A/N: I got this idea from one of my favorite sci-fi novels, Leviathan by James Byron Huggins. If you want a book filled with intrigue, danger, sci-fi, technology, mad scientists, government experiments running amok and deeper meaning? That's the book for you. As always, I hope you enjoy this story. Please review! Joe's (attempting) to make cookies for those that do! ^.^
Prologue
"I figured it out."
The old man, looking frailer by the second, took in a deep, wheezing breath, the only sound, ominous in the silence of the confined quarters. Beside him, kneeling beside the gurney, a younger man – perhaps twenty or twenty-one – remained silent, letting the sickly man grip his strong, calloused hand in a withered, pale one. Brown eyes stared at glassy blue ones, blinking slowly. The old man could see the calculating, the raw intelligence rushing behind those dark eyes, and he knew that he had made a good choice, for certain, in confiding in this young one. A cough racked his skeletal frame, and he turned his head, if only to avoid the pained look he knew would break those eyes' firm concentration.
"I figured… it out." The elder moaned quietly, closing his burning eyes as he lifted his face toward the ceiling. The grip on his hand tightened, and he cracked his eye again, knowing that each and every time he let his lids flutter closed, the other would worry that it would be the last time he ever did so. But he wasn't about to go; no, not until he had passed everything he knew to this rising genius.
"I knew… too much…" he rasped, looking earnestly up into the face that looked upon him with such respect and concern. "I would not… comply. They had to be rid of me… They won this round."
Dark brows furrowed, and the youth's shoulders went rigid. "What are you talking about?" The normally strong baritone voice was but a shaky whisper.
"You must beware… They know. They know!" He tried to grip the unblemished hand tighter, but could not summon the strength. Unblemished… save a single scar across the back… "They will try to take it from you…"
The youth's brow furrowed deeper. "Take what, Wit? Take what?"
"I have passed this project… to you… in my will. They will find a loophole… They will try to take it from you. But you must… you must remain… strong. Do not… Do not let them…" The old man's eyes grew wide, and he gazed at the younger man with steadiness that surprised even him. "They do not care… They do not see the dangers; they have blinded themselves! But you… You know… You see… Stop them. Before… it's too late…" He took a deep breath; he felt darkness looming over him.
The young man gripped his hand tighter, urgently. "Wit! What do you mean, the dangers? I don't know what you're saying!"
"Frank… Stop… it… before…" Breath escaped him. The room exploded in a waterfall of darkness, and light. He was lifted, flying, singing…
~HB~
The funeral hadn't done him justice. Not by a long shot. None of the details inscribed in the will were followed, not even the transporting of his body back to the States. 'Too risky', they said. The Feds. 'People will ask questions.'
Frank clenched his jaw. Of course they will, when he supposedly died of a stroke after he'd been perfectly healthy all his life. Never suffered a heart attack, never had issues with blood clots, never struggled with weight, blood pressure, or diabetes. Dr. Whittaker had been the healthiest person Frank had ever known. He new how to take care of his body, no matter its age, and he'd been sharp as a tack and twice as plucky just the day before he died. And then there were the warnings of his dying breaths…
It didn't make sense. Who had Wit been talking about? Who would try to find a loophole?
Who would try to take it?
Frank sat quietly beside the blank headstone, on the Surface for the first time in months. Minutes could turn so easily to years in the depths of the world, away from it all, away from the sun and the moon and stars. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to have the sun pouring down on him like pure gold from heaven, to feel the rush of the breeze as it combed through his hair, cooled his skin. He plucked at the grass beneath his folded feet, under his jean-clad knees.
Jeans. Seemed like forever since he'd strayed from the accepted iron-pressed slacks, dress shirt and lab coat. Jeans and T-shirt felt… good. Loose. Casual.
Free.
Just as Wit had said, and stated so in his will, the position of Lead Scientist had fallen to Frank after the funeral. Much of the staff had taken it with ease, but… There were those select few… Those who sided with the government. 'The position is not a transferrable one' they claimed. 'It is a government position, and will be filled with one whom the government deems deserving.'
Bologna. Wit had been suspicious of them for a reason… Now it was up to Frank to find out why.
After all, whether it had ended up as his chosen field or not, a Hardy was a Hardy. And no matter how hard he tried, when it came right down to it, a Hardy could never resist a mystery.
