Song of Edmon

by Adam Burch

  I grip rock and traverse as far as my line will take me. I’m fondly reminded of Nadia’s lessons from my youth. I miss her so much. Carrick’s drill pulses. A cracking sound reverberates through the cavern. Rock and ore rain down. I snag the wall fiercely and gravel sails past. I suck in my breath so as not to inhale particulate. The dust settles. Just another typical day on the rock, I think.

  “Carrick?” I call out. “Carrick?” I call again.

  A scream sounds from below. I flip the switch on my auto-belay and rappel down. Sifters stand on a ledge collecting chunk we’ve dumped. I unhook myself from the cables and rush to a pile of rubble where several of them have crowded. A badly broken leg juts from the debris, its foot dangling at a horribly odd angle.

  Carrick! I dive into the pile of rock.

  “By the star!” one of the Sifters shouts. “He must be dead!”

  “Not until my eyes see it,” I return hotly.

  “He should be left,” someone responds. “That”—he indicates the leg—”might as well be a death sentence.”

  I ignore them and remove the rock that covers Carrick’s upper half. The big man groans. “He’s alive,” I growl. “Help me.”

  “Shue just told you, Leontes—he’s a dead man. Best to put him out of his misery.”

  I grab Carrick’s stocky frame and hoist him over my shoulders.

  “Get me to a tram,” I say.

  “The nearest lift is a kilometer up the switchback,” someone says, pointing.

  Ancestors, kill me now. My auto-belay can’t carry both me and the big man. Carrick moans in delirium. If I do nothing, he’ll die. If I get him to Faria—

  He’ll probably die anyway. I stop myself. You’ve been here before, Edmon. Remember Toshi. Leave him.

  I lay him on the ground. Letting Carrick die would be the smart thing.

  Abyss. I’ve already made the choice. I hook Carrick’s harness to my auto-belay.

  “What in the depths are you doing?” The man called Shue gets in my face.

  I shove him out of the way. “Something you wouldn’t understand.”

  He steps up to fight, but I glare the Sifter down. Shue must see something in me that makes him shrink. I move past him and continue to work. I double-check the knots and hit the auto-belay. It winches Carrick upward. I see his dangling foot wobble, hanging on by mere tendons and skin.

  Stay alive, I silently pray. Then I sprint up the switchback all the way to the top. I shove past Sifters and Haulers, forcing them out of my path. They look at me with annoyance. I don’t care. My arms and legs pump blood until they’re burning acid. Only a few more paces to go, and I collapse at the top from the exertion. Carrick dangles as the motor of the auto-belay grinds. I scramble over the lip of the ledge and haul him to solid ground. He groans as I slip him over my shoulder and trudge toward the tram.

  The engineer is in the cabin with his feet up on the control dash when I arrive. I bang my hand against the window. He startles and flips the intercom switch. “Tram doesn’t leave for four hours!” he shouts.

  “Open now! This man needs medical attention.”

  He takes a sidelong look at Carrick. “That guy needs a mortician.” He resumes his posture of Ancestors don’t give a sarfish.

  “Open up now, or I open you up!” I shout.

  “You and what army, worm?” He waves me off.

  I lay Carrick on the tunnel floor, then slam a fist into the tram window. The first blow ricochets off. The glass is thick-paned, designed to resist scrapes of falling rock, but bone is composed of the strongest stuff in nature, and my bones are stronger than most.

  It’s only pain that stops us, only lack of intention. Without fear, my limits are broken. I slam my knuckles into the glass once more. The engineer sits up in his chair, startled. I concentrate, imagining the force of my fist narrowing to the pinpoint of a laser. The pain is nothing. The engineer’s face pales behind the glass. I strike again and the glass spiderwebs. I cock my fist back ready to unload a final time.

  “Okay, okay!” screams the engineer. He flips a switch, and the door flies open. I pick Carrick up and settle into the cabin. I pull my helmet off. The patchwork of my balding scalp revealed, the driver gasps as if I’m some sort of horrific creature. I bore my eyes into him the way my father used to bore his.

  “Drive,” I command. “Back to upper cavern. Now.”

