Merciless Reason (20 page)

His left hand gripped Harmonica's right, forcing the gun away as his right hand blocked the forearm strike the American aimed at his jaw. With the wound in his left shoulder aching with pain, Nate butted the man in the face and slammed his right elbow into the man's chest a couple of times. He rammed the hand holding the gun against the luggage rack, trying to break the American's grip. Harmonica got his left fist round Nate's guard and caught him with a powerful hook across the side of the head. Nate's vision swam, and the jolt allowed Harmonica to bring the shotgun up towards the other side of his head, firing off one of the barrels. The shot missed, but the deafening detonation burst Nate's eardrum and the muzzle-flash burnt the side of his head, making him scream. He fell backwards, but Harmonica grabbed hold of his jacket in his left hand, trying to level the gun at Nate's head again and empty the second barrel at him.

With his head pounding and a terrible whining, screeching pain in his left ear, Nate struggled to stay conscious. He brought his knee up between Harmonica's legs, folding the man over, and with his right hand whacked the American's head off the edge of the luggage rack. Harmonica fell back, but his reflexes were lightning-fast. The barrel of the gun came up, his finger tightened on the second trigger … Nate seized a stout leather suitcase and jerked it from the luggage rack just as Harmonica fired his shot. The suitcase took the force of the blast, the front of it bursting open like an impact crater. The clothes tightly packed inside it were reduced to rags, but they absorbed the shot and it was only the power of the blow that caused Nate to stagger backwards. He recovered himself as Harmonica swore and pulled a revolver from his belt.

Nate threw the remains of the suitcase at him, then grabbed a traveling trunk off the rack and hurled that with all his strength. The bottom edge of the trunk fell on Harmonica's shins and one of them broke with an audible crack. The American cried out in pain and frustration, twisting as if trying to escape the pain. Nate drew his own revolver and cocked it, aiming it at Harmonica's head. Harmonica stopped moving, glaring up at Nate as he tried to suppress the agony that wanted to show itself on his face.

“Go on then,” he snarled. “Get on with it.”

Nate glanced past the wounded man, holding his left hand up to his bleeding left ear, feeling the singed hair, and the blistered skin that seemed almost numb compared to the roaring pain in his eardrum. He hadn't even noticed that this carriage was half full of passengers. A dozen faces stared at him in fascinated terror around the doorframes of the first-class compartments. Shrugging his aching shoulder, his face screwed up in pain, he swallowed and found his throat was desperately dry.

The train's chuffing was slowing down, indicating that it was approaching the station at Roscrea. Soon there would be more people around, perhaps even more of Harmonica's men.

Every instinct in him was telling Nate that he had to finish the American here and now, or face having to deal with him again later. Some enemies would just keep coming back at you. Showing them mercy simply gave them another chance to kill you. Nate dropped the barrel slightly, raised it again, squeezed the trigger almost to the point where the hammer dropped … and then stopped himself, shook his head and sighed as he eased his finger off the trigger. He looked at the horrified faces of the people along the aisle behind Harmonica. This was what happened when the lives of the Wildensterns spilled out into the normal world. It was this kind of stupid, unconstrained violence Nate had sworn to bring to an end years ago, along with Daisy and his brother, Berto. But it never seemed to end.

“You lose your hat?” he asked the American, speaking in a voice that was just a little bit too loud—he couldn't hear himself properly over the whining in his burst ear.

Harmonica scowled, coughing as he clutched his broken right leg.

“Fell off when I jumped onto the train.”

“Kind of makes you stand out over here. We don't go in for them in Ireland.”

“It's my lucky hat.”

“Should've kept hold of it.”

Harmonica snorted and looked away, his ridged face crumpled like old leather.

“It's the man you're working for who's the murderer,” Nate told the American. “And he'll do a lot more killing unless I get home and put a stop to it. Now I know your reputation, Radigan. You were a lawman once, right? Well, this is one of those situations where the law can't help. The man I'm up against is too powerful for the law to touch—especially in this country. You understand that kind of man, don't you? Right. Then you'll know how he uses people like you. And you
have been used
, Radigan. To him, you and your men are just a bunch of guns for hire. You've been had. I'm guilty of a lot of things—most of them committed against the people who loved me and relied on me—but I'm no criminal. Now, I'm going to let you off at the next station. If you like—and you're able to pick up the men we've left scattered across the landscape—you can come back at me further up the line and we can do all this again.

