The Machine God (The Drifting Isle Chronicles)

by MeiLin Miranda

  Chapter Three

  Mai 7th

  Adewole's last trunk--the one bearing the precious green coffee beans--had still not arrived. He should have put them in the one with the tricky new combination lock, the one full of books he might just as easily have left behind in favor of the coffee. How was he to face Dean Blessing this morning without coffee? He drank tea at breakfast instead, politely keeping himself from making faces in front of his landlady Mrs. Trudge, whose outline mimicked the teapot's. Eisenstadters believed tea to be more refreshing, altogether more restorative than coffee, but Adewole couldn't figure it himself.

  Mrs. Trudge set a good table otherwise, including on this morning: mushrooms fried in butter; fresh little fish straight from Lake Sherrat; toasted bread; and an oaten porridge--something he'd never eaten before, millet or rice porridges being preferred in Jero. "Eggs?" Adewole said hopefully.

  "Eggs, sir!" said Mrs. Trudge in a whispered shriek. She took a calming gulp of tea. "You're a foreigner, Professor Adewole, and as such I can't expect you to know all our ways. Dear Professor Deviatka," she appealed to Karl, "please, make sure he doesn't ask for--eggs--in front of strangers."

  "Don't ask for eggs in front of strangers, Ollie," admonished his friend.

  "I am very sorry, I didn't mean to upset you," said Adewole. "It is just that in Jero, our chickens do not talk, and--"

  "That's very well for Jero, Professor, but it won't do here! May as well ask to eat a baby as a bird's egg! I'm just glad the other lodgers are already gone for the day and didn't hear you. I'd never call a foreigner a 'bird-eater,' but really, sir, do watch your tongue. Not everyone's as live-and-let live as I am."

  "I am very sorry," he repeated lamely. "I just thought perhaps you had imported…normal chickens or ducks from some other place."

  "Some people have tried, but then a local rooster or drake hops the fence and there you are," said Deviatka. "It's not worth the bother."

  "Besides, our chickens are the normal ones," Mrs. Trudge added under her breath.

  Deviatka changed the subject. "We're late." Adewole swiveled in his chair; the wall clock said it lacked but half an hour to their meeting with Blessing. "Nothing for it now," said Deviatka. "It takes a solid hour to walk there, even on legs as long as yours."

  The water taxi cost twenty pfennig; Adewole had to borrow it from his friend. "There goes our tickets for tonight," said Deviatka. It took fifteen minutes to cut a chord through the circular lake to the University of Eisenstadt's pier, a trip which would have been pleasant if the engine hadn't made too much noise to talk, and if the spring wind off the lake hadn't been so very cold.

  Adewole wondered if he should grow out his hair again for warmth. These days, he kept his tight curls in a bare stubble, not wishing to bother with braiders--if he could even find a braider this far north. He'd never liked going to the braider, anyway. Ofira had always done it at home; she had such nimble little fingers. They would sit in the garden, him on a cushion on the tiled floor, and her up behind him braiding away, trying to decide where to add her special pink and yellow bead--not the most manly ornament, but when she kept sneaking the bead into his back braids where he couldn't see it, Adewole let the little girl do as she pleased. He'd often fall asleep; when she'd finish, she'd tug on the beaded braid: "Brother, wake up!" Ofira said the bead brought good luck. Perhaps he should have insisted she braid it into her own hair.

  Adewole fingered the good-luck bead in his pocket, now attached to his watch fob; he would have taken out Ofira's photograph, but the wind was too strong and he didn't wish to lose it. No, he decided as he pulled the bright yellow and blue striped silk kikoi over his shoulders closer round his neck, he would invest in more local clothing somehow. A thick woolen scarf. Gloves. Something perhaps to cover the ears. The water taxi bumped against the University pier, and the professors fidgeted their way through the debarking passengers into the campus.

  A series of courtyards made up the University of Eisenstadt. The more modern buildings sported verdigris'd mansard roofs and brick walls faced in white stone; they huddled close round brick squares paved in red and yellow geometric patterns. The tightly-packed buildings funneled the cold air from the lake into Adewole's face. By contrast, palm-shaded, graceful, open, low-slung buildings and exquisite, cooling gardens filled the University of Jero's campus. It was infinitely older than this place--the whole city-state of Jero predated Eisenstadt by at least two thousand years--and was the most prestigious university in the world, as even the proud Eisenstadters admitted, but warm, familiar Jero was closed to him now.

