Spiral

by Roderick Gordon

  “Blimey. I’m touching it,” Will whispered as he realized that the wire was actually resting against his chest. It was so fine as to be almost invisible. All that gave it away was the glistening droplets of moisture along its length as Drake’s miner’s light played on them.

  “Very bloody sneaky-weaky,” Drake said. He traced where the wire ran to the middle of the grotto, culminating among the wreckage of a machine that lay in the deeper water. Whatever the machine had once been, it was now a mass of corroded iron cogs in a twisted frame.

  “So the tripwire’s secured there . . . ,” Drake whispered, then moved behind Will so he could trace the route of the wire in the opposite direction. “Always be on the lookout for secondaries,” he said, taking extra care about where he was treading in the shallow water. He reached the grotto wall and extracted several items from a pouch on his belt.

  Will couldn’t see what he was doing. “What’s there? Can I move now?” he asked, barely daring to breathe.

  “Mot . . . am . . . mufscle,” Drake replied, a screwdriver gripped between his teeth. He swapped it for the penknife he’d been using, then another minute passed before he finally announced, “OK. Done.”

  The tripwire suddenly zinged away toward the ruined machine, and Will finally let out his breath.

  “Here!” Drake lobbed something at Will. With a cry of alarm, he caught it. Many dull marble-sized ball bearings spilled from a small canister, dropping all around Will’s feet with little splashes. Drake had removed a panel in the canister and a few remaining bearings rattled around inside it, against a stick of what looked like plasticine.

  “Styx antipersonnel explosive device mark 3. Guaranteed to ruin your day, or your money back,” Drake said. “In the future, Sweeney or I will take point.”

  “You got it,” Will agreed, tipping the last of the bearings from the canister.

  Because there wasn’t enough room in the cellar, all their equipment was taken into the living room and laid out so Drake could give it a last check. Will and Elliott watched as Sweeney and Colonel Bismarck lugged the second of the two nuclear weapons into the hallway. Mrs. Burrows immediately shut the front door behind them.

  “They look heavy,” Will remarked. The stainless-steel box was only around four by six feet in size, but the two men were grunting with the effort as they carried it, using the handles at either end.

  “OK. Everyone on me,” Drake called from the sitting room.

  “Where do you want the second TND, boss?” Sweeney asked as he and the Colonel entered, sidestepping around a coffee table.

  “Over there will do — by the first,” Drake answered.

  Will was at the door, peering at the impressive amount of kit inside the room. “If that woman could see what was going on in her home right now!” he said.

  Sweeney grinned. “Yes, reckon she might be a little brassed off that her view of the telly was blocked by a couple of atom bombs.”

  “Particularly if ER was on,” Mrs. Burrows added, as Sweeney and the Colonel lowered the device beside the second one, and then straightened up, rubbing their hands.

  Drake had been squatting beside a curious-looking piece of equipment lying on the coffee table. “Come in and shut the door, Will,” he said, as if even now he didn’t completely trust Eddie’s men, who were still in the house.

  “Right, before we set off, there are a few things I need to say.” He indicated the devices in front of the television. “Moving the nukes is going to be a real backbreaker until we reach the lower-grav environment toward the center of the Earth. The bombs themselves aren’t that heavy, but because of their antiquated design, there’s a hunk of lead in the casings around them.”

  “Then can’t we just lose the casings?” Elliott proposed.

  “The fissile plutonium in the bombs throws off too much radiation — we’d be glowing like neon signs before we’d gone any distance. But it might come to that yet,” Drake said, his expression grim. “This mission isn’t going to be a walk in the park.” He ran his eyes over Mrs. Burrows, who had Colly beside her, the Colonel, then Will, Elliott, and Sweeney. “And Eddie’s not going to be with us on this one.”

  “Because of his head?” Will asked, not looking at Elliott.

