Silversion

by Rick Johnson

  Not sure if the beasts could be trusted, ThunderUp quickly extinguished his candle and scattered his pile of kindling. Looking for cover, he chose one of the mine wagons, the one farthest from the approaching voices. Opening the empty tool box on the rear of the wagon, he crawled inside. The Badger’s oversize body did not fit in the box easily, and he ended nearly doubled over. Squeezed, cramped and bent, he knew the hiding place could not be endured for long.

  An odd benefit of his discomfort was that, with a slight twist of his head, he could peer through a tiny hole in the side of the box. As he watched, a Wildcat and an Otter came out of the mine tunnel where the bucket-chain was running. Breathing hard from exertion, both were soaked and dirty—their faces and clothes the color of mud. Half-stripped, shirts open in the front, baggy pants rolled half-way up the thigh, leather boots sloshing with water. Each carried a large sachel of tools and wore a brass helmet with a small lamp attached to the front.

  “This must be the place,” the Wildcat growled, “and cursed unlucky it is, too!”

  “Awwuff-lll!” the Otter agreed. “Wha’ a haul it was up here! Long o’ misery! Never been so wet—n’ climbin’ all tha’ way! Awwuff-lll steep way up tha’ shaft. Someday I’ll be a Made n’ then I’m outta here.”

  “Aw, quit your moanin’,” the Wildcat answered. “Sooner we get the work done, sooner we’re both outta here. Only reason we’re wet is the water spillin’ outta the bucky-round. Stop that, and there won’t be so much drippin’ and sloshin’ above our heads on the way down.”

  “What’s tha’ smell?” the Weasel asked.

  “Yee’ah,” the Wildcat spat, “somethin’ bad burnt, smells like.”

  “Moldy n’ rotten, if you ask me,” the other beast said.

  “Whatever—,” the Wildcat said, “probably somethin’ ta do with the bucky-round startin’ up again after all these years.”

  “Pretty strange,” the Otter agreed. “Mine’s been deserted at least ten years, and all ’a sudden the bucky-round starts up like it’s tha’ good ol’ days.”

  “Ah, there’s the problem,” the Wildcat said, pointing to leaking pipes above the waterwheel. “Busted valve—looks like the shutoff is clean gone.”

  “Not just tha’ shutoff,” the Otter replied. “All tha’ pipes are leaking—must ’ve gotten a pretty bad shake-up here.”

  “Well, we can’t fix it all, and don’t need to,” the Wildcat said. “All the Chief said was to check out the bucky-round and get it stopped.”

  “Like I tried ta tell Chief,” the Otter muttered, “just cut tha’ chain, and tha’ bucky-round will stop by itself. But, no—we had to slog through all this blasted water, just to do ’at up here.”

  “Well, devil take the water,” the Wildcat said. “We’ll stop the bucky-round, which is what our work order is. Let somebody else worry about the water.”

  “Chief’ll like ’at,” the Otter said. “He’s always talkin’ about how much Frunge hates paying for repairs.”

  “Well, he’d fix this one, no matter what,” the Wildcat chuckled. “Can you imagine the earful Frunge must’ve got from those Silvers! Imagine makin’ a fancy house out of that old silver works—leavin’ the old bucky-round for rustic decoration—and then it starts runnin’ and dumps dirt and water all over your precious pretties! Harrr-harrr-harrr! Oh, sorry—know I shouldn’t laugh (Frunge might be listenin’—harrr-harrr), but the thought’s too funny!” Slogging over to inspect the bucky-round more closely, he said, “Let’s cut the chain and get outta here. Stupid to have us come all the way in here to do it, but that’s not our problem.”

  “It’s not Chief ’at did it,” the Otter muttered, “it’s Frunge. If something goes wrong his thugs’ll work Chief over. So o’ course he’s goin’ ta send us up here—hadda make sure tha’ bucky-round got stopped proper. Why, cutting’ tha’ chain down there—if it didn’t stop tha’ bucky-round—it’d be thugs pounding his face with ropes, faster’n you can spell it.”

  “Frunge wouldn’t dirty his paws with Chief,” the Wildcat replied. “That’s what he’s got Club Wolves for. Snart taught the Clubs enough ways to twist and pound a beast, that Frunge doesn’t have to soil his fine linen with it.”

  Snart! The sound of the name was music to ThunderUp’s ears. The beasts knew him! Maybe they could lead him to the miserable, double-crossing Colonel. But not wanting to chance an encounter with the unknown beasts, the Badger remained concealed.

