Back to Base

Jack kept walking. He entered the hold, his eyes adjusting to the dark.

The hold was large, perhaps over twenty meters deep. There were no lights, only a few shafts of daylight slipping through gaps in the iron plates. The air was hot and damp, like a steamer. Straw covered the floor, soaked through with liquid that made it sticky underfoot. A row of water buckets stood in the corner, green duckweed floating on their surfaces.

Then he saw the children.

Eleven of them. The smallest huddled in the farthest corner, knees hugged to their chest, face buried in their arms, body trembling. The older ones sat together in the middle, leaning against each other for warmth. The eldest lay beside the iron door, gripping a strip of metal he had torn from the wall. He had been trying to pry the lock open.

They were all terribly thin. The outlines of their ribs showed clearly beneath their skin, and their collarbones jutted out as though they might pierce it. Their eyes glinted in the dark, not with courage, but with the numbness that came after fear had gone on too long.

Jack crouched.

The child nearest him shrank back and hit the wall with a dull thud. His hands flailed in front of him, as if warding off something invisible. His eyes were wide, but they would not focus. After so long in the dark, they were no longer used to light.

Jack stayed where he was. He waited a few seconds.

The child's eyes slowly focused. He looked at Jack, a huge silhouette reflected in his pupils. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

Jack reached out and took the child's wrist. It was as thin as a dry twig, with sharp bone beneath the skin. He gave it a gentle pull. The child did not resist; he had no strength left. Jack drew him out of the corner, slid one hand behind his back and the other under his knees, then lifted him. The child weighed almost nothing.

Jack turned and walked out of the hold. Light flooded through the entrance. The child covered his eyes and let out a faint, indistinct moan. Jack kept going to the rail and handed him to Colin. Colin took the child in both arms and looked down at his gaunt, unrecognizable face. His eyes reddened.

Jack went back.

The third child was a girl in an old dress. Stains and blood had covered it so completely that its original color was impossible to tell. Her hair was tangled, and her face was smeared with dirt, but her eyes were bright. As Jack carried her out of the hold, her lips kept moving, repeating the same word.

"Mommy. Mommy. Mommy."

Her voice was hoarse, as though something had burned her throat. Every word took effort, but she did not stop. She had called into the darkness for who knew how long without an answer, and still she had not stopped.

When Jack handed her to Colin, her fingers clutched his clothes. She gripped so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Jack looked down at her hand. Her fingers were as thin as chicken claws, with dirt and blood under her nails. He pried them loose one by one, then turned back.

The fifth, the seventh, the tenth, the eleventh.

After he carried out the last child, Jack stood in the middle of the hold and looked around. All eleven were out. The hold was empty, save for the straw, the water buckets, and the marks scratched into the walls by fingernails.

He stepped outside and squinted in the sunlight. On the deck, the eleven children sat or lay scattered about. Some cried, some stared blankly, some clung to whoever was beside them, and some curled up and shook without stopping. Godo stood nearby, looking down at them. His fists were clenched so hard that his nails dug into his palms, and blood seeped between his fingers.

Kafka crouched in front of a little boy who kept his eyes shut, too afraid to open them. Kafka reached out, hesitated, then gently rested a hand on his shoulder. The boy flinched, then slowly leaned over and rested his head against Kafka's knee. Tears slid silently down Kafka's face.

Doni stood at the rail with both hands braced against it, head bowed, shoulders shaking.

Colin held the girl named Mino. She was still repeating that word. "Mommy. Mommy." His chin rested on top of her head, and his tears fell into her hair.

Jack walked to the rail, took a communicator from his pocket, and pressed the call button.

"Colin, get the boat moving. Back to the branch."

The patrol boat's engine started up again. One by one, the eleven children were brought down from the cargo ship and settled on its deck. Colin sat Mino in a chair beside the helm and wrapped his new uniform jacket around her. Her fingers were still curled tight, her nails digging into her own palm and leaving four deep crescent marks.

The patrol boat headed toward the branch.

The cargo ship drifted away behind them. Smoke no longer rose from its funnel. Six people lay on its deck, and the hold door stood open. Wind blew inside, carrying away some of the smell, but it could not carry away the darkness in the children's memories.

Then they heard the engine.

The patrol boat pulled alongside the dock. Colin jumped off first with Mino in his arms. Godo followed, carrying two children, one on each side, like bundles of straw. Kafka had a little boy on his back. The boy's eyes were closed, and he mumbled something indistinct. Doni came last, holding the hands of two older children. He walked one slow step at a time, afraid they might fall.

The eleven children were settled in the yard. Some sat on the gravel, some lay on uniform jackets, and some leaned against the wall. Their eyes slowly opened as they adjusted to the light. They looked around at the unfamiliar place, their faces numb and expressionless.

Jack stepped off the boat with a communications log in his hand. He entered the yard, glanced at the children, then at the marines who had been playing cards, and tossed the log onto the table.

