CHAPTER EIGHT
THE harbour was ugly. But deliberately so, Jack thought. There would never be a problem with sailors staying longer than needed on land.
Even in the early morning, floats and heavy work horses dragged cargo over the grey concourse. Overhead an elaborate web of ropes and pulleys shuffled weighty wooden crates from shore to ship. Towering cranes rusted silently above the dock, like giant fossilised trees from a forgotten era. When the power had stopped, sailors had resorted to old fashioned methods and had decided to keep their pulleys even after electricity was restored. A single mare could carry a ten tonne container onto a vessel as though carrying a child on its back. A complex array of mechanical switching gears, allowed an operator to change the direction of the cargo, allowing two or three crew members to make the fine adjustments needed to fix the cargo in its exact spot in the hold. Rope, steel and muscle would not run dry, like the machines had, the sailors reasoned.
Jack wandered through the unwoken streets drinking in the fragrance of industry; the charged ozone discharge of water-cell engines and the sewage leaking from the container ships as they refuelled.
Zarius, the fake policeman. He was somewhere in the heart of these docks trying to find a ship that would take them on board. But Jack had his own inquiries to take care of. Even in this forsaken outpost, Nectar should not be too difficult to find.
A harbour steward had directed him to a street where most of the sailors drank. Closing time was an unknown concept. Although ferrous trawlers clung to the edge of the busy seaport like a drunken relative, barely acknowledged, hydro power was bringing new life back to Rostock.
The bulky water cell generators that were now installed on all boats over a certain size were bringing goods back from across the world. There was no reason for a landlord to close his doors. Beer flowed, money was spent, sometimes there was violence – but generally everyone was happy.
The saline-sewage smell was stronger as Jack approached the nearest doorway, where an inebriated sailor was emptying his stomach.
“You! Lost are you, my lad?”
The man looked up from the floor, speaking in halting German and staring woozily into the boy’s face.
“Where can you get Nectar tablets?” There was no point in hiding his intentions, certainly with this peasant.
The sailor pressed his cracked teeth together into a smile. His unsteady finger pointed to a doorway further down the street, where the din of voices could be heard. Although it was early in the morning, a small but dedicated band of porters, dockmen, and crew were intent on drinking their fill. Jack followed the sound, finding the indistinct conversation was only overshadowed by bellowing laughter or a loud curse.
A matronly woman stood behind the bar. Her shapeless face with sagging features contrasted with powerful, muscled arms. The few drinks on offer were selected for their potency. Jack caught sight of himself in a cracked mirror as he waited to place his order. His grey eyes stared out of a handsome face topped with thick black hair. He was surprising broad-chested for someone who did little exercise.
When it was his turn, he began to speak but remembered the bare, pale patch of skin on his wrist where his bracelet had once been. The painful pinch of fear rose in his stomach, as he began to collect unfriendly glances from the men standing around. But what did he have to fear from these dirty, uneducated sailors. Even without money, he was their superior.
Thinking back to the airport, he remembered the laughing traveller with the hunter’s hat who swapped jackets with minimum argument. Surely something like that could work again. Searching his pockets, Jack made a quick list of what could be traded: shade glasses worth thousands of credits; the antique timepiece which his mother had given, even the oversized jacket on his shoulders was worth considerably more than a tablet of Nectar.
Casually as he could, Jack moved to the nearest table and enquired where such things could be found. The response was a shrug of the shoulders but the second man pointed towards a table in the far corner of the room.
He could feel eyes burning his back as he approached the knot of drinkers as they read out a chess game being relayed over a Wep printer. Moscow versus Turin: Nabokov, the fiery Russian, was demolishing the pensive American Dewey recently signed to the Italian city. It was the early stages of the match and Dewey was playing the Caro-Kann defence.
The men were in an advanced state of inebriation – empty bottles of liquor stood vacant on the table but showed no hint of slowing. Two women, dressed inappropriately for that time of the morning, were tired and smiled only distantly at the rowdy banter.
