The Elgin Deceptions (Sunken City Capers Book 2)

by Jeffrey A. Ballard

  “He hacked the Muppies code,” I say to short-circuit Puo’s smugness—I was not cowering. “The code they used to hijack our squiddie.”

  Puo’s squiddie hijacking trick was too risky to incorporate into our main plans. We weren’t a hundred percent sure it would work, or how the authorities would respond once they figured it out (like pulling all the remaining squiddies away for example). That, and Puo took his sweet time figuring out how to do it.

  “Whoa,” Liáng says, and then adds, “Good job.”

  “Why, thank you good, sir,” Puo says. “At least someone among us knows how to express gratitude.” He pauses expectantly.

  I grit my teeth. My jaw muscles burn from clenching. Freaking Puo. Finally, I manage to say, “Toady—” About thirty inappropriate things run through my mind, but I settle on, “—I say thank you all the damn time. Most recently when we were upstairs. And now if you think I’m going to—”

  “All right, all right—” Puo starts.

  “Don’t all right me,” I say. I can too express gratitude. I just don’t like doing it when it’s an expectation. I philosophically believe that true gratitude can’t exist when the other person is demanding it. So Puo can take his “thank you” and—

  Puo interrupts my thoughts, “You were so cowering.”

  “I was not! For your information, I was preparing to defend myself.” I brandish my knife at him. “You’re lucky you didn’t come any closer.”

  “Ohhh, a knife,” Puo mocks. “Scary. Don’t believe in stunners?”

  I ignore him and start up my DPV, turning it around to go back down to the station. The cadre of squiddie lights all blare at me, mostly motionless.

  “I’m still logging this one,” Puo says.

  “Logging?” Liáng asks over the low whine of his DPV starting up to follow me.

  “Aggh!” I clench my teeth. “Why, Plumpy Panda? Why did you—?”

  Puo talks over me, all too happily by the sound of it, “I’m glad you asked, my perplexed Panda. Every time I save Queen Bee’s butt, it goes in the log for prosperity. Last I checked it was one hundred and fourteen times to twelve.”

  I cut in, “There’s no log. And if there were, you’re not counting all the times I chose not to strangle you in your sleep. How many days have we known each other?”

  The wall of squiddie lights continue to stare at me, unmoving, as I approach.

  “Toady,” I say, “Move your … your … whatever the hell a group of toads is called.”

  “What is a group of toads called?” Puo wonders out loud.

  The squiddies turn around as a group and head back down to the underground station.

  Puo and I are silent, waiting for Liáng to answer.

  Finally Liáng says, “Well, I don’t know. How about we talk about the muppie back in the stairwell? Or how about where Toady-Chameleon was? Or how we’re getting out of here?”

  Puo asks, “Muppie?”

  I fill Puo in on our encounter with the frogman. “That’s probably why the squiddies showed up,” I finish with.

  Puo’s silent while he mulls this over. Eventually he says, “I don’t think so. The squiddies can’t move that fast. They must have already been in the tunnels to get here that quickly.”

  Well that’s not good. I drive the DPV down to hover over the tracks and disengage, pulling the equipment bag off my back.

  Puo continues, “You let the frogman intentionally jam you?”

  Before I can answer, Liáng says, “She insisted. Said zero body count.”

  “Interesting,” Puo muses, drawing the word out.

  I grind my teeth. I don’t need Puo’s insinuations or corner-store psychology right now.

  Puo’s squiddie comes to hover over Liáng and me to provide some extra light to our work.

  “So you think,” I ask, trying to bring us back on point, “that’s where the squiddies are hiding? In the tunnels?” I fish out a rider and clip it to the railway.

  “Makes sense,” Liáng says, at the same time Puo says in that same annoying musing voice, “Yeah.”

  I think that over as I untie the two balloon bags from the DPV and attach them to my waist.

  “And they deployed,” Puo says, switching back to a normal tone, “very quickly.”

  I chew the bottom of my lip as I power down the DPV and shove it back into the equipment bag. “They knew we were coming,” I conclude.

  “Yup,” Puo says.

  This isn’t actually a horrifying realization. The missing squiddies, the original stones we dropped through the Great Court almost three weeks ago, MI5 following Shǐ, they’d have to be daft not to think something was in the works.

  No. The scary part is the squiddies in the tunnels. To Puo and Liáng I say, “Deploying all of the squiddies in the tunnels shows anticipation. But what were they anticipating, our ingress or egress?”

  “Both,” Puo says. “They probably figured—”

  “Egress,” Liáng says. “If they arrested us on the approach, we’d just be trespassers. If they catch us with stolen goods, then we’re grave robbers.” Grave Robbers: all governments’ favorite term for underwater reclamation specialists. Plays well with the public. Horrible, deranged criminals disturbing the dead to steal things—which, of course, is total bullshit. We don’t mess with graves, and Puo’s only slightly deranged. But the legal penalties for stealing from protected sunken city zones is much steeper than simply trespassing.

  “If that’s true,” I say, slipping the equipment bag on my back, “then they have yet to make their main play.”

  I reach down and get a good grip on the rider—now these things can move.

  “Toady,” I say, “lead us out of here.”

