by Philip Reeve
Tom stared back. There were not just people inside London; there were lots of people. He looked at their faces, but there was no one he recognized. It didn’t matter; they were Londoners, that was what was important. Many of them bore the marks of old injuries; he saw missing limbs and fingers, a man with a burnt face, a blinded woman being guided along by her children, who were telling her excitedly about Tom, Wren and Wolf. Scars everywhere. Hester would have felt at home here, he thought, and he wished that the wind had blown the Jenny Haniver the other way on that morning after MEDUSA, and carried him and Hester into London instead of away from it. How different things might have been if they had lived in the debris fields…
At the far side of the garden area a massive section of deckplate lay propped upon the ruins, forming a low-ceilinged cave. Garamond led his party in through the long, letterbox-shaped opening. The iron roof was so low that everyone had to stoop, but in the shadows dozens of small huts and houses had been erected, built from scraps of metal and wood. Crowds were waiting there, alerted by the children who were running excitedly ahead of the procession. “Where’s Miss Potts?” shouted Garamond over all the noise, and a bald-headed gentleman in a grubby white rubber coat (An Engineer! thought Tom, uneasily) replied, “She’s at the Town Hall, Garamond.”
The procession went marching on, deeper and deeper into the metal-roofed cavern until the deckplate overhead was so low they had to bend almost double to save themselves from cracking their heads on the old bolts and fittings that poked down from it. “This is why it’s called Crouch End,” said Wren’s friendly guard. “It ain’t a very convenient place to live, but in the old days, with sprites and Mossies and Quirke-knows-what else to hide away from, a roof over our ’eads was very welcome…”
“Angie Peabody,” barked Mr Garamond, “I thought I told you to shut your cakehole!”
Wedged in under the lowest corner of the deckplate was a building fashioned out of an old Gut Supervisor’s office and bits of many other things, all nailed and bolted together in a workmanlike way and painted a cheerful shade of red. LONDON EMERGENCY COMMITTEE someone had written above the door, in careful capitals. Garamond left his charges outside while he went in and had a muffled conversation with someone. Then he came out again and pushed the door wide open. “Step along now, prisoners,” he said. “And show a bit of respect. You are entering the presence of the Lord Mayor of London!”
The floor inside the building had been dug out so that there was no need to stoop. Tom went first, with Will Hallsworth at his side, warning him to watch out for the steps. He tripped down them anyway, and landed in a big, slope-ceilinged room where a map of the debris fields covered one wall, marked all over with tickets and flags and mysterious red pins. Around a battered old tin table in the centre of the room a dozen people were gathered, looking as if they had been in the middle of a meeting when they were interrupted by the arrival of Mr Garamond and his prisoners. One of them was Clytie Potts. She stood up when she recognized Tom. “Oh, Quirke!” she said.
Beside her, another of the committee was already rising to greet the new arrivals, and his shabby red robe and chain of office marked him clearly as the Lord Mayor. Tom felt relieved. For a moment he had feared that he was about to come face-to-face with Magnus Crome, the sinister Engineer who had ruled London in his childhood. But this ancient, portly gentleman with tufts of white hair sprouting like steam around his ears was not Crome. And after the relief came astonishment, for Tom found that he knew that round, red face, and meeting it here was even more of a shock than his first encounter with Clytie Potts.
“Chudleigh Pomeroy!” he cried.
“I – Great Quirke and Clio!” the old man said, his white eyebrows leaping in surprise. “By the Sacred Black Flannel of Sooty Pete! If it isn’t young Apprentice Thing! Young Whatchamacallit! Young, um…”
“Natsworthy,” said Tom. He had always been a little afraid of the Deputy Head Historian, but meeting him here, realizing that he had survived down all these years and against all these odds, made him weep with happiness. He wiped the tears away and said in a wobbly voice, “Tom Natsworthy, Mr Pomeroy; Apprentice Third Class. I’ve come home.”
