“Anne, Turing wants to feed these folks. Said he’d pull them aside for individual interviews.”
The woman’s face lit up.
“Oh, good. I was hoping we’d have guests,” she replied. “I’m sorry, but I’m working on dinner right now. All I can offer is some sandwiches and tea, is that okay?”
The group glanced back and forth at each other.
“I’m sure that will be fine, Ma’am,” Svoboda responded.
By the end of the resulting shuffle, they’d been led to yet another room with a sizable wooden table. Despite their simplicity, the meat and cheese in the sandwiches hit Eric’s palate like a gourmet meal. Deliciously bitter but tamed with honey, the hot tea warmed his chilled bones. Not long had passed before Eric found himself yawning and slumping his cushioned chair.
“Tired?” Leah asked him from across the table.
“Yeah, a bit,” he replied. “Once I started to relax, all this tired just landed on me.”
Sitting in the chair beside Leah, Svoboda nodded. “And that’s why the perfect time to attack would be right now. Wait until the enemy has a chance to relax after a big event and they’ll struggle to respond. Basic biology.”
Leah gave Svoboda sideways glance.
“No, it’s true,” Doc noted. “Part of the adrenaline response. Once the event is passed and adrenaline begins to decline, there’s a refractory period. If something happens before you’re recharged, you’ve got some issues.”
Everyone sat in uncomfortable silence for a second and jumped when someone knocked on the door. Hadrian peeked into the room.
“Byron, if you’re ready, Turing would like to speak with you now.”
Eric watched Svoboda leave. Byron Mackinnon. That’s still so weird. I’m used to thinking of him as Svoboda. A cloud of savory scents wafted through the door when Anne poked her head in.
“Does anyone want another sandwich? More tea?” Anne asked.
“If you don’t mind, I could go for more of both,” Eric told her.
“I’ll take some tea,” Leah asked.
“Actually, I’m kind of exhausted, is there some place I might be able to nod off until this Turing guy wants to talk to me?” Jeff asked.
Doc murmured the same.
“Oh, sure. Let me get their food, I’ll show you to the lounge while your friends finish up,” Anne told them. True to her word, she appeared shortly with another plate for Eric, poured them both tea, and showed the other two out.
“So, how are you doing?” Leah asked, clearly uncomfortable with the lasting silence.
“Okay I guess, other than the headache.”
“Same one from yesterday?”
“Yeah. It’s not nearly as bad. In fact, if I don’t think about it, I barely notice. I’m exhausted, but a lot hungrier than I thought. You?”
Leah sipped her tea. Her smile did not reach her eyes. “Same here. More cold than anything, really.”
“You sure you’re holding up okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, but Eric heard more in her voice.
“Leah,” Eric started, reaching across the table to touch her hand.
“Don’t touch me,” she snapped as she snatched her hand back right before he could touch it. She scowled at him and continued, “Don’t play hurt mister ‘I’m just trying to help.’ I saw what you did to Frost. Don’t think for one minute I don’t know what you’re capable of.”
Eric rocked back in his chair, words frozen in his mouth. From the doorway, Anne cleared her throat.
“Miss Anne, do you have some place I can be alone for a bit?” Leah asked.
“Of course, dear,” Anne said with a congenial smile. The look she gave Eric as she turned to leave confused him further. Her features seemed conciliatory, but he felt little but judgement. Fuck me. He sipped his tea, trying to not let the sudden weight of everything drag at him. When Anne returned, he’d already finished his sandwich, bolted down the rest of the tea she’d left, and had just begun looking about the room from his chair.
“Eric?” Anne asked. “What’s this thing with Frost Leah was talking about?”
“I really wish I could tell you,” Eric said with a sigh. Before Anne’s frown could translate into words, he continued, “Something happened on the ship we were both on. I don’t remember much of anything. Doctors said something about a traumatic brain injury interfering with my memory.”
“Oh. Is it permanent?”
“I was told it could be days, months, or even years before I get my memory back, if I get it back at all.”
“Well, I guess that clarifies things a bit.”
“Not for me it doesn’t. I look at her, and I see fear. Why? I can’t remember. I get snippets and vague feelings about a lot of stuff. It took me a bit to remember her name, but I don’t remember anything else about her, or most of our time on the Shrike for that matter. I remember being on my ship, then things get progressively fuzzier going forwards or back. I know something bad happened to the Fortune and I know something bad happened on the Shrike, but beyond that? All I have is a swarm of tiny random details begging to be put together. That bugs the hell out of me.”
Anne nodded in sympathy. “I can see how that would be confusing.”
“It is. Very. Part of me is sad about this.”
“And the other part?”
“I-I’m tired of getting kicked for things I didn’t do. Or, well, things I don’t remember doing. Part of me wants to get really angry about it all.”
“Most people would, past a certain point,” Anne said, sitting down in the chair Leah vacated. “But I’ll tell you this, Eric. As confused as you might be, I think Leah’s just as bad off.”
“How do you figure?”
“She broke down in the hall. I couldn’t follow a lot of what she said, but she is hurting about something. Something big, but beyond that I couldn’t tell. Give her some time to rest, time to figure things out.”
