Souls in the Great Machine

by Sean McMullen

  "Fras Glasken! That's... that's worth further thought. How were you deflowered, if I may ask?"

  Glasken nearly dropped his compass in surprise. He glanced across furtively to Theresla, but she had turned away, giggling. "When I was fourteen I was quite a good hand with the lutina," he said, firmly refusing to smile. "The local hicks would hire me to serenade their Frelles for them. One night the girl at the upstairs window invited me in. When I went inside I found she had more in mind than a couple more songs and a honey cake

  "That's lovely," Theresla laughed as Glasken dropped another white ribbon. "Couples get together in such silly and unsuitable ways, yet those unions can lead to mighty alliances of may orates advances in scholarship, anything and everything. Just one awkward, vulnerable moment, one desperate gesture when pride, dignity, and self-respect are offered to another in one's trembling hand." "One gently pinched bottom that does not result in a slap?"

  Theresla pouted at him, her eyes narrowing. "You have a way of going straight for the crude fundamentals."

  "I am a rake. I deal in crude fundamentals." "It is said that rakes love sex and conquest, but not women. You, Glasken, are not a rake. Your heart is in the right place, even if the rest of you is... wherever it is."

  Maralinga had grown into a fortified garrison post and beam flash relay, with a nomad market and even a hostelry. With Theresla safely on a wind train that was vanishing west into the heat shimmers, Glasken strode over to the stables to equip himself for a second--and this time lone--expedition. As he fumbled for coins to pay for stores and camels he felt a square of poor paper at the bottom of his purse. He unfolded it, then read it again.

  "Fras Glasken: Theresla is return palace. Highliber tell her of you. You go par aline Great Western. Theresla know. I fix. Your drinker friend, Ilyire."

  "Lucky she didn't find that," said Glasken as he dropped the paper into the coals of the stables' forge, where it ignited with a soft pop. It had been a desperate gamble, but it had paid off. Theresla had taken him where Ilyire could not bring himself to return. This time Glasken had been careful to drop markers as they returned to Maralinga. CLOCK SMITH

  Glasken spent several weeks on the Nullarbor, stripping Ilyire's treasure cave clean. He re-secreted three-quarters of the contents in other caves, then removed Ervelle's bones and wrapped them in a saddle blanket. Finally, he stood in the cemetery at Maralinga Railside early one morning, seeing to it that Ervelle's remains were buried properly and played the old Alspring tune "Ervelle's Fare well" on a borrowed lutina. A Reformed Gentheist lay minister from the beam flash crew--the closest equivalent of the Alspring Orthodox Gentheist religion that Glasken knew of--read a service.

  "Ilyire begs forgiveness," Glasken said in Alspring as he sprinkled a handful of pinkish limestone dust into the open grave. The headstone bore Ervelle's name in both Alspfing script and Austaric Ro man, as well as the dates of her birth and death. It had been sent out on a wind train by Ilyire. Glasken stood watching the hired par aline nav vies shoveling lime stone rock and sand into the grave, and a plume of dust streamed away from the hole on the hot, blustery wind like a tenuous white soul that was free at last. He raised his cap a fraction.

  "Glad to be of service to such a legend, Frelle," he whispered. "Perhaps one day I'll meet some girl as wonderful as you were said to be. Preferably today."

  He sighed. All of his seductions had been conquests, yet he had never been any gift's hero. Legends were full of virtuous heroes, evil villains, heroines, but there were never any harmless rakes who were merely fun to be with. Could he only ever enter a legend as Ervelle's undertaker? Could he be loved for being himself and not some insipid alter ego? Now he had the riches to do whatever he wanted, but he had no idea what he wanted to do.

  A wind train was due in the afternoon, and Glasken wandered about the rail side looking at the changes that had taken place in the years since Lemorel had abducted him. What surprised him most was the scatter of Alspring Ghans who were living in a small encampment to the east of the rail side There were fifteen or twenty of them, and about sixty camels munching on fodder in wooden troughs. Two Kooree men were lounging in the shade of the ware house, speaking to one of the uniformed rail side staff. Glasken could draw his own conclusions easily enough: the Ghans had negotiated caravan fights across Kooree land, and were now trading with merchants on the wind trains. Coffee SOULS IN THE GREAT MACHINE

  would be of great interest to the merchants from the inland, but he doubted that any political contacts had as yet been established. He did not spare a thought for Lemorel.

