The Gods and their Machines Page 3

  ‘I’ll sort it tomorrow,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Mr Shamiel? Are you alright?’

  Chamus could see the paper from where he was standing; it was a telegram. He couldn’t read most of it, but he recognised the word ‘Yered’. He had seen it somewhere before, but could not place where. Then he remembered, the town in the Fringelands that had been bombed. Had Shamiel known someone there?

  ‘I’ll sort it tomorrow,’ the old caretaker repeated and gave him a baleful look.

  Chamus nodded and closed the door.

  ‘What are you hanging about for, Aranson?’ a familiar voice asked from behind him.

  He turned around, standing wearily to attention.

  ‘Someone broke into my locker, Mr Morthrom. I was reporting it to Mr Shamiel, sir.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Mr Shamiel looks upset, sir,’ Chamus added softly. ‘Is he alright?’

  Part of him was sympathetic, but the vindictive side of him wanted to hear if the old goat had received some bad news.

  ‘How should I know?’ the teacher replied. ‘Mr Shamiel’s problems are his own business.’

  He took Chamus’s arm and led him away from the door.

  ‘You’d do well not to concern yourself with the likes of him,’ Morthrom muttered. ‘The only reason the whole lot of ’em haven’t been fired since these attacks started is because he’s been here longer than the bloody building has. Steer clear of them.’

  ‘But he has nothing to do with the terrorists, does he, sir? I mean, the police held him for a week after the hangar was hit and they didn’t find anything on him. And he only got out because the headmaster insisted–’

  ‘They’re not stupid, you know, boy. You can see that, you know what I mean, you’ve suffered at their hands. They’ve got an animal cunning. They cover their tracks well. Some of the other teachers and I have already begun taking measures to see he and the others are removed. They’re watching us, while they clean our windows and mop our floors. You’ve got to keep your eyes open, boy, because one day they’re going to try and overturn this great country, and we must be prepared.’ He looked around as they walked outside. ‘We’ve made it too easy for them. Given them the same rights as a normal person, let them get educated in our schools. We’ll be letting them vote soon, for God’s sake. You wait and see!’

  He turned and put his hands on Chamus’s shoulders.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, boy. You’re thinking, “this old sod’s lost it”. But what I’m telling you is the hard truth. I’m not a bigot, I’m a reasonable man, but I’m not afraid to speak the truth, unpopular though it may be. Look at the way they put some kind of curse on their assassins, some ungodly power from the dead! Black magic, devil worship, that’s what they believe in, that’s what’s important to them. And they’re jealous of what we have, but they’re still just too damned primitive to achieve it themselves, so they don’t see why we should have it either. That’s what it comes down to, boy. We’re victims, victims of envy.’

  Chamus pulled the strap of his satchel onto his shoulder, so Morthrom had to move his hand.

  ‘I have to go, sir, I’ll miss the train.’

  ‘You go on, boy. But remember what I said. We have to be prepared. Keep your eyes open.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  Morthrom nodded and turned to walk back inside. Chamus waited until he had gone inside before heading for the gate. He didn’t like the man. He was obviously a bit paranoid, but some of what he said made sense. The terror of the attack in the hangar played on his mind and he thought about the Fringelanders who worked at the school, and who worked in so many of the down-and-dirty jobs around the city. They were everywhere. A four-engine bomber passed overhead, its glass bubble of a cockpit and bulging gunner’s turret like the eye of an insect, its shadow flitting along the ground of the yard like a wraith. He watched it disappear over the roof of a tram depot and stared at the empty sky for a while. In the quiet hole left behind its engines, he heard the murmuring again. He strode out of the yard and made for the comforting noise of the railway station.

