Where's the other one? Who's the other one?
Reston reached out and touched the screen, mark– ing off the faces of the bleary-eyed hostages. The five construction workers. Two mechanics. The cook, the specimen handlers, all six of them… "Cole," he muttered, pursing his lips. The electri– cian, Henry Cole. He wasn't there. An idea began to form, but it depended on where Cole actually was. Reston tapped at the buttons that worked the screens, beginning to hope, to see a way not only to survive, but to – to win. To come out on top. There were twenty-two screens in the control room, but almost fifty cameras set up throughout the Planet and in the surface "weather" station. The Planet had been built with video in mind, the layout fairly simple; from control, one could see almost every part of every hall, room, and environment, the cameras placed at key points. Finding someone was just a matter of pushing the right button to switch between views. Reston checked the test rooms first, each set of cameras in phases One through Four. No luck. He tried the science area next, the surgical rooms, the chem lab, even the stasis room; again, he didn't see anyone.
He wouldn't be in quarters, they've certainly cleared everyone else out… and there's no reason for him to be on the surface…
Reston grinned suddenly, punching up the cameras in and around the holding cells. Cole and both of the mechanics had been using the cells to lay out equip– ment, wires and tools and various bits of machinery.
There!
Cole was sitting on the floor in between cells one and nine, sorting through a box of little metal pieces, his skinny legs splayed out in front of him. Reston looked back at the cafeteria, saw that the two armed men seemed to be conferring, watching the useless, huddled group of workers. On the surface, the other three were still hammering at the keypad and searching for something or other… The idea took shape, the possibilities coming to him one at a time, each more interesting and exciting than the last. The data he could collect, the respect that he would earn, getting rid of his problem and promoting himself at the same time.
I could edit the tapes together, have something to show my visitors after the tour – and won't Sidney be undone when Jackson sees what I've accomplished, how I've handled things. I'll be the golden child for a change…
Reston stood up from the console, still grinning, nervous but hopeful. He'd have to hurry, and he'd have to use all his acting skills with Cole; not a problem, considering that he'd spent thirty years of his life developing them, honing them… Before joining Umbrella, he'd been a diplomat. It would work. They wanted Reston; he'd give him to them.
NINE
COLE WAS POKING IDLY THROUGH A BOX OF bipolar transistors, thinking that he was an idiot; he should be sleeping. It had to be close to midnight, he'd been breaking his ass all day for Mr. Blue, and he'd have to drag said ass out of bed in another six hours to do the same. He was tired and sick to death of being picked on just because the last happy asshole to go through the Planet with a toolbox had done everything wrong. It's not my fault, he thought sullenly, that the dumbass didn't connect the leads on the MOSFETs before he installed 'em. And his outdoor conduits are crappy, he didn't figure on the Planet's inductive load… incompetent jerkoff…
Maybe he was being harsh, but he wasn't feeling particularly forgiving after the day he'd had. Mr. Blue had distinctly told him to get to the surface cams first – and then chased him down and insisted he'd told him to take care of the intercom system first. Cole knew he was full of shit – along with everyone else working at the Planet – but Reston was one of the top guys, a real heavy-hitter, when he said jump, you jumped, and there was never a question of who was right. Cole had only worked for Umbrella for a year, but he'd made more money in that year than he had in the five before combined; he was not gonna be the one to piss off Mr. Blue (so-called because of his perpetual blue suit) and get himself canned.
You sure about that? After all you've seen in the last few weeks?
Cole put the box of transistors down and rubbed at his eyes; they felt hot and itchy. He hadn't been sleeping all that well since coming to work at the Planet. It wasn't that he was some bleeding-heart type, he didn't give much of a shit what Umbrella wanted to do with their money. But…
… but it's hard to feel good about this place. It's bad news. It's a freak show.
In his year with Umbrella, he'd wired a chem lab on the west coast for power, installed a bunch of new circuit breakers for a think tank on the other coast, and generally done a lot of maintenance work wher– ever they shipped him. Incredible pay, not too hard, and the people he usually worked with were decent enough – mostly blue-collar types doing the same kind of stuff he was doing. And all he had to do out-side of the work was promise not to talk about whatever he saw; he'd signed a contract to that effect when he'd first hired on, and had never had a problem with it. But then, he'd never seen the Planet. When Umbrella called you out on a job, they didn't explain anything. It was just, "fix that," and you fixed it and got paid. Even within the working crews, discussions about the job site's purpose were heavily discouraged. Word got around, though, and Cole knew enough about the Planet to think that he maybe didn't want to work for Umbrella anymore. There were the creatures, for one thing, the test animals. He hadn't actually seen them, or the thing they were calling Fossil, the frozen freak, but he'd heard them, a couple of times. Once, in the middle of the night, a screeching, howling sound that had chilled him to the bone, a sound like a bird, scream– ing. And then there was the day in Phase Two, realigning one of the video cameras, when he'd heard a strange chattering sound, like nails being tapped on hollow wood, but the sound was animal, too. Alive. He'd heard that they were specially created for Um– brella, some kind of genetic hybrids that would be better for studying, but hybrids of what? All of the creatures had bizarre and unpleasant nicknames, too. He'd heard the "research" guys talking about them on more than one occasion.
Dacs. Scorps. Spitters. Hunters. Sound like a fun bunch – for a horror movie.
Cole crawled to his feet, stretching his tired mus– cles, still thinking unhappy thoughts. There was Res– ton, of course; the guy was a grade-A tyrant, and of the worst kind – the kind with a lot of power and not a lot of patience. Cole was used to working with managerial types, but Mr. Blue was way too high on the food chain for his comfort zone. The man was intimidating as all hell.
But that's not the worst, is it?
He sighed, looking around at the dozen cells that lined the room, six on either side. No, the worst was right in front of him. Each cell had a cot, a toilet, a sink – and restraining straps on the walls and at-tached to the beds. And the cell block was less than twenty feet from the "foyer" of the first environment, where the doors had locks on the outside.
After this one, I do some serious thinking about my priorities; I've got enough saved to take a break, get some perspective…
Cole sighed again. That was fine, for later. For now, though, he had to try and catch some sleep. He turned and walked to the door, slapping the lights off as he opened it…… and there was Reston. Hurrying around the corner where the main corridor turned toward the elevators, looking extremely upset.
Oh, hell, what now?
Reston saw him and practically ran to him, his blue suit uncharacteristically rumpled, his pale gaze dart– ing left and right. "Henry," he gasped, and stopped in front of him, breathing hard. "Thank God. You have to help me. There are two men, assassins, they broke in and they're here to kill me, and I need your help."