Killing the Machine (Aboard the Great Iron Horse Book 2) Page 2

  “What have we here?” Burk said, leaning forward in his chair. “A little weasel, sent snooping for Socrates?”

  “Not at all,” Micah said, snapping his book shut. “In fact, I was just about to leave.”

  “Good idea,” said Burk. “Why don’t you do that?”

  Micah glanced back and forth between the four men. He noticed Skoch fingering the handle of that long dagger, and one of the others had his hand on the hilt of a scimitar. That was more than enough motivation to get Micah moving. He tucked his book into his satchel, threw it over his shoulder, and tossed a silver coin on the table. He went scurrying out of the inn as fast as he could manage without a complete loss of dignity. The grating sound of their laughter followed him out onto the boardwalk.

  Micah’s first inclination was to run to Socrates and tell him about what he had overheard. Then he thought about it, and realized he hadn’t really heard that much. Burk was up to something, that much was obvious, but what? As far as Micah could tell, it was some sort of business transaction with another village. That didn’t make any sense though, because the train was about to leave. Burk couldn’t possibly be making any business deals for later… unless he was staying behind!

  That thought brought an instant smile to Micah’s face. It was almost too good to believe. Suddenly, Micah didn’t care what Burk’s business plans were, or even if they were illegal (which they almost certainly were, based on what he knew of the man). Unless Micah had it figured wrong, and he was relatively sure he hadn’t, Burk had decided to leave the Iron Horse and pursue other adventures.

  Good riddance! Micah thought, grinning from ear to ear. More’s the pity for these poor people. They can have him.

  Micah’s mood had lifted, and he went whistling down the boardwalk. He paused to appreciate the sunlight glistening on the waves and the sound of water lapping against the hulls of the many fishing boats. The people of Port Haven had very little in the way of technology; no steam engines or electric lanterns, not even much in the way of steel, but they were proud of their boats, and for good reason. The carpenters and shipwrights had spent a thousand years mastering their skills, passing secrets down from one generation to the next, until it seemed that every child in Port Haven was born with the inherent knowledge to craft such remarkably fine vessels. Each was a work of art in its own way, ranging in size from small rowboats that could accommodate two or three passengers up to carrack-style ships crewed by as many as thirty men.

  Most of the vessels were equipped with both oars and sails, the latter of which were made of brightly colored fabrics that the sail makers had adorned with elaborately embroidered images. Even the rowboats were outfitted with at least one small sail bearing the flag of Port Haven, the symbol of a lone dessert juniper silhouetted against an orange sun.

  Micah retrieved his long pipe from his satchel as he settled down on the edge of the pier. He thumbed an appropriate amount of tobacco into the hole and lit it with a long match. He leaned back against the pier-post and turned his face to the sun, feeling the warm light beating down on his skin. It was a pleasant, sunny morning, the likes of which he’d seen precious few since the Iron Horse’s arrival at Port Haven. That was the trouble with towns too close to the sea, he had discovered. All of that water had a cooling effect on the landscape. Almost every night, a cold wind came blowing across the water and a thick fog lay like a death shroud over the land.

  But not this day. This was a good day. Nay, not even that: it was fantastic. The halfling knew the old saying about such things -about the calm before the storm and the giddiness of a fool- but he was in no mood for the dreariness of proverbs. He finished his pipe and left the boardwalk, meandering past the seaside shops and bakeries on his way back to the train.

  The smell of fresh bread was thick in the air and Micah considered stopping at one of the bakeries to buy a supply for the journey ahead, but as the halfling turned the corner alongside the depot, he saw a familiar figure hurrying down the boardwalk, towards the far end of the train. The fair-haired man wore tall black boots, a green leather vest, and a black velvet cloak with a top hat. He was unmistakable.

  “Thane!” Micah called out. “Thane!”

  The tall bard hurried on, oblivious. Micah hurried after him.

