Simoom Rising

Chapter Eight

Pit District, Simoom
Five years ago

Harmony

The only way I can explain about the dust is by telling you what happened to Sila. It starts with me running, stumbling through the back lanes and tripping over garbage, hugging Sila, wrapped in a blanket, to my chest. I had to keep the scarf over my face; I couldn't hardly see. With every cough, Sila jerked, and her bloody puke spread through the blanket, wet and sticky. I zigzagged upslope mostly by memory; no moons or stars that night—too many clouds—and everybody had their back doors and portholes blocked by blankets, trying to block out the goddam dust. No light peeped through.

Don't trust them, they had told me. Don't take her there. Those are Plat doctors.

I wouldn't listen. All I could feel was that tiny body jerking. All I could think was Just get to the aid station. Just get to the aid station.

But the lane in front of me was blocked by sand dunes and garbage. Without stopping, I turned right down a side lane between two shacks, battling my way, squeezing through, trying to hold Sila higher than the sand, plunging ahead, until I found a main track. I blinked, looking around, trying to figure out where I was. Uphill and to the right—a white light in the dark—the aid station, must be the aid station. I took a deep breath and started to climb. Almost there, Sila, almost there.

Mummy, it hurts. Make it stop. Came the answer from Sila, but only later did I realize we weren't speaking out loud.

Twenty steps from the aid station, the wind stopped and the air cleared of dust. In front of me a scene came into focus, like I was watching a show. I saw a line of Pit Pats, with helmets, and visors and filter masks—their flashlights harsh on the three aid workers standing across from them. Shit, shit. I ducked behind a rusted water drum. I really wanted to avoid those black-armoured bastards. What should I do?

A short man in white scrubs was standing up to a much taller Pat. "There's 10 minutes left until curfew. We were promised that we could run the clinic until then."

"I'm telling you to close up shop now, doctor," said the Pat, unshouldering a weapon.

"Are you pointing a gun at me, officer?"

"Not at all doctor—this is for your protection. My orders are to get you all out of the Pit safely by curfew. That means you've got to pack up now."

"But there may be more patients coming," said another aid worker.

"I have my orders, now pack up."

They can't leave now! "No, nooooooh!" Before I could stop myself, I opened my mouth and wailed, tasting grit. A gust of wind pushed me from behind. "You have to help me, my kid ..." I rushed forward, arms extended, offering up my girl. "She's sick ..."

I saw the doctor take a step and reach for Sila, but then something hard smacked me on the forehead. I landed on my backside. Sila flew out of my arms. The dust kicked up thick and blinding, and I couldn't see the Pats or the doctors anymore.

The grey blizzard began to swirl. Spitting sand, I came up onto my hands and knees. I was dizzy. I wiped blood from my forehead and got dust in my eyes. It stung. But where was Sila? Where was my girl?

WAVE Orbiting Station
Now

Doric

I listened to Harmony's story whispered to us through the microphone and I grew uncomfortable. God, she told a good story. I admit that during my time in the Pit Patrol I had used force on the rats—but only when necessary. And yes, I did think some of those Plat aid workers were delusional. But I don't remember an incident like she described—a woman with a sick child. I'd remember that, wouldn't I? It couldn't have been me—it had to have been another officer.