Eric sighed and looked out the window.
“Things will get better. Time heals all wounds.” Anne patted his hand and stood up. “Would you like to join your friends?”
“I kinda want to be by myself, but at the same time, I don’t know. I’m kinda afraid to be by myself, too. Does that make sense?”
Anne smiled, but Eric saw the masked sadness behind her eyes.
“It does, dear. Tell you what, come with me to the lounge and if it doesn’t work out for you, I’ll find a room you can lie down in. How’s that sound?”
Eric nodded. The lounge turned out to be much closer than he’d expected, merely just across the hall. Jeff and Doc were sprawled out snoring on two of the many sleek couches that interrupted otherwise full-wall bookshelves. Anne closed the door behind him.
Curious, Eric scanned the shelves as he made his way to a couch at the far side. Some held large spherical objects clearly intended to represent a planet. No single one looked similar to another, much as he never saw a book title repeated. Some of the books were large and hardbound, but most were much smaller paperbacks. He paused at one section whose topics caught his eye.
Algebra, trigonometry, calculus, physics and real world applications, inorganic chemistry, organic chemistry, biology, genetics, micro miniature circuit design, applied nanoscale compositions. There’s no way this guy has read all this. One book slowed him down. Security is a Myth: Application of Intelligence Techniques to Information Security by Edgar Allen Turing. Same Turing as the guy running this place? Couldn’t be.
Eric gravitated to the broad window at the end of the room. It was snowing again outside, though not nearly as heavy as it was on the mountainside earlier. Watching the flakes spin and fall in the wind called to him, soothed him. Focused on the chaotic patterns outside, he was barely aware of sitting down on the couch integrated into the window sill.
“Eric?” He jerked, brought back to reality by Anne’s voice. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay. You need something?” he asked.<
br />
“Turing wants to speak with you.”
Eric yawned.
“How long have I been sitting here?”
“A bit more than an hour,” Anne said, smiling at his sudden discomfiture. “You’re tired, it’s beautiful out there, and you don’t have to be out in it. Don’t worry. Now, if you’ll come with me?”
The muscles in his legs and back burned as he rose to follow her. Silent, she led him down the hall and let him through the door the group had stood outside much earlier.
“Ah. Come, come,” the man at the far side of the room said at the sound of the closing door. Turing was facing a large mottled white square between him and the window. From the doorway, Eric could make out only thick brown hair above a long dark overcoat.
Eric cautiously made his way through the various tables and couches to the far side where Turing stood near the window. Save for more tables scattered about the center of the room and a wide open space at the far end, the room had been laid out similarly to the lounge. These books are almost all a lot older than the other library. Cluttered like the rest with what looked like random items, Eric glanced at the last of the tables as he passed. Tucked under a mostly blue sphere, he spotted an extremely primitive looking pistol of very large bore. His eyes drifted over as he passed another table. He read one label before he walked too far from the blue and green sphere: Australia. Eric looked up and realized the white square was a painting canvas on an easel.
“Eric, I presume?” Turing asked, still focused on the painting in front of him.
“That would be me, yes.”
“Glad to make your acquaintance. My name is Edward Allen Turing. Seeing as we already have an Edward and an Allen here, Turing might cut down any potential confusion, especially since I’m the only surviving family member on this planet.”
Eric mentally stumbled over the situation he’d found himself in. This sounds so formal. I’ve never done formal. Well, time to make it up as I go along.
“In that case, pleased to make your acquaintance as well, Mr. Turing.”
“Good, good. Tell me, what do you think of this painting?”
Eric stepped forward from where he’d stopped to get a better look. He glanced up at the window and found himself nodding. It was the mountain he’d just come down.
“So?”
“Well,” Eric started, pausing to buy time. “Nobody has ever really asked my opinion on art before.”
“Just tell me what you think. Is it too bright? Too dark? Does it make you feel anything? Does it look like what’s out that window?”
Eric leaned closer.
“Well, I don’t know much about painting, but it does look like you’ve put a lot of work into it. It looks fairly close to the mountain, but something seems missing though. Not sure what. Overall, it feels kind of sad? Angry? Well, dark. Like emotion dark, not lighting dark.”
“Yes, that’s what I was thinking. I was considering adding some trees up here at the tree line. Maybe some clouds, too, to lighten the mood a little. Try to balance out that darkness with something lighter, happier.”
“So, happy trees?”
Turing finally turned his attention from the painting to Eric.
“I suppose you could say that. Finding proper balance is one of the joys of painting. Well, one of the joys of life, really.”
Eric found himself nodding in agreement.
“Though, to be fair,” Turing continued, “This brings us to the question at hand, which is not really one of joy. What do I do with you and your friends?” Turing gave him a long, considering look. “I’m still trying to decide. What would you do in my shoes, Eric?”
“Uh, excuse me?”
“What would you do? It’s not a hard question.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t expect to be asked that. There are a lot of variables.”
Turing flashed a rakish smile. “Yes, so many variables. What did you expect me to ask?”
“I’m not really sure. Probably whatever came to mind that would address whatever concerns you had.”
“Such as?”
