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Morning comes far too early, but Athair’s firm grasp at his shoulder leaves no doubt that it’s arrived. “Time to get up, lad,” he murmurs, his feet shuffling softly around the old building.
Groaning, Caleb pushes himself upward and rubs the sleep from eyes that dread opening. Ten more minutes, maybe fifteen, just long enough to chase away the nightmare that led him here, or pretend it isn’t real. His jaw cracks awkwardly and painfully as he yawns, and echoes through the room. Stiffness plagues him as he pushes to his feet, but though annoying, once he starts moving he knows it will ease off. Out of habit, he folds his blankets neatly; he’ll not allow anyone to argue Nan didn’t raise him right.
He covers another yawn, less painful this time, with one hand while reaching for his bag. A quick rummage produces a wrinkled yet relatively clean t-shirt to replace the one he’s slept in; like most of his clothing the past few years, it’s a product of the charity box at St. Senan’s. He tears off the sleep-rumpled shirt and ignores goose bumps that are quick to cover his flesh in those few moments his skin is exposed. Packing the dirtied shirt into his bag, he quickly combs his fingers through too long hair and attempts to wrangle it into some semblance of order for the day. Only then does he discover the room is empty; Athair is gone and he is alone.
His heart leaps to his throat instantly as his breath catches tight in his chest. Yanking the bag strap over a shoulder, he makes it halfway across the room when Athair enters carrying a small jug of water. Caleb gulps, checking up his steps, his eyes flitting between the jug, the darkened landscape beyond the door and Athair. A sigh of relief leaves him weak in the knees for reasons he cannot explain. “Athair, I –.”
Athair smiles gently and pats Caleb’s shoulder. “Relax, son. We’ll break our fast then head to the clearing.” He grabs Caleb’s bag and sets it aside while handing him the jug of water in return. “Here, come help me get tea started.”
Years spent as his student has Caleb nodding obediently. This morning is starting just as strangely as the previous night ended, but he trusts Athair without question, without hesitation, and he so he follows.
The tea is ready within a matter of minutes. Athair murmurs a quiet blessing over their meal but otherwise they share a simple breakfast of bread and butter in companionable silence. Clean up is a quick process, and once Athair is satisfied that things are put to right, he says, “Come. The shuttle will be here soon.”
Caleb slings his bag over his shoulder as he follows the priest outside. The skies above are still dark, though there is a hint of brightening to the east. He pauses just a moment to take in the slow-growing hues of red, orange and yellow chasing away lingering purples and blues from the previous night’s storms. The vibrancy of the colors as they blend remind him of the stained glass windows that decorate the church of St. Senan. For one, brief moment, the weight of loss returns, heavy and encumbering. The Reds are gone, destroyed by the Greystones, and with them the only home he remembers. How is he supposed to move on from that?
“Lad,” Athair murmurs quietly, gently squeezing Caleb’s shoulder as if sensing his thoughts, “we should go.”
With reluctance, Caleb nods. His hair falls in front of his face, tickling the skin along the bridge of his nose as he draws in a deep breath. I continued after Nan died, he reminds himself, and Ned. I kept going after Ciara, Colin and Brennan. What was it Aoife said? Someone has to life to tell our story or the Reds will die. He scans the horizon one last time. A lone gull rises above, floating on a gust of a breeze, suffused by the yellows and oranges of sunlight. The Reds have died anyway … haven’t they?
“Aye,” he murmurs and follows after the priest.
They head southward, across rough and rugged terrain that, while mostly comprised of forest and brush, are spattered with the occasional clearing. Both are careful to keep to the tree line on the off-chance someone watches; though Caleb isn’t certain of their exact skills and abilities, he knows from experience that the Greystones are more than resourceful enough to find anyone they want when they want. Ignoring that now isn’t worth the risk to either of them.
