The Trinity

by Daelynn Quinn

  I haven’t been to the new bunker yet and I hadn’t realized how far away it was. On the lower greenhouse floor, we enter a long corridor. It looks like the Web, but without the side streets. Electronic carts zip back and forth, transporting residents and their belongings to their new home. Drake and I load our boxes and climb into one.

  The driver is one of the new guys from Doborec. He’s an older man—his gray hair and deep-set wrinkles suggest he is in his mid-sixties. In fact most of the drivers are elderly. The number of older men and women here is limited, only about a handful survived. I guess the older folks had compromised immunity when the virus hit and succumbed to it.

  “You know, I want to thank you guys,” he says with a quick glance back and us. Drake and I look at each other questioningly. Neither one of us knows the man speaking to us or why he’d be thanking us.

  “Sorry?” I ask.

  “Well, not just you two. I mean all the soldiers. For serving and protecting all of us. For putting your lives on the line for us.”

  Just before I ask him how he knows we’re soldiers I glance down and realize we’re still in our uniforms from this morning. Question averted.

  “You know, I did my time in the army once. Thirty years ago, before I was honorably discharged and began my career at the university.”

  “What unit?” Drake asks.

  As we scurry along the corridor Drake and the driver exchange war stories and point out battle wounds. I intentionally block it out. I’ve still got Respa’s blood on my hands and I don’t want to hear any more about death and war. Everywhere I look I see her face: in the shadows, in window reflections, even in the faces of men and women I don’t know. I even saw her face on an olive-skinned little girl and it struck a chord deep within my broken heart.

  Several miles down the corridor, white light begins to spray into the surfaces of the tunnel. We emerge at the bottom of a gargantuan round tower filled with people. In the center of the massive space is the Earthcraft. Not the holographic model, but the actual shuttle.

  I’m struck to the bone with awe. The massive fuselage rises at least fifteen stories tall where it tapers to a point. The sleek metal is outlined in silver—reflections from the daylight, which filters down through the retractable glass ceiling above. It looks complete, though there are still technicians moving in and out with components and tools. The monstrous craft is much bigger than the model. I find myself wondering where the launch pad is located, but the with so much going on around me it isn’t difficult to lose my focus.

  It’s hard to say just how many floors rise to the sky. Looking up is like staring into a tunnel with a bright light at the end; kind of like what people say when they’ve had near death experiences. The upper levels on one side are doused with a pinkish hue from the southern exposure. On every floor, there are individual rooms fanning out the curvilinear walls. In each room, simple cots are lined up perpendicular to the walls on both sides. I can’t tell how many, but I have a feeling this is going to be a very cramped and uncomfortable living arrangement.

  Drake and I walk side by side and as we take in the sight of the ship I can’t help but notice an odd twitch to the right side of his face. I’ve known my brother for twenty-one years and lived with him for fifteen. The only illness he had was mono when he was a teenager. Not so much as a sniffle since then. The twitch only happens a few times before he firmly massages his face with one hand.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  He shakes his head as if to throw my attention away. “Fine,” he says. “Just a headache. I should’ve eaten this morning. I’ll be better after lunch.” Somehow I’m not buying it. He went through a lot at Crimson. And he was there for a long time. I can’t help but think he may have some neurological damage from all the torture he suffered. This isn’t the first time I’ve noticed him twitching, but the last few times I brushed it off to something else—the bright daylight or an eyelash in his eye. Something tells me there’s more to it than that, but before I have a chance to question Drake, we are pulled aside.

  Marley greets us and leads us to a room on the far end of the atrium as she explains that the lower levels are reserved for soldiers and the temporary medical clinic. A few doors down there is another corridor, which, she says, leads to an armory and, just beyond that, an exit to the outside world.

