A/N: Once again, here comes the flood of apologies about my distinct lack of publication. This time was entirely of my own doing, however. My schoolwork had taken a turn for the worse a few weeks ago, so I went on a temporary hiatus of all reading, writing, and reviewing anything on this site so as to bring my schoolwork back on track. Everything seems in working order, now though, as is likely evident by this publication. So now, just in time for Easter, I give you chapter 9! This is my gift to you in order to celebrate the day that Jesus made his apostles find a bunch of eggs hidden throughout the Middle East so that he could turn them into thousands of fish and loaves to feed a good Samaritan who had helped and old farmer find his estranged son, who had left home to find whether or not he should build his house on rock or sand. It's true. All of that is in the Bible. But this is a secular society, and nobody wants to be inundated with information regarding Chuck Norris on a regular basis, especially not here. So, without further ado, I present chapter 9!
Chapter 9
Flaming Sword of Eden
The shuttle shifts subtly beneath my feet as the garden world existing as an omnipresent object in the sensors extends its gravitational reach outwards, wrapping thin, invisible tendrils around the small ship, drawing us ever closer inwards. Corey sits across from me, head bowed forward slightly, a blank expression plastered across his face, contemplating. I role my wrist around, the joint cracking slightly as I do so, still somewhat surprised that I haven't been chained in place, or physically restrained in some fashion, considering I've been struck many times over with the distinct feeling that I may not have made the greatest of first impressions.
My thoughts are quickly shattered, however, as the striking image of Eden Prime slowly fills the holographic projection screen against the wall of the shuttle. Green forest adorns the surface, clustered heavily beside streams of crystalline blue which trace lazy, twisting fingers around the globe. Even from our distance, the peaks of rocky crags can be made out against the deceptively Earth-like backdrop. I feel my breath catch sharply in my throat, the sheer awe imposed by this slowly revolving world rendering any decipherable speech absent.
"Quite a view, isn't it?" The voice startles me for a moment, cutting through the silence, the sound echoing about far louder in contrast to the empty stillness that had permeated the ship nearly completely than they would have given a different circumstance.
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure words won't effectively do it justice," I respond after a brief moment of hesitation, searching for some hidden trap beneath the question, distrusting.
"That's one of the benefits of being primarily stationed on Eden Prime," he says, a thin smile gracing his face. "I'm still waiting for the catch."
The silence resumes its fervent hold on the atmosphere after his statement, the moments passing in our separate, silent, solitary contemplation, the commanding presence that looms outside the window seeming to watch our movements within.
I feel as if I have heard the name of the planet somewhere before, the reason for its apparent familiarity just escaping my faculties. I strain to think back to the game I had played so long ago, struggling to remember the details, the names, places, locations, but it all remains painfully elusive. The game I know existed is now beyond reach. Finally given the chance to relax in what seems a momentary peaceful seclusion, my thoughts slowly begin to turn from the game to the rest of the world I had so long existed contented within, happily ignorant of any further levels of existence. With growing horror, I slowly find myself only able to conjure an inky black, past images once so familiar now beyond any form of recognition.
For a moment, the ship rocks nearly imperceptibly, the pull of gravity joined by the almost invisible light emitted by the tractor beam as it freezes the shuttle in its place, the descent now slow and controlled, a modicum of calm and order cutting through the endless chaos.
Our steady approach quickly ceases in the harsh grinding of metal as we are pulled tightly into a docking station. No use in taking up unnecessary space is evidently a common mindset, shuttles and ships packed like sardines into the relatively cramped location, each vehicle having only enough room to open its doors. Corey stands up quickly as our own flight settles neatly into its allotted area, stretching his back after the cramped, albeit short, travel. My own movements mirror his own.
The door slides open, accompanied by the slightest hiss, nearly indecipherable from the surrounding ambience. Warm air drifts lazily inside, imploringly me to sit back, allow the first breeze I have felt since waking up in this strange, evil world to caress my face, drift off into a comfortable sleep.
