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Post by keyserzozie on Apr 29, 2008 15:37:42 GMT -4
Chapter 71. Some instinct he hadn’t known he had warned Locke to be cautious on the approach. He did not think of questioning it. Island time was different to time spent anywhere else, and over the weeks he had spent there, Locke had learnt new reflexes, which had less to do with reason than a kind of spiritual resonance; as if he were a string on some complex and subtle instrument, to which he now was fully attuned. He waited behind the tree-line until the evening campfires were lit. No-one saw him; not even Sawyer, who passed by less than twenty feet away. Sawyer looked preoccupied, his face as stony and immobile as it had been since that day in the Black Rock’s brig. Locke felt a stab of unease about that. To use Sawyer as a killing tool was not what he had intended at all – and worse, he now felt he’d been pushed into it somehow, that Richard had used him as cleverly as once he had been used by Ben – Still, that was over now. The man was dead – if indeed he was a man – and for the first time in his life Locke felt free. Free of his physical and mental restraints; free of expectation; free of the past; free of guilt. Now, at last, he understood what Siddharta had meant when he said to the Buddha: A man must follow his own path. To follow anyone else’s path - even yours, my Master – would be a betrayal of myself. He waited until Sawyer was gone. From his observation of the camp, it seemed that a number of people were missing. Jack, Jin, and Kate were conspicuous by their absence; so were Hurley, Bernard and Rose. The blonde woman, Sarah, was also missing, and it did not take Locke to discover the trail. Two trails, in fact; one modest but easy enough to follow; the second rather more obvious, which suggested that Hurley was in the latter group. Curious, thought Locke. It almost looked as if one party were tailing the other. Still, from the relaxed atmosphere in the camp, there had been no obvious trouble. Besides, avoiding Jack had always been his plan, and this just made things easier. He found Claire asleep in her tent. She had been sleeping for increasingly long intervals since the day Aaron had disappeared, and Locke thought she looked ill; too pale, too still, with hair that looked as if it hadn’t been washed or combed for over a week – Locke wondered if he’d left it too late. Claire was sensitive, he knew; she had already been close to mental collapse in the days that followed her abduction, and this, he knew, was much worse. The loss of Charlie and that of her child – and on the same day – might well have broken her mind for good. He touched her arm. “Claire,” he said. Her eyes opened. They were a deep and vacant blue, like that of Ophelia in the Millais painting. Locke found their expression troubling, and touched her arm more insistently. “Charlie?” said Claire in a distant voice. “Shh,” said Locke. “I’ve brought someone to see you.” For a moment he wasn’t sure she’d respond. Then, seeing the bundle in Locke’s arms, her eyes seemed to focus, her slack face changed, her mouth opened, sobbing, gulping air – So this is what it feels like to play God, thought Locke inconsequentially. He thought that it might take a long time for him to remember the look on Claire’s face as she held her baby; maybe almost as long as it would take him to forget the look on his father’s face as he fell away from him out of the window, or the look on his own as he washed his hands in the little stream behind the Black Rock, knowing that he was free at last… Claire was struggling to speak. Gratitude and belated distress warred visibly within her, as she strove to find words to express herself. Locke knew exactly how it felt. It was something like pins and needles, he thought; that feeling of coming alive again when you thought a part of you had died. “It’s okay,” Locke told her. “He’s okay. The Others took him, but he’s okay.” For a time, that seemed enough for Claire. Locke waited patiently as she came back, little by little, to sanity, first rocking and kissing her child, then washing him with a damp cloth, as if to remove any taint of his captors. Locke was reminded of a mother cat licking her kitten all over, and smiled at the appropriateness of the image. Then Claire raised her eyes again, and instead of Ophelia’s sweet, blank gaze, Locke was startled to see in them a look of cold and merciless sanity. Then she smiled, and Locke, who had seen many things before and during his time on the island, thought that he had never seen an expression of such calculating hatred on the face of any human being – not even on that of Anthony Cooper, during his own long fall to the ground – “Are you all right?” he said, seeing Claire apparently readying herself to leave, flinging clothes, food, baby things into the rucksack at the her side. “I’m fine,” said Claire. “Are you going somewhere?” She nodded. “Where are you going?” Claire’s only reply was to close the rucksack’s fastenings and to sling it across her shoulders. Then, with care, she drew the gun. It was an old one; black and unwieldy, and although she handled it with care, Locke sensed her eagerness. “Where did you get the gun, Claire?” “I took it from one of the bodies.” Her voice was flat and matter-of-fact. “One of the helicopter people. I thought I might need it - for myself. You know, after Aaron and Charlie -” “I see,” said Locke. He made his voice deliberately gentle. Claire was clearly suffering from shock, and any attempt to thwart her now might simply lead to more danger for both of them. “Where are you going now, Claire?” “Can’t you guess?” she said with a smile. Locke nodded. “Do you think that’s wise?” For a moment she faced him, and the look on her face was so chilling, so calm that for a second Locke could almost have believed that it was Danielle Rousseau addressing him. “Don’t think I’m not grateful for what you’ve done,” she said. “But don’t try to stop me now. The Others took Aaron. They took him, John. My baby -” “And you think that by going back there -” Suddenly, Locke broke off as there came a sound in the distance, a sound that he knew very well – “That’s a helicopter,” he said. Claire’s blue eyes opened wide. “Another attack? Or – rescue?” Locke shrugged. “I don’t know.” Once more Claire smiled. “Desmond told me what he saw. Aaron and me in one of those things. Leaving the island for safety. But after what they’ve done to us – ” She turned to go. “Goodbye, John.” “You’re leaving?” “For now. If rescue comes, you can tell them to wait. But I’m not going back till I have some answers. I want to know what they wanted with Aaron. I want to know what they did to him -” “Claire,” said Locke. “You need to rest.” “Don’t patronize me, John,” she said. “I’m going, and you can’t stop me. If you try, I’ll use this.” She indicated the gun at her hip. “I don’t want to do it, but I will. I’m going to get some answers, John.” “Answers to what?” said Locke in frustration, his calm composure breaking at last. “To this -” said Claire in a breathless voice, and as she spoke, Locke saw the discarded bottle of baby milk rise jerkily into the air. It rose about four feet and stayed there for a second or two before flinging itself against the side of the tent. The damp rag that Claire had used to clean Aaron followed it, and then it was a dozen more objects - a cup, a shawl, a book, a shirt – hurling themselves against the tent as if thrown there by some wayward child – Locke took a deep breath. He had seen something very like this before, that day with Ben, in Jacob’s hut - “So tell me, John, how can I leave? How can I leave the island now?” “You can’t, Claire. I see that now.” He turned to her, his eyes alight. “Has this happened often?” he said. She nodded. “Ever since he was born. They gave me those injections -” “I know,” said Locke. “It’s all right.” And, as the sound of propellers came nearer, and everyone came out to see, Locke and Claire crept silently across the beach and into the jungle, where they were very soon lost from view.
Chapter 72. “Do you want some help with that?” Mikhail had been using his teeth and one hand to try to untie the bandage wrapped around his right hand and had not noticed Cindy’s arrival. “Are you sure?” he asked, holding his hand out so that the bloody bandages were plainly visible. Cindy smiled and let the door swing shut behind her. “I was raised on a farm and the nearest vet was 100 miles away,” she said. “Squeamishness was never an option. But then you know all of that.” “Well then, thank you,” Mikhail said. He sat down on a stool and rested his hand on a table. Cindy pulled up a stool on the opposite side of the table and went to work on the bandages. They were dirty and torn, obviously applied in haste. From the awkward ties, she presumed that Mikhail had done it himself, one-handed. As she unwrapped layer after layer, blackened with dried blood, the bandages became stiff and more difficult to work with. She looked around what appeared to be a medical examining room and rummaged through drawers until she found a pair of blunt scissors. Returning to her task, she winced as she was forced to tear the stiff gauze away from his wounded fingers. “Sorry,” she muttered. “It’s alright,” Mikhail replied quietly. “You’re doing fine.” Cindy looked up to find his gaze fixed not on his half-bandaged hand, but on her face. He gave her an almost imperceptible smile and a nod of encouragement. She quickly returned her attention to her task. In her short stay on the island, Mikhail had remained something of a mystery. He seemed to live in orbit outside of the small community, and when he was in the camp, most of the others had avoided him. Cindy could certainly understand why. With his rough appearance and thick accent, he cut an intimidating figure. By nature and by profession, Cindy was generally at ease around most people, but even she found herself slightly nervous in Mikhail’s presence. Determined to shake off the feeling, she took a run at conversation. “So how did this happen?” she asked. “Just a little accident,” Mikhail replied. When Cindy raised a skeptical eyebrow, he added, “I dropped something.” Thinking that this explained nothing, but it was all she was likely to get, Cindy let the subject go. “Almost finished,” she said as she peeled back the final layers of brittle gauze. She had steeled herself against what she might find beneath the mess of bandages, and was surprised to see the nearly healed stumps of two fingers, one severed at the first knuckle, the other at the second. “How long have these bandages been on?” she asked. “Apparently too long,” Mikhail replied as he went to the sink and began to wash the blood and grit from his unbandaged hand. Cindy considered him thoughtfully. “You’re very good at not answering questions,” she said. Mikhail smiled humorlessly. “I was fifteen years in the Soviet army and that much again on this island,” he said. “I have been interrogated by people much more capable than you of extracting information.” “I’ll try not to take that as an insult,” Cindy bristled. Mikhail turned and eyed her steadily, and this time his smile seemed genuine. “It was not intended to be an insult,” he said. “Please forgive my bad manners. Perhaps I have spent too much time alone to be fit for company any more. The injury was from a grenade, and yes, it has healed inordinately quickly. That happens on this island.” Mikhail paused. “For some people,” he qualified his last statement. “For Ben?” Cindy asked. “Benjamin is unique,” Mikhail replied, avoiding a direct answer. “You’re very loyal to him,” she observed. Mikhail nodded. “Benjamin has proven himself worthy of my loyalty.” Cindy was about to ask how Ben had managed this tall order, but was interrupted as Juliet appeared in the door. “How is he?” Mikhail asked. “As good as he can be. Better than he deserves to be,” Juliet replied, not attempting to keep the bitterness from her voice. “How long till he is ambulatory?” Mikhail asked, apparently choosing not to notice Juliet’s open hostility. “How long are you going to keep me here?” Juliet countered, her voice icy. “That is not an answer,” said Mikhail. He reached for a towel and turned to face Juliet. “Look Mikhail,” Juliet snapped. “I did what you told me to. I got the bullet out. But you must know that I don’t give a damn about Ben.” Cindy suspected that this declaration was more wishful thinking than fact, but Juliet went on. “I don’t give a damn about any of you. The only thing I care about is being there when the helicopters come back to take us off this goddamned island.” Juliet’s voice rose as tears began to sting her eyes. Mikhail’s face remained passive, but Cindy noticed a muscle in his jaw begin to tense. “You mean the helicopters that opened fire on your friends? Your unarmed friends?” Mikhail asked. Juliet moved closer to him. Her normally lovely features distorted by pain and rage. “I don’t care who they are,” she cried. “I don’t care what they want. I don’t care if they drop an atomic bomb on this island and it sinks into the goddamned ocean, just as long as…” “Do you imagine you are the only one who has sacrificed, Juliet?!” Mikhail snarled. Cindy jumped as he slammed his damaged fist down on the metal examining table. “Do you imagine you are the only one who has suffered?!” “I just want to go home,” Juliet replied, her tears beginning to fall in earnest. “I just want to get back to my sister.” “Your sister. Your sister,” Mikhail sneered. “So you have left your sister behind. How many sisters do you think have been left? How many mothers? How many sons and daughters? How many lovers? Have you ever asked, ‘for what?’ But no, you see only your loss. Your sacrifice. You are too blind to see what is before your eyes.” Cindy grimaced as she saw a bright red stain begin to spread on the towel in Mikhail’s injured hand. “Yes, Mikhail, for what?” Juliet shook her head in disgust. “You’re just another one of Ben’s puppets. A puppy following him begging for another beating. Well, I’ve heard enough of Ben’s fairy stories.” She spat out the name as if it were a bad taste. Mikhail stared hard at her for a moment and then seemed to regain control of his temper. With a calm that was exponentially more sinister than his earlier shouting, he moved close to Juliet and held her in his one-eyed gaze. “I am depending on you to return Ben to good health,” he said quietly. He turned away and only then seemed to notice that his wounded hand had begun to bleed. He swore under his breath in a language Cindy did not recognize and began to blot at the blood with the towel. Juliet stood staring at Mikhail’s back for a long moment, defiance and defeat battling over her features. Finally, wiping a weary hand over her face, she turned to Cindy. “Ben wants to see you,” she said hollowly. “Me?” Cindy asked. Juliet nodded and left without another word. Chapter 73. Cindy blinked for a moment and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light in the makeshift recovery room. She hesitated, not wanting to disturb Ben if he was sleeping. Mikhail had never answered her question about whether Ben would benefit from the island’s healing properties. He had rebounded so quickly from his surgery, but there was only so much one body could take. “Come in,” came the soft voice from the darkness. “I don’t want to disturb you if you are resting,” she replied. “It’s alright,” Ben said. “I want to talk to you.” He motioned to a chair and she pulled it alongside the bed. Even in the low light, she could see the weariness on his face. His always pale skin had taken on an almost ghostly pallor that stirred a fear that Cindy did not understand. “Can I get you anything?” she asked before she sat. Ben shook his head. “No,” he said. “Please, sit down.” Cindy sat down and resisted the urge to assist him as he propped himself up to a sitting position. His slightly labored breathing betrayed the pain that the movement caused, but his expression remained neutral. After he got settled, it was a moment before he spoke, but when he did, his voice was strong, his tone indicating nothing of the toll that the injury and the difficult journey must have taken on him. “How are you holding up?” he asked. “Me?” Cindy exclaimed. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? I mean, I don’t have a bullet in my back!” “Neither do I,” Ben replied seriously. “Well, I mean…” Cindy stammered. “It’s alright,” Ben said with a slight smile. “I take your point. I just wanted to talk to you because, well, this isn’t exactly what you signed up for, is it? When you joined us, we presented quite a different picture—no shooting, no splitting up and choosing sides. This is all more than you should have to deal with at this point, and I want you to know, I’m sorry.” Ben’s voice was calm and soothing, and Cindy was entirely disarmed. She had begun having doubts when Locke had been given the order to kill his father. Cindy thought she grasped a little of what the island meant, but still, patricide was beyond anything she had conceived. When the group had fractured and Richard whipped the others into a murderous delirium, Cindy had wanted nothing more than to get back to something normal, something she could understand. If that meant the doomed survivors on the beach, then so be it. But now Ben seemed to see straight through her and answered fears that she had hardly articulated even to herself. She had seen Ben often in her time in the community, but had never spoken with him one on one. She began to understand why he commanded such loyalty. If you were the object of it, his quiet charisma was irresistible. She also began to grasp why his people had turned on him with such vehemence. If they had fallen under his spell, and then come to believe they had been betrayed, or worse, mistaken, well, hell hath no fury… “What’s on your mind?” Ben asked gently, interrupting her reverie. Cindy searched his face and concluded that the invitation was sincere. “Karl,” she said. “Why did he shoot you? And why does he keep saying you are a liar?” “Karl has been brainwashed,” Ben replied. “And I don’t always tell the truth.” The statement was so matter-of-fact that it hardly sounded like a confession. Cindy could not resist returning Ben’s smile. “Cindy,” he said, fixing her now in an intense gaze. “I need you to tell me what happened at the Temple. What is Richard telling them?”
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Post by keyserzozie on Apr 29, 2008 15:38:29 GMT -4
Chapter 74. It was thirty minutes later that Cindy emerged from Ben’s room, pulling the door shut behind her. She had recounted all she could remember, from the discontented murmurs on the trek to the Temple to the frenzied ritual in the caverns. She had wanted to vent her emotional reaction to the experience, but Ben had become more and more wan as the interview progressed. Her confirmation that Richard was in possession of his journal seemed to knock the wind from Ben entirely. Cindy concluded her report with Rousseau’s arrival and her own departure. When she finished, Ben had sunk back into the propped pillows and closed his eyes. He sat that way for so long that she had suspected he was sleeping and quietly stood up to leave. She was just turning toward the door when Ben opened his eyes and looked deeply into hers. “Thank you, Cindy,” he said. “You know that I need you…Jacob needs you more than ever now. There are so few left, and the island is in such danger.” His voice seemed to fade now with the effort of speaking. Cindy did not know if it was his injuries or the burden of circumstance that was crushing in on him. She felt the need to reassure him. “You can count on me, Ben,” she said. Even as she spoke the words, she wasn’t sure if they were true. Confusion and doubt still nagged at her. “Thank you,” he replied. “Please, ask Mikhail to come. I need…” the rest of the sentence was consumed by the sleep or unconsciousness that overtook him. As Cindy slipped out the door, she remembered the wooden doll in her pocket. She considered going back in and leaving it on the table next to Ben’s bed, but then she thought of Juliet and decided to wait until Ben was awake. Threading her way through the maze of halls, Cindy ducked her head back into the examining room where she had left Mikhail earlier, but it was dark. She wandered through the dim passages of the Hydra complex, feeling as though she kept coming to the same room. The uneasiness of being lost in a labyrinth was creeping up on her when she heard muffled humming from a room at the end of the hall. As she approached she recognized Mikhail’s voice, but not the foreign words of his mournful tune. Thankful that she was not hopelessly lost, she opened the door of what appeared to be a small locker room. She walked between rows of lockers, emerging from the end in time to see Mikhail step out from under the shower and reach for a towel draped over a bench. “Oh, sorry!” she gasped, instinctively falling back behind the bank of lockers. “I’ll just be a moment,” Mikhail said, his tone betraying not the slightest discomfort. Cindy leaned against the wall and rolled her eyes at her own girlish reaction. Her mind had been on her conversation with Ben and seeing Mikhail had brought her swiftly back into the moment, a not entirely unpleasant jolt. Cindy had grown up deep in Australia’s Northern Territory among cowboys and farmers, and the be-suited passengers she encountered in her work always struck her as soft and somehow effeminate. Her roommate had often teased that she refused to date men if they didn’t have enough scars. She wondered what the roommate would think of this battered soldier, whose body bore the marks of a lifetime of near misses. Mikhail reappeared dressed in black military-style trousers. He tossed the damp towel into a corner and fetched a t-shirt from a locker across from Cindy. As he pulled it over his head, she indulged an appreciative appraisal. She had only ever seen Mikhail in his baggy gray Dharma jumpsuit, and the dark fabric now stretched over his shoulders and biceps presented an entirely different image. He paid her no attention but sat down on the bench and laced up well-worn boots. “I take it your meeting with Benjamin was satisfactory,” he said, finally finished dressing and looking up. “Uh, yeah,” Cindy replied, roused from her own thoughts. “He wants to talk to you. He asked me to come get you. That’s why I, well, that’s why I’m here.” “Of course,” Mikhail replied, his tone completely deadpan. “And now I can’t find my way back,” Cindy offered by way of explanation why she was still here. She caught the slight tug at the corner of Mikhail’s mouth, but wasn’t sure if this meant he believed her or not. The trip back to Ben’s room took considerably less time than Cindy’s earlier, more haphazard ramble through the Hydra complex. They had almost reached Ben’s door when Karl scrambled down a ladder and burst into the hallway. “Mikhail!” he shouted, breathing hard and eyes wide. “I am ten feet away, Karl,” Mikhail said, calmly. “You don’t have to scream. Now what is it?” “You need to see this,” Karl said, just as loud as before. Without waiting for a reply, he disappeared back up the ladder. In an instant, Mikhail was after him, with Cindy not far behind. She barely kept them in sight but managed to follow as Karl sprinted through a bank of trees and up a hill with Mikhail right on his heels. When they had nearly reached the crest of the hill, they both dropped to the ground and inched forward to see over the top. When she finally caught up, she crawled forward, mimicking their motions and peeked through a hank of tall grass. Nearly hidden in a dip in the ground, she saw the outline of a helicopter gunship.
Chapter 76. When dawn came with no further contact, Richard knew the plan had failed. He had been naïve, he told himself, to think that the four of them – even with Karl’s unwitting co-operation - could have taken Benjamin by surprise. After all, Ben was his pupil. He’d taught him everything he knew – woodscraft, diplomacy, guile and mistrust. Too late, Richard saw that he should have headed the party himself, even if it meant exposing the tribe to the possible dangers his absence would bring – He tried the walkie one last time. The airwaves yielded nothing but silence. There was no choice, he told himself. He would have to enlist a different kind of help. It would be dangerous, of course – as far as he or the Others knew, it had been decades since anyone but Ben had survived a trip to the cabin in the woods. However, he thought, it was worth the risk. His people were edgy; volatile. Rumours were already rife; Isabel and the others were dead; Ben hadn’t betrayed them after all; he had simply gone up to the mountain again, and would soon return with the answers to all of their questions. It was inevitable, Richard thought. Ben had been in charge for so long that the void of his absence was keenly felt. Some of his people had feared him. Most of them had trusted him. Many of them had loved him. All of them now missed him. The centre could not hold for long. Already Richard had seen the unfriendly looks cast in his direction, heard the mutinous whispers from the ranks, and soon, he knew, those whispers would grow, and his power over them lost for good. He had no choice, he told himself. He would have to risk the mountain himself. It would have helped if he’d had the child, of course, a useful tool to bargain with; but Aaron too was beyond his reach, and he had no time for another search. He would have to go to Jacob empty-handed, and hope that the news of Ben’s disgrace, his weakness and of his ultimate betrayal would be enough to alienate him - at last, and permanently - from his erstwhile protector. He recalled the very first time he had take Ben to the cabin in the woods. Such a very promising child – twelve years old, completely untrained, and most important of all, motherless – but even then Richard had known that Jacob might not accept the boy, either out of willfulness or because the raw material was lacking, or just because the time was wrong. If so, Ben Linus, like so many others before him, would simply have vanished without a trace, and Richard would have started again. But Jacob had accepted him. Richard had not been present, of course, but their meeting had lasted several hours, and at the end of it Ben had been ghostly pale – with terror and shock, Richard had thought at first, though he had soon come to understand that the look on young Linus’ face had been one, not of fear, but of wild exhilaration. “If only they knew,” he’d kept on saying. “All their tests and experiments - they don’t have the slightest idea what this place is -” It had taken a great deal of Richard’s patience to persuade the boy that immediate action would be a mistake. There would be time for that later, he said. For now, there were many skills to be learnt. And Ben had been an apt pupil, he thought. Perhaps a little too apt; too bright; too willing to take initiatives, too ready to assume unto himself responsibilities that even Richard would have been reluctant to take. And now he had to kill him. Well, that was the way of the world, Richard thought. The way of all worlds, throughout all time. Each man kills the thing he loves, and although Richard was no longer entirely a man, he was still human enough to know a pang of sorrow for Benjamin, as he did for all of Jacob’s adopted sons, those brilliant and once-powerful men, now scattered like ashes across forever – Well, Richard could spare him that, at least. Benjamin’s death would be merciful; a release from pain and loneliness; the blessed gift of mortality. In a way, Richard envied him that – though not enough to spare his life, he thought, with a small, barbed smile. He was still smiling when he set off, his satchel slung across his back, a satchel that contained, among other things, the diary he had taken from Ben, along with a little paperback book with a drawing of a steam locomotive on the cover. Its title was The Railway Children, and although Richard had never read the book, had never even suspected what secrets might be hidden beneath its tattered cover, the inscription on the inner flap had caused him to slip it into his pocket when all Ben’s other possessions were burnt. He looked at it again now, and his barbed, subtle smile broadened a little. In sloping, feminine letters, it read: To Ben. Forever, Annie. * * * This is it, Alex thought. This is what Desmond was talking about. This is how I’m going to die – The thought was so potent, and yet so unreal that she simply stopped and stared at the sky as the helicopter roared overhead – overhead, and past the camp, sweeping left across the canopy of trees towards the northern side of the island – Around her, the remaining survivors milled; some already running for cover, recalling the attack of a few days before; some merely sleepy and confused. Among them Alex recognized Sawyer, his expression more belligerent than ever, a short-barreled pistol in his hand. She wasn’t sure where he had found the gun, but if he imagined he had the slightest chance of hitting a ‘copter with that thing, she thought, then he knew even less about guns than she’d first thought. In fact, Alex told herself, in the absence of any kind of leadership – with Jack, Locke and Sayid away - the camp was woefully unprotected, and if that pilot had opened fire – She turned her gaze towards Desmond, who alone among all the survivors, didn’t seem to have moved at all. No longer drunk – not now that his supply of Scotch had finally given out – he seemed to have sunk into a kind of trance, sitting on the dry sand, watching the ocean with dull eyes and murmuring gently to himself. He showed no interest in the helicopter, did not even flinch as it passed directly overhead, but simply stared at his unopened book – Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend – occasionally turning it over to read the blurb on the back cover, or flipping it open to study the photograph inside – now scarred with white lines from repeated folding – a picture of himself and a young woman against a backdrop of sailing-boats… “Aren’t you ever going to read that book?” It wasn’t what she’d intended to say, but for the fact that his silence and his aura of grief had reminded her suddenly of Ben, and of the many times she had watched him in secret – sometimes from the branches of a tree – as he sat writing in his journal, or flicking through that book of his, the one she wasn’t supposed to read – “Aye. I’ll read it. Before I die.” “Did you see it in one of your flashes?” said Alex. Desmond shrugged. “Does it matter?” he said. “Nothing matters to you,” said the girl, feeling suddenly angry with him, as angry as she’d often been with Ben, trying to goad him into a response, trying to make him see outside, beyond the sadness that was consuming him - “It matters,” said Desmond, looking at her. “But I told you. I can’t change a thing.” “You can still try,” Alex said. “It doesn’t mean you can just give up.” Unexpectedly, Desmond smiled, and Alex caught sight of the man he’d been before all this – before that day at the Looking Glass had robbed him of his illusions for good. “That’s just what my Penny would have said.” Now Alex knew about Desmond’s girl, Penny. He’d raved about her in his drunken delirium, although Alex had never been entirely sure whether Penny really existed or not. All she knew was that something had gone wrong; that the future glimpsed by Desmond in his visions had been altered by subsequent events, and that in spite of Charlie’s sacrifice, Penny had never materialized, and the long-anticipated rescue had gone badly wrong – agley, as Desmond put it – leaving them all at the mercy of whoever had launched the attack on the beach, looking for her father - Her father! Realization came like a blow, robbing her momentarily of speech. That was where the ‘copter had gone – beyond the beach, to the barracks, to Ben – “We have to go.” She took hold of Desmond’s hand in a grip that almost crushed his fingers. “Wha’?” “Please. Desmond. We have to go.” He looked at her then, in unexpected sympathy. “I told you, Alex. There’s nothing we can do. And if you go there -” “I’ll die? Is that it? Is that what you saw?” Now she was angry; at his evasiveness; his pity; his weakness. Most of all at his weakness, she thought. He was the adult, she told herself. He was supposed to know what to do. It wasn’t meant to be up to her to make all the decisions – and yet, she sensed she had to. Otherwise, they would all stay on the beach like the stupid sheep they were, just waiting to be slaughtered whenever the enemy felt like it, and Ben – if he was still alive – would have to face the attackers alone. Well, not quite alone. Karl was with him. And Karl was – The second mental blow left her reeling. How could she have forgotten Karl? If Ben was in danger, then so was he – and the thought of losing both of them was enough to make her drag Desmond to his feet, her voice cutting glassily through the sound of the retreating helicopter. “We have to go! I’ll show you the way. We need to get everyone out of here!” “Where to, sweetheart?” It was Sawyer, his face like a clenched fist, the gun tucked into his waistband. “Whaddya suggest? New York?” “The village,” said Alex. “The barracks. They’re empty. There are weapons there, gas masks, shelter, food – I know the codes to the sonic fence. I’ll take you there. It’ll be safer -” “Weapons?” said Sawyer, interested. “Guns?” She nodded. “And there’s no-one there? And Jack knew about this?” She nodded again. Sawyer’s face broke into a smile. It wasn’t an especially nice smile, but Alex was cheered by it anyway. It looked to her like the smile of a man who was prepared to kill someone – and, God help them, whatever Ben said, most of these people weren’t killers. Once, she would have welcomed the thought; but now, Alex told herself, she needed all the killers she could find. Forget Desmond’s visions, she thought. She didn’t believe in destiny. Alex, like Ben, had seen too many things to put her trust in imponderables. She turned to Sawyer with a brilliant smile. “So,” she said. “I guess you’re in charge.” He gave her an ironic bow. “Well, now I guess I am, Sheena.” Alex nodded. “Good,” she said. “Then get your people and follow me.”
* * *
Jack’s party was half a mile away from the barracks when the helicopter passed overhead. They heard it land not far away, in a clearing to the east of the village, well within the perimeter. Sarah appeared unperturbed, even when poor reception made it impossible for her to contact her people to check on the helicopter’s status. “It doesn’t matter,” she told Jack. “We carry on as planned.” Sayid and Kate were less easily convinced. “These people opened fire on us,” the Iraqi said. “And you’re asking us to trust them now?” “Yes,” said Jack impatiently, making no effort to hide his anger. “How many times do I have to say it? They fired on us because they thought we were the Others. They had no idea we were here at all. They thought they’d found Flight 815 – with no survivors - somewhere else. Obviously, there was a mistake -” “Obviously,” repeated Sayid. “But that does not answer my question, Jack. How can you be sure of these people?” Kate was barely listening. Her interest in the power struggle between Jack and Sayid had always been limited, at best. Instead, her eyes were on Sarah, shapely in her black overalls, one hand resting lightly on her on her rounded stomach – Jack’s wife. The woman he loved. Kate watched her with loathing. She had followed because Jack asked her to, but the thought of helping Sarah now – of helping the bitch who had brainwashed him - was enough to make her sick with disgust. The helicopter might take them home – but to what? For her, a trial, imprisonment – for them, perhaps, a new life together – Kate’s pretty mouth twisted with rage. So what do I get out of this? For a moment she considered just walking away, leaving them to their secret plans and just vanishing into the jungle. She could live like Rousseau, free and alone – Then a sudden thought came to her. Kate looked at it cautiously from all angles, and found it unexpectedly pleasing. The smile returned to her freckled face, and slowly, she drew the gun from her belt, took a step away from the rest of the group, then leveled it at Sarah’s back. “Jack,” she said. They all turned. Jack’s look of surprise was almost comic. “All of you. Drop your guns.” “Kate?” “Please. Drop your guns. I don’t want to shoot her, but I will.” “Why?” She looked at him. “You know why.” For a moment, silence spun between them. Kate’s green eyes met Jack’s brown ones, and he remembered the story he’d told her, the first day they’d met, and knew that, she too, was silently counting. One… two… three… four… five -” “Do it,” said Jack, obeying the order. The frightened urgency in his voice was enough to freeze any fear or remorse Kate might have felt. Instead she was conscious of a sudden, surprising contempt for him – for his weakness, all for a woman – Sawyer would have let her die, she told herself, collecting their guns and slipping them into her backpack. She recognized that inner voice as the one that had always spoken to her in times of crisis; the one that had made her a murderer; that had warned her when her affections threatened to blunt her instincts; the one that had helped her survive this long – and would again, she was sure of it - “Kate, please -” said Jack. His face was drained of all colour now, his mouth drawn down in a tragic grin. “It’s all right, Jack,” said Kate with a smile. “You know I wouldn’t hurt you. Now, walk. Quickly. All of you. Sarah can lead the way,” she said, keeping the blonde girl in her sights. “Kate!” said Jack, his voice raw. “I’m begging you. Kate, please -” Sawyer wouldn’t have begged, said the little voice remorselessly. “Shut up, Jack,” she said, “and walk. I want to get to that helicopter.” Silently, they moved ahead.
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Post by keyserzozie on Apr 29, 2008 15:39:44 GMT -4
Chapter 77.
The further they penetrated into the jungle, the more Locke realized that Claire was altogether different. To him it seemed a sudden change, but then he had hardly seen Claire since the events at the radio tower, so for all he knew, the transformation may have been more gradual. Even her appearance had changed. Her white-blond hair was pulled back into a braid, and her customary girlish clothing had been traded for shapeless jeans and a gray tank top. Aaron was slung in a Mayan style wrap on her back. He did not know if it was the grief of losing Charlie or the stress of Aaron’s absence, or perhaps something else, but Claire no longer seemed the sweet woman-child in need of protection. She moved through the jungle with a combination of purpose and recklessness that left Locke to merely keep up and try to nudge her away from dangerous precipices. Early on, he had made a few attempts to dissuade her, but he had been met with anger and once even the point of the gun, so he had decided he would wait until Claire had spent her energy on the hike and her rage was blunted. Then he would talk reason to her, and lead her back home. She was not headed toward the Temple, although she had insisted she meant to find Aaron’s kidnappers and make them answer for what they had done to him. Locke did not point this fact out to her. The caves would be dangerous. Better to walk circles in the jungle, and the less populated the better. After nearly an hour of this aimless journey, Claire suddenly stopped and dropped her pack on the ground, announcing they would rest. “Good,” Locke agreed, reaching into his bag for bottles of water. He handed one to Claire and then perched on a broken tree trunk and watched as Claire swung Aaron around in front of her and sat down. The boy was drowsing, but he seemed to drink up his mother’s caresses as she stroked his blond hair and kissed him lightly on the brow. Locke felt a familiar pang. Although accepted that his father had been his obsession and eventually his downfall, he thought he had managed to contain the grief of a motherless child. But just sometimes, when he saw the unembarrassed affection lavished by a mother, he felt a dull ache in the pit of his stomach. His own mother had been crazy, of course, a diagnosed and untreated paranoid schizophrenic. He had read up on the disorder and learned that schizophrenia is characterized by psychotic manifestations such as hallucinations or hearing voices, having delusions, and assigning unusual personal significance to normal events. And schizophrenia is hereditary. This fact had nagged at Locke more than usual since his arrival on the island. Claire was handing back the empty water bottle and regarding Locke with a strange expression. “Can I ask you a question, John?” she asked. “Of course,” he replied. “What’s on your mind?” “Why did you bring him back to me?” Claire asked. “What?” Locke asked, taken completely by surprise. “Why did you bring Aaron back to me?” she repeated. Locke was at a loss. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asked. “He’s your son.” “I know,” Claire said. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, and it doesn’t answer the question. Aaron is obviously very important to the island and the island is important to you. I bet Ben or Jacob or a lot of other people would have been pretty grateful to you if you had brought Aaron to them. So why give him to me?” Locke hesitated, mostly because this very point had tormented him as he had carried Aaron back to his distressed mother. Jacob had called to him more clearly than ever before and he had turned his back on him to rescue the child from Richard. Locke did not know if Jacob would forgive him. Claire still regarded him with her startling blue eyes. “Do you really think I would keep your son away from you?” Locke asked. Claire stood up abruptly and rearranged Aaron into his travelling position. “I really think you aren’t going to answer my question,” she said, sounding for all the world like a petulant teenager. “Come on. We need to keep moving.” Locke had to scramble to re-collect his gear as Claire disappeared into the jungle. He hurried to catch up to her, but she seemed to draw further and further ahead, the sound of her footsteps growing fainter. Locke wondered why she would be running, and was about to call out to her when the sharp snap of a twig to his right caused him to turn, hand automatically reaching for his knife. He barely had time to glimpse the outline of a man when a rifle butt crashed down on his left cheekbone right below his eye. Pain exploded through his head and, as he sank to his knees, another blow caught him at the base of the neck. *** Cindy didn’t know much about helicopters but the large guns mounted on the sides did not speak well of the owner’s friendliness. The only other thing she could surmise was that the aircraft had been expertly piloted. It sat lightly on the only bit of level ground, surrounded on all sides by trees and jagged rocks. “I didn’t see anybody around it,” Karl whispered. Out of the corner of her eye, Cindy saw Mikhail slowly turning around. She watched as he surveyed 360 degrees around their position and then stared at the helicopter again, deep in concentration. Then, without warning, he suddenly leapt to his feet and sprinted back in the direction they had come from. Cindy and Karl exchanged a confused glance and then scrambled to their feet to follow him. They burst out of the clearing in time to see Mikhail arrive at the hatch they had followed Karl out of just a few minutes earlier. Mikhail dropped into the hole, skipping the ladder steps entirely. By the time they caught up with him, Mikhail was stepping out of Ben’s room, taking care to close the door quietly. The relief clearly written across his face told Cindy what it was that he had feared. As she leaned her hands on her knees to catch her breath, it registered that neither Karl nor Mikhail had broken a sweat. Another inexplicable fact to be filed away. “He cannot be left unguarded until we know who was in that helicopter and how long they have been here,” Mikhail said. He went to a narrow door, keyed in a combination, and pulled the door open, revealing an impressive cache of weapons and ammunition. Mikhail tucked a handgun into the back of his belt and slung a rifle over his shoulder, stuffing a handful of ammunition into the cargo pocket of his trousers. He then turned to Cindy with another pistol in his hand. “Do you know how to use a gun?” he asked. Cindy shook her head, a little frightened at the purposeful manner in which he was arming himself. “No,” she said. A look of incredulity tinged with disgust crossed the Russian’s face. “You never shot a damn dingo?” he asked. “Sorry,” Cindy shrugged, crossing her arms. “I don’t know all the words to Waltzing Matilda, either.” “I can shoot,” Karl said. Cindy was taken aback at the brazenness of Karl’s boast. She was about to observe that they would not be on Pala at all if not for Karl’s marksmanship, but Mikhail spoke first. “Have you ever shot at a human being?” he asked, peering intently at the young man. “Well…no,” Karl replied earnestly. “But if it came down to protecting Ben, I would do what I had to.” His manner was so guileless that Cindy had to remind herself that Karl had put a bullet in Ben’s back in front of half a dozen witnesses. Ben had told her that Karl was brainwashed and apparently he was right. The boy was either a consummate actor or he truly was unaware that not 24 hours ago he had tried to assassinate the very leader he now swore to protect. She wondered who could accomplish such thorough mind control. “You two wait here,” Mikhail said, and strode the short distance down the hall and into Ben’s room. Karl shoved his hands in his pockets and began to pace. “Who do you suppose was in the helicopter?” he asked after a few moments “I have no idea,” Cindy replied honestly. “They shot at us back at the beach,” Karl said. “Yeah, I heard,” said Cindy, mentally noting that this had to be the strangest small talk she had ever engaged in. She wasn’t sure if it was a good idea, but she could not resist asking. “What happened to Ben?” Karl stopped pacing for a moment and seemed to think about his answer. “He got shot,” he said finally, and resumed his movement. “By who?” Cindy asked. This time Karl stopped and looked at her, then his eyes darted to the ceiling as if he was searching for a hazy memory. He paused for such a long time that Cindy wanted to prompt him, but decided to wait and see if he would speak. When he finally did speak, his voice was the same sing-song as it had been on the trip across the water to Pala. “God loves you as he loved Jacob,” Karl said. Just at this moment, Mikhail emerged from Ben’s room. “Karl,” he barked, and the younger man turned toward him slowly, the dreamy expression still in his eyes. Mikhail covered the distance between them in a few long strides and swatted Karl’s cheek with his open palm. Karl blinked as if he had just stepped into a bright light. “What did you do when you first saw the helicopter, Karl?” Mikhail asked before the boy had fully recovered from the slap. “Wha…?” he asked vaguely. “The helicopter, what did you do when you saw it?” he repeated. “I…I…got on the ground,” Karl replied. “Why did you do that?” Mikhail asked. “Soooo…nobody could see me,” Karl answered. As Mikhail continued to pepper the young man with detailed questions about his movements, his speech became more clear and certain and he seemed to emerge from a fog. Finally Karl’s expression became confused. “Hey, why are you asking me all of these questions?” he asked. Mikhail did not reply, but nodded in apparent satisfaction and said, “Karl, please go help Ben.” “Okay,” Karl nodded, and went down the hall without hesitation. Cindy watched him disappear into Ben’s room and then looked back at Mikhail. “Do you care to explain that?” she asked. Mikhail shook his head. “I’m not sure I can,” he said. When Cindy started to reply, he raised a hand. “We don’t have the luxury to discuss it now. I’m afraid time is of the essence.” He continued speaking as he re-opened the gun locker. “You must go with Benjamin and Karl to another place.” “Where?” she asked. “Benjamin will show you,” Mikhail replied. “Is he up to moving around,” Cindy asked, recalling how their brief conversation had drained him. “He has to be,” said Mikhail. His attention had been on the weapons he was loading, but he turned toward Cindy. Her concern must have shown because he continued. “Don’t worry,” he said. “He is stronger than he looks.” “What about Karl?” Cindy asked. “Are you sure he’s okay?” “He is unstable,” Mikhail conceded. “But you should have warning. If he starts talking about Jacob or intoning things like ‘Ben is a liar,’ you will need to distract him.” “You want me to slap him?” Cindy asked. “If you like,” Mikhail said. His tone did not change, but Cindy swore she saw a twinkle of mischief in his eye. “Just get him talking about something else. Anything that will focus his attention. If you get desperate, ask him about Alex.” “What if that doesn’t snap him out of it?” Cindy persisted. Mikhail locked the magazine into the pistol in his hand by way of reply. Cindy stared at the weapon and sighed uncertainly. Mikhail handled the gun as naturally as she might a telephone or a coffee cup. She looked again at his scarred and weathered face and saw that he would not insist. “Alright,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Show me.”
***
Locke lay on the ground fighting off the unconsciousness that threatened to seep over him. His hand had flown automatically to his face with the first blow, and he tried to scrub the blood away, desperate to know if his eye was intact. His other hand clawed toward the knife on his belt until a booted foot stomped violently down on his fingers. “Don’t try it,” a voice said, and Locke felt a sharp jab at his neck. He assumed it was the business end of the gun that had struck him. “You’re the boss,” he replied, pain transforming his voice to a low gasp. The foot eased slowly up, leaving red indentations in the back of Locke’s hand. “Get up,” the man ordered. Locke struggled to his feet, pausing to balance as a wave of dizziness washed over him. He staggered a step backward as unseen hands jerked his pack off of his back and confiscated the knife at his belt. A police-style pat-down revealed the second knife in Locke’s low hiking boot. “Alright, move,” the man said, and Locke felt the gun gouge violently into his spine. “Do you have a direction in mind or should I surprise you?” Locke asked, trying to catch a glimpse of his captor in his peripheral vision. He had blinked away enough blood to know that he could still see out of his left eye, but he knew that soon the swelling would leave him half-blind again. “That way,” came the reply, and Locke was shoved in the direction of Claire’s path. He hoped she had either heard the commotion and known to hide or had been far enough ahead to avoid the danger. He could not hear her nor Aaron, so he dared to hope for the best. They had not walked more than 50 yards when the man behind him ordered him to stop. Locke could not see that they had arrived any place in particular, and he fought back a sudden fear that the man meant to execute him right then and there. However, the gunman was pulling aside a curtain of woven foliage and Locke realized he was standing in front of a blind of some sort. Rousseau’s handiwork, from the look of it. The man motioned Locke inside and he found himself standing in a tiny room, with walls fashioned from vines and thin branches. Invisible from the outside, inside it looked almost like a child’s playhouse. When Locke’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw that a woman sat on the ground, half-reclined against one wall. Her face was familiar but Locke could not place the sharp features and straight blond hair. “I’m so glad to finally meet you,” she said. “I’m Isobel. And this is Adam,” she indicated Locke’s captor. The names meant nothing to Locke, but he nodded his greeting. “I’m Jo….” “Oh no need for introductions,” Isobel interrupted. “You are the great John Locke. Man of destiny. Dreamer of dreams. Seer of visions.” She paused, and Locke thought that the woman might be pretty if not for the hardness of her expression. Something in her eyes said that she would snap a child’s neck without flinching if it suited her purposes. “And as it happens,” she continued with a chilling smile, “just the man I was looking for.” As she pushed herself up into a sitting position, Locke realized that the dark smudge on the front of her shirt was blood, and he recalled that she had been on the ground near the sonic fence when Ben was shot. “Now why would you be looking for me?” Locke asked. His head was beginning to throb in earnest and his eye was almost swelled shut. Before Isobel could answer, Locke heard someone enter the small space behind him. He started to turn, but Adam raised a rectangular black box to Locke’s neck and a bolt of electricity rocketed through his body. Locke stiffened and his head jerked back painfully, and then he collapsed heavily to the ground. Darkness washed over him, but just before he sank into unconsciousness, he heard Isobel’s dusky voice. “Thank you, Claire.”
