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could a killer have such gentle eyes?
    Beside Liam, the weathered face of the old doctor looked down curiously. The doctor’s eyes were ringed with dark circles, the exhaustion of any medical man in service of the Reconciliation. His face was drawn, pale; Syd made out the faintest traces of the blue of his veins running beneath his skin. Another memory flash. The nopes, the grotesque webbing of their bulging black veins, the silencing of their screams as they were hacked apart. Syd shut his eyes, cleared his head, opened them again to see Dr. Rahat looking to his side, to the spot behind his ear, where the four letters of his name were written. Yovel. Syd bent his neck to block the doctor’s view and pushed himself up onto his elbows.
    “I’m okay,” he told Dr. Rahat.
    Liam closed the curtain around the cot area and fixed his eyes on Dr. Rahat. The man wore the uniform of the Reconciliation, but Liam couldn’t trust anybody except himself when it came to Syd’s safety. No one had Syd’s best interests at heart, not like he did.
    “What seems to be troubling you, son?” Dr. Rahat asked.
    “He fainted,” Liam said.
    “I can speak for myself.” Syd glared at Liam, then looked back at the doctor. “I passed out. I’m okay now. My bodyguard is just overcautious.”
    “Well, that’s not a bad thing to be.” Dr. Rahat smiled kindly. “You are the hero of our revolution, after all. Without you, where would we be? Why don’t we give you a quick once-over, just to be on the safe side?”
    “He came into contact with the blood of several nonoperatives, who were . . .” Liam didn’t know how to describe it.
    “Infected,” the doctor finished for him.
    “I swear, I’m fine,” said Syd. “It was just seeing . . . what happened to those Guard—the nonoperative entities. It made me sick.”
    The doctor nodded, stroking his beard. “You’re a sensitive soul, Yovel—”
    “Call me Syd,” he interrupted him.
    The doctor nodded. “So many of the proxies have taken on new names, and you, being, well . . . I didn’t want to presume . . .”
    “It’s fine,” Syd reassured him. “I prefer it, actually.”
    “Very well,” the doctor said. “You needn’t worry about these nonoperatives. They do not suffer when they are put down. In fact, we are putting an end to their suffering.”
    “By clubbing them to death?” Syd replied.
    “Since the Reconciliation has wisely seen fit to restrict passive weaponry, we’ve found that the most ideologically consistent way to terminate them is through blunt force trauma. That way the labor and its object remain connected. The old ways—press a button, take a life—well, those won’t do, will they? If we are to kill, we must do so with absolute commitment. It may not be humane, but it is far more human.”
    “You ever consider not killing them?” Syd suggested.
    “They will die anyway.” He sighed. “You saw, I believe, that they are all dying.”
    “They’re sick,” said Syd. “What’s wrong with them?”
    “It appears to be an infection,” the doctor said. “Harmless to regular humans, I assure you, but just in case, for the public safety, we must contain their infection wherever we find it. There are too many of them wandering about for us to take chances.”
    “If the infection can’t spread to regular humans,” Syd wondered, “then why put down the Guardians at all?”
    “The nonoperative entities,” the doctor corrected again. “Our society must allocate its resources effectively. If we were to attempt the support of thousands of infected nonoperatives, while people starved, would that be humane? We must make choices.”
    “This isn’t a choice,” Syd objected. “It’s a convenience. It’s easier to—”
    “Ouch!” Marie yelled from the other side of the curtain. “You could warn me before you go poking your fingers into my wound!”
    “Stop squirming and we’ll get this fixed!” the medic treating her grumbled.