Of Dreams and Rust Read online

  My father, who is slight of build to begin with, suddenly looks even smaller. “That does not bode well for the Noor in the Yilat Province, then.”

  His words sharpen the teeth of the unspoken fear that has gnawed at me all day. I touch the paper. “Is that him, Father?”

  My father folds the paper. “Whether it is or not, it tells you nothing.”

  I frown. “How can you say that? The men in those pictures are all condemned.”

  “And if there is a war, all the Noor are. The government will not be merciful, Wen, not with what they’ve done.”

  My eyes sting. “You say that so calmly.”

  “Would it make one bit of difference if I shouted?” He sets the paper on Yixa’s desk. His narrow shoulders are slumped. “It is a hopeless situation.” His eyes meet mine. “And I’m sorry that it hurts you. I’m sorry that you are still thinking about Melik, because it will only bring you more pain. It is best if you let him go.”

  “You don’t know that I haven’t,” I say, lifting my chin.

  Father stares at me for too many long seconds. “You say his name in your sleep.”

  I cover my mouth, my cheeks on fire with the humiliating knowledge that my father is aware of my dreams. I mumble something about needing some air, grab my overcoat from the hook by the door, and flee. Something is happening inside me. I thought I was headed toward a kind of peace, an understanding that Melik was gone paired with a never-ending hope that I would one day see him again, a place where I could think of him without so much pain and longing. Today has destroyed all of that.

  With every moment I find more hints that something terrible is brewing. As I walk past the factory floor, it is still bustling with activity, though it was scheduled to close an hour ago. Despite having no good reason to do so, I cut through the administrative hallway, and my insides knot when I see the foremen from all three shifts crowding into Boss Inyie’s office. Fearful someone will see me and guess that I am spying, I bow my head and hurry away.

  Stone after stone of evidence is falling into place, and now the truth is as big and ominous as a mountain. I don’t know exactly when. I don’t know exactly how. But I do know this: Our war machines will be marching west very soon.

  Chapter

  Three

  FEELING AS IF I am suffocating, I leave the factory. At the compound gate the guard on duty—who must be a new hire, because I know all the staff by sight if not by name—hesitates when I tell him that I don’t know when I’ll be back. He scratches at the patchy beard on his cheek. “It would be best if you returned by midnight, sister,” he says, conveying a respectfully polite kind of concern that I’ve rarely heard since moving from the Hill to the Gochan complex.

  His gaze darts toward the factory entrance. On this day of all days workers should be flooding out of this place on a wave of eagerness and celebration, but the opposite is happening—men from the night and morning shifts are filing in, looking grim but determined. All of them are carrying rucksacks, as if they are going on a long journey. The guard looks back at me. “The fireworks can be seen from our compound’s square. You can come back early and watch them here.”

  I give him what I hope is a beguiling smile. “Because the streets are dangerous? I’ll stick to the main thoroughfares.”

  His brows lower. “That’s comforting to hear, but it’s not why you should be back by the arrival of First Holiday,” he says quietly, his lips barely moving.

  I wish he would confirm for me what I already suspect, that he would be the one who drops the final stone into place, if only to release some of this burning, twisting anticipation. I lean forward a bit. “You are kind to worry about my reputation, brother.”

  He shifts uncomfortably. “You work here, I take it?”

  I nod. “I assist in the medical clinic. I’m also Dr. Guiren’s daughter.”

  “And you live on the compound. Not out in the Ring.”

  “Of course! Gochan Two has been my home for a year.”

  He folds his arms over his chest and peers about as if he’s concerned someone will overhear. “I’ve been instructed to lock the gate at midnight,” he whispers. “Anyone not inside will be unable to enter until they open again.”

  My eyes go wide. “In the morning?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s lockdown, sister. It will be longer than that.”

  I cover my mouth with my hand and try to look excited instead of horrified. “Something is happening, isn’t it?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve already said too much.” He gestures toward the street. “Go have your fun, buy yourself a sweet, and return early if you know what’s good for you.”