20
CHILDREN OF MEDUSA
Chudleigh Pomeroy called for refreshments to be brought from the settlement’s communal kitchen, and fussed at his colleagues to clear away their piles of paper and make room at the table for the visitors. Tom, who was starting to recover from his shock, turned to look at the other committee-members. Two of them were Engineers – a small, brown-skinned man and a rather severe-looking old lady, as bald as two pebbles, and wearing tattered white rubber coats. The rest were just ordinary Londoners; people of all shapes and sizes and several different colours, including a wiry, leathery little man who waved at Angie, prompting her to wave back and say, “’Ullo, Dad!” He looked to Tom as if he’d been a Gut labourer before MEDUSA went off; certainly not the type of person you would have found in London’s council-chamber in the old days.
At last three seats were cleared for the newcomers. Chudleigh Pomeroy beamed at them as they sat down. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Natsworthy,” he said, reaching across the table to shake Wren’s hand when Tom introduced her. “And Herr Kobold. We’ve heard a lot about the bravery of your city and its allies. Miss Potts here keeps us up to date with the war news. Welcome to London.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Wolf, bowing neatly, his hand moving to where his sword-hilt would have been if Mr Garamond had not taken his sword away from him. “This is not my first visit. The last time I was here I found myself ejected before I could actually meet any of your people…” He smiled slyly at the puzzled faces around him and quickly explained the story of his first visit to the debris fields.
“Great Quirke!” muttered Garamond. “I remember him now…”
“You’re not the first lost soldier to seek shelter here,” said Pomeroy. “The lost and wounded of both sides blunder into the fringes of the wreck sometimes. We couldn’t risk any of them going off and blurting out our secrets to the outside world, but we didn’t want to murder them or anything, so we came up with the notion of simply scaring them away. A few mysterious moans are usually enough to set the bravest of ’em running, but now and then we come across one who’s more inquisitive. When we do, we knock ’em out with chloroform before they can see anything and dump them outside the wreckage. Most of them get the message. You’re the first to return.”
“So why didn’t you knock us out and carry us into the Out-Country?” asked Wren.
“Good question,” grumbled one of the committeemen, glaring at Garamond.
“It wasn’t practical!” said Garamond huffily. “They came in by airship, not on foot. They seemed like scavengers, not castaways. And Mr Natsworthy here doesn’t look any too healthy. If my lads had chloroformed him he might never have woken up…”
Tom started to protest that there was nothing wrong with him; that he would have positively welcomed a good, bracing dose of chloroform. Luckily, before an argument could develop, the food arrived; bread and butter, apple crumble and home-baked biscuits, elderflower wine in old tin water-bottles.
“I see you have learned to live off the bare earth,” said Wolf Kobold softly. “Just like the Mossies.”
Clytie Potts smiled brightly at him; she was taken with this handsome young newcomer, and missed the faint edge of disgust in his voice. “Oh, we grow all sorts of things in the patches of soil between the rust-heaps. It’s very fertile. Some of the survivors were workers in the agricultural districts before MEDUSA and they have taught us all about growing food. And our scavenging-teams find all sorts of things among the ruins: tinned goods; sugar; tea. There are less than two hundred people in London now, so we’ve enough for everyone.”
“We hunt, too,” said Angie eagerly. “Rabbits and birds and things make their ’omes in the debris fields…” She stopped as Mr Garamond turned to glare at her; the other youngsters had been made to wait outside, a
nd Wren suspected that Angie wasn’t supposed to be in the committee-room at all.
“And Clytie brought in a few goats and sheep aboard that ship of hers,” added the quiet, elderly lady Engineer.
“But I don’t understand,” Tom was saying. “I mean, how did you survive at all? How do you come to be here? I thought…”
“You thought we were all dead,” said Pomeroy kindly, “which, by the way, is what I thought about you; that villain Valentine told me you’d fallen down a wastechute in the Gut. I’ve felt guilty ever since about having sent you down there that night. Wine?”
He filled a motley collection of tin beakers and enamel mugs, and another of the committee handed one to each of the newcomers while Pomeroy sat beaming at them, gathering his thoughts. Then, while they ate and drank, he told them of the last hours of London; of how the tension between the Guild of Historians and Crome’s power-hungry Engineers had ended with open warfare in the halls of the Museum, and of how Katherine Valentine and Apprentice Engineer Pod had set off up the secret stairway called the Cat’s Creep to try and stop MEDUSA being used.
