FOURTEEN
THEY WERE MERE HOURS AWAY. Two men connected by history, one her enemy, the other… Alexia didn't know about the other, not yet, but knew that he meant to reclaim the girl she'd taken from the snow machine. Probably the boy, as well. None of them would be leaving, of course… but she was looking forward to the petty intrigues and overblown, self-impor– tant dramas that their humanity would bring to her home. She would enjoy the chance to observe their natural ten– dencies and instincts before forever altering their lives. She stood in the great hall considering things: possi-ble futures, her next transformation, the structural and psychological changes her new synthesis would create in humans, how she should welcome her new guests…… and it occurred to her that her home, deep beneath the ice and snow, might be difficult for them to achieve. She immediately wished for the doors to be opened, for ob– stacles to be removed… and she heard and saw and felt the result in the same instant, existing in a hundred places at once as locks were broken and walls were taken down, as debris was pushed aside and apertures were widened. She was prepared. Things would move quickly now… and what happened in the next hours would, to a degree, define her choices for some time to come. It was all still so new, the templates of her new life written only in sand… Smiling at her own poetic notions, Alexia went to see about the first series of injections for the boy.
FIFTEEN
Something was very, very wrong in Umbrella's Antarc– tica facility, but Chris didn't know what it was. On the fifth basement level of the dark and deserted compound, hundreds of feet beneath the snow, Chris stood in front of what appeared to be a full-blown man– sion made of white brick. There was a fountain behind him, potted plants, even a decorative merry-go-round. He'd been led there, presumably because someone wanted him to go inside, but he didn't know who or why. His instincts were telling him to get the hell out, but he ignored them. He had to, not knowing if he was a lamb being led to slaughter or if he was being taken to Claire. Since landing the jet in the roof hangar, he'd been guided every step of the way – walking into halls and having doors lock behind him, others opening up in front of him… twice, he'd found jewels on the cold ce– ment floors, pointing him in a particular direction, and once, after taking a wrong turn, all of the lights had gone out. They'd come back on when he'd groped his way back to where he'd gone "wrong." It had been strange enough just getting to the facility, passing over me endless miles of gray ice and snow… and then seeing it for the first time, rising up from the blank plains like an illusion…
But to be herded someplace like an animal, shuffled along without knowing the reason…
Chris was scared, more scared than he wanted to admit. He'd tried to stop, to look around for weapons or clues, but everything had been shut off, every door he tried locked – except for the ones he was supposed to go through, of course. The cameras that had to be watching his every move were so well hidden that he hadn't seen even one of them… but it almost seemed that his shep– herd knew his mind, knew what signals to give him, knew how to keep him going. He'd thought initially that it was Wesker, that it was all some setup to trap him, but why bother? He could have strangled Chris at the is– land if he'd wanted to. No, he was being guided for some other reason, and it seemed he had no choice but to follow along… not if he wanted to find Claire. He took a deep breath and opened the front door of the mansion, stepping inside. It was beautiful, as extravagant as the front of the building had suggested, grand staircase, arched pil-lars – and strangely familiar, though it took him a mo– ment to see how, the colors and decorations different. It was the layout – the same basic layout as the front hall of the Spencer mansion. It was surreal, but so perfectly harmonious with all the other weirdness that he didn't bat an eye. Chris stood for a moment, waiting, looking around for another signal – and then he heard what sounded like a laugh coming from behind the stairs. It was the same laugh that he'd heard at the Rockfort facility, that woman.
What had she said? Something about wanting to play?
It definitely felt like a game, like he was a character being moved around for someone else's enjoyment and it was starting to piss him off. That he was afraid only made him angrier. Chris stalked toward the back wall, ready to confront this woman, to demand some answers, but when he stepped around one of the decorative pillars, he saw that there was no one there. "What the hell is this," he muttered, turning -
–and there was Claire. Webbed to the back of the stairs as if by some giant spider, her eyes closed, her head hanging limply.
Wesker wasn't surprised to find that parts of the Antarctic compound had been built to look like parts of the Spencer estate. The underground extravagance was an incredible waste, but as he'd noted many times be– fore, so like Umbrella.
It was all about intrigue for them, back at the begin-ning. Before it all turned into a bad spy movie.
Oswell Spencer and Edward Ashford had been re-sponsible for the creation of the T-virus, but it had been their only real accomplishment; the rest was money thrown away. Truly, the entire facility – except for the laboratories, of course – was an expensive joke, set up by old men and children with little imagination and too much money. Aware that Alexia was probably watching, Wesker took his time, moving from level to level, clearing away a few wandering zombies as he walked. He wasn't car– rying a weapon, had simply snapped their necks and left them to asphyxiate. Twice, he was spotted by other crea– tures, things he'd sensed and not seen, but they hadn't attacked, perhaps recognizing him as one of their own. Wesker kept moving, sure that Alexia would find him when she was ready. He'd landed his jet some distance from the compound, wanting to be sure that she under– stood how he was different – that the elements didn't af– fect him, that he was physically stronger than any five men put together, with better endurance and sharper senses. He also wanted her to see that he was respectful of her space, that he was willing to be patient… and that he was extremely determined. Whenever you want, my sweet, he thought, walking through a cold room corridor on the fifth basement floor. He'd been through the area already, but knew that the "mansion" was there, and suspected that she would want to greet him in high style. It didn't matter to him, she could drop in on him in a toilet stall for all he cared, but he thought she was probably as vain and spoiled as her brother. However powerful and brilliant she was, she was also a twenty-five-year-old rich girl who had spent fifteen of those years sleeping. Rich, beautiful… playful. She probably didn't even understand her powers yet, but it wouldn't be long now, he could feel it. He left the icy stillness of the cold corri– dor and started for the mansion once again. Claire woke slowly, her aching body gently supported by warm hands that lifted and held her. She was laid down, the cold floor bringing her around, and when she opened her eyes, she saw her brother. Smiling at her. "Chris!" She sat up and embraced him, ignoring her sore muscles, so happy to see him that for a moment, she forgot everything else. It was Chris, it was him, finally! "Hey, sis," he said, fiercely hugging her back, the fa– miliar sound of his voice making her warm and safe. She wished it could last forever, after so long!