by Jay Lake
The men who worked here avoided her. In one sense, this was fine. She had her fill of men in Praia Nova, and didn’t have cause to think the workers in al-Wazir’s camp would be any more gentle toward women than the fidalgos had been. At the same time, they would be interesting to talk to.
Wizards or no, these Englishmen tended al-Wazir’s great machine clawing ever further into the Wall like some parasite intent on gnawing out the heart of a dog. In between that, they worked in little shops and forges, cared for smaller machines that still stood large as her mother’s house while still puffing and screeching, and got drunk. If she had been a boy, Paolina might have thought that a perfect life.
As it was, she wished very much to simply speak to someone. Only al-Wazir and Hornsby would talk to her. She’d tried to explain to the big Englishman about the cars inside the Wall, and what their tunnel would eventually encounter as it bored through, but he’d been too busy to pay proper attention.
No one else came near the tent. She suspected the men of the camp had been threatened with shooting or worse if they bothered her. So she begged for books and was given a set of Punch magazines from volumes 117 and 118, dated in the autumn of 1901 and spring of 1902. They apparently were intended to be humorous. The articles provided a window into the life of England even more recent and expansive than that which Dickens had thrown open for her.
She also spent time listening to the chatter of the digging machine, timing how long it ran and paused, and working to deduce the depth of the tunnel from the minutes it took men to walk in and out. There was so much to measure here.
Paolina wondered what al-Wazir would do when his machine broke through to the whirling discs of brass that were set within a Muralha as counterweights to balance the spin of the world. Surely he had a plan. An Englishman always did. Dickens and Davies had taught her that. Al-Wazir had done nothing to disabuse her of the notion.
Around noon on her third day, partway through a particularly tendentious January issue, she heard a great shouting outside.
“Do not go without,” Boaz said. “You do not understand their ways.”
“It is something,” Paolina argued, though she knew he was right.
“I hold no command over you, but our purpose here was made clear to me.”
She settled back with a flash of anger, hating her own bad grace, to read more about some individual named Floyd Gorges, who was supposedly a Minister from Carnivaltown. Paolina hadn’t quite worked out how the clerical aspect fit in with the rest of it, but she presumed she’d learn.
More shouting outside tugged at her ear. She ignored it. Likewise she ignored steam whistling and the rattle of gunfire. It was not enough to have been an attack. But when the droning echoed from above, she tossed away the magazine from which she’d been reading the same sentence over and over and over and stormed out.
A great ship of the air was beating down over the camp.
Bassett, she thought, then remembered that al-Wazir had told her the ship was lost. One of its sisters, surely, with the long, bloated bag suspending a boatlike hull beneath. Engines on each side spun propellers, while furled sails hung on spars tucked close in. The bag was covered with netting, with a great version of the British flag was worked into that.
England had come for her!
She raced back inside to tell Boaz.
Paolina spent the rest of the day under guard. The man outside her tent with a gun wouldn’t say anything, except to order her back inside. Boaz sat quietly, lost in so thoughtful a mood, he might almost have been stilled once more.
Her mind raced furiously. She could use the gleam somehow, or simply sneak out the back of the tent. She could talk her way out, or scream for help. Plan after plan came to her, all of them pointless.
She was the only woman in the camp, after all. No one would mistake her for anyone else. She could not hope to blend in. She could hardly slip unnoticed aboard the ship of the air, either. It was crewed with officers and men accustomed to fighting, and moored above a camp of armed men.
She was trapped at the pleasure of al-Wazir and Hornsby.
That thought made her very angry. The anger, however, bought her nothing.
Finally she went and knelt beside Boaz.
“Why do you seem so lost, friend?” she asked softly.
He looked at her, his brass eyes dilating. “You shall take ship and leave. I shall remain here in the camp of my enemies, alone and traitor to Authority.”
“What of your name?”
“Nothing has changed.”
“Were you expecting some stroke from the heavens?” She reached forward and traced the line of his chin. “With people, it never works that way. What becomes new is slower than dawn, slower even than the cycles of the moon. Your name is your answer; it has to be. Otherwise you are only Brass and always Brass. I prefer you Boaz.”
He simply stared at her, eyes clicking faintly.
“Lassie,” boomed al-Wazir from the tent flap. “I need to be having the talking of you, right now. Me and the good Captain Hornsby await your pleasure.”
“Boaz,” she said softly. “I’ll be back.”
Turning away from him, Paolina had to fight not to skip her way to freedom.
Al-Wazir hustled her into another tent. This one was stacked with crates, crowded close and dank in the midday heat, though the canvas walls were flooded with light. Hornsby was there as well. He had no pistol at his belt this time, she noticed. The marine officer stood with a small dark-skinned balding man, with a hooked nose and hooded brown eyes. The stranger wore a blue uniform that didn’t match anything she’d seen in the camp thus far. With lots of gold braid.
He was from the airship, of course.
She smiled.
The dark man did not smile back. He looked her up and down, twice, as if he were considering buying her. “No.”
“I—,” Paolina began, but al-Wazir grabbed her arm hard and jerked it slightly.
