Genesis. Volume 2

November 28, 1986. Brookfield. Headquarters, Liam's room. 2 a.m. Liam couldn't sleep. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding a military radio—old, worn, with scratches on its casing and faded lettering above the jacks. This model had been discontinued five years ago, but the Circle still used them. They operated on frequencies civilian scanners couldn't pick up—quiet, encrypted, reliable. Liam ran his finger along a crack in the casing and switched it on. The backup channel he'd switched to an hour ago blinked a green indicator. The signal was weak but stable. Someone was transmitting data—not voice, but packets. Liam put on headphones and tuned the frequency. On the air—noise, crackling, distant voices he couldn't make out. Then silence. Then a series of short beeps. Morse code. He began to transcribe. Dot-dash, dot-dot-dash. Old army protocol—they'd taught it in his first year, and he hadn't thought he'd ever use it. The pencil scratched across the paper, his fingers moving automatically. The beeps formed letters. Letters formed words. "DATA PACKET. CLASSIFIED. ACCESS LEVEL—RED." Liam froze. The pencil stopped. Red access level—the highest. Only department heads and those working with Sleeper-related information had it. He himself had blue—medium. He'd never seen a red classification, only heard about it. "REQUEST CONFIRMATION," he transmitted. His fingers tapped out the Morse without looking at the key. The answer came a minute later. "CODE 19-47-32. OVER." Code 19-47-32—his birth year, reversed. Only two people knew that combination: him and the one who'd issued his clearance. An old colonel with a gray mustache and a habit of squinting when he said something important. Liam exhaled. The packet began to transmit. Lines appeared on the paper one after another. The decryption took an hour. The data came in fragments, using the old army protocol Liam knew by heart. He wrote, double-checked, verified against checksums. His hand didn't tremble—he wouldn't let it. The room was quiet, only the rain drumming on the windowsill, and in that sound was something lulling, something that made it hard to focus. He didn't give in. When the last fragment fell into place, he set down the pencil and looked at the sheet of paper. "Report on frequency 144.880 MHz. Observation period: October 14 – November 26, 1986. Number of pings: 14. Radius: Brookfield and surrounding areas. Ping coordinates form concentric circles around the central point—Walker group headquarters." Liam reread it. The letters hadn't changed. "14 pings." Fourteen times his compass frequency—the one he'd given Emma four months ago, a small one in a brass casing—had been used as a beacon. Someone—or something—had been systematically mapping the territory around the group. The circles were tightening. He remembered finding them in London. The compass, tuned to the same frequency, had led him straight to Kane's hideout—through alleys, through underground passages, through the fog. Back then, he'd thought it was luck. Now he knew—a pattern. "The frequency was used as a triangulation marker," the last line read. "Ping source—unknown. Recommendation: cease using the frequency." Liam sat motionless. The room was silent—only the boiler humming in the basement, the rain rustling outside. The radio blinked green, the light falling on his face, making it pale, almost lifeless. "I led them to Kane," he thought. "But I also led the Sleeper to them." He crumpled the sheet. His fingers crushed the edge, then loosened. He set it on the table, smoothed it with his palm. The paper was warm from his hands. For three days, he said nothing. Not because he didn't know what to say. Because he couldn't force himself to say it out loud. Every time he opened his mouth, the words stuck in his throat—like a bone he couldn't swallow and couldn't spit out. He walked through the house, did his work, checked the locks, nailed boards, while numbers spun inside him: fourteen pings, concentric circles, source unknown. Emma noticed. Of course she noticed. "You're weird," she said on the second day, when he passed her room. "Weird how?" "Not here." "I'm here." "No. Your body's here. Your head's somewhere else." She sat on the bed, turning the copper coin in her fingers, her eyes watching him too intently. "Thinking." "About what?" "Work." She didn't believe him. She didn't ask. She only frowned slightly. On the third day, he couldn't take it anymore. December 1, 1986. Brookfield. Headquarters, Arthur's