Intrigue Satellite
Michael Ford
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Copyright 1997 Michael Ford
Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter One
The two crouched in wait on the wrong side of the window on the fifty sixth floor. They had been waiting for over an hour. The floor was supposed to be vacant of any workers, except security, at this hour. The entire operation was on hold because of a single brown-nosing office clerk. Channelle Kitka growled softly and Deckard Blaine nodded his agreement.
Running spreadsheets or something, Deckard thought. He and his partner had gained access to the highly restrictive floor from the building across the street. It was in the process of being constructed, and so provided easy access to the level they wanted. The fifty-sixth floor of the Gygax building was guarded by a crisscross of laser eyes; code & time locked doors, pressure plates and armed guards on every floor. The elevator went up the fifty-sixth floor, but did not open. That required a code. Once open, there was another door, a vault door. That required another code. Once past this, there was a guard. That required a key, turned simultaneously with the guard's key. Every one of these moves lit up a light on a manned security console stationed on every floor. If these lights went unacknowledged for three minutes, the entire building locked down and wiped all codes, and then transferred all data out to remote locales. Gygax Systems, Securities and Operations were very, very jealous of its secrets. It was Deckard Blaine's job to relieve them of that burden. His and his partner's: Channelle Kitka.
Finally, the obsequious employee of Gygax SS & O locked down his board and left the room. They gave him another ten minutes and then entered. They had gotten to the floor ledge using a grappler. The grappler was a handheld rocket propelled cable-attaching device. It fired a flight stud that had molecular bonding properties in the pointed nose. The grappler was only one of the modular inserts of the wrist rocket guns Deckard carried with him. Deckard was armed with this and more like it, all the products of the agency he was a member of.
They then crossed the cable and retracted it. The window was next. Deckard vaporized a section of it and the two slipped through. The window was not hooked into an alarm system, or "tripped" as the jargon went. The designers of the security system had recommended that the windows be tripped, but cost requirements had precluded that option. It was an oversight Deckard and Kitka used to their advantage now. The vaporized glass would be a dead give away to how they had entered, but none of the mission objectives required they cover their tracks. They were to get in, download the information, and get out more or less intact.
Kitka went off to check the floor, while Deckard examined the mainframe. Digging in his back vest pouch, he got out a small digital mole, a device that accessed a mainframe through a disc input and transferred all data out via wireless modem. Deckard never knew quite where, but it did not matter, his job was to see he parameters were adhered to. If the device failed to work, or the downloaded info was incoherent, or a decoy, that was Tech's problem, or Analysis' problem, not his.
He watched the red lights on the mole blink over, one by one, to green. Suddenly his watch face lit up three times in rapid succession, an alert. Deckard looked at it and the digital dial rearranged itself to video pickup. It was the office worker, still on the floor and headed toward Deckard's position.
"Ambush," Deckard whispered in his headset. The black clad figure then stole to behind the open door and waited.
The man, in a rumpled plum colored suit, came in and flicked on the lights. The thing he saw, sitting on the desk, was a large, spotted animal. The office drone was taken aback. It looked like a large cat, or a small cheetah. Maybe it had escaped from a zoo. It meowed loudly, and then began to wash its face.
"What the hell," he blinked in wonder and took a step then crumpled to the floor. Deck stood over him, flexing his gloved hand. He looked down at the fallen figure and then flicked the lights off. Channelle stretched out to sniff the air, then resumed washing her face.
"Good work, girl," Deck whispered, ruffling her large ears, kneeling down to check the mole. Kitka leapt down and twined about his legs as he did so. All green, time to go. He gathered up his equipment and packed it back in his vest. The man on the floor moaned slightly, but did not move. Poor jerk would be fired. Maybe brought up on criminal charges, all for working a little late. Deckard felt a little sorry for him. After all, what could a simple employee do against an operator that took out the guards and penetrated the most sophisticated alarms and anti theft systems available? Gygax SS&O would fail to see that aspect. All they would see was a fall guy. The guards making their rounds would be let off easy. They had obeyed all the rules, but failed in their task anyway. Deckard knelt and went through the man's pockets, curious about him now. The man's company ID read: Ian Brady, 5'6', 168 lbs, eyes, brown, hair, brown. There was a bar code, magnetic strip and a thumbprint. Deckard decided to make the guards earn their pay, if they lived to collect it.
