Tyrell 2007 Saga: Unwanted Gifts
Chapter 1 Beginnings
January 1942. A Villa with a View,
somewhere on the French Riveria:
Eldon Tyrell,
CEO of the Tyrell Corporation, admired his latest acquisition. An ancient
skull sat on the green felt blotter of his desk. At some point after removal
from its owner, the skull had been shrunk to a fraction of its original
size. The shrunken, yellow bone was covered in symbols and archaic runes
modern scholars could not decipher. He ran his fingers over the orbital
bones and caressed the forehead. "Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio,"
he said softly to himself. The line from Hamlet was stale before Tyrell was
born, but it still made him chuckle. He continued to study the artifact as
another man might a fine oil painting. "This thing is uglier than Colonel
Phillips with a hangover," he thought with a smile. "Glad I didn’t
have to pay for it."
The artifact
came in the mail with a simple note:
Dear
Mr. Tyrell,
Many
years ago, your Grandfather rendered me a great service. I now repay
the favor and hope our families continue to prosper as a result.
Your obedient servant,
William Smythe, Earl of Wintershire
The stylized
cross on the paper meant the offer was real even if the person sending it
was under a pseudonym. Naturally, there was no "Wintershire" to be "Earl"
of. The title only signified something to one who was a member of the
Society. For a moment, Tyrell fingered the cross around his neck. It too was
a relic of the past. A token from an ancient organization of powerful men,
the ruby in its center and its equilateral arms held special significance to
anyone bearing the Tyrell name.
"So the
mysterious Earl owed Grandaddy, a debt did he?" Tyrell thought, "If this is
the check, I think Granddad got took!" He wondered if the details of
Granddaddy’s adventure were buried in one of the family history volumes on
the shelf to his right. The leather-bound tomes held the confidential story
of what finally became the Tyrell Corporation. Their pages spanned most of
recorded human history. Inside were the details left out of mainstream
history books about who did what to whom, with what, and how much Tyrell
charged. Since he began reading the corporate histories, Tyrell had largely
given up his love of popular fiction. It was a rare writer indeed with
imagination to match the reality of the corporation he now ran.
The Tyrell
Corporation advertised itself as "a leading pioneer in the defense and
security industry." That was a polite term for arms dealer and mercenaries.
It had provided these services don through the ages since the time it had
taken payment in sheep and chickens. Times were a bit different now. With a
world at war, business was literally booming. The trick was not getting too
close to the boom while making the sale. There was also the little matter of
ensuring that the client was around to pay the invoice.
The need to
preserve the fellow with the fat bank account was how Tyrell’s "executive
protection" business actually got started. They had to protect the customer
long enough for the check to clear. Might as well get paid for it. Of
course, sometimes the buyer needed a little help finding his checkbook. In
those cases, the close presence of Tyrell personnel made sure the company
got paid. Sometimes deadbeat customers lost valuable property worth more
than the contract, sometimes they lost the protruding parts of their bodies
AND their property.
"Well, friend,"
he said to the skull, "Playtime is over. Daddy’s got to get to work." He
walked to the display case on the far side of the spacious office and placed
the artifact in a prepared position lined with red velvet. "In the morning,
I’ll let Dr. Chew have his turn with you." Tyrell’s chief scientist had to
touch anything unusual that came to his notice. Tyrell encouraged this
obsession since Chew had made a number of profitable discoveries while
indulging his curiosity. "I can’t for the life of me figure out what he
will think of with you for inspiration," Tyrell thought. Softly closing
the cabinet door, he returned to his large oak desk and began plotting more
ways to part the nations of the world from their gross national product.
A Place Out of
Time
Skull
remembered pain. Why couldn’t these mortal children let him sleep for a
century or two? He knew the answer of course. The curse laid upon his soul
guaranteed only brief rests from his work. Now the Dream-time was ending and
soon the pain of Awakening would come. While he still floated in Dream,
Skull reflected that this too was part of his curse. The one constant
remaining across the eons. Pain. It was the one thing he shared with the
mortals around him. All felt the pain.
But not yet.
Not quite yet. He could feel the shift as the barrier between worlds
thinned. Soon, but not yet. He still had time to Dream.
January 1942.
Tyrell Research Facility, somewhere in the Swiss Alps.
Professor
Hannibal Chew, holder of several PhDs and a wealth of esoteric knowledge not
taught in any university, puzzled over the latest item in Eldon Tyrell’s
collection. Over the years, Chew had seen many myths become real as Tyrell
agents retrieved legendary items coughed up by the Earth and sea. Each time,
Chew insisted in subjecting the objects to the most modern scientific
instruments. Even he couldn’t say what he was looking for. Maybe the one
true relic touched by the Divine? After all, anything really made by the
gods should at least have a strong magnetic field, right? Maybe a bit of
radiation? A mysterious shine? How about a weak glow?
There had been
brushes with greatness. Some of the items had actually resulted in
ground-breaking discoveries. Take the Mayan surgery techniques from that odd
wheel or those strange tablets from Giza that had shown amazing ways to defy
gravity. Those alone were worth a Nobel Prize. Technically they were
rediscoveries, but who outside the inner circle of Tyrell would know? The
acclaim resulting from these "breakthroughs" had propelled Professor Chew to
a very high pedestal in the scientific community. In fact, he had better
prepare for the meeting.
Professor Chew
went to a lavishly ornate mirror and positioned himself just so. He began
rehearsing a speech for the Tyrell Archeological Research meeting with Eldon
Tyrell. As VP of Research and Development it was Chew's job to update Mr.
Tyrell on the affairs of his department:
"Last
month's events showed that the foundations of modern civilization
are more fragile than anyone likes to think about. Those who do
think about them usually point towards modern world's dependence on
fossil fuels as the main source of concern. At current rate of
consumption, planet's fossil fuel reserves are going to be depleted
in a very foreseeable future, which would lead to collapse of
world's economies, disappearance of many civilizations advances we
take for granted, new and even more destructive wars than we have
witnessed in the last hundred years. Finding economically viable
alternatives to fossil fuels is, therefore, one of the most
immediate
tasks
for world scientific community ........... "
"Uuhuumm," came
from a corner of the room not directly lit by the small lab’s desk light.
"Sorry to
bother you Professor, but I thought I should get you the latest from the
recent find as soon as possible."
A tall man,
medium build, with long hair pulled into a braided ponytail stepped out of
the shadows and into the glaring eyes of Professor Chew. Wearing a white lab
coat, flung back at the hip revealing a rather large sidearm on one side and
an archeologist’s took kit on the other was Stone. "Dr. Ike Stone" to be
exact. A long time Artifact field operative of Chew's and head of many of
the projects resulting in rediscoveries Chew claimed as his own.
"Ahhhh,
Professor Stone," Chew suppressed his usual contempt for the "field
operative" and continued in a mild voice, "I see you have returned from your
trip to Austria. Were you able to secure the item in question?"
"The Nazis have
had teams of archaeologists running around the world looking for all kinds
of religious artifacts. It has been difficult to keep up with them,
Professor. I did however finally track down the item in the Hofburg Museum."
Professor Chew
walked briskly toward Stone, "I told you to bring the item back with you not
report on its whereabouts!!!" shouted Chew, his clinched fist shaking at
Stone. "Eldon will not be pleased! He has stated that the Spear would add
nicely to his Ark Room collection and keep its power away from Hitler. I
blame you for this incorrigible failure Stone!!!!!" This time Chew's angered
fist clenched a bladed instrument that he had been using to probe the skull
artifact at his work station.
Stone's stance
seemed to relax a bit as his eyes narrowed. He nonchalantly placed his hand
upon the pistol at his side. "My Dear Professor, do you not think that after
all these years I would not have brought you the item in question if it were
obtainable? Hitler annexed the state of Austria and ordered that the spear,
along with the rest of the Habsburg collection, be sent to the city of
Nuremberg, the very heart of the Nazi movement. Perhaps I should go to
Nuremberg and pry it from the Fuhrer’s personal collection, hmm?"
Chew began
pacing around the laboratory talking to himself at times as he continued to
berate Dr. Stone. Finally he faced Stone squarely and said, "You must bring
me the Lance so that I may present it to Mr. Tyrell at next month’s banquet.
I will tolerate no excuses this time!"
"No excuses??"
quipped Stone, "Good Professor, if not for me you would not have half of the
items you have been able to acquire. Especially those items that you have
chosen not to make known to Mr. Tyrell until the right ‘profitable’
opportunity arises. I have been your 'dog' these past two years to learn and
profit in turn. Unfortunately, I seem to always be the one left with the
empty wallet."
"My dear MR.