“I do not believe this is subject to discussion,” Hornsby told the man.
“Of course not.” A weary smile quirked his face. “I am captain of my ship, and my word is law. Literally so, here beyond the bounds of the Empire. There is no discussion.”
Hornsby exchanged a glance with al-Wazir. Then: “You misunderstand me.”
“This business will run back to the highest levels,” al-Wazir rumbled.
She realized he was pitching his voice low, even lower than normal. Anger? Intimidation? The giant Englishman was certainly an overwhelming presence.
The chief continued. “If you must, I have letters.”
The airship captain raised his hand. “No, no. We do not need to resort to that.” He rubbed his eyes, then focused his attention on Paolina once more, this time meeting her gaze as a person rather than simply evaluating her as a thing. “You are a woman, young lady.”
“Sir,” she said quietly, keenly aware of how much of her future lay in this man’s hands at this moment.
“Women do not belong on Her Imperial Majesty’s ships of the air. Not for superstition’s sake, but practicality. Eighty-seven officers and men will not mix well with one woman.”
“Meaning the English Navy are not gentlemen?” She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth, but al-Wazir snorted, while Hornsby shook his head and laughed out loud.
Even the captain smiled at that. “Touché, mademoiselle. But no, I am afraid not. The officers, naturally. It says so on our commissions. The men are sailors.”
“I traveled almost two thousand miles to get here,” she told him. “From a village of men, through countries peopled by men, and across a war being fought by them. A ship full of men does not frighten me.”
“Then you do not understand men.”
Al-Wazir squeezed her arm again, more gently this time. “She needs England, Captain, and England needs her. You can carry her there faster than anything else we can push her to.”
The captain nodded, then focused his gaze once more on P
aolina. “And why does England need you?”
“I am not sure,” she admitted. “But I know England is where I will learn about the world. I have already deduced what I can about Creation. I must go to the wizards who studied with Newton and Faraday and Priestley, who can show me what I have not yet seen for myself. I must go where there are more books than the handful in my village. Libraries, sir, real libraries. With learned men.”
“And what have you deduced about Creation?”
“What can be seen, of course.” She found the question slightly surprising. “The nature of our earth, its diameter and orbital period. The heartbeat of Creation, that timing which regulates all things. The motions of the planets. Something of hydraulics and mechanics.”
“The lass is another Newton,” al-Wazir rumbled. “As much as my poor self can tell.”
“Or me,” Hornsby added. “I do not have the wit or education to overmatch her.”
The captain studied her awhile. “You hear the beat of the world?”
“Yes.” Paolina reached into her dress and pulled out the gleam in its pouch. “I built this to measure the hours and the beat of my own heart and the beat of the world.” She showed it to him, clutched tightly in her hand.
Something strange and almost fey closed the captain’s face for a moment. “By the horofix,” he muttered. Then, more loudly: “I am Captain Hakeem Sayeed, Royal Navy, commanding HIMS Notus.” He nodded, a most abbreviated bow. “I will convey you northward with me, and ensure your transport to England. But understand that will be a difficult journey at its best. Ships of the air do not have spacious quarters, and are in no wise designed for the needs or modesties of women. If you create trouble of your own accord, I will set you down wherever we are and carry on without you.”
Paolina clutched the gleam closer. “If I create trouble, I deserve no less. I am Paolina Barthes, sir.”
“So they tell me.” Sayeed’s glare swept across at all three of them. “Is she ready to come now? Are you ready to let her go?”
“Yes,” said al-Wazir.
Hornsby nodded. “Ottweill is at the digging. Right now is very good.”
“But Boaz—,” Paolina stopped, interrupting herself. She hadn’t said farewell to the Brass. Otherwise, what? She had only her clothes and the gleam. Her few other belongings were meager gleanings of her journey across the face of a Muralha. Nothing more. “I am ready.”
“Then let it be done quickly.” Sayeed led them out.
AL - WAZIR
He watched Notus cast off a little over an hour after he sent the girl up. Ottweill had not appeared, but several of Hornsby’s men stayed close to the chief, their weapons unslung.
Not until the graceful airship slid over the glossy tops of the jungle to the north did he consider what to do next. Set the metal man free, as a start.
In the tent, Boaz sat on the cot, staring forward.
“Hey, John Brass.”
The metal man did not move at all.
“She’s gone. Shipped out for England. I come to tell you the gates are open if you wish to leave.”
Still no reaction.
He knew a brown study when he saw one, even in a creature such as this.
“You are free to stay,” al-Wazir said, “but I cannot promise no one will take a hammer to you if you lay around too long. Fine metalwork there, son.”
“A name,” Boaz said, finally looking at al-Wazir. “She granted me a name.”
That surprised the chief. “Well, and it was me that brought the oil to paint your brow, fool. What, you were John Brass all your days before?”
“Yes. In Ophir, we are all hight Brass.”
“So you come down the Wall to fight us for your names?”
“You do not understand.”
