“No.”
She fell silent, clearly taken aback by the flat, uncompromising tone of his refusal. “This plan is sound . . .”
“Colonel.” Hilemore’s voice was pitched just below a shout and he took a moment to calm his rising frustration before continuing. “Do you have any notion of what is happening in the rest of the world?”
She stared at him, confusion and anger adding a red tinge to her face. “Some kind of emergency,” she said. “Drakes and Spoiled running amok. Once the combined might of the corporate world is brought to bear on the savages and beasts . . .”
“Carvenport has fallen to those savages and beasts,” Hilemore broke in. “Morsvale has fallen. Feros has fallen and I daresay other cities have since shared their fate. The might of the corporate world has already been brought to bear and found wanting. And while the world burns this city tears itself apart without a drake in sight. I’ll have no part of your petty war. And if you are unwilling to sell me supplies, perhaps your friends across the water will be more amenable.”
Kulvetch’s face twisted into a snarl, her hands twitching, and Hilemore knew she was resisting the impulse to reach for her carbine. “You would treat with those scum?”
“To fulfil my mission I would treat with all the demons of the Travail.” Hilemore stood to attention and spoke in formal tones. “I am impressed with your achievements here, but you have no hope of victory. I am willing to mediate . . .”
“Piss on your mediation!” Kulvetch’s nostrils flared as she glared at him, breath becoming ragged in her fury. “I should shoot you . . .”
“Then you’ll have my ship’s guns to contend with alongside the Voters’ artillery.” Hilemore gave a salute, which she failed to return, and started towards the stairwell.
Instead of a single authority figure, the Voters presented him with a committee of six. Hilemore was depressed to find them all much the same age as Colonel Kulvetch, with a similarly steely look in their eyes which told him he was in for a very taxing meeting.
He had made his way to the eastern docks in the ship’s launch, standing at the prow with a truce flag in hand. He found the wharf abandoned, though the flicker of movement behind the windows of the surrounding houses indicated his arrival had been noticed. After an interval of several minutes a lone, stocky young man in a Contractor’s duster emerged from a shadowed alley with a revolver in hand. On the sleeve of his duster was an arm-band bearing the cross-and-square emblem of the Voters Rights Alliance. The young man lurked in a crouch at the corner of the alley, wary eyes tracking from Hilemore to the western side of the city. After some further scrutiny he pointed to the launch, scowling at Hilemore.
“Send ’em back,” he said.
Hilemore nodded and called out an order for the launch to return to the ship. The crew were clearly reluctant to leave him in such uncertain company but dutifully dipped their oars and began to row away.
“C’mere,” the stocky man said, gesturing with his revolver before disappearing back into the alley. Hilemore followed him through a short maze of cramped streets until he rounded a corner to find himself confronted by a dozen or so young men and women, all levelling fire-arms at him.
“Search him,” the man in the duster ordered. Hilemore was then subjected to a few minutes’ rough handling at the hands of a trio of rebels, which came to an abrupt end when he jabbed his elbow into the face of a skinny youth who tried to take his pocket-watch.
“Are you Voters or thieves?” he asked as they tensed around him.
“Corprate bastud!” the skinny youth said, lying on the cobbles and clutching a broken nose. “Shood ’im, Coll!”
“Shut it!” the duster-clad man said. “Freeman Towl’s got unfortunate habits,” he told Hilemore. “Comes from growing up living off the scraps allowed us by corporate slavers.”
Hilemore brushed the blood from the sleeve of his tunic and said nothing.
“I’m Freeman Coll and this is the Wash Lane Defence Volunteers,” the young man said, gesturing to the other youths. “Don’t mistake us, Mr. Protectorate Man, you don’t get a second chance.” He slowly lowered his revolver and jerked his head to the left. “This way. Towl, you’re on guard duty tonight. Told you before ’bout thieving.”
Coll led Hilemore to a cobbled square formed by the intersection of several streets. Sitting in the centre of the square was an inn of such antique, slant-walled appearance that Hilemore concluded it must have stood there since the earliest days of the city. An armed guard hauled the door open as they approached, Hilemore following Coll into the gloomy, candle-lit interior. After squinting for several seconds to adjust his sight Hilemore saw Coll taking a seat at a long table alongside five other people of similar age.
There were two men besides Coll and three women, all staring at Hilemore in expectant silence. The inn was clearly a headquarters of some kind. Maps and documents littered the tables and the walls were covered in leaflets and radical propaganda including, Hilemore was both amused and dismayed to see, numerous pages from the Voters Gazette.
Seeing little need to stand on ceremony he took a stool from one of the tables, dragging it across the tiled floor to sit down. “Lieutenant Corrick Hilemore,” he introduced himself. “Commander of the Ironship Protectorate Vessel Superior. Might I know to whom I am speaking?”
“Free men and free women,” one of the six replied, a girl of about nineteen by Hilemore’s reckoning. From the sunken state of her eyes and sallow skin she appeared not to have slept for several days. Despite her fatigue the defiance in her voice and bearing was palpable as she added, “Who will not be cowed by corporate threats.”
“I haven’t made any threats,” Hilemore pointed out.
“How many ships in your fleet?” another of the six demanded, a red-haired and freckle-faced lad with a bandage covering one ear.
“My fleet?” Hilemore enquired.
“Don’t play with us,” Coll growled. “We know Ironship’s been hired to retake this place for South Seas Maritime.”
“Then you know more than I do,” Hilemore told him. “I have no fleet. For that matter, the Ironship Syndicate no longer has a fleet, not in these waters at least.”
“South Seas Maritime agents met in Sanorah with the Interim Ironship Board three weeks ago,” the hollow-eyed girl said. “You presume to tell us you are not here as a result?”
Hilemore gave no immediate reply, gaze narrowing as it tracked over each of them. So young and guileless despite all the blood they’ve spilled. “So, you’re in trance communication with Sanorah,” he said.
This heralded a silence during which the girl lowered her head as her red-haired colleague shot her a glare of reproach.
“I have had no contact with Ironship senior management for quite some time now,” Hilemore went on. “My ship is here on business unconnected with your insurrection. I wish to purchase supplies and I have gold to pay for it. That is all.”
“He’s lying!” the red-haired youth rasped. “Corporatists lie. It’s what they do. Remember Red Lomansday.”
Another silence as they exchanged glances, both fierce and uncertain.
“Red Lomansday?” Hilemore asked.
“The spark that lit the tinder,” Coll replied. “Colonel Kulvetch, the first one, invited our leaders to a meeting. He told them their concerns would be addressed. Told them a new government would be established for this port, a joint government he said. When they turned up he had them stripped naked, flogged, paraded through the streets then shot in the head.” He gave a thin smile. “Hung the bastard myself from the wall and laughed as he dangled and kicked, looked a little like the clown from that circus marionette show they put on for the kiddies. So you see.” His smile faded as he reclined in his seat. “We ain’t too trusting of corporate types these days.”