by Guy Haley
"You did good," said Richards.
"Damn right I did," said Bear.
Richards reached behind him and found his knapsack. He pulled out his macintosh, unrolled it and, wincing, put it on. Next he withdrew the fedora Spink had summoned up, smacked it against his hand to get it into shape and placed it on his head. It made him feel complete, and the pain subsided a little.
"I should have asked for a new suit too," he said, looking at his tattered Pylon City uniform. "Balls."
They crossed the valley and went into the domain of the Magic Wood, and Richards understood why the animals hated the Pylonites. Swathes of trees had been clear-felled, logs stacked neatly next to charcoal burners, the soft green of the forest scraped right down to raw yellow earth. Pits of tainted water pooled behind dams of mud. Weather-bleached stumps were stacked in heaps, their dead roots contorted in woody agony. More railway tracks ran off into the forest, each an ugly wound.
They saw no men or sentient animals, but the pump wagon's passage startled bizarre creatures in the trees, humanoid things that had tiny bodies but enormous heads of bright scarlet. They had painted-on beards round pink lips and high foreheads covered in subcutaneous lumps. Their hooded eyes unreadable, they stared as the wagon passed.
Richards shared out his meagre army rations and fell into a black sleep. When he woke he was more stiff than sore. It was evening, and the forest had thinned, dotted with dappled glades made by a kinder hand than that of man. The trees retreated into huddles, and then they were rolling leisurely across a heath alive with life where limestone pavements grinned at them like worn teeth through lips of yellow gorse. The sun was warm and soothing.
They came to a place where a road crossed the line, and here Bear was obliged to apply the brakes. There was a man in the way.
The man said nothing as the pump wagon squealed to a stop half a metre from him. He was ragged and unwashed, his beard and hair unkempt. He was wringing his hands. His head juddered, an old-style film caught on the same three frames playing over and over again.
"Ah, poor bastard," said Bear, jumping down. "Stuck. The bit of land maintaining him must have gone. I hate it when this happens. Best to go out in an instant, not like this."
The man's voice stuttered. "Du… du… du… du… du…"
Bear grabbed him and hauled him off his feet. He remained frozen. "Hurgh!" grunted Bear, "death is heavy." He wrinkled his nose. "Goldilocks' knickers, he smells worse than Lucas, must have been here for some time. They still live, in a way. Horrible." He placed the man by the track gently. "Now, let's see what's what." Bear tilted his head to one side. "Network's worse than ever," he grumbled. Presently, he gave a sharp nod. "We were right to get out of that battle when we did. This guy's code was ravelled up in the Broken Lands. If he's like this, the whole place is gone."
The bear clambered onto the pump wagon. "This k52 is a real bastard. Killing us is one thing, killing us like this is abominable," he said.
"Hmmm," said Richards, drumming his fingers on the side of the pump. The wagon pulled away, leaving the man to his slow end.
"'Hmmm'? What does that mean?" said Tarquin. "You don't agree?"
"Oh, I agree alright," said Richards.
"So?" said the bear.
"So nothing," he said, and kept his thoughts to himself.
The cart went on through the afternoon and into the night. Richards sat and thought and listened to the sound of the rocker. Up and down, squeak and squeak. Up and down. The wheels went clack-clack-clack and Richards thought of Lord Penumbra, and of k52. He thought about just how painful and annoying being, for all intents and purposes, human was.
And he thought about Rolston.
A jerk shook him out of his contemplation as they bumped over a join in the land, the rails either side mismatched. The heath ran out, a brown scar dividing it from desert, the join sparking where the coding did not mesh. The desert sloped steeply and at the end it dropped away to nothing over a bluff, the track plunging with it.
"We're going to go over!" shouted Bear. He grabbed the brake lever and leaned all his weight onto it, straining out over the back of the wagon. "Shitshitshitshitshitshit! I can't hold it!" The pump mechanism pounded up and down as they picked up speed. Wind rushed past. Richards was obliged to clutch his fedora to his head.
"Jump!" shouted Richards.
"We're going too fast!" said Tarquin.
They hit the cliff edge and the track plunged down like a rollercoaster.
"Great hairy grizzlies! Hold on!" shouted Bear, as sparks fountained out behind them. "Didn't see cliffs until too late. Can't slow down! Sorry!" Richards dodged past the bouncing pump and added his strength to Bear's own. "Pull hard! It's the only way!"
"There's a curve ahead!" shouted Tarquin.
"Lean!" roared Bear. He and Richards leaned as the wagon hit the curve. The small vehicle went up onto two wheels and slammed down as the way straightened.
"That was too close!" said Bear.
"It must be three hundred metres straight down. We'll be smashed to bits!" said Tarquin.
Richards and Bear pulled on the brake lever. It grew hot to the touch as the brake shoe burned off.
"Curve!" The truck slalomed round another bend. Again they leant into it, the wheels rattling as they bounced off and on the tracks. "We're not going to survive another like that!" shouted Bear over the clatter of the truck. "We may have to jump."
Richards looked down. "We're still too high! Pull harder."
