The Curse of M

by Stevie Barry

  Von Ratched paused on sight of her, and she would swear a flicker of guilt crossed his face. He sat facing her at the table, maintaining a careful distance. "I am sorry, Lorna."

  "You said that the last time," she said, sipping her tea and trying not to glare at him. "You're a doctor, you ought to recognize the classic signs of an abuser. Remind me again why I ought to have any reason to want to stay here."

  Again there was the barest trace of guilt. He seemed relieved that she would verbally parry him, though, like he somehow found it reassuring. "I am…unused to a situation such as ours," he admitted, folding his long fingers on the table before him. "I am going to make mistakes."

  He thinks that's just a mistake? Lorna thought incredulously. Some of her disbelief must have showed on her face, for he sighed.

  "I am afraid there will be more things you will have to forgive me for," he said quietly.

  "Why?" she shot back, unable to keep silent. "You never have told me what's supposedly in this for me. What, exactly, am I meant to get out'v this?" Her eyes narrowed, and she went on before he could reply. "My guess is you've not thought'v that. What I actually want doesn’t matter. You just give me things to shut me up so I won't gripe at you nonstop."

  Pack it in, Lorna, she thought, immediately appalled with herself. Pissing him off wasn't part of her plan.

  He said nothing, and she thought it was because for once in his life, he truly didn't know what to say. There was no answer he could give her, because when push came to shove he was a selfish bastard who didn't really care what she thought. What anyone thought.

  "I can make you happy, Lorna," he said at last, but even he didn't sound convinced.

  "No," she said, letting a little of the hostility leave her voice, "you can't. And I don't think you can honestly say you're happy having me here. For God's sake, Von Ratched, you've gutted your flat to make sure there's nothing in it I can kill you with. Doesn't that tell you anything about how bloody wrong this whole situation is?"

  For a moment, Lorna thought she might be getting through to him. There was a bleakness in his expression that was startlingly human, one that told her that deep down, he knew she was right. Consciously or not, he knew full well he was deluding himself, and for that brief moment she almost felt sorry for him.

  But it was gone in a blink, and when he reached for her hand there was a worrying level of determination in those pale eyes. "It need not be, if you would cease insisting to yourself that I am the enemy."

  She recoiled. She couldn't help it. Even his attempted touch filled her with a fear and loathing that didn't have to be feigned at all. The sheer level of her panic disgusted her -- she was supposed to be using it, not the other way around.

  "Don't," she hissed, retreating and gripping her mug like a weapon. "Just…don't. You made it pretty goddamn clear you could force whatever you felt like, but it wouldn’t be real, and I think you still think you wish it would be. Just…go to work," she said, suddenly exhausted. "Leave me alone."

  To her very great surprise, he did. And she was fairly sure she didn't imagine how stricken he looked when he did.

  Round one, Lorna Donovan, she thought, before crawling onto the couch in his office and dropping into sleep so deep it was almost a coma.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Von Ratched went to F wing, but his mind was not on his work. Mary, the floating human, didn't receive nearly as much attention as she should -- something she was probably grateful for.

  Lorna's flinch had disturbed him. He'd scared her enough times before now, but she'd weaponized that fear, turned it back against him. This was something new -- something very, very bad. If she was afraid enough to so blatantly betray it to him…well, for one thing, he was sure she'd try to kill him again. Sleeping in his apartment would not be a wise course of action.

  Yet again, he truly wondered just what the hell he'd gotten himself into. He'd known from the start this wouldn't be easy, but now he was honestly questioning whether or not it was even possible. He'd never given up on anything in his life, but Lorna was…Lorna. Whatever was wrong with her remained wrong.

  Perhaps he should move her to her own apartment for a while. A Spartan apartment, with nothing she could turn into a weapon, but somewhere she could sleep in peace. She could continue sharing meals with him, and he could deal with her fear and aversion in tiny increments. Very, very tiny increments.

  Yes. That might work. With a potential solution, he could turn his full attention to Mary. Even if it did mean he needed his earplugs.

