TWENTY-THREE
GODDAMMIT, NOT FAST ENOUGH.
In a cloud of dust and rubble, cracked concrete and plaster, Fossil burst into the hall across from the elevator like a vision of hell. Its snout and hands were red, splashes of violent color against its sickly white skin, its giant, impossible body filling the corridor. "Clip!" Leon screamed, not taking his gaze from the looming monster, still a hundred feet in front of them and not nearly far enough. He drew his empty H amp;K and ejected the clip, barely aware that it was Claire who handed him another as Fossil took a step toward them…… and David was firing the M-16, the clatter of rounds blasting through the long hall, Fossil taking another huge step forward as Leon slapped the clip home. John was suddenly next to him, grabbing a rifle mag from David, Claire on David's other side, all of them targeting the creature. Leon found the monster's right eye and squeezed the trigger, the roar of his nine-millimeter lost in the combined explosive firepower, all of them firing -
–bambambam, the sounds blending together, deafening, Fossil tilting its head to one side as if curious, taking another step into the wall of bullets. "Fall back!" David shouted, and Leon backed up a step, horrified by Fossil's lack of wounds. If they were causing it any pain at all Leon couldn't see it, but it was all they had. He tried for the eye again…… and heard Claire screaming something, glanced away long enough to see that she had a grenade out, that she was handing it to David. "Go, go, go!" David shouted, and John grabbed Leon's arm and they turned and ran, Claire pacing
them, Leon praying that they were far enough awaynot to be hit by the shreds of hot metal. Claire ran, terrified, thinking that she'd never seen anything like it. A blood-painted fishbelly nightmare, a curved grin of wickedly sharp teeth and its hands,the too-long fingers stained red -
– what is it, how is it -"Fire in the hole!" David screamed, and Claire pushed off the cement, trying to fly, seeing in that airborne second Rebecca's pale, strained face, the girl slumped against the back wall still a hundred feet away…… and BOOM, she was flying, John to her right, a warm body falling against her back – and they all hit the floor, Claire trying to take it on the shoulder, landing too heavily on her arm instead.
Ow ow ow!
David had thrown himself against her, either on purpose or from the blast, and as she sat up, turning, she saw him grimace in pain. She saw two, three pieces of dark metal stuck to his back, pinning the black fleece to his skin, and reached out to help him…… and saw the monster still standing. Brushing at its chest and belly, at the blackened patches from the frag grenade. A few shards had pierced its flesh, but she thought – it was hard to tell from its silence, from the way it took another step toward them it looked seemingly unfazed. It opened its mouth, its heavy lizard jaws – exposing strings of some un– known meat stuck between its jagged teeth. Silently, it took another step forward, grinning its carnivorous grin, and Claire imagined that she could smell the bloody meat of its breath, of whatever lay rotting in its guts…
SNAP OUT OF IT!
She crawled to her feet, ignoring the pain in her arm, reaching down to grab David's outstretched hand and pull him up. The second he was on his feet she pointed her nine-millimeter and started to fire again, knowing it wasn't enough, not knowing what else to do. Four points of injury, all in his upper back, all burning and sharp. David hissed air between his teeth, decided the pain bearable, and put it aside until further notice. The freakish monster wasn't down, it may have slowed but it wasn't stopping, and they didn't have anything bigger to throw at it than what they'd already tried. Run, we'll have to run… Even as he thought it, he was opening his mouth to shout, to be heard over John and Leon and Claire as they emptied their weapons, the rounds as useless as the grenade had been.
"John, get Rebecca! Fall back, we can't stop it!"
John was gone, Leon and Claire sidling backwards, firing just as he was – on the slim chance that it was doing some damage, that one of the rounds might hit something that could be hurt.
"David, we could go through the test, reinforced steel!" John shouted, and David wasn't sure what he was talking about but he understood "reinforced steel." It probably wouldn't stop the mutant animal, but it might slow it down enough for them to regroup, to work out some plan. "Do it!" David shouted, and the monster took two, three strides toward them, apparently no longer inter– ested in a hesitant approach. At that speed, it would be on them in scant seconds. "Run, after John!" He screamed, and gave Leon and Claire a heartbeat of cover before he turned and ran after them. Steel, reinforced steel – A mantra that looped through his racing thoughts as he sprinted, Claire and Leon turning the corner, the cement curve whipping past him as he saw Rebecca and John in the room at the end of the hall. The room where the madman had gone. "David, hit the buttons, close the door!" John shouted, and David saw the controls, the small lights above the rounded knobs, and veered toward them, still at a dead run. Claire and Leon were inside. David shot his arm out and slammed his open hand into the largest button on the panel, hoping he'd chosen the right one – and he was through, even as a sheet of metal guillotined the air behind him, close enough for him to feel it on the back of his neck. He spun around just in time to see the heavy white body of the hybrid creature slam into the door, its chest smashing against the thick, warped window set into the thick metal. The door shivered in its tracks, and David could see that it wouldn't stand for long.
