“Naw, you can…” Rector began, then caught himself and felt a stab of self-hatred. This was stupid, wasn’t it? Nothing to be afraid of, except for the possibility that his mind was betraying him, caving in on itself like the city inside the wall. He shook it off. “All right, I’ll go first.”
The rungs were rough yet slippery under his bare hands. He wished he’d thought about gloves, but it was too late for that, and now he’d have to deal with it. His heels skidded but caught behind him. He pushed on against exhaustion and weakness, fumbling with his cane up the ladder and into a small, square room.
A watery glow soaked in through the windows, none of which had any glass in them. Along with the light came a faint sense of the world being discolored. The air was yellowed like old paper; it was a sepia substance, one Rector thought he could reach out and touch.
Houjin popped up, stepped off the ladder, and sighed. “Oh look—the sun’s out,” he announced.
The Northwest had many days when the sun rose but nobody saw it, courtesy of the cloud layer. The compressed fog of the Blight exaggerated this gloom, filtering every scrap of light and turning it to murk.
“And I think it’s warming up.”
“I think you’re right,” Rector agreed. It definitely wasn’t freezing, and Rector was only a little cool without a coat. That was the best he could say of it.
Houjin began a monologue of copious explanations which Rector half listened to and half ignored. “This is Fort Decatur. It’s one of the oldest parts of the city, where all the white people holed up when there was trouble with the native people.”
Rector thought of Angeline, who’d clearly made herself at home. “I guess they don’t have trouble with them anymore.”
“Why would they? The Duwamish all left, except for Angeline. But here we are. These days, Captain Cly is using the fort to start off a proper set of docks.”
“As opposed to an improper set?”
“You know what I mean: someplace regular ships can come and go, not just sap-runners or pirates that can hover around or drop down air vents. The captain says that when he’s done, we’ll get mail and everything.”
“You can’t get mail right now?”
Houjin flashed him a look which, even through his visor, evidenced concern that Rector might’ve bruised his brain worse than previously feared. “Do you see a post office?”
“I do not,” Rector admitted, resenting the look and its implications.
“Anyway, come on outside. I’ll introduce you around.”
“Outside” was achieved by stepping through a doorframe that had no more door than the windows had glass. Beyond this exit the air was brighter and the milky gray sun was more pronounced. For the first time since falling down the chuckhole, Rector didn’t feel like he needed a lantern.
He blinked against this new light, weak though it was, and surveyed the scene with his usual measured uncertainty.
He saw no way out of the fort except the hole from whence he’d emerged. This was worth remarking on because the fort was—as far as he could see through the chalky gloom—ringed entirely with enormous tree trunks braced side by side and sealed with chinking.
The fort was not precisely rectangular. One wall was curved, and a second one had an indentation like it’d been built around something, but he couldn’t see what that might’ve been. And in the center of this ungeometric, courtyard-style space, two dirigibles were docked. Neither one looked like it belonged to any official nation, army, or custom, which told Rector that they were pirate ships. Both were fixed to a totem pole that must’ve been carved from a tree bigger than any he’d ever laid eyes on. Pieces of the pole were rotting off, dissolving to squishy mulch around the edges, but enough of the impressive log remained intact to keep the two airships bobbing gently a few feet off the earth.
Houjin saw him observing the operation, and said, “That pole won’t last, but it doesn’t have to. See?” He pointed at the nearest corner, where a great knot of right angles took shape through the fog. “Pipework docks, almost finished.”
“Almost,” said someone behind them.
Rector swiveled with surprise, but Houjin just bobbed his head to acknowledge the newcomer. Without looking, he said, “That’s Kirby Troost. He’s the Naamah Darling’s engineer.” Then he turned to Troost and asked, “Is Zeke up here?”
“Yeah, he’s over by the Chinatown entrance.”
Rector and Kirby Troost sized up one another from a cautious distance. Troost was a smallish man, shorter than Rector by several inches, and he was wearing a mask, so there wasn’t much else to be said about him. But there was a posture to him, a forced casualness that Rector recognized and immediately mistrusted. He knew that posture, and often wore it himself. It was the posture of someone who’s up to something.
