Interzone 251 (8 page)

The surgeon took his arm and helped him step into the tub. Supported by the surgeon’s arm, Simon lowered himself into the tepid water, where dry scabs of filth peeled away. While Simon scooped water over his arms and chest, the surgeon dragged a sopping rag over his back.

“Now your head,” the surgeon said. He stood and leaned over the tub so that he could support Simon’s neck with one hand. The other he placed firmly on his shoulder. “Hold onto my wrist,” he said. “Like that. Now…look.”

Shivering, Simon looked into the surgeon’s face.

“Don’t be afraid,” the surgeon told him.

At that moment, Simon realized that leaving himself so vulnerable had been a grave mistake. “I’m done,” he said. “Get me out.”

He tried to draw his legs under himself, but his feet slipped on the oily porcelain. Water – now cold and foul – sloshed from the tub onto the tile floor. Without leverage, Simon could do nothing but tighten his grasp on the surgeon.

“I didn’t come to hurt you,” the surgeon said.

“Pull me up!”

“This suffering will pass,” the surgeon said. Then he forced Simon under the water, and held him there until he drowned.

***

The surgeon dragged
the corpse from the tub and laid it face up on the tile floor. Kneeling beside the body, he studied the withered figure, so diminished by death. He dried the body with care, wiping away the last of the grime and arranging the arms and legs in neat dignity. With a charcoal pencil, he drew a line from the hollow at the base of the old man’s throat down to the thatch of hair in his pelvic cavity. Flipping open the leather wallet beside him, he selected the largest of his scalpels. A deep breath, and he began his work.

***

Simon opened his
eyes to the familiar water stains on the ceiling over his pallet. He had been covered with a blanket, which slipped down as he sat up. In disbelief, he stared down at himself. He had been ripped open, bowels to throat, then stitched up again with fantastic skill. Simon touched the sutures gingerly, marveling at what had been done to him.

“Don’t pick at it,” said the surgeon. He was sitting in Simon’s chair by the window, his bag by the door.

“What did you do to me?” Simon asked.

“Only what I promised.”

Clutching the blanket around his waist and using the wall for support, Simon struggled to rise. The surgeon was at his elbow immediately.

“Don’t touch me!” Simon snapped, batting the surgeon’s hands away. The agitation brought on a fit of coughing, and he bent double. When he could breathe again, he turned on the surgeon.

“What did you do to me?”

There was a bump from the closet, muffled by the curtain.

Simon looked toward the back, then at the surgeon, who offered no explanation. Grabbing his candle from the windowsill, Simon started for the closet.

“You shouldn’t,” the surgeon warned him.

Simon swept aside the curtain and thrust his candle into the darkness.

Not much blood was left, mostly in the cracks of tiles and around the drain. Shadows stirred up by Simon’s meager light hunched around the walls.

Something moved in the tub.

Stepping fully into the closet, Simon lifted the candle higher and leaned forward. The sides of the tub were caked with rings of grime, and near the drain was a disordered mound of bones. Some appeared to have been eaten through, as though by insects. Others had been snapped or sawed apart. All were moist with scraps of pale flesh and dried blood.

The candle stuttered; the grisly pile shifted.

Vaguely horrified, Simon backed out of the closet.

“We should leave,” the surgeon suggested.

“What happened in there?” Simon asked.

“You said you wanted to be made well.”

“You said you could do it.”

“And I have.”

Simon looked at the stitched chest, then at his hand, still feeble and spotted with age – still trembling. Fist to mouth, he forced a violent cough. He looked into his hand, then showed his blood-flecked palm to the surgeon. “This is not better.”

“Ah,” the surgeon said sadly. “You’ve misunderstood.”

Misunderstood?
Simon took a step forward to squint at this fraud who called himself a surgeon. “No,” he said. “I was deceived.
You
deceived me.”

A soft scraping came from the curtained closet. Simon half-turned to watch the hanging blanket, expecting something to emerge. He heard the gentle clatter of bones knocking together.

“We should leave now,” the surgeon said.

