[Memory] The Waves

[moralhazard]

Evening, Hamis 21, 2716
Breckenridge Refinery, Outskirts of the Rose

Bit by bit, Aremu put the path back together. He tightened, and wriggled, and wiped clean; he settled bolts back into place and screwed them tight, found where the handwheels and fittings and all the rest had been meant to go, one by one, working step by step through the lines that would bring the aetherium carbide in contact with the steam, that would channel all the heat and energy necessary to extract the raw aetherium and harden it back into crystal form.

He found, if he focused enough, that he wasn’t so conscious of Tom. He scarcely noticed each time the other man eased gently around him in the close dark.

There was certainly plenty to focus on. The patterns were clear in his mind, and he traced them along unceasingly, navigating carefully through the delicate work, the tight space; slowly, he aligned the equipment to bring them back to life. There were pieces that were missing; he would need to tell someone about them, he thought.

With each step in the progression, Aremu waited, and wondered, and half expected that – yes – here, they would need to stop and go no further. Here, there would be an impasse. But to his surprise, every time there was a way forward, a way around, so that it almost felt oddly deliberate to Aremu. It squirmed, uncomfortable, in his stomach, and he tried not to think about it; the thoughts took him out of himself enough that he found himself glancing, unerringly, to the patch of darkness where Tom stood, arms crossed over his chest. In the dim, he couldn’t quite pick out the expression on the other man’s face, and he was abruptly ashamed of himself for trying, ashamed of himself for wanting to know –

Aremu turned his focus back to the equipment, and kept going. In time he passed the heavy containment chamber, and then he was following the path of the reactor’s out, past the cooling tube, to where – if the gods favored Uzoji, because Aremu was not such a fool as to think they might favor him – they might yet find aetherium, some time before the dawn.

On this side of the chamber, he had to wind himself in and amongst the equipment – to stretch himself out to reach, here and there. Several times, he thought of asking Tom for help, but – once, he did, when there was something high overhead which needed tightening, and then he left the wrench in place and retreated back, away, to fiddle with his screwdriver at the containment chamber.

Once.

“Aremu?” Uzoji’s voice drifted through the space around the pipes.

Aremu jerked, caught the wrench he’d nearly dropped, and felt his whole body go nearly limp with relief. “Ea, iora?” He called, and kept his voice as light as he could manage.

Uzoji’s chuckle was audible, too. Aremu gave the last of the fixtures one last tightening squeeze, and made his way back to the heavy pipe that blocked them off from the rest of it, holding close.

“So?” Uzoji asked, and Aremu understood all the rest from that one word.

“Better than it has any right to be,” Aremu said, and he shrugged, as if Uzoji could see him. “The last piece is before you.”

Aremu thought he could almost hear Uzoji thinking it over. “Lifted?” He asked, and for once Aremu heard a note of caution in his voice.

“Yes,” Aremu rebuffed it, firmly. He eased his knife of the belt of his pants, set it down, and shoved the wrench and screwdriver more firmly into his belt. He knew without asking that Uzoji would wait for his signal.

Aremu glanced around, and then back at Tom, lifting his gaze up to meet the human’s for a moment. He hesitated, wanting to reassure him, and then knew himself a fool, if he hadn’t before. “Stay back – at the chamber,” he gestured, and left it at that. It was better that way, Aremu thought; he would not make a fool of himself with the assumption that this – that any of it – he was content to think that if the worst happened, he wouldn’t get anyone else hurt with what he meant to do.

The Mugrobi would have prayed, if he had thought it would make any difference. He eased himself up onto one of the tanks nearly, and then climbed from there, clinging to the ceiling. Carefully, he hooked his legs through the pipe that ran along the ceiling – took the screwdriver between his teeth again and the wrench in his hand, and let himself dangle, upside down, at the spot where the pipes Tom had lifted so arduously before would need to be brought together with all the rest of it. He took the deepest breath he could manage, and called, without hesitation: “Now!”

There had been plenty to fill the time Collingwood needed.