Troost said, “You must be the kid who went down the chuckhole.”
“That’s me.”
Neither one of them moved, or even blinked.
Houjin looked back and forth between them, sensing that something was afoot and he wasn’t a part of it. Rector could’ve told him, if he’d had the vocabulary to do so, that this is what happens when two shysters recognize each other.
But he didn’t have the words, and couldn’t have explained it even though he knew it somewhere deep in his core. So rather than bring it up, he said to Houjin, “Let’s go find Zeke, huh?”
“See you later, Troost!” Houjin declared over his shoulder, for he’d already taken off toward the corner the engineer had indicated.
Troost and Rector exchanged a wary nod, then Rector stepped back into Houjin’s familiar wake.
As he tagged along through the greasy-feeling fog, more details of the fort became clear. Along one wall was an overhang with boxes beneath it, sheltered from the damp overhead, if not the damp that pervaded the air. Beside the small room above the ladder, Rector spied a stack of cleanly split lumber coated with lacquer to keep it from disintegrating in the toxic air. Here and there, machines and machine parts were stored or stopped mid-process, though what they were for, Rector didn’t know.
He used these things, these little distractions, to keep himself from hyperventilating inside his mask. He focused on the improvements large and small; and the canvas, and pitch, and lined-up hammers and boxes of nails; and the mention of the Chinatown entrance, because that meant there was another way out of this fort—a place which suddenly felt very small and very close, even though it was so large that he couldn’t see the farthest walls and edges.
And then, a few yards ahead, Houjin drew up short in front of an elongated lean-to. “Hey Zeke, guess who’s up?” he said. The rustling, clinking noise inside the lean-to came to a halt.
“Really?” The voice was amazingly familiar for having said so little.
“He’s beat-up and slow, but he’ll live. Rector, you coming?”
“Right behind you.”
He took a deep breath. It stung, and it filled his throat with the taste of rubber and powdery black filters. He exhaled the breath and used it to whisper, “No ghosts.” The words echoed around inside the mask, and his warm, dank breath made the visor briefly foggy.
Ezekiel Wilkes climbed out from the interior of the lean-to.
He struggled over a stack of crates and stepped into the open with a wrench in his hand. There was a gas mask covering most of his face, just like everybody else, but Rector would’ve known him anywhere. Still skinnier than he ought to be, and still wearing a shock of ratty brown hair that would never lie down, Zeke might’ve been a smidge taller than the last time Rector had seen him, but maybe not. His eyes were the same, crinkled around the corners from too much defensive laughter. The Outskirts hadn’t been kind to this kid, the son of the man who’d destroyed the city. Rector hoped the Underground liked him better.
Zeke’s eyes lit up at the sight of a familiar face. “Rector! Hot damn, I never thought I’d see you inside here.”
He scrambled the rest of the way out of the lean-to,
a structure which was deeper and more cluttered than it appeared at first glance. Zeke jabbed the wrench into his belt and hesitated. Finally he thrust out a hand and seized Rector’s, pumping it up and down like he’d found a long-lost brother.
Much to Rector’s surprise, his supernatural unease about this meeting evaporated, only to be replaced with something equally bad: a deep-seated sense of embarrassment that he would’ve been hard-pressed to explain. He didn’t deserve this welcome, not from a kid he’d sent off to die. Not from a kid he’d never treated well, even if others had treated him worse. Not from a kid he’d never even liked that much, and had mostly tolerated out of a dull sense of pity.
“Zeke,” he responded awkwardly, trying to infuse the greeting with a fraction of the other boy’s enthusiasm. “It’s been a while. Between you and me, I can’t believe you’re still alive.” It was all he could think of to say, and he had no intention of ever telling Zeke how profoundly true it was. As it was, the words stumbled over one another, and came out with a stutter.