Chapter 78. Annie had almost forgotten how much it rained in this place. Her memory persisted in bringing it back to her otherwise; as an Arcadian landscape in which she and Ben, a perpetual thirteen, ran laughing through forests of flowers beneath a blue sky plumped with fair-weather clouds. Now it was night, and raining hard. She could hear the distant roar of something proclaiming its appetite, and hunkered down inside a tree that was a mass of aerial roots, hoping for some protection against the rain and the night hunters. She was cold, wet, muddy and afraid. Some Arcadia, she thought. She was also approaching forty years old (though most people found that hard to believe), and she shouldn’t have been on this island at all. She should have been safe in a nice house somewhere, perhaps with a husband, a child or two – Instead, here she was, back on the island as if the past sixteen years hadn’t happened at all. And Ben – deceitful, dangerous, irresistible Ben – he was just the same too, expecting her to obey without question, expecting her to read his mind – What the hell did he want from her? It had been sixteen years, for God’s sake, and how was she supposed to remember every little thing he’d said? Except that she did, she told herself. Every word he’d spoken to her; every promise he’d made, everything. And that was why she was on her way to a place she wasn’t even sure existed, a place he’d shown her once, on a map – Mentally, she went over the words of his message, sent over sixteen years before, but only received four months ago. It was typical Ben, she thought. Curt and undemonstrative, but with a wealth of undertones. Annie, it said. Change of plan. I need you to come back – alone. Use the following co-ordinates. Make your way quickly to the Flame. Do not come to the barracks. Do not bring anyone else. Do not talk to anyone until you have spoken to me. Annie, this is important. More important than anything that has happened between us. I will explain when you get here, I promise. Meanwhile, please. Trust me. Ben. Trust him? Even now, the words filled her with mingled rage and disbelief. First he’d manoeuvred her into leaving the island, forcing a quarrel between them, making Annie so angry with him that she was incapable of rational thought, getting her out of the way like a child while he carried out whatever plan he’d cooked up with the Hostiles; then he’d simply summoned her back– Since then, her anger at him had not diminished; it had simply grown more complicated. The rumours she’d heard from the DHARMA group; the deaths of their operatives on the island; their growing conviction that it had been an inside job; her own certainty that Ben had been, if not the principal culprit, then at least a significant player – She ought to hate him, Annie thought. And yet she didn’t. Even now, she told herself, with the cool self-analysis that sixteen years of training had taught her, even now she loved him still, and though duty came first – and justice, she thought – she would not allow them to kill him. This was why she’d disobeyed orders. This was why she’d left the ship. This was why she was here now, trying to enlist the help of something that had probably killed dozens – maybe hundreds - of people – The hut was less than three miles away. She could have made it in an hour or so, but Annie was wary enough of the hut on the hill without making the journey by night. “It’s better by day,” Ben had once said. “Jacob doesn’t like being woken up.” Once more, Annie thought of Ben, her anger overshadowed with concern. The memory of what had happened was still unspeakably clear in her mind; the look on his face; the way he’d said; Annie, you came; the sudden, shocking sound of gunfire; the way he’d fallen, shot in the back. It had not failed to occur to her that maybe he was already dead; that she was risking her life for a corpse. But Annie didn’t think so. She would have known if Ben were dead. The island itself would have known. She dozed a little as dawn broke; awoke, stiff and shivering. Birdsong came to her through the trees; birdsong and something else. The sound of a gun’s safety release.
* * * Richard had tracked her easily to the shelter of the aerial roots. He could see from her trail that she was alone, and he approached her with care, sensing that she was not like the other strangers. She’d had training of some kind; her footwear was standard DHARMA issue, and so, he thought, was her uniform. Richard despised DHARMA. But then, Richard despised most people. She might still be dangerous, he thought; and besides, it was no co-incidence that they were both heading for Jacob’s hut – She never heard him approach. Richard was an expert tracker, silent as smoke in a jungle he knew in intimate detail. In fact, she never heard a sound until the gun was at her head, by which time it was too late, and even if she had tried to move, her frozen, aching limbs would not have permitted her to do so. He recognized her immediately. Richard was preternaturally attuned to observing the signs of age, and he knew her at once from her defiant eyes and from the way she looked at him – in wariness and in disbelief – his name starting from her lips before she realized how she’d betrayed herself – She recovered her calm in an instant. “Looking good, Richard,” she said with a smile. He acknowledged the hit with a one of his own. “I wish I could say the same of you.” Annie just shrugged. “Where’s Ben?” he said. “Don’t you know?” Her voice was flat. “Ben’s dead. They shot him in the back, on your orders, you bastard -” For a moment Richard’s eyes narrowed. Could it be true? Could Karl and the others have completed their mission? “Where are my people now?” he said. “I think they met with some trouble,” said Annie, with gleam of malice in her eyes. “Trouble?” said Richard. “Mikhail.” “Oh.” Richard made a rapid re-assessment. So, Mikhail was still alive? Well, not for long, he told himself. The Russian had never been a team player, and his enduring loyalty to Ben meant that he’d never been trustworthy. But looking at Annie once again, at her bright eyes and scornful smile, Richard very much doubted that Ben was dead. If he were, then Annie’s reaction would have been different. There would have been grief in her face, her voice. The little girl he’d known and disliked had been a terrible liar. The woman she had since become was slightly better – but not good enough. They shot him in the back. That he could believe, he thought. The anger in Annie’s face had been real. So – Ben was hurt. Hurt badly, with luck. But Mikhail was with him. That was more annoying. The Russian would die to protect Ben, and he was certainly clever enough to interfere with Richard’s plans – He cocked the gun at Annie’s head. “Now. Give me your hands,” he said. Annie had no choice but to comply. In a moment Richard had fixed a pair of handcuffs to her wrists, fastening her to one of the tree’s thick roots. After that, he took her gun and placed it in his own belt. “Now Annie, I’m going to ask you some questions,” he said. “You are going to answer them, truthfully. If you don’t co-operate – well.” He smiled. “Please do. I don’t enjoy causing pain. But there are things I need to know. Now – first question. Where’s Ben?” Annie glared at him. “Ben’s dead. I told you that before, you freak.” Quickly, and without preamble, Richard struck her across the face. To Annie it felt like being hit with a rock, and for a dizzy moment she thought he’d pistol-whipped her. Blood welled up from a cut on her lip and drizzled thickly from her nose. Richard’s voice was soft as ever. “Now. Please. Where’s Ben?” Mutely, Annie shook her head. Richard shrugged and hit her again. Black flowers bloomed across Annie’s vision. The back of her throat was clogged with blood. “Ben’s going to kill you, bastard,” she said in a guttural, choking voice. “Ben’s going to kill you, and I’m going to watch -” “This is quite unnecessary.” Richard’s voice was almost prissy with disapproval. “No-one has to kill anyone. I gave no orders to shoot Ben. You’re behaving like a stupid child, refusing to listen to your elders -” Annie gave a breathless laugh. Richard sighed and tried again. “All right,” he said. “We’ll go back to that later. For the moment, just tell me. What’s this?” He held up a tattered paperback. Annie looked up, one eye half-closed. “It’s a book,” she said with the ghost of a smile. “The Railway Children. Don’t you read?” “What I meant,” said Richard, “is; what is it for?” “It’s a story,” said Annie. “Ben likes stories.” “I’m quite aware of that,” said Richard. “I know he also likes - codes.” “Codes?” Her attempt at nonchalance was weak. He struck her twice in the abdomen, just to teach her not to waste time. “Annie. This is a code book,” he said with careful patience. “Now what I’m asking you is – how does this code work? And why would Ben need a code at all, unless it was to hide information from his friends?” Annie struggled to catch her breath. “Listen,” said Richard coaxingly. “I know you think you’re protecting Ben. But Ben needs help. He’s in this too deep. And believe it or not, I’m one of the good guys -” “Of course, Richard. I can tell.” Richard took a deep breath. “So be it,” he said, raising the gun. “I only wish -” But he never got to finish the sentence, because just at that moment there came a crash, and something heavy came hurtling at terrific speed from out of the bush. Annie’s first thought was - a polar bear! But the thing that had emerged with such force was more on the lines of a grizzly - except that grizzly bears didn’t usually come equipped with a tie-dye shirt and a Yankees cap. Whatever the creature was, however, it rammed Richard hard in the back, knocking him flat, face-down in the dirt, sending the gun spinning harmlessly into the bush, then it looked up at Annie with mild dismay from beneath a mop of frizzy brown hair and spoke in an unsteady voice: “Whoa. Some tackle, dude…”
Chapter 79. Richard was still sprawled on the ground when Bernard broke into the clearing, rifle in hand. He put one foot on the back of Richard’s neck and jabbed the barrel under his ear. “Why don’t you just stay right there,” he said breathlessly. Looking up at Hurley, Bernard motioned with his elbow to where the pistol had landed in the brush. “Oh yeah,” Hurley said, and went to fetch the weapon. Annie had said nothing up to this point, but stared in disbelief at her rescuers. She thought there could not be a more unlikely group of commandos, but then the third member of their party arrived, and Annie’s jaw dropped another inch. “Nice work, gentlemen,” said Rose. Even more comically, Hurley and Bernard exchanged a glance and tried unsuccessfully to suppress their grins. “Yeah,” said Hurley, hiking up his pants in an over-exaggerated swagger. “I’m getting pretty good at this.” In the silence that followed, Annie realized that the trio had reached the end of their plan, and weren’t quite sure what to do next. “The keys to these handcuffs should be in his pocket,” she prompted. The comment sparked them into movement. Hurley looked at the gun in his hand, seemed to consider stowing it in his belt, but apparently reconsidered and handed the gun to Rose. Approaching the still-prone Richard with more caution than was probably necessary, considering the gun at his head, Hurley found the key and extracted it with some difficulty. Before getting to his feet again, Hurley jabbed a finger in Richard’s dirty face. “Beating up a girl, very not cool,” he admonished. Any response Richard might have offered was lost as Bernard punctuated the sentiment by stepping a little harder on Richard’s neck. Hurley moved to unlock the handcuffs and only then acknowledged Annie’s presence. “Uh, not that beating up a girl is worse because girls are weak or anything, because I don’t think that at all. I mean some girls are way tough. You look pretty tough yourself. And I don’t mean that in a bad way! I mean, you’re really pretty. Well, you’re kind of messed up right now, but I can tell…” “Hurley,” Rose interrupted. “What?!” Hurley yipped, clearly grateful for the intervention. “The handcuffs,” said Rose. “Oh yeah,” said Hurley. “Sorry.” He fumbled with the keys, a fierce blush masked by the fuzz on his cheeks. Annie smiled in spite of the pain in her lips. He may not look the part, but the big man had been an effective knight in shining armor, and she liked him. He reminded her a little of Horace, a thought that came with a pang of regret. Richard’s voice banished her smile as quickly as it had come. “You shouldn’t do that,” he said as Hurley raised the key to one of the silver shackles. Hurley paused, uncertainty clouding his expression. “Why not,” he asked, ever practical. “She’s dangerous,” Richard replied, his voice calm in spite of his undignified position. “Why should I listen to you?” Hurley challenged. “I don’t even know who you are -- and you were just pistol-whipping a girl.” “You don’t know who she is, either,” Richard replied. “And she is dressed like the ones who arrived in those helicopters. The ones who were shooting at you.” Hurley quickly surveyed Annie’s dark uniform and his hand holding the key dropped to his side. He looked to Bernard and then to Rose. “What do you guys think?” he asked. Bernard shrugged but Rose took a step toward Richard. “You have any more of those handcuffs?” she asked. “In my bag.” He indicated a shoulder bag with a long strap that lay on the ground a few feet away. Rose retrieved the bag and drew out a second pair of handcuffs. “Why don’t we level the playing field,” she said, tossing the cuffs to Bernard. With surprising efficiency, Bernard pulled Richard’s arms behind him and squeezed the cuffs onto his wrists. Once again, the trio seemed stalled. “May I sit up?” Richard asked. “Uh, sure,” Bernard replied, and Richard struggled into a sitting position facing Annie. He sized up the three newcomers and decided they were more a nuisance than a threat. Still, they would have to be dealt with. “So you’ve decided to join up with Ben,” he said, as though stunned by the revelation. “What?” said Hurley. “No way, dude. We’re not Others.” “Oh,” Richard replied, innocently. “I just assumed since you were helping her,” he nodded toward Annie, “that Ben must have sent you.” “No, we weren’t even looking for her, or you,” Hurley replied. “We were following…” “Why would you assume that?” Rose interrupted, giving Hurley a silencing glare. “Annie is an old friend of Ben’s,” Richard explained. “She used to live here a long time ago, and she now she’s back because Ben called her back.” He shook his head sadly. “I just can’t believe Ben would be willing to sacrifice everyone’s lives for his own gain.” Annie rolled her eyes as Richard looked sympathetically at Hurley. “You all are just innocent bystanders here. None of you asked to get pulled into this, and now Ben is using you like he used all of us.” “Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you Richard?” Annie said contemptuously. “How stupid do you think they are?” Hurley looked uncertain, but Rose’s raised eyebrow told Richard he may have overplayed his hand. He shrugged helplessly. “I’m just trying to keep these people from being pawns in one of Ben’s little games. I’m sorry if that doesn’t fit with your agenda, Annie, but some of us are fed up with Ben’s methods.” “So how do we know Ben didn’t send you?” Hurley asked. “You don’t,” Richard conceded. “And until you know who you can trust, it is probably better that you keep both of us under lock and key. Just to be safe.” “Smooth as ever,” Annie muttered, hate in her eyes. “If you really want to be safe, you’ll keep that one gagged,” she said. “He can talk your soul right out of you. Trust me. I’ve seen it happen.” “Well, well, well!! Looks like a party!” The arrogance and southern drawl were unmistakable as Sawyer stepped into the clearing and took in the scene. “And me without my handcuffs.” *** For Locke, the journey to the Temple was a dizzying blend of hazy dreams and painful consciousness. His disorientation was more than the after effects of a tazer-shot to the neck and he assumed he must have been drugged. He stumbled along behind Isobel, his hands bound behind his back, with Adam encouraging him from behind with the barrel of the rifle. He had attempted to memorize the route they took, but there were large blank portions in his memory. When they arrived, he was aware of the eyes upon him and the hushed murmurs, but by now he was accustomed to this greeting from the Others. Locke could see that Isobel was also aware of the curious looks he was getting, and he was quickly whisked away to a small chamber off of the larger room where most of the people were gathered. Adam kept the rifle trained on him as two others untied and adjusted his shackles. In the end, he was bound hand and foot, with a length of rope looped through a metal ring buried in the floor of the cave, a position that Ben had spent many hours in during his stay at the Swan station. If Locke had not known that Ben was several miles away on the smaller island, he would have believed that Ben had given the specific order simply for its irony. When he was left alone, Locke strained to hear the increasingly heated discussion taking place outside. “What do you mean, he’s not here?!” Isobel demanded, her agitated voice rising above the others. A chorus of voices responded, and Locke could only catch a word here and there. “Baby,” “Jacob, “shot her,” “kidnapped.” When Ben’s name became a more frequent refrain, Isobel called for quiet, and Locke could tell from the tone that she was describing the events at the sonic fence. He heard someone interrupt to ask after Jason, and Isobel’s brief response was followed by silence, then cries of grief and anger. Locke assumed Jason was the other man he had seen on the ground near Isobel. “What is he doing here?” a new voice demanded, and Locke heard his own name in the murmurs that followed. Someone must have realized then that he was in close proximity because the voices diminished as the group moved away from his chamber. Locke leaned his head back against the rock wall and tried to clear his head. For the first time he allowed himself to reflect on one appalling fact. Claire. Isobel had said, ‘thank you, Claire.’ He tried to think of some explanation other than the obvious one, but nothing else made sense. She had betrayed him. Led him into their trap. But why? What had they promised her? What did she think she was gaining? She had fled the helicopter approaching the beach. She had shown him the poltergeist inhabiting her tent. Was Claire really acting in Aaron’s interest, or was someone else influencing her in order to lay hands on the child. These questions occupied Locke’s mind to the exclusion of the more pressing issue of what exactly Isobel wanted with him, until he drifted into an uneasy doze.
*** Locke had no idea how much time had passed when he sensed the presence of another person in his small cell and opened his eyes. The light was the same as before, flickering torchlight, but the voices outside had faded completely. His joints ached from being locked in awkward positions, and the wound on his cheekbone had taken on the itch of healing. It registered that unless he had been asleep for a very long time, his recovery was becoming more rapid with each wound he received. The bullet-hole that Ben had inflicted on his side less than two weeks earlier was entirely healed. Locke blinked and squinted at the form crouched near the opposite wall, just out of the torchlight. “Who’s there?” he whispered, uncertain if it was friend or foe. In answer, the figure stirred and moved into the light. Locke’s eyes grew wide and his heart skipped, whether from shock or something else, he did not know. The dark-haired woman smiled as if sitting in this stone cell was the most everyday of occurrences. “Hi, John,” she said. Her voice reached forward from the past, and although he knew it must be a dream, or worse, Locke drank in its familiarity, letting all of the echoes sink into his ears before he spoke. “Helen.” She simply smiled and Locke tried to keep up with his racing thoughts. “Are you real? Are you here?” “I think so,” Helen replied. “I’m not sure how, or even where ‘here’ is, but what the hell.” She shrugged, her expression puzzled, but not frightened. Not like his father, Locke thought, who thought he had descended into hell, as perhaps he had. Straightforward, down-to-earth Helen. She would assume there was an explanation but not lose sleep over what it might be. “Ben’s magic box,” Locke muttered. “Who has a magic box?” Helen asked. “Never mind,” Locke said. “I don’t want to talk about Ben.” For a moment he simply looked at her, afraid to break whatever spell had dropped her in front of him. “You look good, John,” Helen said finally. “You look really different.” “I guess that’s what comes of living in a jungle for three months,” he replied. “Well, yeah,” Helen agreed, “but that’s not what I meant.” She studied him for a moment. “You look…happy.” Locke chuckled. “I’m tied to the floor by a bunch of people who have already shot me, hit me over the head, and might very well want to throw me into a volcano. What’s to be unhappy about?” “Well, it’s good you’re not sweating the small stuff,” Helen smiled. She considered him thoughtfully and when she spoke again, her voice was full of emotion. “I heard about what happened,” she said. “With your dad…your accident. I wanted to call you, or come see you, but I just… Well, I chickened out. I didn’t know if you’d want to see me after…” Even in the dim light, he could see her eyes were brimming with tears. “I’m sorry, John.” “Helen, don’t,” Locke said, trying to reach for her in spite of the shackles. “Please don’t say you’re sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for. You put up with me longer than you probably should have, longer than anyone else would have. And everything that happened, with us, with dad, it all had to happen so that I could end up here. This is where I’m supposed to be.” Locke’s voice had taken on an almost religious fervor. “Still looking for your destiny, huh, sweetie?” Helen asked. Locke shook his head. “No. I’ve found it.” “Listen, John,” Helen said earnestly. “Not everything is black and white.” “What are you talking about,” he asked. “You tend to see the world in absolutes, so quick to put your faith in people, usually the wrong people. You never see the shades of gray. It’s always all or nothing with you.” “Why are you here?” Locke asked, a hint of accusation in his voice. “I don’t know,” she replied. Locke eyed her suspiciously. “I really don’t know,” she repeated earnestly. “I was in Portland for a conference, went to sleep in my hotel room, and woke up in this cave with you. I still haven’t ruled out the possibility that I’m dreaming.” “Can you untie me?” Locke asked, momentarily satisfied with her explanation. Helen considered for a moment. “I don’t think I’m supposed to,” she said, looking as if she did not understand her own answer. “I’m sorry.” “It’s okay,” Locke replied. “I understand.” “Well, I’m glad one of us does,” said Helen. She stirred as if suddenly restless. “Well, I’ve gotta go,” she said, in a tone that sounded just a little too bright. “You know, people to see.” “Helen, wait,” said Locke. She paused and looked at him. “If you’re real…” His voice trailed off. “What?” Helen prompted. “If you’re real, can I touch you?” he asked. A familiar twinkle came to Helen’s eye. “Well, you could,” she said, “if you weren’t hog-tied to the floor.” Locke looked despairingly at the ropes binding his wrists and ankles. “Don’t worry,” said Helen, getting to her feet and walking toward him. “It’s sexy as hell.” Bracing her palms on his bent knees, she crouched in front of him and sat back on her heels, looking him over. Locke gazed intensely at her, keenly feeling his inability to move. Ever so slowly, Helen leaned forward, letting her hands trail over Locke’s arms and shoulders, pausing to knead the taut muscles. “This is new,” she murmured. Even in his helpless state, something in her tone gave Locke a confidence he had always lacked, but so desperately wanted with her. He leaned forward the few inches he could manage and brushed his lips against hers. The catch in her breath sent a surge of warmth through him. He turned slightly to stroke his rough cheek against her soft skin, breathing in her scent, fresh in the dank air of the cave. She settled against his chest and he turned again to meet her mouth, their breath mingling. For a moment, Locke hesitated, paralyzed by sudden panic that this might all be a trick – another of Ben’s manipulations or a test of his worthiness. But the feeling was overshadowed by her closeness. It had been so long. He bent again to taste her kiss and felt her lips part and her hand slip around to the back of his neck. Abandoning any vestige of fear, he sank into the kiss, more aggressive than he had ever dared to be in his previous life with Helen, straining against his bonds to pull her closer. At last Helen drew back, and looked at him with an expression of unrecognition. As if on cue, there was a sound of footsteps in the passageway outside. “You should go,” Locke whispered. “It’s not safe here.” She nodded, and he felt an almost physical pain as she extricated herself and moved away from him. When she paused at the entrance to look back at him, Locke could think of nothing to say. Helen gave him a smile and then winked as she disappeared around the corner. “Goodbye, Helen,” said Locke into the darkness.
*** “Talking to yourself already?” Isobel’s gravelly tone was a stark contrast to Helen’s light midwest accent. Locke forced the images of his visitor to the back of his mind as if he needed to protect them from Isobel’s icy presence. She bent down and touched the wound on his cheek with a cool finger. “That didn’t take long,” she said. “Jamie, why don’t you make Mr. Locke more comfortable,” she said, and Locke saw that a young woman had followed Isobel into the chamber. She worked at the ropes and unfastened his ankles from the metal ring. “I think that’s enough,” Isobel said, and gestured for the woman to go. Locke straightened his legs, grimacing as pins and needles shot through his aching joints. “Well, John, it seems we have a bit of a situation on our hands,” Isobel began. “Can’t any of you people think for yourselves?” Locke asked. “I don’t follow,” Isobel replied. “First you needed Ben to tell you what to do. And then Richard. And now that they’ve both run out on you, you don’t know what to do. Or maybe you’re hoping I’ll tell you.” “You’ve got it all figured out, have you?” Isobel asked. “No,” said Locke. “I don’t begin to understand any of you people. You’re all so committed to something and you don’t even know what it is.” “And you do?” Isobel retorted, but she could not quite keep the question out of her voice. Locke realized that he had hit the mark. These people were leaderless and they were afraid. “What do you want from me?” Locke asked. Isobel took a deep breath and held Locke in a gaze of such intelligence and malice that he almost felt he could have been looking at Ben. “I want you to fulfill your destiny,” she said in a voice hardly above a whisper. “And I want to help you.” * * *
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Post by keyserzozie on Apr 29, 2008 15:40:29 GMT -4
Chapter 80. They reached the barracks in ten minutes, Kate holding the rear with the gun. Jack still doubted that she would use it. On the other hand, he was aware that behind that sweet and open face lay strange and unexplored territories. He knew she had killed at least one man. And though Jack was not afraid for himself, there was Sarah and her unborn child – “Why are you doing this, Kate?” Sayid’s voice was soft and pleasant. “Keep walking, Sayid.” The Iraqi shrugged. “Do you think you can take that helicopter alone?” “I’ll face that when I get there, thanks.” “Even if you do, Kate - who is going to fly it?” “Shut up, Sayid.” Sayid just smiled. Sarah looked over her shoulder. “He’s right,” she said. “Those are my people in there. And if you think you can stop them -” “I have you,” said Kate tightly. “They don’t care,” Sarah replied. They had stopped just outside the sonic fence. Beyond it they could just see the surveillance pylons that loomed over the Others’ village. Kate looked at them with veiled suspicion. Why would the Others need surveillance inside their own perimeter? It was a question she had not thought to ask while she was a prisoner there, but now it made her curious. Could there be trouble in Paradise? Rebels in the camp itself? The helicopter had come to rest maybe a quarter of a mile away, on a low hill just beyond the camp. The four of them could see it now, squatting like some ungainly insect against the grass. There was no sign of activity; either the pilot had already left the machine, or was sitting in the pilot’s seat, awaiting further orders. Sayid stopped a dozen feet from the foot of the nearest pylon. Now they were so close to its source, they could all hear the power running through it; a low, continuous buzzing sound. He turned to Kate, who was watching the pylon with an air of fierce absorption. “What now, Kate?” he said. “You must have known it would come to this. None of us knows the code. And the method we used to cross last time demanded co-operation. I do not believe you have thought this through. At some point, you will have to lower the gun – and that is when we will take you.” In fact, the Iraqi was troubled. Kate seemed unworried by the fence; as if she had already found a way to remove the obstacle in her mind. How could she have found a solution? he thought. There were codes to the fence; and only the Others knew what they were - Their predicament reminded him of a riddle his grandfather Pushi used to tell, when Sayid was a little boy: A ferryman must cross a lake, taking with him a wolf, a goat and a bale of hay. But his boat is only big enough to carry one of these things at a time. If he takes the hay first, then the wolf will eat the goat in his absence. If he takes the wolf first, then the goat will eat the hay in his absence. If he takes the goat first, then the next trip will once more leave either goat and hay, or wolf and goat together in his absence. How can the man fulfil his task without losing his cargo? Sayid was distressed to find that he could not remember the answer. But his grandfather had died in a raid in the early days of the Gulf war, and it was hard to remember Pushi’s face, let alone some child’s game – He wondered what Pushi would have said if he’d known his grandson would grow up to be one of the wolves. A torturer. What is your plan, Kate? he thought. How will you ferry us across the river? Then he remembered something else. The ferryman wishes to save the goat, the wolf and the bale of hay. But Kate is not a ferryman. He looked at the young woman’s face and saw the crease of anxiety between her eyes, the tragic droop of her pretty mouth. It was an unhappy face, he thought. Unhappy, but determined. It was the face of desperation; of a woman forced to decide between two unbearable options. And now Sayid thought he knew what Kate’s plan might be… A body crossing the invisible field would cause a surge of power to the fence. Two bodies might cause the level to drop, just for a moment, as the power was depleted beyond the fence’s capacity to replenish. Three bodies would cause it to drop still more, or maybe trip the field altogether – Sacrifice the goat, thought Sayid. Wolves do not eat hay. Of course, that was the wrong answer. Pushi would have been horrified. But Kate was under pressure of time; she could not afford the luxury of finding the answer to the riddle. And now Sayid could see in her eyes what he had only guessed before; that this woman would do whatever it took to gain possession of that helicopter; even if it meant their lives - I thought I was the wolf, he thought. Now I know better. Kate is the wolf. He turned towards Kate. “Don’t do it,” he said. “I will help you across the fence.” “No!” Jack’s voice held a rising note of warning. “Kate, Sayid. Listen to me -” “I can pilot the helicopter,” went on Sayid in a gentle voice. “I took a pilot’s course in Iraq. I know what to do. You need me, Kate.” She took a moment to think it through. Sayid waited patiently. The war had taught him patience. And with it, the will to survive at all costs. He had paid a price, of course. He was no longer a good man. Once he had thought to redeem himself – had even been ready to lay down his life for a cause that he had thought just – but Jack’s cause was doomed. They had made a mistake. Now all they could do was salvage what dignity they could. “I’ll tie them up,” he told Kate. “That way they cannot interfere. Then we can build a ladder from branches, and cross the fence, as we did before.” Kate eyed him narrowly. “How do I know I can trust you?” For a moment Sayid looked wistful. “I am tired of lost causes, Kate. I have fought too many losing battles, lost too many of my friends. I think maybe you understand -” She looked away. “Maybe I do.” “But I ask that Jack and Sarah come with us. They, too, deserve a chance to leave -” “No,” said Sarah urgently. “You have no idea what you’re doing.” “Why don’t you enlighten us?” said Sayid. “If you leave in that helicopter, you’ll never find your way back here.” “Why would I want to?” said Sayid. Sarah looked away. “And how are your people different? How would they know to find this place?” Sarah said nothing, but bit her lip so hard that it bled. “Your argument is far from persuasive,” Sayid observed, beginning to search around for suitable branches with which to build his ladder. Neither Sarah nor Jack said another word as they watched the operation proceed. No-one saw the third watcher concealed in the bushes on the far side of the fence, but in the silent undergrowth a scarred face broadened in a smile, and among the dark foliage no-one saw the gleaming of a single eye…
* * *
Chapter 81. Mikhail had spotted them before he’d even landed. In spite of their efforts to stay unseen, they stood out like a roach on a wedding cake. It had taken him no effort at all to survey the barracks from the air, ensuring that it was quite deserted, then to land the helicopter on the hill – Ben’s orders had been most specific – and then, out of curiosity, to watch as Kate and Sayid began the laborious process of crossing over the sonic fence. Mikhail also knew the riddle of the ferryman (though to the Russian, the three pieces of cargo consisted of a wolf, a sheep and a cabbage), and he grinned to himself as he watched Sayid and Kate pass from one side to the other, keeping their reluctant prisoners – Sarah, Jack and the silent Jin - covered with the single gun. They passed within three feet of him – close enough for Mikhail to have reached out and snapped their necks, had he chosen to do so. But Mikhail never moved; instead he watched them with a smile as they made their way towards the village and the bait he’d left so clearly in view on top of the grassy hill. The presence helicopters on Pala had caused him to reassess the situation. The small island was clearly no longer secure; and with Ben’s wound slowly mending, he could afford to take the offensive once more. He wondered what Kate would do when a large party of castaways arrived to break up her getaway plan. They were very close behind her, he knew – having had the benefit of an aerial reconnaissance, he reckoned they could be there within half an hour or so. Would Kate call their bluff? he thought. Or would she succumb to superior force? Either way, it didn’t matter to the Russian. Neither he nor Ben had the slightest intention of leaving the island that way. But sometimes, for the greater good, it was necessary to separate the sheep from the goats. It had happened before, with the Purges. Now it might have to happen again – a re-arranging of battle lines; a culling of the faithless. And if Mikhail’s assessment was right, then he wouldn’t have to lift a finger this time…
* * *
The fence was already disarmed. “That’s odd. There’s usually a lot of security.” Alex had lost some of her earlier confidence as the group had progressed from the beach. The first blow had been an unexpected attack by a group of aggressive wild boar, which had caused panic in their own group and had scattered them across the jungle. Second, had been Sawyer’s desertion. Taking the tusk-holes in his jeans as a personal, rather than simply an accidental affront, he’d flatly refused to go any further till he’d caught and shot the damned boar. An altercation had ensued, with the result that Alex had left him behind, hoping he’d pick up the trail later. The third blow, and somehow the worst, had been the fact that Karl wasn’t there. Alex tried to tell herself that there was no reason for him to be waiting for her, and yet she’d somehow expected it; had counted on seeing him by now, either camped out in one of their dens, or in the nest of aerial roots that had sheltered him during his period of exile. His absence made her feel lost again; a child playing war with real guns. She hoped at least that Ben would be home – that Ben would tell her what to do. During their long walk to the camp she had done her best to explain about Ben. The castaways were already half-convinced – partly by the attack on the beach, partly by Alex’s energy and her insistence that the enemy was worse, determined to wipe both factions out; that their only hope was to join together – “Okay. Follow me,” Alex said, crossing the fence’s inactive field. She began to walk towards the village – then she stopped, her face going pale. “What’s wrong?” said Sun, who had stopped alongside her. Silently, Alex motioned towards a hill just to the lee of the village. Sun’s eyes widened in dismay. “Is that a -” “Shh,” said Alex softly, putting a finger to her lips. She turned to the other castaways. “Everyone get under cover. Now.” She looked at Sun, her vivid face alight with fear. But, Sun thought, it was controlled fear. Like her father, this girl was at her best in a crisis. Sun felt just a little afraid of her. She had spent most of her life avoiding confrontations, pretending that things were all right, keeping up appearances, whilst all the time she knew full well that behind the civilised face of the world, there was nothing but horror, and hatred, and death – “Can’t we just walk away?” she said. “Maybe they didn’t see us -” Alex looked at her without comprehension. “Walk away? How could we, Sun?” Sun lowered her eyes submissively. It was no good trying to talk to this girl. Alex would never understand. But Sun had been blessed on this island. She had found hope there; an escape from her father; she had been reunited with the man she loved. She had come to think it a special place; a place where she could tend her garden in peace, free of the demons that dogged her. But no-one outruns their demons. Sun knew that now; saw it in the girl’s blue eyes. She’d thought she was free at last - But she’d been wrong. The demons were here.
* * * Hurley had drifted away from the group as soon as Sawyer arrived on the scene. The redneck made him uncomfortable, and he knew, just knew that Sawyer would have plenty to say about Hurley’s role in rescuing Annie; stuff that would make Hurley want to curl up and die. He’d never been comfortable with Sawyer’s type of abrasive humour, which reminded him too much of school, and how he’d been teased and bullied mercilessly, first for being a skinny kid, then for being a fat kid – it was like he had a mark, somehow, something that marked him out as a victim, that showed them just the right places to hit – Yeah, well. Screw Sawyer. Still warmed inside by Annie’s smile and the words she had spoken just for him, Hurley decided to keep away. He wanted to savour the moment for just a little longer before Sawyer started on him. Knight in shining armour, she’d said. That sounded nice; and even if he was really just a knight in a shining baseball cap – a knight riding just a little too heavy – for a moment Hurley had almost felt like an actual hero, just the way Libby had made him feel every moment they were together – The memory of Libby surprised him with its usual jolt of grief. But this time it was tempered with the knowledge that she would have been proud of him – was watching him, as his Ma would have said, from a higher place… Suddenly, the thought of being watched made Hurley feel quite uneasy. He looked up and saw that he was standing on a narrow ash path that wound gently upwards. How long he’d been walking, he didn’t know. Ten minutes? Twenty? Surely not any longer than that. He was about to turn back, to rejoin his group – he didn’t like the idea of being alone out here, and even the thought of Sawyer’s teasing didn’t seem so bad now – when he saw something lying on the path only a few yards away from him; something so ordinary, so familiar, so unbelievably, awesomely, freakishly weird, that all he could do was stare at it. “Dude -” he said. It couldn’t be, but it was, unmistakeably – A Chicken Shack griddle attendant’s cap. There could be no doubt in his mind; Hurley had seen them a million times. Stiffened paper, red and white, with the Mr Cluck logo on the front. It couldn’t be here, and yet, it was, and Hurley picked it up gingerly – the thing wasn’t even damp, as if it had been dropped thirty seconds ago – turned it over and over in his big hands, frowning at the absurdity of it, of a Chicken Shack cap in the middle of the jungle… A sudden, horrible thought struck him. “Dave?” he called. There was no reply. Of course, that didn’t mean Hurley wasn’t crazy; hallucinating a bald-headed dude definitely counted as crazy, he thought. But he’d never hallucinated a cap – He removed his Yankees cap and put on the Mr Cluck instead. It felt right; not too heavy and with just the right amount of give. If it was a delusion, he thought, then it was a pretty convincing one. Well, maybe Mr Cluck’s managed to open a branch on the island, he thought, with a sudden grin. Hurley had a strong sense of the ridiculous, and the thought of turning a corner of the path and suddenly seeing a Mr Cluck’s actually made him laugh aloud. It was a strong, carefree laugh. Hurley liked the sound of it. And then he saw something through the trees. He walked another hundred yards, across some kind of band of volcanic ash, and stared at it, wide-eyed with wonder. Well, it wasn’t a Chicken Shack, he thought. But it was a shack of some kind. Smoke came from the chimney; it looked friendly and welcoming. It occurred to him that the wisest thing would be to go back and tell the others what he’d seen – but the thought of what Sawyer might say urged him on. What ya scared of, Goldilocks? You tellin’ me you didn’t even knock? Didn’t even try the teeny-tiny little chair and the teeny-tiny little bed? In fact, Hurley wasn’t scared. There was something welcoming about the little shack, something that reminded him of being a kid, of building dens out in the woods, of candybars and soda cans stashed away for a rainy day – “Hey?” he called. “Anyone home?” He was six feet from the little shack now. No answer came. Apart from the trickle of smoke from the chimney, the place looked empty, though not derelict. The Gingerbread House, Hurley thought with a sudden awful flash of unease. But that was just a stupid fairytale. There were no witches, no nasty old crones hungry for a taste of human flesh. There was only the shack with its little windows and the door that somehow seemed to smile crookedly on its hinges – “Okay, dude. I’m coming in. I’m not armed. I’m a friend. Okay?” And at that he pushed the door ajar and slowly, cautiously, went in. * * * Ben wasn’t a drinker. His father had made certain of that. As a boy, Ben had seen him too often drunk, passed out on the couch, a half-empty can of Dharma beer in one hand, and had felt such a keen contempt for him that now he drank seldom, if at all. This was an exception. The last of Pala’s store of Scotch – and if things were to go to plan, the last bottle the island would see for a very long time. Besides, his back was hurting again, and all in all, he preferred the slight blurring of his perceptions than to allow his enemies to see him in pain. Not long now, he thought. Surveillance here was not as overt as in the base at Pala, but he’d seen enough from the monitors to know that Jack was on his way. He, Kate, Jin, Sayid and the blonde woman, Sarah, Jack’s ex-wife, had made their way through the jungle, past the sonar fence and were approaching the hill on which Mikhail had left the captured helicopter. Very close behind them, the rest of the survivors, straggling and leaderless, were on their way to the barracks. Each faction had one gun. It seemed like an even match. It was not; Mikhail was between them, Cindy on the other side, with Karl and a cache of weapons that they had brought over with them from Pala. Ben wondered if Kate would use the gun. On balance, he thought it likely. There was something implacable behind her apparent vulnerability; she would shoot if she had to, and battle her demons afterwards. As for Alex – Ben smiled. The girl had spirit; he was proud of that. She’d shown she could take care of herself. He looked up at the wall of his living-room, at the photographs displayed there. Alex at four; at seven; at twelve. Since Karl, she’d insisted on living alone. The house felt empty without her. Maybe she’ll come back, he thought. Afterwards - The thought made him wince. He poured a shot of the precious Scotch, drank, and grimaced at the taste. If his plan worked, he’d never know. He’d be in that helicopter, on his way to God knows where – But the island would be safe again, which was, after all, what mattered. He’d known from the start that he would be asked to make sacrifices on Jacob’s behalf – And what was the fate of a single man compared to the fate of the island? Ben stood up and put down the glass. His hand was no longer shaking. Everything was in place. Everything – and everyone. He wondered if Annie was still alive. He hoped so – although that, too, would be something he’d never know. He hoped that she would understand. He wished – But wishing was what had brought him to this. Now was the time for actions. Still conscious of the pain in his back, Benjamin Linus walked to the door and looked out. It was raining again, great ropes of it hissing down from the leaden sky. Ben smiled. Karma, he thought. Then he walked out into the rain.
* * * Hurley’s first day at the Chicken Shack had been a rude awakening. It was like in that old poem, he’d thought: Water, water, everywhere, but ne’er a drop to drink. Except that this was with chicken. You cooked the chicken, you smelled the chicken, you served the chicken to customers, but if you stopped to eat the chicken – Well, what did the boss expect him to do? Pretend it wasn’t there? It wasn’t fair, thought Hurley. And he was a big guy. He needed to eat. Which was why he was so often in trouble, he thought, in spite of the fact that he only took the chicken that was past its shelf-time, and then only in secret. Hurley wasn’t dumb. He knew – had always known – that people thought him a bit of a joke. They liked him – well, some of them did – but they all made fun of him all the same. His best friend Joe had been the one to name the Super Family Bargain Bucket Meal (24 chicken pieces, home fries, coleslaw, corn and a selection of sauces) The Hugo, a name that in time had been officially adopted onto the Chicken Shack’s menu board, along with the Half-Hugo, the Kids’ Hugo Happy Hippo Meal and the special-offer slogan: Bring Along Two Friends and “Hugo” Free – that had proved so popular over the holiday season. It was Joe who had nicknamed him Hurley – saying that Hugo Reiss was the best advertisement for bulimia that he’d ever seen – and even then Hurley hadn’t twigged that Joe hung out with him because Hurley made him look good, made him look like he wasn’t a loser, and when at last a bit of luck found its way into Hurley’s life, Joe was gone like a rat into a drainpipe, leaving Hurley feeling dumber than ever – Perhaps that was why he’d imagined Dave. Dave, his sharp-tongued, witty, subversive friend; Dave who always took his side. Of course he knew Dave didn’t exist; that on some level Dave was a part of him – the clever part, the part that knew how to answer back, the part of him that wasn’t afraid. Now that he was sane again, Hurley sometimes found it hard to remember how very real Dave had seemed, in the same way that he sometimes found himself wondering what Libby could have seen in him, and worse; thinking maybe he’d imagined her, too… The door to the shack was slightly ajar. Hurley pushed it further. For a second, he thought it was dark in there; thought he saw broken glass on the floor and an ancient rocker lying in a drift of dust. Then everything came into focus again, and he was in the staffroom at Mr Cluck’s, looking at chrome surfaces, neon lighting, vinyl-topped tables, linoleum floor and stacks of orange plastic chairs – Dave was sitting at one of the tables. There was a Super Family Bargain Bucket Meal box standing open in front of him. He was wearing a blue hairnet under a Mr Cluck’s chef’s hat. He shot Hurley a broad grin. “Dude,” he said. “Want chicken?” For a moment Hurley just stared at him. “You’re not real,” he said at last. Dave shrugged. “Please yourself, man,” he said, pulling out a chicken leg as if performing some culinary magic trick. The chicken looked real. Dave looked real. Even the hat on his bald head looked real, spattered with grease from the fryers. Dave saw him looking. “Gotta wear this,” he said. “Hygiene regs.” He pulled a face. “So why doesn’t someone tell me why a bald guy’s supposed to wear a fuckin’ hairnet?” He bit manically into the chicken leg, seeming to laugh and snarl at the same time. Hurley’s mouth began to water. The chicken didn’t just look real; it smelled real; hot and smoking from the pan, slathered with Mr Cluck’s secret sauce - Dave shot him a sly look. “Whatcha waitin’ for, Hugo?” he said. “No calories in dream food. Ask me if I give a cluck.” And he began to eat again, stripping the flesh from the chicken bone and flipping the bone back into the box. “Help yourself,” he said with a grin, and pulled out another piece of meat. “I’m not here,” said Hurley, shaking his head. “I’m on an island somewhere.” “Yeah, and all your friends are dead, and yadda, yadda, yadda,” said Dave. “Like I said, Hugo, who gives a cluck? There are things going on here that are far more important than just you getting home. I mean, worlds at stake, and all that jazz.” “What do you mean, my friends are dead?” said Hurley, looking inside the box. “Well, in all probability they are,” said Dave. “That is, if you’ll excuse the pun.” “Pun?” Now Hurley was mystified. “Try some,” said Dave. “Brain food.” But Hurley’s appetite was gone. He wished that Libby were here. Libby, he felt, would make Dave go away, would make him stop saying these crazy things. Oblivious, Dave went on. “Those numbers of yours. You looked for a sequence, didn’t you? You wondered where he’d got them from?” “He was crazy,” Hurley said. Dave grinned. “Aren’t we all? You heard of probability, right?” “Kinda,” Hurley said. It was almost true – there had been something about that at school, though he’d been more interested in Auto Shop. “It’s a way of figuring out what’s gonna happen.” “Not what’s gonna happen,” said Dave. “What’s likely to happen. Like working out betting odds on whether a horse will win a race. Or if a plane’s going to crash. Or if someone will win the lottery.” “The lottery?” said Hurley. “There was this guy called Lowry,” said Dave. “Mathematician, statistician, what the hell do I know? Anyway. Dig this. Lowry said that the odds on any one individual winning the lottery were so small that it didn’t even really matter whether you actually bought the winning ticket or not. The odds would be pretty much the same if you found the ticket in the street -” He paused to find Hurley staring at him blankly. “Okay,” he went on. Forget that. Have some chicken.” This time, Hurley did. It tasted real - hot and good. And salty. Hurley missed salt. “So imagine if you could work out those odds,” Dave went on as Hurley ate. “And not just work them out, dude, but ride them, like a surfer rides a wave -” “Dude,” said Hurley, his mouth full. “I’m not sure why you’re - like - telling me this.” “I’m not,” said Dave. “I’m not here, remember? The point is, you already know. You’ve already figured out what all this is.” “No way,” said Hurley. “Don’t bullshit me. You figured it out the moment you saw the numbers written on the hatch. The same numbers you’ve been seeing everywhere. The ones that keep things as they are -” Hurley put down the piece of chicken. “What are you telling me this for, man? What are you here for, anyway?” “Because it’s time,” “Time for what?” “Time to meet the chef,” said Dave.
