Balázs Pataki - S.T.A.L.K.E.R. - Northern Passage

He takes a deep breath before asking on, because he knows he’s about to inquire a secret.

“Can I ask you something? Talking about the Zone—is it true that you made it to the Wish Granter before Strelok?”

Sadness comes over the Doctor’s wrinkled face like a shadow.

“You mentioned my healing skills,” he says. “Also, you know that every fulfilled wish comes at a price. The price I have to pay is seclusion. Think about it.”

“So, after all the legend of the Wish Granter is true?”

“For some. I wouldn’t dare saying, the Chosen .”

“I could never make up my mind whether to believe it or not. Probably I better wanted it to be just a legend, so I believed it a legend. When I was there I didn’t dare wish for anything. Probably I’ve been a coward, missing on my only chance to find out the truth.”

“No. It was very wise of you. A choice one needs the most courage to take, even.”

“I’m glad you said that.” Tarasov heaves the sigh of someone who has just released from a burden weighing on his heart. “I’ve been having a run of bad luck ever since.”

“Bad luck? I heard of rookies who got eaten by blind dogs on their first day. That’s bad luck. But you? Some way or another, you always get through.”

“Maybe so.”

“If you want to know what I think, the fact that you made it to the Wish Granter and didn’t fall for the temptation makes you useful to the Zone. Yes—for the Zone, or better: the power behind it. You are still an empty page. Who knows what story will be written on it and how it will end? Not my business to know, mind you, neither would I want to look into anyone’s future if there were such an ability.”

“What do you mean by saying, ’the power behind the Zone’?”

“You know best that the two Zones are connected. Superficially, by the Soviet past and Stalkers. Deeper, maybe by something that’s broken about our planet. Maybe you starting a new life in the New Zone is part of something bigger. Again, who knows? You might be a small link in a long chain of events. In any case, I don’t believe the Zone would let anyone survive if it had no plans for him. Or her, for that matter.”

The Doctor fills his cup with tea. Tarasov is about to reply when he continues his thoughts.

“However—I believe Nooria is special. More than you and me, who are just ordinary people sucked in by the Zone. She might be the proverbial place to stand on that’s needed to move the world — or at least what’s behind the Zone. From the very first moment I met her, I sensed power in her—power I’d never sensed before.”

“She is special, and wise too, but just human like us. Hartman and the others in the Tribe call her a witch, true enough, but that’s just a manner of speaking. If artifact lore and healing skills made her a real witch, Doc, you would be a veritable witchmaster!”

“That’s your wishful thinking, my friend. Don’t try to deny what can no longer be denied.”

“What are you hinting at? That she is not human?” Tarasov sneers. “Come on, Doc. I assure you she feels, smells and tastes like a flesh and blood woman.”

The Doctor grins. “Don’t tease an old and lonely man with things like that!”

For several minutes he appears to be fully consumed by the pleasure of inhaling the vapors rising from his tea cup. Finally, when Tarasov already thinks he wants to keep his wisdom to himself, the Doctor replies.

“I think she is a vessel holding power beyond our understanding.”

“Gospodi, Doc! I’d never go into a gunfight with you.”

“Why?”

“Because if I asked you for a spare mag, you’d tell me the history of gunpowder. So, in less flowery words?”

“Maybe your child will be that power. Perhaps it will rule both Zones, make them disappear — or spread over the whole world. Who knows?” Seeing the utter bewilderment on Tarasov’s face, the Doc adds almost comfortingly: “Time, my friend. Only time will tell.”

Stuck for words, Tarasov stares into the crackling fire. For long minutes he lets the time just pass by, enjoying calmness he hasn’t felt in a long time; now however the Doctor’s prophetic words have struck a chord of discomfort in his soul. Then a simple thing comes to his mind.

“It’s about time to thank you for letting us stay.”

The Doctor waves his hand in a gesture that could mean don’t mention it but it was the will of the Zone as well. Probably both.

“I haven’t seen Strelok in ages,” he pensively says. “Sometimes I asked myself, could it be that he has died? And I kept telling myself, no—he will overcome any obstacle, he’s just fine. He will always be a good friend. Druzhok is good enough company on most days, but he only cares about his lunch. It’s more important to him than the fate of an old friend.”

Tarasov gives him a world-weary look. “I always knew your mutant is almost human.”

“No,” the Doc says returning the bitter smile. “Some humans are like mutants.”

“You know, I’m beginning to feel guilty over Nooria meeting only the worst of our people.”

“That’s because you keep bad company yourself. Stalkers, renegades, military, all kinds of Zone scoundrel, including an old medicine man hiding in the Zone’s butthole,” the Doc replies with thick irony. “And as if that hadn’t been enough, now you’ll join the Bandits! The worst of them all! Can’t blame her if she hasn’t yet applied for Ukrainian citizenship.” They both chuckle. “Yes… no wonder she didn’t have a chance to meet a few ordinary people who, after all, keep this country alive.”

“Who always have and always will,” nods Tarasov.

The Doctor raises his glass. Tarasov follows suit and they clink their glasses in a silent toast.

“Idiots! You deserve two years strafbat! Cleaning up radioactive shit is the only thing you are good for!”

Captain Maksimov has endured more than enough pain during his missions into the Exclusion Zone. In battle, waves of adrenaline made him scream and swear and compensate for the pain. Now, standing at attention in Colonel Kruchelnikov’s office, he can only grind his teeth, trying to conceal the pain from the wound in his bandaged throat and the shame on his face. Sergeant Vlasov, whose Spetsnaz detachment was responsible for guarding Tarasov, is standing next to him and apparently doesn’t feel any better.

Colonel Kruchelnikov bashes his desk with both fists. His artery is swelling as he yells at them.

“First, Strelok makes a fool of you. Then your prisoner kills one of our best agents and stabs two guards while she walks away! Using your key card! And if that wasn’t already be a disgrace of incredible proportions, Tarasov too escapes from Cordon Base!”

“That was my fault, Colonel,” the sergeant boldly admits.

“Shut your mouth, Vlasov! Tell me, Captain, what the hell am I supposed to do with you two? You are not worth the price of the bullets I want to put in your heads!”

“Sir,” Maksimenko says shunning the Colonel’s eyes. “Agent Fedorka’s death is the greatest punishment that could ever fall on me.”

“What the hell happened with you and Fedorka? Don’t even think of lying to me!”

“Fedorka—I mean, I applied aggressive interrogation methods including, but not limited to psychological pressure. Things got out of control and—”

“Maksimenko. Captain Maksimenko,” the Colonel says with sudden calmness. “Did you ever see me wearing cap and bells?”

“No, sir,” Maksimenko replies, baffled at his superior’s change of mood. “Of course not, sir.”