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Act of Conspiracy, Chapter XII: Downfall of a Creation
Posted By: russ687<russ687@hotmail.com>
Date: 12 May 2005, 6:40 AM
Read/Post Comments
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Chapter XII
Downfall of a Creation
December 31, 2524
City of Port Sidcaster
Pacificatorius, Atropos System
National Guard System Defense Command
"Vampire! Vampire!"
Major Ron Kenton shot a quick look at the chief electronics technician sitting before a large, sophisticated screen flashing detail upon detail as the radar sweeps covered thousands of square kilometers. The dim red lighting in the large control room immediately shut off and turned to an operational dull blue, changing the eerie silhouettes standing nearby to match the sudden fear that subdued the prior tranquility.
"New contact designated Sparrow One. Whiskey Four is now tracking, Alpha-Six-Four by Echo-One-Niner, heading zero-four-eight, passing one-seven-angels and climbing, speed approaching Mach two decimal one. Projected course at current speed puts Sparrow One over Standyle in fifteen mikes!"
Only mere seconds ago, the Major had been entertaining thoughts of his shift ending, with only eight more minutes to go. He couldn't complain about the last week being dull or monotonous, given the fact that more than once a day his technicians were tracking unidentified contacts all over their airspace, but his ideal job description did not involve sudden global insurrection and mysterious appearances by some extraterrestrials, all which made this very moment seem the slightest bit comfortable.
Perhaps it was the unnerving words his former commanding officer had uttered prior to leaving his post. The anterior Lieutenant Colonel was discreetly removed of his command after the politicians in Standyle deemed it time for the veteran officer to retire, though everyone at NGSDC knew that there was more to it than met the eye—a very clear and obvious cover that would never see the media.
The words echoed in his mind even now as his subordinates rushed around him, blue lights flashing and warning sirens beeping from nearly every console in this large control room. There's something out there. His former CO had been a strong advocator that certain extraterrestrials were operating in some fashion or another in the Atropos System, and his persistent reports that came up every week in the National Assembly were invoking a certain amount of interest and concern in the subject—a misplaced concern by declaration of the Executive Chairwoman.
Thus, in the sickening and never ending superiority by the civilian political leadership, the Lieutenant Colonel was relieved of his command, all in the best interest of some bureaucrats who didn't believe nor wish to deal with such reports from a very reputable source—an officer from their own security branch. He had watched a very capable and sincere officer get banished to the outskirts of attention, and then watch another officer come in with a more "sensitive" understanding of the State and its political priorities.
Dealing with the potentiality that alien beings were somehow operating within the System was not on Standyle's plate, and it certainly wasn't going to meet public attention by specific order of the so-called "leaders" of this world; leaders who fought seemingly in vain to retain power in the wake of this uprising.
"What's the situation?"
Kenton snapped a look over at his peer, Major James Carver. The other officer was scheduled to replace him, and had walked in early after the alarms started going off all around the radar command building.
"We've got an unidentified—moreover, unauthorized—missile launch from Alpha-Six-Four by Echo-One-Niner."
Carver frowned in confusion. "We don't have any exercises with live munitions anywhere tonight." He motioned for the other Major to follow and walked over to a large table, the maps scattered on it depicting the entire continent they were stationed on. Technicians darted across the room as they raced to react to the sudden launch, their first priority to identify whether this was an accidental firing with no potential harm or a launch by renegade forces.
Kenton choose to stay out of their way for the time being and followed his successor, who flipped on a normal white light above the large map table. He couldn't speculate as to what was happening or why a missile had been launched, but chances were high that this was a simple misfire of little significance.
"Sir, should we launch the BARCAP?"
He turned quickly to see his chief technician. What if this was only an accident of no danger? "Standby on that."
"There's nothing out there, except for the Federal Biological and Chemical Research Center. This has got to be a misfire of some sort." Carver summed up his opinion, confirming Kenton's as well. On top of all this, who even had the resources to purchase and then set up a rocket system that could perform like this one other than the State?
"Major, we have a FLASH from DIS Operational Command."
Both officers looked up simultaneously. "Put it through."
The radio technician nodded and punched the buttons at his console quickly. He then looked up at the screen, finalizing the connection process. "Romeo Hotel is with you."
There was a short pause of static. "This is Charles Mahler under DIS Operational Command. We are currently over the federal research facility in grid Alpha-Six-Four by Echo-One-Niner, and have just witnessed a hostile Vampire launch. You must terminate the Vampire's flight judiciously."
Kenton looked at the technician. "Is this authorization confirmed?"