Please hold, just for a moment…
He turned, saw Leon at the smaller hatch on the south wall, saw the horror in his eyes, the color leached from his face, his trembling hand on the door's lever. "Locked," he said, and outside, the monster smashed into the door again.
Reston heard the noise when he was trying to figure out how to climb into the Avi kennel. The pen was about twelve feet off the ground, an open hole in the wall, and there was no ladder; the closest tree was a good seven feet away, impossible – but his only other way out of the test was the way he'd come, and he didn't dare go back out into the main hall. He'd about made up his mind to attempt climbing the tree to try the jump when the rending crashes had seeped into the room from Phase Two. Reston walked toward the connecting door, curious in spite of his fear. The phases were heavily sound– proofed; a noise like that could only be from a bomb, or a wrecking crew…… which means bomb. They've planted explosives after all, the monsters.
Reston waited by the door for a moment, but didn't hear anything else. The lone Dac let out a cry from somewhere across the chamber, the fight apparently taken out of it with the loss of its siblings; it hadn't tried to attack.
Explosives…
Phase Two was directly behind control, a double– thick wall between them, which had to mean that the renegades had blown up the control center, the most important – and most expensive – room in the Planet. They couldn't have chosen a better target; the facility was practically worthless with control destroyed.
But perhaps they've given me another way out…
Reston wasn't going to make any bets as to whether or not the barbarous mercenaries had finally gone, leaving the broken remains of the Planet behind -
–but if they have…
If they had, he'd be able to walk out. Maybe just walk away and not just from the Planet, but from White Umbrella. He was reasonably certain that Jackson would kill him for what had happened…… but not if Reston disappeared.
A few hundred thousand to Hawkinson, a ride to a safe place…
It could work, if he timed it right, if he changed his name and identity and went far, far away. It would work. Nodding to himself, he cracked open the door to Two, not sure what to expect, but it was still a surprise to see the massive, gaping holes in two of the desert's walls and the cement and wood and steel blown to pieces; each ragged opening was at least ten feet across, perhaps twenty feet high. He didn't see smoke anywhere, but imagined that the saboteurs had used some high-tech compound, some material that scum like that always seemed to have access to.
The heat was still high, and the lights were blazing, but it was definitely cooler with the new ventilation and though he stood for long seconds listening, he didn't hear a sound that might indicate their pres– ence. Unless it was some kind of trap… Reston shook his head, amused by his own para– noia. Now that he'd decided to be free, to leave behind the ruins of his life, he felt a kind of elation. A sense of new possibilities, even of rebirth. They were gone, their mission accomplished, the Planet wasted. Reston walked across the hot sands, stepping over the pieces of Scorp scattered about, finally climbing the shifting dune to peer into the hole.
My God, they managed to get everything, didn't they?
The destruction was nearly total, the gaping hole almost exactly where the monitor wall had been. Thick shards of glass, bits of wire and circuitry, a faint scent of ozone – that was all that was left of the brilliantly designed video-retrieval system. Four of the leather chairs had been knocked off their welded mounts, the one-of-a-kind marble table had actually cracked in two – and in the northeast corner of the room there was another giant, ragged hole sur– rounded by debris.
And through that hole…
Reston could actually see the elevator. The work– ing, running elevator, the lights engaged, the platform recalled. Was it a trap? It seemed too good to be true, but then he heard a distant pounding, somewhere off by the cell block, and thought that luck was finally with him; the employees had left, the sound could only be the blasted ex-S.T.A.R.S. team. Far enough away that he'd be halfway to the surface before they could make it back. Reston grinned, amazed that it would end like this; it seemed so anticlimactic somehow, so mundane… and am I complaining? No, no complaints. Not from me.
Reston stepped through the hole, moving carefully to avoid the sharp glass.
