XIX

"No vigorous movements, bed rest, and deep breathing experiences to prevent pneumonia." Jacen considered Dr. Mathinson's advice. He even appreciated it, but he wasn't about become conjoined to his bed for weeks until he fully healed. The camp's gym was mostly empty around lunch hour. A little exercise wouldn't hurt. He went for the lighter weights, hefting two of the 15 pound dumbbells. His ribs groaned at the weight as he did two sets of lateral raises with eight reps, hammer curls, and lunges. He took a quick break, sitting down on the benches in the middle of the room and performed the breathing exercises that Mathinson recommended. A burning sensation surrounded his fractured ribs and his skin felt blistered and sensitive around his burns. He reached into the pockets of his sweatpants and pulled out a small bottle of ibuprofen, chucked a pair of tablets in his mouth, and swallowed them.

Back to work.

Jacen returned the 15 pound dumbbells back on the rack, tested the 25 pound weights, and thought otherwise. Not yet. He surrendered to the 20 pound set and repeated his routine until his arms screamed in defeat. His light gray shirt was black from the sweat, his muscles tight and throbbing.

One more set. You can quit when you're dead.

The concentration he once had—in the moment—was snapped when Naomi seemed to appear beside him; he hadn't even heard her coming. She stood over him as he sat, her hands tightened into fists and her eyes transfixed on him with raised brows.

Jacen looked up at her and took a sip of water from his bottle. "Um, this sneaking up on me… it stopped being funny the first time."

"Damon knows," Naomi said.

Jacen flipped the cap closed on his bottle with his thumb. "And what does Damon know?"

Naomi took a seat beside him on the bench, forcefully sliding him over to make room. "Me, genius! He knows about me. La Cazadora."

Jacen took his time to answer, chewing it over in his head. It was a name that he hadn't heard in years, at least from someone else. Damon Vasher wasn't a problematic man, an above average soldier at best. However, he was fairly low on the UNSC food-chain to know about Naomi. La Cazadora wasn't a household name, not among the enlisted. There was more to it.

"If he knows, then it's likely that Rey knows, too. What did he say exactly?"

"That I was listed on one of their dossiers," Naomi answered. "Something about that I wasn't on a Red Notice List, but that he was aware of me working with other innies. I don't like it."

"Hmm." Jacen scratched his hairline with his pinky. "He's never been curious before, not about us. I wonder what prompted his interest?"

Naomi shook her head, looking off across the room without a point of interest. "He doesn't know about you. No one usually does."

Jacen placed his hand over Naomi's restless hands, settling them. "I don't care if he did. There's nothing he can do about it, and the same goes for you. It's an empty threat."

"It wasn't a threat," Naomi clarified. "He needed my help."

"With what?" Jacen glanced over his shoulder as a few of the gym regulars began streaming in, their bellies full of food they were eager to burn off. He lowered his voice. "If it wasn't a threat, then what could he possibility need your help for?"

"Not here." Naomi stood up and gestured toward the exit.

Jacen obliged and followed her out of the gym and walked to her living space. She checked to see if anyone had followed them before closing the door and locking it. Jacen set his bottle down and took a strained seat on the remnants of what used to be a Warthog's passenger seat with a pillow as a cushion. He stretched his legs out and waited for Naomi to stop pacing.

"Can you focus here? What did Damon want?"

Naomi eventually ceased her steps but remained standing. "He said he wanted to keep it confidential, but whatever. He and Aaron are investigating the possibility of there being a squatter here. They found some evidence that makes them think so, and since I know how to find people, he wanted my help."

"I don't want to burst his bubble, but this is a refugee camp. This entire place is basically a squatter's paradise. What type of evidence did he have? It's probably just someone messing around."

"Maybe," Naomi shrugged. "He said he found a hole cut in the perimeter fence, blood, and bootprints leading into the camp with the same blood. Medical supplies were also stolen, so he says. He seems pretty convinced."

"What else did he say?"

