Cat Karina (18 page)

“Karina?”

“Who else? Now, some people might call that a coincidence. Others would perhaps call it opportunism. And then,” Herrero smiled coldly, “there are others who are using the word sabotage.…”

El Tigre took a quick step forward. His fingers hooked into claws.

Dozo caught his arm. “Not worth it, El Tigre.”

Herrero stopped smiling. “Meanwhile, El Tigre, I’ll leave you with a thought. If you’ve taken unusual steps to help Captain Tonio in his present difficulties, that’s your business. He will still have to beat me, to win the race. But are you sure you can trust him, this partner of yours? Will he return the favor?”

“I tell you,” snarled El Tigre, “I do no favors for any True Human!”

But Dozo was watching Tonio, seeing the color drain out of the True Human’s face, seeing his hands twisting together, the fingers white.

Dozo looked from Tonio to El Tigre, thoughtfully.

“When a felino’s shruglegger dies,” said Haleka, “he replaces it. If a captain’s sailcar should be irreparably damaged, he builds another. If a mountain-man’s llama falls down a cliff, well, it will always leave the kids behind to take up the burden. But when a tump dies, what does the tumpier do? It cannot be replaced or repaired. And it certainly cannot have children. So the tumpier is useless without his tump.”

“Don’t talk like that,” said Karina. Evening approached, and she and her sisters sat beside the errant tump. The animal had ceased its downhill crawl only because it had reached the sailway. Now it pushed against the southbound running rail, having already demolished the lee guiderail. Its body heaved with effort and it snorted hugely from the nostrils near the top of its head. Messages had been sent and traffic halted.

“I inherited this tump from my father, and he from his father,” said Haleka.

“And so on, back until the first tump crawled from the Whirst Institute, mounted by the first tumpier,” suggested Teressa with a hint of laughter.

“Shut up, Tess.”

Haleka continued, “I have a son. He’s an apprentice over Torres way, and he would have mounted this tumo when I died. But now — I have nothing to leave him, and I have no reason for my own existence.”

“This stuff’s
good
, said Runa, munching on the narcotic herb
falla
.

“There’s a car coming,” said Saba.

In fact two cars came rolling eastwards on the light evening air. The first was
Estrella del Oeste
of the patched sails, the Pegman swinging from the shrouds and gibbering like an ape, then suddenly calling upon Fate in a voice which carried across the plain: “I demand that you change happentracks! I request an immediate transfer! Corriente, where are you?”

The second car was newer, a light passenger craft bearing Maquinista and a number of Specialists. The two cars drew up and the workers rushed for the damaged track, some gathering around the tump and trying to lead it away from the wreckage.

“You’re wasting your time,” said Haleka.

Meanwhile, Maquinista and Karina confronted each other.

Karina said, “You see, I’m still alive. Your crocodiles couldn’t kill me — not for want of trying.”

“Did they … hurt you?”

“Well, what do you think?”

He regarded her steadily. “But you didn’t tell El Tigre. Why not?”

“I fight my own battles. And Cocodrilo is dead, isn’t he? Perhaps you’ll be next, True Human bastard.”

Maquinista looked at her for a moment longer, just long enough for something behind her eyes to disturb him profoundly, then he turned back to the tump. “Pegman, dismantle both tracks. We’re going to have to let the brute through, then repair the tracks behind it.”

“We don’t have time! Darkness approaches on leathery wings!”

“I’ll provide the light.”

“I hope you have your prayers ready,” said the Pegman more seriously, “otherwise Agni may consume us all.”

“I find a jug of water much more useful than prayers, in these situations,” said Maquinista drily, and dispatched a Specialist to the beach. He then fetched a pot filled with a tarry substance from the sailcar, beat sparks from a pair of stones, and kindled a bright yellow flame and quantities of thick black smoke.

The Pegman and the girls sighed with superstitious awe, but the little Specialists were used to such marvels.

“No good will come of such heresy,” said Haleka.

“The Wrath of Agni is good for cooking, too,” said Maquinista. “Cut me a piece of that tump, Haleka.”

“Never!” The tumpier was trembling with outrage.

