by Bō Jinn
“Are you certain about this?”
…
“Yes.”
…
“You understand, then; once you make this choice there will be no going back.”
…
“I understand.”
…
“You will remember nothing.”
…
“I do not want to remember.”
…
“Good… Well, your military record speaks for itself. I am certain we can expect great things from you. Rest assured. In our world, there are no limits to the rewards of merit. You will be denied nothing – wealth, women, all the other additions of power and prestige.”
…
“Freedom.”
…
“Freedom is a corollary of power. However, since your freedom has already been taken away, I suppose you will have little to lose…
Is there anything else?”
…
“Just one more thing.”
…
“What is it?”
…
“What happens to Vincent?”
…
“Vincent … Vincent does not exist. ”
A surge erupted from his heart to his limbs.
Two unknown voices spoke through the awaking haze:
“He’s coming to.”
“Give it to him. Now!”
A cold and viscous fluid seeped into his throat, causing him to swallow on impulse. His whole body lurched. Some of the fluid went down the wrong pipe. He rolled over, coughing and gagging and knocked into something as he staggered, sending a tray full of utensils clattering on the linoleum floor.
When he came to, two men in white coats were standing in the middle of a small sanitised room gazing back with some distress.
“Take it easy,” said the older of the two white-coats.
It quickly dawned on him that he was moving and in no special pain, yet his last memory was the image of his own ravaged and mutilated body half-encased in a shell and wired to machines. He remembered, vividly, the mask coming down over his face and the cold gas filling his lungs. It was only when he regarded himself that he realised he was in full gear.
“What happened?” he murmured in confusion.
“You passed out,” said the younger of the white-coats.
“Is this Seragon?” he asked abruptly.
“…. Seragon?”
“He’s confused,” said the older white-coat. “Better step back.”
“What did you give him?”
“Ipecac.”
He straightened up and pulled himself to his feet.
“Where…”
Before the next word could come out, he suddenly bowed over and heaved, spewing vomit all over the floor.
After a half-minute’s retching, he held himself up with both hands against the wall, spitting wads of acidic phlegm, his gut contracting painfully. When the retching stopped, he looked down at the brown puddle of bile beneath his face and saw the cluster of small, round pellets scattered in the stomach contents.
“What… happened?” he panted.
“You passed out.” The older white-coat held out a water bottle.
“Where am I?”
The two white-coats exchanged perplexed looks.
“Is he serious?”
He knocked the water bottle away and stumbled forward. Seizing the younger white-coat in a fit and pinning him against the wall, he growled, “Where!”
There was a stunned pause as the young white-coat’s feet dangled, barely touching the floor, and his gaping eyes shifted back and forth in their sockets. “F-f-fort Gen, K-kamchatka region,” he stuttered
“This is the infirmary,” said the older white-coat.
Saul turned to him. His frenzied breaths quelled.
“Kamchatcka…”
He slowly yielded, lowering the young medic to his feet, then staggered back with a blank stare. The first thing he supposed is that this was yet another dream. That he did not wake up a moment after the thought entered his head intimated that he was very much awake. “…Russia.” he mumbled in disbelief.
“Well, this hasn’t been Russia for at least a year,” said the old doctor. “As of yesterday, this is the fifty-first American state…”
“How long have I been here?” he interrupted rapidly.
A tense silence followed each of his questions
“You arrived twenty-two days ago,” said the old medic. “You’re here on assignment.”
He tried to recover some memory that would confirm this.
“Why am I here?”
The young doctor shook his head in disbelief. “He doesn’t remember anything.”
“We had that one figured out.”
“What is the mission?” he demanded with a growl and a daunting step forward.
“The mission is over,” said the older medic, calmly. “You arrived back from Dolinovka an hour ago. Then, you came here.”
“What happened?” he asked a third time
“You overdosed on neurals.” The young doctor nervously stepped forward, holding up a black, empty neural canister.
“You ingested over half a damn canister,” said the senior medic. “Don’t you remember?”
His breaths were suddenly cut short. He studied the tablets in the puddle of bile at his side, then gazed back with intense dread at the canister suspended in the air before him, supposing that if he remained staring for long enough, he might recall something – anything. “Why… did I…”
“We don’t know,” said the senior medic. “We came in and found you passed out on the floor. When we found the cylinder, we shot you with a vial of epinephrine.”
He looked through the open doors opposite. The air was temperate and the setting sun shone dimly over the green and black mountains far in the distance. This was no Russian winter. A whole season had passed since his last recollection. Perhaps the Commission had cleaned him. Yet, everything before his last memories was still clear in his mind. Everything between was a void. This, however, was not what disturbed him most at that particular moment.
That dream…
That ephemeral dream. It was different from the other dreams.
“…Martial.”
He was roused from his reverie.
The older medic stepped forward. “Do you remember bringing anything back with you?” he asked. “From Dolinovka?” There was a disturbing solemnity in his eyes.
Again the two medicd exchanged sceptical looks. The younger medic shook his head and took his leave. When the automated doors slid shut, the older turned back with a sigh, disquiet written all over his face.
