“Yeah, you’re very welcome,” he says at last, to break the heavy silence.
Carlisle doesn’t even say “dismissed.” He just pockets the radio and walks back to the cockpit. Turns his back on McQueen like McQueen isn’t even there.
Oh shit, does he have this coming.
On his way through the crew quarters, Carlisle has time to notice how quiet things are. Not a good quiet, an enervated one. Foss is lying in her bunk with an arm thrown across her eyes, too exhausted even to sleep. Stephen Greaves sits at the table with his arms in his lap, staring at nothing. Samrina Khan is in the galley area gripping the counter top on either side of the sink, head down as though she is about to throw up or else just has.
The colonel is perturbed about the radio, and even more so about McQueen. He has always been reasonably skilled in the assessment of character but there is something in McQueen that is opaque to him. Perhaps he has allowed some mistrust to take root in his mind for that reason alone, quite apart from his doubts about the man’s fitness as a soldier. But finding the radio was a good thing, and handing it over was a better one.
The radio. It’s a godsend, but Carlisle strongly dislikes what it implies. When he takes his seat next to Sixsmith, when he sets the small device down on the cockpit’s console, he feels as though he has picked up a great weight rather than shedding an insignificant one.
Sixsmith is staring at the radio in wonder. “Where the bloody hell did that come from?” she demands.
“A contribution from Dr. Fournier,” the colonel observes, keeping his tone carefully neutral. There is no point in letting his anger show. No point in feeling it, although that ship has already sailed. There has never been trust between himself and the brigadier. When he tried to resign his commission—the most passive of protests—she read it as open rebellion and argued him out of it. She has been afraid ever since that he will attack her again from a different direction. And he has felt close, recently, to doing it. That was why Fry sent him away. But clearly sending him away wasn’t enough.
“Dr. Fournier,” Sixsmith repeats, making the name sound like a swearword.
“Apparently this was issued to him when we left Beacon, as a fallback in case of emergency. I think our current circumstances qualify.” There’s no more to be said on that topic; no more, at least, that Carlisle can trust himself to say. “I’m going to call Beacon, Private,” he tells Sixsmith. “If I get through, I may need your help in maintaining the contact. This is a very small and very directional device. If we start to lose signal strength, please slow the vehicle and be prepared to stop if I tell you to.”
Sixsmith shoots him a look freighted with unspoken questions. “Yes, sir.”
Carlisle switches on the radio and waits. There is almost no static, just a low hum of electronics. After a while a male voice speaks. “Brigadier Fry’s field line.”
“This is Colonel Carlisle,” the colonel says. “I’d like to speak with the brigadier if she’s available.”
There is no pause at all, and no surprise in the man’s tone. “Yes, Colonel. One moment.” They were expecting me, Carlisle thinks. Most likely the doctor missed a scheduled call-in and they drew their own conclusions.
“Isaac.” Fry’s voice this time, and although she sounds weary and stressed she makes more of a performance out of being caught unawares. “How did you find this frequency? I don’t recall giving it to you.”
“I’m calling you on Dr. Fournier’s radio, Brigadier.” He doesn’t offer an explanation, but moves straight to the substance of his report. “We’re now heading south towards the northern end of the M1, and making good speed. But there have been developments of the utmost significance of which you and the whole of the Main Table need to be apprised.”
“Go ahead,” Fry says.
He doesn’t waste words. First he details Greaves’ find, because that’s the nub of the matter. They are carrying a specimen that is absolutely unique and whose scientific importance cannot be overstated. A child who seems to have a partial immunity to the hungry pathogen! A child whose remains might hold the key to a cure.
Only after that does he fill in the details about the botched search party and the deaths. He states, formally and for the record, that he is taking full responsibility for these things. Finally he makes it clear that Rosie is running for home, non-negotiably, and that she might not be alone when she arrives.
When he has finished speaking, there is a long silence. To his right and at the periphery of his vision, Private Sixmith’s hands grip the wheel more tightly than is strictly necessary.
“So after seven months of nothing to report,” Brigadier Fry says at last, “you’re now saying that you may have made a definitive breakthrough?” Her tone is clinical, with no trace of enthusiasm or curiosity.
“Yes. Exactly.”
“The timing is interesting, Isaac. I might almost be tempted to say suspicious.”
Carlisle is baffled, both by the words and by the coldly accusing way in which they’re spoken. “Suspicious?” he repeats. “I don’t understand, Brigadier. What is it that you suspect?”
Another silence. “It’s not important,” Fry says at last. “I’ll consider what needs to be done. Keep the radio open on this frequency.”
This last instruction is meaningless, since the little radio lacks a tuner. Lutes might have been able to tweak it onto another frequency using parts from the main cockpit radio, but nobody else on board would have a clue how to do that.
But the dead air from the radio makes it clear that Fry has signed off. Evidently Sixsmith feels free, now, to draw the moral. “So Dr. Fournier has been spying on us all ever since we hit the road.”
“Beacon was at liberty to set up multiple reporting systems,” Carlisle says carefully. Mechanically defending the status quo. Why does he do that? Why has he spent his whole life servicing and sanctioning bad decisions made by people he can only despise? He lets out a breath that turns out to be a sigh.
“Yes,” he admits. “Dr. Fournier has been filing secret reports to the Muster, although he’s meant to be civilian commander. I’ll make an official complaint on our return to Beacon.”
“How about an unofficial smack in the face?” Sixsmith’s tone is tight, and the colonel doesn’t believe she is joking.
“Private,” he says, “it’s not worth risking a reprimand or a dishonourable discharge over—”
Fry’s voice cuts him off. The channel is open again, and might have been all along. “I’ve arranged an escort for you,” the brigadier says without preamble. “It’s of the utmost importance that your specimen is taken back to Beacon for further study, and the Rosalind Franklin alone is too vulnerable to attack.”