Liberator

by Richard Harland

  Two days later, a great gathering took place in the Grand Assembly Hall. Filthies, Swanks, convicts and ex-Menials all attended. Riff, Col, Gillabeth, Orris and the remaining Council members stood at the front of the hall, along with six representatives of the Russian Filthies. Unya was one of the six; another was the new svolochi leader, who wore the massive metal ornaments that had once belonged to Babya.

  The hall itself was dimmer than before, with many blank gaps in the lights of the chandelier. The damage caused by exploding torpedo-snouts had added to the damage caused by the original collision. Even the floor had a slight tilt underfoot.

  Gillabeth stood forward to address the meeting.

  ‘The Council has asked me to speak on their behalf,’ she announced. ‘With the help of my father, we’ve been conducting negotiations with the new rulers of the Romanov.’

  She gestured towards the svolochi, and their leader inclined her head solemnly.

  ‘They want to express their gratitude for what we did. They owe their liberation to us, they say.’

  A burst of enthusiastic cheering ran round the hall. Everyone was in high spirits, still bathing in the afterglow of victory.

  Gillabeth stayed calm and crisp and competent. She was in her element, as though she’d been born to this role. Long ago, she’d said she would make a better Supreme Commander than Col ever would, and now she was vindicated. He was proud of her.

  She went on to give a summary of Liberator’s condition and prospects. In short, there were no prospects. The juggernaut’s turbines were unrepairable and its generators were dying. As if to prove her point, the lights flickered even as she spoke.

  Her words dampened the mood in the hall, but only a little. Everyone had known this was coming. They waited to hear the news about the negotiations.

  ‘However,’ said Gillabeth, ‘the Russian juggernaut can be repaired. With a little more work on its tracks, it’ll travel as fast as ever.’ She paused. ‘The Russian Filthies have plenty of room since they let the officers’ families leave. They’re willing to share their juggernaut with us.’

  The hall erupted in wild applause. On and on it continued, with whistles and whoops of delight. Mr Gibber appeared suddenly in front of the assembly and took it upon himself to act as cheerleader.

  ‘Rah! Rah! Rah!’ he yelled. ‘More! More! More!’

  He had one leg in a splint and one arm in a plaster cast. Murgatrude sat on top of the cast, half hidden inside the supporting sling. Mr Gibber waved his other arm like a conductor and incited the crowd to greater and greater heights of enthusiasm.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Gibber,’ said Gillabeth, and quelled him with a meaningful look.

  She spoke again as the crowd quietened. ‘They’ve offered us a combined leadership. They’ll be setting up a new council, and we can have three places on it. Three places out of eight.’

  Padder nodded. ‘Very fair.’

  ‘I think so,’ said Gillabeth.

  She went on to talk about arrangements for the move. She calculated it would take another three weeks to complete repairs on the caterpillar tracks. In the meantime, there were rooms to sort out, personal possessions to choose and carry across, food stores and other stores to transfer.

  Col listened until someone distracted him by taking hold of his arm. It was Unya, popping up suddenly behind him. He stood side by side with Riff, but not close enough to satisfy Unya. She took his right arm in one hand, Riff’s left arm in the other, and tried to twine their arms together.

  Col and Riff laughed. They didn’t exactly resist, but they didn’t help her either. She clicked her tongue with annoyance as their arms kept falling apart. After a while, she began trying to arrange their arms around each other’s waists.

  When Gillabeth stepped back and Gansy stepped forward, Col paid closer attention. This was about long-term planning, he knew, and he was eager to hear the details.

  ‘We’ve been talking about where to go in the Romanov,’ Gansy said. ‘The new combined council will decide, but we’ve been working on a proposal.’

  She carried a scroll of paper under her arm, which she now unfurled and held up. The crowd craned forward to see, though only those closest could distinguish the coloured shapes of oceans and continents. Apart from Gansy and the Swanks, hardly anybody understood how to read a map anyway.

  ‘This’ – Gansy tapped a particular area of green – ‘is North America. It’s a whole continent with almost no coaling stations. The only red dots marked are right at the top or the bottom. There’s only one dot in the middle and it’s black. See here?’ She tapped again. ‘We don’t know if the middle is uninhabited or what. But we think it’s a good sign.’

  ‘That’s where we think we should go,’ said Gillabeth.

  The leader of the svolochi was watching Gansy’s tapping fingers. She clanked her ornaments for attention and spoke out in Russian.

  ‘Vot novaia zemlia gde mi budem zhit v mire.’

  It meant nothing to Col, but his father had clearly been working on his Russian language skills.

  ‘The, er, new place,’ Orris translated, pausing over every word. ‘Life . . . peace . . . to live in peace.’

  The crowd was all in favour of living in peace, and roared its approval. Once more, Mr Gibber began to act as cheerleader, waving his one good arm. He must have ruffled Murgatrude’s composure, or perhaps Antrobus communicated something in silence; at any rate, Murgatrude let out a deep-throated growl, and Mr Gibber desisted.

  Gillabeth took charge again. ‘Any further business?’

  There was no further business – until Unya’s voice rang out. ‘Eti dva dolzhny byt partnerami!’

  Orris struggled to translate. ‘‘These two.’ Something to do with partners.’

  It was Gillabeth who shook her head. ‘No, Unya. Be patient.’ Just for a moment, she sounded less like a supreme organiser and more like a sister. ‘Let them decide in their own time.’

