Scene 1. Load
The afterimage of the illumination round lingered.
Visible even with his eyes closed. A red circle floating in the center of his vision, slowly dying. Ian opened his closed eyes. The afterimage layered over the forest's darkness. The leaves were still red. No. Darkness. The darkness after the flare had died was thicker than before. Eyes that had seen light needed time to readjust to the dark. For Ian's eyes, that time was four seconds.
Ian walked through all four of them.
Weight hung from his right arm. Fifteen kilograms. Ian's brain produced the number. Not precise. Between fourteen and sixteen. The boy's wet clothes were adding mass. The weight of water. The weight of heat. The boy's head lolled against Ian's shoulder, and the weight of that dangling head pulled Ian's neck muscles downward.
'Load analysis. Right side, 15kg. Center of gravity offset 7 degrees left.'
Ian's left thigh responded. To compensate for the weight on his right arm, his left leg drove deeper into the ground. The stride changed. Right foot shortened by three centimeters. Left foot widened by three. The gait before carrying the boy and the gait after were not the same gait. Maintaining the same speed required an entirely different arrangement of muscles.
Ian's brain calculated it. Calculation complete, muscles executed. Execution complete, the stride stabilized. In three steps. From the fourth step on, the same steady rhythm as without the boy returned.
'Equipment weight compensation complete.'
The boy's forehead rested against Ian's neck. Hot. Still hot. It had only dropped one grade, from smelter to furnace. Where it touched, the phantom pain stirred. The sensation of fingers clenching on the arm that was not there. Nails that did not exist digging into a palm that did not exist. Heat was waking the pain. The painkiller was still malfunctioning.
Ian's jaw locked. Teeth ground. The sound echoed inside his mouth.
'Phantom pain level 3. Within tolerance. No impact on combat efficiency.'
He buried it under numbers. Laid numbers on top of the pain. The numbers pressed the pain down. Load. Angle. Stride. Speed. Remaining water. Remaining group members. Enemy search radius. Time elapsed since communication blackout. Numbers wove a grid inside Ian's brain. The tighter the grid, the less room for the phantom pain to wedge in. The less room, the more stable Ian's stride became. Filling pain with calculation. The only method of pain relief Ian knew. Apart from the boy's cold.
In the distance, light moved.
Light sweeping between the trees. White. Not the red of the illumination round. A searchlight. A sharp beam slicing through leaves, traveling slowly from left to right. Distance from Ian: two hundred meters. He back-calculated the search speed from the light's rate of travel. Slow. They were being cautious. Because the patrol had not returned.
Ian's feet changed direction. Perpendicular to the light's path. If the light moved left to right, Ian moved forward. Following the light's blind spot. Shadow eating shadow.
The boy's body shuddered once inside Ian's arm. A tremor made by fever. Not rhythmic. Like waves surging and retreating—when the heat crested he trembled, when it ebbed he went still, over and over. Ian's arm tightened around the boy once more. So the tremor would not break the rhythm of his stride. Not tightened—secured. The same motion as cinching a strap to keep equipment from rattling.
Behind him, the group followed. Breath held. Stepping on Ian's shadow.
Scene 2. Light and Dark
The searchlight drew closer.
One hundred meters. The cone of light swept along tree trunks as it approached. Moss flashed briefly under the white glare. The light passed and darkness covered it again. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. Each time the hand holding the searchlight swung, the forest blinked.
Ian's hand went down.
The signal to kneel. Without sound. Maria reacted first. She read Ian's gesture. Even in the darkness she had seen Ian's silhouette drop lower. Maria's knees folded. Maria's hand pressed down the lower-sector resident beside her. That one pressed the next. Like dominoes toppling, the group sank one by one. Into the undergrowth. Between the ferns.
Ian went prone with the boy in his arms. Placed the boy beneath him. The boy's burning forehead touched Ian's collarbone. The phantom pain spiked once. Ian's teeth clamped against each other. No sound.
The searchlight reached fifty meters ahead.