* * *
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Post by keyserzozie on Apr 29, 2008 15:41:26 GMT -4
Chapter 82. Cindy could not pinpoint the moment that she began to feel uneasy, but nothing had happened to diminish the feeling since they had spotted the helicopter on Pala. And now as she crouched in the jungle, once again on the main island, dread sat like a stone in the pit of her stomach. After Mikhail gave her a crash course in weaponry, he had disappeared, leaving her to babysit an ailing Ben and a semi-entranced Karl. Ben had led them to a small bunker hidden in the trees on Pala, and the relatively short journey had been excruciatingly slow. Ben moved at a snail’s pace, stopping to rest every dozen steps, and yet he refused to be carried on a stretcher or pushed in a wheelchair. Cindy’s irritation with his bravado only increased each time she heard a noise or saw movement in the jungle and steeled herself for the assault she was certain was imminent. By the time they reached the windowless hiding place, she was exhausted from the constant push of adrenaline. Cindy was dismayed when instead of staying to rest, Ben had announced that they would collect as many weapons as they could carry and then meet Mikhail back at the helicopter. When Cindy asked what Mikhail was doing in the meantime, Ben’s only reply was a dismissive glance. She was thankful that Karl seemed back to normal, following Ben’s orders without question. Mikhail’s presence had been reassuring once they reached the helicopter, but her confidence boost was short-lived. First, she had noticed that their skiff was missing from the shore, which meant that Juliet, or the newcomers, or both, would have made their way back to the main island. Then when they landed, Ben had hobbled away in one direction, and Cindy and Karl were sent in the other direction with instructions to find a good hiding place and stay there with the weapons until Mikhail came for them. And so now Cindy hunkered down in the brush, trying unsuccessfully to interpret the movements she was hearing a distance away. She wasn’t sure how many different groups had splintered away from the 815 survivors, or Ben’s once-loyal followers. In any case, allegiances seemed to be shifting so fast, she suspected she might not know if someone was friend or foe until it was too late. She looked at Karl, who was peering into the dim jungle, seemingly unperturbed by their situation. “Hey, Karl,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Yeah?” he responded, not taking his eyes off whatever he was watching. “You okay?” she asked. This time Karl looked at her. “Sure,” he said. “I’m great.” He flashed a friendly grin. “How about you? You’re looking a little frazzled.” Cindy looked at him thoughtfully. The young man seemed so eager to please, it was hard to imagine that just hours earlier, he had coldly put a bullet in Ben’s back. “Oh yeah, don’t worry about me,” she said. “I just wish I knew what was going on.” To her surprise, Karl shook his head. “Not me,” he said. “I like it better the less I know.” Cindy chuckled, but in truth, she wasn’t sure if he was being serious. “I just wish I could find Alex,” he said. “Why don’t you,” Cindy suggested. “I can keep an eye on things here.” “Really?” Karl asked. “No problem,” Cindy replied, with a confidence she did not feel. She held up the pistol Mikhail had given her. It felt heavy and awkward in her hand, but she did not dare stow it in her belt, for fear of shooting something vital. She was pretty sure if someone came for the guns, she would just stand aside, but she didn’t want Karl to see that. “I don’t know,” the young man said. “I hate to leave you here by yourself.” “I’ll be fine,” she said. “You can go find Alex, find out what’s happening, and then come back and fill me in.” Karl nodded, needing little encouragement. “Okay,” he said. “I won’t be long. And if anything starts happening, I’ll come right back.” The grin on his face told her that his mind had already leapt ahead to the impending reunion with his sweetheart and Cindy could not help sharing the smile. From her brief time on the island, she surmised that Alex and Karl had paired up as much out of necessity as anything, there being no other teenagers in the population. Still, they were fiercely loyal to one another, and she suspected Ben’s disapproval was no small obstacle. Her mind drifted back to a time when it was possible to believe that love could overcome harsh reality, but her ruminations were interrupted by the sound of two quick pops coming from the direction Karl had departed. She jumped, but suppressed the urge to call out to him. Instead she took a deep breath and set off in the direction of what she was sure was gunfire. It occurred to her to observe that t.v. gets it wrong, and that gunshots sound more like the snap of firecrackers then the explosions heard on cartoonish cop shows. Crawling through the dense foliage, she was almost on top of him before she saw him. “Karl!” she blurted, forgetting that whoever had fired the shots could still be nearby. She stood up next to him and looked in the direction he was facing. “Are you okay?” she whispered. “What happened?” “We are the cause of our own suffering,” he said, in a sing-songy voice that made her heart sink. Only then did she notice that Karl held his pistol drawn in his right hand, his finger on the trigger. His face held the same serene expression it did when he had chanted ‘Ben is a liar’ back at the Hydra station. Cindy tried to recall what Mikhail and told her to do in this situation, but her panicked mind drew a blank. “Karl, what did you do?” she whispered, shaking him by the arm. “Juliet is a liar,” he replied. Cindy’s eyes grew wide. With no further thought, she rushed forward only a few yards, and found Juliet lying perfectly still on the jungle floor. Her blond hair was arrayed beneath her head, and a bright red stain was spreading over the front of her shirt. Cindy dropped to her knees next to the motionless woman. A touch to her neck revealed a pulse that was weak and slowing. Cindy shook her by the shoulders. “Juliet.” Fair eyes fluttered open for only a moment. “Rachel?” Juliet whispered. Cindy did not know who Rachel was, but three months on this island had given her enough experience to recognize the close proximity of death. “Rachel?” Juliet said again, desperation creeping into her voice. “Yeah, it’s me,” Cindy said, taking Juliet’s hand. “Sweetie, I’m so sorry,” Juliet said, her voice choking in her throat. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.” “It’s okay,” Cindy said soothingly. “I knew you were always thinking of me.” “I never stopped trying to get home,” said Juliet. “Even now…” “I know,” Cindy replied. “It’s okay.” “Rachel,” Juliet sobbed, her voice growing weaker with the effort. “I did some bad things. You would so disappointed. I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me?” “Of course I do,” said Cindy. “Of course I forgive you.” Tears ran down her face as Juliet’s grip on her hand slowly released. She did not know Juliet, but the dying woman’s pain was inescapable. “I’ll see you soon, sweetie,” Juliet breathed. “I’ll be waiting,” Cindy whispered. She sat still for a moment, thinking there should be something more to mark the moment, but a rustling in the trees behind her brought her back to the present danger. She saw Karl’s face first, the dirty hand clamped over his mouth betraying that he was not alone. Karl’s arm twisted behind his back held him completely under Mikhail’s control. Cindy answered Mikhail’s questioning expression by shaking her head and laying Juliet’s hand gently across her body. Making surprisingly little sound, Mikhail put Karl on the ground and rolled him face up with his arm still twisted under his body. He dropped his knee on Karl’s chest and squeezed his fingers around the boy’s neck. “Karl,” he said calmly. “Who told you to shoot Juliet?” “Everything changes,” Karl replied in an equally friendly tone. Mikhail grimaced. “Why did you shoot Juliet, Karl?” A look of intelligence passed momentarily over Karl’s vacant expression and he met Mikhail’s gaze. “I know a secret,” he said. “What secret?” Mikhail asked. “Ben is a….gghhhh,” Karl gagged as Mikhail’s grip tightened around his throat. “Do you want to see Alex?” Mikhail growled. “Alex?” Karl said, confusion clouding his features. “If you tell me your secret, then you can see Alex,” Mikhail promised. “Alex is beautiful,” Karl said dreamily. “Karl!” Mikhail snapped. “What?” the boy replied. “Do you want to see Alex?” Mikhail repeated, his patience clearly wearing thin. Karl’s face brightened immediately. “It didn’t work the way she thought,” he said. “Alex?” Mikhail asked. “No, Juliet. She thought he would want to go to a hospital, and she would go with him. It wasn’t her fault. She just wanted to go home.” “What did Juliet do, Karl?” Mikhail coaxed. “The tumor,” whispered Karl. “It wasn’t real. The x-rays weren’t his.” *** Ben tilted his head back and let the water wash over his face. Typical of the island’s rainstorms, the rain came suddenly and hard. He knew it would stop with just as little warning, and the sun would come out to make the air thick with steam. Ben squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to think of other rainstorms – the times when his father would come in soaking wet, leaving a bigger mess than usual for Ben to clean up; the times he and Annie would use the storms to escape from chores and go hide in a cave and tell each other secrets; the rains they were caught in when they were older, when he no longer told Annie his secrets. Ben wiped the water from his eyes and blamed the alcohol for his uncharacteristic indulgence in melancholy. There was nothing to do now but wait. Mikhail would be successful or he would not. If he was, then there was no more for Ben to do. If he was not, Ben would adjust and do what was necessary. As he always did. But now, since he hated self-pity more than anything, Ben turned to go back into the house, and as he did, he caught a glimpse of light out of the corner of his eye. He spun to look, but there was only the dark edge of the jungle beyond the barracks. It’s not time yet, Benjamin. *** It was a real struggle for Mikhail to resist the urge to tighten his fingers around Karl’s neck, cutting off his airway. The boy would go quickly and quietly, and his secret would go with him. Mikhail thought he could persuade Cindy to keep quiet. Ben would never have to know. The battered foot-soldier felt a wave of pity for his erstwhile commander, and it made him uncomfortable. Disaster had followed on the heels of that diagnosis. The arrival of flight 815 should have been a breath of new life for the island, after all, Ben had been waiting for just such an event. But the discovery of the tumor had shaken him to the core. Very few people knew just how much it had unnerved him, but Mikhail could think of no other explanation for his series of catastrophic missteps. Mikhail secretly wondered if it was Ben who had lost faith in Jacob, and not the other way around. And now the idea that it had all been based on a sham almost made him physically sick. What would Ben do if he found out? And he was almost certain to find out. Mikhail did not wonder why Juliet had let the deception play out even after Ben made it clear he would not leave the island for treatment in a real hospital. To admit the lie would have been a suicide. And she held out hope that Jack would fall under her wiles and let Ben die in surgery. It occurred to Mikhail that Jack must certainly have known, if not before the surgery, then certainly when he opened Ben up and found no cancer. Mikhail mentally revised his assessment of the doctor. He had taken Jack for an idiot with an exaggerated sense of his own importance. Yet he had managed to fool Ben, a man not easily deceived. Still, Jack was easy enough to dispose of. It may even be taken care of already. Ben could be protected from this shattering revelation. But even as Mikhail was doing his split-second evaluation of the circumstances, he loosened his hold on Karl’s throat. Even with Karl and Jack gone, and Juliet lying dead even now, the secret was not safe. Someone else knew. And that someone would not be so easily dealt with. Mikhail released Karl and stood up, motioning Cindy over as well. “We have to move,” he whispered. “The shots will have attracted attention. Unfortunate, considering it may have changed the course of events which were on the verge of culminating perfectly.” Cindy had no idea what he was talking about, and was still shaken by Juliet’s death at Karl’s hand. She knew intellectually that Karl had shot Ben, but that somehow lacked the immediate reality of sitting by as Juliet’s face turned pale and her skin went cold. “What about her?” she asked, indicating Juliet’s oddly serene form. “Are we just going to leave her?” Cindy could not hide her revulsion at the idea of leaving Juliet lying on the jungle floor. “There’s no time,” Mikhail replied, leaning down to feel for a pulse. Cindy supposed there was some measure of decency in at least making sure she was really dead. Mikhail motioned her to follow him, then he took the now-docile Karl by the arm and steered him into the jungle in a new direction. “Where are we going?” Cindy whispered. “It’s time I had a chat with Richard,” Mikhail replied icily.
* * *
Alex had never been good at waiting. Patience was one lesson Ben Linus had never been able to teach her, although he had tried. Alex had resisted most of her father’s lessons, but they seemed to somehow take hold in spite of her efforts. Courage, loyalty, commitment, decisiveness. Alex Linus did not like to admit how much she was a reflection of the man who raised her. But his rock-steady patience, his ability to control his own emotions and wait out an adversary, this had escaped her. Now she sat and fidgeted, alternately crouching in the brush and creeping forward to watch the action, or rather inaction, on the hill in front of them. Kate, Sayid and the others seemed to Alex to be moving in slow motion. Finally, she had to back away from the scene or she thought she would go insane from the waiting. She shuffled a few yards away and squatted on a rock near the two prisoners. Alex had been appalled to find Richard in handcuffs, but Hurley had been adamant that he was a “bad dude” and needed to stay shackled. Even after Hurley left, Alex had not pressed the matter. Partly because she did not want to start an argument that would distract them from their objective, and partly because she was loathe to go against Hurley’s wishes. He seemed the unlikeliest of heroes, but the big man had saved her life, and she had a feeling that he understood more than people gave him credit for. Still, although Richard had said nothing, Alex knew that he was livid with her. She had always been a bit uneasy around him, sensing something dark behind his benign smile. Now he sat quietly, studying her through dark, inscrutable eyes. Alex glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then she inched closer. “Richard,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I can’t let you go.” He did not reply. “They wouldn’t let me even if I tried,” she went on. “And besides, I need them on my side right now.” Richard only looked at her with the same unreadable expression. “Richard, I need to talk to Karl,” Alex said. “Do you know where he is?” She waited a moment and then tried again, desperation creeping into her voice. “I’ll let you go as soon as there is a chance. I promise. I just need to find Karl. Please.” This time a slight smile appeared on Richard’s face. It was a nasty expression and Alex recoiled, getting to her feet with a huff. “Fine,” she said sharply. “Maybe I won’t have a chance to let you go. Maybe we’ll just leave you chained to that tree till you rot.” She spun on her heel, and was about to stomp away when a chuckle made her pause. She turned to look at the woman who was handcuffed opposite Richard. A large purple bruise was forming on her cheek, but her eyes shone with genuine amusement. “What?” Alex snapped. Annie looked up at her, still smiling. “I’m just trying to picture Ben with a surly teenager.” Confusion halted Alex’s angry response. This woman was not one of her people, and she was not a survivor of the plane crash. She must have arrived on the helicopters. “You know Ben?” Alex asked. Annie’s smile faded and she shook her head. “No,” she said. “I knew him. A long time ago.” Before Alex could ask her anything further, she went on. “Who is Karl?” she asked. “He’s my…he’s a guy I need to find,” Alex replied, unsure how much to trust this stranger, but desperate for any information she might have. “A young guy?” Annie asked. “Dark hair, good-looking?” Alex moved to squat next to her. “Yeah,” she nodded. “Do you know where he is?” “Not right this minute,” Annie replied. “But if I’ve got the right guy, then yesterday about this time he was at the west end of the sonic fence.” “What was he doing there?” Alex asked. “Shooting your father,” Annie replied simply. *** Your father. The words sounded awkward and foreign to Annie. She had pieced together much of what had happened on the island since her abrupt departure so many years ago, and she knew that Ben had raised Danielle Rousseau’s daughter as his own. What she did not know was why. Who had decided that Ben would bring the child up, and that she would be deceived about the circumstances of her birth, indeed, of her conception? Although she knew that the beautiful young woman in front of her was not Ben’s biological child, she felt a pang of jealousy. Her girlish dreams of making a home with Benjamin Linus had long since died, but enough of their memory remained to make her bitter that he had raised a child when she had none. “What?!” Alex rasped, shock scrawled across her face. “What are you talking about?” Annie nodded dispassionately. “Put a bullet in his back, pretty close to point blank range.” “Is he okay?” Alex asked, clearly trying to put the reins on her emotions. Annie noted that she did not share Ben’s ability to detach from his feelings. “Which one?” she asked. “My dad -- Ben.” Alex hesitated. “Well, both. What happened?” “Ben was alive and in good hands when I left him,” Annie replied. “I’m sure he pulled through.” She did not admit that her confidence was based in large part on her need to believe that Ben was still alive, that she would know if he had died, that she would feel it. And her unwillingness to consider that she had come this far, and gotten this close, only to lose him again. “And Karl?” Alex asked, visibly bracing herself for the reply. “He was fine,” Annie said. She thought it best not to mention Karl’s violent encounter with a fountain of smoke. “Do you know where they went?” asked Alex. Annie caught Richard’s keen interest out of the corner of her eye and shook her head. “Sorry, no,” she lied. Alex sat back on her heels, evidently trying to absorb what she had heard. “Why would Karl shoot my dad?” she asked no one in particular. “Maybe he was tired of being used.” “Oh, so you’re talking now,” Annie said, shooting a contemptuous look at Richard. He ignored the comment and gazed steadily at Alex. “Perhaps Karl had enough of being another one of Ben’s pawns.” “What are you talking about?” asked Alex. “Alex, there is a lot you don’t know,” Richard replied earnestly. “Ben made sure of that. He knew how important you were from the very beginning, and that is why he tried to keep you in the dark, to keep you from learning who you really are.” “Keep me in the dark about what?” asked Alex. “And what does that have to do with Karl?” Although his expression did not change, Annie saw a shadow pass behind Richard’s eyes, and felt an old familiar chill. “Ben thought being in love would keep you busy – too busy to ask questions,” he said. “What?” Alex asked, no longer bothering to whisper. “I’m sorry,” Richard said gently. “Ben could see you would no longer obey him without question, and Karl was available. He really couldn’t say no to anything Ben told him to do.” Tears of horror welled in Alex’s eyes. “What are you saying? That Karl was just – that he was just following orders? The he never really…” she couldn’t finish the sentence, but stared into Richard’s sympathetic eyes. “You really are a bastard,” Annie growled, anger reducing her voice to a croak. Richard did not spare her a glance, but Alex turned to look at her, the tears now spilling down her face. “He’s lying,” said Annie. “How do you know?” Alex whimpered desperately. “Because his lips are moving,” she replied. Then seeing that the girl was truly in distress, Annie went on. “Look, Alex, I don’t know you and I don’t know Karl. But I do know this son-of-a-bitch. You’ve got problems with your dad? Well believe me when I tell you that every bad quality he has, he learned from this man. Lying. Manipulating. Hurting. Ben Linus is an amateur compared to this piece of s**t.” Alex stared at Annie, her eyes wide, “You flatter me,” Richard said benignly. Annie only glared, willing the tears not to escape down her cheeks. She did not notice that Alex was now looking at her with a new, puzzled expression. *** It was remarkable, really, that Karl was able to slip past everyone without being noticed. Even Richard was startled to find the young man just behind him. “What are you doing here?” he asked, turning away from Annie’s hate-filled gaze. “Rescuing you,” Karl said amiably. He grinned and winked at Alex from over Richard’s shoulder. Alex and Annie just stared, too stunned to comment as Karl deftly picked the lock on Richard’s handcuffs. It was only seconds before the shackles fell away, and Karl was assisting the other man to his feet. Richard did not spare a glance back before following Karl silently into the jungle. When they had slipped away, Alex turned to look at Annie. “Karl?” she asked. Alex nodded. Richard was about to ask Karl if he had completed his second assignment, when his face exploded with pain. He had not seen the fist coming toward him, but he knew enough Russian to understand the expletives that followed it as his consciousness slipped away. *** Alex was still kneeling next to Annie when Karl reappeared at the edge of the clearing. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Before anyone comes back.” Alex nodded, her heart flooding with warmth at the sight of him. She started to get up, but paused and then turned back to the woman next to her. She studied her face intently as if searching for something. “What is your name?” she asked. Without knowing why, Annie hesitated. Alex leaned closer. “Are you Annie?” she whispered.
* * *
Chapter 83. It was not every day, Alex thought, that she met the woman who should have been her mother. Her eyes lingered on Annie’s face – a strong face, not classically beautiful, but with an undeniable attraction – as she recalled what Ben had told her as she grew up. He had not wanted to speak of her. Alex had insisted, of course; and, when pressed beytond endurance, Ben had told her about Annie. “She was tough and beautiful, just like you. And loyal. And stubborn. And generous. She died on the island when you were a baby. It hurts me to talk about her.” When Alex had learnt the extent of Ben’s lies and the identity of her real mother, she had assumed that this was just another of his many fabrications. Now she wasn’t sure any more. She remembered the nightmares he used to have, when he awoke shaking and sweating, calling her name. On those nights Alex used to crawl into bed with Ben and hold him until the shaking had stopped, just as he’d always comforted her whenever she dreamt of polar bears. And there had been a photograph, a blurry shot of a smiling girl a few years older than Alex herself, hidden away in Ben’s desk drawer. Annie was real; and although she wasn’t her mother and she clearly wasn’t dead, Alex suspected the rest was true; that she was loyal and tough and generous; and that Ben had been deeply hurt when she left. “Yes, I’m Annie,” the woman said. “And you have to do something for me.” “Why?” said Alex suspiciously. “Because there’s something in Richard’s bag that I need. Something he stole from Ben. And before Karl shot him -” Annie’s eyes flashed – “I promised Ben I would do something for him. And whether he’s alive or not, I mean to keep that promise.” Annie saw the tears in Alex’s eyes and made her voice a little less harsh. “I know you probably don’t understand. But your father and I go back a long way. And we made a promise, both of us, that if something happened to one of us, the other one would find a way to put things right.” She gave Alex a look that was steady, but compassionate. “And right now I need you to go into Richard’s bag and get your father’s diary.” Alex hesitated. “What about Karl?” Annie simply looked at her. “Did he really shoot Ben?” Annie could sense her uncertainty. To some extent, she sympathized. She had felt the same rush of outraged disbelief when she had learnt of the fate of the Dharma Collective. Ben couldn’t have done that - he wouldn’t do that – except that she had known, even then, that he would. He could. He had. She nodded. For a moment Alex’s face was a battleground. Then, calm dsecended once more. “Wait here,” she said simply. “I’ll be back.” Then she vanished into the underbrush after Karl.
* * *
Hurley had never read The Wizard of Oz. He knew the general story, though - you’d have to be from another planet not to, he thought – and as he looked down at his trainers (which were, not red, but a faded blue), he wondered who he was supposed to be. The Cowardly Lion, probably. He had the hair for it, anyway. Dave had gone. Well, that was okay. The Chicken Shack, too, had disappeared, leaving only the darkened hut, lit by a single storm lantern that swayed a little in the draught. The place still smelled of chicken, though, and although Hurley knew it wasn’t real, his stomach growled in sympathy. The guy in the rocking chair looked as if he too could use a bite to eat. He was thin, almost emaciated, with long hair and a straggling beard that almost covered his pale face. His eyes were dark and very bright, and fixed Hurley with a silent stare that made him very uneasy. “Dude,” began Hurley. The guy in the rocker raised a hand. It was delicate, almost transparent in the dim light. Hurley couldn’t figure out if the guy was old, or just sick. “Are you okay?” said Hurley. The sound that came from the guy’s lips might have been laughter or despair. He began to rock, imperceptibly at first, then with increasing violence. “Were you, like - a castaway?” The rocking intensified slightly. “Do you -” Hurley’s mouth was dry. He swallowed, forcing himself to speak. More than anything, he wanted to turn and leave the little shack, but the force of this man, sick as he was, was almost too much for him to resist. He was afraid, terribly so, more even than when he’d seen the ghost, or whatever it had been, of Roger Workman; more so than when he’d fled the towering snake of black smoke. And behind the fear, he felt something else, something almost like pity. “Who are you?” he said. “Jacob,” came the reply. “Jacob. Okay. Do you – uh - need help?” The man’s dark eyes glimmered. Hurley thought he’d never seen eyes as dark, or as intense. “Help,” he said in a low, grating voice. “Help. Me. Hugo.” Jeez, thought Hurley. He doesn’t need me. He needs Jack, or somebody. Somebody who knows stuff. He was about to say as much when the stranger spoke in the same, laborious, grating tone. At the same time the figure seemed to flicker, like a movie projection. “Help,” he repeated. “Help me.” “Who are you?” Hurley said. “And what can I do to help you? I mean - I can get you some food if you want. I saw some mango growing a ways back there. Or if you need a doctor -” The man shook his head, painfully. Again Hurley was aware of that strange flicker, as of some ancient film, a film with many missing frames, being projected against the wall. Flashes, thought Hurley inconsequentially. That made him think of Desmond, and he suddenly wished the Scotsman were here. Desmond would know what to do, he thought. Desmond wouldn’t laugh at him, or make out he was crazy. “What do you want me to do?” he said, trying not to let his anxiety show. His hope that maybe this time he’d found the Wizard of Oz – who would give him the deal on what was really going on, maybe even a pair of those cool red shoes – all seemed rather forlorn now. The flickering was getting worse. Now Jacob was barely visible except in irregular flashes of light, as if the projector were running down. “Hatch.” His voice, too, was slowing down, like a tape being played at the wrong speed. “But the hatch got imploded,” Hurley said. “Other. Hatch.” The words were distorted, but still audible. “Other. Hatch. Other. Side.” “Other side of what, dude?” Hurley was feeling panicky now. He could sense that the information Jacob was trying to give him was of the utmost importance, and yet he didn’t understand – Comes of being such a thickwad, dude – said Joe’s mocking voice in his mind. “Shut up,” said Hurley. “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean you -” he added in Jacob’s direction. He wasn’t sure why he was feeling this way. Jacob might not even be real. Dave had seemed much more tangible – and yet, somehow he knew that Jacob was not an illusion, or the product of a neurosis. For a start, he could feel his suffering; it radiated out of the man like a sickness, a miasma. “Num-bers,” said Jacob, even more slowly. His image was intermittent now, coming, Hurley thought, every one or two seconds and lasting barely a shutterclick of time. Numbers? Hurley thought. Now the panic was almost loose, a sharp-toothed little animal biting at his guts. He’d always known the numbers were bad, that they were at the heart of it all. And then crazy Locke had blown up the hatch, and the sky had gone purple, and then the helicopters had come – Hurley stared at Jacob. “What about the numbers?” he said. “Do I have to, like, enter them into something? Something in another hatch? Will that get us rescued? Please –” Jacob’s mouth opened and closed, his voice so faint and irregular that Hurley could hardly make sense of what he was saying. “Bbeeeehhhhn-nnnnnhooooo-hsssss -” Then he vanished completely. “Bennoes?” said Hurley. “What does that mean?” Then his eyes opened wide. “Ben knows.” Jacob had said.
* * *
Alex was back in less than five minutes, carrying the diary. “It’s in code,” she said to Annie. Annie nodded. “I know.” She opened the book at the first page, and was conscious of a sorry little jolt of the heart as she recognized Ben’s neat and obsessive handwriting. Property of Benjamin Linus. Private. Underneath was written a date, and Annie felt a kind of shock, a pain beneath her breastbone. Had it really been so long? She remembered Ben finding that journal in one of the disused hatches. Remembered how they’d created the code. Remembered what he’d told her; that if ever something happened to him, she was to go to the hut on the hill – By then you’ll know what to do. By then none of this will matter any more. Well, now she knew what to do. It was simply a matter of deciphering the code; of filling in the gaps in her knowledge before she did what she had to do. She already knew a part of the truth. Ben had told her of his first meeting with Jacob; of the role Richard had played in it; of the inestimable benefits of their strange and secret alliance. He had not spoken of the dangers to her; nor of the losses he would have to endure; nor of the difficult choices he would have to make. That had come later. Poor Ben. Poor, wicked, unhappy Ben, playing Prospero to himself with Alex as his Miranda. She hoped that he was still alive. She hoped he would forgive her. With a sigh, she reached for her pack and drew out a battered paperback. The Railway Children, their favourite book, with all its comforting memories, its tale of a wartime England that neither of them had ever known, in a world where things were orderly, and good guys and bad guys were easy to spot, and life was simple and civilized, and even the trains were always on time – She opened the book at page 4. Found the correct line of text. Followed the words with her finger. Began to translate Ben’s diary, starting with that first day – The day Ben first met Jacob.
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Post by keyserzozie on Apr 29, 2008 15:42:34 GMT -4
Chapter 84.
The helicopter was standing on the low rise overlooking the barracks. No-one seemed to be close by. It stood there, alone, inviting; incongruous among the palms, as if it were daring them to take it. Kate saw no reason not to. Sayid could fly it; and if he refused, she’d had enough piloting experience with her father to have a reasonable chance, she thought, at least of getting the thing aloft – After that was anyone’s guess. But Kate was used to taking risks. “Of course you know that this is a trap,” said Sayid in his mild voice. “In all probability their people are watching us even now, waiting for us to make our move.” “Not my people,” said Sarah. The look of concern on her face had grown increasingly pronounced as they had approached the aircraft. “No-one was scheduled to come here. Even if they had, there would have been someone left to guard the machine. One of them must have commandeered it.” “One of them?” “The Others.” Kate made an impatient gesture. Jack thought to himself how changed she was. Before Sarah’s arrival, she had been gentle, uncertain of herself. Now she was inflexible, charged with some powerful, unidentifiable current. Was it she who had changed, or had she always been like this? Had he simply failed to recongnize the ruthlessness behind that sweet face? “Of course. I forgot,” he said with a certain bitterness. “To you, we’re all Others.” Kate shrugged and turned to Sayid. “Can you fly this thing?” “I think so.” “Then fly it,” said Kate. “Get us off this damned heap.” She had deliberately not looked at Jack as they made their way from the perimeter fence. Until now he had not spoken a word to her, and for that at least she was grateful. Now, turning to face him again, she was aware of the look in his eyes, that look of hurt and betrayal, and she was once more aware of an insane compulsion to hand him the gun and rejoin the group, like a small child weary of being It. But no, it was too late for that. She had made her choice. Her own mother had told her so. Kate was not one of the good guys. She pointed the gun at Jack. “Get in. You, too,” she said to Sarah. That left Jin, watching her with unreadable eyes. “Sun,” he said in his quiet voice. Kate shrugged. “She’s not here.” “Sun,” said Jin, more forcefully. “I’m sorry,” said Kate. “Last chance. Get on board.” Jin shook his head. “Sun.” “Okay, I get it. Sun’s not here!” Kate shook her head angrily. It occurred to her that what angered her most was not his stupid stubbornness, but the very fact of his loyalty. No-one cared that much for me, whispered a voice inside her. Maybe you’re not worth caring for, came the immediate answer. “You don’t want to leave? That’s fine by me.” She turned once more to Sayid, who was sitting in the cockpit, looking at the ‘copter’s controls. “How soon can you be ready, Sayid?” “This machine is not familiar to me,” said the Iraqi in a calm voice. “The technology is very new. Not American. Not Russian. Maybe Japanese. I can get it into the air, however -” “That’s all we need,” said Kate. “Let’s go.” But just as she was about to enter the aircraft, there came a voice from behind her. It was a very familiar voice, big and falsely cheery, shot through with his ever-present sarcasm. “Howdy Freckles,” it rang out. “You got room in that thing for another one?” “Sawyer!” Jin’s face was illuminated. He went off into a long, rattling string of Korean syllables that none of them could understand, but of which the tenor was clear – Sawyer grinned. “I see your point, Daddy-o. You don’t wanna go without Sunny Delight.” His face took on an expression of deep (and rather suspect) concern. “And looky here, who else?” he said, peering into the helicopter. “The good Doctor and his lady-friend. And of course, our pal the torturer. I guess ole Sawyer here makes it five.” He gave Kate a mischievous wink. “You woudn’t begrudge me a ride, wouldya, Freckles?” Sayid frowned. “Are you alone?” “Lone as the Lone Ranger, pal.” “Then who is that in the bushes behind you?” The Iraqi’s piercing gaze had gone past Sawyer and was fixed on a point in the underbrush. Kate had lowered the pistol-barrel, and as her head turned automatically in the direction the Iraqi had indicated, Sawyer stepped in as quickly as a striking snake and knocked it neatly out of her hand. “It’s a trick -” began Sayid, but by then they were pouring out of the bushes, dozens of them – all the castaways – the people Alex had led to the barracks and who had lain in hiding all this time – “Sorry, Freckles,” said Sawyer, picking up Kate’s pistol. “But I couldn’t just let you leave like that. Not after everything we’ve meant to each other.” She shot him a look of hatred. “Win a few, lose a few,” Sawyer said indifferently. “Now, Doctor. Perhaps you could explain just what the hell you were planning to do?”
* * * With Kate no longer a threat to them, Jack resumed charge almost arrogantly, fielding recriminations, demanding news of the rest of the group. Rose wondered if even now he understood how badly he had let them down. Perhaps the others couldn’t see it, she thought. Perhaps they were too used to taking orders to even question his right to lead. But she was older than they were; she was aware that behind Jack’s veneer of self-confidence there lay a mass of neuroses waiting to break free. His drinking was only the tip of the iceberg, she thought. His real addiction was control; that was his drug, his compulsion. And Jack was so close to losing control – she’d seen it by the radio tower; she’d seen it again on the beach. When Jack lost control, his mind would follow; and what would happen after that might prove fatal - to him and to all of them. She filled him in as quickly as she could on the events that followed his sudden departure. The disappearance of Claire and her baby just after Locke had returned Aaron to the camp; Alex’s revelations; the capture of Richard; Annie’s report that Ben had been shot. She did not speak of Juliet’s death. That was for another time. Karl and Alex had remained to guard the prisoners, but Rose had a feeling that the moment Jack learnt of Karl’s involvement in Juliet’s shooting, he would mete out the same kind of vengeance on him that he had inflicted on Ben, the day of the attack on the beach. “So what now?” said Sawyer at last. His fake good cheer had evaporated, and he was sour and morose again. He’d been like that since he went off with Locke, Rose told herself thoughtfully. In fact, come to think of it, anyone who went off with Locke seemed to come back somehow changed – if indeed they returned at all. “So now,” said Rose, “we have to decide who leaves on board this helicopter.” For a moment there was uproar. Everyone started speaking at once. Take me! My parents – my children – my wife – Even Jack seemed uncertain. His eyes went from Sarah to Kate, then back again. “We could have another lottery,” suggested Bernard when the shouting died down. Rose smiled at him. Dear Bernard. He’d never leave the island. Not without her – and she knew perfectly well why she wouldn’t leave. “We don’t need a lottery, sugar,” she said. “We know who has to go with them.” Jack gave her a suspicious look. “Well, Sarah’s pregnant. She has to go.” Rose nodded. “Sun, too.” “I’m not going without Jin,” said Sun at once. Rose smiled. “Sweetheart, I guessed.” She looked back at the assembled castaways. “Sayid because he can fly the machine. Jin and Sun, because of the baby. Sarah and Jack, for the same reason.” Jack began to protest, but Rose silenced him with a gesture. “Hush a moment, Jack,” she said. “I’m old enough to be your mother, and I need time to collect my thoughts. That leaves one more place,” she went on. “One more person to make up the six. Any ideas, anyone?” For a moment the castaways exchanged glances. Then Kate spoke up. “Take me.” Jack gave her a scornful look. “Are you going to give me a reason this time? Or will you just wave a gun in my face?” Kate did not look at Jack at all. But Rose could sense her uncertainty, could see the violent crease of distress between the girl’s overbright eyes. It was not in Kate’s nature to ask for help, Rose told herself curiously. What, then, was so important to her that she was willing to humble herself? “Well, Kate?” said Sayid. “Why you, and not one of the others?” But Kate did not look at Sayid, either. Instead, she spoke directly to Rose, her voice low and unsteady. “I know I’m not one of you,” she said. “I know I don’t deserve your help. But you have to take me. You just have to.” “Why?” said Rose, very gently. Kate lowered her eyes. “I’m pregnant.” * * * “Bullshit!” said Sawyer. “She’s playin’ you. She ain’t pregnant any more than I am – she can’t know a thing like that -” Kate glared at him. “I know.” “Since when? Your OB-GYN got shot, remember?” “I know,” said Kate tersely. But Jack had gone pale. “Juliet? Shot? Is she still alive?” “Honey,” said Rose, “it was an -” “Is she still alive?” roared Jack. Rose shook her head. “I’m sorry, Jack. It all happened so fast. There wasn’t anything you could have done -” Jack was barely listening. “Who shot her? Who was it? ” His face was contorted with complex emotions. A vein at his temple writhed like a snake. “It was Karl,” said Bernard. “We think he was brainwashed -” But before he could go any further, there came the sound of approaching footsteps through the brush. Jack turned, his face darkening still more as he recognized the slight figure that entered the clearing. His face was rather pale, Jack thought; and he moved as if his back hurt, and his blue shirt and khakis were still damp from the rainstorm that had drenched them all previously – Jack saw him, and everything fell into place. We think he was brainwashed, Bernard had said – Now Jack understood. Ben had sent Karl to kill Juliet – Jack already knew Ben had brainwashed the boy. Juliet had betrayed him; therefore, Juliet must die. And at that moment Jack realized two things; one; that his feelings for Juliet had been far more than a passing attraction; far more than just the coincidental resemblance between the young woman and his ex-wife, or the bond formed by their mutual hatred of Benjamin Linus – “You killed her,” he said. “You bastard. You killed her just as surely as if you’d pulled the trigger yourself -” And then his self-control snapped and he launched himself like a missile at Ben, knocking him over onto the grass. I should have killed him last time, thought Jack, half-sobbing in helpless rage. If I’d killed him when I had the chance, Juliet might still be alive - “Jack! No!” protested Rose. But Jack was beyond reason. Still sobbing incoherently, he raised his fists over the fallen man, meaning to crush him utterly, to beat him to a bloody mess, to beat him until he stopped breathing – Rose sighed. “I guess my ole Daddy was right. When you really and truly need a job doin’, you jes’ have to do it yourself,” she observed, and, picking up a fist-sized stone, she popped Jack neatly on the side of the head, knocking him out with a single blow. Then, smiling up at Bernard: “Honey, would you give me a hand? These boys are a little heavy -”
* * * When Jack came round a minute or two later, Rose was leaning over him. “I’m sorry I had to do that,” she said. “But murder is murder, and I had to get your attention somehow -” “He killed Juliet!” Jack’s voice was still raw with emotion. “He hypnotized Karl into shooting her -” “Well, that ain’t what he says,” said Rose matter-of-factly. “He’s a goddamn liar,” said Jack – then looked back at Benjamin. He’d thought him pale when he’d entered the clearing. Now he was white; the little smile that seemed to hover perpetually on his lips was absent, and his hands were trembling. Not from fear of what Jack might do to him – one of the most annoying things about Ben Linus was his apparent indifference to physical violence – but, Jack, thought, from anger. He fixed Jack with his magnetic gaze. “I didn’t know about Juliet. And believe me, Jack, I grieve for her death. Even more than you do.” “No man is an island?” quoted Jack sarcastically. Ben shrugged. “I wish that were true.” He gave his painful, twisted smile. “Some men are islands, Jack. Cut off from the rest of humanity. Made into monsters by their isolation. But the human race needs its monsters just as it needs its heroes. And in this conflict we learn the skills we need to ensure our continued survival.” Jack shot him a look of pure contempt. “For the greater good?” he jeered. “The Nazis used the same argument. They thought history would absolve them their crimes.” He turned to the group of survivors still standing around the helicopter. “I warned you about him before,” he said. “I warned you not to listen to him. He wants us to stay on this island for good, to be part of whatever sick experiments he’s been doing here. Now he’s come back to try to convince us that our leaving will bring about some kind of terrible catastrophe. Don’t believe him. He’s lying. Now I’m going to get help for all of us. I promise you that. I will come back.” At this point, Jack turned to address Ben. “Did you think you could just talk us out of it? Talk us out of going back home? Did you really expect us to believe what you said?” Ben gave a long sigh. “Jack,” he said. “Please listen to me.” “No! I’m done listening.” “Jack, please. The work that has been done here is far more important than anything you have ever known. The future of everyone – of the entire race –” “Don’t give me that,” snarled Jack. “I’m not buying into this bullshit. This is just another lie.” “I assure you,” said Ben. “It isn’t. But by the time you understand, it will already be too late. To leave at this time would be to make the greatest mistake of your life, Jack. And I know you have made a great many mistakes -” “Make him shut up,” said Sarah. “Better still, kill him.” Resolutely, Jack shook his head. “No, I’m not going to kill him. I wanted to, but Rose is right. Murder is murder. And if I did, that would make me one of Them.” “Jack,” said Sarah. “He’s dangerous -” “I know. But I’m not going to kill him. I’m going to go one better than that. I’m going to take him home with me.” “Jack, no -” said Ben urgently. Jack gave him a murderous smile. “Killing him would be too quick,” he said. “I want him to see him suffer. And the thing that will make him suffer most is to lose what he cares for most of all. This island. This freak place that cures cancer and makes childbirth fatal. I’m going to take him away from his home and make sure he’s punished for his crimes. And when we come back to rescue you all, we’ll make sure that every single one of his friends is found and brought to justice, as well. And that -” he turned to Ben once more, “is what makes you and I different.” He looked at Kate. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll be back for you. I promise -” “You’re making a mistake,” said Ben. “You’ll never find your way back. Kate and the others will die here -” Jack addressed Sayid. “Tie him up,” he ordered. “Gag him, if he tries to talk. This isn’t the first time we’ve caught him and he’s got away. This time, make sure we keep hold of him.” Ben offered no resistance as Sayid tied his hands behind his back. Nor did he try to struggle as the Iraqi belted him into one of the helicopter seats. The rest of the group were too busy making their farewells to Jin and Sun, to Jack and Sayid to pay much attention to the forlorn figure of Benjamin Linus as he looked out of the window at his final glimpse of his island home. No-one saw the tears in his eyes – Except for Rose, who had been watching him with curiosity during that strange little scene. Curiosity and unease. Rose, whose old Grandpa had brought her up on tales of Br’er Rabbit and Br’er Fox; Rose, who remembered the old tale of Br’er Rabbit and the Briar Patch, and how, Br’er Rabbit, cornered one day by his enemy Br’er Fox, had begged and pleaded not to be thrown into the prickly briar patch, of which he was terribly afraid – And the sadistic Br’er Fox, amused by the wily Rabbit’s pleas, had done precisely the thing he believed his enemy feared most – But the truth was that Br’er Rabbit had wanted all along to be thrown into the briar patch; and quick as a flash, he escaped into the safety of the underbrush, leaving Br’er Fox to stamp and swear that if ever he listened to that liar again – There had been tears in Ben’s eyes. His distress was completely genuine. But why then, thought Rose, was she convinced that, like the last time, Ben had wanted to be caught, had actually given Jack this idea? Jack, please – Don’t throw me into the briar patch - Foxes were pretty smart, she thought. But maybe rabbits were smarter. So maybe Ben had a plan, she thought. A plan that involved him somehow sabotaging their escape, even if it meant sacrificing his own life to ensure the helicopter crashed – Did he care so much for his island, then? Rose thought that maybe he did. But would Jack listen? Probably not. And if he did, would he let Ben live, believing that he had betrayed them? Now all the seats in the ‘copter were full; Jin and Sun were holding hands; Sayid was frowning at the controls; Jack was smiling at Sarah, and Ben was just looking out at the hill, his expression bleaker and more sorrowful than any man has a right to be…
* * * A sacrifice, thought Ben. The island demands a sacrifice. How many had it already demanded over the past century? And how many more would it demand before it was finally satisfied? Where was Mikhail? Late again? The Russian had never had much sense of the importance of punctuality. Ben imagined him running now, in his inelegant, lanky way, towards an appointment that would never be kept. The helicopter was about to lift off. The engines cycling towards flight speed – Goodbye, Annie, Ben thought, looking out over the trees. Goodbye, Jacob. Forgive me.