The battle with the food animals had made it hungry, had made it crave; that there was a strong wall in Fossil's way made it only more eager to eat, to fulfill its purpose. It pounded at the strong obstacle, feeling the matter shift, becoming less rigid, and although it wouldn't take much more to get at the animals, Fossil suddenly smelled new food. Back the way it had come, food, open and exposed, nothing between it and Fossil. It would come back after it had eaten. Fossil turned away and ran, hungry and wanting, determined to eat before the food could move away. As soon as Fossil turned and ran, John started to kick at the steel door, realizing that it was their only chance. The incredible beating that the monster had given it made it easy, the thick metal half off its tracks already. Claire and Leon started kicking. In seconds, they'd knocked it far enough from the metal indentation that it fell off, clattering to the floor – and seconds after that, they were running, running for the elevator, David carrying Rebecca and all of them silent. Fossil would be back, they all knew it, and they didn't stand a chance against it.
"NO! NO! NO!"
A man, screaming, and as John rounded the corner, he saw that it was Reston, saw him sprinting down the long corridor, Fossil closing fast. They ran, John wondering how long it would take the monster to eat an entire human. And as they reached the elevator, leapt through the doors, Leon pulling the gate down…… they all heard the wailing scream rise to an inhuman pitch – and then cut off sharply, stopped by a heavy wet crunch. The elevator started to rise.
In a cloud of dust and rubble, cracked concrete and plaster, Fossil burst into the hall across from the elevator like a vision of hell. Its snout and hands were red, splashes of violent color against its sickly white skin, its giant, impossible body filling the corridor. "Clip!" Leon screamed, not taking his gaze from the looming monster, still a hundred feet in front of them and not nearly far enough. He drew his empty H amp;K and ejected the clip, barely aware that it was Claire who handed him another as Fossil took a step toward them…… and David was firing the M-16, the clatter of rounds blasting through the long hall, Fossil taking another huge step forward as Leon slapped the clip home. John was suddenly next to him, grabbing a rifle mag from David, Claire on David's other side, all of them targeting the creature. Leon found the monster's right eye and squeezed the trigger, the roar of his nine-millimeter lost in the combined explosive firepower, all of them firing -
–bambambam, the sounds blending together, deafening, Fossil tilting its head to one side as if curious, taking another step into the wall of bullets. "Fall back!" David shouted, and Leon backed up a step, horrified by Fossil's lack of wounds. If they were causing it any pain at all Leon couldn't see it, but it was all they had. He tried for the eye again…… and heard Claire screaming something, glanced away long enough to see that she had a grenade out, that she was handing it to David. "Go, go, go!" David shouted, and John grabbed Leon's arm and they turned and ran, Claire pacing
them, Leon praying that they were far enough awaynot to be hit by the shreds of hot metal. Claire ran, terrified, thinking that she'd never seen anything like it. A blood-painted fishbelly nightmare, a curved grin of wickedly sharp teeth and its hands,the too-long fingers stained red -
– what is it, how is it -"Fire in the hole!" David screamed, and Claire pushed off the cement, trying to fly, seeing in that airborne second Rebecca's pale, strained face, the girl slumped against the back wall still a hundred feet away…… and BOOM, she was flying, John to her right, a warm body falling against her back – and they all hit the floor, Claire trying to take it on the shoulder, landing too heavily on her arm instead.
Ow ow ow!
David had thrown himself against her, either on purpose or from the blast, and as she sat up, turning, she saw him grimace in pain. She saw two, three pieces of dark metal stuck to his back, pinning the black fleece to his skin, and reached out to help him…… and saw the monster still standing. Brushing at its chest and belly, at the blackened patches from the frag grenade. A few shards had pierced its flesh, but she thought – it was hard to tell from its silence, from the way it took another step toward them it looked seemingly unfazed. It opened its mouth, its heavy lizard jaws – exposing strings of some un– known meat stuck between its jagged teeth. Silently, it took another step forward, grinning its carnivorous grin, and Claire imagined that she could smell the bloody meat of its breath, of whatever lay rotting in its guts…
SNAP OUT OF IT!
She crawled to her feet, ignoring the pain in her arm, reaching down to grab David's outstretched hand and pull him up. The second he was on his feet she pointed her nine-millimeter and started to fire again, knowing it wasn't enough, not knowing what else to do. Four points of injury, all in his upper back, all burning and sharp. David hissed air between his teeth, decided the pain bearable, and put it aside until further notice. The freakish monster wasn't down, it may have slowed but it wasn't stopping, and they didn't have anything bigger to throw at it than what they'd already tried. Run, we'll have to run… Even as he thought it, he was opening his mouth to shout, to be heard over John and Leon and Claire as they emptied their weapons, the rounds as useless as the grenade had been.
