MY HEART IN STONE
PART 13:
Mikol let his eyes pass briefly over the new hireling then latch onto Gerta. "You have some...
good ...explanation for this, I presume?" he said, his voice as cold as his eyes. Gerta gulped. "I do." Mikol peered at Rachel. "You'd damn well better," he said. "Her family was Czech, Mikol. From a small village near Prague." He narrowed his eyes. "She does...look...Czech."
"It....it's why she's come back, you see," Gerta continued. She had really wanted to pass
Rachel off AS a resident Czech but there was simply no way to get past the obstacle of
Rachel's speech. "She wants to see the land of her ancestry, " she paused. Did that sound
as flimsy to Mikol as it did to her? "She wants to know what it's like to be a Czech in the
Czech Republic." She rested a palm on Rachel's left shoulder. "She's an honest girl, a
real hard-worker, and has already had experience in the past with managing the
house-keeping staff of a small resort hotel in ...in...eastern Texas." "This is, Gerta, not what I expected you to come up with. You realize that?"
Gerta nodded. "I tried, Mikol, down in Hromada, to find a local girl. I tried really hard.
But, you know," she looked at him meaningfully, "the reputation of Kamen amongst the
townsfolk. Then when Katryn was killed on her way here. Well, they all seemed to take
that as an omen. No one would even consider working here after that. So," she shrugged
broadly, "I had to try something...different." "You have checked her credentials?" "Thoroughly. She's just a daughter of Czechoslovakia returned to seek her roots." Mikol finally addressed Rachel in person. "What are you called, young woman?"
“Veronica Kocurek, sir,” Rachel spoke in a low voice, her eyes flicking upwards just
enough to show she was paying attention, and then returning to a deferential downward
cast. Gerta, however, could see muscles in the back of her neck move as if Rachel was
controlling tension. She could only imagine what Rachel was holding back. “My family
immigrated from Czechoslovakia in the mid 1800s. No one really kept track of lineage
after that, so when I started asking questions, no one could answer. And then my parents
died right before I graduated from college, and I realized that if I was going to find
anything out, I would have to go to the source.” "What do you have to say for yourself? Why...should I hire you?" Gerta took her own eyes to a downcast level, her heart quickening a bit as a pause
ensued while Rachel gathered her thoughts. They had talked about this….
“I put my way through college as cleaning service for the resort. The manager often
tried to get me to drop my classes so I could continue as manager of the place. But I
said I wanted to travel, see Europe. I’ve been enjoying myself so much, I haven’t wanted
to leave. And now, I don’t have any real ties back home, so I thought…why not make
some here? And Hromada is…like a fairytale…”
Rachel trailed off because Mikol stood to walk around his desk, stopping near to tower
over her. It was an impression of height, of authoritative power that he wished her to
understand as he said, "I have a guest in Kamen right now. His...health...is very delicate,"
again his eyes flicked to Gerta, "and he is not to be approached by staff nor spoken to. If
he asks you to bring him something, you may do so, but do not address him personally.
You are to keep your distance from him whenever possible. If he is in a room that you are
about to enter, wait and clean it when he has gone. Do you think you can manage that?" “Yes, sir. Without a doubt.” "I will not take...kindly...to any breach in this rule." He looked at Gerta then, his brows
pulled together. "Not at all. And you will bear the responsibility for it should she fail in
this." Gerta nodded. "I understand." Mikol turned slightly sideways, wiping his forefinger across his desk, holding the slight
coating of dust up to his face. "Were my quarters not on the verge of contamination, we
would not be doing this this way, Gerta. Especially not at this time." He pulled a white handkerchief from a pocket, carefully cleaning his fingertip. "Put
her to work. Immediately." He strode toward the door of his office. "I have business to
attend to elsewhere. Show her where the supplies are kept, then have her start with this
room." Then he was gone.
"May I come up?" It was Henri, only his head showing in the entrance to Cort's room.
Cort had been sitting cross-legged on the bed, using his fingertips to make patterns in
the deep nap of the brown velvet spread as he thought. He smiled at Henri. He liked the
Doctor. "It's fine, Doctor. Come on up." "I've brought coffee," Henri said, setting two mugs on the table. "Join me?" Cort slid off the bed, walking in his sock-feet to a chair. He took a long sip of the rich,
black liquid and murmured, "Good." Then he looked at Henri. "Mikol has not been
here the last couple of days, Doctor. Why is that?" Henri stirred his coffee. "I imagine he's trying to give you some...space." "Why would he do that?"
