I make a beeline away from our snow tunnel, glancing back occasionally to make sure the woman isn’t following me. Prowling into a dense grove of pine trees, I pick a spot where I can observe our tunnel. I stare at the button for the longest while, thinking of where to bury it.

Why am I still bringing this with me? Contrary to the false information the Republic disclosed to intimidate me, that this button would tell them where I am at all times, I’m sure that they can’t pick up my location if I don’t answer their call. Even if we talk on the phone, they need a full minute before being able to track my location. This button is in fact a telephone in disguise; a telephone that connects to the Republic of Moskva’s private network, one I can dial into to report back to them after I’ve finished a mission.

If I’ve chosen to run away with her, why am I still keeping this? Am I still longing for His Excellency to contact me? I had given it to Alice, hoping she’d forget about it, throw it away somewhere, and I’d have a valid reason to never have to contact General Kuznetsov again.

Perhaps it was my survival instinct calling. In the near future, if I ever regret saving that woman from Izhevsk fortress, I will still have an option to turn her in.

The button glows more and more intensely, begging me to press on it.

It’ll be okay. If I’m worried about them pinpointing where I am, I can just cut the call before the one-minute mark.

I rub the button until a sound akin to the static noise of black-and-white TV rings out.

“Kovali-12.” I whisper my codename. It’s ridiculous to have to talk in codenames while using my long-standing alias in Smolnikov’s records, but the Republic’s oversight isn’t my fault.

“At least you had the decency to pick up my call, Ieronim Romanovich Morozov.” The voice on the other end of the line is slow and calm, but I know he’s getting impatient. I’m talking to my direct superior, General Kuznetsov, and he just called me by my real name. This can’t be good.

“Good evening, General, Sir.”

“Morozov. I will get to the point right away. Why did you run away with our specimen?”

“Their generals found out about her. I had to kill their commander and take her out of the fort. My sincerest apologies that I’ve failed this mission,” I reply. I’ll be subjected to reprimanding, imprisonment, and perhaps a side dish of torture upon returning. But that will still be better than openly admitting I had the intention to betray.

“You should have told me so.” Kuznetsov’s voice is tonless as it has always been. No emphasis, no highlighting. It’s almost impossible to know what he might think, and it’s impossible to know if he actually bought my blatant lie. “Listen, Morozov. I know you mean well. You should know that the Committee and I have absolute faith in your ability. But you have made a mistake.” It felt like he’s dragging it on so the talk will take more than a minute, “The Committee is unhappy about how things have turned out; however, we are giving you a chance to atone.”

“I would gladly listen. What might that be, Sir?”

As Kuznetsov explains their plan to me, I spot a dark figure lying on the ground, next to a pine tree, a short distance away. I take a few steps further before realizing what that figure might be. A corpse.

“I got it, Sir. Good night.”

I mentally count the seconds of the conversation and cut it off around the fifty-sixth second. One always has to spare a few seconds to compensate for latency. When I walk up to the corpse, I’m shocked to see a familiar face: pale skin, cleanly-shaven face, eyes half-opened and no longer lifelike.

Maksim Maksimov?

How the hell did this happen? Did Maksim chase after me? Why would he do that?

Hold up. Didn’t I shoot Maksim on his eye? This person still has both of his eyes attached. Apart from that, this corpse and Maksim looks exactly the same. Even their slender body shapes are similar.

He’s not wearing Smolnikov’s uniform, but rather plaid undershirt like that of a prisoner. I somehow don’t get the impression he isn’t one: outside he wears a thick cotton coat, a wool hat on his head, snow boots on his feet.

This leaves one possibility: he’s a twin clone. In theory, indiscriminate cloning of identical stem cells is prohibited under the 1971 Kiev Decree. However, I’m sure it had never stopped people from breaking the agreement before. Normally no one has reason to do so, because as far as I know, no one can judge a person’s future potential from their stem cells alone, and it’s more costly to reprint a cell instead of letting one naturally develop. If they actually exist, twins can’t be seen together because people will find out they’re twins. Being a twin means being a faulty print. Faulty prints can be subjected to death penalty, though I’m not sure if that’s ever practiced.