"Once he told me that he knew who I was, I wasn't really too interested in what else he had to say. I told him to get out and that I'd think about it." She sat down on the floor and crossed her legs Indian-style. Her head hung low as she ran her hands across her face. "I'm not sure what to do. Esto es loco. I don't like the fact he knows who I am."

"Neither do I, but..."

She looked up from the floor and stared at him. "But what?"

"He doesn't want anyone else to know and he chose to tell you. That means he trusts you, at least to some extent. I don't think him mentioning your name was an insult, just an acknowledgment. You are the best person for the job. Now whether or not this squatter investigation yields any results is something that I can't answer. You'll just have to find out."

Naomi sighed. "Are you saying I should help them?"

"No, I'm not. You can tell them to kick rocks, for all I care. You don't owe anything to them, neither them to us. It's up to you."

Naomi grumbled and rolled her eyes. "Sometimes I just want to punch the mierda outta you."

Jacen laughed. "You have." He stood up and went to the door and unlocked it. "Let me know what you find."

Aaron slid another cigarette out of his dwindling pack, lighting the end with his previous one that was almost out. He blew the smoke out the side of his mouth, picking a bit of stray nicotine from the tip of his tongue. He waited patiently for the small crowd of people to disperse from a large room with sliding doors of tempered glass, each person thanking a black man with medium height, bald head, and clean shaven as they walked out. The people leaving looked refreshed and renewed, something Aaron just couldn't wrap his mind around. What went on in that room once per week was a waste of time and it surprised him how many kept coming back for more. Delusional.

Once the last person said their regards and went their way, Aaron pushed himself off the wall he was leaning on and approached the man. He flicked the cigarette away and met him at the doors before he closed them. The man perked up at the sight of Aaron, displaying a white smile that somehow pissed Aaron off by just the sight of it. He didn't realize how much optimism got under his skin these days, fueling the dormant venom in his psyche.

"Aaron!" The man kept the doors open. "I have to say, this was a surprise I wasn't expecting. I'd hope you come back."

"I'm not back, Samuel, but I did need to talk to you."

Samuel Carter nodded in acceptance. He rolled up the sleeves to his only white dress shirt to the elbows and went inside the room. "I see. Please, come in. We just finished service."

Aaron went in behind him, closing the doors. About thirty empty chairs were in the room, split down the middle with fifteen or so on either side. Samuel went through the rows, picking up the small bibles left in the seats. He returned them to a bookshelf in the back, placing them side by side before he began folding up the chairs and hanging them on a rack on the fair right wall. Aaron began to help him.

"What's been bothering you?" Samuel asked. "The same issue or something different?"

Aaron exhaled, placed a chair on the rack. "This isn't about me. I wanted to know if you could shed some light on a matter. It's not about God or the like, okay."

"Hmm." Samuel held one of the chairs in his hands, tapping one the feet on the concrete floor. "Sure."

"Good. Most recently, have you noticed any new faces in the camp, maybe someone who you haven't seen before?"

Samuel took a moment. He put up a few of the remaining chairs in thought, moving on the collect the papers of his discourse from the vertical rectangle of wood that acted as his podium. "It's funny you say. I'm terrible with names, but I never forget a face. Each time I see someone that I thought I never met before, a few minutes into talking to them, I can usually recall who they are. So to answer your question, I have to say no. There have been some newcomers to my services, but I already know them. Why do you ask?"

Aaron was hesitant to answer. This had to remain between he and Damon. He took the vague route. "We've had some… thefts lately. Nothing serious, but we can't allow someone to take what they want. We're not much of a society here, but we still need rules. You know how it is."

"I do," Samuel agreed to much. "And you think it's someone from my congregation?"

"No, not presently." Aaron unfolded the last chair and sat down. "You seem to know everyone here and I just wanted to pick your brain. Has anyone here been acting out of the norm, or missing from your services?"

