by Susan Moore
“Mater, what did you do to Alton?” said her daughter, marching into the room.
Ivy turned to find Saskia dressed in a camouflage-patterned, full-length corseted dress, with her robot poodle, Poxo, in matching coat and top hat. She’d ringleted her chestnut hair and piled it up high on her head.
“Another new dress?” said Ivy, ignoring her question.
“It was delivered this morning.”
Saskia’s hand flew to her mouth as she spotted the paint-spattered wall from across the room.
“I moved,” said Ivy, sitting down on her gold throne. “He’ll have to come back again when he’s calmed down.”
“Has he nearly finished it?”
“I have no idea. He won’t let me see it until it’s complete. That was part of the very expensive deal. If he wasn’t the best artist in England I’d have him chained to my throne until the work was done. As it is, I shall have to be patient.”
She drummed her sweaty fingers on the arm of her throne. Patience was not her strong suit.
A drumroll came blasting out of the speakers set into the side of her throne. She looked across at the door. Beetlebot Beta, his cockroach antennae flashing bright red, came scuttling in at top speed.
“The auction is about to start, Baroness,” he announced in his squeaky voice.
“Ah good, a welcome distraction for us. I do like a good sale. Screen it.”
Automatic blinds whooshed down to cover the floor-to-ceiling windows, blocking out the stunning views over London. The fake, flickering candles on the chandelier dimmed. On the wall opposite, an oil painting of a medieval castle slid to one side to reveal a gigantic FlexScreen. A live feed from the auction room at Bateleys appeared. Customers were gathered, ready to place bids on the sale items.
It was a busy day there. Every seat in the house was taken.
“Get my bidder, Beta.”
A woman’s reedy voice came over the Veltron speakers. “Baroness Shiversand, how nice to speak with you. Your timing is perfect. The lot you requested is next up for auction.”
Ivy glanced back at Saskia, who was busy checking her messages on her poodle’s earflap, which had flipped into a mini-screen.
“Watch and learn, please, Saskia.”
The auctioneer waved his hand towards a Bateleys assistant who was standing to one side of the stage. She was holding up a long, silk-lined wooden box for the audience to view. Inside lay a sword.
Ivy’s heartbeat quickened and her mouth went dry. This might be it.
“Zoom in on the sword,” she ordered.
Beta zoomed. A double-edged straight sword appeared full-screen. A layer of rust covered its surface. The handle was curved to fit a hand.
“Lot two hundred and eighty-three. A fine fighting sword, estimated to be three thousand two hundred years old, discovered in Laozhoulin River in China. Let’s start the bidding at fifty thousand pounds, shall we?”
As an initial flurry of bids got underway, Ivy let out a sigh.
“One million,” came a nasal-sounding voice over the loudspeakers.
It was followed by a collective gasp from the audience. Ivy gripped the arms of her throne.
“Whose bid was that?”
Beta’s beetle eyes darted from side to side as he scanned the room from Bateleys’ live camera feed.
“It’s another phone-in,” said Ivy’s bidder.
“One million. Do I hear more?” said the auctioneer.
Ivy snorted. “Bidder, get my bids out; put whoever it is under pressure.”
“Yes, madam.”
The auctioneer’s hand flew up to the nanodot earphone stuck to his right ear.
“I have another phone-in bid for two million. Do I hear two million five hundred thousand?”
The auction room went quiet. The auctioneer cupped his hand over his ear, his eyes closed in concentration.
“Good. Two million five hun— I have another bid for four million,” he announced.
The audience gasped. Ivy tried to force her Cementered lips into a painful smile.
“Good. Keep the pressure on the bidding.”
The bids rocketed up.
“Six million,” said the auctioneer.
Ivy felt sweat bead up at her neck and start to trickle down her back. Who would dare to outbid her?
“Madam, we are nearly at your upper limit of seven million,” said the bidder.
“Seven million, five hundred. Do I hear a bid for eight million?” said the auctioneer.
“Madam?” said the bidder.
