Worldshaker 01; Worldshaker

by Richard Harland

  “Goodbye,” he murmured, and it became a farewell to his childhood and all the things he’d once believed in.

  He stood up, swallowing, rubbing the wetness from his eyes. It was as though the world of his past evaporated, leaving him clean and fresh and clear-headed. Now he knew exactly what he had to do.

  “Okay, let’s go,” he said. “Time to start the revolution.”

  Riff stared at him, then gave a whoop. “Lower the rope? Bring up the Filthies?”

  “Yes. Let’s do it.”

  ∨ Worldshaker ∧

  Sixty-Five

  They descended by the same steam elevator that Gillabeth had operated before. Gillabeth had raised the lever to go up, so Col lowered the lever to go down. At Fourth Deck, he moved the lever to a midway position to bring the platform to a halt. They hunted around in the repair stores and found spools of cable even better and longer than the ropes that Col had used before.

  He wasn’t sure what would happen with the steel door to Bottom Deck. He knew how to open Door 17, but this would be a different door. In fact, it turned out to be Door 13. Would the same combination unlock it, or would they need to walk all the way to Door 17?

  No need to shield the numbers from Riff any more. He spun the top wheel to 4, the middle wheel to 9, and the bottom wheel to 2.

  Clack! The same combination did the trick!

  They darted inside. The scene on Bottom Deck looked very familiar: rows of iron piers, black mounds of coal, occasional pools of blue-white light. For the moment, the coast was clear.

  “It’ll be the same arrangement, I bet.” Riff pointed. “Food chute should be over there.”

  They passed four piers, turned right at a bunker, passed another two piers…and there ahead was the cover of the chute. Bags and sacks of food were stacked behind it, mounds of coal rose up on either side.

  A sudden shout spoiled their success. “Hey! You!”

  An officer had spotted them. No matter! They ran on to the manhole, crouched down and set to work on the bolts. They heaved the cover back on its hinges and lowered it to the floor.

  The officer strode up, spluttering with fury. “You-you-you!”

  Riff was poised and waiting. As the officer lunged for her, she twisted aside and hooked his feet from under him. Then caught him by the ankles, upended him and propelled him headfirst into the hole.

  It was over in a flash. By the time he managed a scream, the soles of his boots were already disappearing round the curve in the chute.

  “We’ve sent a message!” whooped Riff. “That’ll wake ‘em up Below!”

  “They’d better be quick,” said Col.

  He held one end of the cable and flung the rest of the spool into the hole after the officer. It dropped all the way down to the bottom. He wound the end round the hinges of the cover and Riff made it fast with a knot.

  The officer’s shouts had not gone unnoticed. Straining his ears, Col could hear distant voices asking questions.

  “What was that noise?”

  “Where was it?”

  “Something’s wrong.”

  Then the cable went taut. The Filthies were on the way up. Riff caught Col by the wrist and drew him away from the manhole.

  They hid beside one of the coal mounds, with a clear view over the approach to the chute.

  The distant questions had turned into commands. It sounded as though someone was organising a search.

  Col jogged Riffs elbow. “Look.”

  Away on one side of Bottom Deck, the moving beams of flashlights cut through the gloom.

  Riff pointed in another direction. “And over there.”

  More flashlights, a second search party. There was nothing to do but wait and hope. Col had never actually gauged the length of the food chute, but he knew the Filthies had a long way to climb.

  The beams swept from side to side, but always coming closer. Although the officers weren’t sure what they’d heard, the chute was surely one of the places they’d check.

  “Arm yerself,” whispered Riff.

  She had a lump of coal in either hand. Missiles for bombarding the officers. Col gathered two lumps of his own.

  The first search party was already approaching. The officers had fanned out and only some carried flashlights. One appeared around the side of a bunker and began to investigate in the direction of the food chute.

  Luckily, he was one of the ones without a flashlight and couldn’t immediately see that the manhole was open, the cover flat on the ground.

  “Mine,” whispered Riff.

