S061: ALEXANDER HAWTHORNE — CONTINUED FROM "Murphy's Law"
It was the second day. The announcements had come and gone already, long before. Regardless, Alexander knew it was only the start of their tribulations. They had enough food in their packs to last for days. No, the torment would last longer than this. Much longer.
They had spent most of their time in hiding, below the radar. After that initial debacle, Alexander was sure they should maintain a low profile lest some of their more bloodthirsty classmates act on their desires. And it had worked, at least for now.
Of course, that came at the detriment of progress. Nothing more than a cursory examination of the collars was possible. And even that was unenlightening; there was nothing much to glean at a simple glance. No. To understand the mechanism, they would need to pry it open.
Still, they had made it this far. They were alive—a mite better than eleven of their peers. And, of course, they had time. The rest of their lives, as Valentin had said. More than enough, Alexander believed, to unravel the enigma before them.
However, that was a matter for future consideration. For now, little else could be done but theorize and gather bearings. A direct attack on the collars, with their current level of knowledge, would prove fatal. He wasn't ready for that level of risk.
So, for the moment, they had just walked; at a brisk pace, but not one that would expend too much energy. It was crucial to conserve their stamina. To strategize meant managing your resources in both the immediate present and distant future.
The Human Element
[PM to Enter. Paging Maraoone.]
((Valentin Shulgin continues from Murphy's Law))
The slog through the field had proven slow, silent, uneventful, much like the rest of their first day on the island had gone.
Alexander was right that another encounter risked a much more hostile response than what they had received from Eden and the girl, whose name he regrettably still couldn't recall. But, he had made that observation without the slightest sense of self-reflection, without the slightest sense of consideration that they might be received with hostility because of him.
It was not usually in character for Valentin to hold resentment for this long, especially at someone he considered his friend, especially at Alexander. But there had been much time spent idling, and with that, much time for feelings like doubt and frustration and anxiety to ferment in the core of his heart and become this ugly, ugly thing that he possessed but knew not what to do with.
What embittered him the most, he supposed, was that that would possibly be the very last encounter he ever had with the girl and Eden. The island had a way of doing that, he realized, of elevating every quotidian encounter into life and death, last memories, defining moments. And now, the way they would remember each other, their final recollections of one another, would just be this. This ugliness.
Eleven of them were gone already, Alexander had said. Betty got a prize for partaking in the bloodshed, Valentin noted with a bitter taste in his mouth.
He'd scarcely said a word since the tunnel. He would converse when necessary, when rationing supplies or setting out their route, but no more. He knew not what to do with the bitterness in his heart, but he did not want to unleash it. Not thoughtlessly, at least.
You cannot evangelize and antagonize at the same time.
These were the words bouncing around Valentin's mind, the words he had wanted to speak at Alexander with conviction.
They were words uttered by Pastor Dewey Smith, words Valentin had heard uttered in a viral video Valentin had chanced upon, a Christian sermon condemning the hypocrisy of hatemongering against homosexuality while preaching the Gospel. Valentin was not a man of God, despite his grandfather's trying. But the sentiment had always resonated with him. His grandfather was a strong but gentle man, and he had always believed in the idea of building a broad front. A broad front meaning, you could not be picky with who your allies were. A broad front meaning, you could have all your disagreements and misgivings about how everyone else was dealing with this situation, but you could not hope to build your message, to build allies, to spread hope if you let out your anger just to gratify the bitterness in your heart.
You cannot evangelize and antagonize at the same time, Valentin told himself.
He would raise the matter with Alexander now, he decided. But he would go about it with caution, with care. Alexander was hurting too. Alexander had his own reasons for why he'd done what he had done. Valentin would not let his emotions get the best of him.
He'd been about to speak with Alexander, and then he spotted something.
Two masses in the background, color laid against the sheer white.
He stopped.
"Do you see that?" he asked Alexander.
The slog through the field had proven slow, silent, uneventful, much like the rest of their first day on the island had gone.
Alexander was right that another encounter risked a much more hostile response than what they had received from Eden and the girl, whose name he regrettably still couldn't recall. But, he had made that observation without the slightest sense of self-reflection, without the slightest sense of consideration that they might be received with hostility because of him.