  The further they penetrated into the campus, the older the buildings became and the more open and graceful the courtyards, until they arrived at huge iron gates. Beyond them, precise sidewalks quartered a velvety lawn in the hard, geometric precision these people favored. Must everything be an engineering schematic here?

  An enormous fawn stone building embraced the courtyard; its two wings met the gates, and its many small square windows stared down at the students milling back and forth through the gateways and along the paths. Directly ahead, a wide staircase marched into the main hall. A squared-off tower rose above it. Its crenellated top always made Adewole wonder if it had ever been used for actual defense; it didn't seem likely. In they went through the gates, down the precise pathways and up the wide stairs. Adewole and Deviatka entered the tower's dark, paneled lobby and trod up the wide, balustered staircase to Dean Blessing's office.

  At the top stood two majestic doors, their brass polished to brilliance. A dessicated man waited behind a standing desk in front of them: Blessing's secretary, though the desk and the expectant man behind it reminded Adewole more of a headwaiter at an exclusive restaurant. The secretary greeted Deviatka by name, but looked at Adewole askance. "Professor AAA-dee-wole, isn't it?"

  "Ah-DEH-woh-leh."

  "Yes, just so, of course. One moment," said the secretary, unabashed. He opened the doors, slipped inside and announced the new arrivals in hushed tones. A rumbling, discontented throat-clearing ended in an older man's loud, irritated demand for tea: "I suppose the Jerian will want coffee, but he won't get any here." Adewole winced.

  The secretary emerged to take the professors' coats; he fumbled with Adewole's unfamiliar kikoi until Adewole folded it himself and stowed it neatly inside his hat alongside his gloves. He tugged down his waistcoat, straightened his back and followed Deviatka into the office.

  Dean Henrik Blessing had already come round his desk and stood now before the thankfully glowing grate. He was a round man, almost short. A bulbous nose dominated his florid face, over a small mouth made smaller by a great mop of white mustache, which just cleared his upper lip. Small, pale eyes glowered beneath the most alarming eyebrows Adewole had ever seen; they rose in great white wings against his forehead--itself a majestic gleam expanding right on past where his hair once had been. Blessing dressed to the last precise detail; his heavy watch chain traced a perfect arc across his paunch, his heavy gold cufflinks and stickpin reflected the fire, and expensive tailoring marked his well-cut clothes. The man always looked as if he had money, perhaps more money than the Dean of a major university might ordinarily possess, and he liked to display it.

  Blessing shook Deviatka's hand. Adewole extended his, but the Dean ignored it and began the tirade Adewole could practically recite by heart. "I don't mind telling you, young man, that if it weren't for stupid Hubert Mueller flinging his money all over town you wouldn't be here. I've said it before--why couldn't the man have endowed an engineering chair! A humanities chair. Waste of money! Told him so to his face just before he died. 'Hubert,' I said, 'if not the sciences, then music,' I said. Now, music! That has utility. It is altogether a wholesome, orderly, mathematical thing, music, and I would have supported him even though the money would have gone to the Conservatory and not to the University. But no, he wouldn't listen, and now I have to fill the Mueller Chair or lose the money, and I don't mind telling you, young man, that losing the mone
y would be even worse than gaining another daydreaming twaddle merchant, spouting nonsense and bumping into things while the rest of us get things done!"

  Adewole didn't know whether to turn tail and run, or burst into his own angry tirade. He could, of course, do neither, and stood rigid beside Deviatka instead. "I am a lover of music as well, Dean Blessing. I hope I do not spout nonsense. And as for running into things, I confess I have on some occasions grazed my head on low ceilings, but I do not make a habit of it." Deviatka stifled a laugh more or less successfully.

