“No.” She jumped up. “You have to see this for yerself. I’ll show yer.”
“What about our training?”
“Later.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him upright. “Come on.”
“Where? How far? What if we’re seen?”
“I’ll be a Menial carryin’ somethin’ for yer.” She picked up the jacket that Col had changed out of, and rolled it into a bundle. “This’ll do okay. Give me orders if anyone gets suspicious.”
They set off, heading aft. Riffled the way down successive staircases to Thirty-First Deck. Here were the manufacturing workshops, all closed, with shutters pulled down for the night.
Still they continued aft. Four times they ran into officers or supervisors. Col made a show of giving orders to his servant.
“Move it! And don’t drop anything!”
Riff gritted her teeth, even as she maintained her dull Menial expression.
They had been walking for half an hour before she arrived at a particular intersection and swung to the right. The lights grew dimmer, the workshops dirtier and dingier. Finally they left behind the manufacturing area altogether. Up ahead was an arched entrance closed off by a revolving turnstile.
“Follow me,” whispered Riff.
As they approached, Col could see the padlock on the turnstile. Riff glanced around, then vaulted lightly over the top. Col did the same, not quite so lightly.
Beyond the turnstile was a passage with walls painted white. Riff padded forward to a second turnstile, which they also vaulted over.
Col whistled in amazement. Now they had reached the side of the juggernaut! He was standing in a strange metal tray, fifty feet square, open to the night sky above. In the middle of the tray was a pile of assorted vegetable matter.
He looked up at the pale round orb of the moon. So bright, so cool, so silvery! So different to the way it looked in paintings! It made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.
“See there.” Riffs pointing finger drew his attention lower down.
At the outer edge of the tray was a huge steel arm. He recognised it from the time when he’d stood and looked out from the platform above the Bridge: a crane. Sir Mormus had told him that the juggernaut’s cranes were for trade and loading cargoes.
This one was moving. As he watched, a scoop as big as a house came into view. Then the arm swung round and the jaws of the scoop opened to deposit their load on top of the pile of vegetable matter. Col made out a tangle of vines and corn, bananas and coconut palms. There was even something that might have been a beehive and four upward-pointing legs, like the legs of a cow.
“When they’ve got enough stuff, a gang of Menials will come along and sort through it,” said Riff.
“You’ve seen that?”
“Yeah. It started when the juggernaut began travellin’ over land.”
Col remembered what he’d heard about Worldshaker making landfall on the coast of Burma. He also remembered Sir Mormus’s explanation of the principles of trade.
“These are raw materials,” he explained to Riff. “We trade our manufactured goods for raw materials.”
Riff snorted. “What manufactured goods?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nah, but I do. That’s what I’m gonna show yer next.”
So their expedition wasn’t finished yet. Col watched as the crane swung away and lowered its scoop over the side again.
Then Riffled the way to a hole like a drain in the corner of the tray. She lowered herself in and disappeared from sight.
Col didn’t like the look of it; the hole brought back unpleasant memories of dropping down the food chute. But he took a deep breath and followed after her. His feet landed with a splosh.
As his eyes adjusted, he saw he was in a round pipe, large enough for standing upright. A stream of scummy liquid flowed along at the bottom. He almost gagged from the smell of decayed vegetable matter.
“It runs all the way to the back of the juggernaut,” Riff told him.
She turned and scuttled off. Col ran after her awkwardly, straddling his feet on either side of the stream.
The drain sloped steadily down towards the stern. Other drain-holes let in light at regular intervals.
Then there was a different light ahead: the circular shape of the end of the pipe. Riff slowed down.
“Careful,” she warned. “The pipe hangs out over the back here. Nothin’ to hold onto.”
For the last few paces, the pipe made a different, hollow sound under their feet. Riff advanced to the rim and halted. Col peered out over her shoulder.
It was unreal, uncanny. The panorama was no wider or more spectacular than he had seen from the platform with Sir Mormus, but it was transformed under the moonlight. The distant outline of mountains, the vague blur of woods, the numerous rivers and lakes…everything had taken on a blue metallic sheen.
