Chapter 1: Aftermath
The air conditioning unit clicked loudly in the morbid silence of the conference room, coupled with the dull bubbling of the water cooler which sat stationary in the back corner, having never been used. The only other sounds in the room were the occasional shuffle of feet or the rustle of paper. Occasionally somebody cleared their throat, or shifted position in the deeply padded leather office chairs. The room was painted a uniform cream colour, although most of the walls were covered with plaques, scientific papers and conceptual artistic images.
A long glass-topped table lay in the middle of the room, and ran for almost twenty feet before it ended just before the glass walled exterior of the building, which overlooked the spectacular cacophony of colour which streaked across the sky as the sun dipped below the horizon. Thirty chairs were arranged at equal intervals around the table, with a single slightly larger chair positioned at the head of the table, opposite the exterior wall.
In this chair sat an elderly man in his late seventies, dressed in a business suit and had a long walking stick propped against his thigh. The tip of his cane appeared to be some form of beautifully cut orange crystal orb, in the centre of which lay an entombed mosquito, its limbs frozen in place, perfectly preserved. He sat very still, his elbows planted on the tabletop, his fingers interlocked, politely observing the people before him.
Along one side of the table sat a group of casually dressed civilians, in varying states of temperament and injury. There were two men in their late thirties, a young woman in rimless spectacles and two children.
The first man sat stiffly, wearing a checked shirt and a fedora cowboy hat, which he neglected to remove. His face bore a lack of expression, as if he were suppressing his feelings towards this situation.
The second was reclining in his seat slightly, the beginnings of a semi-amused smirk playing on the corners of his mouth. He was dressed entirely in black, matching his thick growth of hair atop his head. One of his legs was bandaged, and sported a long splint, causing the man to sit somewhat awkwardly, with his injured leg positioned slightly out to the side.
The woman leaned against the table, slouched forwards slightly in her chair, her dirty-blonde hair cascading down into a pool on the edge of the glass. She looked tired, and stressed.
The two children a boy of nine and a girl of thirteen, who sat impatiently, their eyes flicking back and forth to each of the adults in turn. They were both covered in little cuts and bruises, but otherwise they looked ok. The boy swung his legs under the table, and seemed eager to be involved with the situation. The girl however simply looked bored, and chewed her lip with her arms folded.
On the other side of the table however the occupants of the chairs contrasted brilliantly with the civilians. There were three men dressed in expensive grey suits who sat up as straight as their spines would allow and were slowly reading through several stacks of paper which sat within leather briefcases. Next to them sat a heavily built man in his fifties, with a bristling moustache and a crew cut, dressed in somewhat ragged clothing. A cigarette hung loosely from his lips. He too was reading, although he merely had a single sheet of paper of in his hand, and seemed to have read it several times through already.
"So," said one of the suited men finally, a middle-aged, balding man, "the island remains."
"Pardon me?" said Alan Grant, staring coldly at him.
"The...animals; they're alive?"
The civilians nodded silently in unison, all eyes fixed on the suited officials opposite them.
"Then the island is still viable," said another of the suited men, a weedy man in his twenties, seemingly exhilarated by the concept of what he was talking about.
"Absolutely not," said the elderly man at the end of the table, "that island is off limits to anybody and everybody."
The three men stared at him for a moment, and the balding man glanced at the survivors opposite them, and appeared to make a decision to let the matter slip in their presence. He merely nodded minutely, and looked down at the sheets of paper before him for a moment.
"Donald Gennaro, investor representative; deceased," he read out, "John Arnold, chief engineer; deceased. Dennis Nedry, chief programmer; deceased. Robert Muldoon; Park Warden; deceased."
He looked up from the paper at the survivors opposite him, who all sat up a little straighter and grew visibly tenser. The children bowed their heads, looking upset and uncomfortable. The elderly man cleared his throat loudly at the sight of the children's distress, but the balding man took no notice.
