by Nick Thacker
He slowly tried lifting his arms, but was surprised to find them strapped down.
Am I on a table?
He wriggled his left hand a bit until he felt what was holding it to the table. Thick zip ties wrapped around his wrists, fastened somehow to the metal table he was on. He wondered if the table could move, or if it, too, was fastened to the floor.
He listened again as footsteps approached the table. The mumbling continued, but it sounded like incoherent rambling.
Maybe I am in here alone, he thought. The mumbling voice grew closer, and Mark felt someone unbuttoning his shirt sleeve and rolling it up.
He knew the next move. Wait it out, try to figure out more of his surroundings, and then act.
Achieve.
The goal had changed. He needed information, now that he had escaped his holding cell.
He needed to get off this table, apprehend whoever was in here mumbling, and figure out what was going on.
Before they tried whatever science experiment they were about to do.
Mark waited another three minutes, the scientist mumbling to himself the entire time. Finally, the mumbling voice turned away and Mark could hear it walking away from the table.
Now’s as good a time as ever.
He summoned all of his strength and explosively shifted on the table, trying to roll the entire piece of metal furniture onto its side.
It didn’t work.
Instead, he was able to get the right side of the table to lift off the floor, then slam down onto all four legs again. In doing so, his right arm hit the table and bounced back, breaking the zip tie. Finally he opened his eyes.
He saw a small desk to his right, set up next to him. He reached for a short scalpel that lay on the table and prepared to slice through the binding on his left arm.
Before he could, he caught the scientist looking at him. Wide-eyed, the man stumbled across the room toward a computer terminal.
“Wait!” Mark shouted at the man’s back as the scientist pressed something on the computer keyboard.
Mark heard a soft beeping, and the scientist approached the table. Mark tucked the scalpel under his wrist and waited for the scientist to get close.
Three more steps, he thought as the man neared the table. He willed him to come closer, but instead he just stared at Mark, as if in a trance. He cocked his head to the side.
Just then another sliding door opened, appearing from out of nowhere in the glass wall at the foot of Mark’s table.
Behind it, Mark saw a red-haired man in his early forties, maybe younger, step into the room.
“Mr. Adams,” he said, “good to see you.”
Mark waited.
“We’ve obviously never met. Officially, anyway, but I’ve enjoyed your discourse with my associate, Ms. Etienne-Grey.”
That must be the woman he’d talked to.
“Where’s my son?” Mark blurted out.
“In good time, Mark,” the man said. “My name is Jeremiah Austin, and I believe we’ve gotten off to a poor start.”
“What do you want with my wife?” he said.
Jeremiah frowned slightly, then smiled. “Yes, that’s right. Your ex-wife, I believe?”
Not yet, Mark thought. Technically. But he didn’t respond.
“Where exactly is Ms. Adams?” Austin asked.
Mark’s nostrils flared. If only I knew.
“Mr. Adams,” Austin continued, “I would like to continue my work here without more interference. You and I have similar interests in mind, I believe.”
“Yeah? How’s that?”
Mark slid the scalpel down so that his right hand—which he hadn’t lifted from the table—was now covering it. He gently held it between his pinky and ring finger, slowly sliding it to the inside of his hand.
“My project here is twofold. The first, you’re probably already familiar with.”
He motioned to the scientist at his right, who still peered creepily down at Mark.
“This man, Dr. Dwight Grantham, is… excuse me, was, a world-renowned physicist before he was called to this mission.”
The doctor twitched when he recognized his own name, but didn’t break his stare.
“When I arrived here, he was all but useless—confused, disoriented, and generally a disdainful sight. But I… revitalized him, as well as the rest of the team we found here, and now he’s at least able to serve a proper function in the research station.”
Mark had no idea what he was talking about, but he let the man talk.
“Many of the scientists here at Geo-Lab suffered from a severe case of what essentially is isolation-related psychosis. They were completely functional human beings and could even hold a conversation, but couldn’t perform the necessary duties their research called them here for. They stayed alive for over thirty years, often in solitude or in small groups, until we rescued them.”
“Rescued them? How?” Mark looked at the scientist Austin was referring to. The man’s eyes were hollow, dark, and lifeless, and Mark couldn’t imagine how miserable his life had been the past three decades.
“Now, Mr. Adams, they once again serve a purpose. As you can most certainly relate, living an empty life devoid of purpose is no life at all. These men and women have helped us carry out our duties here, asking nothing in return.”
“Asking nothing—how could they? These people are nothing but lifeless shells.”
“Don’t get excited, Mark,” Austin said. “Dr. Grantham here has served his purpose. I suppose unsuccessfully, as you are currently still carrying on a conversation with me.”
He watched as Austin sidled over to the man—Grantham—and placed a hand on his shoulder. Austin reached into his pocket and pulled out a small device that looked like a cell phone. He placed it next to the doctor’s ear and waved it a few times around his temple.
The scientist reacted immediately, wailing in agony and dropping to the floor. He reached to his head, pushing against his skull, but flailed around on the ground for a full minute.
