director, don't force me—"
The syringe settled over the alien, ready to puncture the cosset and be injected into the being's head.
A click resounded as the hammer was pulled back. "Sir…"
Swanson looked down at the alien, twitching his arm towards the cosset deliberately.
"Step away from the divan—!" McColluck yelled, stepping forward and grabbing his arm. Swanson resisted and pushed him back, causing the inexperienced dissenter to tense as he momentarily lost his balance. In that second of disorientation, the weapon fired with a deafening crack, causing all three to duck instinctively.
Though Swanson recognized full and well the opportunity before them and jammed the syringe into the alien, recklessly by his standards. He pushed the needle in and then ejected the tonic into the alien's head, looking back over as McColluck regain his composure.
The director then looked at the cowering technician with the shock pads, pulling the syringe out quickly. "Now!"
He felt the pain in his body just as the pads landed on the cosset, a shock exploding into the alien with a culminating cessation of the constant humming from the defibrillator. The power from the round entering his side forced him over and to the ground, and as he impacted the white, featureless floor, he felt every nerve explode in a fit of pain.
The burning sensation from the bullet caused him to reach impulsively to his side, and Swanson clutched his wound while looking down, grunting in pain as he saw the blood running between his fingers and onto the floor. His breathing began increasing as the heartbeat quickened, his body fighting for life though mistakenly forcing more blood out from the wound.
"…Fuck! Oh, fuck…!"
The words from the men around him began mixing together as his vision began narrowing, his mind slowly and increasingly becoming less aware of his surroundings. He could feel himself slipping away, much to his dull surprise, and could only deduce that the round had hit his kidney. As the seconds passed, his fading consciousness concluded that the wound was fatal, and without the strength to fight the darkness washing over him, he could only reluctantly accept the life draining from his body.
He let his eyes roll back as his breathing began slowing. He could no longer feel his own heartbeat, and could no longer clutch his wound to contain the bleeding. Now, nothing but blackness surrounded him as his entire body went numb, and he let one solitary cough exit from his mouth as the inevitable settled upon him. At this point resistance was futile, and he let his fading body relax as the darkness around him turned to light.
His life flashed before him. The memories of his past, of his family, of his friends, and of his purpose came to his forefront of thoughts. He didn't know why death had befallen him, nor why this time in life was the right time, as opposed to all those other death-defying situations he had survived before. Understanding why, however, was impossible, and he conceded to see the faces of those he loved display in his passing consciousness.
The end was upon him, and he silently said goodbye in his final moments of life to those he cherished and knew; his brother, father and mother, and his life long friends. He tried to call out for them, but no sound could be made in this realm, and rather he only silently whispered farewell as those memories began distancing themselves in this white consciousness. Matthew Swanson stretched his arm up towards them, reaching out as one final gesture until the inevitable took him away from this world. If for but one moment, he could see them all wave back.
Goodbye.
The elevator doors opened just as Dillon's watch beeped. Quickly, knowing that imminently they would shut and stay lock until their enemy opened them, they stepped out and into the pallid corridor, both security guards checking up and down the hallway with their weapons raised. Nobody was in sight, and Marcus motioned for them to follow him, walking briskly down the corridor towards the mainframe room.
Closed doors flashed by as the determined trio marched towards the T-intersection just ahead, being unusually loud in their movement but knowing that the blaring siren flooding these hallways would mask them to any unsuspecting foe. They came up to the intersection and paused just feet before it, Dillon going to one end and the security guard to the other, peering around to confirm the safety of this hallway.
Dillon nodded, and Marcus set out and turned left, halting as they came up to the two hydraulic doors that led to the mainframe. Though instead of swiping his card and entering the code, as he had always done, he simply walked up and banged loudly against it. Marcus knew that trying to use his identification to enter would only alert anyone on the other side, but a simple gesture of their companions wanting to enter could provoke whoever was inside to open up.
"Who is it?"
"It's me." Marcus offered, deepening his voice slightly.
"Preston?"
The director cringed in remembrance. He had killed that man earlier today, and the realization settled upon him once again. The vivid pictures of stabbing the man in the neck flooded through yet again, and he found himself pausing in guilt, despite the voice in his head that reminded him it had all been in self-defense. Dillon nudged him softly, breaking the stagnation that had settled over him.
