Raging Star (14 page)

Mid-mornin. The northeasternmost corner of Sector Five. Sweat wet from a sudden heavy heat, we pick our way along a forest alley. Its single track winds through the grown-over ruins of a settlement. Here, the shape of man-worked stone. There, a peek of iron. The earth creeps an seeps. A slowtime tide of moss an bushes an trees. Sunbeams straggle through branches. Like I figgered we’d be, we’re ahead of Slim. The alley’s rutted deep with long use, but nuthin’s passed along it today. It narrows as it heads fer a wall that towers high. The last gasp of some big Wrecker buildin, slowly bein swallowed by the great bloated bleb of crawlin forest.

Emmi’s walkin jest behind me, with Tracker. I glance back. She’s stood stock still, with the strangest look on her face.

What is it? I says.

She don’t answer. Tracker whimpers an sniffs all around her. She’s stopped next to a great stone, shafted through its heart by a determined hazel tree. She turns her head sharply. Stares at the stone hard.

Don’t lallygag, Em, we must nearly be there. Emmi. C’mon. Quit dreamin.

The track ends at the high wooded wall. There ain’t no sign of no junkyard.

Did we follow Slim’s directions? says Creed.

Yeah, I says. But he did rabbit on. I might of missed somethin.

Mercy says, Did I not hear him say the sign might be overgrown? She nods at the wall, smothered by rambunctious snakecreeper.

Lugh an Creed scramble up, usin roots fer hand an footholds. They start tearin at the creeper. There’s a sudden green flurry as we all join in, haulin an pullin. Then we stand there pickin off bits of creeper as we look at what we’ve uncleared.

A great, rusted fancywork archway. Over twenny foot high, it wracks an twists, saved from collapse by girders an logs. We stare at the sign that hangs from the middle. Hard to say what it’s made from. Nuthin that ever grew in the ground, that’s fer sure. It was brightly coloured once, but long since faded. What looks to be a comet with a tail of stars smashes into bottles an sends ’em flyin. There’s a bunch of letters that could be words.

Star … light … Lanes, says Tommo. This is it.

We stare at him in wonder. He reds-up furiously, shrinks from our close regard.

You can read, I says.

So? he says.

You never said, says Lugh.

You never asked, says Tommo. I got numbers, too. He
reads the sign, slow an careful. Ten pin, he says. Twenny lanes. Great for a date. Come in and score. He struggles over the next bit, frownin with the effort. S, e, n, i, o, r, s. Seneyeors? Seneyeors spec-ee-al rates Mon and Thur.

We wait.

That’s all, he says.

What the holy hell does that mean? says Ash.

Who knows? It’s Wrecker speak, I says. But this is the place. Starlight Lanes.

You read good, Tommo, says Lugh. Who learned you? Ike?

He shrugs. Tommo’s life is split in two. Before Ike an after Ike. Life-after-Ike he’ll talk about. Life-before-Ike he won’t, not a word. When he learned to read must come from life-before.

Let’s find Peg the Flight. Innerduce ourselfs, I says.

I lead us through the gates. We’re quite the gaggle. Eight of us, sundry horses, a stolen pony, Bean the mule, a wolfdog an a nervous crow perched on my shoulder. Nero’s stuck to me the whole way here. Hostile to anybody else that comes near him, quick to beak whatever bit of ’em happens to be closest.

Oh my! says Emmi.

The junkyard rises high in front of us. I ain’t never seen its like. Countless piles an hills of scrap metal, some small, some large, with cranky paths that wind between ’em. There’s a scatter of rackety low sheds an lean-tos. A flat-topped grassy
hill rises behind the yard. In front of it stands the biggest junkpile of all.

A shack grows from it, clings to it. Made of flotsam an crazyjunk, thisses an thats of all sizes an shapes an descriptions. At a quick glance, I see car doors, goodyears, metal sheets, barrels, boards an logs. All put together any old way. It’s a puzzle how it holds together. I never seen such a wackadoo place. Dozens of ladders an walkways sprawl out like a spider’s web from it—down to the ground, up the junkhill, sidewise an every which way. There’s ropes an chains an pulleys with buckets. Slides an chutes. Tracks an swings. Barrels an nets an wheels an flags. There’s a raggedy wash hung on a line. An there’s live birds in cages. Hunnerds of birds. Everywhere, birds. The air trembles with their trills an chatter. Nero caws to his cousins in their prison cells.