  The Iron Horse was more than half a mile long, and by the time Micah had reached the end, he had passed the outskirts of Port Haven and found himself wandering alone among the scrub brush and prairie grass. Thane had disappeared somewhere, and Micah was beginning to think fondly of his bunk in the train, of perhaps reading a few more chapters from his new book while they made their departure.

  “Port Haven,” said a low, whispering voice. “On the coast of the Forgotten Sea. The tracks run right into the water.” Micah froze. He was sure it was Thane. The bard was hiding behind the train.

  Hiding? Micah thought. Surely it was not so. What could Thane possibly have to hide from the rest of the crew?

  “Weapons?” said a static, tinny, almost inaudible voice.

  “Inconsequential,” Thane said. “If it came to war, these people would be utterly defenseless.”

  Who was Thane talking to? The voice sounded so strange, almost mechanical. And why on earth would anyone think of attacking Port Haven? Anyone who’d spent any time at all in the town would know that the people didn’t have any weapons more dangerous than a barbed fishing lance.

  “Your mission status?”

  “Resuming within the hour.”

  “Satisfactory. Contact us in three days.”

  Micah heard a shuffling noise and realized that Thane was headed in his direction. The halfling had no desire to be caught eavesdropping, so he did the only sensible thing he could think of. He dove under the nearest boxcar and very quietly tucked himself into the shadows behind the wheels. This wasn’t difficult, because of his small stature and the Iron Horse’s immense size.

  The Horse was so large that it rode on two sets of rails. Each railcar was the size of a house, and could easily bunk as many as eight men in comfortable private quarters. Micah also had a natural ability to move quickly and stealthily. These skills came from years of practice in the mountainous regions of his childhood, where the skill to evade trolls and other wild creatures was necessary for survival.

  Micah huddled in the darkness, watching as Thane disappeared down the tracks. The man carried some sort of device in his hand, a small box made of wood with copper pipes sticking out of it, and brass gauges on the top. Thane tucked the box into his long coat and then vanished into the crowd that had begun to gather around the depot.

  “I should tell someone,” Micah muttered quietly to himself. But who?

  Socrates, perhaps. The gorilla was the commander of their mission, and if anyone should be told of this possible treachery, it was him. And yet Micah considered Thane a friend. He didn’t want to risk getting the bard into trouble unnecessarily. For all Micah knew, Thane might have a perfectly reasonable excuse for his behavior. After all, there were so many things about humans and mechanical gorillas that Micah didn’t understand. Micah would have hated to be the cause of trouble between the two of them, especially if it led to Thane being kicked off the train.

  He could always tell Kale… then again, the warrior didn’t seem to be terribly clever, and he’d probably just go straight to Socrates anyway. That wasn’t to say that Kale was stupid or foolish, just that he had a tendency to act before thinking, and violence was usually his first reaction rather than his last. Admirable qualities in a warrior perhaps, but not so much in matters of a delicate nature.

  River, Micah decided at last. She would know what Thane’s actions meant. She was the train’s mechanic, and also a very talented engineer, although she claimed not to be. Micah knew this was simple modesty. Unlike Kale, River wasn’t the sort of person to go around bragging and putting on airs. She kept to herself mostly, working on projects in the engineering car, repairing train parts, and sometimes inventing things.

  If there
was any second in command on the train, it was River. Not that she claimed the title, nor would she have accepted it if Socrates made the offer. River wasn’t like that. She didn’t mind barking out orders from time to time when it was necessary to get things done, but River wasn’t in it for glory or power. She was a thinker.

  Having made his decision, Micah crawled out from under the train and began walking back towards town. Just then, the train’s steam whistle gave off a loud blast, and Micah heard Socrates shout in the distance: “Boarding call, departure in ten minutes. All aboard!”

  Micah’s heart leapt out of his chest. He felt a sudden dreadful fear. It had just occurred to him that once the train pulled away, he might never again taste the delicate sweetcakes of the Port Haven bakeries. That would be tragic indeed. All else forgotten, he broke into a run, not for the depot, but for the shops on Market Street.