"I asked him to," Henri said, licking his spoon and setting it carefully beside his mug. "You did?" Henri nodded. "Thought you could use that right about now." "Ah, after the movie," Cort replied. "Guess I didn't handle that too well, eh?"
"Not your fault, Cort." Henri fixed his eyes on Cort's. "I can't even imagine what that
must've been like for you." "It wasn't like I thought." He shook his head slowly side to side. "I don't know...what...I
thought. But it wasn't....that." He closed his eyes a minute. "How could something...so real...that looks so real...be in a
box like that? How can...I...be in that box?" "You're past that now, Cort. When you've been 'retrieved' as you have, then all you are,
all you've been...it's, well, it's hard to put into words, my friend, but it's rather 'expanded.'
That's the best way I can think to put it. You can still see yourself in the box because it's
imprinted there, like a photograph in an album or framed on the wall. But you...the reality
you, who you are, all you carry in your memory...that's become...more." He reached across the table, curving his palm over Cort's forearm, slightly squeezing his
fingers. "Now you are both in AND out of that movie. It's like you've broken through the
barrier of the parameters, the walls, of the film and have...emerged." "Like a chick out of an egg?" Cort offered with a bit of a grin. "Actually, that's fairly apt, Cort," Henri nodded, pleased. "The egg being the movie.
You were IN the egg, confined by the shell of it. Now you are...out. Now you have no
walls and can continue to live...to do new things." Cort looked past Henri at the curve of the stones. "I wouldn't exactly say, Doctor,
that I've got no walls." Then his eyes moved back to those of the man seated across from
him.
"I know," Henri replied, running a finger around the rim of his mug. "And I wish there
were something I could do about that." "Do you?" Henri raised his eyes to Cort's. "I've never...cared...before, Cort. Mikol, well, he's been
trying for a decade to bring someone here, someone like you. And it's always failed.
Always." He took a long sip. "Some...some lived for a while. I took care of them, tried to
fix their bodies." He looked away. "Couldn't fix their minds, though. Just too damn...much.
To be ripped from a movie like that." Eyes back on Cort's he continued. "But you. You made
it. And I, well, I see the person you really are. None of the others had a chance to become...
real...for me. Not like you. I don't think I realized, not really, what we've been doing. You...
you're not just a project any more. You're...you. Cortland Wells. And...and...you matter." "Can you get me out of here?" "Out of Kamen?" Henri was startled.
"Yes." "Where would you...go? You have no papers, no money, you know no one." He shook his
head vigorously. "It's too...improbable. It wouldn't work, Cort. It really wouldn't." He
stared into his mug. "If you knew someone, had some place to go, some place far away
where Mikol couldn't find you. That might be different. But you don't. And he wants you
here. He'd come after you and he'd find you. He would, Cort. He has...ways." His eyes
flicked to where he knew the camera was. He was risking this conversation because he
knew Mikol was en route to the construction company.
"How long does he intend I should remain here?" "I don't know. Truly I don't. Now that he's finally gotten a subject through...sorry...
a person through, he'll try and get everything he wants from you. I have no idea how
long that would take." "What is it, Doctor. What does he want from me?" "He wants to understand how you think, why you think, why you've chosen what you've
chosen, what that means to you." "I've gathered that much," Cort continued levelly. "But why? What good would that
possibly do him?"
"It's...it's a new technology he's been working on. Years. He's put years into it. Is all he
thinks about, all he wants." "I don't understand. What do you mean?" "Nanocybertronics," Henri said, his voice low. "Advanced...robotics." "Robotics? I'm not familiar with the word." "Machines. Machines that look like people, exactly like people...but are...not." "He wants to make me into a...machine?" "No. He wants your...mind...in the machines. Just that." He sat back in his chair, pushing
his mug away. "Not like Sid," he murmured almost inaudibly. But Cort heard. "Sid? Who is Sid?" Oh, God! Henri wiped sudden sweat from his upper lip. "I'm sorry you heard that.
Please, Cort, never mention that name to Mikol. He'll know I told you. He'll...."
"I won't, Doctor." He could easily see how terrified that thought left Henri. "But, tell
me, who is he, this Sid?" "He's a nanotech. He's...one of them." "A machine? This Sid is a...machine?" "Much more than that, I'm afraid. He's...the best of them. The most advanced. And he's
growing. Since he's been out of his movie, he's evolved." He looked at Cort. "Mikol
despises him." "Why would he despise a machine?" "Sid has technology like Mikol's. They're sort of...rivals." "You said Sid was from a movie? Like me?" "I assure you, Cort, he's nothing at ALL like you. His programming contains the minds
of most of the mass murderers and worst criminals ever to darken the face of this world.