  My stomach plummets to the ground and my breathing halts as I stand in the entrance to the dormitory Marley stops at. Marcus stands by a cot on the far side of the room where Drake will be sleeping. His piercing blue eyes rise to meet mine, freezing me to the spot. This is the first physical reaction I’ve had to seeing him since my—our—son was born. Sure, I’ve seen him in our training sessions, but by keeping the focus on myself I’ve able to block out the emotions. But now, my defenses are faltering, I have no actions or thoughts to cling to, and old feelings are threatening to bust through. I can see it in his eyes too. There’s something there. Something he’s trying to block.

  Marley senses my turmoil and gently nudges me outside the room. “This isn’t where you’ll be staying. The women’s dorms are on the other side.”

  I don’t know if what I feel now is relief or despair. I guess part of me hoped that we would be forced together to confront our issues. Perhaps we’ll still have that chance. No, I can’t be hopeful now. Not after the decision I’ve made to sacrifice myself to rescue Evie. I must stick with the plan.

  I follow Marley, passing more doorways to more rooms filled with cots until we arrive at the opposite side of the atrium.

  “This is the women’s dormitory,” she says and I drop my box onto a cot in the nearly empty room. Nobody else is here, but two cots are made up with pillows and blankets. Shoved underneath each is a box of clothing and other belongings.

  “You don’t have many roommates yet, but the room should be full by tonight with the others moving in today.” I nod and follow Marley out into the atrium. I don’t really feel like staying here. Marley turns back to me as if to say something further, but simply gives a sad smile and walks away.

  Curiosity overcomes me and I drift toward the center of room. I circle the spacecraft edging as close as I can without intruding on the technicians’ space. The shuttle dwarfs me and I feel like I’m standing at the foot of a small skyscraper. Slowly, I take baby steps around the base, studying each rivet, each seam, even the painted numbers and letters that dot the sides of the craft. I gaze up, to find the name, “Earth” etched across its center in glossy black letters just as it was in the holographic model. Desmond Earth. They named the shuttle after him because he discovered the planet A1D3 a few centuries ago. Perhaps they should rename the planet. A1D3 is kind of a mouthful, but Earth just rolls off the tongue so easily. I’ll make a mental note to suggest that at the next committee meeting I’m invited to.

  “Pollen!”

  I swing around and find Myra behind me, grinning from ear to ear. Her thin blond tresses are like thick strands of honey tinted thread weighing down her sweat-glazed face. Apparently, she’s been keeping busy all morning, maybe even all night. Even her clothes, with small crinkles and dark patches of body moisture, show evidence of wear.

  “Hello Myra.” I smile.

  “She’s amazing, isn’t she?” Myra tilts her head back, skimming her eyes to the top of the rocket.

  “Incredible,” I say, following her gaze.

  “You know you’ll be on it.”

  My head snaps back, but Myra still looks up, ignoring my shock as if she’d just told me my eyes were green.

  “What?”

  “You’ll be on the first flight.” Finally she lowers her gaze to meet mine. Her eyes carry a strange sparkle to them, a look that emits . . . hope. “You and Evie, provided we find her in time. And your son. Your genes are crucial to the survival of our species. If we are to start a new colony on A1D3, you must be on that mission.”

  My heart could explode. Not with joy, but with a maelstrom of feelings: hope, elation, dismay, terror. This is what
I’ve wanted, what I’ve dreamed about since the day I arrived at Ceborec. But things have changed now. If I go through with my plan to rescue Evie, I may not be here to board the shuttle. And if I don’t rescue Evie, she may never escape this planet. And what about Marcus? And Glenn and Drake? I can’t leave them behind. This news couldn’t come at a worse time.

  “You don’t look pleased,” Myra says, cocking her head to the side. “I thought you wanted to go.”

  “I did. I mean, I do. I’m just . . . in shock, I guess. I wasn’t expecting this. I’m a little overwhelmed.”

  “Well, don’t be. We haven’t even set a launch date yet. But we’ve got the technicians working day and night to get it completed as soon as possible. I just thought you should know so you can begin preparations.”

  “What about Marcus?”

  “We have a few open spots left to fill. The committee will certainly take him into consideration.”