“So it's up to you: if you want to get yourself killed—and maybe even some other, completely innocent folk along with you—by working for the most dangerous criminal in this country, by all means keep up your little quest. Or you could take your Wild West extravaganza and just piss off back to America and hunt some real outlaws. God knows you've enough of them over there without having to come here looking to import them. Anyway, you can mull over it all after you drag your sorry backside off the train.”

Harmonica took a breath and hauled himself up into a standing position, using a doorframe for support. His right shin was fractured, but the bone had not penetrated the skin. Leaning his weight on his other leg, he hissed through this teeth and regarded Nate with a piercing look.

“Consider it mulled,” he rasped. “I know things about people, Mister Wildenstern. And you
have killed—
but you're no killer. Not the pure-bred kind anyways. This job always had a stink to it an' now I know why. I won't apologize to you, 'cos it's likely you're no more free of guilt than I am, but I'm sorry about the injuries to your manservant, as he was just doin' his job. And I'm sorry that these people were put in peril for the sake of some lies and some dirty money.”

He picked up his truncated shotgun and slid it into the large pocket of his duster coat. Taking out a wallet, he removed a few pound notes and tucked them into the remains of the suitcase he had destroyed. More than enough to pay for the loss of its contents.

“That's for the damage that I caused to that person's property. I'll pay for any damage to the train too. As for you, Mister Wildenstern, well … I don't believe in no God no more, but if it's your fate to confront this man you speak of, then I wish you on your way to it and whatever comes of it. We all have our journeys to take.”

The train was pulling into the small station now. The last of the sun's light was fading from the station and there weren't many people standing waiting on the gloomy, lamp-lit platform. Harmonica looked out from the illuminated interior of the carriage, through the window nearest him, seeing more of himself reflected on the glass than he could of the faces beyond it.

“And may justice prevail,” he added. “In whatever form it takes. Though I must admit that's another kind of faith that I've lost along the way.”

“It was a faith I never had,” Nate said.

“Then that, Mister Wildenstern,” Harmonica said, “speaks of a very sad life indeed. I can only hope you find yourself a happier one, once you've done what you have to do.”

He limped past Nate, each painful step cutting his breath short. Then he twisted the handle and opened the door out onto the platform as the train came to a halt.

“Take a word of advice from a man who knows,” he said, turning to Nate after he had stepped down off the train. He took his harmonica from his pocket and rolled it between finger and thumb like a cigar. “Don't go givin' up your life to take revenge. And don't let it turn you into the very thing you hate most. Some trains just ain't worth catchin.” Goodbye, Mister Wildenstern.”

He put the harmonica to his lips and started to play a melancholy tune as he walked away. Nate raised his hand in farewell, and watched the tired, hurt cowboy limp off down the platform in the last red glow of the setting sun.

XXI

A LOAD OF BULLOLOGY

CATHAL'S HANDS WERE COVERED IN LITTLE CUTS
and scrapes. The strange metals and ceramics that formed the bulk of an engimal's body could form some very sharp edges when cut or broken. Handling them could be hazardous. Needless to say, the children were not issued with gloves to protect their hands. Gerald claimed that gloves would merely make them clumsy, and result in more serious injuries.

“Yeh still haven't told me why yer usin' children,” Cathal said, gazing down at the chains that bound his ankles together.

His hands were free, but his feet were still shackled. He was standing in Gerald's study in the mine complex. As he watched, Gerald was attempting to impose his will on Tatty's pet, Siren, by playing to it with his macabre engimal violin. Somehow, the bird was resisting—or at least, it wasn't doing what he was commanding it to do. Siren was trapped in a birdcage sitting on Gerald's desk, next to a pile of papers. Cathal watched the exchange with interest. Tatiana must be apoplectic with rage at the theft of her pet—and she would know who was responsible. Cathal had sparred with her enough times to know that she had a violent temper. He could only imagine the language that came out of her when she discovered the theft.

Every now and then, the little blue and silver bird would open its beak as if in pain, or shake its head, or become agitated. But Gerald was obviously hoping for something more. Cathal was beginning to understand the significance of the music. At first he had thought that Gerald was using specific notes—hidden in the music—to have an effect on the engimals he played to. But now he began to see that the music itself was creating some kind of connection. Gerald believed engimals had a mathematical language too complicated for humans to understand. Perhaps the music was a way of simplifying it.