Niccolette had not, in the end, minded sitting down, after she had washed her face clean. She had even closed her eyes. Biscuit had found her lap, and had immediately set about prickling holes into her skirt with her claws, rubbing an impressive amount of fur into her skirt. Niccolette, naturally, had scowled, but Uzoji had caught her petting the cat when she thought no one was looking. He had eased his gaze away, smoothly enough that he didn’t think she’d noticed.

Uzoji did not think Osborne, Rowland or Aiden had ever quite become comfortable, but then they had not been comfortable to start. He tried to keep the talking required of Collingwood to a minimum, but there were diagrams to look at, and spells to read over, carefully, spells he himself had not cast before. He read them, and although he did not try to memorize them, in such a short time, he familiarized himself with the rhythms of the monite, so he would not be caught off-guard by any of it while casting.

Better, Uzoji thought, not to burden Collingwood with his and Niccolette’s presence during what he knew would be a long and painful walk down from the office, across the factory floor – out, into the steadily pouring rain and across the yard to the reactor, wherever it was.

“Perhaps Aiden could show us to the reactor?” Uzoji suggested, turning to the man with the lantern. Uzoji knew that if it could be fixed, Aremu would do it – but there was no sense in hurrying Collingwood, or in forcing the walk on him if the mechanics of the reactor proved to be beyond repair.

Niccolette shook out her skirts. Biscuit held firmly on. The Bastian scowled down at the cat, and then looked pleadingly up at Uzoji.

Uzoji very successfully kept from laughing, scratching the cat behind the ears and easing her off of his wife’s lap, her claws pricking one last time at Niccolette’s skirt. He cradled the cat against his chest for a moment, scratching her behind the ears, and then gently set her down. By then Niccolette had risen, and she swept her skirts away from the resumption of Biscuit’s attentions.

They followed Aiden out into the sweeping, driving rain, followed his bobbing lantern and heavy walk through the yard, to where a glimmer of light was just visible inside an open fence. Marlin was inside, leaning against the door, and he started to his feet when they entered.

Uzoji sent Aiden back on the strength of Aremu’s words. “Thank you, Aiden,” He said, smiling. “Tell Collingwood we’ll need him here, when he feels ready.”

Uzoji watched until Aremu gave him the word; he could see his friend, just barely, the light glinting off of his bare stomach as he hung upsidedown. Niccolette held back against the wall.

Uzoji began to cast, his gaze focused on the heavy pipes, his field swirling around him. He felt the weight of it as the mona began to lift the pipe, circling and flowing around it, taking away the force of gravity until it began to rise, steadily, into the air. Uzoji curled the spell, and held it in place, the upkeep whistling through his mind.

Aremu swung himself beneath it, and began to work, frowning intently. He secured the first half as quickly as he could, just enough – shimmied across the pipe as Uzoji held it up, and secured the other half, still dangling from the ceiling.

Uzoji released the spell in a long whoosh of air, coughing slightly, and straightened up, taking a long, deep breath. He was conscious of the trust Aremu had placed in him – not surprised, but conscious, and grateful for the other man, not for the first time. Niccolette had stirred behind him, but didn’t move, which Uzoji felt was an impressive victory.

The pipe groaned, faintly, but held. Aremu finished his work and dropped to a crouch on the ground with a soft thud. He rose, cracking his neck against his hand, and grinned. He walked beneath the heavy pipe without reservations. He glanced back behind him, and Uzoji could just barely see Tom, lingering at the far end of the corridor of equipment. He met his eyes, as best as he could in the dark, and nodded, once, very firmly.

“Hot in here,” Uzoji said, cheerfully, turning away with no further comment. He glanced back at Niccolette. “Will it…?”

“No,” Niccolette shrugged. “I do not think it should be an issue.”

Aremu settled against the wall next to her, and Niccolette glanced him over professionally. She grimaced and raised her eyebrows at the sight of the bloody smear on his calf. Aremu shrugged, and Niccolette made a little face, but nodded, acceptingly, resting against the wall only a few inches from her crewmate.

Uzoji nodded, smiling, and settled his hands into his pockets. “We might just pull this off,” he said, and grinned. He had never doubted, not really; how could he?

