Dusk (27 page)

“
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
what 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.