Blackwater (Dr. Karesevdas) Ep. VII
Dr. Karasevdas contemplates
Dr. Karasevdas stared into his reflection, down into the Blackwater fissure. He ran his tongue along his teeth. Rosario Allende, he thought, well, now she was allende1. Karasevdas released an airy laugh through his nose at his own joke.
He reached up and grabbed the ballpoint pen buried in the side of his neck. With a grunt, he yanked it free and threw it aside. It clattered on the metal floor. He pressed a hand to the flesh and it came away clean.
Much to be expected.
With another glance toward the waters—not totally still—Karasevdas exited the small room. He passed Jack Osborne’s prone form. He’d proven much more useful than anticipated.
Initially, when the computers picked up the inconsistencies in Osborne’s identification, Karasevdas thought about disposing of the agent. How glad he was that things took another path. Now he had access to a great deal of the bi-product and a seemingly permanent fissure to boot. He’d need to send some divers on an exploratory mission into its depths.
Staff paused and bowed their heads as he passed; a king in his grand hall. Karasevdas ignored them all.
He entered his office. High-resolution screens presented themselves as windows, lit so that it appeared to be noon despite the lateness of the hour. It served a purpose. Karasevdas did not own a watch, nor permitted any clocks in this area. Time, he felt, limited his progress.
He took a seat in a rather uncomfortable 21st century chair. It was German-made, of course. Swiveling toward the desk, he peered down at what had been laid neatly out by his secretary.
His perfect nose wrinkled at the first report. “KIETH CLINTON2”, it said, “MEDICAL REPORT AND ANALYSIS BY PRESIDING DOCTOR, SAMWELL PLEASANCE.” It was comfortable in the building since the disappearance of that insufferable man.
He tossed it aside and eyed the transparent cupboard opposite. A small yellow-labeled bottle sat half empty. The pills inside were small and possessed a chalky green color.
Karasevdas drummed his fingers. Was it time for another dose? he wondered.
The phone rang.
He snatched the receiver up in a tighter-than-necessary grip. “What?” hissed Karasevdas.
“We’re having a problem at the Virginia lab3,” whispered the man. His voice carried a slight tremor. “There’s an intruder on the property.”
“Deal with it.”
He didn’t bother to wait for a response before replacing the phone.
Sweat beaded on his upper lip. He swiped it with the back of his hand and then passed the same hand through his jet-black hair. Everything was uncomfortable these days. People were drawing ever nearer to the holy grain. Karasevdas did not want to share.
Karasevdas composed himself and continued through his paperwork.
He noted Rosario’s face in black and white, clipped neatly to a tall stack of papers. It was a pity he couldn’t track the woman’s journey in the Undertow. That would’ve made for interesting discoveries. Ah, well. What was done was done.
Karasevdas continued to browse Allende’s file, pausing over a small note. He plucked a name from the paragraph:
ISAAC PARK - ‘MUTE ASSASSIN’
STATUS: TERMINATED
It revealed little, so he replaced it.
There came a knock on his door.
“Come in,” called Karasevdas.
Chairman Horus Bernthal entered the room. He was a ruddy-faced man and quite tall, with little weight behind his frame.
He promptly crossed into Karasevdas’s office and took a seat without invitation. “I would like to know how we have two federal agents in our facility,” he demanded. “And then I want you to tell me why the hell I heard it in the breakroom?”
Karasevdas suppressed a smile. No manners, this one. “Would you, now?”
Bernthal wagged a surprisingly thick finger. “Don’t fuckin’ play games with me, doctor.”
Neatly, Karasevdas laced his fingers upon his desk. “One lies asleep in Blackwater. The other fell through a fissure.”
The chairman stared. “I’m sorry, did you say an agent fell through a fissure?”
“I did.”
“How? They’re not big enough.”
Karasevdas inspected a hangnail on his otherwise perfect hands. “This one was. Funnily enough, it belonged to her colleague.”
Slowly, Bernthal leaned back in his seat. “We should put a grate over the… pool, I suppose.”
“I’d recommend it.”
“Has anyone told Daria4?”
Karasevdas’s black eyes flicked toward Bernthal’s. “Now, why on earth would we do a thing like that?”
