acts_of_gord | Entries tagged with milliways

Somehow I expected that to be louder, Gordon thought, dazed. Not that that made any sense; he'd used the pistol on plenty of aliens along the way here, and he'd tripped a couple of the chainguns. He knew what gunfire sounded like by now. But still, there was a sort of expectation of more. He'd just killed a man on purpose, after all.

"Attention All Science Team Personnel," interrupted the synthesized announcer-voice. "Report To Topside Immediately For Questioning." It was enough to shake him out of his horrified reverie. Someone had to be told about this. Someone had to know more. Gordon darted forward, crouching to be sure both men were dead. There wasn't much left of the scientist's midsection; the Marine had been carrying some kind of combat shotgun. It looked like a remarkably useful weapon, considering how much further Gordon had to go to reach the surface and how many aliens there were likely to be. But carrying it...

Well, the Marine sure as hell wasn't going to need his equipment harness any more. Gordon did his best to ignore the fact that he was looting his would-be murderer's corpse and set to work. He'd deal with it all later.

Up ahead there were...

There were four of them. Four Marines, and one scientist.

Then there were four Marines.

Then there was only Gordon.

His nerves were still screaming in agony from the red-eyed alien's electricity; it hurt to so much as move, and his suit's power was too low for the morphine dispenser to work. Every step was an act of concentration, one foot in front of the other, listening for the next horror to drop out of the air.
( Long as I remember )
"Don't shoot! I'm with the science team!"
( rain's been comin' down )
Gordon jerked his head up and saw two men in lab coats, the darker-skinned man running away. He started to speak- and realized, with a sinking horror, that the man had been shouting not at him but at a red-beret Marine on the catwalk ringing the room full of shipping crates. As the gunfire erupted, the other one cried, "No! Not me! You want me alive- I'm the only man who knows everything that's going on!"
( Clouds of myst'ry pouring )
That was enough for the other Marines to break their concealment- and for Gordon to muster the will to act. He lunged at the man, shoving him behind one of the crates. "Stay down!" he ordered. He didn't bother waiting to see if the wide-eyed scientist would obey, but unslung the MP5 he'd taken from Paskey's corpse. If he was going to have any chance of finding out why the Marines were trying to kill them all, he needed to outlast their ammunition. The more they had to run around and take cover, the more likely their gunfire would go wide of the mark. He took a deep breath (I will think about all of this later) and stepped out from behind the crate.
( confusion on the ground )
There were five of them. If there hadn't been enough crates in the room to ship a disassembled small house from one end of the country to the other, Gordon wouldn't have stood a chance. Just outlast the ammo supply, he thought, dashing from behind a stack of rapidly disintegrating crates to the cover of a support column. Just keep them shooting until they can't shoot any more, and then ask. Just-
"Gotcha, fucker," growled a voice from much too close for Gordon's comfort. A gas-masked Marine had slipped around the column when Gordon wasn't looking. He hefted his rifle with a satisfied, low laugh, but Gordon wasn't paying attention; there was something red, slender, and weirdly organic-looking descending from the ceiling just behind the man's shoulder.
( Good men through the ages )
The Marine paused. "What the hell're you looking at?" he demanded.
( tryin' to find the sun, )
Gordon pointed.
and I wonder,
The red thing lashed itself around the Marine's neck before he could respond, and lifted him straight up into the air.
still I wonder,

Gordon had no time to watch what remained of the Marine's death-struggles. There were still other Marines, and the gasmasked one's death only left them angrier than before. It was everything Gordon could do to keep his rifle steady; there was nothing like this at all in the hazard course! That was targets on a controlled range, not live fire from all sides. Not active self-defense, and trying to keep armed men from getting a clear line of fire on the surviving scientist's position. In the end, he was the last one standing- if you could call it standing. He had to lean heavily on the wall to keep moving, and he didn't like to think of how many steps remained between him and his goal.
who'll stop the rain?

"Oh my God," said the scientist when Gordon finally made it back to the box. "Are you- here, you'd better sit down."

Gordon didn't argue. If the other man wanted to shove one of the smaller crates under him, so be it. "Blood loss detected," announced the suit; Gordon rolled his eyes and wondered how you went about flipping off your own power armor.

"That's a bit of an understatement," said the scientist. "Here, let me give you something for the pain."
( I went down Virginia )
"What?" asked Gordon, or tried to. He wasn't sure the words made it out. But a moment later there was a pricking almost too tiny to feel in his arm, and blessed, blessed relief swept through him in its wake. "... wow."
( seekin' shelter from the storm. )
"Can you hear me now, young man?" The scientist was peering at him in concern. "Here, give me those glasses of yours. I'm surprised you can see at all with this much muck on them... good heavens, what is this stuff?"
( Caught up in the fable, )
"Alien blood," said Gordon, rolling his arm around in wonder. He still hurt like hell, but the blatant awareness of just how many bullets he'd been hit with had faded far enough to ignore. "What was in that needle, anyway?"
( I watched the tower grow. )
"The same medicinal cocktail that's in the health dispensers," said the scientist. "Not enough to do you much real good, though. I'd suggest you get up to the dispenser on the top level of that room and use it as soon as you can; it's as good as an emergency room visit, if not better."
( Five year plans and new deals, )
"Thanks," said Gordon. As he put his glasses back on he said, "What's going on?"
( wrapped in golden chains, )
"Hmm?"

"You said you were the only man who knew everything," Gordon said slowly. "What, exactly, is..."
and I wonder,
The scientist looked at him mutely.
still I wonder,

"Oh, don't tell me."
who'll stop the rain?

"Er. I'm afraid-"

"You lied," said Gordon. "You were trying to save your skin, weren't you."
( Heard the singers playin' )
"Er. Yes. Yes, I was- wouldn't you, in my circumstances?"
( how we cheered for more. )
"Dammit..." Gordon shook his head. "Never mind. Just- never mind. Do you have any idea what's happening?"
( The crowd had rushed together, )
"No, not really," admitted the scientist. "Just that there's been some sort of dimensional breach- you'd know more about that than I- and that this place is swarming with soldiers who all seem to be out to kill us. I'm afraid I panicked at the thought and said the first thing that came to mind."
( tryin' to keep warm. )
Gordon slid a hand under his glasses again. "Fine. Whatever," he muttered. "Look, there's people trapped in Anomalous Materials. Eli Vance and a couple of others."
( Still the rain kept pourin', )
"If you think I'm going for the surface, you're mad," said the other man. "That's where the majority of the soldiers are! I'm going to find somewhere down here with a door that still locks and no aliens in it and stay behind it until all of this is over. You're welcome to try for the surface if you like."
( fallin' on my ears, )
He meant it, too. Gordon could see that in his face. The other man really did mean to lock himself in one of the storage rooms and wait out the horrors and the invasion. Are you even the same species as me? Gordon wondered briefly; but he said nothing. He only nodded. "Dispenser's upstairs, you said?"

