Of Dreams and Rust

by Sarah Fine

  Dimly I am aware of the world exploding around me, but I pay it little mind. My fear fades and so does the noise. My ears roar with my own heartbeat as I squat behind him and hook my shoulders beneath his arms. I drag him backward as he pushes with his other leg, understanding that I am trying to get him out of danger. Together we manage to get him behind a row of large rocks. I press his hands to his wound and hold them there when he tries to pull back, wearing a grimace of agony. “Pressure,” I say, and even though I’m sure he doesn’t understand the word, he nods.

  I kneel by the rock and locate my next patient, a woman with her long brown hair in a dozen braids spread across her shoulders. It’s the woman whose steps set my pace on the hike to this war zone. She is bleeding from wounds in her left arm and her throat but is still trying to crawl toward me. I dart into the open and coil my arm around her. We half run, half crawl back to the rocks, where I bandage her arm and pack her neck wound with cloth. My first patient holds her hand as she lets out wet screams. I leave them to hold each other, but when I peer from behind the rocks, I gasp. The Noor heavy guns are firing again—because Melik is pulling the trigger.

  Two of the machines are stomping around the far edge of the bowl, but another seems to be stuck close to the ledge, and Melik is merciless, his jaw ridged and his eyes fierce, bullet casings bouncing and spinning in the air around his legs, his shoulders tense as he holds the tripod-mounted weapon steady. The besieged war machine chugs and falters as Melik focuses fire on its abdomen, which holds the steam engine—and the flesh-and-blood crew member—inside. The gun lies silent on its back, the gunner sprawled across its long barrel.

  There’s a sharp crack and then a dull thunk—the machine’s abdomen bulges outward and then explodes, and I duck behind the rock as black smoke rises and metal shrapnel zings close by my head. When next I peek from my shelter, Melik is gone. I lean out to see him racing down the trail, shouting. They’ve taken out two machines, but two more are about to escape the bowl and head for Dagchocuk with nothing to stop them. I scurry onto the trail and run after him. His shouts are agonized and desperate as he sprints for the ledge and disappears over it.

  Noor bodies clutter the path between where I am and where he’s gone, and they remind me of my role here. As much as I want to throw myself over the edge just to see that Melik’s all right, I drop to my knees next to a man with gray streaked at his temples and a penetrating wound to his shoulder. I pack it, fold his shaking hand over the bandage, and fill his mouth with my coagulant brew, anything to slow the bleeding. Then I move to the next and the next, doing whatever I can to ensure they’ll live a little longer, before diving for the next patient. Some are far past saving, like the man with scars on his cheeks who takes his last breaths while looking into my eyes, or the woman who has been shot twice in the belly. I grit my teeth and step over her because I know there is nothing I can do, because I must get to the ones I can help. My legs ache as I drag them to safety. My lungs burn with every breath. But my eyes are dry. My heartbeat is steady. My body is in constant motion—stopping would allow room for panic.

  I wish my father were here. He would know what was best. But he is not, so I must do the best I know. A volley of shouting draws my attention as I crouch over my latest patient, a young man who will surely lose his foot. I tourniquet his lower leg to keep him from losing his life, then lie on the edge of the trail and look toward the floor of the canyon.

  What I see shoots bolts of fear along my limbs. The machines are nearly to the exit of the bowl. The remaining Noor fighters on the ridge are firing at the top gunners, and one of them falls backward and rolls off the abdomen of the beast. He is stomped by its rear legs a moment later. But he is not the only man at the mercy of those clanking metal legs.

  Bo is hanging from the side of one of the creatures, steadily climbing a steel cable that is attached to his metal chest and secured by a grappling hook wound around the top of one of the creature’s side legs where it connects to the thorax. He is not wearing his full faceplate, so I can see the half smile he wears as he gazes up at the machine’s underbelly.

  A hoarse shout from a spot directly below me has me leaning over farther. Melik is huddled beneath the ridge, his rifle aimed at the remaining top gunner, but he is hesitating. His shoulders tremble, and his voice cracks as he yells and waves to the other rifle-bearing fighters. And I see why—there is another young man climbing a rope between two churning legs of the other war machine. He has a tool in his hand, possibly a wrench, and he drags himself up the rope toward the spider’s back with steady, quick yanks.