* * * “Damn,” said Sayid. “What’s wrong?” said Jack. “The engine stalled. I told you that I am not familiar with this design.” The Iraqi frowned over the controls. “Yes. I have it now, I think. I -” But in the lull of the engine, Rose had made a decision. She yanked open the passenger door. “You can’t take him with you,” Rose cried out. “What?” Jack’s face was incredulous. The helicopter’s rotors were already beginning to turn again, slicing through the damp air. “You can’t take Ben,” repeated Rose. “Why not?” said Jack, his eyes narrowing. He’d always trusted Rose, he thought. She never made unreasonable demands; had never once shown panic or fear. In fact, Jack envied her a little; her equilibrium; her spirit; her unquestioning faith. If anyone else had made the request, he would not even have considered it. But Rose – “Why not?” he said again. “Because he wants to go,” Rose said. “He wants to be thrown in the briar patch.” Jack had never read books as a child. His father’s idea of reading a bedtime story to his son had been to go over entries in a medical encyclopaedia with a glass of whisky in one hand and a plate of cookies in the other. But somehow Rose’s expression held him; her earnest look; her certainty. “He knows something,” Rose said. “He’s willing to sacrifice himself -” Jack’s face darkened again. “I’m not leaving him here alive.” “Please, Jack. You know why. And -” Suddenly, Rose paused, aware of a new presence behind her. Silently, Alex had joined the group, and was watching, her face taut with apprehension. Ben saw her watching him, and his drawn expression softened a little. So, he’d got to see her, after all, he thought, a little ruefully. Small comfort for what he’d endured, but comforts of any kind were welcome. He shifted painfully in his seat, hiding the fact that his hands were bound. “Alex,” he said. “Daddy?” He smiled. “They told me Karl had shot you,” she said, a tiny tremor in her voice. “That was a misunderstanding,” said Ben. Jack gave him a sharp look. “I’ve seen Annie,” Alex said. Once more he smiled. “I’m glad,” he replied. “Now I have to go with – my friends -” He glanced at Jack, willing him to be silent. “But I’ll be back as soon as I can. Meanwhile, Karl will look after you. Karl’s a good man, Alex.” Jack opened his mouth to interrupt. “Please -” whispered Benjamin. Jack nodded silently. Okay. I get it. Not in front of your daughter. But if you think that changes things – Just at that moment there came a commotion in the clearing. A bulky shape with matted hair, so wet and bedraggled that even the castaways had difficulty in identifying him, came rocketing out of the undergrowth. It was Hurley, and he was running – not at his usual jogging pace, but actually sprinting; sprinting to beat the Devil, and when he arrived in the midst of the group, he collapsed in a heap on the grassy hilltop, honking for breath like a stranded seal. Sawyer thought of making a joke, but for some reason decided against it. “Whoa,” gasped Hurley. “I got here in time.” “Got here for what?” Jack said. He was getting impatient now – his dramatic departure had been interrupted so many times that it was beginning to feel somewhat ridiculous. “Ben knows,” said Hurley, still raking his lungs for oxygen. “Ben.” Rose looked at him with sympathy. “Honey,” she said. “You take it slow. Your heart’s apt to burst if you go any faster.” Hurley rolled over onto his side. “Ben knows,” he repeated. “Jacob said. I need to find Ben. He’ll take me there.” “You spoke to Jacob?” Ben said. He was a fine actor, Rose knew that, but the look on his face was quite unfaked. It was shock, pure and simple – shock, with maybe a touch of fear. Hurley nodded. “He gave me this.” He offered up the Chicken Shack hat, now crumpled and damp from his trek through the jungle. Slowly, he sat up, his breath now coming at manageable speed. “He said I needed to find a hatch. Another hatch, like the one that – well, uh. And he said I needed to enter some numbers. And turn a key -” Now Ben’s face was deathly pale. “He told you that?” he said urgently. Hurley nodded. “And he sent you to me?” He nodded again. Ben hesitated for a long time. Jack could see him thinking hard, weighing the possibilities, re-assessing the situation, factoring in this new development. Jack had played chess with Ben. He knew that look. And he didn’t like what it meant at all. “Forget it,” he said. “Ben’s coming with me. Jacob – whoever he is – can wait.” “No, Jack. I’m afraid he can’t.” This new voice came from behind the machine. Whoever it was must have crept up the hill from the opposite side to make his move. “Jacob has run out of time,” he said. “And unless we try to help him, then this island - and everyone on it – is doomed. So give me Ben, and I’ll let you leave. That is, if you still want to.” Jack turned to face the newcomer. As he spoke he had moved into the open, holding a rifle levelled at Jack, his eyes creased in a friendly smile. But behind that smile was a stubborn will, and Jack knew without a moment’s doubt that this man would do whatever it took – even if it meant shooting him dead – to obtain what he was asking, and he wondered what could change a good man so completely that he could switch allegiances so fast, apparently without remorse and with such outward serenity - “Well, Jack?” said the man. Jack stared. The man was John Locke. * * *
Chapter 85. Jack’s sense of déjà vu was so strong as to be ridiculous. For a second time he stood on the verge of pulling off a successful rescue. Ben tied up and bloodied, pleading ineffectively with him to reconsider. Locke serenely threatening to shoot him if he tried to leave. And everyone looking to him for a decision. More like a miracle, Jack thought. They stood like a gullible audience waiting for him to pull a rabbit out of a hat. But Jack didn’t believe in miracles. He didn’t believe in magic or god or Jacob. And he certainly didn’t believe in Ben Linus. Jack’s pain had become palpable as the absurdity of the situation mounted. He sat next to the blond beauty who had become his wife almost without him noticing, and then become an icon and an object of obsession – an impossible standard against which to measure all other women and find them lacking. Jack had dreamed of her return for so long, and now she sat impossibly next to him yet felt as unfamiliar as home. He looked at Kate, pregnant with Sawyer’s child, all traces of affection and girlish admiration gone from her eyes. He thought of Juliet, killed by Ben’s will, if not by his hand. Jack was not conscious that even now, Juliet had displaced Sarah as the standard of feminine perfection, beautiful and smart – and needing him. As always, Jack’s thoughts came back around to Ben, smug and right and untouchable. “I grieve for her,” he had said. On the mountaintop, Jack had given in to his primal desire to beat Ben, to stop his mouth, to inflict pain for pain’s sake. Yet it had left him unsatisfied, and Jack’s irresistible need to hurt Ben had only increased. -------- Ben’s expression remained passive as he rapidly assessed the new information and analyzed his diminishing options. Locke had appeared on the scene at precisely the wrong moment. Ben was beginning to sympathize with Jack’s undisguised dislike of the self-styled island shaman. Like Jack, Ben wanted very much to dismiss Locke as a self-aggrandizing fool, but he could no longer deny that Jacob had chosen Locke. For what purpose, Ben did not know. He scanned the treeline for the hundredth time and wondered what could have delayed Mikhail so long. His carefully laid plan was rapidly dissolving. Rose had once again demonstrated an irritating ability to see through Ben’s practiced deceit. And now here was Hugo, blurting to the world that he had talked to Jacob, with no inkling of the magnitude of that announcement. Uncharacteristically, it was a real effort for Ben to push distractions away from him and concentrate. It was not helping that Jack continued to pour out his frustration and anger on Ben. “You really think you know it all, don’t you?” Jack snarled, bitterness clipping his words. Locke still held the gun trained on Sayid, but seemed unconcerned with Jack’s abrupt change of subject, so long as the helicopter did not lift off. “You think you knew Juliet?” Jack went on, turning around so he could face Ben directly. If the other man was phased by Jack’s new attack, he did not show it. “If you knew who she really was, what she thought of you,” Jack laughed bitterly and shook his head, “…what she did to you.” Ben tried to block Jack out entirely. He had no energy left to grieve for Juliet. She should have died hereafter, he thought. There would have been a time for such a word, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow… He tried to block Jack out, but something in Jack’s twisted smile held his attention, reminding him of the day the doctor had laughed and thrown his x-rays against the glass. “I just want you to know how you’re going to die,” he had tormented. “I know Juliet tried to kill me, Jack,” Ben said. “No,” Jack replied. “Not what she tried to do. What she did.” Jack giggled maniacally, reveling in his secret. “Oh yeah, she really did a number on you,” Jack went on, savoring Ben’s growing curiosity. “Death on the operating table was only plan B.” “What are you talking about, Jack?” Ben snapped. Jack’s needling was growing tiresome. Jack paused dramatically, his teeth bared in a grotesque grin that did not reach his eyes. “There was no tumor,” he said finally. Ben’s strength had been so ravaged by the last few weeks that he was unable to maintain his aloof veneer, and confusion played over his face. “What?” “No tumor,” Jack repeated gleefully, pronouncing the words carefully. “I saw discrepancies in the bloodwork and the x-rays, but I wrote it off to your primitive equipment and Juliet’s lack of expertise. But when I opened you up, there was nothing there. Totally healthy.” Ben stared incredulously and Jack leaned close and whispered. “It was all a lie.” Time seemed to stand still as all of the air was sucked out of his lungs. Ben thought Jack must be laughing, but he could hear nothing over the roar in his ears. He clung desperately to his composure, but his own voice sounded unfamiliar when he spoke. “You’re really grasping at straws now, Jack,” he said. “Of course, with Juliet gone, there is no one to contradict you, is there?” Ben threw Juliet’s death at Jack in the vain hope of silencing him. “Why would I make this up?” Jack retorted. “Why now? If I was going to make up something like that, I would have done it when you had me in a cage. No, Ben, you were had. Duped by the one person you thought you could trust.” Jack’s expression was exultant. “You’re lying,” Ben said, knowing that Jack was telling the truth. He knew Jack was only trying to hurt him, to rob him of his grief for Juliet by exposing her betrayal. But Jack did not know just how deep the revelation had cut. All he could see was a woman’s violation of trust. But Ben had been lied to before, had been betrayed, violated, left alone. With very few exceptions, his trust in people ran only as deep as his ability to manipulate them, so Juliet’s lies did not surprise him. And the place where they might have hurt him was so scarred over that he barely felt the treachery. No, what took Ben’s breath away now was something else entirely. “I think it’s true, Dad,” Alex said quietly. Her voice held a gentleness that Ben had almost forgotten, it had been so long withheld from him. His throat tightened. “I think Karl helped her with the x-rays,” she said. “Not on purpose. I mean, not of his own free will.” Alex looked up at him, her eyes glistening with guilt. “I didn’t know what was going on at the time, but it makes sense now.” Ben turned back to Jack who gloated silently, apparently unable to find words to twist the knife further. But Ben’s mind had spun beyond what Jack knew. It couldn’t have been all Juliet’s doing, Ben knew that. Certainly he had been blind to some of her treachery, but he refused to believe that he had so misjudged her. No, there must be someone else behind it. “Richard,” Ben said aloud. “What?” Jack replied. Ben did not respond, but looked past Jack, past the assembled castaways, to the smaller group that had emerged from the jungle and approached to join them. Richard sported a darkening bruise on his eye, and his arms appeared to be bound behind him. Mikhail steered him unceremoniously toward the helicopter, with Karl trotting behind. “I’m sorry I’m late,” Mikhail said, as if he had been tardy to a cocktail party. Ben nodded but didn’t take his eyes off of Richard. “Et tu, Richard?” Ben said quietly. Richard returned a chilling smile. “Jack let the cat out of the bag, did he?” he asked. “Disappointing. There was a time your mind was a good deal sharper.” He shrugged casually. “I honestly didn’t think Juliet could pull it off, but I had to try because as long as you and Jacob were solid, you were untouchable. I thought if you believed Jacob had let you get sick, it might cause a little trouble in paradise.” Ben felt like he was going to vomit. Richard had been right, of course. Richard, who knew him when he was an awkward adolescent, running away from a worthless and abusive father. Richard, who had brought him to Jacob and witnessed their connection from the start. Richard, who had acted the part of the loyal lieutenant, happily stepping into a subordinate position and accepting Ben’s leadership. Richard, who knew that in the end, Jacob was the only one who could really hurt Ben – or thought he knew. Richard had set up the hoop, and like a trained dog, Ben had jumped through it. When Juliet told him he had cancer, all Ben could think was that Jacob had abandoned him -- had finally had enough of Ben’s defiance, and meant to punish him. It would be a slow and painful death, preceded by humiliating incapacity. And instead of confronting Jacob, he had turned to Jack for salvation. Jack and Juliet. Ben felt dizzy. Jacob had not betrayed him after all. It was he who had betrayed Jacob, he who had lost faith. And now his whole world was on the verge of collapse. Just like his mother so many years ago, he was once again killing the thing that gave him life. “You know why you believed it, Ben?” Richard’s voice cut through his dizzying recriminations. “You believed it because it was what should have happened. Every day you lived was a slap in the face to Jacob, to all of us. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way and you know it.” His voice had grown cold and seemed to shimmer so that those nearest him shrank back without knowing why. “She was never yours, Ben. You knew that. She belonged to Jacob from the day she was born. You were only a caretaker.” “Enough,” said Ben. “No,” Richard snarled. “It’s not enough. For years I stood by while you have lied, and taken us down winding paths that led nowhere, and made excuses. ‘She’s too young.’ ‘She’s not ready.’ ‘Soon. Not now.’ And all the while, Jacob wasted away. Because of you, Ben. Whatever happens now is your doing. Because you thought you knew better than Jacob.” Richard tirade was brought to an abrupt halt by the sickening crunch of his upper arm bones snapping in two. Mikhail extricated his forearms from behind Richard, and allowed him to collapse to the ground, yelping in pain, his fractured arms still shackled behind him. “Aw man, why’d you do that?” Hurley gasped without thinking. “Because if his leg was broken, I would have to carry him,” Mikhail replied. ------- The group of bedraggled castaways looked on in stunned silence. In the preceding months, they had been toughened by hardship, but still were not impervious to deliberate violence. It was Locke who finally broke the stillness. “Come on, Ben,” he said. “Step down and make room for a lady.” The comment was met only with stares, some of confusion, some of indecision. Rose was the first to understand. “Claire,” she said. As if she had been waiting for a cue, Claire emerged from the shadows, Aaron slung over her shoulder in a Mayan wrap. The briefest moment of uncomfortable silence was broken when Rose enfolded her in a hug, laying a hand of blessing on the fabric-covered bundle at her side. “Thank God you’re okay,” she said. Immediately, the others gathered around, saying their goodbyes as though the matter was settled. But when Ben turned in his seat as if to step down, Jack put an arm out to restrain him. “No,” he said, with as much authority as he could recover in the circumstances. “Ben stays. Kate can give up her seat.” “How ‘bout you give up your seat,” Sawyer snapped angrily. He did not look at Kate, whose eyes had narrowed at Jack’s suggestion. “Oh, don’t play the concerned father, Sawyer,” Jack shot back. “It doesn’t suit you.” Sawyer covered the ground between them in three long strides and Jack raised an arm defensively, but Sawyer reached past Jack in to the seat behind him, grabbed Ben by the arm and dragged him out of the helicopter. With his hands still bound behind him, Ben landed nearly face-first on the ground. Jack sprang from his seat and seized the front of Sawyer’s shirt and the two men were instantly locked in a nose-to-nose stalemate. Absorbed in the violent staredown, neither realized Mikhail had approached until both felt a vice-grip on the back of their necks. “Gentlemen,” Mikhail said, his thickly accented voice taking on a most civilized tone. “The owners of this aircraft are approximately one half mile away, and I believe they mean to repossess it when they arrive. If anyone is going to leave, it will be in the next five minutes, or not at all.” “Get Claire inside,” Jack said through gritted teeth, and the standoff ended with a mutual shove. As Jack and Claire re-arranged themselves on board the helicopter, Mikhail pulled Ben to his feet and untied his hands. “Alexandra,” he whispered, not letting go of Ben’s arm. Alex seemed to read his expression and took a position next to her father. When Mikhail stepped away, Alex could feel Ben swaying, and she edged unobtrusively closer to steady him. Mikhail had moved next to the control seat of the helicopter and Alex could see him talking to Sayid, pointing at various controls and gauges. As she stood next to Ben, Richard’s words still swirled in her head. “She belonged to Jacob from the day she was born.” He could only mean her. Richard implied that Ben had intentionally kept her from Jacob. But why? Her mind raced back to her youth, and the times Ben would return from his visits to the cabin in the woods – the one she was not supposed to know about. Alex would make sure dinner was on the table, and then would make an excuse to be somewhere else. They both pretended that she didn’t see Ben collapse into his chair, his expression pallid and vacant. She only watched from the shadows as he would sit with a fork raised half-way to his lips for a full minute before seeming to recall it was there and taking a bite. Alex would get herself ready for bed, and then make a racket to signal her return to the room to announce she was ready to be tucked in. She took care to pick out a very short book, knowing that Ben would dutifully read every word before kissing her and turning out the light. Standing on the hillside, she recalled how drained and shaken he seemed on those days, and she wondered why Ben had told Richard she wasn’t ready. These were the thoughts that occupied her mind as the blades of the helicopter began to turn, and the gathered crowd shielded their eyes from the stirring dust. In spite of the wind and debris, they could not resist turning to watch as the aircraft rose above the earth and began to move forward toward the shore, slowly at first, and then faster. Alex stole a glance at the man next to her who had named himself her father, but she could not read his expression as he watched the helicopter slip away over the horizon.
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Post by keyserzozie on Apr 29, 2008 15:43:31 GMT -4
Chapter 86. It would take time to decipher the journal, she knew; letter by letter, word by word. Time that Annie did not have, and yet the temptation to linger awhile was almost too much to for her resist. Tell me what you’re thinking, Ben. She had spoken those words so many times over their years together. And Ben had so seldom answered her, keeping his thoughts as tightly furled as the ferns that grew over the mouth of their hatch; the hatch near which they had first made love; the hatch that they had discovered one day on a three-day excursion across the island. She found the entry easily enough; the date was etched in her memory. A date impossibly long ago, and yet she longed to revisit it, if only on paper in Ben’s journal. What had he written about that day? Had he known how much it had meant to her? She had been fifteen; he, seventeen. Both of them impossibly young; innocents; babes in the woods. For a moment she hesitated. Did she really want to know? Could she bear to find out if he’d lied? Day 2. A hatch, 2 miles from the beach. Map identifies as Swan. A. and I found way in. Subjects, 2 – only 1 present at time of our arrival. Full reconnoitre of area made before our presence detected. Was also able to conduct visual examination of computer system. Numerical equation to be entered every 180 minutes to counteract effect of pulse. Subject seemingly unaware of true nature of exercise. Stability confirmed. Annie read on in mounting dismay. It was all so emotionless, she thought. There was no mention of his excitement; of their stifled, half-terrified laughter as they first entered the darkened shaft; of the kiss he stole in the passageway; of the books taken from the library and stuffed into Ben’s messenger bag; of the anger of the man referred to as Subject 1 – whose name, she recalled, had been Inman – when he found them going through his stores. Ben had played innocence so well, she remembered, seeming almost on the verge of tears. He had persuaded Inman that Annie and he had found the hatch by accident, and had broken in hoping to find a secluded place to make out – The man’s face had softened at that. Kids, he’d said, half in anger, half in disgust. Have you any idea how much trouble you’re in? But Ben had already guessed the truth. The trouble might well cut both ways. A count of dereliction of duty might not look good on the man’s record; might even jeopardize his leave. Let’s see if we can make a deal, Kelvin Inman had suggested. I won’t tell if you don’t. I fly out of this hole in ten days. If you keep your mouths shut, no-one needs to know you were here. Eagerly, gratefully, Ben had agreed. Later, when they were back aboveground, with the trees standing out in sharp chiaroscuro against a sky awash with stars, he had dropped his air of innocence and calmly told Annie the truth. How he had known about the hatch; how he’d set off to find it; how they’d triggered a magnetic pulse to oscillate at a steady pace, keeping things in perpetual balance – What things? Annie had asked. Ben had been typically vague. Jacob, he’d said, and before she could ask for further explanation, there had come the arrival of the thing that Ben called Azrael, or sometimes Cerberus, the guard dog of the Underworld, and which looked like a cloud of black smoke – though far more substantial than mere vapour – pounding its way through the undergrowth, smiting the trees like a giant fist, making its way towards them. Annie had screamed, but Ben stood his ground as the thing hovered over both their heads, exploring with monstrous delicacy the faces of the two young people – Here, Ben had written, in his neat and sloping script: Second encounter with Azrael. No cause for anxiety, and Annie felt a stab of belated indignation that Ben, who had a way with words, should have dismissed with such laconic ease her terror, her tears, her beating heart, the way she had clenched his wrist so hard that it had left a dark bracelet of bruises – And how afterwards, when the thing had gone and her fears, with his help, had abated, they had sought the shelter of some giant ferns, and there, had made love for the very first time, sweetly, and in silence; with the forest whispering in their ears and the Milky Way like a bridal veil spread out across the night sky – What did it mean to you, Ben? How would he describe it? First encounter with Annie? Exercise completed successfully? Subject blissfully unaware of how cynically she has been used? Now her indignation was beginning to turn into anger. She’d known he could be cold, but she’d hoped that in his private journal he might have shown his more passionate side. Was he so afraid of his feelings that he wouldn’t admit them, not even to himself? Had that part of him even existed, or had it been another act, a means of keeping her under control? She turned the page. Three lines of that day’s entry remained. With shaking hands, she noted them down. Her anger was now so overwhelming that the letters swam before her eyes, and it was another moment before she could recognize the jumble of words. Three lines, set out to form a haiku. She remembered how he’d liked that form; had admired its brevity, its discipline. Seventeen syllables, no more; set out in a formal pattern. She read them now with tears in her eyes: Your dangerous sweetness Is more than I deserve, Anastacia. Annie put down the journal. The memory was so immediate now, like scent trapped in a bottle, released at last into volatile form, unfurling now into the air in notes of regret and sorrow and pity and love… Your dangerous sweetness. Oh, Ben. Suddenly there came a sound from above. A helicopter passed overhead. Annie took cover instinctively; the aircraft wheeled in a wide circle, then sped away towards the north. She wondered if it was Mikhail, or whether her people had traced her here; and she found, with a sudden jolt of surprise, that she did not want to be traced; that if it came to an all-out fight, she would take the other side, even after what she had learnt; Ben’s role in the extermination of Dharma’s presence on the island; Ben’s role in subverting the Dharma plan, of even subverting Jacob himself – Alex would have understood. Alex knew what it was to sacrifice everything for love. Friendships, family, self – and still to be whole, to be secure in the knowledge that love, this dangerous sweetness, lies at the heart of everything – Ben had known it was dangerous. That’s why he had sent her away; for his own protection. And now that Annie had found him again, she’d foolishly, cravenly let him go – What if Ben was in that helicopter? The thought was suddenly stark in her mind. Had her people already found him? She knew at least two had landed here; Sarah, sent to enlist Jack’s help, and another, code-named Rebecca, of whom she had not yet received word. Their brief; to find and bring back Benjamin Linus, alive or dead, and to reclaim the island, regardless of casualties. Put so simply, it sounded bleak. But Dharma had its reasons. Sadly, as Annie knew, Dharma was not the only group with an eye to exploitation of the island’s unique resources. The Mittelos Group, their bitter rivals, had expressed more than an interest, and Annie knew from snatches of overheard conversations within her own circle that the intentions of this hugely wealthy, ambitious and morally suspect organization were far less benign than their own. How had it happened? she asked herself. They’d set out to save the world, to bring an end to suffering, to spread light and understanding – Still, she thought. Power corrupts, and the power source here was phenomenal. Enough to corrupt the most saintly of men – and Ben, she knew, was not a saint. She began to run towards the barracks, to the hill where she knew the ‘copter had been. She needed to know who was on board. Had it been Ben? Was she too late? She found the group dispersing. Sawyer had taken charge once more, and the castaways were beginning to explore the surrounding area, exclaiming over the barracks, the neatness of the little houses, the back yards with their porches and swings; the little picket fences; the picture-prettiness of it against the savage backdrop of the jungle. Annie kept hidden, not wanting to offer lengthy explanations for her presence among them. She saw Alex among the castaways, and waited in hiding for the girl to approach. After a time, she did. “Shh! Over here!” Annie beckoned to Alex from the shelter of one of the houses. She saw the girl’s eyes widen, but she made no move to summon help. “Where’s Ben?” Annie whispered. Alex looked at her. “He left. Just a few minutes ago.” “Not in the helicopter?” “No. With John Locke.” Her eyes were wary. “What do you want?” Annie was almost trembling with relief at the knowledge that it wasn’t too late. “Is he all right?” Alex shrugged. “I guess. He said it was a mistake,” she went on. “He said Karl was a good man.” Annie filed the remark away for later examination. “Where did they go?” Alex sullenly shook her head. “No-one tells me anything. They think I’m still a child -” “Anyone else go with them?” Once more Alex shook her head. “John had a gun. He said he’d use it if anyone tried to follow them. Mikhail said to stay here -” “Mikhail?” “He’s with Richard. Trying to get him to tell the truth. I think Richard knows where Dad’s gone.” She looked at Annie curiously, her head cocked slightly to one side. Anyone who had known Danielle Rousseau would not have simply seen the resemblance; they would have sworn Alex was Rousseau. “You knew Dad in the old days,” she said in a careful, expressionless voice. Annie smiled. “I knew him, yes.” “He calls your name in his sleep,” she said. “Really?” File that away for later, too, Annie told herself sternly. That wild, unbidden surge of joy at the thought that Ben had dreamed of her was surely a luxury, a dangerous sweetness that Annie could ill afford right now. So he calls your name in his sleep, she thought. File it away and move right on. “Why did you leave him?” Alex said. Annie really didn’t have time for this. But Alex’s face was so earnest that before she could think of a suitable lie, she found herself telling her the truth. “I didn’t leave him. He sent me away,” she told her with a wry smile. “I thought it was my choice, of course. That’s the way he operates. But with Ben, you never do have the choice. Truth is, he sent me away because he was afraid of what he was about to do, and of what I’d do to stop him.” Alex nodded. “The Purge,” she said. “Among other things,” Annie agreed. There was a pause. “Do you love him?” said Alex at last. It had been some time since Annie had asked herself such an elementary question. With Ben, all questions were complicated. She’d thought she’d become accustomed to that. “Do you?” she said, stalling for time. The girl looked away. “I thought I didn’t care,” she said, her voice now so low that it was almost inaudible. “I thought I hated him at first. I thought I wanted him to die. Then I just thought I wanted him to be different, somehow. To be someone else - a normal Dad. And now -” “And now you just want to see him again,” finished Annie. “No matter what. Just one more time.” Alex looked at her silently, her eyes the troubled blue of the cloudline just before a summer storm. “Do you know where he and Locke are going?” said Annie in a gentle voice. There was a pause. “I think so,” she said. “Will you show me?” Alex nodded. She turned, and was about to leave when the door opened silently, and Karl’s face appeared at the door. Annie saw even then how Alex’s face lit up at the sight of him, and was conscious of a tiny stab of – Jealousy? No, surely not – Ben and I were once like that – Karl’s eyes widened on seeing Annie, then narrowed to slits, making his face look older, somehow; older and less familiar. Annie was suddenly aware that he was carrying a gun, and that his usually open, honest face now bore an expression of distant mistrust. “Annie is a liar,” he said. And slowly levelled the gun at her. * * *
Chapter 87. They’d missed Christmas, he told himself. Somewhere amongst those fraught few days following the attack on the beach, Christmas Day had come and gone. Not that it mattered anyway, Hurley pondered mournfully; time worked differently on the island, and every day was much like the last. Had it been yesterday? Last week? Some people counted the days, he knew, but to Hurley it had all been a blur, days flashing into days, pages ripped from a calendar. But Christmas – how could they forget? At home there would have been turkey, he thought. And chestnut stuffing, and roast potatoes, and mulled wine and chocolate cake. Midnight mass with Mom and Grandpa. Leftover turkey sandwiches eaten in front of the TV; It’s a Wonderful Life or White Christmas, or Miracle on 34th Street. Snow – well, fake snow, anyway. Christmas lights all over the house. Presents lying under the tree – Hurley felt a sudden rush of almost unbearable homesickness. It was like being hit in the stomach; he doubled up, his pudgy face creasing with impending tears. He had to get out of this place, he thought, if only for five minutes or so; he could see Rose watching him from some distance away, and any moment now she would ask what was wrong – “Hugo? Honey? Are you okay?” “Uh – sure, I guess. Somethin’ I ate -” He made a dash for the bushes then, hoping she wouldn’t follow him. Bad enough that he felt this way; her kindness, he knew, would kill him. Besides, he thought, what could he say? That he wanted to go home? That he missed his Mom? That at this moment he’d give anything – and he meant anything – to be sitting down to dinner with his folks, with Mom saying Grace and Dad stealing potatoes out of the dish when he thought she wasn’t looking, just as he had in the old days, before he’d gone off to Vegas – Something moved in the underbrush. A boar, thought Hurley nervously – pigs were very good eating, of course, but he’d never felt safe around them. Those tusks could be dangerous, he knew; and he realized as he looked around that he’d gone further than he’d intended, well out of sight of the barracks… “Hey,” he whispered. “Anyone there?” There was no sound from the underbrush. But the foliage moved again, and a shape emerged from the bushes; something much smaller than a pig, that looked at him from round green eyes and flexed its jaws in a silent mew. A cat. An elderly and somewhat disreputable-looking cat of no particular colour or breed, one ragged ear, one blind eye, wet fur matted from long acquaintance with the jungle. Cautiously, Hurley held out his hand. It had to be a wild cat; there had been no cats on the Oceanic flight. The cat gave him a scornful look, then came to sniff his fingers. It was, without doubt, a domestic cat. There was even the remains of a flea collar around the animal’s scrawny neck; on further investigation, Hurley was unsurprised to discover that it bore the Dharma logo. He got down on his knees on the forest floor and stroked the cat’s bedraggled fur. The cat gave a loud and rusty purr. A slow, sweet grin formed on Hurley’s face. A cat. Jeez, now he’d seen everything. Who had it belonged to? The Dharma people? The Others, even? Somehow he didn’t see the Others as cat owners. Then again, he hadn’t seen them as table tennis players, either; or as parents; or as beer drinkers; or as readers of books. And yet evidence from the barracks suggested that they’d been all those things. Peace on earth and goodwill to men, huh? Well, maybe. If it isn’t too late. He realized with a sudden jolt that he still had some chicken in his pocket; chicken from the Chicken Shack that hadn’t really been there. He stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out the remains of a wing. “Hey, cat. You hungry? You like chicken, huh?” The speed with which the cat ate the wing; meat, bones, tendons and all, confirmed his suspicion that it did. The rusty purr intensified. Hurley’s grin widened, and suddenly the pain in his gut, the certainty that he’d never see home, never see his parents again, was gone as quickly as it had come. “Merry Christmas, cat,” he said.
* * * The chicken was gone, and the cat was asleep, curled up and purring in Hurley’s lap. He must have dozed off, too, Hurley thought; because he awoke to the sound of helicopters – helicopters, plural – overhead. For a moment he was disoriented - he’d been dreaming he was back home again, with his folks at Christmas dinner, trying to carve an enormous turkey using nothing but his mother’s gold figurine of Jesus. Clearly, it wasn’t working, and his mother was getting increasingly upset, saying; Hugo, you gotta have faith, and his father was shaking his head and saying; He never was the sharpest tool in the box, and Hugo was trying to explain that the carving knife had been lost in the snow, even though it never snowed, not in Pasadena – He opened his eyes. White flakes were falling from the sky. The sound of screaming, shockingly close, came over to him from the barracks. For a moment Hurley was frozen – the miracle of the falling snow; the sounds of panic from the village; fragments of dream slipping away; his mother’s voice saying; gotta have faith – A flake of white settled on his bare arm. Hurley looked at it, transfixed; then brushed it away with a cry of pain. It burnt; it hurt – and there was more coming, drifting out of the clear blue sky like something out of an evil fairytale, and wherever it fell, Hurley now saw, the grass and the foliage around him blackened instantly, as if under some kind of acid rain – That isn’t snow, he told himself. Then he grabbed the cat and ran for his life.
* * * They heard the distant helicopters some fours hours after leaving the barracks. The rain that came with eerie precision at three o’clock every afternoon had fallen some thirty minutes ago, and the air was clear and bright again. Locke had refused to seek shelter from the rain, and had kept them walking throughout the torrential downpour, so that now they were both soaked to the skin; Ben cold and shivering, Locke apparently unmoved. “Keep going,” said Locke to his prisoner. “There’s nothing we can do for them now.” Ben walked on in silence. In fact, he hadn’t spoken a word throughout their four-hour journey, but had spent the time in bitter contemplation of just how badly he’d messed up. He hadn’t expected to be here at all; he certainly hadn’t anticipated the fact that Mikhail would fail to stop John Locke. But the man was unstoppable by bullet or duplicity; faced with both at Ben’s hands, he’d always managed to survive. And Locke had Jacob on his side – Jacob, whom Ben had so grievously wronged. No wonder he’d been angry, he thought. No wonder he’d abandoned him. Ben was only surprised at the fact that Jacob had allowed him to live at all – and now it was too late, of course. The harm was done, Pandora’s box opened, and all the evil spirits let loose, never again to be contained- Jacob, I’m sorry. Forgive me. Ben Linus never apologized. Never explained his actions; never confided in anyone. And Ben Linus never conceded defeat; never gave in; never lost a game – Annie. Alex. Forgive me. He’d been so blind, he told himself. First he’d misjudged Juliet; had thought he could make her play his game whilst all the time he was playing hers. And Shepherd – he’d misjudged him, too, ignoring the fact that he wasn’t on the list, seeking him out for his own selfish needs – I should have had faith. Forgive me. John Locke had had faith, he told himself. And Jacob had rewarded him; healed him; spoken to him – John Locke had passed the test. Benjamin Linus had failed it. One more chance. Forgive me. Please - But forgiveness was not Jacob’s strongest suit. Ben knew that; had known it since the first day he’d approached the little hut in the clearing; had felt the raw power surge around him, had heard the voice from the mountain. He’d returned with more knowledge than a boy of his age should ever have had; knowledge that had empowered him; elated him; corrupted him; and finally led him to unspeakable acts, all in the name of the greater cause, the cause of human survival. A warning from another world. Who would dare to ignore it? And yet he had dared. He’d defied the voice. He’d taken the law into his own hands, had had it rewritten to serve himself, just as the faithless Israelites had made themselves a golden calf to worship in the wilderness. He’d thought that he was Moses, leading his folk to the Promised Land. But all he’d led them to was death and defeat – a sacrifice to his arrogance. And now they had rejected him. The island itself had rejected him. Jacob had issued his final command – that was to be his punishment. Ben walked on through the jungle, head lowered in silent despair. Behind him, Locke watched his every move, the gun steady in his hand. He had no wish to use it on Ben – although he would, he told himself, if circumstances demanded it. Locke was walking his own path – a path determined, not by Ben, or Isabel, or Richard, or even Jacob. Now Locke knew what Jacob was, and when Isabel had given him the final piece of the jigsaw puzzle, handing him his destiny as leader of the Others, handing him Claire’s extraordinary child – a child whose talents would extend even further than those that Walt had demonstrated, a child that would unlock the door to almost infinite possibilities - he had scrutinized the gift and recalled once again Siddhartha’s words: A man must follow his own path. To follow that of another man – even that of the Buddha himself –is to walk away from enlightenment. And so John Locke had walked away. John followed his own path. Too long he’d allowed himself to be led, believing himself to be in control. First he’d believed in the numbers, the hatch. He’d entered the code religiously. Then Henry Gale had appeared on the scene, to make him doubt his purpose. It had taken Locke a long time to understand what Henry’s true intention had been. Like the others, he’d assumed at first that their prisoner had been captured by accident. Then he’d concluded, on further acquaintance, that Henry’s plan had been to find out about Jack, the surgeon who would save his life. Now, thanks to Isobel, he knew that this too, had been a ruse. Ben’s plan from the start had been to weaken Locke’s faith; to undermine his belief in the numbers, to stop him from entering the code, so that when at last he succumbed, Locke would think it his own decision, and would eventually destroy the hatch – and, with any luck, himself – thereby simultaneously ridding Ben of a dangerous rival, whilst at the same time cutting off communication with the outside world, putting Ben completely in charge and seriously curbing Jacob’s power, power that threatened his authority – all of which had allowed Ben to blame John Locke for a chain of events that secretly worked in his favour, just as he’d allowed Locke to think that blowing up the submarine was not only his own decision, but one that would make Ben suffer, too, while all the time he was doing Ben’s work – Not this time, Ben, Locke thought. This time, the decision was his. And when he met Jacob face to face – the real Jacob, the Wizard of Oz, not just a mirage of shadows and smoke – then he would face his destiny. He glanced at Ben, a desolate figure walking ahead, and tried to imagine what it was like to have come so close to the Promised Land, only to be left behind – “Tell me, Ben,” he said at last. “Why did you try to kill me that day?” “Does it matter?” Ben said. He sounded weary beyond belief. “All that matters is that I failed. I got it wrong. It’s over.” “Not quite,” Locke said. “Jacob spoke to me that day as I lay in that ditch with a hole in my chest. Jacob told me what you did – what you are, Ben; a traitor, a cheat -” Ben shrugged indifferently. “He told me what you were planning, Ben. You lied about the numbers. You meant for me to blow the hatch – you even left that video in the Pearl station for me to find – and all the time you knew what would happen. You planned for it to happen that way - ” Ben sighed. “It was complicated. I don’t expect you to understand.” “But that’s the way you planned it?” said Locke. Ben gave a crooked smile. “That’s the way I planned it,” he said. “I overlooked your friend Desmond, that’s all. I didn’t know he had a failsafe key. Without it, the forces you released wouldn’t have simply destroyed your hatch, they would have ripped the island in two. All the hatches would have imploded; the Temple would have been blown apart, and Jacob -” Ben stopped abruptly. But Locke already knew the rest. “Just like the submarine. That’s why you needed me. You couldn’t be the one – someone else had to take the blame, while you got away with murder -” And now Locke caught his breath in sudden realization. It was beautiful, he thought. So simple, and so elegant. You almost had to admire the man – “That’s it, isn’t it?” he said. “You meant for me to kill him -” Ben’s gaze lifted to meet Locke’s, and Locke thought he’d never seen such weariness in the face of another human being. He could almost feel sorry for Benjamin, twisted and devious as he was – at least, until their eyes met, and he saw that he was smiling – And now Ben began to laugh, a strangely carefree laughter. Locke was startled in spite of himself. Ben sounded – well, almost happy - “Yes, John,” he said. “You’re right. I tried to murder Jacob.” * * * “Something is wrong,” said Ben. “You’re just now figuring that out?” Locke asked. Ben didn’t dignify his sarcasm with an eye roll. “No, I mean something is wrong here.” Locke looked around. Evening was coming, but the light was still good and he could see nothing amiss. The two men stood at the edge of the clearing wherein stood the small wood cabin Locke had mentally named ‘Jacob’s shack.’ Not a complimentary title for a man’s home, but fitting nonetheless. They had not spoken since Ben had made his shocking confession. Locke had thought he had the upper hand -- after all, Jacob had spoken to him, had revealed so much. But even in the face of his own destruction, Ben had a way of unnerving him. Just when it seemed the veil was torn entirely away, Ben still had his secrets. Never mind. Locke knew where he was going now. For the first time in his life, he knew who he was. He drew a deep breath and resolved again not to be distracted by Benjamin Linus’ cruel manipulations. Like the serpent in the garden, he was always there, whispering temptation – making falsehood look like truth, and destruction look like salvation. Locke focused on the moment at hand. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Don’t you feel it?” Ben countered. Locke concentrated for a moment and then replied, “I don’t feel anything.” “Exactly,” said Ben. He turned to look at the cabin, and Locke understood. There was nothing – no electricity crawling on his skin, no sudden change in the air, no sense that all sound had been absorbed into the earth. This place felt like any other part of the jungle. He turned to see Ben walking slowly in a radius around the cabin, his eyes fixed on the ground. “Here,” he said, bending his knees to crouch on the ground. Locke walked over to him and saw what had caught Ben’s attention. The mound of ash that formed a wide circle around the cabin had been swept away. Noticing footprints from a large sneaker, Locke at first thought it had been a mistake. Someone walking by had caught the ash with their foot and accidentally caused a break in the line. But as he looked a little further on, he saw a wide gap that had clearly been made deliberately. With obvious effort, Ben stood up, grimacing as he straightened his back. For the briefest moment, his eyes darted toward the jungle foliage as if he expected to see Jacob standing right behind him. But he knew the very concept was absurd and with a breath he was back in control and he began to walk slowly but steadily toward the cabin. After a moment he stopped, realizing Locke was not with him. “You okay?” he asked. It was condescension more than concern and Locke knew it. He was still examining the disturbance in the ash mound. “What do you suppose happened here?” Locke asked. “Your friend Hugo, I imagine,” Ben replied. Locke shook his head slowly. “You have a better idea?” Ben asked. “No,” Locke said. “I’m sure you’re right. I’m just not sure why he would do this.” Ben smirked. “What? Jacob didn’t tell you?” he asked. It was a clumsy taunt and normally Ben would have found it beneath him, but now – well, things were different now. He turned and continued toward the house, this time with Locke at his heels. It had been a long time since Ben had visited the cabin in daylight, and it seemed somehow unfamiliar. There was more furniture than he remembered, and hangings on the wall that he had not seen before. Ben shuffled stiffly to a musty cot next to the wall and sat down. The pain in his back had been steadily radiating outward until now every join ached. It didn’t help that his clothing was still damp and clammy from the earlier rain. He was thoroughly miserable. He thought if he could just get warm and dry, he would be able to think, to come up with a solution, some alternative to the appalling resolution that lay at the end of the path he was on. But he was too hungry and uncomfortable to think about much of anything. Locke had dropped his pack on the table and was surveying the dusty furnishings in the one-room cabin. “Do you have anything to eat in there?” Ben asked. Locke replied by opening his knapsack and withdrawing a small white package and plastic water bottle. When he held them out to Ben, the other man raised his eyebrow. “Dharma protein bars? Honestly, John,” he tisked. “Do you want it or not?” Locke asked, irritation coloring his tone. “Yes, thank you,” Ben replied, his polite words not quite covering his mirth. Locke handed him the packet and then sat at the table, withdrawing a piece of fruit and a knife from the pack. The protein bar had been designed more for nutrition then for taste and it had a consistency and flavor something like sawdust, but Ben devoured it in three bites, and washed it down with the tepid water. With his hunger held at bay for the moment, he rose and walked to the door. “Where do you think you’re going?” Locke asked, reaching for the gun he had laid on the table. “Just outside,” Ben said. Locke stood up. “I’ve been going by myself since I was three years old,” Ben said. “But if you feel like you need to come with me…” Locke hesitated and Ben eyed him steadily. “Do you really think the gun is the reason I’m here, John?” Ben asked. For a moment he thought Locke was going to insist on accompanying him regardless, but he sat back down at the table and picked up the half-eaten fruit. *** Mikhail did a cursory search of the home he was in. When he had satisfied himself that he was the only occupant, he deadbolted both doors and pulled the curtains shut. He had chosen the house at the end of the row, as far from the gaggle of crash survivors as he could get. He was a man accustomed to solitude, and the nearly uninterrupted company over the past few weeks had long since begun to grate on his nerves. Retrieving a warm drink from the unpowered refrigerator, he went to the living room and stretched out on the couch, kicking off his boots before he put his feet up. In spite of appearances, Mikhail was a civilized man. He knew his opportunity for desperately needed rest would be brief, so he flung an arm across his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply. Even so, his thoughts continued to race, frustrating his efforts to relax. He was not one to second-guess his decisions, but he was sorely tempted to put his boots back on and catch up to Alex before she left the compound. Sending the trio alone to catch up with Ben was risky. Alex was so young, Hugo was a stranger and an innocent, and Annie was an unknown quantity, although anyone could see she was as emotional as ever. Mikhail had an uneasy feeling that it would fall on John Locke to shepherd them all where they must go. Locke was certainly capable of the task, but it was still unclear where his loyalty lay. Mikhail thought that the next 24 hours may hold more surprises than anyone expected -- even Jacob. Consciously pushing his thoughts aside, Mikhail again tried to quiet his mind. He had nearly dozed when the screaming started. *** “Here!” Alex shouted. Hurley was in such a panic he could not discern which direction her voice had come from. “Come on, Hurley!” she yelled, waving her arms crazily to attract his attention. Finally he saw her off to his left, standing in what appeared to be merely a grove of trees. “But the acid rain!” he warned. “Just come on!” Alex insisted. “It is safe in here!” Still clutching the bedraggled cat in a vice-like grip, Hurley decided it certainly couldn’t be any worse, and ran toward Alex’s position. When he got there, she stood aside and he stumbled into what turned out to be an opening to a cave. “Come on,” she said, tugging at his arm. “It will be safer further inside.” “What is this?” Hurley asked, then thought of a more important question. “And what is that crap?!” he jabbed a finger toward the mouth of the cave. “I don’t know,” Alex shrugged. “But this cave leads into some tunnels that come out on the other side of the hills. Maybe it won’t be coming down there.” “But what about everybody else?” Hurley asked, not moving from the open entrance. “Do you want to go back out there and get them?” Alex snapped. Hurley watched as the vile liquid seeped down through the jungle canopy, withering the foliage as if it were wildfire. “So we’re just going to leave them?” he asked. “I don’t what else to do,” Alex said. Hurley heard the crack in her voice and remembered that Karl was still back at the strange little village. Feeling the need to comfort her, and having no reassurances to offer, he held up the scrawny creature that now lay draped over his arm. “Look what I found,” he said, immediately feeling foolish for offering such a pitiful gesture. Alex’s face softened. “Aw, hello Nadia,” she cooed, scooping the mangy animal from Hurley’s arms. As she cuddled the poor creature, which was now purring furiously, Hurley could imagine her as a little girl, rescuing birds and rabbits from untold dangers in the jungle. She was suddenly much less intimidating and he thought if he ever got home, he would definitely get a cat. “Is she yours?” Hurley asked, poking a finger in to scratch behind the cat’s ear. “No, Mikhail’s,” Alex replied, nuzzling the skinny animal. Hurley’s jaw sagged. “Mikhail? Eyepatch guy?” he asked. “Yeah,” Alex said, laughing at Hurley’s stunned expression. “Eyepatch guy has a cat named Nadia?” Alex was still smiling as she stuffed the gray beast into her pack and slung it on her back. “With everything that is going on, this is what shocks you?” Hurley shrugged. “I just didn’t figure him for a cat person,” he said. “Unless he’s like, eating it, or shooting it out of a cannon.” Alex laughed again, and moved toward the darkened arch at the back of the cave. “Mikhail’s alright,” she said. “You just have to get to know him.” “Yeah, that’d be great,” said Hurley, sounding unconvinced. “I can’t wait.” As they made their way deeper into the passageway, Nadia’s tiny eyes glistened over the edge of Alex’s knapsack. *** Even without a watch, Locke had a fairly accurate sense of time, and he knew Ben had been gone longer than should have been necessary for the business he had claimed to be on. Locke stood up and looked out the window. In the waning light, he saw Ben on his knees at the edge of the ash ring. He was bent over, scooping the gray powder back into place, reconnecting the circle. Locke’s brow furrowed. He felt certain that Benjamin Linus did not frighten easily, and he wondered what exactly Ben was hoping to keep out with the antiquated ritual. Locke stepped outside and saw Ben glance at him and then return to his task. When he was finished, he dusted his hands and then walked back toward the cabin. “What was that all about?” Locke asked. “I just like to keep things tidy,” Ben replied, picking up a towel to wipe his hands. “We should be moving on,” Locke said, stowing the empty water bottles in his pack. “No,” said Ben. Locke looked up, surprised. “No?” he asked. Ben shook his head. “I can’t go any further tonight,” he said. “I need to rest.” “There’s no time for that,” Locke said. “We can take it slow, but we have to keep moving.” “Well go on, then,” Ben replied. “I’m staying here.” He took a step toward the cot, but Locke grabbed his elbow and spun him back around. Ben winced as his back twisted. “Who do you think is coming?” Locke asked. “I’m not sure what you mean,” Ben said. “You think someone is coming to rescue you?” Locke insisted, his fingers still clamped around Ben’s arm. “Mikhail, maybe? Or Richard?” Ben chuckled hollowly. “No, John. I don’t think Richard is coming to rescue me.” Locke let go of Ben’s arm and studied him seriously. “I don’t have to be your enemy,” Locke said. Ben was startled by the abrupt non-sequitor. “What?” he said, wishing for all the world that Locke would just go away and let him sleep. He was bone-tired and his wits felt dull. He did not have the energy for verbal sparring. “I didn’t come here to take anything from you,” Locke went on earnestly. “And I don’t think it has to be you or me, one or the other. There are other ways to go about this.” Ben sighed. “No offense, John, but you don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve lived here my whole life.” He held up a hand at Locke’s skeptical expression. “Virtually my whole life, and even I don’t know half of this island’s power. But I do know a few things, and one of them is that is does have to be one or the other. It isn’t a question of enemies or allies. It’s just the way it is.” “Destiny?” Locke asked. “Call it destiny if you like,” Ben replied wearily. “I think you’re wrong,” Locke said. “You are so busy trying to control things you can’t control, you are blind to what is really happening. Allowing yourself to connect with other people is not a weakness.” “I guess you would know,” Ben snapped. “About weakness?” Locke said mildly. “I could write a book.” Ben leaned on the back of a wooden chair next to him, trying to take the strain off of his aching spine. “Well, thanks for the advice,” he said, with feigned sincerity. “Is that why you sent her away?” Locke asked. “Sent who away?” Ben asked, fixing Locke with a cold gaze. “Annie? Is that her name?” Locke asked. Ben’s eyes narrowed. “The good-looking brunette whose arms you fell into when Karl shot you.” “Don’t,” Ben rasped. Locke smiled. “That’s what I thought,” he said in a tone that made the pit of Ben’s stomach clench. “You sent her away because you thought she made you weak. And now she’s back.” Without warning, Ben’s fist cut through the air and caught Locke on the lower part of his jaw. Locke had a five-inch height advantage and outweighed Ben by a good 40 pounds, but he stumbled two steps backward. Ben stood still as he had before, his arms at his sides. Locke regained his footing and looked down at the other man. “Feel better?” he asked. “It wasn’t as cathartic as one might have hoped,” Ben replied. He turned and shuffled to the cot, easing painfully onto it and lying down. Locke wiped the blood from his lip and sat back down at the table.
