To thine own self
by Ainzfern
14
There was an intense kind of silence within the main experimental laboratory of the Bio-Lab. As he walked the semi-deserted floor of the cavernous room, absently nodding an acknowledgment to two somber faced techs who were quietly monitoring the readouts on the main terminal consol, Raoul Am sensed the silence like a physical presence, pressing in upon him. Even when the lab was fully staffed during maintenance and shift change-over's, that same insistent quietude remained. Techs and medical staff alike moved through their duties with a thoughtful and preoccupied air. They spoke quietly, walked softly, their words and gestures careful and considered.
The reason for this, Raoul knew, was undoubtedly the presence of the ten occupants now suspended within the remarkable healing environment of the amniotic tanks. It had touched all of them to some degree. The federation volunteers to the trial had been serenely grateful, magnificently dignified in their ruined appearances, as they had arrived at the Bio-Lab some days before.
Certainly Katze had been affected by them, joining them in solidarity through the pre-trial process, taking his lead from them; accepting, as his new acquaintances were, of the need for the frankly uncomfortable questions, the examinations and the tests. The ex-Furniture had been welcomed into the odd little fraternity without question surprisingly quickly by the other participants, Raoul had noted. Although Katze's old wounds, his physical losses, were not so terribly obvious as the other members of the trial, with the notable exception of the cruel scar that laced his face, the group seemed to clearly sense that, unseen, covered by his understated and plain attire, the man they knew as Katze bore ancient injuries that rivaled their own. The fact that they were not made privy to the details of Katze's scars only seemed to underscore the profound nature of them.
And, Raoul mused now as he approached the row of tanks, their assumption was quite accurate.
As he reached the first tank, and the naked unconscious occupant floating within, Raoul looked down at the sheaf of patient data that he held in his hand, flicking through until he found the correct name. Visually inspecting the first subject's physical condition against the progress results extrapolated from the vast reams of data collected from the monitoring systems, he made a few concise notes against the margin in several places; comments that he would enter into the overall subject file later in the evening.
Stepping down the line to the next tank Raoul patiently, and with substantial attention to detail, repeated the process. This next patient, a woman name Aylin Penz, was of particular interest to Raoul from a medical point of view. Aylin was the subject whom had lost part of her face and lower jaw; an injury, the sight of which was still deeply disturbing to the woman who bore it, and to practically anyone who looked upon it. To have her shattered appearance restored to her, Raoul had discovered during one of her pre-trial interviews, would be akin to being granted a new life.
Aylin was healing beautifully, Raoul was gratified to note. The skeletal structure, the jaw bone and even the teeth, had nearly completely regrown. Across their surface, like fine red strands of living cotton, the first layers of muscle and ligaments were beginning to form.
What had been left of Aylin's face had given every indication that the woman had once been quite lovely. Raoul knew for a fact that he was not the only member of the team coordinating the trial that would be pleased, both professionally and personally, to see her original face once more as it was.
Completing his remarks on Aylin, Raoul stepped forward to the next tank. Patient and methodical, giving all due consideration to each one, he worked his way along the line, inspecting and noting, adding vital information that would continue to educate him and his team, even as it confirmed the success of the project.
Eventually, he reached the last tank, the last member of the trial. At this point, as always, Raoul let his hands fall to his sides, his sheaf of data still held, but forgotten for the moment as he looked at the man floating, suspended and unaware, in the healing liquid.
Katze.
Impossible to be completely objective here, Raoul had to confess. Every time that he approached this particular tank, he felt the same complex mix of emotions flowing through him. Certainly he was pleased that the healing thus far appeared to be proceeding as encouragingly as the other trial members, but there was a part of him that felt a powerful surge of protectiveness for the man and, oddly, sorrow... for what he had endured before.
Raoul accepted that it had really sunk in on him upon seeing Katze on the operating table, anesthetized and prepped for surgery. Gowned and masked in his pristinely white surgical garb, the Elite had had the first opportunity to appraise the sum of the damage that Katze had incurred over the course of his life. He had expected the cruelly truncated penis, of course, but the uneven and ragged lines of the old scarring had actually caused Raoul to scowl with anger behind his mask. It had been quite evident to him that whoever had performed Katze's original modification surgery had favored speed over precision, and had certainly not cared much one way or the other about the patient's recovery time.
