Chapter Text
I
It was around 3 am when it appeared, shaking no one except the nearby trees.
At first, no one noticed. Many would later comment on its exact location. It ran North to South, in the middle of the Tayrona National Park. Whatever intelligence placed it there, it remained inconspicuous, perhaps ignorant, of what it unleashed in the worlds of men.
Dawn broke early that day, just two hours later, and even though the world had changed, it remained oblivious to it. It wasn’t as if the anomaly was invisible; radar stations had noted its existence, and seismic detectors had recorded the timid quake that rocked the Caribbean coast, all the way from Punta Gallinas to Darién. However, due to its location, nobody gave a second thought to its epicenter or the weird radio waves that emanated from it.
It was noon when it was discovered.
Two months ago, the ELN launched an offensive in the middle of the park, attacking many of the local Kogui and Wiwa communities and taking hostages among the tourist groups. The army intervened, driving out the guerrillas after a week of intense combat. However, most of the two thousand-strong force remained deployed in the vicinity or in the park itself; as such, when park rangers reported strange sounds and strange animal movements at the top of a local, mostly unmapped hill, the military sent a reconnaissance team as if it were a foregone conclusion.
The twelfth platoon did most of the way in jeeps but had to disembark as the hill's jungle was too thick to allow any car to trespass on it. Like many other mountains in Colombia, or the Tayrona, the hill radiated an immaculate aura of beauty and tranquility. If they were different men, they would have stopped to take a breather and nourish the mind with the mysteries of life. If they were different men, and their worst fears were true, they would be dead.
“So, where exactly is this place?” the newbie asked, his hands tight and knuckles white with sweat trickling down his spine.
“Two more kilometers, keep going,” the leader answered in a gruff voice, “and watch your feet; nobody here wants to lose a leg.”
“The trees, too—we wouldn’t be the first ones to be ambushed,” one of the older soldiers said while looking at a bush.
“And we wouldn’t be the last.” The leader's gruff voice cut everyone off again, “Loose lips kill men.”
The platoon covered the rest of the way in ten minutes, watching every step as if it were their last. They reached the summit of the hill and found a clearing, devoid of trees or shrubbery; it could have been checked with a drone or helicopter. In the center of the clearing was a black-outlined circle, stared at by the whole platoon like it was a supermodel. With a radius of ten meters, give or take, the circle behaved like an empty mirror that had nothing to reflect, not their faces, not the forest. Instead, it was quiet, pitch black, a meadow of grass, and some lonely trees on the other side. The outlines of the sky were just at the corners of their eyes—a beautiful starry night, no clouds in sight, with the contour of a full moon.
It was 1 pm when they called command. Silently, as if afraid that the anomaly was going to reflect.
At first, they tried to keep it quiet.
The rangers and the MPs were ordered to form a perimeter, and the nearby hiking route was closed off for the day. The commander himself arrived to inspect the anomaly, staring in awe like the rest of the platoon, and requested drone or air support, which was denied. A sudden storm from the Caribbean had touched down in Santa Marta and Barranquilla, dimming aerial field view and interfering with nearby radars and signal towers. No pilot would risk their neck in these conditions.
As a precautionary measure, the command ordered the redeployment of the whole contingent back into the park itself and ordered explorations in nearby hills and some of the tamer mountains. Nobody wanted to miss one of these anomalies, if indeed there were more, or perhaps even discover what caused the anomaly, if there was a cause at all.
When the skies turned grey and it began to rain, the anomaly started to glow. At least the outline of the anomaly turned from black to a bluish color; the night inside it remained silent, but the moon was no longer visible, and the stars were dimmer. Indeed, what could be seen of the otherworldly sky told a story of an untamed universe and a virgin world. Perhaps Earth had looked exactly like that everywhere one looked a few hundred years ago.