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Post by keyserzozie on Apr 29, 2008 15:44:20 GMT -4
Chapter 88. Annie supposed she shouldn’t be surprised that she remembered so much. It wasn’t as if she had tried hard to leave this part of her past behind. But still, she was relieved to find the entrance to the cave behind the thick foliage as she had expected. It had certainly grown thicker in the past dozen years, but the damp coolness behind the curtain of vines was just the same. When liquid fire had begun to rain from the sky, she had moved on pure instinct. She wasn’t sure what she would have done if her old hiding place had not been there. Now she leaned against the moist stone wall and caught her breath. She had wandered away from the barracks looking to collect her thoughts before she started on her trek with Alex and Hurley. She did not know how they had weathered the horrifying storm, but she knew that to venture out into the open was suicide. As she stood watching the jungle melt into black sludge, another thought weighed nearly as heavy. She had dropped the journal. *** They had been traveling in nearly pitch blackness for twenty minutes when Alex stopped in her tracks, causing Hurley to nearly run her over. “What?” he whispered loudly. “There’s somebody here,” Alex replied, dousing her flashlight. “Alex?” came the woman’s voice. “Who is that?” Alex asked the darkness. “It’s Annie,” she replied. “Turn the light back on so I can find you.” Alex turned on the flashlight, and Annie ducked out of a side passage a few yards ahead of them. “How do you know about this place?” Alex asked. “Same way as you, I expect,” said Annie. “Oh yeah,” Alex said, smiling unexpectedly. “So what do you think? Follow it through to the valley?” Annie asked. Alex looked pleased. “That’s what I was thinking. It may be safe on that side.” With their course agreed on, they continued, moving slowly to pick through the uneven floor and avoid low-hanging rocks. But even with their cautious pace, it was less than an hour before they spotted a dim glow at the end of their path. It was only starlight, but after the deep darkness of the cavern, their eyes drank in the light that seemed to illumine every branch. When they emerged, none of them thought to find it odd that they all moved as one in a new direction. They were each deep in their own thoughts but they agreed on their path without discussion. It was not until they were in sight of the ramshackled cabin that Alex, in the lead, stopped and turned back toward the others. “What now?” she asked. Annie was staring at the nearly ruined structure, a wash of memories threatening to overwhelm her. “Keep going, right?” Hurley said, oblivious to Annie’s distraction. Alex looked at him, a little incredulous. “You’re awfully keen,” she said. Hurley shrugged. “What’ve we got to lose now?” he asked. The two women only stared as Hurley proceeded to the edge of the ash circle and then turned back toward them. “Guys, it’s fine,” he said encouragingly. “I don’t think that Jacob dude is here.” Annie and Alex exchanged a surprised glance and then moved forward behind Hurley. Ben was so deeply asleep that he did not awaken, even when Locke opened the door to investigate the noise outside. Ben finally stirred to find himself alone in the cabin and the sound of conversation outside. He was just sitting up on the cot when Locke reappeared with the three newcomers right behind him. The small cabin suddenly seemed crowded with five people in it, especially when one of them was Hurley. “I thought you were going to shoot anyone who followed us,” Ben said. Without missing a beat, Locke replied, “Which one of them would you like me to start with?” “Yo! Dude,” Hurley began to protest. “Just sit down,” Ben said in a surly tone. “Hey, sorry I get offended when people start talking about shooting me,” Hurley muttered. He looked around for a place to sit, but the furniture all appeared dangerously rickety. “Nobody’s going to shoot anybody, Hugo,” Locke said, slapping him on a burly shoulder. Ben sat on the cot, studiously avoiding eye-contact with Annie, which was really unnecessary as she was looking anywhere but at him. “You okay, dad?” Alex asked. Ben looked up at her, trying not to register surprise when he saw her concern was genuine. After a moment he realized she expected an answer. “Yes, fine,” he said. “Let me see,” said Alex, sitting down on the cot next to him. Ben turned slightly and Alex lifted the back of his shirt and peeled away the bloodsoaked bandage. “Yech,” she muttered, tossing it aside and digging in her pack for a fresh dressing. Ben grimaced and Annie wasn’t sure if it was in response to pain or to Alex’s bedside manner. As Alex applied disinfectant and a new bandage to Ben’s rapidly healing gunshot wound, Locke spoke up. “We have a new problem,” he announced. “Oh good,” said Hurley from his position next to the empty fireplace. “I was worried we were going to get bored.” “What new problem do we have?” asked Ben. “I don’t have the journal,” Annie said. “Who does?” Ben asked, looking at her for the first time. “Nobody, I guess. If it hasn’t been destroyed, it is on the ground somewhere between the barracks and the entrance to the tunnels,” Annie said, her tone deliberately even. “You lost it?” Ben asked, standing up before Alex had quite finished. “I would never have had it if you hadn’t lost it first,” Annie countered. “Now, kids, let’s not fight about it,” Alex interjected, as she put the last bit of tape on Ben’s dressing. Ben turned toward her with raised eyebrows, but Alex merely smiled and said, “Don’t worry. John and I are going to go back and get it.” “No,” said Ben, addressing Locke. “Alex doesn’t need to go back out there. Not tonight.” “Dad!” Alex huffed. Locke was already buckling the closures on his knapsack. “I need Alex to show me where to find the journal. We can’t risk anyone else getting their hands on it,” he said. “I can show you where to find it,” said Annie. Locke shook his head. “Nothing personal, but I don’t know you,” he said. Annie looked slightly indignant. “Who put you in charge?” she snipped. Locke did not answer, but his expression told her it was a dumb question. She threw up her hands and stood aside. “Ready?” Locke asked Alex. “Yep,” she replied, slinging her own bag. “I’ll be fine, dad,” she said, preempting Ben’s next comment. Then giving Annie a quick glance she turned back to him. “Are you going to be okay?” she whispered. “I’ll manage,” Ben replied, and only he was close enough to see Alex wink. “Hey, what about me?” Hurley asked when Locke opened the door to leave. “It’s up to you, Hugo,” Locke said. “Stay here or join is for a walk.” It only took a quick glance at Annie and Ben for Hurley to re-cap his canteen and move in behind Alex. “You know me,” said Hurley. “I’m all about the exercise.” When they had left the cabin and moved across the clearing, Hurley bent to tie his shoe. By the time he had straightened up, Locke and Alex had moved far enough ahead that they did not notice Hurley scrape his foot along the ground and kick away the small mound of gray ash. *** “You did a good job with her,” said Annie after the trio had left and pulled the door shut behind them. Something like shock registered on Ben’s face. “That opinion puts you in a distinct minority,” he replied. “I mean it,” said Annie. “She is an amazing young woman. Smart. Resourceful. Empathetic.” “She certainly is all that, but I’m afraid it is in spite of me.” Ben looked out the window as Alex melted into the darkness in front of Hurley. “You should have seen her when she was a little girl,” he said softly, his gaze drifting up to the starry sky. “She was a pistol – always full of fire about one thing or another. So innocent.” “I wish I had seen her,” Annie replied, unable to keep a tinge of grief from her voice. Ben turned and saw she had moved to the window next to him. He stepped away, shaking his head. “You had to go, Annie,” he said. He looked at her steadily, but his face was a mask. “Was that your decision? Or his?” she asked, anger pushing her grief aside. “It certainly wasn’t mine.” “Don’t start on Richard,” Ben said “Are you defending him? Still?” Annie asked incredulously. “I’m not defending anybody,” Ben replied. “Well, good, because among other things, he tried to have you killed. Several times.” “That puts him in an ever-expanding class of people,” said Ben, resignation rather than fear in his voice. Annie’s throat tightened. “Ben, he destroyed you. He took an innocent boy and turned him into…” she couldn’t finish. “Into what?” Ben snapped, raising an eyebrow. “Go ahead, Annie, let it all out. I’m sure you’ll feel better.” Tears welled in Annie’s eyes, but she forced them away. Ben’s face softened imperceptibly. “Richard didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do. He only showed me what was possible. I made my own decisions.” “Including sending me away?” Annie asked. Ben nodded. “Including sending you away.” “Why?” she demanded. “You couldn’t stay here, Annie,” Ben said. “Because I would have stopped it?” she asked angrily. “I would have stopped you so you just got rid of me? Without telling me that I would never come back here? Would never see my home again?” “No,” Ben said quietly. “Because you wouldn’t have stopped me.” Annie’s eyes narrowed with disbelief, and Ben continued. “You would have tried, and I would have talked you out of it. I would have persuaded you that it had to happen, and you would have helped me. It was a terrible thing, Annie. It was everything you weren’t. It was ugly and it was hard and it was merciless. But it had to be.” “It was for my own good, then. Well, thank you very much.” Annie turned away. “No, it wasn’t for you, it was for me. I couldn’t let you be a part of it.” “You couldn’t let me,” Annie snapped. “What gave you the right, Ben? You didn’t own me. Or any of those people, for that matter. I suppose I should be grateful you decided I got to live.” “Do you think I didn’t try, Annie?” Ben shot back, anger finally infusing his voice. “Do you think I didn’t argue with Jacob, try to come up with some alternative, any alternative? If there had been any other way, do you think I would have let all those people die? They were my friends too, Annie.” Annie could see that Ben was shaking. He had never been a shouter. Growing up listening to his father yell, Ben had become the opposite, becoming quiet and still when he was angry. It wasn’t like him to come this close to the edge of control, yet Annie’s own pain drowned her impulse to reach out to him, to comfort him. “Some friend,” she said. Ben stopped shaking and his face became hard. “I’m sorry, Ben,” Annie said. “I can’t tell you it’s okay. If you tell me it was the only way, then I believe you. I do. But I can’t tell you it was okay to murder an entire community of people who were only trying to do something good.” He then spoke so quietly that Annie almost didn’t hear him. “I’m sorry,” he said, holding her in his gaze. Annie felt a deep ache that bordered on a physical pain and she shook her head, afraid to speak lest her voice crack. “No,” she said finally. “Not now. I can’t...” She turned back toward the window and stared out into the darkness. Ben stood unmoving. “I know,” he said. Annie turned on him now, her eyes blazing with anger. “No, Ben, you don’t know,” she rasped. “Do you have any idea what my life was like? You took away everything I cared about, and then you dropped me into a world I didn’t know how to live in. I didn’t know how to drive a car or buy things at a store. I was twenty-two years old and somebody had to show me how to cross a street. And just to make it more interesting, I was the Hanso Foundation’s new best friend. They questioned me so many times I practically had my own office. They just couldn’t believe that I didn’t know what was going to happen, that I wasn’t in contact with you. I had no life there, Ben. My life was here. ” Unconsciously, she had moved nearer to him as the words poured out of her, every sentence more intense until she was nearly shouting. “Annie, I never meant for…” “Really?” She cut him off. “What did you mean to happen? Did you even think about how it would be for me? This, right here, is the first time in 15 years they haven’t been following me. Everywhere I went, they were there -- expecting every day that I would get a message from you, and they could use that to find you.” Even in the deepening dark she could see the pain on his face, and yet he made no move to reply, to explain or defend himself. She worked to steady her breathing, her anger deflated. “And you know the really pathetic part?” She paused, her dark eyes full of emotion. “I expected it, too. You would think after years of nothing, I would have given up. But I couldn’t let you go. I couldn’t hate you.” She laughed hollowly. “I should have – I had every right. I wanted to. But I just couldn’t.” In the end, her voice was reduced to little more than a whisper. Ben stood silent for a moment. He was near enough for her to touch, but she only stared, choking back tears. “I know,” he said quietly. Annie shook her head slightly in confusion. “If you had hated me, I would have known,” said Ben. “No matter how far away you were, I would have felt you stop loving me.” His words were simple and certain, his manner so familiar that for a long moment Annie was overwhelmed by a wash of memories. When they were young, Ben’s expressions of love had always been direct and undecorated so that she had sometimes yearned for extravagant romance that was the stuff of cheap novels. Yet the intensity of truth contained in his simple declaration breathed on embers in her heart that had refused to die. She gazed into the depths of blue eyes that had made her immune to the advances of other men. “You’re pretty sure of yourself,” she said. A half-smile flashed across his lips and long-absent butterflies fluttered deep in her stomach. “No,” he said. “Sure of you.” * * *
Chapter 89. Some kind of acid rain, he thought. Well, acid snow, to be more precise; floating flakes and silvery strands of something white that clung to the skin. It burnt, too, and kept on burning; the single fleck that had brushed his hand had seared horribly into his flesh, and when he’d tried to pull it off, a strip of his skin had accompanied it. It had taken the sheep pretty much unawares. Some had even come out to watch it fall – and how dumb was that, thought Sawyer, whose instinct for self-preservation had survived intact, even if his passions had not. The death of the man he’d known as Tom Sawyer had left a void inside of him; not the cathartic cleansing for which he’d hoped, but a kind of existential calm. Nothing mattered any more; neither Kate’s pregnancy nor any of the events of the past week had managed to dent that eerie composure, and as he listened to the cries of his erstwhile companions in their distress, his thoughts had been, not of pity or fear, but of scorn at how easily they’d been had; like sheep corralled in the killing pen. He’d taken cover at once, of course, in an equipment shed near the edge of the barracks. Through the window he could see that others had had the same idea; some took refuge in houses, under awnings; some made for the safety of the trees. Some hadn’t made it far enough; a couple of bodies lay on the ground, still moving feebly - though not for long - like flies in a spider’s gossamer. One of them was quite close to him – barely twenty feet away – but Sawyer felt no urge to help the fallen man in his white cocoon. Sawyer hadn’t survived for so long by trying to be a hero. That had been Jack’s role, he thought – and look what a goddamn mess he’d made of it. Anyway, the snow wasn’t the real problem, he knew. The floating strands could be avoided. But when they touched organic matter – skin, for example, or foliage – they seemed to release a kind of gas, something caustic, maybe even poisonous, that stopped its victims in their tracks, allowing the acid snow to do the rest. He’d caught a whiff of it himself – a sulphurous compound that stung his eyes – from the relative safety of the hut, and as the snow continued to fall, he knew that he had to get out of there. Out of there and into the jungle, before the cleanup crew turned up. The helicopters circled like crows. All they needed to do was wait for the stuff to settle and do its work, and then they’d be free to collect whatever survivors might still be hiding in various parts of the barracks. To collect them, and – Forget it, James. You ain’t stayin here to find out. He squinted through the window glass. The snowfall seemed very localized; the area beyond the barracks looked to him to be virtually untouched. A hundred yard sprint ought to do it, he thought – though at this stage, even that distance might prove too much. He needed something, some kind of mask – He looked inside the equipment shed. It held mostly tools; saws, bits, but nothing that might help him. He cursed to himself - not in fear, but with a growing urgency. He vaguely wished he were afraid; at least it would be something, he thought. Anything but this aching cold – the deadly absence of sensation that had inhabited him from the moment he’d killed Locke’s prisoner that night in the brig of the Black Rock. It was as if the man whose name he’d taken had been an essential part of him – and he felt its absence as an amputee still feels the pain of the limb he has lost. A guy goes nuts if he ain’t got nobody, said the voice of Ben Linus in his mind. I tell you, a guy gets too lonely, he gets sick. Bullshit, Sawyer thought. He’d never felt so good in his life. He didn’t owe s**t to anyone. And he sure wasn’t about to take no life lessons from the bug-eyed sonofabitch who had probably set this whole thing up - The man in the cocoon of white was crawling towards the door of the shed. With a jolt, Sawyer recognized Desmond. He’d never had much to do with the guy, but he was okay, as guys went. Not pushy and self-righteous, like Jack, or prickly and over-sensitive, like Charlie. He was shielding his face with a pillowcase, Sawyer realized as he looked closer. And he had something on underneath – something black. Some kind of filter mask – He pulled the door open, holding his breath. The snow had almost stopped falling. “Quick! Desmond! In here!” He held out his hand. A burnt and blistered hand grabbed it. Sawyer pulled – already feeling the caustic substance eating its way into his throat – and yanked Desmond into the shed, slamming the door behind them. For a moment Desmond lay on the floor, his breathing coming in ragged gasps through the mask. His hands and arms looked painful and raw, but his clothes had given him some protection from the acid snow, and the mask had saved him from the worst of the fumes. Gently, Sawyer removed the mask. “Thank you, brother,” the Scotsman said. “Don’t thank me,” said Sawyer, donning the mask. “The Lord helps those who helps themselves. And I ain’t your brother,” he added caustically, taking two steps towards the door. “See you in another life -” Then he opened the door, took a deep breath and hurtled out into the snow.
* * * If she hadn’t followed Hugo, she thought, then Rose would have succumbed with the rest. As it was, it was close; she wasn’t as young (or, let’s face it, as slender) as she once had been, and she and Bernard had had to run – “What in tarnation was it?” he’d said, when finally they’d reached the fence. “Some kind of fallout? Poison gas?” But Rose’s breath had been spent by then, and all she’d been able to do was gasp for breath, then watch as the helicopters circled the camp, then cling to him and shed tears of horror and pity for all those poor people trapped in there, while Bernard comforted her as best he could, his ravaged face turned to the sky. Napalm, he thought. Some kind of gas. What the hell were they doing here? Here in this tropical war zone? Dammit, he was a dentist. Didn’t that count for something? How had he been dragged into this – shooting people, seeing friends die – when he’d never even been in a fight, let alone this kind of thing – “What kind of people would do this?” Rose was sobbing into his shoulder. “There might have been anyone in that camp. Women, even children. Honey, who would do a thing like that?” Helplessly, Bernard shook his head. And as they watched, two of the helicopters – they’d counted four – peeled off from the rest and moved away, carrying their cargo of death to yet another settlement…
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Post by keyserzozie on Apr 29, 2008 15:45:31 GMT -4
Chapter 89. Mikhail had seen it before. The filmy substance that looked like snow, that smelt like sulphur and that fell now on the barracks; he’d seen it before, a long time ago, and a finger of ice went down his back. He turned his good eye towards Richard. The injured man had been sleeping fitfully on a sofa at the back of the room– or at least, pretending to sleep. Now he looked completely alert, his dark eyes filled with malice – and yes, a kind of satisfaction. Richard was not afraid to die. Mikhail already knew that. In fact, he thought maybe he welcomed it. Mikhail sometimes wondered whether Richard’s adoption of young Benjamin Linus had not been due to some kind of subliminal death wish; a subconscious urge to finish it; to end it now and forever, for once and for all time. “DHARMA or Mittelos?” Richard said. Mikhail shrugged. “Does it matter to you?” “I suppose not.” His voice was bland. “Both would value me equally. You, however, have something to lose. I suggest, if you want to keep it -” He motioned towards the locked door. Beyond it, sounds of panic rang – screams, cries, thudding sounds – soon, there would be shooting. All the better, Mikhail thought. He was good at shooting. He gave Richard his craggy smile. “Not without some answers,” he said. “We have – I think – ten, fifteen, maybe even twenty minutes. I believe I can break quite a number of your bones before they come to rescue you.” Richard shot him a look of contempt. “If I told you the truth, you’d lose your mind.” “Many people think I am mad,” said Mikhail in a calm voice. “But I know more than you think, Richard. Also, I am a Russian. Russians believe in many strange things. To a Russian, nothing is impossible.” “There’s no time,” Richard said, looking sharply at Mikhail. Mikhail showed his teeth. “There is all the time in the world,” he said.
* * * “So, what happened out there, that day at the hut?” Locke had known that sooner or later, Alex’s curiosity would prompt her to ask the question. The quandary was; should he tell her the truth? That her father had shot him in cold blood? Or should he spare her feelings, and lie? “I saw – Walt,” he said at last. “As clearly as I see you now.” They were less than a mile from the barracks now, scanning the ground for the journal, scanning the air for a sign of attack, Locke moving ahead with the gun in his hand, Hurley bringing up the rear. “Walt?” said Alex. Unexpectedly, she grinned. “Yes, he was trouble from the start. Too much for even Dad, in the end. You thought you’d forced his hand back there. You thought you’d made a bargain with him; his life in exchange for Walt going free. Fact is, he was racking his brain for any excuse to back down, to get rid of Walt before he did someone an injury -” Locke stared. “What do you mean? An injury?” “Well, I’m not really sure,” Alex said. “Dad always tried to keep me away. But Karl told me things – I overheard stuff – people kept seeing him outside, even though he wasn’t there, and one day, near the place where they were keeping him, there were all these dead birds, I mean, hundreds of them -” Locke nodded pensively. Now he thought he understood. He had long suspected that Walt might have skills. Michael had implied as much. And so had Sayid – and Shannon – He dismissed the thought of Shannon before it could lead him to Boone. Boone, whose death – whose sacrifice - had seemed like the work of destiny, and which now he viewed with something like doubt. Instead he thought of Walt, and smiled. Latent paranormal ability, boosted, perhaps, by stress and by the incredible power source that somehow came from the island itself- Suddenly, he remembered Aaron, and the strange episode that had occurred on the beach, in the tent, before Claire went away. A poltergeist, he’d called it then; and yet John Locke, who believed many things, didn’t believe in spectres and ghosts. But the infinite power of the mind –well, that was something he could believe. And now he was beginning to suspect that it wasn’t the island that had healed him at all, but that some force on the island had somehow boosted his desire, his overwhelming urge to walk – And like Lazarus, he had arisen – But Lazarus was dead, he thought, and a chill went abruptly down his spine. Lazarus was already dead, and hadn’t Anthony Cooper said: a little hot for Heaven, ain’t it? The thought had been absurd, of course. Locke wasn’t sure he believed in God, at least not in the conventional way. The God of the Old Testament, who seemed to delight in repeatedly testing his creatures to destruction, was as far removed from Locke’s gentle mysticism as it was possible to be. And as for the concept of Heaven and Hell, he’d always rejected it as primitive and barbaric. Another kind of afterlife, a journey to a different plane – now that, he thought, might be possible. But this wasn’t it, he told himself. Even with Naomi’s report that the wreckage of Flight 815 had been found – all bodies accounted for – the idea that this might be some form of afterlife was beyond imagining. And yet, Cooper had been his father, thought Locke, and that made his voice very hard to ignore. I need to talk to Ben, he thought, and quickened his step a little more. Still, he could not banish the uneasy idea, as the reek of sulphur filled the air, that Ben was as much in the dark as he, and that Jacob, whoever, whatever he was, had one last test for the both of them, a test that neither would survive -
* * * “I will begin,” the Russian said. “It sounds like a folk tale from my youth. Once, many, many years ago, there was a man, a traveller from an ancient land, whose ship was wrecked on a deserted island. This was a most resourceful man, and he survived, though most of his companions did not. Time passed; no rescue came; and finally, on a sweep of the island, he found that he was not alone.” Mikhail looked quizzically at Richard. “Tell me if I am right so far. Or this time, I shall break your leg.” Richard returned his stare with a look of cold dislike. “Get on with it, if you must,” he said. Mikhail went on: “To his surprise the man discovered the remains of another vessel, stranded, not by the seashore, but far inland, on a mountainside. This second vessel was not a ship. Not a sailing ship, anyway.” “I hope they kill you,” Richard said. “Very slowly and painfully.” “This - second ship - had suffered badly. It had crashed into the mountainside, causing tremors in the still-active volcano. The man, fearing the wrath of the mountain, took refuge in a nearby cave. And in the cave, he heard the voice of the god, which spoke to him in these words -” “This is ridiculous,” interrupted Richard. Mikhail looked slightly hurt. “I was considered quite a storyteller in my homeland.” “I’ve had my fill of superstitions,” said Richard, glaring at him. “Yes, it must have been difficult,” said the Russian thoughtfully. “To come down the mountain filled with knowledge, a knowledge you knew you could never share. But your people – the ones who survived the wreck – they needed someone to take charge. Not you – no, you knew, even then, that you wanted to be, not the king himself, but the eminence behind the throne. And so you chose a figurehead, a leader among your people. Let us call him Ozymandias. You made yourself his adviser. You whispered advice into his ears. You gave him power – magic, he thought. Power to heal, power to smite his enemies, to build great monuments to himself - even power to raise the dead. The price you paid was a secret, known only to yourself – and to the being who had summoned you – the being we now know as Jacob. Your reward -” he gave a mirthless smile – “was the gift - or the curse - of much-prolonged life; dead cells regenerated, injuries healed, all the ills of the body repaired by repeated proximity to the power source.” He looked at Richard thoughtfully. “I imagine it was exhilarating. At least, it must have been at the start. But the others had more important concerns; as time passed on the island, their children were born dead, or not at all. The mothers – of which there were few – quickly perished. All hope was lost. And his people cursed Ozymandias, and they toppled his effigies into the dust -” “That Russian love of hyperbole,” said Richard in a tart voice. “It was a great deal simpler than that. They asked him to help them. He couldn’t. He failed. And so they killed him. It was no surprise to any of us. It was what people did in those days when their gods disappointed them.” Mikhail gave a twisted smile. “Things have not altered very much. You saw the way the wind blew. They needed a scapegoat. You gave them Benjamin. Who would have been next to take command, Richard? I am thinking Alex, yes?” Richard said nothing. Mikhail shrugged. “I believe a broken tibia can be quite excruciating,” he said. Richard glared at him again. “Slowly and very painfully,” he said. Mikhail lifted his right foot. “Yes, of course, Alex,” Richard said. “Believe me, she was not my choice. But Jacob insisted…” “Ah, yes, we come to Jacob,” said Mikhail, interrupting. “As now we reach the end of the tale. This traveller lived for many years, and for many years, folk came and went. More ships –other vessels - were stranded on the island. This may not have been a coincidence. In each case, the same thing happened, with greater or lesser variations. The traveller began to feel that on this island, time had ceased to work at all, that this was just a series of games being played and replayed again and again. Chess or chequers, or backgammon – he would have known of backgammon, yes?” Wordlessly, Richard nodded. “Like Sisyphus, rolling his rock eternally up that hill, doomed always to begin again, until the end of time itself. And over the years – the centuries – the man began to understand. By then he had learned many things. He no longer believed in the gods of his youth. The man in the side of the mountain had cured him of superstition. He learnt that even the magic he had seen with his own eyes was simply a question of superior science, and the man inside the mountain – the man he had once thought was a god – was simply another traveller, a traveller who had lost his way -” “All this is very vague,” said Richard with a little sneer. “I have a feeling you don’t know quite as much about this as you’d have me believe.” He looked at the window, and saw that the flakes of white had ceased to fall. “I also think you’re out of time.” “He was from the future, was he not?” Mikhail didn’t even spare a glance at the window as he uttered the words. Even to speak them – nonsense as they undoubtedly were – gave the Russian a sense of tremendous relief, as if they had been choking him for so many years that he had almost forgotten what it was like to breathe. And it made a twisted kind of sense, he thought, for all its apparent absurdity. A traveller from the future, here to seek out the faulty gene that makes human beings destroy each other. A traveller from another time, bearing knowledge, crashed here, unable to get home again, at first believing he could make a change to a bleak and hopeless future, that he could stop the world from destroying itself, then, driven insane through loneliness, venting his frustration against the entire human race in a kind of mad, existential rage – As he’d said himself, Russians believed in all kinds of things. And to Mikhail, it made sense; the traveller, filled with hope; the exile, filled with rage; the prisoner, filled with hate – he could almost identify with Jacob, with his loneliness, his misanthropy… He realized, with a sudden start, that Richard was laughing. “Is that your theory?” he said, and now Mikhail could hear the sound of propellers as one or more of the helicopters came in to land. Soon, there would be shooting, he thought, and story time would be over. “Did Benjamin spin you that tale?” Troubled, Mikhail shook his head. “Ben told me nothing,” he said slowly. “In any case, nothing but parables; the story of Sisyphus, and of the traveller from antiquity.” Richard went off into another bout of laughter, apparently heedless of Mikhail’s darkening expression. “Listen to me, Mikhail,” he said. “Time travel is just a fairy tale. I thought you had it for a second – but now I see you’ve got nothing. Nothing but airs and vapours – another Russian wannabe, sozzled with vodka and out of his mind -” Just then, just at that moment, the door of the house was flung open, and two armed men wearing gas masks and holding machine guns burst inside. Mikhail dropped to the floor, diving for cover with extraordinary speed whilst firing his gun with his left hand. A volley of shots rang out in response, scissoring through the tainted air. Richard had time to hold out his hands; to call out – No! It’s Richard! Stop! – to feel the bullets thump into his chest – one, two, three, four – to see the military uniforms and to understand that this wasn’t DHARMA, or even a cell of the Mittelos group – and then he was lying on the ground, staring up at the ceiling, feeling no pain, but a deep and quiet wonderment, a kind of almost childlike surprise that, after so many years, his life – his long, long life – was over. * * *
After so many years of hating him, of loving him in spite of her hate, of doubting him, of trusting him, of wanting him, of searching for him and telling herself that it was just so that she could reject him again, to make him suffer as she once had, now that he had told her the truth, Annie no longer knew what to believe. The anger that had been her companion for more than sixteen lonely years had melted away like spring frost, leaving her naked and vulnerable. She had expected him to sweet-talk her; to blind her with words, to justify himself with grand ideologies. She had not expected this disarming simplicity, this inarticulate sadness. It was almost as if he knew something, something that made it all - arguments and justifications – ultimately futile. “Where was Locke taking you?” The cabin was bare and unwelcoming in spite of the shelter it offered them. Instead, they had found a place to lie outside, on the soft grass. To Annie, it seemed cleaner that way, under the stars, like the first time, with the scent of bougainvillea drifting over the sill-warm ground, and the sounds of night birds and small creatures making the underbrush whisper. “To the Temple,” said Ben, head pillowed in his hands, staring up at the starry sky. In the silvery light he looked very young, the ghost of the boy he once had been. “What are you going to do there? And how are you going to get inside?” Ben shrugged. “I’ll manage,” he said. His quiet self-confidence was not conceit, Annie told herself. It was simply certainty. She realized then that, once again he had evaded her question. “What are you going to do?” she said, putting a gentle hand on his chest. He did not reply, but looked at the sky, his eyes brimming with starlight. “Ben, what are you going to do?” “This,” he said. And kissed her. Later, she had time to wonder whether it hadn’t just been another trick, a diversion to stop her from questioning him. But that, she knew, was another vestige of those sixteen years of misery; the Ben she knew, the real Ben had never been able to lie to her. Not with his body, anyway. They lay there, under the indifferent stars, and she was gentle, mindful of his injury, and for a moment, both of them almost forgot that they were at the end of the world, and instead explored each other once more, feeling like adolescents again, clumsy and ardent and sincere and almost dying with tenderness – and neither of them spoke, because anything they said at that time would inevitably have been a lie. And when, much later, she was asleep, Ben brought a blanket from the hut and softly drew it over her. She murmured a little, but did not awake, and after watching her for a while, he turned and quietly left the glade, leaving no footprints in his wake, or even disturbing the drift of ash that encircled Jacob’s ramshackle hut – Then, without a backwards glance, he was gone.
* * *
Chapter 90. “Mikhail Bakunin!” The voice was male; American; roughened, perhaps by age or tobacco. The face was hidden behind a gas mask, but now the man pushed it aside. The air was pretty clear, anyway, and the mask made it difficult to talk. “Mikhail! I know you’re here. Come out, we need to talk.” Mikhail had dived behind the bed, the largest piece of furniture in the room. His gun was good for six shots; after that, there was only the knife in his boot and the one concealed up his right sleeve. He considered the American from his hiding-place. It wouldn’t be a clear shot. His view was restricted, and the man was wearing body armour. To be certain, he needed to go for the head. “Throw down your weapons,” the man went on. “Stand up with your hands in the air.” Mikhail shrugged philosophically. The hardest part of any game was deciding when to throw in your cards. He’d had a long time to play cards during his time in the Flame hatch. He thought he was rather good at it. Patience had always been his game. “I thought you dead,” he told the man, shifting quietly onto his back. The space underneath the bed was small, but he could just fit underneath, shielded from view by the coverlet. “Well, now,” the American drawled. “I might easily say the same of you. Nine lives, Mikhail. How many of them do you think you’ve got left?” Mikhail smiled grimly to himself. The angle from under the bed was no better; the American was neatly shielded by the door-frame, and besides, who knew where his friends might be, just waiting for a sign from him? “I think I will remain here,” he said. “If you have something to say to me -” “You know what I want, Mikhail. Ever since the incident that wiped out our communications – an incident I have good reason to believe was engineered by your man - the anomaly has been spreading. Its effects are no longer containable. It has to be suppressed at the source. In the interests of security -” “Ah. Security. This is why you fire on unarmed civilians,” said Mikhail in a sympathetic tone. “You Americans. It was always the way.” The American took a step forward. Now Mikhail could see his face. The man’s hair had gone a little more grey, but his face was virtually unchanged. Kelvin Inman, back from the dead. The man who had cost Mikhail his eye. A clever, subtle, devious man who had switched allegiances before the DHARMA group was wiped out; and whose knowledge of the island’s mysteries was equal now only to Benjamin’s. “You’re a soldier,” Inman said. “Tough decisions are part of the job.” “Undoubtedly,” replied Mikhail. “But understand my point of view. If I surrender, you will probably kill me. This offers me little incentive to make the capture easy for you.” Inman took a step forward. “I don’t want to shoot you, Mikhail. I just want to know where Ben Linus is.” “Why? To kill him?” “Not at all. I’m hoping you’ll do that for me.” Under the bed, the Russian levelled his gun, aiming the barrel at Inman’s head. “And why would I want to do that?” “Believe me, Mikhail, you will. When I tell you the whole truth, you’ll be begging me to give you the job.” * * * The ship was even closer than they’d thought. Fifteen minutes by chopper, and all of them were safely aboard. Kate hung back as the rest of them – Jack, Sayid and Claire – bombarded their rescuers with questions. In fact, she was more than a little anxious. She’d been so obsessed with going back home that she’d hardly stopped to think about what such a return might mean to her – the questions, the scrutiny, the police – and now she was guilty of two deaths, crimes that would harry her to her grave… “It’s all right. Don’t worry, Kate.” Sarah had changed since reaching the ship. Gone was her frightened, vulnerable look; back with her companions, she looked cool, remote, in total control. Her smile was strictly professional, and Kate, who had never liked the woman, disliked her still more as she reached out her hand and gave Kate a comforting pat on the shoulder. Kate pulled away. “I don’t like to be touched.” “Sorry.” The woman sounded anything but. In fact, Kate was suddenly certain that Sarah was watching her, like a cat with a mouse, waiting to see which way she would run... “There’s someone here to see you,” she said. “They’ve both been very concerned about you.” Once more, Sarah gave that professional smile, like an air hostess with a nervous flyer. Kate’s heart sank. “Who is it?” she said. The law, she supposed; marshals with warrants for her arrest. The thought that Jack would witness that – the thought of his contempt, or worse, his pity – made her tighten her jaw so it ached. “Well, see for yourself,” said Sarah, as two people entered the room. Kate’s eyes widened in shock. No! It can’t be! The first figure was her mother. The second was a middle-aged man; tall and bearishly handsome, his face creased now in a half-smile. A slight scent of whisky hung over him, but he wasn’t drunk, she thought – not yet. It can’t be, she thought again, her eyes now filling with helpless tears – of hate, of rage, of terror. It can’t be, because you were dead – The man was her stepfather.
* * * Desmond wished they would leave him alone. Those flashes, arcane and troubling, useless glimpses into possible worlds where he had no power to alter the course of events, or even to warn the potential victims of the fate that was hanging over them. His arms hurt, and he couldn’t think why. Something to do with Charlie, he thought; something to do with the scuba mask, the mask that could have saved him. Had it snowed? Was it Christmas already? And why did his throat feel so swollen and sore, as if he’d swallowed broken glass? He must have been unconscious, he thought. Not for more than a minute or so; but long enough for the picture to change; for the contents of the box to shift; for the deck to be shuffled once again. Shuffle. Had he seen Sawyer? And had Sawyer spoken to him? He wasn’t sure if it was a dream or if Sawyer had actually said those things. And Alex – had she been there too? Shuffle. A sudden jolt of pain went through his head, accompanied by a flash of light. There was no sound, just images, lurid and disconnected, like pictures in a lantern-show impressed upon his retina. An orange light, flashing on and off. Charlie, drowned behind the glass. A gun going off – a single shot - Alex, her eyes wide in sudden surprise. Rebecca, in front of the Temple - I hope you can swim. I hope you can swim. I hope you can – “Stop it!” He clapped his hands to his ears. Pointless, as there was no sound. Just that phrase swimming round his head like a single goldfish in a bowl. “No! Please! Go away! I don’t want to see these things any more!” A gunshot sounded outside the shed. Someone pushed the door ajar. Desmond tried to move out of the way, but he was helpless, exhausted, his eyes swollen almost-shut by the fumes that had assaulted them. Pleadingly, he reached out a hand, as if to ward off violence. “Karl?” said a hesitant voice. The Scotsman opened streaming eyes. The voice belonged to Alex.
* * * If he ran all the way, he could cover some ground before they realized that he had gone. By the time they returned with the journal, he could be halfway across the island, using routes that only he knew, and by the time they reached the Temple itself, he would be lost in the labyrinthine passages that formed the bowels of the hill. But running was beyond him now; his strength was already much depleted. And he was exhausted – his words to Locke had not been a lie – the dull, aching exhaustion of one on the verge of utter collapse. An ordinary man would have already succumbed. Hunger, fatigue, grief and pain would have brought him to his knees. But Benjamin Linus would not succumb. He would reach the Temple on his knees if that was what he needed to do. If he had to crawl, then he would crawl. He murmured a poem to himself as he walked, allowing his mind to run free, allowing the lovely words to flow over him, soothing him, making him one with the night. In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree, Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. Annie had always liked that poem, and he had recited it to her as they lay on the boardwalk at Pala, the sun-warmed boards hot at their backs, the sound of the sea their lullaby, the words like a distant fairytale. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song To such a deep delight t’would win me – Ben stopped, A sound in the bush, a furtive sound, too quiet to be an animal. “Who’s there?” he said. The bushes parted, and a slight, boyish figure emerged, carrying a canvas satchel. “I thought you might need a few things, Ben,” she said. “To replace the things they took from you. Food, water, some dressings, a shirt – and this, of course.” She pulled something out of a side pocket, and Ben’s eyes opened wide. It was the doll, the wooden doll that Annie had given him for his twelfth birthday, the one he’d believed forever lost – “This is yours, right?” said Cindy. Ben nodded, not trusting his voice. She handed him the satchel. It looked very like the one he’d had taken; light brown canvas, with leather fastenings. It felt worn and familiar in his hands, and as he slung it over his shoulder, its weight on his hip was comforting. “Thank you, Cindy,” was all he said. “Try the shirt,” said the Australian girl. “Trust me, Ben, you could use a change.” Wordlessly, he pulled out the shirt. It was striped in varying tones of green and blue, and it had been carefully ironed, he saw. He took off his own and put it on, relishing the feel of the crisp cotton on his clammy skin. He buttoned it and tucked it into his waistband, smiling grimly at the image in his mind; he felt absurdly like the gunslinger in a hundred old movies, buckling on his gunbelts for the final showdown… If I’m going to die, he thought, at least I’ll die in a nice clean shirt. Cindy looked startled. “Anything wrong?” But Ben did not answer her. There’s really no way to figure him out, thought Cindy, puzzled, shaking her head, as around them in the jungle, as an unexpected sound rang out, sounding against the trees like applause, sending small creatures running for cover and chasing roosting birds from their perch. Benjamin Linus was laughing.
* * * He should never have let the man talk, Mikhail Bakunin thought to himself. He should have shot him when he had the chance, before he could spread his poison. Now it was too late; knowledge had infected him, and it could never be undone. Benjamin. Oh, Benjamin. Kelvin Inman sat on the bed, watching him with sympathy, the same look of sympathy he’d given to Sayid Jarrah whilst sending him off to torture his own people; a sympathy so plausible that Mikhail could almost forget that, many, many years ago this man had shot him point-blank as he slept, simultaneously assuming control both of the Swan hatch and the magnetic anomaly that managed so much of the island’s power - Of course, that was a long time ago. But Mikhail remembered. And now this same man - this very clever, plausible man – was commanding him to kill Benjamin. The worst of it was, he was considering it. Inman’s story made so much sense – and besides, the man’s most dangerous skill was using the truth to serve himself, whereas Benjamin was a master of lies… Mikhail had little doubt that Inman had told him the truth. If that was so, then he was right; only Benjamin Linus’s death would put an end to what was happening here; would neutralize the anomaly – Yes, indeed, thought Mikhail, Inman made an excellent point. Slowly, he nodded. “I believe you,” he said. “Then come out,” said Inman.
* * * The journal was lying on the ground some distance from the barracks. Thoughtfully, Locke picked it up. “Dude, Ben’s gonna be so pissed when he finds out we’ve lost Alex.” Hurley’s face was crinkled with anxiety; his breath came in nervous gasps. The girl had left them as they reached the camp; adamant at finding Karl. Locke had made no effort to stop her; to Hurley, he looked almost entranced, like the time he’d built the sweat lodge. Hurley fervently hoped the guy wasn’t going to go all mystical on him again. Hurley mistrusted mystics. Sooner or later they got into trouble, and Hurley really didn’t want to be there when that happened. In fact, the idea of going back to the beach looked pretty good to Hurley right now. It was a long trek, he thought; but there were plenty of mangoes close by, and he didn’t want DHARMA beer badly enough to risk his skin for the privilege. “I’m not doing this for Ben,” said Locke. “There are things I need to know. Things this journal can tell me.” Hurley made a face. “Dude. There’s nothing in there I need to know.” “You’re not a little curious?” Emphatically, the big man shook his head. “Live and let live, that’s what I say. I think I’m gonna head off back to the beach, see if I can hook up with the others. You go back to Ben if you want – but take it from me, that guy’s bad news. Even a dope like me can see that. Stick around him any longer, man, and you’re gonna be in a world of hurt.” “You’re not a dope,” Locke said. “And I know that Ben is dangerous. Anyone who stays close to him runs the risk of being hurt – not always through Ben’s fault, but because he’s like…” Locke searched for the word. “Imagine a lightning-rod,” he said. “He draws that negative energy. I don’t think he can help it, but -” He gave Hurley a smile of peculiar sweetness and serenity. “Good luck, Hugo,” he said. “See you in another life -” Then he turned and began to run at a hunter’s pace deeper into the silent woods.
* * * Behind his apparent tranquillity, John Locke was far from calm. He had not expected the sudden attack on the castaways, and the thought of it now troubled him deeply. For a start, it had been indiscriminate. To fire from the air at men on the ground – and not just men, he corrected himself – was not the act of a peace-keeping force. He’d expected better of the DHARMA group – which led him to conclude at last that DHARMA had not been responsible, but that this was the work of some other agency, one infinitely less benign. What did they want? he asked himself. And what had Benjamin Linus done to be so persistently hunted? I tried to murder Jacob, he’d said. Since that revelation, Locke had deliberately refrained from pressing Ben further on the subject. Ben would talk when he was ready to talk – or, most likely, not at all. He knew Ben didn’t respond to threats – besides, to offer violence to him would not just have been demeaning to Locke, who considered himself an enlightened man, but totally useless in practical terms; resulting in nothing but more of Ben’s lies. And yet Locke had believed this. It made a twisted kind of sense; that Ben, who had been so highly favoured, so harshly tested, so ruthlessly taught, might one day rebel against Jacob, his protector, his tyrant, his teacher – His father. Yes, it made perfect sense. That Ben, who had killed his own father, and whose price of admission to the Others’ camp had been for Locke to do the same – should ultimately re-enact the scene? Ben had already demonstrated to Locke his own desperate need to break the chain; to be a good father to his adopted daughter, Alex. And when Jacob had threatened her, how psychologically appropriate for Ben to rebel, even though she’d betrayed him? There were so many sides to Ben, he thought. Ruthless leader; manipulative chess-player; doting father; cold-blooded killer; traitor; magician; idealist; judge. Who was the man behind it all? And did Ben himself even know? He fingered the recent cut on his lip. It still stung, and once again he felt surprise at the fact that Ben, the master of icy self-control, could have been goaded to strike him. Afterwards, his calm had returned, and the two men had sat around the campfire in silence, Locke waiting for Ben to speak. It was only a matter of patience, he thought; the man was on the ragged edge; alone and exhausted, with no-one to trust. He would speak, if only for the cold comfort of knowing that someone was listening. At last he had, in a calm voice. “There’s a old Middle Eastern story about a rich man,” he’d said, seemingly addressing the fire. “This man received a summons from Death, at midnight on a certain day, in a certain place in the mountains. Afraid, the rich man changed his name; took on a disguise and fled into the desert, far away, to a distant place called Samarra. There he sought shelter at an inn; told his servants to admit no-one. But on the day and at the hour that Death’s messenger had given him, there came a knock on the door of the inn, and Death Himself came walking in. And He looked around the crowded room, and His eyes came to rest on the rich man, and Death took the rich man’s hand in His own and said: “We have an appointment today, you and I. At midnight, in Samarra.” Locke had frowned, touching his cut lip. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he’d said. “I’m not a fan of parables.” Ben’s drawn face had showed no emotion. Nor had he turned to look at John. Only his eyes had seemed to move, pupils reflecting the firelight. “You’re wondering if you could have been wrong. If coming here could have been a mistake. Whether destiny, as you choose to call it, isn’t simply a word that signifies that neither of us have any choice.” Locke had frowned. “There’s always a choice. I like to believe that we are the architects of our own destiny.” Benjamin had smiled at that. “We sow the seeds of our downfall,” he said. “What comes around goes around. Karma, John, in other words. Karma, the ourobouros, the serpent with its tail in its mouth, sending us back to the start again. And again – and again – and again - until we learn -” Now Locke wished he’d listened more carefully to what Ben had tried to say. At the time he’d been angry at what he felt was Benjamin’s lack of openness; his perpetual doublespeak, his riddles and games and subtleties. Now, with hindsight, Locke thought that Ben might have been trying to test him somehow, to convey some important point in the only way he knew – and that he, Locke, had failed the test. Why had Ben needed the journal? he thought. To stop it falling into enemy hands? Locke had not looked at the journal since he’d found it lying on the floor. He opened it now; and with growing dismay, saw nothing inside that he could make out; nothing but the incomprehensible sequences of numbers that made up Benjamin’s secret code. How stupid he’d been, Locke thought. How stupid and how gullible. The journal had simply been bait, he thought; something to get him out of the way. Suddenly, he knew what he would find when he reached the glade and Jacob’s hut. Benjamin was long gone, on the way to the Temple, off to keep his appointment with Death - his appointment in Samara.
