The Waking Fire Page 6

  He rose staring down at the Blood-blessed until he gave a short nod. “Very well.” He cast a disgusted glance around the cabin, taking in the sight of a score or more empty bottles amidst scattered papers and crushed cigarillo butts. “Clean yourself up then restore these quarters to some semblance of decency. After that report to me in the engine room. We sail within the hour.”

  —

  Chief Engineer Bozware was only distinguishable as a North Mandinorian by virtue of his name and accent, his skin being so entirely covered in an amalgam of grease and soot as to make judging his ethnicity impossible. He waved impatiently as Hilemore stood at the hatchway, having followed custom and requested permission to enter. Hilemore and the Chief Engineer were technically of equal rank which required the observance of certain formalities.

  “Just come and go as you please,” Bozware told Hilemore. “Trust you’ll have the good sense not to touch anything.”

  “I wouldn’t dare, Chief.” Hilemore’s gaze tracked over Bozware’s domain, finding that whatever his disregard for personal cleanliness it didn’t extend to his engines. Most of the Chief’s dozen-strong crew of sub-engineers were busy polishing every lever and bolt whilst two shovelled coal into the fire-box of the bulky auxiliary power plant squatting on the lower deck. Hilemore’s gaze followed the steel rod rising from the top of the engine to the complex series of levers above, his attention inevitably drawn to the smaller and decidedly more elegant device resting in a cradle at the axis between the drive-shafts of the ship’s two side-wheels. He had seen thermoplasmic engines before, mainly in diagrams, and had always been struck by their ingenious yet simple design. Looking closer at this one, however, he found it to be different, featuring some additional pipes and dials. Also, he saw a shiny new brass plate affixed to the water reservoir.

  “Is that . . . ?” he began, turning to Bozware.

  “A Mark Six,” he confirmed, a note of pride in his voice. “First one to be fitted to any Protectorate vessel. New condensers and combustion chamber, co-designed by our very own captain and installed under his supervision. Overall efficiency increase of twenty-five percent, though I’m confident I can get her up to thirty before we’re done.”

  Twenty-five percent. Hilemore did some quick mental arithmetic. “That would mean a top speed of . . .” He trailed off into a laugh, shaking his head.

  “Thirty knots in fair weather,” Bozware finished, then gave a meaningful glance at the empty hatchway. “Depending on the diligence of our Contractor, of course.”

  “He’ll be along,” Hilemore assured him. “And I should appreciate it if you would report any future tardiness to me.”

  “Glad to.”

  The bridge communicator above Bozware’s head emitted a sudden and insistent trill, the pointer moving to the red portion of the dial: start auxiliary engine. “Best be about it,” Bozware said, moving the communicator’s handle back and forth to acknowledge the order. He paused to glance at something beyond Hilemore’s shoulder. “Glad you could join us, Mr. Tottleborn.”

  Hilemore turned to see the Blood-blessed emerging from the hatchway, eyes red but considerably more alert than earlier. He had shaved before leaving his cabin and run a comb through his hair. As befit his station he wore civilian clothes, a well-tailored waistcoat and shirt, though Hilemore frowned at finding his collar undone.

  “Gets hot in here,” Tottleborn muttered, moving past him to climb the iron steps to his allotted station at the platform where the thermoplasmic engine awaited his attention.

  “Be a good half-hour before we clear the harbour,” Bozware advised Hilemore. “Safe to assume the captain will want to go to full steam once we’re in open water.”

  “I’ll be back directly.” Hilemore moved to the hatch. “One vial will suffice?”

  “Best make it two. He’s been waiting quite some time to see his pride and joy take flight.”

  Coal smoke was already rising from the Viable’s stacks when Hilemore emerged onto the upper deck. Sailors were casting off the ties and from the stern came the rattle of heavy chains as the ship’s anchor was hauled up. The paddles began turning as he climbed the gangway to the bridge, the ship’s bow slowly drifting away from the quayside. Hilemore paused for a final look at Feros, his home for six dreary months. Ever since receiving Lewella’s letter his mood had been dark, his days spent at the Sea Board in a grind of administration and inspections. Feros was a place of fine architecture, ancient culture and countless places where tourist or sailor alike could find all manner of gratifying entertainments. Hilemore had shunned it all, clinging to the daily schedule with monastic devotion, hoping to lose himself in labour, seeking distraction amongst endless reams of paper or hours spent drilling cadets on the parade-ground. Anything to prevent a bout of indulgent introspection, or a masochistic re-reading of her letter. It is with the heaviest of hearts that I write these words, my dearest Corrick. Please do not hate me . . .

