http://www.tv.com/shows/ncis/beneath-the-surface-3529854/
tv.com
NCIS Season 16 Episode 6
Beneath the Surface
Aired Tuesday 8:00 PM Oct 30, 2018 on CBS
AIRED: 10/30/18
The Passage: A Novel (2010)
Justin Cronin
(from internet transcript)
Chapter 12
Nifty. Wolgast shuddered. A nifty nuclear power source in Amy’s neck. He turned to Sykes, who was watching with a look of caution.
“Is this what happened to the others? Carter and the rest.”
“They were … preliminary,” Sykes said.
“Preliminary to what?”
He paused. “To Amy.”
Fortes explained the situation: Amy was in a coma. No one had expected this, and her fever was too high and had gone on too long. Her kidney and liver values were depressed.
“We were hoping you could talk to her,” Sykes said. “This sometimes helps with patients in a prolonged state of unconsciousness. Doyle tells us that she’s pretty … bonded with you.”
A two-stage air lock connected them to Amy’s room. Sykes and Fortes led him into the first chamber. An orange biosuit was hanging on the wall, the empty helmet tipped forward, like a man with a broken neck.
The Passage: A Novel (2010)
Justin Cronin
(from internet transcript)
FIFTY-FIVE
In the end, they could only take Olson at his word. They simply had no choice.
They divvied up the weapons and split into two groups. Olson and his men would storm the room from ground level while Peter and the others entered from above. The space they called the ring had once been the prison’s central courtyard, covered by a domed roof. Part of the roof had fallen away, leaving the space open to the outside, but the original structural girders were intact. Suspended from these girders, fifteen meters above the ring, was a series of catwalks, once used by the guards to monitor the floor below. These were arranged like the spokes of a wheel with ducts running above them, wide enough for a person to crawl through.
Once they had secured the catwalk, Peter and the others would descend by flights of stairs at the north and south ends of the room. These led to three tiers of caged balconies encircling the yard. This would be where most of the crowd would be, Olson explained, with perhaps a dozen stationed on the floor to operate the fireline.
The viral, Babcock, would enter through the opening in the roof, on the east side of the room. The cattle, four head, would be driven in from the opposite end, through a gap in the fireline, followed by the two people slated for the sacrifice.
Four and two, Olson said, for each new moon. As long as we give him the four and two, he keeps the Many away.
The Many: that was what Olson called the other virals. The ones of Babcock, he explained. The ones of his blood. He controls them? Peter asked, not really believing any of it yet; it was all too fantastic—though even as he formed the question, he felt his skepticism giving way. If Olson was telling the truth, a great deal suddenly made sense. The Haven itself, its impossible existence; the strange behavior of the residents, like people carrying a terrible secret; even the virals themselves and the feeling Peter had harbored his whole life that they were more than the sum of their parts. He doesn’t just control them, Olson answered. As he spoke, a heaviness seemed to come over him; it was as if he’d waited years to tell the story. He is them, Peter.
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The Passage: A Novel (2010)
Justin Cronin
(from internet transcript)
Chapter 51
He was Babcock and he was forever. He was one of Twelve and also the Other, the one above and behind, the Zero. He was the night of nights and he had been Babcock before he became what he was. Before the great hunger that was like time itself inside him, a current in the blood, endless and needful, infinite and without border, a dark wing spreading over the world.
He was made of Many. A thousand-thousand-thousand scattered over the night sky, like the stars. He was one of Twelve and also the Other, the Zero, but his children were within him also, the ones that carried the seed of his blood, one seed of Twelve; they moved as he moved, they thought as he thought, in their minds was an empty space of forgetting in which he lay, each to a one, saying, You will not die. You are a part of me, as I am a part of you. You will drink the blood of the world and fill me up.
They were his to command. When they ate, he ate. When they slept, he slept. They were the We, the Babcock, and they were forever as he was forever, all part of the Twelve and the Other, the Zero. They dreamed his dark dream with him.
He remembered a time, before he Became. The time of the little house, in the place called Desert Wells. The time of pain and silence and the woman, his mother, the mother of Babcock. He remembered small things—textures, sensations, visions. A box of golden sunlight falling on a square of carpet. A worn place on the stoop that fit his sneakered foot just so, and the ridges of rust on the rail that cut the skin of his fingers. He remembered his fingers. He remembered the smell of his mother’s cigarettes in the kitchen where she talked and watched her stories, and the people on the television, their faces huge and close, their eyes wide and wet, the women with their lips painted and shimmering, like glossy pieces of fruit. And her voice, always her voice:
Be quiet now, goddamnit. Cain’t you see I’m trying to watch this? You make such a goddamn racket, it’s a wonder I don’t lose my goddamn mind.
He remembered being quiet, so quiet.
He remembered her hands, Babcock’s mother’s hands, and the starry bursts of pain when she struck him, struck him again. He remembered flying, his body lifted on a cloud of pain, and the hitting and the slapping and the burning. Always the burning. Don’t you cry now. You be a man. You cry and I’ll give you something to cry about, so much the worse for you, Giles Babcock. Her smoky breath, close to his face. The look of the red-hot tip of her cigarette where she rolled it against the skin of his hand, and the crisp wet sound of its burning, like cereal when he poured milk into it, the same crackle and pop. The smell of it mingling with the jets of smoke that puffed from her nostrils. And the way the words all stopped up inside him, so that the pain could end—so he could be a man, as she said.
It was her voice he remembered most of all. Babcock’s mother’s voice. His love for her was like a room without doors, filled with the scraping sound of her words, her talk-talk-talk. Taunting him, tearing into him, like the knife he took from the drawer that day as she sat at the table in the kitchen of the little house in the place called Desert Wells, talking and laughing and laughing and talking and eating her mouthfuls of smoke.
The boy isn’t just dumb. I tell you, he’s been struck dumb.
He was happy, so happy, he’d never felt such happiness in his life as the knife passed into her, the white skin of her throat, the smooth outer layer and the hard gristle below. And as he dug and pushed with his blade, the love he felt for her lifted from his mind so that he could see what she was at last—that she was a being of flesh and blood and bone. All her words and talk-talk-talk moving inside him, filling him up to bursting. They tasted like blood in his mouth, sweet living things.
They sent him away. He wasn’t a boy after all, he was a man; he was a man with a mind and a knife, and they told him to die—die, Babcock, for what you have done.
https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0087597/quotes
IMDb
The Last Starfighter (1984)
Quotes
Grig: [watching Alex struggling with the gunnery chair] Steady. Don't fight the chair. Take your time. Watch your gun sight. Lead your targets. And above all, relax!
Alex Rogan: [stops to take off his gloves, then continues] Terrific. I'm about to get killed a million miles from nowhere with a gung-ho iguana who tells me to relax.
- posted by Kerry Burgess 02:35 AM Pacific Time Spokane Valley Washington USA Wednesday 31 October 2018