  Wandering past the rail side cemetery Glasken noticed that three Ghan merchants were prostrating themselves before Ervelle's grave and wailing softly in unison. He recognized some words of a a prayer of reconciliation. The ticket master came up to him as he stood watching.

  "It took them only minutes to discover that grave this morning, Fras. They've been wailing there in rotation ever since. Just whose bones did you bury?"

  "Ervelle was an exceedingly beautiful young Alspring woman who was mistakenly sentenced to death and turned loose into a Call, strapped to a camel. I chanced upon the bones, and was familiar with the legend. She is revered by the Alspring Ghans, as you can see."

  "I certainly do. Fras, you may have made Maralinga some sort of holy place. Your name should be on the headstone too."

  "Oh no, no, good Fras, I have no place in legends."

  "As you will. Now, this afternoon's wind train west has no vacant A-class compartments left, according to the beam flash

  "Damn and hellfire! I couldn't sit up in a B-class seat all the way to Kalgoorlie, not after five weeks on a camel." "Fras, Fras, let me finish. I expect that several will be vacated when the train arrives. There are always a few coffee merchants on each train, they come to trade with the Ghans."

  The wind train was later than expected, so Glasken indulged in a bath and shave, luxuriating in cool water from the cisterns for a half hour. The glow of the sunset faded in the west as Mirrorsun rose in the east. Its form this night was a dull bar of reddish light across the band in the sky, and the band was actually visible right across the sky owing to Earthlight. He was stating up at the sky when he realized that he could hear the rumble of the wind wain.

  Glasken stood back as the front rotor engine rolled past, its brake blocks squealing and its rotors disengaged and spinning free. In the lamplight it looked like some enormous, unwieldy insect. The Alspring Ghans rushed about, shouting their wares to the merchants emerging from the coaches, and the quiet rail side rapidly became a bustling night market. Merchants' lackeys unloaded bags of coffee beans and a variety of spices. Glasken was about to push his way through the crowd to one of the carriages when he noticed Darien stepping down from a carriage.

  He eased back into the shadows beside the kiosk and watched while a robed Alspring Ghan went up to her and addressed her after an elaborate flourish. The mute Darien selected a card from a small satchel on her belt and handed it to him. He read, bowed, then gestured toward the camp. Glasken was puzzled, but relieved that she was going away. The rail side ticket master met him at the door of the A-class carriage.

  "Fras Orion, you're in luck. The Purser's board shows that several A-class compartments are now free. I assigned A-one to you, I'll just mark your ticket."

  Glasken was pleased. He wanted privacy whenever he opened his roll pack quite apart from his own privy and the luxury of having a folding bunk to stretch out along. The whistle blew for departure. Glasken boarded and held up his ticket to an approaching conductor, but the rotund and splendidly dressed man brushed past him without a word. He was dabbing essence of hedge rose on his face from a small bottle, and his freshly waxed mustache might have been carved out of black wood and oil-polished. Glasken wondered why the man was wearing a parade uniform in the middle of the Nullarbor Plain.

  The train began to roll slowly along the rails with a smooth and gently rocking motion. Glasken checked his ticket: compartment A1. H
e noted that compartments A5 up to A2 were vacant, with their doors open, but A1 was shut as he reached it. He assumed that it was something to do with it being reserved for him, and he slid the door aside and stepped in without breaking stride.

  A woman in her mid-twenties was reclining on the bench seat. She was very tall, but with a well-curved and attractive figure beneath her plain dretan of sienna cotton. Her face was a pleasant oval, framed by honey-brown hair that was unbound and cascading down to the seat and as far as the floor. She had scuffed clogs on her feet. At the sight of Glasken she shrank back in alarm.

  "Oh--I'm in here!" she squeaked in surprise, then snapped in a much deeper voice: "Now you get out!" Glasken was quite weary, and in no mood to be pushed around. He sat down heavily beside her, footsore from pacing the platform and depressed from the funeral.