  He nods quickly and steers the tram into locomotion.

  “Faster!” I yell.

  He frantically flips the gauges. His terror is palpable. Part of me is shocked I can inspire such reaction. Another part feels pure satisfaction. This man’s fear makes me powerful. It makes me worth something.

  We arrive at the station. “Open, now!” I shout.

  “Just don’t hurt me, you maniac!” he cries desperately.

  I situate Carrick over my shoulder. He’s no longer moaning. Not a good sign. I head straight for the healer’s hut. I drag the comatose man through the igloo portal. Formalities be damned!

  Inside, Faria stands on one hand, poised on the tips of his thumb and forefinger in a feat of balance I’ve only ever witnessed in one other human being.

  “Faria?” I ask.

  The dark man flips back to his feet soundlessly. His milky eyes pierce me. “You’ve interrupted me again, Leontes.”

  “This man is dying,” I say.

  Faria comes to Carrick’s side and examines him. When he arrives at the tibia protruding from the skin, he stops. “This is beyond my means.”

  That can’t be it after all I did to bring Carrick here?

  “A broken bone should be rudimentary,” I protest.

  “The man fell. He may have internal bleeding or complications from concussion. As for the leg, the tendons are severed. Even if I repair the bone, which would take months, he would never walk again. You should have left him for dead.”

  “I don’t accept it.”

  “My suspicion is that you were already told to leave him. Now you’ve wasted your time and mine.”

  “A healer heals!” I fume. “If you try and fail, you’ve lost nothing, but you at least try.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear me.” He remains still, but I feel anger radiating off him. “In this place, he’s already dead.”

  I hold the stare of his clouded pupils. I don’t know why I care so much. Maybe I just like defying challenges. Maybe I’ve been presented with so much pain and death I want to win against them just once.

  “There’s a way,” I say, “though I don’t know if it will work.”

  “Oh?” the aged man asks.

  “A bone graft.”

  He stares as if I’ve suggested something out of a fairy tale. “That kind of medicine is possible,” he says carefully, “but only with proper facilities. You may as well suggest a brain transplant.”

  “You’re afraid to try?” I challenge.

  “We need a donor willing to undergo the procedure and take the proper recovery time. We’d need a warden that would allow such a thing. We have neither.” He turns away.

  “You have a donor.” I stop him in his tracks.

  “You won’t survive. Not with the tools I have. If you did, you wouldn’t have time to recover. They would force you both to return to work immediately.”

  “I will recover.”

  “How?” His white eyes narrow.

  “First, you agree.” I dangle the bait. “Then you take me as your apprentice.”

  “No,” he says flatly.

  I know he wants this. Why else would he have saved me from the attentions of the Haulers? So why resist now? For show? Or do I have to pass some test?

  “You want to know my secret? I’ll give it to you, but you give me something in return.”

  “The Warden won’t allow it,” Faria argues.

  “Whale dung,” I say, calling his bluff. “I’ve watched you. The Warden owes you enough to grant this. You won’t live forever. They’ll need someone to take your place when you’re gone.�
��

  “Careful, boy,” he admonishes. “I’m still long for this world.”

  “Now who fools himself?” I retort. “I want the freedom you have. Teach me what you know, and I’ll serve in whatever way you see fit. I’ll even help you escape if that’s what you wish.”

  “You’ve pushed too far.” He laughs derisively. “If The Warden allowed me a pupil, you think he’d let it be you? Who do you think The Warden answers to, boy?”

  The Wendigo is owned by House Wusong-Leontes. Edric is Patriarch of both houses now in deed if not in name.

  “Nothing happens here without his consent, without his knowing.”

  “He’ll allow it. You’re going to assure The Warden that under your watch I’ll receive harsher lessons in pain than I could ever get in the mines.”

  He stares.

  “None of this is going to work anyway, right? You said I wouldn’t survive. What have you got to lose?”

  I’ve got him now.

  “If you survive, I’ll take you as my assistant and show you what I know.” He gestures for me to lie next to Carrick. He moves to his cabinet, where he removes a small bag of sterilized instruments. “In return, you will be my servant. Now tell me how exactly do you heal so quickly?”

