by Ashanti Luke
Milliken was still. Davidson was about to repeat himself when he heard Milliken whisper, “Yeah.”
“Nicht gut. Und du?” Davidson said into his hand. Not good, and you?
Milliken stopped for a moment, mumbled, counted to himself, and then turned on his side facing Davidson’s back. Somehow he used the hand supporting his head to tap the wall lightly. Tap, pause, tap, tap, tap. As soon as he started, the tapping on the other side stopped. Milliken continued. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap, pause, tap. Pause. Tap, tap, tap, pause, tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap, pause, tap.
There was a long pause. It seemed like the silence that filled Davidson’s head had not existed in weeks.
Then another series of taps, longer this time, in a somewhat awkward rhythm came back across the wall. Milliken counted to himself a few times, and then reported, “Vuh ay-ur d-uh. Yee kuh. Buh eh suh er. Zuh eye een. Ah muh. Duh eh-r. Eh duh vuh ih-n tuh.”
“Werde ich besser sein am der Advent. I’ll be better on the Advent.”
Milliken expressed his bewilderment, and then nudged something into the wall on his own accord. There was another pause, and then another series of taps. Wir gehen aus.
“We are leaving,” Davidson translated.
So it was a code, and someone in the other group was planning some sort of escape on the Advent day they kept mentioning on the holostreams. But who was it?
“Wer ist dass?” before Davidson could translate, Milliken was already sending tapping.
The taps came back quicker this time. “Cyrus,” Milliken mumbled, almost laughing. And then, to Davidson, it all made sense. The Vanden Mittoren Milliken was questioned about was not the name of a faction, it was a warning in German—Wanden mit Ohren. Walls with Ears. Davidson began to say something else into his hand, but Milliken kicked to shush him—more taps were coming.
“Bringt der Cleaning Crew zusammen,” Davidson deciphered from Milliken’s broken linguistic transliteration. “Bring the Cleaning Crew together.”
“Why? Warum?” Davidson asked through his hand. Milliken tapped.
More taps returned. Ich brauche ihnen. “I need you.” The ‘you’ was plural. Bis spaeter. “Until later,” came through almost immediately after.
I need you—plural. Cyrus did not know that the only members of their ‘Cleaning Crew’ that were in this room had already assembled to decipher his code. Both Fordham and Davidson knew German, and even if Cyrus had not known that, Tanner, who seemed to know everything about everyone—at least what was in their dossiers—did. Guessing that someone in this room knew how to IPA signal was a risk, but given so many scientists in one room, it was likely. If ships relied on it for distress beacons across a solar system, why wouldn’t it work across a wall with a group of overachieving academia on the other side. It had been a gamble, just like most everything noteworthy Davidson had seen or heard of Cyrus doing since he had met him, but the gamble had worked. Now, the fatigue Davidson had collected through days of sleep lost to the taps in the wallwork seemed a paltry sum to pay for the relief that now began to fill him. Without another word, Davidson climbed back up to his own bunk, and for the first time in innumerable nights, dreams came easily.
• • • • •
The bed squeaked softly with each arch of his back, rapping lightly against the bunk wall in rhythm with each sit-up as Cyrus used the bed frame for leverage. He didn’t know whether it was because his mind had begun to accept his surroundings, or because he was more relaxed now that he had taken active measures to change those surroundings, but Cyrus could now sleep—albeit only during light hours. Sit-ups and a shower now relieved the stupor that had been left behind by his unsuspected, but duly needed, siesta. They also justified his bed creaking and tapping through the night in case their captors had been listening.
After his last sit-up, he left the bed and made his way to the shower. The scientists who had overcome their aversions to being watched customarily left their clothes near the entrance to the shower upon entering. The soldiers had been bringing changes of clothes every other day now, and the clothes the scientists had worn were taken away, most likely for cleaning, but more likely for inspection. The idea of sitting around in wet clothes that would be replaced anyway had begun to seem like an unnecessary plea for illness, especially since their bodies had very little practice in the last five years with fighting off disease. And who knew what diseases these posturing, self-indulgent, half-wits had engendered and cultivated in their little hermetic dome.