room. 9 p.m. Liam knocked on the door. Twice. Short. His knuckles hit the wood—dry, demanding. "Come in," Arthur said. He sat on the bed, gripping the iron coin in his hand. On the table—maps, Lisa's drawings, notes, a mug of cold coffee. It smelled of paper and old wood. "You're not sleeping," Liam said, closing the door. "Neither are you." "I haven't slept in three days." Arthur looked up. Something in Liam's face made him set down the coin. "What happened?" Liam placed the decryption on the table. Four sheets, covered in small handwriting—the lines were even, but in some places the pencil had pressed hard into the paper. "Read it," he said. Arthur took it. He read in silence. Liam stood and stared at the wall. When Arthur finished, he set the papers down carefully—the way you set down something that might explode. "It's the compass." "Yes." "The one you gave Emma." "Yes." "And the frequency it used was a beacon." "Fourteen times in a month and a half." "You didn't know." "I should have known." Liam finally looked at Arthur. "How? You're a soldier, not a tech." "I should have checked. Before I gave it to her." He spoke quietly, but his words were firm. "It's basic protocol. I broke it." Arthur stood. Walked to the window. Beyond the glass—darkness, sparse streetlights, wet asphalt glistening like fish scales. "What now?" he asked. "We're not using the frequency anymore. I dismantled the compass. It's in a box, on the far shelf, behind old magazines." "Does Emma know?" "No. And she won't. Not yet." "She'll ask." "I'll say I lost it." She won't believe me, Arthur thought. But he didn't say it. Instead, he asked: "Is that why you wanted to leave? In London." "Yes." "Back then." "I thought if I wasn't around, the frequency would stop working." Liam ran a hand through his hair. "Stupid. The frequency isn't tied to me." "It didn't stop." "No. But I didn't know what to do. Leaving was the only option." "And now?" "Now it's too late. The compass already did its job. The Sleeper knows where we are." "And what do you suggest?" "Stay. Help. Try to fix it." "How?" "I don't know. But I'll look." Arthur turned to him. "Do you believe it can be fixed?" "I have to." "That's not an answer." "There's no other." They fell silent. A car passed outside—its headlights briefly illuminated the room, catching the table, the papers, the coin, then faded. "Are you going to tell the others?" Liam asked. "Not yet," Arthur replied. "Not until we know what to do." "And if they find out on their own?" "Then we'll tell them." "Are you ready for that?" "No. But there's no time to prepare." Liam nodded. He stood. "Goodnight," he said. "Goodnight." He left. The door closed with a soft click. Arthur was alone. He picked up the iron coin, looked at it. In the dim light, the symbol seemed alive—the lines pulsing. Or maybe it was just exhaustion. "Fourteen pings," he thought. "Fourteen times the Sleeper knew where we were." He put the coin back in his pocket. December 2, 1986. Brookfield. Headquarters, common room. 8 a.m. At breakfast, Liam was quieter than usual. Emma watched him across the table. He didn't look up. His mug of tea sat untouched, the steam long gone. "Did you sleep?" she asked. "Yeah." "You're lying." "A little." She wanted to ask more, but didn't. She picked up his mug, took a sip—the tea was cold. After breakfast, he went to his room. Emma stayed in the kitchen, finishing his tea. "What's with him?" Max asked, appearing in the doorway. "I don't know," she replied. "But he'll tell me when he's ready." "And if he doesn't?" "He will." She stood, washed the mug, set it on the drying rack. Water ran down the ceramic, leaving dark trails. "He's a good man," she said without turning. "I know," Max replied. "He just... sometimes thinks too much." "That's not a crime." "No. But it gets in the way." She left. That evening, a letter arrived from Elias. A courier—a kid on a bicycle, in a blue jacket with a delivery service logo—handed an envelope to Lisa at the door. No sender's name, no return address. Only four digits on the back: 1-9-4-7, written in black ink, in neat block letters. "A code?" Max asked, looking over her shoulder. "A key," Lisa replied. "The sum of our coins." She pulled out her sketchbook. Decoded it quickly—her left hand moved confidently, the pencil scratching across the paper. "What does it say?" Arthur asked. "Not all at once." She read aloud what could be read aloud. "A group of Keepers in Prague made contact. Confirmed receiving the