Plainly dressed in a rough, floor length gown of faded green which left her arms bare, her straight, blacker than black hair hung down to her shoulder blades and had been pulled loosely back, tied in place with a piece of dark material. She appeared utterly oblivious to the stare of the stranger, concentrating instead on her examination of the dark weapon that was still aimed directly at her head.As realisation slowly came to the newcomer in the bed, he also noted, with a jolt of shock, the woman did not appear to be human.
She had an angular face, flattened nose with small nostrils and almond shaped eyes that seemed to be pink in colour. Her thin-lipped mouth angled gently upwards at the corners, one of which had a small pink of tongue protruding from it, extended in concentration. Her ears, although situated on either side of her head, were without lobes and came to gentle points which were adorned with a few fine hairs, accentuating their pointedness.
The stranger laying in the bed recorded all these details in a fraction of a second, time was passing and the hollow point bullet, he knew, would burst this young creature's head instantly if he did nothing. Yet as fast as he could be, movement was still not possible. So, taking a slow, deep, painful breath in, he spoke in as calm a voice as he was able to achieve.
"You wanna be really careful with that," the voice that came from him seemed distant, as if someone else were speaking the words in a weak croak.
Those words, however, were not lost on the other occupant in the room. Her intensive examination of the pistol halted abruptly as her pink eyes rolled towards him. Almost imperceptibly she began to tremble and her eyes became wet with tears.
"I apologise, m-my Lord," she stammered in a high voice. "I meant no harm to it."
He wondered how old this creature may be as her voice indicated youth. Apart from the shaking, which was increasing, she was completely frozen in fear as he spoke to her.
"You've done no harm and nothing wrong but you need to trust me and try to relax."
His words no longer sounded distant, however they still sounded as if someone else were saying them. It was a massive effort even to speak, the simple action of taking a breath made his ribs and back ache deeply. Even his eyes now ached with the effort of looking sideways at the woman. She remained motionless apart from the trembling, which was beginning to make her hands shake dangerously; she said nothing.
"Listen carefully," the still form in the bed spoke as calmly as possible in spite of the pain. "I need you to take a deep breath in, hold it for a second and then, when you let it out, try and relax your hands," she looked at him blankly so he added. "I'll do it with you. Like this," he took a deep breath as needles of pain shot through his torso. "Breathe in," his voice was strained and beads of sweat formed on his forehead despite the cooling breeze which blew gently through the open window. "Then out and relax," this last he almost shouted as his pain racked body tried to expel the air from his lungs.
The young woman jumped at the sound of his loud voice and he waited for the ear-splitting crack that would end this creature's life in a crimson fountain. It never came. In a flurry of luck-filled movements the young woman slammed the pistol onto the chest of drawers with a deep, hollow thump, turned and ran for the door. Whimpering, she fumbled it open and disappeared through the door leaving it to flap backwards and forwards in the breeze.
The man lying in the bed panted shallowly through his agony considering his situation. The only fact he could be entirely sure of, considering the pain he felt, was that he was alive.
His suicide had failed.
***
Alan McCabe stood facing a muscularly built, fairly dark-skinned man around six feet in height. Jet black hair had been combed immaculately, his square jawed face cleanly shaven but with a darkening of hair follicles indicating where a beard would grow if allowed.
The man had dark brown eyes framed by long, black lashes and eyebrows which were meticulously groomed in the same manner as the rest of him. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties but was much older than he looked.
As McCabe straightened his grey tie once more, the image in the mirror he faced did the same. The lift terminated its silent rise, the doors opened with a quiet whisper and Alan McCabe entered the top floor office of the Company's headquarters.
The entire top floor of the building was used in the hosting of various customers and dignitaries along with many other Company people. The lighting was dimmed throughout and the windows were darkened with automatically polarising glass. Running through the centre of the whole floor was a vast, highly polished, smoked glass table; two metres wide and with twenty, comfortably upholstered swivel chairs on either side.
At one end of the huge table sat three suited men, two on one side of the table and one on the end.
"Come in, McCabe," it was the same voice that had issued abruptly from the intercom speaker in his office. "Have a seat."
The speaker was a hatchet faced, stern looking man in his late fifties. Greying hair, shot through with the original black, topped his head and his ice blue eyes sat in a pallid complexion. His voice was deep and emotionless containing the merest hint of a Scandinavian accent. The other two men remained silent merely watching McCabe as he crossed the room and selected a chair opposite them.
