User:RelentlessRecusant/Halo: Vector/Chapter Three

 VECTOR iii   By RelentlessRecusant 

Seventeen years before the present day

JANUARY 2554 ASPHODEL MEADOWS SPECIAL WARFARE CENTER OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR OF SPECIAL INTELLIGENCE ASPHODEL MEADOWS, 47 URSAE MAJORIS SYSTEM

There was an enamel folder on the desk, emblazoned with the heraldic, futuristic emblem of Acumen Science. Beneath it, in print, was a single word—PEPPER. Underneath it was the watchful eye of the crest of the Office of Naval Intelligence, and fine print; TOP SECRET PATRIOT.

From behind his imposing mammoth of a desk, a dozen 3D holograms hovering in abeyance around him, Gibson impatiently gestured at the folder. “Care to enlighten me, Doctor?”

Sitting with an ill ease in the chair before the desk was Beah. Scattered behind the admiral’s desk was Rear Admiral Montgomery, the Chair of Section Three’s Department of Biological Warfare, a face he knew well, and an unfamiliar uniformed officer with the insignia of a colonel.

Beah’s face was an ambiguous rictus of emotion—equal parts patrician, doctorial and balanced with an intense disquieting digust. How he had landed himself in this outlandish position he was still reconsidering. Schore, however, knew his integral role. He was useful, and that allowed him some measure of arrogance to these ONI types. “I sent you this file one standard week ago, Director. I see your definition of a ‘private’ meeting includes a rear admiral and a colonel, sir.”

Montgomery’s expression became pained, but Gibson sharpened, and with an air of menace draped across his angular shoulder boards, he leaned forward in his chair, his eyes sharp and vindictive, his voice soft but susurrating with dangerous undertones. “You have no right to protest, Doctor. If I recall the latest figures, funds from the Office of Naval Intelligence have multiplied the research budget for your department at Acumen tenfold—funds earmarked for ONI, not some pharmaceutical”. He spat out the latest words with significant distaste.

Schore’s smile was brittle. “Yes, we are thankful for your generosity, Doctor. However, with all due respect to the Admiral, I would like to indicate that without Acumen”—at this point the Acumen chief gestured at the innocuous folder on the onyx desk—“This would not have been possible.”

Rear Admiral Montgomery’s expression was even—Schore and Montgomery had built a good rapport. This, however, wasn’t the case with Gibson. “I would like to remind you, Doctor, that it was the Office of Naval Intelligence that collected your ‘primary source tissue’, that it was the Office of Naval Intelligence that preserved and distributed the source to you and your firm—”

The colonel held up his hands. “With respect, Director. We should proceed towards the business at hand.”

Schore stared blankly for the colonel for a moment—the officer was so out of place on the military hierarchy, defying a flag officer and the Chief of Section Three, that it was conceivable that he would be swept from the service. Montgomery was swift-footed to direct Gibson’s perceivable wrath away from the junior officer. “Doctor Schore. I have reviewed the latest results from your report. Very interesting. Very meaningful.”

That was a succinct understatement, and that realization also glinted through Gibson’s eyes.

Schore said tersely, “Admiral, I would be glad to share the reagents with your department to corroborate these results, and also to expand the species of the model organisms to test it in—”

The colonel had his own copy of the briefing papers in his hand, and perusing them intensely, he glanced at Schore. “Doctor, are these reports—”

Beah stated flatly, “They’re correct. We triple-checked them in vivo and in vitro.”

Gibson said, “For those of us that don’t have time to read ten thousand pages of experimental results, what model organisms have you done this in to date?”

“Primates, canines, felines, murine, rattus, Drosophila, and we have screened five thousand cultured cell lines—human, Sangheili, and Jiralhanae. They corroborate all the results.”

Montgomery nodded in thoughtful agreement. “It is a firm case.”

The Section Three chief irritably indicated the folder. “And you have counterscreened as well, screened the whole family?”