"Think twice before you work late again," He whispered in the unconscious man's ear, slapping him lightly on the back of the head. Deckard stood, slipped the ID in his sleeve pocket and hissed twice between his teeth. Kitka made for the door, activating her shrouding device on her collar. As she faded from sight, Deckard took a deep breath, cracked his neck and drew his 10mm wrist rocket. The guard on the other side of the main door, near the elevator, would be their first target.
.
Years before, he had been nothing more than a minor clerk in a government warehouse. In the warehouse, files for shredding were sent and inventoried. It was his job to take the files, feed them into a metal-toothed maw of spinning steel, and then check them off the list. Day in and day out he did this. The paper-eating machine ate and it was Deckard that fed him. There was never a lack for food and there was never a lack of appetite.
Deckard was in the warehouse alone, and he lived alone. He thought a great deal during this time and he read a lot of books. His one companion was a radio. He got his news, his views and opinions from the radio. The entire world beyond the gray cinder block wall of the warehouse was described to him in detail on a daily basis.
It was an isolated existence, a tolerated one. Toleration, however, eventually runs out. When the light from fluorescent tubes that hummed overhead begins to drill into your skull and the dusty cement floors begin to chafe your feet through the soles of your shoes, you begin to reconsider things. A lot of things.
.
Deckard Blaine twisted and turned on his futon, bare and without cover. His skin covered with a fine layer of sweat, sweat born of past troubles. Turmoil raged within him, and he fought it. A large tortoiseshell feline lounged nearby. Noticing his stirring, she rose, stretching and crept over, still stretching her large claw laden paws, and curled up by his waist, and cast her tail over her feet. A sudden calm transcended upon him and he slumbered fitfully. Her yellow eyes, slits in the dark, slowly closed and she slept by her human.
This cat was no ordinary cat; it was specifically genetically engineered. It combined aspects from a dozen different types of felines, from the leopard to the Maine coon. She was three times larger than an ordinary house cat, covered with s
pots of black, orange, and tan. Her face markings were a lopsided mask of black with a stripe of orange down the middle. Her ears were large with long tips of whisker and fur like a bobcat's. The large claws she had were enhanced with silicon and diamond tips.
The human that now rested beside her, was augmented, as well. His skin was a map of faint stripes that could barely be discerned. Beneath the skin, muscles, tendons, and bones had all been changed through chemical, surgical and genetic means. Hands, and feet too, had been altered to produce claws. They were hooks of hardened bone submerged just beneath creases in the prints in the fingers and toes. Not for defense, although they could be used as such. They were in truth, an accident in the genetic process.
Blaine opened his eyes as the flood of the dream ebbed away. The cat, noticing, slinked up onto his chest and gave his face a thorough sniffing. They touched noses and he caressed her face and ears.
"Good morning." He whispered. Her mouth opened briefly in a silent reply. She jumped off and he rose, stretching. They went into the kitchen and had breakfast. It was not morning, it was three AM, but they kept irregular hours, they had ever since they had met, ten years ago.
.
The warehouse got to him the day he noticed that he walked to work in the early morning before the sun rose and went home after dark. He went home, had dinner and went to bed. He had not seen anyone, except strangers, for weeks. The next day he did not go to work, or the day after or the day after. He lay on his couch, eating popcorn, watching the digital video. On the fourth day, a letter came from work. It contained a check for severance pay, and a short letter telling him in essence the he was fired. Deckard got in his car, cashed the check and telephoned a friend from a bar.
"Hey Deck! I thought you were dead!"
"No, I'm getting drunk, I'm at Sony's."
"Wait right there, I'll get Jake and Lira and we'll be there in five minutes."
