by Jacob Gowans
Albert took a large bite of one and sat down.
“Is—is there a dripping coming from your kitchen? Do you hear that?”
Albert cocked his head to listen. With his mouth still full, he said, “Yeah. The sink. If I don’t turn it really tight, it does that. But I always forget.”
“Can you please make that stop?”
“You’re so weird, Dad.” He stood up and returned to the kitchen. When he disappeared from view Byron wrung his hands together, willing himself to calm down.
His son returned momentarily. “What’s up?”
The commander fixed Albert with a look. He didn’t want to come down hard on his son. Albert was nineteen, after all, and that made it harder to offer counsel. “Look around your home. You tell me ‘what’s up?’”
Albert’s blank expression told the commander all he needed to know.
“Look around your home,” he repeated. Albert’s eyes roamed the room for about half a second. “What are you doing to yourself? Anyone who walks in here is going to think you are obsessed with your mission.”
“Maybe I am obsessed.” Byron hadn’t seen the dullness, the lack of enthusiasm about life, in Albert’s eyes for weeks but he saw it now. His son took a second bite of his food, chewing it without any savoring. “So what?”
“We are going to Rio to recover Samuel’s body. In two weeks. All of the arrangements have been made.”
“Excellent!” His son stood up with the sandwich clenched in his hand. “Has my squadron leader approved for me to go?”
“Of course she has. She is probably too afraid to tell you no.”
“Then I’m in. With your backing, Command might even let me lead the mission.”
Byron motioned for Albert to sit back down. “Please. There is something else you need to consider.”
“What—?”
Commander Byron raised a hand and Albert obeyed, taking his seat again. The sandwich in his hand was now forgotten as he waited. Byron chose his words carefully. He’d had enough estrangement in his family to last a lifetime.
“We only have a small window of opportunity to arrange this excursion. Unfortunately, it coincides with Marie’s graduation ceremony.”
“Is there any way—?”
“No. It has to be then, or we wait weeks longer.”
Albert put the sandwich down on his plate and grabbed his head with both hands. Byron watched him, hoping he’d done the right thing by intentionally creating this scheduling conflict.
“Can’t you reschedule Marie’s ceremony? I’ve got to be able to do both!” Byron was pleased to hear the frustration mounting in his son’s voice.
“No. People, like Marie’s entire family, have already made their plans to attend. Then we begin Ludwig’s Panel, and after that is Cala’s. Then—”
“I get the point, thanks.” His son stood up and combed his fingers through his brown hair he’d always kept neatly groomed. As he stood, several books slid off the coffee table in a cascade. Byron watched everything passively, missing the days when his son’s problems were much simpler.
“Make a choice, Albert,” he said bluntly.
“What?” Albert’s expression told Byron he didn’t believe what he’d just heard.
“Make a choice. Make a choice and stick with it. I know you blame yourself for what happened, but you did not make a mistake.”
“What do you know about mistakes, Dad?” Albert said in a controlled, but raised voice. “You’ve lived a perfect life! Everyone around here looks up to you and admires you. Every Psion here would lay down their life for you. My mistake killed people!”
“You were roundly commended for your decisions. Remember that? Do you think we withheld criticism from you just because of the deaths?”
Albert didn’t answer.
“What do you think you should have done different?” Byron pressed. “Tell me, please, so we can discuss it.”
Albert sat back down, ruffling his hair even more. It was plain to see these things had weighed heavily on his mind for a long time.
“I should have confirmed our exit points. The brick wall . . .”
“The intel you used to plan the mission was recent.”
“Not recent enough!” Albert paused for several seconds, as though debating whether to speak what was on his mind. “Dad, I think someone tipped off the Thirteens. Someone on our side.”
“We investigated that option already. Command was very thorough. No records of communication with CAG from anyone who knew about the mission. We looked over the ship—”
“Ho Chin and I went over the ship again. Whoever examined it wasn’t thorough enough. We found very small scratch marks on the modulator where it had become dislodged. That’s why we couldn’t send any type of signal to you that we were under attack.”
“Scratch marks? How long have you known about this?”
Albert nodded. “Since last night. Ho Chin wouldn’t tell me over the com. He told me to wait to tell you in person, too.”
The sink in the kitchen began to drip again, but Byron hardly noticed the noise this time. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Does anyone else know about this?”
“No. We both figured you were the only person we trust enough to tell. All the equipment was tested two days before the mission. Then the cruiser was put on lockdown.”
“Only Psion Command, Dr. Rosmir, and squadron leaders have access to a cruiser in lockdown,” Byron added. “If it was tampered with . . .” He shook his head. It was something he never thought he’d hear himself say.
“I still could have prevented it, Dad,” Albert continued. “If I’d checked the exits . . . we could have radioed back immediately for clearance to continue. Instead, I just sent in our updates, not even checking to see if they were being received.”
Silence reigned in the room save for the occasional drip from the faucet. Byron felt like he finally understood his son’s issues. He indeed had made a mistake, albeit a small one that almost any other honcho would have made, including himself. Albert sat on his couch with his face in his hands.
“I have made mistakes, too, Albert.”
Albert made a rude sound and shook his head.