Schore cocked his head in acute irritability. His mind demanded a bitter retort, but the placid, reasoned academician within him answered evenly, “Those were the first measures we did, Director. We have also performed inorganic optimization of the lead compound, and validated the molecular and physiological mechanisms through affinity chromatography, mass spectrometry, DNA and miRNA microarrays, and also have begun chemical and biological complementation.”

Montgomery and the colonel looked placated. It was a testament to Gibson’s ignorance about chemical biology that he didn’t understand a word and instead attempted to shroud his lack of understanding with a reasoned nod. “I see. It was for this matter that I’ve brought in Colonel Cooke.” He indicated the colonel in the corner with an extended finger.

It was Admiral Montgomery that did the formal introductions. “The colonel comes from the Marine Corps Biological Warfare Defense Company. We had him transferred to our department a year ago, and he is heading hands-on our internal effort on PATRIOT.”

Cooke’s smile was curt and artificial, as if synthesized. “A pleasure to finally meet in person, Doctor.”

Schore remained unimpressed. He was the galactic expert in diabetes and pharmacology and the investigator at Howard Hughes Medical Institute and Harvard, not this new Cooke figure, neither Montgomery, despite his sympathies for the latter. These military types had a singular objective, and that objective crisply contradicted Beah’s own pursuit. That he was being brought in to even speak with Montgomery and the Department of Biological Warfare in Section Three was an ethically treasonable offense.

Beah flatly ignored the colonel. He looked at Gibson and Montgomery. “Director, Admiral. I leave SCARLET in both of your capable hands. I appreciate your support, but Acumen has already expended all its possible resources in your particular field of expertise.”

Perhaps the significance of SCARLET and PEPPER had managed to permeate Gibson’s mind and the recalcitrant admiral had gained understanding. He leanly smiled, an unsettling shark’s thin-lipped grin. “You’re abandoning PATRIOT already, Doctor?”

“Hardly”, said Schore. “I have invested the latter half of my life into PATRIOT, but we have already provided you with the basic information, with some of the translational data. We are moving our own way now based on the work, and leave our data to you to do what you…will with it.”

Cooke murmured softly, “SCARLET.”

Gibson looked flatly at Beah. “Perhaps you are mistaken, Doctor. Our intentions are not all that you think. They are, in fact, to an extent, compatible.”

Beah retorted bitingly, “Director, you find ways to kill people. While I admire your diligence, I am opposed to using resources to find big bombs, little bombs, and guns of all sizes to waste human life, the most precious commodity in this galaxy.”

This time, Gibson favored him with an eerie, disconcerting smile. “Ah, yes. And what if we said we wanted to save human life?”

“Explain”.

The Director of Special Intelligence raised a finger. “Yes, I will. But first; we will have SCARLET in our hands, yes?”

Beah’s look was vehement, caustic, with every fiber of his being straining in loathing. “Yes.”

Gibson motioned at Cooke. “Colonel, make ready the team for Beryl. We will execute immediately.”

“Aye, Admiral.” The ex-Marine saluted stiffly, and filed away from the three remaining figures.

Gibson smiled, and pulled a manila folder from a drawer, and extended it towards Schore. “Please, read.”

One month later

FEBRUARY 2554 ASPHODEL MEADOWS SPECIAL WARFARE CENTER CONTAINMENT PARTITION “SKY NINE”

“This is incredulous”.

The words weren’t a protest. They were an assertion. A firm accusation.

The young woman beyond the polarized one-way mirror in the antiseptic, padded room was beautiful—even clad in a sterile, chalk-white medical tunic, she was visually striking, with brilliant green irises that sharply juxtaposed with the monotone white of the room, and a slender, athletic physique.

Schore looked sharply at Gibson, his stare incinerating. “Have you no concern at all for human rights, Director? You have taken these women from their homes, killed their families, and now have them kept as experimental animals in a NAVSPECWAR facility—”

Gibson’s stare was cool but tense. Beneath it was the calm reassurance and resolve that all flag officers seemed to have mustered, that implacable determination that defeated all obstacles, whether enemy fire, defeat, or in this case, basic ethics and human rights. “It’s actually quite humorous, Doctor. I could say the same with you and your mice that you use in the laboratory. You are actually more ethically repugnant, because you even breed mice that are genetically defective, and from birth they carry a lethal inherited disease.”

