Worldshaker 01; Worldshaker

by Richard Harland

  The look of absolute despair in her eyes confirmed it. He shuddered to think of her transformed into a shambling, speechless, mindless Menial.

  Four officers gripped her by the arms and shoulders, the rest shielded her from view. Her cream dress now hung in tatters. Col watched her being frogmarched away.

  “You’d like to go after her, wouldn’t you?”

  He blinked. Gillabeth! She studied him with an appraising look.

  “Yes,” he answered without thinking.

  He could almost see the calculations ticking over in his sister’s mind. How much had she managed to work out?

  “You’ll be noticed if you do,” she said.

  “Why-?”

  “Unless I take you there a different way.”

  “Where?”

  “The Changing Room, of course.”

  “You know all about it, then?”

  “I’ve always known about it. Well?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Take me there. Please.”

  ∨ Worldshaker ∧

  Sixty-Three

  They left by a door on the other side of the Grand Assembly Hall. As soon as they were out in the corridor, Gillabeth picked up Antrobus and carried him.

  Col didn’t care about her motives – whether she really wanted to help him or just wanted him to damn himself forever. He only cared about saving Riff.

  They went past two descending flights of stairs, then swung into a short dead-end corridor. Gillabeth walked up to the green velvet curtains at the back and parted them to reveal a set of wooden swing doors. Then she opened the doors to reveal the vertical rails and chains of a steam elevator.

  “We’ll go the quick way,” she said.

  “Are you allowed to use this on your own?”

  “I’m not allowed to use it at all.”

  She certainly knew how to work it, though. She clicked a switch and a rattling, clanking sound started somewhere high above. When the platform arrived, they stepped on and she raised a lever to go up.

  “The Changing Room is on Forty-Eighth Deck, but the entrance is on Forty-Ninth,” she told him.

  Even the quick way seemed agonisingly slow to Col. Clouds of steam billowed around as they ascended to Forty-Ninth Deck.

  Coming out through another set of swing doors and green curtains, they passed through a warren of glass-fronted offices. Inside the offices were black boxes glowing with tiny lights, and cubicles where officers sat with pencils in their hands, metal cups over their ears.

  “Wireless telegraphy,” Gillabeth explained. “The signals come in as morse code and get turned into messages. We plot the routes of other juggernauts from their messages.”

  “Come on!” Col only hurried all the faster. “The Changing Room.”

  Several officers looked up and frowned at them through the windows. One came and stood in a doorway, staring after them. But nobody challenged their right to be there.

  They left the wireless telegraphy offices behind and turned into a blank-walled corridor. At the first corner, Gillabeth gave a warning gesture and stopped dead. Together they peered around into the next corridor.

  Up ahead were more blank walls, with a single door at the far end. Grandmother Ebnolia was holding it open, while the ten security officers struggled to force Riff through.

  “That’s the entrance,” Gillabeth whispered. “Wait.”

  Riff’s resistance was short-lived. The security officers overpowered her and frogmarched her inside. Ebnolia went in last, closing the door behind her.

  “She didn’t lock it, lucky for you,” Gillabeth told Col. “What are you going to do?”

  “Don’t know. What about you?”

  “I’m taking Antrobus back. I’ve helped you enough.”

  “Why help at all?”

  Gillabeth scowled. “You can never do anything on your own. You’re hopeless.”

  She went off without another word.

  Col couldn’t understand her, and didn’t try. He crept on down the corridor to the door at the end. It was labelled No admittance and had an elaborate locking mechanism of levers and bars. But, as Gillabeth had said, it wasn’t locked.

  He entered and found himself in a long, empty passage leading to another door. A small square pane of glass was set into this door at head height. He came up to it and peered through.

  On the other side was the top of a spiral metal staircase and, beyond that, a yawning open space lit by a cold, silvery glow. There was no floor on a level with Forty-Ninth Deck here; the floor of the Changing Room was a whole deck lower down.

  He edged the door open. The first thing that hit him was the smell: sharp, biting, antiseptic. He slipped inside and crouched at the top of the metal steps.

