Twenty-Nine Cozy Bears

19

The man was awake before the voice of the muezzin, before his voice jutted out like the ray-spears of the sun, piercing between darkness and light, began calling for prayer. The muezzin's voice moved, rose, spun, and danced like a dervish as it came through the windows, clear and energizing. Laying on his back on a bed of carpets they gave him, the man put his hands behind his head, and lay listening to the voice carry across the streets and down the lanes of the University roads, calling for the faithful — it was like a song, a cry that harkened the new day — a call for darkness to fade and life to rise.

The call for the adhan as it is named, has been heard and responded to for over ~1500 years. For the last fifteen hundred years the man could have laid in this spot and heard that same call for the same prayer, for the same people. As soon as the call ended he felt an eighth-beat of palpable silence, and then activity. Everywhere. Across the city, in every home, business, situation; the world came alive with sunrise.

This was not like a rushing storm or even noticeable unless, like the man, you were waiting for it to happen — unless you knew what could happen, and you listened. The activity was all normal, and each instance was nearly silent by itself. Perhaps a minute splash from tea water. Perhaps the spoons and forks jiggle a little as they are passed around. But it wasn't a storm. It was closer to the experience he felt in the wheat fields...

Five prayers. Five of them each day.

Was that too much to ask?

The Russia he grew up in, demanded prayers every moment you wanted to keep having moments. Russia's voice wasn't always clear. Russia had no muezzin calling three times a day. Sometimes the call was a quiet rustling sound, like a snake might cause, moving through leaves and dry grass. A desperate snake in the wheat fields...

Sara, or rather Captain Jamshidi, would be by after prayer to take him to breakfast. Then he would be given the details of his cover as an assistant professor of Anthropology. A trip to the location of the ancient city Ur, was to be planned and performed within two weeks. It turned out that this was a high honor in some circles. The government closed down the ancient sites for causal visitation. The trip felt superfluous, but if it helped not to get shot out of the air when they left, he would go to the ancient city of Ur.

"So there are twenty-nine of you?" Captain Sara Jamshidi asked as she walked him to the cafeteria.

His gait comfortable, slightly relaxed in a tilt-slash way. Hers faster, quick steps, but that was likely caused by her uniform. "Do you start conversations in this way, often?"

The top of her head didn't come to his chin, but there was strength in her stride. After glancing up to him she looked forward, "Twenty-Nine Cozy Bear?"

"Oh," he said, his word released with a waif of tension, then his voice was cold, "thought you might be interviewing me about troop sizes and locations on our first day out."

Sara glanced up at him, then looked ahead again, "No."

"Oh," he said, then nodded agreement. "You are bothered by my lack of name."

Her head abruptly cocked to the side, with her voice denying this accusation, "No. I do not need your name to treat you with the respect and dignity granted to a guest." They continued walking. "It is just easier," she added.

"For the burden I apologize, however, it will remain harder." He waited a beat and then added, "The number, 29? That is from the American's APT ledger."

"A.P.T.?"

"Yes, they record us as APT 29, Cozy Bear... not cozy bears. They track by group."

"What is APT?"

"Advanced Persistent Threat."

"I could just call you Cozy."

"You could also call me lymph-node or Kool-aide, or alkaline. If you must call me something at least call me something better than American pop-media trash."

"You dislike the Americans?"

He thought about this for a moment and then said, "I don't like what they do."

"Like what?"

"For example," he began, "taking over your country, while they were allies under treaties in 1953. After Iran did so much for them. Overthrowing your elected government, then putting you back under that maniac, Reza Shah, who killed thousands of you every year after, until 1979, because he was a paranoid psychopath, who I hope wanders disfigured in the bowels of darkness with only his stomach acid to drink."

The emotion of her eyes relieved that this was an unexpected answer. "Were you alive in 1953?"

"No," he admitted.

"Then why does that bother you?" she asked, sounding genuine.

"Because they have not stopped or changed. But instead of Mickey Mouse they shout Cozy Bear." He shrugged, "And they should."