Adaptation: Part 5

Adaptation ~ Part V

By Jeremy Tyrrell

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Jeremy Tyrrell

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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This work was originally written in English in the Australian dialect but has since been converted to a North American dialect.

This book is also available in print. Please visit www.jeztyr.com for more in the Adaptation series and other works by this author.

Dedication

For my kooky nut-bag of a Brother-in-Law, Robert.

Chapter 1

"I've only got two modes,

deadly and dead.

And I've never tried the second one."

- Agent Simon

Ingrained into the minds of all humans is a solidly used and seldom acknowledged feature. It is not taught, not in the conventional sense at least, and it cannot be forgotten. It is not knowledge nor a habit nor an instinct. It runs a deeper, so deep that both knowledge and instinct rely upon it.

Faith allows a mind to work freely without needing to concentrate on the deeper complexities of the world. It provides a comforting abstraction between what is known, what is felt or sensed, and what is reality. Being so fundamental to the operation of the mind, it crosses all boundaries from the physical to the metaphysical to the spiritual.

It can be molded and formed, twisted this way and that, shaped if you will. It can be challenged. It can be ignored. It can be denied. It can be abused, just like everything else that is human, to suit an end. It can be drawn out so thin as to be barely perceptible.

Yet it can never be removed.

Faith tempers our motivations, restricting our actions to fit sensibly in with the rest of the world. At the same time it fuels our motivations, depending on the context, which leads to excess. Dogma. Fervor. Blind Passion. Deadly concepts that arise as a product of free-will and faith when the mind chooses what it wants to believe.

It crosses between individuals, through individuals, using each as a conduit on its path to others. Throughout its journey it can be modified, such that the projection from one onto another can be far removed from the original form.

It permeates consciousness, allowing us to be more than biological machines. But what is faith to the unconscious mind?

Agent Simon grunted. The sound trembled up his throat, an alien noise emanating from his chest. The jerks and spasms of his body had caused several similar noises, yet they sounded accidental. This grunt was willful. It was a grunt of conscious pain.

The pain was indescribable since there was nothing left in his world with which to compare it. His memory was obliterated. His capacity for thought was restricted. Something was blocking his mind. Something stopped him from remembering.

His reality was a sphere of agony, encasing him inside a promise that there was relief somewhere just beyond his reach.

Through the blistering, searing pain, the blinding agony in which he found himself, he fought to regain his awareness.

The last thing he remembered, the last shreds of memory that were afforded him, was being jostled about, listening to the high whine of an emergency transport's engine as it roared for a hasty take-off. There was the comfortless beeping of medical machinery about him. There was the thumping about as his limbs moved on their own, jolting and jarring without a proper mind to reign in their motions and provide a more human finesse and purpose.

Hurried voices. Rattling machines. Barked orders. Curses.

Maybe it was him that cursed, maybe not. That was not important. He fished about in his limited pool of memories in case it was.

His eyes had not functioned properly. His optical-display had flitted about and shut down, unable to make anything out of the fuzzy, kaleidoscopic image with which it was presented. The thousands of microscopic prisms, each honed with razor sharp edges, had worked and wormed and wriggled their way into his eyes, slicing through his cornea, through his sclera, through to his retina.

It was not just his eyes, he discovered. His hand no longer functioned. His hand! A surge of longing leaped over the pain and searched for the familiar sensation of fingers flexing.

There was nothing at the end of his arm but a well of more pain, muffled by the unemotional effects of nerve suppressors. His hand. There was something to do with his hand.

The breathing apparatus to which he was attached drew in a gasp for him.

He remembered now. The tendons, albeit artificially reinforced, had been resolutely cut through by his own blade. It had been his own blade!

Ottavio's hand drove it.

Ottavio!

He groaned once more, this time out of anger, out of frustration.

He should have seen it coming. He should have finished him when he had the chance. He should have used the forces assigned to him, subdued him with tranq-burrs and then kicked the crap out of him when he was safely back at Houston.