“Soon after that,” he said, “the Engineers attacked in force, and things grew rather confused. We fought like tigers, of course, but they had Stalkers and things, and they drove us back into the Natural History section. There weren’t many of us left by that time; Arkengarth and Pewtertide and Dr Karuna had all been killed, and Clytie here was hurt pretty badly. I decided to make a last stand behind that old model of the Blue Whale – it had been taken down from the ceiling for some reason, and was lying on the floor, where it made a passable barricade. And as we crouched behind it, waiting for those Resurrected fellows to come and finish us, suddenly, Boom! The building started to come apart at the seams…”
“Mr Pomeroy threw me in through the whale’s mouth,” said Clytie Potts, looking sadly down at her hands as she spoke, as if the memories still upset her.
“Yes,” agreed Pomeroy, “and then, with extraordinary presence of mind, I jumped in after her. Just in time! I think the whole of Tier Two must have given way at that point. Light blazed in at me through every rent and bullet-hole in the whale’s hide, and I felt it start to roll, to slide, to tumble through the air! After that I don’t remember much. Surfing down the sides of disintegrating cities inside fibreglass whales isn’t really my cup of tea, I’m afraid, and I passed out fairly promptly…”
“The whale eventually came to rest between two fallen tier-supports over on the southern edge of the main debris field,” explained Clytie, taking up the story. “Some workers from the salvage-yards found it there, and helped us out. That was when I saw what had happened to the city. It was… Oh, I can’t begin to describe it. There was fire everywhere, and dirty smoke boiling into the sky, and explosions going off all the time, so that there was always wreckage rattling down, and ash falling softly everywhere, like black snow. And sometimes, out of the middle of the ruins, a huge claw of white light would come crackling, groping its way across the ground as if it was feeling for us…”
“Yes, those were dicey times,” said Pomeroy, nodding solemnly. “The League was about, too, hungry for revenge. We watched some of our fellow survivors venture out of the wreckage to give themselves up to a League patrol and they were all shot on the spot. So Clytie and me and our salvage-yard friends decided to stay put. After a while we started to make contact with other little groups of survivors, and we banded together and wondered what to do. We thought about sneaking back west along the track-marks, but where would that get us? Just into the slave-holds of some scavenger-town probably, where we’d be no better off than with the League. So in the end we decided to stay here. London might have come a cropper, but it was still London, eh? Still home…”
His colleagues all nodded and muttered agreement, and Pomeroy gave the wall of the committee-room an affectionate pat, which made it wobble alarmingly.
“We moved into Crouch End because it seemed safe from sprites,” explained Clytie, “and we were hidden here from the air-patrols that the League kept sending over in those early days. There’s a big section of the Gut lying fairly undamaged about a half-mile east of here, and we salvaged a lot of useful stuff from it; even a trunk-full of money. So later, when the League patrols thinned out a bit, some of us were able to sneak out and buy the Archaeopteryx and start picking up a few other things we needed…”
“It must have been dangerous,” said Tom, thinking of his own experience of crossing the Green Storm’s lines.
“Impossible, sometimes,” admitted Clytie. “But we usually manage a few trips a year…”
“Collecting Old-Tech, I gather,” said Wolf Kobold.
Clytie looked uncertain. Several of the councillors shifted uncomfortably in their salvaged chairs.
“And what about these Engineers?” Wolf Kobold went on, nodding at the bald-headed man and woman. “You seem very friendly with them, considering it was all their fault that London exploded in the first place.”
The lady Engineer said softly, “Not all of our Guild supported Magnus Crome and his insane plans. Those of us who opposed him were banished to lowly jobs in the prisons and factories of the Deep Gut. I suppose that’s what saved us. All Crome’s supporters were with him on Top Tier when MEDUSA failed.”
