by Stevie Barry
"Hush, you. I do not need English lesson from man who says 'ain't'. Even I know that is not a word."
Lorna laughed, then shivered. "We're not supposed to say," she said. "And I don't want to deal with him again anytime soon."
"Nor I," Ratiri added.
"Can you at least say what he do here?" Katje said, touching Lorna's bandaged temple.
"That I don't remember, and I don't want to. Avoid him as long's you can, you hear me? He's a lot worse than just nerve-wracking."
She glanced around the sunny room, wishing she was anywhere else. At least in prison she only had to worry about the other inmates, and they let her alone once they realized she bit anyone who messed her about. She highly doubted that would have the same effect on Von Ratched. He'd probably pull out all her teeth.
When she'd finished her pancakes she pulled her hair over her shoulder and wove it into a long braid. She didn't know why she was so especially horrified at the idea of Von Ratched touching her hair when he'd done so much worse, but she was. Possibly because all the other things he'd done were experiments, whereas messing with her hair was personal. Too damn personal by half.
She found Ratiri looking at her, and wondered if he'd caught the thought. It was odd that though he was as tall as Von Ratched, he didn't make her feel small. Hell, most people made her feel as small as she really was, but for some reason, he didn't. Must be a side-effect of spending time in his head. He would never pick her up like she was a recalcitrant child. She'd have kicked Von Ratched for that, if she'd been coherent enough.
"So what is it you people do in here all day?" she asked, and Katje snorted.
"Not much. Play cards or chess, write on the walls, and try not to go stir-crazy. They are not good at giving entertainment."
Lorna chewed the inside of her cheek. "Which'v you three plays chess?"
----
Lorna, Ratiri discovered, was a ruthless chess player. He'd fancied himself good at the game, but she slaughtered him three games in a row.
"Where did you learn to play like that?" he asked, as she reset the board for a fourth round.
"Prison. About as little to do there as there is here. Where'd you learn?"
"My father taught me." He wanted to ask why she'd been in prison, but that was probably a subject best not pressed. "Why were you in America?"
"Same reason you prob'ly were," she said, shifting a pawn. "I thought it'd be easier to hide. I heard they had a cure there, but I wasn't about t' trust that. Sounded like a good way to just round us up and shoot us."
"We're the new Jews," he grimaced, trying to figure out how she meant to destroy him this round. "Tell me Von Ratched doesn't seem like a modern-day Mengele."
"Can't, because he does. My gran was Romani, and most'v her family died in Auschwitz -- she'd probably have some words to say about him. Wonder what she'd make'v the rest'v this." She paused, looking up at him. "Do you believe it's what they say it is on the news? Do you think it's magic?"
He was a long while in answering. "I don't know," he said at last. "I'm a doctor -- I shouldn't believe in things like that, but I wouldn't have believed anyone could wind up like us if I hadn't seen it. I don't know what else it could be. Scientifically, this whole situation is impossible."
She captured his rook in two neat moves. "My brother read X-Men as a kid. You think it's something like that? Some sort'v mutation?"
He shook his head. "Even if genetics worked that way, this has been too random, sudden, and fast to make any scientific sense. What you do, for example, would kill you if something in you was physically responsible for it in its entirety. The amount of energy needed for the kind of telekinesis you've displayed would shut your body down within a few minutes. No human being could produce so much unaided. As much as I hate the word magic, I'm afraid we're stuck with it until some better term comes along."
Down went one of his knights. "So what's caused it? Why now? I'm starting to wonder if it's alien space bats or something."
Ratiri grimaced again. "As an explanation, that's as hard for me to swallow as magic, but I suppose it's possible."
Lorna paused. "I wonder what they'll do with us all, if they do figure it out."
"Herd us into showers with no water, more than likely," he said, grim. "There's no way they can let us go, after all that's been done here."
She cast him an appalled look, and he answered it with a humorless smile. "If it makes you feel any better, most of the staff would probably be purged with us. The doctor doesn't seem like the kind of person who would consider anyone invaluable."
