The Curse of M

by Stevie Barry

  That made him really laugh, long and hard. "You might be right. I think she likes you."

  "Get away with you," Lorna snorted. "Katje likes damn near everyone, I think. I wonder what her damage is."

  "I know what mine is," Ratiri said. "Being stuck in here. I'm betting I'm stuck until Von Ratched decides I'm not dangerous."

  "If you are, I am, too. Stick with me, Ratiri Duncan. I'll look after you. I've got to look after someone."

  He looked at her curiously. "It's not that I don't appreciate it, but do you really think I need looking after?"

  She looked away, unable to meet his eyes. There wasn't really any way to explain this that didn't sound insulting. "In a way," she said. "It's not that I don't think you could handle it.” Which was a blatant lie, but whatever. “You just shouldn't have to. You or Katje or anyone here. It's just…it seems to me like your life was pretty normal, before this. You don't have the experience to be equipped to deal with this kind'v shite." Never, ever would she admit she thought people with stable lives naïve, but she did. And because he was so stable, so normal, she didn't want him to have to deal with it now. In that sense, she didn't know him well enough to tell if he'd be strong enough or not.

  "What happened to you, Lorna?" he asked quietly. "What gave you that attitude?"

  She shrugged. "Your standard nasty childhood. Dead mother, arsehole father. Ran away when I was fourteen, and was a lot happier after that." Don't you dare pity me was the unspoken end of that statement -- half supplication, half threat.

  Fortunately, he didn't say he was sorry. She hated it when people did that. "For what it's worth, thank you," he said instead. "It's nice to know someone here cares what happens to me. But I warn you, that goes both ways." There was a finality to his tone that made her heart sink a little. She appreciated the sentiment, too, but she really didn't want him getting hurt on her account. A thought Von Ratched would surely use against her. Getting too attached to people was dangerous, especially in a place like this.

  "So what now?" she asked, drumming her heels against the leg of her cot. "Do we sit here until we die'v boredom?"

  "Show me Ireland," he said. "Whatever of it you want to. I'll show you Scotland, too -- we can compare notes."

  That made her smile. "Deal," she said. "Come here -- this'll be easier if I can touch you."

  He did, and they spent the next few hours sharing their homesickness.

  ----

  Von Ratched was only keeping half an eye on them. The rest of his attention was devoted to being quietly infuriated at the person on the other end of his telephone. He was not a man who yelled or even raised his voice, but at this point he was legitimately plotting murder.

  "No," he said, leaning back in his desk chair, "I will not go to you. Do you have any idea what the inmates would do if I left? Fear of me is a great part of what controls them. Were I to leave, I do not doubt they would try to escape and take their chances in the wilderness. I have too many experiments going to allow them to wander off and freeze to death, to say nothing of the damage they would inflict on the Institute itself. Damage you would have to pay for."

  The man he was speaking to was not, unfortunately, Andrew Crupps. It was no one he had ever met, or he would be receiving much more deference. "We want your patients liquidated, Doctor, and you back here. Not all of us agreed to your Institute in the first place. We've already wasted millions on it, and we're wasting more every day."

  The stupidity of some people truly staggered Von Ratched at times. "No," he said flatly. "Cut my funding and I will pay for it myself. You will not interfere with my work, you will not touch my patients, and you will never trouble me again." It wasn't a request or even a command: it was a statement, written in the bedrock of the Earth, of what would and would not be.

  And it finally seemed to unnerve the other man. "You couldn't possibly afford that," he said, much of the bluster gone from his voice.

  "Clearly you know nothing of me. I suggest you instruct your superiors to fully read my file before you waste my time again."

  He hung up without waiting for a response, and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was true -- he could afford to run this place for years if necessary, but he would rather not have to. How easily sensible people could turn into idiots never ceased to amaze him. Now he was irritated beyond words, and decided he ought to send for DaVries. Very rarely had he run across anyone like her -- she was in her profession for more than just the money, and she didn't take it at all seriously. He would get bored of her, in time -- he always did -- but for now she was quite relaxing.

