by Philip Reeve
Up a final stairway to the chamber of screens, where Grimsby’s founder kept watch over his underwater kingdom. Last time Tom had been here it was guarded; this time the guards were gone, and the door was not even locked. Hester kicked it open and went through it with her gun out.
The others crowded in behind. The chamber was large and high-ceilinged, lit blue by the ghostly glow of the screens which covered the walls. They were of every shape and size, from giant public goggle-screens to tiny displays ripped from Old-Tech hospital equipment, all linked together by a jungle of flexes and ducts. Up above, in the dark dome of the roof, hung a portable surveillance station; a midget cargo balloon dangling a globe of screens and speakers. And every screen was showing the same picture; a crowd of people on the windswept observation platform of a raft city. “Children of the Deep,” the voice from the speakers pleaded, “if you can hear us, we beg you, come to us!”
“Why did they fall for it? Why did they go? Did they prefer a bunch of old Drys to me?”
In the middle of the chamber an old man stood with his back to the door, shouting at the recording on the screens. In his hand was a remote-control device; he raised it and pressed a switch that made all the screens go blank and silent, then turned to face Hester and the others.
“Who are you?” he demanded petulantly. “Where’s Gargle?”
“Gargle’s not coming back,” said Tom, as gently as he could. He had bad memories of Uncle, but that did not stop him feeling sorry for the stooped old man who was shuffling towards him in a pair of threadbare bunny-slippers. The tortoise-like head, poking out from layer upon layer of mouldy clothes, blinked short-sightedly at him. Uncle’s eyes were clouded with age, and Tom noticed that many of the screens which surrounded him had big magnifying lenses bolted in front of them to make their pictures clearer. He suspected that Uncle was almost blind. No wonder he had come to depend on Gargle.
“Gargle has passed on,” he said.
“What, you mean…?” Uncle came closer, peering at him. “Dead? Gargle? Little Gargle what gave himself such airs and graces?” His face showed grief, then relief, then anger. “I told him! I warned him not to go looking for that rotten book. He wasn’t cut out for burgling, Gargle wasn’t. More of a planner. He had brains, Gargle did.”
“We know,” said Hester. “We saw them.”
Uncle recoiled from the sound of her voice. “A woman? There’s no females allowed in Grimsby. I’ve always been very strict about that. Gargle always backed me up on that. No girls allowed. Bad luck, that’s all they bring. Can’t trust them.”
“But Uncle…” said Freya gently.
“Eugh, there’s another one! The whole place is crawling with females!”
“Uncle?” asked Caul.
The old man twitched round, frowning, as if the sound of Caul’s voice had tripped a rusty switch inside his head. “Caul, my boy!” he said, and then, with a snarl, “This your doing is it? You got something to do with this? Tell the Drys how to find us, did you? You alone, or are there more?”
He limped away, stabbing at his remote control until the jumbled screens were filled with views of Grimsby, thrusting his parchment face close to the glass to stare at the empty corridors and chambers, the empty limpet pen, the flooded, ruined halls of the Burglarium.
“It’s just the four of us, Uncle,” said Caul. “We barely know what’s happened here. It’s nothing to do with us.”
“No?” Uncle stared at him, then let out a high-pitched cackle. “Gods, then you’ve picked a fine time to drop in for a visit!”
“We’ve come for Tom and Hester’s daughter,” Caul said patiently. “Her name’s Wren. She was taken from Vineland by the newbie who was with Gargle aboard the Autolycus.”
“Fishcake? Fishcake, that was his name…” Uncle hung his head. When he spoke, he sounded close to tears. “The Autolycus is missing. They’re all missing, Caul, my boy. The fools got that message about their mums and dads and they went haring straight off to Brighton.”
“To Brighton?” Tom had heard of Brighton. A resort town; a bit bohemian, but not a bad sort of place. If Wren were there, she might be all right.
“Why would Brighton want them?” asked Hester suspiciously.