Rolls

Pipe lifting spell: SidekickBOTToday at 12:08 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (4) = 4

[Tom Cooke]

Breckenridge Refinery • The Rose

Evening on the 21st of Hamis, 2716

It had been, for Collingwood, a very long two hours. He knew that it had been two because he had watched the hands tick by on the small office clock; he had tried to measure the feeling in his chest, the strength in his limbs, by the minute. He had tried to tell himself, Thirty more minutes, and I’ll be ready, as if minutes and hours were more than a drop in the great ocean of recovery. Though the breath came more easily, it still came through raw, agitated lungs that could only bear so much, and itched with what they could bear; and he could feel the static mona in the air around him, connected but closed off, like old friends that had been hurt and needed more time and space than he could afford to give them.

The hours had been occupied enough, still. Collingwood had noticed – but elected, wisely, not to draw attention to – the (perhaps surprisingly reciprocal) warming of Biscuit to Niccolette. He had been grateful for Uzoji’s polite distance and for his patience, but he’d known well enough what he must do. Rowland, ballach that he was, had gotten rid of the dirty bowl quietly. With no shame in his face or in his field, Norton had allowed Osborne to help him to his feet; he’d allowed John to walk him, step by step, to the desk, supporting his shaking limbs, pausing when he needed to pause.

And there, he and Mr. Ibutatu had gone over the plans.

Minute by minute, his voice had grown stronger. Once, he’d traced the line of a drafted plot with a fingertip that didn’t tremble, discovering a shortcut through the spell that had required his now-blasted prodigium; he’d even wagered the worth of laughter to outweigh its expense – and he’d wagered well.

He had noticed, now and then, the sheen of wavering candlelight on the other galdor’s scarred palm. It was subtle, but up close, it was unmistakable. It had made him strangely conscious of the bandaged hand in his lap; he remembered – in a flash whose vividness was almost as painful as the event itself – the searing, ice-cold sensation of grabbing the stove-hot metal pipe for support, minutes before the smoke had rendered him unconscious. He was not so crude as to stare at Mr. Ibutatu’s palm, but whenever his eyes fell on it, by chance, he wondered if his palm would look similar, when the gauze came off. When it had – healed.

Norton Collingwood had thought his life would end in this tiny office, castaway in the remote, rainswept, indistinct landscape outside. He had not thought he would ever see his hand again without bandages; he had not thought he would live to know what the memory of the smoke would imprint on his lungs in a year, two, three. Uzoji Ibutatu was going through the spellwork with him, finding the rhythm of the change clauses, and Collingwood was remembering his wife’s study of lungs, and he was wondering, perhaps foolishly.

The time for wondering and for planning was over, soon enough. It was Aiden, the poor lad, who had the privilege of showing the galdori to the reactor. This time, Collingwood watched Mr. Ibutatu remove Biscuit from his wife’s lap with appreciation, his tired face warming as the other galdor held his cat gently and scratched her behind the ears. More than anything, Collingwood appreciated Mr. Ibutatu’s discernment. Making his way to the desk in their company had been necessary for him; making his way to the reactor would be worse by far.

Aiden and his lantern and the galdori took their leave of the office, and Collingwood let himself sigh – a strange privilege – and sag against the desk. John stood close by; he didn’t ask if Norton was all right. Soon enough, Aiden came back, dazed as ever, with news that Collingwood was needed.

So be it. “Stay here, Mr. Wheeler,” said Norton softly.

Then, Rowland took the lantern, the light washing over his long, sour face and drawing the lines all in black ink. At a gruelling-slow pace, he led Osborne and Collingwood out of the office.

Little to be said of the walk from the office to the reactor. Biscuit followed, but she managed to avoid weaving in and out of their legs, for once. Collingwood would remember it, later, but in a dazed, dreamy, half-blotted-out sort of way. Occasionally, he had a jolt of awareness – I’m at the top of the stairs! That machine – how far have we gotten? Someone is helping me put on my coat; I’m about to go outside, into the rain; the lantern is too bright; it’s cold, so cold; gods help me.

