Revolving Door: Volume 2
Chapter 48: The Translocation
By now, it no longer startles Honourless when she finds another world in the forward direction. Now that they have found seven, it is hard to say how far the chain may go. If there are seven, why not eight, and if eight, why not nine?
Yet her heart still races each time she lands in a new world living in its own time, and her eyes still widen at its strangeness next to every other she has seen. If she were free—if she could ghost as she pleased—she would keep going and going, till she reached the end of this stack of worlds.
These are the thoughts that occur to Honourless as she lands in a dim metal cage, and realises that the air here smells…different. It is not icy like the last, nor pristine like the one before. It is…woody, and smoky, like incense.
Perhaps that is only by virtue of her current location. Finding the only gap in the drapery, she pokes her head out. The cage stands inside a warehouse, stocked to the brim with other mystery structures similarly hidden by cloth.
Exiting the building only involves following the wall to an open window that gazes upon an alley. She leapfrogs the sill, races down a ramp, and bursts from the shade into the view of a clanging, clattering dockyard. Chains are winched up to the tops of metal scaffolds, plucking wooden crates off the decks of so many ships.
Hong Yi has asked her to investigate three things about this next world: transport, lighting, and people. And here and now, the first thing that comes barreling into her attention is a brass-framed carriage, pulled by no beasts like the ones in Vesper’s world, yet more graceful in its make, and almost as quiet as a horse carriage. It does not rumble, but clatters, the whir of its gears audible without the growl of machinery.
More pertinent details rise into awareness. Each vehicle is adorned with glass panels, spread facing upward on metal branches like the leaves on a tree. On both sides of each street, the lights ascend, large globes upon iron poles. Through their glass she can see their filaments, though it is too bright for them to be shining.
Strangers brush by, but take no offence to her gawking. She ducks around a corner and finds three people in round brimmed hats, talking and smoking pipes. Averting their gazes, she sprints back up the way she came, into the shadow of that alleyway. She closes her eyes to focus on the Duchess in the next world, and on the memory she will spend next.
*
When Honourless lands in the Dikson hostel, she makes a beeline for Orobelle. She speaks for a full minute, and though of course Hong Yi doesn't share a word of her vocabulary, he can hear the fascinated thrill that peeks through her typical gritty nonchalance.
The duchess turns to Hong Yi. “The next world has carriages powered by no visible mechanism—no horses, and no engines,” she says. “The streets have electric lamps like the ones in Vesper’s London. And there is a dockyard, and people smoking pipes.”
Hong Yi frowns. “That…doesn’t sound like a specific era I know. No engines?”
“They had…glass leaves,” Orobelle translates.
“Well, it could be the eighteen hundreds, or it could be the twenty-one hundreds,” Hong Yi answers with a shrug.
Honourless mutters something. “She’s volunteering to take you along to scout,” Orobelle interprets, then with a thoughtful frown, she adds, “That seems wise…lest we land in yet another peril akin to a ‘core blast zone.’”
“Sound fair to me,” he replies. “I’m flattered you trust my judgement on the matter of safety, by the way.”
“You are—knowledgeable,” she says through gritted teeth. “The less time we spend fighting for our lives, the faster we can move.”
“Finally, something we can agree on.”
But by then, Honourless has taken Hong Yi’s wrist and, nodding at each other, they make the leap.
*
The pair land…in a cage under a sheet of cloth. Hong Yi crashes to his knees with a yell, propping himself up on his arms to kneel.
As he dusts himself off, he noticed Honourless frowning, already pulling her notebook out of her pocket. She hands him the translation glass as he sways to his feet.
This isn't right, the page reads. Give me a minute.
Again she bounds from the floor and pops out of reality. Several seconds later, she lands in the cage again with a crash, her brow furrowing. She repeats this manoeuvre once more, and the third time she pops back into the cage, she slumps back against the bars and pulls out her notepad.
I can't seem to land anywhere else in this world but inside this cage, she writes.
Do you think that the cage itself is causing this? Hong Yi writes back. He glances about, and squints up. Overhead, there is a hanging mobile of rings, and a sphere—a gyroscope, perhaps.
Honourless’s gaze follows his. She hands the translation glass back and resumes writing.
You may be right. I shall bring the rest here. Perhaps the duchess knows what's happening.
The next time Honourless disappears, she is gone for a few minutes. Hong Yi drags himself to the side of the cage and props himself up against the bars, gaze lifting. It smells woody here, of shavings and rust. Beyond the walls, he hears a distant ringing of metal on metal.
His reverie is interrupted when Honourless snaps out of space and time bringing a tumble of bodies that he soon discovers to be Artur, Marcia, and Vesper.
All three land on the floor around her feet, Artur still groaning in some disoriented agony. Marcia is helping Vesper to her feet, while he crawls onto his knees unassisted, staring listlessly at the bars.