Zeke didn’t notice Rector’s discomfort. He laughed. “You and me both. So I guess Houjin’s been showing you the ropes, huh? He knows this place better than I do. Probably better than anybody.”
“Yeah, he’s showed me … uh … everything between here and the Vaults.”
“Did he get you something to eat?”
“Yep. Met that Angeline woman, too.”
“The princess? She’s a real character, ain’t she?” Then someone called out Zeke’s name and he responded. “Yes, Captain?”
From further back through the blurry banks of clotted air, someone hollered. “You got that wrench for me yet, or do I have to come get it myself?”
“No sir, I’ve got it. I’m coming.” To Rector, he said, “You can meet Captain Cly, and Fang, and Troost—”
“Already met that one.”
“Then you can meet the other two. Huey, thanks for bringing him up! I’m real glad to see him.”
Houjin said, “I thought you might be!” brightly, though he was looking off behind Zeke’s shoulder. “How’s it holding up?”
Zeke followed his gaze, and understood. “So far, so good.” Then he explained, “The Chinatown entrance is a little weak right now. The day before yesterday, we had a cave-in. It didn’t do much damage, except that it let in some Blight. I don’t think anybody got sick from it, though. Anyways, come on, Rector. Huey, you coming, too?”
“Might as well!”
Together the three of them—led by Houjin, who was fastest on his feet—went plowing through the thick air, back toward the docked dirigibles and behind them. There, hidden by the ships and the miasma of Blight, Rector spied Kirby Troost with another man. This other man was lying on his back on top of a wooden bench, reaching under one of the dirigible’s back engines.
“Is this the one you wanted?” Zeke asked as he handed over the wrench.
The prone man reached up with one astoundingly long arm and accepted the wrench. He didn’t look at it, but he grasped it with his hand and felt its contours. “This is it, thanks.”
“Fourth try’s what did it,” Troost said under his breath.
Zeke overheard, and objected. “It’s not like they’re marked or anything.”
From under the dirigible the big man said, “Let him alone, Troost.”
“Captain Cly, if you’ve got a minute, you should come out and meet my friend Rector. I knew him in the Outskirts, and he’s all right.”
The captain slid down off the brace, which turned out to be the back half of a church pew.
And to think, in Zeke’s hand that wrench had looked big.
Even seated on the ground, Captain Cly was nearly as tall as those who surrounded him. He was long-waisted and nearly bald, with buzzed-short hair that was a darkish shade of blond. He didn’t require any further description. Rector would never have mistaken a man that size for anybody else. No wonder he’d been Houjin and Angeline’s first point of reference when Rector had told them about the monster at the chuckhole—but no. Not a chance it was him.
“So you’re Rector, huh?” the captain asked, looking him up and down the same as Troost had, minutes before. “Quite a head of hair you’ve got.”
“Yes sir, that’s what they tell me.”
“I hear you were dealing sap on the Outskirts. Is that why you came inside the wall, for better access to business?”
Rector may have been burned out in the brain, but he wasn’t completely stupid. “No sir, I’m leaving those ways behind me,” he said, wondering if he was lying. “I came inside the wall because I’m eighteen now, and the orphan’s home threw me out to seek my fortune.”
“Not a lot of fortune to be found around here, son.”
“I don’t need a lot of fortune. I just need a roof over my head and some supper once in a while.”
The captain didn’t say anything, only held his steady stare. Rector gave it back, mostly because he was too tired to be flustered, not because he was feeling particularly brave. Eventually, Cly sighed. “Zeke says you were good to him in the Outskirts, and that’s worth something. But he also told us you’re the one who gave him the maps that led him in here. I’m not sure how good a friend that makes you.”
“I was trying to help.”
“Maybe you’re young enough to believe that, and maybe you know better. But if Zeke likes you, I guess…” If he had more to say about the value of Zeke’s endorsement, he changed his mind. “Anyway, welcome to Seattle. If you want to hang out around the Doornails, stay out from underfoot and find ways to make yourself useful. Otherwise, maybe you’ll find that minimal fortune you seek out at the Station.”