He hung up and ordered five drinks. By the time they arrived, he could hear the distinct motors of the hyperbikes of his friends. Kelly, Jake, and Lira were friends from high school. They were track racers and very good at it too. A sort of jet propelled motorcycle with a unique stabilizer that prevented about 90% of crashes. They were deemed so safe there was no mandate for protective gear. There had been a lot of new technology coming out lately. So much so, the Information Age had abruptly turned into what the media was now calling 'Tech revolution'.
Deck was not sure he liked it, but he forgot all that as his friends surrounded him with greeting, jokes, and laughter. They all resembled extras from an old motorcycle movie. Jeans, boots, leather jackets and wavy hair.
"Heard you quit your job!"
"You should join our team!"
"Seen those new IBCRs at the track, they're hot, very hot."
"Like you could drive one!"
"I drove you pretty good last night."
Laughter.
The day wore into night. Lira and Kelly left together, but Hazuiki and Romera showed up each with very attractive females, who immediately called up friends who also joined them. It was a real reunion. He saw all his old friends, who seemed glad him, although none of them asked him any questions. Except for one, the only one who could.
Jake draped his arm around Deck, as they watched the others play Tactile-darts.
"Why did you quit, man? You know what this means." Jake was a close friend and could read him like a book. It was no use trying to deny anything.
"Yeah, I know, but what's the worst that they could do?"
"They can do a lot. They're trying to terranize Io, and they know for a fact that the water is potable on Europa, did you know that?" Jake took a swig off his beer. "They might figure that you're just smart enough to figure out how to repair that lowest bidder survival gear." Another drink. "Or catch whatever kind of fish is creeping around underneath the ice."
Deck smiled lopsidedly. "Naw, I'll play dumb and wind up sweeping off runways on some deserted island where they keep nuclear waste."
"Don't be so sure." Jake was older by a number of years and had been drafted and served in the International Armed Guard. He had seen action in the Balkans. He was sent back to states on a minor disability. Having only two fingers and a thumb on his left hand, he was considered by everyone, including himself, to be extremely lucky.
"You're too smart for your own good." Jake made an exasperated noise. "They have ways of finding out."
As long as he could remember all of his friends had the same opinion of him. That Deckard was too smart for his own good and one day, he'd be in for it. Everyone he knew from school had immersed themselves into the "scene". They rented clubs, started bands, booked bands, and got liquor licenses for bars that would open for a few weeks, then close due to health code violations, bad luck, larceny or all three. This did not stop them though, the next day, a whole new plan, and a whole new scam.
The music, which had slowly changed from a high powered bass twang, evolved into a more melodic swing rhythm, was the focal point of all efforts. Who was the best, which was hot, which were the best combos, who had the best equipment, were the questions that everyone asked everyone else. Deckard had a vague knowledge of what was happening, but not all over the place. Some knew what was happening all over the liberated states, the Grays, and the Neo-Confed. Those that knew, worked it for all the good it could do them.
.
Eventually the night turned into early morning and Deckard went home. He slept until the next afternoon and awoke to find that the postman had brought him his draft notice. He was ordered to get his affairs in order and report to the nearest government recruiting post to determine his abilities within the week. He sat down on his couch and clasped his head in his hands. Not figuring that they would be on his case so soon, Deckard had assumed he had another month. During that time, other things could be done to avoid the draft. However, he had worked for the government previously so his record had been processed twice as quickly.
Obscenities clashed in his mind for top dominance as he thought.
If only I had taken out a grant and gone to college. I could have gotten into R.O.T.C. and served out my term in some stupid office filling out forms. Who knows what they're gonna do to me now? Where they might send me? Deck sat in his apartment alone, as before, with his thoughts. He collected himself, then got up and made a few phone calls, getting his affairs in order.
He reported to the recruiting office on Baker Street on Friday. His apartment had been subleased. The agency was very understanding at his situation and had found a leaser in a matter of hours. Most of his stuff had been sold off and he put the remainder in his old car and put the car in storage, paying for the fee with the profits.
Deckard locked the door and contemplated throwing the key away since he doubted that he would ever return, but just stuck it in his pocket. The IAG was the world's police force. It had been organized by the last world government effort. They had a reputation for sending highly trained, well-equipped soldiers into places where hostile natives with cheap automatic weapons outnumbered them hundreds to one.