Schore snapped furiously, “Human rights are different from animal rights, Director. Don’t try to obfuscate this. I have looked at this Colonel Cooke’s proposed experimental regimen. It is completely unacceptable. If you execute the protocol, I will immediately report you to the UNSC Medical Corps.”

The director’s laugh was hollow. “It’s not a proposed protocol, Doctor. My office approved it this morning.” Gibson’s eyes, normally inhabited with a ready intelligence, lit with a faint glow of guilty victory. “I justify Section Three’s experiments as Dr. Catherine Halsey justified her own.”

“Oh, really?” demanded Beah.

“Yes. We are sacrificing a handful of lives now, and in the future, you and I—Acumen and the Office of Naval Intelligence together—will be saving all of mankind.”

That broke Beah’s calm. “That is a lie. You won’t be curing any incurable disease. That would be me; HIV-1 and Type 1 Diabetes are virtually extinguished. You plan to raise stronger soldiers to kill more people. Don’t twist your own plans.”

Gibson shrugged lightly, but his eyes burned irately. “Acumen, I trust, under your most capable direction, will be saving mankind. And perhaps as a result of this.” He indicated the young woman in the sterile room.

“You killed six thousand, Gibson. Listen to me. You invaded a UNSC colony world and killed six thousand people in their sleep. You shot them, cut their throats, bombed their homes, and then kidnapped four thousand of their daughters and wives.”

The Director had expended all of his patience. With fury evident on his flushed face, he looked at Schore. “You no longer have a say in this, Doctor. If you and your scientists have done your work well, what we are doing right now will lead to your ‘cures for incurable disease’. We are starting with this one woman, or rather, her…ahh…child.”

Beah’s eyes glittered with rage. “These women had lives on Beryl and Nazareth. They were born to survive, to prosper. You took everything from them. They will die here.”

“Actually, Doctor, I forgot”, Gibson retaliated with anger-charged sarcasm. “I will begin cloning human beings, to have them destined only to be experimented on and tossed in the incinerator. We won’t use ‘real’ human lives.”

“Don’t even begin accusing embryonic stem cell research, Director”.

It was at this opportune moment that Cooke appeared at the far end of the hallway, two medical technicians behind him, pushing two carts glittering with burnished metal implements. Four NAVSPECWAR soldiers brought up the rear, BR55HB SR Battle Rifles in hand.

Cooke stiffly saluted as he approached the two. “Director. Doctor.”

Gibson merely looked at Schore, in an almost subdued fashion. “Will you be staying, Doctor, to watch?”

“I will kill you.”

The Director glanced wanly at NAVSPECWAR operators scattered throughout the asceptic facility, suited in sterile biological containment suits but their gloved hands brandishing assault weapons.

“I’m certain that you’re sure to do that right now, Doctor.”

Schore turned precisely on his heel and furiously departed down the hallway, his voluminous cloak billowing, simmering with his exuded fury.

Gibson said slightly to Cooke, keeping his eyes on Schore, “Go ahead.”

7 -  7  -  7

Her name was Alexandria Blackburn. She was twenty-one, twenty when the Cyclopean had departed from Earth with ten thousand colonists one year ago, with three familiars aboard with her—her father, her mother, her brother. Her father and her brother had been killed one month ago, trying to protect her from the soldiers. She remembered their deaths vividly. How the man with the rifle had shot them both. Their blood had crusted her nightgown to remind her.

When she had awoken from her comatose slumber from aboard the carrier, the soldiers, on the balcony, bearing unfamiliar weapons and repeating machine-guns, they had ordered them to strip.

At the time they hadn’t hurt her yet. Hadn’t done the inevitable. With guns and four thousand women aboard, she knew that the temptation from them to rape all of them would be irresistible.

It hadn’t happened, remarkably. They were dressed in medical tunics and sent to an abysmal world of rock and wind and snow, underground, untouched, well-fed, well-refreshed. Some distant part of Alexandria’s mind wondered if this was all some horrid dream, if she would awaken in a few minutes within the comforting, close confines of her sleep-capsule on Nazareth.

