Chunk 07

In practice, it only meant that we couldn't assimilate protein from the meat of local animals, and the local predators couldn't properly digest a human. And that was that.

The colony was located in a temperate climate zone, closer to tundra. It was quite cool, and the low cloud cover made any day gloomy. The vegetation resembled northern coniferous forests on Earth, which is why we called the surrounding wilderness "taiga." The terrain was flat and swampy. The animal world was lush, diverse, and somewhat dangerous (there were plenty of predators), but also quite normal. And yet the very fact of studying something previously unseen was captivating.

Mostly I hung around the biostation. And since I wasn't just a biologist, but a biocontrol employee, I was interested in animals potentially dangerous to humans. This, as you understand, is three times more interesting! And sometimes there were raids beyond the Perimeter, each one a pure adventure. No wonder I managed to forget about my disease. There was simply no time for stupid thoughts. We collected information, instructed sentries, developed survival recommendations, and so on.

Besides me, two other military biologists and a technician worked at the biostation: broad-shouldered dark-skinned biocontrol commander Aba (actually Major Abu Asad, but behind his back always Aba), a sweet brunette with a captain's rank — senior biologist Irma, and a somewhat withdrawn lanky sergeant Anton. You could say that a separate biocontrol company is a bunch of troublemakers with basic biology knowledge who know how to catch hellish creatures alive. But our biostation was its own microworld within this company. An ideal team. Except that Anton was a gloomy skeptic who had a talent for ruining the brightest summer day, so rare and desired here, with an inappropriate reminder about solar radiation. However, he made it even more interesting. He seemed to offset the research romanticism that we biologists almost worshipped.

Usually we divided all the work equally, regardless of rank, and our atmosphere was more scientific than military. In a month I'd gotten so used to our team, it was as if we'd worked together for years.

The camp was completely autonomous. If you didn't count the water, which we purified and then enriched with salts brought from Earth, we consumed nothing from outside at all. Except air. We had our own livestock farm with cows, pigs, chickens, and turkeys, we had our own fruit trees and a rice field. And even the lawns in the camp were sown with Earth grass. The security service had German shepherds, and their nighttime barking made our colony completely resemble a backwater Earth town.

In orbit hung our mother ship — a huge star battleship with the pompous name "Three Crowns of Cortez." It arrived at Ix-Chel first, and it would be the last to depart for Earth, taking all of us from here after the mission ended. On the "Three Crowns" there was plenty of everything, including scientific laboratories, a hospital, reserve supplies, and so on. The two other ships — smaller ones — had already left, taking with them the engineering battalion that built the camp and the rest of the temporary mission participants.

What else to tell about Ix-Chel... The local day here was four hours longer than Earth's, but for convenience it was still divided into twenty-four parts. It came out to seventy minutes per hour. We stopped noticing the difference very quickly. The extra work time was ground up by routine matters. The extra hours for sleep were eaten up by evening chores. Except that the sixtieth minutes on the clock display reminded us that this was still not Earth.

And also nothing rotted here. Incredible! Nothing at all. We still hadn't figured out what happened to dead animals in the taiga — obviously there were some sanitary animals — but in our colony we even conducted several experiments. A piece of raw meat in the warmth showed not the slightest signs of decomposition even after a week. It simply dried out.

Vira attended courses for civilian specialists, after which she was to take some position in administration or logistics. Elza went to kindergarten. By and large, the dream I'd unexpectedly formulated for myself in infinitely distant Kyiv had come true — "to live happily near Elza." And I was living. For the first time in a long time I was living, so to speak, "breathing deeply." Elza, my little sunshine, made this life truly happy. Relations with Virka, by the way, had also improved. Although the change of scenery wasn't a panacea: Virunchik, no matter how you turned it, remained herself. And yet our family crisis had stayed somewhere back there, a hundred and sixty-three thousand light years away.

That morning I, as usual, was making myself coffee. It was seven o'clock or somewhere close to that. Vira was still sleeping. I was listening to the local radio station, where, as it should be in the morning, they were just reading statistical forecasts. The probability of rain, equipment failure, migraine attacks, and even unexpected pregnancy precisely today. People adore all this nonsense, believing they can outwit fate. I know a person who changed his mind about getting married after hearing about a five percent probability of intrauterine pathology in his and his fiancée's not-yet-conceived child...

"And I know a guy who ran off to another galaxy so there'd be someone to pay out insurance to his family," I remarked caustically to myself and hastened to crumple up this thought and throw it in the farthest trash bin of my mind.

