Worldshaker 01; Worldshaker Page 6

  “No idea.”

  “Must be millions of ‘em.”

  After a while, they emerged from the racks into a corridor Col recognised.

  “Yes!” he exulted. “Back on track!”

  They met no one else as they descended to First Deck. Col found the place with the steam elevator, then the place where the steps went down to Door 17.

  “I never explored round here,” Riff muttered.

  “You couldn’t have got through anyway,” Col told her. “It’s a special lock. Authorised Personnel Only. Look away.”

  He waited for her to turn her head before he began spinning the wheels. Top wheel to 4, middle wheel to 9, bottom wheel to 2. The steel door unlocked with a sudden clack. Done it!

  Now came another nerve-racking moment. He pushed the door open, just a crack, and peered through. Nobody close by…their luck still held.

  He swung the door wider and entered, with Riff at his heels. She hurried on to hide behind the nearest iron pier, while he closed and locked the door on the inside.

  He rejoined her a moment later. “That way.” He pointed. “Keep to the shadows.”

  Creeping and darting, they moved forward from pier to pier and coal mound to coal mound. They could see officers in pools of light, but all at a distance and occupied with their tasks.

  Col halted behind a final mound of coal. “There it is,” he whispered.

  Surrounded by a semi-circle of sacks and bags, the manhole cover was in relative darkness.

  “That’s where the food comes from?” Riff eyed it thoughtfully.

  “Yes. We’ll open it up, then you jump in and slide down. Easy.” Col hoped she wasn’t having second thoughts, yet he couldn’t help asking, “You really want to go back Below?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “All the smoke and heat and noise.”

  “You’ve seen it, huh?”

  “From one of our viewing bays. But it can’t be as bad as it looks.”

  “It’s worse. Smoke and heat and noise is nothin’. It’s dangerous like you wouldn’t believe. If you ain’t quick down there, you’re dead. But I’d sooner die Below than live half a life like yer Menials up here.” There was a perverse kind of pride in her voice. “Anyway, down there I’m a leader.”

  “Leader? Filthies don’t need leaders.”

  “They do, and I’m one of ‘em. I’m on our Revolutionary Council.”

  The word ‘revolution’ gave Col a jolt. “No!”

  “Yeah. We’re makin’ plans. Didn’t I tell yer? We don’t aim to stay down there for ever.”

  “You’re just boasting.”

  “If you like.” She broke into a grin. “Ready, then?”

  She didn’t wait for his answer, but skipped out to the manhole. Col shook his head and focused on the immediate goal. She was already unfastening one of the bolts.

  He hurried to join her, crouching down opposite. He slid back another bolt, she slid back the third. No time to check what the officers were doing.

  He slid back the final bolt. Then, together, they took hold of the cover and lifted it up on its hinges. It was heavy, but manageable.

  Below was the chute itself: a wide circular pipe that dropped down at a steep angle. Its inner surfaces were shiny and silvery, faintly reflecting a red glow from Below.

  Riff released her side of the cover, but not to jump into the chute. Instead, she moved round to Col.

  “So it’s goodbye,” she said. “I owe you for this.”

  Col was left supporting the full weight of the cover. “I’ll never see you again.”

  “Who knows? You may need my help some time.”

  Col held his tongue. Just go, he thought.

  “You’re okay, Col-bert Porping-tine,” she said, and reached up suddenly with her thin muscular arms. She drew down his head and kissed him on the mouth.

  It was so unthinkable that he stopped thinking. He couldn’t free his hands to push her away. Helplessly, he felt her lips on his. It was as though the whole world narrowed to that one shocking contact: warm, moist, soft…

  Then it was over. She grinned at him.

  “Doesn’t mean we’re partnered or anythin’,” she said.

  She stepped forward into the chute, tucked her arms in at the sides and went down with a whoosh!

  Everything happened so fast, it ran together in his head. His mouth still felt the touch of her mouth even as his eyes saw her hair fly up and vanish down the chute. Gone!

  He stood staring stupidly.

