The System #2
The System
Book 2 in the Virulent Trilogy
Shelbi Wescott
Copyright © 2013 Shelbi Wescott
All rights reserved.
Always for Matthew, Elliott, Ike:
Thank you for allowing me the luxury of time.
I love you.
Prologue
4 years before The Release
Scott King emerged from a taxicab on the corner of Fourth and Main, looked up at the silver building in front of him, and took a deep breath. Dressed in a brand-new suit, complete with a blue and green paisley tie handpicked by his wife Maxine, and holding an old leather briefcase, he hoped that he appeared professional and put together. He needed his outfit to scream
Hireable Disease Specialist
. His typical laboratory wear included twenty-year old blue jeans and an Oregon Ducks t-shirt underneath his white lab coat, so the suit was a new addition to his wardrobe. And it wasn’t an entirely welcome one—the fabric clung to his legs as he walked and the jacket felt tight against his back.
The city bustled around him, people on cell phones, horns honking, the click and thump of feet on pavement. Scott examined himself for a long moment in the front window of the building before inserting himself into the fray vying for a place in the revolving door. Then he checked in with the doorman per the instructions on the cryptic letter he received only a few short weeks before, and waited for his escort to arrive.
“Scott King?” a woman’s voice called behind him and Scott turned to her, smiled. Then, shifting the briefcase over to his left hand, he shoved out his right, and shook her hand with a firm grip, which she reciprocated. Her hand was warm and firm, and Scott resisted the urge to reach into his suit pocket and spread a thin layer of hand sanitizer over his skin.
“Yes,” he replied, his voice higher and lacking the self-assurance he had practiced. He prayed that he wouldn’t say anything embarrassing or make a joke or enter into a rambling non sequitur about air travel. The woman in front of him was younger than he had expected—early to mid-twenties, an intern maybe, but she had a confident air that belied her youth.
“I’m Blair, Huck Truman’s office assistant and,” she paused for dramatic effect, “his adoring daughter as well. I’ll be getting you prepped for your interview with him today. You look nervous, Scott. Don’t be nervous.”
He opened his mouth to respond and then clamped it shut, answering only with a tight-lipped smile.
“This is all just a preliminary interview,” Blair said and she leaned over and stuck a key into a box at the side of an elevator and the doors slid open. Scott waited for her to enter first and he couldn’t help but notice her long tan legs and the fit of her skirt as she walked in front of him. He looked to the ceiling and held his briefcase tighter. She entered a second key and then pushed a button for the top floor. The doors shut and the elevator purred as they rose.
Blair looked every bit the part of a young professional. Her hair was perfectly colored, her nails manicured in shellac; her pointy crocodile leather shoes looked more expensive than anything Scott’s wife would have purchased—including Maxine’s wedding dress. In addition to her flawlessness, Blair seemed talented at small talk; even her smile, as she encouraged Scott to share the banal details of his trip, seemed genuine.
“My father, or Mr. Truman, as I’m supposed to say, has been gushing about you, Scott. May I call you Scott?”
He said it was fine.
Blair continued, “Your résumé is impressive.”
“Thank you,” he replied and watched the numbers as they climbed higher and higher. Floor 20. Floor 21. Floor 22. A steady ascent. “Ms. Truman—”
“Blair. You can just call me Blair. Please. ”
He could hardly bring himself to say it. “If you think you wouldn’t mind…I did have some questions before my interview.”
“Of course. I’d be happy to answer any questions I can, but you should know that I really am only an administrative assistant for my father and brother.”
“Yes, I see.” Scott’s head felt heavy and he yawned a bit to pop his ears. “Usually I do a bit of research into a company before I interview, but it seems like the Elektos Corporation doesn’t exist in the digital world, which, as you can imagine, is a bit odd for a giant company in the twenty-first century. Cryptic letters asking to see me? Money to fly me out here, put me up in a five star hotel, and no one has heard of you. So, I suppose I should ask, is your dad a superhero? Am I about to meet Batman?”
Blair gave him a polite smile and blinked vapidly, but she narrowed her eyes a bit, assessing him, and didn’t answer. Scott’s hands grew sweaty and he snickered and then waved away his joke with his free hand.
“I kid, clearly. You’d be taking me underground to the bat cave. Spiderman, maybe, then, right? No. I’m sorry. It’s hard to conceptualize a company I wasn’t able to research. Research is my job. And I am interested in what this company does…I feel like I should be armed with that knowledge, at the very least.”
“Sustainable, renewable energy,” Blair answered with a perfunctory head nod.
“Oh.” Scott was confused. “That’s not really my area of expertise.”
“We’re here,” Blair said as the doors opened up to the lobby of a sterile and blindingly bright lobby. White couches had been staged in a rectangle and potted plants sprouted by their sides; a waterfall wall trickled and dripped behind a stainless steel reception desk where a thin redhead broke into a bright, rehearsed smile at their arrival. Since the building was so tall, Scott couldn’t really see the city below, only the tops of the other buildings nearby and a vast, open blue sky.
“Blair. Mr. King,” the redhead said upon their arrival.
