Chapter 166 Chapter 166. A Dirty Job

Richie pressed his personal biometric key against the backup scanner again, and the next barrier opened before us: a massive, hydraulically operated airtight door.

Beyond it lay a spacious airlock. The walls were covered in sterile white tiles, long metal benches stood in the center, and neat rows of numbered brushed stainless steel lockers lined the room. It looked like a locker room at an exclusive athletic facility crossed with a surgical suite: not a speck of dust anywhere, harsh fluorescent lighting, and the slight positive air pressure typical of the highest-grade cleanrooms.

“Leave all your personal belongings here, including your clothes, and especially your smartphone.” Richie turned toward me, his oily smile unchanged, though his voice had taken on the firm, bureaucratic tone of official security protocols. “These are the strictest internal security measures, Tom. Personally, as a fellow combat officer, I trust you completely. But our top brass at the Pentagon are terrified that information about the nature of our work might leak to the press.”

“Nobody at the Engineering Center made me disarm or hand over my electronics.” I studied the doctor for a long moment, watching for the slightest involuntary reaction. “Quite the opposite. They issued me an additional work tablet and a full set of equipment as soon as I arrived.”

“We'll issue you equipment, too! And trust me, ours is leagues ahead of anything those narrow-minded techies could even imagine!” Castro was instantly riled by the comparison. Interdepartmental rivalry was clearly a sore spot for him. “You'd be better off checking your personal locker, Tom. See that? I personally ordered your name engraved on the nameplate. I seriously doubt that she-devil in a skirt would ever show that kind of genuine concern for her employees.”

I merely snorted inwardly, unwilling to waste words on a pointless argument, and approached the assigned locker. Inside the steel door, I found the standard issue: a heavy-duty protective mask, an individual access card with Delta-level clearance, and a neatly folded set of protective gear.

“What's this protective suit for?” I pulled out a lightweight white coverall, a full-face hood with a panoramic visor, and a heavy rubberized apron. My gaze shifted to Richie, who was still wearing an ordinary civilian T-shirt beneath a thin lab coat.

“It has everything to do with the nature of your duties,” the director assured me hastily, noticing my brief flicker of suspicion. “I don't want to make things sound worse than they are or get you worked up before you even start, Tom, but the work here is going to get messy. Literally. So take off that dress uniform and those medals. It'd be a shame to ruin something so nice.”

I felt no fear. My brain chemistry had eliminated that evolutionary relic before I even arrived. Instead, I felt the cold, strictly pragmatic curiosity of an accountant about to audit the Corps' hidden, dirty underside inside a sterile underground bunker.

I stripped off my uniform quickly and methodically, carefully hanging my dress jacket on a hanger before standing in nothing but my military underwear. Getting into the protective coverall proved more difficult than expected. The material pulled tight across my shoulder blades and constricted my chest. Richie had ordered the gear using the outdated measurements in my personnel file, but since my last evolution, my muscle fibers had grown denser and my skeleton had increased slightly in size.

“Well, Tom? How's the suit fit? Everything all right?” Castro watched me squeeze my massive frame into the white protective gear with the undisguised professional curiosity of an entomologist examining an unusual specimen.

“Everything's within specifications.” I rolled my shoulders sharply a couple of times and extended my arms to test my range of motion. The fabric stretched to its limit but held. The material was sufficiently elastic. The discomfort was minimal, well within acceptable tolerances.

I secured the rubberized apron over the coverall and fastened the panoramic mask behind my head. The small mirror mounted inside the locker door reflected my silhouette. I no longer looked like a regular officer or an accountant. My imposing frame, encased in opaque white rubber and topped with the mask's dead, glassy visor, evoked the image of some hulking butcher from a low-budget horror movie. My evolved physique only made the effect more disturbing.

“The lockers don't have combination locks,” I observed as I placed my smartphone and personal documents on the upper shelf.

“What would we need those for?” Richie asked, genuinely puzzled. “Tom, we're forty yards underground, inside a restricted Department of Defense facility. Everyone working here has been thoroughly vetted. Scientists, intellectuals, leading experts in their fields. We're all among our own people. No thief could possibly get in here. Locks would just be an unnecessary layer of security.”

I nodded silently, acknowledging his reasoning, though privately I envied the sheltered environment that allowed Dr. Castro to maintain such a childlike faith in humanity. At my P-SWAT base, leaving personal belongings unattended was asking for trouble. The young soldiers, newly endowed with superhuman abilities, behaved like unruly primates, immediately hauling anything that wasn't bolted to the floor back to their barracks.

“All right, ready to go in? Put on your filters, and we'll enter the work area.”

Richie pulled a three-layer surgical mask over his face and pushed open the airtight airlock door. I followed him through. We passed through a narrow metal detector calibrated to detect concealed microchips and recording devices, but the sensors remained silent. My suit was completely free of electronics.

The moment the heavy hydraulic door slammed shut behind us and locked into place, I understood exactly why they'd issued me a full-face mask with activated-carbon filters. Even through the thick layers of filtration, a heavy, cloyingly sweet, suffocating stench forced its way into my lungs. The smell of fresh blood, opened entrails, and biological waste. The entire atmosphere was saturated with it. I felt as though I'd stepped into a colossal industrial slaughterhouse in the middle of a shift.

“This is one of the Biological Department's key regional facilities, part of a network of branches spread throughout the United States,” Richie explained in the even, matter-of-fact tone of a tour guide as he led me down the corridor. “In professional terms, this particular section is our central anatomical morgue. All the bodies of extraterrestrial fauna recovered by assault teams from the Portals are brought here from our various operational sites. We dissect them, catalog them, and study them.”

