“How long has he been there?” The general stared dispassionately at the monitor.
“Just under six hours, sir.” The technician glanced up and saw the general wince. The man on the screen before them sat center in the blast zone, legs crossed in lotus position, evidently engaged in meditation.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, son, but shouldn’t he be—”
“Dead by now. Yes, sir. Long since.” The technician tapped a few keys on the terminal before him and a series of overlays appeared on-screen. “Everything in the kill zone expired within 63 minutes of detonation, as projected.” He pointed his chin toward the monitor. “Him, though, he doesn’t even look sick.”
“And there’s been no communication with him?” the general asked.
The technician shook his head. “No, sir. Nothing since he arrived.”
“He arrived. Yes, sir.” The technician handed the general a slip of paper. “And that was all he said.”
For a moment, all the general could do was stare.
“Well. Son of a bitch.”