by Ashanti Luke
Cyrus retreated wordlessly, walking with hard-mustered dignity—a barely perceptible drag in his step. The others seemed oblivious to the weight. Tanner himself would not have figured it out by now. He only knew because Cyrus knew. And even though Cyrus had not said anything, Jang himself was clearly working through the figures in his own head, and those among them that had relatives on the way would also soon realize, in their own time, that they were never going to see their families or friends again.
fourteen
• • • • •
—I got something to tell you Dada, but I don’t know if you will get upset.
—Well, you won’t know until you tell me right, Dari. What is it?
—I just want to say… I love you, Dada.
—Wow, Dari. Why would you think I would get upset at that?
—I dunno Dada. Just cuz you don’t ever say it.
—Oh Dari. Sometimes I work so hard to show it, I think I forget to say it… So many people say it and don’t mean it—to get whatever it is they think they want. I just want it to be true. Whether or not it is said is secondary. But you should never be ashamed of saying it or showing it if you really mean it.
—Like when people ask how you are doing, right Dada? They don’t always mean it, but they say it all the time. Sometimes it’s enough just to know the other person wants you to be doing good.
—Yeah, exactly.
—That makes sense, but it’s still nice to hear it sometimes.
—I suppose I can see that. Do you ever feel like I don’t show it?
—Never to me, but maybe mommy sometimes. I think sometimes mommy doesn’t see it.
—Maybe, Dari.
—Do you ever talk with mommy like this?
—I used to.
—Because this is when I see it the most you know. When we talk, you know, like man-to-man and stuff.
—Well, it’d be kind of hard for me to talk man-to-man with your mother.
—Maybe you should try.
—You know, maybe I should.
—Know what, Dada?
—What’s that Dari?
—You may not be very good at saying it, but you are good at showing it I think—in your own way.
—Well, good at showing it or not, I do love you son.
—I love you too, Dada. Can you promise me something?
—Sure.
—When you have that man-to-man talk with mommy, tell her you love her too. Okay?
—I will Dari. I will.
• • • • •
“Must be hard stuck in this chimp hovel without your Bible.” Before he spoke, Cyrus waited until Tanner had lifted his head from his prayer.
Tanner looked at Cyrus and smiled through the weary lines of his face. “Well, I wouldn’t think much of myself if I didn’t carry it around here.” He pointed to his own temple, leaving his index finger at the side of his head for a long moment.
Cyrus laughed. He seemed more amused at his own thoughts than at Tanner’s actions.
“What’s so amusing?”
“The soul of the academic dies hard. It seems like most would have pointed to their hearts.”
“Well I think if more people carried the Word in their heads rather than their hearts, holy wars and religious persecution wouldn’t exist; at least not to the levels it has throughout history.”
“No kidding.”
There was a long pause until Cyrus yawned and buried his face in his hands. As he exhaled into his palms, Tanner thought he heard him mumble the words, “I’m planning on getting out of here.”
Tanner paused again and then continued, “Unfortunately, too many walk with the Word, but don’t understand it. The upside is that I believe there are many who understand the Word, and who walk with guidance, even without the indoctrination.”
Cyrus was sure Tanner had heard and had understood him. “You know me. Even without rules or a plan, I wouldn’t even take the slightest shuffle forward without guidance.” Cyrus looked at Tanner until he met his gaze. Tanner’s eyes were staid, unwavering, so Cyrus continued, “But even a man with ample guidance needs help from his friends to stay on the path.”
“Well, you know me too. I believe there is no path other than the path where you are needed. Life is full of hard choices. A life full of easy paths, to me, is no life at all. But, just like many men choose the easy path just because it is easy, a few choose the path of most resistance for the resistance’s sake. I can follow a man down that path so long as he knows it only leads to disaster and he accepts the responsibility.”