Through the visor, I took in the vast hall, its walls clad in gleaming white tiles. Endless rows of stainless steel refrigeration unit doors stretched along either side, receding into the distance. At the far end of the room, I could just make out the massive outline of an industrial cremation furnace, radiating an ominous presence.

Three neat rows of massive stainless steel surgical tables stood in the center of the hall, each fitted with deep drainage channels. A team of tall, broad-shouldered men wearing the same rubberized aprons as mine worked behind them. With the cool detachment of seasoned pathologists, they methodically cut apart the grotesque remains of extraterrestrial creatures.

I watched as one of the workers precisely sawed open the chitinous skull of a creature vaguely resembling a gigantic bipedal insect. Using a pair of forceps, he carefully extracted a mass of thick, blue gelatinous tissue and placed it on an electronic scale. At the adjacent table, another technician delicately excised an abnormally large compound eye with a glossy purple sheen and lowered it into a container of liquid nitrogen.

The scene was simultaneously repulsive, viscerally disgusting, and scientifically fascinating. Before me lay an enormous trove of biological material that had barely begun to be studied.

“This is exactly why all recording devices are strictly prohibited in this facility,” Richie said quietly, gesturing toward the sterile slaughterhouse around us. “The US National Security Council is convinced that if even thirty seconds of footage showing a xenomorph being dissected leaked online, the civilian population would erupt in mass hysteria. And the last thing the government needs right now is widespread civil unrest.”

“Given my academic credentials, why did you assign me to this particular section?” I asked in a flat, emotionless voice. “You said you were impressed by my qualifications in molecular biology and chemistry.”

“Tom, you need to understand where I'm coming from. I've got more than enough theorists and analysts with advanced degrees in my labs.” Castro spread his hands and shook his head ruefully. “What I'm chronically short on is strong backs and capable hands down on the lower levels. When I saw the note in your file saying your ability lets you master new motor skills almost instantly and work with machine-like efficiency, I knew I needed you right here, processing biological material.”

I offered no response, but filed away the facts. The real reason for his ingratiating manner and excessive hospitality was obvious. An operative of my caliber could leave the main P-SWAT division only in a zinc coffin, but assignments to other departments were strictly voluntary. If the working conditions here conflicted with my long-term interests, no fifty-thousand-dollar salary would be enough to keep me around. Castro understood that perfectly well and was trying to hold on to a valuable asset.

We approached the central row of tables. I looked down at the corpse of a gray-skinned humanoid lying in front of me, its chest cavity split open, and at that exact millisecond, a system trigger activated across my retina.

[Warning! Humanoid life-form detected with a high S-Power concentration index. Consumption of this biological material by your Familiar will initiate the unlocking of a hidden evolutionary branch.]

With a forceful act of will, I dismissed the system's flickering dialogue window. My calculations demanded strict sequencing. Forcing an evolution now, before my baseline physical attributes had naturally reached their absolute biological limits, would be a strategic mistake. First, I needed to complete the current stage of experience accumulation and push my existing body to its full potential. Only then should I advance to the next stage of development. That was the only way to maximize the bonus pool available for leveling up. Still, the fact that I now had direct access to an exceptionally powerful extraterrestrial catalyst for hidden evolution was an extraordinary stroke of luck. There was only one logistical problem left to solve: how to get rid of the witnesses so I could conduct a physiological experiment on the corpse in private.

“Guys, a minute of your time. Meet your new partner, Lieutenant Thomas Ross,” Richie said briskly, introducing me to the dissection crew. “He's a combat officer from the front lines. Starting today, he'll be helping you process the bodies.”

The large, broad-shouldered men, whose physiques matched mine and in some cases even surpassed my newly enhanced proportions, looked up from their work. Their heavy, appraising gazes swept over my figure encased in a rubberized apron, sizing me up like professional butchers evaluating a new hire. A brief, matter-of-fact exchange followed.

“Big enough. Should hold up.”

“Doesn't go pale at the sight of a corpse. Tough enough.”

“Big hands. Good grip.”

Translated from their professional slang into plain English, their verdict was simple: I was fit for the job.

“All right, guys, show the new kid how to process the bodies. I've got work to get back to.” Richie waved a hand and hurried toward the airlock door. “I'll expect you in my office at the end of your shift, Tom. Make sure you stop by.”

The director left the section. The steel doors slammed shut, and I found myself alone with a group of taciturn men whose hands held gleaming circular saws and anatomical knives coated in thick blue fluid. Without missing a beat, they turned back to their tables and resumed their work. All except one: a tall pathologist with a deep scar across his forehead, who held a heavy bone saw in his hand.

“Listen up, rookie, and make sure you get this straight the first time.” The man stepped toward me, his voice muffled and harsh behind his mask. “My personal contract is tied to productivity. To meet my quota and collect my full paycheck, I need to gut five more of these damn chickens and get them weighed before seventeen hundred hours. Every minute I spend training you is a minute I'm not earning a single cent. So I'll demonstrate the process exactly once. If you can't figure it out, that's your problem. Got it?”

“Your instructions are perfectly clear. Proceed,” I replied in a dry, mechanical tone, shutting down every trace of emotion.

“Hmm. A disciplined little soldier.” The foreman grunted. From his eyes alone, it was impossible to tell whether he approved or was simply commenting on my apparent lack of initiative. “You've been through the Portals before, soldier? What kind of xenomorph did your unit kill most often?”

“Loz'an,” I replied, naming the species.

“Oh, those rubbery, slimy bastards.” The man bared his teeth in a predatory grin beneath his mask. “Good news. Logistics has been sending more of that crap down to the lower levels than anything else lately. You'll get plenty of practice. Follow me.”

And so began my first hands-on experience dissecting extraterrestrial life-forms.