Stone," Chew said in a voice dripping with silken contempt, "You could no
more ‘learn’ my scientific genius than you could appreciate a fine glass of
wine. Your ideas of science and archeology are performed to the
accompaniment of ricochets and bomb blasts. Now leave me to my work. Take
the next Tyrell dirigible to Austria and BRING ME THAT LANCE!!!!" Chew
turned his back to Stone and walked back to the work station across the
room.
At the
deliberate dropping of "Doctor" from his name, Stone felt a calmness slide
over him. Chew would never let him be more than he was now. He might even
decide that "Mr. Stone" was a liability. So be it.
Dr. Stone
turned to exit the room in sulking defeat as he had done so many times
before. When he passed through the door, however, he removed a steel ball
from his pocket and tossed over his shoulder. As he walked briskly around
the corner and headed down the hall he could hear the faint 'clank' 'clank'
'clank' of the round metal object rolling across the lab’s stone floor.
Seconds later a loud ‘bang’ followed by several larger, secondary explosions
rocked the building. Plaster from the ceiling obscured his vision as alarms
rang throughout the facility. "You shouldn’t store those compounds so close
together on the workbench, ‘Professor’," he said softly to himself,
"Something unfortunate could happen."
By the time the
fires were out and the sounds of the Science Wing alarms silenced, Dr. Stone
could be seen leaving the offices of the Tyrell Human Resources Department.
Stone walked up to the counter at the Transportation Center and smiled at
the receptionist, "I need to sign off on transport for one of our
operatives, codename ‘Badmoon’. He'll be making a trip to Austria tomorrow."
into the
Dirigable port Stone walked up to the trans counter.
"Why certainly
Doctor. Just sign here for the transport release," said the nicely figured
woman from behind the counter sporting a Tyrell Corp jumpsuit. Stone signed
and handed the clipboard back. Before he could leave the pretty brunette
called after him, "Dr. Stone! I’m sorry, Doctor, but you forgot to fill out
the form completely. You know Mr. Tyrell requires Title and/or Rank and
corporate designation on all authorization forms."
Stone smiled
again. Taking time to notice the deep brown eyes and soft, black hair under
the regulation cap he replied in a smooth voice, "Oh! But of course, I
almost forgot. Would you just fill it in for me," he hesitated as he read
the name tag on the receptionist’s ample bosom, "Bianca? It should read:
‘Dr. Ike Stone, VP Research and Development Tyrell Archeological Dept.’"
As Dr. Stone
left the office, Bianca heard a tyrannical laugh echoing behind him. The
sound diminished and faded out with the closing of the door.
Meanwhile, the
earthly remains of Professor Hannibal Chew, former VP of Research and
Development, were being scraped off the walls of his former lab.
Identification of the body might have taken weeks since his head and most of
his torso were vaporized in the explosion. Fortunately, his right hand was
intact with a complete set of finger prints. There were able to confirm that
this was indeed poor Professor Chew once they pried his fingers off a
strange, skull-like artifact he had clutched in a (literal) death-grip.
Strangely, the hand was very clean and nearly blood-less. It was as if
something sucked the vital fluid right out of the air and kept the hand
immaculate. Chew’s expensive manicure was still intact.
A Place Out of
Time
The world
shifted. Skull could almost taste the final weakening of the walls that
separated him from the waking world. One more push and he would cross.
He sighed
without breath or movement. In the Dream, he had no body. Soon that would
change and with the Change would come the Pain.
While he
floated in the Dream, he Remembered. This too was part of his curse, his
penance.
Skull
remembered the night of his death vividly even if he had forgotten his true
name. He and a score of warrior–brothers had descended on a village in some
backwater on the Isle of Britannia. Sven knew the way to the hidden
settlement, having been on another raid there three seasons past. At first
things had gone well. Their axes had made short work of the few farmers they
met. Skull grinned as he remembered the silly pitchfork one of the locals
had jabbed at him. He had sliced it in half with a single blow and laughing,
had taken the farmer’s head on the backstroke. The farmer had a descent wife
and a better daughter. A little torch work to clear the stragglers out of
their hovels and into the central square, and he was already picking out his
share of the slaves. Yes, it had been a good night. Until the damn priest
showed up.
He had come
singing from the darkness waving a little willow stick at them. A figure
dressed all in white with only the gleam of an eyeball and a gray beard
showing through the cowl of his long robes. He was so unexpected and
ludicrous that they had stood rooted to the spot watching him approach.
Finally, Sven stepped forward and roared, "I don’t fear you little priest! I
am Sven! Son of Ingrid Redhand! Tonight you die!" With that, Sven brought
his huge ax down to split the priest in two. Except…the ax head flew from
the haft with a sound like a bell. The broken haft dropped from Sven’s
nerveless fingers as he stood looking at the smiling priest. The hooded
figure said something softly in a strange language and touched Sven with his
willow branch. The big warrior flew through the air as if kicked by the
largest horse in existence. They heard the crunch of his body smashing into
a tree beyond the light of burning huts.
With that, they
had all charged the priest. Except…they couldn’t move a step in his
direction. While they had stood transfixed, tiny roots had come from the
ground and bound them fast to the Earth. Even as the horror of their
predicament set in, the roots flowed over them and trussed them tight. Skull
still cursed at the remembered feeling of helplessness as the priest walked
up to each of them in turn. Old Jorg Iron Helm who had spat in the priest’s
eye, even if it never touched him, had burst into flames at the willow’s
touch and died in screaming agony. Agnar, son of Osk, suddenly stood in a
column of water and drowned right before them. Even young Hlif who had just
sprouted a man’s beard and was on his first raid had died under the willow’s
lash. He had literally rotted away right next to Skull as if a hundred years
passed in seconds. Skull had to fight down his gorge watching Hlif die. Then
it was his turn.
The priest
raised the stick and Skull felt his death rush toward him on black wings. He
prayed Odin would find him worthy and send the Searchers for his soul. Would
Valhalla embrace him if he died without a fight? "No!" he thought, "I will
die as a warrior was meant to!" Skull had shouted at the priest, "Fight me
you coward! Let me at least die in combat! Not slaughtered like a lamb for
the feast!"
The willow
branch paused and he heard an amused voice say, "So, you claim the right of
trial by combat for your crimes tonight?" Skull opened his mouth to point
out that he had simply asked for a fight, not a trial, but the priest
continued, "Very well, Warrior, I will grant your wish, but beware! If I win
this contest, it is your soul I’ll have and no mistake!"
Skull had
glared at the hooded priest and spat, "Do your worst, Wizard! Though you
wield the icy breath of Hel, you will feel my fury before I fall!"
"Brave words,
Warrior," said the priest as he threw back his cowl. The lined face
underneath was quite ordinary and would have seemed friendly under other
circumstances. The priest looked well past his prime and into his dotage.
"What do you think now? Surely and old man such as myself will be little
challenge to a mighty fighter such as you?" At those words, the remaining
raiders rooted around Skull shouted that they would take on the priest with
one arm. He simply turned with a frown and said, "Silence. You had your
chance. This one at least is willing to risk damnation rather than die
helplessly. He has courage even if his intelligence is lacking." The priest
slammed his and willow switch downward. All of the raiding party except
Skull, living and dead, dropped into Earth as through the solid ground
suddenly became the ocean. No trace remained of his warrior-brothers.
"Now that the
children are out of the way, shall we dance?" the priest laughed. He waved
his hand and suddenly Skull was free.
Skull was an
experienced warrior and had few illusions left. He knew the priest was
toying with him and this "dance" would end with his death. His only chance
was to strike as fast and hard as possible and hope to take the evil old
bastard with him. That was just what he did. He charged and put everything
he had into a diagonal cut with his ax. With luck, the angled attack would
at least get a piece of the treacherous priest. Except…Skull’s ax struck
nothing but air. The priest had gone under the ax and pivoted behind Skull
as he lunged. Before he could follow the ax around to attack his rear, the
priest touched him with the willow wand. Pain exploded from the back of his
skull as his eyes bulged from their sockets. He never even felt the ground
rush up or his nose breaking as he hit like a felled tree.
Shaking his
head, Skull realized he was doomed. The priest’s willow branch was far more
powerful than his ax. Time to change tactics. Maybe he could goad the
smiling priest into a fatal mistake. "Oh! That was a good one, Old Man!" he
shouted, "But let’s try it barehanded as men were meant to fight!" He didn’t
actually expect the old fossil to fall for it, but he needed to buy some
time for recovery. The pain was fading from his head and he would be ready
in a moment.
"You must think
me a fool, Warrior!" laughed the priest, "Why would an old man like me throw
away his only weapon?"
"Because," said
Skull, "It will make…" Skull threw his ax at the priest standing less than
six feet away. There was a moment when he knew the weapon struck. Except…the
old man spun away from the deadly steel at the last instant. The ax flew
harmlessly into the night. Skull cursed.