Raoul had seen many excellent modifications performed on new Furnitures in the past; indeed he had performed not a few of them himself. In those cases, the work had been precise, the damage to surrounding tissue minimal and the recovery time swift with limited discomfort.
Katze's modification had not been one of those.
Raoul could only imagine the pain that Katze must have endured whilst recovering from such... such butchery.
Blinking, bringing himself back to the present, Raoul lifted one elegant hand and pressed it to the Perspex wall of the tank. It was a familiar gesture by now, he absently acknowledged, one that he made every time he stood before this tank. He watched for a while, observing Katze's slight movements in his liquid environment. Strange, but the man was never actually still, for all that he was deeply unconscious. He appeared to dream, his hands occasionally opening and closing, his long well formed limbs gently twitching every now and then. Occasionally, his head would turn to one side or arch back gently, his red hair drifting like fine seaweed about his head.
Already the scar on his face was fading, barely noticeable now. And other scars, earlier ones, the origin of which Raoul could not even begin to say, were actually gone.
And there was a series of newer scars... marks that Raoul had inflicted himself into Katze's shoulder that, mercifully, were disappearing too. He never could have imagined, even only a few short months ago, that he would look at the marks of his own displeasure on the flesh of a mere mongrel and feel such a sharp sense of shame.
But he did, and he was indescribably pleased that they were fading away.
He would never again cause such marks upon the skin of this man. And he would never allow anyone else to, either. It wasn't something that he even had to think about. It was simply a fact, now written in stone, upon his very psyche.
A gentle and warm hand closed over his shoulder, startling him lightly out of his thoughts. "Raoul," a silken voice, as familiar to him as his own, spoke quietly to him. "Why do I have the distinct impression that you have not moved from that spot since the trial began?"
Turning slightly, Raoul let his fingers slip from the side of the tank as he smiled wearily at his dearest friend. "Iason," he greeted him, his voice equally soft, "I didn't hear you approaching."
"That much was quite apparent." Iason's pale eyes flicked towards Katze. "He is doing well, then?"
Raoul nodded, his eyes once more drawn to the mongrel who floated, oblivious and healing, in the tank of miraculous liquid. "Yes. Remarkably well, in fact. At this rate I would estimate that we should be able to extract him from the tank within the next three weeks."
"This is good news." Iason's smile was a little wry as he turned back to Raoul. "I fear your desire to rest properly has rather suffered since the trial began."
"Much to do."
"Of course." Iason's expression was composed, but his direct gaze clearly indicated that he saw far more than Raoul was admitting. He lifted one elegant brow. "Riki came by earlier?"
"Yes," Raoul nodded. "This morning, as a matter of fact, on his way to Enif's apartment I understand."
"Ah." Iason's expression softened. "Their monthly meeting regarding the ongoing relocations to Hepstra." He frowned, ever so slightly, as if a thought had just occurred to him. "Was he accompanied by one of my security men?"
Raoul smiled. "An unobtrusive fellow wearing a most familiar uniform?"
"I would assume so."
"Then, yes," Raoul chuckled softly. "He stayed by the door of the laboratory for the duration, but his presence was quite noticeable."
"Good." Stepping closer to Raoul, Iason lowered his voice, his manner becoming serious, even somber. "I am most pleased to say, my friend, that such precautions may soon no longer be necessary."
Raoul looked sharply at him.
Iason's smile was shaded with grim satisfaction. "I spoke with Chey earlier in the week. As of that time, the directors of United Industries were no longer in control of the company."
"Grace's people found something, then?"
"Oh, indeed they did," Iason's eyes narrowed with something very close to malevolence.
Raoul's expression hardened, somewhat. "And will this information have any bearing on your personal security team's objectives?"
"None at all," Iason replied curtly. "My original instructions still stand."
