Railsea (18 page)

“A way out of the railsea,” Sham said at last. “Something beyond the rails.”

Well of
course
. Sham had seen that one line. So he had sort of known that. Still, to hear it! He had a delight in the blasphemy. Spouting heresy, it turned out, was invigorating as well as nerve-wracking.

“There
is
nothing beyond the rails,” he squawked. Annoyed by his own voice.

“Looks like we’ve got work to do, Dero,” Caldera said. An edge of seriousness, an effort, had come into her voice. When her brother spoke, it was in his, too.

“There’s some stuff in Dad Byro’s room,” Dero said. “I’ll bring it down when I get him his supper.”

“There
is
nothing beyond the rails,” Sham said again.

“Can we seriously leave him?” Dero said. He glanced back at the door where their remaining father waited.

“We aren’t going to leave him,” Caldera said gently. “You
know that. We’ll take care of him.” She came closer to Dero. “All that we’ve been putting away for the nurses—you know they’ll look after him. You know if he could he’d go himself. He can’t. But we can. For him. For all of us.”

“I know,” Dero said. He shook his head.

Sham started to give it one more try. “There
is …
”

“Oh, will you stop it?” Caldera said to him. “Obviously there is. You saw the picture.”

“But everybody knows—” Sham said, then stopped. He exhaled. “Alright,” he said. There were no certainties. He itemised what he knew. “No one knows where the railsea came from.”

“Well, no one
knows
,” Caldera said, “but they’ve got a sense of the possibilities. What do they say where you come from? Streggeye, you said? What do you think? Were the rails put down by gods?” Her questions came faster. Were they extruded from the ground? Were they writing in heavenly script, that people unknowingly recited as they travelled? Were the rails produced by as-yet-not-understood natural processes? Some radicals said there were no gods at all. Were the rails spit up by the interactions of rock, heat, cold, pressure & dirt? Did humans, big-brained monkeys, think up ways to use them when the rails emerged, to stay safe from the deadly dirt? Was that how trains got thought up? Was the world an infinity of rails down as well as around, seams of them through layers of earth & salvage, down to the core? Down to hell? Sometimes storms gusted off topsoil & uncovered iron below. The most excavation-gung-ho salvors claimed to have found some tracks yards underground. What about Heaven? What was in Heaven? Where was it?

“I think—what we were told—you know,” said Sham. He tutted at his own incoherence. “It all comes from That Apt Ohm.”

“Ah, right,” Caldera said. Of all the gods worshipped, feared, scorned, placated & bickered with, his influence was the most widespread. Great chimney-headed controller in dark robes. He protected & controlled the railsea, its nations, its passengers. “There might have been one sometimes,” Caldera said. “Years & years ago. A boss. Where do they go? The rails? What’s at the edge of the railsea?”

Sham twisted in discomfort.

“Sham,” Caldera said. “What’s the upsky? Don’t say it’s where the gods put poison. Where do the rails come from? What’s the godsquabble?”

“It’s when at the start of the world all the gods were fighting to make the earth, & That Apt Ohm was the strongest, & in their fighting the railsea rose out of the earth.”

“It was a fight between different railroad companies,” Caldera said.

Sham had heard that theory, too, he conceded, nervously.

“It was after everything went bad, & they were trying to make money again. With public works. People paid for passage, & rulers paid for every mile of build. So it went crazy. They were competing, all putting down new routes all over the place. Ruthless, because the more they built the more they made.

“They burnt off years of noxious stuff—that’s where the upsky comes from—& ended up chugging stuff into the ground, too, changing things. They could jury-rig the whole world. It was a company war. They laid traps for each other’s trains, so there’s trap-switches, trap-lines, out there.

“They made the lines,” Caldera said. “They destroyed each other. But they couldn’t stave off ruin. & all they left were the rails. We live in the aftermath of business bickering.” She smiled.

“Our mum & dad were looking for something,” Dero said. “They knew the history. Stories about dead treasure, history, angels, a vale of tears.”

“I’ve heard all that!” Sham said. “ ‘The ghost of all the riches ever born & yet unborn live in Heaven!’ ” He recited words from old stories. “ ‘Oh, shun the vale of tears!’ You telling me they was chasing myths?”

“What if it isn’t?” said Caldera. “Heaven might not be what everyone thinks it is, but that don’t mean it’s a myth. It don’t mean the ghosts of all the riches
ain’t
there, either.”