"Yes."
The two doors opened quickly, and the three stepped inside before the technician could even identify them. The security guard remained by the door to keep watch while Dillon and Marcus approached the man, weapons up and ready. The technician stared in surprise, stuttering as they came to a stop before him.
"I—I, they—well, we—"
Dillon grabbed the man out of the chair and put him on his knees, grabbing a nearby computer cord and tying his hands behind him roughly. The technician cringed in pain but didn't speak another word as Dillon tied his feet together securely with another unused cord, pushing him to the ground after doing so and looking over at Marcus, now working away to unlock the facility.
Time was still of the essence, though not to get in before everything was locked. Now they needed to stop those men from getting out with that alien, and that was no easy task. Most were armed and trained for fighting, and in order to stop them they would need to stay alive, which quickly became a daunting thought.
Marcus finished removing the security layers from the mainframe with his still valid authorization password, looking up in gratification as the alarm that had been blaring for the last ten minutes came to a sudden stop. He knew this could be an obvious indicator to these dissenters that someone against them was down here, but if his construing skills were good enough, he was only following along with what they had already planned to do. To his best guess, they were only going to keep the elevator locked in an attempt to keep anyone on the surface out, and unlock everything else down here.
The director stood and nodded, stepping over the bound body of the technician. They entered the hallway and Marcus led them through the corridors of the first level, deciding that while they were here there was one room worth going into. As they walked quickly through the maze of white hallways, each man was surprised to find no one—not a member of this dissension or even some lowly technician that had failed to get out before the lockdown went into effect. They all have to be in the chamber, Marcus thought as they approached the control room doors.
Dillon and the security guard raised their weapons at the door as Marcus crossed over to enter his password. The two hydraulic doors parted before them, and one man looked over at them abruptly from inside, his face full of fear. Dillon led the trio down the short flight of stairs descending into the room, keeping his weapon aimed at the one technician who looked back out the window into the chamber.
Marcus could tell something was not right about this, and walked up to him, passing by the computers and large screens in this white room.
"He told us to just follow his orders," the man began softly, barely loud enough for Marcus to hear as he stopped next to him.
"Swanson?"
Only a slight nod confirmed the director's suspicion. He followed the gaze of the technician down into the chamber, squinting at the sight below. At first it didn't make sense, and he only cocked his head to the side in deliberation.
"No," Marcus said, backing away from the window. "No." He brought a hand to his forehead, taking a deep breath, almost as if the scene he just saw wasn't real.
"What is it?" Dillon asked.
He could only look at the Security Commander, his eyes wide and his lips pursed. Marcus turned around suddenly, looking at the displays lining the control room. The developing being was still lifeless, and not a single thing had changed since the last time he saw this alien.
Did he send Swanson to his death, for this? For absolutely nothing? His fists clenched in rage and he paced back and forth quickly, closing his eyes tightly. His colleague had wanted to do this, and Marcus had let him in spite of his knowledge about the dissension that had befallen them. He had sent him back down into the facility when he could have sent him away, and now, his partner and friend was lying on those pale floors in a pool of his own blood.
It took everything within to suppress the sobs that tried so desperately to reach the surface. His breathing picked up erratically, and his hands began to tremble. Matthew was the one man he wanted to see live through this, not the first to die here underground, and that all was solely on his shoulders. If he had only turned him away, sent him someone—anywhere—else, he wouldn't have had to seen his friends lifeless body next to a project—no, a cause—that both of them had worked so hard at. What have I done?
"We need to get down there," Marcus said suddenly.
Dillon nodded silently, deciding not to contend the decision. The three began walking for the steps leading up to the doors, only to stop as the technician spoke up behind them.
"Director, look at this."
Marcus didn't want to turn around, but forced himself to anyways. The technician was pointing towards one of the many displays, walking himself towards it slowly in confusion and anticipation. The director conceded to follow the man in spite of the emotions raging through his thoughts, though his remorse slowly evaporated as he saw what the man was pointing at.
"My God…"
The two guards walked over, suddenly interested in what was on the display. Perhaps even more interesting to the two men, however, was what could have possibly happened to bring such a reaction from the director, who seconds ago was determined to get down to the chamber where the body of his colleague lay.
