"Kathryn Marie Ridgely is no more. She is a memory. She is out of reach, tucked neatly away forever."

Kate breathed in deeply and closed her eyes, willing away the ghost of the frightened child inside her, just as she had done every morning for the past eleven years.

It was a strange ritual, but it worked. Donald Stovington had laughed at her attempts to purge the fearful child inside, but he had ultimately paid for his laughter with half his net worth, which was no small sum. Kate had given him seventeen months of her total, undeserved devotion, and in return he had given her an authoritative name to replace the weak, hated Ridgely, a college education, a home, and a car.

Not a bad tradeoff, she figured.

She opened her eyes again, and there in the mirror was no sign of the frightened, beaten Kathryn Marie, only the successful career woman who was Kate to her very few close friends, Kathryn to her co-workers, and Ms. Stovington to her subordinates. There was no indication of the little girl who had scavenged nickels and dimes from the sidewalks and gutters of her Kentucky hometown just to buy a plain-and-dry hamburger from Big Charlie’s when the cupboards at home had gone bare. There was no sign of the child who had hidden under the bed and watched as her mother was beaten mercilessly. There was no sign of the child who had crawled snake-like past the snoring, sodden form of Bill Pritchard, who had finished the beating in grand style by breaking both his wife’s collarbones and then collapsing her windpipe before passing out on the hardwood floor.

She shut her eyes tightly, willing away the memories, steeling herself. Some days the transformation from Kathryn to Kate was more difficult than other days, and this morning the wide-eyed child seemed to be hanging on with an extra measure of tenacity.

"You’re dead, Kathryn Marie," she said softly into the empty room. "Stay dead. It’s better for you."

She turned away from the mirror and went to the closet, where she chose a gray knee-length skirt and matching blouse. By design, none of her skirts extended past the knees; her calves were tanned and trim and solidly formed, and could be a lethal psychological weapon at the various negotiating tables at which she often found herself. She had worked her wiles with many men and had used her appearance and her ability to leverage her way into lofty positions over the past few years.

Not that she was in such a great position now. She had chosen to go to work for International Genetics Technologies, a company that had steadily lost ground for nearly a decade and had, during her two-year tenure, barely managed to stave off bankruptcy.

She stayed for two reasons. The first was that the company was on the verge of a potential breakthrough, and if all went as planned, InGen would be operating in the black within the year. The second reason was that the head of the company, John Hammond, was a great big kid who had never appeared to notice what went on below the hems of her skirts, but instead held her in high regard by virtue of her work. She knew it wasn’t just his age—she had worked for dirty old men before and had learned that the desire lingers on long after the ability has withered away. He was genuine, and he respected her, and for that reason she, in turn, respected him.

She pinned her shoulder-length blonde hair up in a bun atop her head, leaving a few wispy strands dangling on either side of her face. It looked severe, no-nonsense, strictly business, giving her the appearance of the heartless bitch she was reputed to be, and that was just fine. Fear was a great motivator.

"Kate Stovington, Head of the Human Resources and Public Relations Departments of InGen Africa, and the feared and loathed Ice Queen of the company."

She nodded resolutely, reaffirmed by her own words. They were like a mantra, magically sweeping away the last, ghostly bits of the fearful child. She took a final glance in the mirror as she turned and left for the office.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kirk Dixon ducked low as he dashed under the rotors toward the waiting van, shielding his eyes against the glare of the morning sun. His cameraman, burdened with equipment, lumbered along behind him, struggling to keep up.

They loaded their bags into the side door of the van, then climbed aboard. The door snicked shut behind them, blocking out the roar of the rotors, and the van lurched forward.

The driver turned to face Dixon, oblivious to the rutted dirt road ahead. "Directly to the hotel, sir?" he asked.

At first, he only stared back at the driver, puzzled, and it was only after a moment that he was able to decipher the driver’s thickly accented words. "Yes, to the hotel, thank you."

