Liberator

by Richard Harland

  ‘At least they’ve got the right idea,’ said Col.

  ‘What idea is that?’ asked Riff.

  ‘That he’s using language to communicate.’

  Riff let out a snort of frustration. ‘Say something else to them,’ she told Orris.

  Orris reflected for a moment, then brought out a whole sentence. ‘Biem chelom Vashim Imperatorskim Velichestvam, Tsar Aleksandr Shestoi i Tsarina Katerina.’

  The Russian Filthies didn’t like that sentence at all. They growled and showed their teeth.

  ‘I think they understood.’ Orris nodded with satisfaction.

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Riff.

  ‘Humble greetings to your Imperial Highnesses, Tsar Alexander the Sixth and Tsarina Katerina.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ Riff groaned. ‘The only thing we didn’t want them to understand. Let’s try the gifts.’

  They emptied out their canvas bags and displayed the contents on the ground. As well as fancy foods, there were scissors, spoons, cups, combs, mirrors, rings and necklaces.

  ‘For you,’ said Riff, and made gestures of passing the gifts across.

  The Russian Filthies understood. They came forward with caution – all except the young girl, who gave a whoop and rushed in to snatch up a spoon. With both hands, she bent it round in a circle, then slipped it over her wrist as a kind of bracelet.

  Her example encouraged the others. One by one, they darted forward to pluck up a titbit or trinket.

  Riff pointed to herself, then to the Russian Filthies.

  ‘Us. Same as you,’ she said.

  The young girl tapped her own chest. ‘Unya,’ she said.

  ‘That must be her name,’ said Col. ‘She thought you were naming yourself.’

  ‘Riff.’ Riff pointed once more to herself.

  The girl pointed at Riff, and grinned. ‘Riff-ff. Riff-ff.’

  Riff waved an arm to include the whole team. ‘Filthies.’

  ‘Filth-ees,’ Unya repeated. She spread both arms to encompass all the Russian Filthies. ‘Svolochi.’

  ‘Svolochi?’

  Unya nodded violently up and down. ‘Svolochi.’

  ‘Dobre den,’ said Orris.

  The girl screwed up her face quizzically, then suddenly clapped her hands. She turned to the others and repeated the words with a different pronunciation. ‘Dobre den! Dobre den!’

  The ice was broken; now everyone understood. Again Riff indicated the team.

  ‘Us,’ she said. ‘No Tsar. No Tsarina.’

  She shook her head to communicate the negative. Orris found a word for it.

  ‘Nema Tsaria,’ he said. ‘Nema Tsarina.’

  The svolochi started to giggle, and seemed to think it was a joke.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Orris. ‘I can do it. Mi prishli . . . mi prishli vladet.’

  The giggling died away, replaced by expressions of gawping disbelief.

  ‘I told them we rule,’ Orris explained. ‘We’re the rulers.’

  ‘I’ll show them.’ Riff unslung her rifle and directed it upwards, towards the Upper Decks of the Romanov.

  ‘Mi prishli vladet.’ She produced a perfect imitation of what Orris had said. ‘Bang! Bang! Bang!’

  The svolochi watched with growing curiosity and a glint of eagerness.

  ‘They know about rifles,’ Col guessed. ‘But only in the hands of their oppressors.’

  He raised his own rifle and squinted along the sights as if taking aim at a Russian officer high above. ‘Bang!’ He squeezed the trigger with the safety catch on.

  The whole team joined in the dumb show, aiming and pretending to fire, cheering and beating their chests in token of triumph. After a while, the svolochi got swept up in the mood and began cheering and chest-beating too.

  ‘Mi prishli vladet!’ they shouted. ‘Mi prishli vladet!’

  They reached out for rifles to try for themselves.

  ‘Yes, let them,’ said Riff. ‘With the safety catches on.’

  For several minutes, it was a wild scene of pretend shooting and cheering and dancing around. The svolochi aimed their barrels upwards at imaginary targets and squeezed furiously on the triggers. The fact that the rifles remained silent didn’t seem to bother them.