  It’s Sinan.

  Below me Melik is a picture of agony, caught between action and fear as he watches his younger brother scale the rope and huddle just beneath the swell of the machine’s abdomen. From where Sinan hangs, the gunner cannot get him, and doesn’t even seem aware of his presence. Bo is in the same position beneath his machine as he reaches up with his mechanical hand and begins to fiddle with a panel in the dip where the thorax and abdomen connect.

  Sinan works on the same area with his wrench, but the look on his face—pure concentration and determination, along with a hard, jagged kind of joy—is so similar to Bo’s that they could be twins. Brothers.

  Both war machines are still stalking steadily toward the western edge of the canyon. They are mere steps away, carrying Bo and Sinan with them.

  Bo’s metal hand pops the hatch on the side of the machine, and he plunges his fingers into the spider’s guts.

  After one more step the steel monster stops dead, then falls forward with a rending metal crunch. Bo disappears beneath a tangle of spider body and legs, each piece capable of crushing him. But my attention is drawn from the wreckage when Melik shouts Sinan’s name and aims his rifle. The top gunner on Sinan’s machine has emerged from his armored position and is leaning over, trying to get a clear shot at Sinan. The boy looks up just as the gunner points his revolver.

  A sharp crack echoes from the ridge below me and the gunner’s head splits like a melon. Sinan clings to the rope as the dead man slides off the war machine’s abdomen, but then the boy goes back to work. The machine is seconds away from leaving the bowl when he gets the hatch open and reaches inside. The Noor scream and cheer when Sinan manages to scramble upward as the machine teeters. He perches on its back as it crumples to the ground.

  For a moment there is silence, broken only by the hiss of the steam engines flooding.

  “Bo,” I whisper, staring at the heap of metal that swallowed him.

  As if he hears me, Bo pops his metal head up from between two of the legs of the machine he took down. Sinan sees him and pumps his arms in the air, and the two of them grin at each other. Even from this distance I can feel Bo’s fierce happiness.

  The Noor fighters are ecstatic, shouting and hugging one another. So many casualties, so much work to be done, but there are four machines down and a minefield for the next machines that try to come through. From where I lie, I see Melik’s smile, warm like a sunbeam, full of pride and love.

  But then his lips drop open in a howl of warning.

  Sinan looks up at the ridge as he hears his brother’s voice. Melik jerks his rifle up again.

  The hatch over the cockpit of the downed machine is open, and the pilot has his revolver trained on Sinan. Bo crouches, bracing to leap for the man. The crackle of gunshots makes me flinch. The pilot slumps over the steel thorax of his beast just as Bo lands next to him, metal hands outstretched to kill. When he sees the pilot is dead, he whoops and spins toward Sinan.

  His joyful expression freezes.

  Sinan looks puzzled as he touches his fingertips to the blood blossoming across his tunic. He glances at Bo as if his friend might know how to fix him, then sinks to his knees as Melik screams his name.

  Chapter

  Seventeen

  IT IS AS if my brain cannot accept the horror unfolding before my eyes. I cling to the ridge, frozen, as Melik slides and leaps down the steep trail to th
e canyon floor. Bo catches Sinan in his steely arms and gently lays him on the spider’s back, but he steps away from him quickly, blinking down at the blood on his metal hands. As Melik reaches the ground, Bo leaps across to the machine he downed, rips the top hatch off, and pulls out its dazed pilot. He strips him of his weapon and tosses him aside, then jumps onto the machine’s abdomen and tears away the rear hatch. A moment later he drags the limp body of its fireman out and pitches him onto the ground. His movements are violent and merciless. He does not look at Sinan, who is writhing now, curled into himself as the pain winds through him.

  Melik sprints to the machine where his brother lies sprawled. As he throws himself onto its back, he shouts my name. The desperation in that one syllable gets me moving, reminds me of my purpose. I hike the satchel onto my back and clumsily crawl down the steep trail, following Melik’s path, the sliding prints of his boots in the loose rock and dirt. I focus very hard on each step and try not to listen to Sinan’s anguished cries.

