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[Chapter 17, concluded...]
Normally, hallways were long, boring affairs, the most efficient way to travel between two points with as little distraction as possible – even the narrow, elongated windows were too high for anyone to see out – so in that sense Basilikon's recently renovated laboratory succeeded in having some of the most boring no-nonsense hallways she'd ever encountered. Unfortunately, a boring hallway with boringly off-white walls prompted even more boring conversation between people who, headed toward the same goal, felt the inexplicable urge to fill the empty space with equally empty words.
Moments after the successful completion of their experiment testing the lethal impact of the Mobots' toxins on a once-live human subject, Dr. Piltdown and Agent Krahang saw another tiresome hallway stretch out before them. They made an unlikely, oddly reticent pair as they worked their way toward the back entrance of the Main Engineering Lab.
Piltdown was clearly working up to something she wanted to mention, perhaps at the inevitable follow-up with the other scientists, not that she, the only woman there, was ever shy addressing her male counterparts. But, sadly, Krahang broke through the pervasive silence with several unnecessary comments about his obvious plans in place for the afternoon.
His responsibility with the manipulation of the drones included going in to retrieve the deactivated bots left lying on the floor and identify those that could be re-used, then recycling the others for parts.
“In the real world, they would've just been left on the battlefield, until al-Zebani and Haradóv can develop their Dissolution Application.” Recently, he had suggested to them it wouldn't be a good idea to leave complete drones scattered about like dead bees for the police – or worse, the IMP – to get their grubby hands on.
With the help of the finely balanced “panning trays” he'd developed, Krahang could now sift through thousands of bots per hour, but he argued the attack force should disintegrate once they've served their purpose.
He understood economizing during this experimental phase, but he couldn't wait to assign this task to his new assistant, Agent Abathur. Al-Zebani'd said he had nearly completed new software that would recharge the tiny drone's even tinier batteries which could also speed up the process of “injecting” Piltdown's various toxins into the bots' minuscule tanks.
It did make Dr. Piltdown smile to imagine poor al-Zebani, an engineer used to working with large-form animatronics like amusement park dinosaurs, having to contend with the nano-like particles real scientists concerned themselves with. Without any emotion in her expression, however, she asked if Krahang knew anything about whatever was next on the testing schedule. She knew full well what was expected of her and her assistants in the toxin lab, but al-Zebani kept everybody compartmentalized. This annoyed her since she didn't like missing out on the Big Picture.
“How many more experiments will we have to subject ourselves to before the Old Man is satisfied we've realized his idea?” Osiris had become increasingly sensitive about being referred to as “The Old Man,” especially “in the wheelchair,” despite his obvious situation, and it gave her something of a thrill to brand him with it.
“There'd be adjustments we'll need to make,” he said, “and quite likely, given our success so far, Osiris might even come up with some new ideas as long as it didn't compromise his deadline. He's determined to bring down SHMRG's smug little empire with a well-orchestrated, completely unexpected attack at their first summer cross-over concert.”
Krahang thought Piltdown was asking a lot of questions for one supposedly loyal to The Leader, pumping him for “need-to-know” information. Knowing more than he could afford to tell her, he shrugged his shoulders.
Half-way down the endless hallway, Piltdown put her arm out in front of him as if she's reluctant to touch him, and Krahang, as cautious about touching as being touched, stopped in his tracks.
“Enough small talk, Engineer.” She was also reluctant to call him “Doctor,” assuming technically he wasn't one, which reinforced her advantage. Her expression, devoid of anything remotely emotional, could only be described as intense, towering above him with more than arrogant superiority. The last thing Krahang wanted her to sense was fear. Fear – and loathing.
Okay, Krahang thought, the last two things he wanted her to sense were fear and loathing, not to mention cautious curiosity. Despite an inquisitively raised eyebrow and his “well-I-didn't-expect-that” expression, Dr. Piltdown said nothing. Krahang had previously checked this hallway for surveillance cameras but knew just because they weren't visible didn't mean they didn't exist.
As both a scientist and an artist trained in the ritualized fights of Thailand's ancient “Dance of the Monkey King,” Krahang quickly processed, as any well-trained agent would, his list of advantages and disadvantages. A small-built person against a considerably larger adversary, woman or not, he could still out-maneuver her depending on her next move.