It was not usually in character for Valentin to hold resentment for this long, especially at someone he considered his friend, especially at Alexander. But there had been much time spent idling, and with that, much time for feelings like doubt and frustration and anxiety to ferment in the core of his heart and become this ugly, ugly thing that he possessed but knew not what to do with.
What embittered him the most, he supposed, was that that would possibly be the very last encounter he ever had with the girl and Eden. The island had a way of doing that, he realized, of elevating every quotidian encounter into life and death, last memories, defining moments. And now, the way they would remember each other, their final recollections of one another, would just be this. This ugliness.
Eleven of them were gone already, Alexander had said. Betty got a prize for partaking in the bloodshed, Valentin noted with a bitter taste in his mouth.
He'd scarcely said a word since the tunnel. He would converse when necessary, when rationing supplies or setting out their route, but no more. He knew not what to do with the bitterness in his heart, but he did not want to unleash it. Not thoughtlessly, at least.
You cannot evangelize and antagonize at the same time.
These were the words bouncing around Valentin's mind, the words he had wanted to speak at Alexander with conviction.
They were words uttered by Pastor Dewey Smith, words Valentin had heard uttered in a viral video Valentin had chanced upon, a Christian sermon condemning the hypocrisy of hatemongering against homosexuality while preaching the Gospel. Valentin was not a man of God, despite his grandfather's trying. But the sentiment had always resonated with him. His grandfather was a strong but gentle man, and he had always believed in the idea of building a broad front. A broad front meaning, you could not be picky with who your allies were. A broad front meaning, you could have all your disagreements and misgivings about how everyone else was dealing with this situation, but you could not hope to build your message, to build allies, to spread hope if you let out your anger just to gratify the bitterness in your heart.
You cannot evangelize and antagonize at the same time, Valentin told himself.
He would raise the matter with Alexander now, he decided. But he would go about it with caution, with care. Alexander was hurting too. Alexander had his own reasons for why he'd done what he had done. Valentin would not let his emotions get the best of him.
He'd been about to speak with Alexander, and then he spotted something.
Two masses in the background, color laid against the sheer white.
He stopped.
"Do you see that?" he asked Alexander.
Alexander squinted his eyes. A shape in the distance, the rough dimensions of a human being. He couldn't tell who; whether or not it was because of their distance from him or because he'd never known them, it made no substantial difference. In the end, it mattered not. The result was the same.
"I see it, Valentin," he noted, his clipped tones hard to read. The stops and starts could indicate anything from frozen shock to muted disaffection. "I'm going to move closer. Stay behind me, one or two steps back. Just in case."
With those words, he laid his hands on the handle of his knife and gripped it. At the moment, he saw two possibilities: either the person was alive, in which case he might need to make them cease to be, or they were not, in which case a threat may still linger that would require self-defense.
Alexander stepped forward, caution in his gait. One foot before the other, and again. He had his views on what was the truth, of course—evidence in his favor was there in plain sight—but he needed certainty. The scientific method came to mind.
"Make an observation, form a hypothesis, create a prediction," he recounted, "conduct the experiment, and then analyze the results."
Suppose there was a box in front of you composed of an entirely opaque material that—unless opened—you could not see its interior. What would you guess was inside? If you measured it by size or shape or shook it to hear the rattle of its contents, you could start to form a picture. However, to know for sure, you needed to open it.
Alexander took one step forward, then another. Eventually, his gait slowed as he drew near the object of interest. His grip on the knife loosened and then, shortly after, released, and his right hand fell, once more, to his side. There was no threat here—of that, there was no longer any doubt. He had received the assurance he wanted.
He had opened the box. Schrödinger's cat was dead.
The object was not alive. It was a person, once, but no longer; now, just a body. Inert. The cause was hard to pinpoint. However, bits of frost marked the edges of its form in open defiance of the temperature. Her dead hand clutched a lighter in a death grip.
Alexander didn't quite know how to describe the feeling of the sight. It did not make him sad, per se; he didn't know her. There was no name to attach to the corpse's face. He had no memories of ever interacting with her. Her death was entirely meaningless to him.
The only death that he had ever allowed to make its impact was that of his father. It was an object lesson. With it, he had learned not to trust those horrible components of the human spirit that others saw as essential components. Hope was a miserable thing, indeed.
Still, only one thing truly resonated with him: the overwhelming feeling of waste. This death was meaningless; it meant nothing and would forever mean nothing at all. Perhaps it was an outrage to the utilitarian in his soul, the part that wanted every piece to have a purpose.
