Read Online From the Fire III by Kent David Kelly - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kent David Kelly
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his chest. Then he turned toward Sophie, not to confront her, but only
to have enough room to bend over and take in a ragged breath. He planted his
scarred hands over his torn-trousered kneecaps and tilted toward the opening
door, coughing and gagging.
The door released, and Sophie shoved it
open on its powered rails. She stepped out of the tunnel and into the shaft,
awash in reflected glo-lites. When Silas had done with coughing he rose and turned
toward her more properly, a shuffling little circle, and she could see that
although he was wearing green leather work boots over his feet, the soles had
melted off. His hole-ridden socks, trailing prints of water, were stained umber
and crimson with emerging and growing tangles of bloody filth. His lower lip
was trembling but he stood his ground, his eyes were wide and bloodshot and
unwavering. His brow furrowed. A dried clot of blood and pus stood out like an
unpolished jewel over his right eyebrow.
He was staring. Not at Sophie, but at
her right hand. She was still holding the HK submachine gun, and it was leveled
in the direction of his shins.
The alarm klaxon’s guttural echoes
finally drained away. Into the relative silence of howling wind gusts and the
waterfall from far above, the old man whispered, “Oh, Lord.”
Sophie sighed. Taking a step backward,
she clipped the gun’s hollow stock-tube to her utility belt and let it dangle
there with the safety on. She spread her gloved hands out to Silas, but he did
not cross the six feet of distance between them. She said, “I’m sorry I
frightened you. Come in. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Through the suit, her voice sounded
alien, the taunting of a machine.
The old man’s eyes roved down to the
swaying gun, then to the digital flick-flick of scrolling data imprinted
on Sophie’s visor, and then he stared into her eyes as he discovered them.
“Lady,” he said, his hands slowly coming
down to his sides, “I could be anyone. You poisoning yourself out here,
robot armor or no. Don’t you go risk yourself, you’re blessed to be here. Blessed,
now you go turn around, and Hell if I don’t blame you.”
Sophie shook her head, but inside the
suit it made very little difference. She turned her hands palm-upward. “I’m not
leaving you out here.”
“Well. Sorry I dropped your love note from
the good man in his rest,” said Silas, “but you done scared the ever-loving
horseshit out o’ me.”
He toed the paper away so that it would
not fall down through the grate, where the melt-water was trickling down into a
congealing puddle of blood-sludge beneath the floor. “That good man, says I, he
wrote it for you and it was pure. I say it true, but you should see .”
Silas bent down again.
“Please come to me,” Sophie whispered.
He said, “Don’t you shoot me. Just
reaching down for my cane.”
She let him. He never took his eyes off
of her gun.
“Please.” Louder she said it, this time.
“Please come to me.”
And as Silas Colson rose once more, he took
a faltering step toward her. He shook his head and winced, as if waking from
his own isolate slice of marble-tiered Purgatory and back down into nightmare. His
pupils flared in bloodshot rings of scarlet-white. He said:
“Oh my, oh, I don’t. Maybe … don’t
reckon after all, Mrs. S.-G. That’s a-being … a-being a bad idea a-t’all.”
And he fainted into her arms.
CODA
“The quality of mercy is not strain’d,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
‘Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings.”
~
— Portia in The Merchant of Venice
(IV, i, 184-194), W. S.
(The
to have enough room to bend over and take in a ragged breath. He planted his
scarred hands over his torn-trousered kneecaps and tilted toward the opening
door, coughing and gagging.
The door released, and Sophie shoved it
open on its powered rails. She stepped out of the tunnel and into the shaft,
awash in reflected glo-lites. When Silas had done with coughing he rose and turned
toward her more properly, a shuffling little circle, and she could see that
although he was wearing green leather work boots over his feet, the soles had
melted off. His hole-ridden socks, trailing prints of water, were stained umber
and crimson with emerging and growing tangles of bloody filth. His lower lip
was trembling but he stood his ground, his eyes were wide and bloodshot and
unwavering. His brow furrowed. A dried clot of blood and pus stood out like an
unpolished jewel over his right eyebrow.
He was staring. Not at Sophie, but at
her right hand. She was still holding the HK submachine gun, and it was leveled
in the direction of his shins.
The alarm klaxon’s guttural echoes
finally drained away. Into the relative silence of howling wind gusts and the
waterfall from far above, the old man whispered, “Oh, Lord.”
Sophie sighed. Taking a step backward,
she clipped the gun’s hollow stock-tube to her utility belt and let it dangle
there with the safety on. She spread her gloved hands out to Silas, but he did
not cross the six feet of distance between them. She said, “I’m sorry I
frightened you. Come in. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Through the suit, her voice sounded
alien, the taunting of a machine.
The old man’s eyes roved down to the
swaying gun, then to the digital flick-flick of scrolling data imprinted
on Sophie’s visor, and then he stared into her eyes as he discovered them.
“Lady,” he said, his hands slowly coming
down to his sides, “I could be anyone. You poisoning yourself out here,
robot armor or no. Don’t you go risk yourself, you’re blessed to be here. Blessed,
now you go turn around, and Hell if I don’t blame you.”
Sophie shook her head, but inside the
suit it made very little difference. She turned her hands palm-upward. “I’m not
leaving you out here.”
“Well. Sorry I dropped your love note from
the good man in his rest,” said Silas, “but you done scared the ever-loving
horseshit out o’ me.”
He toed the paper away so that it would
not fall down through the grate, where the melt-water was trickling down into a
congealing puddle of blood-sludge beneath the floor. “That good man, says I, he
wrote it for you and it was pure. I say it true, but you should see .”
Silas bent down again.
“Please come to me,” Sophie whispered.
He said, “Don’t you shoot me. Just
reaching down for my cane.”
She let him. He never took his eyes off
of her gun.
“Please.” Louder she said it, this time.
“Please come to me.”
And as Silas Colson rose once more, he took
a faltering step toward her. He shook his head and winced, as if waking from
his own isolate slice of marble-tiered Purgatory and back down into nightmare. His
pupils flared in bloodshot rings of scarlet-white. He said:
“Oh my, oh, I don’t. Maybe … don’t
reckon after all, Mrs. S.-G. That’s a-being … a-being a bad idea a-t’all.”
And he fainted into her arms.
CODA
“The quality of mercy is not strain’d,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
‘Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings.”
~
— Portia in The Merchant of Venice
(IV, i, 184-194), W. S.
(The
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