"Third level, yes."
and I wonder,
"All right," said Gordon, pushing himself to his feet. "Thank you. Good luck finding a hideout."
still I wonder,

"Good luck yourself, young man."
who'll stop the rain?

Gordon leaned his head against the elevator wall and let his eyes sag shut for a moment. I have to keep going, he told himself. I can't stop now. I'll die down here if I do.

A still-fresh dopplering scream rippled through his memory; someone else from Science Team. He'd never seen the man's face, just his flailing form as he lost his grip and plummeted to his doom. If he'd been able to lean out six inches more....

It wouldn't have done any good. They'd both be splattered all over the bottom of the elevator shaft.

Gordon slid one gauntleted hand under his glasses and rubbed uselessly at his eyes, trying to block out the memory of that scream. The elevator ground to a halt just then, doors sliding open. It was a welcome distraction. Pistol in hand (a dead security guard's last legacy to the living: gun, ammo, belt to carry them all), he peered into the corridor. It looked all right. Certainly he didn't see the kind of destruction he'd just left behind. More importantly, he didn't hear the faintly clucking noises that the leaping little horrors made just before they went for his head, and he definitely didn't hear the soulless gorbling of the zombie things. He stepped out of the elevator.

There were footsteps. He spun about- and relaxed; it was yet another Science Team member, running pell-mell for Gordon's position. The lab-coated man ignored Gordon entirely, though, racing past him to pound desperately on a guardroom window with both fists. "For God's sake, open the silo doors!" the man shouted. "They're coming for us, it's our only way out! Oh my God, we're doomed!"

On the other side of the glass, the wide-eyed guard stood up swiftly. And fell, just as swiftly, as something clawed lunged out of a ventilation duct and grabbed him. By the time Gordon had the crowbar out, it was already too late. The length of metal clanged uselessly off the thickest bulletproof glass he'd seen yet. He stared, sickened, at the widening red streak on the wall.

BRRRABOOM!

Gordon spun to face the source of the sound: a smoking, blackened corridor, one wall scorched, the other spattered. Even at this distance, in this light, he knew what that meant. Silently, he returned the crowbar to its loop on the belt and readied his gun. Where there were explosions, there were explosives, and this was an old part of the complex. Whatever had killed that poor doomed fool was probably some kind of security measure gone horribly wrong. Something was bound to turn up and investigate.

Sure enough, the by-now far-too-familiar sound of one of the fleshy things teleporting in- they looked like plucked chickens, for all that they kept trying to tear off parts of his face and scalp- rang out up ahead. He froze, watching it orient itself. It made an almost cooing sound as it crept towards him, but not for long. A faint pling! sound, like an opened door breaking an infrared beam, was all the warning Gordon had before automatic gunfire from a half-concealed, mounted chaingun tore it to pieces. Better you than me, he thought, and considered his options.

Well, that one guard had given him a couple of grenades and said to use them in good health...

Five seconds later the mounted gun lay scattered across the room in ruins. Gordon smiled (when did that kind of destruction become something to smile about, he wondered) and kept going... only to stop again.

There was a body.
( if you take a life, do you know what you'll give? )
Human, definitely, and not zombified. The dead man still had his face and his hands, and his chest was almost certainly intact beneath the fatigues he wore. They identified him as a Marine, a member of the Hazardous Environment Combat Unit. Gordon knew about them; the employee handbook said they were the ones most likely to show up if anything really disastrous really happened at Black Mesa. All employees were to cooperate with them wherever possible. The HEV suit did nothing at all to suppress the prickling dread that crawled over his skin. Had he just killed one of his own rescuers?
( odds are, you won't like what it is )
As Gordon crouched down to look for the fatal injury, the heavily modulated synthesized voice that'd been giving status updates since the cascade began rang out over the room's speakers: "ATTENTION: BLACK MESA ANNOUNCEMENT SYSTEM NOW UNDER MILITARY COMMAND."

You're a little late letting me know, he thought bitterly. He looked down at the Marine and a thought occurred to him: the HECU commander was going to need to know about this.
( when the storm arrives, would you be seen with me )
"Sorry about this," Gordon murmured to the dead man, digging the dog tags out from under his shirt. "I didn't even know you were there... Corporal Edward Paskey, huh?" He shook his head. "I don't know what to say. I'll make it up to your family somehow... I'm sorry."
( by the merciless eyes I've deceived )
There weren't any more words for it than that, or if there were, they eluded Gordon pretty well. With a sigh he drew the man's eyelids closed with his fingertips and went on his way, Paskey's dog tags wrapped around one wrist and his assault rifle jammed through part of the belt. They'd be wanting that back.

( I've seen angels fall from blinding heights )
There. Up ahead, on the catwalk- him again. The man in the dark blue suit. How the hell had he gotten this far? Gordon had had to fight his way past at least three more of those damned chainguns, and the red-eyed aliens that hurled lightning at him- and here was this bureaucrat breezing through from one place to another, neat as you please! He'd been back at Anomalous Materials, too, but he'd disappeared before Gordon could call out to him. At least here Gordon had a chance to catch up. As the man vanished into the shadows Gordon scrambled up the ladder, hand over hand. He couldn't possibly get away this time.
( But you yourself are nothing so divine )
Oh, hell, he could. There was no sign of him anywhere. Gordon swore inwardly and drew his pistol at the sound of nearby footfalls. They turned out, alas, to be yet another lab-coated scientist. The older man was practically flying down the stairs at the end of the raised platform, and with good reason: there was a Marine downstairs. Alive, this time. "Rescued at last!" the scientist cried. "Thank God you're here!"
( just next in line )
And the Marine shot him. No warning, no words, just BANG.

As the scientist's lifeless form toppled over, the Marine looked up. His eyes met Gordon's. It would've been poetic to say time stopped, or that the moment played out in slow motion somehow, but the truth was far more stark. In that moment, Gordon knew he was going to die at this man's hands. So he pulled the trigger first.