Something banged twice on the tub, hard.

Simon might not have moved had the surgeon not pushed clothes into his arms. “Quickly,” he said, the urgency plain in his voice.

Simon dressed hastily, but when he opened his sack and stuffed in his box of coins, his book, and his photograph, the surgeon put a hand on his arm.

“Leave it,” he said.

“But—”

The surgeon took the sack from Simon’s hands and tossed it aside. “Leave it,” he said again.

As they stepped out of the garret and onto the landing, a violent pounding sounded from the closet. Then something like a long, indrawn gasp.

The surgeon dragged the door shut behind them, and – still holding Simon’s arm – ushered them down the narrow stairwell and into the street, where a rust-colored blister of a sun burned weakly.

Hunching against the reeking vapors, Simon allowed himself to be dragged behind the surgeon. Half-way across the street, he cast a glance over his shoulder for a final look at his home, and caught sight of a gaunt face glaring down from his window – a mask made monstrous by jealousy and warped glass.

***

Simon knew they
were being followed from the start. He would have known it even had he not seen the mask in the window, or glimpsed the elusive figure trailing them through the murky light. Wrapped tight in his coat and crusted blanket, Simon struggled to keep pace with the surgeon, whom he feared would abandon him if he lagged.

They wandered through a ruined landscape of slouching buildings and crumbling bridges. In some places, entire structures had toppled across the avenue, forcing them to clamber over rubble or skirt pits of stagnant water. The thick waters of the canals were locked tight with wrack and sludge. They stopped only when the sun burned a poisoned red, then slept on the ground in whatever shelter they could find. Simon used his folded coat as a pillow, and every day woke with the oily taste of the city coating his teeth.

He lost track of time.

A day came in which he stepped carelessly, and a spike tore the tender flesh of his foot. On the ground he held his ankle as the blood poured. His cries brought the surgeon back, who crouched to examine the torn foot.

“You can still walk,” the surgeon said.

“No,” Simon wept. “I can go no further.”

“But we’re not far now.”

Simon had been hearing “not far” for what seemed many days. He shook his head, his decision made. “I’m going home.” But as soon as he’d said it he knew he was less capable of going back than of going forward.

“I’ll stay here,” Simon said. Spotting a high window in a building that looked sturdy enough, he pointed. “There,” he said. “I’ll live there.”

The surgeon frowned at the building. “I advise against that. I think you should come with me. We’re not far now. We’re very close.”

Still clutching his wounded foot, Simon laughed at himself for being such a fool. It was a cruel laugh, and it turned itself to tears soon enough. He wept for everything he had left behind only to find himself in a place worse than he’d been before. He remembered a beautiful room with a wondrous view; riches beyond measure; knowledge. He remembered a family. All gone now – abandoned to follow a fraud.

Simon wiped tears from his cheek. “I don’t believe you anymore,” he said plainly. With great effort he stood to face the surgeon, and said, “Goodbye,” with much resolution. Then he turned and walked away.

Favoring his torn and bloodied foot, Simon hobbled several paces toward his new home before bending to pick up a piece of rubble as large as his own fist. He brandished it at the surgeon, a weapon and a warning. “Don’t try to stop me,” he said.

Hands open and raised, the surgeon stepped back. He would not.

Turning his back once more on the surgeon, Simon limped across the fractured street, making his way around slabs of asphalt jutting from open craters. At the blasted doors of the building, he looked back to verify that the surgeon had not moved.

“Don’t follow me,” Simon called.

The surgeon raised a hand in acknowledgment, but if he said anything Simon didn’t hear. Discarding his rock, Simon stumbled up the first two flights in complete darkness. He stopped on the third only long enough to fish a candle from his pocket and light it with a match. Gaining the landing at the top floor, he pushed on the first door he found, which scraped the floorboards, but yielded to a shove. He forced the door shut behind him and shot the bolt, a rusted thing barely clinging to the rotten frame. Finally safe, Simon faced the interior of his new home with raised candle.

