Aurorarama

by Jean-Christophe Valtat

  “Aren’t your orders that you must not intervene in the city?” he tried.

  “Is any of this part of your duties as a civil servant? Mason countered. “You ask me to obey superiors’ orders when you are disobeying them yourself.”

  They were in a deadlock.

  Suddenly, a rattling agitation came from the back of the Sea Lions. A lieutenant hurried up to Mason, almost tripping on his own sabre.

  “What is it?”

  “At the back, sir, women with weapons.”

  Mason instantly pivoted and stared off where the lieutenant indicated. He lowered his sabre, dumbstruck. Brentford followed his gaze and saw—though barely believing it—Lilian Lenton, in a kind of green drum-major uniform, standing on a sled equipped with a Maxim machine-gun. All around her stood dozens of young women in arms, some of them brandishing colourful silk banners that Brentford could not read. It was the little band that had accompanied Lilian during the Recording Riot, back with a vengeance.

  “Please,” called out Lilian through a megaphone, a charming, almost flirtatious streak in her otherwise self-assured voice. “We have weapons, but we may not use them quite right. Sorry for the damage we would inflict on you.”

  Brentford felt like laughing, a bit nervously.

  Mason turned toward him, very calmly, almost relieved. He had found a way out.

  “I do not shoot women,” he said to Brentford.

  “The contrary would have surprised me,” Brentford replied with a nod.

  “I do not help revolutionaries, either.”

  “I understand perfectly.”

  “I will therefore order my men to retreat and remain neutral,” he added, in a lower voice, his eyes avoiding Brentford’s. “However, I have some doubt that the Navy Cadets will obey me. They have been very dissatisfied with the Council’s orders lately. But would they be mutinous. I would be myself very reluctant to send my other units to march against them in the present confusion.”

  “Would the Cadets be mutinous to the point where they could, let us say, help us against the Council?”

  “I do not wish to know,” sighed Mason, shrugging his shoulders. “There’s no ‘us’ I’m aware or part of. I’m going back to Frobisher Fortress. If you’re looking for the Council in order to surrender yourself, which I strongly advise, it is now heading back to the Blazing Building. There is a good chance Brainveil will survive, in case you were worried.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he turned to his men and ordered them to shoulder arms and about face.

  “Forward march!” he called.

  The Sea Lions complied in an almost perfectly synchronous rhythm of clicks and jangles, but as they advanced toward the Arcades, Brentford noticed that their faces were turned toward the girls. But then, so was his, as soon as the last soldier had walked past.

  Brentford strode quickly toward Lilian, who was, he had to admit, very eye-catching in her braided dolman and feathered hat. The forty or fifty young women who surrounded her wore no uniforms, but a hodgepodge of the fashionable and the military, flouncy skirts with battle-dress jackets, flat-heeled shoes with wide-brimmed hats or fatigue caps, carrying rifles in kid-gloved hands and cradling Maxim guns in moiré or velvet arms. It was in the time-honoured custom of revolutionaries to dress as women, except that these were women, but disguised as, what … disguised women? He could now read the green, white, and purple banners they brandished: SISTERHOOD OF THE SOPHRAGETTES, they proclaimed in bold embroidered letters.

  This, he supposed, was one of Hardenberg’s surprises. It was a good one. Hardenberg obviously insisted on Brentford having a ball while taking the city by storm. Fairy Tale Fight Tactics, he called this. Brentford wondered if Lenton was as crazy as the Aerial Anarchist.

  “Lilian Lenton. This is most unexpected,” he said as Lilian handed him her hand and he helped her to step down from her brougham sled.

  “We have been underground for too long. We thought it was time for a little stroll,” she said urbanely, as if they were quietly discussing the opera season in a drawing room. “I suppose you are Brentford Orsini, the author of A Blast on the Barren Land. I can see you are working hard on the second edition.”

  “Be assured I will take your advice into account.”

  “That might lead you further than you want to go,” she said, smiling. Undercurrents of her past cuteness passed through her bony, determined face, but quickly dissipated.

