by Philip Reeve
16
On the walls of a factory in Cleave’s industrial zone, a forest was growing. Trees spread their pale limbs across the old ceramic. Orchids glowed like small suns through the city’s drizzling rain.
Flex didn’t mind the drizzle. The paintsticks that she used were meant for decorating the hulls of trains. If their pigment could survive passing through a K-gate, it was not going to come to any harm in the thin rain of Cleave. She selected a bright blue from the bag at her feet and started sketching in a flight of butterflies, imagining the way their bright wings would wink with color in the crisscross shadows of the trees. The woman who ran this factory missed her home on far-off and jungly Jihana, and she had hired Flex to brighten the place up.
“I wish I could draw,” said Myka Starling, standing behind the artist in her rain cape and wide-brimmed, dripping hat, watching the forest take shape.
“You can,” said Flex. “Everybody can, really. Try! Help me. Draw a tree, over there…”
Myka shook her head. “My brain doesn’t work like yours, Flex. My hands don’t.”
Myka was the one who had recommended Flex for this job, and she had taken to coming every night after work to watch the mural taking shape. It was calming, unlike home, where Ma had been more mad and anxious than ever since Zen ran off.
So she stood watching, while the paintsticks hissed, and Flex fetched fresh ones from her pockets, red and gold, sapphire blue. A strange bird unfurled its wings across the wall, opened its long beak to sing; you could almost hear it. Myka was puzzled by her friend’s skills, and proud of her. She couldn’t even imagine what went on in Flex’s head, so different from her own. She was so entranced that it took her a few minutes to notice that she was no longer the only one watching.
A man stood in the shifting mist behind her. A small and wiry man, and an offworlder by the look of him, because he had no rain hat and the drizzle gathered on his bald head and ran down his face, down into the collar of his shabby blue coat.
Myka didn’t know who he was, but she knew he was trouble. She turned to face him, squaring her big shoulders. There was enough of her to make two of him, and he seemed to recognize the danger he was in. A big black gun appeared in his hand like a conjuring trick.
“Railforce,” he said. “Hello, Myka. How’s that brother of yours?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you,” said Myka, watching the gun.
Flex, turning from her forest, said, “Myka, he’s one of them. That night in the rail yards, when Zen disappeared, he’s one of the Bluebodies who came off the armored train that broke down in the tunnel.”
“Malik,” said the man, lowering the gun a little, looking at Flex. He was wearing some kind of military headset with small emerald lights on it that flickered. Flex, who didn’t like people looking at her, seemed to shrink inside her baggy clothes.
“You must be the one who got Zen onto the tracks that night,” said Malik. “You’re a good painter. I see your stuff everywhere.”
“Don’t say anything,” Myka warned her. Flex had secrets, a past that only Myka knew about, and Myka meant to keep it that way. She said to Malik, “Flex doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”
Malik smiled. “Don’t worry. I don’t care about people painting on trains. I’m just trying to find your brother.”
“Why?”
“Because I think he’s in danger. He’s been keeping bad company.”
Myka snorted. “That sounds like Zen, all right.”
“You know where he is?”
“No.”
“You’ve had no messages from him?”
“No.”
“Did he ever mention somebody called Raven?”
“No.”
“Does he have any special skills?”
Myka shrugged. “Stealing things. Sleeping. Getting on my nerves. He’s all right. He’s not a bad kid. He likes riding the trains. He’s just a railhead, really.”
“Ever see him talking to a Moto? One that looks like a girl?”
“In a red coat? It came to our place the night he left, asking questions. Like you. That’s when Zen took off. He climbed out the window rather than talk to it. We don’t like Motos in Cleave.”
“Of course,” said Malik. “You had those riots, didn’t you? Smashed up all the wire dollies you could catch. I expect anyone who talked to a Moto round here would be in for a world of trouble with their coworkers.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Myka, stepping toward him.
He raised the gun again, just a little, to remind her that he had it. He smiled half a smile. “Do you have any pictures of your brother?” he asked. “Can’t find his image in the Datasea.”
“Our ma always told us not to put anything about our-selves there. She said the Guardians or somebody would use it to trace us.”
“Wise advice, that,” said Malik. “Maybe I need to have a word with your ma.”
“You leave her alone. She can’t help you.”
“But you can.”
Myka scowled. After a moment the images started pinging from her headset to his: images of Zen, looking younger and happier than he had that night on Malik’s train. He nodded his thanks, and pinged back his contact address. “If you hear from him, you’ll send me word.”
He was turning away, fading back into the rain and the dying light.
“You won’t catch him, Bluebody!” shouted Myka. “He’s sharp, that brother of mine.”
Malik didn’t look at her, but his voice came back to her as he strode away. “You’d better hope I’m sharper, then. For his sake.”
*
Malik rode the next train out of Cleave. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but it didn’t seem to wise to stay, in case the local newsfeeds worked out he was the same old fool whose dead train had blocked the K-gate the other day. Anyway, traveling soothed him: the movement and the passing views. Like Zen Starling, he was just a railhead really.
