Terra Nova

by Shane Arbuthnott

  “How often do you have to replace the coal, or whatever that is?” Molly asked.

  The infusionist stopped his work and looked up at her cautiously. “Every hour or so. More if I move around a great deal.”

  “It’s steam-powered? Like the old trains?”

  “One or two orders of magnitude more complex, but yes. Like the old trains.”

  Molly smiled, feeling more at ease. “We need to get into the Haviland Industries offices. You work for them sometimes, I know, so I hoped you could help.”

  “Is this more sabotage then?” He returned to screwing the nut back into place.

  “We just need information.”

  “Why?”

  “To help a spirit get home.”

  Croyden didn’t look up. “And now we’ve come to it. Aiding spirits.”

  “It’s what we do. What we’re trying to do.”

  “And what makes you think I might help you with that? Spirits are, after all, the natural enemies of humanity.”

  “I don’t think you’ll help, for the record,” Rory said. “Molly thought you might. I’m just hoping you’ll give us a running start before you call the agents in.”

  “You helped me against Arkwright before,” Molly said. “And I think you might want to help the spirits too, because there are spiritual machines all around you, yet you’re walking around on a steam-powered leg.”

  The infusionist stopped and set his wrench down on the bench beside him. He didn’t say anything for a long time. He seemed to deflate, his slender frame folding until his head hung down so she couldn’t see his face.

  “Will you help us? Or should we start running, like Rory said?”

  “What you’re really asking me is if I’m spirit-touched, like you. If I have sympathy for the spirits. But I work every day against them. I lock them in small metal boxes, where they will be forced into labor until they die or they escape. If I did that every day and also harbored sympathies for the spirits I imprison, what kind of man would that make me?”

  Dozens of answers flashed through Molly’s mind. She remembered the nausea she had felt when she found out for sure that the spirits weren’t the simple, evil beings she had always been taught they were. And it hadn’t been the injustice of it all that had made her sick. It was the realization that she had known the truth for a long time and had lied to herself because she didn’t want to upend her life. She tried to remember what Ariel had said to her at that moment.

  “I guess it would make you the kind of man who could help us now,” she said carefully. “And if you feel sick, like I did, that’s good. You should feel that way, because we’ve all been doing awful things for a long, long time. But feeling bad about it doesn’t change it. A friend told me that a long time ago now. A friend who’s made of air, and who I made you lock inside a flitter because I thought it would be fun to fly.”

  He looked up sharply. “The one who spoke? She’s still alive?”

  “Her name is Ariel.”

  He took a deep, shuddering breath, and his long fingers clenched and unclenched several times. His keen eyes wandered around the room, taking in his workspace, before returning to Molly. “What kind of information are you looking for?”

  “We need to find a terric font that isn’t being harvested right now or is lightly manned.”

  He nodded. “You’ll be wanting the records offices then. What time is it?” He stood and strode across the room, knocking a pile of rolled onionskin parchments off a desk and revealing a clock behind them. The hour hand was verging on the nine. “The woman at the front desk is there late some days. We may just catch her if we hurry.” He bent and pulled his pant leg down, then began limping toward the front of the shop.

  “You’ll help us?”

  “Yes.” He stopped at the door and turned, his eyes meeting hers. She saw a storm there—anger and fear and shame, all twisted together. She thought he might weep.

  Instead he just turned and opened the door. “Come. We have to leave now, or we’ll be too late.”

  FOUR

  Molly thought the offices of Haviland Industries smelled of money. In the midst of the ramshackle docks, they were clean and austere, the white walls unstained by the pollution all around them. The windows of the second floor were dark, but an igneous lamp still burned above the entrance. The polished wood of the large front door glistened in the light.

  Croyden stopped and spun to face them, leaning down to talk to Molly and Rory in a low voice. “There is an alley on the other side of the building. Two-thirds of the way down, you will find a locked door. Go there and wait for me.”

  Molly nodded. The infusionist strode quickly to the front door. He pulled it open and stepped inside. Molly heard him say, “Oh, good, Margaret—you haven’t left yet,” and then the heavy door closed behind him.

  Molly and Rory sped along the street to the far end of the building. As promised, a narrow alley ran between the office building and another, dingier building beside it. She started down the alley, but Rory grabbed her sleeve and pulled her back onto the street.

  “Rory, the—”

  “No, you heard what the captain said. They’ll cast off if we’re not there in time.” He was marching them farther down the street, away from the alley.

  “What—” she began, and then a tall woman in a blue jacket strode past them, close enough to touch. The blue jacket was unmistakably the one worn by Haviland Industries sailors. The woman glanced briefly at them as she walked by.

  “Honestly, this is the last time I let you disembark at the docks,” Rory said sharply, slowing his pace but keeping his grip tight on her arm. He kept marching her forward until the woman turned a corner and disappeared. They both looked the other way, saw no one was coming and dashed back to the alley.

  “Thanks,” Molly said. Rory nodded.

  They found the door and pressed against the wall nearby, trying to make themselves inconspicuous to people passing on the street.

  “How long has it been?” Molly asked.

