|
Jurassic Park: X Factor (Chapter Five -- Journeys)
By drucifer67
"You’re certain I can’t talk you out of this?" Alan asked. He and Lex were walking down the gangplank to the waiting InGen barge. The two SUVs were parked side-by-side and secured to the deck. The rest of the equipment had been stowed in a large, rectangular compartment on the foredeck. The loading team had finished their work just before dawn, and now, as the morning sun began its lazy trek skyward, the team members were finding their cabins and settling in for the voyage to Isla Sorna.
"No, Dr. Grant," she answered. "I couldn’t ask you and those men to take such a great risk if I weren’t willing to go along myself. Well, okay, maybe I could ask them, but not you."
Grant smiled. "I don’t expect we’ll want to stay in contact with them once this is all over."
"I disagree," Lex argued. "I can see us all together socially. We can discuss the theater, ballet, Darwin’s theories…and all the people we’ve killed with our bare hands."
"I wonder how many of them met as cellmates," Grant added. "I think they may be less human than the dinosaurs."
"Which reminds me," Lex said, turning serious. "I wanted to thank you for standing up for me yesterday. It was…chivalrous."
"I was raised to believe there are certain things you don’t say to a lady," Grant explained.
This made Lex smile again. "So I’m a lady, am I?"
"Well, part of me will always think of you and Tim as the children you were when I first met you. I was protective of you two, when we were out there in Jurassic Park. I guess that’s why I’m still uncomfortable with the idea of you going along."
"A lot has changed since then," Lex said.
"I’m sure. Are you still involved with computers?"
"Some," Lex said, "but I’m into art now, and graphic design."
"Really," Grant said, surprised. "I never knew you were an artist."
"Most people didn’t. I was intent on being a hacker. But when I outgrew that, I started taking some art classes. It’s more rewarding."
They had come to a narrow corridor jammed on either side with doors. "These must be the cabins," Grant suggested.
Lex tried a door. "This one’s still empty," she reported.
Grant tried the one across from it. "Ah, this one too. Well, then…I’m going to stow this gear and see if there’s a galley on this ship. I could use some breakfast."
"I just want to go back to sleep," Lex said. "This boat’s leaving way too early for my tastes."
Grant nodded and stepped into his cabin. As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, he opened his pack and rummaged in it for the satellite phone Wallace had issued to him. He intended to have it with him at all times, especially on the island, and he figured he might as well make a habit of keeping tabs on it. He also hoped that Malcolm would call before the boat reached Isla Sorna.
He felt it was important to know more about the X Factor.
Ian put his head back and tried to sleep, knowing it would be to no avail. Too many wheels were turning in his head now, too many avenues for his mind to explore. A group of people was walking into the face of incredible danger, in the most unpredictable environment in the world. He was connected to two of those people directly.
Added to the usual chaotic atmosphere of Isla Sorna was this new question of the X Factor. No one was at all certain what it might mean, and he intended to find someone who could tell him.
He racked his brain for names, members of the original genetics team, but despite all the time he had devoted to studying the subject, he could only remember one name. He had files of information, bits and pieces he had gathered while doing research for his book, but all those notes were in his apartment.
He had much work to do, and very little time to do it before the rescue party reached the island. He was too tense, too anxious to sleep. But he lay his head back and closed his eyes to rest all the same.
And slept.
Alan, having discovered that the ship hadn’t been equipped with a galley of any sort, had cracked into a case of provisions he had found stored in the ship’s forward container bay. He had eaten modestly from the mostly tasteless rations he found there; it was hardly the breakfast he had in mind.
Now, he was glad he had eaten lightly.
The ship pitched sickeningly forward and aft, riding giant swells as it struggled its way across the ocean. At the same time, the boat rolled in a gentle motion, down and to port, up and to starboard. He held on for life; his light breakfast did likewise.
He had no idea how long this might last, but he decided to make his way, however difficult, to the bridge. The crew would have weather reports, he reasoned, and would know if they could expect rough seas for the entire trip.
He stood carefully, pressing his back against the wall of his cabin for support. He steadied himself on his feet, preparing to take the first step. It was only six or eight feet from the bunk to the cabin door, but with the ship pitching so wildly below him, he feared it would feel like miles.
Then the ship suddenly shuddered, as if it had been struck. He lost his balance and tumbled, going down in a heap and sliding face-first toward the door. The ship righted itself and he slowed to a stop, quickly scrambling to find his footing—and a handhold—before the boat began to pitch back the other way.
He opened the cabin door forcefully, banging it against the wall in the process. He stepped through the opening and immediately found much more comfort in the corridor, where he could place his hands flat against either wall and push in order to keep his balance. He began to move forward at a brisk walk.
