Just when it seemed certain they would catch her, the picture changed. Instead of the shoreline she now stood in a wide valley surrounded by tree-covered slopes. The mud was gone and the ground was covered in pure, unbroken snow.
She saw him then at the top of the hill. Too far away to see his face but something about the way he stood, hunched against the cold, felt so familiar. She heard her name carried softly on the wind and he beckoned her to follow him. But when she reached the top of the hill he wasn’t there. She turned every way, desperate to catch a glimpse of him, but he was nowhere to be seen.
It was as though the very ground had opened up and pulled him in.
‘Dad!’ She sat up with a start.
‘Sleep OK, kid?’ Verity was awake, pulling a brush ferociously through her long hair.
India sat up and blinked. ‘Uh, yeah. Just a dream, that’s all.’
Verity leaned across her and looked out of the window ‘We’ll be there in about an hour. We’re going to land on the river, which means you’ll get a great view of Angel Town.’
The early sun streamed through the plane windows and cast a fresh-washed brilliance across the sky Far below, a scattering of icebergs sailed on foam-flecked waves and an iron-red cargo ship plunged through the swell, the seas washing her decks. India peered at the horizon as a dark coastline emerged from the morning mist and she had her first glimpse of Angel Town.
From the air, the town was an untidy collection of wooden buildings and pitched roofs covered in thick snow The muddy streets converged on a busy harbour lined with bleached timber warehouses and skeletal cranes.
‘That’s where they bring in the raw materials from the rig yards to be processed,’ said Verity, pointing to a row of blackened factory buildings sending pencil lines of smoke into the crisp air.
‘Where are the rig yards?’ said India. She was anxious for a glimpse of one of the giant prospecting vehicles her father had told her so much about.
‘On the other side of the mountains, in Salekhard,’ said Verity, ‘about a day’s journey from here. It’s cheaper to bring the stuff over the mountains by barge and rail.’
The Aurora Queen dipped her nose towards a strip of water and landed in another burst of spray before taxiing to the dockside. They spilled from the plane on to a busy harbour-front market where the air was thick with the smell of meat and wood smoke. Stout women argued over the price of plucked chickens and wet fish while gulls wheeled overhead like scraps of paper on the breeze. A group of men with brown faces and skin like creased leather stood apart at the end of the harbour. They wore thick jackets and boots and tended some shaggy-looking beasts. India stared at them, remembering her father’s descriptions of the tribal people in Siberia.
‘Are they ice people?’ she said in hushed tones.
‘Yes – although they call themselves reindeer people,’ said Calculus. ‘They live out in the eastern wilderness mostly and sometimes they bring their animals here to trade. I don’t remember seeing so many of them in Angel Town before.’
‘And who is he?’ She pointed to an old man wearing a metal disc around his neck engraved with fierce creatures. Although poorly dressed, he looked proud and noble.
‘He’s a shaman,’ said Calculus, ‘a holy person. They say a powerful shaman can take the shape of a bird and fly across the land or even control a man’s dreams.’
‘Control dreams?’ she said. ‘That’s just superstition, isn’t it?’
‘There are many things that cannot be explained,’ said the android, ‘but that does not mean they are not true. The shamans are greatly respected and feared in this country.’
India looked back at the old man and was disconcerted to find he was staring directly at her. She turned away quickly to follow Calculus.
They caught up with Verity outside a noisy bar. Even though it was early morning, the sounds of laughter and an out-of-tune piano spilled on to the street. A sign above the door read: ‘Mrs Chang’s Fine Dining Rooms and Guest House – Licensed to sell intoxicating liquors and explosives’. Underneath, another sign declared ‘NO ROBOTS’ in large red letters.
‘Perfect!’ said Verity. ‘Why don’t you guys go ahead and get checked in and I’ll see about getting us an appointment at Trans-Siberian.’
‘We’re going to stay here?’ said India. ‘It sounds like they’re actually fighting in there.’
‘It’s just high spirits,’ said Verity. ‘Half of them are getting drunk because they’re about to leave town and the other half are getting drunk because they just got back.’
