A month passes. A rockslide hits Dungeon Seven, killing several Pickers and Runners and injuring many more. Faria’s igloo becomes a ward for the wounded. The space fills quickly, so patients are laid outside, littering the icy ground with blood. Quiet as the last few weeks have been, the days become equally busy now.
We don’t sleep. It’s a whirlwind of learning as I watch Faria attend patients. The shaman smashes bone back into place and sews shut torn skin. Then it’s my turn. Faria applies the Dim Mak with such skill most patients don’t even realize what’s happening. He’s careful to make sure that even I don’t fully see the technique, lest I try to replicate it. Once anesthetized, he instructs me to reset the bones and suture the wounds while he moves to the next patient.
The Warden sees fit to bring additional equipment, including urchin needles and synth-plasma packs, so that we can infuse the injured. Carrick’s miraculous recovery seems to have changed his perception of Faria’s capabilities. Now even extreme measures are taken to ensure workers do not die. The Wendigo has not received a shipment of prisoners from the outside in months. No one says, but I suspect that the people of Meridian are too frightened to dissent. It won’t last, of course. Rebellion has a way of festering beneath the surface and then exploding like an infected boil. For now, the dearth of new inmates spurs The Warden to keep his current workforce healthy.
The week grates on, and numbers in the “infirmary” dwindle. Faria blindfolds me. I’m made to feel injuries with my fingers. He talks me through grazing injuries with touch, feeling the ebb and flow of the body’s meridians. I learn to sense inner vibrations, places where blood and energy are.
“Gently,” he whispers. I apply pressure to a man’s nasal bones, a Hauler who took a nasty bash from a falling rock. Snap! The bones click into place like the pieces of a puzzle.
“Ah!” The man exhales.
“You’ll have a bump on your nose, but you’ll be able to breathe correctly,” says Faria.
“Bump’s nothing. Thanks.” The man pulls himself to his feet.
“Looks like we’re done for the day,” I say, noting for the first time in weeks that his dwelling is empty.
“Yes.” Faria sighs. “I’d like to rest. Go home, Edmon.”
For once, he does not look ancient and intimidating, just tired and old. Someday, he will be gone. The realization, to my surprise, makes me sad. I take my leave and walk through narrow avenues of hovels and campfires. I think on Faria’s words. Go home. I chuckle to myself. This will never be home. I must survive and somehow return.
At the same time, I fear I’ll never leave. My mother and Nadia and Gorham and The Maestro and my unborn child will have perished for nothing. The Isle of Bone seems so long ago.
I find myself at the Ration Bar. I stand stoop-shouldered and skulking to make myself look physically unimpressive, quiet, and invisible like Faria has directed. I am given packets of food paste without incident. I take my tray to a table.
“Hey, Baldy Patch,” Bruul Vaarkson catcalls. “Where do you think you’re going?”
It was only a matter of time until it happened, I suppose. I turn to face the foreman, trying to control my rage and fear. I’m invisible, I remember.
“You don’t think you can pass the Haulers’ table and not pay tribute, do you?” he asks. Toshi, who sits next to the big man, snickers along with the rest. Jinam Shank glances in my direction, then returns to his meal of paste. I’ll get no help from him.
“Come here, Baldy Patch,” Vaarkson commands.
Half of me is ready to leap across the table and end this now. Kill or be killed. But I need to wait until the time is right, so I split the difference. I remain where I stand and calmly ask, “What do you want, Bruul?”
“What sass! I think the little scrapper doesn’t remember how I once had his pretty little ass bent over and begging for mercy.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” My voice is clipped.
“Good,” he says, smirking. “Then come here and see what new presents I have for you.”
“If you need medical assistance, you can take it to Faria the Red or The Warden if you prefer.” I turn to leave. My way is barred by the man whose nose I fixed an hour before. A Hauler, of course.
“What I need is to make you an offer, Baldy Patch,” growls Bruul.
“I’ve had your offers before, Bruul. No, thank you,” I say acidly.
“A man of your skills can be of use. Tenshin there”—he gestures to the man with the repaired nose—“tells me that you fixed him real good. Work for the Haulers. Work for our camp and in return receive my protection and special . . . privileges.”
I stifle a laugh. I remember Faria’s words about attracting attention and incurring the wrath of enemies. Wait until the time is right. “Generous, but I decline.” Again, I turn to leave, and my way is barred.
“You don’t seem to understand, Baldy Patch. I’m not asking.”
Rage boils inside me. I don’t take my eyes off Tenshin.
“Neither my foreman nor The Warden would appreciate if I worked solely for the Haulers,” I say coldly.
“They don’t need to know,” Vaarkson responds.
Enough talking. Fury takes me. “Drown in fathoms!”
Vaarkson’s eyes go wide. Before Tenshin can move, my fist slams the center of his face. His nose splatters against my knuckles. He goes down twitching, and I smile at his blood. I own that; it’s mine. I revel in the violence.
The next Hauler puts a hand my shoulder. I whirl with the food tray, smacking the edge against his temple. This man hurt his ribs and sprained his knee during the rockslide, so my next blow is to his ribs. The man gasps. I kick his knee. The joint melts, and the man crumples.
Vaarkson comes for me. I fling the tray like a discus. It smacks him in the mouth, sending him flipping end over end. He belly flops on the dining table, sending ration paste flying.
I turn my gaze to Toshi, who has been cowering in his seat. You’re next, tillyfish, I say with my enraged eyes. He cringes.
The crowd at the other tables goes ballistic, screaming. Food and fists fly everywhere around me. My altercation has instigated a full-on riot. My heart sinks. I was supposed to stay invisible.
A klaxon blares. Black armored guards run in from the tunnels below. It’s full pandemonium as humbatons fly from holsters, and sonic pulses pump into the prisoners, sending them writhing to the floor in nausea and pain.
I squirm my way through the rioters and slip quietly back to the Picker camp. I find a corner and huddle there. An hour or so later, the riot is finally quelled. I lean my head back and close my eyes, praying the cause of the disturbance will not be found. Too much to hope for, I know.