"John, get Rebecca! Fall back, we can't stop it!"
John was gone, Leon and Claire sidling backwards, firing just as he was – on the slim chance that it was doing some damage, that one of the rounds might hit something that could be hurt.
"David, we could go through the test, reinforced steel!" John shouted, and David wasn't sure what he was talking about but he understood "reinforced steel." It probably wouldn't stop the mutant animal, but it might slow it down enough for them to regroup, to work out some plan. "Do it!" David shouted, and the monster took two, three strides toward them, apparently no longer inter– ested in a hesitant approach. At that speed, it would be on them in scant seconds. "Run, after John!" He screamed, and gave Leon and Claire a heartbeat of cover before he turned and ran after them. Steel, reinforced steel – A mantra that looped through his racing thoughts as he sprinted, Claire and Leon turning the corner, the cement curve whipping past him as he saw Rebecca and John in the room at the end of the hall. The room where the madman had gone. "David, hit the buttons, close the door!" John shouted, and David saw the controls, the small lights above the rounded knobs, and veered toward them, still at a dead run. Claire and Leon were inside. David shot his arm out and slammed his open hand into the largest button on the panel, hoping he'd chosen the right one – and he was through, even as a sheet of metal guillotined the air behind him, close enough for him to feel it on the back of his neck. He spun around just in time to see the heavy white body of the hybrid creature slam into the door, its chest smashing against the thick, warped window set into the thick metal. The door shivered in its tracks, and David could see that it wouldn't stand for long.
Please hold, just for a moment…
He turned, saw Leon at the smaller hatch on the south wall, saw the horror in his eyes, the color leached from his face, his trembling hand on the door's lever. "Locked," he said, and outside, the monster smashed into the door again.
Reston heard the noise when he was trying to figure out how to climb into the Avi kennel. The pen was about twelve feet off the ground, an open hole in the wall, and there was no ladder; the closest tree was a good seven feet away, impossible – but his only other way out of the test was the way he'd come, and he didn't dare go back out into the main hall. He'd about made up his mind to attempt climbing the tree to try the jump when the rending crashes had seeped into the room from Phase Two. Reston walked toward the connecting door, curious in spite of his fear. The phases were heavily sound– proofed; a noise like that could only be from a bomb, or a wrecking crew…… which means bomb. They've planted explosives after all, the monsters.
Reston waited by the door for a moment, but didn't hear anything else. The lone Dac let out a cry from somewhere across the chamber, the fight apparently taken out of it with the loss of its siblings; it hadn't tried to attack.
Explosives…
Phase Two was directly behind control, a double– thick wall between them, which had to mean that the renegades had blown up the control center, the most important – and most expensive – room in the Planet. They couldn't have chosen a better target; the facility was practically worthless with control destroyed.
But perhaps they've given me another way out…
Reston wasn't going to make any bets as to whether or not the barbarous mercenaries had finally gone, leaving the broken remains of the Planet behind -
–but if they have…
If they had, he'd be able to walk out. Maybe just walk away and not just from the Planet, but from White Umbrella. He was reasonably certain that Jackson would kill him for what had happened…… but not if Reston disappeared.
A few hundred thousand to Hawkinson, a ride to a safe place…
It could work, if he timed it right, if he changed his name and identity and went far, far away. It would work. Nodding to himself, he cracked open the door to Two, not sure what to expect, but it was still a surprise to see the massive, gaping holes in two of the desert's walls and the cement and wood and steel blown to pieces; each ragged opening was at least ten feet across, perhaps twenty feet high. He didn't see smoke anywhere, but imagined that the saboteurs had used some high-tech compound, some material that scum like that always seemed to have access to.
The heat was still high, and the lights were blazing, but it was definitely cooler with the new ventilation and though he stood for long seconds listening, he didn't hear a sound that might indicate their pres– ence. Unless it was some kind of trap… Reston shook his head, amused by his own para– noia. Now that he'd decided to be free, to leave behind the ruins of his life, he felt a kind of elation. A sense of new possibilities, even of rebirth. They were gone, their mission accomplished, the Planet wasted. Reston walked across the hot sands, stepping over the pieces of Scorp scattered about, finally climbing the shifting dune to peer into the hole.