He flicked again through the pictures Myka had given him. It was his first good look at Zen. The kid was too young to have been part of Raven’s crew for long. Probably just being used, the way Raven always used people, like pieces in a game. When Malik had talked to him he had been dirty, frightened, it had been dark. In the photos the boy was smiling and relaxed, or caught mid-movement, turning, speaking. He didn’t look much like his sister, Malik noticed. But he looked like somebody.
He blinked the file of photos shut and opened a window to the local data raft. The train was on Tusk by then; the logos and jingles of Tuskani newsfeeds filled his head. He swiped them aside until he found what he was looking for: a report from Grand Central, where Senator Tibor Noon, the Emperor’s twin brother, was making a speech. Tibor looked as sulky as ever about being born three minutes after Mahalaxmi and not inheriting the throne himself. His chubby face was still handsome, the strong features and good bone structure of the Noon family as distinctive as corporate branding…
“Oh Guardians!” said Malik suddenly. (The woman in the seat across from him smiled, thinking he must have just hit a hard level in an online game.)
He swung through the data raft, calling up other images: of Emperor Mahalaxmi himself, of his children and his ancestors. He compared them to his images of Zen Starling.
Then he shut down the headset, took it off, and sat there watching the worlds go by, and wondering.
What did Raven want with a boy who could pass for a Noon?
17
Next day, the Noon train called at Burj-al-Badr and Tu’Va. There were speeches by the Emperor, and declarations of loyalty from local senators and Stationmasters, some of whom joined the train for the rest of the journey to Sundarban.
On Burj-al-Badr, that desert world, the K-gates were not buried deep in tunnels, but stood naked in the open air. From one of the Noon train’s observation dome
s, Zen saw the ancient archway, which spanned the tracks ahead, like the fossilized wishbone of some immense, metallic bird. A curtain of energy rippled like heat haze under the curve of it, and into this haze the locos and forward carriages were vanishing. The passengers at the front of the train were already looking out at Tu’Va, hundreds of light years away…
On Tu’Va there was an outing to see the Slow River Falls, where a famous cataract of liquid glass dropped over towering cliffs. Zen stayed on the train, hoping to find Threnody and remind her of her promise to show him the collection. Only after the flyers had left for Slow River did he find out that Threnody had gone with them.
He mooched up and down the train anyway, while it wound its way through the Tu’Va uplands toward the rendezvous point where the sightseers would rejoin it. He found the carriage where the collection was housed, but it was locked, and Nova did not think it would be wise to draw attention to himself by asking for it to be opened. He went on down the train instead, and wound up staring at the fish in an aquarium carriage and making small talk with a few of the other passengers (“Very fine trilobites. My auntie breeds pterodactyls at home on Golden Junction. Oh, me? I’m just riding the rails…”).
*
That evening, when the flyers had returned and the train was powering its way toward the next K-gate, a Motorik in Noon livery brought an invitation to Zen’s door. He was invited to dinner in the main dining car.
“What’s this?” he asked Nova, when the Moto had gone. “Isn’t that where the Emperor eats? Why do they want me there?”
Nova, speaking through his headset, said, “It’s a very grand dining car. Half the family dines there. I expect your new friend Threnody put you on the guest list. She fancies you.”
“No she doesn’t.”
“Zen and Threnody, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G…”
“She’s just using me to make Kobi jealous.”
“Well, I bet she fancies you too. I would, if I were human.”
Would she?Of course not; she was teasing—still, for a moment, he felt oddly pleased.
He made himself think about Threnody instead. He hadn’t seen her all that day, and was starting to fear that she had forgotten her promise about showing him the collection. Dinner might be daunting, but it would give him a chance to mention it again without looking too eager.
Only when he reached the main dining car, he found that he was not to be seated next to Threnody. She was up at the head of the long, long table, with Kobi and the Emperor and her sister, Priya. She didn’t even glance at Zen when he took his seat at the unfashionable end, among cousins by marriage and provincial officials. His neighbor was an elderly woman: gray dress, gray hair, and a faint, watchful smile that made Zen wary. He looked at the carriage walls instead of her. They were windowless, and in their depths hung branching, abstract shapes like frozen lightning.
“They are called Lichtenburg Figures,” the lady explained. “Made by firing streams of high energy particles through acetate.”
“I know,” Zen lied, remembering that he was supposed to know things like that. “I’ve just never seen any so big before.”
“One gets so used to being surrounded by these beautiful things,” she said. “It’s good to have guests; they help us to see them again.”
She took a turn looking at the walls, while Zen looked at her. She had a lean, lined face. Her eyes were not completely gray. There were flecks of gold in them, and they were as watchful as a hawk’s.
“You are the young man from Golden Junction, aren’t you?” she said.
Zen nodded, and tried to recall her name. Nova came to his rescue, whispering through his headset. “She is Lady Sufra Noon, sister of the Emperor.” He remembered her now. She had been in the aquarium that afternoon; she had not been one of the people he talked to, but he had noticed her standing a little apart, listening in.
