Golden reflections of the rising sun ripple across blazing swells as they glide past the incandescently white vessel. A couple of seabirds circle overhead in wide, lazy arcs. A single puffy white cloud hangs casually on the horizon. From all sides come the whooshing churn of water, the fresh briny smell of the ocean, the gentle sway of the waves.
Brock leans on the vessel’s railing, taking in the pleasant morning. He smiles a soft smile of satisfaction.
The previous night had not been as agreeable. The flight in the dinghy was a roaring white-knuckle ride made worse by the fact that they were all dead tired. But the airborne part was a mere annoyance compared to the way they were literally dropped off at their destination.
As it was released the dinghy struck the face of a wave and sent its occupants flying. Brock was ejected backwards into the water while Rebekah went forward into the vessel just as another wave slapped the boat. She hit the bottom at the same moment as it was rising to meet her backside, connecting with it in a way that she would later describe as smashing into a concrete floor.
The rest of the Section managed to hold on without sustaining much injury although Mirabelle had to make a last-second leap to one side to avoid the crashing canopy of baggage that suddenly dropped toward her. Her reaction was serene, almost rehearsed.
The crew of the Merle jumped into action immediately, getting everyone onto the yacht in minutes. On the way the Section was supplied with heartfelt apologies for the rough voyage, fragrant terrycloth robes, and warm cups of a soothing floral tea. The dinghy and its baggage bundle were brought onboard just as quickly and the newly-boarded passengers shown to their quarters.
No one took up OpOne on his offer of a nightcap. Most of the Section didn’t bother stowing their bags in the compartments of their cramped accommodations. The small but comfortable bunks and gentle rocking of the boat proved too irresistible.
Brock continues to reminisce to the rhythm of the ocean when suddenly Dominic’s voice pierces the tranquility from somewhere over his shoulder.
“Tiny rooms, huh?” asks the large man as he rounds Brock with a broad smile. He’s holding a small saucer and dainty cup filled with what looks like black coffee.
“You said it,” replies Brock unsteadily, still recovering from the mild shock. “Like a bed with a door.”
“Ha, yeah, right,” chuckles Dominic and takes a sip of his dark beverage.
“Where’d you get the coffee?” asks Brock.
“Oh, you didn’t see it downstairs?”
“No,” replies Brock, shaking his head.
“Well c’mon.”
Dominic leads Brock down the narrow flight of stairs to the main deck. Tucked in just beneath the stairs is a small, stainless steel serving table. Two steaming holes in the surface await rectangular warming trays while the the third is covered with a gleaming silver cloche. Next to the warming area is an ornate coffee service with two spouts. The service is surrounded by saucers, cups, spoons, tea bags, sugar, cream, and alternatives.
“This wasn’t here before,” remarks Dominic as he lifts the large argent cover to reveal neat stacks of croissants warming underneath.
After a test of what turns out to be the intricate service’s hot water nozzle, Brock pours himself a coffee from the other spout and then carefully balances a croissant across the top of his cup as he makes his way back to his observation spot. Dominic refills his own cup, grabs a croissant, and follows after.
Leaning on the railing the two men stand watching silently, their gazes focused on the brilliant splashes of sunlight undulating on the surface of the ocean. They take occasional sips of their coffees and nibble on their crescent pastries. The birds circling overhead watch keenly for any falling scraps.
Brock bites his croissant down to a nub before noticing the interested parties above. He flicks the remnant outward, expecting it to be scooped up from the water. Instead, one of the creatures instantaneously shoots down and snatches it out of the air. Impressed by the maneuver, Brock involuntarily raises an eyebrow.
“Not bad,” judges Dominic as he notices Brock’s expression, “but I think Mira might do better.”
Recalling Mira’s demonstration outside the packed Khao San bar, Brock nods with an acquiescing frown.
“You know,” he says slowly, “I don’t think you ever told me what it is that you’re able to do. Your powers, if I can use that term.”
“I did,” responds Dominic with a mild smirk. “You might’ve been a little high at the time.”
“Oh, umm,” mumbles Brock, embarrassment animating his face.
“Somatic control. I prefer just Somatics,” interjects Dominic mercifully. “Extended control of the soma, the physical body.”
“Like being able to control your heart rate,” suggests Brock as bits of recollection filter back to him.
“Like being able to control your heart rate,” confirms Dominic. He finishes the last of his coffee, allowing it to linger for a moment on his tongue before finally swallowing it.
He continues, “I’ve read that if you’re very advanced you can even mimic being dead, at least for a little while.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” asks Brock with genuine interest.
“I imagine it’s a lot like holding your breath,” responds Dominic, shrugging. “If you were to pass out your autonomic nervous system would take over. But with this level of control you probably wouldn’t let it get to that point.”
