Chapter 171. The Biological Gambit

A couple of mouse clicks were all it took to update the Biological Center’s internal system. My personal profile now officially listed two major research projects. One was a joint venture, while the other was strictly independent, registered under the code name “Study of Adaptive Mechanisms in Xenogenic Organisms.” The latter was my own private project, aimed at secretly absorbing xenomorph DNA to accelerate my evolution.

“Give me exactly twenty-four hours, Tom, and you’ll have a fully equipped, isolated lab at your disposal.” Richie rubbed his hands together, already anticipating the benefits. “I’ll even assign you a couple of competent lab assistants to handle all the grunt work.”

“That won’t be necessary. I prefer working alone, without witnesses,” I said coldly, leaving no room for argument. “And there’s no need to rush the lab preparations. I’ll need the next few days to clear up a backlog of assignments at other departments.”

“How much more time do you need?” The red-bearded careerist immediately perked up, his fingers curling into fists. “Ideally, we should’ve started the infection protocol today, but it’s too late now. Let’s push it to tomorrow. You’re stationed at the P-SWAT base right now, aren’t you?”

I silently nodded. At the mention of the assault unit, Dr. Castro’s face twisted into a fleeting grimace of disgust, as if he’d just stepped in dog shit with an expensive shoe. The biologists, like personnel in every other Corps department, genuinely considered assault troopers brainless thugs fit for nothing but cannon fodder. And judging by the cold, hard facts, I couldn’t really blame them. Thanks to Lieutenant Dillon’s criminal negligence, the P-SWAT camp really did look like a reform school for delinquent teenagers.

“In that case, I’ll send an official transfer request to P-SWAT first thing tomorrow morning!” Richie announced with a sly grin, as if he’d just outsmarted the entire legal apparatus of the Department of Defense. “What the hell was the name of that one-armed camp commandant again? Dillon, right. Doesn’t matter. That military meathead will sign my request without even reading it, and you’ll be under my supervision for the entire duration of the research. You won’t have to go back to that miserable barracks, follow pointless military orders, or choke down that disgusting communal slop ever again. Complete autonomy and freedom to do as you please. And that’s not all, Tom. I’ll get you officially exempted from mandatory Portal expeditions!”

“Does Corps policy even allow for that kind of exemption?” I narrowed my eyes slightly, watching for the slightest change in his expression that might betray a lie.

“Under normal circumstances, nobody gets excused from combat deployments.” Richie lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as if he were letting me in on classified national security protocols. “Every Awakened, without exception, has to serve on the front lines regularly and risk their neck for the good of humanity. Even Corps celebrities like Danny Kim still go out on Portal-clearing missions. The Pentagon doesn’t give a damn if he gets killed by a xenomorph plasma round. If he dies, they’ll just find another pretty-faced media darling to take his place. But the Corps does protect those rare Awakened whose work offers enormous long-term benefits to the entire defense system. Take two leading virologists, for example, developing molecular defenses against extraterrestrial pathogens that will eventually allow assault battalions to clear Portals without taking casualties. And between you and me, as scientists, Tom, research like that can legally drag on for decades if you know how to handle the paperwork.”

“And you honestly think General Crowley will just let us get away with extending the timeline like that?”

“Absolutely.” Castro sounded completely certain of himself. “Of course, the old man will suspect we’re pulling a little trick. But as long as we deliver one finished vaccine against a new strain every six months, he’ll personally make sure our lab is treated like the crown jewels. And I’ve got so many samples of unstudied viruses in my underground storage facilities that we’ll have enough to keep us busy until retirement.”

My overclocked processor immediately began analyzing his proposal, calculating every relevant variable and building long-term predictive models. Objectively speaking, I had to admit that the red-bearded director’s offer was almost absurdly tempting. Based on my experience working with Selina, I knew my upgraded body needed no more than a day of bed rest to develop a full immune response to any terrestrial toxin. Often, it took considerably less.

