The Curse of M

by Stevie Barry

  At first she thought it had backfired, the pain was so intense, but after a few moments it ebbed to something almost bearable. She'd startled him, if nothing else, and she'd damn well better get there before he recovered enough to cripple her.

  The faint trace of Ratiri's consciousness finally led her to a door, but she barely had the energy to claw at it. Knock it down, that little voice whispered, but she couldn't. All this effort and she was fading fast -- even her rage wasn't enough to keep her going.

  Bugger that. She hadn't made it this far to give in now. Summoning a reserve of energy she didn't know she had, she managed to knock the door right off its hinges.

  She fell with it, and this time she couldn't stand. Once again she was reduced to crawling, the tile cold beneath her hands. It cooled the prickly heat of her erratic blood pressure, though her vision was more blurry than ever.

  Footsteps approached, and when she sat up she found Von Ratched looming over her. "Well done, Donovan," he said, unbelievably caustic. "Thanks to your aggravating distraction, this very nearly killed Duncan."

  "Not this," she managed, "you. What've you done to him?"

  He yanked her upright by her hair, then dragged her after him with a bone-creaking grip on her arm. "Let's find out, shall we?"

  When her abused vision finally focused, she found Ratiri lying deathly still on a surgical table, beneath a harsh overhead lamp. His arms had been restrained, and there was blood at his wrists where he'd struggled, already half-dried. He was as pale as his complexion would allow, his skin ashy-grey. Von Ratched pulled her closer, giving her a better view of his face, and he opened his eyes.

  Lorna recoiled. There was nothing of Ratiri in their honey-brown depths. They were wild, feral, and totally inhuman.

  She rounded on Von Ratched again, ignoring his iron grip on her arm. "You son'v a bitch, what did you--"

  She got no further. With a growl Ratiri ripped one restraint entirely off the table, and then the other. The protesting screech of metal pierced her eardrums, but when he crawled from the table he didn't grab Von Ratched, he grabbed her, yanking her away from the doctor so hard she felt something in her arm crack. She hurt so much already that she barely registered the pain, and fortunately he let go before the tug-of-war broke anything else.

  "Fascinating," Von Ratched said, although she barely heard it. She was too busy wondering if Ratiri was going to tear her apart.

  He didn't. Instead he glommed onto her like a remora, and some wild, irrelevant part of her thought, Well, this is awkward. Awkward and painful, but he seemed to sense the latter, for his grasp loosened enough to allow her to breathe properly.

  "Ratiri, allanah, for the love'v Christ, will you knock it off?" she said, the words half croak, half gasp. Her use of his name cleared his eyes a little, and she ignored Von Ratched as she reached out and touched his mind.

  It was the strangest thing she'd yet found, in her limited experience of her curse. Lorna picked up not one wavelength of thought, but two, as though some separate entity had been grafted onto his psyche. Just what in the name of hell had Von Ratched done? Calm down, allanah, she sent him, trying to infuse the thought with what little peace she could muster. It's over. She had no idea if that was true or not, but she had to say something.

  It was all she had time to think, before her consciousness finally gave up.

  ----

  This really was fascinating. Von Ratched had figured Duncan would survive, but he hadn't anticipated how feral he would become. He really was little more than an animal right now, though the core of his being remained. The question was whether or not it would ever reassert itself.

  The Donovan complication might work in his favor, though she was likely to find it vastly uncomfortable. The animal this test had created had certainly latched onto her, and he doubted she was equipped to deal with the magnitude of that. Especially since Ratiri-the-human didn't share that fixation; yes, they got along well, but they barely knew each other, and Donovan was not exactly the warmest and friendliest person on the planet.

  One thing was certain -- he needed to be sedated so both their injuries could be tended. After so much exertion, Donovan might well sleep for the next three days. He'd leave Duncan with her, to see how the man reacted when -- if -- he came back to himself. He'd have to keep an eye on them, in case Duncan did decide to hurt or kill her, but he didn't think he needed to worry. This could make their other tests doubly intriguing.