  Working quickly, the workers stopped the movement of the bucky-round, destroying the gear works at the waterwheel for good measure.

  “That’ll do,” the Wildcat said. “No chance it’ll start up again now.”

  “Yeah, let’s get outta here,” the Otter agreed. “Might’s well ride down, don’t ya think? We can take one of the wagons and ride the track down—climbin’ all that way must be good for somethin’.”

  “Good idea!” the Wildcat replied. “Looks like only one of the wagon’s got a workin’ brake. Brake handle’s gone on that one. That one over there’s got a brake, but it looks pretty rusty.” He walked over to the wagon where ThunderUp was hidden and ran his paw over the brake. The Otter followed.

  “Not too bad,” the Wildcat said. “A bit of hammerin’ n’ filin’ n’ it’ll be good ta go.”

  “I’ll take care of the brake,” the Otter volunteered, “you throw our packs in.”

  “O.K.,” the Wildcat responded, “as soon as I check the inside—just in case the bottom’s rotted out, or somethin’.”

  ThunderUp tensed as the Wildcat climbed into the wagon. Testing the wagon, the Wildcat jumped up and down. Had the Wildcat been paying attention, he would have noticed that the tool box did not move like an empty box. Before he could do much more investigation of the wagon, however, the Otter called him off.

  “Stop yer jumpin’!” the Otter called out. “I can’t file off tha’ rust with tha’ wagon bouncin’!”

  “Checkin’ the bottom,” the Wildcat explained. “It’s solid—should work fine.”

  “Yaas!” the Otter said a moment later, “I think that takes care o’ the rust. I’ll give tha’ wagon a push n’ you check the brake.”

  Putting his shoulder to the back of the wagon, the Otter grunted, and the wagon began rolling. The Wildcat let it roll a little ways, then pulled the brake handle. SCREEECH! With an ear-jarring sound, the brake engaged, and the wagon came to a stop.

  Before jumping into the wagon, the Otter inspected the deep groove built into the wagon’s bottom. The groove fit over a wooden rail, allowing a wagon to slide down the track without being steered. All appeared to be in order with the rail, and he gave the wagon a slight push to start it rolling.

  “Wagon’s heavier than it looks,” the Otter scowled, as he jumped aboard. “Seein’s how I’ve done all tha’ work,” he continued, “at least let me run tha’ brake.”

  “All right,” the Wildcat agreed, slumping down beside the Otter. Rolling slowly at first, the wagon picked up speed as it began down the slope of the mine shaft. “You’re right, this wagon’s heavier than it looks,” he commented.

  “Probably just the axle’s rusty n’ needin’ grease,” the Otter replied.”

  “Yeah,” the Wildcat agreed, “that must be it. Anyway, goin’ down, don’t need to worry about it.”

  “YEEE-HAA! Here we go!” the Otter yelled as the wagon picked up speed. Creaking and thumping, the wagon shot through the darkness like a racing demon with two flickering yellow eyes.

  “BRAKE! BRAKE! SLOW DOWN!” the Wildcat shrieked. “ARE YOU CRAZY? BRAKE!”

  “YEEE-HAA!” the Otter cried, his paw on the brake, but making no effort to use it. “BEST TIME O’ MY LIFE!” he howled.

  “YOU’RE A BLAZIN’ FOOL! A SEWER-BRAINED MAD-BEAST!” the Wildcat yeowled.

  “YEEE-HAA! WAAANGOOOO!” the Otter whooped. Bouncing and rocking, the mine wagon sped down the track at high speed.

  The silent bucky-round now hung limply above the track, providing a stea
dy drizzle of drips as the wagon flew along beneath the buckets. Zooming down straight-aways, lurching and careening around corners, and hitting bumps that nearly bounced the wagon off the track, it was quite a trip. With the beasts’ head lamps providing the only light, ThunderUp endured a stomach-wrenching journey through absolute darkness.

  Leap-Bugs

  The wild ride down from the mine continued for perhaps an hour. As the initial surge of delight wore off, the Otter stopped his excited yelling, and the Wildcat’s complaints petered out. For the last half of the journey, the only sounds were the bumping and thunking of the racing mine-wagon. ThunderUp’s cramped body, screaming for relief, was just about to force a howl of agony from him, when he heard the Otter say, “Nearly down—we’re comin’ out o’ the tunnel—where shall I park this thing?”