“We’ve been very glad of our Engineers over the years,” said Angie’s father, the wiry former labourer. “They’ve knocked up all sorts of handy contraptions for us – bicycle-powered electric hotplates, solar collectors, windmills, lifting gear. Electrical guns that can knock out the Green Storm’s mechanized spy-birds. Dr Abrol here –” he pointed to the other Engineer, who grinned modestly – “has built a receiver which allows us to listen in on the Storm’s radio-traffic, so we’ll have fair warning if they ever do come looking for us. And Dr Childermass, our Deputy Mayor, used to be head of the Mag-Lev Research Division. It’s she—”
“Now, Len,” said the lady Engineer in a warning voice.
“The Green Storm must know that you’re here,” said Wolf. “All these windmills and fields and so forth. They must have seen you.”
“I suppose so,” said Clytie Potts.
“Yet they choose to leave you in peace. Perhaps they think you are Anti-Tractionists, like them?”
“Well, they’d be wrong then,” said Angie’s father, sensing the challenge in Kobold’s question and bristling. “They don’t know our plans, no more than you do…”
“Len,” said Dr Childermass, and Chudleigh Pomeroy cut in hurriedly to say, “Anyway, now that young Natsworthy and his chums are here, we’d best make them comfortable; decide where they’re to stay and so forth.”
“Oh, we don’t want to trouble you,” Kobold told him. “We’ll just stop a few days, have a nose about, and then head back to the Jenny Haniver…”
“But you can’t leave so soon!” protested Pomeroy. “You’ve only just got here!”
“What he means is, you can’t leave at all,” said Mr Garamond, who had been listening impatiently to all this from his perch near the door. “These are important times for London. We can’t risk having you tell somebody we’re here.”
“Come, Garamond,” said Pomeroy, “Mr Natsworthy is a Londoner like us!”
“That’s as maybe, but his daughter isn’t, and as for this other gentleman… As head of the Security Sub-Committee it’s my duty to point out that we don’t know them, and we can’t trust them.”
“Hear, hear,” said Angie’s father, nodding vigorously. “It’d be a right shame if we hung on here for all these years only for some nosey parker to go and squeal about us to a scavenger just when we’re about ready to—”
“Len!” snapped Dr Childermass.
“But I’m afraid Garamond’s right,” said Pomeroy apologetically. “I think it would be best if our young people keep a twenty-four hour guard on the Holloway Road and the airship-park. Tom, Wren, Herr Kobold; I hope you will consider yourselves our guests, but I’m afraid that there is absolutely no question of you lea
ving. Another biscuit, anyone?”
21
PAGING DOCTOR POPJOY
Sixty miles beyond dead London, where the young mountains of Shan Guo rose steeply from the plains, stood the fortress-city of Batmunkh Gompa. It guarded a pass through which, for centuries, Traction Cities had kept trying to break into the fertile Anti-Tractionist kingdoms of the east. But now that the Green Storm had pushed their frontier westward, it had become a sleepy, faded shadow of itself, like a harbour from which the sea had retreated. A small garrison still manned the Shield-Wall, but the city served mainly as a base where armies and supply-convoys paused on their way west to the new battlefields of the line.
In the valley behind it, along the pleasant shores of the lake called Batmunkh Nor, lay stilted fishing-lodges and the pretty, steep-roofed villas and weekend homes of senior Green Storm officials. One, prettier than the rest, stood among pine trees on a finger of land pointing out into the lake. The lights in its teardrop windows made long reflections in the water, and the roofs curled at each corner like the toes of a sultan’s slippers in a fairy-tale. Anyone bold enough to peek between the bars of its high, spiked gates would notice some curious statuary in the gardens and a name-plate beside the paved drive which read:
Dun Resurrectin’
It was the home of another survivor of MEDUSA; Dr Popjoy, late of the Guild of Engineers, and more recently head of the Resurrection Corps. The villa was his reward from the Storm for all the armies he had built them.
“That is the house,” said Fishcake’s Stalker, when he described what he could see as they came down the mountain road that night. “When Sathya was stationed at Batmunkh Gompa we went for boat-trips on the lake and looked at that house from the water. It belonged to an artist then; a master calligrapher. Sathya used to say that when she was old and rich she would live there herself.”