  Fortunately for Donovan, she could probably survive it even if he did. At first, Von Ratched had been baffled by her physical durability -- the woman used her body more or less as a meat shield, seemingly indifferent to the fact that her violence was only going to get her hurt in return. He himself was capable of shrugging off attacks that would have crippled many other people, but his telekinesis made him rather more resilient than a normal person. It hadn't taken him long to figure out that was the case with her as well. If Duncan decided to try to break her neck, at least he'd have a hard time doing so.

  ----

  Outside, Katje was worrying. She and Geezer had gone a little away from the others, and were halfheartedly digging at the hard ground with trowels.

  "I think the doctor may kill both," she said at last, brushing a curl of hair from her eyes. "Ratiri and Lorna. They do not manipulate, they push. And now Lorna go--" she waved a vague hand at the building. "I do not want to lose them. You three are almost only decent people in this place."

  "Hansen's not so bad," Geezer said, trying to pry a rock loose. The ground beneath the first two inches of soil was too frozen to do much with. The chilly wind had blown his wild hair into an even bigger mess, reddening his nose and his deeply seamed cheeks. "And Von Ratched won't kill 'em. Sounds like they're too damn interesting to him."

  He paused. "I gotta ask -- how could you stand doing what you do? And with him of all people?"

  She shrugged, genuinely nonplussed. "Is business," she said. "Why should I mind? I get what I ask for, yes? You have very strange--" she waved a hand again, searching for the English "--way of believe."

  "I think you mean morals," he said. "How can you let yourself be used like that?"

  She snorted, setting down her trowel. "I use him, not other way around. Besides," she added, "he is good at what he does."

  "…I didn't need to know that." Geezer shook his head, but Katje wasn't surprised he didn't understand. Nobody did.

  "Besides," she said, "if I keep him entertained, he is less likely to do bad things to me."

  "Until he gets bored," he pointed out.

  "I am difficult to get bored with." She was proud of it, too. Nobody ever understood that she really did like her job, and she now had conditioner, expensive hand lotion -- little things that made this prison seem less like a prison.

  "It's your life, but I don't wanna see you get hurt. And he will hurt you, eventually."

  "Yes, eventually," she said, "but that is later. Why should I spend all my time worry over that? You have a saying in English: 'Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die'." With another shrug, she added, "And it keep him away from any who do not want that kind of attention. Which is, I think, everyone but me. The rest have morals."

  That was all she would say on the subject. She'd made a few observations that she hoped were wrong. Given the brief amount of time she'd had to make them, odds were good they were wrong, but she wouldn't rest easy until she knew for sure.

  She shivered. "He has not seen you yet, no?" she said, changing the subject.

  "Not yet," Geezer said, but there was a grimness to his words. "He'll get around to it, once he leaves those two poor bastards alone. He can't know what I really am, or he'd have done it already."

  "Why?" she asked, making a somewhat lame effort with her trowel as an orderly walked by. "If you have no control, what good would it be to push?"

  "Because I've had it longer than all a' you," he said quietly. "For all I know, I mighta been born with it. And I think the only other
one here like that's him."

  Oh, no. "I will not tell," she promised. "But…he might know your name, yes? Who you really are?"

  "Doubt it. I've tried to find out myself, but there's no record of me anywhere. " He held up one of his burned, gnarled hands. "Even with the napalm, I still have fingerprints, but nobody's got 'em on file anywhere."

  Katje tried not to wince. The skin looked like melted candle wax, and made his handling of the trowel very awkward. "Does it hurt?"

  "Sometimes," he conceded. "Doctors said it burned away a lotta the nerves, but there's still places it itches and aches every now and then."

  "What is napalm?"

  Now Geezer was the one who shivered. "Hell-weapon they used in 'Nam. It sticks to things, and it's damn near impossible to get off. I've forgotten so much, but I can't forget that. Still have a hard time with the smell of cooking meat."

  Katje swore under her breath. She'd gladly keep Von Ratched, ah, occupied if it would keep him away from Geezer, as well as Ratiri and Lorna. God knew she could be creative enough. "How about I take over digging a while?" she said. "You tell me good things you remember."

