by Alex Deva
Gaines' expression did not change. He looked the other in the eyes and was quiet for a few long seconds.
"Why don't I try that again," he intoned flatly. "This time, I'll start. My name is Steven Gaines, commander of the USS Kennedy. Who are you?"
Mark looked surprised.
"I heard you the first time, and my name is Mark Greene. What? I can't ask about my friend?"
Gaines kept looking straight at him, without a word.
"Chief," he called, without turning.
"Sir!" answered one of the guards immediately, via his helmet speaker.
"Will you bring the other prisoner in here, please."
The guard's lips started moving soundlessly, as he talked over his suit's private comm link.
"What?!" asked Mark again.
Gaines kept staring at him and said nothing.
"Hey, Jess," asked Hendricks on a private comm line.
"What, Ken?" answered the targeting officer, from right behind him.
"Wanna show you something. Just can't keep it to myself. Can I trust you?"
"What? What is it?"
"Can I trust you?"
"Ken, what is it? Yeah, of course you can trust me. We've known each other since highschool."
"Come on over. Actually, no, stay put; I'll come over."
Hendricks redirected his console notifications into his helmet, unstrapped and got up; Jessica Lawry, behind him, was looking at him quizzically. He winked and floated to her seat, where he stepped on the adhesive rug next to each seat to stabilise himself. He took off his helmet and motioned for her to do the same.
"When's your next rotation?" he asked.
"In a couple of days, why?"
"Will you take this home for me? Just keep it someplace safe?"
He opened his zipped pocked and produced the object.
"What's this?" asked the woman.
He grinned at her.
"It's a cellular phone," he said. "Travis got it off one of the prisoners. It's three hundred years old, Jess, and it looks like it just came out last month."
"So maybe it did come out last month."
"But that makes no sense, does it? Why would anyone recreate an antique and then carry it around space? It certainly wouldn't work anymore, much less out here behind the Moon."
"This is an antique? I don't get it, what's a cellular phone anyway? Is it like a compen?"
The man answered in an insistent whisper:
"Jess, do you have any idea what this is worth on the collector's market?"
She didn't. He told her and her face fell. It was more than she made in a year.
"I'll give you five percent of whatever we make from it, if you get it home for me. I only rotate in two months. I can't risk keeping it here."
"This is serious heat, Ken. We could get court-martialled for this."
"Fine. Ten percent."
"Court-martialled."
"Come on Jess, what do you want?"
She smiled and said:
"Half."
He almost broke his whisper.
"Are you fucking kidding me?!"
She unzipped her own suit pocket, smiled again and said:
"Just put it there, Ken."
He looked at her, not quite believing.
"Damn Jess, maybe I didn't really know you that well, after all. Where did you learn to negotiate like that?"
"War," she said. "Now give."
Hendricks slid the phone into her pocket, shaking his head.
"How long has it been?" she asked the ADM.
"A little over one hour," came the answer from the walls of Room One.
The question would've been ambiguous to the starship's self-titled Automated Decision Maker, had it been asked by someone else. But Doina formulated it in her mind, and vocalising it was more a habit than a necessity. The ship understood her just fine.
The answer, too, would've been much more precise, had it been offered to someone else. But the ADM had adapted to the girl and knew how to answer in a way that also addressed her emotions. Its alien intelligence saw her as a whole, a mix of reason and feelings, in an almost symbiotic relationship.
She was eating a meal bar, lying down in One, with lights dimmed. She had carefully arranged for all ship's sensors to give her notice if anything happened. She was trying to relax, but it wasn't quite working. She could no longer remember what arguments Mark and Aram had come up with in favour of agreeing to go to the American cruiser, but at least the pounding on the hull had stopped. They were still surrounded by smaller ships, and the huge cylinder labeled USS Kennedy was right above Doi, but nobody was shooting anybody anymore.