  But not for long. An officer might come by at any moment. He lowered the cover, slid the bolts back into place. His actions seemed remote, as though someone else was performing them.

  Then he hurried away into the shadows and stopped to think about it all. A Filthy kiss! He ran his tongue over his lips. Did it taste of anything? Dirt? Sweat? Grease? He knew it had to taste disgusting.

  It was completely different from kisses that mothers gave their babies on the Upper Decks, or from the pecks on the cheek that women exchanged with other family members. That was only the same as men shaking hands. No one ever kissed like Riff on the Upper Decks. What did it mean? Why would she do a thing like that?

  He rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. No, he needed water to wash it off. But where? It would take ages to get back to his room on Forty-Second Deck. Perhaps there was a tap on one of the lower decks?

  He set off at once towards the steel door. He had to remove the taste before it left a lasting imprint…

  ∨ Worldshaker ∧

  Thirteen

  Returning to his own proper life was like coming out of a strange, dark tunnel. Col vowed he would never do anything wrong or forbidden again. Now he could look forward to starting school on Monday.

  In the meantime, his weekend was filled with a new round of social activities. On Saturday morning, he went along to be introduced to the ladies of his mother’s embroidery club, who met in a room belonging to the Postlefrith family on Fortieth Deck. There were twelve ladies each accompanied by one or more Menial servants. It was the Menials who did the actual embroidering, while their mistresses compared patterns, exchanged tips and gave instructions.

  Col was introduced to Mrs Postlefrith, Mrs Bassimor and a great many other women whose names he couldn’t remember. Quinnea smiled, sighed, fanned herself and bathed in a general glow of successful motherhood.

  Col was embarrassed to be the object of so much admiration. But embarrassment gave way to boredom as the morning wore on. The conversation of the embroidery club soon turned into reports and rumours of who said what to whom. Col would have preferred to discuss Plato and Aristotle and ethics with Professor Twillip. He had to make a deliberate effort to stop from drifting off into thoughts of Riff.

  The afternoon was more interesting because his school equipment started to arrive. Middle-class tradespeople from the manufacturing decks brought each ordered item to Lady Ebnolia Porpentine. Col stowed everything in his new satchel, and inked his initials under the leather flap. Later, his two school uniforms were also delivered.

  The social event after dinner was a whist evening in the Wiltshire Room. It was a tournament between families: Porpentines versus Turbots versus Frakes. Col accompanied Grandmother Ebnolia, along with Orris, Gillabeth and the adults of the Leath Porpentine branch.

  A Menial called Wicky Popo came with them too. With his large, sad eyes and drooping expression, he was Ebnolia’s new favourite, and she wanted to show him off to her acquaintances.

  Col was still the main attraction, though. Everyone wanted to meet Sir Mormus’s nominated successor. When the adults sat down and the games began, various ladies kept asking him for advice on how to play their cards. Since Col was a complete beginner at whist, he had the impression no one took the tournament very seriously.

  While Col was summoned this way and that, his father as usual faded into the background. Gillabeth wasn’t a player, but stood at Ebnolia’s elbow ready for any errand that might be needed
. Mostly she was sent to check on Wicky Popo, who stood propped against the wall by the door. It seemed that the hot air of the room made him unwell.

  After an hour or so, the requests for Col’s advice fell away. Instead, one lady took it upon herself to teach him the rules and strategies of the game. The Honourable Hommelia Turbot was a large, florid woman in a billowing, flowery dress. In a whisper, she explained about following suit, calling trumps, taking or yielding the lead. Col listened and learned, but he wasn’t much interested.

  When Hommelia caught him out covering up a yawn, she seemed more delighted than offended.

  “Ah, this is all too trivial for you.” She patted his arm with her cards. “You want to be thinking about serious male things.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Oh, you men! I know, I know. You want to be thinking about trade and routes and navigation. Big decisions about Worldshaker. My husband is just the same.” She turned and raised her voice to Ebnolia at the next table. “I’m sure we’ve made him do his penance, Lady Porpentine. Can we let him go now, do you think?”