  She drew back her arm. When the officer came in close range, she hurled a lump of coal and struck him a terrible blow just above the ear. He went down without a sound.

  But now the second search party was meeting up with the first. More commands rang out. “Spread wider. Check everywhere.”

  Riff re-armed herself with another lump of coal. “I’ll lead ‘em away,” she whispered.

  She was gone before Col could protest. Gliding around the side of the mound, vanishing into the shadows…

  Still the Filthies hadn’t reached the top of the chute. Two officers approached between the coal mounds – and this time they both had flashlights.

  “Aaa-aghh!” One stumbled and clutched at the back of his head.

  Col couldn’t see, but he heard the clatter of Riffs missile bouncing away.

  “Yaa-wagh!” A mocking imitation of the officer’s roar of pain. “Here I am! Come and find me!”

  There was instant fury, instant hubbub. But the plan misfired. While everyone else turned in the direction of the voice, the other officer with a flashlight still shone his beam forward – and spotted the prostrate form of Riffs first victim.

  “Man down!” His urgent shout pierced the hubbub. “Looks like Dumfrey!”

  Col flung one lump of coal, then the other. His aim wasn’t as good as Riff’s and he hit the officer only on the arm and shoulder. Still, the blows made him drop his flashlight.

  He shouted all the louder. “Here! Here! Over here!”

  More flashlights appeared around the coal mounds, and many more uniforms. One beam ranged beyond the body on the ground and picked out the open manhole cover.

  “Look!”

  “Emergency!”

  “Forget Dumfrey! Close that cover!”

  Col had run out of options. He sprang forward from the shadows and took up a fighting stance, blocking the way to the chute.

  Lights dazzled his eyes. There were cries of amazement. “Isn’t that…?”

  He yelled defiance. “Colbert Porpentine! Stay back!”

  But they weren’t going to obey his orders now. Half a dozen came rushing at him, fists raised, flashlights wielded like clubs.

  He dodged, and felled the leading officer with a punch to the solar plexus. As that one dropped, he spun and knocked another sideways. A third swung at him and missed, but still bore him to the ground, trapping his legs.

  Before Col could wriggle free, a fourth loomed over him. A massive boot came crunching down towards his face – but never landed. Suddenly, the man crumpled and fell headlong, crashing to the ground somewhere behind Col’s head.

  Riff had arrived.

  “On yer feet!” she grinned.

  Did she see the two officers behind her back? Even as they reached for her, one let out a sudden gurgle of surprise. A long metal spike had skewered him through the throat.

  The other barely had time to stare before a second spike flew through the air and impaled him in the chest.

  “Yay!” Riff brandished her fist. “And about time too!”

  It was the Filthies. Col rolled over and saw them emerging from the manhole. One after another they sprang out, landed lightly on their feet and ran forward. They were all armed with spikes or iron bars or blades.

  The officers were nowhere near outnumbered, but they couldn’t match the Filthies for weapons – or speed and agility. They dropped back as Riff led the Filthies forward. Col found himself in a
quiet zone behind the line of action.

  He freed his legs and levered himself off the ground. But one of the officers he’d brought down before wasn’t giving up the fight. Col saw only the flashlight in the man’s hand, whirling in a savage arc. The metal casing met the top of his skull with a tremendous crack. There was a moment of blinding pain…then oblivion.

  ∨ Worldshaker ∧

  Sixty-Six

  When he came to, he was flat on his back and Riff was cradling his head in her lap. Her face lit up when his eyes flickered open.

  “Good!” was all she said.

  She was pressing something against the top of his skull. His head felt sore and muzzy. He remembered the fighting…He directed his gaze left and right. No officers now, only Filthies. They were like a sea flowing past on either side.

  Then a cry went up: “Where’s Riff?”

  Riff stirred her legs. “That’s the Revolutionary Council,” she told him. “They need me.”

  An older Filthy in a red headband came pushing through the crowd. Col remembered her name, Fossie.

  “Riff, you gotta come and explain the strategy,” she said.

