Evil Intent
Chapter 3
Back on Atlantis…
McKay rubbed the heel of his hand against his aching eyes. He stared again at the security footage, all indecipherable snowy static. Whoever had taken Sheppard was good. And he did believe John was alive. Scans had not found any organic traces indicating that he might have been…vaporized or something equally horrific. Some clues had been gleaned from video which had been recorded from beyond 50 feet on either side of Sheppard's door. No one had been loitering in the corridor. Of course, they hadn't expected to see anyone; a transporter was conveniently located within the zone where the cameras had been disabled. What they had seen was a flash of light – beaming technology? – reflected off a hallway wall panel that had a metallic finish. But, since no unusual energy signatures had been detected entering or exiting the City, then where was Sheppard?
Somewhere on Earth…
"So, Mr. Nash," drawled John, with a grin he hoped masked his mounting anxiety, "since this is all starting to sound like an Austin Powers movie plot to me, do you think we can jump to the point where you, the overconfident villain, tell me your nefarious plans so that when I escape later – and I will – I can defeat you? Because you sure as hell didn't bring me here all broken down into molecules just to show off. Where do I fit in?
"You won't escape, John." Nash said quietly. "And you can't imagine how you 'fit' in.
Well, Sheppard wasn't about to stick around and find out. Nash's men had released him from his chair and now they were all headed toward…what? Time to make his move. His captors had already made two critical mistakes, if they didn't want their prisoner to escape: 1) wherever they were taking him, he wasn't going there drugged; and 2) his wrists were handcuffed in front of him.
He scanned the corridor, desperate for an edge – and saw something. Just up ahead was a wall-mounted, emergency shower, the kind found in hospitals and research labs and operated by a pull-cord, to be used in case of chemical exposure. The building he was in was abandoned, but the utilities had been turned on, including the water (John had been allowed to use the toilet). Overhead were large banks of fluorescent lights; a few chairs and other furniture were pushed against the walls. At the end of a hall was a door marked "EXIT" which undoubtedly led, if not outdoors, then to some stairs and some distance between him and the bad guys.
One goon walked ahead of Sheppard; two were flanking him along with Nash; and the fourth bodyguard was taking up the rear. As they neared the shower, John elbowed Nash – the guards had made the mistake of allowing the older man to be closer to him than they were – and Nash fell heavily backwards into his men. John yanked the water-release for the shower, then grabbed a chair and threw it up as hard as his cuffed hands could manage at the lights. Sparks, metal framing and hot glass shards came shooting down. Sheppard took off running, strategically knocking over a filing cabinet in his wake as the other men struggled to regain their footing and bearings in the wet, darkened and debris-ridden hallway.
At the end of the hall he slammed into the exit door – thank god it was unlocked. Inside the stairwell his eye caught the floor level's designation - Sub-basement. Upstairs was the way to go. Handcuffs chafing at his wrists, John pulled himself up one flight of steps then another, trying to keep his balance without the benefit of unrestrained arms. He heard the clang of metal as his pursuers ran after him. The first and second stairwell doors he got to were locked, but the third opened freely. Yes! Now, if he could find some adequate cover, something to use as a weapon, he could –
"Uhnnh!" Sheppard cried out as a heavy weight slammed him against the wall. He grabbed the metal door frame as best he could and used that leverage to twist his body and deliver a solid kick that sent the guard to the ground. As a second man attacked, John smashed him in the head and down the stairs, his cuffed hands acting like a powerful club. He turned to run out onto the open floor – but he had misjudged the force of his kick on the first man. That guard reached out and caught John's ankles, bringing him down hard. John's hands scrabbled desperately at the carpet as he tried to pull himself away. But then his legs were pulled down over some stairs; his feet then no longer had anything to push against, and he was yanked even further away from the open door. He cracked his head on the edge of a stair. Dazed, he wasn't able to protect himself as Nash's thugs kicked and beat him into submission.
Sheppard was half-dragged, wet, bruised and bleeding, back down to the sub-basement. They soon stopped in front of a large double-door secured by locks which could be released only with fingerprint and retinal scans.
The door was nothing compared to what lay behind it. In the center of the cavernous room sat a large object, of Ancient design and roughly the size of one-car garage. John flinched, not just at the sight of it but what emanated from it – the same unsettling sensation, but much stronger, that had creeped him out back on Atlantis. It now seemed apparent that the device Lorne's team had discovered was indeed a component of something larger, and more sinister. John could see that the whatever-it-was had several niches in it that were about the size of Atlantis's artifact. Only some were filled.
It also had three other compartments, each disturbingly large enough to hold a person.
SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA SGA
"Let's start again, John" said Nash smugly. Sheppard was bound to a metal chair that was bolted to the floor. Leather straps secured his ankles, wrists, and chest. Blood oozed from a gash above his right eye, and his clothes were torn and dirty.
"I've got time to hear more about your nefarious plans, if you want? I don't seem to be going anywhere at the moment." John looked Nash straight in the eye.
Nash grinned. He walked over to the Ancient object.
"I acquired this last year. I have contacts in the Stargate program who sometimes redirect items to me if they think I'd be interested. Items which conveniently stay out of official inventory logs."
"The machine's quite fascinating, actually, especially since it takes considerable…commitment…from the gene carriers to operate it."
Oh, this wasn't sounding good, thought Sheppard. And what did he mean by gene carriers…who was supposed to fill the other two compartments? He already knew he had a reservation.
"Enough with the set up, Nash. What's the damn thing do!?" He hadn't meant to snap like that; Nash was really getting on his nerves.
"Basically, it's a prototype developed by Ancients who wanted to create non-traditional, and less lethal, weapons. Fully activated, it would have directed a neural energy pulse at the enemy – in space or on land – which would have stimulated anxiety, fear, and panic. You know as well as anyone, John, that an army can't function effectively if its confidence is shaken, if it's not a cohesive unit, physically and emotionally."
"The device was never used, as far as we can tell, though. The Ancients were concerned that the technology could be abused, turned into something that could go beyond influencing behavior to actually controlling it."
"But you have no such qualms," said Sheppard, going out on a limb, "so you and the U.S. military are picking up where the Ancients left off?"
"On the contrary, John. I have no interest in letting our, or anyone else's military, know that this technology exists."
Huh?
Nash took in John's puzzled look with amusement and continued. "We've figured out how to concentrate that manipulative neural energy, program it, and download it into virtually any hand-held electronic device."
"I'm a businessman, John" Nash said. "The people I want to influence are competitors, bankers, lawyers, politicians. Think about it! I want a bill passed – or not – by Washington. All it costs me is a few hundred music players emitting a subliminal message. Why pay lobbyists when I can just hand out ear buds? I want to discredit a competitor's innovation. A few tablets later, and their anxiety-ridden R & D staff have blown up a lab, killed patients in a drug trial, or neglected to file a patent. A CEO's phone is making him feel suicidal; the next thing you know, he jumps out a window, the company's stock plummets, and Nash Industries scoops it up for pennies on the dollar."
"And it all meshes perfectly with our dematerialization technology. Embarrass a rival by putting him in a room with a call girl and a photographer. Disgrace a liberal politician when they're found in bed with a child. Destroy the competition by crushing the innocuous device that's imprisoning him with your shoe."
Nash was red-faced and sweating. Sheppard was certain that he himself had gone quite pale.
With so much to digest, he couldn't form much of a response. The best he could do at the moment ask, "Who are the other two "lucky" gene carriers that get to help me operate your wonderful machine?"
"Let me introduce you," said Nash, tossing a Nintendo onto Sheppard's lap.
(I hope the tech talk sounds plausible! This is, after all, science fiction. TBC.)