“By Jove, I’m looking forward to bagging a brace of those rascals!” said Sir Charles Willoughby-Amersham, baronet.
Mentor sat by himself. He had boarded this outlandish Train alone, and he wished he knew what had happened to the others. The conversation of the past two hours had been ominous and he badly needed reassurance. “We could be making a big mistake. That robot over there said we could be facing Total Death. I …” He gulped uncontrollably. “I want to get off.”
“Well, don’t tell the driver that, dearie,” whispered Blondie Tranter, a buxom woman with bedroom eyes.
“It’ll all come right in the end,” added the little brown girl, Bambi. “It always does, you know.”
“I wish …” Mentor’s voice trailed away, as he realized his words could be overheard and misinterpreted.
“I wish I knew what happened to those people who were with me,” he said eventually.
“What people, I wonder,” said Bambi.
“A man who looked like me, and a plump girl. And a young Wild Human. They said they’d been on the Train before — you must remember them.”
“It’s best not to think about it,” said Bambi, turning to the window. “Much nicer to forget. Oh, look — a falling star!”
“She means we don’t talk about people who disappear,” Blondie Tranter explained quietly. “Not on the Train. You’ll get used to it.”
“But why do people disappear? Silver won’t allow smallwishes; he says he needs all the psy we have, just to keep the Train —” he gulped again “— in existence!” The flamboyant figure of the Locomotive’s driver had terrified Mentor.
Blondie looked cunning. “Sometimes people become a liability. They have a negative effect on the Train. They become skeptical and that threatens us all. It’s better that they disappear.”
“But how, if —”
“Silver shows them the footplate of the Locomotive … and the controls … and he introduces them to the fireman.” She had said all this quickly and jerkily with eyes closed. Now she snapped them open and continued, “There, I’ve said it. Now let’s forget all about it.”
But Mentor couldn’t. The suspicion was growing within him that he was stranded on the Train, at the mercy of Silver and his ghastly stoker, who had consigned Zozula, Manuel and the Girl to some kind of nondimensional limbo. Anything was possible in this unpredictable place. And if this were not bad enough, there were the Pirates …
The Pirates swaggered around the carriage, a group of picturesquely clad rogues who had apparently known one another for a long time. In their chosen period of history, they were close to Silver’s time, but it was noticeable that the driver ignored them, stumping rapidly past them whenever he made his way down the aisle. The Pirates, for their part, lost no opportunity to bait Silver, on one occasion toppling him to the floor by kicking his crutch as he went past.
And they had noticed Mentor.
He saw them talking together and glancing at him from time to time, and he guessed what would happen next. They would stroll down the aisle in a body, cram themselves into nearby seats and subject him to that mental torture beloved of Dream Earth deadbeats: talking at, rather than to, him, humiliating him with veiled insults, taunting him with painful little smallwishes. And if he retaliated, any one of them looked quite capable of coming back at him with a Terminal Bigwish.
He’d recently witnessed the effects of a Terminal Bigwish while Zozula was showing him the workings of Dream Earth through the scanner in the Rainbow Room.
He’d seen a villein, sitting in a medieval inn, teasing a serving wench. (Why anyone should Bigwish themselves into a serving wench was beyond his comprehension, but the passage of a few thousand years inevitably produces oddball wishes, out of sheer boredom.) The villein had caused the wench to spill pottage down her apron, had tripped her and fondled her roughly and had finally poured beer down her cleavage. The only possible explanation for such behavior was Temporal Insanity — or, conceivably, that the villein thought the wench was a composite smallwish.
And the wench had finally reacted.
She followed him outside. There was a village green and stone cottages and a few sheep. Willow trees leaned over a pond fed by a meandering stream. People went about their tasks amiably, greeting one another in the street. It was a pleasant place, and people who wished into it often stayed for a long time. The villein lay down beside the stream intending to doze in the sun.
He never had the chance.
The wench Bigwished herself into an allosaurus. It towered above the cottages on legs like oaks. It gazed questingly this way and that, sighted the villein — he being the nearest morsel — bent down and devoured him.
There was panic in the village.