My God, they managed to get everything, didn't they?
The destruction was nearly total, the gaping hole almost exactly where the monitor wall had been. Thick shards of glass, bits of wire and circuitry, a faint scent of ozone – that was all that was left of the brilliantly designed video-retrieval system. Four of the leather chairs had been knocked off their welded mounts, the one-of-a-kind marble table had actually cracked in two – and in the northeast corner of the room there was another giant, ragged hole sur– rounded by debris.
And through that hole…
Reston could actually see the elevator. The work– ing, running elevator, the lights engaged, the platform recalled. Was it a trap? It seemed too good to be true, but then he heard a distant pounding, somewhere off by the cell block, and thought that luck was finally with him; the employees had left, the sound could only be the blasted ex-S.T.A.R.S. team. Far enough away that he'd be halfway to the surface before they could make it back. Reston grinned, amazed that it would end like this; it seemed so anticlimactic somehow, so mundane… and am I complaining? No, no complaints. Not from me.
Reston stepped through the hole, moving carefully to avoid the sharp glass.
The battle with the food animals had made it hungry, had made it crave; that there was a strong wall in Fossil's way made it only more eager to eat, to fulfill its purpose. It pounded at the strong obstacle, feeling the matter shift, becoming less rigid, and although it wouldn't take much more to get at the animals, Fossil suddenly smelled new food. Back the way it had come, food, open and exposed, nothing between it and Fossil. It would come back after it had eaten. Fossil turned away and ran, hungry and wanting, determined to eat before the food could move away. As soon as Fossil turned and ran, John started to kick at the steel door, realizing that it was their only chance. The incredible beating that the monster had given it made it easy, the thick metal half off its tracks already. Claire and Leon started kicking. In seconds, they'd knocked it far enough from the metal indentation that it fell off, clattering to the floor – and seconds after that, they were running, running for the elevator, David carrying Rebecca and all of them silent. Fossil would be back, they all knew it, and they didn't stand a chance against it.
"NO! NO! NO!"
A man, screaming, and as John rounded the corner, he saw that it was Reston, saw him sprinting down the long corridor, Fossil closing fast. They ran, John wondering how long it would take the monster to eat an entire human. And as they reached the elevator, leapt through the doors, Leon pulling the gate down…… they all heard the wailing scream rise to an inhuman pitch – and then cut off sharply, stopped by a heavy wet crunch. The elevator started to rise.
TWENTY-FOUR
REBECCA WAS FALLING ASLEEP, THE LULL OF the elevator as soothing as the sound of David's heartbeat. As tired as she was, she lifted one incredi-bly heavy hand to the flat black book tucked into the waistband of her pants. Reston hadn't even noticed, apparently hadn't suspected that she could fake a fall with the best of them. She thought about telling the others, breaking the tired silence in the rising elevator to give them the news, then decided it could wait; they deserved a pleasant surprise. Rebecca closed her eyes, resting. They still had a long way to go, but the tide was turning; Umbrella would pay for its crimes. They would see to it.
EPILOGUE
WITH DAVID AND JOHN SUPPORTING YOUNG Rebecca, and Leon and Claire smiling at one another like lovers, the five weary soldiers trudged off the screen and out into the gently blossoming Utah morning.
Sighing, Trent leaned back in his chair, idly twisting his onyx ring. He hoped they'd take a day or two to rest before heading to their next great battle… per-haps the last great battle; they deserved a bit of rest after all they'd suffered. Really, if any one of them survived what was surely ahead, he'd have to see that they were amply rewarded.
Assuming I'm still in a position to bequeathe gifts…
He would be, of course. If and when Jackson and the others finally figured out what part he was playing, he'd have to disappear – but there were half a dozen completely untraceable identities for him to choose from seeded around the world, each of them ex– tremely wealthy. And White Umbrella didn't have the resources to track him down. They had money and power, true, but they simply weren't smart enough.
I've managed to get this far, haven't I?