Cyrus stepped out of his jumpsuit at the entrance to the shower alcove. He knew Toutopolus would be there because he had seen him come in earlier.
“Finally got some sleep?” Toutopolus asked as Cyrus stepped up to a showerhead to his right, leaving a shower stall of space between them.
“Yeah,” Cyrus answered, turning his own shower on. Cyrus felt the water cascade across his face and his now full beard. “Can’t seem to sleep at night though.”
There was a long pause. Out of the corner of his eye, Cyrus noticed Toutopolus’s soap bar had dwindled almost out of existence. Cyrus picked up his own soap bar and held it out for a moment. He hadn’t seen soap bars since he was a Novitiate. Ironically, the Uni had declared bars of soap unsanitary, and all soap had to be distributed in liquid form in tubes or bottles. Cyrus manipulated the soap bar in his hands, poking at it to test its consistency.
Cyrus turned the bar over in his hands as he spoke, “I used to love bars of soap. But I could never use them after they were whittled down to about half. My mom used to hate how I left half bars all over the shower, and would declare there was no more soap left. She preferred bars herself, but I think she said a silent prayer the day the Uni did away with them all together.” Cyrus turned the bar around in his hands, reveling in the nostalgia.
“My father made me use the soap until it disappeared. We didn’t have all the fancy liquid soaps and creams until the Uni formed, and my father ran our house like he ran his barracks.” Toutopolus laughed to himself, still rubbing the fading nub of soap over his body.
Cyrus picked up another bar of soap from the stall between them. He then took a step toward Toutopolus, extending his own soap with his left hand. “Perhaps you should use this fresh bar though. Fresh bars always lather up better.” Cyrus wasn’t sure he had put enough emphasis on the right words, and at the same time was afraid that if he put too much emphasis on the right words, whoever was watching them might pick up on his subterfuge. Toutopolus paused for a moment, and then took the soap. Cyrus went back to the stall, lathering himself with his own soap, and began to sing.
Cyrus began lathering himself, singing. It seemed odd to Toutopolus, and yet, at the same time, it seemed appropriate. Gonna lay down my burden, down by the riverside.
Toutopolus was sure he had heard the song before somewhere. He knew the tune, but not the words. He thumbed around the soap Cyrus had handed him. There was a certain comfort that came when a new bar of soap was opened. He had not opened one himself since he was a small child, and the ones he got to open, thanks to Kyrie Lokhage Nestor Toutopolus, were few and far between.
…down by the riverside.
…but this bar was strange. This bar had something etched into it. Yet he didn’t remember any kind of imprint on the bars he had used here previously. Toutopolus turned the bar over in his hand, making an effort to not be too obvious. There was just enough light inside the shower, and the bar was just the right color, which made clear the grooves that had been gashed into the soap by ungroomed fingernails.
…down by the riverside.
‘Advent—when hell brks get 2 nxt flr’ and a down arrow. It was confusing, it was poorly rendered, but Toutopolus was sure he understood. There was more method to Cyrus’s outbursts and rants than it seemed—as always.
Gonna lay down my burden, down by the riverside.
Toutopolus began to lather himself with the face of the soap containing the writing. He didn’t know exactly wha
t was expected of him, but just the idea was as refreshing as the lather from the full bar of soap. Something was going down on the Advent, and when all hell broke loose, Cyrus needed him to get to the second floor down.
…ain’t gonna study war no more.
Toutopolus smiled as he felt the words melting into his skin and the tones of Cyrus’s song still echoed through the tiled walls of the shower. He still couldn’t remember where he had heard the song before, but wherever it was, he had enjoyed being there.
Cyrus emerged from the shower with his hair and beard still damp. Tanner could tell it was frizzing up even as it was beginning to dry. “I didn’t know you could sing,” Tanner remarked as Cyrus moved to the floor beside the bunk. Cyrus began stretching again, pulling his knees as tightly to his chest as he could.
