Rather than object and give them reason to wonder why she'd want to remain on patrol duty, she nodded and left.
Guards flanking her and mind whirling, she walked back to her living space. Upon arrival, they departed, again without saying a single word to her. Shouldering her way through the front door to the small yet ample apartment, she contemplated her encounter.
Malcolm doesn't kill people, and he doesn't drink blood, she thought, every fiber of her being in agreement. There's just no way.
Though she had no doubts about Malcolm, a light apprehension grew in her mind. Someone's doing this, she thought with a twinge of fear. She searched through the shadowy corners of her living space, making sure to lock anything lockable. Not quite enough, she shoved a few barriers in front of the entry door and the windows. Just to be safe, she thought.
Kaylee crawled back into the bed, yawning but far from sleep. Her mind whirling with thoughts of heinous murder, she hoped Rick had gotten himself to a protected place.
Chapter 4: Bad
Bodies pressed in all around, snarling and screaming. Knives cut deep into his flesh. Claw hammers, two-by-fours, and bricks pounded his body. Even fingernails scraped and dug furrows.
Malcolm's blood welled up and splashed onto his attackers.
He lashed out against them. Individuals fell back, were knocked unconscious, or died at his strength, but there seemed no end to the crazed madmen.
Flaring pain radiated throughout his bleeding body, more slashing knives and blunt impacts. In spite of the rage, adrenaline, and his nigh unkillable nature, the loss of so much blood and so many wounds began to wear at Malcolm's body. Energy and vigor waning, the thought of victory seemed... Hopeless... must escape.
With a bellow, he burst through the crazed swarm of attackers, not pausing to decide his path as he sprinted along. His tattered clothing clung to him in slashed ribbons, damp with the flow of his blood. The scarves which covered his face were torn loose and scattered about his shoulders.
Screaming and raving, the mad men and women followed behind, chasing after their escaping prey. Still more life and blood flowed out of Malcolm as the tide began to stem, the wounds sealing themselves. With substantial damage, his normally fast healing struggled to handle all of the injuries and blood loss.
He didn't slow his pace, and soon the din of screaming pursuers died to a low drone somewhere in the distance. Malcolm kept running, unaccustomed weariness pounding into his body even after the last of his wounds closed.
******
Gregory Michaels wore his usual scowl as he passed through the familiar hallways of the Institute, fresh from his brief meeting with Sergei and Isaac. They had roused and dragged him out of his office/living quarters, wanting to know if Marcus/Malcolm had the ability or desire to kill and eat people or drink their blood.
He appreciated their candor in the situation, but it took considerable scowling and sharp words to get the two men to explain their reasons for suspecting such a thing. Michaels hoped he had put their fears at ease, but he readily noted the reluctance for stupid men with power to abandon their preconceptions.
Checking his watch, he noted the awkward early hour of the morning. Four AM? He grumbled indistinct complaints under his breath. I suppose I could go back to sleep, but...
Michaels did not sleep well to begin with. Even now, months later, when he closed his eyes, he envisioned little besides the vacant stare of former Citizen Claudia Laverock. Whenever he saw her, either in person or in his mind's eye, overwhelming guilt crawled over him.
It had not been conducive to successful rest.
"I suppose I'll get started then," he said with a sigh, moving down the hallway of the Natural Philosophy wing.
Since none of the potential subjects would be awake yet, and certain practices of calling on them at any point had fallen off since the uprising, he decided first to head to his office.
The barracks containing a number of the conditioned servants lay outside of the Institute, a small distance away in the surrounding park. Handfuls of them still existed in the various other areas of the city, but not much use had been found for the half-mindless drones in a military or strategic capacity.
They could receive instruction, but their coordination, movement, intellect, and most other attributes were too sluggish to be of critical use. Sadly, many of them had passed away over the months of fighting, simply by lacking quick reflexes and a strong sense of self-preservation.