  I take a brief exhale and relate the story of Talousla Karr.

  He pulls a scalpel from a plastic pouch.

  “This planet has lived so long in its own isolation that there is about to be a rude awakening,” he mutters. “Whether that awakening is for Tao or the rest of the Fracture remains to be seen. Your father allowed this?” the dark shaman asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your culture has very strong feelings regarding artificial enhancement. Genetic engineering is outlawed. You throw defective babes out with yesterday’s refuse rather than fix them. It is curious your father allowed you to be experimented on.”

  “What are you suggesting?” I play the fool, but I’ve asked the same myself over the years.

  He let me live on purpose. Why?

  “I’m suggesting you cut yourself and take a scraping of bone so that I may heal this Picker’s leg.” He hands me the scalpel. “Your enhancements still allow you to feel pain?”

  “Acutely,” I respond.

  I slowly bring the blade to the skin when a thought occurs. I’ve told him my secret. It’s time to expose his.

  “Perhaps you should do that thing with your hands,” I suggest wryly.

  His hand lashes out quick as lightning. He jams a finger into my hip. Electric pain shoots through my legs.

  “By the twisted star!” I gasp.

  “There are meridians throughout the body. They are like music. If one hears the sound, he may pinch off the melody or change its pattern. Do not move,” he instructs. He guides my hand, holding the scalpel, and slices into the skin. Rivulets of blood flow. My eyes widen. I feel nothing!

  “A man can divert the music or turn it off or on. He can immobilize. He can heal . . .”

  His cold dark fingers peel back the skin of my shin. I want to scream at the grisly sight, but there is no pain. It’s as if my leg isn’t there at all.

  “Or he may kill,” he finishes mysteriously.

  “That’s how you healed Toshi, how you performed surgery on me without anesthesia!” I realize.

  “It takes decades to learn, a lifetime to master. The ancients called it the Dim Mak. The death touch,” he says.

  “It’s how you killed Snaggletooth,” I say.

  He takes a small bone saw from his pile of tools. “Legend says some masters could perform Dim Mak with the sound of their voice.”

  “Is that possible?” I ask.

  He shaves a sliver of my tibia and places the specimen in a jar. He expertly sets the muscles and flesh back into place and sutures the wound shut. “Anything is possible.”

  “Teach me?” I implore.

  “Rest,” he replies. “The Warden will be here in the morning, and you would best be healed.”

  He diligently begins work on Carrick. I’ll receive no more answers from him tonight. I close my eyes, but my mind turns over this revelation.

  I awaken by dying embers. Faria attends Carrick, who rests under the cover of furs.

  “How is he?” I ask. I stand, testing my leg. There’s a slight twinge of pain, but nothing I can’t take. I kneel beside the dark man.

  “He’ll live,” Faria says. “Whether or not he’ll walk remains to be seen. Your bones are quite remarkable. If the graft took, the cells should last to repair Carrick’s injuries and eventually work their way out of his system. Whatever transformation you were put through was keyed to your specific genetics.” His milky eyes stare at me. “Who knows what other traits that man’s tampering may have given you.”

  My hand unconsciously moves to my scalp. The morning alarm sounds.

  “Faria the Red!” a voice calls from outside. The Warden. “Faria!” comes the raspy bellow again.

  I follow the shaman out of the hut. The Warden stands before us, thick and paunchy. He smooths his blond mustache with a gloved hand. He’s flanked by several armored guards as well as my foreman, Jinam Shank. Shank glares with his ugly, scarred face.

  “I’ve been told that you’re harboring two Pickers,” The Warden says.

  “One Picker was injured, and his colleague brought him for healing,” Faria says deferentially.

  “I was told by the foreman”—The Warden looks disdainfully over his shoulder—“that the man was damaged beyond function.”

  “I believed that with Leontes’s assistance I’d be able to save the man,” says Faria.

  The Warden’s jowly face grows red. I can tell that he didn’t expect a conversation. The fact that Faria is even responding throws him off balance. “This man”—The Warden points at me—“had no business countermanding his foreman.”

