Cadence. In all things there is cadence. Each passing moment bears a sense of calculated rhythm that hushes its predecessor; a succession of the last note to be played for eternity. For every note played is the last note in an endless melody. 

        Every color, every sound and touch strikes a chord to end its moment in time before the next begins. It is an orchestra forgetful of its own immediate conclusion, playing its final note ceaselessly.

The song ends once more. Those who bear witness cannot grasp its finality. So, the last note is played again.         It is a cycle of decay–of things that end.

        “Cadence,” said Viktor. His voice was a whisper.

        The man stood in thought, entranced in one such moment of decay found in the peels of an orange left on his desk. The unfurled rinds palmed the morning sun in a pattern of disassembled beauty. Perhaps he could catch a glimpse of its change in color if he stared long enough. Rot and mold was what awaited the vibrant orange, but before it would take, a thousand shifts in color would unfold. He hoped to see precisely one of these moments of change.

        The distraction was useless. Time would continue to pass, bringing the inevitable ever closer. Duty was inescapable.

        Viktor drummed his fingers over his scalp of wavy, gray hair cropped at the base of his jaw. The movement pulled him from his trance, awakening a tingle in his lungs–a sudden reminder to breathe. He shivered a gasp, collecting himself and resetting his glasses against his brow.

        Against his will, reality returned to him.

        He was in his office–the second floor of a two-story portable unit. His unit. Home for the past five years. The portable stood among rows of sister units in a circular complex. At its center of orbit lay a massive scientific research facility, an eclipse of concrete blocking the countryside.

        The cube of brutalist design now reflected the morning sun off its flat face and many windows directly into Viktor’s office. He turned from the intruding glare, parting with a green blur of the cube burned into his eyes. Ghostly squares danced behind his eyelids as he massaged the bridge of his nose. 

        His musings now thoroughly ruined, Viktor returned to the hollow room behind him.

        The once scattered office had been cleared out. Cabinets and empty bookcases lined the walls; skeletons of a former life. Stacks of reports, diagrams, and thick textbooks had been packed neatly into boxes and gathered on the first floor–awaiting destiny. 

        Lifelessness hung in the air.

        It was a sobering sight to see the office as naked as it was. Once, decades of his work bloomed here, overflowing even into his living quarters below. He wished there had been another way–another path he could take.

        But he was betrayed.

        He had been deceived. The project had cost him his life–years of devotion to a vision of a better, more peaceful world. That vision had been turned to ash. 

        The common man would have been lifted from suffering. Their children would be born into a world entirely without sickness–without horror. Life at its simplest, would be elevated far from the ever fearful reality he had endured as a child.

        Blood marked this work, the guilt of which he held forever in his heart. He had believed it was for the benefit of all. Instead, the application of his research would be used for the furtherment of militaristic capabilities in war–to create a new biological arms race that the Soviet Union would control. A new age of conflict to shroud the world.

        Viktor grit his teeth, cursing his naivety–taking fistfulls of his hair in his hands.

        Seventy-three souls had been cast into the fire of progress, all for the betterment of the project. The painful truth of what he’d done was now unbearable. He had been so close–so very near their goal. The lives of the dead were to be spent worthily–to be commended as heroes of the motherland.

But they too became ash to be forgotten.

        He released his grasp from his scalp, dragging aging fingers down through his coarse beard. There would be time for outrage. The fight was not over.

        A wash of color touched the corner of his vision. Viktor’s weary eyes drifted, finding the last piece of hope in the room. A calendar. Displayed above its well-expired month was a photograph of an Afghan mountainside.

        It was a window, full of wishes and reassurances.

        Five years ago his research took him to the mountainous edge of Afghanistan. A trail of promise guided him through the country’s rich culture and welcoming people. Magic had been real then. His mission and purpose felt mystical, as though he were in an adventure novel. 

        Such innocence.

        That memory was what led him to this pinnacle moment–to his final decision. 

        He was going to defect from the Soviet Union.

        A horrifying conclusion to come to, but a necessary one. It was the only way to bear the guilt and continue living.

        He touched the photograph.

        To run and hide felt like cowardice, but he had found a new purpose in abandonment of his homeland. With his hand, he could halt the project. Only he knew the key to its success–the knowledge that could lead to war or glory. In time, humanity would be ready to listen. 

        Until then, he would wait.

        After Viktor had heard of the project’s true application, he began collecting all of the critical pieces to its research. Those pieces sat tucked between his own work in the boxes below. Enough data was left to avoid suspicion for a time–long enough for him to escape, but not so much that they could recreate what he had achieved.

        Evidence he had collected was to be burned–dashed to obscurity. Only fragments would remain.

