Limbo
Dr. Sycamore didn't like this place.Unless prior authorization had been given, very few of the staff ever traversed this side of the base. It had a bad reputation, and was known for housing Janus-Hayes’ most closely guarded secret. The northernmost extreme of the Janus-Hayes Research and Development Campus was home to the most enigmatic of the site’s four repurposed nuclear silos. While the other three launch facilities were re-designated according to their stated purpose, the fourth was lacking in any official designation; the employees and contractors at the facility simply referred to it as Silo D.
Unlike the other refurbished complexes, there was scarcely any of Silo D that remained above ground. Approaching the facility, one found only a fenced-off field and a few squat, featureless concrete buildings. One of them occupied the space above the former launch silo, and was fitted with imposing blast doors. The second was only a short distance away, and had some cursory signage indicating it was an auxiliary entry point to the facility.
Even with the trust granted to him by virtue of his role as the director of Survival of the Fittest - Janus-Hayes’ other best-kept secret - it had been made clear to Dr. Sycamore that his own authority ended at the heavy steel doors of Silo D. Here, he was merely a guest.
The Supervisory Board had appointed Dr. Erin Finch to supervise all of the research that went on inside, and for all intents and purposes, it was her domain. Sycamore had heard talk among the bureaucrats that not even the Board fully understood what was going on inside. The entrance to the facility was surrounded by security cameras, though there was a conspicuous absence of armed guards posted at the doors. There were whispers among the rest of the base staff that security had largely been turned over to automated systems, which could be relied upon to operate without conscience.
Sycamore tried to avoid visiting if he could afford to, and had only seen the inside of the facility once. Once was enough.
Unfortunately, Dr. Finch rarely left the facility during the day, and they needed to talk. Her correspondence in the last few weeks had become scatterbrained and chaotic, and she was prone to concerning fits of mania and paranoia. She wasn't yet thirty, and yet had been tasked with altogether too much responsibility for any one person, regardless of their experience. That she had baked the admin office a plate of muffins might’ve seemed cute to everyone else, but Sycamore couldn’t help but see it as troubling sign.
Approaching the sliding steel doors to the complex, Sycamore paused to look over his shoulder. It remained as deserted as it was last time. He could’ve sworn there were personnel formally assigned to secure the facility, but he never saw them patrolling the grounds. Swiping his ID badge past the card reader, he waited as the blast doors slowly slid open, revealing a small antechamber with another set of heavy doors.
Stepping inside, he noticed a red LED flicker twice next to a security camera on the opposite wall.
After a tense moment, the doors behind him closed. A voice echoed out from a small intercom.
“Good morning. Looks like you're on schedule, Dr. Sycamore. Do you have a pacemaker or any other medical implants?”
“No.”
“Have you experienced any cough, cold, or flu symptoms in the last twenty-four hours?”
“Nope.”
“Are you currently experiencing any trouble sleeping, cognitive dysfunction, or thoughts of self-harm?”
“I am not.”
“Alright. Please place all of your personal items in the tray on the conveyor beside you. That includes your shoes, belt, watch, keys, and anything else in your pockets. If you have a phone with you it will be returned when you exit. Close the notepad in your hands and place it face down on the conveyor belt beside the tray alongside your pen. I also need you to place your ID badge on the tray as well. Once you’ve done so, proceed into the airlock. You’ll hear a set of tones and then a burst of air. Keep your mouth open while that’s happening, it helps with the pressure change. Do you understand?”
Dr. Sycamore looked back at the camera, and nodded warily. “I understand.”
“Go on in.”
Dutifully, he emptied his pockets onto the small plastic tray, alongside his belt and loafers. Reluctantly, he folded his set of notes and left them on the conveyor belt. Though he trusted the security personnel, it still pained him to let such frank observations leave his immediate possession. As soon as he’d finished, the airlock doors slid open and the conveyor belt quickly whisked his belongings through a tiny, void-like door.
Stepping into the airlock, he noted the next set of cameras which no doubt followed him as he entered. These were the same models that would be employed on Severniy Norin. Proprietary devices meant for use in hazardous conditions, they were supposedly quite difficult to disable. Where most security cameras looked like small black orbs, these were more reminiscent of compound eyes than anything else.
