The Curse of M

by Stevie Barry

  The general he'd spoken to looked like what he'd expected. Aging, grey-haired, but in very good shape, his uniform impeccable. While not so tall as Von Ratched, he was tall enough -- six-one, maybe six-two. He had the look of a man accustomed to having his every order instantly obeyed; no wonder he'd been so very obnoxious over the phone.

  Beside him was another man, a politician of some kind, and he couldn't be more of a contrast to his companion. A once-fit man going soft in a way his tailored grey suit couldn't hide, with an expression of grim self-righteousness that told Von Ratched everything he needed to know. Here was one who really did consider him the devil.

  "I am disappointed in you," he said, before either of them could speak. "He is an idiot, but General Andrews, surely you read my file. Surely you knew this was a suicide mission.”

  The politician paled. He was shivering in the wind, trying not to show it and failing. "He didn't tell you his name."

  Von Ratched sighed, dismissing the moron. "He knows he did not need to. Come now, General -- who did you anger enough to be sent here? Who told you so little of me?"

  When the man spoke, his tone was clipped, hard -- Maine, if Von Ratched wasn't mistaken. "You have no file, Doctor," he said. "In fact, you have no documentation whatsoever."

  Ah. Now that was mildly bewildering; who would be stupid enough to destroy it? "It would have to be a very recent loss, I am afraid. I have worked for your government for a very long time now without interference. You should have listened to Andrew Crupps -- he knows what happened to the last nation that crossed me."

  "Crupps is dead," the general said. "Suicide, we think. You're what, forty? You can't have served this country that long. If you can call what you do 'serving'," he added, with a hint of distaste.

  Von Ratched clasped his hands behind his back, regarding the man too closely for comfort. "Did you ever ask Andrew which government I overthrew?" he asked at last.

  "No. The man was a lunatic by the time I met him."

  Interesting. That certainly hadn't been his doing. So he didn't tell the general -- he showed him. In very gruesome detail.

  The man went white.

  "I am much older than I look," Von Ratched said quietly. He was going to say more, but the strident blare of an alarm wailed through the courtyard, momentarily overridden by a deafening explosion. He sighed. "You will have to excuse me shortly, gentlemen. I have a riot to attend to. But first…"

  The assembled personnel drew their weapons, pointing the sidearms at their heads like a platoon of marionettes. The unified report as the triggers were pulled was earsplitting, the spray of blood and brain making curious Rorschach patterns on the tarmac. With so very many of them, it wasn't the easiest feat to pull off, but he knew that occasionally appearances counted.

  The politician shrieked and ducked, and Von Ratched snapped his neck without sparing him a glance. He caught the general's collar before the man could turn and flee.

  "I am sending you home," he said, the words flat and inflectionless. "You are my witness. If any of you so much as breathe in my direction again, this will be the fate of your government."

  He released the man's collar and turned away, torn between euphoria and aggravation. Killing produced a high like nothing else, but it was a base, primal reaction. It was a side-effect of strength, not intellect, thus one best not indulged in. Unfortunately, he might not be through using that strength yet.

  Staff scurried around him like driver ants as he stalked the hallways, running toward the blaze with fire extinguishers, or away from it with precious supplies. He ignored them all, and ignored the smoke that became more choking with every step he took.

  The Activities Hall was utterly demolished. The collapse of the roof had done more to smother the fire than any extinguishers could have managed -- rather poor planning on the part of the escapees. He kicked at a bit of smoldering sheetrock with his boot. Time, he thought, to send a helicopter or four. Certain of the Institute's military were loyal to him; they could gas the inmates and see which were salvageable.

  He stepped out across the ruined wall, into the scrub. It was still smoking in places, much of the ground reduced to charcoal. The arson had to be Wrigley, but only one person could have caused the rest of this destruction.

  Donovan.

  She was lucky she was valuable, because in that moment he could have strangled her. All the inmates needed punishing, but he'd have to think up something special for her. She needed to learn, and the others had to see that following where she led was not a good idea.

