Gene Vs. The World

Smoke hissed from Mondress Kika Teluwon’s wrists as she struggled against the humming particle chains. She bit her lip through the pain. The laboratory’s cold sterility reminded her of her father’s experiment chamber back at the palace. Though the sweaty little human standing before her could never hope to reach his achievements. Her father developed the omniglotter she wore around her neck, allowing her to communicate with any form of sentient life—for all the good it was doing her now.

“I will be free of these bindings,” she groaned. “And when I am… I—”

“You’ll be dead,” the sweaty human mocked in a sharp, nasal voice. “And I’ll be a very rich man.”

Kika didn’t know precisely how she ended up bound in a laboratory on Terra 7, or Earth, as they called it. As far as she knew, it was impossible for a sub-prime species to produce FTL-tractor technology. And yet... this sweaty little human ripped her out of a phasewalk and bound her in a particle cage. But not Broscogar. She wondered if her companion survived the phaserip. He had to, she thought to herself, resolute. He’s alive, somewhere.

“Don’t worry,” the human continued, holding up a Valtruvian-designed oculizer.

Her eyes locked onto the torture device, a device that no human should possess.

“We’ll start with the non-vital organs and work our way up. Or, in, I should say.”

“Do this,” Kika said through clenched teeth, “and you will make an enemy of the entire Shuakar empire. Your actions will launch countless battleships; one alone can eradicate your muddy little planet. I will say it once more: release me and I shall consider mercy.”

He smiled. “I’ll tell you what I’ve considered. My associate—I believe you know him, Xarius Rakuul—has informed me that you are the princess of a dead empire. Countless, you say? If countless equals zero, then I think I’ll carry on as planned, with all due respect.” He gave a mocking little bow. “Your highness.”

Kika felt her right eye twitch. Of course Rakuul is involved, that traitorous slug, she thought. “That human cannot be trusted.”

“Human? No, I think you’re mistaken, your highness.” He leveled the oculizer right at her face. The bident-like device glowed in his left hand. “Though he may not be blue, like you, Mr. Rakuul is an alien. I’ve seen his… true form.”

Kika laughed. “Despite what he’s shown you, Xarius Rakuul is in-fact human and he will kill you. Once you’ve outlived your usefulness to him, he will kill you. My eyes have seen through his deceptions, his false faces, his hollow promises. You must believe me, human. You cannot trust him.”

He stood there a moment, silent, face drawn.

Taking the opportunity, Kika peered through his skin, into his composition, focusing on his vital patterns. Her captor’s internal organs were severely fat deprived, his nerves were adrena-shocked, and his immune system was shutting down. These were the early symptoms of Void Sickness. She suddenly felt a pang of sympathy for the sweaty little human—another victim of Rakuul’s baptisms.

“I can’t trust you,” he whispered finally, wiping his face with his sleeve. “You’d say anything to get free.”

He smiled.

“So, I guess… I’ll just have to look through your eyes for myself.”

Then he activated the oculizer.

###

Gene clocked in at six p.m. like he did every weekday for the past month. He took his seat behind the security desk of Aoki-Sarna Biotech and wished for something to do. Even if it meant sprinkling salt alongside the building’s maintenance-drones, scoop and bucket in hand, until his back ached and his fingers locked, he’d do it. At least that would be useful.

He nodded to all the dead-eyed administrators that bolted out of the building on their way to happy hour. He nodded to the gaunt, pallid researchers as they trudged out, like overworked zombies. He nodded to the whistling cleaning crews as they arrived at eight p.m., and again as they left a few hours later, usually by midnight. Then he’d sit and stare at the grid of glowing security feeds, alone for hours, until Rosco, the other new hire, mercifully showed up at six a.m. sharp for his shift.

After his first week of white-knuckling through the mind-numbing six-hour block of silence, Gene decided it was in his best interest to distract himself, lest his brain liquefies and drips out his ears mid-shift. So, starting the second week, he brought a book to work. After all, it was his resolution to read more this new year. And as Gene feared, at the end of his slightly more tolerable work week, right after clocking out, Brett called him into his office.

Gene explained to Brett that Longing Suns was a bread-and-butter space opera at its core, with multiple romantic subplots, and that he only read it during the slow hours of his shift. But Brett wasn’t hearing any of it. As he barked on about "duty" and "professionalism," Gene concluded it would take him all but a second more, perhaps two, to look up from his book and notice a roaring blaze on the security feed or a team of terrorists shoving an assault rifle in his face. Though it was a logical conclusion, he decided it was best to bite his tongue.

“Jenni,” as Brett continued to pronounce it—despite several polite corrections—was written up for “time theft.” Brett then promised the temp agency would receive a copy of his written warning because he wanted to teach Gene an “important lesson” about “professional responsibility.”

As far as Gene figured, the only lesson he needed to learn was that Brett was an absolute “cheese-dick.”