"Find a doctor. Find clothes. Find food. Anyone who drags their feet answers to me."

No one said a word. The scar-faced marine got up first and ran for the medical room beside the armory. The bald one hurried to the storeroom to look for clothes. The youngest charged into the mess hall, pulled the cook away from the stove, and told him to heat water and make food.

Jack entered the administration building and pushed open Bastian's office door.

Bastian sat behind his desk. He looked up, saw Jack covered in blood, and paused with his pen against the paper.

"You..."

"Moretti's ship. Eleven children. My men need medical supplies, food, and somewhere for them to stay." Jack's tone was level. It was not a request. It was notice.

Bastian opened his mouth, then closed it. His expression changed. He tapped his fingers on the desk twice, then twice more.

"Have you lost your mind? Do you know who Moretti is? Do you know who Capone Bege is? Do you know how many people have a stake in the ship you attacked?" His voice echoed through the office. He seemed to be speaking to Jack, but sounded more like he was talking to himself.

Jack stood before the desk without a word.

Bastian turned toward him. The look on his face was not anger but fear. His eyes were wide, his pupils tiny. His lips trembled, his mouth drooped, and the lines beside his nose looked carved with a knife. His collar was open, his tie crooked, and sweat had soaked his shirt until it clung to him. Through the fabric, Jack could see his chest pounding like a drum.

"They'll trace it here. You think cleaning up the ship means you're safe? You think Moretti won't know it was you? You think this was the first time those children were taken? No. There's a list. Every child's origins are recorded—whose family, which village, who their parents are. It's all in the ledger. You took the children, and they'll come looking for them. When they find you, they'll find me. And when they find me, I'm finished."

Jack watched him. He said nothing.

Bastian went behind his desk, pulled a stack of stationery from a drawer, and snatched a pen from its holder. His hand shook. The pen wobbled between his fingers, its tip stabbing several black dots into the paper. The ink spread like little black flowers.

"I'm writing a report to headquarters. Your actions were a serious breach of navy discipline. You acted without authorization, exceeded your authority, and caused irreparable diplomatic consequences." His voice shook, and so did his writing. The crooked letters looked like insects crawling across the page. "I'll have you transferred. The North Blue, the East Blue, any miserable branch at all. As long as it's outside my jurisdiction, you can do whatever insane thing you like."

Jack turned away.

Bastian had said everything he had to say: fear, threats, excuses, blame. All of it was nonsense. Not once had he asked what would happen to the children or how they could save anyone else. It was all "I'm finished" and "Don't drag me down with you."

Jack pushed the door open and walked out.

"Stop! I'm not finished! Do you hear me? Jack!"

Jack's right fist slammed into the desk. A crack split the surface from the center to the edge, splinters rising along it. The ashtray slid off and shattered on the floor. Bastian's pen flew from his hand, fell, and rolled into a corner. He lurched backward. His chair creaked, and his back struck the wall.

Jack looked at him.

Bastian's face went white. He stared into Jack's eyes. There was nothing in them: no anger, no threat, not even emotion. But Bastian knew that if he said no, the next punch would not hit the desk.

"There's medicine in the medical room, old clothes in the storeroom, and rice in the mess hall." Bastian's voice was dry, as if something had seized his throat. "Take what you need yourself."

Jack turned and left the office. The door remained open. Bastian sat in his chair, staring at the crack across the desk.

Bastian fell silent too. He was alone in the office, behind his desk, his hand still raised as though he held a pen, ink still dripping from the words on the page. He stared at the empty doorway, lips trembling, unable to speak. His fingers opened. Another pen fell to the floor and rolled into the corner, coming to rest beside the first.

He sank back into his chair. It gave a dull creak beneath his weight, and the leather let out a long sigh as he leaned against it. From deep in a drawer, he took out a Den Den Mushi. Its shell was black and its eyes were red, unlike an ordinary Den Den Mushi. His fingers hovered over the dial, then drew back. He put it into the drawer and closed it.

Not yet. I can't make that call now. Once I do, there's no turning back.

In the mess hall, Mino sat on a bench with a bowl of hot soup in her hands. She stared at the beads of oil floating on its surface, orange light reflected in her pupils. Her lips moved. Her voice was faint, but the mess hall was so quiet that everyone heard her.

"Mommy."

She was asking. No one answered.

Jack stood in the mess hall doorway, watching Mino. Eleven children sat on the benches. Some drank soup, some gnawed on bread, and some held clothes in their arms and stared into space. Godo crouched in a corner with his face buried in his hands, his shoulders jerking. Kafka sat beside Mino with his own bowl of soup in his hands. He had not touched it; he just kept watching her. Doni leaned against the wall, head tipped back toward the ceiling, eyes red.

Colin came over and stood beside Jack. He kept his voice low, afraid of startling the children.

"Sir, what do we do next?"

Jack looked at the bowl in Mino's hands. The soup had gone cold, and she had not drunk any. She was still asking the question no one could answer.

"We save people first."