A quick nod answered his question.
"Chief, launch the BARCAP now. I saw again, launch the BARCAP immediately. They have full authority to track and fire upon Sparrow One." Kenton snapped a look back at the radio technician. "Defer incident command to the Standyle Defense CP, and notify the AWACS on station that they have vector and engagement command."
His staff went to work, frantically making contacts and sending the proper information to mobilize the units capable of intervening. The blue lights continued to illuminate the control room, and the loud beeps from the consoles still resounded, the very pitch striking a strange sense of anticipation and fear. The Major wiped the sweat forming on his brow with his equally moist hand, feeling the sudden rush of failure flood his veins.
Did he react too late?
Little did any of them know, however, it wouldn't matter in the end.
Standyle, Department of International Security, City Center
The computer screen illuminated the relatively dark office, casting long shadows across the large, cavernous room. It was nearly empty, save for the very last of agents who stayed late to finish up their work. It was well towards midnight, but that meant little to the scattered figures in the semi-darkened work space, since their jobs took a far higher priority over other functions in life.
Mitchell Branson let a sour smirk show as the thought passed through his mind. He was a well known workaholic, and often arrived early and stayed late to get any number of tasks completed. It was part of the reason he had excelled in his specific department, since the time and dedication he put in was second to none—though it had dire consequences.
His life, other than the life of his job, was supposed to be the life any man dreamed of. He had found his true love, and married her young in his career with DIS. In his perception, and he could honestly say this now, everything was going well. He always saw himself as husband and then agent, though it was the opposite that proved painfully true. Perhaps it was this blindness that led to the demise of his marriage; a blindness that shrouded his eyes from the reality that he created. It was never evident nor pronounced that his abnormal tendencies to put his work first was breaking down the very union he had dreamed about nearly his whole life.
From his point of view, his career was going well. He was excelling beyond the ordinary point of success; helping the State and the populace he lived with exist in a secure and absolute future. His duty in service of these people, on Pacificatorius and other planets from other Systems, was seemingly invaluable and merited his long hours in the office and in the field; he had a responsibility, and he had sworn an oath to honor it. Never was it apparent that the hard work he put in on one end drowned out the personal life he sought on the other; never did he think of his true higher responsibility.
She had been tolerant, and even supportive early on. Arin Taylor Branson worked hard at her job as well—the two of them not having children—but always found the time to make time for him. It wouldn't be truthful to say that they were both too busy beyond repair, but rather that despite their assiduous lives, she found the time to make the relationship work, and he had not. For Mitchell, it seemed as if he couldn't do the same, with all the critical and life-dependent work consuming his daily life.
The very overlook of this significant detail led to that distressing night when he walked through the door, late as usual. She was waiting for him, a sad mix of anger and relinquishment on her face. He never even pictured seeing such a moment conspire, always feeling that the next day he'd have the time for her. Perhaps he was far more na•ve than he always thought, and that night the relationship he had built early on fell apart in the wake of his ignorance.
The pain and sorrow flooded through his veins yet again, remembering the tears in her eyes. He had caused it, all the blame was on him. He had created this situation, this environment where the bond between them could not exist. If only he could have known those years ago what his devotion to this job would have created, because on this day, he would have given anything to get her back.
"You okay?"
Branson blinked clear and broke his gaze from the screen in front of him. Ryals stood next to him, a large cup of coffee in his hands. Both had known each other for years, and it was evident when something preoccupied the other.
"Yeah." The reply was far too telling.
Silence ensured for a minute; a very welcomed silence. Mitchell's past was a mixture of love, success, and failure. Except his failures were not of those to his agency, coworkers, or State. His failure was to her.
"I've just gotten a call from Robert Cain, the chief field supervisor in Levitian. He said that he has some issues that complicate things. We need to be down there as soon as possible."
Branson looked up, curiosity etched on his face.
"It involves the Office of Naval Intelligence."
Levitian, Pier 51, Shipping Docks
The short helicopter flight to the port city was quiet and uneventful. Branson felt an odd foreboding ever since Ryals had mentioned a meeting involving ONI. It was not hard to determine why he felt this premonition, and the reason stuck out sharply in his mind. This all revolved back to his meeting with Richard Langston; it had to.
He knew all along that the exchange of information was far from acceptable in the eyes of DIS, but it had proved invaluable to the State's success over this insurgency. Without it they would still be fighting a losing war, and at some point the entire government would have collapsed under the constant pressure from the GDSO. He didn't like doing it, but it was necessary for the sake of millions living here.