But my wishes are left un-granted as Corey rushes me hastily out into the docks. The space reserved for patrons, that already not occupied by the hulking metal that presses in from all sides, even overhead. Utterly surrounded by the hulking, artificial beasts, I feel more at peace than I have since waking. The cool air caresses my face, clean, without the choking sterility of the starships. My breathing begins to slow, falling into unconscious ease at even the slight familiarity, relishing the moment, as short-lived as it might prove.
I follow in Corey's brusque footsteps, the harsh echo of the heavy tread all the more noticeable in the quiet that surrounds us. Acknowledging the absence of seemingly any population, I tentatively speak up. "Excuse me," I begin, a hasty 'Sir' added almost immediately afterwards. "May I ask where everyone happens to be on this lovely day?" The note of sarcasm seems to go either unnoticed, or is tactfully ignored.
"Eden Prime never has had one of the busiest space ports. Most of these ships are used by the Alliance. Once a colonist settles here, they generally aren't populating the space port to go on tours of the Milky Way. First off, if you want scenery, there aren't many locations that can give you better than you can here. Secondly, once you pay for the trip to get out here, most people aren't going to have the money for a nice little weekend excursion.
"So, this is a public port, but it's essentially only used for military?"
"You could say that. Although, things in that department aren't exactly overused either, as is hopefully evident," he replies, gesturing around the empty terminal. "Actually, the Alliance base here is generally pretty static, too. We, the elite defenders of this great planet are just put on a rotating cycle that changes about once every 6 months. We were just on our way to switch out the currently stationed unit, but needless to say, they aren't going to get the R&R they were planning on. I'm only here to escort you to a temporary holding cell here before we figure out your official verdict. I think it's fairly safe to say you'll get off without a hitch, even if they don't trust you around ships for a while."
"I can't say I'll be disappointed if that comes to pass."
Once again, silence throws a veil across the world, the only remaining sound the breath of the wind against the machinery, and the distant cries of some alien bird. Left alone to my thoughts once again, I try to force the obscured memories to come to the forefront, try to remember something, anything about my apartment, my school, even my family, but it all remains hopelessly out of reach. A tight knob builds up inside my throat as my struggles remain devastatingly fruitless. Who am I? Even that last night, immediately before I arrived in this place, is slipping away even as I try to desperately to cling on, like water through my fingers. And then, even that is abruptly gone, leaving behind only the knowledge of its prior existence. Every single memory I can still retain is from the last 24 hours.
What the hell is happening? My breathing quickly sharpens in intensity, the air that was moments ago liberating now bears down with palpable weight. The calm silence is an antithesis to the adrenalin that has begun to flow in my veins; the panicked energy incapable of righting the situation merely taunts me with my own helplessness. Who am I? The question returns, haunting in its incomprehensibility. I attempt to seek solace in telling myself the answer is just outside my grasp, on the verge of total recall, but even I, so practiced in the art of convincing myself of my own lies, can't trust the words, that it is more elusive than that, that my past may forever no longer be even a memory.
"Hey! Are you okay?" Corey's voice is impatient, exasperated. "Why aren't you answering?"
I hastily mutter an apology, hint at a distraction of unspecified origin, and let the silence once again engulf the area, the relaxed, lazy still replaced by fragile glass, capable of being shattered at the slightest provocation. We continue our progress forward, and I am suddenly aware of nervous glances cast my way over his shoulder, subtly, Corey's eyes darting away as soon as they catch mine. But the looks are there. No matter how he may portray it to seem, there is no companionship here, forgiveness still not given without irreparable proof of my innocence. Still, based purely on the circumstances of the situation, should I really be able to think anyone would believe any different?
I don't know how long we've been walking; it can't have been for any extended period, the main Alliance base being directly connected with the ports for quick mobilization if needed, as Corey explained it. However, I have no way of judging anything at the moment. Thoughts buzz, waspish, each begging for my complete observance, none earning it in its desired entirety.
The fresh breeze is all too quickly replaced by one cold, almost metallic. The jarring sound of footsteps, voices echoing down tiled, sterile passageways clash jarringly with the sleepy peace found just a few steps behind, irretrievable as the sliding door seals us off.
