Dr. Skorbinka sucked down hard on his cigarette and breathed out a smokescreen worthy of a dragon. He paused for a moment, looking up at the cloud-streaked sky, watching the smoke dissipate. The sleek skyscrapers gave a mirrored view of the great blue yonder, a view so perfect, you wouldn’t have thought that, everywhere, people were dying.

“Do you know what is like to be homosexual in Odensk?” he said, soft and unsteady. “Official position of government is that we do not exist in Odensk. Whole country, bottom to top. No homosexuals. Not in sewers, nor in secret penthouses, nor even in deepest darks of witch’s cave. In Odensk, men come in two kinds: pussy and not-pussy. Any boy or man who look or act like pussy, he gets kicked in face, or thrown out into street. Smartest childrens learn quick: never ask question. Difference causes trouble, you know, and questions bring more trouble. If I anything less than more than perfect,” he started slicing his hand through the air, “my career, grants, immigration work visa—all go south like Polovian goose for winter.”

He set his cigarette down on the grainy stone of the balustrade.

“Only yesterday, military coup toppled Odensk government, you know. It is all thanks to Green Death.”

“What?” I knew I had much bigger problems to worry about, but still… hearing that made me nervous.

“B-But,” I stammered, “what about the mycophage samples? I think your idea for using them to treat patients is worth pursuing. Do we have to give that up, too?”

“Ach,” Dr. Skorbinka sighed, “who knows? Maybe it get here, maybe it not?” He shook his head. “Makes no difference. So far, attempts to dose patients with antivirals to reset potential mycoviral-induced pathogenicity in NFP-20 has yet to yield results, though perhaps this is only for want of time. And, as for medical-grade antifungals?” His shoulders sagged. “No sunshine.”

I fidgeted with my lucky bow-tie. “No sunshine yet,” I added. I didn’t believe in it, myself, but sheer force of habit kept me from staying silent when others turned to nihilism.

“Why keep fighting, Howle Genneth? You saw what fungus did to baby.” His hand shook. “You saw analysis of fungus samples with Brand. This,” he wept, “it not worth heartache. Brand already cause lifetime of heartache.”

My psychiatric senses were tingling. “Are you two in a relationship?”

Mistelann Skorbinka pursed his lips in a grimace. “Only in my dreams, where it safe to make such wish.”

Oh…

Dr. Skorbinka turned away, letting his gaze wander to the streets below. “Brand is… completely loopy,” Mistelann explained. “For him, nightmares are like presents on White Midnight. It is dance with death. I know how it ends, and I do not wish to see it.” Tears ran down his cheeks.

“Why don’t you tell him how you feel, then?” I suggested. “I can count with my fingers the number of problems that can’t be fixed with the help of meaningful connections to other people.”

The mycologist smiled. It wasn’t much—it was barely a sliver—but you could have flown mountains through it.

His voice cracked. “You are kind person, Howle Genneth, with or without silly bow-tie.” Sniffling, he shook his head. “But… some deeds are easier dreamt than done. Unsurety makes possibilities into paralysis and pain. No one else can heal heart if heart is not truly sure of what it wishes. And I…” he swallowed hard, “I am not sure of anything, anymore. One lifetime turned out much shorter than I ever could have believed.” He sighed. “I think… is better to work beside him. Then I will be happy, and he will be happy, and we will be happy together. Afraid, but happy.”

Reluctantly, I nodded. “Brand is somewhat easy to please,” I said.

Dr. Skorbinka snorted.

“I retract my earlier statement. We are somewhat alike, Dr. Howle; we are both fools.” He smirked sadly. “I am sad fool; you, happy fool. Nowston Brand is also happy fool.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Only very, very foolish person such as ourselves could miss sunlight-clear sign of Brand’s love for you, Howle Genneth. You miss sign, but suffer not, and keep trying to do better. This makes you happy fool. I miss sign, and suffer greatly, and fail, and so fall into misery. This makes me sad fool. Brand miss all signs, but not feel unhappy, so he happy fool, too.”

My jaw hung slack. He was absolutely, positively, unquestionably correct, so much so that what most shocked me was that I really had missed all the signs. In hindsight, it made perfect sense that Brand’s only friends were the people he loved and the people that loved him in return. And, truly, how tragic it was that those people were not one and the same. Would that they were for us all.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

I figured now was as good a time as any to voice my worries to our helpful, broken mycologist. He’d shared a secret with me—one I’d imagine he’d want me to keep—so I’d be remiss if I didn’t take the opportunity to cash in on his gratitude.

“If you don’t mind me changing the subject, Mistelann, I’d like to talk some more about your theory regarding Type Two patients.”

Dr. Skorbinka crossed his arms and legs. “Yes…?”

I cleared my throat and smacked my lips, getting a hint of the aftertaste of my protein bar. “I gotta say, it… well, it worries me. I’ve been working closely with Ward E’s Type Two patients and…” I took a deep breath to steady myself.

Mistelann scoffed at me. “What does it matter?” He shook his head grimly.

