Chapter 169. The Director’s Little Surprise

I left the morgue area wearing nothing but my underwear. My work clothes, soaked with gray lymph and xenobiological fluids, had been unceremoniously dumped into a sealed container for thermal disposal. Director Castro was a pragmatist. Spending a couple of dollars on a fresh uniform for every shift was a lot cheaper than risking staff exposure to extraterrestrial pathogens through something as mundane as doing the laundry. Richard Castro was growing on me. As a manager, he knew how to minimize risk.

All my personal belongings were still untouched in my locker. Just as Richie had claimed, people here really did seem to have a strong sense of integrity. The biometric security system monitoring everyone entering and leaving the underground bunker provided an additional deterrent against theft. Stealing something and slipping away unnoticed was simply impossible.

“Whoa... So you're actually a real officer.” My temporary mentor stopped mid-sentence, staring at me in astonishment as I buttoned my dress uniform jacket. “And here I thought they'd sent us one of the field surgeons. You handled that cutting tool like a pro back there on the line.”

“Disappointed I'm an officer?” I tightened my uniform belt.

“Are you kidding? I'm surprised, sure, but in a good way. For once, the director's actually sent us something worthwhile, and that something happens to be you.” He slapped his palms against his knees. “Tom, we've been busting our asses down here for three months, and we're barely keeping up. The Portals are opening more and more often. The combat teams are still managing to clear the threats, but then they dump this mountain of meat on us to process. We were barely meeting our deadlines as it was. Then you show up and work like an industrial combine, knocking out the workload of two full shifts all by yourself in a couple of hours.”

The broad-shouldered men from the processing crew stood silently by their lockers, their eyes following me in my uniform. They didn't rush to salute me like a bunch of starstruck teenagers or shower me with compliments like the women in accounting. But their tired, heavy-lidded eyes held unmistakable gratitude and the kind of professional respect one man earned from another.

“Anyway, you really came through for us today, Terminator.” My mentor gave me a firm nod and pressed the elevator button. “Hope we end up on the same shift again.”

“You don't work every day?” I stepped up beside him as we waited for the steel doors to open.

“Tom, not everyone in this world is made of steel like you.” A hint of envy crept into his voice. “I physically can't spend eight hours a day at a dissection table with a circular saw in my hands. We've got three crews working twenty-four on, forty-eight off. The first day, we spend scrubbing the stench of guts out of our skin and hair. The second day, we recover. Then, on the third, it's back underground.”

“Still beats rotting away in an office every day. At least management here doesn't make you work overtime for some mythical corporate bonus, and you don't have to deal with office politics.”

“Oh, come on, Tom! Office work is a vacation!” The foreman waved a hand dismissively. “You sit in your little cubicle, grab a Coke and some cookies from the break room whenever you want, and waste time browsing the internet. But here...”

Throughout the ride to the upper level, my mentor kept up an endless stream of complaints about the brutal working conditions of a military pathologist, genuinely convinced that everyone in other departments had it much easier. I nodded along without agreeing, disagreeing, or encouraging him to elaborate. Everyone had their own way of measuring comfort. Personally, with my hyperfocus, I found it far easier to work here, processing Loz'an remains, than to sit in front of a monitor in the FBA department. Manual labor required very little processing power from my frontal lobes, and thanks to my evolutionary changes, physical exhaustion and lactic acid buildup in my muscles were no longer factors.

When the elevator doors opened, I said goodbye to the crew, sealing the acquaintance with a series of brief, firm handshakes. The men headed for the main exit while I turned toward the stairs and climbed to the next level. Once I was out of sight around a bend in the corridor, I quickly pulled another mint ice cream from my lunchbox and swallowed it. The icy menthol concentrate immediately dispelled the lingering heat inside my skull. My synapses settled back to normal. I was ready for action again.

It was 5:05 p.m. The numbers on my watch confirmed that I was going to fall behind schedule and arrive at the P-SWAT base an hour late. It wasn't a serious problem. I didn't need dinner, and if anything went wrong in the barracks, Ted would call me immediately.

I pushed open the door to the Biological Department director's office.

“Oh, Tom! Finally! I've been waiting for you!” Richie bustled around his desk, his curly red beard twitching with excitement.

One look at the desktop nearly cracked my impassive expression. The computer, stacks of documents, and folders full of medical records had all been swept onto the floor. In their place sat an enormous ceramic basin, steaming with freshly fried Buffalo wings coated in hot sauce, large battered king prawns, and golden onion rings. Beside it, on a special stand, stood a steel keg of premium German beer, its surface beaded with condensation.

It was every working man's idea of paradise. The only thing missing was a gorgeous wife wearing nothing but a silk apron, serving up this feast after a brutal week at work.

But the fact that an older, bearded man, the director of a classified government department whom I'd known for barely three hours, had gone to all this trouble for me immediately set off alarm bells.

“Have a seat, Tom. Dig in. Don't be shy.” Richie practically bowed as he bustled around the desk, then pulled out his own executive leather chair for me with exaggerated courtesy. “I know firsthand how hungry you get after spending hours processing meat down on the lower levels. I put in a few shifts at the dissection tables myself back in the day.”

“If you're so familiar with the job, why didn't you invite the other guys from the crew?” I stayed where I was. “They put in a full shift down there, worked a lot longer than I did, and are obviously much hungrier.”

“Oh, don't worry about them. They're used to it. Besides, they've all gone home to their families by now.” Richie brushed off my objection and deftly opened the valve on the steel keg. It hissed as he filled a heavy glass mug to the brim with dark, ice-cold beer. “Here you go, Tom. Have a drink.”

“Do Corps regulations and the Department of Defense's internal directives actually allow alcohol consumption on the job, especially in a restricted sector?” I calmly slipped my hands into my trouser pockets and eyed the offered mug with deep suspicion as a thick layer of creamy foam clung to the inside of the glass.

