pilot, Evans, was standing in the doorway to the
cockpit by himself.
Somehow, Trent had managed to slip away in the
few seconds it took John to walk through the tiny plane. The metal stairs that had been pushed to the
outside of the craft were empty - and even though
John took the steps two at a time, hitting the ground
in less than a heartbeat, there was still nothing to see
in the endless stretch of tarmac, and no one at all
except for the man who'd brought the stairs out.
When asked about Trent, the airport worker insisted
that the first person off the plane had been John
himself.
"Son of a bitch," John spat, and it didn't matter, because they were in Utah. Trent or no Trent, they
had arrived - and because it was after midnight, they
had less than a day to get ready.
FIVE
JAY RESTON WAS PLEASED. IN FACT, HE WAS
as happy as he'd been in a long time, and if he'd
known it would feel so good to be back in the field, he
would have done it years ago.
Managing employees, the kind who actually get
their hands dirty. Making things happen and seeing
the results unfold, being a part of the process. Being
more than just a shadow, more than some nameless
darkness to be feared...
Thinking these things made him feel strong and
vital again; he was barely fifty, he hadn't yet come to
see himself as even middle-aged, but working in the
trenches again made him realize how much he'd lost
over the years.
Reston sat in the control room, the pulse of the
Planet, his hands behind his head and his attention
fixed on the wall of screens in front of him. On one
screen, a man in coveralls was working on a series of
trees in Phase One, adding another coat of green to a
row of faux evergreens. The man was Tom Something-
or-other, from construction, but the name wasn't
important. What was important was that Tom was painting the trees because Reston had told him to,
face-to-face at the morning briefing.
On another screen, Kelly McMalus was recalibrat-
ing the desert temp control, also at Reston's request.
McMalus was the Scorps lead handler, at least until
the permanent staff came in; everyone in the Planet
was temporary, one of White's newer policies to avoid
sabotage. Once everything was up and running, the
nine technical people and half-dozen "preliminary"
researchers - actually glorified specimen handlers, al-
though he'd never call them that directly - would be
relocated.
The Planet. The facility was actually "B.O.W. Envi- rotest A," but Reston thought that Planet was a much
better name. He wasn't sure who had come up with it,
just that it had cropped up at one of the morning
briefings and stuck. Referring to the test site as the
Planet in his updates to the home team made him feel
even more a part of the process.
"The video feeds were connected today, although
there's some problem with the mikes, so the audio
hasn't been hooked up yet; I'll have that taken care of
ASAP. The last of the Ma3Ks came in, no damage to
any of the specimens. In all, things are going very well,
we expect to have the Planet ready days ahead of
schedule..."
Reston smiled, thinking of his last conversation
with Sidney; had he heard just a touch of jealousy in
Sidney's voice, a thread of wistfulness? He was part of
a "we" now, a we that called Envirotest A by a
nickname. After thirty years of delegation, having to
oversee the finishing touches on their most innovative
and expensive facility to date had been a blessing in
disguise. And to think that he'd been irritated when
he'd first heard about Lewis's car going off a cliff; the
man's accident was probably the best work he'd ever
done for Umbrella, because it meant that he would be
overseeing the Planet's birth.
Another tech was walking across one of the screens,
carrying a tool box and a coil of rope. Cole, Henry
Cole, the electrician who'd been working on the
intercom and video systems; he was in the main
corridor that ran between the faculty quarters and the
testing area, leading toward the elevator. Reston had
noticed the day before that several of the surface
cameras were malfunctioning; none of the cameras in
the Planet had been wired for sound as of yet, but the
screens for the upper compound would intermittently
spew static for minutes at a time, and he had asked
Cole to see to it -
- but after he'd finished with the 'com system, not
before. How am I supposed to stay in contact with these
people if I don't have a working intercom system?
Even the flush of irritation he felt for the tech was
exhilarating; instead of pushing a button, telling some
yes-man to fix it, he would have to attend to it
himself.
Reston pushed away from the console, stretching as
he stood up, taking a last look at the row of monitors
to remind him of anything else he needed to see to as
long as he was out.
Intercom, video feeds . . . the bridge in Three will
need reinforcement, that's not a priority, but we really
should do something about the city colors, they're still much too flat...
He walked through the sleekly designed control
room, past the line of plush leather chairs so new that
their rich scent still lingered in the cool filtered air.