The image of the rusty sword played in her mind’s eye. It could be the one … but if it wasn’t, then it would be a very costly mistake.
“Madam?”
“Eight. Make it eight,” she croaked.
Her throat was dry, parched. She had to spit out the words.
“Eight million pounds, ladies and gentlemen. Do I hear eight million, five?” said the auctioneer.
Silence fell across the auction room.
“Going, going, gone!”
The auctioneer banged the gavel down hard on the desk. Applause broke out across the auction room. Ivy clasped her hands together.
“Mater! That is an enormous sum,” said Saskia.
Ivy swung round.
“As you well know, Saskia, I always get what I want, no matter the cost.”
“But what if it isn’t the right sword?”
Ivy gritted her teeth. “Then we will continue the search. Besides, the Walker girl is on her way. If we can’t find it, I know she will.”
Beetlebot Alpha came through the door and scuttled up her armoured leg before leaping into her lap. He looked up at her with his beady eyes.
“Mission complete,” he said. “The invitation is delivered to Natalie Walker.”
Ivy would have smiled if she could have moved the muscles under her Cementered face. She must get Alton back fast. Now that the sword that would “transform her into the true warrior queen of everlasting youth and power” seemed within her grasp, she needed the portrait to be finished quickly. Then she’d have the portrait of “before”, and she’d ask Alton to paint her again “after”. She purred inside at how magnificent, powerful and beautiful she would be then. A total makeover.
“Good work, Alpha. Two irons in the fire. Another sword to test, and the Walker girl in our sights.”
Chapter Five
BOXBURY
Nat was standing in her cabin dressed in the Boxbury School uniform that had been waiting for her at their mooring in St Katharine Docks. It was dark outside. She yawned. It had been a very long day.
“Call Wen,” she said, wriggling in the corseted brown jacket. It was so tight she could barely draw breath.
Looking down, she scowled at the crested Boxbury badge with a pig’s head in its centre, hand-stitched to the top pocket. The high, frilled-collar blouse felt stiff and scratchy. Worst of all was the full-length brown skirt like a heavy blanket.
Fizz clacked his talons on the metal shelf above the mirror. He spread his wings. Their emerald-green scales locked together to form a small, hi-def diamond-coated screen. Their colour faded as Wen’s round face appeared, filling the screen.
“Ai yah! They cannot seriously expect you to wear that uniform!” cried Wen. “You look like Mary Poppins. You won’t even be able to hop on your Slider!”
Nat hobbled across to her bunk and picked up a lady’s brown top hat with fishnet veil.
“This is what we’re meant to wear when we’re out in the city,” she said, putting it on.
Wen’s hands flew to her mouth. She screamed. Nat wanted to cry. She ripped the hat off and hurled it back on to the bunk before flopping down into a brown heap on the sheepskin rug.
“I wish you were here. It wouldn’t be so bad if we were both going. I’m dreading tomorrow,” she said.
“Ahem… I will be accompanying you, and I will be wearing the uniform too,” said Fizz.
Nat picked up a small grey box. She lifted th
e lid and held it up to the screen. Inside lay a tiny brown and gold striped tie.
“It’s hardly the same.”
Wen’s face loomed larger on screen as she leaned into the camera to take a good look inside the box.
“Ding! A uniform tie for a robot. Fizz will be rocking his look, but, Jade babe, you’re going to be so way last century!”
Nat unhooked her jacket and pulled it off. She tugged her blouse out of the tight waistline of the skirt. She’d not worn this many layers since she was in snowy Mongolia.
“London is weird. Jamuka’s the only happy one because he fits right in.”
Wen snapped her fingers. Instantly “Robot Dreams”, their favourite tune, started blasting through Fizz’s Veltron speakers. Nat felt herself relax.
On the screen she watched Wen walk off camera, leaving a view of her very messy bedroom. It looked like she’d emptied her wardrobe on to the bed. Designer dresses, skirts, tops and jeans lay in tangled heaps. Some still had the price tags attached. The floor was littered with shoes, boots and cans of hair paint.
