They had not stepped foot in this place for more than a decade, and never on this particular shore. Before them stood mounds of black rocks and beyond them a stretch of ominous, jagged trees that obscured the horizon.
Rocking gently above the waves, the seaplane floated behind them, its bright white surface desolate in the drab scenery around it. Cheadle and Pariston stood in place, too, foreign and small and a little lost in the midst of things that were yet to happen but which they both felt strongly.
Everything in front of them appeared as a fort, a castle that had fallen into ruin, its stones scattered about, some tumbling down into the shore and the water, and they, two tourists who had stumbled onto the wrong island resort.
"You said a car will be waiting for us?" Pariston asked, and even to his own ears his voice sounded distant, and the idea of a car in this place anachronistic.
Cheadle nodded. "There's a road here, across the rocks and above. The car will be waiting a little ahead."
Hauling their luggage and packages over the rocks and up to the road was a daunting task, done completely in silence as one burden moved from one pair of hands to another. Some of the rocks were slippery and Pariston could smell humidity everywhere, could feel it between the finest hairs on his head, the way it clung to his skin, the way it called on for his old headaches, and for a moment, as they finally set foot on a relatively flat surface, he contemplated the possibility that nobody will come to pick them up. What would they do, if that was the case?
And then they heard it. Footsteps over wet soil, a rustling, and a moment later a short, stout man appeared. He waved to them from afar, and perhaps because of the distance, or the hesitation in Cheadle's feet, or the smallness of being human in this place, his presence seemed jarring and unreal.
The three met halfway.
"Doctor Yorkshire, I believe?" The man said, a little flushed, his fluttery, nervous gray eyes regarding Pariston after he asked the question before settling back on Cheadle.
Gloved, she took the hand he offered. "Markov Golkin?"
"Yes."
"A pleasure." She said, then gestured with a hand to Pariston. "That's Pariston Hill, my assistant."
"Welcome here," Markov nodded in acknowledgment but did not shake his hand. "The car is a little bit ahead, please follow me."
He helped with carrying their luggage and moved ahead of them so that they saw no glimpse of his face until they reached the car. Inside it was another person, a blond man sitting behind the wheel, gazing from the side mirror at them, and as they approached him he stepped out and began handling the bags. He was silent and gave his name out like it was a chore. Twen, he said, with a cold demeanor.
The car was a dark green military pickup that runs on solar power, and Cheadle could hear the sound of its engine before it even started. These cars were not part of funding, but leftovers from years past, when conflicts were still erupting on the continent. They were prone to damage but easy to fix. She wondered how many of them they had and was answered quickly.
"It's the only operating car we have at the moment," Markov ventured as they slid inside and he took his place beside Twen who started revving the engine. "The settlement is nearby, so the journey won't be too long. We'll arrive there soon." He said with the awkwardness of someone who knew nobody in this car wanted to be in it.
Cheadle rained the two men with an endless parade of questions, from weather patterns and water treatment to the state of crops cultivation and the functioning of the satellite stations. Everything was answered with a dour, serious tone interspersed with nervous chuckles. Twen, the driver, remained completely silent throughout, his icy blue gaze assessing Pariston from the rearview mirror. Pariston smiled cordially, staring back at the sharp, disembodied eyes, and only looked away when Twen did.
Roads and pathways have been charted along the forest, and this side was, purportedly, the safest in the continent and the most capable of accommodating human inhabitants, and yet barely, if the words of this scientist had anything to reveal.
The farcicality of attempting to make a life here—with expendable souls, of course—was never lost on Pariston, for as soon as they had arrived on it years and years ago, it proved quite quickly and violently how resistant it was to the human hand. This knowledge hung heavy over everyone in the car, and nobody opened their mouth for a long while after that.
Cheadle especially did not move or emote, in her own head after her questions dried up, her eyes stayed fixed at the blurry chain of trees outside, and then her wooden expression was slightly moved by a strange insect that landed on her arm. The little creature flicked its translucent, oval wings, and settled low on her skin. She became even more still, watching the insect turn around among thin hairs, and perhaps a little too late she made to catch it, failing when the car rumbled and sputtered suddenly and all of them flew a bit over their seats.
When Cheadle lifted and turned her hand, the insect was flattened dead against her palm. She inspected it for a moment, then wiped it off her skin against the dull edge of the lowered window glass.
Pariston scratched his knuckles, grossed out and intrigued, and because for a long moment nobody said anything, he chanced a question about Ging. Cheadle was looking outside the window but her ears were with them.
"Freecs?" Markov asked naively, as if there could have been any other Ging in this place. "He's actually come down to the settlement in the past, but nobody has heard anything of him for years." He said, moving his eyes between the two of them. "He's a sworn hermit, that man."
Pariston hummed, delighted. "And I assume no one knows where he is right now?"
"No, not even in the past, really." Markov said, grabbing the seat headrest and lowering his head when the truck bumped up violently over rough terrain. "I wonder if he's even still alive. Outside the settlement borders, anything goes."
A shared, unvoiced scoff sat at the back of their throats. Ging wasn't dead, for sure. At least his letter suggested he wasn't. Quietly, Cheadle wondered how he'd snuck his secret message inside the digital report if he hadn't, as Markov claimed, come down to the settlement in years. Did he have an informant inside? It was likely; he tended to make acquaintances everywhere. Or did he sneak in without being seen and tamper with the report, and if so how did he know that one was being sent? Did he know about the infection? Does he have a way of knowing they arrived? Should they go looking for him or will he appear on his own?
She exchanged a look with Pariston. He seemed to be sharing her thoughts, and Twen was once again surveying them; his cold eyes poured into Pariston's, perhaps trying to dig something out, some truth, some kind of observation, but Pariston only smiled in return, this time less friendly, less accommodating, colder and more threatening than the frigid stare trying to read him.
Don't try us, it said. And as his eyes suggested, Twen was intelligent enough to finally avert his gaze and leave them alone.
