Roil

by Trent Jamieson

  “I can see it,” he shouted, hoping to lift Cadell’s spirits, and because he was genuinely excited. “There, to the south west, the town of Uhlton.”

  “Good,” Cadell said. “How very clever of you. We’ll be there soon”

  “And where in Uhlton is there?” David asked.

  “Never you mind,” Cadell mumbled. “Got to keep some mystery in your life.”

  Uhlton was not as David imagined. Built on a ridge above the swollen lake, it was a cramped and crowded village, and anything but sleepy. Steamers docked and undocked at a long quay, men shouted and swung thick ropes around bollards as they guided their pilots with hand signals and curses, working busily even at this late hour. The river seemed almost as busy as Mirrlees itself.

  The roads leading to the town were in poor repair. The River Weep sustained this township as it did Mirrlees and Chapman. Around Uhlton, besides a few tilled fields, the land was bare or forested, without the river the town would die.

  As they approached, someone released a flare into the sky; blue flame illumined the sky like a third moon. Cadell slumped down on a large pale stone, marking the edge of the town. Dim double shadows stretched behind him. He let out a long, resigned breath and rested his chin on his hands.

  “They’ve seen us now,” he said. “There’s little reason to go on. They will come and get us, and I am too weary. We will wait here.”

  A second flare rocketed skywards. From the township rolled a horse-drawn carriage, its driver tall, lamps dangled from its corners.

  Back the way they had come lightning scarred a black and starless sky and the northern horizon rumbled and boomed. Though they were scarcely more than a hundred miles from Mirrlees it was as though they stood in another land entirely.

  The carriage came to a halt beside them and the driver cracked his whip in the air – the horses didn’t blink, he obviously did this a lot. “State your business in Uhlton,” he said curtly, swinging the whip in lazy circles around his head.

  “I have an appointment with the Mayor and his second in command,” Cadell said.

  The driver laughed, and there was threat implicit in that sound as much as any cracking whip. “Mayor? None go by that name here, kind sir.”

  Cadell grinned, an equally threatening grin. “Don’t be so disingenuous; you know who I need to speak to. And you’d best hurry, I am hungry.” Cadell flashed his teeth. “I must talk to Buchan and Whig. Unless of course, they have passed away or been driven out.” Cadell sounded almost hopeful.

  The driver’s eyes narrowed, and he peered at them through the gloom, one hand lifting a lamp to better aid his scrutiny. David’s eyes watered in all that light.

  “They’re here,” the driver said, clearing his throat significantly. “But not for much longer.” Then he whistled, his eyes widening then narrowing, expressions so bordering on caricature David couldn’t tell if he was serious or taking the piss. “Oh, I know of you, you’re that Engineer, the one with the cruel sense of humour and the taste for Vergers. We’ve a portrait of you on our dartboard. Buchan would speak to you, yes indeed.”

  Cadell looked up at the driver, irritation passing across the Old Man’s face like a storm, he stood taller and taller, and the driver seemed to shrink.

  “We are tired,” Cadell said sounding at once tired yet energetic enough to possibly rip off a certain driver’s face. “Very tired. Take us to the village or strike us with that ridiculous whip, just do something! I’ve no patience for this.”

  The driver nodded at the door to the carriage. “Get in,” he said quietly.

  David and Cadell clambered inside. The cabin was musty, though the seats were clean. David could not understand what had just gone on, he looked to Cadell for explanation and Cadell stared back at him stonily. “Our greeting here may be less than civil, but then it is my fault.” His voice softened as though to reduce the blow of the words that followed. “People have invested rather a lot in me, and I have yet to deliver.”

  David could understand that bitterness. He possessed a fair share of it towards Cadell, himself. However, perhaps he shouldn’t have nodded so readily in agreement.

  Cadell glared at him, but it lacked even the pretence of self-righteousness. “David, there are some things over which I have little control. Certain liberties wrested from me in ages past. Makes me grumpy. Makes me dangerous. I am not one whom most people would be comfortable knowing, and I don’t blame them. I gather hatred like a coat gathers dust.”

  The carriage bounced into the town, David always watching with an addict’s hunger, seeking out places he might score Carnival. The pub, a back street. He cast his gaze about the people at work, dismantling the town in most cases it seemed, looking for the tell-tale signatures of Carnival addicts. The slightly jerky walk, the dull smile.

  In catching its suggestion (here, a man wandering aimlessly down Main Street. There a fellow pausing languidly between swings of an axe) he felt at once excited and disgusted with himself. He knew that Cadell had been deliberately lowering the amount given. A week or two at that rate, and he might not need any of the drug at all. The thought terrified him.

  The carriage stopped at the front door of what David took to be the town hall. He’d seen his fair share, dragged to this outlying township or that with his father.

  Cadell got out, doffed his hat at the driver and walked over to the door. David followed.

  Cadell raised a fist to knock but before he struck wood, the door swung open. Framed in the doorway was a man seven feet tall at least. He reached down and shook Cadell’s hand, enclosing it completely in his grip as he did so.