But, yes, he was originally in a movie." Cort sat quietly, considering this piece of information. "So, I'm not the only one, then,
who has been taken out?"
"You're not, Cort. Sid, in fact, has retrieved several others." He wasn't sure exactly why, but Cort found that rather comforting. "Do you know where
they are?" "In America somewhere," Henri replied cautiously. Cort's eyes brightened. "I'd like to get back there," he said. "To Arizona or somewhere
near. It's beautiful here but I don't think I'd ever feel at home here. Maybe...," his eyes
drifted to the window, "maybe if I could see the desert again." "Don't, Cort. I think this is more than can be...done." Cort ignored that. "These others, are they like me? I know you said Sid wasn't, but are
the others?" "Somewhat," Henri answered reluctantly. He folded his hands, pressing his fingers
tightly together. "Actually, a great deal." "How do you mean, Doctor?" "They look like you." "Like...me? Why would they look like me?" "Actor, Cort. They all...you...them...the same actor." He'd never thought about that! Yes, actors could do more than one movie. Of course
they could! His heart was beating faster at the thought that he had...fellows...out there
somewhere. He stood, keeping his hands flat on the table, leaning over it toward Henri.
"I've got to find them, Doctor. I've GOT to!" Henri was appalled. What had he done? Then he saw the light in Cort's eyes, the spark
of vitality that had been disappearing steadily over the last several days. Cortland
Wells now had a goal. One likely to cost him his life, admittedly, but also that would keep
him from drifting into deadly listlessness. Mikol! He would surely notice the change! He
would want to know the cause. He clamped his teeth into his lower lip, his mind racing.
WAS there some way he could help Cort get out of Kamen? "This Sid," Cort was continuing, his voice excited, "he, too, was made by the same
actor?" Henri nodded. "You're saying there is someone out there who looks like me and yet thinks like a mass
murderer?" He seemed fascinated by the concept. "Very like you, but with different hair, a bit of a different 'look'. But the other three,
they are all sort of lawmen." Cort's cheeks were flushed with excitement and he began to walk in circles around the
table. "Tell me, Doctor. Tell me what you know of them! Please!!" Henri figured there was no going back now. But he knew he had only about five clear
minutes before Mikol would arrive at the construction office. "A sheriff in Alaska...
John Biebe," he began quickly. "An LA cop named Bud White. And an Australian kidnap
and rescue agent named Terry Thorne." Cort smiled. "I could use that Terry fellow right about now." Henri, indeed, was somewhat surprised the good Mr. Thorne had NOT shown up at
their doorstep. Mikol had told him how he'd snatched Cort right from under Terry's
nose. And Sid's. "I can't get over this!" Cort said, not able to stop his quick steps about the room. "Like
me. Like ME!" He looked back at Henri. "Do you have any idea what this means, Doctor?
It means I'm not alone, that there are others who...know, who understand what this is like!" Suddenly he stopped, bracing his hand on the windowsill, his expression changing.
Henri knew what was going on. Cort's excitement had raised his heart rate, his blood
pressure, and another headache was coming on. "I can give you something for that if
you'd like," he said. "No, no thanks, Doc," Cort murmured. "I should know by now what brings one of these
on." He headed toward the bed. "Think I'll just rest a bit." He sprawled out on the
spread, one forearm across his eyes. "I'll be all right. Thanks, Doc. Thanks more than
I can say." Henri looked at him a long moment then got quietly up to leave. "I don't know that
I've done you any favors, my friend," he said softly. "Maybe just the opposite."
Rachel had to reach out to the chair next to her to steady herself as her muscles, on
extreme alert from the moment Mikol turned his ice blue gaze upon her, sprang loose
like a rubber band cut free. She had imagined many a thing to say, to do, to feel when
she did confront him, all of them involving the point of her sword, or the muzzle of a gun,
pressed firmly to the neck of the man who abducted Cort. All of that quailed and died
at the moment he directed his displeasure not at her, but at Gerta. What had been even
harder was swallowing his directive to ignore the 'guest’. Paranoia screamed ‘he
knows! He knows!’ and frustration boiled at the thought that even so close a proximity
would have its barriers.
“Are you all right?” Gerta whispered once the door closed behind Mikol. Rachel
nodded. No time for reflection. She was in. That was more than she had hoped for
at all. She needed to remember that. “Where are the supplies?” she asked. Gerta motioned for her to follow. The story she and Gerta had concocted the night before did have some truth to it.