The room was empty but for an overturned stool by the window. The cracked walls were smeared with filth. The reek of caged animals pervaded. Simon crossed a warped and complaining floor to the window, where he righted the stool and found that his candle fit perfectly into a puddle of hardened wax on the sill. He rubbed at the fractured glass with his sleeve, but could barely see the street through the smoky panes. In a corner, concealed by a castoff blanket, Simon found a book, a little box, and a picture in a frame of pewter. The box contained a stack of well-worn bills; the book had been written in a language he didn’t know; and the picture he carried to the window, tilting it into the diseased light.

A young couple looked out at him: the man with bulging eyes and a pinched face, the woman light of hair and dark of eye. Simon propped them on the sill. In the back of the room he discovered a torn curtain, and behind it a tiled water-closet with broken pipes and a grime-encrusted tub.

***

From the opposite
side of the street, the surgeon watched the high window. The old man’s candle appeared, a single point of dim light in the bleak facade of the building. The surgeon did not take his eyes from the window until after the struggling sun had set. In the deepening twilight, movement near a mound of rubble caught his eye. He looked, and something furtive cringed from his gaze.

“I already said, I won’t stop you,” the surgeon told it. There was no need to speak loudly; his voice carried well enough in the heavy air.

Clutching a moth-eaten blanket around its head and shoulders, an emaciated figure emerged warily from behind the rubble. The surgeon saw its feet only, which seemed nothing more than muddy bone. Bent nearly double, and always keeping the surgeon within sight, it lurked from doorway to alley. The surgeon made no more to interfere when it paused at the stairwell, head raised as though tasting the air. Only after the thing had vanished into the well did the surgeon rise with a sigh and take up his bag.

Climbing the stairs between the second and third floors, the surgeon heard the old man begin to scream somewhere above him. He paused to glance up the empty well, then continued on at a pace no more hurried than before. By the time he’d reached the third floor, the old man’s cries had escalated to a sickened fury. The erratic scuffing and angry barks of the old man’s struggle led the surgeon to a door on the upper floor. There on the landing he stopped to listen.

The old man’s cries had slackened. From within came labored breathing and strangled huffing, the final, strained efforts of a desperate struggle. Heavy and slow, something pulled itself toward the door before being dragged back. There came a crack, sharp and sudden, followed immediately by a defeated groan. The surgeon tilted his head, listening intently. The old man was trying to speak, but his breathless garble was broken by short, tortured gasps and an irregular ripping. Brittle things were being wrenched, cracked, and cast aside. The surgeon heard a final sob – or laugh – then silence.

The surgeon tapped on the door. “Hello?” he said softly.

It was a long while before shuffling footsteps approached from within.

“Hello?” the surgeon said again.

A clogged voice answered. “Go away.”

The surgeon touched the door with light fingertips. “You let it in, didn’t you? I wish you hadn’t done that.”

“It broke in. I couldn’t stop it.”

The surgeon examined the door and its frame. The wood was soft but intact, the latch undamaged.

“You’re only making it harder on yourself,” the surgeon said. “But that doesn’t matter. We’ve only a short way left to go. Will you let me in?”

The surgeon pushed gently on the door. It had only opened a faint crack before the old man pushed back viciously, slamming it shut.

“Leave me alone,” begged the wretched voice.

The surgeon withdrew his hand. “Please,” he said. “It won’t be as bad as you think. I’ve seen worse. Please. There’s nothing that cannot be repaired. Nothing.” He adjusted his grip on his bag. “Let me in.”

The steps dragged away from the door.

Stepping back, the surgeon put down his bag and lowered himself next to it. Never taking his eyes from the door, he rested his chin in one hand, and settled in for the long wait.

***

Greg Kurzawa studied to be a theologian before adopting a career in IT. Outside of
Interzone
, his work has appeared in
Clarkesworld
,
Beneath Ceaseless Skies
, and Orson Scott Card’s
IGMS
. He can be found online at 
gregkurzawa.com
.