The settlement borders were a reminder of the building's original militaristic purposes. They stood high, graying and peeling and topped with thorny wire fences. The land around them was cleared of trees and led to a large metal gate, beyond which stood the settlement. Rows of small units were built on top of one another, wall to wall, so that the structure extended vertically, leaving a relatively large space for planting crops, some from mainland, few local, most hybrids. Plots of land on the continent were rarely fertile or supported wide scale agriculture, and to find and maintain one was a precious endeavor, and thus more space was allocated to plants than people.
Atop the square cubicles, at the highest point of the structure, was built a small watch tower, a dome that appeared as the only curved shape in the entire landscape.
It was not apparent until they became closer—the little, narrow alleyways and the tight staircases that were hardly more than precarious ledges molded into walls. And water on the ground. Puddles of it, thin trails, twinkling gray and blue.
"It rained heavily yesterday," Markov informed them when he saw them looking. "But the insolation within the settlement has been excellent, so you don't have to worry about getting wet inside."
Pariston walked slowly, looking around, feeling eyes behind them, Twen still following them like a dissipating shadow, and eyes over them as they crossed the wet, serrated fields and reached the units, eyes that surveilled them from windows and walkways and roofs. He couldn't make out any particular shapes, everyone seemed a little shy at their arrival.
"Excuse the poor welcoming," Markov apologized. "As you're well aware of the situation here, you might imagine what it's like to see newcomers. Everybody is a little scared."
And that last line was addressed to Cheadle, specifically, nervous but a tad confrontational, and one that she nonetheless ignored, opting to turn around to look at Twen who was still trailing behind them, light-footed. Her sudden acknowledgement of him made him stop, and his eyes flicked for a second, the only expression of apprehension he allowed himself.
"You're a former soldier?" She asked him.
Twen spat on the ground, his body betraying his discomfort, and he answered without looking at her. "I'm leftovers, ma'am."
She ignored his rude display of disdain, shifting her attention from him to Markov. "When can I see the patients?"
"Soon," Markov said. "Let me take you up to your room first."
"Will it be shared?" Pariston inquired, catching up with the two of them to walk beside Cheadle who appeared visibly discomfited by the prospect.
"Ah, yes." Markov smiled awkwardly at them. "We were sadly uninformed that Doctor Yorkshire will have company. We believed she would come alone. I'll see what can be done about—"
"There's no need to do anything," Cheadle interrupted him, smiling. "Thank you." She even went as far as to put a hand on Pariston's back, transferring her smile up to him. "It would be better to maintain close quarters with my assistant."
"True," Pariston's eyes curved, feeling the flighty tips of her fingers brush against his vest. "I was thinking the same."
And with that they were taken up to one of the higher units, a room bereft of everything but a bed, a dresser, and a small window that overlooked the fields below. There was a cut off corner for a lavatory and a washing basin, but no space for a shower. It was closer to a prison cell than a room, but Cheadle and Pariston uttered no complaints as they ushered their things inside, were assured that all large packages will be handled with care, and were finally afforded a moment of privacy before Markov's promised return, who diligently and politely closed the door behind him.
At last the two looked each other in the eye. Cheadle was agitated, still holding a bag on her shoulder that she had kept on her person since they arrived, her hands gripping the straps like a kid on their first day of school. Faint sun light slanted into the room from the meager window to their left, making the perfectly square space seem even more desolate and barren. The sense that they were standing in a cage trickled into the room with the humid light from outside and the ceiling felt closer, like they could touch it if they lifted their arms high enough, and then the light dimmed, the walls grayed, shadows infested the room, crawling over the floor.
It remained unspoken, too, but both were waiting for those still standing behind the door to leave.
A moment passed and a cloud, and finally freeing herself from the load on her shoulders, Cheadle declared in a low growl: "He wanted to kill us."
"Twen?" Pariston asked, chuckling. "He's cute." He stepped towards the bed and poked the mattress with a suspicious forefinger, leaning down and squinting his eyes. "He was assessing me with his eyes; I kind of thought he was flirting."
She glared at him but he shrugged. Flirting or not, Cheadle had noticed the incessant staring as well, and in spite of Pariston being its target, the murderous intent was all directed towards her.
"He was trying to assess how much of a danger I posed." Pariston said, more seriously, finally allowing himself to sit on the bed. She said nothing. "I don't find it very strange, though. Do you?"
Cheadle walked towards the window and stood staring at the new world around her. Some figures had finally come out, two, three, five making their way towards an industrial well. Her hand felt the dusty, clay residue of the window bane brushing against her palm, eyes observing intently the people milling about the fields.
"We've barely arrived and already we have fans." Pariston joked.
A scoff escaped her, doubtful and self-deprecating. She took her hand off the window bane and dusted it over her pants. "We better stay careful regardless. Our first priority is the patients."
Pariston followed her with his eyes as she moved about the room, unpacking some stuff, sliding out a block of files from her bag to place it on the dresser with a loud thud, then opened the drawers one by one, found them empty, left them so, then to the bed where her gloved hand fell on the mattress, slapping a torrent of dust out of it. She stopped over it, hand clenched, and concluded aloud that aside from hygienic concerns, it was safe to sleep on, and then she seemed to realize that there was one bed and two of them.
When she gazed uncertain at him, Pariston assured her he's willing to sleep on the floor, more interested in figuring out the mechanism behind her technique, the one she used to discern what was safe and what wasn't, the one she used to analyze minute data, like what she'd tried to do back with the squished bug. He made no attempt to hide his curiosity, and she knew that he was interested in learning more, ignored him as one by one the fingers of her right hand slipped out of the glove.
At times like these, Pariston sorely missed his nen. Playing around with the limits of one's aura was a great way of discovering the abilities of other nen users. The majority of Hunters look down on those who replicate other people's techniques, but reverse engineering was an invaluable tool for learning. It took him a very long time, longer than most, and long after he mastered the basics, to develop techniques unique to himself. Hunters like Cheadle rarely relied on one affinity or one technique, and had a penchant for mixing several.