I had a different situation. Completely different. A fifty-fifty probability, from the point of view of statistical forecasting, is fantastically high! There they rarely talk about anything more than fractions of a percent. By the way, this doesn't stop space liners from exploding from time to time. So a flipped coin, on which at any moment a dancing fool could come up, in my place many would take as a death sentence. And I'm definitely not the worst example. Though, I have to admit, not the best either...

The coffee maker busily hummed, and two tight honey-brown streams struck the rounded bottom of a carefully warmed porcelain cup. The crema turned out wonderful. I took the cup from the machine and set it on the table. If you love coffee as I love it, then you know that in such moments every second matters. Every microgram of volatile essential oils. I hastily took a chocolate bar from the refrigerator, poured a bit of warmed milk into a creamer, lifted the cup to place it on the saucer... And then there arose a sensation as if something stuck to the fingers of my right hand. Something thin, like a film. I looked — nothing. I rubbed my fingertips, and they responded somewhere deep inside with a weak tingling. I worked my hand well. Really such a feeling, as if my fingers were wrapped in film. I feverishly searched for some explanation for the strange sensation. Some other explanation — one that wouldn't include the phrase "abnormal protein"... I'll admit, somewhere in my chest an invisible breeze of fright immediately whirled up a vortex of prickly snowflakes and drove them down, first into my stomach, then through my thighs below my knees and, finally, dispersed them with a lingering unpleasant sensation along my calves. But no... Probably just slept on my arm. At worst — pinched a nerve.

The announcer with a beautiful contralto voice reminded that on Ix-Chel there were category "A" risks, which means the probability of death for each person individually is estimated at zero-point-zero-something-or-other percent. But since I'd long ago calculated that in practice this means at least eight people who will find their death here on Ix-Chel over the next three years, my mood was completely ruined.

Once again I doubtfully rubbed the fingers wrapped in an invisible polyethylene film. We've completely lost our minds with this confidence of ours that the probability of getting hit by a car is at worst about the neighbor whose name we never thought to learn. About him, or about another one, a floor below, or about the one who always forgets to close the underground garage gate — but definitely not about us... Vira (just think, pessimist Vira!) sometimes accused me of expecting bad things from life. And she was right about something... But to deceive yourself with fractions of a percent and be unable to round them up to one human life — that, in my opinion, is even worse. Just google how often syndromes like mine occur, and then look at me. Something like that...

I remembered the coffee and saw that the luxurious crema had settled and decreased almost by half. I angrily threw a dirty spoon into the sink. It loudly clinked against the steel, bounced and fell again, clattering defiantly. Strange, but I felt better. I sat down at the table and finally took a sip. And squinted with pleasure — the coffee still turned out well. No, I'm no worse than others. I just really love life... And fear losing it.

"What are you clattering about?" Vira's sour voice made me shudder with surprise. "Woke me up..."

"Oh, well... Good morning, Virunya!"

"Couldn't be better... Couldn't fall asleep half the night."

Virka sat on the stool, as always tucking her knees right under her chin. After leaving Kyiv I'd already started to forget what it was like — to start and end the day with someone who's eternally dissatisfied with something.

"Why?" I asked as gently as possible. "Nightmares again?"

This was probably also a feature of Ix-Chel: here people often had vivid and emotional dreams. And usually unpleasant, and sometimes truly frightening. Probably "nightmares" is the most accurate definition. Probably due to oversaturation of the atmosphere with ozone. At first it was worrying, but then everyone got used to it one way or another, and some even liked it. Nightmares became a common topic of conversation, like discussing the weather. Unless those dreams were very personal. After all, for example, I from time to time dreamed again of terrible butterflies. Or variations on the theme of "dancing fools." So I didn't discuss my dreams with anyone.

"You tossed and turned like a flea-bitten dog," Vira informed me. "Half the night back and forth..."

Tonight in my dream I was my father jumping from a window... Fragments of delirium surfaced in my head, and I mechanically rubbed my fingertips against my palm. Nerve... Just pinched a nerve.

"And you jab with your elbows too..." Vira continued. "I'll wake up one day with a broken nose!"

A bubble of rage slowly began to inflate in me. This was her favorite theme: I sleep in positions uncomfortable for her! Several times she even woke me in the middle of the night to say something like: "I was turning over and hit your elbow!". She was turning over, not me!

Restraining myself, I simply began making her coffee.

"And toward morning some nonsense was dreaming," Vira went on. "Either we're getting divorced, or you're going somewhere... With some mare..."