The priest
laughed harder than ever. "That was an excellent try!" he said in mock
praise, "Now that you’ve thrown away your weapon, I’ll do the same to keep
it fair." Skull fought down his grin as the priest tossed his wand aside.
"The old
fool," he thought, "he won’t be able to dance away when I get my
hands on him!" He didn’t hesitate or waste breath on insults, Skull
simply charged fast enough to cover the ground quickly, but not so quickly
that the priest could dodge past him. Skull was actually surprised when his
arms wrapped around the slippery little priest and he crushed the old man to
his chest. Now he did taunt the priest, "Too bad, Old Man! Looks like I win.
The Gods have rendered a verdict and you lost!"
The old man
looked up and smiled a most disconcerting smile, "Do you think this was a
fair contest Warrior? Do you accept the outcome?"
"Of course! I
win and now you die!" With that, Skull applied the crushing pressure of his
massive arms and waited for sweet sound of the priest’s spine snapping.
Except…the priest smiled his biggest smile yet, leaned forward, and
whispered, "Die."
February 1942.
A Villa with a View, somewhere on the French Riviera:
Eldon Tyrell
looked at the man standing before his desk and tried to decide how annoyed
to become. On the one hand, the individual had clearly cost the corporation
a great deal of money and a key employee. On the other hand, he had provided
a number of useful items over the years and recently the more valuable
knowledge that the late, slightly lamented Professor Chew had been holding
out on the boss. That REALLY annoyed Tyrell. Not to mention, Stone had
already agreed to work for considerably less than Chew.
For his part,
Dr. Ike Stone realized that through all his adventures, he had never been
closer to death than at this moment. One word, one look and Stone would join
the list of people who simply "disappeared" after disappointing the CEO.
Stone knew that he had to show Tyrell that he was more valuable as a live
asset than a dead example. He continued to wait patiently. It took all of
his control not to glance over his shoulder at the two "Spooks" who waited
silently behind him. A man and woman team, they were known to be efficient
and merciless. Part of Tyrell’s Special Security Service (SSS), the Spooks
were the elite squad that served Tyrell himself. Unlike other Praetorian
Guards in history, the Spooks went places and broke things on a regular
basis. The word at corporate HQ was that if the Spooks come for you just eat
your own gun and save everybody a lot of trouble.
Tyrell drummed
his fingers a bit longer on the desk, regarding Stone with hard, dark eyes.
Finally he said, "Dr. Stone, I am very disappointed in you." Sweat broke out
on Stone’s forehead as he willed his bodily functions to cease. "Fortunately
for you," Tyrell continued in a cold voice, "I am in a forgiving mood. That
is if you can show me why you are more valuable alive than as fertilizer for
my garden." Tyrell gestured in the direction of the window behind him and
the small, Japanese-style garden beyond. Such a garden, consisting of mostly
rocks and gravel with a few small junipers required very little fertilizer.
Stone realized that it was probably not a good time for that observation.
"Yes, Sir!"
Stone said. He had rehearsed this speech often enough, "Well, due to
Professor Chew’s accident I had to step in and continue his work. We have
made several breakthroughs in the two weeks I have been on staff and hope to
have more soon." Stone paused and checked to see how his speech was going
over. Tyrell stared unblinking, waiting for him to continue. "Yes," he said
clearing his throat slightly, "We have also found a number of items that
Professor Chew was holding in reserve in his private vault. These do not
seem to appear on the official corporate inventory."
"Accident?"
said Tyrell in voice that sliced to the bone. "Let’s cut to the chase shall
we, Doctor? You killed Professor Chew and took his place. You knew or found
out shortly after taking over that Chew was holding out on me. I appreciate
the information. The question is how much do I appreciate it? You destroyed
a rather expensive lab, killed a valuable employee, and caused a great deal
of inconvenience to myself and personal staff."
"I apologize
for the manner in which I presented my…uhm…resume, sir. But I can also tell
you that many of the discoveries that Chew claimed…" Tyrell cut him off with
a sharp gesture.
"Were actually
discovered by you at great personal risk, blah, blah, blah." Tyrell said
mockingly. "No sh&*! That is why we are having this conversation. It is the
only thing keeping you from serving as fish food for the Koi." Tyrell took a
deep breath and leaned forward, "The question you have to ask yourself
Doctor is where do your loyalties lie? Can you serve me or do I have to
place a help wanted ad in the Evil Scientist Monthly to replace you?"
"No, Sir! I
have always been loyal to Tyrell. This company has given me the chance to go
all over the world and find the greatest treasures in history! I just wanted
someone to know it was me and not that hack Chew." Stone looked defiantly at
Tyrell. "What the hell," he thought, "he can only kill me once and
I’m through groveling."
Tyrell actually
came close to smiling. He looked at Stone and said, "A bit melodramatic, but
heartfelt. Dr. Stone, I do admire courage, but bravery is cheap. It is a
basic requirement in our business. Ability to match the courage is what I
demand. You have possibilities, but we will see. You are on probation for
one year. In that time, you will need to impress me and NOT blow up anything
I don’t specifically order you to. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
Stone hesitated for a moment, "Uhm, Sir? How will I know I have impressed
you?"
"Good
question." Tyrell gave an almost imperceptible nod and Stone found himself
face down on Tyrell’s antique oak desk. Each of the silent Spooks held an
arm in an unbreakable grip. "You’ll know you have passed your probationary
period because this won’t be the last thing your living eyes see." With
that, he plunged a curved blade at least nine inches long into the table by
Stone’s right eye. "Is that clear enough, Doctor?" said Tyrell in a voice of
silk brushing across steel.
"Yes…" Stone
swallowed hard, "Yes, sir."
"Good. Well
Doctor, I mustn’t keep you from your work." Tyrell said with false
cheerfulness as his guards released Stone. He tossed Stone a heavy envelope.
"Do take care and I look forward to weekly progress reports."
Stone nodded
and walked as proudly as he could on shaky knees from the room. In the
hallway beyond he opened the envelope. It was packed with $100 bills and a
note. The note read, "I reward loyalty and courage just as I punish
treachery and cowardice. Here endth the lesson. Eldon." Stone didn’t
know whether to laugh or collapse in relief. He decided getting back to the
lab as soon as possible was the prudent course. On his return, however, he
planned to find some help spending his new-found wealth. Stone was a man of
simple tastes. He wondered if Bianca and the lovely blond in personnel,
Mindy-something, had some free time. Yes, that was just the inspiration he
needed to stay alive.
From the
adjacent office, Mr. Alan Steel, esq., corporate counsel and Tyrell
confidant, stepped with a pair of Scotch on the rocks in thick glasses. He
walked over and handed one to Tyrell. "Think it will work?" he asked.
"I’m not sure,"
replied Tyrell, "His record before this is damn impressive. I had our friend
Carlos do a little digging and his information supports Stone’s story. Chew
was definitely claiming his finds and holding back the best goodies until he
could get the most advantage out of it."
"Do you trust
him?" asked Steel.
"Not as far as
I can throw him left-handed. I want you to put some people on him. I don’t
want to use the Spooks for this because it’s liable to spook him," Tyrell
winced at the unintentional pun, "Sorry, Robb, Janice. That one kind of
slipped out." He bowed in apology as the two Spooks just laughed.
"Assuming he
‘impresses’ you, no problem. What happens if he trips up?" Steel asked
nervously. Part of his job was covering up various corporate indiscretions
like sudden "resignations" and violent lab explosions. In order to do that
job with a straight face, he liked to have "plausible deniability."
"You know
better than to ask," said Tyrell over the rim of his drink. He nodded to the
Spooks.
"The garden
always needs fertilizer," said Janice.
A Place Between
Skull
remembered pain. He remembered the pain of his first death and the pain of
his first Awakening. Then the smiling priest and the horror his demand for
trial by combat had won him. But the time for memory was passed. All that
remained was the pain.
The pain was
with him as he swam up from an ocean without end reaching desperately for
the surface. The sea was thick and red around him like fresh blood. It was
hard to move, hard to think, but he knew he had to reach the air. Skull
pushed the pain away and fought for another inch of distance toward a point
of light. The light brought more pain, but now Skull had his target. He swam
beyond his limits, beyond hope, beyond conscious thought, until he was a
mindless thing clawing towards the light without knowing why.
He broke the
surface and reality rushed in a flood of pain beyond any he had felt before.
Skull screamed in soundless agony and realized he could hear again. He
couldn’t scream because he still lacked lungs, but he was able to see and
hear. He was in a room behind some kind of clear wall, "Glass," he
realized. Beyond, the light from a desk lamp reflected from the front of his
temporary prison. The rest of the room was in shadow, but it looked like
some sort of office.