Cyrus held the stretch for a ten-count and released before he answered, “I usually only sing when I’m by myself—and not that often.”
“Interesting choice of song.”
“My mother used to sing that song. Usually when she thought no one was listening. I always thought it was pretty odd when I was a kid. It wasn’t until I had left home for the Arcology that I realized she only sang when the stress of trying to provide the best she could seemed like it was all over her head.”
Cyrus pulled his legs to his chest again, counted to himself, and then relaxed. “It’s funny, I always thought my mother was invincible, you know, a fount of limitless power.”
“I think, in a way, every child does—or rather, it’s a sad person who goes through childhood knowing better.” Tanner flexed his arms, testing each of the muscles from his wrist up to his shoulders and then back again.
“Yeah, you’re right. When my mother’s health started to fail, I realized the times she sang that song were when she wasn’t sure she was going to make it or when she didn’t know everything would be okay—even when she said it would be—because she was vulnerable. There was a limit to her power, but she would be damned if she let anyone who depended on her know it. Oddly enough, the thing that struck me the most was after I matriculated out of the Arcology, when the emphysema finally overwhelmed her, she didn’t sing that song. Not once. It was like she knew, somehow, that things would be okay.”
“So, why do you sing it?” Tanner asked, stretching his arms behind his back. At first he was worried his tone sounded facetious, but Cyrus must have known because he simply responded without challenge.
“Because back in that room, in the darkness, I realized even after years of matriculation, there really isn’t much I do know. And I don’t know what that means.”
“Maybe it means life isn’t over yet.” Tanner smiled to himself this time. Cyrus returned the smile and began pulling his knees to his chest again as Torvald walked over to him and Tanner.
“I can tell something is up, but I don’t know what it is,” Torvald said, his voice shaking from not being used for most of the duration of their stay in the room.
Cyrus was almost surprised to hear Torvald’s voice again, but was more thrown by the timing. Cyrus had still been trying to find a way to approach Torvald without alarming their captors, but neither an idea, nor an opportunity had presented itself—and Cyrus had already played too many of his cards today. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Cyrus made a point of avoiding eye contact with Torvald as he continued to stretch; he wanted to tell Torvald about the plan, but for now, Torvald would have to wait.
“I gotta know something,” Torvald added, his voice still shaking. “I can’t take it here anymore. It’s too… sterile.” That was any interesting choice of words given the stench in the room they had all grown accustomed to, which was only evident as they woke, assuming they had actually been afforded the comfort of sleep.
“We’re all stuck here,” Cyrus added, still without looking up, “there is nowhere to go. Nowhere.” Cyrus really needed Torvald to back off. Perhaps, tonight, Cyrus could communicate something to him in German. Something quick to at least calm his nerves, but he couldn’t do it now.
Even though Torvald had spoken very little since they had been here, he had maintained a certain level of composure—perhaps that was why he was the only scientist in the room that had not been taken by The Flying Monkeys—but the last word in Cyrus’s sentence apparently had been the drop that broke the dam wall, and soundless tears suddenly flooded from Torvald’s eyes. Cyrus wanted to keep his eyes away from Torvald, but he could feel Torvald retreat into a space in his mind he had managed to avoid up until now. Cyrus looked up, extended his legs, and stood, moving closer to Torvald. Torvald took a step back, as if Cyrus had missed the opportunity for consolation. Torvald waved his hands in the air between him and Cyrus, shaking his head as he took another step backward.
Cyrus leapt forward, quickly covering the distance between them, stumbling slightly as he inadvertently brushed across Tanner’s ankle.
Torvald stopped Cyrus with his hands.
“Etwas kommt,” was all Cyrus could manage to mumble before Torvald tripped over Jang, who was kneeling in front of the holovision, and fell backward onto his butt, sobbing uncontrollably as he hit the ground.
