'Yes. Don't concern yourself about it, I can drink my own body weight in pure alcohol and not feel it. Big disadvantage of being Ky-tech,' said Otto. 'We need to go now. Kaplinski is on the train. We cannot disembark on the Chinese side as planned.'
Valdaire put her fork down. 'What now?'
The train was moving slowly through an abandoned town of ruined houses, taking it slow over track warped by melting permafrost. A battered sign, name in flaking Cyrillic illegible, passed the window. Larger signs dwarfed this, lining the track in long procession. A high fence abruptly started, caging the railway line, active electronics bearing one message in multiple languages: 'Danger. Demilitarised Zone.'
'We have to go now,' Otto repeated. 'Into the DMZ, away from the train.'
'This is going to be hard,' said Chures under his breath, pushing his breakfast plate away, omelette half- eaten, his expression saying he'd suddenly lost his appetite. 'They'll come after us, not just Kaplinski.'
Otto shook his head. 'Perhaps easier than jumping the fence on the Sino-side as we planned. The Russians don't care so much, they like to make work for the Chinese.'
'But the Cossacks. They care,' said Chures. 'They're relentless. And there's the Han. They will come for us.'
Lehmann flung out his arms and patted the backrest of his chair. He shrugged with easy insouciance and smiled his little boy's grin. 'Yeah, getting in to Sinosiberia won't be easy. But if anyone can do it, Otto Klein can. Now, are you going to eat that omelette or not?'
CHAPTER 12
As soon as light crept over the walls of Pylon City, a ferocious banging rattled the stables Richards and Bear had found to rest in, adding to the pounding of the city's machinery.
'All wake in the name of the Prince! Up! Up! Up!' A troop of the Pylon Guard marched up the aisle, banging the butts of their lances on iron stalls.
A guard stopped by Richards' stall and leered. 'Eh, eh, what's going on here?'
Richards frowned at the skunk he was sharing his straw with, at its posing pouch and puckered vinyl arsehole. 'It's not what you think.'
'That's what they all say. Present yourself at Muster Station Eighteen no later than noon.' The soldier tossed an orange chit at Richards. From the way it hurt when it hit his head, it was also made of iron.
'Thanks,' said Richards rubbing his skull. 'I always wanted to join the army.'
The skunk woke at the noise, sat up and blinked. 'Wh… who are you?'
'You're not Rolston any more,' said Richards, matter-of-factly.
The skunk looked away, frightened.
'Great brass balls!' said a soldier further down the stable. 'Look at this one! Sir! Sir!'
'Let me through, let me through! My, my, my. Sergeant Bear, we've been looking for you.'
'Leave me alone,' Bear said weakly. 'I want to stay here, where it is nice and warm. And soft. And quiet.' There was an element of threat to this last.
Richards leaned on his stall wall. An array of creatures were rising from their beds, brushing straw from their eyes and blinking sleepily. He could just see into the stall where Bear lay further down the stable. Five soldiers huddled round Bear's prone body. He lay there, paws clutched over his eyes.
'Why does it hurt so?' said Bear. A guard poked him and he curled up further.
'It's the beer, mate,' called Richards.
'What did I ever do to it?' moaned Bear.
The unit sergeant looked up the stable aisle at Richards. 'He with you?'
'Yeah, you could say that,' said Richards.
'Not any more. He's needed for special duty. Lads, get him up.' His men looked at him, jaws slack. 'Don't just stand there. Get him up!' shouted the sergeant.
'Sarge, look at the size of him…' said one.
'Quiet!'
'What 'special duty'?' said Richards.
'That's classified. But you'll be glad to know he'll be serving the city. Not many get picked for this. Only the big ones. Come on you! Up!' the leader shouted at Bear. The men pulled ineffectually at his floppy limbs. The sergeant tutted. 'Pathetic.' He pointed his pike at Bear's backside and twiddled a number of knobs. A miniature thunderbolt leapt from the pike's tip. The air filled with ozone and the smell of charred plush fabric.
'Alright! Alright!' said Bear, pushing himself to his feet. 'Can't you let a bear rest in peace?' He shook his head. One of the men handed him a bucket of water. He drank half and poured the rest over his head, shaking it so hard his helmet fell off.
'Don't worry, sunshine,' he said to Richards. 'I'll be OK. No doubt I'm off to join the Big Animal Division.'
'You're technically a toy, not an actual animal,' said Richards.
Bear looked hurt. 'And you're technically a twat, but you're not being mustered to the brothel, are you?' He rubbed his head and winced. 'They'll put me at the front where the fighting will be best. I could use a bit of a workout.' Stretched, then groaned, then grinned. 'I'll see you after the battle.'
The city bustled. Men in full armour jogged through the smog. Heralds galloped by on multi-coloured bovine mounts, while steam whistles hooted complicated chords, rising and falling, summoning this group or that regiment to their place of gathering.
There was a buzz about the place, a hubbub of grim can-do. But although his simulated body made sure he felt apprehensive, Richards had managed to get himself to a place where his fear was real but abstract — this was not his body, he reasoned, no matter how closely identified he felt with it. And although the death of Pl'anna was never far from his mind, he suffered none of the taut uncertainty many of the faces on the streets exhibited. Genuine terror was a vice he'd yet to develop.
Everything was louder and more unpleasant in the daylight, and he was glad when he made it to Muster Point Eighteen, a large sprocket factory pressed into service as barracks.
A gap-toothed fellow at the equipment tent sniffed at Richards with distaste, and after issuing him with a uniform directed him to a shower block set up under the factory's still mechanisms.
Richards spent some time under rust-red water, until his faked human form felt less unpleasant to wear. He shaved, put the uniform on and binned his stinking suit. His mac he managed to save, and he rolled it up and put it into the knapsack. Tarquin he put back on over his uniform after scrubbing him down in the baths.
'Careful now,' warned the lion. 'I will moulder if I become too damp.' He lapsed into purring as Richards teased out his mane, and only spoke again to complain about the absence of cologne.
In the marshalling yard Richards collected the rest of his wargear: spear, sword and light coat of mail. His was a regiment of around five hundred, mainly men, some animals. There was drilling. An angry officer shouted at him until he could swing his sword left and right in time with the others. There was more shouting as he got to grips with his spear. This increased in volume when he dropped it, and subsided when he finally got the hang of it. The day wore on. Food was served. There was more drilling. There was more shouting. Both stopped briefly as a tremor rocked the ground. The quake was the first of many, and training didn't halt for them again.
At noon the following day they had a visitor, a tough-looking hedgehog from the High Commander's staff. Fighting a horde partly made up of creatures who consumed iron in an iron city, he said, would be foolish. So they were to be shipped out. There was no mention of exactly where they would fight.
More drilling commenced, and after two days Richards ached with it. He was glad when an aide called him away to the commanding officer's office, empty for the moment of the CO himself, Commander McTurk in his place.
'Rolston,' said Richards, when he saw who was waiting for him. 'It is you, yes?'
Commander McTurk nodded, gears whining. 'It is I. I see you have kept yourself hidden. Good. I have brought someone to see you.'
