Another post? So soon? Writing is going well, aided by Milo and Earl Grey tea every night. If I keep up this rate, I should be done with the chapter within a month, which is scarysoon for my usual speed.
Just hoping to get some feedback on my dialogue. First draft dialogue always sound incredibly hammy and forced, so if anyone reads this, help me tidy it up, huh?
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Aus jumped up onto the rock. “Mind if I steal your place for a while?”
“No.” Pal looked over to where the girls were resting on the far side of the lake. It would be nice to talk to Rei, he thought, but pushing himself into the middle of their girl talk would be awkward. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Aus smiled. “Good. I want to talk to you about something.”
“Something?”
“Nothing bad. Just ideas.”
Pal sat with his back against the stone, Aus hanging overhead. “We… um… don’t talk much.”
“I know. And it’s my fault. Are any of those peaches still alright?” He took the tin from Pal and inspected it. “Still good. It’s only grass.”
“You had ideas?”
Aus squeezed a piece of peach between his front teeth, and juice ran down his chin in a sticky river. He licked around his lips, thinking. “Yeah. Pal… lying is wrong, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“But you’ve lied, yeah?”
He shrugged. “I guess. Everyone has. Why?”
“Just thinking. Sometimes, you have to lie, even though it’s wrong. It’s better for everyone if you don’t tell the truth. So is it really wrong?”
“It depends, doesn’t it?”
“It does. But sometimes, it would hurt someone more to tell them the truth than to lie and let them find out the truth later. For a while, you need to hide things. And then later, you can make up for what you did wrong, and it’s all okay, yeah?”
Pal felt hairs on his neck beginning to stand. “Like you said, sometimes. What’s this about?”
“Nothing important.” Aus coughed. “Just trying to get things straight in my head, I guess. Sometimes you need to bounce ideas off someone else to make them work. So, is it sometimes okay to do wrong things if you know that they’ll help people in the end, if you absolutely know it? I think it is. What do you think?”
Pal stood, suddenly feeling stiff and uncomfortable. “I guess. But there are some things that are too wrong. You can’t… have an excuse for everything.”
“What if you need to do it to survive? What would you do if you needed to?”
He knew now what Aus was talking about. The memory of his dream crashed back, fingernails like claws tearing through his flesh. “I think…” He stopped and turned his face to the ground. “I think you could have pulled him up.”
“No,” said Aus, and his voice was unusually calm. “I don’t want to die. I can’t die. And you wouldn’t have held him for a second. You would have just dropped him and watched him sink, but I held on until I couldn’t anymore. So you understand now?”
Pal baulked, expecting the swing of a fist at any moment. “I don’t.”
“We need to survive, “ Aus said, “and sometimes, to do that, you need to do wrong things, or let wrong things happen. Because if we don’t, you’ll die. We’ll all die. Do you understand now?”
“I do,” said Pal, his mouth dry. “Can I go?”
Aus nodded and patted him on the head. “You can. Good kid. You’re a good kid.”
Pal shook to his core and ran.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Writing more than I expected
Doubled my word count for this week. I've discovered that my muse comes much more easily with pen and paper.
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There had been something wrong with the horizon since the night before. It had been too dark to make out, but there was something curious about the night sky, as if there was more of it than usual. Rei commented on it, “There are more stars than yesterday!” but Marissa laughed at her curiosity and that was the last they spoke of it that night, although she dwelled on it more than she let the others know.
By morning the sun was rising fast through a cloudless sky, and Marissa conceded that Rei had been right, in a sense; in the distance was a huge lake, mirroring the blue above. It stretched so far that the land beyond was invisible, lost behind the glare of sun on water. The wind blew Pal’s empty plastic bags out behind him like streamers, flapping about his head no matter how he tied them to his bundle. He batted them away and licked his lips, dry and chapped against his tongue.
Finally, he thought, a clean drink. Beside him Alix smiled. “Finally, a good bath.”
After an hours march, the lake had grown again. They could see now that it extended far off to the east, and almost certainly wound off to the west as well. “Maybe it’s a river?” Rei suggested.
Marissa shook her head. “I don’t remember any river this big,” she said. “Then again, I don’t really know this land at all.”
“Is it in our way?”
“There’s always something in our way.”
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There had been something wrong with the horizon since the night before. It had been too dark to make out, but there was something curious about the night sky, as if there was more of it than usual. Rei commented on it, “There are more stars than yesterday!” but Marissa laughed at her curiosity and that was the last they spoke of it that night, although she dwelled on it more than she let the others know.
By morning the sun was rising fast through a cloudless sky, and Marissa conceded that Rei had been right, in a sense; in the distance was a huge lake, mirroring the blue above. It stretched so far that the land beyond was invisible, lost behind the glare of sun on water. The wind blew Pal’s empty plastic bags out behind him like streamers, flapping about his head no matter how he tied them to his bundle. He batted them away and licked his lips, dry and chapped against his tongue.
Finally, he thought, a clean drink. Beside him Alix smiled. “Finally, a good bath.”
After an hours march, the lake had grown again. They could see now that it extended far off to the east, and almost certainly wound off to the west as well. “Maybe it’s a river?” Rei suggested.
Marissa shook her head. “I don’t remember any river this big,” she said. “Then again, I don’t really know this land at all.”
“Is it in our way?”
“There’s always something in our way.”
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Run Down & Onwards Chapter Six!
Finally got off my arse and REALLY started work on chapter 6 of Weathermen today. I find I get so much more done writing by hand in my little notebook and typing it up later; all my best dialogue is written down in there. The most powerful moments seem to come to me on the tram.
For extra viewing pleasure, here is the short film I did for my Media and Meaning class, in Industrial Design. Tis an experiment in product placement with parkour thrown in for giggles. Enjoy!
For extra viewing pleasure, here is the short film I did for my Media and Meaning class, in Industrial Design. Tis an experiment in product placement with parkour thrown in for giggles. Enjoy!
Monday, June 11, 2007
Boilerboy - first draft
To take a break from Weathermen, I've been working on a short story in the Steampunk vein for an indie zine. It's called Boilerboy, just over 4000 words. Any ideas, feedback, shenanigans? This is just a first draft, hoping to polish it up over a few weeks.
