by John Shirley
When he looked back at her, it like she was a little more relaxed. She smiled a little—and that lit up her face. She wasn’t a pretty woman, but she wasn’t unpleasant to look at, especially when she smiled. A man could get to…
Crazy thoughts, Tom.
“This vessel—we’ve really got it all to ourselves?” she asked, looking around at the blinking indicators, the streams of data running past on monitors. Some of it, implemented by Umbrella, was in English, and some of it was still in Cyrillic.
“We do. Believe me, soon as those people got out there and started fighting with each other, I closed and locked that hatch. They were so busy trying to kill each other, they didn’t notice. Then I searched every inch of this thing, from sail to rudder.”
“Sail?” she said. “There’re no sails on this ship.”
“Oh, not that kind of ‘sails.’ The ‘sail’ on a submarine, that’s an old American Navy expression for the conning tower up above, where the periscopes are. They call it the sail.”
She nodded. That seemed to satisfy her.
“Let’s try to get this big hunk of metal out of here soon as we can. I want to get away from Umbrella Prime. First thing—we need to get it under water, and out of sight.”
23
Alice woke to a drumming sound, and—was it some kind of electronic music? The drumming sound would be the percussion…
She opened her eyes. The room was blurry. She made out a light source, and tried to concentrate on it. It came into focus, and became a portlike window in a concave, metal hull—a helicopter window, she decided. So she was in one the choppers operated by Ada’s people; also Leon’s people.
And Wesker’s people.
Ada and Leon, she might trust—a little. But Wesker. Who should be dead, seemed unkillable. No. She could never trust him.
And someday she would kill him.
Straps held her to a cot. But looking at them, they didn’t seem to lock—they were held in place with Velcro. So she wasn’t being restrained like a prisoner. That much was good, anyway.
She tried to move—and sucked air through her teeth in agony. Everything went blurry again. She was hurt, and badly. There were wires attached to her arms…
Alice looked to her right, following the wires back to their source. She could make out a medical monitoring device, beeping repetitively with her pulse. The room was big, for a chopper—probably a cargo hold, outfitted to be a medical bay.
She wasn’t wearing much—just a loose fitting shirt. She had fresh bandages on her side, and arms.
Then there was the scuffing sound of a footprint on the deck, and Jill Valentine came in, bent over to look at her.
“Glad to have you back,” Jill said.
Alice gave her a weak smile.
“Glad to have you back.” Suddenly she remembered. “Where is she? Becky?”
“Taking a nap, last I looked, in the comfiest spot you can find on this chopper. She was sitting in here with you for hours.”
Alice nodded.
“And Leon?”
“He’s here, with Ada—they’re both doing pretty well.” She nodded off to one side, and Alice turned her head. Leon and Ada were sitting together. Cautiously, Leon moved one of his hands to place it on Ada’s knee. But she brushed it aside.
Alice turned back to Jill.
“Luther…” she said. “Did we leave his body there?”
“When the helicopters came down, the ice shifted, and his body went under. Maybe it’ll freeze in there. Make a nice tomb for him. He’s out of our reach.”
Luther. She’d felt a real rapport with him. And a powerful attraction. He’d been breezy, likable, easygoing, but brave as hell, and instinctively loyal. And there had been a chemistry between them…
But of course—of course—he had been taken away from her. Everything was taken away.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. At least you’re alive. You’ve got hope. You’ve got Becky…
But, Luther…
Alice closed her eyes, bit her lip, not wanting Jill to see any weakness in her. But inwardly she felt all the emotional pain fighting free, all the anguish she’d suppressed just to get through it all. She’d pushed it all down just to survive, and keep Becky alive.
All those other people for whom she’d felt herself responsible—the prisoners she’d liberated on the Arcadia, Claire and Chris Redfield. Where were they now? Prisoners of Umbrella, she thought. They might’ve been turned into monsters, like the horror she’d sent to the bottom of the sea. They might be in interrogation cells, screaming as they were tortured, as she had been. She’d barely managed to keep herself and Becky alive. But those people?