(There was panic among the Keepers, too. Cytherea had been on duty at the Rainbow console at the time, and for a moment she’d been unable to recollect the correct procedure for such emergencies. Dream monsters usually presented no problem; they were smallwishes and couldn’t hurt. Dream People almost never Bigwished themselves into animals — it was tantamount to a life sentence, since animals do not have the intelligence to wish themselves back into being humans. But now Cytherea was confronted with a monster that, by Dream Earth standards, was quite real. It had imposed Total Death on the villein by extinguishing his psy. Zozula, Juni and Husto came running. The monster was looking around for further delicacies. Cytherea’s hands flickered over the tactile surfaces. The monster snatched the thatch roof from a cottage in a giant mouthful, exposing the terrified people beneath. Then the training of many centuries imposed its discipline on Cytherea, and she made the correct moves.)
As Mentor watched, the allosaurus had flickered out of existence. Composite Reality adjusted. Somebody smallwished the thatch back on. But nobody could wish the villein back. He was Totally Dead, and in another dimension, his plump body was disconnected and recycled.
So Mentor had seen the terrifying reality of violence, and his mind balked at contemplating it again. Coming to a quick decision, he made his way down the aisle and slipped through the corridor connector. He could retreat the whole length of the train, if need be. He had no idea how long the train was, but suspected it might be at least ten carriages. In fact, he was short by thirty-two kilometers.
He slid aside the door to the next carriage — and stopped dead. The carriage held witches, dressed in black with tall pointed hats, and druids in coarse robes. The carriage was huge, wide and high, and contained a small-scale Stonehenge set atop a grassy rise. The witches and druids danced and chanted within this diorama, the centerpiece of which was a stone slab. A maiden lay on it, dressed in white. A priest stood near, knife in hand. The chanting was reaching a crescendo.
Mentor shut the door, blocking out the scene. He wondered at the kind of people who boarded the Train. He wondered what it was like, to have been everything and done everything, your Humanity leeched away by experiences, century by century, until you finished up something less than human. He wondered if innocence was synonymous with Humanity and that question frightened him, because it seemed to hold out no hope. He had to get off this accursed train. Beside him was a door. He tried the handle, but it was locked. In despair he flung himself against the door once more, and this time the handle seemed pliable and warm. It yielded readily, and the door swung open.
Space roared like a thousand lions. Tiny pinpoints of light flickered past. Yet he could breathe. Holding onto this one Reality, he told himself: Everything I see is an illusion. I am on Earth, and I can do anything I want. I may be a little new to this, but I’m not asking for a Bigwish. All I want is enough moxie to get off this damned Train and back home. The Girl explained how to do it.
He concentrated, summoned up his psy and prepared to jump. He thought the act of jumping would trigger an adrenalin surge that might, in turn, boost his unpracticed psy.
He shouted, “Here I come, Earth!”
And a voice close by said, “Not so long as my name’s Silver, lad.”
A hand closed around his arm like a tourniquet.
THE CRASH
So what might ye be planning to do — might I make so bold as to ask?” Silver’s voice was deadly polite. His hamlike face was ruddy with the effort of dragging Mentor back aboard.
“I wanted to get off, that’s all.”
“Ye scurvy dog! Desert the ship, is it? I tell ye, mister, I’ve had a bellyful o’ whimpering dogs.” Silver’s temper was unleashed, and he shook Mentor with a menace that brought back all the fear of physical violence.
“Let me go! You don’t need me. I don’t even know how to smallwish!”
“ ’Tis a matter of … Belay there, messmate.” The eyes became shrewd. Silver paused, thinking. He scratched his head, tilting his hat. “How did ye open yon door?” His voice was quiet, now. “Tell me that, shipmate. Did ye wish it open? Becuz that’d take a powerful draught o’ psy, lad. More’n ye’re capable of, I’ll lay to that!”
“I don’t know. Let me go, will you? I just turned the handle, that’s all. It felt kind of soft.”