He didn't bother closing this one's eyes. He just swallowed, and watched him fall.
( arm yourself, because no one else here will save you... )

( when it's all mixed up / better break it down / in the world of secrets / in the world of sound )
The last time Gordon's head had felt like this, he'd wiped out on a record-breaking downhill run. An EMT had to use a hacksaw to get his helmet off. He opened one eye and saw that either the helmet or his glasses had shattered under impact. It took a few moments to work out that it was the helmet, under the impact of a chunk of metal that should have killed him. Grimacing, he shoved the metal aside and sat up. As he pried the now-useless helmet off, he got his first good look around the test chamber. It was the sort of sight that he associated with war zones and grim-faced CNN reporters: fallen concrete, twisted metal, and scorch marks as far as the eye could see. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath (the air stank of things he couldn't even begin to identify), and picked his way over the wreckage to the jarred-open chamber door.
( it's in the way you're always hiding from the light )
The destruction hadn't stopped with the spectrometer room. There wasn't a functioning computer panel left in the control area, and most of them- the emergency phone panel included- were arcing electricity. Gordon's stomach knotted at the sight of Dr. Sark's crumpled form- very crumpled. An exploding panel had thrown the man into the wall so hard that his neck must've snapped on impact. Dr. Rosen's corpse was in even worse condition. Gordon shuddered, fumbling for the communications controls in his suit, but the transmitter controls were useless without the helmet. He gritted his teeth and forced the door open. Someone had to be notified about what had just happened. Maybe Vance-
( see for yourself - you have been sitting on a time bomb )
Oh, hell no.
( no revolution- maybe someone somewhere else )
It was just as bad as the scene he'd left. What hadn't exploded or burst into flames had gone dark. The wobbly, strained electronic sounds of earlier had been replaced by all-too-regular squealing alarms. And in the corner, well out of the way of the cables that'd ripped loose from their ceiling moorings, were Vance and his companion from earlier. For half an instant Gordon thought Vance was arranging a corpse.
( can show you something new about you and your inner song )
"Never thought I'd- agh- see a resonance cascade," mumbled the man on the floor. "Let alone create one."
( and all the love and all the love in the world )
"We tried to warn them," Vance reassured him. Then he looked up and caught his breath. "Gordon! You're alive! Thank God for that hazard suit- listen, I'm afraid to move him, and all our phones are out."
( won't stop the rain from falling )
Damn, Gordon thought. It must have shown on his face, because Vance's tone went apologetic. "Please," he said, "get to the surface as soon as you can and let someone know we're stranded down here?"
( waste seeping underground )
Gordon glanced past Vance a moment; the man on the floor didn't look as if he'd last much longer. He nodded, and Vance ran for the retinal scanner that would unlock the lab door from the inside. "I'm sure the rest of the science team'll gladly help you," Vance said, waving him through. "We'll be here."
( I want to break it down )
Gordon had his doubts about that. Nevertheless, he raised a hand in farewell and started for the next-
( Break it down again )
A bolt of green energy crackled through the air overhead. Something pale and fleshy-looking dropped out of it, skinny limbs flailing wildly. Gordon bolted, the thing's mad wailing screeches dying away behind him. Or at least he no longer heard them any more; there was destruction everywhere. Lights flickered, electricity sputtered, computer banks lay smashed to pieces on the floor. Some weren't even smashed, but sliced, melted metal and still-smoking charred plastic evident. It must've been one or more of the particle labs' lasers, which were so potent they had to be run through routing tubes in the ceiling of multiple rooms. He didn't care to stay and find out. If the facility's lowest parts were tearing themselves apart that badly, he had to get out fast, or there'd be no one left alive to rescue. For Kirkendall, the security guard who'd let him into the labs, it was almost certainly already too late. Gordon crouched down to see if the man harbored any life signs at all-
( "No sleep for dreaming," say the architects of Life )
A flicker of red at the edge of his vision was all the warning he had- the lasers were still active! Gordon flattened himself against the nearest wall and watched in horror as a line of blackened soot crept across the corridor floor , straight for Kirkendall's body. . . and then through it, slicing the corpse neatly in half. He closed his eyes swiftly at that, fighting the urge to be sick, and fumbled for the door.
( Big bouncing babies, bread and butter, can I have a slice? )
And remembered as he did so that the damn thing was retinal scan locked. Only Kirkendall or a senior scientist could open it. A ghastly image of hefting the man's remains up to eye level swam into mind. Gordon gagged and opened his eyes, deliberately not looking in the corpse's direction. There had to be another way out. Maybe an air vent-
( They make no mention of the beauty of decay )
No, no air vents nearby, but there was a panel marked 'emergency access only' in the wall near the retinal scanner. Gordon thumped his fist against it and it fell away, but there was no escape tunnel. Only a fire extinguisher (not much use there) and a few tools- Phillips head screwdriver, flathead screwdriver, wire cutters- and a crowbar. First good news I've had all day, he thought.
( Blue, yellow, pink umbrellas- save it for a rainy day )
The glass door, even as heavy as it was, didn't stand a chance. Gordon clambered through and made for the main elevator, but paused as the lights flickered overhead. Some instinct told him to check first; he leaned forward, squinting through the glass of the door to the elevator shaft, and caught sight at the bottom of a heap of twisted metal that had once been the elevator itself.For one brief, wistful moment, he wondered if this kind of thing happened at MIT or Boston University. A return to academia was looking very, very appealing all of a sudden.
( And all the love and all the love in the world )
That kind of thinking wouldn't help Eli, though, or anyone else who might be trapped down here. The only way out was up.
( Won't stop the rain from falling )
A few rungs from the top, he heard the noise. It was a horrible gorbling sound from which all the meaning and sense had been drained. Some capering brainless atavistic thing of nightmares might make that noise in a gross parody of human speech. He found himself gripping the ladder even more tightly; maybe if he hunkered out of sight for a moment, whatever it was would pass.
( Waste seeping underground )
Spang! Spang! Spang! The sound of gunshots cut across the unspeakable noise. Someone was still alive- and fighting!
( I want to break it down. . . )
The next few moments were a blur afterwards. He remembered, dimly, the leap from the ladder to the broken doors. There was more gunfire, too, there was plenty of that. And there was the smell of blood and burning; he wouldn't forget that in a thousand years... but mostly what he remembered was the sight of what had once been a man lumbering towards him, its outstretched arms warped into long, gleaming claws, its ribcage split down the middle and opening and closing with every move like some kind of teratological mouth. Where its head ought to have been there was only something pale and pulsing, clinging with all its might-
( Break it down again )
He didn't even remember raising the crowbar over his head. He just remembered bringing it down, again and again and again, until the crunching noises of metal on bone were replaced by wet, sick squelches..
( No more sleepy dreaming )
Somewhere in the distance someone was speaking, he knew. "Gordon! Man, am I glad to see you! What the hell are these things? And why are they wearing science team uniforms?"
( No more building up )
“I,” said Gordon, and stopped. He tried again. “I don't. I. . . I'm sorry, just-” The thing had an ID badge clipped to its belt. His brain shied away from the knowledge of what that meant. “Sorry, Joe,” he finally managed, lifting his eyes to the guard. “I've never seen them before.”
( It is time to dissolve )
“Huh.” The guard shook his head. “I don't know what's going on here, but I sure don't- shit! Behind you!”
( Break it down again )
Gordon spun to face the horrors, crowbar raised. He'd think about it later.
( No more sleepy dreaming )

