Chapter 165. Welcome to the Biological Center

The terminal scanner at the Biological Center’s security checkpoint emitted a brief beep, recording my arrival in the database to the exact second. At that very moment, the algorithm governing my previously issued [Special Command] ran its course, and I was abruptly thrust back into reality.

Returning to normal perception brought a sharp, throbbing migraine that struck directly behind my forehead. My synapses, which had been firing at maximum frequency just moments earlier, reacted to the sudden slowdown with vascular spasms. My eyebrows drew together involuntarily, and my jaws clenched with a dull grinding sound as I suppressed a groan. My face became a rigid mask of pain.

“Lieutenant Ross? You all right, sir?” The private on duty, carrying a shortened M4 carbine, narrowed his eyes and studied my unnaturally rigid posture with professional suspicion. His finger instinctively edged closer to the trigger guard.

“Yeah. Everything’s fine.” I exhaled slowly and deliberately, forcing the searing pain at the base of my skull into the most remote, isolated corner of my consciousness. “I’ve just been transferred to your sector, so I’m not familiar with the layout yet. What do I need to take care of first?”

“Sir, you need to report to the facility director, Dr. Richard Castro, for verification as soon as possible.” The soldier visibly relaxed at my calm, even tone. “His office is on the second floor, right wing. Just follow the signs.”

“Thanks.” I gave him a brief nod and started toward the steel doors of the double elevator, but the guard called after me.

“Lieutenant Ross, one thing I should mention. This elevator only goes down to the underground laboratory levels. You need a physical key card with a Delta-level biometric chip to activate it. You’ll have to take the stairs up.”

I filed the information away, changed direction, and headed for the concrete staircase. Halfway up the first flight, out of direct sight of the security post, I stopped. My breathing was heavy, and blood pounded in my temples. I could not afford to waste time, so I turned to my greatest advantage.

I quickly unzipped my bag, pulled a wrapped mint popsicle from the insulated lunch box, and swallowed it whole in one swift, aggressive motion, forcing the frozen mass down my throat. The receptors in my nasopharynx immediately registered an intense temperature shock. An icy wave of menthol spread through my system, rapidly constricting the dilated blood vessels and effectively freezing the onset of a severe migraine in its tracks. The spasm at the base of my skull eased. The world came back into focus, no longer obscured by a hazy veil.

I stood motionless for exactly sixty seconds, my eyes closed, allowing my body to stabilize its internal temperature. Only a faint, phantom heaviness remained in my head. My decision to buy an insulated container yesterday had paid off in full. Money well spent. Another advantage was that most of my work in Selina’s lab had involved precise mechanical manipulations and calibration, which placed minimal strain on my brain. If I had spent all three hours continuously reprogramming quantum matrices, one chunk of ice would not have saved me.

I tossed the bare wooden stick into a side pocket of my gym bag and continued up to the second floor. The pressure of the clock no longer bothered me. The entrance terminal had already recorded my arrival at the facility at 2:00:59 p.m., so showing up a few minutes late for a private meeting with the center’s director posed no disciplinary risk to my personnel file. The Corps bureaucracy had its numbers, and that was all that mattered.

I found the nameplate at the end of the right-hand corridor: Dr. Richard Castro, Director of the Corps Biological Department.

I pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside. The office was a standard government setup: minimal decoration, a functional desk, a powerful workstation, and cabinets filled with medical records. A man who looked to be around thirty sat behind the desk. The first thing that caught my attention was his luxuriant red beard and unruly curls. Combined with his pale face and round glasses, they gave him a distinctly comical appearance. If he swapped his immaculate white lab coat for baggy trousers with suspenders and added a foam nose, he could have passed for a classic circus clown.

I did not need to activate my [Analysis] ability to identify him. The moment I focused on his face, his complete confidential dossier surfaced with a dry mental click from the depths of my recently unpacked short-term memory: Richard Castro, thirty-two, Doctor of Medicine, Awakened with a noncombat specialization, married with two children, graduated from the military medical academy in Baltimore five years ago.

“Lieutenant Thomas Ross reporting for additional duty at the Biological Center,” I announced in a clipped military tone, standing at attention with my arms straight at my sides.