Skull realized
something else, the taste of fresh blood was on his non-existent tongue.
"Of course," he thought, "The First Sacrifice has been performed. My
soul is back in the Waking World." He looked around as much as his
position would allow, but other than the desk, the only thing he recognized
was some kind of dusty tool kit on a work bench, and a…gun. "Ah!,"
thought Skull, "That is more like it." Over the centuries in which he
served his penance the main joy of Waking was to see how far man had
progressed in the instruments of death. On further inspection, Skull was a
bit disappointed, "Hmmm. Haven’t come far. I saw that pistol last time.
The slide looks a little smoother and the grips are nicer, but it still
looks like the same basic .45." Skull shook his head without moving,
"Oh, well. Maybe they have something more impressive elsewhere."
Skull sighed an
inhuman sigh and began the process of integrating himself into the Waking
World. He had plenty of time now and the pain had curled back up into its
resting place. He knew the Second Ritual of Awakening would cause even more
agony, but that didn’t matter.
He was Skull
and he had returned.
February 1942.
Somewhere in Arabia.
Colonel John
Phillips, AKA "Kilo 1", was officially having a bad day. Oh, it had started
well enough. The old Sheik had finally come to terms on the rights to remove
the nasty, black substance that kept bubbling up and polluting the local
oasis. Since the Sheik was illiterate and had never left his desert home, he
did not understand the value of the black gold. Phillips had made a very
good deal for Tyrell. The drilling rights would be worth a fortune once
Tyrell built enough infrastructure to make it commercially feasible. Yes, a
good day’s work.
Unfortunately,
the Sheik’s nephew had chosen today to return from his educational trip
abroad. He spoke several languages (including English) and well knew the
value of the oil poisoning the water. He had his own plan for taking
advantage of the resource and they did not include Tyrell. During the
welcome home celebration for the wayward nephew, the Sheik told him about
the Tyrell deal; the nephew explained what oil was and what it was worth to
the outside world; the Sheik was not amused. A lot of shouting and a little
shooting followed. The Tyrell team was lucky just to be thrown out of the
camp.
So instead of
celebrating in the arms of a nubile dancing girl, Phillips and his team were
belly-down on a dune near the sleeping Bedouin camp. Their crawl into
position had driven sand and other unidentified grit into the tenderest of
places. Along with the abrasive, a number of tiny critters who seemed to
love his blood had tagged along for the ride. "I hate this sh*t,"
thought Phillips, "I hate sand fleas. I hate the bloody weather. I hate
sand in general, and the lack of Guinness is seriously p*ss*ng me off."
The Sheik and his people were devout Muslims and strictly enforced the "no
booze" rule on guests as well as themselves. "But more than anything
else," he thought bitterly,
"I hate the Sheik’s little nephew. That is one thing I CAN do something
about!"
He and his team
rose silently as one man. Blacked out weapons and equipment complimented the
black greasepaint on their faces and hands. Dark bandanas hid their hair and
kept some of the sweat from their eyes. While the night was cold as only a
desert night can be, sneaking through hostile desert with a full combat load
will cause a bit of perspiration.
Phillips
gestured and the team split into three elements. The flankers slid around
the outer edges of the camp while Phillips and a heavy team held still. When
the flankers were in position and set off the "distraction", his team would
go directly for the main tent. They spotted few sentries and those on guard
were nodding off here in the wee hours before daylight. The Bedouin had been
living and fighting in this desert for untold centuries, but even they could
underestimate an opponent.
When the Sheik
had discovered he’s almost been swindled by the Tyrell team, he had ordered
the "pig-dog infidels" from his camp never to return upon pain of death.
Phillips had had to physically restrain his personal security squad from an
open fight right then. Considering they were surrounded by irate Bedouin and
outnumbered 50-1, they were at a slight tactical disadvantage. "Later!" he
whispered fiercely to his team, "Smile, wave at the nice Sheik with the
purple face and let’s get out of here! Tonight, we’ll put on our black
jammies and come back with our toys." That earned a ring of smiles from his
people. The kind of smiles a fleeing gazelle saw on the last lions it ever
met.
It had actually
taken several days to organize the nocturnal raid. That was actually fine
with the Tyrell team. "More time to prep my little beauties," said Sgt.
Francis O’Toole as he caressed blocks of plastique. "Yes, sir," O’Toole
continued, "It’ll give me time to figure out how much boom I need to get a
camel airborne." Phillips assumed he was joking, but with this bunch you
could never tell. "Come to think of it," he thought, "O’Toole
brought a ruck-full of bangers, but he also had an over-size satchel charge
over one shoulder. He called it his ‘special’. Uh, oh. Too late to worry
about it. The show is starting."
Phillips
glanced at under the cover over his watch and counted off the seconds. When
the count wound down, he held out his left hand with the fingers spread. He
closed his fingers one-by-one. When his hand closed into a complete fist, he
and another picked marksman stood and moved toward their target.
The night split
from a tremendous explosion on the other side of the camp. The blast
actually rocked Phillips as he sprinted forward to get in to firing
position. As flame and debris rocketed skyward, all eyes turned in that
direction. Phillips only had eyes for his prey as he sighted down the
specially modified Colt 1911A1. The foot-long "suppressor" on an extended
barrel fought to drag the muzzle down, but this was an old friend. A
companion through a dozen firefights and close brushes with the Reaper,
Phillips knew this weapon better than any woman. He felt the pistol slide
into position on the target like a key in a worn lock. Soft pressure on the
trigger and the recoil came as a slight surprise – the sign of a good shot.
The report was quieter than the .45’s normal roar, but it could never be
called "silent". It hardly mattered. The pair of guards in front of the
Sheik’s tent had their eyes on the explosion and their ears were still
ringing from the blast. The muffled crack of the suppressed shots barely
registered. As the muzzle dropped back on target following the recoil,
Phillips saw both targets were down.
The rest of the
team was already sweeping forward as he quickly scanned for more threats. So
far, so good. The old Sheik and another set of bodyguards spilled from the
tent with swords in hand. Before they even came fully outside, Phillips was
squeezing the trigger again. He put two shots through the chest of the first
guard and swung on the second. The second guard was already plunging
face-first to the ground with a fine spray of blood following him down like
red fog. The old Sheik stumbled over his guards as Phillips lined up his
sights, taking his time with work that was about to be pleasure. Before the
trigger broke, however, a burst from his teammate’s Thompson tore through
the Sheik and crumpled him over his former protectors.
"Damm*t, Dad!"
Phillips shouted, "He was mine!"
The older man
grinned as he reloaded the sub gun, "Then get faster, boy!"
Phillips cursed
under his breath and turned back to the camp looking for more targets. "I
never should have brought the old fart," Phillips thought, "He’s
having entirely too much fun! Not to mention, he snores worse than Eldon!"
Phillips caught
movement at the opening of one of the other tents and threw himself prone.
"Contact! 2 o’clock!" he yelled. He drew a bead on the shadowy figure as a
burst of shots from a submachine gun cracked over his head. "That is not
an antique," he thought. Most of the weapons the Tyrell team had seen in
the camp were antiquated bolt actions with a few muzzle loaders thrown in
for charm. Modern automatic weapons had not been on display. The Colt bucked
four times in quick succession as he emptied it into the target. "Loading!"
he yelled as he swamped magazines. The Thompson again spoke as his father
ripped off controlled bursts at the target tent. Phillips jumped to his feet
and charged to one side of the tent. He skidded to a halt and threw himself
flat again. He turned back to the rest of the team and frantically waved his
hand in front of his face, palm outward signaling "cease fire". He listened
carefully, but his own ears were ringing from gun shots and adrenaline.
There was no sound or sense of movement from inside the tent, so he risked a
quick glance. A body lay sprawled on the luxurious cushions and a battery
operated lamp provided surprisingly good illumination. "Should have
doused that before you opened the tent flap, Junior," he thought, "So
much for my night vision." He slipped inside and quickly searched the
interior for additional enemies. Finding no other targets, he turned his
attention back to the body on the floor. "Well, now," Phillips said, "What
have we here?" It was the Sheik’s nephew and near his outstretched hand was
a British Sten submachine gun. The man started struggling to reach the
weapon as realized Phillips stood over him. "Still alive?" Phillips said,
"Too bad." He carefully put two rounds in the nephew’s face to end his
struggles.
Phillips turned
to the low table on which the lamp rested. It was actually a portable desk.
Idly, he flipped through a few papers. Suddenly, a document written in
English caught his eye. "Geological survey, eh?" he said softly to himself,
"On British Petroleum letterhead and marked ‘proprietary’. How interesting."