"You are here for the opening, correct?"

"Yeah, that’s right," Dixon answered.

The van bounced over a deep rut in the road, then slued to the right, its rear end skidding wildly off the dirt track before righting itself.

The cameraman, Bob Tovey, leaned over and whispered nervously, "I wonder if anyone actually teaches these people to drive."

"I think they learn as they go," Dixon whispered back.

"Driving is a fine skill," the driver called back, as if he had heard the exchange. "It takes many years of practice. Surely no one would allow me to drive a hotel van without the proper training, eh?"

Dixon and Tovey exchanged a nervous glance, but not another word passed between them. So it remained for the rest of the trip.

Dixon found himself thinking of the assignment ahead. Major news was waiting ahead, and he was looking forward to being one of only five journalists allowed the exclusive early day before the grand opening of InGen’s new biological preserve. Maybe there was no Pulitzer material to be found here, but there was certainly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to fatten up his stringbook with a story like no other. With stuff like this on his résumé, he’d be working for CNN within the year.

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping that nothing would go wrong. He was going to have an incredible story to tell—and he and Tovey had decided to gather enough video footage to make a marketable documentary, to boot.

Nothing will go wrong, he thought. Never mind the civil war, never mind the number of animals, never mind my poor pitiful luck. Everything is going to be fine.

And, if anything does go wrong, it will make the story that much better.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The office was small and cramped and cluttered, and Debra Hearne wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

She sat in her creaky old imitation-leather chair, behind her littered desk, drinking coffee from a stained and chipped ceramic mug. The coffee came from her own pot, which rested atop the two-drawer filing cabinet in the corner behind her. The cafeteria coffee simply wouldn’t do; it was weak, and they always let it go stale in the latter part of the morning.

She looked through the double-paned, reinforced glass that looked onto the adjoining classroom. In a little while, her best student would be in that room, and that was fine. Her students made her happy, perhaps happier than any other facet of her life. She loved to teach. Unfortunately, the VIP guests would also be in and out of the classroom all day, and that was a shame. They would disrupt her work with Mkuma, her star pupil, and then they would go on their way, oohing and aahing over all of InGen’s work. They would only visit long enough to make Mkuma restless and divert her from her exercises. She wished that Hammond and that Stovington bitch hadn’t insisted on including the classroom on the tour.

She spun her chair around to face the coffeepot, refreshed her cup, and stood. It was time to start the day, no matter what dreadful bureaucratic bullshit might lie ahead.

The classroom was a large, mostly-empty room, with a few tables for educational toys, a computer center, and a handful of chairs of varying shapes. The left-hand wall was one continuous plate-glass window with a glass door at its center, overlooking the courtyard.

The classroom was a little unkempt, with M’Kubwa’s toys still scattered about from his playtime the day before. She thought of picking things up before the VIP tour arrived, but then decided against it. "If Hammond’s guests can’t handle a little clutter," she said softly into the empty room, "they can kiss my way-too-wide white ass."

She crossed to the computer center and keyed in the startup sequence, preparing the touch-screen exercise. She figured she would go through the computer matching game for a start, then a little brunch, and then—

Movement at the corner of her eye startled her, and she turned quickly toward the giant windows. Outside, in the dense growth of the courtyard, a large, black lump sat motionless behind a clump of foliage.

Debra smiled. "Good morning, Mkuma," she called. "I see you!"

The black lump shifted slightly, then froze in position again.

"Mkuma, girl, come on out, now," she said, her voice almost like a song as she called to her star pupil.

The black lump shifted again, then abruptly shot upward, revealing the face and shoulders of a large female gorilla. The animal sounded off with a low, short bass note, and Debra answered back with a laugh. "Silly girl! Come on in and let’s get started. Computer today."

The gorilla loped toward the glass door and entered the classroom, closing the door behind. She took a seat on a two-foot-wide hassock opposite Debra’s teaching computer. She looked up at her teacher with an unmistakable awareness, her keen brown eyes shining from the deep folds of her leathery, blue-black skin.

