Chapter 25 - The Chamber of Phantoms
We sprinted through the descending spiral of Tartarus Deep’s industrial bowels. The air grew colder with every deck we cleared, dropping well below freezing as the ocean’s absolute chill pressed against the uninsulated bulkheads. Ice crystals clung to the steel rivets; our breath plumed out in thick, ragged clouds.
Everywhere we looked, the true horror of Project Chimera was laid bare. We passed through observation wings where glass-fronted isolation chambers stood open and dead, their occupants long since disposed of by the automated gas purges. Medical gurneys were scattered across the floor, strapped with restraints that had been twisted and sheared by desperate, impossible force.
This was not science. It was a torture house designed by sociopaths with corporate expense accounts.
"Bulkhead door ahead!" Miller called out, slamming his shoulder against a reinforced blast hatch marked with a fading biohazard symbol. "It’s magnetically sealed! Chen, get that bypass running!"
Chen dropped to his knees before the access panel, his fingers flying across his portable deck. "They’ve routed the lock through a 4096-bit rotating cipher. It’s cycling every three seconds! I can't brute-force it from this terminal!"
"Miller, the thermal lance!" I ordered.
"Negative, Ma'am!" Miller replied, tapping the gauge of his breaching tool. "If we burn through the magnetic coil, it could detonate the seal’s emergency magnesium charges and breach the hull! This door is load-bearing!"
The sound of rushing water was audible now—a terrifying, muffled roar coming from the other side of the heavy steel barrier. The ocean was filling the lower compartment. If the water level reached the ceiling, the pressure would crush whatever fragile life remained inside.
I stepped forward, staring at the biometric scanner mounted next to the keypad. It was an old optical reticle, the glass scratched and fogged with condensation. A single line of amber text flashed on the small monitor:
`ENTER EXECUTIVE AUTHORIZATION.`
I remembered the words Thomas Carter had spat at me in the carrier brig: *The consortium offered a way out... Jake is my son... no Carter rots while his sister pulls the strings...*
Thomas had access. And if Thomas had access, the system wasn't just keyed to military clearance. It was keyed to the Carter bloodline. The sick, narcissistic hubris of my father would never allow a system he funded to lock him out.
I stripped my tactical glove off with my teeth, took a deep breath, and slammed my bare palm onto the biometric scanner.
`GENETIC SEQUENCING INITIATED...`
A red laser sweep traced the contours of my hand, analyzing the epidermal ridge patterns and blood capillary flow.
`CARTER, T. — BRANCH IDENTIFIER RECOGNIZED.`
`SECONDARY CLEARANCE: CARTER, E. (OFFICIALLY LISTED: TERMINATED).`
`OVERRIDE ACCEPTED. WELCOME, DIRECTOR.`
With a deafening mechanical clonk, the six magnetic pins disengaged. The blast door hissed open, swinging inward under the force of an ankle-deep torrent of freezing saltwater that rushed out into our corridor, soaking our boots.
"Chen, Miller, hold this door!" I shouted over the roar of the water. "If that hatch closes behind us, we’re trapped! Cover the rear!"
I splashed through the door, my weapon raised, stepping into Sub-Level C.
The room was vast, dominated by a towering cylindrical glass tank filled with dark, amber amniotic fluid. Cables as thick as fire hoses hung from the ceiling, plunging into the top of the cylinder, their lines humming with electrical current. Massive digital displays surrounding the tank flickered with erratic heart rate readouts, brain-wave EEG patterns, and neural synapsing graphs that spiked in violent, chaotic jagged lines.
And inside the tank, suspended in the fluid by carbon-fiber harnesses hooked into his spine and temples, was a man.
His body was covered in surgical scars, his skin translucent and pale as marble. His muscular frame was emaciated, his ribs pressing sharply against his skin. But across his left shoulder, faded and distorted by incisions, was a tattoo I would have recognized anywhere in the universe: the crossed daggers of the Army Special Forces and the Latin motto, *De Oppresso Liber*.
David.
His eyes were closed. An oxygen mask was locked over his mouth and nose, bubbles slowly burbling from the exhaust valve every few seconds.
"David!" I screamed, dropping my weapon to the flooded floor and lunging toward the base of the tank.
I slammed my hands against the thick acrylic glass. "David! Can you hear me?!"
The heart monitor suddenly spiked. The amber fluid inside the tank began to drain, pumped violently into external reservoirs as the emergency override completed its cycle. Within seconds, the fluid was gone, leaving David hanging limp in the harness, coughing violently as the cold, real air hit his lungs for the first time in years.
The glass cylinder uncoupled with a mechanical groan, sliding downward into the deck.
I caught him as the restraints released. His body was freezing, shuddering with violent, uncontrolled tremors. I dragged him out of the housing, pulling his upper body onto my lap, my arms wrapping around his trembling shoulders as the saltwater swirled around our waists.
"David... David, look at me," I pleaded, tears finally breaking through my iron discipline, burning hot tracks down my cold cheeks. "It’s Emily. I’m here. I came for you."
David’s head rolled back. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing irises that were bloodshot, pupils dilated to the edge of the blue. He looked at me, his gaze unfocused, drifting across my face, my uniform, the combat gear.
Then, slowly, a cracked, bruised hand lifted out of the water. His trembling fingers touched my cheek, feeling the tears.
"Em...?" he croaked, his voice nothing more than a ragged, ruined rasp. "You... you didn't stay... at the barbecue..."
May you like
A broken laugh escaped my throat, half a sob, half a roar of relief. "No, David. I left the party."
***