  ----

  The London group returned to the DMA that evening, traveling through a Door hidden in an ancient sewer. Ratiri was exhausted and his leg was killing him, but he was far too wired to sleep.

  The animal in him wanted to pace, but Gerald put a firm kibosh on that. The four escapees went to have dinner in Katje's apartment, but Ratiri was so jittery he couldn't even eat much.

  "You're like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs," Geezer said. "What gives? We're going on the air in three days."

  "I don't know. It's just…something's not right." More specifically, something with Lorna wasn't right. He still had his connection to her mind, even if he was much too far away to read it, and something was so wrong he could sense it even here. And it filled him with a formless dread he could neither banish nor ignore.

  "Here I thought I was the precog," Geezer said. "Any idea what it is?"

  "No," Ratiri said, "but -- how soon can we mobilize, once this interview is done?"

  "Miranda's ready to go now, but she wants to give it a day or two, so Von Ratched's got time to bug out."

  "No." His tone was so savage that even Katje stared at him. "It will take the better part of a day to even get there, right? I want to go on -- what do you call it? Reconnaissance?"

  "Ratiri, you'd blow the whole thing," Geezer said. "If Von Ratched caught you -- and you know he would -- he'd see everything. I know this is hard, but you've gotta wait."

  "Do you have any idea what you're asking of me?" Ratiri demanded, the words almost a snarl.

  "Yes," Geezer said, suddenly looking very bleak, "I do. You're just gonna have to trust me. This isn't gonna be fun for anybody, but trying to change the future never ends well. Sit down, have a drink, and plan out what you and Lorna'll do when she gets back to us. And remember what I told you."

  Kids. Right. Ratiri did as he was bidden, but it couldn't fully take his mind off his dread. He thought of a little house in Scotland or Ireland, somewhere in the country where Lorna could have a big garden. Nothing big, nothing fancy, because neither of them were fancy people. A nursery big enough to be a proper bedroom when the kids got older, with a dormer-window facing east to catch the morning sun.

  It would have a woodstove in the kitchen, just like her grandmother's cottage, and a fireplace in the living-room, like the house he'd grown up in. A big kitchen -- he liked to cook, even if Lorna might not -- with a walk-in pantry.

  He could open a private practice, and she could go back to bartending if she felt like it. The should live near enough to other people so the kids could have some playmates, and be able to walk to school. Maybe near Lorna's sister; they would know the herd of cousins.

  And they could heal, the pair of them, far away from Alaska and the Institute. It was a thought he had to hold onto, for the sake of his own sanity.

  ----

  When Lorna woke, she found she was still afraid, and that royally pissed her off. And she had no idea what to do.

  The living-room would be a refrigerator, so that left her to explore Von Ratched's office. He had a whole bookshelf of books bound in dark leather, their titles rendered in gold leaf, and one caught her eye -- Fundamentals of Anatomy & Physiology.

  Synapses, she thought, struggling to her feet and hobbling over to the shelves on her crutch. She knew synapses had to do with the brain, and obviously they could be manipulated. Von Ratched was a little too good at it, but if he could do it, Lorna cou
ld learn. And then he'd be in for a whole new world of pain.

  Apparently she had two types to choose from, chemical and electrical. She had no idea what to do with the chemical ones, but electrical sounded promising. Synapses essentially talked to one another, so she thought he was maybe using his to manipulate hers. Wasn't that bloody creepy.

  If that was the case, though, it might work to her advantage. She didn't know how to connect the two, but if he did it for her, she could hit him with everything she had. The thought that she had a defense, even if it was only hypothetical, comforted her a little. If he reneged on his promise to leave her alone -- and Lorna was sure he would, once he got too impatient -- he was in for a very nasty surprise.

  She flipped through the book and read about veins and organs, too, so she'd know where to stab or bite the next time. The human body was a fascinating thing, even if she was currently only looking for ways to shut it down.