  I thank him in a chirpy, overly cheerful voice and leave the compound with my fists balled in my skirt. I walk through the Ring on sidewalks already crowded with vendors and First Holiday celebrants. It’s all bright and festive and normal, like it has been every year since I was a child. There is a bounce to each stride, a smile on every face. A mother and a father walk by, each clutching a hand of the small boy between them, and his cheeks are round and fat and pink with happiness. I stare longer than is polite, clinging to my wish that things were really this way, that the world were full of peace and jubilation and nothing else, that the shadow of war had not descended. As I look at that lovely little family, it is almost possible to believe.

  But then I make my way past fences plastered with anti-Noor slogans, patriotic phrases, and more wanted posters. These are a step beyond anything I have seen so far. In every image the Noor are drawn as hairy beast-men with overhanging foreheads, too-wide shoulders, and massive feet. There is one poster of a valiant and handsome Itanyai soldier, his black hair perfect, his eyes dark and intense, bravely facing down a horde of Noor on horseback. Another shows a Noor standing beside a burning, ruined bean field, grinning like a monster, his huge, jagged teeth protruding from his mouth. These are pictures meant to spread fear and anger, to spark a fire in the blood. It is easy enough to do—with food prices rising every day and with shortages of basic staples affecting most of the country, we all want to blame something for our suffering. Of course, the real culprit is the drought, not the Noor. But perhaps the government believes the people won’t turn on it if it provides another target for our helpless, hungry rage—one that can be oppressed and killed.

  Before long it is too much. My flimsy, silly wishes have been demolished. My heart is beating too hard. Melik is too loud in my thoughts. My eyes are burning with tears that it isn’t safe to shed.

  I retreat back to the factory, waving conspicuously as I enter to show the guard I listened to his guidance. Instead of returning to the clinic, though, I climb the stairs all the way to the roof of Gochan Two. I hover at the edge, looking down on the empty factory square. The heat and noise from the factory floor have not stopped. I wonder what the workers are feeling, if they’re resentful or content. Usually, everyone is eager to venture into the Ring on this night, and until a year ago, so was I.

  But last year I spent First Holiday Eve with my red Noor, sitting on a cold concrete floor in a dank room, happier than I have ever been as I watched fireworks pop beyond a dirty windowpane, as my eyes traced Melik’s profile, the slope of his nose, the smile on his lips. It was a pure moment when anything seemed possible.

  Now I feel the opposite. My thin fingers curl over bricks, too weak to bend things into the shape I wish them to be.

  “You remembered,” Bo says softly from behind me. “I was sure you wouldn’t.”

  I whirl around to see him standing near the flaming smokestack that looms high above Gochan Two, a fragile smile playing across his lips. My stomach lurches. Both of Bo’s arms are too long for his body. His remaining flesh-and-bone arm is encased within a frame of steel and wire. He looks down, and his hands rise for his examination, palms up. “I’m testing them,” he says. “What do you think?”

  I think he looks more like a monster than he ever has. “You must have worked very hard today.”

>   He stands up a little straighter. “I did. And I thought I’d be watching the fireworks alone, but you’re here. This day is ending even better than it started.”

  I turn back to the Ring. The sun is setting over the Western Hills, lending the smoky haze over the town a golden glow. “My day was not so good.”

  Bo joins me near the low wall that rings the roof. “Was Yixa cruel to you?” His voice is sharp, and suddenly I fear for the old surgeon.

  “No. I’ve told you—he’s always kind.”

  “He drinks too much.”

  “He did nothing to hurt me.” I close my eyes. “The cruelest thing he did was to show me a newspaper. The rebels have taken Kegu.”

  “I heard.”

  Bo hears everything. Like in Gochan One, he has taken advantage of the antiquated piping system to watch and eavesdrop on nearly everyone in Gochan Two.

  When he looks down at me, his metal mask reflects the lights of the Ring as they flicker on to beat back the encroaching darkness. “I heard something else today, actually. Something top secret.”

