Danforth glanced up from the scanner but didn’t reply, and Drake was slowly shaking his head.
“The Dark Lights,” Eddie suggested. “Thanks to Drake, we can locate them. And my people, wherever they are, are likely to be using them on an intensive basis.”
Drake was quick to answer. “But we’ve already considered that. Yes, we can detect Dark Light activity by using mast arrays, but it only works over relatively small areas. In order to increase the search radius, I’d need microwave antennae mounted up somewhere high, so there’d be uninterrupted line of sight out across the country.”
“You mean a whole cluster of bloody powerful parabolic dishes, and directional to boot,” Danforth added in a patronizing tone.
Drake gave him a weary nod; although the Professor was arguably one of the most brilliant minds on the planet, at times his sense of self-importance was difficult to stomach. “Then, in theory at least, we could identify any major Dark Light hot spots two or three hundred miles or even farther from the center of London,” Drake said.
“Well, that’s a start,” Parry said optimistically.
“We would also need to dispatch roving teams with battery-powered mobile detectors to help us pinpoint the precise coordinates of any hot spots.” Drake paused as he pursed his lips in a moment of contemplation. “Yes, we might strike gold, but it’s a hell of a long shot.”
“Hell of a long shot,” Danforth echoed, as he turned to a new page in the Book of Proliferation and placed it facedown on the scanner.
“High-powered parabolic dishes in clusters,” Parry summarized. “Now we’re getting somewhere. But where would we find that sort of setup in a hurry? The city? Canary Wharf?”
Sergeant Finch mumbled something.
“What?” Parry boomed, wheeling toward him. “What did you just say?”
Sergeant Finch was taken aback by Parry’s reaction. “It’s just what you were saying . . . it made me think of the Backbone Chain,” he suggested sheepishly.
“What’s the Backbone Chain?” Drake asked quickly.
“It was a network of purpose-built concrete towers erected across the country by NATO to preserve communications after a nuclear strike,” Parry said. “The nearest tower to us here is at Kirk O’Shotts, and then there’s one at Sutton Common, and another at . . .”
Parry and Sergeant Finch looked at each other, speaking at the same time. “The Post Office Tower,” they chorused.
Parry strode over to Sergeant Finch and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You bloody genius!”
“You’re talking about the BT Tower in London?” Drake asked.
Parry waved his walking stick impatiently. “Stuff and nonsense! They will keep changing the blessed names of everything! Yes — the BT Tower — and we can get into it using the old emergency protocols, can’t we, Finch?”
Sergeant Finch was grinning. “We certainly can, sir — and I’ve got a cousin who used to work there, back in the good old days wh —”
“Raise him right now on one of Danforth’s satphones. Haul him out of bed if necessary,” Parry ordered. “And you two,” he said, setting his gaze on Drake, then Danforth, “how many mobile detectors can you rustle up for me at short notice?”
Danforth groaned; he didn’t seem to be particularly enamored of the thought of doing any work. “How many do you want?” he inquired begrudgingly.
“How many can you give me?” Parry said.
“But how can we mass-produce them here?” Drake put in.
“Simple as pie — if somebody gathers up all the Geiger counters in this place,” Danforth replied, “I can adapt them with components from the stores on Level 4. It’ll be bloody tedious, to say the least, but you can help me, Drake.”
Drake raised his eyebrows. “You can do it? With components here in the Complex?”
“In my sleep,” Danforth replied resignedly.
“And once the mobile detectors are ready, we’ll ship them down south and send patrols out. Your men can lend a hand,” Parry said to Eddie, “but there aren’t enough of them. It looks as though I’m going to have to bring the Old Guard into play. We’ll need quite a few bods to cover the country.”
“And we need to get ourselves down to London,” Drake said, “to the BT Tower.”
There were shouts from outside the police station and someone mounted the steps, taking them three at a time. The man reached for the counter as soon as he came in, propping himself against it as he tried to catch his breath.
“You have to come — been an accident,” he wheezed. It was one of the Colonists from the Quarter, a shopkeeper called Maynard. He peered with disbelief at the scene that greeted him — the former First Officer, in his sweat-stained shirt and with his suspenders hanging from his waist, holding court with all the prisoners as they supped from their tankards of Somers Town whisky. Maynard met Cleaver’s eyes, but when the grizzled visage smiled back at him, revealing his darkened stumps of teeth, he quickly looked away.
“Wass all the rumpus ’bout?” the former First Officer drawled, trying to pull himself up in his seat.
Maynard frowned. “It’s my son — the magic’s got him. I need your help.”
“I don’t work here anymore,” the former First Officer said, thrusting his tankard in the new First Officer’s direction and managing to slop drink over himself, which elicited giggles from Squeaky. “Ask Patrick.”
“Patrick?” Maynard asked. “Who the heck is Patrick? And what’s going on here?”
“It’s all right, Maynard,” the new First Officer said as he emerged from what was now his office. He tried again to recall the former First Officer’s name, but it wasn’t there, so he pointed instead. “He’s taking a break, so I’ll be in charge for a while.”
