by M A Scrawl
They placed Tundras’ equipment in a large empty room, except for the chairs and empty desks. This was on the first level. Tundra doubted they would've been able to take it up a higher level, but it probably couldn't be helped.
They had pushed all the chairs against the wall in a pile, obviously not bothering to set them up neatly. He sighed, and set to work. First, he went back and got a forklift, much to the dismay of the Mercenaries.
He had no idea how to work it, so he finally got one of the men to grudgingly follow him with it into his “laboratory,” as he had named it. He set up tables and directed the man to place the equipment where he wanted it, all of it black and glowing with lights, some with the glass cylinders.
He got another man to set up the chairs next to tables lining the wall, where he would put paperwork and graphs.
Thirty minutes later, Tundra sat down, puffing. He was alone, surrounded by the tall glowing equipment. One of the machines beeped. Tundra jumped, turning to watch one of the machines with the glass cylinders beep.
It beeped again, then again, then again. Then, to Tundras’ horror, it turned off.
Tundra cursed, leaping from his chair to the equipment. Then another machine beeped and turned off. Then another. Then another, until all of them were off. He turned around, witnessing as each of the machines’ lights slowly turned dark.
He yelled, kicking over one of the chairs in rage. He knelt behind one of the machines, and saw an input in the back, possibly where a cord could transfer power into it. It had four inputs. Whatever cord went in was going to have to be custom made, hopefully without breaking the machine itself.
He cursed, coming up from his crouch and kicking over another chair.
-Chapter 11-
-Galloway-
Chris Tundra had many resources at his disposal, and his terrorist cell had grown to substantial amounts. He had an entire network of men who watched potential targets, and he also had several men who specialized in espionage.
In order to get the man that Tundra needed, a lot of information was needed. Chris put specialists to work who could find what he was looking for. He needed a brilliant man who could accomplish neurology, prosthetics, and chip installation surgery. He needed to find someone who would not resist, who would help, and who preferably had little family. Kidnapping was easier if nobody cared about the hostage.
Chris’s specialists combed through files, news records, and hospital profiles until they found exactly what Chris needed.
Caleb Galloway. He was small, based on a recent photo on social media, and wouldn’t pose a threat. He was incredibly brilliant, knowing Neurological surgery, Prosthetic design, and chip design.
He lived in a small apartment in New York City, on the third floor.
With this new information, Chris assigned the task to Davon Steele, an espionage operative that was available.
So Steele planned the operative, having one of his men trail Caleb Galloway and take a photo of someone he loved. If Caleb resisted coming with them, he would show him the photo to convince Caleb's stubborn mind. An easy op, really.
-----
Caleb Galloway walked along, unaware to the eyes silently watching him from across the street. Caleb wore a sandy overcoat over his casual clothes and jeans. This complemented his brown hair, and tiny freckles on his nose. Caleb wasn't a big man, about 5 feet 8 inches, and rather puny. His girlfriend, now fiance, had hinted in the past that he should work out.
He pulled out his key from his pocket in his overcoat and fumbled with it, pushing it into the doorknob of his apartment door. Making his way up the stairs, he hummed to himself, a smile still plastered on his face. He made it to the third floor, and fumbled with his key again, pushing it into the doorknob. He furrowed his brow in confusion. The door was unlocked. Had he left it unlocked this morning?
Frowning, he entered and turned to close the door. He flipped the lightswitch, but no power. Maintenance problem?
"Good evening Mr. Galloway." Caleb jumped, eyes wide, hand on the doorknob as it closed.
"Wh-Whos there?" Caleb squeaked, eyes searching for the voice, hands starting to sweat.
"Call me a friend," the man said in a gruff voice with no accent, "or an employer."
The door opened to Caleb's right, and a man in black emerged, grabbing Calebs shoulders and forcing him to back away from the door. Caleb whimpered quietly.
The large man holding Caleb steered him away from the door and into the small living room. Another man sat in his chair, darkness hiding his features.
"I hear you've got a good job," said the man, a knife slipping from his sleeve into his hand. "Prosthetic Neurology, chip installation surgery." He flipped the knife in the air. Caleb nodded fearfully, his body betraying him as it shook.
“I’m here to make a business proposition. We have a need for someone with your skills. Interested?" he asked, a seemingly innocent question. Caleb doubted it was.
"N-no..." Caleb whispered. The man sighed audibly, then placed an electronic tablet on the coffee table in front of him. Caleb looked down at the image on the tablet.
Caleb's breath caught, and tears started falling from his eyes, against his will. It was him and his girlfriend, him kneeling, proposing to her as she covered her mouth in surprise. This must've been taken not an hour ago.
Caleb's eyes widened as the man picked it back up again. "Sheryl," he said quietly, lowering his head.
"Though it pains me to say it, if you don't cooperate, I'll have to make some decisions."
Caleb whimpered again, his hands hurting as the man behind him slightly tightened his grip. Caleb winced. Then, he nodded. The man smiled wickedly, then Caleb was thrown into darkness as a bag was placed over his head.
