Terra Nova

by Shane Arbuthnott

  She was interrupted by a burning heat on her chest.

  “Molly!” Theresa said.

  The electricity was back, flowing along the iron harness. It burned where it touched, the bright arcs running down across her stomach, her thighs, toward the water on the floor. Theresa scrambled up onto the bench, getting her feet out of the water, just as Molly reached down and grabbed at the electricity, stopping it. She could feel its heat blistering her skin, but she didn’t let go. She pressed it between her palms until it finally faded.

  “Sorry,” she said to Theresa as she turned off the water. “I’m sorry. I could have hurt you there. Even here I’m—”

  “That was you?” Theresa said. “You made that?”

  Molly nodded. “At least, I think so.”

  “Looks like it hurts.” She gestured to the red marks on Molly’s skin. “Is it always like that? So painful?”

  Molly nodded. “Maybe it’s good that I have the harness on. Keeps it in check.”

  Theresa pursed her lips. She backed up and sat down on the bench again.

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “Stop that,” Theresa said. “Stop apologizing to me. You didn’t hurt me.” She picked up the towel and carefully folded it. “I’m going to tell you something, and I want you to listen, because I don’t want to repeat this. I told you they put me in here because I found out about Charles Arkwright. That’s true, but the truth can lie if you tell it right. So here’s the rest.” She set down the towel and looked straight into Molly’s eyes. Molly felt pinned to the wall.

  “Eight months. I found out about Arkwright, and I kept working for him for eight months. It took me that long to grow the backbone to challenge him, and even then I was so clumsy about it that I never came close to hurting him. Part of me wanted to be stopped.”

  “Eight months isn’t so bad,” Molly said. “I think I knew for years that the spirits weren’t the evil things people said, even before I read the journal.”

  Theresa shook her head. “No, you’re still not listening.” She sat forward. “It was my job at Haviland Industries to use stories to steer people, make them love the company. I was good at it. And I can tell you, that journal you found? It wouldn’t have changed most people. Wouldn’t have changed me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You found proof that you were doing something wrong. That’s hard to swallow—so hard that most people will just ignore it, explain it away, because it makes them feel bad.”

  Molly gritted her teeth. “It should feel bad! It is bad! We’ve been—”

  Theresa cut Molly off with a raised hand. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just saying it’s not an easy sell, telling people they’re guilty and they need to change. You saw it yourself when you tried to make the journal public and no one would listen. You want to know what usually works though? Give them an enemy. Show them the wool that’s been pulled over their eyes, and the person who did the pulling. That’s exactly what I had. And still it took me eight months.

  “I’ve seen hundreds of people come through this place. And none of them, not one, did even close to what you did. If you really think the world out there is better with you locked away, then you’re not bloody paying attention.”

  “So…what? What are you trying to tell me?”

  Theresa sat forward. “I don’t think you’re trying to keep anyone safe by staying here. I think you’re trying to punish yourself. People have died, and maybe you’re responsible—I honestly don’t know. But if this was really about them and not about you, you’d be doing everything you could to keep it from happening again instead of letting Arkwright bleed you dry. You want to stay because you think you deserve to stay.”

  Molly scowled. “No, I don’t. You didn’t feel what Arkwright did. No one deserves that. How could I think I deserve that?”

  Theresa shrugged. “I don’t know. But you’re angry enough at yourself that you just burned yourself with lightning.” She stood and stepped toward Molly.

  “Don’t,” Molly said. “The floor’s still wet. I might—”

  “I’m not scared of you,” Theresa said. “It’s not me you want to hurt.” She moved closer and gave Molly a hug, pressing the harness between them.

  “I’m glad I met you, Molly,” Theresa said, pulling away. “You’re the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in five years. And I wish to God you’d get out of this damn place.” She walked away, out of sight. Molly heard her getting dressed, then knocking on the door.

  The door opened. “Done?” said the orderly.

  “Yes,” Theresa said.

  “What about you?” he called out to Molly.

  “Umm, yeah. Yeah, I just need to get dressed again.”

  The door closed, and Molly was alone. She looked down at the red patches on her skin. Is she right? Am I doing this on purpose? She thought back to the night the lightning had hit her in the cavern, just after Toves died. Am I trying to hurt myself?

  She dried herself as best she could with the damp towel, being careful with her burned skin. Getting her shirt back under the harness was much harder than getting it off. She didn’t hurry. She felt empty, and her muscles trembled as they used to after a long day climbing in the rigging. When she was dressed, she sat down on the bench and closed her eyes as another wave of guilt hit her. She didn’t cry again, though lightning crackled around her fingers, and she bit her lip to stop from shouting with the pain.

  So what do I do now? I mean, what can I do? She thought of Wîskacân, and the hopeful look he’d given her. Maybe Theresa’s right. Maybe it’s selfish to stay here. Maybe I should be trying to help someone, even if I don’t want to help myself.

  After a few minutes the orderly came back in the door. “Long enough,” he said. “You need to go back to the common area or your room now.”

  “Yeah. I’m done.” Molly stood to follow him, her fists held tight at her sides.

