The Curse of M

by Stevie Barry

  And this time, he actually saw it: the thing that lived behind her eyes. He saw it coil, and rise, and yet this time, it didn't immediately spill over. It held, watching him, a malign awareness that was as fascinating as it was repellant. That she could hold it in this time, that she didn't immediately try to claw his eyes out, was somewhat troubling.

  There was no way he could let her remember this. He'd never be able to control her again, unless he forcibly erased her entire personality, and that he did not want to do. Again he touched her forehead, seeking out her thoughts --

  -- and slammed into a barrier of mental titanium.

  The shock of it left him reeling, and through some feat of strength as inhuman as her gaze, Donovan ripped out both her restraints and launched herself at him.

  For once, his reflexes were too slow -- she was on him in half a heartbeat, her teeth latching onto his neck like a wild animal, tearing and gouging with surprising ferocity. Human teeth were too blunt to break skin on their own, but the jaw could exert tremendous pressure, and Donovan tore at his throat like a wild dog.

  Adrenaline and lingering morphine kept him from registering much pain right away -- a good thing, because prying her loose wasn't easy. He probably re-fractured her wrist as he finally hurled her away from him.

  She hit the wall, but rebounded with unsettling speed. Her eyes glittered through the tangled curtain of her bangs, bloody teeth bared. She had blood all over her smock, too, mingling with dirt and soot -- his blood, he realized. It poured from the wound at his neck, a crimson flood dyeing the once-pristine white of his coat. He clapped a hand over it, putting as much pressure as he could, and reached out with his mind. Maybe he couldn't get into hers for now, but he sought the slender thread of her consciousness.

  Sought it, and found it. She collapsed at once, and as soon as he'd made sure she was still breathing, Von Ratched went to the bathroom attached to the office. It was certainly bright enough in here, and he surveyed Donovan's grisly handiwork in the mirror.

  It was bad, but it wouldn't be lethal. Thankfully she'd missed his carotid artery, though she'd somehow chewed through the sub-dermis and into the muscle in places. It was going to scar horribly, no matter what he did.

  Carefully he swabbed the ragged wound as best he could, suturing it himself. Coat and shirt were ruined, but he had many more. His apartment had been untouched by the fire; he could retreat to its calm when his work was done.

  Donovan was still well under when he returned to his office. The carpet, he noted dispassionately, would have to be replaced: no amount of hydrogen peroxide was going to get out this large of a stain. It wasn’t worth it.

  He knelt beside her, brushing the hair from her eyes. She looked peaceful enough now, though he knew it wouldn't last -- not unless he wiped this whole incident from her memory.

  This time he approached her mind much more subtly. All it wound up meaning was that this time he didn't run headlong into her block; it was still there, cold and smooth and completely unbreakable. He knew why she'd done it, of course, but how? And why now? Certainly he had put her through agony long before this wretched day, yet it took this disaster for her to build so complete a defense.

  But no, he knew why. He was right: pain she could handle, but this was not pain. She'd probably not felt anything like that before in her life, and she certainly wouldn’t have wanted it from him.

  To Von Ratched's highly elastic morality, he didn't consider that rape. He hadn't hurt her and he had definitely taken nothing pleasant in it himself -- but it was still a violation that had backfired. And he couldn't go into her mind to fix it.

  Now what was he to do with her? Putting her in isolation would be a terrible idea. Maybe he ought to foist her on Duncan, since they had a unique ability to calm one another. He'd give her a proper tranquilizer first, and hope she didn't wake up still a berserker.

  Somebody had to clean her up first, though, and it probably shouldn't be him. That wasn't morality; it was manners, his warped idea of politeness. Unconscious or not, he would leave her her physical dignity.

  He put her in the care of Grieggs, who stared at his bloody shirt and bandaged neck in open shock. She'd say nothing of it to anyone, he knew, either of his wound or Donovan's current state.

  When they'd done he returned to his room, tossing his coat and shirt into the trash and washing the dried blood from his chest. What a nightmare of a day this had been, all told. Some alien feeling was niggling at the corner of his mind, an emotion he had no name for. It was unpleasant, but he was so tired he went to sleep without examining it.

