IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume VI: The Rift
Chapter 21 Aftershocks
Sunday, December 27, 2708,
continued ("Incoming," Tshura murmurs in my mind.) "Incoming," Lufti murmurs
into my hair, "But friendly spirits, afoot or in the air." That's when I see another
wing of Cyran's force, looking a bit abraded by recent battle but with high
morale. They must have prevented still
more government troops from joining our melee. "Put me down, Deirdre My little rifts aren't all that need some
healing." (Then we hear what we've all been dreading: the tramp of boots in
unison, coming our way. I'm not the only
one here with boosted telepathy, though they might not know yet how to use it. Which makes them all the more dangerous. "This way," I hiss, opening a door hidden by a life-sized painting
of Belen in her prime. We run down the
narrow hall of a servant's passage no longer needed, trying not to choke on the
dust, but it seems to deaden the sound of our feet.) "Betany!" I cry, running to
her and embracing her. "Oh Betany, so
good to see you on your feet!" "Thanks to you and Rashid,"
she says, grinning and hugging me back.
"I'll never forget you, Deirdre, coming to my rescue." She still moves a little stiffly, I see, but
halleluia, she moves! (Jake raises a shaking hand and says. "Wait.
Something moves. Something...oh
no no no, not now, no NO!") ("Okay, turn here! Now we
owowowoowOWOWOW!" Fireworks go off in my
head! Cybil grabs me by one arm, and
Maury by the other and they drag me along. "Jameel, take the lead," I gasp, "But be ready to change course if
I say so." I try to focus on Minerva's
black hair in front of me, but a cluster of painful light crystals blocks the
center of my view, then jumps to the periphery and turns into an angry, spiky
arc, flashing horrible colors at me.
Ohhh Gates but my head hurts!) ("Zannnnne!" Jake screams, crumpling in on himself, gripping his
head. "Jake" I cry, lurching down to hold him. Don rubs the tense muscles in the back of his
neck and says, "Tell me what's happening, Jake." Oh God my head suddenly hurts!
I fall to the ground with my hands on my skull. Lufti slides from my back but then pulls my head
into his lap saying, "It's okay, it's okay, exploding stars but I can shield
you some. Kiril! Come over here! Think about walls, a big brick wall around
Deirdre that the devil himself couldn't kick through." "What?" she runs over, bewildered. "Just do it!" he
barks in a voice surprisingly like Cyran's. ("Nurse!" Don shouts "Get down here STAT with two tabs of
Propanolol HCL." The man calls from the infirmary window, "Are
you sure..." "Just do it!
Now!" Wallace calls up, "He's a doctor—fully
certified!" I hold Jake's shuddering in my arms while
Don murmurs, "General Practitioner first class, with a specialty in tropical
medicine, for what it's worth. But I
also know when an oracle needs a beta blocker." Jake just mumbles, "Pain...oh Christ, the
pain!" My knees get cold in the slush and I don't
care. "Hang on," I tell his hair, shoved
up against my cheek. "The nurse is
coming." He finally gets down the stairs at a gallop
with two pink pills and a half-spilled glass of water. Jake can't gulp the medicine down fast
enough. He takes ragged breaths but he
can sit up again.) The headache
subsides. I take a deep, shuddering
breath as Tanjin gives me water, then Lufti and Kiril help me back to my feet. I feel embarrassed before the newcomers as I
straighten out my clothes. Who else do I know,
here? I recognize Makhliya's thick,
blue-glossy hair, wavier than the usual run, and so I haven't far to look
before I find scar-cheeked, white-haired Romulo. Anyone else?
Alysha, as always, at Cyran's side, and big, lean, glowering Marduk with
her. The rest show strange faces to me:
scarred, veteran-eyed old children, and newly recruited adults, looking scared
but determined. We have freed up the
country enough for unprecedented numbers of adults to escape their
servitude–that counts for something. And
more of the middle classes join us every day, as the army must squeeze them
tighter. "Too many," I murmur, "too
many..." the thought starts to echo through my skull. "Kirilllll," Lufti grabs
her hand and mine. "I'm counting on you
to know what you don't know!" (Too many telepaths, amped up too high on magentine saturation
bombard and track me all at once. "I'm a
trap!" I babble, "Abandon me! Abandon
me! Cybil will you let go of my arm!" "Nothing doing," she says, and the fool keeps right on tugging me
along.) It becomes a dance between
the government and the Egalitarians. The musicians play faster, the dancers
trip faster, each side meets the challenge of the other, upping the tempo till
one side must stumble. Who shall we
exhaust first? "Kiril!" Lufti
shrills. "Raise the walls again!" (I feel Guaril say, "Well, we've all got to die sometime," as his
spirit barrels full on into OHNONONONONO REDBLACK EXPLOSION IN MY BRAIN! Gasp. Gasp. Gasp.) (Jake starts trembling again.
