Cornered, yes. Defeated, not yet. The sight of corporate guards blocking the main access to the research level, coupled with the poisonous uncertainty about Kael, solidified my resolve. Conventional and semi-conventional methods had failed. It was time to think like the hero of one of my novels might in an impossible predicament. How do you circumvent insurmountable security when brute force isn't an option and trust is a luxury I can't afford? The answer, as is often the case in fiction (and sometimes, in life), lay in disruption and ingenuity.
I spent hours in my cubicle, consulting the limited data available on base protocols, shift schedules (though in a place without a natural day and night, these were more fluid), and any detail that might reveal a routine, a vulnerability. I thought about the Chimeric Compound, its instability, and the corrosion it caused even in the ventilation ducts. Such a dangerous material was a liability, but also, potentially, an asset if one knew how to use its unpredictability.
My plan began to take shape, twisted and risky, like the best plot twists. I couldn't force entry into the investigative level, but perhaps I could create a reason for some of their personnel or information to leave for a less secure area, or to create a diversion that would allow me brief access. The key was my writer's alibi. It was my shield, my excuse, and now, my potential weapon.
I recalled my failed attempt to contact Dr. Hanson through the administration and my public interest in "frontier life" and "technical challenges." I decided to take that facade to an extreme that would be so unusual that, paradoxically, it might seem harmless. My plan was simple in its audacity: to organize an impromptu presentation on "Fact and Fiction in Space Colonization" in one of the base's common areas.
It sounded ridiculous, I know. A writer giving a talk in the middle of a remote and tense mining base? Precisely because of that, it might work. It would break up the routine, draw attention in a controlled way, and, most importantly, it could attract personnel from different sections—including, hopefully, someone at the research level—or at least create an opportunity for quick movement during the inevitable minor commotion.
I used the recreation area's public terminal (taking extra precautions to cover my tracks) to send an internal communiqué through the base information system, announcing the "informal chat" for that evening. The description was deliberately vague, appealing to the curiosity and perhaps boredom of the base personnel. It was a shot in the arm into the vast ocean of 73P intrigue.
The wait was tense. Every step through the corridors felt more closely watched than ever. Was there someone in management who would disapprove of such an event? Would corporate security see it as an excuse to gather people and monitor them? Or would they simply dismiss it as the visiting writer's whims? I didn't know. But the inaction was unbearable.
To my surprise, the time for the talk arrived without anyone stopping me. I set up a small area in the base's mess hall, rearranging some tables and projecting a generic title onto a blank screen. I wasn't expecting a large turnout, and I didn't get one. A small group of about twenty or thirty people, mostly maintenance personnel and some administrative staff eager for a break from the routine, sat and waited. No sign of corporate guards, research staff, Kael, or the burly man. A small disappointment, but the disruption, however modest, was underway.
I began to speak, ad-libbing about the inspiration found in remote places, the difference between paper heroes and everyday heroes (a subtle nod to the people who worked here), and the challenges of translating the vast reality of space into the pages of fiction. As I spoke, my eyes constantly scanned the audience and the entrances to the area. I looked for unusual reactions, faces that didn't fit in, any sign that my ploy had caught the attention of those who truly controlled the base.
Most people seemed genuinely interested, or at least distracted. I shared lighthearted anecdotes and made a few jokes about science fiction clichés. My voice sounded confident, rehearsed from years of public presentations, but inside, my nerves were tense like live wires under pressure.
Then I saw him. Not in the audience, but at the entrance to the cantina. The burly man, Kael, stood in the doorway, surveying the scene with his usual quiet intensity. He wasn't with Dr. Hanson or the corporate bodyguard. He was alone. What was he doing here? Did he come out of curiosity, to make sure my "disruption" didn't get out of hand, or for some other reason? His presence, after what I'd seen in the ducts, was a knot in my stomach. Was he a latent threat or... something else?
I decided to take a chance. As I talked about how unexpected details of reality often inspire the best fiction, I turned my gaze toward Kael and, in a slightly lower tone, added, "...even details about unusual materials found in the icy depths—details that some might prefer to keep hidden." I held her gaze for a moment, waiting for a reaction.
Kael's expression didn't change perceptibly, but I detected a subtle intensification in his eyes. Recognition. He knew the message was for him. The doubt about his role remained, but his presence and reaction suggested that, whatever her game was, he was paying attention.
I continued my talk, but my mind was divided. I had captured Kael's attention, which was an ambiguous outcome. But had I accomplished anything else? My eyes scanned the room and its surroundings again. And then I saw him, across the cafeteria, near a service exit that led to the less-traveled corridors. A figure in a maintenance technician's uniform, crouched beside a control console, working with unusual haste. And discreetly beside him, a small, sealed briefcase.
I hadn't seen that person before, or hadn't paid attention to him. But there was something about the way he worked, the urgency of his movements, that didn't fit with a routine repair. And the briefcase... my instinct told me it wasn't just any toolbox. It could be information. It could be... something related to the Chimeric Compound.
As my talk drew to a close, I decided this was the opportunity my risky disruption had created. I needed to get closer to that technician and that briefcase. Kael was still watching from the doorway, an unpredictable variable. But the possibility of obtaining something tangible, something that would give me real proof or a path to Dr. Hanson, was too tempting to ignore. I thanked my small audience, gathered my things with apparent calm, and headed, with carefully concealed purpose, toward the service exit where the technician was hurriedly working. The disruption had worked. Now came the most dangerous part: taking advantage of it. And I hoped that Kael, whatever her true role, wouldn't decide to intervene.
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