Certainly no one making an informed decision would choose to participate in a drug trial with a 94 percent failure rate and an 83 percent prevalence of drug-related side effects. Executives’ suppression of this information effectively stole participants’ free will—their ability to choose for themselves based on the facts of reality. Humans often misrepresent the truth in order to manipulate the choices of others.
“Ted, what are you thinking about?” asks Dave from the head of the conference table. I snap back to the moment and scan the half dozen faces of the Fosillix trial task force. Assembled to strategize in the wake of the trial’s fiasco, I made sure to be selected for a seat. Admittedly, it wasn’t a competitive process. Most employees are doing everything they can to distance themselves from Fosillix, some even requesting transfers and resigning when they get denied.
“Sorry, what was that, Dave?”
“I asked what you think about the plan,” he says, gesturing to the PowerPoint slide on the monitor behind him.
Public Relations Recovery Plan
• Exaggerate trial success through flattering statistical analysis
• Downplay severity and frequency of side effects
• Attribute widespread peripheral side effects to patients’ poor health
• Imply that the trial’s 5% mortality rate is traceable to patients’ underlying conditions
“I think we need to go back to the drawing board.”
“Ted…YOU’RE HILARIOUS,” bellows Dave, and his flunkies chuckle in compliance. “In all seriousness, the drawing board is not an option. If we can’t make it to market well before the patent expires, we’ll never make back our costs. Our only hope then would be lining doctors’ pockets to make sure they prescribe Fosillix instead of the generic, but that’s a losing battle. We need IDEAS! Do you all like having jobs?”
The bobble heads around the table nod mindlessly.
“We’ve spent seven years and over five billion dollars in research and development. People have died testing this drug so that others can one day enjoy a healthier life. Failure is not an option. Let’s reconvene in two days. I have another meeting in an hour.” Dave gathers his notes, places them in a file folder, and slides it back into his briefcase. “Ted, I need to talk to you. Walk with me to my office.”
I stand from my chair, gather my notes, and hustle to get ahead of Dave. He loathes the copious time wasted moving from point to point, so whenever he's on the move he hurries and he multitasks. Outside, I stand near the door with a view down the main hall. On the left side, at the far end, is the supply closet where I left Joel about an hour ago. I turn to check on Dave, who should’ve bolted past me by now, and watch as he gets caught in the web of chatterbox Terry. Twisting back to the main hall, I catch a glimpse of Joel at the far end trudging from the supply closet to the stairwell. His sowing is complete, and we now await the results.
Dave, a medium man in every way—medium age, medium height, medium build, medium brown hair, and medium green eyes—manages to make shockingly quick work of Terry and escape in under two minutes. His nature is complicated. He believes his statement about lives being lost and patients having a healthier future, but he ignored the warnings he and the other executives received from the research team that the drug wasn’t ready for trial and could be lethal for some. This troublesome fact makes him the reason that those patients died. Painting them as martyrs eases Dave’s conscience, or at least what’s left of it.
“Ted, follow me,” Dave blurts as he jets through the door and toward his office.
“What did you want to talk about, Dave?” I ask, surprised that he hasn’t already begun. Conversations with Dave typically require little more than nods and mm-hmms from those being talked at.
“Have you seen Joel?” His question lands like a gut punch. Does he know? He continues, “I sent him to get me a notebook this morning and I haven’t seen him since. He was supposed to be at that damn meeting.”
I guardedly reply, “Yes. I had a conversation with him in the supply room. He was still in there when I left.”
No lies, but I am forbidden from revealing anything about my species to a human unless it’s during a sowing. The neurological strain of the sowing causes the loss of roughly an hour of memory prior to the implantation of the seed. Whatever is said during that time is of no consequence.
“Alright,” Dave says, “well I need you to track him down. He was more squirrely than usual this morning and I want to make sure he’s not getting itchy about all this Fosillix stuff. Did he seem normal to you?”
“He looked a little frazzled, but mostly normal for Joel. I don’t think you have anything to worry about from him,” I say, comforting my future target.
“Did he say anything about the drug trial? I don’t need him having some crisis of conscience.” This question comes as we pass the open door of the CEO’s corner office. Jan is at her desk, pen in hand over a short stack of documents, but her upright posture and leering, hazel eyes latch onto me as I pass, giving me an unpleasant notion, the same one I felt before the deadly accident.
“TED, I asked you a question,” barks Dave impatiently. “What is wrong with you today?”
The same thing as every other day: I’d rather live inside my own head than out here with all these humans. I miss my farmhouse. I miss solitude.
“I apologize. I caught Jan’s glare as we walked past and I could almost feel the daggers.”
“That’s how she’s been with everybody these days. It’s not personal,” Dave assumes, but I know better.
We turn through the door to Dave’s office and he takes the position of authority behind his desk. He leans forward onto his hands, fingers splayed open on the desk. His eyes repeat his question about Joel.
“To answer your question, Joel didn’t say anything about the trial,” I reply. But a crisis of conscience is precisely what Joel is having.
Dave pauses in thought. The sharp ring of his office phone shatters the silence, startling both of us.
