Of Dreams and Rust

by Sarah Fine

  “I’m going with you and the fighters,” I say.

  Bo shoots to his feet so quickly that the spiders on his shoulders move, their legs twitching. “What?”

  “You heard me.” My fingers close over the strap of the satchel. “I have made a medical kit for use in the field.”

  For a moment Melik looks at me in the way I love, the way that makes me believe we can close whatever rift has opened between us with Bo’s arrival. He bows his head and chuckles. “Wen always has medicine,” he whispers.

  “That is all you have to say?” Bo snaps. “Weren’t you the one telling me I was leading her to certain death if I took her through the canyon?”

  Melik straightens. “Yes, but I wouldn’t have stopped her if she wanted to go, and I won’t try now.” He pulls the collar of his tunic aside to reveal his scar. “I am not Itanyai, Ghost. I am Noor, and we value our women for what they can do.” He gestures to the group that will journey into the hills, some of whom are female. “We do not shackle them the way you do. They may not fight at the front line, but they are strong, and they do fight.”

  “Wen is Itanyai,” Bo snarls. “And she—”

  “Both of you, please be quiet,” I say, rubbing my temple to try to quell the headache that is forming there. Melik’s words were encouraging, but the way he said them, with no warmth, only logical assessment, as if I am any other female, stings in a way I don’t want to think about. “I am able to help, and so I will. Stop arguing and talk about something that matters.”

  The two of them stare at me like I’ve kicked them in the shins, but Sinan laughs and says something to Melik in Noor that draws a faint smile to his face. Melik is opening his mouth to reply when a shout turns our heads. A rider plastered over the back of his horse races down the lane from the Line. He shouts something in Noor.

  “He said an armed carriage is coming this way,” Melik translates, his entire body coiling for action.

  All of us look up to see a dust cloud billowing from the road—the rider didn’t beat the carriage by much. Melik calls to his fighters, and they pick up their rifles and scramble to the sides of the lane, kneeling and aiming at the road.

  “Ghost, conceal yourself. Your presence will only make violence more likely,” Melik says as he picks up his own rifle, which tells me violence is a real possibility. He turns and says something to Sinan, who scowls. Melik repeats the command, shouting it and shoving his little brother toward me.

  Sinan wraps his arm over my shoulders. “My brother has suggested we retire to our cottage,” he says in a sulky voice as he leads me from the square. “He’s been expecting this.”

  Behind me I hear the clamor of shouted instructions and the clanking footsteps that tell me Bo is doing as Melik asked. After watching Melik run to the opening of the square and stand with a few of the other men, Sinan diverts me into the nearest cottage and winks. “We’ll be able to hear much better from here.”

  He and I peek from the doorway as a large steam-powered carriage rumbles right off the road and into the village. At least twenty rebels armed with rifles are sitting in the back. I recognize several of them from the raid on the train, including Bajram. The carriage slows and then stops at the entrance to the square, where Melik waits, his rifle slung over his shoulder.

  Commander Kudret stands up from the passenger seat at the front and begins to speak.

  Sinan, mercifully, translates. “ ‘Your flight from Kegu coincided with a vicious attack on the compound orchestrated by government sympathizers. They freed the spy. Many men were killed and several vehicles destroyed. It has taken us nearly two days to settle the citizens and regain control. Now that is done, and the general sent me to deal with you.’ ”

  Melik keeps his empty hands out to his sides as he replies. “He’s telling them he was driven by honor and conscience to return to Dagchocuk,” Sinan says, “and he’s asking the commander to tell General Ahmet that the men of this village will remain here.”

  Commander Kudret’s face is impassive as he listens to Melik, and then he slowly shakes his head. “ ‘We have come to take you back to the north,’ ” Sinan translates. “ ‘Come peacefully or we will’—taslar.” He tenses. “They’re going to shoot them.”

  I grab his arm before he can run into the open. “Sinan, don’t distract Melik!” I say in a sharp whisper. “He needs to focus.”

  This reaches the boy, and he sinks into the dark cottage once more. “Melik is telling him about the machines,” he says. “He is saying he is certain they are coming very soon. But the commander doesn’t believe him.”