Silence fills the air around them save for a growing number of early-morning bird calls, a few lingering overnight insects chirruping madly, and the gentle wash and roll of waves of the River Shannon nestling up to the island. It is a side of his homeland he’s had little opportunity to see or experience first-hand over the years, yet it leaves an ache in his heart and the reluctance to leave from the previous night returns. And if I don’t leave? What then?
Athair is right, he needs to leave if he is to live. Yet, another part of him, the part so desperate to keep hold of his birthright, wants to stay and fight for it. The priest’s words from the previous evening echo in his mind.
“The Reds are no more, and you know as well as I that they will hunt you down if they hear you remain.”
“Let them!” Caleb hisses. “I will make them pay for their crimes!”
“Alone? Without support? That’s – .”
“Dedication.”
“Suicide,” the priest finishes, eyes narrowing on Caleb. “And you know my thoughts on that.”
Suicide, perhaps, but to leave is to abandon, and for Caleb, that is of far greater concern. Abandon those few Reds who yet live, whether the group itself still exists or not. Abandon Athair to have to deal with it and the Greystones alone. Abandon what little he has left in this world. It isn’t much, but it is his and throughout his years in the Reds, he’s never gone down without fighting.
A gentle breeze wafts through the trees and toys with his hair, tossing the longer strands forward into his eyes. It offers a hint of the cool and comfortable days that are more frequent with winter behind them now. Springtime in Ireland. To leave and lose it now is to give up on life.
It only takes a short while to reach the clearing. Athair gestures towards the tree line. “We’ll wait here.”
Caleb drops his bag against the trunk of a tree and settles back against it. He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply, but inside he’s struggling still. He wants to argue with Athair, to insist on staying. Surely, there must be some way he can still fight without getting caught by the Greystones. But Athair’s observations are correct, and he respects him far too much to blatantly go against his suggestion. He’s done nothing but give him guidance over the years, not just as his priest but as a friend, and he’s far more experienced in his years.
The wind whistles above, the rustle of leaves as the branches sway matching the tightening in his throat. “Athair?”
Athair’s voice is powerful with empathy when he replies, as if he understands Caleb’s internal dilemma. “It is alright to have doubts, Caleb. No one will ever fault you for that.”
Caleb snorts softly. Doubts. That I have aplenty. “Aye. Alright then, let me ask you this: If I were to stay, would you try to stop me?” His eyes open slowly and turn toward the priest.
Athair sighs. He leans against another large tree, picking at a strand of grass, eyes focused on the clearing beyond. “I will do my best to persuade you to leave, lad,” he replies honestly.
Persuade. Caleb knows from experience the man can be compelling, both physically and charismatically. But like any true Irishman, Caleb is stubborn. “But what of the others? As long as they remain, –.”
The priest shakes his head. “The Reds, as a group, no longer exist, Caleb. One by one, we’ve both watched them disappear, die out. Do you really wish to end up like Colin or Aoife? To waste your life in an unwinnable battle when you have the opportunity to get away from that?”
A grimace pulls at Caleb’s lips. “Shannon is my home,” he whispers past the tightness in his throat.
Athair turns toward him and their eyes meet. “They wouldn’t want you to mourn, son. Not like this. Not with your life! You can find a new home, make new friends, have a family outside of Ireland …”
Caleb draws his legs up and wraps his arms around them, resting his chin on his knees.
“Caleb,” Athair says with a patience only the clergy can express properly, “we all have our part to play in this life. Yours is not here.”
Unexpected anger roils deep in Caleb’s belly with that announcement. He scowls and snarls like a feral animal. “Do not give me one of your sermons on how God’s hand matters in all this! If that was true, would the Greystones have won? Would Aoife, Colin, and the others lie dead in their graves? If anything, God abandoned the Reds!”
The priest does not flinch. Instead, he says calmly, “The Lord works in mysterious ways, Caleb, and you know this. What His plans for you are, I cannot even begin to imagine, but I can tell you they are not here.”