  Col grinned at Riff. ‘I think they like the idea.’

  But someone must have jogged a safety catch from on to off. Suddenly a shot rang out.

  Crack! Zwang! Zwang!

  The bullet ricocheted from the metal overhead, then ricocheted again. There was a howl of pain, and two of the svolochi tumbled to the floor.

  One was the woman who had accidentally fired the gun. Knocked backwards by the recoil, she was more surprised than hurt. The other was a male with a bushy black beard who had been hit by the bullet itself. He lay howling and thrashing and clutching his shoulder.

  Everyone gathered around. Col went to examine the wound, but Dunga held him back. ‘No, let them do it.’

  In fact, the wound hardly deserved so much howling and thrashing. When Blackbeard at last allowed them to look at his shoulder, they could see that the bullet had penetrated no more than an inch deep. The double ricochet had taken all the speed off it.

  It was Unya whose small nimble fingers performed the surgery. She nipped the end of the bullet between her fingertips and pulled it out with a swift jerk.

  ‘Yarrraghh!’ Blackbeard’s howl surpassed all his previous efforts.

  He sat up with an aggrieved look on his face and glared at the offending rifle, which now lay on the ground where the woman had dropped it. He lurched to his feet, went across and kicked it. Then he stamped on it. He seemed to regard it as a personal enemy.

  Then he began lashing out at other rifles in other hands. There were no protests from the svolochi. Perhaps Blackbeard was a person of special importance, or perhaps the rifles’ dangerous power had unnerved them all. One by one, the weapons clattered to the ground.

  Of the team members, only Dunga still had possession of her own rifle. When Blackbeard came up to her, Riff called out a warning: ‘Don’t fight.’

  Dunga dropped her rifle even before Blackbeard could knock it from her hands.

  ‘And we were doing so well,’ Orris lamented.

  ‘Not any more,’ said Cree.

  Indeed, the mood had changed again. Blackbeard shouted something in Russian, and the svolochi closed in aggressively. Another shout, and the team was hustled across the chamber.

  ‘Looks like we’re prisoners,’ said Col.

  They were moved to a nearby room, where the girl Unya took sole charge of them. They could have easily overpowered her, so they weren’t exactly prisoners. But what was the point in trying to escape, when the aim of their mission was to win the Russian Filthies over?

  The room was a bewildering maze of pipes. Copper pipes circled the walls low down; lead pipes ran round higher up and across the ceiling. The lead pipes were crusted with white sediment and tiny stalactites, dripping constantly. Some internal heat warmed the copper pipes.

  Unya divided up the team and arranged them on different sides of the room. The places she chose were the few places where there were no drips of water. Col shared a dry spot with Riff between an array of copper pipes and a drainage grille.

  ‘Liazhesh.’ Unya ordered. ‘Liazhesh!’

  Riff looked to Orris, but he shook his head. Unya leaned over as if preparing to lie down, then folded her hands against her cheek as if for sleep.

  ‘Ask her what’s going to happen to us,’ Riff said to Orris.

  Unya shook her head and put her finger to her lips. ‘Babya,’ she said. ‘Zavtra.’

  ‘I think ‘zavtra’ means ‘tomorrow’,’ said Orris. ‘I don’t know what ‘babya’ means.’

  Unya
imitated the sound of a snore.

  ‘Might as well catch some sleep while we can,’ Riff said.

  She lay down facing the pipes, and Col lay on his back beside the drainage grille.

  ‘What do you think will happen tomorrow?’ he whispered.

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘My plan hasn’t worked.’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself. We’re not finished yet.’ Riff found his hand and gave it a squeeze.

  ‘Sshhh!’ Unya came bounding across from the other side of the room and shushed them furiously. As soon as she saw the contact between their hands, a broad smirk appeared on her face.

  She said something in Russian, and, when Col and Riff didn’t understand, she laughed at it herself. She had a very loud laugh, as loud as her boisterous body language.