Uncle shrugged and spread his hands and made various other twitchy gestures to show that he had no idea. “I told my boys it was a trap. I told them. But they wouldn’t hear it. Maybe if Gargle had been here. They listen to Gargle. Don’t listen to their poor old Uncle any more, what’s slaved and worried for them all these years –” Tears of self-pity went creeping down his crumpled old face, and he blew his nose on his sleeve. His gaze slid listlessly over Tom and Hester, then settled on Freya again. “Gods, Caul, is that great fat whale the girl you ran off to Anchorage for? She’s let herself go! Come to think of it, you don’t look too good yourself. I like my boys to be well turned out, and you… Well, you’re shabby, that’s the truth of it. Gargle told me you’d gone to make something of yourself among the Drys.”
Caul felt as if he were a newbie again, being told off for forgetting part of his burgling kit. “Sorry, Uncle,” he said.
Freya moved to his side, and took his hand in hers. “Caul has made something of himself,” she said. “We couldn’t have built Anchorage-in-Vineland without his help. I’d like to tell you all about it, but first I think we all have to leave this place.”
“Leave?” Uncle stared at her as if he’d never heard the word before. “I can’t leave! What makes you think I’d want to leave?”
“Sir, this place is finished. You can’t keep the children here…”
Uncle laughed. “Those lads aren’t going anywhere,” he said. “They’re the future of Grimsby.”
The children edged in closer to Freya. She let go Caul’s hand to stroke their heads. Everyone could hear the faint groan of stressed metal from the lower floors, the distant splatter of water spilling in.
“But Mr Kael,” said Freya. She had remembered something Caul had told her once. Before Uncle became Uncle he had been Stilton Kael, a rich young man from Arkangel. Freya hoped that by using his real name she might be able to get through to him, but it only made him hiss and glare. She pressed on anyway. “Mr Kael, this place is leaking. It’s half flooded, and the air smells stale. I don’t know much about secret underwater lairs, but I’d say Grimsby’s future is going to be pretty short.”
Hester snapped off the safety on her Schadenfreude and aimed it in Uncle’s general direction. “If you don’t want to come,” she said, “you don’t have to.”
Uncle peered at her, then up at his hovering globe of screens, where there was an image of her face far clearer than the one his poor old eyes could provide him with. “You don’t understand,” he said. “I’m not leaving, and nor are you. We’re going to rebuild. Make the place water-tight again. Stronger than ever. Make more limpets, better ones. We are none of us leaving. Tell them, Caul.”
Caul flinched, and wondered what to do. He didn’t want to betray his friends, but he didn’t want to let Uncle down either. The sound of the old man’s voice made him shiver with love and pity.
He looked at Freya. “Sorry,” he mumbled. Then, with a sudden, quick movement he jerked Hester’s gun out of her hand and pointed it at her, then at Tom.
“Caul!” Tom shouted.
Uncle cackled some more. “Good work, boy! I knew you’d come right in the end! I’m quite glad I didn’t finish hanging you now. What a shame those others scarpered off before they had a chance to meet you, Caul. You’d be an object lesson. Return of the Prodigal. All these years gone, and you’re still loyal to your poor old Uncle.” He pulled a key from one of his pockets and held it out towards Caul. “Now get rid of this lot. Lock ’em in Gargle’s quarters while we have a proper talk.”
Caul kept pointing the gun at Tom, because he knew that Hester was the only one reckless enough to try and overpower him, and that Hester cared more about Tom’s safety than her own. He fished the knife out of Hester’s boo
t, then took the key from Uncle and started shooing everyone else backwards towards the open door.
“But Caul—” Freya said.
“Forget it,” Hester told her. “I knew we were wrong to trust him. I expect this is the only reason he agreed to bring us here, so he could see his precious Uncle again.”
“You won’t be hurt,” Caul promised. “We’ll sort this out. It’ll be all right.” He didn’t know what he was going to do, only that he was glad to be a Lost Boy again. “Uncle knows best,” he said, as he forced his prisoners down the stairs and into Gargle’s quarters, locking the doors behind them. “It’ll be all right. Uncle always knows best.”
