PROJECT ARCHIMEDES
A "Way of the Gun" Sequel

5. MACHINATIONS

Exact day unknown
An undisclosed location in the Federal Republic of Germany

"Shall we start again, Herr Grant?" asked the man in the charcoal business suit. He had pinched features, as though his perpetual expression was one of distaste. His dark hair, peppered here and there with touches of gray that seemed too well placed to be natural, was slicked back against his narrow skull. His eyes, small and shifty, and too closely placed, peered out from a pair of reading glasses that seemed a size too small for effectiveness. The man picked fastidiously at a perceived fault in his trousers as he sat primly on the other side of the cold stone desk.

Cold...

That described pretty much everything about the room, his captors, and his captivity. This entire prison facility, if that's really what it was, was kept five degrees too cold. Of course that would be Fahrenheit, no matter what these fascists called a proper thermometer. His guards were, to a man, silent and emotionless, but also firm and unbending in their severity.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Herr Bach," began doctor Charles Grant, casting a sardonic smile toward the other man, earning yet another sour look in return.

Grant reflected that this would probably cost him some pain, and probably soon. Whoever these guys were, they weren't playing by the rules as he knew them. Perhaps it was more a case in point that they were playing by the rules he knew, and not by everything he'd been led to believe about the newer and more forgiving West that he'd landed in. These guys were acting like wartime guards... His protests of United States citizenship and possession of proper identification had netted him absolutely nothing, and their utter indifference to his status was chilling to say the least.

He'd been seized while still in the hospital in Nuremberg. Two men in police uniforms had been escorting "detective" Adelfried Bach, had identified him, verified that his injuries were stable, and then taken him into custody. He'd been bundled into a low riding Mercedes that was waiting outside, with one goon accompanying him into the back seat, and Bach and the other goon stepping into the front. The windows were heavy and thick, so thick that Grant knew they had been bulletproofed. No ordinary cop car. That they had been dark enough to count as blackout shades and utterly blind him from seeing outside had been worse.

"Of course not, Herr Grant," said Bach in a pinched tone

Since then he wasn't sure exactly how long he'd been kept, but it had been a few days. He'd not seen a single window in the entire place. His clothing and possessions had been taken, and he'd been issued a formless prisoner's garment made of some sort of modern wonder-fabric. The materials these people in the future had were astounding sometimes...

Bach shook his head and peered at Grant as though he was trying to decide what part he should cut off first. At length he continued, saying, "We've been over the particulars of your associations in the last several years, mister Grant, and you quite simply do not check out. It is time that I level with you, I suppose."

"Well, you know a little bit of consideration might go a long way toward-" Grant began, but stopped as the goon behind him dropped a hand on his shoulder in response to Bach's eye twitch, and squeezed. It was not bruising force, but it hit on all the right nerves, and the pain was exquisite.

It was not his first lesson that these guys knew how to hurt without leaving a mark. If he was ever released there'd be no proof of abuse on his person.

"Mister Grant, please." Bach sighed and stood, starting a small pacing stride about the featureless interrogation room. "This is not the world you seem to think it is, and just because you claim to be an American does not mean that you are who you say you are."

He stopped, face twitching a little, then turned to look at Grant. "So let us cut the bullshit. Whoever you are, you're not Charles Grant. That man is a sham, a facade. Shall we recount what we do know about you?"

Grant twitched, trying to retain the cool demeanor that had served him so well in his days as one of his nation's chief scientists, one of the men who'd made this age possible, dammit! It was hard though, in the face of this cool impassiveness.

"We know that your life is a lie. You did not go to the schools on record, your identifying markers do not appear anywhere in the system prior to several months ago. Your supposed family does not check out either. Your financial affairs show either an alarming amount of foresight or a disgusting amount of luck, enough to be impossible, frankly, and we won't even get started on the irregularities of your blood. I am told that some of our more excitable scientists are convinced you're carrying a tailored pathogen."

At his shocked look, Bach simply favored him with a gimlet smile. "Of course we detected that."

Grant thought furiously. What was the man talking about? Was it the nano-bots he'd been injected with so many months ago, the ones designed by that beautiful torturess Doctor Blake? A pathogen?

"On top of that, your markers were found all over the scene of a murder at the Zeppelinfield Stadium. Statements taken from witnesses identify a man of your build standing alone as if waiting for someone. In the trash near the murder scene we find a hypodermic applicator with your prints all over it, and can clearly show it to be the murder weapon. What's more, the weapon contains dosages of a neurotoxin that are designed to kill in seconds."

This was the most Bach had spoken to him in many hours. The prior sessions had all been blank question and answer sessions, prodding and poking at him to weaken his resolve. This… this was something altogether more frightening. Bach was setting up a case to indict Grant as a terrorist, and doing it effectively!

"You can't be serious!" snarled Grant, staring at the German spook. There's no way this man wasn't an intelligence officer of some kind, no way! "I defended myself from that man, he was there to kill me, you moron!"

