‘Knowledge is our greatest weapon,’ I said, twisting the steering wheel and sending the truck lumbering up the hill.
‘I’d rather come back with something more gun-like in our arsenal.’
I ignored Drakeforth and we drove through the night, up the winding hill road, through the whispering pine trees until the buzzing of helicopters told us we were close.
‘Happy now?’ he asked.
‘Ecstatic,’ I replied, leaning forward and peering through the windscreen at the scene before us.
Benedict’s truck stood where we left it. Benedict himself stood to one side, giving orders, judging by the way he was waving his hands about. Coluthon stood back, puffing on her pipe and watching as agents of Godden carried my desk out of the monastery gate and loaded it into the back of the truck.
‘Pan-fried posteriors,’ Drakeforth swore. ‘Now what are we going to do?’
‘Turn this tanker around, and see where they’re going.’ I launched into a complicated series of rotating manoeuvres. The heavily laden tanker truck turned its back on the monastery a few degrees at a time. We were nearly on our way when one of the agents approached us.
‘Trouble,’ Drakeforth warned. I grabbed a greasy bounceball cap from the seat beside me and pulled it down over my eyes before winding down the window.
‘Wotcher,’ I said gruffly.
‘What are you doing here?’ the agent said.
‘First time out here. I got lost making the pickup. Sorted now,’ I said.
‘Do you know where you are going?’ the agent asked.
‘Uhh …’
‘Return to the highway. We will escort you to the delivery point from there.’ He marched back up the hill without waiting for a response.
‘That was interesting,’ I said, winding the window back up and giving Drakeforth a reassuring grin.
‘Godden,’ Drakeforth said.
‘No, just one of his agents,’ I replied.
‘The logo on your cap. This is a Godden Energy Corporation truck.’
I yanked the hat off and looked at it. The heart and lightning bolt logo of Energy Tech Services was embroidered on the front.
‘What the haemorrhoid is going on?’ I demanded.
‘It’s worse than I suspected,’ Drakeforth said as I engaged the gears and sent the truck chugging down the hill road.
‘We’ll have to go deeper into the darkness, Pudding, a lot deeper than we might like. There’ll be barked shins on the unseen furniture of this mystery before we are done. Mark my words.’
We reached the highway without incident. ‘We find out where they are going, then we can strike from within and get my desk back,’ I explained.
‘We can’t stop now,’ Drakeforth said. ‘This isn’t some sense-media adventure where you can disconnect and return to your dull and dreary life. This is it. This is you, living, making the big decisions and taking the big risks.’
‘Does it bother you that even if we succeed, very few will ever know? Certainly no one will if we fail,’ I asked.
‘No reason not to try,’ Drakeforth said, watching the side mirror as the cab filled with light from the convoy coming down from the monastery.
We pulled out behind Benedict’s truck and drove quietly down the highway. I stopped talking to Drakeforth, instead sinking into my own thoughts for the duration. It took an hour for the convoy to reach the turn-off that lead to the mysterious place that the Godden agent had called Nowhere. Going to our certain doom by helicopter had been much quicker.
Chapter 16
The same gate guard as before cheerfully waved us through and into the vast storage yard of the Godden base. I had pulled on the bounceball cap again. Drakeforth dug around in the glove compartment and found a pair of oversized sunglasses with fluorescent orange frames. He put them on, and turned to look at me.
‘Ah, no. You are aware that wearing those will attract more attention than no disguise at all?’ I asked. Drakeforth gave a wounded shrug and put the glasses away again.
An agent in a bright green fluoro safety vest directed us to a pumping station. The concrete parking slab and large intake pipe with connecting nozzle were a match for the one back at the Monastery of Saint Detriment.
‘I suppose we should unload. No point in arousing suspicion,’ I said. Drakeforth agreed and we both climbed down and heaved the hose out from under the truck. Struggling under the ungainly weight, we dragged it over to the nozzle.
‘I think you push it in and then twist that ring,’ I said, my arms full of anaconda pipe.
‘Right.’ We shuffled forward, bringing the two ends together. Drakeforth reached out and spun the ring on the nozzle, locking the hose in place.
