The Reef (6 page)

Jella walked through the wooden doors of the City Library, through the arched corridor, and into the book room. She always looked up to the ceiling that was covered in murals. From this end you could hardly see the other side of the room. She glanced over the area charts to find where the biology books were kept then she sauntered off to a far corner, humming a tune, her tail waving. The library was quiet. It was the way of things in modern Rhoam, she thought. People still loved the arts and books, but they liked to talk about them a lot in the street side coffee shops and dark music theatres.

She picked a title up:
Marine evolution surrounding the seas off Samekh Island.
She wondered around other sections, collecting books on mathematics and three ocean charts of the Sea of Wands, and the Island chain north of Arya. She settled on a desk in a quiet corner of the library.

For an hour or two, she made notes and calculations, until she was interrupted by the curator, an elderly man with a ghostly face. His eyes were enlarged behind his glasses.

‘Good morning, Jella. How’re we today?’ He coughed, hunching into his jumper.

‘Hello. I’m fine,’ Jella said, looking past him. He was always helpful, always bringing her the books she needed. Never asked any questions, happy that someone wanted to read.

‘Studying, eh? Good. Not like your friends then?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Menz and Yayle, those chaps in your little group that come here looking at maps. They were arrested early this morning’ ‘Arrested?’ She looked him in the eye. ‘What for?’ ‘Terrorism charges,’ he said. ‘They were caught in possession of some pretty lethal explosives and several dozen muskets.’ One of his eyes squinted in a strange expression.

Jella waited for more detail, but there was none.

‘Now, Jella, I don’t want you getting caught up in anything to do with weapons and war. Does no good at all.’ Even though Jella was looking at him, her mind was elsewhere. She could tell that another one of his stories was coming.

‘I remember years and years ago, a library-not sure if it was this one, come to think. Anyway, it was under siege. The city’s armed forces came in, knives and muskets everywhere. Said that there was information that could cause a revolution -political talk-within the walls. The government wanted all the books burning. Place was sealed off, with the staff inside.’

He burst into laughter and Jella forced a smile. ‘Of course, that was back a long time ago when the government could do that sort of thing. Anyway, the soldiers picked up books and started to read. All sorts of philosophies went in their minds. All sorts of stories. One by one they stopped the burning. They ignored their orders. They read and enjoyed and read more. They put down their weapons and just read. Course, the government was ironically overthrown as a direct result, eventually, but just goes to show that weapons are no use, Jella. You’re a good girl. I don’t want you getting caught up in any such activities.’

She said, ‘I won’t, sir. When were they arrested, Menz and Yayle?’

‘Dawn, approximately. But for some reason they weren’t in bed like the rest of us. They’re in the City gaol now.’

‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’ He turned, walked along one of the corridors of books, touched the shelves with his hand.

‘Shit,’ Jella said. She scraped her chair back, gathered her notes.

Six

‘Father?’

The boy prodded the doctor’s bald head. He was sitting cross legged on the beach, on the side of the island facing the reef. His eyes were closed.

The boy said, ‘Father.’

Doctor Macmillan opened his eyes, gazed out at the water. His eyes focus sed on the large, turquoise gem: the coral reef. He couldn’t see any of the islands beyond. The glare off the water forced him to squint. The water was partially broken up about two-hundred feet from the shore, where green algae seemed to loaf like flotsam. It was, in fact, resting upon limestone pedestals in their thousands. Clouds stretched out thinly, in one or two small lines above the horizon. The heat was glaring.

Doctor Forb Macmillan turned to regard the boy. The child’s skin was browned and he wore a white shirt and sand-coloured breeches the same type that his father wore. He stood waiting for his father to speak, prompting him.

‘Father, did they make it?’

Doctor Forb Macmillan shrugged, wiped a thin veil of perspiration from off of his bald head. ‘I don’t know.’

He stood up, pushing his weight down into the soft sand, leaving his imprint momentarily. He ruffled the boy’s short, scruffy black hair before he walked towards the palm forest. He was limping as he walked off an ache. He felt a little dizzy. ‘I hope no more’ve been killed.’

The boy shook his head. The tide followed them inland, water seeping through the indentations in the sand, which the doctor had made, and covered them up before removing them from the beach.

Seven

‘I’m not sure if I like this route,’ Manolin said, walking behind Santiago. The older man carried his hat under his arm, a lantern in the other. They shifted along a platform at the edge of the sewer. Rank fluids flowed past them and they dared not look at what was in there. Manolin swore he saw a decaying arm, clutching at the damp air, being swept away into the darkness. Snakes snapped by upstream. He could smell methane, sulphides. The only light came from the lantern, and the brickwork was black as was the water. Manolin’s eyes were heavy with the weight of alcohol. Either that or the chemicals in the water.

‘It means we get past any hi red thugs used to guard the grounds,’ Santiago said. He paused to look at the map in his pocket. ‘Gets us right in there.’ Then, ‘This way.’ He pointed to a right turn.

Presently, they surfaced outside of the rear entrance to The Temple-the offices of the mayor. Manolin looked up in and he felt awe at the perpendicular spires. Gargoyles loomed over. The building looked as if it didn’t belong there. It was something so old that was immersed in hastily constructed buildings. The limestone was smooth. Santiago rubbed his hand over it, nodding. Birds clung to the top of the spires of the building. Birds or bats, it was so high up that they couldn’t quite discern. Manolin could see the chimneys in the distance, the plumes. He wondered at how bad it would be to live under such conditions, breathing them in, allowing them to line the lung over time.

They heard stifled laughter and screams close by, almost so close that they could see the groups of people attached, but there seemed a strange otherworld quality to where they stood, as if the history of The Temple was enough to scare anyone off.

