by Lee Stephen
For the past several days, he’d put off visiting Petrov in Confinement. He knew what the scientist wanted—to drill Scott on his telepathic connection with the aliens. In spite of Petrov’s curiosity, Scott had decided not to tell the scientist anything—his trust in the man had greatly diminished. And Petrov wasn’t the real reason Scott needed to make the trip, anyway. It had been five days since Tauthin had been saved from execution. That was as long as Scott could go without news.
As soon as Scott entered, Petrov hurried across the room to meet him. “It is good to see you, friend! I was wondering when you would come.”
Scott noticed the addition of two new captives right away—the two Bakma he’d captured during the rescue of Pelican Squad, the ones Esther had stopped him from killing in the engine room. He spared them a brief look before looking at Tauthin’s cell. “How is he?” The moment he saw the alien, he had his answer.
Tauthin was sitting on the edge of his cot, his wire-thin arms dangling over his knees. His head was down, but he was not unconscious. On the contrary, he looked well—and bored. The moment he saw Scott, the alien looked up, its bulging eyes widening. It was no longer attached to feeding tubes or medical instruments. The alien was garbed in what looked like peasant’s rags—plain, brown cloth that hung loosely. It didn’t look Bakmanese, but rather like a sack Novosibirsk had provided.
From behind Scott, Petrov said, “He had his first taste of calunod yesterday. His recovery has gone very well.”
That the scientist sounded pleased disgusted Scott. He’d be dead now if you’d had your way, you hypocrite. “Let me in the cell.”
“Wonderful! We can attempt to communicate with him again. Perhaps this new turn of events will make him more susceptible to interrogation.”
“I want to go in alone. Open the door and let me in.”
After a moment of hesitation, the scientist agreed. “As you wish.” There was disdain and disappointment in his voice, but Scott didn’t care. “Would you like an Ithini to connect you?”
“No. I don’t want to connect.” If he never connected again, that would be fine. “I’ll teach him to talk.” He wondered if Tauthin had ever been taught English or Russian while he was in the Walls of Mourning. Somehow he doubted it.
As soon as the cell door slid open, Tauthin rose to his feet. Despite the frailty of his body, he seemed able to move without hindrance.
Scott stepped inside and looked back. “Close the cell.”
Petrov reluctantly complied.
It felt odd not to be afraid. As Scott stared at the Bakma, he was struck with how drastically different the alien looked now—how far removed it was from its once powerful stature. Tauthin had almost killed him in the turret tower during the Assault on Novosibirsk. It could be argued that Scott had survived by pure luck.
Scott was unfamiliar with Bakmanese emotions. He had no idea how to recognize a smile, a scowl, or even confusion. For all he knew, their expressions meant the opposite of human’s. But something looked familiar. The Bakma’s eyes were fixated on Scott’s face, seeming to take it in from every angle. Then Scott remembered: his face was swollen. He had a black eye.
It looked like Tauthin was actually smirking.
Scott did the only thing he knew how to do—the only way he knew how to greet someone. He extended his hand.
The alien stared at Scott’s outstretched palm. His opaque eyes watched the human’s fingers intently, then looked up to catch Scott’s expression.
Scott felt the urge to explain. “Your hand, in my hand.” He motioned with a nod to Tauthin’s arm. The alien did nothing.
He has no clue what this means. Scott withdrew his hand and pointed at himself. “Remington.” Start with names. “Remington.” He turned his finger around to point at the alien. “Tauthin.” He motioned back and forth. “Remington. Tauthin.”
Tauthin cocked his head to the side. He looked interested, but puzzled. When he spoke, Scott was surprised.
“Remata.” The alien’s voice was raspy and coarse. It sounded either weak or physically injured. Maybe it was both.
Scott gave Tauthin a curious look. Remata? Is that for Remington? It had to be. Of all things, Scott found it humorous. He’d coined a diminutive name for Tauthin, so it was only fair that the favor was returned. “Remata. Yes,” he nodded.
