Thick as Thieves chapter 14
They questioned him for nearly two hours straight, but it always came back to the same story. Michael was surprised by how quickly he had adjusted to the lie – the story spun off his tongue so easily, how Carter had told him about the box in his feverish haze, how curiosity had led him to discovering the box himself before Mark had stumbled upon him leaving Mira's house. In the end, it was a pretty simple story. But his father was smart; some things just didn't add up.
"Why didn't you tell me about this?" Taylor quizzed him, obviously upset.
Michael shifted uncomfortably in the chair opposite him, feeling much like a prisoner being interrogated, but at least he was being interviewed in the Command Centre rather than the Brig. "I told you," he sighed. "I didn't want to bring it up in case it was nothing. I knew you were busy…I intended to talk to you about it as soon as I investigated."
"You should have discussed it with me first," his father snapped, his frosty eyes narrowing at him.
"I know."
"You do know. So I'm at a loss as to why you didn't."
He felt his palms begin to sweat. "I guess I…didn't think."
"That's been an excuse you've used too often now, boy. I can't have a Corporal who doesn't use his head now, can I?"
Michael's eyes drifted back over to the box on the table and he wondered how Mira would get it now. "No, sir," he said.
"And you're sure you don't know what's in it?" Taylor asked, picking up the strange object and holding it in both hands.
"No idea," answered Michael. That much at least was true. Now he only hoped his father didn't find out. Whatever it could be, it probably wouldn't do him any favours if Taylor discovered its true purpose.
"One more thing," he added slowly, placing the box back on the desk. "Did Carter happen to mention anything about the Sixers having friends in the colony?"
Michael shook his head. "No. Nothing." He was just as baffled as Taylor was by Mira's comment. Even though she had been looking at him directly during her little speech, and he had been making deals with her behind his father's back, he had not been disclosing any important information about the colony. He had promised to get the box. That was all. He could see his father processing this, his brows knitting together with suspicion still, but he knew Michael had spent practically the whole day with Carter and couldn't have possibly told Mira about his whereabouts. Not in person anyway. It did make him curious though. Who else had been seeing Mira in secret? Who else had been sharing this burden, if they of course viewed it as such?
This was the main thing on everybody's mind for the next few weeks. Soon, rumours of a Sixer spy began to sweep through the colony. The box was safely stored away and looked after by Doctor Wallace who – even after numerous examinations – still could not identify a way to open the damned thing. It continued to cause concern. Even Skye had asked Michael about it, to which he told her the same fabricated story he had told his father and hoped that that would satisfy her curiosity. Taylor seemed to make it his mission to find the culprit, however, along with his new sidekick Jim Shannon, who Michael still didn't care much for. He wasn't sure why exactly. Maybe it was the fact that his father trusted him more, even after so little time here. But as long as the suspicion was kept off of him, he didn't mind what they got up to.
"He still doesn't trust me," Michael frowned, discussing the matter with Boylan one day. They were sat together at the bar again, drinking and talking. This had become a comfortable routine for them now. Boylan seemed pleased for the company, and Michael was just relieved to have someone to talk to about all of this. Boylan poured him another drink. It looked like he needed it. "He never believed my story. He's smarter than that."
"It's a bloody shame," Boylan grumbled before downing his drink. "Look at ya – so concerned with what your old man thinks of ya. He's no better."
"He's a good man," Michael said automatically, as if he had never questioned it before. "And a good father."
Boylan scoffed, nearly snorting the liquid back up through his nose. "Maybe once! But I know one or two people who would disagree - your brother included."
Michael looked down, swirling the liquid around in his cup. He was beginning to wish he had never told Boylan the full details of what happened that night Lucas disappeared. Despite letting the former officer help him bury Phillbrick's body, Taylor had refused to explain to him the circumstances of what had happened that night, which was possibly one of the reasons Tom was still angry with him. So Michael ended up telling him everything.
"Lucas was delusional," he mumbled. "He didn't know what he was saying." This was the best excuse he could come up with for his brother's rash behaviour. Although he didn't want to admit there was something wrong with Lucas' mental health, now that he thought about it, perhaps it made sense. He had spent his entire life living in Michael's shadow. Michael was, after all, the louder, more confident twin who thrived on being the centre of attention. Even now he remembered days where he had shoved Lucas aside to receive all of their parents' praise and affection. Even when Lucas got better grades at school, everyone seemed to take a greater pride in Michael's achievements. People just liked him better. They liked his personality. Michael felt awful about it now. No wonder Lucas had felt the way he had, acted the way he did. Maybe if he would come back, Michael would be able to apologise to him and hope that he would come home and forget about it all. But that was becoming more and more unlikely now. It really was all his fault. "Besides," he continued, feeling even lower now, "I'm the one that killed Phillbrick that day. My father was just trying to protect me."