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The taskmaster slapped at them with the end of his cane, shunting them into groups. “All you, ginger boys. Your name is now Jack. You, darkies. You’re all Jimmy. You three, blondies. Your name is Billy.”
The smallest of the three held his chin proud and defiant. “M’ names not Billy,” he said, and suddenly the cane cracked against his head, the world pinwheeling. He dropped to his knees and tried to hold his skull together. He screamed, and then the cane came down again against his neck and he couldn’t scream any more.
“Your name is Billy,” the taskmaster said again. His cane vanished inside his cloak, he screwed down his topper and turned away. “Set them to the bellows.”
The boy dryretched, yanked to his feet before his vision could clear. “Keep up, Billy,” said the boilerman, his overalls soot-stained to match his skin. His remaining teeth shone behind dark lips. “You gunna grab a shovel, get you some muscles on you!”
“Yessir,” he said, keeping his head down. There was a lump rising above his ear that gave wetly when he pressed on it. “I’m never had a shovel ‘fore, sir.”
“You dunna be calling me sir,” the man said. “I’m just Jimmy.”
The first trade was the hardest.
There were friends he had made at the glassblowers, boys he had worked alongside for almost a year. But their faces were always changing, new boys arriving while others were carted away. The furnaces had a habit of backdrafting, and if you weren’t quick on your toes you were liable to get caught in the face. But he had always been nimble and alert. He had seen many friends come and go, and he would miss them all.
The taskmaster bartered him for two spinning girls and a cart of coal. They checked his arms and his eyes, and the man buying him clucked appreciatively when he counted the boys fingers and arrived at ten. His new master was dressed in bright yellow velvet, and when it brushed against his skin the boy shivered. He had never felt anything so smooth.
The master mumbled to himself in foreign tongue, and then turned to the boy. “Name?”
“Billy,” the boy replied.
He was twelve now, which was two hands and three. His left ring finger had been spat out the back end of a turbine a year earlier, torn off when a gear had jumped. He had taken the bandages off early and showed the stump to the other boys in his dorm, and they had all touched it for luck. They had called him Tough-Boy Billy for a while, and then Billy Lucky, and finally just Lucky; a ginger haired child they called Smoke had lost his whole arm to the same machine only two days before. He had shrieked for a while, as the new ones sometimes did, and then he had gone very quiet, and died before they were able to drag him off the factory floor. So Billy had earned his nickname, and he wore it with pride, until he had been traded again to a fat gentleman who did not speak, only motioned and spat.
The fat mans factory had made dirigibles to ferry the aristocracy between counties. Billy had learned this from one of the older girls who threaded the silk balloons. “They hang a little cart underneath, ya? Put big bands around the balloon, steel ones, rivets thick like your arm. They float off ‘cross the country.”
“Y’ can’ make metal float,” Billy had protested. “That’s stories.”
“It’s true!” the girl had insisted. “I’ve seen!”
“Liar,” said Billy. “Liar, y’ can’t!” It hadn’t mattered. A week later the girl had been traded, and Billy followed soon after. He never saw the dirigibles. He was always the boilerboy, and the boilerboys never got to see anything that wasn’t coal, furnaces or boilers.
He handled a shovel well enough, with nine fingers. Others managed with less. He had been in the lower levels of the same factory for half a year now, as best he could guess, and the furnaces banged up alright, so long as you were careful. So he shovelled and primed and shovelled and tightened pipes and shovelled, and soon he forgot the sun.
A new group arrived every few weeks. Some of them huddled together in the dorms and cried at night; they were the freshies, sold by their parents or shunted on by orphanages running low on beds. Others were veterans. Skins was one of those, traded a half-dozen times or more. He had started in the coal mines themselves, and his stories made Billy feel both blessed and envious of his adventures in the darkness. Rattling carts, plucking stones from jammed gears as they strained and threatened to take off your hand, the constant threat of an explosion deep within the mine rolling and roaring up through the tunnels…
“Things blow here though,” Skins protested. “Alla time!”
“Yeah, but that’s normal.”
Skins was a lanky child, upturned freckled nose hiding beneath the soot. His eyes darted about as if he was always afraid of attack. He sat on an upturned coal cart, his work forgotten for the moment. Billy stood by his side, surveying a set of new arrivals handle their shovels for the first time.
“These skags aren’t gunna last a week,” he spat. The new boys stood too close to the boilers when they swung, freezing up at every harmless pop.
“’s cause they haven’ seen a blow yet.” Billy picked something from his hair and crushed it between his fingernails. “One good blow, they’ll know when to duck.”
“Which’um gets a rest first?”
Billy scanned the room, surveying faces by the light of the fires. “That ‘un. Skagger wi’ the blue eyes.”
“Bluey boy?” The child couldn’t have been older than nine; a year older than Billy had been when he had begun tending the boilers. They watched him shuffle between the coal piles, soot stained and chubby cheeked. He always held an expression of quiet surprise, as if disbelieving where he was. His sky-blue eyes were puffy, as if he had been crying.
Skins nodded. “Bet you a rat?”
“I got rats. But I could always pop one.”
A week later boiler eleven blew. Billy recognised the noises early and called out to duck. Blue-eyes either didn’t hear or didn’t understand, and had the left side of his face neatly sheared off by debris. It was the first death in nearly a month.
Skins paid up the next day. The rat was still squirming, biting at his knuckles. “Still gunna pop it?”
“I got ‘nuff for th’ week. All gamey anyway.”
He pried open the hatch on the closest furnace with a rail spike, took the rat from Skins and tossed it inside. It squealed, high pitched and keening, and then there was nothing as it blackened and crisped in the flames.
“Huh,” said Skins. He scratched his head. “No pop.”
“All gamey,” Billy replied. “’nuther bet?”
“I’ll go double. Who?”
“Blondie with the joshy leg.”
“Yer on.”
Morris was built like a brick wall, broad shouldered and biceps like football bladders. There were rumours that, in his younger years, he had taken a knife to the chest in a barfight. Instead of dying as men were supposed to, he killed both his attackers with the shards of a pint mug. His hair was thinning up top, but his beard was still full, a tawny bush trimmed short to keep it from catching in the machines. He hammered and folded blades in the foundry, a long stone chamber with vaulted ceilings leading to smoke stacks. Every fire was manned, and all conversation was lost underneath the ringing of steel on steel.