She could almost hear them screaming.
“Think I’ll…” She cleared her throat, aware it was hoarse. “Think I’ll nap, myself.”
“Sure,” Jill responded. “We’ve got a long way to go.”
“To where?”
“We’re headed to Washington, D.C. What’s left of it.”
Jill left the room, and Alice let the emotions well up in her.
It’d been a long time since she’d cried. Tears had welled in her eyes when she’d seen the open grave of all the Alice clones that Umbrella had toyed with, played with like psychotic puppet masters. But actually crying—how long had it been?
At the very thought, the sobs came. And then she remembered the last time she’d wept. She’d been with Spence Parks, her “husband.” What a bitter lie that word was to her. Husband. Role-playing. Sometimes the roles got a little too real. Other times the reality of their relationship came rudely between them.
They’d been in the mansion, guarding the Hive together.
Years ago. Before the rise of the Undead…
Alice came home from Raccoon City, feeling both tired and wired. The training session in the city had been about interfacing with technological enhancements, about the possibility of new biological enhancements—some of which seemed kind of fanciful to her. She’d had a chance to try out some new hand-to-hand fighting techniques, and had found it both exhausting and stimulating.
It was a summer evening, and she was looking forward to having a vodka lime juice with Spence. They had to spend a good deal of time together at the mansion, playing house, in a way, acting the roles of husband and wife. Maybe tonight was the night to get back to the other part of playing house.
Making love to Spence had a certain appeal. He was a compact guy with dark-brown hair and a light-hearted, ironic manner. A good-looking guy, but his was the face of a lovable thirty-two-year-old sitcom star, not a hunky action hero.
They’d tried resisting the sexual attraction, for a while—they were just role-playing, after all, as part of the cover story. But the sexual chemistry was strong, and Spence came through in the sack—plenty of strength and staying power, and even a willingness to show some masculine dominance, now and then, if he wasn’t too over the top about it.
She didn’t easily allow anyone to dominate her.
As she drove up to the mansion in the Arklay Mountains, nodding to the guards outside, she reflected that any emotional distance wasn’t necessarily Spence’s fault. He might just be protecting himself. After all, why would he risk himself by getting too deeply attached?
She parked the car, chuckling at herself.
Vanity! Assuming he’s got to work at it, to keep from falling in love with you. She hadn’t allowed many people to get close to her—not sexually and certainly not emotionally. She was a professional warrior, a trained killer, a martial artist, a detective, and a security specialist, all rolled into one. She was highly paid, she was expert, and she’d asked for the job, once upon a time. No place in all that for a marriage, or for kids.
But she’d felt lonely, in the last couple of years. Then this assignment at the mansion had come up.
“You and Spence Parks are to pretend to be married.” That was a bitter irony, since she would never be a stay-at-home housewife. Still, she had family instincts,
like everyone. What was that line from the Rolling Stones?
“The gangster is frightening with his luger in his hand, but when he gets home he’s a family man.”
Alice went to the door of the mansion, aware that the camera was scanning her as she went. She performed the entry identification protocol, opened the door, and went in, humming to herself, tossing her purse on a chair.
“Spence?” she called.
“In here,” he called, from the “sitting room.” She found him sitting by the fireplace, his legs stretched out, a drink in his hand. He was frowning at the gas flames licking over the artificial logs. Even the fireplace logs were fake here, she thought.
“Good trip?” he asked.
She went to the liquor cabinet and made herself a drink, pouring Rose’s Lime over Grey Goose.
“I’m tired. But not too tired.” She looked closely at him. “You look kind of down in the mouth.”
“Turns out we’re going to have visitors, and we’ll need to play our roles to the hilt. Not looking forward to it. I don’t know how they decided that acting was my metier but it’s not.”
