by Susan Price
Beryl hesitated, then answered, “Just a moment, Mr. Windsor.”
She looked across the office, as if hoping Andrea might be sitting in the armchair, waiting. She wasn’t. Sighing, Beryl rose and knocked on the door of Windsor’s office, going in immediately.
“Oh—Beryl,” Windsor said, looking up from his “cozy corner,” where he was sitting with that Patterson man, whom Beryl didn’t like at all. Smarmy, she thought him, and under the smarminess aggressive.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Windsor: Miss Mitchell has left.”
“Left? How can she have left? Where’s she gone?”
“She said something about—er—having a lot to do and—errands to run.”
Windsor and Patterson looked at each other. “Did Miss Mitchell deign to say when she might be back?” Windsor asked.
“Ah …” Tightening her hand on the door handle, Beryl coughed and said, “I think I ought to mention … I hope I’m not telling tales or—making a fuss about nothing—”
“Oh, spit it out, Beryl!”
“I—er—left the office for a few moments and—erm—when I came back—well, the printer had spilled some papers on the floor—”
“What are you chuntering on about?”
Beryl felt her face grow slightly hotter. “I was printing off those forms. Passes for the Tube.”
“Yes. So?”
“Miss Mitchell picked them up off the floor. When she left, she, er, took one with her.”
Both Windsor and Patterson got to their feet. Both came briskly across the office and pushed past her at the door. Windsor looked around the outer office, as if making sure that Beryl had been telling the truth and Andrea had really gone.
Patterson said, “You know where she’s gone. Isn’t hard to figure.”
“Surely not,” Windsor said. “Not even Andrea, surely—?” He reached for the telephone on the desk and dialed. “Hello? James Windsor. Can you tell me—has anyone gone through recently? Ah. Thank you.” He put the receiver down and looked at Patterson. “She bloody has. Fuck it!”
Beryl quietly returned to her desk and, head down, began typing again.
“So,” Patterson said, folding his arms. “We’ll get after her.”
“She’s taken her car through too. The car that I got her.”
“Won’t do her any good,” Patterson said. “We can take our time, get organized, and go through ten minutes before her. We can be waiting for her.”
“No,” Windsor said.
“She’ll run straight into our arms.”
“Can’t be done,” Windsor said. “The time streams. They’d cross, get confused—it’d be a nightmare.”
“Okay. Go back a day before her, then. So we sit on our arses for—”
“Are you deaf? Or stupid?”
Patterson scowled.
“It can’t be done. But we can go through one second after her.”
Patterson grinned. “How far can she run in one second?”
“Not built for running, our Andrea.” Windsor glanced at Beryl, took Patterson by the arm, and drew him back into his inner office. Shutting the door after him, he looked at Patterson. “There’s going to be a lot of confusion over there.”
Patterson nodded.
“So there might be an incident of friendly fire.”
Patterson, his arms folded, nodded and smiled. “Right, boss.”
22
21st Side “See You!”
Andrea didn’t wait for the lift but ran down the stairs to reception. One of the girls was speaking on the phone. She asked the other, “What’s the number of Tube Control, do you know?”
The girl lifted a receiver. “I can get them for you.”
“No, no, I need it for later and I’ve mislaid the number.” Looking disappointed, the girl wrote the number down on a sheet of paper.
Andrea forced herself to walk out of reception in a slow, dignified manner, but once on the gravel outside she ran around the corner, thinking: I’m getting away with it! So far—which wasn’t very far— anyway. She looked around for approaching security men.
The coder for her car was buried somewhere deep in her rucksack, and the car beeped and unlocked itself as she neared it. With relief she opened the door, threw her rucksack inside, climbed in after it, and locked herself inside. Then she delved in her rucksack until she found her cell phone. After taking a few deep breaths to calm herself, she punched in the number.
“Tube Control,” said a woman’s voice. “Kylie here. How may I help you?”
“Ah, hello. This is James Windsor’s office. We’re sending along a Miss Andrea Mitchell very shortly. We want her sent through straightaway, to 16th-side A. That’s A for alpha. Would that be possible?”
