16.
Nosy Neighbor – Nice View - Board Meeting – I Think There's Something Wrong With That Guy – The Hangover – All About The AA
The Island
It was three in the morning, though anyone up at such an hour knows that it's still the night before. The jungle dark thrummed softly; bug-song and night-creatures made their own kind of music and the shadows around the tiny village creaked companionably. It was safe; the lizard-brain in a human's mind somehow knew, could somehow sense the total lack of threat from their surroundings. Pure peace and silence from the homes on most nights. Usually someone was up late, but they would stay in doing whatever it was people did in the privacy of their homes.
It was a good hour for a little walk. The air was cool and just a touch damp, perfect for Krish's remaining physical ability. He liked to get out and pretend for a little while that everything was just fine. It beat thinking about the confused furrow on Dr. Ellis's brow, or the sideways glances from the locals. He still felt better than he had in what felt like years. That had to be worth something. So he took his walks and found a small bit of peace, since he still couldn't meditate and would never sleep.
Krish paused now and again as he ambled on a criss-crossing path through the village, listening to the night or watching the flicker of some device beyond a veiled window. He saw no one and no one called to him, which he liked. Most nights he would pause by someone's home and contemplate them – Tsuchi and his withdrawn behavior occasionally revealing the quick mind the kid had; the stolid doctor who kept himself under rigid control; the archaeologist. She was often on a phone call to the mainland, raunchy jokes singing out to her friends and family at late hours. Ben – that house was always dead silent, the windows drawn.
Finally, Kyra, who had been gone for several days on some errand. A dim light glimmered deep within the house, and it caught Krish's eye. He arched an eyebrow in some concern, recognizing it as a hall light that most of them switched on when they visited the bathroom. This one had been on for a while, at least half an hour or more since he had begun his nightly walk.
Means nothing. She likes a nightlight, said the grouchier, keep-to-yourself portion of the inner chorus. Or not. Didn't every other night before she took her trip. This from the other side of the peanut gallery. Not to mention, none of us have seen her since she got back. Reported in to Linus and went into her house, full stop. That's not concerning at all. Besides, it can't hurt to knock. If she's asleep, she won't hear you.
"And if something's wrong, she still won't hear me," Krish mumbled to himself. "Or I could stand here and talk to myself until morning and worry about schizophrenia in addition to all else." He looked up at a speckled black sky. "Hell."
He wandered over to her door, taking his time. He put his ear to it to listen and heard nothing. He listened a little longer, then reached up, curling his hand into a fist to knock. An idea seized him and went up for an internal debate before he dropped his hand to try the handle instead.
It opened at a gentle turn and he pushed it open, narrowing his eyes at the dark living room. He stared for a while, picking out details of an otherwise ordinary room until he caught the profiles of the empty bottles on the table. He tilted his head, recognizing the squat-shouldered profile of a whisky bottle and the taller, narrower svelteness of another pair. Wine? Maybe rum or vodka.
Or fruit juice, you nosy jackass. Shut the door and leave her alone.
Krish stood there for a moment, framed in indecision within the arch of the door, until the soft moan floated down the hall. That drove him to slap at the light switch as he charged further inside.
. . .
Krish laid Kyra's unconscious form on the couch, keeping her head elevated on a pillow. He was hesitant to invade her bedroom, going for this secondary option instead. The imprint of bathroom tile still left an absurd squared mark on her cheek and the chemical stink of alcohol was an almost physical presence. It wrinkled his nose as his muscles screamed obscenities at him for the exertion. He hadn't thought, only reacted when he saw her prone form on the cold floor. Now his body was reminding him of what it decreed to be a Bad Move. He sat down, heavily, on the chair next her.
I should wake up the doctor. Or Ben. Or someone, in any case. She groaned again in her sleep. He remembered what nightmares were like; distant, sluggish horrors that you couldn't run from. He considered trying to wake her up, but if moving her hadn't caused a stir, he wasn't sure what else he could try. There was also the issue of public embarrassment. She was drunk, not bleeding, and might be angered about the intrusion. Maybe I should go, he thought to himself. He didn't budge from the chair. I should absolutely go. His inner voice didn't sound very convincing.
. . .
Yeoksam-dong, Seoul
Paik Heavy Industries stood proud among dozens of industrial and financial skyscrapers along either side of the Teheranno street, all forty-five floors of it glinting silver and blue in the dark. At its highest floors, the building still felt no noticeable sway (though it was there; clever architecture and construction made the building seem rock-secure. It was beloved by those whose fear of heights accepted this place and few others so high) and the bustle and noise of the street below became so distant it may as well have been on Mars.