  “Cadell!” He cried. “It is so good to see you. It has been far too long.”

  Cadell nodded. “Far too long indeed,” he said absently. “Is he in?”

  “We were wondering if you might come a calling after what happened with the Dolorous Grey. Trouble does follow you, sir.” He turned to David and shook his hand warmly. “And you must be Mr Penn, it’s an honour, sir. I’ve heard so much about you, your father was so proud. Oh, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I am Mr Eregin Whig.”

  “The Mr Whig?”

  Mr Whig blushed, a truly remarkable glow because his face was so pale. “If by that you mean, once deputy Mayor of Chapman, yes. Now I am just an exile.”

  Cadell coughed. “Enough of this, how about we get out of the rain.”

  Mr Whig nodded and let David in. “You’re quite lucky to have caught us. We are leaving Uhlton, to areas even more remote. The day after tomorrow we’re heading to Hardacre. The call has been put out, and we are going. Yes, Mr Buchan will be most anxious to see you.”

  David wasn’t surprised to hear that name. It was only logical that the exiled Mayor of Chapman would have been here too.

  Cadell seemed almost nervous, he rubbed his fingers together before bringing them up to his face as though he was trying to hide behind their span.

  “No doubt he is,” Cadell said and followed, looking more anxious than David had ever seen him.

  What did an Old Man have to fear?

  Chapter 29

  Even before the Dissolution, Stade had begun to reveal the extent of his power. Until the Grand Defeat none of the allied metropolises had exerted much influence over the others, but then Mcmahon was gone, its population scattered. Within eight years Stade had not only managed to stack Chapman’s council with his own men, but also exile perhaps the most successful mayoral team in history.

  Once again though, so singular was Stade’s purpose that he did not finish the job, creating only another strong alliance with the city of Hardacre. Stade did not seem to care as long as his Project went ahead. When it was completed there would be no opponents, his rule and his people would be unassailable.

  That was the plan at any rate.

  Deighton Histories

  The light came on a couple of hours after she had reached the other side of the gorge and started the ascent into the low dark mountains, a red light in the centre
of the console, and fear touched her for the first time since the bridge. Fear and an awful resignation. The journey had taken its toll on the carriage, the Melody Amiss was running too hot. These vehicles were not meant to be driven over such a long distance. Its engines, designed both to drive the carriage and cool it, were susceptible to overheating.

  If she did not shut the carriage down soon and for a decent interval of time, the heat from the engines could set the coolants aflame, turning the carriage from vehicle to bomb.

  She double-checked her vehicle’s readings and realized that the Melody’s starter motor was running on a very low charge. If she stopped now she might never start again.

  Margaret slowed the carriage down, hoping that would prove enough, but the light stayed red and the Melody’s engine lost its smooth rhythm, bonnets juddered within their casings.

  Beyond these low mountains was a long plain at the end of which should be Chapman. She had maybe a hundred miles to go. A few hours driving, if the carriage could make it. There was no chance of that happening if the engine overheated. Margaret could no more imagine walking that distance than she could hitching a ride with an Endym. If the Melody failed she would die out here in the dark.

  She brought the car to a halt, and carefully ran the engine down.

  The light stayed on. Margaret switched off the cooling units and charged up her suit, just in case.

  Something flew overhead, and Margaret trained her guns on it. An Endym, it saw the carriage and circled above her three times, before turning back the way it had come.

  That message played through her mind again.

  They’ll be coming for you. She’ll be wanting you. Trust no one.

  Staying here was a bad idea, but she had no other choice. Margaret could hardly get out and walk to Chapman.

  She considered trying to sleep, but her mind kept returning to that pale face, the fingers scratching against the glass. And her body ached.

  Margaret was beginning to develop sores from the constant pressure of the suit against her flesh. These things were not designed for more than a few hours use. No one expected someone to survive that long within the Roil.

  She’d kept the charge fed from the Melody and kept her body cold. She’d thought herself impervious to the chill and found she was anything but.

  A few more days and the wounds would grow gangrenous. She would sicken and die. Killed by the thing designed to save her.

  She couldn’t think on it. Nor could she bring herself to look at the sores.

  So she picked up her father’s journal and opened it. His familiar, almost too neat, handwriting comforted and stung her at the same time. Here was her father, frozen in the past, describing thoughts and moments drifting further away from her with every heartbeat.

  It was all history now. No living city, just dead words, but it was all she had.

  The bulk of the notebook was filled with his usual musings. Statistical data concerning the city, and heat to ice ratios, but towards the back, starting a few days before they had driven off to test the I-Bomb, it took on more of the form of a diary.

  October Fifteen

  While, I continue to doubt the veracity of Deighton, Elder or Younger, their history too epic to ever be history, I have been coming around to A’s way of thinking. There must indeed be Engines of the World, though they would be unlike any engines that we understand.

  I keep coming across references to Lodes. Points along which the Engine’s powers are expressed. Tate it would appear is built upon one, which explains at least the ease with which our machinery produces ice. It was for a very good reason that Tate was built just where it is, or why many of our devices were so easily constructed.

