Of Dreams and Rust (5 page)

My bottom lip trembles. “That's not true. Or fair.”

Bo's jaw ridges with tension, and he leans forward. “He deserves everything he gets,” he hisses suddenly.

I shake my head, imagining children playing in the shadow of the hills, looking up to see their death descending upon them. I picture their mothers trying in vain to protect them. I remember the pain in Melik's eyes as he told me about the last time the war machines came through the canyon. “This is about more than that, and more than him.”

Bo's mechanical fists clench. “The red Noor made his choice. They all did.”

“What would you do if you were in his place?” I ask, my voice cracking. “Would you break, Bo? Have you ever broken? Can you blame him for refusing to surrender?”

“I blame him for exactly one thing,” he says, “and as for the rest, I don't care.”

“Then you are as unfeeling as you look,” I snap, gesturing at his mechanical arms.

“Or perhaps I feel more than you could ever guess, whether I want to or not!” he shouts, then turns away quickly, grimacing, his metal fingers clicking. “Either way, it doesn't change a thing. This is bigger than you or me or one stupid Noor, Wen. It's silly for us to argue about it.”

“Because I can't do anything to stop it,” I say. And because Bo won't do anything to stop it.

“Precisely.”

I look down at my hands, small and weak, flesh and bone, and then I look at Bo's, powerful and merciless, steel and wire. “Maybe I should try.”

His eye goes wide. “You're not serious.” He takes a step forward, his mechanical hands rising, and I flinch back. He winces and his machine fingers rise to his opposite shoulder, twisting and pressing in a precise sequence of steps. The metal frame surrounding his human arm slides to the ground with a clatter. His warm fingertips caress my cheek a moment later. I am shocked by the intimacy of it, and by the knowledge that Bo understood the one thing he could do to bring me closer.

He gives me a small, sad smile. “I'm sorry for everything, for all I've said, for the war, for the orders that have already been given. I'm sorry for what's going to happen. I'm sorry for being cold. All of it.”

His regret is not enough to soothe me because it changes nothing. Determination is wrapping itself around my limbs, winding its way along my bones, my veins, my muscles. Maybe I should try. How can I not? How can I live with myself if I sit idly by while those machines tear through villages full of Noor whose only crime is living and dreaming and craving the same rights that I have always taken for granted? This is not about Melik, not really. This is about Sinan, Melik's little brother, and his mother and his younger, more vulnerable self. No one was there, all those years ago, to warn them. No one was there to whisper, “Run, hide, get to safety.”

Bo cups my cheek and strokes his thumb over my skin. “Say something, Wen. Say you forgive me.”

“I forgive you,” I whisper. “I am sorry I asked you to commit treason. It was very wrong of me.”

His eye closes, dark lashes long. “You scared me.”

I am scaring myself. “I didn't mean to.” But I am going to do it again, because my thoughts are filled with treason and betrayal. Right now I wish I were not Itanyai. I was raised to be proud of my people, of my part in this great culture, but now I am nothing but ashamed. Because I was raised to believe something else, too: that compassion is golden, that it is best to preserve life, to ease suffering, to value mercy above all else and others above myself. My father was my most diligent teacher. If Bo knew my thoughts, though, and if he told Father, the two of them would prevent me from doing what I think I must. No matter how much compassion he has, my father is still a father. He would not allow me to leave, which means he cannot know.

Above our heads there is a deep pop as the first firework goes off. It paints Bo's metal face pink and yellow, the soft shades of a spring flower. “Stay with me for the fireworks?” he asks, his voice low.

He was wrong when he said I could not guess what he feels; I know how deeply it runs. It is the catch in his breath, the shadow in his eyes, the twitch at the corner of his mouth. I know he wants to touch me, to have my whole heart. Maybe he knows he could have, if things had been different. Maybe he even senses that he has a part of it already. And that part of me aches, knowing that tomorrow he will realize I was lying, when I murmur, “Yes. I will stay.”

I take his hand and I lace my fingers with his. It's my final gift to him. Because I feel it too, a wish that things were simple, a wish to save a piece of Bo that he himself is trying to kill, a wish that this were enough for both of us.

I lay my head on his shoulder and smell his skin, soap and sweat and machine oil. We turn our faces to the sky and accept the deep, smoky kiss of the night air. His thumb strokes the back of my hand. As the fireworks stretch fingers of light across the sky, I set aside my wishes and sink into dreams. Can I save a single life? Can I do anything at all? Am I stupid for considering this?

It is the loneliest of feelings, but it is warm nonetheless. I think of Bo, how even when his body was torn and splintered, he did not give up. And how Melik, even when the whole of our nation told him he was worthless, no better than an animal, stood straight and demanded to be dealt with as a man. And how my father, even my quiet, meek father, devoted all he had to his patients, with little thought for himself, who even now eats a tad less than he should just to be able to afford medicine for those who need it.

And me . . . what have I ever risked? What have I sacrificed? What have I ever done but allow others to stand between me and the danger?

Yes, I am a girl. One with no special skill or talent or power. But all I have to be is a message carrier. All I need to do is tell what I know to someone who can take action. And if I don't try, I think I will break—and that would be exactly what I deserved.