        Viktor glanced at his watch. The minute hand itched closer to seven o’clock. Ten more minutes.

        He returned to the photograph. 

        Stairs of small, mudbrick homes traced along the stepped mountain. Green shrubs and foliage flowed in waves from the desert floor atop the rock. Out there in the Afghan mountains remained sanctuary. A promise of home given to him years ago by those he befriended. Hopefully they would still accept him–though now as a refugee.

        Before the leap could be made, he must place his faith in one other, an officer in the GRU. The military man had been his escort during the expedition. 

        His name was Yuri Volkov. 

        An altercation between tribal authorities had nearly turned to bloodshed on their journey. Thanks to Viktor’s knowledge of the local language, conflict had been avoided. In that action, he had saved the officer’s life and those of his men. Yuri had vowed to return the favor; he had been adamant about that.

        It was another risk to rely on, but what choice did he have? 

        He held faith. Yuri was a staunch man, capable and direct with his intentions. Even during their call, the officer did not balk at the treasonous idea Viktor had laid out. It was as if the man knew all along the favor Viktor would ask of him one day, and he was simply waiting to make good on it.

        In less than ten minutes, Yuri and a team of hand-picked Spetsnaz soldiers under his command would arrive to deliver him from the complex. ‘There are no finer men than these,’ he had told him over the phone.

        A few miles north was a small airfield where a plane was waiting to take him south. Once in Afghanistan, under the guise of delivering a Soviet diplomat to Kabul, a separate team would be waiting to take him to meet with his contacts in the southern mountains. The plan carried heavy risks. A trap could lay waiting at every step. 

        Was it reasonable for someone to go to this length for him, let alone tens of others? Yuri had been with Viktor to witness their discoveries–their purpose in Afghanistan. He believed in the project too. He seemed to still when Viktor explained his betrayal over the phone.

        Viktor pushed away from the calendar. One final task remained—one final sin to atone for. 

        At the back of the room, sitting in darkness where the sunlight dared not touch, stood a door. Concealed behind it was the last of the project’s offenses. The culmination of his life’s work–a blessing now turned into a curse by the Politburo.

        Viktor made for his desk. Sliding open the top drawer, the glint of cold metal struck up at him. A handgun–an heirloom from his father. It was a shared secret the two had kept since the war. 

        Ringing out the second drawer revealed several bullets clattering into view. Viktor plucked one from the drawer, turning it between his fingers. His darkened eyes followed the shadows to the door at the back of the room. 

        There was a cost to this grand work.  

        He took the bullet from atop his desk and thumbed it into the open slide. It took a moment for him to press it correctly into place, and another to awkwardly release the slide with a sharp clang. 

        Startled, he inhaled deeply to steady his resolve. His jaw was set. His lungs became tight. A peek at his watch admitted what little time remained before Yuri’s arrival. 

        No more delays.

        He crossed to the door, each booming step in beat with his pounding heart. The door was suddenly inches from his face. Viktor paused. His forehead pressed against it–his eyes squeezed shut. A fluttered hand found the doorknob, turning it. He pulled the door open, stepping into the dark.

        Tall silhouettes of retired equipment stood in the corners of the closet. Viktor’s fingers fumbled for a beaded strand hanging from the ceiling. With a downward tug, the room was flooded with pale light. 

        What he sought was asleep in a bundled lab coat, nestled on a square medical table against the wall. 

        A baby.

        Gently breathing, the tiny creature before him was the seventy-fourth patient–the only survivor of the project. 

        Subject seventy-four, Viktor’s true achievement.

        Cadence. 

        A shaking hand raised the barrel of the gun to the child’s head. Viktor could suffer this pain–this guilt, forever. Better one penitent man suffer this horrible sin alone, than all of humanity.

        Tears rolled down Viktor’s cheeks. He hadn’t noticed the sound he was making, the rending groan that rose from his throat as he squeezed the trigger.

        All things must end–

        A stiff creak whined from the metal trigger. Viktor pulled the trigger again. Another quiet click. Again, he pulled—and again, but only the faint metal whine responded.

        Eyes stinging, he lifted the gun to his face. 

        The safety had been on. 

        His knees buckled to the floor, a sob escaping his lips. He sent the weapon spinning away, crashing into the base of one of the cabinets.

        It’s not fair. 

        The babe began to cry. Viktor pulled himself to his feet, swallowing his self-loathing. He tucked his hands under the swaddled child, lifting him to his chest. His dark intent melted as he attempted to calm the child. Stuttered cooing choked between his breaths as he fought for self-control. 