Bernthal met his gaze. Meanwhile, his hands fluttered from the armrests of his chair to his lap. “I don’t know, doctor. I think we should think about slowing down accepting subjects if we’re having that sort of trouble.”
There was no immediate answer from Karasevdas.
Reaching into his breast pocket, Bernthal procured a cigarette and lighter. He did not ask for permission. He lit the end and stuck it between his teeth. “You think she’ll—that agent—be able to crawl back out?”
“No.”
Bernthal waited for Karasevdas to explain, but the doctor did not. Instead, Karasevdas changed the subject. “We have a lot of Blackwater to mine for our shareholders through the second one,” he said.
Bernthal leaned close, exhaling smoke. “Are we sure that’s what we should do? We’re losing staff and volunteers left and right.”
Karasevdas raised his eyebrows. “Chairman Bernthal, are you aware what happens if someone pauses their Blackwater prescription?”
“You mean the volunteers?”
“No, although the after effects for them have their own dangers,” he answered. “Subjects ingest pure Blackwater. I won’t bother you with the details of that. Our pills, the cure, on the other hand; contains the biproduct of their submersion. It is a fluid secreted by our subjects. Once mined, it is converted—”
“Don’t patronize me, Karasevdas,” snapped Bernthal. “I’m well aware of what goes on here.
Karasevdas flashed brilliant teeth. “Then you should know we are struggling to maintain a ban of the bi-product from our staff. Do you know why?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The biproduct is, unfortunately, quite addictive.”
Karasevdas flicked a hologram on and turned it so that Bernthal could see. He gestured. “This young woman has been on Blackwater for about three months. Couldn’t resist, I suppose.”
In the video, a young nurse was crouching by a patient’s bed. There was no sound.
Bernthal scowled. “What is she doing?”
“Watch.”
Another nurse passed. The first woman followed. She crawled on all fours, scurrying like a wild animal.
Bernthal’s jaw slackened.
Moments later, the first woman (now upright) returned. Her scrubs were soaked a brilliant scarlet. Her face lifted toward the camera.
Bernthal recoiled slightly. “What the hell?” he breathed.
On her face was a white mask. It was devoid of emotion. Dark shadows sat where her eyes should have been. the mouth was slightly open, gaping toward the camera as if she knew that the two men were watching.
Karasevdas halted the recording and shut the holograph down. “That, chairman, is what happens when you take away the Blackwater supply,” he said. “Pure, unadulterated madness. I haven’t had the opportunity to analyze these side-effects in detail. Most of the victims disappear into a fissure before I can get my hands on them. The one subject I obtained wasn’t… whole. So far, I’ve managed to determine significant deposits of glutamate and gamma-aminobutyric acid and inflammation in the orbitofrontal and anterior cingulate cortexes.” He paused and sniffed. “That is, they’re showing significant signs of obsession when they didn’t before.”
“Then, we should shut this whole project down!”
Karasevdas leaned back in his seat, perplexed. “Why?” His tone revealed the question’s genuine nature. “All we have to do is mitigate the danger. We need a follow up medication to balance these effects.”
“Robert, this is not a small downside. This isn’t PTSD kooks jumping from bridges. I don’t mind helping out there, keeping… that under wraps. This isn’t the same. There’s something wrong here.”
As Bernthal spoke, the doctor nodded in understanding. He reached into his desk and rummaged through the top drawer. “I hear you.”
“Do you?”
“I do, but I assure you this can be controlled.”
“It’s not worth it. We need to end things. I’m pulling the plug.”
Karasevdas paused, looking over his desk with a sad sort of gleam in his eye. “Are you certain?”
Bernthal dabbed his brow. “Yeah… yeah, I am.”
There was a click as a handgun’s hammer pulled back. “I’m sorry you see it that way,” Karasevdas said.
To be continued…
Spanish for “on the other side”
Chambers' misadventure is now canon? Heck yeah! Also, a good reminder that I need to finish that out at some point.
GREAT installment. Really enjoyed getting a good look inside Dr. K's psyche and motivations.
This is awesome. I haven't been following much, so I've missed a few but you make it easy to catch up with the footnotes. Good work!