Markov stumbled out of the medical centre, sliding his hand along the wall for balance. He felt foolish wearing the loose white body suit that the medics had dressed him in but he had no other choice. There were several bloodstains on the sleeves, and various unsavoury marks down the front that he didn't try to recognise. It wasn't a good look for anyone, especially the General of Central Command.
'General,' a trooper said, approaching him with wide eyes. 'I thought you were in a coma?'
Markov squinted at the soldier through red eyes. 'There's no time to rest in this place. Our commanders need me.'
The trooper nodded but he didn't look at all sure about Markov's state of health.
'Give me your arm,' Markov said, reaching towards him. 'Help me to the Air Route.'
The trooper moved closer, helping Markov limp down the corridor. Markov's slow, painful steps made the short walk take a lot longer than usual. He could see the Air Route's outline in the distance but it didn't seem to be getting any closer. He had to stop twice within a few metres just to catch his breath. He was starting to believe that the doctor might have been right. There was definitely something seriously wrong with his lungs. They made a wet gurgling sound every time he inhaled. At first he was worried that he might have inhaled spores from the fless caves in the Southern Territories, but then he laughed when he realised that it was impossible. He hadn't been to the Southern Territories for a long time. There was no way the fungal spores could have travelled so far.
'Are you okay, General?' the soldier said. 'Should I get help?'
Markov rested heavily with his arm over the trooper's shoulder. 'I've never felt better. Just get me to that Air Route and I'll take it from there.'
The trooper nodded and remained silent. He was starting to breath heavily too. Supporting Markov's bulky frame wasn't easy for anyone.
Each step felt more painful than the last. Markov grimaced and clutched at his side as he walked. It felt like his ribs were exploding, and his thoughts were so woolly that his once strong legs threatened to tip him onto his face more than once.
Finally he reached the Air Route, wiping sweat from his brow as he gasped for breath. He wasn't sure whether he was going to stand on his own or pass out.
'Which level are you going to?' the trooper said. 'I can follow you there and help you continue to wherever you're going.'
Markov shook his head. 'Thanks for your help, but I'll take it from here. What's your name, Trooper?'
'Macalroy.'
'Thanks, Trooper Macalroy. Not all duties come with honour, but today your help was greatly appreciated.'
Macalroy nodded and stepped to one side.
Markov watched the Air Route split down the middle and then he stepped into the familiar padded cocoon inside. The acceleration webbing wrapped around him, supporting his full weight just before he could fall. He nodded once to Macalroy as the doors slid shut, wrapping him in darkness and the booth accelerated up inside the tower.
Macalroy would alert the commanders, of course. It wouldn't be long before one of them went searching for him. But he had left the medical centre. Now all he needed to do now was get cleaned up and put on a fresh uniform.
The Air Route took him to level 208 with a strange weaving motion that swung Markov's body from side to side. When the doors opened, he stumbled along the corridor, balancing with one hand dragging along the wall. It was only a few metres to his quarters but it might as well have been a kilometre. His legs ached. His head pounded and his shoulders felt as though they had been torn off and put back on the wrong way around. By the time he reached the door to his quarters he was covered in sweat. He didn't have his wrist console so he looked up at the nearest visual log recorder instead. 'Parker. Can you open my door, please.'
Parker was an implant. He wasn't a doorman, but he did have access to every visual log within the towers. He might not be fully conscious of what was happening on every one of them at all times, but Markov was hoping he might notice the strange sight of a general standing in a corridor wearing a loose white body suit that didn't really fit.
A few seconds later, the door to his quarters opened, and Parker spoke through the door console inside. 'General, I thought you were in the medical centre?'
'I was, and now I'm here.'
'Do you need assistance?'
'No. I'm doing just fine. I need to get cleaned up and changed, and then I'll be joining you all in the Operations Room shortly.'
'Do you think that's a good idea?'
Markov placed special emphasis on his words. 'Yes, I do.'
'Okay, General. I'll let Commander Drefnig know that you're coming.'
Markov limped through the main living area and headed towards the adjoining door at the back of the room. Stepping into his bunk room, he collapsed onto his soft bunk and reached under his pillow with one trembling hand. It was still there, just where he had left it. He pulled out the small silver foil and clasped it in his hands like a long lost treasure. Breathing heavily as he unwrapped it, he tipped the Toruk powder into his mouth and used his finger to rub it onto his gums.