She knew about the bomb in the airlock, of course. At first she couldn't understand what made it that dangerous, but if Mark said it was, she believed it.
So, if not relaxed, at least she wasn't worried sick. Her communion with the strange starship had helped her evolve -- or, at least, change? -- into a new person. A few weeks ago, prayers were all she had when faced with danger. Now, the safety provided by the unbelievable alien starship, and the knowledge of being able to control it as she wanted, were much more effective than prayers. They shared much more than their names.
And that was not all. A strange bond had also developed between her and the Englishman. It reminded her, a little, of the bond she'd had with her mother. At some level, she felt that Mark possessed the same fierce determination to protect her. She knew little about Mark, but somehow that didn't worry her. After living together for those last weeks, she knew she would not hesitate to trust him with her life. And she thought that her mother, if she could see her, would approve.
The Dacian was different. Protective, yes, with his impressive physical strength, his odd sense of humour and that positive outlook on life, he was a man straight from the legends of her ancient forefathers. Doina thought that nothing could ever scare Aram. She knew that he didn't believe in God, because he had never heard of Him, and she wondered if, perhaps, it wasn't that very fact that made him so fearless, just like the Ungri Nigri of her grandfather's age.
God, please don't let anything happen to them, she thought, with a heavy sigh.
God. She didn't quite know how to feel about God, in this time and place. She had never actually read the Bible, but it didn't feel impossible that some part of the Holy Book dealt with starships and Americans.
And, anyway, praying couldn't hurt.
She always felt that Doi-the-ship became a little confused when she was praying. The complex artificial intelligence was trying to cope with the range of emotions that praying induced in its new mistress, and hadn't quite discovered how. Doina had learned to simply ask for some time alone when she was praying; she didn't have to do it explicitly, but the ship soon became able to figure it out.
Lying down wasn't helping, so she got up. She mentally ordered lower gravity as she approached the wall, and naturally and gracefully stepped into the air and remained floating there. She hadn't felt any sensor warning, but she took her time inspecting every aspect of the starship's monitoring system that she understood.
In her black, matte outfit, with her hair tied in a pony tail, floating barefoot in front of a wall covered in symbols and diagrams, the twelve-year-old girl from the twelfth century took a deep breath, and prepared to wait some more.
XXVI.
"Hi, Aram. How's your shoulder?" Mark asked.
Aram floated into the brig cell, followed by the usual complement of four SEALS soldiers.
"Hello," said Aram. The SEALS gestured to him to move next to Mark, which he did, although in no great rush, and visibly trying to favour his right arm.
"Help me out with the helmet, will you," he said to Mark, for the benefit of the soldiers. "Some fuck shot me in the shoulder. Twice."
Mark undid his catches and Aram took off the helmet, letting it float at the end of its connections, as he pressed against the velcro band on the wall.
"Alright?" asked Mark.
"He's just fine," said Gai
nes, as he entered the brig. The four guards took positions in pairs, so that the prisoners were constantly covered from at least two angles.
"Aren't you, mister Aram?" he addressed the Dacian, who didn't bother to answer. Gaines continued:
"Well, well," he said, looking at them. "The destructive duo, the mysterious men, the barbarian brothers. The ghosts of our past. The two terrible time travellers."
Aram rolled his eyes and Mark sniggered audibly.
"I'm here for answers," announced the American. "Mister Aram, as a CDP agent, I'm reasonably sure that I can't coerce you into giving them to me."
Aram gave a small, smug grin, although he had no idea what CDP was or meant. Involuntarily, Gaines explained.
"Can you tell me this, though? I'm curious. What kind of a name is Coalesced Data Processing, anyway? What's wrong with just calling it Eurasian Spy Central?"
"At least it doesn't mention central intelligence," sniggered Mark again.
"Pffyeah," added Aram, still none the wiser.
"Oh, the good, old CIA!" smiled the American officer. "I often wish I was born in those days. Although, of course, that'd mean I wouldn't be a cruiser commander anymore. There weren't many space cruisers around in the twenty-first century."