  I huff as I race across the narrow space between the canyon wall and the wrecked machine. As I reach up, Melik grabs my arm and pulls me onto the thorax, which is hot under the sun and with the fire that burned within.

  “Wen,” Melik says in a raspy whisper. “Please.” His face is twisted with pain as he turns back to Sinan.

  I scoot across the spider’s back and kneel on the other side of Sinan. He is clutching at Melik’s shoulders, crying in pain. When I touch his body, he screams and tries to turn away. “Melik, you have to hold him,” I say.

  Melik lets out a trembling breath and pins Sinan’s shoulders to the machine. He begins whispering to him, kissing his forehead between each sentence. My gut clenches as I tear Sinan’s tunic up the center and see the wound. He has been shot in the stomach, just below his ribs. I run my palm along his back, and his skin is smooth and unbroken—the bullet is still inside him. I glance at his face and see the blood on his teeth. It is creeping up his esophagus. Even if I had opium and bright lights and a scalpel and clampers and antibiotics and my father, I am not sure I could fix what has broken. Suddenly I feel the bitter helplessness I saw in Anni this morning as I proudly and stupidly announced I could save the wounded. Suddenly I understand her resignation.

  Melik wipes his brother’s lips with his sleeve. His pale, bloodshot eyes meet mine. But I cannot say what I am thinking. I cannot bear to tell Melik that his little brother is going to die.

  Melik grimaces, like he is holding in a scream of pure pain. “Please, Wen,” he whispers. “Please?”

  I clamp my lips shut and open my satchel. But I do not use my san qi, because I must save it for those who have a chance, and it might only prolong Sinan’s agony. Instead I reach for my jie cao. I pour a bit of water into a small bowl and mix it with the powder I made this morning, until I have a paste. “Sinan,” I say gently, edging toward his face. “This will taste awful, but it will help.”

  Melik holds his head as I push bits of the paste between Sinan’s graying lips. “Will this stop his bleeding?” he asks in a hushed voice. “Will it heal his insides?”

  The hope in his voice is like a knife traced along the tender seams of my heart, slicing the stitches that hold me together. I do not look at Melik as I say, “It will ease his pain.”

  Melik lets out a strangled sob and holds Sinan tighter. I focus on getting as much of the jie cao into Sinan as I can while Melik strokes his hair. The boy is wretched with searing agony. “Help me, Wen,” he gasps, his blue eyes filled with tears. “Don’t let me die.”

  “Shhh; it’s going to be all right,” I say, forcing each word from my throat. I smile at the dying boy while his older brother shakes with tears he is trying not to shed. I touch Sinan’s face. “You did so well. You are a hero.”

  His lips twitch in an attempt at a smile. “We did it,” he says, even as blood trickles from the corner of his mouth.

  “You saved your village,” I tell him. “You have done your people proud.”

  He closes his eyes, his breathing rapid and wet, each exhale a squeaky moan. “But I don’t want to die. Please, I don’t want to die. Melik, oluma zhayaben. Oluma zhayaben.”

  Sinan whispers his plea over and over until his voice goes quiet, and then Melik’s voice takes over, a broken song, choked words of love and devotion. I creep backward as Sinan’s curled fingers relax, as his skinny legs slide along the spider’s back, as he fades away. And I am thankful. The bullet must have hit an artery. He has been saved from the agony of a slow death as his guts spilled poison into his abdomen.

  I slip my fingertips over his wrist and feel the moment his heart stops. I bow my head. “Melik—”

  “No.” Melik tenderly lays Sinan’s head on the machine and slowly gets to his feet. His chest is splattered with his brother’s blood. His face is so pale that each freckle stands out, as does the smear of crimson along his jaw.

  “You,” says Melik, his voice a brutal, hoarse accusation. His gaze is not on me. It is on Bo, who is standing behind me, looking stricken and helpless and small despite his fearsome armor. “You did this. He was going to stay in the village. He would still be alive if not for you.”