The smell of hot metal strengthened as Bear and Richards strained hard on the lever. A fountain of red-hot iron filings billowed up around them, singeing Bear's fur. The toy pulled with all his might. For a moment, it looked like it was working. The truck slowed. But then there was a dull clunk and they sprawled backwards, Richards narrowly avoided being brained by the pump handles.
"Goldilocks' knickers!" said Bear, holding up the bent remains of the lever. "I broke the brake!"
"Hold on!" bellowed Tarquin.
Richards grasped the pump wagon deck, fingernails pulling on the wood. Bear tucked the man under his bulk. "I'll cushion you both when we crash," he shouted. "Tarquin, don't change to stone. You'll shatter."
The truck rattled on, accelerating ever more as it sped towards the desert. The buttress levelled out, but Richards figured that the height did not matter that much. Were the truck to derail on the flat, the speed they were going could still kill them all. Faster and faster they went. The buttress ended, the cart tipping on the slight curve at the bottom. They thundered on, the desert a blur of sand and sky.
"Oh no!"
"Jesus!" said Richards.
It was the end of the line in no uncertain way; a hard wooden buffer. The pump wagon smashed into it, and they were thrown into the air. Bear clasped Richards tightly to him as they flew. Fur, sand and sky turned over and over themselves. There was a thump. A drift of sand. Silence.
"Ow," said Bear. "Ow ow ow." Richards was winded. Tarquin had been spun round so his head was under his back, but he was unharmed. Richards patted Bear's ample belly.
"Thanks, sergeant," he said. "You're a very useful bear."
"Ow, get off." They got to their feet. Bent iron and splinters were strewn everywhere. "Oooh," said Bear.
"It appears that we have arrived. Somewhere," stated Tarquin.
"Eh?" said Richards. He rearranged himself and brushed off the sand. He pulled on the lionskin so that Tarquin's head was no longer hanging off his back and turned round to see a canyon mouth. A narrow opening between two natural pillars of sandstone. Above it, a large sign of weather-worn bronze bearing a legend. It read: "La Valle dei Promesse persa."
"What does it say, what does it say?" asked Bear.
"The Valley of Lost Promises," said Richards. "In Italian. Now that is interesting."
The valley started as a canyon and quickly became a crevasse. A sandy path wound between walls of rock, so narrow that Bear had to force himself through sideways. The walls rose, the
sky became a stripe, and they were walking in shadow.
They paused for a rest toward noon, and when they set off once more the path widened. Thorny plants that reeked of creosote lined its margins in dense profusion.
The canyon broadened into a scrubby valley. A stream trickled though a dry riverbed many times its width. Cliffs ran on either side, their feet hidden by cubes of fallen rock. In the centre a mesa rose, flat top level with the desert. It split the river bed, only one channel carrying water past it.
Every available patch of ground was covered in the thorny bushes, smothering nascent sand-dunes and holding fast the scree. Rising up from this painful thicket were hundreds of statues, all of the same woman in many different poses. On all, her face was beatific, generous, a little sad.
The largest was so big its head and shoulders cleared the canyon to stand glowing in the desert sun above. It was in an art nouveau style. She looked down upon them, a single tear of bronze on her face, as if the artist had allowed white-hot metal to run down her cheek. Her bare feet were on point like a ballerina, the whole edifice balanced unreally on a plinth the height of Bear.
"The queen!" said Bear softly. "They're all statues of the queen! What are they all doing here?"
"Looks like they've been dumped. There are statue graveyards like this back in the Real, victims of regime changes."
"Eh?" said Bear.
"Never mind," said Richards.
The path that wended its way past the statues – verdigrised bronze, marble, steel, modern stacked carbon plastics – was broad enough for Richards and Bear to walk comfortably abreast. The thorns choked everything, swallowing the smaller statues, clutching at the hips of the greater.
"Hang on a minute," said Richards. He pushed through the bushes toward a statue, sharp breaths and expletives preceding him as thorns snagged at his legs. He stopped, pushed back his hat and leaned in closer. "There's something on this one." He peered through a lattice of thorn and twig. A plaque was upon the statue's plinth. He couldn't read it until he moved some of the vegetation aside.
"Isabella," said Tarquin, "the queen's name."
"What's all this mean?" asked Bear.
"Beats me," said Richards. "Come on."
They walked some more, rounding the mesa. Ahead there was a cave, nestling in the apex of the triangle where the valley walls drew together in a curtain of rock. The river issued from the cave, gurgling over its lower lip. Mosses and ferns grew on the knoll above it. A rich scent of damp earth came from within. It was moist.
"Is it just me, or does that look like a big fanny?" said Bear.
"It's not just you, dear boy. It does look like a big fanny."
"Do you mind?" said Richards.
"Sunshine, it is a big fanny," said Bear. "Now what?"
Richards looked up. The cliffs around them were sheer. He looked at the sun and pointed at the cave. "If this place follows the normal rules, that way is west. We go in."
They abandoned the path and took to the river, splashing up to the cave mouth. Richards paused at the lip; the cave was dark. He waited for his eyes to adjust. They didn't.
Bear took a big drink from the stream and pushed past Richards, wiping his muzzle on a long hairy arm. "Come on then. If we're going in, let's not hang about."
