by Philip Reeve
“I’m not anybody’s girl,” retorted Wren, but the men didn’t hear her. The scraping and grinding of shale against the suburb’s hull was deafening, and something about these hard, leather-faced scavengers made Wren’s voice come out very small and girly. She felt their eyes upon her as she pulled herself up the ladder, and heard one of them shout something to the other that made both of them laugh.
“Wren!” Wolf cried happily, when she emerged through the hatchway in the bridge floor and stood breathless and bewildered, looking about her at all the racks of levers, the banks of dials and switches, the rows of gauges, the speaking-tubes sticking down like stalactites out of the low metal ceiling. He sprang from his swivel-chair and came to greet her, side-stepping nimbly as Hausdorfer and the other navigators hurried past him with rolled-up maps or orders for the engine-rooms.
“I’m glad you could come down! How’s Herr Natsworthy?”
“All right,” Wren replied. “He’s having an after-dinner nap, I hope…” (Dad had not felt well since they came aboard the burrowing suburb, and he was looking pale and weak. She had left him with strict instructions to get some sleep, but, knowing him, he was probably in Wolf’s library, studying charts of the land ahead.)
Wolf took her arm. “You worry about him.”
“I think Harrowbarrow is too hot and stuffy for him,” said Wren. She didn’t want to explain about Dad’s heart-trouble. Dad put so much effort into trying to convince everyone, including himself, that he was all right, it would have felt like a betrayal to tell Wolf how ill he really was. “He’ll be fine,” she promised, smiling as brightly as she could.
“Good,” said Wolf, as if they had settled something. He guided Wren to a place near his chair where a big brass thing covered in knobs and levers poked down through the ceiling. There were two eyepieces at the bottom of it. Wolf pulled it down until they were at the right level for Wren to look through. “I thought you’d like a look at the view.”
Wren had almost forgotten that there were such things as views. The hours passed so slowly aboard Harrowbarrow that it already seemed like days since she had seen the sky, or the earth. Yet when she looked into the eyepieces of the periscope she saw them both; the sky deep blue and almost cloudless, a crescent moon hanging bright above the weed-grown walls of the track-mark which the suburb was running through.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Close to the Storm’s country,” Wolf replied.
“Then why are there no fortresses? No settlements?”
Wolf chuckled. “The Storm haven’t enough troops left to garrison all the new territories they captured. Out here they just have armoured watchtowers every few miles. Air patrols too, sometimes.”
“Then it’ll be easy to get the Jenny across?”
“Easy enough. I have prepared a little diversion that will keep the Storm’s lookouts busy.”
Wren frowned. He hadn’t mentioned anything about a diversion when they planned this trip, in Murnau. But before she could ask him what he meant Hausdorfer approached them, and Wolf turned to speak in German with him. After a few words he grinned, and slapped the older man on the shoulder, and Hausdorfer started bellowing orders down the speaking tubes in a language Wren didn’t even recognize – Slavic? Roma? The suburb shuddered and canted, changing course.
“When we’re moving slow like this I send scouting parties out ahead of us on foot. Some of them have just come in to report. We’re almost at the Storm’s front line.” Wolf slapped her on the shoulder and grinned; he was having fun. “You should fetch your father. We’ll be going through within the hour.”
Where the deep, twenty-year-old track-marks of London cut through the Green Storm’s border they had been filled with banks of earth, topped by stone-filled wicker gabions, iron huts and rocket batteries. Ten years earlier a pack of harvester-suburbs had tried to break through there, and their ruins had been added to the fortifications; upended sections of chassis and track, pierced with gun-slits and painted with the angry slogans of the Storm: Stop The Cities! The World Made Green Again! We Shall Wash The Good Earth Clean In The Blood Of Tractionist Barbarians!
In the rocket-battery at Track-mark 16 a sentry thought she heard the growl of land-engines and went out on to the parapet to look, but all she could see was the mist. That morning’s patrols had reported all the barbarians sitting safe and snug and stationary on their own lines, almost like real people. The engines probably belonged to a Green Storm half-track taking soldiers out to some advance listening-post in no-man’s-land. Poor devils. Sentry duty stank, and Track-mark 16 was a worthless sewer. The soldier went back inside where there were hot noodles and a stove to sit beside, and letters from her family in Zhanskar.