He continued, with ostentatious wistfulness, looking down:
"Unless, of course, I could do both. Live in the past and then jump to the present, you know what I mean? Wouldn't that be just awesome?"
His smile faded as he looked pointedly at Mark and repeated, slowly:
"Now, would that... not... be just... awesome?"
Mark didn't respond. Gaines turned back towards Aram.
"Tell me, mister Aram," he said. "What do you really think about our friend here, and long-time member of the British Special Forces, sergeant Gardener?"
At first, Aram was a bit confused, and he didn't mask that. Then, as he understood, his silence was no longer the cocky sort. Gaines noticed.
"I was right," he noticed with satisfaction. "I was goddamned right. I knew it. I fucking knew it! You didn't know who he really was!"
Mark looked down, then closed his eyes. Shit, shit, shit, he thought. How did they find out?
And then, again: They know... because at least a hundred years have passed. My file's been declassified. I should've seen it coming.
I really, really, really should've seen this coming.
Gaines was observing this with deep satisfaction.
"I smell some trust issues coming," he said, nodding at them both. "Yeah. Big trust issues coming. So here's what's gonna happen here."
He crossed his hands behind his back.
"I'm gonna give you some time to figure this out between yourselves. And in the meantime, I think I'm gonna pay a little visit to your ship, and if I can persuade the rest of your crew to collaborate; believe me when I tell you that it'll be in everyone's best interest. If you remember the CIA, then no doubt you've heard of the United States Office of Naval Intelligence, sergeant? It was created in the nineteenth century, so you must be familiar with it."
Of course, Mark knew about the ONI. British Defence Intelligence had close ties with its American counterpart, and the SAS, via its Director of Special Forces, had close ties with the DI. But he remained quiet.
"And, if your crew won't cooperate, I'm happy to tell you I've just received clearance to blow them out of the sky, which I'll be more than happy to."
They kept their silence. Aram was looking into the distance. Mark still had his eyes closed.
"Well, unless one of you would like to start describing the twenty-first century to me, and explain how you ended up here, and why..." He paused for two seconds, then ended: "I'll see you soon, gentlemen." He nodded at his soldiers, and they all left the brig cell.
As the soldiers and their commander left the compartment, tension replaced them. And the two prisoners felt it, for the first time since they'd known each other, like a third physical presence in the room, distinct and threatening.
Mark was the first to break the silence after a minute:
"I'm sorry. Will you let me explain?"
Aram turned to look at him, and asked quietly:
"Does anyone else know?" Does Doina know? he was really asking.
"No," Mark caught on.
"So what's your name then?"
"It's Mark Greene, as I told you. But it used to be Mark Gardener."
"You're a soldier," stated the Dacian, matter-of-factly.
"I was. You suspected."
"I guess so. But you don't really look much like a soldier."
Mark remembered Selection. He remembered the gruelling Brecon Beacons, where he had nearly frozen to death. He remembered the relentless, animalistic pushing forward, his brain nothing but a locked machine who kept ordering his feet to keep moving, his lungs filled with napalm, and all the incredible physical pains he had endured. He remembered failing once, and then trying again the next year, also during the winter, and all the fit, strong and stubborn soldiers who had given up or been "Returned to Unit" on minor technicalities. He remembered the Test Week, six consecutive, daily marches carrying increasing weights over increasing distances, concluding with a sixty-four kilometre run that had to be finished in under twenty hours, carrying over thirty kilograms of gear.
He remembered his first kill.
"I'm an English teacher too, you know."
Aram shrugged.
Mark opened his eyes and turned to look at him. The Dacian refused to return his gaze.
No point holding back now, he thought. Everyone knows, except for who really should.
"There was a patrol in Syria, in November 2012," he said. "They were sent to see if Assad really was using chemical weapons against civilians. They were under deep cover for four days. And on the fifth, their cover was blown. Two escaped. The patrol leader and another man were arrested."
