The Factory Trilogy 01 - Gleam

by Tom Fletcher

  16

  Bridge

  The bikes took them along the crevasse and out onto a wide boulevard that ran along a ravine in which a sluggish river oozed. The ravine was part of the same grey superstructure, and the river’s perfect marble channel was adorned with titanic statues whose faces were almost unrecognisable. Their eyes and mouths had been widened by centuries of warm rain and the intimacies of small plants; they looked haunted, inhuman. Weeds hung from what had been ears, and their fists – raised up in triumph for who knew what – held nothing but long knots of slimy moss that trailed down all the way to the water. They stood along both sides of the river in various poses and, though far below, they were big enough for their warped features to be visible. They made Alan uneasy.

  His distaste for the figures only increased when Eyes silently pointed out yet more, higher up on the other side of the ravine, crouching down and peering over the edge. An unwelcome thought crossed Alan’s mind and, hesitantly, he looked up to see a great stone head directly above him, staring right back from unevenly sized eye-sockets.

  The boulevard was a flat ledge halfway up the side of the colossal concrete cliff. As the sun rose it lit up and shone like a silver ribbon winding forwards. In the distance the ravine widened out, and beyond it could be seen a series of huge spheres, barely touching the ground, like bubbles that had just landed. They were still indistinct in the morning haze.

  A long way off, over Nora’s right shoulder, was a long arch bridging the canyon. The line of it cut across the even-more-distant distant orbs. Dragons blinked in the remains of the night.

  The disfigured faces looking down at them passed by, one after another, on and on. Maybe they’d all looked the same when the Builders put them there, or maybe not. Either way, they all looked different now. Alan assigned them characters: this one was a thug, that one a drudge, the next a drunk, the next one lost. The sound of the bikes’ engines became the new silence, but there was something rhythmic that chimed with the passing of the statues. The daylight came pink, tinged as it always was with Corval’s colour.

  Alan looked down at the river to the right. It was murky green, with algae, presumably. There were round holes in the smooth sides of the ravine from which the river had once been fed, judging by the green stains beneath them.

  The air out there was fresh. They were on their way, and Billy was at the end of the road, safe and smiling. The route might be labyrinthine, it might be knotty, but it was the right road; the sunrise and the wind in Alan’s hair and the clean scents of the canyon all conspired to convince him of that.

  White birds hovered around and floated on the river like motes of dust, so far away that only their general movements were discernible. Perhaps their coarse voices were echoing up; Alan couldn’t tell over the thrum of the motorcycles.

  He let himself fall back to the rear of the group. On the bike in front, Churr was holding on to the pillion handles and looking down into the canyon with a faint frown. She had flattened her short hair with grease, so it didn’t move much, even in the rushing backdraught. She glanced at Alan almost involuntarily as the motorcycles passed each other but did not make eye contact. Spider didn’t even acknowledge Alan; his head was tipped back, his eyes half-closed, his smile wide, his expression almost blissful. Perhaps he wasn’t yet done with his toad omens.

  Further ahead, Nora’s long blonde hair streamed out behind her, obscuring both her own and Eyes’ faces.

  Lizards darted from cracks in the stone, and then, at the sight of the travellers, darted straight back in. Most were no more than finger-big, but every now and again Alan caught sight of a fist-sized wedge of reptilian head vanishing.

  The integrity of the stone was diminishing. There were more hairlines in the smooth cliff rising upwards on their left; there was more grit and detritus on the shining ribbon of the road.

  The image of two green glowing eyes came unbidden into Alan’s mind and he looked back over his shoulder, suddenly fearful of a living colossus on their tail, a giant claw-handed thing astride its own impossible vehicle, a black spiked bike huge enough to hold its unique rider, adorned with bones and trailing green fumes. But, of course, the road behind them was clear. Theirs were the only human souls around. They clung to their machines and the machines clung to the ground: a loud insectile convoy roaring through the dawn.

  They came to the bridge, and the bridge was cracked – not catastrophically, and not decisively, but cracked enough for Eyes to spit and insist no damn way.

  ‘That’s the way we need to go,’ Nora said, sliding down from her seat.

  ‘That’s not a way at all,’ Eyes said.

  ‘It’s looked like this for longer than I’ve been alive.’

  ‘Don’t mean much,’ Eyes muttered. ‘That don’t mean much of anything.’