The airlock was excruciatingly well-lit, with walls and flooring that seemed to be made of the same featureless alloy, curved at the edges without a seam joining them together. Adorning the sides of the small room were dozens of small sensors and outlets, all surrounding what looked to be small vents. As he stood inside of a small red square stenciled onto the floor, he felt a light hum through his socked feet, as if they were starting to fall asleep.
Sycamore knew the locations of every guard post, every checkpoint, every hidden camera and microphone in the main offices. Some of the other Silos had partially automated sentry guns. In many respects, the Research and Development Campus was a more secure facility now than when it hosted nuclear warheads.
Nevertheless, he had no access to anything that went on inside Silo D, beyond what Dr. Finch allowed him. Unknown variables were typically exciting, but less so when he was standing in a hermetically sealed metal cube. He desperately wanted to know what kind of a gun was pointed at his head at that moment.
The man’s milquetoast tone almost put Sycamore at ease as he spoke through the speakers again, as it seemed like this was only one of many dull tasks in his day.
“Alright, you’re clear.”
A loud set of three low-pitched tones signaled the airlock was beginning to cycle. Puffs of sterile-smelling air burst from the vents, and Sycamore winced as his ears popped. Silently, he cursed himself for ignoring the voice’s advice. The opposite door slid open, and he was greeted by a small, well-lit lobby.
Instead of a security guard in tactical armor, Sycamore noticed a tall, fit young man in a nondescript brown jumper manning the nearby security desk. The ID Badge on his shirt read Alan Fields - Systems Ecology, which gave Sycamore pause. There used to be actual security guards here.
The scientist looked up from behind a thin set of glasses, his face largely unreadable and the reflection of the screen in front of him only barely visible. His thoughts were assuredly elsewhere, Sycamore supposed. Next to the desk, the conveyor belt with the small tray of Sycamore’s belongings sat nearby.
Alan wordlessly nudged the tray in his direction, and Sycamore gradually began drawing out his possessions. A faint whiff of ozone lingered in the air from the inside of the tray.
As he was looping his belt back onto his pants, he took stock of the antechamber-like room around him. Behind the desk was a large set of elevator doors, set into a smooth concrete wall. A set of steel chairs against a nearby wall were positioned as more of a formality than anything else, as he couldn’t imagine anyone needing to linger here for very long. One of the monitors on the desk scanned through a wide selection of video feeds, including numerous cameras Sycamore was sure he hadn’t noticed on his way in.
His gaze lingered on a menacing-looking shotgun that sat within arm’s reach of the scientist at the front desk. A bandolier of brass-cased shells was affixed to the weapon, tipped with copper-jacketed lead slugs. A similar weapon had been issued during the first Survival of the Fittest test run; he knew without any speculation that this weapon could punch a fist-sized hole in a man’s chest.
Sycamore pointed it out as he finished slipping his feet back into his loafers. “That’s new.”
Alan let out a blasé sigh. “Yeah.” Obvious he wanted to say more, but knew better. “Doctor’s orders, I guess. Here’s your ID Tag back. You’re clear down to Level Four.”
Sycamore raised an eyebrow at the nonchalant reply, but didn’t press any further. “Thank you. Umm - where can I find Dr. Finch?”
“Level Four. Observation. Take a right at the end of the hallway, it’s the first door on your left after that. If you find a door your card won’t open, you’re in the wrong place. And don’t try one more than three times, or it’ll lock you out and I’ll have to come down and fix it.”
Nodding wordlessly, Sycamore stepped past the desk and into the waiting elevator. Where many of the other refurbished Silos displayed their heritage in the occasional patch of exposed wiring or rough concrete walls, the Company had spared no expense in refurbishing this facility. Every square inch was clean and excessively utilitarian, painted a bright white that gave it an almost clinical atmosphere. While the elevator was clearly built for oversize freight, it was nonetheless immaculately maintained.
At least as far as the buttons on the elevator were concerned, the complex extended a full ten levels below ground, all excavated well beyond the original size constraints of the missile silo. It didn’t take long to reach the fourth floor, the last one he could reach without a physical key to slot into the elevator’s panel.
While it had been under construction as a sealed laboratory complex long before her and her work had taken over the facility, extensive modifications had taken place during Finch’s tenure in the last year. What he’d been able to glean from the materiel and requisition documents he’d seen indicated a mixture of creature comforts and extensive security upgrades.