‘There should be a valve lever at your end somewhere,’ I said. It took him a moment to find it. Drakeforth turned it to OPEN and the pipe inflated with a hiss. Bright lights and sparks immediately burst out of the ring where the hose joined the pipe. An explosion of cold fireworks in a shimmering rainbow of colours lit up Drakeforth’s startled expression.
‘Shut it off! Shut it off!’ I yelled. He twisted the valve shut and the light show faded.
‘Empathic energy,’ I said, hurrying over.
‘The Arthurians are harvesting double-e flux from somewhere and supplying it to the Godden Energy Corporation,’ Drakeforth agreed.
‘Where are the Arthurians getting it from?’
‘Maybe they’re growing living oak somewhere in those hills?’ I knew it shouldn’t be possible, but where else would so much empathic energy be coming from?
Drakeforth tightened the connecting ring on the hose. ‘Open the valve again, we’ll head inside and see if we can find the desk.’
I twisted the valve open; the hose swelled again and the double-e flux drained from the truck’s tank. We abandoned the vehicle and went to find a way inside.
A guard stood watchful and alert outside the first door we found. We hunkered down behind a pallet and took stock.
‘You go and seduce him, I’ll wait here,’ Drakeforth said.
‘Why don’t you go over there and seduce him,’ I retorted.
‘Because if he is not that way inclined, then it will be very awkward,’ Drakeforth explained.
‘Can we distract him instead?’ I suggested.
‘If having a woman wearing Arthurian robes popping up out of nowhere and attempting to seduce him while on he’s on duty doesn’t distract him, I think we could safely declare him clinically dead.’
‘He looks oddly familiar,’ I said, my eyes squinting to focus in the dim light.
‘Well, if you think you know him, try that tack. Remember, distract him and then I’ll knock him out.’ Drakeforth gave me a shove and I stumbled out from behind the barrels. Caught like the proverbial jellyfish in a hydrophone I straightened up and walked confidently towards the guard, who immediately regarded me with suspicion, his pacifier truncheon moving to a strike position.
‘Hi,’ I said.
‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’ the guard asked.
‘Charlotte, and to be honest, I have no idea. It’s all rather complicated.’
‘Don’t move, I’m contacting my superior,’ the guard replied.
I tried to remember a good seduction technique, but as I wasn’t wearing anything remotely sexy, or in possession of a bar tab credit, I drew a blank. As the guard lifted a radio from his belt I lunged forward and to the great surprise of both of us, I kissed him firmly on the mouth.
After a moment the guard jerked his head forward and butted me in the nose.
I yelped and stumbled back, clutching my face. The guard was also gripping his head and dancing around as Drakeforth hopped about behind him, a steel bar in his hands.
‘Ow! Ow! Ow! Nggghhh! That really stings!’ The guard hissed through clenched teeth.
‘You were supposed to knock him out,’ I snapped in a loud whisper.
‘Do you know how hard it is to render someone unconscious without killing them or
causing long-term brain damage?’ Drakeforth snapped back.
‘Actually? No, I have no idea how challenging it can be to knock someone out. Because I’ve never been in a situation where it was necessary before!’
‘Am I bleeding?’ the guard asked, probing the back of his skull and then peering at his fingertips.
‘I don’t think so. Here, let me see.’ I gently touched the back of his head. A hard lump was rising and I wondered if he might have a concussion.
‘Yes, just a little. But bumps on the head always bleed a lot, don’t they? Are you feeling dizzy? Seeing double? Or …’ I struggled to remember what other symptoms might indicate concussion. ‘Or hearing the ocean?’ I peered into the guard’s face with concern.
‘What the handkerchief were you thinking?’ the guard demanded of Drakeforth. ‘You could have killed me.’
‘I’m sure you will be fine,’ I said quickly. ‘But perhaps you should report to the med-bay for a proper check-up?’
‘That really, really hurt,’ the guard pressed the point.
‘Well, thank you for your participation in this training exercise,’ Drakeforth said. ‘Please proceed to the medical station for treatment and evaluation.’
