IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume
II: Tests of Fire and Blood
Chapter 54 Some Must Leave and Some Must Stay
Tuesday, June 2, 2708 Disruption...something
wrong. Before I even open my eyes to the
predawn darkness I recognize it: machines.
I hear the grinding of gears, the turning of engines, drowning out all
the natural sounds. I tangle in my
hammock for breathtaking seconds of panic before I can scramble out. "Hurry! Everybody up!" I rouse the family from their lean-to in the
woods and tug Malcolm awake.
"Rope--get me rope, fast!" I tie Malcolm and the bewildered, sleep-bleary
family to the benches out in front.
"The rest of you go ransack the store." "If you need
money," our hostess starts to say, "you'll find it in the..." "Quiet! It looks more realistic if we have to hunt
for it. Make a mess, Chulan--don't be so
dainty about it! We're leaving victims
behind us, more loyal than ever to the army that protects them--right?" "Maaama! I have to go potty!" I say, "Honey, you'll
just have to wet your panties, 'cause we're ruthless rebels here." That'll add realism, that'll make it look
like they've been tied up here all night. "But Mama!" "Hush and do as she
says." Sharp odor punctuates the
night as I join in the looting. Malcolm says, "I'll
pay for everything later, I promise you."
We fling the cash-box and bags of supplies into his hidden car and the
pilfered jeep. "For damages, too,
and pain and suffering..." "Hush, " she
tells him, too. The man says, "Bruise
us up a bit before you go."
Obligingly Chulan and Fatima begin to lay about them with the expert
blows of people paid to entertain the jaded in this way. "Not you two!" I
protest. "Damien, Kanarik, you'll
have to do it." Madame trained the
pros to leave no mark; they don't even realize their restraint. "Hit my daughter,
too," the man says to me. "No, I don't think we
need..." "Do it! They suspect children most of all, now." "Please don't..." "Do you want them to
torture her like Aron?" I do it. I give her a bloody nose and bloody lip and
she caterwauls fit to break my heart with every blow, till she looks very
convincingly like a victim and I stand there shaking so badly I could pass for
one, myself. Kindly our hostess says,
"Take some of my good chaummin with you--for later. For your nerves." I shake my head, then swallow,
and find words. "No. Thank you." I will get used to this. "It's much smoother
than anybody else's brew," she says in a trembling voice, as the little
girl still cries. "Later—after the
revolution. We'll have a drink together
then." Then, while the others head
into the forest, Chulan grabs me and pulls me into the jeep and we race
screeching into the paling night. We’ll
have to give the army somebody to chase. Chulan takes the turns like
a maniac. "Guns!” she shouts. “Can you find any guns in the
back?" Holding on for dear life in
the open vehicle, I climb into the back just as the enemy's jeep comes into
sight. "Score! Three rifles, three pistols, bandoleers to
match, and six hand grenades." "Then for God's sake
get over your shakes and cover our backs!" she shouts as the first bullets
whiz past us. "How can I shoot when
you're making wild curves?" I cry as another one nearly throws me out. "They can." They have front-mounted
automatic weaponry. To hell with guns--I
lob a hand-grenade at the road before them; a great chunk of pavement explodes
in their faces, their jeep hits the crater and sends them tumbling down a cliff
I wouldn't want to even look down. I can
hear their screaming all the way. I feel a tap on my
shoulder. Without taking her eyes off
the road, Chulan has reached back with a pack of cigarettes and matches. "Found it up here in the glove
compartment," she says. I cower
down into a corner of the back, out of the wind, get it lit, and try to puff my
tensions away. I can do this. I close my eyes and
shudder. Have to do something about my
imagination--when those boys went down I felt like I went down, too, I felt
each and every scream tear from my own throat, I felt four separate sets of
vertigo and terror and then shock!
I feel almost like I have four family histories dancing just on the edge
of consciousness, haunting my head. I
suck at the smoke like it could burn the ghosts away. Then I clutch at my
luck-doll, hidden against my heart, and remember Aron. He will fend their ghosts away from me. "Defend me now, Aron," I whisper,
"and you'll never have to howl with the monkeys. You did the best you could." Gradually I stop
shaking. I shoulder on a bandoleer and a
rifle, and lean back to watch the departing scenery as we careen down and up
the mountainside and into the rising sun. * * * (I hate this place. The sooner I can wrap up my business in
Cumenci, the better. But that child had
to get his ideas from somewhere, to make him crawl all the way to Cyran even
without feet. Some filthy
insurrectionists sing a few catchy songs, tell a few lying tales, and next
thing you know they're sending babes to do their dirty work for them on some
godforsaken Children's Crusade. Someone
has got to put a stop to it--whatever it takes. I know right where the
grave is. Why do these ignorant peasants
feel they have to use secret signs to mark the spot? They turn pale when I push through the
foliage to it, then back off when I order them to stick to their stinking
little roadside stand and leave me be.