So I clutch Bo's hand and feel him squeeze mine. I draw breath and feel my heart beat. I make a mental list of things I must take. I recall the whistle of the train, the one that leaves for the west late in the night. And I think of the people I could save, people who do not look like me, who do not speak my language, but who love and hate just the same. I imagine what could happen to me, and to them, if I fail. And I tremble with fear.

But then I remember a rust-haired boy, and his smile, and his eyes, and his softly spoken words.

There is nothing wrong with being scared. It only means that something important is at stake.

Judging by the terror coursing through my veins, I know that warning the Noor of the impending invasion is more important than anything I will ever do.

Chapter

WHEN THE FINAL fireworks have exploded over the Ring and fallen in cinders and ash to the ground, Bo turns to me. My hand is still in his. I am afraid to let go, because it means we are over. I shiver as the wind gusts my hair, which has grown past my shoulders once again. Bo's eye follows the movements of my fingers as I tuck stray locks behind my ear.

“Last year I stood on the roof of Gochan One, and I watched you come out of his dorm,” he says quietly.

I swallow hard. “I know.”

“I had been imagining that you might choose me, that you would come to the roof and that I would reveal myself to you. But when I saw you there, I knew you had made a different choice.”

I bow my head. His machine hand rises and with the slightest brush of his steel fingers nudges my chin up. He gives me the most painfully hopeful of smiles. “But tonight you chose me,” he whispers.

I cannot stand it. I don't want to leave Bo. I don't want to hurt him. I don't want to lose what we have, and in leaving I am setting it afire, burning it to nothing. I release his hand and step into him, throwing my arms around his waist and pressing my head to his chest. I listen to the heart that I am going to break. It beats furiously against my ear like a caged bird. If I could, I would tell him everything. But like my father, he would never let me go. “You are dear to me,” I say, choking on my tears. Because I do not know what the future holds for me now that I have made this decision, so I must live from moment to moment. Each second may be the last one of its kind. Like this one, as his human arm wraps over my back, as his fingers stroke my hair, as he leans his head on mine.

“You are the only thing to me,” he replies. “Wen . . . I—”

“I must go,” I blurt out, and then I stand on my tiptoes and kiss his cheeks, first the smooth perfection of his metal mask and then the warm softness of his skin. “It's so late.”

“Of course,” he murmurs. “Of course.” Disappointment and longing weigh down every syllable, and each sinks into my aching heart. “Sleep well.”

I press my forehead against his chest one more time, inhaling his familiar human-machine scent, and then I walk quickly for the stairwell. I do not look back. Bo will be hurt when he finds out I am gone, but he will be alive and safe. Melik, on the other hand, will die along with countless others if I don't warn them.

I return to the clinic. Despite the thunder of noises from a factory floor that is usually silent at this time of night, my father is deeply asleep, done in by another day of tireless work. I stand over his sleeping pallet, watching his lined face lit by the soft glow of holiday lights filtering through the window. I used to think he was fragile, but now I know him to be stronger than he looks. He has never hesitated to make sacrifices for people who need care, who need medicine, who need compassion. He has never turned away from a soul he could help. There have been times when I thought he was foolish, spending his money and his time on people he barely knew, but now I understand. Now I am proud to be his daughter, and I can only hope I am strong enough to live up to his example.

He and Bo will have each other when I am gone, and I am glad.

I pack a satchel with an extra pair of shoes, a shawl, and a few hard biscuits. I wrap one of my father's scalpels in a cloth and tuck it into the pocket of my overcoat. Then I creep into the clinic and open the bottom drawer of Dr. Yixa's wooden desk. I feel along the top until I find the paper sack tucked into the wooden frame. This is the stash of money Yixa uses to buy his alcohol. He collects fees from the workers for extra things, like notes excusing them from work or allowing them to return even though they are still injured. He tucks each coin away, then dips into this treasure trove to purchase the rice wine and sorghum liquor that steadies his hands and keeps him on his feet.

I don't steal all of it. Only enough for a round-trip ticket to Kegu and several meals. I am going to try to come back, though I know there is a very real chance I may never be able to return. My hands shake as I stuff the coins into the lining of my satchel. For a moment I sit on the floor, paralyzed by the pull of inaction. How easy it would be to put this money back and crawl under my blanket. How easy it would be to lie warm in my bed.

But at the same time, how impossible.

I pull up the hood of my overcoat and slide on my leather boots. Then I slip out of the clinic and into the hallway, any sound I make cloaked by the incessant clamor from the floor. I slide my hand along the wall, the vibrations rattling my bones. On the other side men shining with sweat are attaching the enormous legs, calibrating the guns, oiling the hinges and gears, preparing to unleash a nightmare on the west. I am almost running by the time I reach the end of the hall and duck out a side exit, but not before checking the clock on the wall.

It is twenty minutes to midnight. The guard is still in position by the gate, but the sidewalks just beyond it are packed with people, some dragging themselves home now that the fireworks are over, some just getting started in their celebration. Instead of walking straight through the square and approaching the gates head-on, I loop around by the compound fence and follow it until I am only a few yards from the open gate—and the guard. Given the concern he showed for me earlier, I cannot believe he would let me stroll out of the compound without trying to stop me.