"How are we feeling this morning?" Debra asked.

The gorilla shifted her hands and fingers in a complex pattern of shapes and symbols.

"Why not good, Mkuma? What’s the matter? Is Mkuma sick?"

The gorilla signed another message, and Debra froze in her seat.

"Say again? Mkuma, what did you just say?"

But the animal made no move to repeat the signs.

"Mkuma, how do you know there are people coming?"

Still the gorilla did not respond.

"Mkuma, I’ll give you an apple if you tell me, how do you know there are people coming?"

The gorilla signed something quickly, frantically, and then placed her hands neatly on her short legs.

"Yes, I know Mkuma likes apples. Tell me about the people coming, and I’ll give Mkuma an apple."

The gorilla slumped, and sighed, then proceeded to stare at the floor, and nothing Debra could say to the animal over the course of the next half-hour elicited any sort of response.

Mkuma didn’t want to talk about it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Calvin Holloway scanned his security card at the double doors and stepped into the relative cool of the main building. He found the building directory and, after a quick glance, strode quickly down the wide corridor.

At the end of the hallway, he selected a door labeled SECURITY and stepped inside.

The office was small and sparse. Where he had expected a secretary, he found only a fortyish man, dressed entirely in khaki, with his feet propped on the desk. The man sat up quickly when Holloway entered. "What can I do for you?"

"Calvin Holloway. I’m supposed to start today."

The older man nodded. "Not a minute too soon. We need a man on Gate Four. Half the natives have run out on us." He extended a hand. "McMorries," he said. "Nigel McMorries, Game Warden and head of security."

Holloway took the offered hand and shook it once. "Good to meet you."

"If you’ll just follow me, we’ll get to a jeep. It’s quite a hike over to Four."

"Actually, I was told—"

"I know," McMorries interrupted. "Computer whiz. This afternoon we’ll get you settled in. I want plenty of warm bodies on station when the VIP tour passes through this morning. Once that nonsense is over, I’ll get you to your permanent station."

Holloway nodded uncertainly and followed McMorries down the hall and through a coded titanium door.

"Believe me," McMorries was saying, "you’ll get used to this sort of thing. Hammond’s all about appearances. He’s very concerned about giving the appearance of tight security, and I’ve been ordered to keep no less than two men on station per gate until the tour is over."

"Right," Holloway answered, nodding slightly, still looking—and feeling—a little bewildered.

"Don’t get me wrong, Hammond’s a hell of a good man. This company has treated me quite well, considering their situation hasn’t always been the best. You’ll like it here, once things quiet down."

They had continued to walk as McMorries was talking, and Holloway found himself in an enormous concrete garage. Dozens of vehicles were parked inside, including no less than twenty-five jeeps, ten SUV’s, a handful of motorcycles, and a pair of armored vehicles that could have been anything under the reinforced plating. At one end of the garage was a bank of ten truck-sized doors. "Motor pool," McMorries explained. "If you ever need a vehicle, you can sign one out in that office." The older man pointed to a small cubicle attached to one wall of the garage. "But not today, because the head of the motor pool is pretending to be a security guard at Gate Six."

Holloway laughed a little then, unable to help himself. "Who’s not a security guard this morning?" he asked.

McMorries smiled. "You’re going to do well here." He selected a Jeep and the two men climbed aboard. Seconds later, they were out in the humid open air and speeding toward their destination. Calvin Holloway looked around at the facility and began to feel, for the first time, that he might actually be able to complete the job he’d been sent to do.

9/29/2003 11:15:43 AM
(Updated: 9/29/2003 11:20:53 AM)
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(Updated: 9/29/2003 11:21:49 AM)
(Updated: 9/29/2003 11:22:23 AM)
(Updated: 9/29/2003 11:29:23 AM)

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