Beyond the Starline Read online

  The trasher gave her a spark of hope. Once it’s been loaded and set going on a good head of steam, it burns the waste and mechanically compacts the ash into blocks, which are gathered in wire baskets and tipped down a trash chute. A trash chute isn’t very wide but Harriet guessed it would be just wide enough to fit into comfortably enough.

  ‘Course this trasher ain’t been used in a good long while and for all I know the chute might’ve rusted shut. And it might be more me coffin than me escape if they catch me in it, she thought.

  The pirates’ grim voices were hard up against the trapdoor. The flats of large, calloused hands slapped against its underside, accompanied by a grunt of effort as a crack of light appeared in the floor behind her. She slipped behind the cylinder just as the trapdoor crashed open.

  A flood of light lifted the darkness into gray. There was enough light to make out the chute hatch. Wasting no time, she ran. Her hands closed around the rusted metal.

  “It’s pitch dark up here, boys! Can’t see a blinking thing.”

  Harriet pulled hard on the handle.

  “Move your lard and let me up there, she can’t have gone far.”

  The hatch shifted a few inches before jamming half-open with a grating crunch.

  “What was that noise?”

  “Give us a minute for me eyes to adjust. Maybe the girl, maybe rats. Pass us the lantern. You two spread out below and make sure there’s no one coming. We’ve got the little wench now.”

  Harriet leaned all her weight on the hatch. It crunched open enough for her to haul herself up and slide into the chute. She clung to the lip of the tunnel with one hand, the other clutching the device. She slid back until she was laid out at full stretch.

  Blimey, she thought. I didn’t reckon on it being so steep...or the edge so sharp. It don’t half hurt. It’s slippery, too, like it’s been greased. Funny way to die, wasted down a trasher chute.

  The beam of the flash lantern swept the loft space. She held her breath and listened, clutching the device tighter. Me old man ain’t dead. Find Professor Poliakoff. He’ll help me.

  “There’s no way out of here - apart from that door on the other side - but you can see without looking that no one’s shifted that in a hundred years or more. So she must be here somewhere.”

  “Yeah. She can’t just have disappeared. What about behind that old trasher?”

  The sharp edge of the rusted chute dug deeper into Harriet’s skin, threatening to draw blood. Her arm ached. Her fingers throbbed.

  Two pirates scuffled through the dust. “No sign of her here.”

  Then, “Wait a minute. Look!”

  “Ah! Footprints. Little girly footprints. Now ain’t they pretty? Give me that lantern!”

  The skin of Harriet’s fingers broke, a dribble of blood oozing out. Tears pricked her eyes. I can’t hold on much longer, Mum. I can’t do it.

  “Now what? They go up here to this old chute and then poof! Gone. It don’t make sense.”

  I think you might be dead now, Harriet. I wish you could’ve said goodbye to Sibelius. An’ lord knows who your mum really was.

  “Unless...”

  Thick spider-leg fingers appeared over the hatch, feeling around. “Give us a hand with this; it’s stiff as a corpse.” A moment later the hatch screeched open. The flash lantern blinded her, as if she was looking straight at the sun.

  “Well, well. What ‘ave we here? Very pretty bit of trash this is, wouldn’t you say, mate? And look what a pretty bauble it’s got for us!”

  “I ain’t trash,” said Harriet.

  “Give us the bauble and we’ll help you out.”

  I’m going to die down a trash chute, she thought.

  “Come on, girl! Hand it over and you’ll be quite safe.”

  “You know what?” said Harriet aloud, even as tears choked her voice. “You can stick it up your frigging jacksy!”

  “Quick, grab ‘er!”

  But it was too late.

  Harriet had let go.

  Chapter Three

  The pirates vanished. The light vanished. Hot, greased metal burned Harriet’s skin. Rushing air pained her ears. She felt as if her stomach had been rammed into her ribcage.

  She was unconscious when she hit the ground, spat from the chute like a broken tooth from a fighter’s mouth. The impact shocked her awake, the breath knocked out of her.

