Tag: book1

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bigger one from Lool, but they held out for as long as they could. Professor Schrödinger fled. He left behind his invention and all his notes, and he went north to Wolfland, to Ormskirk, to join the University at Edge Hill. He had intended to go back to Waterloo and retrieve everything, but he never did.”

“The Second Battle of Waterloo was the start of The War of the Wor. The WaterMil believed that everything on the campus was rightly theirs, but they were outnumbered by the LoolMil. Before the LoolMil could overrun the place, the WaterMil deliberately set everything alight. The Shorb was destroyed in a fire.”

“After he moved, Schrödinger tried to restart his project, but that bit of the story isn’t clear. Presumably he never managed to recreate his work. When Waterloo vanished beneath the sea, the WaterMil fell apart, and the old local militias became the new local mafias.”

“The LoolMil split three ways forming the LoolMaf, the BootMaf and the BlackCircle. The BlackCircle became the most powerful group, because they had the ships and the weapons that they’d poached when the Royal Navy collapsed.”

“The ships didn’t last very long though, because they had diesel engines, and there was no fuel. From what I know the next thing that happened was an internal conflict in the BlackCircle, and then it split in two. One group wanted to keep the metal Royal Navy ships and stayed in Boot. The other group embraced traditional sailing ships and moved to Wally to set up the RedCircle.”

“And that’s how we ended up with two sets of pirates at the mouth of The Merse!”

“Pretty good,” says Vortex , “except for the bit about Schrödinger!”

“He was a Royal Navy rating in his younger days. An engineer, he worked on diesel engines, electric generators, and solar power. When he was demobbed he decided to go to university and then he started studying properly. He never left!”

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cooks. All non combatants are detained separately from the regular pirates. Have them help you bring all the food and drink onto the quayside. Don’t let them out of your sight. If you have any trouble call on one of the marines for help.”

The cooks are both in their mid forties and overweight. They’ve obviously ensured that they’ve been well fed! They seem quite indifferent to their capture, and it hasn’t done anything to quell their fiery tempers. They probably know that they just have to keep their noses clean and that after a short detention they’ll be offered a chance of resettlement in Wolfland.

“She’s not my missus,” says OverGroan, “but she’s handy with her fists!”

“Shut up Ryan!” says Vortex, “let’s just get those stores unloaded and then maybe we’ll get a meal break!”

Over the course of the next hour or so MaxChaos discovers that OverGroan does like to grumble about things, but that Vortex complains even more, and with an intense level of fury befitting her name. It turns out that both of them have heard of The Shorb. It seems to be a myth which is widely known throughout the BlackCircle.

“How did you hear about The Shorb?” asks MaxChaos.

“The BlackCircle quartermaster in Boot,” says OverGroan, “he has hundreds of stories.”

MaxChaos continues, “so does The Shorb actually exist?”

“Wasn’t it destroyed in a fire?” asks OverGroan.

“Maybe it was,” says Vortex, “tell us the story the way you heard it, and then I’ll tell you what I’ve heard.”

“The Shorb was a magical device which could capture sunlight and turn it into electricity! Work on The Shorb started at the University of Waterloo soon after The Decimation. Then, about a year after Professor Schrödinger had started his research, when sea levels kept rising, and kept flooding the campus, the whole University had to be abandoned.”

“The local militias fought a battle to grab whatever loot they could find. Waterloo’s own militia was no match for the

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Chapter 38
The Shorb

Until today, Major Hastings had never met MaxChaos. However, the docker’s legendary reputation has preceded him. The stories of the long haired hippy with the flaming arrows, the explosives hobby, and some wolf trading skills mean that the civilian MaxChaos is now an occasional topic of conversation in the Garrison. Major Hastings is shocked to see that the untidy hair and the straggly beard match the stories. Aside from the fact that he’s big and strong, the Major can’t work out why his boss would have suggested giving MaxChaos a few days work under the auspices of the Garrison. Especially as he’s a school drop out!

Major Hastings is the quintessential commissioned officer, a forty something man forged in the crucible of the infantry and tempered by an uncompromising devotion to the trinity of discipline, physical vigour, and absolute obedience. To the raw recruits in Lancaster, he’s the formidable arbiter of their endurance, the officer in charge of Physical Training whose shadow alone seems to stiffen spines and silence dissent.

Yet, there exists a curious duality in the Major’s constitution. When the sun dips low over the pitch,  he assumes his mantle as President of Lancaster Cricket Club. The iron jawed disciplinarian can give way to a figure of unexpected gentility. In a sporting arena, the brutal pragmatism of the parade ground or the rugged chaos of battle find no purchase. Instead, he governs with a quiet, fastidious grace, conducting all affairs by the exacting ethics and the venerable laws of the game, ensuring that in peacetime, everything is done strictly in accordance with the rules of cricket.

However, to MaxChaos Major Hastings looks and sounds like a school teacher, like Mr Rigby, his old PE teacher, only ten times worse!

“Stay out of my hair!” says the Major, “I’ve found you these two civilians to work with, OverGroan and Vortex are

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The door swings open again, and exasperated, and out of breath, KristalClear steps inside the lab. The look on her face demonstrates a combination of weariness and her resolute belief in her right to dominate the room with fresh news.