  The rebels on the carriage take up positions around the commander, aiming their weapons at Melik and the men at the front. My fingers curl tightly over Sinan’s forearm. “No,” he mumbles. “The commander is saying Melik is a traitor to his people.”

  I barely need to hear the words in Itanyai because I see the tension in the shoulders of the fighters from Dagchocuk, the way their fingers are twitching closer to their triggers. And Melik stands tall right at the front, the only one without a weapon in his hands.

  When the rebels open fire, Melik will be the first to fall.

  My heart is beating so fast that I am panting with the strain. My mind whirls with what I will do if they start shooting, how I will get to Melik, which supplies I will reach for first, where Sinan and I could drag him to protect him. Nonsense, all of it, because we would be cut down too, but I know that, like Sinan, I could not sit here and watch Melik die.

  Melik shouts, angry now, and gestures at the canyon before his tone softens.

  “He is begging the commander to listen,” Sinan whispers.

  But the commander points at Melik, and all the rebels aim at him, the barrels of their weapons gleaming under the sun. Sinan lets out a childlike noise. Both of us brace to run.

  The men around Melik try to step in front of him, but he puts his arms out and holds them back. “Miev zhasivunmokie!” he roars. He looks around at the determined faces on either side of him, and his fingers spread wide, shaking with tension waiting to be unleashed. “Bizev bazesivunmokie.”

  “ ‘I will defend my home,’ ” Sinan says in a choked whisper. “ ‘We will defend our home.’ ”

  Commander Kudret’s gaze strays along the line of men in front of him. His dark eyes betray his doubt, the conflict inside of him, and his own men are starting to lower their rifles in response to Melik’s pleas. So many of them are probably from other villages on the Line. Any order to fire on these Noor would surely sit sour in their stomachs.

  A woman in the square cries out, and heads jerk up. Melik raises his gaze, as do most of the rebels. Their eyes go wide.

  “The signal fire!” Sinan yelps. He takes my hand and drags me out of the cottage. We crane our necks and look up at the high ridge about a quarter mile into the canyon. Smoke pours from it, fed by the orange glow of a fire.

  The village square becomes a flurry of barely organized commotion. Sinan and I run toward Melik, hand in hand, as he yells something at the commander.

  And I don’t need a translation. I know what he’s saying.

  The machines are on their way.

  Chapter

  Fifteen

  COMMANDER KUDRET HOLDS his arms up and his rebels lower their rifles. Melik is past caring what his former commander does, though, as he sprints across the square to grab a supply pack, which he swings onto his back. His eyes keep darting to the ridge, where the smoke puffs are floating high above the ground. “There are four machines,” he says to me as I join him.

  “How do you know?”

  He points at the smoke. “We arranged a system. Knowing they were coming was not enough.”

  “When will they arrive?”

  “If they are not stopped, they will probably arrive in a day, given how far I sent the scouts and where the first one is positioned. There is no way to determine exactly when they will arrive at our battle position, which is a five-hour walk from here.” He lo
oks at my feet. “For a person accustomed to that kind of climbing, that is.”

  I lift my chin and clutch the straps of my satchel. “I will keep up.”

  Bajram and a few of Kudret’s men come over and talk to Melik, and Melik issues a few orders before waving them away. “Kudret is staying to determine whether the threat is real. He will remain in the village with a force, and some of his men will come with us.”

  “So they are holding the village hostage,” I say quietly.

  Melik’s nostrils flare and he nods. Sinan strides by us and picks up a pack, but Melik’s hand clamps over his forearm. “What do you think you’re doing?” he says to his little brother.

  “Getting ready to leave.” Sinan tears his arm from Melik’s grip as Bo strides out of a nearby cottage, his head swiveling toward the ridge.

  Melik reaches for the pack, but Sinan skips out of his way. Melik’s eyes flare with frustration. “You are not coming.”

  “He knows a lot about the machines,” says Bo. He wears no pack, nor is he reaching for one. I wonder if he has supplies wherever he slept last night . . . or if he truly believes he has become a machine.

