They left the scoop and fell in behind Riff. In single file, they marched over short, bristling grass, detouring around hummocks and clumps of trees. Insects clicked and ticked, undergrowth rustled, small flying things whirred past in the dark. It was all far more alive than Col would ever have imagined.
‘What’s that?’ exclaimed Riff, coming to an abrupt halt.
The Romanov’s hull was a dark, blank wall across the night – but now, viewing from ground level, they could see a glimmering strip of light at the very bottom. It shone out between the caterpillar tracks, from underneath the hull.
‘I see shadows moving.’
‘Russians.’
‘What are they doing down there?’
‘Don’t know.’
The march resumed. They left the trees behind and trudged over a marshy area. Then Riff froze again. Following the line of her gaze, Col saw a shape like a lump of mud sticking up. Very, very slowly, it moved.
‘What the . . .’ Dunga whistled under her breath.
‘Leave it alone,’ Padder advised.
Riff had other ideas. ‘I want to take a look.’
‘Why?’
‘Just because. Wait here if you want.’
In the end, everyone chose to follow Riff across the boggy ground. The thing moved again, then again. A furrow in the mud marked its progress.
Did Riff know what it was? A wild notion began to form in Col’s mind as they approached. The thing looked more and more human . . . more and more like one particular human.
‘Lye’s little spy,’ said Dunga.
It was impossible yet true. Mr Gibber appeared to have lost the use of an arm and a leg, never once raising his head as he dragged himself along. From top to toe, he was exactly the same colour as the mud on which he crawled.
‘What’s he saying?’ asked Cree.
They gathered round. Mr Gibber continued to plough slowly forward as though they weren’t there. He was muttering a single word over and over to himself.
‘Crawling . . . crawling . . . crawling . . . crawling . . .’
‘He’s out of his mind,’ said Jarvey.
‘He shouldn’t be alive at all,’ said Padder.
Col traced Mr Gibber’s telltale furrow back in the direction of the trees they’d just passed. ‘The branches must have broken his fall. I thought he’d come down in a clump of trees.’
Riff nodded. ‘The Russian officers made very sure Lye and Shiv were dead. But they never got around to shooting Mr Gibber.’
Col bent down and spoke very close to Mr Gibber’s ear. ‘Hello, Mr Gibber! We never expected to see you still alive.’
Mr Gibber stopped saying ‘crawling’ and said something that sounded like ‘No’.
‘We’re from Liberator. I’m Col Porpentine.’
‘Can’t hear, can’t see, can’t think,’ Mr Gibber muttered into the mud. ‘Not alive.’
‘Of course you’re alive.’
‘I fell and died. Corpse of Mr Gibber. Turning back to earth. Eaten by worms. Ugh.’
‘What did I say?’ Jarvey shrugged. ‘Out of his mind.’
‘Not surprising after what he’s been through,’ said Orris.
‘How long has he been without food and water?’ asked Cree.
‘A day and a half,’ answered Riff. She pointed to Mr Gibber’s muddy mouth, which was almost touching the ground. ‘Though he probably found water.’
Col had to keep changing position as Mr Gibber continued to drag himself along. ‘Where are you going, Mr Gibber?’
‘Eternal rest. Nothingness. Earth to earth. Worms and maggots.’
Then his head butted up against Padder’s shins. Still he continued to press mindlessly forward, while Padder continued to block his way.
‘Crawling . . . crawling . . . crawling,’ he muttered.
Finally his head slid off to the side, and, as if following its lead, he laboured along in a new direction.
Col rose to his feet. ‘He won’t stop. I think he believes he’s a worm.’
‘We’ll have to leave him,’ said Cham. ‘The mission comes first.’
‘Let’s point him in a better direction before we go,’ said Col.
With help from Dunga, he took hold of Mr Gibber under the chest, lifted and turned him around. Though they tried to be gentle, he moaned and groaned pitifully.
‘Broken bones there,’ said Dunga.
At least Mr Gibber was now crawling in the direction of their own juggernaut.
‘Can we spare him something to eat?’ Cree suggested. ‘The Russian Filthies won’t miss what they don’t know about.’
Riff nodded, and opened up the canvas bag she was carrying. She drew out a pack of biscuits and passed it across to Cree, who crouched down beside Mr Gibber and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
‘He’ll find it there if he recovers his mind.’
‘If,’ said Riff, and turned to go. ‘Okay, we’ve wasted enough time.’
They crossed a small gully and came to an area of prickly bushes, where they had to zigzag constantly. One time a bird shot up out of a bush with a great flapping of wings – and everyone jumped.
Riff peered ahead to the glimmering light at the bottom of the Romanov. ‘I know what they’re doing,’ she said. ‘They’re repairing the tracks.’
It made sense to Col. Of course, the Russians would be in a hurry to have their juggernaut moving again.
Peering ahead himself, he now realised that the light shone out from many separate bulbs rigged up beneath the Romanov’s underbelly. Thirty or forty dark figures moved about among the caterpillar tracks. They were all stooping because the underbelly came down so low to the ground.
Riff led the team around in the shadows to the left of the light. Closer and closer they came, moving more and more cautiously. The ground was churned up in some places, compacted and hard in others. Smells of crushed vegetation mingled with smells of oil and metal.