“Ah-hah!” Silver was silent for some time, thoughts flittering across his face like shadows. Eventually he released his grasp and made some ineffectual gesture toward dusting Mentor off. “Beggin’ yer pardon, shipmate. Seems like old Barbecue’s jumped the gun again. Never intended no harm. I get these headaches, y’see, and with them comes the most powerful evil nightmares. I see things’d turn yer blood to ice, I do.”
“You do?” Mentor found these sudden changes of mood hard to keep up with and very unsettling. He wanted to get away, but he feared another outburst if he tried. “W-what kind of things, Silver?”
“Ghouls, lad. Ghouls the likes of that no-good stoker in the cab, all dressed in black — ’cept they be women. Tis a deadly circle, lad. I drink the rum to shut out the fear and get me some sleep — then with the sleep comes the dreams. Women, all dressed in black, a-pointin’ at me and a-tellin’ me to drive on, to keep going no matter what, like as if ’twere the most important thing on Earth. I got them both. There’s that devil in the cab, stoking like as to send us all to Perdition, and when I get me some sleep, there’s the women. There’s no rest on this Train for an honest man!” And his lips trembled, and for one moment Mentor thought the driver was going to weep in self-pity. The smell of liquor was pungent on Silver’s breath.
“I’m sorry. I … I wish I could help.”
“Mebbe ye can, lad — mebbe ye can.” Silver’s tone became wheedling. “The troubles of this Train are more than one poor body can bear. Mebbe if ye just… keep yer eyes peeled, keep yer ear to the timbers and report back to me the minute ye smell a rat. There’s people aboard this Train,” continued Silver portentously, “who wish us no good, and ye and me is a-going to winkle them out, by thunder! A bargain’s a bargain — and in return I’ll see no man lays a finger on ye, lad!”
“It’s a deal.” There was little else Mentor could say. Silver shook his hand and slid back the connecting door, and together they walked forward.
*
To Mentor’s infinite relief, Zozula, Manuel and the Girl had arrived during his absence. He sat down beside them. “Where have you been?” he asked querulously.
“Who knows?” said Zozula. “Time plays funny tricks on the Train. These passengers —” he waved an arm “— they’re exactly the same as we left them, when we were on the Train before. Even the blackjack game is still going on. Yet by my measurement of Time, a couple of weeks have passed.”
Confirming his statement, Blondie Tranter leaned across. “So Long John Silver wouldn’t let you off the Train, dearie? That’s too bad. Still, the journey is fun, isn’t it?”
Bambi said, “I’m so glad you decided not to leave us.”
The Girl yawned, her psy exhausted. The image of Blind Pew was with her, tap-tapping his way around the Land of Lost Dreams. Her body ached and she was utterly spent, and she didn’t have the energy to run from him. She closed her eyes, needing to sleep but knowing that Pew would find her in her dreams.
Mentor said, “Let’s get back to Earth. I’m going to throw up.”
“For a clone of mine you don’t —” began Zozula irritably, but Manuel dug him in the ribs. The Girl was dozing, her body twitching restlessly, and she was mumbling to herself. Manuel took her hand and slid his arm around her elephantine body as far as he could, comforting her.
“She’s not well,” whispered Manuel. “Her body isn’t strong enough for what she wants to do, and her heart isn’t strong enough for her body. She needs to rest, but you won’t let her.” Gently he stroked the Girl’s hair and began to sing a lullaby from his childhood, softly, drawing a sad nostalgia from the words of long ago:
Hey, little baby, don’t you cry,
Lift your head and watch the sky,
Float like a feather up on high,
While the guanaco clouds go by.
And the Girl’s eyelids fluttered open and she smiled. Then she slept again, more easily now. Zozula sniffed. Mentor started as Silver went stumping by with an expression of urgency, the parrot clinging unsteadily to his shoulder. There was some kind of commotion at the back of the carriage; then shortly afterward Silver returned to the cab. A sudden explosion startled everyone. Conversation ceased. The Train rushed on, faster than ever, swaying wildly. A light bulb came loose and dropped to the floor, shattering. The sliding door crashed open.
Silver stood there. There was a wild excitement in his face. “We’ve run through a signal, shipmates! There be detonators on the tracks but we can’t pay them no heed — not us. We needs must keep a-going, leastways if we don’t want yonder black stoker to blow us all to Kindgom Come — that’s the short and the long of it!”