"Go right on through, sir," said Tom Kirkendall. There was mild sympathy in the security guard's voice as he hunched over the retinal scanner. "Looks like you're in the barrel today."
( I went home with the waitress )
Gordon nodded; that was about the right term for it. The anti-mass spectrometer was an awe-inspiring sight, to be sure, but even in the face of so much sheer science it was all but impossible for him to maintain that awe from start to finish. And today promised to be an exceptionally long day. At least he had enough storage space in the suit's few available compartments to tuck away a few energy gel packets, but he had a feeling that by the time today's experiments were over, all he'd want would be a bowl of complex carbohydrates and as much Steinbeisser as his liver could tolerate.
( The way I always do )
He rounded the corner and the door to C-33/a hissed open at his approach. "Ah, Gordon," said Dr. Magdesian, his voice heartily cheerful. "Here you are. We just sent the sample down to the test chamber."

Dr. Kleiner, it appeared, was running late; the other two scientists were Ted Jones, who Gordon had never liked, and Tom Csordas, a man Gordon only barely recognized. Csordas cleared his throat a little. "We boosted the anti-mass spectrometer to 105 percent," he said. "Bit of a gamble, but we need the extra resolution."

"Dr. Breen is very concerned that we get a conclusive analysis of today's sample," Jones interjected, lifting his eyebrows meaningfully. "I gather they went to some length to get it."

The words were neutral enough, but Gordon knew the tone all too well: so you'd better not screw up with it, Freeman. He suppressed the urge to scowl and dropped a bare nod of acknowledgment instead. Perhaps sensing Gordon's impatience, Magdesian spoke up again. "They're waiting for you, Gordon- in the test chamber."

Never one to ignore a clue when he was clubbed over the head with it, Gordon stepped away from the senior scientists and waited for Magdesian to unlock the next door. He knew the sounds of the place by now, all the beeps and whirs and electronic hums almost too high to hear; that was as much a part of a normal day as the tram announcements. Today, though, the sounds were off- too high, maybe. Too thready, or something. Gordon couldn't quite put his finger on it; he closed his eyes as he waited for the elevator down-

The agonized squeal of a circuit board giving up the ghost snapped his eyes open half an instant before several computer panels on the wall went dark. "It's about to go critical!" a familiar voice cried- Eli Vance, one of the other research associates. Gordon knew the Harvard man quite well, and the sound of that kind of stress in his voice boded ill.

He half-turned to see what was going on, and saw Vance and another scientist struggling to extract the smoking board from the rest of the system. "What the hell is going on with our equipment?" the other man demanded.
( How was I to know )
Vance shook his head grimly. "It wasn't meant to do this in the first place," he muttered, and lifted his eyes to Gordon's.
( She was with the Russians, too? )
The elevator arrived before Gordon could say anything.

"I'm afraid we'll be deviating a bit from standard analysis procedures today, Gordon," said Dr. Rosen. He spoke as if he wanted to get away with an apology before Dr. Sark could stop him.
( I was gambling in Havana )
Sure enough, Sark spoke up immediately. "Yes," he said firmly, "but with good reason. This is a rare opportunity for us. This is the purest sample we've seen yet."
( I took a little risk )
"And potentially the most unstable," Rosen noted, his tone almost pleading; Sark waved him off.
( Send lawyers, guns, and money )
"Now, now, if you follow standard insertion procedure, everything will be fine..."
( They'll get me out of this )
Frankly, Gordon thought Rosen was probably the more sensible of the two. Before he could indicate the thought, Rosen burst out with, "I don't know how you can say that! ... although I will admit that the possibility of a resonance cascade scenario is extremely unlikely-"

Wait, thought Gordon, startled. What? Go back and say that again?

"Gordon doesn't need to hear all this," said Sark confidently. (No! No, Gordon does need to hear all this! Go back to that part!) "He's a highly trained professional. We've assured the Administrator that nothing will go wrong."

Gordon started to raise a finger in protest.

"Ah- yes, of course," said Rosen. "You're right. Gordon? We have complete confidence in you."
( I'm the innocent bystander )
Seldom had that phrase inspired such a feeling of dread, but it was already too late for Gordon to say anything. Sark and Rosen had already opened the test chamber door and were waiting expectantly to either side. With a sigh he made one last check of his HEV suit's helmet and stepped in.
( Somehow I got stuck )
The door clanging shut behind him did not inspire much extra confidence, either. Ah, well. No help for it now; he leaned back on his heels and turned his gaze upward. Overhead, the spectrometer's rotors loomed in the shadows like the roof-beams of another man's cathedral. It was a sight that never failed to stir him. The knowledge that this, here, was a place of discovering... that mattered more than all the other nonsense put together. Gordon couldn't really ask for more out of life than-
( Between the rock and the hard place )
"Testing, testing. Everything seems to be in order." That was Rosen's voice over the intercom. Gordon jerked his attention back to the task at hand.
( And I'm down on my luck... )
"All right, Gordon. your suit should keep you comfortable through all this," came Sark's voice. "The specimen will be delivered to you in a few moments. If you would be so good as to climb up and start the rotors, we can bring the anti-mass spectrometer to eighty percent and hold it there until the carrier arrives."

Gordon nodded, for all that they couldn't see him, and crossed the chamber floor. Why the activation controls for the spectrometer were positioned thirty feet off the floor he didn't know, but it allowed for a view all its own. He checked the status monitor on the auxiliary terminal and confirmed that nothing else was about to explode before jabbing the nearby button. A low thrumm began to wend its way through his bones as the spectrometer's rotors activated and began to whirl in the shadows.

"Very good," said Sark. "We'll take it from here."

The crystal sample would be arriving shortly; there was no point to staying up here beyond the view. With everything being pushed to its limits, there was no way to predict how long the system would be able to keep operating. The faster this was finished, the better- so Gordon was already on the ladder, making his way down, by the time the first phase arrays started to form in the energy trails of the stage one emitters. As the stage two emitters activated, he paused, looking upwards once more. It seemed all right-

"Overhead capacitors to one oh five percent," said Rosen, and then paused. "Uh, it's probably not a problem, probably, but I'm showing a small discrepancy in... well, no, it's well within acceptable bounds again."

It occurred to Gordon that NASA had probably said something similar back in late January of '86.
( I'm hiding in Honduras )
"Sustaining sequence."

Sark's voice broke in then. "I've just been informed that the sample is ready, Gordon. It should be coming up to you any moment now. Look to the delivery system hatch for your specimen."