To stand in its highest windows and look down granted an imperious feeling, and this is why Woo-Jung Paik, the CEO, allowed one window to be made more ornate than all others. This was the view of his secondary boardroom; a window that filled the far side of the room in lieu of almost any wall. It was bordered by luxurious velvet curtains embroidered with gold designs, and he kept his small collection of historic Jeulmun pottery bowls on pedestals along either side.
In truth, he used the boardroom but seldom; most meetings were conducted in a lesser room several floors below. He used the grand space for a few select private consultations instead, and as a place to look out and think. He thought a lot of late; his lost daughter, his unseen grandchild, his worthless – certainly dead - son in law. His thoughts often tinged his face with pale red rage, the color draining down and visible against the white collar of his Hugo Boss shirt. Always the white shirt. Even at home, he dressed no less formal. He was Paik, the man and the corporation. Inseparable.
That night, he was watched by the man seated behind him at the far side of the room. The man observed him, head tilted slightly to the side, assessing him with the same interest and casual curiosity as he might a particularly amusing but ultimately boring species of Blatella asahinai – or local cockroach. Some regional, morphological differences gave each roach enough diversity to be classified separately, but the result always came down the same. A roach is a roach.
Unlike Paik, however, Thomas Mittelwerk kept all his thoughts cleanly off his face. He sat, leaned back casually in the office chair with his hands clasped together in his lap. The table before him was bare; he needed no notes though he marked the phone that rested in the distant center. He also thought as he waited for Paik's eventual address, though his thoughts were of a clinical, almost mathematical stripe. He was more concerned about the viral replication rates of his latest little hobby.
The CEO broke the silence after the flash of some distant traffic helicopter cut through the light pollution that filled the horizon. "Do you know why I called this meeting between us?" The voice was mild, an obvious lie.
Internally, the man sighed. One sentence, and this had become fated to be interminably boring. "The progress on our little issues remains the same. It is being handled, and I am in control."
Paik turned to regard the German doctor. "By that, you mean there is no progress whatsoever."
"I cannot be rushed." Mittelwerk's long face was impassive. It was a statement of fact. He would not, could not be rushed in any regard.
"In fact, sir, I would argue there has been regress. The Widmore woman lives. You assured me that would be handled. Instead, she fills out a police report! Then vanishes!" Paik was barking, pretense gone. "Incompetence!"
"Hardly. I planned for either outcome. This is optimal." The tiniest of shrugs, the wave of a hand. He expected a call from London within hours. "I expect my staff to react and handle events within certain degrees of failure/victory based on stimuli I provide. Flood has not disappointed me within those guidelines. As for the rest, it progresses. We will both have what we want."
"Where is my granddaughter?" Paik's wants were simple but driven. Perfect.
The slightest arch of an eyebrow. "Safe. I am narrowing in on likely locations." He assessed the grunt he received as response – grudging acceptance. He had placed himself as the only potentially successful method for recovery, despite that the child mattered little to him.
Paik looked the doctor hard in the face, ignoring that he met only wall. "Very well. Nonetheless, I must insist: I need progress on my grandchild's location within two weeks or I consult alternate methods." He strode for the door. "There is no negotiation on this point," he finished, then left, slamming the door behind him.
Dr. Mittelwerk waited for several minutes, then rose with a simple grace and reached for the phone. He called out, bypassing the tower switchboard, then waited for Flood to pick up. It rang five times, then clicked for connection. "The files." He had no interest in human courtesy with the man.
"I'm still assessing them, sir. I think we've got eighty-five percent of the blueprints back together, but there's a lot of signal to noise. The engineers say they may have to make a few guesses. How was your meeting?"
"Predictable. "
"The granddaughter. Always with the granddaughter. Sir, I've got a possible location in Seattle-"
"It's irrelevant." Mittelwerk cut off his pet CEO's offering tone. "Save that we have a formal timetable."
"Sir?"
"There is little to worry about; timetable is within my schedule. Continue. I assume acquisition of the property has been no issue."
"None at all, sir. We're moving the builders in tomorrow to start, the engineers will get to preliminary work by Wednesday."
"Complete your blueprints by Thursday. Minimize guesswork. On Saturday, I will be in London. Do not call during that time. Do not acknowledge me if you see me on site."
"Shall I arrange assistance, sir?"