  ----

  Ratiri had no idea how far they'd gone before some of them started flagging. Not far enough to call a proper halt, but they needed a break.

  He sat with his head against his knees, his sweat drying sticky and chill. While he hoped the military had taken care of all the escapees couldn't, he wasn't counting on it -- and even if the invaders had won, there was a good chance they were the next target.

  Lorna flopped down beside him, and tried to even out her breathing. She'd recovered enough to stagger after him on her own, and insisted he let her do so. She wasn't pale anymore; her face was rosy with exertion, the bite of the wind, and probably a sunburn. Exhausted, yes, but about as giddy with freedom as he was.

  "What if they come after us?" he asked, brushing a sweaty tangle of hair from her eyes.

  "If they're still in the helicopters, Wrigley and I might manage between us. And who knows how many'll be left, after they fight Von Arsehole." She wiped her forehead on the tail of her shirt.

  "What if he wins?" Ratiri asked quietly. "What if he wins, and comes after us?"

  She looked at him, an intense, piercing look. "I'll kill myself before I go back there," she said, dead serious. "I wasn't kidding when I said I'd rather die out here than stay."

  He shivered. She sounded very…definite…about it, and he wondered if he'd have that much conviction, if it came down to it. "We have to find water. We won't last more than a day without it." He glanced out at the flat scrubland. There was little way of knowing if they were even fleeing in a straight line, and he really didn't like the total lack of cover.

  Geezer apparently didn't, either. He'd been pale and withdrawn since his first proper meeting with Von Ratched, and looked like he might go into a flashback at any moment. Katje was looking after him, but there was only so much she could do.

  A sense of deep misgiving descended on Ratiri like a blanket, dampening his runner's high. He didn't need Geezer's precognition to feel this was going to go disastrously wrong, in ways even he couldn't anticipate. While he really didn't want to be part of a mass suicide in the Alaskan wilderness, it would be better than living to find out what Von Ratched would do to them all when he caught them.

  They only sat ten minutes before they forced themselves on their way again. The sun was setting fast, and without its marginal warmth his fingers started going numb. Katje did what she could to make them warmer clothing, but her ability took its toll, too. At least they were less visible now, though soon it would be too dark to keep on. And they'd have no choice but to light a fire -- he didn't want to freeze during his first night of freedom.

  The sun had just dipped below the horizon when her heard it: helicopters. They were so far and so faint none of the others could be aware of them, but they were coming. Shit.

  "We need to hide," he said. "Now. Find anything you can crawl under -- they've got to have spotlights. Go."

  There wasn't much to hide under. The bushes were all stunted and low-growing, suited to this harsh climate. He grabbed Lorna's hand and pulled her under one, getting his face scratched and eyes poked by twigs for his trouble. She smelled…odd, a combination of bitter fear and metallic anger, and her hand gripped his so hard it hurt.

  Remember what I said. I'm not going back.

  All he could do was squeeze her hand in response, shivering. The ground was ice-cold and hard, leeching out what little warmth he had. It was possible the choppers would miss them, but
realistically they probably had infrared scanners. The question was whether they meant to capture the escapees, or just kill them.

  The sound grew closer, louder, until all the others had to hear it, too. Every primitive instinct he had told him to flee; staying put was one of the hardest things he'd ever done in his life.

  Lorna shifted beside him, shivering herself, and he knew her intent before she so much as spoke.

  "Don't," he hissed. "They're too far, and you'll never take out all of them."

  "I can take out enough," she hissed back. "I'm not going down without dragging a few'v those bastards with me."

  He didn't have the time to talk her out of it -- and maybe she was right. "Just wait, then. Wait until they're close enough."

  "How'm I supposed to know when that'll happen?"

  "Good question." His pulse was hammering in his ears, but with it came a peculiar anticipation unlike anything he could remember feeling. It was like Lorna's itch for violence was transmitting itself to him -- which it probably was.

  It was too dark to see the choppers, but they were very close now -- and then a searchlight knifed through the night. It was blinding, the brilliant white of some ungodly wattage. Not ten seconds later the lead chopper fired something at them, and he yanked Lorna closer, ready to shield her --

  "Gas!"