He sighed, but his lungs refused to fill up with air. It was the first time he was telling the story to anybody, since the Ministry of Defence had had him sign and swear that he wouldn't. But that was at least a hundred years ago, he thought.
"They were taken to a Syrian prison, which was... amazingly bad. Then, the guards passed them on to the al-Nusra Front, which later went on to become part of the Islamic State."
He sighed again.
"Those were some really hardened bastards, in al-Nusra. They tortured the two prisoners for six weeks. Then, they picked one and executed him in front of the other. And in front of the whole world."
He was talking quietly, with seemingly random pauses, choosing his words carefully.
"The... execution didn't go very well. They tried to chop his head off, but they couldn't, because the sword wasn't sharp enough, or his muscle mass was too thick where they hit him. They had to chop a few times, and when the head wouldn't... wouldn't fall off... they shot him, too. Through the top of his head, and in the heart."
He made another pause to control a tremble.
"He had a daughter. She was ten at the time. Her name was Sara. It was all he could think of, she kept him alive during... during that torture. When he was kneeling on the floor, with a bag on his head, and a mujahedin trying to dislodge that sword from the back of his neck, he kept repeating her name. He couldn't talk, he was gagged. But he used his shoulders; left twitch for a dot, right twitch for a line. In Morse code. Sara only has four letters. Left, left, left; left, right; left, right, left; left, right. The Arabs thought he was dying. But he was calling his daughter's name."
He made another pause.
"There was a promise... before the execution. That if one of them made it back alive, he would look after the other's family."
He stopped, and Aram softly intervened:
"Which one were you? The leader or the other?"
"I was the patrol leader," said Mark. "So it was all my fault."
"How did you get out?"
"There was a prisoner exchange after only two more weeks. Two more weeks, that was all. An
d I got out. They put me into a hospital for six months. His wife... His name was Red. Red's wife came to visit me a few times. With... With Sara. Then a journalist found out, and it was all over the papers and the internet." Mark had stopped caring that he was using words that Aram might not understand.
"Then I started getting threats, from a bunch of idiot British Muslim extremists. And then, Red's family started getting threats. I was still in the hospital... being treated for hepatitis. I told his wife to pack up and move, to not risk it, it was too dangerous... but she said that the MoD was looking after them. I knew the Ministry of Defence would offer them some protection, even new identities, so I... I allowed myself to relax a little."
He drew a big gulp of air before continuing.
"The last time I saw Sara she brought me a red balloon. I was in bed with an IV in my arm. They'd said I only had a couple of days left to stay. I told Sara that, as soon as I'd get out, I'd tell her everything about her dad, and that I'd always be there for her. And I really, really couldn't wait... to do just that. I had everything planned. She..."
He couldn't go on. He closed his eyes and tried to calm down. As always when he remembered this part, he found himself wishing that there was a tangible bad guy to fight, or some complicated quiz to solve, in a futile attempt to convert the pain into something he could defeat, or at least control.
"She died the next day. They raped Red's wife, and strangled Sara in front of her. It was all over the news. I ran out of the hospital, and I got arrested in ten minutes. Then, the Army sent me for a psychological evaluation, and I was deemed incapable to remain a soldier. I was medically discharged. The MoD changed my identity, from Gardener to Greene, and fixed me up with an English teaching job, as far away from the UK as possible. Every day, I've been waiting for Sara's mother to return my calls. And every night I have nightmares about what I could possibly tell her if she does."
That's it, he thought. I finally said it.
"And then, this hap-"
* * *
Steven Gaines signed off one of the crates using his tablet, stepped through its airlock and floated towards the pilot's seat, behind the large, plexiglas panel. He was, of course, more than qualified to pilot a crate; he held pilot's ratings on nearly all spacecraft that the United States Air Force operated.