by David Logan
‘Not all,’ said Otravinicus. ‘Many but not all. Look around you. Not just at us but at everyone you’ve seen since you arrived here.’
‘Made more sense when I thought I was on an alien planet.’
‘I suppose you are in a way. Three million years is a very long time.’
‘You’re telling me,’ said Junk. He tried to process all this information. It made his head spin so he changed the subject. ‘Why do you have an American accent?’
‘I suppose for the same recent that Mr Fiske here sounds a lot like you,’ said Otravinicus. ‘I learned to speak your language from an American.’
It took a few moments for the implications of that to register with Junk. ‘You mean someone from my time?’ he asked.
‘Correct.’
‘Then I’m not the first to find the Room of Doors,’ he said.
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Who is he? Is he still here? Are there other people here?’ asked Junk.
‘That I cannot answer. He and I had an agreement but unfortunately he chose not to honour the deal.’ From the way he spat the last three words, it was apparent that this was still a sore point for Otravinicus. ‘His name was Solo – Han Solo.’ Junk laughed, but Otravinicus didn’t get the joke. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you. It’s not his real name,’ said Junk.
‘How do you know?’ asked the doctor, frowning.
‘Han Solo’s a character in a film. Called Star Wars.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Otravinicus, evidently feeling foolish now. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. He agreed to show me the Room of Doors for myself. It would have been the perfect end for my book. In return I was to help him find an island.’
‘An island?’ said Garvan, who hadn’t said anything for a while. ‘Why did he want an island?’
‘He didn’t say. It wasn’t a specific island, you understand. I got the impression it was where he wanted to live.’
‘So you mean he could still be here?’ asked Junk.
‘He could, but I have no idea where. He vanished without fulfilling his promise to me. But I would still like to find the Room of Doors. Prove to the world that what I wrote in my book was accurate. Which brings me to what it is you want, young Junk.’
‘I’m looking for the man who killed my sister,’ said Junk.
‘I suspected you might be,’ said Otravinicus.
‘All I know is he’s part of a group called the League of Sharks. Help me find him, and I’ll help you find the Room of Doors,’ said Junk.
Otravinicus didn’t reply for several moments as he considered Junk’s proposal. When he spoke, it was to say, ‘I’ve never heard of this League of Sharks.’
‘Well, your doorman is one of them,’ said Junk. ‘Same race anyway. I’m not saying he’s part of the group, but he’s one of their kind.’
‘He’s a Pallatan. That’s what we call people of his race. You want me to ask him what he knows?’
*
A short time later and Otravinicus had ordered the doorman up to his apartment. His name was Alsk. The shark-man was strangely obsequious in Otravinicus’s presence, all of the previous aggression gone. Otravinicus translated for Junk’s benefit.
‘He’s heard of them but doesn’t know anything about them. They’re an extremist group. Almost a cult.’
‘Ask him if he has any tattoos,’ said Junk.
Otravinicus relayed the question to Alsk who shook his head firmly.
‘I don’t believe him,’ said Junk. ‘Get him to show us his arm. This one.’ Junk tapped his left bicep.
Otravinicus hesitated before asking Alsk the question. Alsk frowned. Clearly he didn’t want to oblige. Because he has something to hide, thought Junk. It was apparent that Otravinicus felt uncomfortable asking and didn’t press it. Alsk considered what to do and then stood up. He took off his coat, unbuttoned his jacket and shirt and pulled them down, revealing his left, bare bicep. He showed it to everyone but particularly to Junk. He showed the right one too. Also blank. While he was re-buttoning his shirt Otravinicus asked him something else, which he considered before answering. They spoke and then Otravinicus showed him to the door.
‘Well, that was embarrassing,’ the doctor said when he returned.
‘Sorry,’ said Junk.
‘He suggested someone else we could ask, though I warn you, it’s not in a very good neighbourhood.’
*
It was only a short journey from Otravinicus’s apartment, but they could have been in a different world. The street looked like something out of a Dickens novel. It was dark and wet and the light was almost non-existent. They found a bar with a picture of a walrus outside.