From her perspective, Piltdown, sure of herself, looked down at the little man, confident she could crunch him like a bug. Her expression alone should convince him not to even think of resisting her.
“Perhaps,” she said, her voice even as she stared him down, “after we're both done here tonight, you will join me for a pleasant dinner at this louche little diner in Greenfield called Brummagen's?”
Krahang didn't relax his expression or his pose as his mind tried to translate the word louche – “didn't it mean “disreputable”?
“I understand they serve a very good pot roast with mashed potatoes,” she continued, “or a Caesar salad if you'd prefer?”
(He'd used the word only once before, about a friend's “rather louche morals.”)
Looking back at her with his steely gaze never wavering, he responded, “you know it's against company regulations for us to mix socially, especially outside with the local population after hours. We'd be disciplined.”
“I doubt our absence would be noticed in the Basilikon Commissary this evening. We'll say we're having dinner in our rooms.”
His eyes were distracted by sudden movement further down the hall. “Who's that?”
“An old trick, Agent Krahang. You expect me to fall for that?” Piltdown was ready to press him into the wall.
“No, seriously,” he said, stepping away from her to break the lock. “Look.”
Piltdown stepped back also, immediately squaring her shoulders.
Neither were especially interested in a witness who might tattle to al-Zebani or, worse, Shango, their newly arrived Director of Security. Whoever this guy headed toward them might be, he could definitely mean trouble.
As a rule, Piltdown was uncomfortable enough with small talk without making Fake Small Talk, something she imagined anyone with enough sense could sense from a mile away, so instead she maintained her silence. Krahang kept up a running commentary about his new assistant, Agent Abathur, whom he hasn't had the chance to meet yet.
“Is that him, d'you think?” Piltdown, surprised, indicated the man headed their way.
“God, no,” Krahang laughed, “well, I hope not...” He'd not seen the guy's file before, apparently highly recommended by Osiris' head-hunters. Whoever it was, he seemed highly distracted and decidedly uncomfortable at the idea of running into them. “I'd better say something.”
Her one chance to corner Krahang and ask him out to dinner was ruined by the inopportune appearance of this stranger. “What was his name,” she wondered, “Abattoir? You'll pay for this, Agent Abattoir...”
Dr. Piltdown, her irritation increasing, suggested they ignore the guy simply on principle as they resumed their walk which, at this rate, felt like there were miles to go before they'd reach their destination. She also offered up a curse on whoever suggested her for this job: she'd given up New York City for this?
Krahang became uncomfortable, trying not to feel prejudiced, but wondered if the guy could handle the finely detailed work he'd require? After all, the man appeared to be well past the verge of retirement.
It wasn't only the uncombed white hair or the grizzled-looking beard that gave him the air of a visiting absent-minded professor. If he's already a staff member, why wasn't he wearing a lab coat? Maybe he was on break – or was he one of those “second shifters” and had not yet been to his locker?
Without any sign of recognition, the old man turned down a side hallway which, though it was unmarked, Krahang knew led to the main engineering lab's back entrance, next to the scientists' decontamination room. Whether that's Abathur or not, at least he knew where he was going. Time will tell. He'll be meeting him soon. Besides, how could Krahang complain to Osiris this man was too old for the job? Osiris was the one recommending him! However old Osiris was, though, he wasn't doing the lab's most delicate work.
It wasn't the most pleasant work, either, retrieving and sorting spent test mobots. The risk aside, the sorting process was tedious. Since it had nothing to do with his “aerobatic mobility enhancement,” he assumed they'd assigned this to him because he's Asian. Surprisingly there weren't any other Asian scientists working here – not in mid-level positions.
Now, he thought, they've saddled him with this ancient duffer who'll muck up the entire process so whatever he'd been able to accomplish with his dancing drones would be overshadowed by this one “mistake.” Could he “nip the bud” and protect himself without sacrificing the old man – or foil their blatant racism without sacrificing honor?
“Well, this is my stop,” Krahang said lightly, pointing down the same hallway. “Time to change into my Mobot-proof hazmat suit.” He knew she'd disarmed them, but it's always possible some hadn't been deactivated.
She could not linger and had no place else to go – “why would she walk all this way with Krahang if she wasn't going into the lab?”, someone might wonder – so she turned around. Shuffling through some papers cradled in her arm, she thought surveillance might think she'd forgot something (not itself a good sign).