She turned and looked at him quizzically, sipping her drink.
“What do you mean, visitors? Hasn’t been necessary to do anything more than be here for the mailman now and then, show up at the place down the road for a barbecue.”
“Maybe they want to use this big expensive set,” he replied. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s got more to do with Senator Salter.”
“Salter? What about him?”
Spence sighed and put his drink down on the redwood coffee table.
“He’s coming here tomorrow night. They told me a few days ago. I thought about calling you, but— wasn’t sure if it was secure to do that. I was kind of hoping they’d cancel the whole thing. But it looks like he’s coming, along with his entourage. Including his wife and kids.”
“Here?” She sat down in the easy chair. “He doesn’t know about the Hive does he?”
“No, no one in politics does,” Spence said. “They want to keep it that way. But he’s a big shot in defense appropriations. I guess they want to sell him on a new project. The ‘T’ project. From that whole Ashford gambit…”
The ‘T’ project. Meaning, she knew, the T-virus.
He gave her a significant look, then glanced up at the lights. They were being monitored by Umbrella, probably by the Red Queen. Theoretically they’d disabled the bugging and cameras in their bedroom, but it was hard to be sure. And there were topics they both knew they shouldn’t talk about, even alone in the house. If they used a term like biowarfare, or the phrase viral agent, security computers sorted and parsed their conversation.
But Alice did know about the T-virus. She knew more than she wanted to know.
“How are we supposed to prepare?” she asked, wincing at the thought.
He shrugged.
“Just put on our best, look shiny and happy, play the role. The thing will be catered. Security taken care of. We just have to play hosts.”
“But why us—why here?”
“Some locals are wondering about the house. The guards haven’t been as discreet as they might’ve been. Our cover story’s not all that convincing, to some of the neighbors. They’ve been asking questions. I guess there were some disappearances in the area, so…” He waved a hand dismissively. “They’re blaming the ‘mysterious mansion’ or something. And somebody with some campaign-money clout went ahead and contacted Salter. He’s their senator.
“So, Umbrella figures kill two birds with one stone. We enhance the cover-up with Salter, and they pitch him on their project.”
“We’re not doing the pitching?” she asked.
“Nah, it’s ‘need to know.’ There’ll be a guy here from the company—Dr. Isaacs. You know him?”
“Sam Isaacs? I know of him.” Supposedly Isaacs had been deeply involved in the ‘T’ Project—and now he was working on some variant called Nemesis. She didn’t have the goods on that one. She smiled ruefully at him. “Well, if we’ve got to do it, what’s the big deal? You don’t like parties?”
He snorted.
“Only party I’m interested in…” He came and took her hands in his, pulled her to her feet. “…Involves just two people. Guess who.”
“Show me.”
And she was glad when he kissed her.
Several nights later, they were at a different sort of affair, a subdued dinner party. Alice and Spence dressed elegantly but not too formally, seated at the opposite ends of a dinner table. Senator Salter and his wife, Laney, sat on Alice’s right. Dr. Isaacs sat on her left. A rather sullen teenage girl sat farther down the polished maple table, closer to Spence, and across from her was her younger brother.
Alice found Dr. Isaacs an object of some fascination. He was a blond man, in early middle age, still rugged, his cold blue eyes and distant, urbane manner both charming and off-putting. He wore a gray suit, clearly tailored for him, complete with a white silk handkerchief in the blazer pocket. He ate with complete attention to his chicken, his hands making little surgical movements with the silverware. Now and then he looked up and smiled when someone spoke.
There was something about him that Alice found repellent. And yet he had spoken to them, earlier, over cocktails, with some considerable charm—chatting incisively, wittily, about politics and art, his eyes rarely leaving her. He had seemed unwilling to speak of science, however, when Alice raised the subject, though he was a scientist. But she understood that. His primary interests were classified.