With that thought his eyes followed the invisible line from her right hand to her left foot, where her greatest pilfer was wrapped solid around her ankle. It would have looked so mundane if Pariston didn't know what it was, what it did and still does to him. The shackles around his own right ankle stung him like cold, scratched metal, as it always did, when he was this close to her, or perhaps this close to his own imprisoned aura.
Was there weight to it? Did it make her own nen use less efficient? Did it hurt her?
She sighed. "I suppose we should start making ourselves comfortable here."
Neither made a move to populate the cube they were going to share, but stood motionless, mentally circling each other, waiting and bored of waiting. They could open the door, they both thought. Open it to feel less stuck with the other, to feel less of the weight of their company that has begun to settle in, the weight of Cheadle remembering that she did not want him here but that she had brought him voluntarily, the importance of staying near each other, of acting as a team.
And as she deeply disliked his presence here so did some people dislike hers in this settlement. She knew that. Knew that perhaps the majority here had a bone to pick with her, and between the altruism of wanting to help and the selfishness of wanting to know Ging's motivations, she stood near the door, unable to open it.
"Do you hear that sound?" Pariston asked, turning towards the walls.
How the room could fall even quieter Cheadle didn't know, and in that dead quietude she could make out the sound—a gurgling, a rocky stream, like a choking. Both of them with ears to the wall, they listened to what sounded like sputtering water pipes. If they put a hand to the wall, they could even feel the vibrations of water moving.
"Sweetened sea water?"
"Yeah, from the treatment facility."
There were very few fresh, drinkable water sources on the continent, at least for humans. The ones that existed upon mass human arrival quickly depleted due to rapid exploitation, and the ones remaining ranged from highly saline to outright toxic. Once it became clear that no human civilization could flourish here, plans to turn the continent into a giant, sprawling land for mining exotic resources were fought by the Association with every ounce of acumen it possessed. Catastrophes had already befallen the ecosystem here without further human aggravation, and spending years in international courts and conventions to preserve the land from further destruction constituted the bulk of Cheadle's diplomatic work in the past decade.
"Doesn't it just make you thirsty?" Pariston wondered quietly. "This sound."
She swallowed, her saliva still tasted of the cold coffee she last drank on the seaplane before docking.
"What are you thinking about?"
His stature throwing a shadow over her, Cheadle looked up at her 'assistant'. "When we get out of this room," she began. "stay close to me, and don't speak to anybody unless spoken to. Don't arouse curiosity, and don't ask about Ging again, even if he's mentioned directly."
Pariston sighed solemnly. "So many demands, you should've written me a script."
She smirked. "Don't tell me you've lost your ability to make up your own."
"I don't think I have, no."
"Then act as necessary," Cheadle said, standing up to her full height, sliding her hand off the wall. "It's not a lie that I brought you with me as an assistant. You are going to help me, and you're going to learn how to do it fast."
"Don't they know who I am, or perhaps, more accurately, who I was ?" Pariston inquired. "After all, I'm still a convict. What would they think of you, having an international criminal tag along to help?"
"Every scientist here is an 'undesirable', as they are called. Some are convicts like you." Cheadle answered him, watched surprise glint in his eyes before he put things together. "And I didn't hide your identity, did I?" She looked at him pointedly. "Consider coming here to help me community service."
His trial was not open to the public and was not even privately televised, and not even all Hunters knew the full extent of his crimes. Even today, what happened of Pariston Hill has remained a mystery to many in the Association, and there were those who had transformed the circumstances of his trial and indictment into a political cause and a policy issue. Even those who were no fans of his and found him guilty were conscientious objectors. Cheadle, to her own surprise, was stronger than that tide, and was well aware that the historical and political moment just so happened to be in her favor when the matter of re-elections was posed and discussed and eventually dismissed. Nobody wanted more international scrutiny.
She stood atop a polarized and divided Association, and had accumulated enough enemies to last her this lifetime and the next.
When Pariston handed her his license, there was something prescient in his eyes, as if he already knew all that would happen, had seen it and lived it and was just waiting for her to go through it all and catch up with him. Cheadle thought that what pissed her off most was how something about him always made her reckless, and she did act recklessly in every decision regarding him, even when she believed it was the right one.
His eyes circled the room, and then with wide steps he left the gurgling walls and walked briskly to the door, wrapping the shabby doorknob with his fingers. Once again, the figures behind the door moved too slowly. He opened it.
Perhaps the smile he beamed at them made them take a step back, or the fact that the hallway was dark and a cloud had moved outside to drench their room in light, or that he stood at the doorway so that he blocked them from seeing anything except his body, towering over them.
"I didn't mean to startle you, I'm sorry." Pariston said, still smiling, and opened the door fully only a little too late.
Cheadle had been on the other side of the door so many times, had Pariston stand over her like he did now, cordial and friendly in all the wrong ways, and could imagine how the three scientists who were entering their room now must have felt to be stared down by those eyes.
All gloved, all in lab coats, stood and stared, and seemed to finally, collectively, notice Cheadle's presence. If they were a little shaken at being revealed before they were ready, they were now completely apprehensive, staring a little dumbfounded at the woman they called on for help, perhaps having imagined that she'd look anything but how she did now.
"Doctor Yorkshire," the only woman among the three spoke up, struggled to not form her sentence into a question. Blonde and stern-faced, she took a step closer and extended a hand. Cheadle took it instantly, and it appeared, then, that the power imbalance settled over everyone, and Pariston could almost see the gears turning in their heads while he stood and watched them introduce themselves, and then he did the same.
Cheadle already knew all of them. She knew their names, their professions, their accomplishments, where they came from and where they studied, but they knew nothing of her besides a name, and a title, and some malformed grudges.