Alexander turned his head to Valentin and then shook his head. In an instant, without any exchange of words, everything was clear.
"I see it, Valentin," he noted, his clipped tones hard to read. The stops and starts could indicate anything from frozen shock to muted disaffection. "I'm going to move closer. Stay behind me, one or two steps back. Just in case."
With those words, he laid his hands on the handle of his knife and gripped it. At the moment, he saw two possibilities: either the person was alive, in which case he might need to make them cease to be, or they were not, in which case a threat may still linger that would require self-defense.
Alexander stepped forward, caution in his gait. One foot before the other, and again. He had his views on what was the truth, of course—evidence in his favor was there in plain sight—but he needed certainty. The scientific method came to mind.
"Make an observation, form a hypothesis, create a prediction," he recounted, "conduct the experiment, and then analyze the results."
Suppose there was a box in front of you composed of an entirely opaque material that—unless opened—you could not see its interior. What would you guess was inside? If you measured it by size or shape or shook it to hear the rattle of its contents, you could start to form a picture. However, to know for sure, you needed to open it.
Alexander took one step forward, then another. Eventually, his gait slowed as he drew near the object of interest. His grip on the knife loosened and then, shortly after, released, and his right hand fell, once more, to his side. There was no threat here—of that, there was no longer any doubt. He had received the assurance he wanted.
He had opened the box. Schrödinger's cat was dead.
The object was not alive. It was a person, once, but no longer; now, just a body. Inert. The cause was hard to pinpoint. However, bits of frost marked the edges of its form in open defiance of the temperature. Her dead hand clutched a lighter in a death grip.
Alexander didn't quite know how to describe the feeling of the sight. It did not make him sad, per se; he didn't know her. There was no name to attach to the corpse's face. He had no memories of ever interacting with her. Her death was entirely meaningless to him.
The only death that he had ever allowed to make its impact was that of his father. It was an object lesson. With it, he had learned not to trust those horrible components of the human spirit that others saw as essential components. Hope was a miserable thing, indeed.
Still, only one thing truly resonated with him: the overwhelming feeling of waste. This death was meaningless; it meant nothing and would forever mean nothing at all. Perhaps it was an outrage to the utilitarian in his soul, the part that wanted every piece to have a purpose.
Alexander turned his head to Valentin and then shook his head. In an instant, without any exchange of words, everything was clear.
HIs footsteps slowed, crunch, crunch, to a stop.
The words he'd wanted to say had dissipated from his throat like nothing.
In front of him was the cost of every wasted second.
In a moment, all his anger, rage, all of it transformed into a numbness, spreading from his fingertips, the edges of his ears, inward.
He remembered seeing her face in a choir performance. And that was all that came to mind, all that was left of her, to him.
He gulped. Looked at his companion.
"Should we do something for her?" he asked Alexander.
The words he'd wanted to say had dissipated from his throat like nothing.
In front of him was the cost of every wasted second.
In a moment, all his anger, rage, all of it transformed into a numbness, spreading from his fingertips, the edges of his ears, inward.
He remembered seeing her face in a choir performance. And that was all that came to mind, all that was left of her, to him.
He gulped. Looked at his companion.
"Should we do something for her?" he asked Alexander.
There was a momentary lull. Wheels rotated, cogs turned, gears ground against one another. A piece of human machinery worked in service of an assigned purpose. The conversation, though, had proved a spanner in the works—a wrench in one carefully-woven plan.
"Do something?" Alexander asked, a frayed uncertainty at the edges of his words. To him, the question seemed as much a puzzle as anything else. What else was there to do? She was dead. You couldn't bring the dead back to life.
"There's nothing to do, Valentin," he protested. The harsh tones contrasted against the light breeze, the soft snow, and the loamy soil below their feet. "There's nothing to do but move on—to go forward and try to spare ourselves that fate."
There was a bitter chill in his gaze. Seconds ticked on, counted by the hand of his watch, still firmly clasped around his wrist. Every wasted second weighed on their shoulders, collars, and conscience—captive, bound, and double-ironed.
"Do something?" Alexander asked, a frayed uncertainty at the edges of his words. To him, the question seemed as much a puzzle as anything else. What else was there to do? She was dead. You couldn't bring the dead back to life.