  Thomex Aranson sat in his wheelchair, listening to organ music on his record player. He was in the converted dining room at the back of the house, working on his model railway, which took up most of the large room and a sizeable chunk of the house’s electricity bill. Chamus loved that train set and the landscapes that his grandfather created to run the trains through. All the bridges, grassy hills, and brick and stone buildings were made from scratch, using papier mâché, wood and other bits and pieces. Model animals, cotton-wool bushes and pipe-cleaner trees added a touch of nature to the environment. And, of course, there was an aerodrome, complete with model aeroplanes. His grandfather put the trains together himself, making bodies to fit over the working parts. The planes were perfectly scaled, hand-built models, made to help in the design of aircraft that his workshops would build.

  Chamus walked through into the ‘railway room’ and sat down by the side of the massive table. He was sitting near the area that mimicked the Fringelands’ landscape, set lower than the main area, which was raised to imitate the group of plateaux that made up the state of Altima. The Fringelands’ section was open and wild, with few roads and a single railway line winding up into rocky, papier mâché hills. He watched a miniature of one of the new diesel locomotives chatter along the line, waiting for his grandfather to finish gluing the roof to a passenger car.

  ‘How was school?’ Thomex asked, turning down the music.

  Chamus shrugged. It was the kind of question adults always asked. As if every day in school wasn’t the same as every other day – unless there was flying. No two flying days were ever alike.

  ‘We didn’t fly,’ he said simply. ‘Navigation exam.’

  ‘How did you do?’

  ‘Not very well. I couldn’t remember how long a nautical mile was. Or name half the stars. I think I failed.’

  His grandfather snorted.

  ‘Used to learn all that stuff in the cockpit. You learned it faster when mistakes got you lost. Remember once, when I was starting out, I got latitude and longitude mixed up, reading coordinates. Was looking for a landing strip and found a pig farm.’

  ‘What happened?’ Chamus asked.

  ‘Had to land in the field, was out of fuel. Scared the pigs witless, farmer came out to me with a pitchfork, threatened to skewer me. Calmed him down in the end, walked to a nearby town for some fuel and came back. But he was still mightily annoyed about me scarin’ his swine. He made me buy a small pig before he’d let me take off. So, I put the pig in the front seat, strapped it in and took off. They say pigs are clean animals, even though they live in muck, but I can tell you that a terrified pig can produce plenty of muck all by itself. That was a hairy flight that one, with a screaming pig thrashing around and dirtying itself in the front seat. I had to punch a hole in the floor and clean the cockpit out with a hose when I got back. Cockpits don’t come equipped with drainpipes. The plane was that old rag-wing I started out with and the smell soaked into the canvas walls. It stunk for weeks. Everyone had a good laugh too, at the sight of my co-pilot there with his snout and his curly tail. They put a pair of flying goggles on him and made him the company mascot for a while. But he got eaten some time later, as I remember. Anyway, I never got latitude and longitude mixed up again.’

  Chamus sat listening with a smile on his face. Grandad always had good stories.

  ‘Grandad,’ he piped up, ‘have you ever been out in the Fringelands? Apart from when you crashed, I mean.’

  ‘You mean on the ground? Years ago,’ the old man said. ‘It was interesting, an experience, if you want to call it that. Flew missions during the Separation War over Nathelem, of course. Stayed with the air force after the war, flying transports. Had to fly people out to airfields out in Bartokhrin and Majarak. Traders and such like, some tourists too. The Fringelanders are a hostile lot. Don’t like us much – at least not the lads in the air
force. They put up with people who are bringing in business, but then they resent the same folks for coming in and throwing money around. Get offended easily, and you can’t always figure out why.

  ‘The religious ones are the worst and they’re pretty much all religious. Like the terrorists, they think God’s on their side. Or at least their god … or goddess, or whatever it is. They’re always having a go at Altima and the way we live, but then thousands of ’em are happy enough to come here looking for work. It’s hard to tell ’em apart, the ones who want to kill us all and the ones who just don’t like us. They live hard, savage lives and it’s made ’em hard and savage themselves.’

  Listening to his grandfather, Chamus found himself thinking of the Fringelanders he knew, men and women who had come to the city to work. He had never really thought of them as savage. But then maybe he had been afraid to think badly of them, because his mother and father were always telling him not to judge people because of where they came from, or what they looked like. Maybe he had assumed they were all decent and peaceful, because to think they weren’t was to be racist. He remembered what Morthrom had said and wondered where the line was between racism and honesty.

