Ares Express

28

Trainpeople have this innate sense. An evolutionary thing, really. A survival skill. Take them to a place once, and no matter how long a time until you take them back again, they can find their way round it, no problem. In the dark. In the fog in the dark. In a power-out in the fog in the dark. They get so many places, they have to remember them all, or they’d get New Merionedd mixed up with New Cosmobad, Wisdom with Lyx, Belladonna with Llangonedd, Iron Mountain with China Mountain and everyone would be hugely lost. So Sweetness convinced Pharaoh as she led him spiralling inward along the corridors and down the tunnels of the Cathedral of the Church of the Ever-Circling Spiritual Family. Maybe not convinced. Told well enough for him to follow.

“Where is it we’re going?”

“To the audience chamber. The presence room, whatever he calls it. The top of the shop.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Have you been here before?”

There being no answer to that, Pharaoh trotted behind the resolute Sweetness. Two sectors starboard, he stopped again.

“Can you smell something?”

“Like what something?”

“Sort of sweet, like chocolatey, a bit perfumey floaty butterfly-ie.”

“Floaty butterfly-ie?”

Pharaoh shrugged.

Onward. He was firmly convinced they had gone around this same orbit of corridor three times now.

“What does the lid have on it again?”

“Wings.”

“And you’re sure of that?”

Sweetness stopped abruptly. Her shallow temper flared.

“Yes, I’m sure of that and yes, I know exactly where it is and yes, I know exactly where we’re going as well. Here.”

She banged on a closed bulkhead to a radial corridor. She jumped back, startled, as the bulkhead flew up, opening on to a corridor filled from one end to the other with Ever-Circling Spiritual Family.

“Ah,” Sweetness said.

“Ahhh!” the Ever-Circling Family cried, threw up their hands in horror and fled as one.

“Simple,” Sweetness said, snapping her fingers with admirable nonchalance, surveying the now empty corridor. “Come on, this way.”

“I knew I could smell something,” Pharaoh said, sniffing.

Sweetness stopped at another circular door halfway down the corridor.

“In here.”

“What’s in here?”

“The way up’s in here. Child’a’grace, do you have to make a question out of everything? I got the genes, you don’t, that’s evolution. In here.” She slapped the door release with the heel of her hand. It flew up. Sweetness found herself looking in a darkness that glittered with a thousand mirrors.

“Maybe not this one.”

There was a man reflected in those mirrors, a man of distinguished silver and good personal grooming, of fine taste in tailoring with a black cane in one hand. A man who, as she watched, turned as if scenting her, all his mirror images turning as one with him. A man who was now aiming something that looked inarguably like a gun at her.

“Run!” Sweetness yelled and dived past the door, Pharaoh a step behind her, as a tremendous explosion and shattering of glass shook the corridor.

“You!”

The word hung in the electric air of the mirror maze. Eyes met in the mirror; green, grey. Then Harx reached inside his immaculate jacket, pulled out a hand-held field impeller, spun and with a terrible raven cry fired at the source of the image. A boom of exploding glass: a million minute shards rained down on Devastation Harx. In the same instant the corner of his eye saw the figure, that trainbrat, that dreadful persistent, rude little girl who would not accept her severe limitations, who would insist on trying her betters, who would absolutely not go away or take no for an answer or know when she was mastered, roll and duck for cover. He readied his gun, panting.

The gas. It’s getting to you. You can’t allow yourself to act this way, not over an uncouth trainbrat. But she irritated him so much. He wanted her gone, gone for good, so much. He spun, reading his mirrors for unauthorised reflections.

There.

“Yah!”

Harx spun, fired six fast, flat shots at the six standing figures that had swung into view as the mirrors revolved on their tireless waltz. The mirror maze rang to multiple detonations. Still she mocked him, now a dozen reflections away. No matter. Two-fisted, Harx aimed the field-impeller, blew the dreadful girl to hell and silica and so she would have no hiding place, each of the intervening mirrors as well. A slow snow of powdered silvering dusted Devastation Harx’s shoulders.

A serene place beyond the paranoia of the combat gasses said, She’s not moving. She’s not even there. You’re just shooting at reflections of reflections of reflections.

Selah. It was good to shoot. Good to cast off the constraints of holiness and spirituality and responsibility and guruship and blaze away with a very big gun at something that annoys you very much.

“Waaaaaah!”

Spinning like a Swavyn, impeller set on constant output, he cut a scything swathe of flying glass through his revolving mirrors.

“Come out come out come out!”