Now they were on their way to a meeting that involved a higher authority than that of DIS. An authority that was notorious throughout the United Nations as being viciously effective at their work. It was almost sickening knowing first-hand the reputation this organization had, and he equated them sooner with the terrorist ripping up his planet rather than an honest, moral-driven organization.
Still, it was necessary to have this kind of force working for the UN, especially in the wake of all the uprisings that dotted the chain of colonies. The rebellions merited such a violent organization, and despite the fact that a majority of those out there would deem it unethical, it was incumbent on the future of billions living under the rule of one coalition. He did not personally support them, and never would, but denying that it was fundamental to have such an organization covering every colony would put him far into the negatives; he wasn't so na•ve as to deny their importance.
And along with their gruesome effectiveness and seemingly omnipresent abilities, they would find each leak, each mistake, and then rectify per their standards. He was one of those leaks, one of those mistakes, and was no doubt on the chopping block. He hated the double standard that he upheld; he hated the exchange, and he hated that it was necessary, but could he have just denied such an opportunity? Not even an option. If he had turned down Langston's deal, thousands more would be dead because of it, and that was a burden he could not live with.
Maybe it did defy protocols and laws, and maybe it did merit even his own assassination, but that didn't change the basics reasons for it, and it didn't change the effectiveness of his decision. Through every war, skirmish, and battle, someone took a fall for the team. It was inevitable, and sickeningly crucial to their victory. He was that man.
He was taking the fall.
The vehicle came to a stop in front of the large pier structure, the midnight darkness engulfing the area around them and only broken by a single street lamp illuminating the spectral doorway into the old building. The building itself seemed insignificant in the endless dark, nothing but a prop in front of a gargantuan black screen. The only indication there was any water around them was the sound of small waves breaking against concrete pillars and the tingling scent of brine in their nostrils. Their senses were heightened from the infinite blackness, their eyes searching for something, anything, but nothing met the attentive gazes that scanned their surroundings.
Branson and Ryals disembarked, not seeing a single figure up and down the roads of this industrial part of the city. It was common for meetings to be arranged like this, especially provided that ONI was at its core, so nothing seemed unusual about the remoteness—though usual was a far too relative term in this line of work. Ryals gazed up and spotted the large, fading sign over the large structure in front of them, the dark stenciled letters slowly falling victim to the perpetual spray of the ocean. Pier 51. "This is it."
The two agents made their way to the door and entered, greeted on the other end by a dimly lit warehouse with crates scattered occasionally around the large floor area. The old building was considerably larger inside than it appeared exteriorly, and far into the distance were two figures, standing still under a light hanging several stories above.
The long walk towards them was silent—the only sound being the footsteps echoing off the walls that quickly died in the closing distance—and the tension was strong as they approached the mysterious men. Beads of sweat formed across his brow and his breathing rate increased with every heartbeat. Branson could feel his gut churning over and his mind's nervous reactions increase abnormally; he was used to meetings like this, and had seen nearly everything to see in DIS, but something felt oddly different about this one. Was it the fact that he was caught? That is illicit actions were exposed?
Or did something else loom on the horizon?
They both stopped a meter from the two men, the light above casting a shadow over their faces. Mitchell recognized the first man nearly immediately as Robert Cain, the Levitian section chief. The man was well experienced, far more than he was, but had a shady past. It was often speculated that he was former-ONI and transferred to DIS so the UNSC-based organization could have eyes and ears on the inside, but it had been quietly dismissed without resolution. Now, standing in this seemingly abandoned warehouse, he was beginning to believe those rumors.
"Agent Ryals and Agent Branson, thank you for coming on such short notice." Both nodded back in acknowledgement to Cain's opening statement. "We have some matters to settle, some extraneously important ones that are to decide the future of millions."
The statement seemed more like something from a theatrical presentation rather than true work implicating them in the late hours of the night. It seemed eccentric as well that there wouldn't be more than two men at this meeting, and that the first words spoken seemed to insinuate everyone living on Pacifcatorius. Something seemed iniquitous and wrong.
"We know of your converse with Langston." The first words spoken by the second man seemed far darker and ominous, added by the fact that Branson couldn't make out his face. "We know that he now has certain information that will place him in a very precarious position, one that has dire consequences."
Ryals looked over, trying to hide the surprise on his face. "A meeting with Richard Langston?"
Damnit. Mitchell never wanted to implicate his friend and partner in this mess. His entire goal was to leave him out and have all the blame fall on his shoulders—if he was ever caught. Now there was no keeping it from him.