Sure enough, a floor panel had slid aside to reveal a cart bearing a lone, perfect, gleaming purplish-yellow crystal the size of a man's head. Gordon glanced at the whirling energy beams of the anti-mass spectrometer, then down at the crystal. Everything's going wrong today, he thought. If this sample is so important, we can't take chances with it, can we?

"Soon, Gordon," Sark said. Gordon sighed, squared his shoulders, and started pushing the cart forward. "Very good-"

The first of the energy beams intersected the crystal with a flash of blinding light. Helmet or no, Gordon threw up an arm to protect his eyes.

"Gordon!" Sark's voice crackled. "Get away from the-"

"Shutting down- no, attempted shutdown-" Rosen's voice was frantic. "It's not- it's not shutting down!"
( I'm a desperate man )
And then the explosion, purple-white and green nightmare energies slicing together through everything-

darkness- nothing but the sound and the feel of his own breathing-

a place of glowing waters under rippling purple skies, and things the size of ponies tentacled at one end and tailed at the other, dashing on two legs through the blue luminescence-
( Send lawyers, guns, and money )
a terrible green flash, and then a circle of red-eyed beings in the darkness, their heads and hands ringed about by metal as their voices droned in incomprehensible alien harmonies-

another green flash, brief as a falling star, and Milliways-

and then darkness again and something hard and terrible smashing him to the ground, and unconsciousness.
( The shit has hit the fan... )

Some days don't start off well.
( Wouldn't it be great to say what's really on your mind )
Oh, the alarm goes off, and it wakes you up, and you even set the clock down far enough away from your bedside that you can't roll over and reflexively smack it. But some mornings your sleep-addled mind wants to show that miserable pile of circuitry who's boss, and so you put the pillow over your head and try for five more minutes. When it doesn't work, it leaves you sleepy and cranky, and it's not until you're out of the shower and trying to remember how to work your razor that you remember the tram's been running early lately.
( I've always said 'all the rules were made for bending' )
So you finish as fast as you can, even if it means there's still shaving cream stuck in a few places (you can clean it up later), and you dress as fast as you can even if you have to subject your shorts to the sniff test (you're just going to change into the HEV suit anyway). And you pull on your shoes and you run. It's still not enough- you can see the tram pulling away in the distance- but you tried, right?
( And if I let my hair down, would that be such a crime? )
The next one's running early too, right?
( I wanna be consequence free )
... crap.
( I wanna be where nothing needs to matter )
By the time the next tram shows up you're clean and as far awake as anyone can be who hasn't got a coffee maker in his quarters. You had time to go back and grab a fistful of energy gel packets- HEV suit days aren't known for their lunch breaks. From here on out it's up to the tram, so you settle back in your seat and let the announcements wash over you- The time is 8:47 A.M. Current topside temperature is 93 degrees with an estimated high of 105- and try, with little success, to snatch a last few minutes' rest. Sector C's a goodly distance away even by train.
( I wanna be consequence free )
"A reminder: that the Black Mesa Hazard Course decathalon will commence this evening at 1900 hours..." Bah. You'd've entered if it weren't for the chaos in the lab these past two weeks. Breen's been riding the R&D senior staff like there's no tomorrow lately, and they've been riding everyone else right into the ground. Breaks your heart, really, passing up a perfectly good competition because of other concerns, but what can you do when you're the most junior research associate except grin and bear it? The decathlon will come around again in a few months' time. You can afford to miss one. Spend the intervening time practicing on the firing range, and working towards getting Magnusson off your back a little. You can't do much to distinguish yourself in the lab until he and Vance and Kleiner have results to show, anyway.
( just sing Na Na Na Na Na Ne Na Na Na )
Soon. Soon.
( I could really use, I could lose my Catholic conscience )
"A reminder to all Black Mesa personnel: regular radiation and biohazard screenings are a requirement of continued employment in the Black Mesa Research Facility. Missing a scheduled urinalysis or radiation checkup is grounds for immediate termination...."
( I'm getting sick of feeling guilty all the time )
Oh, right, you owe your brother a letter. Ever since you mentioned exactly what your suit protects you against, Jay's been asking when you plan on growing your third arm. Must get someone to loan you a copy of Photoshop.
( I won't abuse it, yeah, I've got the best intentions )
"Now arriving at sector C test labs and control facilities. Please stand back from the automated door, and wait for the security officer to verify your identity-"
( For a little bit of anarchy but not the hurting kind )
"Mornin', Mr. Freeman," comes from outside the tram. "Looks like you're runnin' late."
( I wanna be consequence free... )
"Morning, Greg." You grimace, and you ignore the rest of the announcement. It's always the same, anyway. Everything between getting on the tram and getting into the lab's always the same. The retinal scan, the giant metal doors, the-
( I couldn't sleep at all last night )
"Hey, Mr. Freeman," says the guard at the front desk, who's hunched over the computer. He's got a slightly harried look to him, probably because of the scientist breathing down his neck. "I, uh, I had a bunch of messages for you, but we had a system crash about twenty minutes ago, and I'm still trying to find my files. Just one of those days, I guess."
( I had so much on my mind )
Oh, great, you think, and start to turn to the public access computer in the corner-
( I'd like to leave it all behind )
"Get away from there, Freeman!" snaps Dr. Porley, without stirring from his vulture-like stoop over the guard. "I'm expecting an important message!"
( but you know it's not that easy... )
The guard rolls his eyes. "They were having some problems down in the test chamber, too," he says, "but I think that's all straightened out now. They told me to make sure you headed down there as soon as you got into your hazard suit."
( Wouldn't it be great if the band just never ended? )
Well, hell, if they're having trouble down there then they can damn well wait until you've got some caffeine down your throat. The mini-kitchen's on the way to the locker room anyway, so you're actually awake by the time you finally pull the last part of your suit on and flip the power switch. This part, too, is the same every single time- but it never fails to give you a thrill when you hear it:
( We could stay out late and we would never hear last call! )
"Welcome to the H.E.V. Mark IV Protective System for use in hazardous environment conditions. High-impact reactive armor, activated. Atmospheric contaminant sensors, activated. Automatic medical systems, engaged. Defensive weapon selection system, activated. Munition level monitoring, activated. Communications interface, online. Have a very safe day."
( We wouldn't need to worry about approval or permission )
Best. Work. Outfit. Ever.
( We could slip off the edge and never worry about the fall... )

Downtown True Value Hardware
San Pedro Plaza
Espanola, NM

An electronic chime rang out as Gordon opened the door, but the clerk behind the counter ignored it; there were other patrons in the hardware store that day, and the cash register didn't seem to be behaving. The most the clerk could do without irritating the woman in front of him was lift his eyes to the newcomer and offer a questioning look.