Phillips began seriously searching the tent. When he found the wireless set,
he gave a low whistle; "Oh!" he said aloud, "Somebody is a naughty boy!" He
turned to the tent opening and yelled, "Sgt. O’Shaunessy! Get two men to
help and collect everything useful in here."
"Sir?"
O’Shaunessy asked after detailing two of the team to get started, "Beggin’
the Colonel’s pardon, but why would we be wantin’ anythin’ from this wog?"
"Because
Sergeant. Bedouin, even western-educated Bedouin do not have wireless sets
as part of their normal tent furnishings."
The Irishman
gave his own whistle through clenched teeth as he rocked on his heels, "Oh,
yes. He’s MI6 for sure, he is."
"Yep. Grab what
you can carry and we’ll go over it in detail later."
"Surin’ Himself
is not gonna be pleased with the Brits."
"No, I imagine
Eldon is going to be a bit annoyed with our British friends’ little
operation."
While the three
men used "liberated" pillow cases to hold every scrap of paper and piece of
suspicious equipment they could find, Phillips stepped over the body of
their former owner and went outside. There was still some shooting on the
other side of the camp, but even that was starting to slacken as he
listened.
"’Bout time to
wrap this up," Phillips Senior observed.
"Yep." replied
Phillips, "Send the signal." A single green flare shot from a raised jerry
pistol signaling the Tyrell teams to break off the raid and withdraw.
O’Shaunessy and his two helpers trotted by laden with make-shift sacks and
the wireless set. Phillips and his team withdrew to the edge of the camp
while the flanking team disengaged. A series of explosions marked the end of
the attack as the flankers set off charges to cover their retreat.
Phillips began
to trot away from the camp as the flanking teams caught up. Suddenly, he
stopped dead in his tracks. Most of a camel lay at his feet. Even by the
faint light cast by fires in the camp and the sliver of moon overhead, he
could see that the carcass still smoldered. The sharp tang of burnt TNT hung
over the singed animal. "O’Toole!" he shouted, "What the h*ll is that!"
The little
Irishman came out of the darkness grinning like a maniacal leprechaun, "Oh,
be grateful he didn’t land on your poor head, Colonel Darlin’." Phillips
scowled, but before he could say anything, O’Toole continued, "Look on the
bright side, Sir. Now we can bill them for the first launch of their space
program." He walked off cackling to himself.
Phillips shook
his head and resumed a dog trot through the desert, "Crazy Irish b*st*rds!"
he muttered to himself. Distantly, he heard the shouts and strange ululating
cries of the main attack striking. A rival clan was now falling on the old
Sheik’s camp. Phillips smiled fiercely, "Bad news, Old Man," he said to
himself, "You made too many enemies recently." When the Sheik had thrown
them out, Phillips and his people had gone to the number two clan in this
area and asked if they would like to be number one. From the sound of
things, the precious oasis was now under new management.
Tomorrow he
would make another deal with another Sheik or the area was going experience
another dramatic drop in population. Phillips had had enough of the desert
and its many joys. Soon he and his team would head home and leave others
build the roads and pipelines and infrastructure needed to pull oil from the
sand. Their job was to open the door of opportunity or break it down. Others
would exploit the breach they created. In a few years, the desert would give
up its riches to Tyrell. Life was good. Except for the fleas, and the
weather, and the sand and the flying camels…"
Chapter 2: "Discoveries"
February
1942. Somewhere in Arabia.
Colonel John Phillips, AKA "Kilo 1", was officially having a bad day. Oh, it
had started well enough. The old Sheik had finally come to terms on the
rights to remove the nasty, black substance that kept bubbling up and
polluting the local oasis. Since the Sheik was illiterate and had never left
his desert home, he did not understand the value of the black gold. Phillips
had made a very good deal for Tyrell. The drilling rights would be worth a
fortune once Tyrell built enough infrastructure to make it commercially
feasible. Yes, a good day’s work.
Unfortunately, the Sheik’s nephew had chosen today to return from his
educational trip abroad. He spoke several languages (including English) and
well knew the value of the oil poisoning the water. He had his own plan for
taking advantage of the resource and they did not include Tyrell. During the
welcome home celebration for the wayward nephew, the Sheik told him about
the Tyrell deal; the nephew explained what oil was and what it was worth to
the outside world; the Sheik was not amused. A lot of shouting and a little
shooting followed. The Tyrell team was lucky just to be thrown out of the
camp.
So instead of celebrating in the arms of a nubile dancing girl, Phillips and
his team were belly-down on a dune near the sleeping Bedouin camp. Their
crawl into position had driven sand and other unidentified grit into the
tenderest of places. Along with the abrasive, a number of tiny critters who
seemed to love his blood had tagged along for the ride. "I hate this sh*t,"
thought Phillips, "I hate sand fleas. I hate the bloody weather. I
hate sand in general, and the lack of Guinness is seriously p*ss*ng me off."
The Sheik and his people were devout Muslims and strictly enforced the
"no booze" rule on guests as well as themselves. "But more than anything
else," he thought bitterly, "I hate the Sheik’s little nephew. That
is one thing I CAN do something about!"
He and his team rose silently as one man. Blacked out weapons and equipment
complimented the black greasepaint on their faces and hands. Dark bandanas
hid their hair and kept some of the sweat from their eyes. While the night
was cold as only a desert night can be, sneaking through hostile desert with
a full combat load will cause a bit of perspiration.
Phillips gestured and the team split into three elements. The flankers slid
around the outer edges of the camp while Phillips and a heavy team held
still. When the flankers were in position and set off the "distraction", his
team would go directly for the main tent. They spotted few sentries and
those on guard were nodding off here in the wee hours before daylight. The
Bedouin had been living and fighting in this desert for untold centuries,
but even they could underestimate an opponent.
When the Sheik had discovered he’s almost been swindled by the Tyrell team,
he had ordered the "pig-dog infidels" from his camp never to return upon
pain of death. Phillips had had to physically restrain his personal security
squad from an open fight right then. Considering they were surrounded by
irate Bedouin and outnumbered 50-1, they were at a slight tactical
disadvantage. "Later!" he whispered fiercely to his team, "Smile, wave at
the nice Sheik with the purple face and let’s get out of here! Tonight,
we’ll put on our black jammies and come back with our toys." That earned a
ring of smiles from his people. The kind of smiles a fleeing gazelle saw on
the last lions it ever met.
It had actually taken several days to organize the nocturnal raid. That was
fine with the Tyrell team. "More time to prep my little beauties," said Sgt.
Francis O’Toole as he caressed blocks of plastique. "Yes, sir," O’Toole
continued, "It’ll give me time to figure out how much boom I need to get a
camel airborne." Phillips assumed he was joking, but with this bunch you
could never tell. "Come to think of it," he thought, "O’Toole
brought a ruck-full of bangers, but he also had an over-size satchel charge
over one shoulder. He called it his ‘special’. Uh, oh. Too late to worry
about it. The show is starting."
Phillips glanced under the cover concealing his watch and counted off the
seconds. When the count wound down, he held out his left hand with the
fingers spread. He closed his fingers one-by-one. When his hand closed into
a complete fist, he and another picked marksman stood and moved toward their
target.
The night split from a tremendous explosion on the other side of the camp.
The blast actually rocked Phillips as he sprinted forward to get in firing
position. As flame and debris rocketed skyward, all eyes turned in that
direction. Phillips only had eyes for his prey as he sighted down the
specially modified Colt 1911A1. The foot-long "suppressor" on an extended
barrel fought to drag the muzzle down, but this was an old friend. A
companion through a dozen firefights and close brushes with the Reaper,
Phillips knew this weapon better than any woman. He felt the pistol slide
into position on the target like a key in a worn lock. Soft pressure on the
trigger and the recoil came as a slight surprise – the sign of a good shot.
The report was quieter than the .45’s normal roar, but it could never be
called "silent". It hardly mattered. The pair of guards in front of the
Sheik’s tent had their eyes on the explosion and their ears were still
ringing from the blast. The muffled crack of the suppressed shots barely
registered. As the muzzle dropped back on target following the recoil,
Phillips saw both targets were down.
The rest of the team was already sweeping forward as he quickly scanned for
more threats. So far, so good. The old Sheik and another set of bodyguards
spilled from the tent with swords in hand. Before they even came fully
outside, Phillips was squeezing the trigger again. He put two shots through
the chest of the first guard and swung on the second. The second guard was
already plunging face-first to the ground with a fine spray of blood
following him like a settling red fog. The old Sheik stumbled over his
guards as Phillips lined up his sights, taking his time with work that was
about to be pleasure. Before the trigger broke, however, a burst from his
teammate’s Thompson tore through the Sheik and crumpled him over his former
protectors.
"Damm*t, Dad!" Phillips shouted, "He was mine!"