Finally silent, Austin stepped over him and approached the left side of Mark’s table.
“We’ve placed an electronic device inside each of my scientists’ skulls, both for tracking and monitoring, and as a sort of control mechanism. It’s basically a small vial of chemicals that I discovered reacts strongly to a specific electromagnetic pulse.
“My research back in the states was centered on botany, with a unique focus on naturally occurring chemical compounds found in exotic plant life. Interestingly enough, many of these plants have insanely useful applications to people like me, including the one plaguing our friendly research scientists here at the station.”
Mark tried to put it all together in his mind as Austin continued.
“One protein from here, a few from there, and zap it with an electrical current, and you’ve got a living, breathing machine. Something—someone, excuse me—who can be persuaded to do things that need to be done. Simple tasks, really, but useful nonetheless.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Forcing someone to do something in this way is impossible, but using these particular programs to deny the brain option is not impossible. By temporarily shutting down certain synapses in the human brain, we can remove possible results from the subject’s conscious decision-making process, and thus give the illusion of control. Imagine what this would offer governments, organizations, and even universities. The ability to control subjects; to control the variables enough that your solution is the only one that is enacted. No more arguing, fighting, or insubordination.”
“But this man is dead,” Mark said. “You just killed him.”
“No. On the contrary,” Austin said, “he is now able to truly live. Without the hindrance of humanity’s daily routine, and without the annoyance of personal desire. He will wake up in about an hour and carry on as if nothing happened. But his mind, unfortunately, is what we call wasted. No longer useful to scientific endeavors, he is merely a warm body th
at will attain his natural instinctual goals—food, shelter, protection of his own, and survival. He is now free.”
Mark decided it was time to act. Austin was lost in his own arrogance, explaining his utopian view of humanity, and drawing ever closer to the table each second.
When Austin was about a foot away, Mark lurched upward, slashing the scalpel toward Austin’s head. Austin’s reaction time was phenomenal, and he ducked out of the way. As the scalpel closed in on his head, it clipped his ear and split an inch-long gash deep into the man’s cheek.
He instinctually reached to his ear to slow the bleeding, but Mark was still moving. He rolled completely over, twisting his left arm, which was still zip-tied to the table, and pulled the table over with him.
He landed on his feet, but kept twisting his wrist around until the zip tie snapped off his wrist.
Austin rose, one hand holding the side of his face, and the other now holding a pistol. He aimed at Mark and fired.
When Mark saw the pistol, he quickly pivoted and slid the table between himself and Austin’s gun, and when the bullet smacked against the table it left a half-inch dent in the underside of the metal. Mark pushed back against the table, knocking into Austin and causing the man to fall backwards.
Mark crawled a few feet, then stood and ran out of the room. He heard Austin curse as the man tried to lift the heavy table, but Mark was already running the opposite direction.
I have to get to Reese. He knew his son was here somewhere—Sylvia had said so.
Chapter 41
MARK RAN FOR HIS LIFE; for his son’s life.
After leaving the lab room where he had been held, Mark stumbled down the long hallway as the last of the sedation effects had worn off.
Achieve.
Mark’s training was in full gear now, and he had a new objective. Find Reese.
Reese wasn’t safe anywhere in the station, so there was no point in waiting. They needed to find a way out of this mess, and then get back to Jen and the others.
He rounded a corner, reading the plates on the doors as he passed.
L10.23
L10.24
He must be on Level Ten.
He found a short hallway that appeared to not have any doors. There was no sign above it, and he began to run past as he heard a noise.
Shouting?
He stopped.
Turning, he focused his attention on the short hallway.
Another shout.
“Reese!” he yelled.
He ran down the hallway, trying to find a door; anything.
“Dad!” Had he heard that correctly?
Finally, reaching the end, he saw an unmarked door to what looked like a closet. He examined it, seeing a deadbolt fastened haphazardly on the outside of the door. This had to be it.
He unlocked the deadbolt and tried the handle. Finding it also locked, he kicked on the door violently.
It wouldn’t budge.
He yelled again.
The handle turned, and the door opened from the inside. Blistering white fell out into the hall, immediately lighting the area.
“Reese!” his son stared at him from inside the room, eyes wide and frightened. He stood still for a second, unsure, then ran forward and embraced Mark.
“Reese, are you alright?” Mark asked. While holding his son, Mark took a look around the room for the first time. Stark white walls, white bedsheets on a white-framed bed, and a white chair in the corner. Clearly there weren’t a lot of decorating ideas put into this room.
“I—I’m fine. How did you find me?”
“Weren’t you yelling?”
“I was, but that was because I thought I heard a crash or something, through the walls. I thought maybe some people tried to break in to rescue me, but I never thought it would be you! I mean, how did you find this place?”
“Your mother and I were brought here too, to find something. Come on, we don’t have a lot of time.”