  It was night, dark and hot, the air humid, full of strong, unfamiliar odors. For a moment she was only aware of being alive. As her senses cleared, pain scoured her back. The sticky goo of blood congealed between her fingers; fingers still gripping the warm, brass surface of the device. She stood up shakily, sharp gravel pinching her feet, clutching the device to her breast as if it were a talisman.

  So this is where the trash goes. There’s the chute up there. I must’ve shot out and landed on that pile of ash blocks. Could’ve broke me blooming neck.

  The tower soared upward, vanishing into dirty orange smog. A thousand window lights winked on and off. In one of those rooms, the woman she had always believed to be her mother lay lifeless on the floor. Harriet trembled, nauseous, dizzy. Nah, c’mon, Harriet, she thought, fighting back grief and fear. Ain’t no time for that. The situation ain’t rosy, but your dad’s alive, right? And who knows, if that weren’t your mum, maybe your real mum’s still alive, too. You’ve got to take this device and find this Poliakoff fella. She clenched her teeth, forcing all other thoughts from her mind. Now, let’s get out of this dump and find the Professor. That’s the first step.

  Harriet stumbled through decaying heaps of trash. She jumped as a swarm of diseased-looking rats scuttled by. The stench sickened her. She came to a brick wall, black with soot. It was too high to climb. The city’s sleepless engines thrummed and clanked in the distance. Illumined airships rumbled through layers of smoke and smog, horns booming. Intermittent flashes lit up the sky as foundry hammers smashed burning sparks from slabs of hot iron.

  Edging along the wall, Harriet found the rusted railings of an iron gate. She heaved at the latch. The gate squealed open and she slipped through the gap.

  If in the tower she’d been a rat in a trap, she was a rat in a maze now. She’d only ever seen the city in long vistas and broad perspectives from her window. Blimey, she thought. How do folks find their way about if they can’t see beyond the next corner?

  Ahead lay a grimy, cobbled street imprisoned by looming walls that filled her with dread. A maze could be a good place to hide in, I s’pose. There don’t seem to be nobody about.

  An engine roared above her, the cold back-draft from the propellers of a sky ship flattening her against the wall. The huge lozenge of a Zeppelin swung across the night sky, as low as any pilot would dare take her. It slowed, hanging in the air. Blades of light shone from the under-cabin, slashing through the dark. A rope ladder rattled down and the unmistakable silhouettes of the pirates climbed towards the dump.

  Harriet ran.

  Narrow passageways intersected streets and alleys, snaking into yellowing smog or opening into dingy courtyards. She zigzagged through a labyrinth of workshops, grimy dwellings and drinking houses. The few people she saw took no notice; drunks outside a tavern, an old woman pulling a trolley loaded with mechanical parts, a gentleman in a broad brimmed hat skulking under an arch.

  Emerging from an alley, Harriet tumbled into a bustling market square. Electrostatic lanterns fizzed and popped atop ornate iron lampposts. A fountain spouted dirty water into a cracked marble basin. There were bars and cafes: some well-lit, vibrant with music; others dark and seedy, thuggish youths slouching by the doors. Ladies trussed up in corsets pouted painted smiles at passing gentlemen.

  Harriet looked back down the alley. Three pirates were running towards her. She pitched forward, narrowly dodging a Clockwork Conveyancer rattling over the cobbles. “Oi! Watch yer step!” yelle
d the driver.

  Between the bars and the fountain, the ramshackle market was doing a bustling trade in everything from food, clothing, jewelry and trinkets to chandlery, mechanical parts, books, charts and medicinal preparations. Beneath the colored canopies, the market thronged with people of every class and station.

  Harriet ducked between the stalls. The narrow market lanes were crowded. The aromas of frying fish and roasted meat, the hubbub of conversation and laughter filled the air. She was suddenly aware of her appearance, dressed in nothing but a nightdress stained with grease and dirt. Me hair must be a mess, too and there’s no telling what state me face is in. No wonder I’m getting funny looks. Folks must take me for a guttersnipe.

  She nudged her way deeper into the throng. A young lad, barefoot, face smudged with grime, deftly lifted a pocket-watch from the waistcoat of a fat, bewhiskered gentleman as he pointed something out to his wife. The boy saw Harriet watching, swung the watch round on its chain and winked. Harriet smiled. The boy stuck his tongue out and vanished under the cloth-draped stall.