“To 16 A? Did you say 16 A?”
“Yes, A, alpha. This is urgent. Will it be possible?”
“Just a moment. Will there be a vehicle?”
“Yes.”
“And will Miss Mitchell be alone or with a party?”
“Alone.” Andrea gulped and hoped it hadn’t been audible.
“And she’s going through to 16 A—is that correct?”
“Yes!” Andrea snapped. “16 A. I said this is urgent!”
“Just a moment.”
Andrea gripped the phone tightly, holding it to her ear and staring through the windshield at the lawns, flower beds, and trees. Come on, come on—
“Hello?”
“Yes? Hello?”
“We’re preparing the Tube now. Can Miss Mitchell be here in ten minutes?”
“Oh yes! Thank you. Good-bye.”
She clicked the phone off and found it hard to breathe, so stifled was she with excitement, fear, triumph, and many other emotions harder to identify. Another hunt through her rucksack uncovered a pen, and leaning on her steering wheel, she filled in the pass. She scribbled something at the bottom that might pass for an official signature, if no one looked too closely—well, it hardly mattered. If anyone at the Tube looked at this business closely, or double-checked on her, or asked questions, she was caught. She had to rely on them treating it all as routine.
She reached for the ignition button but drew her hand back. No. Don’t give them ten minutes to see how nervous you are, and grow suspicious. Turn up in ten minutes’ time and rush through, shouting, “Urgent!” She leaned back in her seat. Ten minutes to wait. Ten minutes could seem a long, long time. Oh well. She could phone Mick and ask how he was. She would say she loved him and hang up with “See you!” She wouldn’t say “good-bye.”
Andrea drove her car up the ramp and braked on the platform in front of the Tube’s mouth. Leaning over, she wound down the passenger-side window, and when a security guard came out of the office, she flourished her pass at him. Bending down, he examined it and squinted through the window at her. He looked at the laminated employee pass pinned to her chest and studied her face.
“You’re expecting me, I think,” she said, trying not to sound as breathless and scared as she felt. “I’m Andrea Mitchell.”
He looked at her face again, as if he was memorizing it. Do guards always do this? she wondered. Perhaps I just never noticed before. If he’s caught on to me, what happens next? Police? Interviews? I could handle that. But no—Windsor was never going to bring in the police.
“That’s fine,” the guard said, handing her back the paper. “Wait for the signal and then go through.”
“Oh, thanks.” Andrea took such a deep breath, from relief, that she felt dizzy. The guard went back into the office, closing the door behind him. The mouth of the Tube towered over her, and she almost panicked. She glanced over her shoulder. No one was running toward her, yelling. For a moment she wished someone would. Someone should stop her. She was going through, on her own, to 16th-side A—the dimension where FUP had angered the natives and had been thrown out. She’d
be entirely on her own. No safety net.
The light above her turned green. Her heart thumping under her collarbone, she engaged first gear and drove forward. The nose of the car brushed aside the plastic strips, and still no one shouted.
It was like driving through a tiled underground walkway—except it was eerily clean, without litter or graffiti. The whining hum was loud enough, for a while, to make her wish she could put her fingers in her ears, but the sound soon passed out of hearing. I don’t want to do this, she thought; why am I doing this? But she kept driving. Was that the center point? Had the Tube done its stuff—was she in the 16th now? In seconds, she’d reached the other end and was certainly in the 16th. The car brushed aside the screening.
She drove straight down the ramp—she hadn’t time to stop and admire the scenery. She knew that even if days passed before it was guessed what she’d done, all the might of FUP could be less than a second behind her. But she glimpsed the wide, wide space of wet green hills and cloud-heavy gray sky. There was even more space than usual, because there was no office here, no compound. This was 16 A, which FUP had largely abandoned.
It was a little tricky at the foot of the ramp, because it didn’t meet the ground, since it hadn’t been measured and set up for this dimension. There was a drop which, from behind the wheel, looked quite terrifying, though it was probably a foot and a half or less. No matter: She hadn’t time to worry about it. These MPVs were tough little things, built like miniature tanks. The car took the drop, crashed, bounced, shook, but then drove on. There was a second, teeth-jarring crash as the rear wheels dropped from the ramp, and Andrea held her breath—but the car jolted on across the rough ground as if nothing much had happened.
