Retrograde

Chapter One

The day of the crash

Lachlan Donaghue opened his eyes, cracked them just a little. Something had sideswiped him, glass in his hair, his hands gripping… something… eyes wide and open, staring right at Lachlan with not a spark of life left.

And red… orange. And silence. Utter and complete silence.

He closed his eyes.

Rory. Help me.

When he opened them again, this time there was no red, only the blur of a night sky, the black all encompassing. This time there was noise in the silence. A shout, crashes and bangs, and a sense of urgency in the people who stared at him now.

He’s alive.

How the hell is he alive?

It hurt too much to keep his eyes open.

Tell Rory I’m okay. Don’t let him worry.

Lachlan? Lachlan Donaghue? How old are you? Who is the Prime Minister? What is the Queen’s name? Lachlan? Can you hear me?

Who cares? I can't even speak, let alone think.

Lachlan answered… or at least in his head he answered, but his throat was tight, there was pain in his head and neck, and he was staring at whiteness and blinking at bright lights.

Where had the red gone? And the black?

Lachlan. Open your eyes. Look at me!

I don’t want to.

Pupils responsive. Someone get him to the Ulster.

He’s triaged for Downe.

He’s the fucking first officer. Get him to the Ulster Hospital and away from the scene now.

Rory, I’m sorry. I should have told you I was sorry.

The TV was loud, discordant, and scary with red and orange against black, and they were shouting at him from the screen. People walked around him, all the time talking about the TV—or was that the TV itself? Nothing made sense.

The Captain is dead. The words spun in his head, people talking around him; a chaos of noise.

Not… Andrew. Lachlan murmured in despair. The staring eyes, the absolute stillness and quiet—Andrew was dead. Is everyone dead? Am I dead? What kind of hell was he in where they pushed him and held him, then took the pain away with needles?

Lachlan? Can you hear me? My name is Dr.…

The words faded, and he looked past the man who stared at him, looking instead at the screen, hearing the words all pilots dreaded to hear. Death. Destruction. Crash.

His picture flashed on the screen labeled in yellow: Lachlan Donaghue, First Officer. Then there were safety records… and red … and orange.

And do you think, taking this into consideration, that the crash was deliberate. An act of terrorism? Or one of the pilots deliberately flying the plane into the ground? A soft but insistent voice came from the TV.

There is nothing to indicate that at this moment. Neither of the black boxes have been located at this time—

Do you know your pilots? Can the airline categorically say that the crash of Flight HA1710 was not pilot error?

It’s too soon to comment—

Can you say that?

Pause.

No. No we can’t.

Chapter Two

Lachlan lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling; plain, clean, white square tiles. The words that sounded in the room were all from the doctor, nothing from him. He couldn’t string a sentence together.

All I can add, Mr. Donaghue, is that retrograde amnesia often proves temporary.

The words buzzed and jostled for space in his head. If Rory were here, then Rory would hold him, cradle his face, and make Lachlan focus on Rory’s green eyes. Look at me, Lachlan. Everything will be okay.

But it wasn’t Rory talking to him. It wasn’t Rory who held his hand.

What is the last thing you recall, Mr. Donaghue?

Lachlan closed his eyes and very deliberately imagined himself eating the cornflakes from his last memory. A spoon at a time he ate them, and the news played in the background.

The building collapse had happened in a business district, no one was hurt, but there was a ring of fire engines blocking access. He recalled the presenter, a smooth blonde woman, explaining that the main road was closed and commuters were being encouraged to check if their offices were open before traveling.

And what happened next? Why couldn’t he think about the crash? Why was it blank where there should be a memory of flying, and the crash, and the end of things?

Lachlan focused on the newsreader in his memory, saw her words, even understood some of what she was saying about this event. Then nothing. No memory of the weather report after her news segment. Or even of another program coming on. Nothing about renovating old houses, or a cookery show, or any of the other addictive crap that filled the mornings he wasn’t flying.

Just a great big expanse of nothing. As if the building collapse had happened just now.

Nothing, he murmured. Just… nothing.

Okay. I’m going to leave you now, but if you need to talk some more, I’m on your records and will be checking in daily. Good-bye, Mr. Donaghue.

The door to his room opened, and the doctor slipped out—a tall skinny gray-haired man who had calmly told him he had something called retrograde amnesia and that he’d forgotten everything that mattered about the crash. A policeman guarded this door—maybe two—a barrier to everyone except the docs, the airline people, and the investigators who would surely be descending soon.

The policeman was there because people would want photos, Lachlan knew that. There would be journalists wanting a shot of the first officer in hospital, the only survivor who could tell them what had happened to HA1710.

Lachlan closed his eyes tightly. The pain in his shoulders and neck was enough to have him pressing the button for the nurse, and one came in almost immediately. The nurse adjusted Lachlan’s pillows, helped him with pain, and left with a few soothing words.

Then Lachlan thought maybe he would sleep….

He must have slept, because the room was darker when he next opened his eyes. Soft lighting through the frosted glass in his door was at least enough to show someone sat in a chair next to the bed. For a second his heart leapt. The dark hair, the posture, it all screamed Rory. Rory was here? Rory had come? Then the man looked up, and it wasn’t Rory at all, but an older man with a frown and dark brown eyes where Rory’s were that beautiful clear green of Ireland.

Mr. Donaghue, you’re awake, the man said. My name is Johnathan Winterson. I’m with the airline—your liaison with the Human Performance Team.

Lachlan weakly shook an awkwardly offered extended hand. There was a deadness in Winterson’s eyes as he looked at Lachlan, an accusation Lachlan recognized immediately.

How many died? Lachlan asked. His voice was raspy and his mouth dry.

Winterson didn’t answer straightaway. He offered a cup of water with a straw, which Lachlan used to suck up enough to try to quench the impossible thirst he had.

Seven souls, Winterson said softly. We have six others in intensive care and a hundred or so lesser wounds. That more didn’t die was a miracle.

Lachlan closed his eyes. Nearly three hundred people in the plane, and of course he couldn’t name any of them, just some of the cabin crew and Andrew.

Andrew died…. They said he died, he said blankly.

Winterson nodded. He was one of the seven.

And others?

I don’t think you need to concern yourself with names at this point—

Desperation clawed at his throat. Who were they? I need their names.

Winterson cleared his throat and looked like he was going to argue with Lachlan. Then he tutted, sighed, and opened a folder on his lap that sported the airline logo. He coughed to clear his throat, then spoke softly.

Passengers, Melanie and Anthony Sargent, Jillian McGuire, Scott Grant, Mitchell Lewis, and of course your pilot, Andrew Everett.

That is only six. His head might be pounding, but he could count.

And the purser, Darcey Baxter.

Grief knifed at Lachlan as he replayed the names: Melanie, Anthony, Jillian, Scott, Mitchell, Andrew, and Darcey. He would remember those if it killed him.

Was it a terrorist? A bomb?

We don’t know yet.

Was it the plane?

We have no data. Look, we know nothing yet, so we’re playing the miracle card, Winterson said, and he looked uncomfortable in his chair. "Releasing statements about