The math was simple: just twenty-four hours of controlled physiological stress, and I’d have the remaining one hundred and eighty days of each six-month period entirely to myself. At last, I could carry out my plan: buy a sizable plot of land, build a mansion with a state-of-the-art private gym, and devote myself entirely to continuous self-improvement. I could finally put Selina and her capricious, slave-driving massage orders behind me, then block Leon for good and put an end to his suicidal Portal missions. As for Dillon... I had no doubt that the alcoholic gambling addict would sign Castro’s paperwork with a sigh of relief, happy to get me off his base and never have to see the officer who was systematically dismantling his corrupt schemes again.

It was an excellent plan, but it wasn’t perfect.

If I accepted Richie’s offer and transferred to the Biological Center, I’d disappear from P-SWAT entirely. I’d no longer be living in the camp barracks, and my control over the platoon’s internal discipline would be gone for good. The so-called “elite” would reclaim the barracks in triumph the moment I left. They’d immediately resume extorting money from the junior group and forcing their prison-yard code on impressionable teenagers. I’d no longer be able to spend my mornings in the kitchen from four onward, making sure the boys and girls got high-quality, balanced meals. The camp would inevitably go back to serving cheap, substandard food. My supply runs into town to buy useful things for the kids would come to an end, too.

Without me, the entire ecosystem I’d started building at the base would collapse almost immediately. Everything would go back to the way it had been before: despair, moral decay, theft, and shattered lives among children who’d acquired dangerous powers. I couldn’t abandon these teenagers. I’d personally given them a reason to believe things could change, and they were only just beginning to show the first signs of genuine trust in me.

All these calculations took up a negligible fraction of a microsecond of my subjective time.

“Thanks for the offer, Richie, but don’t bother sending any official requests to Dillon’s office. I’m not ready to leave the assault barracks just yet,” I replied, calmly watching the director’s face fall open in genuine astonishment.

In his careerist mind, shaped by ambition and unquestioning deference to rank, I’d just said something monumentally stupid. I’d voluntarily turned down a cushy position and a chance to get off the front lines.

“And I won’t be able to start working on our joint antidote project until the beginning of next month at the earliest.”

“Why so long, Tom?” Richie leaned forward, concern creasing his face as his curly red beard twitched nervously. “What legitimate constraints are forcing you to delay research that’s vital to national security?”

“The Corps’ system algorithm.” I watched his expression turn bewildered once again. “I explained the situation in detail just three hours ago. My personal account currently holds exactly one hundred points, which is the maximum for my current rank. If we start the controlled infection protocol now and the system awards me additional points for developing a vaccine, those points will simply go to waste. So here’s how we’ll proceed: first, I officially receive my new rank insignia after the monthly database update. Only then do we get down to serious scientific work.”

Richie opened and closed his mouth several times without making a sound, like a fish out of water. As a bureaucrat and careerist, he could not come up with a single convincing counterargument to my straightforward explanation of why I needed to protect my accumulated service points. Self-interest and career pragmatism were concepts he understood all too well.

“All right, Tom. Your logic is airtight.” With a sigh, he conceded defeat and extended his hand to seal the deal. “I’ll see you in exactly one week. If the departmental algorithms work as expected, I’ll be congratulating you on your next promotion by then.”

“I’m counting on it.” I returned his handshake with a firm, brief grip.

I filed Castro’s offer away in my memory under a single designation: “Contingency Plan.” If the senior ministerial commission turned out to be so thoroughly corrupted by cronyism that it sided with Dillon, his old buddy, despite all the evidence and Hawk’s confirmation, I would not launch a pointless frontal assault. I would simply fall back on my contingency plan and transfer permanently to the Biological Center, sealing myself away in an autonomous laboratory. It was a solid insurance policy.

I made it back to the P-SWAT base in a shared taxi just as evening chow was winding down. Late by military standards, perhaps, but perfectly acceptable under the regulations. More than an hour and a half remained before the official lights-out order, so there was no grounds for charging me with a disciplinary violation.

