Engn

XVIII

XVIIIFinn closed the door behind him. At least he couldn't see any ironclads. But he couldn't face climbing more stairs. He was so exhausted it felt like the ground was sucking him into it. The old man had talked about a lift. Perhaps it was something like the hay lifts back home.

The tips of his fingers tingled and throbbed from the chain wrapped tight around his arm. He tried to prize it off but the barbed teeth of the grapple were completely interlocked with the chain's links. He succeeded only in slicing open the tip of his thumb. Perhaps he should have asked the old man if he had a key.

He sighed and set off, walking past the steps, around the tall, curving wall on his right. He could hear a wooden clumping noise coming from up ahead. A little farther around the wall the room ended at another doorway, although there was no actual door. Instead there was a wall that, incredibly, rushed upwards, giving Finn the dizzying impression that he was falling. A gap in the wall flashed by, revealing, momentarily, a small recess like a wooden box. It, too, rushed upwards, and then there was more wall. Was this the lift? Surely he wasn't supposed to jump into the little wooden room as it flashed by? If he timed it wrong, he would be cut in two by the wall.

He thought about stopping where he was, sleeping the night there. He worked his way back round to the door he'd come through, thinking he could slip back inside and hide in a dark corner the old man couldn't see. But the door was locked and couldn't be opened from that side. And if anyone came down the steps he would be trapped. He had no choice.

Going back to the lift, he stood in front of it for long moments, rehearsing the leap he would need to make each time one of the alcoves shot past. The top of one rose into view. Without thinking what he was doing, he jumped.

He was too quick, if anything. He fell a short way to meet the rising wooden floor of the room. His knees buckled as he landed, tipping him forwards. He fell into the corner and huddled there gratefully, afraid of having a leg or an arm severed by the lip of the wall cutting downwards. The alcove shook as it hurtled upwards. It smelled of wax and oil. The feeling of rapid movement made his stomach lurch with alarm. Darkness swallowed him as the lift bore him upwards.

He wondered how he would know when to get off. Then a doorway flashed by, giving Finn a brief glimpse of a landing with two masters and an ironclad walking by. Was he supposed to have jumped out then? The lift had to be on some sort of belt. When it reached the top, it would wrap around and descend again. If he didn't leave would he be thrown into the workings or just turned on his head?

The rushing wall began to lighten again. Another doorway approaching. Finn prepared himself to leap out. He wasn't quick enough. He had a brief glimpse of another figure standing framed in the doorway, surprise and confusion clear on his lined face as he saw Finn. Another master, perhaps, although this one wore orange robes. The master plunged out of sight and the wall returned. This time Finn noticed a small metal plaque on it that said, simply, Two. The floor he was approaching or the one he'd just passed? He moved as close to the falling wall as he could and peered upwards, waiting for the light of another exit. He saw one coming, the wall lightening to grey. If it was the wrong floor he could always leap back and ascend farther. There was another plaque. Three. Finn threw himself towards the light as it sped by. He sprawled on the hard stone of a floor. He tucked his legs out of the way before they could be caught by the lift.

He scrambled to his feet and looked around, his heart pounding. He stood at the edge of a round room. Open arches all around the curving walls let in an icy wind. He looked to be very high up. Within the room, nine or ten people sat in a circle, huddled around a hole that dropped into darkness. None of them noticed Finn. The only other exit was a square doorway on the far side of the room. He began to creep towards it, hoping to skirt around the sitters without them noticing. He passed underneath one of the glassy orbs set high into the stone of the wall. This one, too, was broken. He could see only his own reflection in it, weirdly distorted as he peered upwards.

A stone channel had been carved into the floor around the lip of the hole: a channel with molten metal flowing around it. The sitters used delicate metal spoons to scoop up the metal then drop it into the hole. It made no sense. The red-hot metal spat and bubbled, and Finn saw one of the sitters gasp and drop his ladle. The man held the back of his hand to his mouth. His hands, all their hands, were mottled with red welts where the molten metal had caught them.

The man glanced across the circle at Finn as he sucked his wounded hand. He said nothing but Finn had the clear sensation of being studied, like the man had deliberately burned himself as an excuse to look up. The others paid no attention, continuing to ladle the red-hot metal into the pit, drop after drop. Finn continued to edge around to the doorway, hoping no one would stop him or call the ironclads.