FLY AWAY HOME
SUZANNE PALMER

illustrated by Martin Hanford

Sweat trickled down through the worn seals of the goggles, getting into her eyes and screwing up her line of sight on the impact head.

She squinted, blinking furiously to clear her vision, and cursed those same traitorous goggles for keeping her thick-gloved hand from being able to wipe the irritation away. A hand that shook, she noted, as she placed it casually back on the control yoke.

“You out, Fari?”

The voice was sudden, and loud in her ear. She didn’t flinch, didn’t turn towards the camera eye mounted above the viewshield. “Shut it, Mer,” she snarled. “I’ve still got time.”

“What’s your hot rating?”

She tapped the gauge, watched the needle flicker and return to yellow five. “Yellow three,” she said.

“Three’s getting high. You should swap out. Huj is prepped.”

“Shit, no. I’m about ready to light the wall up. You better get all those cudders up there down into the bunker, just in case I crack it.”

“You’re not deep enough yet.”

“Who’s sitting in this old pile of crap down here?”

The answer was tired, rote. “You, Fari.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you’re the best.”

“Damn right. And if I say I’m deep enough?”

“One of these days you’re gonna be wrong, or the Owners are going to hear that loud, blaspheming mouth of yours, and it’ll be a special bad day in Hell for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But until then I wouldn’t bet against you.”

“Damn smart of you, Mer.”

“Not smart. Just love credit more than I love spiting you. Close, some days.”

“I bet it is.” She grabbed the pull handle and drew back the impact head, got the tube injectors lined up with the pair of narrow holes she’d spent the last six hours boring into the rock.

Laser check looked good. Tubes were straight and smooth, tapping out right at four hundred meters. She didn’t need to check the comp to know that was the sweet spot; she just knew. She locked the injectors in. “I’m go in thirty,” she said. She brought down the rig’s blast shield, clattering and grinding into place all around the cabin, then slipped her own helmet back on over her dust-caked head.

“Huj says five cred you blow it too close.”

“Huj doesn’t have five cred to lose,” she answered.

“Guess he’s confident.”

“At twenty. Phase one,” she said, and primed the injectors. Enclosed now in the tiny cabin, the suffocating rock out of view, she felt nervous; she didn’t trust rock she couldn’t see.

The needle said orange two. Mer didn’t need to know that.

“Fifteen,” she said. “Phase two. Request arming protocol.”

“Six three six,” Mer said. “Zero nine six nine.”

She keyed it in, the sickly LEDs of the rig’s board casting a harsh green light across her vision. “Deploying at ten,” she said. “Bombs away.” Her thumbs pushed on the yoke’s triggers and she felt the double-thump of the injectors as they fired.

“Projectiles down, setting filler,” she said. One more press, and the injectors saturated the tube with microweb. “Detonate in three, two, one…”

The explosion was more physical blow than noise, her ears rejecting it – and all else – for several seconds as her body was pressed fast and hard against the seat back. All the lights on the rig went dark, and then the pressure let up. As soon as she could move again, Fari tore off her safety harness and helmet and crawled under the rig board.

Ripping open the service panel, cursing herself for forgetting the sharp lip, she reached into the darkness and groped for the relay she knew was there.
Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen
, she counted under her breath.

Found it!
She yanked, pulling the relay free, and dropped it into one coverall pocket before pulling an identical, burned-out relay from the other. She plugged it into place.
Seven, six.
Slamming the panel shut, she backed out and threw herself into her seat, just clicking in the last safety harness catch when the rig’s lights flickered, rebooting.

“And we’re back,” Mer’s voice said. “How’s it look down there?”

She lifted the blast shield to look. Her ears still rang from the detonation, but she could hear the crack and pop of rock fragmenting in place. Depth readings showed the cracks went straight to the core of Rock 44. “It’s good,” she said. “Tell Huj I’ll collect that five when I’m in, and he better have it or I’m taking his protein rations for the tenday.”

She disengaged the injectors and slowly backed the rig away. It coughed, the engines shuddering. “Oh, and let Borrn know there’s something off with the rig electrics again.”