“I have. Some of them I have never been able to forget. I work with Victor Wrobel nearly every day, and seeing him reminds me about the greatest mistake of my life. I doubt he even realizes it.”
“Dad . . .”
“He and I used to be best friends. We were both in the sewers when your mother died. So was Claire and Blake Weymouth and—”
“I know all about that. You’ve told me plenty of times.”
“Our relationship has never been the same since. We are still friends, but it changed. We lost four good soldiers in that one battle.” He looked at his son, hoping Albert would look back. “And I was the honcho.”
“You think he blames you for what happened?” Albert asked. “After all this time?”
Byron didn’t answer. The truth was, he didn’t know. “For a long time, I blamed myself for what happened. It took me years to talk to him about it. We were traveling to Sri Lanka to investigate a terrorist cell. He said he had forgiven me. I should have reached out to Victor sooner. I might have saved a special friendship. If you keep this obsession up, you are going to lose Marie. Now, I need to know, are you going to Rio or to Beta headquarters?”
Albert looked stunned, staring straight into his father’s eyes. “I . . . I, uh, need to think about it. I’ll let you know.”
“If I had said something like that, your mother never would have married me.” Emotion laced Byron’s voice, and he fought it back so he could speak clearly. “Do you know why she loved me so much, Al? Do you want to know the secret?”
Albert did not respond, instead he shooed a bug away from his food.
“Because I put her first. Always. But Marie has been riding in the backseat of your life for three months now. Bless her heart for being so patient with you, thinking you ar
e going to move past this. What happens when we find Samuel’s body? Burned and decayed. Then what? What are you going to do with this shrine?” He gestured to the fireplace, the table, the posters—all of it. “What are you going to tell Marie when you come home after missing one of the most important ceremonies of her life?”
“Dad, I—”
“No, please hear me out,” Byron said with a raised hand. “She will know she comes second in your mind. Not behind you or Samuel, but behind this war. Behind this suit you wear now. And she will still marry you, but neither of you will be as happy as you could be. Do you want that?”
“Of course not. But I’ve got a responsibility to—”
“You do not!” Byron’s voice rose despite his attempt at self-control. Instantly he regretted his actions and took a moment to calm himself. “Forgive me, but this responsibility is not yours. Your accountability for Samuel ended the moment you finished your briefing two months ago. You have a duty to two people. Your squadron leader second, and Marie first.” Byron dropped his voice, pleading in a whisper. “Do not miss this! Let other people take care of this now. Look around your room. Remember what I always taught you? You worship what you put on your walls. If you want your life to center around work then, by all means, come with us to Rio. If you want to live the good life, as your mother and I did, stay here and be with Marie.”
“My mind doesn’t simplify things that easily. I—I should be able to do both.”
“Trust me. It is impossible.”
Albert took another bite of his sandwich, but it was much smaller and he barely chewed it. Byron wanted to press further, but after nineteen years of raising this boy, he knew when to talk and when to shut up. He busied himself by taking a long drink of water from the glass his son had set in front of him. It cooled his throat and calmed his nerves.
“I didn’t want this to happen.” Albert’s voice was heavy and he put a hand over his face. “I haven’t meant to neglect her.”
“I know. But you still need to fix things.”
“How?”
“If she were Emily, I would know what to say, but only you know Marie well enough to make that judgment.”
Albert nodded. He looked at his plate of food and pushed it away. It was Byron’s cue to leave. He stood up, hugged his son, and said goodbye.
9. Escape
February 19, 2086
ALBERT CHOOCHOO RESTED IN THE CORNER of the white room with his neck secured by a collar that kept him chained no more than a couple meters from the wall. He laid his head on the floor, unsure if he was awake or asleep. Things like consciousness, time, and location weren’t terribly meaningful to him. All he really knew was Stripe, pain, and the black door that came with both of them.
Life had gotten worse after telling Stripe his name. Visits into the room with the black door became more frequent, the pain more severe, but Stripe hadn’t lost his patience. Every so often, he’d plead with Albert to reveal his real name so he could help him. But Albert didn’t understand. He had already told Stripe his name. Why didn’t Stripe believe him?
Everything was so confusing now. Was it days—weeks—months—years he had already endured in the chamber with the black door? He had no clue. There were no Mondays, Tuesdays, or Wednesdays. There was only fire, ice, pressure, sharp, and others. Sensation after agonizing sensation until his mind fragmented inside his skull.
He spent so many hours alone in his cell that he began looking forward to time with Stripe. At least with Stripe, there was still the hope that he was on Albert’s side.
He had grown used to the devices Stripe used on him. Some days were worse than others. He no longer threw up after wearing the helmet, but he still felt woozy and disoriented. The pain levels he endured depended solely on Stripe’s mood.
His cell door opened and a bowl of sludge slid across the floor. Albert devoured it in four seconds. His hands trembled uncontrollably as he held the bowl to his mouth. This moment was what he looked forward to each day. He opened his eyes to see if Stripe was coming.
“Good morning, Albert,” Stripe said.
There’s his voice . . . If Stripe was nearby, then everything was okay.