A gunshot inside the building made India jump but the music continued without stopping. ‘Is it always like this?’ she said.
‘Hell, no!’ shouted Verity over her shoulder as she disappeared down the street. ‘You should see it on pay days. That’s when it gets really wild!’
India looked up at the ‘No Robots’ sign. ‘Maybe we should try somewhere else?’ she said.
‘There is nowhere else,’ said Calculus. ‘Unless you wish to sleep in the stables?’
She shook her head. ‘No thanks, but maybe I should go in first?’ She looked at the door nervously. ‘I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?’
‘They might shoot you,’ offered Calculus helpfully.
‘They might shoot you too.’
‘True, but of the two of us I am the only one who is bulletproof.’
‘That’s a very good point,’ she said. ‘OK, you talked me into it. I’ll wait for you out here, but be careful.’
She stood in a side alley out of the way of the crowds, avoiding the man with the dancing bear, who kept leering at her as he rattled his collecting tin.
She was so preoccupied that she didn’t notice the three men dressed in long black coats and wide hats who walked up the alley until they were right on top of her.
Two of the men reminded her of Mehmet’s thugs. One had buck teeth and a lazy eye and he kept wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. His companion had heavy eyebrows and stood with his mouth open, wearing an expression that suggested he had to concentrate hard to stay standing up. But the younger man who accompanied them was different – thin and wiry, with a pale face and a shock of black hair. He looked only a few years older than India but he carried a long-barrelled pistol in the belt of his overcoat. He was obviously in charge.
‘So, who we got here?’ said the youth. His voice was surprisingly soft, like a child’s, thought India, but his eyes were hard. ‘I’ve seen you before. You arrived with that Brown woman, didn’t you?’
India wished she had stayed closer to the main street, and hoped Calculus would return soon.
‘I asked you a question,’ said the soft voice. ‘What business have you got with the Brown woman?’
India grasped the shock stick in her pocket but all three men were carrying guns and she knew she could only use it as a last resort.
‘She’s a damned thief, that woman,’ continued the youth. He leaned towards India. ‘I wanted to go to London for them journals but she stole that job from me. Now she’s back here and she’s got you with her. Are you one of Bentley’s daughters, is that who you are?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ said India, sounding braver than she felt. ‘I’ve got a military droid with me. He’ll tear your arms off if you don’t let me go.’ The older men laughed oafishly and the youth gave her a nasty smile.
‘Oh yeah, I’ve seen your big guy earlier but I don’t see him now. Looks to me like you’re on your own.’ He looked at her bag. ‘So what you got, girly? You got your daddy’s journals hid in there?’ Before she could answer he grabbed hold of the bag and tore it open.
‘You give that back,’ she shouted. ‘It doesn’t belong to you!’ She tried to snatch it from him but the heavy man grabbed her by the arms. Outraged, India stamped on his toe, causing him to yelp and hop around the alleyway until he crashed into his companion. Before she could run the youth pulled out his own pistol and pointed it at her.
‘Silas, Cripps, quit dancing with each other and keep her covered.’
The two men let go of each other sheepishly and stood in front of India while the boy went through her bag. He pocketed her father’s knife, then pulled out the two slim volumes and held them up. ‘Are these your daddy’s journals?’ he said. ‘I’m betting they are.’ He flicked through the pages of one volume, scanning the words. India noticed he was holding the book upside down. ‘Well, them’s my journals now.’ He snapped the book shut.
‘They belong to me,’ said India furiously. ‘You’re a lousy thief is what you are!’
The men laughed.
‘Didn’t your daddy teach you to be polite to strangers?’ said the boy.
‘Didn’t your mother teach you not to steal!’ she snapped back.
His smile vanished in an instant. ‘W-what did you say about my m-ma?’ His eye twitched. ‘Don’t you dare say nothing about her!’
The other two men exchanged terrified glances as a cold fury seemed to consume the boy. He advanced on India with a face full of hate. She felt her legs go weak but, before he could reach her, a deafening explosion reverberated up the alley. Everyone ducked. Standing in the kitchen doorway of the guest house was a middle-aged Chinese woman holding a smoking shotgun.