That this must have been some hallucinogenic dream, a fairy tale. That her father and brother couldn’t have been killed, that military soldiers hadn’t come in their black ships to Nazareth to kill all the men and children and elderly and to kidnap the women of young and middle age. It was impossible. Surreal.

When the man in black entered through the door to her room, she fiercely lunged for him, to kill him, to rip out his heart, to douse him with gasoline to set him afire—

And was held by titanium-A bonds that bound her wrists, knees, ankles, and neck to the sterile white chair.

She used to be an athlete—a runner, a gymnast, a competitive swimmer, at high school on Earth. Now all the strength had drained from her, and she was powerless, vulnerable, sapped of her strength, to watch helplessly as the man in black who had killed her father and brother circled her chair. The murderer was now dressed instead in a black tunic of a military, angular cut, with the silver emblem of an eagle over his breast, with two pins on his lapel. One was the familiar crescent of the UNSC Marine Corps. The other was an omnipresent eye.

She tried to lunge against the assassin, the bloodlusting predator, to kill that son of a bitch—

The door opened a second time, and there were four of them, newcomers. Two of them were dressed in black, the black of the slaughterers of Beryl, and had assault weapons.

''Let death come. I do not fear it anymore.''

Two, however, were different. They were both dressed in coats, the first in a faded, rumpling yellow cloak, the second, in a sterile white laboratory apron with an identification badge on his breast. She sensed a ready intelligence in the first one, the one with the cloak.

He came towards her, squatting on a knee before her. Alexandria tried to scream, to rid herself of this unholy blemish that was kneeling before her, to drive this depraved demon away from her, this new murderer—

He gently clasped her hand, and for the first time in one month, she felt another human’s warmth, and his clasp was warm, reassuring.

Her fears stirred, and began to dissipate even as she choked hard, bile coming up in her throat. But when he looked her in the eye steadily, she almost cocked her head, vaguely remembering that face from the news—

His voice was soft, his eyes were sad but hopeful. “Are you Alexandria?”

She screamed vehemently, “Get away from me, you killer—”

The two suited soldiers shuffled their weapons, but the man snapped a furious look at the two of them, and then they froze. He looked at her again, and this time, his voice had reassurance, a strong confidence, an inspiring hope. “Alexandra, I am Doctor Schore. Please call me Beah.”

So that was who he was. She knew him. The vaunted curer for HIV and diabetes—but if he was such a savior, how could he be cooperating by these military fascists—

He clasped her hand tighter. “I’m so sorry, Alexandra. I tried my best.”

She heard the truth in those words. Suddenly, her raging heart began to quell. She could sense his honesty, his openness. It was a beacon of hope in the nightmare that was her life.

“These soldiers will do terrible things to you. I can do nothing about that.”

The words were simple, true. She believed him. Alex stared at him blankly, his face lost in shock as despair began to well. It was true—they were going to rape her, kill her—

Without knowing why, she gripped his hands tightly, trying to hang onto hope.

“However, after nine months, I assure you that everything will be fine. Your mother is still alive.”

Your mother is still alive.

She looked at him with tremoring shock.

Beah nodded reassuringly. “Your mother is still alive. She is being held here as well, in another part of the facility. I will make arrangements so you can meet her tomorrow, as well as your old friends from Nazareth who made it here alive.”

She was in complete paralysis. She didn’t know what to say.

Schore indicated the second man behind him, the one in the lab coat. “They will perform a very small, noninvasive operation on you today, Alex. I have fought my hardest, but can not convince them otherwise. You will spend the remainder of your nine months here, starting from tomorrow, with your mother and your friends. These soldiers will see you a second time before you leave, and then if you choose, you will be free. The UNSC military will fully fund your remaining education, will relocate you to any settlement and colony of your choosing, and you will have the opportunity to work in any civilian government or military occupation of your choice.”

She stared.

