by Tom Banks
Stanley and Rasmussen looked at each other, and Rasmussen actually clapped her hands with glee, as they clambered on. Immediately, Clamdigger shouted, ‘On, boys!’ The big grey dogs, straining at their harnesses, leapt away. Now they were outpacing everybody, and gaining on the Captain. Stanley saw him duck below a low hanging rope, and leap a hatchway, without breaking stride. Clamdigger swung the dog cart out wide to avoid these obstacles, and they were thundering along by the taffrail, with lords and ladies, maids and crewmembers scattering out of their way.
Fassbinder, perhaps because of his lack of familiarity with the Galloon, was falling back as the chase continued towards where the mainmast rose from the deck, twelve sturdy trunks lashed together in a bundle. He seemed to be looking for higher ground – he clambered up onto a pile of hammocks and rope that was neatly stashed amidships, and began reaching for the rigging overhead – but this gave the Captain precious moments to catch up.
As the interloper tried to swing himself up into the web of ropes and nets that attached the galloon to its gigantic bundle of balloons and sails, the Captain was almost on him, and Clamdigger’s cart was coming up on the outside. With a triumphant roar, the Captain leapt in the air and grabbed a rope, hanging like a vine in the jungle. His impetus swung him forward, and he managed to scramble up a rope ladder quicker than seemed possible. Stanley couldn’t help but shout out as the Captain, with a grace that belied his bulk, managed to get himself above Fassbinder. The spy seemed shocked to see the Captain rise above him like a tide, before they tumbled together to the deck.
‘He’s got him!’ called Clamdigger, bringing the dog cart to a halt in a wide arc nearby. He leapt from the vehicle onto the deck, and Rasmussen and Stanley followed.
The Captain and Fassbinder were locked in a frantic tussle on the ground, and the mysterious stranger’s athletic abilities were of little use to him now. The Captain wasn’t some petty thief, trying to make a fast exit. He was the Captain, and he was fighting for his life, and for his lost love. There was nothing fancy about his style – he just held on.
Fassbinder tried to twist away, step aside, jink, swerve, flip and dazzle, but with the Captain’s great hands clasped around each arm, there was simply nowhere to go. Stanley, Rasmussen and Clamdigger slowed down, aware that there was no help they could give at this point. Like all the other Gallooniers and guests gathering around the grappling pair, they could only stand and gape in awe. Something was happening to Fassbinder – his movements were becoming faster, jerkier, more unsettling to watch. Stanley was astonished to see smoke begin to emerge from his head, as he tried to shake, squirm or wrench himself free. The Captain himself had a look of horrified determination on his face. Stanley knew that merely catching fire would not be enough to save Fassbinder from his vice-like grip.
A noise began to emerge from Fassbinder, which Stanley at first thought was a scream. But no, as he listened it turned into a high-pitched buzzing, an angry mosquito of a sound. Stanley looked around for a moment, in fear of BeheMoths, but the noise was definitely coming from Fassbinder. He was now moving in an entirely mechanical fashion, his head oscillating like the bell on an alarm clock, his legs kicking like a mechanical donkey.
‘Blimey,’ said Rasmussen. ‘He’s been clockwork all along.’
‘Eh?’ said Stanley, before realisation dawned. While perhaps not clockwork as such, it was clear that Fassbinder was indeed an automaton of some sort. The Captain was now standing, holding the malfunctioning Fassbinder at arm’s length, albeit no less securely. His ears now aflame, his head spinning like a top, and his feet poking out on springs, Fassbinder appeared to be no longer a threat. But he had one last trick up his sleeve. As his hair fell out in clumps, the false head fizzed loudly, and its layers of make-up and disguise began to peel off. First, the kindly laughter lines and jowls began to melt away, revealing a younger, smoother face beneath.
‘Pill!’ yelled the Count of Eisberg from the crowd. ‘It was Pill, my bally valet all this time!’
But then the layers continued to melt, and another onlooker seemed to recognise the next identity to be revealed.
‘Brandon, my chauffeur! I knew there was something strange about him,’ called a man in a wide-brimmed hat. ‘But to be fair, not quite this strange …’
The layers carried on disappearing, and now others seemed to recognise various unveiled identities of the mechanical man.