"These people had all been subject to non-disclosure agreements, and were required to devote a large proportion of their time to their jobs. As such their families are now suing InGen for...generously proportionate sums of money."
"I don't see what this has anything to do with us," said Ellie Sattler, frowning, "we've already said the same thing to officials and InGen representatives over and over."
"Indeed you have, Dr. Sattler, but I would like to get the facts straight here and now with the survivors present. Now, you are sure that these employees are deceased?"
They all nodded again.
"There is no chance that they may still be alive?"
They all shook their heads.
"Then the island must be returned to its original state immediately if InGen is to survive this catastrophe," he said.
The room was suddenly filled with cries of outrage.
"It should be destroyed!" said Grant, getting to his feet and leaning over the table. "That island is dangerous, it always was."
"Of course, I appreciate the gravity of your situation, Dr. Grant. But please, sit. We would not undertake such a venture lightly."
Grant stared at him for a second longer, before slowly receding back into his seat, taking a deep breath.
"The loss of human life and the potential threat to the public is very much a concern of the InGen board of directors, but the fact remains that there are hundreds of millions of dollars worth of property on that island. The issue of how to deal with the situation is still controversial, but I am confident that it will be resolved in due time. Now, you have all been summoned here to remind you that the non-disclosure agreement that you all signed before visiting the island still stands, and that you all receive compensation for any inconvenience caused by this incident. Thank you for coming; there is a helicopter on the roof of the building waiting to take you to Newark International Airport."
The survivors stood up, with the exception of the elderly man, who merely turned in his chair to them and nodded curtly. Grant and Sattler walked towards the door, looking angry and grateful to leave the room. The two children hurried over to the elderly man and hugged him fiercely.
"See you, Grandpa," they said and then followed the two scientists out of the door, although the boy looked back as he crossed the threshold of the door, as if he wanted to stay behind in this serious conversation.
The man dressed in black however hung back for a moment, and turned to face all of the men in the room. He limped slightly on his injured leg, and grasped the head of the nearest chair for support. "Don't think that any non-disclosure document will keep me from telling the truth. You're not covering this up, John."
"Of course, Dr. Malcolm," said the elderly man, smiling up at him, "I wouldn't dream of it."
"That is yet to be seen," said the balding man, adjusting his thick spectacles on the bridge of his nose.
Malcolm looked at the elderly man for a moment, and nodded. He lifted a crutch up from beside his chair, and walked towards the door.
"Thank you again for coming, Ian, I'll be seeing you" called the elderly man politely.
Malcolm waved his hand in recognition as he ambled towards the door. "I'm sure you will, John," he called back, his voice echoing back to them as he retreated down the corridor, "Chaos has a way of repeating itself."
John Alfred Hammond smiled to himself distantly as Malcolm's voice faded away, still spouting his characteristic quirky remarks as he headed after the others. He turned to the four men before him, who were now closing their briefcases in a business like way, and stared back at him.
"You really have done it this time, Uncle," said the balding man. "This incident is going to cripple InGen if we don't act now."
"Yes, Peter, thank you" said John Hammond quietly, turning his cane in his hand slowly, staring down into the orb of amber at the tip of his cane. "But that island wasn't meant to be. It was my dream, but it was so badly executed. People died. InGen cannot reclaim that island, I will not allow it. And besides, they will not stand for it," he said, nodding towards the door, indicating the vacated survivors. His voice travelled clearly through the room despite the fact that it was barely more than a whisper. There was still the adolescent energy in his voice, just as there always had been, but it was now scarred, sorrowful.
"Yes, how do we deal with them if they babble to the press?" said the third of the suited men, speaking for the first time. He had a neat, organized haircut, and he had a definite air of being immaculate. "That Malcolm character looks risky."
"Easily taken care of," said the balding man, Peter Ludlow. "We pass him off as simply lying, discredit him. His field is laughable in the eyes of the public. Mad scientist raving about new technologies and all that; you know how it is."