"There's nothing to do, Valentin," he protested. The harsh tones contrasted against the light breeze, the soft snow, and the loamy soil below their feet. "There's nothing to do but move on—to go forward and try to spare ourselves that fate."
There was a bitter chill in his gaze. Seconds ticked on, counted by the hand of his watch, still firmly clasped around his wrist. Every wasted second weighed on their shoulders, collars, and conscience—captive, bound, and double-ironed.
Valentin's expression turned severe, though he tried not to show it to Alexander.
It took him a while to place a finger on why. For a few moments, all he knew was the rancor within him started to stir with renewed intensity. A sort of nausea inching up his throat, though the corpse had been in full view to him for more than a couple seconds by now. Eventually, it came to him, why he was feeling this way.
It was the last couple of words. 'Try to spare ourselves that fate.' Ourselves.
There were two senses in which you could use plural first-person pronouns in English. 'We,' meaning you, me, and everyone around us, the most inclusive version of the word.
Or, 'we,' you, me, that's it. Exclusive.
Valentin got the sense that Alexander meant 'we' in the latter sort of way.
And, thinking on it further, there was a disdain, an annoyance in the way Alexander responded to him. As if to do anything for the girl, even to just cover up her corpse lest it be left to rot in full view of the cameras, was a nuisance idea.
Valentin knew that sentimentality did not come easy to Alexander, that he had been shaped into a sort of ruthless pragmatism by the circumstances of his life. And he'd always tried his best to account for that when considering how to respond to him. 'He doesn't mean anything by it, that's just how he is.' 'He's not trying to be mean, he's just not open with how he feels.' That's how Valentin would explain it to others when they asked about him, and how Valentin would explain it to himself.
Things were different here, though. People were dead. Their classmates were dead. There was another, bloodier corpse in the vicinity, one that had almost certainly met a more violent fate than the girl in front of them. And, if this was how Alexander was responding to the very first victims of this game, how would he respond in the future, when all of them were numbed by the continual violence of this situation?
When the moral degradation really began to set in, to what lows would Alexander sink?
Valentin tried his best to tamp down his anger. Tried.
Without looking at him, he asked, "I'm sorry, is doing anything for her too inconvenient for you?"
It took him a while to place a finger on why. For a few moments, all he knew was the rancor within him started to stir with renewed intensity. A sort of nausea inching up his throat, though the corpse had been in full view to him for more than a couple seconds by now. Eventually, it came to him, why he was feeling this way.
It was the last couple of words. 'Try to spare ourselves that fate.' Ourselves.
There were two senses in which you could use plural first-person pronouns in English. 'We,' meaning you, me, and everyone around us, the most inclusive version of the word.
Or, 'we,' you, me, that's it. Exclusive.
Valentin got the sense that Alexander meant 'we' in the latter sort of way.
And, thinking on it further, there was a disdain, an annoyance in the way Alexander responded to him. As if to do anything for the girl, even to just cover up her corpse lest it be left to rot in full view of the cameras, was a nuisance idea.
Valentin knew that sentimentality did not come easy to Alexander, that he had been shaped into a sort of ruthless pragmatism by the circumstances of his life. And he'd always tried his best to account for that when considering how to respond to him. 'He doesn't mean anything by it, that's just how he is.' 'He's not trying to be mean, he's just not open with how he feels.' That's how Valentin would explain it to others when they asked about him, and how Valentin would explain it to himself.
Things were different here, though. People were dead. Their classmates were dead. There was another, bloodier corpse in the vicinity, one that had almost certainly met a more violent fate than the girl in front of them. And, if this was how Alexander was responding to the very first victims of this game, how would he respond in the future, when all of them were numbed by the continual violence of this situation?
When the moral degradation really began to set in, to what lows would Alexander sink?
Valentin tried his best to tamp down his anger. Tried.
Without looking at him, he asked, "I'm sorry, is doing anything for her too inconvenient for you?"
Wheels spun and spun and spun, cogs turned and turned and turned, and gears ground and ground and ground, always going faster and faster and faster. The machine tried desperately to apply mathematic equations and logical rules to human interactions not meant for such things.
What?
Alexander didn't understand. He didn't understand at all.