  Melik rounds on Bo. “I don’t care if he knows everything about the machines.” His voice is a knife, sharp enough to rend bone from muscle. “He is my brother, and he is fourteen years old. He will stay with my mother here in the village.”

  “I’m not a child!” shouts Sinan. “I have been to the east, and I have worked on a factory floor, and I’ve hiked the canyon, and—”

  “And you are staying here!” Melik roars, advancing on his brother with thunder in every step. “Sinan, I have enough to worry about. I will not add the thought of carrying your body back to our mother.”

  Sinan’s expression is steel. He might be a skinny boy, but right now he looks like a warrior. “As if she would be less sad if I had to carry your body back.”

  Melik slaps his own chest. “Zhaliriesie!”

  “Man of our family or not,” Sinan says, breathing hard, “you will be better off with me among your fighters.”

  Melik’s face is red with fury as he tears the pack from Sinan so abruptly that it makes the slender boy stumble. “Enough,” he says, making an abrupt gesture at the ridge. “We are leaving.”

  “Wen can go but I cannot?” Sinan’s voice drips with disgust.

  “Wen can do things no one else can,” Melik snaps.

  Sinan’s mouth drops open, and his eyes shine with unshed tears. “And I cannot?”

  “Bazeyatartismakie.” Melik hands Sinan’s pack to a middle-aged man as he jogs past us, headed for the ridge.

  “When will we talk about it, then?” Sinan asks. He sounds as if Melik has punched him in the stomach.

  “When I return.” Melik waves to Anni as she approaches. “We are leaving,” he says to her. “Sinan will remain with you.”

  Anni looks back and forth between her sons and puts her arm around Sinan’s bony shoulders, but he jerks away and runs for their cottage. Not quickly enough for me to miss the tears that streak his face, though. My chest aches for him, but he will be safer here, and I believe that will make Melik safer too.

  Melik bows his head and gives his mother an apologetic glance. “I spoke harshly to him.”

  “He will forgive you,” Anni says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Go with a clear head.”

  Melik nods and takes her in his arms. They whisper to each other in Noor as she strokes his hair. I look over at Bo, whose gaze is riveted to Sinan’s back.

  “I will go say good-bye to him,” says Bo. “And catch up with you.”

  Melik watches Bo stride after his little brother, but then Anni takes his face in her hands and kisses his cheeks before letting him go. “Fight well,” she says, then turns to me. “Heal well.”

  I accept her fierce, sage-scented hug. “Thank you, Anni.” She releases me and clasps my hand, then leads me to Melik. She takes his hand and presses it to mine.

  “Take care of each other,” she says, her voice strained. She turns abruptly and walks away.

  Melik and I stare at our joined hands for a moment. He lets go first. “Are you sure you want to come, Wen?” he asks.

  I rub my fingers over the spots he was touching, feeling the warmth fade. “I am sure.”

  His mouth is a tight line as he nods. I follow him across the square toward the line of fighters with huge packs on their backs. The front of the line is already winding up a steep trail along the inner wall of the canyon. I keep hoping Melik will use this time to speak to me, that he will share what is in his head. Though we Itanyai tend to dwell within our own thoughts and keep most of them private, I have grown used to knowing Melik’s mind—and I like it. I bite my lip, trying to think of how to ask, but he quickens his pace and catches up with a few young men and one young woman. They begin to converse in Noor, and I am left to myself.

  I do not understand. But again I refuse to sulk. I am here to be the healer, and that requires all my focus. As we hike, I consider the supplies in my pack and develop a plan for triage. Melik wants to keep as many of his people able to fight as possible, so I will have to focus most of my attention on those I can save. Which means I will have to leave the gravely wounded to their fates. The thought does not sit well, so I turn my mind to hoping that Bo’s strategy combined with Melik’s will be devastatingly successful and yield few casualties.

  Higher and higher we climb, like mounting an endless staircase. My breath huffs from my lungs and my thighs scream. I keep my eyes on the feet of the woman in front of me and let her steps set my pace. The sun beats down on us, and though the air is chilly, I sweat within my tunic and trousers.