What do they think I might do to the poor corpse, anyway? I stand respectfully where
no eyes can see me, too angry to weep or anything weak like that. I should pray for him or something. I find that I cannot. Aron, you sorry little
fool! Why’d you force me to take it so
far? I had to have your information—I
had no choice in the matter. You
could've given it to me early on and saved us both a lot of grief. You should've told me all that you knew after
a few slaps like a normal child--what did those crazy rebels do
to you to brainwash you so badly? It only counts as a full
success if the subject lives. You
neutralize him, you scare him so badly that he'll not only never take up arms
against the government again, he'll teach others to fear crossing the
Meritocracy in any way imaginable—and that saves lives. I've spent my career scattering the
countryside with walking advertisements on the wisdom of keeping the
peace. Some of them can walk, anyway. I frown down at the little
grave. Maybe that had something to do
with it, in part at least. The horror of
lifelong maiming or mutilation can overcome the glory of a martyr's death in
many cases--a most effective tool. But
what can you do with a boy who has already lost his feet? Who doesn't even care anymore? Oh, hardened, hardened! I hate what it takes to break these
rock-hearted peasant kids. Maybe there won’t be any
more Arons, not from this village. I
made them all watch, children and adults alike.
So now the nights shrill with the screams of nightmares. Maybe the fear will save their lives. I sigh, inhaling deeply of
the pungency around me. A grove of
Chaummin-trees caused the settlement here, even before the establishment of a
plantation--they make the sap into that gawdawful liquor that the country-folk
love too well. But it does smell sweet
from the tree, doesn't it--did Aron ever get homesick for the scent? I thought that bringing him
home would soften him. I thought that
the sight of his father's tears, the sound of his mother's sobs, would break
his heart and bring him to his senses--why should he owe Cyran more than
them? Even with the father I had, even
when I wished the monster dead, I hated it when he cried; I wanted to not exist
rather than provoke those tears. But rebellion makes these
kids callous to their own flesh and blood. Aron didn't care that they begged him to tell
me what I had to hear. "Cyran is my
god!" he shouted, sweet Jesus forgive the little boy. But I cannot forgive him,
myself; I'm not as big as Christ. Aron forced me to commit a blasphemy. He forced me to hammer at his misguided faith
with pain after pain, overlapping, running together and mounting to higher
pain, till I saw the vulnerable moment with my practiced eye. That's when (God forgive
me!) I shouted at him, "I am your God!
I alone can give you pain or relief, life or death--worship me, for no
one else can help you!" That's when
he finally broke. But not before his injuries
had already gone beyond what a small one can survive. I couldn’t be his god after all. Nothing I tried could have saved him. Then, when they “hid” him from me I felt too
depleted to stop them; it wouldn’t have done any good, anyway. How can I help but hate him
for what he made me do? How can I not
hate him for making me, for that one terrible instant, actually feel like a
god--a being with total power over this helpless creature who couldn't get away
with defiance of my will? He saw it, and
he crumpled. He could not have seen it
unless I let that feeling suffuse me and radiate from me so that every nerve
I'd stripped raw in him couldn't help but throb with my sense of godhood over
him. That's how much it took and damn him for it! A songbird sings sweetly
overhead and brings me back to myself. I
hate myself for my inability to pray for the dead. The departed should go beyond all politics,
after all—everywhere but in the Charadoc. Am I
still peasant enough, myself, that I can't shake the superstitions about his
ghost, that I fear to leave this grave unplacated? But can the damned pray for the damned? It's all so useless--let the birds pray for
him, let the leaves rustle palm to palm and murmur something over him. I've got other business. I return to the clearing,
where a soldier takes the fat man's blubbering report on his imprisonment. Malcolm deGroot--have I ever got a file on
you, as bloated as your disgusting self.
Foreign provocateur with rich connections--if only his patrons knew half
of what I know about dear Dr. deGroot. At least Layne guessed,
soldier that she is, regardless of the petal-dress that she wears off-duty,
listening discreetly to the help in all the finest homes, never really on
leave—not our General Aliso. She first
suggested that I compile the file. "Captured" a
second time, Doctor? What coincidental
misfortune. Reporting the
"theft" of a car that nobody knew you still possessed--lest, no
doubt, some later incursion finds it abandoned with your name still on the
register. But what brought you up here
in the mountains in that thing in the first place, when you could ride in
utmost comfort to any legitimate destination? Aron mentioned your name,
Doctor. Called you a comrade, a
fellow-laborer in the rebel infirmary. I
couldn't convict you on that alone; judges have a soft spot in their heads for
medics who give aid and comfort to friend and foe alike. But I haven't forgotten that your patrons
whisked you off to comforts and a feast on the same night that Aron fell into
my hands. Just looking at you in your
grossness, hearing you feign innocence, knowing how you perpetuate this whole
obscene conflict with your meddling foreign money, makes me want to tear into
you, hit you with everything that that misguided little pawn never deserved but
oh, how much you do, and more! To deport
you would merely let you get away with murder, Dr. deGroot. Yet I can, perhaps, do a little something more
suitable before your ship arrives. For you may have gone too
far at last, my well-fed hypocrite. No
half-starved, half-grown whores like the ones described to me could possibly
have severed a man's neck-bones with just one blow. "Arrest him," I
say quietly, and point.) END OF "TESTS OF FIRE AND BLOOD" |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
||
![]() |