  Then she set about arranging their arms and legs according to her own ideas. Her first idea involved rolling Col onto his side and making him cuddle up against Riff’s back as closely as possible.

  ‘She thinks we’re partnered,’ said Riff.

  Unya’s next idea was to drape Col’s arm over Riff’s waist. They were like two dolls for her.

  Col resisted. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not partnered.’

  Unya sniffed and moved away. She went over and shushed Orris, then went and did the same for Jarvey. When Col looked over his shoulder a little later, she was half-sitting, half-lying in the doorway.

  The room was now silent except for the dripping of water and the whish-gaah! of distant machinery. Riff had settled herself into a more comfortable position. Easy for her, Col thought. To survive Below, every Filthy would have had to learn to nap under any conditions.

  Col was sure he would never go to sleep himself – he was too worried about what was happening to Liberator. When would the Imperialist juggernauts attack? By day or by night? He hated to be stuck here, wasting time. He also felt a little guilty that Sephaltina would be left alone far longer than he’d intended.

  At first, he hardly noticed when his arm moved and slid comfortably across Riff’s waist. Only when his hand rested on her hip did he realise he wasn’t doing it himself.

  He blinked, and stared at the arm that was guiding his arm . . . and the bracelet around the wrist, made from a bent spoon. When he twisted over to look behind his back, his eyes met Unya’s.

  She let go of his hand and sat up straight with a cackle of laughter. Then she pointed to Riff, smacked her lips and made gross slurp-slurping sounds. Her version of a kiss. She was trying to encourage him.

  Riff mumbled a drowsy question in her sleep. ‘What is it?’

  Unya laughed so much, she couldn’t slurp-slurp any more. She retreated back to her place in the doorway.

  Riff continued to murmur to herself, without ever waking up. Her murmur sounded like a contented purr in Col’s ears. He realised with surprise that his hand still rested on her hip . . . it seemed glued there, and he couldn’t make himself want to unglue it.

  He broke the spell in the end, though. He removed his hand and went back to his own thoughts. Now he was thinking about Riff and himself . . . would it ever come good between them? How could it ever come good? It seemed like the ultimate cruelty that finally he knew he loved her, finally he knew she loved him, and still they couldn’t come together.

  Why, why had he ever gone through the marriage ceremony with Sephaltina? It was his own fault, he’d known it was wrong at the time, only it hadn’t seemed to matter much then. Was he doomed to pay for the rest of his life?

  His thoughts went round and round in circles, so hopeless and depressing that, in spite of himself, he fell at last into a shallow sleep. When he came back awake, it seemed as if he’d barely closed his eyes.

  His arm was wrapped over Riff’s waist, his hand resting on her hip, exactly as before. Unya up to her tricks again?

  But when he looked over his shoulder, Unya was nowhere near. She was lying across the doorway, stretched out like a dog. So he must have done it himself . . .

  Just a little longer, he thought, letting his arm rest.

  Then Riff snuggled back against him. ‘Don’t move,’ she whispered. ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘You’re awake?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘How long have . . .’

  ‘Don’t move. Nobody can see. Nobody needs to know.’

  He didn’t pull away, but he couldn’t help the tension in his fingers. She covered his hand with hers.

  ‘Relax. It’s meant to be.’

  Col was desperate to believe that it was meant to be. Only he couldn’t quite forget the obstacle in the way. ‘I feel like I’m cheating.’

  ‘Cheating?’

  ‘On Sephaltina.’

  ‘Oh, your little wife-toy. She doesn’t count. She’s not a real person.’

  ‘That’s not fair. She has feelings like anyone else.’

  ‘Like anyone else who’s a spoilt child.’

  ‘She loves me. She really does. I’d forgotten how much, but it’s true. I can’t hurt her.’

  Riff let out a scornful breath. ‘I saw her performance. ‘I’ll die, I’ll die!’ That’s not feelings, that’s manipulation. Can’t you tell the difference?’

  She rolled over where she lay, so that they were face to face. Her mouth was very close to his, her eyes were huge and overpowering.

