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The ship was sinking. Metaphorically, of course. Nothing larger than a narrowboat could truly have made its way into the desolate reaches of the landlocked steppe. And yet it was sinking nonetheless. Daniil Dankovsky was supposed to be the captain. It was like treading water; energy spent and consumed, progress far out of reach.
He was to attend his own funeral.
Daniil Dankovsky. Heartless, the priest said. Fearless, the congregation protested. Feckless. Useless. Doubtless. Compassionless. Harmless. Conscienceless.
Mirthless was the consensus.
No One Cares About You Here.
If only I had seen...
If only I had known...
If only I had done...
If only I had tried...
Lamentations. Nothing more than the healing mantra of a sore loser. Hindsight was as clear as day but the Steppe air was heavy with ash and disease. It put a fear in him he had not known he could feel. A doctor was supposed to adore the unknown. To embrace it. To consume it. To become it. To comprehend it. Here, the unknown made his stomach churn and his throat run dry and his fingers shake.
If only... If only... If only. Only. Only. Only. Only. Oh. Nn. Lee. Ohhh. Oh. Why. Why. Why.
Syllables melted into a hum. A prayer. He almost thought he heard Eva Yan whispering alongside him. Beautiful Eva. Poor Eva. Guilt mulched his insides like maggots.
Eaten alive.
How many more would die? How many had died? He could not name them all. They were numbers on a page to him. Failed experiments. Worth less to him than a shattered test-tube. A test run. He would get it right next time. He was certain. There was a next time. This was the next time, he just had not realised it yet.
A man is never as religious as in his final moments. Daniil mused, though the grip of atheism had loosened little more than a whisker. If there was a God, he would not escape an audience with Daniil. The Bachelor had many a complaint for such a fiendish Soul.
And yet he was a Bachelor no more. Could the man at the helm of such a graveyard be called a Doctor? Did a ship sinking mean the captain was no longer a captain?
Stripped bare. No credentials here. If the people of Gorkhon did not heed his word... His university education, his years of experience, his honour - it all meant nothing. Humans placed worth in such futile things. Such immaterial ventures. That was why billionaires coated their mansions in gold and paid the poor to lick the ground upon which they walked.
Whatever they say, don't believe them. Whatever it feels like, don't worry. You're alive.
No matter what they say, you are still living. Despite it all, you are yourself.
But how did one know?
He was to attend his own funeral. And yet he was not properly dead.
Did that mean he was alive?
Did that mean he was conscious?
What was a consciousness but the human delusion that life could be experienced in one, continuous, meaningful self.
Who was to say the you that fell asleep was the same you that awoke, and not an imposter carrying your memories? How could one prove such a thing? Was it not common knowledge that memory was vague and fleeting? Why could he still hear Eva Yan's voice? And how did death differ from such a wavering awareness? Did rats ponder their retention skills in such a way? Why were such musings so uniquely anthropoid? What was death but an extended pause in perception? Why had no one in his dream recognised him? Was there proof that nothing came after? What was a human?
No, he must not think about it.
There was no time. There is no time. There will be no time. What a quaint lesson in grammar.
Quod erit, erit, as they say.
In the morning, he would wake. He would wake and he would be Daniil Dankovsky, as he was every other day.
This confusion, this fear, this lack of self... It was nothing more than a bad dream.
Of that, he was sure he could be certain.
Daniil Dankovsky was not ready to die yet.
He had more important foes to conquer.