Boot steps. The sound of leaves being trodden. Not one pair. Several. Shhhk. Shhhk. Not at regular intervals. A search formation. A fan-shaped line advancing forward. Ian's brain back-calculated the formation from the spacing of the footsteps. Four. Five-meter intervals. Advance party.
Sound from a radio.
Static first. Then a voice. A short call sign. Ian's ears caught it. Imperial standard communication code. Search in progress. Nothing to report. The report of nothing to report reached Ian's ears.
'They haven't found us yet.'
The white beam swept three meters to Ian's left.
The light hit a fern leaf. Droplets clung to its surface. Left by the night fog. The droplets caught the light, flashed for an instant, and burst. The light passed. Darkness returned.
The edge of the beam grazed Ian's face. Over his half-closed eyes. His pupils did not constrict. Did not react to the light. His eyes were not watching the light—they were watching the hand behind it. The hand gripping the searchlight. The arm attached to that hand. The body attached to that arm. The black outline of the uniform that body wore.
A sound from behind. Very small. One of the lower-sector residents had failed to hold a breath and let it escape. The expelled air brushed against a dead leaf. Rustle.
The boot steps stopped.
The searchlight began to swing back toward where Ian lay prone. Slowly. The cone of light paused on the left, then started rotating toward Ian's position.
Maria moved.
Ian had not signaled. Maria had moved on her own. Maria's hand clamped over the mouth of the one who had exhaled. Palm covering the mouth, fingers pressing below the nose. The resident's eyes flew wide with terror. Maria's other hand seized the back of the skull and pushed the face into the dirt. The face buried into wet dead leaves. The body trembled once. Not resistance. Fear. Under Maria's hand, fear became trembling, trembling became rigidity, rigidity became submission. Maria did not release. Not until Ian gave the signal.
Ian did not give a signal. Maria had done it herself. Without Ian's order. Reading Ian's intent. Maria's body knew that when Ian held his breath, the entire group must hold its breath. Not learned. Imprinted.
The sound vanished.
The searchlight beam passed two meters to Ian's right. Fern leaves pressed under the light cast shadows. The shadow rolled over Ian's back. Rolled over and passed.
The light receded.
Boot steps resumed. Shhhk. Shhhk. The sound of advancing. Moving past where Ian lay, pushing forward. The searchlight began illuminating trees ahead. Receding. Ten meters. Twenty.
Ian's eyes opened.
He was watching the rear soldier. The last of the four. Back turned to Ian. In the darkness, the black outline of the uniform was faintly visible. The silhouette of a rifle slung over the shoulder. The antenna of a radio clipped to the belt. The nape of the neck was exposed. The strip of flesh between helmet and collar. Ian's eyes measured that gap. Width: three centimeters. Sufficient.
Ian's legs tried to move.
Not yet. Not close enough yet. Not far enough yet. The light had to recede further. The darkness had to thicken further.
Ian waited.
The darkness waited.
Scene 3. The Soundless Thing
Thirty meters.
Ian's body left the ground.
Still holding the boy. His right arm braced the boy's back. Only his left hand was free. One left hand. That was enough.
The rear soldier was first.
Ian's feet did not touch the dead leaves. Before they could land, the next foot was already lifting. Weight transferred before the sound of contact could occur. Movement lighter than wind turning a blade of grass. Thirty meters erased in six seconds.
The soldier's back was right there. The fabric of the uniform creased before Ian's eyes. The soldier did not know. That the darkness behind him had bared its teeth.
Ian's left hand rose.
The right arm did not move. It was holding the boy. The boy's weight locked the right side from shoulder to waist. The right half of his body was strapped to equipment. One left hand. One left arm. The left half alone had to execute combat.
Heat came first.
Something discharged from Ian's palm. Invisible. Soundless. The air simply warped. Like heat shimmer. Like what rises off summer asphalt. That distortion enveloped the radio clipped to the soldier's belt. The plastic casing softened. Began to melt. The antenna bent and drooped. The circuit board dissolved. The static that had been hissing cut out.