  “Only a minute.” Rory tapped his heel against the wall. “What do you reckon? Think Croyden can talk his way past the front desk? Or will he get cold feet and leave us here?”

  “He seemed pretty determined.”

  Rory nodded again. “That he did. Nicely done with that, by the way. Surprised me. I’m still getting used to this new Molly, I suppose.”

  “What? Who?”

  “You know, the Molly that actually speaks to people instead of muttering to herself and hiding up top of the engine. And not only speaks, but manages to convince people to help her, at great personal risk, with absolutely no chance of personal gain. It’s a little scary, honestly. Maybe I should be glad you didn’t speak to me all those years we were growing up.”

  Molly stared back at him, silent.

  Rory waited a moment, then grinned. “There’s the old Molly. Not everything’s changed, I guess.”

  “I didn’t convince him. He wanted to help already.”

  Rory nodded, but his grin didn’t fade.

  “And it was you who didn’t talk to me when we were little,” Molly said.

  He continued tapping the wall with his foot, slow and rhythmic. Molly stared at the door, willing it to open. She could hear the sounds of ships a few blocks away—sailors shouting, the creak of wood, the chuff of the cranes. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the sounds. The Legerdemain—the ship, which still bore the same name as the spirit that carried it—didn’t sound that way anymore now that it was only her family aboard and its days of harvesting spirits were over. Molly knew that the ships she heard now were bringing cargoes of captive spirits to market, imprisoned souls being sold like fuel. And yet these were the sounds of her childhood, and somehow they still calmed her. She gave herself a moment to relax into it, then opened her eyes again.

  “How long?”

  Rory pulled his watch from his pocket. “It’s been eight minutes. Maybe we should scarper.”

  A few more
silent moments passed, and then they heard footsteps on the other side of the door, and it opened. Croyden leaned out, checked the alley and beckoned them in.

  “We won’t have long,” he whispered. “I’m meant to be fetching a few schematics.”

  Croyden held a lamp that lit their way. The rest of the building was already dark. He led them swiftly down narrow hallways toward the back of the building, closed doors passing on either side. Finally he ushered them into a room on their left.

  Inside, they faced a single broad desk in front of ranks of tall cabinets stretching back a dozen yards. Molly gaped.

  “I hope you know where to look,” Rory whispered to Croyden, “or we’ll be here for days.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Come.” He led them past the desk, along the cabinets that lined the right wall. They passed a white door that almost looked like part of the wall. Croyden stopped on the other side of the door.

  “Records of the terric operations are kept here. Surveying information should be kept…” He ran his finger across several of the drawers set into the cabinets, pulled one open and began riffling through the files. “Here.” He pulled out a stack of files and handed several to each of them. “Quickly now.” He strode away, and Molly heard him opening drawers elsewhere.

  Molly could barely see in the wan light that Croyden’s lamp cast across the ceiling. She squinted down at the papers. Each sheet was a record of a terric font, with codings for size and strength of spirits. She found a few that were marked with a red stamp declaring them DEPLETED. There were at least a dozen with the mark. What does that mean? Fonts that don’t have spirits coming through anymore?

  “This one says PENDING,” Rory whispered, showing her one of the papers. “Think it—”

  “Pardon?” a woman’s voice said from the front of the room. “Did you say something, Mr. Croyden?” Molly and Rory froze, footsteps moving toward them.

  “Ah, yes!” Croyden said from two aisles down. They heard the hiss of his pneumatic leg moving toward the doorway. “I was just saying that I’ve found the original here, but I couldn’t find the copies I need. Could you assist me?” Molly gestured to the door just beside them, and she and Rory stepped through it. On the other side was a small carpeted room with a long table and a wispy plant in the corner. They pulled the door shut behind them.

  Molly put her files on the table and took the sheet Rory had been trying to show her. As he had said, the word PENDING was scrawled across the top in red pen. The notations on the spirits indicated it was a medium-sized font, large enough for Toves to pass through but not much larger. Much of the rest of the form was incomplete—no list of workers, supply schedules or other details—but it gave a set of coordinates that she thought her father or Kiernan could work with.

  “Think that’s what we’re looking for?” Rory asked.

  “It seems like it’s one they’re not actively harvesting yet. We might be in luck,” Molly whispered back. She folded the paper and slipped it into her pocket.

  Outside the room she could hear Croyden and the woman still talking, and the clacking of drawers opening and closing. She wondered if they should try to sneak away while the woman was distracted, but she didn’t relish the thought of finding their way back through the building in the dark.

  “Moll,” Rory whispered. She turned and saw him across the room. He was looking down at something that cast a golden, rippling light across his face. He beckoned her over.

  As she got closer, she saw a strange device on the floor—a small curved disk rimmed in iron, with a cloudy glass center. The device was casting an image up into the air above it, just a foot off the ground. The image was cloudy, made of shifting amber light, but it was unmistakably their sister, Brighid. She was gesturing like she was explaining something, but there was no sound.

  “What…what is this?” Molly whispered. Rory only shook his head.

  The door opened and Molly turned, her heart in her throat. But it was only Croyden.

  “She’s gone,” Croyden said, “but we have just a moment.”

  Neither of them moved. The infusionist took a step into the room.

