Chapter Nine

 

"I've heard some call them that," Elmore admitted. "But don't you dare call one of them that to their face. I've heard they curse you, put a hex on you that can give a man anything from a few days' worth of rotten stomach to outright death. They're just the Chosen."

"What happens men who breed?" Jak asked. "Mebbe find one, talk him."

Ryan thought it sounded like a good plan, and he was aggravated he didn't think it through as clearly as the albino. But his head was still too jumbled from all the problems they had facing them. Leaving the junkyard fort without getting chilled was one of the biggest.

"They don't get away," Elmore said. "They get through using him, the Chosen sacrifice him. See, there's a purification process they go through to make sure his seed's ready before he puts his crank in any of them." He glanced at the women in the group. "Sorry if I've offended anybody. Just telling it how it is."

"In exactly what manner do they purify them?" Doc asked.

"Don't know. I just know that by purifying the man, the Chosen make sure the get of that fucking receives the powers of the Chosen. And that more'n likely it'll be a she-get rather than a he-get."

"And if the baby is a boy?" Mildred asked.

"They hold on to it," Elmore said, "till the next big quarterly meeting. A week, three months, whichever it is. Then they have another sacrifice, this one supposedly more pleasing to whatever they pray to than anything else. After all, it's part of themselves they're offering up."

"Monsters," Mary hissed from her side of the room.

"Men make mockeries of us," Phlorin said weakly. "And you sit there, so weak. You hang on to that man beside you, and you never think to try to have your own life. You wait for old age to claim you and never realize your true station in this life. Women are bound to this world. Our cycles are like those of the moon, which affects everything on this world. Men are abominations, put here by the dark forces that rule the shadows. Men only know the hunger that stays forever in their bellies and their loins. Their imagination is only desire misnamed. Their lust has no conscience."

"You mean a hard dick has no conscience," Elmore said.

She spit.

"The Chosen's society takes care of its breeding stock?" Doc asked.

Elmore nodded. "Sure. Feed it. Clothe it. Keep it fucked and pregnant every quarter that it ain't. This purification process, it ain't always so gentle. Some of the get of these unions, they're mutie strain. Mindless monsters that receive some of the powers but no brains to use them with. Some of them are so deformed that it would be a burden on the Chosen to keep them."

"Chill, too?" Jak asked.

"Before they draw their first breath, way I hear it," Elmore answered. "A woman in the breeding stock, they pick her young enough that she can bear thirteen children. Some kind of mystical number to them."

"That again points back to the roots in witchcraft," Mildred said. "Not the Totality Concept."

"Not necessarily, dear lady," Doc argued. "Limiting replication is a self-serving design. What we're discussing here would severely curtail the gene pool available to these women. By the Three Kennedys, if they've been operating like this for any length of time, they could be carrying on disastrous DNA that would result in all kinds of birth defects and malformed children."

"The number of live births among them has been decreasing," Elmore said. "Which is why they been stealing kids the last five or ten years."

"You're not from here, are you?" Ryan asked.

"No. Farther west," Elmore replied. "Raised up by the Cific Ocean."

"Then why are you here?"

"Wasn't no paradise there." Elmore shrugged. "Guess I was just looking for someplace better. Lots of folks are. Problem is, I think we see each other in passing, but all we're doing is trading one set of problems for another. Folks get tired of that problem, they move on again."

Something about the man's answer didn't ring true to Ryan, but he couldn't pinpoint it.

"They steal people's children?" Mary asked. She held the little boy in the group close to her.

"Yes, ma'am," Elmore said. "But only girl-get. You got a boy. You got nothing to worry about. You'd probably come closer to losing your man than you would your child. Your man can fuck, and he's proved himself to any Chosen watching you all by fathering that boy. They'd take your man, leave you and the boy for dead."

"Why take the girl children?" Mildred asked.

"They got ways of knowing which ones have some of the power." Elmore pointed to the herbs and potions in front of her. "Probably some of them in there. Or mebbe they just mind-talk with them. Had a man tell me once that a Chosen could look in a young girl's eyes and know if she could be brought up their way."

"Widespread possibility of the psychic talents," Doc said. "Still think you're looking at a society founded totally on superstition?"

"Blow it out your ass, Doc."

"I find this all amazing to contemplate," the old man said. "At another time, I should like to advance further inquiries into this field of experience."

Elmore shrugged. "Told you about everything I know." He looked at Krysty rocking gently against the floor, her mouth silently moving to whatever words she was saying. "I'm just sorry it don't seem to help your problem none."

"Got a new problem," J.B. called from the window. "Rain's slacking up. Chem storm's about to pass over. The baron's men aren't going to wait around long before they decide to do something."

RYAN SAT AT THE WINDOW, peering over the sill. He kept the Steyr in his hands, taking small comfort from the solid feel of the sleek steel.

