"The dirk fangs can be befriended, but it takes time," she explained. "Those rockets on the counter-Call transporter came from here. Something of their workings was described on that slab of very hard polished rock over to the left."
There were a dozen rockets left in the display, with their nose cones partly cut away to display the complexity within. Ilyire surveyed them with no com prehension.
"Two thousand years old," said Theresla. "Most materials of the old civilization are brittle and useless after so long, but not the metal of those rockets
"So, men came here with reverse-wagon?" "To remove four of the rockets, yes. Zarvora was here a week earlier. She studied the rockets and their plaques for an entire day before deciding upon which to take. She intends to make them work again."
"Where the men sleep?" Theresla stared at him, hands on hips. "You amaze me. People come here to revive the glories of the old civilization and all that you can think of is who slept with your sister."
"There! You said it!" Ilyire cried. "You slept with one. Sondian, I know it." "Sondian, a fine man and a good leader, an example for other avia ds to--"
"He defiled you, then he beat me. Know his kind. Domination pervert. Power and sex same for him. I hunt him down, I kill him." "Ilyire, I did not unload my virginity on him or anyone else. Leave Sondian alone. He's the leader of the colony here, and they need his wisdom and leadership."
"I bring his head in bag, I show you. Rent he put in your honor be fix. Where guns? You give me one you carry." Theresla drew the flintlock from her belt. Ilyire started forward eagerly, then froze as she cocked the striker and pointed it at his chest. It had a short barrel, but a bore of at least 45 points.
"You have turned yourself into a thing, half-brother. Things are easy to kill." She fired, looking straight into his eyes. Ilyire saw a flash before Theresla vanished behind the cloud of smoke that belched out between them.
Ilyire awoke in the late afternoon, lying where he had fallen. Needles seemed to stab at his chest each time he breathed, and the pain increased when he sat up. His hidden metal breastplate had absorbed the impact of the shot, but not before buckling inward and breaking two ribs. There was an impressive hole in his tunic. i Using his knife he cut the straps of the breastplate away, and the pain lessened. He looked at Theresla's footprints in the dust and felt an unfamiliar numbness. There had been death in her eyes; then she had shot him. She had not laid his body out in the way prescribed in the scriptures. She had meant to shoot him all along. His world was suddenly empty, his passions quenched.
"I... am dead," he said experimentally, and his voice echoed through the ancient gallery. Brother John Glasken, late of the Baelsha Monastery, had traveled an incredible sixty miles at the end of his first two nights and one searingly hot day as a . man. Five years of monastic training and discipline had given him quite extraordinary powers of endurance. His routine in the days that followed was to sleep during the hottest part of the day, with his makeshift cloak rigged as a sunshade,: Glasken was experienced in desert survival after his three ordeals a half-decad earlier, but although raw lizards and snakes supplemented his flat bread and dates, his water diminished faster than he had planned. His rate of progress dropped to thirty miles per day.
On the eighth day a pile of whitened bones appeared ahead. Glasken limped toward them, then squatted to examine the skeleton. It had been partly scattered by scavengers, but lying beside the pelvis was a dagger with the Baelsha cross i engraved on the blade. A little purse nearby had rotted to reveal six coins from i the Kalgoorlie Mayorate. Glasken scooped up the dagger and coins, then noticed something long and straight lying half-buried in the sand: a staff!
"Alas, Brother, I mourn for you," he said as he knelt in the sand, his hand on the skull, "and may your soul rest in peace. How did you ever get all these things past that old devil and his watch-monks? Perhaps you brought these at the expense of food and water-skins. Very foolish, but I appreciate your sacrifice."
Glasken stood, leaning gratefully on the staff. I'll buy a candle for you in that underground Christian cathedral at Kalgoorlie, then I'll drink to your memory with a pretty wench in some tavern. Meantime, I'd best be limping on. The Great Western Paraline is still sixty miles away, and my water just ran out."