“Apologies, I have to stop you and tell you this. Major Wynn has just brought home The CogentHarpoon after a battle with The JackOfSpades. She’s captured the ship and about thirty members of the BlackCircle with it! I don’t know exactly what happened, but as you can imagine the Garrison is in jubilant mood! The prize is moored alongside the prison at Kingsway Hall right now. The Constabulary has started the reporting and tagging process, and they need more hands. CandiCrush is taking a detachment up there at this very moment. She told me to tell you Max that there’s some work for you if you want it, decommissioning the ship will take about a week. I have Falcon saddled up for you and Marconi for me. I can take you there now and then I’ll need to lead Falcon straight back here.”

“Sorry. Must dash!” says MaxChaos.

“Hey, that’s my catch phrase!” says NutJob.

Blowing NutJob a kiss, KristalClear says, “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Love you!”

Once the salvage team has recovered what they can from the ship, the adjudication process will begin. The ship is undoubtedly an allied ship and it will be returned to the navy of the correct territory. It hasn’t filtered through the formal channels yet, but Major Wynn has already established that the ship’s registration plate is missing from the bridge. So it will take a little time to discover where it was actually built and who it belongs to. She’s not sure that the Garrison wants another old pirate ship, but if the forensics work is inconclusive, then The JackOfSpades will become Garrison property.

 

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NutJob and HayWire listen carefully. TomTom and JerryMac have heard all of this before, so they’re tidying up their benches now, and they’re going.

“We’re heading home early today,” says JerryMac, “before he starts waffling on about The Shorb again!”

As his colleagues leave, BarmyWaffle takes the calculator  from its case and places it flat in the palm of his hand. The white plastic case is badly faded and the LCD screen is cracked and opaque. However, the faint numbers can still be seen on the keys. The entire device looks like a sepia photograph from the Victorian era. Except that this is the real thing, a sepia coloured, 3D, historical artefact, the provenance of which cannot be disputed.

“Apparently,” he says, “these things were everywhere! You know, students, teachers, office workers. Everybody had them.”

“At first, when The Decimation hit, nobody realised that ‘no more oil’ would mean ‘no more plastic’ and, when you couldn’t get batteries for these things any more, they were just chucked away. Nobody thought to keep them. This is one of only twelve that remain. It came from the University of Waterloo.”

HayWire asks, “Waterloo? I know Lancaster had a university didn’t it? Where’s Waterloo?”

“Oh, the University of Lancaster was famous!” says BarmyWaffle, “highly prestigious! And then they established another one here, then another. There were four universities in Lancaster by the time everything collapsed! Preston had three. Manchester had eight, and even Liverpool had five! Er, I mean Lool, just south of Boot!”

“If you go north from Boot, following the original coastline there used to be a town called Waterloo. Until it was flooded!”

“I thought Waterloo was in Belgium,” says NutJob.

“Yes, the Belgian one is probably still there, I don’t know! There used to be a Waterloo in London too, and in Canada. The

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“I think you’ll find that somebody’s already invented the hole punch.” says NutJob.

“Not a device for punching holes in paper. It’s a secret weapon to be attached to enemy ships by special forces. It’s left in place below the waterline. With nobody around it mysteriously punches a hole in the ship until it sinks.”

“OK … have you built a prototype?

HayWire points to the wooden bucket at the end of his workbench.

“The challenge is to use materials which allow the mechanism to operate in sea water.”

“And make a hole in your bucket? Dear Liza, Dear Liza!”

—o—

            Inevitably, during their next visit to the Innovation Lab, a conversation about the MDC comes up again.

BarmyWaffle’s still not convinced.

“I honestly think that rechargeable batteries are the way to go,” he says, “better than direct clockwork power to an axle or a propeller. A uni dimensional clockwork engine can power a dynamo, which can recharge a battery, which can deliver a stable electric current over time.”

He turns to his desk.

“Look at this,” he says, “a pocket calculator! It’s made of plastic. Plastic was both a blessing and a curse. When my mentor retired forty years ago, he gave this to me. It’s been an engineering tradition for more than 200 years, passing on a personal memento when you retire.”

The ancient, handheld, plastic calculator is fitted to a small wooden plinth which is enclosed neatly inside a glass display case. It’s BarmyWaffle’s favourite conversation piece, and he delights in telling people about plastic, about batteries, and about solar panels.

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Chapter 37
A Major Win

Side projects are not just confined to Wednesdays.

On Sunday morning the school grounds are buzzing. MaxChaos is helping Mr Rafone run an archery session. MissFortune is helping the choir rehearse for Custodum, and Mr Charlton is teaching a group how to play Crown Green Bowls.

Meanwhile, up in Williamson Park, CandiCrush and KristalClear are supervising pony rides for some of the primary school pupils.

AuntSylvie suggested that HayWire should keep his brain occupied today, and go and do something that he enjoys.