  "Impudence! Impertinence!" grumbled Blessing. The tea tray's arrival spared them from the tirade's resumption. The three men seated themselves around a small table. Adewole resigned himself to more misery in a cup, though Karl handed him a cup of milk and sugar with a just splash of tea. "First, Deviatka," said Blessing, "you must know that the government is confiscating all black mercury in private hands--including the University's. They'll want your research notes as well."

  "No one gets my notes," growled Deviatka.

  For the first time in Adewole's experience, the Dean seemed taken aback. "Now, Karl, it's not up to me," he said at the younger man's darkening face. "You'll just have to turn them over. Here's some news that may make up for it: I'm told Hildegard Goldstein wishes to consult with you in particular, starting tomorrow. I'm excusing you from further teaching duties starting now."

  Deviatka gave a somewhat pacified nod. "We'll get things settled with our teaching assistants right away."

  "I didn't say both of you," puffed Blessing. "Professor Adewole will be expected to maintain his full course load. Can't foresee any difficulty. Ought to be able to pack a bag and recite fairy tales at the same time."

  "Professor Adewole shall be released from his obligations until such time as the Ministry deems he is no longer of service, Dean Blessing," came a squared-off voice at the door: the efficient Trinke.

  Blessing turned purple. "On whose orders?"

  "Minister Faber's, sir," said Trinke. "I am here to collect them. They have appointments to be measured for outfitting."

  "By the Founder, I thought old Blessing was going to implode at last," laughed Deviatka that evening before the sitting room fire.

  "If I did not know he cannot rescind the Mueller Chair, I would have supposed I was fired," said Adewole as he put away his bansu. "Say, what did you bring home in your satchel, Karl? You look as if you were carrying home the library. Are you grading papers after all?"

  "Ah," said Deviatka. "I'm just bringing home a few things for safekeeping. Nothing of note." He opened his paper-stuffed satchel and pulled out a bottle filled with shiny, viscous black liquid. "Well, perhaps one thing of note. Just a bit. Enough to power a few lamps."

  "That is enough to power a few hundred lamps."

  "The day may come when I might need a few hundred lamps," said Deviatka. "Now, where's my pipe?"

  Adewole came into the first briefing the next day not knowing what to expect. "I have never served in the military," he said to the officers ringed round the table. "Jero's is entirely professional. If you join, you join for life, and it was never my ambition. I think I have hit someone perhaps twice."

  "Not much for you to do in the hitting line, Professor," said Major Berger, an older, mustachioed man; cheerful lines offset his naturally melancholy eyes. "You will be translating. With your background in anthropology and languages you're our linchpin. We don't know who we're facing up there, but we face someone. Miss Goldstein's private report gives us strong reason to believe the island is inhabited. And…" He cleared his throat. "We have some confidential intelligence I trust the officers and gentlemen at this table will consider privileged: not only are there people on Inselmond, some are aware of our existence. More than that, I cannot say. Yes, Quartermaster?"

  "Sir," said a grave young woman, "if there are people on the island, why haven't they tried to contact us?"

  "Apart from writing on a brick and tossing it over the side, Jagels, I don't know how they could have." Jagels drew her dark brows together and dropped her eyes; Berger smiled. "It's a good question, Cam, but if a fantastical, quasi-magical society with technology far beyond our understanding is up there--" here he nodded at Adewole-- "they would have come down by now. They haven't. We must assume our technology outstrips theirs.

  "Now, gentlemen and lady, we get down to it. Our primary mission is to discover the lay of the land. We need to learn the terrain, assess any possible threat, and establish relations with any government we may find. If there is none, we will prepare to establish a presence ourselves. We will be the first flight up, but the autogyros will immediately return to the ground to ferry up support troops for a base camp."

  "What if the inhabitants object to us building a base camp?" said Adewole.

  Major Berger smiled. "It's up to you to convince them it's best if we do, Professor. Don't worry, we're not going to threaten them," he continued at Adewole's doubtful expression. "Minister Faber has given explicit orders to use force for defense only. This is a precursor to a diplomatic mission. At present, the Inselmonders are no threat to us. We are interested in the island both for academic reasons, and for future self-defense. The government must secure its interest in the island before any other entity. We hope you will be able to secure the permissions we will need to base troops there in a friendly manner. We are relying on you, Professor."