He wanted to roar. The wrath within him broiled and churned like a pressure cooker.

Why is he making noise? came a voice.

His ears had decided to work, pushing the voice through to be interpreted by his brain. It sounded familiar. Very familiar. It was not Ali, with his husky, well pronounced syllables.

Lower his heart, Raquel, it said, Slowly, please.

He shuddered a little as a queer, cold sensation came across his body. He could feel his heart slowing down from rapid thumps to controlled, measured thuds.

A bit more, um, yes. There. Hold it there. Steady, please. This next bit should, oh. Um, hang on.

Jung. His unsure, stammering murmurs were unmistakable. What was he up to? Why was he there?

I guess that blip might have just been a Taubman's reaction to the Promek. Um, still. How are we looking?

We're all good, said an unfamiliar voice.

Define all good?

Everything's steady.

Meaning?

Meaning all good.

For the hundredth time, Doctor, you cannot be complacent with this one.

We're fine, OK? Fine.

If everything was fine, Ottavio would be in a half conscious state, not Simon. If everything was fine, he would be able to see, and talk, and move about. If everything was fine he would be scraping Ottavio's blood off his boots after a job well done.

Instead he was in an operating theater, it seemed, getting patched up. He tried to open his eyes. He concentrated his essence on lifting his leaden eyelids. With an effort he coordinated his intentions, pushing against the impassive nerve suppressors to make his eyelids function.

They slowly creaked open to a slit.

Gone was the pain of a thousand tiny knives. Gone was the kaleidoscope of reds and whites, blurring colors and searing pain. Instead, through the slim crack of his eyelids, he could make out several hazy faces around him, illuminated by a blinding white light.

His toe just moved. The lumbar region shouldn't be um, be, um, why is he moving? Doctor Harris, could you, um, just double check his consciousness?

Everything is fine, Professor.

Hmm? What about that Pi wave? Doctor?

Harris sounded a little narky, That's the third time you've questioned my answer, Professor.

Inside, Simon raged.

What the Hell had happened to him? Why was he undergoing surgery? Surely it would have been just a visit to the infirmary, a couple of stitches here and there, all patched up, walk it off.

Don't, ah, don't get fresh! We've all worked triple shifts to repair him, I know. Look, um. I'm just asking because, look, I can see the read from here! That's spiked twice...

I'm monitoring it. Let's get this over with and get him back under.

He felt sick, like he was drunk. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to tear himself away from his restraints, find a weapon and finish what he started. Ottavio had to die, by his hand. He would thrust his sword into him. He would strangle him until his eyes burst. He would tear him, limb from limb, and break every bone in his body.

We cannot risk triggering...

I have done this before, Professor. Once or twice.

His heart it on the rise again, Professor, came a woman's voice.

She sounded concerned.

Is he coming up?

"He's approaching stage three. I said approaching; he isn't there yet. Relax. I've got him monitored."

Jung sounded unconvinced, I won't have this. He's too close. Damn it, Raquel, keep that heart down!

The blurred faces twisted and contorted, swimming in and out of his vision. Although his breathing was assisted, he found himself gasping in short breaths. The urge to kill, to destroy, to tear arm from bleeding torso surged through him. Ottavio would die!

Raquel!

I'm trying. It's not responding! I'll have to increase the dosage. Professor? Should I –

An shrill beeping sounded.

Damn! Harris exclaimed, Where did that epinephrine come from? What did you do, Raquel? What did you administer?

I didn't administer anything, she replied, I just upped the Gercatamine by two units, is all.

It's not doing shit! Add twenty Ipaphren to his drip, please. Now!

Simon's vision shifted to a searing red. The faces, although blurred, became artificially warped by his optical-display. His bulk swelled underneath his shackles. He could feel the familiar sensation of his muscles flexing and tensing. His mind fought with the drugs that were swimming about his body.

Ottavio's smug face morphed into view on his right.