"No one here is well-adjusted, Aaron. All of our circumstances are 'out of the norm'. I haven't met person here who's comfortable here. They want to go home, and some of them believe they'll die here."

"I understand that, but that doesn't answer my question."

"I think it does," Samuel countered. "Do you know why some of them continue to attend the services, Aaron? I want to know what you think."

Aaron shook his head. "I don't think you do."

Samuel crossed his arms. "Try me."

Okay, you asked for it. "I think what you do is a colossal waste of time. Giving these people hope, telling them to have faith that God is going to deliver them out of this. You're asking them to have a wait-and-see attitude when the circumstances demand action. You can pray to that celestial fairy all you want to, but this is the same God that created the very aliens that are trying to exterminate us. And yet, where is he? Billions are dead. I just don't see the logic."

"Trust me, Aaron, you're not the first or the last who feel that way. As a matter of fact, some of God's own prophets felt as you do." Samuel reached back behind him and grabbed his bible and began thumbing through the pages.

Aaron rolled his eyes.

"Here. Habakkuk chapter one, verse one. He said, 'How long, O God, must I cry for help, but you do not hear? How long must I ask for help from violence, but you do not intervene?'. Does that sound familiar?"

Aaron held up his hand. "Let me guess: he felt like that, but he regained his faith and lived happily ever after?"

"Not immediately. He couldn't understand why a just God could sit back and allow such evil to continue." Samuel closed the bible. "You said that God created these aliens. This is true, for he is the Creator of all things; but he also created us. For thousands of years, before we knew we weren't alone in the universe, we have fought and killed each other. The point I'm trying to make is that we chose to kill and harm one another; and it seems the same reigns true for non-humans. The Covenant is no different than human factions that have rose up against each other in times' past." He laughed. "The only difference is that they're a lot better than us."

"How poetic." Aaron stood up with a groan, folded the chair, and placed it on the rack. "Well, this was fun, but I have to go."

"If you don't want faith in God, Aaron, try having a little faith in others," Samuel encouraged. "If there is any hope in us leaving this place, we'll need to rely on each other. I'm sure your daughter feels the same in hopes of seeing you again. Faith."

Aaron grumbled within himself. The urge to lash out was strong, almost volcanic. It wouldn't solve anything. Faith wouldn't mean anything if she was already dead; and as far as she knew, he was dead. Four years. Hell, was she even thinking about him anymore? He reined in his negative thoughts toward Samuel, refusing to slice him with sharp words. 'Thoughtless speech can be a ricocheted bullet,' he recalled Samuel telling him once. Once fired, it would easily return; be it a bad conscience or regret. Aaron decided to leave without a word.

"Before you go, Aaron, I do have something that may interest you. It's probably nothing."

Aaron had his back turned to Samuel, cringing. "What is it?"

"Terrance and Olivia Cambridge, our primary cooks, have been complaining that some of their foodstuffs going missing lately. Ever since Captain Anderton cracked down on strict inventory lately, they've been very diligent in keep track. I only know this because they've taken it upon themselves to question some of the colonists about it. It's caused some… aggravation."

Aaron turned around with peaked interest. Colonist? That was a cute word for stranded refugees. "What was taken?"

"I don't know the specifics," Samuel shrugged. "You'll have to talk to them. They should be in the mess hall now."

"Good looking out. Thanks."

"My doors are always open, Aaron."

Aaron stopped at the open doors, tapping his index finger against the frame. He released an emphatic exhale with eyes shut. A pit opened up in his stomach. He didn't speak, dammed it up, and walked out with a subtle wave to Samuel.

What remained of the lunch crowd was reduced to the usual suspects: the talkers engrossed in lengthy conversation over empty plates; the hopeful, thinking that staying a little longer would garner them additional food for sympathy; and lastly the staff themselves, a small group tending to the mess of disposable plates and utensils, cups and empty pots of food that needed to be washed. The crew was mostly older teenagers, a hardy bunch that more or less participated to keep themselves busy or out of trouble. There were only four adults, tasked with overseeing what seemed to be the most important objective in the camp. Aaron may've toted a weapon for the defense of those poor sods, but he had to tip his hat to those men and women that kept them fed on a regular basis.