And then the door slid open and two Flying Monkeys rushed in. One soldier moved directly at Cyrus, and Cyrus almost kicked him, but he held back the instinct. He needed to stay calm. It was too close to the Advent, and he couldn’t risk the plan that had already been set in motion.
The second soldier, one Cyrus did not recognize, grabbed Torvald in a sleeper-hold and lifted him by his neck. The advancing soldier looked up and smiled and Cyrus saw it was Soldier 43235 just before getting shoved to the ground. Then 43235 turned, grabbed Torvald’s flailing ankles, and they hauled him out of the room.
• • • • •
The tapping in the wall had ceased to have any discernable pattern for the last night cycle or two, but now it coalesced into a choppy, but salient, five-beat pattern. So as not to alarm anyone who may have been listening, Davidson waited before he got down from the bed. He wasn’t sure how long he had waited, but by the time he descended to the bottom bunk, Milliken had transcribed the first line of the message.
“Ist der Crew zusammen?” Is the Crew together?
“Ja.” Milliken had already responded, remembering the translation from two days before and utilizing what little German he knew.
“Ich brauche ihnen zu etwas machen fuer mich.” I need you to do something for me. The message repeated until Davidson had descended and translated it. He gave Milliken the answer.
“Was?” What?
“Am Advent, brauche ich Hilfe.” On the Advent, I need help.
Before they could send another ‘What?’ the next message came through. “Wenn koennen ihnen, fahren der Crew zu the dock?” In the end, either Milliken’s transcription or Cyrus’s German had broken down, but both Milliken and Davidson understood the message: When you can, get to the dock. It was an ambiguous request, and they had very little idea how they could help, but at least it gave them something to look forward to other than more psychological torture.
• • • • •
Cyrus had not seen Torvald in three DCs, and it was already the dome-darkening the day cycle before the Advent. For the last three dome cycles, Cyrus had still been able to sleep during light hours, but every time he awoke with the image of Torvald’s face just before The Flying Monkeys took him away. Torvald was a grown man, hearty and stalwart, but he had not been able to take the unexpected change in events and the captivity very well. And worst of all, Cyrus had not been able to help him when he needed it. And now, if he was not in the other room, it would be too late. Cyrus had attempted to ask about Torvald’s whereabouts through the wall, but he had received no response, which also worried him. He could not think of anything he could have done that might have have showed his hand, but Cyrus could not shake the notion that these goons, as sophomoric and gullible as they seemed, were on to him.
sixteen
• • • • •
—Dada, do you ever get afraid?
—Yeah, all the time, Dari.
—You don’t ever look like it. You never panic. It’s like nothing ever bothers you.
—Well, panic and fear are two very different things. You know how they say there is a fine line between bravery and stupidity?
—Yeah.
—Well, what’s the difference between a brave man and a stupid man?
—Is it the outcome?
—There are plenty successful idiots, and plenty of brave men that failed, so I don’t think that’s it.
—What is it then?
—It’s the fear. The stupid man jumps in headlong, never considering the consequence or the risk. A brave man calculates the risks, knows what he stands to lose, and goes in anyway.
—So the brave man never panics?
—No, everyone panics on occasion, but the brave man doesn’t let it get in the way until the job is done.
—So you’re saying, if I want to be a brave man, a man people look up to, I should always do what I believe is right, no matter the outcome, and I should see it to completion no matter how I feel.
—Precisely, and after that, if it’s absolutely necessary, you can fall the hell apart on your own time.
• • • • •
The manacles on his wrists were cold and restricting, but they were loose enough to keep Cyrus’s mind from racing as fast as his pulse. They had cuffed everyone’s wrists in front, but evidently Cyrus had been perceived as a greater threat, so his wrists had been restrained behind his back. The Flying Monkeys had made a show of the small remote key that opened and tightened the restraints before ceremoniously handing it to Soldier 43235. Cyrus and his bunkmates were then ushered from the barracks room in a single file line toward the front of the building.