‘This is the place,’ announced Otravinicus and he entered brazenly. His confidence gave the impression that he had no idea what to expect inside rather than that he was someone who belonged here.
‘Maybe you shouldn’t come in,’ said Junk to Lasel. It was unclear if she understood, but she frowned and followed Otravinicus.
Junk looked to Garvan to share his concern, but the big man seemed oblivious to anything untoward.
‘Are you coming?’ he said, and held the door open for Junk.
Junk and Garvan went inside. The place was dark and loud and hot. The stink of sweat and alcohol was like a yellow cloud in the air. Garvan coughed and waved a hand in front of his face. The music was so loud it reverberated through their entire bodies from head to toe and back again. Junk could feel his teeth vibrating.
He looked around but couldn’t see Otravinicus or Lasel. He did see lots of aggressive, sweaty faces glaring back at him. Without even realizing what he was doing, he leaned back a little, making it clear he was with Garvan, who was easily the biggest guy in here. Though Junk had a feeling size meant nothing in this place. There was a tiny man at the bar. He had a Mohican of blue hair and three eyes; all were looking at Junk. As he got closer he saw that the third eye, on the man’s cheek, was a tattoo. Despite his diminutive size, Junk felt he was capable of springing off his bar stool, doing something horrible and disfiguring to Junk and being back on his stool before it had even stopped spinning. He looked away quickly and tried very hard to avoid eye contact with anyone – especially people with three eyes.
Lasel stepped out from a nook in the back and gestured to Junk and Garvan to join her. ‘Dusco,’ she said, beckoning. Here.
The nook contained a round table. Otravinicus was sitting there with a woman. She was the biggest woman Junk had ever seen. Like Ambeline’s killer and Alsk the doorman, she was also of Pallatan descent. She was bald and muscular but strangely feminine nonetheless and her huge slit of a mouth was ringed with red lipstick. Though her shoulders were broad, Olympic-swimmer broad, she had a definite neck that the males of her species seemed to lack. She was wearing a flimsy vest that exposed her powerful and heavily tattooed arms. Junk searched for the mark of the League, but he couldn’t see it.
‘Junk,’ said Otravinicus, ‘I’d like to introduce you to Cascér.’
Cascér looked Junk up and down and chuckled. ‘Tootu shhnoova,’ she said, and made a strange clicking sound with her tongue. Junk had no idea what she had said, but it didn’t sound as if she was speaking Jansian.
‘What?’ he asked, a little nervously.
‘You don’t want to know,’ said Otravinicus.
‘What language is that?’ Junk asked, his question directed at Cascér. She looked at Otravinicus.
‘Trara ju,’ he said in her language.
‘You speak it?’ Junk asked.
‘I do,’ said Otravinicus. ‘It’s called H’rtu. It’s a Sitan dialect.’
Junk had to trawl through his memory. He remembered Garvan’s map. Sita had been the African continent in his time. It was now divided into four separate land masses.
‘I have explained to Cascér what you are looking for,’ said Otravinicus. ‘She knows all about the League of Sharks.’
Junk couldn’t contai
n his excitement. He looked at Cascér. ‘Well?’ he asked expectantly.
One of her great fin hands tapped the table and she said nothing. Otravinicus dug into his coat and pulled out some money. He laid it on the table and Cascér snatched it up like a rattlesnake spotting a mouse. She didn’t bother to count it, which made Junk fear her all the more for some reason. Then she turned to a morbidly obese man behind the counter and barked at him in H’rtu. A moment later a bottle of green liquid was brought to the table along with five shot glasses.
‘Dutu, jay,’ said Cascér to Junk.
‘She would appreciate it if you poured,’ said Otravinicus.
‘Sure,’ said Junk. He picked up the bottle and tried to pull out the cork. It wouldn’t budge. He went red in the face trying, and this proved to be a source of amusement for Cascér. She snatched the bottle from him and pulled out the cork without any effort at all. She smiled and winked at Junk as she handed it back. His hand was shaking a little as he filled the glasses.
