Liberator

by Richard Harland

  Although Lye had supposedly come to watch the departure, she hardly paid attention to what was happening below. Now she was talking to Riff again.

  ‘This is the place where you defeated the tyrant, isn’t it? The Supreme Commander jumped to his death from this platform?’

  Riff nodded. ‘You heard the story?’

  ‘Of course. I know every detail. He was trying to blow Liberator up.’

  ‘Yes, except it was called Worldshaker then. He couldn’t stand the idea of Filthies in charge.’

  ‘And you stopped him. You had to go hand over hand round the outside of this barrier.’ Lye breathed a sigh of awe as she studied the five-hundred-foot drop. ‘Certain death if you lost your grip.’

  Riff laughed. ‘In the middle of a thunderstorm. I must’ve been mad.’

  ‘No, brave. You did what had to be done.’

  Col clenched his fists. He’d been there, he knew how brave Riff had been. But couldn’t she see how Lye was flattering her? Exactly as she did with Shiv, he was sure.

  ‘You’ve done so much,’ Lye went on, ‘and still only the same age as me.’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘Same as me.’ She leaned in a little closer to Riff. ‘You’re such an inspiration. We owe our Liberation to you.’

  ‘I was one of many.’

  ‘Yes, but you led the way. You spied out the Upper Decks for us, then you let down the rope so we could break out from Below. We’d still be trapped down there if it wasn’t for you.’

  What about me? Col thought. I discovered the way to let the Filthies up. I made the decision.

  He expected Riff to speak out on his behalf, but she didn’t. He had been written out of the story, his role forgotten.

  ‘I wish I’d been with you when you overthrew the tyrant.’ Lye’s voice had taken on a deep, thrilling quality and her eyes shone with enthusiasm.

  Col couldn’t stand it any more. ‘Where were you, then?’ he burst out.

  Lye simply continued talking as if he wasn’t there – until Riff repeated the question. ‘Where were you, Lye?’

  ‘I did what I could.’ Lye addressed her answer to Riff alone. ‘It wasn’t easy for me. I killed one of their officers.’

  Riff raised an eyebrow. ‘Why not easy?’

  Two white spots burned on Lye’s cheekbones. ‘Let me tell you another time,’ she said.

  Col felt he’d won a small victory. She wouldn’t explain in front of him – so at least she’d had to acknowledge his presence.

  A murmurous sound rose up from below – from the Filthies on the webbing and in the scoops. It was the sound of hundreds of voices cheering. The juggernaut was under way. Tiny white waves fanned out all along the hull.

  BRAHH-AHH-AHH!

  An almighty blast of noise made all three of them jump. They clapped their hands over their ears and whirled around. The juggernaut was sounding its horn: a trumpet-shaped klaxon mounted on the front funnel.

  BRAHH-AHH-AHH! On and on and on it went.

  Riff fell into helpless laughter, dancing around with her hands over her ears. Amazingly, Lye started laughing too. Col would never have guessed she even had a sense of humour. Her perfect face changed and lit up. She seemed to be almost trying to outdo Riff in whoops and giggles.

  Col didn’t have the heart to laugh himself. He felt somehow excluded from the joke.

  The juggernaut curved several degrees to port, then took a course straight ahead. Although they hardly appeared to be moving, the breeze became a wind that blew on their cheeks and ruffled their hair. Soon the native canoes and rafts were left behind. One by one, the cranes swung their scoops into the trays on Thirty-First Deck at the side of the superstructure.

  At last the horn fell silent. Col tried to think of something to say, but nothing would come. He was desperate to work his way back into the mood of the moment.

  ‘On to Botany Bay!’ he cried, and raised his arm in a kind of salutation.

  The phrase sounded lame even as it left his lips. So stiff and pompous, so oddly old-fashioned. It sounded like the phrase of a Swank.

  Lye turned to Riff and whispered something behind her hand. Col could only imagine that it was something mocking and malicious. Riff laughed out loud and Lye echoed her laughter.