Wen reappeared, blocking the mess. She was holding up a blue T-shirt with the words “Jade Babe Rocks London” in big silver letters across the front.
“Surprise! Made this for you with my new 3D printer last night, but figured you needed to see it right now, before I send it.”
Nat smiled. It made her homesick for Hong Kong.
“Thanks. Not sure I’m up to rockin’ it though.”
Wen pointed her finger at the screen. “You will be.”
Nat caught sight of the invitation that she’d tossed on the floor earlier. She leaned across the rug, picked it up and held it up to Fizz’s screen.
Wen let out a low whistle.
“Tea with a baroness? You must be important.”
There was a knock on the cabin door.
“Bao Bao, into bed, please. It’s late and you have school in the morning,” called Jamuka.
She grimaced at Wen. “I’d better go. I’ll send news tomorrow.”
Later that night a cold gust of wind blew across the deck, rattling the rigging overhead and waking Nat up. She wriggled further down inside her sleeping bag. Maybe her move up on deck wasn’t the best plan now they were moored.
Fizz lay curled up next to her on the pillow, in sleep mode. He was already wearing his school tie, to save time in the morning. He was excited; she was full of dread. This whole new life filled with terrible things was all because her parents had put one line in their wills: “When our dearest daughter turns thirteen, she must go to Boxbury School in London for two full school years.”
The latch on the main hatch clicked open. Glancing across the deck she saw Jamuka appear in his thick Mongolian coat and fur hat. He headed over holding a steaming mug.
“You’ll catch cold out here, Bao Bao.”
A crackling sound came from the mug. He handed it to her. She smiled.
“Thanks.”
“Hot chocolate with popping candy.”
“It’s nowhere near as cold as it was when we were in Mongolia, but I feel colder,” she said, as the milky warmth flowed into her hands.
Jamuka stretched his arms above his head.
“It is a different kind of cold. The damp is rising. It seeps into us, making our bones ache.”
She took a sip of the hot chocolate. The candy popped, darting like a firecracker across her tongue.
“I am concerned that we have already become a spectacle here at the dock. The crowds that gathered at the Junko’s docking give me cause for concern about our safety and privacy. We might need to consider moving on to land.”
Nat nearly dropped her mug.
“Forget it! No way am I leaving the Junko!”
Her guardian raised an eyebrow. “Resist the impulse to overreact.”
“I know I don’t like the tourists staring, but this is my home…”
The thought of moving on to dry land was unthinkable. She could count on one hand the nights in her life not spent on the water; she couldn’t sleep without the rocking motion of the waves.
“We could cloak the Junko, creating a stealth field. It is a tactic used in the classic movies of Star Wars,” said Fizz.
Jamuka looked up at the masts then back down at the deck. He pursed his lips in calculation.
“Cloaking is a good plan, Fizz,” he said. “We could lower the flag, and nanomesh the hull and masts with a grey-toned film. That way light will still come in through the portholes. Then it is only our shape which is showing, and not all the fancy paintwork and carvings.”
Nat patted Fizz on the head. She would buy him any weird English accent modifier that he wanted!
“Jamuka, do I really have to go to this tea tomorrow?”
“Since Baroness Shiversand is on the board of governors at Boxbury School, it is wise and prudent to go. I am sure she will be most gracious and welcoming.”
Chapter Six
TIGER-STYLE
Nat crouched down into horse stance, her legs wide, bare feet firmly planted on the sparring mat. She opened her arms and tried to focus, channelling energy into her fingers, clenching them into a claw shape.
Opposite stood Jamuka, eyes fixed upon her, waiting for her next move. They were in the Junko’s white-walled dojo, where even on the highest seas he’d insisted she did her daily kung fu practice. It was only six o’clock but the morning sun was already throwing a pale light against the newly mesh-screened portholes.