“Gaas,” Tauthin said back.
Gaas had to mean yes. The manner in which Tauthin said it, along with the tone of his voice—nothing else would have worked. The realization overwhelmed Scott. He’s just like a human.
There was suddenly so much he wanted to know, so many questions that burned in his mind. He caught himself in the midst of a pleased moment. Steklov would be proud. This is something he’d have wanted me to do. This is good. He realized he’d forgotten Steklov’s folder. It was the first time he’d ever done that before.
“U`nakaassa ta’kuta,” Tauthin said. “Una-gaas`talas.” His words were quick and fluent.
Scott had no idea what they meant, nor any idea whether Tauthin was telling him something or just spouting off. The words didn’t sound angry, but they were firm. They sounded as if they had a point.
We have to learn how to communicate. He has to learn English. It would have been impractical for Scott to learn Bakmanese, and he didn’t want to teach the alien Russian. What can I tell him? As he looked about the room, obvious answers sprung to mind. He pointed straight up. “Ceiling.” Tauthin canted his head. Scott pointed down. “Floor.” Then to the side. “Wall.”
The lesson felt ridiculous even as Scott carried it out; a linguist probably would have been laughing aloud. But all Scott could think of was to begin with words whose meanings would be clear. He pointed to each one again. “Ceiling. Floor. Wall.”
Tauthin nodded—a motion so natural, Scott almost missed its significance. “Cele. Flora. Wao,” the creature attempted.
Scott grinned. “Yes.”
“Yaas. Gaas. Yaas.”
This is unreal. When he’d spoken to the Bakma in the forest, he hadn’t had a chance to reflect on what he was doing. He’d been in pure survival mode. Now, he could absorb and appreciate it, perhaps even enjoy it.
So where did he go with it now?
Four words surfaced in Scott’s mind: interference, indication, allegiance, and judgment. The words he’d heard from the enemy Bakma. He needed to know what they meant. For a moment, he considered getting an Ithini to come in and connect them, but he decided against it. That would probably be too typical for Tauthin. He’s probably been through that a hundred times. And Scott simply did not want to experience that again.
“Calunod,” Tauthin said.
Scott knew the word well. He made an eating motion with his hand. “Calunod?”
“Yaas.”
Their communication was at an elementary level, that was for certain. But the Bakma was willing. He has to know I saved his life. That’s got to be why he’s receptive. Does that outweigh the fact that I took him prisoner? He found it hard to believe that, during all Tauthin’s time there, no one had persuaded him to speak about anything significant. The alien was obviously willing to learn.
A tap on the glass wall behind him startled Scott. Petrov was motioning for him to come from the cell. Meanwhile, Tauthin was staring at him expectantly.
Petrov’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “Commander Remington. I would like to speak with you please, while you are here. Perhaps we can speak first, then you may go back in the cell?”
Scott decided to get it over with. Petrov would not leave him alone otherwise. I’ll give the scientist three minutes, tell him nothing, and get him off my back. “I’m coming out,” he called and looked at Tauthin. “I’ll be right back.” He knew his words wouldn’t be understood literally, but the Bakma would know what he meant.
Tauthin acknowledged. “Daasvi`danyaas.”
“Dosvedanya,” Scott answered, without even realizing it. It didn’t dawn on him immediately, but when it did, he froze in mid-stride
. Tauthin had just told him goodbye in Russian. He spun around to the alien again. Tauthin stared back in silence.
Something unsettling stirred in Scott’s gut, but he tried to dismiss it. The alien had been around Russian scientists all this time. Of course it would have learned a few words.
Tauthin sat back down on his cot.
As soon as Scott was out of the cell, Petrov approached him. “Commander Remington, I would like to talk to you about something.”
I’m sure you would. “What is it?”
“Did you connect on your most recent mission?”
There was no point in denial. “Yes, I did.”