  If Col had felt excluded before, he felt a hundred times more excluded now. He stood there in mute defeat, facing the two of them as they had fun at his expense.

  Finally Riff took pity and spoke to him directly. ‘It’s okay. Don’t worry. It was nothing so bad.’

  But she still didn’t say what it was. Lye’s laughter dried up when Riff ceased to be amused.

  ‘Time we were going?’ she suggested in Riff’s ear.

  Riff nodded, and turned to Col before leaving. ‘You should go and tell your Victoria and Albert about the coaling station. Make sure they know what to do.’

  Col watched as they walked off side by side. Lye’s upright glide was like a stalking motion.

  Oh, I hate you, he thought. I hate you every bit as much as you can ever hate me. A lead weight settled in the pit of his stomach.

  Lye entered the turret with Riff following. The door clanged behind them.

  Riff’s earlier words floated back into Col’s mind: ‘You need to trust me a little more.’ But even if he trusted her, how could he trust the situation? He certainly couldn’t trust Lye. She would have countless opportunities to talk to her fellow Council member, and he had no doubt she would make the most of them.

  His enemy was socially acceptable in a way that he wasn’t.

  Col didn’t visit ex-Queen Victoria that day or the next. Back in the Norfolk Library, he asked Professor Twillip and Septimus to find out all the facts on coaling stations. The Professor threw himself into the task with his usual scholarly ardour, clambering over mattresses and upsetting furniture in his quest for books. Septimus pored over volume after volume, making copious notes. Antrobus helped by sitting on books to hold the pages open. Even as an infant paperweight, his deeply serious expression suggested he was somehow absorbing the information on which he sat.

  Col paid his visit the following day. With their old staterooms taken over by Filthies, Victoria and Albert now inhabited the Imperial Chapel on Forty-Fifth Deck. Col was saddened to see that, since the time of his last visit, someone had defaced the carved entrance arch and chipped away the Imperial coat of arms.

  The ex-Queen’s major-domo answered his knock on the door, and the lady-in-waiting came hurrying up behind. Both wore the high-buttoned collars of the previous regime, and their unnatural waistlines indicated corsets under their clothes. Col knew they had stayed on board only out of loyalty to the Imperial household.

  ‘Master Colbert Porpentine.’ The major-domo’s expression was as grave as an oil painting. ‘You would be wishing to meet with Her Majesty and His Highness?’

  ‘Yes, thanks, Beddle.’

  The major-domo and lady-in-waiting escorted him as though he didn’t know perfectly well where to find the ex-royal couple. They progressed between stone pillars in the red and purple light filtering through stained glass. The place had changed since Col’s wedding, having been subdivided into separate rooms. Fabric hangings served as screens between the pillars, and there were solid partitions made out of stacked wooden pews.

  They halted in front of one particular closed-off area. The lady-in-waiting coughed twice and spoke through a curtain. ‘Master Colbert Porpentine craves audience with Her Majesty and . . .’

  ‘Colbert? Come on in.’

  Col pushed aside the curtain and entered. With a loud sniff, the lady-in-waiting followed him through. ‘And His Highness,’ she concluded.

  The ex-royal couple were sitting on the side of their bed, which had been raised to a dignified height by dint of piling four mattress
es one on top of the other. All around were furnishings salvaged from the Imperial Staterooms: a writing desk, a chiffonier, two wing-chairs and a great many velvet cushions embroidered in gold thread with the V & A monogram.

  ‘Oh, Morkins.’ Victoria smiled and shook her head. ‘We’re just plain Mr Albert and Mrs Victoria now.’

  Col had never seen her so glowing and radiant. She had lost the creases in her brow produced by the heavy Imperial crown and appeared even younger than her thirty-two years. However, she was no beauty by anyone’s standards. Her face had a long, horsy look, and her large, square teeth might have been designed for cropping grass. Her eyes, brown and soft and melting, were her most attractive feature.

  ‘Sit down, sit down, Colbert.’ Albert gestured towards the wing-chairs. ‘No need for formality. We’re all equal now.’