“I have fought very hard to give you this much, Alex. Please understand this. The soldiers will only see you twice in these nine months, and I have personally made the preparations to personally assure you that after nine months, you will leave here, and your quality of life will be guaranteed by the UNSC. If you choose not to work, Acumen Science will even pay you enough to maintain a basic level of subsistence.”

She choked hard on tears. She didn’t know she believed him, but she did. That he had saved her. That after nine months, her life would be assured, guaranteed. That this Dr. Schore was her protector, her guardian. She didn’t know what to say for the second time in two minutes.

He gently let go of her hands, brushed her on the cheek, and then turned on his heel and left.

Then, the soldiers closed, and she screamed.

One year before the present day

MARCH 2570 UNSC MERIDIAN RAYS INBOUND VECTOR, MONMOUTH SYSTEM

“Gas and packs! Let’s move!”

They drew closer to the insertion craft, clad in full combat garb, hefting their personal weapons and special-mission equipment. All of them suited in black tactical vests, wide-brimmed pocket for ammunition, backup satellite radios and signaling flares and mirrors tucked in back pockets, heads shielded by black helmets, replete with tactical goggles and partial balaclavas affixed over their mouths. Their gait was controlled, with the energy of soldiers about to commence battle, with the relaxed quality only seasoned veterans could muster. Clipped to Delta-Three’s load-bearing backpack was the BR55HB SR Battle Rifle, and slung over his shoulder was the suppressed M7 submachine gun. In a hip holster was the M6C sidearm. Two fragmentation grenades were on the contralateral hip, adjacent to a pair of flashbang grenades. Packing heavy, they called it.

In the cavernous, emptied forward bay of the Meridian Rays, illuminated by intense overhead spotlights, was their insertion / extraction vessel, M99 Foray close support gunship “Kilo Tango Nine”.

And standing in front of it in a pressure suit and brandishing a randy smile and a thumbs-up, CW3 Derrick Bonus, Special Operations Aviation Reconnaissance (SOAR), UNSC Special Operations Command.

“Yo”, offered Bonus in greeting as Delta closed to the warship.

The M99 Foray was the vessel of choice for UNSCSOCOM’s ground operations, including atmospheric insertion and extraction and close air support. Its angular surfaces were acutely canted, their angles engineered to maximally absorb enemy fire-finder radars and to minimize the vessel’s cross-section. The vessel, despite its stealth characteristics, was well-furnished in terms of firepower, boasting a 160mm shock howitzer and an assortment of four automatic weapons of lesser caliber and also missile tubes. The Foray required a crew of three—a pilot / navigator, a fire control officer, and an electronic countermeasures (ECM) specialist that operated the M99’s extensive ECM suite and electronic warfare equipment. The troop bay could accommodate sixteen soldiers or one Warthog.

Delta-Four shouted in greeting, “Mad!”

Bonus’s grin grew more pronounced as he recognized the fully-suited commando. While Delta-Two had the administrative connections within UNSCSOCOM, it was Delta-Four that had the connections with all the field personnel—on every deployment, Four invariably knew one of their cooperating operators or one of the support crewers.

“Yo, beast! Still rolling from NAVSPECWAR?”

Four smiled tightly. The existence of Counterterrorism Activity Warfare Section within UNSCSOCOM was still highly classified. He played along. “Yeah, yeah, man.”

Bonus looked over the Deltas. “Huh, look pretty serious even for NAVSPECWAR. You shooters are all alike. You wanna introduce me to your pals?”

Delta-One interrupted the reunion, offered a hand. “Mr. Banks. Delta-One, Special Operations Command, Covert Operations.”

Mad’s smile dropped a few notches in intensity. “Hey.”

Delta-One gripped Mad’s gloved hands tighter, and his burning eyes tore into the pilot’s eyes behind the tactical goggles. “Mad, I know you’ll get me in there. But if we come callin’ to help, you better get me out. Don’t leave me there.”

The pilot’s expression became subdued, more sharpened. He was no longer the rowdy joker but now the SOAR aviator. “I read you.”