  The bridge, which projected out across the abyss, was maybe two feet wide and two feet deep. It had no walls, no rails, no barriers of any sort. It was made of pink-veined marble, and Alan wondered if it had originally been ornamental. The far end was blurred in the morning haze, but Alan could see no cliff-hugging path on the other side of the crevasse: the bridge became a road that cut straight through the mountainous concrete bulk, resulting in a deep sharp ‘V’ in the skyline opposite. So no, not ornamental. A bridge for crazy people, perhaps – but then, the Builders had been nothing if not inscrutable.

  From up here he could see the globes were made out of beaten copper panels. They were gigantic, and there were five of them, arranged to form an ‘X’ shape. They stood in the centre of a vast concave dip in which shallow green water had pooled and stagnated. The orbs were reflected in the still water. They looked as if they were only barely attached to the ground, as if they could roll or float away at any given moment.

  The statues beneath the bridge held metal things between them – grilles and filters and water wheels, all nearly destroyed by rust.

  ‘What were they?’ Spider asked Nora, pointing at the spheres.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nora said.

  ‘Is anybody living in them?’ Alan asked. ‘We could play for some food that isn’t fucking snail.’

  Churr gave him a look. ‘You can tell who grew up in the Pyramid,’ she said. ‘And anyway, soft lad, we didn’t collect any snail. We were attacked and we ran away. Remember?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Alan said, ‘of course. That’s okay, then. No snail. Nothing.’

  ‘We also have to start considering the consequences of our arrival for any hosts,’ Spider said. ‘Our hosts so far have not fared well. We have to accept that if we are going to stay with anybody else, then we have a duty of care towards them.’

  ‘Alan here isn’t going to honour a duty of care to anyone,’ Churr said. ‘He’s made that very clear.’

  Everybody looked at Alan. Maybe they were waiting for him to deny it. He scratched his chin and said nothing.

  ‘What that means, then, is that we must hunt and forage,’ Nora said. ‘This is not ideal, and not the way I envisaged our journey, but if we are to move swiftly, unencumbered by responsibility for others, then it is the best way. I was not expecting to be targeted by such an indiscriminate enemy so soon.’

  ‘I like that,’ Eyes said, quietly. ‘Unencumbered.’

  ‘Nora,’ Alan said, ‘do you know what that thing was, back at The Cup and Skull?’

  Nora shook her head.

  ‘Anybody else?’

  Nobody said anything. Alan looked back over his shoulder again, but there was nothing moving along the path.

  ‘Are we ready to cross the bridge?’ Nora asked.

  ‘I’m not crossing the fucker,’ Eyes said. ‘Can’t we just go down past them big balls? Looks much more sensible to me.’ Eyes had not yet taken off the blindfold; he rubbed his eyes underneath.

  ‘Yes,’ Nora said, ‘let’s just go wherever looks sensible to you. I’m sure that method will deliver us to our very specific destination in no time at all.’

  ‘Didn’t none of your tr
ibe teach you to respect your elders?’

  ‘They tried, but I respect those who behave respectably. Only those. And precious few of my elders met my criteria. Neither do you, for that matter. So you go ahead, Eyes. You “go down past them big balls”, as you put it. I wouldn’t advise it, because you would die, but in light of how little weight you put on my advice, I understand if you go ahead anyway. I wouldn’t mourn you.’

  ‘What down there would kill me?’

  ‘Go and find out.’

  Eyes ripped the bandage blindfold from his head, threw it on the ground and dug the heels of his hands into his sockets. ‘Builders be damned,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I can’t take much more of this infernal itching. It’ll be the death of me.’

  ‘Believe me,’ Nora said, ‘one as stupid and irritating as yourself has lots of deaths to choose from.’

  ‘Eyes,’ Alan said, picking the blindfold up, ‘don’t be so bloody foolish. This here rag is the only thing keeping you from going blind, and now it’s all shitty and gritty. And it could have gone over the edge! You’re a pig-headed dunce. Take it back.’

  ‘You know when folks say they can’t think straight?’ Eyes said. ‘When they’re crazy with pain, or because of something so annoying it makes them wish they were dead?’

  ‘The itching,’ Alan said. ‘Yes, yes. I know.’

  ‘Not the itching, though the itching is infernal. You.’ He thrust out a hand. ‘But go on, then. Give me the damned thing back. I’ll rinse it when we’ve got some water.’

  Alan returned the blindfold, and Eyes stuffed it into his belt.