Al-Wazir sat on the tent floor, deck-style, though it was hot as a bilge pump station in here. “No, I do not. You do. You know more of the Wall than I ever will. So if you’re not walking out the gates, I’d be obliged if you’d tell me so, and perhaps stay to lend a hand.”
“Might I abide here for her?”
Al-Wazir laughed sadly. “She’s nae coming back, son. To think aught else is foolish hope.”
“England will spit her out as the tiger rejects carrion.”
“I do not know, John Brass. England has eaten half the world, and seems able to digest us all. She swallowed Scotland many years gone without complaint. A Rome for the modern age, save our roads are ships of the sea and air, not stone ribbons for the march of armies.”
“Rome was a mere eyeblink. My people recall King Solomon, who was greatest of the kings of old.”
“My people are ruled by Queen Victoria, who is the greatest of the kings of today.”
“I told Paolina once that she would replace Authority for me. I did not understand the truth of what I said. For her, I will stand by you.”
Poor bastard. “You’re a statue, son. Fallen in love with a chit of a lassie too strange for any man, methinks.” He smiled and extended a hand. “I’ll take your help and be thankful in the bargain. Walk with me, Boaz, and help me keep England’s flag flying here.”
The brass man stood and took his hand. Al-Wazir tried to shake, but it was like grasping at a statue. Instead, he just laughed.
Together, they left the tent.
There had been no attacks since the visit of Notus. The long patrols reported the brass army still at some miles’ distance, but camped and settled, not immediately forming up for skirmishing or all-out attack. The local patrols reported nothing but the usual jungle animals and African strangenesses. The men drilled by division and in firing ranks, so grudgingly that it had made Hornsby angry, but drill they did. Al-Wazir thought they might be able to survive another attack.
The fuzzy wuzzies from the river had even begun to come up to the camp. That convinced al-Wazir that attack was not imminent. The natives who lived in the shadow of the Wall surely knew what signs to watch for, even if he did not.
Hornsby was showing signs of his own. The Marine captain was divided and troubled much as the camp was.
“We cannot be split among ourselves,” he muttered. The two of them stood atop the palisade one evening, smoking cigars and staring northward into the African night. Even out of their line of view, the Wall loomed close in their consciousness—it bent the winds and weather as surely as it shadowed the daylight. Better, sometimes, to look for monkeys crashing through the trees and the pale glow of night-blooming flowers.
“I ken,” al-Wazir said softly. “A split crew will not pull together when the moment comes. We live and die as one.”
“Then you must make it right with the doctor.” A long, slow puff, the coal at the tip of the cigar flaring and dying and flaring again. “He still holds hard against you for sending that girl onward.”
“Nae.” He was surprised to find himself still passionate. “He does not hae the judging of me. I was put here under different authority.”
“A ship cannot have two masters.”
“This is no ship, if such has escaped your notice.” Al-Wazir took a breath around his cigar, reining in the upset that caused his accent to slip back to his Lanarkshire boyhood. “I am sorry. We have no cause for argument, Captain.”
“It is nothing,” Hornsby told him. Then: “I have always despised mixed commands. If we were all under service discipline, yours or mine, this would not happen.”
“Ottweill would never make a flag officer. Summat would have befallen him.”
“No, no, not my point.” Hornsby chuckled. “Though you have it true enough, to be sure. Just . . . you are not bound by duty to me.”
“The Queen’s shilling.”
“As may be. But neither am I bound to you, as officers are to their men. Ottweill is bound to nothing save his bloody steam borers.”
Even now, in the quiet dark of the evening, al-Wazir could hear the thrumming as they cut ever deeper into the Wall. The diggings were deep enough that the first chamber had been blasted out, so
some of the equipment and supplies that had been piled about the camp initially had vanished down the tunnel for more convenient access.
He’d considered an attempt to persuade Ottweill to bore a second stub of a tunnel for storage, especially of the ammunition and explosives, but right now it would be fruitless to make any proposition to the doctor. If he were lucky, his thinking would be ignored. Chances were just as good that it would be rejected out of hand and thus all the more difficult to implement later when circumstances had settled.
Ottweill was never a man to go back on his word, no matter how poorly considered his original position.
“Those great machines,” al-Wazir began, speaking into the silence that had lengthened with his thoughts. He stopped. “Do you hear aught?”
Hornsby looked around, cocking an ear. There was nothing but the distant rumble of the borer down in its hole. “Quiet here.”
“It’s never quiet here.” The chief glanced up into the sky. Clouds blocked whatever moon there might have been. They had only a sullen silvery glow, faint as a preacher’s conscience, to light the night-dark jungle before them.
Where were the howls and crashes and creaks of the African night?
The captain turned and cupped his hands to shout, but he never got to make the noise. A swirl of feathers and a rush of air brought a sword to part his head from his neck. It was a winged savage—naked angel, a brute made in imitation of God’s servants, and all too familiar to al-Wazir from his days aboard Bassett.
The chief ducked, dropping to the creaking deck of the palisade even as the air rushed in a whir of razor-edged pinions where he had been standing. He slapped his side for the cutlass, which was not there. Unarmed, by God, caught like a new fish!
There was nothing for it but to scream his fool head off.