At twenty yards distance, they could see that the Romanov’s hull was composed of great metal plates bolted together. Each projecting bolt-head was the size of a double fist. Below the hull, the caterpillar tracks were mounted in parallel pairs and ran over countless tiny wheels. There were many, many sets of tracks all along the side of the juggernaut – and all the way underneath as well.
The team covered the last twenty yards in a sprint, and slipped in under the hull. They continued on until they were well behind the outermost line of tracks.
‘Where now?’ asked Padder in a whisper.
‘Don’t say ‘towards the light’,’ Cree murmured in mock-prayer.
‘Towards the light,’ said Riff. ‘That’s where the access will be.’
They turned and advanced towards the light. It was like a low cavern under the hull. They flitted in silence from the cover of one set of tracks to another. Once, they had to scramble over a broken track that lay trailing on the ground, awaiting repair.
As the light grew brighter, the underbelly became a silvery roof, scraped and polished by all the rock over which the juggernaut had rubbed itself. A harsh spitting sound crackled through the air, along with shouts and commands in incomprehensible Russian.
They stopped on the edge of the repair zone and looked out from the last set of tracks.
The spitting sound came from welding equipment that sprayed out cascading white sparks. There were two separate repair gangs, each made up of officers and workers. The officers carried rifles and wore white uniforms dripping with gold braid. The workers had the hunched stance of Menials and wore what looked like leather harnesses. Naturally, the officers gave all the orders and did none of the work.
But where was the access?
Then they saw it, on the opposite side of the repair zone. There was an open
ing in the underbelly where a metal plate had been slid back; emerging from it, twin pipes descended to the ground, ran horizontally for a few yards, then terminated in twin gaping mouths. The pipes were about six feet in diameter and made of some grey, corrugated, semi-transparent membrane.
Dunga pointed to the armed officer on guard beside the twin mouths. ‘Not good.’
‘Bet he’ll be there all night,’ said Padder.
‘We’ll never get up the pipes while he’s there,’ said Orris.
‘We don’t want to get up the pipes,’ said Riff. ‘They’re for the officers. They’ll probably lead straight up to the Upper Decks.’
‘We need to talk to the Russian Filthies first,’ Col explained. ‘We need to get into the engine-room.’
‘And I think I know the way,’ said Riff.
‘You do?’
‘Listen up.’ Following Riff’s plan, they divided into two groups. Padder and Cham had the task of creating a diversion; everyone else circled around in the shadows and approached the twin pipes from the other side of the repair zone.
‘There.’ Riff pointed upwards and nodded with satisfaction.
It was as she had predicted. Because the pipes were round, they didn’t fit tightly together, but left a small triangular gap where they descended through the access hatch. On this side, the gap was shielded from the sight of the repair gangs.
Riff, Cree, Jarvey, Orris, Col and Dunga formed up in a line and waited. They held their canvas bags and rifles in front of their chests.
‘Yagh! Hai! Yarragh!’
Padder and Cham began yelling and banging metal on metal. The guard beside the pipes swivelled and took a dozen steps in the direction of the sound.
There was no need for any signal. Riff sprinted forward and the others followed. She pushed her bag and rifle up through the gap, grabbed the edge of the hatch and vaulted upwards.
Cree boosted her up from behind. In the next moment, Riff reached back down to help Cree in her turn.
After Cree came Jarvey, then Orris. The diversion continued, but the yelling and banging sounded more distant now.
Only Col and Dunga remained. Col hoisted his bag and rifle up into the gap, where a pair of hands lifted them out of the way. He hooked his fingers over the edge of the hatch and hauled himself upwards. He was more solidly built than the Filthies, and for him it was a tight squeeze.
He was halfway there when he realised there were no helping hands to pull him up from above. Nor anyone to give him a boost from below – Dunga had vanished. He understood why when he felt vibrations against his back.
The vibrations were footsteps descending rung by rung. Someone was coming down in one of the pipes.
He could only freeze and hang on. He moulded himself against the edge of the opening. Was the semi-transparent membrane enough to hide him?
It was like someone climbing down right over his back. The corrugated pipe was reinforced with rings of metal that dug deep into his flesh. Surely he must be making a bump; surely the bump was noticeable?
But no. The vibrations passed over him and continued step by step to the ground. In another moment, the officer had left the pipe without noticing a thing.
Col stayed frozen until Dunga reappeared and gave him a forceful push from below. He almost flew up into the darkness above the hatch.
‘Steady.’ Hands caught him by the arms. ‘Keep to the ridge.’
The air at the bottom of the Russian juggernaut was like concentrated sewage. He blinked and staggered as the stench hit him.
He turned to help Dunga, but someone was already kneeling over the gap. Someone else thrust his canvas bag and rifle into his arms.
He was on a raised ridge between two troughs. Similar troughs spread out in all directions, shallow and rectangular. Whatever liquid was in them gave off the foul sewage stench.