"Metric wrenches?" Gordon asked. He'd never gotten around to unpacking the last few boxes from his move until just that day. One of them had held his tools for working on the Mongol. At least, it had held them when he left Boston. There had been some mix-up along the way, though; he had no use for a marble mortar and pestle, a mezzaluna chopping knife, or a miniature hardwood cutting board. Rather than wait for the movers to clear up the issue, he'd opted to take matters into his own hands.

The clerk nodded towards the opposite wall of the store. "Aisle one. Right-hand side, after the knobs and the garden tools," he said.

"Thanks," said Gordon, and left him to his work.

The store was small and cramped, the kind of place that would've been driven out of business by a Home Depot or a Lowe's ages ago in any other town. Not that it didn't seem to be doing a brisk trade- Gordon noted an absence of dust on the stock, and none of the price tags were particularly old or faded- but a store with aisles only barely wide enough for one and a half people at a time wasn't likely to stand up to large-scale competition. That was all right, though. The big-box places rarely carried the kinds of equipment Gordon tended to need, and the nearest bike shop was in Los Alamos, hours away. Small stores, he'd found, had weirdly eclectic inventories- this one had pots and pans in the back, cheek by jowls with household cleaning supplies and Testor's model paints. 'Garden tools' apparently encompassed pick-axes and gopher removal traps as well as the usual spades and whatnot. The hand tools were hung so closely together that determining which ones were standard measurement and which ones were metric took peering, squinting, and occasionally rearranging items that'd been put back in the wrong place-

"Sorry, sir," Gordon heard the cashier say. "You're gonna have to put most of these back."

Gordon glanced up at that- he hadn't taken any of the wrenches down yet- but it looked as if the clerk was still behind the counter. "Just ring me up, dammit," someone else said.

"Can't do that," said the clerk. "Sorry. Espanola city ordinance. You can't buy this much lye at once without a permit."

"You're shitting me."

"Nope. Either show me a permit or put it back."

"You can't just sell it to me? Who's gonna know?"

"There are laws about this kind of thing, man. Six cans of lye? Not worth my job."

The hand tools were too far into the aisle for Gordon to see any of what was going on. You didn't pass through the firing range segment of the hazard course a few times without learning what a safety being clicked off sounded like, though. He froze, one hand resting on the nearest rack of hammers.

"Listen," said the customer very calmly, "I don't have time for this bullshit. I've got my own customers breathing down my neck. I'm gonna walk out of here with everything I came in here to buy, and you're not gonna say anything about it, are you?"

"... no."

"And you're not gonna call the police, either. In fact, you're gonna stay away from the telephone for the next fifteen minutes. Isn't that right?"

"Um. Yeah."

Gordon realized he was almost holding his breath. If the man with the gun hadn't seen him come in...

Unfortunately, the next sentence dashed his hopes. "And you, with the glasses," called the gunman, his voice raised. "I wanna see that cell phone you're carrying."

Gordon didn't move.

"Get your ass out here. Now."

It would be hard to say afterwards exactly what the thoughts were that went through Gordon's head just then. That would require translating scenarios into words, and they all flicked through his head too quickly to make use of language. The first involved stepping out and getting shot. In the second, he stepped out and was promptly robbed of everything of value he was carrying (he had no doubts that the store was going to lose the contents of its cash drawer at this point). The third possibility involved staying where he was and the cashier getting shot. But the fourth-

( "Finally," the holographic advisor said, "if nothing else works, you could try breaking the objects in your path..." )

Getting a hammer off the rack would make too much noise- and would probably cause a fatal injury anyway. The only wrenches heavy enough to be any use were out of reach. But the line between the garden tools and the hand tools was marked by something very familiar indeed. "Hold your horses," he said. "I'm coming."

Then he stepped forward and silently slid the first crowbar off the rack.

Black Mesa Central Complex
Sector C Control Facilities
Anomalous Materials Offices

There are certain things that earn a man respect: good mentorship, academic brilliance, scientific accomplishment; even the ability to overcome office politics. Dr. Isaac Kleiner had all of those in spades. What he did not have was the common sense to remember that his keycards had to be on the same side of his office door as he was at all times. In the afternoons it wasn't such a problem, as there were seldom deadlines to be met then- but this was morning, and there was work to be done. The sight of the older scientist crouched in front of his office door, peering hopelessly at the card reader, was... disquieting. At the very least.

“Ah. Freeman.” That was Dr. Magnusson, doing his best to smooth out a scowl of disapproval at the new arrival. “On time today, I see.”

Gordon had only been late once so far for the morning's work in C-33/a, but he had yet to finish his first full month of employment, so he bit back his response and just nodded. It was easier not to speak to Magnusson, anyway. The man had the sort of personality that didn't encourage talking.

“Not that it matters at this point.” Magnusson glanced meaningfully at the locked door. “It may be a while before any of us make it into the lab today.”

Dr. Kleiner snorted. “I'm telling you, Magnusson, we can get past this! I'm positive the security team'll waive protocol just this once-”

“Not too likely, Dr. Kleiner,” came another man's voice; Gordon turned in time to see one of the security guards- Calhoun, that was his name- arriving with a sheepish expression. “I just checked with the Area 3 boss. You used up all your mercy unlocks for the quarter already.”

“Oh. Oh dear.” Dr. Kleiner straightened up at that. “You're sure?”

“'Fraid so.” Calhoun spread his hands. “Officially, I can't help you.”

“I see.” Kleiner worried at his bottom lip for a moment. “What about unofficially?”

“Wellllll. . .” Calhoun eased his weight from one foot to the other, then back again. “That kinda depends.”

“On what?” Magnusson interrupted. “We're in a hurry here, Officer.”

Calhoun shot the scientist a brief, black look; Gordon concealed a smile. “It depends on whether you gentlemen would mind clearing out for a while. I can't say anything one way or the other. You never know who might be paying attention.”

Magnusson and Kleiner exchanged glances a moment.

“Sorry, Doc. I can't do anything if anybody's watching me.”

“Dr. Kleiner,” said Gordon suddenly. “I could probably get in there.”

“Hmm?” Dr. Kleiner blinked at Gordon, confuddled. “Dare I ask?”

“When did you become a lock picker?” Magnusson inquired, one eyebrow arched. “Have you been reading Feynman again?”

Well, he had been- especially the parts about breaking into safes at Los Alamos- but Magnusson didn't need to know that. Gordon silently counted to five before answering, “Not this time. They've been putting us through a lot on the hazard courses-”

“Yes, you mentioned you'd been considering making a run at the next hazard course decathlon,” said Dr. Kleiner.