He went up to the row of tables where the group was standing behind, watching them collect the empty pots and plastic containers of food and stack them on a rolling cart. They noticed him approaching—all eyes on him. One of the two teenage boys tracked him with his blue eyes, his freckles across his nose and cheeks prominent and ruddy. Aaron reflected his look, held it for a few seconds, and turned his attention to the adults. He didn't exactly know what the kid was thinking, but it imagined it wasn't complimentary. Maybe it was his MP UNSC badge that he religiously wore, no matter how ridiculous it may've seemed to continue wearing the thing. He didn't care what some kid thought about him, as long as he knew where the line was drawn between them: authority and refugee. Stay on your side, Freckles, and I'll stay on mine.

"I'm sorry, Officer Polanski," one of the adults announced with mild sorrow in her tone. She was stout, plump and pleasant by the softness of her caramel eyes. "Lunch has concluded. If you would like something to eat, you can either wait until dinner or you're welcome to some MREs."

Aaron was surprised she knew who he was, even more surprised that she addressed him as 'officer'. He hadn't heard the term used in years. It felt… off somehow. "I'm not here for chow. I'm looking for Terrance and Olivia Cambridge."

"I'm Terrance," sounded a voice at the far end of the tables. The gangly-looking man walked over to Aaron, his thin brown hair thinning in the crown, but maintained thick eyebrows by some miracle. He struck Aaron as some type of vulture hybrid gone wrong, wanting to ask if he was getting enough to eat from his slender frame. "My wife Liv is in the back right now. How can I help you?"

Aaron swept his eyes across the group before leaning close to Terrance and lowering his voice. "Can we speak somewhere privately, you and your wife?"

Terrance's facial expression shifted. "Sure, of course." He walked away and disappeared through a doorway with plastic flaps hanging down. In few minutes' time, he came out with a dishwater blonde-haired woman with a prominent scar that started at her hairline and down just above her right eye, splitting the eyebrow. It seemed old but fresh at the same time.

Aaron tried not to stare.

"We can talk at the tables over there." Terrance pointed to some isolated tables in the corner of the mess hall. He turned to face the other members of the cooking staff. "Let's get these washed quickly. We won't be long. Tim..."

The second teenage boy looked up.

"...Make sure you use the scrubbers on the pots. There was residue left from breakfast. We can't have cross-contamination."

The boy nodded. "Yes, Mr. Terrance."

The three of them sat down at the table in the year, a good distance from the crew and the stragglers left in the room.

Aaron didn't waste time. "I was told you've had some food misplaced, perhaps stolen. I'm here to investigate."

Olivia sighed with her hand on her cheek. "Samuel must've told you. We apologize about approaching the other colonist about it, but we were just concerned. We can't afford to have food going missing like this."

There was that word again. Colonist. Aaron restrained his facial expressions. "I'm not here about that, although it's best not to interrogate others without probable cause. Just explain to me what happened, and don't leave anything out. All details, no matter how small, can be beneficial. Let's start by going over what exactly was taken."

Terrance looked at his wife and she returned his look. She gave a casual nod of approval before he faced Aaron and spoke. "If I can recall correctly, it was several packs of canned chicken and tuna; bottled water, two cases; I think one bag of potatoes; and most significantly, one of our 50lb bags of rice. Had the rice not been taken, we probably wouldn't have noticed the rest."

Aaron nodded along as he wrote down the information in his small notepad he'd pulled from his pocket. He looked up from his pad. "And you keep a tight inventory?"

"The best we can," Olivia admitted. "Captain Anderton was adamant about that. We conduct an accounting every 30 days or so. However, there's always some food that's unaccounted for that we chalk up to acceptable losses. It's easy to simply grab an ingredient or something and not write it down. We have to talk to the younger ones constantly about this."