The wind train was nothing more than a speck amid the shimmers on the horizon as it came into sight from the platform at the Naretha rallside. A small group of people stood watching as it approached, its array of tall, tubular rotors and their framework of masts and rigging distinct above the flat, sleek body. The Railside Master looked at the register in his hand, then at the schedule plate. Away on the wind train, at the forward masthead, a twinkling of light began, and almost at once a bell clanged for attention at the base of the station's beam flash relay tower. The Railside Master strode over, trying to seem neither casual nor anxious. The register board bore the code of Overmayor Zarvora.
"That's it, the Overmayor's train." The rail side militia scrambled to take up guard positions, leaving a single traveler waiting on the platform and a crowd of gangers watching from the stone fence. The rotors of the train had been disengaged and were spinning freely as it approached. Its brakes squealed and shuddered, and as it came to a stop the gear jacks jumped down and ran with cans of sunflower oil to the oil traps at the axle heads of the coaches while others crawled beneath the wind engine to attend to the beating wells. They felt them for overheating first, then topped up the lubricating oil. Fires in badly maintained traps were not so much possible as likely. Each of the huge steel-rimmed, wood-laminate mans el wheels was inspected for warping and slippage, while high above them the riggers adjusted and tuned the ropes, masts, and spars that held the spinning rotor tubes vertical.
Two passengers stepped out onto the platform, glad of a chance to be on solid ground for a few minutes. The Railside Master stood nervously with his clipboard, noting that one of the passengers was a tall woman dressed in an Inspector's uniform of the Libris Beamflash Network, and with her black, bushy hair clipped back from her face with silver or bile combs. She nodded to him, just a single, curt nod that all was in order and satisfactory as far as she was concerned. The Rallside Master threw a quick salute back, then busied himself with his board, writing, "Inspected by Overmayor Cybeline. Found to be
satisfactory."
As the crew began to load water and supplies aboard, the traveler who had been waiting patiently walked up to the over gear "Greetings of the afternoon, honorable Fras Overgear," the tall, tanned man said in a strange amalgam of Southeast and Kalgoorlie accents. "I wish to work a passage west, I wish to serve aboard your glorious broad-gauge Great Western Paraline wind train."
The over gear looked him up and down. He was big and strong, with muscles in good proportion. His patched olive trews, tunic, and cap were the type that the par aline gangers wore, but his sandals looked several sizes too small. When he removed his cap for his bow's flourish there was about a fortnight's stubble visible on his scalp.
"Were you thrown off another train's crew?" the over gear asked.
"I've not worked on a wind train for years. I was once a cabin boy and runner, then an apprentice gear jack "You're hardly a cabin boy now. We need extra hands for rotor windlass and gear jack work, but have no time to spare for training. What can you offer us?"
"Strength to wind the rotors up and down, and to screw down the brake blocks I can tell when an oil trap is running hot on the axle head, and when a rim or flange has slipped its seating on the mans el Mind you, thought Glasken, I only learned all those words by listening to gear jacks and riggers singing tuning shanties in the Rail's End tavern years ago. "I've also worked in beam flash towers, so I know the unsecured codes."
The over gear was more impressed that he showed. Too much enthusiasm and the stranger might expect to be paid. "Aye... well that's a start. We're short of a relief beam flash monitor... and you're strong besides. You'd have to work the gears and handles on order,
then take ov
er at the beam flash seat as needed."
"Aye, I'd do that."
"How did you get out here?"
"I've been in the desert to the north, meditating. Now I want to return to Kalgoorlie." "So, a hermit. And what is your name?" "Jack." "Just Jack?" "Jack
Orion."
The over gear considered. He was experienced at picking fugitives and troublemakers but this one had no obvious hallmarks of either.
"Well then, Fras Jack Orion, you're on approval. Start by loading those boxes beside the warehouse into the supply wagon."