A movement. He turned. In one beautiful, oil-smooth movement, he levelled and aimed the gun at the figure in the glass. Too late he saw that it was not his Nemesis. Harx II, his otherversal counterpart, gaped at the gun, threw up his hands in supplication, denial, hope. Far far too late. The eager finger had closed the contact. A ram of gravitomagnetic force sent him raving up in a spray of subquantal shards.

Devastation Harx staggered. What man would not, who has already killed his brother, and just shot his own self? His field-impeller fell like a shriven sin to the ground. He gave a little creaking moan. He clutched at his heart. Something was torn out of him. Somewhere, he had felt himself die. In a pique of confusion and paranoia, he had killed himself.

No. That itself was paranoia. That was the combat gas, as much as that image of that taunting, grinning female, which he now knew to have been one brief glance, amplified by the vinculum circuitry of his shattered maze. The man had been a Harx, but not Harx. He had been a mirrorman, a reflection, a thing from a universe not his own. A dog soldier. And dog soldiers die.

He was glad. It had long angered him, being given orders by such a sloven.

Disgusted by his lapse of control, Devastation Harx stormed from his sanctum. There was a war to be fought, and won, and it would not be won by ecstatic, slashing violence. Control. Application. Determination. He found the corridor awash with purple: acolytes rushing hither and yon. Beyond the tumult of panicked voices, was that gunfire he heard? He seized a passing faithful, a runty, trembling boy with a pudding-bowl crop.

“Just what the hell is going on?” he thundered.

“The hell!” the little acolyte exclaimed and fled shrieking. Harx pushed his way through the milling crowd to the elevator. As the doors opened the airship lurched, sending him reeling inside. He slid the doors shut and ordered “Presence chamber” into the gosport. The elevator stayed obdurately motionless. He called again, a third time, a fourth time. The elevator crew had evidently abandoned their posts for the mass hysteria raging through the corridors.

“Must I do everything myself?” he declared to the universe in general, and began to crank the windlass.

At the perigee of the dive, at the uttermost straining limit of the bungee, Skerry hit the snap release, went into a forward roll and came up poised and feisty on the balls of her feet as the elastic cords snapped back up through the hole she had made with the isokinetic punch. A moment to fit nasal plugs in case of any lingering pockets of Mishcondereya’s trip-gas, another to fix her bearing on the wrist tracker, a quick tweak of the string of her leotard out of her crack, and she was ready for action.

“Okay I’m in,” she said into the throat-bindi mike. Still without a notion where she was going, what she was looking for. But in and intact. “There’s a lot of noise.” There certainly was, down beneath her feet, like a party going badly wrong in a neighbour’s house. She crept forward on her toes; the din neither waxed nor waned. “I guess they must be really digging your light show, Bladnoch.”

Director Seskinore came on the line.

“My dear, we have a suggestion from the head doctors in Wisdom. They suggest you go up rather than down. Some head-shrinkie theory about people and valuables.”

“Too right I’m going up. I’m not going down there for a boob job.”

She checked her wrist tracker. Its hypersonic bat-squeaks penetrated every level of this creaky, shambling edifice and sketched up a rudimentary map. On the toe-tips of her grip-sole shoes, Skerry moved out. At every turn, she chose the inward route. At every flight of steps, she chose the upward course. Sound travelled well along these curving corridors; plenty of warning of approaching feet to slip into cover: a wall closet, a low-level airco shaft, a false-ceiling panel. What is it about young people today, she thought as the purple-clad faithful rushed beneath her, that fun and dancing and drinking and sex aren’t enough for them? Why do they want to be going and joining religions and dressing up all the same and getting dreadful dreadful haircuts? Each generation rejects the mores of the one preceding. You should know that better than most, daughter of Ghalgorm’s draughty halls.

Better to avoid people altogether. The ceiling duct in which she had taken cover let into a crawlway. After a dozen metres on her belly, it branched. Her tracker advised her that the left fork led to the cathedral’s service core. Skerry had always been a fan of service cores. She kicked the panel that capped the tunnel free. It fell an impressive distance between the bloated gas cells before it hit a tension net and bounced. With a grin, Skerry swung herself out on to the honeycomb mainframe beams and began to climb. Upward. But still no idea what she was looking for. The nave-like space of the service core amplified sounds, reflected and focused noises in strange ways. The din from the panicked in the corridors washed back and forth, up and down, unnerving hellish. Skerry flinched at the sudden tattoo of gunfire, though sense told her not even a teen acolyte would be so idiotic as to fire a slug-thrower in an LTA.

“Mish?”

“What’s up?”

“I heard shooting.”

“Oh, that. They’re spraying bullets at anything that moves. Sooner or later they’ll run out. What’s with you?”

“I’m on a gantry directly under the apex of the ship. There’s a solid roof above me, which the tracker says is the floor of the dome room. I’m going to try there first, once I get out of here.”