  Looking down, he took in tall white cabinets, baize-topped tables, zinc washbasins and fans swishing slowly around and around. The room was dim apart from two pools of light which shone over two high leather chairs. Beside each chair, a black metal tree held out enamel trays and equipment at various heights.

  A male Filthy was already strapped into one of the chairs. Two figures bent over him, wearing gowns, caps and facemasks. One was evidently a surgeon, the other his Menial assistant. While the assistant held scissors, the surgeon did something to the male Filthy’s mouth.

  Riff was in the process of being strapped into the other chair, which had been tilted back at an angle to receive her. The security officers had undipped the iron cuffs from her wrists and ankles, and were now fastening her arms onto armrests, her feet onto footrests. A particularly wide strap went round her neck and a kind of leather cup enclosed her chin.

  Then they drew back, leaving her immobilised. Her eyes looked out above the leather cup, huge and fearful.

  “There, there, there,” said Ebnolia, coming forward. “Let’s remove that jewellery, now you won’t be needing it any more.”

  The sweetness of her tone made Col shiver. With dainty fingers, she unpinned the earrings from Riffs ears. Riff couldn’t speak properly with the cup round her chin, but she growled like a wild animal.

  Ebnolia tut-tutted. “Hush, dear. You’ll be better soon. Much less savage and intractable. You won’t need to make such ugly noises when they fix up your tongue.”

  Choosing his moment, Col descended two whole turns of the spiral staircase. He was briefly in view but no one looked up. He ducked down out of sight again.

  The only sound was the swish-swish-swish of circulating fans overhead. Ebnolia continued to talk and Riff continued to growl.

  “Let me show you the wire they use for sewing.” Ebnolia swung one of the trays on the metal tree closer. On the tray were half a dozen bobbins of bright golden wire.

  “The very finest wire, you see.” She held one bobbin in front of Riffs face. “Not only for the tongue, but all parts of the body. They’ll sew you up inside, where nobody can see. You have far more movement than you really need, you know.”

  She pulled another tray closer, a tray that bore a small box like a casket. She opened it up to display row upon row of shining needles, nestled in beds of red velvet.

  “And here are the needles for doing the stitches. Such a neat, tidy job they’ll do.” She passed one of the needles back and forth in the air. “Of course, it’s far more difficult than it looks.”

  A grunt from the surgeon announced the end of the operation in the other chair. He stepped back to admire his handiwork, then went to wash his hands. His assistant untied a white bib, now spotted with blood, from around the male Filthy’s neck.

  “There, that other one has had his changes done. When he recovers, he’ll be a fine new Menial.”

  The changed male Filthy twitched and shivered, then slumped back against the headrest of his chair.

  “So peaceful and contented,” Ebnolia pattered on. “That’s how you will be too. But even better, dear, because I think I’ll make you into my favourite Menial.” She rested a thoughtful finger on the point of her chin. “Yes, I think I will. I’m feeling quite fond of you
already. Such big appealing eyes you have.”

  The assistant came across and tied a fresh white bib around Riff’s neck.

  Col scanned the room. Was there a way to rescue Riff while keeping his identity secret? Then he noticed a spare gown draped over one of the sinks and a spare cap and facemask on a shelf above the taps. Yes, there was a way…

  Meanwhile, the assistant had gone off again. He returned with a stoppered glass bottle and a felt pad.

  “Ah, the anaesthetic to numb the pain,” said Ebnolia. “For when your limiters are inserted.”

  Riff struggled hopelessly in her straps.

  “Oh, that’s not very well behaved, dear.” Ebnolia tinkled with amusement. “Don’t you want less pain?”

  The assistant returned once with a dish of what looked like golden buttons. He placed them on a tray behind Riffs head. Ebnolia held one up for Riff to see.

  “And these are your limiters, to limit your mind,” she explained. “You have so many more thoughts than you really need. When you’ve been limited, you’ll still have lots of nice small thoughts, but no nasty big ones. Won’t you like that?”