Walking the long hallway through the fourth level of the facility, he felt an uncomfortable stillness in the air. Something here felt more oppressive than the weight of all of the concrete and steel. There were no auxiliary personnel, no guards, and not a single piece of equipment or unlocked door visible. Normally on the campus he could overhear small-talk interspersed with indecipherable academic jargon; this place was dead silent, save for the steady hum of the HVAC systems and his footsteps on the polished concrete floors.
The path came to an abrupt end at a divergence. Sycamore stared up at the wall in front of him.
L4 // CLEAN LABS
One stenciled arrow pointed right, indicating the Observation area. The other pointed in the opposite direction.
LAB ENTRANCE // BSL-3 COMPLIANCE BEYOND THIS POINT
Nodding to himself, he turned right and pressed further towards the Observation area, in spite of his natural curiosity.
In this case, the penalty for contravening the wall's strict instruction wasn’t just a fine or academic reprimand. Officially, none of them were really here. It was at least part of the reason the senior staff all used pseudonyms. Regular disciplinary measures carried little weight in this place. The nature of the Projects supervised by Dr. Sycamore and Dr. Finch meant that extralegal means had to be employed to ensure compliance and confidentiality. No one could know what they were doing out here, and the consequences of their discovery would extend far beyond mortal danger to a few misguided individuals.
It wasn’t written down anywhere, but they all knew the penalty for breaking the rules. Some more acutely than others. There were ways to compel loyalty without being overbearing about it, though. This was the kind of work he’d been doing for the better part of thirty years, and in that time Sycamore had refined his methods and smoothed the creases in his own conscience. Part of his duty was at the very least setting a good example to his subordinates regardless of the fact that he was, in most cases, above the rules. So far, Sycamore had been able to avoid personnel issues in this iteration of Survival of the Fittest. Hard lessons were learned from last time.
Finch on the other hand, had no such experience, and took a very different approach; one he found himself ultimately at odds with, more often than not.
They’d been friendly at first, when the Board had introduced them. It wasn’t until they had been cleared to peruse the others’ research that the dynamic had catalyzed into what it was now. For different reasons, they’d both had strong reactions to the truth. What he had read that day had made him feel quite ill, if not downright terrified. Her own reaction was apparently much the same, and their mutual discomfort had endured ever since. Unfortunately the circumstances had put them on an even footing; both were indispensable to the Board because of their work.
For that reason, Sycamore had been told in no uncertain terms that she was the only member of the leadership team that he couldn’t liquidate if necessary.
Sycamore swiped his keycard against the panel outside of the door marked Observation, and stepped inside. It was less an observation lounge and more of a lab in its own right, with a large array of computers and desks surrounding the periphery of the room. A long, heavy desk sat directly across from the far wall, which was mostly occupied by a massive window into the sealed Clean Labs. Though the lighting in the Observation area had been dimmed, the Clean Labs themselves were lit exceptionally well, casting the silhouette of Dr. Finch against the delicate procedure going on inside.
Though he made no attempt to enter the room quietly, she didn’t turn to face him at first. Her attention was transfixed on the two lab assistants working in hazard suits and respirators on the other side of the glass. Though he’d read about it, there was nothing quite like seeing this work in person.
As he watched the technicians operate, all of the precautions he’d noted on his way in suddenly seemed to be intensely rational. The stillness in the air he had felt was caution. Intense, instinctual focus.
And she spent every day here.
When they’d first met, she was a colorful, intense person with a habit of rambling about her research. The kind of bright young person that lit up a room with their enthusiasm, who couldn’t help but reignite the passions of others in doing so.
While the tattoos that poked out of the cuffs of her labcoat and the collar of her shirt remained, she had since abandoned braids and colorful bandanas for a short, tight ponytail and the dark circles of sleeplessness under her eyes. Only when he stepped closer to the desk did she glance at Sycamore, offering a curt nod before turning back to the task at hand.
Inside the Clean Lab, one of the technicians looked up from her work towards the glass, and nodded, pointing to her instruments and offering a thumbs-up. Her voice carried through an intercom system, hooked up to the hazmat suit she was wearing.
“It looks like we’re seeing positive results here too. If I had to guess I’d say we’re seeing a six, maybe ten percent increase.”
Finch pressed a button next to the microphone on her desk, and replied in a cheery voice. “Great, but we’re not here to guess, right? Can you guys confirm that?”
