counters in a game. How long I’ve tried to think of a way… And you’ve done it! You’ve rid us of her! Your friend Mr. Grike has run off somewhere, by the way. Is he dangerous?”
Oenone shook her head, imagining what Grike must be going through. “It’s hard to know. I suppressed some of his memories to make room for my secret programs. Now that he has fulfilled his duties, those memories will be starting to resurface. He’ll be confused… perhaps insane… Poor Mr. Grike.”
“He’s just a machine, Doctor.”
“No, he’s more than that. You must tell your men to search for him.”
Naga waved a couple of sentries aside and climbed the gangplank of the
He had a soldier’s touch, awkward and unused to gentleness. “You’re a very brave young woman.”
“I’m not. I was afraid. So afraid…”
“But that’s what bravery is ; my dear. The overcoming of fear. If you’re not afraid, it doesn’t count.” He fetched a flask out of a hatch in his armor. “Here, try some brandy; it will help to steady you. Of course, we won’t let anyone know that you were responsible. Officially, at least, we must mourn the Stalker Fang’s passing. We’ll blame the townies. It’ll fire up our warriors like nothing since this war began] We’ll launch attacks on all fronts, avenge our leader’s fall…”
Oenone spluttered at the sharp taste of the brandy and pushed the flask away. She said, “No] The war must stop…”
Naga laughed, misunderstanding. “The Storm can still win battles without that iron witch telling us what to do] Don’t worry, Dr. Zero. We’ll do better without her. Blast those barbarian cities to a standstill] And when I take my place as leader, you’ll be rewarded—palaces, money, any job you like…”
Dazed, Oenone shook her head. Watching this armored man stride about the cramped, battle-damaged gondola, she saw that she had underestimated the Green Storm. War had made them, and they would make sure that the war went on and on.
“No,” she said. “That’s not why I—”
But General Naga had forgotten her for the moment and was issuing orders to his subofficers: “Put out a message on all frequencies: The Stalker Fang has fallen in battle. Need for calm and stability at this tragic time, etc., etc. In order to continue our glorious struggle against Tractionist barbarism, I am assuming supreme command. And prepare the
“And the prisoners, General?”
Naga hesitated, glanced at Dr. Zero, and said, “I won’t start my reign with a massacre. Bring them aboard. But please tell that Pennyroyal woman to stop singing.”
The Stalker Grike watched from a hiding place among the bushes as the Storm’s boarding parties hurried back aboard the
Grike knew that Dr. Zero must have ordered them to find him and felt grateful to the surgeon-mechanic, but he did not show himself. He had to stay on Cloud 9. The girl he had seen outside the ballroom was not among the prisoners who were being shepherded into the air destroyer. If she was staying, Grike would stay. In some way that he did not yet understand, that girl was connected with Hester. Perhaps by staying near her, he would find Hester again.
Chapter 34
Finders Keepers
Fishcake lay in the dunes behind the beach. Numb with cold and betrayal, he watched as Brighton fired up its battered engines and paddled lopsidedly away, the voices of the victorious Lost Boys drifting raucously across the water with the smoke.
He had barely escaped with his life. As the Lost Boys stormed the museum, he had run like a hare from the hunt, out of a back entrance and away through the burning streets, sobbing hopelessly, “Mr. Natsworthy, come back, come back…” until at last he reached the city’s stern and flung himself blindly off an observation platform there, seeking safety in the sea.
The swim to the shore had exhausted him, and he had almost drowned in the surf. Now, tired and frozen as he was, it was time for him to move again. For hungry desert towns were rolling past him through the dunes, and fierce amphibious suburbs were steaming toward him, drawn by the wrecked airships and flying machines that littered the sand and washed in and out on the surf. Fishcake, who had never been near a Traction Town before, could barely believe how high their wheels towered over him in the smoky air, or how the ground shook and shifted as they went lumbering by. Choking on exhaust smoke and upflung sand, he scrambled away from them and ran into the desert.
He really was a Lost Boy now. He had no idea where he was, or where he was going. He ran on and on, hour after hour, slithering over dunes, stumbling across dry expanses of gravel and piles of barren rocks. He was scared of the dark and the deep shadows, which were growing deeper still as the moon sank toward the western horizon. At last, on the bank of an empty creek, he collapsed, hugging his damp knees against his chest for warmth and whining aloud, “What’s to become of poor little Fishcake?”
Nobody answered, and that was what scared him most of all. Gargle and Remora and Wren had let him down, and the fake mummies and daddies had tricked him; Mr. Shkin had failed him, and Tom Natsworthy had abandoned him; but he would rather have been with any of them than out here on his own.
The moon gleamed on something that lay nearby. Fishcake, who had been trained to hunt for gleaming things, crept closer without thinking.
A face gazed up at him from the sand. He picked it up. It was made of bronze and had been quite badly dented. There were holes for the eyes. The lips were slightly parted in a smile that Fishcake found reassuring. It was beautiful. Fishcake held it to his own face and peered through the eyeholes at the westering moon. Then he stuffed the mask inside his coat and moved on, feeling braver, wondering what other treasures this desert held.
A few dozen yards farther on, his sharp eyes caught a movement down on the floor of a dry watercourse. Nervous as an animal, he edged closer. A severed hand was creeping across the gravel. It appeared to be made of metal. It moved like a broken crab, dragging itself along by its fingers. Wires and machinery and something that looked like a bone poked out of the wrist. Fishcake watched it, and then, because it seemed to have a sense of purpose about it, he began to follow.
Soon he began to pass other, less lively body parts: a torn-off metal leg bent the wrong way and draped across a boulder, then a gashed and dented torso. The hand spidered over that for a while, then crept on its way. A few hundred yards farther on he found the other hand, still attached to most of an arm, feeling its way toward a slope of gravel and small boulders where stunted acacia trees grew.
And there he found the head: a skeletal gray face cupped in a metal skull, surrounded by a tangle of cables and ducts. It looked dead, but as Fishcake crouched over it, he knew that it had sensed him. The lenses of the glass eyes were shattered, but the spidery machinery inside twitched and clicked, still struggling to see. The dead mouth moved. So faintly that Fishcake could barely hear, the head whispered to him.
“I am damaged.”
“Just a bit,” Fishcake agreed. He felt sorry for it, poor old head. He said, “What’s your name?”