  The surgeon, who had now finished drying his hands, strode up to Riff’s chair. Ebnolia made way for him.

  “Here comes the surgeon to mark out your skull,” she told Riff. “He has to insert your limiters into exactly the right parts of your brain.”

  The surgeon had a pair of calipers in one hand and a marking pen in the other.

  Col didn’t wait to see more. He swung silently down the last two turns of the staircase, then darted off and hid behind the nearest table.

  No shouts of alarm, nobody had seen him. Bent double, he scuttled round by the cabinets and came to the sinks.

  He didn’t need to stand to take hold of the gown. He tugged on the end and pulled it to the floor. The rubbery green material made scarcely a rustle as he gathered it in.

  He still needed the cap and facemask, though. Taking a gamble, he jumped up without looking, snatched the two items from the shelf and ducked down again. Once more, he was in luck. Everyone’s attention remained focused upon the operation.

  He put on the cap and slipped into the gown. With frantic fingers, he buttoned the gown and tied on the facemask.

  The surgeon must have finished marking out Riff’s skull, because a whirring, buzzing sound started up. Something metal, something spinning at high speed-Now or never! Col jumped to his feet and ran forward.

  ∨ Worldshaker ∧

  Sixty-Four

  Surprise was his only weapon. Seeing him in surgical cap and gown, the security officers didn’t know what to make of him.

  “Who are you?”

  “Do you work here?”

  Col ran on without a word.

  The surgeon didn’t know what to make of him either. “Is that you, Shannock? Pendleton?”

  He held some kind of drilling instrument, which was what made the whirring, buzzing sound. His assistant carried the stoppered glass bottle and a pad of cotton wool.

  Col pushed them aside and bent over Riff. Her forehead had been marked out with blue lines like a diagram. He unfastened the strap around her neck and yanked the leather cup away from her chin. In spite of his mask, she recognised him.

  “Thought you’d come,” she breathed.

  He started on the straps that clamped her arms to the armrests.

  “Hey!”

  “Stop!”

  “He can’t do that!”

  The cries of outrage multiplied. When Riffs left arm came free, the surgeon dropped his drill and tried to grab at Col’s hand.

  Col reacted with one of Riff’s fighting moves. He took a two-handed grip on the surgeon’s wrist, then twisted and flung, using his hip as a pivot. The surgeon spun through the air and fell to the floor at Ebnolia’s feet.

  Col returned to the strap on Riffs other arm. His grandmother was shrilling at the top of her voice. “That’s no doctor! Keep him away from her!”

  Col kept his mind wide and his senses open. Even as he focused on his task, he remained fully aware of the officers approaching behind his back. He finished unfastening the last buckle just as the nearest officer leaned forward to grip him by the shoulders.

  He dropped down on one knee and the officer gripped empty air. He seized the man by the calves and threw him over his head, over Riff, over the metal tree and the chair.

  By now they were all coming.

  “Do the rest yourself!” His voice was muffled through the facemask, but Riff understood.

  He whirled to confront the next officer. He feinted a punch to the belly, then turned it into a punch to the chin. The officer’s head snapped back and his teeth came together with a violent crack. His eyes glazed over and he toppled to the ground.

  Suddenly wary, the other officers halted in their rush. They spread out to surround him on all sides. He glanced back at Riff, who was undoing the straps over her feet.

  Ebnolia was still close by, but he hadn’t thought of her as a threat. She took him by surprise when she bobbed up on tiptoe and pulled the mask down from his face.

  Col stood revealed.

  The officers gasped. “That’s her grandson!”

  “Master Porpentine!”

  “Who just got married!”

  Ebnolia’s shock turned into a scream, which turned into a shriek of accusation. “Traitor!”

  “Yes, and I know about you too!” Col shouted full in her face. “Murderer!”

  “Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!” Her tiny white teeth looked ready to bite. “Kill him!”

  The officers wavered. The idea of actually killing a Porpentine was more than they could absorb.

  “Perhaps take him prisoner,” one suggested.

