IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume VI: The Rift
Chapter 41 Robbie's Tale
Thursday, February 11,
2709, continued "If you wanted gauze," I shriek at Makhliya, "You
should have said "Bring me a roll of gauze, not just point and hope I get the
message!" She just looks wearily up
at me in a way that makes me realize that maybe I shouldn't yell at her over
something so trivial, especially not in front of the patients. In fact, maybe I shouldn't have to be told
that what she next needs is gauze, when we've done this same procedure for oh,
I don't know, like a thousand times or so before. After giving me enough time in her stare for my face to get good
and red, she says, "Go get some rest, Deirdre.
You're off duty." "I can't rest," I grumble, instead of apologizing, which I know I
really ought to do. "Yes you can," she says, while Hekut brings her gauze. "It may not feel like it, but you get some
benefit every time you lay down." "But the nightmares..." "Are what the brain does when it heals. You taught me that, yourself." I did?
More kindly she says, "They won't last forever, Deirdre. You can weather them like every other
hardship that a rebel has to face." Except they're not like every other hardship. They hit closer than any bullet can. They ache deeper than any hunger. They're a throbbing gash in the very core of
who I am, bitter with infection, oozing a pus of grief and regret and sheer
unholy terror. And she won't let me have
the medicine that can keep the pain at bay. "Eat first, though." She
scribbles on a scrap of paper for me to bring to the commissary—just an oval
with wavy lines above it, to symbolize a steaming plate, with her signature
beside it that the cooks will recognize.
"I'm authorizing a dinner for you." Though my mouth waters I growl, "If you keep on authorizing
dinners for me, I'll get too heavy to fly." "I doubt you can fly now, with so little reserve on you. Eat and rest—that's an order!" Damn whoever told her that a medic's orders take priority over anybody
else's in their specialty! Grumbling
that I can fly just fine, I stomp over to that corner of the cave where people
cook and store food, and get a cold dish of papulsa with cheese congealed on
it, left over from lunch. Ignoring my
need to peck at it with wounded dignity, my body gobbles the food down before I
can even taste it. Come to think of it, Tanjin told her about her authority. Oh God
don't damn him—damn me instead! "The irritability will wear off, too," she says brightly as I pass
the infirmary-zone again. I lick fingers
at her and wash up for bed. ("I don't deserve the
finger, Jake," Randy says while cooking.
"I know you don't like canned mutton-barley stew—but it's what we have
left." "Sorry," I
grumble. "I don't know what's gotten into
me lately." Don pats me on the
shoulder. "It's what's getting out of
you. It'll pass. And then things'll turn
around. You'll see." For some reason this
scares me most of all.) (I turn the dial. It doesn't really matter where I turn
it. It doesn't operate that way. It just helps me tune in to Tshura, this
motion of my fingers and my attention.) ("We have to do it
now, Zora! Everybody's healing and the rift
is closing fast.") I lie on my very thin bedding on top of rock, and I toss and turn,
restless yet tired, aching and close to tears over nothing. Lufti changes into the warm sleepwear that
smugglers swapped him for I don't know what, then joins me under the blankets,
snuggling up to me, his cheir-silk flannel soft and kind. "What's this for?" I
murmur, "You don't have to go to bed
yet, Lufti." "You need protecting. We're
all monsters in the dark; we slay each other and think that we are
heroes." I hold him tight and try to
fight the insane thought that I shot the gun, I know I shot the gun, even if I
also didn't. Is madness contagious? But if it is, Lufti caught it from me, not
the other way around. Everything's my
fault. (Then lie with me,
Incense. Fold your strong arms around me
and nestle your head against my shoulder and hear all of the things that I
can't say with my half-paralyzed mouth in the beating of my heart.) (Together let our
Siamese-twin souls plunge down into the Rift, drifting deeper, deeper, falling
centuries back in time...) I feel myself falling, falling deeper than sleep, my last
awareness being Lufti's hug and his urgent whimpering, "No, no, don't take her
along, no please..." ("No!" I cry, "Don't
drag me along you wicked godforsaken brotherfucking SOUL-RAPIST!") (I don't know what to
do. I don't know what to do. Jake, George, and Wallace all scream at once,
George crying, Jake cussing, Wallace groaning and clutching at his heart. Don immediately tends to Wallace, pressing
his magentine-ringed hand against the old man's chest, wincing to read his flesh. "It's okay," Don
gasps. "Anxiety attack, not a real heart
attack." And he does what he can to make
his patient comfortable. I grab Jake's hand,
and Jake grabs George's, sweat turning cold in the winter night, and I pray to
God we get through whatever's happening.) ("Tshura!" I cry. "What are you DOING? Where are you taking us?" Yet she feels as helpless as I do,
myself. Broken clocks hurl at us,
bruising us—symbols, I know, of waking her at the wrong time, but here symbols
hurt like bullets, like bombs, they rip the skin off from my soul, even off of