With an abrupt digital blare, one of the wall clocks demanded Sham’s attention.
Not now!
he thought. He wanted to hear these salvage stories, to rummage through this house.

“I … have to go,” he said. “Got to meet someone.”

“That’s a shame,” said Dero politely. “We have to go, too.”

“What? Where? Who?”

“Not quite now,” Caldera said. She closed her eyes.

“Soon though,” Dero said.

“Not quite now,” Caldera said. “But now we know what happened, now you told us, we have a job to finish. Don’t look surprised, Sham. You heard what we’d been saying. You knew we’d have to. I think that’s why you came to show us the picture.

“You didn’t think we’d leave Mum & Dad’s work unfinished, did you?”

T
HE
D
USTMAID WAS AS CROWDED AS MOST DOCKSIDE
drinkeries, loud with the electronic chirps of games. Sham watched the salvors gathered by the bar. They weren’t wearing their salvaging clothes, but even their downtime outfits marked them out—reconstructed finery from ages of high fashion up to which humanity had long since failed to live. He got close enough to hear them spouting their Salvage Slang—they called each other
Fren
&
Bluv
, they talked about
Diggiters
&
Spinecandy
&
Noshells
. Sham mouthed the words.

“So,” Robalson said. “Your captain like her books, then?” He swigged from the drink Sham had bought him. It was called Trainoil—a concoction of sweet whiskey & stout & molasses that was simultaneously disgusting & rather nice.

“Yeah,” Sham said. “Thanks again for, you know, yesterday.”

“So, what’s your story, Sham? How long you been at rail?”

“This is my second trip.”

“There you go, then. People like that, they can sniff noobs. I don’t mean no offence, it’s just how it is.”

“So,” said Sham. “Are any of your crew here?”

“This ain’t the sort of place they drink.”

“They go to special pirate bars?”

“Yeah,” said Robalson at last. He said it quite deadpan. Raised an eyebrow. “Special pirate bars.”

M
UCH LATER
than he had intended, when the frenetic drumming of the song “Jump Up All You Train Ruffians” came on the jukebox, Sham shouted with pleasure & joined in the rumbustious chorus. Robalson sang, too. Other customers watched them with combined disapproval & amusement.

“Disapprovesalment,” Robalson suggested, when Sham pointed this out.

“Amduseapproval,” said Sham.

“Sham,” Robalson said. “If you keep up like this you’ll get us kicked out. What is it with those salvors, anyway? Ever since you come in you been eyeing them like they’re worm meat & you’re a badger.”

“I just, you know,” Sham said. He wriggled in his chair. “The way they dress, the way they talk. What they do. It’s—Well, it’s cool, ain’t it? I wish …”

“You was talking to one in that hall, weren’t you? That woman.”

“Yeah. Something Sirocco. She was lovely. Bought me a cake.” Sham grinned.

“Don’t you think,” Robalson said, “there’s someone out there on the railsea on a salvagetrain, & all the time when they pass moletrains they’re like, ‘They do such more exciting stuff than me.’ ”

“Don’t know,” Sham said.

“They’re like, ‘Oh, imagine being a doctor’s assistant on that train.’ ”

“Give me their address, I’ll call them to swap.”

“Plus, didn’t I hear that your captain has a philosophy?” Robalson said.

“So?”

“So ain’t that something to aspire to? I bet salvors are probably a boring bunch.”

A man & a woman in the corner of the bar were watching the two young men. Sham eyed them. Not salvors, he thought. They saw him see them, looked away. His whole body froze up, stiff with a sudden memory of hiding under the cart.

“I met a couple of people who I think might be,” he said. “Salvors.
Sort of
salvors.” He narrowed his eyes. “They weren’t boring. Believe me. A brother & sister.”

“Oh, that rings a trainbell,” Robalson said. “The Shoots? The Shrikes? Soaks?”

“How d’you know?”

Robalson shrugged. “I listen to stories. There’s enough of them about. There’s one about an oddball brother & sister heading out on some hunt to the land of bleeding Green Cheese or whatever, Engineday next. Whispers are that someone wants after them. On the lookout for imaginary treasure.”

Sham had crept away from the Shroakes, this time, by routes they had suggested, that took him away & back into the town without drawing the attention of the watchers that were undoubtedly there. He blinked at what Robalson was saying. Robalson himself seemed uninterested in the rumours of state attention he was, unthinkingly, recounting.