  The next few minutes were a blur. Micah hurried into a bakery and purchased a dozen pastries. He carefully wrapped them in a cloth and tucked them into his satchel. Then he hurried across the street to the smoke shop and bought a small cedar box full of well-aged, shredded tobacco for his pipe. Micah knew it might be a long time until he came across such sweet, aromatic, well-aged tobacco again.

  By the time the halfling made it back to the train, Socrates was announcing the final boarding call. Micah hurriedly climbed onto the nearest platform, which happened to be the passenger coach behind the tender car. No sooner had he set foot on the train, than it began to pull away from the depot. Micah took a deep, relieved breath and stepped inside.

  Micah hurried down the maze of hallways to the library car, located just beyond the halfway point of the train. By the time he’d arrived, the Iron Horse had picked up speed and Port Haven was passing by in a blur. As the depot flew by outside the windows, Micah heard a shout. He glanced outside to see what the matter was, and caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired warrior emerging from a side street. The handles of a pair of broadswords bounced up and down on his back as Kale broke into a run. The warrior shouted something again, and put on a burst of speed as he went racing at full tilt alongside the train.

  Micah’s eyes widened. He pulled the locks, lowered the window, and stuck his head out.

  “Kale!” Micah shouted. “You missed the train!”

  Kale shot him a dark look, but saved his breath for the sprint. Farther down the line, more heads poked out of the windows. Micah recognized River’s long platinum locks as they appeared a few cars down, and the dark green hair and pointed ears of a Tal’mar warrior. Others appeared, and they all began shouting at once. Some yelled for Kale to jump, or that he should try to grab one of the handrails, but it was painfully obvious that the warrior could in no way match the speed of the train while running on foot. If he attempted to jump on board, Kale would almost certainly be sucked under the wheels.

  At that moment, the train’s whistle sounded and Socrates’ voice came echoing out of the communication pipes that ran along the ceiling:

  “Make ready for submersion,” he ordered. “Pressurization engaged. Submersion in ten… nine… eight…”

  Micah glanced up the rails and grimaced as he saw the train bearing down on the spot where the tracks disappeared into the sea. He glanced back at Kale and saw his friend racing along, kicking up dust and rocks as the train roared by at full speed. The whistle blew again, and Micah heard a splash. He swung his head around to see the locomotive engine plowing into the sea. A great wave spread out in front of the Iron Horse, and a cloud of steam shot up like a fog around the train.

  The entire train shuddered with the impact. The violent hiss of steam and the roaring sound of the waves filled Micah’s ears. He heard a strange creaking sound. For a moment, Micah thought Socrates had made some terrible miscalculation and that the locomotive was about to wreck, or explode. Then, as the engine roared ahead, one by one, the cars vanished beneath the waves. Micah realized that the sound he’d heard was that of the train’s chassis adjusting to the submersion. Everything was going to be okay.

  No, not everything, he thought. Micah took one last glance at his friend running alongside the train, now forty cars back. Micah wanted to encourage Kale, but could no longer do so in good conscience. If the warrior tried to leap onto the train now, he would certainly be killed. As it was, it appeared that Kale was about to get a dunking in the water because he didn’t even seem to realize how close it was.

  Micah drew his head back inside the coach and slammed the window shut. Seconds later, the car splashed into the sea. The steel walls around him made a groaning sound, and the roar of waves became so loud that Micah covered his ears. The reverberations and the crashing sound of twisting metal faded into the distance. The cars farther down the line plunged in after him.

  Finally, everything went silent. Micah could barely hear the chug-chug of the train’s engine working up ahead. The sound of cars entering the water behind him was like the muffled sound of breaking glass in a distant room. Outside the window, the mass of bubbles slowly gave way to darkness. Narrow beams of light cut through the murky water in scattered rays, and the sun was little more than a hazy bright spot up above.

  “My pencils!” Micah cried suddenly.

  The halfling scurried up the ladder at the end of the railcar and crawled into the attic over the library. This narrow space was too short for any human, but it was the perfect home for Micah. He had a small bed in the corner, and a desk sitting near the windows, where he could work on his drawings.