  “Did you hear me?” His eyes fell on the image of Brighid. “Oh. Have you not seen the projections before?”

  “The projections?” Molly said. “I don’t understand. Why is this thing showing Brighid?”

  “They’ve been broadcasting her speeches over the projection network.”

  “Speeches?” Molly’s brain was struggling to keep up.

  Croyden knelt down beside them. “Did you not know that Haviland Industries has her making speeches decrying you and your family?”

  Molly couldn’t say anything. “We were pretty sure she died in the crash,” Rory said.

  “Oh. Oh.” Croyden tapped his long fingers on the carpet. “Well, she didn’t. But…” He looked over his shoulder. “You should really know what she’s been saying. As long as this is one of the short loops.” His fingers moved to the device, turning wheels along its outer edge. The sound of Brighid’s voice faded up, whisper-quiet.

  “…not try to reason with her, for she is beyond reason,” she was saying. “Call for help, and seek Disposal agents as soon as possible. Thank you.” There was a strange jump, Brighid suddenly leaning right when she had been leaning left, and she began talking again. “Hello. I am Brighid Stout, sister of Molly Stout. Haviland Industries has asked me to tell you about my sister—or the person who used to be my sister. When we were growing up, she often sought the company of our engine and the spirit inside. Even before she was made the ship’s engineer, she was drawn to the engine. At the time I thought her eccentric, a moody child. It was only when she tried to kill me, and succeeded in killing dozens of souls aboard the Gloria Mundi, that I understood. She is spirit-touched now, lost to their vile influence. I believe it was inevitable. She sought this out like a moth drawn to a flame. I have no doubt that it was she who brought the spirit’s influence to the rest of our family, and now they are lost as well. But my brothers and my father were good people once. Perhaps they can be saved, or treated. My sister…” She paused and bent her head, as if struggling. “My sister, I believe, was always insane. If you encounter her, do not try to reason with her, for she is beyond reason. Call for help, and seek Disposal agents as soon as possible. Thank you.” Brighid’s position jumped from left to right again. “Hello, I am—”

  Croyden turned the wheels, and the image fell silent. “I am sorry, but now we really must go.”

  Molly was hardly aware of the building around her. Croyden took her by the elbow, and they were walking, but she couldn’t feel her feet hitting the carpet.

  “That projection thing. It’s a network?” Rory was whispering. “So that speech is being shown in other places too?”

  Her sister was alive. Her sister was calling her insane.

  “Anywhere with enough money for a projector. The projections are beamed through the air and caught by receivers on the devices. They are common in the wealthier districts, and some have been distributed to public spaces recently. I had forgotten that being always aloft as you were, you might not know about them.”

  They were walking down a hallway. She sought this out like a moth drawn to a flame.

  “And she’s making a lot of these speeches?”

  “Hush.”

  There was the door they had come through. My sister, I believe, was always insane.

  Croyden pushed her gently through the door and into the alley. “Thanks,” Rory said.

  “Do not come and see me for a while,” Croyden said. “But I wish you luck.”

  The door closed, and the alleyway was empty and quiet. A few blocks away, the work of the airships went on unimpeded, the sounds exactly the same as they had been before. The voices, the wood, the cranes.

  She is beyond reason.

  “Molly,” Rory said.

  She looked up into his face. His dark eyes, a lock of hair hanging down across the bridge of his nose. It was on
ly when she tried to kill me…

  Rory reached up and flicked her ear, hard.

  “Ow.”

  “We’ve got to go now. Mission accomplished.”

  “Right. Yes.” Molly brushed her hands across her face. “Yes. Let’s get away from the building, and then we can signal Ariel.”

  They walked toward the front of the building and came back out onto the street. The sounds from the airships had grown louder now, and Molly could even hear the crack of ropes pulling taut as someone adjusted the sails.

  “I don’t understand why Brighid is saying those things.”

  “Because she’s a sack of piss?” Rory said. “We’re getting too close to the edge of the docks. Too many people.” He turned left, and Molly followed after.

  “No, I mean, why is Haviland Industries making her give the speeches? What’s the point?”

  “To make them afraid of you. You’re spirit-touched, after all.”

  “But everyone already thinks I’m—”

  “Look, maybe we can talk about this later. Or better yet, not at all. For now, let’s shut our gobs and get out of here.”

  Molly stopped talking, but her sister’s words ran through and through her mind.

  FIVE

  “It’s only a short trip, right?”

  Toves sat beside the device they had rigged to take him aboard the ship. It was a simple sheet of canvas, tied at all four corners and connected to a pulley they’d lashed onto the yardarm of the aft mast. Toves had put one tentative foot onto the canvas and stopped almost immediately.

  “Well, it’s all the way across the island, Da says,” Molly told him. “West side, next to the Gulf of St. Lawrence. But Legerdemain is fast. Less than half an hour to get there.”

  Still Toves didn’t move. They were down near the water, on an old wharf long since fallen into disrepair. It was just north of Knight’s Cove, where Molly’s family had once lived. Disposal did not spend much time in areas this poor, but Molly knew a spirit as big as Legerdemain could not go unnoticed for long.