‘Reginald! That’s my first husband!’ cried a tall lady with a lorgnette and no chin to speak of. ‘I had no idea he was an … actually, I’m not surprised he was an automaton. Makes perfect sense. As you were.’
Then it was all over, as the head, now down to its bare structure of metal, popped off the artificial neck like a grasshopper. It flew up in the air, still spinning, and Stanley watched as the eye-camera which he had seen through the spy hole in the Captain’s cabin flew out of its socket. As the head itself fell smoking to the floor, the eye-spy seemed to hover for a moment, getting its bearings, before a small aerial extended from it, with a flashing red light on the end. It just had time to emit a series of loud beeps, some sort of code possibly, before it too fell lifelessly to the deck, where it was gobbled up by one of Clamdigger’s dogs.
‘Good lord,’ said the Sultana of Magrabor, breaking the spell somewhat.
‘Stone the crows,’ said an old retainer emphatically.
‘Well, quite,’ said the Captain, before collapsing, exhausted, to the deck, his map of the Chimney Isles and the portrait of his lost love stuffed safely in his pocket.
A few minutes later, it seemed to Stanley that the Grand Winter Ball had simply decamped onto the deck of the Galloon, as festivities carried on regardless of the bitter cold, the Captain’s indisposition, or the revelations of a robot spy so recently in their midst. The Captain himself had been firmly seated in a chair by the Countess of Hammerstein, with orders not to move until he had drained the cup of hot broth she had pressed into his hand. Extra torches and braziers had been lit around the deck, and blankets distributed, and now even the Bilgepump Orchestra was out in the open, playing some energetic tunes to keep people moving. Jollity was returning, as were banter and larks. But Stanley knew the trouble was far from over.
‘What was the beeping about?’ he asked Rasmussen, as they stood amongst the crowd, drinking broth and digesting the goings-on of the last few hours.
‘Not sure,’ said Rasmussen. ‘When a disembodied mechanical eye flies up in the air and emits a loud beeping sound, it could mean any one of a few different things. In this instance, I believe a signal of some sort was being emitted.’
‘For whose benefit?’ said Stanley. ‘There’s nobody for miles and miles all around!’
The Captain, sitting behind them, and apparently listening, butted in at this point.
‘Zebediah,’ he said quietly. ‘He has a talent for creating machines and devices previously undreamt of. This … abomination …’
Here he indicated the remains of the mechanical man that were now lying at his feet.
‘Is an invention of his, or of one of his devilish cohorts. That noise was a signal, sent over goodness knows how far, telling Zebediah everything that the machine-man had learned during his time on the Galloon.’
‘Ah,’ said Stanley, taking it all in.
‘And so, as you have no doubt guessed, our work is far from done.’
The Captain stood up as he said this, and shrugged a thick blanket from his shoulders.
‘Hurray!’ said Rasmussen and Stanley together.
‘Captain!’ said a firm female voice beside them.
Ms Huntley, stepping through the crowd, had a determined look upon her face. She walked straight up to the Captain, and stood squarely in front of him, smaller but no less resolute than he.
‘These are children,’ she said firmly. ‘Resourceful, clever, courageous children, no doubt, but children nonetheless. Please tell me that the things you are asking them – asking all of us – to do are of critical imp
ortance. We all feel for you and your lost love, but it would not be fair to ask the people of the Galloon to risk their lives only for your happiness.’
The Captain did not seem as astonished by this as perhaps he might, and Stanley had the feeling that this was a conversation they had had before, though probably not in quite such a public arena. Around them, though the party continued, Stanley was well aware of many listening ears, and he knew the Captain and Ms Huntley were too.
‘I understand, Harissa, and I assure you – if assure is the right word – that this goes far beyond my own problems in love. The entire future of the Galloon is at stake. We must work together, for all our safety.’
Ms Huntley looked up at him, steeliness in her eyes, but no longer disapproving.
‘Then tell us what we must do,’ she said.
‘Well, firstly, we must find out how Cloudier is doing …’ said the Captain, in a concerned tone.
