After the tall, greying man who had been questioning him stood up and left without a word, Nickeli settled into his chair, content to doze for the brief window of time he had before his interrogator returned or someone arrived to collect him.
A few minutes later he snapped awake to the sound of the door opening and watched as a trio of soldiers wearing grey armor and mirrored helmets shuffled into the room. Under the supervision of the same officer from docks, who the corpsman recognized by his unfailingly polite tone, he was in short order placed in handcuffs, lifted from his chair by both arms, and walked out of the interview room. Irritatingly enough, they hadn't brought his boots back, leaving him to plod through the halls in his socks
They were met in the corridor by a fourth soldier who looked over the restrained marine before giving a slight nod and heading down the hallway. The other three guards followed with Nick in tow, giving him an opportunity to examine the facility he had been brought to.
The corridor, populated by a handful of people wearing collared shirts who gave the four-man detail a wide berth, was wide and tiled in slightly off-white. Surveying the whitewashed ceiling and bright lighting, the corpsman found himself feeling oddly unprepared to be walking the halls of what seemed to be an ordinary office building.
When their windowless shuttle had arrived, his escorts' polite façade had vanished and he'd been hastily pulled from the craft, searched, and hauled into the room to be questioned. He wasn't sure what he had imagined he'd find beyond the confines of the austere chamber, but it certainly hadn't been office space.
The group came to a halt at an elevator and quickly packed inside when the doors opened. Nickeli was placed in the middle of the lift while the four soldiers positioned themselves around him—two against the rear wall, one by the controls, and one in the near corner.
The officer tapped at the orange panel on the wall and the car lurched slightly as it began to descend. The elevator's other occupants rode in silence, though when the soldier at the controls shot a look to the pair at the back wall the corpsman realized they were probably speaking over their internal radio. Every slight movement Nick made drew the attention of the helmeted guards, reminding him that he was still under tight scrutiny.
It was at that point that the medic became keenly aware of the burning itch on the tip of his nose, drawing an irritated groan. Scrunching his face and wiggling his nose trying vainly to satisfy the itch for a full minute, a hand closed around his handcuffed wrists and forced them upward as he tried to scratch his nose against his shoulder.
"Spread your feet." The soldier holding his restraints commanded sternly, tired of the marine's fidgeting.
Trying to turn to look over his shoulder at the armored woman behind him, Nick began to protest. "I'm just trying to—"
He was interrupted as the soldier swiftly placed her boot against the inside of his right heel and swept his foot outward, forcing him into a wider stance with a pained hiss. The move drew glances from the other occupants of the elevator, but no comment.
The itch on the end of his nose still teasing him and his bandaged ankle throbbing anew, the private bit back a colorful remark, letting an angry rumble slip between his gritted teeth. He was getting damn tired of being manhandled.
Nick spent the remainder of the ride staring daggers at the door in front of him and when it finally parted he was quickly ushered out of the lift by the pair of soldiers nearest the door. The halls of the new floor were undecorated and empty, and from the walls hung thick, dark-colored panels that interspaced the numerous doors. The detail, now reduced to two, guided Nickeli past rows of the numbered doors, the heavy tread of their boots echoing through the empty corridors.
"This one," The officer said, indicating a door to the left marked 32. As the lieutenant approached the glowing panel on the doorframe, the other soldier walked Nick to the wall beside him and watched is his partner worked on the interface. There was a shared pause as an odd sound arose and the two looked up to find their charge vigorously rubbing his nose against the rough fabric of the soundproofing panel. The officer gave a sigh, the tinny sound escaping from his helmet as the door slid open with a few more button presses. His companion pulled the corpsman from the wall and steered him inside, grumbling to himself as he unbound Nickeli's hands before giving him a light push into the room.
The door snapped shut behind the young marine, leaving him rubbing at the faint pink lines across his wrists as he surveyed what he expected were his new quarters for the time being. The room, perhaps the size of a small dormitory, offered a bed and a vista but little else. A door-less entryway in the far corner led to what Nick hoped was the bathroom and a small shelf hung on the wall beside the bed.
