Spawn Of The Deep

by Michael Bray

  Judge Roberts stood and retired to his chambers as the courtroom again erupted into chatter. Rainwater sat in stunned silence, quite unable to believe what had happened. Disbelief morphed into anger, triggering the Harris temper which was ingrained into his DNA even if he had chosen not to take the family name. He stood and pushed into the exiting crowd, Mackay following him and trying to catch up.

  Outside the courtroom, the media scrum was in full force. Flashbulbs from what felt like a thousand cameras illuminated the hallway, almost creating a strobe effect. The defendants were trying to push their way towards the exits, heads down, ignoring the bombardment of questions from the gathered reporters.

  Rainwater acknowledged none of this. He shoved his way through the crowd, ignoring the curses and grunts of disgruntled reporters as he shoved them aside. He could see the top of Greg’s head as he was ushered towards the exits, which seemed to increase the rage which boiled in the pit of his stomach. He saw a gap, a break in the scrum as they reached the steps leading to street level, and Rainwater dived into it. Greg glanced at him, a moment of recognition registering a split second before Rainwater’s fist connected. It wasn’t a clean hit and only skimmed Greg’s shoulder, but it was enough to knock him off balance, sending him, three reporters and a couple of civilians sprawling down the steps.

  “You son of a bitch,” Rainwater shouted as the frenzy fell into silence. “You should have rotted in prison for what you did. You let her die.”

  Greg sat on the floor by the exit, clutching his shoulder as he stared up at Rainwater.

  “She’s dead because of you, and now you get to walk free.” Before he could say anymore, hands were on him, grabbing him from the rear, massive arms around his chest, dragging him into the crowd and away.

  “Come on ye dumb shit, unless ye want to end up back here and in a cell yerself,” Ross whispered in his ear as he bundled him away from the crowd. Some, however wanted to know more, and knowing they might not get close enough to Greg to see anything, gravitated towards Rainwater instead. Mackay pushed him out of the door, where more reporters waited, the intermingled sound of their questions deafening. A car pulled up outside the courthouse, the driver rolling down the window. Rainwater saw dark eyes, brown hair in bangs at the side of her face. “Get in, both of you,” she yelled above the din. Although he wasn’t one to normally get into cars with strangers, under the circumstances he was willing to forego his rule and clambered into the back of the car swiftly followed by Mackay. The relative calm of the car was heavenly, a feeling that improved tenfold as they left the media behind and pulled into traffic.

  “Thanks,” Rainwater said, looking at his bruised fist. “Do I know you?”

  “Not yet,” the driver said over her shoulder as she switched lanes. “But you will.”

  “That doesn’t help.”

  She turned and glanced at him, and he saw something. Perhaps a flicker of recognition which he couldn’t quite place. “Give me a minute to get out of this traffic, and we’ll talk.”

  “Are you a reporter? You look familiar. Maybe I’ve seen you on the news.”

  “No,” she snapped. “I’m not a reporter.”

  “Good,” Rainwater mumbled. “I’ve got nothing to say to them anyway.”

  She pulled the car to a halt, parking outside a burger place, the smell of grease and onions suddenly appealing to Rainwater, who hadn’t eaten all day. She turned in her seat to face them.

  “I’m not a reporter, and I’m not interested in your story. What I want to know concerns those creatures, more specifically, who might be trying to clone them.”

  Rainwater forced a smile, even managing to look her in the eye. “Lady, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You can drop the act,” she said. “It’s not necessary. I know all about it. About Russo and about Andrews. I even know about the government interference which meant that guy walked free just now.”

  Rainwater blinked. It was rare that he was caught off guard, especially when she had spoken to him with such nonchalance about highly sensitive government material.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked, deciding to keep his line of questioning as vague as possible so as not to give away any information.

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “I want to talk to you about the cloning of these creatures. Unless you’re willing to meet me half way, and share information, the two of you might as well just get out of the car right now and be on your way.”

  “Let’s say, for the sake of argument I knew what you were talking about, I’d tell you not to worry. The whole cloning thing is done. Closed.”

  She shook her head, and again, Rainwater was struck by a strong sense of recognition. “I’m not talking about Project Blue,” she said, enjoying watching him squirm in his seat. “This is something else.”

  “Alright, you got my attention,” Rainwater replied. “What do you know?”

  “You first.”

  “I know the man in charge of that operation—”

  “Andrews,” she cut in.

  “—the man in charge of that operation is done. Finished. It’s over.”

  “I know. I already told you it’s got nothing to do with that. This is something else.”

  Despite himself, Rainwater couldn’t help feeling the adrenaline surge, or shake the idea that he knew this woman. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

  “I’m Jade.”

  Rainwater searched his memory, trying to match face and name and come up with where he knew her from.

  “We’ve never met,” she said, watching him frown. “You spent quite some time with my sister though.”

  Like a light bulb flicking on over his head, it all became clear. It wasn’t recognition but similarity. The same shaped nose, the same intensity in the eyes, even the same borderline arrogant, self-confident attitude.

  “You’re Clara’s sister?” he said.

  “Bingo.”

  “I didn’t even know she had a sister.”

