First Quarter

First Quarter

… … … … … …

        Things didn’t always go according to plan. Anala discovered this soon after moving into the basement, where she was forced to spend all of her time. Asides from the apparent isolation and loneliness the basement mandated, the work itself was challenging and Anala silently began to question whether the cause towards which Connor and she were working for was even worthwhile. Of course, she didn’t mean the goal of the Resistance—she knew that was terribly important—but the goal of recruitment. It was precisely this sentiment she voiced to Connor one day when the work became too much to bear. It was once again nighttime (she couldn’t make much noise during the day anyway) but the air outside had grown cold, the leaves had died and the sky seemed darker than normal that chilly December day.

        “Why, Connor?” she nearly screamed, “What’s the point? He’s never going to come around!”

        “You don’t know that,” Connor responded softly.

        “Oh?” she said, her voice shaking with frustration and annoyance, “Rejection after rejection—it’s all I get!” Anala threw the papers in her hand onto the desk. Several of them floated to the floor but she did not bother to pick them up.

        “The Lords don’t know how hard it is!” she cried, pacing up and down the room. Connor’s gray eyes followed her movements from the twin-sized bed he was sitting on.

        “Why should the Lords care about him, anyway? Stupid Jeffery Gorgon! He’s a f*****g tax collector. What use is he?”

        “Anala, the intent of the Lords isn’t always clear to us, I know,” Connor explained patiently, “but we have to do as they say. They’re not going to outline every detail of their tactics to us. You know that. It’s too dangerous. We just have to trust them.”

        Anala glowered at him, her eyes blazing with anger.

        “I’ve tried everything. Everything. Every damn f*****g thing I, or should I say ‘Edward Smith’, can think of. Mr. High-and-Mighty-I’m-Too-Much-Of-A-Good-Boy Gorgon won’t get out of his Party-loving boat. He’s absolutely refused! He’s scared, I can see it, but he’s too much of a coward. We aren’t going to get anything from him!”

        “We must keep trying,” Connor said determinedly.

        “Why?” Anala hissed, “It’s clear he doesn’t want to. I say we stop and move on to more worthy people.”

        “There’s something about this man, Anala. He’s a tax collector at the Ministry of Internal Commerce, yes, but look at what he deals with at his work. Numbers. The mathematics of the Party. These things are important, even if it’s not clear to you why. Can you understand that? That there are some things you need to do without knowing why?”

        Anala stared at Connor for a while, thinking. Finally, she flopped down on the bed besides Connor and sighed.

        “I feel like a puppet. A puppet of the Lords.”

        Connor took her hand in his, tracing invisible patterns on her palm.

        “Well if you’re a puppet…I guess I’d have to be a doll.”

        Anala laughed and looked at him, all traces of her anger gone.

        “You do realize that was a gender-inappropriate comparison?”

        “Yes,” Connor said, his eyes twinkling with mischief, “but I needed to get you to laugh and it worked, didn’t it?”

        Anala leaned against him and smiled as he moved to put his arm around her.

        “Glad I met you, Connor,” she muttered.

        “Indeed,” he said softly.

… … … … … …

        Anala had not cried that hard in a long time. She lay on the cold, stone floor and buried her face in her hands. She felt sick, dirty; she was disgusted with herself. How could she? No, a voice in her head calmly said, how could Damian? It wasn’t your fault. Anala ignored the silly voice and continued to cry. In a distance, she vaguely heard a door opening and closing and someone calling her name.

        “Anala?”

        She lifted her head.

        “Connor?” she asked shakily.

        “What’s wrong?” he asked, sounding concerned.

        “I—I don’t…” she didn’t know how to explain, “Damian is a sick man.”

        “Does this have anything to do with Jeffery Gorgon?”

        “How—what do you know about Jeffery Gorgon?”

        “Only that they were planning to use him in your interrogation. What happened?”

        Anala took a deep breath and narrated the story.

        “—and I feel so tainted, Connor! It was my fault that man died,” she sobbed, “and I wanted to help him, I really did, but I didn’t. I chose to let him die…”

        “Hush, Anala,” Connor said seriously, “Don’t say that.”

        “I killed a man!” she wailed, tears pouring steadily down her face.

        “No, you didn’t pull the trigger.”

        “I might as well have!”

        “Anala, listen to me. You did the right thing. Some people—some people must be,” there was a small pause as Connor hesitated, “some people must be sacrificed in order to serve the greater good.”

        “He didn’t want to die! He—it’s different than us Connor because we signed our lives away the minute we stepped into headquarters. But he, he was only here because of my soliciting and now, he’s dead because of me!”

        “It doesn’t matter. Innocents get hurt,” Connor said gravely, “that’s how it works. In a war like this, you can’t expect only the fighters to get affected. There are thousands more like Jeffery Gorgon out there and there will be more like him if this war doesn’t end soon. You chose a quicker end to the war over a man’s life, thereby saving many other lives. It was the right decision, even if you feel like s**t right now. You didn’t place him in that situation. You didn’t pull the trigger. Even if Damian expected you to talk, he still took the risk and because of his sadism, Jeffery Gorgon is dead. Not because of you.”