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Post by keyserzozie on Apr 29, 2008 15:46:34 GMT -4
Chapter 91. For a moment Kate was lost for words. You were dead, she wanted to say, but her tongue was stapled to the roof of her mouth. Her head throbbed; her eyes stung; she felt almost ready to suffocate. “It’s okay, hon,” her mother said. “They told me you might be a little – confused – you know, after the accident?” Kate stared at her speechlessly. The last time she’d seen her mother, she’d been on the run for murder. What was happening? she thought. Had her mother lost her mind? She’d never been as strong as Kate. Had the events of recent months finally caused her to disassociate herself completely from reality? But he was dead, she told herself. I know he was. I killed him myself. She forced herself to look at him, to look her stepfather in the face. He was smiling. “How are you, Kate?” She forced herself to answer. “Fine.” It was a nightmare, she told herself. How could it be otherwise? Her stepfather – no, her father, she corrected herself with gritted teeth – gave a broad and predatory smile. “Come on, sweetheart.” He took her hand. “We’re taking you back home with us. You need a bit of family time. Time with people who love you.” And that was when Kate began to scream, unable to prevent herself, unable to stop, or even to think, her hands clapped helplessly over her ears – - No! No! No! No! “What’s wrong with Kate?” said Jack to Sarah, hearing the muffled sounds from the lounge. “Well, it’s an emotional time for her,” said Sarah with a narrow smile. “Don’t worry, she’s with family now. Besides -” the smile broadened a notch. “You also have a visitor. He’s been very worried about you, Jack. He flew all the way out from Australia -” Jack frowned. “Who did? I don’t know anyone over there -” “Don’t be like that,” said Sarah. “I know you didn’t part on the best of terms, but Jack, he is your father -” There was a dreadful silence. Jack wasn’t sure what he’d just heard. “What?” he said blankly. Sarah sighed. “Well, you could sound a little more pleased, Jack,” came a voice from the open door. “I came as soon as I heard you were here.” The dreadful silence lengthened, nightmarish, pressing on Jack like the weight of the world. Dr Shepherd (senior) sighed. “They warned me you might be like this at first,” he said in his grave and professional tone. “The kind of stress you’ve been under recently can cause some serious side-effects. I’ll have a word with the hospital as soon as we get home. Don’t worry, we’ll soon get you back on your feet.” He smiled, revealing perfect, white teeth. “Now, Sarah, I can’t answer for Jack, but I for one could use a drink -”
* * * “He left a number of hours ago,” said Mikhail in a neutral voice. “You have little chance of catching up with him, still less of taking him unawares.” Inman looked unperturbed. “That’s why I’m sending you,” he said. He pulled out two shot glasses and a bottle of vodka from inside his camouflage suit. “Now, where did you say he was heading?” Mikhail waited for the other man to drink before draining his own glass. The vodka was of excellent quality, he noticed with approval. Polish, not American. If this was to be his last drink, then at least it was a good one. “He will make for the Temple,” he said. “But do not believe you will track him down. He knows the caves. He will easily evade you there.” Kelvin Inman looked amused. “You sound as if you admire the man. And yet you’re going to kill him for me.” Mikhail looked inscrutable. “I take it you haven’t forgotten how to fly a chopper?” “Not since yesterday,” said Mikhail. Inman smiled. “So that was you? I figured as much. Okay. Well, I suggest you take one of these -” he gestured at the two small craft that stood in the centre of the compound, props rotating lazily. “You can be back on the ground in less than an hour. Then, you just wait for Linus to turn up, and…” “And shoot him. If it is necessary.” The Russian’s voice was toneless. “For the present, I have only your word that it is. And forgive me if I do not accept your word without questioning -” “You will,” said Inman. “Wait and see.” The Russian’s expression did not change. “You’re wondering why I don’t go myself,” Inman went on in a mild tone. “You’re wondering what my game is.” “I know what it is,” said Mikhail. “Self-interest, as always.” Inman lifted an eyebrow. “And yours is -” “The same,” he said. “I’ll drink to that,” said Inman, grinning. “Prosit!” He poured two more glasses of vodka. They drank. Suddenly, the front door opened again. Two soldiers, dressed like Inman in not-quite-standard camouflage suits and carrying rapid-fire weapons of a type Mikhail did not recognize, appeared in the open doorway. “Sir, we found these two hiding next door.” Mikhail looked beyond them, trying to identify the prisoners. Both, he saw, were handcuffed. He recognized the Scotsman, the mystic who seemed to have second sight, his face and hands blistered with the effects of the gas that had come from the flakes of toxic snow. Desmond slumped in his handcuffs, offering no resistance. The second prisoner was less passive, struggling madly against her captors, smudgy face defiant and wild beneath a mane of tangled hair. Mikhail put down his glass and smiled. “Hello, Alexandra,” he said. * * * In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree – Benjamin had forgotten the words, so deep was his exhaustion. In fact, Cindy thought he might actually have fallen asleep as he staggered along the narrow path, his steps now coming in crazy loops, his eyes half-closed. How many nights had he not slept? How many days had he not eaten? “You need to rest,” she’d told him firmly. “I need a lot of things,” he said. Of course, he’d brought it on himself. All the same, Cindy could still find it in herself to feel for him. She followed in his footsteps, aware that by now he was hardly conscious of her presence. When she heard the approaching sounds from the jungle, and suddenly realized what they were, she knew a moment of terrible doubt – was Ben even strong enough to run? And then the polar bear emerged from the bush, a half-grown male, lithe and fast, and there was no time for speculation. It must have scented blood on Ben – blood and fatigue, the scent of prey. I really didn’t sign up for this, thought Cindy, drawing the gun at her belt. The bear was on all fours, on the path. Its dark eyes sought Ben’s blue ones. Its nostrils flared. Its jaws flexed. “Ben,” she whispered. “Get out of the way!” Slowly, the polar bear stood up. Half-grown as it was, it topped Ben by a foot. Trembling, Cindy raised the gun. There was no doubt in her mind that she could hit it at this distance. But could she kill it in one shot? Wounded, the animal would attack. One swipe of its paw would tear Ben’s face off – She had to try, she told herself. And then, just as she was about to fire, the impossible happened. The bear stood down. Dropped back onto all fours again. Gave one last, lingering look at Ben, who had not lowered his gaze for a moment, and shambled off into the jungle. Cindy found she was trembling. Anger, belated and irrational, coursed abruptly through her veins. “Ben,” she said. “You have to sleep. You have to let it go for a while. You’re tired. You’re hurt. You’re losing it. That wound of yours isn’t properly healed. And that bear – it could have – goddammit, Ben! It could have torn us both apart!” Ben turned to face her, deathly pale. Only a supreme effort of will was keeping him on his feet at all. “You stayed,” he said, and his exhausted voice now held a note of wonderment. “Well, of course I stayed!” Cindy said crossly. “Who else was there to look after you? Ben, you’re going to have to sleep. Listen, I’ll watch over you. I’ll wake you in an hour or two -” He smiled. “Someone to watch over me?” “Something like that. Please, Ben -” He was fast asleep even before she had collected the makings of a bed. An armful of dried ferns, some grass, a pillow made from his discarded shirt – Asleep, she noticed how young he looked; how young and how very vulnerable. Of course she’d been chosen for her charm; for her ability to empathize; for her capable hands; for her quick brain, for her air of quiet authority. An air hostess needs all these things. An air hostess – or something else. For a moment she almost wished it were true; that she could simply look after him; watch over him as he healed and slept - She kept a watchful eye on his face as she reached into her satchel, ready to move if he awoke. But Benjamin Linus slept the sleep, if not of the just, then perhaps of the dead. He did not move as Cindy pulled out a black, streamlined satellite phone from a pocket of her satchel. He did not stir as she dialled, nor did his breathing alter at all as she spoke softly into the mouthpiece: “Hello?” she said. “It’s Rebecca. I’ve got him here. We’re on our way.” * * *
Chapter 92. Hurley was daydreaming, which was nothing new. Since he had been on the island, he had had almost daily visions of home. Sometimes it was Mom yelling for him to come downstairs for dinner, sometimes it was the record store and Starla, sometimes it was of weekends spent aimlessly kicking around with Johnny. Hell, sometimes it was ping-pong at the hospital. But now Hurley was daydreaming of something else. In his mind’s eye, he would break out of the dense jungle foliage onto the beach and see uneven rows of makeshift tents. Claire would be dancing around with Aaron while Charlie riffed on the guitar. Jack and Sawyer would be arguing about something, both furiously posturing for Kate, who would be smiling brilliantly. Walt would be throwing a ball for Vincent. And Locke would be…well, Locke wouldn’t be there. He would be hunting some animal which would be their dinner. Trekking away from the barracks toward the beach, those early days of survival seemed idyllic. There was no Ben, no Others, no Jacob. The greatest enemies were heat and sand-fleas; and the much-anticipated helicopters carried only salvation. Hurley missed those days. He missed Charlie. Mostly he missed the days when he would have been surprised to break into a clearing and see a man in a rumpled Dharma jumpsuit sitting on a rock, sipping plain-label beer. But as he watched the man crush the empty can and reach for another, Hurley realized he wasn’t surprised at all. He sighed and walked into the clearing. “How’s it going, Roger?” he asked. “Same old, same old,” the now-deceased elder Linus replied. Hurley sat down and took the can that Roger held out to him. It was cold. Well, if somebody is going to conjure up phantom beer, good for them for making it cold, he thought. He took a swig, resisting the urge to chug the whole can. “It’s good you weren’t at the barracks during the attack,” Roger said. His mention of the assault on his friends ruined Hurley’s moment of enjoyment. “Yeah,” said Hurley. “Good for me, I guess.” He squinted at his companion. “I don’t suppose you would tell me if everybody is okay. I mean, do you know?” Roger nodded. “Most of them are alive. They are being rounded up.” “By who?” Hurley asked. “Don’t know,” Roger shrugged. “Are they going to hurt them?” Hurley asked. Please say no, he thought. Please don’t make me go help them. He immediately felt guilty for his selfishness, but he still hoped Roger would say no. “Probably,” Roger replied. “But they’ve got bigger problems that that right now. We all do.” “What are you talking about?” Hurley wished they guy would just say what he came to say and then go back where he came from. Besides, what kind of problem could a ghost have? I’m starting to understand why Ben is the way he is, Hurley mused. This guy is an a-hole. “Look, I know you don’t want to talk to me,” Roger began, and Hurley almost spit out his beer in the panicked thought that the ghost could read his mind. “Uh, dude, can you read minds?” Hurley asked, figuring it was at least worth asking. “No,” Roger replied, looking slightly confused. “At least I don’t think so. I’ve never tried.” Hurley drained his can of beer and then faced the other man squarely. “So what do you want? Why are you sitting in my path with a cold six-pack?” Roger set his can down carefully on the rock. “Where are you headed?” he asked seriously. “You mean, like, in life? Or in the afterlife, like heaven?” asked Hurley. “No,” said Roger. “I mean, are you headed back to the beach? Or where?” “Oh. Uh, the beach. I was going to see if anybody else made it back there,” Hurley wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to explain his beeline away from the site of trouble. “Well, I don’t blame you,” said Roger. “But I think you should go in that direction.” He pointed over Hurley’s shoulder. “What is in that direction?” Hurley asked. He was pointing away from the beach, the barracks, even the entry to the tunnel under the mountain. “My son,” Roger said sadly. “Yeah, I don’t think so,” Hurley replied. Then catching the other man’s look of disappointment he added, “Why would I go there?” “To help him,” said Roger. Hurley almost laughed. “Like he wants my help,” he snorted. “Anyway, I don’t think he needs it. Locke is going to catch up with him and he is more, well, if Locke can’t help then I certainly can’t.” “Don’t sell yourself short,” Roger said. “Not you too,” Hurley sighed. “What?” asked Roger “Everybody is suddenly all concerned about my self-esteem. ‘You’re good enough, Hugo.’ ‘You’re smart enough, Hugo.’ Jeez, I feel like I’m back at the friggin’ hospital. Besides,” Hurley stammered a moment. “No offense, dude. Your son is kind of creepy.” To Hurley’s surprise, Roger did not look offended. In fact he smiled hollowly. “Tell me about it.” “Oh sorry. I forgot the whole…” Hurley dragged a finger across his throat. “Don’t worry about it,” Roger replied, and handed Hurley another beer. “But it started way before that. I was no prize-winner as a father, I admit that.” He paused and looked earnestly at Hurley before going on. “But Ben was a weird little kid,” he said finally. Hurley hid his smile in a fit of coughing as Roger continued. “He was always reading.” Roger pronounced the last word like it tasted bad. “And not normal books either. No comics, no Hardy Boys. He liked to read damned textbooks.” He shook his head as if it still confounded him. “About anything – science, philosophy, history, religion. He has never stepped inside a church in his life, but I bet you he has read a book about every religion that ever was. Every shipment that came in here had a whole crate of books that he had asked for.” He sipped his beer, seemingly lost in his reminiscences. “Couldn’t hit a baseball to save his life, though,” he muttered. Hurley set down his second empty can and adjusted his knapsack on his back. “Look, Roger,” he said. “I don’t know why you are here or why you think I need to go help Ben, but I think I need to get back to the beach and find out what’s going on.” His voice sounded certain, but inside, Hurley’s enthusiasm for the beach was waning. It wouldn’t be like he had pictured it. Charlie was gone. Jack was gone. Hurley shook his head in disgust. He had always gotten big laughs with his impressions of Jack, even though they bore a strong resemblance to his William Shatner impression with its overdramatic intensity. But down deep he had liked the guy. Sure, he needed to lighten up, but he just had a way of keeping people together and making you feel like somebody was in charge. Hurley would never have guessed he would run out and leave the rest of them standing on the ground as he flew away with his new girlfriend. Or his old wife – Hurley hadn’t really understood that one. Anyway, the beach would probably just be a bunch of people wandering in circles, not knowing what to do. Or worse yet, looking to Hurley for direction. Still, following Roger’s suggestion to go join up with Ben did not sound that appealing either. Hurley wondered where Rose and Bernard were. Roger’s voice, at least it sounded like Roger’s voice, drifted through his ruminations. “You gotta have faith, Hugo,” it said. “What the…?” Hurley’s attention snapped back to the present. “What did you say?” “You gotta have faith,” Roger repeated, in the same defeated tone he always used. But Hurley only heard his mother, her voice sharp and accented. You gotta have faith, Hugo. “Who are you, man?” Hurley demanded. “Are you Jacob?” Roger shook his head and pointed to his name badge. “Did Jacob send you?” Hurley insisted, standing up. “No,” said Roger. “I guess not.” Hurley sighed. “You don’t have any idea, do you?” “Not really,” Roger admitted. He spared a longing look at the last beer in the six-pack, and then stood up to face Hurley. “I really think you need to go that way,” he pleaded, pointing in the same direction he had earlier. Hurley looked over his shoulder toward the valley. “And do what?” he asked. “Help Ben,” Roger replied. “Help Ben do what?” Hurley asked. “Don’t know,” said Roger. “Great.” Hurley shook his head. “You’re kind of a sucky Yoda, you know.” He heaved a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Well, I guess I’m off to help Ben somehow, to do something. This should be fun.” “Hey Hugo,” Roger said as Hurley started to walk away. “It’s probably better if y ou don’t tell Ben you talked to me.” “Right,” said Hurley. And as he started down the hill toward a part of the island he had never seen before, he somehow felt better than he had in a week.
* * *
Chapter 93.
“Calm down, Alexandra,” Mikhail said gently as Alex continued to struggle against her captor. “You won’t get free of him, and even if you did he would shoot you before you could run ten feet.” Unhappily, Alex obeyed, but not before administering one last nasty kick to the soldier’s shin. “There’s a good girl,” Kelvin said. “Let’s just make this easy on everybody.” At the sound of his voice, Desmond stirred from his stupor, squinting in Kelvin’s general direction. Water poured from his bloodshot eyes, and he raised his hand as if to rub the fog from his vision. “Don’t!” Mikhail snapped, snatching Desmond’s hand away from his face just in time. “Trust me, you don’t want that in your eyes,” he explained. Mikhail pulled his own hand away as he began to feel the burning through thick callouses. He turned back to Kelvin. “Do you have some reason to torture this man or may he be allowed to wash this off?” Kelvin’s eyes narrowed and he regarded Mikhail for a moment. “Why do you care?” “Call me a sentimental fool, but I take no satisfaction in the suffering of others,” Mikhail replied levelly. For a moment Kelvin only glared and it seemed he would reply angrily, but then he broke into a broad grin. “I would never call you sentimental, Mik,” he said, chuckling at his own joke. Then turning to his men he ordered, “Get him cleaned up.” Still staring at Kelvin through bleary eyes, Desmond was escorted down the hall. “Well, I guess you should be on your way, too,” Kelvin said, slapping Mikhail jovially on the shoulder. “Things to do. People to see.” “Not quite yet,” Mikhail said. “What is he talking about, Mikhail?” Alex asked, a mix of suspicion and fear in her eyes. “What are you doing for him?” Mikhail did not answer but shot Kelvin a look and walked into the kitchen. “Why don’t you just get comfortable, sweetheart,” Kelvin said to Alex. He motioned his men to take her to the living room then followed Mikhail. “Don’t think you can prevent this by stalling,” Kelvin said. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Mikhail replied. “Good,” said the American. “Because there is a backup plan, well, several really; just in case you were unwilling to see reason.” “So why send me at all?” Mikhail asked. Kelvin shrugged. “It’s cleaner this way.” Then he smiled malevolently. “Besides, you killing Ben – why that’s poetry. I thought it would appeal to you.” Mikhail simply stared, unwilling to reveal his revulsion at the scenario that this man found so humorous. “Well, unless you expect me to kill him with my bare hands, I will need my rifle back.” “Are you saying you couldn’t?” Kelvin asked. This time it was Mikhail’s turn to smile. “Of course I could. Just as easily as I could kill you right now.” “Aw, you don’t want to do that,” Kelvin said without missing a beat. “We’re on the same side here, old buddy.” “It seems to me that you are on whichever side appears to be winning…buddy,” Mikhail replied. “You noticed that, huh,” Kelvin said with a grin. “All the more reason for you to get on board.” “I am on board already,” said Mikhail, something like resignation in his voice. “If I wasn’t, you would be dead.” Kelvin laughed out loud. “You’ve got moxie, Bakunin. I’ll give you that.” “I relish the compliment,” Mikhail replied with feigned sincerity. “Now, my rifle?” Kelvin considered for a moment and then said. “Yeah, probably better not to give the little weasel a chance to talk. You know you were always a sucker for his bullshit.” “As I apparently am for yours,” Mikhail said flatly. “Jennings!” Kelvin shouted, and in an instant a soldier appeared in the doorway. “Give the man your weapon.” The young man hesitated only a second before Kelvin barked, “That’s an order, son.” Mikhail reached out to receive the gun that the soldier reluctantly handed over. Noticing the missing digits, Kelvin said, “Jesus, Mikhail, you are losing body parts at an alarming rate.” Mikhail peered at his companion with his remaining eye. “Accidents will happen,” he said. “Hey, I am sorry about that,” Kelvin said, in a tone that indicated at least an honest dose of self-consciousness, if not genuine remorse. Mikhail was examining the rifle and did not look up. “We all do what we must,” he murmured. “And besides, the eyepatch makes me look sexy, no?” Kelvin chuckled but declined to answer, instead dismissing the young soldier standing uncomfortably in the doorway. “Ammunition?” Mikhail requested. “You surely won’t need more than one,” Kelvin said. “I may see some rabbits along the way,” Mikhail replied, and Kelvin reached into his vest to retrieve a handful of ammunition. “So what is this backup plan?” Mikhail asked as he stowed the spare bullets in his pocket. “Nothing you need to concern yourself about,” Kelvin replied. “No?” said Mikhail. “It just occurs to me that perhaps you are sending me on this mission because you don’t wish to get caught in the crossfire of your own backup plan.” “Fair enough,” Kelvin nodded. He leaned against the counter and lit the stub of a cigar that he had been clenching in his teeth. “The people I work for have been looking for this place for a long time. A lot longer than I have been around. So ever since your boss started jamming communications out of here, they have planted sleepers on every mode of transportation that came within a thousand miles – cruise ships, military vessels, commercial flights. They figured sooner or later one of them would end up here.” “So you are saying one of your sleepers was here before you arrived?” Mikhail asked, trying to keep his tone one of casual curiosity. Ben had worried that DHARMA or the Hanso Foundation or any number of organizations may have had agents under deep cover, hoping to establish a mole on the island. With this in mind, all of his recruits had all been meticulously investigated before they were brought to the island. Investigated by Richard, Mikhail thought heavily. He thought of the strangely ageless traitor lying dead in the back room and wished that the soldiers could have been delayed a few minutes more. A world of knowledge had died along with Richard. “I expect so,” Kelvin replied. “But don’t ask me who it is,” he said quickly, cutting off Mikhail’s next question. “I’m just a footsoldier. I’m not privy to that kind of information.” “Of course not,” Mikhail said. He could see that Inman’s patience for chit-chat had worn thin and he was unlikely to glean any further information from him. “Shall we?” Mikhail said, slinging the rifle over his shoulder. “Please,” Kelvin replied with exaggerated politeness, gesturing for Mikhail to go ahead. When they walked back into the living room, Desmond and his escort had returned. Desmond’s hair was slick with moisture, and he was dressed in ill-fitting pants and shirt, presumably borrowed from the homeowner’s closet. Alex merely glowered and looked away, but Desmond’s eyes were fixed on Kelvin. “Hey, Dez,” Kelvin said genially. “Long time, no see.” “How?” Desmond asked quietly. He thought he had become inured to the insane happenings of the island, but the memory of this man’s dead face had haunted him, the sticky feel of blood on his hands, the overwhelming loneliness of those first few moments after. The sight of Kelvin standing before him chomping contentedly on a cigar made him dizzy. “There’s nothing like death to give you a new lease on life, brother” Kelvin said. Desmond could only stare. “Well, we’ll have to catch up later, Dez,” Kelvin went on. “Mikhail has an errand to run.” He clapped Mikhail on the back by way of steering him out the door. Mikhail held up a moment longer. Alex was staring at him, her eyes filled with confusion. Mikhail could not think of anything to say to her, and his gaze dropped to the floor. Noting the silent exchange, Kelvin said, “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll fill you in later.” Suddenly there was a movement in Alex’s knapsack, which had been abandoned by the door when she was manhandled inside by the soldiers. A tiny nose and whiskers peeked out, and then a streak of gray flashed across the floor toward Mikhail, who instinctively held out his hand. Nadia leapt effortlessly onto his arm and immediately began purring furiously. A smile of uncommon warmth spread across the Russian’s grizzled face and he stroked her tattered fur with his free hand. Everyone else in the room merely stared, mostly in incredulity, as Mikhail lifted the motley creature up and whispered a string of incomprehensible words in her ear. After a moment, he let the cat drop to the floor, and she trotted over to the couch and made herself comfortable on Alex’s lap. Alex still looked at Mikhail, her expression pleading. “You are a smart girl, Alexandra,” Mikhail said. “You need not believe what this man tells you.” He looked at her steadily. “And if you find Karl, you can tell him the same thing. Tell Karl that Kelvin is a liar.” “Now that’s just sour grapes talking,” Kelvin laughed as he followed Mikhail out the door. He did not see Alex’s expression change from confusion to hard determination.
**** Kelvin stood on the ground next to the helicopter as Mikhail strapped himself in and checked the gauges in preparation for lift-off. “It’s not armed,” the American said. “And there’s not enough fuel for you to get further than you need to go.” “So little faith in your powers of persuasion, Kelvin?” Mikhail smirked. “Just covering my ass,” Inman replied. Having finished his instrument check, Mikhail turned again to the man on the ground. “You should not tell Alex what I am going to do,” he said. Kelvin frowned. “What, do you think that little girl is going to stop you?” “That ‘little girl’ is more formidable than you might imagine. You would do well to keep that in mind.” “Stop. You’re scaring me,” Kelvin grinned through a puff of cigar smoke. Mikhail spoke quietly. “If I succeed, she will find out soon enough. If I fail… if I fail then it won’t matter.” “Goodbye, Mikhail,” said Kelvin. He backed away, shielding his eyes from the dust that filled the air as the helicopter blades began to whirl. ***** Mikhail had taken Kelvin at his word that there was no excess fuel in the aircraft, but he had still flown in a circuitous pattern that allowed him to assess the situation on the ground before heading for the Temple. It meant he would have to land further away, but this suited him. There were some things you could not learn from the air, and Mikhail meant to learn as much as possible before making a final decision. He set the helicopter down on a clearing not much wider than the blades themselves and made a swift hike away, slipping silently through the dense underbrush so that anyone alerted by the noise of his landing would not easily pick up his trail. Satisfied that he was not being followed, he began making his way toward the Temple. Mikhail was less familiar with this region of the island, and he picked his way carefully. He had avoided the mystic rituals of the island, preferring his solitude to what he often suspected were group hallucinations brought on by a near-religious hysteria. As he moved forward, he tried to ignore the feeling of dread that lay like a stone in the pit of his stomach. Mikhail had been a soldier since he was a teenager and he was well acquainted with death and with killing. Some of the missions he had participated in had been little more than murder, and though he acted on orders, he was not so shallow as to deny the blood on his own hands. But this was different. Somehow, this was different from anything that came before. The idea of assassinating such a man as Benjamin Linus was abhorrent to him. Not that they were friends. Mikhail did not think of them as friends and he was sure Ben did not either. Ben was not a man who had friends. But to kill Benjamin Linus was to extinguish a force that was unique, a force that the world quite possibly could not do without. Mikhail knew he must be quite sure before he acted. And though he could not agree with Kelvin Inman that Ben’s death at his hands would be poetic, Mikhail knew that if it must be done, he was the man to do it. More, he knew that Ben would agree, and while he would not forgive Mikhail his own murder, Ben would appreciate the necessity and would approve. He had been moving on foot for less than 30 minutes when Mikhail heard two things that made him suddenly stop and hide himself in the overgrown roots of a tree. The first was the sound of voices. That sound came from the mouth of the cave that formed the entrance to the system of caverns that was the Temple. He strained to hear, but could not make out what was being said or even how many there were. Mikhail knew that the majority of Ben’s people had followed Richard here, but that had been a week or more ago. He did not know if they still waited here for their leader’s return, and he did not know what they would do if it was Ben and not Richard who appeared. For that matter, he did not know if these were even island people, or if they were the back-up plan that Inman had mentioned. Either way, he suspected Ben would want to avoid them, and he did too. The second, and more troubling sound that Mikhail heard was the squawk of a radio, brief and quickly squelched. It came from the opposite direction, and Mikhail realized he was squarely between the two. He let out a long breath, realizing that his grim task may be even more difficult than he had imagined.
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Post by keyserzozie on Apr 29, 2008 15:47:53 GMT -4
Chapter 94.
She gave him no more than an hour’s sleep. She would have let him rest longer, she thought, but it wasn’t safe to stay in one place, and she knew that time was running out. The sky was already beginning to lighten, and the Temple was still five hours’ trek across potentially hazardous terrain. But Ben’s powers of recuperation seemed little short of miraculous; in that short time he seemed to have regained much of his lost strength, and if Cindy still had reservations about his stamina – after all, it was only three days since Karl had shot him in the back – she refrained from voicing them openly. After all, she told herself, she didn’t need him to last very long. “Cindy, you need to go back now,” said Ben as he picked up his satchel. “I’m going on to the Temple.” She smiled. “That’s where I’m going too. What, you don’t want my company?” “I – need - to be alone,” he said. “You do? Now, why am I not surprised?” Ben gave a noncommittal shrug. “I mean,” said Cindy, allowing reproach to colour her voice; “All I’ve done is bring you supplies, and watch over you while you slept, and keep the damn polar bears away, and with all the friends you’ve got left, Ben, you can afford to lose another right now -” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Cindy. I didn’t mean to offend you.” “Okay,” said Cindy. “But I’m not going back.” “Why not?” She shrugged. “I guess I must have business there.” Ben gave the ghost of a smile. “You’re a surprising woman,” he said. “You’re not too predictable yourself.” She paused and looked at him curiously. “What was the name of that poem?” she said. “The one you were reciting before?” Ben smiled. “Kubla Khan. An unfinished fragment that lifted a second-rate drug-addict called Samuel Taylor Coleridge into the ranks of the immortals.” Cindy had never really cared much for English literature, still less for poetry. But anything Ben Linus said was usually worth listening to. She quickened her step to keep up with him as he hastened through the undergrowth. “What was it about?” she said. “Coleridge had a dream,” said Ben. “It was one of those dreams a man gets maybe once in a lifetime – a rare moment of divine inspiration. He began to write it down. He knew he had to remember it, before the details faded away. And then a tradesman came to call – an annoying little man who wouldn’t leave – and when he did go away at last, Coleridge found that the moment had passed, and all that was left were a few scribbled lines in his journal, of poetry so beautiful he could hardly believe he’d written it, and which haunted him till the day he died.” “Didn’t he ever finish it?” said Cindy, intrigued in spite of herself. Slowly Ben shook his head. “He couldn’t remember the dream, you see. Simply the beauty, and the loss -” He stopped abruptly, apparently to examine a branch of startling purple flowers that were growing across his path. Cindy didn’t know what they were, but even from where she stood, the scent that came from them was intoxicating. “Have you ever done something wrong - something you’ve regretted so badly that you would have given anything – anything - for the chance to go back?” Cindy thought for a moment. “I guess we’ve all done something,” she said. “And if you were given that chance – would you take it?” “Sure I would.” “Whatever the cost?” “Yeah,” she shrugged. “I guess so. ” For a moment Ben’s attention seemed to be focussed on the flowers. Then he looked up at Cindy again, a look of immense, impenetrable sadness. “Listen -” he told her. “I need your word that if something should go wrong down there -” “Like what?” she said. “Like anything. If something happens – to me, for instance.” Cindy nodded. “Okay, Ben.” There was a pause. She could tell that he was struggling to articulate what he wanted to say, and she knew a moment of incredulity – that this man, who always seemed to be capable of talking himself out of the worst situations, should now be unable to find the words – “You want me to tell Annie something?” she said. He looked surprised. “Annie? No. Find Alex, and tell her this from me -” Wide-eyed, Cindy listened. Then, in silence, they moved on. * * *
“What’s happening?” whispered Alex. The prisoners had been left to wait, hands tied, in one of the recreation huts at the far edge of the barracks. Inman was seemingly in charge, and his men came in every ten minutes or so, bringing with them new prisoners. So far Alex had counted nine, including the dentist and his wife, who had been intercepted as they fled. Hurley was not among them, she saw; which was surprising, as she had no great faith in his ability either to go unseen, or to run at any speed. Still, Hurley had unexpected resources, Alex thought. Perhaps he had managed to get away. “Did anyone see Karl?” she said. “I’m sorry, honey.” Rose shook her head. She seemed oddly serene, as always; a tiny smile on her broad face. “I’m sure he’ll be okay,” she said. “That boy of yours is plenty tough.” Alex nodded. She thought so. She cast a glance at the guard at the door. A young man, not much older than Karl, in fatigues, gas mask and bullet-proof vest. Inman’s men were taking no chances. Alex didn’t blame them. The young guard wasn’t actually watching them, but he was on the alert for any suspicious movement. Alex wished he would close the door. She thought she might have seen something – but she didn’t dare to look right now, just in case she caught his eye - In contrast, Bernard, at her side, was trembling with fear and indignation. In fact, it was a wonder that he hadn’t been gagged – for the past fifteen minutes he’d been trying to attract the guard’s attention with a mixture of threats and pleading. Alex felt vaguely ashamed of him. She’d expected him to show more dignity. The guard was getting pissed off, too; Alex could tell from his profile, the set of his mouth beneath the mask. “This is outrageous!” exclaimed Bernard. “I’m an American citizen! I know my rights! Goddammit, I’m a dentist!” “Bite me, granddad,” muttered the guard, and kicked the outside door shut. Rose smiled at her husband. “Sweetheart,” she said, “I always knew you were good for somethin’ more than just gettin’ on folks’ nerves.” “Why, thanks,” said Bernard dryly. “You can’t imagine how much that means to me.” He jerked his head at the walk-in locker that stood at the far end of the hut. It was standing halfway open now; a drift of sports’ equipment spilled out; tennis rackets, volleyball nets; remnants, maybe, of happier days. Rose gave him a questioning look. “Honey, I’m not sure I -” “It’s okay, Sawyer,” whispered Bernard. “I think it’s safe to come out now.”
* * * Sawyer hadn’t got very far. Protected from the toxic snow by the mask he’d taken from Desmond, he’d managed to sprint towards the perimeter fence, but had almost run into a group of soldiers emerging from one of the helicopters. Cut off from his avenue of escape, he’d made for the nearest building, had crawled into the open locker, and had hidden there, hoping to avoid discovery. Unfortunately for him, it had been the precise building the invaders had chosen in which to secure their prisoners. Sawyer could have kicked himself – but now he was trapped, like the other sheep. The difference was - at least, so he’d thought - that no-one else knew he was there. “Goddammit!” he hissed from the sports locker. “How d’ya know I was in here?” “I could hear you breathing,” said Bernard. “You breathe through your mouth, did you know that? I’ll bet you’ve got a deviated septum. That’s easily corrected, you know.” Sawyer’s head emerged from the locker, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Well, if it ain’t Marathon Man.” Bernard held out his bound hands. Sawyer just looked at him without moving. “Well?” said Bernard. “Aren’t you going to help us?” “What d’you expect me to do?” said Sawyer in an undertone. “You know I can’t untie you all. Someone could come in anytime. Then I’d be in the same boat as the rest of you, wouldn’t I? Besides,” he said, with a grim smile. “Where you gonna go? Case you hadn’t noticed, it ain’t exactly a winter wonderland out there.” “You’re right, brother,” said Desmond unexpectedly. “There’s no point any of us trying to escape. But you -” “What about me?” said Sawyer. Desmond took a deep breath. “Do you know the Beach Boys?” he said. Sawyer looked puzzled. “Whaddya say?” He’d always known the Scotsman was mad. Weird visions, mania, and the way he’d followed Charlie around, like a sheepdog with a secret sorrow – But Desmond was persistent. “Do you know Good Vibrations?” he said. Sawyer decided to humour him. “Yeah. Sure. I know it.” Desmond’s expression relaxed a little. “Then maybe we’ve still got a chance,” he said.
* * *
“No,” said Sawyer. “No way. I ain’t doing it.” He’d listened to Desmond’s story with mounting surprise and scepticism. The underwater hatch – the yellow light – Charlie’s heroic sacrifice. Except that to Sawyer it hadn’t been at all heroic. As far as Sawyer understood, Charlie could just as easily have made a run for the outer door, then closed it behind him, made for the diving suits and gas tanks that, according to Desmond, had been scattered around ‘most everywhere, and been up and out of that damn Looking Glass before you could say “White Rabbit.” Instead, he’d given up his life – and for what? To rescue Claire and her rugrat – a baby that wasn’t even his? So that the guys in the choppers could come in and bomb the hell out of everyone? So much for Desmond’s flashes, he thought. He was having none of it. “But if you don’t,” pleaded Desmond, “then Charlie died for nothing. Don’t you see?” Sawyer shrugged indifferently. “That ain’t my problem, man,” he said. “But if you reset the controls,” persisted Desmond, “then we can cut off communications with the outside again. Make sure no-one else can come here. Protect the island, and ourselves -” Sawyer’s face was stony. “What part of no do you not understand?” Desmond gave an exhausted sigh. He’d been so sure it would be Sawyer this time. So sure that Sawyer would save the day - “Then let me go,” said Alex suddenly. “Cut me loose, and let me go.” Sawyer looked at her. “You?” he said. “I hope you can swim.” She met his gaze contemptuously. “Sure I can. I can swim like a fish. And I can play the piano. Dad taught me.” Suddenly Desmond’s jaw dropped. Another flash, much closer this time, strobed across his consciousness. He heard his teeth click together again as if he’d had an electric shock. I hope you can swim. I hope you can swim. “Alex – no -” he whispered. She looked at him coolly. “Why not?” she said. “Because I’ll die? You’ve been saying that since last week, Des.” “But I saw you d -” Desmond began. “Don’t,” said Alex. “I don’t want to know.” She looked at Sawyer again, her earnest, blue, expressive eyes fixed on his narrow, suspicious ones. “Haven’t you ever done something,” she said. “Something you’ve regretted so much that you’d do anything – anything – to put it right?” Sawyer shook his head. “Nope.” “Well, I have,” said Alex. “I betrayed my Dad. I let him down. I hurt him. Now cut me loose -” She held out her hands. “Okay, Sheena.” Sawyer said. “But don’t think I’m gonna help you commit suicide, or whatever it is. I’ll run with you as far as the beach, which is where I’m gonna be waiting for you, with a cocktail and a good book -” She looked at him. “Whatever,” she said. “I mean it,” said Sawyer. “I ain’t comin’ with you.” “I don’t need you to come,” she said. “No man knows till the time comes, what depths are within him. To some men it never comes; let them rest and be thankful! To me, you brought it; on me, you forced it; and the bottom of this raging sea …” Desmond drew a painful breath. “What’s that?” he said, though he already knew. Alex gave him a little smile that reminded him eerily of Ben. “I thought you’d know,” she said quietly. “It’s Dickens. It’s from Our Mutual Friend.”
* * * Chapter 95. She awoke from a fleeting dream of him, and awoke to the voice of John Locke. “Where the hell is he? Where’s Ben?” Good question, Annie thought; and with her surprise came anger; anger that she could still feel surprise – surprise that Ben could have left her again, deceived her, lied to again, left without a word or a sign – What does he have to do? she thought. Murder, betrayal, abandonment, lies –she’d forgiven him all these things and more, and how she could still feel surprise or doubt – Locke put his hand on her shoulder. He looked unusually agitated, as if struggling against some fierce emotion. “Annie,” he repeated. “Where’s Ben?” Annie sighed. “I don’t know.” Locke’s craggy face hardened. “I fell asleep. He could have been gone for hours,” she said. Without looking at Annie, Locke sat down cross-legged on the grass. Annie sensed him thinking hard; gathering his composure, his will. His face looked stony and obdurate, but when he raised his eyes, they were kind. “I guess he fooled us both,” he said. Annie nodded. “I’m sorry, John. Did you find the journal?” Locke pulled the journal out of his backpack. It was slightly damp, but otherwise intact. “I had hoped to get some answers from Ben,” he told her in his calm voice. Annie looked at the leather-bound book. “Well, John, you still can.” Reaching into her own pack, she brought out a tattered paperback, well-thumbed and marked with the passage of time, and placed it in his open hand. “I love him, John,” she said. She wasn’t quite sure why she needed to say it aloud – and to John Locke, of all people, who perhaps had more reason than most to hate Ben. Ben, who had shot him in cold blood, Ben, who had manipulated him, who had brought him face-to-face with his father, Ben who had made him a murderer – John looked at the little book. “What’s this?” Annie sighed. “It’s Ben’s life.”
* * *
From the journal of Benjamin Linus: December 23, 1979. I saw her again today. In the woods. She looks just like her photograph. I wanted her to talk to me, but Richard says I have to wait. I don’t want to. It’s hard. But R. has waited longer than I have. If he can do it, then so can I. And J. has been waiting even longer than R. has. We went out to the Temple today. R. showed me the way in. He says I mustn’t go in alone, not till I’m much older, but I was with A., so I wasn’t alone, and besides, we didn’t go as far as the Tabernacle. There’s nothing in there, anyway. Nothing but old computers that don’t work any more. At least that’s what R. tells me. But R. doesn’t tell me everything. He’s not as bad as the rest of them, but I know he hides things from me. One day I’m going to go down there. One day I’m going to find out for myself. Because if there’s nothing there, like R. says, then why does he tell me it’s dangerous?
* * *
From the journal of Benjamin Linus: January 12th, 1981. He tells me there were people here before. He says they’ve been here for a long time, even before the DHARMA group. They were the ones who built the hatches, who put in the computers, who discovered the anomaly. Apparently the Hanso group was working on a number of projects here, secret projects dating back to the Second World War. We’ve been reading about the war at school. Olivia, my teacher, says that we need to make peace our priority. If there’s another war, she says, the human race might blow itself up. Then again, that’s DHARMA for you. They say one thing, and they do another. I mean, they can’t even cope with the Hostiles, and they’re giving me lectures about peace and goodwill?
* * * From the journal of Benjamin Linus, April 8th, 1982. I realize that Annie doesn’t like Richard much. She says he’s creepy. Maybe that’s why he’s my friend, though; a lot of people think I’m creepy. For creepy, read too clever by half. Annie doesn’t see that. She wants to see good in everyone. And it bothers me that she’s so bright, but accepts everything they tell her without question; all the propaganda about world peace, and working towards a better future, and achieving inner harmony. There’s a lot more to the Hanso foundation than meditation and philosophy. What’s going on outside the compound, for instance. The hatches, the doors, and those other things. Of course, we’re not supposed to know about that. But it’s obvious that something’s going on. No-one can be as paranoid as they are without having something to hide.
* * * From the journal of Benjamin Linus, May 24th, 1983. Day 53 of Experiment A. Of the 24 original subjects, 12 have survived apparently unharmed. All are adult males and in good health. Initial results (in rabbits, at least) would seem promising. I haven’t said anything to Annie yet. She’s never liked Richard, and contact with Jacob can be very disconcerting, even to me. Richard thinks I should sever links with her, and with the rest of the collective. Perhaps he’s right. She confuses me. I’m not certain why I even care whether or not she likes me. But I do. I really do. If only I could tell her why I’m doing this, why I have to do this – But I know I can’t. Not now. Not ever. Not because she wouldn’t believe me. Annie’s so trusting, I know she would. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Maybe I’m afraid to put my heart into the hands of another human being. Not Richard, not Annie – nobody. I’ve been reading a lot over the past few months. The library is filled with books that no-one else reads. Dostoevsky, Hemingway, Dickens, Shakespeare. The Brontës. My father hates me reading. He’s always making snide comments about how I ought to shape up, play some sports instead of reading books and hanging around with girls. As if I ever wanted to end up like him. My father. The bully. The workman.
* * * From the journal of Benjamin Linus. September 12th, 1985. I started my new job today. I’m now officially a workman. On one level, it rankles – but I know they have been watching me, and Richard says that I shouldn’t attract undue attention. He has always considered my personal experiments to be rather a mistake, and has ordered me to discontinue them. That too, rankles. But it also makes a kind of sense. It would be foolish to fail now, through vanity and impatience. Plus, Horace was getting worried about me. He asked me to do a psych evaluation. I managed to convince the psych team that I was on the verge of a mental breakdown, and they gave me this job – it’s easy, low-responsibility, low-stress, and best of all, it gets me into places all over the compound. Annie doesn’t understand. She thinks I’m throwing my life away. It makes her angry, and there’s nothing I can say that will make her understand. I wonder that I still care what someone like Annie thinks of me. We’re so different, like light and shade. And yet, without her –
* * * “That isn’t important,” said Annie, her cheeks a little flushed. Locke raised an eyebrow. “On the contrary,” he said mildly. “It’s giving us a series of remarkably accurate, intimate pictures of Benjamin Linus, as he once was. The child is the father of the man. Isn’t that important?” “But we still don’t know what he’s doing,” she said. “Or why he’s gone to the Temple at all-” Locke looked thoughtful. “The Tabernacle. That’s what he called it in the journal. Have you ever heard of it?” Annie shook her head. “Did you ever go to the Temple, you and Ben, when you were kids?” “Yes, we went there sometimes. But we never went far into the caves – Ben always said they were dangerous.” “And did you ever see anything strange in there? Did you ever hear voices, or see people who shouldn’t have been there?” Annie put a hand to her mouth. “Oh - I’d almost forgotten,” she said. “So you did see something,” Locke said. Looking troubled, Annie nodded. “Why? Is it important?” she said. “We saw so many funny things in that place. There were caves, there were echoes, it was dark -” Locke gave his enigmatic smile. “Tell me what you saw,” he said. “It really wasn’t anyth-” “Tell me,” said Locke. Annie began.
* * * From the journal of Benjamin Linus, June 16th, 1985. A. and I went down to the Temple again today. I know we shouldn’t go there, but it draws me, and not just because of what’s down there. It’s such an old place, such a magical place, and when I’m there I can almost believe that I’ve found Coleridge’s Xanadu, with its caves of ice and its underground sea and its ghostly voices prophesying war. No-one disturbs us in the Temple, and that’s why Annie likes it, but I’m sometimes afraid of what she might see, and of what Richard might do if he finds out - The isle is full of noises. Especially here, it is. And not just noises, but phantoms and dreams –ephemera, he calls them. But some of them are real, I know. And I’ve seen my mother so many times, watching me with that sorrowful look – Today she even spoke to me. Annie was asleep near the beach, and I had stepped inside the caves – not to go far, not to see the Tabernacle, but to feel the cool air on my face, and to hear the voices on the wind – And then, suddenly, she was there. Emily, looking just as she had when I first saw her that day behind the perimeter fence. Emily Linus, my mother, no older than she was the day she died – the day I killed her – “Oh, Benjamin. How you’ve grown,” she said. For a moment I just stared at her, taking in her hair, her face, the way she smiled when she looked at me. My eyes were stinging. “Mom,” I said. “You’re a young man now. I’m so proud of you -” I found I could hardly breathe. “Mom?” She looked so real standing there, hardly ephemeral at all, with that smile on her face and her blue eyes shining, just the way I’d imagined her – She held out her arms. “Come here,” she said. And for a moment I felt her there, felt her arms around me, felt her lips against my forehead, felt the tears running down my face – “Mom, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry -” And just for a moment I was sure she’d heard; that she’d understood, that she’d forgiven me, that things could go back to normal again, that no-one needed to get hurt - Then, once more, she was gone - * * * “He saw his mother,” said Locke. “As Jack saw his father, and I myself -” He paused, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. Locke still didn’t believe in ghosts. But the things that appeared on this island were much more substantial than ghosts. He shivered slightly at the memory of Anthony Cooper’s dead weight as he’d carried it on his back. He looked again at the back of his hand, where the fading scar of the dead man’s bite formed a crescent moon against his tan. The magic box, he thought to himself. Ben had told him it was a metaphor. But things had appeared on this island, things that he’d never seen elsewhere – These things always happened at times of stress. Times of emotional turmoil; Walt’s kidnapping; Shannon’s death, and Boone’s; the destruction of the submarine – the plane crash itself. Ben, too, had seen his mother at moments of intense psychological pressure, the visions triggered by fear of his father, by anguish, pain or loneliness - “Did Ben ever show any sign of – paranormal powers?” he said. “Telepathy, telekinesis, that kind of thing?” Annie looked startled, then she laughed. “Paranormal? You mean like Carrie? No. Ben was always – just Ben. I mean, the other kids always thought he was kinda creepy, but there was never anything more than that -” She saw Locke’s expression, and the laughter faded. “You’re not serious,” she said. “I would have known.” “Well,” began Locke – But he was interrupted by a sound – the unmistakeable puttering sound of a vehicle – a very old vehicle - approaching over uneven terrain through the jungle... Annie’s eyes widened in shock. “Get down!” she whispered. “Take cover!” But to her surprise, Locke was smiling. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said, as the decrepit vehicle entered the clearing. “In fact, I think -” “Dude, wanna ride?” Hurley’s head appeared at the window of the VW bus. “I mean, I’m not too sure how much fuel we’ve got, but I’m guessing we’re good for a few miles at least, and if we’re going to catch up with Ben -” “Oh, Hugo! You’re an angel -” Annie could gladly have hugged him. But Hurley was securely ensconced behind the wheel of the VW bus, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, his Chicken Shack cap shielding his eyes. He looked slightly alarmed as Annie ducked her head quickly through the driver’s side window – and planted a ringing kiss on his cheek. “Aw,” said Hurley, his face going an alarming shade of red. “Come on,” said Locke, yanking open the door. “It’s a long way to the Temple.” “The Temple?” said Hurley. “Man, are you sure?” “Absolutely,” said Locke. “That’s where he’s headed. That’s where all the answers are. And when we get there, I’m willing to bet you anything that’s where we’ll find Ben’s magic box.”