Billy watched silently as Morris hammered out the first of his blades for the day. His forge roared and leaped, fed through pipes by children one level below. He shook sweat from his brow and it hissed in the fire.
‘This, son,” he said as he finished, “is going to make a fine sword. Shame.”
“Y’ din like swords?”
“Oh no, son,” he said. “But they’ll be ruining this with decoration and nonsense. Swords are best as swords.”
He rested the blade in the fire, watching it heat. When he lifted it out it stood as tall as a man and almost a foot wide. Veins popped as he struggled with the weight.
“Whysum so big?”
“It’s a parade blade. For a captain to wave about when he’s in his armour. Make a show of it.” He cooled the blade in a trough. “Many types of blades. Ye got swords to kill men, swords to kill horses, swords to cut open other armour. Though the way they make them nowadays, best to just cave in the pipes with a rock. You should see a suit blow when its boiler gets blocked! That’s a sight.”
“Y’ seen that?” Billy sat wide-eyed and attentive.
“Aye. I’ve seen.” He paused. “Seen some things… armour wars are nasty wars, son. Not something anyone should see. Better when it was just men.”
“I seen a kid, ‘is ‘ead was off,” said Billy proudly.
“So ye have,” mused Morris. He took up his hammer once more. “Shouldn’t spend too long up here. Not good for ye. Make ye cough. Can’t get a wife with hackthroat.”
Billy brushed off his trousers. “Where’d I keep a wife anyway?”
Morris nodded gravely, dipped the sword into the trough once more, lost in the steam.
They ate twice a day in a long, dim hall. At morning meal, sun would break in through the windows, patchy and scattered by the filth that caked the glass. At supper there was no light at all, and they navigated by stubby candles set in along the tables. The benches were worn smooth and seated twelve if they pressed in tight. They ate from metal bowls pressed from scrap. They had never seen cutlery.
Skins and Billy sat side by side, scooping out the remains of dinner with their fingers. It was potatoday, which was cause for excitement because it was usually (but not always) followed by meatday. They shovelled their meal, knowing that if they were not back by the boilers soon, there would be a beating to follow.
Skins belched as he finished. “Eh Billy. Do yuh think’ll ever get a baby?”
“Nuh. Y’ need a whore for a baby, dinye?”
“Me mamma weren’t a whore. Me Pa though… he was a man. Was him that sold me. Ma didn’ want him to, but he said would make me a man too.”
“I din’ have a Pa.”
“Yuh dunna have a Pa?”
Billy set his bowl down, licked clean. “Just Ma. Never had a Pa.”
“Was it her’n sold you?”
“I wasn’ sold.”
“I bet she did! Yer Ma sold you, I bet.”
“I din’ remember.”
He had been sent to deliver a message, and he had done so. Now he dawdled by where Morris hammered, mindful of the taskmaster passing by with his cane.
“Do they give y’ better vit’s than us?” asked Billy, dribbling a piece of scrap back and forth across the floor.
“I don’t work for food,” said Morris. The blade took shape under his hammer. “Got a wife to cook.”
“D’ye got a home?”
“A small one.” The man smiled, flashing as many gaps as teeth. “But it’s mine.”
“Why din y’ live with us? Dorm’s big enough.”
“I don’t think I’d do too well there, son. I’m the sort of man that needs his own space.”
Billy launched a bolt, bouncing it between two upright stacks, which he regarded as a goal and worthy of celebration. “D’ye think I could have me a house, some day?”
The sword sizzled. “Course ye can! I won’t lie to ye, son… it’s not easy. Costs money and time! Ye’ll be working ever’ day of yer life for it.”
“’m used to work.”
“It’s different, when you’re older.”
There was a piece of scrap on the floor shaped like a face, and Billy pocketed it for luck. “They din’ pay me any for being boilerboy.”
“You won’t be doing boilerboy and running errands forever, you know.”
“Skin’s said I’m t’ best boilerboy inna factory.”
“Still…” Morris set his sword down. He stretched, cracked his knuckles, inspected the space between his fingers and picked out the grit. “A house and a wife… good things to have, one day.”
“There’s a girl who works the Jennies…”
“Dangerous, those. They say they have Jennies over in New England that spin themselves, would you believe? Hands that move themselves, like the hands on suits… Do ye fancy her?”
Billy shook his head. “Jes’ a girl. But she could be m’ wife.”
“When ye grow up a bit, son. When you’re out of here.”
“Wi’ the dirigibles and the armour?”
“Aye. And the cities and clockwork parrots and all. Lot to see. One day.”
“I’d like t’ see it.” Billy paused. “I din’ know I could leave.”
“Hmm.” Morris took up the blade once more. “Do ye even understand why yer here, son?”
The boy flinched, ducking his head. “Yessir,” he said in monotone. He spoke as if reciting a bible verse. “Everyone works for their keep. People what din work are lazy, they steal from hard workin’ men, worse’n deserters. ‘m no deserter, no sir.”
“No,” said Morris quietly. “Yer not, son.”
Supper was done and the dorms had been locked. The boys crowded two to a bed, some sleeping, others talking by candlelight. They hushed when footsteps passed the dorm, hoping that it would not be an inspection, relaxing when the noises faded down the hall.
There was a jingle of keys, and the boys pulled one another out of bed in a tangled rush, kicking their chamberpots out of sight. The door creaked open and the taskmaster entered.
He was short and stocky, monocle screwed in tight and watch chain shining from his pocket, but what drew the boys attention most was his cane, polished oak tipped with bronze. No matter what the country, what the factory produced, or whether the taskmaster even spoke Billy’s language, he would carry a cane. The crack of wood against his knees or spine spoke clearly enough.
He walked the length of the dorm, frowning over the state of the beds. “Filthy,” he said. “You two. Fetch scrubbers.”
The two boys rushed off as the taskmaster settled into a wooden chair. “Head boys. How many sick? Any off resting?”
Billy watched as the three eldest children in the dorm went forward to give their reports. He stood straight backed, silent, waiting, hoping.