Michaels still had a wide stock to pick from for his reversal experiments, and though it guilted him slightly to treat them like guinea pigs, the entire purpose was to bring Claudia's mind back. Yes, he thought, I'll be able to complete the treatment on others as well. Yet the side effect of helping the others did not exist within ten leagues of being as important to Michaels as saving Claudia.
Such were his thoughts quite often, even as he paused at his office door. Hand reached out, hovering in the air an inch away from the door's handle, he held a moment of contemplation.
Shall I seek happiness marred by guilt, or should I simply get to work? The common, rueful thought came forth. As always, he made the same decision.
Taking a few more steps down the hallway, he softly knocked on the door to the room adjacent to his office. He waited a moment before opening it and stepping inside.
A dim light shined ever-present in the room from a small lamp; the occupant feared complete darkness. The office had been converted into living quarters, much similar to Michaels' own sleeping space. While he simply brought a rough cot into his office and still retained the computer, desk, and research materials, everything had been stripped out of this area to make the occupant's stay as comfortable as possible.
Claudia Laverock slept on her side upon the bed he had brought up for her, and he crossed the room to sit on its edge. The soft glow of the lamp illuminated her sleeping features, and Michaels imagined for one irrational moment that her mind remained intact and functioning. Nothing about her peaceful sleep suggested her half-brainless condition, but Michaels' endless logic and rationality allowed little more than a moment's wishful thinking.
Even sleeping, Michaels noted the subtle identifiers all too common among the servants. Claudia's facial features appeared slack and gaunt, as empty in sleep as they were in consciousness. Her matted and unkempt hair reflected a lessened level of hygiene also clear on other areas of her body.
Regardless, Michaels keenly recalled her personality from before, even idealized it. A subtle smile, graceful movement, and sharp, scathing wit had set Michaels to the only vestiges of thought he'd ever entertained toward romantic entanglement. When she'd been mentally crippled, by the process he created...
"Good morning, Claudia," he said softly, brushing the hair out of her face. She stirred but didn't wake. Better that way, he thought. Her waking status with vacant eyes and mind never failed to produce a strong emotional reaction in him.
Michaels watched her sleep for a few minutes longer, reveling in the fantasy of bringing her back. He rose and stepped out of the room.
Dammit, he cursed internally as emotion clotted in his throat, eyes drawing moisture. Trying his best to shove aside the feelings, he opened the door to his own office.
Far from its clean and crisp appearance from when he was naught but a simple Citizen, the large space featured chaos and clutter. The desk and thick leather chair remained mostly the same, repaired from the damage incurred during the uprising.
However, patches of carpet were ripped out and left bare; rudimentary clean-up on the blood-stains left behind by the violence which had occurred there. One of Michaels' associates, Citizen Arthur Dunlevy, had turned traitor. He killed another Citizen and colleague, Dennis Myers, and had threatened the life of Michaels himself. He'd also been responsible for assisting the Old Havenites in the uprising and planting the firebomb which had killed Marcus Coleman. During the raid on the Institute, however, Dunlevy had met his own end when Malcolm returned to take revenge for t
he death of his former self.
The stains on the carpet reminded Michaels too much of what was lost during the uprising. The advisory council to the former leader, Franklin Lange, all but perished by the stupidity of themselves and their colleagues. Many of the council members, including Dunlevy, Claudia, Myers, and the High Inquisitor Julian Wresh had met terrible fates. Michaels had seen each of their downfalls himself, narrowly avoiding one of his own.
A few of the Inquisitor advisor members went unaccounted for, most notably Herman Gottfried, but Michaels seldom spared much thought for them. The Inquisition office had become the most corrupted; they were the ones who pulled too many strings, took too many risks. They provided the opportunity for the uprising of Old Haven, in Michaels' opinion.
However, the researcher's general thought process had shifted somewhat since then, changing his opinion of the purported vermin. The Old Havenites displayed no more or fewer useless traits and stupidity than any of the Citizens or Inquisitors.
