36
Outside Prague, Czech Republic
November 29
A capsule sat at the side of the road, perched on three short legs like a metal grapefruit on a pedestal, a red beacon flashing intermittently on its top. From every angle, a reflective biohazard symbol warned the curious away. But there were none to see it this night.
The Healer sat shivering in the cold night-time air. A strap on his shoulder, re-adjusted round his arm, had stemmed the blood loss, but his arm was numb, hanging weakly at his side. He kept his other hand over the wound, feebly protecting it from the elements.
A crisp wind blew across the field beyond, and a swirling mist of snow kicked up and flew into the moonlight. It was a desolate, evil place, but it was beautiful. The shades of blue and purple in the sky pulled him up, into sleep, but he shook himself awake when he felt himself fading.
The phone came alive, but it took a moment before he picked up the handset, awkwardly pushing the antenna up once more, then let it drop by his side.
“Home to Green Four, what is your status?”
He took a slow, shaky breath before replying, his voice a forced kind of calm.
“Mission is in progress,” he said.
There was another pause. Longer than usual. Longer than necessary.
“Your armour is reporting a breach, Green Four,” came the reply, the tone somehow sharper.
“A small cut,” he lied. “It has been contained.”
He heard the echo of his own voice in the silence and he looked into the sky.
“We are tracking your package,” Home said, then another break, like they were trying to approach the obvious question with some kind of tact: “LS-411 has been contained?”
The Healer’s good arm started to tremble.
“The sample is not LS-411,” he said. “A false lead gave me access to a new virus. It is not part of my current mission, but—”
“Green Four, you must evacuate Prague as soon as possible. If LS-411 cannot be—”
“I will handle it,” he interrupted, sitting taller. “I have enough time.”
Static. Then, silence.
“You must be out of Prague within twenty-four hours, Green Four.”
“I will be,” he said, slumping a bit.
Static again, and he heard some distant clicking, like typing or a pen tapping or… he was falling asleep again, woke up with a start.
“Green Four,” Home said. “Your heart rate is quite low.”
He was having trouble keeping his eyes pointed in the same direction, tried blinking slowly to keep himself in the present, but he was drifting to the right.
“It is cold in Czechia,” he said simply. He tipped over, his elbow catching him on an angle, and the pain from his shoulder erupted again, making his blurred vision wash blue, meshing perfectly with the blue in the sky.
“Indeed,” said Home, somewhere in his ears, in between white noise. “You… mission not… recall… recall…”
“No…”
And then he landed softly in the snow, and the static overwhelmed him.
* * *
He was standing on the banks of the river in the days when a light mask would do, and the water seemed very clean somehow, and he couldn’t remember if it had ever been that way. Though he knew all that followed, he still had a sense of wonder, being so far from home.
“Xiao Li!” called a voice, and it seemed constantly behind him.
It was her, that woman. He knew her name, but he couldn’t find it, and as he turned round he was standing in a dirt field, the metal risers beyond him, his captain high above them, and he was explaining their commission, their fates. Xiao Li couldn’t understand the words, but he knew what they meant, and a part of him — a future part — recoiled in disgust.
And then with a jolt, there he was, assembling the fence with his comrades, in the dark of night, locking in a city that never knew why. And the fences seemed impossibly tall to him, and the metal sharp as knives, and he thought he remembered it was so cruel what they were doing, but that also felt insincere.
And now, again, at the fence, the survivors rushed, their faces so white with fear when they saw the barricades, the guards, their masks, their horrible lifeless masks, and Xiao Li was calling out to the others to stay close, hold the line, and he knew he was firing into the crowd, and he willed his arms to stop, but they were beyond his control now, and he wished he could die rather than see what came next, but he knew he must see it again.
And there she was, the girl, the beautiful young girl with the wavy black hair, watching him, asking him why. And though he tried to look away, he could see her, see her hair burning, her poor brown eyes asking him why.
But then somehow it was different, and he was still warm, but there were no more sounds, he heard only breathing. Soft, intense breathing, and he saw her eyes, that woman; who was she? And she looked at him so closely he almost disappeared into her, and her lips bit together so wonderfully. He felt her hands on his back, like a thousand caresses brushing past as one, and dove into her completely, and the sensation was swirling and wonderful and so wonderful he almost… almost couldn’t…
Couldn’t what? Couldn’t do this, no. He was standing on the border to Russia, his cloak new and brisk in the spring air, the fresh flowers never penetrating his mask. And though the sky was a glorious pink, yellow and blue, he never enjoyed it, remembering how he’d come to be here.
He hadn’t told her he was leaving, had he?
What was her name?
And then, from the hospital, that poor wretch and his sister, begging him like the girl in the fire, their eyes wide with fear. Fearing him, and he feared himself too.
Over and over, Xiao Li couldn’t help but stare, and he felt the coldness overtake him again, and he wished he could remember the name before he awoke… But he knew it was too late, that his job was not done, that he still had work to do.