  Nausea rolls over me. “I think I know what it is. But tell me.”

  He sounds excited as he confirms all my fears. “Boss Inyie received a large order from the national army this morning. Battle machines and a carrier as well. He is ecstatic. War means money.”

  I stare at him. “War means suffering and death.”

  Bo shrugs. “It means the war machines will have their day. I’ve always wanted to see one in action.”

  “Are you saying that just to upset me?” I cry.

  He shakes his head, looking puzzled at my reaction. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”

  I point toward the compound gate. “It’s going to be locked at midnight. The guard warned me.”

  Bo looks unsurprised. “And from now on Gochan Two will not close. Not until they have fully equipped the national forces. They are calling in the weekend staff and hiring extra men on the pretense that they are building a new civilian transport machine. Boss Inyie wants to house the entire staff here and close the compound to keep the secret from spreading. New hires will be able to come in, but no one will be able to leave.”

  That explains why all the men were lugging rucksacks. My stomach feels hollow. “The army is planning an invasion.” It’s really happening. My father was right—when the rebels took Kegu, the government decided to take action.

  “Very soon,” Bo says. “Apparently, several battalions of troops will arrive within the week. We are the gateway to the western province.”

  “No,” I breathe. “So many will die.”

  Bo’s metal hands flex as his excitement is transmitted through his muscles. “They’ll send an advance force of war machines to decimate the resistance. The machines can move through the hills quickly and do not need roads or tracks. They’ll catch the rebels by surprise.”

  Melik’s village is nestled at the opening of the canyon. “They will kill more than rebels.”

  Bo chuckles. “I believe that is the idea.”

  I step away from him, my whole body shaking.

  Bo does not notice. He is gazing at the hills. “I wish I could pilot a war machine. I have dreamed of such a thing for years. I’ve studied their designs. I understand them very well, what they can do. I could—”

  “Can you stop them, Bo?” The idea occurs to me all at once. If anyone can prevent this invasion of metal monsters, it is the Ghost. “Can you sabotage the floor? Shut it down?”

  His eyebrows rise. “Why would I ever want to do that?”

  He knows why. But if I say Melik’s name out loud, I know it will hurt him. Besides, Melik is not the only one I’m worried about. “Because I am asking you to, Bo. Because it would save lives.”

  “Whose lives, Wen?” His tone sharpens. “The war machines will crush the rebellion before the bulk of the army even arrives. Think of the lives that will save.”

  “At the expense of so many others.”

  “But those are Noor. Do you realize you’re asking me to betray our people? Our entire country?”

  “You speak as if the Noor are not a part of our country.”

  “It’s called Itanya for a reason,” he says coldly.

  “I have to go,” I say in a choked voice.

  Bo’s brow furrows. “Why? The fireworks haven’t started yet.” All at once he seems so childlike, easily diverted by the things that bring him delight. But as his gaze skims over my face, his expression hardens. “As always, your only thoughts are of that foolish Noor boy who walked away from you.”

  My bottom lip trembles. “That’s not true. Or fair.”

  Bo’s jaw ridges with tension, and he leans forward. “He deserves everything he gets,” he hisses suddenly.

  I shake my head, imagining children playing in the shadow of the hills, looking up to see their death descending upon them. I picture their mothers trying in vain to protect them. I remember the pain in Melik’s eyes as he told me about the last time the war machines came through the canyon. “This is about more than that, and more than him.”

  Bo’s mechanical fists clench. “The red Noor made his choice. They all did.”

  “What would you do if you were in his place?” I ask, my voice cracking. “Would you break, Bo? Have you ever broken? Can you blame him for refusing to surrender?”

  “I blame him for exactly one thing,” he says, “and as for the rest, I don’t care.”

  “Then you are as unfeeling as you look,” I snap, gesturing at his mechanical arms.