And something else too. “What’s that?”
Riff leaned to the side to give him a better view.
Col traced a great ugly gash across the landscape. A gash of flattened earth, a churned-up strip of ruin. It cut through hills and dammed rivers, growing steadily wider as it approached the stern of the juggernaut. It was exactly the same width as the stern of the juggernaut…
“Well?” Riff prompted.
Col remembered the three hundred and forty rollers, each weighing eight hundred tons. Of course Worldshaker would mash everything it rolled over! Of course it would leave behind a trail of destruction! Why had he never thought of it before?
“See the villages on either side?” Riff pointed. “See, there and there and there? But not where we’ve been.”
Col understood. He could see the pale patches of settlements dotted across the plain. But there were no settlements in the strip where the juggernaut had passed. Sir Mormus’s words came back to him: On the ground, we’re travelling faster than a galloping horse.
He would have liked to think that Worldshaker steered to avoid the villages in its path. But the unswerving line of the gash refuted him. Looking at the scar-like corrugations of ploughed earth, he knew that the natives never had a chance.
“Yeah, take a good look,” said Riff. “That’s what you do all around the world.”
Col imagined the thunder of approaching rollers, the unbelievable convulsion and upheaval of the earth. Whole villages must have been swallowed up. The lucky victims would have been instantly crushed to death, the unlucky ones would have been buried alive…
“We never stop,” he said slowly. “How could we trade when we never stop?”
Riff laughed a harsh, humourless laugh. “Oh, you trade, all right. You want to see what the natives get from you?”
Riff propped herself against one side of the pipe so that he could squeeze forward on the other. She hooked a hand into his belt to steady him. Cautiously, he bent forward and looked down where she indicated, over the curved rim of the pipe.
It was like looking down the face of a cliff, a dizzying thousand-foot drop. The stern of the juggernaut was a vertical wall of metal broken only by the projecting ends of many pipes. She pointed to one particular pipe far below.
“That one comes out from Fifth Deck,” she told him.
It was too distant for Col to see clearly, but something like a thin stream of droplets seemed to be issuing from the end of the pipe. Something like a very fine rain, falling and glittering in the moonlight.
“Fifth Deck,” Riff repeated. “Don’t you remember?”
Col cast back, but the memory wouldn’t come. What was on Fifth Deck?
“Those plaster things,” said Riff.
Then he remembered the statuettes of the Imperial family: Queen Victoria seated, or Queen Victoria standing, or Queen Victoria and Prince Albert seated, or Queen Victoria seated and Prince Albert standing. He remembered the racks of shelves stocked with millions upon millions of painted plaster replicas. Worldshaker’s manufactured goods!
“Very useful, huh?” Riff dripped sarcasm. �
�Just what you need when yer village has been wiped out.”
Col shook his head. “I never knew. I thought trade meant…trade.”
“Nah. It means cruelty and bullyin’ and tramplin’ on anyone weaker. Some get crushed underneath and some get crushed inside. While your lot stays on top and rides over everyone.” She clenched her fists. “That’s why there has to be a revolution.”
The word revolution gave Col a start. It was cruel and bullying, but…to turn everything upside-down?
Yet how else could it be changed?
“You Upper Decks people are good at not knowin’ what you don’t want to know, ain’t yer?” Her lips twisted in a bitter expression. “Well, you know it now. Just start thinkin’ about whose side yer on.”
She turned and headed back up the pipe. After a while, Col turned and went after her.
∨ Worldshaker ∧
Forty-Five
Col had only four days to survive until the end of term, but every day was harder than the last. Showing more and more of his true attitude, Mr Gibber began to act out the myth that Col was a source of infection.
On Tuesday, he kept wandering towards Col’s desk as if by accident. Then he would pretend to realise where he was, clap a hand over his nose and backpedal away to safety. The students joined in with calls of “Danger zone, sir!” and “That was a close one, sir!”