Caleb’s eyes narrow as he stares through half-slitted lids. He inhales sharply, preparing to argue further … but the words do not come. In his mind’s eye, he sees all he has lost … and the little that remains to keep him here. Gritting his teeth, he turns his face away. Damn, how he hates when Athair is right all of the time!
The sun is well above the horizon when the first sounds of a shuttle drift close enough to hear. Caleb, lost to his thoughts, nearly misses the sound. It’s only moments later when the rattle and clang as it descends into the clearing leaves no doubt of its arrival that he stirs. He swipes his hands over his face and turns his attention to the clearing. The blue, white and grey markings match what he knows of the Systems Alliance, and Athair rises to his feet without hesitation, his demeanor as calm and peaceful as if he is in the middle of Sunday services. Swallowing past a lump in his throat, Caleb pushes himself to his feet.
Athair walks forward as the hatch pops open. Caleb remains at the tree line while shielding his eyes with one hand. There is something about Athair that seems … off, though he cannot find the words to explain it. He blinks several times before it occurs to him that the man standing there waiting is not the quiet-mannered priest he’s come to know all these years. Before him now standing at attention is the soldier, straight and at attention, his arm raised in salute.
Caleb frowns. The idea that Athair served in the military is still a very strange concept to him, yet the more he considers it, the more he realizes that his duties now are not exactly all that different. What is a priest if not a general of his flock, leading them through life? Battles are waged in a variety of ways; for people like Caleb, like the Reds, guns and knives and street smarts are the best plan, but for others like Athair, prayer is the weapon of choice.
The hatch slides open, but though the inside of the shuttle is dark from this distance, Caleb catches a glimpse of someone moving just inside. Dark of hair and skin, he blends into the shadows so well it’s nearly impossible to see him. Until he smiles. The white of his teeth as his lips curve upward breaks through like the sun chasing away overcast skies. He returns the salute, sharp and crisp, and all military precision. Yet the moment his hand drops, it extends toward Athair who grasps it without hesitation. The idling engines of the shuttle drown out the words exchanged between them, but it’s clear the two men are glad to see one another.
Several minutes pass before Athair turns and gestures Caleb over to join them. Bag over his shoulder, Caleb approaches as requested. He meets the newcomer’s gaze straight on, but says nothing. The man surveys Caleb from head to toe and back again before giving a short nod. “This is him?” The voice reminds Caleb of warm evenings and good company at Old Neddy’s.
Athair chuckles softly as if in response to a private joke. “It is,” his eyes flick to the collar of the man’s uniform and he grins. “Another true son of Éire.”
There is the briefest hesitation where both men hold the other’s gaze, broken only when the newcomer snorts softly, a smirk pulling at his lips. He runs a hand over his close shaven head, shakes his head and mutters, “You always were a smartass.”
Athair’s grin never fades. “Consider it payback for playing your moral compass for so many years,” he retorts. He turns to Caleb. “Lad, this is Commander David Anderson,” he says by way of introduction. “He led the unit I served in.” The smirk returns briefly as he adds, “He was only a lieutenant then.”
Though a little lost at the humor in the exchange between the two men, Caleb straightens immediately out of respect. An unexpected squawk of a seagull close by startles him. Uneasily, he looks back over his shoulder and around the open clearing. “We should go, Athair,” he murmurs, “before the Greystones find us.”
The priest, however, reaches a hand over and pats him on the shoulder as he shakes his head. “I’m not leaving, lad,” he replies softly. “My place is here.” He takes Caleb’s hand in his and squeezes it in reassurance.
As Athair pulls away, a cool sensation remains, and Caleb glances down to find a small silver disc in his hand, one threaded with a silver chain. A saint’s medallion. Caleb has seen them many times, this saint in particular. Stunned to silence, he can only blink owlishly at the priest.
“This is a journey you must make on your own,” Athair reminds him. Then, nodding at the pendant in Caleb’s hand, he adds, “But St. Senan will be with you as he was with me all those years ago. You won’t truly be alone.”