  ‘So is it true?’ Spider asked, inclining his head towards the orbs. ‘Dangerous?’

  ‘Yes.’ Nora’s shoulders slumped. ‘Something there kills – it’s something in the air, or in the water, or inside the spheres themselves. First your hair falls out, then your teeth, then comes a red rash that turns to lesions, then copious bleeding, then—’

  ‘All right, all right, all right,’ Eyes said, still bent over, still rubbing his eyes. ‘The bridge it is. And I’m right sorry, but I can’t barely see any more. Someone’s going to have to take me by the hand.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Alan said. ‘I will.’ He and Spider looked at each other.

  ‘You haven’t got your mister, have you?’ Spider asked.

  Eyes stood up, forearm across his face. ‘Must’ve dropped out me pocket in the Cavern that night. I’ve got my ointment but it’s running low. That’s why I tried to keep the blindfold on. But without the mister it gets so itchy.’ He frowned. ‘It’s a bloody mess, is what it is.’

  ‘We can get water,’ Alan said, ‘and keep some in a bottle for you, or something.’

  Nora and Churr both shook their heads. ‘Not out here,’ Churr said. ‘Don’t know where it’s come from.’

  ‘You must know some clean rivers or wells or springs, or something.’

  ‘Not many,’ Nora said, ‘and things change. We have to keep testing those we do know because they can get contaminated – by swamp water, or when a gutter rusts through.’

  ‘There is lots of life out here in the Discard, and lots of death,’ Churr said. ‘Poisonous plants. Venomous insects. Rotting bodies.’

  ‘And from outside nature there are also threats,’ Nora continued. ‘Sickening metals. Brightly coloured sludges. Bandits spoiling well-known sources.’

  ‘So if we’re no longer playing for our keep, where do we go?’ Alan asked.

  ‘For the last time,’ Nora said, ‘we go over this bridge. If you’re not going to trust me, you might as well turn back.’

  She went first, in case of ambush. ‘I can evade any missiles,’ she said airily, ‘and I will shout out loud, and then you will know that we are being watched.’ She didn’t wheel a bike, but crept out onto the span alone, exposed. Loose strands of her hair floated in the breeze. As she ascended the curve of the arch, her cloak started to flap about her legs. She looked very small and far away long before she reached the apex.

  ‘Is the wind picking up?’ Eyes said. ‘It is, isn’t it? Typical.’

  ‘We spent too long talking,’ Churr said. ‘We shouldn’t have stopped.’ She looked sideways at Alan and then spoke to Eyes and Spider. ‘I want one of you two – at least one of you – between Alan and me,’ she said.

  ‘I wasn’t really going to drop you,’ Alan said.

  ‘I didn’t know that. I still don’t. Not sure you do either, in truth.’

  Spider cleared his throat. ‘These bikes are going to be a real joy to transfer,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll go next then,’ Alan said, ‘and I’ll take you, Eyes. Come on.’

  ‘I’ll follow them, Churr,’ Spider said, ‘if that would help put you at ease.’

  ‘Puts me right at ease, Spider. Thank you.’

  ‘Who’s going to hold my hand?’ Eyes asked. ‘Will it be Daft Lad?’

  ‘I suppose it will,’ Alan said. ‘Oh, the honour and the pleasure.’

  ‘Just take my damn hand and stop flapping that mouth.’ Eyes had his left forearm across his eyes still. He held out his right hand.

  The humidity would increase as the sun rose, but this early in the day the air still retained an edge. In its high places, at the low hours, Gleam could be just about cool. Alan tried not to look down as he walked. His body was twisted awkwardly so that he could hold Eyes’ hand the whole way. He had to think about how he was moving, and walking was like breathing: as soon as you started thinking about it, it got trickier. His feet felt heavy and he was reluctant to lift them too far from the surface, or for too long, because he had this notion that it was in these brief periods of lesser stability that disaster might strike or that clumsiness might occur. So he shuffled, and was clumsy, and Eyes shuffled along behind him and was clumsy too. The surface of the bridge was rough and uneven, battered over time by the passage of hobnail boots. There were cracks in it, hairline cracks, but surely that was just what marble looked like, wasn’t it? The bridge must be very, very old – it was part of what Nora called the original structure. Alan quailed as that meaning sank in. It wasn’t as if he knew how old it really was, but it was too old. How was it even still standing? Its continued existence suddenly felt unlikely. Did Nora want them all killed? It was okay for her, she couldn’t weigh more than a few stone, but for Alan and Eyes, together – and for the bikes, when they came to wheeling them over … His palms grew wet and keeping hold of Eyes became a challenge. It wasn’t the height so much – heights didn’t usually bother him – but the exposure. He was having a crisis of confidence in the ground beneath his feet. He started shuffling again. He felt as if the statues, so far down below, were looking up at him.