  It was in recognition of the new equality that he had shaved off his moustache. Every now and then, he couldn’t help fingering the place where it had once flourished. Yet he too looked remarkably pleased with himself. What was their secret? Col wondered.

  He sat in the wing-chair and explained the role that the Council wanted them to play at the coaling station.

  ‘But we left all of that behind.’ The creases came back to Victoria’s brow. ‘We were glad to leave it all behind. We enjoy being Mr Albert and Mrs Victoria.’

  ‘We don’t want to pretend,’ added Albert.

  ‘Just an ordinary married couple,’ said Victoria. ‘Like anyone else. Doing the same things as any other married couple.’

  The gentle appeal in her eyes was hard to resist. Col steeled himself. ‘It’s important. You heard about this murder?’

  ‘Dreadful business.’ Albert blew out his cheeks. ‘Beddle told us. The blackguard. I mean the saboteur, not Beddle.’

  ‘The Filthies have turned against us more than ever. We have to prove our co-operation. This is our chance.’

  ‘I suppose I could do it,’ Victoria conceded. ‘If it’s so important.’

  Albert wrapped an arm protectively over her shoulder. ‘Only if you’re strong enough, my dear. You mustn’t overtax yourself.’

  ‘I won’t. I’ll do it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Col looked from Victoria to Albert, then back again to Victoria. ‘You’re not unwell, are you?’

  ‘No, no.’ Victoria broke into a sudden smile and snuggled a little against Albert’s arm. ‘Shall we tell him?’

  ‘I think so. Yes.’

  Victoria’s teeth shone out like the sun uncovered by clouds. ‘We’re pregnant.’

  ‘Pregnant?’

  ‘With child.’

  The lady-in-waiting, who still hovered in the background, couldn’t contain herself. ‘An heir to the Imperial line,’ she proclaimed.

  ‘No, Morkins. Just an ordinary child. The most ordinary child. And we shall be the most ordinary parents.’

  ‘Ordinary loving parents,’ Albert amended.

  ‘Of course. But we mustn’t spoil him.’

  ‘Of course not. Or her.’

  ‘If it’s a him, I’m sure he’ll look just like you. Handsome and manly.’

  ‘Or like you if it’s a her. Gracious and womanly.’

  Col cleared his throat. ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘I’m really happy for you.’

  Victoria inclined her head. ‘Thank you, Colbert.’

  She sat smiling and snuggling against Albert’s arm. Then, giving herself a tiny shake, she turned again to Col.

  ‘Such a pity your wife isn’t here, Colbert. You made a lovely couple when I married you.’

  She nodded at the wedding ring on Col’s finger. In fact, it was only there because Col hadn’t been able to pull it off.

  ‘You might have started a family of your own by now,’ said Albert.

  Col didn’t try to explain his true feelings. Of course, he’d already fallen for Riff before he’d ever spoken to Sephaltina Turbot, but even if he hadn’t, he would have thought Sephaltina a very strange person. For some reason she had wanted to marry him, yet they had nothing in common at all. Her sweet and girlish mannerisms set his teeth on edge. It had been an arranged marriage, simply an alliance between Turbots and Porpentines.

  ‘I can’t believe she put her parents ahead of her husband,’ Victoria went on. ‘I can’t believe she went off with them.’

  ‘Seems so,’ said Col.

  ‘I would have stayed with my husband on the juggernaut.’ Victoria exchanged fond glances with Albert. ‘Whatever the dangers.’

  Albert put out a hand and Victoria took it. In a moment, they were lost in their own private world. Col realised it was time to leave.

  He made his farewells, and Morkins hurried up to escort him out of the chapel. All the way back he tugged at the ring on his finger, and as always, it slid up as far as the knuckle, then stuck. If only everyone would just forget that he’d ever been married . . .

  Day by day, Liberator continued south towards Botany Bay. Septimus and the Professor completed their research on coaling stations and passed the information to Col. Col had been hoping that Riff might call for him to hear his report, but he received no summons. He wondered if she was avoiding him.