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Post by keyserzozie on Apr 29, 2008 15:49:02 GMT -4
Chapter 96.
Cautiously, Mikhail moved closer to the cave opening. Ungainly in some ways as he was, he could move in absolute silence when he chose, and could have passed unnoticed so close to his quarry that they might almost have felt his breath on their necks. Today, however, passing unnoticed was not his main priority. Today, his priority lay with Ben. He had left the helicopter to the north of the site. Doubtless the owner of the radio that had emitted the squawk of static he’d heard would have noticed and come to investigate. Let them do so, thought Mikhail. He’d already set a small electrical charge under the helo’s dashboard. A small, but satisfying detonation would occur if anyone tried to interfere. He approached the Temple from the south side, keeping behind a scramble of rocks, then camped himself down by the entrance and listened to the sound of the voices that resonated, eerily amplified, from the cave’s stone throat. Isobel was holding court. “Ben betrayed us,” she was saying. “For years now he has systematically lied to us, deceived us, wasted our time and resources on useless projects, indulged himself at our expense - and now has brought disaster upon all of us with his arrogance and ambition -” There was a murmuring of assent – ten, maybe fifteen people, Mikhail estimated. Too many to deal with alone – especially with only one clip of ammo. Isobel went on. “For years now he has denied us access to Jacob, and to the potential that such access would give us. Now is the time to reclaim that access. To confront Jacob face to face -” More murmurings from the assembled group. This time, Mikhail thought he could hear a note of anxiety in the sound. Isobel’s reply was sharp. “Why shouldn’t we?” she said. “We only have Ben’s word for it that Jacob is a danger to anyone. In fact, we only have Ben’s word for it that Jacob even exists at all -” Mikhail gave his wry smile. Isobel had always been ambitious, he thought. Recruited by Richard fifteen years ago for her ruthlessness and her keen intellect, she had played the crucial role of sheriff, enforcer, mediator and investigator – but in spite of her usefulness to the group, she was always first and foremost Richard’s creature, an outsider, an observer – A spy. Isobel had never liked Ben. What’s more, she’d never trusted him. A late arrival at the camp, she had retained her objectivity, and over the years that had followed, she had watched with a measure of envy how subtly Ben Linus had taken command; of how he had risen through the ranks from foot-soldier to general; of how he had managed, not only to gain the allegiance of so many, but to do so without any contact with the source what they were trying to protect – Jacob, the mysterious force that commanded Ben to do what he did – Or so, at least, he claimed. Now, in his absence and Richard’s, Isobel felt that her time had come. They needed unity and leadership; and after fifteen years of waiting, these were things she felt more than ready to provide. She had worked closely with Ben over the years. Without ever having been entirely admitted into his confidence, she knew a number of secrets. And one – the most important, perhaps – was about to serve her well. She knew how to find the Tabernacle; the secret hatch built deep in the earth under the caves of the Temple, a place to which only Ben ever went, and to which, as far as Isobel knew, even he had been only a handful of times – as if such limitless power needed to be rationed, eked out, dispensed like an emperor’s largesse while his people lived like savages - “Why should Ben be the favoured one?” Isobel’s voice was quiet, but penetrating. “Jacob belongs to all of us. The wealth, the power that Jacob could bring us – all these things were denied us by Ben. And you all followed him without question, like the good little sheep you are-” Murmurs, this time of protest, ensued. “All right,” said Isobel, and now her voice bore an audible trace of satisfaction. “So who’s with me? Who’s going to open Ben’s box of tricks? Who wants to be first to set foot inside the Tabernacle?”” * * *
From the journal of Benjamin Linus, January 3rd, 1989. They thought they were so clever, so progressive. The Hanso group, with their hippy Eastern philosophies and their master plan to change the world. The Hanso group, so advanced in its thinking that it couldn’t even handle the natives of the island it had adopted. Jacob told me everything. How it began as a scientific initiative, researching the properties of non-metallic minerals deep in the volcanic rock. How they discovered the unusual properties of this rock, these minerals, properties that provoked so much excitement in them that they established a permanent presence here, constructing access hatches deep in the ground, subsystems that reached as far down as the molten core of the mountain, allowing access for samples to be taken and stored. How on one of these mining operations they found something that revolutionized their previous discoveries; an energy source of phenomenal power, based on a series of anomalous magnetic fields running through the volcanic rock – a freak occurrence, that nevertheless seemed to contain some less than random element – Sometimes these things happen by accident. Sometimes by accident so perfect that it almost seems like a grand design. They soon discovered that the fluctuations of the magnetic anomaly, as they called it, could be expressed as a sequence, a pattern, an algorithm that reflected a mystical sequence of numbers previously known only in obscure Eastern philosophy; an equation that, if correctly solved, would lay out the whole of human destiny from Genesis to Revelation – The human race, by numbers. Scratch a scientist, find a mystic. The dizzying properties of numbers make even the most cynical of us into believers. And these people were romantics. They had read Angels in the Jets and The Gold At Starbow’s End. They were ripe for a better philosophy. And so was formed the DHARMA group; a motley crew of scientists, dreamers, hippies, dropouts and lotus-eaters, with their wish-list of New Age ideals… They had big ideas, I’ll give them that. World peace, an end to disease, the expansion of the human mind – They’d always believed in the power of the right brain. Left-brain thinkers are too logical, too disciplined to be creative. Right-brain thinkers are ingenious; lateral-minded; imaginative. Right-brainers think outside the box. They had me down as a left-brain thinker. Sadly for them, they were wrong. We began with experiments on rabbits. I say we – I mean Annie and me. But she had too tender a heart for that; she wept when they died, and I had to pretend that I’d set them free when I’d finished with them. I used to paint numbers on their backs, then when I’d vivisected them, I’d simply find another bunny and paint the number on it again – Annie never found out. But I felt guilty deceiving her. Still, I was working towards a goal; Jacob had given me my orders. And we were making progress, too; some failures at first, then some real results. Only in male rabbits, however. All the female rabbits died. Which led me to wondering if the power source did something as yet undetected to the females; something that affected their resilience. The Hanso foundation had touched upon this. But their ideas had been somewhat more esoteric. A post-war paranoia that encompassed both political wings had led them to go into hiding here whilst they conducted their peaceful research – research, that, if it had fallen into the hands of the military, might well have precipitated the opposite. The surviving male rabbits were noticeably stronger, more vigorous, more aggressive than the norm – which properties, if applied to human beings, might have nurtured those Nazi dreams of a potential super-race – The only remaining problem was that frustrating inability to breed. And this in spite of increased fertility – the problem was with the females. And so I discontinued the experiments – those experiments, at least – and went back to my undemanding job. Until, that is, that day at the Hydra. The day my life changed forever.
* * * The group was making quite enough noise for Mikhail to follow unseen. Their footsteps on the stony ground and the fractured sounds of their voices led him into the labyrinth. He followed them for something like forty minutes, feeling the air grow progressively as he moved deeper underground. At one point they hit water; an underground river that bisected their path, but the water turned out to be relatively shallow, and did not impede their progress overmuch. At last, they turned a corner, and Mikhail, following the glow from the torches that the others had taken to light their way, found himself no more than twelve feet from the rearmost two or three stragglers. And now Isobel, who as still in the lead, held up her torch in subdued triumph to indicate a reinforced metal door set deep into the ancient stone; a door bearing the DHARMA logo, flanked with a symbol that struck Mikhail as particularly apt – a stylised graphic of a single eye. “It’s locked,” someone said– in the confusion, Mikhail didn’t hear who had spoken. “I think you have to enter a code – some kind of sequence of numbers -” But he heard the reply clearly enough. “Try this,” said Isobel. And she began to recite a sequence that Mikhail Bakunin knew well. After all, he’d entered the very same numbers into the computer himself - every day, six times a day, for almost six months at the Swan hatch. 4 – 8 – 15 – 16 – Slowly, the armoured door swung open. A strong and sudden gust of wind from inside the hatch grabbed at the flames of Isobel’s torch, almost extinguishing the light. The other torches faltered and dimmed, affected perhaps by a surge of inert gas from inside the opening. A scent, not unpleasant, but faintly musty, spicy, almost incense-like, emerged into the passageway. “Come on! What are we waiting for?” Isobel’s voice was slightly unsteady – though not, the Russian thought, with fear. He’d heard that sound before; that note of subdued anticipation. It was the sound of naked greed, the sound of a woman who has spent fifteen years waiting her moment of triumph, and now that the moment has come at last, wishes to savour it to the full. From the corner of the passageway, he watched as Isobel moved forward and stepped inside the darkened hatch. The rest of the group held back, uncertain, awaiting the order to follow her. A moment passed. Nothing came. There was no further sound from inside the hatch. Another, longer moment passed. Still, nothing happened. Now there seemed to be tension growing within the little group; whispers of anxiety and dissent. Someone called out Isobel’s name - not loudly, but with subdued urgency. Then again, insistently, with a rising note of superstitious terror. But Isobel never emerged from the room. Five minutes passed, and now there was not only dissent, but outright panic in the ranks. In the absence of a leader, the surviving Others now asked themselves why they had come here at all – and their voices reverberated eerily through the arteries of the labyrinth in rising tones of fear and dismay – Ten minutes passed. No-one had ventured to follow Isobel, and now the stragglers at the back of the group were moving silently away. As they reached his vantage point, Mikhail made no move to hide. Instead, he simply stood his ground as they filed past him one by one, eyes lowered, in silence, like schoolchildren caught in some mischief. One or two glanced back at him – but no-one spoke to the big Russian as he traversed the little group, making, not for the labyrinth, but for the still half-open door into which Isobel had vanished, more than fifteen minutes ago. By now the glow of the torches had faded, and Mikhail had nothing but the faint luminescence from his watch to guide him as he made his way towards the opening. But his step was sure as he pushed the door and went into the room. Inside, it was totally black. * * * From the journal of Benjamin Linus, January 6th, 1989 I guess I ought to explain myself now. To you, Annie, if you’re reading this, but most of all, perhaps, to myself. Call it arrogance, if you like; but modesty is the virtue of mediocrity. I always knew I was made for great things; even if others didn’t see it. All they saw was that skinny kid, tongue-tied and awkward and insecure; then as I grew up, all they saw was the label stitched onto my overalls. Ben. Workman. Not Benjamin. Benjamin would have been too elaborate a name for a mere labourer. And I worked for them for a long time; I paid my dues in patience and sweat. But I always knew there was something else. Even if Jacob hadn’t chosen me – I knew I was different. I’d been sent to the Hydra on a routine delivery run. It was a half-day trip in those days, if we used the submarine, and I had to unload the crates of supplies; food, drinking water; a box on instruments for the lab. They were doing research on sharks at the time; I remember several tanks of them, long blue bodies circling monotonously. I unloaded a dozen boxes of various supplies, including a small parcel, marked FRAGILE and addressed personally to Horace Goodspeed himself, to an adjacent office nearby, which turned out to be some kind of observatory station, with closed-circuit TV monitors showing scenes from all over the island. Horace was sitting at the desk. “Thanks, Ben,” he told me when I handed him the parcel. “How’s the new job shaping up?” “Fine, sir. Thank you, sir.” He grinned. “Talkative as ever, eh? I remember when you were just a kid, out there on the dock with your Dad.” I thought he hadn’t really changed. Still the same exuberance; the youthful face, the curly dark hair unmarred with grey. Yes, I thought. He’d aged well. Not as well, as Richard, perhaps - but then again, Richard was different. “Still hanging out with Annie?” he said. “Didn’t you know? She left,” I said. “She went back to the mainland ten days ago.” “Really? Oh, well.” He gave his impossibly broad smile. “Still, plenty more fish in the sea, eh?” Perhaps it was that remark of his, that thoughtless, insulting bonhomie, that made me want to kill him. Certainly I had nothing against him, per se. In fact, he’d always liked me. But the loss of Annie was still too raw in my mind – and perhaps too, with hindsight, I was trying to justify a sequence of events, and act I’d already set into motion – “You wanna see what we’re doing here?” Horace’s joviality was quite unusual, even for him, and as I took in his exaggerated gestures, saw his slightly simian features stretched into an expression of bliss, I began to understand. Like the rest of these lotus-eaters, he’d always indulged freely in mind-expanding substances, be they simply alcohol, or the more sophisticated hallucinogens available on the island. The man was high as a kite, that was all. “Yes, sir,” I said. Horace gave me a doped-up grin. “You’re a good man, Ben. Salt of the earth. You and your old Dad, both of you.” With every word, I hated him more, but I forced a smile anyway. “I’m always interested in what we’re doing here,” I said, with what I hoped was a look of fawning admiration. “I’d like to see an experiment.” He nodded. “Yeah? Okay, man. You ever heard of Coleridge? ” Smiling, I followed him into the lab.
* * * Chapter 99. The prisoners’ hands had been untied, although they remained secured in the rec room. Inman had apparently decided it was better to keep them docile. The security risk was minimal. His men had the barracks compound well surveilled and these were not soldiers. And just to remind his hapless charges to behave, he himself had taken up a post in the roomy hut. The dozen prisoners were seated on the floor while Inman studied a series of hand-drawn maps that were spread out on a pool table. A thickly accented voice finally broke the nervous silence. “Do you think he’ll do it?” Kelvin Inman did not look up from his map. He did not have to look to know that it was Desmond who had addressed him. “Do I think who will do what?” he asked. “Mikhail,” Desmond said. “Do you think he’ll do what you asked?” Now Inman raised his head, his expression mildly puzzled. “Your voice carries, Kelvin,” Desmond explained. “Not really a good quality for a man makes his living with secrets.” Kelvin grinned, the stump of his cigar still clenched in his teeth. “What do you think, Dez?” “I think that Russian bastard would kill his grandmother if the mood struck him,” Desmond sneered. Inman shook his head thoughtfully. “Don’t mistake the man,” he said. “Mikhail Bakunin does not kill for pleasure. Oh, he would kill his grandmother, no doubt about it. But old Mik is willing to kill because he sees the bigger picture.” “What bigger picture?” Desmond asked, a phrase ringing through his memory. Flashes from the archives of oblivion. A strange mix of mysticism and cold practicality, Mikhail had tried to tell him about a big picture. He had described reality as a film in which individual frames existed on their own. A possible life, Mikhail had said. The life you might have had if some part of its complex equation had been changed. Desmond racked his memory for details of the conversation. He had been angry and desperate and in no mood to listen to the man he only saw as Charlie’s murderer. He recalled that Mikhail had talked of a man named Jacob, and of the possibility of changing the equation. Of removing a frame from the film or turning it around or even changing it altogether. “What bigger picture?” Desmond repeated the question more insistently. “Forget it, Dez,” Kelvin replied. “Mikhail is a true believer.” He spoke the last phrase with a tinge of derision. “He is one of that rare breed who really will go down with the ship. Loyal to the last drop of blood -- his own or anyone else’s.” “And what about you, Kelvin?” Desmond asked, getting to his feet. “What about me?” Kelvin replied wearily. “You’re still out to save the world,” the Scotsman said in a tone that sounded more like an accusation than a compliment. “No, I gave that up a long time ago,” said Kelvin. He waved the other man off and turned back to his maps. “I don’t believe you,” said Desmond. “Well, I guess that’s your problem, brother” Inman growled. “Why are you here, Kelvin?” Desmond asked, advancing to stand in front of the pool table. “You found a way off this island, a way home. You could be anywhere in the world right now, but you’re here.” Desmond jabbed his finger at the map. “Why are you back in a place you spent three years trying to get away from? Why did you tell Mikhail to kill Ben?” He paused for a moment, his eyes blazing. “And why did he agree?” Just at that moment the young soldier that had been the target of Bernard’s tirade charged in the door. “Sir, one of them was trying to get away.” Inman glared at Desmond for a moment longer before following the soldier out the door. “I just hope you have a plan B,” Desmond shouted after him. “Because your man is going to go down with the ship.” Rose, who had been watching the whole exchange with interest, saw a flicker of uncertainty cross the grizzly officer’s face. The prisoners could not see the confrontation that took place outside, but there was no doubt who had been captured. “Hey, back off, G.I. Joe.” The sound of scuffling indicated that the new prisoner was not in a mood to cooperate. Inman’s gravel voice cut through the commotion. “Where did you think you were going, Goldilocks?” “Just out for a stroll,” came Sawyer’s snide response. “You know, the nature trails around here are just to die for.” “And I’m sure you were alone, right?” Inman asked. “Of course,” Sawyer replied sweetly. “I just needed a little ‘me’ time.” “Get him inside with the rest,” the commanding officer barked. More scuffling and then the door swung open and Sawyer was sent sprawling to the floor in the rec room. All eyes were on him as he dusted himself off and then propped up against the leg of the pool table, his face set in its customary surly expression. “What happened?” Bernard asked in a loud stage whisper. “Nothin’” Sawyer snapped back. “I just need to work on my form if I’m going to win the cross-country.” “What about Alex?” asked Desmond, crouching next to the newest captive. “What about her?” Sawyer asked. “Did she get away?” Desmond demanded. “How should I know?” Sawyer shot back. He merely scowled for a few moments as the rest of the gathered group stared anxiously. “I guess so,” he added finally, his voice dense with irritation. “You drew them off so she could escape,” Rose said, her voice as calm and musical as ever. “Don’t go pinning any medals on me,” Sawyer sniffed. “Little sister runs like a jack-rabbit. I just couldn’t keep up with her.” “Mm-hmm,” Rose nodded, making no attempt to hide her disbelief. Sawyer shook his head in disgust and then closed his eyes and pretended to doze. The rest of the prisoners stayed settled on the floor, either in silence or in low, whispered conversations. All, that is, except Desmond, who kept up an agitated pace back and forth across the floor. Rose watched him as he prowled from one corner to another, rubbing the irritated skin on his arms, his eyes darting almost like a dreamer, deep in REM sleep. *** Rose estimated that about half an hour had passed when the door to the hut opened and the burly silhouette filled the opening. Hours did not mean much when you lived on an island, but she supposed old habits died hard. Even the whispered conversations hushed when Inman stepped inside, but the officer ignored the seated prisoners. His gaze was locked on Desmond, who had stopped his pacing. “Radzinsky,” Inman said. The Scotsman’s brow furrowed in confusion. “He used to pace like that,” Kelvin explained. “Before he…well, anyway.” “What has Radzinsky got to do with anything?” Desmond asked. “Who the hell is Radzinsky?” Sawyer’s churlish voice rose from under the pool table. “Please, god, not more Russians,” Bernard muttered. Ignoring the comments from the peanut gallery, Kelvin addressed Desmond. “You remember the big concrete wall in the Swan station? The one that you could stick a metal pie plate to?” Desmond nodded. “Well, back five, six years ago, a hairline crack developed in that wall. Concrete. Moisture. It’s just a matter of time. So Radzinsky decides that in order to fix it, he needs to get behind it.” Kelvin shook his head, still seemingly incredulous. “’Suicide,’ I say, but he does a ream of calculations and figures that if he goes in immediately after the discharge he should have 15 minutes before the charge builds back up enough to kill him. Sure enough, he gets in and out in under 13 minutes. Crack repaired. Problem solved.” “But…?” Desmond prompted. “There’s always a ‘but,’ isn’t there, Dez?” Kelvin said. He leaned back against the pool table and crossed his arms across his chest. “Radzinsky had hardly finished congratulating himself for being a genius when he starts having these crazy dreams. Trouble was, he was having them when he was awake. He would just fuzz out on me in the middle of a conversation. Then he started claiming he could see the future. That’s when he started drawing the map on the blast door. He didn’t go out there and look, Dez. That was all straight from his visions. “Well, I thought he was losing it, of course. Too much time underground. Too many pushes of the button. But when he starts seeing other people in the Swan and us gone, I got interested. He sees a young guy with a Scottish accent. He sees a man get his legs crushed under the blast door. He sees Ben get the crap beat out of him in the armory.” Inman chuckled malevolently. “I must admit, I kind of like that one.” Desmond’s eyes narrowed. “You killed him,” he said. “Radzinsky didn’t commit suicide. You murdered him.” Kelvin’s face had hardened, his eyes dead. “Radzinsky decided he needed to go to the other side of the island, to see Ben, tell him what happened. He thought Ben would be excited about his discovery, how he had found a way to tap into the power of the island. But he didn’t know Ben like I did. Benjamin Linus does not play well with others. He doesn’t like to share his toys. The minute he found out that Radzinsky had been trespassing on his turf,” Kelvin snapped his fingers, “he would have had both of us put away like that. Unfortunately, Radzinsky just couldn’t see it.” Kelvin shook his head. “It was a shame too. Radzinsky was a hell of a guy.” There was a hint of honest regret in his voice. “You want a hanky?” Sawyer drawled. Inman shot him a withering glare. “Why are you telling us all of this?” Rose asked. Kelvin looked down at her, seated on the floor with her legs tucked to one side, and marveled that she managed to maintain absolute dignity in such a position. “Because I think our friend Desmond got a dose of the same thing Radzinsky got,” he said. Desmond did not return any of the stares that now fell on him. Instead he began pacing again. “You didn’t answer my question, Kelvin,” he said. “Why would Mikhail agree to kill Ben?” “I told you,” replied Inman. “Mikhail sees the big picture. When I told them that Radzinsky shot himself, everybody pretty much took it as fact. Not old Mik, though. It seems he and Radzinsky had been talking over the computers. He knew Radzinsky was planning to go to Ben and he knew why. He didn’t call me out, though. Not in front of Ben. I knew it was only a matter of time.” “So you tried to kill him too,” Sawyer interjected. “Gee, you’re a fun guy.” “Look who’s talking,” Inman growled, and Sawyer immersed back into his sulk. “Yeah, I shot him. But as you might have noticed, Mikhail Bakunin is a hard man to kill.” “And Ben?” Desmond prompted impatiently. Inman took a deep breath and glanced around at his now rapt audience. “Let me give you the nutshell version. Imagine a radio signal emitting on a particular frequency. If you’re not on that frequency, all you get is static. You wouldn’t even know the signal is there. That is this island to most people. If you’re close to the frequency, you get bits and pieces. That was Radzinsky.” “And me,” Desmond replied. Kelvin nodded. “And, it appears, you, brother. Any anybody who has experienced things here. Could be second sight. Could be healing. Longevity. Nobody knows the breadth of what is possible. If you ask me, nobody has even scratched the surface. But there are a lot of people who would like to, and not all of their motivations are strictly humanitarian.” “So if you are exactly tuned to this frequency,” Rose said. Her expression was a blend of wonder and terror. “Then you are Benjamin Linus,” said Kelvin. “There may be others. Your man Locke seems to have a strong sympathy with this place. But Locke is hindered…or saved…by the fact that he came here as an adult. He is less likely to lose himself completely. But Ben,” Kelvin shook his head. “He was exposed to this when he was ten, eleven years old. Poor kid didn’t have a chance.” “So just being on the island is enough?” Rose asked. “Not necessarily,” Kelvin replied. “There are certain locations on the island that are more attuned than others. And there is supposed to be one place that is completely unshielded. Richard took Ben there when he was just a kid. Richard thought if he controlled Ben, he would control the island.” “Why didn’t Richard just go there himself?” Bernard asked. “I’m sure he did,” Kelvin replied. “Not the right frequency,” said Rose. Kelvin nodded. “You don’t choose the island. The island chooses you.” “So if Ben was more open to the island because he came here as a child,” Rose began, her brow knit in concentration. “Then someone actually born here would be…” She trailed off and looked up at Kelvin. “You got it,” he said. “Aaron?” Bernard asked. “Alex,” said Desmond. “Yes and yes,” said Kelvin. “Alex was given to Ben with the idea that he would groom her to succeed him, to achieve more than he ever could. But to Richard’s great disappointment, Ben had other ideas.” “He was trying to protect her,” said Rose. “He just didn’t want her trespassing on his turf,” Sawyer interjected without looking up. “Maybe a little of both,” Kelvin said. “Either way, Ben did everything he could to keep her away from certain places, and away from Richard.” “I don’t think he succeeded,” said Sawyer. “That little minx knows every blade of grass on this rock. I can’t imagine there is anyplace she hasn’t been.” “All of this may explain why you want Ben dead, but not why Mikhail would agree to do it,” said Desmond. “From what I’ve seen, Mikhail would take a bullet himself before he would let Ben be harmed.” “In most situations, I would agree with you,” Kelvin replied. “But this isn’t most situations. When Ben tapped into the island, he became virtually inseparable from it. For all intents and purposes, he is the island. And as long as Ben had Jacob, he could somewhat control it. But with everything that has happened, the anomaly, the birth of a child on the island, and whatever the hell has put Ben and Jacob on the outs, Ben has now become part of the problem. Whatever this island is, and believe me, nobody really knows, it must be contained here. Right now the genie is out of the bottle, and the only way to put it back in is for Ben to die.” “Well, let’s go,” said Sawyer. Bernard’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute,” he said. “If all you wanted was Ben dead, you could have gotten that done a lot easier than this. You could have just bombed the island for that matter.” “We don’t work that way,” Inman said. “You didn’t seem squeamish about shooting at a bunch of unarmed civilians,” Bernard replied angrily. “Oh, that.” Kelvin struck a match and lit the cold end of his cigar. “That wasn’t us,” he said. “What do you mean that wasn’t you?” Bernard asked. “When the anomaly allowed the island to be located, this suddenly became a very popular destination,” Kelvin explained. “I’m just trying to contain the damage that has already been done. But your friends on the boat, the ones that were shooting, have other things in mind.” “Such as?” Desmond prompted. “They want Ben alive. Alive and off the island. Which is one good reason to send Mikhail to take care of him. If they are already there, they won’t see him as a threat and neither will Ben.” “Still,” said Bernard. “Wouldn’t it have made more sense to send a whole battalion after him? They could have cut him off before he ever reached this place you think he is going.” “It’s not that easy,” said Kelvin. “It has to be done right. We think that in order for the anomaly to be stopped, he needs to be at the unshielded point on the island when he dies.” “You think?” asked Sawyer. Inman shrugged. “We don’t really know what is going to happen when he dies.” "Oh good!" said Sawyer. "We can all be surprised together." Desmond came around the pool table and stood in front of Kelvin. “Let me go,” he said. “There’s nothing you can do, Dez,” said Kelvin. “It’s all on Mikhail now.” “Well, that’s not going to work,” Desmond said, his voice growing more insistent. “What are you talking about, Desmond?” Kelvin asked. “What did you see?” Desmond shook his head as if shaking off a bad dream. “Let me go help Alex,” he said. “Shut up, you idiot,” Sawyer snarled. “She won’t reach him in time,” Kelvin assured Desmond. “I don’t care how many secret passages she knows.” “She’s not going after Ben,” said Desmond. “She’s going to the underwater station to turn back on the jamming equipment.” “Desmond!” Bernard exclaimed, but Desmond ignored him. “It’s not going to work,” he said, his tone increasingly agitated. “Your plan, it’s not going to work. Mikhail won’t kill Ben!” “Sure he will,” Kelvin replied. “He may not like it, but he’ll do it.” Desmond shook his head desperately. “He won’t get the chance, brother.” He started to turn away but Kelvin grabbed the smaller man by his shoulder. “What did you see, Dez?” he snapped. “What did you see?!” Desmond hesitated and Kelvin released his grip on him, suddenly looking very worn. “Somebody has to save the world, right?” he said wearily. Desmond nodded slowly. “They were in a cave,” he said. Bernard spoke up from his seat on the floor. “Desmond, are you sure about this?” The Scot seemed not to hear the question. His eyes darted away as if he was trying to recall the details of a photograph. “They were in a cave and Mikhail was laying on the ground, not moving. Ben leaned down to take his pulse.” Desmond looked up at Kelvin. “He was dead.”
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Post by keyserzozie on Apr 29, 2008 15:50:30 GMT -4
Chapter 100. From the journal of Benjamin Linus, January 6th, 1989. The lab was a just small, square room. There was little equipment in there; just a large glass tank on a plinth, a computer terminal - and a rabbit. The rabbit looked quite content, sitting in the glass tank eating a tomato slice. Its pink nose went up and down under the fluorescents. Under the plinth was an array of switches and buttons. Horace looked at me, grinning. “This is our star bunny,” he said, indicating the rabbit. “We call him Houdini. You’ll see why in a minute. He’s made the transition five times so far.” I tried to look impressed. “Wow. So – does he do tricks?” “The biggest trick of them all. Wanna see it?” “Yes, sir.” Horace sat down at the terminal. I watched him reset the system, then input a sequence of numbers, which I was able to memorize (I’ve always had a good memory for figures). We waited a moment. From beneath the floor there came a kind of low humming sound, like electromagnets moving together. Then Horace grinned and pressed Enter. “Watch.” For a moment I was genuinely puzzled. I looked at the rabbit, there in its cage. Nothing seemed to have happened at all. And then – it fell over, twitching, dead. I glanced at Horace curiously, but he seemed even more pleased with himself than before. “Cool, huh?” he said. I shrugged. “Is this the big secret research? Exciting new ways to kill bunnies?” Horace gave me his beaming smile. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, Ben. Just look over there. There, in that box.” And he pointed to something in the corner of the room, where now I could see a large metal container that I hadn’t noticed when I came in. I went to the box and looked inside. It was heavy, large, apparently lead-lined, and there was a glass lid under the metal one that I slid off to conduct my inspection. A white rabbit, identical to the one in the tank, was sniffing about in the base of the box. I knew a sudden stab of annoyance. I’d known that Horace was high, but I hadn’t thought him stupid. And to think that he could believe that I would be taken in by such a feeble practical joke - “This is a different rabbit,” I said. Horace grinned again. “I knew you’d think so, Ben,” he said. “Just have a look at both of them. Compare the markings. The fur. The single clipped toenail. The teeth, Ben -” It was pointless, I knew. But I humoured him. And the rabbits did look very alike. But then again, most lab rabbits do. The little details in common – a chipped tooth, a clipped toenail, a furless patch on a front paw – all of these could have been engineered. A practical joke, I told myself – albeit a very an intricate one. Still, there was something strange going on – Horace himself was the proof of that. And it was Horace’s reaction, and not the evidence of my own eyes, that convinced me that this was no joke. Getting high; talking to me; showing off his discovery -all these were signs of intense mental agitation, of an excitement so powerful that he’d been unable to keep it in. He’d had to tell someone, I realized. Even if it was just a workman. Especially a workman, perhaps; someone who wouldn’t understand the repercussions of what he’d seen. But what had I seen? I thought. Was Horace duplicating the rabbits? Or did he believe his rabbit had experienced a molecular shift, had translocated from one place to another? There was tomato in the second rabbit’s mouth. I thought about that for a long time. * * *
Alex allowed herself to slow down. No-one was following her any more. She guessed she owed that to Sawyer, who had drawn off her pursuers; now she was alone again, moving purposely through the trees towards the place on the beach where she knew that the Looking-Glass could be accessed. She’d left a canoe not far away. Easy enough to paddle out; easy enough to swim down. Desmond had told her where to go – and there would be lockers, she told herself, lockers with breathing equipment inside, so that when she opened the door to the communications room – she tried not to think of poor Charlie inside – she would be able to tackle the code without being drowned in the process. She wondered if this was how she was doomed to die. She had deliberately refrained from discussing the topic with Desmond. Knowing that his visions were often subject to change, it was pointless trying to second-guess the truth – if, as he believed, the universe was made up of a series of movie frames, multiple takes of the same scene, all telling more or less the same story, then it didn’t matter how she would die. Perhaps in another reality, Alex was already dead – but she was young and optimistic enough to believe first and foremost in here and now; and her principal concern was for Karl, who had vanished before the attack on the camp, and who might be waiting for her on the beach, or in one of their hideaways – So far, she’d checked them all in vain. And now as she reached the edge of the beach, she saw that it too, was deserted. “Well, I guess we’re all on our own for Stage Four,” said Alex to herself. And moving across the warm sand, she began to scan the fringe of rocks for the place where she’d hidden her small canoe. * * *
From the journal of Benjamin Linus, January 6th, 1989. It took me some time to extract the truth. By then Horace was giggling like a maniac, delighted at the expression on my face. It seemed that they had been investigating what Horace called the limitless psychic potential of the human mind – especially the possibility of telekinesis, telepathy and translocation – typically DHARMA topics, I thought, more suited to budget sci-fi than true science – when they had stumbled across this phenomenon. A concrete result, startling; something Horace was persuaded would one day lead to practical faster-than-light-speed travel; an instantaneous mode of transport. “The stars, man,” he told me rapturously. “It could be a ladder to the stars.” “But the rabbit died,” I said. Horace shook his head. “The new rabbit is genetically identical to the first one. My belief is that the body, as you see it, is just what’s left over from the journey. The transition, man. Like a molecular residue.” Some residue, I told myself. In spite of what Horace believed, I didn’t think his rabbit had travelled anywhere. It was another rabbit, I thought – genetically identical, perhaps, but another, distinct individual – But from where? I asked the question. But Horace was too absorbed in his theorizing to make much sense. He’d tried the experiment with many other things; with cut flowers, with leaves, with inanimate objects. In each case, the object had made the transition - as he called it – intact. It was only with living subjects – the rabbit, a cat, a monkey – that the duplication (or the anomaly, as he called it) had occurred. Horace was so fixated with his idea that he had no time for alternatives. For myself, I wasn’t sure what to believe. As I returned to my own work, I found myself returning to my initial thought; the question that still haunted me. No-one - not Houdini, not even the Wizard of Oz - can pull a rabbit from thin air. So - Where were these rabbits coming from? And was there a way to go there?
* * * The petrol ran out before they arrived. But once more Bessie – so Hurley had named the old van – had served them better than they’d hoped. Locke reckoned they were now less than four miles away, and although they’d seen no sign of Ben, he was sure they were still on the right track. Annie had stopped reading. The movement of the old van with its faulty suspension and noisy exhaust, had given her a headache, and while Ben’s obsessive, spidery script was hard enough to read in normal circumstances, now it was virtually impossible. Now, as they moved through the jungle, trying to keep pace with Locke, she considered the complex equation that was Benjamin Linus, and came to the sad conclusion that in spite of everything she’d learnt, she was no closer to solving it than she’d been when she was nine. They’d heard the helicopter pass overhead, although that had been close to an hour ago. Nothing more had ensued; and they approached the Temple with caution, expecting trouble, but finding nothing but a disquieting silence that reminded Annie of jungle movies she’d loved as a child, movies like She and Tarzan and King Kong, in which monsters prowled and native bearers were restless on the approach to forbidden cities in which screaming women were sacrificed to idols and immortal beings, driven mad by loneliness and power, fell in love with unlikely heroes and offered them eternal life – “Dude, slow down. I’m dyin’ here -” That was Hurley, his tie-dye T-shirt drenched with sweat, his face a mask of discomfort. Annie smiled. “I won’t leave you behind.” “Shh!” Locke turned, raised a finger to his lips. He motioned towards the trees, to a space a hundred yards away, a space through which, Annie realized, she could see the sweep of the ocean, and to the left, a blur of stone that she knew to be the Temple. “Oh, man,” said Hurley. “Shh,” said Locke, moving forward again. “Don’t make a sound. We’re not alone.”
* * *
From the journal of Benjamin Linus, July 19th, 1998. Of course, all that was a long time ago. Since then, we have refined the technique that Horace discovered by accident. And now, of course, we know that his theory of special/molecular displacement is based on faulty reasoning. But there were potential practical applications, even to faulty reasoning. And, if, as has often been speculated, there are an infinite number of potential states of reality, all coexisting like pages in a book, frames, if you like, from a long strip of film in which every frame differs only very slightly from the one adjoining it – then it seemed to me that what Horace and his people had found was a means of bringing objects – and sometimes even living beings - from other realities to our own, like drawing rabbits from a hat. Or, in Horace’s case, a box. Of course, the box was simply a metaphor. The field he’d created around the magnetic anomaly could be broadened, expanded, to cover a much larger area, and once the DHARMA group had been purged we established a number of bases, using DHARMA’s original (though somewhat primitive) facilities from which we could examine and observe the effects of this phenomenon. Then, the first incident occurred. We’d left two men in the Swan hatch; Inman and Radzinsky. But as time passed and it became apparent from our observations that Radzinsky was unstable, I sent Mikhail Bakunin to restore order. Jacob’s influence had grown, following the conduits we had created, and as a result Radzinsky was beginning to experience dislocation, mental disturbance and predictive flashes that troubled him immensely. We could see what he was trying to do – and rather than prejudice the outcome of our continuing research, we decided – I decided – to sacrifice Radzinsky. However, I discovered too late that I had misjudged Inman. The man was already one step ahead, and after neutralizing both the Russians, he locked himself into the Swan hatch, which was virtually impregnable, disabled the surveillance inside the living quarters, and bided his time until the opportunity arose to escape in a stolen sailing-boat, leaving an innocent in his place. Well, I say an innocent. Can any of us claim to be that? In any case, innocence is a greatly overrated virtue, and innocents rarely survive very long. But I am concerned for Alex. She and I used to be so close. She trusted me. She loved me. Perhaps I do not deserve her love. But I do need it, as I needed yours, Annie, in the face of these new trials that beset me. Richard sees this and sneers at me – oh, in the most respectful way. But I know he feels it’s a weakness. And I know he’s just waiting for me to show that vulnerability, to prove that I am unworthy of Jacob’s favour, and of his own. As for Jacob – well. He waits. Inscrutable, as always, and unpredictable as summer lightning. He – actually I am surprised at myself that I still think of him – it – as he. I suppose he needed some kind of name. Jacob was as good as any. Before that, he had other names; but now he is Jacob to all of us. It seems appropriate; both paternal and Biblical. And he has provided so generously for our ailing community in terms of power and protection. No-one falls ill here. No-one dies. Well, almost no-one; save for the women. Those women – those innocents – Innocents, like Emily. Oh, if only I could find my way back. Back as far as my own birth – shuffle the deck, erase the past, bring her back to life again – Such things have been tried before, of course. We know this from the anomalies that have been springing up all over the island. Not just magnetic anomalies, but anomalies in space and time… Time travel, except in movies, is scientifically impossible. So Richard has always maintained. And even if it were not, he says, the concept of a machine – a box, perhaps, or some kind of ship - that might transport us into another time is fundamentally absurd. Time is not a country. It is mutable; subjective; like water, it is easily displaced. To travel in time is to effect change; to reach back would inevitably alter the future. And all of this is still theory; we barely understand the nature of the simplest of the island’s phenomena, still less these weird philosophies– And yet, I see Jacob. He speaks to me. That makes me unique, so Richard says – like a radio attuned to a distant signal that only few people can hear. He speaks to me, but what he says rarely makes a great deal of sense, and his infrequent appearances are often accompanied by atmospheric disturbances –including the one we know as Cerberus – that range from the merely troublesome to the outright dangerous. We have already lost sixteen people to this phenomenon alone, and it is no surprise that the most susceptible among our group have begun to view the thing with an almost superstitious awe. As for myself – I sense that to them I am but two steps removed from godhood. My visions, my knowledge, my communion with Jacob – all this suggests that I am a prophet, at least; which makes me slightly uneasy, given the fate that tends to await those of us who find ourselves thus favoured by the divine. Richard, of course, nurtures all this. He claims the people need the ritual as a means of structuring their lives. Science is all very well, he says; but faith is a far more potent tool – and as such, he has surrounded me with legends, tales and fabrications so that to almost all of them I have become a kind of oracle – You would have grounded me, Anastacia. If not honest, or even good, at least you would have kept me humble. Every day I find a different way of justifying my betrayal of you. Every day I bitterly regret the need to maintain our isolation from the outside world. But if I called you back, Annie, then we would open the floodgates to everyone – and who knows if the anomalies might spread even beyond the island, spreading their disruption even into the world outside, toppling realities like a row of dominoes…
* * * They had gathered by the seashore. Fifteen or sixteen of them, no more; dressed in the white tunics that Locke now knew to be mourning gear. Locke didn’t see anyone among them that he knew by name; the leaders of the Others’ group had either been killed in the beach ambush or scattered around the island, and the group that was left consisted mainly of women, with four or five children in their midst, and three or four adolescent boys. A sound came up from the little band; an ululating wail that raised the hackles on Locke’s neck and made Annie and Hurley stop in their tracks. “Aw, man,” said Hurley uneasily. “Creepy soundtrack. That’s all we need.” “What are they doing?” whispered Locke. Annie shrugged. “I don’t know.” The three moved forward towards the trees that screened them from the Others’ view. No-one in the group seemed to be armed. Now Annie could see by the waterside a light raft made of palm and bamboo, decorated with flowers. And as Hurley moved to peer through the leaves, he saw a man in a white tunic lying motionless on the raft, a garland of flowers around his neck, a crown of palm-fronds on his head. Hurley squinted. “Hey, dude. Isn’t that -” “Shh.” Locke had moved up from the left. His eyes narrowed as he took in the scene – the flowers, the raft, the eerie sounds of mourning… But it was the body laid out on the raft that made Annie’s heart flip over like an autumn leaf and her breath catch like barbed wire in her throat. “No,” she whispered. “No. No.” The dead man was Benjamin Linus.