His closing words were spoken in a friendly tone. Somehow, they still sounded like a threat.
The captain gave the boys a tiny salute, barely a dip of his head, and went back underneath the dirigible. From under there, he added, “Zeke, if you want to run off and show this kid whatever Houjin hasn’t showed him, that’s fine with me. Houjin, I might require your assistance here in a few minutes.”
“Yes sir,” Houjin said, sounding only slightly disappointed. Then he perked up. “Are you almost done with the engine upgrades?”
“Yes.”
“Can we move on to the hydrogen setup next?”
“Yes.”
“Did you get all the parts you needed from Portland?”
“Yes.”
“Even the thruster you weren’t sure you could find?”
“Got one that’ll do in a pinch.”
“Can I have the old one?”
“I suppose.”
“Do you care if I take it apart?”
Wearily, the captain said, “No, I don’t care if you take it apart. Hey, Huey? Never mind what I said just now; how about you run off with those two for the afternoon? We can get started on the hydrogen tanks tomorrow. I think I’d rather take my time on the engine than have you rushing me.”
“Didn’t mean to rush you, sir!” he chirped, then grabbed Zeke and Rector by one elbow each. As he hauled them away from the craft, he whispered, “Quick, before he changes his mind.”
Once they were out of earshot, back by the Chinatown entrance—a black, gaping hole in the ground that could’ve gone anywhere, for all Rector knew—Zeke used that same elbow to jab Houjin in the ribs. “You did that on purpose.”
“I’d rather work on the tanks than the engine. But I knew he wasn’t going to start on the hydrogen until tomorrow.”
“I wish I had your knack for driving him crazy so he’d send me away.”
Houjin grinned inside his mask. “Apparently you do.”
“Not on purpose.” He sighed. “I’m no good at ship work, and I don’t like it. I don’t know why he insists on trying to teach me.”
“Yes, you do,” Houjin argued.
Rector asked, “Why?”
Zeke preempted him. “Shut up, Huey.”
Before Rector could press for details, a voice drifted up from the Chinatown entran
ce, and something at the edge of his vision moved. At first it looked so much like a ghost it almost stopped his heart. It was barely a flicker, and then it was something larger and fuller. It moved with purpose. The shadow was person-sized and it was masked.
Rector took a step back just as Houjin dropped to his knees. “Hello?” Houjin called down the hole. Then, clearly seeing someone he recognized, he lapsed into Chinese.
Rector and Zeke looked at each other, and Zeke shrugged. “I don’t know any of that Chinese talk. Huey tried to teach me, but I didn’t pick it up worth a damn.”
“I don’t get how anybody understands it.”
“Me either, but he says there are millions of people who speak it just fine, so it works for somebody, someplace.”
The flash of motion down below swished again, and with it came the shape of a man wearing loose-fitting black from head to toe, though the edges of his garments had white hems that made him appear outlined—if horribly insubstantial—in the dark. He rose up the stairs (always, more stairs) with a smoothness that once again knocked up against Rector’s fear of ghosts and the way they hovered as they approached.
His masked head emerged, just high enough so he didn’t have to yell when he spoke to Houjin. Whatever they discussed, it involved Rector. He knew it easily, same as he knew Kirby Troost was to be watched and worried about, by instinct or suspicion. Houjin kept peeking at him, and his mood became precise: polite, but reluctantly so. He was arguing, and losing.
Finally he stood up, and the speaker disappeared back down below.
“What was that about?” asked Zeke. Rector would’ve asked himself, except that he didn’t think he wanted to know.
Houjin said, “Rector, we have to go down to the Station. Yaozu wants to see you.”
“Yaozu?”
“He’s the man who runs the Station. And everything that happens down there.”
Rector swallowed, hoping the mask hid his nervousness. “I know who he is. I’ve heard all about him.”
“Have you heard it ain’t a good idea to tell him no?” Zeke asked.
“I heard that much, yeah. I still don’t want to go visit the Station.”
The Inexplicables (Clockwork Century) Page 9