I'll give the orders, Doctor, Professor Jung announced angrily, Raquel, use Fada-B, not Ipaphren. Otherwise you risk damaging his, ah, nerve endings in his arm.

That's a low risk, Doctor Harris snorted.

But, um, it's not one I'm willing to take!

There's your problem, Professor. You apply your softly-softly approach that you get from weapons and tech to surgery. That might work from a technological point of view, for some, but it's a bit antiquated. If you know all about something, then you know how it will behave under any given circumstance, he said, "A Jack of all trades is a Master of none, you know. If you concentrated on only one field, rather than trying to – ah!"

Simon's hand tore away from its restraint and latched onto the nearest neck. Doctor Harris gasped and gagged as the crushing hand demolished his windpipe.

Professor Jung shouted, "He's up! Raquel! Quick! Fada-B! Ipaphren! Whatever you've got!"

Raquel hastily scrabbled at a syringe, doing her best to get it into the narrow mouth of the injection tube. Doctor Harris thrashed about wildly, kicking out, trying to get some kind of purchase on the vice-grip that crushed him. In his desperation, his leg struck Raquel's needle, sending it flying to some forgotten portion of the room.

Simon's pent up rage surged through him, and Berserker ensured that it manifested upon the poor being on the end of his hand. Ottavio's face laughed at him, goading him on. He lifted Doctor Harris off the ground, keen to destroy him. The gurney to which he was strapped groaned with the extra load it had to bear.

His grip tightened. He burst his other arm free and brought it across to secure his victim, but stopped short as he noticed that his arm no longer existed as he remembered.

He tugged at it, annoyed that it was hooked up to some bizarre machinery by a tangle of tubes and wires. Professor Jung jumped at him in an attempt to stop him from yanking out the various sensors, nerve couplings and stabilizing fibers that had been so carefully positioned.

He was rewarded with a powerful push from Simon's stump. He flew backwards and landed roughly into a collection of bio-monitors, dazed and confused. Forgetting about the thrashing body in his other hand, Simon returned his dumbfounded attention to the space at the end of his arm.

There was only a stump covered in cables and wires, plates bolted on to make a crude covering over his missing limb. Doctor Harris squeaked and gargled, then stopped struggling altogether and went limp in his hand. He hung like a rag doll by his neck, his skin bunched up in red and purple mounds under his chin.

Raquel ripped open a Fada-B shot and jammed it solidly into Simon's neck and squeezed. In a second his arm began to lower, and a few seconds after that Doctor Harris' body crumpled to the ground in an untidy pile.

All sensation was replaced by a light tingling, blackness and muffled comfort. Simon lost consciousness once more.

Professor Jung rolled over, untangling himself from the cables and shifting a smashed bio-monitor off from his leg.

Damn it! Damn it all! he bellowed, Get a medi-bot in here! And a crew!

From her observation booth, Master Penelope clicked on the intercom button, Professor?

Miss Penelope!

Is everything alright?

No! he coughed, pulling himself to his feet.

He stumbled over to Doctor Harris, We've got a man injured here! Shit! His heart has stopped. Quickly, um, hand me that hyper-adrenaline!

He jabbed the needle into Doctor Harris' chest and looked up. Master Penelope was looking down at him through the observation glass. Was that a smile he detected?

He looked again. No, she was serious faced, as always. It must have been the warp of the glass. That was all.

Jung! What is going on?

He woke up. Harris got hurt, um, his heart has stopped. We need a bot to, um, stabilize him. Get a medical crew in here!

You have administered hyper-adrenalin? That would –

"Yes! Yes!"

Jung, I cannot send in a team. It is a sterile environment.

I don't care! Send a bot! Harris is hurt! Bad!

We cannot risk exposing Simon to contamination, she said, You will need to move him to the air-lock. I will call for an extraction from there.

He's hurt! His heart stopped! His windpipe is crushed!