"More like protect his precious colony," spat Boylan. "He was more concerned with covering up the whole thing than protecting you."
"Tom," Michael said, shooting him a warning look. "Don't talk about him like that."
"I'm just saying," Boylan replied, holding up his hands. "You'll realise it soon enough."
Michael shook his head. He'd never believe that. He had always thought the world of Nathaniel Taylor, ever since he and Lucas were small boys, waving goodbye to him with their mother as he headed off to fight, a hero. He didn't want that image to ever shatter.
But even Boylan could sense their relationship was falling apart. Michael had grown up, he had seen his father's stubbornness, his violent tendencies, even felt afraid of him a little bit. Now he was being forced to make hard, moral decisions by himself, and he couldn't even ask his father for help. At least Boylan, the only person who he could trust to talk to about this stuff, was there to offer him some support. And he had experienced dealing with the Sixers first-hand, so he knew exactly what it was like.
"There's something else I need to tell ya," Tom admitted, although he looked as though he didn't want to continue. "Mira knows Taylor has the box, and she isn't happy."
He supposed it had been inevitable, especially with this Sixer spy running around the colony. Sweeping a hand through his hair, he sighed and leant back in his seat. "Alright. What did she say?"
"She wants another chat. Soon."
"Same time? Same place?"
Boylan nodded.
Michael chewed his lip. "This spy is a menace," he said, raising his cup to his lips finally. "You know, my father thinks it's me."
"He's said this to ya face, has he?"
"No," Michael answered quietly. "I just know he does. He's not far-off though is he?"
"Michael," Boylan said, his voice sounding softer now. It seemed a bit strange to Michael, who was suddenly listening intently. "When ya think about it, all you were trying to do was return something that didn't belong to ya. This spy, whoever it is, has a completely different agenda. You're not exposing all our secrets, are ya?"
"No, but…I guess I'm worried I'm going to start losing sight of who I really am. I've done things I'm not proud of."
"All of which you did to protect someone else." Boylan rolled his eyes as if Michael was being foolish. "Sounds like a very Michael Taylor thing to do if you ask me."
Michael smiled briefly at him, touched and amused at seeing the barman acting so sentimental all of a sudden. Maybe he really did value Michael as a friend. It only helped him feel better to some extent though. "I have a feeling my father will feel differently," he sighed, thinking about how easily he had banished Lucas that night. If he discovered Michael was even communicating with the Sixers, he feared he would earn a similar punishment. After all, this wasn't like breaking the screen of his father's plex when he was younger, or receiving a bad grade in a test because he had been too busy flirting with girls to study. Taylor wouldn't just give him a smack on the wrist this time if he discovered just what he had been up to.
"You know, I used to have a son," Boylan said suddenly. The comment stunned Michael for a brief moment since he had never really heard anything of Boylan's past before. It intrigued him, and he tried to imagine the barman as a family man before he realised something must have happened to separate them.
"Used to?" Michael repeated unsurely, fearing he might be crossing a line even asking about it. But he figured if Boylan was the one who brought it up, he wouldn't mind telling him about it.
"He died. Seven years old, he was. Damn shame." His eyes shone with what seemed to be unshed tears. He shook his head. "Damn shame," he repeated, his voice low and gravelly. Michael couldn't remember ever seeing Boylan this sad before. He wasn't sure how he'd react if Boylan broke down right there. He secretly hoped he wouldn't find out.
"I'm sorry," he said genuinely, wishing there was more he could do. He cleared his throat after another few beats of deciding whether he should ask his next question. But this may be the only time he'd ever find out anything about his friend, so he risked it. "What happened?"
"He went outside to play. Forgot his Rebreather. The air was so bad…he got sick." He didn't say anymore. Michael bowed his head, focusing on the chips in the wood of the table. There were probably a million things he could have said at this point. He knew what it was like to lose somebody, Boylan knew that too, so he could definitely relate. Suddenly he felt guilty for all those times that Tom had been there for him, and all this time nobody had been there for him. They sat in silence for a little while, Michael trying to think of anything at all he could, say when their meeting came to a halt as Guzman came running down the steps.