The taskmaster stood, leaning on his cane. “Good lads,” he said. “Now, quickly. Any other reports from you boys? Any questions?”
It was this that Billy had been hoping for. It was rare that the taskmaster himself would undertake an inspection, but rarer still that he would answer their questions. Perhaps once a month or less would a boy be able to ask for a new shovel, a different bed to share. Sometimes these requests would even be fulfilled.
Two boys came up: Billy and a scruffy child who stank of grease. “Sir, would I be allowed to write a letter home, to me maam, sir?”
The taskmaster nodded slowly. “You may. I will bring some paper, next time I visit. Do you know how to write?”
The boy shook his head. “Well,” said the taskmaster, “you’ll have to find someone who can, to help you. And you?”
“M’ names Billy, sir.” His knees shook like a freshie skags. “Sir, I’d like to go.”
“Go?”
“Yessir. I’d like t’ see th’ dirigibles, sir.”
“We don’t make dirigibles.”
“Nossir. Other dirigibles. I’d like t’ leave and get married.”
The taskmaster chuckled, his lips curling into a grin. “You can’t get married, boy. You live here.”
“Yessir. I’d like to leave the factory, sir. Din’ wan’ be a boiler boy anymore.”
The taskmaster stopped laughing. He stood sharply, his grip tightening around his cane. “You can’t leave. You live here. You live here and work for me.”
“Sir.” The room had fallen silent, boys inching away from the taskmaster to stand by their beds and huddle. “I’d like to go and buy a house…”
The cane swung down in a lazy arc and banged against Billy’s collarbone. It was a warning smack. “Quiet. You are my ward and you cannot leave. You will work here until you are a man, and then you may find a house and I will pay you money instead of food, but until then you will not leave.”
“When’ll I be a man, sir?”
“When you are sixteen. Old enough to join the His Majesty’s Army, old enough to go.”
“’s too long, sir. Can I leave now?”
The first blow landed above his temple and he dropped, his eyes rolling into his head. The second cracked across his teeth and he tasted blood. Something came loose and he swallowed it as the cane came down again, again, again. The taskmaster roared above him. “You are my ward, you are mine! Be quiet! You will be quiet!”
His eyelids filled with blood and he let himself drift into unconsciousness.
He dreamed for a while, waking fitfully and remembering nothing but screams. Soon he realised that there was screaming all about him even when he was awake, and by the third night he could no longer tell the difference between dreaming and reality.
On the fifth morning they ejected him from the sick ward with his arm in a sling and the four fingers of his left hand splinted tight. “Lucky kid,” the matron barked at him as he left. “We wanted to chop it off. Would have saved us a lot of time.” He said nothing, taking the stairs cautiously. He had not walked them since losing his finger, and then he had been proud of his injury, rushing down the stairs and tearing off the bandages. Now he shuffled down step by step, keeping count until he reached the bottom. One hundred and twenty stairs put him back in the boiler room.
He shovelled as best he could until it felt as if his other arm were ready to break, and then hid in the dorms, shivering underneath a blanket. Skins found him there after supper.
“I was gunna bring yer bowl. They wouldn’ let me.”
“’s okay.”
“He banged you up good, huh?”
Billy nodded towards his hand. “Won’t be t’ best boilerboy no more.”
“You weren’t really the best anyway. I jus’ said that.”
They sat together without speaking. Billy chewed on the edge of his blanket, watching how the boys would avert their eyes as they entered the room. He hid his face.
“T’ master said I can leave when ‘m sixteen. That’s four year off.”
“Long time.”
“’m gonna run away.”
Skins spasmed and grabbed Billy’s wrist. “No! Skag tried that once, they fixed ‘m so they dunna run no more! Broke ‘is knees and set ‘im to oiling pins!”
“’m not scared.”
“Yer an idiot.”
“Not staying here.”
Skins stood, his eyes fearful. “They’ll catch you and you won’ run again. I bet.”
“I won’ get caught.”
Skins took a step back. “You din’ tell me nothin’,” he said, and turned away. Billy watched him retreat, then curled in upon himself and waited for sleep.
Billy ate morning meal alone. He left his gruel half finished, his stomach turning tricks. He shovelled till the afternoon, noting how the skags avoided his gaze. He overheard two of them talking by the coalcarts; “If’’n the master sees you talkin’ wif Billy Lucky he’ll have yer ‘ead!” He burned with shame, wanting at that moment to throw himself into the furnace and be done. But then he would be dead without a chance to see what Morris had seen, and especially the chance to prove Skins wrong…
There was an adult voice shouting above the roar of the boilers – a coalhand waving for attention. “Messageboy! Whose the messageboy?”
Billy threw down his shovel. “’m the messageboy,” he said, and the coalhand dropped down to whisper in his ear.
“Get upstairs, tell the Shippingsmaster that there’s not much left, we’ll be out by night. If he don’t get a hundred carts worth of coal in here by tomorrow then the furnaces are off, and that won’t sit well with the Taskmaster. Got it?” The coalhand patted him on the shoulder. “Get to. What’re you doing, working with an arm like that anyway? Kids…”
Billy ran, taking the stairs by twos and threes. On the upper level the men were at work banging armour plates from sheets of steel; he saw Morris silhouetted against a leaping flame and hid his face with his good hand. Then he was through the forge, sprinting down a wide corridor where sunlight stole in through peeling ceiling boards. The Shippingsmasters door came up on his left; he couldn’t read the inscription, but there was a cart carved into the wood that was clear enough. He slowed, reached up to knock and stopped.
He had been this far through the factory only twice before. Past the Shippingsmasters office were the dumbwaiters that dropped coalcarts down to the boilerrooms. Past that, he had never seen; no skag was allowed through the double doors at the end of the corridor. But he had been told that there were docks for the coal to arrive and armours to leave; a door out of the factory to wherever in the world he was. He looked around, checking that the hall was empty. There was no sound besides his breathing. He moved past the Shippingsmasters office as quietly as he could and pushed through the doors.
The light was a knife in his eyes, brighter than he knew, far more brilliant than he ever remembered, a thousand furnaces in one. He covered his face, feeling tears run hot down his cheeks, and slowly focussed. He looked up and gasped.
