Outlanders 37 Rim of the World, page 15
Kane paused in his pacing to scrutinize the model of the locomotive resting on a shelf.
"What's with the choo-choo?" Kane asked, prodding the miniature bell with a forefinger. It gave forth a feeble chime.
Inkula's staff darted out, the carved elephant's head rapping Kane's knuckles. "Don't touch that! It was a gift from Emperor N'gatawana himself."
Kane recoiled, massaging his hand. "Sorry," he snapped angrily. "I didn't know this was your favorite toy."
"Old 88 is not a toy," Inkula stated with equal heat. "It is a work of art built by Emperor N' gatawana's own hands."
"He was a train fancier?" Brigid asked, shooting Kane an icy glare that meant she expected him to be on his diplomatic best.
Pakari nodded, her full lips creasing in a reverential smile. "My father was a fancier of many things, particularly mechanical marvels made in the predark. He had the gift."
"Emperor N' gatawana was a brilliant man," Inkula said. "He was voracious in his curiosities. He sought to learn all about the world, before and after the skies grew dark. Science, engineering, politics and religion— all of them fascinated him. He was particularly fascinated by Americans, believing them to be heroic but foolish, well-meaning but deluded, magnificent in their dreams but flawed in their spirits."
None of the Cerberus people responded.
"It was the Americans who built Old 88, you see," Inkula continued as if by rote. "Back in 1888. Built by Pittsburgh and Western, consolidation type, a 4-4-4. The emperor thought Old 88 to be a masterpiece of engineering, a work of art. When he found her on a yard near Stanley Falls many years ago, restoring her became his life's work."
Kane flicked his gaze from the model to Inkula's face. Dubiously he asked, "He rebuilt a three-hundred year-old steam locomotive?"
"He did indeed."
"Why? Occupational therapy?"
"Hardly," Inkula retorted. "It was the emperor's contribution to the ritual of choosing a ruler. He felt the pilgrimage to the rim of the world should not be one of suffering a long trek on foot, but should be a joyous procession, with whistles blowing and bells ringing."
"If my father had one regret in his life, it was that he did not live long enough to pilot the first pilgrimage of Old 88," Princess Pakari said.
Brigid's eyes widened. "Are you saying this train is functional?"
Inkula shrugged. "We have no idea. It has never been tested since the emperor joined his ancestors three years ago. But I think we should do so in the near future...certainly before the Moon wanes."
"And Utu returns," DeFore stated grimly.
"Can you show us Old 88?" Grant asked.
"I'd rather take a look at the Collar of Prester John," Brigid put in. "That seems a bit more relevant."
Inkula turned toward her, lips stretching in a patronizing smile. "The collar and Old 88 are now as one."
Brigid gazed at the old man, perplexed. "I don't understand."
Inkula beckoned to her with a forefinger. "Come."
THE JUNGLE ERUPTED in a cacophony of squawks and squalls. Birds and monkeys expressed noisy outrage at the invaders.
"I don't think they appreciate us being here," Pakari murmured, gazing up at the vine-draped trees.
"I know how they feel," Kane muttered, slapping at a winged bug that landed on the back of his neck.
The tangled forest of the Usumbur Tract closed in on them with every yard of the path they walked. Kane would not have been surprised to actually see the vines and branches growing, reaching out to engulf them. The trail they followed was almost completely swallowed by the mass of green growth, but no one complained, not even DeFore.
Inkula led the way unerringly through the foliage although Kane and Grant's senses were on full alert for any signs of poisonous snakes, spiders or scorpions. Neither man retained fond memories of the other jungles and swamps they had traipsed through. Deadly vermin always seemed to lie in wait for intruders.
When Grant cursed and struck at a stinging insect on his arm, Pakari turned toward him. "Are you all right?" she asked, her expression and tone very solicitous.
Grant shrugged. "I guess the bugs hereabout prefer dark meat. But they don't seem interested in you or Inkula."
"I'll show you why." She broke off the stem of a hanging plant and squeezed out a pale green fluid into the palm of her hand.
