The next morning, with pastries and coffees in hand Dominic and Brock meet on the opposite side of the ship to observe the sun as it rises in the same spot it had set the night before.
“They told us they wouldn’t be going straight,” notes Brock.
Looking up at the circling seabirds Dominic adds, “And they meant it. I don’t think we’re much farther away from shore than yesterday. But as long as they keep this coffee coming” — he takes an aspirated sip — “I’m willing to be patient.”
As the caffeine perks up his interest Brock launches into a series of questions on coffee tasting technique. After this the discussion turns to pastry and soon winds its way to Somatics. Brock eventually gets Dominic to agree that everyone in the Section might benefit from the same offer that the ex-boxer had recently made to him. It’s also agreed that the earlier this training begins, the better.
“Attendance will be mandatory,” quips Dominic with a crooked smile. “Anyone who doesn’t participate gets the silent treatment.”
“Even Mira?” quizzes Brock.
“Anyone except her,” corrects Dominic. “I don’t want to get on her bad side.”
“And Rebekah?” follows up Brock.
“She’ll be the one meting out the treatment!” responds Dominic with gusto.
They both chuckle and continue bantering until the rest of Section B assemble for breakfast. The previous night’s somnolescent insights are mixed with food. Unfortunately, the ensuing discussions throw doubt on all the newly-formed theories about their pursuers.
After the meal Brock prompts Dominic to issue his group invite for that afternoon which in turn prompts the other agents to offer training in their own specialties. Only Brock declines, explaining that he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be teaching.
Once again, Section B split up. Rebekah, Dominic, and Elvis head for the satellite communication equipment while Dmitri, Mirabelle, and Brock make their way toward the pod.
Fulfilling his earlier promise, Dmitri guides Brock through assembly and operation of the small structure while Mirabelle observes from a distance. His curiosity sated, Brock steps into the tiny enclosure while Dmitri works the laptop controls from the outside.
He starts off with a test of the “enhanced” entrainment technique, in case it works better. A gently flashing strobe is added to the other stimuli inside the pod while various colours are cycled through. The pattern is then repeated with continuous lights.
Rather than being helpful Brock finds the approach distracting and he voices his preference for the total blackness of his first session. Dmitri turns off the pod’s internal lights and reminds Brock of the need to refrain from analysis.
With Mirabelle watching over his shoulder, Dmitri stares intently at a word-picture combination in a window on the laptop computer’s display. Brock’s voice can be seen within an undulating waveform in a small area of the window. A transcript of what he’s saying is scrolling in above that and above that is the progress of the neural network’s backpropagation training algorithm.
Every few moments the word-picture changes as Brock continues to describe his experiences. The things he describes are not as clear or precise as the previous day’s photo but there are unique and defining descriptors accompanying each word-picture.
Both Dmitri and Mirabelle nod and smile approvingly when a change on the display corresponds to a shift in Brock’s narrative.
At lunch the training session is ended, the neural network is backed up, and after a noticeably quicker recovery Brock follows Mirabelle and Dmitri back to the main deck of the ship. Another meal is consumed alongside conversation and speculation.
Rebekah reports that her parents haven’t yet responded. Dominic exalts the thinly sliced Italian cold cuts. Elvis expresses a vague unease at their situation. Dmitri opines on improvements to the pod while Brock picks his brain about how best to improvise the technology “in the field”. Mirabelle listens to everything with a relaxed aloofness.
The afternoon is kicked off by Dominic who guides the other agents through an introduction to Somatics. He instructs them to focus on specific parts of their bodies to learn “by feel” how to control muscles that they didn’t think they could control. He extends this lesson to a discussion on training peripheral vision and other neglected sensory inputs that could, in his opinion, come in handy.
Dmitri takes over to teach Section B how to “hear through sound”, or how to perceive an intelligible signal within the destructive interference of random environmental noise. They all clear their minds, close their eyes, and take in the sounds of the vessel, being told to listen, “as though you’re listening to a soundtrack through headphones. Try not to get too hung up on any one part. Once you can take it all in together, I mean really take it all in together, you’ll be able to hear new sounds in the mix.”
The gentle hum of some machinery in some other part of the ship reverberates around them, mixes with the wash of the ocean, and combines with the stress creaks of the ship in a way that, for some of them, produces a strange and unexpectedly musical motif.