  Chapter Eight

  Lorna woke to find Ratiri staring at her.

  No, not Ratiri -- whatever thing Von Ratched had turned him into. The savagery had left his eyes, but they were still inhumanly feral. How could she even begin to deal with this?

  Sitting up was a good start. Her left arm had been neatly splinted, and she was pumped full of so many painkillers it didn't hurt at all. She was hungry, thirsty, and desperately needed to pee.

  They were in yet another featureless holding cell, but thank God this one had an adjacent bathroom. She staggered when she tried to stand, and Ratiri jumped to his feet.

  "Will you calm down, allanah," she said, as gently as she could. "I've really got to pee. I'll be right back."

  The bathroom was tiny, and washing her hands was a bit difficult with the splint. When she emerged Ratiri was sitting on her cot, and his stare found her again. She tried not to be unnerved by it. Very carefully she sat next to him, and sighed. "All right, allanah, first things first: there's a thing called blinking. You ought to try it."

  He did -- an encouraging sign, she hoped. Maybe he actually understood her. Gently she reached out and touched his mind, and was relieved to find a little more of him had resurfaced. She could work with this, if Von Ratched gave her the time -- she was sure the bastard was watching, waiting to see if Ratiri would try to kill her. "You just lie down now -- I'm not going anywhere."

  Bless him, he did, and she laid a reassuring hand on his forehead. All she could think to do was sing him a lullaby like a child, and push calming thoughts on him. She gave him some of her better memories of Ireland, the little town she'd gone to live in with her elder half-sister. For her they were bittersweet, recollections of a place she might never see again.

  She must have fallen asleep like that, though she had no awareness of doing so. When she woke again she found herself being hugged like a rag doll, her head against his chest.

  Well, wasn't this awkward. She liked Ratiri well enough, but this was a bit…personal. Lorna wasn't much of a touchy-feely kind of woman; she liked her personal space, and she definitely didn't have it now. There probably wasn't any way to extricate herself without waking him, so she poked him in the shoulder. "Ratiri."

  He grunted, but didn't stir.

  "Ratiri." Poke. "Ratiri. Allanah, I'd like to breathe already."

  That roused him, and when he opened his eyes, he tensed. There was a lot more human there now, though the animal was by no means gone. She could almost feel the war going on inside his head.

  Eventually, the humanity mostly won out, and with it came visible embarrassment -- apparently he found this as awkward as she did. "Sorry," he said, letting go of her and sitting up.

  "'S all right," she assured him. "Just glad to have you capable'v speech again. What in bloody hell did that bastard do to you?"

  His brow furrowed, and she automatically pushed an errant chunk of hair back from it. "I don't know," he said, his voice hoarse. "He injected me with…something. All I remember is that it hurt."

  "That I figured," she said dryly, sitting up and hugging her knees with her good arm. "Felt it myself. D'you remember…anything before now?"

  He scoured a hand over his face. "A little. I think. I'm not sure how much of it's real." When he looked back at her, there was fear in his expression. "I did that, didn't I?" he asked, gesturing to her arm.

  Lorna snorted. "No, that was him. Arsehole wouldn't let go. Think he might've cracked it even before you grabbed me."

  He let out a relieved sigh. "He's too strong," he said, letting his head fall back against the wall with a thunk. He still looked like hell, but at least he was less pale -- and she was probably no prize herself at the moment.

  "It's the telekinesis, I think," she said. "I've been noticing it in myself. It…augments your strength, sort'v thing."

  She picked at her hair, almost relieved to find it a tangled mess. It had been braided when she was outside, but her inglorious flight through the Institute had almost totally undone it. Her knees had to be twin bruises; both were swollen, and it would probably be awhile before she'd be walking normally again.

  Ratiri leapt to his feet so suddenly she jumped, and started prowling the room like -- well, like a caged animal. "This is ridiculous," he said, the words almost a snarl. "We can't stay here, Lorna."

  Hush now, she sent him. Von Arsehole's got to be listening. You're right, but I don't know what to do about it, unless you know how to fly a plane.