Rachel had indeed put herself through school working various jobs in a maid service,
cleaning homes, hotels, at hours that worked very well with whatever school hours came
up for the semester. She had often been drained and sick of the smell of laundry soap
and cleaning fluid, but it was all worth it to pay the tuition bill and settle accounts for
living. And it had been true that she was offered a managerial position at one point, but
by that time a position at NanoCorp had opened and she had been dazzled by the office
complex and encouraged by Terry’s affable nature. Plus, the idea of a “normal”
nine-to-five was vastly appealing after several years of scrabbling what normal life
she could in between the job and school. The rest of it, though, was more by the seat of her pants, trusting that the simpler the
lie, the easier it was to maintain, trusting that no matter her background, Mikol would
think her inferior in intelligence and expect only obedience. That was easy enough;
or so she had thought the night before. Standing in his office, hearing Mikol ordering
her apart from any ability to establish a connection with Cort…THAT was hard. It had
taken all her self control to keep her facial muscles from sliding into a frown of
disappointment and rebellion. Gerta took her to a basement area and helped her gather up a small armful of items
to dust and polish Mikol’s office. She would be given a list later, Gerta informed her,
of other items “Veronica” would be expected to maintain, but for now, Mikol had
made it clear that the mere trace of dust throughout the keep was taxing his patience. What was more, Gerta was impressed as she flicked through Mikol’s office and made
the glass top of his desk sparkle, and wiped down items and straightened magazines,
papers, chairs, even find a ladder to reach the tops of the bookshelves, until the room
really did look brighter and cleaner for it.
Poor Gerta, Rachel thought as they closed the office door behind them, she really
was taking a chance on me. They then proceeded to the dining room which was, Gerta said, mostly looked after
by the cook and his assistants, but Mikol wanted the chandelier and other decorative
pieces attended to on a regular basis. This took longer (Rachel’s hatred for Mikol was
sealed forever by the very fact of the chandelier, a clunky iron monstrosity that
sported the head of a deer in the middle); but as there had been little change since
the last time Katryn went over the room, the most Rachel had to do was wipe down
surfaces and buff the suit of medieval armor propped up at the end of the room,
decaying atom by atom in its stand. By the time this was done, Gerta noted it was well past noon and suggested lunch in
the kitchen, the only place reserved for servants while they attended castle business,
and so they sat on stools in the private dining corner, eating sandwiches whilst the cook,
a swarthy Italian with a surly look, black hair and darker eyes fumed and glowered
throughout the kitchen, muttering Italian to himself and casting Rachel looks that
she couldn’t decide were out of curiosity or a plot to avenge whatever infraction they
committed upon entering his domain. When Gerta explained that Rollo had been
rather sweet on Katryn, Rachel decided to feel sorry for him. By the time they left,
Rollo had apparently decided to accept their presence and blatantly ignored them as
they walked by. While food had restored some of her equanimity, Rachel was beginning to feel as
one great big dust-bunny wandering around collecting other dust-bunnies. She also
knew she was tired when she began joking that if it kept up, she would have to start
naming them. Gerta barely cracked a smile. No laughing in Mikol’s house, apparently. “You’re right, I shouldn’t become attached,” Rachel finished the joke, feeling punchy.
The silence in the keep was oppressive, the air thick with age and severity, and Gerta
was as tense as a livewire the entire time, unwilling to relax even though Mikol had
said he would be away. Without much more conversation beyond Gerta pointing out
the particulars of expectations, Rachel tackled Mikol's bedroom and bath.
“It’s six o’clock,” Gerta announced after leading her back through the dining room
and down the stairs to the entrance hall. Rachel caught her image in a large full-
length mirror and nearly fainted. Was that her? “I’ll show you where to launder
the dust rags and you can start on the downstairs level tomorrow.”
“Won’t Mikol…” Rachel began, but Gerta’s lips went flat, disappearing. “Mikol will have to understand that you cannot learn everything in just a few
hours. You will have to come back early on the morrow. For now though, you
should go home and rest.” She opened the door of the keep. “I can open the gate
from here. Be outside at seven,” she added. Rachel stood a few moments and stared at Gerta. The woman was looking worn
out as well, although whether it was from anxiety or the exertion of dragging Rachel
all over the keep to train her, she couldn’t be sure.
“Will you be…?” Rachel began, but Gerta cut her off, laying a hand on her arm and
squeezing gently. “Tomorrow,” Gerta said quietly, and then gave her a genuine smile of encouragement.
“You’re doing well.”
ON TO PART 14
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