That was the thing with famous Hunters; they were famous within their own circles, and the majority of people, even civilians within their field, rarely knew them in person. Many Hunters lived and moved and conducted their business by reputation alone without ever having a public face, and some, like Cheadle, were already reclusive and introverted by nature, and becoming the chairman of the Association hadn't changed that, it seemed.
Outside in the hallway, Sulei Fell, a biologist and the head of the research team, lead them in the opposite direction of where they came from, walking ahead side by side with Cheadle while Pariston occupied the middle row, feeling like a prisoner as the other two scientists strolled behind him. Sulei handed Cheadle a large screen device, asking her to scroll through it for all recent updates.
"The ill are isolated in a different building," Sulei said, summarizing the current situation. "We're short on equipment and staff, but all measures have been taken to keep the settlement running and the majority of residents healthy."
"And the research into possible causes for the illness?"
"Ongoing." Sulei replied, a little irritated. "But this place is bigger than it might appear, initially, and as I'm sure you've read in the report we sent, many of our settler members have been disappearing every now and then with no trace of them left."
"No tracking teams?"
The biologist's neck moved ever so slightly. "It's members of the tracking team who tend to disappear most." She said it without bothering to conceal her frustration. "We were hoping you'd help us with this."
"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid it's not my job." Cheadle said resolutely, and only stopped because the other woman did. "Disappearing members is not an uncommon problem."
When it seemed that her reply was not sufficient, that the biologist was hoping for something more, something softened in her face, and when she spoke she did so with more sympathy. "I'm here for the patients, and you need me here for the patients. I can look over the matter if you insist, but it's not an issue I'd recommend wasting your limited resources over."
"I see." Sulei muttered, hands in the pockets of her coat, thin graying hairs falling on her furrowed forehead.
Cheadle cut the silence before it could grow heavier. "You said hazmat suits are prepared for us?"
"Yes."
"Is the disinfection antechamber functioning well?"
"Yes." Sulei said and finally came to a halt in front of yet another long hallway, this one garishly lit, its walls lined with white protective gear and ending in a row of plastic curtains.
The sudden absence of all sound made everyone stand just a little bit straighter. "The isolation ward is right beyond this hallway."
Cheadle nodded and led the way inside. "The report mentioned infection selectivity," she said, taking the suit handed to her by Sulei. "Has it changed since?"
"No," Sulei answered, her eyes meeting Pariston's for a fleeting second as she passed him a suit. "The infection rate has remained stable; we don't have any new cases, but the infected have not shown any signs of recovery, and the state of some has worsened significantly since infection."
Cheadle nodded, pouring her body limb by limb inside the white suit. It was heavy and made breathing difficult, and she hasn't worn one in a long time. Head twice its actual weight, she felt the material of it chafe her skin, smelled in its creases the stale hallways and remnants of other people. Thinking back to the pictures she saw in the report, she took off her glasses and wore her own protective goggles, zipped the suit all the way up and fastened the breathing tube to her headgear. A little sideways, Pariston was following her steps, now completely engulfed within the suit as well. They looked at each other but they had no faces then and saw nothing.
"Any recommendations before we go in?" Cheadle asked, her voice muffled and distant.
Sulei let out what sounded like a scoff. "Just don't look too closely in their eyes." She sighed, giving everyone a moment to get ready. "Shall we go in?"
One by one they walked through the disinfection antechamber, which would serve them upon exit and not entrance, a thing that Pariston didn't know about until then. He was imagining a mist shower of some sort, to have some kind of antiseptic agent sprayed in his face, like a car in a car wash. He chuckled openly at the thought, and when white, featureless faces turned to him he chose to imagine they were amused too, and then he remembered, as they finally entered the blue quarantine room, how much he hated places like this. Dark and damp and full of ill people. He hated ill people, hated to be surrounded by them, and became aware now of his own health, of his own body, that he was standing and walking and not infirm in a bed, and his skin was not that color and his eyes were not dull china. He was breathing normally, only the suit made it a little hard, but he was breathing. One breath in, one out. His own heartbeat echoed inside the suit.
He could only look in their eyes. Seven pairs of them.
Pariston didn't know that mostly children were infected with this mysterious virus, and this discovery resulted in little more than dull discomfort. His eyes sought Cheadle but she was far ahead, the shortest in the group, standing between two beds, slightly bent over one. What was she thinking of this? Was she, like him, looking too closely in their eyes?
Was he supposed to pick a child to hunch over? He stood purposeless, lost as what to do, only his eyes trying to read everything in this room and faltering. Stone walls, thin tubes, metal beds, breathing masks, squeaking wheels of rolling tables, weak fingers clutching at the sweat-soaked sheets under them, and eyes. Eyes that found him and did not leave him.
This was not his field, and he would not have chosen to enter such a place willingly. It was small, crowded, and he was perfectly useless here. He didn't mind a lack of function, only that there was no space to be anything else. Here, one is either ill or desperate not to be.
Rashes, yellowing eyes and skin, fever, Pariston looked. Nails and hair falling off. Skin grainy and botched, and he could see rot in a mouth or two.
Again he searched for Cheadle, an anchoring act as the room swam into a quiet kind of chaos, every scientist trying to administer as much care as they could to the slowly dying who said nothing and only stared. Only Cheadle was talking, or trying to.
She stood over a boy who appeared much less debilitated than the others, most likely infected recently and still far from suffering the worst symptoms, but he was cold to her. Even though he looked feverish and weak, there was still a sharpness to his gaze and a reserved line to his mouth which suggested he wasn't unaware that the person attempting to converse with him is someone new, and from outside the settlement. He responded to Cheadle's questions with short, non-committal answers, his breath shortening with every word so that she had no choice in the end but to let him rest.
Pariston, this time, was the one to seek the eyes. He looked at that child, skin already discoloring, pale and brown-haired and smarter than he let on. He stared and the boy felt the gaze and stared back. Pariston's eyes a plastic screen, his face a white, crinkly mask.
