Night's Engines
Page 29
Kara gave him such a dirty look that it was hard not to smile, even with his aching jaw. “I’m a pilot, I know when an Aerokin is coming.”
Medicine was already walking out into the snow, his footsteps tracking towards to the landing fields. A cold wind whipped his coat around his shoulders like an Endym's wings. David's coat was buttoned to his neck. The last of his meagre tolerance for the cold had gone with the ring.
The first Aerokin was coming.
Almost everyone that was not on duty was there to see its arrival. Margaret had even dragged herself from her work in the gardens, her hair tied back on her head, skin almost as pale as the snow. Her coat managed to stay tight around her, barely moving with the wind, as though she had fostered an iron discipline even in her clothes.
A week before, they had received radio transmissions from Drift, fragmentary, and vague: something about an emissary. And now an Aerokin had been spotted.
Mr Buchan and Mr Whig stood with them on the landing platform, watching the wonderful flying creature arrive. This brought back such fine and horrible memories. The last Aerokin David had seen was dead, her pilot cradled in her flagella.
This one was larger, bulkier. Carrying what Kara described as winter ballast, extra layers of fat and what even looked like fur. The wind gusted towards them and David could smell the Aerokin, her familiar odours, evoking something that was once happy and sad within him.
“It's the Meredith Reneged,” Kara said, voice catching in her throat. David squeezed her hand again. “Shine Cam’s Aerokin.”
“And a fine ship she is, too,” Buchan said. Kara glared at him.
“I thought you were busy writing your memoirs and your secret history,” David said.
Buchan grimaced and waved his hands dismissively. “Not now, there's too much work to be done, what with overseeing the retail sector of this fine city. History is written and history is made, and I'm of a mood to make it, young man. After all, we hunted Old Men, all of us, and we survived. We journeyed to the ends of the world. I need time to let that sink in.”
Kara flashed him a smile. “Or you're just a lazy old bastard.”
Buchan snorted, patted her on the back. “There is that, too,” he said.
David considered Cadell’s words again, of what must come after the ice and the snow, and wondered what was happening down south, what perhaps stirred and grew beneath the snow. The thought of Mirrlees and all the cities remade by minnows filled him with no little terror – would he find himself back there an addict? Would he see his mother and father again?
But that lay in the future. A whole people with a whole fabricated history, one that started and stopped and stumbled and slipped, always coming against the Roil, always being beaten back by it.
But now they’d forced a change. There were so many possibilities, for the twelve metropolises lost, and for the Roil itself. It would return, after all, it had never really left, just been driven down again, and David had no doubt that it would come back faster next time, it had learnt a lot in this iteration. David knew that's what he would do.
But they had learnt a lot, too. The great wound of this world had to be healed and not with fire, ice or war.
They were being given another chance.
Margaret Penn stood across from David and he was startled by what he saw. She was smiling, and in her eyes there was something he had never seen before.
He saw hope.
About the Author
Trent Jamieson is an Australian Fantasy writer, and winner of two Aurealis Awards, whose Death Most Definite series is attracting rave notices.
Trent has been writing fiction since he can remember, and selling it since the mid-Nineties... quite a long while after he started.
He works as a teacher, a bookseller and a writer and has taught at Clarion South where he was described as “the nicest guy in Australian Spec Fic” shattering the reputation he was trying to build as the “Hard Man of the Australian Writing Community”.
trentjamieson.com