Liberator

by Richard Harland

  ‘Why didn’t you wait, Dalley?’ Gart demanded. ‘I said to stall her till I got back.’

  The sandy-haired woman shrugged. ‘She wouldn’t be stalled. You didn’t expect us to shoot a Council member, did you?’

  Mr Gibber advanced in a monkey-like crouch, sliding one foot forward at a time, often wobbling but never quite falling. By contrast, Lye and Shiv possessed the acrobatic skills that all Filthies acquired for survival Below. Lye had no difficulty maintaining her balance while carrying the rifle. However, she seemed somehow different in her way of moving, though Col couldn’t work out why.

  ‘That’s not how it was supposed to work.’ Gart shook his head. ‘Not walking on top of the ropes.’

  Col looked at him quizzically.

  ‘The proper assault force would have used slings,’ Gart explained. ‘Sitting under the ropes and sliding across.’

  ‘Except we don’t have the slings yet,’ added the Filthy called Dalley.

  Col understood the idea. Because the catapults were being built on the uppermost terrace, the ropes sloped down to the Russian juggernaut at a slight incline. The assault force could have slid their way down to the Romanov in slings.

  He looked at the catapult directly in front of him. It was a clever piece of construction, a giant bow welded from lengths of flexible metal. On either side, it was fixed and braced against two of the projecting horn-like pipes.

  Then he spotted something else on the ground nearby: an odd-looking bundle of cream-coloured fabric.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  It was Dalley who replied. ‘Something she was wearing. She stripped it off, I don’t know why.’

  Col picked up the garment. The stiff material was fastened with laces and reinforced with ribs.

  ‘It’s her corset,’ he said.

  He spread it out and held it high. Riff’s eyes widened in amazement.

  ‘So that’s the reason,’ she breathed. She too must have noticed the difference in Lye’s way of moving. ‘She’s walking without her corset.’

  Everyone turned to stare at the trio on the ropes, who were now a hundred paces away. There was a visible tension in Lye’s body, a prodigious effort of will. At the same time, her stance had never been more upright.

  ‘She must be in unbelievable agony,’ muttered Riff.

  There had been no reaction from the Romanov as yet. However, as they watched, one head appeared, then another and another. Col imagined that the Russian officers were as astonished as he was. A moment later, half a dozen of them crossed to the side of the deck and stared out.

  Lye redirected her rifle and fired off three rapid rounds. She was hardly aiming and had next to no chance of hitting them. The recoil transmitted itself to the ropes, which bucked and swayed. Mr Gibber let out a piteous cry and barely kept his balance.

  The officers turned tail and ran. They were armed and could easily have brought down the attackers, yet they fled as though from superhuman beings of incalculable power. Col understood their fear. Why else would a force of three advance so confidently against a force of thousands?

  ‘Keep going!’ Lye’s shout of command drifted back across the distance. ‘Faster!’

  The three figures were almost halfway across, and moving at twice their original speed. For one mad moment, Col really wondered if Lye might achieve the impossible.

  Then the Russians came back in greater numbers. A hundred officers and troops marched to the side of the Romanov, lined up in military formation and raised their rifles to their shoulders.

  Lye didn’t bother to shoot this time, just yelled at the top of her voice. ‘Long live the revolution!’

  Mr Gibber gave up even before being shot at. With a drawn-out wail, he jumped. He was still in a monkey-like crouch as he plummeted down and disappeared from view between the two juggernauts.

  In the next moment, the gunfire began. Flashes leaped from a hundred barrels, a hundred bullets cut a swathe through the air. Shiv, at the front, took the full force of it. Like a twitching puppet, he was buffeted this way and that. Then he toppled from the ropes and followed Mr Gibber’s long fall to the ground.

  Lye must have been hit too, but not in any vital organ. She teetered and dropped her rifle. One arm hung limply at her side, and something seemed to have happened to her hip.

  Still she refused to fall. Slowly, painfully, she drew herself upright. She was twisted and lopsided, yet she began to move forward again on the ropes. Faster and faster she accelerated.

  ‘Surrender to the revolution!’ she screamed. ‘You’re all doomed! You’ll never win!’

  She was still screaming as the second volley from the Russian rifles smashed into her and knocked her down.

  The Russian troops peered over the barrier encircling the Romanov’s flat top. They pointed below and cheered until their officers called them away. For Col and Riff, the lower terraces of Liberator’s superstructure cut off the view of the ground between the two juggernauts.

  ‘She always wanted to die as a martyr,’ said Riff. ‘I don’t think she cared much about life or death.’

  ‘Nor other people’s lives or deaths,’ said Col.

  ‘She was an extraordinary human being. Absolute like an arrow.’

  Col shook his head. ‘There was something missing in her. Murdering Zeb just to gain a place on the Council.’

  ‘Having Zeb murdered,’ Riff corrected. ‘And she never wanted power for personal satisfaction. I don’t believe that. She wanted power for the cause, so that she could do the things she thought had to be done.’

  ‘Like getting rid of the Swanks. And me and you and Dunga.’

  ‘She never understood ordinary people. She never accepted that other people couldn’t be the same as her.’