The old doctor silently turned away. “Come with me,” he said, exiting the ward.
Saul lingered a moment, then followed into the outer corridor, stopping as soon as he crossed the brink. The old medic was waiting four doors down and he cautiously walked over and stopped outside a closed door with a ward number marked on the front. After a long, wary silence, the doors parted. The old medic remained where he stood.
“I think it’s better if you go first,” he said.
The guardedness about the doctor’s demeanour heightened his caution. He peered inside the ward. It was lightless and appeared quite empty, aside from the examination table at the back. A feeble light shone through the doorway, casting his shadow on the opposite wall. Imparting one last sideways glower at the old medic, he took his first reluctant step over the brink. His flitting eyes surveyed the room from corner to corner as, step by slow step, he entered, keeping a close look on the doctor’s shadow.
Not three steps in, a noise from behind caused him to twist round. His vision was still blurred and the back of the ward was hidden in darkness. The peculiar noise continued in terse, unsteady breaks, and he followed the unseen source to the floor in front of him. He slowly raised his hand and pressed the switch by the door. The lights flickered on.
At the foot of the corner, there appeared a tiny figure
clothed in rags, arms wrapped around legs, head buried between knocking knees, shaking and whimpering, and the frayed, grimy strawberry-blond hair fell down to the ankles, hiding the little face, and a small, steady stream of tears flowed. His hand slowly lowered from the switch and hung dead at his side.
The small head rose and the curtain of frayed hair parted, baring the small, pale-lipped, olive skin face of a little girl, besmirched with marks, bruises and dirt. Her wide eyes were a pair of moonstones, shimmering, enflamed and tear-filled.
As soon as her little eyes opened, the girl stopped crying with a gasp and, without warning, she rushed to her feet and scampered forward.
“Kto … kto ty?”
He staggered back just as the little arms wrapped around his legs. He could feel the little body tremble like a quake, and her touch roused his blood to a sudden firestorm leaving him mute. When the shock finally subsided, he stuttered again.
“Kto ty?”
“It’s no use,” said the old medic, entering the room. “She hasn’t said a word for the last hour.”
“Who is she?”
“You tell me … You’re the one who brought her here.”
He gazed down at the top of the little girl’s head. Her clothes were begrimed and ragged and her earth-brown skin was scuffed, abraded and soiled all over. She looked as though she had been dragged straight from the jaws of war.
“You said you’d found her wandering alone,” said the old medic, “on the way back from Dolinovka.”
“Where is her family?” he asked.
“I told you. We don’t know.”
The little girl’s arms closed even more desperately around him.
“She has a few cuts and burns,” said the doctor. “You brought her in for treatment. But, as soon as you left the room she wouldn’t sit still. She fell off the bench, threw herself in the corner and started crying. We came to get you back. That’s when we found you.”
Decontextualized, the facts made very little sense.
He tried to separate himself from the child, but she held him tighter still, desperate with fear, soaking his legs with her tears. He stopped, powerless to break himself away.
“You’re the only one she seems to trust. Maybe she’ll calm down if I leave you two alone for a minute,” said the old medic, turning away.
“Wait…”
“I will. Outside.”
The doors shut and they were alone.
He looked down at the girl for a long minute and tried to break away again, and again the girl held tighter. He then laid a reluctant hand on her head, seeming to intuit that it might calm her. Moments later, the little arms slowly loosened and the girl’s quiet sobs sniffled to a stop. She stepped back and regarded him as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.
“Pozalhuysta… pogovorit so mnoy…” he softened his voice, more out of anxiety than compassion.
The girl fought for her breath, rubbing her eyes in torn sleeves, staring at her shuffling feet first, and then looking back up with despair. She did not answer.
He whispered again, “Ne boysya…”
“I…” the little mouth quivered. “I… I-I don’t understand you.”
There was a long silence.
“Is it… is it alright to talk now?” the girl whispered.
He nodded slowly, ne’er batting an eyelid.
“Yes,” he said finally. “You can talk.”
The voice did not reveal much about the girl, other than she was not an Easterner. She sounded somewhat older than she looked. So small.
“You told me not to say anything in front of them,” she said.
The girl’s eyes dawdled uncertainly. Her every gesture roused in him a fascination more fearful than anything he’d ever come upon before. His eyes stopped blinking, the muscles of his jaw bulged. A simmer of discomfort arose in his core.
“What is your name?” he asked.
The girl faltered: “N-Naomi…”
“Naomi…” he repeated with a whisper. “Naomi…”
He stared at the floor, repeating the name over and over, his voice diminishing with recitation. Nothing. He looked up, suddenly.
“Do you know me?” he asked her.
The girl’s head bobbled up and down.
“You’re … you’re Saul.”
He watched his own reflection in her large, shimmering eyes, appearing more lost with each slow bow of his head. He rose to his feet.
“N-no!” she cried at once. “Don’t go, please!”
He stopped just as he was about to open the door and turned back slowly. He leaned forward and rather awkwardly put his hands under the girl’s arms, averting his eyes from hers as he held her up and set her down on the exam table as though he were laying a brick.
“Wait right here,” he said. “I will come back.”