In the recruiting office waited a couple of dozen hapless people that had made the same or similar mistakes. It took hours, but eventually his file was processed and he was called forward. He was stripped, examined, and given a psychological profile. Lab coated doctor types all with thinning hair and mustaches performed this. When spoken to about anything other than the battery of test they were giving, they remained silent, then replied with the next question, or instructions for the next test. He tried to be slower than he actually was, but it was no use. They had seen all the tricks before and knew how to deal with them. At the end of a five-hour period, he was judged fit to go on to the next stage.
Most of the draftees had been assigned a branch of service after the first stage. Deckard watched them be led off to another building. The next stage consisted of various aptitude tasks. It was during this that Deck began to see a glimmer of hope. For the first one, he was put in
a small industrial kitchen and instructed to make a cheese omelet.
"Omelet du fromage," he quipped to the doctor who only stared at him with stony visage. He bent to his task, grumbling, finding the supplies and ingredients right where expected they would be.
Maybe they'll make me a chef. That sounded safe enough. He thought as he flipped the egg dish over. Deck was not unskilled, nor mundane in cooking, but not a lot of people appreciated Spam fajitas or tuna and salsa like he did. When he put the omelet on a plate, the doctor, who had obviously been timing him from behind a two-way mirror, came in.
"Very good, Mr. Blaine." His only comment thus far as he wrote on his clipboard. The doctor refused to taste it, so Blaine ate it, having been without food since the ordeal began. The doctor made note of that.
Other tests included a series of find the slightly-differently-colored dot on the page of similarly colored dots, some extremely easy cryptograms, map reading and so on and so on and so on. At the end of the day, his head spinning, he went with a small group of others being herded into a large cattle car. The cattle car was flat gray with uncomfortable metal benches. The other occupants kept their heads down and did not speak. Deck looked out the window and hoped that perhaps tomorrow would be better. They disembarked in a fenced compound with large white block shaped buildings.
The entrances were manned by heavily armed guards and guards with dogs roamed inside the perimeter. The group was led into a cafeteria where bland hot food was served. No one spoke or even looked around, except Deck. The food was rice and beans with some type of ham or sausage, applesauce, or what passed for it anyway, and steamed vegetables. It all tasted like it had been made out of the same material and put in a press or mold. Mold #1: Ham. Mold #2: Rice. Mold#3: Table. The doctors or scientists or whatever they were had been replaced by uniformed soldiers, some with guns, some without. After about an hour, a loudspeaker informed them that lights out would be in thirty minutes and they would all be assigned rooms.
"On your feet and form two lines at either exit." A Sergeant in battle dress barked out. Deck groaned to himself. He was obviously in the army now. He wasn't, but he would soon wish that he were. He would soon know of Section X, and all it encompassed.
.
Ten years, pain, agony, missions successful and not, alterations, extreme damage, ruthlessness, kindness, bullets, blood, ashes, the dead, the alive, the crippled, and the insane all passed before Blaine's eyes. Political incidence turned into war. War turned into victory. Victory turned to peace. It was a peace of the mighty, the victors, with those opposed ground firmly beneath them. Those that refused to submit were mercilessly hunted down and brought before the world's eyes. They were tried as "war criminals".
The evidence, when there was evidence, was thin at best, but most of those caught never had their day in court. Some were killed. Some killed themselves. Others were shot while trying to escape. Others were simply chucked into the worst hellholes that passed as prisons and forgotten. Deck was fully aware of this and could do nothing about it. One does not dip water with a knife, and this was a giant well with an entire sea of water. Deckard was equipped with far less than what it would take to correct it. In fact, as far as the government was concerned he and his kind did not exist at all.
After breakfast, he and Kitka went into the entertainment room. It was a large room with several thick, brightly colored rugs laid about with several pieces of furniture low and thickly upholstered. There were several shelf-type things suspended from all the walls at different heights. None were full and many only had one item on them. Blaine lay down on the couch and turned on the Digital Video set. It was already on an old movie network, so he left it on.