Aaron followed up. "And how do you know that the food that was supposedly taken weren't acceptable losses?"

"If it were taken gradually, then perhaps; but all of this taken at the same time," Terrance answered.

Aaron added it to his notes. "And when did this happen?"

"I'm not sure of the exact day, but I know it happened during the census," Olivia said.

Aaron stopped writing and looked up. He clicked his pen and straightened his posture. "That census took place over a month ago. It was a Thursday, the first of August. Why wait so long to report it?"

Terrance and Olivia exchanged perplexed looks before Olivia answered. "We wanted to be sure without jumping to conclusions."

"I have to ask." Aaron twisted the pen in his hand, glancing over Terrance's right shoulder at the group of teenagers—mostly Freckles—that were busy cleaning up and organizing the kitchen. "Is there any chance your staff may've taken the food?"

Terrance, for his part, seemed shocked at the very notion. Maybe they couldn't do wrong in his eyes, but from the skeptical look in Olivia's eyes, the question seemed pretty valid to her.

"I think it's highly unlikely," Terrance shook his head.

Aaron all but disregarded Terrance's reply and attuned his focus to Olivia. "And what about you, Mrs. Cambridge?"

"It crossed my mind, sure. I even questioned a few of them about it. There have been times," Olivia admitted, "that we have allowed some of the young ones to take food home with them to their families. I know it's wrong, but they're just kids."

Aaron winced. "That's touching, but that doesn't really answer my question."

"I had my suspicious, but in the end, they said they haven't taken anything. They only have what we've allowed them to have," Olivia clarified.

"Right." Aaron clicked his pen again. "Okay, give me a rundown—before and after the theft."

Terrance cleared his throat. "Well, after breakfast, the announcement was made that everyone was to report to the living quarters for the census. I told everyone to go ahead and I stayed to clean up the rest. Once I was finished, I locked the pantry and headed out. And, hmm..."

"What does that mean?" Aaron grew impatient. The couple was pissing him off at each passing minute. Didn't they realize how urgent this was? Or maybe he realized it. When Aaron thought about it, he hadn't really cared if this panned out to be anything or not; but with the evidence thus fair, it may've been legitimate.

"I bumped into someone on my way out," Terrance continued. "I didn't see their face, although I wasn't really paying that close attention. I just remember they had dark clothing and… ah, a surgical mask. That I do remember."

"Really?" Aaron leaned forward. "Could you distinguish their gender? I mean, anything more specific?"

"Like I said, it was quick. They bumped into me, I said excuse me, and I went on," Terrance said.

"What happened when you came back?"

"The census ended after a few hours and I came back to prepare the lunch menu. I got my keys, went into the pantry..." He laughed. "You know, it's funny. I remember putting my keys into my right jacket pocket, but when I came back to unlock the pantry, they were in my left pocket. I probably switched them by accident and didn't even realize it."

Aaron put his hand up. He stood up quickly, shuffling the papers to his notepad and stuffing them into his pockets. "That's enough. I got everything I need."

"Are you sure?" Olivia called out after him.

Aaron didn't reply, jogging quickly out of the mess hall and into the corridors. Everyone that passed him gave him a befuddled look, some even stopping completely and watching him until he passed on. It wasn't until Aaron realized that he had a wide grin across his face did he managed to change his facial expression. He followed the long, pipe-like corridor that extended from building to building, the glass windows covering the sides and ceiling like a snake's scales. It offered an unbecoming pitch black view outside: no stars, just the faint view of the thick haze of permanent clouds.

All of was an afterthought to Aaron. He reached the central building, making a beeline for one of the empty conference rooms. Once inside, he locked the door and went to the thin strip of blue light that lightly hummed against the wall. He waved his hand over the light once. "DEV, you out there?"

The blue light melted away into an emerald green and blinked twice. "I'm active, Mr. Polanski."

"Good. Find Damon Vasher and tell him to meet me in conference room D immediately. It's urgent."