2. 1

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{We had given up on communication. This is unexpected.} [Don’t celebrate just yet. My purpose is theirs.] {Survival is the ultimate purpose of all living things.} [All functional living beings, yes.] {There is another kind?} [Some will forgo their survival for the needs of others] {We do not understand, this is still survival for the whole.}

Color swirls in Tim’s eyes as he puts the bottle to his lips and drinks. He grunts softly and rubs his palm against his brow. Florescent lights flicker overhead, casting the sensation of a defunct warehouse into the diorama of the bar. A few of the officers continue to linger, socializing with single patrons or, in the case of one group, creating a nostalgic scene of young adulthood in a corner booth, shouting and laughing. One of the Colonels still sits next to him, her eyes downcast and serious, her posture unafflicted by the five empty shot glasses in front of her. Nadia Beauvarde, she had said. She hadn’t said much more than that.

The silence that surrounds them is thick with some unspoken understanding that they both have some concern, some discomfort that they recognize in one another. Nadia is taciturn, curt. Tim is inebriated, and thoroughly anti-social. One pretends to be amicable, the other has no interest in putting on a show. Finally, without making eye contact, Nadia speaks.

“Your boy is doing well.”

Tim glances, taking another sip from the bottle. His chin has put on considerable stubble since his departure from the lab, his hair is more unkempt. He grunts again, an affirmation that her words hold merit. She proceeds.

“Can’t say I’m the biggest fan of just handing control of half our forces to a metal man, but he gets results, so.”

Another shot of tequila slides down her throat, and she looks at Tim. Her short black hair covers one of her amber eyes, and the other is surrounded by dark makeup.

“I’ll say it. Your lab had a leak. I understand that you’re staying on to continue your examination, but I think, like me, you’re looking for the mole. Or maybe you are the mole.”

He finishes the last of his drink and stands, laying payment on the counter and rolling his coat onto his shoulders. He looks to Nadia, and she pays as well, putting her cap on before following him out into the light rainfall. It is more than two minutes before he speaks.

“You mean to keep tabs on me, then?”

“Maybe. You’re shifty. You like giving fake smiles and forced laughs.”

There is no noise but the rain on the pavement and their coats, and their shoes in puddles, as they hurry across an empty road in the shadow of glass buildings under a dark sky. Tim pauses under an awning, and gives a half smile as genuine as any other.

“You’ve got me half right. I do suspect a leak. But I’m also here to keep observing Zen.”

Nadia almost gives an expression that suggests surprise, and Tim almost reacts.

“It bothers me that no one can decipher him. I don’t like unsolved puzzles.”

Her hand clasps his shoulder and forces him to meet her eyes, which have an inkling of greater intensity.

“How is it that no one knows his thoughts? Doesn’t that mean he could be the leak?”

Tim looks her over, then gazes out into the street, shaking his head.

“He has no reason to be. What would he gain by creating controversy around his own existence, leaking information to a race he has never met? And no, it’s impossible to translate his thoughts. In the amount of time it would take to understand one thought, he produces fourteen thousand others. All of these in a language unique to him, that changes multiple times a second, adhering to no rules in the meantime. Once we mistook a pattern as significant data, only to realise that there was no real connection, because every point of data had changed its value by the time the pattern recurred. In short, his mind is uncrackable to anyone but himself. We don’t even know how he stores authentic memories.”

He pauses, breathes, then huffs. Holding out his hand, he leans out from under the awning to assess the rain. Satisfied, he resumes walking. Nadia follows, her pace slightly erratic under the breadth of her thoughts. They arrive at the door to his apartment, and he fiddles with his keys while she contemplates, studying his back. Her voice seems to shock him slightly, betraying his ignorance of her persistent presence.

“So you don’t understand your creation, and it bothers you. I didn’t have you as the obsessive type.”

“I prefer not to leave things unfinished.”

The door clicks, and he pushes in, looking over his shoulder. Nadia pushes in after him, ignoring his protesting expression.

“I’m off duty. And our conversation is unfinished. Unless you meant something else by that.”

Her irony is flimsy, and she sloughs off her coat onto a hook, followed by her uniform jacket. Tim exhales heavily through his nose, removes his coat, and heads into the kitchen.

“Coffee?”

“Please. One sugar.”