Miri was absorbed in her own work of measuring distance by footfall, but she heard Ben counting back from three and saw the blur of hands as Safa and Tango Two drew to aim.
‘Mine!’ Safa exclaimed.
‘Best of three,’ Tango Two said.
Safa won. Then it was winner stayed on, and she drew against Ben too. He unloaded his pistol magazine and handed it to Tango Two, who held it in her hand while laughing at being beaten by Safa. Miri counted her steps, but clocked the prisoner was now holding a magazine of live rounds, while a pistol rested in a holster on her hip.
Safa won again. Ben took his magazine back, then Safa and Harry played. Safa won again and extolled the virtues of good sportsmanship by calling the others slow twats. Tango Two won against Ben, but drew level with Harry. Ben won against Harry, but Harry complained that his big hands made it harder to draw as fast as Ben’s dainty hands. Miri counted steps. The doctor stared at insects.
The application of force to create pressure. Create an environment for a bond to grow. Water the seeds and study the results.
‘Firing practice?’ Miri asked as they finally walked back to the bunker after spending half a day traipsing about the clearing and tree line. It was the right time to stay with them and join in. Friendly, but not close. Polite, but not familiar.
‘What about Tango?’ If Safa thinks it, Safa will say it.
‘She can join us. Firing-range protocols will apply at all times and she will only be given live rounds at the firing line.’
‘Don’t shoot us, shithead.’
‘I won’t.’
An afternoon of obliterating paper targets pinned to a sandbag firing wall. An afternoon of drinking coffee and holding competitions. The doctor asked to be shown how to shoot. They each took turns to guide and show him. Tango Two included. Firing-range protocols were adhered to at all times, but as the afternoon wore on, so the acute awareness of the prisoner having access to live rounds abated.
‘We’ve got a time machine, so if you do shoot us, we’ll come back and shoot you,’ Safa said when they began.
‘And that makes no sense at all,’ Ben said.
‘It does.’
‘It doesn’t’
‘It so does. If Tango shoots us, we can just come back and shoot her with the time machine.’
‘We’ll be dead. How do we come back from being dead?’
‘Fuck you, egghead.’
And so it went on. Ben explained timelines. Miri listened. The doctor joined in. Harry chuckled as Safa got confused. Tango tried to explain, but got herself confused in the process until the topic reverted to the so if we go back and shoot us as kids line of thought.
‘Ensure the prisoner is locked securely. You’ve had a relaxing day. Work hard tomorrow.’
Those were her parting words as Miri left them that evening. Give a little and grow the bond, then take some away to imbue the insidious, jarring feeling.
The days rolled on.
Tell me what happened that led you to being here.
Tell me what happened up until I arrived.
Why did Mother order you to be killed?
Why did Mother order me to be killed?
What food does the prisoner like? Do you all like Chinese food? Make sure the prisoner is locked in securely. The prisoner can take a lamp from the other rooms into her quarters.
The application of pressure. Tango Two is a prisoner. A captive. Do not trust her, but give her freedom. Do not like her, but spend time with her. Do not let your guard down, but give her a loaded gun.
‘How long have you been here?’ Miri asked as she walked the prisoner back to her rooms after a communal feast of Chinese food eaten while they all listened to the rain lashing the windows.
Tango Two had to think of the answer. The days had all merged in her mind. Time is different here. There are no clocks on the walls. No watches. Their body clocks work with sunrise and sunset.
‘I think three weeks?’
It had been twenty-three days. A highly trained captive should know exactly how much time had passed.
‘Goodnight,’ Miri said, pulling the door closed.
‘Night, Miri,’ Tango Two said.
She turned from the door towards the bathroom as the familiar clunk of the bolt came, but it was different. A different sound. Like it wasn’t rammed home properly. At that moment, she felt comfortably full and relaxed from the meal and felt no need to investigate. Tango Two used the bathroom, her bathroom, and made her way into the bedroom, her bedroom. She turned on the lamp, her lamp. She pulled back the soft throws on the bed, her bed, and she thought about the door and the bolt and why Mother tried to kill her. She thought about the Chinese food she ate and the jokes with the others. They even had a bottle of beer each. She smiled to herself at the memory of Harry scowling in distaste and saying this fizzy stuff is not ale.
She got into bed and turned off her lamp. She lay in the darkness, listening to the rain on her window, and thought about the door and the bolt . . .
She stayed barefoot, as she knew the floor of the corridor made no noise when walking without shoes. She paused near to the other rooms. No lights on inside. She pushed the door open to the main room, heavy with the pleasant scent of Chinese food, beer and the smells of the others. Smells now so familiar and homely, but this is not her home. A sense of duty kicked in. A sudden internal reminder that she is not part of whatever this is.
A loose rivet was all it was. One single rivet that allowed the bracket of the bolt to slip down. It was solid when she first got here, but she figured it must have worked loose over the last three weeks.
She moved across the main room to the doors on the other side and silently pushed through to see Miri’s office empty and the corridor bathed in blue with light spillage from the portal room. Her heart rate increased. Her senses ramped. She listened carefully, but heard nothing other than the rain lashing the bunker outside.
Fortune favours the brave. Your allegiance is to your country, to your service. Agents are selfless and will give everything and do anything for their country.
She stopped at the doorway to the portal room and stared in at the shimmering blue light, seemingly alive with the motion of colours pulsing across the surface. The tablet was on the side. The screen was glowing.
Berlin 2061.
Home.
Right there. She moved towards it. Trepidation and excitement mixing in equal measure. She could go home. She swallowed and hesitated. She is an agent. She has duty and allegiance. This is not her time or home. These are not her people.
As the uncertainty of those seconds stretched, so she heard the strike of a match and darted back into the corridor to see the rear door slightly open. The smell of a woodbine floated down. Her eyes flicked to the portal, then back to the door. She is an agent. She has duty and allegiance.