Gemini Cell

by Myke Cole

“Comeoncomeoncomeon,” she said as the thin stream of tones indicated it ringing.

  At long last, “Portsmouth Testing.”

  “Hi, this is Sarah Schweitzer. You just e-mailed me test results on a couple of samples I brought in last week?”

  The next few minutes seemed like hours as she waited to speak to the clinician assigned to her case.

  Then another eternity of ringing, her stomach in knots that it might lead to an answering machine. If it came to that, she’d get in her car and drive there. She’d explain to Steve later. He’d have to understand.

  When the other end of the phone picked up, she nearly sobbed with relief for the second time that day. “Yes, yes. Hi. This is Sarah Schweitzer.”

  The voice on the other end had a Virginia accent so thick she could barely understand it. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I just got my results over e-mail, and . . .”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The voice was mildly amused. “I’m guessing you’re going to want us to testify in court? Looks like your crematorium has some explaining to do.”

  “Are you sure there wasn’t some mistake? I can’t believe . . .”

  “There’s no mistake, ma’am. That’s pig ashes you’ve got there. Not even close to a match for the semen sample you provided.”

  “I can’t . . . the navy gave me these. How is it possible . . .”

  “We get questions like this all the time, ma’am. We don’t even try to answer them. For liability reasons, you understand. We can assert our findings, and that’s as far as it goes. Now, if you want to use this as evidence in a civil proceeding, we have . . .”

  “How can you be sure? Aren’t pig and human DNA similar?”

  The man responded with the vaguely irritated resignation of one who’d answered this question ad nauseum. “Yes, ma’am. Quite similar, but you have to remember we do this a lot.”

  “A lot? You test pigs a lot?”

  “All the time. Livestock’s about three-quarters of our business, I’d say. We get a lot more animal-heritage business than paternity cases. This isn’t DC, ma’am. Lot of farming folk out this way. They live and die on their breeding lines, and I’m sorry to say that sometimes folks aren’t as honest as they should be in setting their stud fees.”

  She didn’t realize she’d gone silent until he spoke again. “Ma’am? Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, yes. Fine. You are absolutely a thousand percent sure that was pig ashes.”

  “Yes, ma’am. We got lucky in that there were a few fairly good-sized bone fragments in that canister. It’s rare to cremate someone all the way, but this was a rush job.”

  She hung up without saying good-bye, her mind and stomach doing loops in time. She looked back at the can on the counter, duct tape sealing in a lie. Maybe there was some mistake. What mistake? Do they typically keep pigs on navy bases? Cremate them? It didn’t make sense.

  She turned back to Patrick, who was standing now, coming to her.

  And suddenly the sensation returned with such force that she staggered.

  She’d seen no body, there’d been no funeral, no article in the papers. The navy had shrouded the whole thing in secrecy, and now there was a can full of pig ashes on the kitchen counter of her rented, extended-stay suite.

  Jim was alive.

  She swept Patrick into her arms, pressed his head against her thigh.

  The doorbell rang.

  Steve’s timing had gone from fantastic to horrible in an instant. Or, had it? She had questions, and he was the logical place to start.

  Patrick toddled to the door, hands raised and grasping. Normally, she’d at least go through the motions of lifting him, allowing him to pretend to open it. Now, she practically knocked him over in her rush to open the door. She swept Patrick up under one arm, beginning to squall as Steve came in.

  He broke into a broad grin at the sight of the boy, and Patrick calmed as she passed him to Steve, who tossed him in the air as he made his way to the couch. “Hey, little man!”

  She turned, closing the door behind her, leaned against it. Steve sat, settling Patrick on his knee before turning to her. His smile fled.

  “Sarah, we’re just talking. There’s no need for drama.”

  She shook her head. “Never mind that.”

  “What? Let me put Patrick in his room for a minute. He can play with . . .”

  “No, Steve . . .”

  His face darkened. “Look, you can’t just keep on . . .”