Richards followed. Darkness enveloped them, Bear became a dull shape bobbing uncertainly in the gloom. Water sloshed round his ankles.
"Hang on a minute," said Bear, the grey smear of his back stopping. "It goes down a bit he…"
There was a large splash, and Bear disappeared. Richards walked forward cautiously. "Bear? Bear!" he shouted. "Are you in there, big buddy?"
"He's gone!" said Tarquin. "What are we going to do?"
Richards went a little way on, willing his eyes to see more, but all he could make out were blobs that might have been rocks and a darkness that had to be deep water. "He's complete… woah!" Something took tight hold of his ankle and yanked him. He bounced off a rock, went under the water and lost his breath in an explosion of bubbles. Down he went, thrashing in the dark, lungs burning. Panic set in. Real fear as he'd never felt it before, primal and all-consuming. He battered at the pressure on his leg with his fists, hitting rubbery flesh. He dug his fingers in as hard as he could. His lungs burned. He had to fight the urge to suck in lungfuls of water as hard as he clawed at the thing at his ankle.
Light came from below. Whatever had hold of his leg let go. He fought for the surface, flailing his arms, primitive parts of his fake brain telling him to get up, up! But a current grasped him as surely as the thing had, and his attempts to swim made his lungs burn worse. Spots whirled in the dark. He swirled head over heels, toward the light.
He popped through a hole along with a torrent of water issuing from the underside of a sheet of rock. Air touched his face, his lips exploded open, and he sucked in a breath.
Nothing had ever felt so good. The feeling did not last. He was falling.
"What the hell?" Richards' face was pushed tight against his skull as he entered freefall. He clutched hard at his hat, but it was torn away from him. The fall of water turned to droplets, then a rainbow mist carried off by the wind, and he was in cold, cold sky. Below him clouds arrayed themselves with deceptive solidity. Far below that was a patchwork world in miniature, stark contrasts evident between each slab of stolen terrain.
"Ah, shit," he said, words wrenched from his mouth by the wind.
A dirty white blob preceded them. "Look!" shouted Tarquin. "Bear!"
Richards caught sight of a glint in the sun. As they fell, it grew bigger, turning into a metal-hulled ship suspended between two larger shapes, long torpedo-like things with tail flukes and multiple flippers – many-limbed whales. Figures resolved themselves on the deck, looking up and pointing. The ship rocked as Bear hit. Richards opened his arms up and steered himself toward the boat like a skydiver. It rushed up at him, crew scattering.
He hit Bear's stomach, cracking a scrim of ice on his fur.
"Oof!" said the bear. He looked up into Richards' face, sprawled on his gut. "Nice of you to drop in," he said with a grin.
"That's two I owe your tummy," said Richards. He smiled broadly as his hat fluttered down and landed next to him. "Hey! My hat!" He scooped it up and popped it on his head.
"Arrrr, this all be very touching," said a piratical voice. "But what be yer business aboard the Kylie?"
Tarquin flickered to stone. At the prow of the ship, the crew gathered; all glinting gold teeth, fancy pants, ostentatious weaponry and ripe body odour.
"OK," said Bear, casting his eyes heavenwards. He pushed Richards off his stomach and set his shoulders forward. The long blades of his gloves shot out. "Right then," he growled, "who's first for a kicking?"
With ear-curling oaths, the pirates charged.
CHAPTER 16
Dragon Fire
Otto stood and watched as the Chinese dug. The ground at the old lakeshore was full of pine roots, and yet the Dragon Fire troopers tasked with excavating Chures' grave did so with their armour stripped off. They sweated in the cold air, hacking and shovelling away stolidly, using only their native strength.
"In deference to the dead," the troops' leader told Otto. "The dead should depart watched over by men, not machines." He'd been courteous as his soldiers had surrounded the Stelsco, flipping his helmet into the broad back of his power-assist armour and introducing himself as Commander Guan Song Hsien. They were prisoners, for all that, and the seven other Dragon Fire soldiers remained in their bulky armour and covered Lehmann, Valdaire and Otto with their weapons. The armour was comprised of jointed plates, smooth lines marred by quick release bolts. The armour was particularly massive about the shoulders, the soldiers' helmeted heads almost buried by it. The suits drew in at the waist only to flare out again around the lower legs, where thrust units and gyroscopes were housed, providing stabilisation for the soldiers' flight packs and compensating for the recoil of their rail cannons. Magnetically impelled weapon
s were as close to recoilless as it was possible to get, but the size of the Dragon Fire soldiers' ordnance made such counters necessary. The guns sat underneath their right arms, enclosing the majority of the hand in a trigger unit, their barrels a metre and a half long, energy drawn from their flight-pack reactors. The flight packs had a single main jet, held high and tilted, fat plastic feathers of control plates ranged up the back of each soldier, giving them the appearance of badly fledged angels.
Each Dragon Fire soldier was a one-man flying tank. They looked like heavy combat robot chassis, only the irregular movements of humanity betraying the presence of the man encased in each mechanical shell.
"That would rule Lehmann and me out of the burial party?"