She dropped her own rook. "Well, there goes what little peace'v mind I had. I wonder if they'd let us go for a walk? I can't bloody sit still now."
"I'm not sure anyone's ever asked. You could try Hansen -- he seems like a decent sort."
Lorna went, and he wished he hadn't said all that. Not when she'd just started calming down.
While she was away, Nurse Grieggs came and summoned Katje. "Doctor wants to see you," she said, and there was a smoky smugness in her aura he didn't like at all. Katje glanced at him, more worried than she was letting on, and he tried to give her an encouraging smile. He couldn't quite manage it.
Chapter Six
Katje followed the nurse, summoning her equanimity. This was Von Ratched's first session with her -- hopefully he wasn't going to do anything nasty right away. Besides, he was a man, and she was quite good at manipulating men. Well, except for Ratiri, but she hadn't really tried with him. He was so melancholy at times that it didn't seem fair.
Grieggs led her to a room that fortunately looked like any ordinary exam room. She sat on the table and fluffed her hair, wishing for the hundredth time that she had some conditioner. Already she was getting split ends.
She regarded Von Ratched with a calculating gaze when he came in. He really was rather attractive, if you could look past his undeniable creepiness, and he regarded her with a type of appreciation she could definitely work with. She'd been extremely successful in her profession for a reason -- she'd been a very high-priced call girl before fleeing to America, not a run-of-the-mill prostitute. And men, regardless of their job or education or background, were in certain ways very simple creatures.
“Now, DaVries, I am going to attach these to your scalp, and I want you to turn this mug into a plate.” He held up several wires with suction-cup like pads at the ends. “Just relax, this won’t hurt a bit.”
Katje eyed the wires somewhat dubiously. “You want to stick those on my head?” she asked. “They will not make holes, will they?”
Von Ratched held up what he probably thought was a placating hand. “Of course not. This is a standard EEG machine, DaVries. I assure you, it will leave no mark.” He attached the wires with a dab of gel and turned to the machine. “Now, a plate, if you please.”
Katje concentrated, and the cup became a plate with a faint pop. Von Ratched watched the paper-feed intently, then turned to the plate, apparently somewhat amused to find it bordered by pink rosebuds.
“Very good...now, an animal, if you will -- perhaps you may have a pet.”
Katje shook her head. “I no can do that,” she said.
He looked up at her. “Why not?”
“The plate, it is not alive -- I no can make it into something living. Living thing must be other living thing, no matter what.”
Von Ratched noted all this on a clipboard as she spoke. “Are you certain you could not transform the plate into an animal?”
She nodded. “I try to make a shoe into a kitten, and I wound up with salad forks. I no make life, only change things.” She touched one of the wires. “I maybe take these off? The gel will ruin my hair.”
He handed her at tissue and picked up the plate, turning it over in his gloved hands.
“Most interesting...all right, DaVries, please take off your shirt.”
She snorted, and when he looked up he found her sitting with crossed arms and raised eyebrows.
“Doct
or, if you are thinking of that, we first must work out method of payment,” she said, arching an eyebrow.
He nearly dropped the plate. “What?” he said.
She shrugged elegantly. “I no work for free, you know,” she said, buffing her nails on her trousers. “Money is useless, obviously. Give me chocolate, hand lotion, and nice shampoo, and then we will have a deal.”
Von Ratched blinked. And blinked again. He stared at her for a very long moment, before finally leaning back against the counter and crossing his own arms.
“What kind of chocolate?”
------
Fortunately, Hansen was willing to let Lorna and Ratiri go outdoors for a while.
Nobody else seemed particularly interested (probably because they didn’t want their ears frozen off by the still-frigid wind), so Ratiri and Lorna alone found themselves outfitted with heavy parkas and thick trousers. Dr. Hansen escorted them to a wide courtyard that stood off the back of their building -- a high chain-link fence surrounded it, topped with razor wire, but the ground it enclosed was dotted with the first wildflowers that heralded the beginning of the chill Alaskan spring. For once, the sky was cloudless and almost impossibly blue, the air as chilly as he’d expected, stinging Ratiri’s face, but it was almost inexpressibly wonderful to be outside.