‘Ja,’ said Cascér, waving a hand over the glasses, indicating that everyone should have one.
‘Brace yourself,’ said Otravinicus quietly to Junk. Cascér sucked back her shot. Garvan did the same, as did Otravinicus. Lasel copied, and even though the drink was strong she forced herself to show no ill effects. When it came to Junk’s turn, he followed suit and promptly erupted into a coughing fit. His face turned an alarming shade of blue. Cascér was laughing heartily. All of a sudden she leaned forward and snatched Junk off his feet. Before he knew what was happening, she had installed him squarely on her lap. As the coughing fit subsided, he felt like a little kid visiting Santa’s grotto.
‘She likes you,’ said Otravinicus. ‘You might just have to put up with it.’
‘This is humiliating,’ said Junk out of the corner of his mouth.
Cascér ruffled his hair. ‘Na foota bootchek, jay?’ she said to Junk, who looked at Otravinicus for a translation.
‘She’s asking what you want to know,’ he replied.
‘About the League of Sharks,’ said Junk. ‘Who are they? How do I find them?’
Otravinicus repeated the questions to Cascér in her tongue and she answered at length.
‘She says,’ said Otravinicus, translating, ‘they are a cult obsessed with their ancestors’ reputation as the ultimate predator. Like Alsk said, they are an extremist group. Not representative of her people. She wants to make that clear. Says they’re nothing but pirates. Bloodthirsty, I think she’s saying. Her language is a little basic. They will kill and maim for pleasure or profit.
‘She says the tattoo you describe, the fin and the five stars, is specific to a particular branch that resides in Cul Sita – what would have been South Africa in your day.’
Junk’s heart was pounding. This was what he had been looking for; he was another step closer to Ambeline’s killer. He had to get to South Africa. Then something else occurred to him and he looked to Otravinicus.
‘The man who killed my sister, he spoke to me. He said, “Fatoocha mammacoola charla.’” Will you ask her what it means?’
Otravinicus explained the question to Cascér and she frowned. She said something to Otravinicus and he looked at Junk. ‘She wants to know if you’re sure that’s what he said?’ asked Otravinicus.
‘I’m sure,’ said Junk. He had played those words over and over in his head for three years now. He would never forget them.
‘She says it means “Nine Emperors send their regards.”’
Junk considered that. ‘What does that mean?’ he asked.
Otravinicus shook his head. ‘She has no idea.’
14
When Junk, Lasel and Garvan got to Dr Otravinicus’s apartment the following morning, they were surprised to find Cascér was there already and cooking breakfast. Otravinicus was about half Cascér’s size and they made a very odd couple. Though she cooked a mean breakfast. Over food they discussed what to do next.
‘I need to get to South Africa,’ said Junk. ‘I mean Cul Sita.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Otravinicus. Cascér stood behind him, massaging his shoulders. She was far too rough, but he merely winced and sucked up the pain. It was too early in their relationship for him to point out her shortcomings. ‘Here’s what I suggest but it is only a suggestion. If you disagree, I am more than open to an alternative. I think our most direct way to find the League is to return to Garvan’s island. If we can find the entrance to the Room of Doors, then all you would have to do is step through the adjacent door that you believe would take to you to Cul Sita.’ Otravinicus was making a reference to Junk’s suspicion that he should have taken the door on the right when he had been faced with a choice back in the Room of Doors; he felt bad that he had based his decision on nothing more than a childhood rhyme and therefore chance. ‘Our alternative is to take a land-ship,’ Otravinicus went on. ‘Even on the fastest vessel we could find, it is a journey of several weeks.’
Junk considered this and nodded. ‘The quicker we get there the better, I say.’
‘That’s the spirit.’ Otravinicus smiled broadly. ‘I have already enquired about hiring the fastest ship to take us south. It is moored to the north of here on the coast. We can leave today if that is acceptable.’
‘That’s perfect, far as I’m concerned,’ said Junk with a hearty grin. He beamed at Garvan, who wasn’t paying attention, and Lasel, who was frowning. Something was bothering her, but Junk was a teenage boy and was therefore oblivious.