“Oh my God, Tom, you’re unbelievably responsible! A model officer, a man of iron, and a credit to this country!” Richie’s face spread into a sickeningly sweet grin, his beard trembling with feigned enthusiasm. “But trust me, there’s no need to be so rigid about everything right now. It’s five in the afternoon. Your shift is officially over, your badge has been logged by the terminal, and you’re perfectly entitled to some well-deserved rest.”

“I’ll be completely frank with you, Director Castro.” I stepped forward, closing the distance between us, and looked him straight in the eyes with a cold, unwavering stare. “Your behavior since the moment I arrived has been unnecessarily theatrical and more than a little suspicious.”

“I... I’m not trying to do anything bad! Not at all!” He panicked instantly. His oily smile faltered, his shoulders jerked, and tiny beads of sweat appeared on his pale forehead beneath his red curls. “I just... You see, Tom, I genuinely want to show my deep respect for a Portal Wars veteran and a true national hero. We need more strong men like you back here at home.”

I didn't believe him. The man was definitely hiding something. His nervous fussing, his almost fanatical reverence for military decorations, and this impromptu beer banquet were all part of an elaborate manipulation designed to cloud my judgment, lower my guard, and distract me from whatever he was really after.

I could turn around and walk out of the Biological Center without another word. The worst an offended Castro could do was terminate my supplemental employment contract with his department. Losing fifty thousand dollars a month would hardly make a dent in my budget. Walking away would be the safe, controlled option, but I'd remain completely in the dark. I'd never find out what this red-bearded eccentric was holding up his sleeve or what he really wanted from me. Strategically, it made more sense to stay and get to the bottom of things.

“Consider this a simple gesture of courtesy and respect for the department's leadership.” I calmly reached out and accepted the heavy glass mug, noting how Richie immediately exhaled in relief and broke into another satisfied smile.

The beer was excellent, rich and velvety, with a smooth malt bitterness. My system detected no traces of toxins, which I might reasonably have expected from a professional biologist. Maintaining an air of complete nonchalance, I settled into his plush executive chair, stretched out my legs, and started eating, making a show of how much I appreciated his hospitality.

“So, Tom... How'd you like your first day here?” Castro settled into an ordinary chair opposite me. “I realize that grunt work on the lower level is hardly a suitable assignment for someone with your unique talents. But you have to understand, I really didn't have any other choice today.”

“I already know that Portal openings along the coast have become more frequent, and the Corps' logistics teams are hauling in Loz'an carcasses by the truckload.” I popped a crispy onion ring into my mouth. “I understand your reasoning from a staffing standpoint. But as a specialist, I'm still deeply disappointed.”

“Disappointed by what, exactly?” Richie jerked upright, alarmed, his round glasses nearly sliding off the end of his nose. “Did someone disrespect you? Were the guys giving you a hard time? Just give me their names, Tom. I'll fire them on the spot!”

“The crew was fine. They're reliable, professional men.” I calmly poured myself another glass of dark beer from the steel keg. “My disappointment stems entirely from your inefficient use of my abilities. Look at the numbers, Richie. I'm assigned to your Biological Center for just three hours a week, exactly the same amount of time I'm allotted in the Engineering Division. But Selina made full use of my capabilities today. In those three hours, I calibrated highly complex quantum rigs and completely rewrote the faulty code for the exoskeleton prototypes. The software I optimized will allow her people to operate those machines for years. And what did I accomplish here under your supervision? I processed twice the normal meat quota by hand. At the current rate of xenomorph incursions, today's contribution will be irrelevant to your department in another forty-eight hours. You used a high-end processor for a job that could've been done with an ordinary ax.”

“My God, Tom... You're absolutely right! One hundred percent! What an incredible understanding of the bigger picture! I deeply regret my shortsightedness!” Castro nodded so vigorously he nearly doubled over, his eyes gleaming with fanatical excitement behind his glasses. “I admit that, in all the confusion, I failed to appreciate the full extent of your potential. But I'll correct that mistake right now! Not next week, not tomorrow. Right now! Effective immediately, I'm officially appointing you my deputy director! You'll receive all the benefits that come with the position, expanded security clearance, and a corresponding salary increase. You'll rank just one level below me in the Biological Center's hierarchy. It's the only fitting recognition of your abilities, Tom!”

Was he an idiot?

I'd been at his facility for barely three hours. I knew next to nothing about the layout of the underground laboratories and had no idea what research was currently underway, yet this man was appointing me his direct deputy, with the highest level of security clearance, over a plate of fried chicken wings. Such administrative generosity in a government institution was comical, absurd, and profoundly wrong.

Still, I didn't argue. Pragmatism dictated that I take full advantage of the situation. I continued demolishing the meal in silence, efficiently replenishing my body's caloric reserves for the week ahead, while Richie spent the next thirty minutes showering me with extravagant praise. The whole performance was almost amusing to watch.

“Now that's an appetite!” Richie exclaimed with genuine, almost childlike delight as he surveyed the empty platter and the drained beer keg. “So... did you like the food, Tom? Was it good?”

“Quite,” I replied tersely, dabbing my lips with a napkin.

“And the chair? Was it comfortable?”

“Yes. It's ergonomically designed.”

“In that case, Tom...” Castro suddenly fell silent. His oily smile tightened, and his gaze behind the round lenses became unnervingly focused. “You wouldn't have any objections to taking part in a couple of private experiments of mine, would you?”

The internal danger alarm in my mind clicked with satisfaction. The masks were off. In an instant, the kind, excitable Dr. Richie with the red beard had transformed into a calculating scientist. Honestly, that didn't surprise me in the slightest.