  Although it was still dark, ThunderUp could tell that the wagon was no longer underground. The air was fresher and the darkness was brightened by moonlight.

  “Track runs out before long,” the Wildcat replied. “Don’t remember exactly where, but we don’t dare run past SilWagon Cross. The old silver works is beyond that, n’ they ripped up the track when the Silver bought the place. There’s an old siding before that—called Rep’s Alley—leads to the wagon repair shop. The repair shop’s still in use. I play switts with the old Dog that works there.”

  “Rep’s Alley comin’ up,” the Otter said, applying the brake. As the wagon slowed enough for the Wildcat to jump off, he guided the wagon onto the Rep’s Alley siding. After it came to a stop, the Otter tossed their packs to the ground and climbed down to join the Wildcat.

  “Come on,” the Wildcat said, “let’s get down and get the job signed off so we can go home. I’m tired n’ hungry.”

  “I could eat tha’ better part of a shark, including the teeth!” the Otter laughed tiredly, as they walked away.

  Waiting until it had been quiet some minutes, ThunderUp carefully lifted the lid of the tool box where he had been hidden. After his long confinement, at first he found it painful to stand. Gently working his joints and rocking his back, he gradually loosened his strained muscles. With his body becoming useful again, he quickly surveyed his surroundings. No other beasts were about. Several tracks, lined with all sorts of mine-wagons awaiting repairs, ran toward a brick building. Not on tracks, but parked in a lane headed in the same direction, a number of heavy freight wagons also awaited attention.

  Bending low, the Badger crept stealthily among the wagons until he reached the repair shop. Although the shop was closed for the day, he found a large group of beasts loitering in front of it. Fires burned in stone bowls several feet off the ground, illuminating the area. Standing around, as if waiting for something, the crowd of beasts talked and laughed among themselves.

  Avoiding the light as much as possible, ThunderUp watched, trying to understand. Who were they? What were they waiting for? Within a few minutes, his questions were answered. In the distance, a long string of lights came into view, snaking through the darkness at high speed. In time, a snorting, hissing, shrieking dragon train came roaring down the road, a Dragon-wacker beating the team with his whip. As the train came to a stop before the repair shop, it was all the Dragon-wacker could do to keep the dragons from breaking loose again.

  “Hurry up beasts!” the Dragon-wacker hollered. “Can’t hold ’em much longer—unless I feed one o’ ya to ’em! Get a move on! Dragons don’t wait for no beast—and there’s no time to waste! Orders is to get Colonel Snart to the High One express! Faster! Move it! Or I’ll feed ya to the dragons!”

  Running as if life depended on it, the beasts who had been loitering by the repair shop rushed to board the train. Other beasts, relieved of their duties, hoped down from the wagons and walked tiredly off into the dark.

  Surprised by the strange shift-change, and enflamed by the mention of Snart, ThunderUp made a split-second decision. Keeping to the darkness beyond the light, the roaring of the dragons and general confusion covered him as he ran to the rear of the dragon-train. Seeing no other beasts nearby, as the wagons began rolling again, he grabbed the final wagon and held on.

  The dragon-wacker’s long whip lashed out, cracking at the lead dragon’s ears. Jolting and bouncing, the dragon-train was soon racing again through the night. Road crossings and signs flashed by, and ThunderUp saw they were traveling along SilWagon Cross, following the signs to Silverpreen. As the Badger clung to the jolting wagon, he listened to the curious communication system that ran up and down the long line of wagons. Sometimes beasts riding the wagons sang songs in such harmony, that it seemed a marvel they were hundreds of feet apart. Other times jokes and laughter rang up and down the dragon-train. And sometimes news was passed.

  “Word is, we’re goin’ to the wharf this time!” a voice called out. “So don’t go botherin’ when we pass by Link’s Stub.”

  “Not goin’ through the main station?” another beast yelled.

  “No,” the response came, “special delivery this time—straight to the wharf with Snart n’ the silver.”

  “But not takin’ the road down Link’s Stub—there’s only one other way to the wharf—,” another said.

  “Yahh, we’re unloadin’ direct to the leaps this time,” the answer came.

  “By all that’s mercy and sweet!” a beast howled. “The leaps! I’d rather run with dragons than go to the leaps!”

  “Naw—” the beast replied, “I know ya never been near ’em, so shut you’re gob! Frunge says we’re unloadin’ direct to the leaps, and that’s that.”