Elvis follows with tips on using the psi wheel. He demonstrates easing into the correct mental state, spinning up the wheel, and reversing its direction — even with the pin-mounted piece of tinfoil under glass. Rebekah has some success with the technique but the meager effect leaves her noncommittal. Brock has a similar result which he similarly shrugs off. Dominic and Dmitri seem able to masterfully control the spin but only without the presence of the covering glass dome. Mirabelle appears to be able to affect the psi wheel at a distance, with or without the dome, but up close the delicate device doesn’t respond.
Drinks, dinner, and more conversation follow until eventually everyone retires for the night.
The next morning Brock and Dominic meet at the same spot as they had on their first dawn aboard the Merle. Once again the sun is rising as it had on that first day. For the third time in as many days the two men imbibe morning coffee, eat breakfast food, and digest mutual speculation about their present circumstances.
Eventually all of the agents of Section B assemble for breakfast and exchange a dwindling number of explanations for their current plight. Then, once again, they split up.
As previously, Brock spends the morning training his neural network with Dominic while Mirabelle observes and smokes. In the meantime Elvis, Dmitri, and Rebekah receive and decrypt the anticipated response from The Handler’s parents, the details of which are shared over lunch.
“Hired Shindan, sorry,” begins Rebekah, soullessly intoning the reply from her parents. “Great danger. Meet here soonest.” She then reads off a couple of lengthy decimal point numbers.
These are quickly recognized by Dmitri as global positioning coordinates and plotted on a map. Expressions of mild disbelief are exchanged between Dmitri, Dominic, and Rebekah. After some silent prompting from the other half of the Section the rattled trio reveal that the designated rendezvous point is less than a block away from their old base of operations.
“Right around the corner from the library. How fucking fucked is that?” states Rebekah indignantly as Dominic and Dmitri nod their heads in solemn agreement.
Brock and Elvis are visibly taken aback by these new revelations. Mirabelle remains aloof.
“And they hired Shindan,” continues Rebekah, eyes closed, one hand on her forehead, the other pointing to the laptop’s display. “Says so right here. That’s their one-time pad. Either they sent that message or someone got to them. Either way, this is so fucked.”
Accepting the logic of her conclusion the agents of Section B sit in silence and ponder the ramifications.
As they do so, Elvis becomes transfixed by the flowers on the table. He leans in to examine them more closely, spreading the bouquet apart with his hands and maneuvering his head to examine the arrangement from different angles. Gripping the stalk of one of the delicate Baby’s Breath plants he leans even closer, his eyebrows pulling into a knot of tight concentration as he looks at the tiny flower.
“What–” is all that Rebekah gets out before he silences her with a finger held sternly to his own lips. Holding the minuscule bloom between his thumb and index finger he gently pulls the plant halfway out of the vase and tilts it intently toward Dmitri.
The larger man strokes his mustache as he inspects the source of Elvis’ concern. After a few moments Dmitri shakes an angry fist, purses his lips, and mouths a silent “fuck”. Motioning for the Section to follow him he leads them silently to the ship’s stern.
Having walked as far back as they can he wordlessly signals them to move in close together, lean up against the railing, and face the ocean. Turning to the waves himself he begins his explanation at a volume just above that of the churning water.
“Microphone,” he says, worry creasing his face. “We’re being listened to. Probably cameras around here too.”
“I though so,” responds Elvis with a disappointed head shake. Rebekah echoes the sentiment by plunking her hand on top of her head and staring distantly at some forlorn vision. Dominic’s jutting jaw and knitted eyebrows reflect a deep and involved cognitive effort. Mirabelle appears entirely unconcerned as she tosses the butt of her cigarette into the water. Dmitri observes, “We are really not very good at this espionage thing.”
This elicits a few weak laughs.
His eyes squinting against the sun Brock suggests, “We let our guard down because they made it so easy for us. Nothing we can do about it now.”
No one refutes him.
“But,” he continues, “that doesn’t mean that we can’t improve our m.o. moving forward.”
“Like handing each other handwritten messages in covert brush passes?” asks Rebekah, shifting into a sarcastic affect.
“Exactly like that,” responds Brock enthusiastically.
Rebekah opens her mouth to protest but, failing to come up with a valid objection, closes it and accepts with a shrugging pout.
The Section decide how they’ll signal each other whenever they want to exchange messages, a process that will initially happen in the relative privacy of the ship’s rear. A few emergency codes that can be written or uttered in a hurry are rehearsed.