  “Steve, will you shut the fuck up and listen for five seconds?”

  He closed his mouth, set Patrick down. The boy wrapped his arms around his calf and pressed his head against his knee. “Nice language around the P-Train.”

  “That can of ashes. Where’d you get it?”

  “What do you mean where did I get it?”

  “Just answer the question. I’m in no mood right now.”

  “I told you. I got it on post. They gave it to me after I made a fuss.”

  “No. I mean, specifically. Who gave it to you?”

  He looked at her as if she’d sprouted a second head. “Chief.”

  “And you trust her?”

  “What kind of a fuc . . .” He looked down at Patrick, lowered his voice. “What kind of a question is that?”

  “It’s the question I’m asking you, damn it. It’s the question I need you to give me a straight answer to.”

  “Yes. That woman has saved my ass on at least three different occasions. I’ve run ops with her since I pinned on. I would trust her with my life. I have trusted her with my life.”

  “She’s never lied to you? She’s never given you any reason to . . .”

  “She’s a SEAL, Sarah. She’s cleared Top Secret. They polygraph her every five years. If a person can be proved honest, it’s her.”

  “Did you see them pack the ashes?”

  “What? No! No, I didn’t see . . . Look, what the hell is this all about?”

  She gestured to the laptop. “First e-mail.”

  He disentangled himself from Patrick, put the computer on his lap, and opened it. She watched his expression, the sullen anger and surprise, the slow fade first to concentration as he read and finally to disbelief as the meaning came clear.

  “You . . . You had it DNA tested? What the fuck? Sarah, what the fuck is wrong with you?” All concern for Patrick’s tender ears was gone.

  “I might ask you the same question, Steve. I thought I was crazy myself when I had it run, but I gave myself permission to be crazy for once. Seemed like the right time for it. Now I’m glad I did.”

  “There has to be a mistake. The lab messed up.”

  “I just got off the phone with them. They seem pretty damn sure.”

  “Have them run it again.”

  She shook her head. “Do they keep pigs on Little Creek?”

  He remembered Patrick, pulled the boy in, covering his ears with his hands. “What?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “No! Wait. Yes.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes. For TCCC.”

  She was familiar with the acronym soup for Jim’s day-to-day, but this one hovered at the edge of her mind, just out of reach. She cocked her head.

  “Tactical Combat Casualty Care. We cut their femoral arteries to practice stopping arterial bleeding.”

  She wrinkled her nose.

  “They’re sedated,” he said. “At least, when we’re not trying to simulate a noncompliant case.”

  “What happens when you’re done with them?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe they serve them in the DFAC.”

  “So, it’s possible they cremate them? That there was a mix-up?”

  He was silent for a long time. “If it’s a mix-up, it’s one hell of one. I mean, I’ve seen some dumb sh
it go down, but this takes the cake.”

  “We have to go back there,” she said. “We have to talk to Chief Ahmad and find out what the hell happened.”

  He was already patting the air with his palms, standing. “There is no we here, Sarah. I understand you’re grieving, but you are not just walking onto our compound shaking your fist and demanding answers. Leave it to me, I’ll get it figured out.”

  “I need to be sure, Steve. I’m going.”

  “Sarah, I understand this has you pissed. I’m mad as hell, too. But it’s just ashes. It’s not some conspiracy.”

  She bridled, embarrassed. Enough of her suspicions had leaked into her tone. “I didn’t say anything about a conspiracy.”

  “No, you didn’t. You just radiated it. Sarah, you said yourself you’ve been having dreams that make you feel like he’s alive. But he’s not alive. A screwup with his remains doesn’t change the fact that he’s not coming back. We both need to accept that.”

  “I do accept that,” she said, fighting to keep the lie from her voice. “I just . . . I need this handled. You can get me into Little Creek.”

  “No way. You’re going to have to trust me on this. It was hard enough just to get that can in the first place. If I bring you back there in your current . . .” He stopped himself, blushing.