The chairs faced a wall of high-resolution screens; in
less than a month they would be seating the top
researchers, scientists, and administrators that were
the heart of White Umbrella, as well as the two
biggest financiers of the program. Even Sidney and
Jackson would be there, to see the initial run of the
test program.
And Trent, Reston thought hopefully. Surely he wouldn't turn down an invitation to the first test
run...
Reston stepped on the pressure plate in front of the
door, the thick metal hatch sliding up with only a
whisper of sound, and walked out into the wide
corridor that ran the length of the Planet. Control
wasn't far from the industrial elevator, almost straight
across in fact, but the electrician had already started
for the surface. There would be four lifts operating
within the week out of one of the other surface
buildings, but for now, there was only the one indus-
trial elevator. He'd have to wait until Cole had exited.
He pushed the recall and straightened the cuffs of
his suit jacket, thinking about how he would lead the
tour. It had been quite a while since Jay Reston had
indulged in daydreaming, but in his short time at the
Planet, imagining the day when he would welcome the
others and guide them through the facility he had
managed and transformed into a smoothly running
machine had become a favored pastime. Of the hand-
ful of people who ran White Umbrella, who made the
big decisions, he was the youngest to be accepted into
the inner circle - and while Jackson had often as-
sured him that he was as valued as anyone else, he'd
noted on more than one occasion that he was the last
to be consulted. To be considered.
Not after this. Not after they see that even without a
dozen assistants waiting on my every word, I've man-
aged to get the Planet up and running without a hitch,
and before schedule. Id like to see Sidney do half as
well. . .
They'd come in at night, of course, and probably in
several groups. He'd have the specimen caretakers at
the entrance to greet them and lead them to the
elevators (the new ones, not the dirty monstrosity he
was about to ride); on the way down, the visitors
would hear all about the efficient, elegant living
quarters, the self-contained air-filtering system, the
surgical theater - everything that made the Planet their most brilliant innovation yet. From the eleva-
tors, he'd take them around to the control room and
explain the environments and the current series of
specimen, eight of each. Then, back out and north,
toward the beginning of the testing site.
We walk straight through, all four phases, then view
autopsy and the chemical lab. We'll have to stop in for
a look at Fossil, of course, and then through the living
area - where there will be coffee and rolls, sandwiches
maybe - and then circle back to control to observe
the first tests. Specimen against specimen only, of
course - human experimentation would put such a
damper on things. . .
A soft tone brought his attention back to the
errand, alerting him to the elevator's return. The door
opened, the gate slid aside, and Reston stepped into
the large car, the reinforced steel platform clanking
beneath his feet. Dust puffed up from the metal,
settling over the polished sheen of his shoes.
Reston sighed, tapping the controls that would take
him to the surface, thinking of all he'd had to put up
with since arriving at the Planet only ten days before.
Things were coming along, but he'd never realized
just how many inconveniences one had to suffer to
get one of these places operational - the lukewarm
meals, the constant need to pay attention to every
niggling detail, and the dirt: everywhere, thin layers of
workman's dust clung to hair and clothes, clogging the
niters . . . even in the control room, he'd had to take
all kinds of extra precautions to keep it from getting
into the central terminal. He'd had to work with three
different programmers to get the mainframe running,
yet another of Umbrella's precautions to keep any one
of them from knowing too much; but if the system
were to go down...
Reston sighed again, patting the small, flat square
in his inner pocket as the lift hummed smoothly
upwards. He had the codes; if the system went down,
he'd just have to call in new programmers. A setback,
but hardly a disaster. Raccoon City, now that was a
disaster - and all the more reason that he wanted
things to go well with the Planet.
We need this. After the summer we've had, the spill
and those meddling S.T.A.R.S. and losing Birkin ... I need this.
Although it had been a unanimous decision, it had
been Reston's people who'd gone into Raccoon to
take Birkin's G-Virus - an action that had resulted in
the loss of their lead scientist and just over a billion
dollars' worth of equipment, space, and manpower. It
wasn't his fault, of course, no one blamed him - but it had been a bad summer for all of them, and having
Envirotest A up and running would ease things con-
siderably.
He thought about what Trent had said, just before
Reston had left for the Planet - that as long as they
didn't lose their heads, there was no need for concern.
Generic placating advice, but hearing it from Trent
made it sound like the truth. It was funny; they'd
brought Trent in to act as trouble shooter, and in less
than six months he'd become one of the most
respected members of their circle. Nothing rattled
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