  TEN

  A few minutes later, Molly sat on the floor of her room, cross-legged, and hitched the harness up. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, feeling the wind pass in and out of her lungs, the stirrings of her power whispering between her bones for a moment before the iron harness could kill them. She looked down at her hands, mottled red where she had burned herself.

  Okay. Lightning.

  She flexed her fingers, but nothing happened. She breathed deep again and tried to call the lightning in the same way she called the wind. Still nothing, except a feeling that the iron harness was growing heavier.

  “Come on,” she whispered, tugging at the iron harness. This would be a lot easier without the iron. But Wîskacân could still make fire with the harness on, at least for a little while. She calmed herself and tried again. And again.

  Maybe I need help, she thought.

  She opened her door and went out into the hall. Through the window in his door she could see Wîskacân under the covers on the bed, his dark hair splayed across the pillow. She made sure no one was watching her, then tried the door, but it was locked. She tapped lightly at the glass.

  Wîskacân stirred but didn’t look over. She tapped harder. His legs shifted under the covers, but his movements were so slow he might have been underwater. She was about to knock again when she noticed his eyes were wide open.

  He’s not asleep. He just can’t do it. Can’t even roll over. She had felt that way the previous morning. Arkwright.

  She couldn’t get in to see him. Couldn’t even bring him a biscuit the way he had for her after Arkwright had drained her. She stared through the glass, knowing the pain he felt, knowing he’d been living with it for far longer than she had. All because I had to mess with Arkwright and the machines that were keeping him alive.

  She felt a sharp pain in her neck. The iron suddenly was so heavy that it bore her down to her knees. She reached up to the burning spot on her neck, and her fingers came away flickering with lightning. She snuffed it out between her fingers.

  Great.
All I have to do to make lightning is think about how terrible I am. She paused. Actually, I guess that’s true.

  She sighed and went back to her room, then lay down on the floor and stared up at the light. She imagined she was lying on the deck of the ship, the grain of the wood against her skin, the sun bright and clear. The gentle dip and sway as Legerdemain beat his wings, carrying her across the sky. She closed her eyes, and she almost felt she was there. But the illusion was marred by a sound like moth wings against a window—the sound of the igneous spirit beating against the glass of the lamp.

  Molly’s eyes snapped open, and she sat up.

  She cursed herself silently as she got to her feet. All this time trying to set spirits free, and I didn’t even see the one trapped right above my head. I’m as bad as Arkwright!

  She stood up, gauging the distance to the ceiling. She got up onto her bed, aimed for the cage that held the small igneous lamp and jumped. Her fingers went through the bars of the cage, and she held tight. When she stopped swinging, she pulled herself up close to the lamp.

  “Hello?” she grunted. “Can you hear me in there?”

  The igneous spirit, which had been swirling around the edges of the glass, settled into the middle. All she could see of it through the frosted glass was an orange glow, which illuminated the fine iron mesh woven into the glass. It’s so small.

  “Can you, I don’t know, flash or something? If you understand me?” Her arms trembled.

  The light inside the lamp stirred and then flared red. Molly smiled.

  “Good. I’m glad. I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you sooner. I bet you’ve been trapped here a long, long time. But maybe we can help each other get out. Okay?”

  The spirit glowed red again.

  “Okay.” She let go of the cage and fell back to the floor. She shook her arms out but stopped when an orderly appeared at her window. He glared in at her, and she waved uncomfortably. He moved on slowly toward the common room.

  “It’s nice not to be alone in here,” Molly said and looked up to see the spirit sitting, still and calm, in the middle of the glass globe. Its light didn’t flicker anymore. She wondered how long it had been burning, day and night, and how many other spirits this sanatorium might have killed just to keep the lights constant.

  “I think I have an idea,” she said. “But I’m going to need your help.”

  She sat on the bed and began working through a plan.

  As she walked to breakfast the next morning, she counted the lights—six in the hall, four in the common room. All were the same design, as far as she could tell—a frosted-glass globe reinforced with iron mesh and covered by a cage.

  She got her breakfast tray and sat down across from Theresa. She kept her voice low and calm. “I need your help with something.”

  The older woman smiled. “About time,” she said. “You’ve been here a week already.”

  “If I needed to break some glass, is there something around here I might use?”

  “Are we talking about a reinforced window, like the one to the office?”

  “The lamps, actually. Thin glass, but I need something that can get through the bars of the safety cages.”

  Theresa pursed her lips in thought. “There are some utensils in the kitchen, but we can’t get those. When patients are unruly, the orderlies have truncheons that just might fit in there.”

  “Good. That could work.”

  “If you’re not too busy being beaten with them.”

  “One other thing. You said you got the cook talking to you once?” Theresa nodded. “Think you can do it again? I need a distraction while I talk to the lamps.”

  Theresa’s eyebrows rose. “I see.”

  “And there’s something you should know before you help me. My plan only goes so far, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to get anyone out, even myself.”

  “Ah.”

  “Will you help anyway?”

  “Of course. Don’t get me wrong—I’d tear down the walls with my bare hands if I thought it would get me out of this place. But barring that, I’ll settle for shaking things up a bit.” Theresa’s voice was calm, but her eyes glimmered. “You think you might be able to get yourself out?”