Everyone is equal in their ignorance and ineptitude, he thought with a smirk, contemplating once again the absurdity of everything which had occurred in the past few months. He didn't have much of a handle on the reformed Citizenship or its goals, but Michaels assumed the Citizen leader existed as, like most others, some kind of power hungry and corrupt entity.
In any case, the office Michaels used to keep clean and orderly suffered, like most everything else, post-uprising. His usual driven behavior toward intellectual research tripled with what felt like a worthy goal. Things like perfect hygiene and professional appearance just aren't important anymore, he thought, frowning at the mess in his office.
The terminal and database worked even if power fluctuations kept them from peak efficiency. His filing cabinet hadn't received any damage, and supplies remained in high stock within his lab. Thus, Michaels had continued his research.
He settled into the leather chair and booted his terminal. Attention focused, he dug through servant behavior reports.
For a time Michaels couldn't determine, he read files, made notes, and considered experiment options. Through his research, he detected a small correlation between certain behaviors of servants and their dosage levels of treatment drugs. Frowning, he thought, That doesn't necessarily help figure out how to fix it. It provided a start, at least, and he hadn't found other avenues to pursue.
Checking his watch, surprised at the disappearance of the early morning, he closed the terminal lid. I should get the lab ready.
Donning his coat, he stepped out of the room and shuffled down the hallway. His usual day featured researching possibilities and testing new ideas on subjects who were not Claudia. Other activities included shouting at people who disturbed him and generally learning nothing new.
A lack of hope formed in his mind at the continuing failure, and he cursed himself for caring so little about the permanent effects of his conditioning process when he created it. I still don't know if it's even possible to mitigate, much less reverse.
Weariness settled about his slumping shoulders as he approached his lab. Sounds of clattering inside issued, and his distracted mind filed it away as the test subject servant arriving early. It happened from time to time, and occasionally their behavior involved organizing or scattering implements.
He palmed the panel on the side of the door, which slid open. Michaels' eyes shot wide open, and a gasp escaped his lips.
A hulking figure wearing a bloody trenchcoat hunched over the far counter, rifling through drawers and cabinets in some kind of search. Several alarmed thoughts dragged into Michaels' mind, including one of crazed, murderous transients.
He spotted a tangle of bright-white hair. "Marcus? Is that you?"
The figure whirled around, features cementing his identity.
"Not my naame!" Malcolm hissed, eyes narrowed.
Malcolm's front appeared much like his back. The trenchcoat was slashed to ribbons and soaked in blood which Michaels assumed belonged at least partially to Malcolm.
His usual scarves hung in tatters about his shoulders, and the wide-brimmed hat he normally wore was gone.
"Erm... Malcolm." He frowned, not caring for using the name. "What in the nine hells happened to you?"
The creature's breath hissed in and out, much of his alien face revealed without the hat and coverings. No wounds appeared to be matching the shredded clothing, but blood still dripped from it and smeared around the area of the tables. Michaels noted its trail originating from one of the high windows: smashed in completely along with a portion of the surrounding wall. Glass lay scattered about the floor and tables, but Malcolm paid it no attention
"What happened?" he repeated.
A low growl escaped his throat. "Attacked."
Michaels bit his lower lip, shuddering at the thought of anything which could cause such damage to someone so resilient. "By who? Are you all right?"
"Bleeding."
The Citizen researcher stifled a laugh at the absurdity of the statement. Of course he was bleeding, he thought, eyeing the drenched and torn clothing, but another idea occurred. "How long ago were you attacked? All of the wounds have closed, yes?" Malcolm's face appeared uninjured, but Michaels couldn't tell through the clinging tatters of bloody cloth whether there were cuts to match his ruined attire.
"Yes. No."