  “There she is, the little …!”

  Harriet spun round. The pirates shoved through the crowd towards her. Following the thief’s example, she ducked under the nearest stall...and found herself in a maze within the maze.

  The network of draped trestle tables created a labyrinth of passageways too small for an adult to negotiate. But there were children - guttersnipes, cut-purses and fingersmiths, Harriet guessed – scuttling through the market like rats under a floor. Bent double, Harriet turned left, right, left again. Some children smiled or winked at her in passing, others scowled or looked away. Harriet scuttled on. Can’t stay under here forever, she thought. Deciding when and where to get out, that’s the tricky part.

  She turned a corner and cracked her skull against something hurrying in the opposite direction. Her ears rang. A girl grabbed her arm and shoved her to the ground. A boy had her by the hair.

  “Wot the frick d’yer fink yer doin’?” demanded the boy.

  “I ain’t seen you afore,” spat the girl. “This ain’t your patch.”

  “Let go me hair!” said Harriet. “I didn’t mean to smack your head. And I smacked me own too, didn’t I?”

  The boy yanked her hair harder. Harriet yelped.

  “This ain’t your patch!” said the girl again.

  “Out wiv ya!” snarled the boy.

  Kicked out from under the trestles, Harriet staggered to her feet, dodging boots and carriage wheels, her head still spinning from the collision.

  A troupe of monkeys played musical instruments on a stage. One looked familiar. Sibelius? The monkey’s head jerked around, its eyebrows raised and lowered, its mouth opened and shut. It clashed cymbals together, repeating the movement again and again. A popular music hall tune wheezed from the steam organ behind it. Whirring pulleys and clanking cogs tugged the monkeys’ wire controls. Harriet blinked. Her head cleared. Oh! They’re not real monkeys. They’re mechanicals.

  A hand rested on her shoulder. She spun around, ready to kick and fight - but it was a soft face with kindly eyes that gazed down at her through half-moon spectacles; a well-dressed, elderly gentleman with frizzy white hair. His forefinger gently touched her cheek.

  “Are you lost, child?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact,” said Harriet. “I’m looking for Professor Poliakoff.”

  “Poliakoff?” said the gentleman rubbing his chin. “Yes, Poliakoff. Of course. Come with me, child. Come with me and we’ll find Poliakoff together, shall we? Come along.”

  The old man took her hand. Cor, he’s got a tight grip for an old fella, thought Harriet. He dragged her towards a waiting Conveyancer. “Let go me hand!” said Harriet, suddenly frightened. “Lemme go!”

  The old man didn’t even look back. “Come along, pretty girl,” he said, “come along.” His vice-like grip tightened again. They were at the door of the clockwork contraption.

  He fingered a key out of his waistcoat pocket. Harriet squirmed, struggling to release herself. “Lemme go!”

  “Calm yourself, child,” said the old man, slightly rattled, turning the key in the lock. The door opened. The blinds were rolled down. From the gloomy interior, half a dozen pale, frightened faces looked back at her. All of them were children.

  “In we go!” said the gentleman. “You’re safe now. Come along.” His hands gripped her waist, lifting her up into the Conveyancer. The driver, a young man, sweating slightly, eyes glistening, looked around. “Feisty one, that!” he said. “Nice catch, though. Very pretty!”

  Harriet’s fear exploded in fury. She kicked and yelled and scratched. The old man held her fast, shoving her into the vehicle. “Well don’t just sit there, come and help!” he puffed at the younger man. Harriet grabbed the edge of the roof. She pulled up with all her strength. Slipping free of the old man’s grasp, she kicked backwards. Her heel cracked his nose with a satisfying crunch. The old man staggered, cursing. He lifted a handkerchief to his bloodied face, his spectacles bent and shattered. “Police! Assault! Police!”

  Harriet dropped back to the street, snatching up the device which she’d dropped in the tussle. She pushed her way through the crowd, shoving and kicking, heedless of the cries of protest and annoyance.