“Did you sleep well?” His voice was a salve, a balm of great relief. Seeing him was like seeing the face of an angel of mercy. “Was it better than the gutter you came from?”
Albert nodded.
“Are you ready to play?”
“Yes,” he whispered hoarsely, “I’m ready.”
Albert allowed himself to be led from his cell. He didn’t even notice if guns were trained on him or not anymore. His existence was contained between these two rooms.
Stripe performed his work. Each time—sometimes sooner, sometimes later—Albert broke down and cried like a baby. Today was no different.
Right on cue, Stripe said the same thing he always said, “Just tell me what I need to know, Albert, and the pain goes away.”
The black door opened before Stripe had finished, a rare occurrence.
“A word with you,” said a man wearing the same green-brown uniform as Stripe.
Stripe stepped out, but didn’t close the door completely.
“Orders came down today,” the new man said. “They think you’re wasting time.”
“No. I’ve never failed to finish an assignment. I’m not giving up.” Albert heard the care in Stripe’s voice and was touched. He didn’t care so much about the words, but the tones.
“It’s not my call.”
“You have sway. Use it. I’ve learned more from him than I have with the last ten they’ve brought me. Give me more time. I have to break him”
Stripe came back in and slammed the door shut. Albert noticed Stripe was angry. He braced himself because when Stripe was angry, the pain was worse.
As more time passed, Albert noticed a sense of urgency from Stripe. The pain was worse than ever. He had long ago learned why the girl had drooled on herself the way she had: after spending so much time screaming, his jaw was too tired to close, so the spittle just rolled off his lips.
One morning, maybe even the next day, another appeared boy in his cell. How long has he been here? He screamed and cried and begged the way Albert and the girl had before they realized how useless it was. The boy was talking to Albert, but Albert didn’t really care to pay attention because he knew the boy didn’t matter. In fact, it angered Albert that someone else would be brought into his little room and invade his privacy. He wanted to hurt the other boy.
After finishing his sludge, Stripe came and went through the usual questions and statements. He motioned to two heavily armed friends, who entered the room and grabbed Albert. Floating down the hall, Albert saw the black door open, heard it close behind him, and felt the hard wood of the chair beneath him. With guns trained at his head and heart, he allowed the chair restraints to be tightened into place. Stripe knelt in front of him to check the security of the bonds at his feet, too.
“Did you do your homework like I asked?” Stripe asked.
Instantly, tears flowed down Albert’s cheeks. He had tried so hard to finish his homework, but he had not been able to do it.
“I couldn’t. I’m sorry, Stripe. I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”
“I’ve given you harder assignments than that since we’ve known each other. Why was this one so difficult?”
“I don’t know,” Albert wailed. The shame of not being able to do his homework was so embarrassing . . . but he had tried so hard.
“Then you know I have to hurt you more today, don’t you?”
Weakly, Albert nodded. He understood.
“I know I’ve said it before, Albert, but you are so lucky. You know why, don’t you?”
Albert nodded again, albeit reluctantly. “Most people have to learn pain through cruelty and anger. But you care about me.”
“Yes. I do,” Stripe said, his eyes searching Albert’s. Albert wanted to scream out the truth for Stripe. He wanted to give Stripe whatever was wanted. But
Stripe spoke again. “Let’s try one more time. Maybe you can do it after all. Which would you prefer today? Sharp or pressure?”
At that question, Albert lost his senses completely. All the rage he’d felt toward the other boy in his cell was gone, replaced with helplessness, weakness—surely he was not responsible enough to make such an important decision. Certainly Stripe could choose. He always made the right choices. Albert managed to voice this to Stripe.
“If you can’t pick one,” Stripe said paternally, “I’ll have to do both.”
It was no use. Albert could not pick between them. “Okay,” he mumbled through tears and uncontrollable gasps for air.
“Others have told me that the combination of these two sensations is like an alligator biting them. Perhaps you’ll experience similar results. Let me know.”
Albert nodded as Stripe turned to his bench to grab the appropriate tools and tubes. He carefully selected the right ointments to administer, wearing a grim smile the entire time. As Stripe rolled up a leg of Albert’s pants, Albert experienced a mixed rush of terror and excitement at what was about to happen.
It’s going to hurt! HURT! No more pain!
But Stripe needs to do this to me. He needs to know where I’m from, he reminded himself. I should tell him. He’s kept me alive. They wanted to kill me, but he wouldn’t let them.
You can’t tell him, Albert, repeated the small voice in the very back of his head—the voice getting quieter every day. Remember the girl!
Goosebumps formed on his leg as the creams were applied to his skin. Stripe artistically placed both types in such a way that the pressure would be more widespread, and the sharp would be in rows, like a mouth of jagged teeth.
“I was quite liberal, this may be worse than anything you have yet experienced.”
Beads of sweat formed like a crown on Albert’s temples and forehead. Slowly the pain began to set in. His mind went elsewhere . . .
“Things aren’t always what they seem, Sammy,” his father said as they walked side by side through the African wilderness. Dry grassland and muddy slopes stretched out for miles around. In the eastern sky, the red sun was rising, already warm so early in the day and casting its light far out onto the landscape. Not a trace of wind was to be found.