Lorna didn’t seem anywhere near as pleased. She said nothing of it, but her eyes were tight with tension, her aura filled with leaden worry. Ratiri might not know her well, but he recognized a savior complex when he saw one. If she didn’t turn out to feel responsible for the safety of her friends, or even proto-friends, he would be very surprised. She paced across the scrubland, investigating the few small flowers that dared brave the chill Alaskan spring, restless as a cat, stealing glances back at the main building every few moments.
He glanced at Hansen, who seemed somewhat unsettled himself. The man’s aura was predominantly bluish-green, a color common among scientists and others of curious nature, and Ratiri had an idea that he had no clue about Von Ratched’s deep-seated malevolence. Ratiri didn’t know much about American government, but he’d bet his next meal that Hansen had been drafted to this project.
“Where are we?” he asked abruptly, looking out across the flat scrubland.
Hansen gave a start. “The technical name is the Alaskan National Institute for the Criminally Insane,” he said, with a slight quirk of his lips that told Ratiri he was fully aware of the name’s irony. “We all just refer to it as the Institute.”
“So we are in Alaska?”
Hansen gave him a dry look. “You didn’t hear that from me,” he said. “I can say that you, me -- everything here is so classified I doubt even the President knows about it.” He watched Lorna as she gathered some small, starry white flowers off a low-growing shrub. In the sunlight the bandages on her temples stood out blindingly, small pale squares against her olive skin.
“What did Von Ratched do to her?” Ratiri asked. “I had a look at her wounds this morning -- no standard test requires puncturing of the temples, you know that as well as I do."
Hansen shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “Dr. von Ratched is a singularly brilliant man, however -- it’s likely he’s invented instruments. Whatever he did, it seems to have done her no harm."
Ratiri had to agree with that, albeit reluctantly. “He's a telepath, as well as telekinetic,” he said after a moment, glancing sidelong at Hansen to gauge his reaction.
Hansen shook his head again. “Wouldn’t surprise me,” he said. “None of us knows much about him -- he’s worked for the government for I don’t know how long. He’s freakishly intelligent -- apparently he dabbled in astrophysics and biochemistry before he began working with the…mentally disturbed.”
Hansen fell silent, and Ratiri perceived that there was much unspoken behind those words -- Hansen was clearly as leery of the man as the rest of them.
“He scares you, doesn’t he?” Ratiri asked bluntly.
Hansen seemed to consider a moment. “Dr. von Ratched isn't a man to be trifled with,” he said at last, very carefully. “So long as you’re not incompetent, however, he’s usually not that difficult to work with, but he's very…cold.” That was an understatement and a half, but it looked like he knew it. "Truth be told, I haven't worked with him very long."
He said no more, for Lorna wandered over, her hands filled with small wildflowers. Her expression remained rather grim, but it had grown quite thoughtful, too.
“Doc, y’ should let us build a garden out here,” she said, sitting on the ground before them. “Sure, there’s enough native flowers, and we could bring more in -- make it lovely out here.”
“…That’s actually not a bad idea,” Gerald said, “Provided the weather ever cooperates. I take it you know something about plants?”
“Oh, aye. It was my job, unofficially, once upon a time. I could make a grand garden out here, if you’d let me.”
“I’ll speak with the rest of the staff about it -- Lord knows it solves the problem of an exercise program. I trust I may leave you alone for a moment?”
“I don’t know,” Ratiri said, “you turn your back on us, and we might start sprouting extra arms.”
“Ha-very-ha. I see Ms. DaVries coming; I’ll trust her to chaperone you for a moment. Please, excuse me.” He rose and headed for the main building, passing a well-bundled Katje, who was carrying a large paper grocery sack, and Geezer, who as usual looked a little lost.
Ratiri glanced at Katje, shrugged, and then froze himself.
“Katje,” he said, in a voice strained either by repressed laughter or repressed censure, “do you really think it wise to ply your trade in this setting?”
Katje blinked those sky-blue eyes. “What?” she said, setting down her bag of plunder.