"With whom?" I couldn't help it and smiled.

The bubble of rage immediately deflated. I couldn't be angry when she joked.

"Hell if I know... I didn't look at her face. You, by the way, didn't particularly look at her face either. More at her tits."

"Well you're a frog this morning," I leaned toward her to kiss her forehead, and Virunchik tenderly wrapped her arms around my neck.

"You're the frog..."

She pulled my cup toward herself and took a sip.

"No sugar," Vira made a theatrical grimace, but this was already fake grumbling.

"I generally made it for myself."

"Damn egotist."

I placed a cup and sugar bowl in front of Vira. She put in her usual three spoons and began noisily stirring.

"And you're jealous, it turns out."

"Like everyone..."

Vira was probably not so much jealous as insecure. And behind these caustic jokes, and once — feigned inaccessibility, hid just fear. About a year after Elza's birth, she was jealous of me for the first time. What's more, out of nowhere — about an old acquaintance. "You think I don't understand! — Vira said. — I was such a sexy Asian, and now I gave birth, and my breast size is called 'any': whatever cup is in the bra — that's the size! And she probably hasn't given birth? Hasn't, right?" Most likely, she just needed a little faith in herself, but then I didn't understand that yet, and we had a serious fight for the first time.

"This Irma of yours — is she pretty?" Vira suddenly asked, as if hearing all my thoughts.

"Who?"

"Irma. She doesn't leave your tongue lately. A beauty?"

I shrugged. I thought I should apologize to Irma today, because yesterday we quarreled. Not really truly (for a quarrel you need to at least be friends, and we just worked), but it all turned out stupid. My mood immediately worsened.

"Why did you get gloomy?" Virka switched to such a conspiratorial tone, as if we were buddies discussing my new girlfriend. "Come on, spill: does she have beautiful tits?"

"How should I know!" I felt awkward and got angry because of it at both Vira and myself.

"Oh come on, Gil! I'm just curious. Probably a cute girl with a third size."

"Ordinary..." I waved it off. "And at most a second."

At that second it seemed for some reason that it would be wiser to reduce it by at least one size.

"Aha, so he does stare at her breasts!"

"Stop it," I finished my coffee, kissed Vira on the top of her head, and went to the bathroom.

"Till night again today?" she called after me.

"I'm planning till six."

"He's planning... You could devote more time to the family!"

This wasn't a reproach. Just a request.

"I thought I'd gotten on your nerves back in Kyiv," I called from the bathroom.

"Your Kyiv was twenty years ago, if by Earth time!"

"Then, Vira, you're already fifty-two," I peeked out from behind the door. "Not a bad look for a granny!"

"Jerk!" and she, laughing, threw a roll of paper towels at me.

I washed with pleasure. I heard Vira standing in the doorway. Watching. Lately she often watches me like this — without any reason or sense. As if she suddenly discovered she has a husband and still can't believe it. She didn't do this before. Although no — she did, when there was no Elza yet. And then she noticed me only when she needed something.

"Elza brought home a flower yesterday," Vira said.

I turned around.

"What flower?"

"Says it grew on the lawn."

I dried myself with a towel and looked seriously at my wife:

"You can't do that here! Talk to her when she wakes up. This isn't Earth. Not Earth at all."

"I told her. And threw out the flower. But you talk to her too, okay?"

"Today."

"For that you need to come home not at night, you're aware?"

"No problem!"

"For a week already no problem, but when you show up, we're already sleeping."

"Don't grumble. I promise."

I approached and wanted to kiss her on the lips, but Virka offered her cheek.

"I haven't brushed my teeth yet."

"And in the movies people how?"

"In movies — it's editing," and Virunchik automatically wiped her cheek after the kiss, as if reminding that this was still her, and not an improved copy of my wife.

A research all-terrain vehicle was backing up to the biostation building, clanking its treads. Anton was running around waving his arms. Obviously, he was trying to make the driver's work easier in this way, but was actually significantly complicating it and twice nearly ended up under the treads. He often seemed absurd, this Anton. But he knew his work pretty well. Abu Asad quietly barked at him, and he, covered in bright red blotches, finally let the all-terrain vehicle drive in. I should say, the major had a talent for "shouting" commands quietly, without raising his voice. And often the more nervous he got, the quieter he spoke.

Noticing me, Aba nodded briefly:

"Where have you been?! Get over here, on the double!"