  Drake nodded. “He needs time to recover, but it’s not that. I don’t know what the current situation is in the Colony, but if the Styx are still there in any number, it’s better he keeps out of sight. Anyway, he’s more use to us here on the surface, where he and his men can work with Parry and the Old Guard to find the Styx women.”

  “Unless they’ve all gone underground,” Colonel Bismarck said.

  “True,” Drake concurred. “What Danforth told us about resuming the Phase in the inner world might have been nothing more than a ploy to throw us off the scent. However, we need to find that out for ourselves.” He took a breath. “Right, unless anyone has any questions, let’s saddle up,” he said.

  “I have,” Will said. “What’s that? A weapon?” He was looking at the device on the coffee table. Three slim metal tanks, each a yard in length, were welded together, with a pistol grip halfway down, and some sort of funnel or nozzle mounted at one end.

  “A little something my mechanic friend outside in the van knocked up for me,” Drake replied. “In fact, he’s made me several versions of it.”

  Will edged closer to the table to inspect the device. By the base of the nozzle, tubes from the three tanks were intertwined in a Gordian knot on which there were a number of knurled knobs.

  Drake picked up the device and, taking hold of the grip, slid back a catch and clicked the trigger. A blinding blue flame roared from the nozzle.

  Will leaped back in surprise, raising an arm to shield his face from the heat. “It’s a flamethrower!”

  “No, this isn’t a weapon. I won’t bore you with the principles,” Drake said, the flame phutting out as he released the trigger, “but two high-octane propellants mix with oxygen to create a powerful propulsion device . . . a booster. So we don’t have to rely on a Sten to produce the thrust to get us across the zero-grav belt, like you and your father did.”

  “That’s so cool,” Will said. “I can’t believe you know how to do that. It looks really complicated.”

  “Nah — it’s hardly rocket science,” Drake said dismissively, then frowned. “No, I suppose it really is rocket science,” he added, correcting himself.

  Having gathered up their equipment, Will and Elliott went down to the cellar. Eddie’s men were waiting there — Drake had said that they’d collapse the mouth of the tunnel so the Topsoil authorities wouldn’t find it.

  Elliott spoke to several of them in the Styx language, then she and Will entered the tunnel, quickly moving to the far end of the crescent-shaped grotto. Will showed her the iron door with the three handles down one side that he and Chester had first discovered together.

  “This was where it all kicked off,” he told her, rapping its battered surface with his knuckles. It rang with a low, resounding tone, until he touched it again, tracing around an area of shiny black paint with a fingertip, and remembering. “There was no turning back when I found this door — well, not for me, anyway. I don’t think Chester was happy about it at the time, but he still came along.”

  “Poor old Chester — he’s like that. He’s a loyal friend to you,” Elliott said.

  And look where it got him, Will was thinking as Drake appeared. “You can open up. I’ve checked for Styx antipersonnel mines,” Drake said.

  Will immediately clunked up the three handles on the side of the door, then stepped back. “Ladies first,” he said to Elliott.

  She leaned on the door and it groaned open on its hinges. Then she stepped over the metal lip at the base of the doorframe and went into the cylindrical chamber. Once they’d gone the short distance to the other side, Drake joined them
, and Will cranked the three handles on the second door, which was identical to the first.

  Then, without even troubling to glance through the hazy porthole, he heaved it open. There was a sibilant hiss as the air pressure equalized.

  “At least that means the Fan Stations are still operating, doesn’t it? So the Colony’s getting air,” Will said to Drake.

  “I hope so,” Drake replied noncommittally.

  Will and Elliott moved through the antechamber, the beam from Will’s miner’s light lancing the moisture-laden air. The walls themselves were a patchwork quilt of rusted metal plates studded with rivets.

  Will caught his breath as he made out the shaft up ahead. There, waiting for them, was the cage elevator itself, ready to take them down.

  Will went to open the trellis door to the elevator but glanced at Drake to see if he should proceed.

  Drake nodded, his miner’s light bouncing up, then Will slid the gate back and went in.

