As usual, Stan Goreman walked with a bounce in his step like a car salesman spotting a little old lady eyeing a luxury sedan. Normally that bounce would be accompanied by a big smile, but not today. There was no reason to smile today, not with a lot of questions coming down from the higher-ups. When the higher-ups at The Tall Company had lots of questions about your account … well, it was best to find some answers.
Each of those bouncing steps took him further along a narrow, empty corridor lined with metal doors that had started with "Archives 001" and now counted all the way up to "Archives 025." While all of the preceding doors were shut tight and — with the exception of a pounding coming from behind one — quiet, the door he approached was wide open, and sounds of activity came from within.
A big, burly Tall Sciences security guard with an unnaturally thick neck stood outside the open chamber. While Mr. Goreman was well known for both his perfectly tailored suits and his undying enthusiasm, the guard still demanded to see identification, which the young man produced.
At that moment Goreman's cell phone played a catchy ring tone version of Blue Oyster Cult's “Don't Fear the Reaper.” He held the small phone aloft and eyed it as if it might be a snake coiling to strike. Most phones would not operate on the grounds of The Tall Company's Sciences facility in upstate New York, but Goreman's phone was specially designed so that the people on the other end could always call him, no matter where he might be.
"Hello, yes, good morning … that's correct, but our data on their Tioga Island mission is incomplete; we're only getting fragments. After the Red Rock incident information is a little more difficult to come by … yes, that's the name. The “Global Health Protectorate.” There’s nothing in our database. Our best guess is that they are a progression from some of the more radical ecoterrorist organizations … no, I did not know that. Financial support from China or North Korea is the most likely explanation for the Tioga incident, but our analysts do not believe that either of those entities are likely to be long-term funding sources for something like that."
Goreman drifted away from the guard to the open door and glanced inside.
"My understanding is that — um, yes, I agree. The director made it perfectly clear that an organization such as that would be diametrically opposed to our interests … no, none of the source materials appeared to have survived the military strikes, although we understand they salvaged at least some of the infected units from the laboratory. What's that? Yes, I'm checking on that now. One moment."
Goreman poked his head into the open archives chamber, a room about twenty feet deep and half that distance wide lined with shelves and counters displaying dozens of fired clay discs, each a little larger than a CD, each stamped with its own unique set of symbols.
A woman wearing a white lab coat walked among the artifacts, studying each through glasses while making notes on a small pad. She was an older woman, although she appeared rather physically fit. Her blond and gray hair was pulled back in a professional bun.
"What did you find?" Goreman called to her, but she did not hear.
He waited a moment and then in a slightly louder voice said, "Dr. McCaul, I need an answer."
That got her attention, although she did not appreciate the tone. She turned to him with sharp, nasty eyes but quickly controlled her temper so that when she replied her voice sounded as pleasant as grandma offering a fresh-baked cookie.
"All of our stock is accounted for. If it was a Cypro-Minoan disc, it did not come from our inventory."
As Goreman picked up his phone conversation again, he backed out of the room and stood a step in front of the security guard, eyeing him like a tourist taunting a guard at Buckingham Palace.
"Everything in our inventory is accounted for. If I may ask, is there any reason to believe this could be one of the three? After all, the other two are accounted for, and given the nature of the — okay, yes sir, I understand. I will. Thank you. Goodbye."
He turned off his phone and held it in his hand, examining it for a moment before tucking it into a pocket. Goreman then stared at the guard, studying his face as if searching for imperfections or maybe scars.
The guard, for his part, stood stock still, his unblinking eyes facing forward.
Goreman patted the man on the cheek and told him, "Keep up the good work," and then walked off down the hall, whistling a tune.
The primary containment facilities on sublevel six were arranged like spokes on a half-wheel, all leading out from a dome-shaped room where soldiers in green BDUs stood watch. The walls were steel gray while lighting came from hooded round bulbs mounted high on the walls.
A variety of aromas floated in the air, ranging from a burning electrical smell to a stinky damp rot certainly rooted in biological waste.
Major Gant led Dr. Stacy to the far end of one such spoke. They then worked their way back, stopping along the way at each of the three doors lining that particular hall.
He reached for a small viewing slot, paused, and looked to her.
Stacy's eyes were wide and he spotted a tremble in her lips. That did not surprise Thom. The environment down there tended to make him shake, too. Low ceilings, the constant rumble of the environmental systems, the occasional grumble or scream (a few very human-like), and guards armed with shotguns, riot truncheons, and electronic prods combined to make the place feel like some sort of prison for the supernaturally insane.
Nonetheless, she nodded approval for the freak show to begin.
He slid back the viewport and was greeted by a low moan. Stacy stood on her toes to see inside.
Gant explained what lurked in the dimly lit chamber: "Some sort of accident with an experiment that had something to do with molecular reconstruction. I am not sure. He … I mean, they … have been down here for a long time."
She raised a hand to her mouth. For a moment her response seemed to be one of fear. But then he realized that she viewed the unfortunate, fused men inside the room with pity.
"You should, I mean, the people here should, they should put him — I mean them — down."
"I tend to agree with you, Doctor, but that is not my call. Admittedly, I would think they would have learned everything they could have learned by now. I am not sure why they keep it around."
The horrific but sad sight held her attention until he gently pulled her away.
"I have been told that it is essentially insane. Like everything else down here, it is very dangerous."
She swallowed hard and then moved around him en route to the next door.
"What's in here?"
He actually opened this door, revealing a brightly lit room lined with a half-dozen cages, each holding a monkey. Several of the primates reacted to the visitors with cackles and cries, while others just lay still in their pens.
She stepped inside but he stopped her from going any further.
"I don't recognize the species."
"From what I understand, they have been through a great deal of, well, modification. These test animals were responsible for the death of several researchers. I do not recall the details of their work, but we had to shoot another dozen of them during the mission. One of my men was killed."
"So why keep something like this around?"
"Dr. Stacy, I am afraid you are not understanding the function of Task Force Archangel. We do not exist merely to counter these types of threats, but to gather them for future study. There are occasions when it is clear that the safety of our team is secondary to securing test subjects."
The two approached the third and final door on that particular spoke of the wheel.
"These came from our previous mission," he explained as he opened the port to reveal a slab of tinted Plexiglas.