Peering into the bathroom, he was pleasantly surprised to find a shower and quickly began stripping down, opting to put off further inspection of the room until later. He found a towel but no change of clothes, and refolded his fatigues and set them aside before unwrapping the white bandage around his leg.
The wound—set in contrast to the pale flesh of his thigh—was still a vibrant red beneath the layer of translucent gel. Though a bit of dried blood stained the bandage and the edges of the jagged cut, it seemed the dressing had held it together well enough for it to begin to mend and the angry red scrape around it had already begun to fade. The mark on his ankle was in similar shape, though the swelling hadn't gone down as much as he'd have liked and he was walking on it gingerly after being kicked in the elevator.
Turning on the hot water until the shower was almost painfully hot, he stepped through the wall of coiling steam and stood with his head lulled forward, letting the burning spray fall across his shoulders and work into his tense, aching muscles.
For a while he stood in that pleasant trance—not scrubbing at the fine grit in his hair or scouring away the tiny flecks of dried blood in the creases of his palms or the larger ones on his leg. He just stood there—eyes half closed as he braced himself with one hand against the wall and enjoyed the first shower he'd had in months without rushing to avoid wasting hot water or half-listening for the sound of an incoming shell.
The dull achiness slowly drained away and was replaced by a building sleepiness that made the sensation of the water drumming against his skin fade into the background. It wasn't the crushing exhaustion that had sent him sprawling onto the first supportive surface on the Normandy, instead is was a creeping drowsiness that swallowed him by inches and left him nodding. Aware that he was rapidly fading, Nick quickly scrubbed himself clean. Turning off the shower and toweling off, he partially redressed, leaving his shirt where it lay and kicking aside a wadded sock as he shuffled toward the bed.
Closing to a reasonable distance, he let himself fall and landed on the covers with a soft whumph followed a few moments later by a deep, satisfied rumbling from the corpsman. His damp skin growing chilly in the open air, Nick lazily struggled under the blankets and quickly nestled into the comfortable sheets.
However, instead of drifting off to sleep as he would've liked, he found himself staring off into milky violet twilight beyond his window. A steady line of craft darted by, faint glimmers against the distant skyline.
2183. He'd heard Agent Morris mumble the date into a recorder during his interview and Nick felt the same chill dance through his body recalling it as when he'd heard it.
Perhaps the shock had finally worn off or perhaps he had been ignoring it up until now, but the future suddenly didn't seem so wondrous and intoxicating anymore.
It seemed scary.
Staring out at the city and into the endless void beyond, he felt very small.
Here he was. Nickeli Vandas. A hundred million miles from any place he'd called home and century and a half past anyone he'd ever known.
Was this real? Could it be? The uncertainty burned in his stomach like a glowing coal.
A tightness rising in his chest, he rolled over to put the window as his back and shut his eyes, hoping sleep might chase away the feeling of helplessness.
He felt like screaming. Like standing up and crying into the void that he wouldn't let it swallow him. But in his heart, all he could muster was a whimper.
Nick slept poorly that night. Every time he was lulled into an uneasy slumber one of the craft outside would roar past the building, shaking the windows in their frames and sending him scrambling to the floor in a semi lucid daze.
He snapped awake to the sound of pounding at the door which abruptly halted as he stirred. Still sore, but feeling somewhat refreshed, he kicked away the sheets and rose to a seated position on the edge of the bed. Outside his window, the sky remained the same hazy purple as when he'd laid down, betraying neither night nor day.
Bare feet cold against the laminate floor, he shuffled to the door and found a plastic tray laden with what appeared to be breakfast. A tight pinch in his stomach awakened by the smell, he eagerly dug into the lukewarm helping of casserole, though after a few mouthfuls he found it to taste rather bland. Draining the cold paper cup full of what he assumed to be milk, he set the tray aside and went in search of his socks.
By the time he had found them and sat down on the side of the bed to pull them on, the door slid open and two armored men entered and a third watched from the doorway, crowding the already small chamber. The pair of guards granted him a moment to finish putting on his socks and collect his shirt before placing him in restraints and leading him from the cell.
Morris took a sip of coffee, a small frown appearing when he found the drink to be rather weak. Swirling the dark brown beverage around in his mug, he wondered if it wasn't a sign that he should stop.