  Micah leapt to the desk and frantically pulled out a handful of pencils. He glanced out the window, at the diffuse rays of sunlight shining down from above, and began to draw. For the moment, all else was forgotten: Kale, Thane and his strange device, even Burk’s bizarre conversation that Micah had overheard in the inn. For the moment, the only thing that existed was the image Micah needed to capture.

  Thirty seconds into his drawing, Micah heard a resounding crash somewhere up ahead. It sounded like crunching, twisting metal, and the sound reverberated back and forth down the line. A concussive shock quickly followed, shaking the railcar so hard that Micah fell out of his chair. He lay there for a moment with his heart pounding in his chest, his eyes closed, horrifying images flashing through his mind: pictures of dark, icy water crashing in upon him, crushing him, forcing its way into his lungs. He saw the bodies of his companions, trapped like prisoners inside the railcars, clawing maniacally at the locked doors and windows as they plunged to their icy graves.

  Just water, Micah told himself. It’s just water. He tried to force himself to breathe. He became conscious of the smell of ancient grease, the feel of the cool metal floor against his body.

  Micah’s terror was real. The halfling couldn’t swim, and the last time he’d fallen into deep water, one of the undead Ancients outside Blackstone Castle had tried to eat him. Both of these facts had contributed to Micah’s somewhat irrational fear, but until now, he’d managed to keep it in check. The truth was that Micah had never trusted water. It could be swift, deceptive; dangerous. One could never tell just how deep it was, or what manner of creatures might be lurking in the shadowy depths…

  Micah moaned as he felt himself losing control. The images spun through his head, each more terrifying and gruesome than the last. His chest rose and fell in quick breaths, and a cold, tingling sensation began to work its way up his arms. Overcome with panic, Micah opened his eyes and blinked. The railcar was dark. He saw a thin beam of light outside the window and bent closer, reaching for it. Then he saw the box.

  What in the world? he thought. Micah crawled over to the window, pressing his forehead up against the cold glass. Up ahead, a rectangular shape drifted through the rays of light.

  Micah blinked. As his eyes began to adjust to the darkness, he realized that what he saw was a boxcar, minus the wheels. It was in fact the tender car, the railcar where all of the Horse’s fuel was stored. It was drifting up through the water, away from the train. As Micah stared, he reali
zed that it appeared to be suspended by long cables that reached up towards the surface.

  Micah craned his head in that direction and saw the unmistakable oval shape of a ship gliding across the waves. He frowned, trying to make sense of the scene. Somehow, a ship had caught one of the tender cars in its fishing lines.

  No, that wasn’t correct. It couldn’t be. No fishing lines could lift a tender car. Those lines were steel cables, and there was only one way they could have managed to catch the railcar.

  “Sabotage,” he whispered into the darkness. “The train has been sabotaged.”

  It was only then, as Micah heard his own voice echoing quietly through the room, that he noticed everything had gone silent. The train was still moving, rolling silently down into the dark abyss of the sea, but the sound of the engine was gone. He could only hear the low rush of water around the cars.

  Micah realized at this point that something had gone catastrophically wrong. Something so terrible and inexplicable that he couldn’t even wrap his mind around all that had happened. The more he thought about it, the louder his heartbeat became, and the more rapid his breathing, until at last Micah collapsed onto the floor and lost consciousness.

  Chapter 4

  “Kale, you imbecile!” River shouted as she tore through the hallways, making her way to the back of the train.

  The other passengers made way for her as the young mechanic flew from one car to the next, her pet raccoon a furry blast at her heels. River paused long enough to open the doors and slip through the collapsible airtight compartments between cars, and soon came to her bunkhouse. She shoved the door open, gathered up an old whip she’d left hanging on the wall, and in a flash, was gone.

  River managed to reach the end of the train before it had passed Kale by. She stepped onto the platform, leaned over the rail, and glimpsed the tall, muscular warrior twenty yards ahead, closing fast. River uncoiled the whip. She dangled the sinewy leather weapon out behind the train. As Kale drew closer, she called out to him.