The massive rear doors of the all-terrain vehicle lowered, and the reason for the commotion became visible — massive containers secured in the corners of the cargo bay with new specimens. Each was marked with the eloquent sign "especially dangerous life form" — a human skull inside an open predatory jaw. Irma and some unfamiliar Japanese with corporal's insignia deftly began unloading.

"Take them to quarantine!" the major commanded. "Maximum caution!"

I approached the all-terrain vehicle. Something disgustingly scratched in the containers, as if the creatures locked in there were trying with all their might to tear apart the monomolecular walls with their claws. Irma sealed the rear doors of the all-terrain vehicle from inside, and a second later had already jumped out of the hatch above and jumped down. Flexible and graceful, she moved quickly, like a predatory animal.

Irma was interesting from any point of view. A biologist with the highest qualifications, she constantly used slang words, like a street bum. I have to admit, this detail gave her a special charm. Or this — she was the only one in the camp who wore a thin non-removable bracelet on her right wrist. Usually such bracelets were put on deserters who were lucky to receive clemency from a tribunal in exchange for years of penal service. How she earned such a decoration, I didn't know.

"Roll the big container on a cart!" Irma shouted. "The others can be carried as is. Don't get closer than a meter and a half to each other with containers. God forbid you drop a container on a container or screw up somehow else! Clear?"

Yes, she always expressed herself very clearly.

By the way, we quarreled over her bracelet. Yesterday we were all sitting together in the cafeteria after work, because Anton decided to celebrate his first month in his first alien mission and ordered pizza and beer for everyone. And he, as always, began complaining about Ix-Chel, where he didn't like everything. And Irma made a toast: "Just three years — and everyone will be admiring planet Earth again!" As if joking, since in the first month three years is not at all "just," but a hellish eternity.

And then I up and blurted out:

"Planet Earth, by the way, only you will be admiring. We'll be admiring Earth landscapes at most."

"What do you mean?" Irma didn't understand.

"Well, you can't admire Earth from Earth. But from the Moon — just right! From Mars also not bad, but in your place I'd choose the Moon."

This was because deserters can't return to Earth for three years after a mission. They can settle on the Moon or Mars. Everyone knows this. But no one particularly reacted to my witticism. And the witticism was so-so — I don't know what got into me. I was already about to change the subject, when Anton latched onto this stupid law about deserters, and he and Aba started discussing it. Irma first listened, then frowned like a cloud and withdrew into herself. I wanted to somehow fix the situation, since it turned out that because of me her mood was spoiled. And I asked what she got the bracelet for — I thought, somehow to sympathize with the person. To support her. But Irma in her style advised me "not to confuse the shores" and left.

So today I was trying to catch her gaze to understand whether she was angry or not anymore. And, truth be told, I felt like a donkey. I was pulling the biggest container from the all-terrain vehicle and wondering how to talk to her. If necessary — ready to apologize, what the hell...

The unfamiliar corporal, grunting, was dragging two boxes at once, making a big detour around my container.

"Guess who's in there?" Irma suddenly asked and smiled mischievously, showing two charming dimples on her cheeks.

I wasn't expecting this, honestly. So she's not angry. "Well..." I was confused. "Someone we've been looking for a long time..."

Those dimples of hers completely scrambled my brains. Every time I saw them, I had to remind myself that my Vira was even prettier, that Irma might have a bad temper, and after all we had a child with Vira... In that order — a whole clip of arguments.

"Fish lizard!" Irma burst out with the excitement of a child who found matches. "Finally caught one!"

"No way..." I wasn't up to the fish lizard.

I wanted to say something witty to Irma. Or at least intelligent. But nothing came to mind — those dimples on her cheeks were some kind of psychotropic weapon that turned off the brain. Especially in combination with the breasts.

"Don't spread your fingers!" she nodded at my hand when I took hold of rolling the container.

And walked ahead with a quick step, giving me the opportunity to follow her with my eyes with pleasure. Left-right, left-right... You could watch that sway forever. But I have Vira... And Elza... I shook my head, throwing off the almost physical sensation of a mirage.

I dragged my container into quarantine. I could hear Irma outside giving instructions about recharging the all-terrain vehicle. So she's planning to go somewhere again. And that's good, because the last few weeks thoughts about her had already become obsessive. The less I see her, the better.

I began transferring the new beasts into the storage cells. Need to be more careful — I'm somehow inattentive today. In such a state you really could lose fingers. By the way, about fingers... I rubbed my right hand. There was almost no tingling, but the "film" on them was still felt. It'll pass. By evening it'll definitely be gone. Pinched nerve, one hundred percent. Maybe not even in the hand — could have, for example, pulled my back...