Trent sighed again, reminding himself not to gloat, at least not yet. It wouldn't pay to be overconfident, he knew; better men than he had died at the hands of Umbrella. In any case, either he'd be dead or they would. End of problem, one way or the other. He stood up, stretching his arms over his head and shrugging the tension from his shoulders; the satellite "pirate" had allowed him to see and hear almost all of it, and it had been a long and eventful night. A few hours sleep, that was what he needed. He'd arranged to be out of touch until about noon, but then he'd have to put a call in to Sidney and the old tea– drinker would be nearly frantic by then, along with the rest of them. The mysterious Mr. Trent's services would be desperately sought after, and he'd have to catch the next plane out; as much as he wanted to watch Hawkinson return and fumble through putting Fossil down, he needed the sleep more. Trent turned off the screens and walked from his operations room – a living room with a few rather expensive adjustments – into the kitchen, which was just a kitchen. The small house in upstate New York was his sanctuary if not his home; it was from here that he conducted most of his work. Not the grandiose scheming he did on White Umbrella's behalf, but his real work. Were anyone to check, they'd find the three– room Victorian to be owned by a little old lady named Mrs. Helen Black. A private joke, one all his own. Trent opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of mineral water, thinking of how Reston had looked in his last moment, staring into the face of his own demise. Lovely work, that, using Fossil against him; it was really too bad about Cole. The man could have been an asset to the small but growing resistance.
Carrying the water upstairs, Trent used the bath– room and then walked down a short hall, wondering how much longer he had. In the first few weeks of his contact with White Umbrella, he'd half-expected to be called into Jackson's office and summarily shot at any given moment. But the weeks had stretched into months, and he hadn't caught even a whisper of doubt from any of them. In the bedroom, he laid out his clothes for the flight and then undressed, deciding that he would pack while he had his coffee, after calling Sidney. Turning off the light, Trent slipped into bed and sat for a moment, sipping at his bottled water, going over his meticulous plans for the next few weeks. He was tired, but his life's goal was finally within reach; it wasn't so easy to fall asleep when one was about to realize the culmination of three decades of planning and dreaming, of a wish so long-held that it had become who he was… The final strokes, though. There were still several things that had to happen before he could finish, and most of those had to do with how well his rebels fared. He had faith in them, but there was always a chance that they might fail – in which case, he'd have to start over again. Not from scratch, but it would be a serious setback.
Eventually, though…
Trent smiled, setting his water on the nightstand and sliding beneath the thick down comforter. Eventually, the evil of White Umbrella would be exposed to the light of day. Killing the players would be easier, but he wouldn't be satisfied with their deaths; he wanted to see them destroyed, financially and emotionally, their lives taken from them in every practical sense. And when that day came, when the leaders had finished watching their precious handiwork crumble to ash, he would be there. He'd be there to dance in the cemetery of their dreams, and it would be a fine day indeed. As he so often did, Trent went over the speech in his mind, the speech that he'd spent a lifetime practicing for that day. Jackson and Sidney would have to be there, as well as the European "boys" and the finan– ciers from Japan, Mikami and Kamiya. They all knew the truth, they had been coconspirators in the treachery…
I stand in front of them, smiling, and I say, "A little background, in case any of you have forgotten. "Early in Umbrella's history – before there was such a thing as White Umbrella – there was a scientist working in their research and development sector named James Darius. Dr. Darius was an ethical and committed microbiologist, who, along with his lovely wife, Helen – a doctor of pharmacology, in fact
–spent untold hours developing a tissue-repair synthesis for their employers, one that James had created him-self. This synthesis that took up so much of the Dariuses' time was a brilliantly designed viral complex that – if properly developed – had the potential to greatly reduce human suffering, even one day to wipe out death by traumatic injury. Both James and Helen had the highest of hopes for their work – and they were so responsible, so loyal and trusting, that they went to Umbrella immediately, once they realized the potential of what they were designing. And Umbrella, Inc. also realized the potential. Except what they saw was a financial nosedive if such a miracle were to be released. Imagine all the money that a pharmaceutical company would lose if millions of people stopped dying each year; but then, imagine what money could be made if this viral complex could be designed to fit a military application. Imagine the power. With incentives like that, Umbrella really had no choice. They took the synthesis from Darius, they took the notes and research, and they turned it all over to a brilliant young scientist by the name of William Birkin, barely out of his teens and already the head of his own lab. Birkin was one of them, you see. A man with the same vision, the same lack of morals, a man they could use. And with their own puppet in place, they realized that having the good Doctors Darius around could prove to be inconvenient. So, there was a fire. An accident, it was said, a terrible tragedy – two scientists and three loyal assis-tants all burned up. Too bad, so sad, case closed – and so began the division of Umbrella known as White Umbrella. Bioweapons research. A playground for the filthy rich and their toadies, for men who'd lost any-thing resembling a conscience a long, long time ago." I smile again. "For men like you." "White Umbrella had thought of everything, or so they believed. What they hadn't considered – either because they were too shortsighted or ignorantly dis-missive – was the young son of James and Helen, their only child, away at boarding school when his parents were burned alive. Perhaps they simply forgot about him. But Victor Darius didn't forget. In fact, Victor grew up thinking about what Umbrella had done, dare I say obsessing over it. There came a time when Victor could think of nothing else, and that was when he decided to do something about it. To avenge his mother and father, Victor Darius knew he would have to be extremely clever and very, very careful. So he spent years just planning. And more years learning what he needed to know, and even more making the right contacts, moving in the right circles, being as devious and underhanded as his foe. And one day, he murdered Umbrella, just as they murdered his parents. It wasn't easy, but he was determined, and he'd devoted his entire life to the project." I grin. I say, "Oh, and did I mention that Victor Darius changed his name? It was a bit of a risk, but he decided to go with his father's middle name, or at least part of it. James Trenton Darius wasn't using it anymore, after all."
