Matt Ruff by Gas;Electric-The Public Works Trilogy Sewer

Author:Gas;Electric-The Public Works Trilogy Sewer [Sewer, Gas;Electric-The Public Works Trilogy]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2012-06-01T17:24:49+00:00

“Naturally, a clean cut would have been too much to ask. His blade was pitted from use. It passed through sleeve and muscle, but only halfway through bone. I won’t bother trying to describe the pain; I expect a gut shot from a rifle would have been easier to bear. The only positive aspect to the situation was that this fellow was a southpaw, same as me, so his cut traversed left to right, into my right arm. My revolver was on the ground to my left; when I recoiled sideways from the blow, my smart hand came down on the gun. That’s the only reason I’m still alive.

“He wrenched his saber free-more pain, blood pouring down my arm, turning that Gray sleeve red-black-and I had an inkling the next blow would be to my neck or my collarbone, after which lights out. What I did was pure reflex: brought the gun up, drew the hammer back, took a bead right between those green eyes. One shot.”

Kite worried the still-unlit cigarette between her thumb and forefinger; flakes of tobacco and paper shreds sifted to the table top. “One shot,” she repeated. “Strange, what’s always bothered me most about it is not so much the actual killing as the fact that he never knew we were on the same side. And then, of course, gunfire broke out all around following my triggerpull, as Blue and Gray both rushed in to aid the fallen. Twenty-four landless Cherokee blasting away at God only knows how many avenging freedmen, all because a Canadian picked the wrong spot to pee. Exactly the sort of thing that makes me doubt the concept of a just war. And then the capper: Chester Baker reached me under a hail of covering fire and dragged me to safety … hauling on the wrong damn arm.”

“Excuse me,” Ayn asked. “To clarify: When did this take place? Repeat the year.”

“64,” said Kite. “Eighteen sixty-four. August … 30th, I believe. My amputation was performed the same day. At the first break in the fightingthe Standing Bear Cherokees suffered four dead, seven wounded-we withdrew. Chester got us to a house up the valley, though I don’t remember the details of the journey, or whether the man who operated on me there was a surgeon or a carpenter. He used a hacksaw to finish what the saber had started. Mankiller fed me hard cider as an anesthetic, which wasn’t sufficient. My woodworking surgeon’s poor etiquette didn’t help either: he was cutting off my uniform, pre-operation, and suddenly shouted `My God, he’s got tits!’ I’ll never forget that … or the first rasp of the saw.”

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