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The snow comes overnight.

In the early-morning dark, Yama opens the blast cover of the window of his quarters. Outside, the white blanket of snow runs across the long stretch of beach that borders the Complex.

The moisture collectors are already at work. He watches them move in dead silence, posed on the pure white against the all-encompassing stain of the Stigmata overhead. Only the imposing gargantuan forms of the desalinaters on the horizon give reference to the sky.

He returns to his thoughts.

Fall came a few days ago with the Autumnal Equinox.

Yama considers this, recalling years ago when that seasonal event heralded the coming cold of winter, and the changing leaves that eventually blanket the ground in color.

And the warmth of her smile from long ago. And his hand in hers as they walked in the detritus of dead leaves that littered the sidewalk.

Now with the Stigmata, all this is changed. Seasons are mere marks on the calendar. The cold lingers on summer or winter.

“Inspector,” comes a voice on the comm-link.

“Yes, sergeant?” he says.

“Doctor Dodson has concluded her autopsy.”

“On my way,” Yama says.

He looks down at the blank page of his notebook. The poetry is no longer coming to him as it did in his younger days. To him, his mind is betraying him. Like his mother’s mind betrayed her.

Never mind all that, he thinks.

He dresses and finds Sergeant McConnell waiting outside the door of his quarters.

***

It is two decades, more or less, before now when the lifter extracted Yama’s Ag Corps cell from the dead zone before they’d blown the last bridge.

Yama remained as had been agreed prior, ostensibly to finish the demolition. He would make his way cross country to the coast and meet up with the lifter. The drones would follow him.

They found him a week later naked and beaten, and before the crabs had had time to work on him. Left for dead by them, he lay prone in a remote inlet to the north, his body tucked in among the giant smooth logs that the winter ocean storms had pushed up past the tide line. The fall rains had yet to begin; he had been spared the punishing cold.

Alive, barely, he was evacuated to the sanitarium near the ocean.

Recovery was slow. But in time, he was healed, his visible scars healed in any event, and he was debriefed on the events that had transpired that had lead to his near death. And that, Yama was informed, all things considered, the mission had been a success, the target objectives met. Then in no short order, Yama returned to active duty, his release from medical hold signed off by her, his attending physician.

***

The morgue is cold.

Yama enters, Sergeant McConnell follows him.

The Commander stands next to the examination table. Across the table, another woman stands. An older woman, Yama’s age.

Yama sees a vague smile come over this other older woman. For a moment before the moment passes.

“Inspector,” the Commander says. “Doctor Dodson has finished her autopsy. It appears no foul play. This young woman met her death through misadventure.”

Yama stares at the doctor. “I trust the doctor’s opinion as if my life depended on it.”

She flinches.

“As you well should,” the Commander says.

The doctor says, “I’ll send my report to you, Inspector.”

Yama nods once.

“Very well,” he says.

The Commander looks at Yama, then the doctor. “There is one more thing, Inspector.”

Yama turns his gaze to the Commander. “Yes, ma’am?”

She motions to Yama’s waist. “Still no sidearm, Inspector. I’m afraid I must put you under arrest for the time being. That is until you might, somehow, make your way to the Armory. After all, I wouldn’t want you to have a ‘misadventure.’”

“Very well,” Yama says. “Please inform…”

The Commander cuts him short. “They’ll be no ‘informing.’ Sergeant, take the Inspector to the custody unit.”

The sergeant hesitates.

“Do it, McConnell!” the Commander says.

“Inspector,” Sergeant McConnell starts. “You are under arrest. You have no rights under the Emergency Compact of Astoria. You will be assigned an arbitrator in due course. Please come with me.”

Before turning to leave, Yama looks again to the doctor.

“Good to see you again, Catherine.”

The Gods bemused
By our cloyingly disregard;
For Eden is corrupted,
And we are damned?