He stood in a long display chamber, white marble floor gleaming and stone serpents winding up columns to the vaulted glass ceiling, the sun reflected over and over in perfectly clear panes. Every facet of the chamber was polished to mirror finish, so vivid that he had to blink to know it was not a dream.
A raised platform ran the length of the hall. Upon it stood the armours in rows, each sprung wide with guts bared, bronze piping gleaming in the light. They each towered over his head, polished to mirror sheen, gauntleted fingers tensed as if ready to take up arms. The inside hatches were padded down, ready for a man to climb inside and take control of an intricate array of levers and faucets. Panels on the side of each leg had been left open; inside were a maze of springs and cogs, some no larger than his fingernails, oiled and slick.
He imagined the line of armours charging into battle, each with a soldier inside roaring and blood hungry, swords raised as the pistolshots of the enemy bounced away like insect bites. Armours are nasty wars, Morris had said, but he couldn’t believe it. They were magnificent, the most fantastic and intricate boilers he had ever seen.
His face was reflected in the breastplate, and he examined his own features for the first time in many months. He had not changed. Thin faced and grubby, eyes puffy with lack of sleep. His hair had once been blonde, he thought, or maybe red, like the Scot boys. Now it was black through with coal and filth.
Billy spat. “Skags,” he said, and smeared over his reflection.
Footsteps behind him, quick and heavy, hobnailed boots on stone. Hands came down on his shoulders, squeezing his broken collarbone. He wailed as he was spun about, and suddenly he was looking Morris in the eyes.
“Caught ye, son,” the man said. “Ye fool.”
“Lemme go! ‘m running away!” Billy protested, slapping. Morris frowned and clamped down tight, and Billy screamed once more.
“They saw ye run,” said Morris. “So yer an escapee. A ward running away, never good… ye don’t know the trouble yer in.”
“Wanted… to see… dirigibles…”
“I got told.” The man sighed, relaxed his grip and stroked his beard. ‘For what I told ye, I’m sorry. Put ideas in yer head you weren’t old enough to have. Leave and get married, ye silly young fool?”
“Y’ said…”
“I filled ye with dreams. I’m sorry.”
Billy burst into tears, and Morris watched dispassionately. “Yer a runaway. So ye got a choice. I can let ye go to try yer luck. Don’t fancy yer chances though, even though ye got close. Did ye know the back docks were here, or did ye just guess? No matter… Or I can turn ye in, and see what happens. It won’t go well, but better than one of them catches ye. They don’t take kind to runaways.”
“Will they kill me?”
“They won’t kill ye.” Morris wiped the boys eyes. “But you’ll wish for it.”
“Let m’ go.”
Morris stepped back. “Good luck to ye then, son. But when they ask, ye didn’ see me and I didn’ see ye. Understand?”
“I do.” Billy turned away. “Y’ just like Skins.”
Morris grunted. “I din know any Skins.”
“’es a skag.”
He ran past the armours, each looming and accusing. Deserter! Deserter! He held his hands over his ears and turned the corner. Morris waited until he vanished and then turned, walked away. There were two shouts, “Here!” and “Got ‘im!” Then there were screams, and then nothing.
Morris did not break his stride.
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The taskmaster slapped at them with the end of his cane, shunting them into groups. “All you, ginger boys. Your name is now Jack. You, darkies. You’re all Jimmy. You three, blondies. Your name is Billy.”
The smallest of the three held his chin proud and defiant. “M’ names not Billy,” he said, and suddenly the cane cracked against his head, the world pinwheeling. He dropped to his knees and tried to hold his skull together. He screamed, and then the cane came down again against his neck and he couldn’t scream any more.
“Your name is Billy,” the taskmaster said again. His cane vanished inside his cloak, he screwed down his topper and turned away. “Set them to the bellows.”
The boy dryretched, yanked to his feet before his vision could clear. “Keep up, Billy,” said the boilerman, his overalls soot-stained to match his skin. His remaining teeth shone behind dark lips. “You gunna grab a shovel, get you some muscles on you!”
“Yessir,” he said, keeping his head down. There was a lump rising above his ear that gave wetly when he pressed on it. “I’m never had a shovel ‘fore, sir.”
“You dunna be calling me sir,” the man said. “I’m just Jimmy.”
The first trade was the hardest.
There were friends he had made at the glassblowers, boys he had worked alongside for almost a year. But their faces were always changing, new boys arriving while others were carted away. The furnaces had a habit of backdrafting, and if you weren’t quick on your toes you were liable to get caught in the face. But he had always been nimble and alert. He had seen many friends come and go, and he would miss them all.
The taskmaster bartered him for two spinning girls and a cart of coal. They checked his arms and his eyes, and the man buying him clucked appreciatively when he counted the boys fingers and arrived at ten. His new master was dressed in bright yellow velvet, and when it brushed against his skin the boy shivered. He had never felt anything so smooth.
The master mumbled to himself in foreign tongue, and then turned to the boy. “Name?”
“Billy,” the boy replied.
He was twelve now, which was two hands and three. His left ring finger had been spat out the back end of a turbine a year earlier, torn off when a gear had jumped. He had taken the bandages off early and showed the stump to the other boys in his dorm, and they had all touched it for luck. They had called him Tough-Boy Billy for a while, and then Billy Lucky, and finally just Lucky; a ginger haired child they called Smoke had lost his whole arm to the same machine only two days before. He had shrieked for a while, as the new ones sometimes did, and then he had gone very quiet, and died before they were able to drag him off the factory floor. So Billy had earned his nickname, and he wore it with pride, until he had been traded again to a fat gentleman who did not speak, only motioned and spat.
The fat mans factory had made dirigibles to ferry the aristocracy between counties. Billy had learned this from one of the older girls who threaded the silk balloons. “They hang a little cart underneath, ya? Put big bands around the balloon, steel ones, rivets thick like your arm. They float off ‘cross the country.”
“Y’ can’ make metal float,” Billy had protested. “That’s stories.”
“It’s true!” the girl had insisted. “I’ve seen!”
“Liar,” said Billy. “Liar, y’ can’t!” It hadn’t mattered. A week later the girl had been traded, and Billy followed soon after. He never saw the dirigibles. He was always the boilerboy, and the boilerboys never got to see anything that wasn’t coal, furnaces or boilers.