  “He believed he could save the life of a worker,” replies Faria quietly. “Workers help make quotas. Leontes was only thinking of your needs, my lord.”

  The Warden folds his arms across his chest. He can smell the whale feces in Faria’s words. “So where’s the man? Is he ready for work this day?”

  “He needs time—”

  “Do not mince words! If he’s not here, he’s not capable.” The Warden flicks his hand, and the guards step forward. They grab me forcibly by the arms.

  “What are you doing?” Faria asks.

  “I can’t afford to punish you, healer, but this one”—The Warden indicates me—“he’s another matter.”

  They drag me away.

  “Stop!” Faria commands with a voice so penetrating that The Warden halts in his tracks. I wonder if what he said about the Dim Mak being used with sound is actually true.

  The Warden puffs out his chest. “You don’t govern here, healer. Quiet yourself before you lose the little grace you’ve earned.”

  One guard trots away to summon the gangs while the others drag me through the shantytown. Faria follows. We reach the auction blocks, and I’m thrown up on the platform. The guard strips me to the waist. I hold my sides and shiver from the freezing cold.

  I must not let them see me bend. If I do, they win. My father will win.

  A crowd gathers. I see Smelters, Pickers, Haulers, Welders . . .

  The guards erect two poles and bind my wrists to them so my arms are spread wide.

  The crowd’s whispers grow. “Whip ’im! Yeah, whip the little prince!”

  I pick out Vaarkson, smiling, rotten-toothed. Toshi cowers next to him.

  “This man left his post in the middle of the workday!” The Warden shouts through a bullhorn. “Negligence on the job. Disobedience against the chain of command. The punishment—”

  “Whip him! Whip him! Whip him!” the crowd chants.

  The Warden signals the guard, Greelo. Greelo winds up and cracks the whip in the air for effect. The crowd hollers. He winds up again, and this time he lets loose.

  The lash scathes my back. The second strike co
mes, and I suck in my breath. The crowd cheers. A third, I feel the skin break. The fourth, I smile as blood runs down my back in a hot river. The crowd grows quieter. A fifth and I laugh.

  They can’t hurt you anymore, Edmon. They think this is pain? You’ve endured real pain, says the voice inside.

  A sixth lash. Is that all you got?

  The crowd watches silently as the whip lands again and I don’t cry out. The Warden screams, “You’re not doing it hard enough!”

  “I’m hitting him with all I have,” Greelo argues back.

  “Then what’s the problem?” The Warden’s piggy face is red and furious.

  The lashes hurt. In fact, they’re excruciating. It’s just that I’ve flipped a switch in my brain. It’s like Faria’s trick with his hands. I just don’t care anymore.

  Do these fools know what I’ve been through?

  A song plays through my mind. “A Tale of Ancient Earth”―a young artist named Rudolfo professes his love for a girl, Mimi. I remember my own love. Her voice sings the words to me now—

  Che parlano d’amor, di primavere, di sogni e di chimere, quelle cose che han nome poesia. Lei m’intende?

  “They speak to me of love, speak they of springtime; they speak of dreams, and noble thoughts that fire me, and the charms of poetry that inspire me. Understand you?

  “I do,” I whisper even as another strike cracks.

  Ma quando vien lo sgelo, il primo sole è mio. Col novo Aprile una rosa germoglia sul davanzal ne aspire a foglia, a foglia . . . Altro di me non le saprei narrare. Sono la sua vicina che la vien fuori d’ora a importunare.

  In my room live I only, high in my white-walled chamber lonely. O’er sky and housetops high glancing. When winter is advancing first sun of morn, I greet it! First kiss of April’s balmy breath I meet it! . . . No more I have of my going to confess you. I am a neighbor from without, that comes with my worry to distress you.

  That last line always gets me. She was only my neighbor, there to bother me. Oh, but she was so much more. Silent tears stream down my face. It’s only my body they hurt. I take courage from her words. They cannot touch my spirit.

  “Hang in there, Baldy Patch!” someone from the crowd calls out.