The cat climbed upon one shelf and leapt from one to the other, until she was on the one right above the couch. She sprawled herself across it, her large tail swaying gently. She poked her head over the shelf to gaze into the eyes of Deckard who was gazing back at her. He reached up as she reached out with her paw and they touched briefly, and then both fell back to sleep for three more hours. After that, they awoke went back into the kitchen and drank water for fifteen minutes. Then they went back into the den when he fell asleep on the floor, and she in the chair, both on their backs.
.
The army. Thought Blaine. Of all the places they could've stuck me. He lay in his metal-framed bunk, hands behind head in a room with three others. Over the next few months, he would wish that they had stuck him in the worst bullet magnet outfit in the world with nothing but a slingshot. He was in the hands of Section X. It existed wherever its programmers, scientists, researches and directors were. This time they were here, and they had a new research program to try out and Blaine was almost, not quite, the perfect subject.
"Above average intelligence, extremely sensitive, but can be indifferent, even callous at times, Height, six feet, weight, 190 pounds..." Dr. Sorvino trailed off as he read faster than he could speak. He was in a small glass enclosed room surrounded by electronic equipment, prints, telecommunication devices, and analysis tools of all types. Dr. Hancock, seated at the readout station, glanced up.
"Problem." Stated, not asked.
"Not really, it just that..." He trailed off again.
"Paul. You always have misgivings about new projects."
"Yes, and sometimes, I'm right!"
"And sometimes not." She stopped her file perusal and turned from the readout unit. "Tell me what it is this time."
"It just that, well, I'm not sure how the subject will react to the therapy. I just have the feeling that this one will blow up." He threw the file on the desk and looked over the top of his reading glasses at her. "In our faces."
She got up with effort and limped over to the desk where the files, scattered, now lay. Placing the pages back in order, she handed back the file.
"Paul, I'm sure the subject will react just the way the simulation shows he will. To the letter and controllable." Dr. Sorvino smoothed out his mustache and looked at the observation screens. Number 7 was the camera was trained on their subject. One eye, the right one, opened slightly, slowly. The subject was staring right into camera, seemingly watching him. It was impossible, for the camera was almost microscopically small and hidden very well. The blank impassive eye unsettled him.
.
The next day, and the next and the next were a total blur to Deckard. He didn't remember waking up from his iron bunk in the room with the others. He only remembered bright lights, masked faces and cold probing fingers and hands, the sting of injections and the restless numbness of the gas. His thoughts swum about in a black ocean of forgetfulness and delirium. He felt disconnected from his body, as if they had removed his soul from it and put it in a bottle. A dark bottle in a dark room on a dusty shelf. Days, hours, minutes, or weeks passed before Blaine regained consciousness. Even then, it was bleary, like he was drunk and had woken up briefly to throw up in the sink. He did not know what they were doing to him, and he was too weak to care. The sounds swirled around him, but he could not make sense of them. His dreams or hallucinations were arcane and disturbing.
.
Far off into the distance he could hear something that did make sense. He could not tell what the sound was, only that it was looking for something to break through the haze, like he was. It was a cry of sorrow and inquiry, just the way he felt. He called back to it, and it sounded again. He called out and could feel himself rise from his supine position. His eyes were open, he knew that now, he could feel it. The screen of his vision was full of static and noise. He called out again and it answered again. It was high-pitched sound, soft and quiet, but nearby. A louder noise, a thud, like a door closing. Deckard was sitting up now, his back up against something soft. The sound and his sound.
What is that? He thought. I am thinking clearer now. The fog is lifting. A plateau was reached and he climbed up on it. The effort was great and Deckard was exhausted from the effort. His mind was empty, so he concentrated on his vision. A room. A padded r
oom. A white padded room.
I am insane.
A sink, had he thrown up in that? No, he decided. He was far too weak to move, much less reach the sink. A toilet. A wall, another wall. His eyes closed. When he opened them again. He heard the sound and he answered it. He could tell where it came from. Down. He looked down. The bed. A wooden bed he was lying on. Blaine craned his neck over the side. His vision, though clearing, but still hazy. A basket, a wicker basket with something in it. He heard the sound again. He answered it again, and heard his own groaning.