The tracker also a contained a clever little bollixer (in Weill’s gaudy and expressive phrase) with enough electronic nous to jemmy the hatch from the gantry on to the corridor. The two halves of the door slid open to reveal a young, dark-haired woman dressed in improbably ramshackle battle gear pulling at the handles of an inlaid double door. Skerry froze. The girl froze. Behind her a similarly piratical youth also froze, but it was the girl that transfixed Skerry. In an instant of epiphany, she knew who that girl must be, what she was looking for behind that door, how she recognised it.

“Hey! You!”

The spell shattered. The girl drew something that looked like a cross between a crossbow and soft furnishings. Skerry did not wait for it to demonstrate its potentialities. A back flip took her out of arc behind the door. She scrambled up on to the ceiling, hung spider-fashion, peeked out at the inverted corridor. Empty. The dark-haired girl—the granddaughter, the traingirl, the one who was at the heart and root of all this mad affair, the only one apart from Harx who knew what this divine receptacle looked like—and her boyfriend were gone. But the double doors stood open.

“Let’s go!” Skerry said, somersaulting to the ground.

Mishcondereya tacked the sky yacht hard aport and by sheer millimetres missed clipping the pin-feathers of the Winged Edsel. She swore her finest ladies-finishing-school oaths as she fought to control the skittery little machine in the chaotic turbulence cast up as cloud boiled into phantasm and back again.

“I’d like to see what the manufacturer’s manual has to say about this,” she hissed as she righted the ship and immediately pulled it into a fan-shredding climb as Cheraph PHARIGOSTER came howling up at her, fiery scourges raised. The things were no more substantial than the mist from which they were constructed but you could hardly fly through them. Necessary illusions must be maintained. “Where’s he gone now, the bastard?” Radar lock had been long abandoned. Mishcondereya kept track of the labouring cathedral, sometimes invisible within the thrashing cloud of Saints and Angels, by line of sight, seat of pants, twitch of ovary and luck. She momentarily caught Harx’s fortress in her peripheral vision, enveloped in the tentacles of PREMGEE, the World-Devouring Squid.

“Woo hoo!” she whooped and threw the airship into an immediate rolling dive after him. Lift bags boomed, struts complained, spars groaned. Tremendous fun.

“Bearing two oh two oh niner,” she called to Bladnoch, circling discreetly in UA2 on the trailing edge of the maelstrom. “Delta vee, about twenty squared.” She knew he flew the thing on autopilot and liked to intimidate him with technicalese.

“Moving in,” Bladnoch said, calmly. From the high steering turret he watched Mishcondereya plunge into the heart of Gotterdammerung. He wondered what the people on the ground were making of it all and what lies the media were being fed to explain just why the Rider of the Many-Headed Beast had chosen this day and their neighbourhood to duke it out with the Seven Sanctas. Whatever, he felt a glow of proprietorial pride. One of his better efforts. Oh definitely. He could almost feel good about it. Bladnoch tried to work out how he could slip it into his cv, then raised control on the communicator.

“Yuh?” Weill said, delighted by the tag-team wrestling match between the Two Lone Swordsmen and several scaley members of the Circus of Heaven unfolding like a summer squall over Nanerl Canton. Who would have thought the forces of divine order harboured such spectacular anarchy?

“Weill, I have to have more weather.”

“I’m giving you all the weather I can, man.”

“We lose cloud, we lose everything, friend. We’re bollock naked.”

“Have you any idea how much this is costing?”

“Since when have you been concerned about the taxpayer’s dollar?”

Seskinore took over the line. In addition to his preperformance rituals, he had popped a tab of tephranol filched from Weill’s supplies and was now as convinced of his own omnipotence as the Panarch himself. More so. He could order the Panarch about: look, there He goes. Loop-a-da-loop, Ancient of Days.

“Whatever it costs, you will have it,” he said, plummily. There was nothing he could not do now, no benison he could not grant, he held elemental forces in his hands and made them dance and sing. A million people were watching the products of his genius, gobemouche with wonder, and they loved him, they loved him. Even if they did not know who he was, they loved him. A stage! A stage worthy of the great Seskinore at last. He tabbed up Mishcondereya. “My dear, timing! Timing! The very soul of comedy!”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, you’re a little bit late on your shadowing. Skerry has to get back out again.”

“Ses, they’ve got Gatlings down there and they’re not averse to using them,” Mishcondereya said, thinking, pillock, but she took the little ship in close through a phalanx of Spiritual Spearmen. The proximity alarm and Weill’s shouted warning blasting her eardrum came simultaneously. By instinct alone, Mishcondereya threw the sky yacht out of the way of the six blinding streaks of light that burned over her head and in the same instant were gone.