It wasn't long before the familiar warm feeling rolled over him, a tingling sensation spreading across the top of his head. The roaring pain receded to a dull ache in the back of his mind. His thoughts spun and the room turned with them.
How much had he taken? He tried to remember how much Toruk powder had been in the foil. Was it enough for two days or three? He wasn't sure. All that he knew was that he felt a lot better now than he had before he had taken it. The ceiling pulsed as though it was lowering towards him. He turned sideways and rolled onto the floor with a thud.
* * * * *
'General? General?'
Markov opened his eyes. When he lifted his head he found a pile of his own sick on the floor beside him.
'General, let me help you up.' Strong hands lifted him from the floor and sat him on the edge of his bunk.
Markov looked up and saw Commander Drefnig staring down at him. 'Drefnig.'
'What are you doing here? I thought you were in the medical centre?'
'So people keep telling me. I discharged myself.'
'But you're sick. You need help.'
'There's no time for all that. The Second Black Day is coming. I need to—'
'It's already here. The Kamari have started their attack.'
Markov gazed into Drefnig's eyes, trying desperately to focus. 'Then I need to come to the Operations Room at once.'
'You're in no condition to return to duty.'
'Nevertheless, it is what I must do. Excuse me while I clean myself up.'
Drefnig didn't look convinced but he nodded and stepped into the other room to give Markov some privacy.
Markov got to his feet and staggered towards a small sink in the corner of his bunk room. When he looked into the wall mounted mirror, he was shocked by his own appearance once more. The glass in the medical centre had only offered a partial reflection, obscured by reflections from the overhead lights, but now that he could see his face clearly, he could see why everybody was so worried about him.
His eyes were shrouded in dark shadows, and his face was white and clammy. One whole side of his face had sunk down at an odd angle as though there were no muscles left in his cheek. Markov turned his head from side to side, watching the deep blue veins throbbing on each side of his forehead. When he brushed his hair, parts of it fell out in clumps.
The loose white body suit had already been stained when he had left the medical centre, but now it was covered in his own vomit. Markov lifted it over his head and threw it to one side. He started washing his face and chest with cold water. The water was cool and refreshing against his skin, but it felt different too. It felt more like sand slipping through his fingers than water. He stared at the tap, wondering if it really was sand, but his eyes saw nothing but water pouring into the sink.
When he scratched the back of his neck, he realised that there was something wrong with his senses. When he touched his own neck, it felt like his finger was in a different place. At least his vision was now clear. The fact that he could see how bad he looked was good news for the health of his eyes.
Markov offered himself a grim smile in the mirror as he finished cleaning himself up. Limping over to one of the built in storage units, he pulled out some underclothes and a clean uniform and started putting them on. It took him far longer than usual to get dressed but thankfully Drefnig didn't offer to help. If a general couldn't dress himself for battle then what use was he?
His shoulders hurt every time he raised his arms, and his kidneys felt swollen and bruised. He wondered just how bad the pain would be if it wasn't for the massive dose of Toruk powder that was still throbbing through his veins.
When he stepped back into the main living area, some twenty minutes later, Drefnig was sat in a chair, tapping away at his console.
Markov wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Getting dressed had never been so challenging in his life. The day could only get easier from here on.
'Have you told the others I'm returning?' he said.
Drefnig looked up with a frown. 'Yes, General.'
'You've been the Voice in my absence?'
'Yes. Druro suggested that I take control until you were able to return to duty. We weren't sure about the protocol of the situation but there weren't many other options.'
Markov nodded. 'I wouldn't have had it any other way.'
Drefnig blinked as unreadable thoughts circled behind his eyes.
'You're a good officer,' Markov said. 'The other commanders look up to you. You'll be a general yourself one day.'
Drefnig shook his head. 'I'm happy to hand command back to you, General - if you are well enough to accept it. I'll be the first to admit that this level of responsibility weighs heavily on my mind.'
Markov nodded. 'Responsibility is what shapes the man.'
Drefnig rubbed a hand through his hair. 'Shall we go? The others are waiting us and we have a lot to talk about.'
Markov nodded. 'Lead the way, but slowly.'