For a moment he felt completely certain that she had overheard him make some mistake. He was sure that she knew he was an imposter and had invited him to the Emperor’s table in order to expose him.
“My dear…” she put her thin brown hand on Zen’s wrist, “you are the image of my little brother Tarsim, when he was young.”
He wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but it turned out that he didn’t need to: she just carried on talking.
“He rode the rails with our Corporate Marines, during the Spiral Line Rebellion. He died at the Battle of Galaghast.”
Zen started to realize that he was safe. She was just a kind old lady. She had probably seen him looking lonely there in the aquarium and decided he would like to listen to her stories about the family. He made sympathetic noises, as if he cared about her long-dead brother, and looked down at the plate that a Motorik servant had just placed in front of him. It was made from some old-fashioned form of ceramic and he wasn’t sure if the stuff on it was food or decoration. He copied Lady Sufra as she chose a delicate pair of silver tongs from the array of implements beside her plate and started eating.
Lady Sufra smiled. “It was a long time ago. And it is not such a tragedy to die young. At the time I thought it was, but now I understand that the real tragedy is growing old. My brother gave his life for a noble cause. If the Spiral Line Rebels had won, they would have put one of the Prell family on the throne. The last thing the Network needs is one of those degenerate Prells as Emperor.”
Zen’s plate was whisked away. In its place, the Motorik set a seashell filled with pale, clear liquid. Some sort of soup? Zen selected a shallow spoon.
“Of course,” said Lady Sufra, “I know that on some of the branch line worlds there is discontent. The Human Unity movement is gathering strength. People talk about getting rid of Emperors altogether. About defying the Guardians.”
“I don’t know much about politics,” said Zen.
Sufra Noon watched him with her gold-dappled eyes. “But you must have some opinion, Tallis Noon. I hope you are not afraid to voice it? What is the feeling on Golden Junction?”
Zen hadn’t rehearsed an answer to that.
“I think ordinary people don’t much care who rules them,” he said, improvising, giving her Zen Starling’s opinion in Tallis Noon’s voice. “Whether it’s a Noon or a Prell or some Human Unity president, it won’t make any difference in the streets of Cleave or the Ambersai Bazar. People just want to be left alone.”
Lady Sufra looked into his eyes for a moment. Zen started to fear that he’d offended her. Then she laughed. “That is a most refreshing observation,” she said. “Everyone else at this table would have told the old lady what they thought she wanted to hear. The Noons of Golden Junction must be a tougher breed. By the way, what do you think of the soup?”
Zen looked down at the shell. He had almost emptied it. “It doesn’t taste of much.”
She leaned closer, whispering, “That’s because it is a finger bowl, Tallis. You are meant to wash your fingers in it before the next course arrives.”
He blushed, horrified at his mistake, but she just smiled. It seemed she had taken a liking to him. “So tell me,” she said, “what is it that you do, out there on Golden Junction?”
“I have been studying,” he said. “Art.”
“Ah! And have you seen our collection yet?”
“Not yet. But it’s one of the reasons why I came here.”
“Then I shall show you round myself. Tomorrow.”
*
“Well,” said Nova, her voice whispering in his head as Zen lay on his bed that night, lulled by the rhythm of the Noon train’s wheels. “You made a big impression on Lady Sufra. Smooth work.”
“I remind her of her dead brother. That’s all.”
“Well, her live brother is the Emperor of the Network,” said Nova, “and she’ll show you the collection herself. So that’s useful.”
Zen lay in the dark and listened to the th
rum of the engines, the steady beat of the wheels. The Noon train had passed through several K-gates, and he was not sure which world he was on. Part of him wanted to be up in the observation galleries, watching new sights go by. But he was tired after his performance, and he needed to rest, to keep his wits sharp for tomorrow. So he lay in the dark, and the headset gripped his scalp with a gentle pressure. After the strangeness of that long day it felt good to lie there alone and listen to Nova’s familiar voice. He was glad he had a friend aboard, someone to whom he didn’t have to lie. Maybe that was why Raven had sent her, he thought, to keep him sane.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Right at the back somewhere, between the mobile garages and the luggage vans,”she said. She sent pictures to his headset. The meek silhouettes of other Motorik stood motionless in half light all around her. She said, “The Noon Motorik are useless, even worse than that lot at the Terminal Hotel. No conversation at all. They like doing as they’re told, and powering themselves down when they come off duty.”
“So you’re all on your own back there?” asked Zen, feeling sorry for her.
“I’m all right. I’ve been listening to the locos talking. The Wildfire and the Time of Gifts. They’re wonderful! They’re so old and so… They tease each other, and sing, and talk about old times, other worlds they’ve seen. I don’t think they know I’m listening. It’s sweet. People say they’re twins, but they aren’t. They’re lovers. They come from different engine shops. They met on the Network. And they love each other so much…”
How can machines be in love? wondered Zen, but he was too embarrassed to ask. He said, “You should think yourself lucky you don’t have to talk to the Motos. If I have to make polite conversation with many more of these Noons, I’m going to trip up. One of them will have met the real Tallis, or know something about him that I don’t…”