  “Is it your habit to dawdle before reporting to the bridge, Mr. Hilemore?”

  He turned, finding Captain Trumane standing at the hatchway, a certain amused satisfaction in his gaze. A man engaged in a constant search for the weaknesses of others, Hilemore decided. Perhaps the means by which he maintains faith in his own superiority.

  “Chief Engineer Bozware’s compliments, sir,” he said, this time opting not to offer an apology lest it become a habit. “Mr. Tottleborn is at his station and Mr. Bozware suggests two vials.”

  He saw a momentary indecision on Trumane’s face, no doubt considering if insisting on some expression of contrition would appear undignified in front of a fully manned bridge. In the event his better judgement prevailed, though his voice retained a certain tightness as he replied, “No, three vials if you please.”

  Trumane’s gaze went to the long shape of the Consolidation, now tracking across the Viable’s shifting bow. She was an undeniably impressive sight, a tri-wheel heavy cruiser with an additional paddle at the stern, bristling with batteries fore and aft, her decks crowded with sailors seeing to the endless chores arising from maintenance of such a large vessel. In addition to being the largest warship at berth in Feros harbour the Consolidation was also flagship of the Protectorate’s South Seas Fleet and home to Vice-Commodore Semnale Norworth, Fleet Commander and the most renowned Protectorate officer of modern times. Hilemore could see no sign of the Commodore on the Consolidation’s bridge; in fact the Viable’s departure seemed to arouse little reaction from the other ships in the harbour, there being none of the usual polite signals of good luck or catcalls from idle deck-hands.

  “We will be engaging the primary engine the instant we clear the harbour mole,” Trumane said, eyes still fixed on the indifferent bulk of the Consolidation. “Tell Chief Bozware to spare nothing and make sure that sot Tottleborn doesn’t nod off.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “There will be a conference in my cabin at twenty-two hundred hours. Please endeavour not to be late. I strongly suggest you spend the intervening time drilling your riflemen.” The captain turned away, not bothering to return Hilemore’s salute. “Mr. Lemhill, attend closely to your stop-watch, if you please. I shall require the most accurate measurements.”

  —

  The heavy, multi-toothed key turned easily in the lock, the safe’s thick iron door swinging open to reveal its contents. The safe sat in the ship’s armoury, requiring Hilemore to formally seek admission from the Master-at-Arms. He had concealed his surprise at finding the man to be an Islander, complete with an impressive stature and cruciform pattern of tattoos that tracked across his brow and along the length of his nose.

  “Steelfine, sir!” The Master snapped to attention and delivered an impeccable salute. At six-foot-two Hilemore was accustomed to a certain height advantage in most meetings but on this occasion was obliged to look up to meet Steelfine’s gaze.

  Hilemore produced the key which the Maste
r-at-Arms scrutinised for a moment before turning to the armoury. “I will, of course, require you to witness this, Mr. Steelfine,” Hilemore told him as the Islander’s powerful hands worked keys in the three separate locks on the armoury door.

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “When I’m done in the engine room I intend to inspect the ship’s riflemen. Please have them mustered on the fore-deck in full battle order.”

  “Got fighting ahead of us, sir?” There was a definite note of anticipation in Steelfine’s question, indicating that, regardless of his current status, his tribal origins hadn’t been completely forgotten.

  Hilemore glanced up at the Islander as he crouched in front of the safe. Senior non-commissioned officers were allowed a certain leeway, but there were limits. “Our mission remains confidential until the captain chooses to disclose it.”

  Steelfine straightened, face impassive once more. “Of course, sir.”

