The Alec IV was old and very big. Six hundred metres of dead steel and rusting iron, the rails of her main deck stood a full hundred above the waves on a calm day. Everywhere he went there was the same smell of aged metal and lingering sweat, engine grease and fish. The hab section made up a quarter of the ship’s length by the stern, topped by a conning tower that contained the bridge. As he explored, he passed cabin after cabin clogged with debris, some carpeted with a thick oil and fungus ooze that shimmered in the weak light from the corridor. Other doors were sealed – by age or by design, he couldn’t tell. Entropy had pushed the crew to huddle on just two decks, leaving the rest to decay.
The captain lived alone atop the conning tower. The man reeked of drink but, unlike the rest of the crew, seemed oblivious to Cale’s outsider status, even inviting him into the wheelhouse. As he was shown around, Cale saw the man was isolated out here at sea, a nominal leader only. He feigned interest as the captain showed him his most prized possession, the navigational computer.
‘Links to the beacons,’ he slurred. ‘Means I don’t have to do a thing ’cept put my feet up.’
‘But you can still steer the boat?’ asked Cale.
‘Ship!’
Cale raised a hand in apology. ‘Ship. You still steer the ship?’
‘Nope,’ replied the captain, patting the box’s grey casing. ‘This baby takes care of it. I just punch the numbers in and let ’er go.’
Cale became absorbed in a large chart on the wall where their course had been scrawled in red pencil – the marks were old, faded. He traced the outline of the Medels Peninsula with his finger, wondering if this was the only course the Alec IV ever sailed any more. He turned to ask but the captain was asleep in his chair, slack mouth hanging open. Cale left quietly.
Forward of the hab section was the cavernous emptiness of the holds. Only one was in use, barely a quarter full of cargo while the others sat empty and echoing. Cale had seen ships like this long ago, remembered seeing cargo crates lashed to the decks and the vessels riding low in the water. This floating hulk could have carried an army; now it had to make do with several hundred tons of ice-packed fish.
* * *
On the third day of the storm Cale was passing the time by mentally mapping the maze of alleys and dead ends formed by the big cargo containers in the hold. It was then that he heard voices.
‘Keep your voice down, cunny. I told you already…’ said one.
‘You leave me alone!’ replied another.
Cale paused, alert. His breathing slowed. The second voice was muffled but the first was a deep bass note he recognised. Tension crept up his neck.
Moving on the balls of his feet he crept along the side of the container, stepping between piles of rubbish. He reached a large clear space that seemed to be a kind of loading area and spotted two figures at the far end. The bigger of the two held the other against the bulkhead. Cale saw a flash of red hair, then heard again the bosun’s harsh rumble.
‘I seen you lookin’ at me, boy,’ he said. ‘Pipe down now.’
Derrin’s reply was muffled by the meaty palm.
Walk back to your cabin, Cale told himself. Leave it be. This is not your affair; you have your own problems already.
Bowden wasn’t much older when he left home.
Before he knew it, he’d rounded the corner and was darting across the gap.
Derrin’s eyes widened and the bosun began to turn, but Cale was already on him. He clapped a hand over the big man’s mouth, jamming the edge of his fingers up under his nose and yanking his head backwards as he punched hard into the lower spine. The bosun grunted in surprise and pain and tumbled backwards. Cale let him fall, then turned the pull into a shove and slammed him onto the deck – the bosun’s skull hit the metal plate with a hollow clang. Before the sailor could rise he hammered home two heavy punches; the nose flattened to the side with a wet crunch and began to stream blood.
The bosun’s eyes rolled back into his skull.
Cale checked for a pulse, found it flickering. He rolled the bosun onto his side and propped him up. Derrin was watching with wide eyes.
‘Don’t want him to choke on his own blood,’ said Cale, just to fill the silence. Derrin stammered something, but he shook his head. ‘Just breathe. You’ll feel better in a moment.’ He spotted a yellow windcheater on the ground and picked it up, handing it to Derrin. ‘Here.’
