The Xactilias Project

by RJ Lawrence

  "A blue whale's tongue is as heavy as a full-grown elephant," Howard said.

  "A cheetah can run from zero to 60 in three seconds," said Nathan.

  "Seahorse reproduction requires the male to birth the young."

  "Anteaters eat 35,000 ants a day."

  "An ostrich can move 16 feet in one stride."

  "An ostrich can kill a lion with a single kick."

  "Elephants can smell water from miles away."

  Claire looked at Alfred.

  "Why so National Geographic?"

  Nathan glanced at her.

  "It’s more interesting," he said.

  He thought for a moment. "Alright. This one's for Claire.” He cleared his throat. “NASA's vehicle assembly building is so large, actual rain clouds form below the ceiling."

  He looked at Claire and smiled.

  "It has its own weather."

  She shook her head and ate.

  "Each person has two to nine pounds of bacteria in his body," said Howard.

  He looked at Claire, who'd stopped chewing.

  "Sorry."

  Nathan grinned.

  "When a male bee climaxes, his testicles explode and he dies.”

  He laughed.

  "You're ridiculous," she said.

  "You go ahead, then," he said. "Illuminate us."

  She set her fork down and used a napkin to wipe her mouth.

  "There are more atoms in one cup of water than there are cups of water in all the oceans of the world."

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  "Boring," Nathan said.

  She thought for a moment.

  "Half of all humans who have ever lived on Earth died of malaria."

  Nathan shook his head.

  "Now, that's just depressing."

  "Charlie Chaplin once entered a Charlie Chaplin look-alike contest and came in third," Alfred said.

  "There you go," said Nathan. "Is that true, by the way?"

  Alfred nodded.

  "Owning a cat can reduce your risk of stroke by 33 percent," said Claire.

  Nathan and Howard looked at each other.

  "It's not uninteresting, but try something a little less scientific," Howard said. "Perhaps a shocking oddity of some sort."

  She thought for a moment and set her fork down. She leaned forward and all else followed suit, until they were huddled in a circle across the table, like accomplices conspiring over some plot.

  She cleared her throat.

  "The Mexican General Santa Anna had an elaborate state funeral for his amputated leg," she said.

  They traded looks.

  "With speeches, poems, a 21-gun salute, a flag over the coffin,” she continued.

  Nathan shook his head.

  "For a leg," she said.

  They traded smiles and looked at Claire, but her eyes were fixed on what was coming up behind them.

  "Ms. Foley," Gretchen said, as her towering body swallowed the space behind both men. "Mr. Romero requests your presence in the conference room."

  Nathan and Alfred looked back at her and then to their friend, who pushed her tray away and stood.

  "Of course," she said. "Would you be kind enough to empty my tray?"

  Both men nodded as she followed Gretchen out of the cafeteria.

  They made their way down the hallway, which curved sharply around a bare cement wall. When they reached the conference room, Gretchen opened the door and then walked away without speaking. Claire watched the mountainous woman retreat the way she'd come, then she entered the room to find Romero seated alone at the opposite side of a long conference table.

  "Please, take a seat," he said, his hand pointing to the chair across from him.

  She sat.

  "Ms. Foley, I've called you here to prep you for your meeting with the head of our organization. Do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Good." He scribbled something on a clipboard and set it aside. "Most of your associates will take their instruction from the heads of the departments that govern their particular fields of study. A select few have attained special status for one reason or another. You are one of these select few."

  He straightened in his chair and folded his hands neatly.

  "Tomorrow morning, I'll greet you in the lobby at six. From there, we'll take the elevator into the mid-level division of the building, where you'll meet the leader of our project."

  He waited for a response, but she gave none.

  "Do you have any questions?"

  She rubbed the back of her neck.

  "No."

  "Alright, then. Let's proceed."

  He reached for his clipboard and read.

  "You are to dress professionally with no jewelry of any sort. This means no bracelets, necklaces earrings, pendants, hair clips. Do you understand?"

  She gave a nod, but he never looked up to see it.

  "Leave your purse behind. Carry no metallic objects whatsoever. Not even coins."

  He looked at her.

  "In fact, don't bring any money. That's very important."

  She swallowed.

  "May I ask why?"

  He shrugged.

  "You can, but I won't be able to answer."

  She frowned.

  "Alright."

  He read from his clipboard.

  "Don't bring anything edible, and this includes chewing gum. Wear flat-soled shoes and double check to make sure they don't have any metallic clips or attachments."

  He turned to the next page.

  "You may wear lipstick, foundation and concealer, but no eyeliner or eye shadow. Do not wear perfume. Do not use hairspray. Pantyhose are fine, but they must be flesh tone. You can bring photographs if you have them, but you must not take photographs under any circumstances."

  He stopped talking and passed the clipboard over, along with a pen.

  "Now, please sign at the bottom if you agree to everything I've just told you."

  She took the pen and signed her name.

  "Do you have any questions?"

  She shook her head.

  "Good." He smiled politely. "I'll meet you in the lobby tomorrow morning at six. Please be on time."