Hammond slowly rose from his chair, and ambled across the room, leaning on his cane, stopping at the glass outer wall. He looked out at the New York skyline, a million tiny lights emanating from the windows of surrounding skyscrapers. The sky was pink, and from his position on the top floor of InGen headquarters he could still hear the distant honk of vehicle horns far below, and sighed as he caught sight of his reflection against the pink sky. He was an old man; this situation was beyond him. He heard a dull whine filter through the thick glass as the helicopter rotors rumbled to life one floor above them.
"We're not discrediting anybody, Peter," he said, "And that island needs to go."
Those animals were a miracle of nature. His dream; his creations. But this incident wasn't going to go unnoticed for very long. It had to be destroyed.
Ludlow shook his head.
"Sorry, Uncle, not this time. That island is priceless as far as the company is concerned. Nobody touches it until we get what we need."
Hammond whirled around, his temper rising instantly. "What is the meaning of this? Lest you forget, this is still my company."
Ludlow remained calm, spreading his hands. "Nobody will be harmed. We send in a small team, heavily armed, no risks. They go in, recover the data from the control system's memory banks, and get out. Quick and easy; then we can destroy the island."
"Sorna. There's still plenty of data on Sorna. It's our factory floor for Christ sake; Nublar was just a showroom."
Ludlow shook his head. "Sorna is being evacuated as we speak; bad weather. I'm being told that it's possible that nothing will be left afterwards. Nublar is vital at this point."
"It's too dangerous. It's unbelievable that we didn't keep any of the data off of the islands somewhere."
"Yes, well, you wanted to make sure there was no chance of espionage. Not that it helped in the end. But that research data is priceless. If we're to have any chance of saving the company, we need it."
Hammond stared out of the window as the black silhouette of the helicopter soared overhead, flying out towards the sunset, getting smaller by the second. He nodded silently to himself.
"What do you propose?" he said.
Ludlow turned his head to the side slightly, a small smile forming on his face, looking up at his uncle. He almost looked as if he were inquisitive, wondering how much information to share with his superior. "Let me worry about the details," he said finally. "But rest assured."
Ludlow walked along the corridor outside of the conference room alongside the scraggily dressed man, who had remained silent throughout the meeting at his request. The two other suited officials disappeared off to their offices, and his uncle remained behind in the conference room, staring out the window as the sun set.
The dim light streamed down from the strip lights mounted along the ceiling, and the thick carpet deadened the sound of their footsteps.
"How long until you can depart?" said Ludlow, maintaining a steady pace along the corridor.
"If everything goes according to plan we can be ready in two weeks," said Steven Haynes, stroking the stubble on his chin. "We started organising the moment I got off the phone with you last week."
Ludlow shook his head vehemently. "No, everything has to be ready within three days."
Haynes laughed. "You're in a real hurry, we can't possibly..."
"Listen," said Ludlow, "we're on the clock here. The Costa Rican's informed the US military about the incident, and they're worried. Our lawyers are keeping them at bay as best they can, but this isn't a battle we can win. They're seeing this as a threat to national security. They'll destroy it the first chance they get."
"Well, it'll be very expensive to get it all done in time," said Haynes, scratching the back of his head uncertainly.
"Whatever it takes, get it done. You read the personnel list?"
"Yeah, I read it. What do you need Wu for?"
"He's the chief geneticist, most familiar with the data files, seeing as he supervised most of them. As you may have guessed we're all about speed at the moment."
Haynes nodded as they came to elevator door, and Ludlow he pressed the call button to go down. He heard a hum from the inside of the shaft as the cables groaned to life.
"Just to get one thing straight here; we give no quarter, right?"
Ludlow nodded. "Neutralise anything which gets in your way."
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open, and their ears were filled with quiet, slightly annoying music. Haynes stepped into it, and turned around, pressing the button for the ground floor.
"And Haynes," said Ludlow.
"Yes, sir?"
"Protect Wu at all costs," he said as the doors slid closed.