Caleb frowns and his gaze drops back to the pendant. Flipping it over in his palm, the surface is smooth, as if it has been worn close to the skin for a long time, and a barely legible inscription inscribed. Go dte tú slán. His head snaps back to the priest’s, eyes wide with realization. St. Senan. May you go safely. “Athair, I can’t –!”
The priest reaches over and closes Caleb’s hand around the pendant securely. “Go safely, son,” he murmurs. “Find your life, find your way. Anderson will help you where I cannot; I promise. I have trusted him with my life for a very long time. ”
It is, of course, the inevitable conclusion to the agreement he made the previous night. And, no matter how much he argues otherwise, it is the only way he has to get out of his current situation. Eyes closing, he tightens his hand around the pendant until the metal disc nearly cuts through the skin of his palm. It isn’t painful; in fact, if anything, it’s … bracing. Some of the uncertainty that plagues him fades. He trusts Athair, he always has. Now is not the time to start doubting that. But is trusting Anderson the same? Caleb opens his eyes again and glances over at the commander, searches the man’s face for … something. No answers are forthcoming, but there is a quiet reassurance in his eyes, in his stance. And, if nothing else, he outwardly appears patient, waiting for Caleb to make his final decision. His eyes drop to the pendant once more. This time when he examines it, he finds something he missed before. A heart … and the memory of his card reading from last night returns. The king of hearts … an openhearted man who gives good advice …
Taking a deep breath, Caleb nods once, firmly at Athair. Only then does he turn toward Commander Anderson. “We should go.”
~~~
The shuttle rattles now and again, occasionally bobbing up and down with the winds as it speeds across land and sea. Caleb sits with his bag on the floor beside his feet. In his hand he still holds the pendant, and he now swings the chain to loop first clockwise around his hand and then in reverse. Across from him sits the commander, eyes focused on a datapad he retrieved once the shuttle was underway. After several minutes he sets it next to him on the seat and brings his attention fully around to Caleb. “There appear to be gaps in your information, son.”
Trust him. Caleb shrugs casually as he watches the chain continue to wind around his hand. I’ve made my choice; I will live with it. “What do you need to know?”
“Well, why don’t we start with your name.” Anderson folds his arms across his broad chest and settles back for the ride like one used to it. Given the number of stripes and fancy designations on his uniform, Caleb supposes he must be.
“Caleb.”
The commander’s eyes narrow slightly. “Last name?”
Another shrug. Truth is, Caleb doesn’t know; memories from before he met Ned and Nan still evade him more than a decade later. And, though more or less adopted by them, official or not, he isn’t about to use their surname or give the Greystones anything that might aid tracking him down. He is sealgaire, the hunter; he is no one’s prey, despite their attempts to prove otherwise. If they want to find him, they’ll have to work for it, and he will not make it easy for them.
“Don’t have one,” he finally responds.
Anderson sighs; the sound is heavy and disgruntled as if he expects the conversation to be a challenge. He has no idea what information Athair has provided him; and he must have done from the sounds of it. A small prickle of curiosity has Caleb wondering just how many gaps are on that pad he holds.
“Fine. We’ll come back to that later. Let’s try something else. Birthdate?”
Athair always said Caleb was about six years old when he found him. As for the day itself … “April 11, 2154.” Six years old and the anniversary of the day he met Ned. It’s served as his ‘birthday’ for years and should do well enough now.
The commander nods and jots it down on the datapad while stretching his legs out before him. “Next of kin?”
The shuttle bumps and Caleb shifts forward with his arms resting across his legs. He stares at his boots, noting then ignoring how dingy and ragged they look these days, the worn and frayed edges of his jeans. What was it Athair said the night before? An opportunity awaits, if you are interested. Room, board, three meals a day … He scuffs his boot against the deck of the shuttle. The chain spins the opposite direction. “Athair.”
There is a moment of silence; no sound, not even Anderson’s fingers on the keys to input information. “You keep calling him that,” the commander says after a moment as he sets the pad aside. He adopts a position similar to Caleb’s, hands folded together, his chin resting on top. “Why is that?”