The guard scowled at us and started to walk away. I could hear him muttering about unsafe working conditions as he disappeared among the stacked containers.
‘Excellent seduction technique,’ Drakeforth congratulated me. He dropped the bar and tried the door. It opened and the noise of a busy factory rushed out to meet us.
*
We stood just inside the factory entrance. Ahead of us was a hive of activity where every bee was focused on making more bees.
The workshop was the size of a zipillen hangar. Assembly lines of body parts passed overhead. Ranks of artificial people attached legs, arms and heads to torsos that walked off to join their creators at the assembly line. The assembly process was completed by these artificial people being worked on and working on the factory floor, so we were entirely ignored.
We walked like we knew where we were going. I nudged Drakeforth and indicated an unmarked door. It wasn’t locked, which fitted our façade of confidence perfectly. On the other side we found a hallway lined with fake pot plants. Abstract art prints hung on the walls, overlooking a patterned carpet that pushed the limits of taste and Euclidian geometry.
‘Wow,’ Drakeforth said staring at the floor.
‘It’s easier if you just don’t look at it,’ I suggested.
‘Is the carpet talking to you, too?’
‘Uhh. No,’ I said.
‘Okay then,’ Drakeforth lifted his eyes, set his shoulders back and marched off down the corridor. We had a purpose here: find the desk and get out. Alive.
Drakeforth and I took turns opening doors. Most of them revealed empty offices, and store rooms of cartons stacked on wooden pallets. When we came across a set of bathrooms we both looked at each other wordlessly, went in the respective doors and emerged a few minutes later feeling relieved.
After twenty minutes searching we agreed that the desk wasn’t on this floor. While the elevators weren’t the safest option when we were trying to find the desk without being detected, their convenience was alluring, so we pushed the button and waited for it to arrive like a couple of employees.
‘Which floor?’ Drakeforth asked, staring at the banks of unlit buttons inside.
‘Is there one labelled “stolen desk storage”?’
‘Yes, but that would be too obvious, wouldn’t it?’
I found myself actually looking to see if he was kidding, but of course he was. I covered by punching Drakeforth lightly in the arm.
‘Favourite number?’ Drakeforth asked.
‘Seven,’ I said automatically. I just like the way it sounds. He pushed the button for the seventh floor and we waited while the lift hummed. Our chosen floor turned out to contain more empty offices and a conference room filled with dusty holiday decorations and a bunch of mostly deflated balloons, now as withered and unpleasant as puffball fungi.
‘No one has been here in ages,’ I said.
‘Not quite true.’ Drakeforth indicated a trail of trolley tracks in the dusty carpet. They ended at a bookshelf filled with such titles as Mangar’s Management Matrix, A Biographers Guide to the Armistice Agenda, and A Journey Through the Carpal Tunnel and Other Engineering Marvels.
‘There must be some kind of switch or lever,’ Drakeforth mused while running his hands over the spines of the books.
I stared at the shelf for a moment and then reached out and pulled the obvious one. The bookshelf clicked and swung slightly outward on hidden hinges.
‘Open Sauce: a Collaborative Collection of Shared Recipes for Tasty Condiments, Gravies and Jus,’ I said.
‘Lucky guess,’ Drakeforth suggested. I gave a half shrug. Choosing the seventh floor had been a lucky guess. Selecting the right book to open the hidden doorway on my first attempt was more like luring luck into a dark alleyway and mugging it.
‘You should consider becoming a burglar,’ Drakeforth said. I hesitated with one hand poised to pull the secret door open.
‘Is it burglary if we are simply stealing back what was mine to begin with?’
‘I’m hardly qualified to give you legal advice, but on the face of it, I would say if we are caught, you will be in a lot of trouble.’
‘Me? You’re in this up to your perfectly arched eyebrows too, Drakeforth.’
‘You have the most endearing indignant squeak,’ he said and together we opened the bookshelf.
On the other side we found a safe room, one of those places where rich people can lock themselves away with enough food, water and recorded television to last until the invaders have left or the newspapers have moved on to a new scandal.
