When Depot Lady grins, I picture the faded echo of the younger and fairer lady she must’ve been, with dimples and auburn hair. Grabbing the cash, she stuffs it down the front of her burnsuit, between her ample breasts. Then, she produces a pen from her shoulder pocket and draws us a surprisingly detailed map on the flap of a produce box.
She tears it off and hands it to us. “Doctor’s been around for a while now,” she admits now that she’s flush with our cash. “His compound’s almost done. Tell the good doctor ole Marney says hello. Good luck, be well.” As we depart, she points to herself and winks at us. “Marney’s always ready to answer a question—for a fair price.”
In studying the map we realize that Dr. Varik’s place is a mere seven miles from Skull’s Wrath Depot!
From the sky, we see his sprawling compound. It’s comprised of three connected buildings complete with its own landing strip, on which we glide down. The entrance is paved with tastefully smoothed oblong stones, and a sturdy beige awning shades against the blistering sun.
We ring. After a moment, the door swings open. A man that I assume is Dr. Varik stares at Armonk for a few long seconds.
He glances down at Armonk’s pants leg where the prosthetic leg bulges out, and up at his twine shell necklace. An expression of shocked recognition transforms his long face. “Armonk?” he asks, “from Black Hills?” In answer, Armonk rushes toward him and they embrace. Holding Armonk at arm’s length, Varik takes another look. He states the obvious. “You’re no little boy anymore.”
Armonk laughs. “It’s been ten years.”
Varik is no young man either. He’s not the sprightly blond that Armonk described on the way over here. His hair is streaked with brown and his shoulders sag as if they carry an invisible weight. He’s wearing the curious dark clothes of the northerners—a navy blue shirt and black pants. His skin is mottled, nothing new for folks who live down here, but Varik’s not. I notice round nubs that look like shaving stubble, but in places where men have no facial hair—on his forehead, his upper cheeks, even on the bridge of his nose. What is Dr. Varik shaving off?
He glances at me, with blue eyes, still crystalline and curious. “Who’s the lovely lady?”
“Dr. Varik, this is Ruby. We live at The Greening, Nevada’s school. Do you—?
“I know of it,” he answers, abruptly interrupting Armonk, as if he doesn’t want to talk about the school, or about Nevada. Why?
Dr. Varik takes a step back, and waves us on to a kitchen that stretches out from the foyer. “Let’s sit.” Varik nods at Armonk’s leg. “How’s it holding up?”
Armonk shrugs as he limps to a seat. “Not too well. I had to solder on lifts, as I grew, you know.” He pulls up his pant’s leg to show Varik where he lengthened the leg with welded metal scraps. “It’s taken me through lots of adventures. Practicing with the bow you made me, hiking to The Greening.” His hand brushes over the deepest gash—where Blane tripped him and almost broke the artificial calf in two.
“And the sensors?” Varik inquires. He reaches out and presses one of the round dials that run down the leg. As he does this, I notice more strange nubs on his forearm and hand.
“The sensors are long gone,” Armonk tells him. “So the leg is much stiffer when I bend it. I was wondering if I could pay you, would you make—”
“Don’t even think of it.” The doctor sees me staring at his arms and tugs his sleeves down.
Armonk turns to me. “Dr. Varik was my childhood hero when he visited us, and told me that he fished in real ocean waters.” He holds out the shell on his twine necklace. “That last day Varik was in Black Hills Sector he pressed this into my palm.”
“Something from the ocean!” I say. “That is miraculous.”
“You flatter me,” says the doctor, and claps Armonk on the back “This guy taught me how to beetle hunt!”
“For a first timer you were pretty good at it. I wonder if you could take a look at something else.” Armonk’s smile turns serious as he takes my arm in his. “My friend, Ruby has a cut on her arm that looks suspicious. ”
“Sure.” Dr. Varik rotates my arm until the scraped part near the elbow is showing. Syrupy, green liquid is still oozing from the cut. His jaw stiffens. “Is this the first time you noticed your blood shift color?”
“My blood was always red. Then it changed a couple of weeks ago—”
“Weeks?” Armonk exclaims, “why didn’t you say something earlier?”
“Continue,” Varik remarks in doctorly fashion.
“Someone bit my hand a couple of weeks ago,” I say.
“Bit you?” Dr. Varik frowns. “A person?”
“A man from my old compound attacked me. But that’s another whole story. Anyway, the bite mark developed a green tint to it. At first I thought it was gangrene, but it healed normally, so I just forgot about it.”
“Forgot about it!” Armonk exclaims.