‘Leave her alone or I let you have other barrel,’ she said.
The boy glared at the woman and India was afraid he might fly at her. But the heavy man reached out and grasped the boy tentatively by the arm.
‘Er, Mr Sid? I think now we got what you came for, we better get movin’.’ The boy shook his arm away angrily but he allowed himself to be led away, still glaring at the woman as he went.
Seconds later Calculus came running up from the other end of the alley. ‘India, are you all right?’ he said.
She picked up her torn bag and groaned. ‘Oh, Calc, they took my dad’s journals.’
‘But at least you are unhurt,’ he said.
‘No thanks to you,’ she said, rubbing her arm. ‘Some bodyguard you turned out to be.’
Calculus turned to the Chinese woman. ‘Thank you for your help, madam. Might I know your name?’
She looked at him suspiciously. ‘My name, Mrs Chang. But you can call me Mrs Chang.’ She curled her lip.
‘They told me inside I should speak to you about renting rooms,’ said Calculus.
She put down the shotgun and folded her beefy forearms. ‘Always rooms at Mrs Chang’s,’ she said.
‘Oh, good,’ said Calculus.
‘But I not like robot,’ she added grimly.
Calculus was taken aback. ‘I am not a robot, madam,’ he said, offended. ‘Robots are mere machines. I am a sentient android. It is an entirely different thing altogether.’
‘That just a fancy name for a robot,’ said Mrs Chang with a scowl. Then she looked from Calculus to the miserable figure of India. ‘You got money?’ she said eventually. ‘No good if you don’t got money.’ Calculus hastily held out a bundle of notes. She grunted. ‘OK, this way.’ She turned and walked back inside. ‘Welcome to Mrs Chang’s,’ she added as an afterthought.
CHAPTER 7
THE PIRATE RIGGER
The inside of Mrs Chang’s guest house combined a dining room, a bar and a general store. There were open sacks of flour and dry beans by the door and tinned foods stacked neatly on shelves. New steel buckets hung from the ceiling next to coils of heavy rope and the counter was packed with jars of jam, candles and, alarmingly, sticks of dynamite.
Large men were crammed around rough wooden tables, consuming jugs of beer and plates of meat and potatoes. The air was thick with cooking steam and alive with rowdy conversation. Hardly anyone looked up at the newcomers. Mrs Chang picked up plates from the kitchen counter and began slamming them down on the tables.
‘Why you want room?’ she shouted to Calculus over the din. ‘Damned robot don’t sleep, don’t eat nothing, don’t spend no money, just take up space, bad for business.’
Calculus assured her he would willingly pay for the food he wasn’t going to eat so that he could sit in her dining room.
‘What about her?’ said Mrs Chang, sizing up India with a critical eye. ‘She gonna eat? She’s as thin as a noodle, no good if she don’t eat.’
India felt sick to her stomach about the loss of the journals but she nodded miserably and said she would try and eat something.
Despite her hard-faced exterior Mrs Chang turned out to be a kind soul. She took pity on India’s miserable state and led her to a small guest room on the top floor where she drew her a hot bath. At any other time India would have been entranced with the novelty of getting hot water from a tap whenever you wanted it. But now she just sat unhappily in the bath and hugged her knees while Mrs Chang scrubbed her back.
‘Who was that boy in the alleyway?’ asked India.
Mrs Chang made a tutting sound as she pulled a brush from her apron and began to drag it through India’s hair. ‘That’s Sid the Kid. He’s a bad lot, just sixteen and already he kill five men. One of them right here in my dining room.’
India was shocked. ‘But if he’s murdered people why doesn’t somebody do something about it? Don’t you have a constable?’
Mrs Chang snorted. ‘Not so easy, Sid is the Director’s son. No one can touch him and he have plenty men in his gang who do whatever he say. They’re all bad men but Sid, he’s the worst of them all. You no want to tangle with Sid!’
‘Well believe me, I wish I hadn’t,’ said India gloomily.
