He took the job.
There was really no alternative. He'd lain awake agonizing over it every one of the seven ensuing nights, trying to think of some escape route that hadn't been tied up. He'd even made a surreptitious visit to the bank one lunchtime to find out what loans were available to him, something he'd never contemplated before – he and Joelle had always been united in their determination to save for what they wanted rather than borrow for it. As a result, their credit rating was excellent. The bank was willing, even anxious, to oblige. But even with everything they owned pledged as security, he still wouldn't be able to raise enough to pay off Faye's debts.
He told Joelle he'd been head-hunted, and did his best to act the part, though he'd never been a convincing actor in his life. He endured her delight and their families' congratulations and the ribbing of his soon-to-be-ex colleagues. He had leave owing; they went on a week's holiday to the Caribbean and lazed on the white beaches, and every moment he acted like he didn't have a care in the world.
He saw Faye for a few minutes at the party to celebrate his good fortune. They even snatched a moment in the kitchen while all the rest of the gang were out in the garden.
It was plain she knew something. For just a moment her façade dropped, and behind the bubbly young woman he'd always known there was a gray-faced kid with scared eyes.
Neither of them said anything. They just looked. But at a guess, she wouldn't be visiting any more casinos in the near future. That, at least, was some consolation.
If not much.
But for a while it seemed that the formless fears that haunted him from the moment he set foot inside Starfleet HQ were baseless. The job was everything that had been promised. His new colleagues were decent people, many of them friendly, all of them completely ordinary. The facilities were second to none; Starfleet could afford the best.
He'd wondered what such an organization would want from research along his lines of interest: the workings of the human brain. But of course there were stresses of a particular kind associated with space flight and its many new situations. Naturally they'd want to find out as much as they could of the ways in which these traumas could be treated. He was at first faintly suspicious and then slowly reassured by the appreciation that was shown for his skill. These people knew what they were talking about, and they cared about their subject. It began – gradually – to feel as though he belonged.
Nobody mentioned anyone named Harris.
A couple of months passed. The winter closed in. Rain flurries were blowing on the wind one afternoon as he went to the coffee machine to get himself a drink. Outside, the waters of the Bay were gray and choppy. The Bridge was only vaguely visible in the cold mist that had drifted in off the ocean.
He stood beside the window looking out, giving his eyes a rest from the intensive study of the electron microscope. They made good coffee here too. It was one of the minor perks of the job.
His pager went off. Idly he took it from his pocket and glanced at the small screen.
Take the elevator. Harris.
His throat closed up. With suddenly unsteady hands he put down the coffee on the windowsill. He hated people who just left things around for the cleaners to take care of, but right now he couldn't make himself do anything else.
"I've just been called away," he said to his supervisor, who was reading a report.
"Sure. See you tomorrow if you're not back by the time I leave."
"They didn't say." Amazing, really, that your voice can sound steady when your legs are shaking.
The legs might be shaking but they carried him anyway. He walked down the corridor to the elevator. Presumably, it was the nearest one.
He looked again at his pager. It hadn't specified which floor he should press the button to go to.
He got in. The door closed. The elevator started to move – downwards. Above the door the electronic display said 4,3,2,1,G,B … and then went blank. But the sense of movement didn't stop.
Needless to say, it stopped eventually. It was doubtless just his imagination that suggested it went on for several hours.
Harris was waiting outside, of course. A corridor led away, clean to the point of sterility, illuminated by strip lighting and punctuated by windowless closed doors.
"Good afternoon, Doctor Grenham." To do the man justice, he didn't smile. "I believe you've become very well thought of upstairs."
"They seem satisfied with my work," was all Marcellus could manage. He was looking at the doors, and his imagination was playing jangling discords on ill-tuned harp strings at the thought of what might be behind them.
"It's time for you to begin the second phase of your work for us," Harris said as he turned away. "Two subjects were brought in this morning. They'll be your patients. We've had experience with dealing with this kind of thing, of course, but it needs a specialist to be in charge. One who has your kind of talent – and your kind of mindset."
"So if you've had experience, what do you need me for?" he demanded.
A chilly glance slanted along one shoulder – even in here, the man wore black. "The last specialist got careless."
"What?" His feet stopped moving. "Just what the heck kind of 'patients' am I going to be dealing with here?"
"The dangerous kind." Harris paused. "Also the valuable kind. We don't want them damaged any more than they already are. Unfortunately, in their current state they're no use to us. Your job is to get them back to as close to normal as possible – except in one or two particular characteristics."
"And those are?"
The dark gaze slid away. "I think it would be useful for you to get a look at them. You'll want to do your own assessments. And one of them is going to need surgery. I hope your talents with a scalpel haven't gotten rusty."
"If you're talking thoracic surgery I might need to read up some." His feeble attempt at a joke fell flat into silence.
The sound of their feet echoed in the corridors. There might have been no other soul in the place. It was utterly soundless. Whatever was behind those closed doors was hidden and hostile.
There was no way of knowing how Harris identified one door from another. Maybe he was counting as he went along. Suddenly he stopped and pressed his hand to the scanning panel beside one that looked exactly the same as all the others.
Marcellus's already fast-beating heart jumped into his throat. He didn't know what was in there. But he knew he wasn't going to like it when he saw it.
And he didn't.
All reviews received with gratitude!