Aurorarama

by Jean-Christophe Valtat

  “Captain-General?” said Surville, dismissing Peterswarden’s remark with a little gesture of the hand.

  Mason seemed embarrassed in a way that Brentford had never seen before. The Lenton “riot” was no doubt on his mind and he was probably looking for a way to ingratiate his men with the Council without opposing Brentford, whose help he thought he needed right now.

  “Hunting has always been part and parcel of military activities in the Arctic regions, though often, to be honest, it has been done in cooperation with the Eskimos. I consider that beyond the question of food supply in time of peace, my men should be prepared and trained to live off the land when they are in operation, which could be well the case sooner or later, given the present circumstances. I nevertheless understand that it should be limited so as not to endanger the Native way of life.”

  De Witt poured some words into Surville’s ears, which were not long in coming forth from the spokesperson’s mouth.

  “The Council suggests that your men, beyond all technical considerations, should indeed get more exercise. They have been found to be rather idle and nervous lately. Maybe the city air does not suit them. The Navy Cadets especially should hunt other game than peaceful citizens.”

  Mason cleared his throat.

  “I present all due apologies to the Council. There has been a misunderstanding. From my information, my men were only trying to defend a lady who had by accident fallen on the ground.”

  Once more De Witt ventriloquized his dummy.

  “The Council reminds you that its own collaborators are perfectly entitled and able to help citizens when they are estimated to be in danger. It is the local rule that the military should not in any case intervene in civic affairs. The Council would hate to have to take the occasion of a public trial to remind the military authority of this.”

  Mason’s face had become perfectly inscrutable. Brentford knew enough about soldiers to be sure that it was a mistake to humble one in front of civilians. They might force Mason into some sort of submission, but they would lose his respect for good. Brentford cued in, hoping his intervention would throw the Council a bit off balance and bring Mason a little further onto his side. He raised his hand, and Surville, although frowning, nodded his approbation.

  “According to firsthand accounts I happened to hear,” said Brentford, “it was very much a mistake, indeed. The Cadets actually did not recognize persons they thought were aggressors as defenders of the law.”

  Brainveil leaned toward his human microphone.

  “Mistakes and accidents can happen. But these tend to have a pattern or a common origin that the Council, in spite of its leniency, can no longer ignore. Certain ideas are currently being circulated through the city, criticizing the current state of affairs and advocating a community with the Natives, in a way that is most contemptuous of their differences from us, as Mr. Peterswarden would be glad to confirm for you. A certain book, in particular, is said to exert a bad influence over the weakest minds, such as that of Ms. Lenton, as she now calls herself, and her gang of suffragettes.”

  It was now Brentford who sat unmoving on his chair, under Mason’s scrutiny.

  Surville kept on, while his eyes, the Councillors’, and the wax Sleepers’ all fixed themselves on Brentford, “The Council would like very much to exonerate the Subtle Army, as well as, it may add, the Administration, of any suspected support for the said theories. The Council would therefore appreciate total and open collaboration from all parties. Regarding the hunting quotas, it is, alas, not possible, in the current situation, to give satisfaction to the Flagler Fjord Eskimos. Since you care so much, and rightly so, for our food autonomy, Mr. Orsini, you will find it agreeable that the Subtle Army contributes to it in the form of a planned, reasonable hunting campaign. And you will find it convenient, Captain-General, that the hunting be trusted to the Navy Cadets as a permanent mission, so that they can show their utility and dedication to the City. The Council has spoken.”

  Mason had stayed with the Seven to review the details of the “campaign.” Brentford had carefully avoided Peterswarden on the way out and, the boreal draught on his back chilling him to the bone, hurried back toward the hall, from which he could see that the night had already fallen. He was angry at the way things had turned out. His intervention had been useless to Mason and done nothing but strengthen the Council’s suspicion of himself. As to the final decision, it had been, as usual, nothing but a sadistic show of strength, and if it ever hid some darker agenda, that would probably be more of the same.