  “Yeah, well we didn’t always get along. I know all about you though.”

  Rainwater wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Part of him was elated, another part of him sad and guilty. Pushing aside the confusion, he tried to focus on why she was there. “What do you want to know? As far as I know, Andrews is out of the game. Fired by his boss. The whole cloning thing is dead. A money pit by all accounts. Last I heard those funds have been diverted elsewhere. Best thing that could have happened if you ask me.”

  “Like I told you, it’s not him I want to talk to you about. This is someone else entirely. Someone new.”

  “Who?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  BURJ AL ARAB JUMEIRAH HOTEL

  Burj Al Arab,

  Dubai, United Arab Emirates

  Opening in December 1999 at a cost of six hundred and fifty million U.S dollars, The Burj Al Arab Jumeirah hotel is the world’s only seven-star resort. Translated as ‘Tower of the Arabs,’ the sixty-floor hotel screams of luxury, and sits on an artificial island off the sea shore connected to the mainland by a private bridge. Designed to mimic the curvature of a ship’s sail, the hotel is regarded as one of the most expensive and luxurious in all of Dubai, with rooms routinely costing around eighteen thousand dollars per night.

  In the Suha boardroom, twelve of the richest businessmen in the world sat around the vast oval table awaiting their host, the stunning view of sun drenched Dubai for company.

  The meeting room doors opened, signalling the arrival of their host. Clad in a crème designer suit, gold watch jangling on his wrist, the man approached the table. Forty-year-old Charles Decker is tanned, a picture of health. The salty sideburns in his otherwise jet black hair made him look refined rather than old. He sauntered to the head of the table, pausing to pour a glass of water, keeping his expectant audience waiting for just a few moments more. Eventually, he turned to them, letting his eyes drift across t
hose assembled, weighing them up and trying to visually filter out the sharks from the bottom feeders.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Thank you for attending today. I appreciate you are all busy men, and as a result, I will not delay in explaining how the following process will work.”

  Decker paused, taking another sip of water. “Although there are twelve of you here, only three will be given the opportunity to move forward and take advantage of what is a unique and lucrative opportunity to own something which nobody else on earth owns. Each of you knows why you are here. You are the crème de la crème, the most ambitious, the most wealthy, who know a once in a lifetime opportunity when they see it. This creature is a unique species, a true giant of the seas, but this, gentlemen, is just the beginning. Allow me if you will to draw your attention to the television screen behind me where I will play you a short presentation showing the incredible technological advances we have made in order to bring what was once fantasy into the real world.”

  Decker walked to the laptop on the desk and activated the presentation, the images replicated on the fifty-inch television screen.

  The presentation opened with a silver logo on blue background, an intertwined letter D and I, the company logo for Decker Industries. The logo exploded away, the voiceover slick and professional as a video montage begins.

  There are shots of the creatures in an unidentified lab, then a shot of their eggs in incubation. The voiceover tells how that, due to Decker Industries tireless pursuit of advancing science and pushing boundaries, the creatures have been created with slight behavioural modifications to their baseline DNA, making them more docile and trainable than their wild cousins. The video then cuts to some mock-up images, artists impressions of the fully grown creatures, giant leviathans lurching out of the water and dwarfing submarines. The cheery voiceover explains that when fully grown, the creatures will come in at an incredible three hundred feet in length. The presentation shows another mock-up, this time of a giant aquarium filled with pointing, grinning hand drawn people pointing at the giant beast in its tank. The next cut is to another image, this time one of the creature attacking unmarked submarines, crushing them in its powerful jaws. The smooth voiceover explains how the applications and uses for the creature are endless, and that only the buyers own imagination will limit how far they can go. The next portion of the video cuts to a team of people up their waists in an indoor pool of some kind. Each of them has an eight foot juvenile creature beside them, each smiling keeper’s hand on his own creatures back. The voiceover explains that for the winning bidders, the price includes full access to one of Decker’s professional animal handlers who will train and prepare the winners own staff so that they can fully and expertly care for the creatures themselves going forward. The video melts back into the Decker Industries logo and fades to black.

  Back in the room, Decker folded his hands in front of him and smiled at his expectant audience, giving them a moment to take it all in. “Do we have any questions?”

  “I have one,” an Arabic man said from the foot of the table, his white headdress hiding all but his face. “What is to stop me from waiting until you sell this creature to someone else then buying one of its offspring at a cheaper price?”

  Decker smiled, a warm, friendly gesture. “Because, Prince Mahamatom, the creatures we will be selling are sterile. As I’m sure you are aware, the last thing we as responsible businessmen want is to have a population of these creatures swimming around in our oceans without any semblance of control or order.”

  “And conveniently it means nobody else can profit from your business,” Mahamatom replied.

  Decker shrugged. “I don’t necessarily agree with that. In fact, it’s more than possible. Decker Industries started with nothing, yet we now have the ability to clone these creatures and even modify them as required.”

  “Yes, but I don’t have the ability to do that. Everyone knows that your company is the world leader in cloning and genetic engineering.”