Tom was dreaming of London when Wren came to wake him. In his dream, he had already reached the wreck site, and to his delight the old city was not nearly as badly damaged as he had feared. In fact, all that had changed was that Tier Two was open to the sky, and the sun shone brightly down into the streets of Bloomsbury, where Clytie Potts was waiting for him on the steps of the Museum. “Why did you wait so long to come home?” she asked, taking his hand.
“I didn’t know,” he said.
“Well, you’re here now,” she told him, leading him in through the familiar portico. The dinosaur skeletons in the main hall all turned their bony heads to look at him, and mooed their greetings. “Now you can get on with the rest of your life,” said Clytie. He looked past her and saw his own reflection in a sheet of ancient tinfoil that hung in one of the cabinets, and he was not old and ill-looking but well again, and young.
“Dad?” asked Clytie, turning into Wren, and he woke reluctantly to the stuffy dark of Harrowbarrow, groping for his green pills.
“Are you all right?” Wren asked him. “We’re nearly at the line. Wolf says to make ready…”
The thought that they would soon be leaving made Tom feel a little better; so did the pleasant memory of his dream. He dressed and followed Wren aft to the hangar near the suburb’s stern where the Jenny Haniver sat waiting to resume her journey. Wolf met them there. “Get your stuff aboard,” he ordered. “Be ready to move out as soon as I come back.”
“Where are you going?” asked Tom, surprised that they were not to take off at once.
“To the bridge. We are not across the line yet, Herr Natsworthy. I am arranging for a little distraction so that the Mossies don’t spot us crossing.”
He left, hurrying forward along one of Harrowbarrow’s tubular streets. Tom and Wren stowed their bags in the Jenny’s gondola, then waited outside, standing close together in the noisy turmoil of the hangar. The note of the idling engines changed suddenly, rising from a murmur to a scream, and Wren grabbed at Tom for support as the suburb surged forward.
“What’s happening?”
Tom was not sure, but even in the windowless hangar there was an immense feeling of speed. With all its auxiliary engines churning, Harrowbarrow raced along the track-mark, throwing up a thick bow-wave of soil and vegetation as it rose to the surface. The startled Green Storm soldiers had time to fire off a few salvoes of rockets, which burst harmlessly against the suburb’s armour. Then the barriers, the fortresses and the rocket-projectors were slammed aside as Harrowbarrow tore through the front line into Storm territory. Sally-ports popped open in her flanks, and squads of fierce scavengers swarmed out with guns and knives and maces to attack the survivors scrambling from their dugouts. With a steep skirl of engines Harrowbarrow swung itself sideways, smashing the walls of the track-mark down, toppling a watchtower.
A moment later Wolf ran into the hangar, shouting, “Go! Go!” and yelling orders in Roma and German to the men waiting by the hangar door-controls. Heaving on brass handles, they started to haul the doors open. As smells of damp earth and cordite swilled into the hangar, Tom and Wren caught their first glimpse of what was happening outside. In the red glow of countless fires a battle was raging across the steep, mashed sides of the track-mark. Harrowbarrow w
as still turning, so the scene slid past quickly, but there was time to see the flattened barrack-blocks, the spiky tangles of barbed wire showing spidery against the flames, and the figures struggling and slithering and scrambling in the mud; the flash of gunfire; the glint of blades, the sliding, tumbling dead.
“Get aboard!” shouted Wolf, shoving Wren up the Jenny’s gangplank. “We must be well on our way before reinforcements arrive.”
“All this, just so we can cross the line?” cried Tom. “You never said…”
“I said I would get you across,” Wolf shrugged. “I did not say how. I thought you realized there would be a little unpleasantness involved.”
“But the truce…” said Wren.