  It wasn’t until he was in the hall that he managed to calm down. He walked to the fountain across the marble floor. This was at least one place where he could go to the pole. He watched the fountain as the coloured lights played pleasantly through it, but it was only when he spotted Helen’s profile among the stalactites that he finally felt better.

  CHAPTER XVI

  The Hollow Earth

  Why, poor man, have you left the light of day and come down to visit the dead in this sad place?

  Homer, The Odyssey

  It was dark, and cold. A blizzard had started to blow from the north, forcing its way through the Air Architecture, and though this had blunted it a bit, it was now bellowing and whirling around Gabriel as he hurried toward the low, circular Fisheries Building that housed the Septentrional Scavenging and Sewerage Service. Bowed over, he looked like a hounded man, which he was, after all: he felt that were he to look back at his own shadow, he would discover it had turned into Wynne’s. He could still feel his yearning for Stella burrowing relentlessly in his stomach, but it was now blended with apprehension over having to meet the Scavengers, whom New Venetians avoided almost superstitiously. Nothing, of course, was forcing him to do so, but his growing curiosity about the mysterious dead woman, and the possibility that she could have something to do with him, made this visit seem the best way to waste the time he could not pass with Stella, as well as his last chance to feel that he was not entirely reduced to a flayed, writhing mass of longing and love.

  Two Scavengers were loitering in front of the Fisheries, seemingly waiting for their shift to start (there had been no further rumours about a strike), but more likely guarding the place from prying eyes. Since their masks hindered them from smoking, they passed back and forth a small bottle of something they sniffed at through their long white beaks. They stiffened as Gabriel approached, and he felt grateful to Brentford for having confided to him, for use if he ever “got into trouble,” the secret word that would gain him a modicum of attention from them and, hopefully, entrance to the Fisheries. He advanced toward the guards, a little too close for his comfort, his hands visible and well apart.

  “Ring around the rosies,” he whispered, feeling ridiculous, faintly afraid of becoming the butt of some tasteless joke.

  The Scavengers looked at each other, then back at him. Observing no further reaction, Gabriel felt he had to explain himself.

  “I’ve been sent by Brentford Orsini,” he said, stretching the truth a little to fit the situation. “About a dead woman.”

  The Scavengers did not answer, but one of them turned and went back into the Fisheries, while the other stood by, looking indifferent. They were working hard at their own myth, Gabriel could tell, but then, as much could be said about everyone in New Venice.

  A third “plague doctor” came out and examined Gabriel for a long time through the glass beads that hid his eyes.

  “Pocketful of posies,” the Scavenger eventually grumbled in a cavernous voice, while he gestured for Gabriel to come inside. The place was known to be harder to get into than the trendiest club in town, and it was almost with an insider’s pride that the not quite clubbable Gabriel followed the square, faintly smelly black oilcloth silhouette.

  “Mr. Orsini’s friends are our friends,” said the man in a strong, hoarse accent, leading Gabriel through the entrance. “My people call me Blankbate.”

  The name was well known to Gabriel. Brentford had des
cribed the man, whose face he had never seen, as the “ganger” of the Scavengers: not quite the chief, as they professed to have none of that, but an elected, especially trusted member, who solved whatever problems came up regarding the outer world. If this was the same man that Gabriel had once seen crushing Delwit Faber in a trash compactor, he not only solved problems, he dissolved them.

  “I’m Gabriel Lancelot d’Allier,” Gabriel answered.

  The mask nodded under its wide-brimmed black hat.

  “We’ve met before. You may be the man we are, or the dead lady was, looking for.”

  He stopped in front of a door and faced Gabriel.

  “But before we go there, I have something to tell you. When you arrived, we were helping someone who needs a hiding place. You are now going to meet that person, but it would be better if you kept it secret.”

  “You have my word of honour,” said Gabriel, who was rather happy to give it sincerely for once.

