Chapter 3. Contact (Parts 6)

  While the water in the pot boiled, filling the room with the rich, savory aroma of broth, Dmytro decided to conduct a more thorough survey of his surroundings. The bright light of his lantern, though dimmed, aggressively pushed back the shadows in the corners of the drawing room. It was then, in the furthest, darkest reach of the hall, tucked behind a massive, rotting armchair, that he noticed movement. Two small, huddled figures.

  Dmytro retrieved his headlamp from the table and snapped it on, directing the beam toward the corner. Two girls. They couldn't have been more than six or seven—thin as dry twigs. They sat on a pile of moldy rags, clutching each other and staring back with eyes wide with primal terror. Their faces were streaked with soot, their hair a matted mess of grease and dust. A dry, barking cough tore through the chest of one of the children—kha-kha-kha. The sound was heavy, wet, and dangerously deep.

  Dmytro’s brow furrowed. He turned to Martha, who was stirring the pot with a wooden spoon—she hadn't dared touch the sleek, titanium one. He pointed to the children, then mimed a cough, placing a palm against his own forehead. "Sick?" he asked in Ukrainian. "Sick?"

  Martha nodded, tears welling in her tired eyes. "Zimm..." (Cold...), she whispered, her voice cracking.

  Dmytro stepped toward the corner. The girls pressed themselves against the stone wall, trapped. As he drew closer, he saw what the back of the armchair had been concealing. A boy lay there, slightly older than the girls, resting on a makeshift bed made of stools pushed together. But it wasn't the bed that caught Dmytro’s eye. It was what the boy was wrapped in.

  It was a pelt. A massive, impossibly fluffy, dazzling white pelt of some unknown beast. The fur was thick and long, looking utterly alien in this filthy, grey ruin. It seemed to pulse with its own inner purity—not a speck of dirt or a single dust mote marred its surface. But the truly strange thing was how it interacted with the light.

  Dmytro aimed the beam of his headlamp—a high-CRI, 5000K neutral-white LED—directly at the pelt. The physics of the room seemed to buckle. Reflecting off the white fur, the cool beam was transformed. It became warm. Amber. Soft, like the light of a setting sun. Dmytro blinked, his engineering brain struggling to process the data. A white surface should reflect the spectrum it receives. He switched his flashlight to the deep red mode used for preserving night vision. The red beam hit the fur, but instead of reflecting red, the pelt absorbed the wavelength and returned a soft, golden glow.

  "Optics?" Dmytro muttered to himself. "Structural coloration? Or... bioluminescence?"

  He reached out but stopped just short of touching it. Heat radiated from the fur—a palpable, living warmth, despite the lack of any heater. The boy under the pelt breathed with a heavy, whistling rasp, but his face was calm. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. Dmytro carefully placed the back of his hand against the child’s brow. Hot. At least thirty-nine degrees. A severe fever. But the sweat was a good sign—the body was still fighting.

  Gently, Dmytro pulled back the edge of the pelt at the boy’s neck. Enlarged lymph nodes. Dry skin. Cracked, pale lips. He shone the light into the boy’s throat. Bright red and inflamed. "Pneumonia? Bronchitis?" he guessed. In this damp, stagnant climate, it was a miracle they were alive at all.

  Baron Cohen approached, standing stiffly nearby. He wasn't watching the boy; he was watching Dmytro’s hands with visible anxiety. He was clearly terrified the Stranger would claim the Pelt. It was obviously their greatest treasure, a relic of the House of Prast. Dmytro ignored the suspicion and simply tucked the fur back in, ensuring the child was tightly wrapped. He felt that strange, humming warmth from the pile again. "Good stuff," he said, looking at Cohen. "Heats well. Heat accumulator?" He gestured: Pelt—good. Warm.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Cohen nodded, his shoulders dropping an inch in relief. "Snuma Lerr..." (Snow Lion), he said, a flicker of ancestral pride in his voice.

  Dmytro straightened up, his mind shifting into triage mode. "Pneumonia," he stated. "Needs antibiotics. Amoxicillin. Or Azithromycin." He had a significant stockpile of broad-spectrum meds in the Ark’s trauma kit, enough to survive a scorched-earth scenario. But giving such medicine now, on an empty stomach, would be a death sentence for their exhausted digestion. First—food. Then—pills.