One of the pairs of footsteps separates itself from the rest, drawing nearer and nearer, the noise now distinguishable from dozens similar. The tread is brisk, measured, the steps sure but not heavy. The figure to which they belong appears around the corner, eyes lighting up, but the rest of her face retaining its natural assuredness.
"Well, well, if it isn't Miss Ashley Williams," the man beside me says, allowing his own face to break into a smile. "If I didn't know better, I'd say it looks like you're here to give me a welcome back!"
"It's a good thing you know better," she responds snidely, raising her eyebrows in gentle accusation.
"Have you met our esteemed guest?" Corey asks suddenly, sarcastically, turning both of their attention on me.
"I don't believe I've had the pleasure." Ashley's words are cold, menacing, backed by hardened steel. "Although, we've received the transmission from the ship. No one here is all too happy about his arrival." The statement is accentuated by a violent jerk of her thumb in my direction. "Not to mention the fact that we're going to be stuck on this planet for at least a portion of another cycle before the replacements arrive, now."
"There are worse places you could be stuck," Corey paints out matter-of-factly. "Quite honestly, I don't think I would mind taking shore leave here, if I didn't associate it with work. And as far as that goes, it's better than most places. We don't have to constantly worry about full scale attacks, even if it is on the edge of the Terminus systems, considering nobody wants a war with humanity at the moment, after we proved ourselves against the Turian Fleet. Really, the only action we ever see out here is the occasional pirate attack. Personally, not having to worry about constantly getting shipped out to die every other day is a damn good deal."
"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I'm not going stir crazy," she replies.
"Out here, in the open air?" Corey questions incredulously. "You'd prefer to be stuck on a starship?"
"At least then I would know I'm going places. But that's just a wish right now. You know about Shanxi."
Corey nods his head regretfully. "Yeah, it's bullshit. But you'll get out of here, end up somewhere important, maybe finally get the conservatives who run so much of this place over the stigma they have with your name."
"Good luck. Nothing happens here that could possibly be misconstrued as anything remotely of interest on more than a local scale."
"Alright, fine!" Corey says, raising his arms in defeat. "I'm only saying to give yourself a little more credit. Unless something's drastically changed since I was here six months ago, most everyone on the base considers you one of the more capable here."
"Which says a lot," she replies sardonically. "We both know the extremes the higher-ups go to sending the cream of the crop out here."
"If you're going to be defeatist, there's nothing I can do to change your mind. If you aren't stubborn, I don't know what is. And I need to escort him to the holding cells now, anyway," Giles responds, indicating myself, the slightest note of frustration discernable in the very nearly imperceptible raise of his voice, the almost unnoticeable crack in speech.
I can feel the weight of a thousand stares as we progress in tense silence, some peering curiously, others casting daggers across my body. My eyes fall resolutely upon the brilliantly white, tile floor beneath my feet, yet paying it no attention, focused on the hateful glances I know all too well have not been diverted.
When we finally stop, any sense of my internal direction has fallen by the wayside somewhere amidst the plethora of corridors. Before us stretches a wall of vacated glass cells, identical to the ones aboard the Johannesburg.
"I thought you said somewhere along the way that I'd probably be getting off scot free," I say, the words sounding more bitter than I am accustomed to, but no less than I intended.
"I didn't say you were already cleared," Corey snaps back. "If you're in a court trial, they still hold you in prison before anyone comes to a verdict. Better to keep an innocent in prison for a few weeks than have a serial killer walking freely down the street before an impending court date."
"Am I really going to be stuck in there for weeks?" The bitterness has suddenly been replaced by incredulity.
"Of course not, that was just an example. I think it's reasonably assured that any form of jurisdiction is going to be timelier on a relatively small colony than back in all those saturated courts of Earth. Although, if what I've been told of your story is true, you'd already know enough on that." I can only nod absently in response, already beginning to anticipate what is to come. As Corey ushers me inside the waiting the room, I am struck by a final, closing thought.
"Is this just going to be like any trial?"