"I had to make a deal, for the future of the State." Branson said flatly, though the self-reproach was still discernable through his voice.
Cain shook his head, but Branson could tell he already knew.
"What did you do?" Ryals' question was a mixture of disbelief and perplexity.
Branson looked at the two men across from them as he spoke. "We were getting beat, you know that. The GDSO had us in their grasp, and they were going to take power if we couldn't change the initiative. Langston had pertinent—and accurate, I will add—information on the GDSO, and was willing to share it for a simple exchange."
Ryals thought for a second. "That's how we knew about the Dalmaeter meeting. You sent in that information."
"Yes, and I got that information from Langston. Without it we'd probably be dead right now."
Ryals looked away, trying to compose his own thoughts and opinions on the situation. Branson sighed, rubbing his forehead to alleviate the sudden headache. "You may not agree with my actions, but that didn't change the fact that it was necessary for our future; for the future of the State."
"Future of the State?" The man spoke up. "Did you ever consider the future of Humanity?"
Branson shot a look at him. He had a sneaking suspicion where this was going, but the shock of such a statement flooded his mind with foreboding and apprehension. The tone was strong, invoking sudden thoughts of what he could have really done by giving that information away.
"Epipotheo Kratos."
Ryals looked over at Branson, the foreign words provoking a frown.
The man nodded. "You have no idea, do you?"
Branson shook his head.
A phone resounded in the man's pocket, and quickly went to his ear. After a second of silence, he began talking to someone on the other end, the frustration at first turning to disbelief, then shock. The interruption was not appreciated, nor the message received just by his vocal inflection. Something was definitely wrong.
The phone snapped shut and the man looked up at them, taking a step forward. His face was suddenly clear under the light, but Branson still didn't recognize him. The look in his eye, though, was enough to condemn men. "We have to go."
Cain looked over. "What is it?"
There wasn't even a pause. "Our downfall."
Federal Biological and Chemical Research Center (720 Kilometers South of Standyle)
The complex wasn't completely clear, but things changed rapidly as word came in that the terrorists had launched the missile. Aimed at who, they could only guess, but there was little doubt that the weapon had been securely attached to it and prepared for use.
Similar to the encounters before, they had been misled in these dark, late hours. His mind flashed back to New Sodham and the elaborate set up that had killed nearly a hundred law-enforcement and community service personnel, as well as several of his own men. It had been a painful reminder that these insurgents weren't playing even the slightest bit conventional, and that they had methods and tactics up their sleeve that would inevitably result in the State's downfall.
The entire ploy atop Building Three was nothing but a distraction; something to divert their attention long enough for the real weapon to escape out of their grasp. He wanted to yell at someone, anything to vent his anger; he hated how this foe operated, how they manipulated situations to keep him one step behind, and wanted to do something to get back at them—but no idea could linger in his thoughts as rage flooded through. Because of all this, because of his failure to anticipate their actions, there was one of the deadliest objects known to man on its way towards a target, and millions unknowingly awaited death.
Randy Brient walked silently down that hallway on the second story of Building Three, towards the dark room at the end where he had found the information pertaining to the weapon. The National Guard had arrived to finish securing the complex, which left him and his team free of their duty—for now. He had nowhere to go, and certainly no one to talk to, and kept his jaw clenched as he walked under the oppression of defeat. Perhaps they had finally done it; perhaps the GDSO had finally pulled the last string to unravel a decisive victory over the already failing State.
If that rocket managed to make it past the counter-measures launched by the National Guard, in fifteen minutes an incomprehensible amount of people would be dead. He didn't even want to think about that; he didn't want to imagine the barrier patrol that was supposed to be launched fail to perform their duty and take out that missile. He didn't want to dwell on the thought that just maybe, he had come within an arms length of saving lives—
And failed.
With the rifle slung behind his back, he walked into that room, bumping into chairs and desks in the darkness and making his way towards the lit desk in the back. He eyed the bloody body of the project manager, seeing his death as yet another vain attempt to stop this foe. Maybe this man had refused to talk, and that's why he was killed. He hoped that was not so, since that scientist's gallantry now rested on his shoulders.
He averted his gaze from the deceased man and back to the papers scattered on the desk. Page after page of text went on and on about the weapon, summarizing technical details he could never hope to understand. But he had nowhere else to go, and something called for him here. He reached out the gloved, armored hand to sift through the papers, trying to catch anything that may help. Maybe this was his own exercise in futility.