It would explain why Gerald and Red used a whistle to open the door of the mine if, as Pip claimed, the door was made out of the mouth of an engimal. Pip had said the whistle made no noise, but Cathal guessed the sound it made had a very high pitch, so that only certain animals or engimals could hear it. He had seen their like before and Gerald had experimented with them a couple of years ago, in his attempts to communicate with engimals back in Wildenstern Hall. This unorthodox key was why Cathal was here now, even though his work in the slaughterhouse had left him sick and exhausted and desperate for sleep. He needed to find one of those whistles. He needed to steal one if he could.

“What did you say?” Gerald asked.

The violin had stopped playing. Cathal blinked, roused from his musings.

“Yeh still haven't told me why you're usin' children to dissect the engimals,” he repeated. “It's a barbaric enough practice without destroyin' the innocence of the young into the bargain.”

“Ah, my little flock of lambs. I think you'll find that the children of the poor are robbed of their innocence much earlier in life than those raised in a more sheltered environment,” Gerald replied. “And I must have children for the work, because it requires small, nimble fingers and open minds. They must learn as they work, and quickly. The dismantling of each engimal offers different challenges, unique fixings and joints, undiscovered materials. An adult mind is closed by nature, and inflexible. I need minds that still have the capacity to adapt to new modes of thought.

“There is the hope too that some of these youngsters—like you—might go on to develop a greater understanding of this new science. I give no priority to class or social rank in my vision of the future. Success should be measured on merit, rather than one's family or property. It is the only rational course.”

“Still, it's convenient that these are penniless orphans—a fact that made their abduction a lot easier, I'm sure.” Cathal sniffed, letting his eyes wander around the room, searching the tops of the worktables, the plans chest and Gerald's desk. “Why do yeh take their blood? They don't have
aurea sanitas
, do they?”

“Ah! Now that is the key to my entire process,” Gerald declared, placing the outlandish violin down on the desk so that he—could gesture with his hands—adopting the position of the lecturer once more. “You see, my early research suffered from two misconceptions:

“Firstly; that intelligent particles were only found in the blood of a few powerful families. These families have perpetuated this mistaken belief for generations. In fact, I believe there are low concentrations of the particles present in the blood of just about every human being. Obviously, proving this beyond a doubt is a practical impossibility, but one can theorize. And I can at least prove the so-called
aurea sanitas
families are not nearly as exclusive as they think. Apart from the scientific significance of this, I would take great pleasure in kicking the pedestal out from under their inbred feet.

“Secondly; I believed that intelligent particles could only
survive
in the medium of blood, and could only affect changes
within that medium
. In short, that these particles, like antibodies—or indeed, parasitic viruses or bacteria—could only take action through the body of their host. I believed that our microscopic allies could not exist independently of us—that they needed to act
through
us to have any effect on the outside world. But I was wrong. Very wrong.”

Cathal lifted his head at that, distracted from his search.

“What? Yer sayin' that these things can move around outside our bodies?” He frowned. He was struggling to grasp what Gerald was telling him. “So … what … you … you can catch them. Like a
disease
?”

“I'm saying much more than that.” Gerald smiled. He walked across the chamber and sat down at the church organ that had been installed in the far wall. He started softly pressing keys, randomly at first but then building slowly into a quiet tune. “I'm saying that it may be possible to perform the kinds of feats that would appear as magic to the untrained eye. I'm not just talking about curing disease or healing supposedly fatal wounds. Even when my skills were relatively undeveloped, I succeeded in bringing the long-dead back to life.

“Think of the legends passed down to us from ancient times. There are the hints of the possibilities in those old stories. Blades that can cut through any material; a medium that can show you events on the far side of the world; vehicles that can carry a person faster than the speed of sound; even the ability to change the shape of an object at will.”

The music rose swaying from the instrument, Gerald's fingers still coaxing the notes out softly. Cathal noticed that Siren was hopping restlessly on its perch in the cage. It seemed to be growing increasingly nervous. Could it sense something that Cathal could not?

“Imagine being able to reshape your body to perform different tasks,” Gerald went on. “Do you remember the legends you heard as a child—of famous warriors who transformed into demonic giants in battle? Gods who could harness the very elements; taking control of the air, the sea, the earth. Imagine being able to
fly
, Cathal. It might all be possible, if we can only learn to communicate our instructions clearly and specifically enough for the particles to understand.”

“I don't believe it,” Cathal said. “It's a load of bullology if y'ask me. I know what you're capable of, Gerald. There's no denyin' yev got power—a type I'm only beginning to understand. And I've seen what intelligent particles can do. I've had it done to me. But what yer talkin' about … that's … that's just the stuff of fairy tales.”

