Skillful Death (69 page)

The steady sound of gunfire falls away, replaced by little bursts every few seconds. The dots move.

“What happened?” I ask.

“It looks like the inverter worked,” Vasil says. “The only person not responding to the inverted field is Constantine. I suppose that’s to be expected. He wouldn’t use a device to navigate. He relies on his own knowledge of the terrain. The rest of them are dependent enough on their technology to be fooled though.”

“Amazing,” I say. I imagine Peter, leading his group. He’s now convinced that he’s still heading north, thwarting the will of his attackers. In his mind, he assaulted their forces until he punched through the line. Now, he thinks he’s escaping to the north.

The red dots veer east.

The blue dots push west and south.

Between them, the green forces hold back and form a line to the north of the red and blue. The green almost form an inverted horseshoe, with red and blue in the center.

The groups slow a bit when they spot each other through the woods. Perhaps they’re confused to discover that there are three groups on the battlefield. Red and blue soon accelerate, trying to reach a defensible position, and are confused as to why the landscape doesn’t match their maps.

“Ready, Zeta,” Vasil says.

Around us, I hear horses stamp and champ—goosed to attention by their riders.

“It was only hours ago that I told you where this battle would take place. How could you possibly have all this planned?” I ask.

“Your memory astounds me,” he says. “We had three sites prepared. At the meeting, you only informed us which of the three. Spreading the devices around three entire battlefields was impossible. So we’re driving them all into this small area. Honestly, I wagered a few more resources on this one. Sorry, I know it was supposed to be even, but it seemed so… logical.”

On the display, the semi-circle of green forces pushes the red and blue dots south. They’re about to join the semi-circle of green dots that represent the cavalry. Around us, the men and women on horses prepare to charge into the battle. They await Vasil’s signal.

“Would you like to call the charge?” he asks me.

I decline with a wave.

He keys the microphone and takes a breath. “Omega.”

The horses burst from the trees and sprint through the forest.

On the display, only green dots are moving. Red and blue halt and entrench as green dots collapse on their position. Steady, loud gunfire erupts from the forest nearby. We’re not close enough to see more than the occasional muzzle flash, or some smoke, or a riderless horse run by.

Green dots disappear. Rarely, a blue or red dot will blink off.

Bud’s dot is stopped, but he’s not at the same location as the others. He’s surrounded by his own small contingent of green. And they form a tight circle around him. After a few seconds, the green circle with Bud’s blue dot in the center begins to move towards my location.

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A low hum begins. It rattles my skull and makes my teeth itch.

The display shuts off.

“Whu-whu-whu-what is thuh-that?” I ask.

Vasil holds up his hand and waits for the hum to stop.

When the humming stops, he lets out a big sigh.

“That’s containment,” he says. “It should be fully engaged now.”

He clips his radio to his belt and tents his hands around his mouth to shout. “Are we good?”

A soldier, dressed in forest camouflage, trots up through the woods and speaks to Vasil. They finish their conversation as I approach, so I can’t hear anything.

A group of five soldiers drags Bud up to our position. His wrists are bound behind his back and attached to his ankles. He doesn’t look up when they drop him on the ground. If they just looped a rope around his neck, he would be in the same position as when he saw his daughter assaulted.

I move to Bud and hunt for a blade to cut the ropes. A couple of soldiers pull me back and hold my arms tight.

“Sir?” One of the soldiers calls to Vasil. “What about this one?” he asks, waving towards me.

“Secure him with Constantine. The people haven’t judged him yet.”

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As much as I disliked my earlier horseback riding lesson, this one is a million times worse. With my hands tied behind my back and my ankles bound, they strap me across the back of an enormous horse. Each time the animal bounces, it feels like my ribs will crack. My abdomen aches as I try to absorb the impacts.

On the horse next to me, Bud looks limp. His feet just dangle, flopping around with the motion of his horse. Life is better when we get to the road. We’re pulled from the horses and tossed in the back of a cart. We see the world retreating as we face backwards and roll towards town.

The cart slows and then I see the pieces of the gates being dismantled by many hands. They must be removing the blockades maintained by the logical Providentials. I hear gunfire in the woods a few times. I nudge Bud but he’s resting his chin on his chest. When I try to speak to Bud, the guard tells me to be quiet and hits me in the stomach with the butt of his gun.

We come to a stop in front of a huge white building in the center of a cluster of buildings. I imagine that this is what passes for town. Trees line the streets and drape their full branches over the buildings. The place looks like maintenance was a low priority. The paint is peeling, shutters hang askew, and weeds are waist-high anywhere that foot travel hasn’t beaten them down.
 

“Get up,” our guard says.

“It’s a little difficult with my ankles tied,” I say.

“Get up.”

I manage to get my feet under me and come to an unstable, hopping stance in the bed of the cart. Bud stays where he is. I’m not sure he’s actually conscious.

“Get down.”

“How?” I ask. It’s got to be at least four feet down to the ground.

The guard doesn’t answer. He grabs the knot between my ankles. I think he’s going to untie me so I can jump, and he pulls instead. I lose my balance and slam down on my side. The guard pulls, sliding me until I flop down over the edge and hit the ground.

“Get up,” he says.

I don’t bother to argue, but it takes me a minute to find my feet again.

He just drags Bud. He’s like a sack of potatoes.

I hop up the steps of the white building and wait at the door while the guard pulls Bud thumping up the steps. He opens the door and I hop inside. Most of the first floor is one big room with enormous ceilings and huge columns and arches holding up the rest.