  They both stood and exchanged cordial nods. Then she left the room to look for Nathan and Alfred.

  After checking the usual places, she finally found them drinking coffee in the courtyard, and when Nathan saw her coming, he stood.

  "Everything alright?" He asked.

  She approached with her head down, eyes darting softly at the handful of others that sat on benches or in the easy, delicate grass.

  "I have no idea," she said as she joined them. "Things are no less stranger, that's for sure."

  "How do you mean?" Alfred asked.

  She told them everything and they lingered quietly for a moment, Alfred smoking his pipe, the rich smell driving some of the others inside. Nathan looked up at the retractable concrete ceiling and then down to the neatly-cut grass.

  "This place is bat-shit crazy.”

  "When are you supposed to meet this person?" Alfred asked.

  "Early tomorrow morning."

  "I'd assume this is our Mr. Demetri."

  Alfred pinched his bushy brows together.

  "Demetri?"

  Claire and Nathan exchanged looks.

  "From the card," Nathan said.

  Alfred reached inside his pocket and withdrew his welcome card. He turned it over.

  "Mine's signed Dominic Betancur."

  Claire took the card from his hand as if the old man could lie.

  "I guess we don't know who's in charge after all," Nathan said.

  They stood a while longer in that bright little place, talking about each other, about their past, about the lives they'd put on hold. But no one was really present. And no one seemed to notice when the conversation waned.

  That night, Claire retired early, leaving Alfred and Nathan alone at the bar, long handshakes and good lucks, some reassuring smiles.

>   "It will be fine," Alfred said, as she walked away.

  "I know," she said, with a nod. "Don't worry about me."

  But later, alone in her room, she was different, an unforgiving anxiety in her stomach, like some breakaway sickness that could not be stalled. And it persisted while she showered, while she lay in bed, and into the late hours, when a gentle knock brought her back from a close brush with sleep.

  She sat up in bed and gathered the covers against her chest, her eyes on the door, ears straining for any hint of noise. Three more soft taps at the door. Then nothing. Then a whisper, "Claire." She escaped the covers and put on a robe. She approached the door and put her hand against it, as if she might learn the visitor's identity by a hint of warmth or lack thereof.

  "Yes?" She said with a graveled voice not her own.

  "It's Nathan."

  She relaxed and took a breath.

  "Just a second."

  She moved to the mirror and tried to coerce her hair without accomplishing much of anything.

  "What are you doing here?" She asked through the door.

  "I wanted to see you," he said. "Can you just let me in?"

  She quit the fight and moved to the door. She opened it and he came inside.

  "It's late, Nathan," she began, but before she could finish, he kissed her.

  She turned her head and pulled back.

  "I'm sorry," he said, but his arm was still around her waist.

  She looked down for a moment, and then her eyes drifted upward, and whatever he saw in them strengthened his resolve. He gathered her up in his arms and brought the tips of their noses together. This time, she lifted her chin to oblige, her body awash with chills and warmth all at once. Their mouths came together flush, his soft lips skilled and practiced, his touch so overwhelming, her head felt light.

  For several minutes they went on this way, and then they were on the bed and she was atop him, her legs spread over his lap, nightgown pushed back over her knees. He took her lower lip between his and sucked it, while she clawed her fingers through his thick, black hair.

  While she worked his mouth, his hands explored her body, his fingertips traveling slowly from her bare shoulders down to the small of her back. As he kissed her, the smell of his unfamiliar cologne made its way into her mind, like some invisible narcotic that would not be turned down.

  She looked up into his dark eyes, an animal looking out from the other side. Then it was all seamless, their bodies together in an easy, relentless harmony, as if they weren't new friends at all, but familiar lovers after a long separation. When it was over, they laid together without speaking, their breathing heavy, bodies exhausted, and each one gathering up energy for a long night ahead.

  Chapter 10

  The next morning, she found Romero waiting patiently in the lobby, his usual attire replaced with a military uniform complete with polished black boots and a hat which he held at his side. When he saw her, his eyes traveled the length of her body.

  "Very nice," he said, with a smile that seemed unfitting to her eyes.

  She glanced down at her skirt and cleared her throat.

  "Are you ready?" he asked, as he placed his hat on his head and pulled the bill low over his dark eyes.

  "Yes."

  He turned and tapped codes into the keypad and the elevator doors yawned open. They both entered in turn and he repeated the process in reverse.

  "It will be a bit of a walk," he said, as they made the brief descent to the lower floor.

  When the doors opened again, everything looked different. Before her eyes, a network of narrow metallic platforms seemed to sprawl in all directions. The floors weren't really floors at all, but stainless steel grids lined to make a walkway over what? Who could say? The darkness below stretching down hundreds of feet or more.

  "This way," he said.

  He hurried forward without looking back, Claire following closely, like a child on the heels of her father in some dark, uncertain place. Every several feet, the platforms shot off to the left or to the right toward destinations that might be surprising to all but the knowing. To eyes like hers, the layout seemed ill-conceived to be anything else but intentionally confusing.