Using RTVC and private media, the government spread the idea of a massive guerrilla attack in Tayrona, of combats and deaths. It was better to take the hit in the opinion polls than disclose the truth; fortunately for them, nobody would mourn a few disappearing natives that reappeared full of lead. For the most part, nobody mourned the famous boys of Soacha and ignored, or discredited, the wails of their mothers. Who in their right mind would mourn two or three more native deaths?
At ten pm, dawn broke on the other side of the anomaly, the sun rising much like their own.
The landscape remained the same; the starry sky gave way to a clear, blue day. Animals were spotted by the people forming the perimeter, eerily reminiscent of Earth. Sheep, cows, and even the outlines of humanoid figures were spotted in the distance. It was the biggest day in the history of the world; however, save for a few, the world was completely oblivious to it, and the government would go to great lengths to ensure that remained the case.
The area was too untamed to build a permanent HQ close to the anomaly; they settled three kilometers south of it, using the rangers and MPs' barracks for it. Using their cover story, it was decided to close the park and evacuate all tourists that same night. Calls came in during the afternoon, but most came during the night. Some calls regarding the guerrillas, the dead, and the pain. Others, like the president or the Minister of Defense, inquired about the true nature of what they were hiding.
Interest picked up when the inner perimeter, the one just in front of the anomaly, radioed in reporting some humanoid figures approaching the anomaly directly. It had to be bizarre, walking in the middle of a sunny day and seeing a black circle in the distance, a circle that keeps getting closer.
At midnight, the humanoids were close enough to the anomaly that they could be seen with binoculars.
They were human.
Who created the thing? It was not clear. God? NASA? Aliens? Physics? Why was it there? What was its purpose? A child may ask a thousand questions to their parents and will get some, but not all, the answers; otherwise, it would be detrimental to their development. Some things are to be learnt by living, some are not to be questioned at all. The bird does not ask why it must fly; the turtle, why it has no parents. Some things are just because they are. Perhaps the anomaly was inevitable, and whether that mattered now was irrelevant.
The humans on the other side were close, too close for the liking of some soldiers and command. By 1 am, they were just meters from crossing the anomaly. Observed by the inner perimeter, concealed due to the darkness of the night, hiding with their camouflage, and hugging their third arm tightly. No one is born learned; for some things, there were books; for others, experience. For this, instinct.
“You know,” one of the soldiers began silently, speaking more to the anomaly than the rest of the platoon, “they say the uncanny valley was developed in response to other human species.”
“The what?” another answered while raising an eyebrow.
“The uncanny valley, y´know. That feeling that something is not right.”
“We´ll know soon enough.” They pointed their rifles at the thing “up ahead.”
The humans on the other side stared in amazement as they were just meters from the anomaly. To the platoon's horror, the children crossed, running and chuckling, and the adults followed. It was a small group, ten or so people. Four men, four women, and two children, all of different ages. From what could be seen in the contrast of dark and light, they were dragging a cart with two mules, and they were all dressed in rags. HQ gave orders to detain them.
“Stop right there if you value your lives!” one of the soldiers screamed, rifle high and ready to spit.
The group began to look to all sides, startled, like an animal about to be slaughtered. The rest of the platoon moved quickly, surrounding the group that had just finished crossing with the cart and the sick mules. The group looked frightened and began speaking a language the soldiers did not understand, obviously not Spanish, perhaps English, an antique version of it. Two of the men brandished weapons, one of which appeared to be a rusty sword.
“Don’t! You two are smarter than this,” another soldier almost pleaded, first in Spanish and then in broken English, but not for his sake, for theirs. If it came to that, it wasn’t going to be a fair fight. “Stop, you sons of whores, stop!”
The soldiers used their flashlights to disorient the armed men and proceeded to hit them with their guns and take the rusty sword and broken club. The rest of the group tried to run, scattering like leaves into the whirlwind, but were swiftly apprehended. One of the children bit a soldier’s hand and got a broken lip in return. The women and the men were saying things, like pleading, in that same antique English. Ignored by most who did not understand the language and poorly understood by those who knew something about it.