"Again, of course not. The trial was just an analogy for the length in the holding cell. We don't exactly waste resources by keeping a justice of the peace on a military base. Something tells me that would be distinctly less than efficient, and out here, efficiency is one of the many names of the game. In the end, it's really just going to be some people analyzing some data, and looking at some evidence before we decide whether or not we let you go or stick you in a maximum security prison."
"Well, at least a maximum security prison is certainly preferable to a bullet in my brain."
"I think it's fairly evident that things would be just a tad less hostile, if not sunny, than on a ship that just saw the death of a fair share of crew," he responds. "But I'm not here to discuss particulars with you; I have places to be."
The sound of Corey's exiting footsteps is abruptly extinguished by the cell door sliding into place, the motion containing a certain finality.
Several hours pass by, in both a moment and a lifetime. Bouts of anxiety intertwine with periods of crushing boredom, the small room devoid of even a clock to check the resolute march of time. Everything has spiraled out of control so quickly. I laugh spitefully at the thought almost as soon as it crosses my mind, the notion that I had even a semblance of control at any point in these fucked up events utterly ridiculous. I lay my head back against the pillow, head sinking into the material, hoping I can somehow get a few winks to bore through the tedium. Almost as soon as I allow my eyelids to drift close, I hear the sound of the door sliding open. Of all the time I could have been interrupted, now is the chosen moment? Just as I'm about to find some form of tranquility, however temporary and superficial?
I lay still, refusing to change position unless explicitly ordered.
"Mr. ********, please don't keep us waiting."
So much for that brilliant plan.
"Just when things were beginning to lose excitement!" I say brightly. "Please check your bags at the door. Thanks for stopping by, and stay classy, San Diego."
"Mr. ********, kindly cut the bullshit. We have things we need to get done, and I'd rather get them over with, if it's all the same to you."
"Ah, coupling the formality of a respectful title to make a vulgar juxtaposition seem all the more jarring in the same sentence. I applaud your work, good sir!" I wait, but receive no further response to the words. The man remains, however, waiting expectantly for my physical acquiescence. Finally, I oblige.
As the new man traces back the steps travelled several hours previously by Giles and I, finally diverging in a new direction, I now ignore the looks cast in my direction, memorizing every facet of my surroundings, filing the information safely away. A hallway that branches off in three separate directions, each ending in a gaping mouth, from which people trickle forth, the crowds too empty to be designated a stream. Turn right into one of the channels, the arched roof towering aloofly far overhead. Lighting permeates every square inch, casting all faces under an inescapable ocean of luminesce, all appearing pale and flat, sickly. The slightest sound rockets away down the corridor, slowly fading echoes quickly replaced by ones nearer. The walls are devoid of ornamentation, the ceiling just as absent, the only objects present a series of sprinklers. When would a place like this ever see a fire? Everything seems to run as a well-oiled machine. Unless the oil itself caught.
The doors that line the walls are placed at perfectly even intervals, the design seeming more suitable to an ancient office building than a fully operational military base responsible for the protection of an independent human colony. Most of the doors are closed, blinds drawn across the small glass windows. The ones that remain uncovered seem to house an excess of assorted machinery, gears, and wires, and metal pipes.
We stop outside one of the hidden doorways. The man gives a single, sharp rap, the entry opening promptly. Inside, a middle-aged man in a business suit stands waiting. He seems trapped in a state of perpetual anxiety, eyes never focused on a single location for long. He shifts his stance from one foot to the other, brushing the greasy hair that falls across his right eye aside, the gesture seeming unconscious. Everything about him is thin, from his legs, to his chest, to the gangly arms that extend awkwardly from his shoulders. However, when he speaks, his voice his calm, assured.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen. I'd comment on the weather, but I haven't had a chance to step outside as of yet." He nods to the man beside me. "Thank you, Mr. Brooks, you may return to your normal duties." The tall man pauses briefly before adding, "I hope your time as an escort hasn't affected you on too personal a level." Brooks's mouth purses slightly around the edges, but he remains silent as he turns and exits. The man's attention turns to me, locking the door as he does so. "I apologize for that innuendo. Mr. Brooks detests such breaches of protocol, and I don't imagine he would have departed quite so readily in any other event. As unfortunate as judging a person on sight may be, I don't think it's come as any great surprise that you're held in less than the highest esteem. I fear I wouldn't be able to conduct my work in peace when someone with that attitude is keeping watch over the entire proceedings. That, and I find it frightfully abhorrent to have someone peering down my neck in any situation. Quite uncomfortable." He looks at me expectantly, as if waiting for a response.