  It was the middle of the night when he awoke to the sound of an argument in the Norfolk Library, an argument conducted in lowered voices. All the library lights had been turned off except for the one above the central table. He could see shadows moving across the ceiling and over the bookcases.

  He recognised one voice as belonging to Septimus. Three other voices belonged to Filthies. What were they doing in the Norfolk Library? He came fully awake when he realised that one of the Filthies was Padder.

  He got up from his mattress, pulled on a jacket and made his way to the end of the bookcases.

  Padder and two male Filthies stood halfway between the central table and the door. Septimus confronted them with flapping arms. No one else in the library was awake; the air resonated with short, sharp snores from Gillabeth and drawn-out snores from Orris.

  Sensing Col’s approach, Septimus turned for support. ‘They want to take our books!’

  Padder barely spared Col a glance. ‘Things from the Old Country to trade for coal. He knows all about it.’

  ‘But . . . but . . .’ Septimus spluttered, unable to find the words.

  Although Padder bore a family resemblance to Riff, the perpetual stubble on his chin gave him a harder, older look. His red, flushed cheeks often seemed to be smouldering with inner anger, ready to fire up at any provocation.

  He swung round suddenly and snapped at Col. ‘You were there at the meeting.’

  ‘Right.’ Col stood face to face with him. ‘The Council decided to collect things from the Old Country. They also asked for information on coaling stations.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘That’s what books are for. That’s where we get the information from.’

  Padder’s lips twisted in an uncertain sneer. Many of the Filthies had learned to read, following Riff’s example, but Padder wasn’t one of them. He obviously feared he was being duped.

  ‘All of these on coaling stations?’ His gesture took in every shelf of books in the library. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Not on coaling stations, no. All sorts of useful information. We don’t know which books we’ll need until you ask for particular information.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Septimus put in.

  ‘Ask your sister,’ said Col. ‘She understands. Ask anyone who can read.’

  Padder’s cheeks flamed at the insult. But he struck back with a different form of attack. ‘You leave my sister out of it!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You and my sister. I don’t like you hanging round her. She’s not your friend. Get it? She belongs with us. She’s a Filthy, not a S
wank. I don’t want my sister associating with your lot.’

  ‘You can’t tell her what to do.’

  ‘No one needs you. No one wants you. We all think it, and I’m saying it. My sister is our inspiration, see? Our figurehead. We don’t want you dragging her down. So stay away from her, Swank!’

  His eyes were popping with anger. He spun on his heel and strode to the door.

  ‘What about collecting books?’ asked one of his helpers.

  ‘Leave them be.’

  The two Filthies followed Padder out of the library. For the first time, Col realised they were both wearing red armbands.

  The snorers continued to snore, the library returned to its previous state of hush. Col unclenched his fists and took a deep breath. Did Padder really speak for most Filthies? Why had he described Riff as ‘our inspiration’? It was the very same phrase Lye had used.

  ‘You were wonderful,’ said a voice at his shoulder. ‘I could never have done that.’

  It was Septimus. He was bouncing up and down on his toes with enthusiasm.

  ‘He hates the idea of me and Riff,’ said Col.

  ‘So what do you care? You love her, don’t you?’

  Love wasn’t a word Col thought about much, but he nodded.

  ‘Then you’ll get her. You always come out on top.’

  Col shrugged. Septimus believed in him more than he believed in himself. ‘It’s hard for her, when all her friends are against me.’

  ‘But if she loves you too . . .’

  ‘Hmm.’ Col considered. ‘I have to fight for her, right?’

  ‘You’re good at fighting. I wish I could be like you.’

  ‘You’re good with books.’

  ‘Yes, and hopeless in real life. I can always think what I should have done, but never at the time.’

  Col didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. Septimus’s admiration could be embarrassing.

  ‘It’s like I’m living on the outside of real life. I’m never totally there. Or I’m there five minutes after, when it’s too late. Whereas you . . .’