“Bladnoch, what the hell you playing at?” she yelled as she fought to avoid ramming the Great Pantechnicon amidships.

“Not mine, Mishcon. Those were hundred percent corporeal. Solid.”

“I’ll tell you what they were,” Weill said grimly. “Waves five and six. Our Mr. Harx has just upped the ante.”

Sweetness and Pharaoh ran pell-mell up the gently curving corridor that Sweetness’s infallible train sense told her led to Devastation Harx’s presence chamber. Hell and urine, it was only a few days since she had last been here. Full days admittedly, but how much can you forget? She stood before the double doors, hand resting on the door pad.

“This is the place,” she said.

“Definitely?” Pharaoh asked, faithlessly.

“Hundred percento,” Sweetness said and palmed the door release. “See?”

In those few days since she had last stood in the presence chamber, much had befallen that beautiful room. The wooden cressets had tumbled, the horse-shoe table smashed in the middle by a falling beam, the thirteen chairs scattered and broken-backed. Sweetness walked to the centre across a carpet of glassite shards. She looked up through the shattered dome, shading her eyes against the white glare of the fog.

“What the…?”

Pharaoh was working at the door, wedging the handles with broken chair-backs. He looked up at Sweetness’s exclamation.

“What is it?”

“I thought I saw…I don’t know, couldn’t be, an angel. Looking right in at me.”

“Nothing would surprise me about this place,” Pharaoh said. “Or you. There. That should hold them for a while.”

Sweetness surveyed the grandeur of the devastation of the beautiful room.

“Mother’a’mercy, those boys could chuck dynamite,” she opined. “Where do you start in this mess?”

“Lid like a winged helmet,” Pharaoh said.

“Yuh.”

“It could be over there.”

The wooden altar piece had been added to the furnishings after Sweetness’s visit and had been miraculously spared the destruction, as they often are as a sure sign of their divinity. A lot of purple acolyte hours had been put into it, the triptych of St. Catherine on Motherworld, St. Catherine planting the Tree of World’s Beginning with pressure-gloved fingers in the regolith of Chryse and St. Catherine the Mortified as a translucent woman in a floaty frock was vigorous if naive. The five radiating arms bore miniatures from the Reality Wars, teen cybersoldiers with mirror shades and wires in their heads, fleets of logic bombers dodging slashing lasers, grim-faced space-marines hacking their way into orbital habitats with power axes. They were more crudely rendered but had the energy and zeal of the eye of faith guiding the hand of paint. Crucified to the central spine, haloed by festival fairy lights and stick-on fake jewels was the Catherine canister. It could not have been more obvious if it had had a banner hanging over it announcing Catherine of Tharsis, right here, right now.

“You know, I’m having second thoughts about saving you,” Sweetness said as she started to climb the rickety edifice. Her desert boots dislodged self-adhesive cabochons, flaked chips of lovingly applied paint. “You are too damn smart for your own good, son.”

“Then you be spread all over Canton Semb like cashew butter,” Pharaoh said.

“I’d’ve been all right, I’m a story,” Sweetness said, reaching for the reliquary.

“Yeah? Happy ending or sad ending?”

At which moment, Pharaoh’s barricaded door quivered.

Outside, in the curving corridor, Skerry cursed.

“Agh!” She beat her palms against it in frustration. “When will something go right today?” She stepped back, too short a run, put her solid shoulder to it. The double doors bulged. Wood splintered.

Within the presence chamber, the wedge chair creaked, wooden billets cracked. The door slammed again.

“Let’s go!” Sweetness said, wrenching the pyx free from the altar. She held it up in her hand like a mace. She expected a glow. She expected an angelic chord. She expected a ray of light to beam through the shattered dome of the sacred place on to her face. She expected a sense of completeness, reunification with her sundered twin, of mission accomplished. What she did feel was Pharaoh’s hands plucking urgently at her feet.

“Hey, get off me, I’m coming, I’m coming…”

She looked down at the face behind the insistently clawing hands. It was not Pharaoh’s face. They were not Pharaoh’s hands. Pharaoh was on his knees on the broken glass, retching from an evident boot in the testicles.

Him.

“You, you turd!” Sweetness shouted.

Serpio.

Devastation Harx pulled the gunners away from their crank-wheels and chain feeds and Gatling sights and cast them aside like a Poor Claireen purging a stockmarket dealing pit.

“Stop it, stop it at once, buffoons, fools, po-heads, cretins. I, your Harx, command you! Cease fire! Cease fire! You are shooting at lies! Lies!”