        Anala had quieted down though tears still fell every couple of seconds. She leaned her head against the wall that separated her from Connor and knew Connor was doing the same.

        “I never thought this whole fiasco would turn into a question of ethics,” she said.

        “It turned out to be different than either one of us had expected,” he said.

        “I wish I could see you Connor.”

        “And I, you.”

        “And what would you do if you saw me?” Anala asked.

        There was a pause before he finally spoke, “I’d do whatever it takes for you to stop crying. Yes, I know you’re crying right now.”

        Anala smiled slightly and hastily wiped her tears away.

        “You’ve already stopped my crying, Connor.”

        Damian watched from the control room as Anala began to smile.

        “You’ve already stopped my crying, Connor.” Damian slammed his hand to the desk, frustrated. What did that mean? How was he supposed to understand this silly girl better if she always spoke in riddles? Maybe, he thought, it’s not a riddle. Maybe you just want it to be… Damian shook his head vigorously, trying to extinguish the thought. He was thoroughly confused; he had thought that the threat of murder would be enough to crack her but it was clear that he underestimated the girl.

        “Sir?” a guard asked. Damian looked up.

        “What?”

        “Your father requests you in the Detention Center.”

        Damian nodded and got up to leave. “Turn it off,” he said, waving towards Anala’s monitor, “No one but me will watch that from now on.” And saying, so he left.

        Several minutes later, Damian stood next to his father in front of a throng of South Asian hide-outs.

        “Caught in another refugee house in Manchester,” Premier Helling said.

        Damian watched as an old woman clung desperately onto a little boy, not older than five years of age, fear written into every corner of her face.

        “The owner?” Damian asked.

        “A Caucasion—bloody traiter—by the name of Edward Franco. He died during the raid.”

        Damian nodded, silent.

        “Look at them” Premier Helling said, his voice full of disgust, “Look at the Muds. Filthy Arabs, Indians, Hindus, Muslim… How can they stand in front of us like that? They would have bought this country to shambles, like they did to America…” He seemed to be lost in thought.

        “So what do we do with them?” Damian asked.

        “Kill them.”

        “Father?” Damian said. Had he heard correctly?

        “Order your men to kill them all,” Premier Helling said simply.

        “But…the children?” Damian asked, not taking his eyes off the little boy.

        Premier Helling stared at his son.

        “Explain.”

        “We customarily put children in the labor camps in Sweden. Why not these children?”

        “Are you questioning me, my son?

        Damian looked taken back.

        “No…no, father,” he said, swallowing hard, “I’m merely inquiring—”

        “The labor camps are full!” the Premier hissed, and saying so, he grabbed his the sleeve of his son’s jacket and pulled him closer to whisper in his ear.

        “Stockholm is overflowing with Mud, my son! There is nowhere for us to make use of what little abilities they have,” he continued.

        “We can build more—”

        “We cannot! We have more than enough laborers and not enough supplies. Not enough time! You know the direness of our situation. Think, Damian, think. There is no alternative.”

        Damian eyed the prisoners, wistfully. The Premier observed Damian closely, taking in the slightly bowed stature and subtle but hesitant movements.

        “Do not be fooled, my son,” he said in a low voice, “They have been raised with terrorist propaganda. If allowed to live, they will burden us in the end.”

        Damian nodded, but looked slightly sick. Premier Helling, much to his displeasure, noticed this.

        “You have forgotten your lesson. You are becoming sentimental,” he said as he motioned for the guards to take away the prisoners, no doubt to a more suitable place for a killing.

        “I have not forgotten,” Damian replied, his eyes following the movements of the prisoners as they exited the room.

        His father turned to face him, his eyes harboring anger.

        “You have forgotten,” the Premier said dangerously, “I can see it in your eyes. They have become soft, did you know? There is no cold reality behind them—only a fool’s hope that one day, this will end. You are falling, my son. This is unacceptable. You are becoming weak.”

        “I am not, Father. I understand that these people—these murderous wenches and traitors—must be eradicated. I was merely questioning about the children.”

        The Premier alone bore witness to the harsh and uncaring resolve rebuild itself in Damian’s eyes.

        “And you are trying your hardest?”

        “I am, sir.”

        “So is that why Anala and Connor still won’t talk, despite all your so-called “efforts”?”

        Damian paused and then said, “They are hard to break.”

        “Kill them.”

        “I…I don’t think that’s necessary, Father. Anala has to stay alive. I mean, she holds much information that could be useful to us.”

        “Information that won’t leave her head!” Premier Helling said furiously, “Kill them. They have become a burden.”

        Damian hesitated but spoke anyway, “Well…there is one contingency we have not yet explored…”

        “What?”

        “Connor. If we kill him, she might become weaker…”

        “Do it.”

 

        He was dead. She knew it. She heard his door open and close as he left for his daily questioning with the guards but the door never opened again. They had killed him.

