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Contravene Birth 01.04
Date: 23 August 2005, 6:23 am

Contravene Birth

01.04

The grinding feeling sent small yet noticeable shimmers of pain up the spinal chord, an obvious indicator of a near paralysis injury. The neck was craned to the right in an awkward position, never to return to its intended state, and the feet remained limp; all feeling had vanished from that portion of the body. The right arm was undeniably broken, the elbow twisting back and the bone exposed through the torn skin; the shoulder blade was fractured in several hundred pieces, followed by a crushed collar bone. There was very little left intact on the beaten and broken body, and with every passing second the diminishing strength evaporated from the heaving man crawling along the empty hallway.
      Doctor David Marcus gritted his teeth together as he clawed his way along the spotless corridor, wincing as the clenched jaw resembled the grinding feeling in his back. His breathing was erratic, and he could feel his body shudder from the sustained injuries. His heartbeat was far faster than he thought could ever be possible, and fatefully it pumped blood right out of his body and onto the white floor. The older doctor tried to crane his neck behind him, but the crippled upper body defiantly called back with a wave of unbearable pain, and sure indication that he was mortally wounded.
      The deep guttural growl flooded the empty white hallways, echoing throughout the subterranean facility. A gasp of pain exited from the Doctor's mouth as he forced his entire body around to look behind him; down the featureless corridor lay a thick and dark blood trail, sickly distorting the bright lights that reflected off it from overhead. From somewhere behind him, down any one of the many intersecting hallways, another growl—that more closely resembled a scream—pierced into the still air, motivating the fading Doctor to turn forward and continue his painful crawl along the corridor.
      With every inhale, he nearly choked on some congesting substance in his throat, and with very exhale, he spat up a deep red matter that stuck to the clean floor with far too much ease. He used his one good arm to pull his body along the unblemished floor in front of him, but kicked his legs in futility as they slipped effortlessly on the blood trail plaguing his past. Small cries of desperation exited from the man's mouth as he gave every remaining ounce of energy into this awkward crawl, trying with all that lingered in his body to get away from the monster of his own creation.
      His analytical mind had stopped scrutinizing his surroundings, and it had stopped venturing into philosophical contemplation as it did when boredom was present. Now all it did was record the events as seen through his bloodshot eyes; every gruesome and excruciating pull by his one good arm, and every vain, slippery kick by his legs. Not even memories of a brighter past, of those he cared for, or for what even went wrong here flashed by; rather, every passing second was nothing but a day in hell, an endlessly agonizing moment where everything was wrong.
      Several blinks helped clear his red vision enough for him to comprehend the doorway just ahead on the left. With a deep gasp—and a subsequent cough of blood—Dr. Marcus clawed along the smooth surface for it, willing everything within to at least get to that door. He pulled his battered body up to it, turning to lean upright against the door and look back down the corridor that would forever remain and memory of unbearable pain and unendurable fear. He looked down at his two legs, and suppressed a regurgitating cough as the once white lab clothing was smeared with dark blood. The Doctor followed the red trail down the corridor once again and realized just how much blood he had lost, and he found himself in partial surprise of his ability to even think.
      That scream echoed yet again through the hallways, reminding him of the fiend he was trying to flee from. He forced his good arm up and opened the door, falling backwards as it flew open from his weight leaning against it. The Doctor rolled over onto his stomach and repeated the grasping action he had endured all down that hallway, pulling himself into the dark room. The sensor picked up his motion, and the lights automatically illuminated the area, allowing him to figure out where he was.
      Ignoring the grinding pain every time he mobilized his legs, he kicked the door shut and looked up onto the table in front of him. Sitting right on the edge of the desk was a notepad, something that would have to do since he doubted his ability to get any farther from this beast. He reached up for it and pulled it down, blinking as a pen fell from atop it and onto his bloodied face. Pausing for a moment before clearing his slowing mind, he grasped roughly for it, rolling onto his back to write after ensuring that the small instrument would not elude his clutch. His hand shook uncharacteristically from the excessive blood loss, but he ignored the ill-fated signs and pressed the pen onto the yellow paper. This would be his last act.
      The pen shakily drew out a line, then another perpendicular to the top of it. Two more lines formed next to it, connected in the middle by another, followed by three horizontal lines linked by a single vertical line.
      They're all dead.
      Dr. Marcus could feel his mind drifting, and his body going cold, but shook off the damning signs of his death. If he was going to do anything, it was get this information out. Too much had been spent on this project for it to be left in the dark like this; he had to make the deaths of his team and colleagues worthwhile, as well as the time they spent fostering this entire blunder. He had to justify this mistake.
      But in our death, we found the answer.

33 Days Ago

"Created in His image."
      The coffee cup connected with the lips of the older man as he stared back in partial surprise at the statement from his colleague sitting across the cluttered desk. After a large mouthful of the muddy liquid he found distasteful yet indispensable entered his mouth, he swallowed it in one large gulp and set the cup down on the coaster, careful to place the handle of the mug perpendicular with the table's edge. For how long had this habit plagued his late nights? Far too long, of course, though time could not possibly deter him from breaking the routine.
      An interesting statement, to say the least. Obviously, his comparable and competent companion was referring to the ageless scripture describing Mankind's inherent relationship with 'God.' It was one of those statements that brought both confusion and hope; the confusion from how such a situation could be possible—with all of the errors and shortcomings of man when God was inerrant and omnipotent—and the hope that maybe there was a supernatural provision for Humanity. He relished upon the latter thought, knowing that the former would become the crux of this discussion, and allowed himself a brief moment to contemplate the potential victory that they could gain out of this war by the predestination of God himself.
      "Does that make Human Beings perfect?"
      Doctor David Marcus reached out for the mug again, but consciously stopped himself. "Perhaps, but what of our physical limitations?" Toying with the subject; how predictable am I?
      "Well, ostensibly, what we lack in physical prowess we make up for psychologically."
      "So, in His image, we are perfect on a mental basis."
      Doctor Matthew Swanson shook his head, bringing up his hand to rub his unshaven chin, characteristic of the man every time the hour passed eleven. "Well, not necessarily. Perfection is impossible, or better said, unattainable."
      Marcus smirked, an obvious indicator of his decision to play along. "Unattainable?" He looked around the dimly lit room, as if gesturing to some invisible force. "But what of 'His' image? Does that not infer physical properties? And, if it does, why does that mean perfection is impossible if we are intrinsically connected to God, who is perfect?"
      "Appearances can be deceiving."
      A finger protruded from his hand, signifying an infallible point. "But He is incapable of deception."
      "Then, should that be the case," Swanson leaned back in the leather chair, "assuming that we are indeed of His creation in His image, perfection must be our ability to err; our fallibility."
      "However, what we speak of here now is of the mind. What of the body? The body is limited to our genealogy."
      "But the mind can overcome the body, so the body is progress-able so long as the mind is capable."
      Marcus reached out for the mug, and this time actually brought it up for a drink. He knew what they were doing; he knew they were dancing around the true reason for this whole trivial discussion. It had been something of true contemplation for both of them over the last week, when the opportunity has presented itself and they found the corpse of a once-formidable entity that marauded their worlds in a nice package in their delivery room. Admittedly, it was a complete surprise for him, since such a 'gift'—as Swanson had been calling it over the last several weeks—was never to be expected. Granted, their job description included developing new methods and devices to help win the war, but receiving such a specimen was beyond what they could have anticipated.
      Presently, with the genetic structure of the alien mapped out, they had before them several options for an experimental future, but all of them contained a high probably of failure, and therefore a waste of time and funds. The latter was not necessarily a large factor in their endeavors, but the former was unquestionably an obstacle. Time was, as much as everyone wished to deny it, of the essence, and getting something out there to aid in Humanity's defense was a high priority.
      Though the idea to utilize this genetic resource, no matter which method they chose to take, would require time and effort that would be unredeemable should it fail in the end. Furthermore, there was no way to predict a high possibility of success since this was a truly new area of experimentation, which left both senior directors in a bind as to what they should do. It was not like there was some military commander or demanding manager above them—they were fortunately the top of the food-chain, receiving funding from a black budget and reporting to only one individual who graciously stayed out of their business—but failure on their part left yet another hole in their defense against this foe.
      Now, staring at his colleague of nine years, they were running around this issue of whether or not to act upon this proposed idea; an idea that would either grant them a great contribution to this war or would devour months of their hard work. He was cautious—if not opposed to Swanson's idea—but he knew that if this worked out, the payoff would be tremendous.
      The mug settled back to the coaster, and the handle orientated itself perpendicular with the table edge. "Though undeniably, the mind is not inerrant."
      "Indeed," Swanson nodded, "but not incapable of progression towards perfection."
      "Yet as we have said, perfection is impossible."
      "But He is perfect, so therefore, with us in His image, we must be at least capable of perfection."
      "So perfection is possible, then."
      "Some would suggest so, though our preceding assertions may not."
      Marcus let out a soft chuckle. Nothing is ever absolute.
      Swanson leaned forward, continuing on though altering the subject. "The mind cannot be altered, but through the mind the body can be."
      "Then one could simply alter the body. Yet, as we know, the mind and body are intrinsically connected—one cannot exist without the other. We cannot extract consciousness."
      His colleague let out a short sigh. "So in altering the body we inadvertently alter the mind…"
      "—Which takes us farther from perfection." Marcus stated, finishing Swanson's thought.
      Quite honestly, where we they going? Such ideas had been discussed and thought over many times prior, yet they sat in their darkened office far past normal working hours conversing about it. He knew that Swanson was trying to somehow bring him into agreement over what they should do with this opportunity, but the topic had only danced around it, rather than tackling the matter head on.
      "Maybe," Swanson said in thought. "Maybe, perfection isn't what we need."
      Marcus raised an eyebrow. Naturally, perfection was the ultimate goal of any project; why would one want to make something imperfect? Within perfection lay every contingency, every possibility, and every potential for success. It was only logical for their efforts to be centered around perfection and the pursuit thereof, so why would such a statement exit the mouth of a man who knew full and well this fact? Obviously, he had an underlying point to the sudden thought.
      If perfection wasn't what they needed, then imperfection was? Then again, redefinition of perfection in its contextual state was necessary for this thought to continue. Imperfection—what is imperfection? Is it that state in which something is farthest from its truest condition, its truest capacity? Or maybe it was of a different imperfection, one that not resembled capacities or capabilities, but one that represented the image of God. If He is perfect, then an imperfect being would more likely represent the opposite of God, which was—
      "Malevolence?" The words exited dryly from Marcus' lips.
      Swanson, having already thought it out in the mere seconds between its origin and now, nodded in agreement, understanding Marcus' rather fragmented statement. "Maybe we need to produce this creature. Maybe we need to create something not in God's image. "



      The night had been long for both men, but readily productive. Despite Dr. Marcus' reservations regarding such a project, their conclusions were not without justification, and their philosophical contemplation was not without validation. Now, the next morning, it was time to implement their thought out discussion.
      A consensus had been reached, and they were going through with the controversial project. It was an odd thought to even be considered, mostly because trying what they were about to do was extremely debatable, if not reproachful by anyone with a conscience. It wasn't something of cruel torture, something that even the darkest of men would rebuke, but rather something of ethics; were they even doing something morally permissible? Was creating the very enemy that killed them even right?
      Of course, under the circumstances of war, they were attempting a feat with good and earnest reason, even if the surface of things appeared much more rough than intended. They needed to break beyond the bleak and unproductive mode of thinking that had been plaguing most of the 'R&D' centers still in existence, and produce something capable of making a difference in this struggle to survive. Still, it brought upon doubts despite the sincere contemplation of last night, and the original reservations about time and effort were still clear and present. Creating this being, this entity that slaughtered millions was not especially conducive to winning the war
      Marcus shrugged the thoughts off as he swiped his authorization card through the computer. What if it was? What if raising this being could give them a valuable weapon in their defense? Granted, creating an entity that soldiers tried so rigorously to kill didn't seem beneficial to their cause, but the underlying information could be. Besides, they had progressed too far into this project to turn back now, despite the premonitions of failure lurking in the shadows.
      It was partly invigorating, since such an undertaking was truly groundbreaking, but mostly apprehensive because the uncertainties offered no security in their future or safety in what they were creating. What if this blew up in their face? Aside from the possibility that it turns out to just be a dud, what if it grew into something far beyond what they could have anticipated? The qualms were not helping his already cautioned outlook on this endeavor.
      Two security guards nodded in greeting as he passed the security checkpoint and proceeded to the large elevator directly ahead. He looked absentmindedly at the spotless white walls, and allowed his mind to wander yet again. The bright overhead lights reflected sharply off the clean floors, somehow reminding him of the facility he was entering. No pictures or other humanly-effects were added to this place; only the stale unsightly white walls and spotless floors. Understandably, this place needed to be clean beyond any sane man's standards, but he didn't enjoy the lengths to which that fact was preserved.
      The two doors separated with a slight beep, and he stepped into the spacious elevator alone. The interior was an exact clone of the hallway, the only difference being the control panel on the side wall with a small digital display that read 'zero.' The doors shut before him, and the predictable weightlessness ensued for a second as the elevator accelerated downward, plunging into the depths of the facility. As with most other United Nations' funded facilities with sensitive directives, a good portion of it was built underground. Thankfully, he only had to come down here when conducting special projects, but every occasion he did was not too enjoyable. There was a bleak feeling in the laboratories thirty meters beneath the surface, and he didn't like spending any more time in them than necessary.
      However, this time was supposedly different. They were about to embark on something far more exciting than the mundane projects that usually took place down there, for which he was appreciative, so maybe the time spent underground would be worth it. Marcus brought a hand to rub his forehead as the doors parted in front of him. He found the usual and predictable sight before him; an empty, white hallway extending ahead for as far as his eyes could see, with nothing visibly different, as if time itself had stopped completely since his last departure of this facility.
      It was not awkward to walk these featureless corridors, but it was bizarrely foreign to him. He knew the layout of this subsurface complex far batter than anyone, yet every time he descending into these depths he found himself in a realm so distant and alien that he doubted whether or not it was all a repetitive delusion of the same location or the reality everyone believed it to be.
      Of course, he couldn't let these distractions pull him away from the task at hand. They were already devoting all their time to this project, and wasting even more by irrelevant thoughts was not a wise nor productive choice. He pushed the concerns of the project—and the peculiarities of his own mind—aside and continued forward into this white establishment.
      "Nice of you to show up." Swanson said, exiting from a nameless door and coming up to greet him. "Part of me was worried that you found a reason why we shouldn't do this."
      Marcus let out a courtesy laugh, a sure indicator that he had tried to do so. "Well, looks like you prevail this time. Status?"
      "We have the embryo stabilized," Swanson's voice seemed to echo throughout the empty, featureless corridors as they began walking deeper into the complex. "You would be surprised to know just how these things reproduce, or rather, under the conditions thereof. Apparently, there is no intercourse between two different beings, and for that matter we have concluded that there are no genders among this species at all."
      An interesting fact. "So how do we induce development?"
      "Well, this is the interesting part," Swanson paused as they made a turn down another hallway, completely empty all the way to the distant end with closed doors lining either side. "Somehow, the parent being is capable of discerning when to begin the reproduction development—all on its own—which means that at any point in time the being can, in lamest terms, 'activate' the embryo into development, regardless of the physical properties surrounding the parent being. From what we know so far, it could conceivably reproduce in any environment, no matter how harsh, as long as the parent being can survive."
      "So they are genetically structured to subsist and reproduce in any environment they are capable of enduring."
      "Exactly," Swanson replied, stopping by a pair of large doors and reaching out with his identification card. He swiped it through the computer, entered a seven digit code, then placed his thumb squarely on the digital pad. The two doors, easily thick enough to stop all but the most determined madman from entering, parted with ease and revealed a room much like the corridors—white and spotless—but sporting several computer stations along the walls and a glass window looking down into a chamber, as well as somewhat dimmer lighting. The two senior directors stepped down the short flight of stairs descending into the control room, nodding at the three technicians idly standing by the large window—the first men Marcus had seen since exiting the elevator, excluding the companion that walked beside him.
      Marcus walked over and looked down into the chamber. Dropping about ten meters, the completely white and obviously immaculate chamber sported a transparent bed-like object surrounded by comprehensive computers and machinery—all coated white. In the center of the see-through divan was a round, deep red object. That, in all its mild glory, was their entire project.
      "Do we know how long it will take to develop?"
      "No clue."
      He let out a short sigh. This could take days, or months, or maybe even years. They knew so little about this alien species that anything was possible. Fortunately, the very nature of the embryo meant it could subsist in a wide range of environments, meaning that extensive and exhaustive research and experimentation was not needed to just make it live. They had found some early shortcuts to make it this far, but now all they could do was wait.
      It was odd to stare at the alien creature in growth, now nothing but a mere orb, and see everything they were trying to accomplish encapsulated in a space that could fit on the palm of his hand. Usually, their projects included aching loads of technical pre-work, hours in the simulators, then days spent creating it, but now they were staring at something with far more potential—and they hadn't done a thing to make it this far. The only "breakthrough" for this whole endeavor was its surprising delivery to their facility; otherwise, they had done nothing to make this work.
      That was probably the part that stuck out most. It was too easy to be true, too easy to work out. The simple fact that this embryo didn't require constant stabilization was uncomforting, and the additional reality that it could persevere despite all but the harshest elements they could throw at it didn't render a reassuring gesture. Everything about this was too damned…
      Perfect.
      "So is this the essence of imperfection?" Marcus stated, trying to break his discouraging series of thoughts.
      Swanson looked over. "Time will tell."
      "Maybe not."
      Both directors turned to see a technician motioning towards the primary screen displaying the properties of the embryo. Everything was seemingly unchanged except for the neural activity.
      "What—?" Marcus began, but never continued his exclamation. Neural activity? Such things were not expected at such an early stage in its development. Per their anticipation, it would be dormant for the first period of time—something longer than a mere morning since it was extracted from the corpse of the alien—and it was not supposed to develop anything resembling consciousness until closer to birth. Now, with the reading rising steadily, the embryo was beginning to develop the early stages of perception and awareness.
      "Impossible." Swanson muttered, looking back down at the small red orb ten meters below.
      Marcus looked over at his colleague, his tone serious yet the content of his words flippant. "Only perfection is impossible."



