by Oliver Atlas
As for music, I explain, it helps us break out of our normal visual understanding of the world. If we think of something as many-made-one, we can’t picture distinctness and unity at the same time, so it seems like nonsense. But when we recall our experience of music, we realize it almost always presents us with multiple notes—distinct notes—playing at the same time to create a unique oneness of sound. Rather than covering or obscuring one another, the notes manage to make each other all the more distinct, while at the same time forming a unique, cohesive chord. So visually, many-in-one makes little sense. But audibly, it makes complete sense. Unique notes interpenetrate one another to cohabit the same space, and, potentially, exponential space.
“So when people talk about falling in love,” I conclude, “they usually mean the zing-bang of romantic infatuation or the dumb luck of easy affinity. But such experiences aren’t the reality of love, so much as sign posts pointing to our capacity to become many-in-one. Watch out for people who think love is the sign post.”
Skiss glances back at me. “Why? What is there to watch out for?”
“Despotic moralizers,” I say, my frozen mouth struggling to annunciate the fancy mouthful. “Shallow hedonists. Watch out for Rubies. Watch out for Union Powder.”
“Watch out for the whole of theTerritory, you mean,” mutters Skiss. “It’s as if—”
“That’s enough philosophizing, please,” cuts in Milly. The edge in her voice is sharp enough to shave with.
“Milly,” I ask, “what’s wrong?”
She rides along in silence, shoulders hunched.
“Milly?”
“He’s cutting west again,” she snaps, “down the mountains. The damn fool is heading for Sumpter Dredge.”
“What does that mean?” asks Skiss, gently.
With a harrumph Milly stops her horse and spins in her saddle. “It means by dawn we’ll be out on an open wasteland, plain as day for that Ranger on our tail, plain as day for Yaverts to pick us off. But who cares about that? That’s nothing. Sumpter Dredge means we’ll be in the backyard of the Bokor.”
Now, even in the dark, I catch Skiss’ body tense. “The Bokor?”
“Oh yeah. That’s their valley. Their laboratory. That’s where the Duchess has them conduct their experiments. Sumpter Dredge is the heart of the Core, the reason mothers from London to Beijing tell ghost stories about Oregon. Even zombies know better than to go down there.”
The clouds around us have broken and a few freezing patches of stars cut the sky. Below, to the west, I can see through the patches to strange, umber mounds of somber, lumbering earth.
Sumpter Dredge.
I shake my head, grinning blackly. “Leave it to Yaverts.”
“The hell I will,” growls Milly, mistaking my meaning. “He’s got Jenny.”
Chapter Forty
Reckless
At 6 a.m., we’re cutting down the steep west side of the mountains when the snow begins to fall. The flakes, though huge and sparse, fall fast and heavy, building on the trail. Our horses begin slipping and stumbling until we have to dismount and lead them. My frozen toes plunk along like pegged legs. My fingers feel like hooks. I hope when we catch Yaverts he isn’t feeling like dueling with pistols because I doubt I could grip a handle, let alone squeeze a trigger. Then again, at least that kind of confrontation would spare me the ongoing philosophical conundrums involved in shooting someone. Maybe the best way to be a pacifist is to make sure you have no violent options, starting with your dexterity.
The valley below is a haze of scudding clouds and whirling white wind. Given Milly’s account of what awaits us, I’m somewhat grateful to be approaching blindly. For all I know, the valley floor is riddled with Screamers, or worse. Maybe some kind of giant, drooling zombie beasts. Who knows? I don’t.
Just as it’s easier to be a pacifist when you can’t hold a gun, it’s easier to be a brave pacifist when you can’t see the threat that’s coming.
Skiss glances at me. She does that every few minutes. I know it’s her way of thanking me for being brave, for accepting her, for trying to show her a different kind of man than she has known.
But now I suddenly feel ashamed.
