The Half-Made World by Felix Gilman Read Free Book Online Page A

agony, under the eye of disapproving clock faces, in a queue that zigzagged back and forth across the floor’s greasy tiles in much the same way that the Line ran across the continent. He presented his papers at the counter and said, “Sub-Invigilator (Third) Lowry, reporting.”
    Behind the counter sat a woman with a tautly wound bun of steel-gray hair, a long sharp nose, distant eyes. She studied a roll of typed paper and said, “No.”
    “What?”
    “No.”
    “I said Lowry, woman. I have orders to go east with the Engine to Archway. See here?” He pointed at his papers.
    “See here?” The woman pointed at her papers, under I for Invigilator (Sub) (Third), where his name significantly did not appear. Her finger was stub-nailed and abominably stained with black ink.
    “There must be some mistake.”
    That was impossible, of course—the Line made no mistakes. He said, “I mean, I must have made some mistake,” in case anyone important was listening.
    She shrugged and bent down over her paperwork. Lowry saw that she kept three steel pens shoved into the back of her hair, one of which was leaking; they looked like loose wiring, or vents for internal machinery.
    He pressed his face up against the grille in the glass and whispered, “Please.”
    She looked up at him with blank contempt, sighed, and waited for him to go away—which, after what felt like hours, he did.
    He pushed through the crowd, which parted nervously around him. Part of his mind was trying to calculate causes —had he been removed from service for his tardiness? Had the Auburn Report, despite his best efforts, contained unacceptable traces of pride? Had he spoken blasphemy in his sleep? Had he contradicted, without remembering it, some superior officer, had he—? Part of his mind was trying to calculate consequences : Should he fear only for his career, or also for his life? Most of his mind was blank.
    “Sir?”
    He didn’t hear it at first.
    “Sir?”
    The gray-haired woman was calling him. He slumped back to the counter, numbly expecting further humiliation.
    “Sir.” She sounded suddenly anxious, apologetic, and that made him stand up a little straighter. He leaned forward and snapped, “What?”
    She handed him a short telegram. “Sir, I apologize, I . . .”
    “Shut up,” he said.
    He read the telegram. It didn’t take long, and it left him entirely confused.
    “Kingstown,” he said. Far to the West—indeed, the Line’s westernmost point. At least two weeks away. The Angelus Engine was going east, which meant that he would have to wait for the Archway Engine to pass through, which would take him only as far as Harrow Cross, from where perhaps the Harrow Cross Engine would take him west to . . .
    “My apologies, sir,” the woman said. “In all the rush, sir, I forgot—”
    He smiled at her, baring bleached teeth. “What’s your name, woman?”

    The telegram said:
    FOR SUB-INVIGILATOR (THIRD) LOWRY OF THE ARMY OF
    THE ANGELUS ENGINE:
    KINGSTOWN STATION
    SETTING ASIDE ALL OTHER BUSINESS
    WITHOUT DELAY
    It was unsigned.

CHAPTER 4
    ANCIENT HISTORY
    Creedmoor left the riverboat that same night. He leapt from the boat’s stern and landed knee deep in riverbank mud, among reeds and turtles and toads and snakes. He laughed and thought to himself,
    —The glories of your service, once more, once again.
    And his master’s voice answered,
    —Yes, Creedmoor. Our glories. Go north. There, over those hills, through those trees.
    —We have business there? Someone you want me to kill?
    —Not necessarily. We need a fire, Creedmoor. Our Lodge burns, just as it always does, and you must hear this from all of us.
    —I remember. Would you care to explain the urgency?
    —You have been idle too long. Go north.
    The boat’s lights slowly drew away down the river, leaving Creedmoor alone in the night. With a sigh he blinked, once and then again, until his eyes adjusted. A gray film settled on his vision, each detail of the world