Chapter Fifteen
Something was very, very wrong in Umbrella's Antarc - tica facility, but Chris didn't know what it was. On the fifth basement level of the dark and deserted compound, hundreds of feet beneath the snow, Chris stood in front of what appeared to be a full-blown man - sion made of white brick. There was a fountain behind him, potted plants, even a decorative merry-go-round. He'd been led there, presumably because someone wanted him to go inside, but he didn't know who or why. His instincts were telling him to get the hell out, but he ignored them. He had to, not knowing if he was a lamb being led to slaughter or if he was being taken to Claire. Since landing the jet in the roof hangar, he'd been guided every step of the way - walking into halls and having doors lock behind him, others opening up in front of him. . . twice, he'd found jewels on the cold ce - ment floors, pointing him in a particular direction, and once, after taking a wrong turn, all of the lights had gone out. They'd come back on when he'd groped his way back to where he'd gone "wrong. " It had been strange enough just getting to the facility, passing over me endless miles of gray ice and snow. . . and then seeing it for the first time, rising up from the blank plains like an illusion. . .
But to be herded someplace like an animal, shuffled along without knowing the reason. . .
Chris was scared, more scared than he wanted to admit. He'd tried to stop, to look around for weapons or clues, but everything had been shut off, every door he tried locked - except for the ones he was supposed to go through, of course. The cameras that had to be watching his every move were so well hidden that he hadn't seen even one of them. . . but it almost seemed that his shep - herd knew his mind, knew what signals to give him, knew how to keep him going. He'd thought initially that it was Wesker, that it was all some setup to trap him, but why bother? He could have strangled Chris at the is - land if he'd wanted to. No, he was being guided for some other reason, and it seemed he had no choice but to follow along. . . not if he wanted to find Claire. He took a deep breath and opened the front door of the mansion, stepping inside. It was beautiful, as extravagant as the front of the building had suggested, grand staircase, arched pil-lars - and strangely familiar, though it took him a mo - ment to see how, the colors and decorations different. It was the layout - the same basic layout as the front hall of the Spencer mansion. It was surreal, but so perfectly harmonious with all the other weirdness that he didn't bat an eye. Chris stood for a moment, waiting, looking around for another signal - and then he heard what sounded like a laugh coming from behind the stairs. It was the same laugh that he'd heard at the Rockfort facility, that woman.
What had she said? Something about wanting to play?
It definitely felt like a game, like he was a character being moved around for someone else's enjoyment and it was starting to piss him off. That he was afraid only made him angrier. Chris stalked toward the back wall, ready to confront this woman, to demand some answers, but when he stepped around one of the decorative pillars, he saw that there was no one there. "What the hell is this," he muttered, turning -
- and there was Claire. Webbed to the back of the stairs as if by some giant spider, her eyes closed, her head hanging limply.
Wesker wasn't surprised to find that parts of the Antarctic compound had been built to look like parts of the Spencer estate. The underground extravagance was an incredible waste, but as he'd noted many times be - fore, so like Umbrella.
It was all about intrigue for them, back at the begin-ning. Before it all turned into a bad spy movie.