What a broken world it must be if I’m anyone’s example of a good man. Let’s see. I began this whole quest more out of romantic interest in Milly than concern for Jenny. And when I got my chance for romance, I passed it up to sermonize her about desire. Lame. And I keep fretting over the violence the Territory seems to require, but in the end I prove just as violent as I need to be. Lame, again. Sure, my default settings may possess a little more decency than most in the Territory, but in the end that simply makes me more pretentious than the other passive automatons who live by instinct. And the world needs more than more automatons. It deserves more than my passivity. Skiss deserves more. Life deserves more. I need to put my waffling ways behind me. I need to decide how I’m going to live, and why.
A sharp noise catches my attention.
Milly has hurried ahead, out of sight. We can hear her horse through the wind, hooves scraping, muzzle huffing. She calls back to us for speed. Yaverts isn’t far ahead. There’s a growing frenzy in her voice, a trembling mix of rage, fear, and fever. And she’s getting sloppy. Wind or not, her voice probably carried down the mountain, straight to Yaverts.
“Come on,” I say to Skiss, pushing ahead to catch up with Milly, thinking about how I want that GPS back. We need to know who or what besides Yaverts awaits us. We also need to know how close our pursuer has gotten. The storm has given us cover, but the moment it lifts a sharpshooter could start picking us off. If it’s East behind us, he may only want my badge. If so, he won’t hesitate to kill us from the safety and convenience of long-range. If he wants something more, like having us lead him to Schlozfield . . . well, he apparently needs to get in line.
When we reach Milly, she has dismounted and is studying the GPS intently. I slide off Enemy, stride up out of the veil of snow fall, and snatch it out of her hand.
“Hey!” she shouts, clawing at me to get it back.
“Shhh!” I hiss, pushing her away. “Milly, this is no time for being reckless. You’re yelling—giving away our position. You’re charging ahead without even communicating with us, without making a plan. You know I respect you like crazy. You know I would never be delusional enough to think you’re not the best leader here. But you’re not yourself. Look at you! You’re sweating, Milly. You’re burning up.” I grab her shoulder with one hand so she won’t pull away as I reach out to feel her forehead with the other. My ice-slabbed hand sighs at her heat, lingering for a few extra seconds. “We’ve got to get you to shelter.”
“Like hell we do. We’ve got to keep up the chase.”
I shake my head in frustration. “Then if we’re going after Yaverts, we need a plan—a plan that takes into account your current state.”
In the green glow of our horse-lights and the streaking bars of snow, Milly’s answering grin is over-wide and chilling. “Sure, Blake. Let’s plan. Let’s deliberate. Let’s take a moment and philosophize. Let’s sit down and calculate the most responsible courses of action. Then let’s take a vote and ratify it. Look behind us, Blake. Why the hell do you think I’m hurrying? Look east.”
Hesitating to take my eyes off her, I glance at the GPS screen. But it shows too much to read in an instant. To our west two green dots are just beginning to cross the narrow valley floor. Not far from them, three more green dots wait. To the north, along the valley, run strips of red. Not dots, but strips. At the strange sight, my chest tightens and I have to force myself to breathe. There’s no telling what those strips could mean. But what was I looking for in the first place? Ah, yes. To the east, barely a half-mile from us, flying along the same ravine, is another green dot.
The Eastern Ranger. Van Vandercain.
“Damn.”
Milly snorts, bitter, tired. “Reckless is all we’ve got left,” she says, starting west again.
“Wa
it.” The command comes out of my mouth before I can think. My hand has grabbed Milly’s saddle. “Reckless isn’t all we have left. We can wait and face Vandercain. That way we know what we’re doing, what we’re facing. We know we’re not walking into some kind of trap. Milly,” I warn, seeing her eyes tighten. “This is the right move. We’re going to wait and face East.”
For a moment, I’m sure she means to argue. Go to hell—I can hear her say it. But she doesn’t. Instead, she nods meekly, lowering her eyes in silence.
“All right,” I say, surprised, turning to peer back up the pitch-black trail, releasing her saddle. “Skiss, why don’t you hide behind that tall boulder? It has the best cover to the east, so you’ll have to watch our backs. Milly, you should—”
A rush of fabric and boots.