The room was packed with old furniture under shrouds of clear plastic. We moved among antique tables, chairs and a collection of iron bedheads. Drakeforth bent to examine these more closely. ‘Rout iron,’ he announced.
I dreaded asking. ‘Rout iron?’
‘So named because it is shaped from the discarded armaments left by an army fleeing the battlefield.’
As usual I found it impossible to be sure if Drakeforth was serious or if his sense of humour was so highly pitched only dogs could hear it.
I ran my hand over a covered chair. The shroud was clean. The deep-pile carpet on the floor had been vacuumed, too. In fact there was no dust on any of the plastic covers or surfaces.
‘Why is this room so clean?’ I asked.
‘Perhaps the furniture is being stored until it is needed?’ Drakeforth suggested.
‘Well, the dust covers would make sense, then,’ I said.
‘Unlike this quite frankly disturbing album of wedding lithographs,’ Drakeforth said, holding up a white leather-bound book with thick pages that creaked when turned.
Each dark image showed an older gentlemen standing stiffly in the thankfully short-lived fashion of Mascotalia, where the fashion-conscious wore anthropomorphic animal costumes. At his elbow, on a raised wooden pedestal, stood a small fruit bat wearing a tiny white wedding dress and lacy head piece, complete with veil.
‘Mr and Mrs Huddy Godden,’ I said in an awed whisper.
‘How do you think they consummated their marriage?’ Drakeforth asked with morbid fascination.
‘I’d rather not think about it.’
‘Too late!’ Drakeforth grinned and slammed the album shut with a thud.
We moved past more furniture, trunks of books and mouldering papers, a set of kitchen scissors mounted in a glass-fronted case and a mummified sandwich, vacuum sealed in a plastic bag. The bread had turned black with age and the thin, desiccated wagon-wheel shape of what might once have been a slice of tomato stuck out from between the two stone-like slabs.
‘Hungry?’ Drakeforth said with a grin that I ignored.
‘It’s like a museum,’ I said with a sudden thought. ‘Or at least a store room for items that will go in a
museum.’
‘I don’t see your desk anywhere,’ Drakeforth replied.
I closed my eyes. The desk was close; I could feel it. My skin tingled with the memory of touching the smooth polished slats. ‘There,’ I said, pointing and beginning to walk before I even opened my eyes. We moved an empty bookshelf, a fruit bowl with some shrivelled apple cores in it and an almost life-size portrait of a younger Huddy Godden, and there it was – my desk – covered in heavy plastic sheeting and trussed up with tape like a Hibernal feast turkey.
‘Help me get the plastic off,’ I said, plucking at the tape.
‘Or we could leave it safely wrapped up until we get it back to the Monastery of Saint Detriment,’ Drakeforth countered.
‘It looks like it’s suffocating.’ I wanted to touch the desk again, to reassure the drawers that I had not abandoned them.
‘It’s a desk, Pudding. It does not breathe.’
Part of me wanted to object. Of course it breathed. The desk snored gently in the warm afternoon sun. It snorted and coughed when I disturbed it. I managed to get the sticky tape off the plastic sheet and with a cacophony of crackling I pulled the cover aside.
‘Hello, desk,’ I said fondly.
‘Perhaps it did suffocate and it’s now dead?’ Drakeforth said when there was no response.
‘Don’t be crass,’ I said. Running my hands over the roll top I patted it gently. ‘You remember Drakeforth. I’m afraid he can be a bit of a tool,’ I said to the desk.
‘By which she means I am indispensable, and very useful in a range of situations,’ Drakeforth said. ‘Can we go now?’
‘Help me clear the way.’ I started moving furniture and boxes aside. The desk had been left on a wheeled trolley. I felt confident that once we cleared a path, I could push it all the way to the elevator myself.
‘While I am sure your plan is brilliant, could you possibly share the main points with me? I’m interested in knowing what role you see for me in our daring escape,’ Drakeforth said.
I stopped pushing the desk trolley. Escape plan?
‘Bratwurst,’ I muttered. ‘I honestly hadn’t thought that far ahead.’
Engines of Empathy (Drakeforth Series Book 1) Page 14