17
THE CHAPEL
Nightfall in Tienjing. Above the city the mountains hung huge and pale, a pennant of powder snow flying from each cold summit. Above the mountains, colder yet, the stars were coming out, and the things that were not stars, the dead satellites and orbital platforms of the Ancients, danced their old, slow dance in heaven.
The Stalker Shrike patrolled the silent corridors of the Jade Pagoda, his night-vision eyes probing the shadows, his ears detecting conversations in a distant room, a gust of laughter from the guard-house, the woodworm busy in the panelled walls. He roamed through galleries decorated with ancient carvings of monsters and mountain-demons, none of them as scary as himself. Relishing the grace and power of his re-tuned body, he checked with all his many senses for the faint chemical signature of hidden explosives, or the body-glow of a lurking assassin. He hoped that soon some foolish once-born would try to attack his mistress. He was looking forward to killing again.
A cold breath touched him; a faint change in air-pressure which told him of an outside door being opened and closed, four floors below. He moved quickly to a window and looked down. A forked blob of body-heat was moving through the shadows of the courtyard towards the check-point at the gate. Shrike measured its height and stride against the data he had gathered during his time as bodyguard, and recognized Dr Zero.
Where was she going, on such a cold night, with curfew due in less than an hour? Shrike pondered the motives of the once-born. Perhaps Dr Zero had a lover in the lower city. But Dr Zero had never seemed interested in love, and anyway, this was not the first time that Shrike had caught her acting strangely. He had noticed the way her heartbeat raced when she was near the Stalker Fang, and smelled the sharp scent that came from her sometimes when Fang glanced her way. He was surprised that his mistress had not noticed these things herself – but then, Fang did not share his interest in the once-born and their ways. Perhaps she did not realize, or did not care, that her surgeon-mechanic was afraid of her.
Shrike’s eyes, on maximum magnification, watched Dr Zero show her pass at the check-point and followed her until she was lost to him among the barracks and banners of Tienjing. Why was she so frightened? What scared her so? What was she doing? What was she planning to do?
Shrike owed her everything, but he still knew that it was his duty to find out.
Down through the steep, stepped streets Oenone Zero went hurrying in her silicone-silk cloak, hood up, head down. The sky above the city was full of the running lights of carriers and air-destroyers taking off from the military air-harbour, carrying yet more young men and women away to the west, where their deaths were waiting for them on the Rustwater Salient.
Guilt welled up inside Oenone, but she was used to it. Every morning she tended the Stalker Fang’s joints and bodywork, and placed her instruments against the Stalker Fang’s steel breast to check on the strange Old-Tech power source that nestled where Anna Fang’s heart had once been. Every morning she told herself, I should do it now, today.
She would not be the first to try. All sorts of fanatical peaceniks and die-hard supporters of the old League had attempted to destroy the Stalker Fang, only to have their knives snap on her armour; or watch her walk unscathed from the ruins of bombed rooms and the wrecks of airships. But Oenone Zero was a scientist, and she had used her scientist’s skills to devise a weapon that could destroy even the Stalker Fang.
The trouble was, she hadn’t the courage to use it. What if it didn’t work? What if it did work? Oenone was sure that, without the Stalker to lead it, the Green Storm regime would fall apart – but she doubted it would fall apart so quickly that the Stalker’s supporters would not find time to kill her, and she had heard rumours about the things they did to traitors.
Lost in her thoughts, she did not notice that she was being followed as she crossed Double Rainbow Bridge and turned on to the Street of Ten Thousand Deities.
Over the centuries, Anti-Tractionists from all over Europe and Asia had fled into these mountains, and they had brought their own gods with them. Packed side by side, the temples seemed to jostle each other in the dying light. Oenone pushed her way past two wedding processions, a funeral, past shrines decked with lucky money and clattering firecrackers. She passed the temple of the Sky Gods, and the Golden Pagoda of the Gods of the Mountains. She passed the Poskittarium, and the grove of the Apple Goddess. She passed the silent house of Lady Death. At the end of the street, sandwiched between the temples of more popular religions, stood a tiny Christian chapel.