  "Indeed you are in here, Frelle, but A-one has been assigned to me." He held up the ticket, which had been marked to A1. "A-one was not booked," she insisted. "I just boarded."

  He noticed a large, battered artisan's tool bag and overnighter in the corner. Her accent was Eastern Highlands but stronger than Lemorel's.

  "The conductor gave me to A-one," she insisted. "You get out or he'll throw you off." Glasken began to rub the muscles along the back of his neck. "It's my bet that you're about to see more of him than I ever wish to. Artisans like you can't afford A-class tickets. You get out. I'm going to report the two of you to the Purser. '

  A subtle sag of her shoulders showed that his retort had hit home. With her lips pressed together she stood up and hoisted her bag's strap to her shoulder.

  "Good Fras, I--I, please, I apologize, I'll go." Her tone was now subdued. "My miserly clock maker husband gave me only enough for B-class fare, but conductor said he'd let me ride in a vacant A-class tonight. Please, good Fras, don't report me. I'm not up to a fine, and they'll impound the tools of my trade, I'd have to sell my hair."

  Suddenly Glasken imagined himself in her position, staring down with her hurt, frightened, brown eyes. The woman was tall, so she would have had trouble sleeping in the B-class seats. Just because you're big, everyone assumes it doesn't matter if you're hurt, he thought. She began to sidle out, giving a deferential little bow at each step. He thrust his foot out to block the doorway.

  "Frelle, you stay here, I'll move to A-two. If anyone else gives you trouble, just call me and I'll punch some manners into him." Glasken stood up, unfolding and straightening to his full six feet five inches. He blinked with surprise to find that even when standing he still had to look up slightly to meet her eyes.

  "You--you're leaving?" she asked. "A-two to A-five are still vacant." "You'll not report me?"

  "No harm done, pretty Frelle. Nothing a mere smack on the bottom wouldn't set right." He grinned wearily at her. She grinned back, yet something subtle had changed in her expression. Her face hardly seemed to belong to the same woman as she regarded him coyly over her shoulder.

  "So, you'd be liking to smack bottoms, Fras?" "Only if I be allowed to rub them better again, Frelle," he quipped, finding the words out of his mouth before he was aware of speaking them.

  She put her free hand on her hip, then presented the curve of her left buttock to him with a slow, rolling motion.

  "Well Fras, I'm waiting," she said, batting her unusually long eyelashes at him. Glasken did a double take: he had not even been trying to seduce the woman, and she was also still free to share a vacant compartment with the conductor. He reached for her hand, then brushed it with a kiss. She dropped her bag and slid her arms about him.

  "Fras, you've just been more gentleman to me than any man. Ever. Please don't go, or I really will be hurt." Glasken put his arms about her and squeezed gently. Her lips hovered close to his, and after another moment they drew each other into a long, soft kiss. Her skin was slightly moist, and he could feel her heart pattering wildly. Their eyes were almost level as they stood with their foreheads pressed together.

  Nearly an hour later Glasken rang for service. The conductor made a note in his pocketbook and walked briskly away down the narrow corridor to the galley as if he was anxious to have some unpleasant duty out of the way.

  "A jar of Sundew leg-opener for the pair in A-one," he snapped to the cook. "Not that they need it."

  "So, Fras, your arrangements for the night have gone awry?" "Gah, and I overheard the most ridiculous proposition in the history of the Great Western Paraline Authority. Well I suppose I can do nought but pray for strong winds."

  Daily life in Glenellen was little different under Lemorel's rule from that of the former Makulad, except that the punishments for rebellion were devastating. The whole family of any offender was punished, giving households the incentive to become unofficial extensions of the Nevedander wardenry and keep rebellious members in check. With Glenellen fallen, only the great city of Alspring remained against her. Unknown to everyone, however, Glenellen itself had been her real objective. The greatest moment of her life was close.

  With the proclamations done, Lemorel secured the palace and had the seneschal summoned. He was a tall and dignified man, wearing a heavy red veil below his eyes as a mark of his duty to protect the palace. Lemorel paced before him, her riding whip held behind her back. It seemed to him that she was steeling herself to do something that was bound to be distressing, yet he could not imagine what it could be.

