The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [98]
"Oi, you're not allowed to…!" He swung around as soon as the voice registered, swung at the speaker even before his mind caught up. A soldier, young, almost a boy, in a too-large, muddy uniform, a shorn scalp, a nose that had been broken before and was now, because of Orphan, broken again.
The boy clutched his bleeding nose and stared at Orphan, then rushed at him.
Orphan ducked, barely, and smacked the boy on the back of the head.
The boy dropped to the floor. Orphan swore.
What did you expect? a part of him said. Did you think you could just walk up here, destroy these people's life-work, and stroll out again?
Yet he hated what he had to do. He had changed. He was no longer the young man whose greatest crime was in belonging to the Persons from Porlock, who were merely pranksters, modern clowns out to stir a bit of trouble for the literati. He was a fugitive now, a desperate man, who had both seen and caused violence. He swore again, then dragged the unconscious boy to the back of the room, and hastily stripped him. He put on the boy's uniform (it was a little tight, but otherwise fit) and put his own clothes, or rather those of the subterranean people, piled on the soldier's body after he dumped him in the dumbwaiter.
He hit a button on the wall. The machine creaked and began to descend.
There is no other way, he thought. He had to get rid of the soldier somehow. But in doing so he put the subterranean people – my own family, he thought, appalled – in danger.
He tried not to think about it. He picked up the soldier's gun and marched out into the sunlight.
He wasn't challenged. The area he found himself in was a loose collection of low-lying stone buildings and large tent-like bubbles. It must be the living quarters, he thought. But there were few people around, and those that were merely glanced at him, noted the uniform and paid him little attention.
Ahead of him was the cannon. It dominated everything, its silver metal flashing in the sunlight, its tip reaching high into the blue skies until it seemed to rip through clouds.
The cannon stood in a clearing, beyond which were the temporary-looking structures of bubble-tents. He could see the two black airships in the distance, anchored to the ground, keeping watch.
He had to find the control room. Or could he go up to the cannon itself, and act then?
No. As he came closer the number of soldiers grew, and he could not afford to be stopped by them. Panic took hold of him. He only had limited time. The soldier he had hurt was bound to come awake down below, to raise the alarm. Already they were suspicious, had known he was on the island. He had to hurry.
It was then, as he paused and squinted in the sun and looked again towards the cannon, with a befuddled sense of being suddenly helpless, that he saw Moriarty.
The Prime Minister looked uncomfortable in the unforgiving haze of the sun. He was a short man turning to fat, and sweat stained his face as he walked quickly, with sharp heavy breaths, away from the cannon. He was surrounded: scientists in white smocks; functionaries in outlandish tropical clothes no doubt concocted in expensive Savile Row tailors, a long way from any tropical sun; and soldiers. This group, with Moriarty at its centre, moved across the arid landscape, and Orphan followed at a distance.
It was a long walk; the sun beat down hard on Orphan, who was uncomfortable in the unfamiliar uniform. He wondered how the soldiers handled it. The group moved away from the ramshackle assortment of buildings and headed further out, towards the edge of the crater. Where were the lizards? Orphan wondered. He had seen none in the crater, none in the tunnels. This was their home, their hidden seat of power, and yet, there was no sign of them. He felt uneasy. What else was hiding on the island?
Moriarty and his people approached the rise