Michaels squeezed his eyes shut at the ambiguity. "You're going to have to-"
His words died as Malcolm peeled off his trenchcoat and torn-up clothing in one swift motion. Michaels drew in a sharp breath to see the oddity of the creature's blue-gray flesh, massive thickness in his upper torso above a midsection which seemed small and emaciated by comparison. Blood was spattered across his smooth, hairless skin, which featured a texture somewhere between leather and velvet, but no injury was present anywhere except...
Michaels gave a start when he saw Malcolm's left arm, which featured numerous deep and open gashes. Blood oozed out, much less than what Michaels assumed should have been from the depth and length of the cuts. Then again, his physiology doesn't follow ours exactly. The normal rules may not apply.
Yet something else bothered Michaels as he gawked at the alien creature who was once a colleague. The clothing... the blood...
"You were injured and the rest of you healed, correct?" Michaels pointed at Malcolm's arm. "Why do those wounds remain?"
As he recalled, Malcolm had been favoring the same arm upon his last visit, but the researcher had been distracted and hadn't thought to inquire about it.
"Damaged."
Sighing, Michaels stepped forward, a light trickle of nervousness as the injured creature tensed at his approach. "Relax, I think I understand what you were looking for. I have bandages, but this injury might require suturing."
Some kind of recognition flared upon the alien face, which featured the bizarre bulbous upper structure narrowing to a smaller chin and mouth. He stepped to the side and allowed the researcher to access his drawers and cabinets.
A considerable amount of Malcolm's blood smeared around the immediate area and inside the drawer. Carefully avoiding the bits of broken glass from the window, Michaels made a face as he gingerly picked through the implements. He found a clean roll of gauze and a suturing kit. "I'm still not very good at this," he said, referring to some of his recent experiences assisting with injured troops. "In spite of what some of these cretins think, I'm most definitely not a doctor."
Malcolm set his injured arm on the table and hissed when Michaels pulled out anesthetic. "All right, fine." He set it aside and hunched over the mangled arm.
Thick and resilient flesh reacted in an oddly lifeless fashion in spite of the blood oozing out of the wounds. He prodded the uninjured bits of the arm, comparing them to other places on Malcolm's body. Aside from the lacerations which Michaels labored to close, something remained off about Malcolm's injured arm.
"What did you do?" Michaels frowned, more curious about the lingering nature of wounds themselves than how he had
received them. "Besides the gashes. What did you do to this arm?"
Malcolm's eyes darted to the side, an indicator of shame if Michaels ever saw one.
"Well?" he asked, pulling the needle through flesh again.
"Field."
"Field?"
"Sssssterill... field."
"What is it you're...?" Realization sparked. "Do you mean the sterilization field?"
Malcolm gave a nod.
"What exactly did you do?"
Averting his gaze, Malcolm didn't reply.
"You didn't..." Michaels grit his teeth, coming to another realization. "You didn't put your arm into it, did you?"
The creature gave another nod.
Michaels prodded the flesh again, baffled by Malcolm's behavior as much as the result. "There must be considerable damage to the tissue, but... is it healing?"
"Slowly."
"And as a result, these regular wounds aren't closing as they should." Michaels gave his head a slow shake. "Tell me, why did you decide to place your arm into the sterilization field?"
"See effect," Malcolm replied.
Michaels took a second to interpret the meaning behind the creature's words. Understanding, he tossed his head back and laughed.
Malcolm narrowed his eyes, annoyed at the former colleague's mirth at his expense.
Recovering after a moment, Michaels shook his head. "The curious mind, eh? You can kill the scientist, bring him back to life, transform him into a freakish alien monster, but you can't take away his desire to learn and experiment. How delightfully stupid of you, Marcus-"
"Not my name."
Rolling his eyes, Michaels tied off the last suture. "Yes, yes, Malcolm, whatever you say. Tell me, how did you come by this other series of wounds? Did you dive into a threshing machine to see how many lacerations you could fit on that brutish body of yours?"
Exodus (The Fall of Haven) Page 7
