Author's Note: Woah, holy crap, I've finally finished it! It's odd how short a story seems when you plot it in your head, and yet, when you get writing it, it somehow turns into a full length novel. This is the fourth story in my 'Our Name Is Legion' sequence, but it is a prequel to 'Saving Private Soldierbot'. Even so, I'd recommend you read them in the order they have been published.

I dedicate this story to Ikcsi, or possibly blame her for it, since it's been a massive time sink! She once asked me what would make a Spy agree to be a Medic's test subject. That made this plot pop into my head. I sometimes worry about the way my brain works.

As always, I've completely written the story already. I like to publish after I've finished writing. The final story is 101k words long and thirty-six chapters. I'll be updating on Saturday and Wednesdays. I can't illustrate this one in sfm, alas, because I don't have the models I need. I'll do some artwork for it though. You can find it under 'sanctuscecidit' at deviantart.

This story is slightly different to the others in this sequence, because I've gone up a notch in terms of scientific realism. The various technobabble in this story is all based on solid scientific evidence. And if that doesn't scare you, nothing will...

The Shadow On The Reef

Prologue: Where Do We Start?

"When we are no longer able to change a situation - we are challenged to change ourselves."

- Victor E. Frankl

Peru, July 1972

The stark room looked like it should be cold, but it was actually sticky and hot. Sweat dripped off the two people present, but had no chance to evaporate in that joyless, airless space.

The room had no windows, and bleak brick walls. No carpet, either. It was not empty, though- it had a central chair. This chair had no padding. This chair was bolted to the floor, and it had leather straps. This was not a comfortable chair for a nice afternoon's nap. Many people had been driven to despair and insanity in that chair.

Its current unfortunate occupant squirmed and writhed, trying to choke back a scream of agony as the figure stalked around him, pliers at the ready.

"Zhe matris unguis at zhe base of the nail is rich vizh endings, so..." There was a pause, a gasp and a smothered grunt. "Removing fingernails is...excruciating. As you can see. Zhis is actually razher exciting! I vonder how vell chemical burns vould vork?"

"Enough." Another voice grunted. There was a slight moan and a sigh.

"Zhe art of torture lies in producing zhe maximum pain vizh zhe minimum damage," The voice recited, as if reading from a book. There was a pause and a stifled scream. "Ja, ja..." The voice was breathless and went rather more high-pitched. "Zhere goes anozher fingernail. At least zhey grow back, eh?"

"So cheerful," The other man spat back.

"Vell, zhis is new for me. I'm not trained in interrogation or torture, you see. A new experience, ja?" There was a meaty thump, a gurgle and a bubbling cough. "Now...zhat was less refined. So, are you going to tell me how you found out about us?"

"Will you just shut up!" The man snapped back.

Medic Erwin spat out a blood clot indignantly. "Vhat? I thought you vanted me to talk. So I'm talking!"

Davi threw his tools down in exasperation and ran a bloody hand through his short-cropped dark hair. He had been given a list of questions to ask this prisoner, but so far, he had got no answers even though the man never stopped talking! He couldn't even tell if it was a deliberate anti-interrogation tactic or just plain insanity.

Davi was a torturer, but, he felt, he wasn't a bad man. Not really. He loved his wife of ten years and his two kids (another one on the way). It wasn't that he particularly enjoyed inflicting pain- he wasn't a sadist. Sadists made bad torturers- they got too...enthusiastic. It was a delicate art and he had always had an eye for detail. It had been tough at first, but he had got used to it, and it kept his family fed and sheltered. He even took a sort of bitter pride in his job. This 'client', though, was...disturbing. He found himself considering other careers, but asking for a new job would probably mean his death. That was how things worked on the coca plantations.

"You enjoy this!" He said, glaring at the German doctor in the chair.

"Of course I don't!" The man huffed and winced as blood dribbled from his split lip. Davi knew for a fact he had two broken ribs as well as the utterly mangled arm. "It is absolutely agonising. I am just interested to see vhat techniques you use to cause pain. What is wrong vizh zhat?"

"Everything!" He threw his pliers down in frustration. He ground his teeth together, feeling the start of a headache. English was not his native language and it was making this session twice as difficult as it would otherwise be. "Maybe I stop, hmm? You like that?"

"Ja, a rest vould be nice," Erwin replied unconcernedly. "I've not had much sleep recently. Or maybe I could have some water?"

"You have water when you talk," Davi told him. The man squirmed and sighed. He certainly didn't look like he was enjoying it- he was pale and panting for breath with dark circles around his eyes- but it was as if he simply didn't care about physical discomfort. "Tell me how your Institute found us."

"Hmm...no. I don't zhink I can tell you zhat." the man craned over to look at the torturer. "You could try pulling my teeth out. Zhat's a common technique. Ooh! You have some clips over zhere. How about applying electrodes to zhe g..."

"No. This not working. So, here what I do: You help us, you get sleep. Water. Or, you not help, and you die. You tell us when ready to talk, yes?" Yes, this should work- these Europeans couldn't take the humid heat of the lower Andes. He'd be softened up when he got dehydrated. Davi could wait. He swallowed. He just hoped Carmine would be willing to wait, too.

"Zhat isn't going to happen," the man said with a derisive snort. He coughed softly. "And if I die, you vill be in a lot of trouble. A lot of trouble."

I will be in even more if this doesn't go right. Davi thought, but he knew he had no choice.

This whole situation was a horrible mess. Carmine had been thrilled with their three prisoners, and had left very strict instructions: Leave the Frenchman alone, give the Australian the special treatment, and the German doctor?