  He turned back to the fireplace. The water had boiled down, and the rice had swelled to perfection, absorbing every drop of the rich broth and fat. The beef had rendered into tender, succulent fibers. The porridge had transformed into a thick, golden stew—something between a rich pilaf and a heavy kharcho. The aroma was so potent that even the boy under the Snow Lion pelt stirred, his cloudy eyes fluttering open.

  "Ready," Dmytro announced, his voice cutting through the silence of the drawing room. "Bring the bowls. It's time for the medicine of the gods."

  Thick, hearty steam billowed from the pot, filling the Small Drawing Room with aromas these ancient walls hadn't known for a very long time. Dmytro stepped away from the table, wiping his hands with a paper napkin—which he then carefully tucked into his pocket. "Please," he said, making an inviting gesture. "Dinner is served."

  He expected a frantic scramble. But what happened next made Dmytro freeze, his mouth slightly agape. In the room, lit by the harsh, clinical glare of the electric lantern, a performance began. A performance so absurd, so grotesque, yet executed with such tragic dignity that laughing at it would have been a cardinal sin.

  Baron Cohen Prast did not approach the table. Instead, he squared his shoulders, wrapping his stinking soldier’s coat tight around him as if it were a mantle of ermine. With a slow, measured march, he walked to the far end of the room. There, on a small wooden dais only one step high, stood an armchair. Its upholstery hung in tatters, one armrest was wrapped in a dirty rag, and a rusty spring poked through the seat. Cohen sat in it as if it were a Throne.

  Martha, trembling with impatience, approached the pot. She reached for the best bowl—an old, earthenware piece, chipped at the rim. She scooped up the steaming porridge, serving a generous, heaping portion. But Martha didn't eat. And she didn't carry the bowl to the Baron herself.

  Karl, the butler, approached the table. He pulled a rag—once a crisp white napkin—from inside his coat and draped it over his forearm. He took up a silver tray. It was the only silver left in the house, it seemed, and it was so thick with black patina that it looked like cast iron. Martha bowed her head and placed the bowl on the tray.

  Karl straightened his back. He lifted his chin and began to walk. There were only three meters between the table and the "throne." Three steps. Any normal person would have reached out and taken it. But Karl walked those three meters in a solemn, ceremonial march. He carried that bowl of porridge as if he were bearing the Crown Jewels. He stepped softly, ensuring not a single drop of fat spilled onto the grime-streaked floor.

  Dmytro watched this with a profound sense of surrealism. Around them lay absolute ruin. It was freezing. He stood there in a five-hundred-dollar technical jacket, watching two starving men in rags enact a scene from life at Versailles. Karl reached the dais. He stood before the Baron and bent into a deep, perfect bow.

  "Your dinner, Milord," he rasped, extending the tray.

  Cohen turned his head with majestic, practiced slowness. "Thank you, Karl."

  He took the bowl. Karl straightened, bowed again, and retreated backward, never once turning his back to his master. Only when the ritual was complete did the masks finally slip. Cohen brought the spoon to his mouth, his hand trembling. Aristocratic calm shattered under the unbearable pressure of animal hunger. He began to eat. Fast. Greedily. Yet, even as fat ran down his chin, he still tried to hold the spoon correctly, his pinky slightly extended.

  "Holy shit," Dmytro whispered soundlessly in Ukrainian. "Now *that* is a backbone."

  Now that the suzerain had begun, the "court" was permitted to eat. Martha quickly filled bowls for the girls. Hans, who had stood guard by the door with his spear the entire time, approached the table. Karl received his portion last. He didn't sit. He ate standing, leaning against the cold stone wall, covering his mouth with his hand as if ashamed that he, too, possessed human needs.

  Dmytro looked at them. His initial impulse was to laugh at the absurdity. Но потом он понял. Это был не пафос. Это был каркас. This ridiculous, beautiful etiquette was their armor against the chaos. It was just as much a suit of armor as Dmytro’s "Ark" and his obsessive cleanliness.

  Respect, Dmytro thought. They’re madmen, but I respect it.