“Please don’t hurt us!” the men and women begged, while the children cried.
HQ arrived with another platoon, and the group was handed off to them, the cart staying close to the anomaly, while the mules fled downhill. The anomaly continued to glow, unperturbed by the pain it had caused, the confusion it had borne, and the questions it had asked.
The platoon that came to seize the prisoners not only wore their olive-green uniforms but also basic PPE, face masks, and gloves. They handed some to the inner perimeter; to the acting commander, it was long overdue. The inner perimeter could have been exposed to a thousand diseases thanks to their reckless actions at the beginning; however, the orders stood the same: no one should cross the anomaly, not from this side nor the other. The platoon tied all the prisoners—the women, men, and children, young and old—to their legs, hands, and each other with crude ropes made with hemp that scraped one's skin if you were bound hard enough or resisted the pull of the rope long enough. They made them walk through the unforgiving terrain of the hill; some of the oldest, apparently sick and malnourished, fell once or twice during the trip down, promptly forced to stand up by the soldiers.
“That felt awful, like dragging slaves.” Edwin, the rookie, said to the others as he cleaned sweat off his face and removed his face mask. “Think the medics are going to have fun with them?” he sighed when the truck was out of their sight.
“What?” They threw a strange look at him.
“You know, like putting tubes in them and all that?” He looked at them like it was obvious.
“Well, if only to prevent them from spreading covid-29 in our world,” the oldest laughed, and the rest of the platoon followed. “Double time! I don’t want to lose dinner tonight!”
The prisoners said many things, moaned, grunted, insulted, and wailed. Both drivers understood but were explicitly ordered not to talk with the prisoners, so they ignored them. All the prisoners´ things were left in the cart, and the cart was abandoned up the hill. Now, the prisoners held their rags and each other to dear life, as few things mattered when one had nothing. The military hospital, a repurposed hostel, was staffed mainly by military personnel, except for two people: Juan, the interpreter, brought from the National University, and Sarah, the head medic, from Andes University. Both were ordered to sign NDAs and wear army uniforms, to put their lives on hold for something greater than themselves.
They sat in the middle of a plaza, enjoying cheap coffee and admiring the silent tranquility of Calabazo, the old town, evacuated and now repurposed as their haphazard HQ. No more than a hundred houses were present. Around thirty had been hotels and hostels, stores, and restaurants. The rest was livable space for the local indigenous communities; not all the roads had pavement on them. And it was the most urban part of the whole park.
“What do you think of the place?” Sarah, the beautiful blonde from Bogotá, asked him
“Hot, lots to think about, not much to do.” He sighed and smiled at her, sipping his coffee. “Honestly, I thought I was going to do more.”
“Me, I like it.” She stood up. “I´m getting paid and doing little to nothing. Sure, the uniform might not be my preferred choice, but it’s nice all things considered.”
“You two!” the bald sergeant bellowed, in a semi-pleasing manner, while approaching. “They need you inside. Some people crossed the Anomaly from their side to ours.” He said, and smiled warmly, “I need you to do your job, and who knows, perhaps you´ll get a Nobel.” He finished with a grin.
When they entered the hostel, it had turned from a simple hospital into a bustling bazaar, people running everywhere and stumbling into each other. In the repurposed medical rooms, ten people were lying in beds while they were surrounded by teams of medical staff trying to insert IVs and other things. Four men, four women, and two kids all looked unkempt, gaunt, and dirty, dressed in rags; some were even missing footwear. Three of the adults were in their sixties and looked half dead. All appeared to be starving, and all were using their mouths, either to scream, cry, or speak.
“Go on then, do you interpreter magic,” Sarah said to him in a honeyed voice before running off to help the three elders.