The question, "should we do something for her?" made no sense to him. The 'her' in question was a corpse—an inanimate object. The same level of existence as a rock or a tree's severed branch. Not alive. What could you do? Nothing. The dead stayed dead no matter what.
A memory came back to haunt him. Alexander remembered the funeral of his father. He had watched as they lowered the coffin into the ground and filled the hole with dirt. And then it was over. All the whole thing did was stick another nail in his heart.
What did the dead care? They were dead.
He couldn't think of a logical reason to do anything for the corpse they'd found—only emotional reasons. And they did not convince him. All that would happen is they would waste their time and energy on a dead body. What else could they do with those resources?
They could do so many other, more productive things. They could do something meaningful: something that gave them—Alexander and Valentin, two living people—a better chance at continuing to fit the criteria of 'living.'
He didn't understand.
Why was this an emotional consideration?
The machine came to a halt. The spanner had wedged itself into a corner of the mind. All the wheels, cogs, and gears of the analytical mind had become stuck. Logic had broken down—and, for a moment, emotion took its hold as the dominant force in Alexander.
Why?
"No, you're wrong," he lashed out with a hurt, defensive tinge to his voice. "Every moment we waste here is a moment we could use to make progress. You say we have the rest of our lives—how much time is that? We've got to focus, Valentin. Otherwise, we are going to die here."
Alexander turned his whole body to Valentin. All at once, his guard raised, hackles up, front and center. The bridges fell; walls went up in their place. A stunned silence echoed around them. Shock and heat turned electric in the winter air.
What?
Alexander didn't understand. He didn't understand at all.
The question, "should we do something for her?" made no sense to him. The 'her' in question was a corpse—an inanimate object. The same level of existence as a rock or a tree's severed branch. Not alive. What could you do? Nothing. The dead stayed dead no matter what.
A memory came back to haunt him. Alexander remembered the funeral of his father. He had watched as they lowered the coffin into the ground and filled the hole with dirt. And then it was over. All the whole thing did was stick another nail in his heart.
What did the dead care? They were dead.
He couldn't think of a logical reason to do anything for the corpse they'd found—only emotional reasons. And they did not convince him. All that would happen is they would waste their time and energy on a dead body. What else could they do with those resources?
They could do so many other, more productive things. They could do something meaningful: something that gave them—Alexander and Valentin, two living people—a better chance at continuing to fit the criteria of 'living.'
He didn't understand.
Why was this an emotional consideration?
The machine came to a halt. The spanner had wedged itself into a corner of the mind. All the wheels, cogs, and gears of the analytical mind had become stuck. Logic had broken down—and, for a moment, emotion took its hold as the dominant force in Alexander.
Why?
"No, you're wrong," he lashed out with a hurt, defensive tinge to his voice. "Every moment we waste here is a moment we could use to make progress. You say we have the rest of our lives—how much time is that? We've got to focus, Valentin. Otherwise, we are going to die here."
Alexander turned his whole body to Valentin. All at once, his guard raised, hackles up, front and center. The bridges fell; walls went up in their place. A stunned silence echoed around them. Shock and heat turned electric in the winter air.
Valentin blinked, trying to process what had just happened.
Despite the chill in the air, his face felt red-hot.
"Who says I'm not focusing?"
He turned to Alexander.
"You say that as if I weren't deathly aware of every second that passed us by yesterday. As if I'm not deathly aware of every second passing us by right now," he said, the last two words through gritted teeth.
"Alexander, I'm not asking for an entire funeral complete with a eulogy and a mass for her, I'm asking that we cover her corpse up with snow so the vultures don't peck her eyes out, so her family is allowed that much, at least."
"You say we cannot afford to lose any more time, and I agree. And I say that we cannot afford to lose any more of our humanity. In any other place in the world, we see a corpse, and it is a traumatizing thing. And now we're supposed to disregard her?" he asked, glaring at Alexander, jabbing a finger at the girl.
"When we come back, I want to retain all the impulses that us humans are meant to have. I want to flinch at the sight of a corpse, I want to feel sad when a loved one dies, I want to react with horror and shock at the sight of violence, I want to feel concern for my fellow man still; the terrorists want to strip us of all those impulses, and I refuse to comply, Alexander, I REFUSE."
The last words echoed throughout the field, the anger rendered into wisps of smoke that faded into the air around them.
He'd never shouted at Alexander before. He couldn't remember the last time he'd shouted at anyone, actually.