“What kind of person I am, what I might bring to the table, what my opinions about the other people in my group? It would make sense that you’d want to make sure I could fit in and be useful.”
“Very true, those would be questions I might ask myself. Why wouldn’t I ask you them?”
Eric frowned. This has to be some sort of trap. Eric considered Turing’s line of questioning for a moment.
“Well, I don’t really know what your point of view is.”
“Why is that important?”
“It,” Eric paused in brief confusion. “It would be very important. How this place runs, what problems you face, all of those things make up motives, worries, concerns. If I knew them, I’d know how you would judge my answers, what questions you would ask.”
“Partially irrelevant. Those reasons apply much better to my first question, but only tangentially here. I asked why I would not ask those questions, not how I’d interpret your answers. So, why would I not ask those questions, from my point of view? Be honest.”
Eric sighed. This is going poorly. “From your point of view, how would you know you could trust what was said? I suppose I would have less reason to lie about others in my group, but how could you be sure? As for my skills or anything valuable, well, we’ve been dropped off in the middle of nowhere. As far as I know, this is the only place around. We’d probably starve if we couldn’t stay, so I suppose you couldn’t trust me to honestly evaluate my skillset either.”
“Very good. So if you weren’t sure what you could trust, how would you approach it?”
“Uh, well, I guess I’d not ask anything I knew I couldn’t trust at all. It’d be a waste of time.”
“And what would you ask?”
“I’d ask about things they’d have less reason to lie about, like the rest of the group, and cross-reference their answers with what the others had to say. There ought to be a pattern there.”
“Excellent. So, what do you think of your friend, Dennis?”
“Who?”
“Oh, pardon me, I believe your group referred to him as Doc.”
“Oh, Doc. Well, he seems decent, I guess,” Eric started. At Turing’s quizzical expression, he continued, “He hasn’t been harsh or otherwise acted like a jackass. He’s helped us quite a bit.”
Turing nodded. “Go on. Anything else?”
“Well, when Hadrian saved me and Svoboda--”
“You mean Byron Mackinnon?”
“Yeah, sorry. I’m not used to thinking of him by that name yet.”
“Understandable. We’ll get to that. When Hadrian shot the mongrels, dot dot dot?”
“Doc didn’t react very well to seeing their bodies. I’m not sure if he doesn’t have the stomach for blood or dead bodies, or if he doesn’t care for violence in general.”
“And you? Do you disdain violence as well, Mr. Friedrich?”
Eric thought for a few seconds. “I suppose you could say I’m ambivalent on the topic.”
Turing nodded again. “What are your thoughts on Jeff then?”
“He can be gruff, but he’s a good person. He more or less carried Byron by himself half way down the mountain and didn’t complain once. He told me he was a machinist on a transport ship before he got sent here.”
“Have you seen or heard him say anything to make you believe that is true?”
“No, but he hasn’t given me any reason to doubt him so far.”
“Did he tell you what ship he was on?”
“Yeah, the Bystro.”
“Interesting, he didn’t tell anyone else. I wonder why that would be.”
“I don’t know. We were roommates on the Relentless on the way here, quarantined together. He mentioned it when we talked the first time.”
Turing frowned. “Quarantined? Biological?”
“Information.”
Turing’s eyes lit up over sudden wide smile. “A d
ata quarantine? Oh, that is interesting. What do you know they don’t want out?”
“I actually don’t know. I--”
“I know, traumatic brain injury. It’s an interesting cover story, but let’s pretend I believe you, go on.”
Eric frowned. No small amount of heat found its way into his words when he said, “I was going to say that based off of what Jeff was exiled for, it had to be something Earth-related.”
“What did Jeff know?”
“His ship came across something from Earth.”
“Something?”
“Well, it sounded like a satellite or something similar. A probe maybe? But old. Very old. Old Earth old.”
“Interesting. Do you know what happened to the rest of his ship’s crew?”
“No. He made it sound like they were all arrested. I think the only reason why he’s alive is because he didn’t know much about the thing.”
“You’re very likely correct. That’s a shame. Captain Higgins was a very dependable captain. I see a question on your face.”
“Why this huge effort to keep information about Earth quiet?”
“Because they’re fools. Unusually efficient fools most of the time, but fools.”
“I’m not following.”
“Eric, you know my family owns this planet?” Turing asked and paused a moment before he continued. “Owned might be more proper, I suppose. How expensive do you think a planet is? To purchase that is.”
“Uh, probably more expensive than I can tell you off the top of my head. Are we charging by mass or volume? I mean, mineral rich planets would be worth more I’d think. Well, I guess beautiful places have value, too, but who has the money to buy a world just because it’s beautiful?”
“Precisely. Who would have the money to buy a place because it was beautiful? The better question is who would have enough money to buy a planet because they thought it could be made beautiful?”
“That sounds terribly expensive, making a planet beautiful.”
Turing laughed. “About as expensive as buying the place would have been if we’d paid cash.”
“Wait, if you didn’t pay cash, how did you own the planet?”
“If family legend is accurate, the Protectorate gave it to us for services rendered. I can’t speak for the accuracy of that statement. Nonetheless, we have a planet.”
By Dawn's Early Light Page 17