“Keep an eye on him; let me know if he’s getting weird. And when you see him, tell him I need a word.” Dave’s tone makes it clear that the “word” will be a tongue lashing, something Joel has certainly grown accustomed to by now. His leathery backside endured plenty more punishment than he actually earned, but such was his lot as the lapdog.
Dave answers the call on speaker and as I turn to leave his office, I hear the frantic voice of his secretary.
“Sir, we have a serious situation that you…OH MY GOD, HE’S JUMPING!”
My head yanks back to see Dave’s bewildered face looking straight at me. Over his shoulder, through his wall of windows, I see Joel’s body plummet past on the way to his concrete doom twelve floors below. Dave immediately reads my horrified expression and vaults to the window in time to see Joel shrink away to a sudden stop. He turns to me, face ghastly and pale.
“That was…was that Joel?” he asks in disbelief. “Could you see?”
I nod, damming the emotional blitz in my throat. Dave slowly returns his gaze to the expanding spectacle below. Red and blue lights approach from several blocks away. Quietly, I slide through the door and move swiftly to the nearest restroom.
Once through the door, I race to a stall just in time to empty my guts. The violent heaving feels deserved; a minute penance considering my role in Joel’s suicide. My distaste for humanity does little to relieve the burden of my calling. But, in reality, I do nothing more than facilitate an awakening to their invisible slavery and their enslavement of others. What happens next is a product of the individual’s transgressions, their own victimization, and their will to live.
Joel’s case serves as a timely example. Three years ago, he engaged in a summer-long affair with Brittany, one of Pentastar’s interns. Joel knew that his wife would leave him if she discovered his transgression, so he lied. In lying, he stripped her of her ability to choose whether or not to stay in the marriage and work through their problems. He controlled t
he narrative, thereby controlling her and taking away her ability to choose whether or not to remain his wife. She was his captive for three years.
This reality, among innumerable others, haunted Joel in the darkness of the sowing. Facedown on the floor of the supply room, his mind was bombarded with the truth. The impact of every lie he told and every lie told to him afflicted his spirit and eroded his will. He saw the way his lies influenced others’ decisions and he saw how his freedom was stolen by the lies of others. He likely saw a far more fulfilling life that failed to materialize because deceit had redirected his path. Perhaps nothing weighed heavier than his role here at Pentastar.
As the VP’s stooge, he was often tasked with the dirty work. When documents required “accidental” typos that conveniently hid unflattering data, he was their guy. When palms needed greasing, pockets needed lining, and squeaky wheels needed silencing, Joel eagerly obliged. He’d do anything to please his superiors in the hope of advancing his career, no matter how wrong he knew it was.
A final heave surges through my core, forcefully erupting from my esophagus. Refreshed, I wipe my face, flush the toilet, and wash up before returning to the hall. As the door closes behind me, a vivid and unsettling sensation invades my nerves, stopping me in my tracks. My head pans right to see Jan standing in her office doorway. She says nothing, but her contemptuous glare violates my senses. In this still moment, time has stopped, my skin is translucent, and I am exposed.
Behind me, the stairwell door suddenly swings open with a metallic clunk. Four uniformed police officers enter the hall and divert Jan’s gaze. She steps forward to meet them, and I seize the opportunity to escape to the relative security of my office, not that the glass walls do much to shield me from Jan’s vision. It’s remarkable that a building with so much glass can hide so many secrets.
Sitting in my office, I contemplate the decadence of these halls. How many lives have been ruined to build this empire; how many souls forfeited? These humans feed on the desperation of the needy. The only thing more lucrative than providing cures is creating an ongoing dependency. Titans of industry and governing officials have developed a system that continually rewards them as the masses eat from their hands.
None of this would be possible without lies. Pride is considered by some to be the first sin, committed by Lucifer, who thought himself to be greater than God. However, the origin of his pride was his belief in a lie, the lie that he outshined his creator.
I am part of an ancient people who have lived undetected for millennia. Since before recorded history, we have coexisted with mankind and been called many names. The early Hebrew and Muslim people called us Nephilim, Gibborim, and Rephaim, the offspring of angels and women. The Greeks and Romans thought of us as demigods, the offspring of gods and women. Neither of these are exactly correct, but both suffice for a primitive understanding of our nature. As for our mission, we serve as keepers and guardians of truth. We see and sense the truth, and when it has become distorted beyond recognition, we intervene.
I was summoned to be a reckoning to this place, and Joel was the beginning of their end.
CHAPTER THREE
Being a divine guardian of truth while sworn to secrecy is the type of paradox that’s destined to lead to a catch-22. Should I reach that fork in the road, cornered by an inescapable question, I’ll be left with two routes forward. When I imagine that moment, the road on my right is asphalt, potholed and crumbling from centuries of neglect. Above it hangs a sign, stained yellow and bubbled with rust. Its message reads Divulge the Truth of the Nephilim’s Existence in faded letters. This option, appealing in its virtue but nevertheless rife with consequence, would at least preserve my commitment to truth. I don’t know of any Nephilim who have chosen this route. In contrast, the road to my left has a smoothly paved and lightly worn concrete surface, well maintained with the tolls of forfeited souls. A bright green sign, adorned in flashing lights and fresh white lettering hangs above it and reads Lie to Protect Your Secret. The appeal of this option is the lack of immediate consequences, but the intangible cost is excruciating.