Vigorously she rubbed her hands together for a few seconds, then swept them both over Grant's face and neck. She kept her eyes fixed on his all the while, saying softly, "This should bring some relief."
DeFore fanned the air in front of her face and walked around them. "I wish I'd thought to bring insect repellant."
With slow, languorous motions, Pakari applied a film of the juice to Grant's arms. "There is a lot of you to cover," she commented with a sly smile. "You are very much like N'gatawana."
Too hot and bug bit to care if he seemed rude, Kane reached around the princess and snapped off a stem from the same plant. He imitated her actions, spreading the fluid onto his face.
In response to a questioning look from her, he said curtly, "Sorry, but the bugs here seem to have a liking for my blood, too, the color of the packaging notwithstanding."
As he handed the stems to Brigid, he caught the brief, embarrassed eye play between Grant and Pakari, but he wasn't sure who looked the most uncomfortable. The girl was very pretty, but she was probably no older than eighteen.
Brigid applied the juice to her arms and face as they continued walking. The terrain became marshy, the air beginning to smell of swamp gas. Every step squished under their feet and released more of the vile rotten-egg odour.
Inkula led them carefully, testing the ground ahead with the tapered tip of his elephant-head staff. The sun blazed yellowly in the sky as it inched toward its zenith. The tract steamed in the noonday heat, the bright light glimmering from the surface of a sluggishly flowing stream. Crocodiles basking on its muddy banks caught sight of them and skidded into the water.
The six people entered a tunnel of trees, walking a path beneath intertwined boughs and branches. The brilliant sunlight was reduced to a dim flicker between the leafy limbs high overhead. Monkeys chattered among them.
Then through the screen of underbrush, Kane spotted a metallic glint. Clearing his sweat-stung eyes with his fingers, he saw a long, tall structure made of corrugated tin, almost completely covered by vines and creepers. The building had no walls, only support beams and a slanting roof. Beneath it, a gigantic black object loomed.
Inkula cast a toothless grin over his shoulder at Kane and gestured with the elephant head. "Old 88."
Chapter 18
The ancient locomotive stood in the shadows of the cavernous hut, the giant wheels overgrown by weeds, black coachwork rust pitted but awesome in its size. From the tip of the cowcatcher to the rear wall of the cab housing, the machine measured twenty-five feet. The red-and-gold paint that had once inscribed lightning bolts on the boiler had long ago peeled away.
The high smokestack, shrouded by flowering vines, almost protruded through the slanted roof of the hut. The number 88 was inscribed on a brass plate below the headlight. The engine reminded the outlanders of a slumbering prehistoric beast, a behemoth of black cast-iron skin and heavy brass bones.
Kane and Grant looked into the cab, noting that the pilot wheel was in good condition as were the pressure gauges and the throttle, even though the glass covers were scratched and dirty. The interior smelled of hot metal and scorched oil, touching off memories in both men of their first encounter with Titano, the old mobile command post appropriated by their Lakota allies. But the locomotive looked in far better shape, even though it was at least a century older than the MCP.
"Quite the toy," Kane said.
Inkula's bony hands tightened in anger around the staff and Pakari glared at him, but neither of them objected to his casual label.
A passenger carriage was coupled to the fuel tender behind the engine, an open affair with twin rows of chairs, six to a side, and a surrey roof of tasseled canvas to keep off the sun and the rain.
Brigid examined the huge driver wheels, the pistons and the narrow-gauge tracks that stretched out from under the cowcatcher to disappear into the undergrowth. "Emperor N'gatawana went to a lot of trouble over this."
Pakari nodded. "He was very proud of how he restored Old 88. She has seventeen-by-twenty-inch cylinders and sixty-six-inch drivers, a wagon-top boiler and an extended front end. My father was a master mechanic. He completely overhauled her, put on a new stack and built all new water-injection valves."
"What about the rail line?" Grant asked, scraping away dried mud from one of the wooden ties with the toe of a boot. "Your old man didn't lay it down, did he?"
Pakari shook her head. "Most of it was already there, but my father cleared it, repaired the tracks and the ties."
DeFore dabbed at the perspiration beading on her upper lip. "What purpose did Old 88 serve before the skydark?"