        “Connor’s dead,” Damian said, during their next meeting.

        “So I figured,” Anala said dully.

        “He wasn’t being very helpful to us.”

        “As am I. Why don’t you kill me as well?”

        Damian felt himself growing angry. “Why are you so intent on dying? Do you want to be made a martyr or something?”

        “Of course not,” Anala said without interest, “No one except for the Lords knows I am here. And the Lords do not remember the dead, only what they died defending.”

        “Then what use will your death have?”

        “It will protect secrets.”

        “You don’t have to die…”

        “…if I talk. So you’ve told me many times.”

        “I’ve made an arrangement with my Father. If you talk, we will release you to America.’

        “You’ve already promised me that,” she replied, frowning.

        “Last time, it was a bluff. Now, it’s real. You will go back to California. To your family. You will be lifted to safety. My father’s mission will still be served. You won’t be in our country. You’ll be exiled from England. I am sure America will be pleased to have one of her citizens back.”

        “As lovely as that sounds, I cannot accept it,” Anala said.

        Damian could barely hide his anger. “Your friend died because of your silence!”

        “No,” she said defiantly, “he died because of his silence.”

        “He died because my father thought it would make you talk!” Damian hissed from across the table.

        “Well your father was wrong. I made a promise to Connor, did you know? We both knew this was going to happen and I promised to never talk. And I, unlike many others I know, do honor the dead.”

        “Did you love him?”

        Anala did not miss a beat. “Of course I loved him. He was my friend.”

        “Did you love him romantically?”

        “And what interest does the British government have in my love life?”

        “Answer the question, damn it!” Damian yelled.

        “I see that I am making you angry,” Anala said.

        Damian slammed his hand on the table and said, “No s**t. It’s a simple question. This has nothing to do with my father’s mission.”

        “Then what role does it play in this interrogation?” Anala inquired.

        “You aren’t going to answer, are you?”

        “No.”

        Damian sneered.

        “I think you did love him,” and Anala just stared as he continued to speak, “But you know what? I don’t think he loved you. How could he? Have you seen yourself these days?” And with that, he got up and dragged Anala to a back room and shoved her in front of a mirror. Anala stared at herself, her lips parted slightly as she laid a finger on her reflection.

        “I look better than I expected to,” she said quietly.

        “Your hair is stringy, your skin is pale…”

        “…but my eyes glimmer.”

        Damian just stared at her and Anala actually smiled.

        “My eyes shine,” she said, “I have not lost my strength. I have not lost my dignity. I have not lost my integrity.”

        “You care nothing for what I’ve said about you and Connor?” Damian asked, hardly believing it.

        “Say what you want. Do what you want. I don’t care. I have only myself to look out for now.”

        Wordlessly, Damian turned back to the main interrogation, gesturing Anala to follow him. She saw him open the tear-stained journal that was sitting on the table.

        “You wrote something interesting yesterday,” he said.

        “Hm?”

        “‘Here you sit in your high-backed chair

        Wonder how the view is from there

        I wouldn’t know cuz I like to sit upon the floor

        Yeah, upon the floor

        If you like we can play a game

        Let’s pretend that we are the same

        And you will have to look much closer than you do, closer than you do,’” Damian recited, “You put an ellipsis after this for some reason and then you wrote:

 ‘I know you’ve got it figured out

Tell me what I am all about

And I just might learn a thing or two

Hundred about you’”

He stopped reciting and looked at Anala expectedly. She merely shrugged.

“What?”

“Care to explain?”

“What do you think that is?”

“You wrote a poem?”

“No. I didn’t write it. And it’s not a poem. Those are song lyrics.”

“Why’d you write this instead of your usual narrative?”

Anala smirked and Damian felt his blood boil. The girl, this silly girl, dared to look at him like that! She was right about her eyes—they shone with same intensity that was within his heart…

“I know you’ve got it figured out,” she sang, “Tell me what I am all about…”

Damian stared at her incredulously, trying to hide how much her song had shaken him.

“You dare…?” he asked, his voice shaking not from anger but from his attempt to control an unspeakable urge…

“Yes, I dare,” Anala said defiantly, “I’m tired of explaining things to you, Damian. I’m tired of lending a hand in my own death.”

“Don’t you think this non-cooperation is a bit hypocritical, if you don’t want to ‘lend a hand in your own death’?”

“It is. But regardless of what I do, you’re going to kill a part of me anyway.”

Damian drew in a deep breath and she continued to speak.

“You’ve been playing a game with me, Damian. And so have I. The only thing that’s changed today is that I’m bringing it into the open.”

“No, that’s not the only thing that has changed,” he muttered quietly, almost to himself.

“What?” she asked, furrowing her eyebrows.

        “You’ve stopped singing since Connor died.”

        Anala looked surprised for a moment but recovered quickly. Damian noted that her eyes seem to glaze over at the mention of Connor’s name and smiling with little emotion, she said, “Yes. I sang only for him, you know.”