To what lows would Valentin sink?
He turned away from his friend, from the corpse. Tears dripped down his cheeks.
"What use is coming back if our souls die here? It scares me, Alexander, it does."
Despite the chill in the air, his face felt red-hot.
"Who says I'm not focusing?"
He turned to Alexander.
"You say that as if I weren't deathly aware of every second that passed us by yesterday. As if I'm not deathly aware of every second passing us by right now," he said, the last two words through gritted teeth.
"Alexander, I'm not asking for an entire funeral complete with a eulogy and a mass for her, I'm asking that we cover her corpse up with snow so the vultures don't peck her eyes out, so her family is allowed that much, at least."
"You say we cannot afford to lose any more time, and I agree. And I say that we cannot afford to lose any more of our humanity. In any other place in the world, we see a corpse, and it is a traumatizing thing. And now we're supposed to disregard her?" he asked, glaring at Alexander, jabbing a finger at the girl.
"When we come back, I want to retain all the impulses that us humans are meant to have. I want to flinch at the sight of a corpse, I want to feel sad when a loved one dies, I want to react with horror and shock at the sight of violence, I want to feel concern for my fellow man still; the terrorists want to strip us of all those impulses, and I refuse to comply, Alexander, I REFUSE."
The last words echoed throughout the field, the anger rendered into wisps of smoke that faded into the air around them.
He'd never shouted at Alexander before. He couldn't remember the last time he'd shouted at anyone, actually.
To what lows would Valentin sink?
He turned away from his friend, from the corpse. Tears dripped down his cheeks.
"What use is coming back if our souls die here? It scares me, Alexander, it does."
Alexander had never heard Valentin shout at him before. Sometimes, they would raise their voices, but never to this extent. Even their most heated disagreements seemed cold and far away by comparison. At that awful sound, at once, he flinched and drew back into his shell. His hands trembled, and he balled them into fists, yet they shook still.
He didn't understand.
Alexander couldn't agree. Those feelings of sorrow, that pain of loss—how could anyone want such things? They were concepts to be suppressed, buried, and hidden deep within. The only way, he thought, was to root out such emotions at their core—to strip out the worst, the weakest parts of himself. But then, could he have been wrong?
Once, he had read about survivorship bias. There was a story about bombers in the Second World War—they examined the ones that returned from missions. They wanted to know how to protect the most vulnerable areas on a plane and where they should add additional plates. So, they examined where the ones that returned had received damage.
The first instinct of the military, it had said, was to plate the areas where they saw the most bullet holes—after all, was that not where the damage appeared? But a statistician, Abraham Wald, objected: he argued that they should plate the areas where the planes had not received damage rather than the ones that had.
His argument?
They examined only the planes that had returned from their missions. So, the mathematician inferred: the bombers that received damage in those areas were those that didn't come back—the ones lost. Alexander had heard that this was considered a foundational component in the fledgling discipline of operational research.
Could the same apply here?
Alexander didn't know—and he was afraid to know. He had trained himself to question everything, but that knowledge seemed forbidden. He thought about it, silent, for a moment, but no answer came. The more Alexander thought about it, the further away the answer seemed and the direr the question became.
He had pulled on a string, and things had begun to unravel.
So he stopped. It was against his nature, but he forced himself to stop—to leave that question unanswered. It was too much. He did not have the willpower to step through that dark and hazy passageway—to look deeper into the mirror. Through shaken breaths and halted gasps, his eyes bore back into Valentin.
"Valentin," he said. It took everything he had to continue: "For every moment that we sit here and bicker, more people will die. We can't help the dead—but we can still work to put a final end to this madness." He paused. "If you insist that we give our dues, then fine; I will agree, if only to sate your soul."
He paused—to choose his words with precision.
"If you want my opinion, though, between one corpse and the whole sum of those who yet live, I would choose the latter without hesitation."
He didn't understand.
Alexander couldn't agree. Those feelings of sorrow, that pain of loss—how could anyone want such things? They were concepts to be suppressed, buried, and hidden deep within. The only way, he thought, was to root out such emotions at their core—to strip out the worst, the weakest parts of himself. But then, could he have been wrong?
Once, he had read about survivorship bias. There was a story about bombers in the Second World War—they examined the ones that returned from missions. They wanted to know how to protect the most vulnerable areas on a plane and where they should add additional plates. So, they examined where the ones that returned had received damage.