Starting his third week, and forward, for six merciless hours per shift, Gene stared at the console. He’d stare so hard that he’d sometimes see shadows darting through the hallways on-screen. But it was all a trick of the eyes; Dr. Haddad called it retinal strain. Gene had his reservations about seeing a mall-stand optometrist. Especially one that seemed more concerned with selling him a year’s supply of blue-light filtering contact lenses, than exploring his test results. But Dr. Haddad was the only optometrist within his network and… he didn't mind the way she touched his hand when pitching him the lenses.

His first month behind him, Gene arrived a half-hour before his shift to put in his brand new contact lenses. He stood in the mirror of the lobby bathroom, holding the blue and white lens case between his fingers, calculating just how much his libido had cost him this time. Three hundred dollars billed over twelve easy monthly payments. He shook his head. I should sign up for Mixr again.

Suddenly, a sweaty man in a lab coat burst out of a bathroom stall and slammed into Gene’s wide back.

Gene dropped the plastic lens case, bouncing off the marble sink counter, and clattering on the tile floor.

“You lumbering oaf!” the panicked man yelled. “Watch where you’re going!”

Gene let it slide. These lab-coat types were all high-strung, and Gene was used to being prodded for his large stature by small people. He bent down to pick up his contacts and noticed a second, identical case by the researcher’s feet.

The sweaty researcher snatched up the lens case closest to him and darted for the bathroom door. He stopped and said over his shoulder, “You didn’t see me, guard.” Then he shoved his way through the heavy push door into the lobby.

Gene nodded, forgetting the sweaty little researcher as best as he could, and turned to wash his hands.

After inserting the second filmy lens, everything went dark for a moment and Gene felt a slight pinch behind his eyes. The pain vanished and his vision turned on. He sniffed around, making sure he didn’t smell toast, like his poor uncle Martin did at Thanksgiving dinner. But all he smelled was disinfectant and the faint whiff of scientist poop.

I guess the lenses needed to reboot, he concluded. He looked in the mirror and winked. “Oh, who am I? Top Flight security of the world. Not just the building… the world.”

Gene returned to his desk as Rosco was packing up to punch out. “Looks like snow,” the morning guard said, stuffing his coffee thermos into his backpack. “Brett said the plows should be done by the time your shift’s over. I’ll call if I’m running late. There are hand warmers and munitions in the tactical box, just in case.”

Gene nodded, realizing no one had told him about any tactical boxes before, and took his place at the desk.

Just in case of what? he wondered.

A white van peeled out from the facility parking lot and tore onto the highway.

Gene gawked at the van, visible through the lobby's glass walls. “Should we report that?”

“That sounds like a Parking crew problem,” Rosco shot back. “Just worry about what goes on in here.” With a nod, he marched out into the evening flurries of an oncoming mid-January blizzard.

Gene was in for a long night.

###

Blood rushed to Dr. Reginald Chizwick's normally pallid face as he hung from his ankles in an abandoned warehouse. He’d made it a few steps away from his Prius, parked in the Aoki-Sarna lot, before Rakuul’s goons scooped him up and sped away in a white van.

“Where are the eyes?” several overlapping voices asked from behind the hanging doctor. “Do not lie. We will know if you lie. You reek of lies.”

Dr. Chizwick tried to swallow but coughed up saliva instead. “Please,” he spat. “You’ve got to believe me! I didn’t hide them—”

A man in a white suit holding a contact lens case stepped around into Dr. Chizwick’s view. His dark hair was slicked back and his rich tan skin shimmered as if he just stepped in from a tropical rainforest. He sniffed the air.

“You’re not lying,” Rakuul’s voices purred. “True. But you still failed me.” He snapped his fingers.

Two muscle-bound goons in black turtlenecks rolled over a metal tray-cart topped with instruments that Dr. Chizwick, despite his recent experience with alien technology, did not recognize.

One goon held the hanging doctor steady as the other stood by the cart, like a surgical assistant on steroids.

“Please,” Dr. Chizwick groaned. “It must still be back at the lab. This. This is all a misunderstanding—”

“Yes,” Rakuul interrupted. “This is a misunderstanding. You believe I still need you to talk. This is no longer the case.” He held his right hand out over the cart. Then it split. Flesh-colored tentacles squirmed from his wrist. Each appendage reached down and took up a wicked-looking instrument.

Urine dripped down Dr. Chizwick’s chest.

The goon holding him recoiled. “Ugh! He pissed himself!” Then he socked the trembling researcher in his ribs with a meaty fist.

Dr. Chizwick coughed his lungs out before recovering enough to say, “Damn you—lumbering oaf!” His eyes went wide. The security guard in the lobby bathroom. The cases must have… “Wait! I remember! I re—”

Rakuul shoved a long, slender rod directly down Dr. Chizwick’s nose.

Pain shot through his face.

The rod reached the base of his nasal cavity. Then Rakuul pushed through, breaking into the doctor’s skull with a sickening crunch.

Dr. Chizwick thought he smelled toast, though there was no kitchen in sight. “I remember…” He struggled weakly. “I—”

“Yes,” Rakuul said, bringing the rod to his lips. “And now, so will I.”

Then he slurped.

###

Gene stared at the grid of security feeds, finally noticing the cold line of drool rolling down his chin.