He approached one man; the medics were already done with him. He had two IVs connected, one on each arm, pumping different liquids into his system. Likewise, he was badly shaven, his hair was wild, and he had heavy wrinkles, though he couldn’t be more than thirty. His eyes moved side to side while he desperately tried to free his hands and legs, tied to the bed.
“Please, m´lord, don´t hurt us!” he screamed in crude English while thrashing against the ropes. “We didn’t mean to trespass on your land, m'lord; we were hungry, we ran out of supplies, some got sick with consumption, and we were cold! Are you a magician, m'lord? Your lands are untouched by war, and it’s night here. We'll work your lands well, I swear, m´lord. I swear!”
“Eh… I´m no lord, last I checked…my friends…” Juan put a hand on the shoulder of the weeping man. “My friends will take care of you… I swear.”
“Please, m´lord, the wars took everything from us. The mad queen…her savages and the northerners! They took what little we had remaining.”
“And you fled?” he asked, and the man nodded. “I forgot to ask your name, if you would be so kind.”
“Rupert, if it please m´lord.”
“And where did you plan to go if you hadn't stumbled upon my lands?” He decided it would be easier if he just claimed to be some grand lord and magician; if it got Rupert to talk, so be it. “And who is your lord?”
“To the Stormlands, m´lord, they say it was mostly untouched by the wars and that the new lord Baratheon is a just lord.” Rupert started weeping again. “We lived in the Maidenpool. It was a big port; ships arrived every day with stories from the world, and the wars forced much of the population to flee or fight. Last year, it was sacked by the Mad Dragon Queen and her savage slaves and northerners. We wandered through the Riverlands and the Crownlands for much of the year, until we stumbled upon your lands, m´lord. I only ask of you that you let us stay and work your lands. We are true of heart, m´lord.”
“You´ll be fed and clothed, and we´ll cure your sickness. Then we can talk again. I just need you and the others to trust my friends here.” He touched his restraints. “Then we´ll remove them.”
“Thanks, m´lord! Praise the Seven!”
“Time's up, Juan.” The sergeant came walking with a warm smile on his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Let my medics do their job, and you go and do yours. I want to know everything, even what we can't know.” The sergeant patted Rupert's shoulder three times, “It'll be a smooth ride from here on; everyone will be alright.”
II
Sergeant Santiago had not slept well; he never did and technically wasn’t even supposed to. Orders were to remain alert in case something else decided to cross. The MP deployment was supposed to be a rest; since he was not allowed to go on leave right now, he had been redeployed here as a reward for his combat actions in Cauca. The guerrillas were long gone from the park, and nobody expected anything interesting to happen here. It was supposed to be a well-earned rest, but with the anomaly, it was turning into a nightmare. He had not even seen the anomaly personally, only in the two or three photos they had initially taken, but now he oversaw the whole security of the HQ. Why? He asked himself, There was a captain, but he was not in charge; there was the minister of defense, but he wasn’t in charge either. In contrast, everyone came to him. And that wasn’t by choice; he couldn’t leave.
But why would I want to?
“I'd better get a promotion for this shit,” he moaned loudly as one soldier was about to leave, forcing the young man to throw him a sympathetic smile.
“May I get a moment of your time?” a young military medic, petite, with black hair and a round, though not unattractive, face, spoke loudly as she entered his tent, hands in her pockets with one of her boots untied. Her olive-green uniform was not quite fitting in his mind. She's dead.
“What can I do for you?” he said with a smile, the most strained, irritated one he could muster, even though he wasn’t tired.
“It’s not my intent to put more stress on your shoulders, but we need to move them to a hospital.” The medic spoke with her loud, obnoxious voice but with a semi-apologetic tone.
“And you know the orders; we can’t,” he pointed out.
“Damn the orders! I'm quite sure the whole group is infected with tuberculosis. We already lost one, and even though we have the medicine, we might need equipment we don’t have!” she groaned while pacing quickly, finally taking her hands out of her pockets; as she did so, she had marks of vitiligo on both.