“P – promise,” her hand reached out and held him.
“I promise,” he replied, weakly.
The girl slowly let go.
“Any luck?” said the old medic as soon as he entered the corridor.
“No,” he said. “She won’t talk.”
“Post-traumatic stress. Not much we can do about it.”
He prodded around his utility packs and chanced to find a pack of Lucky Strikes with two cigarettes left. He took one, put the filter between his lips and lit.
“What will they do with her?” he asked.
“The same thing they do with all refugees.” The medic gestured out toward the mountains. “The Storozh D.P camp is about twenty miles east. They’ll take her there.”
“And then?”
The old medic curled his lip and shook his head. “Some get transferred,” he replied. “Most of them don’t. A lot of war exiles these days, especially around this region. She’ll be lucky if they have space for her.”
Saul took the cigarette from his lips and exhaled.
“She has no family,” he murmured with a pensive gaze cast eastward.
“Doesn’t seem like it, no,” the medic sighed with a kind of contrived lethargy. “Well,” he groaned and straightened up. “We’d better get her cleaned up. She won’t be getting much medical care at Storozh. You’d best stick around…” The old doctor turned, stopped and snatched the cigarette from his lips. “This is an infirmary,” he said, stamping the cigarette out underfoot and walking past him.
The little girl sat still, visibly struggling to conceal her pain, which bore itself in the flickers of winces and beads of sweat, as the medic dabbed at the deep cut over her right arm.
He watched from behind and every now and again, she would look over her shoulder to make sure he was still in the room.
His thoughts floundered in a void, not an inkling of a memory with which to begin making sense of things. He had yet to fully convince himself that he had ever woken since the point of his last memory. But one rather troubling point did militate against the theory that he was still lying in an induced coma in Seragon.
Those voices … Vague, yet bizarrely familiar, voices.
What was that flash that had passed through the blind corners of his mind moments before he had woken? A dream? A dream within a dream? Or was it something else? The dream had had no visual texture in memory. The voices had seemed to hover in some kind of cerebral vacuum. And even though it had not stirred any particularly redolent sensation in him, it unsettled him more than the worst nightmare for precisely that reason.
Vincent…
The name was one he was sure he had come upon before. Where?
“Done,” announced the old medic at last. As soon as he turned away, the girl climbed down off her bench and scuttled immediately toward Saul.
“A supply convoy should be leaving for Storozh soon.”
“I will take her,” said Saul.
“I think you’ll have to.”
The little girl hung on to his hand to stop herself from stumbling.
“You might have to carry her,” said the old medic. “She’s still weak.”
<
br /> He reached down to pick the girl up, this time cradling her in his arms and she immediately buried her head in his chest as soon as he did. Her little body was half-bare.
“Do you have anything she could wear?”
After procuring an oversized white shirt, which fit over the girl like a shroud, he descended from the upper floors, attracting more than a few enquiring glances from passersby. From the descending platform, the HGVs could be seen commuting in mechanical lines all over Fort Gen – from storehouses to hangars to rows of airships, loading up and alighting supply containers, vehicles and personnel.
At the end of the road, he sighted a large convoy being loaded, just before the main gates. When the platform settled, he began the long, uneasy march. The strong, cold wind was stinging and the girl tucked her hands in and shivered.
“Where are we going?” she murmured in his ear.
He had hoped the question would never come.
“They will take you somewhere safe,” he replied vaguely.
“Are you coming too?”
He made the mistake of looking down, catching a brief glimpse of the torturous eyes. “I cannot come with you,” he answered
“But, you said you won’t leave,” the girl pleaded with a whimper. “Mama and papa said…”
He came to a sudden halt.
“Your … parents?”
The girl nodded and started to cry again.
He hushed her and turned on the corner of the munitions storehouse, sheltered from the cold wind and unwanted attention. He lowered his voice, “Are they…” He was going to ask if they were dead. “… Where are they?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” The girl’s voice broke and the little face screwed up with grief. “They… said goodbye. Th-then, they put me in the dark place. They t-told me that s-someone would come for me. I waited…” She seemed to recall painfully. “I h-heard the noises … loud noises … screaming.”
A vision reminiscent of his nightmares formed in his imagination.
“What happened then?” he asked.
“You came.”
The disjointed phrase was hard to decipher. From what he could gather, the girl’s parents had hidden her, perhaps in the hope that she might escape whatever fate must have befallen them thereafter.
“P-please don’t go. Don’t leave me.” The little head sunk back into his chest and the girl started to shake again. Her distress paralyzed him with some strange passion. The carrier to Sodom would leave in a few hours, leaving precious little time to decide her fate. If he did not return, the Commission would find out. And what would staying with her solve in the long run? The Kamchatka Wall was a 1,000-kilometer strip of warzone, hundreds of war-torn miles between Fort Gen and the nearest civil cities. Even if she could somehow survive long enough to make it across the threshold between the warzones and the civil world, there was no guarantee she would find refuge. And yet, all pragmatism was shaken away by the fearful quiver of that grimy little head.
“Don’t leave me,” she repeated, whispers punctuated by sobs.
C. 5: Day 464