  How limited are our resources, when it comes to the past. The books we have are all we have. We lack the opportunity to engage in the deeper tasks, of fieldwork, of cross-referencing ideas with other Masters of the Past. As the years progress, our grip on history grows ever more hypothetical, so does our grip on current events.

  Truly, and admitting it has been entirely forced upon us, Tate is the most parochial of metropolises.

  I would predict anarchy to the north. Mirrlees and Chapman swollen with refugees, the Far North getting its share as well. Interesting times no doubt.

  But who can tell? We have received no communication from the North in over twenty years.

  October Seventeen

  No time for musing, today. The I-Bombs are to be loaded into truck five. I had hoped to take the Melody Amiss out into the field. Even I am amazed at that little vehicle. However, she has little storage capacity.

  Must make sure I forbid Margaret to drive her. It is the sort of thing she would do. Roil take her, but she’s a determined one. It was all we could do to talk her out of joining the Sweepers. She would have made a fine one, of that I am certain, but I could not bear to lose her to that peril.

  These bombs must work.

  October Eighteen – Day One

  We have discarded the prescribed safety of Tate for the awfulness of night. There is a lot of activity to the east of Mechanism Highway. Quarg Hounds and Endyms are massing, though they were disinterested in us I’m sure the city is a draw to them. For all that it is ice it is heat also. Indeed we passed more Roilings than I have seen for some time, which suggests another population explosion – a further urgency is added.

  Though looking back at our well-built city, walled and clockwork guarded, one of the Four just finished firing, Sweepers’ gliders circling the Vents, I am in no doubt that Margaret is safe. It is beyond me to imagine anything less than one of the Vastkind could batter down those stone walls.

  October Nineteen – Day Two

  There is a stark beauty to this landscape and, in places, an intimidating tranquillity that even our engines are unable to destroy. Though we have lived in the Roil for twenty years there is far too much that we do not understand. How can we when our field of inquiry is so narrow?

  One question that has left me in a quandary all these years is how does the Roil retain its heat? By all rights things should be cooler. The Roil blocks out the sun. Yet all of its functions are exothermic in nature. The answer lies in the Roil spores I suspect.

  In the South the temperature rises dramatically, and in the North there is a similar though less extreme rise.

  Though it is hard to credit it, we are actually in a cooler pocket of the Roil.

  (This was followed by a series of calculations that Margaret skipped over)

  October Twenty – Day Three

  We tested the I-Bomb today and it worked as planned, an astonishing thing in itself. A single weapon, low yield, freed a zone of Roil over eighteen miles in diameter. This is truly our most potent weapon, scary in its effectiveness.

  The greatest test of all, though, is just how to use it most effectively. Airships would lend themselves to the task, or better yet, the Iron Wings that A has designed. A dozen of them, perhaps, or even more, dropping them in tandem. It would be swift.

  Today we are triumphant, I can confidently predict an end to the Roil threat, by the close of the decade.

  Margaret, you will see the sun again.

  October 21 Day Four

  Trucks One and Three are missing. This morning my wife led a perimeter patrol and they did not return. We have heard no word, nor have any drones arrived. Ah, my darling Arabella, where have you gone?

  What is more disturbing is that they took our I-Bombs with them. This makes no sense.

  After yesterday’s success, today sees absolute failure. Something has taken my wife and the weaponry.

  Day Five

  This has been the worst day of my life. From dizzying heights to such a bitter nadir, as though I were an addict of Carnival, if their transitions could ever be as cruel as this.

  Yesterday, I thought my wife lost. Today she has come back, but she has not returned as I remember her. She is different, some feverish infection has its hold over her. And, were it not for our judicious use of coo
lants we too would have been infected.

  The infection has as its vector a substance that she referred to, in one of her more lucid moments, as Witmoths. It is a sublimate of the Roil spores almost, though potent and, unlike the spores, directly acting upon the human consciousness. Had I not been as swift, pulling away from a burst of the creatures sprung from my wife’s lips I would have known its effects far too intimately.

  I have her in quarantine, I dare not return with her to Tate, though she has begged it of me... because she has begged it of me. She calls in the dark for Margaret. The familial ties are strong in this contagion, the desire to extend it to the immediate family. She pants our names, demanding that I honour my love. Really, to honour it would be to fire a bullet into her skull.

  Oh, my wife. Oh, my daughter. The temperature of the cabin is an agony to her, but one I would not reduce. It is, I believe, our only insurance against the contagion that she contains. At times she is lucid, but then desperate rages grip her. She is possessed with a violence I have never seen before, and it terrifies me.

  Calvin tried to launch a drone today, but its message pod was filled with Witmoths it infected him, through his mouth and nose and he was lost to us. He tried to free her, tried to contaminate the rest of us.

  His cold body lies in carriage number eight.

  We had no choice but to kill him – that’s what I keep telling myself. I can kill Calvin, while my own wife sits bound in the refrigerated research cabin, cursing all of us.

  I cannot think clearly. They look to my lead, and I cannot think.

  Where is truck number three?

  Day Seven

  They came today, and all I can remember is the terror of it.