An Unknown Variable

an Earth: Final Conflict fic

Revelations

Arnold Creighton headed back to the good doctor Okuda, the wheels on the IV pole announcing his arrival with their squeaking. Dr. Okuda scowled as he returned, "I was prepared to come after you," she grumbled.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Creighton tried to smile but the moments of pain as Okuda helped him back onto the bed made it difficult, "I got a question though. You seem like a sharp lady- you really think you want the new order these people got in mind to actually happen?"

Okuda paused for a moment- but only a moment- before her scowl went even darker, "Before being a part of this cell I was a relief doctor in parts of Africa where child-slaves dug up diamonds which their jailers sold to fund their little wars- so yes I do have a vested interest in helping things on earth change."

Creighton opened his mouth, but stopped short of saying anything, somehow he felt his words would fall on deaf ears. Besides he was still injured and further annoying possibly the only physician on the moon seemed a bad idea.

A few days passed before Creighton's convalescence ended. He moved about the base unhindered except for several rooms barred by armed cell members. Eventually he followed the sound of voices to the chamber where he had seen earth from a distance through the window. Now that window functioned as a computer screen of sorts. One of two lieutenants flanking Saberhagen saw him and touched a console causing the screen to go blank.

"Stephen…" Saberhagen intoned.

"We're still not sure of his loyalties," Hamill hissed.

"And we are not likely to gain his loyalty by treating him like a leper, are we?" Saberhagen turned to face the scientist.

"Never works when I try it," a failed attempt at wit on Creighton's part.

Hamill sighed then turned the console back on. Creighton walked over, Saberhagen introduced his other lieutenant- a dark-skinned youth barely into adulthood as Suresh, their 'sensors and communications officer'.

Creighton looked to the large screen. It displayed several live feeds including a room occupied only by Taelons, including one widely recognized as…

"Zo'or?" he turned to Suresh, "You've bugged the Mothership?"

"And resistance headquarters," Suresh beamed, "Also a few Taelon embassies." the youth's smile faded, "except their base on the other side. 'Closest place to us but something about it always shorts out our eyes and ears in under an hour."

Beneath the feeds was what looked like an x-ray of an installation seen from above, including a storage area filled with- "What are those?"

"Micronuclear bombs," Saberhagen answered, "Not like that crude, homemade one we used to fake our annihilation. I've decided we have greater use for the devices then those who currently have them in their possession.

"We could teleport them out in one go but the energy output would be noticed all the way past Saturn. So we're having some counterfeits made. When we switch them one by one, the real devices will be held in a warehouse belong to one of our growing mass of sympathisers."

Creighton raised a brow, "And do these people have any idea who they are sympathising with? Any of them?"

"They know they support an alternative to subtle servitude to aliens or the same servitude to corrupt plutocrats and so called spiritual leaders. Speaking of choosing one evil or another, the Republican and Democrat leaders should be speaking now."

Suresh brought up two feeds side by side, one of American president Thompson, another of Jonathan Doors. Doors was in mid-sentence, essentially saying how he represented those of humanity that saw through the Taelons' lies.

"Of course he'd think the states is the only country on the planet whose opinion matters," Hamill grumbled, "Arrogant prick."

Saberhagen, upon hearing Hamill's words, found himself reflecting on an encounter from the previous year…

Hidden under a church in District of Columbia, rested the nerve centre of the resistance movement; where Saberhagen conferred with other agents of the cause including the late William Boone, their prize mole in the ranks of the enemy. Boone asked him, "So you're also on Doors' board of directors?"

"With the title of custodian of confidential information" he replied, "In other words, secret keeper."

Boone sounded intrigued, "So your job is to hide the skeletons in his closet?"

"Pretty much- if there was a single closet big enough to hide all his skeletons," Saberhagen chuckled, then noticed the surprise on Boone's face, "What, you think you're the only one who doubts the boss man's intentions? The reason I signed on to this army is to be in a position to do something in case he turns out to be Castro to the Taelons' Batista."

A realization shook Saberhagen back to the present, "There's something I have to do." before he walked away.

Creighton turned to Suresh, "He do that often- go off on his own like that?"

Suresh shrugged, "You get used to it after a while."

Back on Earth's surface in Resistance headquarters, Doors strode to his little office. Since announcing his aspirations for presidency many in the resistance- his resistance- had started grumbling about his being fit to lead; and he decided it might be best to go, but not before removing any sensitive information they really didn't need to know about- in his estimation at least.

Upon reaching the office He was shocked and angered to see the computer on- someone was already downloading its contents! Doors moved to shut it down, then froze when he heard a familiar voice.

"I'd advise against that Jonathan, you might not come back from the dead so easily a second time," Saberhagen stepped from the shadows aiming his skrill at Doors, "You really should've taken my thumbprint off the access list."

"Didn't see the point, you were supposed to be vaporised." Door's grumbled.

"And you were supposed to be the champion of the resistance," Saberhagen chuckled, "But that doesn't seem to be working out either from what I hear. But you adapt; so what if you're kicked out of your little private army? You win this election, you get a real army, don't you?"

"A better one than that pathetic gaggle of revolutionaries you've rallied," Doors sneered, "Didn't wonder how anyone as brain-dead as Taelon volunteers would manage to find out where your cell was based?"

Saberhagen's face darkened, "What are you saying?"

"I knew you turned those under you against me so I anonymously tipped the companions off to your location. I cut off a finger to save the hand- a weak, vestigial, useless finger-"

A blast from Saberhagen's skrill dropped Doors, stunning him and cutting off the rest of his mocking words. Saberhagen seethed over the body of his betrayer, "I should obliterate you period- but that would raise too many questions," he retrieved the now full data drive, "But don't worry old man, your day of retribution will come," before teleporting back home.

On Saberhagen's return Hamill, Creighton and several others approached him with questions and concerned looks.

"It was him," their leader muttered, "That bastard Doors… he told the volunteers where to find us."

This revelation even took Creighton aback, "You sure about this?"

"He said as much TO MY FACE!" Saberhagen clenched his hands into tight fists.

Multiple jaws dropped, "He spoke to you?"

"He knows you're alive?"

"What if he tells someone?"

At this moment Captain Lili Marquette helped up a slowly recovering Doors, "You alright Jonathan? What happened."

Doors started to speak, but realized Saberhagen was long gone, and from Marquette's words no one else knew he had been here. He considered telling her the renegade still drew breath- but if they searched for Saberhagen the bastard would probably let himself be caught just so he could have the pleasure of letting slip things he hid for Doors over the years- things that even the resistance would fight for the chance to crucify him over.

"I… I fainted." He grasped the desk to steady himself, "Low blood sugar."

Lili crooked a brow but asked no questions. As she left Doors couldn't help but look around- suddenly every shadow seemed to hide the spectre of someone he delivered to the hands of the enemy. Someone thirsting to strike back.