Siren was flapping frantically in its cage now, desperate to escape. It was screeching so loudly it was hurting Cathal's ears.

“Music and blood!” Gerald shouted above the noise. “These are the keys. Siren here has an extraordinary range of sounds. Its size and mobility would make it an excellent instrument for commanding the particles, but I would still have to find a way to ‘play' the creature as I would an organ or a violin. That is a problem, particularly as the little beast is almost as willful as its former owner. It is not enough that I talk
to
it. I must talk
through
it to the intelligent particles. For the kind of control I need to exercise over them, I need a complex instrument to convey my intentions. This little songbird would be an excellent instrument. But the engimals with the greatest range of sounds, Cathal, are the
leviathans
. Like whales, they are capable of sophisticated language, and can transmit signals through miles of ocean waters. If I could control a leviathan, I could command the very fabric of the Earth itself

Cathal desperately wanted to think Gerald's ideas the products of insanity, but he had seen enough to know that at least some of what Gerald claimed was true. He realized that it wasn't just his own life at stake here, and the lives of the children kept captive in this dungeon factory. If Gerald succeeded, he would be the most powerful man on Earth. Possibly the most powerful that had ever existed. And if he was willing to work children to death in this engimal slaughterhouse, what would he do if he could unleash this kind of power upon the world? He had to be stopped, no matter what it took. And to do that, Cathal had to escape as soon as possible.

The organ music was rising in volume and tempo. Siren squawked in panic, thrashing around its cage. Cathal covered his ears. There was something about the music that seemed to be changing the air pressure in the room.

“What are you doing?” he gasped.

Then a breeze started to blow through the room. Papers got caught up in it, pens and other instruments rolled across the worktables, the framed pictures flapped against the walls. It wasn't a draught from any of the doors. They were all closed. The wind centered on the birdcage sitting on the desk. The cage began to wobble and turn on the desktop, rocking and spinning like a coin dropped on the floor. Then it was whipped off the desktop and thrown across the room. Siren screeched in pain and fear. Gerald stopped playing, and the wind died almost instantly. Cathal stared in amazement and then, forced to take short steps by his shackles, he hobbled over to the cage and picked it up, making soothing sounds to Siren. The engimal was trembling and cawing quietly.

As Cathal carried the cage back to the desk, stepping over the papers and other objects scattered all over the stone floor, he spotted something lying on the ground under the desk. It was a bone-white whistle, about three inches long. Glancing towards the end of the room, he saw he was still in Gerald's eyeline. There was no way of reaching down for the whistle without Gerald noticing. He leaned back against the desk and waited for his chance.

“It will appear as magic to those who don't understand it,” Gerald said in a low voice, laying his hands flat on the keys and staring down at them. “And most of the people in the world fall into that category. The intelligent particles are present all around us—in the air, like the spores of the dry rot fungus, or carried through moisture, like the spores of the dreaded potato blight. And like a spore, they can inhabit certain kinds of matter and can use their host to reproduce.

“But they are formed of tiny combinations of atoms, smaller even than a microscopic fungal spore. They are almost undetectable. Each one somehow has the capacity to communicate with those around it—think of that, Cathal! One can only marvel at the science that could have created such things! And they can act as a swarm by exercising some kind of force on one another. The only way I have been able to gather them into concentrations thick enough to view under a microscope is in the medium of human blood—they seem drawn to inhabiting it. A behavior instilled in them by their creators, no doubt. But this difficulty in studying them directly is most frustrating—I am hampered by the limits of today's science.

“The engimals are laced with these particles. The creatures were made using the particles both as tools and building materials. Destroying the engimals, crushing their body parts in the grinders, fills the air of this cave with the particles. But mankind does not possess any material capable of capturing them easily. As swarms, they are like the most pervasive gas, but they are little larger than the molecules that form most materials. Each one is so small they can pass through any fabric—even leather or some types of rubber. I have had difficulty containing them even in glass or steel. But in this cave, the children breathe them in, and ingest them into their bodies. The particles can also enter their blood through the many little wounds the children pick up in their work. They invade our bodies like a disease, but a disease that strengthens us, rather than attacking our systems. And I, in turn, mine the children's blood for the particles, just as the miners of this mountain would have sought out rich veins of silver.

“I have been experimenting with the materials with which the engimals themselves are made, and have had some success in containing the particles. Once I learned to gather and store them, I began to exercise the kind of control over them that I have over my own body. But what I want is to be able to control them
wherever they occur
—”