Hooves biting into sluice.
I spin and watch the green silhouette of Milly and her horse disappearing down the trail at a pace surpassing reckless.
I don’t know whether to laugh or weep or swear. If I were a hero in a movie, I would probably stop her by shooting her in the shoulder. But I’m not an action hero. I’m not going to shoot my sick friend. All I can do now is follow.
“I’m sorry, Skiss.” It’s all I can think to say as I mount Enemy.
“For what?” The dark-eyed woman jumps on her horse and bolts down the hill at a pace that makes Milly’s seem cautious.
Growing up, whenever I’d do something ridiculously stupid, my mother would shake her head and mutter oy vey. That’s what I do now, feeling sure the clouds and mountains share my pain.
Then I’m off—chasing Skiss, chasing Milly, chasing Yaverts—praying Enemy can see more than I can, which is little more than strobing streaks and looming shadows. The clap-a-clop of her hooves pounds in the snow-muffled dark, mixing with the thud of the other galloping horses. I’m sure the whole world must know we’re coming. My ice-fingered hand still clutches the GPS. It shows Yaverts and Jenny on the move again, west, with the three figures they met remaining at the center of the valley, unmoved. And behind us—
A gun shot rings out. A burning wind blasts past my ear. Ducking, I skitter around a wide corner with Enemy. That was close. Vandercain is close. Too, too close. My heart forgets how to beat. It has started simply flowing. My hands have forgotten that they’re frozen, that they can’t move. In no time, the GPS is gone, replaced by Clementine. I fire a shot blindly over my shoulder. In reply, two more shots clip past me. For all I know—cold as I am—they’re clipping through me.
The snow begins to thicken, to warm. We enter a long, narrow chasm, with dark walls stretching up as far as I can see. I fire another shot. Then another. If Vandercain reaches the corridor while we’re still in it . . . . Midway down the passage, the snow gives way to rain, the night’s black gives way to morning charcoal. We’re visible now. We’re easy targets.
Enemy suddenly jerks to the right. She pounds forward, then jerks left. Then right. I cry out, but she keeps zigging and zagging. I try to gather her in, but she ignores me. A shot rings out again, clipping the corner of my jacket shoulder. She’s dodging. She just saved my life. Another bullet whizzes past me, but then we’re out of the corridor, back into the winding snake of a trail.
“Skiss!” I yell. She and her horse have slowed a bit and I catch up at last. “We’ve got to keep—”
The words catch in my throat. Her hand. Blood. Shot. Where? She’s still with me. Her eyes say that much. But for how long? The Bowie knife. I need it.
Oh, damn.
Damn.
I never recharged it.
Oh, please let it be a scratch.
But it’s not a scratch. As I come alongside her, that is plain. There is enough light to see the crimson splotch spreading across her lower back. There is no time. She’s bleeding out. Vandercain is coming.
Not far ahead the scattered barking of gunfire erupts.
Milly.
I reign in the horses and pull Skiss onto mine, holding her before me. The sound of hooves pound behind us on the trail. Enemy doesn’t need spurring. She leaps ahead, straining with everything in her.
“Skiss?” She’s already slumping, fading. “Skiss!”
I cling to her with an aching arm, fighting to keep her up and hold the reigns as we plunge down the dying slopes of the mountain. Instinctively, Enemy begins dodging again, side to side. Another shot must be coming. I should beat East to the punch. My free hand fumbles for Clementine, raises it to fire . . . and reholsters the gun.
No. I’ve got a better idea. Or at least a more interesting gamble.
I struggle to unpin the cold Ranger’s badge from my chest. It takes far too long, but finally, I have it. In the netherlight, its black metal gleams.
“Hold on, Skiss. Hold on, Abigail.” The words are lost in our flight. The arm I’ve wrapped around her is already wet with blood, its muscles burning, my strength sapping. Hold on. And then, feeling foolish and desperate and hopeful, I press my cracked, frozen lips to the badge of the Western Ranger.