Immediately I kneel back in the snow before him. "You okay?" I ask, holding both his arms. "It's more distant now," he rumbles back. "I can handle it.") Something horrible rushes
towards me, I can feel it! And it passes
right over me as I stand there embraced by Tanjin, Kiril and Lufti as if they
bodily shielded me from my phantoms.
Kiril sighs, "Girl, you have got
to go easy on the leaf!" and lets me go. "I'm not chewing any
now. I haven't for some time." "Good for you. Just don't you start up again. You got long-term effects. You're shaking all over." I swallow down my
irritation and say, "Duly noted." And we
rejoin the march. ("They're dead now," Tshura murmurs distantly, in not-quite words
that flicker and fade in and out. "All
your pursuers." I feel her mourn the
last trace of Guaril spent on our defense.
"I'll guide you as long as I can."
I appear to drift through the air, but I don't dare open my eyes to
confirm it. "I'm picking up some of that," Toni exclaims. Of course.
Drugs appeal most to the hypersensitive; she's probably an untrained
telepath, herself. She reels into the
men who now apparently carry me. "Take off my belt," I mumble.
Why do I taste blood? "Can you
stand to put it on?" "Pain and I became old friends through the last withdrawal. I think I can stand anything, now." "I have my focus in my belt." "I know. I figured it out." Tshura tells me that she'll try to shield Toni as much as
possible. Then I feel hands pull my belt
off, and Tshura becomes more distant, it all fades beyond the waves of migraine
as I sink into exhaustion.) With my loved ones at my
side I fight off an inappropriate exhaustion and take pains to look normal,
even cheerful. We move on together, up
the road, and this time we no longer even try to disguise that we have become
an army. Unabashed whistles go out, not
caring who besides our rebels hear: "Regroup!
Join forces!" Soon the mountains
seem full of birds that never reach as high as these slopes, passing the
twitter on. (I feel cold, fresh air and hear the calls of winter birds. We've gotten outside. Someone throws a blanket over me. The next explosion happens outside my head. I briefly open my eyes to see, framed in a
rainbow migraine halo, a hole blasted through the wall, still smoking, the air
full of its dust. Then the haywire
guidance system on the guard-station cannon swings it around to point back at
the pursuit inevitable with our coming into view.) ("STOP it!" George shouts suddenly from high above our heads. I see Aaron try to pull him away from the
window, but he's not looking down at us.
He stares off into the distance.
"You don't need them anymore! You
got what you wanted! Let GO!") (But the cannon never goes off.
Even without the belt I feel Tshura slip away from us. I hear Maury whisper, "They just collapsed. Just like that, no wounds, no nuthin', just
buckled like a bunch of dropped dolls." Apollo says, "They're getting up again." I feel the people carrying me stop. I open my eyes, feeling the aftermath quite
painfully enough, but no more active assault upon my brain. The people behind us look confused, like
those who wake up hungover in an unfamiliar place and fear to find out what
brought them there. None of them pursue
us. Eventually they clump in little
groups, talking softly, trying to make sense of it all. "Let's go," Jameel says.
"Whatever's happening, let's get as far away as possible.") (I get back up, shivering
some myself from my icy wet knees and shins, but Jake looks better now. Don takes one look at me and says, "Go change
your pants. It's not like we're on a
schedule." "Hi, merchant!" I call. An
enterprising tailor, seeing opportunity where others see disaster, has come by
with a sleigh heaped with off-the rack regular clothes to sell to students who
can't wait to get out of their uniforms.
I push through the mob, waving a wallet in the air, and shouting out my
measurements as two more loaded sleighs whoosh up, driven by younger versions
of the same man. "Oh, and Randy?" Don shouts over their heads, "When you get back, I'm prescribing double
chocolate.") Eventually Cyran decides to
take it further. At his signal I strap
on my flit and leap into the sky, my folks cheering behind me. I watch, from eagle-height, the
boulder-forests and the heaths, for bands slipping in stealth-mode from cover
to cover, invisible to all save eyes above.