Lieutenant Dillon’s heavy-duty SUV was nowhere to be seen in its usual parking spot outside headquarters. The commandant was not waiting on the front steps to chew me out over some fabricated offense. He was not trying to turn the duty personnel at the checkpoint against me, nor was he making any other move to undermine me. Just like me, he understood that the balance of power had settled into a fragile stalemate. We were both waiting for Monday, the day that would decide everything. The Pentagon’s senior inspectors would either throw him out of his comfortable, corrupt command post in disgrace or come down hard on me, making sure a former accountant never dared challenge a decorated Corps veteran and disabled serviceman again. The administrative machine offered no third option.

A group of young soldiers came spilling out of the mess hall, chatting excitedly and swapping stories about their day. There were ten of them, boys and girls alike, the very teenagers the Corps had dragged out of civilian life far too early and sent straight to the front lines of the Portal war. When they spotted me approaching from the main gate in my dress uniform, their laughter died instantly. They stopped short and snapped to attention in unison, raising their hands to their temples with an enthusiasm that still seemed unfamiliar to them.

“Lieutenant Ross, sir! Thank you for an outstanding dinner!” they shouted in unison, their voices echoing across the parade ground.

“At ease, soldiers.” I returned their salute, but I could not maintain my stern expression for long in front of these kids. “Was the food really that good?”

“You bet, sir!” One of the tousle-haired boys immediately broke ranks, gesturing enthusiastically. “Compared to the rotten slop they’ve been feeding us for the past six months, your cooking today was like eating at a five-star restaurant! It’s night and day!”

“And the training you’ve been putting us through is insane! Sir, just look at these guns!” another teenager chimed in, proudly rolling up the sleeve of his uniform jacket to show off the faint outline of newly developing muscles. “And that’s after just three days of training with you! I spent six months busting my ass on the parade ground under Sergeant Lee, working until I was ready to drop, and I never saw gains like this!”

“There’s no secret to it. A disciplined approach tailored to each soldier’s physiology, combined with a balanced diet calculated to match their individual metabolism, can produce remarkable results in a short time,” I explained calmly, folding my arms across my chest. “The human body is a precision machine. It needs the right fuel.”

“Um, Sir Ross... Could we girls get the same treatment, too?” A petite girl at the end of the line gave me an imploring look. “Please? Individual training and special meals, just like the boys? We want to get stronger, too, so we can survive in the Portals!”

The other girls in the platoon immediately chimed in, nodding and voicing their enthusiastic agreement.

“Absolutely not.” My cold, matter-of-fact response drew a collective, disappointed sigh from the girls. “Under current P-SWAT regulations, male and female personnel must undergo physical training separately. As an officer assigned to the male contingent, I’m strictly prohibited from conducting practical training sessions for you. Rules are rules.”

“Oh, come on! These stupid rules ruin everything...” The girl pouted, scraping the toe of her combat boot against a crack in the asphalt. “Sir Ross, what if... what if you just became our new chief of staff and rewrote the stupid regulations yourself?”

“Exactly!” the teenagers immediately chimed in, talking over one another as excitement spread through the group.

“Tom’s awesome!”

“And he’s already a lieutenant!”

“And he’s the only one around here who actually gives a damn!”

“He cares about us! He knows everything about us!”

“He has to become the P-SWAT chief of staff!”

I allowed myself the faintest, indulgent smile as I listened to their innocent, childlike reasoning. God, they were still so young. At their age, they should have been sitting in high school classrooms, worrying about prom and arguing over comic books, not carrying heavy S-Guns or scraping liquefied brains out of alien corpses.

Just an hour earlier, in Castro’s office, my analytical block had coldly considered retreating to the safety of the biological laboratories if the commission ruled against me. But now, looking into those clear eyes bright with hope, I saw children who, for the first time in years of service, had found someone they could trust, someone who offered real protection instead of another tyrant in uniform. I erased that scenario from my system once and for all. There was no turning back. Whatever happened on Monday, whatever schemes General Crowley might be plotting behind my back, I would stand my ground to the bitter end. I would continue my uncompromising fight against Dillon’s corruption and negligence, if only to give these boys and girls a genuine chance at a normal, safe future.

I dismissed the platoon and strode confidently toward the barracks entrance. Less than seventy-two hours remained before the court-martial.