Harris received the news philosophically.
"You needn't worry," he said, shrugging as he laid down the PADD containing the report. "We'll take care of the autopsy and everything. She'll be listed as killed in an accident. Nothing will go on your record."
Marcellus hated him for that. As if his damned record was the only thing he cared about!
He hadn't been in his employer's office before. Unsurprisingly, it was cramped and dark. The shadows enveloped old-fashioned filing cabinets that looked built to withstand everything bar nuclear fission, but at a guess they were all empty. That would be Harris's idea of a joke.
"I'm sure you did your best," he went on indifferently. "We expect to lose at least one out of every two we send, so pulling both of them through would've been a bonus. At least you saved our little explosives expert."
"Saved him for what?" Marcellus spat. "Your damned killing program?"
"If necessary, yes." Another shrug. "Oh, and by the way. This was by way of a probationary period for you. On reflection, it's been decided that your services will no longer be required in our little … project. We need someone who's a bit less … idealistic, if you know what I mean."
"Oh, I know exactly what you mean." Relief sang through him, utterly intoxicating. He felt as though the weight of the world had rolled off his shoulders. No more hiding from his peers, no more lying to his wife, no more brutalizing helpless patients. It would cost him his job, but hell, he'd find something somewhere. Something in which he could take pride, if it was only sweeping the streets.
"We'll regard the little business for your niece as a goodwill gesture," Harris continued with a negligent wave. "As for your job, you'll understand we can't really keep you here. It would make things … awkward."
"I understand that," said the doctor grimly.
"Nevertheless, Doctor, it seems you've made quite an impression upstairs. Starfleet is reluctant to lose someone with your talents altogether. There's another job waiting for you if you want it: one of our smaller outfits wants to set up a specialized research center upstate, and they'll need someone to head it."
Marcellus regarded him distrustfully; a regard which appeared to amuse his employer, insofar as he was capable of feeling amusement. "And before you ask, this is not some kind of 'pay-off'; I wouldn't give a damn if you were left to beg your bread in the streets." His boss's voice had hardened. "You're getting this offer because you've earned it and the people concerned admire your work. Luckily for you, they walk on the sunny side of the street. You'll fit in there just fine."
"How come they've heard of me?" he asked suspiciously.
Harris grinned. By some trick of the imagination, the grin seemed to take on a life of its own and float in the air, some eight inches above a stainless steel dish with three sugared almonds in it, under an angle-poise lamp on the desk. "Starfleet isn't all secrets. We know the value of shared information as much as that of controlled information."
"And suppressed information." He thought of the labs underground, and the many other closed doors that were still closed, with who knew what – or who – behind them.
"That too." A nod. "You'll still function under the confidentiality agreement that you signed, of course. As well as the one we didn't ask you to sign."
They both thought of the photograph on the PADD. Neither of them was crude enough to mention it.
"For what it's worth, I think your work will benefit a great many people," Harris added dispassionately. "Maybe one day even someone who works in my department."
"Somehow I doubt that. But I hope so." Marcellus rose to his feet. "About Malcolm…."
"You needn't worry about Malcolm. We have people taking care of him now." The reply fell with flat finality.
Taking care of him. Yes, it was easy to imagine how they would take care of him. Psychological assessments and subtle manipulation, grooming him for his new life; easing him away from whatever was left of his humanity.
"He's a good man," he said suddenly, not quite knowing why he did so, or even how he knew it. "You won't keep him for ever."
Harris nodded again. "Maybe not. But wherever he goes, he'll be one of us."
For a while, perhaps. He didn't say it, though. He just tucked it away into his heart, the way a man tucks away a spare currency note into an unused zip pocket of his wallet so it'll be there on a rainy day. For all that his experiences here had saddened and in some ways soured him, he had an almost infinite belief in the durability of a man's integrity.
Much later, he stepped out of the building into the windswept chill of an early December evening, carrying his few things in a box. His departure had been sweetened by the genuine thanks and regrets of his team, and by a look at the prospectus for his new place. The despair of his latest foray was slowly being replaced by hope, which had always come more naturally to him.
Nevertheless, for the man whom he was leaving behind, down there in the floors below the basement, he felt a genuine sadness. He would have liked to have gotten to know him better.
Maybe it was for the best that he was leaving. It would have been horrible to have met him one day, in a corridor or somewhere, and seen that once vulnerable face locked permanently into the coldness of a professional killer.
Momentarily he slowed his pace. He was seized by the irrational urge to run back, to race shouting down the corridors, to yell out to all those ordinary, well-meaning people in there, 'You don't know what's going on under your feet'…
But it wouldn't save Malcolm.
Only time, and maybe a miracle, could do that.
With a sigh he started walking again. And almost bumped into a couple who were also crossing the plaza, so deep in conversation they nearly didn't see him till it was too late.
The guy was tall and rangy, with fairish brown hair under which a good-looking face was alive with passion. He seemed to be arguing a point with his companion, who was petite, Asian, and extremely pretty. She, by contrast, was composed, though her eyes brimmed with amusement.
"Jon, you know it wouldn't work out. Be honest. You're wedded to that test program of yours."
"But teaching in Brazil?" His voice rose in incredulous indignation. "You could damn well take your pick where you wanted to teach! Harvard…"
He watched them go. They'd hardly even been aware of his existence, which struck him as extremely funny, considering they'd almost mown him down.
Driven, dedicated people in a driven, dedicated organization. He mustn't forget that those characteristics most aptly described what Starfleet was, and for the most part in a good way, dedicated to the advancement of humanity's knowledge. And he was going to go on working for Starfleet. Even a man who had no use for him acknowledged that he could contribute to the ongoing quest, and that in itself was a fine thing.
He walked across the plaza.
It was time to go home.
The End.
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