Bach smiled at him, unfazed by the outburst. The smile was cold, heartless, and didn't for a second reach his eyes. The demeanor was cold and reptilian. "Herr Grant. While your injuries suggest defensive wounds, the fact remains that the dead man checks out. Herr Jaeger was a respected man in his community. He had two children, which you no doubt are already aware, and a wife as well. They are in mourning now. His co-workers at the public transit union are no doubt wondering why anyone would wish to murder him."

He paused for a bit while Grant fished for words, then continued. "Put simply, you are a non-entity. Your existence is a lie, hence your reality his a lie. I suggest you consider quite strongly that unless you provide us with meaningful information, we have no use for you. We do not keep what we do not have use for in Germany, Herr Grant."

Bach stood back and motioned to the guard. The man helped Grant stand, and ushered him out of the interrogation room and into the rest of the secret prison at large. There was nothing emotional about any of it.

It sunk home then. Bach and his goons simply didn't care. That was the truly frightening thing about all of this. They had no emotional tie to it all. He'd seen that in how they moved and how they talked. If there were other prisoners they never issued a peep. These men would do their perceived duty and neither be thrilled nor repulsed. If Bach said "shoot him", the any goon at hand would pull his gun and put two rounds in his head. Grant wanted to throw up.

He was deposited in his cell, a windowless small chamber with a single cot and a prison style privy/sink and metal mirror. The light never shut off, he'd discovered, and was protected by wire mesh. Anything hard or sharp had been removed when he'd been given these formless garments.

Grant sat and put his head in his hands, and for the first time in what felt like a very, very long time, he considered praying.

Over the next few days, or perhaps just sleeping periods, Grant had time to explore his personal resolve.

Interrogation stepped up after that last meeting with Bach. The methods growing ever more strident, but their focus never waned. It became obvious what his captors wanted. Information and details that would direct them toward his supposed compatriots.

What a joke. The fact that he was telling the absolute truth that he was in no way involved with any shadow conspiracies only seemed to motivate his captors even harder to find out what he was hiding.

He had time to consider things in the moments that they left him to himself. It was after the first water-boarding session that he came to a few conclusions.

First, there was no way in hell he was giving in to these bastards! He focused his fear into anger, and his anger into hate, a burning core of emotion that he could keep stoked and hot, ready to pull on whenever he needed to deal with whatever they were throwing his way.

Second, he discovered a purpose. The last several months had been wandering and confusion. Who was he? What was he? A man out of time? A lost wast product from a past no one wanted? But this experience… these people. For all their vaunted civility their removal from the regimes he'd fought against with all his brilliance during the War was but one of degrees.

It was the third or fourth water-boarding session that put that one into place. He'd cracked a little bit then, given his real name, started talking about the nuclear programs in Los Alamos. His cursing and swearing that compared them to the Nazis didn't go over well, but he was beyond giving a shit at that point.

Whatever it was these monsters stood for, it wasn't worth it. They were going down the wrong roads. Bach and his cronies were just a symptom of it though. These people didn't deserve what they had. All built on the sacrifice of the noble men and women he'd known and fought for, these fascist bastards thought they were the rightful heirs of that generation. Ha!

He vowed after the first session of pain therapy that whatever he had to do, he would.

He'd completely lost track of the days, the hours, any method of time tracking. He hadn't shaved in what felt like weeks. His hair was a mess, he hadn't showered in days. It was their latest dehumanization trick.

He'd conquered the loud and discordant music with meditation and exercise, working himself into exhaustion too deep to be denied and focusing his thoughts with complex formulas and figures, working on some of the more advanced learning he'd picked up in Eureka and working solutions in his head.

When the door opened and the goon he'd named Max stepped in, Grant stood, ready for another round of their bullshit. He was surprised when the man took him to the showers instead of one of the torture chambers. Max, as dispassionate as ever, gave him a small plastic bag with several toiletries including deodorant, a razor, an apparently charged electric trimmer, and the works.

"Wasch dich" he said. Grant was to clean himself then. Not looking for the mandated trap, he resolved to take advantage of this moment to re-humanize himself.

He took a good long look in the mirror in the showers. If there was any place in this whole facility that gave over what it might have been once, it was these showers. White tile and half-round alcoves, mirrors made of polished metal, simple plunger operated mechanics that would be difficult to get at to make shivs out of. It had to have been at least two weeks, he decided. The hair on his face was about right. He'd been due for a hair cut before this whole mess started, now he looked like a wild man. The dark circles couldn't be taken care of, but, the rest.

He took his own sweet time enjoying the hot water and the sensations of getting clean. When he was done he felt once more, at least a little bit, like the debonair and suave man that lurked within. He cast a charming smile at the mirror and winked. "There you are, Doctor Grant," he murmured. Max showed up a while later with new clothes, still in their plastic bags, and Grant dressed himself in short order with a new pair of slacks and a belt, a sport jacket over a clean white shirt, dress socks and a pair of fine shoes. He disdained the tie, it wasn't his style.

