Karim secures the straps of the respirator over his face with a heavy sigh as he walks down the back hall of the infirmary. He has yet to free himself of anything more than his helmet. The resulting layer of sweat building up is starting to get to him when it usually doesn’t, but he won’t allow himself to fully dress down until he’s back in his quarters.
He’s at the point where a true moment to himself and his own thoughts is so close that it’s like a bad itch, but the final few steps to get to that point still feel like climbing a mountain.
A reinforced door on the wall adjacent to the bathroom is his target, paper warnings of ‘respirator required’ and ‘authorized staff only’ secured to its thick surface with clear tape. Pulling on the handle to get it open takes force and comes with the same characteristic release of air that all the heavy-duty doors have.
On the other side is a small laboratory so tightly packed with counters and equipment that two people can’t walk through it if they are side-by-side. One might think the range of things here used for testing and analysis seems excessive for such a small base, but it doesn’t even come close to what he’s glimpsed in the laboratories back at HQ. Now that he thinks about it, this place must produce most of the samples used for study, considering its position within the depths of the fog.
Dr. Pareira stands at the opposite end of the room with her head bent down and the thick straps of her respirator pressing her hair to the back of her neck. She doesn’t give any indication that she noticed him entering as he secures the door behind him. Her body blocks whatever it is that has her attention.
“I’m here, finally,” he says, raising his voice so that he doesn’t accidentally spook her as he approaches. “I had to arrange some things for tomorrow. Did I miss anything exciting?”
“I’m not sure ‘exciting’ would be the word I’d use.”
She doesn’t turn to look at him, even as he gets close enough to see what she’s so focused on that’s laid out on the counter in front of her: a modified compact condenser with a design that resembles a space heater, two racks holding sample tubes, and an empty glass petri dish. The small condenser’s faint hum and the red glow it casts over the equipment contribute to his unease.
The smaller and less robust of the two racks hold the tubes of Sira’s blood. The other rack, one with more reinforcement in its design, holds a series of tubes that can only be described as ‘armored’ in comparison to the standard sample tubes. Condensed fog.
He leans an arm on a clear section of countertop and at enough distance from what she’s doing that it wouldn’t pose a risk to her work. “I can’t say I know much about this kind of thing, aside from what I get briefed on as part of my job, but for some reason I expected more than this.”
“What you see in this room is just enough to rule out infection in case someone in our staff is exposed, which happens to include equipment for standard bloodwork,” she tells him. “Smaller bases where the fog isn’t as thick and exposure is less of a risk usually aren’t granted the same. That being said, it’s mostly for testing and collection, not intensive research.”
“I didn’t think you’d been trained in research.”
She shakes her head. “The standard for medical staff is to spend a few months at HQ for training or having people from HQ go out and train people on the job. Sometimes both. I did the former. You don’t learn the ins and outs of how the virus works, but you learn enough to get the data on whether someone is sick or not. That way, we can avoid mistakes when…”
Dr. Pareira trails off, but he doesn’t need her to finish.
‘Saving humanity’ is a grim business.
“How did the blood samples look?” He asks, bringing the subject back to the matter at hand.
She breathes in – slow and deliberate. “Low hemoglobin, so probably anemic. That’s fixable, though. Easy, so long as there isn’t something underlying. That’s the only abnormal finding. Regarding the virus…well, they’re not infected.”
“The way you said that almost makes it sound like a bad thing.”
She finally turns her head to look at him, the sternest expression he’s seen on her face all day – and that’s saying something. “I know there’s only so much you’re willing to tell me, but what made you come to the conclusion that this individual could be immune to the fog?”
His lower lip sinks back between his teeth. He should be careful here. “Breathing perfectly fine without any facial protection in the thick of it, and that was only an hour or so before I brought them to you. I can’t exactly prove it, but there it is.”
She stares at him. For a moment, he expects a chiding remark about deciding to bring someone with potential exposure straight into a populated area. Anyone who hadn’t witnessed it for themselves wouldn’t understand, but she says nothing along those lines. Instead, she shakes her head again. “That makes even less sense.”
He feels the tight smile forming on his face even when she can’t see it behind his mask. “I don’t like it when people aren’t straight with me, doc.”
“Sira has no viral load – at least not at a detectable level.”
Oh.
He stares back at her blankly. The synapses are starting to fire, the wires reorienting and connecting themselves where they need to be, but it’s slow-going.
“If you’re correct about how much they should’ve been exposed to,” she says, “that should be impossible.”
A long moment of silence follows.