For most of the walk, he held the spell in his mind. He shut his eyes, and he could see Monite imprinted across the backs of them, each piece of the script glowing brightly against the dark. Rowland’s eyes were set firmly ahead; he pushed through the dark and through the rain like a stranded soldier through the desert. John Osborne held Collingwood aright, and sheltered him from the rain. If the human noticed that his eyelids flickered, that his thin lips moved, occasionally, though no words came out of them, he said nothing, and he didn’t fear the whispers of motion in the buzz of Collingwood’s field.

The reactor came suddenly. Norton opened his eyes when he felt the warmth wash over his face, and nothing could have prepared him for the sight. It was –

(The air, clearing of mona, empty, ringingly empty! His eyes burning; his face burning; the breath in his lungs, fire, fire. The garbled voices of men, but no one to come find him, no help, and soon, no thought of help, no thought but the awful press and the heat. He grabbed something cold, and then he heard the shriek of warped, breaking metal, and felt the motion, and the floor shook with it –)

Collingwood licked his lips, looking at the empty floor with the remains of his plot. His eyes adjusted to the soft light of the two lanterns. They flicked around, unable even to take in the other galdori in the room, not until they rose to the set of heavy pipes above the passageway. The spittle stung his throat as he swallowed; the air was terribly warm, but it was terribly cold in his throat, and the sweat that beaded in the small of his back could have been ice.

– might just pull this off, a voice was saying. Collingwood blinked and looked up and over. He saw Uzoji Ibutatu’s grinning face in the half-light, the loose ease of his posture, his hands in his pockets.

He had been leaning rather heavily on John. He patted the human’s arm, then attempted to straighten up. He took the air into his lungs, and it stung and tickled; he managed to suppress the coughs, this time. He smiled neatly at the younger galdor. “I should hope we shall,” he replied matter-of-factly, “after all this trouble.” His eyes glittered.

He looked around, then, first at Ms. Ibutatu, standing nearby; then at the young man leaning on the wall beside her, a man he did not know. A galdor, by the looks of him. Perhaps another of Ibutatu’s crew? He did not know. He inclined his head and shoulders respectfully – he could not quite manage a full bow – and then glanced over, down the passageway, at a spot of movement. The lantern faintly illuminated him: a human, and a rather large one, ducking and hunching his way around the pipes. His dark eyes fell on Collingwood, then on Osborne, and he gave a subtle nod.

Collingwood could feel the tightening in Osborne’s posture. Osborne did not return his nod, but ground his jaw. Norton thought he would ask later, perhaps, then decided against it.

“Collingwood,” he murmured, “Norton,” not quite bowing to the human, but turning his smile back on Mr. Ibutatu and the other Mugrobi galdor. Something struck him strangely about him; Marlin stood nearby with a faintly amused expression. He wondered if the gentleman would be joining them to cast in chorus, and though he did not want to press, he reached out with his field to caprise –

– and then paused, and then let the mona settle back. There was a flicker of discomfort on his face; smoothly, he afforded the passive the same smile he had afforded the other galdori, and, if introduced, would offer him another bow.

After a moment, he urged Osborne to lead him out a little further in the room. “Well, if we are all ready?” He glanced brightly between Mr. and Mrs. Ibutatu. He paused, however, before beginning. His eyes lingered on Mr. Ibutatu, and he opened his mouth and then closed it, thinking better; and then he opened it again.

“Assuming we survive this nonsense” – he inclined his head to Mrs. Ibutatu, then to Mr. Ediwo – “I should very much like to invite you to dinner. I have a house on the waterfront, and if ever you are in the Rose…”

Tom’d never get used to it, though he reckoned it wasn’t his lot to.

He heard the poetry roll off Uzoji’s tongue, and he felt that heavy thickness in the air, a little vague at this distance, and he thought – all he could think was the look Aremu’d given him, just before he’d told him to stay back. And he’d stood there, tucked in the dark, watching the shape of him as he moved up onto a tank, climbed the pipes easily, tangled himself round to hang from the pipes along the ceiling.