  Deviatka vanished during the day for the next three weeks, but Adewole spent the time in study and wrapping up the term. His teaching assistants could administer finals, and he would grade papers when he returned from the island. If he returned, he thought on this particular day in early Juni. The expedition, Minister Faber observing, gathered on the tarmac field adjacent to Hildegard Goldstein's workshop. Before them stood three gleaming autogyro three-seaters, two older two-seaters, and a middle-aged woman in brand-new divided-skirt coveralls. Though tall and slender, she looked more substantial than the machines, polished and twinkling as they were. Goggles hung around her neck. The straps of a funny leather cap dangled under her chin; beneath the cap, her graying blond hair twisted in a knot at her nape. Experience had left more laugh lines than frown lines on her face.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," said the woman, "I am Hildegard Goldstein, and these are my babies. You will not touch them unless I say you may. In fact, you will not approach them unless I say you may. Mr. Mencken here--" she nodded to her left at an enormous man with a bristling black beard and arms like steel girders-- "will make sure you are listening to me." Adewole resolved to pay close attention. "Here's how this is going to work. We are not making a grand flight today. We're using standard water in the boiler, not black mercury. Each flight will be round the tarmac a few times at about ten feet off the ground, and then landing. Just high enough to give you a taste. Some of you will not enjoy this. That's why you will be outfitted with these." She held up a waxed paper bag.

  A corporal named Wirtz held up an alarmed hand. "What are we supposed to do with them? Put them over our heads so we can't see?"

  "You are supposed to barf into them," grinned Goldstein. "If you barf on one of my babies, we will have words." Her questioner turned a delicate verdigris. "You will all be going up multiple times today," continued the inventor, "and every day this week until you're desensitized to flight. By the time we're through, you'll all be pros. On these first flights, only one craft will be in the air at a time. As the days progress, we'll practice having all five fully loaded and up in the air at the same time. The pilots are practicing flying in formation already, using black mercury in the boilers to give an accurate feel." This, most of the city already knew. The five craft had buzzed over Eisenstadt at astonishing altitudes multiple times now in a loose but recognizable formation, like giant brass geese.

  Goldstein clapped her hands together and gave them a rub. "So! Let's get started. Major Berger? Would you care to be the mission's first flyer?"

  Minister Faber's voice surprised everyone. "I think I should like to ta
ke a little spin, Miss Goldstein, if you don't object."

  Trinke snapped to even greater attention--Adewole hadn't thought it possible--and opened his notebook. "Minister Faber, you have a nine o'clock--"

  "The Chancellor can wait for me for once, Trinke, the Founder knows I've waited for him enough times. Will my skirts be a hindrance, Miss Goldstein?"

  They were not. The field crew tucked Faber into the two-seater autogyro seat and dressed her in goggles, gloves and a canvas duster hobbling her skirts enough to keep them out of the way. Hildy Goldstein took the pilot's seat behind her. The engine roared to life; smoke and steam billowed around it. Hildy opened the throttle, and the craft shot down the tarmac and wobbled into the air, rotors whirring.

  Each time the autogyro passed the group huddled near the hangar, Adewole caught a glimpse of Minister Faber, her face serene but her hands clutching the framework tightly. "I hope she doesn't bend the thing in two!" Deviatka shouted over the engine's racket.

  "Surely it is not that fragile!" Adewole shouted back. Deviatka grinned at him; Mrs. Trudge's breakfast lurched in Adewole's stomach.

  "No, it's not that fragile," amended Deviatka. "Don't worry, I'm really good at this."

  Adewole didn't understand his friend's full meaning until their turn to fly came. Everyone else in the expedition had gone up one by one.

  "When are we to go up?" said Adewole.

  Deviatka grinned. "Come on." He sprinted over to an autogyro, already puffing and ready to go. A blond, athletic-looking man about their age had the machine ready.

  "Finally taking her up, eh, Karl?" said the man.

  "Hello, Cas, just waiting for Hildy and Til to finish." Deviatka pulled on his goggles and gloves, and jumped into the pilot seat. "C'mon, old thing, up we go!"

  "You cannot tell me you can fly this?" Adewole sputtered.