      It had grown; it was now ninety times its size of only thirty-one days ago. All the scientists and technicians observed it day and night, watching in fascination as this alien being developed at an astonishing rate. It was reassuring, meaning that time was indeed not being wasted on this project, but it was also damning, since it was growing beyond and out of their control. There was no way to slow it down, other than killing it outright, which left them in an undesirably passive position.
      However, it was progressing close enough to their intentions, so its foreign growth properties were being meet more with enthusiasm than fear. Aside from that, it was good news because a final product would be available far sooner than formerly thought, which put more time in their pockets for the post-development experimentation. All in all, they could conceivably have something worthwhile in as soon as a week.
      Much to his dislike, Marcus had spent endless hours day in and day out in the subterranean portions of the facility, watching as this alien grew from a mere embryo to a near life-size being in a month. It was distressing to see just how easily and quickly this species of aliens could reproduce, as that was testimony to the endless line of warriors that they faced in combat; was it even possible to beat this foe? Hours of downtime was occupied fully be these premonitions of a dark future, because the knowledge they now have about these extraterrestrial beings was not comforting.
      At the very least they were gaining valuable inside information on them, albeit none of it was good. Already proven warriors, the additional fact that these things could multiply faster than they could be killed was discouraging, if not depressing. Yet his analytical mind reminded him that there was always a counteraction to every action, and that if these things were so formidable, there must be a weakness somewhere that they could exploit. Aside from learning more of this species, it would be a second undertaking to find out what can be done to stop this foe from killing millions mercilessly.
      Some sort of weapon? Maybe a biological agent, or even chemical? Something had to be deadly enough to these things while leaving humans unscathed. Obviously, they could deploy any number of conventional weapons to kill these aliens, but in the process the lives of those soldiers were being jeopardized—and more often than not, flat out killed. It wasn't enough to kill some and lose some, perhaps as previously thought by some obtuse commander—the simple reproduction factor proof of that—so they needed something that could kill them while not harm those who used it. They needed the perfect weapon.
      Marcus laughed at himself silently as he stared down yet again into the white chamber, looking at the developing being ten meters below. Why did everything revolve back to perfection? Clearly, perfection was a rational goal for any science or military outfit, yet, as his discussions had portrayed, not a very attainable one. However, that did not mean that getting close to perfection wasn't good enough; in fact, most cases that was the best scenario. Perfection was flawless, and naturally, one wanted his project or weapon—or whatever—to be as flawless as possible, or as close to perfection as feasible.
      With his own project, though, perfection seemed to be the antonym. While subconsciously that was what everyone hoped for—a perfect being—it was originally the opposite of what they were trying to achieve. Then again, their definition of perfection was something opposite of God, not in His image, so the way he thought of it now differed considerably. What they all meant now, in terms of a perfect being—or his own contemplation about a perfect counter-weapon to this alien—was in the context of death and killing. Which was the opposite of existence and life…
      He stopped himself there. This perpetual monologue in his head was not helping him deal with the issues present. Yes, he needed to find a way to stop these creatures, but thinking of perfection and its contextual significance was not going to do that. Although not entirely true, since his own philosophical contemplations often proved far more valuable than any single test, he knew when he was losing track. Perhaps he was onto something; perhaps he was drawing near to a theoretical conclusion that could solve the issue, or at least point him in the right direction, but he'd have to save the rest of his thoughts for a moment when everything else wasn't so pressing.
      The Doctor turned and walked over to a computer console on the opposite side of this "control room," wondering what it would be like to watch himself during these thoughts. No doubt it was humorous, which was probably why he tried to be alone when thinking about these matters; consequently, he was glad the room was empty at the moment, yet he knew that throwing two minds at an issue worked much better than just one. He'd have to talk to Swanson later.
      A couple of key taps, and the screen filled with technical data on the alien. Somewhere in here was the answer to his questions—he knew it with complete certitude. Somewhere in front of him was the solution to the problem, the key to winning this war, all he had to do was find it. His eyes gazed over the data yet again, nearly recalling it all from memory, and his mind tried for the umpteenth time to piece together the facts.
      Would he ever find the answer?



      "Of course we don't have the clearance!" The strong whisper seemed to echo down the empty hallway, as if reaching out for someone else to hear. "The old men aren't going to believe us even if we gave them damning proof right before their eyes. Hell, even if they knew it would destroy us we'd still see them turn us away. I'd like to say that they would have common sense to recognize the problem and make a decision right away, but they would stall too long, and then it would all be lost—we'd all be dead. Time is of the essence, and we can't afford to let them make a delayed decision when action is required right now."
      It was true; undeniably true. What would appear to be nothing more than a matter of opinion unfortunately closer represented fact. If this went on—without proper authorization—their hides would be on the chopping block, but the lives of many more were at stake now; shouldn't that overcome fear for oneself?
      Gregory Sheene fidgeted unconsciously with the identification tag hanging off his long white trench coat. He was not one to back away from challenges—from dong the right thing—especially when he was near certain that this problem was indeed a problem, but he reminded himself that a challenge to him was that of research or of experimentation, not of clandestine acts that could get him imprisoned if he was wrong. Apparently, however, his colleague did not share the same premonitions about where this venture could take them on a personal level, and therefore did not share his fears if they turned out to be incorrect, ever-clearly opting to save this entire facility. How very selfless of him…
      Maybe, if there had been a shred of support from the two directors above them, he would have held more confidence in this idea. Perhaps this was testimony to his lack of perseverance in the face of jeopardy, or possibly indication of his weak will when unsupported by an authority figure. Though whatever this circumstance told him about himself, it nonetheless stared him down in this darkened and deserted hallway. There was a choice to be made, one that would either continue this project—and risk everyone in this facility—or kill it now, and it required either complete determination or full dismissal of his efforts.
      He looked down the dim corridor, every other light turned off due to the lateness of the hour. The recently mopped floor cleanly reflected the light from above, and the spotless white walls gave way to doors on each side as the hallway extended to a T-intersection a ways off. It was the classic representation of a hospital, except the purposes of this facility were far from healing the sick. It was ironic to some degree, and his already divided mind drifted away from the pressing issue to the absurdity of his line of work. The title 'Doctor' before his name was not the one he had conceived from his young ambitions, but rather entailed creating fiends to kill, not mend. If he could have seen this future, would he have even considered being a so-called "doctor?"
      "Greg, either you're in this or not."
      Sheene looked down for a second, regaining his thoughts before looking back at his partner. He could feel every instinct scream yes, since this was the right thing to do, but he could feel his own fear of being wrong reset his fortitude. But fears aside, he needed to do what he knew was right, even if his predictions turned out to be false in the end. If he failed to act now, then the lives of dozens could rest on his shoulders, and that was not a burden he wanted to take with him.
      "Alright, alright. We'll do this. I'll add the substance to the divan."