“The truce will hold; we’ve given them no reason to think we’re part of the Traktionstadtsgesellschaf…”
“All those poor people…”
Hurrying her on to the flight-deck, Wolf grinned kindly at her, as if her soft-heartedness amused him. “They’re not people, Wren; only Mossies. They chose to live like animals on the bare earth. Now they will die like animals…”
Harrowbarrow had turned right around now; its bows pointed back the way it had come; its stern, and the open doors of the hangar, pointed east into Storm country. Tom was working frantically at the Jenny’s controls. Wren felt the engines coming to life, but she could not hear them above the louder roar of Harrowbarrow’s own engines and the battle going on outside. A few bullets sparked against the frame of the hangar doors, but most of the Green Storm defences had been silenced. Wolf slapped Tom hard between the shoulder blades and shouted, “Go! Fly! Now!” Tom glanced at Wren and then, grabbing the control-levers, he cut the power to the Jenny’s mooring-clamps and took her quickly up and forward, out of the hangar, eastward along the foggy floor of the track-mark.
Wren left the flight-deck and ran aft to the stern cabin. Through the long window there she had her last sight of Harrowbarrow, a leviathan wreathed in fog and battle-smoke, rearing up to gobble and crush another Green Storm fortress before it sank down into the track-mark and drove westward. The Jenny was flying fast, the branches of trees in the floor of the track-mark scratching and snatching at the gondola’s keel. Soon even the glow of the fires faded into the fog astern, and there was no sound but the familiar purr of the Jeunet Carot engines.
“I doubt any Mossies noticed us leave,” said Wolf. How long had he been standing behind her? Wren turned. He was watching her kindly, eager to allay her fears. “If they did, my boys will have killed them by now. Hausdorfer will smash a few more of their defences and then head back into the badlands before reinforcements come. The Storm will think it was only a greedy scavenger town, hungry for scrap metal and Mossie blood. They won’t come looking for us.”
“You didn’t tell us,” said Wren coldly. “You said it would be easy to cross the line! You didn’t say we’d have to fight a battle.”
“That was easy,” said Wolf. “You can’t even imagine what a real battle’s like, Fräulein Aviatrix.”
Wren pushed past him, and went back to the flight-deck. Tom was staring out through the big forward windows: nothing out there but mist. Sometimes a buttress of earth and rocks where the wall of the track-mark they were flying in had partially collapsed. Each time that happened Tom would make a quick, calm adjustment to the steering-levers, guiding the Jenny expertly around it. Wren envied him for having something to concentrate on. All she could think of were those struggling figures she’d glimpsed through the hangar doors. She felt guilty for having been part of the attack, and more and more afraid. Despite what Wolf said, she was sure the Storm must know that the Jenny Haniver had pierced their line; at any moment rockets or Stalker-birds would come howling out of the mist, and they would be the last thing she would see.
“I’m sorry,” said her father softly, sounding as shocked and miserable as her. “When he said he knew a place where we could cross, I just thought…”
Wren said, “How could he do that? All those people?”
“There’s a war on, Wren,” Tom reminded her. “Wolf’s a soldier.”
“It’s not just that,” she said. “I think he enjoys it.”
“Some people are like that,” agreed Tom. He had recognized the light in Wolf’s eyes as the battle raged; Hester had had the same look, that night at the Pepperpot when she murdered Shkin’s guards. He said, “Wolf has some strange ideas, but then he’s led a strange life. He’s very young, and he’s never known anything but war. Underneath, I think, he’s a decent young man.”
“Must be pretty deep underneath,” said Wren.
Tom smiled. “I knew a man called Chrysler Peavey once. A pirate mayor, boss of a suburb nearly as fierce as Harrowbarrow, but he wanted more than anything to be a gentleman. Wolf’s the other way round; a gentleman who wants to be a pirate. But there’s another side to him. He’s treated us well, hasn’t he? Now we’ve got him away from his suburb we might see that side of him again.”
Wren nodded cautiously, as if wishing she could believe him. Tom wished he believed himself. He had been wrong to accept Wolf’s offer, he was certain of that now. What would become of Wren if anything happened to him on this flight and she was left with only Wolf Kobold to look after her?