  The harsh cry could only have come from Geezer, and he was right: pale, stinging smoke exploded from the canister when it hit the ground, a choking miasma that left Ratiri coughing within seconds.

  "Tear gas," Lorna growled. "Fuck. Fuck this."

  She'd broken cover before he could grab her, scrambling upright with the collar of her shirt pulled up over her mouth and nose. Another canister landed, spewing its horrible cargo, and now screams split the night along with the rotors.

  A horrible, inhuman screech overrode both, rendering him momentarily deaf -- and then the lead helicopter spun out of control, its rotor crushed. It circled wildly, trying to fight gravity with no leverage, but it crashed to the tundra with such force the ground shook beneath him. It exploded into a fireball that would have done Wrigley proud, and drove Ratiri to his feet. He grabbed Lorna's hand and pulled her after him, trying to find a way out of the choking fog.

  She staggered and fell twice, but another helicopter went down, this time exploding before it even hit the ground: Wrigley's doing, probably. The heat was overpowering after so much cold, the stench of burning gasoline joining the gas, the tang of hot metal coating the back of his throat. That Lady, he thought, had said war was coming, and it looked like it had just started.

  Behind him, Lorna fell again -- but this time she screamed, clutching her head with her free hand. Not half a second later Ratiri knew why: total agony shot through his brain, tearing at it from the inside out. It only lasted a moment before blessed unconsciousness took him.

  Chapter Ten

  Deep night had fallen on the Institute, and all was quiet. The hallways were cold, and stank of wet wood and smoke, but Von Ratched's office was warm and dry.

  He'd had plenty of time to shower and change when they returned. The orderlies dealt with the inmates, imprisoning them in holding cells deep underground. All but Donovan, with whom he needed to…talk.

  He'd had no idea she'd be capable of something like that stunt she'd pulled with the helicopters. Taking down walls required only brute strength; taking down helicopters took a precision he hadn't known she possessed. She probably hadn't known it either, until just then. The woman was even more trouble than he'd bargained for.

  She was currently still very unconscious, laid out on a gurney at the center of the room. Sooty, sweaty, filthy, her hair matted and filled with debris -- she looked quite out-of-place in the otherwise tidy room. The light of his (third) desk lamp was muted: he didn't want her seeing anything with clarity. The after-effects of the tear gas would more than likely help with that.

  Eventually she stirred, and of course swore. Charming. It didn't take her long to figure out her hands were restrained, and then she snapped as awake as total exhaustion would let her.

  "Don't bother, Donovan," he said, steepling his hands before his face. He was seated at his desk, again calmed by morphine -- more or less. "You are not going anywhere this time."

  She swore again, and blinked hard. He rose and went to stand beside her gurney, looking down at her dirt-streaked face. "I admit, I am at something of a loss as to what to do with you, Donovan. You cost me two pilots, hours of wasted time, and a decent portion of my Institute. Tell me why I should not just kill you."

  Her eyes focused a little more, glaring at him even through her weariness. "Go ahead," she whispered. It sounded like she was speaking through a throat full of sand.

  He leaned over her, one hand on either of the gurney's rails. "You really mean that, don't you?" he asked, intrigued in spite of his irritation with her. "You truly would not mind if I killed you."

  She shook her head, still glaring. "At this point? No."

  He straightened, pacing the room. "I could always kill Duncan," he said, "or DaVries. I suspect, however, that would only cement your stubbornness. I believe you would see them as martyrs, and fight me all the harder. Torturing them would likewise only enrage you."

  She tried to follow his progress, but barely managed to turn her head as he went to a drawer and took out the hairbrush. That of all things obviously unnerved her, and thank God something did. He drew his armchair around the head of the gurney and pulled the snarled mass of her hair over the edge, and went to work, careful not to pull or tug. "I think I have figured something out about you, Donovan," he said, almost conversationally. "You are proud of your ability to deal with injuries and violence, giving and receiving. You count it a sign of hard-won strength, and I must agree -- it is. In any other situation I would admire it, and in a sense I must even now, however counter it runs to my purposes."