  Decker smiled, pausing to drink more water. “That, your highness, is why the price per unit is so high for these specimens. They are ready now. Within the week, one of you could own one of these creatures. Not an egg, not a DNA strand, but a living, breathing creature. No twenty years of research, no pouring endless amounts of resources into researching techniques that Decker industries have already perfected. This is a living, breathing product. As we speak, the assets are being trained and prepared for delivery to the successful bidders. Just take a moment to think about that.”

  He looked around the table, giving time to let his words sink in. He knew they had no answer to it. The rules were stacked solely in Decker’s favour and everyone in the room knew it. He grinned and once again clapped his hands together. “Well, gentlemen, as I said at the start of proceedings, time, for all of us is of the essence, and I know you are all incredibly busy men. As I mentioned, only the three highest bidders will have the opportunity to own one of these magnificent beasts. I think, under the circumstances, a standard auction format would be most fair. What say we start the bidding at a price you are all comfortable with affording. Shall we say, a hundred million U.S dollars?”

  Decker looked around the room, noticing a few wayward glances and sweating brows. It seemed a few of the bottom feeders were starting to make themselves known now that money was being discussed. Equally, several cool heads still sat around the table, men who didn’t even flinch at the starting price tag. Decker couldn’t help but smile. Those were the ones he wanted. “Okay, gentlemen,” he said as he sat down, folding his hands on the desk. “You will find paper, pens and envelopes in front of you. Begin presenting your bids. Remember, this is a single bid auction. There are no second chances, so if you want to own one of these animals, go big or, as the saying goes, go home.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ZEKI’S BAR

  California Street

  San Francisco, California

  There was no joy in being released from prison. No excitement, nobody waiting to hug him or say they missed him. Those days were long gone, and the woman who he used to call his wife had long since reverted to using her maiden name, even though they were technically still married. Greg Michaels finished his drink, sending another slug of Jim Beam chasing the four he had already consumed. He motioned to the bartender who poured him another. He paid and waited for his change, staring at the news on the television set above the bar. It was thankfully on mute, but he could still see himself as they ran the report of the trial again.Watching it helped him to make the decision as to if he intended to get drunk or not, and he was certain the hangover to come would be worth it the next day if it made him forget for a little while. He sipped his beer, leaving the shot of Jim Beam where it was for the time being. He was grateful that the bar was for the most part empty. He couldn’t handle any more hassle from the media, especially as there was nothing he wanted to say. Someone sat on the stool next to him, a whiff of aftershave preceding his arrival. Greg glanced over, surprised to see the man – a skinny, olive-skinned waif with a face which seemed somehow too long – staring right back at him.

  Christ, here we go again, he thought, wondering how inventive a way he could tell the guy no comment, when the man spoke, his accent featuring an Italian twang which sounded like something out of a bad movie. “You’re Michaels, right?”

  Greg looked at the man, and then turned away and reached for his drink, happy to notice that his coordination was already starting to skew a little thanks to the booze. “I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

  The Italian looked at the TV, then at Greg. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Look, I don’t have anything to say. I’m not making any comment about any of this, so you might as well just leave,” he said, taking a swig of his beer.

  “I ain’t no reporter,” the Italian said, grabbing a handful of peanuts from the bowl on the bar, crunching them noisily. “Mr. Mallone sent me.”

  Chill
fingers brushed down Greg’s spine and he looked at the man more closely, reminding himself to be cautious and wishing he wasn’t quite so half cut. “What does he want?”

  “You know that’s not how this works. He just told me to pass on the message.”

  Greg put the beer on the bar and half turned on his stool. “Look, if that fat sack of shit wants to kill me, then tell him to just get it over with. I don’t care anymore.”

  The Italian smiled and helped himself to some more nuts. “Trust me pal, if Mr. Mallone wanted you dead, you and me wouldn’t be talking right now.”

  “So what does he want?”

  “He wants you to go see him. Says you and him got some business to settle.”

  “Business? Like hell. I’ve learned my lesson. I don’t want to do business with him. Tell him thanks, but no thanks.”

  The Italian grinned. Greg thought he looked like a man who had heard this kind of thing all the time.

  “Look buddy, do yourself a favour and go see him.”

  “Why? I’ve got nothing to lose anymore. Nothing he can say or do to me makes any difference. Hell, I’m sure you’ve seen the news today. My life is pretty fucking worthless.”

  “Listen pal, even worthless men still feel pain. Me coming here to ask you to go to him is just a courtesy. If you know Mr. Mallone like you say you do, you’ll do yourself a favour and go see him.”

  “Just to have him torture me and fit me with a pair of concrete boots? No thanks,” Greg muttered, training the shot of Jim Beam.

  “Like I said, if he wanted you dead, he’d have had you snuffed outside of that courtroom.”

  “Yeah, well, he’d have had to get close to me first. Just check out the TV. It was a frenzy.”

  “Yeah well, I was right there with you,” the Italian said, flashing a humourless grin.

  “Bullshit.”

  “Keep watching, pal.”

  Greg stared at the images on TV, the shaky camera footage not helped by the incessant strobe of flash bulbs. Even so, Greg could see the Italian man currently sitting beside him in the scrum. Right at the front, just a few feet away.