I exhaled. “What I’m about to tell you, you cannot tell anyone else. It’s still very sensitive information, and I’m not entirely sold on it myself, but…”

“I’m listening,” he said, averting his eyes. “You keep my secret, I keep yours.”

I nodded. “I have reason to believe that there is something supernatural afoot.”

The mycologist’s expression flattened. He frowned deeply as he took another puff of his cigarette and tapped the ash off on the wall.

“This your secret?” His bushy eyebrows peaked. “Is very bad secret.” He pursed his lips. “It is, how you say…” he gyrated his hand, “open secret.”

I snorted.

“People turning into monsters,” he continued, “babies turning into snake babies. Is supernatural, no question.”

“Point taken,” I said, “but it’s the details that I have for you that I want you to keep hidden.” I cleared my throat. “The Type Two patients have been exhibiting… powers. Psychokinesis. They can move objects with their minds. I’ve seen it many times.”

The mycologist stared at me, silent, but wide-eyed, and with his cigarette perched in between two fingers.

“What troubles me is your theory that the fungus might be trying to manipulate the transformees, or even outright take control of them.”

“Is very scary, yes,” Mistelann said, flatly, with a vigorous nod. He proceeded to take another puff.

“And,” I continued, “I have reason to believe that the Type Two manifestation of the disease is, well… it’s the result of an outside force that’s at war with the fungus.”

The mycologist’s mouth came unhinged. His cigarette fell off his lip and onto the concrete underfoot. “Of course!” he shouted, his face lighting up like the Sun overhead. He nodded excitedly.

“What is it?”

Mistelann hopped in place. “Hyperparasitism!” He ran his fingers through his hair.

Blinking, I pursed my lips.

“What?”

“Hyperparasite,” he said, with emphasis. “You see, Howle Genneth, Biology is Empress of Moochers—great Cutter of Corners. Parasitism is most common mode of existence in whole biosphere.”

I nodded. “Yes, Brand has told me about nematodes.”

Every once in a while, I would still get nightmares from that one particular conversation of ours.

“In nature, there is no pulling up of self with strap of boot. Natural order is redistributive. Creatures of free life suffer sting of parasite, and parasite suffer under sting of yet smaller parasite. World is not stacks of tortoise or elephanty; is stack of wasp on mite on flatworm on nematode on nematode of smaller size, on fungus, on smaller fungus, on bacterium, on virus, all way to tiny parasite infinity.” Dr. Skorbinka illustrated his point with some truly marvelous hand gestures.

“Have new theory, now,” he continued. “NFP-20 is magic evil, and force behind Type Two—”

“—I’ve been calling it Andalon,” I said.

Mistelann pointed at me and nodded. “Andalon is, possibly, result of parasite in Green Death fungus. Fungus is parasite on human beings; this parasitism results in death. But Andalon is parasite on parasite—this is hyperparasite.”

“Alright, but why has that got you so excited?” I asked. I leaned forward, wanting to get as much out of this conversation as I could; the more knowledge, the better.

“There have been studies—with ant zombie Tochukaso fungus, no less—which show other types of fungus infecting zombie fungus as hyperparasite. Hyperparasite fungus limits ability of zombie fungus to reproduce and proliferate. Maintains ecological balance. If zombie fungus make zombies of all ants, then there are no more ants to make zombie, and zombie fungus goes extinct. Evolutionary pressure encourages success of parasite-crippled zombie fungus; fewer ants infected means more ants to infect, and so both zombie fungus and anti-zombie fungus survive to reproduce. Is War of Fungus!”

I fidgeted with my bowtie.

Outwardly, I smiled slightly, but—inwardly—I was pacing in circles. I’d hoped sharing some of what I knew with Dr. Skorbinka would have given me some much-wanted certainty. Instead, things were even more complicated than ever.

My disquieted moment of the afternoon was broken by a ping from my work console, which I promptly pulled out from my pocket. I checked my messages.

“What crisis now?” Mistelann asked.

“Hopefully… hope,” I said. “Dr. Arbond has just sent me the details for the exploratory surgery I’d requested for Merritt Elbock.”

Somewhat to my surprise, it looked like Cassius was going to be doing the surgery in person. I texted him back:

You sure you don’t want to do it remotely?

The reply was nearly instantaneous:

It turns out the fungus is corrosive. We’ve been losing drones left and right. We can’t afford to lose any more of them.

That, obviously, only made me more concerned. But before I could reply, Dr. Arbond pre-empted me with a response of his own.

And don’t bother trying to suggest a workaround. Armoring them up makes them too bulky to maneuver.

Sagacious as always, I thought.

I sighed.

“Is something out of sorts?” Mistelann asked.

“I need to head over to the operating theater,” I continued. “Also… I imagine Brand will want to observe the procedure. If you want,” I offered, “I can talk to Brand for you, maybe—”

“—Dr. Nowston told me you were no longer man of faith,” Mistelann said, raising a single eyebrow. “For once, it seems he was mistaken.”