  I don't, he admitted, still pacing, his hands now fisted in his hair. And where could we go, that we wouldn’t be caught again? Cities obviously aren't safe.

  She had no answer for that. If she knew more about survival, she'd suggest they try to make it for some of Canada's vast wilderness and live there, but as it was they'd probably freeze to death the first night. They needed somewhere remote, somewhere away from the Men in Grey, but with enough amenities to let them actually survive the winter -- and right now she didn't know where such a place might be.

  No, escape wasn't a viable option yet, but maybe… Thank God she could think in Irish. Maybe it would be possible to take over the Institute somehow. There had to be some way of dealing with Von Ratched -- he was only one man, for Christ's sake. An extremely powerful and brutal man, but human nonetheless. Would he really be able to control them, if they all rose up at once?

  No, but he could probably kill us all. Fortunately that too was in Irish, and it was unfortunately true. The incident in the cafeteria alone told her he had much, much better control of his telekinesis than she did, and she was sure she'd only scratched the surface of his telepathic abilities. Damn.

  Ratiri's pacing was beginning to drive her mad. "Will you not sit down, allanah? This room's too small for this."

  Sit he did, though he'd run his hands through his hair so much it was wilder than his eyes. "What does that mean, 'allanah'?" he asked, and she mentally kicked herself.

  "It's Irish," she said. "It basically means 'little dear one', but we throw it around like anything back home."

  "Little?" he asked, and when he smiled he definitely looked like himself. "How can you call--"

  Lorna held up a warning finger, cutting him off. "Don't start that," she ordered. "I've had enough jabs about my height to last three lifetimes. Bad enough my sister used to call me fun-sized, like those miniature candy bars."

  He was trying not to laugh. He really was, but she didn't grudge him when he failed. Laughter, after all, was uniquely human. It drove a little more of the animal from his eyes. "I'm sorry, but that's adorable."

  "Who're you calling adorable?" she asked, with a glare that wasn’t entirely mock. Ratiri seemed a decent sort, but if he started patronizing her, it was over.

  "Not you, if doing so will make you hit me," he said, holding up a placating hand. "My father wasn't a tall man, and he
used to say short people had just as much potential violence as tall ones -- it's just concentrated."

  Now she laughed. "Well, he was Scottish. There's a thing called a Glasgow Smile for a reason." She drew her fingers across her cheeks, miming knife-wounds.

  He winced. "I saw one, once, on a patient who came into the E.R. Of course everyone gave me grief about it, being the only Scot there."

  Lorna wasn't about to mention she'd given someone half of one. "Would you go back to London, if you could?"

  It was a little while before he answered. "No. I'd go back home, to Scotland. I moved to London for work, but it was never really home. What about you?"

  She picked at her hair some more. "I want to travel again. I was a roadie for Judas Priest when I was younger, and I loved it. Though maybe I'm getting too old."

  "Why did you stop?"

  Now she was the quiet one. "I had a boyfriend," she said at last. "He and I got engaged, and when I got knocked up we headed home to Ireland to set the wedding up early. Van wrecked, he died, I miscarried. Went to live with my sister after that."

  It was a vast over-simplification, but it wasn't something she liked talking about, and thankfully Ratiri didn't press. "I lost my wife," he said. "Ovarian cancer. She was only twenty-five."

  There was a weight of lingering grief in his voice that she recognized all too well. "You never really get over it," she said, half to herself. "Some days you can hardly feel it, but others it's like to murder you."

  "But at the same time, you don't want to let it go," he said. "If you did, you'd lose something infinitely precious."

  "You know, I think you're the first person I've met who's articulated it that well. And letting go…it'd feel like a betrayal."

  He sighed. "That it would. I have to admit, I considered joining her once or twice."

  "Me too. Got drunk instead." She made a face. "I'd about kill for one now. Pint'v Arthurs, a packet'v cigarettes, and maybe a good bowl'v Panamanian Red to top it off. I'd see if I could get Katje to barter for some, but I'm not sure she wouldn't make me try to work it off, if you get my meaning."