A certain knowing gleam had entered Raoul's eyes. "Good," he murmured approvingly, turning to look once more at the mongrel floating in the tank in front of him. "Very good indeed. As discreet as they are, I would much prefer that Katze no longer had need of any form of shadowing from your security forces upon his exit from the trial."
Iason closed his hand over Raoul's shoulder once more, squeezing gently as he joined his friend in his observation of the mongrel within the tank; the mongrel who had come to mean a significant amount to both of them, each in a profoundly different way. "Trust me, Raoul. Within a mere day or so, any possible threat to Riki and Katze will be but a distant and unpleasant memory."
Raoul kept his gaze firmly fixed upon Katze, even as he felt a certain sense of relief washing through him.
He also couldn't help but feel a surge of approval and admiration for Iason's commitment to this particular course of action. Certainly, according to Chey Neeson, the directors of United Industries had been legally neutralized. Not a one of them, he felt, would now dare further legal wrath by attempting to take any manner of punitive action against the Ceres market. But the other 'directors', the ones whom had orchestrated the assassination attempts, were still out there; still potentially capable of regrouping and, even more disturbingly, planning some manner of revenge against the two mongrels who had so effectively, if somewhat providentially, thwarted their plans.
"Good," he murmured once more, glancing up to meet Iason's pale eyes again. "Such is the inevitable fate of anyone who threatens what is ours."
Iason did not reply. He didn't have to. The cold hard agreement in his friend's striking eyes displayed all that needed to be said.
Hurrying through the close back streets of the main city of a federation territory world known as New-Vincentia, a lean-faced and furtive man tightened his coat around his body. He currently called himself Los Hague. That was, of course, not his real name – but it would do for the moment. At least until he got off this particular planet.
Los had just made a rather vital collection from a locker located in the flea-bitten foyer of a low priced hotel in the inner-city; a parcel containing a significant amount of money, in unmarked mixed denominations. And, with any luck, it would be just enough to buy him a new identity, some professionally forged papers attesting to that fact, and a trip on a transport that would take him to a less populated and infinitely safer region of federation territory.
As he ducked through another side street and directly into the block of short-stay apartments where he was for the moment residing, Los glanced briefly back over one shoulder.
He did this a lot these days.
Only a few weeks ago, he thought bitterly as he stepped into the lift and punched in his floor number. Only a mere month or so past... he'd been certain of his future. It had seemed so simple, so elegant. They'd been so close to succeeding and, as a result, becoming richer than they had ever dared to dream.
But it had all fallen into the shit when their hired guns had shot the wrong fucking man.
For fuck's sake...
Immediately after that had happened, it had been a matter of break and run. As fast as they could. No more fancy suits and nice hotels. No more neat little attaché cases and fine restaurants and long black vehicles with polite chauffeurs who could organize all manner of exotic 'diversions', mostly illegal, and quite often sordid...
Just running. Running like hell.
He did not know what had happened to his other associates on that 'special project' committee that he'd been a part of. He'd lost contact with them some time back, just before his own panic had really begun to set in. But he did know this much... they were either moving as fast as he was, or they were already dead.
In the last few weeks, Los had temporarily resided in seven different cities on three different inner-federation planets. He had always been smart enough to do a little forward planning and had secreted various amounts of money in a mixture of different places. So far, he had been able to keep ahead of the game. But today's collection was the final key to success. He needed this money to purchase a convincing disappearance; otherwise he knew that he didn't stand a chance.
Fumbling the security swipe pass out of his pocket, Los unlocked his apartment door and stepped inside.
...And slammed to a halt, staring right down the barrel of a high-power semi automatic weapon.
Amoian design, the silencer already affixed into place, he noted almost absently as his heart plummeted.
So close. He'd been so damned close.
"Good morning, Victor," the grim-faced, uniformed man holding the weapon greeted him by his real name almost politely. The sharp snapping sound of the weapon being cocked seemed to echo in the silence of the room, "His Excellency, Iason Mink of the Tanagura Syndicate, sends his regards."
The man fired one single, efficient shot.
And for Los, or indeed, Victor, the game was over.
To thine own self – chapter 13 << >> To thine own self – chapter 15