She could hear Mer’s sigh over the link. “Will do,” he said at last. “He’s going to have to have a word with the shop, that’s the third rig with problems just this month. Get cleaned up as best you can – check-in at Station in two hours.”

***

Borrn was outside
the conference room door, waiting. He put out a hand and caught Fari’s shoulder, holding her back until Mer and Huj had passed. “This Rep’s new, and core-val,” he said. “You need to be on your best behavior in there, or things could get really bad.” At the look on her face he let go of her shoulder, passed the hand over his forehead. “Please, Fari.”

Whatever sharp answer had been waiting on the tip of her tongue sublimated away. It wasn’t like Borrn to say
please
. “I’ll do my best,” she said instead, pulling her scarf up and over her head, and hurried after Mer and Huj.

The Rep, with his sharp face and pale, washed-out skin, had set himself up at the head of the room with the semi-circle of tables all facing him. Leor’s team was already there.

Mer and Huj were sitting at one of the tables. She moved to join them, then caught the Rep’s scowl.
Core-val
, Borrn had said, so she knelt on the floor behind them with her head bowed. Her face burned. She hated not being able to see the Rep’s face, not being able to look him in the eye.

She heard Borrn walk in behind her, followed the sound of his footsteps across the room to sit beside and behind the Rep.

“Let’s get started,” the Rep spoke, his voice loud and strong in the silent room. His accent was thick, untainted home-world Basellan Colonial, and she had to suppress the urge to flinch. “Team Blue, you are working Rock 38… These numbers are a bit disappointing.”

Leor coughed. “Sir, we’ve had issues with rockcrappers. They’re cutting into our area, damaging our mineworks, messing with our equipment when we’re not there, and getting into our strikes.”

“Supervisor Borrn, is this true?”

“There has been some independent miner activity, yes,” Borrn said. He sounded uncomfortable. “But they’re mostly out in the free zone, and they’re little more than a nuisance, not a serious threat.”

“Either these independents are impacting your productivity, or your man here is a liar. Please choose one, Supervisor.”

“I…” There was a brief silence, and it took everything she had not to look up at Borrn. “They’re impacting our productivity, sir.”

“Then my ship will clean them out,” the Rep said. “Let’s move on.”

Lying would have cost Leor a hand, but Borrn’s statement was a death sentence for the rockcrappers – half-starved, raggedy people barely surviving out on the edge. She didn’t envy Borrn the choice, but didn’t like the one he’d made; Leor
was
a liar, and worse.

“Your cut of the run is 800 credits, Team Blue,” the Rep said. “Subtracting out your board and keep, you have 180, which is 60 each. Try not to spend it all in one place. Also, I expect to see better numbers next time, when the independents are no longer such a convenient excuse.”

“Sir, I ob—” Leor began, but someone, whether it was one of his team or Borrn himself, must have shut him up.

“Thank you, sir, and bless you.” Gin, one of Leor’s men, spoke instead.

“Now, Team Green,” the Rep said. She could feel his bright eyes on them like a cutting torch. “You’ve done well, as always, especially considering your handicap,” he said. “This latest strike on Rock 44 was the second-largest of the year, and the fragmentation of the core was flawless. Your cut is 3,500 credits, which leaves you with 2,880. That leaves 1,152 for each of you men, and 576 for the woman’s share. For some reason the previous Representative was dividing your stake equally, but I’ll be having my accountants review that and readjust to the proper numbers.”

“Sir…? But, she’s—”

“We’ll discuss this later, Mer,” Borrn interrupted. “In private.”

“Yes, Supervisor. Thank you, sir. And bless you.”

“Work hard, be scrupulous with your savings, avoid the sins of alcohol and the temptations of women, and someday you may all be free men in the eyes of the One,” the Rep said. “Bless you, and dismissed.”

Fari waited until someone – Mer? – tapped her gently on the shoulder. She bowed her head down, touching her forehead to the floor, then got up and followed the others out, not daring to raise her face.

Outside the conference room, she drew in a long, deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to let out the anger with it. “Fari, we—” Mer started to say, when someone shouted from further down the hall.