  Among her followers, Brentford recognized his old friend Jay, as well as Boadicea Lovelace, whom he knew as Bay. Both seemed delighted to be among the Gnostic Girls, as they had nicknamed themselves, and with Lilian Lake, as they now insisted on calling Ms. Lenton. There was another girl, smaller and younger, whom he had seen before, but could not remember exactly where or when.

  He had plenty of questions to ask, but Blankbate, much less assured in the midst of these rather elegant, obviously well-bred females than he had been in front of the Sea Lions, slouched toward him and interrupted.

  “We have just caught some people you may like to meet.”

  “One of those agitators?”

  “More like a magician,” said Blankbate.

  “I’m coming,” Brentford said, inviting Lilian to follow them.

  But as he turned away, he could hear a loud rumble shaking the ground, and some of the Gnostic Girls began screaming. A cloud of dark dust slowly drifted over the roofs of the Midway coming from the east, by and by darkening the pale blue sky. Brentford sighed, as if he suddenly realized that the city would never be the same again.

  “What is it?” asked Lilian between two coughs, dusting off her dolman.

  “The Northwestern Administration for Native Affairs, hopefully,” said Brentford—hoping, mostly, that Gabriel was safe and sound.

  They entered the Inuit People’s Ice Palace. For Brentford, who had never been there, it was quite a shock. It was as if he had been transported on a magic cape to a frozen strait surrounded by mountains. The hundreds of Inuit, standing equally stunned in a circle around the place, completed the illusion. He shivered at the thought of the faceless banshee that wrecked the ships and of the Phantom Patrol (what a good pensioner’s home for them this would be).

  In the middle of the circle, guarded by Scavengers, stood Arkansky, his hands in his pockets, trying to look detached; Spencer Molson, the clumsy conjurer, in his Westerner-disguised-as-Eskimo-disguised-as-Westerner disguise; and, both lost in a mute, motionless trance, Sybil and Phœbe.

  Brentford walked up to them.

  “We caught these three as they were trying to reach the Trilby Temple,” explained Blankbate. “The young miss was waiting inside.”

  Arkansky looked defiantly at Brentford, who stared back with a barely repressed anger. Now was the time to prove, thought Brentford, that he could conjure some act of justice out of a top hat of rage. The gaze of the Inuit, of the Scavengers, and of the Sophragettes weighed on him. Sybil’s look was empty, but that, too, was a burden. He had not the least idea of what to say. Instead, it was Arkansky who spoke. The magician certainly had nerve.

  “Mr. Orsini. I hope you have no intention of behaving stupidly.”

  “You’re the proof that one shouldn’t.”

  Arkansky tried to focus his basilisk stare on Brentford, who, legs apart and hands behind his back, deliberately looked up at the ceiling, ignoring the attempt.

  “I suppose that a democrat like you will not refuse a little discussion,” Arkansky said eventually.

  “Not until after you have liberated Miss Springfi … Mrs. Orsini and that young person from your tyrannical influence,” said Brentford, now facing Arkansky.

  “Why would I sacrifice my best assets?”

  “Because that would be better than having the bones of your hands crushed one by one by a rifle butt.” said Brentford, a tremor in his voice that was not only of impatience.

  “This is the kind of democracy I understand,” said Arkansky, with an irony that made Brentford uncomfortable. �
�I will not force you to demonstrate it, however.”

  But he was not a man who could resist a trick when he saw the possibility of one, especially if it gave him the last laugh. Leaning successively toward Phoebe and Sybil, and making passes over their foreheads, he whispered in their ears: “You will faint in five minutes and when you wake up, you will fall madly in love with the first man you happen to see.”

  “Expect a few minutes before this works,” he said with a grin, as he turned back toward Brentford. “It has to be progressive, you understand. But you have my word of honour they will wake up, much to their satisfaction. Now, can we discuss more serious matters?”

  “Certainly. But quickly.”

  “I like challenges. This is what I propose. Instead of a bogus judgement, I want to fight a duel. If I win, I will leave the city forever and as a free man. If I lose, I am at your disposal. Does this satisfy your hunger for justice?”

  “I have little time to play games, Mr. Arkansky. You’re quite at my disposal now.”