A letterhead caught his eye, the bold words actually meaning something to the tired eyes. Project 114 Lab Results, 29-NOV-24. He pulled the paper out from the rest and closer to his face, reading through it quickly. A majority of the phrases were far from his comprehension, but he could still understand the gist of it. This weapon had gone through trial phases, and this had been the last trial.
The content was observed to perform as planned in the confined area, killing the test subjects within ten minutes of its release. Graphical real-time patterns revealed normal, anticipated behavior of the content for the first ten minutes thereafter, but suddenly spiked due to unknown reasons. The addition of the final ingredient to the content has seemingly altered the behavior of its operation, and instead of decaying as planned, it grew in a sudden chemical reaction that spread its kill radius far beyond thought possible for the small dose of the content; observed was the radius increasing exponentially until it met our lab barriers. The content has grown out of the set parameters, is now far too potent to sudden reaction-spikes such as this, and has the potential—when used in higher doses—to spread on intercontinental levels.
Brient dropped the paper, taking a step back as this consumed his mind. This weapon, conceived as a surgical safeguard for their troops, was now a monster capable of destroying everyone. Why had this been overlooked in his briefing—did the State even know about this? Was it ever reported? Did these terrorists even know?
More than one city awaited its doom this fateful evening. Instead, an entire Creation slept unknowingly as the true enemy to life flew on silently towards its target. Life, it would seem, was ending before his eyes.
Levitian, Surface Space Port, Industrial Area
"Tell me what the hell is going on."
The demand was solemnly denied without a word as the four men disembarked from the vehicle. The black SUV had driven directly onto the flight pad, defying several federal statutes in the process, but something had unknowingly merited this sudden breach of citizen level law.
Mitchell Branson could feel the foreshadowing in the air, and the mysterious tension built up inside him. Maybe that call and sudden end to the meeting was planned, and that its sole purpose was to drag him somewhere more discrete for the true business at had. He brushed off that thought easily, realizing that the pier in a dark part of the city was probably the most discrete location, period. This break couldn't possibly be planned.
Both agents followed Cain and the man as they began walking towards a distant shuttle, a few figures moving around it quickly and preparing the craft for departure. The port was not the primary in Levitian, and was not even close to being the largest, but it took up acres of space with its landing pads and runways as enthusiasts, businessmen and industrial companies operated on a global to intra-System scale from it.
The illumination of the high-rises several kilometers away were at least comforting, and the bright landing and taxiway lights gleamed at them in an array of white, blue, and red. The tall hangers ran along the parking area for nearly a kilometer, and in the distance was the medium-sized terminal. A single craft accelerated down the runway with a defining scream, lifting off steadily and ascending into the sky, but the port was otherwise dead to activity.
Which made the quick movement from the supposed ground crew seem peculiar, at the very least. The engines began to turn over and whine up to life, obtrusively echoing off the large structures nearby and sending a significant backwash behind the craft; the long grass beyond the asphalt swaying back. Branson caught a glimpse of the pilot inside the cockpit flipping switches quickly, and the taxi lights suddenly flashed on. The control surfaces began moving back and forth as a final check was made, and the chalks under the tires were pulled out.
He anticipated boarding this craft, and looked up into the sky quickly, an act he seemingly always did before a flight. He gazed upon the high stars in the dark blue night, then onto the distant moon. He observed the constellations and even picked out a few by name. Looking up in awe at the universe around them was a humbling sight, and seemed to put all this fear and tension into perspective. While he still knew something large and unfortunate awaited, an odd peace settled over him, allowing a final breath before mounting the short stairs to the entrance of the craft.
"Office of Naval Intelligence."
He looked over at Ryals.
"We're dealing with ONI."
Branson followed his partner's gaze to the tail of the craft, noticing the designation etched in small, black characters. N1331EA - ONI.
Damn.
"Let's go, gentlemen!"
They turned simultaneously to see Cain hanging out the door of the craft, yelling above the screaming engines. They were heading somewhere, and the time to leave had come.
The shuttle passed into the reaches of space less then ten minutes after it rolled off the runway. Weightlessness ensued as the occupants stared out the windows silently, only their harnesses keeping them secured to the seat. It was always a significant experience to transition into a void that held no life, yet took up a near one-hundred percent of the galaxy.
Atropos, the young sun at the very center and heart of the System, suddenly illuminated the craft as they continued farther into the solar system. The blue and green planet of Pacificatorius slowly reduced in size from the massive planetoid it was to a sizable object floating in the endless vacuum; lights from its large cities even visible from the dark side of the world. With the sun gleaming at them from just beyond the edge of the planet, and the moon just above them, the sight was nothing short of pure beauty.