“Well, there is no longer anything for me down the easy ave. I made that choice a long time ago, just wasn’t able to see the full scope until now. But I think I remember that somewhere in that Book of yours it says that not being able to see the end of the path doesn’t necessarily mean you shouldn’t follow it.”
“Yeah, well who knows what is at the end of that ave?”
“Well maybe it’s a bright light. Maybe it’s more misery. Maybe it’s another choice. But one way or the other, whatever is at the end is yours and no one else’s. I think that is worth the trouble, no matter what that trouble is.”
“Amen to that.” Tanner extended his hand and they shook firmly in agreement, and then, as they released, Tanner focused on Cyrus. “Out of curiosity, who else agrees with your philosophy?”
“Well, you remember Dr. Azariah?”
“The military kinesiologist?” Tanner made a point of not looking at Commander Uzziah who walked by as they spoke.
Cyrus didn’t look up either. “Yeah, the obnoxious coxswain for the Arcology of Haifa,” he said, intentionally loud enough for Uzziah to overhear.
Uzziah grunted, mumbled something unintelligible under his breath, and then knelt next to the holostation, still within earshot. Cyrus continued, again loud enough for Uzziah to hear, but not loud enough to be obvious, “Well he started the whole dialectic. He suggested I set up a symposium with Dr. Cheat-ham...”
Tanner paused for a moment, searching his memory. “The keycard guy?”
“Yeah, that one. Cheat-ham said he knew of a professor from some place in Greece, you know, the guy who always uses that ‘city of tightrope walkers’ analogy. Well that professor was a little miffed with the opposition, so he wanted to write a treatise as well.”
“A good didactic rant can be cleansing.”
“Well, I didn’t get to set up anything before departure, but I know there are at least three others on the other ship that are always up for a bit of cleansing.”
Tanner could not help laughing, but Uzziah turned with a disturbed look on his face. He met Cyrus’s eyes for only a moment, but Uzziah’s concern was evident.
Then Cyrus turned back to Tanner, his brow was furrowed and his jaw tense—the same look that he wore when he was sparring. “Before the cleansing, I need to plant the seed,” he breathed into his nose deeply and then exhaled, “and I need to do it now.”
Cyrus extended his arm forcefully and grabbed a handful of Tanner’s shirt just below his throat. Tanner was almost startled at the abruptness of the assault, but had he not trusted Cyrus implicitly, his hand would never have reached his chest. Tanner looked down at Cyrus’s hand then back at Cyrus, “What the fuck do you want from me?”
“Your cooperation!” erupted from Cyrus’s mouth as he twisted the shirt in his hand, pulling Tanner in closer.
“I’m going to ask you once and only once to take your grimy paw off my shirt.” Uzziah stayed focused on the holovision. He had an idea where this was all going, but had to let it play out. Villichez and Winberg, however, turned their attention away from the images on the floor and Villichez began moving toward Cyrus. Tanner saw Villichez moving toward them with his hand extending slightly. Villichez parted his lips to say something, but it was too late, Tanner was already slapping Cyrus’s hand away with his right hand and bringing his left around in a fist.
Tanner’s hand connected with the side of Cyrus’s head, se
nding him off the bed and into the floor. Tanner then lunged from the bed and swung his left foot into Cyrus’s ribs, adding to Cyrus’s momentum and sending him rolling toward Villichez. “You’re gonna get us all killed, you stupid freebirth!”
Villichez moved to get between them, but then hesitated. That was not an insult he had expected to come from Tanner. Something was off. Besides, from what he knew of their relationship, it was not like Cyrus, even under duress, to take a threat from Dr. Tanner lightly, or to take a beating with no effort to fight back.
In the time Villichez hesitated, Tanner had kicked Cyrus again. Cyrus was coughing now, curling himself into a ball. Something was definitely wrong about this entire display. “Give it up! This whole hound-fucked fiasco is over, get it, over!”