Mrs Chang found her some warm clothes and laid them on the bed. There was long underwear that India had to roll up at the bottom, a thick woollen shirt and a set of padded overalls. Mrs Chang explained they had belonged to her son whose rig had fallen through the lake ice two springs ago, drowning the whole crew She said it in a matter-of-fact way as though death was always close at hand in Angel Town.
As India was getting dressed, the room gave a sudden lurch. She was wondering if she had imagined it when it happened again. The ground began to rumble and the glass in the windows rattled.
‘What’s happening?’ she cried, holding on to the edge of the bed. The rumbling stopped as quickly as it had begun.
Mrs Chang looked out of the window She muttered some indistinct words under her breath and made a curious sign in the air with her finger. ‘Earth tremor,’ she said, returning to the task of folding towels. ‘Happen more and more these days. You ask me the Company take too much from under the ground. Not show enough respect to the mountain spirits.’
‘Mountain spirits?’ said India. ‘Do you believe that’s what causes earthquakes?’
Mrs Chang put down the towels. ‘You soon find out this a damn strange country,’ she said. ‘There’s gold and oil and iron under the mountains but that’s not all. This an old country, really old, and there’s things under the ground that best not be disturbed.’
‘What sort of things?’ said India.
‘Living shadows – dark creatures that lived in this land before men,’ said Mrs Chang. ‘The ice people call them the Valleymen. Best you don’t ask no more. Just hope you don’t find out for yourself, that’s all.’
Mrs Chang refused to be drawn further on the mysterious subject. She took India back down to the dining room and placed a steaming bowl of thick pea soup laced with salty cubes of ham in front of her.
The dining room had thinned out now Calculus had been pacing the room awaiting India’s return and announced that he was going to go in search of Verity to tell her what had happened. India had the impression he was feeling guilty about not having been there to protect her.
The hot food lifted her melancholy a little but she soon pushed the half-finished bowl of soup away and lay her head down on the table.
‘Not eatin’ that?’
She sat up suddenly. The man opposite was bristle-headed and powerfully built, with a thick neck and barrel-shaped body. He wore a maniacal grin as he pointed to India’s bowl.
India shrugged and
he pulled the food eagerly to his side of the table. She watched in fascination as he shovelled steaming spoonfuls of thick, green paste into his mouth as though he had been starved for a month. When the soup was finished he leaned back and let out an enormous belch.
‘Much obliged to you, miss,’ he said. ‘I hate to see good food go to waste. The name’s Bulldog, Captain Aggrovius Bulldog.’
‘Aggrovius?’
‘Yes, well, my old mum thought it sounded exotic. Most people call me Aggro, though. They say it suits me.’ He beamed and his eyes bulged like a wild man’s.
Despite her worries, India laughed. ‘I guess it does,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I’m India. I guess my mum thought it was exotic too.’ His massive paw enveloped hers. ‘What are you the captain of, exactly?’
‘Ah, well, that depends on who’s doing the asking.’ He looked over both shoulders in an exaggerated display of caution. ‘It wouldn’t do if I found myself talking to someone from the Company, now would it?’
She assured him that she was not from the Trans-Siberian Company and he scrutinized her for a few moments before deciding to continue.
‘All right then,’ he said, pulling a pouch of tobacco from the folds of his jacket and rolling a thin cigarette. ‘A freelance prospector, is what I am. Captain, chief executive and owner of The Beautiful Game, the finest rig in Siberia.’
Her eyes widened. ‘You’re a pirate rigger?’
‘Well now, that’s a word you don’t use in polite company,’ he said, looking shocked. ‘Anyway, it depends on whose point of view you take.’ He struck a match and sucked the cigarette to life, enveloping the table in a cloud of blue smoke. ‘Now,’ he said, settling back into his chair, ‘them crooks that run Trans-Siberian is your real pirates. Call it an honest business to sell a man a prospecting licence and then take half of what he finds? No, I’m a free rigger. I run my own crew and we keep what we find. That’s the way nature intended it.’ He gave India another alarming grin. ‘It’s nice to hear a friendly accent. So what brings a fellow Londoner to Siberia?’
Ironheart Page 5