“So you’re an investor, Spence?” Mrs. Salter asked smilingly, in a lilting voice. Laney Salter was an attractive, very slender brunette in early middle age. She had a Florida accent and a taste for Parisian designer dresses—dresses with a slit up the side.
“That’s right,” Spence said modestly. And falsely. “Securities, gold, real estate…”
“I don’t dare ask you, then,” Salter asked, winking, speaking in a blaring Florida voice. He was a whitehaired man, wearing a cream-colored suit, twenty years older than his wife. His broad nose was mottled with blue veins and his slab of a face was the color of raw steak. “I don’t dare ask about the good investments, that’s probably breaking some damn insider-trading rule. But maybe later on you can give me a hint!”
“Of course, Senator.”
The two children looked quietly miserable. The teenager was a pretty blonde with braces, and a dress that was too low cut for her age. The boy was about eleven, pale, already pimply, wearing a Marlins T-shirt. He kept stealing looks at some kind of portable game console on his lap, as he picked at his chicken chasseur.
Senator Salter, for his part, was frequently stealing looks at Alice.
At the back of the room stood two men and a woman in suits and sunglasses, looking uncannily like Secret Service agents. But they were Umbrella Special Security, Level 4. Alice had once worked at that level. It was tedious.
“I wonder,” Dr. Isaacs suddenly said, “what Mrs. Parks thinks of living in so remote a place? She seems a dynamic woman, more suited to an urban environment. But perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps she lives to hike and fish?”
He looked at Alice, smiling faintly, raising his eyebrows to indicate that the question was meant for her.
The smile ended at Isaacs’ eyes. They were as cold as chips of ice.
Alice put down her Chardonnay.
“Oh, I love it. I keep very busy. I help Spence with his research—investment takes research, you know. We go on trips all the time, of course, sometimes business, sometimes pleasure.”
“But—isn’t it rather too large a place for just the two of you?” Laney Salter asked, eyebrows raised. “Gosh, it seems… just huge!”
Spence chuckled.
“We hope to fill it up—with children.” He raised his glass to Alice. “The time hasn’t come yet. But it will.”
Alice remembered to smile shyly.
“Thinking ahead, I like that!” the senator boomed. “Sp
eaking of that—” He nodded to Dr. Isaacs. “Maybe we can adjourn here, pretty soon, and talk about that little matter…”
“Certainly,” Isaacs said, smiling coolly, as unruffled as ever. “Whenever you like.”
An hour later, Isaacs was meeting with the senator in the library. The children were watching television in an upstairs bedroom and Alice, sitting on the sofa, was watching Spence—who’d been cornered by Laney Salter in the sitting room, where they’d gone for drinks.
Spence was standing in front of the fireplace, his back to it, his face frozen in a polite smile, a drink in his hand. Mrs. Salter seemed to inch closer and closer to him, her eyes on his as she chatted earnestly about sports. How she liked vigorous sports. “You know— men who really get out there and take that ball. Just… take it!”
As she said that she threw back her shoulders, making her breasts pop forward. And making Spence inch back a little more.
Alice smiled to herself, amused by the woman’s brazenness. Spence was going to back into the fire soon. Laney was something of a cougar. She’d probably have preferred a teenage boy, but Spence would have to do. He was a pretty youthful thirty-two.
Twenty minutes later, she whispered something to him, then turned to Alice.
“I think I’ll check on my kids… upstairs,” she said. She gave Spence a significant look and sashayed from the room.
When she was gone, he rolled his eyes, and Alice laughed.
“Spence, I think there’s smoke rising from the back of your pants,” she warned. “Then again, she’s pretty hot. Maybe it’s the front of your pants—”
Alice broke off as the door opened and Isaacs came in, followed by Senator Salter. The politician strode directly to Alice, beaming at her.
“There she is, the glorious lady of the house!” he bellowed. “I wonder if I could have a bourbon and branch water.”
As Alice made the drink, Isaacs crossed to Spence.