  Patience, however, was not one of Unya’s virtues. She reached up to Col and Riff, and brought their heads together – so suddenly that the top of Riff’s skull banged into Col’s jaw. It wasn’t a kiss but a clash of bone on bone.

  Col rubbed his jaw ruefully, as the entire assembly burst out laughing. The svolochi and their leader laughed loudest of all.

  It was their last night on board Liberator. The ceremony was over and the witnesses had left, closing the door behind them. For a while, Riff’s cabin had been packed with people: Victoria and Albert, Col’s family, Septimus and Professor Twillip, Riff’s parents and – inevitably – Unya. Now only Col and Riff were left.

  Through the porthole, they could see the silver disc of a full moon and a few tranquil banners of cloud. There was no glass in the porthole; during the battle, a loblight had smashed out the glass and left a huge bulging dent in the wall. Cool air as well as moonlight came in through the hole.

  Even apart from the dent, the room looked different inside. Riff had finished transferring her personal possessions to the Russian juggernaut – including the books that were her most valued possessions of all. The empty bookcase, wardrobe, bed and washstand were the only furnishings that remained.

  The two of them stood side by side, casting sharp silhouettes in the circle of light on the floor.

  ‘Our last night,’ said Riff. ‘It’ll be strange to leave.’

  ‘But our first night,’ said Col. ‘You and me.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘We’ll be the same on the Romanov. Better. Because now we’re partnered.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘We’re not partnered.’

  Col didn’t understand.

  ‘There’s more,’ Riff told him.

  ‘But I thought . . . we’ve just done the ceremony before witnesses.’

 
‘The public ceremony. There’s a private ceremony too.’

  ‘You never told me that.’

  ‘Always a private ceremony too,’ she said.

  Col had butterflies in the pit of his stomach. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Exactly the same.’

  ‘Are you making this up?’

  No hint of a grin appeared on Riff’s face. Col had never seen her so serious.

  ‘We’ve made promises in front of other people,’ she said. ‘Now we have to promise each other.’

  ‘Just the two of us?’

  ‘Yes. Really promise. In your heart.’

  She turned to stand facing him. ‘You remember the first thing we promised in public?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No need to say it out loud. Just think it and feel it.’

  Col nodded as she held up her right hand, fingers out- spread. Matching his hand to hers, he slid his fingers between her fingers. They had done the same thing fifteen minutes ago.

  ‘I promise to . . .’ he said automatically, then stopped.

  In your heart, Riff’s eyes reminded him, speaking without words.

  He interwove his fingers even tighter with hers, and continued the promise in silence.

  I promise to put you first in my life in every way. What we make together, no one else can come between.

  They raised their hands, gripping hard to form a single fist. Then they unlaced fingers, dropped arms and stood facing one another again.

  Riff nodded and put her hands on her hips. She leaned forward and blew very gently on his face. He felt the warmth of her breath on his skin, playing over his cheeks and nose and chin.

  I promise you love in four kinds, he thought. Love of the heart, sympathy of the mind, heat of the body, tenderness of the spirit.

  He blew gently back at her. Her hair stirred and her eyelashes quivered. She was looking at him, looking into him. Do you really mean it? she wanted to know. Do you really and completely mean it?

  And he did, he realised. This wasn’t a mere ceremony, this was the actual thing. Not willed or spoken, but the feeling and intention inside himself.

  Riff nodded again, reached out and held him by the elbows. He held her in the same way. Now came the third and last promise.

  He looked into her eyes and saw that the feeling was there for him too.

  I promise to keep no secrets from you. Whatever happens to me, I shall tell you. Whatever happens to you, I shall listen and share.

  They leaned forward and touched foreheads. It was a symbol of telling and sharing, but very close to a kiss. Col couldn’t help the tension in his arms, which transmitted itself to her. He struggled to keep control . . . touching face to face without kissing . . .

  Then she drew back and dropped her hold. His eyes had been closed, but he opened them now. She read and answered his silent question.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, meaning that they were finally, truly partnered. Her solemn expression disappeared and a broad grin spread over her face. ‘That’s the serious part done. You only just lasted it out, didn’t you?’

  The moonlight caught on her cheekbones, and she was beautiful. He could hardly believe the way she looked. What had he ever done to deserve someone like her?

  He reached out to take her hand, and as he did so, the gold wedding ring flashed on his finger.

  He frowned at it. ‘I wish I could take this off.’

  ‘It’s not important.’

  ‘It says I was married before.’

  ‘You’re not married now. You’re partnered. Like Filthy to Filthy. It’s different.’

  And it was, he discovered. Very, very different.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My very special thanks to the following: to Konstantin Sheiko for translating the speech of the svolochi into authentic Russian; to Henri Jeanjean for researching Napoleon’s under-the-Channel tunnel (the plan really happened, but the tunnel didn’t!); to Deirdre Beaumont for volunteer proofreading in desperate last-minute circumstances; to Aileen for the same, and everything else as well; to Rowena Cory Daniells, Maxine MacArthur, Dirk Flinthart, Carol Ryles, Dawn Hort and Laura Goodin for much-valued feedback; to Anthony Lucas for outdoing himself with the most magnificent cover; to Eiko Ojala for more superbly detailed juggernaut illustrations; to Selwa Anthony, as the very best of agents, ever, anywhere. And, last but definitely not least, thanks to the whole team at Allen & Unwin: my publisher, Erica Wagner; my editors, Sarah Brenan and Clare James; Angela Namoi in charge of overseas sales; Liz Bray in charge of marketing; Bruno Herfst the master of graphic design; and everyone in the office or on the road. You’re all wonderful!