I compare the corpse’s size with that of Alice’s. They kind of match, apart from the feet, but having boots is better than not having them. I undress the corpse; there aren’t bruises anywhere, he might have died because of the cold, thirst, hunger, or a combination of those. I rummage around for anything else I can find apart from his coat, his boot and his hat. These clothes will be for the woman. Better not let her know that she’s about to wear a dead person’s clothes.

Better not let her know where the pieces of meat that ‘magically fell from the sky’ I’m about to bring back actually come from, too.

I put my hands in the pockets of his coat, and find a box of matches, four 7.62 × 39mm rifle bullets, the type I need, a flint, a pair of scissors and a shield-shaped badge, imprinted with an eagle on it. Ah, he serves the Silver Vanguard. That explains it. The Vanguards never cared to follow any of the Republic’s laws. They spent a shitload on research and development too. If there’s anyone who has the capabilities of cloning the same person over again, that would be them.

The Republic taught every single person growing up that the Silver Vanguards are the filthiest of scums. Kidnapping, extortion of vassal state’s leaders, trafficking of cloned specimens. . . there’s nothing they wouldn’t dare do. That’s why the Republic wants them gone so badly. The Republic fights for the reunification of Great Russia, while Silver Vanguards just look to sabotage peace in any way possible.

“You ask why is Russia divided into hundreds of factions like this? It’s all Silver Vanguards doing. They are pure evil.” General Kuznetsov had told me, “They yearned for chaos, a chaos that could be manipulated, could be controlled, could be employed to their advantages. They are the reason the Republic lost control of this once peaceful country.”

My job in the Republic’s special force is to capture enemy’s spies within the vassal states. Most of the time, they are Silver Vanguards. Most of the time, they are found guilty. Nobody who had been arrested was proved innocent. They had been convicted of being terrorist scums; they had been underground vandals since they were on the suspect list.

I had my doubts working for the Republic. Their methods are brutal—a necessary brutality—and those arrested always scream that they are innocent. I have always thought that it’s not my place to question the authority. My job is to simply arrest, capture, and assassinate. I just want to do my part so I can retire.

My reputation, my achievements, my accumulated retirement properties. I risked them on this woman.

I assume whoever this ‘woman’ is, she was a product of Silver Vanguards too. But how can a person like her be a criminal? I simply refuse to believe it. This must have been a mistake. This woman isn’t a spy. The Republic has made a mistake. The Republic is an enormous system, and there’s not a single system without a flaw. They must have not been able to prevent a mass massacre on women and religious people from the Silver Vanguards! Yes, yes. That explains why women had gone extinct.

I don’t know what to believe anymore.

I thought that I had found everything I needed to find; however, as I head back to the snow tunnel, something drops from inside the corpse’s hat. It’s a piece of paper, folded into a tiny square. I stare at it for a few seconds, put down what I’m carrying and pick it up. I unfold the piece of paper; it’s a letter written in ink, probably written by hands so shaky to the point the words are barely decipherable.

“Dear stranger,

By the time you read this letter, it’s more than likely that I have been dead. You’re likely to have stripped me of all my clothes, and only read this letter that had fallen from my hat out of curiosity. I know that what had been written here is of no value to you whatsoever, but I had hope, a tiny piece of hope rekindled by a hopelessly romantic heart, that you would try to fulfill the rest of my will.

I was a man, guilty of falling in love. You might not understand what love is, you might even laugh at the unrealistic delusion of possibly caring for another man, to the point you would shed tear upon his departure. But I have been in love, and I have never regretted for a second being in love. My only regret was not being able to protect the people I have loved. Seconds before Ivan Anosov passed, he had told me that I had to carry on with my life, that I had to put an end to this meaningless war, so that none of us would ever have to go through this again. He told me to not be sorrowful, for birth and death was a part of life. But I couldn’t. I burst into tears when his hands went limp, when the warmth of life finally parted his body. I swore to myself that I would protect Fyodor Shigin. But again, I couldn’t. I couldn’t even identify the remaining of his flesh, when pieces of his bones and burnt flesh were lumped into the those of our enemies. The people whom I have loved was taken away from me, and everything I could do was to simply watch as Great Russia embraced them onto its pernicious arms. Maybe, that was my punishment. A hopeful man in a hopeless world deserved no happy ending. I was a man, guilty of falling in love.

