Expendable - James Alan Gardner [126]
“Stuck?” Tobit asked.
I stepped back and drove a side kick into the door—not hard enough to endanger my foot, but with plenty of strength to loosen any stickiness from a poorly fitted doorframe.
The metal door boomed from the impact, but did not budge.
“That Jelca boy thinks ahead,” Tobit muttered. “He’s starting to piss me off.”
The Muse of Fire
Tobit and I spent a futile thirty seconds bruising our shoulders as we attempted to break down the door; but it was metal, solid and unyielding—far too strong for us to make more than an ineffectual dent. As we stepped back panting, I said, “Perhaps we should break into the elevator instead.”
“And what if we did?” Tobit asked. “You think you can climb eighty storeys, hand-over-hand on the cables?”
“Maybe.”
I couldn’t see his face under the silvery fabric, but I could feel skepticism radiating toward me.
“All right,” I said, “why don’t I smash down this door with Oar’s axe?”
“You’d break your wrists,” he replied. “And there’s an easier approach to try first.”
He walked into the next room, planted his feet firmly in the midst of the motionless ancestors, and cleared his throat. The next sounds to emerge from his mouth were a mishmash of syllables, some falsetto, others bass, some so liquid they dripped with saliva, others harsh like a man choking. The tone was strong but not forced—commanding and confident. When he finally paused, I could hear rustling from every corner of the room. Closed eyes blinked. Fingers twitched.
“You speak their language?” I whispered in amazement.
“I’ve been Grand Poobah to the Morlocks for eight years, Ramos. You think I let the glass glow under my feet?” He turned back to the ancestors and spoke again, his arms spread wide, his diction clear.
In one corner of the room, a glass arm moved. Closer to hand, a glass head lifted, blinked and stared. Someone sighed. Someone else took a deep purposeful breath.
“I thought their brains were mush,” I whispered.
“Just bored,” Tobit replied. “You can catch their attention if you give them something they’ve never heard before.”
“So what are you saying?”
“What I remember from Henry V—some asshole of an admiral forced every academy instructor to teach a Shakespeare course. Now I’m telling the glassies, ‘Once more unto the breach,’ and all that crap. Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, break down the door.” He paused. “I don’t know how the fuck I’m going to translate ‘Saint Crispin’s day.’”
But he rose to the challenge. Tobit orated, and his audience answered. I can’t imagine the ancestors understood much of what he said—even if Tobit spoke their language, these people wouldn’t know what to make of a “muse of fire” or “Harry, England and Saint George!” Nor did I think Tobit could stir their souls with Shakespearean poetry…not translating off the cuff and from memory. More than anything, he was getting through to them on the strength of sheer novelty: they had never heard a man in silver lamé harangue them to attack France, and it was bringing them to their feet.
Mouths twisted into smiles. After centuries of dormancy, something had changed—changed for all of them. Even those who had been slow to rouse themselves were sitting up with interest, their eyes glittering.
Hands clenched into fists. Spines straightened proudly. Tobit pointed at the locked door.
Ten seconds later, the door was no longer an obstacle.
My Present
“I can take it from here!” I shouted to Tobit. My ears still rang from the thunder of glass shoulders, strong as rhinos, smashing the metal door down.
“You’re sure?” Tobit asked.
“Get back to the ship before it blasts off.”
“What if you need more help?”
“Don’t be stubborn, Phylar. I’m giving you a ticket home…as a birthday present.”
“Ooo—look who thinks she’s learned to manipulate people.” He snapped me a backward parody of a salute. “Get going yourself, Ramos. Do something non-sentient to Jelca before he does it to you.”
He turned and lumbered away. I watched for a moment, then saluted his back.