WRITING: Other Options - Conclusion

(The Martian OST - Harry Gregson-Williams)

A year had passed.  Suttle took a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes against the constant, subtle assault on his senses that the Hall always seemed to mount.  Ioanna -- Lieutenant Allerson, he reminded himself sternly -- had been here with him last time.  He had walked completely past the entrance to the building, and she had to point him in the right direction.  It had been a taxing visit, but not without its benefit.  The war was over, and more than over.  There was actually some semblance of peace in the region again.  

'So much has changed,' he thought to himself.  Except for the Hall.  It never changed, not on the outside, and certainly not on the inside.

The good Lieutenant hadn't handled the first trip well, eyes darting at every beam of light that splashed in through frosted windows and every shadow that danced just outside of the edge of her vision.  Suttle couldn't blame her for being nervous.  His fingers had ridden on his glaive, the curious throwing weapon that all Lopers employed, for nearly the entire trip, his posture relaxing only when their host had finally brought them to a small alcove with a desk and chairs to sit in.  Cessation of motion somehow allowed the brain to better deal with the strange environment that the Hall presented.  

When the time came to return to the Hall for what Suttle dearly hoped was his last visit, he had inquired about the Lieutenant making the trip with him again.  Allerson had suggested he undertake several very unpleasant-sounding activities with himself, saluted, and gone back to her paperwork as though it was a far preferable fate.

Suttle opened his eyes again, lowering his gloved right hand back to his side.  At least it was over.  He took a moment to look around the strange facility one last time before turning away and reaching for the handle on the room's exit.

"Commander."

Had she followed him?  He had left her sitting at her desk, smiling knowingly at him over pale, steepled fingers and a steaming cup of tea.  He turned away from the door and jolted slightly.  Margaret stared at him from behind the desk where she sat, still smiling.  Suttle jerked his head back around towards the exit, only to find himself staring at the rest of Elliott-Farthing's alcove-office, complete with the chair that he'd previously been sitting in.  He hadn't bothered to push it back towards the desk when he stood up, a sign of how ready he was to be away from the establishment.  A small, confused sound slipped out of his mouth.

"Remember our agreement, Commander," Margaret said evenly, lowering one hand to the cup of tea in front of her.  "You made it in good faith, if you recall."

Suttle blinked slowly, trying to rectify what had just happened.  Firmly fixing the woman with one eye, he turned his head a little, backing slowly away from her desk and around the corner.  A small, clinical part of his mind had taken the time to notice that his breathing had sped up slightly, and his right hand was rather firmly resting on his glaive again.  As soon as he passed far enough around the corner to sight the exit on the far end of the great hall, he turned his body more fully to face Elliott-Farthing's desk again.  "Good day, madam," he offered, his voice sounding tense and hard in his own ears.  Then he turned and abruptly began to walk towards the exit again with long, ground-eating strides.  Behind him, he could hear her set her cup down and stand, her chair legs scuffing on the floor.  Suttle's pace quickened, but when Farthing spoke again, her voice was right behind him.  "Did you think you were the first, Graham Suttle?  That the Hall has been standing quietly for centuries, waiting for you and only you to walk through its doors?"  A quiet tinkle of mocking laughter began to fill the air around him, floating from pools of shadow to beams of sunlight and back again inside of the room.  Suttle resisted the urge to turn, actually running now.  The massive doors that marked the barrier between this strange place and the world beyond were within his reach before Farthing caught up to him, leaning in to whisper in his ear from behind. "I demand my payment!"  The sensation of her breath on his neck made him whirl instinctively, his right hand finally bringing the glaive at his waist up to a defensive position.

Behind him, Margaret Elliott-Farthing sat at her desk, smiling over steepled fingers, her cup of tea still steaming on the desk before her, and his glaive was back in its sling at his waist.

Suttle swallowed nervously, fully aware now that he was in a situation that was almost humorously out of his control, and glanced behind him again.  Much to his worry, he was very much back where he started.  Again.  For a moment, he debated drawing his glaive again, but that clinical voice in his head postulated that it probably wouldn't do any good against someone who could control...

...What, precisely?

He turned fully to face Farthing again, his mind now equal parts curious and seriously worried.  Questions began to flood into his mind, questions that any sane individual would have demanded answers to before they ever set foot in the door to this place.  So why hadn't he?  

The woman behind the desk smiled radiantly then, clapping her hands like an amused child. "I love it when that happens," she crowed delightedly.  "Watching the lights suddenly flicker on when the really big issues have been right in front of you the whole time is like watching fireworks go off in a cave!"  She calmed noticeably after that, leaning back in her chair with a low, satisfied noise, her eyes distant and her smile softening to something that was almost pleasant.  "Never gets old, that."  Then her blue-gray eyes snapped back onto his face, and her smile slid from almost pleasant to very nearly wicked.  "Now," she purred, leaning forward again.  Slender fingers lifted her still steaming cup of tea again until she spoke just over the brim. "Let us discuss my payment, Commander."

A Note For The Reader:

I briefly considered adding an actual 'Author's Note' to this, but that seemed somehow overly gratuitous.  Calling myself an author is like calling myself an engineer.  I know authors.  I know engineers.  I am neither.

I digress.

For those that have asked, you're not missing anything.  There is no additional story.  The 'Other Options' short story, and it is quite short, is the result of several snippets of a ... call it a 'daydream' that I had.  The brain was a tad over-full at one point and in the process of wringing it out, this happened.