Despite the loss of his morning recreation, the rest of the day had granted him no respite. Before midday he'd sat in at a conference table with a dozen politicians in collared shirts and expensive jackets. Apparently some focus group on Arcturus had decided that the entire Department of Diplomatic Intelligence wasn't doing enough to ensure the security of the security of Alliance assets on the Citadel and thusly sent its most qualified intern equipped with a slideshow presentation. The whole affair had only been made survivable by the two very large cups of coffee Morris had downed during the meeting.
After that, he'd returned to his office at the Irin Center to find a request from the Navy for electronic surveillance on a turian spectre, which he knew from past experience would yield nothing but frustration. The asari were meticulous cryptographers and the Alliance had entire databases of encrypted communiques they'd made little progress cracking for thirty years of trying. Half empty mug of coffee in hand, he'd deposited the datapad on the desk of one of the Center's intelligence officers. When a look of dismay grew on the poor soul's face as he began reading it, Collin even considered pretending to be apologetic about it.
The second half of the day proved no more productive than the first. The Alliance had been rattled by the first significant attack on its holdings in the Traverse since the Blitz and while Parliament tried to avert a crisis while on the verge of panic itself, the Navy was left to account for how a strike force had infiltrated human space, decimated an inner colonies, and then slipped away without leaving a trail to follow.
The DDI had been inundated with calls and requests—the Navy seeking records of relay traffic in the Utopia System, Parliament trying to gauge how the other races were reacting to the attack, and even the occasional member of the press looking for a comment.
Udina had been the most persistent, which Morris attributed more to self-concern than anything else. The ambassador had set his VI to call the center every half hour looking for "updates"—as far as the agent was aware, the diplomat hadn't been made privy to the rather peculiar case the DDI was handling, but Collin expected Udina was savvy enough to recognize that he was being kept in the dark.
The ambassador certainly wasn't one of the friendlier diplomats the Alliance had ever appointed to the Citadel, but he might've been one of the shrewdest. He no doubt realized that the other races would be watching the Alliance with a careful eye as the fledgling humanity responded to the attack and, as many allies as Udina may've had in the Alliance, there were undoubtedly factions in Parliament lining up replacements to undercut the ambassador if he blundered.
Udina was largely impersonal in his business and, though careful of whose toes he tread upon, was generally unapologetic when he did. So while Morris wouldn't fault the man for being astute, there remained a twinge of annoyance at his prying.
Now, fourteen hours and eight large cups of coffee later, the agent peered through the window of the infirmary, conscious of the migraine that was slowly building in the back of his head as he sipped from his nearly empty mug.
Inside Vandas reclined on a cot, his right arm bearing a number of leads connecting him to a bank of medical displays and a dark red IV line inserted at the inside of his elbow. He had been stripped of his trousers and a pair of fresh white bandage were wrapped around his thigh and ankle. Half of the bed had been elevated, granting the young enlisted man an air of leisure as a pair of doctors reviewed a datapad at the end of his bed.
Collin knocked two times on the glass, drawing the attention of the two. Handing off the tablet to his counterpart, the doctor headed for the door, removing his disposable gloves as he did.
A moment later, he stepped into the corridor and looked to Collin. "Senior Agent Morris,"
Doctor Krebber was a small man. He stood a couple inches shorter than the greying agent and his long white lab coat concealed his spindly frame. Even so, the doctor was skilled at his trade and had a kindly bedside manner developed from countless years of making house calls on the frontiers of human space.
"How's our guest?" Morris inquired, indicating the reclining marine with a lateral jerk of the head.
"His injuries had been redressed and are closing up nicely. I expect it'll take a few days before he's ready for anything too strenuous, but other than that, he's in good health." The medic reported formally, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "Though, I expect you aren't here simply to inquire about the young man's injuries."
Collin nodded. "What can you tell me about him? From a medical standpoint."
Krebber tapped at his omni-tool, conjuring a holographic image of an arm.