"She used to make weekly runs from the copper mines in Jukiwati to Nairobi," Inkula stated. "The emperor often said she was a marvelous machine and would still be running, three hundred years later, if she hadn't been neglected for so long."
Favoring his injured leg, Grant pulled himself up
into the cab and experimentally tugged at the brake lever and the wheel. He inspected the firebox, the steam chest and the fuel tender. DeFore stood up on tiptoes, peering in. "What do you think?"
"About what?" he asked.
"Can this thing run?"
Grant shook his head. "I have no idea. It looks like it was built to last, but I don't know jack-shit about trains or steam engines." He glanced over at Brigid. "What about you?"
She shrugged. "The study of steam locomotives isn't really my area of expertise. They were obsolete by the mid-twentieth century. I'm not even up on the actual operational theory."
Pakari announced in a clear tone, "A Greek engineer of about the third century, Hero of Alexandria, developed the first form of a steam engine—a turbine called an aeolipile. It wasn't until the 1600s that a practical, although primitive, reciprocal steam engine was built. However, the first man to put a steam engine to industrial use was Thomas Newcomen of England, in the early eighteenth century."
All eyes turned toward her and the girl cast her gaze down at her feet, suddenly self-conscious. Kane and Brigid chuckled and DeFore asked Grant, "Does that answer your question?"
"The emperor was very meticulous in his attention to even the smallest detail," Inkula said. "Cosmetically Old 88 could use a once-over, but mechanically she is sound. A day or so of preparation and she will be ready to embark on her pilgrimage."
Kane impatiently brushed back a soggy strand of hair from his forehead. "A pilgrimage to where? And why?"
"I thought I explained that, wageni," replied Inkula impatiently. "So the rightful heir to the Waziri nation can be anointed."
"If Pakari and Laputara are equally entitled to the Waziri crown," Brigid said, "then wouldn't Laputara by necessity have to participate in the pilgrimage for the ceremony to be legitimate?"
"Laputara knows of our traditions and his father's wishes," Inkula stated grimly. "He scorns them. Therefore it is left to me to sponsor one or the other of Emperor N'gatawana's heirs. Since the emperor's death, Laputara has eliminated—murdered—all of the other contestants to the crown."
"We figured that out ourselves," Kane said dryly. "So what do you want of us?"
"To help Pakari reach the rim of the world," Inkula answered, "and achieve her destiny."
Kane raised his eyebrows at the old man and the girl. "And what do we get out of it?"
"Allies," Pakari stated stolidly, "to aid you in your opposition to overlord expansion. I thought that would be obvious."
"It is," Kane countered. "I just wanted to hear you say it."
"Isn't it a sufficient exchange, so the future of humanity won't be circumscribed by aliens reborn as ancient gods?"
Kane saw no need to reply. Not long ago the Cerberus warriors had been afforded a glimpse of their future, and it bore no relation to a world ruled by the overlords. According to the message conveyed to them from twenty-eight years hence, Sam the Imperator ruled in a pre-eminent position of global power following a long conflict called the Consolidation War, but there had been no mention of Annunaki involvement.
However, the actions undertaken by Kane, Grant and Brigid to make sure such a future never came to pass could have shifted probabilities sufficiently to set in motion an entirely new series of events, which in turn created a branching time line.
Or, he reflected bleakly, the rebirth of the Annunaki was always predestined—the future of the Consolidation War was the aberration, the accident. Something he had done or had yet to do or not do—brought that alternate timeline into existence.
"Where's this rim of the world supposed to be?" Kane asked.
Inkula saluted the jungle in a southern direction. "About a hundred miles that way. On the old, old maps it is known as Magebali Kwa Belewagi."
Double lines of consternation appeared at the bridge of Brigid Baptiste's nose. "That translates as 'Mountain of the Apes,' unless I'm very much mistaken."
"You are not," Pakari assured her. "It is there where the legends say Prester John has a hidden vault which holds the only surviving icons of his reign."
"I don't think I like the sound of that." Brigid eyed the girl distrustfully. "Icons like what?"