        Panicked ideas spurred in his head, spinning him on his feet. He marched back to the window beside his desk. A low roar hummed in the distance. The bulky shape of a large multi-wheeled truck grumbled around the entrance to the complex. Viktor freed his hand to check the time.

        Seven o’clock. 

        Whipping around, Viktor hopped from one thought to the next. What would he do now? What could he do? 

        An idea clicked.

        Crouching, he reached for the handgun. It took some effort, but he managed to balance the baby and tuck the weapon under his lab coat and into his trousers. Eyeing the window, he snatched the remaining bullets from the desk’s drawer, pivoting for the rubber lined stairs that led down below. 

        Viktor hobbled downward as the truck’s engine chortled closer outside. He entered the maze of boxes he had finished stacking the night before. It was hard to imagine the small kitchen and breakfast nook he had spent his mornings in behind the towers of cardboard.

        Viktor’s mind danced through the mental checklist he’d gone over a thousand times before. It all seemed to escape him–his plan was now turned on its head. 

        The truck’s engine shook the walls of the portable as it came to a stop outside. Quakes continued for some time before the engine shut off. At once, several voices emerged, accompanied by a chorus of boots crunching over gravel. The footsteps drew near. Viktor loosened his collar as he prepared for whatever eventuality had come to the door.

        A heavy knock thumped twice.

        Viktor swallowed, approaching. He lowered his thumb onto the door handle, pulling the door inward. Glaring sunlight blinded him. The outline of a tall figure stood on his steps, surrounded by a semicircle of dark bodies. He squinted, forcing his eyes to adjust. 

        Yuri Volkov stood before him, a slanted smile on his face

        “Hello, Doctor Nikolaev,” said Yuri.

        Viktor eyed him in disbelief. He came–just as he said he would. Viktor’s heart still hammered from half expecting the authorities at his doorstep–followed by his immediate death. 

        Time seemed to have no effect on Yuri. A strong jaw, rounded chin, and straight nose held a set of laugh lines that revealed a trivial amount of aging since their last meeting. He was broad-shouldered, with a stance of unabashed formality. The officer remained a symbol of militaristic pride.

        “Officer,” Viktor managed, taking a step back to allow Yuri to enter.

        “It’s Lieutenant now, Doctor,” Yuri said. A twinge of a smile remained at the tail of his words. “Much has changed since our last time over the border.” 

        Viktor should have guessed as much from the way he was dressed. He wore a freshly pressed, formal military uniform complete with a wide, black rimmed cap atop his neat, straw colored hair. He had matured into the distinguished look well. 

        Lieutenant Yuri proceeded into the cluttered entryway, hands clasped behind his back. Viktor caught his glance at the baby in his arms and was surprised to see a look of pity in his eyes. It faded as he entered the hoard of stacked boxes.

        Viktor’s head felt light, his hands sweating. Viktor found it difficult to read the Lieutenant just now. An uneasiness curled in his stomach.

        “Have you all that you need?” Yuri asked. He turned to face him.

        “Yes,” Viktor choked on the whisper, averting Yuri’s scrutiny.

        “Everything is ready?” Yuri stepped closer, peering down his nose at him.

        “Everything,” Viktor said.

        Yuri gestured to the door. Obeying the direction, Viktor lowered his head as he stepped outside. His heart was racing. 

        Seven men stood facing the building, Kalashnikov rifles slung over their shoulders. Several men carried duffle bags at their sides. Their faces were hidden beneath black wool masks. Viktor parted a look of uncertainty to Yuri over his shoulder who kept pace just behind him.

        Yuri nodded his assurance, planting his feet to turn to his men. 

        “You have your assignments,” Yuri said to his men. He motioned to Viktor. “Team Yelena, will escort Dr. Nikolaev to the airfield. Team Dmitri, will remain with me and secure the destruction of the assets.” Yuri’s soldiers were stoic, postured attentively which lifted Viktor’s confidence and rested part of his fear. Each soldier appeared unwavering.

        “Once the building has been secured and primed, both teams will have five minutes to extract from the area. Security teams will have initiated full lockdown of the facility by that time. Expect local authorities to block the roads. Yelena will receive word once we have begun the countdown.

        “In the event Yelena is exposed, we will do what we can, but nothing is promised,” Yuri bore a stern look beneath his hardened brow. “You know what is expected of you.”

        The men sprung into action, startling Viktor. Two men snatched Viktor by either elbow, ushering him towards their canvas-covered truck. Viktor followed, though a bit shaken. A sudden urge to say a parting word with Yuri blurted to mind–possibly to get a final piece of reassurance, but the man had already disappeared into the building. The second team marched inside, slamming the door shut.