Uzoji’s poetry wrapped itself round the fallen pipes, it seemed to Tom, and lifted them up easier than if a dozen men’d done it; he squinted through the dark, at the hazy shape of Uzoji’s face, painted vaguely from the dark in the colors of the lanternlight. He searched Uzoji’s face for strain, and he couldn’t tell. He thought he could feel the air stretched taut, and he wondered if you had to borrow something from somewhere else to lift a pipe like that – like how water shifted and rose when you put something in it, like how it parted for the great heavy hull of a ship.

Mostly, he watched Aremu at work, the breath still in his chest. He knew nothing of voo; he knew little more of trust. He watched, and he wondered what it was like for Aremu, aboard that ship with its funny silverfish balloon and its plots and its engines. He thought about the burns on his hands, the tracery of old scars on his bare chest. Now, Uzoji was lifting up a heavy pipe; Tom thought of Uzoji’s poetry holding up an aeroship, and he wondered if the trust was proportional to the weight of the object.

He didn’t know very much about ohante.

But he wondered, too, in those tense seconds that lasted forever – not for the first time – what was it like? The galdori had ley lines, he knew that much; so did his hama. Some of them had ley lines that didn’t work. Without knowing why, without asking too many questions of the thought, Tom drew a line between those two thoughts. He didn’t know much about how Mugroba treated their passives. He tried to place Aremu on a map in a language he couldn’t read, a map he was holding upside-down, for all he knew. He didn’t know what trust and honor meant to Aremu Ediwo, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine it.

There’d been something sombering about the hours spent in the quiet, before Uzoji’s voice’d materialized in the small dark over the pipe. Now, the time for quiet and wondering was over. When the pipe held, he still waited ’til Aremu gave him the nod, and he nodded back, fair grateful. He didn’t trust voo, but he trusted Aremu’s trust, and so he moved cautiously away from the big tank he’d called the chamber, down the passage and out of the gloom. He nodded at Uzoji, too.

By the time he’d come halfway into the light, there was more movement by the door. He squinted, swabbing at his eyes with a dirty hand – regretting it – hissing a curse between his teeth, squinting again.

He recognized John Osborne before he recognized anybody else. He nodded, maybe a little tentative; Osborne’s jaw set, and he didn’t nod back, and Tom couldn’t say he expected any more or less. Best leave it, he thought.

Propped up against Osborne was a little kov, and Tom reckoned that had to be Norton Collingwood. He was thin as a rail, wrapped in a big, wooly coat, with layers underneath; he had the narrow, pinched face, scholarly, almost, Tom associated with lawyers and suchlike. He was speaking to Uzoji, and as Tom came out, he gave him a tenth of a bow and a polite little smile, which was fair decent for an Anaxi. He didn’t let his eyes linger on the bandaged hand, but he thought of Uzoji’s.

Aremu’d moved back over to take his place beside Niccolette. Tom noticed; he thought of how they’d acted round each other before, at the shipyard, and it left him wondering about Niccolette, this time. He took his own place by the door, near a smirking Marlin, safe-like away from all the plots and gollies. When Collie asked them to dinner, he suppressed a snort; his lip twitched in a wry little smile before he could help it.

Again, he felt a tightness in his guts, when the casting started. Again, he thought about trust.

With the air stirring, heating up, with the natt moving to work the machines – Tom thought of all the valves, all the little switches, they’d found homes for – he couldn’t think of anything but trust. Tom remembered galdori had plots called prodigia, that’d connect vroo casting – how’d they call it – in chorus. He imagined lines of trust in the air like a thread connecting every man, some threads more tenuous than others. They were thicker among the airship crew – thicker among Collie’s men, Tom thought, watching them work. Thinner lines, here and there, newly-woven, easily-broken.

Ne, he didn’t know much about ohante at all. But he reckoned there was enough trust here to get them all through; there tended to be, with Uzoji around. Often enough, he found himself watching Aremu’s face, something a little sad on his own scarred, heavy face. And when the poetry finally stopped, when Collie sagged against Osborne, when they found the aetherium at the end of the passage, he wondered at what trust could do.

Well, tonight, at least, it’d got an airship off the ground. Tonight, he was fair tired, and fair, fair glad to be alive. He supposed they all were – them that’d ever doubted they would be, at least.