Who is more expendable, Simon or Harris? Jung? Stop man and think!

Professor Jung's face went from red to white.

But... Miss... Ah! Oh, dear. Oh, dear! Raquel! Help me with him. Oh, dear. Come on! Um, hold his feet!

Secure Simon first, Master Penelope warned, His neural connector is loose! I can see it from here. If he comes out of this more damaged...

Alright! Alright! Damn it!

Doctor Jung swore, fumbling to replace a cable that had pulled out from the base of Simon's neck.

Calm down, Professor! Calm down and take the time to do it properly. The meeting with the Board has been confirmed, man!

The prompting helped Jung find the alignment, and the neural connector snicked back into place. The Professor gave him a quick looking over. A few loose ends on the arm, a quick tighten of the intravenous ports.

Oh, dear! He's secure! He's fine! Raquel, come on, help!

The pair slowly pulled Doctor Harris from the spaghetti of tubing and cabling, shuffled him across the floor and hit the airlock button. They struggled and panted, pulling his floppy limbs inside the door before shutting it closed. The seal hissed and whined. The air smelled different. There was a twinge of ozone as the pumps kicked in.

Come on, Harris old boy, hang in there, Jung panted, dripping perspiration onto his companion.

Where's the team? Raquel asked at the intercom, Where's the goddamn team?

On their way, came Master Penelope's muffled, electronic voice, Be sure not to contaminate yourselves. Agent Simon will need immediate attention once Doctor Harris is extracted. How is he looking?

He's not moving, Miss! Raquel said, He's not moving at all! And there's no pulse!

Do you have any more hyper-adrenalin?

What?

Keep your head, girl! Do you have any more hyper-adrenalin?

But – but he may overdose...

"You cannot harm a corpse, girl. Use it!"

Chapter 2

"There is nothing quite so dangerous

as an unfinished thought,"

- Master Vanessa of Spain

Marcus knocked at Ryan's door.

Hey, Ryan. Hey?

There was no response.

You decent? Clothes on and all of that?

After a couple of seconds a grunt came.

Um. This is my home, right, so I don't want you getting up to anything you shouldn't, yeah?

He opened the door carefully.

Hey? Ryan? You up? That wasn't really a response, you know. Grunts don't count as communication.

A brief glance put Marcus at ease. Ryan was sitting at the bed, looking out of the window. He was awake. And clothed.

Hey. You feeling alright? Why didn't you answer before? I know that going to the mall was an intense thing for you, what with all those people.

The mall? I could not care for that place. Nor for its people.

Oh. Xavier, then? I know he's a slob. Well, a slob, a creep, a cretin, a degenerate.

A watcher, Ryan added.

He turned to face Marcus. His eyes were red and puffy. His mouth hung as loosely as the glass of bubbling liquid in his hand.

He stared up at Marcus with a stupid grin.

Where did you find that? Marcus asked.

Ryan shrugged, Inside the bottle. It was just there.

Ah. I see, Marcus said.

Really? You see? You see? Imagine that! To be able to see with clarity. Is it that simple for you?

Uh. Generally, yeah.

What do you see? Do you see what I see? Different eyes see different things, and one photon may not enter two eyes, you know.

Sounds like a Vigil lecture.

Do you see the world as it fizzles away? Ryan asked, holding up the glass, So many bubbles. So many! They are not infinite, yet you could not count them, even if you tried.

I don't want to count bubbles.

But by the time you even get to counting two, hundreds have come and hundreds still have gone. And in the time it takes to understand this fact, hundreds more have been created and destroyed, Ryan sighed, Just like that.

Yup. Tonic water is like that. Neat stuff.

Each bubble is a life, Marcus, and each bubble lasts only as long at the time taken to reach the top and no longer. You know why?

Density, I'd say.

I have been watching them. They travel and squirm and race to the top! Then, then they burst and are no longer. No more bubble. Once there was and now there is not. It is so futile, is it not? Look, there was another bubble, but it was gone before I even got to mention it. You missed it!