Delta-Three angled his helmet to the Foray, perusing it for signs of its fidelity―the chin cannons were worn from usage, but still maintained in passable shape, and the anti-armor rockets tucked under the wings were set in place and unarmed. The operator nodded his approval at the condition of the Little Bird. This meant an experienced pilot that had been through the thick and thin, yet had the professionalism to maintain his craft and have good upkeep. Good signs.

Hayes chose the moment to waltz through one of the heavy blast doors, but this time, instead of his typical vest and sidearm, he was fully clad in the professional grey dress uniform of UNSCSOCOM, with the golden oak leaf of a Commander upon his lapel, his full decorations and campaign ribbons upon his breast. His smile was tight, forced.

He nodded at the operators, and then at the pilot. “Delta. Banks.”

Banks responded unenthusiastically, “Sir.”

Hayes glanced at his wrist chronometer. “With the Meridian Ray’s current flight trajectory through the Monmouth System, we should be at high orbit over New Monmouth in twenty minutes, and Kilo Tango Nine will take a slow approach to the primary insertion point. That will leave twelve hours on the ground for Delta and Echo to prepare the assault plan on-site.”

Three’s brow furrowed. In the moment, he had forgotten about Echo. And the ONI attaché.

Banks returned stiffly, “Understood, sir.”

The commander favored Delta-One with an intense, long gaze. “Lieutenant, we will coordinate the assault plan through the shortwave during the preparation phase from the Meridian Rays. In the event of a premature operation or a mission compromisation, you will have full autonomous field command, and we will vector assets for suppression and recovery. However, if the mission proceeds as planned, you will authorize the final attack plan with us before proceeding. Understood?”

Three frowned subtly. This was a deviation from regular operation protocol—CAWS was typically given full freedom to prosecute its operations. This approval of the field plan with the Meridian Rays and Hayes was unusual, for good reason—things typically got botched when off-site officers tried to direct around their troopers from reconsat footage and told them when to shoot.

Delta-One, however, took it in stride with his professionality intact. “Understood, Delta Leader.”

“Echo and Naval Intelligence’s attaché will be arriving momentarily. You will not interfere with their operations, understood, Delta?”

Delta-One’s jaw worked for a moment, but he managed, “Affirmative.”

Hayes departed without a word.

Bonus’s eyes flicked to the departing officer and then at Delta. “What the fuck was that about?”

Delta-One’s look was distant. Then, a moment later, he snapped back to reality. “Mr. Bonus, prep your snub and strap us in. We reach orbit in twenty. I want us ready to launch ten minutes before then.”

7 -  7  -  7

At the fore of the room, the troop leader, Captain Steinberg was lecturing, delivering the mission briefing for Operation: ICEBREAKER in practiced, easy tones.

Still dressed in his field suit, complete with the bulletproof vest and the ammunition taped to his back pockets, Steinberg said sharply, “Today is it, Echo. This is the commissioning exercise. There will be not a single mistake. Everything will be executed, with professionalism, skill, and diligence.”

Sergeant Patterson straightened himself taller in his seat. The entire troop—all fifty operators—knew that this was the deciding point. The product of three years, of their blood, the eviscerating pain—

The operator carefully pressed the syringe to brachial vein, depressed the trigger, and felt the alien substance flow through him. There was no need to be cautious with it now—this was the time.

Steinberg snapped, “We are currently on an inbound vector of New Monmouth. It is a hotbed and a potential flash point for exponential insurrectionist activities. The Office of Naval Intelligence has human intelligence that suggests that a verified hostile commander will be travelling in the open in the light convoy. You will reinforce Delta, neutralize the convoy, and blunt the insurrectionist potential.”

Patterson knew Delta’s, CAWS’s, and for that matter, all of UNSCSOCOM’s assets, capabilities, and past history painstakingly well. The general had been firm to ensure that they knew of the standard they had to live up to and maintain with perfection.

Gunnery Sergeant Stringer—the squad’s senior NCO and second-in-command raised a hand.

“Go ahead, Four-Two.”

Stringer stood. This was time for clarifications. Today, there could be no misunderstandings, no operational flaws. “Sir. With respect, why are we leveling the convoy? We use a laser-guided cruise missile to destroy it completely, with one hundred percent target neutralization probability.”