She glanced in the rearview mirror. Behind her was hillside and sky. The Tube had vanished. Fear gripped at her heart: She’d never felt so alone. She’d never been so alone.
Drive, she ordered herself. Drive fast, and thank God you’re alone. She moved up a gear and pressed down on the accelerator. The car bounced and swayed alarmingly. If there are any gods up there, she thought, anybody at all, look after me now, and you can put your order in for as much devotion and kneeling and praying as you like. Just keep me upright and moving forward.
The car jolted onto a broad ride that led across the moor—but though it was more or less flat and grassy, it was still only a track made by horses and sheep, and it was uneven and stony. She started along it as fast as she dared and then saw something move from the corner of her eye. Looking to her left, she saw that the Tube had appeared again, and issuing from its mouth were horses. Men and horses.
She shoved her right foot to the floor, and with a growl, a leap, and a swaying jolt, her car shot forward.
23
16A: “The Elves Are Back!”
The cattle, black, skinny, half-wild creatures, were constantly, stubbornly turning aside, trying to find some way to escape the men who pestered them. Per, riding Fowl, turned a couple of cows aside and rose in his stirrups to point and shout a warning about a cow and calf that were making a break for the hills. Swart, his gazehound, ran forward, yapped, and ran back to Fowl’s heels.
The cattle weren’t shy of charging the men, especially those on foot, and the horsemen had to be quick to spur in, perhaps nudging a cow with the butt of a lance, to turn it aside. It was hot work, and Per’s shirt hung open, unlaced. Sweat gleamed on his chest.
Elf-Joe, shirtless, was among the men on foot, dodging out of the way of the cattle, roaring at them and clapping hands, clouting them with sticks. The slope, thank God, was leveling out and growing easier, becoming a broader, better-trodden track down into Bedesdale and the winter pastures along Bedes Water.
Children came running toward them from the ford, a noisy, shouting gaggle who made the cattle shake their heads and stomp. Joe was alarmed, but he should have known that Sterkarm bairns were used to cattle. “Elfie, Elfie!” the little voices shrilled. “Elfie-Choe!”
“Mind! Mind!” Joe said, fearful for them, but the bairns dodged the animals and ran up to him, reaching for his hands and grabbing at his knees. He fascinated them, because he’d been in Elf-Land. They thought of him as a sort of friendly monster. “Tell May!” they said. “Tell him!”
They were all shouting together, and it was hard to understand. “What?”
The oldest of the bairns, a lassie, said, “Tell May that Elven be back!”
“What?” Joe said, incredulously.
They all shouted again. The tall lassie’s voice rose above them. “Elven be on moor—they’ve been seen. Tell May!” They were too shy to approach the May themselves, Per being a shining hero to the small fry of the tower. But Elfie-Choe, he was even more of an outsider than them. He could do it.
Joe ran up the hillside, weaving in and out of men and cattle, yelling, “May! Per May!” Men pointed him in the right direction and added their voices to his, and here came Per, swaying easily on his horse’s back, his fair hair standing on end, his face flushed as he wiped it on his sleeve.
“Elven!” Joe shouted. “Elven be back this way! They be here!”
“Elven?” Fowl circled Joe. “Be that what tha said—Elven?”
“Aye! Elven! On moor!”
Per looked astounded—alarmed—enthused. “Where?”
“Ask bairns,” Joe said, and looked around to see the children already on the other side of the ford, racing for the tower.
Per sat his horse, astonished, his mouth open. Into his mind came a woman: tall, wreathed in soft hair, golden brown and falling in heavy waves. She was heavy bosomed, broad hipped. Generous hillside curves and a generous smile. The Elf-May. Entraya.
But Elves, they’d said. Elves. Entraya was rare. Most Elves were men, and not generous but cunning, armed and out for land and booty. What’s more, they could be coming only for revenge. Standing in his stirrups, Per yelled the names of various men, all horsemen, who threaded their way toward him. “Elven be back! Rabbie, Sandy—stay you here. Rest of you—with me!”