“Oh, hello, Lieutenant! You finally made it!” Castro sprang out of his ergonomic chair. A broad, almost greasy smile spread across his face, so saccharine it was practically dripping. He clapped his hands as though he had just hit the jackpot at a casino. “Please, come in! Have a seat! And please, Tom, let’s skip all the military formalities. Here in the biological wing, we’re colleagues first and foremost. Scientists, and, if you like, good friends. Just call me Richie. That’s what everyone calls me.”

“Sure, Richie.” I stepped forward calmly and returned his offered handshake with a firm grip, establishing my physical boundaries from the outset. “Then you can call me Tom. No rank necessary.”

“That’s the spirit! Now you’re talking!” Richie practically showered me with pleasantries, eagerly gesturing toward the comfortable guest chair opposite his desk. “Why are we standing in the doorway? Sit down, make yourself comfortable. Want to get straight to business, or would you like some tea first? Maybe a fresh cup of coffee? I’ve got an excellent roast from Colombia.”

“I wouldn’t mind something ice-cold.” I briefly pressed a hand to the back of my head, checking for any lingering symptoms of the vascular spasm.

“Sure thing! Give me a second. I’ll get you something right away!” the doctor said, springing into action.

He hurried over to the small built-in refrigerator in the corner, pulled out a can of regular Coke, filled a heavy glass with ice from the automatic ice maker, and poured in the dark, fizzing liquid.

“Here you go, Tom. How’s that? Cold enough?”

“Much appreciated.” I settled into the chair, stretched my legs out a little, and took a long, deep swallow. The ice clinked pleasantly against the glass. The chilled drink, along with the caffeine and sugar, hit my system almost immediately, fully stabilizing my physiological state after the hyperfocus overload.

“You probably haven’t even had a proper lunch yet, have you, Tom?” Richie shook his head sympathetically, genuine indignation flashing in his eyes. “I know that tyrant Selina Langstrom all too well. She’s the devil in a skirt! She works everyone to the bone, even people who are assigned to her for just a couple of hours a week. Absolutely ruthless.”

He reached for the refrigerator again and rummaged through the packages on the shelves.

“I’ve got some excellent Virginia ham in here, along with fresh bread and cheddar. I’ll whip up a couple of hearty sandwiches for us.”

“No need, Richie. The Coke with ice is plenty. Thanks for the offer.” I stopped his frantic activity with a calm but firm look. Wasting work hours on empty carbs would have been foolish.

“But come on, Tom! How could I let a decorated combat veteran, a defender of our nation, go hungry in my department?” Castro suddenly froze with the package of ham still on the shelf and turned toward me. His expression grew exaggeratedly solemn, almost theatrical. He gazed at my dress uniform with profound reverence, fixed his eyes on the Bronze Star pinned to my chest, then abruptly pressed a hand to his temple and saluted me. “Feeding you and making sure you’re comfortable is the least I can do here on the home front for a genuine hero. For someone who risks his life every day, facing those hideous creatures and eldritch horrors that come crawling through the Portals into our world.”

For a moment, a faint sense of shame stirred deep in my consciousness. Most people got a dopamine rush from being praised, but my mental filter reacted in precisely the opposite way, with an instinctive aversion and an immediate flash of suspicion toward the source of all that syrupy flattery. A fraction of a second later, however, the biochemistry of my modified brain swept away that cloying emotional residue. My mind returned to a state of absolute composure.

Dr. Richard Castro seemed to be the perfect example of someone who had swallowed government propaganda whole, the kind of man who would practically bow down before anyone wearing medals on his chest. Over the past week, I had encountered this sort of behavior at least ten times on the streets of Washington. Complete strangers would snap to attention and salute me without having the slightest idea which branch of the military I served in. But those had been children and starstruck teenagers. Seeing an adult man, a highly accomplished scientist and department director, behave with such childlike enthusiasm was genuinely astonishing.

“Go ahead, Tom. Don’t be shy.” Richie set a white ceramic plate holding two generously filled sandwiches on the desk with a broad smile. “You can eat right here in my office. We’re all friends here. No need to stand on ceremony.”

“How often do your subordinates turn the director’s office into a bus station snack bar?” I asked, calmly picking up a sandwich.

“Ha! Actually, you’re a one-of-a-kind guest, Tom. An exclusive.” Richie topped off my Coke, carefully making sure the ice didn’t spill over the rim. “Everyone else usually eats in the main cafeteria on the first level, but it’s closed right now. By the way, I took a quick look at the electronic attendance system. The terminal at the entrance logged your arrival at exactly two p.m. How’d you manage that? Did you get away from Selina early?”