On Wednesday, he progressed to a further stage of provocation. Now he made a display of deliberately walking into danger, tiptoeing towards Col’s desk one step at a time. The students waited until he was two paces away before they roared out a warning.
“Don’t do it, sir!”
“We don’t want to lose you, sir!”
“Think of Mrs Gibber and the little Giblets, sir!”
Mr Gibber put on a comical expression of shock and horror, and skipped back to the front of the class.
Col refused to be provoked. He could see that Mr Gibber was only looking for an opportunity for more play-acting. He summoned up the latest fighting techniques that Riff had taught him and rehearsed them in the privacy of his mind.
It wasn’t so easy to ignore the note that was waiting for him when he came back to class after the Wednesday lunch break. He opened the lid of his desk and there it was, scrawled on a sheet of paper in red ink.
WE DON’T WANT YOU IN OUR SCHOOL
WE KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH FREAKS LIKE YOU
YOU MAKE OUR CLASSROOM STICK
FILTY LOVER
Who was it from? He scanned around, but everyone seemed to be looking the other way.
It had to be one of the Squellingham group, of course. But when could they have left the note in his desk? He was sure they’d been standing around their hamper all through the lunch break. Perhaps another student acting under their orders?
He was thankful that Thursday was taken up by end-of-term exams. Under conditions of strict silence, Mr Gibber had lost his audience. He stalked around with his tweaker and applied it to selected students, but didn’t dare use it on Col.
There was a History and Geography exam, followed by an Algebra and Geometry exam, then a Physics and Chemistry exam in the afternoon. Col wrote his own answers regardless of Mr Gibber’s teaching. He had no doubt his marks would plummet anyway.
Thursday also brought another threatening note. Someone had managed to slip it into his satchel and he didn’t discover it until the end of the day. It was written in the same red ink and the same block capitals.
GO BACK WHERE YOU BELONG
GET OUT WHILE YOU’RE STILL IN ONE PIECE OR MEET YOUR FILTY FATE
WE’LL FIF YOU TOMORROW
It was coming to a head. He was a far better fighter than he’d been ten days ago, but he still couldn’t take on the whole Squellingham group at once. He needed more attacking moves. Riff had insisted on teaching him defensive moves first, which she said was the proper order. But now he needed to do more than dodge and block and counter-thrust…and he needed to be able to do it by tomorrow.
∨ Worldshaker ∧
Forty-Six
The Porpentines maintained their rituals in spite of everything. On Thursdays, the Sir Mormus branch of the family met for afternoon tea in the Somerset Room, and Col was required to attend after school, as usual.
Today the atmosphere was glacial. Gillabeth had already arrived, immaculate in her school uniform, and Ebnolia, Orris and Quinnea were sipping tea. Nobody spoke to Col.
Ebnolia was preoccupied with her favourite Menial, Wicky Popo. Extraordinarily, he had been allowed to sit on one of the Somerset Room’s elegant, satin-upholstered chairs. Grandmother’s well-known kindness towards Menials had transcended all bounds.
In fact, he was more slumped than sitting. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes protuberant, and he could barely support the weight of his own head. He looked very sick indeed.
“Poor, poor Wicky Popo.” Ebnolia stood before him, shaking her head. “What a big, sad, unfair world it is, isn’t it? What’s it all for? Where will it end?”
The Menial turned large liquid eyes towards her. Ebnolia made patting motions over his head, though without actually touching him.
“So unhappy and suffering. So unwell, just when you want to be strong. Look at your poor thin arms and legs! Look at your chest! Not eating properly at all.”
She continued tut-tutting quietly to herself. Wicky Popo’s silence didn’t discourage her. No one else spoke and she obviously didn’t expect them to.
Then the door swung open and Sir Mormus marched in. One of the serving Menials poured and handed him a cup of tea. For a moment, the cup rattled on the saucer.