I swoop down, give them Cyran's commands, and tell them where the
nearest soldiers march. And I soar back
up again, to still more cheers, heartening them by showing off my power. (And as a new snow drifts down on the towers of Montoya Manor we
all feel a last wave of relief, of something awful dissipating. Even through my pain I sense it. The damage isn't done, not by a long shot,
and more will come, I feel, like buildings toppling in an earthquake's
aftershocks, but something has happened, and the drive behind the damage has
subsided.) (But when I come back, my clothes in my arms, I hear Alroy's voice
say, "It is complete." I turn in horror
to Jake; the words fell from his lips.
He looks ghastly. "Jake," I say,
gently but firmly, "Let go. You don't
have to follow every vision that beckons." "He wanted it said. As an
apology." Still more gently I say, "Then may God have mercy on the most
wretched soul that I have ever met. But
there's nothing more that absolutely needs our attention, is there?" "No," he sighs, and leans back against the chair, closing his
eyes, looking utterly spent. While the
others head over to the merchant, I go on indoors and change right in the hall
with at least a hundred other shivering students, so glad that I'm not an
oracle!) As I fly I remember my resentment,
in my minority, when others could read minds, pull memories off of objects,
move things without touch, create illusions, create fire, or perceive the
unpredictable–all much fancier psi gifts than the ability to fly, so much
handier for agents of the Tilián. I
thought that flying would never do me much benefit at all, just provide an
entertainment, a few minute's vacation now and then up in the sky, but only
among cultures that could handle it. I
see now, in retrospect, how much this had to do with my volunteering for that
illegal experiment in neural acceleration.
But here in the Charadoc people scavenge anything, make use of anything,
make bloody good weapons out of anything!
And Cyran scavenged me. (I watch Randy go in, then wheel Jake towards the merchant's
sleighs, hoping they have something in our size. I almost don't hear Jake murmur, "It may be
complete, but it is not done.") Now every road, from every
pass, for miles and miles, rings with the tramp of marching Egalitarian rebels,
some ahead and some behind armies of marching Meritocracy soldiers. Battles will take place before the sun sets,
all up and down the Charadoc. And some
of ours will win, and some of ours will lose, yet all will weaken the
government force that closes in on Abojan Pass.
And though they thin our numbers sent to strengthen those already
gathered at the Pass, they also break in our new recruits; all those who
finally reach our destination will arrive there fire-hardened for the work. (It doesn't take long for me to get something warm and wooly on my
goosepimply legs. Don and Randy enter
the hall just as I leave. Soon we all come back to Wallace standing tall and
forlorn and dark against the snow. I turn at the shush of footsteps.
Right behind me comes George out the door, sunk back into his catatonia
after his brief outburst, Aaron's arm around him as the nurse follows, and he
doesn't so much walk as drift across the snow to us, leaning on the young man
beside him. Everything hardened in him
has melted. I wonder if he has anything
in him left...) (...for the journey ahead?
I look up at Randy. "We
shouldn't..." What's the word? My brain still feels like a vast, misty
landscape, sensed from too high up to know where to land. "Tangle.
We shouldn't, uh, tangle like that anymore," Randy nods, his eyes wide, but he
understands, I think. "No, Jake. We
shouldn't." Then, looking a little
strange, he asks, "Do you want her thread back?" Do I look like that sometimes? But I know exactly what he means. "I...I still don't feel strong."
I take a breath. "Let's hold it
both together for awhile.") I feel a sudden flood of
relief, even in the weariness of flight, and I start weeping so hard that it
almost drops me from the sky. I feel
loved! Despite everything I've done,
despite everything I've been, I feel
cradled in hands of love. Maybe all that
cheering meant something. So I pull
together, feeling my last reserves of strength renewed, to fly to still more
rebels, to pour out still more encouragement, to keep them going, too. But soon the weariness of
body and soul catch up with me again. So
what if fools love me? They don't know me the way that I do. I have nothing left but to push penitentially
onward, as the wind and miles grind away at me.