Bubbles. Cool.

Each bubble is a life. That is the secret! And you know what? Each is individual to itself. No two are the same. While they appear similar, and they are, because each is a bubble, yet their minute differences make them unique. You can see, here, that not one touches another until it reaches the surface. Then when the do, they mingle and touch and coalesce and merge! They are merging, Marcus!

Merging...

And then they are gone! Gone! Just like that! They burst open, whether they have merged or not, and they spray themselves about. The bubbles cannot last forever. The only joy they can find is during the briefest of periods when they find each other at the top! Such a discovery. How cruel. How cruel to tear away...

How many of those have you had?

Ryan looked hard at his glass, I have not had this one yet. It is still in the glass, see?

Was that full when you got it?

Marcus gestured to the bottle of gin. The significant reduction in volume pointed to only one thing.

OK. Right. You've got something on your mind, then. What's up?

Nothing is up! Or perhaps everything is up! They never go back down, not that I have ever observed them to do so. That is just the natural order of things. Since they cannot defy their path, anything contrary to it simply cannot exist. Nothing appears by them as they travel, only vague images, vague notions. It all moves too quickly. Only the end of existence is up. The bubbles, when they merge...

"Yeah, you said. Merging and all that. Good. And I'm sure it's very special and meaningful to you in a potent kind of way, and that's fine, but in my experience, one doesn't down half a bottle of gin and start getting all existential about bubbles without something driving it."

"I – I am not getting all existential."

Zen, then, or whatever. Let's cut to the chase, shall we? Is it this whole virus thing you've got going on that's weighing on your mind?

Ryan's face changed. The glass dropped heavily on the dresser.

I wish you would not talk about my destiny so flippantly.

Yeah. Sorry. So, is it?

Ryan sighed, No.

Didn't think so. You've probably processed all that, right? And judging from that sigh, it's troubling to the point of being consuming. All consuming. Hmm, Marcus said, taking a few steps about the room and looking at Ryan closely, Which means you might have had a crisis of conscience, you feel guilty or something, but considering your past actions I think you're more than capable of dealing with the typical moral dilemmas a Director faces.

I am fine.

And so it leaves only two possible scenarios: either you've done something incredibly stupid, or you've got trouble with a woman.

No, I...

Which amounts to the same thing, really. Who is it? Oh, not that girl back in Buffalo?

No, she... um. No.

Yes, I should think so.

Then yes.

Come on, Ryan! She was just some girl.

She is a woman.

Did you even speak to her?

Yes. You saw me on the video feed.

No, I didn't. I mean, I saw you, yes, but I had other, more important things to attend to. You know, Ottavio and Von Braun and Mohmet and all that? Remember?

I remember.

Marcus sighed. The gin went back to Ryan's lips. This would require a little more effort, Marcus decided.

So. You spoke to her then. That was a mistake, if you ask me, but you're not going to.

No. I am not going to.

What did you say?

Not a lot.

Not a lot. But enough, right? It only takes one word. They're like that. You know Medusa? Do you think it was an accident that the most insidious, fiendish monster who can turn men to stone was a female? They're dangerous creatures, you know.

"Esther is not a creature."

"Esther? Is that her name? Well, that's a start. How much do you really know about her? Besides her name and physical appearance, that is."

She is, um, Ryan began, She lives in Buffalo. She hangs out at the mall.

Anything else?

She does not follow the crowd. She walks alone. Her eyes see more than most. They do not merely collect photons, but they can actively seek out and look through a person...

Let me just take that gin bottle away.

...seeing deep, deep through the superficial layers to what lies underneath. And she saw through me. And – and she did not like what she saw!

Crap. You've gone and made a blunder already, Marcus said, You've raised this Esther to the status of a goddess, to something on a plane far above the level of humanity from which she spawned. You've attributed to her some vast, magical powers, haven't you?

No.