I’ve never been closer to facing that choice than I am right now. Joel’s death could trigger a line of questioning that stretches my ability to protect both the truth and my secret. This isn’t the first time that a sowing of mine has resulted in suicide, but in the past I have been tasked to deal with only one target in any given operation. Tackling an entire organization like Pentastar Pharmaceuticals requires me to stay put until the research, planning, and targeting of each evil agent is complete, which greatly increases my risk of exposure.
Dave, my next target, is walking toward my office with the police. Faintly, I hear him say, “Yeah, he’s there in his office.” He gestures my direction and the officers turn toward my open door. They file in as I stand to greet them with the proper portions of warmth and solemnity.
The closest officer reaches out, saying, “Hello, sir. My name is Sergeant Drake and this is Officer Lewis.”
“Ted Verity, head of Pentastar’s quality assurance department,” I say, extending my arm and shaking his hand. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, Ted, Dave was just telling us that you talked to Joel this morning. We just want to ask you a few questions about that conversation and see what you can tell us about his behavior,” says Sergeant Drake in a most disarming tone. The smoothness of his voice belies the intensity in his eyes. He’s on a mission and is quite possibly always on a mission, even during an errand to the supermarket or while watching a child’s soccer game.
“I’d be glad to help. I knew Joel pretty well. What would you like to know?”
“We’re sorry for your loss and to have to do this so soon, but it’s best that this is done while things are still fresh in everyone’s memory.”
He has mistaken my knowledge of Joel to mean fondness for him, although I imagine it’s department policy to display such tact and courtesy. Apparently young Officer Lewis missed that day in obedience school. He reaches into my bowl of individually wrapped mints and fumbles noisily with the packaging before popping one into his mouth. He flicks it around with his tongue, clacking it against his teeth, before he notices Drake’s perturbed glare.
“I apologize for him. Just think of him as an overgrown child,” Drake spits without breaking his glare.
“It’s no problem, that’s what they’re for,” I reply with a gracious head bow.
“What time did you see Joel this morning?” he asks as he withdraws a small notepad from his back pocket. He clicks out his pen tip and looks me dead in the eyes as I contemplate the question.
“I saw him as soon as I stepped off the elevator this morning. I’m here at eight most days, but I had a survey scheduled first thing this morning, so I went straight to our production facility. I did the survey and got here a few minutes before nine. I saw Joel walking down the main hallway on his way to the supply room.”
“And this conversation you two had, did that happen in the hallway?” inquires Drake, though his tone betrays that he already knows the answer.
“No, I followed him to the supply room so I could talk to him in private.”
Sergeant Drake prods, “Tell me about that conversation.”
“I confronted him about an issue I had with his misrepresentation of information.”
“What kind of information?”
“All kinds of information. He was a dishonest person who regularly lied in his personal and professional life. I told him that I knew about his lies and challenged him to face the truth,” I respond calmly, despite Drake’s increasingly invasive questions.
It would bring me great joy to elaborate on the specifics of Joel's lies. The declaration of truth brings with it a feeling of freedom, of weightlessness, of relief. The people of Pentastar deserve to be held accountable for their crimes, but an investigation would only hinder my purposes. Once I have dealt with those most deserving of a sowing, the police can root out the remaining corruption.
“Not especially, I simply needed to set the record straight. I left him in the supply room to examine his life choices.”
“Did the two of you have a physical altercation?”
“No.”
“So, you did not make physical contact with him at all?”
“Again, no, I did not. I don’t understand why that question is necessary,” I assert as I intensify my gaze deep into Sergeant Drake’s skull. It can be extraordinarily taxing to submit to the authority of human beings. Moments like this take me to my limit.
He studies my face closely and says, “Another employee found Joel on the floor of the supply room around ten o’clock, shortly before he jumped.”
“I didn’t know that,” I succinctly respond. At this point I see no benefit in volunteering more information than necessary to answer his questions. He clearly has some suspicions about my possible role in Joel’s death and providing unnecessary details could serve to further fuel his speculation.
“He was unconscious. When he came to, he couldn’t remember what happened,” states Drake. He pauses, still studying my face, looking for a twitch, hoping that I panic as he awaits my response. I give none.
It is exceedingly rare that I find humans worthy of respect. Commonly, even those who choose noble professions are dishonest and do so for the wrong reasons. The purest of intentions stand little chance against systematic abuse and corruption, leading the best people to jump ship and the worst people to embrace their darkest nature.
Police service, being a noble profession, demonstrates this polarizing effect more than any other. The best officers truly give their all to fight a seemingly unwinnable battle while the worst embrace the evil they feel powerless to subdue. They wield their badge as a weapon, empowering themselves as oppressors, and they disparage the profession as a whole.
Verity Rising (Gods of Deceit Book 1) Page 2