had succeeded, they'd have sent someone by now. Too bad, really; he's probably still waiting...
The thought was an uncomfortable one, conjuring hazy images of redness and heat, of prone bodies in the manic summer sun and later, the thunder of waves in the dark. He promptly buried the visions, remind- ing himself that it was in the past. Besides, he'd only done what was necessary. Griffith walked back inside, smoothing his wind- blown hair as he moved down the spiral staircase. His shoes clattered against the metal steps, creating a pleasant echo effect in the tall chamber. Having the facility to himself made everything pleasant, and he'd come to enjoy the little things-eating what he wanted, when he wanted, working his own hours, his mornings atop the lighthouse. Before, he'd been crowded, forced to adhere to schedules that seemed designed to undercut creativity. Meal times, work times, sleep times... how could a man breathe, think, flourish in such conditions? He'd suffered for so long, sat through endless meetings listening to the small-minded drivel of his "colleagues" as they'd raved over Birkin's T-Virus. They'd slaved to come up with the Trisquads for Umbrella and had been deliriously happy with the results, apparently forget- ting their failure with the Ma7s. They were unable to see past their own arrogance to a bigger picture. As if the Trisquads are anything more than bodies with guns. Useful as guards, but hardly brilliant. Hardly important. Although he'd worked not to let it go to his head, Griffith allowed himself a single moment of pride as he reached the bottom of the stairs and started for the exit. He'd seen the T-Virus for what it really was-a crude but effective platform for something far greater. He'd isolated the proteins, reorganized the nucleocap- sid's envelope to allow for variables in infective capacity, and created an answer, the answer to the blight that the human race had become. A solution without violence or suffering. Smiling, he stepped through the door into the cool shadow of the lighthouse, the crash of breaking waves at his back as he walked toward the dormitory build- ing. He'd already synthesized an airborne, and had enough of it to infect most of North America. As the virus spread, evolution would take its rightful place, the weak of spirit falling beneath those of truer instincts. And when it was over, the sun would rise over a very different world, inhabited by peaceful people of character and will.
Take away a man's ability to choose, his mind becomes free, a blank, clean slate. With training, he becomes a pet; without, he becomes an animal, as harmless and serenely simple as a mouse. Cover the world with such animals, and only the strong sur-vive...
He stepped into the dorm's rec room and turned on the lights, still smiling. His doctors were right where he'd left them, sitting at the meeting table, eyes closed. Ideally, he'd run through the tests with un- trained subjects, but the three men would have to suffice. They'd been infected with the strain he would release, and were closest to what the world would become in a few days.
My pets. My children.
Besides the research laboratory, the cove facility was designed to train bio-weapons like the Trisquads or Ma7s-but also to measure use of logic in the humanoid subjects. In the bunkers there were a num- ber of items he could use, from the simplest of peg tests to complex puzzles for those subjects capable of higher functioning. He doubted his doctors would be able to manage even the red series, but watching their reactions would provide valuable insight, particularly the tests where there was a pressure factor.
They think, but can't make decisions. They function, but not without input. How will they fare, without my guiding hand?
As he approached the table, Dr. Athens opened his eyes, perhaps to see if there was a threat coming. Of the three, Tom Athens was the strongest, the most likely to survive on his own; he'd been one of the be- havior specialists. In fact, he'd come up with the three-unit team idea, the Trisquad, insisting that the infected units would work more efficiently in small groups. He'd been right. Doctors Thurman and Kinneson remained still and Griffith noticed a foul smell coming from one of them. Scowling, he looked down, his suspicion con- firmed by the wetness on Dr. Thurman's pants.
He shit himself. Again.
Griffith felt a sudden, almost overwhelming pity for Thurman, but it was quickly replaced by