Chapter Three: Flames
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Night is the color of death.
Silence should be the birthplace of night, but now it is torn apart—at the edge of the battlefield, flames are licking the horizon, burning the entire sky into festering wounds. The tide of calamity continues to advance, without flags, without cries, only the rumble of steel crushing frozen earth, low and drawn-out, like the pulse of the earth's depths.
They cross the ruins of Siberian fortresses.
They level every town they pass.
They bring destruction, death, and something even more unpalatable than death.
The Polaris is slowly retreating towards the second line of defense, dragging seventeen wounds. The ship trembles every three seconds, the port third propeller groaning on the verge of overload. Oleg is still in the engine room, keeping it alive with a welding torch and profanities.
Karl stands on the stern deck.
He wasn't wearing his protective suit; the cold wind scraped his cheeks like dull blades. He didn't look at the burning earth behind him—he just stared at his hands, the red marks from the control lever still pressed against his palms.
"Hey."
Anta's voice came from behind, lazy, with a sleepy, nasal tone.
"How long have you been standing here?"
He approached and sat down next to Karl, his legs dangling over the edge of the deck. Blood still seeped from the bandage on his forehead, but he didn't seem to care, casually tearing open a nutrition bar and popping it into his mouth.
"Is Vest D fixed?" Karl asked.
"Sese said the reactor is fine, just replaced the heat sink." Anta chewed on the nutrition bar. "How about you? How's Belial?"
"…She said it doesn't need fixing."
Anta paused.
"…She said?"
Karl didn't answer.
He remembered the expression on Sese's face when she said that. She didn't look at him, staring at the holographic diagnostic screen, her fingers flying across the touchpad. The blue light from the screen reflected on her face, making the fine lines at the corners of her eyes look like a dried-up riverbed.
"Belial doesn't need any more repairs," she said.
Then she stood up, stuffed the wrench into her toolbox, and stood with her back to him for a long time.
Karl didn't ask what that meant.
"Anta—!"
Sesse's voice lashed out from the direction of the hangar.
She had run so fast that her tool pouch rattled on her hips, and a few screws rolled to the ground, but she didn't turn around to pick them up. Her goggles pushed up against her forehead, leaving a trail of oil, like a tear stain that hadn't been wiped away.
"What are you doing here! The medic said you have to stay in bed!"
"Then get that guy back to bed first." Anta gestured with his chin toward Karl, a smile that wasn't quite a smile.
Sesse ignored him.
She stopped three steps away from Karl, suddenly unsure of which way to go.
"Karl…"
She opened her mouth.
Are you alright? Too tired?
Or—
"Are you... alright?" Her voice was softer than expected. "Are you too tired? Or something else? Should I go call the captain? Or Oleg?"
She paused.
"...It's alright."
Karl didn't speak.
He heard the hum of welding torches from deep within the ship, the unstable whistling of the propellers, the whistling of the wind through the gaps in the armor. He heard many sounds.
But he couldn't hear his own.
"Let him stay put," Anta stood up, stuffing the nutrition bar package into his pocket. "He needs some time."
He walked back to the bridge, his steps dragging, his shadow long in the deck lights.
Sese didn't follow.
She stood there, watching Karl's back. His back was taut like a string that might snap at any moment, the collar of his uniform frayed, revealing the faded lining underneath. She remembered this uniform was issued three years ago; he'd worn it ever since, mending it himself when it tore, never asking for help.
She suddenly wanted to ask:
When was the last time you slept soundly?
When was the last time you ate properly?
When was the last time you laughed?
But she didn't ask.
She simply bent down, picking up the screws that had rolled off, one by one, clutching them in her hand. The metal was cold, painfully digging into her palm.
"...Belial really doesn't need repairs," she said suddenly.
Her voice was soft, as if she were talking to herself.
"Its damage isn't in the diagnostic system."
Karl didn't turn around.
Sese didn't wait for him to turn around either.
She gripped the screws tightly, turned, and walked into the shadows of the hangar. Her steps were steady, like every time she returned from the battlefield over the past seven years.
Karl was the only one left on the deck.
He slowly exhaled.
The cold mist spread around his lips, like some words that hadn't had time to form. Then the voices came.
"Why…?"
The girl's eyes. Clear, reflecting the leaden sky.
"It…hurts…"
The infected man's fingers dug into the mud, nails breaking, blood and pus mingling.
"Must we all die!"
The infected man's last question was crushed into dust by dozens of gunshots.
"Karl…"
—It was Kakov's voice.
He thought he had forgotten. Three years. He thought that bullet had nailed all his memories to his skull.
But now the voice rose from the depths, carrying the dampness of rust, each word hammering into his eardrums.
"I just want to find…"
"…a way to survive."
Karl clenched his fist.
"If you see it—"
"Shut up."
His voice was low, as if squeezed from his chest.
"You'll choose the same path as me…"
"Shut up—!"
He slammed his fist on the railing.
The metallic clang echoed, the sound trailing off in the night.
"You bastard—"
He heard his breathing become heavy, heard a dull, stagnant pain in his knuckles.
"For your damned path…"
He didn't finish.
Not because he had nothing to say.
It was because Kakov had never offered a defense.
On the day of his execution, he knelt in the snow, the back of his head against the muzzle of the gun. Karl stood behind him, his finger pressed white against the trigger.
"Sir," he said, "is there anything you need to say?"
Kakov didn't turn around.
He simply said:
"You'll understand later."
Then the gun fired.
Kal looked down at his swollen, red knuckles.
"…It hurts."
He whispered.
No one heard him. A night wind swept into the deck, stirring up a few embers of unburnt ashes. In the distance, the tide of calamity continued its advance.
The Polaris, battered and bruised, slowly made its way towards the second line of defense.
In the bridge, Anta leaned back in the cockpit, eyes closed.
"Is that guy still on deck?" the captain asked.
"…Yeah."
"Aren't you going to call him?"
Anta opened his eyes, gazing at the burning horizon outside the porthole.
"He'll come back," he said.
"He always comes back."
In the hangar, Sesse crouched at Belial's feet.
The machine wasn't running, the optical lenses were off, and the eighteen-meter-tall behemoth lay silently on its mounting. She looked up at the unrepaired bullet hole on its breastplate, her fingertips lightly touching it.
The metal was cold.
She remembered the day Karl first piloted Belial out of the cockpit. The dust ring exploded as the aircraft landed. He stepped out of the cockpit, visors pushed up to his forehead, looking as young as a fresh-out-of-training student.
"This aircraft," he said, "was left to me by my instructor."
She asked, "Where is he?"
He didn't answer.
Three years.
She never asked a second time.
Sese rested her forehead on Belial's knee armor and closed her eyes.
The hangar was noisy. The young men in the welding torches, drive shafts, and engine room ran past carrying spare parts boxes.
But she couldn't hear anything.
She was just thinking:
If you're tired, come back.
I've saved you some late-night snacks.
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