Chapter 3. Contact (Finale)

  Cohen's tale of the magical barrier and the Empire hung in the air like a heavy cloud. But this silence was torn by a sound that was scarier than any ancient curse. *Kha-kha-kha...* In the corner, under the white pelt, Toby went into a fit of agonizing coughing. The sound was wet, gurgling, as if the child's lungs were filled with water. The boy arched his back, gasping for air, his face turning blue.

  Dmitry jerked as if shocked. He stopped seeing Cohen, the map, the gloomy walls. A memory flashed before his eyes. Eight years ago. The white ceiling of a hospital ward in Zurich. Beeping of instruments. And a ventilator tube in his throat. He remembered that feeling—when you want to inhale, but your lungs are just sacks of cement that don't obey you. When you lie, a helpless piece of meat, waiting for the machine to breathe for you. He survived. He had an oligarch uncle, the best doctors, and a titanium spine. This boy had only a magic pelt and a bowl of broth.

  Dmitry stood up abruptly. The chair flew back with a crash. "Enough," he said harshly. The amulet on his chest transmitted to Cohen's brain not a word, but an impulse: "Cease talking."

  The Baron raised his head in surprise. "What do you mean, Dmitry?" "I don't give a damn about the Empire," Dmitry walked to Toby's makeshift bed. "And I don't give a damn about your Marshes. You have a child dying, Baron. Do you hear? That's not just a cough. That's fluid in the lungs. Another day or two in this cold, and he'll suffocate. No pelt will save him."

  Martha, standing nearby, covered her mouth with her hand, holding back a sob. Cohen turned even paler. "We... we are doing everything we can," he whispered. "The Snow Lion pelt keeps his soul in the body." "The pelt is a heating pad," Dmitry cut him off. "He needs medicine. Chemistry. Bacteria killers." He turned to the Baron. "I have an infirmary in the machine. It's warm there, like summer. The air is cleaner than in the mountains. And I have elixirs that can kill the sickness inside him."

  Cohen stood up. His hand rested on the sword hilt. "You want to... take him?" "I want to cure him," Dmitry looked straight into the eyes of the father (or guardian? He didn't know for sure yet). "Here I can do nothing. Here is dirt, mold, and drafts. For the medicine to work, I need sterility."

  Tension hung in the room. Give the child to the stranger? Give the heir (albeit illegitimate or adopted) into the belly of the Iron Demon? Hans began whispering a prayer. Karl stepped forward as if wishing to shield the boy with himself.

  "We do not know you," said Cohen quietly. "We have known you for one day. You came from the Cursed Lands. Maybe your Demon needs a sacrifice? Maybe you want to feed the boy to it to gain strength?"

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  Dmitry smiled bitterly. "If I wanted to kill, Baron, I wouldn't cook you soup. I simply wouldn't have braked at your gates." He walked up to Cohen closely. "Look at me. I stood on the edge like this boy. I know what it is not to be able to breathe. I won't let him die if I can help. It is my duty. Not as a 'mage', but as a human."

  Cohen looked into the black glasses hanging on the engineer's chest. He looked at his clean face, at his confident hands. Then he looked at Toby. The boy coughed again, and pink foam appeared on his lips. There was no choice.

  "Good," the Baron's voice trembled. "Take him." Martha cried out: "No, Milord!" but Cohen raised a hand. "But remember, Dmitry from another world. If he does not return... If a single hair falls from his head... I will find a way to burn your beast, even if I have to make a deal with the devil himself."

  "Deal," nodded Dmitry.

  He walked to Toby. "Alright, kid," he whispered in Russian. "Let's go for a ride." He didn't unwrap the pelt. It was warm inside, and it seemed to really work like a battery. He scooped the boy up in his arms along with the fur cocoon. The child was light, frighteningly light. Like a bird.

  Dmitry turned and walked to the exit. No one moved. They followed him with gazes full of horror and hope. As one sees off a dead man or an astronaut.

  Dmitry descended the spiral staircase, trying not to stumble in the dark. Went out into the courtyard. The rain intensified. Icy drops hit his face. He covered the boy's face with the edge of the pelt and quickened his pace. The wicket. The rotten bridge. Every step on the slippery planks resonated with fear—not for himself, but for the burden. Dropping the child into the rotten moat now—that would be the end.

  There it was. The Ark. The white hulk stood in the darkness, illuminated only by the dim light of the lantern above the entrance. Dmitry pressed his finger to the scanner. But with occupied hands, it was inconvenient. "Computer, emergency access! Voice code: 'Asclepius'." *Beep.* The door silently slid aside, releasing a cloud of warm air smelling of Rosso Nobile.

  Dmitry stepped inside. The airlock closed behind him, cutting off the noise of the rain and the smell of burning. Silence. Soft light. Warmth.

  Dmitry carried the boy into the living module and laid him on the sofa, which he had previously covered with a disposable absorbent pad. The boy didn't wake up. He breathed hoarsely, whistling. Dmitry pulled off his wet jacket, threw it on the floor. Washed his hands with alcohol. Put on a mask.

  He unwrapped the pelt. The boy lay before him—small, dirty, in rags. An alien element in the sterile world of the future. "That's it," exhaled Dmitry. "You are on board. Here, my rules apply."

  He connected the patient monitor sensors to the child's thin wrist. A green pulse line ran across the screen. Rapid, uneven. Pulse: 130. Saturation: 88%. Temperature: 39.2.

  Dmitry took a syringe and an ampoule of Ceftriaxone from the medical cabinet. "Bear with me, brother. We'll prick now, then you sleep. And tomorrow... tomorrow we'll deal with your feudal lords."

  He looked out the window. Through the armored glass and the veil of rain, the castle walls were visible. There, on the wall, stood Cohen. A lonely figure in a sheepskin coat under the pouring rain. He looked at the glowing windows of the machine where the fate of his world was being decided now.

  Dmitry drew the curtain. The adventure was over. Work began.