The guard drags Bud across the plank floor. I hop a couple of times. I realize that the rope connecting my ankles is loose enough to permit a very short shuffle. That’s easier than hopping. Crossed swords and guns hang on the walls, making little X’s between the windows. Above, a banner hangs between two trusses. The faded embroidery shows a lion, an elephant, and a snake. The lion rears to strike at the elephant’s head and the snake is coiled around the elephant’s leg. On his long face, the elephant wears a frown. Across the top of the banner, three Latin words appear. “Mors Sapientia Est.” I used to know Latin fairly well, and if I remember correctly, sapientia has several meanings depending on the context. It can mean memory or wisdom, and it can also mean science. I think there’s even a flavor of sapientia used to describe a honed skill that comes from a great deal of practice. Depending on which version of sapientia we’re talking about, I would translate the banner to read “Death is Wisdom,” or “Death is Skill.” I wonder what the hell that means.

Near the back of the big hall, the room narrows to a passage. Rear doors are open and steps lead down to a pretty garden of flowers and bushes. We don’t go that far. The guard drags Bud through a door to the right. I keep shuffling. I want to see the steps where Skomin stood and the garden where Bud fought the elephant. I don’t get much time for sightseeing. The guard comes up behind me and drags me backwards by my ropes. I stay upright and shuffle to the room.

He pushes me towards a bench and I lower myself to the seat. Bud is on his side on the floor.

“You can’t leave us,” I say. “He needs medical attention. He…”
 

I don’t finish the sentence. The guard slams the door shut.

I nudge Bud with my foot and try to wake him. He has been tied before and managed to escape his bonds. I pick at the ropes but my fingers are worthless. Bud’s chest is rising and falling. He doesn’t respond at all. My next nudge is too firm. It’s more like a kick. I get no reaction from Bud.

I try to get comfortable on the bench.

Outside the room, in the hall, I hear voices and banging. When the voices fade, I shuffle over to the door and bring my bound hands up to the knob. It turns, but the door won’t open. More voices come and I yell for them to let me out. I yell that Bud needs help. Nothing I say brings anyone to the door.

We’ve got a couple of windows high up on the wall. They let in light but they’re too high for me to see anything except trees. Eventually, I’m so bored that I find my way to my knees and I press my face against the floor. I look through the crack below the door. All I see are feet, walking back and forth. Once again, I yell for help. Everyone ignores me.

I worm my way over to the wall next to the bench and thrust my legs. I hear a crack when my feet hit the wall, so I pull them back and kick again. After a few more kicks, I stop to inspect my work. I’ve managed to crack a circle of plaster and some of it has fallen away from the lath. It hangs by fiber or hairs. I kick away the loose plaster and kick at the section of wall again. One of the lath boards feels like it’s starting to break.

The door opens and a short man slides in and closes it behind himself. He has a syringe in his hand and another clamped between his teeth. He goes to Bud first. He checks Bud’s pulse, and then pulls a rubber hose from his pocket. He ties the hose around Bud’s arm near his armpit.

“Hey, get away from him,” I say.

I spin myself on the floor and kick at the man’s legs.

With one hand, the man pulls the hose from Bud’s arm and stands. I kick at his ankle again.

He raises a foot and stomps on my shoulder. I flop down on my back, crunching my hands underneath myself. He lands on my chest with his knees. I can barely breathe. I thrash my legs, but I can’t shake him off of me. The rubber hose is now tied around my arm and I can feel my pulse as my heart fights the tourniquet. Despite my thrashing, he gets the syringe in my vein. A mellow heat spreads into my arm and when he releases the rubber hose, it washes through my body with my pulse. It feels so good. I drift into a beautiful sleep.

W
HEN
I
WAKE
UP
, my eyes won’t focus. Have you ever flexed a muscle so long that it’s beyond cramped? Like flexed is the only position that muscle will ever know again? Whatever the muscle that stops me from urinating currently feels like that. I blink over and over, trying to clear my eyes, and I breathe short, shallow breaths, trying not to wet my pants.

The room is very dim. The only light comes from the crack under the door and candles flickering on the high windowsills.
 

“Help!” I yell. “Help me. Please? I have to go!”

I’m trying to think—am I speaking English, or that funny language that’s nearly Russian, but not quite? It’s hard to tell. The funny language feels just as natural on my tongue and I seem to slip into it.
 

“Vasil?” I call.

A man slips through the door. It’s the syringe man.

“No, no, don’t drug me again. I have to pee. Please,” I say.

“Shush!” he says.

He straddles me, grabs me under my armpits and hoists me up to my knees. The pressure shifts off of my bladder and I have a moment of relief. He pulls a bucket from under the bench and helps me go. It’s humiliating, but the release is pure pleasure. My eyes come into focus and I see Bud still stretched out on the floor.
 

“Is he breathing?” I ask.

The guy keeps his voice low. “Would you be quiet? We’re right in the middle of everything.”

I hope the guy takes the bucket with him. It smells like fear in here now.

“How much longer are we going to be held in here?” I ask.

“Not much longer,” he says.
 

He leaves with the bucket and I sit back on my heels.
 

Bud is breathing. His mouth is open now and it looks like he’s either drooled or spit up something. I would love to talk to him and get his opinion on what’s going on out there. I hear voices every so often with long silences between. I consider resuming my efforts to kick a hole in the wall, but I don’t think it will get me very far. That guy would probably just come in and drug me again. My mouth is incredibly dry. I would kill for a sip of water.

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My feet have fallen asleep. I sat on my knees for too long, and now I can’t seem to get up. I settle for rolling onto my side so I can stretch my legs and return feeling to my feet. I still have pins and needles in my legs when the men come in. There are five of them.