Contravene Birth 02.04
Date: 31 August 2005, 6:27 pm

Contravene Birth

02.04

"Nobody knows what happened."
      No kidding. "Of course nobody knows what the hell happened! That's the way it always works: something goes wrong, nobody knows why!" Doctor David Marcus took in a deep breath to calm himself. He was not normally a man of such strong words, but when things went so wrong as this, he couldn't help contain himself. "I want the exact times when this happened, and I want to know who was on shift then. One way or another, we're going to get to the bottom of this."
      The subordinate shift supervisor nodded meekly, turning away to follow the terse orders from his boss. Marcus glared at him on his way out, his veins coursing with an anger he had not felt in a long time. Aside the fact that this took weeks of his valuable time, along with that of his entire primary staff and the facility's resources, they had ruined a completely good test subject. What were the chances of them getting another one? The first one, surprise and awe aside, was a chance in a million. Normally, these things were killed on contact—the blatancy of war—but for one to be brought in with such a usable condition, preserved just for this purpose…it was maddening to lose it just like this.
      But this wasn't a simple mistake or natural fault with the developing being. No, this was something intentional done by someone with access to the chamber. He had reviewed the overnight information recordings, and saw an inexplicable change all of a sudden in the neural activity of the alien. Aside from that damning evidence—which had to be caused by some outside entity—the facility's computer recorded a mysterious opening of the chamber door late last night at the exact time the neural activity changed. Moreover, the computer, unluckily enough, had not recorded the perpetrator for some reason, a sure sign that someone had deliberately done this.
      Now, all they had left was a dead being still in the chamber, at an estimated ninety-percent developed. It was large, huge even by some standards, and was nearly ready to leave the chamber and be transferred to a holding cell for further study. Its consciousness had reached a near full level, and physical features were almost wholly developed; the only thing that remained was its birth from the natural protective bond encapsulating it. They were so close to learning everything about the early post-birth stages of this being, such as its instinctual and knowledge development—a very perplexing question even to him, as the being was to be considered an "adult," yet had no worldly experiences—along with its perception and awareness of birth into captivity.
      Everything was ruined now, though. Sabotage was the right word for it, and Marcus couldn't hold in the anger of this happening right under all their noises. It had to be someone with high clearance, because the chamber door was locked and required a security approval of only one level below his own. Who would do this? Who would destroy the project?
      "Sir, we just heard."
      He turned around to see two of the facility's Security Forces standing before him, their polished black shoes, spotless and creased black pants, and impeccable white collared shirts—overshadowed by a matching black tie—sporting black epaulets returning a very disciplined appearance of the men that kept this compound secure, but he wasn't impressed considering their failure to stop this. Marcus' eyes drifted down to their black utility belts, and briefly upon the hands that rested on the semi-automatic side-arms, as if his sudden shouting through the intercom to the security station had seriously aroused safety concerns. He looked up at the senior guard and waived him off dismissively.
      "You're about three hours too late, you won't need those now."
      "Yes, sir." The senior guard replied, consciously taking his hand off the side-arm still holstered and placing it behind his back in an 'at-ease' position, an obvious indication of his prior military experience. "What are we looking at?"
      "Unauthorized entry to the test chamber," Marcus said, motioning down the white featureless hallway towards the chamber doors. He looked down at the nametag of the man before him, blinking in recognition of the name.
      "Forced entry?" K. Dillon replied.
      "No, they had the clearance, but not the authorization to do whatever they did to kill our entire project."
      Dillon reached his hand up to the earpiece and pressed in, obviously receiving some sort of communication. He listened for a moment while staring at Dr. Marcus, his eyes hard and his expression emotionless, finally turning to his partner a moment later and bringing his hand back to his side. "Surveillance has everyone who accessed the chamber in the last eight hours on screen. Take Team Two with you and get them all here, even if they've already departed from the premises."
      The other guard nodded quickly, turning on his heels to head back to the surface. Dillon faced the Doctor again, a confident look on his face. "We've identified the perpetrator."
      Marcus brought a hand to his forehead, deciding whether or not he really wanted to know.
      "A Doctor Gregory Sheene accessed the chamber at 0103 hours, according to video surveillance."
      The director grunted in resentment, knowing that employee of this facility. He was a younger, middle class technician who did the menial yet necessary tasks to keep these projects going. Every encounter he had had with the man was courteous and uneventful, and he would have never considered him to be a treasonous fool with motive to ruin what was potentially the most prospective endeavor ever undertaken by any research and development facility.
      Though, admittedly, appearances were deceiving, and anyone could have been capable of such an act if they had the right cause and motivation. Now, with this event painfully present, he began to doubt just how reliable most of his staff was. With over a hundred employees under him, and with personal relationships with only about dozen or so, he did not know the majority of them well enough to ascertain their reliability and honesty towards what they were trying to achieve here. For all he knew, they all could be saboteurs waiting to act if the circumstances were right.
      No, now he was thinking far too eccentrically. He could trust his staff, as they went through a rigorous back-record scan, psychological evaluation and selective process sponsored by the United Nations Department of Defense. This was just in isolated incident—a very maddening isolated incident—that did not reflect upon the loyalty of the rest. Moreover, he couldn't hold a grudge against the Security Forces, for how could they have known that this Sheene fellow wasn't conducting some routine business? Rather, this whole failure was upon this one man, with no one else to blame. The best thing he could do for himself was at least start to get over this, and put his sights upon some future undertaking.
      If his mind could ever forgive this bastard and forget all the potential lost.
      "No, no, no."
      Marcus turned to see a tired yet frantic Matthew Swanson turn down the corridor from an intersecting one, his distressed voice echoing throughout the empty hallways. Understandably, he had not been on site, considering that it was only after four in the morning, thus his ungainly appearance was acceptable. He watched as his colleague moved past him and the senior security commander and down a ways to the chamber entrance, silently waiting as he swiped his card, entered the pin, then inserted his finger upon the security console. The two chamber doors opened, red lights flashing in general announcement at the act, and the drowsy doctor stepping inside and out of sight.
      The sight was a near exact repeat of what Marcus had done merely ten minutes ago, and he closed his eyes and waited for Swanson to exit the chamber. He pictured the sight in his head as he stood there, remembering vividly opening the door himself and walking into the large white, circular chamber, looking intently at the divan in the center, surrounded by the computers and machinery that made everything automatic or remote operable from the control room ten meters above. That very fact meant that the chamber was not supposed to be accessed unless there was a mechanical or computer problem—everything was supposed to be done from the control room, for safety and clarity.
      Then there was the sight of the motionless alien on the divan, still encapsulated in the slimy, oval cosset that had developed and enlarged as the creature did within. Such a menacing, chilling being that once heaved slightly with life was now motionless, the digital display overhead showing zero life. He was honestly scared of the thing, knowing the power and speed invested within that alien—as everyone else did—but he didn't want it to just die before they could finish the project. This left too many questions unanswered, too many possibilities open; now it was all lost.
      Swanson walked out a minute later, a hand on his forehead in anguish. The negative effect was obviously just as strong upon him as it had been for Marcus, and he could see the veins in his neck coursing strongly, something fairly uncommon for the man in his mid-forties. He looked back inside the chamber, finally closing the door with a press to the security console, and began walking back down the white corridor towards them.
      "It was Sheene," Marcus said flatly.
      There was a silent curse. "I can't believe this. After everything, after how close we got…"
      Shouting originated from down one of the many corridors, provoking all three men to look in the direction of the unusual sound. Sure enough, Dr. Gregory Sheene came around a distant corner, not struggling but clearly contesting his sudden arrest by the two guards who pulled him along towards the two directors and security commander. The trio waited in silence as the guilty man was brought before them, his face contorted with surprise and fear.
      Dillon nodded for the two guards to ease up on him, and Sheene shook them off, looking condescendingly at the two men who had dragged him down here. The culpable doctor then looked over at Marcus and Swanson, his face full of question, as if he didn't know why he had just been pulled away from his graveyard shift to the lowest level of the subterranean complex.
      "Well?" Swanson said expectantly.
      Sheen looked at him, his face still in confusion yet his eyes betraying him. "Well what?"
      Marcus had to stop himself from reaching out and grabbing the man by the collar. "Why'd you do it?"
      His expression changed slightly, as if realizing that he couldn't play the 'it wasn't me' card on them. Sheene took a deep breath in, his eyes darting between the two directors, his mouth open but his mind delaying as it tried to form the right words. The two gazes seemed to cut through him, and the younger technician blanked for a moment. That was all they needed to convict him, but both directors wanted an explication, a reason for this treason.
      "I, well, we," he stuttered through the first couple words, as if he was still formulating a response. Marcus, having considerable experience in inter-personal communication as one of his minors during college, interpreted the delaying act as either an attempt to formulate a believable yet false story in his defense, or his mind trying to decide how much information to share. It was damning evidence on the guilty man's part, but apparently trying to look good wasn't a high priority anymore.
      "Let's start with what you put in the chamber, okay?" Dillon said after another moment of silence, his voice steady but his eyes critically condemning the technician.
      "I can explain, it's not what you think—"
      "Bullshit," Swanson interrupted. "This is exactly what we think."
      Marcus held up a hand, a surprising gesture contradicting his own feelings for this treasonous man. "Start from the beginning, and tell us what you did."
      Sheene nodded, taking a deep breath, finally settling on where he should start. Marcus withheld words in suit with Swanson's, as his quick talking resembled a guilty man trying to cooperate for his own good. "I discovered a substance during my side-studies of the parent being that existed within its spinal chord, a substance that was extremely rich in minerals and other unidentified matters." The doctor wiped the perspiration off his brow, continuing in a shaky tone. "Upon further testing, I found it to be connected directly with the parent being's brain, as if it were some sort of assistance in its consciousness. Sometime later, while the test subject was still in early development, I saw the same substance forming in its developing spinal chord, so I did a comparison test to see the full extent of the similarities, and found…"
      His voiced trialed off, much to the annoyance and dislike of all those around him. Swanson raised a hand, gesturing gruffly for the man to continue. Sheene nodded and took another deep breath, looking down at the ground as he continued. "We—I found that they were exact matches. Granted, the parent being and the developing one would share a considerable amount of genetic code, but nothing is exact, you know that, of course."
      Both directors nodded.
      "So we deduced that if the parent being and the developing being had the exact same substance embedded within them, that the spinal chord was the focal point of growth for the alien, and that the substance was intrinsically intertwined with their consciousness, then it meant that the developing being would have all the same consciousness properties of the parent—memories, abilities, intelligence—or, easier said, taking into account that its physical properties stemmed off the spinal chord, the developing being would be an near exact copy of the parent being."
      Marcus raised his eyebrows, all his prior anger towards this man suddenly gone and his mind going into overdrive. If this was true, it would explain why the alien developed completely physically to become an "adult" while still having never entered the world to gain its own existence. It would explain development, learning, natural abilities—everything. Why hadn't he made such a connection?
      "So it's a natural clone of the parent." He said dryly.
      Sheene nodded nervously. "Exactly."
      Swanson frowned. "You still haven't told us what you did."
      There was another pause. "Well, we—I did some research," Sheene stuttered, but regained his composure enough to continue. "I was able to access the records of the shipment of the parent being, and found that it was transferred to us through the some unknown branch of the UNSC, well, it didn't say, but I did track down the man who had sent it to us. We never conversed directly, and I never got anything more than a first name, but he apparently thought I was one of you two, and forwarded an information package without even asking.
      "It was a lot of data I haven't even looked over, but the one thing I did stumble upon was the account of how they actually got the parent being—"
      "Why didn't any of this come up to us?" Swanson asked, cutting him off.
      "Initially I was going to, but we—I had thought to look into it a little more first, because of this hunch I had; I didn't want to approach you empty-handed." Swanson was obviously not satisfied with the answer, but beckoned for him to continue. "There was a transcript account of how the parent being was retrieved, and it was sort of, well—"
      Marcus was fully enamored with this elaborate story, but didn't have the patience for this stuttering man to continue. "Take us to your office, where this information better be."
      Sheene nodded, now looking sheepishly at the two guards by his side. They turned around and began walking back down the corridor towards the main elevator to the surface, the two directors and the security commander pausing for a moment as Sheene and his escorts got farther ahead.
      "Do you believe this?" Marcus asked blatantly.
      Swanson looked over, his voice betraying his curiosity. "I'll let you know when I read that information."
      "Then let's find out what this punk has been hiding from us."



      Doctor Gregory Sheene's office was small, but held all six of them well enough. It had one lone window, overlooking a grass courtyard and a far-off chain-linked fence that surrounded the entire surface-portion of the facility. Street lamps illuminated the area, a far different scene from the well lit, white corridors, and in the distance the horizon began to warm to a light yellow.
      Normally, Marcus loved the mornings, but this morning was one straight from his worst premonitions. Everything had gone wrong, and on top of that, he was just now uncovering information that had been withheld by this man for over a week. How much other data was with this supposed information? Perhaps, if he had gotten it, along with the results from Sheene's testing of the parent being, things would have come together far more easily.
      But he couldn't rest everything—well, most of everything—upon Sheene's treasonous incompetence. He hadn't even considered tracing the source of the delivery any farther than the military contact who had just said it was a "test subject courtesy of the UNSC." That was one of his shortcomings, which meant he would have never gotten this information packet, but even still, at least that alien would still be alive if Sheene had never been in the picture. He had to admit, though, that in Sheene's disobedience and betrayal, he had gotten something that would be of help in the future. Of course, that didn't get him off the hook; he would be seeing a prison cell in the near future.
      "Here it is, all of it." The guilty doctor said, bringing it up on his computer screen.
      "Alright," Swanson said, nodding. "Bring up the portion you were last talking about."
      A few key taps later and the screen filled with text. Both directors walked up closer to the screen, squinting to read what lay before them. Their expressions changed from annoyance to interest quickly as they examined the information, their methodical minds devouring it.

      The target was identified as a High-class warrior (UNSC Designation: 'Elite'), and, according to the Covenant armor-ranking system, was branded a Company Commander (Intercepted Covenant Rank Designation: 'Field Master'). The target was directing subordinate units into combat when it was singled out by -CONTENT DELETED- and neutralized, using a special electro-paralysis round under the direct order of -CONTENT DELETED- (Note: See Electro-Paralysis in the Non-Lethal Weaponry database for more information).
      The target was presumed dead by hostile forces, and was not evacuated from the Area of Operations (AO) by Covenant forces. Special air support was called in to deter the hostile units while -CONTENT DELETED- retrieved the body and evacuated it to friendly space.
      Upon a physical review aboard the -CONTENT DELETED-, it was found that the 'Elite' contained an unknown contagious infection, one that had fully developed until the time period between its seizure and the physical review. The three reviewers caught the infection and were quarantined immediately. Special precautions were then taken and a second team went in to review the 'Elite,' finding that the infection still subsisted, allowing them to take a sample for testing.
      Testing of the infection revealed that is was actually an offset to an unknown Covenant-induced substance that is injected into its soldiers. The substance, still unknown as to its purpose, was by some means aggravated by the electro-paralysis's neutralizing shock, mutating it away from its intended purpose to a flesh-infection. Moreover remarkable, the transformation from substance to infection took place in a time window of less than an hour, and the contagiousness developed in less than fifteen minutes thereafter. Infection of the original review team took an estimated forty-five seconds upon their entry to the test room, and symptoms developed in a notable mere five minutes.
      Symptoms upon the 'Elite' were heavy bruising around all major arteries, in addition to brain swelling and spinal chord deformation. Neural activity of the 'Elite' altered dramatically, despite its unconscious state, and ascended to a peak before the test subject died of brain failure. It was at this point that -CONTENT DELETED- directed the deceased test subject to be handed over to a research facility for subsequent testing.
      For the infected review team, symptoms included nausea, inflammation of the eyes, back pain, and severe headache. The symptoms ascended to a high—which included unusual brain activity—before all bodily functions ceased upon brain failure. From these premises, it was deduced that the infection was a primarily brain and mental-oriented illness, and at this time no cure is known to exist.
      However, the infection is only known to be produced by electro-paralysis shocking of a live 'Elite,' and should therefore be fully avoidable so long as that weapon is not used against this particular species.
      The substance found with the 'Elite,' which reacted negatively to the electro-paralysis weapon used upon it, is suspected to be an enhancing additive to the alien's diet as a standard augmentation prior to entering combat. The substance, perhaps considered more of a drug, is supposed to increase reflexes and mental reactions times, as well as raise the pain-threshold of the alien considerably. From this information, we believe the Covenant intentionally—though maybe not openly—inject all combat units with this drug as a means of gaining better and more reliable troops on the battlefield.

      Marcus let out a whistle, frowning as he finished reading the portion on the screen. Drugging their troops for combat? It wasn't all that foreign of an idea, since humanity had done that—and perhaps still did—many times to turn men into machines, free of conscience and fear to kill and obey. Still, he had always figured that those menacing 'Elites' were naturally strong, fast, and fearless. Perhaps they were to a high degree, but whoever commanded this Covenant wanted more than just that.
      Though, unfortunately, that was not the condemning part. The clincher was the infection, the 'reaction' of this substance to the electro-paralysis weapon. It was obviously fatal, everyone in the initial review team's deaths testimony of that, and deductively it was very contagious. The infection and symptom times were nearly unheard of, and more accurately resembled a manufactured biological weapon than a simple reaction to one of their specialized weapon. How could something of complete accident create such a damning disease?
      This information obviously tied back in with Sheene and his decision not to approach them. Somehow, this report convinced the man that doing the "right thing" was not to sound out his concerns, and contrarily take some action to kill the developing being. But why? Why would it be more right for Sheene to take such extreme actions before even approaching them? Something was missing; there had to be a reason.
      "And so," Sheene said, staring blankly at the screen, "if the parent being developed this infection before the its offspring was extracted…"
      Marcus turned away and stared out the window, his pride yelling at himself for missing the ever-clear reason. If the parent being developed this disease—found to be deadly both to humans and to this species—before the embryo was removed, and with the offspring being a natural clone genetically of the parent being, then the infected heredity was transferred over as well. If that being were to leave its encapsulated state, the infection could have spread everywhere.
      "I see it now," Marcus stated bleakly, suddenly realizing why Sheene had taken such pre-emptive actions. "But even still, we would have made the same decision you had; we would have stopped this."
      Sheene nodded, believing him. "I know that, Doctor, but one more thing complicated the situation."
      Everyone in the room looked at him expectantly.
      "We still don't know for sure whether the infection would have carried over to the developing being; we had good reason to believe so, but not absolute proof. On top of that, it was about to birth any hour at that point, and if it left its cosset everyone could have potentially been infected. I couldn't wait for you two to react to the information, especially when it wasn't one-hundred percent certain; I either acted upon my information at that moment, or waited as this infection leveled the entire facility."
      Swanson leaned back, conflicted by his own emotions. "He's right. Unless we could be sure that the developing being was going to be infected, I wouldn't have allowed it."
      Marcus nodded in agreement. So much had already come along, and for them to kill the alien under the mere suspicion that the infection would carry over...well, it wouldn't have happened, not if he could have helped it. Part of him still denied that Sheene had done anything right, but seeing it from the younger man's perspective, it was indeed the safest move to take under the time constraints.
      "Put Doctor Sheene on monitored house arrest for the time being, we'll decide what to do later."