  ‘You’re so moral,’ she said. ‘You’re still the respectable Upper Decks boy at heart.’

  Col was drowning. It was like the time when she’d been teaching him fighting skills, and they’d both fallen to the floor . . . No! He struggled in vain to summon up an image of Sephaltina on her sickbed.

  ‘You believe in abstract things instead of real things,’ she whispered. ‘Principles instead of feelings.’

  That was partly true, he knew; he would never escape the influence of his old ethics lessons under Professor Twillip. But still . . .

  ‘Sephaltina’s not a principle. And being married is very real for her.’

  The wave was receding. Riff drew back a fraction too.

  ‘Did you find out about getting unmarried?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Col seized on the diversion. ‘It won’t be easy.’

  ‘You want to wait?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But it will be possible?’

  He couldn’t tell an outright lie. ‘No,’ he said miserably.

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Phh! Well, I know where I stand now.’

  A sudden distance had sprung up between them. Riff sucked in her lower lip, and rolled back to face the pipes again.

  Col was in a state of utter confusion. The blood pounded in his brain until everything became a blur. For one moment, the thought passed through his mind: if only Shiv had stabbed a bit more effectively, if only he had struck for the heart . . .

  In the next moment, he was attacked by remorse. That was a terrible thought. He shook his head and turned over to face the doorway.

  I want Sephaltina to recover, he told himself. I’m glad she’s better.

  He heard no further sound from Riff, so he guessed she must have dropped off again.

  When he dropped off himself, a long while later, his sleep was filled with jumbled, vivid dreams. One scene kept repeating: he was in the Imperial Chapel, and Queen Victoria asked, Do you, Colbert Porpentine, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife? And, in the dream, he concentrated hard and said the words that he really meant: I don’t.

  Always the same: I don’t.

  The last time he dreamed those words, a voice started to sing. It was the most beautiful singing he’d ever heard, but it didn’t sound like the kind of song to sing in the Imperial Chapel.

  Then he understood what was wrong – it was in
a foreign language. All at once, he was no longer asleep but wide awake and listening to a real song in a real room with pipes and dripping water.

  He could hardly believe that it was Unya singing. Such a pure, rich voice hardly seemed to fit with her personality. But there she was, sitting cross-legged in the doorway, singing to herself.

  Col wasn’t the only one awake and listening. After a while, Unya realised she had an audience and broke off in mid-song.

  ‘No, go on,’ said Dunga, propping herself up on one elbow. She raised a hand to her mouth, to illustrate sound coming out. Then to her ear, to illustrate listening.

  Unya seemed the last person in the world to be bashful, but she grimaced and giggled and shook her head. Eventually, though, she took up her song again.

  Col had never imagined that anything could be so deep and moving. His main experience of music before the Liberation had been of Gillabeth’s agonisingly correct piano recitals. This was music that made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

  Unya never did get to finish her song, however. This time, one of the svolochi came up and interrupted with an important message. Unya rose and stood in the doorway, nodding as she listened.

  Then she turned back to those in the room. ‘Babya zhdet,’ she explained.

  There was that word ‘babya’ again. Who or what was ‘babya’? Unya beckoned to show they all had to get up and follow.

  Unya and the messenger escorted the team along tunnels and up ladders. It was like a warren of passages burrowed into a mass of solid iron. Finally they emerged into a larger space, where a crowd of svolochi had assembled. On one side, a sheet of water came sluicing down in a perpetual waterfall. Underfoot, the floor was slimy and slippery.

  All eyes were upon the team as they came forward through the crowd. Unya pointed ahead, and breathed one word, ‘Babya’. Her tone suggested awe and reverence.

  Babya was a woman, though at first sight she appeared more metal than flesh. Little of her skin was visible because of the ornaments that encased her like gleaming armour. Bracelets covered the entire length of her arms, multiple rings encircled her neck, bands of brass lapped around her waist and legs. She had copper coils braided in her hair, screws and bolts dangling from her ears, and silver wires woven through her eyebrows. It was a miracle she could stand upright under the weight.