  Hilemore’s gaze lingered on the product in the safe, arrayed in four shelves according to variant and contained in hardened leather flasks rather than glass so they wouldn’t break in a heavy sea. The supply of Red was twice as much as had been available on his previous voyage aboard a blood-burner. But the stocks of other variants seemed thin, barely half of what he would have expected. “When was this last replenished?” he asked Steelfine.

  “Yesterday, sir. Noticed the shortfall, naturally. Green especially. Quartermaster says supply is thin all over and gets thinner by the year.”

  Whilst the price gets ever fatter, Hilemore thought. “It would be best if the crew remained untroubled by this,” he said. “Doesn’t help morale if they’re given cause to grumble about a lack of Green aboard.”

  “Indeed, sir. Mr. Lemhill said the same thing.”

  He returned to the engine room, where the series of levers that powered the drive-shafts rose and fell in a blur, giving rise to a rattling cacophony and thickening heat. Chief Bozware regarded the three vials of Red in Hilemore’s hands with a grimace. “Thought he might wait a while before testing her to her limits.”

  “Problem, Chief?” Hilemore enquired.

  Bozware replied with a grin, though it seemed a little forced. “Best get him ready.” He nodded at the Blood-blessed. Tottleborn had seated himself on a folding chair next to the combustion chamber, apparently occupying himself with a pocket-sized periodical of vulgar content if the cover was anything to go by. Kidnapped by Sovereignists! the title exclaimed above a drawing of a milky-skinned and sparsely clad North Mandinorian woman recoiling in horror from a gang of leering Dalcians of bestial appearance. Tottleborn rose as Hilemore approached, offering no greeting save a churlish scowl.

  “I trust your wits are fully recovered,” Hilemore said, handing him the first vial.

  “Doesn’t require wit,” Tottleborn replied, removing the stopper from the vial and emptying the contents into the induction port. “A dog could do it if dogs received the Blessing.”

  “But sadly, they do not.”

  Tottleborn frowned at the pair of remaining vials. “Three?”

  “Captain’s orders. Does it present a difficulty?”

  Tottleborn shrugged and took the vials, quickly adding the contents of the second to the engine’s blood reservoir and unstoppering the third. “Not for me. Just never burned three at once before. I’m guessing this beast will really shift if the captain’s new toy works as expected.”

  “She may well be the fastest vessel afloat anywhere in the world.”

  Tottleborn emptied all but a few drops from the third flask and stepped back. “Does that mean I get a bonus?”

  “I shouldn’t have thought so.”

  The bridge communicator issued another trilling alarm, quickly acknowledged by Chief Bozware. “We’re in open waters!” he reported, hands cupped around his mouth and voice barely audible over the tumult of the auxiliary engine. “Time to light her up!”

  Tottleborn raised the third vial to his lips and drank the remaining drops of Red. He stood for a moment, Hilemore reading the desire for retribution in the glower he turned on him. He met the Blood-blessed’s gaze squarely, saying nothing.

  “Best stand back if you don’t want a scorching,” Tottleborn advised in a mutter, turning to the engine.

  Hilemore took a generous backward step and watched as the Blood-blessed focused his gaze on the small open port in the side of the combustion chamber. For a second the air between Tottleborn and the engine shimmered with heat, then the port snapped shut in automatic response to the rising temperature, the Red inside the chamber flaring into a briefly glimpsed inferno of near-blinding intensity. The pointer on the temperature dial immediately swung to the maximum position and the water reservoir began to emit a loud rumbling as its contents were fed into the chamber.

  The tumult dimmed as Bozware took the auxiliary engine off-line, the numerous levers above slowing to a halt. Hilemore had always found true fascination in the workings of the thermoplasmic engine, but the comparative quietude of its operation remained perhaps its most unnerving aspect. No more than a combination of rushing water, hissing steam and turning gears, all suppressed to a low murmur. Despite that the energy being unleashed within this machine far outstripped any other device crafted by human hands.

  “Sufficient power to take this ship two hundred miles,” Tottleborn commented as the primary engine’s gears were engaged and the drive-shafts started to turn, slowly at first but soon revolving so fast they blurred. “All derived from a measure of product that wouldn’t even fill half an ale glass.”