Work went on through the night, and shortly before dawn Haleka was able to ride the tump through the gap, while the Specialists lay in exhausted sleep. Teressa, Runa and Saba slept too, curled up together; but Karina stayed awake in case Haleka needed help, while Maquinista and the Pegman fashioned makeshift jacks for use in replacing the heavy rails in their gantries.

“I’m coming with you, Haleka,” said Karina.

“That’s entirely up to you.” His voice was flat, his shoulders slumped.

Saba awakened. “Aren’t you coming to Torres with us, Karina? It’ll be fun there — much more fun than Rangua. Not so many people know us. It’s going to be the best festival ever. The Pegman’s taking us.”

“I’ll see you later,” said Karina. She looked around the temporary camp. The black humps of the Specialists’ tents were appearing in the first light of dawn. The Pegman slept, murmuring as he loved his lost Corriente in his dreams. Maquinista slept too, one arm thrown over his face, the tarpot smouldering beside him, spitting yellow sparks.

Saba had gone back to sleep, her arm around Runa.

Haleka dozed on the back of the tump which, as though realizing there was no longer any urgency, had slowed to a crawl.

Carefully, quietly Karina picked up the tarpot by its wooden handle and crept through the camp in the direction of Maquinista’s sailcar. She would set fire to the car and it would burn there, blocking the track and delaying the race further. And Maquinista would be blamed for kindling the wrath of Agni, and the Canton Lord’s guards would come and get him. And it would serve him right, for giving her to the cai-men.

She tilted the pot.

“No, Karina.”

The voice was cold and familiar. Karina’s heart gave a convulsive thump. She turned round.

The Dedo’s handmaiden stood there.

Karina put the pot down and began to edge away. This woman was bad enough in daylight. In the half-light of dawn, standing tall in her black robes with the devastation of her face lurking unseen like a shadowed monster, she was the distillation of all the childhood nightmares Karina had ever screamed through.

“Stay.”

“Well, I must get to Haleka. I’m worried about him. I think he needs me.”

“I’m sorry, Karina. You can’t go with him. You must accompany your sisters to Torres. That’s the Dedo’s plan.”

“Why do I have to hurt someone I like?” Karina said. “You made me run out on that poor little man Siervo, and he died. Now you want me to run out on Haleka. What will happen to him?”

“He will die.”

“And if I stay with him?”

“He will live a few years longer. Just a few years, Karina. It’s nothing compared to the sweep of the Ifalong.”

“But it’s a hell of a lot to Haleka!”

“You gave your word, Karina,” said the handmaiden.

Karina gazed down towards the ocean, where the slumped silhouette of Haleka could be seen atop his doomed tump, and her eyes filled with tears.

The tortugas had been stowed aboard the sailcars and the mountainmen relaxed, lazing about the yard in the morning sun, waiting for the race to start. The little monkey-like Specialists were finished too; the rails greased, the wooden bearings likewise. Each car carried its own supply of grease for use at Stages. Resting quietly in that fringe of the yards where the low brush merged into the jungle were the cai-men.

Tonio saw all this through a frenzy of impatience as the Specialists worked on
Rayo.

Things had gone badly in Maquinista’s absence. When daylight faded the Specialists downed tools, refusing to work by the light of the Wrath of Agni because, they said, this would provoke hostility among the more devout people in the crowded yard. Astrud and Raoul had arrived and, finding themselves targets for Tonio’s frustration, had spent the night in an empty cabin nearby while Tonio paced the silent deck of
Rayo
and muttered curses at the stars.

In the morning cat-girls had hung garlands of flowers around the captains’ necks. Tonio had kept his on for appearances’ sake, but the scent of the flowers was like a mockery.

At last Maquinista’s sail showed above the low coastal scrub. Tonio seized the engineer the moment he stepped down.

“The car isn’t ready. You assured me your men would finish in time, but they haven’t. Now they tell me they’ll be lucky if they finish by noon. And then we have to load.”

There was no animation in his voice. He’d had all night to get used to the idea. His face was gray with exhaustion.

Maquinista was exhausted too. As he turned away without replying his arm was caught in a strong grip.

It was El Tigre. “Engineer,” he said harshly, “Tell me about Karina.”