I had no one. I had no one left. Or so I believed.

Stranger, I know you are probably disgusted. But you haven’t stopped reading, so I thought that I still have a tiny chance of fulfillment. I know a dead man, a shameful sinner like me, is in no position to demand, but I only have one thing to ask. Please give this letter to my dear brother, Maksim, and let him know that I have lived a jubilant life, a life I would never trade for anyone else’s. It had been years since we had to be separated, but I hoped he had understood that under the circumstance, there would have been nothing else I could have done. I wish that Maksim will live a life that he won’t regret too. Uncle Artem is a kind man. Maksim, I heard he saved you from the assassins, and I was glad that it was him who rescued you. I wanted to come find you when I heard you and Artem were residing in Izhevsk, but we all were caught up in our own fights. War is a catastrophe, don’t you think so? Many nights I laid my back on the bed and could not sleep. I think of brothers like us, who were brought to the court only because we were twins. Shot on the head, buried in unnamed graves in mass cemeteries. I think of brothers like us, people who have to confront each other on the two sides of the front line, shoot each other in the chest in the name of justice. Please, Maksim, don’t be another clog in an ominous machine, a maze without a way out. Please, don’t be like me: someone who could never find a way out.

Wherever you are, I hope you will find peace and happiness.

Please, stranger. I ask nothing else of you. You don’t even have to look for him. If you happen to come across somebody who looks like me, just kindly ask for his name. If he’s Maksim, please give this letter to him. I know that the chance is even smaller than the probability of finding gold under the sea. But I believe that if the stars align, nothing is impossible.

May all the best be with you.

Love and kisses,

Andrei Maksimov”

I have to read the letter again to fully grasp its meaning. As I read, I keep glancing back to the dead man, envisioning the life he used to live. Other times, I question the letter’s validity. Dzyuba had never been a kind man to us before. Never, for a second, I had seen anything close to merciful, coming from his sore and spiteful eyes. It had made me questioned for a second if this was only a huge coincidence, a coincidence so huge that there just happened to be a person who looked just like Maksim, wanted to send a letter to a person who was also named Maksim, following a man named Artem, who was in Izhevsk.

I doubt the letter is fabricated. Even assuming it’s legit, what can I do to help him? I shot Maksim in the eye; he may have even been dead from all the loss of blood. I might even have killed him with my own hands. And even if he isn’t, how can I find him? I can’t go back to Izhevsk. I have a woman who’s traveling with me. We are on a run. I have too much on my own plates.

I think if created on purpose, twin clones are raised together. From the content of this letter, it’s obvious that these two clones knew each other in a more intimate level. Does that mean Maksim Maksimov was at Izhevsk to spy on me all along? Was that the reason he tried to assassinate me? Thinking back about it, Kuznetsov did send Petrov after me after all. He can dispatch a second spy.

However, that makes little sense. I saw Maksim’s face when I parried his slash, and he was genuinely surprised. He even asked me what I am. Maksim seems too ill-prepared for somebody who was sent to keep an eye on a war machine.

I sit down beside the stiff corpse. It seems he died recently, but under this weather, his body will soon freeze. Then it will be covered with snow, hidden by ferns and eaten by predators.

“I will help you.” I whisper to the corpse. A proper burial is what Andrei deserves, not being butchered. Unfortunate as it is, he might have kept us alive for a couple more days. I can hunt a few deer, or a couple of bears with bullets he left me.

When I’m picking up the clothes I looted, I hear a howl from a distant plateau. Soon, that howl is acknowledged by two, three, and then a dozen more howls, all come from a general direction. Judging from the howls, I can predict the direction they’re heading towards.

Our snow tunnel.