  “Okay, okay.” Riff nodded down at Col. “But someone has to look after him.”

  “I can do it.”

  So Fossie changed places with Riff. Col’s vision blurred as his head was raised, then lowered into a new lap.

  “Use this for the blood,” said Riff.

  She was talking about a strip of rag, which she passed across to Fossie. It had once been white but was now three-quarters red. Fossie made a wad of it, and applied it gently to the top of his skull.

  Col looked up into her face. A friendly face, attractive even with age, strongly etched with laughter lines.

  “You’re a member of the Council,” he brought out. “You were in the hammock.”

  “Ah, you remember. I must’ve made an impression on yer, then.” Her grey eyes twinkled. “And now you’ve got me all to yerself. So be quiet and recover.”

  There was a long period of comfortable silence. Filthies with spikes, bars and blades continued to pad past, an evergrowing army. Some glanced at Col with curious or hostile eyes – but fleetingly. They were intent on more urgent business.

  Col felt better all the time. He could hear orders being issued about twenty or thirty paces away. The Revolutionary Council seemed to be sending different teams in different directions.

  “How’s the attack going?” he asked after a while.

  Fossie lifted the strip of rag. “Hmm. Bleedin’s stopped,” she announced. “How’s the attack goin’? I expect we’re half a dozen decks up by now. We capture and guard the staircases. They’re the key.”

  “Everything’s so well planned.”

  “Of course. We’ve been livin’ for this day. Dreamin’ about it. Riff most of all.”

  Col reflected back over the last few weeks with Riff on the Upper Decks. Their training sessions had been so important to him, he’d hardly considered what she was doing the rest of the time. Now he saw a whole new side to her.

  “She’s amazing.”

  “Very clever and very determined,” Fossie agreed. Her mouth quirked in a smile. “Not so pretty, though.”

  “I think she is.”

  “No? Really?”

  Col half heard the note of teasing, but couldn’t stop himself. “She’s better than pretty. She’s better than anything. She’s…she’s…”

  Fossie laughed. “Oh, dear. Got it bad, ain’t yer?”

  “Have I? What?”

  “Reckon you’re in love with her.”

  Col explored the idea in the privacy of his mind. Was being ‘in love’ something more than just ‘love’?

  “You’ll have to fight for her, though,” Fossie went on. “She’s got dozens of boys feel the same way about her.”

  Col knew he didn’t stand a chance against any male Filthy, not yet. But he could learn, he could practise, he could make himself good enough. “If that’s what it takes,” he said.

  “Unless she loved yer back.” Fossie put on a thoughtful expression. “She wouldn’t allow fightin’ then. Not impossible, I s’pose.”

  “Do you think so?”

  The laughter lines deepened in her face. “Oh, how should I know?”

  Col made an effort and sat up straight. There was blood all over his shirt and tailcoat. When he touched his fingertips to his scalp, his hair was crusted with dried blood.

  A passing group of Filthies stopped and stared.

  “It’s okay, he’s on our side,” Fossie told them.

  They muttered and moved on. Fossie shook her head at Col.

  “It’s your Upper Decks clothes,” she explained. “You don’t look like us.”

  Col considered his clothes, which were bloodstained anyway. “I could take off my coat and shirt.”

  “Yeah, better.”

  He slipped out of his tailcoat and Fossie helped him take off his shirt, which was stuck to his skin in many places.

  “Let’s see what Riff would be gettin’,” she said.

  “Ow! Ouch!”

  She laughed when he was finally stripped to the waist. “Well, hello to the handsome young hero! I never knew anyone could be so palel”

  She made him take off his shoes and socks too. But she still wasn’t satisfied.

  “No, you’re too clean. Wait.”

  She rubbed the palms of her hands on the floor and coated them with coal dust and grime. Then she patted him on the chest and back.

  “Don’t move!”

  She seemed to enjoy his outrage as she left dirty smears all over his skin. She finished her handiwork by pressing her palms to his cheeks, then stepped back to admire the effect.