“Please have a seat and Jessie here will get you set up,” Blair told him in a hushed voice. Then she sauntered off and Scott took a seat on a white chair, setting his briefcase down beside him. He sat for five minutes, Jessie engaged in paperwork, as only the sound of the waterfall echoed through the open room. Then Jessie grabbed a clipboard and walked over to him. She was wearing dangerously high heels that clapped with powerful bursts against the hardwood flooring.
“You will need to sign this before we begin,” she said in a chipper singsong voice as she handed him the clipboard. “Right here,” she pointed with the end of a ballpoint pen, “and here.” Then Jessie waited, hovering in front of him, her arms dangling motionless at her sides.
Scott glanced over the form. Written in bold across the top:
Nondisclosure Agreement
. Without hesitation, Scott scribbled his signature on the bottom and printed his name on the line up top. He then initialed both pages and handed the clipboard back to Jessie, who smiled and then pivoted and walked back to her desk.
The form didn’t shock Scott or raise any red flags.
Companies often asked for his discretion when discussing research and development. He had signed many similar forms in his tenure as a scientist and the details he had learned about people and companies were vast and damning to a great number of people. Secrets didn’t interest Scott; while he supposed some people would have been ecstatic to tease out of him salacious details, he was content to hide them away.
After depositing the clipboard, Jessie beckoned him to follow her into a small side room.
He followed her, briefcase in hand, and as he did, he marveled at the quietness of the office. There were no ringing telephones, no bustling associates; the only noises were the waterfall, the soft swish-swish of Jessie’s pleated skirt, and their own footsteps as they walked down toward the door. Jessie unlocked the room and swung the door wide and then wordlessly motioned for Scott to enter. He took a step inside and froze.
The room was empty except for a single table and a mirror on the wall. Immediately Scott thought of every police procedural movie or television show he had ever seen. This room looked like an interrogation room—even the mirror was a two-way mirror, and Scott couldn’t help but wonder who was on the other side.
“Wait—” Scott called, but Jessie had already closed the door behind him, the sound of a deadbolt sliding into place.
On the table was a stack of papers and a single pencil. Unsharpened.
Without knowing what else to do, Scott pulled the chair out, sat down, and began to flip through the pages—scanning the content quickly, his leg bouncing—and he noticed that it was some type of personality test.
1. Your friend is an artist. She has worked on a painting for two years. One afternoon, she asks you to come over and take a look at the finished product. Upon entering her studio, you realize that you hate the painting and think it is horrible. How do you respond?
A. Lie. Your criticism won’t impact the final product and it will only hurt her feelings.
B. Tell the truth. She has a right to know.
C. Be vague and supportive. Do not lie, but do not tell the truth. Issue statements that could be deemed as praise, but dance around the issue.
Scott looked at the pencil and exhaled through his nose. Then he opened up his own briefcase and took out his own pen. Then his hand hovered over two of the choices before he circled ‘C’ and went on to the next question. Flipping to the final page, Scott noted that he had 199 questions to go.
A game. Did they want him to wait for instructions? Did they want him to take control?
With a long glance at the mirror, Scott shed his suit jacket, loosened his paisley tie, and got to work.
Huck Truman was short and stocky with a full head of gray hair and a well-trimmed goatee. Scott estimated that he was in his mid-sixties, early seventies, but it was hard to tell. After his two-hour stint in the windowless cell, filling in answers, and growing thirsty, tired, and restless, Jessie moved him into Huck’s office—a sprawling room with simple décor and a gorgeous view.
The older man sat back in a black swivel chair and flipped through the pages of the personality test while giving small sounds of approval and thoughtful consideration. “Interesting, yes. Of course, of course.”
It was hour three. The armpits of Scott’s shirt felt damp and his eyes were bleary; he regarded Huck with curious disdain.
He had tried to engage Huck in dialogue about the company, but was silenced with a wave. So now he sat uncomfortably, and shifted his weight in the chair.
Then Huck tossed the papers aside and crossed his arms over his charcoal gray suit. “You must be very agitated with me right now,” he said. “I would be. But we must be very careful to assess you to the best of our ability before we introduce you to our work. Usually my son assists me in this process, but he is out today in the field. I like you, Scott King, and I would like to work with you. Would you like to work with us?”
“I don’t—” Scott started. Then he stopped, furrowed his brows. “You haven’t even interviewed me yet. And…frankly…”
“Of course,” Huck interrupted him with a laugh. “We are operating a very private company. Our agenda is quite…unique. You have been handpicked because we believe that you can understand our cause.”
“Renewable and sustainable energy is a good cause,” Scott replied, adopting his patented interviewee tone.
Huck laughed. “Is that what Blair told you? Oh, that girl. Trying so hard to be helpful. She’s not incorrect, but that is only a single component of our work. The entirety of our goal is much larger, so much broader in scope.”
The room was silent and Huck reached into a drawer. He pulled out a red file folder marked CONFIDENTIAL and slid it over to Scott, who reached to open it with his right hand, but Huck’s hand slapped down on the front and held it shut.
“Once you read this, there is no going back. You will know our secrets and the risks are large.”
Scott nodded. He ran through his options in his head, the pros and cons of standing up and leaving. It wasn’t just that he was curious, but that the incentives were attractive. This job could help provide for his growing family in ways he would have never imagined. And honestly, he rationalized, how bad could it be?
“I’m intrigued. I think I’d like to move forward,” Scott replied.