Later, Yair Shamir, the head scientist for the Bio-Defense Unit, stood beside Major David Mitzna, both in simple biohazard suits and masks. The physical debris collected was laid out in a refrigerated room. Yair stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking down at the assembled flesh fragments laid out on a long steel bench top before them.

“So, he, it, is not dead then?” Mitzna continued to stare down at the blackened lumps.

“Oh, it’s a he all right. Has definite XY heterogametic sex chromosomes, and I think alive or dead are very loose concepts in relation to this sample.” Yair picked up a long probe and used it to prod at one of the lumps of charred meat. Dark, sticky liquid oozed from one end onto the gleaming bench top.

“You know, if you hadn’t told me when and where you had recovered this from, and shown me the footage, I’m not sure I would have believed you. I mean it’s still functioning at a cellular level. You see, we can even see its cells attempting to wound-heal.” He pointed with his probe. “Platelets adhering to the site of injury, coagulation, cross-linked fibrin proteins in a mesh. It’s amazing, and not real.” He straightened.

“Not real? What does that mean?” the major asked, leaning forward.

“I mean, it just seems … unreal, and I can make out some stitching. Also, there are several DNA samples, suggesting multiple people, all sort of attached or melded together.” Yair shook his head, frowning now as he searched for the right words. “Like it was made from scratch, pieced together like a quilt.”

“And it’s not dead,” Mitzna said softly. “How can I explain this to General Shavit?”

Yair shrugged. “Not dead, but not alive; something in between I think. It’s probably why the bullets didn’t stop him. I wish I had more to test.”

“How is that possible?” Behind the Perspex plate of his mask, the military man’s face betrayed his revulsion. “And who can do this?”

Yair walked along the bench to a scrap of flesh, no more than the size of a cigarette packet. It was blacked at the edges, but there were rents in it that could not have come from the bomb’s obliteration. It looked like script, but in an ancient language.

“These are words, carved into the flesh.” He looked up. “How? Why? I have no idea. And who? No one, no one has the capability to do this … today.”

CHAPTER 7

Alex and Adira followed the line of Hezar-Jihadi who continued to jog, dragging their captives across the sharp stones on the outskirts of the city. They drew with them a few resident stragglers, caught in the tail of the brutal comet, as they were morbidly interested in the promised spectacle.