Gordon nodded. “I've been doing pretty well at the tube crawl segments. Even around corners.”

“Son of a bitch,” muttered Calhoun, who'd recognized where Gordon's train of thought was going.

Magnusson looked back and forth between the two men. “Is anyone going to fill me in on the details of their plans today?”

“Eheh... you know, Arne, I don't think we need to be here right now,” said Dr. Kleiner. “We probably don't need to see what these two are planning. It'd just get in the way...”

Over a stream of indignant protests, Kleiner led the other scientist away. Gordon watched them go, then turned to Calhoun.

“You're gonna break in there, aren't you,” Calhoun said.

“Maybe.”

“You're gonna pry open one of the air vents and you're gonna crawl in there, aren't you, Freeman.”

Gordon suppressed a smile at that. “Possibly.”

“God dammit, Freeman, I oughta stop you right now for even suggesting that kind of damage to company property!” Calhoun paused. “I mean. You ought to know better than that, Mr. Freeman.”

“You don't have to be here for this, you know,” Gordon said. “I'm not going to object if you want to be somewhere else.”

“Like hell I will!” Calhoun retorted. “I'm gonna get Dr. Kleiner's key cards myself, thank you very much- and I'm gonna do it without ripping company property apart.”

“By picking a magnetic keycard coded lock instead.”

“... maybe. I'm not tellin'.”

Gordon snorted. “Look,” he said. “You heard Dr. Kleiner. We're all in a hurry today. We don't have time for an argument over methods- he needs those keycards. How do you feel about a compromise?”

Calhoun eyed him suspiciously. “What kind of compromise are we talking about here, Mr. Freeman?”

“Just this.” Gordon indicated the door. “You do your magic, and I'll do mine. Whoever gets into Dr. Kleiner's office first lets the other one know, and they walk out the door with the keycards. We clean up whatever messes we make, and the loser buys the winner a beer after work.”

That got a wide-eyed look; it took Gordon a moment to remember that Science Team personnel mostly kept to themselves after hours- “Okay,” Calhoun said. “Okay, you're on. But if you damage anything while you're in there-”

“It'll all be on my head, I know,” said Gordon. “Do we have a deal, then?”

Calhoun grinned. “You're on, Mr. Freeman.”

“My name is Gordon.”

“Mine's Barney,” said the guard. “See you in the office.”

Well, thought Gordon as he eased himself out of the vent and down onto one of the filing cabinets, that was surprisingly easy. That pipe crawl stuff came in handy after all. He braced one hand against the wall and looked around. Dr. Kleiner was, it seemed, an avid participant in the tradition of absent-minded professors; there were papers everywhere, scattered writing implements, sticky-notes tacked to the wall- but no sign of the keycards. He grimaced and swung his legs over the side of the cabinet. The suit wouldn't keep his landing quiet, but at this point it no longer mattered. There was no one underneath to hear, after all.

He probably should've let Calhoun in and searched the office together for the keys, but the prospect of opening the door with the prize in hand was too tempting. One quick sweep of the desk couldn't hurt, could it? Just a riffle through the top level of papers-

Hey, some of these looked familiar. Dr. Kleiner had been working on equations like these the last time Gordon was in his office at MIT. Only- he adjusted his glasses and peered more closely- only they were a lot less complicated at the time, a lot less fully developed. . .

Huh. 'Resonance Cascade'. Looked like Dr. Kleiner'd been hypothesizing again. This was purely theoretical stuff, unless Gordon missed his guess. Most of it looked like the mathematics they normally used to describe the probability of major quantum events, but Gordon had never seen any kind of maths used to describe the possibility of event momentum becoming self-propagating. It almost looked as if Dr. Kleiner had been trying to forecast the worst possible scenario that could result from the transferrence of quantum characteristics from one object to another, and project it onto the supraquantum scale-

The doorknob rattled. Gordon shoved the papers aside, grabbed the newly-revealed keycards, and grinned at Barney as the door finally swung open.

Black Mesa Central Complex
Sector A Training Facility
Reception Area

You expect a safety orientation on your first day at a new job. It’s par for the course. The nature of the orientation varies. In an ordinary office job you can look forward to the location of the exits, and maybe the fire extinguishers. In an academic job in the hard sciences, you get ‘here are the decontamination showers’ and ‘don’t put anything magnetic inside the yellow and black tape lines’.

At Black Mesa, the orientation is just a bit different.

“Uh… Dr. Kleiner said to report here this morning for mandatory equipment safety training,” said Gordon Freeman, glancing at the neatly typed note that’d been waiting for him in his quarters. For a reception area, the room was surprisingly empty; there was an unoccupied desk and two chairs. One of the innumerable blue-clad security guards was unlocking a grey door on the far side of the room. “Does this have anything to do with them needing all my measurements?”

“You’re science team, aren’t you.” The guard, a dark-haired man a few years younger than Gordon, looked up and grinned. “Hoo boy, are you in for a treat.”

Gordon lowered his glasses fractionally, the better to give the man a long, dry look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’,” said the guard as he opened the door. “If they haven’t told you yet, I don’t wanna spoil the surprise. Haven’t seen a science team member yet who didn’t fall in love with their new present just as soon as they got it.”

“Present?” Alarm bells were going off in Gordon’s head.

“Yep. You’ll see- and I’ll see you on the firing range.”

“The- wait, what?” Gordon shoved his glasses back into place. “Hey!”

But the unmarked door had locked behind the guard. Gordon stared at it in frustration, then turned away. This was not a promising start to-

“Mr. Freeman?” It was a woman’s voice coming over the PA speakers. “You’re just in time. Please take the green door directly to your left.”

Definitely not a promising start. The industrial walkway that stretched into half-lit shadows on the other side did nothing to assuage the worries rising at the back of his mind. Putting the worst of it aside, he stepped forward.

The door closed behind Gordon with a click of suspicious finality.

This is insane, thought Gordon, following the catwalk towards the only possible conclusion- a dimly lit platform up ahead. What kind of safety orientation is this? Where’s everybody else? Don’t they have other people who need training today, too? Shouldn’t someone be meeting me? I admit, there’s no way for me to get off this catwalk without jumping- He paused, peering over the railing for a moment. -I can’t even tell how far, but still, this isn’t how you treat new people at a secure facility-

On the platform up ahead, lights started switching on, and a woman’s form flickered into translucent life. Her hair was pulled up tightly in a bun, and she wore an orange and grey suit of some kind of armor. ”Welcome to the Black Mesa Hazard Course,” she said, her expression a long-practiced, reassuring smile, ”where you will be trained in the use of the Hazardous Environment Suit. I am your holographic assistant.”

“. . . “

He hadn’t expected that.