  “Maybe. If I do, I’ll find a way to get you out later.”

  “You damn well better.”

  Molly took a bite of sausage, forcing herself to chew slowly though her heart was pounding in her chest. Theresa looked genuinely unaffected. Molly envied the older woman’s composure and hoped she herself didn’t look as nervous as she felt.

  When Theresa had finished eating, she sauntered over to the kitchen with her tray. “Plumbing acting up again? Water tasted odd today.”

  “Yeah,” Molly heard the cook say. “Think we might need to replace some pipes.”

  Molly hurried from her seat and jumped lightly up onto a table out of the cook’s sight, positioning herself just under one of the lamps.

  “Hi in there,” she said softly. “In the lamp. Can you hear me?” The spirit inside flew faster, flickering around. “Well, I hope you can, and I hope you can understand. I want to get out of here, and I’m hoping I can get you out too. Sometime soon, in the middle of the night, the light in my room is going to go out. When that happens, I need you to stop shining too. Can you do that?”

  The spirit batted twice against the glass, making pinging sounds.

  “I hope that means yes.”

  She repeated her conversation with the other three lamps in the common room. While Theresa kept talking, Molly moved on to the hallway and went to each lamp there as well. Some seemed to clearly understand her, while others only looked more panicked when she spoke to them. It had been the same with small aetheric spirits she had talked to in the past—some understood human speech, but a few never seemed to grasp it. She just hoped her efforts would be enough.

  Just as she was finishing, the door at the end of the hall opened and Van Orden stepped through. He stopped when he saw her.

  “Is everything all right?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just stretching my legs a little. Walking.”

  His brow furrowed. “Don’t linger in the hall. You should be in your room or the common area.”

  “Okay. Right. Sorry.”

  She ducked into her room and sat on her bed. I hope this works. She looked up at the lamp on her own ceiling. The spirit inside seemed much more aware of her now, and she often saw it following her around the room.

  “I’ve tried to arrange things with the other spirits in the lamps. Hopefully, most of them understood. But if the plan doesn’t work—I mean, if I’m knocked out, if I stop fighting—you should stop fighting too.” The spirit’s light pulsed gently in understanding. “Good.”

  She bent down to examine her bed. It was good-quality metal, she could see: a solid steel frame welded atop four thick legs that were bolted firmly into the floor. In her years as the Legerdemain’s engineer, she had learned how to tell which welds would hold and which would not as the spirit in the engine incessantly struggled to escape. That knowledge had come in handy more than once when breaking spirits out.

  The welder here clearly hadn’t known his business. While the welds at the foot of the bed were sloppy but firm, at the head of the bed it looked like the metal had barely softened before the welder let off the heat. Cracks had formed in the weld, and when Molly pulled at the frame she could see those cracks widening. Molly checked the window to see if anyone was coming, then returned to the bed and lay down underneath it. With a hard kick upward she separated the frame from the legs, catching it with her feet before it could bang back down. Carefully, she stood.

  The frame was made of four bars slotted together. It took some work to get the pieces at the head apart, and by the end she was sweating, but she got them loose and spent a few more moments cleaning off old rust deposits. Once she knew she could pull the bed frame apart easily, she put the pieces back together. She hopped up on the bed experimentally. The
frame rattled but didn’t buckle when she lay down. She allowed herself a small smile.

  There was one more person she needed to talk to, so she got up and left her room. Molly stopped midway down the hall and looked into Wîskacân’s room. She immediately pulled back.

  Van Orden was there.

  She leaned around the edge of the window to look in. Van Orden was bent over Wîskacân, his back to her. Wîskacân’s legs were moving feebly, and his arms reached up to push Van Orden away. When the doctor forced his arms down, Wîskacân kicked his legs toward Van Orden, rolling off the bed as he grabbed at the doctor. They both fell in a heap. A moment later Van Orden pulled himself free, looking more frustrated than frightened. He walked toward the door. Molly hurried back, away from the window, as he put his head out the door and shouted, “Orderlies! I need a hand!”

  A moment later five orderlies rushed down the hall and into the room. Molly waited a few breaths before returning to the window. The orderlies were holding Wîskacân down on the bed. Van Orden said something to him and pulled a long syringe half filled with a yellowish liquid from his pocket.

  Wîskacân saw the syringe and redoubled his efforts to escape, but the orderlies had a firm grip on him. He shouted in a language Molly had never heard before, his desperation making the message clear even without the words. Van Orden ignored him.

  “Hey!” Molly said. “Don’t do that!” She pounded on the window, then thought better of that and tried the door. It was still unlocked. “Stop! Stop that!” she shouted, running into the room. The orderlies and Van Orden turned to her in surprise, but before they could get their hands on her she jumped between them to swat the syringe out of the doctor’s hand. It flew against the wall and shattered, yellow liquid and glass sliding down the wall and onto the floor.

  “What do you think you are doing?!” Van Orden shouted. “Get out of this room!”

  “Leave him alone!” Molly shouted. Two orderlies grabbed her roughly, pinning her arms behind her back. She thought about struggling, but she knew it was pointless.