“I can't; my orders are to keep them here, and the only one that could tell me otherwise is either the captain or the minister in the main hotel,” he mustered all his annoyance and groaned while speaking.
“And I can’t reach them,” she said, slightly abated. “Can you do so for me?” she asked him with a smile, perhaps with some warmth, though her teeth were crooked and one of her canines remained a milk tooth, turning her attempt into a pathetic one. He shook his head in response. Neither the captain nor the minister had said anything to him since 3 am; it was now seven.
“So you are in charge, but not in charge basically,” she laughed bitterly, and her teeth didn’t look so crooked anymore.
“I'll do what I can for you…?” He tried scanning her uniform, but her name was nowhere to be seen, the space for the name tag empty.
“Camila,” she answered quickly, too quickly.
“I'll try my best, Camila,” he said with a big, relaxed smile, then scratched the long scar on his neck.
“Thanks.” She left, and he returned to stare at the wall, hoping to meditate for some minutes. Just when he was about to doze off, he heard a distant, honeyed voice. We are what we are, aren't we?
He opened his eyes, annoyed, and tried looking for something to drink in his tent. It had a single table. With three chairs, one at the back and two at the front. His laptop was in the center of the table, his water was usually on the right, and his pistol was on the left. For some reason, only his pistol remained.
“Sergeant,” Daniel, his aide, called for him in a soft voice.
“What?” he barked at the voice.
“The captain needs you at the HQ.”
“They are finally taking control of this circus?” he asked sarcastically.
“Apparently not, sir; you may get complete command of what I've overheard,” the man threw him a sympathetic smile.
“Perfect.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “More work, I´ll go…eventually.” Daniel nodded and prepared to leave.
“Ah, and find out more about that medic, Camila; she just passed by. Too informal for my liking.” He ordered simply, and Daniel nodded stiffly. “I'd better get a promotion for this shit,” he groaned loudly as he prepared to leave, and with his aide within hearing range.
Santiago walked slowly; he knew his destination, but he cared not for it. He knew well that everything might change after he went and received orders; he might be able to do something. He was tired, he was bored, and he ached to do something useful, anything, for that matter. As he walked, he took the opportunity to observe the base, haphazard in layout and casual in design. The town had been remade into barracks, the hotels turned into warehouses, and the largest among them became a command center. Commanders had come and gone, and with each departure, the morale of those stationed sank further.
The new captain, Torres, and Minister Velasquez arrived yesterday at noon; by dusk, they seemed eager to leave, sending their baggage back to Santa Marta, and by dawn, they had locked themselves away, speaking in hushed tones among themselves and with parties unknown. What the minister and the captain failed to grasp was that the men on the Tayrona were more loyal to him than to their country, and no order could keep them silent forever.
He stopped at the door, regarding it curiously, and knocked firmly. Eventually, it opened, groaning as he walked inside. The captain and the minister observed him from head to toe, and they didn’t even try to hide the mess of papers spread across the room. The captain had short hair, like everyone in the army, and he was probably 40, a strange age to be a captain still, if someone asked him. The captain wore a polished uniform with an unkempt cap and regarded him with a hard expression and sharp eyes. It was a familiar face, like his own, even; he had once been a captain too. How far have the mighty fallen.
Minister Velasquez was an elderly man, approximately sixty years old, with thinning hair and aging wrinkles. His political career was almost as long as his age—a hard and honest man, persecuted here and in Guatemala for his relentless fight against corruption. Now, being the Minister of Defense of President Petro, Velasquez gave the impression of believing in Paz Total, the landmark program of the president. Whether that was true was another matter. Velasquez looked at him with a worried, somehow serene, and almost fatherly expression. At the back of his head, Santiago could not scratch the itch that he had met the old man in the days gone by. A dying breed of men.
“Sirs,” he saluted both with a powerful voice.
“Thanks for joining us, Sergeant.” Minister Velazquez nodded at him. “What can you report about the prisoners?”