The square doorway led outside onto the grill of a metal platform with five walkways fanning off from it. It was night and, away from the molten metal, instantly very cold. He was higher up than he'd ever been before. The lights and flames of Engn were all set out beneath him, twinkling away to the horizon like the stars reflecting on water. He felt like he was floating in the night air, all the roaring and pumping sounds of the machinery hushed by the distance, a little louder then a little quieter as the wind gusted.

What had the old man said? The Grand Junction Walkway. If these were the walkways, then he presumably just needed to take the biggest. But they all looked the same. And it was impossible to tell how far any one of them went. Whether they even went anywhere.

“Finn.”

Finn span around. The man with the injured hand stood in the doorway, holding his ladle.

“Finn? It is you, isn't it?”

Something about the man was familiar: his voice, perhaps. He spoke a little like someone Finn knew.

“I … who are you?” asked Finn.

The man glanced around, wary. He wasn't supposed to be doing this. “We were told to look out for you. You've done well to make it this far.”

“Who told you? Who are you?”

“You don't know?”

“No.”

The man strode up to him and took his hand. Finn looked up at him. The man looked weary, strands of greying hair plastered to his flushed face. But his smile was wide. For some reason it made Finn think of the red apples in their orchard back home.

“Who are you?” he asked again.

“You won't recognize me I suppose.”

Finn shook his head. He felt very exposed. He and the man would be visible to anyone looking up at them. Surely they could be seen from all over Engn?

“My name is Rory.”

“I'm sorry,” said Finn. “I don't know you.”

“No. I left before you were born. But my mother knows you.”

“Your mother? I don't understand.”

But even as the man spoke Finn did understand. He knew who this was. A memory of his own mother came to him, a day they'd picked blackberries together. Tom and Rory, she'd said. Both full of mischief. Mrs. Megrim's twin boys.

“Ah, I see you have heard of me,” said the man.

“You've spoken to Mrs. Megrim, then? I mean, to your mother?”

The man nodded. “She sends messages and they are intercepted. We have a mechanism that allows us to glimpse them arriving. From afar. They're not encrypted as such, but there's an agreed meaning to the words used. A code, if you like. Unfortunately, we aren't able to send replies. But she told us about you, told us to look out for you. Described you, said you were very young. She likes you a lot, you know.”

The thought of secret line-of-sight messages about him sent a jolt of alarm through his stomach. If the masters read them, they would know he wasn't to be trusted.

“We?” he asked.

“The wreckers. You know about us, of course?”

Finn didn't reply, not daring to admit what he knew. For all he knew, Rory might be working for the masters.

“Your mother gave you my name?”

“She did. Don't worry, we're very careful.”

That was something. He might not know Rory, but he trusted Mrs. Megrim completely. “But if you can't reply, then she doesn't know you've even received the messages.”

“No.”

“She doesn't even know you're still alive.”

“No, she doesn't. Still, she sends them, on and off. Always has, since the time Tom and I came here.”

He'd had no idea Mrs. Megrim had been doing that. In the years they'd worked together she'd never mentioned it. Of course, she hadn't ever mentioned her children either.

“Is your brother here too, then?” Finn asked.

“I don't know. I haven't seen him in years. We were separated when we arrived and that was that.”

The man took Finn's arm and examined the ironclad snare locked around it.

“I see you've had a few scrapes. These things are the devil to get off. You're lucky, really. Some of the companies just use muskets if they're pursuing someone. Wait there a moment.”

Rory disappeared back into the tower. The wind picked up, buffeting Finn, knocking him backwards a step. He was very glad the metal walkways had handrails to stop him pitching over the side. He could feel the floor swaying beneath him. He glanced down. He could see through the mesh to the distant lights of the floor. It looked a very, very long way down.

“Here, let's try this,” said Rory. He'd returned with a stubby knife that he now took to the clasp at the upper end of the chain.

“Are you sure you should be doing this?” asked Finn. “What if the ironclads come?”

“A master of the Second Wheel watches us, but she only comes up once an hour. She doesn't need to stay because they just count the bearings at the bottom.”

“Bearings?” said Finn.

“That's what we're doing up here. The metal forms perfect spheres as it falls. The drop is so great that by the time it reaches the ground it's solidified and you have perfect ball bearings. They're collected and used in the machinery.”