But convincing lies. For the first moment, when the blast doors opened and he saw the things he had always dreaded, always dreamed, flocking and swooping outside the Gatling turret, his parts had shrivelled with pure, superstitious dread. In that moment, the Nagging Demon that pricks all holy men and preachers whispered, you had to do it, didn’t you, you push and push and push and in the end, you succeeded, you pissed the Panarch Himself off, and now look what you’ve done, saints and angels coming out of the sky like hailstones at a holiday barbecue. Well, I hope you’re happy, Devastation Harx. Just for the first moment. Then for the next moment, he saw his brave boys, his mail-order crusaders, meet the limitless powers of the Omnipotence with whooping determination and good marksmanship, their grim-set mouths foam-flecked with zeal. Then he had seen the white stutter of tracer pass harmlessly through the seemingly corporeal divine hosts, the cloudy wakes they left behind as they howled and loomed and Pride Demon said, Call that an effects budget? When the Seven Trumpets play sweet bebop and God the Panarchic calls out the boys, you’ll know about it.

Then Devastation Harx felt a towering rage, that the enemies against whom he pitted his every strength and resource should insult him with ghost candles and magic lantern spooks and mists of ectoplasm.

He straight-armed the shrieking gunner away from the triggers, slapped up the safeties and turned to thunder down on his faithful.

“Illusions!” he proclaimed. “Deceptions! Flim-flammery to dupe us from the real enemy! We are infiltrated, our enemy is within, in this sacred place, on our own sanctum, and in here.” He touched finger to head. Devastation Harx frowned, touched finger to forehead again. He shook something that was not lingering battle gas out of his head, swivelled his eyes upward to the main bulk of the cathedral hanging above. His mouth opened, a quiet ah went out of him.

“Did you feel that?” he asked his cowed, stoned disciples. “Did you feel that? Some…thing went out of me. Some…thing touched me.” His eyes went wide. “No! They have it! Bastards!” He raised his cane. “With me, people! They must not get away with this! We shall recapture St. Catherine.” He leaped from the gun platform and was borne out of the turret on a surge of ululating, drug-berserked believers.

Ben’s Town to Annency; Annency to Perdition Junction; Perdition Junction to Laurel Hill. Woolamagong. Serendip. Acacia Heights. Atomic Avenue. The nameboards blurred past, waiting passengers stepped back, then stepped forward to stare after the vision of blue and silver and steam that had thundered past them, drawing all their newspapers into a rattling dance in its wake. Class 88 Catherine of Tharsis broke all records for the Grand Valley mainline. The fusion djinns howled inside their tokamak bottles, the drive rods shuddered and jumped in their housings, every loose scrap of metal and under-tightened bolt rattled and hummed as the Ares Express came through. Scruffy little commuter shuttles, ill-bred schoolgirl specials, slow local stoppers bustled out of the path of the furious monster on to branch lines. Thousand car freighters and Intercity Limiteds were herded and held on sidings; even the transplanetary expresses found themselves inexcusably held at orange as the Insane Train ran every signal and flaunted every speed restriction. Central Track Control sent command after command, all ignored as Grandfather Bedzo, with a saliva-y smile, opened up the throttles and poured in the steam. In the panoramic Central Dispatching Room of the half-kilometre-high glass nail of Central’s control tower, despatchers in the ankle-length beige duster coats of Great Southern Traction debated throwing the runaway on to a long run of branch line. They ran the figures on their wrapround Track Display Visors, thought again. At its current speed, the intruder would tear through the points like a child ripping open a birthday present. A four-hundred-and-eighty-kilometre-per-hour derailment and subsequent tokamak explosion would take a ten-kilometre square section of the planet’s most densely utilised rail network out of commission for a time measured by half-lives.

Let them get where they are going in so all-fired a hurry, was the conclusion. Re-route, hold and divert and pray the Angel of Trains they don’t meet anything coming in the opposite direction. We’ll get them in the courts later.

Then, amazement in the tower of glass. The Runaway Train was slowing. Senior Signallers summoned Track Regulation Officers Grade II to confirm the information on their visors. They ran to their Dispatch Assistants levels 2 and 3 and returned with the reports from the Signal Attendants: yes, out there in the green fields of Canton Thrench, Catherine of Tharsis was coming to a halt.

“What is happening, why are we slowing?” Child’a’grace chirped as, through her boot soles, she felt the subtle shift of weight that meant that her train was losing speed. Bedzo’s face was tight with either concentration or constipation as he applied and released the brakes. The rising screech of hot brake shoe filled the driving bridge.

“What is going on?”

“Something on the track ahead,” Romereaux said, frowning, trying to read traffic information from the data-sphere.

“Another train?” Child’a’grace asked.