“That’s…not exactly a surprise. Maybe it has more gravity with you than it does with me since I’m no doctor, but impossible things seem to be happening more and more lately.”
What an inane and useless thing to say, he chides himself.
“I think you’ll agree with me, Captain—” she says, turning back to the apparatus laid across the counter, “—when I say that there are some things that you have to see for yourself.”
The vial of Sira’s blood that remains is about halfway full. She takes it into her gloved hands, removes its cap, and dumps the rest of it into the petri dish in a rather unceremonious fashion. A lot more care is taken – a lot more – when she handles one of the vials of condensed fog. She places one hand on its cover to release it with an almost inaudible ‘hiss,’ with the other hand firmly gripping the base. For this, she retrieves a pipette and inserts it into the vial.
The contents shift around in swirling shapes and patterns as if the liquid form still retains its mist-like qualities. Karim once asked a researcher at HQ if it was supposed to look like that, and they had just given him a very, very tired look.
The doctor hesitates a moment as she moves the pipette over the dish, but after a quick breath, she deposits the sample with a careful press of its bulb. Its consistency is very much liquid, comparable to the consistency of blood, but it comes out slowly. The hazardous substance pools into the petri dish alongside the blood, and…
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…nothing happens.
‘Alongside the blood’ is very literal. Instead of mixing with the other material or at least breaking it up, as he half-expects, it settles in the parts of the dish that the blood isn’t occupying, like filling in the rest of a shape. The boundary between the two substances remains so starkly clear it’s like they repel each other.
“Huh,” he says. There’s nothing else he can come up with. “Like oil and water.”
“More like mercury and water.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on the counter on either side of the petri dish. Her gloved fingers weave together, and she rests the visor of her respirator against them as she lets out a deep, profound sigh.
“But what’s supposed to happen is something different.”
“This was demonstrated to me as part of my training,” she says. “A sample of human blood combined with a sample of the fog. It gives us an idea of how the virus affects the human body overall, not just the bloodstream.”
She straightens herself, presses her fingers against the edges of the petri dish, then gives it a small shake – not enough to fling any of its contents onto the counter, but enough to demonstrate that the firm division between the two substances isn’t budging.
“There’s supposed to be an immediate visible effect. It’s supposed to be melding with the blood cells. Changing them. ‘Corrupting’ is maybe a better way of describing it. It’s an effect unlike anything anyone’s ever seen before with any kind of disease, or so I’m told. But this…”
He doesn’t know what the visible effect she’s talking about is, but he can get an idea; after all, you can only watch someone transform with your own eyes so many times before the way that looks is cemented into your psyche for the rest of your life. He stares absently at the boundary between the viral sample and Sira’s blood as a deep sense of uneasiness starts to creep over him. Part of it is the memories cropping up, the rest is the fact he can’t fully wrap his head around what this means.
“There’s no chance that the sample you’re working with is inert or something, is there?”
“No. That’s not how that works.”
“Then it’s almost like their body is rejecting it outright, rather than being immune in the typical sense. Is that right?”
“Their blood is, at least. But it shouldn’t be possible. Can’t be. Look at it—“ her hands gesture to the petri dish, “—this isn’t just re-writing fundamentals of biology, it’s re-writing physics.”
God, my head is hurting too much for this.
“Okay,” he says, calm and stable like he’s trying to talk someone down from making a bad decision, but his affect is starting to flatline. “Is this a good thing or a bad thing?”
“I don’t know,” she says, sounding defeated. “But I can say that I don’t like it – any of it, this whole situation – and I cannot wait until you’re all gone tomorrow so that it isn’t my problem anymore.”
“I can sympathize with that, and I’ll make sure that it won’t be once we leave.” He stands back from the counter, stretching his arms above him to work out some of the itching feeling. He won’t be able to tell her about this yet. No, she would have to see it for herself. “You’ve seen to our patient and given me something tangible to work with. That’s all I can ask.”
“Good. Does that mean I’m done being involved now?”
He nods. “Just give me the papers I need, and this is the last you’ll hear from me.”
–
Karim starts undoing the rest of his uniform as soon as he shuts the door to his quarters behind him. He’s not always able to have a room separate from his underlings, but his position tends to grant him sway with the quartermasters. Moreover, he prefers to give the others space from him in their downtime rather than constantly breathing down their necks. He thinks they appreciate it, but it’s also for his own sanity.
Or whatever is left of it.
The room is smaller than the primary quarters but has the same type of furnishings. It’s dark, but he keeps it that way. As he haphazardly starts to undo the rest of his armor with one hand, he uses the other to snatch a small device hooked to his belt: a cell phone, one with a small display and a basic keypad.