“Hey, you okay?” Hong Yi asks, shuffling over.
“I don't…understand,” Artur says, all his gruffness gone. “How?”
“Welcome to the next world,” declares Vesper’s voice from above them. Both gazes lift. Her silhouette leans against the cage frame, arms folded. “And, congratulations on your first interdimensional leap.”
For almost a minute, Artur does not speak. Then he mumbles, “How is this…possible?”
Hong Yi smiles, clapping him on the shoulder. “I don't know either, but you'll get used to it.”
*
While Honourless sluggishly departs to retrieve the duchess and her protector, Marcia forges outside. Through the drapes, she emerges into the hall encasing the cage, contemplating its peculiar details.
There is something airy about it all. It is a storage house of some kind; the walls are lacquered and sanded. In rows around them, other large structures tower over her, each draped in a dust cover, silhouettes only hinting at the secret of each defunct monument. She can hear the sounds of industry outside—of a factory or a port, busier than any she has seen in her time.
As she rounds the back of the cage, there comes the chill down her neck, again, as if there were someone or something—a disturbance nearby. But she walks a full round of the cage, tiptoeing over the wrinkles of the tarpaulin, and sees no one.
Then, as her eyes sweep the floor, she spots the shoe prints. They are fresh, and not like any of her companions', left by some ribbed sole in the dust.
She stares at them, then in the direction they point. There is no one hiding in the shadows.
Marcia shakes her head. Twice is not enough to conclude a pattern. She rejoins the group in front of the cage once more, where the velvet drapery parts. Orobelle is querying Honourless, who sits on the ground clutching her forehead.
*
“I've never seen anything like it,” Orobelle mutters. “Could this cage have been built to trap us?”
“Surely if it were a trap, it wouldn't have a gaping hole in the bars,” Vesper replies.
The duchess extends a hand in Dorian’s direction, and he hands her her corefinder. “What of our search? Are we doomed to keep returning to this city?”
“Reckon so.” Honourless groans, leaning against the velvet with closed eyes. “Go find lodging without me. I will…be here.”
Without deserting her frown, Orobelle points to Vesper. “Keep watch over her,” she declares, then glances at her corefinder. “The rest of you, follow me. We shall solve this mystery once we… There isn't a Core here!” Screeching wordlessly, she whirls around to jab a finger at Honourless, lying sprawled on the floor. “You get one night.”
*
As they walk on, Artur's thoughts float suspended in a concoction of disbelief. There is something unreal about the scenes that envelops him, like technicolor film, their shades and sounds too vivid to exist.
The doors of the warehouse stand ajar for the group as they leave, but they halt at the watch house by the gate when a mustachioed guard peers through. He looks up from his logbook to inspect them, then declares something in Mandarin that Artur can only make out a quarter of: didn’t see…
He understands Hong Yi’s answer only slightly better. “Sorry…a box…in a boat.”
It's a lie and a half, but with little more than a shrug, the guard waves them along, attention vanishing back into his ongoing task.
A field of masts cast shadows over the dockyard; leaving them, they march into the city proper, where sloping terraces of stone facades take over. By now, Artur can already feel the sweat pouring down his back, and this is not assuaged by tearing his snow jacket off.
He has never seen this city before, but that is not saying much, given he has never left the coasts of Asia and the Arctic. There is green on street corners, alive and growing, and threaded through the walls too, ferns peeking through cracks. He wouldn't be able to tell the difference between a city in a different world and one from his childhood, before the bombs fell.
Led by Orobelle, the sweaty troupe encounter a parade of hotels one block up from the piers. Past a few open doors they stroll, before the duchess stops in front of the next. The signage, all hand-lettered English encircled by marching lights, informs them they are entering The best hotel in San Francisco. A name he has only heard in hazy memories of children's books.
The lobby gives the sense of being two centuries older than Artur’s time, yet it is all so lustrous and in perpetual motion, crisper than the paintings and the dour photographs. It has enough velvet and leather that he senses that it will be a cushy stay. It is by querying perplexed strangers across the carpeted hall that Hong Yi manages to tease out the current year: 1894.
Standing close to the booking counter, the duchess turns to Artur. “Go bring Honourless and Vesper here,” she says.
Artur barely spares a moment to be surprised at the command. Wordlessly, he tosses his jacket into an acceding Hong Yi’s arms, and turns to march away.
All considered, Artur is a little relieved for the time alone, after the discombobulation of the journey here. He has never flown in an airplane, nor a space rocket, but he imagines that riding those contraptions must feel that way—the world zipping away in streaks, the body weightless, the ground dissolving. As he goes, he soaks in the glow of the streets again—the golden sun hanging in a cloudless blue sky, igniting colours on the streets that he forgot existed. The corners are alive with the ringing of bells and the rattle of carriage wheels. The ocean is teeming with sails and smokestacks and chains reeling in crates.
