Devoted

by Dean Koontz

believes to be grief, an emotion that is new to him. Ninety-two Refine employees are in the locked-down high-security facility near Springville, prevented from communicating with the outside world, in their final hours of life. He’s as pissed off at them as at Dorian. One of those geniuses—or several—has done something careless that sealed their fate and put him in this untenable position. Yet some are his friends, to the extent that a CEO can allow himself friends among those he must supervise, and their suffering, as it should, distresses him. During the building of that complex, he’d taken pains to ensure that the module containing his office and those of his immediate support staff—five others—would go into airtight lockdown ninety seconds after all of the labs were hermetically sealed in a crisis. When the alarm sounded, he assured his staff that they were safe, that they should stay

The quality of the light had changed, not just because the afternoon was waning, but also because the sky had begun to grow pale-gray scales, its fine blue skin molting away in favor of a serpent’s dress.

Beautiful use of metaphorical prose.

This was where, in his present circumstances, the blessing of human-level intelligence became almost a curse. He knew compassion. Mercy. Pity. Those are burdensome qualities. Compassion. Mercy. Pity.

Thoughts like these are among the burdensome qualities of BEING as a human is often want for less cerebral wonderings that lead to more physical and Much less merciful, compassionate or pitiable leanings toward those base, beastial cravings of the flesh and its ego....