Catherine of Tharsis had slowed to a undignified commuter-train lope and still Bedzo applied the brakes.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Romereaux said. “Looks more like, lots of little things.”

“Little things?”

“I can’t get any detail on this effort,”

The great train had slowed to walking pace. Psalli called from the window.

“I see them, I see them!”

Her tone brought Romereaux straight to the curving glass.

“Full halt!” he yelled. Bedzo complied with a thought. Everyone on the bridge staggered as brakes bit hard, steam billowed, drive shafts flailed and kicked into reverse. Wheels screeched on steel rail, then all was quiet. Catherine of Tharsis stood panting gently on the Grand Valley up line. Facing it across a hundred empty metres was an army of robots. They were twice the height of a man and twice as broad, had four metal legs and four metal arms all of which ended in stabbing, slashing or snipping weapons. They had beaked metal insect-heads with complex metal mandibles that opened and closed and chewed in a horrid way. They glowed golden in the Grand Valley sun, their eye clusters glittered. They said, we are painless and tireless and relentless and merciless and perfectly professional about what we do. Every one of the watching faces pressed to the observation glass up on the bridge could see that very clearly.

“What the hell are those?” asked young Thwayte Engineer in a very adult voice.

“Those are a thing I and all of I’se people hoped never never to see,” Child’a’grace said gently. “Those are moon-warriors, fallen to earth. Their presence can mean only one thing: our world is under attack. We are at war, they have come to defend us.”

On which cue the entire phalanx, fifty by fifty, took a ground-shaking step forward.

“I’m not so sure about the defend bit,” said Anhinga nervously.

A metallic click, audible through the armoured glass. Like the Skandavas in the collaged caves of Attaganda, each of the machines cocked its four arms. Blades flashed in readiness.

“And where is Taal exactly?” Psalli asked.

“Exactly on the far side of them,” Romereaux said.

“Full reverse!” Child’a’grace suddenly commanded, swirling away from the window to Bedzo’s side. The old patriarch grinned toothlessly. At long last, his beloved train was his again. Let the man who still has a drop of juice in him get his hand on the drive rod, not that arrogant, prudish stick of a son of his. No Engineer in his heart.

“Ha ha!” Bedzo said and, with a pulse of his mind, the tokamaks blazed and the boiler seethed, the cranks pumped and the wheels turned and, with gathering speed, Catherine of Tharsis backed away from the army blockade.

In their high glass tower, the Beige Controllers read the new reports from Thrench Regional and decided it might just be best to call it a day and all go home.

Out in the green fields, Harx’s occupation force noticed a change in their parameters and clicked into advance mode. A thousand metal hooves churned up the summer grazing. Bedzo put a clear two kilometres between the train and the advancing troopers, then stopped. The big train waited.

“Now!” Child’a’grace shouted, and everyone in the cab saw the years and chapatti dust fall from her and she was again the Child of Grace, the bright, vivacious, dotty and energetic woman who had sold her freedom for marriage to a train. “Full steam ahead!”

“Wa!” Bedzo shouted. Hydrogen raved into helium. Every piston exploded superheated steam. The abused drive shafts kicked again, the journel bearings shrieked. The wheels spun as tons of sand was poured on to the track, found purchase, bit. Three thousand tons of Class 88 fusion hauler leaped forward like a speed-dog from a trap, wreathed in steam like a Shandastria geyser elemental. At the sight of their target stopping, the robot soldiers had broken into a heavy trot. Now as it bore down on them, whistles shrieking, they stopped, tried to turn, scatter, flee. Too late, too slow. Catherine of Tharsis bowled them over like pins. Amputated limbs; gnashing, severed insect-heads were strewn hither and yon. A rain of blades embedded themselves in the soft green turf.

“There’s one on our port fairing!” Psalli shouted, peering out of a shunting oriole. “He’s climbing up!”

Grandfather Bedzo rolled and farted under the coronet of his cyberhat. A twitch of the corner of his mouth, a blast of steam from the overheat release valve sent it spinning half a hundred metres. The old man rocked and laughed as the mutineers put the rout beneath their wheels.

“I see her, I see her!” Miriamme Traction called from the forward observation balcony, Sweetness’s former vantage. “She’s waving a flare!” But even before Child’a’grace could call full stop, Bedzo was already applying the brakes. These striplings today understood nothing, respected nothing. Understood nothing because they respected nothing. Had no pride. Bedzo Trine Cirrus Minor Asiim Engineer 10th had been Engineer of Engineers. He would bring his train in so sweet, so smooth, the old lady would not even have to walk to the steps.

“I don’t know where you popped up from, but you’re going right back again,” Sweetness said to Serpio, centimetre by centimetre climbing her legs. She clubbed him hard with the St. Catherine pyx. He cried out, lifted his hands to his bleeding head, fell heavily to the ground.