”Let’s begin by stepping into your suit.” she continued as a door slid open behind her. ”You can see it suspended up ahead. If you require assistance, press one of the console buttons, and I will appear to assist you.”

Gordon could no more have resisted moving forward than he could’ve held back the rising of the sun. Whatever he had expected, this wasn’t it; but whatever was happening now was of so much more importance. . .

It was there, all right. Up ahead, in a display case that slid open at his approach. The same armor the holographic image had worn, but solid and real- very solid, he discovered as he rapped his knuckles against the lambda painted on the chest plate. He couldn’t identify the material it was made of, but he doubted that mattered. This was protection of the highest kind for everything from throat to toes, the kind of armor that made the stuff he wore on the downhill trails look like strategically painted cardboard by comparison. Gordon had very little doubt that it could stand up to punishments the human body could only dream of taking. And they expect me to wear this . . .

He should have been worried, he realized in a dim, distant sort of way, but the prospect only made him want to laugh. How could he not? He was being handed a piece of a Heinlein vision made real! The worrying would come later. For now, he had a suit to put on- and, he had no doubt, a whole lot of serious science ahead of him. You didn’t wear a suit like that just to push buttons and wash bottles, after all.

Gordon starts at Black Mesa tomorrow.

Technically he’s already there. He finished moving his possessions into the employee dormitory in Sector C earlier today. But that’s different, that’s just the location and not the job, not the action, not the part where he finally gets to do real research again-

(He’s picking his way along an exceptionally narrow trail up to the top of one of the more promising-looking rock formations, one hand firmly gripping the Mongol’s handlebars. Carrying a forty-five pound bicycle over one shoulder’s just asking for trouble, and it’s not geared for pedaling up a trail this steep. But there isn’t a better downhill mountain bike made in the United States. On a day like this he needs something to bleed the nervous, anticipatory energy off. The country around Black Mesa’s practically made for a downhill racer’s dreams, as lumpy and narrow and challenging as any rider could ask for.)

The climate’s cold up here, and windy right now. Nothing like Boston, where he’s been since the doctorate, but it’s still cold. January’s January, he guesses, no matter where you go.

That won’t matter, starting tomorrow. Not much, anyway. Black Mesa’s underground, mostly, and whatever isn’t underground is still so tightly climate-controlled that it might as well be a Fremen sietch. Sixty-eight to seventy-two degrees, across the board, and the humidity adjusted locally to reflect whatever the most suitable balance point is between human comfort and experimental equipment’s needs. The staff only gets subjected to the environment around them when it’s absolutely necessary, or when they choose to do so. Otherwise? It’s all under control.

Which has its perks, definitely, but sometimes. . .

(The trail is exceptionally narrow here, barely as wide as his feet are long. He’s ridden narrower before, but seldom with such a steep drop-off on one side. If he misses the curves in the trail on his way down he’ll be lucky if Black Mesa searching parties ever find what’s left of him without the use of a helicopter.)

Well.

(It’s a chance worth taking.)

The way Gordon sees it, control is absolutely vital to science. The importance of individual variables, each in their own time and category, can’t possibly be determined without it. Keep it tight, keep it neat, keep it precise and in line. Then you can test to your heart’s content, and you can make sure every individual piece of your hypothesis is correct- or you can correct it if it doesn’t match the observed data. And then- and this is the part he’s pretty sure even Dr. Kleiner forgets sometimes- then you can take that beautiful, polished, magnificently sound experimental procedure of yours and see what happens when all the perfect parts get thrown in the path of oncoming reality.

(There’s a spot where the trail widens, a few meters short of the top. Moving the Mongol up a trail like this is hard work. It’s a fair place for catching his breath. He glances down and to the left, and for a moment the plummeting rockface below him puts him in mind of the display in Milliways, if only in terms of scale.)

Because that’s the thing. Pure science is exactly that. Pure. There’s nothing in the world that’s genuinely pure unless it’s forced to be so. There’s always something unforeseen. There’s always entropy. The real world is one anomaly after another, irregularities stacking up and interfering with one another. It’s the sum of a million contradictory histories in every second. And once you’ve got your beautiful science down pat, it’s got to be able to account for that, for all of that, or it’s not going to do anyone any good at all.

Tomorrow he starts in the Anomalous Materials lab. One variable at a time, one test, one element. Then the next, and the next, and who knows how many others after that, and then-

(To the top, now, and no more putting it off.)

There’ll be practical applications eventually. There’ll be real-world testing. And if the pure science to which he and the people he’ll be working with have dedicated their lives so far is worth anything at all, it’ll make a difference. Even if it only starts off in quantum computing, his dreams of teleportation will be that one step closer to being genuinely real.

The thought alone is enough to set his palms to sweating, even in the January chill. Gordon pulls off his gloves and wipes his hands on his thighs before taking one last look around him.

(Forgiveness is a human thing. Neither the obscurest quantum principles nor the end of universes will extend it to you if you fail; nor gravity, neither, it’s all one and the same-)

The world around him blurs into a vast streak of brown and blue and white as he and the bike rocket down the trail he’s just so arduously climbed.

It’s worth it.

Room 117, Sea Shell Motel
Espanola, NM

"-handed him my bottle and he drank down my last swallow.
Then he bummed a cigarette and asked me for a light.
And the night got deathly quiet, and his face lost all expression.
Said, "If you're gonna play the game, boy-"

The phone rang. A swat, a grab, the act of sitting up from where he'd been stretched out on the motel bed-

"Freeman here."

"Gordon, my boy!" He exhaled; it was Dr. Kleiner's voice. "And here I thought you'd have been out hitting the trails on that bicycle of yours. You did bring it with you, didn't you?"

Gordon's gaze flickered across the room to where he'd propped up the Mongol. "I wanted to wait for the news," was his only answer. He tried to keep most of the you do have an answer for me, don't you? vibe out of his voice.

On the other end of the line, Dr. Kleiner chuckled. "Ever the practical one," his voice said. "Well, all righty, then. I won't keep you waiting any longer. You're hired- over Magnusson's objections, of course, but you are hired. You'll be starting at Black Mesa as a research associate in two weeks' time. I'll e-mail you the information on moving into the complex- that's more or less mandatory, of course, it's only the very most senior staff who don't have to live here."

It'd come up in the interview, so Gordon only nodded and murmured something assenting.

"Excellent. I am looking forward to working with you again, Gordon. I always thought you showed incredible potential."

Gordon's lips twitched in something like a smile. "Thanks," he said. "I appreciate it."

"Right, then! See you in two weeks' time."

The phone made a quiet click! in its cradle. The radio got picked up from the floor and resettled on the nightstand. And the Oak Ridge Boys got the honor of drowning out Gordon Freeman's whoop of unadulterated glee.