  “Yes, but not without some sort of trial, I should think. That would be too unfair. What I’m proposing to you is a kind of ordeal to make up for it.”

  Why not, thought Brentford. This would settle the matter quickly and prevent his personal feelings from interfering with justice.

  “What sort of duel would it be?”

  Arkansky looked around and spoke loudly.

  “Is there among these dirty savages one wizard who thinks he has greater power than I have? If so, I want this man to step forward and engage with me in a duel of wonders.”

  A murmur ran among the Inuit, as the offer, and the offence, were translated.

  “No? Uncouth cowards! You admit that the White Man has greater powers than you have? That your gods and your helping spirits are just strong enough to animate children’s matinees?”

  Brentford looked around. The Inuit were shocked. They protested and spat on the ground but did not move. Could they possibly be afraid? If nobody accepted the dare, Brentford could not do anything but let Arkansky get away. Maybe that was still better than having one angakoq publicly humiliated, as Brentford feared would be the case. But then again, it would be shameful as well for the Inuit if they merely accepted without further discussion Arkansky’s contemptuous claim of superiority. He looked for Uitayok and saw that he was speaking to Ajuakangilak. The shaman stepped forward and walked toward the centre of the Ice Palace, very calmly, Tuluk and Tiblit escorting him.

  “Ajuakangilak is ready for the contest,” said Tuluk.

  Brentford was not sure if this was good news or bad news, but Arkansky’s smug little smile was not a favourable omen.

  “Very well. Could the spectators close the circle around us?” requested Arkansky.

  The spectators slowly complied, tracing an arena around Arkansky and Ajuakangilak.

  “Well,” said Arkansky, looking past Ajuakangilak to address the crowd, “I suppose that this little wizard, used as he is to flying to the moon, will have no trouble doing this.”

  And, turning up the palms of his hands, Arkansky suddenly levitated a few inches above the ground, as he had done in the Greenhouse.

  A whisper of awe rippled among the Inuit.

  Arkansky lifted himself slightly higher, his arms apart, his belly now roughly in front of Ajuakangilak’s face.

  “I’m waiting for you,” said Arkansky.

  Ajuakangilak swiftly unsheathed a knife and violently thrust it into Arkansky’s guts. Blood gushed out as he withdrew the blade. He stabbed again. Arkansky remained in mid-air for a while, arms apart, his eyes wide open in disbelief, as blood trickled from his mouth. Then his eyes closed and he fell down noisily, his real blood smearing the fake ice. Spencer Molson ran to the slumped body. Sybil and Phoebe fell in a swoon, as if suddenly unplugged. “No bloodshed, huh?” a sarcastic voice whispered in Brentford’s horrified brain. It was under his own responsibility that first blood had been drawn. He could only hope that it would be the last.

  Ajuakangilak walked out of the circle, wiping his blade on his sleeve, and saying something to Brentford.

  “Ajuakangilak says he does not show his powers to qallunaat,” Tuluk translated.

  Molson was leaning over Arkansky, trying to look at the wound. As he undid the blood-soaked jacket and vest, he also revealed the copper bands, the metal wires, the compressed air tubes and other curious works that rigged the magician’s body. But it was insufficient body armour. The meteorite-stone blade of the shaman had pierced him all the way. Molson hung his head down and sobbed.

  “Please. Let him go,” Brentford said to the Scavenger who kept watch over the old man. He turned his back to the scene, sighing, trying to conjure the image away.

  The women were slowly coming back to their senses, Phoebe in Blankbate’s arms and Sybil faintly smiling at Tiblit, who had kneeled over her. Brentford felt relieved that they were safe and unharmed, but after some hesitation decided that he did not want to confront Sybil now, and turned away as quickly as he could.

  “We have lost enough time,” he said nervously to Blankbate and Lilian. “We should hurry to the Blazing Building. Please, Mr. Blankbate, let the Inuit go home, and send a few men with them to make sure nothing happens on their way back.”

  He turned toward the Inughuit:

  “Consider this place as yours.”

  Uitayok looked around the dome.

  “This place? he said, with a barely hidden irony.