  His mother called them from the kitchen, telling them that dinner was ready. Chamus pushed his grandfather’s wheelchair down the hall and breathed in the smells of lamb chops, mint sauce and potatoes. He sat down at his father’s side at the table and noticed the newspaper in his hands. On the front page was the headline, ‘Mystery Plague Sweeps Across Bartokhrin’. With any luck, Chamus mused, it’ll wipe the bloody country clean.

  The belasto was a set of three weighted balls, each attached to the end of a piece of cord; the other ends of the cords tied together in a three-way knot. When thrown with skill, the balls stretched the spinning cords taut and wrapped them around the neck, or legs, of an animal. Riadni watched the drim deer topple over as her belasto tied up its rear legs. It was an excellent throw; her belasto only had wooden training weights and would not normally have brought down a deer. But she had practised hard with them, annoyed that all her brothers, even Jarin, had moved on to the steel weights of a hunter.

  ‘Good,’ her father nodded, urging his horse forward. ‘Your throws are getting better, but you should go for the neck on the smaller animals.’

  He set off at a trot, holding on with just his knees and feet as he fed powder into his musket. Riadni watched and knew he was showing off for her. He could have loaded his gun while he waited for her to make her throw. Rumbler took off after the other horse without waiting to be told. The deer was struggling to get to its feet, its sharp-pronged horns thrashing dangerously. Sostas aimed his musket and fired at the gallop, hitting the deer square in the head – showing off again. Riadni could not help but give a smile.

  She slowed Rumbler down and vaulted lightly from his back. Unwinding the belasto, she looped it back around her waist where it was carried and helped her father hoist the carcass onto the back of his horse. She made to get back on Rumbler’s back, but Sostas took hold of the old warhorse’s bridle and stroked his neck. She stopped and looked at him.

  ‘These men, the ones who are coming to stay on our land,’ he said, ‘I want you to stay away from them.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Papa,’ she replied, then turned to put her foot in the stirrup.

  ‘Listen to me when I’m talking to you, girl,’ his voice had an edge to it. She froze, and swivelled back to face him.

  ‘I know you’ll want to go and see what they’re doing out there, but you are not to go near them. I don’t want you looking for them, I don’t want you talking to them, I don’t even want you to mention them to anyone. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes,’ Riadni leaned against her horse, looking under the fringe of her wig at her father. ‘If you’re so unhappy having them here, why are you letting them stay?’

  As she said it, she caught the sharp look he gave her and she remembered again how much he let her get away with compared with the other girls’ fathers. He gazed out towards Sleeping Hill, where even now the Hadram Cassal were making camp. He had seen Altiman fighters in the sky that morning, and the sight had left him feeling anxious.

  ‘There are things that have to be done sometimes, Riadni, that are not right. Some people, like the priest, Brother Fazekiel, believe that the Altimans can be reasoned with, that they hate us because they don’t understand us and all it will take to sort out this mess is for both sides to sit down and talk. But peaceful means will only get you so far. There are times when we have to do horrible things in order to be free to live a decent life. You have to kill to eat. You have to fight to win peace. And Shanna knows, sometimes you have to do much worse things just to be left alone by people who would take away everything that is important to you. Lakrem Elbeth and his men have the courage to do these things. There is a great cost to them. They give their lives for us. I would help them in any way I can. But I do not want you, or the boys, involved. If there is one reason for believing in their fight, it is so that the five of you will have a better future than your mother and I. Because Lakrem Elbeth and his men have no future – other than a place in history. Where they go, our enemies will follow, they bring danger like a dog brings its tail. Now, promise me that you will have nothing to do with them.’

  ‘I promise, Papa.’

  Sostas Mocranen split away from his daughter on his way home to visit the caves where Elbeth and his men were settling in. He told Riadni to go straight home, but she decided to make the most of the fresh afternoon and let Rumbler have his head. The old warhorse set off at a gallop and Riadni, careful to look around and check that nobody could see her, pulled off her headscarf and wig so that her long, dark hair could whip free in the wind.