The older man grinned as he reloaded the sub gun, "Then get faster, boy!"
Phillips cursed under his breath and turned back to the camp looking for
more targets. "I never should have brought the old fart," Phillips
thought, "He’s having entirely too much fun! Not to mention, he snores
worse than Eldon!"
Phillips
caught movement at the opening of one of the other tents and threw himself
prone. "Contact! 2 o’clock!" he yelled. He drew a bead on the shadowy figure
as a burst of shots from a submachine gun cracked over his head. "That is
not an antique," he thought. Most of the weapons the Tyrell team had
seen in the camp were antiquated bolt actions with a few muzzle loaders
thrown in for charm. Modern automatic weapons had not been on display. The
Colt bucked four times in quick succession as he emptied it into the target.
"Loading!" he yelled as he swamped magazines. The Thompson again spoke as
his father ripped off controlled bursts at the target tent. Phillips jumped
to his feet and charged to one side of the tent. He skidded to a halt and
threw himself flat again. He turned back to the rest of the team and
frantically waved his hand in front of his face, palm outward signaling
"cease fire". He listened carefully, but his own ears were ringing from gun
shots and adrenaline. There was no sound or sense of movement from inside
the tent, so he risked a quick glance. A body lay sprawled on the luxurious
cushions and a battery operated lamp provided surprisingly good
illumination. "Should have doused that before you opened the tent flap,
Junior," he thought, "So much for my night vision." He slipped
inside and quickly searched the interior for additional enemies. Finding no
other targets, he turned his attention back to the body on the floor. "Well,
now," Phillips said, "What have we here?" It was the Sheik’s nephew and near
his outstretched hand was a British Sten submachine gun. The man started
struggling to reach the weapon as realized Phillips stood over him. "Still
breathing?" Phillips said, "What a shame." He carefully put two rounds in
the nephew’s face to end his struggles.
Phillips turned to the low table on which the lamp rested. It was actually a
portable desk. Idly, he flipped through a few papers. Suddenly, a document
written in English caught his eye. "Geological survey, eh?" he said softly
to himself, "On British Petroleum letterhead and marked ‘proprietary’. How
interesting." Phillips began seriously searching the tent. When he found the
wireless set, he gave a low whistle; "Oh!" he said aloud, "Somebody is a
naughty boy!" He turned to the tent opening and yelled, "Sgt. O’Shaunessy!
Get two men to help and collect everything useful in here."
"Sir?" O’Shaunessy asked after detailing two of the team to get started, "Beggin’
the Colonel’s pardon, but why would we be wantin’ anythin’ from this wog?"
"Because Sergeant. Bedouin, even western-educated Bedouin do not have
wireless sets as part of their normal tent furnishings."
The Irishman gave his own whistle through clenched teeth as he rocked on his
heels, "Oh, yes. He’s MI6 for sure, he is."
"Yep. Grab what you can carry and we’ll go over it in detail later."
"Surin’ Himself is not gonna be pleased with the Brits."
"No, I imagine Eldon is going to be a bit annoyed with our British friends’
little operation."
While the three men used "liberated" pillow cases to hold every scrap of
paper and piece of suspicious equipment they could find, Phillips stepped
over the body of their former owner and went outside. There was still some
shooting on the other side of the camp, but even that was starting to
slacken as he listened.
"’Bout time to wrap this up," Phillips Senior observed.
"Yep." replied Phillips, "Send the signal." A single green flare shot from a
raised jerry pistol signaling the Tyrell teams to break off the raid and
withdraw. O’Shaunessy and his two helpers trotted by laden with make-shift
sacks and the wireless set. Phillips and his team withdrew to the edge of
the camp while the flanking team disengaged. A series of explosions marked
the end of the attack as the flankers set off charges to cover their
retreat.
Phillips began to trot away from the camp as the flanking teams caught up.
Suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks. Most of a camel lay at his feet.
Even by the faint light cast by fires in the camp and the sliver of moon
overhead, he could see that the carcass still smoldered. The sharp tang of
burnt TNT hung over the singed animal. "O’Toole!" he shouted, "What the h*ll
is that!"
The little Irishman came out of the darkness grinning like a maniacal
leprechaun, "Oh, be grateful he didn’t land on your poor head, Colonel
Darlin’." Phillips scowled, but before he could say anything, O’Toole
continued, "Look on the bright side, Sir. Now we can bill them for the first
launch of their space program." He walked off cackling to himself.
Phillips shook his head and resumed a dog trot through the desert, "Crazy
Irish b*st*rds!" he muttered to himself. Distantly, he heard the shouts and
strange ululating cries of the main attack striking. A rival clan was now
falling on the old Sheik’s camp. Phillips smiled fiercely, "Bad news, Old
Man," he said to himself, "You made one too many enemies recently." When the
Sheik had thrown them out, Phillips and his people had gone to the number
two clan in this area and asked if they would like to be number one. From
the sound of things, the precious oasis was now under new management.
Tomorrow he would make another deal with another Sheik or the area was going
experience another dramatic drop in population. Phillips had had enough of
the desert and its many joys. Soon he and his team would head home and leave
others build the roads and pipelines and infrastructure needed to pull oil
from the sand. Their job was to open the door of opportunity or break it
down. Others would exploit the breach they created. In a few years, the
desert would give up its riches to Tyrell. Life was good. Except for the
fleas, and the weather, and the sand and the flying camels….
February
1942. Tyrell Research Facility, somewhere in the Swiss Alps.
Dr. Ike Stone
was both excited and more worried than at almost any other time in his life.
He carefully checked his appearance in the full-length mirror. The suit fit
well and gave him a scholarly air more appropriate to his new position.
"Well, there was the time the Zulu had me upside down over a slow fire,"
he thought wryly, "That was a bit more uncomfortable than giving a
briefing." Yes, he definitely preferred suits and the dangers of the
briefing room to the risks he ran in the field. His mixed feelings today
were due to his imminent meeting with Eldon Tyrell. This would be his first
personal encounter with Tyrell since the "interview" at the Villa. He had
pushed his section hard knowing that his head was literally on the block if
they failed. They had succeeded big. His field agents and research team
produced an incredible discovery. The only problem was would Tyrell believe
him? And if he did would he act on it? The next step in developing Stone’s
discovery would require considerable personal risk. That in itself was
nothing new, but it would also require considerable company resources and
there was no guarantee of success. After the lab incident, Stone was
reluctant to present any more bills to Tyrell.
"You look
great, baby," said a sultry voice from the bed behind him. He turned with a
smile and said, "I hope so. Today’s meeting is very important." On the bed,
Bianca stretched like a cat as she grinned, "At least you’ll be nice and
relaxed." Stone smiled even wider. The lovely Bianca had certainly done her
best to "distract" him the night before. He had been seeing a great of her
since his return from the Villa. "I don’t know why you’re even worried,"
said, "Mr. Tyrell is always so pleasant when he comes by the office. I’m
sure you’ll be fine." "Yeah!" Stone thought, "I’m sure he’s VERY
pleasant when he’s chatting with the girls at the transport office. But I’m
not as well equipped as Bianca and her companions." Stone had noticed
Tyrell’s penchant for hiring beautiful women for key positions. Especially
positions that dealt with him directly. Word was he personally interviewed
as many as possible. "Not that I blame him," thought Stone wryly,
"Rank does have its privileges."
He leaned over
and gave Bianca a quick kiss. "I’ve got to go, doll," he said, "Will I see
you tonight?"
"Of course,"
she replied, "I may have to work a little late if Mr. Tyrell decides to
leave today."
"Oh," said
Stone casually, "I expect Mr. Tyrell won’t be leaving today. Once he finds
out about our discoveries, he’ll want to get the expedition together right
away."
"Do you think
he’ll really want to go to Russia himself, Ike?" Bianca asked, her eyes
widening, "I thought he would just send a mission."
"Oh, no," Stone
said, "He always leads the really important ones himself if possible. If
Colonel Phillips were here, he might send him, but he’s stuck in Arabia. No,
Mr. Tyrell will want to look for himself."
"Will you have
to go?" asked Bianca biting her lower lip nervously.
Stone sighed,
"I’m not sure. It depends on whether I can get away from ‘Project Longbow’."
"Surely you are
too important to that project to risk in Russia?" she said hope causing her
voice to rise slightly.
Stone laughed,
"It’s a little hard to argue I’m irreplaceable if the Big Boss is going.
Anyway, it will be Mr. Tyrell’s decision." What he didn’t say was that he
doubted Tyrell trusted him enough yet to take him on the mission.
"Well," said
Bianca giving him her own kiss, "Be careful. And don’t worry, you’ll be
great."
"Thanks. I’ll
see you tonight." Stone left his quarters humming tunelessly.