Marcus looked back, his voice resolute though clearly contrite. "Let's get down there." He looked briefly at his watch before setting out quickly for the control room's exit. "It won't be long now."
The apprehension had grown quickly and steadily as the trio descended three levels in the elevator, though the only man who was fully aware of the ramifications observed in the control room was Dr. Marcus. He hadn't taken the time to explain to his two accomplices what they had witnessed just moments earlier, but it was obvious that they would figure it out very shortly.
In the dead silence of the pale corridors, they walked slowly and determinedly, passing by closed doors and under the evenly spaced white lights that reflected sharply off the pristine floor. Within this silence was that entity that Marcus had been fighting this whole time, and as they inched closer and closer to the intersection ahead he could feel its intensity increase.
Which in turn lead him to suspect that this evil, this enemy that had descended upon him, was not some man on the outside or some shadowy figure in the upper echelons of humanity's leadership, but rather the being that was grown and nurtured under his own directive. Nothing else could cause something like this, nothing that he knew of or could even create in his thoughts. While it was absurd and highly illogical, his mind settled on it with surprising finality, and as their movements slowed in anticipation he felt as if nothing else was, or could be, the cause.
This was their enemy, this was the enemy to life and liberty. It was within his facility that a pure spawn of the devil himself existed, and undeniably its presence could be felt. The realization took him back to the first real conversation he had with Swanson over this alien, the reminisce piercing his chest with sorrow and rage. And when he had drawn the conclusion over this whole thing—what was perhaps the initiating final words—he never would have thought that such an articulation would turn out to be true.
'Maybe we need to create something not in God's image.' The statement echoed in his head over and over again, as if beating him down with his own club. Quite obviously, at that time the words were nothing more than metaphors, figures of speech that in no way were meant to represent reality. Now, however, as he followed closely behind Dillon as they began peering around the corner towards the chamber entrance, that rhetorical example made purely for the philosophical discussion was more real than ever. As much as he wished to deny it, within that alien was true hatred and true iniquity.
Perhaps it just wasn't clear back then, perhaps he just didn't piece it all together well enough, despite the premonitions that constantly foretold of some grave future. Feeling like this before, would he have agreed with Swanson to revive this alien? Would he have even kept the project going? Doubts and certainties of course variations mixed together in a taunting gesture, clearly indicative of his failure to stop this. Maybe this had all been preventable, if only he had realized that the concept surrounding this project was not merely symbolic, but rather as real as the flesh and blood within that chamber.
Slowly and deliberately, he peered around the corner from behind Dillon's raised weapon, looking down the pallid corridor towards the chamber entrance. Though much to Marcus's surprise, not a single figure darted in the hallway, nor were the chamber doors even open. Were these dissenters that incompetent? There was no way, considering their resolve and extreme measures to succeed at this illicit task, that they could have possibly beaten those men to this point. Something must have stopped them, since Marcus had fully expected them to be bringing that alien to the surface by now.
Dillon stepped out and began walking towards the chamber entrance slowly yet firmly, his weapon aimed at the far intersection at the end of the corridor, almost fully expecting some foe to appear in his three-point sight. The security guard with them kept a close eye on the empty corridors behind them, and Marcus stared in confusion at the closed doors coming up on their right. They were all inside, that was the only viable option.
Silently, the three stopped in front of the chamber door, both guards looking to the director. Marcus could understand why, and it was his call to whether or not they proceeded into the chamber—and face an unknown threat—or back away. It was not an easy call to make, since if he was right and there were a dozen armed men on the other side of these cold, metal doors, their future would be very brief. Then again, could he just turn away from this point? They had fought to get in here, to beat these dissenters, and turning back could only give them the opportunity they need.
Without words, Marcus nodded, moving towards the small control panel and pulling out his card. Dillon moved to the right side of the doors where Marcus stood and the security guard went to the left, pressing up against the wall. With a quick swipe, the director then proceeded to enter the password, his hand pausing over the 'Enter' key as he looked left and right at his companions. They nodded.
Beep.
Dillon looked over, surprised. "What was that?"
Marcus squinted and looked at the two large doors. Neither one moved. He looked back at the control panel to see a single blinking red light. It indicated something, and the director closed his eyes to try and recall what could possibly keep him—with the highest security clearance—from entering the chamber. This would happen if the facility was under lockdown, but they had already addressed that problem. The only other instance was…
"The computer in the control room has set a safety on the chamber access," Marcus said softly.