  “Thank you, Myra.”

  “You’re welcome. Have you been to the new NICU?”

  “Not yet. I just got here.”

  “We just transferred your baby yesterday. He’s looking much healthier. You should go see him.”

  “Can you take me there?”

  Chapter 24

  (Marcus)

  Daisies. Broken glass. My mother’s wedding ring.

  I jot the notes at the bottom of a page filled with other scribbles and drawings in the navy leather bound journal and slip it back into the canvas bag under my cot.

  “What’s that?”

  Nicron hovers over me, his dreadlocks dangling over his brow. Ever since the memories began to return I’ve been writing every flash, every vision, every feeling into this journal. I can’t make sense of everything yet. I’m still just seeing bits and pieces and I don’t know where each belongs on this roller coaster of a timeline. All I know is that every time I see her, the anger chips away a little bit more and I can’t deny the feelings that threaten to break the ice. I think I still love her.

  “It’s nothing.” I huff. Nicron seems a little too eager to know what I’ve been remembering. Until I know what is going on in my own head I won’t take a chance sharing it with anyone. Not even my supposed best friend.

  “Hey, anything come back to you yet?” Nicron asks as he folds a white tee shirt sloppily and drops it into a cardboard box atop his cot.

  I shake my head, but can’t seem to meet his eyes. “No, not really,” I lie. Nicron glances back sadly to where Pollen stood staring at me. I hate seeing her in that uniform. She shouldn’t be in the militia. I don’t care if her brother and Glenn think they have her sheltered. Something could still happen to her. Then that poor little boy would be left without a mother. I just hope she doesn’t notice that I’ve been watching out for her too.

  “Hey man,” says Nicron. “I’m meeting some of the guys over at the Hole. Wanna come?”

  “No. But thanks for the invite.” With that, Nicron heads out and I’m relieved to have him off my back, even if it means thinking about her.

  I want to tell Pollen that I’m remembering, that it’s starting to come back to me. But how? She won’t speak to me. She won’t even stand in the same room with me. Have I hurt her so badly that she’s no longer willing to fight for me? From what I can remember, she at least tried before. She begged and pleaded with me not to leave her after the busted wedding. But this time she seems to be distant and dispassionate. Could my actions have caused her to give up on me completely?

  “Hey Marcus,” Drake says, rummaging through a cardboard box on the cot on the opposite wall. The coldness in his voice chills the air in the room.

  “Drake.” I nod.

  Maybe I should confide in him; tell him I’m remembering shards of the past that I can’t quite put together. He’s so close to Pollen, maybe he could tell me what she’s feeling now. But considering he doesn’t know our entire history—what happened before he was rescued from Crimson—I’m not sure what good it would do.

  I approach him from behind, glancing back to see that nobody is paying any attention and whisper, “Hey Drake, can I talk to you for minute?”

  He whips his head around, looking behind me before meeting my eyes. His gaze is intense, the weight of it like a punch in the gut. For a minute he stalls, scrutinizing me, before he responds.

  “Yeah, man. Please tell me you’re remembering something.”

  “Some . . . I mean . . . I think I am. But it’s all jumbled up. It’s like there’s cobwebs in my head. I can’t make sense of anything yet.”

  “What about Pollen? How do you feel about her?”

  “I can’t . . . I don’t know! That’s the problem.” I fall back onto the cot next to Drake’s, sinking my face into my palms. Drake is like a stranger to me, but I feel this connection with him, like we have a lot in common. I guess that’s why it’s easier to talk to him. “It’s like, I know I should hate her. But I can’t help it. No matter how much I try to fight it, I care about her still.”

  “Good, I’ve got something I need to tell you.” Drake speaks with a sense of urgency, pulling my thoughts out of my murky mind. “She wouldn’t want me to, but I think you ought to be in on this.”