“Please tell me about that.”
“I connected briefly, and they attempted to negotiate a hostage exchange. They wanted to take Nightmen back with them.”
Petrov scribbled furiously on a pad.
“That’s it. They tried to do a prisoner exchange. Obviously, for them, it failed.”
“Nothing else happened?” Petrov asked, sounding surprised. “You learned no further information?”
The guilt of deception tapped on Scott’s heart. Just give him something to chew on. One thing won’t hurt. “They wanted to take us to some place called Khuldaris. To be evaluated.”
“What else did they say?”
“That was it.” But it wasn’t. He was leaving out the four words: interference, indication, allegiance, and judgment. He’d research those on his own. “Then we attacked.”
The scientist scribbled again, then suddenly stopped. The pen was still poised in his fingers as he waited for Scott to continue. When he didn’t, Petrov spoke again. “Are you sure that is it? Nothing else?”
“That’s it. Nothing else.”
The Russian’s skepticism was obvious.
“What do you want to hear, Petrov?”
“I want to hear the truth. I want to hear what has happened so I can tell General Thoor.”
He cringed at the sound of Thoor’s name. That was precisely why he was keeping certain things hidden. “That is the truth. That’s what I heard.” It wasn’t a total lie, just a lie of omission. Petrov hesitated for a moment, then he sighed. “Commander Remington—”
“Did you teach him Russian?” Scott interrupted.
“What?”
“Did you teach the Bakma Russian?”
“No, we did not.”
It wasn’t the answer he’d expected to hear. Scott’s mind took the thought and ran. Tauthin was smart and the Bakma were crafty. He’d obviously secretly learned some basic Russian. So what is he learning from me? I’d better be careful how I handle this alien.
Scott cast a brief look back to the cell. He’d been acting under the assumption that the alien would be grateful to him. But what if it wasn’t?
He told me goodbye in Russian. Was that a slip? Or did he want me to know that he knew?
Scott made a quick decision: before he went any further with Tauthin, he needed a better plan of attack. Just walking in and talking wasn’t a good idea. He wanted to learn from Tauthin, not inadvertently aid and abet the enemy.
“Why do you ask?” asked Petrov. “Did he speak Russian to you?”
Yes, he did, Scott thought, though he chose not to disclose it. The less he confessed to Petrov, the better. He didn’t trust the scientist at all. Without answering, he walked away.
“Commander Remington.”
Scott kept walking.
“Commander Remington!” Petrov called out again. This time, Scott stopped and turned around. “The Bakma…he is not your friend.”
Scott listened suspiciously.
“You have not been around them like me. If you trust him, you will be deceived.”
If I trust you, Petrov, I will be deceived. Yet the scientist’s words disturbed him. Turning around, he walked out the door.
Petrov didn’t say a thing.
* * *
As Scott returned to his room, his mind raced. He was surprised at his own inclination to give Tauthin the benefit of the doubt. Was it because he’d encountered the alien before? Did he think that somehow Tauthin would feel he owed Scott something for saving him from execution? Neither argument held much water. He’d captured Tauthin in the first place, and the Bakma were—as Petrov had pointed out—still the enemy. The Bakma had started this war, and Tauthin had still tried to kill him. Whether Tauthin’s dedication to the Bakmas’ war against humanity outweighed his personal code of honor was unknown. Scott was becoming increasingly uncertain.
This is why xenobiologists do this and not soldiers.
Nonetheless, he had learned something from the encounter. It was the first time he’d communicated to a Bakma in a non-combat situation. He was struck at just how humanlike they seemed. He could not be sure whether that was a good thing.
With all the drama, all that was happening in their personal lives, he reminded himself that they were still in the middle of a war. There were many still things they needed to learn.
He would speak to Tauthin again—and next time he would be prepared. He had to be, for reasons that went beyond his own aspirations. But he would be wary. He would approach the Bakma with caution, not rashly as he’d done minutes before.