"Come here," Cheadle's voice called for him. "Help me with the respirator."
Many have said before that he was good with children, but that was an elusive statement, and as he helped Cheadle with a child who couldn't be older than eight and watched him cough up thick strings of bloody saliva, Pariston doubted anyone here would care whether he was good or not. Just do the job. Just be the assistant. Just help this kid breathe.
Just pretend you know what you're doing. And he did.
Cheadle knew he could pretend, he could act, and he could learn how to be good at anything, and with these thoughts in mind, with the perspiration starting to collect heavily on his forehead and fingers, with the heat of his own body forming an extra suit around him, Pariston found a working rhythm that he only exited at the end of his first shift in the isolation ward, a place he will be frequenting many more times in the future, a place he will like less and less each time.
It was difficult to tell the passing of time in this room, and Cheadle could not take a glance at her wrist watch under the suit. Not knowing the time or the period they've spent there made her feel trapped, and with every new piece of information received or gleaned, she was duly reminded that nobody here was really equipped to handle a situation of this sort. It was far from a large-scale catastrophe in the vein of epidemics, even ones that had happened on this continent before, in this very settlement, but an outbreak of this kind was enough to wipe out a small community of people who did not know how to mitigate or stop it.
The majority here were either agronomists or botanists, some were not scientists at all, and if her observations up until this point were anything to go by, this place has become more of a sedentary farming community than a research facility. Moreover, there were still many gaps and missing links, information either undiscovered or left unsaid, things that roused her wariness and suspicions.
Cheadle was hoping for a short stay here, as short as she could make it, had packed her stuff with a certain plan in mind, but now she was doubting just how much she could stick to it. She hated this continent, this land, but knew there was no severing the variety of entanglements with it, not in any easy or clean manner, anyway, and she had only fought so hard for it because monopolizing resources was the surest way of protecting the Association and its interests. And then there was Ging, too. What a pest.
Her mind calmed down outside the ward under a shower of disinfectant spray. Sheets of white began peeling off heaving bodies, and before she could head to the little wall ledge where she had left her glasses, a hand gave them to her. Still with goggles on she looked up at Pariston's smiling face. He was slightly disheveled and looked—in spite of his disposition and she dared think this—a little unbalanced by the experience.
"Are you alright?" He asked her, toying with a damp lock of hair that stuck to his forehead.
"Are you?" Cheadle slid the goggles to her neck and began cleaning her glasses with the hem of her shirt.
Pariston finally managed to keep that rebellious hair strand out of his eyes. "Yeah, I am."
The two of them walked with the others outside the antechamber and back to the maze of hallways and glassless windows. Pariston's eyes were distant but he remained close to her, and remained silent as she conversed with Sulei and her colleagues. Their footsteps echoing through identical hallways, the group passed rooms and rooms, with doors closed and open, windows and no windows, empty and with beds, people and their absence.
Some of those people, mostly kids, stood at their doors and stared, not bothering to hide their curiosity, leaning against their door frames or hiding behind them; others closed their doors the instant a voice sounded in the hallway, and Cheadle could swear that if she slid a finger inside any keyhole she's going to poke an eye or two.
She had not been this scrutinized since the days succeeding Pariston's (and other Hunters) trial, as if everyone, then, was noticing her anew, as if she was completely unseen, other than physically, up until that point. Back then, in the Association's white, polished hallways, she was surveilled by objecting peers whom she knew and understood, but who were these people, here, now? They were people outside of her records, outside of what she knew, and there were many of them, more than she'd expected and more than she'd been informed.
Settlement S-507 was originally constructed by Kakin forces for military purposes and to house the growing number of soldiers and mercenaries and hired guns who flocked to the continent within the first couple years of mass arrival. There were many of them, and some had come with their spouses and children either in search of fortunes or a new place to call home—except none of them were ever really informed just how terrible this land was, just how many lives it was going to destroy, the million different ways in which it was going to kill them.
Smuggling people to the continent had become an industry in and of itself, and coming here was not cheap. Neither was leaving. Restrictions were put in place, and those who decided to break international laws by braving the journey had only themselves to rely on. Demilitarization was underway, an arduous process led by the Association and the Kakin government, but even those who had arrived here armed to the teeth and ready to claim territory could no longer return to their countries, for their own nations no longer wanted them. Effectively stripped of citizenship and human rights, and with a criminal record built on foreign land governed under no laws, thousands of people were simply left here, prisoners in an open prison, free to live the rest of their lives as they pleased, under the mercy of merciless nature, perhaps the last arbiter of their fates.
Sulei finally came to a stop before a large door and turned to address the two of them. "This is the common room. We congregate here outside of work to talk and eat."
"You've arrived at quite a decent formula for the pilti potato." Cheadle said, derailed by entering the wide room and noticing how relatively populated it was. "Are you taking all containment measures?"
Sulei gave her a wry smile, and it was the first time her face opened up in any kind of way. "To answer your first question. We did, indeed, create a decent formula; hybrid potatoes bound to become edible after the fifth hundred try. And second, we did take measures: disinfected the whole settlement to the best of our abilities, restricted movement, 'raised awareness', but that doesn't mean you can stop people from being self-annihilatingly stupid." She pointed her chin towards a group of people who were practically leering at them from over their plates. "Some of these people, especially the soldiers and mercenaries, aren't very friendly. You'd think they'd be more thankful for taking them in. It astounded me, the degree of their scientific illiteracy." The blonde woman looked at her. "I'm sure you understand that feeling."
Cheadle understood it a little too well, felt that last sentence in so much of her previous work. She knew what it was like, to be operating amidst a community of pig-heads who refused to listen because they didn't like what they heard.
"People aren't roaming as they please, however." Sulei continued, helping them around a table and gesturing for someone, most likely to bring food. "But they still have to eat, and we still aren't sure of the transmission route, anyway. It seems to be inconsistent."