Chapter Forty-One
Sumpter Dredge
The scarred valley opens before us, drenched in the cold green-gray ink of a bitter dawn. The rain has stopped, but I’m not ready for the biting wind of the high plains and it presses tears from my eyes. I’m not ready for the unreal wounds in the land, giant pale berms snaking back and forth across the valley’s narrow expanse, stretching northward from a stymied riverhead, the chalky intestines of an exposed titan. I’m not ready to see Milly pinned beneath her dead horse with an armored truck racing toward her, or Yaverts galloping away beyond her, cradling Jenny before him. I’m not ready to draw Clementine again and prepare to kill or be killed. But ready or not, the big pistol is quickly in my hand.
I can feel Skiss fading, her strength leaking from her body. And I can feel a strength entering me, proportional to her loss, yet distorted. Deathly cold. Furiously hot.
Rage.
Blinding. Deafening. Drilling.
I can feel the pacifist in me being stripped away, screaming—the theories and good intentions, the noble patience. Terror happens in time, in moments, in frozen images that fill the mind and block all other possibilities. All I know is Milly, Skiss, and Jenny. They sit on scales opposite those who would hurt them. And suddenly all I know is that I exist to tip the scales aright, by whatever means. My arm is without qualms. It raises Clementine and I turn, lining it up on the jolting target of Vandercain’s chest. He does the same. My brain still cries stop! My mouth mutters blindly, asking for deliverance. My heart seethes. Pressed up against Skiss’s blood-wet back, feeling her dying, my chest explodes with a single command.
Shoot.
And I do. Clementine recoils a split second before Vandercain’s gun, knocking him sideways, sending his shot ripping by my ear. He reels, nearly falls, but finally lunges forward, seizing his horse’s neck. I can’t imagine he will hold on for long.
Although, when I face forward again, it’s me who almost falls. A rider on a towering horse thunders by in the opposite direction, eclipsing everything. Startled, I cry out. For an instant, I’m sure we’ll collide and be swallowed in the big shadow, but the rider whisks past and barrels down on the Eastern Ranger.
The badge, I marvel. It worked.
Lancaster Moon has arrived.
But so have the Bokor. The silver truck pulls up beside Milly and three men with huge hair pile out. They scramble over and lift her horse. A shot rings out and one drops. Milly has her gun. The two remaining men dive onto her before she can fire another shot. After a quick tussle, they hoist her to her feet and drag her to the truck.
Ten seconds later, I’m in firing range, but it’s too late. The truck is already speeding away north over the berms, the tires flashing in and out of sight. If I tried a rifle shot, I might get lucky and hit a tire. Then again, I might get supremely unlucky and accidentally shoot Milly. That would sure teach me for reverting into my violently pragmatist American self. But what can I do? Enemy is nearly
spent, her body steaming and lathered, her legs beginning to stagger. And Skiss . . . Skiss is . . . I’m afraid to speak her name, to set her down, to stop at all. I gallop half-heartedly north, chasing the Bokor, fleeing the onset of day and all I’m afraid it will bring to light.
After a half-mile of plunging through the wormy rock dunes, we come to a sea of knee-high black grass. The field rolls north in stops and starts, the straggly prairie warbling as though seaweed in water. Enemy rears up, whinnying. She begins backing away and I suddenly remember: the huge red blotch on the GPS. This must be it. This field.
“What the hell . . . ” I breathe, feeling my skin crawl.
In answer, three shots crack the air north across the field. Even with my spotting scope there’s nothing to see. The overgrown berms are too wavy, cut with too many dried-out ditches where I’m guessing some giant machine once roved for gold.
Ah, gold.
The morning sun springs through the storm clouds, lancing across the blasted valley. For a moment I can really breathe again. For a moment I remember what hope feels like. Milly captured, probably on her way to torture or worse. Jenny lost, back into the hills with Yaverts. And Skiss . . . But the light of new day peals across the darkness and whispers to me.