Communications died.
Ian's left hand touched the back of the soldier's neck. Heat seeped from the touching palm. The soldier's body locked rigid once. A scream climbed to the throat but could not escape. The heat had sealed the vocal cords first. The mouth opened but no sound came. A fish opening and closing its mouth above water. The soldier's legs gave out. Ian's hand caught the body and laid it soundlessly on the ground. Dead leaves received the corpse.
Second.
The soldier ahead tried to look back. He had detected the absence of footsteps behind him. His head rotated thirty degrees. At sixty, Ian arrived.
Ian's left hand caught the soldier's rifle. Wrapped around the barrel. Heat discharged from the palm. The metal flared hot. The black barrel turned cherry, cherry turned orange. The barrel bent like a squid's tentacle. The soldier's glove touched the heated barrel and melted. The smell of leather charring rose. The smell of flesh fusing with leather.
The soldier's mouth opened. A scream—
Ian's hand covered the soldier's mouth. Not the palm blocking it. The heat blocking it. Heat touching the lips boiled the scream into vapor. The soldier's eyes stretched to their widest. Not fear. Pain. Pain so pure there was no room left for fear.
Ian's eyes did not look at the soldier's eyes. Were not looking. They were watching the position of the third soldier. Five meters ahead. Standing with the searchlight.
The second soldier's body touched the ground. No sound. Ian had laid it on the dead leaves.
Third.
The soldier holding the searchlight turned around. Fully this time. The whole body rotating one hundred eighty degrees. The searchlight beam swung toward where Ian stood.
It did not reach.
Ian was not there. The beam illuminated where Ian had stood one second before. Ian's body was already outside the cone of light. The soldier's right side. The blind spot. The opposite side from the hand holding the searchlight.
Ian's left hand wrapped around the searchlight lens. Heat ate the glass. The lens warped and the light scattered. Light shredded into pieces, spraying in every direction. One second. The lens melted and the light died.
Darkness returned.
The searchlight fell from the soldier's hand. Molten metal clung to the soldier's glove. Before the soldier's mouth could open, Ian's hand touched the neck. The touching heat enveloped it. The soldier's body bucked once. Bucked and went slack.
Fourth.
The soldier at the front ran. Showing his back. Flight. He reached for his radio. His hand went to his belt. The fingers trying to press the radio's button were trembling.
Ian walked. Did not run. Walked. Carrying the boy. Ian walking was faster than the soldier running. The stride was different. Legs paralyzed by terror and the legs of a machine were not the same species.
He reached the soldier's back in three seconds.
Ian's left hand caught the soldier's shoulder. Pulled and turned. The soldier's face swung toward Ian. In the darkness, Ian's eyes would have been visible. Or perhaps not. It did not matter either way.
"Where's the main body."
Ian's voice dropped. No temperature. No emotion. Not a question. A command.
Sound came from the soldier's mouth. Not sound. Teeth clacking and saliva boiling, mixed together. Not words. Ian's hand traveled from the soldier's shoulder to the arm. Gripped the forearm. Heat penetrated the fabric. The uniform sleeve turned brown and shriveled. The skin beneath began to redden.
The soldier opened his mouth. This time words came. Broken, chewed, mangled words. Direction. Distance. Personnel. Ian's brain received them. Received and placed them on the grid. Coordinates marked.
Ian's hand left the soldier's forearm.
For one instant, hope may have passed through the soldier's eyes. There was no room for it to pass. Ian's hand touched the soldier's neck. The touching hand moved once. Once was all.
The soldier's body touched the ground. The boy's face, cradled in Ian's right arm, was buried against Ian's shoulder. The boy had not seen. Ian's body blocked the view. The four corpses. The charred gloves. The warped barrel. The boy's hot breath touched Ian's neck. Heat touched. The phantom pain was still stirring. And yet the trace of pain had vanished from Ian's face. Combat had eaten the pain. Hyperarousal had overwritten the phantom.