But as the Jenny flew on, mile after lonely mile, and no rockets or birds appeared, he began to feel more hopeful, and started to remember the sense of peace which had come to him with his dream of the museum. He did not like what Kobold had done, but at least they were on their way. From somewhere ahead, beyond these midnight plains, he could feel the tug of London’s gravity, drawing the Jenny Haniver and her passengers towards it like a dark star.
18
THAT COLOSSAL WRECK
After a few hours the fog thinned, and Wren was able to see properly for the first time the landscape that she was flying over – or rather flying in, for Tom was still keeping the airship as low as he dared, hiding her behind the steep fans of dried mud which towered between London’s old track-marks. As far as Wren could see the land around her was not much different from the plains the cities rolled across back on their side of the line. The Green Storm had cleared these eastern steppes of Traction Cities, but they had not yet built settlements of their own. Sometimes, through clefts in the walls of the track-mark, the distant lights of forts or farmsteads showed, far off across the churned, weed-tangled land; but if they were keeping watch at all, they were not watching for a single small airship.
London’s wake ran ruler-straight towards the east. Each of the city’s tracks had ploughed a trench two hundred feet wide and often almost as deep. Tom steered the Jenny along the northernmost one until the ribbon of sky above him started to turn pale. Then he set her down to wait out the hours of daylight.
Later, sitting watch on the silent flight-deck while he slept, Wren looked up into the sky and saw dozens of Green Storm airships pass over, very high and heading west. Then the rhythmic wing-beats of a flock of Stalker-birds caught her eye, also flying west. She pointed them out to Wolf Kobold, but he said, “Nothing to worry about. Routine troop movements.”
As angry as she had been at him the night before, Wren felt glad that he was there with them; glad of his soldierly certainty; his confidence. And already, as Harrowbarrow fell behind, he seemed to be softening, just as Tom had promised. His voice and his expression had grown gentler, and when Wren asked him to do something he obeyed meekly, as if conceding that, aboard the Jenny Haniver, she was the expert.
He was right about the birds, though. None came low or close enough to see the Jenny’s russet envelope amid the red earth of the track-mark.
That night they flew on, and the next day passed in the same way, except that there was a deep, clear pool of water close to where Tom set the airship down, and Wren swam in it. The water was numbingly cold, its surface filled with bright reflections which shattered ahead of her. She turned on her back and floated, feeling her swimming-dress balloon around her, listening to the silence. Her old life, Vinela
nd and Brighton, seemed impossibly far away.
Stones scampered down the steep wall of the track-mark and plopped into the water, spreading rings of overlapping ripples towards her. Wolf was clambering between the trees which jutted from the track wall. He saw Wren and waved. “Just taking a look!” he called.
Wren swam ashore and changed quickly into her clothes, making sure that the Jenny Haniver was between her and Wolf. When she emerged, wet-haired and shivery, she could not see him, but when she scrambled up to the top of the track-mark she found him lying on a flat, grassy ledge, peering through a pocket telescope across the Storm’s country.
“What can you see?” she asked.
“Nothing to worry about.”
He handed Wren the telescope and she put it to her eye. Southward, a plain of brown grass rolled away towards distant, blue hills. A cluster of the Storm’s silly wind-turbines flickered in the sunlight above a small static. Further east, something else was moving; a long, low town, Wren thought at first, then realized that it couldn’t be.
“Supply train, heading west with provisions for their armies,” said Wolf. “They’ve laid railways all the way from the mountains of Shan Guo to the Rustwater. That’s how I got home from London last time; hiding in a freight-car. Most of the trains aren’t manned.”
“What, not even a driver?” asked Wren, focusing on the black, electric locomotive at the front of the train, a blunt, windowless thing, charging along like a bull.
“The engine is the driver. A Popjoy Mark Twelve Stalker, controlled by a Resurrected human brain. Some poor dissident or captured soldier whom the Storm have turned into a train-engine. They aren’t worth getting sentimental about, Wren. They’re savages, and it is either them or us.”