Chapter Three
The golden sands glistened in the afternoon sun, but Sayid wasn't looking at them. He was glancing at Desmond as Locke announced, "I think I know how to find Jack, Kate, and Sawyer."
What a time for Desmond to be smiling in the peculiar way. The man was idle. If not for their conversation about The Odyssey, Sayid would have thought Desmond had been a playboy in his former life. He certainly could have no idea what it was to live the life of a soldier, to discipline oneself daily, to press on past the fatigue, to run into the face of the fire. Sayid couldn't imagine why the drunken, frivolous Scotsman should be privy to these weighty matters; he wouldn't care about them anymore than he had cared about his sailboat.
Sayid had finally apologized to Desmond for the loss of the vessel, and the owner had merely shrugged. It wasn't because he was forgiving, Sayid thought. It was because he was apathetic. Desmond did not appear to be concerned about his own property and his own life, so what were the chances that he would care about the fate of the survivors? "May I ask why he is being included in the conversation?"
Desmond didn't seem affronted by Sayid's question, however. He replied with his usual flippancy. "Is that supposed to hurt my feelings?"
"Tell him what you told me," Locke directed Desmond.
"The computer in the hatch wasn't only for pushing the button. I'm pretty sure it could be used to communicate with other stations."
So now the Scotsman wanted to make a contribution towards recovering the prisoners of war? No more loitering about the beach and entertaining the ladies? Well, it was a convenient time to feign helpfulness, now that the computer was no longer of service. "This is fascinating. But you just told me the hatch exploded."
"One of them did," said Locke.
Sayid assumed that Locke wanted to establish negotiations, but he feared that the outcome would prove unfavorable. The survivors were already in the weaker position. Sayid had spoken, hyperbolically, of how the Others sought their destruction, but the truth was, he did not know their true object. No one did. That they wished the survivors harm seemed clear enough, but why, and for how long, and in what form—all was muddied. How did one negotiate with an enemy that refused to reveal its aim? And what could the survivors possibly offer the Others in return for their friends? At this point, any attempt at negotiation might appear little different than waving a white flag. On the other hand, if the survivors could communicate with the Others, if they could at least discern their enemies' motives, it might give them an advantage when they prepared to mount another offensive. "You want to try to communicate with the Others?"
"Yup," answered Locke.
Hurley and Charlie now approached the group. "No luck, dudes," Hurley announced. "We looked everywhere. Eko's gone." The past twenty-four hours had been tumultuous indeed. Eko had been pulled from the flames, and now he was missing.
"There's no trail," Charlie explained.
Sayid could feel the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips when Hurley admitted, "Not that we, like, know what a trail looks like."
"When you pulled him out of the tent, did he say anything?" Locke asked.
"Nothing coherent," Charlie replied. "Just mumbling, 'My brother, my brother.'"
"Sayid," ordered Locke, "pack your gear. We're going to that computer."
Sayid was so accustomed to responding to commands that he rose without hesitation, but not without thought. He would follow Locke for the time being, but if they did manage to contact the Others, the interrogator would certainly want to have a say about the direction of the conversation.
The trek through the jungle was not a short one. Locke led the way, and two people Sayid knew only limitedly had accepted the open invitation to join the journey. Perhaps they had grown bored with the sparse amusements available on the beach and thought they were on a scavenger hunt.
Sayid and Desmond took up the tail. "You start that book yet, brother?"
"Unfortunately," replied Sayid, "I now have more important uses for my time." If only they could return to a time when he did not: to a time when Sawyer was free to spend the day lounging in the sun and flipping through books; when Jack and Kate could challenge one another to a round of golf; when Sayid himself could share his lunch with Shannon and brush the silky strands from her forehead. He could feel his throat constricting. He let out a masking cough.
"Got a cold there?" Desmond asked.
"Yes."
"So I hear you were a soldier."
Sayid was not in the mood for conversation. His life in the battlefield was not a subject for entertainment, and he wasn't sure why Desmond would be interested in it unless he was seeking a diversion. "Yes."
His curtness did not dissuade the Scotsman. "So was I."
Sayid stopped walking. He turned and looked at Desmond with disbelief. He blinked and asked, without quite realizing he asked, "You were?" Sayid feared he was losing his edge. He had of late been leaping too quickly to conclusions, trusting too much in his own abilities, failing to see the things that were right before his eyes. Part of him knew it was time to humble himself further, but part of him feared that if he admitted too much self-doubt, he would render himself ineffective, and then he could never repair the shame of allowing his friends to be captured.
"The Royal Scotts Regiment of Her Majesty's Armed Forces."
"Then there are two soldiers among us. At least. Perhaps there are others. Perhaps—"
Locke's voice drifted back to them: "Hello, Eko!" The priest had been found.