Bianca waited a
full ten minutes before rising from the bed and getting dressed. Then she
headed for her own apartment. Inside, she went to the closet and dug out a
typewriter case. She pulled a device from the case that was never meant for
tapping words onto paper. Hooking everything up, she started tapping out
words in Morse codes.
PROJECT L ON
SCHEDULE STOP
SUBJECT T MAY
REPEAT MAY BE HEADING FOR AREA SIERRA STOP
SUBJECT S HAS
MADE KEY DISCOVERY STOP
NATURE OF
DISCOVERY NOT KNOWN STOP
RELATED TO
INTEREST AREA RASPUTIN STOP
WILL CONTINUE
TO MONITOR PROJECT L STOP
ECHO NOVEMBER
TANGO 123 STOP
NOTHING FOLLOWS
Bianca paused
for a moment to see if her message was received. A second later, the dashes
and dots of the confirmation came through.
ACKNOWLEDGE
DANNY BOY STOP
She breathed a
sigh of relief as her authentication code was accepted and they sent the
"Danny Boy" confirmation. The code stuff was a little silly, but Bianca knew
it was the only way to ensure both sides of the conversation could be
trusted. An operator’s "fist", the way they tapped out the signal, could be
duplicated by skilled counter-intelligence people with enough practice. Even
codes could be compromised. "Well," she thought, "You knew the job
was dangerous when you took it. How Bill Donovan conned me into this, I’ll
never know." Bianca shut down her set and quickly replaced the wireless
in its hiding place. She had just enough time to grab a shower and some
breakfast in the cafeteria before her shift started. "On the bright side,"
said to herself, "working for Tyrell has its perks." The shortages
experienced in the US and Britain were not a problem in their little Swiss
sanctuary. "When you are the world’s largest arms dealer," she
thought wryly, "I guess getting real coffee and eggs is not a challenge."
When this assignment was over, she was REALLY going to miss the coffee. And
the Swiss chocolate. And the silk stockings. And…oh, crap. Maybe she’d be
better off sticking with the corporation. "Hmmm. That was an interesting
thought. I wonder if Eldon prefers blondes?" she mused as she coiled her
dark hair around a finger.
At that moment
Mr. Eldon Tyrell sat in his Spartan office at the research facility
shuffling papers. He would have preferred almost anything else, especially a
blonde. A large stack of mail had finally caught up with him and demanded
his attention. He frowned at the pile menacingly, but the paper remained
unimpressed. Sighing, he signed the document in front of him and tossed it
into the metal "Out" box. Like the rest of the office, the desk was purely
functional and made of battleship-gray steel. Tyrell did not spend enough
time in the research facility to warrant a luxurious office. He worked
mostly from the Riviera Villa and the "Blue Shroom Club" in Northern France.
He decided to
start on his personal correspondence until the meeting with Stone. Sorting
through the pile, he dumped a lot of them into a stack for others to deal
with. The stack mostly contained requests for money. When he had the stack
complete, he wrapped a large rubber band around them and marked them
"Attention Tyrell Charitable Foundation". "Mr. Timmy is going to love
me," he thought, "Some of these are from ‘cousins’ I’ve never heard
of. I guess being ‘dead’ didn’t help."
He chuckled as
he remembered the story of his demise. The newspapers and wire services had
reported Tyrell died in an abortive robbery of the Museum of London. While
he admired the style of the caper, he couldn’t take personal credit for it.
A Tyrell operative HAD tried to get away in a vintage Fokker before spinning
it into the Channel, but it wasn’t him. Tyrell let the world believe him
dead for awhile just to see what would happen. It had been quite amusing and
surprisingly revealing. Several assumed enemies said nice things about him
and some of his supposed "friends" were less than complimentary. Tyrell had
updated his "Enemies List" accordingly. Unfortunately, the paperwork never
even paused for mourning.
With that
gloomy thought in mind, he sliced another envelope with the ornate dagger
that served as an opener. He realized belatedly that it was a letter from
his son.
Dear
Dad,
School
still stinks! Last week, they threw me in Detention for nothing! It
wasn’t my fault the Headmaster caught a stink bomb in the face! Cody
ducked! It’s not fair!
Love,
Little E.
PS
Send
money. I’m low on stink bomb ingredients.
Eldon chuckled
to himself. He had the "unvarnished" story from one of the Tyrell agents who
watched over A. Eldon Tyrell, Jr., affectionately known as "Little E". In
true family style, Little E had booby-trapped the men’s room typically used
by the Headmaster and his staff. The resulting noxious cloud had cleared the
entire administration building. The only thing that saved Eldon Junior from
instant expulsion was the Headmaster couldn’t pin it on him. That and the
large check Eldon Senior wrote to the "Renaissance School for Boys" just
outside Berne, Switzerland, to clean and remodel the administration offices.
He thought for a moment and wrote a brief reply. He would put a more
complete letter together after his meeting, but he wanted to get a quick
note out now.
Dear
Son,
Nice
try. Try something more original next time. Make sure you are miles
away when it happens or you are on your own.
Love,
Dad
PS
Write
your Mother. She worries about you.
The boy was
definitely bright, as evidenced by his excellent grades, but he had a bit to
learn about "plausible deniability". Well, there was time. Speaking of
which, it was time to head to the conference room and see what Stone had
uncovered. "It had better be good," Tyrell thought,
"or I’m gonna have him answer
all my ‘cousins’ letters personally. Maybe he can discover a new way to say
‘NO!’".
February 1942.
Tyrell Research Facility, somewhere in the Swiss Alps.
Dr. Ike Stone
cleared his throat and launched into his prepared remarks. "Grigori
Yefimovich Rasputin", he said gesturing at the slide displayed on the screen
to the right of his podium, "Born January 22, 1869, died December 29, 1916
…"
"Excuse me Dr.
Stone," said Eldon Tyrell politely but firmly, "But I’m quite familiar with
our dear Rasputin. My own grandfather actually met the man. I believe that
he wrote a little something in the corporate histories about it."
"Yes, sir,"
replied Stone, his voice rising slightly with his nervousness, "And that was
the key that unlocked the secret."
"Secret,
Doctor?"
"Yes, sir,"
Stone sped up his explanation as he watched the hint of a scowl form on
Tyrell’s face, "Your grandfather’s account of meeting Rasputin included a
sketch of the unusual talisman Rasputin wore under his shirt." Stone waved
at the screen and his assistant threw the next slide on the screen. There
was a sharp intake of breath from the others in the room at the image. "As
you can see, the sketch in the corporate history volume strongly resembles
the Skull artifact we have in our lab."
Alan Steel,
Tyrell Chief Counsel and Tyrell confidant, said, "So Rasputin owned this
Skull-thing? Since it didn’t do much for him, I don’t see what the fuss is
about."
"But it did a
great deal for him, Mr. Steel," replied Stone smoothly, "It made him the
most powerful man in Russia next to the Czar. More importantly, it made him
virtually impossible to kill."
"As I recall,"
countered Steel in his best cross-examination style, "Rasputin was killed by
a bunch of Russian nobles who feared that very power. He died just like
everybody else."
"Not like
everybody else, Mr. Steel," corrected Stone, "The nobles went through a
number of tries before they succeeded. They started with Cyanide, moved on
to shooting, stabbing, bludgeoning, and finally drowning."
"He still died,
doctor."
Stone smiled
broadly, "Yes, but not until one of the nobles ripped the Skull off his
neck."
"How do we know
that, Doctor?" interrupted Tyrell.
Stone turned to
Mr. Tyrell and said, "Because our field teams found the diary of one of his
assassins."
Tyrell leaned
forward in interest and said, "Now you have my attention, Doctor. Who’s?"
Stone swallowed
and said, "Prince Felix Yusupov. One of our agents was able to steal the
dairy and make a copy before the theft was discovered. Yusupov supposedly
led the others in the attack. He was the one who held Rasputin under the
water in the final struggle. What particularly caught our eye was this
passage:
…and I
seized the foul talisman and tore it from his filth neck! Flinging
it away, I placed my hands upon his evil throat. Without his link to
Lucifer, he lost much strength. I was able to hold him in the frigid
water until his struggles ceased.
Then in a later
passage he describes the object:
The
demon’s talisman was a shrunken, fleshless skull. The bone was
unusually strong. Even the strongest blacksmith with the hottest
forge cannot even mar its surface. I pray that the priests of the
Church? can find away to lock this evil away from the eyes of man.
Clearly, this
is the same artifact. Even with modern tools, we cannot so much as scratch
the Skull. It is literally impervious and it seems to pass this on to the
wearer."
"I hate to
point this out," said Tyrell dryly, "But it did not protect your
predecessor, doctor. All that was left of Professor Chew was his hand."