Derrin pulled the coat around his shoulders with shaking hands.
‘Has he done this before?’ Cale asked.
Derrin shook his head. ‘He looked at me sometimes; I just thought he didn’t like me.’
‘What were you doing down here?’
‘He sent me. Said I was to check the freshwater tanks for leaks. Must have followed.’ He closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘I heard about him, what he likes. I thought they were only stories.’ His eyes swam. ‘Thank you.’
‘You might not thank me later.’
‘As soon as we make port, I’m gone.’
Cale nodded, and held out a hand, indicating they should leave. They left the bosun on the floor of the hold, breath wheezing through twisted nostrils.
* * *
For all its size, the Alec IV was not a place a person could hide for long. The day after the event in the hold the storm passed and the hatches were reopened. Cale went back to his walks, and it was there that the bosun found him.
The sailor’s huge hands clenched and unclenched with fury, like he was rending two necks at once as he spoke through gritted teeth.
‘You mark me, fucker. I didn’t see your face but I know it were you. I’ll take a dear price for this.’
Cale kept a neutral expression. ‘Sorry about your nose. Did you fall?’
The bosun’s face reddened. ‘I’ll break your spine, maggot!’
Cale leaned in close. ‘In a few days I’ll be off this tub.’ He pointed at the broken nose and black swollen eyes. ‘No one needs to know I did that to you.’
‘You’ll be dead before we ever make port,’ hissed the bosun.
‘No.’ He felt some of the old steel creep back. ‘You come at me again and I’ll do worse. I’ll do it in public. Think they’ll look up to you again after that?’ He made a show of looking around the deck. A number of nearby hands were pretending to be busy.
The bloodshot eyes bulged and the bruised face went crimson. For a moment it seemed the bosun might take a swing.
‘Landy cunt,’ he growled in Cale’s face, then turned and stalked away. A few moments later, he heard him screaming at someone at the other end of the deck.
He leaned on the rail, letting the tension seep out of him. The sky was still overcast in the wake of the storm and there was a fine rain pattering down, but anything was better than the metal coffin below. The aryx reappeared, screeching and diving. Even they were a welcome return.
He’d got to the bosun, made the man realise he was outmatched, but that only made him more dangerous. The stories behind those bruises would already have spread and a man who ruled through fear couldn’t allow that. When the reprisal came it would come hard, somewhere quiet, and unless he kept his eyes open it would likely be final. He’d seen the animal behind those bloodshot eyes.
He ate in the galley that evening, ignoring the stares. The sailors gave him the usual wide berth, but the sniggering had been replaced by a nervous hush. When he asked for grog, the cook gave it to him without a word. Derrin came to sit with him but he stopped him with a shake of his head. It would be safer for him to stay away, so Cale spooned more fish into his mouth and ignored the hurt look on the boy’s face.
That night, when he left his cabin to visit the head he heard the scrape of a boot behind him on the metal gangway and knew the time had come.
The knife was old and rusted, a heavy cleaver that whistled as it sliced through the air where his neck had just been. Cale recovered from the roll and spun to face the attacker. The bosun was shirtless and filled the corridor, lips drawn back o
ver his teeth. He surged forwards, swinging the knife in a murderous slash; Cale stepped in and jammed the arm before the blade could reach him, trapping it against the sweaty chest, then butted him square in the face; the bosun bayed as his nose snapped again.
Cale hooked the free arm and flipped the bosun over his hip and down hard onto the deck, then, before he could recover, twisted the knife hand round until he heard bones snap.
The bosun screamed and the knife fell from nerveless fingers, clanging on the deck. Cale kicked it away.
There was pain, sudden and blinding, erupting white behind his eyes. He was face-down on the floor.
‘He broke my stinking hand!’ he heard the bosun roar, then heard the scrape of another set of boots. Someone kicked him hard and he felt something break. He curled into a ball to try to protect himself, but the kicks kept coming.