  She was tilting her head, trying to look at him, and he sighed, leaning over her so he could meet her eyes. "There are worse things than pain, Donovan," he said quietly. "Things in which you would take no pride. I do not want you to drive me to them, because even I have standards. And they would destroy you," he added, brushing her tangled bangs back from her forehead. Finally she flinched, her eyes huge, but Von Ratched took no satisfaction in her fear. He wasn't lying; there really were places he didn't want to go. And however infuriating he found her, he didn't want to destroy her. Not like that.

  "I'm not going to rape you, Donovan," he said. "I certainly don't want to, but I would not need to. The things I could do to your mind would be so much worse."

  She paled, and he sat again, going back to work on her hair. "I would find even those distasteful, though. Even monsters such as myself have limits, and that is mine. I have been called a sadist, but I do not fit the true definition of the term -- I take no physical satisfaction in the pain I cause." Mental, yes, but not physical. His motives were more pure than that, if not by much.

  Oh, Donovan was afraid now. He didn't even need to read her mind to know how terrified she was. But she was angry, too, furious that he would threaten her so; he could feel her trying to gather what little power she could in her exhausted state, mentally swearing at him in Irish the entire time. It made him sigh again.

  "I did warn you, Donovan," he said, setting aside the brush and twining his hands in her hair.

  "Don't you bloody dare." Good grief, she was actually trying to attack him with her telepathy, though she doubtless thought she was defending herself. She sounded almost as feral as he'd first rendered Duncan, snarling like a trapped animal.

  "I am sorry you drove me to this, Donovan," he said, and he actually meant it.

  She no doubt thought he'd meant to hurt her with this, because she was horribly surprised when he did exactly the opposite. Her eyes glazed with something quite removed from weariness, her pupils dilating until only a thin ring of green remained. While she choked on her next breath, she remained admirably still, given what he was mak
ing her feel. Even now she fought him, though it would be much wiser for her to give in, before he had to do anything worse.

  "Stop it," she said, but the words were more gasp than growl.

  "Only if you stop fighting me," he said, grave.

  "You can't -- you -- you can't make --"

  "Yes I can," he said, his fingers shifting in her hair. Donovan shuddered, but it was still partly revulsion. "I hope this is a lesson I will only have to teach you once."

  She snarled at him in Irish, a string of incoherent curses that trailed off into something visceral and wordless. Now she simply couldn't hold still, but she couldn't escape, either.

  He didn't make her suffer long. She bit her lip and somehow avoided crying out as he guided her senses over the edge, into a delirious flood of bliss. It left her boneless, and Von Ratched mildly disgusted with himself.

  She shut her eyes, refusing to look at anything as he guided her back down to normal. "I told you the truth, Donovan," he said, smoothing back her hair, "I did not want to do that, and I do not want to have to do it again."

  To that she said nothing, nor did she move. They stayed like that a long while, he with his hand on her forehead, her with her eyes resolutely shut. Indeed she was so still he wondered if he'd broken her permanently -- until her eyes snapped open, and he realized that for once in his life he'd made a very, very grave mistake.

  Before, she'd looked at him like he was an irritant -- a foe to be fought, bested, beaten. She'd looked at him in fear and in rage, in pain and defiance, but there was nothing of that now. The only thing in her eyes now was pure murder, their green depths wells of a cold hatred that was almost reptilian. They were nearly inhuman, those pools of frigid emerald ice.

  Oh, this had backfired.

  Still she said nothing; still she didn't move, but there was tension in her every sinew unlike any he'd yet seen from her. He'd meant her to feel like prey -- instead she'd gone so predatory she was almost fey, but she kept it tightly leashed. Nothing fell, nothing smashed; his lamp remained in one piece. For the first time it looked like she was actively saving her rage, holding it instead of venting it. In all this time she hadn't blinked, but there was an almost sub-audible growl at the back of her throat.