“Sounds useful,” remarks Brock with muted enthusiasm.
“I’ll teach you a few things,” responds Dominic, “but I think it’d be best to focus on getting you up to speed with the pod first. The more intel the group gets, the better. You know the drill.”
Brock nods. After a few moments he says, “I actually think I know more about the pod than I do about you. Personally, I mean. Take Dominic, for example. Is that even your real name?”
“Yeah, well,” says Dominic with a sideways pout, “we haven’t had much time to get properly acquainted. But if you’ll indulge me for a little longer, I’d rather discuss my curriculum vitae in front of everyone. That way we’re all on the same page, avoid another Rebekah situation.”
Brock recognizes the jab and chuckles out loud.
It takes another hour and a half for everyone to make their way to the main deck by which time fresh fruit, bacon, eggs, sausage, toast, and pancakes have made their way to the buffet area. A small table has been set up nearby with six chairs surrounding it. The table is covered with a pristine white table cloth, a colourful bouquet of flowers sits perkily in the middle.
The rest of Section B is already seated at the table, eating, and engaged in lively conversation when Rebekah approaches, limping slightly and yawning with a dreamy smile.
“Sleep well?” asks Dmitri with caffeine-fueled liveliness.
“Very well,” she responds, releasing a satisfied sigh. “I needed it.”
“Breakfast is over there,” he says between bites of cantaloupe.
Rebekah voices a quiet, “Ah,” and heads toward the food.
Just then, OpOne descends down the same stairs Dominic and Brock had used earlier.
“Good morning!” he says cheerfully. “I trust that you all had a good night’s rest?”
With the exception of Mirabelle who has finished her meager meal and is now smoking a cigarette, everyone nods a positive reply.
“And the clothing was well cared for? The facilities are satisfactory?” continues OpOne.
They inhale the scent of pine and lemon hanging around their bodies. They remember the all-in-one soap in miniature bottles along the wall of the tiny washroom and recall the minuscule shower head that trickled mostly filtered sea water, except for a brief fresh water rinse at the end. They run their hands over their clean clothes, the same ones they’d worn yesterday, laundered and left outside their rooms on hangers while they slept.
Yes, they nod. Satisfactory.
“I’m very gratified to hear this. Now I don’t want to interfere with your enjoyment of the voyage but since we had such little time last night let me just provide you with a brief introduction and then you can get back to it.
“So, there is no place that is off-limits on the Merle. However, we ask that you refrain from entering staff areas such as the bridge, the engine room, and so on. We are quite intent on preventing accidents but we would be happy to provide you with a tour, should you wish.
“Next, our travel itinerary is somewhat longer than it would be if we were sailing direct. This is necessary so that we avoid detection. I trust you understand my meaning. But don’t worry,” he smiles mischievously, “we have more than enough supplies on board.”
Most of Section B pull up vague and weak smiles in response.
“Good!” continues OpOne. “Finally, lunch is served at noon, dinner is at six, and the crew begin to bring breakfast out at eight, as some of you may have noted today. If you desire anything else in the meantime, please don’t hesitate to ask any one of us.”
With this, OpOne takes a deep bow and ascends back up the stairs.
“Melon’s great,” says Dmitri as he places another finished cantaloupe rind on his plate.
“It’s all pretty good,” agrees Elvis as he cuts a triangle out of his single pancake, maneuvers it around on the plate heaping butter and syrup on top, then quickly lifts the dripping portion to his mouth.
“Hey, guys, listen,” announces in Dominic. “Brock and me were talking earlier and he mentioned, correctly might I add, that we’ve been playing our cards pretty close to the chest. In light of recent events” — he nods at Rebekah — “I though that maybe I could help to level the playing field a bit. Everyone okay with that?”
The Section agree with lackadaisical shrugs.
“Okay,” begins Dominic resolutely. “So my name’s really Dominic. Dominic Venona.”
“Italian?” asks Mirabelle, a curl of grey smoke escaping from the corner of her mouth.
“By name only,” he responds with a look of mild regret. “Lots of relatives back in Italy but my parents were sort of non-traditional so we didn’t hold on to a lot of the culture. I never saw them set foot in a Catholic church or bowl bocce. I mean, my folks can still put together a pretty mean lasagna but I guess for them Italy wasn’t in their blood. That was probably why they left.”
“Have you been back?” asks Brock as he spoons some scrambled eggs into his mouth.
“No,” responds Dominic. “I was born years after my parents moved and we never really kept in touch with the extended family. I’d basically be a tourist in Italy at this point. I don’t speak the language, they don’t speak mine. It’d be awkward.”