“Damn it!” Headed her way was Dr. Yetzger Harádov who was smiling broadly. The extra wrinkles made him look even creepier.
He nodded. “Ah, Dr. Piltdown, a most pleasant surprising. You did forget something?”
When she'd checked earlier for security cameras and hadn't seen any, she knew that didn't necessarily mean there weren't any there. Not surprising. Wasn't this an emergency exit leading from the main engineering labs? Anything would've been aimed into the side hallway and down the other direction, toward the back exit. She'd need more research.
“Damn,” she thought, standing as tall as she could, “he's not within range of where I think the cameras would be.” Could she back up and lead him into some camera's field of vision?
Háradov was congratulating her on the “realization” of her research, developing the toxins for the killer drones. “Most impressive,” he said.
She imagined standing on a brightly lit stage, wearing a dark blue off-the-shoulder gown, making an acceptance speech thanking all the little poison-dart frogs from the Amazon who'd died in order she could succeed.
“Most impressive,” Háradov mumbled again and stared at her breasts. His breath stank.
She'd tried stepping backwards but instead of following her, he had reached out to place both hands up on her shoulders.
“From a friend I have heard at a fine lab of China where your research into batrachotoxins would place you highly.”
When she tried to step back again, his grip on her shoulders tightened.
“With superlative recommendation from me, so, I open for you impressive job, very big salary. I think you understand me, yes?”
Of course, she understood him. Looking down into his beetle-browed eyes, she could read beyond the lust which required no translation. It was the age-old script of a man who, because of his position and status, naturally expected this of her because it was his privilege and there was nothing she could do about it.
She could knee him in the groin, but Piltdown wondered what it would do to her career at Basilikon – and beyond. A world famous scientist in high demand, Harádov had mentioned future projects in China though naturally he'd said nothing about the details, even what disciplines they might entail (highly secretive, this world of science).
She'd considered carrying a syringe of Pumiliotoxin tetrodinol that could render an attacker immediately immobile (possible side-effects: massive heart attack and death) which she'd market as Tazofloxin – TZF, for short – and become unspeakably rich.
She and her assistant, Dr. Phyllis Bates, had already begun researching the combination, trying to figure out the suitable dosage it would take to stop a hormonal bull. The experiments could prove most interesting. As she imagined Harádov dropping to the floor, doubled up writhing in agony, Piltdown wondered how impressive he'd find her, then?
Breaking loose from his grasp, she flinched as Harádov reached out and grabbed her elbow, a little too tightly this time. Syringes are impractical: better, a ring with a built-in needle scratching his face.
“Join tonight for nice quiet dinner with me in the apartment, lacking of other scientists; no boring shop-talk to distracts us.”
“Apparently, you misunderstand me, Dr. Harádov,” she said, pulling her arm sharply away. “But I'm not interested in pork for dinner.”
Without a handy syringe, she decided to knee him in the groin instead.
“Hey, Dr. Piltdown, funny I should find you here!”
Chuck Dawson turned the corner from the lab's back hallway. “I was wondering, if you'd have a moment...?” then added formally, “Dr. Haradóv, good afternoon.” Dawson didn't need something to concentrate on in order to be distracted and realized, Dr. Piltdown aside, Háradov's presence flustered him.
After writing up some reports following the morning's experiment, slipping back into Agent Ossian Mode, Dawson felt a little more confident after his programming “Color Perceptivity” into the Mobots' attack mechanism had worked flawlessly.
“Oh, right, almost forgot,” he said, bobbing his head in his embarrassment, “I'd gotten a text from Al Zebani” (he always pronounced it like the man's first name was 'Al') “about a staff meeting? He wants us all in the Main Conference Room in ten minutes to go over our findings from the, uh... experiment.”
Háradov cleared his throat. “I was to ask of Dr. Piltdown had she got invitation.”
If she had, she'd ignored it.
An awkward silence as Háradov waited for Dawson to leave but he didn't.
“M... – er, I mean Dr. Piltdown – I wonder if you would consider perhaps sitting with me at dinner in the Commissary?”
Without waiting for the tedious Dawson to finish, she'd already rolled her eyes.
“It's just there are certain details about this research I'm developing I'd like your opinion about...” but she cut him off.