"Have you collected samples from the infected?" Cheadle asked, following Pariston's blond head from the periphery of her vision.
"We did, extensively."
"Have you carried settlement-wide testing?"
"We're still trying to,"
"Trying to?"
"We're not doctors." Sulei declared with quiet vehemence, leaning over the table to look Cheadle deep in her eyes. "Might I remind you that none of us here are doctors, or virologists, or equipped to handle human illness of this degree. We're hardly able to convince people why they should cooperate." Then she smiled completely without joy, a challenging glint to her eyes. "The modest efforts of a bunch of smart, criminal farmers are what kept people alive till now."
This failed to impress Cheadle. She stared back, emotionless, only shifted her gaze nonchalantly for a moment when the food arrived, but didn't touch anything. "Your efforts are noted, but they will be absolutely useless if no stricter measures are taken, and taken fast. It appears to be quite the slow-moving pathogen, therefore only extensive testing can reveal the true number of the infected. You are not equipped, that's true," Cheadle raised her hand to wave pointedly at those loitering around them in the common room. "that's why letting people come here might've already lowered your chances of handling a potential outbreak."
"So what, you want a settlement-wide quarantine?"
"Yes," Cheadle said. "It is the best measure, until we discover the transmission route, and then begin working on treatments, and a vaccine, hopefully."
"You think it will be easy?" Sulei chuckled. "Nothing short of rounding up these mercenaries with shotguns will make them obey an enforced quarantine."
Cheadle finally picked the spoon placed in front of her. "You won't need shotguns, I hope. I'll explain the situation to them and will personally handle any issues."
Sulei exchanged looks with her two colleagues, already feeling power unwittingly slip from her hands. Cheadle wanted to inquire about Sulei's predecessor, a distinguished Padukian biologist by the name of Clarence Coll, who had died five years ago sampling one of his agricultural experiments. He was the only non-convict among the scientists, and had personally requested Cheadle to let him join the research team. The time wasn't right for it, she sensed.
"You can rest now, and then I want to meet with the whole scientific team afterwards, as soon as possible."
There were still many things left unsaid behind the thin line of Sulei's lips, but she hunkered down and nodded, the only defiance she could muster is declining to eat with them. Then finally, after she left with her two colleagues, Cheadle had a good chance to look at the food. It looked bad.
"How does it taste?" She asked Pariston who had already taken a bite, waited for him to sample the flavor patiently in his mouth.
He swallowed. "Not bad at all. A little bland." Dipping his spoon once again in the bowl, Pariston appeared to be testing the viscosity of the soup. He hasn't spoken a word since they exited the isolation ward. "I think some spices and extra ingredients would make something good out of it. How do they make it?"
"From hybrid crops; plants from mainland grafted into poisonous ones here to produce something edible." Cheadle answered. "Mainly potatoes and sweet peppers have been produced at a large scale, for now. At least that's what I've been told."
The two ate their food, aware of the numerous eyes circling them curiously. They were a happenstance, an event, and people pointed unabashedly at them. Hushed talks permeated the room, but the two didn't acknowledge the attention by looking back.
"A little sketchy, aren't they?" Pariston said, not bothering to even whisper.
Cheadle smirked. "You'd know."
"We do look pretty sketchy ourselves, too." He said, then took the last spoonful of soup. Her eyes, for some reason beyond her, watched the spoon slide out of his mouth, cleaned completely of every last bit of food, reflecting a dull, yellowish gleam, and then she watched some more as Pariston began inspecting the spoon closely before laying it neatly over the bowl.
"Why were you just staring at a spoon?"
Pariston laughed quietly, acting awkward as if she had just uncovered an embarrassing hobby of his. "I like cutlery. Copper ones are especially pretty. Look here," he gestured for her to flip her spoon, pointing towards a small engraving at the bottom of the handle. B&B, it read. "These ones are manufactured in Kakin. Everything here pretty much is, right?"
"More or less," Cheadle said. "It is their resources which built all this. I simply took over it."
He surveyed the room with an amused glance then turned back towards her. "Taking over something is not the same as making it yours," he smiled. "Don't you agree?"
They stared at each other, people continued to mill around them, seemed to step closer and closer to their table, forming a jagged circle.
"The question is, now," Pariston resumed, placing the spoon back on the bowl, ready to leave this room. "Are you going to make this place yours, or are you going to let them control you?"
III
It seemed to Pariston that they were in a constant state of physical descent, even when they were walking up a staircase. So much of this place appeared slapped together by people who had never in their lives glanced at a proper layout; windows overlooking clay walls, windows where no light came in, windows too small or too big, doors that led to other doors, and so many hallways that effectively segregated the space here into ever shrinking mazes. Yet, for a moment, walking here reminded him of strolling in the Association's own shiny hallways, where the windows extended from floor to ceiling, where the whole of Swaldani lay at his feet, where he knew all the darkest corners and where the sun shone most.
What became of that place, anyway? Now he imagines it empty but of Cheadle, walking alone in it, sleuthing its rooms in search of something that doesn't exist anymore, a butterfly in a glasshouse, the last of her kind.
She walked ahead of him now, around her people who were wary of her leading her to more people. He, too, was being watched, not as closely as she was, but with more apprehension; Cheadle did not look as old as she was or as strong as she was. She did not project an intimidating aura and had a talent for maintaining peace. But he was the unexpected element here, a wild card, and perhaps a confirmation of threat.
Pariston smiled as they finally joined the conference of settlement scientists, partially to his new 'colleagues' and fellow criminals but also in thought. Perhaps Ging was right to bring him here, to this place, in this moment, with Cheadle and nobody else.
Many people greeted them, all sporting lab coats, perhaps more for clout and distinguishability than practical purposes. Few they'd already met, Sulei and the two men who followed at her tailcoats at all times, Markov, too, and the rest were new faces. Twen wasn't there—a tech guy, Pariston ventured a guess.