“But … The signal must have been against us for a reason.” A Neanderthal woman spoke quietly to Manuel.
Little brown Bambi overheard her. “Everything will turn out fine in the end!” she said gaily. “It always does. Except just once …” And she went quiet, suddenly quiet, remembering one Dreadful Thing that she always tried to forget and that she’d never told anyone.
Another detonator went off. “How realistic can you get?” Zozula’s comment was in tones of the utmost cynicism.
Silver flipped a small seat out of the wall and sat on it, swaying, regarding the passengers with a strange intensity. “ ’Tis a mighty dangerous thing we do, to be sure. His gaze wandered to Zozula, who stared back blandly, with a faint smile. The wheels screamed as the Train hit a curve.
“Very convincing,” said Zozula.
Suddenly the noise stopped, as though switched off. Manuel grabbed his seat as the Train seemed to rise into the air. Somebody screamed, and Sir Charles exclaimed, “By God —” pulling himself to his feet. The carriage tilted abruptly and he fell, smashing his head against a steel seat support. Now the carriage tilted end over end and Manuel ducked as Silver’s crutch came skimming overhead. Beside him, the Girl was falling toward the roof. People were screaming. Bodies tumbled in all directions, arms thrashing, legs kicking. A series of shuddering crashes jolted the carriage. Manuel hung onto his seat, letting it all happen around him, hanging onto the Girl’s waist. Then, his grip broken by her weight, he too fell, landing heavily on his back, the Girl on top of him. The carriage came to rest on its roof. For a shocked instant there was silence.
And Silver still sat on his seat, now upside down. Manuel followed his gaze. Above him Zozula sat, unmoved also, seeming to hang impossibly from the upside-down seat, regarding Silver steadily.
Silver said into the stunned quiet. “Ye be the queerest passenger I’ve ever sailed alongside, and that’s a fact.”
“Not so queer as you, I’ll be bound.” Zozula’s smile held no joy. He twisted around and, holding the seat, lowered himself until he stood beside Manuel. “Where’s Mentor?” he asked.
“He’s all right.” Manuel helped the Girl, shocked from her catastrophic awakening, to her feet. “The door’s open over there, see? Let’s go and find out
what’s happened.”
“If we can believe what we see.” Zozula picked his way through the milling, chattering crowd of passengers, following Manuel to the door. On the way he passed Sir Charles, who was staring incredulously at the blood that was smeared, wet and warm and red and real, on his hand where he had touched his head.
THE LOST ARMY
Manuel stepped down onto pale sand that felt insubstantial under his bare feet. He turned and helped the Girl out, saw Mentor emerge with Zozula, then walked away from the upturned carriage. He had the strangest feeling that he was walking on top of a flat cloud. The sand stretched into the distance, rising slightly to the horizon, featureless and smooth. The whole scene was bathed in a soft light with no visible source.
The carriage lay stark and black and wrecked. Bodies lay all around. Some of them moved, others were motionless and the force of their impact had half buried them. Manuel ran to one of them, a woman who lay twisted, her blood staining the sand. She whimpered softly as he turned her into a more comfortable position, straightening her legs and heaping sand into a pillow for her head. Nearby the Locomotive stood unscathed, majestic, making quiet steamy sounds of impatience. A cowled head looked out of the cab in silent contemplation.
“Water …” The woman’s voice was so faint that Manuel had to lean close.
“I’ll get you some. You’ll be all right.” He hurried up to Silver, who leaned against the carriage side, smiling.
“I reckon ye be wastin’ yer time, lad.”
“Just a glass of water, that’s all. Where can I get some?”
Zozula approached. “I don’t think you can help, Manuel. I don’t think anyone can.”
“We can’t just leave her lying there! And what about all the others?” Too much death, too much horror. He seemed to hear the woman’s voice in his mind, pleading. He looked around frantically. The other passengers from Manuel’s carriage had by now climbed down and were wandering irresolutely among the bodies, occasionally dropping to their knees to feel a pulse or murmur a word of encouragement.
Gods of the Greataway Page 19