Max and Milo, the other bruiser he'd been exposed to frequently, were waiting for him when he walked out of his impromptu dressing room, coat jauntily hung over one shoulder and his shirt sleeves rolled up, a polite and self-satisfied grin on his face. One of them was sure to belt him in the stomach in a moment, he thought, but he'd live it up as long as he could.

Neither man showed any interest in his attitude. "Go, auf diese weise," growled Milo, pointing down the hall. Grant shrugged and went where they pointed.

A few short hallways later he found himself in a chamber similar to one of the interrogation rooms, only there were more people than Herr Bach waiting for him. He almost lost his stride when he saw them.

The man he didn't recognize. He was a streamlined, middle-sized blond-haired fellow, but carried himself with a calm and surety that spoke volumes. It was like looking at Mason Hughes all over again. Whoever he was, Grant recognized the signs that said "this man is very dangerous!"

Even so, he barely had the presence of mind to take all that in when he saw who that man was escorting. She'd been impressive to look at the first time he'd met her, but now she looked utterly stunning. She didn't have the same exotic heritage that had made Allison Blake such a stunner, but there was a classical beauty to this woman that took his breath away.

"Beverly," he breathed. In the flesh. Beverly Barlowe…

Her long brunette hair was coiled over one shoulder, her flashing green eyes lively. She was dressed in what you could loosely call business attire, though she made it look more like a model's attire than a serious business woman's.

She smiled at him, a calm and reserved expression, but he noted a twinkle in her eye that denoted a genuine happiness. Her escort only had eyes for the twin mountains guarding Grant.

Mister Bach cleared his throat. He was looking decidedly nonplussed. The reptilian features were turned into a frown, and this expression was reflected in his flat eyes. "There you are, Ms. Raines."

His voice was sharp and harsh, almost angry. The atmosphere in the room felt as though a stray spark could ignite it.

She sniffed disdainfully and walked toward Grant as the two guards backed off a little, surveying him. "Malnourished, exhausted, razor burns… Are you sure you're running a prison Herr Bach? He looks more like a camp detainee."

"Do not pretend to tell us what to do here, Ms. Raines. We are allies, not your subordinates." His voice was brittle. His eyes reflected a raw hate that Grant hadn't seen in the man until now. True, he'd been getting more and more agitated as Grant held out, and the inconsistencies in his stories had made the man even more frustrated, but this raw anger was new. Grant decided that the best course of action was to remain silent.

Beverly completed her survey and walked back to her escort, her gait one calculated to draw attention to her… ahem… assets. Every man in the room, save her escort, noticed.

"Mister Bach," she said, "My opinion hardly matters here. The agreement is made and the prisoner is ours now." The smugness in her voice wasn't concealed well, and Grant recognized a weapon when it was deployed.

Bach seethed. He took a moment to master himself and nodded sharply, once. "Go, then, before I decide that you never showed up here at all."

That made her laugh, and Grant had a sudden fear that she was itching for a fight. "I don't think you'd want my man here to decide you were threatening me, mister Bach."

The escort didn't do much more than shift, but his presence in the room suddenly magnified. His attention now firmly fixed on Bach with a dispassionate, dehumanizing gaze. It flicked briefly to Milo and Max, as though the man was calculating how to maximize his efficiency at butchering everyone in the room.

Beverly smiled without the least humor. "Are we settled, then, mister Bach?"

Bach stiffened, stood up straight, and nodded sharply. "You may go. Thank you for your visit Ms. Raines." He turned and left through the door that the twin goons had pushed Grant through.

Beverly smiled with more warmth at Grant. "Trevor" she said, a pleased tone to her voice. She extended her arm to him. He hesitated for only half a second before stepping forward and hooking her arm in his, as though he were a gentleman taking his lady on a stroll.

"Ms. Raines," he greeted. "If I may say, it is a distinct pleasure to see you again."

"Always the charmer, Trevor." He couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or not.

The escort moved to the other door, and in short order they were outside a facility somewhere in the rural countryside.

The only question in Trevor Grant's mind at that moment was had he been released, or just gone from the frying pan into the fire?

Disclaimer: I don't own Eureka, it's characters, or its concepts, I'm just playing for fun and an educational experience.

Author's Notes: I've been writer blocked on this story for a week. Every time I tried to get going on something it seemed like crap. I finally decided to see where Grant was holding up and what was going on in his life, and things are moving again. Some music and some drinks, and time to get writing I guess!

Let me know what you think, and as always feel free to speculate. I really appreciate reviews, as they help me keep my focus on the story and let me know what you all like and don't. I realize it's perhaps a bit early since everything is still in the set up phases, but all the same.

Also please don't take Grant's situation to be anything more than the situation he's in. I'm not making a comment on Germany in specifics or anything political myself, just setting up Grant for his own views to have an impact.

I hope I got the German right, I'm relying on Google Translate for that!

Thank you for reading!