Make him suffer. If you get answers, good. But if you don't, make him scream. Make him die in agony and despair.

Davi knew better than to question Carmine's orders, but he found himself wishing they had never found these three men. He could sense his own death creeping up on him, getting closer each day these mercenaries remained their prisoners...

The Pauling Institute for the Betterment of Mankind, August 1972

Sniper Lawrence was not really a Sniper any more. True was still a perfect shot, but he rarely lifted a rifle or stared down a scope these days. The tools of his trade were now a mask, a snorkel and his trusty aqualung.

He stepped out of the Institute into the fresh morning air of the Bahamas. This was place so beautiful. Absolutely sodding gorgeous. Every day was a delight. He loaded a nice full tank of air into his rigid inflatable, and set off across the sparkling sea. The sea was calm today, but even so the boat bounced and skipped across the waves, spray flying in great white sheets as it sped along.

He wondered how he had been so lucky as to get the best bloody job in the Institute. Hell- in the world! Most of the Snipers were now involved in nature conservation in some way, and Lawrence had bagsied the coral reefs surrounding their home. A fiercely fought game of rock-paper-scissors may or may not have been involved.

He glanced at the map and decided he'd come to the spot he wanted to survey today, so he dropped the anchor. He sighed in resignation. Yes, the place was lovely, but counting coral species and fish got a bit tedious at times. The corals were easy enough, but fish just wouldn't stay bloody still!

He quickly donned his heavy scuba gear, running through the usual checks. Strictly speaking he wasn't truly in any danger, what with respawn and all, but even so, he saw no need to drown due to pure laziness. It'd put him behind schedule. Really he should have had a dive buddy with him for safety but he had always preferred working alone, and again, in case of disaster, there was respawn.

He backflipped into the sea and was quickly swallowed by the water. Bubbles roared constantly as he breathed, and he felt suddenly free. Scuba gear was hellishly heavy and made him feel like a beached whale until he got into the environment it was made for. He started to make his way to the sea floor, adjusting his buoyancy as he went. Every time he breathed in and out, he rose and fell slightly in the water column.

This, truly, was what made Sniper feel alive. To be in an alien environment, and surviving. To know that he was there, alone, somewhere that so few people ever got to see. It was impossible for Lawrence to smile with a demand valve in his mouth, but he wanted to. Yes, there were biting fish, razor-sharp corals and many poisonous species, but the danger just made the beauty of the coral reef all the brighter and sharper.

A school of fish darted past, shocked by this intruder, and Lawrence turned to watch them for a moment- before crashing into the sea bed.

Bugger!

He was always doing that! It was so easy to forget about buoyancy as he swam down and the air in his ABLJ compressed. Ah well, at least it was sandy here. He let a little air into his jacket and kicked off the bottom in a plume of fine white sand.

He reached into a pouch and got out his writing tablet and the high-tech device he found was the best for writing underwater- a pencil.

Right. So, I need to do a ten metre transect and species count, and then observe fish numbers.

He checked his depth: five metres. Yep, he'd be fine at this depth for as long as he liked. No chance of the bends this shallow.

Just another day at the office...

He started making notes and cataloguing, taking photos or drawing small pictures of anything he couldn't identify immediately. The fish numbers were down. That had happened over the last week- it seemed a new apex predator had moved into the reef. Perhaps an injured reef shark? They'd stay in an area until they recovered, hoovering all the fish up like a hungry vacuum cleaner. Of course, if they died, their rotting body would then become food for the very fish they had hunted. It was one of the more disgusting miracles of nature.

Now what is that? Oh...sea slug.

It was a while since one of the apex predators has drifted by. Two weeks ago, a manta ray had glided past, graceful and dangerous. Once, he had seen the spotted tail of a whale shark vanishing off into the distance. Now he wanted to find out whatever it was that was lurking around here. It was amazing how well a large predatory fish could hide.

He was thinking that a bit of excitement would be just the thing right now when all the fish dashed away and he found himself suddenly alone. He looked around curiously, but saw nothing. He swam forward, his fins propelling him faster than a human could normally swim and searched, but nothing...almost nothing.

Almost?

He looked to his left, and there, on the edge of visibility in the clear sea, was a black shadow, slowly spreading and dissipating.

What the bloody hell was that?!

Lawrence swam towards it, but by the time he had reached the black cloud, it had gone completely. There were a few clicks as curious or hungry fish crept back out from their hiding places. He made a quick note on his tablet, but got back to counting fish and identifying corals, putting the weird black cloud to the back of his mind.

For now.

It was a shame that Lawrence spent so much time in the water and not much in the Institute. People didn't interest him much. If he had been above sea-level more often, he might have realised the importance of his discovery of the shadow on the reef. As it was, though, he went back to swearing at fish.

Sodding hell, will you just stay bloody still for a second?!

He shook his head and swam off, trailing sparkling bubbles behind him.

Where do you start a story?

How is it possible to ever pinpoint the single second in time where plot starts to weave and twist? Sometimes, the most significant events are not where the story should start, because they won't make sense until later on.

Perhaps this story could start with a person who was wronged by someone who was too driven or distracted to even care that they had committed a terrible crime. Perhaps the resentment and suffering of the wronged party would fester and end up being a hatred as hard as diamond, as implacable as space. Perhaps they would plot and scheme and get their revenge many years later.

Then again, perhaps that is not the best place to start.

This story does not start in a grimy torture chamber in Peru.

This story does not start in the sparkling seas of the Bahamas.

Maybe we could start, as so many stories do, with an explosion?

Yes, let's start there.

In Chapter One: Explosions!