No rest for the wicked. ("Well, you're off duty for the day," Randy tells me. "You can curl up in the sleigh, when it
arrives, and get all the rest you need." "Um...no. My body's not the
part that needs rest." I grope for
words...words...they come so hard right now...finding them, pronouncing
them. "I need to move, even a little
bit. I need...focus. I need to, uh..." what's it called? "...the sleigh. I need to drive the sleigh." Randy looks dubious. "We'll
see. I'll start out, at least, till we
get to the straight road." He gives me a
wink. "I'm still not satisfied that you
wouldn't drive us into a tree right off the bat." I look at him, puzzled. "The
horses won't allow that.") By the time I finally glide
into camp (far advanced from where I left them) I tumble in my attempt to land,
and sprawl shaking in the dirt. Makhliya
runs to clean me up and minister to my little scrapes while I pant for less
rarified air, my heart pounding. "She's just exhausted," the
medic pronounces. "I'm authorizing a
dinner for her." Tanjin comes to lift me
up; it gratifies me to see how adept he has become at making the most of his
bad arm's limited range. Strangers
spread tarp, sheet, blankets, and quilts for me to lie upon, astonishing me
with their care. I find tears running
off the sides of my cheeks. "I don't
deserve this," I gasp. "I don't." Words reverberate in me, saying too many
deaths, too many sins, and all sacrificed to what? Did we even have to? Lufti nestles down against
me, his head upon my shoulder. Softly he
says, "Even your sins forgive you, Deirdre.
For you have a heart as big and blazing as a star. Sometimes you burn, but we all burn, we all
go up in smoke and reach the heavens as a dirty smudge. At least you try and try and try." And so I hold him, the worst of all my sins,
until the trembling subsides and I can sit up and eat the food that Kiril
brings to me. (Once they've changed, Randy helps Aaron get George into the
sleigh that Wallace rented with his severance pay. Aaron clasps the catatonic boy's hands and
roughly, tenderly, insists, "I will find you again, George. I'll go to Til Institute, I don't care if I
have to steal the money to get there, I'll..." He glares with watering eyes at
George's expressionless face. "I'll do
it! I will! I'll find you!" I have to speak. "You won't
have to steal," I say. "Finish. Growing up, I mean. Finish growing up. Then I will send you the money, and an
invitation..." words, words... "You will need...uh....training." Yes.
That is it. What the boy needs in
so many ways. "Training for what?" he asks.
I glance over at Randy. Randy answers, "On how to become an oracle's guardian.") Kiril makes sure that Lufti
eats too. I look at their travel-grubby
faces and think about what a pathetic guardian I have made for these
children! Yet their parents hoped
nothing more for them than that they survive.
So far at least so good. And I
stare down the ghosts that haunt my memory, all the dead, the ones I killed and
the ones I couldn't save, and all I can say is, "At least none of you are Kiril
or Lufti." For now. ("Too many," George mutters suddenly, hoarsely, as soon as the
school drops out of sight behind us.
"Did we have to...too many...too...did we?" Good. He's finally
speaking. "Even one—too many!" I take
the reins as Randy climbs back to comfort him with words of forgiveness and
hope. I'm glad somebody remembers such
words. I snap the reins lightly and the
horses plod again. The snowy miles roll past, white striped in gray shadows from the
stark, black trunks of trees upholding their gray haze of twigs. The shadows lengthen and the light grows dim. "Oh, isn't that a thing of beauty, now? Don asks, "The golden
lights of an inn, glimmering across the snow!"
I steer the horses towards it, but it doesn't look golden to me, just a
lightening of the gray, under a charcoal twilight. Don glances at me. "Are you
all right, Jake?" Thickly I ask, "What color is the sky?" "Blue-violet," he answers, "with a touch of coral on the
horizon." Then he peers at me more
closely. "You can't see it, can you?" I shake my head. "Whatever
George did to me must've, um, injured the part of my brain that processes color." I say it as objectively as I can, to my
friend the doctor, but inside I feel horror. To my surprise Don smiles.
"Don't worry. You're getting
better, actually, though it might feel like worse for awhile. Your brain just adjusted to seeing colors
cranked up brighter than normal, so regular hues don't yet register at
all. But this will pass." His smile fades, sympathetically. "And I bet you feel pretty miserable right
now, don't you?" I shrug. I can barely feel his pat on the arm through the layers of coat,
sweater, flannel shirt and thermals.
"I've been through this, Jake.
Trust me—the depression will pass, too." I don't have anything to answer.) (And then I notice that Toni carries something besides
the pack on her back: an object about the size of a jewelry box on end or a
boxed book set, some squarish machine encased in leather and with a leather
handle, with dials and meters on the front.
"What's that?" I ask. "Tshura," Toni answers. "Or what's left of her.") |
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