Chapter Two
A Long Ride
Peter Patterson was ecstatic to escape the dust-ridden wind and step into the cosy confines of the coach.
It was awfully kind of Mr Revel and the newcomer to handle his cargo for him, even if the newcomer was somewhat rough and intimidating. Still, the newcomer was enduring the sharp, biting cut of dust winds in Peter’s stead. So, he resolved to thank the man once aboard.
The coach's interior was surprisingly spacious and inviting. There was enough room lengthways for Peter to lie down five times over, and two times widthwise. Nine seating areas, each made up of two double-seat sofas bolted to the floor, lined the sides of the coach. Five sat on the left side, four on the right, divided by the entrance hatchway. Old Man Crouch had claimed a sofa in the far-right corner, his head resting against the wall, eyes closed. Peter suspected he was only pretending to sleep. The Boadens were settling into a nook of their own, and Peter thought to join them. Mr Boaden spotted him, grinned broadly, and seized his hand, shaking him vigorously. “It was good meeting my lad. Have a safe journey now, you hear.”
Peter realised they’d only listened to his stories out of politeness, and his cheeks reddened. “You too,” he replied nervously before making his way to the far end of the coach. Beyond his companions, only four others occupied the coach, but Peter, wary of further embarrassment, chose an empty sofa compartment.
As he was about to sit, he patted his clothes, releasing small clouds of dust that haloed him. “Don’t do that.” Peter glanced at the opposite compartment, where another Toff sat—a clean, slick-haired man with indignant features and an open book resting in his lap.
“I’m sorry?”
“Dust is light,” the Toff sighed, his tone patronising. “Once it’s in the air, it takes an age to settle. I’d rather not be breathing it in the rest of the journey.” Peter’s cheeks turned redder.
“Apologies—I didn’t know.”
“Evidently.” The Toff had already returned to his book. Peter shook his head and tried not to let the man get to him. He took a seat in his compartment and tried to relax.
Moments later, three loud raps reverberated across the compartment exterior, and Mr Revel entered, shutting the door behind him. “Our new friend not joining us?” It appeared that Mr Boaden seemed more than happy to continue conversing with his equal, and Peter struggled to stop that from bothering him.
“No, he isn’t.” Mr Revel’s low voice wasn’t loud but carried easily through the quiet coach. “He was being rude, so I suggested he take the next coach instead.”
“And he was agreeable?”
Mr Revel looked around before deciding to join the Boadens in their compartment. “He turned out to be a rather understanding fellow in the end.” Peter wondered if he should feel guilty for how relieved hearing that made him feel, but he was already dealing with a sinking feeling in his stomach that the exclusion was causing him, and he decided not to give it much thought.
His attention was arrested by the sudden whirring of electrics as the coach began to hum with life. A crackle of static preceded the driver’s welcome, and their journey began. Peter sank into his sofa and got comfortable. Blue symbols illuminated a dashboard beside his sofa, and he realised he could link his wirelesses to the coach’s onboard systems. He connected, inserted his headphones into his ears, and cycled through several audio menus until he found a catalogue of short stories. Peter had never travelled by coach—only by foot, scrambler, or crawler. He thanked his lucky stars for this bit of luxury and began to think the courier’s life might suit him after all.
Something threw Peter from the sofa. He hit the floor and scrambled, his heart racing. He feared the coach was under attack. His eyes darted around the dimly lit compartment, looking for signs of alarm.
A melodious voice filled his world, disorienting him, and Peter couldn’t quite place himself. He realised, with growing embarrassment, that the audio story was still playing in his wirelesses. He tapped his right ear, pausing the narration, and removed his earphones. The compartment was quiet. Only the electronic hum of the engine, the grit of wheels rolling across dust, and the soft snoozing of other passengers could be heard. He leant back and released a sigh of relief.
“You quite alright, lad?” Peter looked up at the speaker. Mr Revel leaned over the back of the next compartment’s sofa, a polite half-smile creasing his features.
Peter sat bolt upright. “Oh, yes, Mr Revel, Sir, I’m fine. Sorry if I disturbed you.”
“No bother, lad, but best get yourself up off the floor.” Mr Revel stepped into Peter’s compartment and offered a hand. Peter took it and got to his feet. “Care for a drink?” Peter nodded, both surprised and excited. “Good, there's a bar at the back—get us both a glass vermouth.” Mr Revel handed Peter his cred stick. Hesitant, Peter took it, while Mr Revel settled comfortably on one of the sofas.
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Peter headed slowly to the back of the coach, his eyes glued to the cred stick and his mouth slightly agape. It was platinum. Peter never imagined he’d ever see a platinum cred stick, let alone hold one. He was so focused on it that he nearly walked into the bar.
Peter shook his head, refocused, and activated the touchscreen bar, scrolling until he found the icon for vermouth. He selected it and was prompted: ‘Ice’ or ‘No Ice.’ Peter looked over his shoulder at Mr Revel. His suit was spotless, his hair styled and combed, and his full beard well-oiled. He was refined. A refined man would want ice, Peter assumed. He selected the option, but an error message came up: ‘Unavailable’. Peter grimaced and reselected, two glasses, no ice. The bar rumbled, glasses clinked, and liquid poured before two glasses of vermouth emerged from the machine's mouth-like dispenser.