  With every step, she held firmly the safety rails on both sides. As her hands slid atop them, a curious chalky dust bloomed up into the air and then quickly dissipated under the bold halogen lights, which effectively illuminated the steel walking platforms and not much else. Romero achieved impressive gains with each step and she hurried along to keep up, her flat-soled shoes shooting off little metallic pings that echoed in all directions.

  They walked for some time, taking lefts and rights through a seemingly endless maze of platform walkways that featured no markers, signs or numbers, nothing to tell you where you were going or how to get back. Finally, they arrived at yet another elevator and Romero accessed it by tapping more numbers into a key pad.

  "Please," he said, holding his hand toward the open elevator.

  She entered, but he did not follow.

  "You'll take this elevator down to the third level of the facility, where you will meet with the head of our organization. Do you understand?"

  She nodded, and with that, he typed against the keypad and the elevator doors pressed shut.

  She barely felt the elevator move before the doors opened again, this time revealing a very dark, very long room. At the end of the room, an old woman sat at a small desk, and when Claire exited the elevator, the woman looked up and smiled.

  "Come forward, dear," she said. "It's alright."

  Claire approached the woman, her aged features poorly lit by a small work lamp, the only lighting in the vast room.

  "I'm sorry for the darkness," she said. "Mr. Betancur is very particular about a great many things."

  Claire stood before her desk. She looked for a chair, but there were none. The old woman finished writing something and then stood. She moved to the other side of the desk and made a complete circle around Claire, an old crooked finger to her lips, tongue making ticking noises against the roof of her mouth.

  "Your makeup and attire look right," she said. "Did you wear any jewelry?"

  "No."

  "Good. Very good." She circled her again, this time stooping low to get a look at her legs. "Flesh-toned pantyhose, good."

  She straightened with some obvious discomfort, a hand on her lower back, another on her knee.

  "Did you bring any money or photographs?"

  "No money," Claire said. "I have a photograph of my mother."

  "Let me see it," the old woman said.

  Claire withdrew the picture and handed it to her. The old woman held it by the edges and returned to her desk. She sat down with great care, as if her whole body were made of glass, then she held the photograph to the light and examined it.

  "This looks alright."

  She reached inside a drawer and removed a rubber stamp. She turned the photograph upside down and made a wet red impression of an inverted triangle.

  "Ok," she said, as she fanned the picture in the air and passed it back to Claire. "You can go inside now."

  She pointed to three equally-sized steel doors.

  "His is the one in the middle."

  Claire approached the door and stopped. She looked over her shoulder at the old woman.

  "Go ahead, dear," the woman said with a tender smile.

  Claire nodded and turned. She grasped the handle and gave it a twist.

  Inside, everything was dark, except for a very large desk which appeared to glow beneath the light of a small work lamp. Behind it sat a man, his hands folded neatly, a firm expression upon his face, like that of someone lost in meditation or a ticklish set of thoughts.

  She crossed the threshold and closed the door behind her. She tried to speak, but he silenced her with a finger. He sat there a moment longer, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Then he picked up a very expensive looking pen and wrote something on a small yellow notepad. When he finished,
he opened a drawer, slipped the pad inside, and closed it without making any sound. He looked at her and smiled.

  "Hello," he said, as he pushed his chair back and stood. "My name is Dominic Betancur."

  He approached and stood before her, his height imposing, a Spanish accent dripping from his tongue.

  "I am very pleased to finally meet you," he said.

  He offered a handshake and she accepted it, her fingers disappearing inside his large, enveloping hand.

  "Please," he said, "sit down."

  He pointed to a chair that sat immediately across his desk and watched as she seated herself. Then he returned to his side of the desk and folded his hands.

  "I'm sure you have various questions knocking around your head. I invite you to ask them now."

  Claire squirmed in her seat.

  "Anything?"

  A smile leaked from the corner of his mouth.

  "Well, let's move slowly and see how thing go."

  She looked him over in the low light, his dark features very rugged, eyes bold and brown.

  "What is this place?"

  He leaned back in his chair.

  "A research facility, of course."

  She crossed her legs.

  "What sort of research?"

  "All kinds, really. Certain varieties receive more funding than others. More attention."

  She crossed her legs.

  "What sorts?"

  He smiled.

  "Nothing that could be weaponized."

  She uncrossed her legs.

  "Then, what?"

  "Well, we're interested in the same things you are. We want to cure diseases, extend lives, things like that."

  She began to say something, but he interrupted.

  "I'm sorry. It's very early and I didn't offer you any coffee. Let's have some coffee."

  He tapped a button on his telephone.

  "Carol, can you please bring coffee."

  "Of course, Mr. Betancur."

  They sat in silence while Carol brought coffee.

  "Do you take cream or sugar?"

  "Just a little cream," Claire said.

  She poured them each a cup and then retreated from the room without saying another word.

  "I'm sorry," said Dominic Betancur. "You were saying?"

  "Why all the secrecy? Why the compound? The armed security?"

  He sipped his coffee and thought for a moment.