Was it possible for a man to hate himself when he had no recollection of the deeds that placed him in such a state?

The more Turner saw of the decisions he had made during the construction of the project, the more he saw a cold and ruthless man driven by the desire to claim his place in the back-room hierarchy of the world. He saw a man who did not care a bit about the people he affected beyond his intimate group of compatriots. A man possessed by anger so intense that it was only time before he exploded in a finale of violence and bloodshed.

It was as if he was a child given a chance to look at the man he would become and stood appalled by the monster he saw. This was a chance to change the course of his life if he had the courage to act.

The question was, what could he do to redeem himself?

This action was a lie. The entire sequence of events to take place at this house designed to fool the public and counter the efforts of men to maintain a nebulous contact with aliens. Obviously, the aliens learned of the work, and they crashed the party. But who had told the aliens?

The operative crew attached to the project comprised an exterior security force, and the men placed in the house to observe the action. Three men in the house; himself, the computer man Cooper, and someone named the Doc.

Turner could remember the man Cooper as a fellow team member who had a sarcastic sense of humor and had been around the projects for several years. The name of the man in charge of the exterior forces was familiar as well.

But who the hell was the Doc? Nothing in the files hinted at the man’s origin or tasks. It seemed a stranger assigned to the project.

The fragments of video he observed no hint of the man, yet they yielded a surprising amount of information. A light had passed over the house, roughly about the same time the exterior radiation spiked, and landed within walking distance.

A short time later, people from the house had journeyed into the night to see what had happened. They returned injured and bloody.

He had no explanation for the lights that destroyed the outside cameras. They could have been flying aliens, but there was no way to tell from the overloaded video.

A short time later, the exterior pressure had hit the house.

A pounding noise came muffled through the door. It was a distraction he could ill afford to listen to. There was too much to understand on the computer before he could be effective, before he could make an informed decision on the best course of action.

Ignoring the sound, he continued his self-appointed task.

There was only one way to confront the situation. He had to use honor, a virtue he suspected he had forgotten in his rise to the top of the heap. It was the only way he was going to regain a sense of self.

The house was a sinking ship, and the actors were victims of a struggle they did not understand. Turner frowned. He did not understand the fight either, but he had to own up to his responsibility as an instigator of the incident. It would not matter in a court of law if he said he could not remember setting up the job. It would only show that he was a culpable victim who had gotten just what he deserved.

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He had to get the survivors away from the aliens. That required knowledge of where the house was located. He accessed another series of screens and found a small map that displayed the southwest corner of Lake Superior.

He had the map printed out on the small copier, then back stepped a few screens to check on something he had noticed.

A communications screen caught his attention. It looked like they were in contact with the main office via the Internet. Several messages during the initial hours of the night, but all communications had ceased when the aliens had arrived.

Two large icons sat in the screen’s corner. One had the word ‘help’ printed on it. Either it was a description device to aid in using the communications or it was an alarm for the people who were standing by in some secure location.

The second icon was a symbol with a word written below it, a skull above the word virus.

Someone knocked on the door. Turner faced the door and knew it was time to decide. He stood from the chair and lifted his gun.

Hesitantly, almost foolishly, he lowered the gun; aliens would not knock on a door. Still, it was a moment of truth, a point in time where he had to leave the isolated cocoon of the room and act.

Turner opened the door.

A woman stood outside the room looking surprised, the opening door catching her off guard. She held a shotgun lowered with her finger away from the trigger.

She was beautiful. A dark Mediterranean complexion set beneath coal black hair with green eyes that searched his face intently as he colored under the scrutiny. She walked towards Turner, backing him into the room. She let the door closed behind her and leaned against the solid wood.

“Where have you been?” she demanded; her voice was rough with emotion.

Turner remained standing as he tried to think of a way to explain the situation, a way to tell the woman he was not a font of information. “Who are you?”

The shotgun was up and aimed at his chest before Turner could bring his gun to bear. His past self would have killed the woman outright, but he watched her face, saw the disbelief and anger, and saw the pain in her eyes. He left his hand holding the gun hanging at his side.

“I don’t have time for games, Turner,” she growled, with teeth exposed. “We have to leave before the aliens come back.”

“Something happened,” Turner replied evenly while moving his free hand to his head and tapping his temple, “up here. I remember nothing.”

The gun lowered as a defeated look stole across the woman’s face. “You too,” she whispered to herself, then turned as if to leave the room.

“Wait.” Turner took the paper from the copier and held the map out to the woman. “Take this. It is all I could find on the computer.”

She accepted the paper and glanced at the map. “You said you did not bring us out her to die, but my husband is dead and so are three others. You lied.”

“I only remember bits and pieces,” Turner said as he sat in a chair, the weight of his responsibility pulling his shoulders down. “From what I have been able to piece together on the computer, you are not supposed to die. The aliens came here for real.”

“Do you know anything that can help us?”

Turner looked up and nodded. “I think so.” He turned and pointed to the computer. “I think this is an alarm. If I click on it, we might get some help.”

Emotion suddenly suffused the woman. She was at his side and looking at the screen with a hope he had not seen yet. “Do it,” she commanded fiercely.

Turner complied. His hand drifted with the mouse and the help button touched on the screen.

The screen flashed, then went blank while a rapid series of clicks came from the computer chassis. They waited, watching the screen with a morbid fascination, yet nothing happened.

Stealing a glance at the woman, Turner knew she was part of his fate, more so than the people he had to deliver alive from the house. She knew who and what he was, and she had the answers to his past. He had to protect this woman. “Who are you?” this time he requested intently.

“Carol Harris,” she looked away from the blank screen in disappointment. She started for the door.

“Where are you going?” he waited for the woman to decline his attention or help.

“Downstairs,” came the simple reply as she opened the door and held it open.

With a gratitude he could not express, he stood and took a tentative step towards the door.

A chime from the computer stopped them both.

On the screen, a series of words scrolled rapidly down from the top. Team One-ETA Twenty Minutes. Team Two-ETA Forty Minutes.

“Thank God,” she breathed.