“I’m awake!” he shouted into the empty lobby. The last of the cleaning crews had departed hours ago, leaving Gene alone in the building.

He wiped the spittle from his face and sat up straight in his chair. Tonight had been the most challenging so far. The snowfall outside was hypnotizing and the security feeds were lobotomizing. Either way, he expected a bit of drool.

Slapping his cheeks, he shook off the lingering drowsiness and glared at the security feed once more.

His jaw dropped.

A woman wearing what looked like B-Movie alien cosplay, blue-painted skin, tentacles for hair, and a futuristic tunic darted through the hallways in the security feed. His eyes shot to the floor number on the bottom right of the screen. Seven? But there’s only six floors in the building, he calculated.

The wind howled as snow buffeted the lobby’s glass walls. Overhead, the lights flickered then went out, one by one. Red emergency lights blared to life and, a moment later, the security desk phone rang.

Gene picked up. “Uh, hello?”

“That’s not the correct greeting, Jenni!” Brett yelled through the receiver.

“Sorry.” Gene prepared his guard voice. “Aoki-Sarna. How may I direct you?”

“That’s better. Listen, the power’s gone out. I’ll need you to make rounds through each floor. You don’t have clearance to enter the labs, so don’t bother trying. Just patrol the halls and call back with a status report. I probably won’t be available, so just leave a message. Understood?”

“Yes,” he said, scratching his head. “Patrol the halls. Copy.”

“Good. It’s standard procedure, alright? I’ll expect a status update hourly. Remember, stay away from the research labs. Just patrol the halls.” Then he hung up.

Gene could have told Brett about the painted woman he saw running through the camera feed. The problem was, he wasn’t sure what he saw was even real. For as long as he’s been staring at those screens, catching shadows—and now cosplayers—in the corner of his eye, Gene felt someone would have noticed if they were real. For example, whoever reviewed the security recordings. Surely, they would have noticed and done something about it by now. Which means he must be seeing things. And the only way to confirm… was to get out there and see for himself.

Gene rose from his desk and, with a smile, marched off to confirm his possible insanity.

###

The elevator doors opened to the fourth floor. Top Flight Security trained Gene to always perform sweeps from the top down. Never corner intruders, unless you want to face down a desperate man. Captain Hawk’s gruff words ran through Gene’s mind. The old man never served in the military, but that didn’t stop him from demanding his students call him Captain.

As Gene stepped out of the elevator, he saw a shadow blur at the end of the alarm lit hallway.

“Son of a bitch,” he said to himself. “Eye strain my ass.”

He tore off down the hall toward the shadow.

A door to his left flung open. Gene nearly tripped as he skid to a stop and stared into the open doorway.

A machine hanging down from the ceiling used two little arms to knit together a small palm tree like it was being 3-D printed. But the tree looked incredibly real. A wave of beach smell, salt and suntan lotion, poured out from the room, smacking Gene right in the nose. “What the…?”

The door slammed shut.

“That,” he said, backing away from the door slowly, “looks above my pay grade.” Then he turned and ran after the shadow once more.

At the end of the hallway, Gene saw the shadow slip into a stairwell doorway that should not exist. He’d been led around the building on multiple tours and forced to memorize floor-maps as part of his training. There were four stairwell exits and two elevators per floor, except for the lobby, which hid six stairwell doors, the additional two lead down to maintenance levels.

The stairwell before Gene was not on any of the maps or tours.

A familiar chime went off in his pocket. He had set his phone alarm for ten minutes before he should leave Brett a status update.

He could turn back now and report everything he’s seen so far. Which… he shouldn’t have seen. He should have walked the halls and reported nothing. This, all of this, was not nothing.

Brett seemed like the sort of man who was content to deal with nothing, rather than something.

So Gene would deal with something instead. He pushed his way through the door, and ran up the stairs, to the floor that also should not exist.

###

Gene expected to find the roof at the top of the stairs. Maybe the sign was mislabeled? Perhaps a fastidious maintenance manager ordered a sign that read “seven” instead of “roof” out of their strict adherence to numerical sequences. Or, maybe, Gene had entered a secret level he was not supposed to find.

The woman in blue paint, with tentacles for hair, and some kind of weapon, possibly a laser blaster, pointed right at Gene, made him think it was the latter.

He raised his hands in the air slowly. “Security. Stop what you’re doing and identify yourself,” he said, hopeful.

“Gene, what are you doing here?” she asked, her voice low and familiar. “Shouldn’t you be at your desk?”

“How do you know my name?”

She sighed, her hair undulated along with her exhalation. “It’s me. Rosco.”

Gene slapped his forehead. “You do, cosplay?”

“No!” Rosco yelled. “I’m not human. And if you got up here, I’m thinking neither are you. Who are you?”

“I’m Gene,” he said, matter-of-fatcly. “And I’m very much human.”

“Then how could you see me? How did you find the stairs?”

“I got new contacts.”

Rosco laughed. “Well. Whatever the truth, you’re here and you’re going to help me.”

“Help you with what?”

“You’re going to help me save a princess.”

Gene nodded.