‘Good lads,’ he heard the bosun say. ‘Knew I could rely on my mates. Now kick the fucker to death while I get me breath back.’
Cale braced himself but knew it was pointless. He’d underestimated the depth of fear running through the crew. He’d seen it before, the kind of sustained terror that slowly warps into something like loyalty. He’d not prepared for it and now he was going to die.
Bowden’s face filled his mind and he breathed a silent apology.
‘Stop it, you’re killing him!’ shouted a voice.
Then the world pitched on its end. There was a loud bang and a shriek of iron, then everything was full of salt and water.
ii. Quincentennial
‘Build walls of the soul and strengthen the Walls of Nation. Only from within can we find the strength to conquer what is without.’
The Seeker’s wisdom was inescapable during the Quincentennial, especially on the day of the joint military parade. Passages from Path to Internal Victory resonated from every speaker post, louder and more piercing than the usual background drone. From the rooftops, sending walls of sound reverberating, building to building, all along the canyon of the avenue, huge speakers boomed.
‘Where once there was waste, there shall be Freedom. Where once there was vanity, there shall be Unity.’
The voice reading the ancient maxims was shrill with passion. Kelbee knew the words off by heart, had done ever since her village’s narrow-eyed schoolmistress had put them there with a switch of her cane, and could never be allowed to forget them: to live in Karume was to negotiate a daily wash of tinny reminders that piped from buzzing speaker posts lining every street. Her lips moved in time with the words without her realising.
Gravity ringing from every syllable, the woman on the recording read, pumping every ounce of verve into her words. As the winner of a capital-wide ballot she’d been coached for the occasion by State dramatists; posters announcing it had been put up in every workplace and communal area. But despite her strident efforts, the acoustics of the towering walls of the avenue made a mockery of her, jumbling phrases into one another, obscuring some while others rang out with a screeching intensity. It was enough to make you wince, though Kelbee was careful to disguise it under a sneeze. Looking around her, many others were doing the same.
From her spot on the bleachers of the wives’ enclosure, Kelbee could see around half a kilometre of the parade route. Crowds lined the avenue, some in enclosures like this one, others milling behind ropes. Many tower blocks had been draped with giant red-and-blue banners, unfurled from the rooftops and hanging all the way down to the road; some were emblazoned with the words Balance, Loyalty, Victory; on others, His face beamed, perfect teeth in a fixed smile as white as snow, eyes beatific with wisdom and love.
The mid-morning was bright and unseasonably hot. The trees were barely in bud, the skeletal branches caught off-guard by the sudden heatwave that had the women around her muttering and sweating in their heavy formal clothes. Some shielded their eyes with their hands, some wore dark glasses against the glare; Kelbee contented herself with squinting. Her eyes followed a banner from its tasselled tip up to the roof of the opposite building, coming to rest on a soldier who stood there, watching. She couldn’t see his face, but his body was alert. One foot rested on the parapet, his hand gripping the strap of his rifle. There was a speaker not far from where he stood, a monstrous black-and-yellow stack. The noise up there would be deafening but he was still, shielded from the din by his helmet. The long barrel of his rifle was a razor-cut silhouette against the bright sky.
Crimson and sky-blue were everywhere, on every corner, flag pole, arm and throat. Yellow felsia petals had been strewn a fist deep along the avenue. Every speaker post was hung with a striped tabard: the blue of mourning, the red of victory. The crowds jostled for the best view and everyone was turned out in their finery.
Kelbee felt the weight of her sash on the back of her neck, the heavy two-tone silk rubbing uncomfortably. It was hung with rows of medals, a proud testament to the Major’s career. All the wives wore them, some hung with only a couple of commendations, others sagging under the weight of metal, the blue and the red beneath barely visible; some of the frailest ones had brought a daughter or niece to bear the burden of glory for them. Kelbee rubbed her fingers together inside her sleeve – she’d been up before dawn, burnishing the medals to a mirror sheen and the smell of the polish still clung to her.