      Dr. Marcus collapsed into his office chair, his mind exhausted from the day full of contemplation and division. He was tired, and the events of the day had taken a radical toll, now leaving him with an empty feeling. He couldn't morally charge Gregory Sheene with anything higher than dismissal from the facility, because the man had, given the circumstances, done the right thing. He couldn't have said he would have acted, which was exactly Sheene's reason for not telling them first, or even afterward, but that didn't change the facts surrounding the incident.
      Though the emptiness was not from what he knew to do with the charged man, but rather with the pointless outcome of the project. Aside form learning some interesting facts about the species, as well as some alarming information about the Covenant as a whole—which would be properly passed up to the right people as soon as he willed himself to make the call—they ended the venture with nothing of significance. As a whole, nothing would be held against them and their "wasted" time, but on a personal level he felt the disappointment. Here was his chance to make a difference, a real difference in this war, but the inauspicious factors in this creature's capture meant that they could not, in full confidence, carry out the ordeal.
      Maybe there would be another time, another project that held the same potential. Marcus leaned forward and filled the small shot glass with the dark alcoholic fluid, watching in misery as it filled to the top. He cocked his head back and downed the foul liquid, wishing that something else could have come of this. At least there was some possibility in the future, some hope to achieve what he longed for.
      To end this war.
      The ringing phone cut through his dark outlook of the reality around him, and he reached out a weary arm. He didn't especially feel like talking to anyone at the moment, but it was something to occupy the time and distract his mind from its bleak downward spiral.
      "Yeah?"
      "David, it's Matt."
      Marcus leaned back in his chair, bringing a hand to cover his eyes. "What is it?"
      "There's another factor, one that no one knew about." Swanson paused on the other end, the shuffling of papers filling the line for a moment. "I've got the full print off of that information packet Sheene had gotten, and there's some stuff in here that complicates things."
      So this isn't over? "I'm listening."
      "This species has a phenomenal immune system, on that is capable of defeating all but the toughest viruses and diseases, such as that infection produced by the electro-paralysis weapon, but in most cases it can persevere. When a destructive organism is implanted into the body of one of these aliens, the immune system goes to work at destroying it, but aside from whether it succeeds or fails, the methods it uses to destroy—or at least begin to destroy—the infection is somehow copied down subconsciously into that matter found in the spinal chord, which as we know transposes down from the parent being into the offspring.
      "This, in turn, means that the whatever natural measures were taken to beat off any attacking organism within the body are given to all subsequent offspring, making them invulnerable to the same disease at any future point in time. Of course, this is assuming that the immune system prevailed the first time, but as I had said, even its mere attempts at breaking the disease are recorded for future use by its progeny."
      "Okay," Marcus said, thinking. "But the parent being did not survive that infection."
      "Right, but the attempt the immune system made while it was still living were recorded down into the developing being's genetic memory."
      Marcus let out a sigh. "And your point? The developing being is dead."
      Swanson's voice became energetic. "Yes, however it was only brain dead."
      "What?"
      "What Sheene did was add a narcosis to the divan, something that distorted and then agitated the brainwaves of the developing being, which—because of its delicate state, being unborn and all—killed it from that aspect solely. However, because it is still in its protective cosset, the body has remained in an impeccable state, being fully functional just without a mind to support it. Contrary to what we might have assumed, it will not rot or decay so long as it is in that cosset."
      Marcus took his hand off his eyes and leaned forward. "The body will be perfectly preserved then, so what?"
      "Dave, I believe we can revive it." There was silence over the line. "Upon further research, I have concluded that we can reignite brain activity, thus reviving the being and finishing birth."
      "What about the infection? What if it does exist in it?"
      Swanson paused on the other end. "All containment protocols will be followed. It will be safe."
      Marcus rubbed his chin, considering what his colleague was saying. If they did try and revive it—successfully—then this project could continue, possibly even achieving his greatest goal at heart. If it did continue, though, and that infection was found to exist without a counter, they would be in a very precarious position.
      "Meet me down there in the morning," Swanson added persuasively. "Let's at least talk about this face-to-face."
      "Alright."
      The phone turned off with a slight beep, and Marcus placed it on the table gently, considering what he had just been presented. He wanted to continue this endeavor, to take it to those great lengths and accomplish something that could change the tide of war. With this being considered, if they took every precaution necessary to contain that infection, should it exist in the first place, they would still be safe and able to continue for as long as it remained alive. Maybe if they were lucky, the developing being's immune system will beat it off and they could develop an antidote, and could hit two problems with one stone.
      Marcus' mind indulged in the possibilities that this could attain. His rational side reminded him that Swanson's idea was purely theoretical, and may not even work, but if it did, they could do something monumental; something great.
      He reached out and poured another glass of alcohol, but instead watched in excitement as it filled up the small glass, not pessimism. A slight grin stretching across his face as the Doctor reached out and ingested the dark liquid; not anymore in despair or misery, but now of exhilaration and optimistic forethought. The smile continued to shine as three words crossed his mind, renewing his resolve and enthusiasm towards the entire project.
      It's not over.



      "Hello?"
      "Brent, it's Greg."
      The voice on the other end of the line sighed. "Damnit, do you know what time it is? I just got out of there, and now you wake me up—"
      "Brent, there's a problem."
      Gregory Sheene heard his friend role over and sit up. "So you did it?"
      "Of course I did, just as we discussed, but I was caught."
      "How?" The question was completely sincere. "I disabled the computer recording for you to get in and out without being traced."
      "Yeah, well I guess we forgot about the damn video surveillance."
      "What the hell, Greg? I told you I can't get into that portion of the system, it's controlled solely by Security. You were just supposed to be discrete enough."
      Sheene cursed. "Well thanks for the accurate locations of all the cameras."
      "Bullshit, man. If you couldn't keep a rag over your face or something, that's not my damn problem." The man took a calming breath, pausing for a moment as he thought. He came back over the line, his voice more sympathetic. "Listen, Greg, I'm sorry. I thought I had enough information so you could get in and out without being recorded outright. How bad is it?"
      "I'll be incarcerated for sure, though maybe not for as long as I might have thought. After I was apprehended I told Marcus and Swanson about the predicament, and they seemed more understanding. But there's another hitch."
      "The being is dead, right?"
      "Yes," Sheene replied. "The narcosis worked, just as you directed, but as I was being escorted off the premises, Doctor Swanson stopped me and asked what I did to kill it. I told him about the narcosis and—"
      "You did what?" The question was full of surprise.
      "I told him about the narcosis, and—"
      "Oh, shit." The man went on to curse several more times, his tone full of fear. "What were you thinking? Are you mad?"
      Sheene took the response defensively. "What do you mean 'am I mad?' Who cares anymore, Brent? It's dead, we did our part."
      The cursing didn't subside on the other end of the phone. "So they know that it's only brain dead?"
      "Yes, that's why I'm telling you this. I think they want to revive it." Sheene pulled the phone away from his ear as a long foul word flooded through the phone on the other end. "I know, I know, we're back to square one."
      "No, no, no. That thing can't be allowed to birth—not yet, at least."
      "The infection? I know. I don't know what to do."
      There was a sigh of exasperation on the other end. "That's the least of my concerns."
      Sheene paused. "What are you talking about?"
      There was rustling sound over the phone, as if his comrade was hastily getting dressed. "Just—just keep your mouth shut. Don't talk to anyone anymore. I'll finish this off."
      "Brent, they're going to be careful now that they know, I just thought you'd like to know what they might do."
      The man stumbled and dropped the phone, but quickly picked it back up. "Just keep quiet."
      "Why?"
      Click.

Contravene Birth 03.04
Date: 22 October 2005, 6:47 pm

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."