Why couldn't war simply cease? Why couldn't Mankind devote their lives to more meaningful purposes other than war? He felt the sudden longing to just leave this fight, to just leave this conflict that not only frustrated the commanders and politics at the top, but also claimed the lives of those who directly proposed and opposed the ideals of reform on the bottom.
There were more important things to life than feuds for power and authority. Men were meant to live for more than simple opinions and bloodshed; Humanity was conceived for a higher purpose. Why then, did it always revert to war? Why did it always revert to death as its mode of progression? Ever since the beginning of time, conflict dominated their way of life. Now, thousands of years later, they were no closer to a peaceful, productive life. What would it take to finally unite mankind?
What would it take?
"We had to leave for a very crucial reason."
His train of thought broke. Robert Cain looked at him from the rearward facing chair just ahead. A man he had only met on occasion, he was nonetheless and asset for DIS during times of trouble. Now he seemed nothing more than a double-agent.
"Of course." Branson's reply was far too close to sarcasm.
"We have lost. We have lost the fight against these terrorists, and there is no way to redeem the situation."
That wasn't a shock. Rather, it was met with disbelief. Perhaps this man had a good reputation—maybe a false one?—but that didn't mean he would suddenly have all the answers, or know the outcome of this war. The State was still in the fight, and despite projections that defeat loomed inevitably on the horizon, there was nothing concrete to prove anything close to it. What, then, did this man mean?
"Elaborate."
Cain looked back sharply. "In five minutes, seventy million people will be dead. I cannot speak for you, nor for your partner, but I would consider that a distinct failure."
What? It was confusing, at the very least, and his statement made him seem more imbecilic than professional. How could he make such a blunt statement, all that was not even remotely true? The questions and possibilities ran through his analytical mind as the craft ventured farther into space.
"What are you talking about?" Mitchell questioned.
"The Federal Biological Research Center, ever heard of it?"
"Of course."
"Ever heard the rumors?"
Branson paused. "Enlighten me."
Cain sighed, gazing casually over at Ryals, then out the window. "In 2517, the UNSC identified the need for a small scale weapon capable of killing human genetics without harming the environment or structures around the intended target. It was based upon the growing rebellions scattering the colonies, and the significant loss of life from the local and international taskforces that were deployed to reprehend such situations. An honest and very realistic reason for such a weapon.
"The task was projected to ONI, who selected your planet as the most suitable location for the development and test of such a weapon. Keep in mind, this was never intended to be leaked to anyone other than the right people, and full operational testing was never going to be commenced at anytime on your planet. But nonetheless, we entrusted it to your facility and some of its staff.
"Perhaps you knew, perhaps not. This was kept from everyone for as long as possible, and was never going to be acknowledged by the UNSC or United Nations at any point in its development or use. Well, despite our efforts to keep this project invisible, your unfortunate foe happened to learn of its existence, though they didn't learn the whole story."
The explanation hit Branson like a wave of cold water, and his stomach turned over uncomfortably as he learned of the experimental weapon that existed under all their noses. For over eight years this weapon had been in the process of cultivication and assessment for the purpose of killing, and all without any knowledge to the public or leaders of this world. Part of him felt anger, as if they had been misused, but the other half felt the agonizing foresight that this weapon was somehow implicating everyone residing on Pacifcatorius.
"So this weapon is designed to kill millions?"
The ONI agent, who had remained silent ever since boarding the craft, spoke up, his dark, monotonic voice conveying both apprehension and revelation. "No, it was never designed to kill millions. It was conceived as a tactical-use weapon to take out human life in a small, confined area with no offsets or long term effects. Though the reality of such a weapon differed dramatically from its mere intended design. Trials during the final phase displayed unnatural expansion, even at very small doses.
"Our scientists—or rather, yours—observed this about a month ago, and no matter how hard they tried to alter the weapon, it would take on the same form and would spread without any constraint. My commanders wouldn't accept that as the final outcome, however, and trials were planned to rectify the situation. After all, the lives of thousands depended upon its success."
"Lives depended upon its success? This thing was designed to take lives!"
"And in that process, it would save thousands more by eradicating the resistance and rebellion. Look at your former home—" Branson cringed as the man already referred to Pacificatorius as failure of the past. "—Nothing but terrorism and defiant skirmishes to destroy your government existed. Hundreds died in the first day of that onslaught because there was no way to effectively or pre-emptively strike at the core of the insurgency to stop them from continuing. What's the better choice, one hundred now or one thousand later?"