He switches hands after managing to undo the straps on one side and proceeds to dial. It rings for a moment that feels like an eternity, which isn’t ideal for his growing impatience.
Finally, the other end picks up. “It’s two o’clock in the morning.”
“I’m painfully aware.” He hopes that his smirk can be picked up through his voice; it’s something that would irritate her. “Are you alone right now?”
“…where exactly is this going?”
“It’s a very straightforward question, Director,” he clarifies. “What I’m about to tell you is something you’re not going to want anyone else to hear, and something you’ll also want to be awake for.”
Brief cuts of ambient audio come through the call. The shuffling of blankets. “Go on, then. I’m alone and in my quarters.”
“Then I’ll get to the point: we’ve found someone who – as far as we can tell – isn’t affected by the virus.”
A long pause.
“What?”
It’s a single word, but it comes out so sharp that the edge of it presses into his ears even miles away. He lets out a mirthless chuckle. “Do you need me to repeat myself, ma’am?”
“Karim,” she says flatly, “I am going to strangle you without remorse if you are going out of your way just to mess with me.”
“I’m being completely serious. I couldn’t believe it myself at first, but well, here we are.” The torso parts of his armor drop to the carpeted floor. He wedges the phone between his shoulder and ear as he starts on the arms and legs. The smirk drops from his face. “I had them brought into F-6 covertly after they were retrieved. The only one here other than us who knows anything is the doctor because of necessary tests, and she doesn’t know the full story.”
To be fair, neither do we.
“’They’?”
“It’s one individual. They’re, er, a bit androgynous and haven’t corrected any of us, so that’s what we’ve been rolling with,” he explains.
Something creaks. She must be standing now. “How did this happen?”
“As my team tells it, a random individual was being chased by phantoms. They intervened on instinct before figuring out that the person they saved had no facial protection. This was in some of the thickest parts of the fog here that would have transformed anyone else in a matter of seconds. They contacted me and I got to witness it with my own eyes. It’s quite the sight, I have to say.”
“That’s not possible.”
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard some variation of that today,” he says dryly.
Her tone of voice becomes sharper again. “Fine. Where did this ‘individual’ say they come from? Who are they? That sector is the least populated in that region, I find it difficult to believe that someone would just be wandering around there without a reason.”
She’s definitely woken up now. “I know, but we don’t have the answer to that yet.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll love this part.” He successfully pulls off his boots and unzips the upper portion of his suit, tugging it off. “We don’t know yet because they say they don’t remember anything – anything other than what might be their first name.”
Another pause. “You’re joking.”
“No, ma’am.”
“And you believe them?”
“I do.”
“You’re telling me—” she inhales sharply, the tiredness now fully absent from her voice, “—that you brought an individual who could not identify themselves or their allegiance, with significant exposure to the virus, right into one of our bases, without any formal warning to anyone there or contacting me about it sooner?”
He’s smirking again. He can’t help it. “Yup.”
“You do realize that’s a direct breach of every basic safety protocol we have in place to prevent infection – that I could have you arrested, tried, and even exiled.”
“Yes, ma’am, but you won’t, because as impossible as all this sounds to believe over the phone, I have concrete results to show you they are not infected.”
“…you’re asking me to take a lot on faith,” she says, sounding tired once more.
“And yet something tells me that if any of the others were trying to convince you of this, you wouldn’t even be listening to them.”
Silence. Again. He sits on the edge of his bed and rolls one of his shoulders. The suit and armor are on the floor now, but he can’t appreciate the lightness of just his plain uniform with the conversation at hand.
“Come on now, Adeline,” he says, “all of it sounds like complete and total bullshit, I know, but you know I wouldn’t be messing around with something like this. If they’re hiding something from us, then the one person who could pick up on that is you.”
“…have you already arranged transportation?”
There we go. “Yes. We’ll be leaving at the crack of dawn.
“I’ll have some of my own meet you at a checkpoint halfway. And Karim?”
He tugs his hair out of its tie. Much better. The headache is still there, but maybe a few hours of sleep will bring it down some if there’s any mercy in the world. “Mhm?”
“If you screw this up, I’m firing you. At minimum.”
In any other context, he would take it as an empty threat, even coming from someone as serious as she usually is. This time, though, all that settles in his gut is the same uneasiness he felt while watching the doctor messing with the petri dish.
The same that he felt when he stood there watching Sira freely breathe in enough of the virus to take down everyone present.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
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