“Whoa, Fari! Finally getting your proper share! You wanna make back some of that money you lost, you just come see me, okay? But no biting or screaming this time, or it’s going to be another freebie!”

Mer grabbed at and caught Fari’s arm and pulled her back. “He’s not worth it,” he hissed. “The Rep will be out any moment!”

“The Hell it’s not,” she spat, but Mer was right.

“Just keep walking,” he said. “It’s just words, right? He can’t hurt you with words.”

“Hey, Fari!” Leor shouted again, as Gin put a hand against his chest and tried to push him back. “Too bad you lost the kid, eh? That woulda been some credit off both our time. Wanna try again?”

It was Huj that hit him, his enormous meaty fist taking Leor right in the side of the jaw and sending the man sprawling.

“You had that coming, Leor,” Gin said. “Leave the woman alone.”

“Or what, Gin?” Leor spat, a bloody mix against the corrugated floor. “And you!” He pointed at Huj. “That’s going to cost you.”

Gin leaned in. “Leor, you tripped and fell on your own fist, understand? Otherwise me and Sel, your backup team, might just be so distressed that we could slip and let an accident happen down in the mine. You get me?”

Fari got it, and by the look on Leor’s face, he did too.

“Come on, Fari,” Mer said, “I’ll buy you a drink.”

He pulled her down the hall to the elevators. Huj followed behind them, the ghost of a cold smile haunting the edges of his otherwise stony expression.

“You should save your money, Mer,” she said. “You should be free.”

“Yeah, well, so should you. You’re the best damned blast tech on this rock, and I don’t like the idea of being free because I got credits that should have been yours,” he said. “I’m no good at maths, but the three of us’ll figure out a way to make it balance. Right, Huj?”

“Sure, long as she don’t really take all my protein rations,” Huj said. “I’m a growing man.”

“Huj, if you grow any more, we’re…” She stopped talking as the conference room door opened again behind them, and Borrn and the Rep stepped out. Leor’s team was still by the door, Leor leaning against the wall holding his face.

“What happened here?” the Rep demanded.

Fari closed her eyes, fearing the worst, and then heard Leor, resentment clear in every word: “I fell, sir. I must have tripped.”

“And you’re the chief tech for Team Blue? I guess that explains how you could be doing so poorly in comparison to a woman,” the Rep said. He turned to Borrn. “Supervisor, you must be especially beloved of the One to get any ore out of this place at all, the way you’ve been burdened by personnel.”

The elevator chimed, door opening, and Huj, Mer, and Fari tumbled into it as if it were the last lifeboat out. “Let’s get the Hell out of here,” Mer mumbled under his breath, and leaned on the down button until the doors closed and the car moved on its way.

“Thanks, Huj,” she said.

“S’okay,” he said. “Shoulda beat Leor down months ’go, shamed I didn’t.”

It had been Huj who had found her, out in the tunnels of a two-team dig on Rock 72, after Leor had caught her alone. This was the closest they’d ever come to talking about it. Fari thought she would be happy if this was the last conversation about it, too.

They rode down to the concourse level in silence, each of them no doubt thinking or remembering things they wished they weren’t.

The concourse had a few shops, nearly a dozen bars, and the zone-run brothel. Fari turned away, not wanting to see the women standing in the doorway there. She and her team would spend short, hard lives out in the cold dark among the rocks and stars, until either the radiation, a mining accident, drink, skunk, or suicide repossessed their souls from the Owners for good. Not all women owned by Baselle Mining Corp were that fortunate.

Not all? Not many
, she thought.
Maybe one or two, if that.

Not that she didn’t also count herself lucky against Baselle’s “free” wives; property of their fathers until they were old enough to marry, then property of their husbands until the day they died. Not much difference, she thought, between that and the brothel, except that you got to hate many people for a short time each instead of one or two forever. She could remember the few conversations she’d had with wives vividly – the vehement assurance that they had the best of all possible lives, the dull, scared, lifeless eyes behind the words.