Oswell Spencer and Edward Ashford had been re-sponsible for the creation of the T-virus, but it had been their only real accomplishment; the rest was money thrown away. Truly, the entire facility - except for the laboratories, of course - was an expensive joke, set up by old men and children with little imagination and too much money. Aware that Alexia was probably watching, Wesker took his time, moving from level to level, clearing away a few wandering zombies as he walked. He wasn't car - rying a weapon, had simply snapped their necks and left them to asphyxiate. Twice, he was spotted by other crea - tures, things he'd sensed and not seen, but they hadn't attacked, perhaps recognizing him as one of their own. Wesker kept moving, sure that Alexia would find him when she was ready. He'd landed his jet some distance from the compound, wanting to be sure that she under - stood how he was different - that the elements didn't af - fect him, that he was physically stronger than any five men put together, with better endurance and sharper senses. He also wanted her to see that he was respectful of her space, that he was willing to be patient. . . and that he was extremely determined. Whenever you want, my sweet, he thought, walking through a cold room corridor on the fifth basement floor. He'd been through the area already, but knew that the "mansion" was there, and suspected that she would want to greet him in high style. It didn't matter to him, she could drop in on him in a toilet stall for all he cared, but he thought she was probably as vain and spoiled as her brother. However powerful and brilliant she was, she was also a twenty-five-year-old rich girl who had spent fifteen of those years sleeping. Rich, beautiful. . . playful. She probably didn't even understand her powers yet, but it wouldn't be long now, he could feel it. He left the icy stillness of the cold corri - dor and started for the mansion once again. Claire woke slowly, her aching body gently supported by warm hands that lifted and held her. She was laid down, the cold floor bringing her around, and when she opened her eyes, she saw her brother. Smiling at her. "Chris!" She sat up and embraced him, ignoring her sore muscles, so happy to see him that for a moment, she forgot everything else. It was Chris, it was him, finally! "Hey, sis," he said, fiercely hugging her back, the fa - miliar sound of his voice making her warm and safe. She wished it could last forever, after so long!
"Claire. . . I think we ought to get out of here, now,"
he said, and she could hear a thread of concern behind his words that woke her up, that reminded her of all that had happened. "I don't know exactly what's going on, but I don't think it's safe. " "We have to find Steve," she said, and started to get to her feet, worried. Chris helped her, supporting her while she steadied herself.
"Who's Steve?" "A friend," Claire said. "We got away from Rockfort
together, and we were about to get away from here, too, but something. . . some kind of creature grabbed our snowmobile and threw it. . . "
She looked up at Chris, suddenly more than just wor - ried. "Before I blacked out, I heard him say my name. . . he's alive, Chris, we can't leave him. . . " "We won't," Chris said firmly, and Claire felt weak with relief. Chris had come, he knew all about Um - brella, he'd be able to find Steve and take them away. . . Laughter. A woman was laughing, a high, cruel laugh. Chris stepped out from behind the stairs, Claire following, both of them looking up to the balcony, and there was the woman, it was. . .
Alfred?
No, not Alfred. And that meant. . . "There really is an Alexia," Claire said softly. Go goddamn figure.
Still laughing, Alexia Ashford turned and walked away, exiting through a door at the top of the stairs. "She might know where Steve is," Chris said urgently, even as it occurred to Claire, and then both of them were running, climbing, Claire quickly outpacing him, ready to slap the truth out of Alfred's creepy sister. . . . . . and CRASH, behind her, the stairs falling away, Claire rolling to the floor as a huge tentacle smashed through the balcony, like in the snow cat. . . and then it was gone, retreating through the hole it had created, leaving a trashed set of side stairs behind. The main staircase was still whole, but Claire was stuck on the second floor on a shattered wood island. She'd have to climb down.
"Claire!"
She crawled to her feet, saw Chris down below, wincing at some pain in his leg amid the broken wood and plaster. "Are you okay?" Claire asked, and Chris nodded and then there was a scream, and she felt her blood run cold. It came from beyond the door that Alexia had gone through, and it was Steve, there was no question in Claire's mind. It was Steve, and
he was in pain.
Can't leave Chris, but. . . "Chris, it's him," Claire said, looking between her brother and the door, not sure what to do. "Go, I'll catch up!" Chris called. "But. . . " "Go! I'll be fine, just be careful!"
Terrified, Claire turned and ran, hoping she wasn't too late. Wesker stepped into the grand foyer of the under - ground mansion, and saw it wasn't quite so grand any-more. Something had happened to the stairs, part of the
upper balcony now smashed to the floor. He heard someone moving around behind a huge, jagged piece of balcony still hanging from the tattered carpet, and took a step toward it. . . . . . and there she was. Standing at the top of the stairs in a long, dark dress, silky blond hair tied back from her pale, beautiful face. "Alexia Ashford," Wesker said, surprised to find him-self somewhat in awe now that the moment was at hand. She looked human, delicate and helpless, but he knew better.
