Jack McDevitt - Eternity Road

The Columbine was indeed a stout vessel, and, at two hundred feet from stem to stern, larger than anything they had ever seen afloat.

They shook hands all around, and Warden explained that the boat was designed to carry cargo rather than passengers. “You understand,” he said, “we have to make do with limited accommodations. But we manage. Yes sir, we manage.” His eyes, which were dark brown, invited them to admire his vessel. “Running time to Brockett’s about thirteen hours. We’ve got one cabin that you can share. You’ll have to use the crew’s bath facilities. It’s located amidships. The crew won’t mind sharing with a woman, Chaka, you need have no fear of that. We’re expecting good weather, so you’ll probably want to spend most of your time on deck anyway. Feel free to look around the boat if you like.”

“We haven’t discussed the fare yet,” said Flojian.

Warden touched the brim of his cap and signaled a crewman. “Shim, see that our passengers want for nothing. And there’s no charge, Flojian. Compliments of the Judge. And the Columbine.”

He excused himself, explaining that he had much to do before they got under way. Shim took Chaka’s bag and showed them to their quarters, which was a plain room with four strung bunks, a table by a porthole, and a couple of lines to hang clothes on. But it was clean, and, as Quait pointed out, it would be out of the rain.

The bulkheads vibrated with unseen power. The vessel felt alive. They went back out on deck, like entranced school children. Sailors cast off lines and smoke billowed out of the twin stacks. The stern wheel started to turn, lifting gleaming water into the sun, and the pier began to slide away. A horseman rode out from behind a warehouse and waved. It was Sak, and they waved back.

Shim took them belowdecks to see the power plant.

It was hot. Two men, stripped to the waist, were feeding logs to a roaring fire in the lower chamber of a boiler. “We pump water into the upper chamber,” Shim explained, having to shout to be heard. “The fire generates steam and the steam turns the wheel. It’s as simple as that.”

Flojian asked for a diagram, and Shim drew one, explaining the process again until Flojian was sure he had it right. “We’ve only had them for a few years,” Shim added. “We used to use sails, oars, poles, and it took days to get to Brocket!.”

Shim was short, stocky, good-natured, and taken with Chaka. No matter who asked a question, he responded to her.

“Who developed the engine?” asked Quait.

“Orin Claver,” Shim told Chaka.

“Claver?” said Flojian. “The man in the balloon?”

“That’s him. Although the truth is, he doesn’t really invent this stuff. That’s what he wants people to think. But what he does is, he finds things in the ruins, figures out how they used to work, and then copies them.”

“That’s no mean feat in itself,” said Flojian.

Later, for the first time since Avila’s death, he looked as if the shadow might have passed. “If we get home with nothing else from this trip, Ms at least gives us some payback for what we’ve lost. It’ll become possible to open up the Mississippi. We’ve always had the problem that the current was too strong. We have a wide river and we were never really able to use it because there was no way to push boats upstream. But this thing, this steam engine, will change everything.”

The Columbine, exclusive of her captain, carried a crew of five, three of whom also served as rangers. “We’ve been shot at from time to time,” the captain admitted, “but we’ve never lost anybody.” Oriskany, he explained, was a Brockesian protectorate, and guarded the western frontier. “The Judge does a pretty good job of patrolling the roads. And she’s tough on robbers. They get shipped to Brockett, where they get sold off.”

“The one we helped catch,” said Chaka, “got shot.”

“That’s because he killed old Hal Rollin. The death penalty is automatic for murder. No questions asked. They publicize that fact and they carry it out within twenty-four hours.”

“What about extenuating circumstances?” asked Chaka.

“There’s no such thing. Unless you mean self-defense, in which case there’s no penalty at all. If you mean that the killer has had a tough life, it’s irrelevant. The Judge makes no exceptions. As a result her roads are reasonably safe.”

Warden didn’t smile much. It might have been the job. The old canal appeared to be comfortably wide, but it was full of debris, broken bridges, downed trees, and other hidden hazards. There was even a house, which had somehow come to rest in the middle of the channel. It was entirely submerged, but Chaka looked down into the still, blue depths and saw a dormer and a chimney.

She used her pack to make a cushion against the deckhouse, and enjoyed the gentle motion of the boat and the proximity of late spring. Rolling hills and furrowed fields slipped by. Deer paused along the shoreline and watched them. There were thick groves of butternuts and red cedars. Children playing in fields stopped what they were doing as the boat passed, and waved frantically.

She saw horse-drawn carriages on the roads, and fishermen in small boats. Houses grew more numerous along the canal as they proceeded east. People came out to watch them goby.

“Captain,” she asked Warden when he reappeared, “tell me about the Hudson.”

“What did you want to know?”

“Does it have an outlet to the sea?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “It’s about 180 miles south.” Flojian had fallen asleep, and Quait was off comparing notes with one of the ranger-crewmen. Warden plumped down beside her. “The Hudson might have been open in the north too at one time. There used to be a canal up there, like this one. Though not as long. But it’s pretty much filled in.”

So far, so good. “Captain, could we hire the Columbine?”

Warden grinned. “To do what?”

“I’m not sure yet. But we may need sea transportation.”

She saw immediately that he would not consider what she was proposing. “Well,” he said, “we’re on a tight schedule, and

I have commitments to customers.” He looked at her quizzically. “Chaka, have you ever been to sea?”

“No. I haven’t.”

“You wouldn’t want to try it in the Columbine.”

“Oh,”

“In fact, I can’t think of a boat anywhere on the river that I’d care to take to sea.” He shook his head. “Maybe the Packer. But she capsized a few months ago. And that should tell you more than you want to hear.”

His eyes grew thoughtful. “I was down there once. At the river’s mouth.” His voice took on an awed tone. “I didn’t like the place much. There’s a Roadmaker city. Like nothing else you’ll ever see.”

She thought of the two she’d already visited. “High towers?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “You’d have to see them to understand.”

The countryside gave way to picturesque villages and spectacular manor houses. They made several stops, unloading handicrafts and taking on barrels of wine. Around noon they picked up more passengers. Once, they encountered a group of naked boys splashing around a raft.

It was, in sum, an uneventful ride, and shortly before sundown they transited a series of ancient fortifications and cruised into the biggest living city Chaka had ever seen: Houses and shops and public buildings and temples and parks occupied both sides of the canal. Crowds roamed the water’s edge, filled outdoor restaurants, watched ball games. Another boat was just backing out into the channel and turning east. Directly ahead the waterway flowed into a river.

The Columbine swung smoothly into dock and Warden came down to say good-bye to his passengers. “If there’s anything else I can do,” he said, “don’t hesitate to ask.”