And away the horsemen went, picking their way among the scattering cattle, splashing through the ford, and then kicking into a canter as they made for the tower.
Joe watched them go, an ache in his heart that he couldn’t identify—was it fear or longing? He knew that, like the other footmen, he was supposed to stay with the cattle, but—“Bugger that!” Tired though he was after the long trek through the hills, he picked up his feet and ran. If the Elves were back, he had to see. All the other footmen, seeing him go, deserted the cattle too—and Rabbie and Sandy cantered after them.
The bell rang from the tower, a clanging and clattering of iron on iron that clamored across the fields, calling people to it. Men who had been repairing the stone walls of sheep folds, and women who had been gleaning in small fields of oats, or tending vegetable plots, came trudging over the fields, calling to each other. Why tolled the bell? Hearing a thumping of horses’ hooves and a jingling of harness, they pointed as Per and his company came cantering up.
Per reined in as the other riders came around him. “Elven!” he yelled at the people. “Elven be back!”
They were astonished by the news, and gaped, and chattered. Per was about to lose his temper when a lad came to Fowl’s shoulder, blushing but bursting with the importance of his errand: to wait for the May and give him the news. He’d been running the words over and over in his head, trying to pack much into little. “Elven!” he said. “On Easter Fell, nigh Aldkirk. Your daddy be arming. He says gan and see!”
“Canny lad!” Per said, which made the boy blush hotter with pleasure. Per drove his lance into the turf, dismounted, and took off Fowl’s headgear. Passing it to the boy, he said, “Get me a horse.” The boy ran off, followed by a friend, and Per took off Fowl’s saddle. The other men of his party were unharnessing their horses. The animals were too tired, after their morning’s work, to be ridden fast into the hills.<
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While they waited for the boys to bring them loose horses from among those that grazed all about the valley, they rubbed down the tired beasts with grass. The boys came back, proudly leading fresh horses by their reins. Per was saddling his fresh mount when Rabbie came trotting up, Elfie-Choe riding pillion behind him. Before he could ask why they’d disobeyed his orders, Joe slid down from the horse’s back and said, “Take me with thee. I want to see Elven. I can speak Elf!”
“Tha canna ride bareback,” Per said. “And tha canna keep up on foot.”
“I speak Elf,” Joe said. “Tha needs me.”
“Rabbie,” Per said, “gie Elfie thy saddle and hoss.”
Rabbie had already claimed one of the fresh horses as his and wasn’t pleased to give it up, but as Per came over to help Joe put on its headgear and saddle, he meekly stood aside and said nothing. Everyone knew that Elfie Joe was a favorite of Per’s.
The horse saddled, Per crouched and held out his hands to give Joe a leg up. Joe didn’t hesitate and, in a second, found himself on the horse’s back without really knowing how he came there. It was as uncomfortable as ever, and he didn’t look forward to the ride. His riding had improved, but it was always a way of getting from place to place, never a pleasure. He doubted that he could keep up with the expert riders around him, but if the Elves were back, he had to try. Per tightened his girth for him and said, “Keep up or be left behind.”
Per tightened his own horse’s girth, mounted, took his lance from a grinning lad, and kicked his horse forward. All the other mounted men fell in behind him, trotting off across the valley floor, with Joe at the end of the line, gripping a handful of saddlebow, reins, and coarse mane. The watching shepherds and farmers raised a cheer and waved them off, and the clanging of the tower’s bell followed them.
Elves! Joe thought, as he rose and fell with the horse’s trot, jolting uncomfortably into the saddle. How many? Eight? Ten? Armed? Of course they’d be armed—no Elf in his right mind would come unarmed into Sterkarm country, not after their last meeting. Would the Sterkarms kill them? If he fell behind the ride, would the Elves all be dead by the time he came up? He hoped not. He wanted to talk to them—in English. He didn’t know why. He wasn’t going back to the 21st, not now, but he did want to hear English again. He had to keep up.