Contravene Birth 04.04
Date: 10 November 2005, 6:09 pm

Contravene Birth

04.04

The weather was a near exact representation of the emotions that stormed through his mind, and Marcus found very little comfort in the irony of the fact. The wind had only gotten worst, and the rain had only gotten denser and more intrusive, especially as the two men walked quickly through it. It was as if the darkness of this unseen entity marauding this project had caused a physical mutation of the environment around them, as if it were some taunting gesture to make clear the impending kismet. It wasn't entirely unbelievable, either, considering the events he had just endured and the insurrection that he was desperately fighting to defeat. Had this been one month prior, when they were just gaining possession of the alien, he would have outright denounced such premonitions and suspicions as absurd.
      Yet now, fighting through this perilous weather to tackle an even greater treacherous hostility, he couldn't imagine going through all of this without the fear—even panic—of facing something that seemed so much bigger than himself, not to mention the men he actually opposed. It wasn't as if this was some overtly human action, just some dissension that had stumbled across his path in the wake of this alien, but rather this seemed to be the instigation of something above them all. It was impossible to nail down, or even draw some unsupported supposition for his feelings, but it was nonetheless present and quite real. Someone or something was causing this to happen, and to the best of his perception, it wasn't the mere mortals actually carrying out the treasonous act.
      In spite of this higher entity that was shadowing his facility, he still had to deal with the men who were at the acting end of this quandary, and that meant something far more deadly could befall him than presentiments. He was dealing now with the flesh and blood of an assembly of men who were driven to complete this task, and from his already all too present and painful recollection, he knew that nothing was too much for them. These dissenters would stop at nothing to complete this task, and that very fact was not to be taken lightly. Moreover, these dissidents could be anywhere, and there was no foreseeable way to expose them all from their cloaks. In essence, he could only assume that everyone was a sympathizer, and that didn't help him cope with the reality that had plagued his future.
      Security Commander Keith Dillon walked quickly beside him, his black trench-coat flapping in the wind as rain poured down upon them. The two men quickly walked from the office and residential zones of the surface portion of the complex to the laboratories and the subterranean entrance. The entire nine-acre surface was a relatively orderly maze of sidewalks and roads, all separated by small fields of grass. Much to the director's dislike, there was not a single tree on their premises, nor were there any beyond the tall chain-linked fences that surrounded the perimeter. Rather, instead of a luscious forest or even an attractive assortment of foliage, nothing but long grass and stubby bushes covered the slightly hilly terrain around them. It was quite a lifeless sight, and Marcus always tried to distract himself when he looked at the bland scenery.
      He oriented his sights on the row of surface laboratories they were approaching and the subsurface entrance to the main portions of the facility below ground. The pallid buildings resembled the white, featureless corridors underground—which he also had a distinct distaste for—and the entrance building, which looked more like a large bunker than anything else, sporting a single flagpole rising thirty meters on top of it. Marcus stared as the United Nations flag whipped back and forth roughly in the assaulting wind, trying to draw some comfort from its inspiring defiance of the weather. It reminded him what he was doing this for, and more importantly who he was doing this for. It was the billions of souls that waited to be slaughtered, and the millions of lives that had already met a premature end.
      Dillon picked up his pace to get to the entrance "bunker" faster, and Marcus followed suit, silently agreeing that getting out of the drenching weather was in both their best interests. They ran past several of the laboratories before coming under the large awning that protected the bulky hydraulic doors leading inside. Marcus paused as the Security Commander walked up to enter his authorization code to go into the facility, taking several steps back and into the rain to look once more at the flag far above them. In spite of the rain and wind, he stared at it, lost in thought. This was all to win the war.
      The director blinked as the lanyard snapped like a piano string, whipping out and then up as the flag lost its connection to the pole. The large flag quickly parted from the post and whipped away under the might of the wind, curling up and dragging the cord behind it. The very sight immediately washed over him with discouragement and deterrence, and he watched the one thing that had brought him a little hope disappear into the low, thick clouds. What was this? Marcus thought angrily, letting his head lean down. What the hell was this? Some sick gesture?
      "Something wrong, sir?"
      He looked up at Dillon. If only you knew. "No, let's get to it."
      The Security Commander nodded and hit the 'Enter' key, causing the large doors to begin parting. Seconds later, the entrance was completely open, one that was large enough for a vehicle to enter through. Both men walked forward and through the large doors, leaving the gray cold and striding into the clear, bright white lights. Ahead of them was the surface security station, which was basically a large room expanding two stories above them with stations on either side of the white, featureless area. Two security guards stood in the center, and on each side vast room they could see more through the bullet proof windows. Directly ahead, through the checkpoint and at the far end of this warehouse-like expanse, were the two large double doors leading towards the elevator.
      Yet they weren't going subsurface. In one of the rooms lining this area was their suspect, and they would be conversing with not only the accused technician, but also the antagonist of this entire predicament, Chief Investigator Bruce Tobias. Just thinking of the name reminded Marcus of the man's demands, and of the consequences should he fail to comply. One hour to recall the security and technician teams from below the surface, he recalled vividly, and failing to do so meant that both the dead bodies in Sheene's residence would fall on his shoulders. Yet, in partial preparation, Marcus held a slight sliver of hope that what would happen during this questioning would turn the tides of this dilemma.
      The guards acknowledged their presence and allowed them to pass. Marcus looked each and every one of them in the eye, trying to ascertain their intentions and allegiances, though to no success. Who was he kidding, anyways? He was a doctor, a director of this facility, not an investigator or someone charged with the responsibility of keeping order. He sighed silently as they turned to the right, heading for one of the doors leading to the security detention rooms.
      "David!"
      Marcus turned at the sound of a familiar voice.
      "Can we talk briefly?" Swanson said, walking towards him from the double doors that led to the elevator.
      Just seeing his long time friend and colleague brought a shimmer of hope, but realizing that he had no clue of the imminent trouble reminded him of his solitude to stop this. He paused and forced a brief smile as Swanson approached, who was all grins.
      "I've been working with a team to resolve our little problem with the developing being, and we've drawn a rough albeit possible solution to restart the project."
      Marcus could fully appreciate his enthusiasm, and wholly wished that he was down there with his colleague, working on things that he was supposed to be working on, not dealing with this menacing crisis. Then again, if he hadn't been caught up in this—if he hadn't been at Sheene's residence at that time—this whole thing would have fully eluded his attention, and consequently it would have happened without a single ounce of resistance.
      Reality snapped back at him as he looked around him. Dillon had paused at the door and waited patiently for him, nothing to be concerned about, but the two guards outside stared at them oddly with overtly interested expressions—something quite uncommon in his experience. Marcus looked over at Dillon and motioned for him to go ahead, then back at his friend. "Let's talk about this over here," the co-director said, motioning away from the two guards.
      Swanson nodded and followed him as they walked towards the elevator and away from the guards, somewhat perplexed by his action. "Right. Well, as a foreword, I will say that you will think this is absurd to some degree, but I implore you to think of this as a whole. Right now, all we have is a dead alien, which means nothing can possibly make it much worse."
      "I understand," Marcus replied, his voice uncharacteristically low. "I don't have much time, so give me the short version."
      "When I tell you this, you won't care about your prior commitments." Swanson said excitedly, but paused for a moment before continuing. "By the way, what have you been up to for the last nearly two days? Not to imply that I'm doing all the work on this project, but you've been rather distant." The co-director paused again, his face and voice filling with concern. "What is it?"
      Marcus wanted to simply tell him, to just get this off his chest and let another brilliant mind mull over it to find a solution, but he acutely remembered his own conclusion on this matter. Knowledge was dangerous; the less he knew at the moment, the safer he was.
      "Just stuff here and there. I've been doing some back work into the alien's past from that data packet we got from Sheene."
      "I see," Swanson said, not entirely convinced by his reply. They were too good of friends for such a superficial response. "I had called you earlier to see if you were interested in joining my meeting to find a solution for the project, but your secretary said you had gone out to speak with Doctor Sheene. Find out anything useful?"
      "No," Marcus lied. "He wasn't too helpful."
      Swanson looked at him for another moment, reading his eyes. "We can talk about this later, then. Let me bring you up to speed.
      "During the meeting we ran over several scenarios, most of which led to a rather unfortunate end that got us no closer to continuing the project, some even being regressive. In short, we did find one plausible solution, one that could—odds aside—revive the alien."
      Marcus momentarily forgot the kismet overshadowing them and focused on Swanson's statement. "Revive?"
      "Yes. I'm sure you're familiar with the Ascendus project."
      "The convalescent-shock theory and practice?"
      "Correct. It ran until the mid 2400's before it was outlawed by the UN because of the rather…diverse range of results. As you may recall, the Ascendus project was an integrated practice that was, under ideal conditions, essentially able to resurrect someone or some creature using the proper convalescent inoculation injected into the brain followed by the proportional electronic shock to induce the needed ectoplasm reaction. Of course, 'ideal' conditions meant that the body had to be in fully functional shape—no fatal internal injuries and such—and the brain had to be in a relatively undamaged state as well.
      "Now think about it; Sheene killed the developing being with a deadly narcosis, not with any physical object. This means that the body and brain are physically undamaged and in a theoretically fully functional state, and it is only basically brain dead. This constitutes an ideal condition, one where the Ascendus Practice is fully applicable."
      Marcus was infatuated with the idea, but the contentions automatically came up in his mind to reject the proposal. "Yes, this does meet ideal conditions, but don't forget why they banned the practice. I do recall reading about this is medical school and I vividly remember the speech Doctor…" He paused as he searched for the name. "Doctor Cnochúr, I believe it was, about the problems with the Ascendus Practice. The results were, in some cases, horrifying and outrageous. I mean, bringing back someone from the dead is something that no man should do, and despite the limited success of the Practice, those results that led to rather appalling resurrections merited its banning."
      "I know, I know," Swanson said acceptingly. "But don't forget the times it actually worked. When it actually came to human use—and when it worked—families were able to spend precious more days with their loved ones."
      "Granted, but the catch is 'when it worked.' Nine out of ten times, and this is when it did work, the revival was purely physical. No consciousness, awareness, or ability to communicate existed; it was basically only a living body. Now think about when it did work but we saw those horrific results. Don't you remember all those religious groups and the international churches and their accusations? They called those resurrected people 'possessed!' And I can't say I don't know why; those people were not human, Matthew, they were something else."
      "Yeah, but that didn't happen all that much, at least not nearly as much as the media portrayed." Swanson responded, trying to rationalize his idea. "It became a political dilemma, not the science one it should have stayed as. People blew it out of proportion."
      "Yes, that much is true, but did you see the pictures of those men and women—even those animals?"
      "I did, and I know full and well the problems with the Practice. David, those cases were rare, maybe one out of five when it did work, and it only worked about thirty-percent of the time anyways. The odds are highly against coming across such a situation."
      "It was enough for it to be outlawed across the United Nations."
      Swanson sighed. "Look, this is our only hope for doing this. What else is there?"
      Marcus paused in thought, completely forgetting that in one hour it wouldn't matter anymore. "I don't know, but it's illegal. We could get incarcerated for performing this act if word got out. Not to mention that we're doing this on an alien, something we don't know much about. What kind of effects would there be on it? Even with our extensive knowledge of the animals and humans we did the Practice on, we still couldn't predict if it would work or even why it went sickeningly wrong in those certain cases."
      "So you're opposed to it?"
      That word brought back the reality of the situation around him. What was there to lose? If he couldn't stop this from happening anyways, why should he be opposed to it? His rational and pragmatic side called for him to deny Swanson's eccentric idea, but his uncharacteristically hopeless side reminded him that if he failed to stop this, there would really be nothing to lose.
      The Ascendus Practice was considered dangerous—controversial was too light of a word—because of the possible outcomes, found when the test subject regained life and consciousness, but the consciousness was not that of the man or woman—or creature—that formerly possessed the body prior to death. There was to date no scientific explanation for it, only the religious one that had quickly condemned the Practice politically. According to the sources he had read, these religious groups had all offered differing but mostly similar assertions that those who came back with this 'ulterior' consciousness were demon possessed; mental spawns of the spirits in hell. No one in the scientific field really bought the explanation, but because they couldn't devise one of their own, it won over the populace and subsequently the political leadership.
      Marcus didn't want to subject his facility to that kind of danger, especially since the cold fact remained that they knew comparatively very little about this alien, and consequently very little about how the Practice would effect it. While he didn't recall the specifics of Dr. Cnochúr's speech condemning the Ascendus project in front of the UN hearing committee, he remembered the basic conclusion he drew.
      Humans should not tamper with the resurrection of the dead.
      "How long will it take to set it up?"
      Swanson rolled his eyes in thought. "We have to redevelop the convalescent inoculation, since it was outlawed, and then set up the electric shock capacitors and conductors. I'd say a few hours."
      That wasn't enough.
      "Director Marcus, we're ready to begin." Dillon said from behind him.
      Marcus sighed. Time was against them. "You have sixty minutes. If you can't do it by then—and I mean honestly—recall your technician teams to the surface laboratories and then both of us will discuss the idea in more depth." The latter part was a definite lie, but he needed to sound convincing.
      "Why sixty minutes?"
      "Trust me, Matthew, if it can't be done just do it."
      Swanson looked back in confusion, but conceded to accept his request. "Will do." He was about to turn around and head back to the elevator, but paused. "Where will you be?"
      Marcus looked up at the distant ceiling, the white lights filling his vision. "I'll be around."
      It was unusual for the co-director to be so vague, and it brought a concerned and perplexed look from Swanson. He looked at his colleague for another moment, then turned around and headed for the elevator. Marcus watched him leave, and amidst the bright lights and pale walls, he hoped that that was not the last conversation he would have with his colleague and, in all honesty, closest friend. Had there been a splinter of faith in some supernatural entity, he would have called out for some intervention. Don't let this be the last time. The request echoed in his head as his face remained hard and his mouth pursed. Don't let this be the last time.
      The director forced himself to turn around and walk towards Dillon, who held open the door. While is thoughts were now divided by the potentiality Swanson had brought up, he still fully recognized the ever present darkness that he was walking into. In mere seconds, he would be face to face with who was probably the chief instigator among this dissension, and that was no light fact. He could feel his heartbeat pick up and his fists clench in a mixture of apprehension and anger. The outcome of this "interrogation" of the suspected technician would prove to be the clincher to this entire clandestine conflict.
      They walked down a small white hallway until they reached another door with an armed guard standing watch. Dillon nodded at his subordinate and opened the door, unconscious about the water trail he left from the saturated trench-coat on the once-spotless floors. Marcus followed closely behind him, partly eager and partly afraid to enter the situation. He wasn't accustomed to such uncertain conditions of this delicate nature, and consequently he felt the nervousness wash over his determination.
      Much like every other room in the facility, this one was colorless and quite disinteresting, with only a metal table placed in the center and a matching chair, on which sat the accused man. Coming into view as Marcus passed through the door was the accuser, a man he had quickly come to hate and fear. Bruce Tobias.
      "Tobias," Dillon said. "Thanks for meeting with us despite your prior commitments." The man nodded back. No doubt he had come directly from Sheene's residence. "Please fill Director Marcus in about this situation."
      "Of course," Tobias responded coldly, looking harshly at Marcus. He was obviously not pleased with Marcus's manipulation to get him here in the same room, but the director knew that this displeasure was sure sign of something in his favor. "After some extensive investigation into the mainframe's access logs, we found that our technician here was signed in during the entire chamber breach—"
      "Like I've said, I wasn't even on duty—"
      "Shut the hell up," Tobias retorted irately. "You will speak when I ask you to."
      "Listen," the technician spoke up defiantly. "I had nothing to do—"
      Tobias slammed his fist on the metal table, causing a sharp echo to fill the room for a brief second. "I said, 'shut the hell up.' What part of that don't you understand?"
      Marcus waved him back. "Finish your statement."
      Tobias took a calming breath and continued, though he was no less livid. "From the very fact that he was the only technician logged in during the breach, we have no other alternative but to insinuate him as the accomplice to the infringement."
      "And," Dillon said, "we can confirm this by questioning Dr. Sheene."
      "Why yes," Tobias said, coldly staring back at the director. "That would be the appropriate course of action."
      Marcus could feel where this was going. Dillon wanted to speak with Sheene to learn more information, and Tobias wanted to make known the ghastly scene that was now framed to implicate him. "Let's not be hasty." He gestured towards the technician. "Why do you keep denying these accusations?"
      "Because I didn't do it!" The man blurted. He didn't appear dishonest. "I was no where near the mainframe during the breach—hell, I wasn't even underground. I was off duty one hour before the incident and far away in my living quarters. In fact, the security guards watched me leave and recorded my departure!"
      Marcus looked expectantly at Dillon, who immediately understood. "Tobias?"
      "He never said that before," the investigator replied coolly.
      Dillon nodded, believing him but quite disgruntled with the obvious shortcoming. He activated his personal radio, "Entrance Security, give me the logs for Technician Aaron Walter of two days ago; the day of the security breach."
      There was a quick acknowledgment and then silence. Marcus could feel the tension increase quickly as Tobias's demeanor changed. He was no longer the nonchalant investigator "just doing hid job." A certain anxiety washed over the man, one that was not overtly obvious, but nonetheless receivable. It was clear now that they did not have all avenues tied up, which brought some comfort to the director's still apprehensive mind. In spite of everything, there was hope to beat this.
      "Sir, we have an entrance log for a Mr. Walter at 1600, and an exit log of 2400." The reply crackled over the radio.
      Marcus smirked. Busted.
      Dillon looked up at Tobias, his voice full of disapproval. "You call that extensive?"
      Tobias shook his head. "Not in the least."
      "Then do you care to explain yourself?"
      Marcus could feel the presentiments explode in his thoughts. This wasn't right; his constructive set up wasn't turning in his favor, rather it was only provoking the truly guilty man on the other side of the room. He should have been able to predict this and plan for it, but everything had been so spontaneous that he didn't have the time to work out every contingency. Consequently, there was now a dangerous man backed into a life-threatening corner. Only one thing could follow.
      Before he even realized what had happened, the sidearm snapped up from Tobias' utility belt and the nine-millimeter settled quickly in their direction. The innocent technician cuffed to the chair twitched in panic, and Dillon stared condescendingly at his subordinate, clearly agitated by the offensive move yet not completely knowing why he had done it.
      "What is this?"
      Tobias twisted slightly to level the pistol on the Security Commander. "This is a very unfortunate circumstance, sir. If the director here hadn't conspired this entire situation, things could have progressed along far less violently." He aimed the pistol at Marcus, his voice cold but with a hint of anxiety. "You…all you had to do was get your technicians and security out by my allotted time, yet you provoke the situation by doing this. You indeed have a death wish, Dr. Marcus."
      "What?" Dillon asked, confounded by the man's words.
      "Still in the dark, Commander?" Tobias asked tauntingly, though it was clear he wasn't completely confident he had control of the situation. Obviously, no one had planned this meeting out, which left both sides caught horribly off-guard. "Well, it was supposed to stay that way; if nobody got in the way, nobody would have gotten hurt." The pistol crossed over to Marcus again. "That's why Sheene died, he kept getting in the way. That's why you were supposed to die."
      Marcus didn't have anything to say. Despite the spontaneity of the investigator's actions, he held momentary control of this incident by the power of the deadly object in his hands. The director watched fretfully yet silently as Tobias moved around the room towards them and the door, subsequently motioning them to back against the far wall so he could get by. Things weren't going as planned for these dissenters anymore, but that would matter if in a few moments he was nothing but a corpse.
      "Quite unfortunately for you two, you are now in the way." He turned and aimed the weapon at Dillon. "After your death, I would suggest you thank Director Marcus here for dragging you into this situation. If it weren't for him you'd still be alive by the end of this day, and this problem would have ceased to exist." Tobias pulled the hammer back with his thumb, his expression impartial and his eyes dark.
      The door opened suddenly. "Sir, I just got a report from—"
      The Security Guard didn't even see the man with the weapon and consequently did not have time to react to the threat. Tobias turned quickly and leveled the pistol on the man's head, firing in one fluid motion. Marcus blinked as a dull flash exited from the end of the weapon and simultaneously the head of the guard snapped back, blood splattering on the pallid wall. The scene was violent enough to merit another blink of surprise and bewilderment, and in that second of blackness another crack emanated loudly in the small room.
      Forcing his eyes open, Marcus winced in pain at his ringing ears from the two deafening shots. It happened so fast that at first he didn't quite comprehend what had just occurred, and only stared in shock as Tobias's body hit the wall violently. He blinked instinctively as another shot followed a split second thereafter, and opened his eyes to see the antagonist's body shudder as a second round pierced brutally into the chest, blood spattering on the floor. The arms went limp, and increasingly the legs failed to support the dying man. Slowly and gruesomely, he slid back-first against the pale room, his dark eyes wide open yet motionless. A thick red stain on the wall followed him down as he gradually came to a stop, his legs straight in front of him, his back leaning against the room, and his head falling forward.
      Dillon, having reacted purely by instinctive training, slowly lowered his sidearm, staring intently at the dead man that he had—until just mere moments ago—worked together with. Marcus conceded to accept the bloody situation without pause and moved over to the fallen security guard, knowing that it was pointless yet in spite of the obviously mortal wound he placed his hand across the man's neck—no pulse. He averted his gaze from the brain fragments spewed across the wall and turned to the static body of Bruce Tobias. Overcoming another wave of shock, the director stepped over and checked the man's pulse, finding nothing to insinuate life.
      "What the hell is this about?" Dillon asked, his voice quiet yet clearly mixed with confusion and rage.
      Marcus looked back at him, still shaken. "Tobias was part of a dissension schema."
      "Elaborate."
      The director opened his mouth to offer the explanation, but before he could inflate his lungs to speak a loud and quite obnoxious alarm resounded from outside the room. Both men looked out the half open door into the empty white hallway, both having expected this as a result of the gunfire.
      "All teams," the radio cracked from Dillon's shoulder. "We have gunfire and engagements at the Entry Checkpoint."
      The Security Commander quickly activated the comm. "Stand down, the situation is under control."
      "Commander?"
      "Affirmative. Shots fired in Detention Room Two, but the situation is under—"
      "Negative, sir! Shots fired out here!"
      Marcus stared at Dillon in surprise, but somehow he knew this was coming. Some way or another, the rest of the dissidents had found out about their split-second clash with the now deceased Chief Investigator, which was the trigger to make this whole thing public. He looked around the room quickly and found the cause; a small camera in the upper corner of the room blinked with a red light. The inevitable was truly and undeniably inevitable.
      The Security Commander was still in the dark about the global reasons behind this—as was everyone else not in on the plot—but he pieced together enough to know that there was a security breach and some degree of insurgency. The question now was whether or not they could stop it, one that Marcus now thought to be the only thing worth contemplating.
      "Get behind me," Dillon said quickly, bringing his pistol up and stepping to peer out the door and down the hallway towards the surface entry area. Now that they were aware of the larger skirmish exploding just two doors away from them, it was possible to hear the soft yet sharp cracks of gunfire. The Commander stepped out and into the hallway, keeping his weapon trained on the closed door ten meters ahead while Marcus paused inside the room.
      It was obvious that nothing but shear force and brutality would clinch this problem, and as such all ideas of reasoning or even playing dumb were now nullified. If he wanted to win his facility back and keep these men—driven by some unknown reason—from gaining possession of that alien thirty meters below them, he would have to take measures above and beyond what he was prepared for. His fists clenched in adrenaline and determination and he looked down at the black pistol loosely in Tobias' cold hands, bending over to pick up the weapon. It was awkward for him, as he had never had any sort of weapons training, and held it erroneously in both hands close to his abdomen.
      Though despite his inexperience and the ever present apprehension running through his body, he knew that he needed anything and everything to make this work. If at the very least, this was something of deterrence to his enemy, even if they were all trained in ways of combat above and beyond what he could even appreciate. To deal with that rather demoralizing reality, he could only hope that Dillon would stay alive through this impending firefight, because without this man there was almost nothing he could do to stop the armed assemblage from finding and removing the single most valuable thing from this entire complex.
      Pausing just an arms-length away from the door—the only thing muffling the gunfire from the large warehouse-area just beyond—Dillon turned back to look at the director. The look in his eyes were clear, and it was obvious that he would quite literally shoot now and ask questions later, something a professional combatant of his stature rarely did. This was not war; this was not a fight against an alien entourage. Rather, and quite paradoxically, this was a small-scale struggle between men—men who once worked together to achieve something to win the true war flooding over their boarders. It was absurd to think of this happening amidst an even great battle that killed thousands each day; unity was the only thing that would aid in humanity's defense.
      Though now, listening to the shooting on the other side of the door, unity was the one thing they had already lost. Dillon looked forward and then back again, nodding in approval at the weapon in the director's hand, despite the incorrect handling fashion. Had this been some training exercise or an orientation, such things would have been swiftly attended to, but here and now, under the premises of death and demise, the only thing that mattered was survival.
      Dillon took a step back and a deep breath. "Stay low, sir."
      The door kicked open.