Every year the people of Karume gave thanks to the Father of the Nation on his birthday, but this was different: five hundred years of peace and joy inside and outside the Walls. Instead of a single day of celebration there would be a whole month. Alcohol rations had been increased, as had the number of police in the streets.
Attendance at today’s parade was obligatory, of course. More than that: it was duty. It had never even occurred to Kelbee to do otherwise, though she’d been surprised to see police roaming the corridors of her apartment building that morning. Even if the parades were long, they were all anyone had discussed for weeks – surely everyone knew absences would be noted? And yet there they’d been, all in black caps, eyes intent, running their scanners over the walls and checking for absentees. One of them had glanced at her as she passed, and she’d felt her cheeks go warm – it earned her narrowed eyes but nothing more. It was only later that she realised what had made her react that way.
A gap in a chain-link fence. Dusty stairs. A warm place hidden away, where dangerous and beautiful things were born. She’d never had anything to hide before.
Kelbee mopped her brow and waited for the parade to start. The Major would be there, alongside his soldiers, and as his wife it was her duty to bear witness. In the close press of the enclosure she was five rows from the back. Up here her view was better than those at the front but carried less prestige: the higher the husband’s rank, the further forward you went. Her calves were already aching, and it was still early, so she flexed them under her long dress, stretching up on to her tiptoes then back down again. To pass the time, she ran her eye over the other wives, starting at the back and working her way forwards.
Once, when she was very young, she’d come across a tree stump in a grassy field, its ringed surface polished smooth. She’d shown it to Mother, who’d told her the layers were built up over time, each ring the passing of an age. They reminded her of that stump, these women, age and prominence accumulating as the years went by, every one of them leaving its mark.
Behind her were the junior officer’s wives, little more than girls, looking new and afraid. Then came her peer group: slightly older, quiet and watchful, some with gazes downcast, others throwing quick glances around as though checking the world for sharp things. A few rows on, the women became notably older. One row from the front were bowed, frail-looking creatures, hiding their years with bangles and piled-up wigs, their withered faces in stark contrast with the freshness of the girls they’d brought to carry their sashes.
By contrast, the entire front rank was full of perfect young women. Fresh-faced, with exquisite features and dressed in garments worth a year’s cloth ration. Younger even than Kelbee had been whe
n she’d first come to Karume, each one a true marvel of wide eyes and glossy hair.
What a miraculous regeneration, she thought, a promotion can have on a man’s wife.
Where did they go, those women who’d shared their whole lives with great men, when newer flowers came along to replace them?
And will I go there too, when the time comes?
The thought came as a shock, as if another person had spoken inside her head. She lowered her gaze, hoping it hadn’t shown on her face.
She made out snatches of conversation from a few rows in front. Oblivious to the silent ranks behind, the middle-aged wives seemed content to swap gossip; everyone wanted to know everyone’s business.
Meli loves the new school…
…And Sardum is vice-captain of the Squares team…
Did you see what she was wearing? I’m not surprised…
Kelbee almost envied them their bubble, a little world they’d created amongst themselves. She didn’t have much of a social circle, not yet. She watched them as they complimented, sniggered and pointed fingers. A casual observer might think they hadn’t a care in the world, though she knew how to spot the signs: a worried frown when they thought no one was looking, a furtive glance towards the children’s enclosure further down the route. Even buried under years of socialising and flattery, the fear remained.
There was a clarion of trumpets and the shrill voice on the speakers faded away. A roll of drums came rumbling down the avenue. Kelbee looked up and saw that the soldier on the rooftop had turned towards the new sound, his rifle ready at his shoulder. A hush fell over the crowd and the air grew thick; feet shuffled, the heavy emptiness of the masses holding their breath. In the distance, there was a retort of gunfire, three volleys in quick succession followed by the deep boom of an artillery piece. A voice drifted over the silent crowd, the clipped roar of an approaching drill sergeant. The drums grew louder and were joined by another sound; rhythmical, sharp, the tramp of thousands of feet approaching in perfect step. The stands began to vibrate.
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