Scott entered the officers’ wing with a new sense of purpose; there was much he wanted to know. How had EDEN gone so long without getting answers? What things had The Machine discovered? EDEN used psychological torture and nothing else. Did Thoor have the more practical way with physical abuse? It was an unpleasant thought, but one he knew needed consideration.
As soon as he rounded the corner leading to his personal quarters, he saw a man sitting beside his door. He recognized David instantly. He sat leaning against the wall with one knee bent and the other extended. It looked like he’d been waiting for a while.
What was he doing there? Scott watched as David slowly pushed to his feet and approached. As soon as he was within earshot, the older man said, “Hey, Scott.” He made no attempt to shake hands or feign a smile.
“Hi, Dave. What’s goin’ on?” Scott asked, trying to be casual.
David hesitated. “Just tell me you learned.”
“What?”
“Just tell me you learned something through this.”
He understood what David was saying. He just hadn’t expected to hear it. “Someone set you up to talk to me?”
“Yeah.”
That answer took Scott by surprise. It was the kind of honesty that stung. He opted not to ask who it was—he already knew it had to be Svetlana. There was no one else who came to mind. He nodded his head. “I learned a lot.”
“You’re all right with your teammates?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re all right with God?”
At that question, Scott fell silent. Indeed, God was the final area that needed repair. Scott didn’t know where to begin—he didn’t even know how to approach it. He wanted to be right with God. At least, he thought he did. Since Nicole’s death, there’d been a hole in his faith, one that ached every day. But to be right with God? He wasn’t sure what that meant anymore. He wasn’t sure if God was right with him. “Yeah.”
David immediately frowned. “Is that a lie?”
Scott sighed and laughed self-consciously. “Yeah.”
“That’s all right. I lied to you, too.” Sliding his hands into his pockets, David took ten steps down the hall past Scott before turning around. “I never stopped caring completely.”
Scott realized right then, as he locked eyes with the older man who had once been his closest ally, that the rift between them would never fully heal. This was their new cordiality, their new personal conversation. Few words, with minimal feeling, and just enough compassion to acknowledge the other person. Somehow, it felt okay. Scott lingered in the hall for several minutes after David had disappeared, allowing the conversation to register.
He didn’t stay up too much longer, despite the fact that he wasn’t overly tired. There was a morning session to be run when th
e sun came up. For the first time in months, he found himself looking forward to it. For the first time in just as long, he fell into a contented, dreamless sleep.
33
Saturday, November 20, 0011 NE
1530 hours
EDEN Command
Judge Blake sighed with exhaustion as he stood before the High Command. In his hand was a single sheet of paper. “I am afraid, my fellow judges, that the direness of our situation has just come to light,” he said, trying to keep his voice level.
Torokin listened eagerly as Blake went on. The two judges—Blake and June—had arrived back from Novosibirsk the day before. This was their first big debriefing, the one everyone was waiting for.
The Russian judge had spent the past several days visiting Confinement with Archer, in particular visiting Ceratopian No. 12. It was his first time sitting in on interrogations, and any preconceived notion he had that the quest for answers might be exciting had been summarily squashed. It was slow and agonizingly dull. It felt as if they were going in circles.
He was still looking into his theory—that for some reason, each species needed the other to fail more than they needed Earth—but he had no direction to take it. It was a hypothesis and nothing more.
“Prior to the Assault on Novosibirsk,” Blake went on, “it was believed that there were approximately thirteen thousand actual operatives at the facility, of which roughly three thousand were Nightmen.” He frowned. “In the aftermath of Carol’s census, we’ve learnt we’ve been terribly wrong.”
June listened solemnly to Blake’s words.
“By her estimate, the current number of operatives garrisoned at Novosibirsk…is over seventeen thousand.”
Gasps erupted across the room.
“Of those seventeen thousand, approximately seven thousand are Nightmen. Over half of them are completely unregistered.”