  Blankbate led Gabriel into a wide circular room that was decorated with a disgusting trash-made mosaic of the Fisher-King on a raft, fishing garbage with his mouth. But the most astonishing sight was that of a blonde, bony woman in a fur coat drinking coffee from a crude mug, accompanied by another Scavenger. Gabriel recognized her instantly, in spite of the thousands of days and nights that had passed “like zebras in a haze,” as one of her songs put it, since he had last seen her.

  “Sandy Lake?”

  “I’m known as Lilian Lenton now.”

  He could see she was straining to put a name to his face. He helped her.

  “Of course,” she said pleasantly and almost convincingly. “I’m sorry. I have had a rather hard day.”

  “I’ve heard that, yes. You are … escaping the law?” he asked, recalling what Wynne had told him about the riot.

  “I was rescued from the hospital before I had to. Thanks to these men.”

  She turned toward the other Scavenger.

  “You are sure Vera will not have any problems because of me?” she asked him.

  “I tied her up. She won’t be suspected,” answered the other Scavenger, who spoke even more laconically than Blankbate. As for Nurse Vera, thought Gabriel, she was, decidedly, quite a useful character.

  It was now Blankbate who spoke to the rescuer.

  “You haven’t been seen?”

  “We did this while collecting the Garbage. This lady here just slid down the chute into a bag. All anyone would have seen was just us picking up the trash.”

  “I’m flattered,” said Lilian, with a bow.

  “This man comes to see your finding,” said Blankbate to the other Scavenger, casually switching subjects, as if this kind of rescue operation against the Council were just part of their normal job and demanded no further comment. “Which means we are all going in the same direction. This is Chipp, by the way,” he added for Gabriel’s benefit, “the man who found the dead lady.”

  “Enchanted,” Gabriel said. He knew the name as well. Chipp had been part of Brentford’s own gang during the duke’s brief sub rosa stint as a Scavenger. He felt like saying he had heard about him, but given the Scavengers’ obsession with secrecy, this might not have come across as the most endearing approach. Just knowing the password seemed a lot, Gabriel felt.

  With a tired smile, Lilian handed him a cup filled with a coffee that was horrible, but still good in the way even horrible coffee can be when you badly need it.

  “I almost listened to your last record,” Gabriel said to Lilian. “Unfortunately a Gentleman of the Night sat on it.”

  “A Gentleman of the Night sat on me,” she answered, her smile now almost sad. Even if the brilliance of youth had gone from her face, she was still cute, in a harder, leaner, more angular way. “They’re such arses, aren’t they?”

  Gabriel gulped the coffee quickly, sensing the impatience of the Scavengers, and slammed the mug back on the table in a display of pure Round Table attitude.

  “If you want to follow us …” said Blankbate.

  The Scavengers took them first through an armoury, where they armed themselves with sawn-off lever shotguns and cartridges, and then through a back door. The blizzard had worsened, and whirled madly like a trapped wolf. Gabriel offered his comforter and his leather Elsinore hat to Lilian, who took only the hat, with a smile, and tied the leather flaps under her chin. They walked through the mounting snow until they came to a kind of tube, four feet in diameter, that slithered along the Embankment. An open car on rubber wheels, almost cylindrical, was waiting at the entrance with the pensive loneliness of all things snowed upon.

  It was, or so Gabriel assumed, the prototype for the Parcel Pneumatic Post that had never quite gone beyond the first experiments. A larger version of the telegram tubes network, this was, if Gabriel correctly remembered Brentford’s explanations, supposed to carry packages and crates, especially from the Fisheries, right through the heart of the city, six hundred yards away. Compressed-air engines at the end of the tube pushed and pulled the cars at an astounding 70 mph. How the Scavengers had come to inherit the use of this network Gabriel did not know, but he surmised that Brentford had lent a hand, while he still ran the Office of Striated Space. Whether it had been done without the consent of the Council or by flattering their fetish about the invisibility of trash, he had not the slightest idea.