Having finished, I carried the empty containers to the basement. Already descending, I saw Irma and the corporal. Both were looking at me a bit confused, as if I'd caught them at something.

3

"Need to put the containers away," I mumbled, though of course I didn't have to explain anything.

Only now I realized that while I was going down the stairs, immersed in my thoughts, they were talking. And, it seems, in raised tones. What's more, the corporal was shouting, which was a bit strange in a conversation with an officer, even considering the democratic ways in the Corps.

"Permission to carry on?" the corporal asked obviously for my benefit, since, first, we definitely didn't care about such formalities here, unless it concerned the colony leadership, and second, he said it too loudly and shot a glance in my direction.

"Carry on," Irma answered and also stole a glance at me.

You'd think they're lovers... This guess somehow unpleasantly pricked me somewhere under my ribs. Quickly putting down the containers, I hurried upstairs. The corporal whispered something even before the door closed behind me, and I heard Irma thunder "shut up."

"If they are lovers, so what? — I listlessly fumbled with a table, entering new residents of the quarantine section into it, while thoughts in my head pierced space and time, again and again returning to the dimples on Irma's cheeks. — What's it to me? I have nothing to do with Irma. And nothing to do with anyone. It's all because of Vira, who's again becoming a disgusting grumbler..."

Thoughts obediently darted into the past, ending up first in our Kyiv apartment on the eve of departure, then at Vira's childbirth, further — at our wedding, and diving even deeper, reached the day we met... I didn't notice how the next moment they'd already transferred me to an alternative reality, where I was making morning coffee not for Vira, but for Irma. And no matter how I tried to reject this image with the rational part of my brain, the dark and irresponsible half of my "I" screamed that Irma sitting in a robe in our kitchen was simply a stunning sight.

"What are you thinking about?" Irma tousled my hair with her hand.

I shuddered with surprise.

"Oh, well... Didn't get enough sleep..."

"Let's go slurp some coffee."

She headed to the coffee machine. Tearing myself away from the tables (actually the last three minutes or so I'd just been staring into emptiness pointlessly), I followed her. A cup dropped from the machine, and it began pouring coffee and milk into it with a whir.

"Irma, yesterday I made a stupid joke about your bracelet..."

"Don't stress," she didn't even turn around.

"Really, sorry, because..."

Irma quickly turned and placed her neat little finger on my lips.

"Don't. Stress," she pronounced. "Will you go beyond the Perimeter with me?"

"You drove around all night!"

"I'm fine, don't worry."

She took the first portion of coffee and held it out to me, coming a bit closer than necessary. She smelled pleasantly of perfume. I'd almost taken the cup when my fingers pulled some trick. I didn't even understand right away... As if the middle finger suddenly flicked the cardboard body of the cup a ringing flick, involuntarily and sharply straightening... Irma shrieked, jumping back. The cup hit the floor, spilling coffee. I also jumped back to avoid getting splattered.

"Damn!" I looked at my hand in surprise.

My fingers were trembling, as if from excitement, but this trembling was somehow... Too strong... No-no-no! Not today! Not today and not here!

I bent and unbent my fingers several times. Everything seemed fine... You just shoved the damn cup, staring at her like always, right? I rubbed with my left hand those fingers that were to blame, and immediately stared at them as if it turned out they weren't there. The sensations now were as if I'd put on a medical glove. The thinnest kind — the kind surgeons use, but now this was far from a film! The fingers no longer felt the lightest touches! As if a layer of nerve fibers had burned out in the skin... In the brain. Abnormal protein in the brain poisoned a layer of neurons — is that what you wanted to say?

"Clumsy oaf!" I cursed myself.

Actually I wanted to bark "Shut your mouth!" at my inner voice. And I angrily kicked the cup, venting my anger on it.

"Is everything okay?" Irma asked worriedly. "Did you burn yourself?"

"Yes... I'm sleepy somehow. Forgive me, please... It turned out stupid..."

"Just relax already," Irma said in surprise and brought a mop from the utility room.

I stealthily looked at my fingers again. Now my hand was trembling even harder — like an old alcoholic's. However, this could already be from nerves: my heart would probably jump out through my mouth now...

"Irma, I'd better do it myself..."

"Don't freak out," she wiped everything up in two movements. "Burned badly?"

"Not very... Thank you."

She smiled at me, showing her dizzying dimples.

End of Chunk 07 (Pages 73-84)