Phlorin lay against the back wall, her breathing sounding raspy and thin. Krysty still hadn't come out of the coma that had claimed her.

"Slaggers are still interested in how it goes down, too," J.B. said.

Ryan followed the line of the Armorer's pointing finger and spotted the coldhearts in hiding farther out, away from the junkyard. Some of the mongrels had put in an appearance, as well, requiring the baron's men to fire at will to prevent the hounds from closing in on them. As it was, Ryan knew of two men who were lost anyway. The dogs also succeeded in chasing nearly half the horses away after the baron's men had worked to keep them covered during the chem storm.

"We still got a few hours of daylight left," J.B. commented.

Ryan nodded. "That can work for us or against us, depending on how good the baron's men are in the dark."

"Home-ground advantage goes to the Slaggers, though." A crooked smile framed the Armorer's face. "And those bastard dogs."

"We got too many problems inside this fort," Ryan stated.

"I know."

"Trader'd think me a fool for putting up with all of them for so long. I need to find out what kind of hold that witch has over Krysty, and who of these folks the baron's men are after. Then I need to get us the hell out of here."

"Mebbe." J.B. took off his glasses and gave them a quick shine. "But I think back in those days when Trader was sharp, he'd have taken advantage of the rain, too."

"Rain's over," Ryan said. Outside, only a light mist hazed the air. But it was still enough to give a man pause about going out into it. If enough of the airborne caustic liquid was breathed in, lungs could become inflamed, a breeding ground for pleurisy or another respiratory ailment that would end up in a long, hard death.

J.B. put his glasses back on. "Which problem you going to deal with first?"

"Krysty."

"Could be hard going."

"Already is," Ryan admitted. "If I knew what to do, one way or the other, I could get it done."

"Best way to do anything," the Armorer said, "is to put the ace on the line and let the chips fall."

Ryan knew that was true, but he also knew that doing that was going to risk Krysty. Somehow, though, he knew she wouldn't want him to let the situation remained unresolved.

"ANY CHANGE?" RYAN ASKED.

Mildred shook her head. She sat next to Krysty's pallet, the red head lying in her lap. She brushed at the prehensile hair, trying to calm it from the bunch of frayed knots it had twisted itself into. "She's got a fever. Low grade and nothing's that's going to be dangerous, but it's wearing her out."

"How about the old woman?" Ryan cut his gaze over to Phlorin, who had woken and pierced him with her red-rimmed gaze filled with hate.

"Figured she'd be dead by now," Mildred admitted, "with that hole in her chest. We're talking about a lot of trauma to her system. She's a stubborn woman."

"If she dies, how do you think it's going to affect Krysty?"

"Not any more than the baron's men chilling her if they get their hands on her first. And she's going to die anyway, Ryan. No way to save her. Mebbe her dying will ease the hold she has on Krysty."

Ryan drew the panga. "Guess it's time to find out." He glanced at the old woman.

Phlorin stared back at him, a sarcastic smile somehow blossoming on the bloody lips through all the pain. "Come to me, man. Come ahead and do your worst. No matter what, I shall still survive!"

FOR A LONG TIME, Krysty knew she'd been floating in some kind of prison. It wasn't the land of geysers and sulfur stench that Phlorin had first put her in when she took over her body and nearly killed Ryan. The place she'd been kept had been a white room almost ten feet in all directions. There had been no furniture, no decorations, no way to tell what was a floor, ceiling or wall.

There hadn't been any gravity, either. At first, she'd run, slamming herself into the walls, the ceiling, the floor, whatever side of the cube she could throw herself at. She'd hoped she'd break something, find some way out. The walls had all held, and she felt that she was teetering toward madness.

In the background, always just within hearing, had been Phlorin's voice. And it had never sounded human again. The voice oozed words like an infected wound oozed pus into healthy tissue. Krysty was certain the voice was finding the weak spots of her mind, prying into every nook and cranny it could, then insinuating itself and taking root. At times she thought she could feel the voice actually inching deeper inside herself.

She no longer understood the words consciously. But she could tell that some part of her subconscious mind understood them. She still felt the way she had on top of the building, the knife in her hand as she tried to kill Ryan: herself, but one step removed.

Without warning, though, the voice became clear again.

Come see, Phlorin said. Come see how your man plays into our little game. He's going to trap you forever, leave you to my mercy.

Why are you doing this? Krysty demanded.

Because it is necessary. I am of the Chosen. I must survive. You have forsaken your birthright.

I didn't even know of you people, Krysty argued.

You knew that you were different. That alone should have started you on a quest until you found us, your sisters.

You're not my sisters.

Your mother was.

Fear trembled inside Krysty then, and it reminded her of a moth's wings brushing frantically against her palms when she'd caught one as a child.

My mother was many things, she argued, but she would never have been like you.

You never really knew your mother. How can you be so sure?