Molly shakes her head in amazement. An I thought the Lost Cause was a dump, she says.

So, where’s this Peg the Flight? says Ash. An what kinda name is that anyways?

A camel mooches into view from a nearby scrapmetal hill. He’s a fleabit shambles. His hump slumps in defeat.

Look who it is, says Em.

Oh no, says Lugh. I fergot he was here.

It’s Moses. He loathed us from the start. Five-time winner of the Pillawalla Camel Race, fer years he hauled the Cosmic fer Slim. When we had to take to country too tricky
fer a camel, Peg the Flight took Moses on to haul his junktub. After the handover, Slim mourned through one endless, noisy night. With a keg of seed rye an long, confused songs about camels an brotherhood. We pretended sorrow, fer Slim’s sake, but secretly we celebrated. You can only take so much camel spit.

He’s seen us. He glares with unbrotherly malice.

He don’t look too happy, says Creed. You don’t suppose he blames us?

Don’t be stupid, I says. Hey, Moses.

He bellows with rage. He charges.

He blames us, all right! shrieks Emmi.

We scatter fer safety, boy, girl an beast. Jest as we do, a giant bird comes barrellin straight at us from the sky. No, no bird, a flyin machine. But not a Wrecker flyer. A junkflyer. A revamp two-wheeler with metal wings an two windcranks. One on top, one behind. A skinny old fossil in goggles an a helmet wrestles with the stick controls.

Look out! I yell.

Moses turns on a dime an scrambles. I dive fer cover. We’re all jest in time. The flyer smashes at speed at the scrapmetal hill. It explodes in every direction. The racket’s so fearsome, you could hear it on the moon. As it starts to settle, we git to our feet an brush ourselfs down. Bean’s honkin his head off in raucous alarm. Moses hollers back from wherever he’s hid. Nero shrieks an swoops.

Welcome to Starlight Lanes, says Creed.

Everybody okay? I says. There’s nods all around.

The pilot don’t appear rattled in the least. Still wearin his goggles, his helmet cock-eyed, he chunters to hisself as he clambers around, checkin the damage to his flyer. There ain’t nuthin but damage. It’s completely wrecked. An now I notice that this particular scraphill’s main scrap seems to be crashed junkflyer—bits of wing, wheels an so on. Sudden nosedives must be a regular event around here.

Ah … Peg the Flight, says Ash. Now I git it.

I call over. Hey there, sir? Hello? Are you okay? We’re friends of Slim’s.

He tucks the smaller windcrank unner one arm, slithers down the heap an hurries towards the junkhill shack, still talkin to hisself. Maybe he didn’t hear me, what with the crash an the helmet an bein old an all. I chase after him, swervin an leapin through the scattered junk. Tracker an Emmi an Nero come too. We catch up an trot alongside.

I says, Excuse me? Sir? Peg the Flight? I’m—

Slim’s girl, Angel of Death, yes yes, shut up, I heerd you, she says.

She. Peg the Flight ain’t no sir, she’s a ma’am. A scrawny old damsel, stringy as rawhide. Her tan skin droops in leathery folds. Her vulture neck pokes from high, narrow shoulders. Tattered britches flutter like feathers.

Sorry, I says. Sorry about the sir, ma’am, I mean, uh—Slim
should be here any time. He ain’t far behind us. He said he thought it ’ud be okay with you if we was to—

But she’s gone. Nimblin one-handed up a rackly ladder, speedy as a spider. Still gabblin to herself nineteen to the dozen. Step by step, back to the start, basics, you goose, you fathead, she says.

Me an Em scramble up the ladder in her wake. Tracker’s left below, whinin an barkin.

We follow as she scampers along a rope an slat walkway towards her shack. Easier said than done. It’s a peril, with missin slats an patched in bits of frayed rope.

Beggin yer pardon, Miz Peg, but we’d like to stay here a bit, if that’s okay, I says. If it don’t cause you no trouble, that is.

Beggin my pardon blah blah blah! Peg swats her free hand about her head. As she rushes past the caged birds, there’s a great hullabaloo of flappin an screechin. Yes yes, my dearies, I know, I know! Not long now to wait, my hearts! she cries.