Tanner moved to kick Cyrus again, but was snatched off his feet by Uzziah, who turned, stepped through the hologram, and pinned Tanner against the wall. Tanner kicked his legs out but missed Uzziah entirely. Uzziah held him there against the wall, forearm pressed against his chest. As the two of them looked at each other, they understood completely. Neither of them wanted to show their hand to whoever might be watching, but they both knew the other was not fighting at the fullest of his potential.
As Villichez tried to look after Cyrus, Cyrus slapped his hand away. Jang and Toutopolus stood around also, offering helping hands, but were met with the same resistance. Winberg chuckled, but a glare from Villichez quickly stifled it.
And then the door opened. No one could have seen it because his face was buried in his forearms, but Cyrus smiled. He didn’t look up, but the hurried footsteps moving toward him told him his plan was working. Hands grabbed him, lifted him up, and he stayed curled up like a prawn as they hauled him out of the room like luggage.
They didn’t bother with Tanner or Uzziah. Uzziah let Tanner drop and mumbled, “Later for us,” without parting his lips. Tanner brushed himself off, looking to the floor and coughed, spitting out a guttural, “Ani yoda’a”; ‘I know’. Uzziah stood and paused, he must have been fazed by the Hebrew, but he didn’t show it. Besides, it was not totally unexpected from Tanner given his field of expertise. Tanner stood, rubbed his chest, and stepped out of the hologram. Uzziah gave him a brisk pat on the back and then nodded. Tanner returned the nod and then shuffled his feet over to the bed, evidently ashamed of his outburst. When he reached the bed, he pulled himself up to the top bunk and buried his face in his pillow.
• • • • •
Cyrus took in as much as he could from the view through his forearms. He remembered this hall clearly because they had been ushered down it from their ‘debriefing room’. It was easy to count the men’s steps as they carried him because he bounced with each one. After the twenty-third step, the men turned to the right. Cyrus whimpered a little to himself and then let out a quiet, but wrenching, sob. He sniffled to add authenticity, and in the moment it took him to recover, he tried to take in as much of the hallway as he could. The dim orange of fading sunlight filled his vision, indicating there was an atrium or a dais that overlooked the glass façade of the building. It could have been the rear of the building, but that was not likely. The scientists had been led down this hall on the first day, but they had been brought around the back side of the hall. Cyrus wished he had been conscious upon his initial entrance, but there was not much that could be done about that now. There were another twenty-five steps, another right turn, ten more steps, and then the men pressed an access button to open a door. The door slid open and a sliver of light poured in through the opening. There was a chair in the center of the room. The soldiers plopped him into the chair like a sandbag and then they left wordlessly. The descending door shrank the sliver of light until he was left shrouded in darkness.
But the darkness made it easier for him to think. The room that Tanner and Jang had been taken to had a table, which meant there were most likely two or more interrogation rooms. They could have moved the table, but that was improbable. They had carried Cyrus past three doors—one in the same hallway as their room, one that was across from the dais, and one just before they had tossed him in here. An observation room must have been the room opposite this room, and the other interrogation room could very well have been the room immediately next to this one. The soldiers watching them did not need to be immediately next to the interrogation rooms to monitor the scientists, but proximity would ensure a certain amount of security. As far as he could tell in the short time the door was open, there were no windows or two-way mirrors in this room, but there could easily have been some form of microscopic fly-eye cameras embedded in any, or even all, of the walls. They could be monitoring his body heat to note his position and bodily changes and they could have embedded microphones anywhere in the room. No doubt, they were still watching him very closely because they had scooped him up almost immediately after Tanner’s feigned outburst, which had been such a remarkable performance that the memory of it still resonated in Cyrus’s jaw and temple.