signal. Promised coordination. Two other groups—in Lyon and Brussels—haven't responded in six weeks. Last message from Lyon: psychoses, people stopped recognizing each other. From Brussels: silence." "Psychoses?" Jenny repeated. She stood by the wall, arms crossed, fingers gripping the silver coin. "Psychoses," Lisa replied. She continued reading. "The Sleeper is activating. Distortion waves are becoming more frequent. Brookfield is holding—Jack is working as an anchor. But for how long?" "Is he asking or stating?" Max asked. "I don't know." She turned the page. "Do not use the compass. Any compass, if you don't know its origin." Lisa set down the letter. Everyone looked at Liam. He sat in the corner, gripping a mug of cold tea. His face showed nothing. "You knew," Max said. "I knew," Liam replied. "For three days." "And you stayed quiet." "I was thinking how to say it." "You told Arthur?" "Yes." "And us?" "Arthur would have told you when he thought it was time." Everyone turned to Arthur. "It's true," he said. "Liam told me yesterday. The compass frequency was used as a beacon. Fourteen pings in a month and a half." "By whom?" Jenny asked. "I don't know." "The Sleeper?" "Maybe." "And you stayed quiet?" "I was waiting for Elias to make contact." "And if he hadn't?" "He did." Jenny wanted to say something more. She didn't. She only clenched the silver coin in her pocket—the metal had warmed from her palm. "And now?" Max asked. "Now we work," Arthur replied. "We're not using the compass anymore. We'll change frequencies. As for the pings... what's done is done. Can't turn it back." "You're not angry?" Liam asked. "I am. But not at you." "At who?" "Myself. For not checking sooner." They fell silent. The room was quiet—only the clock ticking on the wall, counting seconds. "I'll watch your back," Liam said. "Whatever I can do." "I know," Arthur replied. At night, Liam sat in his room, staring at the metal box containing the dismantled compass. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't. Numbers spun in his head—fourteen pings, a month and a half, concentric circles around the headquarters. "Source unknown." He looked at the box, and it seemed alive. He picked up a hammer. Short, with a cracked handle—the same one Max used to nail boards in the basement. He struck the box once. With force. The blow was dull, heavy. The metal dented. Its shape was changed forever. He put the box on the farthest shelf. Behind old magazines, behind file folders, behind useless things. Then he sat on the bed and stared at the wall for a long time. In the hallway, someone stood outside the door. Liam knew—but didn't turn. "Liam?" Emma's voice. Quiet, but firm. "Yeah." "Are you okay?" "Okay." "Open the door." He stood and opened it. She stood in her pajamas—old, gray, with long sleeves. Her left shoulder was still in its sling; her right hand held the edge of a blanket draped over her shoulders. Her hair was tousled, a pillow crease on her cheek. "You didn't sleep," she said. "Neither did you." "Didn't feel like it." She entered. Sat on the bed. The springs creaked. "Are you going to tell me?" "Not now." "Then let's just sit." He nodded. Sat beside her. Their shoulders almost touched. The room was quiet. Only the rain drummed on the windowsill—fine, November rain, endless. "Emma." "Yeah?" "I love you." "I know." "You're not angry?" "At what?" "For leading them here." "You led us to Kane. We won." "And I led the Sleeper here." "He already knew where we were. The red threads, remember? We were glowing like Christmas trees." She smiled faintly, but the smile was sad. "He would have known without the compass." "But the compass..." "The compass wasn't your fault. You didn't know." "I should have." "You're a soldier, not a tech." He smirked. "Arthur said the same thing." "Because it's true." She took his hand. Her fingers were cold, but alive. "Lie down," she said. "Tomorrow's going to be hard." "I won't sleep." "Then lie down anyway." He lay down. She pulled the blanket over him, tucked the edge under his chin. "Thank you," he said. "Don't mention it." She turned off the light. In the dark, the room became foreign, but not hostile. Only the rain continued to tap, the sound like footsteps. "Emma." "Yeah?" "Will you stay?" "I'll stay." He closed his eyes. Outside, the rain rustled. She sat beside him, holding his hand, staring at the ceiling. An hour later, he fell asleep. His breathing became even. She didn't leave. She sat until morning, her hand on his, like a seal.