Caleb tilts his head to meet the dark, discerning gaze focused on him. His does not waver. “Athair? It means ‘father.’”
“Ahhh.” The eyes soften in understanding matched with a smile at his lips. “Did he tell about when we served together?”
Caleb catches the chain in his hand with the medallion and pushes himself to his feet. He throws his right arm out to steady himself against the back edge of the bench as the shuttle wobbles yet again, but he nods. “He mentioned it last night. It’s … strange to think of him that way.”
His eyes are caught by the landscape flying beneath them out the virtual windows. The direction they are traveling becomes clear. A hint of unease flutters in his chest. East. Athair, you said to trust him … but we seem to be heading straight into the lion’s den … Does he know about the Greystones and their connection? Caleb draws his lower lip between his teeth and rolls it back and forth. Are we heading to London? If nothing else, we are heading to England, we have to be. Athair, did you know about this?
“Connor and I fought side by side during the First Contact War,” Anderson explains. “He saved my life once – more than once – and several of the others in our unit, too.”
It takes a moment for the words to penetrate, but when they do, Caleb stiffens and looks back over his shoulder at the man. Are we talking about the same man? “You are saying that Athair killed people?”
Anderson nods. “It was a time of war, son, and long before Connor took to the cloth. We all had to at one time or another. It was either that or be killed. Remember that.” A small smile curves his lips. “Or, if it eases your mind, think of it more as he ‘persuaded’ the enemy that their choice of target was incorrect.” He shakes his head while taking up the datapad once more. “Either way, we lived, they didn’t, and Corporal Connor O’Bannon now spends his days finding his peace and redemption as … what was it you called him?”
“Athair.”
Anderson grunts in affirmation. “He’s a good man, don’t think I don’t know that.”
Caleb swallows past an unexpected tightness in his throat and drops onto the seat beside the window. “Aye.” He tilts his head to rest against the bulkhead as the view before him gives way to the open waters of the Irish Sea. Beside him, his fists tighten … and a small metal disc bites into his palm. Startled – he’d forgotten he held it - he looks down at it again, stares at the face of St. Senan. Athair, guide me … He flips the chain around his hand, clockwise first then counterclockwise. Unconsciously, his left knee starts bouncing up and down. “He saved my life, too,” he says after a moment, “several times over.”
“Did he, now?” There is more than just a hint of curiosity in the commander’s voice.
The shuttle bounces hard, once, and in that moment the chain strikes Caleb’s cheek. He reacts on instinct, turning his face away from it so that it misses his eye. The biting sting on his cheek is enough to know the hit probably left a mark. But it serves as a wakeup call of sorts. Sliding the chain over his head, he drops the disc beneath the collar of his t-shirt then turns toward Anderson. “Are we headed to London?” he asks bluntly. He needs to know.
Anderson shifts in his seat giving Caleb his complete and undivided attention. “Is that important?”
The shuttle jostles as Caleb watches the commander closely. With a nod at the datapad, he replies, “What did Athair tell you about me?”
Silence surrounds them save for the rattle and hum of the shuttle. Finally, Anderson acquiesces, saying, “Enough for me to know that London is the last place in the world you want to be right now. And for good reason, from the sounds of it. However, London happens to be my home, and, more importantly, it will get you to where you want to go.”
Caleb’s lips press into a tight, thin line even as he recalls Athair’s last words of guidance. You can trust him like you trust me. The cool metal of the medallion bouncing off his chest helps him keep focus. He trusts Athair. With his life. That hasn’t changed; won’t ever change. But London? Right now? So soon after the destruction of the Reds? After everything he’s had stolen from him yet again?
“If it helps,” Anderson continues, “you won’t be there more than a day or two; just long enough to complete the rest of your paperwork and in-processing. Once that’s all sorted out, you’ll ship off to basic and it won’t matter where you are from, just where you are headed.”