  Ebnolia pursed her lips. “Dear Hommelia.” She switched her attention to Col. “Yes, go if you want, Colbert. Your sister will escort you back.”

  Col didn’t like the frown that swept across his sister’s face. “It’s all right, I can find my own way,” he said.

  “No, no. Gillabeth has been a spectator long enough, haven’t you?” Ebnolia clearly didn’t expect an answer and Gillabeth didn’t give one. “Off you go, both of you.”

  So Col made his farewells. Hommelia asked if he was going to attend the Imperial Gala Reception tomorrow night, but Col didn’t know.

  “Oh, I hope so,” she gushed. “You must! You must!”

  Col walked with Gillabeth back to Forty-Second Deck.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Did you want to stay?”

  “I’m doing what Grandmother asked me to do,” she replied tartly.

  She was simmering inside, Col suspected, but he didn’t know how to make peace with her. He had never been able to talk to Gillabeth as brother to sister. She preferred to take on the manner of an adult with him.

  “You realise why they’re all fawning over you?” she said suddenly.

  “The mothers?”

  “Why?”

  “They’re angling to land you for their daughters.”

  Col still didn’t understand. Gillabeth gave him one of her what-I-have-to-put-up-with looks.

  “You’re a future Supreme Commander. They hope to get you married into their families.”

  “But…I’m not old enough to marry anyone.”

  “When you turn twenty-one. They’re planning long-term.”

  Col considered. He didn’t like the idea of being angled for – and indirectly, by the mothers not the daughters.

  “What’s this Imperial Gala Reception?” he asked after a while.

  Another one of Gillabeth’s looks. “Tomorrow night in the Grand Assembly Hall.”

  “Will I be going?”

  “Yes, by special invitation. Grandfather will present you formally to Queen Victoria.”

  “Are you going?”

  “I’m not invited.”

  “Oh. So it’s only if you’re being formally presented?”

  “Not me. I’ve never been formally presented.” Suddenly Gillabeth boiled over. “Listen. You may have become a future Supreme Commander, but you’re the same for me as you always were. Don’t expect me to start fawning over you!”

  “I never expected – ”

  “Here’s your corridor. There’s your cabin.” She pointed to his door ahead. “Don’t get lost now,” she added savagely.

  Then she swung on her heel and marched off to her own cabin in the next corridor.

  He stood staring after her. Whatever he did, he always ended up on the wrong side of Gillabeth. She was an absolute mystery to him.

  ∨ Worldshaker ∧

  Fourteen

  Over Sunday breakfast, Sir Mormus made the official announcement: he would present his grandson to Queen Victoria and her Consort tonight at the Imperial Gala Reception. The heads of the other four family branches and their wives were also invited.

  “Best clothes and best behaviour, my boy,” he told Col.

  Col had often seen Queen Victoria at a distance, but never close up. Her full title was Her Imperial Majesty Victoria II, and she had reigned for ten years. As official Head of the Imperial Church, she was the embodiment of all things good and great and glorious. She had taken as Consort a nobleman from the juggernaut Denmark, who had become His Imperial Highness Prince Albert after marriage.

  Col’s clothes for the occasion were very solemn and dignified: a long jacket, waistcoat and dress shirt. His mother and grandmother fussed over him for hours, while Gillabeth looked on with folded arms. Finally the moment arrived.

  For the entry into the Grand Assembly Hall, Col walked alongside his grandparents and in front of the other invited Porpentines. Then Ebnolia too dropped back, and Col found himself advancing over the carpet in step with Sir Mormus.

  The hall was a large oval space rising to a height of forty feet under the domed ceiling. He gazed in awe at white columns, velvet drapes and a chandelier that glittered with a thousand candles. There were marble statues on fluted plinths and dark-leaved aspidistras in terracotta urns. Col had never seen the hall fully lit up and decorated before.

  There were at least a hundred people present. Menials displaying the Imperial V&A insignia moved among the throng with bowed heads, holding out teacups and titbits on silver trays. The crowd parted like a bow-wave before Sir Mormus’s jutting brows and chest.