NutJob was easily persuaded to lend a hand. So, on this particular Sunday morning he’s joining HayWire at the Harrison Time Pieces Research Institute to explore his ongoing side project, the new multi dimensional clockwork engine, the MDC. HayWire’s team had provided the prototypes which BarmyWaffle has in the lab. NutJob is keen to learn more, because he hopes that the MDC might work as a lightweight power source for a model aeroplane.

Haywire had originally thought that the MDC could form part of a friction driven kettle, or a washing machine, or could power a small fishing boat, or prime the mechanism of a powerful missile launcher! Put HayWire in a dark, quiet room all by himself, and he can think up amazing ideas.

“What’s this newest idea then?” asks NutJob.

“The BoringFish.”

“Sometimes I wish I hadn’t asked! Go on then. Tell me, what is a boring fish?”

With a completely straight face HayWire says, “it’s a clockwork swordfish.”

“Naturally … why would you want a clockwork swordfish?”

“It’s a hole punch!”

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“Every time it happens I try to persuade them to cut down. They can’t! I tell them to stop Poteen, and then they argue with me instead of each other.”

“I see.”

“Dad doesn’t really hit mum. They fight, but they don’t throw punches … it’s only me … dad hits me.”

“How have you coped with this?”

“I cope by keeping quiet, keeping out of it. But I can’t keep out of it. I can’t always let mum suffer like that. I have to help. That’s when I argue with him. When he hits you hard, you just don’t argue anymore.”

“What about moving home?”

“I’d like to! Of course! But how can I move? I’m eighteen, I’m an apprentice watch maker! I can’t afford to move.”

AuntSylvie takes HayWire on a short walk to see NurseCathy again.

“Cathy, meet our new night warden, please show HayWire to his quarters. HayWire, the night warden just has to be here, he can sleep throughout the night, although officially he’s on call if he’s ever needed. A night warden really doesn’t do much at all. You can work your day job as normal, and tomorrow we’ll sort out a flexible rota for you. Peter’s been doing it on his own for weeks now, and he’ll be delighted to have a new coworker!”

“Welcome to your new home.”

“I need to catch up with Mike for a moment, and then I’ll come along to Baden Powell House, the junior staff block, to answer all your questions. We’ll probably be able to chat with one or two of the others if you want to make some new friends. Cathy will make sure you have everything you need right now, and I’ll be with you again in a few minutes.”

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“They?”

“Mum and dad … both of them … dad more so than mum.”

“Both of them?”

“Poteen!”

That was the one word that HayWire hadn’t wanted to say. He knew that the moment he said it, the whole story would come out. AuntSylvie is probably the only person HayWire knows with whom he could possibly share intimate, personal anxieties. But she’s not married, she has no children of her own, can she really understand domestic strife?

She probably can. Her niece lives there. She and Hayley know each other intimately, like mother and daughter.

Part orphanage, part old people’s home, part hospice, and part adult education centre, the Noble Coliseum is a microcosm of society all within one building. AuntSylvie must have come across every type of heartache, anguish and pain imaginable.

She must be a saint to handle all of this without suffering a mental breakdown of her own.

AuntSylvie knows what Poteen is. It’s illegal to sell it, none of the stores have it, and only the farming community can produce it using one or two illicit stills.

“They get Poteen from work. They probably drink it at work. They both come home drunk sometimes. I’m sure some of the neighbours hear some kind of trouble at night.”

“Do they work on Saturdays?”

“No, not today …  I don’t know what started it … but they didn’t have any lunch, they were just drinking … and then they started fighting.”

“Fighting?”

“They were fighting each other.”

“Uh huh?”

“And I tried to stop it. Again! And dad turned on me again!”

“Again?”

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“You can tell me as much or as little as you like. I won’t be shocked. I’ll treat it all in total confidence.”

“And if you want to tell me anything delicate it will never leave this room without your consent.”

HayWire is not accustomed to this. Somebody is devoting one hundred percent of their attention to him. As if he’s the most important thing in the world. He looks at her face. She must be in her late twenties or early thirties, she has lovely, long, flowing, light ash brown hair, no cosmetics nor jewellery, and she is naturally good looking. As always, she has a dignified, graceful expression on her face.

HayWire says nothing. He’s no longer crying, but he takes a deep breath, and sighs.

“We have all the time in the world,” she says softly. Pausing regularly, leaving plenty of gaps for HayWire to speak if he wants to.

“As long as you like. Or as short as you like. This whole place can run without me.”

AuntSylvie knows that a cautious rapport has already been established, that HayWire wants to say something, and that as long as she’s sympathetic and patient, somehow she can surely help.

HayWire finishes his tea. AuntSylvie politely widens her eyes and she looks him in the eye. She smiles a little and then looks at the empty tea cup. She seems to detect a brief nod of the head from HayWire. Yes, obviously he wants another tea. She fills the cup, then pushes the small plate of chocolate chip cookies nearer to him.

There’s another period of silence.

And finally HayWire speaks.

“They only hit until you cry.”

“Uh huh?”

There’s more silence, AuntSylvie can see that HayWire wants to tell the story. He’s probably just taking time to find the right words to tell it. After a measured pause, she volunteers a new question.

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