      "You've got to be kidding me."
      Swanson looked out of the lab to the open door and the white hallway just beyond. In the background, emanating from the featureless corridors, was the facility-wide security alarm, an indication of some breach in some manner or another. It wasn't so often that most disregarded it and reluctantly followed the protocols, but it wasn't rare enough to quite merit panic.
      He didn't know why Marcus has requested him to get all of this done or get out in one hour, but something inside had told him to just accept the other director's wishes. Something was obviously not right—it was in his eyes—but the situation, perhaps on both their ends, was not allowing the time to get to the bottom of the evident problem. Had this been any other day, Swanson might have considered dropping the whole thing altogether to find out what was plaguing his colleagues thoughts, but the urgency in his tone and the breakthrough they had made earlier about how to revive this project had firmly denied him the chance to call a timeout, or so he thought.
      Now, with the klaxons wailing away, the co-director began to feel the distinct regret for not probing into this deeper. At this point in time, there was very little doubt about the arbitrariness of the current circumstances, and he somehow knew that the predicament Marcus was tied up with on the surface was having this corollary down here. There was a missing link that made it all very obscure, but he didn't need to know such specifics to piece together this much of the conundrum. Now, he needed to make a prompt decision about what to do, since it was all but apparent that this whole thing was no mere incident.
      Protocol dictated that all technician teams subsurface were required to evacuate through the main checkpoint within ten minutes of the alarm or face lockdown—where every hydraulic door shut and locked until security could individually clear the rooms, something that could take hours depending upon the severity of the situation. Though following these protocols was not something he was thinking fondly of, and instead of the once normal reaction of dropping his work and exiting, he found a hint of stagnation in his mind. Maybe he shouldn't leave just yet; maybe he should finish what he had come down here to do.
      Swanson turned to the team in the lab with him, all of them quickly finishing what work they could so that after this unfortunate event ended they could return to their tasks efficiently. His idea of 'finishing work' was a bit different now, however, and without fully contemplating his decision, the co-director raised a hand and pointed at the nearest man.
      "How far along is the convalescent tonic?"
      The technician looked back, his face disinterested. "Pretty far. I will have it completed when we get back."
      Swanson sighed. That's not what I asked. "How much longer would you need to complete it right now?"
      The man's face turned from neutrality to perplexity. "Well, including the tests I would need to run, maybe an hour."
      "And without the tests?"
      "Just another minute, I guess." The technician replied warily, almost not believing what his boss was asking. "But without confirming all the elements of the tonic, the convalescent amalgam may be just as ineffective as a dose of water."
      "Understood. Finish it and bring it to me in the chamber." Swanson ordered, and then turned to face the other three technicians in the room. Oddly enough, one of them had not taken any action in leaving, while the other two had almost completely finished their work. Rather, that single man just waited patiently, as if already reading his intentions. "You three, come with me."
      The two getting ready to leave looked up in surprise, but didn't speak a word of discontent. Swanson marched to the door, with the three technicians beginning to follow, pausing only as he entered the white corridor filled with the obnoxious siren to look back inside at the single man who remained, charged with completing the needed stimulant. "Don't forget." He took a deep breath. "You have less than ten minutes to get it to me in the chamber."
      The man nodded.
      Director Swanson, followed by his entourage, began running for the elevator. They had less than ten minutes before the elevator and all hydraulically controlled doors shut down—which included the entry points to the chamber and the control room—meaning that he needed to get in place before those doors shut. Something inside told him that much was imperative, and that failing to do so meant something far worse than simply restarting after this incident passed. He needed to get this done now.
      They rounded a corner and ran down the long stretch of empty hallway, passing door after closed door, until they came to a quick stop in front of the elevator doors. Swanson quickly punched the controls for the elevator and waited impatiently for the apparatus to respond.
      "You two," he said, short of breath, "will come with me to the chamber." The first man raised his eyebrows in question, but still remained quiet. The second oddly enough just nodded. "And you," Swanson said, pointing to the last, "will go up one level to the control room. From there we will be in intercom communication."
      "Sir, isn't this an utter disregard of our security proto—"
      "Yes, it is." The director responded prematurely, cutting him off. "But you will follow my orders for the time being, no questions asked. Do you understand me, son?"
      He nodded meekly at the terse reply, much to Swanson's liking. One way or another, he would make this whole thing work. His mind screamed at him not to, reminding him that he knew very little of this incident and therefore had no real reason to complete this eccentric and spontaneous plot, but his gut silently told him something else. If what these presentiments were telling him were true, then his actions would be justified. If they turned out to be wrong, and this whole thing was just a mere event, then there would be little to lose.
      The doors opened and the three stepped inside, leaving the one technician out to wait for the elevator to return to take him up one level. This was it, and there was no turning back now. In the few minutes that remained before everything that could be remotely shut down was shut down, he was going to attempt to revive this alien. It seemed irrational, but Swanson couldn't deny the gnawing sensation in his stomach—this had to be done
      Seven minutes.

Contravene Birth 05.04
Date: 18 December 2005, 8:01 am

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?