  ‘What’s it for, Eyes?’ Alan asked. ‘What’s the bridge for?’

  ‘Now’s not the time for daft questions, lad.’

  ‘The orbs. What are the orbs for?’

  ‘What’s got into you? They’re not for anything, are they? They’re just there.’

  ‘But why did the Builders build them?’

  ‘The Builders are just what we blame for all this chaos, Alan. “The Builders” is just a turn of phrase to make sense of all this nonsense by gathering it all up into one handy story. It’s not real, you know that. Don’t let that Nora get into your head with her talk of “original structures” and all that crap.’

  ‘I’ve never made my mind up.’

  Back in the Pyramid, Management said the Discard had arisen entirely from Pyramid waste: a twisted civilisation sprung from exiles, swollen over millennia. They’d said that the Pyramid used to exile many more people because Pyramid laws had been stricter then. It had been a harder place to live, with almost half of those born inside it eventually being thrown down the Discard Chutes for failing to meet all of the Utmost Vitals at their Annual Reviews. Management went easier on them now; the Pyramid had become soft and luxurious. That was the story, anyway.

  But if that was true, why was the Discard not full? Why wasn’t it thriving
? Why wasn’t it all shacks and shops and paths? Where was the degenerate empire? Where were their homes, their bars, their stores, their children? If they were all dead then why – and where were their bones? Sure, people lived in the Discard, but they were scattered. And they had adopted it. There was no sense that they had built it. It didn’t really feel as if it had been built for people to live in at all. Or, at least, most of it hadn’t, other than the odd bulbous concrete blob that felt like a honeycomb or a wasps’ nest, places like the House of a Thousand Hollows.

  So Nora’s theories made more sense to Alan than what he’d been told in the Pyramid. And she was almost certainly unhinged, so what that said about the Pyramid … Well, it didn’t say anything Alan didn’t already know. The Pyramid was a knot of lies and rituals that referenced only each other and combined to mean less than nothing, and that the word of a remorseless killer shed more light on it just indicated the depths of the darkness the Pyramid operated in.

  They were nearly at the highest point of the archway when Eyes slipped. His hand slid from Alan’s hand, and he fell.

  17

  Daunt’s Berserkers

  McAlkie had been a barrel-chested man with a mane of brass-coloured hair, so shiny as to have been the metal itself. His skin was more or less the same colour from standing out all day, either butchering pigs in the yard or standing on his pallet, preaching. He did nothing but one or the other; friends of his, like Alan’s parents, said he never slept. He didn’t preach any of the religions, not Old Green’s Way or Amphibiasm or the Builders’ Intention, and especially not the Book of Satis or the Weight of Tradition, both apparently descended from Pyramid thinking, and both good for nothing but pissing on. But he was preaching all the same: he worked tirelessly to spread the word of the Anti-Pyramid League, which, back then, had really been something, according to him at least.

  When Alan had been a child chasing chickens and kicking stones through the dirt of Modest Mills, McAlkie was part of the furniture. He was the closest thing the town had to a statue, standing proud in the square, towering over all those around him by virtue of his passion and the volume of his voice. He used to wear ragged trousers and a long brown leather waistcoat, the same one he used for his butchery, with nothing beneath. The sound of his speeches was the background noise of Alan’s childhood, audible from whichever mossy ruin or muddy basin the kids were playing in, but more than that – McAlkie had a force that drew in those who passed him by, adults and children alike, which meant his words sank down deep and stayed there. He was respected in Modest Mills. Other Discard orators came and went back then, some insensible, some threatening, some powerful, but none had the power and reach of McAlkie. And it worked: word was spreading. Representatives came to Modest Mills from the House of a Thousand Hollows, from Wha House, from the Hinning House, from the Mapmakers, from the transients, even from various bandit tribes – those who did not self-identify as bandits. They came to forge alliances, to exchange news, to make plans, because McAlkie wasn’t doing all that talking for nothing. He was building an army.