"I…I wouldn't know; I don't think I'd call myself the most work-centric individual imaginable, in all honesty." I stumble at first, taken aback by the man's straightforward, even polite manner. Nice to know there's at least one person who doesn't come across as an utter douche. Not that I can exactly blame them. After a moment, I mentally add Corey to the list, as well. Looking back up the man, a question suddenly strikes me. "The Alliance lets you grow your hair like that? Almost everybody I've seen here has buzz cuts, and you look almost like Steven Wilson. I intend that as a compliment, mind you," I quickly add.
"Well, I can't say it hasn't ruffled a few feathers, so to speak, but the colonels who run the majority of the show technically don't have true jurisdiction over myself, as I'm actually not a working member of the military. They like to pretend they have control over me just as most of their other soldiers, and for the most part I let them have their way. If there's one thing I've come to appreciate about these military types, it's that they despise anyone who operates in essentially the same field without having to submit to their jurisdiction who doesn't happen to immediately rank as their superior officer. So they like to play as if they are my CO, and I generally make concessions to keep the peace, but sometimes I just have to exercise my blessed separation."
"What are you doing here then, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I'm technically working for the Alliance, but am separate from it." My confused look prompts further response. "But I can explain further as we work. Enough time has been spent in idle conversation that can be achieved just as efficiently in the process of progress."
He steps around the small desk that takes up a full corner of the cramped room, mumbling something about it being marketed as "cozy," as he slams his elbow roughly into the wall. The man squeezes through the small crack between the desk and the room's end to lead me down a small hallway that plays home to several more doors, each one standing ajar.
He leads me to the second, halfway down the hall, the interior home to several small chairs and medical apparatuses, as well as a multitude of cabinets, stacked nearly floor to ceiling against the thin wall. "They really need to give a person room to spread out," he gripes good-naturedly. "If a man's home truly is his castle, I'm terribly glad I reign elsewhere. And I truly hold reign, as no woman has had the decency to come along and usurp the title of liege. But my general ineptitude for typical social interaction is not the point of your appearance," he continues brightly. Standing on his toes, he rifles through one of the cabinets before proudly withdrawing a small needle, the attached vial empty.
"I'm first required to provide you with a blood test, to verify the results received on the Johannesburg, to clarify that you, in fact, do not exist. If that is the case, than I can sincerely promise that this won't hurt in the slightest. If, however, you are not an apparition or vivid hallucination, than this simply won't hurt any worse than you would initially expect it to."
As the needle enters my arm, I stare transfixed as the small, hollow tube rapidly fills with the thick red fluid, the sight casting me into a trance. Suddenly, I remember the unfinished conversation. "So, how is it that you both simultaneously work and do not work for the Alliance?"
"Ah yes," he answers, drawing the needle from my arm and inspecting its contents. "Follow me. I have to analyze this. I'll explain in the lab."
The lab lies within the furthest door, following the pattern of the two rooms previous in its size, a bank of computer screens and monitors aligned neatly against the back wall, the organization a stark contrast to the haphazard display of materials from whence we just left. He slides the canister of my blood into a small terminal; readings immediately begin blurring across the screens at an incomprehensible speed.
