Trent Jamieson - Night's engines

“After the reception, then,” Margaret said.

Kara pressed the button again, and the keening stopped. “Now, I’ve things to attend to. I will see you tonight.”

THE UNDERGROUND 865 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL

The hallways of the Underground leading from one segment to the next were ill lit, in some places almost pitch black. Most of the energy required to keep the lighting running was being funnelled into the defences of the structure, and the construction process itself. Which meant that Medicine Paul didn’t see the fist that hit him in the face, or the next one that had him on his arse.

“What did you do with my nephew?” A light clicked on, and Medicine blinked at the woman holding the torch. He had been waiting for this confrontation for some time, which certainly didn’t mean he had been expecting it here. She was always such a surprising person to deal with.

“Hello, Veronica,” he said. “Nice to see you, too.”

“Where is my nephew?” she said.

“Safe, he is in Hardacre. Cadell took him from the city, there’s a ship called the Collard Green that has been sent to collect him.”

“You did what? That monster, he’s-”

“The only option I had,” Medicine said, getting up.

Another fist was driven into his chest, but he was ready for it, he stepped backwards, and it only clipped him gently.

“Ah, you infuriating bastard.”

He reached out a hand and closed it over her fist. “Trust me, it was all I had left. Your brother-”

“My brother could look after himself, he knew what he was doing.” “Exactly.”

“But he isn’t here, and neither is my nephew, all I have is you.” Medicine nodded. “I know, I know. I blame myself.”

“Are you going to the infirmary?” Veronica said.

“If I wasn’t, I think I might need to go now.”

“I didn’t hit you that hard.”

Medicine smiled. Patted dust from his shoulders, and took a deep breath of the hot, dry air — pungent in a way that had become less apparent as the days had passed. “No, you didn’t, and yes, I am going. I need to be useful.”

“Yes, we all do. It’s coming, isn’t it?”

“Has been for what’s felt like most of my life.”

Veronica nodded. “So Warwick is dead? Really dead?””Yes,” Medicine said. They stood in silence.

“I always told him that politics would be the death of him,” Veronica said.

“Not that I could ever avoid it myself. I’m sorry about what happened to your companions.”

“Thank you. Grappel should not have done what he did.”

“No, I think he made the right choice. Allow Stade’s poison in here, no matter how calm and well reasoned, and we all rot. We might as well open the doors to the Roil.”

He said, “I knew them, they were good people.”

“Good people that killed my brother, and that locked the gates of the city to the refugees, and drove them to Hardacre. You know, Medicine, the day that happened — that was my last day in Mirrlees; I could not breathe the same air as people that might think that was right. When short-sighted pragmatism overrules compassion, when it is lauded as wisdom. We would have struggled, but we could have built something new, something wonderful. Ah, it still burns.”

“That same pragmatism that says it is all right to kill in cold blood those of a different political persuasion.”

“That is different. They made their choices. We all do, I’d die for mine, and I know that you would die for yours.”

They reached the lift that led to the infirmary, Medicine jabbed the button.

“And do not pretend that you haven’t killed for yours,” Veronica said. “In these last days all our hands, including those ruined ones of yours, are drenched with blood.”

“I do not,” Medicine said. “All that I can say is that I am surprised that you didn’t find me until now. My arrival was hardly a secret.”

“I found you,” Veronica said. “Who was it that nursed you to health when you were sick with the northern fever? I made sure that you breathed. I changed your sheets… now, that was pleasant.”

“And you didn’t stay to confront me then?”

“No, I couldn’t stand to see your face.”

“What’s changed?”

“Grappel’s deciding your future,” Veronica said..”

“He’s going to kill me, too?”

Veronica shook her head. “He needs a second in command. What you did, taking those people up from Mirrlees, recapturing the steam engine from the Cuttlefolk.” Medicine could hardly take credit for that; it had been more seizing an opportunity and fleeing for his life.

She said, “It impressed him. He’s going to ask you to join him. I thought I’d let you know first.”

“What? I don’t want authority. I don’t need it. I’m back doing what I should have been doing all along.”

Veronica smiled at him. “We both know that’s a lie,” she said.

The infirmary was always busy. Medicine worked until he was exhausted. This was what he had trained for all those years ago; and now, listening to people, helping them as best he could, he’d found a new joy and a new way of escape from the troubles that beset him. Here he was helping people, even if it was only easing suffering, keeping them alive.

When he was done, still thinking about Veronica’s words, he took the lift back down to his room, sat on his bed and unstoppered the bottle of whisky that Grappel had given him.

When the knock at the door came, he was expecting it.

Grappel’s messenger entered. “He wants to speak to you now,” he said.

Medicine nodded. He knew what he was going to say.

THE CITY OF DRIFT 1401 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL

Margaret sat in her room in the single wooden chair, staring across at the bed and her guns. David had almost immediately gone to sleep — after polishing off several plates of something the Drifters called night-meat, and which David declared was delicious — despite Kara’s warnings. He could take care of himself.

She stood up, stretched, and walked for the door.

Margaret had to get out of there, just for a while, and she wanted to know if she could, if they would let her. There were few people getting about and those that were seemed busy, giving her a glance (they all did that), but hurrying on. She found her way to the entrance; Kara had explained the system of lights that signalled the way, and once you knew to follow the amber globes, it wasn’t difficult at all. The Caress was built into the ground: the hallways and floors ran through it all in a network, more like a circulatory system than a building. Oddly enough, the way out was different from the way in. She passed empty halls, dimly lit, and bustling kitchens filled with heat. There was even a hallway of statues, stern-faced things that Margaret suspected depicted the Mothers of the Sky, though why there were so many she couldn’t fathom.