The scene before him cleared slowly, and Blaine saw a small calico kitten sitting in the basket silently regarding him.
"Meew!" He could see its mouth open widely, all of its needle-like teeth.
That was the sound.
"Maaaa." Trying to imitate the sound the kitten had made, great weariness fell upon him and he passed out.
.
When Blaine woke again, he made a full return to reality. His eyes saw clearly, head still a little shaken, but far better than before. The kitten was now on the bed, crouching on his chest. It, no, she, somehow, was watching him. Her fur was black and orange, mostly, the most intricate pattern of fur on and around her face. Her ears were quite large, too large really, as were her immense paws. Blaine reached out to pet her and she swiped at his fingers, claws just catching them.
"Dammit!" He cried out, jerking his hand back. Alarmed by his quick movement, she jumped off his chest, claws pinking him through the covers. She scampered off, he could hear her on the floor below, but she jumped back on the bed just as quick as she had left it, and resumed her spot on his chest. Her long, thick tail was whipping back and forth, her pupils wide and black, so that nearly no yellow showed.
Great. This is just great. They're killing me slowly and to finish the job, they get a hyperactive active kitten. He sighed. His body felt like he had been put into a trash compacter. His arms and legs felt swollen and he was thirsty. He moved his foot slightly, and she pounced on it, claws out.
He exclaimed, jerking his foot. She bolted off the bed, took another turn about the room and was back on his chest in a heartbeat.
"You look like you're having a great time." He snorted.
"Meeew!"
.
A full day later, Blaine was recovered enough to examine himself. The kitten continued to plague him, so that he was forced to take one of the bed sheets, tear it into strips and distract her with them. Aside from several large bruises on his chest and arms, there were also large red lines on his calves and feet. These were laser incisions, sutured with a medical adhesive. His legs felt bigger, his arms too, and his whole body felt different somehow, even his skin felt weird.
What have they done to me? His hands felt like complicated machines, his feet like bricks. Sleep offered little answers and even more questions. The biggest question on his mind so far was about the kitten. She seemed to take him for granted, like he was there to amuse her. Maybe he was. Deckard had never had a cat before, and was fascinated with this one. She seemed completely alien, like no other cat ever before.
Her fur had been shaved in many places, but it was growing back rapidly. It was sleek and thick. Her ability to run and leap was astounding. He would drag strips along the cell and she would chase it. He would jerk it up suddenly and she would follow it up all the way to the ceiling. One time he jerked it a little too close to the wall and she ran into it and stuck there, her claws stuck firmly into the cement wall. Deckard gasped and went for a closer look, but the kitten hopped down, tail whipping around, eager for the next game.
When he was tired and went to sleep, she joined him, sleeping in different places each time. If Deckard hadn't felt so worn and used, it would've bothered him. Three times a day, a nurse would come in, masked and in surgical scrubs, take his blood pressure and temperature. She also brought food on a tray. The kitten, during meal times, would sit near, watching intently. Periodically, she would protest, waving her paw, and Deckard would offer up samples. On the fifth day, an odd thing happened. When the nurse came in and reached for Blaine's arm, the kitten leapt up with a hiss and sank both front sets of claws into her hand. This produced a scream and an amazing amount of blood from the nurse.
The kitten, her fur puffed out, ears back, tail erect, and was growling menacingly. The nurse stood there, as if hypnotized by the small animal. The kitten took a step closer, and hissed and spit. The nurse, clutching her wounded hand, bolted out of the room, locking the door. The kitten stood there for a moment, her fur sinking down slowly, her tail falling and her ears pricking back up. Walking back over to Blaine, she sat and began to wash her face. Deck blinked in surprise at this unexpected action. Slowly her reached out to stroke her ears. She let out a low sound of surprise, and then began to purr loudly, not refraining from her cleaning. She stopped and looked straight into his eyes. They were questioning him, a question that he couldn't hear, but could feel. Deckard could sense intelligence in her gaze that was of kin. He began to scratch her ears. As he did so, she laid her paw on his thumb, and she bent her head to rest it on his hand.