  Something heavy and clanking lands hard at the trailside, shaking the ground. The Noor woman and I fall to the trail, and for a moment I believe we are under attack—but then I see Bo rising to his feet. “I am going ahead,” he huffs. “I will see you at the end of the trail.”

  He crouches, his metal limbs whirring, and then jumps onto the rock wall above us. The Noor woman in front of me whispers “taslar” as she watches his progress. He crawls like a spider along the wall before leaping forward again to land next to Melik, who is far ahead. As Bo lands, Melik swings around, his rifle slipping down his arm and into his hand, but then he rolls his eyes when he sees it is Bo. I hear Melik’s harsh words from where I stand, telling Bo that he risks getting shot if he insists on sneaking up on people like that.

  Bo laughs and walks next to him for a short time before leaping ahead again. I watch the sun glare off his armor until he disappears from sight, wondering how hot it must be in that suit. I hope he is drinking enough water, but I don’t even know if he’s carrying any.

  As the sun descends into the west, we arrive at the spot Melik has chosen for battle. It is a spot in the canyon just to the east of where the ground is wide and flat. The concave rock faces to the west of this position give the appearance of a bowl, but we are in a narrow choke point. I smile as I take in the details of this location: the mostly dry riverbed with a trickle of water down its center, the flat ridges high above the ground. Melik was very clever to select this place. If we could stop enough machines here, it would make it very difficult for others to pass through. The scouts who left earlier have already set up large wooden crates on the ledges and have shoveled them full of dirt. The newly arrived fighters laugh and talk as they clean their rifles and make camp. Melik is standing next to a set of yellow strings. He shoos away a man who attempts to set up a campfire nearby, chuckling and mimicking a massive explosion. The man accepts Melik’s teasing with good-natured grace and moves his fire several yards away.

  My gaze follows the path of the strings, which diverge and disappear into cracks in boulders near the eastern part of the bowl, where the canyon opens up. The strings are fuses, and I am guessing the advance scouts have spent the last several hours packing blasting powder into holes and cracks they’ve chipped into the boulders with the pickaxes leaning against the wall nea
r some of the supply packs.

  We are at least fifty to sixty feet off the canyon floor, like being at the top of Gochan One. I lean over a ledge and see why Melik is concerned about putting men down there—it would be so easy to be shot or crushed, by metal feet or falling rock. My gut clenches as I consider that Bo wants to be down there. If he dies, I will feel the weight of his loss in my soul.

  I keep my pack on as I walk slowly around the ridge, searching for Bo. Finally I spot his squared footprints in the dirt and follow them around a bend. From there they disappear, and I climb over the rocks when I hear cursing and metal clanking behind a boulder a few yards away.

  Bo crouches in a flat, dusty area, sweat dripping from the exposed half of his face. His whole body is shaking. I scramble over the rocks and drop my pack. His head jerks up, and his face is pale with strain. “Leave me alone,” he whispers.

  “Absolutely not,” I say, marching over to him. “You are destroying yourself. Tell me how to get this thing off you.”

  “No,” he breathes.

  I kneel in front of him and touch his face. “Look at me,” I say gently, stroking my thumb over his clammy cheek. His brown eye meets mine. “You must take care of yourself, or you will not be able to fight.”

  He lets out an unsteady breath. “I don’t feel safe—”

  “Bo, please. Do you feel safe with me?”

  His chuckle is hoarse. “Never. But I do trust you.” He closes his eye. “With some things. Help me undo the arm first?”

  He murmurs instructions and I follow them carefully, my fingers slipping over gears to find latches that disconnect the framework over his human arm from the shoulder of the suit. It is tricky, slow business because I am scared that the spiders on his armor will awaken and slice off my fingers. Finally I open the arm like a clam and find his naked, trembling limb inside. His fingers twitch as I carefully pull the metal arm loose and set it on the dirt.

  “No,” he snaps, then clamps his eye shut and softens his tone. “Please. Do you have a blanket in your pack? If the exposed gears get grit in them, it will wear them down.”