The over gear went over to the Railside Master as Glasken got to work. "What do you know of him?" he asked. The Railside Master scratched the back of his neck, then looked across to where Glasken was working. "He arrived about a week ago, wearing rags and crawling along the par aline from the west. He was raving with thirst. Once he had regained his senses he said he was a student of Cordaheldian theology. He got so engrossed in his meditations at some sacred ruin that he ran out of supplies. He had money, though." The over gear rubbed his chin as he looked across at Glasken, who was obviously working hard to impress him.
"So you had no trouble with him?" "Oh no, he's worked well. He can do the work of ten men--in fact when I did my noon inspection yesterday there were ten men sitting idle and only Orion working, yet still the rails, balks, and transoms were stacked in good order by the evening."
"I'll watch him, but he could be a rare good recruit. We had to crew this train in such a hurry that full shifts could not be covered." He bent closer and winked. "Like to know where this broad line engine was engaged?"
"Why, Peterborough--oh no! You don't mean to say that the broad-gauge track has reached Morgan."
"No less, but it's not official. I'd best be aboard. Long life and broad gauge, good Fras."
"Long life and broad gauge." Glasken joined the gear jacks as they unscrewed the brake blocks and released the wheels. The over gear waited for the captain to ring through for primary torque; then the brass arrow of the dial slipped forward a notch. At the over gear signal each gear jack pushed back the clutch lever-rack and engaged the gearboxes to the bank of rotors that spun in the wind. The rotor engines strained forward against the couplings, and then the train began to roll. There was a ragged cheer from some waving gangers who had come to see Glasken off, all of them looking the worse for the night before.
From inside the luxurious mayoral coach Denkar noted the sen doff. "Some one popular seems to have joined us," he remarked to Zarvora.
"The over gear recruited an extra gear jack she replied, without looking up from an ancient text.
"He's being fare welled by a lot of badly hungover men."
"If he is a rake and drunkard named Glasken, a reward of a thousand gold royals has been on his head for five years."
Denkar turned from the window. "Who is Glasken?"
"FUNCTION 3084." "Ah yes, one of the only two components ever to escape from the calculors. Well, from what I remember of him, if he were still alive he would surely have been arrested by someone for something by now. Were that the case, you would soon know."
"True, too true. Fras Glasken could not have been kept out of trouble for five years without being gelded or dead." She put down her book and patted the seat beside her. Denkar walked across the gently rocking floor and sat down with an arm around her shoulders.
"Now, to continue your briefing on Kalgoorlie sciences," she said. "We in the Alliance are ahead of them in calculor technology, optics, code theory, and a few other related areas. They have nothing like Libris, either. It is a treasure house of ancient texts."
Denkar bent and peered into a microscope that was bolted to a bracket in Zarvora's desk. Beneath the objective, a human hair lay beside one of his own and one of Zarvora' s. The latter two certainly had a fluffy, feathery appearance. "When can I meet more avia ds he asked.
Zarvora thought for a moment. "There are not many where we are going. For some reason avia ds do not arise among the peoples of the west, but I have arranged for some avia ds from the secret Macedon community in the east to come over and do some work. In return, they have a whole, new, unoccupied Calldeath area to explore and settle."
"What work is that?" "There are things in the half-drowned abandon of Perth that I need to transport to the par aline terminus at Northam. Big, heavy, ancient rockets, mainly." "Rockets?"
"I shall explain later. It is a vast and complex undertaking." After the vast expanse of the Nullarbor Plain, Denkar welcomed the occasional scatter of trees that soon thickened into an open eucalypt forest as the train slowly rumbled west, a light breeze spinning its rotors. An Inspector of Customs came aboard at Coonana, but he did no more than exchange pleasantries with the Overmayor. John Glasken watched with puzzled relief from his hiding place behind the rear-starboard gearbox in the primary rotor engine as the Inspector strode past down the access corridor without the slightest attempt to search for aliens who lacked border papers.
"Someone important aboard," he muttered, unable to break the habit of talking to himself that had kept him sane for five years. They rolled into Kalgoorlie two days later, after being delayed by particularly light winds. The sun was down, the rail side was lit up with lanterns of all colors, and a brass band played the Overmayor's personal anthem. On the platform the waiting crowd cheered as the sunflower-oil running lights of the huge wind train came into sight, the vertical blades of its mighty rotors flashing and gleaming.