  ----

  Lorna woke to a bizarre paradox of calm and rage.

  Physically she was beyond relaxed, courtesy of the morphine drip in her arm. Mentally she was ready to destroy something, and at first she didn't know why.

  Memory hit her with a sickening rush, and she rolled over and threw up off the side of the bed. The room was yet another unfamiliar one -- not that she paid it much heed. Roiling horror joined her rage, churning in a dreadful sea of emotion that threatened to tear her bones apart. She shivered like an aspen, tempted to tear her own skin off if it could make her forget.

  Bizarrely, there was no shame, which had to have been that bastard's primary goal. Violation, unrelenting disgust, almost terrifying fury -- but not shame. In the state she'd been in, fighting hadn't been an option. She'd done what she could and it wasn't enough; in that she had nothing to be ashamed of. He'd cheated, plain and simple, and she'd kill him for it. It might be months before she could manage it, but he was going to die.

  "Lorna?"

  She blinked, and when her eyes focused she found Ratiri looking at her. He was beyond worried, the animal awareness shifting in his eyes. He could see her aura -- he had to know something had happened to her, but Von Ratched was right in one respect: she couldn't bring herself to tell him what had happened. She wanted no one's pity, not even Ratiri's, and pity was exactly what she would get.

  But she had to say something. What came out surprised her, though. "Ratiri, I killed two people."

  It more than explained her trauma, and she really was genuinely disturbed by it. Yes, they'd worked for Von Ratched, but that didn't automatically make them evil. Hansen, after all, was no monster. They'd died in literal combat, but the fact remained that she'd killed them. And, oddly, she grieved for that more than anything else.

  Ratiri struggled to sit up. He was still filthy, though Lorna wasn't -- and she shuddered, not wanting to think why or how she'd got clean. "It was them or us," he said. His voice was so hoarse it gave out on the last word, and he stumbled when he came to sit beside her bed.

  "They're still dead," she whispered, as he took her hand, "and we're back here. They died for nothing, and I did it."

  He said nothing, but his free hand hovered over her hair. At first she had no idea what he was doing, but a little of her misery drained away. She shifted, trying to watch his hand, but couldn't even manage that.

  "Shh," he said. "I'm just cleaning out your aura. You'll feel better in a bit."

  Lorna shut her eyes, letting him carry on. The maelstrom of confused grief and fury wasn't so bad when he was near. She felt safe, even though neither of them really were so long as they remained here. At least it was warm, and she wasn't in any pain. Anymore, that had become a novelty.

  "I killed my father," she found herself saying. "It's why I went to prison. I didn't mean to, but he was just as dead. Was a stupid accident, but I was still the one that did it."

  Ratiri's hand didn't pause. "What happened?" he asked, and oddly, there was no judgment in his voice.

  "Went home when I was twenty," she said sleepily. "Picked a fight with him. 'Course he was pissed out'v his mind, and when I hit him too hard he went arse over teakettle down the front steps. Cracked his head on the walk and died with his brains leaking out."

  To her distress, she wasn't crying. She should be -- tears might give her better catharsis than anything right now -- but s
he couldn't. Her eyes burned dry and hot. "And I damn near tore Von Ratched's throat out last night. I think I'm in for it, allanah, and I'm afraid you are, too."

  Thank God, he didn't ask why. "Move over," was all he said, and she did. When he crawled up next to her she wrapped her arm around his waist, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder. "Go to sleep, Lorna," he said. "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

  ----

  Von Ratched spent the next morning making too many irritating arrangements. Private contractors would have to be hired and flown in to repair the damage the escape had caused, and all the requisite supplies imported; he needed mercenaries to replace his military. All his drugs, equipment, and food would now have to come from outside sources as well. It all wasted valuable time, but he didn't trust anyone else to do it.

  The bodies on the landing tarmac had to be dealt with, too. For that he drafted many inmates, exhausted though they were. It would keep them exhausted, and hopefully traumatize them too much to think about organizing any further resistance.