“To think, I gave up a perfectly good stainless steel kitchen for you,” Sweetness said, leaping nimbly over Serpio and sprinting for the other, unbarred door. But he was already on his feet, after her. God, he might be a Waymender, but he was fast. He dived for Sweetness, was knocked sideways with a crunching oof as Pharaoh came barrelling in in a sliding tackle that would have had any soccer player red carded. The two men rolled over and over in a tangle of attempted blows. Sweetness reflected casually, and inappropriately, how alike they looked.

“Out!” Pharaoh shouted. “Down and out!”

“You mean?” Sweetness winced as Pharaoh took an elbow in the ribs.

“The aperture, go on, go! Jump! I’ll catch up.”

They fell to it again. Sweetness hit the door catch, pelted down the short curving corridor and almost knocked down a very tall, very big woman dressed in purple cycle gear. Big muscles too. Sweetness jumped back. The big woman blocked her escape. She smiled, beckoned with her hand, give, here.

“Uh uh,” Sweetness said and pulled out her beanie gun. Sianne Dandeever grinned like a skull and took a step forward.

“This will hurt, you know,” Sweetness said, and shot her point blank. Sianne Dandeever’s hand moved like a snake striking. She caught the bean bag in midair. She tossed it, caught it in her palm, smiled. Then she dived and brought Sweetness, beanie gun, canister and all down in a crunching tackle.

“Get off me, you big fat lesbian dyke!” Sweetness shouted and looked for something to bite but the big woman’s big hands were forcing her fingers open. Then she heard a noise like wind-rotor blades slicing air, a soft-edge whistling, glimpsed, past the big body crushing the wind out of her, something back-flipping fast down the corridor. The willy-willy demon whirled past, something caught Harx’s lieutenant a hefty whack on the back of the head, sending the big woman sprawling.

Skerry rolled out of her tumbling sequence as Sianne Dandeever shook the impact of grip-soled left foot out of her head and came up slugging. A savatte kick under the jaw sent her straight down again. Skerry cuffed her wrist to ankle with plastic wire grips.

Sweetness scrambled up, backed away, beanie gun levelled.

“I’ll have that,” Skerry said, advancing toward Sweetness.

“You will not.”

“Look, I’ve had a difficult day. Just hand it over.”

“Get away.”

“I’m the government.”

“You would say that.”

“Don’t make me take it off you. I can. I will.”

Sweetness shook her head. Skerry saw her finger twitch on the firing stud of the beanie-gun.

“I think I should tell you, I’d not just catch that, I’d throw it right back at you as well.”

“Oh yeah?” Sweetness said, swinging the beanie-gun a millimetre and firing at the pressure-seal emergency door switch she could see and she knew Skerry could not. Skerry caught a fistful of air as the metal semicircles slammed together in her face.

“Balls!” she muttered. She called up Seskinore. “The girl’s got the thing and she’s making a run for it. There’s still a chance.”

The bloody show must bloody go on.

“Please deposit three million dollars for the next ten minutes of personalised weather,” the computer voice at Grand Valley Regional Weather said without the least flicker of irony. Weill lifted the telephone receiver away from his ear, looked at Seskinore.

Seskinore, listening on the monitor, shook his head and cut his throat with a terminating finger. Weill hung up without a word. Together, they watched the apocalypse dissolve into the early afternoon sunlight. Pursued, pursuer and pursuer-of-pursuer were now so far away down the long tunnel of Grand Valley only the airborne cathedral was visible, a wobbling orange oval. Rather like a flying dog-biscuit, Weill thought inconsequentially.

“The mission is a complete and unqualified lemon,” Seskinore said ringingly. His fancies of summer seasons, charabanc picnics, celebrity bingo, maybe even once again doing the cruise trains, had evaporated like the cloud saints and angels. He was now and forever an unfunny comic with weak material in a too-small suit.

“No it isn’t!” Skerry roared on the comline. “Get Mishcon in here, I’m going after the girl.”

“Such a pro,” Weill said, admiringly.

There comes a time in running, Sweetness discovered, when it is very easy to forget just why you are running, where to and who from. It is just running, pure and purposeless and absolutely chemical, and therefore very very silly and very very dangerous. She willed herself to stop, think, think girl. Think. Down and out, he had said. Back to the aperture. Aperture. Where had that been? Where was she now? Sweetness looked around for landmarks. Few and featureless in these circular corridors. Some cathedral this. No shrines of the saints, no centavo-a-candle angelic light-’em-ups. No swinging censers, no hand-hammered carillons, no statues with scary eyes that followed you around the place, suspicious of sin. No bells, few smells now that that weird perfume Pharaoh had complained about seemed to have dispersed. Not even piles of leaflets or self-sew purple habit kits or whatever mail-order paraphernalia the Church of the Ever-Circling Spiritual Family needed to conduct its business with God. The single piece of religious engineering she’d come across she’d climbed all over with her size sevens. She’d seen more spiritual tat in an arcade game.