*
They set off almost immediately, taking a smaller landship to the north coast. The journey took less than an hour. They passed the outskirts of a bland, nondescript village by the name of Dissel, which was Lasel’s hometown. She sat on one of the open decks seeking out landmarks of her childhood as they rumbled past: a small tor to the west, topped with a crooked tree, where she would sit as a child, finding reasons not to go home. The tree was still there, but she remembered it as being dead and black and twisted. But not now. Now it was caked in blossom. It was alive and vibrant. The grass around it was green and lush and she saw, from a distance, a girl doing handstands against it, just like she used to do. Despite herself, she smiled.
*
They arrived at the costal town of Turanay, which was a hub for land-ships. Nothing existed in the town that didn’t revolve in some way around either the organization, deployment, piloting or maintenance of the ships or the feeding and watering of the thousands of passengers and crew who passed through there each year.
Junk and the others disembarked at a station that housed tracks leading off in every direction. Dozens of ships were docked here, waiting to set off on the next leg of their journey. The place boiled with activity. The air was filled with the clanking of the turning circles moving the next ship to depart into position on its chosen track.
Dr Otravinicus led the way through the bustling station with Cascér by his side. Garvan followed, displaying little interest in his surroundings. Junk came after, marvelling at the ships and the activity around him. Lasel brought up the rear. Her mind was elsewhere, on the crooked tree on top of the tor.
They arrived at a staging platform where they found the ship Otravinicus had hired. It wasn’t as huge as the land-ship they had been on before, nor as grand, but it was beautiful. It was called the Casabia. Eight masts and made from a dark, almost black, wood.
They stopped at the solitary gangplank and Otravinicus called out, requesting permission to board. Junk, who was loving all things nautical at that precise moment, thought about old films he had seen where people would have to call out in this way. Old films that were now more than three million years old. He liked how some things hadn’t changed.
A figure appeared at the top of the gangplank. He was tall and broad and looked like he could be hit in his vast belly and not even notice. This was the captain of the Casabia. His name was Hundrig Shunt. Since Otravinicus had explained the evolution of Jorda’s current population, Junk had found himself
looking at everyone he met, trying to work out their ancestry. Some were easier than others and Hundrig was very much in that category. His ancestors had clearly been rhinoceroses. Apart from being bipedal and the lack of a facial horn, Hundrig still looked like a rhino.
Junk’s grasp of Jansian had improved and he discovered that he understood almost everything the captain said.
‘Greetings, Dr Otravinicus. S’good to see you again, sir. Come aboard, one and all. All are welcome.’
Hundrig had what could only be described as a booming whisper. Anything louder and it would have cracked the very ground they walked on. Once on board, introductions were made. Explanations for the journey were given and everyone was shown to their cabin. Once again Junk was expected to share with Garvan, and the first thing he did was look for a convenient balcony to sleep on. Unfortunately there wasn’t one, but Junk figured it was a big ship and he would find somewhere to sleep even if it was in the crow’s nest. Then it occurred to him that he hadn’t noticed whether or not there was a crow’s nest on this sort of ship. He resolved to find out later.
*
The Casabia had a crew of ten, who all looked very different from one another. They were big and they were small; they were fat and thin. Their skin was black or grey or white or pink or brown or even, in one case, blue. Junk had been part of many a ship’s crew back in his time and the Casabia didn’t feel that different. Crews tended to be made up of stragglers and people running away from one thing or another or sometimes running to somewhere.
If anything, Otravinicus was even more eager to get going than Junk, and less than twenty minutes after they had boarded the Casabia was given its departure berth.
Junk stood on the prow and watched as the ground beneath the ship cranked around and then jolted sideways. Tracks joined up and the magnetic propulsion system got the Casabia moving. Slowly at first, but then with each new change of direction the speed increased until the ship reached a massive central turntable. It rotated through two hundred and seventy degrees until it was lined up with the tracks that would take it west-by-south-west.