“She’s all right. It was a case of a
loco
tump and old Haleka happened to be the unlucky one, that’s all. So Karina was there. She did nothing wrong. After we’d fixed the track, she went with her sisters and the Pegman to Torres.”

El Tigre relaxed. There was even a glint of humor in his tawny eyes. “My girls can’t enjoy themselves when their father is around. Ah, well. The Festival is a time when we shed our inhibitions. I wouldn’t have spoiled their fun here, but they couldn’t have known that.”

“I never had any children,” said Maquinista.

For a moment the two men, the Specialist and the True Human, stood in the silence of mutual understanding, then Tonio intruded.

“Yes, but what about
Rayo
?” The color was in his cheeks and he looked fevered. He still had a chance. He might not be among the leaders leaving the yards, but he could still catch them. Every second counted. “Come and speak to your men, Maquinista! Get them started!”

El Tigre said, “I’ll see you at North Stage, Captain Tonio.” He turned away and strode south, along the rutted path beside the track.

Tonio flushed and glanced at Maquinista.

The engineer said, “The race only lasts a few days. What about the rest of your life, Tonio? El Tigre is a powerful man.”

“Not so powerful as the Canton Lord,” said Tonio. He tried to laugh, but it came out as an asinine bray of despair.

“Between Bantus and the Behemoth, eh, Tonio?”

“What’s that? Bantus …?” The unfamiliar name struck a strange and fearful chord in Tonio’s mind.

“Just a saying,” Maquinista said, glancing at him. The engineer was becoming seriously concerned. Tonio showed every sign of cracking up. He hoped he was in good enough shape to handle
Rayo
.…

Now the sails were hoisted and the flags snapped, multicolored, in the breeze. The guiderails groaned and the sailcars shuddered with potential energy, held in check by big wedges jammed under the running wheels. Crews waited tensely on the decks. Captains and their families leaned nonchalantly on the afterrails, chatting to their agents, fooling nobody.

On the most westerly track, one car had not yet raised its sails. A frenzied crowd loaded tortugas into the hold, True Human working side by side with Specialist. A chain was formed, passing tortugas down the line; and Tonio was there, and Astrud and Raoul, a dozen Specialists, and Maquinista. A couple of cai-men watched, grinning widely but making no attempt to help.

Herrero shouted across, “See you later, Tonio. If ever!”

And a burst of laughter came from the other cars, relieving tension.

Then the Yardsman mounted his rostrum, and seven cai-men took hold of seven ropes.

“Ready?”

Each captain raised his hand.

The cai-men tensed. They were employed on this important task because they, of all men, were least likely to do any favors.

The Yardsman gave the traditional cry:

“
Volad!
”

The cai-men jerked the chocks away. The sailcars slid forward.

The annual Tortuga Race was on.

And now the most important people in the yards were two small Specialists known as Mountain Switcher and Ocean Switcher. Mountain Switcher is less important, and you rarely hear his name mentioned in the Song of Earth. He is there, certainly, but merely as a counterpart to Ocean Switcher.

Ocean Switcher was a small, brown-faced man of about forty years, who lived with his tiny wife and seven children of varying ages in a tree-house on the fringes of the delta. He was an independent mechanic, which is to say that after fifteen years of working under a True Human engineer he had branched out on his own.

Ocean Switcher, who was once called Da Para, prospered. It had become customary, whenever a crippled car arrived at Rangua, for the captain to cry, “Send for Da Para!” And Da Para would come, posthaste, a tiny figure bouncing on top of a galloping mule. He would fix the problem with nimble fingers and surprising strength, he was less expensive than the True Human engineers such as Maquinista, and he was never rumored to use the Wrath of Agni. In short, he was a good man.

Seven years before the time of our story he received the ultimate honor for a monkey-Specialist: he was put in charge of one of the complex switches at the tortuga yards. Although he exercised this duty only once a year, the position was considered so important that his name was officially changed, and Da Para became Ocean Switcher all year round.

So the sailcars rolled towards the place where eight tracks became two. Here stood Ocean Switcher and Mountain Switcher, each with a team of assistants, each team holding its heavy switching rail. The switchers watched the Mark — a gaunt windswept tree standing alone some fifty meters away.