  “But the leaps!” the beast wailed. “I’ve heard seein’ it rips your guts—.”

  “And what’s it to ya?” the response came back. “If ya wanta join ’em, it’s sure Frunge will be glad to send ya there.”

  There the shouted conversation ended. It seemed to have a sobering effect on everyone, and for a while, the dragon-train raced on with no singing, jokes, or news. Then to ThunderUp’s surprise, the dragon-train plunged into a tunnel and ran for over an hour without seeing the moon or stars. The furious snarling and hissing of the dragons seemed everywhere in the echoing tunnel. The nerve-shaking experience was enough to start the singing again, and for the rest of the trip, it was one ridiculous song after another.

  At length, the dragon-train rumbled out of the tunnel and began its decent toward Silverpreen. Not taking the normal freight caravan turn at Link’s Stub, the dragon-train instead turned toward the harbor side of the city. Soon the wagons were no longer running on solid roadways, but running on a ramp that descended underground. It was paved with stone grating that allowed huge clouds of steam to rush up from below, accompanied by a deafening rumbling, screeching, and wailing.

  At the bottom of the ramp, the dragon-train came to a halt. Dropping from his perch, ThunderUp stepped into the shadows. He was startled, however, to find that he was not alone.

  “Newcomer, eh?” a friendly voice said from behind him.

  Whirling around, ThunderUp saw a shadowy figure standing even further back in the shadows. Stepping toward the figure, he found a large beast, wearing a pair of heavy dragon leather boots which reached half-way up the thigh, with a matching leather tunic and helmet. The helmet completely covered the beast’s head except for an opening across the eyes.

  “Don’t be startled, friend,” the beast said kindly. “Please excuse my appearance. I’m Tē’d’Tē and mean you no harm. I’m only tellin’ you that because you obviously just arrived here, and from the way you skittered into the shadows, you don’t want to be seen. That tells me that since you’ve dropped into my own hiding place, I guess we’re in this together.”

  “What do you mean, ‘in this together,’” ThunderUp asked.

  “Sweet Ella!” the Weasel replied, “I mean that, as an uninvited arrival to Silverpreen, you’ve got no friends here—and a whole lot of enemies. Anyone sees you, other than me, and you’ll be arrested. Then no tellin’ what’ll be your fate.”

  “What do you mea
n?” ThunderUp stammered. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “You think that, and I believe it,” Tē’d’Tē replied, “but that’s the end of it. Unless you’ve got a pass signed by Frunge, who runs the place, you’re not welcome in Silverpreen. There’s no good outcomes from that.”

  “But where am I?” ThunderUp asked.

  “You’re on the Leap-Bug level of Silverpreen,” Tē’d’Tē answered. “Look, this is no place for a long discussion. I’m boarding a ship soon that’s bound out of here—the one that dragon-train has cargo for. I can’t offer to take you with me, but I’ll give you the name of a friend who can help you.”

  “You’d trust me?” ThunderUp asked.

  “Sweet Ella! As much as you’d trust me,” Tē’d’Tē replied. “Look, I’m leaving. The only thing that stops me is if I get caught. Why on earth would you want that to happen? You’re in as much danger as I am. No, I can trust you, and you, for sure, can trust me.”

  Reaching into her pocket, the Weasel handed ThunderUp a well-polished piece of wood with a number engraved on it. “This is my Newbie token. It’s essentially my identity card in Silverpreen. Take it to my friend, Currie. I’ll tell you how to find her. Show her my Newbie token and tell her I sent you—that I’ve left Silverpreen and want her to help you. Tell her your story. I hope she can find a way to help you.”

  “One more question,” ThunderUp said. “What’s that wailing I hear? Sounds almost like beasts—”

  “It’s beasts alright,” Tē’d’Tē replied. “That’s the sound of Leap-Bugs working. Think of living and working underground your entire life, working so hard you’re bent in half and finished by the time you’ve done it ten years. That’s being a Leap-Bug. Oh, and it’s mostly wee beasts that end up as Leap-Bugs. When I came here, I was puzzled that I never saw any wee beasts. Then I learned that young beasts aren’t wanted—too disruptive, too much trouble. So all the young beasts are sent to the Leap-Bug level—parents, too, if they have ’em. Silverpreen doesn’t need or want wee beasts. It’s all about silver and preen. Young beasts just get in your way if you’re accumulating preen.”