He handled a shovel well enough, with nine fingers. Others managed with less. He had been in the lower levels of the same factory for half a year now, as best he could guess, and the furnaces banged up alright, so long as you were careful. So he shovelled and primed and shovelled and tightened pipes and shovelled, and soon he forgot the sun.
A new group arrived every few weeks. Some of them huddled together in the dorms and cried at night; they were the freshies, sold by their parents or shunted on by orphanages running low on beds. Others were veterans. Skins was one of those, traded a half-dozen times or more. He had started in the coal mines themselves, and his stories made Billy feel both blessed and envious of his adventures in the darkness. Rattling carts, plucking stones from jammed gears as they strained and threatened to take off your hand, the constant threat of an explosion deep within the mine rolling and roaring up through the tunnels…
“Things blow here though,” Skins protested. “Alla time!”
“Yeah, but that’s normal.”
Skins was a lanky child, upturned freckled nose hiding beneath the soot. His eyes darted about as if he was always afraid of attack. He sat on an upturned coal cart, his work forgotten for the moment. Billy stood by his side, surveying a set of new arrivals handle their shovels for the first time.
“These skags aren’t gunna last a week,” he spat. The new boys stood too close to the boilers when they swung, freezing up at every harmless pop.
“’s cause they haven’ seen a blow yet.” Billy picked something from his hair and crushed it between his fingernails. “One good blow, they’ll know when to duck.”
“Which’um gets a rest first?”
Billy scanned the room, surveying faces by the light of the fires. “That ‘un. Skagger wi’ the blue eyes.”
“Bluey boy?” The child couldn’t have been older than nine; a year older than Billy had been when he had begun tending the boilers. They watched him shuffle between the coal piles, soot stained and chubby cheeked. He always held an expression of quiet surprise, as if disbelieving where he was. His sky-blue eyes were puffy, as if he had been crying.
Skins nodded. “Bet you a rat?”
“I got rats. But I could always pop one.”
A week later boiler eleven blew. Billy recognised the noises early and called out to duck. Blue-eyes either didn’t hear or didn’t understand, and had the left side of his face neatly sheared off by debris. It was the first death in nearly a month.
Skins paid up the next day. The rat was still squirming, biting at his knuckles. “Still gunna pop it?”
“I got ‘nuff for th’ week. All gamey anyway.”
He pried open the hatch on the closest furnace with a rail spike, took the rat from Skins and tossed it inside. It squealed, high pitched and keening, and then there was nothing as it blackened and crisped in the flames.
“Huh,” said Skins. He scratched his head. “No pop.”
“All gamey,” Billy replied. “’nuther bet?”
“I’ll go double. Who?”
“Blondie with the joshy leg.”
“Yer on.”
Morris was built like a brick wall, broad shouldered and biceps like football bladders. There were rumours that, in his younger years, he had taken a knife to the chest in a barfight. Instead of dying as men were supposed to, he killed both his attackers with the shards of a pint mug. His hair was thinning up top, but his beard was still full, a tawny bush trimmed short to keep it from catching in the machines. He hammered and folded blades in the foundry, a long stone chamber with vaulted ceilings leading to smoke stacks. Every fire was manned, and all conversation was lost underneath the ringing of steel on steel.
Billy watched silently as Morris hammered out the first of his blades for the day. His forge roared and leaped, fed through pipes by children one level below. He shook sweat from his brow and it hissed in the fire.
‘This, son,” he said as he finished, “is going to make a fine sword. Shame.”
“Y’ din like swords?”
“Oh no, son,” he said. “But they’ll be ruining this with decoration and nonsense. Swords are best as swords.”
He rested the blade in the fire, watching it heat. When he lifted it out it stood as tall as a man and almost a foot wide. Veins popped as he struggled with the weight.
“Whysum so big?”
“It’s a parade blade. For a captain to wave about when he’s in his armour. Make a show of it.” He cooled the blade in a trough. “Many types of blades. Ye got swords to kill men, swords to kill horses, swords to cut open other armour. Though the way they make them nowadays, best to just cave in the pipes with a rock. You should see a suit blow when its boiler gets blocked! That’s a sight.”
“Y’ seen that?” Billy sat wide-eyed and attentive.
“Aye. I’ve seen.” He paused. “Seen some things… armour wars are nasty wars, son. Not something anyone should see. Better when it was just men.”
“I seen a kid, ‘is ‘ead was off,” said Billy proudly.
“So ye have,” mused Morris. He took up his hammer once more. “Shouldn’t spend too long up here. Not good for ye. Make ye cough. Can’t get a wife with hackthroat.”
Billy brushed off his trousers. “Where’d I keep a wife anyway?”
Morris nodded gravely, dipped the sword into the trough once more, lost in the steam.
They ate twice a day in a long, dim hall. At morning meal, sun would break in through the windows, patchy and scattered by the filth that caked the glass. At supper there was no light at all, and they navigated by stubby candles set in along the tables. The benches were worn smooth and seated twelve if they pressed in tight. They ate from metal bowls pressed from scrap. They had never seen cutlery.
Skins and Billy sat side by side, scooping out the remains of dinner with their fingers. It was potatoday, which was cause for excitement because it was usually (but not always) followed by meatday. They shovelled their meal, knowing that if they were not back by the boilers soon, there would be a beating to follow.
Skins belched as he finished. “Eh Billy. Do yuh think’ll ever get a baby?”
“Nuh. Y’ need a whore for a baby, dinye?”
“Me mamma weren’t a whore. Me Pa though… he was a man. Was him that sold me. Ma didn’ want him to, but he said would make me a man too.”
“I din’ have a Pa.”
“Yuh dunna have a Pa?”
Billy set his bowl down, licked clean. “Just Ma. Never had a Pa.”
“Was it her’n sold you?”
“I wasn’ sold.”
“I bet she did! Yer Ma sold you, I bet.”
“I din’ remember.”
He had been sent to deliver a message, and he had done so. Now he dawdled by where Morris hammered, mindful of the taskmaster passing by with his cane.
“Do they give y’ better vit’s than us?” asked Billy, dribbling a piece of scrap back and forth across the floor.