‘Ah. I was hoping you had heard something I hadn’t,’ said Ms Huntley, clearly disappointed.
‘No – I would tell you first. We haven’t heard from her yet …’ the Captain began again, before a voice interrupted from the crowd.
‘Actually, we have,’ said Clamdigger. He stepped forward, holding the rocket-shaped capsule in one hand, and a note in the other.
The Captain snatched the note from him, before remembering himself, and handing it to Ms Huntley. She read it in a second, and handed it to the Captain.
‘She was well when this left her,’ she said, her shoulders slumping with relief.
‘A fine lookout!’ said the Captain, almost to himself. Then he glanced at Ms Huntley and cleared his throat. ‘We will make for her last-known location immediately, Harissa,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said distractedly. ‘I’ll make the necessary calculations.’
With that, Ms Huntley stepped back through the dancing throng, on her way to the map room.
The Captain watched her go, and re-read the note. He appeared to make a decision, then turned to Rasmussen and Stanley.
‘We,’ he said conspiratorially, ‘are going to see our old friend the Brunt!’
‘Woohoo!’ they cried, together.
Cloudier watched in amazement as a huge whale came to the surface just a few feet from where she crouched, peering over the edge of her little basket. It blew its hot breath high into the air, and glee bubbled up in her as she felt the spray on her face. The creature’s long back slid past, then there was a moment before two huge tail flukes broke the surface, and the whale dived away.
At least she wasn’t drifting too much – the ice in the bay seemed to be fairly static, and the Sumbaroon had stayed at least partly in view. She wasn’t too worried about being discovered, as the night was still fairly dark, and unless they were actively looking for her, they were unlikely to notice the balloon against the backdrop of the foothills.
She watched now as the small figure she had seen clambering about atop Zebediah’s vessel was joined by two others. Together, the three figures opened a hatch on the side of the Sumbaroon, and let out a long and murderous-looking harpoon. They swung it around expertly, following the movements of the great beast.
Cloudier was dismayed to see the whale rise again, well within range of the harpoon. She heard a faint cry of, ‘Thar she blows!’ on the wind, and saw one of the men swing the point of the weapon round.
‘Surely they’re not …’ she said to herself, knowing full well that surely they were.
She let out an involuntary yelp, and stood up in her balloon as the Sumbarooners brought the harpoon to bear. Her heart was in her mouth when they turned, clearly having heard something that put them off their hunt.
Luckily, it took Cloudier only a moment to realise that the two men had in fact turned the other way – towards the conning tower of the Sumbaroon. Beside it, the long thin mast was clearly reacting to something unseen. A red light was flashing on and off at its very tip, intermittently, as if creating some sort of pattern. Cloudier didn’t know what to make of it, but the Sumbarooners clearly did. Their shouts became cries of elation.
They scrambled to get the harpoon stowed away and as the first man went below, she worked out that the Sumbaroon was about to move off, and that she must make ready to follow it. The balloon above her head was still inflated, but only just enough to stop it flopping onto the ice – she’d have to spend a little while pumping hot air back into it, though she’d be grateful of the chance to warm up by the burner. Then there was the anchor – she glared down at it, and saw that it had become frozen into the ice.
‘Oh, what’s the point? It’s all hopeless! Hopeless, I say!’ she said for the look of the thing, but she was over the edge of the basket in a moment and tugging at the anchor for all she was worth.
Glancing up, she saw that the Sumbarooners had clambered out of their hatch again, and were dismantling the tall aerial into shorter sections, which they fed down the hatch to unseen hands. This done, they went back below, and the periscope poking from the top of the vessel began to look around for the first time. The waters around the underwater boat began to churn and boil, and the Sumbaroon moved slowly forward, out of the lee of the hat-shaped rock.
Still Cloudier tugged at the anchor, with a rising sense of panic. It was firmly lodged. The initial impact of throwing it down had cracked the top layers of ice, which had then refrozen as she staked out the Sumbaroon. Now it might as well have been welded in. Her fingerless gloves gave little protection as she grappled with the painfully cold metal. To make matters worse, as she glanced up again, she realised that the Sumbaroon was heading directly towards her.