The room was small and they were strewn about it in a circle, awaiting the initiation ceremony as he and Cheadle remained closest to the exit. Two chairs were brought to them, and everyone stared at Cheadle, regarding her with a mixture of curiosity and anticipation.
"Nice to meet all of you," she started, offering them a friendly smile. "I'm Cheadle Yorkshire, a doctor and a virologist, and the president of the Hunter Association." The order of titles matters. "This is my assistant, Pariston Hill."
A few respectful nods. Pariston would bet that none of them really know what her position entails but that the title itself was grandiose enough to make them listen a little more attentively.
"I'm sure you'd all like to be spared courtesies so we can get to what really matters." She continued. "If you wish to ask me anything, go ahead, because I myself have many questions." It sounded less like an honest opener and more of an early incrimination. "I hope after that you'll share all information you have with me."
A woman raised her hand.
"Hima Siwayama," she introduced herself. Cheadle nodded. "Is it an epidemic?"
"Not yet."
"Should we be afraid?"
"That remains to be seen."
"Are you going to cut our funding?"
Cheadle tilted her head. "Depends on what you have achieved, or didn't."
"Thank you, that's all."
"Anybody else?" Cheadle surveyed them one by one, her eyes finally landing on Sulei who always appeared with some unsaid protest behind her lips.
The already-existing circle of tension surrounding them shrunk a little tighter. The things that happened in the isolation ward were crawling over everybody's skin. It seemed, too, on their faces, that whatever Cheadle was going to ask is a question they've already pondered a thousand times.
"Why are there so many children in this place?"
"Refugees," Sulei opened a folder, passing it through several hands before it reached Cheadle. "They arrived in waves. One in November last year, the second between December and January, and the third most recently, in April."
Everyone breathed with the sound of turning pages. Cheadle read slowly, leafing through the folder. "Which means they've been here for eight months, more or less. Why have I not been informed of the true number of people in this place?"
"Because we believed it would affect our research." Sulei answered, solemn, serious, meeting Cheadle's stare resolutely. "To be completely honest, we feared you would cut funding."
"But you didn't fear for your resources?" Cheadle asked. "How are you caring for everyone here?"
"The crops we're cultivating." Sulei replied with a scoff and a hand wave, as if the question was too obvious to ask. "You've seen the fields outside, doctor; we haven't been sitting idle these past eight years."
"But you have significantly slowed down the pace of research," Cheadle retorted, closing the folder but keeping it on her lap. "and the dates suggest these waves of refugees have nothing to do with it. The last time any noteworthy progress was made was three years ago."
Markov stuttered out something that nobody understood, then he plucked up enough courage to speak a little louder. There was a jitter in his hands and he was digging the tip of his shoe in the ground to stop his leg from doing the same. "We've had… a couple setbacks. A flood destroyed a great deal of our crops, we've lost team members to several accidents and others simply disappeared." The man's gray eyes flitted, couldn't look at Cheadle for more than two seconds so his gaze kept shifting to Pariston, maybe searching for more sympathy there. He swallowed. "I'm not trying to make excuses; we've been careless, sometimes, we're trying to make up for what we've lost." He looked down, drawing a breath. "You can decide how to deal with this later, but these children have nothing to do with it."
"Well then," Cheadle adjusted her glasses. "Tell me what you know about them. Where did they come from?"
"We think they were displaced from one or two of the small settlements farther north." Markov replied, speaking slowly, his voice quiet but clear. "The series of floods of last year destroyed their homes, and then the earthquake, we believe as much."
"You don't mention any adults," Cheadle said. "Did they just come here by themselves?"
"Yes."
"That's strange." She hummed, tapping her fingers soundlessly on the folder, befuddled at something she couldn't put her finger on.
Sulei nodded. "It is. We've asked ourselves the same questions. Where are their parents? How did they travel all the way from their settlement to ours? If they had not left their colony by themselves, then at least they arrived here by themselves, perhaps losing members on the way."
"You think and you believe and you ask yourselves," Cheadle said. "but have you questioned them? Have they even been tested? Do you have any concrete information?"
A hesitant moment. "We didn't question, or test, anybody."
"Pardon?"
"We didn't question or test them, not the healthy ones, at least." Markov repeated, a little louder. "You can't just… you can't just go and ask a bunch of traumatized children about their—most likely—dead parents, or their destroyed homes, or subject them to tests to see if they deserve shelter. Some had come here gravely injured, some couldn't bring themselves to utter a word, and some are in fact still recovering. They were many and they were terrified."
Cheadle stared at him, unmoved. "Were they also terrified when they started spreading disease in your community?"
"It's not their fault."
"Of course it's not." Cheadle agreed. "It's yours."
This seemed to anger Markov, but he wasn't brave enough to raise his voice or do more than square his shoulders and tighten his jaw. "Do you suggest we should've let them stay out to fend for themselves? Do you suggest that we should've denied them assistance?"
"I merely suggest a little more competence from fellow scientists, but alas." Cheadle said, pinning every single one of them with a reproachful look. "Two members of your team are in the isolation ward, maybe even more are ill and we still don't know it; I would not be surprised if some of you started displaying symptoms soon as well." She spoke with certainty, spoke like she had seen this same situation play out before. "I doubt any of these children have been vaccinated against the myriad of viruses crawling this land, few we know and more yet to be encountered, studied, or understood. This is one of them." Her eyes moved from one to the other. "You have been utterly careless."
"But what if it's us?" A botanist called Nina spoke up again, turning all eyes in the room towards her. "Isn't there a possibility to suggest that the disease was generated here, and not wherever they came from? After all, the first person to become sick was one of us, and it didn't happen after the refugees' arrival."
"We can't rule out this possibility," Cheadle answered. "But the rates of infection and the apparent incubation period suggest otherwise. Regardless, we won't know for certain until we trace it backward; the community is sheltered and the number of sick people is small, it appears to be a slow-moving pathogen that spreads selectively and does not kill instantly, this should make tracing it towards a source easy."