-----
Hours later, Caleb awoke to groggy blackness. He slightly remembered being jostled a bit, then being laid down. Where was he?
Then the horrible memories came back to him as he recollected the men in his apartment, and Sheryl...poor Sheryl.
Caleb tried to stand up, moving around slightly in his lying down position. His legs wouldn't move, they were bound together. And his hands were also tied behind his back, an uncomfortable position.
The bag over his head made him feel like he was suffocating, and he jerked his head to the side, trying to get it off. He felt a firm hand squeeze his arm and he stopped moving. "I think he's awake," said one voice, the closest, probably the one holding his arm. "All the better," said another voice. "He's got good timing. We're almost there."
Almost where? he thought, as he noticed for the first time the slight shuddering around him and the cry of engines. Am I in a shuttle? he wondered. Guess there's a first time for everything.
After a little longer, Caleb could shake off the lethargic feeling he assumed was some kind of tranquilizer they had put in him. Feeling slowly came back to his body, even though at first he hadn't realized he'd even lost it, and he found that having your hands tied behind your back for a long period of time is not comfortable. That, as well as the suffocating bag around his head made the last leg of this horrible journey, well...horrible.
The shuttle lurched downward, and Caleb felt like his insides were left behind him. Down they went, and Caleb felt sick as he realized slowly what he was getting into. Black marketists seeking to use and sell the tech? he thought, even more questions crowding his mind. Why would they need me? For prosthetics, neurology, nano-tech? Will they have me do work and then let me go? But one thought glowered above all others. Will I ever see Sheryl again?
-Chapter 12-
-Get to Work-
Calebs’ first impression of Tundra was that he was a mad-man.
He had been in the terrorist’s (as he now knew them) base, and he had stayed there for about two weeks. Tundra always when Caleb didn't work as fast as he could, as quickly as he should.
When he did solve a problem, Tundra merely nodded and moved on, acting as though nothing happened. He did learn a lot though, and apparentl
y he had to help Tundra make “clones.” Caleb expressed his doubts about the cloning machine, and Tundra had yelled, holding a knife to his throat. Tundra told him the only thing keeping him from killing Caleb right there and then was the fact that Caleb was helping Tundra.
So, he was forced to fix alien tech, and be expected to make clones within seven years. Great.
Caleb wasn't really worried about the clones, he was mostly anxious about seeing his girlfriend again. Was his family looking for him? Surely, they would...wouldn't they? The horrible fact was that his girlfriend might have moved on without him by the time he got back, if he ever did. She might have been married in the time Caleb was gone. It broke his heart to think about it, but it was the truth. They would probably take him for dead, have a funeral, then move on. There was no proof of a struggle in his apartment, cancelling out murder, he would just vanish before anyone could react.
Sheryl would probably grieve, wondering why her lover had gone missing the day he had proposed to her. Then she would be gone too, escaping from Caleb's hands,
He would be gone seven years...assuming of course that they were able to make the clones in that time, and assuming the terrorists kept their promises and didn’t immediately kill Caleb as soon as they were done with him.
He sat next to Tundra, who was reading a file from one of his D.N.A. machines. He had solved the power problem, by modifying a cable to fit the inlet and hope that the machine didn't explode.
It didn't, and they were able to power the other machines by making more modified cables.
Tundra moved from his chair, going to a table propped up against the wall, and he moved around some paperwork that was smothering the table.
"Do you know how this can work Caleb?" he asked, eyes still on the table in front of him. Caleb paused. What would Tundra do if he gave his honest opinion?
“No,” Caleb drawled, eyes looking toward Tundra's back.
He turned, pivoting in his swinging chair, still looking at a sheet of paper in his hand. He turned the paper, revealing a large series of data and numbers. "This shows a mass of D.N.A. strands, which maps out something I call, the "Y" mass."
Caleb furrowed his brow. "Why?" he asked. Tundra turned, a stupid grin spread on his face. "Why not?"
Tundra was like that, as Caleb found. When he discovered something important, or something went right that he accomplished, he was like a child on Christmas. It seemed to be an aspect of insanity.
"What is it though?" Caleb asked, genuinely curious.
"This is a mass of D.N.A., which has something called, potential D.N.A. If we combine this D.N.A. mass with humans, we could wind up with clones that have alien D.N.A. or alien features." He pointed at the machine.
"I find it very probable that wherever these aliens lived, having special abilities became a part of the local D.N.A, maybe because without it, they could not live on whatever strange planet they inhabit."
Caleb grimaced. "Are you sure?" he asked, hesitant. Tundra glared at him. "Of course I'm sure." He waved his hand at the machines, standing still, lights beeping on them. "And we have seven years to accomplish it."
Caleb stayed silent as Tundra continued to rant about D.N.A., and the possible nature of said aliens, what their culture could've been like. Caleb thought this was very, very WRONG. He knew the results of cloning that happened in Germany. They failed! Why would this work now?
It was possible that even the equipment they had here that came from space was not even for cloning! Everything they did was a huge gamble. It was a gamble making the power cords, assuming it would not blow up, a gamble to assume the equipment is cloning equipment, a gamble to assume they would even be able to make the clones within the proper time! And, it was also a gamble to assume these machines could clone correctly.