"No one knows," Pakari answered. "No one has ever seen them since Prester John pent them up there almost a thousand years ago. Only the collar will allow the vault to open. Those are the legends, the traditions of my people."
"If that's the case," rumbled Grant, "why didn't Shaka open it?"
"It's possible he tried," Inkula said. "And failed."
"Or," interjected Kane, "there isn't actually a vault to open. It could all be nothing but a fairy tale."
Princess Pakari's lips compressed and she squared her shoulders, turning to face him. "My father would not have undertaken such a task as rebuilding this train because of a fairy tale, Mr. Kane. He envisioned the pilgrimage to the sacred mountain as a great pageant, one with much pomp and ceremony as Old 88 carried the heirs across the Waziri nation to claim the Waziri throne."
Thoughtfully, Grant said, "There's a hell of a lot more to this than fairy tales if an overlord is involved." He cut his eyes over to Brigid. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
A faint smile touched her lips. "If you're thinking that the icons of Prester John's reign were of Annunaki manufacture, perhaps made by Utu himself, and that for some reason the pilgrimage to the Mountain of the Apes must take place so can he reclaim them once the vault is opened, yes, we are thinking the same thing."
"If you're right," DeFore commented nervously, "then there's no reason to assume Utu will return when the Moon wanes...two days from now. He could be waiting for us at the village right now."
Pakari's golden eyes flashed with sudden fright. She turned to Inkula. "Do you think so?"
"No," Inkula responded calmly.
"And why not?" Kane challenged.
"Because Overlord Utu needs the Collar of Prester John. And he needs Laputara to recover it for him. They won't take precipitous action against us before the collar is in their hands. Utu is acting as Laputara's sponsor, as I act as Pakari's."
DeFore cast him a narrow-eyed glance. "Isn't that a breach of the protocols of choosing the heir? As the keeper of the collar, it seems to me you would be expected to be as non-partisan as possible."
Inkula sighed, leaning on his staff. "Times change and laws that were once immutable must change with them. This is not the Africa of Prester John or of Shaka...or even of Emperor N' gatawana. But the hearts of good women and good men do not change. Pakari's heart is good. She cares about her people—she is the true queen of the Waziri. Laputara is mad, and he will kill Pakari if he has the chance. But he will not dare to move against her once she wears the collar, even if he is in league with Utu."
Brigid declared, "Obviously Utu believes the collar is more than a fashion accessory...and it just as obviously serves as key to Prester John's vault. But why does he want Laputara to have it? Why can't he just take it and use it himself without an intermediary?"
Pakari nibbled at her underlip. "I don't understand."
Grant leaned out of the cab of the locomotive, saying, "Utu needs either you or Laputara to have possession of the collar. It's got nothing to do with the legal line of succession. Both you and your half brother are nothing but pawns in whatever game he's running. For all we know, he could have been forbidden to take direct, hands-on actions by the Supreme Council."
Kane nodded distractedly, turning toward Inkula. "You said Old 88 and the collar were as one. What did you mean by that?"
A smile stretched the corners of Laputara's lips. He called out, "Mr. Grant, would you open the grate to the firebox there?"
Grant's perspiration-filmed brow creased. Bending down, he saw a square hinged door made of thick, slotted metal a couple of feet above floor level. He fumbled with the catch and realized that it and the hinges were oiled. The grate opened easily without so much as a squeak.
"Now what?" he called.
"Reach in," Inkula responded, "and bring out what you find."
Grant hesitated. "What if it's a black mamba?"
Inkula's smile widened. "They prefer the wet places near water where the prey is plentiful. Such snakes would not nest up inside of a steam engine's boiler."
Under his breath, Grant muttered, "Says you," but he extended his arm, reaching into the opening.
At first he felt nothing but a layer of powdery ashes and the debris of long-ago fires, but after a few moments of groping, his fingers brushed a slick, pliable surface. He almost jerked his arm back, then recognized the material as oilcloth.
Carefully, Grant withdrew a wrapped bundle and climbed down from the engine cab. "Hell of a safe, old man. What makes you so sure Laputara wouldn't think to look in there?"