"Michael!" he called, gasping for breath. "Come with me quickly. It's your father."
Puzzled, Michael followed Guzman to the Command Centre, unsure exactly of what he would find. He was perplexed, and alarmed, to see his father raving like a lunatic, holding a knife to Mark Reynold's throat and shouting at a group that had gathered by the door. Lieutenant Washington was at the front, trying to calm him, her face full of concern, whilst the Shannon girl hung behind, watching, petrified. Michael stepped in to the room, past Guzman who had a hand on his sonic, ready to intervene.
He couldn't understand it; he had never seen his father like this. The very sight of him like this made his heart start to convulse inside his chest. "What's wrong with him?" he demanded, watching his father's gaze grow wilder, his grip on Mark tightening.
"He's been infected with something at Outpost 3," Wash answered quickly. "The whole place is quarantined. He thinks he's still at war."
I wasn't told about Outpost 3, Michael wanted to say, the hurt settling in. But due to recent circumstances, he wasn't surprised that this had been going on without anybody informing him. It didn't make it sting any less though.
"Stay back!" the Commander roared, the knife pressing in to Mark's throat. "What is this place?"
"It's home," Wash answered.
"This is my home?" he said, unconvinced. "Alright…then where's my wife?" he challenged.
Michael's heart sunk. He couldn't even remember his own wife's death, and he could see his eyes gleam with want and desperation for her. He had never seen his father so vulnerable before, not even on the day of her death.
Wash looked back at Michael, a worried glance lingering between the two, then she frowned and looked back towards the Commander.
"Ayani's gone, Nathaniel."
Somehow, even eleven years later, Michael could never get used to those words. They seemed to have a similar effect on his father who loosened his grip on Mark a little bit.
"No," he said.
"She's dead."
"You're lying to me, Wash."
"I wouldn't lie to you about this."
Michael suddenly found his voice. "She's telling the truth, dad." He gently stepped closer, noticing Reynolds turning an unflattering shade of red, the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. "It's okay," he said softly. "You're at Terra Nova. You're safe. Let him go and we can talk."
"What are you talking about?" Taylor spluttered. "Who are you?"
If felt like being struck across the face. "It's me," he said, his voice cracking. "Your son."
"My son," he breathed, and for a moment Michael thought he was starting to remember. But then his expression grew cold. "You're not my son."
Michael felt that image of his father, young and valiant, waving goodbye with a smile on his face, already starting to chip away. "It's Michael," he insisted. "Remember?"
Taylor began to tremble with what seemed to be rage. He released Mark and sent him stumbling towards Maddy. "Don't you lie to me. You are not my son," he fumed. "Now you better tell me where my family is."
"Mom's dead," Michael told him in a raised voice. How could he not remember the day none of them could ever forget? How could he not recognise his own flesh and blood? "You chose Lucas; mom got killed. We were both there – I'm Michael, I'm your son."
"YOU ARE NOT MY SON!" he bellowed furiously, making everyone in the room jump. Michael's eyes widened, his heart racing as a chair came soaring towards him. His father was now throwing things at him, livid, yelling over and over: "You're not my son, you're not my son!"
Each time he said it, his words seem to become truer. Michael tried to touch him, to reassure him, but Taylor knocked him down to the ground, his face red, his teeth clenched together in fury. "You are not my son," he said again, waving the knife at him. And as Michael stared up at him, fear and disbelief gleaming in his large eyes, he didn't recognise the man standing over him as much as his father refused to recognise him.
Wash intervened, pushing Taylor back despite the dangerous weapon he had gripped in his hands. "Nathaniel, listen to me. Everything's going to be okay. Look at me. Nobody's trying to hurt you."
Michael watched from the spot where he had fallen, witnessing Alicia's hands on his father, trying to comfort him, the look of intensity between them. Taylor had already calmed down, reassured by her touch, her comforting gaze.
Michael struggled to his feet, and when Wash turned around to see if he was okay, he was already gone.
Later, he visited his father in the infirmary whilst he was in the final stages of recovery. He stood there in silence as he listened to the Commander's apology; how he didn't know what he was doing, how he couldn't control what he was saying, but he wanted Michael to know he hadn't meant any of it. Michael was hardly listening. All he could hear were the words 'you're not my son' and how he wouldn't be surprised if he ever heard those words again.
TBC