  “Safe as houses,” he whispered to himself, but this time he didn’t feel like jumping up and down.

  The equipment and nuclear weapons were ferried down in several trips because Drake didn’t want to overload the old elevator. When it had all been moved and everyone was down, too, Will started for the door to the second metal chamber.

  “Hold up,” Drake said. “I need to investigate that airlock first. I haven’t risked opening it yet, in case it’s alarmed.” He turned to everyone. “Weapons at the ready. And you should also have your tranquilizer guns close to hand in case we bump into any Colonists.” He paused for a moment. “There’s something you should be aware of. When we were last in London, I picked up a distress signal from the Colony.”

  “What do you mean?” Mrs. Burrows asked.

  “I left a radio beacon with your friend the Second Officer. It was tuned to a specific frequency, and I told him to use it if things got difficult in the Colony and he needed help. Well, he did.”

  Mrs. Burrows looked troubled. “Why didn’t you mention this before n —”

  “Because we had bigger fish to fry at the time,” Drake interrupted. “So I’ve really no idea quite what we’re going to find when we go through that airlock.”

  Mrs. Burrows was shaking her head as she placed her hand protectively on the Hunter at her side, who immediately began to purr loudly. “I brought Colly along because I wanted to take her home. If I’d known what you’ve just told me, I’d have made other plans — I’d have left her with Sergeant Finch.”

  “She’ll be fine. She can come with us on the journey — she looks healthy enough,” Drake argued.

  “Yes, she’s healthy enough,” Mrs. Burrows said a little curtly. “But do you really expect her to have her litter on the hoof?”

  Everyone turned to look at the Hunter who, aware of the sudden interest in her, stopped purring.

  “Litter?” Will said.

  “Yes, Bartleby’s offspring,” Mrs. Burrows answered. “Why do you think she’s put on so much weight?”

  Drake sighed. “Look, let’s see what the situation is in the Colony, then we’ll work something out. OK?”

  “OK, I suppose,” Mrs. Burrows said.

  They all held back as Sweeney and Drake checked the door into the airlock for booby traps, then opened it.

  As if she couldn’t wait to find out what state the Colony was in, Mrs. Burrows was right behind the two men.

  Sweeney was halfway across the corrugated flooring when he suddenly missed a step and staggered. He was groping for the side of the airlock as if his legs couldn’t support him. Drake was immediately on the case, pulling the larger man back with him.

  “No! Colly!” Mrs. Burrows shouted. The Hunter had collapsed beside her. She was out cold.

  “Get the cat out!” Drake yelled at the Colonel and Will.

  Sweeney seemed to recover as soon as he was helped toward the elevator. Colly, however, remained completely unconscious.

  “What is it?” Mrs. Burrows said. “We can’t have this — she’s pregnant!”

  Drake pointed to his ear. “It’s a subaural field. They’ve put one around the door to stop anyone using it. Sweeney was wearing his plugs, but he’s hypersensitive to most frequencies. And, of course, Colly had no protection at all.”

  “But she’ll be all right?” Elliott asked, running a hand over the cat’s plump stomach.

  “She should be,” Drake replied. “Now, you’re all going to get as far back as you can, because — in time-honored fashion — the Colonel and I are going to blow our way through.”

  IN MARKET SQUARE, a large paved area at the center of the South Cavern, people were gathering to hear what the Board of Governors had to say. Word of the forthcoming meeting had gone around, and most, if not all, of the remaining occupants of the subterranean city were turning up.

  The Governors hadn’t been much in evidence lately. But since the Styx had abruptly vanished, they’d crept out from wherever they’d been hiding, clearly with the intention of reasserting their authority over the Colony.

  Before the recent troubles, the square had thronged with people on market days, purchasing goods from the numerous rows of carts. But now these carts had been wheeled to the side to make room, although a few people were standing on them to get a better view of the Governors.