Jack walked towards the nearest man, giving a quick and hasty bow. A red birthmark shaded the left side of his face. Despite the angry stain, he appeared mellowed by drink.
But before Jack could even finish his question, he was thrown to the floor. Fists and legs stomped and flailed, raining upon Jack arms and his chest as he lay curled on the floor. Voices were raised. But he dared not look up. Chairs scraped. There was the sound of glass breaking and voices loudly raised.
In the ringing silence of that moment he felt deliciously detached. He left the violence and the dockside; back in the police carriage, reliving the conversation of just a few hours ago.
The state of Media.
Distant and remote. Only just within the range of the biggest airships and hydro vessels. The man who now claimed to be his cousin – said they had to seek out a man indebted to the man he loathed: James Strang.
“I don’t see why we had to bother,” Jack had argued. “I don’t owe that old goat anything. He was always telling me what to do.”
“The man we seek. Is the only one capable of solving the fight between your father and his friend.”
“What makes you think I don’t want my father to kill the old man? Whatever he did, he probably deserves whatever’s coming to him.”
But he felt the words stick in his mouth, realising he didn’t actually like his father that much or even know him. Rarely did the two meet face-to-face – what significance was Jack to the world’s energy problems. He had to endure a weekly phone call.
Neither had any news to convey to each other, although the older man made weak attempts at conversation.
If anything it was the flatulent Strang who took a much more active interest in his colleague’s only son. He questioned Jack in detail about his school work, admonishing him for his lack of effort, exhorting him to think about the role he could play in the UisgeCorp hierarchy if only he studied.
Was he really concerned about the old man’s disappearance? No. Did he want to rescue him? Of course, not.
But Zarius who consulting a black leather notebook wasn’t listening – or at least seemed distracted by the contents of his black notebook.
“We will need to go through past Alexandria, through the Red Sea… Ah, yes I remember now. It’s all coming back.”
“There’s absolutely no way I’m leaving the country! And certainly not with you.”
“Well you can’t stay hidden forever, dear boy. If you really want to stay out of school for a while, you’ll need a new bracelet, won’t you?”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
It was impossible to copy a bracelet. They were issued at childhood. You would need to work for a government office before you could even get hold of a blank, unlicensed one, never mind the equipment to encode one.
“Oh well, we’ll get one in Media,” his companions said blithely, “Don’t you worry about that. Unfortunately our more pressing problem is getting their. Airships are out, without identification. But they aren’t as picky at the ports…”
His body still floating, but Jack could now hear distant voices. The ceiling above was covered in mould. Suddenly there were hands around his collar.
One of the men – a rough but with an honest face – grabbed him from the floor. Jack could see his attacker being pushed into a st
ool by two companions. The other man hauled Jack’s numb body towards the doorway.
“Out!” He yelled in German, “Quickly before he comes back for you!”
There was a cold wetness in his hair. He could taste the trickling blood on his cheek. He could walk only slowly, but there was no pain. That would come later. It wasn’t the first time he had been beaten. It was the ritual of his many previous schools – a cruel initiation visited on new pupils by older boys, tolerated and quietly encouraged by teachers.
He was now in the heart of the docklands. Stacked rows of containers and pallets created alleys and avenues – a maritime city populated with dockmen and sailors of all colours and nationalities – dark African sailors, Bengalis, Poles, Frenchmen, and Chinese. Some wore smart dark blue overalls and clipped hair, others were in torn T-shirts, vests, and shorts smeared with food, grease and oil. All of them bore a hardened gleam in their eyes, hinting at a readiness for action.
But the dockmen ignored the boy with the puffed left eye, walking around him with their crates and their tools as if he wasn’t there.
Suddenly Zarius was in front of him, his buxom features beaming in contentment. Gone was his policeman’s galoshes and instead he wore dark flannel trousers with a long knee-length quarter adorned with brass buttons and gold-flecked epaulettes. He held one arm stiffly by his side; his other hand was planted firmly inside his jacket. With the police helmet removed, a gleaming hairless head was revealed. But on it he now wore a triangular, black serge hat.