Staring out the window, Caleb considers this … and is a bit surprised by just how easy it is to accept. London, more so than Shannon or even Limerick, the next largest city over, is big. Even he understands the Greystones can’t be everywhere. And if it truly is only a couple of days and in the presence of Alliance personnel, he should be safe enough. Some things just have to be taken on faith, right? One hand rises and presses against his shirt over the medallion. “Alright, what else do you need to know?”
The rest of the flight is spent sorting out the details Anderson assures him are necessary to satisfy the most nitpicky of Alliance clerical staff. While Caleb has little information he can provide, the commander helps him formulate enough answers that they complete all questions but one.
The hum of the shuttle’s engines shifts to more of a whine as the London skyline comes into view. “So, that brings us back around to one last question,” Anderson reminds him.
Caleb draws in a deep breath as he considers. The cut from his past has to be clean; he cannot leave any ties connecting him. He cannot, he won’t back away from that. But he needs a name. Something common, simple yet still unique enough to fit him. Something that will help him blend in with the rest of the world. One he will have to live with for the rest of his life. He swallows convulsively. Where do I even start looking?
“I have no last name,” he insists with a slow shake of his head.
Anderson moves over to sit directly across from him. “I have a thought on that,” he says quietly. “Why not Shepard?”
Caleb frowns, tilts his head as he examines Anderson’s face. It isn’t that he’s opposed to the name, not really, but curiosity is difficult to stop. “Why that one?”
The shuttle descends to the docking bay and pulls to a stop as Anderson smiles at him. “I promised Connor that I would help make the break with your past as complete as I possibly can,” he admits. “Still, it’s your past, it’s part of what has made you who you are. It shapes who you will become. You will always have a connection to it, and if nothing else, I’d think you wouldn’t want to lose that completely, especially with Connor.” He clears his throat. “Excuse me, Athair, as you call him. My thought is this: he is a priest, a shepherd of his flock, is he not?”
Caleb’s breath catches, eyes widening as the suggestion takes root. For just a moment, the temptation is all too real and present … but unexpected nerves flutter through his belly and he frowns in uncertainty. “It … that isn’t too obvious, is it?”
“I highly doubt anyone will ever make the connection even if they know about your past.” Anderson rises and nods at Caleb to follow.
They exit the shuttle onto the docking platform. It’s crowded, filled with ships of varying sizes and people all over the place. A small crew of about three people hurry up to the shuttle as Anderson leads them away. On the far side of their bay, which appears to be meant for smaller shuttle transports only, he sees two groups of what can only be recruits – no uniforms, yet all carrying the same duffle bag and many sporting similar generic haircuts – heading to the next bay over where three shuttles wait to depart. Between occasional announcements of incoming and outgoing flights, the clatter and bang of equipment and ships, and what reminds Caleb of a busy day at the heart of central Shannon during rush hour, he and Anderson make their way in the opposite direction and through the exit.
The lobby is just as crowded, though in a more organized sort of way as only the military can demand. Caleb keeps up with Anderson easily enough, and eventually, they exit out onto the streets of London outside. The commander flags down skycab from nearby, and within minutes the driver blends into the flow of traffic. Caleb stares out the window. Shannon was big, Limerick, the only other large city he’s been to before today, even larger, but London puts them both to shame. Buildings that seem to touch the sky and require him to crane his neck at an angle that leaves it aching. And the traffic … Does Ireland even have that many vehicles in the country as a whole?
Within fifteen minutes, the driver deposits them in front of an Alliance recruiting station. Anderson leads Caleb inside where they are met by a pair of soldiers dressed in what Caleb is coming to recognize as the normal Alliance fatigues. He decides to let Anderson do the talking for him, but after several minutes one of the soldiers – a lieutenant, if he heard correctly – turns and speaks directly to him. “Your name?”
Caleb spares one last look over at the commander who returns it with a subtle nod of encouragement. Straightening, he replies, “Caleb Shepard …”