  Rumbler’s feet pounded away, but his movement was light and easy, eating up the distance to the hills ahead of her. She hunched low and forward, her behind barely touching the saddle as she leaned her weight into the run, her body moving in time with the horse’s strides. She would ride along the trail in the foothills and avoid the road, and people, for as long as possible. Rumbler found the narrow trail that cut up into the rock face and followed it, anticipating her thoughts without her having to steer him. There was a sharp turn in the gully and Rumbler suddenly skidded to a halt, nearly throwing her. She was about to shout at him when she heard the sound of a horse coming from the other direction. She shouted to warn them that she was there.

  ‘Hey! Watch out!’

  The hooves kept coming at the same pace and she edged Rumbler as far to the side as she could, but it wasn’t going to be enough. She started backing up, but horses don’t reverse very easily. The oncoming rider came around the bend on a chestnut mare and nearly piled into her. Both horses reared and the other rider tumbled backwards out of his saddle. He hit the ground with a thud, but immediately leapt to his feet, knife in hand. Riadni looked down at him in amusement.

  ‘I hope you’re better with a knife than you are with a horse, or you’re going to embarrass yourself twice in one day.’

  He was a boy, not much older than her, perhaps sixteen, with a mop of brown hair, startling blue eyes and nut-brown skin. He scowled up at her, then his eyes went wide and he laughed.

  ‘Better to be unhorsed than undressed,’ he retorted.

  Riadni gasped and went bright red beneath the make-up. Her wig! She tried to gather her hair up with one hand as the other pulled her headscarf and wig from the saddle behind her. The boy looked away, embarrassed for her as she fumbled to put them on. He picked up his fallen hat and dusted it off.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, ‘I thought you were a boy at first, then …’ He shrugged.

  Riadni finished tying her scarf and dropped down out of the saddle to guide Rumbler back down the path out of the boy’s way. He held his horse’s bridle, talking to it and calming the mare down for a minute, before climbing onto its back.

  ‘Are you one of Elbeth’s men?’ Riadni asked.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked suspi
ciously. ‘What are you doing out here on your own, anyway?’

  ‘Sostas Mocranen is my father,’ she snapped. ‘The land below is ours and I can ride wherever I want, on my own or not.’

  ‘Ah, Mister Mocranen,’ he nodded. ‘They said he had a wildcat for a daughter.’

  ‘Well, “they” should watch their mouths,’ Riadni said, getting back into her saddle. ‘The last boy to call me names lost a tooth, and he was older than you. Anyway, aren’t you a bit young for a freedom fighter?’

  ‘You’re never too young to fight,’ he muttered, suddenly serious again.

  ‘“You’re never too young to fight”,’ she mimicked, a smile creeping onto her face, ‘never too young to scrap with other cowherds and stable boys, sure. But fighting the Altimans – that’s different. They’ll kill you from a thousand feet in the air. You won’t even see their faces.’

  ‘I’ll go to their cities. I’ll see plenty of faces there,’ he said. ‘That’s what we train for. I’m not ready yet, but when Master Elbeth says I’m ready, then I’ll go.’

  Riadni wanted to mock his seriousness, but she didn’t. He was proud and determined and she found that interesting. He was different from the other boys she knew; he was more than just a farmer’s son, or a herdsman; he had purpose.

  ‘And how long will that take?’ she asked. ‘Should I be careful riding up to sharp bends for the next few months? Start wearing a helmet?’

  ‘Only if you are going to keep on riding around with your modesty exposed,’ he grinned. ‘Not that I’m complaining, of course.’

  She blushed again.

  ‘I would … please don’t tell anyone about that,’ she begged. ‘My father would be really upset. The whole village would–’

  ‘I won’t tell a soul,’ the boy assured her. ‘I’ll keep your hair to myself. You have my word.’

  ‘How do I know your word is any good?’ Riadni sniffed.