“I don’t work for food,” said Morris. The blade took shape under his hammer. “Got a wife to cook.”
“D’ye got a home?”
“A small one.” The man smiled, flashing as many gaps as teeth. “But it’s mine.”
“Why din y’ live with us? Dorm’s big enough.”
“I don’t think I’d do too well there, son. I’m the sort of man that needs his own space.”
Billy launched a bolt, bouncing it between two upright stacks, which he regarded as a goal and worthy of celebration. “D’ye think I could have me a house, some day?”
The sword sizzled. “Course ye can! I won’t lie to ye, son… it’s not easy. Costs money and time! Ye’ll be working ever’ day of yer life for it.”
“’m used to work.”
“It’s different, when you’re older.”
There was a piece of scrap on the floor shaped like a face, and Billy pocketed it for luck. “They din’ pay me any for being boilerboy.”
“You won’t be doing boilerboy and running errands forever, you know.”
“Skin’s said I’m t’ best boilerboy inna factory.”
“Still…” Morris set his sword down. He stretched, cracked his knuckles, inspected the space between his fingers and picked out the grit. “A house and a wife… good things to have, one day.”
“There’s a girl who works the Jennies…”
“Dangerous, those. They say they have Jennies over in New England that spin themselves, would you believe? Hands that move themselves, like the hands on suits… Do ye fancy her?”
Billy shook his head. “Jes’ a girl. But she could be m’ wife.”
“When ye grow up a bit, son. When you’re out of here.”
“Wi’ the dirigibles and the armour?”
“Aye. And the cities and clockwork parrots and all. Lot to see. One day.”
“I’d like t’ see it.” Billy paused. “I din’ know I could leave.”
“Hmm.” Morris took up the blade once more. “Do ye even understand why yer here, son?”
The boy flinched, ducking his head. “Yessir,” he said in monotone. He spoke as if reciting a bible verse. “Everyone works for their keep. People what din work are lazy, they steal from hard workin’ men, worse’n deserters. ‘m no deserter, no sir.”
“No,” said Morris quietly. “Yer not, son.”
Supper was done and the dorms had been locked. The boys crowded two to a bed, some sleeping, others talking by candlelight. They hushed when footsteps passed the dorm, hoping that it would not be an inspection, relaxing when the noises faded down the hall.
There was a jingle of keys, and the boys pulled one another out of bed in a tangled rush, kicking their chamberpots out of sight. The door creaked open and the taskmaster entered.
He was short and stocky, monocle screwed in tight and watch chain shining from his pocket, but what drew the boys attention most was his cane, polished oak tipped with bronze. No matter what the country, what the factory produced, or whether the taskmaster even spoke Billy’s language, he would carry a cane. The crack of wood against his knees or spine spoke clearly enough.
He walked the length of the dorm, frowning over the state of the beds. “Filthy,” he said. “You two. Fetch scrubbers.”
The two boys rushed off as the taskmaster settled into a wooden chair. “Head boys. How many sick? Any off resting?”
Billy watched as the three eldest children in the dorm went forward to give their reports. He stood straight backed, silent, waiting, hoping.
The taskmaster stood, leaning on his cane. “Good lads,” he said. “Now, quickly. Any other reports from you boys? Any questions?”
It was this that Billy had been hoping for. It was rare that the taskmaster himself would undertake an inspection, but rarer still that he would answer their questions. Perhaps once a month or less would a boy be able to ask for a new shovel, a different bed to share. Sometimes these requests would even be fulfilled.
Two boys came up: Billy and a scruffy child who stank of grease. “Sir, would I be allowed to write a letter home, to me maam, sir?”
The taskmaster nodded slowly. “You may. I will bring some paper, next time I visit. Do you know how to write?”
The boy shook his head. “Well,” said the taskmaster, “you’ll have to find someone who can, to help you. And you?”
“M’ names Billy, sir.” His knees shook like a freshie skags. “Sir, I’d like to go.”
“Go?”
“Yessir. I’d like t’ see th’ dirigibles, sir.”
“We don’t make dirigibles.”
“Nossir. Other dirigibles. I’d like t’ leave and get married.”
The taskmaster chuckled, his lips curling into a grin. “You can’t get married, boy. You live here.”
“Yessir. I’d like to leave the factory, sir. Din’ wan’ be a boiler boy anymore.”
The taskmaster stopped laughing. He stood sharply, his grip tightening around his cane. “You can’t leave. You live here. You live here and work for me.”
“Sir.” The room had fallen silent, boys inching away from the taskmaster to stand by their beds and huddle. “I’d like to go and buy a house…”
The cane swung down in a lazy arc and banged against Billy’s collarbone. It was a warning smack. “Quiet. You are my ward and you cannot leave. You will work here until you are a man, and then you may find a house and I will pay you money instead of food, but until then you will not leave.”
“When’ll I be a man, sir?”
“When you are sixteen. Old enough to join the His Majesty’s Army, old enough to go.”
“’s too long, sir. Can I leave now?”
The first blow landed above his temple and he dropped, his eyes rolling into his head. The second cracked across his teeth and he tasted blood. Something came loose and he swallowed it as the cane came down again, again, again. The taskmaster roared above him. “You are my ward, you are mine! Be quiet! You will be quiet!”
His eyelids filled with blood and he let himself drift into unconsciousness.
He dreamed for a while, waking fitfully and remembering nothing but screams. Soon he realised that there was screaming all about him even when he was awake, and by the third night he could no longer tell the difference between dreaming and reality.
On the fifth morning they ejected him from the sick ward with his arm in a sling and the four fingers of his left hand splinted tight. “Lucky kid,” the matron barked at him as he left. “We wanted to chop it off. Would have saved us a lot of time.” He said nothing, taking the stairs cautiously. He had not walked them since losing his finger, and then he had been proud of his injury, rushing down the stairs and tearing off the bandages. Now he shuffled down step by step, keeping count until he reached the bottom. One hundred and twenty stairs put him back in the boiler room.
He shovelled as best he could until it felt as if his other arm were ready to break, and then hid in the dorms, shivering underneath a blanket. Skins found him there after supper.
“I was gunna bring yer bowl. They wouldn’ let me.”
“’s okay.”
“He banged you up good, huh?”