Contravene Birth 06.04
Date: 29 December 2005, 5:19 pm

Contravene Birth

06.04

"And why would the UN Council be in on this?" Dillon said softly, entirely unbelieving of the man's confession.
      McColluck looked back and forth between them. "Because they know."
      "Know what?" Marcus said, confounded by this entire discussion.
      "They know something about this alien," the technician continued, some barely discernable darkness settling around them in this chamber. "They know something that can't get out, something that we would find if this project continued."
      Marcus cringed at the thought of that. Maybe they weren't the first to observe this alien in detail. Maybe this had been done before, and the results were not good—not positive for humanity.
      "I don't know what it is about this thing," McColluck concluded, leaning his head towards the divan. "But they don't want us to find out. And if they were willing to give us a life away from this hell, it was worth trying to get this damn alien out of here. Trust me when I say this, director, it was made very clear that it was the only option, because if we allowed this to continue, things would have only gotten worse."
      "How do you know this?" Marcus retorted, trying to figure this out. "What did they tell you?"
      McColluck took a deep breath. "They—"
      A siren. A single siren at first, but it was followed by another. They where not the loud ones in the hallway, as if the lockdown had been reinstated, but rather the persistent beeping from the computers around them in the chamber. It wasn't initially fear-invoking, and the six men in the chamber only looked around, almost in confusion, as the equipment that had sat silent for so long now sparked to life.
      It took a minute before it clicked in Marcus's head, and he walked slowly towards the main display on the wall, staring at it with a frown as the details and figures flowed into his mind. He was not pleased with the interruption of his interrogation of this man—who was yielding information far greater than he ever imagined—but such an event was seemingly more pertinent than this inquest.
      Then, the chamber doors closed.
      Each man looked over as the two hydraulic titanium plates came to a firm and impenetrable lock together, this action promptly sparking fear into their minds. Now, everything about being in this room suggested death, and the quiet tension broken only by the constant beeping of the computers began to build with every second; each man's instincts yelling for them to exit, to get out of this place.
      Marcus could feel that same reaction run down his spine, but quickly subdued it and reminded himself that he knew exactly what was going on. This had all been predicted long before any of this division occurred, and he knew that the computers beeping were merely a notification and that the chamber doors closing was simply a safety precaution to keep unwanted people out, not to lock this thing in. The developing being wasn't—to their knowledge—even ready to birth. But for activity to exist, that meant that it had to be…
      Alive? The director stared at the readings on the large screen, almost straining to recognize what was flowing across the display before him. Had Swanson's last act worked? Had the Ascendus procedure actually worked on this alien? He found it hard to believe—too hard to believe. Some being from the other side of their known galaxy had just reacted to an overtly human practice. What were the odds? He couldn't even begin to calculate the feasibility of this situation.
      So was Swanson's last act not in vain? Had he really accomplished what everyone had worked so hard at? The beeping around informing him of the reviving beast didn't help ease his conscience, though, and it didn't justify to any degree his colleague's death. But even still, he couldn't deny the fact that had settled dreadfully upon each mind in this chamber. This thing was alive.
      "This can't be what I think it is," Dillon said quietly, staring at the divan.
      "It is," Marcus replied. "But it's not ready to birth."
      The three technicians in the room followed the Security Commander's gaze to where that alien lay, now living. The looks in their eyes were unmistakable, and it was easy to feel their longing to exit this place, in spite of Marcus's knowledge that the being wasn't even ready to birth. That alien had an unforgettable reputation, and every man across humanity's expanse knew it for what it truly was. An indiscriminating killer. Men, women and children alike were slaughtered before this menacing beast, and the fear associated with this alien was not lost in the anticipation of seeing it come to life.
      A new wave of fear washed upon the group as the beeping escalated in pitch and speed, and suddenly Marcus found himself sharing their premonitions. Like a splash of cold water, a realization hit him, one that he should have thought of long before. This alien was not living like normal again, as if none of this ever happened. It had been dead, lifeless, never to breathe again—but now it was living. It was living through a revival that was not only controversial by the UN's standards, but by everyone's standards.
      Mirroring his thoughts of just over an hour ago, where Swanson presented the eccentric idea to him, the presentiments of this whole thing drastically altering this being's consciousness flooded over him yet again. What if that sleeping giant wasn't the alien they had come to fear anymore? What if the Ascendus Practice altered it somehow. Marcus recalled the facts found earlier that these aliens shared genetic memory with their precursors, and that was how they came into the world full grown and fully capable, but what if that genetic memory was erased—or even worse, tainted?
      That meant everything from this point forward was unpredictable, unforeseeable. All the facts he knew about it, and all the envisaged facts about this being were now nothing. This thing was now beyond his knowledge.
      "Where are the rest of your accomplices?" Marcus asked suddenly.
      McColluck broke his gaze away from the divan and stared at Marcus. "You didn't stop them?"
      A curse emitted from under his breath as Marcus brought a hand to his forehead. What was wrong with all of this? Things had quickly escalated, and now more questions were starting to drown out his ability to think. Two dozen dissenters were now unaccounted for, this alien was now living, and the United Nations Council had somehow instigated all of this. What was wrong?
      "What would cause them to abort?" Dillon queried.
      "Nothing," the man replied, now almost fearful of these new circumstances over the living alien mere feet away. "Once we began, there was no turning back."
      The Security Commander looked over at Marcus, his face full of question. "Is there anything down here that could stop them?"
      This facility was quite large, and harbored several projects along with this main one. All of those other endeavors, however, were not of this kind; this was the only alien living here. "No, there couldn't be anything else," Marcus said solemnly. "The only other thing is—"
      Mid sentence, it hit him mid sentence. The director looked warily at the divan, all confidence gone from his eyes, and all the resistance to the binding darkness that shrouded this place evaporated in one swift breath of air. Fear sparked down his arms, and his hands twitched in reaction. He found himself blinking as his mind fought to fully grasp the gravity of the situation that had now forever engulfed the six men in this chamber.
      While he couldn't figure out how this implicated the leadership of humanity, nor how they had managed to convince these dissenters into action, he could understand this one aspect of the entire scheme. And this small and seemingly isolated understanding quickly asserted itself as the only thing to be concerned with, as all other factors to this entire problem were now somewhat insignificant—if not but for the moment. Right now, he was troubled with the daunting truth that was slowly becoming excruciatingly clear.
      "Director?"
      Dillon's perplexed look and question were quickly pushed aside as Marcus took slow yet deliberate steps towards the divan, his eyes transfixed on it as he approached. The side walls rising two feet up kept the cosset concealed, and the fact that he couldn't see the entire being frightened him all the more. If he was right, things would have quickly escalated far beyond his grasp, and he would only be staring right at death itself.
      With a clenched jaw and balled fists hanging stiffly by his side, the director came to a stop next to the divan and stared down into it, looking intently at the alien encapsulated within the deep red cosset. His eyes scrutinized the scene closely, something he hadn't done before, and he stared in silence through the semi-transparent natural encasing to the silhouette of the alien.
      "No," he let out softly, barely audible to the rest standing nearby. "No, this can't be."
      How could he have missed this? How could Swanson have missed this? The pressure, the anticipation, and the enemy that abided around had caused them all one grave oversight—one lethal and unforgiving oversight—which now beckoned sickeningly at them from behind a red tainted, contrived wall. With the beeps of the computers around them filling in the silence, Marcus took a step back wordlessly, trying to control his breathing and loosen up enough to think. That was the only resource he had left.
      "Sir?"
      He turned slowly to face the Security Commander, who was no longer confounded by the situation, but now visibly apprehensive. It took everything within to force himself to speak, and Marcus almost felt as if he was being choked as he fought to compose words.
      "This is impossible," he began softly, wincing. "There's just no way…"
      "Director," Dillon said, more forcefully, trying to get the information out. "What is it?"
      The premonitions washed over him in a suffocating tide, drowning him slowly as the truth pounded against his once confident mind. Marcus could not only readily see this situation and the corollary of Swanson's last action, but also the consequential future that would claim each of them. All this time he had been concerned with stopping these dissenters, when the truth of the matter was whether or not they could be stopped. What if they had already accomplished their task? What if they had already gotten the developing being?
      Marcus snapped his head, breaking out of his contemplation enough to focus on the men before him, all of the faces contorted in curiosity and their eyes wide with question. "This isn't our project, this isn't the developing being."
      At first it was met with disbelief, and they all looked over at the divan, some taking probing steps closer towards it. It was so unbelievable, so unforeseeable that even Marcus had a hard time accepting his own words. But his inability to fully believe what he had concluded didn't change the damning certainty that was now living only ten feet away. Think! React to the threat!
      "We have to get out of here," Marcus said suddenly.
      The five other men didn't respond initially as they cautiously peered into the cosset for themselves, though Marcus could tell that they didn't see what he saw; they didn't understand what he understood, which meant that he needed to take action to save their lives, since everything was now on his shoulders.
      He crossed over to the control panel and entered his authorization code quickly, looking back at the men surrounding the divan as the doors slid apart. "Now! Let's go!"
      Four of them broke their gazes from the being and began moving for the exit, only to pause as the one straggler still staring into the cosset spoke up, his voice piercing with fear and distress.
      "Holy shi—"
      All eyes settled on him and the divan right as a foul odor met their noses. Marcus winced at the smell and stared in utter shock as a limb steadily rose from within the divan, the black, scaled skin of the entity dripping repulsively with thick red matter. The single technician standing nearby took a step back instinctively as a second limb appeared from within, the black entity slowly breaking out. Marcus wanted to do something, to scream, or run, but no action befell him. Just like the near-death firefight he had survived on the surface, he could not move as he watched this monster arise.
      "Director," Dillon said steadily, though clearly borderline panic, "what the fuck is that?"
      "It's," Marcus began, uncharacteristically stuttering. "It's the parent being."
      Had this beast not been slowly yet steadily breaking free of the man-placed cosset right before their eyes, every eye would have settled on the director in surprise—even McColluck.
      "And how the hell did it get there?" Dillon said slowly as he raised his pistol at the two limbs making way for the body to appear.
      Those dissenters really had won, Marcus thought distantly, and the inevitable for upon them.
      Then, unexpectedly, the beast rose in full out of the divan, hunched over oddly with its head hanging low, the body inflating and deflating as it breathed irregularly. Marcus only stared in utter fear at the demon before them, frozen in fear from the fiend easily twice his size. He found his body shuddering in panic and his eyes unblinking as the men around him slowly took steps away from it and towards the doors. The once constant beeping suddenly turned to a long and steady siren, indicating that whatever it was supposed to monitor inside the divan was no longer there.
      Causing Marcus to finally blink, the alien snapped its head forward, its eyes a menacing deep yellow. It cocked its head back and forth rapidly—almost unnaturally fast—as it surveyed the figures around. Its movements were quick and abrupt, unlike the anything the director had ever seen before. Everyone had witnessed video clips of these aliens in combat, and could attest to their fast yet fluid motions, but this thing was behaving quite differently.
      And Marcus knew why. He knew why this thing looked around at everything with hurried and sudden turns of its ugly head. This alien, this being drenched in a thick blood-like substance, was not the intelligent and crafty combatant that had been captured months ago. Rather, it was exactly what all those religious groups thought it to be. It was truly a demon.
      The alien's body shuddered and the limbs shook oddly as its yellow eyes constantly looked around. It almost looked nervous, but Marcus doubted it could feel anything right now. This thing was nothing more than some unknown consciousness overtaking this alien's body. The thought was frightening, but Marcus could not feel any more dread or fear as he stared motionlessly at this entity, his throat dry and his eyes burning.
      Silently, though deeply, the beast muttered something from its throat as it twitched and snapped its head back and forth between the six men. Marcus strained to hear it clearly, trying to understand whatever foreign language it was muttering.
      Sew fah leb liw thay yed.
      It looked about and then settled right on Marcus, its eyes piercing through him.
      "Oh God, no—"
      The demon lunged into the air unexpectedly, flying up then down with unnatural speed and ability. Marcus's wide eyes followed the beast into the air, his veins coursing with horror and his hands shaking in fear. This thing truly was a devil, a wicked spirit from the depths of hell, and nothing stood between them and its outstretched limbs as it came down upon them.
      Death will befall us.
      Reacting swiftly to their now airborne threat, Dillon managed to fire his weapon at the incoming beast, the crack splitting the momentary silence of the moment. Though anything else beside the quick pull of a trigger was physically impossible, and although the minds recorded the impending calamity with excruciating detail and slowness, the actual events were spanning over mere seconds. Marcus found himself blinking slowly as the single and only round caught the alien in the right shoulder mid flight. Though to his surprise, the pistol round did little but puncture the scaly skin and send out a small spatter of dark purple blood, and the beast appeared readily unfazed. This thing was far more powerful than them or anything they had at their disposal.
      A scream emitted to his left, causing the director to snap his head that direction. While everything seemed slow and perceptible, he knew that there was nothing any of them could do in this freezing panic, and watched as the large alien landed directly in front of one of the technicians, the two outstretched limbs shoving the man back with so much force that Marcus could actually hear the snapping of the bones. The body flew back with unreal speed and collided with the computer equipment lining the white walls of this chamber, sparks flying into the air in a subtle explosion of electricity.
      Marcus blinked as the pistol in Dillon's hand kicked back slowly, another loud crack echoing in the room that barely overcame the crash of the now dead man mangled among the equipment, blood spatter covering the nearby pallid computers as his head hung back unnaturally, the neck clearly broken. The beast flinched ever so slightly as the second nine-millimeter round caught it in the side, and its head snapped towards the security commander, its yellow eyes narrowing.
      With slow realization, Marcus raised the black pistol in his hand and leveled it at the monster. The other security guard simultaneously mimicked the director's action, and nearly concurrently three cracks emitted from the three weapons. With their target being less than twenty feet away, missing was nearly impossible, and the first volley of rounds hit their intention. The alien absorbed all three rounds with nothing more than a step back—and a menacing growl—dark blood spattering onto the white floor.
      Devoid of delay, the three armed men fired again, wincing at the deafening noise. The rounds all hit, but again it did very little but force this demon back. Even as Marcus pulled the trigger a third time, he knew that a whole clip from their pistols may never do enough to kill this monster, which had been dead until only moments ago. More rounds exited the barrels, though know the being was taking evasive action, somehow flinching fast enough to dodge some of the less-skillfully placed shots.
      The director's eyes widened at the sight of this entity, its motions blurry as it somehow twisted and ducked, avoiding nearly all of their gunfire. How was this possible? How could anything move with the speed and agility that they were faced against? Nothing could dodge bullets. Marcus fired one last time before the receiver snapped back on his weapon, the alien seeing the shot immediately and tucking in to avoid the round.
      It was clear that only one thing remained for them to do as this demon somehow supernaturally defied capabilities and limitations.
      "Run!" Marcus screamed, letting his pistol drop to the ground and turning for the open chamber doors. Dillon and the security guard fired off the last of their rounds as the remaining two technicians—which unfortunately included McColluck—scurried out of the chamber and into the hallway, their eyes wide in shock and their breathing erratic in fright. Marcus skidded on the clean surface to a stop before the door controls, his finger hovering on the 'Emergency Close' key.
      "Get out of there!" he screamed, though somehow distantly. It was as if all his actions were in control of some intrinsic consciousness, and the feeling reminded him of the incident in the late Sheene's kitchen. Though how ever the subconscious levels of survival and instinct worked, he didn't care to explore. Right now, a far more pressing issue consumed his thoughts, one that would inevitably end in death here under the surface or by the silencing by the leadership of humanity.
      Dillon back pedaled out of the chamber and fired his last round, the receiver snapping back. The security guard's clip was already empty, and he fumbled to replace the clip. Though in the split second that nobody was firing at this demon, it hurtled itself forward again, pining the guard against the wall right next to the open doors. Dillon ejected the clip and reached for a new one, but knew that his subordinate was now a dead man, the unmistakable cracking noise of his neck and spinal cord fracturing under this monster's wicked arms clear evidence of that.
      He couldn't wait a second longer, and Marcus slammed his finger down onto the key, staring at the alien towering over the now dead security guard as it thrashed the body over and over against the wall. The hydraulic doors began sliding shut, quickly though not quick enough by Marcus's standards. His heart raced as he watch the two doors move to meet in the middle, knowing full and well that if that thing could actually dodge bullets, it could no doubt find a way to stop those doors from closing before they shut and locked.
      Three feet. Two feet. One foot!
      Marcus blinked as a single black limb shot out in the mere inches that remained before the door closed, a cracking noise barely audible over the closing door meeting his ears. He opened his eyes to see the alien hand crumble into a fist of pain as the two doors jammed together on the large limb. The flesh and bone of the alien was not enough to keep the hydraulically powered doors from remaining open, and they locked together in a sickening display of power and crushing might, the limb separating from the body on the other side and falling to the floor in the hallway, blood spurting out and onto the once featureless corridor.
      The director found himself breathing quickly—too quickly—and looked back and forth at the three other men with him in the hallway, almost not believing that they had done it. He shook his head and fought to accept that this thing was now locked inside the chamber, where it could surely never get out. All the fear and forethought of him dying under this demon's grasp suddenly lifted from his afflicted mind. They had survived.
      "We did it…" McColluck said, pausing as he breathed in. "We're alive!"
      Dillon eyed the bloody limb on the ground warily, easily as big as his entire arm yet that thing had only gotten half of its extremity through the door. "Now I want to know," he said, also short of breath, "what the fuck is happening."
      The director paused, letting the cool air flow into his lungs as he took the moment to calm down—and even recognize that he was still living. "They already got the developing being," Marcus replied after a minute, letting his head lean back and his eyes close to relieve the adrenaline still coursing through his body. "I don't know when or how, but they managed to replace it with the parent being."
      "And nobody noticed under these circumstances," Dillon said, sighing.
      Marcus couldn't figure out when or how these dissenters had managed to extract the developing and replace it with the parent being, but he didn't give much thought to it. Rather, what interested him most, was how a dead alien—one that had been dead for months—had reacted to the Ascendus Practice at all. Had he not witnessed the quite alive being, he would have thought such a feat was impossible. The Practice didn't always work on humans who had been dead for mere days, and here it was working on an alien with a foreign and unknown genetic structure, which had also been dead for weeks. It was hard to grasp, and even harder to accept, and he found himself only staring at the black and bloody limb on the floor in silent contemplation.
      "What the hell is that?"
      Marcus looked up as McColluck stepped over to the other technician, staring at the man's neck. The director squinted and too saw what was on his neck. A rash? He stepped closer to the man, eyeing it carefully.
      "What are you talking about?" The technician asked, almost fearful as whatever was on his neck suddenly interested those around him.
      "That…bruise." McColluck said, leaning closer to the deep blue discoloration. "That alien did get you."
      "I have no clue," the man said earnestly, visibly concerned that some bruising was on his neck. "But my back is killing me."
      Dillon exhaled noisily, clearly not amused or interested. "Listen, you can see a chiropractor once we get the hell out of here." He turned to Marcus. "Is there anything we can do about those dissenters or the developing being?"
      "I wish I knew of something," the director replied, bringing a hand up to his chin and rubbing the two day-old unshaven cheeks. "For all we know, they are probably already gone."
      "But we saw them in the elevator, and we were only a couple minutes behind them." Dillon contested. "They can't be far."
      "They must have stowed the body on the first level somehow, and only came down that far to retrieve it," Marcus said, now rubbing his irritated eyes. "We could have easily missed them when we went to the control room. And if they did any real planning, they probably arranged transportation out of here so they could immediately leave once they got back to the surface."
      The Security Commander turned to McColluck. "And you weren't in on any of this?"
      He cursed silently. "Apparently not. They told me to stop—"
      Marcus looked intently at the man. "They told you to stop Swanson."
      McColluck looked back. "Yes, but they never told me that they switched out the aliens, and said that they would be coming down to get me."
      So you shot him for nothing, Marcus thought irately. "So this was all just a distraction. They only used you to create scene here so any security would go straight for the chamber, and not clear out the levels properly."
      Dillon let a string of profanities leave his mouth under his breath, rubbing his head with both hands, as if subduing a sharp pain. "They set this all up. Looks like Tobias was a little brighter than we thought." The Security Commander stood against the wall and let his head lean back against it, closing his eyes. "God, my head is killing me."
      Marcus stared at him for a moment, waiting for Dillon to open his eyes again. "You don't look so good." A second later the Commander did so, then stared back at the director in question. Marcus inhaled deeply, a new fear overcoming him; they were bloodshot.
      Both men looked over as McColluck let out a wheezing cough, placing his hand on the wall and leaning over, coughing some more. Marcus stared at him for a moment, anticipating a certain action from the man as he coughed a bit more. It came only a moment later, causing the Commander and the technician to look away in disgust. But Marcus watched him attentively as he regurgitated, the vomit splashing on the floor, and only winced as the foul odor met his nose.
      This can't be happening, it was just ridiculous. Then again, that alien even coming back to life was supposedly impossible. Everything about these beings defied reason, defied what he thought he knew. Now, the relief of them escaping that monster's clutch quickly gave way to a new fear, one that led to only one end. Death. He won't be walking out of here to face the men who had caused all this, and he won't be able to find the true reasons for all of this death and bloodshed. The ability to do that would now have to be in someone else's hands.
      "What the hell is wrong with him?" Dillon asked, more agitated than normal.
      Marcus didn't want to answer, especially as he saw the dark blue bruising on the Security Commander's neck. He looked over carefully at the technician, who was sitting against the wall and breathing irregularly. Slowly, he forced himself to look down at his own hands, closing his eyes in the process, not wanting to see. His fists clenched as he opened his eyes, but then closed them immediately, everything within wishing to deny the truth now contaminating his own body.
      The veins in his hands and arms were a deep blue, tainting his entire arm an unnatural blackish blue. Marcus blinked rapidly at the sight, finding his eyes itching fiercely. It was happening, and it was engulfing each of them faster than their immune systems could react. It was slowly killing them.
      "It's the infection," he said softly.
      "What?" Dillon said, wincing in pain.
      Marcus fought to recall the specifics. "The day we caught Sheene, the day of the incident, we went to his office, remember?"
      "Yeah."
      "And we read that information packet that he had withheld. In there was a short document vaguely detailing how the parent being was captured and why it was delivered to us. Remember the mention of the infection? It was contagious, and infected the initial review team." Marcus took a deep breath, feeling his stomach churn. "Apparently, the infection never ceased to exist."
      Dillon rubbed his bloodshot eyes. "And there wasn't a cure."
      McColluck let out a growl of pain, causing both the director and Commander to look suddenly at him. Another stream of vomit exited from his mouth, but this time it wasn't the thick yellow substance—it was blood. Somehow, the man regained enough equilibrium and pushed off from against the wall, turning and staring back at them shakily. Marcus's eyes widened at the sight, utter surprise washing over him. McColluck's skin was deep blue, with dark red blood over his wide lab coat. His eyes were a deep red—almost black—and streams of blood ran down his cheeks from them as if they were tears. He was shaking uncontrollably.
      Dillon struggled to his feet, taking a step back from this transformed man. "Sir, what is this?"
      Marcus couldn't speak. The sight was truly frightening, and he felt as if he was no longer staring a man, but another demon.
      McColluck muttered something as he gazed back, but it was entirely foreign to both men. He began taking steps forward them, his arms and hands shaking and his mouth hanging open, revealing blood drenched teeth. The demon locked inside the chamber had found a way to live on—it lived on in them.
      The technician on the floor staggered to his feet, clearly just as bad. It was as if they stared at two zombies who slowly stepped towards them, blood running from their mouths and eyes. Dillon and Marcus stood shakily as they continued to speak something, but the meaning was lost in the fear and overcoming infection that was steadily turning them into what those men had already become.
      "This can't be happening," Dillon said, letting out a deep cough.
      "None of this should've happened."
      Marcus leaned closer to try and understand what these men were trying to speak, finding it hard to concentrate as his head throbbed with a pain he had never felt before. His back was stiff all the way up through his neck, and he found himself barely able to fully move as this virus took over his body. While he knew this was fatal, something else prodded at him, and he found that inner incitement in the words of these dying men.
      Run.
      He squinted as the word finally registered in his indistinct mind, though he couldn't place a reason for the action. What would cause him to run? Why would he need to, anyways? This infection was slowly claiming him just as it had these two, and there was no escaping it, no matter how much he wished or fought for. The inevitable was undeniable, and as he body began to expire, he felt his will terminate with surprising ease.
      It was over for him, and his colleagues. They had failed to stop the dissension and failed to save this project, now finding their end in the one being that had actually started all of this. They had found the clincher in the one entity that had initiated this whole thing, and there was no way out of this dead end alleyway. It was almost hard to imagine it all ending like this, but Marcus couldn't reject the reality that now hardened his body and tainted his mind. It was over.
      Run.
      The second time only brought and perplexed look on the director's face, trying to figure out why he should force his dying body into some action that would get him no closer to life—or no farther away from death. Distantly he watched as the two technicians drew closer, deep black and blue bruising covering their necks and faces. He stared into those red eyes, looking not into the eyes of the men he once knew—even if it was just briefly—but into the minds of this disease. He was looking into the eyes of that demon yet again.
      In a fast and unavoidable move, the first technician half lunged, half toppled awkwardly onto Dillon, who didn't have the strength or awareness to avoid the action. Marcus turned in surprise at the incident, staring down at the man who had accompanied him through this all now under the body of the nameless man. He was about to reach down to pull the body off when a sharp scream of pain emitted into the hallway, causing him to step back instinctively.
      "Run…"
      He looked over at McColluck who was only feet away, then back down at Dillon and the technician, seeing a new pool of blood form around them. He craned his neck to see what had caused it, but it was clear in spite of this obscurity. This virus did more than just kill them. It possessed them.
      "Run!"
      Marcus jerked his head over at McColluck as the distorted scream met his ears. Though also coming from the man was an outstretched arm, the hand opened in a grasping gesture. Marcus tried to avoid the offensive move, but his reactions were inhibited by the infection attacking his mind and nerves system. The same thing that was causing this man to reach out and clutch Marcus's neck was also keeping the director from defending himself.
      Hours had been spent mulling over that information packet, yet to all his research efforts no specifics on this infection were ever uncovered, which led him to believe that the whole extent of this quite deadly disease was nothing more than what was presented in that passage about how the parent being was actually captured. Now, feeling his constricted throat and wincing as his vision began to narrow, it was quite obvious that the infection—the reason Sheene had started this mess—what quite potent. Something had empowered it, had made it different, but in the end it would simply take his life, one way or another. Either by the damning virus overtaking his body or by the infatuated man trying to kill him.
      The director grabbed the outstretched arm with both hands and pulled them off recklessly, feeling something pinch in his neck. At that moment the back pain that had been plaguing him magnified, and he felt as if his body was slowly crumbling to pieces before him. The full extent of this virus was slowly becoming known to him, and every inkling within fought to defeat it. First, the symptoms, which were clearly evident over all their bodies. Second was the abnormally threatening and homicidal behavior, which compelled this man to kill him. Third, this virus was slowly degenerated every living cell in the body, turning any healthy and functional being into nothing more than a possessed corpse.
      While his mind mused over the facts surrounding this unfortunate situation, his awareness failed to warn him of the strike coming from McColluck's second arm, slashing out across his chest. Marcus blinked as his own blood spattered across his face and the floor, though surprisingly didn't grimace from the newly formed wounds—rather, the thick pain in his back prevailed to numb his chest. The director let go of the single hand and pushed the man back—though the very sight before him led Marcus to believe that this was no longer a man. The deep bruising, red eyes, and blood drenched figure before him was far from any living human being, and the evil dictating his actions could be found in no sane person.
      Before it was even possible to perceive what was going on—credit for this inability going towards the intoxicated sensation that plagued his mind—the figure stepped forward and simultaneously swung its arms. Marcus could only blink before the first arm went low and hit him in the leg, hitting the deeply bruised quadriceps and causing him to fall to a knee, offering the second arm to hit him square in the neck.
      His vision went red as he fell back onto the pallid floor, choking on some substance within his throat. In a painful move, one that aggravated his back, he rolled over onto his stomach and spat up the suffocating matter onto the floor only inches from his nose. He blinked and then settled on the thick red liquid before him.
      Out of sight, the gurgled scream of his attacker filled the silent hallway, and the next feeling was his right arm snapping from some imperceptible strike, then his collar bone crushing under the unbearable force of this spawned demon. It forced his face flat against the floor, smearing the blood he just coughed up across his face. The anticipated second attack hit home, and some extremity sharply impacted against his back, a sharp pain running all the way up through his neck and down to his feet. All he could do was let out a silent wheeze of pain, which sent more blood from his mouth onto the floor. Was this his end? Was his death really going to be on this pale floor, with all the knowledge of this scheme? After everything he fought through and for, his death here and now would invalidate all those deaths that were the consequences of this plot.
      Though as his legs went numb and his neck stiffened to the side, there was no alternative. This knowledge would die with him and these men, and some greater conspiracy that caused all this would go on in the dark. Death, it would appear, was not only going to take their lives here underground, but thousands more as this clinching secret—one he would never uncover—continued to live on.
      Crack!
      The deafening noise flooded and echoed down this hallway, and Marcus would have turned around to see the source of this gunshot if he physically could. Any suggestion of movement caused unbearable pain to fill his fading body.
      "Get…"
      Marcus closed his eyes, wincing at the voice meeting his ears. The pain-filled, cracking voice of the Security Commander filtered through the obscurity taking over his mind.
      "Sir, get out."
      Another loud shot echoed down the corridor, and Marcus reached out with his one good arm, grasping at the flat surface and trying to pull himself away—away from this hell. He kicked his legs in a painful but necessary move to get away, and inch by inch he found himself moving away from this nightmare. While the director knew living through this wasn't an option, one thing did compel him to claw along the floor; one thing did oblige the fading mind to struggle away.
      Leaving the truth for another man to see.
      For another man to uncover.