  Her fingers traced the diagram of the heart, the paper cool and smooth beneath them. Maybe she could stop his heart, hold it still with her telekinesis long enough to kill him. Even Von Ratched had to sleep sometime, and if he was stupid enough to do it in the same room as her, it would be the last thing he'd ever do.

  Lorna smiled grimly. Maybe, when everything was over, she'd go to medical school herself. Knowing how to manipulate a human body could come in very, very handy.

  She hadn't been lying when she told him she was not an inherently good person. Ratiri wouldn't dream of doing what she was now contemplating, but Lorna was a survivor, and sometimes a person had to do some nasty things to survive. After the previous night, the thought of killing Von Ratched was not even remotely horrifying. If he was going to ignore the standards he claimed to have, there was no reason she shouldn't do the same.

  With that thought in mind, she put the book away and hobbled into the kitchen to find something to eat. For the first time she was hungry for real food, and she found a bit of leftover steak in the fridge. Once she'd microwaved it she found there was nothing to cut it with, so she ate it with her hands, tearing at the tender, juicy meat like an animal. It was only when she wiped her mouth on her sleeve that she realized she was still smiling.

  ----

  As soon as Von Ratched reached his apartment that evening, he knew something was wrong.

  Lorna sat at the dining-room table, her crutch propped up beside her and a book open in front of her. Her hair was damp -- had she honestly tried to take an actual shower by herself? He hoped she hadn't soaked her cast.

  Something in her posture made him very wary. She looked entirely too calm, and he was smart enough to know that couldn't be a good thing. If her fear of him lingered, she didn't show it at all.

  "Good evening, Lorna," he said, taking off his lab coat, and when she looked up at him her expression actually chilled him for a moment.

  "Hi, Von Ratched. I ate your leftovers."

  She'd managed leftovers? That had to be a good sign. Keeping down solid food was a definite step in the right direction.

  "I have been thinking," he said, pulling out a chair and sitting facing her. "You have too little privacy, and now that you are well enough, I will give you your own apartment."

  That obviously startled her, though she tried not to show it. "Why?" she asked suspiciously.

  Von Ratched sighed. "Believe me or not, I do want you to be happy here, and after last night, I feel I owe you. I know you will never rest easy now if you share quarters with me, and I cannot say that I blame you."

  Lorna closed her book. "What's the catch?"

  "There is no catch. You will continue to share meals with me, and in time I will take you to physical therapy, but your space will be your own."

  "And how long'll that last?"

  "Until you no longer want it to. I am not trying to force anything on you, but after last night I would understand if you do not believe me. I know I scared you, Lorna, and I do not want to do that again."

  She bristled at that, as he'd known she would. She disliked showing fear as much as he detested showing anger, and he'd certainly done so last night. To be quite honest, he didn't trust his control around her, in more ways than one.

  "That is no sign of weakness on your part," he added. "It is only common sense. I could have hurt you very badly, and I don't want you to think I would ever do so again. I will send your books and movies with you, and grant you other requests within reason. I know you feel like a prisoner here, and that is not my intent."

  She still looked suspicious, but he'd known she would be. Lorna wasn't a woman who trusted easily, and after last night she had no reason to trust him. It was frustrating, but he could admit it was partly his fault. He ought to have just defended himself, and left the threats out of it.

  "All right," she said at last, and there was a calculation in her eyes that Von Ratched didn't like. She was plotting some fresh hell for him, but she would be on painkillers for a while yet -- he didn't really need to worry until she was clear-headed.

  "Good. Do you think you could eat again?"

  Lorna gave this due consideration. "Yes," she said, and looked at him very strangely, "I think I could."

  ----

  Miranda, Geezer quickly decided, must be one of those people who rarely slept. At two in the morning she dragged them to the DMA's meteorology center, a room not unlike the one that controlled the Trees.

  "We have a problem," she said, pointing to some colored blobs that meant nothing to him. "Broadcast goes live in three days, right? Well, one bleedin' mother of a storm's gonna hit the Institute then. We could get there with our weather-manipulators, but Von Ratched will be stuck like a bug in a bottle. I need to know -- d'you think weather would slow down his telepathy any?"

