Chapter Text
The transport platform kept trembling for a good half minute after the engines died. Eliot jumped down onto the wooden deck without waiting for the ramp to lower—just vaulted over the side, landed with a hollow thud, straightened up, and drew a deep breath.
The air smelled of swamp, rust, and something metallic—the way a distant thunderstorm smells, but the sky above the station was low and gray, without a single glimmer.
“Lovely,” he said aloud, to no one in particular, and slung his duffel bag over his shoulder. “Very lovely.”
The platform stood at the edge of the station—a long wooden structure reaching out toward the black water, smothered in duckweed. Beyond it, a raised gravel road led to the main compound: squat barracks of gray stone sheathed in metal sheets, a handful of technical domes, and a watchtower that pushed up into the low clouds.
*Quiet Backwater.* He’d been turning the name over in his mouth the whole journey—and he liked it. It sounded almost poetic. A backwater, stillness, important work far from the capital’s bureaucracy. He was twenty-two, possessed a rare gift, and the state paid Absorbents more than it paid army captains. And this place was his first posting. Not a training ground, not simulations under an instructor’s supervision—a real outpost, a real anomaly, a real job.
He smiled, adjusted the collar of his uniform jacket—blue, with the silver Absorbent stripe on the shoulder—and strode up the gravel road.
A man came out to meet him.
He emerged from behind one of the technical domes, walking unhurriedly, hands in the pockets of a gray jumpsuit. Even from twenty paces away, he looked like the arrival of a replacement was the last thing on his mind.
“You’re Eliot,” the man said, stopping.
Not a question. A statement.
“That’s me.” Eliot closed the distance, held out his hand, smiled openly and wide. “First-category Absorbent. Just El is fine. Are you the welcoming committee? Or was the commander supposed to meet me? I was told there’s usually a whole ceremony.”
The man glanced at the outstretched hand, then at his face. He shook it, but with a split-second delay—just enough to make it clear he was doing it because it was expected, not because he wanted to. His palm was dry and cool; his fingers gripped Eliot’s hand briefly, firmly, and let go at once.
“I’m Viktor,” he said. “Technician-medic. The commander is busy; he’ll see you later. I’ll show you the station.”
“Technician-medic?” Eliot asked brightly. “So you’re my personal overseer? You’ll be tracking my vitals, blood pressure, conductivity? I was told every Absorbent gets their own technician. Like a personal tailor, only with sensors instead of needles.”
Viktor didn’t answer. He turned and walked back toward the dome, not checking whether Eliot was following. Eliot had to close the gap in two long strides.
“Not much of a talker, got it. I respect that. I like to talk myself, so we’ll balance each other out.”
They walked along the row of buildings. Eliot swiveled his head, taking everything in: rust stains on the metal cladding of the barracks, tufts of dry grass pushing through gaps in the boards, strange tripod-mounted devices placed around the perimeter at twenty-meter intervals—background sensors, probably. Everything here was slightly askew, slightly battered, but sturdy and lived-in. The station had clearly been here for years.
“Where is everyone?” he asked. “I was told about twenty people work here. It’s quiet as a tomb.”
“Shift change. Some are in the lab, some on watch, some asleep after the night shift. You’ll see them at dinner.”
“What about the anomaly?” Eliot nodded toward the lowland, where something beyond a band of black trees seemed to warp the perspective—as if the air out there was trembling and swimming. “Is that it? I can hear it already, by the way. Like a beehive far, far away, only lower in pitch. A hum. Is that normal?”
Viktor stopped. He turned to face him—looked at him directly for the first time, without the lazy detachment that had slid over him before.
“You can hear it? Right now?”
“Well, yeah.” Eliot shrugged. “Why? I’m an Absorbent. I’m supposed to. Background level’s around twenty-two, maybe twenty-three millirem. No pulsations, just a steady hum. Relax, technician, I know my job.”
He clapped Viktor on the shoulder—Viktor tensed almost imperceptibly but didn’t pull away.
“All right, lead on. Show me your setup.”
They entered the technical dome. Inside, it was dim and cool; fluorescent lights glowed, and somewhere cooling units hummed. The space was divided by partitions into sections: equipment racks, monitors, control panels. Eliot perked up immediately, went over to the nearest rack, and ran a finger across the panel.
“Whoa, is that a Redan-Four? We had those at the training ground. Old, sure, but reliable. And what’s this?” He pointed toward a closed door marked Medical Bay.
“My area,” Viktor said. He was already sitting at a console, typing something, not looking at Eliot. “I’ll show you later. First we need to take baseline readings. Come here.”
“Right now? I just got off the transport—give me a chance to breathe.”
“Now. Protocol.”
Eliot sighed theatrically but walked over. Viktor pulled a portable scanner from a drawer—a flat disc on a strap—and fastened it around Eliot’s wrist. The touch was quick, practiced, utterly impersonal. The disc vibrated, beeped, and fed data to the monitor.
“Conductivity above average,” Viktor said, watching the screen. “The background is already reacting to you. You’re drawing it in.”
“Well, I’m an Absorbent.” Eliot smirked. “I’m like a sponge. By the way, you didn’t answer. Me hearing it—is that normal? The background was weaker at the training ground; I didn’t always feel it.”
Viktor paused. He removed the disc from Eliot’s wrist, set it aside, and stared at the monitor for a few more seconds, though nothing there was changing—just avoiding the answer.
“Look,” Eliot sat on the edge of the table, forcing Viktor to raise his eyes, “you don’t like me, do you? I can tell. You look at me like I’m just extra trouble. What, was the previous Absorbent better? Higher conductivity, talked less?”
Viktor switched off the monitor. He took off his glasses—Eliot only now noticed he wore glasses, thin, with simple metal frames—and wiped them on the edge of his sleeve. Without the glasses, his face looked younger and more vulnerable, despite the perpetually furrowed brows.
“The previous Absorbent,” he said evenly, “lasted eight months here. When the replacement was delayed, he kept working past his limits for another month and a half. By the end, he couldn’t remember his own name. And he shook so badly he couldn’t hold a spoon.”
The equipment room went very still. Somewhere deep in the dome, the cooling units hummed. Eliot stopped smiling.
“I’m not him,” he said, quieter than before.
“You’re not him,” Viktor agreed, and put his glasses back on. “But the anomaly is the same. The background is the same. And the replacement is always late. Let’s move on. I’ll show you the living quarters.”
He stood and walked toward the exit. Eliot stayed seated on the edge of the table for another second, watching his back, then hopped off and followed. Silently.
Outside, the smell of rust and thunder filled their nostrils again, and the distant hum—the beehive somewhere beyond the black trees—had grown slightly louder.