  Bo stares at Sinan’s body. “He knew he could help,” he says weakly. “He knew what to do.”

  “He was a child!” Melik roars, striding forward, his fists clenching. “He was my only brother. You had no right to interfere!”

  “He was his own person,” Bo says, taking a step back, putting his arms up. The spiders on his shoulders twitch restlessly, as if they respond to Bo’s heartbeat, his internal distress. “I couldn’t have stopped him.” He glances around us to see the Noor staring at him, shock and anger in their gazes.

  I push myself to my feet. “Melik, stop.”

  Melik raises his hand and catches a rifle tossed by Bajram, who is glaring at Bo as if he is a monster. My rust-haired Noor swings it up smoothly, like it is part of him, like he has become a machine too. “You have taken too much, Ghost,” he says, the promise of death in every word. “Your disregard for my life is understandable, even forgivable. Your disregard for Sinan’s . . .”

  “If not for Sinan and me, these machines would be out of your reach and on their way to your village,” Bo says softly. If he is afraid, he is not showing it. “And you and the others ignored me. You did not listen to the knowledge I offered. Only Sinan did. Without us—”

  “Shall I thank you by making yours a quick death?” Melik asks, his voice shaking with rage.

  When his finger slides to the trigger, I step between him and Bo. “It wouldn’t make up for what you have lost.” My voice is the steadiest here, though I am trembling in my bones. The barrel of his weapon is pointed at my forehead. “Melik, we have to get the wounded back to Dagchocuk. Many can be saved. There is much to be done.”

  Pain flashes in his jade eyes as he holds the weapon steady. A tear slips from his cheek and slides along the stock of his rifle. “My brother is dead, Wen,” he whispers, his gaze boring into mine.

  I step to the side and push the barrel down, and Melik does not resist. “I know, Melik,” I say, my throat closing over the horrible sorrow of it. “I know.” I reach up to smooth his hair from his face, but he steps back and points at Bo.

  “Go. Now. I do not want to see your face ever again. I do not want to think of you and what you have done.” His voice is quiet, but it is impossible to mistake this for weakness. The fire in his eyes is bright and hot. “Leave or I will find a way to kill you.”

  I tense, expecting Bo to fire back, to snarl, to challenge him. But my Ghost is silent. He doesn’t even breathe. I watch Melik’s face, trying to figure out what he needs, what he wants. Does he wish I would leave too?

  He gives no signal either way. He does not reach for me, nor does he look at me. “I have to take Sinan’s body to my mother,” he says, hollow now. Sagging. He looks down at his rifle and his face crumples with disgust as he tosses it to the ground. He kneels at his brother’s side and scoops Sinan into
his arms. The boy’s head lolls in the crook of Melik’s neck, and Melik murmurs words of love as he edges to the side of the machine and slides off its back. The Noor gather around them, some of them wailing, others sobbing, all of their feelings on the outside, filling the air with grief. In the Ring, when Tercan died, they did not show their despair to us, but here they are not afraid to cry. I turn away and see Bo walking along the floor of the canyon, toward the eastern end of the bowl.

  I scramble after him, breaking into a run to catch up. “Bo,” I call out.

  He stops. “Do not try to follow me.”

  I pivot around his metal body and face him. “Melik is heartbroken. He will for—”

  “No, he won’t,” Bo says, his voice thick with pain. “And he should not . . . should not ever forgive me.”

  “Did you tell Sinan to follow the group?”

  He winces. “We made the plan together because he said he would come either way. He was so bright and so capable. He knew what he was doing. He may have been young, but . . .”

  “You saw yourself in him.” The boy who lived and lived and lived even when he should have died. If only Sinan had been more like Bo. “You wanted him by your side. It didn’t matter that he was Noor. You understood him, and he understood you.”

  Bo bares his teeth and lets out a sound of total agony, ragged and halting. “Stop.”

  “You could not help but love him.”

  Bo’s hands swing up to ward me off, and his spiders raise their fangs. “I destroyed him. Like I destroy everything. Like I ruin everything.” The spiders rattle and shift as he steps away from me. “Like I ruin you, just by being close to you.”