bridge. Fear and an awful resignation. The journey had taken its toll on the carriage, the Melody Amiss was running too hot. These vehicles were not meant to be driven over such a long distance. Its engines, designed both to drive the carriage and cool it, were susceptible to overheating.
If she did not shut the carriage down soon and for a decent interval of time, the heat from the engines could set the coolants aflame, turning the carriage from vehicle to bomb.
She double-checked her vehicle’s readings and realized that the Melody’s starter motor was running on a very low charge. If she stopped now she might never start again.
Margaret slowed the carriage down, hoping that would prove enough, but the light stayed red and the Melody’s engine lost its smooth rhythm, bonnets juddered within their casings.
Beyond these low mountains was a long plain at the end of which should be Chapman. She had maybe a hundred miles to go. A few hours driving, if the carriage could make it. There was no chance of that happening if the engine overheated. Margaret could no more imagine walking that distance than she could hitching a ride with an Endym. If the Melody failed she would die out here in the dark.
She brought the car to a halt, and carefully ran the engine down.
The light stayed on. Margaret switched off the cooling units and charged up her suit, just in case.
Something flew overhead, and Margaret trained her guns on it. An Endym, it saw the carriage and circled above her three times, before turning back the way it had come.
That message played through her mind again.
They’ll be coming for you. She’ll be wanting you. Trust no one.
Staying here was a bad idea, but she had no other choice. Margaret could hardly get out and walk to Chapman.
She considered trying to sleep, but her mind kept returning to that pale face, the fingers scratching against the glass. And her body ached.
Margaret was beginning to develop sores from the constant pressure of the suit against her flesh. These things were not designed for more than a few hours use. No one expected someone to survive that long within the Roil.
She’d kept the charge fed from the Melody and kept her body cold. She’d thought herself impervious to the chill and found she was anything but.
A few more days and the wounds would grow gangrenous. She would sicken and die. Killed by the thing designed to save her.
She couldn’t think on it. Nor could she bring herself to look at the sores.
So she picked up her father’s journal and opened it. His familiar, almost too neat, handwriting comforted and stung her at the same time. Here was her father, frozen in the past, describing thoughts and moments drifting further away from her with every heartbeat.
It was all history now. No living city, just dead words, but it was all she had.
The bulk of the notebook was filled with his usual musings. Statistical data concerning the city, and heat to ice ratios, but towards the back, starting a few days before they had driven off to test the I-Bomb, it took on more of the form of a diary.
October Fifteen
While, I continue to doubt the veracity of Deighton, Elder or Younger, their history too epic to ever be history, I have been coming around to A’s way of thinking. There must indeed be Engines of the World, though they would be unlike any engines that we understand.
I keep coming across references to Lodes. Points along which the Engine’s powers are expressed. Tate it would appear is built upon one, which explains at least the ease with which our machinery produces ice. It was for a very good reason that Tate was built just where it is, or why many of our devices were so easily constructed.
How limited are our resources, when it comes to the past. The books we have are all we have. We lack the opportunity to engage in the deeper tasks, of fieldwork, of cross-referencing ideas with other Masters of the Past. As the years progress, our grip on history grows ever more hypothetical, so does our grip on current events.
Truly, and admitting it has been entirely forced upon us, Tate is the most parochial of metropolises.
I would predict anarchy to the north. Mirrlees and Chapman swollen with refugees, the Far North getting its share as well. Interesting times no doubt.
But who can tell? We have received no communication from the North in over twenty years.
October Seventeen
No time for musing, today. The I-Bombs are to be loaded into truck five. I had hoped to take the Melody Amiss out into the field. Even I am amazed at that little vehicle. However, she has little storage capacity.
Must make sure I forbid Margaret to drive her. It is the sort of thing she would do. Roil take her, but she’s a determined one. It was all we could do to talk her out of joining the Sweepers. She would have made a fine one, of that I am certain, but I could not bear to lose her to that peril.
These bombs must work.
October Eighteen – Day One
We have discarded the prescribed safety of Tate for the awfulness of night. There is a lot of activity to the east of Mechanism Highway. Quarg Hounds and Endyms are massing, though they were disinterested in us I’m sure the city is a draw to them. For all that it is ice it is heat also. Indeed we passed more Roilings than I have seen for some time, which suggests another population explosion – a further urgency is added.
Though looking back at our well-built city, walled and clockwork guarded, one of the Four just finished firing, Sweepers’ gliders circling the Vents, I am in no doubt that Margaret is safe. It is beyond me to imagine anything less than one of the Vastkind could batter down those stone walls.
October Nineteen – Day Two
There is a stark beauty to this landscape and, in places, an intimidating tranquillity that even our engines are unable to destroy. Though we have lived in the Roil for twenty years there is far too much that we do not understand. How can we when our field of inquiry is so narrow?
One question that has left me in a quandary all these years is how does the Roil retain its heat? By all rights things should be cooler. The Roil blocks out the sun. Yet all of its functions are exothermic in nature. The answer lies in the Roil spores I suspect.
In the South the temperature rises dramatically, and in the North there is a similar though less extreme rise.
Though it is hard to credit it, we are actually in a cooler pocket of the Roil.
(This was followed by a series of calculations that Margaret skipped over)
October Twenty – Day Three
We tested the I-Bomb today and it worked as planned, an astonishing thing in itself. A single weapon, low yield, freed a zone of Roil over eighteen miles in diameter. This is truly our most potent weapon, scary in its effectiveness.
The greatest test of all, though, is just how to use it most effectively. Airships would lend themselves to the task, or better yet, the Iron Wings that A has designed. A dozen of them, perhaps, or even more, dropping them in tandem. It would be swift.
Today we are triumphant, I can confidently predict an end to the Roil threat, by the close of the decade.
Margaret, you will see the sun again.
October 21 Day Four
Trucks One and Three are missing. This morning my wife led a perimeter patrol and they did not return. We have heard no word, nor have any drones arrived. Ah, my darling Arabella, where have you gone?
What is more disturbing is that they took our I-Bombs with them. This makes no sense.
After yesterday’s success, today sees absolute failure. Something has taken my wife and the weaponry.
Day Five
This has been the worst day of my life. From dizzying heights to such a bitter nadir, as though I were an addict of Carnival, if their transitions could ever be as cruel as this.
Yesterday, I thought my wife lost. Today she has come back, but she has not returned as I remember her. She is different, some feverish infection has its hold over her. And, were it not for our judicious use of coolants we too would have been infected.
