Read Online Railhead by Philip Reeve - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Philip Reeve
Tags: Fiction, Science-Fiction, Space Opera, Sci-Fi, Robots, Science & Technology, Switch Press, transportation--railroads & trains, 9781630790493, 9781630790486
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Raven.
“Nova’s coming?”
“Of course. You’ll be working closely together. A young man of Tallis Noon’s status doesn’t travel alone. You’ll have your Motorik secretary with you.” He handed Zen a stylish little headset of brass and ivory. “Nova can keep in touch via that, feed you any information you need. Now we just need to make you look the part. Get changed, for a start. You’ll find clothes in the wardrobes in your suite. A young man of Tallis Noon’s breeding wouldn’t be seen dead in that junk you’re wearing…”
*
----
Up in his room, Zen put on some of the new clothes and stood in front of the mirror. There were half a dozen outfits. He had chosen foil jeans, red ankle boots, a mirrorcloth windcheater. He stood up straight and pretended he was a young Noon. His hair did not look as if a Golden Junction stylist had cut it, but then Tallis Noon was supposed to have been riding the rails for a while. Zen knew where he’d been, too: the headset that Raven had given him came preloaded with Tallis’s travel documents and his photos of the sights he’d seen—all faked or stolen by Raven, Zen presumed.
For the first time he started to think that the plan might work. It was daunting, the scale of it. Frightening. But nothing a Thunder City kid couldn’t handle. Just one job, Raven had said, but Zen guessed that this was more like a test. If he could get away with the Pyxis, there would be other jobs. A chance to travel the galaxy, meet interesting people, and nick their stuff. With Raven’s help, he could stop being a little thief, and become one of the greats.
And even if it didn’t work out—even if the Noons saw through his disguise and arrested him—well, at least he could say he had ridden the Noon train. At least he would get to see Jangala, and cross the Spindlebridge…
He fingered the foil of his new jeans. Too clean, he thought. He’d wear this stuff around Desdemor a bit, get some dust and scuff marks on it. If his clothes were in character, maybe the rest of him would follow.
11
When he lived on Santheraki, Zen had dreamed for a while of being an actor. He was still a kid then, still half believing the old lie that you could be whatever you wanted to be if you just wanted it badly enough. Ma had managed to outrun her fears for a little while, Myka had a good job by Myka’s standards, and Zen went to acting lessons at a shabby little theater just down the street from the apartment they were renting. The teacher, Ashwin Bhose, was threadbare and down on his luck, but he’d been famous in his time. The corridors of the theater were walled with posters and holos of his performances.
The other students were from wealthier homes than Zen’s. They took part meekly in the exercises Bhose set them, pretending to be trees, or trains, or breezes. It made Zen feel embarrassed, that stuff. He’d never wanted to be a tree or a breeze. He just wanted to dress up and pretend for a while that he was somebody important, or at least somebody else, anybody but Zen Starling, with his raggedy life and frightened mom. When he was being himself, he never knew what to say. He stammered shyly, or stayed silent. Out on a stage, he thought, it would all be different. Words would pour out of him. He’d have whole conversations learned by heart.
Ashwin Bhose must have seen something in him. After a few months Myka’s hours got docked and she couldn’t pay Zen’s fees, but Bhose kept him as a student anyway. He said Zen was good at watching. “You see the little details,” he told him once. “The small habits that tell us so much about people’s characters. But it’s not just about watching. You have to understand what goes on in other people’s heads. The feelings that underlie their movements and expressions. That secret inner weather.”
Zen didn’t really know what the old actor meant. He’d never been much good at understanding other people. He still wasn’t. Maybe if they’d
“Nova’s coming?”
“Of course. You’ll be working closely together. A young man of Tallis Noon’s status doesn’t travel alone. You’ll have your Motorik secretary with you.” He handed Zen a stylish little headset of brass and ivory. “Nova can keep in touch via that, feed you any information you need. Now we just need to make you look the part. Get changed, for a start. You’ll find clothes in the wardrobes in your suite. A young man of Tallis Noon’s breeding wouldn’t be seen dead in that junk you’re wearing…”
*
----
Up in his room, Zen put on some of the new clothes and stood in front of the mirror. There were half a dozen outfits. He had chosen foil jeans, red ankle boots, a mirrorcloth windcheater. He stood up straight and pretended he was a young Noon. His hair did not look as if a Golden Junction stylist had cut it, but then Tallis Noon was supposed to have been riding the rails for a while. Zen knew where he’d been, too: the headset that Raven had given him came preloaded with Tallis’s travel documents and his photos of the sights he’d seen—all faked or stolen by Raven, Zen presumed.
For the first time he started to think that the plan might work. It was daunting, the scale of it. Frightening. But nothing a Thunder City kid couldn’t handle. Just one job, Raven had said, but Zen guessed that this was more like a test. If he could get away with the Pyxis, there would be other jobs. A chance to travel the galaxy, meet interesting people, and nick their stuff. With Raven’s help, he could stop being a little thief, and become one of the greats.
And even if it didn’t work out—even if the Noons saw through his disguise and arrested him—well, at least he could say he had ridden the Noon train. At least he would get to see Jangala, and cross the Spindlebridge…
He fingered the foil of his new jeans. Too clean, he thought. He’d wear this stuff around Desdemor a bit, get some dust and scuff marks on it. If his clothes were in character, maybe the rest of him would follow.
11
When he lived on Santheraki, Zen had dreamed for a while of being an actor. He was still a kid then, still half believing the old lie that you could be whatever you wanted to be if you just wanted it badly enough. Ma had managed to outrun her fears for a little while, Myka had a good job by Myka’s standards, and Zen went to acting lessons at a shabby little theater just down the street from the apartment they were renting. The teacher, Ashwin Bhose, was threadbare and down on his luck, but he’d been famous in his time. The corridors of the theater were walled with posters and holos of his performances.
The other students were from wealthier homes than Zen’s. They took part meekly in the exercises Bhose set them, pretending to be trees, or trains, or breezes. It made Zen feel embarrassed, that stuff. He’d never wanted to be a tree or a breeze. He just wanted to dress up and pretend for a while that he was somebody important, or at least somebody else, anybody but Zen Starling, with his raggedy life and frightened mom. When he was being himself, he never knew what to say. He stammered shyly, or stayed silent. Out on a stage, he thought, it would all be different. Words would pour out of him. He’d have whole conversations learned by heart.
Ashwin Bhose must have seen something in him. After a few months Myka’s hours got docked and she couldn’t pay Zen’s fees, but Bhose kept him as a student anyway. He said Zen was good at watching. “You see the little details,” he told him once. “The small habits that tell us so much about people’s characters. But it’s not just about watching. You have to understand what goes on in other people’s heads. The feelings that underlie their movements and expressions. That secret inner weather.”
Zen didn’t really know what the old actor meant. He’d never been much good at understanding other people. He still wasn’t. Maybe if they’d
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