She dives through the open door of the shack. She dumps the windcrank on a bench with some other rammel, barks, Quiet! at us an starts to scribble on the wall with a piece of chalk. Airflow, she mutters, turnage, lift, thrust. Step by step, back to the start. Basics, you goose, you fathead.

Ma’am? I says. I’d be grateful if, uh … well, would you look at that. I watch, spellbound, as a picture of a windcrank
starts to emerge. Every last detail clear an sharp. Who’d think it of such a rattlepate old nonny? How far you flown in these things? I says.

She makes no reply, heedless to all but her task. Nero’s followed us inside. Still more cautious than he would be usually, but he’s far too nosy to resist at least a peek. Like the yard outside, the shack’s a junkheap. But a indoor one. An a shipshape one. An it’s all about flyers. There’s spare parts in buckets an crates. Endless drawins an plans scrawled on the walls. This room seems to be the heart of the sprawl of buildins over the junkhill. I crane my neck to see the clutter of corridors, cranky stairways an other rooms that spider off from here. Through dozens of windows, big an small, sunbeams warm the dust of a thousand days gone. Peg’s only comferts seem to be a rocker chair an a rusty stove swagged with webs.

A heap of fightin kit on a bench catches my eye. I pick out a couple of armbands an a jerkin an dust ’em off. They’re Wrecker old, smooth an supple with age, but not bad fer all that. Good sturdy dark-brown leather with rusty metal plates. Well padded. Brass buckled. The jerkin looks to of stopped a few arrows in its time. It’s got the wounds to show fer it. The armbands cover me, wrist to elbow. A good thing to have. Whaddya want fer these bits of armour? I ask Peg.

Them ain’t fer tradin, she says. She don’t even bother to look, she jest keeps on scribblin.

As I go to drop ’em back, she says, They’re yers, meant fer you, kept fer you, put ’em on.

I pause. Cast a frown at her back. Crazy old coot. Then, Thanks, I says. I slip the jerkin over my head, slide on the armbands an do up the buckles. A perfect fit. All of it.

Emmi’s bin silent this whole time. She’s knelt by a table, starin in wonderment at a birdcage that sits on top. It’s tiny. The size of my two fists together. Such dainty metalwork you wouldn’t think possible. Vines twine the bars, burstin with leaf an fruit an flower. Inside, there’s a metal finch perched on a swing. Scabs of colour tell of its painted beauty, once upon a long ago. What kinda person in what kinda world had time or cause to make somethin like this?

Nero flaps onto the table. He peers at the bird, his head tipped this way, that way. He croaks. Taps the bars gently with his beak.

Nero, don’t, says Em. It’s sleepin.

Wake it up, says Peg. The key, the key is the key to a song. She throws down the chalk an comes over, swipin her hands on her britches. Her crabby old fingers wind a key hid low on one side. There’s a whisper of a clank. Then the tinkle of ancient spiderweb music. The finch’s beak opens an shuts. It tips forwards an backwards, flickin its tail. As the song ends, it sits back on the perch. Its beak slowly closes. Frozen till the next turn of the key.

Oh, breathes Emmi. Make it sing agin!

Please, I says.

Sorry … please, she says.

Peg waves consent. Em winds the key an the song tiptoes through the dustbeams once more.

Them birds out there in the cages, I says. You should let ’em go. Birds need to fly.

Soon, girlie, soon. Me an them, says Peg.

A shadow falls over us. Tommo stands in the doorway. Slim’s jest pullin in, he says.

Slim gives me a morsel of news on the quiet. He made three stops on his way here. One to pull the tooth at Willowbrook, one to lance a neck boil an one to treat a private complaint so gruesome his toes curl at the thought. He starts to regale me, but I hold him in check an the gist of it is this.

At each place he stopped, they told him the same. They heard from their neighbour who heard from his that the Angel of Death haunts New Eden. That her ghost comes each night with the starfall. She was seen last night. An the night before that. She’s ridin the roads with her wolfdog an crow, seekin vengeance fer her death from any who cross her path. They’re all unsettled. Worried what it means.
Fearin it portends trouble soon to come.

I don’t ever ride the roads. Nobody’s seen me. In starfall season folks see haunts where there ain’t none. I’ll tell Jack about this when I see him tonight.