“You could say that.” The faintest hint of a smile touched my lips. My memory instantly replayed the sight of my legs carrying me across two hundred yards of open ground at an absurd speed.

“Good for you, Tom! Absolutely the right call. You’re better off spending more time with us biologists than with those dry-as-dust engineers who smell like rosin and soldering flux from a mile away. So, how was your first day working in their sector?”

“Exhausting.” It was the most accurate word I could find to describe three hours of running around in hyperfocus mode.

“Exactly what I thought! They worked a combat officer into the ground on his very first day.” Castro shook his head in dismay, his gaze once again settling reverently on the Bronze Star pinned to my uniform. “Those tech people have absolutely no idea how to deal with other human beings. They treat everyone like a machine. No empathy whatsoever.”

I responded with a noncommittal grunt and took a sip of the ice-cold soda. My analytical module had no doubt that if I walked into the neighboring building and asked Selina about the biologists, she would describe them with the same venomous eloquence, calling them a herd of narrow-minded idiots incapable of seeing beyond their own microscopes. This was classic interdepartmental rivalry. Every branch of a militarized organization believed firmly in its own superiority: the Navy traditionally looked down on the infantry, military aviation considered the Navy beneath it, and the analysts thought both groups were idiots.

I understood perfectly well that if I agreed with Richie and joined him in trashing Selina, my standing in his eyes would skyrocket. But I deliberately ruled out that option. I had never cared for petty office gossip. Back when I worked as an accountant in the private sector, I had seen plenty of mediocre clerks build astonishing careers through little more than scheming and well-timed backstabbing. That was not how I operated.

“Let’s move on to my official duties.” I carefully set the empty plate at the edge of the desk and straightened my back.

“Oh, Tom, you’re an incredibly versatile specialist!” Castro practically dissolved into a stream of compliments, gesturing enthusiastically with both hands. “When your résumé came through the system, I was blown away. Your advanced chemistry and molecular biology certifications? Perfect scores across the board. With credentials like those, I can appoint you lead supervisor of our new research project without a second thought! By the way, I got curious and checked the serial numbers on your certificates against the association’s verification website. They’re completely legitimate. But for some reason, none of those qualifications appear in your main personnel file in the Corps database. Tom, speaking as a friend, you should update your profile and enter them into the system. Every verified skill or completed course earns you internal points, and those points directly affect your promotions and rank.”

“I know. That’s precisely why I deliberately left those certifications out of the central registry.” I finished my Coke, watching with cool detachment as the doctor’s red eyebrows climbed in surprise. “My personal account currently holds exactly one hundred points. If I upload the certificates now, any points beyond my current rank’s limit will simply go to waste.”

“Oh! Then congratulations on your upcoming promotion!” Castro’s face lit up with another broad smile, and he leaned forward slightly. “I’m no expert, of course, but I’d say there’s a ninety percent chance the system will generate an official promotion order at the end of this month. You’ll have new stars on your shoulders, Tom.”

“Why at the end of the month?” I asked, filing away the detail.

“A close friend of mine went through the same thing after reaching the hundred-point limit. From what I can tell, the Corps distribution center runs its global registry updates and budget recalculations around that time.” Richie shrugged casually as he rose from his desk. “Anyway, as for your specific duties here at the Biological Center, I think it’ll be much more efficient to show you everything firsthand, right at your workstation. Come on.”

“Whatever you say.” I glanced at my phone. Exactly thirty minutes of my officially paid workday had elapsed. My pragmatic inner clerk had classified that half hour as time wasted on idle conversation and the consumption of free food. It was time to start earning a return on my investment.

We left the office and went down to the first floor, returning to the locked steel doors of the double elevator. Richie pulled a bulky electronic key with a personalized biometric chip from his pocket, swept it across the reader’s touch panel, and pressed his thumb against the scanner. The system responded with a deep hydraulic sigh, and the heavy doors slid apart, revealing a reinforced steel cabin.

We stepped inside. The doors slammed shut with a dull, airtight thud, cutting us off from the outside world, and the elevator began its descent. The ride was taking longer than expected. There was no floor indicator on the panel, but the increasing pressure in my eardrums told me we were plunging rapidly to a depth of several dozen yards beneath the foundation. The laboratory’s underground infrastructure was far more extensive than it appeared from the surface.