However calming, the darkness became unnerving as soon as Cyrus realized he was no longer aware of time. The darkness was persistent, smothering, and Cyrus began rocking back and forth in his chair to push back the veil of despair. He lifted the legs off the floor as he rocked, and he let them fall back again with resounding, metronomic clicks. The darkness unsettled him, but he only gave into the anxiety to set the bait. He rocked back and forth for the ruse, then for comfort, and then as time pressed on without him, he rocked because his thoughts began to turn against him. He knew he might not ever get out of this place. They could decide to kill every last one of them. They could even begin subjecting them to more physical torture or even experiments. The men holding them didn’t seem the type, but who ever did? But captured, tortured, experimented on, or set free, the one thing that was beyond debate, was that he would never see Darius again. His son was lost somewhere in time, the past that he, himself, had so recklessly left behind on the hopeful breaths of a capricious dream—an ill-wrought prayer, a foolish plight to escape his own demons. Demons that refused to be left behind. Demons that sat with him now, in this very room, whispering his every transgression into his ear even as he tried to rock them away—and they were not wrong.
And the tears came. As real as the chair he was sitting in. Real as the sound generated by the rhythmic collisions of plastic against concrete. Real as the icy hand that now gripped his chest from the inside, making it hard to breathe, hard to think.
And then Cyrus wanted nothing more than to lash out at the real enemy. Not Soldier 43235, not The Flying Monkeys, not Dr. Winberg, not Torus Denali, not Feralynn. His most loathsome enemy was right here in the room with him and he wanted to tear his heart out with his teeth. But he was beyond reach. Beyond reproach. So Cyrus arose, his indignity shaping the merciless darkness into a form befitting his adversary. He snatched the chair from the floor and swung it, and then he brought it back at his assailant, but the demon was elusive, deft. Cyrus spun and swung again, and then spun back the other way, but the chair slipped from his hands and careened into the door.
Then as he took a step toward the door, his legs gave in to the weight he was carrying. He had carried the burden for too long and they could take no more. He fell against the wall next to the door and slid down into a heap on the floor. Sobbing wracked his body, and he clawed at the door. And it seemed, for a moment, that something on the other side of the door clawed back.
But the sound had been more a brushing than a scraping. He pressed his head closer to the wall. The blood pounding through his temple made hearing difficult, and he couldn’t tell if the sound was gone, or if his own internal workings were obscuring it. He took in a deep breath, held it, let it out, and he focused. He had reached his lowest common denominator. The sum over all his histories had been reduced to one and only one choice—he would destroy everything and everyone in this building before he destroyed himself.
But flopping about like an anaphylactic test rodent would not help one bit. He needed focu
s because their captors had gone way beyond the limit marker. He wasn’t going to be their test monkey one second longer; the poking and prodding was over. He had considered it, tested the water, but now they had cemented it for him—he was leaving and he was taking his friends with him.
Cyrus pulled in another breath. Savored it. Let it out. And then he heard it. Faint at first, but then louder. Smack, smack, shuffle, smack. It was muffled, but it was there. Then, he realized where his ear was. Over the door sill. And what he was hearing were footsteps in the hallway.
The cold hand inside his chest began melting and clarity rushed into his mind again. He continued to breathe deliberately in case they were still listening, trying to keep his heart rate up in case they were monitoring him through infrared. As he breathed, he listened and he calculated. This building could very well have been a military structure, but it was not designed to house prisoners. People moved about the halls freely.
He remembered that some stories of being taken by The Flying Monkeys included a room with a table. Others did not include the table in their stories, but everyone had been taken around this corner, either the back way, or the way they had brought Cyrus—which meant all the scientists, not just the ten in his room, but all twenty of them, were most likely being kept in the same area. He needed to put it to the test, but he could do that very easily, and he could cut two marks with one laser in the process.
He began sobbing louder and scratching and beating on the door until one sob wracked his entire body. He whimpered dramatically and then screamed, “Let me out!”
He thought about how he had felt just moments ago. How he had wanted nothing more than to bring it all to an end. How even though his sins were his own, his attitude toward himself had been engendered by the men that kept him against his will. This sent his tantrum into a frenzy.