Behind the radio stood another wall, this one dominated by a rectangular window: an observation window. A heavy bulkhead to the left of the window clearly led to an isolation room of some kind, which the observation window looked in on. Just moments before, Gant had thought he saw a paper banner hanging there.
The view through the window was clouded — literally. A surreal fog swirled against the heavy glass, apparently filling the small chamber therein.
The ancient radio spoke: "Pay no attention to the thing behind the curtain."
Something cut through the cloud and touched the window, like a sea creature moving through an ocean of mist, bumping against the aquarium glass as it swam past. Whatever it was, it was large, but in that quick, foggy glimpse Gant saw only a fluid block of dull green mass.
It disappeared again so fast — vanished — that he could not be sure he had seen it at all. Perhaps it, too, was just another illusion in this place of deception.
Influences, Thunder had said.
While Gant and Twiste puzzled over what they saw … or thought they saw … the radio spoke once more.
"Come closer," it encouraged, almost beckoned.
Gant did take a step toward the radio and spoke, although his eyes remained focused on the observation window and the fog there.
"I am Major Thom Gant." It sounded absurd to repeat what the intelligence already knew, yet the soldier simply did not know how to proceed. He was a fighter, not a negotiator. His position of weakness — of helplessness — was uncomfortably new.
"We mean you no harm."
The radio dial flared green. "Not true, but that is irrelevant."
"Who are you?"
The radio dial remained lit but no words came. Nothing moved in the mist.
"Who are you?" Thom repeated.
"I am God."
Gant glanced at Twiste, who absently scratched a patch of gray hair on his head but otherwise remained transfixed, either by fear or by curiosity, probably both.
"I am your God," the voice reiterated. "Kneel."
The male and female — the dancers — immediately collapsed to their knees, as did “Jolly” behind them.
A strong impulse flooded Gant's mind. For a moment, he accepted the idea that this voice was the voice of his God. That impulse told him how right, how proper, how important it was that he — Major Thom Gant — drop to his knees before the image of a 1930s RCA radio. That this was the one true Creator.
How strange Gant found that impulse. It did not frighten him; he easily pushed it aside. He found it curious, as if a fly had tried to attack him and he was able to capture it in a jar.
He tilted his head and closed his eyes, then opened them again and found the impulse gone. Again, had it really been there, or was it just a figment of his imagination?
Thom again stole a look at Twiste. He saw the young doctor seemingly shaking away cobwebs and realized Brandon had experienced the same thing and also cast it aside.
Gant looked toward the RCA again. "You are not my God, I will not kneel before you."
The light in the dial changed from green to red. An angry red. Thom felt a vibration. In the ground? In the air? No. Neither. The vibration bounced through his consciousness. A ripple of thought. And while it did no harm, he found it as curious as that strange impulse.
He realized that the thing in the lab had tried to control his mind, the way it had controlled so many others over the years. But it had failed. Why?
Then the light on the radio eased green again. The vibration ceased.
The voice returned and calmly said, "You shall kneel. If not now, soon."
Gant held his hand in front of his eyes. Could it be possible that everything he saw and felt was a dream?
His hand looked real. The smells around him — of age and decay — were too rich to be fake. Part of it might be a dream, but another part real. Finding that line of distinction might be the answer to saving his life and completing the mission.
The voice of God returned.
"Brandon Twiste, remove the variable accelerator device from your pack."
With one hand still holding Twiste's pistol, the male dancer took the duffel bag from Brandon's hand, stepped closer to the radio, knelt, and opened it. The servant removed the two heavy batteries and placed them on the floor in front of the RCA. He then stepped away cautiously but with an expression approximating content, as if he had successfully run an important errand for his boss.
There was a long pause before the voice from the radio spoke again. "This is not the device. These are the power units for the device." The radio dial turned from green to red. "Where is the variable accelerator? Where is the variable accelerator?"
Both dancers hurried to the bag and frantically rummaged through it, as if maybe the V.A.A.D. hid inside.
"Well, I don't have it," Twiste answered and Gant found himself impressed with his friend's cool demeanor.
"Where did you leave it?"
Twiste hesitated to answer. The dial burned red. Gant felt that mental shockwave race across his mind, this time much more sharply than the first; this time accompanied by pain.
"WHERE IS IT!?"
The double doors to the lab swung open. A trio of inhuman creatures perched at the entrance, howling and grunting at the angry voice of their father. The lot of them seemed tethered by the thinnest of leashes, wanting, crying, to be let loose.
Gant interceded, "We did not leave it anywhere. We are a reconnaissance team. We did not bring the device in. It is our job to—"
The big creature in the BDU's slammed the butt of Gant's own weapon against the back of the major's head hard enough that Thom saw stars. He hunched over, but refused to fall; that would seem too much like kneeling.
"You are lying. I know what your mission is, Major. If Captain Twiste carried the power units, then your other captain must have the main unit. Captain … Campion."
Gant took the opportunity to gather intelligence.
"He's dead. Your pets killed him."
The radio dial eased from red to green.
"No, Major, he is alive. And …" the voice paused, as if checking a fact before answering. "And in possession of the unit. That's unfortunate. Sometimes my children get overexcited and they can be difficult to control, particularly up there. It is their playground, of sorts. Still, I'll do my best to see to it he finds his way to us."
24
"Oh, now this is just fucking perfect," Wells reacted to the sight of a dead end illuminated only by the tactical and portable lights the men carried.
Office doors to the right, equipment cabinets to his left, yet nothing but massive electrical boxes and panels covering the wall where the corridor terminated.
"Then we have to go the other way," Galati said nonchalantly.
"Brilliant idea," Jupiter Wells responded. "That means trying to go through that bioweapons lab. I don't know about you, but I'd like to avoid anthrax spores or whatever shit they were cooking up in here."
"Relax," Campion said as he studied his wrist computer. "We’ve got a problem; we just have to solve it. Think."
Wells grunted but held his tongue.
"What does the map say, Captain?" Galati asked.
Campion squinted at the display. "It's not really complete for this section. Hard to make anything out. According to this, there is literally nothing in front of us. We may have to go back."
Wells complained, "Great. If those things don't get us, the shit in the lab will. We should have brought CBRN gear."
"Fuck that," Galati volleyed. "I'm not walking around down here with that shit on. Can't see, hardly can move, and sweat your ass off."