Ah, whether or not you truly believe in them is beside the point, the fact of the matter is that you've made her something she's not. Now, should you see her again, you'll be like a pat of butter that's been sitting too close to the oven.

His eyes sparkled through their glaze, Should get to I see her again?

Of course, Marcus said, I think you would thoroughly enjoy being under her spell.

Spell? Spell? She is not a witch!

Neither is gin, but the effect is the same! Marcus said, Trust me on this, Ryan. Do you think she is the only girl in the world? Well, is she?

No.

"Of course not. There are billions of others. Crunch the numbers and embrace the maths. It's as simple as that. You saw one girl, one girl out of billions who you think you would like to get to know better, one girl who you believe would understand you. That's all."

That is not all, Ryan said, There is more to her than that!

Like what? What amazing capacity did you divine while you were chatting to her outside a burger joint?

You make it sound frivolous.

For good reason.

You do not understand!

Neither do you!

Marcus was getting agitated. His face was flushed a slight tinge of red and his eyes had lost their natural impassiveness.

I will admit, Ryan said through the alcoholic interference, That this whole business is, um, new to me. And I also admit that my experience is wanting. But you do not know me, nor her. There is something about her. Something different. And I must know what it is. It may not be anything significant after all, or it may be earth shattering, or – or something, but either way I must figure out what it is! I must!

"OK. That's fine. You do that. But don't let it get in the way of what you're doing here, right? I can't have you getting all sauced up and slobbery every time you're alone in your room. Things are coming to a head, and I need you in top form, yeah? When we need to move, we need to move quickly."

Ryan closed his eyes in a vain bid to remove the alcohol from his system. The stars he saw on his eyelids coupled with the sudden dizziness he felt forced him to open them again. When he did, he saw Marcus leaning over, staring into his own glazed orbs.

Ryan? Ryan, you there? Come on, Ryan. I need you to focus. Focus! Nope, you're not focusing. Stop think about Ezra...

Esther.

Whatever.

"Not whatever! Her name is Esther!"

OK. OK. I understand that she is important to you. She is. I get that. See? I'm understanding that. But the future of the human race is more important. One person versus one hundred bazillion, plus the bazillion more yet to come. It's bigger than anything that's come before you or that will come after. We must be ready to act at a moment's notice. The Vigils are in a state of turmoil. The Directors will soon no longer have a leader. Right?

Ryna shuffled on the bed. He longed for Marcus to stop making sense. He longed to get back to staring, inebriated, at the bubbles in his gin and tonic.

Marcus pushed, Right?

I guess.

If we stuff it up, then we'll be back to square one and you'll die a withered old fool like Abs. But if we succeed, Ryan. Are you listening? If we succeed, then we shall command the whole fucking human race.

The whole human race?

"We will govern those who govern the rest. We shall drive humanity. We shall steer the vessel, accelerate and break as we need to. Randomness will be crushed. See this as your opportunity to really make a difference."

Ryan blinked through the fog that had settled on his mind. He crushed one eye with a palm, rubbing it to get the sensation back.

And you can deal with your woman problems when you've done all the important stuff.

Important stuff, Ryan said, looking at his glass, Esther is important.

Marcus rolled his eyes. There was no use trying to talk sense into a drunk.

Sober the Hell up, get your shit together and start acting like a man! he hissed.

He left Ryan staring out from his chair and took the bottle of gin with him.

The synapses in Ryan's brain flickered, burning with uncontrolled waves of thought. Now that Marcus' voice was not pounding in his ears, directing his thoughts, they scattered themselves about.

He thought of humanity, its history and future, and how Esther was part of it. He thought of the Directors and what life would be like had he remained with the Vigils. He thought of Master Theodore. He thought of Kahira. He thought of his childhood and how it had been regimental and restricted.

He thought about the last drop falling from his glass into his mouth, and whether or not he had another bottle lying about somewhere. There was none, not under the bed, not in the side table, not in his closet.

With a grunted sigh he