San frowned and stared at the mountain of bubbles, which continued to grow larger by the second. “I see. And, uh, how do I go about cleaning this up?”
A smile tugged at the corner of Eugene’s mouth. He wished he could keep watching San make a fool of himself, but there were pressing matters to attend to. He held a fist in front of his mouth and cleared his throat.
San and the others glanced up. They stood in silence, like deer frozen in headlights. Eugene’s appearance—bloodied, disheveled, and covered in carbon residue—was a reminder of how serious the situation at the surface had become.
Eugene felt a pang of guilt for shattering the lighthearted atmosphere. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and nodded at San. “Director, if you’re done sabotaging the efforts of the kitchen staff, can I talk to you for a few minutes?”
San grinned and shook the bubbles from his arms. “I was only trying to help.” He turned around to face the cafeteria staff. “But it looks like I’ve made more work for you. Sorry about that.”
One of the men clapped San on the back. “Don’t worry about it, Doc. We’ll have it cleaned up in a jiffy. And I needed the laugh.”
San doffed his suds-covered apron and hung it from a peg on the wall. He wiped his palms on his shirt and walked beside Eugene with an arm extended toward the seating area. He led him to a table at the far end of the cafeteria and pulled a chair out for him. When they had both taken their seats, San perched his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “How are you holding up, Eugene?”
“I could be better. I could also be a lot worse, given the circumstances, but…” He rubbed his temples with his forefingers. “We had a…casualty last night.”
San’s brow furrowed. Instead of chastising Eugene for waiting so long to report to him, he simply said, “I’m so sorry, Gene. Who was it?”
“Hank Austin.”
San’s shoulders sank. “Is he…”
“He’s alive. But his situation is complicated. I’ve got a few of the doctors looking into it, but they’re not sure what to do.”
“What happened? What are his injuries?”
Eugene chewed his lower lip. “Well, there was an explosion, which gave him a concussion. And I hit his forehead pretty hard. But none of that is the problem.” He chafed his thumb against the palm of his hand. “After the explosion, Hank was pretty disoriented. He wandered outside the building, trying to help a woman who was calling for help. I figured it was probably a trap, and Yuri and I tried to stop him, but we were too late. One of the Afflicted managed to get close enough to him to stick a needle in his shoulder.”
San’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean—”
Eugene nodded. “She pumped some of that mind-poison straight into his bloodstream. It’s why I knocked him out. When I was a prisoner in Siberia, Roberts said something about me needing to be conscious for the nanobots to find their way around in my brain. So, we’ve kept Hank sedated all night, but the doctors aren’t sure how to get the nanobots out or how to shut them down.”
San pressed his lips into a thin line. “It would take a separate injection of nanomachines which have been specifically programmed to target the machines already in his brain. And unfortunately, Emily Roberts was our expert in mental reconditioning. It isn’t my area of expertise—I’m no better equipped to help Hank than any of the other doctors in this facility.”
“That’s what the doctors in the infirmary said.” Eugene leaned in. “But I didn’t come to you for your expertise. I need your permission to do something a bit more drastic.”
To Dean Wagner, the glass-walled operatory had become more than a prison. It had become his own, personal torture chamber. His imprisonment wasn’t simply unjust, it was illogical. The world outside of Hillcrest was almost certainly descending into chaos, and he—the United States’ best defense asset—was wasting away in a transparent cage.
Yes, he had blurred the lines of ethics when he pitted Agent Janson against Jarrod Hawkins, and he was at least partially responsible for the death of Eli Graham. But his entire career working for DARPA had been based upon ethical ambiguity. It wasn’t fair for them to judge him for one minor miscalculation.
Of course, it wasn’t really the American Government who had pronounced him guilty and locked him in a glass cage. It was Santiago Torres, the self-righteous physical therapist who had replaced him as Director of the world’s most advanced weapons research and development facility.
Movement in his peripheral vision prompted Wagner to turn his head. Eugene Carver was passing by the soundproof room. The smug operative smiled at Wagner, nodded as if to an old friend, and then held up his middle finger.
Wagner sighed and shook his head, refocusing his attention on the yellow notepad in his hand. A block of paper and a writing implement were among the few luxuries he’d been provided during his incarceration. They’d also given him soap, a toothbrush, and a stack of novels. But they refused to give him a computer or scientific journals or any other meaningful way for him to exercise his mind.
Wagner studied the genetically-engineered weapons of war he had drawn on the pad and tapped his pencil against his chin. Despite his best efforts to concentrate, he found himself gazing through the operatory’s glass walls, watching Carver.
The simple-minded operative was inside the second operatory in the surgical wing, where Lukas Woodfall—a former terrorist and Hillcrest’s only other prisoner—was being kept. Carver was pointing a gun at the thin man, no doubt as part of an unsophisticated interrogation.
Wagner’s eyes narrowed. Such a scene wasn’t unusual—Carver barged in and interrogated the terrorist several times a week. It was Lukas Woodfall’s expression that was unusual. The former terrorist leader wasn’t afraid, he was astonished. What could someone as simple as Eugene Carver have told Woodfall—an accomplished scientist in his own right—to inspire such awe?
Wagner approached the glass wall, standing close enough to fog it with his breath. He watched the exchange carefully, wishing he knew how to read lips. Carver tapped his foot and gestured with his hands, probably trying to explain some concept that was beyond his understanding. Woodfall was hanging on every word and didn’t spare a single sideways glance at the pistol in Carver’s hand.
When Carver had finished speaking, Woodfall shrugged and shook his head. Carver pressed the barrel of his pistol against Woodfall’s head, and the former terrorist raised his hands. Several seconds passed, and then Woodfall turned his head. He glanced directly at Wagner and pointed a finger at him.
How very interesting, Wagner thought.
Carver suddenly looked very tired. He holstered his weapon and said something to Woodfall. Again, Woodfall shook his head, and again, he pointed at Wagner.
Carver hung his head like a schoolboy walking to detention. He left Woodfall behind, walked across the hallway, and stood in front of the door to Wagner’s makeshift prison cell.
Wagner fixed an impassive expression on his face and stood in the center of the room with his hands clasped in the small of his back. When the door finally opened, he said, “Mr. Carver, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Zip it, Doctor Frankenstein,” Carver said, stepping into the room and letting the door close behind him. “I don’t have time for your stupid demands right now.” He took a deep breath. His expression soured as if he had been punched in the stomach. “I need your help. I need you to save Hank’s life.”