Make your pitch, and make it good.
Wesker cleared his throat, stepping forward and tak-ing off his sunglasses. "Alexia, my name is Albert Wesker. I represent a group who has long admired your work, and have been eagerly awaiting your, ah, return. "
She watched him impassively, head tilted slightly, her back straight and stiff. She looked like a debutante at her first society party.
"And may I add that it's a personal honor to meet you," Wesker said sincerely. "My employers told me all about you. I know your father sired you with the genes of his own great-great grandmother, Veronica - that with her genetic material, the very foundation of the Ashford line, he created you and Alfred to be the culmi-nation of genius. Veronica would surely be proud. I know you created T-Veronica in her honor. . . "
careful, he probably shouldn't mention what had hap - pened to her father, don't bitch this up, ". . . and that you are the only, ah, being alive with access to the virus. " "I am the virus," Alexia said coolly, studying him through narrowed eyes. "Yes, of course," Wesker said. God, he hated this diplomatic shit, he was terrible at it, but he wanted to impress her, to impress upon her how valuable she was to certain interested parties. "So," he continued, thinking how much easier things would have been if he'd gotten to her in stasis, "I would like it very much - we would all appreciate it if you would agree to accompany me to a private meeting with my employers, to discuss an alliance of sorts. I can as-sure you that you won't be disappointed. "
She waited to see if he was finished and then laughed, long and loud. Wesker felt himself flush. It was clear from her tone exactly what she thought of his re - quest.
Fine. Nice time is over. Wesker stepped forward and held out his hand. "We want a sample of T-Veronica," he said, the gloss disap-pearing from his voice. "And I'm going to have to insist that you give it to me. "
As she started down the stairs, for just a second he thought she was going to do it, but then she started to change, and he stopped thinking anything. He could only stare, his awe returning tenfold. A step down, and her dress burned away in searing veins of golden light, the light coming from her body. Another step, and her flesh changed, turned a deep gray, her hair disappearing, gray flesh locks growing from the top of her head and flopping down to frame her face. Her nakedness was transformed with her next step, as rough, pebbled armor grew over one leg and her groin, curled up to support a rounded breast, to cover her right arm. By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, she no longer resembled Alexia Ashford. His breath taken away, Wesker reached for her - and with the back of her hand, she struck him, and then he was flying, landing in a heap by the front door.
Such power!
He stood up, understanding that force might be use - ful, and prepared himself to move, to use his own power. . . . . . and with a smile, she waved her hand and fire burst up from the marble floor, lines of it surrounding nun, beckoned to life by her slender fingers. She lowered her hand and the flames went down but didn't die, still burn - ing from stone, from bare stone. Wesker knew then that it was over. If she chose to spare him, he'd be lucky. Without another word, he turned and walked out, running as soon as the door had closed behind him. The part-creature left, and only seconds later, the young man followed, believing that he'd escaped un - seen. Alexia watched them run, amused but slightly dis - appointed. She'd expected more. The part-creature was no threat, and she decided to spare him. His arrogance had pleased her, if not his pa - thetic "offer. " The young man, though. . . brave and self-sacrificing, loyal, compassionate. Physically, a good specimen. And he loved his sister, who was about to die - it would make for an interesting physiological reaction. Alexia decided that she would create a confrontation for them to interact. She would test a new form for her - self and see if his grief made him bolder, or if it proved to be a liability. . . She laughed, suddenly imagining a suitable, an apt form to take. Except for Alfred, no one had known the simple secret of T-Veronica, that it was based on the chemistry of a queen ant. She would try an insectile configuration, experience the strengths and advantages that such a form would propose.
Her disappointment was past. The girl and her boy would die, and then she would indulge herself with the young man.