  Send for her he did, and ignored the world for the rest of the afternoon. She was well paid for her time, in the things she demanded: a hot-oil treatment kit for her hair, expensive make-up, Belgian chocolate, even a carton of cigarettes. As a doctor he disapproved of that last one, but in the end she wasn't likely to live long enough to develop lung cancer.

  ----

  That night the inmates dreamed again of the Garden, but Geezer was not among them. He was too busy having a prophetic seizure.

  And they were seizures, or something very like one. He recalled a doctor trying to diagnose him with epilepsy at some point in the Eighties, but this definitely wasn't epilepsy.

  His roommate, the pyro kid Wrigley, was so heavily sedated he didn't even stir at Geezer's thrashing. Thank God -- nobody needed to witness this.

  The visions always started out murky grey, with a howl like a hurricane. It was cold and desolate, this prodrome state, a world inhabited by one. It would have been lonely, if it wasn't so goddamn painful it felt like someone had scoured his bones with broken glass.

  As always, the images he saw were brief and incoherent -- helpless people trying to flee bombs no one could outrun; unburied bodies lying in stinking heaps.

  But then there was a mountain, a beautiful place forested with massive, ancient Douglas firs. People lived here, or would; he saw construction, houses among the trees, and this at least felt more than happy. Indeed it felt remarkably like the peace in the Garden, so very far removed from the perpetual fear of the Institute.

  But then he saw the Institute itself going up in flames, and he didn't know why. Was it lit by some kind of savior, or was it a last-ditch sacrifice? The image vanished before he could search it further.

  Here was a laughing Katje, dressed in a red halter top and a pair of pants that looked like they'd been spray-painted on, which must have delighted her hedonistic soul. Her hair was several inches longer -- this had to be far in the future.

  Ratiri, his eyes feral and dangerous as an enraged wolf, with a Lorna beside him who looked almost worse. Hers was a human fury, and there was frigid murder in her green eyes.

  But not himself. Never himself. His own future was barred from him; he could only infer, whenever he was able. In this case he could extrapolate nothing of his own fate. Whether he lived or died here remained to be seen.

  As soon as he woke, he threw up. He'd be shaking and miserable for hours yet -- it was like a hangover from hell. Normally he'd have a drink and a smoke to wind down, but he'd get neither here. So he lay on the frigid tile, unable to even sit up, and listened to Wrigley breathe. The moon was only a sliver, so the room was pitch-dark, and right now it was worse than anything his fractured memory could conjure. Right now, he hoped he'd die here -- and hoped he did it soon. Horrible as this was, he was sure Von Ratched could make it infinitely worse.

  ----

  Once again, the mood in the cafeteria was unaccountably pleased. Once again, Von Ratched was not.

  By now he was certain Donovan and Duncan could safely be left to their own devices. The rest of the inmates, it seemed, could not. He continued to fail divining anything from their thoughts, and he was considering torturing it out of someone when a nurse came running.

  "Something's wrong with Geezer," he said. "He's semiconscious but unresponsive. I think he had some kind of seizure in the night."

  Well, this day was suddenly loo
king up. Von Ratched followed the man to the cell wing, curiosity overriding his aggravation. What with one thing and another, he'd neglected his patient without an identity for too long.

  And he really had no identity. His fingerprints and dental records had no match in any database the staff had searched -- the man was a ghost. Someone had excised every single piece of information on his existence, and Von Ratched greatly desired to know who, and why. In this age of computerized information, that was no small feat, and the man himself certainly couldn't have done it.

  Geezer did indeed look terrible, lying sprawled on his bunk. His skin was grey, and he smelled of sweat and fear -- and something else, something Von Ratched couldn't identify. The nurse was wrong about one thing, though: however unaware the man appeared, he knew exactly what was going on. His face was blank, but his mind was racing.

  "Well, Mister Geezer, it would seem you had something of a rough night." Those faded blue eyes watched warily as Von Ratched sat on the empty bunk. "I am going to take you to an examination room, to see if we might discover why."

