Even Stars Go Cold

Chapter 8 - The Undertow

Death Is Not The End, A Death In The Family, Orders Are Orders

It was no place for an old man to be.

In Evan Mahoney's condition, it was even worse. It was a struggle to think of a part of his body that did not hurt in some form.

Pain had become a close companion over the last few months and, for him, it had even proven an ally of sorts. When the "burglar" had broken into his home, he had done his best to defend it. The pain he had endured during the brief fight was less than he suffered on a daily basis.

Of course he had lost, but not without giving as good a fight as he could manage.

Mahoney's pain was only a part of the disadvantage bestowed upon him by the eezo-induced cancer: he was also severely weakened by his condition. The blow he had managed to land on the masked invader's head with his walking stick would have caused a concussion before he had taken ill. Unfortunately, under the circumstances, it was little more than a nuisance.

Mahoney had surprised himself with his own vigour. Then again, he was fighting for his life in more than just the physical sense. He was fighting for his existence beyond in a much wider context.

Moreover, it was not just his life at stake.

He was also mildly surprised to find himself alive: and relatively unharmed beyond his illness. Mahoney opened his eyes to find himself strapped to a slab, at a forty-five degree angle. It felt like the kind of scenario dreamt up by a holovid serial villain...

...Except he was no dashing agent with a surprise means of escape - and, in his mind, it was highly unlikely that there was a miracle rescue waiting in the wings.

Taking in his surroundings, he appeared to be in a laboratory of some sort. Some equipment was chemistry-based and he recognised much of it from his own work. The purpose of other, more electronic-based, hardware eluded him. All of it was expensive, and confirmed his theory that whoever was involved was well-funded and organised.

A door out of his line of sight hissed open, heralding the entrance of several people. Only one stepped into his field of vision.

"Well," Mahoney croaked through parched lips. "I can't say I'm pleased to see you."

Special Operations Director Emile Grover ran his hand through the short shock of silver-white hair. "What did you do with the data, Mahoney?"

"Go to hell," Mahoney retorted, his sharpness cut off by the coughing.

"You'll be there long before me." Grover's tone was weary. "All this bravado will do you no good, you old shit. You were only as useful as your job. Now the job is going to kill you... and any legacy you might have had."

"My legacy... is protect Humanity, not throw it in... the shredder." Mahoney could feel his breath becoming laboured. "I did the right thing."

"Pah!" Grover snorted. "What you did was treason against the Alliance; you're going to die for it."

"One of your lackeys... poisoned me: you're an... accessory, at least." Mahoney closed his eyes. "I'm already dead: you can't scare me."

Grover stood right in front of the slab, leaning with his hands either side of the prisoner's legs and looked up at him. "There are ways of dying. We will keep you alive - and you will tell me."

"It's a crime... against... Humanity!" Mahoney coughed again, spattering Grover's face.

The Director recoiled sharply, grimacing; he dabbed his face and checked the result on his fingers, then turned to a basin set in the wall. His anger was clearly growing; he yanked antiseptic towelettes from the dispenser, wiping his hands and face. Then he paused before dumping them in the incinerator under the basin and taking a fresh one.