“I just don’t see it,” he said. “About you, I mean. You
think
you want to be a salvor, but I’m not even sure you do.”

“Funny,” said Sham. “That’s what they said. & what about you, then? What do you even do, Robalson?”

“What do I do? Depends on the day. Some days I wash decks. Some days I clean the heads & oh my oily hell I’d rather get smacked into the godsquabble. Some days I do better things. Know what I saw today? Something from the upsky fell, about a month ago. Onto a beach in the north. They keep it in a jar, charge a few coppers to see it.”

“It’s alive?”

“Sham. It fell out of the upsky. No it’s not alive. But they keep it in vinegar or something.”

“But anyway you know that ain’t what I meant,” Sham said. “Which is your train?”

“Oh,” said Robalson. “Never you mind.”

“Yeah,” Sham said. “Whatever.” Fine. Let him play his mystery-boy games. “The upsky,” Sham said distractedly. “The grundnorm. The horizon. All these edges. What stories d’you know about, y’know, the edge of the whole world?”

Robalson blinked. “Stories?” he said. “You mean, like, Heaven? Same as you, probably. Why?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know if they was true?” Sham said, with sudden fervour, an intensity that took him quite by surprise.

“Not really,” said Robalson. “For a start, they ain’t, they’re just stories. For a second, if they
are
true, some of them you don’t want to be. What if it’s true that you
should
shun it? What is it they say’s there? A universe of sobbing, is it? Or, a crying treasure?” He shook his head. “It don’t have to make much sense to know it ain’t good. Angry ghosts? Crying forever?”

T
HE OWNERS OF THE
M
EDES
WANTED THE COIN &
credit that molemeat & fur & oils would bring. They didn’t care whether or not Naphi caught this, that, or the other particular mole. Except just perhaps that certain events would mean an increase in the power of her name, & that kind of brand recognition might mean income for them.

They were passing rare, captains who not only had their ultimate quarries, their nemeses, but who actually snared them. Like all Streggeye youth, Sham had been to the Museum of Completion, seen the famous flatographs of women & men standing on the mountainous carcases of philosophies: Haberstam on his beetle; ap Mograve on her mole; Ptarmeen on the sinuous mutant badger Brock the Nihil, beaming like a schoolchild with his dead nothing-symbol under his foot.

The
Medes
crew had three days to turn a middling moletrain into a travelling fortress of philosophy-hunting. Hammers hammered, spanners spanned. The trainsfolk ran tests
on the engines & the backup engines. Sharpened harpoons, stocked up on gunpowder. They patched up leaks in the cladding. The
Medes
hadn’t looked so good for years. It hadn’t looked this good when it was first made.

“You know what the stakes of this are,” Naphi said. She wasn’t much of a one for speechifying, but she couldn’t not. As her officers had told her, the crew needed to hear something. “We may be at railsea a long time,” the captain said, voice cracking through the tubes. “Months. Years. This hunt will take us far. I am prepared. Will you come with me?”
Ooh, nice touch
, Sham thought.

“There are no trainspeople I’d rather have with me. We hunt for the glory of Streggeye, for the owners of this fine train.” A few knowing smirks at that. “For knowledge. & if you will, you hunt for me. & I won’t forget it. We go south—& then we go where knowledge takes us. Gentlemen & ladies of the rails—shall we?”

The crew cheered. They raised raucous support for the hunt, for the end of the uncertainty. “For the captain’s philosophy!” The shout was taken up across the decks, from every carriage of the train.
Really?
Sham thought.

“Sham,” said Dr. Fremlo as the crew went to their tasks. “The harbourmaster delivered this.” The doctor handed over a sealed letter, at which Sham stared in consternation. He muttered thanks—not every crewmember would have handed it over, certainly not so honourably refusing to read it first.
Sam Saroop
, the letter said. Close enough, he supposed. Honourable or not, the doctor was not uncurious, & waited while Sham split the seal.

SPECIAL OFFER
! Sham read.
TO THE VISITOR TO THE
SHROAKES. GOOD RATES PAID FOR INFORMATION ABOUT THEIR PLANS! VISIT HARBOURMASTER TO FIND OUT MORE. ACT NOW TO RECEIVE FREE GIFTS
!