The technician looked over to her colleague, who had his hands decidedly full at that particular moment, before replying nervously. “Uhh… well, Lucas and I would need to go through and verify each one individually-”
“-which will take a while.” Lucas chimed in.
“-y-yeah, so we’d need to go through a few more samples to be comfortable with a precise figure.”
Finch smiled warmly, and pressed down on the intercom button again. “It’s okay my dudes, we’ve got plenty of ‘em. Take your time, there’s no rush at all here. You’re doing great, Katie. Both of you are. Remember what we talked about. This is all new, and there’s nothing wrong with being cautious.”
“Thanks Erin.”
Katie looked to Lucas, who locked eyes with her for a moment before turning and looking back towards the glass, offering a steady thumbs-up. “Yeah, thank you. We’ll get it done, and uhh… we'll be cautious, I promise.”
Sycamore couldn’t see their faces, but he could tell they appreciated the encouragement.
Nodding, Finch clicked save on the files on her laptop, closing it before turning and glaring at Sycamore.
“Hi.”
He gestured at the technicians through the observation window.
“That seems like a very delicate procedure. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”
“It is, but they know what they’re doing. Besides, I told you to show up earlier today, didn’t I? It’s fine.” Without waiting for a reply, Finch turned back to the intercom.
“Alright guys, looks like my meeting turned up. I'll be out for a few minutes, but you're good to press on without me. Just be thorough. Once you’ve got the samples slotted in the dock for analysis, we’re done in there today. Get outta those suits and just relax for a bit. We’ll grab lunch. I wanna hear about those soup season plans, Lucas.”
Chuckling came from inside the hazard suits, and the technicians nodded.
“Okay!”
“Works for me!”
Her smile was genuine, even if they likely could barely see her from inside the lab. Sycamore couldn’t help but notice how fleeting this side of her seemed to be, now. “Thanks guys. Cya in a bit.”
The smile dropped away slowly as she gathered her notes, leaving the laptop on the desk as it had been bound to it with a heavy steel cable. She was significantly taller than Sycamore, and moved in a hurried way that seemed in intentional disregard of her surroundings. Instinctively, he felt the urge to take a step back as she stood up, as if he might be caught in the mess of this person by sheer proximity.
Folding her belongings under her arm, she motioned haphazardly towards the door. “My office. Let’s go.”
Following along, Sycamore couldn’t help but offer a compliment, hoping in vain that there was something to mend in this working relationship. Keeping it light wasn’t easy with Dr. Finch, but it was hard to know what other cards to play.
“You know, you’re really good with them.”
She kept a steady pace, not looking back to Sycamore as she responded. “Well, they’re great. Postgrads, y'know? I was always better at field work, but those two really know their shit, they're the real lab techs. I’m mostly there to do the paperwork and keep an eye on things, but I try to encourage them when I can.”
“Well, don’t downplay your talents. Leadership isn’t a quality that comes naturally to many people, but it definitely suits you.”
Finch snorted, brushing a loose strand of hair out of her eyes before shooting back a sarcastic reply. “Well Iain, it helps that I actually care about them.”
She liked to try to get under his skin. He ignored the subtext.
“That’s a good point. Building an environment of trust and mutual support between our colleagues is a necessity if we want to accomplish our goals.”
“...I guess so.”
They stepped into the waiting elevator, and after a moment Finch reflexively produced a carabiner of keys from under her lab coat.
Staring at the key slots for levels 5-10 for a moment, she shook her head and remembered where they were headed, before nonchalantly selecting 1. As she clipped the carabiner back to her belt, he caught sight of what looked like a holster strapped to her waist.
Seeing her fumbling, he couldn’t help but wonder where she really was right then. Knowing her, it was a toss-up between a daydream or a waking nightmare. He tried to bring her back down to Earth a bit.
“Oh! I almost forgot. Thank you for bringing those muffins to the office. Amber brought me one, they were lovely.”
Turning to face him, Finch seemed to stir from her thoughts, brightening up at an alarming rate. “Were they? I’m glad. Mom’s old recipe. I’ve never been able to get it just right the way she used to do it. Been baking in my dorm more. Makes it feel more like home, heh.”
She lingered on the thought for a moment, before catching herself and turning back to face the elevator door. It slid open moments after, and she immediately darted off up the hallway.
Sycamore let out a quiet sigh, before following her up the long concrete corridor.
1/2