  ‘You, for example.’

  ‘Yes. Me.’

  They remained silent for a while. Col wasn’t satisfied; he wanted to hear Riff condemn the murderous treachery of her former friend. Riff’s oddly respectful mood didn’t make sense to him. But he could see it was no use arguing the point.

  Below them, there was a general surge of Filthies making their way to a particular terrace twenty levels further down. It was a wider terrace that stuck out far enough to give a view to the ground.

  ‘Let’s go look,’ Col suggested.

  ‘Okay.’

  Before Riff could leave, Gart had a question for her. ‘What about the ropes?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘If we let them stay up, the Russians might cross over and launch an attack on us.’

  ‘Right. Of course. Cut them loose.’

  She didn’t wait to watch the operation completed, but led the way down to the lower levels. There were now so many people on the wider terrace that it was difficult to find a space, but she managed to push forward to the railing. Col squeezed in beside her.

  It was like peering over the edge of a cliff. Far below they could see the lighter green of grass, the darker green of trees, and the winding brown lines of dry gullies. Further back was the unwholesome-looking grey of the liquid that had leaked from Liberator’s bilge.

  Everyone was pointing to two tiny spots of red that showed out against the green of the grass.

  ‘Lye and Shiv,’ one Filthy exclaimed.

  Col wondered which was which. The two shapes were huddled and broken; even Lye’s black hair was indistinguishable. He guessed that she was the one furthest away from Liberator, since she had covered the greatest distance along the ropes.

  As for Mr Gibber, he was nowhere to be seen. Col studied the ground closer in to their own hull, since the ex-schoolteacher had been the first to fall. There were several patches of darker green, so he’d probably crashed down into a clump of trees.

  ‘Look!’

  ‘What are they
doing?’

  There was a murmur of interest as a dozen Russian officers emerged from between the Romanov’s caterpillar tracks. They were clearly visible in their white-and-gold uniforms. They fanned out over the ground and soon located the objects of their search: the bodies of Lye and Shiv. Everyone craned forward to watch.

  Half of the officers made a beeline for the nearest body, while the rest moved on to the second one. Both lay in puddles of their own blood. The officers stood talking for a while, then unslung their rifles.

  Crack-crack-crack! The sound of rifle fire echoed across the distance. Lye’s body – as Col assumed – jumped and jerked under the impact of the bullets, then lay still.

  Crack-crack-crack! The other group did the same for Shiv.

  ‘What’s that for?’ someone cried.

  ‘Anyone can see they’re already dead.’

  ‘It’s disrespectful!’

  The officers moved forward again, presumably to search for Mr Gibber’s body. But the Filthies had had enough. Some of them raised their own rifles and started shooting.

  The officers looked up, realised their peril and fled. They ran like scurrying insects, zigzagging left and right. One stumbled as if hit, and needed the aid of two companions to hobble along, but all made it back to the shelter of the caterpillar tracks. The Filthies jeered and shook their fists.

  ‘Hold your fire!’ shouted Riff, as shots continued to ring out. ‘Don’t waste bullets.’

  The shooting ceased. Col was staring at the Romanov’s caterpillar tracks. ‘No, wait,’ he said as Riff turned to go.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They came out between the tracks.’

  ‘And now they’ve run back there.’

  ‘Which shows there’s a way in at the bottom of the hull. Perhaps there’s a hatch.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s something I was thinking about before. The airborne assault is impossible now, right?’

  ‘I suppose. We’ve lost the element of surprise. The Russians will be prepared and waiting for us.’

  ‘But they won’t be prepared for an attack from underneath.’

  Riff furrowed her brows. ‘You mean . . . if Russian officers can get down through their engine-room, then we could get up the same way?’

  ‘Yes. Or even better – we could make contact with the Russian Filthies and stir them up to revolution. We could attack the Russian juggernaut from within.’

  ‘Like our Liberation!’ Riff snapped her fingers. ‘Go on!’

  ‘We wouldn’t need a full-on attack, just a few people to sneak inside and talk to the Russian Filthies. Tell them what we did and how they could do it too.’

  ‘Right, right, right!’ Riff’s eyes were alight with excitement. ‘I bet they’re treated as badly as we used to be.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s the best plan yet.’ She flung her arms round him in a celebratory hug, then disengaged herself with a laugh. ‘I’ll talk to Dunga first, then call a Council meeting. They have to agree. I’ll make them.’

  While Riff went off to talk to Dunga, Col hurried back to check on Sephaltina. He discovered that she had already been moved from the Grand Assembly Hall to a more suitable room nearby.

  It turned out to be a small reception room with paintings on the walls, gilded chairs, cabinets of polished walnut, and a magnificent long divan. A bed had been made up for Sephaltina on the divan, with pillows, sheets and a quilt. Her neck was swathed in bandages that went up to her chin and down to her collarbones.

  Hatta sat on a chair beside her. She had a bowl of water on her lap and a pad of cloth in her hand. When Col entered, she looked up with a grumpy expression.

  ‘Before you ask, she’s doing well enough. No reason why she shouldn’t get better.’

  ‘How can I help?’ Col asked.

  ‘You can take over this job for a start.’