A lazy fly that must have hitched a ride from a warmer climate buzzed across her vision, coming to land on the sleeve of her red kung fu jacket. Irritated, she flicked it off.
“Do not be affected by another life passing by. Retain your unwavering focus,” said Jamuka.
She threw up her arms and flopped down on to the mat.
“Zoinks! I can’t do unwavering focus this morning. Do I really have to go to this new school?”
The sick feeling again. Her whole school life to date had been at Weiwood School back in Hong Kong, up on The Peak. She couldn’t say it was her favourite place on the planet but right now she’d happily agree to go there seven days a week if it meant she didn’t have to go to Boxbury.
Jamuka folded his arms across his chest.
“Bao Bao, it is your parents’ wish that you go.”
“Was. I bet they hadn’t really thought it out, sending their only child away to school on the other side of the world. It’s child cruelty. Please, please can we go home? I’ll do anything.”
Jamuka put his arm on her shoulder. “You already know my answer. I am duty-bound to follow your parents’ wishes. Now, channel that negative energy into a positive, final few minutes of Tiger Style.”
Even from the grave her parents ran her life.
“Ready?”
Outside the sun disappeared behind a cloud, casting the dojo into shadow. Nat blinked. Jamuka was back in place, awaiting her move. She wanted to run her own life, couldn’t wait to decide where and what she did. Frustration bubbled up. She squatted into horse stance again and opened her arms out. This time she felt a familiar surge of energy pulsing through her. She flexed her fingers back into claws.
She was poised. In a flash her right hand shot out at Jamuka in a tiger claw strike. His arm shot out, blocking her. Not to be outdone she swatted with her left hand, but he dodged backwards. She missed his arm but caught the hanging silk sleeve of his jacket, her nails tearing through the fabric.
He spun round, ripping away from her. She had to react fast as he raised his right leg. His bare foot cut through the air in a high leg kick. She ducked and it narrowly missed her ear.
Gone were the days when Jamuka showed her any mercy, teaching her as his novice. Since their adventures in Mongolia, he sparred with her as an equal.
The door to the dojo slid open. Ah Ping appeared, dressed in a blue shirt and long shorts.
“The dock security guard called. Your Grooverider has arrived.”
“Thank you. I will come up,
” said Jamuka. He bowed to Nat. “Good work, Bao Bao. It is time to get ready.”
Back in her cabin Nat found Fizz perched on the edge of her breakfast bowl. Only his green scaly tail was visible as he leaned over, dipping his snout.
“What are you doing?” she said, crossing the fur rug to her desk.
His head popped up. The tip of his snout was covered in a white cream.
“I am tasting your breakfast. Ah Ping dropped it off and said the yoghurt here tastes like a Kowloon dog’s dinner. My Sensomatic receptors tell me that it is five point two per cent more acidic, and I am detecting a four point seven per cent increase in lactobacilli to what you normally ingest.”
Nat wrinkled her nose. “Yuck!”
“Please try it and let me know what you think,” he added.
She used her jacket sleeve to wipe his snout clean.
“After that description I’m not sure I want to.”
“But you have different taste to Ah Ping, and your ancestors ate this diet, so there is a fifty three per cent possibility that you will like it.”
She dipped her little finger into the bowl and held it up to her nose. The yoghurt smelt rich and earthy. Putting it to her lips her eyes widened in surprise.
“Zoinks! Beats that fermented sheep milk I drank in Mongolia. It’s good.”
She picked a spoon up off the tray and ate a couple of mouthfuls.
“Five minutes!” shouted Ah Ping from down the corridor.
She stared at the photo of her dad that she’d stuck to the wall at the side of her bunk. He was standing under the Boxbury School front porch in a white shirt, his tie whipping sideways in a gale. Autumn leaves swirled up around his brown trousers. He was frowning into the camera. Now it was her turn.
Chapter Seven
MR LIMPET
Light rain was beginning to drizzle down the glass. Nat looked out of the Grooverider window at men on penny-farthing bikes and ladies in crinoline dresses that looked like lampshades.