  “No, kill him.” Ebnolia’s features were distorted with hatred. “He’s shamed us once too often. Sir Mormus disowns him. We want him dead.”

  Riff jumped out of her chair, the straps all undone. She sprang forward in front of Col and snatched the bottle of anaesthetic from the assistant’s hand.

  “You evil old bitch!” she yelled.

  She flicked the stopper out of the bottle, took hold of Ebnolia’s hair, pulled back her head and poured liquid anaesthetic down her throat.

  “Have a taste of your own medicine!” she snarled.

  Ebnolia spluttered and gurgled. When Riff released her head, she sank limply to the floor.

  The officers had waited a moment too long. Now they charged forward from all sides.

  Riff hurled the bottle at one officer and knocked him over with a hit to the temple. Then she danced forward and kicked another in the groin. In the same flowing motion, she pirouetted and punched a third in the kidneys. He folded up and collapsed like a concertina.

  Col brought down a fourth with a scything kick to the kneecaps.

  “Who’s next?” cried Riff.

  “You can’t beat us all,” threatened one of the survivors.

  “Wanna bet?”

  The five officers still on their feet looked at one another and decided that, yes, Riff and Col together could probably beat them all. They began to retreat.

  “Reinforcements!” shouted the surgeon. “We need reinforcements!”

  He was already halfway up the spiral staircase. With clattering boots, the officers hurried after him.

  Riff pulled the white bib from her neck with an “Ugh!” of disgust. She licked the back of her hand and rubbed her forehead, wiping the blue lines away.

  “Let’s go,” she said. “Before they come back with reinforcements.”

  But Col was looking at Grandmother Ebnolia. She began jerking this way and that on the floor.

  Twang! Twang! Twang!

  It was the elastic of her stays bursting open.

  Twang! Twang! Twang!

  Then the jerking and twanging stopped. Ebnolia was almost unrecognisable, bulging in strange places. Her wasp-waist had vanished completely.

  “She’s not moving,” said Col in sudden alarm.

&n
bsp; He knelt and touched the soft, suede-like skin of her cheek. It wasn’t cold, but somehow lifeless.

  “I think…she’s…”

  He couldn’t say the word. Riff knelt down on the other side and pressed a finger to the side of Ebnolia’s neck.

  “She’s dead.”

  “The anaesthetic killed her.”

  “I didn’t…” For a moment, Riffs voice shook and her expression wavered. Then she sucked in her lips and recovered control. “She deserved it. We have to go.”

  She rose to her feet, but Col stayed kneeling. He looked into the blankness of Ebnolia’s eyes and his own eyes misted.

  “Come on,” said Riff.

  “I have to say goodbye.”

  Riff tried to pull him by the shoulder, but he shrugged her off.

  “She was going to kill you, remember? She starved her Menials to death. She was going to do the same to me.”

  Col shook his head. The real Ebnolia Porpentine was a monster, he didn’t deny it. What he’d lost was something else: the image he’d grown up with, the grandmother in his heart. He remembered holidays and Sunday picnics, high teas and family card-nights. Will you always love your favourite grandma? she used to ask. She had been so much a part of his life, the only grandmother he’d ever known. His whole past flashed before him.

  One memory stood out, particularly vivid…a memory of a family circle book-reading. Sitting on a chair in the Somerset Room, with Grandfather, Mother, Father and Sister Gillabeth, listening as Grandmother read out a story. He must have been very tiny, because his feet couldn’t reach the floor. There were Menials in obedient attendance and mugs of hot chocolate. He didn’t understand much of the story, but it had a wonderful hero whose best friends were his cat and his dog. They lived in a town where the streets were made of cobblestones and the roofs were made of straw, and they went around helping people and doing noble things. Grandmother showed him a picture of the hero in the book. Everything was so noble and good…in his memory, the taste of hot chocolate mingled with the colours of the picture and the carpet and chairs in the Somerset Room, to create a feeling of absolute safety and Tightness. And, encompassing it all, the strawberry-sweet scent of his grandmother’s perfume, his grandmother’s kindness…