  Duncan and Donovan he left well enough alone. The orderly who delivered their food came back unharmed; she reported that both were sleeping. Duncan was still in one piece, so Donovan's berserk wrath obviously hadn't lasted. They'd be left to themselves a while yet, and he'd send Hansen to check on them later.

  Von Ratched remained uneasy when he thought about Donovan, and that troubled him. Had it only been frustration at his failure he could have ignored it, but there was more to it than that. Disgust at the level to which he'd had to stoop he could understand, but there was something else, something he had no name for. And that annoyed him greatly.

  His office stank so strongly of blood that he'd opened all the windows, cold though it was outside. He went to one and observed the desolate yard, the lines of Donovan's would-be garden still marked in orange. Sitting in here was no longer an option; he had to move, before his restlessness drove him as mad as some of his patients.

  So he put on his overcoat and went outside, observing the body disposal from a distance. Some of his workers were weeping, some too ill to function, but progress was being made. The brightness of the sun made the macabre scene even worse, but at least it was too cold for the corpses to stink.

  Geezer wasn't sick, but that didn't surprise Von Ratched; he was probably the only one who had seen a dead body before. He worked in grim-faced silence, loading corpses onto the long flat carts that were usually used to haul materials in the military base. Occasionally he told DaVries to look away, but she rarely listened. She was a pale shadow of herself, her face white and her expression distinctly nauseated. Hansen finally went and drew her aside, pulling her away from the carnage with an arm around her shoulders. Von Ratched hadn't authorized his attending staff to do that unless an inmate dropped from weariness, but he wouldn't chastise the man over it. Hansen looked disturbed enough himself.

  Watching the scene didn't give Von Ratched the pleasure he'd expected. The inmates were certainly being punished well enough, but strangely, he could take no satisfaction from it. He was still troubled in a way he'd never before felt.

  He followed after Hansen, who had taken DaVries inside. Unfortunately, the young doctor was quite obviously infatuated with her, but he could let that be for now. This was not what some of his staff had signed on for, and he couldn't push them too hard yet.

  "Hansen," he said, when DaVries had been delivered to her room., "I want you to check on Lorna and Duncan. They are in holding room B, and I believe you would upset them less than anyone else."

  Hansen gave him a startled look, and a check of his mind showed he was surprised his boss had called a patient by their first name. It gave Von Ratched pause, too; when had he started doing that?

  "I will, Doctor. I thought it best to bring Katje --"

  Von Ratched cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Do as you see fit," he said. "I will be in Nurse Grieggs' office. Report to me there."

  He left Hansen to it, still in a foul mood. Unfortunately, he was sure it would only get worse before it got better.

  ----

  Lorna didn't stir when the door opened, but Ratiri did. He'd eaten his share of breakfast and gone to rest with her again, but he couldn't fall back to sleep. Now he tensed, ready to attack, but it was only Doctor Hansen, who entered very quietly when he saw Lorna was asleep.

  "I've been sent to check on you," he said, setting down his black doctor's bag. "Has she not woken up?" he added, eying the untouched plate of food.

  "Not yet," Ratiri said softly. "And I'd like to let her sleep as long as she can."

  "Then let me give you a once-over. I'll wait to perform her exam until she wakes."

  He sat up a little warily, but there was nothing off in Hansen's aura. It was still the mingling of blue-green that spoke of a curious nature, though also tinged with a shade of grey that meant immense worry. He wasn't like the others, the staff who regarded their charges as barely human.

  He performed a basic exam; ears, nose, throat, pulse and respiration, and carefully removed the morphine drip. "Tear-gas exposure, am I right?" he asked, looking at Ratiri with troubled dark eyes.

  "Got it in one," Ratiri said, wincing. His throat felt like it had been scoured with sandpaper, and no amount of water eased it. Every muscle he had ached, and his eyes still burned. "Lorna's worse off, though. Mentally, I mean. She killed two people out there, and I'm guessing Von Ratched rubbed her face in it, because it's made her a complete mess. She says she tried to bite his throat out."