  “In my current what? My fucking current condition? My hysterical, driven-mad-by-grief condition?”

  Patrick started crying at that, and Steve lifted him to his chest, rocking him gently. He met Sarah’s eyes over her son’s shoulder. “I’m not taking you, Sarah. Not because I’m ashamed of you, or because I doubt you, but because it won’t help. You want to find out what happened? Then you need to let me take care of this.”

  She went to him, gathered Patrick into her arms, felt Steve’s hesitation in releasing her son. Patrick held on, cried worse when they were finally separated, drummed his tiny hands on her neck. Her heart broke at the sound, but she held him close. She felt the mother lion behind her eyes, staring Steve down. You’re not taking my boy.

  The silence between them stretched. “So,” he finally said. “I’ll go find out what’s up. Then, after, we can talk.”

  “Fine,” she said, her voice sounding foreign in her own ears, hard. “Thank you,” she added. “I appreciate this.”

  He nodded, headed silently for the door.

  “How long do you think it’ll take?” she asked before he could leave.

  He turned to her, exasperated, his hands already sweeping up into the broad motion that would say, How the hell should I know? Calm down.

  “Please, Steve,” she said, her voice husky now. “I need this to be over.”

  His eyes softened at that, and he nodded. “I’ll head there now, and I’ll text you as soon as I have something. Just . . . just hang on.”

  And then he was gone, leaving Sarah to rock her son into tearful sleep, and to hang on, as ordered.

  CHAPTER XV

  OCONUS

  Schweitzer offered no resistance as they moved him from the damaged cold-storage unit to a reinforced cell farther down the hall. This one had no transparent panel, no slot in the door. A narrow cage occupied the center of the room, well away from the walls. The cage’s bars were thick, stretching from the ceiling to the floor, where Schweitzer knew they were probably anchored several feet deep. He wasn’t sure if he could bend them with his newfound strength, but he doubted it.

  Burn and freeze nozzles covered the walls, newly painted, layers of deck gray that were unable to fool Schweitzer’s enhanced vision. He could see the deep furrows in the reinforced concrete behind them, smell the faint, acrid odor that wafted from the scorch marks. The room’s burn function had been used, and recently.

  I think they’re done fucking around, he said to Ninip.

  No cage can hold us, Ninip answered, but the jinn’s voice lacked its usual razor edge, seemed muted somehow. Quieter.

  Schweitzer paused, tried to goad the jinn into speaking again. I don’t know, those bars look pretty thick.

  Ninip didn’t answer.

  You think you can bend them? Schweitzer tried again.

  Perhaps, Ninip said.

  Definitely quieter, and there was something . . . smaller about Ninip’s voice, a hair less arrogant. There was the hint of a reverberation, as if the jinn were speaking from the bottom of a very wide well.

  Schweitzer tentatively reached out into the darkness they shared. The presence still dominated it, but there was a bit more space for him to slide into. The sense of being pressed into the edge of their shared body had abated a fraction. Was the jinn some kind of vampire? Did he need slaughter to sustain himself? Had the revelation of the death of his civilization sapped his will? Schweitzer reached into the presence, fumbling for a grasp on the jinn’s thoughts and memories.

  Ninip came alive at that, snarling and slapping him away. Down but not out, then.

  I was a millennium in the storm when your ancestors were a hope of generations distant. Do not presume to match your strength to mine. Your precious professionalism will not help you here.

  Schweitzer raised phantom hands in a placating gesture. Okay, okay.

  Ninip gave a final growl and settled back. It was a little while before Schweitzer realized with a start that the jinn hadn’t tried to push him out again. For all Ninip’s bluster, Schweitzer still had his extra share of the darkness.