  Smiles and greetings were directed towards the Porpentines from every side. Sir Mormus inclined his head in silent acknowledgement, and Col did the same. The guests were all members of the juggernaut’s thirty elite families.

  Sir Mormus commented on the most important representatives in a low, rumbling voice intended for Col alone to hear.

  “Lord Fefferley to your left. Prestige and title, a stickler for his rights…”

  “Rear Admiral Haugh on your right. Haughs were important in the nineteenth century, but they’ve come down a few notches since…”

  “Chief Helmsman Turbot over there. Influential on the Executive. Family of navigation specialists…”

  Col recognised the Honourable Hommelia Turbot, nodding to him alongside her husband. But Sir Mormus’s commentary on important people paid no account to any of the females.

  There was one family head to whom Sir Mormus drew special attention. “Squellingham ahead. Sir Wisley Squellingham.”

  Sir Wisley had deep-set eyes and a sharply ridged nose. Sir Mormus replied to his greeting with a ‘How d’ye do’ and a deeper inclination of the head.

  They moved on past and Sir Mormus tapped the keys that dangled on his chest. “Ha! These are what he wants,” he rumbled. “My greatest rival. Hungry for power and cunning as a rat. The Squellinghams have always hoped to displace the Porpentines. Watch out for them, my boy.”

  A path had now opened up all the way to Queen Victoria and her Consort in the centre of the hall. They sat on a raised dais, gripping the armrests of their thrones. Queen Victoria’s throne was larger and higher than Prince Albert’s, and so was her crown: a massive construction of steel and gold.

  “Chest out,” Sir Mormus told Col. “The Porpentines are known for their chests. Always maintain a firm and forceful chest.”

  Col took a deep breath and thrust out his chest.

  Queen Victoria’s features were exactly like her portraits: noble and majestic as a thoroughbred racehorse. The only difference was the furrow in her brow, which looked less like sternness and more like a headache coming on.

  Sir Mormus bowed first to the Queen and then to her Consort. Col followed suit.

  “Well, well, well,” said Queen Victoria.

  Sir Mormus cleared his throat. “May I present my grandson, Colbert Porpentine.”


  “Your grandson.” She studied them both. “So you must be his grandfather.”

  “He has the qualities of a true Porpentine, Your Majesty. When I pass on, Colbert will make a worthy Supreme Commander.”

  “Oh dear. You’re passing on?”

  “In the future, Your Majesty. Not for many years yet.”

  Prince Albert nodded approval. “Glad to hear it, Porpentine. Glad to hear it.” His voice was a rusty bass, with just a hint of his original Danish accent.

  “He starts school tomorrow,” Sir Mormus continued.

  “Ah, school. Education. Learning.” Queen Victoria seemed to have difficulty focusing under the weight of her crown. “Ask the boy a question, Albert.”

  “What sort of question, my dear?”

  “Ah…something times something.”

  “Seven,” said Prince Albert. “Seven times…er…seven.”

  “Forty-nine,” said Col immediately.

  “Excellent effort,” said Queen Victoria.

  “Commendable, commendable,” Prince Albert agreed.

  “Also correct, Your Majesties,” said Sir Mormus.

  “Even better.” Queen Victoria turned to her Consort. “Ask another question, my dear.”

  “Umm…” Prince Albert chewed on his moustache for half a minute. “I don’t seem to have any more.”

  “Sir Mormus, then.” Queen Victoria turned to her Supreme Commander.

  “Very well.” Sir Mormus had been ready for the request. “A question for my nominated successor. At this moment, we’re halfway across the island of Ceylon. Should we travel up the east coast of India and risk meeting the French juggernaut? Or should we go straight across the sea to Burma?”

  Col caught the hint of a wink as his grandfather named the second option. He faced the Imperial couple and said, “We should go by sea to Burma, Your Majesties.”

  “A decisive answer.” Queen Victoria bestowed a smile.

  “I like a decisive answer,” said Prince Albert.

  “Is it correct, Sir Mormus?”

  “I believe so, Your Majesty. It is the view I shall be putting to the Executive tomorrow morning.”