* * * Hurley sat with his arm around Annie’s shoulder as she sobbed silently. He had caught her when her knees gave way from underneath her, and helped her gently to the ground. Ever the “best friend,” Hugo Reyes was no stranger to having women cry on his shoulder, usually about the no-good s.o.b. who had just done her wrong. But this time, Hurley had no words of comfort to speak, so he just sat. Locke had moved forward to get a closer look at the somber ritual, and now he crept back to their position. “Something is not right,” he whispered, apparently oblivious to Annie’s distress. “Look at him.” When Annie did not respond, Locke tapped insistently on her arm. “Look at his face,” he said. “Dude, seriously,” Hurley interjected. “I don’t think she wants to look at him.” Locke’s expression softened. “I’m not trying to be cruel, here,” he said quietly. “Annie, I’m not sure that’s really him.” Annie looked up, her face contorted with grief. Unable to form a word, she shook her head in confusion. “Look at his face,” Locke said gently. Both Hurley and Annie squinted to see in the dimming light. “What about it?” asked Hurley. “There’s not a mark on him,” Locke replied. “We all saw Ben less than 12 hours ago, and his face was black and blue. This man looks perfect.” “Well, it’s dark,” Hurley pointed out. “Can you see the bruise on my eye?” Locke asked. “Oh yeah,” Hurley nodded. “What are you saying?” Annie asked, unable to resist the straw that Locke was holding out. “I don’t know,” Locke admitted. “But I think we need to keep moving; find this Tabernacle.” “So you think we’re all hallucinating the exact same thing?” Hurley asked, forgetting to keep his voice down? “I don’t know, Hugo,” said Locke. “But either way, the answer is not here.” “You and your friggin’ answers,” Hurley grumbled. “No, he’s right,” Annie said. “Even if that is Ben -- if he is…” She turned deliberately away from the scene on the beach. “That’s all the more reason we need to get to the Temple. If he couldn’t finish what he set out to do, then we will have to.” *** Alex had picked her way along the rocky shore till she spotted her canoe. All the while she kept glancing up at the treeline, each time disappointed not to see Karl emerge from the brush and jog across the sand toward her. Ben had told her she was too young to know what love is, but Alex knew he was wrong. She thought back to that conversation with a pang. I don’t care what happens to you, she had said. I wish you were dead. Alex felt like she had aged a hundred years since that day. She had been full of anger and hurt, and most of all the conviction that her father could never die. She had almost laughed when he talked about love, certain that he was the one who did not know what love was. She didn’t know then about Annie, about the flame her father had kept alive those many years. If she had, she would have thought it romantic and tragic. Now she knew it was neither. It was only painful and lonely. As she came upon her small skiff, she shook off her feelings of regret, knowing Ben would not approve. She had lived long enough to tell her father that she loved him. That would have to be enough. Bending over to get leverage on the canoe, she did not notice the long black tube that snaked out of the jungle and across the sand behind her. By the time she straightened up, the cloud had already gathered and reared up all around her. When she noticed the darkness over her shoulder, she was so startled that she lost her footing and tumbled ungracefully to the rocks. *** It was good that they arrived at the mouth of the caves when they did, because Cindy doubted that Ben had much more hiking in him. The spurt of energy he had gained from his brief rest had been more than depleted, and he seemed once again to be moving on nothing but willpower. It was best this way, she thought. Once she had learned the location of his final destination, he should be easy enough to overpower. When she had subdued him, she would call out for the back-up that was tracking them at a safe distance. They would take him into custody, and then her part in all of this would be over. Cindy was glad of this. The importance of her mission had been driven into her over so many years that it hardly occurred to her to question it. Take Benjamin Linus alive at all costs. Any threat to his life must be neutralized, and that included the real possibility that Ben would attempt suicide to avoid capture. Cindy did not know what her superiors intended to do with him once they had him, and she did not want to know. She had seen enough to know that there were forces at work that were well beyond her understanding, and the sooner she could complete her task and get off the island, the better. As Ben haltingly lowered himself into a sitting position on a rock just outside the cave, Cindy realized there was another reason that she must accomplish her mission quickly. She was not cut out for this line of work. She had a natural affinity with people, and the lies and manipulation left a bad taste in her mouth. She did not like the idea of harming anyone, less still the prospect of having to kill. Her training had been thorough, and she knew she would do what was necessary, but she did not like it, and she wanted it done. Ben took the bottle of water she offered, and drank slowly. He did not carry a pack himself, as he was having enough trouble moving without any adding any baggage. He looked at Cindy thoughtfully. “You don’t have to come any further,” he said. “It won’t be safe once we get inside.” “And that is different from out here, how?” she asked. “Point taken,” Ben conceded. “Still, you have done more than I had any right to ask of you.” “Are you trying to get rid of me?” Cindy asked in what she hoped sounded like a teasing manner. Ben was studying her and she started to wonder if he was on to her duplicity. He had a way of looking at you as if he could see into your soul. He did not answer her question, but handed back the half-empty bottle and stood up. “This way,” he said. But to Cindy’s surprise, he did not enter the cave. Instead, he moved off to the right, skirting the rock wall that jutted up from the ground. “Where are you going?” Cindy asked, moving to follow him. “Back door,” said Ben, shooting her an enigmatic smile. *** They had moved remarkably swiftly through the jungle, and Locke estimated that it had taken them no more than 30 minutes to cover the three plus miles to the Temple. His mind darted involuntarily back to the night he had crept away from the caves with Aaron sleeping blissfully in his pack. What a night that had been. Perhaps of all nights on the island, this had been the highlight. He had felt at one with the earth around him, moving silently among the trees, which seemed to bend aside to let him slip through on his absurdly heroic mission to rescue a child and return him to his mother. He had been strong and agile and clever – all of the things the island had brought forth in him – all of the things he was not back at home in the box factory. Home, he thought. Everyone is so anxious to get home. Locke halted the small party while they were still under cover of the jungle. Crouched low in the foliage, he put his hand on the ground and dug his fingers into the earth. Home. Locke was about to motion his companions forward when he saw a man emerge from the mouth of the cave, followed by a woman, then two more men. The trickle of people seemed directionless and even somewhat dazed. Based on what Annie had told him, and what they had been able to extrapolate from Ben’s journal, Locke knew they needed to get inside those caves. Annie had moved up next to him and they both peered through the leaves. As more people straggled out of the caves and milled around the entrance, Locke knew it was unlikely they could slip past, even in the quickly fading light. Suddenly, a large silhouette appeared in the foreground, and Locke watched in stunned silence as Hurley walked casually toward the group of strangers. Locke shot a quick look at Annie who seemed just as nonplussed as he was. “Hey you guys,” Hurley addressed no one in particular. “Does anybody mind if we go in there?” He pointed at the dark mouth of the cave. “No?” He looked around at the laggards who were mostly avoiding eye-contact with him. “Cool,” he said after a pause. Waving an arm toward Locke and Annie he called, “All clear!” Locke could not help smiling as he emerged from the trees with Annie right behind him. “I wouldn’t have thought of that,” he said, slapping Hurley on the back. “Yeah, well, that’s what I’m here for,” Hurley replied. Locke drew a couple of torches from his pack and lit them from a stationary torch at the cave’s entrance. “John Locke.” A voice made him pause as he was handing a torch to Hurley. He turned and saw a petite older woman walking toward him. “We haven’t met formally,” she said. “My name is Amelia.” “How do you do, Amelia,” Locke replied, falling back on the formality. “I won’t keep you,” Amelia said. “I just wanted to ask you, how is the baby?” Locke nodded, finally recognizing the woman’s face. Aaron had been in her care when Locke had rescued him. “He’s fine,” Locke said. “He is with his mother.” “Good,” said Amelia. She smiled. “That’s good. Can you find your way?” “I think so,” Locke said. Amelia nodded, and walked away, shooing several stragglers ahead of her into the twilight. *** Ben had been down the labyrinthine passageways so many times that the torch he carried was unnecessary. He could measure his progress by the sloping of the floor and the narrowing and widening of the walls. When his feet finally splashed into shallow water, he felt the familiar arrhythmia of his heart that signaled he was near his destination. He paused, glancing back at Cindy who had followed gamely into the dark tangle of hallways. “You doing okay?” he asked. “No worries,” she replied with an unconvincing smile. “You haven’t forgotten what I asked you?” Ben asked. “The message to give to Alex?” “No, I haven’t forgotten,” Cindy replied. “Are we here?” she asked, pushing her torch into the darkness ahead. “Almost,” said Ben. He turned and made his way across the shallow stream and down the narrow hall beyond it. Finally, he rounded a corner and the walls widened into an irregularly shaped room with a high ceiling. When Cindy emerged from the passageway she had to blink at the sudden light from several stationary torches affixed to the walls. Her eyes were still adjusting when she heard the voice from the opposite side of the room. “Hello Benjamin.” “I wasn’t expecting to see you here, Mikhail,” Ben said evenly. “Are you alone?” “Virtually alone,” Mikhail replied. Ben followed his gaze to a corner of the rock room where lay the motionless body of a woman. “Isobel?” Ben asked dispassionately. Mikhail nodded and Ben’s eyes darted to the heavy metal door behind him. It stood a few inches open. “Did she go inside?” he asked. Again Mikhail nodded. “Why are you here, Mikhail,” Ben asked. “I came to kill you,” Mikhail replied without hesitation. Ben considered the unmoving Russian for a moment. “Did Richard send you?” he asked finally. “Benjamin,” Mikhail said, his tone carrying his disappointment that Ben would have such a low opinion of him. “Then who?” Ben asked. “Kelvin Inman,” he replied. Ben’s surprise showed on his face, but it was followed by swift mental calculation and a slow nod. “You’ll do it then,” he said. “You must know that I do not relish the idea,” Mikhail said sincerely. “If it were not necessary…” “Of course,” Ben said. Cindy had been momentarily stunned into immobility by the absurdly civil exchange between the two men. But since Ben appeared disinclined to make any move to save his own life, she knew she must step in. She could not see if Mikhail was carrying any firearms. While she knew he could certainly be lethal without a weapon, at present he was far enough away that she could probably take him down before he could reach Ben. But if he had a gun… In one swift movement, Cindy drew a pistol from the back of her belt and leveled it at Mikhail. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” she said. The Russian’s brow knit with surprise as he spread his hands away from his sides, palms up. “It seems you have a new champion, Benjamin,” he said, only a tinge of sarcasm in his voice. “Evidently I need one,” Ben replied. “Are you going to shoot me, Cindy?” Mikhail asked in a tone that betrayed nothing but objective curiosity. “If I have to,” she replied. “Actually, her name is Rebecca,” Ben interjected. Cindy’s gaze snapped onto Ben, her expression a mix of shock and fear. “And I don’t think she is here to rescue me,” Ben finished. Mikhail nodded his understanding. “Then you are the sleeper?” he asked. “If you knew, why did you let me come this far?” Cindy asked, her attention still focused on Ben. “If I had left your body in the jungle, they just would have sent somebody else,” Ben explained. “Besides, you seemed rather determined to come along, and you did carry my bag for me.” Cindy glanced at Mikhail who still stood with his hands docilely out to the sides. He and Ben were so placid in the face of her threats that she suddenly felt out of her league. “Get on your knees,” she ordered Mikhail. His uncomplaining compliance only served to make her more nervous. Training the gun on Ben she said, “Turn around. We’re going back.” “No, I don’t think so,” Ben replied. Cindy aimed the gun into his chest, but Ben merely shook his head. “My guess is you are supposed to take me alive. If you wanted me dead, you would have let him kill me.” He jerked his head toward Mikhail who merely shrugged as though the logic were inescapable. Cindy turned the gun back on Mikhail but Ben shook his head again. “He was just going to kill me. Do you think threatening him is going to persuade me to go with you?” Cindy blinked, trying to untangle the logic of her predicament. “Listen to me, Cindy” Ben said earnestly. “I know you think you are doing what is right. I know you are only following orders from people who think they are doing what is right. But you have to trust me on this. If they succeed – if you take me off of this island right now – the consequences will be catastrophic. You have to let me finish what I came here to do.” Cindy felt almost hypnotized as Ben’s eyes bored into her. Benjamin Linus is a liar. Her conditioning echoed in her memory. He is a master of manipulation. He will say anything to get you under his control. “No,” she said. “You have to come with me.” She jabbed the gun into his upper arm and set her face. “Cindy, please,” Ben pled. “This is the most important decision you will ever make.” She hesitated so long that Ben thought she would lower the gun, until the sound of footsteps in the hallway drew their attention. The ensuing shuffle of positions took place to swiftly that it was hard to tell which happened first. A flaming torch was shoved into the room, followed by Locke who had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the low doorway. In the momentary distraction, Mikhail was on his feet, seemed to glide the distance that separated them, and roughly pulled Ben out of Cindy’s reach. Annie spilled into the room next, and before Mikhail could lay hold of Cindy’s gun, she had stepped to the side, pulling Annie with her. When Hurley finally emerged from the doorway, Cindy had one arm around Annie’s neck and the gun to her temple. The look of anguish on Ben’s face told Cindy she had chosen wisely. “Did we miss anything?” asked Hurley. The six of them stood frozen for a lingering moment. It was Annie who finally broke the silence. “I don’t know who you are or what you are trying to accomplish,” she said quietly. “But you won’t control him by threatening me.” Her eyes were locked on Ben who had quickly managed to clear his expression of any emotion. Cindy tightened her grip on her hostage, but Annie went on calmly. “What is happening here is beyond personal feelings. Ben will do what he must, regardless of what you do to me. And I believe that every person here will do whatever they can to help him. If you understood what was at stake, you would help him too.” Her quiet voice echoed weirdly off of the uneven walls. Cindy’s eyes darted to the faces surrounding her, searching for some clue to help her know what was right. “What are you trying to do?” she asked Ben. Ben did not speak right away, seeming to search for an answer. “You have been here long enough to know that this island holds immeasurable power, have you not?” Ben asked. Cindy nodded, still keeping the gun trained on Annie. “You have lived in the outside world more recently than I have,” Ben went on. “Who do you trust with power on this scale? The power to alter reality? A government? A church? A corporation?” Cindy’s eyes narrowed with uncertainty. “It must be contained here, Cindy,” Ben said. “This island must stay hidden. You know this is true.” Again she scanned the faces of the others in the room. Only Locke did not meet her gaze. He recognized the blend of sincerity and desperation in Ben’s voice, and did not want his expression to betray his misgivings. “What do you think, John?” Cindy asked, perhaps sensing his thoughts. Locke sighed. “If Ben Linus said the sun was shining, I would get out my umbrella,” he said. “The truth is not in that man.” He met Cindy’s gaze, ignoring the venomous look that Ben shot him. “But as it happens, I agree with him. You need to go on back to your people and leave us to do what we need to do here.” “What do I tell them?” Cindy asked. She lowered her gun, but held onto Annie’s arm. “Tell them you got into the caves and then got ambushed,” Locke said. “Ben got away and you don’t know where he went.” “What if they find this place?” Cindy asked. “If I succeed they won’t,” Ben replied. “And if you don’t?” Cindy asked. “Then it won’t matter,” Locke answered. “Not for long.” After a moment of hesitation, Cindy let go of Annie’s arm, tucking the pistol back into her belt. Annie moved away and Mikhail walked to Cindy and held out his hand. “Ben’s satchel,” he said. Cindy looked up at him for a moment and then slipped the strap over her head and handed him the canvas bag. “And your radio,” said Mikhail. “It’s no good,” she told him. “You can’t get a signal in these caves.” “Humor me,” Mikhail said. Cindy thought for a moment and then reached into her pocket and pulled out a small walkie-talkie. Mikhail took it and slipped in into his own pocket. Then taking one step backward, he swung, and his fist connected with her cheekbone. As Cindy staggered backward from the blow, Mikhail caught her arm and steadied her. Anger flashed across her bloodied face as she turned to glare up at him. “It will make your story more plausible,” he said. “Well, thanks for looking out for me,” Cindy snapped, and she ducked out the door without another word. *** Mikhail seemed serenely oblivious to the shocked expressions on the faces around him. “So,” he said. “The time has come.” Ben nodded, darting a look at Annie. “Uh, I hate to sound like a dummy,” said Hurley. “But the time for what? I know it is to do with entering numbers and seeing the future and…stuff,” Hurley stammered. “But what exactly are we doing?” “It’s not the future,” Locke said. “It’s the present.” “I thought Desmond could see the future,” Hurley said. Ben looked at Locke who gestured for him to go on. “Precognition is only a secondary effect of the principle phenomenon,” Ben said. “One of many secondary effects. Telekinesis. Extraordinary perception. Extraordinary communication. We have seen a multitude of effects, of varying degrees of usefulness and – danger.” “What is the principle phenomenon?” Hurley asked, seeming assured that he would not like the answer. “Think back over your life,” Ben continued. “The experiences you recall seem like the only reality. But they are not. Imagine if you had made different choices, as simple as taking a different road to get home one day. If you had gone one road, your trip was uneventful. If you chose a different road, perhaps there was an accident. That choice can send the rest of your life in entirely different directions. “Now imagine that both of those choices actually exist, not just as a possibility, but as a reality, each on its own plane, each running parallel to one another. Now multiply that by the hundreds of choices you make every day, from the most mundane, like what to eat for breakfast, to the most significant, like who you might marry or whether you have a child. Hundreds and thousands of distinct realities, all existing next to each other, always parallel, never intersecting.” All eyes were fixed on Ben. Each person struggling to understand, and to gather the pieces of the puzzle that they had not yet put into place. “Now, Hugo, imagine that you could make those realities intersect. That you could choose the one in which you had made a different choice.” Hurley squinted with concentration. “Like time travel? Like going back and fixing something you had screwed up?” Ben shook his head. “Not time travel. Choosing a different reality. Let’s say you like to eat eggs for breakfast, but they make you sick.” Ben looked at Hurley, sure he had chosen an apt metaphor. “So you eat the eggs for your breakfast, but then at 9:00 o’clock, you jump to a different reality – one in which you had eaten toast for breakfast. You get to enjoy your eggs, and enjoy your good health.” “But what about the me of the other reality?” Hurley countered. “Didn’t that me get stuck with the toast and the stomachache.” Ben sniffed a hollow chuckle and shook his head. “What?” said Hurley. “Did I totally miss it?” “No,” said Ben. “You just summed up the anomaly which now threatens to unravel not only the reality on this island, but which is now spreading to the outside world.” Hurley turned a puzzled look toward Locke. “What’d I say?” he asked. “Call it karma. Call it yin and yang. Call it the universe course-correcting,” said Locke. “All of life wants to be in balance, both with itself and with all other life. It is part of every religion, every philosophy. Look no further than the book of Genesis, which is a story about balance, harmony, justice. Light balances darkness. Land balances the sea. Woman balances man.” “Okay,” said Hurley. “What does that have to do with my eggs and toast?” “Every thread of reality has its own balance. When you start picking and choosing from different threads, you throw all of them off kilter. Sooner or later the whole tapestry will start to unravel.” “How can you pick and choose?” asked Hurley. “You find a place where they intersect,” said Ben. Hurley looked around the room. “Here?” he said. Ben nodded. “More specifically, there.” He pointed to the metal door behind Mikhail. “Across generations, people have discovered the power that converges here, and have tried to understand it, to harness it. Till finally one man realized that humanity was not fit to have this power. He tried to hide the island, bringing only those people who were…worthy.” “Jacob?” Annie asked. “Jacob is a real guy?” Hurley asked. “I thought he was like a ghost or something.” “Jacob was a man, a long time ago,” Ben replied. “What he is now…” He seemed to struggle with an explanation. “Benjamin,” Mikhail interrupted. “If something is going to be done, it must be done now.” Ben nodded his agreement. “So what are we going to do?” Hurley asked, back around to his original question. “Jacob was not entirely successful in hiding the island, as you have seen. As a result, over time various threads of reality have crossed, become tangled. The effect seems to be increasing of its own accord to the point that the entire tapestry threatens to come unraveled.” Ben paused. “Have you ever had a computer?” he asked Hurley. “Sure,” Hurley replied. “Back home.” “We are going to reboot the system,” Ben said. “We are going to try to go back to the start and hope the threads untangle.” “If it’s like a computer, can’t we just whack the side of it?” Hurley suggested. Locke smiled. “I think that is what they have been trying,” he said. Ben nodded. “But each attempt has only succeeded in making things worse.” “So how did things start to get messed up in the first place? How did the first threads get crossed?” Hurley asked. “Because a boy wanted to see his mother,” Ben said quietly. Annie, who had moved over next to him, slipped her hand into his. “Richard didn’t tell you what would happen, did he?” Locke asked. Ben shook his head. “You never know the price when you receive the gift,” he said. “You should know that, John.” Hurley spoke up again. “I had to be Mr. Negative, here,” he said. “But what if it doesn’t work? What if you reboot the computer and then you can’t get it going again? Or it just tangles everything up worse?” Ben looked at him earnestly. “Hugo, I never thought I would have an occasion to say this to you, but your guess is as good as mine.” To Ben’s surprise, Hurley broke into a wide grin. “Awesome,” he said. “Benjamin,” said Mikhail. “Perhaps it would be best to test the theory on a smaller scale first. To see if a single thread can be untangled before moving on to the larger issue.” “What do you suggest?” Ben asked. “I will go in first and key in the sequence. So long as you stay beyond this door, the effect should be contained.” Mikhail’s tone was matter-of-fact and Ben nodded. “So how will we know if it worked?” Hurley asked. “Mikhail will be dead,” Ben replied. “As I should have been years ago,” Mikhail added. “As I already am in another reality.” “Whoa, you’re starting to give me a headache,” Hurley said. “So there’s a dead you in another reality?” Mikhail nodded. “Shot by Kelvin Inman, on this island six years ago.” “That’s whack,” Hurley muttered. “So,” Mikhail said after a pause. “I will take my leave.” Before he could put a hand on the heavy door, Annie stepped forward and put her arms around the scarred and grizzled soldier. He smiled and returned the embrace. “Anastasia,” he said, releasing her and reaching into his pocket. “Will you keep this for me?” He pulled out a small photograph, gave it a long look, and then pressed it into her hand. She took it, tears welling in her eyes, and returned to Ben’s side. Mikhail’s eyes locked with Ben’s and he gave a slight nod, a gesture that Ben reciprocated. Then he turned and pulled the heavy door open and disappeared into the darkness. The clang of the door closing made a deafening echo in the outer chamber. “Ben,” Annie whispered, staring at the picture in her hand. “Have you seen this?” “I know what it is,” Ben replied without looking. Annie’s tears flowed freely now as she studied the well-worn photograph. It was a much-younger Mikhail, handsome and whole. In each arm he held a beaming child, girls that looked to be around 3 or 4 years old. A slightly older boy clung to Mikhail’s back, his skinny arms wrapped around the man’s neck as his feet dangled a foot off the ground. “So how long do we have to wait?” Hurley asked. “The effect should be immediate, once the sequence is keyed in,” said Ben. “So then that’s all you have to do is key in a couple of numbers?” Hurley asked. “There is a little more to it than that,” Ben replied. “But essentially yes, that is it. Someone will have to come in with me.” “Why?” asked Locke. “I don’t know what the effect on me will be,” he said. “I may need assistance. And in any event, someone will need to get out and lock this door from the outside if I am unable to.” “I’ll come,” said Annie. “No,” said Ben. “Ben, I’m coming with you,” Annie said firmly. “Annie, please.” Ben’s voice caught in his throat. He looked into her eyes, all pretense or protection falling away. “I can’t do this with you there,” he whispered. “When the threads fall back into place, then this reality goes away. It is replaced by one where you are not here. I can’t make that happen with you standing right next to me. I’m not strong enough.” Depths of loneliness filled his eyes. “Annie, please don’t make me watch you leave again.” Annie raised her hand and laid it gently against his cheek. “Alright Ben. I won’t. I’ll wait for you out here.” Ben said nothing further, but turned toward where Locke and Hurley stood. “You’ll have to go in, Hugo,” said Locke. “What? Me?” said Hurley. “No, man, you should go. You’re like 30 times braver than me.” “I can’t,” said Locke. “Dude, why not?” Hurley asked. Locke was staring at the ground, and did not answer. Even in the dim light, Hurley could see that his weathered face had gone pale, and he looked to Hurley like he might throw up. It was Ben who provided the answer. “Because if this succeeds, if the threads fall back into place – he won’t be able to walk.” Shock registered on Hurley’s face. “Seriously, dude?” Locke nodded without looking up. “I was in a wheelchair when I got on that plane,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I shouldn’t be out of it.” “Aw man, that sucks,” said Hurley sincerely. In the months on the island, Hurley had never really clicked with Locke. He had always been put off and a little intimidated by the hunter’s mysticism. But Charlie had liked him and told Hurley, when it all hits the fan, make sure you’re standing behind John Locke. And even Hurley had to admit that there was a larger-than-life quality to a guy who could stick a knife in a tree at twenty paces. Hurley didn’t think he would like seeing a man like that made helpless. Struck with an idea, he said, “Hey, maybe it’s not a tangled thread. Maybe you being able to walk is a…a…” he snapped his fingers, searching for the word. “A secondary effect. Like future-seeing.” Locke raised his eyes to look at Ben. “Is that possible?” he asked. Ben considered for a moment. “It is possible.” Locke smiled hollowly, mildly surprised that such a stranger to truth would be so versed in mercy. He let out a long breath and then shrugged his knapsack off of his shoulders. “Do you need this?” Locke asked, handing Ben his journal, filled with long series of numbers and equations. “Yes. Thank you,” Ben replied, taking the battered notebook. Locke dropped his pack on the ground and walked slowly to the far wall of the chamber. A look of profound sorrow crossed his face, and then he set his jaw and lowered himself to the floor. As he sat with his knees drawn up to his chest and his hands clenched, Hurley wondered if he was praying. Ben picked up his own satchel that Cindy had surrendered, stuffed in the journal, and then slung the bag across his shoulder. He walked toward the closed metal door, but stopped in front of Annie. She took his hand and held it in both of hers. “So tell me – are there any of those threads where we are together?” she asked. “I don’t know,” Ben replied. ” Jacob wouldn’t let me see.” He was silent so long that Annie thought those might be his final words to her, but he spoke at last. “I do know this,” he said. “There is no reality in which I don’t love you.” “How do you know?” Annie whispered. “Because it is not possible,” said Ben. Afraid that she could not hold back her tears any longer, Annie pressed her lips to his and then physically pushed away from him. She crossed the chamber and sat down next to Locke. Ben tore his eyes away from her and turned to Hurley, who had waited by the door in silence. “Are you ready?” Ben asked. Hurley nodded and clapped the smaller man on the shoulder. “Well Ben,” he said. “This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
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Post by keyserzozie on Apr 29, 2008 15:51:47 GMT -4
Chapter 101.
Alex turned just as the coil of black smoke reared up at her out of the jumble of rocks. Static electricity hissed through its ominous length, and the tip of its strangely trunk-like protuberance was alight with deadly energies. It hovered over her, and she was suddenly reminded of something her father liked to quote: The moving finger, having writ, moves on… Though in this case, Alex thought, the moving finger seemed more likely to crush her like an insect – She held out her hands. “Please,” she said. “This time I’m trying to help him -” The twisting funnel of dark air gave vent to an almost-human howl. And then, out of the darkness, came a voice that Alex had heard once before, as she’d cowered in the trench by the barracks, the day Ben had faced down the monster and won - Benjamin, the voice said. Alex nodded. “I have to go down to the Looking Glass. I have to block the transmitter -” There came a hiss from the tube of smoke. “But I thought I -” No, said the voice. You. Will. Not. Interfere - And then Alex was swept up into the raging maw of the thing, and it was a kaleidoscope of images, a thousand films all playing at once, and now Alex knew at last what it was that Desmond had seen, and what she needed to do next -
* * * The funeral raft was ready at last. Amelia looked down at the dead face of the man they had hoped would save them. He looked so much like Ben that it hurt; and yet he was not the Benjamin Linus who had led them out of the wilderness; the one they had followed so long without question; the one who had betrayed them, but for whom they had longed ever since, like children robbed of their father. Richard had tried to take his place; then Isobel. Both had failed. And finally, fearfully, they had taken things into their own hands and tried to summon him back to them – But it hadn’t worked. Harnessing the anomaly had only ever worked for Ben, and when they had tried to use it themselves, it had simply brought disaster. Isobel, the outsider, had believed to the last that she alone knew the whereabouts of the Tabernacle; in fact, this was a secret that all Ben’s inner circle shared, but that no-one cared to investigate. Too many people had already died trying to reason with Jacob. They had long since decided that Jacob was fundamentally unreasonable. They’d left that part of things to Ben, and each occasion on which Ben had survived contact with Jacob had left them more in awe of him… But if Isobel wanted to take the risk – It had really been her fault, Amelia thought. Isobel had been so certain that Ben was dead – so certain, too, that she could take his place. They’d followed her, not out of trust, but because, as Ben liked to say, nature abhors a vacuum – which, in Amelia’s mind, meant you never get something for nothing. To get Ben back, they’d told themselves, they needed to sacrifice somebody. She had been the logical choice. But it hadn’t worked – the man they’d brought out of the caves had been dead before he even made the transition. Dead in another reality – which meant that in this one he was not… * * * “It isn’t true.” Jack’s face had grown steadily paler as Sarah tried to explain to him. “You must think I’m some kind of idiot if you think I’m buying into this -” Sarah shrugged. “It’s your choice. Believe it or not, as you prefer.” “You’re saying that I died,” he said. “That’s -” “Not in this reality.” Sarah’s voice was still patient. She’d expected a certain difficulty in making Jack adjust to the truth. Kate had taken it rather worse; she’d had to be sedated. Then again, Kate’s situation was rather more complicated than his own. “Clearly, you’re not dead,” she went on. “In another, adjacent reality, all of the people on your flight were killed when their aircraft plunged into the sea. In that same reality, your father died of an overdose of sleeping pills mixed in with a bottle of brandy. In this one, however…” “And the others?” said Jack. “Sayid and Kate and -” “It’s all being sorted out,” she said. “It’s extremely complicated, however, and it creates new anomalies every time the process is used. But so far, the problem has been contained. And the source of it is about to be neutralized.” Jack frowned. “The source?” he said. “Benjamin Linus.” Jack listened in silence as Sarah explained. “Ben Linus,” she said, “is the ultimate cause of everything that has happened to you. The crash of Flight 815; the implosion of the Swan hatch; the elimination of DHARMA’s representatives on the island; the destabilizing of the magnetic and temporal anomalies that form a nexus on this island - all these things are entirely due to the interference of this one man, and the fact that you weren’t able to kill him when you had the opportunity means that our task right now is all the more difficult -” Jack looked at her. “He made the plane crash? How?” Sarah shrugged. “He needed a spinal surgeon. You. He found a version of reality in which you were about to die, and he pulled you out of your frame into his. If you want to see it that way, Benjamin Linus saved your life.” Jack thought about that for a long time. “So – I’m not going to run into myself here, or attend my own funeral -” She smiled thinly. “No, that’s impossible. Reality course-corrects itself. No-one meets their parallel selves because if you hadn’t died in the plane crash, something else would have happened to you. A heart attack; an overdose; some other kind of accident. That’s how Linus can justify pulling someone – Anthony Cooper, for instance - out of their own reality. Cooper would have died anyway – in his case, it was a car crash – although another version exists in which he would have been shot by James Forde, and another in which he would have fallen during a struggle with his son out of a ten-storey window, and another in which he would have died of renal failure because he never found his son and was therefore never able to find a suitable donor -” “All right, I get it,” said Jack sharply. “And Locke’s wheelchair?” Sarah shrugged. “That too belongs to an alternate state. In this reality, however, his father died before Locke’s accident occurred – which is why he can walk in this one.” Jack was still only half-convinced. He’d never liked science-fiction as a child; hard science was all he believed in, and yet - A sudden idea occurred to him. “In this – reality,” he said, looking at Sarah’s averted face. “Are we still – I mean – did we ever…?” “We’re divorced,” said Sarah. She made her voice gentle. “I’m sorry, Jack.” A long pause, while Jack processed the information, impossible as it was, that he’d been given. Then he spotted the flaw in her logic. “Wait a minute,” he said slowly. “If reality – course-corrects, as you say, then doesn’t that mean -” He paused, mouth dry, suddenly thinking of Desmond and of how vainly he’d tried to save Charlie. “Doesn’t that mean I’m going to die?” Sarah looked away. “Jack -” “Tell me the truth, Sarah,” he said. She gave him an uncomfortable smile. “Everyone dies, Jack,” she said. “But you know -” He grabbed her arm. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” he said. “It’s part of your reality. All of us – Sayid, Jin, Kate – all of us are going to die – and soon, if recent events are anything to go by. In fact, we may not look it, but all of us are dying right now, like cut flowers in a vase -” She gave a sigh. “Jack - we can’t be sure -” He laughed. “Maybe not. But long-term investments are out, aren’t they?” A long, long silence spun out between them. Then - “Are you okay?” Sarah said. Jack nodded. “So Ben was right,” he said. “He told me that if we got rescued, everyone on this island would die.” “It might not be today,” Sarah said. “At least you might have a little time -” Jack gave a bitter laugh. “So what’s going to happen to Ben?” he said. “You going to send in a SWAT team to neutralize him? Or will you just nuke the island instead?” Sarah gave him a sulky look. “We’re not monsters, Jack,” she said. “This situation isn’t our fault.” He laughed again. “So whose fault is it? Didn’t you say the DHARMA group was the one behind this phenomenon? Or are we blaming Ben now, or better still, Jacob -” Sarah gave a scornful laugh, her blue eyes shining with contempt. “Jacob?” she said. “That fairytale? I thought you’d have figured it out by now. There is no Jacob. There never was.” “But I thought – Locke said – Ben was following Jacob -” “No,” said Sarah quietly. “Ben is Jacob.”
* * * The room was filled with instruments. In the semidarkness Hurley could see a computer terminal and a wall of switches and LEDs, all apparently inactive. Above the bank of instruments, a familiar-looking number display was counting down from 180. Below it was a backlit recess in which nestled a small silvery key. “Wow. It’s just like our hatch,” he said with a trace of nostalgia. But Ben was looking at the computer screen. A faint green glow from the cursor flashing at the left-hand corner was the only sign that power was running through the system. There was no sound in the little room. No body on the floor. “Mikhail?” said Ben gently. A quiet voice came out of the dark. “I am here, Benjamin.” Hurley squinted into the shadows. In the dim light from the computer screen he could just see the big Russian’s craggy profile and the barrel of the rifle that was levelled at Ben’s chest. “Whoa, man,” Hurley said. “I thought you were, like, friends again.” Ben smiled. “We were never friends. We respect each other too much for that.” Mikhail gave a soft chuckle. “You know me very well, Benjamin.” “Well enough, at least, to guess that you wouldn’t dismiss an order from Kelvin Inman without asking a few questions, at least. And given that you didn’t even ask –“ “You assumed, correctly, that I know the truth.” A match flared in the darkness as the Russian lit a cigarette. A small red point of fire brightened and dimmed as Mikhail inhaled, then passed the cigarette over to Ben. “Filthy habit,” said Ben. “And we both have so much to live for, do we not?” agreed the Russian companionably. Ben smiled. “You wouldn’t have shot me in front of Annie. I knew that, of course,” he said. Mikhail gave a rueful shrug. “For my daughter to hate me, Benjamin, even in this reality, would have been too much to bear.” Ben passed him the cigarette. Mikhail inhaled deeply. “At least we got to see her,” said Ben. The Russian nodded. “Maybe we can both die content.” “Er – excuse me?” Hurley interrupted. “First – dudes - I don’t smoke, and Russian tobacco kinda makes me nauseous. And second – I thought we were gonna reboot the system, so that no-one needs to kill anyone -” Mikhail looked at Ben. “Shall you tell him, Benjamin, or shall I?” “Tell him what?” said Hurley. “We can’t reboot the system,” said Ben in a quiet voice. “The Looking Glass has been compromised. The lines of force protecting the island, keeping it from the outside world, have turned outwards into other realities. To try to tamper with the order of things would cause a chain reaction, a cascade of anomalies that would extend throughout, not just adjacent realities, but through all reality -” Hurley, who had been raised on science fiction and who, unlike Jack, found such concepts easy to understand, shook his puglike head in despair. “You mean we’d – like - implode the universe, the way we imploded the hatch?” “Something like that, yes,” said Ben. Hurley looked at the number sequence as it counted down inexorably. “What happens when the countdown stops?” Ben shrugged. “The Temple is built on a volcanic site. Deep underground there is a charge that, when detonated, will galvanize the dormant volcano into sudden activity.” “That sounds – not so good,” said Hurley. “When that happens,” continued Ben, “then this island, and everything on it, including Jacob, including ourselves, will be reduced to a heap of smoking rubble.” Hurley made a face. “Well, don’t we have a key, or something? Like Desmond had? A failsafe key?” He looked at the key he’d noticed before, in the recess beneath the numbers. The temptation to grab it himself, to turn it, was almost overpowering. “That isn’t the issue,” said Ben. “When Desmond turned the failsafe key, the resulting power surge cut off all transmissions to the outside world. The Looking Glass was like – well, imagine a fuse attached to a circuit box. You know a little about fuses, I imagine?” Hurley nodded mournfully. “Well, the day the sky went purple, that fuse blew out. There was no failsafe any more. And when Charlie broke the Looking Glass -” “You’re saying that if it happens again, there won’t be any fuse, huh? All our circuits are gonna be fried?” Ben gave an unexpected smile. “You know, Hugo, it’s a pity you never joined our side. I could have used a little of your simplicity, instead of having to listen to Richard’s doublespeak for so long.” “No offence, man,” said Hugo, “but people keep dying on your side.” Mikhail passed Ben the last half-inch of cigarette. “In this at least, Hugo,” he said, “all of us are equal.” “But – what about Jacob?” Hurley said. “Can’t you guys ask him for help? I mean, you’re sitting here, waiting to die -” Mikhail looked at Ben. “Shall I tell him or shall you?” Ben shrugged and passed him the cigarette. “How much time do we have?” “Enough.” “Then tell him, if you like,” Ben said. Mikhail shifted the rifle into the crook of his arm and settled down to tell one last tale.
* * * From the journal of Benjamin Linus. June 17th, 1985. Richard says I have to be patient. He says the anomaly is not some toy of mine to play with, and that to interfere at this stage would be dangerous, for me, and for everyone on the island. But Jacob tells me otherwise. Jacob tells me I can go back – I can bring her back here. I can see my mother again, not just in visions and ephemera, but in the living flesh – So – Whom should I trust? Richard or Jacob? Both of them want something of me. Neither of them will say what it is. And what do I want? No-one asks. Not even you, Anastacia.
* * * The smoke-thing hovered above her, howling out its deafening commands. Behind them, in the underbrush, someone else was watching. Karl, eyes narrowed, gun in hand, crept closer to the scene, although what he intended to do against the creature that threatened Alex, even he had no idea – “Let her go!” He raised his gun, a pitifully small figure against the twisting hurricane. The smoke-creature simply writhed and howled. But Alex, from her vantage point, had seen a glimmer of hope arrive. Not for herself – no, she was doomed – but for Ben, and perhaps for the island – “Karl!” she screamed. “The Looking Glass! You have to block the transmissions! Now!” The smoke-thing howled again, grabbed hold of Alex and shook her as a dog shakes a rat. Karl ran at it. “Alex -” “Please!” Alex’s eyes were ablaze now. “Leave me! Please! Before it’s too late! Please, Karl, do as I say!” Karl put a hand to his mouth as the smoke-thing retreated into the trees, dragging the girl behind it. A thin voice cried- I love you, Karl! And although he knew it was hopeless, Karl was about to break into a run when he heard her voice from far away, a voice now urgent with command - “Karl! You have to do as I say! Jacob is a liar!” * * * “No-one really knows how the anomaly first occurred.” Sarah had poured Jack a drink, and from the slightly dazed look on his face, she guessed that the whisky – and the tranquilizer she had slipped into the drink – was finally starting to take effect. “That’s the problem with temporal anomalies; they can set up chain reactions – cascades, if you like – that create more and more instability, so that finally you get a ricochet effect, whereby realities can exist contemporaneously, in opposition to each other, and -” Jack’s eyes were closing now, and Sarah gave a tiny smile. “In effect, you could move one way and meet yourself going the other -”
* * * “Of course, no-one told young Benjamin that,” said Mikhail, finishing the single cigarette and bringing out his vodka flask. There was a little left, he thought – enough, perhaps, for one shot each. He filled his tiny shot glass and held it out to Ben. Ben drained it without hesitation and handed it back to Mikhail. Inman would not have been so trusting, thought Mikhail; but then, Inman, for all his knowledge and his guile, was not a man of honour. He went on: “Richard knew the truth, of course – knew things that even Jacob did not; for Jacob was a prisoner as much as any of us were; Jacob was caught between two worlds, and the experience had affected his mind to such an extent, that in spite of his power, he was this close to being insane -” He paused to drink his vodka and to contemplate the absurdity. It was like one of those Chinese tubes, the Russian told himself. The more you try to pull your finger out, the more powerful the trap, until at last you’re left with a simple choice – remain in the trap, or lose a finger. “We do not know everything that occurred. As Benjamin puts it, this time frame has been – rebooted – on several previous occasions. Maybe even many times – and my personal belief is that on one of these occasions the young Benjamin Linus entered the path of the anomaly, hoping to find - something - dear to him.” Mikhail paused to drain his glass. Hurley frowned. “Find what?” he said. Mikhail looked at Ben. “It does not matter,” he said. “What mattered is what happened then, and of course, we can only speculate. My opinion is that, as with the rabbits, Benjamin was translocated from this reality to another, but unlike the rabbits, the transition was not effected smoothly. I am hypothesizing that Benjamin encountered –let us call it a form of turbulence – from the other reality, and his path was diverted back onto itself. This formed a kind of loop, an anomaly in which the threads of this reality were crossed and doubled back on themselves -” Hurley’s eyes opened wide. “Ourobouros,” he said in awe. “What?” said Mikhail, nonplussed. But Ben was smiling. “Ourobouros. The serpent with its tail in its mouth, symbolizing the universe. Though where you discovered that reference, Hugo -” “Hey, man, I read,” said Hurley, slightly offended. “I apologize,” said Ben. “But the image is an appropriate one. The never-ending circle; the unbroken cycle of repetition. And it begs the question, does it not? If Jacob created the anomaly, then how did I manage to enter the loop? And if Jacob – or I - were to be destroyed, then would not the circle collapse at last, unravelling everything that has occurred over the last twenty years or so?” Hurley’s face wrinkled earnestly. “But you just said you were Jacob.” “The child is the father of the man,” quoted Ben in a soft voice. “I am no more Jacob than I am the boy I used to be. But Jacob never wanted me to grow beyond his influence. The being you call Jacob is still just a child, a child trapped forever in time, still longing for his mother, living in fear of his father, still trying desperately to find out who he really is -” A sad little smile crossed Ben’s lips. “I’d hoped for a more impressive epitaph,” he said. “But when you look at it dispassionately, my father was absolutely right when he said I should never have been born...” Mikhail shook his head. “No.” Hurley looked up hopefully. The Russian put down his vodka glass. “I am honoured to have served with you, Benjamin. As I am now when I say to you that I have made my decision.” “Decision?” said Hurley. “Man. That doesn’t sound good -” Mikhail ignored him. “I came here to make a diagnosis. To decide whether Kelvin Inman was right, and that there was no choice but to do what I must. Please believe me when I say -” His mouth curved in a twisted smile, and Hurley had time to wonder at the genuine affection and regret in his expression as Mikhail pointed the gun at Ben and pulled the trigger. There was a deafening report. The bullet struck Ben in the mid-section, and flung him against the instrument panel. A look of surprise came onto his face, and he collapsed against the wall, one hand pressed against his ribs. Now blood showed through his blue shirt, an alarming, terrifying quantity of it. More blood than Hurley could ever imagine, pooling onto the polished floor – “I am sorry, Benjamin,” finished Mikhail in a gentle voice. With an effort, Ben smiled. “Goodbye, Mikhail, old friend.” And Hurley watched in astonishment as Mikhail’s smile grew rigid, his one eye fixed and staring, and just as he reached for the rifle again, with hands that were already stiff and unresponsive, he pitched forward onto his face and lay there, unmoving – unbreathing - dead. “Dude. What happened?” Hurley’s eyes were like saucers. Ben gave another painful smile and dragged himself towards the fallen Russian. “Just checking,” he said, as he took Mikhail’s pulse. “This cat has more than nine lives.” Hurley frowned. “I mean, what happened to him?” “Poisoned his vodka,” Ben said. “I knew he wouldn’t poison mine.” “Dude, are you okay?” said Hurley, trying not to look. He’d never liked the sight of blood, and although he had come to regard Benjamin Linus as something of a supernatural being, surely no-one – not even Superman – could survive the loss of so much blood – “I’m fine,” said Ben, between gritted teeth. “You’re lying, dude. I mean, you’re like – you’re bleeding to death.” Ben’s voice was abrasive now. “Were you always this observant, Hugo, or is it something you’ve picked up from me?” “I – uh – sorry,” said Hurley. “Does it hurt?” “What do you think?” said Ben. “Do you want me to – like, leave you alone?” There was a long, ominous pause, during which Hurley kept his eyes averted and hoped to God that the dying man would say yes. Then brown eyes met blue ones, and Ben Linus spoke in a suddenly humble voice: “I’m sorry, Hugo. Stay with me.”
* * * Oh, great, thought Hurley. Trapped with a dying man in a cave, just before the end of the world. On reflection, he’d rather be elsewhere. But he’d promised to stay – and so as he watched the number display run gradually down to zero, he tried to make the wounded man as comfortable as possible, covering him with the blanket he’d found and waiting for the end – which couldn’t be very far away… Ben was only half-conscious now, one hand still pressed against his ribs, the other clutching the wooden doll that Hurley had given him from his satchel. At least he seemed to be in less pain – and the bleeding had almost stopped, Hurley thought; although that might just be because there was hardly any blood left in him – Jeez, Hugo, get a grip. D’you want to pass out, or something? When Hurley was a little boy, he’d often suffered from nightmares. When this happened, his mother had sung him back to sleep again. Perhaps, thought Hurley, that might help Ben too – besides which, he thought, he needed something to take his mind off the blood, the darkness, the creeping fear – At first he could hardly remember the tune. He felt stupid, too; singing like that, alone with a dying man in the dark. Then little by little, he found his voice, and although the song was ridiculously inappropriate, it flared up in the night like a ray of hope - “Ben, the two of us need look no more We’ve both found what we were looking for…” For a moment, Ben opened his eyes. “Don’t you know anything by Geronimo Jackson?” he said. But Hurley was no longer watching him. Instead his eyes were on the computer screen in front of them, a screen that still glowed a toxic green, and the cursor that blinked repeatedly, and the words that blinked alongside – Ben? he read. Are you there? Hurley shot a glance at Ben. “Hey, there’s someone here,” he said. Ben tried unsuccessfully to sit up. “Alex?” he said. Hurley typed: Alex? Karl. In the Looking Glass. Is Alex there? Hurley typed. She died so I could get here. Cut off transmissions to outside. The words were so impersonal, Hurley thought in wonderment. He could only guess at the thoughts of the boy – the man – at the other terminal; his dedication, his loyalty and his love... “Alex,” said Ben, more clearly now, grimacing with the effort. “Karl went down to the Looking Glass.” Suddenly Hurley’s hands were shaking with excitement. “He’s blocking transmissions to the other side. You can still turn the failsafe key. You don’t have to end it all. You can just go back to where it went wrong -” “Alex,” repeated Ben. “Please. Tell Alex -” “Dude,” said Hurley. “Just turn the key -” “Tell her, Hugo,” ordered Ben. So Hurley typed on Ben’s instruction – biting his lip with impatience, but unable to tell a dying man that the daughter he loved was already dead – as over their heads the countdown crept inexorably into single figures – “Hey man, the alarm’s gonna beep -” But Ben was zoning out again. Hurley forced himself to take hold of the dying man under the arms. Ben was soaked in blood by now; his face was livid in the greenish light. He whimpered a little as Hurley dragged him bodily towards the computer terminal. “Ben, aw, please, man, Ben, the key -” Benjamin Linus opened his eyes. And –
All over the island, a warm wind stirred, sweet with the scent of hyacinth and the clean, salty perfume of the sea. Kelvin Inman felt it, and quickened his step towards the waiting helicopters. Desmond felt it, and thought of Penny. Annie felt it, and began to run desperately towards the caves. Rose felt it, and took Bernard’s hand as both of them said a silent prayer. Sawyer felt it, and for the first time in months, he thought about his daughter, Clementine, and the hard, metallic taste in his mouth that he’d had for over two years dissolved away like a grain of aspirin on his tongue. Jack felt it from the distant ship, and knew that he had to get back somehow - Deep inside the Looking Glass, Karl did not feel anything, but as he took off his diving mask and the oxygen bottle he’d put on for his mission, as he took a long, last deep breath and allowed the salt water to enter his lungs, he looked at the computer screen and died with a smile on his lips as he read - If a man could pass through Paradise in a dream, and have a flower presented to him as a pledge that his soul had really been there, and if he found that flower in his hand when he awoke – Aye, and what then?
In the heart of the Tabernacle, an insistent, shrieking alarm went off as the number display reached zero at last. Hugo Reyes covered his eyes. Breathless, Annie opened the door - Ben turned the key – The sky went purple. * * *
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