  "There is a device in this palace," she said at last, continuing to pace with restless, driven strides. "It is a device made up of some two hundred people with abacus frames and known as a calculor. Where is it?"

  "In the great median tower, on the tenth level, Your--ah, Majesty." "My title is Frelle Commander." "Frelle Commander."

  "Now take me to the calculor." The calculor hall was on two separate floors in the tower, and the components worked in very cramped conditions. Nikalan was one of ten FUNCTIONS at the front of the hall, and the machine was whirring and clacking through a calibration task as Lemorel entered. She recognized him at once, but her face was veiled.

  "System halt!" shouted the Chief Regulator, and the tasks being performed tapered away into silence as an orderly shutdown was performed.

  "A fascinating design," said Lemorel as she picked her way through the maze of wires and struts. "Components sitting at desk-frames stacked atop each other five high. That means much faster transmission speeds, and faster calculation times for the same number of components."

  "My own innovation, Frelle Commander," said an Elder who had been standing beside the Chief Regulator. "There were areas of the original design that were too concerned with neat layout. They neglected efficiency."

  Lemorel regarded him coldly, yet her veil hid her expression. "The man who designed this for you. Bring him to me."

  "That man is myself, Frelle Commander," replied the Elder. "I shall not ask again. A prisoner was brought here from the Fostoria Oasis five or more years ago. His name was either FUNCTION 3073 or Nikalan Vittasner. Bring him to me!"

  Interpreting Lemorel's tone as anger with Nikalan, the Chief Regulator decided to gain favor by presenting the component to Lemorel in person. He took the keys from the System Warden and strode over to a complex of desks where he unlocked a shackle on a thin, white leg in the second row up. He reached into the desk, dragged Nikalan down by one arm, then marched him to where Lemorel was standing. He forced Nikalan to his knees, then pushed him in the back with his foot, to prostrate the component before Lemorel. Looking up for the Commander's approval, he saw a twin flash as her double-barreled flintlock discharged. For the first time in her life she had lost control so badly that she had fired both barrels together.

  "Nikalan, my poor, shattered Nikalan," she crooned as she knelt and held him in her arms. "This is Lemorel. Lemorel here with you again."

  "Lemorel? Will you take me back to Libris and the Calculor?" Lemorel looked into the vacant eyes, her control again slipping away like a greased rope in her grasp. He knew her, but she was not enough. Only as part of a bigger machi
ne could she ever be what he could love. With a great effort she caught herself.

  She had conquered over a million people for this moment, yet her long-sought holy grail was no more than a handful of shattered pieces. As she knelt with him she suddenly saw her new self for the first time. She was larger than life now, she was vast and powerful. Nikalan was no more than the scrap of smoking fuse cord that had unleashed the power of a mighty bombard. By the time she stood up again, Nikalan had become nothing to her.

  "The Libris Calculor is very far away, Fras Nikalan, but give me time," she said in a bland tone. "I shall take you back to it, I promise."

  She helped him to his feet and gestured to the Seneschal, who trotted over quickly. "Have Fras Nikalan Vittasner bathed by the concubines and eunuchs of the former Makulad. By the time he is clean and dry I want the palace tailors to have a suit of the Makulad's robes altered to his fit, then see that he dines better than any other in the palace. He is to be veiled as protected by my sanctum. Nikalan is to be put in the Makulad's bed tonight."

  "But, Frelle Commander, what about Prince Alextoyne?"

  "Have him serve at Fras Nikalan's meals. He can sleep in the guest rooms." "Yes, Frelle Commander." "Seneschal, allow Nikalan to be harmed, and I will do something so tointlessly hideous that you will die as much from disbelief as pain. I am insane, Fras

  Seneschal. Never forget that! Nikalan, go with this man."

  "But my shift is not over."

  "You have been promoted to System Controller, and you must rest before beginning your new duties." When they had gone Lemorel gave the body of the Chief Regulator a vicious kick, then seized the Elder who had built the calculor. She held him by the hair and made him stare at the corpse, which had been decapitated above the eyes.

  "Clean that up before the components get upset," she snarled.

  "At once, Frelle Commander, at once." "And another thing. If I ever hear anyone refer to you as more than a lackey who helped Nikalan to build this calculor, I shall have you diced into pig meat starting at your toes."