  Lilian, Gabriel, and Chipp crammed themselves as best they could into the cart, while Blankbate, before adding his considerable bulk, asked a sentinel to close the valve and operate the pump. The tube was dark, uncomfortable, cold, and smelled of rust, and once the pump started, Gabriel felt like a bullet shot through the barrel of a gun. But, thank God, it did not take long before they hit the other end of the tube, where the valve opened automatically.

  They now found themselves in a large closed space, part workshop, part warehouse, which might have been the former Receiving and Delivering Station. It was icy cold, but judging by the howling wind above, any shelter was a blessing at the moment. Blankbate lit a hurricane lamp, and Gabriel could see, on the one side of the room unoccupied by either tunnel entrances or sorting tables, an almost invisible door.

  Much to Gabriel’s surprise, this led to a ghost station of the disused Pneumatic Subway line. Of course, he had heard about this line but had almost forgotten its existence. Another half-baked idea, it had been part of a short-lived policy to double the size of the city via an underground network, which would have been another welcome refuge during the Wintering Weeks. It soon proved a failure, because boring through permafrost is, indeed, quite a bore and because lighting the whole underground would have definitely exceeded the capacity of the city’s somewhat testy wattage. The idea of a Pneumatic Train had eventually been exploited on the surface, both in the suspended tube that shot people all the way through the Pleasance Arcades and in the Elevated line, with its elegant cast-iron pillars, that ran along Barents Boulevard, but the subway itself had been a short-lived fad.

  However, as Blankbate turned on a gas lamp on the wall, Gabriel could see that the boarding platform (or, as it had been known, the Reception Room) apparently not only remained in good condition but also was still as luxurious as it ever had been, dust and cold notwithstanding. Pictures and gas brackets alternated on the striped tapestry above the easy chairs of the former waiting room. A frozen fountain with a fish basin, now empty, was laid out in the middle, a stopped clock stood at one end, and there was even a piano, smothered in dust, disconsolately untuned. A cylinder-shaped silver car was waiting below a staircase, its door open, and in front of it, framed by two torch-holding bronze Inuit, the perfectly circular tunnel opened toward nonexistent destinations. There was something Pompeiilike to it, though the catastrophe here had only been low rent-ability. But that was apparently enough to freeze worlds in time and turn them into literal Neverlands.

  On the platform, Blankbate opened a door revealing a room furnished as a first-class businessman’s office.

  “This will be your home, Ms. Lenton
,” announced Blankbate. “There’s a folding bed there. Bathroom’s off the waiting room. You will be safe here, and once it is heated, it should be fairly comfortable.”

  Chipp was already fumbling with an Eclipse gas stove, which soon started to purr.

  “The Gentlemen of the Night know of this place?” asked Gabriel.

  “They know enough to never come around and not enough to see why they should.”

  “This will be perfect. Thank you very much,” said Lilian, passing her gloved finger over the dusty desk.

  “You have a pneumatic tube, if you need anything. We’ve connected it directly to the Fisheries.”

  As Gabriel’s first glimpse of the Scavengers’ secret operations, this was certainly impressive. He wondered about the nature of their underground activities. If they were not a criminal organization (though they were notoriously trafficking in some sort of black flea market economy: the Scavengers were reputed to be able to find and deliver almost anything), they certainly could turn into one at the very first occasion. It reassured Gabriel to think of them as Brentford’s confederates, although Brentford had made clear that he needed them more than they needed him and that dealing with them was a rather delicate business that could get out of hand at the slightest mistake. But at least this was a world free of the influence of the Gentlemen of the Night, and Gabriel took a deep breath to celebrate this.

  Blankbate turned toward him.

  “Now, the dead lady.”

  Lamp in hand, he took them down the stairs and led them through the Tunnel, not minding that Lilian was blending her echoing steps and curved shadow with theirs. Gabriel tried to strike up a conversation.