The Cloud Atlas

Sanger, suddenly sounding sober and reasonable, broke in like a radio announcer with a product to shill. “What's the matter now, boys? We're all on the same team here. Let's not-”

I don't remember Lily leaping on Jackson, or how or when his ear started to bleed. But I remember him coming off me and then the two of them on Lily, who was writhing on the floor with such fury, it seemed she was doing more damage to herself than they ever could. It was too hard to separate out a hand, an arm, but more and more bare skin, mostly hers, became visible. I tore off my belt, and with someone else's strength, fell onto Jackson 's back, looping the belt around his neck.

Lily shrieked, I yanked, Jackson bucked and would have thrown me had his buddy not fallen on top of me, his drunken logic insisting that would help. And it might have; he might have smothered me before I finished choking Jackson, but then a louder shriek entered the room, and when I twisted around, I found it was him screaming, not Lily. There was blood everywhere now, it seemed-on the floor, smeared on a wall, on Lily's palms, and most of all, on Sanger. He rolled off me; I sprang away from Jackson, leaving him coughing, using a finger to eke some breathing room out of my belt.

“Fucking Jap fuck,” Sanger spat, each word weaker than the one before. “I'm going to go over to that fucking Japland and fuck and kill every one of your cousins. Your mother, your brother, your fucking father.” Jackson had the belt off his neck now, and fell back, exhausted.

“Cripes, lady,” Jackson said, and I suddenly realized he wasn't much older than me. It didn't seem possible that he'd really wanted to hurt me, or Lily. But a quick look at Lily made it clear that she'd wanted to hurt them. Quite improbably, I began to worry that the two would leave-and leave me alone with Lily.

“Lady?” Sanger said, and swore. He put a hand to the back of his head, and then brought it forward, impossibly bright with blood.

“Can't read your palm now,” Lily said. “Too messy.” She stepped out of the tiny office quickly. I paused for a moment. Jackson was staring toward me but not focusing. Sanger looked ready to start again. I sprang for the door and dashed down the stairs.

Lily was waiting for me outside. She started walking, and I followed, neither of us saying a word until we were some blocks away. “Like I said,” she muttered then. “Sailors.”

I tried to figure out a reply, anxiously shifting the duty of holding up my beltless pants from one hand to the other.

She sniffed, half a laugh, looked me up and down. Then she stepped close to me and carefully hooked a finger through a belt loop. She was holding them up now, so I let go. “Soldier,” she said quietly and then shook her head and added something Ronnie only recently had taught me how to spell: ”Yugnikek'ngaq.”

“What?” I said, matching her whisper.

“Friend,” she said, even softer, and then removed her hand.

CHAPTER 7

FORT RICHARDSON HID ITS BIGGEST SECRET FROM VIEW in a flimsy, leaking, large Quonset hut, surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with rusting razor wire. A single MP was stationed at the gate to the mini-compound, right next to a little wooden placard that read “ 520” and nothing else.

I didn't have time to take in much more the first morning I reported for duty. Before I could finish studying the outside, the MP on duty told me to move along. I almost did, but instead, gave my name, told him my purpose, and waited while he gave me a long, exaggerated, head-to-toe inspection. Clearly, Gurley had handpicked him. He asked me to repeat my name. I did; he unlocked the gate, nodded me in, and then locked it behind me.

I had to admit: Gurley was doing a good job of intimidating me, and, I assumed, the rest of the base. Sure, everyone said they had top secret jobs, but how many worked in an outsized Quonset hut protected by fencing, razor wire, and a twenty-four-hour sentry?

A yellow bulb above a doorway directly before me seemed to indicate the building's entrance; the door itself had a small window that was blacked out. Inside, the darkness was almost total. I moved slowly; after our initial meeting in the bar, I was sure of an ambush. The door swung shut. I put up my hands to fend off the attack, but instead it came from below-a steel pipe of sorts to my shins. I staggered, cursed, and fell into a crouch, hands futilely-pathetically-around my head. “Stop!” I shouted, although that is probably me revising: I wailed.

No response. No second blow. At the far end of the Quonset hut, a door opened and light spilled out. I could now sense a vast open space. At the end of it, where the light was, an office had been carved out. The rest of the floor was devoted to all manner of war matériel, much of it unrecognizable. Giant tarps hung in odd profusion from the ceiling. Looking down, I could see that it had been some sort of a metal fitting, protruding from a cage the size of four or five milk crates, that had attacked me.