Dawson thought Piltdown the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, even more perfect than the last beautiful woman he'd seen which, admittedly, had been a few years, before he'd started working for the Aficionati. He knew her first name was “M,” just M the letter, not “M-period” like an abbreviation for something to be avoided. He'd asked her then how he should address her, since that was the chivalrous thing to do: Em or maybe Emmy? She said, “Dr. Piltdown will suffice.” For him, “M” always stood for Misterioso.
Looking back beyond Dawson toward the lab's hallway, Piltdown tried to keep any sense of wistfulness from her typically austere expression. “Shouldn't we wait for Agent Krahang to join us – out of collegial courtesy?”
“Oh, no,” Dawson said, “he's off retrieving those deactivated drones. Nasty job, too. But somebody's got to do it, right? Onward!”
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In the locker room, Krahang zipped up his hazmat suit as Dawson's voice dripped with generations of White Privilege. “It's a nasty job, but somebody's got to do it, right? Better you than me.” At the exit, Dawson turned and mentioned Zebani's text about the staff meeting. Checking his phone, Krahang'd received no such text.
Undoubtedly, al-Zebani had scheduled the meeting for now because he'd assigned Krahang to what everyone considered “cleaning up after the elephants.” Like his research, he figured they considered him immaterial, too, just for show.
It took them almost a half-hour, him and his assistant, to shovel up the debris left behind in the Experiment Room, made creepier since no one had bothered to dispose of Ripa's body yet. Now Abathur could deal with sorting out the drone chaff on his own after they'd gotten the sifting mechanism to work.
Krahang heaved a sigh of relief when he'd realized the old man they saw turned out not to be his assistant. Abathur turned out to be in his 20s, straight out of engineering school, a major in robotics – and Black, another token. At least he didn't have to do the worst of the work alone. The young man, pleased enough to be working with him, didn't mind their assignment's tediousness – “science,” Krahang admitted, “is 90% tedious” – but they also didn't know who should take Ripa's remains to the morgue.
After stripping off the hazmat suit, a hot “decon” shower always felt like a car-wash for humans, and proved oddly relaxing. Krahang stood on the slow-moving conveyor belt to glide through different stations as certain chemicals and foams were sprayed over his body, then stood for several minutes rinsing off under a soothing, steady spray. He looked at his body in the mirror as his mind-wandering meditation continued. Not surprisingly, these thoughts usually centered on his having been lonely too long. “If only I could meet someone – but here?”
It always seemed to him his personal life (much less his romantic life) was dominated, usually canceled, by his professional life. He was still young, his body lithe as a dancer, trim and well-muscled. He glanced around to guarantee his privacy and carefully fondled himself: what would Abathur think if he walked in on him?
He'd barely reached for a towel when someone did burst into the room.
“You can't hide from me now, Agent Krahang!” Piltdown's eyes, filled with malice, took in everything there was to see.
Everything...
He shouted something she assumed was Thai and which needed no immediate translation, probably the equivalent of “what the bloody fuck...?!”
He stumbled backwards and knocked over the pile of street clothes he'd placed on the bench, scattering them to the floor. He noticed cards and photos from his wallet spill out against the lockers.
He knew he'd kept nothing on him which anyone here, especially in security, would think suspicious, stuff that could prove incriminating, except maybe this photo taken at the beach with a handsome young man. Peeping out from behind his Basilikon ID was his ex-lover's smiling face, the man he always explained was his little brother.
There hadn't been time to tie the towel safely around his waist and clearly Piltdown wasn't about to turn her back on him so he could quickly pull some clothes on. What to do? Taking a step closer, he realized he couldn't pick up his wallet and manage to maintain what dignity he had left. He also didn't think it was safe to turn his back on her while he dressed: she reminded him of one of those crazy demons he'd seen in some of his grandfather's khon dances.
Piltdown screamed, her eyes more urgently ablaze, and lunged forward with an athletic dive that matched her height and general self-assurance. His dance training tempered his reflexes and he swerved but, unsure which side was better, he couldn't dare drop the towel. A rough-and-tumble brawl was not the sort of thing he'd envisioned doing naked.
She grabbed him by the balls in a vice-like grip, slamming him up against the bank of lockers, and squeezed again. “It would be such a shame if these were to accidentally become sterilized!”