“It’s happening.” His voice seemed dredged up from some deep, dark place. “A no-confidence motion tomorrow. Sir Wisley got his way. Their Imperial Majesties will be asked to attend a special session of the Executive.” He turned to Ebnolia. “Our future is in your hands now.”
Ebnolia left Wicky Popo and came across to him. She took the cup and saucer from his quivering hand and put them down on the nearest table.
“Negotiations are going well,” she said brightly. “Hommelia is in favour. Now I must go and talk to Turbot himself. We’ll have a yes or no before tomorrow, and I think it will be yes.”
Sir Mormus’s gloom scarcely lifted. “It still needs the Queen’s approval.”
“Well now, we just have to hope, don’t we?”
“She hasn’t let me talk to her since…the incident. It’s ridiculous to let her make decisions by herself.” He lowered his voice. “She doesn’t have the brains.”
“Shush, dear.” Ebnolia fluttered her hands. “Don’t worry. I’ll go and talk to Turbot now.”
She pattered to the door and went out, leaving behind a sweetness of strawberry-scented perfume.
There was absolute silence for the next three minutes. All the fire seemed to have gone out of Sir Mormus. Finally he roused himself.
“You can go,” he told Col. “You too,” he told Gillabeth.
Gillabeth made a tiny curtsey, but she wasn’t quite ready to be dismissed. “Don’t you want to hear my report, sir?” Her eyes flicked towards Col.
“No. Tell your grandmother later.” Sir Mormus turned away to the cake-stand. “If there is a later…”
Col was glad to escape from the room. He hadn’t uttered a word from start to finish. But he did have a question to ask Gillabeth, as soon as they were out in the corridor.
“You know what it is, don’t you? This plan of Grandmother’s?”
Gillabeth merely nodded, as though her knowledge was a matter of course.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“What is it?”
“Not for your ears.”
“But it’s about me. Isn’t it?”
“Oh, everything’s about you. It was you that got our family into this mess. You and your undisciplined behaviour. Flying in the face of convention. Do you have any idea what you’ve done to this family? Do you even realise how you’ve dragged our name d
own?”
She glared at him vindictively for a moment, then strode on ahead. Col was left stunned.
Were all older sisters like this? Always correct and perfect? He had never been able to live up to Gillabeth’s expectations.
∨ Worldshaker ∧
Forty-Seven
“Why do you need more attacking moves?”
“It’s time I learned.”
“I decide when you’re ready to learn. Why tonight?”
Col didn’t want to admit that students in his class were planning to beat him up tomorrow. In the end, though, he had to tell Riff the whole story. It came out in a great hot lump.
Riff frowned. “But I thought you were top dog? Goin’ to be Supreme Commander or somethin’?”
Col explained how the situation had changed since he’d returned from Below. Riff thought about it.
“Who’s writing the notes?” she asked.
“Don’t know. Probably one of the Squellingham twins.”
“Who uses red ink?”
Col was amazed at her sharpness. It was true, the students all wrote in blue or black in their exercise books. He’d never considered it before.
“Someone must have a bottle of red ink in their desk,” he said.
“You should’ve told me all this before.” Riff pursed her lips. “Okay, I’ll teach yer as many attackin’ moves as I can. I’ll go without my readin’ lessons for tonight.”
They moved the bed back against the wall and Col loosened up with his all-over shaking exercise. Then Riff demonstrated the spots to hit and how to hit them.
“Short and sharp to the nerve spots, use the points of yer knuckles. Deeper to the muscles and flesh spots, drive in with yer full fist. Yer target’s always below the skin, see, so aim for it.”
The training began in earnest. She rolled one of his blankets into a tight cylinder and held it up in front of her, while he struck at it with different types of blows.
“Full fist!”
“Short and sharp!”
“Straighter! Don’t swing!”
Next, she tossed aside the blanket and told him to aim his blows at her, limiting him to one fist at a time. He was halfhearted at first, until he got used to the idea that he couldn’t hit her anyway. She was fast enough to swerve aside, but she could always tell where the blow would have landed.
Worldshaker 01; Worldshaker Page 18