"A safety for what?"
"The computer that is part of this project has detected something that merits the access to the chamber from being immediate, for safety reasons." Marcus let out a soft, barely discernable sigh. "The developing being is showing some kind of action, which is being picked up by the sensors in the chamber, and as such a safety has been added to stop all unnecessary entry."
Dillon eyes widened, though his face remained expressionless. "So that thing could be alive?"
"Possibly so." Marcus looked at both of them. "Ready?"
That was a stupid question to ask, he knew, but it was more of a notification than inquiry. Had he really expected for the alien to be alive, he wouldn't have opened the door, but Marcus knew—or at least thought he knew—that the developing being still hadn't birthed. The readings in the control room were indicative of some neural activity of life, not of consciousness. Besides, by their predictions, the alien wasn't completely developed enough to leave its cosset.
Yet in spite of his own reasons for why it was still safe to enter, on the other side could be those dissenters, working to extract the alien. They needed to stop them, even if that included facing them in a nearly suicidal situation. They had come too far, and turning back now only invalidated everything they had survived and endured, not to mention the fateful decision he had made to direct Swanson back down here to revive the alien. He had to do this.
Marcus re-entered the password.
The two hydraulic doors parted quickly, and the trio swung out and leveled their weapons at anything inside the chamber. Yet, to their surprise, the pistols did not kick back in instinctive firing, and rather they only stared at three men who looked over in genuine surprise. All of their hands rose in surrender, and Dillon and his subordinate moved in to secure the rest of the circular room. Marcus looked left and right as he stepped in, the pistol shakily in his hands and ready to fire, though his eyes quickly settled on the body ahead of him.
Each step forward was painful; each and every step reminded him his failure to stop all this. In all his fighting to suppress these treasonous men, in all his efforts, he had unquestionably failed to keep this from killing those closest to him. The prior thought that knowledge was dangerous came back around and nearly stopped him dead in his tracks. He had been so wrong, so mistaken, and the consequence of his action—or rather, inaction—was the death of his friend and colleague. And there was no way to turn this back, no way to rectify the situation. Death was final, death was ultimate; it was unchangeable.
Marcus came to a stop before the body of Matthew Swanson, coming down to a knee abruptly, trying to control his erratic breathing. The action around him was blurry and uninteresting, and he kneeled obliviously around the three men they had found inside, not caring who they were, or whose side they were on. Shakily, he stretched out his left hand and let it fall slowly on Swanson's forehead, his eyes tearing.
"I'm sorry." The words flowed silently off his lips, too soft for those around to hear, but he believed that the man lying before him could somehow hear this. I'm sorry.
Without saying another word, he carefully pulled his hand off the cold forehead. His eyes remained transfixed on the being in the middle of the pool of blood as he stood, his emotions raging an internal war within his mind, trying to come up with some way to make this right. But, despite his extensive education and intellect, nothing came to the distressed mind. Nothing was out there for him to grasp, no tangible entity or achievable feat. The scene before him would never change.
Dillon looked over at him, taking his eyes off the three they had corralled into a corner. His expression was not of rage, not of excitement or anticipation, but rather quiet grief. The Commander didn't know Swanson that well, but he fully recognized the death of an important and meaningful man. Marcus forced down the troubled feeling in his gut as he stared at the pale body, and compelled himself to look away. For a brief moment, he stared upward towards the ceiling of this test chamber, squinting as the bright white lights three stories up filled his vision. It was time for him to get back to reality.
"Sir, we have the weapon."
The director looked over at Dillon as he set it carefully atop a computer, then motioned towards holder of the black pistol. Marcus followed his gaze and settled upon the technician in a white lab coat, any and all hatred left within his now fatigued body falling upon that man. Guns and weapons don't kill men; men kill men. This man was responsible for this.
It took all within to resist the urge to raise the pistol in his own hands and fire at the technician, the murderer who had done this. Marcus fought every inkling that caused his arm to twitch, and inhaled deeply to control the rage in his throat. While his mind screamed for him to do it—to avenge the death of his colleague—his conscience stopped him. Too man men had died today, one by his own hands. Too many lives had been wasted for this, and he determinedly defeated the notion to kill this man, refusing to kill unnecessarily when so much guilt and remorse remained upon him.