Glaring down into Krahang's face – “how little fear he showed,” she thought; “perhaps he is enjoying this?” – she held on tight. “Don't worry,” she continued, hissing into his ear, “it's okay. I am your superior in rank and this is my right.” Her inference was perfectly clear, turning age-old tables on millennia of male privilege.
She was the Turandot of the 21st Century, ready to wreak revenge for all the abuse her sisters suffered in the past, but it wasn't In questa reggia Krahang heard blasting through his brain. “There's no reason in our modern world why a woman who wants something can't just take it,” she insisted, intently ice-cold.
She threatened him with far worse if he reported this to the authorities. “You have no witnesses, no evidence. 'Oh, boo-hoo, what to do?' Cry to management?” She laughed. “Don't you watch the news?”
With this, she squeezed again, pressing her fist as if ready to go deeper inside, prepared to disembowel him, but Krahang refused to squirm or whimper, staring just as intently back in her face. She had hoped to sense some kind of response, physical or emotional, whether it was pain or pleasure or maybe both. She almost released her grip once she realized these Asians were so inscrutable, they showed nothing. Where's the fun in that? “Besides, who would believe you, a mere man, given my superiority in education?”
With no response from the family treasure she had in her immediate possession, she began kneading her fingers with increasing roughness, but again there was no response, nothing caused by either fear or arousal. It occurred to her, if she kept going at this rate, they'd fall off first and what's the fun in that?
“Security tapes,” Krahang whispered back to her, chuckling, “they will be my proof.”
Piltdown laughed, immediately concerned it sounded too much like a stock villain's cackle from a library of prerecorded special sound effects.
“There are no security cameras in the men's locker room,” releasing her grip to sweep her hand around the ceiling's perimeter. “Now, in the women's locker room, that's another story,” she said, her head thrust back to stand at her full height. She had no concrete proof but she didn't need any to know better.
“Certainly,” Krahang nodded. “Imagine Old Háradov reviewing the film footage every night after we've all taken our ritualized decon showers? How else do you think he spends lonely evenings in that apartment of his? Reading Robot International, Spying with Drones, and Playbot?” The image this conjured up did not appeal to either one of them.
With her research into toxins and their effects on humans, she could easily inject him with something to make his genitals shrivel up. “How's it hanging now, Krahung? Not that that's any great loss. Plus I could alter any surveillance file to make it look like you're assaulting me: I'm not just a pretty toxicologist.”
No, Krahang thought, but after creating virtual ballets from traditional Thai dance characters, he knew he had the skills to do that, too, or better yet restore anything doctored back to its original state.
In the greater hierarchy of all things today, in the world of science as in any subculture of society, it may be his word against hers but her word, these days, counted for more. In most cases it was clear, especially in the United States, the media believed the woman in lieu of any evidence. All she had to do, she explained slowly, was “merely suggest it” and everybody's paranoia would take care of the rest. “And who are you, Agent, but a lowly engineer who makes drones dance!”
Krahang, instead, smiled broadly, and it bothered her she did not know why. Because he knew she didn't know he'd set his phone to record a video of him toweling off after his shower, one of those kinky things he liked to do in private and share with a friend on-line: but it was evidence!
To distract her, Krahang looked uncomfortably toward his wallet, but as he went to grab for it, she kicked it out of the way, scattering more cards about. One in particular caught her attention.
It attracted her because she couldn't read it since it was in Thai and the logo included a typical Thai-looking dragon.
Krahang tried to hide his concern that, of all the cards, she had to find that one, further increasing her suspicions.
Was this a secret organization he belonged to? Was he an undercover agent?
He laughed as she held it up to him. “That? It's my membership card in the Royal Thai Khon Society of Bangkok, Grandfather's dance company at the king's court. I've studied there for years.”
In truth, it said nothing of the kind.
A deafening siren began to squeal as the inside lab door flew open.
Abathur burst in, peeling off his hazmat suit, somewhat surprised to see a woman in the men's locker room, and only less surprised to find Agent Krahang naked alone in the room with her. He explained the siren was some kind of security breach, an infiltration.
“The old man in the hall,” Krahang told Piltdown.
“Agent Abattoir, your assistant?” Piltdown stood back, self-conscious.
“No, this is Abathur. The old man must've gone in through the lab.” Krahang, quickly pulling his clothes on, grabbed his phone and carefully pocketed it.
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©2022 by Dick Strawser for Thoughts on a Train
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