The truth was not lost on him, and he recognized the value of such a weapon—if it even worked right. But that didn't change what was happening to the State, and how elusive and potent the GDSO had turned out to be. Even if they had such a weapon, would it ever have been used? What could that weapon have done that their own counter-terrorism forces could not?
"How did this weapon get activated. I mean, why is it heading for someone, somewhere, as we speak?" His words were thick with anger, and Branson could feel rage seeping into his thoughts, tainting his objectivity. He didn't want to accept that his home, his friends and coworkers, were on the brink of death at this very moment.
"I don't know, but it involved the raid on the research complex by your foe. Regardless, what I've said about it, and also about the imminent empiricism that is about to destroy all life on your doomed planet, is no lie. I wish there was a way to go back in time, but we lack that option, which leaves only one solemn future ahead of us."
Branson leaned back in the soft, leather chair. He felt overwhelmed with all these facts, and part of him still rejected them as mere tales rather than viscous reality. He didn't want to believe that this was happening; that his life was turning on the rocks as insurgents unknowingly condemned millions to death.
"I can't believe this." His words were empty.
The ONI agent looked back, his cold eyes chilling the words. "It doesn't matter what you believe, agent. And to worsen the situation, another factor that is far more important all originated from you."
Mitchell snapped a look at the man. "Another factor?"
"You made that deal with Langston—and defied protocols in the process—and bought the State only a temporary path to beating these insurgents, all while failing to consider the criticality of the very information you gave away in the exchange. The loss of your State is rather insignificant when compared to the much larger problem that now looms on the horizon."
Branson winced in both confusion and guilt. He had conversed with Langston, but had never considered the ramifications of the information he was giving away. While it all seemed so vague, it obviously held some serious significance. "What are you talking about?"
"Epipotheo Kratos. Do you think we tried to wipe that from everyone's memories for no reason? No one, especially not you, was supposed to ever find out about it, and for that matter, give that information away. It holds the key to a much larger darkness, one that has been waiting for the right time; a darkness that inhabits the space all around us."
The sudden topic switch was nothing short of confusing, and was also painfully present; but what did he mean? What was this foreign object that had inhabited his thoughts ever since that meeting? Branson had made the connection about its importance the first time he researched it, knowing that any attempt by ONI to eradicate the files meant it was of true momentousness. He had decided to overlook it, though, and to choose the path of imminent success rather than the consideration of long term offsets. Besides, what could be more important than saving a State from tyranny?
Unfortunately, this State was one that didn't exist anymore.
He had vowed to find out what Epipotheo Kratos was, and he vividly recalled those last words with Richard Langston at the meeting. He never suspected, however, that whatever this was would be far more important than the future of millions on his home world. It was beyond him, as he could never even compose fictional thoughts of such an object or force that could outweigh the lives of those he once lived among.
The ONI agent looked briefly out the window, then back at the DIS agent. His facial expression was grim, and his hard eyes were full of deep anger and purpose. Branson could feel the dark determination from the man, and was partly displaced by it as he locked eyes with him.
"Branson, you have unknowingly started a war for everyone."
Federal Biological and Chemical Research Center (720 Kilometers South of Standyle)
Kautz walked over casually, his rifle slung behind his back, and a mixed look spread across his face. The black mask was off, the goggles were pulled up, and the same scene at the end of every mission presented itself. However, the other paramilitary specialist did not have the easy and receptive look in his eye.
"The weapon got away from us." His voice was deep with remorse and anger. "Where did we go wrong, Randy? Where the hell did we go wrong?"
The preoccupation of finding the even bigger truth of the weapon was still hanging over Brient. He couldn't understand how it could spread like the report said, nor why these terrorists never found out about it, but that didn't change the reality of things. Out there, about to detonate, the weapon was going begin the gruesome process of eradicating life from existence.
He had felt his heart slow down, his mind glaze over, and his vision lose focus. They had—despite all their training, skill, and experience—failed this time around, and the consequences were far larger than ninety casualties as seen in New Sodham incident. He didn't understand it, and he couldn't even begin to contemplate it, but fate had pulled a cruel and fatal veil over their eyes. Now, in retribution, their deaths awaited.
Could he have know? There had to have been something out there that could have foreseen this. There had to be something to rectify the situation, to reverse the events already in place. He pleaded with some unknown supernatural entity for a second chance; a second opportunity to literally save the world.
Their existence was ultimately futile, with no purpose or fitting end. He always thought that he would make a difference, that he would save lives and prevent war—that was his job description, after all. He always envisioned a safe future for him, and those living around him; and on top of it all, he envisioned a life where bloodshed and war didn't exist. He was no pacifist, but he longed every day for a peace to overcome all men.