"What happened?" Grey hair asked bluntly.
McCabe studied each man as they stared questioningly back at him. The two strangers, one wraith like in his thinness and the other hugely obese, were dressed in a similar fashion. Both wore dark grey suits with a white handkerchief staring from the breast pocket.
All three would know exactly what had occurred, they probably knew more about the goings on downstairs than McCabe himself did. McCabe's answer was concise and to the point,
"The Dumar Project has been destroyed."
"That's it?" The grey-haired man demanded, his eyes widening. "Nothing more to add?"
McCabe shook his head staying silent. The two opposites sitting across from him began whispering furtively between themselves. McCabe regarded them casually. Two of the Directors had come for this meeting so he knew something big was about to happen. Grey-hair spoke again.
"You've always conducted yourself in a most exemplary manner, McCabe," he paused, glanced at the mismatched pair, swallowed and continued. "But these events are... inexcusable," he finished.
A growling whisper came next, the thin Director's voice was barely audible as he spoke.
"The Directors are disappointed. We understood you were somebody special, destined for great things," he pointed a skeletal finger towards McCabe. "Your single mindedness, drive and determination, sacrificing any kind of personal life for the Company," he paused and fixed the Shadow with an icy stare. "The Dumar Project was to have been the crowning achievement for the Company and you let it die."
McCabe sat and coolly returned the other man's stare. Not a person to allow emotions to rule him, in fact, he rarely seemed to feel anything at all. At that moment, however, a rage was building within him. He had devoted his life to the Company and now these two assholes would probably sanction his death. A deep hatred fuelled the anger he felt, not for the three men who he now faced, but for the Dumar Project itself.
Bad enough the project was a failure, bad enough that it took any and all opportunities to mock and taunt him. No. The most galling, annoying, downright frustrating thing the Dumar Project had done and the thing which now caused white hot hatred and furious rage to boil within McCabe was that it had killed itself.
Not because it was dead, he had advised termination years before, but because it had robbed him of the opportunity to kill it. To look into its perfectly functioning eyes and end its frustrating existence once and for all.
From the first realisation there had been a problem, he had wanted to destroy it. They could begin again, manipulate another embryo from a different source, double the amount of persuasion and hypnotherapy techniques. Of course he had been overruled, the Directors wanted the problem solved, the project represented a vast investment for the Company, in time and resources. They would not begin again just because McCabe had failed.
He spoke through clenched teeth.
"I told you the problem couldn't be put right," he jabbed an accusatory finger towards the Directors. "I told you to let me kill it and start again but no. You thought you could bend it to your will. The all-powerful Directors! Just decide something and it happens," he allowed his arm to drop. "Well guess what?" McCabe spat. "You fucked up this time. This is as much your fault as it is mine."
Incredulity sat plainly on the face of the grey-haired man; no one ever spoke to the Directors in such a fashion.
"McCabe..." he began but the second Director held one of his meaty hands up, cutting him off.
When he spoke his voice was soft and almost feminine.
"Who authorised the termination device?" The question was asked so calmly in the face of McCabe's outraged tirade that even he calmed a little.
"Take a wild guess," McCabe snorted.
"Why?"
The simple question seemed so obvious to answer it was laughable. McCabe shook his head in resignation and as if speaking to a child, slowly explained.
"We created something capable of causing death and destruction on an enormous scale. Then we couldn't control it. If the Dumar Project had escaped, none of us would have been safe!" He sighed deeply and rubbed his forehead. "So yes, I had the termination device fitted to make sure it couldn't get out alive."
The skeletal Director stroked his chin with a bony finger,
"So you would rather have had it vaporized than study and learn from it?" He asked in the growling whisper.
McCabe nodded.
The other, larger, Director stood and regarded McCabe.
"These are mistakes we cannot, will not, overlook or forgive."
Alan McCabe slowly gained his feet also and as he did so, calmly stated,
"I thought as much."
Like a camera flash, McCabe drew a small, snub nosed pistol from a shoulder holster and shot the big Director in the chest. Fat arms pin wheeled as the shocked man pitched backwards, knocking the chair behind him across the room on its wheels. The grey-haired man dived to his right attempting to escape as McCabe took aim at the remaining Director whose skeletal face was frozen in terror. McCabe squeezed the trigger and heard a loud crack, saw a flash of light and felt a momentary sharp pain in the back of his head.
The darkness that descended was total.