  She passed the bowl and pad to Col, and sat him down on the chair.

  ‘You’ll come back to check on her, though?’

  ‘When I have time. I do have other patients, you know.’

  Hatta’s healing skills didn’t include a caring bedside manner. She marched off and left Col to take over the role of nurse. He dampened the cloth and, every few minutes, pressed it against Sephaltina’s forehead. She was running a high temperature.

  One hour passed, then another. Sephaltina’s eyes remained closed. Occasional wheezing sounds came from her throat, and, once, a horrible gurgle that made him think she was choking. He was about to run outside and call for Hatta, but the gurgle stopped as suddenly as it had started.

  Liberator’s corridor lights had dimmed for the night when someone knocked at the door. Col turned as Riff entered.

  ‘So there you are! I’ve been looking all over.’

  Col put a finger to his lips and pointed to the prostrate figure on the divan.

  ‘Ah, right. Your wife.’ Riff didn’t seem particularly interested, but she did lower her voice to a whisper. ‘We’ve had the Council meeting and they’ve agreed to your plan. A small team going in underneath.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow night. We need the cover of darkness and we won’t have time to complete preparations tonight. You’ll be in the team, of course.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘You can help me pick the others and . . . what do you mean, try?’

  ‘I have to look after Sephaltina.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t trust Hatta.’

  ‘Why you?’

  ‘She’s my wife.’

  Riff scowled. ‘I thought it was just an arranged marriage. That’s what you always told me. You didn’t choose Sephaltina. It was an alliance between families.’

  ‘Yes, but I still feel responsible for her.’

  ‘Because of that silly bit of gold around your finger?’

  Col looked at his wedding ring. Not for the first time, he wished he could annihilate it by sheer force of will.

  ‘I went through the ceremony and said ‘I do’. I can’t help it, I am married to her.’

  ‘Too married to help me, then. I come second.’

  ‘No, you come first.’

  ‘But not right now.’

  ‘She’ll probably be better by tomorrow night.’

  ‘Phuh! I think you need to find a way to get unmarried. If you want to have anything to do with me.’

  ‘Unmarried?’

  ‘You have a ceremony for getting married, so you ought to have one for getting unmarried. Say ‘I don’t’ or something.’

  ‘I never heard of anyone getting unmarried. What happens when Filthies get partnered?’

  ‘That’s different. It’s not an alliance between families.’

  ‘There is a ceremony, though?’

  ‘Not like your Upper Decks ceremonies.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘No.’ Riff sniffed. ‘We’ll probably all be dead soon anyway. Slaughtered by the Imperialists. This plan of yours is our last chance.’

  ‘I want to be part of it.’

  ‘Then you’d better decide.’

  ‘Can you come back for me later?’

  Sephaltina broke out suddenly in a violent fit of wheezing. Spasms racked her body, and her eyes flickered open and closed.

  Col bathed her forehead with one hand and tried to hold her still with the other. By the time the spasms passed, there was a tiny red spot on the bandages round her throat.

  He turned to continue the conversation with Riff, but she had already left the room.

  Sephaltina’s condition remained stable overnight. When Hatta looked in next morning, she examined the patient and said, ‘She’ll heal in her own time. It’s up to her
now.’

  Col wasn’t happy with that, but Hatta hurried off without waiting to hear his complaints. Sephaltina didn’t do any more gurgling, and her fits of wheezing were milder than yesterday. He could only continue to bathe her forehead.

  Sephaltina had one group of visitors early in the morning: Orris, Quinnea and Antrobus. Antrobus carried a bunch of flowers and a box wrapped up in pink paper.

  ‘How is my poor daughter-in-law?’ Quinnea asked.

  Col repeated what Hatta had said. Quinnea fluttered all around the patient, murmuring, ‘We can’t lose her now. We just can’t. I couldn’t bear it.’

  Col changed the subject. ‘What’s happening with the juggernaut?’

  ‘Your sister has become the main organiser,’ said Orris with a touch of pride. ‘She’s in charge of all kinds of things.’

  ‘So active.’ Quinnea raised a hand to her brow. ‘She makes me tired just looking at her.’

  ‘The Filthies don’t object to her being in charge?’ Col asked.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Orris. ‘There’s a different attitude since the radicals were overthrown. Nobody wears a red armband any more.’

  ‘What about the Imperialist juggernauts?’

  ‘They haven’t attacked yet.’ Orris stroked his long jaw. ‘But it could happen at any moment. The Austrian juggernaut moved in closer overnight.’

  ‘We’re praying they’ll wait another twenty-four hours.’ Quinnea turned to her husband. ‘Tell him, dear.’

  ‘I’ve been selected to take part in a mission.’ Orris actually smiled. ‘We’re going to break into the Romanov from underneath.’

  Col was amazed – and envious. ‘Why you?’

  ‘Because I learned a little Russian once.’ Orris composed himself for speech. ‘Dobre den. That means, ‘hello’.’

  ‘Ah, right.’ Col had never even considered the language problem. Of course, the team would need to communicate with the Romanov’s Filthies in Russian.

  He turned to his mother. ‘You don’t mind him going?’