“We used bearings assembling the self-governing valves.”

“Haven't heard of those. What do they do?”

“I don't think they do anything.”

Rory nodded, as if that made complete sense to him.

“How long have you been up here?” Finn asked.

“Oh, fifteen years now. It's a good place to keep an eye on what's going on. On a clear day you can see the entire machine.” He stepped closer to Finn and spoke in a whisper. “We had a wonderful view of the fires the other month. The rebellion. We thought that was going to be it, the destruction of Engn.”

“The fires?”

“Weren't you here then? It was the wreckers. Managed to overload one of the main boilers, blew it into the sky. I've never heard such a noise. The explosion was like a solid wall hitting you. The whole tower shook. Fires raged for days; it was like daylight even at night.”

“What happened?”

“They got everything back under control. The machines, the people. But next time they won't be able to. Next time we'll have them.”

“How many wreckers are there?”

The man shrugged. “Who knows? A lot. We don't keep lists – too dangerous. The masters and the ironclads try to find us, of course, but they can't get all of us.”

“I heard a name,” said Finn. “Someone I'm supposed to find.”

“What was the name?”

“Lud.”

Rory nodded again but didn't speak. He continued to work away at the lock.

“Have you ever met him?” asked Finn.

“No, not that I'm aware of. No one knows what he looks like. Some say he's an old man now. Others say he's very young.”

“But where is he? How do I find him?”

“I don't know. That's the way it is. But I'll put the word out you're looking for him. It might count for something. Most likely he already knows all about you. There!”

With a snick the grapple near Finn's elbow came away. Finn unwound the chain from his forearm. It pulled his hairs painfully. The skin of his forearm was mottled with spiralling indentations. It was wonderful to be able to scratch all the itches.

“Thanks,” said Finn.

“Let's see if we can free the other end.”

As he worked, Finn examined Rory's face closely. He did resemble Mrs. Megrim, there was no doubt about it. The same strong nose and eyes. Still, there was no knowing which side he was really on after so much time. Master Whelm had admitted to having wrecker sympathies once. Rory could still be just another test.

“Where are they sending you anyway?” asked Rory as he worked.

“The Vault.”

“I've heard of that at least. Could be useful.”

“I don't even know what it is.”

“It's where they keep all the blueprints and plans. The designs for everything in Engn are there. Ach!”

The knife had skipped off the grapple and into the flesh of Rory's hand. He ignored the fresh wound and began to examine the clasp more closely.

“What will I be doing in this Vault?” asked Finn.

“Hard to say,” said Rory. “Never been there. Working on the plans, I suppose; it's a key place to work. The word is we have several people there, ready to take action.”

“Action?” said Finn. He had to be careful, not give himself away.

“Action to sabotage Engn. By amending the plans and making the machinery unstable. That's what we heard.”

“The masters would be on the lookout for something like that.”

“They can't watch everyone all the time.” Rory took a step backwards. “Finn, I'm sorry. I can't get the other end off. You need a proper key. Perhaps someone will have one at the Vault. At least your arm is free now.”

The chain reached all the way down to Finn's feet. He picked up the other end and wrapped it, loosely this time, back around his arm so it didn't trip him up.

“Thanks. It feels much better.”

“Look, I'd better get back,” said Rory. “Like I say, they count the bearings.”

“Will I see you again?”

“Probably not, Finn. Until the day we destroy this place. Then I'll walk with you back to the valley, okay?”

“I'd like that,” said Finn. “So which way should I go now?”

“The middle walkway. It goes for miles, right over Engn. Who sent you by the way? Was it this Connor?”

“You know Connor?”

“Just the name. My mother mentioned him, too.”

“I … I'm not sure,” said Finn. “He might have been involved. But it was an old man who told me where to go. The man who winds all the clocks.”

“Ah, him. Someone must have given him orders, though. Perhaps this friend of yours is a master already?”

Finn nodded. “I think he is.”

“Be careful of him, then. You may think you know him, but people change when they join the wheels.”

Finn nodded. “Have you seen anyone else from back home?” he asked. “My sister?”

“No. It's a miracle I found you. The machine is so vast these days.”

“I'm glad you did find me.”

The man clasped Finn close for a second. “And I'm sorry I can't help you more. Get to the Vault. You'll be safer there. It's dangerous out here on your own.”