  “Or perhaps I feel more than you could ever guess, whether I want to or not!” he shouts, then turns away quickly, grimacing, his metal fingers clicking. “Either way, it doesn’t change a thing. This is bigger than you or me or one stupid Noor, Wen. It’s silly for us to argue about it.”

  “Because I can’t do anything to stop it,” I say. And because Bo won’t do anything to stop it.

  “Precisely.”

  I look down at my hands, small and weak, flesh and bone, and then I look at Bo’s, powerful and merciless, steel and wire. “Maybe I should try.”

  His eye goes wide. “You’re not serious.” He takes a step forward, his mechanical hands rising, and I flinch back. He winces and his machine fingers rise to his opposite shoulder, twisting and pressing in a precise sequence of steps. The metal frame surrounding his human arm slides to the ground with a clatter. His warm fingertips caress my cheek a moment later. I am shocked by the intimacy of it, and by the knowledge that Bo understood the one thing he could do to bring me closer.

  He gives me a small, sad smile. “I’m sorry for everything, for all I’ve said, for the war, for the orders that have already been given. I’m sorry for what’s going to happen. I’m sorry for being cold. All of it.”

  His regret is not enough to soothe me because it changes nothing. Determination is wrapping itself around my limbs, winding its way along my bones, my veins, my muscles. Maybe I should try. How can I not? How can I live with myself if I sit idly by while those machines tear through villages full of Noor whose only crime is living and dreaming and craving the same rights that I have always taken for granted? This is not about Melik, not really. This is about Sinan, Melik’s little brother, and his mother and his younger, more vulnerable self. No one was there, all those years ago, to warn them. No one was there to whisper, “Run, hide, get to safety.”

  Bo cups my cheek and strokes his thumb over my skin. “Say something, Wen. Say you forgive me.”

  “I forgive you,” I whisper. “I am sorry I asked you to commit treason. It was very wrong of me.”

  His eye closes, dark lashes long. “You scared me.”

  I am scaring myself. “I didn’t mean to.” But I am going to do it again, because my thoughts are filled with treason and betrayal. Right now I wish I were not Itanyai. I was raised to be proud of my people, of my part in this great culture, but now I am nothing but ashamed. Because I was raised to believe something else, too: that compassion is golden, that
it is best to preserve life, to ease suffering, to value mercy above all else and others above myself. My father was my most diligent teacher. If Bo knew my thoughts, though, and if he told Father, the two of them would prevent me from doing what I think I must. No matter how much compassion he has, my father is still a father. He would not allow me to leave, which means he cannot know.

  Above our heads there is a deep pop as the first firework goes off. It paints Bo’s metal face pink and yellow, the soft shades of a spring flower. “Stay with me for the fireworks?” he asks, his voice low.

  He was wrong when he said I could not guess what he feels; I know how deeply it runs. It is the catch in his breath, the shadow in his eyes, the twitch at the corner of his mouth. I know he wants to touch me, to have my whole heart. Maybe he knows he could have, if things had been different. Maybe he even senses that he has a part of it already. And that part of me aches, knowing that tomorrow he will realize I was lying, when I murmur, “Yes. I will stay.”

  I take his hand and I lace my fingers with his. It’s my final gift to him. Because I feel it too, a wish that things were simple, a wish to save a piece of Bo that he himself is trying to kill, a wish that this were enough for both of us.

  I lay my head on his shoulder and smell his skin, soap and sweat and machine oil. We turn our faces to the sky and accept the deep, smoky kiss of the night air. His thumb strokes the back of my hand. As the fireworks stretch fingers of light across the sky, I set aside my wishes and sink into dreams. Can I save a single life? Can I do anything at all? Am I stupid for considering this?

  It is the loneliest of feelings, but it is warm nonetheless. I think of Bo, how even when his body was torn and splintered, he did not give up. And how Melik, even when the whole of our nation told him he was worthless, no better than an animal, stood straight and demanded to be dealt with as a man. And how my father, even my quiet, meek father, devoted all he had to his patients, with little thought for himself, who even now eats a tad less than he should just to be able to afford medicine for those who need it.