An unfamiliar, cold voice, as if summoned from the bottommost tier of the abyss, spoke, and with her pealed tones, the light of stars diminished and died. “Those are the operational parameters, Gunnery Sergeant.”

Patterson turned in his seat, and in a formerly-empty seat in the briefing room was a fully-suited commando in full tactical field gear. He squinted. This was aberrant.

When the captain didn’t even bother to challenge her or even speak, the sergeant felt a particular chill upon his brow. Who is she?

He glanced at his squad’s CO, Lieutenant Perry, whose face was fixed with the same curiosity.

Steinberg coughed lightly, as if trying to dispel the woman’s presence, then looked at Perry. “Four-One.”

The lieutenant stalwartly stood. “Sir.”

“You and your squad will ready for field deployment, low-intensity operations. Report to the forward hangar bay immediately after your preparations. A Foray is standing by to take your team and Delta to the insertion site.”

“Understood”. A pause, then Perry spoke again. “Sir, what are the exact mission parameters?”

The hyperborean voice answered in lieu of the captain’s familiar tones. “That is irrelevant. I will decide.”

This time, notably, most of Echo Platoon turned towards the stranger. She was implacable, suited in the black fabric used by UNSCSOCOM, her humanity obscured as her face was behind a sealed helmet and a tinted polarized visor.

The lieutenant coughed. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

Perry and Stringer exchanged warning looks.

“I am the on-site mission commander, Echo Four Leader. I will make the command decisions.”

Perry looked incredulously at the petite figure. “And you would be who—?”

And then the special forces lieutenant stopped in his tracks, arrested. The woman calmly stood, and the room had taken a darkened pallor as Patterson’s pulse began to rise and his blood pressure spiked as he felt a sudden surge of tension flood the room—

Even with all her physical features obscured by her combat garments, Patterson could feel the heat of her scathing stare through her polarized visor. It was a test of dominance, and Perry flinched and looked away, averting his eyes.

The atmosphere grew electric.

Seventeen years before the present time

FEBRUARY 2554 ASPHODEL MEADOWS SPECIAL WARFARE CENTER CONTAINMENT PARTITION “SKY NINE”

Wrapped in her warm embrace, Alexandria felt safe again.

She didn’t know what the soldiers had done yesterday after Schore had left and she’d been drugged into limp unconsciousness. She didn’t want to think what they could have done over the night. But now, it was morning.

Her mother—Melody, a beautiful name—sat before her. For a long time they had mutually embraced each other, their hopes relit by their mutual presence. To know that they had survived the attack on Beryl. To know that their friends all survived.

For now, the mutual community of Nazareth women just sat in each others’ company, glad for a warm human presence again. Many said that they had, too, been visited by Dr. Schore yesterday. He was their own distant hope—that there was light at the end of the tunnel, a life after captivity by the black-armored soldiers.

And they were just glad for now, sharing in each others’ company, warmth.

7 -  7  -  7

Colonel Cooke watched as the hypodermic syringes and the surgical implements were sterilized by means of autoclave, and then, wrapped in tin metal foil, were all disposed in the incinerator. The inferno flickered briefly as it absorbed the thousand of metal objects, dimmed briefly before reaching its baseline luminosity, at full, decimating intensity.

He glanced at back at one of his subordinates, a man with a commander’s insignia. “The fibroblast and iPS cell lines – are they currently in culture downstairs?”

“Yes, sir.”

He made a cutting motion with his hand. “Destroy the iPS lines. Freeze down the fibroblast lines, and sterilize the cell-culture facilities. Clean it all out.”

With a stiff salute, the ONI commander acknowledged the order and dissipated into the darkness.

The colonel glanced at his chronometer. There was awhile to go.

He raised a microphone to his lips. “This is Cooke.”

“Go ahead, sir.”

“Alert me immediately when we get the package from Acumen. Aliquot it out, then load-stabilize the aliquots for in vivo perfusion.”

“Understood. Logistics out.”