He was starting to shake a little as Santiago closed the lid of the sewer, being as careful as he could be. The old man dug in his pockets, pulled out a silver key and tried it in the large oak doors. He smiled, popped on his hat once again.

‘Where d’you get a key from?’ Manolin said.

Santiago waved a hand dismissively. ‘Oh, I’ve many an old friend who can help me out with these things. I’ve got a stash of such keys at home somewhere. You never know when they’ll come in handy.’

Manolin watched Santiago laugh to himself as he walked into the darkness of the building. He hoped that there was nobody inside. Manolin followed, taking one last look to make sure that they were not being followed. He wasn’t cut out for all this stealth.

Santiago seemed to know his way around the government building surprisingly well, despite the fact that there were no lights, just corridor after corridor. Santiago took them up several levels of stairs before concluding that they were close to where he suspected the alien species would be being held.

‘There’s a room on the top floor that was used for scientific pursuits some years back,’ he said. ‘There was a botched up experiment by a rather hopeful mayor, but the room has been kept for research.’

Manolin said nothing. He thought that he should be at home, in bed with his wife. He missed her, despite everything that had happened.

‘Righto, here we are.’ Santiago pushed open the doors then walked into the black. Because he’d dropped the lantern in the sewer, after Manolin had screamed at what turned out to be nothing, he pulled out a matchbox from his pocket, struck a small flame. They walked to the next room.

Manolin stepped towards the window. From it, you could see the cityscape in its entirety. There were large, rectangular towers peppered with the little lights. Above he could see an airship turning in a slow circle. Down below were two men standing next to a barrel, which held a small fire. They rubbed their hands together, held them over the flames. People walked by, threw objects towards them. Glass shattered. A few paces away: a hooded figure was painting something on a wall, an explosion of colours and lines. Manolin followed the figure to a shadow, where a prostitute was leaning, her skirt hitched up to her thigh. Even from that height, he could hear a group of rumel were taunting a human female. Manolin thought that she could look after herself. She tossed a canister of liquid in their direction. The rumel scattered into the darkness.

He looked up towards the hills that the ancient train lines disappeared into, where he knew clansmen operated. No one travelled through those scrub hills.

Santiago’s footsteps disrupted his thoughts. Manolin turned to face the room again. There was a glass panel separating that room from another. The match went out, so again, Santiago drew another. This time he noticed that the flame reflected off the glass panel. Santiago turned to look for lanterns on the wall, lit several of them to illuminate the scene fully. Manolin and Santiago walked up to the glass, placed their hands on the smooth surface. Their mouths fell open.

‘Well, bugger me,’ Santiago said.

Manolin nodded in reply before asking, ‘What the hell are they?’

A voice broke in from behind. ‘We were hoping you would be able to answer that, Santiago DeBrelt, but only when we invited you to.’

Santiago and Manolin turned. Several men pointed muskets and pistols at them. In the middle was a man in a black suit, hair slicked to one side, a wide, brown face, and eyes that were slanted, creased at the edges. He appeared utterly calm.

Manolin glanced between that man and Santiago, who held each other’s gaze as if they knew each other, had done so for years, and were now ascertaining one another’s thoughts. But what really bothered him were the weapons. To see these men who were so obviously used to intimidating people actually addressing him was more surreal than unnerving, but with the barrel of a gun pointed at you, you tended to take it seriously. His heart thumped in his chest.

‘Good evening, Mayor Gio,’ Santiago said, with an arrogant casualness that almost confirmed their history for Manolin. ‘Step away from those Qe Falta creatures,’ the Mayor said. ‘We can very easily kill you.’

‘Please, it’s too late for such hard-talk, Mr Gio. I’m sure you’ve killed lots of people, but I’m tired and I haven’t even had a cup of coffee tonight. Besides, you’re incorrect on both counts.’ Santiago turned to the glass panel, peered into the other room. ‘They’re not Qe Falta.’

‘Santiago, I see muskets. This isn’t the time for you to turn into a professor,’ Manolin whispered. Santiago smiled, winked as if to say,
It’s okay, it’s all a game. Just tough guy talk.

‘Mr DeBrelt,’ Mayor Gio said, ‘you seem confident. Let me remind you that because of your political activities you’re constantly being watched. Your little band of Collectivists may be underground now, but we still watch you.’ Then, ‘So, may I ask why I’m wrong on both counts?’

Manolin frowned. He knew Santiago was against the capitalist mechanisms of Escha-always said so in late night rants over a beer-but not that he was an
active
Collectivist. That political movement was forced underground years ago. The word was rarely heard these days. You more or less did what you were told in this city-for a quiet life-and being a Collectivist was far from that. Pure communism didn’t sit well with a right wing government, such as the one Gio led.

‘You may,’ Santiago said. ‘You see, you’ll not fill me with shot, as I’m the only one who has the faintest idea what these creatures actually are. And on the second count of your
wrongness,
sir, they are
not
Qe Falta.’

Mayor Gio turned to his entourage of several broad men. A couple of them shook their heads at him, shrugged.

‘Not Qe Falta, you say?’ the Mayor asked.

‘No. Everything on these creatures is natural and has evolved for a reason. Nothing has been grafted on by weird science. You do of course know why they’re called Qe Falta, Mr Gio?’

The Mayor was silent, his eyes perfectly still, regarding Santiago.

‘They’re called Qe Falta since the accurate translation is
the false people.
They live in the desert, with whatever poor features that have been bolted on by crack-pot genetics. Wings where there shouldn’t be, four arms where there should be two-that sort of thing. Genetic freaks, and labelled so. What you see here is totally real, even though you’ve sliced them open to discover this. Trust you to think them outlaws. Not that there is anything wrong with the Qe Falta anyway. Unlike you they actually look after our lands, our environments.’ His eyes turned to the window that faced the chimneys.