“Thanks.”

“And don't let them win, Finn. Whatever happens, never give in to them, okay?”

Finn nodded. The man turned to leave, back into the red glow from the molten metal. Finn watched him for a moment. He wanted to call after him, ask him more questions, talk about home. But he knew he couldn't. It would be a danger to them both. With a sigh, he turned and headed for the central walkway.

The metal platform boomed and vibrated as he walked into the night air. It was impossible to see how the walkway was held in the sky. The wind whipped up his hair, buffeting him from side to side. He could barely even see the walkway itself except for the way the mesh made the lights down on the ground twinkle. He kept one hand on the rail and tried not to look down.

He reached a point where the walkway opened out onto an even wider metal road, so broad that he couldn't touch the handrails on both sides at the same time even with his arms outstretched. He debated with himself whether to turn left or right. Towards the Hub the old man had said. He tried to work out which way that was. Holding on tight with both hands, his fingers cold as they grasped the handrail, he leaned over the side of the walkway to peer downwards. The wind threw his hair into his eyes. Directly beneath him he could see a large orange circle, one of the great reservoirs filled with some bubbling oil. He could feel the heat coming off it on his cheeks, even from up there.

He tried to discern other details, work out where he was, but he recognized nothing. He could see no sign of the clock tower or the Octagon or the Titan Wheel. The dome where the figure had beckoned to him must also be somewhere in the darkness. But it did seem that more flames burned, more lights twinkled, more machinery roared, away to his right. Perhaps the centre lay that way. It was all he had to go off.

He stepped forwards, holding on to the rail with his left hand, fingers numb now from the cold, fumbling as he ate his last few scraps of bread. The wide walkway skipped beneath his feet as the wind hit it. He tried not to think about how far down it was to the ground. He was just glad it was so dark. The distant ground seemed unreal, impossibly remote. He saw no one else on the walkway.

He reached a point where a telescope had been bolted to the rail, angled down to the ground. Similar, perhaps, to those he had glimpsed high in the Valve Hall. There was a low metal platform you stood on to peer into the telescope. He probably wouldn't be able to see anything, but he couldn't resist trying. What was it pointing at? Perhaps he could make out some detail he recognized. His frozen hands refused to work properly as he tried to hold the telescope still and adjust the focus. He set the other end of the chain on the ground and used both hands to hold the device. He began to make out shapes. People – tiny figures moving in front of incandescent lights or silhouetted against the red glow of the reservoirs. Shovelling coal into the red circles of furnaces. He panned the telescope around, trying to pick out some landmark he knew.

Spinning around to gaze back in the direction he'd come, he picked out the illuminated face of a familiar clock. It was the tower; he was sure of it. The Western Grand Tower. The clock he'd watched each morning from his little attic room. It already looked far away. He tried to make out the time it showed. He had to point the telescope downwards; it was incredible how high up he was. But the angle was uncomfortable and he couldn't hold the image steady.

Half sitting on the edge of the rail, legs locked around the stand of the telescope, he tried again. The yellow clock face shot through his field of view. He found it again and held the telescope steady as he read the time, holding his breath. It was the thirty-sixth hour. Midnight.

He heard the clang of a footstep and felt the rough grasp of a hand all at the same moment. He turned to see a looming shape standing next to him. In the darkness it was impossible to see any detail but by the figure's size Finn knew it must be an ironclad. He could smell the leather and the iron and the sweat.

Desperately Finn tried to pull himself loose, grasping the tube of the telescope with both hands. The ironclad held him firm. Finn thought about letting himself be captured and then wriggling free later. In the darkness he might have a chance.

But the ironclad, gripping Finn's arm, didn't pull him forwards. Instead he began to push Finn over the edge of the railing. Finn's fingers slipped from the smooth tube of the telescope.

“No!”

He tried to grasp the ironclad's arm, tried to scrabble for the metal rail. His numb fingers wouldn't work quickly enough. He felt himself overbalancing, only that vice-like grip holding him up. Was this how the ironclads extracted information from people? By threatening to drop them? Finn tried to think of some story to explain who he was, what he was doing.

But the ironclad didn't speak. Instead, he released his grip. Finn plummeted with a sickening rush, the cold night air sucking the scream from his throat as he fell.