IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume
II: Tests of Fire and Blood
Chapter 37 Taxi-Ride
Taxi-Ride Monday, May 25, 2708,
continued (I know what I heard,
in Soskia’s very hall, when the servants whispered. I have a good idea who’s financing this
revolution. I know where to
wait…patient, patient, let him come to me.
Sooner or later he must.) Daylight still lingers over
us when we reach the outskirts of town.
The nuns have sewn some fullness to our sleeves, enough to make it a
thing of no remark that we might have a little money, yet not so much that our
rough manners would look too out of place.
Even so, we take the candlesticks to a certain establishment that
already knows exactly what sort of customer comes to their doors and they don't
care. Silver and gold change hands for
bills, as tantalizing odors and sizzles waft from a nearby cart. Now we gobble down street-vendor
sausages and sauerkraut, and bowls of potato-bits drowning in spicy vegetable
sauces, the way that only starving teenagers can, while I try very hard not to
remember some dream or other. We sit
comfortably in the privacy of an alley cul-de-sac and spread out the map that we got
from Tumblebugs. Fatima, who can read,
pours over them with Lucinda, who can puzzle out the mesh of lines (once told
their names) and between them they concoct different routes for our several
crews within the troop. (“Here, and here,” I say to my officers, pointing out the
intersections of lines upon the map. “We
shall need our cavalry at these two points, as soon as they roll out of the
factory, to close on any enemy movements in the vicinity. Sooner or later rebels will have to come
through this pass.” “Out in the middle of nowhere, General Aliso? With all due respect…” “Do you really believe, Captain,
that the rebels would prefer to conspire in the middle of somewhere?” I
nudge the little wooden tanks, so nicely painted in their camouflage whorls,
about the map with this device almost like a strawless push-broom, scaled down
at the end to sweep up little toy soldiers and tanks and things. “I have information, Captain, that you do
not. I tell you, sooner or later they
must pass through here.” I feel like I
play, with the entire nation of The Charadoc for my dollhouse. Time to clean up.) We shall scatter ourselves
among different cabs, starting at different points, so as not to seem like a
concerted movement. Cabs! Lucinda says we can afford it just this once,
with cash to spare to fill our packs with supplies, so long as we confine
ourselves to the cheapest wrecks. She
means it--Lucinda wants us fully rested when we arrive. She lights up a cigarette and points with it
to the different streetcorners where we’ll hail our rides, and then leans back against
a wall with a satisfied frown just quirked up a little at the corners, smoking
happily as Fatima rolls up the map. I’ve
seen Jake with that look. (I think this goes rather well.
While my men study my map, I light myself a cigarette. The soldiers expect an officer to smoke, and
so I must learn how. And yes, I do find
that I like it. It smells and tastes
like enemy encampments burning. The
lipstick on the white paper tube looks pleasantly like blood. Men don’t understand blood the way that women do. They see in it the death of the hunted, but
they don’t see how it brings forth life, as well. No improvement can happen here, in this
embarrassingly backwards country, except if, in birth, it passes through a ring
of blood. I weary of apologizing for The Charadoc to my friends in other
countries.) I round up my crew and go
to hail our taxi. Soon we cram into a
wheezing construct of rust and dents, teetering on bald tires, yet steaming
with the noxious exhalations of a bioconversion engine badly out of tune—no
doubt a prize import in its day, changing hands many times since. I take Kiril on one knee and Lufti on the
other, with Damien tight against me and Kanarik folded onto his lap like a bony
little spring ready to shoot out the moment the pressure lets up; she is none
too fond of mechanical transportation, though not as phobic as the Twins. I lean back into rough
upholstery that bleeds stuffing from its gaping wounds, as we rattle away on
axles that haven't seen alignment since Granny Shtara stirred her magic
jar--and oh, it feels so good! So good
to let a machine like this carry my aching limbs away, to bounce almost
bonelessly propped up in this heated crush of bodies more congenial than any
sauna, to be moved rather than to move! For driver we have Speedy,
a girl old enough to see over the dash but not by much, who chews tobacco and
periodically spits it out the window while simultaneously applying eyeliner
with one hand and wrestling the wheel with the other, as we skid and screech
around various moving and immobile objects at terrifying speeds. I pity Kief having to manage the twins in some
similar ride! Now we bounce through an
alley more cratered than the moon, with islands of surviving pavement here and
there, making the drive worse rather than better. Now we veer into a plaza, sweeping
pedestrians ahead of us as fast as they can scramble, and on to the road on the
other side. (I sweep more soldiers into place, and explain my strategy. I visualize whisking rebels off the map, over
the table-edge, to make room for the birth of the new Charadoc—a birth that
cannot take place without removing them as obstacles. A woman will push till her own body tears, to make something worthwhile
come through. Men think themselves
brave, but how many, really, could do that? It almost makes me wish I’d never had my tubes tied. Almost.
The military, though, would have short shrift for a pregnant officer. I pull a deep breath from my cigarette, feeling somewhat less than
a woman for that, damning men, a little bit, for not wanting all of me. But who knows? Maybe, if I can make The Charadoc a safe
enough country, I can adopt. The land
abounds in urchins who’d be all too happy to grow up high-caste if given half a
chance. And not all of them are brown.) Half genially, half in
challenge, our driver asks, "You got any problems with a woman in the
driver's seat?" "Nope--nor girlchild,
either, if you get us there alive." I say in the same vein. "Look who's
talking--you couldn't fill a bra unless you strapped it to your
butt." She glances back with a grin
and says, "Even then you'd have some room." "I take it you don't
expect a tip." She laughs. "From your kind? Spare me, sister!" "Anyway, why should I
care which sex drives the car?" "No reason--'cept all
these soldiers piling in and out of town these days bring strange notions with
‘em. Like they'd fight better or
something if they wrench all the woman out of 'emselves, hate and fear the
female inside and out." Casually I say, "You
know, I've heard that the rebels don't need notions like that. What have you heard?" "That the rebels are
too beat-down and thinned-down to care who joins their ranks." I restrain Lufti behind her back. "Still," she says, "I kinda
like that idea." Then she giggles. "Of course the last laugh's on the
soldier-boys. I hear they've all gotta
bow down, now, to a new woman general, a blonde-haired LAYYYdee of the highest
houses, got herself a grand foreign education in battle strategies that this
little country never even heard of. All
that trainin' the woman out of ‘emselves and now they gotta turn around and
train it all back in." She laughs
as she swings the wheel to dodge a donkey-cart, oblivious to the shouts and
braying as the skittering beast shies into a fruit stand. "What do you
think? Expect she'll be more
compassionate?" "Ohhh, not this one,
honey," she says and spits out the window again. "Killing you'd mean no more to her than
chopping the head off a chicken for your Sunday dinner. It's all like mousetraps or pulling weeds to
her--messy little jobs, cleaning house on the way to glory." "You've met her?" "I've seen her. And I've known those who've hired under her
or run her errands. She's a cool one,
lemme tell you. She knows when to wag
her tail and when to bite, and none of it means anything to her except getting
her where she wants to go. I can see how
she got to be a general--I'd rather square off with any man than face her in a
fight." Speedy careens around a
curve while chickens squawk and merchants curse. She says, "Thank God we're all patriotic
citizens here and none of us'll ever have to deal with her that way." "Amen," I say,
and the conversation falls off. |
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