        Viktor was assisted inside the back of the truck where he nearly collapsed on one of two benches to either side. A soldier sat beside him, setting his rifle between his knees on the floor. Sweat beaded on Viktor’s brow. 

        There was no going back.

        The truck’s engine groaned to life, lurching forward as it sped up. Viktor looked down at the baby. The babe slept soundly–much to his surprise. That much he was thankful for.

        Several painful minutes passed along the bumpy ride before the truck grumbled to a stop. He had vanished into thought along the ride, nearly missing the buzz on the soldier’s radio that team Dmitri had initiated the countdown. They had succeeded thus far, at least. 

        A knock rapped the side of the truck and one of the soldiers nodded to Viktor. They were here. 

        Additional men greeted him as he was helped out of the truck. Odd looks were exchanged at the sight of the baby in Viktor’s arms. The group moved together, guiding him towards a squat, dual-engine plane, whose propellers were already whirling with deafening anticipation.

        The dusty runway between them seemed to stretch endlessly. This was all going too well. A man rolled a step ladder up to the door of the plane, quickly motioning for him to board.

        Viktor nearly stumbled into the plane where several unmasked men in civilian attire waited in their seats. One of them regarded him with a frown, gesturing to one of the available seats. Falling into a reasonably comfortable chair, Viktor’s head began to spin. He had made it–and unless this was some grand circus to deliver him to his grave in Moscow, the capital of Afghanistan awaited. 

        The plane soon took off, rising higher into the air and leaving the motherland below. Viktor wondered if this would be the last time he would set foot in the country of his birth. It didn’t matter. A new home awaited him–a new journey with true promise.

        He let his eyelids flutter shut. Cadence, the word repeated in his head. Danger would never be far, he knew, but this piece of the trial had ended. He let himself sink into his mind, blurry images of the morning shifting into the warmth of well-needed sleep.

 

 —

 

        Yuri stood in the window of the second floor. His eyes followed the plane coursing through the blue sky, watching as it rode wisps of clouds on to its ultimate destination. The plane soon vanished from view like a single star beneath the sun’s gaze. 

        Below, the facility grounds were empty. Not a soul was in sight. The emptiness made for a calm, pleasurable morning.

        “Lieutenant,” said one of his men.

        He turned to face the soldier, noticing a leather-bound book in his outstretched hand.

        “Here’s the journal,” he said, offering it to Yuri. The Lieutenant casually fanned through the pages with his thumb. “As requested, the other assets have been recovered. But–”

        “Well done.”

        “Sir–”

        “Is there a problem?” Yuri asked, shutting the book with a clap.

        “The baby,” the soldier said. He then paused, his gaze faltering. “Subject Seventy-Four.”

        Yuri pursed his lips, returning to the journal. The leather was cracked with age, rough around the edges from exposure to arid weather. The book was nearly filled with scrawls of inky notes and sketches, the pages now yellowed. A thin, blue tassel divided the center of the book, sticking out like a dead tongue.

        A low hum approached outside, stealing Yuri’s attention. Spotted through the window, their truck had made its return along with a black sedan–his expected guest. Yuri lowered his chin.

        “Pay it no mind,” Yuri stated, facing the soldier. “Should we need him, we know where to find him.” He handed the journal back to the man. “Have the listed assets prepared for transport. Burn the rest.”

        Yuri stepped past him, making his way down the stairs. Men were busy sifting through boxes and separating papers from binders and manilla folders into duffle bags. They kept to their work as Yuri passed through the front door. 

        The truck creaked to a stop. Team Yelena leapt out from under the canvas covered back, jogging up to the building. Yuri nodded to them as he made his way to the black sedan. Clanging boots erupted on the metal stairs as the men rejoined their comrades inside.

        Ahead, the door of the sedan opened. The driver stepped out of the vehicle, giving Yuri a crisp salute before opening the rear door. Yuri removed his hat and slid into the interior of the car; the door shutting behind him. Tinted windows blocked the outdoor sunlight, leaving him in the dark. Yuri peered through the blackened glass, searching for the plane.

        “Well, Lieutenant, do you have it?” huffed a voice beside him.

        “No.” Yuri’s concentration was unbroken.

        “I shall have to inform the council. They won’t be pleased,” his guest chuckled between labored breaths.

        “As you will.”

        “My, my–so unlike you–heh,” said the guest. “Two traitors who’ve risked it all–yet fall so short from glory. Pity–but we must give them something, hm? What should I tell them?”

        Only a trace of a cloud trail remained in the sky, gradually morphing into mist beneath the sun. Glory. Would the doctor be ready for the cost of real glory? Would the child? He was curious to see. 

        Yuri blinked, turning to the man beside him. “Tell them what they want to hear–the game continues, and I mean to play.”