“They are in bad condition, sir; the head doctor fears we might lose them if they are not moved to a proper facility.” He lied.
“And about the anomaly?” Captain Torres inquired.
“We haven’t received any specialized equipment, sirs; exploration is off the plan right now, but apart from that, no other visitors have appeared, and the Tayrona has been completely evacuated.”
“I see, more men and equipment should arrive soon,” Velazquez pointed out, but did so with a troubled face.
“Sir, if I may, we need a proper chain of command. I fear that without specific orders, my hands are tied. I would consider it wise for any of you to assume proper control. As such, I wish to relieve myself of command and hand it to Captain Ramirez as my direct superior, sir.” He looked at Velazquez expectantly, using the face of a puppy, hoping for his foregone conclusion.
“You are not mistaken, Sergeant, but we are all in chaos; there are big problems. You have impeccable service, and as such, I feel you are the man we need to keep command of the perimeters and the HQ. I know you won’t fail us, and I'm sure you will get promoted for your service.”
“Then, sir,” he swallowed and suppressed a grin that threatened to form, “I need specific instructions, and I need something clear to work on.”
“Your orders are to reinforce the perimeter, conduct exploration of the anomaly, and keep the prisoners alive. Is that clear?” Torres ordered with a stern voice. “Furthermore, intelligence believes there´s a reasonable threat of guerrilla men trying to infiltrate the camp. Redouble watch on your men, sergeant.” Torres emphasized the last word, perhaps too much.
“Am I authorized to move the prisoners out of the anomaly?” he asked, because that nuisance had to be solved.
“You are authorized to do what’s necessary and request any resources available to follow your orders,” Velazquez ordered.
“Anything else?” Torres asked him with a motionless voice.
“No, sir,” he said as he fixed his sweaty uniform.
“Then you are dismissed.” The captain waved him off, and he left the room quickly.
Nature was calm, oblivious to the problems of men, great and small. The birds would always chirp, the trees would always bow to the sun, and the mountains would remain passive to the relentless course of time. Instead, the ground of the camp was agitated, soldiers holding their rifles too tightly, medics guarding the repurposed hostel like crusaders guarding Acre.
He even saw that strange medic, Camila, wandering like a lost puppy. Her uniform was not standard issue, and she had poor clothing discipline. He had to give it to her, though; her lips were sealed tight, and not even the other members of her unit knew her that much. And it was almost a shame that he did.
“Camila!” he called for her. “I need you in my tent!”
“Yes, sir!” she screamed back while approaching. “Now?”
“No, in an hour or so.” He told her with a wolfish smile, loud enough that a nearby platoon, “the snitches,” could hear him. Easier for him if they thought her a whore.
“Yes, sir,” she blushed, and he saw a wolfish smile that a lesser man might have missed. “Anything else?”
“No, take your leave.”
If we don’t lead, who will follow us? The faraway voices of an old man and a fair girl said behind him, in the tone one whispers to the wind. Santiago turned to answer them, but of course, there was nobody there; the platoon had left, ready to fire their fresh ammo. As always.
“Fuck!” he grunted as he readjusted his uniform, fully aware that two passing soldiers heard him. Soon, the whole camp would know the new food chain, “if only Father could see me now.” He said, smiling, when he was out of hearing range.
Not me? The wind whispered. Not us?
III
His lungs screamed, aching for the sweet release of death; his knees crunched in pain, his feet sore with a thousand and more blisters, while his vision started to fail him. Sweat dripped from his temples, running from his body with no end in sight. In turn, his clothes kept embracing his body in a painful and humid embrace. The rest of the platoon, however, was fine, like feathers floating in the air. They ran distances like this every day. He hadn’t run this much before, and he cursed the moment he accepted the offer from the government once again. They never said I had to run.
