Chapter Text
Hemlock’s small, personal office in the Tantiss research site was chilly this time of the season despite the heated air piped in from the alchemical boiler several levels below him. That was in no small part due to the huge, glass windows which looked out over the lush forests crowding the foot of the volcano’s slopes; they were strong enough to keep out dangerous creatures, but not resistant to temperature fluctuation. Despite this, he’d insisted on them. A damp, cold room he was only in some of the time seemed a small price to pay for the ability to look out over the results of his endeavors. His tireless work was feeding hundreds of thousands all over the Empire, something he couldn’t expect to view personally. This island’s jungles, though, those he could look on with pride.
If the operative standing in front of his desk noticed or cared about the office’s temperature, there was no indication of it. Armored and helmeted in all black as he was, Hemlock had only physical cues to go by, and even those were minute. This was expected; the process operatives underwent removed most concerns from their minds. Completion of the mission was of the utmost importance, everything else was secondary. But Hemlock counted himself a man of keen observational skills, especially when it came to the body language of his creations.
Which was probably why, despite the operative’s lack of concern for the temperature in Hemlock’s office, there was a distinct air of frustration in his posture. He had returned from Saleucami empty-handed, probably expected some form of reprimand.
Not this time. In truth, Hemlock was more perplexed than angry. He’d already thought it too good to be true that Rampart, of all the people, had found the targets, been unsurprised to see the operative’s small schooner arrive in Tantiss’ port rather than a Venator. He had the written report in hand, but as always, he wanted to ask questions. Very specific ones.
“Report.”
“The rogue clones freed the alchemist from the Saleucami garrison just as we arrived. We gave chase, but they were especially destructive in their escape.”
Naturally. Rampart hadn’t taken the threat these clones posed seriously. Or any clone, but he was particularly blind about Batch 99. “Did you confirm the targets were there?”
“I did.”
“Both of them?”
“Both of them.”
Hemlock sighed. It was frustrating to have come so close to obtaining both alchemist and subject only to lose them to Rampart’s ineptitude. However, he was pleased to have confirmation that they were alive and, seeing as they were knocking over garrisons, apparently in good health.
“Did you have a chance to try the new serum?”
“I attempted to use it to subdue the subject. Another individual pulled her clear and was shot instead. Possibly a party involved in the exchange with Captain Rampart for the alchemist.”
A test case was still a test case. “Did it work as expected?”
“No. They remained mobile, though appeared injured.”
Hemlock quelled another sigh. That meant they had undergone the reaction, rather than being sedated as desired, and were in all likelihood dead now. “How long did it take for them to die?”
“I did not see them die.”
Hemlock’s building annoyance scattered. He tilted his head, which the operative correctly interpreted as a request to continue. “They were able to move under their own power to the dune wall. We lost them in the crossings.”
“How far is it, from where you shot them to the city wall?”
“Two kilometers. Another two from there to the landing beaches.”
“No body?”
“No.”
Curious. They could, of course, have buried this person at sea, or at their home port if they were especially sentimental and could transport a corpse that far. Though uncommon, some communities put a higher price on the ability to bury their dead on the island proper. Something about the individual’s energy feeding the island’s biomass.
Of course, this person also might have simply been strong enough to survive the reaction. Some under Hemlock’s care had, though not many, and most of them were permanently damaged in some fashion: mentally, physically. The data would be useful could he obtain it. “Do we have a name for this individual?”
“Not yet. We’re interrogating the relevant parties.”
“So we do have leads.”
“Yes.”
Better than them vanishing into the ocean, at least. “And this person was with the subject and the alchemist.”
“Yes.”
It seemed too convenient to be coincidental, particularly with the alchemist in question being a Kaminoan alchemist, and the subject—his sister—possibly also his only student. The last two members of an alchemy school all but lost to history. For this other individual to be, perhaps, a survivor of a serum reaction…
“Find this person,” he said. “Dead or alive, they’ll lead us to the rest.”
The operative nodded, turned, and departed. Hemlock glanced at the reports on his desk, left them to stand and look out the window, down the volcano slope to the verdant greenery that covered the island. The only one like it made entirely by alchemy, thanks to him.
The Kaminoan school of alchemical thought held that coincidence didn’t exist, that the world soul guided all things in the same way blood carried pathogen and nutrient alike in the body. The ability to understand the flow of this blood—which was, in some traditions, the Force, and in others a larger cosmic ocean, in which the Force was only one among many currents—corresponded to the ability to master all things. Like any tide or swell or squall it had moods and behaviors and tendencies. Listen and watch long enough, and all would be revealed.
If Hemlock could find this test case—alive, he sincerely hoped—he could find the subject and the alchemist. With the three of them, he’d possess the components needed to confirm his theories.
And then, finally, he could achieve his Great Work.