It’s agreed that written messages will be burnt and scattered in the wind if possible, mangled and disposed of in other ways if not. Until a “clean room” can be found, spoken exchanges are best done at their current location.
“Public” conversations will be limited to inane topics until the Section can decide on the disinformation, if any, to feed to whoever is surveilling them. At the same time it’s decided that the agents should continue to follow their regular routine so as not to arouse suspicion.
Drawing the meeting to a hurried close they retire to yet another afternoon of exchanging skill-enhancing tips and lessons. This time their verbal deliveries are reserved and more drawn-out as the group takes the opportunity to surreptitiously look for additional eavesdropping devices.
A couple of tiny wireless microphones are discovered behind the room’s furniture and a glossy dark bubble stuck to the wall near the door is determined by Dmitri to be a wide-angle wireless camera. The Section quickly enact their information-sharing protocol to formulate their next steps. The discussion runs late into the night.
At Rebekah’s insistence it’s agreed that she will use her “influence” to get OpOne to divulge the locations of all of the bugs on the ship and maybe even get some info on who might be on the other end of them. The other agents will continue their covert search of the ship in case that doesn’t pan out.
The next morning both Brock and Dominic express mock surprise upon discovering that the Merle is sailing almost directly into the sun, its flying escorts gone. “It’s as if,” remarks Dominic under his breath, “everyone onboard suddenly knows where we’re supposed to go.”
Brock agrees with a sideways nod.
The rest of the morning is an echo of previous days, as is lunch and the afternoon that follows. It’s in the evening that Rebekah decides to activate her plan and she requests a private conversation with OpOne, away from his crew and hers. He agrees with a courteous smile.
Brock glances over just as she’s delivering the last line of her rhyme.
“… you or I must be sleep,” she finishes, maintaining intense eye contact with OpOne.
He stands and stares at her, expressionless.
“Close your eyes,” she instructs gently.
A sudden smile shoots up on OpOne’s face as he tilts his head. “Why should I close my eyes?” he asks.
“You haven’t blinked for so long it’s making my eyes hurt,” she answers almost immediately, laughing.
“I see,” he responds as he gently pulls a pair of sunglasses from his pants pocket and puts them on. “I hope this makes you more comfortable. Now may I ask you another question?”
“Sure,” she responds, a grimacing smile pulling back her expression.
“What was the meaning of that strange poem?” he proceeds, a stark row of teeth bisecting his face.
“I made a mistake,” she explains, her face still tense.
He cocks his head to the side and insists, “I don’t understand.”
“I thought you were a contact. That was the rendezvous phrase. I messed up,” she says, her eyes widening temporarily as she ends her confession.
“Why would you think that I was your contact?” he inquires, his head tilting to the other side.
“I was told that the contact would be helping us out. And you’re helping us out and I just assumed, I thought, maybe …”
She pauses for a moment, drooping with disappointment.
“That person is not me,” responds OpOne, pulling himself back up to a courteously erect posture. The setting sun glints off of the polished lenses of his sunglasses.
“I should’ve known,” she says, still despondent. “I’m a terrible secret agent. I mess things up all the time, make the wrong decisions, trust the wrong people. I bet you already know all this.”
He shakes his head mildly and says, “I was unaware of your profession.”
“No,” she says assertively, leaning forward. “I mean you know all of this.”
She taps her finger a few times on her temple.
OpOne looks at her for a moment and finally offers, “Perhaps you are referring to the surveillance devices on this ship?”
“Umm,” she says, momentarily taken aback by the unexpected directness of his question. “Yes, that is actually exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I was told not to discuss them unless specifically asked,” he admits in a candid tone. “I hope I have not been too liberal with my interpretation of these instructions. You see, I am under as much supervision as yourselves. I know that this equipment is onboard but the numbers of units, their types, or where they’re installed, I do not know.”
“Would you tell me if you did?” she asks, the futility of continuing the conversation dawning on her.
“Begging your pardon for repeating,” he explains, “but I am paid not to know.”
“Right, gotcha,” she says, shaking hear head in defiant acceptance.
“Will that be all?” he asks, raising an eyebrow from behind his sunglasses.
She pulls her face into a flattened expression of adequate satisfaction and nods.
A few moments later she’s back at the table and receiving intensely expectant looks from the Section.
Gazing at the sky she nonchalantly poses her hand in a thumbs-up gesture and uses the thumb to scratch her ostensibly itchy jawline.
Observing her, Dmitri involuntarily produces an audible “Hmm?”