  And almost the full complement of Governors was present on a hastily erected platform. There should have been twelve of them, but one of their number was unwell; Mr. Cruickshank was suffering badly with gout and hadn’t been able to leave his bed. The rest, all decked out in their tall stovepipe top hats, formal black coats, and gray pinstripe trousers, were sitting stiffly behind a long table on the platform. When it was time for the meeting to start, the eleven men removed their top hats from their heads and placed them on the table before them. Then, Mr. Pearson, the most senior Governor, rose to his feet.

  With his lugubrious expression and the painfully slow way he spoke, he began to lecture the people about “Keeping order” and how it was “a Colonist’s duty to his neighbor to obey the age-old laws.” Sir Gabriel Martineau’s name kept cropping up as Mr. Pearson wittered on; he obviously believed that frequent references to the Colony’s founder would resonate with the audience and make them more compliant.

  But although the crowd was listening, they weren’t pleased with what they were hearing. The Governors had been the puppets of the Styx, merely putting into effect whatever the real ruling class ordained. And with the Styx out of the picture, it was inevitable that there wouldn’t be the same degree of respect for these officials.

  “We have . . . ,” Mr. Pearson proclaimed, one hand tucked into his waistcoat as he wagged a finger at the rock canopy far above, “we have known hard times for these past months. We have all been parted from family and neighbors, although we don’t yet know the reason for this. And we don’t know where they have been taken or when they will be returned to us again.”

  “Never,” a woman in the crowd muttered.

  “And when our lords themselves return, you can be assured that we, the Board, will ask them these very questions,” Mr. Pearson said in answer to the woman.

  With this reference to the Styx, a ripple of disapproval spread through the crowd.

  “And until the status quo is restored, we will ensure that our daily routines are back to normal and that we are not troubled by outbreaks of lawlessness from the small handful of malcontents in our society,” Mr. Pearson said. “For down here, we have only each other. We are one big society, and we look after our own.”

  With great ceremony, he turned to the Governors on his left, and then those on his right. All ten officials were saying, “Hear, hear,” with great emphasis, and nodding like a row of drunken monkeys to show their agreement.

  Mr. Pearson addressed the crowd again. “We have all been in the same boat. In rec
ent months, we have all known the turbulent waters. . . . We’ve been hungry, confused, and frightened by the inexplicable changes taking place in our lives. But never you fear, the Board is here to reinstate law and order.” He paused, as if expecting a cheer from the crowd, but the only reaction was stony silence.

  He cleared his throat, then went on. “Our first act will be to find an open portal, so deliveries of Topsoil food supplements are resumed forthwith. But, just as importantly, the production of our staple foods — those foods on which we rely so heavily — will also be restored. Livestock breeding and rodent collection are a priority, and as I speak, the penny bun fields in the North are being prepared for sporing, and —”

  “Ain’t seen you doin’ no diggin’,” a Colonist said loudly.

  “Yeah, roll yer sleeves up yerself, Pearson,” a second added.

  Mr. Pearson ran a finger inside his starched collar and ignored the hecklers as he tried to continue. But in the depths of the crowd, a Colonist coughed at some volume. Although it wasn’t a real cough.

  The man had ducked his head and shouted the word gazunder.

  The crowd tittered.

  All but a few citizens of the Colony had dispensed with the rather archaic practice of using a gazunder, or chamber pot — the porcelain bowl kept under the bed into which they could relieve themselves during the night if the need took them. Instead they would make the effort to go downstairs to the water closet, usually to be found at the back of the house.

  But not Mr. Pearson.

  And, being one of the privileged class, Mr. Pearson was too high and mighty to swill out his own urine in the mornings. Because of his high standing, he’d always had a servant — normally a captured Topsoiler or, if one wasn’t available, some low-ranking Colonist who’d been pressed into service in his household — and it would be their unfortunate lot to see to the distasteful task. And on some days it had been known for the gazunder to be emptied rather late in the day, so its odors would circulate downstairs and permeate the rest of his house. It wasn’t pleasant.