  A rictus of terror overtook the deliberately vapid expression, but the man obviously had no energy to fight. He only managed feeble protest when two orderlies loaded him onto a gurney, and really did lapse into semi consciousness as they wheeled him into an exam room.

  Von Ratched did a little searching of his mind while waiting for him to stir. He really didn't know his own name, and his memory was patchy in a very unusual way. He wasn't repressing anything -- it was gone. Normal amnesiacs usually had things stored away in their subconscious, even if they were so deep only he could read them, but Geezer -- it was as though some other telepath had gone in and forcibly excised much of his memory.

  But it wasn't that. Geezer, he discovered, knew what he was, even if he didn't understand it. And while it made him an intriguing subject, it once again made Von Ratched unhappy.

  He didn't like precogs. He'd only dealt with one once, a Russian POW who had seen far too much of the future. He hadn't been able to read any of that divination in the man's mind, either; the ordinary thoughts were fair game, but anything pertaining to the future was somehow barred. Which he suspected would prove to be the case this time.

  It was a good twenty minutes before the man so much as twitched. His vitals were interesting -- pulse and respiration were just this side of dead, and his blood pressure rose and fell erratically. His ability took a toll on him unlike anything Von Ratched had ever seen.

  "I know you are awake," he finally said. "Look at me, Mister Geezer."

  The man did, and let out a mumbled litany of curses that outdid even Donovan. The harsh lighting made him look jaundiced, his eyes so bloodshot very little white remained. "Wondered when you'd get around to me," he croaked. "Can't do nothing for you, Doctor. Don't have a damn bit of control over this, and I never have."

  Von Ratched was sure he really believed that, too; the young Russian had. "You do not, but I might," he said, his hands folded as he regarded the wreck of a man on the exam table. "I cannot attempt to force a vision on you so soon, but you and I will work on that later. For now I would like to know what you saw."

  Geezer shifted, the paper on the table crinkling and rustling. "Wouldn't do you any good," he said. "It's just bits without context. Mostly doesn't make sense until after the fact."

  He was hedging, and badly. Von Ratched quirked an eyebrow. "Nevertheless, you will tell me what you saw, or I will force it from you. Believe me, you do not want the latter."

  "You can't read it in my head?"

  "No," he said, disgust lacing the admission. "I cannot. Because of that, I will be forced to resort to less elegant methods -- unless you cooperate."

  Geezer was sweating again, and Von Ratched stopped breathing through his nose. The smell of blood he barely noticed anymore, but unwashed human he could definitely do without.

  "This place burns down," Geezer said, after a pause. "Dunno how or why or when. Not winter -- there's no snow -- but that don't mean it'll happen soon. Could be next spring, could be ten years from now."

  "What else?" Von Ratched asked softly, and Geezer shuddered.

  "War," he whispered. "Bombs. Death. Dunno where or when." He fell silent, his face a shade paler, but they weren't done here yet.

  "There is more. I know there is."

  Geezer shivered again, curling on his side. "Not much, and it was too damn brief to make any sense. Buncha pissed-off people and a mountain."

  There it was again -- the hedging. "What people? You know who they are." It was more statement than question; the man wouldn't be so evasive if he didn't know. "Tell me, Geezer, or this is really going to hurt."

  Of course the bastard said nothing, but Von Ratched wasn't surprised. Someone who could survive such burns as this man had would not be easily broken. No doubt he was ready for a beating, but that wasn't how Von Ratched operated -- the only person he'd had to get physical with in years was Donovan, but her ability and her pigheadedness were all that made that necessary. Physical violence was crass, messy; adjectives that described her, come to think of it.

  No, he wasn't going to hit Geezer, or play with any of his considerable collection of surgical implements. Instead he stood with a mild sigh, stripping off his gloves. "Doubtless you believe you are retaining some shred of honor by your silence," he said, walking to the table, "but you are not. You are only ensuring yourself a very, very bad day."

  He had to give the man a little credit. There was fear in his eyes, yes, but also a great deal of defiance. They would have to see how many memories of the Viet Cong could be brought to the fore.