“Mole flaps!” the former First Officer exclaimed, his expression pained. Cleaver and Squeaky dissolved into roars of laughter at hearing him use the swearword. Even Gappy Mulligan, who everyone had assumed had passed out from the drink, because she was lying under the table, began to cackle. “Nope, I ain’t never coming back,” the former First Officer insisted. “Never, never, never.”
“Never,” Squeaky added in his nasal squeak, laughing.
“I heard you say ‘magic,’” the new First Officer asked. “What do you mean?”
“No such fing,” one of the other prisoners commented, and was shushed immediately by Cleaver.
“Listen t’the man,” he urged, in his rumbling baritone voice.
“My boy and me and some others were planning to go through a portal, and up Topsoil to collect a bit of food for everybody. We’ve got some Topsoil money left, and we figured we’d use it to buy a few basics: bread and milk and the like. There’s almost nothing left in my pantry, you know,” he said.
The new First Officer nodded sympathetically. “I know how it is. We have to do something, although we should get ourselves organized first. But what do you mean by ‘magic’? What happened?”
“I’m telling you — it’s Styx magic,” Maynard insisted.
“You’d better show me,” the new First Officer said, taking his truncheon from the peg on the wall and then going through the open counter.
“I’ve got to see this magic for myshelf,” the former First Officer slurred. He had somehow managed to get to his feet, all the prisoners rising with him — even Gappy Mulligan, although she was swaying unpredictably from side to side and singing softly to herself.
Danforth had restored power to the main circuits, so the Complex was no longer lit by the emergency lighting. After her examination, Elliott had gone straight to her quarters and refused to come out, despite Will and Chester’s best efforts. So instead they took it in turns to bring her food and drink.
On one occasion, when Will had turned up with a mug of tea, he found her before the full-length mirror in th
e wardrobe door, simply rocking up and down on her feet as she looked at herself.
“Are you OK?” he asked, as she continued to regard her reflection.
“I’m not sure I know who I am anymore,” she said to him. “I thought I knew, but I don’t.”
Before Will had time to ask what she meant, she fixed him with her piercing dark eyes. “Do you think differently about me now?” she said, stretching an arm above her head in a balletic movement. Then she let it flop at the elbow, so her fingertips touched the bandage across her back.
“Of course not,” he replied without hesitation.
“But Danforth found early signs of the Phase in me, and that makes me feel like a monster. It makes me something ugly.”
“That’s just silly —” Will began.
“But you don’t look at me in the same way now,” she interrupted. “When you held me earlier on, I could sense it.”
“That’s a load of rubbish,” he puffed indignantly. “And you know it is. You’re just a bit confused.” He remembered why he’d come to see her in the first place, offering her the mug. “You should drink this. Drake told me to put some extra sugar in it — he said it’ll help you get over the shock.” She took the mug, but as Will tried to touch her arm in a gesture of reassurance, she snatched it away, spilling her tea.
He looked down at the tea as it soaked into the carpet. “You’re my friend,” he said. “That will never change. You’re Elliott. And that’s all that matters to me.” Not knowing what else to say, he left the room.
The strange party had followed Maynard up through the tunnel network until they came to the portal. As the new First Officer threaded between the crowd gathered there, he saw Maynard’s son was on the ground, some ten feet from the riveted steel door of the airlock. It was rather unfortunate because the boy was very chubby, and he’d fallen facedown on the ground with his well-padded bottom sticking in the air.
“No closer,” Maynard warned, catching the new First Officer’s arm. “It’s bewitched.”
The new First Officer heeded the advice. “So what happened? Tell me precisely,” he inquired, as he saw the pickax lying on the ground beside the plump boy.
“We thought the Styx might have welded the portal shut, so we were preparing to force our way through,” Maynard replied. “My boy Gregory was the first to reach the door. He’s been very hungry lately and a bit difficult at home. Anyway, he was rushing toward the door and just fell over — like the magic had struck him down.”
“Styx magic. They placed a curse on the portal,” a man in the crowd piped up.
“We’re all doomed,” a woman wailed, which sent a ripple of disquiet through everyone gathered there.
“Poppycock! The Styx don’t have magic,” the former First Officer drawled. “Fat boy passed out from his hunger.” As he wheeled unevenly around, his eyes fell on the prisoner nearest to him. “Cleaver, show them,” he said.
“Cleaver, show them! Cleaver, show them!” Squeaky and the other prisoners began to chant.
Delighted to be the center of attention, Cleaver strode toward the portal in lumbering, confident steps. As he glanced over his shoulder at the other prisoners, they all chanted even louder, cheering him on.
“Cleaver, show them!” the prisoners continued.
“Shaver, clove them!” Gappy Mulligan screeched.
Cleaver was clearly basking in the moment, a big grin pasted across his face. He built up speed, his thick legs pumping as he ran. But as he came to where the plump boy lay, he, too, crumpled to the ground, as if he’d been poleaxed.
As if he’d run straight into an invisible barrier.
All the prisoners ahhhed with disappointment, their chanting immediately dying out.
“It’s magic, I’m telling you. I did try to warn you. The Styx don’t want anyone to escape,” Maynard said. “So what now? We have to get my boy back and see if he’s all right.”
