Un Lun Dun

97. Regroupment

For a long time, Deeba just stood in the rubble of the factory, swaying. She dangled the UnGun at the end of her arm, cautiously. Deeba thought she could feel the weapon twitching slightly.

She staggered to an unbroken stool and sat at the remains of a table.

“That,” said the book slowly, “was great.”

Deeba had forgotten it was there. She bent and picked it up, wiped the dust off its cover.

“Are you alright?” she said.

“Okay,” the book said. “It tore out a couple of my pages and burnt them, to scare me. Worked, too. Are you alright?”

Deeba laughed tiredly.

“I think I am,” she said.

Trailing dust, Curdle emerged from a pile of rubbish. It shuffled to Deeba’s feet. She picked it up, too, and stroked it clean.

“And you,” she said, and beckoned to the rebrella. It jumped onto her lap. They listened to the noises of celebration across UnLondon.

There was a cough and a shuffle nearby. Brokkenbroll was staring at her, from the ground. He looked as terrified of her as he had of the Smog.

“It…you…it…” he whispered.

“How long have you been awake?” Deeba said.

Sending up dust, Brokkenbroll fumbled for his unbrellas. All but one were buried under bricks, or lost.

“You stay away from me!” he whined. He scrabbled backwards, his single unbrella in his hand. He stumbled to his feet. “The Smog…!” he said. “It…you…” His mouth worked a few more seconds; then he ran across the remains of the room, leapt the rubble of the wall and out into the air.

Without any others to carry him, the unbrella lurched down a long way. It opened and closed frantically, struggling to stay airborne. Brokkenbroll clung to it, swaying, with his right hand. His clothes were ragged and flapping and left a trail of powdered brick.

As he flew slowly away, Deeba heard him wail.

She got to her feet.

“Quick,” she said, and staggered. “We should…I should…” She wasn’t sure what to say next.

“Leave it,” said the book. “He saw you with the Smog, at the end. He’s too afraid to do anything but run. We can deal with him later.”

Deeba sank back onto the stool.

“If we even need to deal with him,” she said. She patted the rebrella. “We know how to free his soldiers. Without them, he’s got nothing.

“And not,” she added, looking at the UnGun, “in the good way.”

“Deeba…?” Through the remnants of the door, staring at the wreckage, came Conductor Jones, leaning wearily on makeshift crutches.

Behind him came Bling and Cauldron, holding Hemi’s hands. And behind them, bleeding, holding his wrist gingerly, but wearing a bewildered smile, was Obaday Fing.

Deeba called their names happily. She stumbled over and hugged those who weren’t too bruised to take it.

“What,” said Hemi, looking at the devastation admiringly, “did you do?”

“The utterlings persuaded those words to go exploring,” said Jones. “And we heard all sorts of banging and whatnot. The Hex are all tied up. We shouldn’t have left you alone.” He hobbled slowly forward. “We tried to get up here as quick as we could.”

“Look at the utterlings!” Deeba said. “They’re back.”

Bling and Cauldron weren’t quite fully solid, but they were more substantial than when she had last seen them.

“You were right,” said Jones. “It worked. Took them awhile to work out how to say themselves by signing, but they’re getting it. Bling does it by rubbing his legs together.”

“The smombies all emptied,” said Hemi. “The smoke went up. Zoomed about the sky. But…” He looked about. “You know all about that, don’t you?”

Deeba waved the UnGun vaguely.

“What?” said Jones. “Did you manage to reload?”

“Sort of,” said Deeba. “It’s a prison. It’s full of the Smog.”

They yelled and backed away, then paused as they realized there was no sign of trouble.

“What happened here?” said Jones.

Deeba paused a long time, then laughed.

“I’ll explain,” she said. “But basically…Nothing. Nothing happened.”

The sky was beginning to grow light.

“There’s lots of stuff to do,” Deeba said. “We have to find Brokkenbroll. He got away. And we have to tell everyone in UnLondon what to do with the unbrellas.” She twirled her rebrella, and it did a little midair pirouette of its own.

“There’s all sorts to do. Let’s find the Propheseers. I’ve got an apology to pick up.”

“So we’ve got to get to the Pons, now?” said Jones, trying not to look horrified.

“Don’t worry,” said Deeba. “No more trekking. Give it a minute. The bridge’ll come to us.”

“What about Skool?” said Obaday. “And the binja, and—”

“We’ll make some stops,” said Deeba. “Trust me. Mortar’s going to do exactly what I say.”

She knew it would be awhile, and it was. It took a bit of time, in the confusion at the end of the war, while the Propheseers tried to work out what had happened, and how the abcity had won, and whether they could trust the victory. But after the UnSun had come up and shone gently on UnLondon, the end of the Propheseers’ bridge poked into the ruins of Unstible’s workshop, and Mortar beckoned them all on.