It was a dreadful parody of an ancient armada captain.
“Greetings, dear cousin!” His head almost brushed the floor as he gave the lowest of bows, normally only reserved for the most important Electors or corporation chairmen. “You’ll be pleased to hear matters have been resolved to everyone’s satisfaction. The captain is an incredibly accommodating chap. Once I’d explained our situation he was all to willing to take us on board. The quarters we have are serviceable –it won’t be the luxury you are used to unfortunately. I’m afraid we’ll be sharing a cabin. We should make Alexandria in only three weeks. From there we can get another vessel to Media.”
Jack was only half-listening. He barely had the strength to remain on his feet. Finally noticing the youth’s defeated countenance, Zarius seemed only mildly concerned.
“Been making friends cousin? How lovely! But you look so tired. You shouldn’t be exerting yourself so soon before the journey. At least not before we acquire the supplies we need before we embark. Come on!”
Jack wanted nothing better than to collapse. Somehow he found strength to follow the rotund figure through the maze of stacked crates. They emerged at the edge of the water near a tired looking pier.
A large, fortified wall from another era protected the harbour from long-dead foes. Built into the turrets of broken stone was a ramshackle building, with a sign outside. Jack squinted with his unbruised eye.
ROSTOCK NAVAL MUSEUM.
Inside was a lifeless collection of outdated machinery, useless in a world without the old fuel. Brass implements, faded newspaper clippings, indecipherable certificates, and yellowing shipping charts cluttered the walls. Light oozed into the room through a dozen sunken windows, catching the dust particles which hung in the air.
Zarius seemed unnaturally gleeful. His right hand still firmly wedged in his inner breast pocket; he held his diary in his other arm, examining its pages as he marched from display to display.
After a few minutes he let out a squeal of delight as he spotted a large iron sphere on a low platform – more than a metre in diameter and covered with blunt metal studs. To Jack, it looked like a hugely oversized iron chestnut, still sheaved in his spiky covering.
“What on earth is it?”
“An artefact,” Zarius rubbed his hands, “It will be exceptionally useful to our task. Under normal circumstances, I’d ask the curator if we could kindly borrow it. He would say ‘yes’ and everyone would be happy. However, I don’t believe we’ll actually be in a position to return it.”
Pointing a chubby finger to the sleepy, grey figure at the information desk, he continued: “Jack, my dear boy. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to remove this item while I ask these gentlemen some detailed questions about the history of this charming town? Just a few minutes, you understand.”
“Why don’t you take it?”
“Oh, I can’t steal things. Not allowed to you see. But you dear boy, for you it should be no problem.”
Too lost for debate, the teenager did as was requested.
The fact that Zarius was unable to take the item was not that surprising. Most people were unable to break the groupthink when it came to any sort of crime. The desire to stick to the rules was too strong.
But Jack knew he had fewer qualms than most of his peers when it came to breaking the rules.
The elderly attendant was unaccustomed to visitors and welcomed the chance to practise his English on the eccentrically-dressed Zarius. Some minutes later, Jack had staggered out of the shop and was rejoined by his companion. With some difficulty, they manoeuvred the object to where The Peregrine was docked. The crew on the shore greeted them courteously and helped them load their captured cargo into the hold. Jack wondered how Zarius had achieved the feat of getting the captain to take them to the Suez, seemingly free of charge.
But injuries, hunger and lack of sleep had finally caught up with him. Compliantly he boarded the vessel. As he was shown the way to his cabin, the steward politely but firmly reminded him he was onboard a working ship. He would stay out of the crew’s way and restrict himself to his quarters during bad weather. Meals would be taken with the crew. There would be no special treatment for passengers.
Barrels and boxes of fresh food were being brought onto the store, containers were being secured to their moorings, port officials and men with checkboards prowled the decks inspecting gauges and ticking off pieces of cargo. This place was to be their home for several weeks if not months. Jack knew there was little he could do but sleep.