  "I'd believe it," Hansen said, grim. "If the bandage on his neck was any indication, she almost succeeded." He paused. "Why did you all try to escape like that? I know it's not pleasant here, but even if you'd succeeded, it would have been suicide."

  Ratiri stared at him in disbelief. "You really don't know what's going on here, do you? Von Ratched's not testing us, he's torturing us. Sure, it's in the name of science, but the result is the same."

  Hansen said nothing. His silence made Ratiri think he wasn't really surprised. The man had worked with Von Ratched, even if only on mundane, acceptable projects, and anyone who spent time around that monster couldn't help but identify him for what he was.

  But his aura hinted there might be something more. "I don't want to tell you this," he said, so quietly it was almost a whisper, "but I'm worried, and maybe you should be, too. I know this doesn't sound like much, but he referred to Lorna by her first name, and he doesn't do that. Ever. And I mean not with anyone, not just his patients. I don't think he realizes he's doing it, either. And…he's not an easy man to read, but I've got a little…extra ability there," he added, lightly stressing the word 'ability'. "He's fixated on her, even if he doesn't know it yet. And I think it's not just professional."

  Horrible a thought though that was, it explained the subtle shift in the bastard's aura. "What the hell do you think he's going to do about it?"

  Lorna chose this unfortunate moment to enter the conversation. "Die," she said, rolling over onto her back. "He doesn't know it yet, but he's a dead man walking."

  There was a flatness to her words that was truly horrible. Even it wasn't as bad as the ice in her eyes, though.

  "Lorna…" Hansen said. "He won't lower his guard around you, especially not now. I'll keep you two away from him as best I can, and he's going to be more than busy enough for at least the next week. But honestly…well, some of the staff aren't sure he's even human."

  "'Course he is," she retorted, her eyes only half-focused as she stared at the ceiling. "He bleeds red. He's human, and sooner or later he'll make a mistake. And when that happens, I'll make sure it's the last thing he ever does."

  Something cold washed through Ratiri's veins. This was not Lorna as he knew her. The woman he'd known had been foul-mouthed, hot-tempered, and as protective as a mother bear. This current Lorna was a creature of ice, her rage carefully contained and cold as the Bering Sea. What the hell had Von Ratched done to her?

  "He can't
get in my head anymore," she said, almost conversationally. "Not at all. He went too far in my mind by half, and now it's locked him out. Don't need to think in Irish anymore."

  What on Earth--? Ratiri wasn't sure he wanted to ask. "You can't be sure of that," he warned.

  "Oh, yes I can." The conviction in her voice was downright chilling. "He's out for good, and I think he knows it."

  An incredibly uncomfortable silence followed that, in which she continued to stare at the ceiling. She seemed so very convinced, and again he wondered what had happened last night. And he especially wondered how, if she really tried to kill Von Ratched, she'd escaped with her own life -- and in one piece. Unfortunately, that lent unsettling credence to Hansen's…theory. Even if Von Ratched had thought her too valuable to kill, he could easily have broken half the bones in her body. Unless he'd hurt her in…other ways.

  "Lorna," he said, "did Von Ratched…" He couldn't finish the question.

  "Rape me?" she said bluntly, and he winced. "No. He's not stupid enough to make himself so physically vulnerable." She paused, a dreadful, thoughtful pause. "Anyway, it's my mind he wants, not me. 'S more…the idea of me. I'm betting anything his next trick'll be trying to steal my curse and give it to someone else." Only now did she turn her head, her stare unnervingly piercing when she looked at Hansen. "I'd keep an eye on Katje, if I was you. If he was after trying to transplant my curse to anyone, she'd be favorite."

  Hansen gulped.

  "I'm thinking you wouldn't mind hanging around her more, anyway," she added, and even his dark skin managed a blush. "Make her happy, Hansen. Someone in this hellhole ought to be."

  The poor man actually stammered, and left in a tearing hurry. Ratiri couldn't blame him, after a pronouncement like that.

  He looked back at Lorna, and wondered what he was to do now. He had to draw her back to herself, as much as he was able. "Up you get," he said, taking her hand and pulling her upright. "If nothing else, you've got to eat."