Caleb's family had a bad history with gambling. His father lost a bet in a casino and lost all his money, succumbing to alcohol and gluttony. His brother had a similar story, and now HE was continuing the grand family tradition. Except this was bet on his life, not money.
Caleb sighed, his eyes starting to fill with tears as he thought about his current state. His one chance to get out of here alive was to make clones. So, resigned to that fact, Caleb returned to the files and equipment, working for his life.
-----
Sahara sat back, sighing. The CIA was roaring about the missing Ship, and now Sahara was being blamed for the deaths and injuries of those that had been attacked by the terrorists.
Sahara could never have foreseen what could’ve happened. Tundra was reported to be escaping WITH the terrorists, and it is currently believed that Tundra somehow contacted the terrorists and is working with them. There's some debate on whether or not it's true, but Sahara is ultimately being blamed. He fired Tundra, which might have caused him to go ballistic.
Sahara didn’t see that as his fault, but that didn’t really matter to the CIA. He would be removed from his position, and he would never see Facility C.
He was surprised when he felt sadness about these feelings. He had to admit that it was disappointing to know that he would never see the Earth from above again.
So he would be leaving. Leaving behind his office, as well as the woman he had been training to take his place. She wanted the position so badly…
But he couldn’t tell her the truth. He had received a report saying that he would be replaced by a man by the name of Benjamin Withers.
Sahara didn’t have the courage to tell Kirby. She could figure it out, and hopefully she would only do so after he had left.
Sahara stood from his office chair and touched the glass window, sighing. He stared out at the stars, and smiled. The stars actually looked pretty, glowing with young brightness. Sahara hung his head, and turned. He left, not gazing at the stars again. He left, saying only a brief goodbye to Kirby. He left, with bottled up feelings and unsaid words.
It was better this way.
FIVE YEARS LATER.......
Benjamin Kenneth Withers hated his job as Overseer, about as much as Sahara had before him. He'd only been up for three months, and already he was sick of the ever-changing view of space.
He sat in his dreary grey office, his feet on his dreary desk, and his eyes closed as he leaned against his dreary chair. This had been Samuel Saharas’ office once, but the old man had finally retired, leaving the space satellite and going down to Earth.
Withers was not so young himself anymore, at age 47 white was showing in his once black hair. He was about six feet with a solid build hidden underneath his grey suit. He had only a few wrinkles on his face, marketing his bright blue eyes. He was considered handsome for his age, and also old for his kind of work. Government work, that's what this should be. He should be down on Earth, working as a political agent for the government, not up here in space.
But, it really couldn't be helped. The government had posted him here after he had publicly embarrassed Bartholomew Creed in front of a crowd for exposing his secret black market sale. So, the government had posted him here as a punishment. They had made it seem like a promotion, so he had taken the job, expecting more action.
He was disappointed.
Withers opened one of his eyes to examine his boring office. Grey floors, grey ceiling, grey desk, why didn't they brighten it up a little? Just after the first two weeks here he'd felt the constant colors of grey affecting his mind, making every action seem bland and muddled.
The only color in the whole room was the brown wardrobe he had placed in the corner of his office in an effort to brighten up the room slightly. It really hadn't done much. The grey did not match the light brown of the grainy wood, and it was a little regal, with its swirling pattern in the woodwork, for the grey simplicity of Facility C.
Pulling his thoughts away from the colors of the room, he heard a knock on the door. "Come in," he said placing his feet on the floor instead of the desk. The door unbolted with a 'click' and Abby Kirby entered, closing the door behind her. Withers noticed a bag, n
o doubt filled with paperwork and he groaned inwardly.
Kirby placed the bag on his desk, puffing from the weight of the bag. She rolled her shoulders. "Sir, with all due respect, but couldn't you at least use the Document program on your desk?"
Withers shook his head. "I just can't focus on the desk," he said, standing up to examine the paper. "Besides, it gives me a headache looking at a screen all day."
Kirby sighed as Withers examined each sheet of paper before signing it, scanning through the contents thoroughly, then moving on.
He stopped abruptly on one of the papers, looking up from it with surprise. He held it up, showing the contents to Kirby. She nodded. "When?" he asked with enthusiasm.
“We got the notification just this morning sir.”
“Let's go then!”
He got up, grabbed his suit coat and followed Kirby into the halls of Facility C.
They made it to the Control Deck, Withers having followed Kirby all the way. He had only been here a few months and was still getting used to the slightly curved floors. They entered the wide desk-filled room, with engineers working silently.
She pointed to one of the engineers seated at a desk, and Kirby tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up, and nodded. "Sir, I have been asked to give a briefing on what just happened." He pulled up a screen on his desk. "Thirty minutes ago, I received the report that ended up on your desk just now. A member of the terrorist group, 'The Veil,' enclosed his position to the CIA, who have sent the coordinates to us. We believe the member of the terrorist group that revealed the coordinates seeks asylum and betrayed The Veil in exchange for safety." He straightened slightly.