The first instinct of the military, it had said, was to plate the areas where they saw the most bullet holes—after all, was that not where the damage appeared? But a statistician, Abraham Wald, objected: he argued that they should plate the areas where the planes had not received damage rather than the ones that had.
His argument?
They examined only the planes that had returned from their missions. So, the mathematician inferred: the bombers that received damage in those areas were those that didn't come back—the ones lost. Alexander had heard that this was considered a foundational component in the fledgling discipline of operational research.
Could the same apply here?
Alexander didn't know—and he was afraid to know. He had trained himself to question everything, but that knowledge seemed forbidden. He thought about it, silent, for a moment, but no answer came. The more Alexander thought about it, the further away the answer seemed and the direr the question became.
He had pulled on a string, and things had begun to unravel.
So he stopped. It was against his nature, but he forced himself to stop—to leave that question unanswered. It was too much. He did not have the willpower to step through that dark and hazy passageway—to look deeper into the mirror. Through shaken breaths and halted gasps, his eyes bore back into Valentin.
"Valentin," he said. It took everything he had to continue: "For every moment that we sit here and bicker, more people will die. We can't help the dead—but we can still work to put a final end to this madness." He paused. "If you insist that we give our dues, then fine; I will agree, if only to sate your soul."
He paused—to choose his words with precision.
"If you want my opinion, though, between one corpse and the whole sum of those who yet live, I would choose the latter without hesitation."
"It can be both, Alexander."
He didn't say any more. Didn't even meet his friend's eyes. His stuttered breaths told Valentin enough, and he couldn't bear to match a face to it. Valentin had gotten him to budge just a little, and that would be it; any more and he might break.
There was no shovel. So, silently, he pushed snow with his two hands, and pushed it over the girl's gray shoes.
He didn't say any more. Didn't even meet his friend's eyes. His stuttered breaths told Valentin enough, and he couldn't bear to match a face to it. Valentin had gotten him to budge just a little, and that would be it; any more and he might break.
There was no shovel. So, silently, he pushed snow with his two hands, and pushed it over the girl's gray shoes.
Their two sets of eyes, brown and gray, dodged and danced around one another's gaze. Their visions never met. As for how Alexander felt? His heart was like a ship's core, buried under layers of steel, now punched through by a shell. A sinking feeling weighed in his chest, the external flames of anger silent save for the crackles and pops of dying embers.
Given no choice but to break or bend, Alexander had given—folded under the weight of emotion. Was that the new status quo? Or simply a precursor to a future collapse? He couldn't know anymore. The certainty that his ideals had brought him was now in question; blurry gradients of gray where once there had been simple black and white.
As for the corpse, Alexander did only the barest minimum: he tilted his foot and used it to sweep some snow over the face and neck of the corpse. Valentin made a more substantial effort—first the feet, then upward, buried, hand over hand. Soon, though, the task was complete, and there was no sign of the corpse but a white pile.
It brought him no joy.
Alexander turned to Valentin and nodded. He had no words to say. Valentin nodded back. Then, the two began to walk, and their shadows trailed behind them like stalking creatures. They disappeared—into the distance, into the unknown—to dark and sinister places where there were no such things as guarantees.
S061: ALEXANDER HAWTHORNE & S069: VALENTIN SHULGIN — CONTINUED IN "Mediation"
Given no choice but to break or bend, Alexander had given—folded under the weight of emotion. Was that the new status quo? Or simply a precursor to a future collapse? He couldn't know anymore. The certainty that his ideals had brought him was now in question; blurry gradients of gray where once there had been simple black and white.
As for the corpse, Alexander did only the barest minimum: he tilted his foot and used it to sweep some snow over the face and neck of the corpse. Valentin made a more substantial effort—first the feet, then upward, buried, hand over hand. Soon, though, the task was complete, and there was no sign of the corpse but a white pile.
It brought him no joy.
Alexander turned to Valentin and nodded. He had no words to say. Valentin nodded back. Then, the two began to walk, and their shadows trailed behind them like stalking creatures. They disappeared—into the distance, into the unknown—to dark and sinister places where there were no such things as guarantees.
S061: ALEXANDER HAWTHORNE & S069: VALENTIN SHULGIN — CONTINUED IN "Mediation"