Inside the rotor engine the Purser realized that the pennants for both Highliber and Overmayor of the Southeast Alliance were still furled, just as the cheers of the welcoming crowd and the blaring of the band became audible above the rumbling of the wheels and rotors.
"You, take these!" he cried as the bare-chested and sweating Glasken finished winding down a rotor drum. "Climb the front of the rotor engine and stand by the port railing. Hold these pennants up as we pull into the rail side
"But, Fras Purser, my tunic--"
"Do as I say! Be dignified, and whatever you do don't drop the pennants!" Glasken had not seen himself in a mirror for over five years, and had no idea of how the ordeal in Baelsha had changed his physique--which had previously been impressive, if slightly chubby. Gasps mingled with the cheers of the crowd as the magnificent, bare-chested pennant bearer at the front of the rotor engine was illuminated by the lanterns and torches of the rail side Sweat glistened on his skin, and the dancing flames highlighted the outlines of his muscles with dark shadows. Glasken began to catch comments as he rolled past the crowd on the platform.
"Look at that figurehead."
"Fanciful carving."
"Nay, he's real, he smiled at me." "Does gear jack work do that for you?" "I'm joining Great Western." Girls in white togettras showered the puzzled Glasken with rose petals and mint leaves meant for Zarvora and Denkar. The train came to a smooth stop with the engine facing into the darkness of the marshaling yards beyond the rail side Glasken crawled back through the access hatch with the pennants. The Purser was elsewhere, but his dust cape and sling pack were still there, abandoned beside the flare locker.
"I know I agreed to work my passage, but I'm worth a bonus," he muttered as he rummaged for the feel of a purse in the sling pack The purse was large, and contained mixed gold and silver. He reached in for a generous handful, then returned it to the sling pack
Moments later he was on the platform with his pack roll under his arm and his tunic over his shoulder. Several girls in the crowd recognized him as the pennant bearer from the front of the train.
"Fras, Fras, are you a Tiger Dragon?" one of them called breathlessly. "Sweet Frelle, I am also not at liberty to tell you," he replied in a deep, educated tone that marked him as something more than a gear jack
"Fras, are you off duty now?" her companion asked. "The Mayor's guards are here to protect Frelle Overmayor Cybeline and her consort."
Cybeline? Highliber--now Overmayor? Glasken got such a fright that his knees nearly buckled, and he di
d actually drop his roll pack
"Fras Tiger Dragon, are you all right?" squeaked the first girl. Glasken was careful to steady himself on her ann as he scooped up his roll pack The other put her hands against his chest, her eyes wide with concern. The feel of smooth, soft female skin against his after so long nearly made him pass out again.
"Just... weary. A good meal will set me right." "Fras, have you eaten, will you drink?" called a portly man wearing a vintner's striped sash. "My tavern is but close by. Come, bring your Frelle lady friends, honor my humble establishment."
Not a hundred paces away Zarvora and Denkar stepped from the train as a fourteen-bombard salute began to boom out and fireworks streaked into the sky. Denkar noticed an olive-skinned man of short but powerful build in bead-point and ray robes. He was approaching at the head of a large retinue that seemed to have at least one member of every race that Denkar knew of, then more besides. A racial mixing bowl of peoples, Kalgooflie was well known for that. One of the courtiers was leading a tiny pony that was being ridden by twin boys of toddler age. They were dressed in the Rochester pennant colors.
Zarvora squeezed his arm and her indrawn breath hissed between her clenched teeth.
"Denkar, I had meant to tell you before. I am sorry."
"What? I can't hear with the noise."
"Shh. Mayor Bouros, my dear friend!" she called.
"Overmayor Zarvora, my fulsome pleasure to greet you again," Bouros declared loudly as he stretched his arms out to embrace Zarvora.
"Mayor Bouros, I have missed your hospitality. This is--"
Souls in the Great Machine Page 36