The corner of Ian's mouth did not move. What had moved in Episode 18 did not move this time. Instead, something else moved. Ian's left hand. The hand without blood. The hand that killed with heat carried no blood. That hand patted the boy's back once. Once. A meaningless gesture. A gesture Ian's brain had not commanded. One more thing that would not fit in any drawer.
Scene 4. The Next Bug
Four corpses lay in the darkness.
Ian's foot passed the body of the frontmost soldier. Did not stop. Almost stopped, then stopped. A radio was still clipped to the soldier's belt. An unmelted radio. The one the fourth soldier had been too busy fleeing to use.
Ian's hand ripped the radio from the corpse's belt.
The power was on. Static flowed out. Ksshh. Ksshh. Regular static. Ian's fingers turned the frequency dial. The channel changed. The static changed. Another channel. Yet another.
On the third channel, a voice came through.
Static and voice intertwined. Extracting the voice from the noise was not difficult. Ian's ears decoded.
"—Sector 3 advance party unresponsive. Repeat, Sector 3 advance party unresponsive. Sector 2 and Sector 5 verification units, adjust rally point. Repeat—"
Ian's eyes did not narrow. This was within projected parameters. When the advance party fails to return, the rally point is adjusted. The search radius tightens. Standard procedure.
The static cut out.
A different voice came through. Same channel, different voice. If the first had been the field commander's, this one was coming from somewhere else. Farther away. Higher up. Less noise. A transmitter of a different class entirely.
"—Verification unit losses have exceeded acceptable parameters. Code White. Repeat, Code White. Initiation of purification protocol authorized. Two White platoons deploying to Sector 3. Estimated arrival 0400—"
Ian's fingers stopped.
Code White.
Ian's brain received the words. Received and did not translate. No need to translate. Words carved into bone. Words branded beneath the skin. Ian's body remembered them. Muscles remembered, bones remembered, scars remembered.
Purification Corps.
White combat uniforms. Things without faces. Not regular local patrol. Not a verification unit. Hounds. Real hounds. The things the Empire unleashed when it wanted to burn something contaminated. Ian had been broken under their hands before. Long ago. When he still had two arms. The scar from that time still remained on the left side of his back. Even now, when it rained, that scar pulled.
'0400. Current time estimate: 0130. Time remaining: two hours thirty minutes.'
Ian's brain rewove the grid. A new variable had been added. Coordinates shifted. The route shifted. Subtract travel time from estimated arrival, add safe distance, divide by the group's movement speed. The numbers produced an answer.
'Route change mandatory.'
Ian set the radio on the ground. The foot that set it down stepped on it. The sound of plastic cracking came from between the dead leaves.
The boy's forehead rested against Ian's neck.
Not hot.
Still hot. But one more layer cooler than before. Smelter to furnace, furnace to low-grade fever. The boy's temperature had dropped another level. Where it touched, the phantom pain began to bow its head. The pounding of the absent pulse slowed. Thud. ...Thud. The intervals widened. The painkiller was switching back on.
'Analgesic effect reactivating. Level 3 → Level 1.'
Ian's jaw released. The grinding teeth separated. The jaw muscles loosened, one fiber at a time.
Ian looked back at the group.
In the darkness, five silhouettes lay low. Maria was at the front. Maria's eyes were on Ian. Past the four corpses. Ian with the boy in his arms. Ian's hands without a single drop of blood. The darkness that had swallowed the light.
Maria's knees tried to fold. Already prone, and still trying to go lower. The motion of pressing her forehead to the earth.
"Up."
Ian said.
Maria's body froze. Because Ian's voice was a command. Because it was the word of god.
Ian shifted direction. Forty-five degrees east from the current route. The farthest heading from the Purification Corps' deployment point. Ian's feet moved. The boy in his arm. One arm.
"The bugs got bigger."
Ian said. Walking. Not looking back.
"We step on them and keep going."
Darkness swallowed Ian. Maria rose. The group rose. Followed. Over the four corpses left behind, the night fog began to settle.
The forest fell quiet again.