  And one that will only burn when set alight by one such as you, Hilemore added inwardly. “Truly a miracle of our modern age, sir,” he told the Blood-blessed.

  “A miracle that might be worth a celebration?”

  “The liquor cabinet will remain locked for the time being. However, if you are in need of distraction, I will commence a daily exercise drill for the crew tomorrow. You are welcome to join.”

  Tottleborn gave a heavy sigh and returned to his seat, opening his vulgar periodical once more. “Thank you, but I have always preferred a more literary form of distraction.”

  —

  “Thirty-two knots!” Captain Trumane’s fists thumped the chart table, his face flush with triumph. “Even the great Commodore himself can’t argue with that. You have the official record drawn up I assume, Mr. Lemhill?”

  “Aye, sir.” The First Mate nodded. “Signed and witnessed, complete with diagrams as ordered.”

  “Excellent. Mr. Hilemore, please ensure the man Tottleborn is fully cognisant with the report. He will convey the contents in full during the next scheduled Blue-trance communication. When is that, incidentally?”

  “Three days’ time, sir. There is provision within the schedule for an early emergency communication. Though the window is very narrow, only sixty seconds per day and our Blue stocks are not copious.”

  “No, let’s allow the Commodore to stew over the results for a while,” Trumane said, then added in a mutter, “Would have liked to see the puffed-up arse’s face when he read it, though.”

  “So it’s official,” Lemhill said. “We are now the fastest vessel on the seas.”

  “Indeed we are,” agreed Trumane. “And it appears the Sea Board has found suitable prey for their swiftest hunter.” He unfurled a chart on the table, Hilemore instantly recognising the north Arradsian coast and the dense, arcing cluster of fractured land-masses that comprised the Barrier Isles. “Our course, gentlemen.” Trumane’s finger traced the freshly drawn pencil line from Feros to a point some sixty miles east of the Strait.

  “Tell me,” he said. “Have you ever heard of the dread pirate vessel Windqueen?”

  CHAPTER 4

  Lizanne

  It’s different. Lizanne had taken her customary place at the prow as the Mutual Advantage cleared the massive edifice of the outer mole. Althou
gh nearly a century old the mole remained one of the largest structures in the world, a seventy-foot-high wall of granite that shielded Carvenport from the tides that had made the first attempts at colonisation so difficult. At each two- or three-moon tide the great copper doors would be lowered across the harbour entrance to prevent the sea flooding the docks and much of the town beyond. Lizanne’s first experience of a three-moon tide had left a sobering impression. The sight of the ocean rising to within a yard of the top of the mole was an unnerving reminder that, however permanent their presence on this continent might seem, civilisation could still be washed from these shores in an instant.

  She was joined at the prow by a throng of passengers, all chattering in excitement as they passed beneath the huge green-streaked wings of the raised doors and the full sweep of Carvenport stood revealed. The city remained a remarkable testament to the colonial aspirations of the defunct Mandinorian Empire, the product of a time before much of the world chose to dispense with such fictions as monarchy or politics. Now, thanks to this age where the rational pursuit of profit trumped archaic attachments to flags and borders, Carvenport had blossomed into a fully modern port that could rival even the great conurbations of the northern continents.

  Cranes and warehouses crowded the shore of the bowl-shaped inlet where the port made its home, and beyond them the permanently smoke-shrouded vats and water-towers of the breeding pens. Farther in, close-packed slums were separated from more privileged neighbourhoods by tree-lined avenues that seemed to have gained some width in the intervening years. The buildings of the corporate quarter were taller now, all sharing a similar architectural style of low-angled roofs and high but narrow windows. Near by she heard one of the passengers waxing at length about the influence of a renowned but continually inebriated architect who had sought his fortune south of the Strait a decade before. Apparently he had designed over twenty buildings for three separate companies, earning considerable advances in the process which still weren’t enough to settle his mountainous debts. Rumour had it he had slunk away on a north-bound steamer with a valise full of cash leaving his contracts unfulfilled, although his clients had clearly made considerable use of his designs. To Lizanne’s eyes it seemed the talented drunk had left an impressive legacy.