Read Online Dead Space: Catalyst by Brian Evenson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brian Evenson
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shipped out, ostensibly for the containment facility, but in actuality for you.” He looked more closely at Grottor. His eyes narrowed.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Grottor said.
“You can speak freely,” claimed the man.
“It seems like a risk factor,” Grottor said. “Word of the project could get out through them or the guards in the facility. In addition, there’s the risk of what might happen if the project goes awry and there’s an outbreak.”
“They’re prisoners and they’re in a secret containment facility,” said the man.
“Yes?”
“That means they’re expendable,” the man simply said.
Grottor nodded curtly.
“Besides,” said the man, “we might need human subjects.”
For a moment Grottor was silent. Then “Yes, sir,” he finally replied.
7
No , thought Jensi on the way over. The rally’s more likely. I should go there . But it was only more likely, he realized, if it were he rather than Istvan doing the thinking. Stick with the plan, he told himself.
But when he reached the port, he found that the EarthGov ambassador’s arrival was delayed, there having been a problem with the surface skimmer that had met his ship. There was hardly a crowd, only a dozen people, most of them there in an official capacity. He scanned over them quickly looking for Istvan’s face, but wasn’t surprised not to find it.
There was still time, if he hurried, to go to one of the other sites. Rally or press conference? he asked himself. Which one? Both were roughly in the same direction. He started to run.
He went down the wrong alley and got turned around, routed back in the other direction, but he realized his mistake quickly and worked his way back out. He was running faster by now, but still unsure where he was going. One or the other. Which was closest? The rally, but not by much. He could already hear the sound of it, the echo of the loudspeaker, the words so distorted that he couldn’t begin to make them out. He cut through a back alley and came out on the main avenue, and suddenly there he was, on the fringes of a crowd.
On a platform down near the end of the street, David Vernaglia had just begun to speak, his voice booming from speakers all around the crowd. Jensi pushed his way forward, looking for his brother.
“Now, I wouldn’t say that the current administration is doing a terrible job,” said Vernaglia. “But then again, I don’t have to say it, because you already know it. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”
The crowd erupted into applause and shouts. Jensi pushed further in, the people he pushed shoving back, giving him dirty looks. As he got closer, the crowd got tighter. He stood on his tiptoes and tried to peer around, looking for his brother in the sea of faces. It was hopeless—too many people.
Now what? he wondered. Did I make the wrong choice?
Vernaglia was still talking, really getting the crowd going now. Vernaglia was, at least, still alive, and the rally hadn’t been interrupted by anyone, which probably meant that this was the wrong place to be. Was there still time to make it over to the press conference?
He pushed his way sideways through the crowd, ignoring the complaints of the people around him. If he could get to the edge, he could go back down the alley he’d come out of and take back streets to the press conference. It was worth a try.
And then he noticed a man in a black suit pushing through the crowd at a little distance behind him, speaking into a headset. Someone official, part of the candidate’s security force probably. Another was there to his left, deeper in the crowd, but wading his way as well. Maybe my brother’s here after all, he thought, and glanced around a moment for him before suddenly realizing that, no, it wasn’t Istvan they were moving toward, but him.
Suddenly he realized how he must have looked, pushing his way into the crowd, causing ripples, forcing his way toward the front, then
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Grottor said.
“You can speak freely,” claimed the man.
“It seems like a risk factor,” Grottor said. “Word of the project could get out through them or the guards in the facility. In addition, there’s the risk of what might happen if the project goes awry and there’s an outbreak.”
“They’re prisoners and they’re in a secret containment facility,” said the man.
“Yes?”
“That means they’re expendable,” the man simply said.
Grottor nodded curtly.
“Besides,” said the man, “we might need human subjects.”
For a moment Grottor was silent. Then “Yes, sir,” he finally replied.
7
No , thought Jensi on the way over. The rally’s more likely. I should go there . But it was only more likely, he realized, if it were he rather than Istvan doing the thinking. Stick with the plan, he told himself.
But when he reached the port, he found that the EarthGov ambassador’s arrival was delayed, there having been a problem with the surface skimmer that had met his ship. There was hardly a crowd, only a dozen people, most of them there in an official capacity. He scanned over them quickly looking for Istvan’s face, but wasn’t surprised not to find it.
There was still time, if he hurried, to go to one of the other sites. Rally or press conference? he asked himself. Which one? Both were roughly in the same direction. He started to run.
He went down the wrong alley and got turned around, routed back in the other direction, but he realized his mistake quickly and worked his way back out. He was running faster by now, but still unsure where he was going. One or the other. Which was closest? The rally, but not by much. He could already hear the sound of it, the echo of the loudspeaker, the words so distorted that he couldn’t begin to make them out. He cut through a back alley and came out on the main avenue, and suddenly there he was, on the fringes of a crowd.
On a platform down near the end of the street, David Vernaglia had just begun to speak, his voice booming from speakers all around the crowd. Jensi pushed his way forward, looking for his brother.
“Now, I wouldn’t say that the current administration is doing a terrible job,” said Vernaglia. “But then again, I don’t have to say it, because you already know it. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”
The crowd erupted into applause and shouts. Jensi pushed further in, the people he pushed shoving back, giving him dirty looks. As he got closer, the crowd got tighter. He stood on his tiptoes and tried to peer around, looking for his brother in the sea of faces. It was hopeless—too many people.
Now what? he wondered. Did I make the wrong choice?
Vernaglia was still talking, really getting the crowd going now. Vernaglia was, at least, still alive, and the rally hadn’t been interrupted by anyone, which probably meant that this was the wrong place to be. Was there still time to make it over to the press conference?
He pushed his way sideways through the crowd, ignoring the complaints of the people around him. If he could get to the edge, he could go back down the alley he’d come out of and take back streets to the press conference. It was worth a try.
And then he noticed a man in a black suit pushing through the crowd at a little distance behind him, speaking into a headset. Someone official, part of the candidate’s security force probably. Another was there to his left, deeper in the crowd, but wading his way as well. Maybe my brother’s here after all, he thought, and glanced around a moment for him before suddenly realizing that, no, it wasn’t Istvan they were moving toward, but him.
Suddenly he realized how he must have looked, pushing his way into the crowd, causing ripples, forcing his way toward the front, then
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