  He batted away a thousand questions. The only one who could likely answer them was the jinn. He could ask Jawid, or Eldredge, but he remembered his old adage from the counterintelligence portion of his indoctrination. Need to know, his instructor had said. I don’t care if it’s the guy standing right next to you. The essence of compartmentalization is only revealing that which must be revealed. That way, if your buddy’s compromised, the mission isn’t. Treat everyone like mushrooms, keep ’em in the dark and feed ’em shit, until the mission absolutely requires otherwise.

  No need to tip his hand until he had a better grip on what this meant.

  The books were gone, and he didn’t want to risk tangling with Ninip again, so he spent his time reaching out into the void, stretching for some hint of the tremor he’d felt before, the intense feeling that Sarah was searching for him.

  Ninip seemed content to let him, and the lack of resistance allowed him to push his consciousness easily outward into the freezing darkness that lay beyond the walls of their shared body. The screaming assaulted him instantly, and he felt the slightest tug toward the maelstrom of souls, a hint of an undertow that he hadn’t noticed before.

  Most firefights were an enabling scenario for Attention Deficit Disorder, a flashing series of peripheral engagements that prevented focus on anything. SEALs trained for that, expanding their peripheral vision, their ability to flit from task to task, their focus everywhere at once. Master Chief Green, in one of his rare metaphysical moments, had quoted from the Samurai sourcebook Hagakure. Taking an enemy on the battlefield is like a hawk taking a bird, Green had said. Even though it enters into the midst of a thousand of them, it gives no attention to any bird other than the one it has first marked.

  There was a time and a place for laserlike focus. A supported prone shot over long distance didn’t require multitasking. The ability to drill down to a single space in the universe, to will a round to go into it, no matter how small or far away, was just another tool in their toolbox.

  Schweitzer summoned this focus now, drilling down through the distractions, the cold and the screaming and the gentle tug into chaos, searching for the echo of his wife.

  It was harder than when he was alive. Schweitzer was used to the smells and sounds of combat, able to slip into the space where the primate faded back, and the artist stepped up to do his work. The void was different. The shrieking pastiche nagged at his senses, tempting him to focus, to try to single out individual voices from the throng. It
diverted his attention from the undertow, reeling him slowly closer as he focused, until he snapped back to himself, pushing suddenly backward, alarmed at how close he’d come. He knew that, once sucked in, he’d never escape.

  Slowly, the voices slipped farther and farther to the edge of his hearing, going from scream to murmur and finally to the low buzz that masked everything when he focused, gunfire, explosions, radio chatter.

  And there, at the bottom, was his sniper’s lens. It arced out into the tangle of souls, swept through in search of its single target, the signature of the love of his life, the scent of her homemade perfume. The maelstrom was chaos of an order of magnitude he’d never experienced, but this focus was Schweitzer’s own bit of magic, his artistry of the gun. It could put a bullet into a square inch at almost two thousand yards.

  It could find anything.

  He was dimly aware of Ninip rousing, reaching out to observe Schweitzer’s focus, but that quickly receded into the low hum of everything around him, until it became so thematic that it was a kind of quiet.

  And in that silence, he found her.

  The smell of rosewater, faint, but unmistakable, and something more, a tremor, a pulsing, weak and rapid, but most certainly there. No, two pulses, one smaller than the other, regular rhythms in counterpoint.

  Heartbeats.

  Schweitzer jolted back into himself, whirled to face the jinn. They’re alive. My family is alive.

  The jinn’s focus on Schweitzer had been nearly as intent as Schweitzer’s focus on the void. Ninip startled back, paused for a moment before shaking his head.

  No, they are not.

  They are! I felt them. Their hearts are beating. I picked it out of the storm.

  Nothing can be picked out of the storm. I was there for . . .

  For thousands of years. I know. You bring it up every chance you get. I’m telling you, I spotted it. They’re alive. I heard their heartbeats.

  Ninip sighed. Millennia mean nothing to you, but you must trust me that it is time enough to observe one’s own surroundings. There are no heartbeats in that place. It is for the dead.

  Bullshit.