She checked to make sure that no one was watching her before she stepped inside, but she did not think to look up at the rooftops.
Oenone had found the chapel by accident, and was not certain what kept drawing her back to it. She was not a Christian. Few people were any more, except in Africa, and on certain islands of the outermost west. All she knew of Christians was that they worshipped a god nailed to a cross, and what on earth was the use of a god who went around letting himself get nailed to things? It was small wonder that this place had fallen into disuse, its roof gone, weeds growing through the rotting pews. But on nights like this, when she felt that she must get out of the Jade Pagoda or go mad, this was where Oenone came to calm herself.
Snowflakes sifted down on her through a sagging sieve of rafters, settling on her green hair when she threw back her hood. Running her hands over the walls, she read with her fingertips the texts carved in the old stone. Most were illegible, but there was one that she had grown fond of. It was an old fragment, from before the Sixty Minute War, and Oenone was not sure what it meant, but there was something consoling about it.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the
yew-tree
Are of equal duration.
Oenone knelt before the bare stone altar and bowed her head. She didn’t believe in him, this ancient god, but she had to talk to someone.
“Help me,” she whispered. “If you are there at all, give me strength. Give me courage. I’m so close to her. I could use the weapon now, if only I were brave enough. And it wouldn’t be murder, would it, to kill someone who is already dead? I would only be smashing a machine; a dangerous, destructive machine…”
She spoke softly, barely moving her lips. No human ear could hear her. But her prayer was heard, just the same. Crouched like a gargoyle on the chapel’s ruined steeple, the Stalker Shrike listened carefully to every word.
“Have I the right to do it? It all seemed so clear before, but now I have seen her; how clever she is, and how strong… Maybe it would be murder. Or am I just making excuses for myself? Am I just looking for a reason not to do it, so that I can live? Send me a sign, God, if you’re up there; show me what I should do…”
She waited, and Shrike waited with her, but no sign came. The noisy, popular gods of the neighbouring temples seemed to dish out comfort and advice like agony aunts, but the god of this place was less scrutable; maybe he was asleep, or dead. Maybe he was busy with some better world, off at the far end of the universe. Oenone Zero shook her head at her own foolishness and stood up, making ready to leave.
Shrike climbed quickly down the chape
l wall and waited in an alcove by the entrance, where perhaps a statue of the Christians’ nailed-up god had once hung. His suspicions had been right. Dr Zero was a traitor, and although he had grown fond of her in his Stalkerish way, he knew that he must eliminate her before she could harm his mistress. His circuitry hummed and tingled at the prospect of a kill. She had taken his claws from him, but he was still strong, and merciless. One blow from his fist would end her easily.
A footstep on the threshold. The young woman stepped out of the chapel, pulling up her hood against the cold wind. She did not see Shrike. She went past him, and walked quickly away along the Street of Ten Thousand Deities, hurrying back to her quarters in the pagoda before the curfew bells were rung.
Shrike lowered his fist, feeling startled and slightly foolish. What had happened to him? He was a Stalker, a killing machine, and yet, when his quarry’s eggshell skull had been in reach, he could not strike.
I must warn the Green Storm’s secret police, he thought, jumping down from the alcove and following Oenone out into the crowds on the street. He would let the once-born deal with her themselves, down in their white-tiled torture-rooms beneath the Jade Pagoda. But after a few strides he halted. He simply didn’t have it in him to betray Oenone Zero.
She has done this to me, he thought, remembering all those lonely night-shifts in the Stalker Works. Somehow, the young surgeon-mechanic had built a barrier in his mind that made it impossible for him to harm her, or tell anyone what she was planning. He had been part of her plans all along. She had given the Stalker Fang a bodyguard who was not capable of guarding her.
He should have hated Dr Zero for using him like that; but he did not have it in him to hate her, either.
He barged through a festival procession outside the shrine of Jomo and climbed homeward through the darkness and the snow. He was not the puppet of Oenone Zero. He could not harm her, but he would keep her from harming his mistress. Somehow he would learn the nature of her plan, and put a stop to it.