  “The city,” said Brentford, almost bristling with emotion at this historical moment.

  Uitayok seemed dubious, but thanked him politely.

  Canals were the fastest way to reach the Blazing Building. The unlikely little army of Sophragettes and Scavengers ran to the embankment, where chasse-galleries and gondolas waited for them at the mooring posts. Brentford found himself wishing that everything in the city were as well organized as this upheaval had been so far.

  A large icebreaking scow opened the way, and the overcrowded crafts followed it, like ugly ducklings, in a ruffle of feathery rifles. The city seemed tranquil enough. The crowd, impressed by the Scavengers, had scattered and gone home. A few shots cracked out from time to time, celebratory or lethal, Brentford could not guess, lowering his head all the same. He could not control everything, could he? They glided past the distant smoking ruins of the N.A.N.A., which made quite an impression, more of melancholy than of glory, but the city could use the space, after all. Build another greenhouse, maybe. Or a two-hundred-foot snowman. Everything was possible, that much at least was true.

  At one point, Brentford thought he glimpsed a man leaping from rooftop to rooftop, but he had barely turned toward Lilian to point out the phenomenon when it disappeared. Stranger still, he was persuaded that it had been Gabriel.

  As they approached the corner of Nicolo Zeno Canal, they saw a group of soldiers building barricades on the embankment in front of the Naval Academy. A thrill ran through the crowded gondolas, and rifles were cocked, ready to fire. However, the sailors saluted the gondolas with cheers, throwing their berets skyward. These were Navy Cadets, Nobles of the Poop, as they liked to call themselves. All rifles were lowered. A young officer in white spats and a navy blue uniform with little silvery snow crystals on his collar ran to meet them, followed by a constable with a cumbersome Colson telephone round his neck. Brentford recognized the young man who had punched him during the recording riot. It was the first time in his life that he felt like offering the left cheek. So to speak, that is.

  “I am Ensign Paynes-Grey. Are you Brentford Orsini?”

  “I am,” said Brentford, almost flattered by his new celebrity, though, after all, he was the only one here in civilian clothes, and could be easily singled out.

  “Captain-General Mason just told me that, from now on, if I were to disobey anyone, it had to be you.”

  Brentford laughed.

  “Then do not encircle the Hôtel de Police under any circumstances,” said Brentford, indicating the buildin
g on the other side of the barricade. “This is an order.”

  The young ensign nodded.

  “As a free man, I have no choice but to disobey you,” he answered, “and, as a matter of fact, we have already started.”

  “How is the situation?”

  “Under control. Just a few skirmishes. The Gentlemen of the Night are not soldiers, you know. Unless they’re ten to one, they’d rather take it out on defenceless people. I think they’ll just wait to see which side is winning before taking a stand.”

  The other Cadets had approached, very curious about the Sophragettes. Brentford saluted and gave the signal to shove off before the fraternization became too incestuous. There would be plenty of time for that.

  The ships pushed off again, and it was hard for Brentford not to think that their procession was not becoming a ceremony. He remembered his grandiose childhood dream, and for a while actually felt like the doge who would marry the Lincoln Sea. The Council, obviously, had relied on symbols more than on sheer firepower, and now that they had sawn off the branch on which they had been sitting, their strategy showed its limits. The Subtle Army was out of the game, the Gentlemen of the Night were contained by the Navy Cadets for the time being, and there was little chance that the people of New Venice would risk their skins for the Councillors, especially now that John Blank had promised to publish photographs of the Seven Sleepers’ desecrated coffins on the front page of tonight’s New Venice News. But do not let it go to your head, Brentford admonished himself. This was not over yet: there was still the Varangian Guard to be reckoned with—a dreaded body of well-seasoned warriors—and, of course, the Council itself, from whom the worst could be feared.

  They landed at the dock before the Blazing Building. Brentford’s first idea was that the Sophragettes should not be endangered.

  “Blankbate, stay with me! Ms. Lenton! To the rear of the building!” he ordered, hoping he sounded credible as a commanding officer. But he saw Lilian gracefully raise her hand, and instead of obeying his orders, the Sophragettes stopped in their tracks.