Reese was confused, but Mark couldn’t deal with that right now. “Reese, do you know your way around here?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve been locked in this room since they brought me here. I remember… the house… they came in—” he stopped short, tears brimming at the sides of his eyes.
“It’s okay, Reese. We need to find Mom.” He turned away from the room and waited for Reese to follow. “Can you run?”
Reese nodded, and they started jogging down the hall. At the main hallway, Mark turned left and continued reading the numbers on the doors. “Do you know how many people might be here?” he asked.
“No, I’ve only seen the lady and the man.”
Mark knew he was talking about Sylvia and Jeremiah.
They ran more, now in a dimly-lit hallway that was walled with glass, large offices spaced down each side. He targeted the final door, the one facing them at the very end of the hall.
L10.33.
The room wasn’t lit, but from the lights above bouncing through the glass, he could see plants growing inside, almost covering every inch of the front wall. It looked promising. Further, the door was slightly ajar, and Mark slowed to a walk.
“Reese, I need you to wait outside, by the door,” he whispered. “If you hear me yell, or anything unusual, run away. Get to the exit of this level and run up the stairs. Okay?”
Reese nodded again.
Mark approached the door and gently pushed it open. The office was empty, but the humidity and smell of vegetation forcefully filled his nostrils. He blinked a few times, trying to adjust.
“It’s okay, Reese. You can come in. Don’t touch anything.”
Reese entered, and his eyes lit up as he saw the venus flytrap on the desk. “Cool!” he said, running toward it.
Mark followed his son, dodging leaves and branches, and rounded the desk. He sat down in the leather chair and opened the MacBook Pro on the desk. He stared at the standard password field for a few seconds, then pressed a key combination on the keyboard. Immediately a black screen appeared, followed by a command prompt of operating system jargon. He scanned the lines, then typed another string of characters.
/sbin/mount -uw /
Another few lines of code, and more waiting.
Finally, he sat back in the chair. Reese watched over his shoulder as the computer booted up to the desktop, and Mark started perusing the files. Another screen opened as he clicked into a folder.
“It’s password-protected, and I’m assuming it’s expecting credentials from an admin or higher, but I don’t have time to bypass and hack into it as Austin, so I’m going to try setting back to the default super administrator user.”
He typed some more, opening a terminal shell application, and entered a few strings. A text file popped up onto the screen called init_err.txt, and immediately began to fill with newly-discovered system errors. Mark sat back, looking at the file, then started typing again.
“It’s trying to launch a specific program; one that was in Austin’s encrypted folder.” Finally he pressed a key and waited as lines of code streamed down the small window on the screen. Mark started mumbling to himself out of habit as he followed the code and read along. He frowned and stopped the code as a message appeared in another terminal window.
/etc/init.d/GLIIdatabase_cron_server
The message disappeared, and Mark froze.
“What is it?”
“Once I got in, it opened a file full of errors that said this other file couldn’t be found. I was trying to find it so I could see what it was, but when I did, it launched automatically.”
He logged off the computer and shut the lid.
Mark reached for the top of three matching drawers on the front of the desk, opened it, and pulled out a three-ring binder.
The binder was labeled like the others he and Erik had found on the main level, but Mark quickly realized it had been updated. The first page was missing, judging by the words “Table of Contents—Pg. 2” scrawled across the top in handwritten text. He flipped throu
gh to the next section and started reading.
The book wasn’t what the Table of Contents listed at all. Instead, Mark found redacted communication files; letters sent back and forth between “GL”—Geo-Lab, he guessed—and another name that had been blacked out.
“What is it, Dad?” Reese asked, coming alongside him at the desk.
“I don’t know yet,” Mark answered, continuing to read. “It looks like this station was built for one purpose, then changed around for another purpose later. Whoever brought you here is in on it, but I don’t know what they’re trying to do.”
He flipped a page and gasped. The page he was reading was not redacted—it had been added recently—and it was a diagram of the research station, viewed from the side. The majority of the diagram was familiar to Mark, including the domed roof, the multiple levels each with a specific function, and the upside-down conical power plant in the center.
But it was the area around the station on the diagram that caught his eye. He read the captions aloud: “‘Crustal formations indicate weakened pressure points…’ ‘load-zone activation points…’ ‘trench convergence—focal point.’”
He scanned the pages following the diagram, confirming his thoughts. “Reese, my company did some work for the people that brought us here. At the time, it was nonsense—computer stuff, programming and developing, that sort of thing. There was a lot of it, but it all seemed unrelated, and they just needed to find a way to get it done right, quickly.
“But I recognize some of this now. At the time, it was all hidden in computer programs, split up enough that it was impossible to see what the big picture was. But here it is; all of it. The pieces, I mean.
“This—” he pointed out to Reese the large conical power plant, “was part of what my team was working on. It was all theoretical, though, at the time, and it was all numbers. We had no idea it was an actual analytical prototype for something of this scale.”
“What was it?” Reese asked.
“The project? It was a probabilistic model to determine the efficacy of centrifugal movement on a pressurized plane.”