Contravene Birth 07.04
Date: 6 January 2006, 9:40 am

Contravene Birth

07.04

The grinding feeling sent small yet noticeable shimmers of pain up the spinal chord, an obvious indicator of a near paralysis injury. The neck was craned to the right in an awkward position, never to return to its intended state, and the feet remained limp; all feeling had vanished from that portion of the body. The right arm was undeniably broken, the elbow twisting back and the bone exposed through the torn skin; the shoulder blade was fractured in several hundred pieces, followed by a crushed collar bone. There was very little left intact on the beaten and broken body, and with every passing second the diminishing strength evaporated from the heaving man crawling along the empty hallway.
      Doctor David Marcus gritted his teeth together as he clawed his way along the spotless corridor, wincing as the clenched jaw resembled the grinding feeling in his back. His breathing was erratic, and he could feel his body shudder from the sustained injuries. His heartbeat was far faster than he thought could ever be possible, and fatefully it pumped blood right out of his body and onto the white floor. The older doctor tried to crane his neck behind him, but the crippled upper body defiantly called back with a wave of unbearable pain, a sure indication that he was mortally wounded.
      The deep guttural growl flooded the empty white hallways, echoing throughout the subterranean facility. A gasp of pain exited from the Doctor's mouth as he forced his entire body around to look behind him; down the featureless corridor lay a thick and dark blood trail, sickly distorting the bright lights that reflected off it from overhead. From somewhere behind him, down any one of the many intersecting hallways, another growl—that more closely resembled a scream—pierced into the still air, motivating the fading Doctor to turn forward and continue his painful crawl along the corridor.
      With every inhale, he nearly choked on some congesting substance in his throat, and with very exhale, he spat up a deep red matter that stuck to the clean floor with far too much ease. He used his one good arm to pull his body along the unblemished floor in front of him, but kicked his legs in futility as they slipped effortlessly on the blood trail plaguing his past. Small cries of desperation exited from the man's mouth as he gave every remaining ounce of energy into this awkward crawl, trying with all that lingered in his body to get away from the monster of his own creation.
      His analytical mind had stopped scrutinizing his surroundings, and it had stopped venturing into philosophical contemplation as it did when boredom was present. Now all it did was record the events as seen through his bloodshot eyes; every gruesome and excruciating pull by his one good arm, and every vain, slippery kick by his legs. Not even memories of a brighter past, of those he cared for, or for what even went wrong here flashed by; rather, every passing second was nothing but a day in hell, an endlessly agonizing moment where everything was wrong.
      Several blinks helped clear his red vision enough for him to comprehend the doorway just ahead on the left. With a deep gasp—and a subsequent cough of blood—Dr. Marcus clawed along the smooth surface for it, willing everything within to at least get to that door. He pulled his battered body up to it, turning to lean upright against the door and look back down the corridor that would forever remain and memory of unbearable pain and unendurable fear. He looked down at his two legs, and suppressed a regurgitating cough as the once white lab clothing was smeared with dark blood. The Doctor followed the red trail down the corridor once again and realized just how much blood he had lost, and he found himself in partial surprise of his ability to even think.
      That scream echoed yet again through the hallways, reminding him of the fiend he was trying to flee from. He forced his good arm up and opened the door, falling backwards as it flew open from his weight leaning against it. The Doctor rolled over onto his stomach and repeated the grasping action he had endured all down that hallway, pulling himself into the dark room. The sensor picked up his motion, and the lights automatically illuminated the area, allowing him to figure out where he was.
      Ignoring the grinding pain every time he mobilized his legs, he kicked the door shut and looked up onto the table in front of him. Sitting right on the edge of the desk was a notepad, something that would have to do since he doubted his ability to get any farther from this beast. He reached up for it and pulled it down, blinking as a pen fell from atop it and onto his bloodied face. Pausing for a moment before clearing his slowing mind, he grasped roughly for it, rolling onto his back to write after ensuring that the small instrument would not elude his clutch. His hand shook uncharacteristically from the excessive blood loss, but he ignored the ill-fated signs and pressed the pen onto the yellow paper. This would be his last act.
      The pen shakily drew out a line, then another perpendicular to the top of it. Two more lines formed next to it, connected in the middle by another, followed by three horizontal lines linked by a single vertical line.
      They're all dead.
      Dr. Marcus could feel his mind drifting, and his body going cold, but shook off the damning signs of his death. If he was going to do anything, it was get this information out. Too much had been spent on this project for it to be left in the dark like this; he had to make the deaths of his team and colleagues worthwhile, as well as the time they spent fostering this entire blunder. He had to justify this mistake.
      But in our death, we found the answer.
      Another scream from somewhere out there filtered through, but the director chose to ignore the menacing beings that now roamed his facility. He knew that at some point—at some end—he would become one of them, but until that moment, until his incapacitation, he would get every shred of knowledge in his mind out. All the facts, all the history, and all the suspicions he had developed over the course of this unfortunate end would somehow be made known. While his ability to carry on ended in this room, the truth would not die with him. It couldn't.
      From my suppositions, the parent being was captured in an attempt to learn more about the alien species. However, the electro-paralysis weapon used to subdue the alien also inadvertently caused a contagious infection to form over the being, one that is transferable to, as I would infer, any creature capable of breath. This virus, however—one that I will die from, as will the rest who accompanied me to the chamber when the parent being was revived—is not only deadly. It changes you into something else, something that knows no fear, no end, and no beginning. I witnessed this happen to my colleagues, and I can feel it work through me.
      This mutated infection was no doubt formed by the Ascendus Practice implementation, and somehow the controversial Practice that is known to alter consciousness has altered this virus as well; this also leads me to suspect that the infection was far more psychologically potent than initially suspected, or reported in the information package.
      Most importantly, however, the infection brings about nothing but evil, nothing but death, and it must be stopped at all due costs. No being under the surface of this facility can be left alive, and no shred of flesh can leave this facility. Based on the damning circumstances encountered when the parent being was revived, that infection will not simply die as we do. It will live on, beyond all odds, dormant in the infected bodies, until it can spread again. As such, everything down here must be destroyed; nothing can leave. This is the utmost priority.
      Marcus' body shuddered as he felt something move in him. His bloodshot vision cleared somewhat to a seeable thick red, and his back tingled with a sensation that surprisingly relieved the constant pain coursing through his body with a numbing wave. Whatever had taken his comrades over was slowly taking him over; time was running out.
      Secondly, there is an implication among the highest echelon of our command. The cause of the dissension that led to this demise was an offer to the dissenters that they would be guaranteed a life away from this work and fear. The alleged party that instigated all this and who was offering such a bountiful reward is the highest in the land: the UN Council. They started all this to get the developed being out, out of fear that we would find something within it. They know of something, something wrong or damning or insinuating that must be covered up. Follow the trace; find out what they know.
      The director closed his eyes tightly as something caused him to twitch.
      Now, in the final moments I have left, it must be known. There is a high probability that the developing being—the offspring from the parent being—is infected as well. And, by the coercion of the UN Council, that being is now beyond the walls of this facility. If this is true, if that infection does subsist within, a greater, cataclysmic event awaits, one that no man can stop. That alien must be found, before this infection spreads to millions.
      Marcus suddenly stood up; no pain was felt, no constriction by broken bones or any internal injuries. His vision was still red, his body still deeply bruised, and blood still flowed from his mouth, but none of this inhibited his ability anymore. Some ulterior consciousness within fought for power against his, and he could feel himself slipping away to nothing but a distant observer through these crimson eyes. He clenched his fists and forced himself to turn around, somehow overcoming the now predominate entity that fought to control all functions of his body, quickly setting the paper on the table he once leaned against and pressing the pencil onto the blood stained notebook.
      Finally, the answer. The answer to a question that has plagued my thoughts ever since this being arrived, ever since this project began. The answer has finally befallen me after weeks of contemplation and endless nights full of premonitions.
      He gritted his teeth as it clinched the fight for unmitigated control.
      It is the enemy within. It is that voice that causes nightmares, and that uses us when we fail to recognize its presence. It is the entity that changes good men into thieves, that asserts mediocrity as a virtue, and that entices hate—or worse, failure to stop it. Now, that entity has become more than a voice, more than a way of life. It has become a reality through this very real disease, and now threatens to take all who fail to identify its existence.
      It can be stopped, both in spirit and in flesh.
      Stop the spread of this physical infection.
      And stop the idle hands that help it spread to another mind.
      His eyes rolled back as it overtook him. Suddenly, voices filled his head, voices of other beings, of other creatures that had all turned into what he was becoming. They echoed on, as if addressing some central consciousness that was now controlling him, and he found himself understanding the murmuring that was clearly not in any language he understood. It was as if this ulterior consciousness, one that was taking control yet allowed his own to remain, was intrinsically connected with the consciousness of millions out there—all through some predominant entity that he could not hear nor see, but could readily discern.
      While this viral empowered awareness proceeded to render him nothing more than a mere observer, a mere bystander behind eyes that were once his, locked inside a body that once belonged to him, he slowly began to understand the true gravity of this infection that had, in all honesty, slipped under the radar. This disease, this corruption of the body and mind, was not some isolated event. Rather, as the voices bore testimony, it was a sickness that existed beyond the reaches of this planet. It was a disease that contaminated more than just him, his colleagues here underground, or the alien being that had brought this upon them.
      This thing was out there, this virus, and it was not limited to them or this species of alien. It inhabited millions, and all of them were under some supernatural accord. Moreover, this thing had some purpose, some motivation, some impetus behind it. As the intrinsically-linked consciousness now powering his body let known to his own, it was clear that his body was becoming part of a greater existence.
      That was the true answer. It wasn't the conspiracy involving the United Nations Council, nor what secrets lay within that alien species. It was this sickness that now abounded in greatness, and it was spreading. Slowly but steadily, this thing was taking the minds and bodies of all it came into contact with.
      Maybe it couldn't be stopped. Maybe the reality of this sickness was above and beyond what he or any other man could do. If that was truly the case, then the conspiracy he feared, and the secrets that abounded, where not fully unexplained or in fact isolated. There was more to this, so much more, yet the evil that had plagued his thoughts ever since this thing arrived and the premonitions that forewarned him of this were not enough to stop this—to stop this from stopping him. And, painfully, it was realized that this truly was a blunder, a monster of his own creation.
      This blunder was spreading.
      This monster was growing.
      All in a contravene birth of mistakes and conspiracies.

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