A moment of silence, a space for anyone to voice objections, or ask questions, or raise concerns. Nobody uttered a word. Their faces were tense but some showed a subtle kind of relief, a feeling that Cheadle was going to help instead of set the place on fire, others still appeared unsure and wary. Pariston couldn't decide yet whether they had really wanted her here or not. If not, then they have readjusted their preparations admirably well.
"I will study the samples and help care for the patients." Cheadle continued. "And until we know the transmission routes of the virus, I want a quarantine enforced on the whole settlement, especially wherever these kids congregate. Announce, too, that we're holding mandatory medical checkups for everyone. I want access to the archives, as well as the profiles of every single person residing in the settlement, including yourselves."
"I'm afraid that we still don't have sufficient documentation for the refugees and the fighters." Markov said, hesitant whether to stand up as well or remain seated, still perhaps acclimating to the sudden shift in hierarchy.
"Start on it, then." Cheadle retorted, standing up, folder in hand. Pariston followed suit. "Thank you for your time, we'll be seeing a lot of each other in the coming days. I hope to be of help, and I hope that we'll be able to work well together. Take care of yourselves."
Finally out of that dingy room, Pariston took a breath, feeling the start of a migraine he knew will last for the remainder of the day begin to settle in. The hallways were dimming as the sun descended outside, and just around the corner, back towards their room, someone stopped them. One of the scientists. One of the older members. He appeared a little nervous and seemed to not notice Pariston's presence at all.
"Doctor," he called for Cheadle, would've grabbed her arm if she hadn't kept her distance and noticed belatedly that she didn't appreciate the proximity. He took a step back, reminding her of his name. Dotti Steis, he said with a hoarse voice, and his eye level never seemed to rise above a certain point. He looked somewhere close over people's heads and not at them. "I've heard so much about you, it's a little surreal to see you here among us. We were not expecting you to show up at all."
She nodded. "What can I do for you?"
"Nothing, really, I mean, not here or now, although I'd love to speak with you privately, about some of my own observations, but again, you just arrived, you need to rest." He said, finishing with a little nervous smile, the bent of his posture growing more noticeable the more his mouth moved. "But I do really want to speak with you. Shall I say the opinions in our little settlement are not, monolithic, I'll say." He giggled. "But anyway I'd love for us to work together. It's really an honor."
Once again, she nodded, closed before him. "It's been nice to meet all of you as well."
Like something stuck between teeth, it took some twisting to get rid of him. He insisted Cheadle visit what he called his 'private work space' and drew her a mental map exactly three times, stressing over a particular corner turn that could get her lost.
"What a kook."
"How many stock phrases are you going to use before you just snap at one of them?" Pariston asked her as they climbed a dark staircase, only partially teasing with the belief that they were yet to see the full extent of everybody's eccentricities.
A new pool of fresh human subjects to endlessly speculate over—was he the only one excited by that? He was certain she had run a full mental list of them all by now, especially those who tend to melt in the background. She notices them most because they are like her. He contemplated asking her about their crimes, but decided to read them on their faces instead.
"Is that a prediction, or a warning?" She wondered aloud, stopped for a minute because she went for the wrong door before pivoting to theirs.
"An enticement."
The room remained as they'd left it, only now the reality of it as a temporary shelter manifested. Luggage in the center of it needed to be moved, emptied and sorted out, drawers shared (top three for him, bottom three for her), personal spaces allocated. Quietly, the two of them went to work.
Like himself, Cheadle did not bring with her many personal items. He wasn't surprised at the mini pharmacy she'd carried along, the books, the extra pairs of glasses, boxes of hair dye, a roll of dark leather he suspected contained tools of some sort. She was silent, dipping her hands in her bags and taking out one thing at a time, deciding which drawers to use for which.
Pariston pulled out one of three wine bottles he had brought with him. He had each encased in wood and secure at the bottom of his large bag. "Want a drink?"
She scoffed over a shirt she was folding. "Save it for when the situation gets worse. I'd very much like to drink then."
"So you believe it will get worse."
"I believe it can ," she said. "But I also believe it doesn't have to be. Who knows, we might end up drinking in celebration."
"Alright, I'll save them for then." He said, returning them to the bag, making a point of it. "You'll know where to find them, if by chance it got worse and I'm not around, or to celebrate."
Cheadle rolled her eyes. "I appreciate it."
Stuff moved slowly; both of them seemed to be prolonging this cleanup so that discussing sleeping arrangements could be avoided, so that they had something to do in a new place where they still couldn't move freely, or know how to, and it was still too early to speak about his nen situation and too late to suggest taking a walk. He didn't like being shut in so early in the day. The night was ripe, and when he looked outside the window there were so many stars, and out there was Ging, too, outside a clay building where Pariston could see everyone dying.
There was silence, as well. That special kind of silence found only in nature, except something nagged at him about it, something he couldn't place, an absence of sorts, and to find an absence in silence was a strange thing. It is defined by absence.
He fought to stay awake because he despised the idea of sleeping so early. Cheadle was in the tiny bathroom changing her clothes while he changed his.
"You've done well today." Her voice reached him from the bathroom.
"Oh?" Pariston put the last of his things in the drawers, watched her walk back, now in her pajamas, then sneak under the bed sheets where she placed that same folder on her lap. "Thank you. It was a new experience."
She wasn't going to sleep but didn't seem interested in discussing this new experience with him either, so eventually Pariston succumbed, but only to lying down. He pulled the sleeping bag to a corner where he could observe the night sky and slipped inside, his face directly facing the window.
What was the night for? What was this night for?
"Are you thinking of Ging?" He asked, the stars outside grinning with more teeth than a shark.
"Tangentially." She said, her hands and the paper under them the same texture.
The night was for talking, and absence.
III