"Yes, sir,"
replied Stone with growing excitement, "the hand holding the Skull. It was
seemingly untouched by the explosion."
"OK," Tyrell
replied neutrally, "what are we missing? Drop the other shoe, Doctor. You
wouldn’t have called me here without at least a clue to the answer."
"Yes, sir.
Another passage refers to Rasputin’s own diary:
He
(Rasputin) had discovered an evil spell direct from the Pit. He set
down the procedure of immortality as if it were a recipe for a cake.
The ingredients, however, were the lives of men and foul things.
Truly, this stain upon the Dynasty must be cleansed! We have sealed
the diary and its despicable contents inside the crypt beneath the
Joann the Forerunner convent. The Skull will be sent to a church
somewhere in France that even I do not know. In this way, we will
foil Satan’s plan. May Rasputin’s soul burn in the Hell he tried to
create in Russia. I only pray we weren’t too late."
"Of course,"
Stone said, "we know that the Skull never made it to the second refuge."
"Let me be sure
I understand, doctor," said Steel pedantically, "the Skull is evil incarnate
and we risk our immortal souls being any where near it?"
"No, Mr.
Steel," replied Stone confidently, "we’ve had our own priests examine it and
they sense nothing of Hell."
"Father
O’Brien?" asked Tyrell.
"Yes, sir. Even
though the Catholic Church officially does not recognize exorcism, they have
a rather substantial force of them ready to respond at a moments notice.
Father O’Brien seems quite adept."
"He is," Tyrell
said simply, "If Miles gave it a clean bill of health then it can’t be
Satan’s minion." Over the centuries of the Tyrell Corporation’s existence,
they had encountered a number of things that did not respond to man-made
weapons. By special arrangement with the Vatican, Tyrell could call for
priests and holy "back-up" when they hit something "odd". Many of the things
Tyrell personnel had met were locked away beneath Vatican City and everyone
prayed they never got loose. "So what do we have, doctor?" Tyrell asked.
"Truly, we
don’t know, sir. Father O’Brien said he sensed a ‘power’ in the Skull, but
he felt no evil from it. This confirms the results of our Department M
specialists. They can all sense something ‘alive’ in the Skull, but nothing
beyond that."
"I’ve never had
a lot of faith in Department M," Tyrell raised a hand to forestall the
objections he knew were coming, "Their results are unreliable and often open
to interpretation. Nevertheless, it seems we have enough to consider our
next steps."
"You’re not
actually thinking of going after the diary, are you, Eldon," asked Steel
incredulously.
"Maybe. I
suspect Father O’Brien’s superiors will insist on it. Since O’Brien didn’t
automatically volunteer to get the book himself, I’m guessing there must be
some complication with this, what was it?" Tyrell glanced at his notes,
"’Joann the Forerunner convent.’ So I’m guessing we will be on our own.
That’s the only problem with asking the Pope for favors, he expects them
returned. And he is so good at laying on the guilt if you refuse." Tyrell
sighed and asked, "OK, doctor. Where is this ‘Joann the Forerunner’
convent?"
"Stalingrad,"
Stone replied.
Chapter 3: Stalingrad
March 1942. West of
Stalingrad, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.
Eldon Tyrell turned
his collar up against the fierce wind howling off the Siberian Steppe and
wondered for the hundredth time how he had been talked into this stupidity.
The fact that he ultimately gave the order launching the expedition just
reinforced his feeling of stupidity. “If I ever get out of this,” he
thought, “I’m going to send a bill to Rome that will make his Holiness
howl!” Of course he wouldn’t actually do it. The Tyrell family had
defended civilization since the time their forces marched under carved
wooden standards gilded with the melted treasure of their enemies. In
return for standing against the barbarians, Tyrell had been allowed to
accumulate wealth and power. An unkind soul would label the arrangement
“mercenary”.
Oh, there had been
occasional disputes with those who felt Tyrell’s methods were worse than the
barbarians. That was the whole reason the Society was formed. So that
Tyrell and the other Powers could sit and decide the course of civilization
without great destruction. “Fat lot of good it did,” mused Tyrell
darkly, “World War I wasn’t too bad. Killed way too many people, but it
didn’t tear up much of Europe outside Belgium and France. This one though
is going to be infinitely worse. We definitely should have paid more
attention to Hitler and Stalin as they rose to power. Now it’s too late.
What started out as good for business is rapidly becoming too destructive by
half. None of us thought it would go this far. We figured the Germans
would take France and part of Russia to keep the communists at bay, then we
could work out a peace treaty with Britain. But things got out of hand and
that damn Churchill stepped in. Who could have guessed that hack could
actually lead? He sure as h**l didn’t show it in the Boer War.”
He spat in the snow
as he thought, “Every time I come to Russia I get dark and moody. I
wonder what Dostoevsky would have written about if he grew up on the Riviera
instead of here? Probably bawdy comedy. Now THAT would be funny.
‘Dostoevsky presents: The Possessed, a tragic farce exploring the
humor at the depth of the human soul’.” Such idle thoughts helped keep
his mind off the real reason he had come to Russia. To forget. The wind
picked up and sliced his exposed skin with an icy blade. He welcomed the
pain. It matched the agony of his emotions.
At his core, Tyrell
knew himself to be a “User”. Or as he often said to Little E, “There are
only two kinds of people in the world, predators and prey. You were born
with fangs son. Keep them sharp.” Yes. Tyrell took what he needed without
regard to those who gave it. He expended people like bullets when necessary
and never counted the cost. Until Paris. Until the Woman in Red walked
into his life. Her letter had appeared out of the blue with a cryptic
message that promised much and guaranteed nothing. An apology for her
betrayal and suggestion for the future would have been bad enough, but she
had to include her scent. The perfume had drifted up from the opened
envelope to snare him silken bonds once again. Damn her! Would Paris haunt
him forever?! She had played him for a fool. Him! The man all feared to
cross. Yet, he let her live. When she left with his heart, he wanted to
crawl inside a Scotch bottle. He wanted to slaughter a host of innocent
victims. He wanted to destroy the world and pull the pieces down on himself
to end the pain. He didn’t. He buried himself in his work and tried to
forget.
Months later, she
showed up again. This time with their little boy. She was gone with the
dawn. He had taken in the son of their union and raised him with all the
love a father could give. Every time he held the child, he had felt his
heart melt and tears threaten his eyes. Where had it come from, this
softness? He feared it. Softness made you vulnerable. It gave his enemies
hostages to use against him. It made him feel like a fool. Fortunately,
children have a way of driving self examination away though denial of
sleep. Tyrell had traveled far and wide in his youth. He had fought men
and things that men were not meant to see. Nothing had prepared him for
rearing a child alone. Naturally, he wasn’t really alone. He made sure to
find the best nannies and tutors money could buy for his boy. When he was
old enough, Tyrell introduced his son to instructors of a more severe
nature. Softness could be a strength all its own when used properly. Ask
any Aikido practitioner. But the best steel comes from a hot fire and lots
of pounding. Tyrell wanted to ensure his son had the best chance of
survival he could give him. He would inherit a harsh world when he rose to
command the corporation. Little E would have to worthy or he would not last
long. “Then again,” thought Tyrell, “It might be the corporation
that would be in trouble.” He chuckled as he remembered a fierce little
boy launching cut after cut with a bamboo practice sword at a grown man
twice his size. Because of the size difference, his opponent got careless
and let a particularly clever strike through. The shintai had moved in a
looping dance that turned into a straight thrust to the man’s testicles.
The instructor was good. He tucked and rolled away as his body folded in
agony. On his knees, the sensei suppressed the pain and struck back hard
enough to knock Little E on his butt. Afterward, he talked to the man and
asked him just how hard the blow had been. “It was no light tap,” he said,
“I was careless, it’s true, but that was a very good thrust with his full
weight behind it. I’m not sure I would care to face your son in a few
years.” Tyrell assumed some of that was an attempt to curry his favor, but
he always made sure to spar with his son VERY carefully. In full armor.
With thoughts of his
son warming his heart, Tyrell turned at the sound of crunching snow and a
happy shout. “And here come my favorite Cossacks,” he thought, his
mood lightening even more. “I hope we brought enough cognac.”
Fortunately, Russians considered virtually any brandy to be cognac and he
had gotten a good deal from an “unlicensed supplier” in Belgium. “Ivan, you
unwashed barbarian!” he shouted in Russian, “I see you are still riding your
wife!” The large bear of a man dismounting from a horse the size of a
Clydesdale threw his head back and laughed, “Eldon! You pansy! What are
you doing here? It is too cold for reptiles here!” A huge paw reached out
to engulf his hand as Ivan snatched him into a crushing hug.