"A scientific genius I may be, but I cannot solve the impossible, and I cannot
solve this!" He threw the collection of sheets across the room, scattering them in all
directions. His assistant cowered behind a clipboard and a few pens. For a brief
moment he lifted his gaze above the clipboard, and was greeted by a Russian snarl of
disgust. "Why can't we activate it? I have tried every compound I can think of.
Neuropeptides, RNA, all of the pituitary gland's emissions, even adrenaline. I can't
get the STAQ energy to activate."
"What if it's not a compound? What if it's genetic? A
difference in the structure of part of their brains?" The assistant, also a genius in his
own right, still quivered slightly as the professor raised his hands above his head.
"I'm sorry, Dieter. I shouldn't have snapped. But we
have been here for more than two weeks, with absolutely nothing to show for it. I have
the UN Science Committee crawling around looking to cut our budget." The younger
man nodded. "All we need is some more results. I'm going to look into the midbrain
next. We've only studied differences in the frontal lobe, so far. Maybe the midbrain is
the answer. If we can understand why these two people are different to everyone else,
then we can set about replicating their condition." The old professor sat on the edge of
his desk, crumpling a few loose sheets. The assistant cleared a few papers from the
nearby chair and perched himself on the end.
"Where should I put these?" He held up the papers for
him to see. Zakharov shrugged, and with a sweep of his hand, motioned at the rest of
the office. Dieter Kiefer looked around at the piles of papers, random heaps of notes
and ramblings, and general disarray that any respectable scientist's office looked like.
He shrugged, and dropped the papers on the floor.
Squall lay on his bed, his arms weary. The gunblade was heavy, over thirty pounds,
and it took strength even to lift it, never mind swing such a thing through the air. But
then that was why he trained. For hours he sparred with students, practising
manoeuvres, honing the skills he would need to fight. Then he went to the Training
Area, and battled T-Rexaurs one after another. He knew that his luck would
eventually run out, and one would get him. He no longer took backup with him when
he fought them, and if one of the monsters hit him just right, Squall wouldn't stand a
chance. Maybe that's what I want.
It was hard to explain the despair. So much training, so
much effort and here he was, languishing in his room. His gunblade was propped up
against the wall, not even sheathed. What's the point? I doubt if I'll use it
again. World peace, whilst having its advantages, was not very good for
mercenaries. Training for the worst was so much easier when the worst was on the
horizon.
He shifted position, facing the wall. Still in his thoughts,
he chose to ignore the buzzer, hoping that whoever it was would take the hint and go
away. After the fifth time, Squall decided to answer it. Squall padded across to the
door, his feet tingling as he went. It's Selphie. It has to be Selphie. Nobody is more
insistent than... "Selphie! I never expected you." Squall turned and retreated back
into his room, feeling safer in the half-light.
"It's half-five in the afternoon, Squall! Get up! Or at
least, open the curtains. Are you some kind of vampire? Come on, let's go get
something to eat." Selphie bounced towards the door, then stopped. "Come
on. Or we'll be late."
"I am not hungry, Selphie. Go away." Selphie pouted for
a second, then bounced up and down.
"Let's eat already. If you're going to be like this, you
have to go to bed earlier." Squall avoided eye contact, instead looking at his bookcase.
Harmann's Guardian Forces, The Complete Works of Dialeo, Economic
Structures in Modern Galbadia? I have such a bad taste in books.
"If you haven't noticed, that's what I'm trying to do."
Squall tuned out Selphie, and went back to his books. I'm sure I put these here just
to look good. Is that vain? I'm not shallow. I don't care what people think. Dimly
aware of something, he pulled back his head to find Selphie dragging at his limp
body.
"If I have to drag you to the cafeteria, I will." I
remember something in one of those books on passive resistance. I'm fairly sure she
won't do it. "FINE! If you don't want to come you meanie, I won't drag you
there." Very useful. Now leave me alone. "I'm going to find someone more
active." With that, Selphie bounded out of the room.
The room fell silent. Squall strained to hear the ticking
of his wristwatch on the table. Anything to tear him away from the boredom of lying
here. I don't want to stay here, and I don't want to move. Maybe it's just company
I'm not after. The library is a great place to not meet people.
"What did I tell you? The one thing I expressly forbid, and you go and do it!" The old
doctor leant against a piece of metal he was using as a wakling stick. "You are too
overzealous to be a real archaeologist. We should have studied the discs first."
The woman breathed, composing herself. "I spent my
time at university studying the relics of past eras, of civilisations that are distant
memories, only present in the artifacts that we dig up, and the monuments that stand
as reminders that we are all that we were. It is instinctual to want to see first-hand the
evidence, especially when you can see the faces of the people whose skeletons we find
every day on these expeditions. You can examine your plastic, kick pieces of tin
across dust-filled rooms looking for that one piece of archaeological wonderment.
Why should we not glean all that we can from these ancient people?"
Dr Brimston stared at the woman. "Yes, well. What did
you get?"
"They seem to be some king of log. A person named
Zakharov is making them. I haven't made out what he is doing yet. Although he
doesn't seem to like something called the UN Science Committee. I need to watch
more of them to get a better picture of what he's doing. Shall I carry on?" The doctor
grimaced.
"I suppose you'll have to. But it will be you that makes a
full report to the Archaeological Council."