XIII: Long Arm of the Law
Sayid thinks: There is a history lesson on the law of the Ottomans in the writing on the computer screen:
In the early seventeenth century, Ahmed the First decided, rather than execute his brothers by the Right of Fratricide, to imprison them in the kafes, or cage. They were locked there for years, served by deaf-mutes, and slowly driven crazy by the lack of human contact. After a few years, they would emerge unfit to govern. One made his teenage lovers governors of Cairo and Damascus. Another practiced archery on live prisoners. A third had his harem of almost three hundred women drowned in the Bosporus.
Staring at the computer screen that has just spoken his language, Sayid feels every bit as useless and crazy as the aristocrats emerging from their individual oubliettes. This can't be. He drums his fingers on the table, to keep them busy and to keep them from being tempted to type automatically, as he tries to figure out whether to reply.
Al salaam a'alaykum keeps on sitting there before him; whomever is on the other end expects an answer. If he doesn't answer, they'll know too, from the looks of it. He shrugs, cracks his neck to ease a sudden tension, and quickly types back his reply in Arabic: Peace be upon you as well. To whom am I speaking?
He scarcely expects a reply in Arabic beyond just the standard greeting, so he feels further shocked when he gets it: Nobody important. He has to restrain a sharp sound that's almost laughter at that. Then: This was just a test. We will talk tomorrow. It's good that you decided to stay. It's time to press the button. And the screen goes back to the command prompt, and the alert sounds. He enters the numbers, hesitating on them somewhat. The scientist in him wants to enter some different numbers, to see what reaction that might merit. If the computers are being monitored and controlled, then there's certainly less risk than he had initially thought. Despite himself, he enters the right numbers and leans back in the chair, staring at the command prompt again.
In another situation, this might be funny. He allows himself a small moment of laughter even now, his eyes on the screen in case his conversant might chat at him again. He gives it five minutes, then ten, and there's no response. Rising from the chair, he paces the area of the hatch cautiously, scanning for any sort of obvious surveillance equipment. It's strange, though: Everything is so obsolete that it becomes difficult. If the reinforced walls below them came from Chernobyl, then so too does everything else, the technology from when he was a teenager at the latest. It will take some effort to school his knowledge, to stop thinking of the most advanced technology and restrain his knowledge by several decades, to operate on a basis of less relevant technology.
Then again, should he even do that? Maybe that's what they want him to do, to limit his knowledge. There was a quote in a Western science fiction book he read once: Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. He does not believe in magic, be it djinns or digital wizards, but he does believe in what the fellow, Clarke, said.
He'll have to watch for those sort of coincidences. There are already a lot of coincidences flying around on the island, but there could stand to be more. He believes in them, at least, even if there must be some pragmatic and rational explanation behind them. People like Jack don't even believe the coincidences exist.
Jack. The head-count. He'd forgotten about that. He wants to find out, but not at the cost of placing anyone in danger from the hatch's lack of monitoring. How long should he sit here and wait, though? Given what's gone on, he's hesitant to leave the hatch unattended again. Fortunately, the question is resolved for him in short order:
"Hey, Sayid." Michael, plain-speaking, forthright. He smiles towards the black man, rising from behind the computer. Michael shoots the computer a strange look, holding on it for a long moment before lifting his eyes to the Iraqi's own. "How is it?"
His smile becomes conciliatory. Something's made Michael nervous, and he'll figure out why at some point. He resolves to do just that. "It's fine, Michael. I entered the numbers two minutes ago, so you have a while to go, yet." He tilts his head a little at Michael, feeling his hair spring with the gesture. "There's something further than that, though," he comments quietly, holding Michael's gaze.
Michael hesitates, shaking his head, and responds, "No, man. Nothing further than that. Nothing you need to worry about. But thanks, Sayid."
If he wanted to, he could get an answer from Michael, figure out what his problem is. He suspects it has to do with the boy, Walt, but arrives at that answer through process of elimination if nothing else. He will do that, but as long as Michael himself is not in danger, he need not worry about it at the moment. He should give the other man a warning, though, and he points a finger at the monitor in indication. "If you get any strange messages from this, Michael, please inform me at your earliest convenience. If you get the opportunity, please do so at once."
A haunted look crosses Michael's face, the expression easy to read. He's seen something, Sayid thinks. He doesn't wish to share his own communications with Michael yet, though, so he doesn't press the issue. Instead, Michael replies a bit absently, "I'll do that," and settles at the computer, hunching over it as Sayid moves for the corridor and the stairs that lie beyond, scaling them to the exit.
–––
"Everyone's here," is Jack's greeting to Sayid. "Well, minus Sawyer," he adds, as if the Southerner's absence was either too obvious to be considered, or too welcome a contribution to be considered a detriment. There's some unspoken animosity there. Sayid has known that from the moment Jack agreed to his suggestion to torture the man. People do not agree so readily if they have no stake in the matter.
"Indeed," Sayid replies slowly. "And if we are missing nobody, I suppose you are right. Sawyer went off on his own from the hatch, most likely." He doesn't think that is quite the situation, but what else ought he to say? Suggesting worse alternative fates is unlikely to merit much beyond simple, blunt dismissal. "How bad are his injuries now? Might he have a chance of survival, or ought we to organize a body retrieval?"
He should have known that would shock Jack. He hadn't even considered its possible weight in the situation, and he really should have. At least Jack doesn't overreact at the words, though, which is always a very real possibility. Instead, this time, the taller fellow stares at him for a long moment, stunned into silence before dismissing the issue. "Do what you think's best, Sayid. He's not going far with that injury; I'll say that much. He'll need continued medical care. A triage. If he's not getting that, then… I suppose retrieval's the right option."
And, with that, Jack starts walking away, clearly washing his hands of the issue. He's not going to expend his energy going after Sawyer, and in a way, Sayid can't blame him. However, the issue of the search party currently consumes him. He must start to consider who would be best at the retrieval. In going through his mental list of people, he knows two with tracking ability: John Locke and Kate. That number has grown to four, now that the others have joined them: The cop, Ana-Lucia, and the large African whose name he has not yet learned but who he has learned from experience is a formidable fighter. He will have to round those people up. He will do that after he has something to eat and drink. It's not wise to go searching for people without a little food to keep himself going.
This will be good, though. It will give him something to do, a way to make himself useful. He needs that, after all the tragedy that has recently happened. He needs to feel like he's doing something, making some sort of practical contribution, and if he can either bring back a dead man for proper services – (Would Sawyer have a Christian funeral, like the average American might? Sayid wonders. He certainly hasn't been a picture of piety) – or recover the living. If he can prevent one person from dying, that will at last do something to even the score for Shannon and the rest.
If he can find out why the little bit of metal he carries is worth anything to the fellows who may have abducted Sawyer, too, so much the better. Maybe John Locke would know. He is older, and he seems to have a fairly solid knowledge base. Sayid will ask him later, and knows he will get at least some explanation as to what type of soldier would wear these memorabilia. The day promises information and possibly more exploration of the island, and the possibilities energize him. He starts for the settlements to get some food of his own.
He trusts Jack. Nonetheless, he silently begins a head-count of his own. The more certainty he has of issues, the better. He is relieved, a few hours later, to find Jack is right, and he starts to convene the people he's selected for the search. He certainly would not have wanted to make enemies out of former friends. That has happened a few too many times in the past.