Because Gaia has told me. In truth, during some of her prayers while she was growing up, Krysty had asked the earth goddess about her mother. There'd never been any definite answers, but Krysty had never had any cause to feel sad or scared. She was certain that whatever other secrets Mother Sonja might have had, she was a good person. At least at the time that she'd lived in Harmony ville.

You use the goddess's name in vain. Such sacrilege would normally be punished.

Then try. You've pushed me out of my own body, nearly chilled the man I love with all my heart. How do you think you can punish me any more?

The woman didn't answer, and the silence that followed the question was almost deafening, trapped as it was in the small white room.

Sensing the weakness, Krysty twisted in the air until she made contact with one of the walls again. The weightlessness here was confusing, and getting herself set was hard. Still, she managed, finally able to get into a kneeling position on the surface she'd chosen. Then she pushed herself outward toward the opposite wall. She put her bunched fists in front of her, screaming out her rage and frustration, temporarily blocking out that voice.

The room's walls exploded before her hands, tumbling away in jagged shards. Then she was inside the fort where the companions had holed up.

And she was looking down at her own body, her head in Mildred's lap.

No, she thought, instantly afraid of the implications.

Fool, Phlorin told her. It isn't you who has died. But I am about to so that I may live.

Krysty called out to Mildred, but her efforts went unheard. She reached for her friend, only to watch her hand pass right through Mildred's. Hastily Krysty turned her perspective point, focusing on Ryan as he squatted beside Phlorin.

Now it begins, the old woman said inside Krysty's mind. This man of yours is stupe, but he is determined.

The panga glittered in Ryan's hand, the edge pointed up.

Krysty crossed the room, having no sensation of walking, just suddenly appearing at Ryan's side. Lover!

Ryan stared at the woman. Krysty read in her lover's movements that he was there to kill the old woman. "Time's come to shit or get off the pot. You're only one step away from catching the last train headed West. Release Krysty."

Krysty reached for her lover, trying to cup her hand under Ryan's head and force him to turn to look at her.

Ryan froze, then slowly his head came around. His single eye widened, showing the full blue of the iris. "Krysty," he whispered.

Don't, Krysty tried to tell him. You're playing right into whatever she's doing, lover. Before, she'd managed to reach Ryan through some aspect of her gift. She guessed that it could happen again if she tried hard enough.

Ryan shook his head.

"What is it?" Mildred asked.

"I thought I heard Krysty call my name," he said.

Mildred shook her head. "Your imagination, Ryan. I've been with her the whole time and I haven't heard a word."

No! Krysty screamed. She reached for Ryan again, more determined this time. Her hands and arms passed through her lover's body as if he'd been made of smoke.

Ryan turned his attention back to the old woman. "Last chance," he told her in a flat voice. "Let Krysty go, or I'll chill you as you lay."

See how sure he is of himself, Phlorin taunted. So brave, so demanding. Men are pathetic. And they have the gall to think that every problem can be answered with physical violence. She smiled in disdain, and Krysty didn't know if the smile was meant for her or Ryan.

Then Ryan struck, as fast as any mountain cat back home in Harmony that Krysty had ever seen. Despite his harsh tactics, she knew her lover took no pride and no pleasure in death. He struck to kill, plunging the panga deep into the woman's heart.

Krysty felt the blade as though it entered her own body, cold steel suddenly invading hot, pulsing flesh. She screamed, but the pain in her voice paled beside the screech that echoed in her mind from Phlorin.

The woman convulsed from the floor, grabbing at Ryan's arm. Krysty watched, trapped by whatever bound her to the old woman, and felt her lover's flesh through Phlorin's hand.

Then the woman died, spitting blood onto Ryan as she fought to hang on to her existence and bite him at the same time. He caught her hair up in his free hand and shoved her head back. Gradually her muscles relaxed, and she fell away from him.

But Krysty felt the growth inside her own mind, more deeply entrenched than ever. She screamed, realizing that even though she'd escaped the cage she'd been confined in, she was more trapped now than ever.

Before she could move, before she could think, she felt something pulling at her. She turned to face it, then realized that she was being drawn to her own body. In an eye blink, she was back inside her own flesh. But she wasn't alone. She also realized that she wasn't breathing.

RYAN GAZED DOWN at the corpse, his hand still gripped around the panga thrust into her chest.

"You shouldn't oughta done that," Mary wailed from the side of the house. "You shouldn't oughta done that to a witch."

"Shut her up," Ryan told the woman's husband. In truth, in the moment before he'd killed the woman, he'd felt an eldrich chill thrill through him, seeming to come through the knife handle itself. He believed in Krysty's premonitions, but he was no doomie himself. That feeling, though, had felt as close to any experience his lover had ever told him about.

"Ryan," J.B. called.

Ryan yanked the panga free and glanced at his friend, grateful for the distraction.

"Got a man out here waving a white flag at the end of a stick," the Armorer stated. "Want to hear him out, or do you want me to chill him where he's standing?"