Ratiri raised his eyebrows. “Your aura is pink, and you’ve suddenly grown rather wealthier in small commodities. I do not think the two are coincidental.” Katje flushed slightly, and Geezer gave her a reproving look.
“You said those were bonuses for being a good patient,” he said, picking a plastic-wrapped square of fudge out of the bag.
She waved a hand. “They were,” she said. “I was very good patient.”
Lorna looked sharply up at her. For a moment, stark relief entered her eyes, but it lasted no longer than that – her eyes widened, her face paling into an odd ashy grey.
“Oh, Katje, you didn't,” she said, going a delicate shade of green. “Oh good Jesus, that’s disgusting.”
“What?” Ratiri and Geezer asked in unison.
Lorna shook her head, horrified. “She…she…ICK.” She shuddered, stopping her ears with her hands as though in an effort to block out unwanted thoughts.
Katje snorted. “Oh, please,” she said, helping herself to more fudge. “Is business, and he certainly pay well.” She popped the fudge into her mouth and settled back contentedly.
Ratiri gave her a suspicious look. “Who pays well?”
“Take a wild guess,” Lorna said darkly, edging away as though fearing contamination.
Ratiri’s eyes bugged. “Katje, you didn’t,” he echoed, suddenly understanding Lorna’s horror. “How did that even come to be an option?”
Katje shrugged. “He say ‘take off your shirt’ and I say ‘not until we work out method of payment.”
Ratiri groaned. “Katje, he’s a doctor. If he says take off your shirt, he doesn’t mean for that.”
Katje blinked; clearly this had not occurred to her. She shrugged again. “Well, he certainly didn’t protest when I think different,” she said.
Geezer choked, finally comprehending the finer details of the conversation. “Wait, you slept with Von Ratched?”
“Why not? Is business -- he say he will pay, and he pay. I no see you with chocolate and booze.”
It seemed Lorna could take no more, for she abandoned her flowers and leapt to her feet, disappearing into the main building and reappearing some minutes later with a tinfoil hat attached
securely to her head like some sort of World War I-era trench helmet. She must have grabbed it from the Activities Room, because he couldn't imagine anyone letting her into the kitchen.
“I’ll never look at that stethoscope the same way again,” she said accusingly.
Ratiri paused, looking thoughtful. “I don’t want to know,” he said, shaking his head.
“No,” Lorna said darkly. “You don’t.” She still looked more than a little green.
“And Katje, that shouldn’t be anatomically possible.”
Katje smirked. “It pays to be flexible, in my business,” she said, and both Ratiri and Geezer cringed.
Dr. Hansen presently came back for them, and though he looked questioningly at Lorna’s headgear, he made no comment. “It’s nearly lunch time,” he said, eying Katje’s bag of goodies. “Though perhaps you’ve already eaten.”
“Katje certainly has,” Geezer muttered, and Lorna and Ratiri snorted. It was so strange, to be amused by anything, but he really couldn't help it. His sanity needed it.
Katje raised her eyebrows. “Ah, now Geezer, I’m always hungry,” she said, rising to her feet and picking up her bag. All three of them choked, and Hansen blinked, bewildered.
“Erm, yes, if you’ll follow me,” he said, eying them all as though wondering if they needed straight-jackets. They trooped in after him and shed their heavy coats, glad to be back in the warmth of the big building, and Hansen led them to the cafeteria. Geezer, Ratiri, and Lorna all kept a conscientious distance from Katje, like children afraid to touch one infected with cooties, and Lorna touched her tinfoil helmet to make certain it was secure. She got several odd looks as they crossed to their usual table, but given that most of the people in this place were by now more than half cracked, nobody did more than look.
Hansen joined them at their corner table. “I spoke with Dr. von Ratched about the garden idea -- fortunately he was in a good mood, so he said yes. I haven’t got the faintest clue what will grow up here, but I suppose you will, Ms. Donovan.” He did his best not to eye her strange headgear as the little group gave a collective snort -- they knew damn well why Von Ratched was in such a good mood. Only Katje remained silent, no doubt dismissing it all as side effects of ‘business’.