  "Doubt it," Geezer said. "On the other hand, he wouldn't be looking for an attack in a storm -- unless he knows what you've got here. How much does he know about your organization?"

  Miranda shrugged. "Not sure. It's probably safest to assume he knows too much. The assassins we've sent after him over the years were purposely lower-level on the information chain, but I'm sure he knows whatever they did."

  Geezer sighed. "You thinking what I’m thinking?"

  She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Unfortunately, I'm sure I am. We can't go right away. Not without severe risk of blowing the whole damn thing."

  "Ratiri's gonna kill us both over this," he muttered, lighting a cigarette.

  "What's with him?" Miranda asked. "Most of the time he seems reasonable, and then he'll go and almost bite someone's head off."

  "Von Ratched did something to him. Kid wants to go with us when we do go north, and we'd better let him. For his sake and everyone else's." He rubbed his eyes, wondering if he ought to continue. "Seen some of the results of this. It ain't gonna be pretty for too many people."

  Miranda rose and got a bottle of scotch from a filing cabinet. "What happens?"

  "I can't tell you," he said bitterly. Never in his life had his curse made him feel more alone than it did now. "Tell you this: we've got a few years before the shit really hits the fan in the world, but it'll be all the worse when it does. We're not gonna catch Von Ratched, lass," he said. "I know that much. But I'm betting that's no surprise to you."

  "We might not catch him yet," she said firmly, "but we will. I'll punch the future's lights out if I have to."

  She'd try, too, if Geezer was any judge. He knew better, though -- for now, Von Ratched was out of their league. Lorna was awfully strong, but Von Ratched was a crafty bastard, and a careful one. Lorna was no dummy, and she had a mean streak in her, but Von Ratched was evil.

  No, they wouldn't catch him and Lorna wouldn't kill him, but unless Geezer was interpreting things entirely wrong, something was going to damn near break him.

  Unfortunately, that would only make him more dangerous.

  ----

  For the first time since she'd been shot, Lorna slept deeply without the aid of drugs.

  Her apartment was prett
y bare, but she had a real bed now, one she could stretch out on. It helped that nothing in here smelled like Von Ratched -- she'd bet that summer-storm scent was partially what had made her so jittery. Once upon a time she'd enjoyed the smell of an oncoming thunderstorm, but she thought she never would again.

  There was a real storm on the way, if the sky was any indication. She'd fallen asleep so early that she woke at first light, and made her way over to her bedroom window. The clouds were low and heavy and leaden, wind blasting the snow already on the ground. It moaned around the building, and she shivered. Escaping in this was going to be even worse than she'd thought. Unless she was seriously lucky, she might freeze to death -- but it was better than staying here.

  She took a long hot bath, careful to keep her cast out of the tub. As much as she hated to admit Von Ratched could be right about anything, he was about this -- she could breathe so much easier here, in this place with no hint of him.

  Unfortunately, she still had to have breakfast with him, but he was unusually reserved. Maybe he really did feel genuinely guilty. Oh, he'd apologized the last time he'd hurt her, but this time he was putting his money where his mouth was. And that might make her job easier.

  When he'd cleared the table, he sat again and gave her a long, measured look. "I am going to give you something, Lorna," he said. "I have asked for your trust, yet placed none in you. What I will bring to your apartment are my personal records -- in them are things no one else knows about me. I know so much of you, yet you know nothing of me, and that is unfair." His expression hardened a little. "I am trusting you. Do not abuse it."

  Lorna stared at him, completely floored. What the hell was this? Had he lost his mind? He ought to know better than to tell her anything at all of his past, let alone the whole thing. Good grief, he really must feel guilty. "Why?" she asked, unable to help herself. "I tried to kill you two days ago."

  "I drove you to it," he said dryly. "I should not have said what I did, and I certainly should not have done what I did. This is the only way I can think of to attempt to make it up to you."