Those dreams will forever remain a dark and distant memory, as the very war he fought to end would claim all.
"You okay?"
He looked up, his voice cracking. "No."
Kautz rubbed his face with moist palms. "We didn't get it this time, but next time—"
"There is no next time." The interruption invoked silence.
"Would you mind repeating that?"
Brient sighed, turning around and letting his head drop. Everything he had worked for, everything he had lived for, all gone in the blink of an eye. "There is no future; there is nothing after tonight."
He heard the steps forward from his partner and friend, and could feel the confusion from his presence.
"Leon, this weapon is more than we thought." He paused for a moment, taking in a deep breath, still trying to comprehend it completely. "It has the power to wipe all life from Pacificatorius."
"No way," Kautz said, waving him off. "Besides, where did you hear that?"
The paper was handed over, the body of the project leader in the background a violent testimony to the attack on this complex. The specialist gripped and read it over quickly, his face turning grim as he got midway through. Brient had seen him mad, disappointed, sad—the works. But nothing could compare to the expression held on the man's face now. Nothing.
The paper floated to the floor silently. The tension in the room faded quickly as both men stood in taciturnity, and the apprehension of the mission and failure attenuated in the darkness. The single lamp valiantly tried to light the room, but the lightlessness and dissolution persisted on, contagiously affecting the two minds.
Randy closed his eyes, and let the memories flash by. He saw his earliest childhood memories, jumping to his years in High School and College, his service in the military, and then his acceptance into his current career; all running by in a moment that felt like hours. But the important memories began to filter through after those; the thoughts of his family. Those who he loved and cared for—those he cherished—flowed by; parents and siblings, face after face. He saw the good times he had, the treasured moments in life that he wouldn't trade for the world, and he saw the bad times, the situations that molded and formed him into the person he was today. He wouldn't have traded who he was for anything.
The man he was and the acts he accomplished were far more important to him, and the realization of a terminal future reinforced it. While he wasn't perfect, and though he had many failures in life, he had lived the life of his dreams. He envisioned as a young boy serving his country, and as his destiny turned out, he had accomplished the seemingly most important goal of his life. His failure here was now played on in his soul, but the only thing that remained in his forethoughts was the fact that despite the hell that abounded around, he took contentment in who he was, and who had had become.
A slight smile washed over his face as he looked up.
Death, thou art a momentous end to a gratified life.
Atropos System
Brason looked out the window once more at his home. The millions of lives vanished form existence silently, never to see the light or truth of the fate that hung upon them. He couldn't express his feelings, but felt a deep hole in his mind as a part of him died with the past he had fought to save.
"We have one thing to do before we leave this System."
He looked over, wanting to ask—or to say anything—but the words wouldn't form in his dry mouth.
"Eradicate all ships and stations in orbit."
"Kill the survivors?" Ryals exclaimed softly, a hard look in his eyes.
The ONI agent nodded slightly, looking back. "It's necessary. The future is now bigger than you, me, and the rest of those who did not perish on the surface. Regardless of how you feel, or what you think should happen, there is nothing within your capability to stop this. The path has been chosen, and we must follow it."
The man paused, looking out the window.
"This is for the rest who still have a fighting chance."
Branson didn't know what to say or do, nor what this man kept alluding to. He was overcome with the reality that had just claimed its share of lives, and he couldn't piece together all the facts that seemed to roam around.
It didn't matter anymore, though. His patriotism and his will to fight for his people and State had left him, and nothing remained inside the eyes that once burned with allegiance. Nothing remained inside but emptiness beyond expression.
And beyond repair.
I belong on the surface, where my mistakes can meet fitting justice.
He thought back over the last week, over all his actions and what he had accomplished—and what he had failed to accomplish. He remembered all the faces, the contacts, and the events leading up to this vicious annihilation. He recalled his first step into the realm of this insurgency, and the attempts made to conquer it. Memories of success, set-ups, and deficits flooded through, and the realization that his efforts were not enough brought a wave of desolation over his afflicted mind.
He had been clinched from the very beginning.
If only time could be turned.
"Purge the System." The words flowed emotionlessly off the man's tongue, but there was nothing left to fight against this. He had already lost, he had already failed, and there was nothing left in existence to turn back the global fate. Now, anyone who could have continued their life was condemned to death, and any evidence or trace of this entire defeat was predestined for silence, never to be known by any living man other than the those aboard the small shuttle.
The act of conspiracy was conceived to life.
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