He passed through the corridor rather quickly. At the end of the corridor was a set of stairs, heavy-gauge steel steps and iron rails leading upward in a tight spiral. He mounted the stairs after a moment’s hesitation and began to climb.
At the top of the stairs, he found himself in an open, empty chamber with rows of windows on either side. Through the glass he could see the unpleasant atmosphere of the ocean; the sky was dark, almost like night, and a quick check of his watch confirmed it was a little after five in the afternoon. Lightning flashed in the distance, and the sea kicked up great waves, tossing the boat about like a toy.
Directly ahead of the staircase, flanked on either side by reinforced walls, was a second staircase. On the walls alongside this set of stairs were posted warnings:
NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL
on one side, and
CAPTAIN AND CREW ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT
on the other.
Clearly that was the way to go. He braced himself, then as the ship swung down toward a more level angle, he let go of the handrails and dashed forward. He slipped a little, then caught the handrail of the second staircase. Without hesitation, he climbed up.
He could feel the tension immediately. The modest crew of four were doing all they could to keep the ship under control in the devastating weather, and were so busy with their work that Grant went unnoticed for several moments.
"Sir, this is a restricted area," one of the crew warned, never taking his eyes off his console.
The captain stopped what he was doing and narrowed his eyes at Alan. "If you came here wanting to know what’s going on, it’s a tropical storm. If you want to know whether we’re going to make it through, I’ll let you know something as soon as I do."
"Anything I can do?"
"Get back down those stairs and tie yourself to something," the captain replied.
Grant reluctantly made his way back down to the open observation room. He thought the waves were taller now than just a few minutes before—or perhaps it was his imagination.
Imagination or no, he decided it would be best to heed the captain’s advice. He lurched to the opposite stairwell, fighting the pitching deck.
As he approached the stairs, the ship shuddered violently again. He lost his balance, both feet flying forward, and slid on his bottom toward the staircase. He thrust his arms outward and hooked them around the railing to keep from hurtling down the metal steps.
After taking a moment to catch his breath, he slowly brought himself up to a crouching position and began to make his way carefully, step by step, back toward the lower deck.
"Dr. Grant?"
He looked down to find Lex standing at the bottom of the stairwell, clutching the metal railing. "Lex, go back to your cabin!" he shouted.
"What’s happening?" she demanded.
"Tropical storm," he called back. "Go secure yourself somewhere, I’ll be down in a minute."
She nodded, turned, and in a great lurch disappeared from view. Grant took a deep breath and continued the slow process of tackling the treacherous staircase.
At the bottom, he brought himself fully upright and, with renewed confidence, launched himself away from the stairs and sprinted down the corridor.
His confidence proved misplaced when the rolling of the ship thrust him face-first into the wall. He went down with a thump and sat, blinking and dazed, on the hard floor.
"I wonder if we can arrange to fly back," he wondered aloud.
Ian dialed the number the operator had just given him, and waited. One ring. Two. Three. It was early, and he knew it might take a little time to get someone to the phone.
On the sixth ring a bleary voice answered: "Hello?"
"Dr. Henry Wu?"
"Speaking."
"Dr. Wu, this is Ian Malcolm."
There was an indeterminately long pause before Wu spoke again: "What can I do for you, Doctor?"
"Ah, listen, Dr. Wu, is there someplace that you and I can talk? I’m in, ah…urgent need of some information."
"What sort of information, Dr. Malcolm? Are you writing another book? Because if that’s the case—"
"No, no…it’s nothing like that. I want to talk to you about the X Factor."
There was another pause, much longer than the first. When Henry Wu spoke again, his voice was low and his words were carefully measured: "Dr. Malcolm…the very fact that you’re using that terminology is alarming. The only time the so-called 'X-Factor' has ever been mentioned was in closed hearings with a Senate subcommittee. Shortly after those hearings, all the testimony we gave was elevated to classified status. I had to sign a ream of papers, swearing I’d never discuss that information."
"Yeah, but you see, ah…Dr. Wu, lives are in the balance. The government has sent a handful of people there, and now they’ve left them to die. I need to know what you know, ah, in order to get them off Isla Sorna alive."
Ian Malcolm held the phone firmly to his ear, waiting. He listened to the silence unraveling on the other end of the line. Then, after several moments, took a pen from his pocket and scribbled an address on the palm of his hand.
1/7/2003 4:12:23 PM
(Updated: 1/8/2003 11:21:34 AM)
(Updated: 1/15/2003 12:58:31 PM)
(Updated: 1/15/2003 3:45:45 PM)
(Updated: 2/11/2003 3:12:51 AM)
Comment on this fan fiction!
|
|
|