Peter carried both drinks to Mr Revel, handed one to him and returned the cred stick. “Thank you, lad,” Mr Revel raised his glass to Peter. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” Peter raised his glass in response. He sat across from the Toff but refused to get comfortable, peaching stiffly on the edge of his seat. Mr Revel's eyes lingered on him, and Peter couldn’t help but feel a sensation of being scrutinised. After a moment, Mr Revel smiled, raised his glass, and sipped, releasing a dramatic ‘ah.’ Peter smiled back but awkwardly attempted to avoid Mr Revel’s gaze. Mr Revel cocked his head coyly and gestured to Peter’s drink, then upward.
“Oh yes,” Peter mumbled, bringing the drink to his lips and taking a large swig. Peter had rarely ever drunk before, and that had always been light beers. Unprepared for the sudden sensations this new beverage brought, he swallowed too quickly, missing the crisp dryness of the drink before struggling to suppress a coughing fit. The citrusy aftertaste that lingered, however, was somewhat pleasant.
Once his throat was cleared and composure returned, Peter looked meekly to Mr Revel, whose broad, amused smile was made all the warmer by the way it widened his beard. “It uhm… it's very good.”
“No, it isn’t, but it will do.” Mr Revel sipped from his glass as he leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other and draping an arm across the sofa’s spine. "So, Mr Patterson—where are we headed?”
There was something about Mr Revel that didn’t sit quite right with Peter. He spoke politely, yet directly, as if he had known you for a lifetime and shared an intimacy immune to things as trivial as offence. He had spoken to everyone that way, except perhaps the now-absent newcomer. Effortlessly at ease with the strangers, he coaxed tale after tale from each of them. Only now, sitting one-on-one with Mr Revel in the proximity of the coach compartment, did Peter realise that the only member of the group who hadn’t shared any tales was Mr Revel himself. In fact, Mr Revel hadn’t shared anything about himself beyond his name. Peter couldn’t help but wonder who the man really was.
As the thought took shape, he noticed Mr Revel’s expectant gaze and realised he’d been silent too long. “Miracle Springs. Beyond the periphery.” Mr Revel didn’t respond, and Peter found a need to fill the silence, adding, “Give or take a few stops.”
“Miracle Springs,” Mr Revel echoed, nodding slowly. “Beyond the periphery.”
“Yep,” Peter confirmed.
“But this coach doesn’t go to Mircale Springs, does it?”
“No,” Peter shook his head. “No coach does, but this one gets the closets. It’s too far out, and there is not enough demand for a route. But someone out there has paid a lot of creds for a delivery—more creds than I have ever seen, actually. So, I’m headed that way.”
“All the way out beyond the periphery,” Mr Revel eyed him coyly, unblinking, and Peter felt once more that he was being appraised. “You must be very brave.” Mr Revel smiled faintly. “The wastes are dangerous even within sight of the city walls. Beyond the periphery—anything can happen.” Peter felt a mix of feelings. On the one hand, he enjoyed the compliment and imagined himself as some dashing hero braving the unknown. On the other, Peter couldn’t help but feel that Mr Revel had decided Peter wasn’t up to the task. Peter worried the latter was the true.
“Well,” Peter swallowed, the word catching in his throat. “I guess I’ll just have to be careful then, won’t I?”
“Quite right.” A sudden pip of energy softened Mr Revel, and he raised his glass to Peter again. “Very careful indeed. You’ll be fine––strong young lad like you. Surprising, however, that your superiors sent someone so young so far out so early in his career.”
Peter averted his gaze. “Actually, Mr Revel, my superiors didn’t pick me. The customer did.”
“The customer did?”
“Yes. By name.”
“By name,” Mr Revel echoed again. “Now that is something.”
Peter didn’t quite know why he felt so uncomfortable admitting this to Mr Revel. Perhaps it was because he felt he hadn’t earned the job. Perhaps it was because the customer's identity and reason for choosing Peter weren’t known to him. Perhaps it was because he was frightened of having to travel so far from the safety of Salt City. Or maybe it was simply that he didn’t believe that anyone would really pay him that many creds. Whatever it was, it made him uneasy, and telling Mr Revel felt strangely like telling a friend he’d let them down.
“What’s your first stop, Mr Patterson?”
“Bittercreeks,” Peter panicked, suddenly wondering how long he’d been asleep. His eyes darted to the holographic display. He relaxed—next stop, Dry Gulch, only eighty miles from the city. Reassured, he turned back to Mr Revel. “Half my packages are due there, then two more stops before Saltwater Ridge.”
Mr Revel drained the remains of his glass and rose gracefully to his feet. “Bittercreeks. That’s another three hundred miles. It’ll be daybreak before we get there. Get some sleep, Mr Patterson—I intend the same.”
Peter jumped to his feet to say farewell. “Thank you, Mr Revel—Sir—for the drink and loading the crates for me earlier; I never got the chance to thank you for that.”
“Think nothing of it, lad,” Mr Revel turned to take his leave.
“You never said,” Peter interjected before the Toff could escape, “where are you headed—if you don’t mind me asking, Sir.”
For the briefest flicker of a moment, the expression on Mr Revel’s face very much suggested he did mind. That look vanished in the blink of an eye, replaced by a broad smile. “End of the line,” Mr Revel answered smoothly. “Give or take a few stops.” Mr Revel patted Peter’s arm and left. “Good night, Mr Patterson.”
“Good night, Mr Revel.”
Peter sank back into his seat and sipped his drink more cautiously until it was empty. Then, he lay across his sofa, readying himself for sleep. As he drifted off, he replayed his conversation with Mr Revel in his head. He realised, with some discomfort, that he’d once again been the one to share while Mr Revel stayed an enigma.