At the booth by the warehouse, he greets the security guard in simple Mandarin, then carries on inside. He walks in on Vesper writing a message in Honourless’ notebook.
“We found a hotel.” Both lift their eyes. “Duchess wants you back.”
Vesper rises to one knee, slipping the notebook back into Honourless’ pocket. “Come help me,” she answers. “I don’t reckon she can walk just yet.”
Lifting their scarred travel companion takes no discussion: Artur crouches to offer his shoulder, Vesper follows suit with a nod, and Honourless gets the message, crawling into position with an arm over each shoulder. Both pick her up from the warehouse floor in a single motion.
The walk to the hotel takes them past hawkers under canopies, a polite crowd of ladies and gents in top hats and fascinators, painters sitting with easels, and drains exuding stenches that would belong better in a latrine. Everyone speaks with that odd American drawl that he has only ever heard in old movies.
Halfway up the road, Vesper and Artur stop to rearrange their grips on the half-conscious Honourless. “Does Honourless not have a…less terrible name?” he mutters as they do.
“Well, s’posedly her name was erased by magic,” Vesper answers. “No way to get it back till she finishes parole.”
“Magic…now I have heard everything.”
She grins. “That’s the least of it.”
He nods, more startled than anything that he has no strong feelings about this. He rather likes knowing that there is magic—believing in the fairy stories of his childhood again.
The hotel is right where they left it, though the lobby is a few guests more crowded. Orobelle is arguing with a bellboy about the handling of her luggage—and Dorian is standing haplessly with all three bags upon his shoulder. Hong Yi, however, has already been relieved of his, and he has handed off Vesper’s, too.
“Jacket?” Artur asks, coming up to Hong Yi.
“Oh, I, uh, shoved it in my luggage.” He grins sheepishly. “Come get it from me upstairs, we're rooming together.”
*
“Upstairs” is accessed by means of the world's slowest hydraulic lift. The five passengers watch the operator pull the lever, then listen to the floor rattle upward with the weight of its passengers. Artur stares at the key in Hong Yi’s hand—Room 3B. No one utters a word, or moves, beyond some shuffling.
The room matching their key is not far down the corridor. Hong Yi opens it with a flourish and grins, pointing out his luggage already awaiting them upon the polished parquet floor. There is the scent of leather and recently dried laundry. The upholstery is a welcoming, perfectly-kept tan hue, and there are two downy soft beds at the facing walls of the room.
“That Dikson hostel must've left a bad taste in the duchess’ mouth,” Hong Yi chuckles, flopping backwards onto the couch. Artur stands inspecting from the door, before finally strolling up to the window. He sees the facade of their facing neighbours, his silhouette gleaming back from their window. Hong Yi rolls over. “Anyway, uh, up to you which bed you take, but choose quick, ‘cause I'm dying for a nap.”
Artur nods wordlessly, returning to the luggage bag to unzip it. The corner of his snow jacket peeks out; he yanks it out.
“Told you it was in there. It’s a nice coat, by the way.”
“Yes, thank you.” Hong Yi seems to have a predilection for not shutting his mouth. But he supposes this is a step up from perpetually fearing for his life.
*
Miraculously this time, Orobelle has put her funds towards sufficient beds to house everyone—a room of two for Hong Yi and Artur, three for Honourless, Vesper and Marcia, and two for herself and her ever-uncomplaining protector.
Honourless’ hopes that she is finally mellowing are quelled when, true to her word, she barges in on the women’s room in the wee hours of dawn “Up,” she snaps.
Honourless flips over. “No.”
“What did you say?”
“No. I can’t do it. Even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.”
“Excuse me? Do you realise we are now eighteen days from the villain’s deadline?”
“Villain? What can she do to you, anyway? All powerful duchess, the one around whom the worlds spin?”
“If I do not make the rendezvous, she will destroy the rest of my city.”
“What a burden being a duchess must be! Well, I am no machine. And I can’t do something just because you demand it.”
She grits her teeth, and Honourless can see her doing battle with herself. “Report back the instant you are well enough to move us.”
“To carry a burden of six? Alright, give me a few minutes to stop having a migraine.”
Orobelle, who appears from her answering scowl not to know what a migraine feels like, turns around and huffs away, already fishing her two instruments from her pocket. On her way out, she mutters about fools and ingrates, panic shaking her voice even after the door has slammed behind her.
Honourless scans the room till she finds Vesper sitting at Marcia’s bedside with a hand to the latter’s forehead. Vesper's eyes dart to the recently slammed door, and she shakes her head with a sigh. Then she casts Marcia a sympathetic smile, which the other woman returns with a blink.
Then the door crashes back open.
In hurtles Orobelle, her skirts and hair aflutter, her eyes wilder with shock than they have ever seen.
“They’re here!” she shrieks, waving the corefinder for their eyes. “Two Cores. They just appeared out of nowhere! One of you, go get them!”