The speech always changed a little, but the essen– tials stayed the same. Trent knew that he would never have the opportunity to deliver it to all of them at once, but it was the idea that had kept him going, all these many years. On nights when he'd been so enraged that he couldn't sleep, the retelling of the story had come to be a kind of bitter lullaby; he imagined the looks on their tired old faces, the horror in their faded eyes, their trembling indignation at his betrayal. Somehow, the vision always soothed his fury and gave him some small peace.
Soon. After Europe, my friends…
The thought followed him down into the dark, to the sweet, dreamless sleep of the righteous.
Sighing, Trent leaned back in his chair, idly twisting his onyx ring. He hoped they'd take a day or two to rest before heading to their next great battle… per-haps the last great battle; they deserved a bit of rest after all they'd suffered. Really, if any one of them survived what was surely ahead, he'd have to see that they were amply rewarded.
Assuming I'm still in a position to bequeathe gifts…
He would be, of course. If and when Jackson and the others finally figured out what part he was playing, he'd have to disappear – but there were half a dozen completely untraceable identities for him to choose from seeded around the world, each of them ex– tremely wealthy. And White Umbrella didn't have the resources to track him down. They had money and power, true, but they simply weren't smart enough.
I've managed to get this far, haven't I?
Trent sighed again, reminding himself not to gloat, at least not yet. It wouldn't pay to be overconfident, he knew; better men than he had died at the hands of Umbrella. In any case, either he'd be dead or they would. End of problem, one way or the other. He stood up, stretching his arms over his head and shrugging the tension from his shoulders; the satellite "pirate" had allowed him to see and hear almost all of it, and it had been a long and eventful night. A few hours sleep, that was what he needed. He'd arranged to be out of touch until about noon, but then he'd have to put a call in to Sidney and the old tea– drinker would be nearly frantic by then, along with the rest of them. The mysterious Mr. Trent's services would be desperately sought after, and he'd have to catch the next plane out; as much as he wanted to watch Hawkinson return and fumble through putting Fossil down, he needed the sleep more. Trent turned off the screens and walked from his operations room – a living room with a few rather expensive adjustments – into the kitchen, which was just a kitchen. The small house in upstate New York was his sanctuary if not his home; it was from here that he conducted most of his work. Not the grandiose scheming he did on White Umbrella's behalf, but his real work. Were anyone to check, they'd find the three– room Victorian to be owned by a little old lady named Mrs. Helen Black. A private joke, one all his own. Trent opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of mineral water, thinking of how Reston had looked in his last moment, staring into the face of his own demise. Lovely work, that, using Fossil against him; it was really too bad about Cole. The man could have been an asset to the small but growing resistance.
Carrying the water upstairs, Trent used the bath– room and then walked down a short hall, wondering how much longer he had. In the first few weeks of his contact with White Umbrella, he'd half-expected to be called into Jackson's office and summarily shot at any given moment. But the weeks had stretched into months, and he hadn't caught even a whisper of doubt from any of them. In the bedroom, he laid out his clothes for the flight and then undressed, deciding that he would pack while he had his coffee, after calling Sidney. Turning off the light, Trent slipped into bed and sat for a moment, sipping at his bottled water, going over his meticulous plans for the next few weeks. He was tired, but his life's goal was finally within reach; it wasn't so easy to fall asleep when one was about to realize the culmination of three decades of planning and dreaming, of a wish so long-held that it had become who he was… The final strokes, though. There were still several things that had to happen before he could finish, and most of those had to do with how well his rebels fared. He had faith in them, but there was always a chance that they might fail – in which case, he'd have to start over again. Not from scratch, but it would be a serious setback.