Refreshed by her brief exercise in cynicism, Sweetness peered at the outer corridor wall. It sloped very slightly inward from top to bottom. Southern hemisphere. Any down ramp around her would do. She slipped back into running mode. Anything that got in her way, stuck a face round a corner, looked vaguely in her direction, she roared at. The things fled, shrieking thinly. There was obviously very much more going on here than she knew about; the angel-thing she had glimpsed through the shattered dome, the seeming plague of mass hysteria, the fit girl in the green leotard. All of them were up there, behind her somewhere, with the big hard woman and Pharaoh and that Serpio, and, ultimately, Harx himself. Don’t think about it, Sweetness Octave. You’ve got what you came for. You get in, you get it, you get out. The rest will sort itself.

Her traingirl sense stopped her in midstride. Here. She skipped back a step. The tunnel looked the same as all the others in this forsaken burg, but ripples in her water insisted: here, yes, really. She rounded a dog’s leg and saw sky. A lot of sky. Into which she was meant to jump with little more than her trust in the home-brew parafoil on her back. And she had done the Point of Worst Personal Threat bit. The Feisty and Resourceful (But Cute With It) Heroine was into narrative terra incognita. She edged up to the lip. Crosswinds buffeted her; the cathedral started and swayed as if taking evasive action. She could still hear gunfire from overhead. She crept forward, took a peek at the ground. Seen worse. Risked higher. Still far enough and hard enough to kill you dead dead dead.

“Why is there never a Plan B?” she pleaded with the Laws of Universal Narratology as she secured the Catherine bottle in a breast pocket of her track jacket and braced herself against the side. Wind whipped her hair into her eyes. She tried to comb the greasy, stinky, sticky stuff out of her eyes, lost her balance as the Church of the Ever-Circling Spiritual Family seemed to drop out from underneath her and fell into the void.

“Aaaagh!” she cried, staring at a plan view of the undulating drumlin country of Canton Thrench. Then her hands found the rip cord, thirty square metres unfolded above her and she was jerked up into the air. “Oooh,” said Sweetness Asiim Engineer, flying. Pharaoh had given her verbal instructions in the control of the parafoil but they had been strictly just-in-case. Sweetness shifted her weight in the harness, pulled on the guys to scoop air into the left winglet and went spiralling up the side of the cathedral.

The sound of gunfire grew louder and closer. Maybe not that way.

She spilled lift, slid downward and forward. She slid out from underneath the belly of the cathedral into clear air. Grand Valley opened before her.

“Weee!” she whooped. Beneath her feet the Grand Valley trunk line was four streaks of silver meeting in a wink of light at the vanishing point. There was a loco on those tracks. A deadheader, no train, but putting out a lot of steam. Someone was really whipping the tokamaks down there. The funnel configuration identified it as a Class 88. Black and silver livery, Bethlehem Ares. Sweetness peered closer. Those patterns on the roof, and that finial on the tender: a roaring Iron Lion? And, at the limits of vision, covering the boiler cap with her wings, was that a figurehead of a silver angel, proud-breasted?

“Pharaoh, look, look, it’s Catherine of Tharsis, I know it, I’d know that old train anywhere, we’re safe!”

Pharaoh. What had happened to him? She scooped deeply into the wind, bought altitude to rise level with the hole in the hull At the outward edge of her turn, she had seen other aircraft in full pursuit of Harx; one a small, minnow-like racing yacht, the other a big grampus, a heavy lifter. They seemed to be occupying the full attention of the gunners who were spraying black arcs of tracer indiscriminately toward them.

Pharaoh was standing in the gaping rent, looking down at the ground beneath him, fingering his harness. As Sweetness swooped past him, he waved.

“Pharaoh, they’ve come back for me!” she shouted. “Catherine of Tharsis. I knew they wouldn’t give me up. They’re down there, we’re safe! Come on!”

Hand on rip-cord, Pharaoh stepped into the air. In the same instant, a dark mass leaped from the shadows in the corridor and seized him around the waist. Serpio. The airfoil opened but the combined weight of two bodies was too much for Vertical Boy engineering. Air boomed, seams tore, the wing folded up in the middle, failed. Locked together in a final, ludicrous embrace, Serpio and Pharaoh plunged down in a fluttering, tearing death spiral to the meadowlands of Thrench below.