“Hmm,” acknowledges Brock with a mouthful of egg.
“So growing up my family was basically just my parents and my brother,” continues Dominic
“Tony?” asks Rebekah expectantly.
“Yeah, Tony,” replies Dominic. “My younger brother.”
“Right,” notes Rebekah, furrowing her brow in recollection. “He drives a truck or something doesn’t he?”
“Yeah, long-haul. The Pork-Chop Express. We grew up on John Carpenter films.”
“Cute,” responds Rebekah nonchalantly. “What about your folks?”
“Just me and Tony for a long time now.”
“Oh,” stammers Rebekah uncertainly.
“It’s okay,” assures Dominic, “they both lived good lives. My mom had me and Tony pretty late in life so they were settled by the time they had us. We weren’t wealthy or connected or anything but I never felt like I was wanting, like I was missing out. Tony and me had a pretty good start in life.
“And I know that being a truck driver isn’t everyone’s definition of success but Tony’d loved trucks since he was a kid. Fact that he’s making a living at it is my definition of success. I’m proud of him.
“As for me, I dabbled and worked odd jobs but couldn’t choose just that one thing that I wanted to devote all my time to. When you introduced me to the agency” — he nods at Rebekah again — “that all changed.”
“What’d you decide?” asks Elvis as he pushes aside the remnant of the pancake and begins to smear butter on a triangle of lightly toasted bread.
“Huh?” responds Dominic, nakedly confused by Elvis’ question.
“I mean,” clarifies Elvis, the greasy bread in his hand flopping around as he makes his point, “what did you decide to devote all of your time to?”
“Oh,” replies Dominic with amusement. “No, that’s not what changed. What changed was that I no longer felt a need to devote my time to any one thing.”
“Ah,” notes Elvis as he sinks his teeth into the saturated toast.
“I’ve learned not to try to anticipate too much, not to set plans in stone,” explains Dominic. “Mostly because it’s a huge waste of time. In fact, I’ve changed my mind about a few things. The whole secret agent thing, for example. If I’m being honest, it seemed like a joke. Psychic spies? Supernatural missions? Coordinated by an agency ‘from beyond’?” — he gesticulates air quotes.
“I don’t think I ever described it using those exact words,” retorts Rebekah, pausing the examination of a banana she’s been holding.
“Sure, okay,” accepts Dominic, “but it’s not far off the mark. Just seemed like a pulp novel that took too many liberties with the plot.”
“But then you read the dossier,” says Rebekah triumphantly, tipping the partially peeled fruit at Dominic.
“Yes and no,” he counters. “The research helped, especially the stuff on Somatics or whatever names it goes by in the literature, but in the end it was the first mission that clinched it.”
Preempting the question building on Brock’s face Dominic continues, “If I was going to pretend to be a secret agent then I decided I was going to be an agent for good. It was with that intent that we got our first intel. My first intel. It put us at a street corner where an old lady was selling vegetables. A couple of minutes later some asshole walked up and started screaming at her, slapping her, stomping on her goods.
“The whole thing happened out in broad daylight, plenty of witnesses, everyone just stood there gawking. Some people even took video. That’s the first time that the word secret made a lot of sense. I put on my surgical mask, as was the fashion of the time, and put my fists to good use.”
“Cleaned the guy’s clock with one punch,” adds Dmitri with a bright smile. “Fucker deserved it.”
Dominic continues, “Short mission but it brought home what Rebekah’d been saying. She might’ve even undersold it a bit. Since then I’ve wondered if helping that old woman might not have been the only objective. In any event, it was one of the most fulfilling things I’d done with my life until then.”
“Gainful employment didn’t do it for you?” asks Dmitri with mild sarcasm.
“Schlepping in a warehouse and working night security had their perks,” explains Dominic in full seriousness. “Gave me freedom to come up with plots, characters, arcs. I thought about lots of stuff. Pay was lousy though. Bouncing and construction paid better but gave me less mental freedom. As for boxing, I just wasn’t good enough for any big money gigs. Then I got too old and concussed. In any event, exchanging my time or blood for a few pieces of green paper never really seemed worthwhile. Tony and me used to talk about this a lot, about what life might’ve been like if we’d gotten more than high school diplomas.”
“And?” asks Dmitri before taking a sip from his ornate coffee cup.
“We concluded that he’d still end up driving a truck and I’d still be just as flaky. I don’t think any nine-to-five would’ve ever satisfied me, even if I had a job like yours.”
Dmitri blinks for a moment and then asks, “A job like mine?”
“Yeah, didn’t you work in online gambling or something?” inquires Dominic.
“The thing about that is,” responds Dmitri slowly, “I’m fairly certain I was working for Russian organized crime.”