"He's got a fourteen centimeter titanium plate in his left humerus," the doctor explained, pointing to a light colored shape running parallel to the slightly darker bone. "He's got scar tissue consistent with penetrating trauma and subsequent surgery. The fracture has entered the reconstructive phase and based upon the condition of the bone, I'd estimate it occurred within the last two or three years. Mobility is good and chronic pain seems minimal."
With a quick flick of the wrist, the image vanished and Krebber fixed Morris with an intent look. "That's not the interesting part."
"We did blood work and baseline genetics testing as requested and, while the results are only preliminary, what we've found is astounding." There was a tone of rising excitement in the doctor's voice, leading the agent to wonder what possibly could've had the man so giddy. "None of the antibodies we'd expect from inoculation on the colonies were present and flash sequencing isn't showing any of the expected signs of genetic therapy, which means he's either never seen a doctor in his life or—"
"So he's from Earth?" Morris interrupted, not sure he wanted to hear the doctor's theories.
"It's more than that," Krebber continued, suddenly very serious. "Morris, I saw the debriefing when he came in."
Morris massaged his temples, his headache swelling in an instant as an angry sigh slipped through his gritted teeth.
"Whatever you may think," the medic persisted, his tone quiet but urgent. "If what he says is true, then he may represent one of the greatest breakthroughs in genetics since the discovery of the double helix! We're talking about a living snapshot of human genetic history—a window into the past before the rise of gene therapy. His DNA may be the key to unlocking questions we've been asking for centuries but only now have to technology to answer. This could be our Rosetta Stone, Collin."
The doctor looked to Morris, a look of pleading in his eyes. After a few long moments, the agent gave his reply in a low, reluctant voice. "The answer is no."
The medic's shock quickly turned to indignation. "We're talking about the good of mankin—"
"I know, Krebber!" The greying operative boomed, sending the scientist recoiling a step.
"I know." He repeated more quietly, a grim frown on his face. He shook his head in frustration, clearly not pleased at the course of action forced upon him. "But sometimes even that loses out to what's politically expedient. This thing cannot go public—not now, maybe not ever."
The doctor looked distraught, but after a long moment looked up at the agent and nodded his understanding, profound disappointment in his eyes.
From the hall a set of footsteps approached and Morris turned to find Wilkes with a datapad tucked under his arm.
"Senior Agent, we've got something." The analyst reported, handing him the tablet. "There was a hit on the service number he gave us—old military archives on Earth."
On the top left of the file, a slightly younger image of the man in the medical bay stared back at him, clad in dress uniform and white cap. According to the date printed in small text along the border, the picture had been taken some hundred and seventy years ago.
"And the firearm?" Morris asked, his eyes not leaving the datapad.
"A model widely used for military service during the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. It lines up with what he's told us and it consistent with the details in the file."
The veteran agent said nothing for a few long moments. It seemed Wilkes had come through and they had found the concrete evidence they had been searching for—well before Morris has dared hope, too.
Still, the news failed to create even the faintest stirring of joy within Collin's chest—quite the opposite in fact, but they were answers just the same. Now that he had a rough gauge of how big his problem was he could begin working to fix it.
"I'll have Lieutenant Hawthorne move him to an interview room once the medical staff is done with him." Morris said, mostly seeming to speak to himself. He glanced back to Wilkes. "Keep digging—see what else you can find."
Kyle nodded and quickly headed off in the direction he had come from. Doctor Krebber followed suit, taking the opportunity to quietly duck back into the infirmary. Morris lingered in the hall for a moment, his hands dug into his pockets and an uncertain expression on his face. It didn't feel like he was making progress, but the situation certainly seemed to be getting more complicated—he was treading water, and the ocean beneath was only getting deeper.
Shoving aside the feeling, the agent forced his face into a neutral expression and went looking for Hawthrone.
A/N: Was perhaps forced to end this chapter a bit sooner than I'd have otherwise preferred, but I'm heading off to school very soon and wanted to be certain this chapter was released before I left. To be truthful, I'm not sure what sort of effect this will have on my writing timeline but can say fair certainly that it will slow things down, at least initially. We're looking at at least another chapter or two at the Irin Center-I hate to feel like I'm dragging out the events in one location, but sometimes it has to be done. Until next time.