“From now on, nobody goes near any of the portals,” the new First Officer ordered the assembled people. “Is that understood?”
The crowd murmured their agreement.
Turning toward the portal again, the new First Officer took off his helmet and scratched his head for a moment as he thought. “Right . . . I’ll need a grappling hook so I can drag these two out. And someone else fetch a doctor, if there’s still one left in the Colony.” He regarded Cleaver’s huge body, which dwarfed even the vastly overweight boy slumped beside him. “And you’d better make that a big grappling hook,” he added.
Elliott had stripped her rifle down to give it a thorough cleaning. She was in the process of putting it back together again when Stephanie pranced past the open door of her quarters.
“Oh, hi there,” the girl said. “I didn’t know you had this room.” She was wearing a white T-shirt identical to the one Elliott had on, but Stephanie had tied the bottom in a knot so it looked rather more stylish on her.
“I’m so glad you’re all right,” Stephanie said vaguely, eyeing the thick gauze on Elliott’s back, which was difficult to miss. She had begun to follow up with “And not a . . .” but decided better of it and closed her mouth. For once.
Elliott made no effort to reply as she slotted the bolt back into the rifle’s receiver, then worked it several times.
Uncomfortable with the silence between them, Stephanie announced, “I shoot, too.”
“Do you?” Elliott replied quietly. “Not with anything like this.”
“Oooo, can I see?” Stephanie asked eagerly, entering the room in little steps, her hands outstretched.
Elliott sighed. “I suppose so. Just be careful with it — it’s heavy.”
Stephanie took the weapon and, without any hesitation, put it to her shoulder. “It is heavy,” she agreed. “At school I mainly use a .22 for target practice. What caliber is this?” she asked, sliding back the bolt. Elliott had risen to her feet to stop her, but it was unnecessary — Stephanie appeared to know what she was doing. “I guess it’s like a .303 or something,” the girl continued, peering inside the chamber.
Elliott nodded. “You’re close. It’s a .35 and uses a special cartridge with a long casing, so it can take an extra load.”
“Right,” Stephanie said, turning her attention to the bulbous scope mounted on top of the weapon.
“That’s a light-gathering sight; the only place you’ll find anything quite like it is down in the Colony, where they’re hand-built for the Styx. This is a Limiter rifle, and I’ve shot and killed at least ten of them with it. Maybe more, but I wasn’t close enough to know if I’d hit the mark,” Elliott said. When Stephanie didn’t react to this, Elliott frowned. “I’m curious . . . do you mind if I ask you something . . . ?” she began.
“Totally,” Stephanie answered brightly, lowering the weapon to her hip and twisting from one side to the other as if she was spraying an invisible foe with a submachine gun. To make matters worse, she blew through her lips in an imitation of rapid gunfire.
“Ha.” Elliott swallowed, trying to resist the temptation to cuff the girl.
“What did you want to ask me?” Stephanie said, unaware of Elliott’s scornful expression.
“Will briefed you on the situation, so you know about the Phase and how serious things are. And because you’re with us, you’re marked by the Styx. There’s absolutely no way you can go home now,” Elliott said with overbrutal directness.
Stephanie looked inquiringly at her.
Elliott continued, “You’re OK with all that? Being holed up in this place until it’s all over. Or if we don’t deal with the Phase and beat the Styx, spending the rest of your life — however short it might be — constantly living in fear. Constantly on the run.”
Stephanie took a breath and passed the rifle back to Elliott. “You couldn’t make it more obvious you don’t like me,” she s
aid, flicking her beautifully groomed hair from her face. “But I’m, like, not some little sissy who screams or faints at the first sign of trouble. I’m tough, you know.”
Elliott laughed harshly. “You are, are you? You don’t look it to me.”
Stephanie held the other girl’s stony glare. “Come on, then. If you think I’m such a waste of space, why don’t you have a pop at me?” Taking several steps back to give herself room, she kicked her shoes off. “Try me.”
Elliott laughed again, then stopped herself. “You’re serious?”
“Totally, like, serious,” Stephanie replied.
Elliott put her rifle down. “Well, if you insist, but Drake won’t be pleased if I hurt you or anything.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, either,” Stephanie countered. “Is your back better? I don’t want to damage it.”
“Don’t you worry about me. I’ve got Styx blood. I heal fast,” Elliott said. She squared up to Stephanie, who seemed completely relaxed. Then Elliott launched herself, grabbing the girl’s neck with both hands.
Stephanie reacted with complete precision, swinging her arms up to break Elliott’s hold, then hooking her leg. Elliott was spun around like a top, and dropped facedown on the carpet.
Stephanie backed away, allowing the other girl to pick herself up.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Elliott asked, narrowing her eyes.
“Well, Parry was, like, this huge influence on my dad when he was growing up on the estate, and he got him into military intelligence,” Stephanie explained.
“Not another spook?” Elliott said.
“Something like that. Dad’s been stationed in loads of trouble spots across the world, and my mum and brothers and me have followed him to most of them. I haven’t exactly led a sheltered life.” She gave Elliott a small smile. “Try me again, but really give it all you’ve got this time. Chester’s not the only Olympic champion around here.”
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