Eventually, though…
Trent smiled, setting his water on the nightstand and sliding beneath the thick down comforter. Eventually, the evil of White Umbrella would be exposed to the light of day. Killing the players would be easier, but he wouldn't be satisfied with their deaths; he wanted to see them destroyed, financially and emotionally, their lives taken from them in every practical sense. And when that day came, when the leaders had finished watching their precious handiwork crumble to ash, he would be there. He'd be there to dance in the cemetery of their dreams, and it would be a fine day indeed. As he so often did, Trent went over the speech in his mind, the speech that he'd spent a lifetime practicing for that day. Jackson and Sidney would have to be there, as well as the European "boys" and the finan– ciers from Japan, Mikami and Kamiya. They all knew the truth, they had been coconspirators in the treachery…
I stand in front of them, smiling, and I say, "A little background, in case any of you have forgotten. "Early in Umbrella's history – before there was such a thing as White Umbrella – there was a scientist working in their research and development sector named James Darius. Dr. Darius was an ethical and committed microbiologist, who, along with his lovely wife, Helen – a doctor of pharmacology, in fact
–spent untold hours developing a tissue-repair synthesis for their employers, one that James had created him-self. This synthesis that took up so much of the Dariuses' time was a brilliantly designed viral complex that – if properly developed – had the potential to greatly reduce human suffering, even one day to wipe out death by traumatic injury. Both James and Helen had the highest of hopes for their work – and they were so responsible, so loyal and trusting, that they went to Umbrella immediately, once they realized the potential of what they were designing. And Umbrella, Inc. also realized the potential. Except what they saw was a financial nosedive if such a miracle were to be released. Imagine all the money that a pharmaceutical company would lose if millions of people stopped dying each year; but then, imagine what money could be made if this viral complex could be designed to fit a military application. Imagine the power. With incentives like that, Umbrella really had no choice. They took the synthesis from Darius, they took the notes and research, and they turned it all over to a brilliant young scientist by the name of William Birkin, barely out of his teens and already the head of his own lab. Birkin was one of them, you see. A man with the same vision, the same lack of morals, a man they could use. And with their own puppet in place, they realized that having the good Doctors Darius around could prove to be inconvenient. So, there was a fire. An accident, it was said, a terrible tragedy – two scientists and three loyal assis-tants all burned up. Too bad, so sad, case closed – and so began the division of Umbrella known as White Umbrella. Bioweapons research. A playground for the filthy rich and their toadies, for men who'd lost any-thing resembling a conscience a long, long time ago." I smile again. "For men like you." "White Umbrella had thought of everything, or so they believed. What they hadn't considered – either because they were too shortsighted or ignorantly dis-missive – was the young son of James and Helen, their only child, away at boarding school when his parents were burned alive. Perhaps they simply forgot about him. But Victor Darius didn't forget. In fact, Victor grew up thinking about what Umbrella had done, dare I say obsessing over it. There came a time when Victor could think of nothing else, and that was when he decided to do something about it. To avenge his mother and father, Victor Darius knew he would have to be extremely clever and very, very careful. So he spent years just planning. And more years learning what he needed to know, and even more making the right contacts, moving in the right circles, being as devious and underhanded as his foe. And one day, he murdered Umbrella, just as they murdered his parents. It wasn't easy, but he was determined, and he'd devoted his entire life to the project." I grin. I say, "Oh, and did I mention that Victor Darius changed his name? It was a bit of a risk, but he decided to go with his father's middle name, or at least part of it. James Trenton Darius wasn't using it anymore, after all."
The speech always changed a little, but the essen– tials stayed the same. Trent knew that he would never have the opportunity to deliver it to all of them at once, but it was the idea that had kept him going, all these many years. On nights when he'd been so enraged that he couldn't sleep, the retelling of the story had come to be a kind of bitter lullaby; he imagined the looks on their tired old faces, the horror in their faded eyes, their trembling indignation at his betrayal. Somehow, the vision always soothed his fury and gave him some small peace.
Soon. After Europe, my friends…
The thought followed him down into the dark, to the sweet, dreamless sleep of the righteous.