His eyes were fixed on the quantum mirror, reflecting the spreading heat now bursting out of its surface. I could hear the metal singing and knew what was coming next. “Vincent!” I roared. “We have to get out of here!”
He still didn’t move, so I swung one arm across his throat and dragged him backwards, like a swimmer saving a drowning man, towards the door. We two were the last in the room, the light in the chamber beyond now too bright to look at, the heat rising, suffocating, pushing its way through the glass. I looked up and saw the paint begin to blister on the metalwork around the room, heard the computers fry, giving up any attempt at staying intact in the face of the rising everything blasting through the room and our bodies like a gale through a cobweb. I heard the glass of the viewing gallery crack and knew with an absolute certainty that the explosion which was about to take place would kill us both, that we were already dead. I shoved Vincent out of the door of the gallery; he landed on his hands and knees, groggy, half-turning to look back at me. The light was unbearable now, blinding, more than just the visible spectrum eating through to my retinas. I fumbled for the emergency handle on the door, felt the metal burn through the skin on my hand with an ironing-board hiss, pulled it down and, as the door began to descend, dived beneath it.
“Run!” I screamed at Vincent, and he, bewildered and staggering, a mere shadow in the tortured static of my vision, ran. I crawled down beneath the bulkhead door as it slammed into place, scrambling out into the darkness of the corridor beyond, got three paces away, and felt the world behind me explode.
Visions of a rescue.
There was metal in my skin, embedded deep.
Stone on my belly.
Dirt in my mouth.
The rescuers wore lead-lined suits, and before they removed me from the smoking wreckage of the corridor, they hosed me down for nearly half an hour. The water ran red for a very long time, before it ran clear.
Darkness.
An anaesthetist asked me if I knew of any allergies.
I tried to reply and found that my jaw was swollen lead.
I don’t know what use the question was, or if they asked me any more.
Vincent by my bedside, head bowed.
A nurse changing tubes.
I knew, by the quality of the air, that I was no longer in a cave.
I saw daylight, and it was beautiful.
Vincent sat in a chair at the end of my bed, an IV drip connected to his arm, though he appeared unbloodied, sleeping. Had he left my side? I didn’t think so.
I wake, and I feel nauseous.
“Water.”
Vincent, there, immediately.
“Harry?” His lips are cracked, his skin is pale. “Harry, can you hear me?”
“Vincent?”
“Do you know where you are?”
As he talks, he checks my vitals, carefully, effectively. He, like most ouroborans, has had some medical training. My vitals are not good, but this Harry August mustn’t know that.
“Hospital?” I suggest.
“That’s right–that’s good. Do you know what day it is?”
“No.”
“You’ve been asleep for two days. You were in an accident. Do you remember that?”
“The… quantum mirror,” I breathed. “What happened?”
“You saved my life,” he replied softly. “You got me out of the room, told me to run, closed the door. You saved a lot of lives.”
“Oh. Good.” I tried to lift my head, and felt pain run up my back. “What happened to me?”
“You were caught in the blast. If I’d been any closer I would have been… but it was mostly you. You’re still in one piece, which is a miracle, but there are some… some things the doctor will need to discuss with you.”
“Radiation,” I wheezed.
“There was… there was a lot of radiation. I don’t know how it… But that doesn’t matter now.”
Doesn’t it? That’s new.
“You OK?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“I’m fine.”
“You look a little pale.”
“I… I got a lot of radiation too, but you were… You saved my life, Harry.” He kept coming back to this, incredulity in his voice. “Thank you doesn’t begin to cover it.”
“How about a pay rise?”
A little laugh. “Don’t get cocky.”
“I’m going to die?” I asked. When he didn’t immediately answer, I gave a small nod. “Right. How long?”
“Harry…”
“How long?”
“Radiation sickness… it’s not pretty.”
“Never seen myself bald,” I admitted. “Did you…? Are you…?”
“I’m still waiting on test results.”
No, you’re not, Vincent. “I hope it’s… I hope you’re OK.”
“You saved me,” he repeated. “That’s all that matters.”
Radiation sickness.