The sergeant had the brilliant idea that the civilian aides should seamlessly integrate with the rest of the men deployed here by behaving completely like them. Not only wearing the same clothes or eating the same stale food, but apparently also partaking in their physical routines. They circled Greater Calabazo ten times in less than an hour, around 10 kilometers. If he didn’t know better, he would say his kidneys would melt afterward.
“¡Máquina de guerra! ¡Máquina de Muerte!” The platoon bellowed their usual cadence with seamless confidence, “Come on, Juan! You said you could do this! That you ran a lot!” Sergeant Santiago, a tall man, at least taller than him, reduced his speed, falling behind to cheer him; he had an easy, true smile. All the true smiles of the sergeant came when he was running; the man was half animal.
“I said… I ran thirty minutes…every…day…fuck! Not ten kilometers.”
“Finish here, go rest, stretch those muscles, and drink lots of water.” He turned his head and looked him death in the eye, “and go talk with the medics and our guests.” He added as an afterthought, “We wouldn’t want them to feel uncomfortable.” His smile disappeared before he sped up again.
Rupert was lying in his bed; the rest, except one who had already died, were resting just outside the hostel, taking the morning sun. All the survivors had mostly recovered after two days of being treated here, even if they still looked malnourished. The wonders of modern medicine and food. Of course, they still were under heavy guard and were taking heavy doses of antibiotics, and every person who interacted with them had to wear PPE. At this time of the day, though, it looked oddly peaceful.
“How are you doing today, Rupert?” he spoke loudly through his mask. “I'm deeply sorry for your loss.”
“It´s fine, m´lord. The old man wandered with us for close to a year, but I never really knew him.” Rupert scratched his freshly shaved face. “He was a baker in the Maidenpool who swore he was born on Dragonstone.”
“Maidenpool, Dragonstone, the Crownlands, the Stormlands.” He whistled, “A lot of places you know about. Have you visited any of them?”
“My father was a sailor, m´mother a bitch who sold herself for a piece of bread. When m´mother died, and I was about to starve, my father docked in port aboard a ship of a hundred oars, the greatest I've ever seen. He took me ´round the coasts of Westeros and Essos, the Vale, the Stormlands, Braavos, and Dorne.” He sighed deeply, shook his head slowly, and continued, “There was a kid without balls aboard; he taught me my letters. Most were greenboys; few true men manned the ship. One day, my father gambled his ship, Alyssane, away and got himself stabbed half a hundred times by a sellsword from the Riverlands. I settled in the Maidenpool afterward.” He looked grief-stricken. “It was the ninth year of summer; King Robert had just died, killed by a boar. Nothing was the same again.”
“A likely story, if nothing else,” Camila, the short medic with crooked teeth, entered carrying a tray and speaking crude English. “Excuse me here, Mr. Juan, it’s time for his drugs.” She supplemented, placing a small cup with three pills inside. The girl always said she was a military medic when he asked but behaved more like a nurse and made herself scarce when Sarah or a superior appeared. Unless it was the sergeant, then she was very attentive.
“By all means. Tell me something: how long have you been a military medic?”
“It’s my first deployment as a medic, actually,” she said, shrugging.
“And how do you get around with your unit?” he inquired with renewed interest, not every day he got to see the other side of the coin.
“I mostly keep to myself. Some of them creep me out,” she answered while turning to search for something, giving her back at him.
“Why don’t you request a transfer?” he asked while tracing her back with his eyes.
“I wouldn’t want to bother the sergeant.” She added with a nosy voice, while removing the tray from Rupert's lap, “It's minor with all the things we have to do.”
“I'm sure he would be accommodating.”
“Maybe,” she said quickly and left. He noticed the tray only had one pill, even though Rupert had only taken one.
“Girl's hiding something, m´lord.” Rupert told him, “Think she´s a whore? I don’t have coin with me, but maybe I could convince her. Worth a try, perhaps?”
“I don’t think she is in that sort of business.” He sighed, “And you also need to learn better etiquette.”
“I´m a sailor first. Not a lord, m´lord.”