  Unfortunately, Geezer's powers of recall weren't impressive even within the things he did remember. Vietnam was there, yes, but it was murky, sight without sound or smell. Humid, but even that was vague. The jungle was little more than a green blob, the trees amorphous blurs rather than anything defined. How disappointing --

  Wait. Here was a smell. Napalm, Von Ratched realized, though the only context he had for it was within Geezer's mind. It was joined by charred flesh -- now here was something clear, something he could work with. The ruination of this half-broken man's hands ought to be interesting.

  The memory was very sharp. The sweltering humidity of a Vietnam summer was so vivid he could feel Geezer sweating, taste the mingling of metallic fear, bitter gasoline fumes, and harsh cordite.

  Planes were coming, a distant shrieking in the air -- North planes, not theirs. The entire squadron was taking what cover they could find; they didn't have anything like anti-aircraft arms. All they could do was hide and pray, and Geezer wasn't much good at either. He'd been a tall man, before age and hard living stooped him, tall and strong. Very young, though, in this memory -- just barely seventeen. A pity he didn't know what year this was.

  And here they came, the bombs, the jungle startlingly nearby going up in flames. There was just enough breeze to bear the choking, blinding smoke to them, herald of what might be a horrible death. Closer and closer still, and it was all Geezer could do to stay in one place -- the urge to flee was almost overwhelming, but if he ran and they spotted him, he was done for.

  But he did run when a missile came streaking toward him, grabbing a friend whose name he no longer recalled. They tried to crouch as they went, and tripped into too many puddles to count.

  And then there was fire ahead, the trees alight from root to crown, so hot it singed the hair on his head. Von Ratched pulled a little away, observing rather than inhabiting -- the point, after all, was to hurt Geezer, not himself. Another missile trailing smoke and flame, and then his friend was burning, he was burning --

  Von Ratched broke away there, but Geezer was trapped, screaming like a madman. His hands automatically curled in against his chest, his eyes squeezed shut and his face so red he looked in danger of a coronary.

  After about a minute of this Von Ratched allowed him out of the memory. His face drained to grey again, and he shook like a drunk in detox. "Shall we do that a
gain, or will you tell me? I can make it worse, Geezer. I can make it so much worse."

  "Fuck you."

  To his surprise, it took two more muggings in Memory Lane for Geezer to finally crack. "It's Lorna and Ratiri," he whispered, his voice all but gone. "I don't know why, but it's something you did. Will do. You hurt her somehow, and they're both out to kill you. Think they might be…" He trailed off, the words ending in a sigh. "Don't push 'em. Not her. Ends bad."

  Given how often he'd hurt both of them, Von Ratched didn't know what might be significant enough about it to warrant a space in Geezer's precognition.

  "Hurt him too much…she'll kill you. Hurt her…she'll still kill you."

  "I have no intention of harming either," he said, with a tinge of asperity. Perhaps he ought to separate them for a time. He wanted them dependant on one another -- not willing to kill for each other. Then again, Donovan had been there already, and that…irked him. She should be afraid for Duncan, not homicidal for the sake of his safety.

  He took a dose of Thorazine from the medicine cabinet. "Thank you, Geezer. You have given me much to think about."

  The man probably welcomed the drug at this point, and Von Ratched left him to the care of a nurse and two orderlies. Time to check on Donovan and Duncan, and see what had to be done about them.

  To his irritation, when he went to the viewing room he found the screens dark. Either they'd sabotaged the camera, or Donovan had blown it out by accident. Damn. He really didn't have the patience to deal with one of her tantrums right now.

  When he unlocked the door to their cell, however, he found them both asleep. They'd scooted the cots close enough that she could keep a hand on Duncan’s pulse, presumably to calm him if he woke. It was an intelligent strategy, but for some reason, Von Ratched didn't like it. He was beginning to regret fostering their codependence, which made no sense -- as a theory it was very sound. Seeing it in practice, however, bothered him. He'd wanted to be able to use each as a threat against each other, but there was an odd, unhealthy bond to them now that sat ill with him.