He stepped away and took in the rest of his surroundings. The dim light seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. He had an impression of a vast open chamber, but drive shafts bigger than tree-trunks passed across overhead and blocked his view. Motionless at present, the shafts were a silvery colour, gleaming with oil. The two corrugated pipes went up at a steep angle, then also vanished behind the shafts.
‘Go,’ said Dunga behind him.
The team had begun to advance in single file. Col slung his bag over one shoulder, his rifle over the other, and clapped a hand to his nose as he walked. The ridge was like a causeway, one of many in an intersecting system.
Looking down at the troughs on either side, he almost jumped when he saw things move in the liquid. Was that hard shell or scaly skin? Better not to look too closely. The creatures made soft plopping sounds as they rolled and rotated.
Riff led them in a straight line until the troughs came to an end. Now they faced a towering metal bulwark pierced by apertures at various levels. On the lowest level, which was their level, one aperture glowed with an eerie, greenish light from within.
‘Maybe we’ll find them in here,’ said Riff.
She marched straight in under the arch of the aperture. Orris was behind her, then Cree, then Col. It was like a tunnel, mantled over with knobbly cauliflower growths. The growths appeared to be metallic; at least, they were stained with rust and hard as iron to the touch. Drops of warm water gathered overhead and dripped on their heads and shoulders.
Thirty paces in, they almost jumped out of their skins. A face appeared upside-down, as if hanging from the ceiling.
‘Aii-eee!’
The mouth opened to let out a shrill cry, displaying two rows of filed, sharply pointed teeth. The face belonged to a young girl with a metal band round her neck and blonde hair trailing down in two long pigtails.
They barely had time to register that this was one of the Russian Filthies. It was impossible to interpret her upside-down expression. She was gone before anyone could produce a friendly smile – or before Orris thought to try out his Russian.
When they arrived at the place where the face had appeared, they discovered an opening in the ceiling. The tunnel had brought them to the bottom of a circular well with a ladder going up. The source of the greenish light was a lamp behind wire mesh, recessed into the wall.
They climbed the ladder. There was no sign of the girl or any other Russian Filthy. At the top they stepped off into a second passage similar to the first. At least they were leaving the sewage smell behind.
Eventually, this passage opened out into another vast chamber. Here, instead of drive shafts, were great cogs and wheels suspended overhead. Cogs meshed with cogs in a bewildering intricacy of different sizes and mountings. Some of the wheels were connected by chains, others by belts on drums.
Nothing they could see was moving, yet there was a constant sound of machinery.
Whish-gaah! Whish-gaah! Whish-gaah! Whish-gaah!
It was like the slow wheeze and pant of some immense sleeping beast. Perhaps it came from the whole length and breadth of the Romanov’s engine-room.
They moved forward again, under the cogs and wheels. All directions looked the same, all dim and shadowy.
‘Maybe we should call out,’ Orris suggested.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Riff. ‘Okay, on the count of three.’
‘How do we call in Russian?’ asked Jarvey.
‘Just shout anything,’ said Riff. ‘One. Two.’
They filled their lungs, but they never got to shout. Suddenly they realised that a host of figures had materialised out of the shadows. They were surrounded on all sides.
The Russian Filthies were shorter and stockier than their counterparts from Liberator. They were half-clothed in rags, as Liberator’s Filthies had once been, with signs and markings painted on their grimy skin. They wore ornaments as well: old bits of wire or metal strips bent into shape as bracele
ts, anklets and collars. The women and girls all had pigtails, while the males had beards or the beginnings of beards. Both sexes had teeth filed to needle-sharp points like those of the girl who had startled them in the tunnel.
She was there too, standing with a swagger, bold as brass. She looked to be about twelve or thirteen years old. Her face was broad, and her ears stuck out even further. She seemed very pleased with herself.
The expressions of the other Russian Filthies were more menacing and malevolent.
Col gave his father a nudge. ‘Speak to them.’
Orris took a step forward, assumed his most serious expression and said, ‘Dobre den.’
Instant pandemonium broke out. The Russian Filthies yelled, screeched and shook their fists.
‘No weapons!’ cried Riff, as Dunga and Jarvey instinctively reached for their rifles. ‘Look harmless. Look friendly.’ She turned to Orris. ‘You must’ve said it wrong.’
Orris shook his head, flapping his jowls. ‘I’m sure those are the words for ‘hello’.’
‘Try again.’
Orris forced a smile and put his hand on his heart. The effort to appear both friendly and sincere made his eyes bulge alarmingly. ‘Dobre den,’ he said in a slow, clear voice.
The words produced a different reaction this time. Now the Russian Filthies shrieked with laughter, beating their hands on their thighs in helpless hilarity.
‘Better,’ said Riff.
‘They still don’t understand,’ said Orris sadly.
‘It must be the accent,’ Col told his father. ‘You learned to speak like the Upper Decks Russians.’
‘Right. Same as I had to change my accent.’ Riff swung back to Orris. ‘Try saying it a different way.’
‘What way?’
‘Different.’
Orris tried saying it through his nose, then pinching his lips, then from the back of his throat. ‘Dobre den. Dobre den. Dobre den.’
The Russian Filthies turned to one another and began gabbling nineteen to the dozen. They seemed to be arguing, everyone talking over the top of everyone else.
Liberator Page 27