"So, while we wait to see the nature of your existence, the least I can do is inform you of mine. In actuality, I'm a simple Earth man; nothing more, nothing less. I've spent the duration of my life there, save for these last couple of years. Up until then I worked in a medical clinic in Toronto. Then one day, a riot broke out in the streets; I'm not sure of the exact cause, I never had the chance to stay and see. I just know it escalated inordinately quickly, and some of the military was called in to put it to rest. I daresay the fighting was a tad more brutal than they had anticipated, and pretty soon, all the medical practices nearby were crowded with patients, mine being no exception. The one in which I worked was actually situated relatively close to where one of the drops of Alliance men had been, and naturally, the majority of visitors were of that nature. As it was, an unusually high percentage of those admitted returned out again in fine form. I still maintain that they had the most support in the immediate drop zones, and therefore the injuries I had to treat were much less severe than those faced by others, but statistics are statistics. I was offered a position of working a clinic on an Alliance base here on Eden Prime, a location provided by them but still technically as a private enterprise, for an increase in wages, and a fully paid flight. And being no less susceptible to the promise of money than any other man, naturally I accepted, and here I now remain. I simply follow higher commands from those specified in the contracts, while still retaining a small amount of independence from their system, as well."
He is cut off as a beeping resonates from the wall, his curious glance met by a blank screen, with a single message displayed across it. No match identified.
"Well, it would seem the reports are true. There are indeed phantoms living among us." His voice is perplexed, curious. "How is it that you've managed to escape all possible detection and records for the entire extent of your life thus far? I can honestly say I've never before been confronted with this situation. It's quite fascinating really. However, based on the fact is that I'm supposed to obtain information regarding your true identity, and as fascinating as it would be to try to figure out the solution for myself, I would genuinely appreciate any help in accomplishing the task."
"I don't know anything more than you do," I reply, almost apologetically. I sincerely want to help this lone man from Toronto, but good will does nothing to make the answers any more forthcoming. I hesitate before finishing the statement. What should happen if he turns out less of, if not an ally, than at least somewhat understanding, than he appears? Still, he is separated from the Alliance, so the attack most likely wouldn't affect him as directly; keep him from being immediately out for my blood. But if it's all a ruse to plant those thoughts in the first place? Oh God, I can't keep second-guessing myself. I breathe in deeply, crossing my fingers that he takes my words at face value, at least. "I have no idea how I wound up here, and," I pause one last time before plowing through the words without a chance to think, stop again. "And I don't remember anything from before that. I know I did at first, but it's like my memories of everything from more than about a day ago are disappearing. I can still recall certain things, media, news events, movies and music, but nothing that relates specifically to my own experiences. I remember September 11, but I don't know where I was, or what I was doing at the time, my reaction, anything. I can't even picture my family." Hearing the words spoken adds a distinct finality, as if now that somebody else has heard, there's no returning to the way things were. Before, it could have been merely temporary trauma, excusable as just a trick of the mind, a temporary slip. Hearing the words eliminates any possible attempt at further denial. I am alone, my world is gone, replaced by this hell of explosions and hostile stares. For the first time, I finally begin to doubt any hope of return, any chance to recall those obscured faces that represent the people I had once known, now lost and beyond reach.
"Well, this would appear to be quite the dilemma," he says after a moment's pause, a trait I can immediately recognize as surprise. "I'm going to choose to take it as you say for the moment, the 'innocent until proven guilty' scenario, but speaking truthfully, I don't think you'll find the same unconditional acceptance of the fact that you'll find in here. So I would assume this means you and I are going to be seeing quite a lot of each other to get these tests done."
Suddenly, he cocks his head to the side, listening to an absent sound. At least, absent momentarily, the noise soon making itself known to me, as well; a faint tapping so distant it's hard to tell whether it even exists.
"I'm sorry," the man answers resignedly. "I loathe being interrupted in the middle of my work, but it sounds like it's coming from up front. I shall return momentarily."
Just as his foot touches the hallway outside the door of the minuscule laboratory, the alarms explode. A piercing shriek erupts through the still, the man looking around in a sudden panic, before seeming to remember my existence. He gestures wildly at me to come forward, his mouth moving rapidly. The words fail to reach me.
Through the harsh wails, a mantra is continually repeated by a robotic voice. "Dr. Mikonen, please evacuate."
We stumble blindly out into the hall, where a sudden influx of Alliance soldiers has flooded the hallway expectantly, awaiting orders. Before they receive them, the room explodes in a barrage of fire and breaking glass.
A/N: Credit song: Nobody's Here - Devin Townsend
http :/ www. youtube. com/ watch?v= 1NMjGEQo5iI
