The Sno-Cat rumbles across the ice. Madness descends. A pair of eyes glaze over, the spirals echoing like clockwork throughout a deranged mind. Peter is the first to notice, to raise the alarm when Ding, apparently captivated by some faceless demons, draws the cruel blade of a pocket knife and brandishes it threateningly overhead. Johannes and Andrei rush forward to restrain him before he has a chance to bring the blade known.

Valerian, of course, doesn’t hesitate. He draws a handgun from inside his jacket and empties the chamber into Ding’s chest. Each bullet cracks through the cold air like a thunderbolt.

He watches Ding as the life drains from his body. As he fades into nothingness.

There has been enough bloodshed for one day.

“What have you done?”

Valerian barely registers the voice.

As always, he did what he had to do to protect those around him.

No more and no less.

The world can be such a cruel place.

NOT TO BE SHOWN TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC. BE AWARE THAT THE CONTENTS OF THIS DOCUMENT MAY EXHIBIT PSYCHOACTIVE EFFECTS—READ WITH CAUTION. CLEARANCE DESIGNATION: DEAD HAND

Once the plane finally lands at Tegel, Valerian is practically running through the terminal. Every second he grows a little more frantic, delirious from a lack of sleep—he certainly wasn’t going to be sleeping on the plane – and then, in the distance, he sees Maya waiting in arrivals. Jonas stands there too, taller now, the spitting image of his father all those years ago. Valerian embraces them, as tight as his frail body can muster, sobbing uncontrollably. After all this time, he feels safe.

…samples consistently displayed considerable piezoelectric properties beyond any previously observed, even after equipment was recalibrated. These properties were ascribed to the previously only theoretical Ross-Severov effect (Ross, Severov, and Wintsch 1980, 826) though our equipment was destroyed before any proof could be made…

The relentless heat of the summer makes it damned near impossible to work, what with the oven-like design of the department office. Still, Valerian determinedly plugs away at his desk, writing thousands upon thousands of words even as what he writes becomes fuzzier and more distant. A manic energy has gripped the department, raging against the dying of the light. In stark red lettering, the words on the screen burn into his brain. A desperate plea:

…potential loss of state secrets. Nonetheless, I do not recommend that Jackson face prosecution. Decisions made in extremis need not…

The report left Valerian's desk a few weeks prior, but as he stands outside on a quiet August morning, cigarette lit, he can't help but think about what was left behind. A note from Captain Clark is framed on his desk, which always fills him with a warm sense of affection—though he hasn’t heard from Eddie in a couple of months, he trusts he’s safe, somewhere, getting on with things—though it takes him a few seconds to recall quite where he met him, the weeks in Antarctica becoming ever more distant, the bad memories mercifully fading a little faster than the good. Evelyn, too, though he of course saw her a fair bit more recently; he hesitates a second to recall why exactly she was fired. Probably for the best, he reasons. Hopefully she’s okay wherever she’s going.

…unidentified large chimera (provisionally designated as the Leviathan) attacked and destroyed the US task force, casualties unknown. After we conducted experiments involving SONAR communication with the chimera, it was found dead under the ice. Cause of death was not established, though claims were…

It was a real delight to see Karl, Marc and the others at Humboldt again—god knows why Valerian kept away from them so long early last year—and the long February evenings spent at the lab on Tuesdays and Thursdays continue to yield fascinating results. It feels like the seventies again, in the heady first days of the parachemical department, the crew working from Valerian’s almost primal intuition of what could yield results. The money’s tight, as it always was, but for a few hours a week it’s like the prime of Severov and Ross never went away.

…repeated encounters with temporal phenomena, with either dilation or displacement usually in the range of hours to weeks. The exception to this was Captain Lawrence Palgrave, who had by unclear means been brought forward eighty-seven years having experienced this time over the course of a few weeks. The effect did not appear to be controllable…

A warm breeze blows languidly through the garden on an April afternoon. Time feels slow now, much slower than it seemed a few years ago, even though work at the BGA still vigorously simmers—topics the office are instinctively drawn to, making critical breakthrough after critical breakthrough from a base of seemingly nothing—hell, Valerian hadn’t had a proper crack at temporal mechanics since the nineties and the progress so far has been fantastic—Valerian silences these thoughts. It’s Saturday, and work can wait for a couple of days. The ice rattles in his drink as he takes a sip, Maya and Jonas around the table, sitting in the shade doing not much in particular. This is where he’s meant to be.

…that Direktor Allenbach experienced severe psychological distress as a result of the phenomena encountered in Antarctica. By the 10th of June her condition had worsened to the point where she had to be relieved of command, whereupon I took over as the next most senior member of the department. Allenbach was last seen on the station on the 11th, with reports that…

Autumn rain. An implacable absence hangs around Valerian. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that desk isn't really his —he hadn't always been Direktor, after all, surely someone had to have preceded him. His mind slips over these small details. Nonetheless, a grey malaise still envelops the office, a sense of distant grief. Everyone knows, at least sometimes, that someone has to be missing. Then the feeling slips away and it all seems perfectly normal again, maybe for a few days, maybe just a few hours.

Though he can't seem to remember why, Valerian lingers outside a cemetery not far from the office. Sometimes he steps inside, drawn subtly to a quiet corner. A small pair of gravestones lie there, though he can never quite make out the names, and for a few minutes he stands there as the church bells chime, his eyes wet. It's automatic now, a duty from long ago. He comes by once a month, makes sure they’re clean, and places a flower.

The contents of this report may hold antimemetic properties related to the Antarctic phenomena. Repeat these instructions as mantras until they become second nature. Forgetting is only a temporary setback. Do not let it win.

Written by Elouise F.

Four years pass.

The deaths of Ding. Of Arthur. Of Bohdana. They are no more than a bad dream. In fact, they are much less than that, hanging just beyond the periphery of both the sleeping and waking worlds. A memory of a memory is nothing at all. A memory of nothing is even less.

Direktor Severov stays late in the office most nights. For the past few months, the stress and the guilt have kept him away from home for as long as he can physically bear it. Maya understands, of course. With any luck, Jonas will never have to. The feelings of shame only intensify with every new message from this faceless “SPARTAN” character, each demand tinged with the threat of blood, each more baleful than the last.

The harsh glow of the screen flashes once more onto his tired face.

A new message from his handler.

New orders. Bring the BGA to Antarctica immediately. Fly in through Sky Blu. Establish presence, secure accommodation, and await further orders.
You know what will happen if you don’t.
SPARTAN.

A cold chill races up the Direktor’s spine.

But he knows he has no choice.

He's never had a choice.

No man can do what he wills, because no man can choose what he loves.

Antarctica. At least that’s a first for the BGA… one for the annals.

He switches off the computer; feels a momentary twitch in a trigger finger that has never been exercised.

He looks at the framed photograph on his desk and thinks to himself:

I am going to fucking kill that SPARTAN.