  “You’re a real Filthy now. Much improved. I could almost fancy you myself.”

  Col didn’t know how to deal with her humour. “I think I can stand up,” he said.

  She steadied him as he rose. “Not dizzy?”

  “No.”

  She watched him closely and nodded approval. He wasn’t swaying in the least.

  “Let’s go join the Council, then.”

  Four members of the Revolutionary Council were engaged in animated discussion, including Riff. Riff’s brother Padder was there, along with cold-eyed Shiv and Dunga, the tattooed girl.

  When Fossie added herself to the cluster, Riff glanced at her, then at Col. Her smile of relief lasted only an instant – then she plunged back into the discussion.

  He stood on the edge of the cluster and listened. They were talking strategy: was it time to open up further food chutes on Bottom Deck? Riff was in favour but Shiv had doubts. Riffs arguments sounded completely convincing to Col.

  Padder with his stubbly chin looked exactly as Col remembered, yet he was somehow different. Now he seemed almost likeable. Col warmed to him more and more, especially when he supported his sister’s arguments.

  Finally, Shiv backed down and the Council prepared to organise teams for the new strategy. A far-off crack-crack-crack interrupted them.

  “What was that?”

  No one could guess.

  “Maybe on Fifth Deck?”

  “Higher.”

  More reports, like a distant stutter. Col had a sudden suspicion.

  “I think I know.” He stepped forward. “Gunfire. They’re shooting guns.”

  “Guns?”

  “Your weapons will be useless.”

  Riff bit her lip. “How many guns?”

  “No idea. Officers don’t normally carry them.” Col had seen only one real gun in his life, the rifle carried by the ensign on guard outside the Bridge. “There must be a store of them somewhere.”

  Riff stared up in the direction of the gunfire. “I can guess. There’s a locked room I could never get into on Eighth Deck.” She snapped her fingers. “We have to stop ‘em now.”

  She didn’t wait for the Council to reach a decision, but shouted out to all the Filthies on Bottom Deck. “I need fifty fighters! Com
e with me now!”

  Col made sure he was one of the fifty. Fossie came too, and so did Dunga and Shiv. Padder stayed behind to direct the Filthies who were still coming up through the food chute.

  ∨ Worldshaker ∧

  Sixty-Seven

  They headed towards the sound of gunfire, ascending from deck to deck. More Filthies joined in on the way. The reports grew louder.

  Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!

  Col ran as fast as anyone. His head was still sore but the muzziness had cleared. Fired up by adrenaline, he felt fighting fit – or if he wasn’t, he didn’t intend to think about it.

  The shooting came from an area on Eighth Deck both fore and aft of the room Riff knew. Approaching along Seventh Deck, they came to a staircase going up. Four Filthies sat on the bottom steps.

  One clamped a hand over a bleeding hole in her leg; another nursed an arm half shot away below the elbow; the other two were openly weeping. The arrival of reinforcements hardly raised their spirits.

  “Can’t even get close,” groaned the girl with the hole in her leg. “They shoot us down from a distance.”

  Riff halted her army. For the time being, the gunfire had stopped here. She crept up the stairs, followed by Fossie, Shiv and Dunga. Col crept after them.

  Trickles of blood ran down over the topmost step. Cautiously, Col raised his head to peer out. Some lumpy shape was blocking his view.

  He didn’t realise what it was at first, because the body was twisted at such an odd angle. A young Filthy boy lay with his cheek flat to the ground, his eyes staring sightlessly. He had freckles, a mop of ginger hair and a gaping red hole in the side of his chest.

  Col’s stomach turned over. But there was worse to come. He raised his head a little higher and took in the whole corridor.

  It was a slaughterhouse, with six or more Filthies lying dead. They looked as though they had been picked up and tossed about at all angles. Their blood spattered the walls and smeared the floor.

  Beyond the slaughter, at an intersection of corridors, a line of officers knelt with long-barrelled rifles. Their faces expressed no particular horror at what they had done.