themselves, time melts as I watch and feel and the impact burns right through
me!) "They all shoot through
me!" I scream, as Lufti holds my bucking body, rapidly muttering, "Right time
wrong time no time all time right time wrong time no time all time..." ("I can't help it!" Zora
wails in my arms but they aren't arms because they melt as we all fall deeper
and deeper into the molten surge of time within the Rift. "I can't help it I didn't want to do this to Jake
to Zanne to Deirdre to anybody!" And she
turns, in my embrace, to a bewildered, half-mechanical Romany woman, dissolving
and fighting to reconstitute in the blaze of so much magentine energy that it
makes the Cave of Changes feel like a toddler-level ride in the Amsi'en
Amusement Park.) (Oh Lord this goes way
beyond the Cave of Changes! And Deirdre,
fragile, shell-shocked, somehow poisoned Deirdre, has become the focus. I try to tell Randy, but I can't find my
mouth. Deirdre has become the
tipping-point, the one most off-balance, so we careen into the past that has
hurt her the most. Damn you Zora and
Incense! Even if you didn't mean to you
had no business trying this!) (As we tumble
backwards and backwards through the burning centuries...) Oh God, oh God, what happened to my precious tedium? Wherever I land, let it be boring, boring,
boring... ...I am so bored with
this assignment! When I took the
hypnotic suggestion to change me from Robbie Morricone to Robar Moreno I
thought oh boy, this is it, this is when I finally, fully enter the
thrill-filled life of an agent of the Tilián!
But instead my dullard veteran, Collin, just had to take me to the
not-in-the-least exciting Charadoc, to check out an unsubstantiated rumor that
the reign of Crystalia Atmos the Uniter has become a tad oppressive. Borrrring! Of all the veterans
available, why'd I have to wind up with a pallid ol' pudding of a man who
wouldn't get any action at all if his wheeling and dealing didn't make him at
least halfway interesting? I hope
somebody shoots me before I get so old and fat that I have to trade in gossip
and secrets for people to pretend they love me! I tramp through the tall grass looking for rats to shoot, my
sleeves rolled up to expose my dark, strong arms that so many have loved wrapped
tight around them...at least in civilized places with singles bars. Well, the locals call them rats, though they don't actually resemble anything I ever called
a rat back home, besides having four legs and fur. Whatever they are, they get into the grainery,
the kitchen and the library and leave a stinking mess of whatever they don't
rob or shred, so the master wants them gone. Quite politely, mind you, and cheery, trusting, as he handed me
the gun. I would have liked a touch of
oppression, something to fight valiantly and vanquish. But their slavery is much like in many other
countries—a temporary contract to pay off debts, with clear-cut rules and
limitations. Granted, it's more likely
to fall on Mountainfolk than anyone else, but that's just because the local
Mountainfolk are poor, as a rule Where
are they not? Always heading where they
feel most comfortable, up into rocky, barely arable mountain ranges—what do
they expect and why don't they ever learn? Who ever gets comfort, anyway?
The hot sun burns me and the grass-scratches itch, and the constant buzz
of insects just plain annoys me. Oh, I
could endure all manner of pain and want for a noble cause, but for hunting
rats it's just a waste of misery. I even got excited at the prospect of posing as Collin's slave, to
catch the gossip and glimpse the dark underbelly of Charadocian society. Maybe that could plunge me into peril! The locals have resolved the apparent
contradiction of my dark skin and my dashing height by deciding that I must be
Collin's son by a maid. Okay, so that does
disturbingly suggest that slavery might have become hereditary, at least for
some, and deserves looking into, but I'll leave the paper-chases to Collin. For a moment I relish fantasizing about pretending to be Collin's
lover as well. "Incest!" they'd howl,
and try to tear us to pieces. I wouldn't
mind fighting somebody off, or even running ahead of a lynch mob, if it gave me
a thrilling tale to tell back home, impressing all the stay-at-home boys and
girls hanging out at the Mulberry, in the hope of meeting a genuine agent. I'll take either for a tumble; I'm not
particular that way. It ups the
excitement, wondering who I'll wind up with next. But for now, I've got to trudge through these meadows, watching my
footing for fear of nothing worse than cow-pies and ankle-breaking rat-holes,
hunting that which hardly gives a fight back, beyond making itself aggravatingly
elusive. Bored BORED bored bored bored! Oh, I enjoyed agency—at first—back in Alcazar. The art museums alone surpass anything in
Til, and oh my, the cuisine! Even as a
"slave" I had it good, drinking and gambling with the rest of the help in my
off-hours, listening to the gossip and reporting back to Collin every morning
while readying him for the day...and collapsing into his bed as soon as the
door clicked shut behind him. (Yes, I
could make that look like something else again, if I wanted to.) But then I mentioned a new slave, joining us from the countryside,
missing an eye and bearing a whip-scar across her face. And he'd begun to get impatient with my