"Channelle is your name." He whispered. "Channelle Kitka." She opened her mouth in silent comment.
Somewhere within the complex in which man and cat were incarcerated, two doctors watched this on the ever-present monitors.
"Excellent." One of them said, as the other took copious notes
"That's even quicker than we expected. I think the next level can be entered now."
"Yes," The note taker said, not looking up. "I think that it's time to inform Dr. Sorvino and Dr. Hancock of their progress."
On the monitor, the man and kitten were bonding, the sign they had been looking for. The fierce protection of her master against a stranger who offered little, if any, provocation was the final nail in the coffin.
.
That night, both of them were sedated and moved into another facility. They were bound by locking straps on a gurney and moved by the interns who had been observing them. Four heavily armed and armored guards flanked them. The guards carried large rifles with laser scopes, whose pencil thin beams cut into the black mist of night. The company climbed inside a specially reinforced medical van. This van drove them to a classified underground site. It was there that Dr. Sorvino and Dr. Hancock first laid real eyes on their subject.
"Did you receive the transmission?" One of the interns asked, as they unloaded the gurney.
"Yes, it was fascinating. I understand the nurse had to get seventeen stitches in her hand." She looked at the kitten that was curled up beside the man. A plastic sheet covered them. The flow of oxygen/tranquilizer ratio could be acutely monitored in this way.
The next morning both Sorvino and Hancock were summoned to the conference room. There, a large DV screen with a blue field on it awaited them. They closed the doors and the transmission cleared, showing the life-sized image of a middle aged man, balding, with a stern face and round wire rimmed glasses. Director of Section D: Dr. John Spotta.
"I understand the experiment has progressed." The man stated with no opening tirade of greeting or concern, personally, of either of them.
Sorvino spoke. "Yes, it's looking very hopeful."
"Hopeful this one won't backfire like the others."
"I think that that comment it biased."
"You bet it's biased. You want to look over the reports?"
Sorvino grit his teeth. He was well aware of the past results.
"They were total failures. Subject one: Dead. He and his animal killed each other, along with three guards.
Subject two: Dead, just died, just like that. No reason found. Dead. Subject three: Man and animal incapacitated. The two of them spend all day in a tree.
Subject four: Escaped. No one knows where they went or how. They are gone, forever most likely.
Subject five: same as subject one, only this time they managed to kill seven guards, cripple ten, wound three, and burn the facility they were in to the ground." A sn
ort of disgust.
"Doctor, can you honestly tell me that these experiments are any better than those performed at Dauchau, or Buchenwald?"
"Co-director, I resent the implication you are making!" Sorvino shouted.
The director smirked and took a step towards the receptor.
"Good, I'm glad. I do not like you "Doctor" and I do not like your kind. Just as I did not like Wouk or his kind. I do not consider his replacements any better. I consider what you are doing torture. If this experiment does not work, I intend to bring you up on charges of murder and reckless endangerment and whatever else I can nail on you. Maybe those two will luck out and kill you this time."
The image faded back into the blue field.
"God, I hate that man." Sorvino said aloud. Hancock said nothing. She was doubtful this program would work from the beginning, but any comment would not make this subject turn out any better than the others. She sighed. They would just have to work harder, think their way out of this problem. They had a lot to lose. The whole department could be shut down in the face of another failure. The other projects were going slowly. The former director had resigned and disappeared after the last incident. He insinuated new information had surfaced to facilitate their progress. It had all gone very well, at first. The primary and secondary elements had bonded well seemingly, just as well as their current subjects. Then during an exercise, one that the Director of Section D, John Spotta had come to witness, it all went wrong, so quickly. Sorvino and Hancock were genetic therapists working under Dr. Wouk, but were on another aspect of the project. They had never even met Wouk in person, but only by videoconference.
He was a genius by all accounts, but a little unstable. Extremely paranoid, he had never let any of his teams meet one another, or share information about what they were doing. Sorting out the aftermath of his absence was difficult. Some files were locked and others were erased. Some were hidden in null programs. As a consequence, nothing could be deleted or discarded and everything had to be painstakingly examined.