A coincidence, surely? she thought as she continued to try and free the anchor. But no, the Sumbaroon had come round in an arc, and was now heading straight at her. Anyone using that periscope must surely have seen her little balloon by now. Frantically she started to kick at the anchor, but it was useless. The Sumbaroon was picking up speed, and in the starlight she saw its front end rise slightly from the water like a shark’s nose.
Cloudier suddenly felt utterly exposed. She took a look around, in case this was the last view she ever saw before being pitched into the soupy, icy water. The hills loomed behind, and the white crests of the waves were breaking on the nearby shore. The ice all around seemed to be heaving a little more now than before, and in the starlight she felt for a moment like she was standing on a gigantic bedspread, each ice floe a square in some frost-giant’s quilt.
But she snapped back to herself, and spotted something new. Another plume of vapour, off to the left, but surely heading for the Sumbaroon? The craft was almost upon her now, and Cloudier saw that the intention of its evil master must have been to crash straight through her little ice-island, pitching her and her balloon into the water, or worse. She had often wondered what poetic thoughts she would come up with in this direst of moments, but was not surprised when an image of the Galloon’s hot little mess room came into her mind. She was surprised, however, when the stripy-jumpered boy in the daydream opened his mouth, and made a noise like a cockerel swallowing a banshee. She jumped as the hooked beak of Fishbane the Wanderer flashed past her nose, almost into the water, but caught her balance and watched as Fishbane landed on the edge of her basket again, and squirted a long line of hot fishy poo out of his feathery bottom.
‘Oh, this is really not the time …’ said Cloudier instinctively, before realising that this was, in fact, just the time. A more timely poo she could not imagine, as the stinky substance landed on the anchor, and began to fizz and bubble where it met the ice. Fishbane pooed again, with feeling, and squawked his inimitable squawk. Against all her better judgement, Cloudier put her hands round the anchor chain, and resumed pulling. There was definitely more give this time, as the astringent poop began to melt the ice around the anchor. She was grateful to see that Fishbane, while pooing usefully out of one end, was using his formidable beak at the other to turn on the gas burner. This would allow them to take off quickly, if th
ey could get the anchor free before the Sumbaroon hit.
The metal beast was now only about a hundred feet away, and Cloudier could see that its sheet-iron nose was even painted in the likeness of a shark’s mouth. She closed her eyes, and yanked once more on the anchor chain. It was almost free, but there was no time! Without opening her eyes, she waited for the crash that would inevitably come. Beside her, Fishbane took off, and she could not blame him – she only hoped he would tell her mother what had happened.
‘CRUNCH!’
Came the noise that Cloudier had been braced for, and along with it a soaking, freezing wave of slushy water. Cloudier’s breath was taken from her, but somehow she was still standing. Still clutching the anchor chain, she managed to open one eye.
Ahead of her, the Sumbaroon had, for some reason, come to a dead stop a mere twenty feet away. The soaking had come from its bow-wave washing over the little floe. Chattering and gibbering from the cold, Cloudier looked on in awe as a leviathan, a whale almost the length of the Sumbaroon itself, rose from the waves off to one side, and plumed impressively. It was gone for a moment, and then it leapt from the water and breached, a huge, warty, barnacle-crusted leap of triumph, before crashing back down with an immense thump and splash. The sound slapped into Cloudier’s ears like an insult, and her mind boggled as she tried to take in what had occurred.
The Sumbaroon had rolled over a few degrees, and she could see that one side of it was dented and smashed, the iron panels buckled and torn. Piecing things together, she realised that the huge whale must have rammed the Sumbaroon, perhaps in anger at the presence of the harpoon, perhaps at some word from Fishbane, perhaps in revenge at some historic wrong. Who could say? But she had been saved.
Fishbane landed again on the balloon, and Cloudier found that she was now holding the anchor, freed from its mooring, in her hands. She hoiked it aboard, and clambered over the edge as Fishbane let yet more hot air into the envelope. Her feeling of joy as she felt the little basket lift from the ice was only marred by her realisation that the Sumbaroon was not entirely defunct. She heard its engines sputter back into life and saw the water around it turn white once more. As she rose into the air, she was amazed to see the hatch open again, and a head and shoulders pop out.