nightly adventures anyway. So he told
me, quite pompously, the way he does, that cities can lie about the grim truths
of the countryside, and that it's our job to uncover whatever needs exposed to
the light. Therefore it was high time
his rookie got a taste of real, independent field work and learned that agency
isn't all just one great party. Collin
loaned me to a short-handed gentleman-farmer to see how slaves fare out in the
wild. So here I am, learning nothing whatsoever, out hunting rats while
the rest of the chattels bring in the harvest and I can't observe diddly-squat
about how they fare. Turns out
"shorthanded" just meant Master Juffali didn't have anybody to spare for pest
control. And so here I toil, dying of
the tedium! After the last few shots,
every rat with half a thimbleful of wit has found a place to hide obscure to
city-slickers and is probably snickering in his whiskers in a pitch too
squeaky-high for me to hear. Wait...there's one, nibbling the sweet heart out of a dandelion
blossom as if he doesn't care that I am here, doesn't deign to notice me. Bad mistake, rat. I raise my gun slowly...take
aim...and...click? Dammit! Out of ammunition already! So I'm out here for no good reason whatsoever. Can't even kill rats. I should have joined the police-force
instead, or become a pirate, or chased pirates, or anything but this. That tree there. Imagine
it's a pirate. Take aim...and
click. Dead pirate. That scarecrow over there, that's a
highwayman. Take aim...click. Nailed
him. That window, that's a den of
iniquity and a thief moves as a shadow behind the curtain., Take aim...SHOT? Screams pour out of the shattered window and
I drop the rifle and run. Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!
The gun had a stupid revolving magazine.
I just played Russian Roulette with somebody else's life and lost! What'll I tell Collin? Quick, think of something while
branches slap me in the face as I pelt out of there! Somebody else shot the gun. I was working in the field and somebody else
shot the gun and the master won't say who he sent because that's whose goddam bedroom
I just shot up, that's whose portly silhouette stood out against the bloody
curtain! And no, I can never, ever tell
this story at the Mulberry! Collin will have to play it down anyway, because he doesn't
want an investigation that might reveal what he's let slip to people who aren't
supposed to know that he's an agent, but he got bored, too...and oh boy, this
had better go away! Lots of people have
a stake in making this go away. We'll say
it was an insurrection. Yeah, that's the
ticket. A slave revolt... I jolt awake, shivering, my teeth chattering, and yet the sweat
just pouring off of me. (No! No! It happened too fast! We couldn't change anything!) (We have to go back
and try again!) I tumble backwards into sleep, clawing for wakefulness but no use,
I'm right back to Robbie, playing with a loaded gun, trying and trying to
scream and make it stop, but I can't control these arms, the swiveling waist,
the trigger finger...NOOOOO! (Again! We'll have to try harder!) I feel the tides of time like blood pulling me back into the
whirlpool wound and I drown too much to scream... (No! You damned outlaw, you utter unrepentant
criminal rapist whore of Alroy!) (No. I won't be part of this. The Romany have always protected the
persecuted.) (But I want to stop the persecution! I want to change history.) (No. Tshura and I can stop you. Tshura and Jake and I and we can pull in
reinforcements...) (Absolutely not,
Zora! I fended you off from Jake before
and I'll do it again if I have to break every surviving braincell in your
skull!) (I don't know what's
up with Deirdre, but she can't handle this.
Shove off, Zora!) I feel a snap in my head, a stinging shock, and I gasp for air, my
eyes opening onto a rock roof above me, freezing cold and damp with fear. "Medic!" The mad boy beside
me shrills. "We need a medic! The gun went off and nobody's okay!" I hear footsteps run at that, and then I see
Makhliya, panting and holding her ripe belly.
She sighs her irritation when she sees no blood, just Lufti holding the
stick with which he struck a pot to make a bang, but then takes a second look
at me. She helps me sit up and I cling to her. "Hot water!" she calls, and Kiril comes with
some still warm in a teapot. My grasping
at her makes it hard for Makhliya to wipe me off, but she frees me from my
sweat and then wraps me shuddering in my blanket again, while Lufti stares on, holding
Kiril's hand and eyeing me sadly. That's how it started.
That's how the whole bloody mess in The Charadoc started—by a couple of
bumbling Til agents! I clutch Makhliya's wrist before she can draw back to other
duties. "Don't. Please don't." "Don't what, dear?" "Send me back to more nightmares!
Give me something—anything! Knock
me out with a hammer! Just don't send me
back." She extricates herself; I find my fingers too weak to resist
her. "You have to work through it,
Deirdre." Medics can be some of the
coldest people on earth, sometimes. I spiral back down helplessly into sleep, face down towards Kief's
angry, bleeding grin, swirling on the words repeating in my head: I shot the
gun. I shot the gun. I shot the gun...
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