  “Wha—”

  “Hey Marcus!” My gaze shifts over Drake’s shoulder. Timber waltzes in, light on her toes, and takes Drake’s hand, kissing it gently before planting her lips on his. “Can I steal my boyfriend for lunch?” Drake’s eye twitches as he turns to face Timber. “Don’t you dare argue with me. I know you haven’t eaten yet.” Before he can protest, Timber gently prods him toward the door.

  “We’ll talk later. When I get back,” Drake says. Timber drapes his hand over her shoulder and marches him out the door behind her.

  The room feels suffocating. I need to get out and get away from everybody. With all the feelings bottled up and ready to explode inside of me, to say I’m on edge is an understatement. There’s only one place I know of that can calm my nerves. One person I can see to fill some of the emptiness inside me.

  ***

  I like to make-believe that he is my son. His blue eyes could be mine. The feathery wisps of hair sprouting from his crown could have a hint of fire in them. But it’s too soon to tell. They could do a paternity test now—he certainly looks healthy enough. Or are they holding off for another reason? After the way I reacted, I could understand if Pollen decided she didn’t want to know. Maybe she’s gone back to Glenn for good this time.

  The small box of a room he’s being kept in is stark white, painted hastily with bare patches of drywall showing through in spots. I think I may have been involved in the construction of this new bunker. Partial memories of framing and installing walls come back to me as soon as I moved in. The incubator rests against the far wall, surrounded by medical equipment dotted with blinking lights, emitting a mechanical hum. The remainder of the room looks like a storage facility for more technical gadgets I assume have some use to the doctors and nurses here. This isn’t where a newborn baby should be kept. If the look of my surroundings were any colder it’d be an icebox. Even the muted lighting can’t seem to warm it up. I’m tempted to complain to the staff, but considering the circumstances I suppose I should just be grateful he’s being taken care of.

  I feed my hand through the hole in the side of the incubator. His tiny fingers wrap around my index finger with a grip so hard I’d need to pry them off to escape. His delicate skin is so soft and silky it’s like fresh churned butter. My chest drips with love. Even if he’s not my own flesh and blood, I feel like he’s still my child. In my heart he is. I can’t wait to hold him.

  A radiant magnetism draws my attention away from the boy and to the figure behind me. She’s like a goddess standing in the doorway with the fluorescent backlight from the hallway outlining her frame. Her eyes sparkle like emeralds; her hair cascades down her shoulders in loose curls, like she just unraveled a braid. I have to speak to her this time. I can’t put it off any longer.

  “Pollen,” I
start. She turns to leave.

  “No, Pollen, wait.” She stops, but doesn’t look at me. I try to uncurl the child’s fingers from mine, but they don’t budge. Deep down I don’t want them to. I don’t want to have to choose between Pollen and the child. I want them both.

  “Come here. Please.”

  The look in her eyes is cautious as she takes a few reluctant steps toward me like she is walking barefoot on broken glass. Maybe I was right. Maybe she has moved on.

  “Hello, Marcus.” Her voice is calm, steady, composed. Devoid of the passion and emotion that my vague memory tricks me into recalling.

  Where do I start? Memories? Apologies? I should have taken the time to plan this out. I don’t even know what to say. Pollen looks down at my hand in the incubator. There it is—something glimmering behind her eyes. She feels something.

  Like a jolt of electricity zipping through my veins, another memory hits me. She’s in my arms, pregnant, blood staining her shirt. My thoughts only on saving her and our child. Not Glenn’s, but ours. And the feeling of hope, forgiveness.

  “I’m beginning to remember,” I say.

  Pollen takes a step back, a look of utter shock masking her face. But not in a good way. She almost looks . . . repulsed.

  “This isn’t a good time, Marcus,” she cries as she spins to leave. I start to follow, but my hand is still clamped by the tiny fingers. As much as I hate to, I twist them off and chase Pollen out of the clinic and into the atrium. The room is drowning with people, most gawking at the new shuttle. She’s gone. I weave through the crowd, twisting between bystanders and pushing some out of the way. I have to find her.