  Two police officers ran towards her, blowing their whistles. She set off in the other direction – only to find the pirates blocking her way. She pulled up the oilcloth on the nearest stall to duck under. A toothless face and the glint of a knife changed her mind. Her heart hammered. Blood pulsed hard in her neck. Her hands clutched the device to her breast. It seemed to burn her skin like a hot coal. There was nowhere to turn.

  The policemen had her by the arms. The pirates stood above her, grinning. The old man adjusted his bent spectacles on his nose and complained loudly about his assault.

  “Gen’lemen, gen’lemen!” said one of the pirates. “This is my daughter. She’s been a bit wild since her poor mother passed away, God rest her soul.” He put out a hand and patted Harriet on the head. She flinched. “My apologies for any disturbance.”

  “She hit my nose and broke my glasses!” whined the old man.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” answered the pirate, withdrawing a leather purse. “I’ll compensate you fully for any damages.” Then he turned to the policemen. “I’ll take her home and there’ll be no more trouble tonight, I assure you.” He stretched out his calloused hand towards Harriet.

  One of the policemen let go of her and stepped forward. “Wait!” he said. “Can you prove you’re the girl’s father?”

  “He ain’t me old man!” said Harriet. “Look at him, you crazy coppers; you can see he’s a pirate! He killed me mum!”

  “Give me the girl,” snarled the pirate, reaching for his flintlock. The other pirates stepped forward, their hands on the hilts of their scimitars.

  A gunshot cracked the night. A splash of blood appeared at the pirate leader’s shoulder. He groaned, stumbling backwards with the impact, dropping his gun in the dust. The policemen raised their batons and the pirates unsheathed their swords. Harriet, free again, backed away from the fight.

  The end of a rope thudded at her feet. She looked up. Sibelius’s balloon floated above her. The sky monkey leaned over his basket, a smoking flintlock in one hand. “Grab the rope, mademoiselle – and hold tight!”

  Harriet, grasping the rope for all she was worth, the device tucked safely under her arm, flew upward, spinning round and round in the hot rush of the night air.

  Chapter Four

  Far above the city’s yellow smog, Harriet sat huddled in a woolen blanket. Sibelius sat astride a barrel, smoking his pipe and re-stitching a section of torn canvas. A small brazier glowed red in the night. On it, a copper pot steamed. A tin lantern swung from the bamboo frame. Shadows flickered on the canvas roof of the sky monkey’s airborne home. Harriet shivered, pulling
the blanket tightly about her shoulders.

  Sibelius looked up from his work. “Il fait froid, n’est-ce pas?” he said. “Here,” he put down his sewing and took a cup from a hook, filling it with dark, amber liquid from the copper pot, “drink this.”

  “What is it?” asked Harriet, taking the cup and closing her fingers around its warmth.

  “Hot brandy. The best. Smuggled in from the satellite of Jamacan. It will calm you, mademoiselle, after your little adventure.”

  Harriet sipped and let the hot fluid do its work, a warm glow spreading over her body. “I think you saved me life,” she said. “I owe you. But how’d you know where I was?”

  The monkey poured himself a cup of brandy and drank it down in one go. He poured a second and set it on his little work table, returning to his sewing.

  “I kept our evening rendezvous. I found things at the Laundry in a state of... disarray. Climbing in through the window, I saw signs of violence and smelled gunpowder.”

  “And me mum,” said Harriet. “Did you find me mum?”

  “Oui, mademoiselle.” The basket creaked. Canvas fluttered in the night breeze. The Moon looked on, cold and silent. “Je suis désolé.”

  Sibelius tied off a knot in the thread and bit it between his teeth. He folded the canvas neatly, laying it to one side. He relit his pipe and took another swig of his brandy. “So I set out to find you. It was bonne chance that I noticed the fighting in the marketplace.”

  “I’m so sorry she’s dead, Sibelius. She was strict an’ all that but she looked after me all right.”

  “To lose your maman.... ce n’est pas facile...”

  “But she ain’t me mum,” said Harriet. “She told me so before she died.”

  The monkey raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps, mademoiselle, you had better tell me your story.”

  Harriet told Sibelius everything that had happened from the moment she first heard the commotion downstairs to the point at which he had rescued her from the marketplace. When she had finished, she felt exhausted, as if she had lived it all over again.