"No. I will handle this myself." Optimal marginalization of failure. He banked on Flood's incompetence as a leader. It would not do to have him involved in the next phase. Not at all. "Continue to watch Alpert. Subdue if capable, it would be nice to have a good look at him." The way he said 'nice' had absolutely nothing to do with the standard Oxford definitions of the word. Nonetheless, it was purely optional.
"Shall I do anything about the DeGroots?"
"Don't bother. I will be in contact," he said, and rang off.
Mittelwerk looked down at the phone for a long moment, clearing his thoughts and placing his mind in a blank state. He strode across the room and looked out on Paik's vaunted view, seeing predictable flora and fauna, predetermined paths and street rhythms, and watched distant planes launch over the horizon.
As he stared down at his private little animal kingdom, he slowly let his mind fill with numbers that resolved into probabilities and then biological certainties. He calculated viral replication rates, compared them to human breeding statistics, and sniffed slightly. He did not regard humanity as the same as a virus, but he did recognize what he believed were certain parallels with viral growth and evolution. He regarded both with the same paternal awe.
Cut the virus back, and what survives, thrives. He found that endlessly fascinating, particularly in comparison with such bottleneck human evolutionary events as the Black Plague and Toba. A vast span of diversity cut down to the barest effective population size. The diversity recovered, even flourished. Amazing. Amazing what man could do in the face of extinction. So diabolically hard to examine a control sample, particularly since his Sri Lankan observation had been denied him.
Oh well. There was always the alternate scenario. This time, he would be in place to watch personally. The perfect control site, with no annoying government meddling.
After all, the secret island was his. He believed that utterly.
. . .
"Oh god, what time is it?" Her voice was thick, a gloopy sound from a mouth that undoubtedly smelled like a spoiled brewery. Krish stayed out of range, watching her as she carefully sat up, hand to her forehead. "Is it morning?"
"Not quite yet. Going on five." She hadn't gotten with it enough to wonder why he was there.
"Wait. Island." She blinked, looked at him muzzily. "Why're you here?"
There it was. She recovered pretty fast. "Ah. I found you."
Another blink.
"On your bathroom floor."
"You broke in?" Her voice, still thick, began to rise.
"It was unlocked!"
"Goddamn it! Twice in a year!"
"What?" It was his turn to start blinking a lot.
"You! Him! Linus! Gwah!" She pointed around randomly. "I'm getting a security alarm!"
It fell out of his mouth before he could stop it. "A delightful plan. Then you can set it off the next time you stagger in here drunk off your arse and wake up the whole place."
Her face pinched at him. "I am not a drunk."
"You were drunk, that's undeniable. I have no opinion on the rest. I don't even know where you got the stuff, I've never even seen wine since we all got here." He flapped his hands. "Sweet fuck, I did not stay around to start an argument. Are you all right?"
"Yeah. Delightful." She put her hand to her mouth. "I think I'm gonna barf again." She staggered upright and ran for it. A clunk of porcelain meant she apparently made it in time. Krish got up from the chair, rubbing his forehead. He went to pour a large glass of water, thrusting it at Kyra when she came back down the hall. "Thanks."
He had no idea if she meant the water, the couch, the not-waking-up-the-neighborhood thing or what. "You're welcome. Are you certain you're all right?"
She sipped the water and looked at him. "I hate that question." He tilted his head at her. "If I say yes, you know I'm lying. If I say no, I'm obligated to explain."
"You're not obligated to tell me anything. If you do want to talk about it... well, I've got all night." He glanced up at the ceiling. "If there's something I can do, that is also an option. Otherwise, since you're fine, I will happily get out of your hair if you like."
"I'm fine." It was terse. "I'm sorry, I'm fine. I just-"
"Am embarrassed. I've got it. Have a collapse at a bank meeting sometime, good times." He managed a smile for her. It seemed to help, she gave a weak one back. "I'll slink out of here, and in a few hours, there's nothing to say to anyone else. For now." That got him another look, this one less friendly. "You say you're not a drunk. Alright. I've got no choice but to take that at face value right now."
She kept looking at him.
"At the same time, I don't believe in enabling that sort of thing, or doing nothing about trouble. As I say, you're not obligated to tell me jack. I will, however, feel obligated to push you to get help if I see something is going on. And I will see, Ms. Glaukopis. I am just made of free time. All the time. At any hour." You nosy jackass. Feeling more confident that he was doing something right, he shoved aside the dour voice.
"Fine." The voice was grudging, holding back some mild insult about his attitude.
"Fine!" He chirped it back, certain that his cheery voice drilled right into her temple. Cheap shot, Krish. "Have a lovely. If you need anything, please let someone know."
He felt her eyes bore into his back as he left.