Billy nodded towards his hand. “Won’t be t’ best boilerboy no more.”
“You weren’t really the best anyway. I jus’ said that.”
They sat together without speaking. Billy chewed on the edge of his blanket, watching how the boys would avert their eyes as they entered the room. He hid his face.
“T’ master said I can leave when ‘m sixteen. That’s four year off.”
“Long time.”
“’m gonna run away.”
Skins spasmed and grabbed Billy’s wrist. “No! Skag tried that once, they fixed ‘m so they dunna run no more! Broke ‘is knees and set ‘im to oiling pins!”
“’m not scared.”
“Yer an idiot.”
“Not staying here.”
Skins stood, his eyes fearful. “They’ll catch you and you won’ run again. I bet.”
“I won’ get caught.”
Skins took a step back. “You din’ tell me nothin’,” he said, and turned away. Billy watched him retreat, then curled in upon himself and waited for sleep.
Billy ate morning meal alone. He left his gruel half finished, his stomach turning tricks. He shovelled till the afternoon, noting how the skags avoided his gaze. He overheard two of them talking by the coalcarts; “If’’n the master sees you talkin’ wif Billy Lucky he’ll have yer ‘ead!” He burned with shame, wanting at that moment to throw himself into the furnace and be done. But then he would be dead without a chance to see what Morris had seen, and especially the chance to prove Skins wrong…
There was an adult voice shouting above the roar of the boilers – a coalhand waving for attention. “Messageboy! Whose the messageboy?”
Billy threw down his shovel. “’m the messageboy,” he said, and the coalhand dropped down to whisper in his ear.
“Get upstairs, tell the Shippingsmaster that there’s not much left, we’ll be out by night. If he don’t get a hundred carts worth of coal in here by tomorrow then the furnaces are off, and that won’t sit well with the Taskmaster. Got it?” The coalhand patted him on the shoulder. “Get to. What’re you doing, working with an arm like that anyway? Kids…”
Billy ran, taking the stairs by twos and threes. On the upper level the men were at work banging armour plates from sheets of steel; he saw Morris silhouetted against a leaping flame and hid his face with his good hand. Then he was through the forge, sprinting down a wide corridor where sunlight stole in through peeling ceiling boards. The Shippingsmasters door came up on his left; he couldn’t read the inscription, but there was a cart carved into the wood that was clear enough. He slowed, reached up to knock and stopped.
He had been this far through the factory only twice before. Past the Shippingsmasters office were the dumbwaiters that dropped coalcarts down to the boilerrooms. Past that, he had never seen; no skag was allowed through the double doors at the end of the corridor. But he had been told that there were docks for the coal to arrive and armours to leave; a door out of the factory to wherever in the world he was. He looked around, checking that the hall was empty. There was no sound besides his breathing. He moved past the Shippingsmasters office as quietly as he could and pushed through the doors.
The light was a knife in his eyes, brighter than he knew, far more brilliant than he ever remembered, a thousand furnaces in one. He covered his face, feeling tears run hot down his cheeks, and slowly focussed. He looked up and gasped.
He stood in a long display chamber, white marble floor gleaming and stone serpents winding up columns to the vaulted glass ceiling, the sun reflected over and over in perfectly clear panes. Every facet of the chamber was polished to mirror finish, so vivid that he had to blink to know it was not a dream.
A raised platform ran the length of the hall. Upon it stood the armours in rows, each sprung wide with guts bared, bronze piping gleaming in the light. They each towered over his head, polished to mirror sheen, gauntleted fingers tensed as if ready to take up arms. The inside hatches were padded down, ready for a man to climb inside and take control of an intricate array of levers and faucets. Panels on the side of each leg had been left open; inside were a maze of springs and cogs, some no larger than his fingernails, oiled and slick.
He imagined the line of armours charging into battle, each with a soldier inside roaring and blood hungry, swords raised as the pistolshots of the enemy bounced away like insect bites. Armours are nasty wars, Morris had said, but he couldn’t believe it. They were magnificent, the most fantastic and intricate boilers he had ever seen.
His face was reflected in the breastplate, and he examined his own features for the first time in many months. He had not changed. Thin faced and grubby, eyes puffy with lack of sleep. His hair had once been blonde, he thought, or maybe red, like the Scot boys. Now it was black through with coal and filth.
Billy spat. “Skags,” he said, and smeared over his reflection.
Footsteps behind him, quick and heavy, hobnailed boots on stone. Hands came down on his shoulders, squeezing his broken collarbone. He wailed as he was spun about, and suddenly he was looking Morris in the eyes.
“Caught ye, son,” the man said. “Ye fool.”
“Lemme go! ‘m running away!” Billy protested, slapping. Morris frowned and clamped down tight, and Billy screamed once more.
“They saw ye run,” said Morris. “So yer an escapee. A ward running away, never good… ye don’t know the trouble yer in.”
“Wanted… to see… dirigibles…”
“I got told.” The man sighed, relaxed his grip and stroked his beard. ‘For what I told ye, I’m sorry. Put ideas in yer head you weren’t old enough to have. Leave and get married, ye silly young fool?”
“Y’ said…”
“I filled ye with dreams. I’m sorry.”
Billy burst into tears, and Morris watched dispassionately. “Yer a runaway. So ye got a choice. I can let ye go to try yer luck. Don’t fancy yer chances though, even though ye got close. Did ye know the back docks were here, or did ye just guess? No matter… Or I can turn ye in, and see what happens. It won’t go well, but better than one of them catches ye. They don’t take kind to runaways.”
“Will they kill me?”
“They won’t kill ye.” Morris wiped the boys eyes. “But you’ll wish for it.”
“Let m’ go.”
Morris stepped back. “Good luck to ye then, son. But when they ask, ye didn’ see me and I didn’ see ye. Understand?”
“I do.” Billy turned away. “Y’ just like Skins.”
Morris grunted. “I din know any Skins.”
“’es a skag.”
He ran past the armours, each looming and accusing. Deserter! Deserter! He held his hands over his ears and turned the corner. Morris waited until he vanished and then turned, walked away. There were two shouts, “Here!” and “Got ‘im!” Then there were screams, and then nothing.
Morris did not break his stride.
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