Marcus eyed the man for another second, reading the name tag on his chest. Brent McColluck, he thought bitterly, recalling the name from the discussion he had had with the late Gregory Sheene.
"Tell me who's behind all this," the director said steadfastly as he began stepping towards the technician. "I want names and reasons."
The response was quite contrary to what Marcus expected, and unlike Sheene—who tried to dance around to topic—this man didn't offer any type of defense to break through. "I was implicated," he began, pausing for a calming breath, "I was implicated in this by someone on the inside, Bruce Tobias." The man paused. "He apparently had gotten a offer from someone on the outside, and quickly recruited everyone he would need to complete this…task."
"Who, on the 'outside,' was offering this task?"
McColluck shook his head, his voice clearly strained. "I don't know, he never went into details like that. All I know was that this offer was irresistible—how do you think I got to be a part of it?"
"I don't know," Marcus said bitterly. "Why don't you enlighten me."
The man looked at Dillon, then back at the director. "What else? I've spent the last six years at this facility in the middle of nowhere, working endlessly to find something that could win this war. And what do we have to show for it? We haven't done anything—anything—and millions die each week out there." He paused and took another calming breath; this man was sincere in his speech, though no more agreeable. "We were offered a life away from this 'reality,' a life where worries and fear of death don't exist."
He leaned toward them, as if for emphasis. "Don't you see? We're not going to win this war. We're all going to die like the millions have before us, all by the sword of this thing," he pointed heatedly at the divan. "These things will kill us, so why do we work day and night in these white laboratories to find something to save us? There is nothing out there, nothing to turn the tides of war. We are destined for defeat."
McColluck let out a sigh, continuing in a more solemn tone. "That's why I did this, that's why I accepted the offer made. I don't care if it is in defiance of the oath I took before joining the UNSC, all I want is to escape this." He raised his fists and clenched them, almost pleadingly continuing. "We're going to die, director, can't you see? So we may as well try and find some peace away from this and live out what remains of our damned lives."
Marcus stared at him in silence. Was it really that bad? Did those who worked around him and for him really believe that all this was futile? That they would never actually find something to help beat off the hordes of demons that washed over their boarders? It was sobering, at the least, to realize that not all shared his viewpoint that they would develop something here, something to win this war.
So that's why these dissenters were doing this? To escape some inevitable reality? Even to him, it was a tempting thought. To actually just leave this place, to leave all this work, frustration and dread, and go to some land where they could be the slightest bit happy. He paused on that thought. Happiness? He almost didn't even relate to the word. Happiness had long disappeared in his life, as well as the lives of all these dissidents, and it was clear that this happiness—a term that no longer existed in his reality—was a big enough cause in a man's life to merit illicit actions to find it.
"How do you know?" Marcus began, breaking out of thought. "How do you know that this offer was even real?"
McColluck looked around them, as if gesturing to the place they were in. "Even if I couldn't know with complete certainty, wouldn't the mere hope of leaving this be enough?"
It was hard to agree with that, but the director found himself understanding this man. "But how? What could have possibly guaranteed a life out of this, motivating you to kill—or maybe even be killed? There is no magic or supernatural being out there that could so such a thing." The ending tone was condescending, causing the other two technicians to stare at him in silent wonder.
The dissident shook his head. "Maybe not, but there is something out there that could come close to fulfilling that promise."
"And?"
There was a slight, annoying pause. "The United Nations counsel."
Marcus frowned at the response. Was this man insane? What kind of propaganda and half truths was he being fed to believe that the United Nations counsel, the highest echelon in humanity, was involved in this? It was simply absurd, and Marcus dismissed it quickly from his mind, concluding that this was all a set up by some faction of the UNSC to get some menial tasks done here.
But why? Why would somebody want to get this alien? As far as he knew, this was the first alien to be studied extensively by a human research center, which meant that the unknowns could be made known. But what was here that they weren't supposed to find, that wasn't supposed to be made public? He thought over the project, over all the records and facts that had passed before his eyes, and nothing came to mind. Aside from interesting information about this species, nothing extraordinary that could mean anything to anyone was found.
What was he missing?
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