  The two balloon bags tug lightly at my waist as I situate myself, getting ready for Puo’s squiddie to move off down the tunnel.

  Puo’s squiddie doesn’t move. It continues to float there dumbly.

  “Toady,” I say, “let’s move!”

  No response. Shit.

  I jerk around toward Liáng. He’s already tapping his helmet over the ear.

  Jammed. Again.

  But from what direction?

  I gesture frantically toward Puo’s squiddie to lead the way.

  Puo gets it and takes off.

  The rider whips off, nearly taking my arm out of its socket. We never did slow down the acceleration on these puppies, which I’m thankful for at the moment.

  My glance backward reveals more than just how Liáng is faring: three frogmen. They’re heading straight out of the tunnel and down into the station, staring right at us.

  But not chasing.

  I’d like to think that the frogmen see a group of squiddies chasing after us and are waiting it out. But I doubt it. The riders may be able to outrun the military DPVs, but they can’t outrun comm-links.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  IT DOESN’T take long for the fact that we can’t outrun the comm-links to become readily apparent. At the first underground station we approach, a brand new group of squiddies are waiting for us.

  Six shiny new squiddies all with their appendages out and pointed down the tunnel at us.

  Puo’s pack of squiddies convert them to our cause fast enough. But it’s the squiddies’ presence that’s worrisome. The Muppies must have identified this as a potential escape route and are now converging on it.

  “Toady,” I say—we’ve traveled far enough away from the wet team jamming us to be able to talk again. “Send several squiddies to scout ahead.”

  “Roger, that,” Puo says.

  To Liáng I say, “Let’s slow down a fraction.”

  I ease back on the riders controls and slow down ten percent or so. Just enough to give the squiddies time to swim ahead and convert any unfriendlies and report back what they find.

  The two balloon bags lessen their pull on my waist. My arm muscles are starting to burn from the strain of holding onto the rider.

  “How are you doin’?” I ask Li
áng.

  “I’m hanging on,” he replies dryly.

  “Ooh,” Puo says, “weak pun. Weak pun, Plump Panda. You got to dig a little deeper if you want to have witty dialog. You can’t be spurting out the first thing that comes to mind.”

  Liáng audibly exhales over the comm-link. “What is the plan? How much farther?”

  The tunnel curves to the left, as we zip along the graceful train track. There’s a layer of silt (of course) over the track, but otherwise we’ve been fortunate—no stopped trains on the tracks to cause delays.

  I haven’t answered Liáng yet, still ruminating on the best time to inform him, when he adds, “And what am I to do if they jam us again?”

  A real possibility, and a good point. It’s already caused headaches.

  “Toady,” I say, ignoring Liáng’s point for the moment, “Can you pipe in music—?”

  Puo doesn’t even wait for me to finish the question. “Yeah, I’m on it.” We had pulled this trick back in the Seattle Isles to know when our communication had been shut off.

  Low, classical music filters in through the comm-link. It’s a brooding, low-tempo piano piece with some strings accompanying. I inform Liáng that now when the music randomly cuts off, we’ll know we’ve been jammed.

  This really should become standard for when we’re on jobs. To Puo I say, “About their jammers—the Muppies still have to communicate, right?”

  Puo answers, “Yeah, likely in a different band.”

  “Can we use that band?” I ask. Or jam it?

  “Maybe,” Puo says, “depends on the band and if our receivers/transmitters can operate there. But I don’t know what band that is, and the next time we run into them they’ll be jamming us so I won’t be able to tell you what band to switch comms to.”

  “Can you jam them?” Liáng asks.

  Damn it, that was my idea. This punk is always stealing my lines.

  “Yeah,” Puo says, “That’s a good idea.” Then in a knowing smartass tone Puo asks, “What’d you think of that idea, Queen Bee? I think it’s pretty good.”

  Freaking Puo.

  But before I can respond, Puo rushes on, “Squiddies are waiting at the next station for us. Twice as many as last time. Initiating conversion.”

  Puo falls silent as his pack of squiddies tries to recruit more members—they’re like a spreading infection through the underground tunnels.

  I instinctively slow my rider before rushing headlong into a squiddie fight, waiting for the outcome. I glance behind me to be sure nothing’s following us, but all I see is Liáng and a cloud of silt kicked up from our passing.

  Puo says, “It looks like the Muppies kept one squiddie back near the stairwell. It bolted before I could convert it.”

  “A scout,” I say. “The Muppies are getting wise.”

  “Yeah,” Puo confirms.

  “Is the next station a changeover?” I ask. “We need to get off this track.” And start introducing permutations as soon as possible.

  Puo’s quiet for a few seconds, while he presumably checks some things and then says, “Yeah. We can changeover at the next station and still get to the next waypoint. But it’ll take longer.”

  “Understood,” I say. “Plan on the changeover.” The Muppies are closing in. The sooner we’re not where they expect us to be, the better off we are.

  “Where is the next waypoint exactly?” Liáng asks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ST. PANCRAS International Station was once a major train station in north London built in the beautiful Victorian style. Now it’s a decaying mess like most of the buildings tucked in under the Sea of London’s frothy blanket.

  But decaying mess or not, there are a number of tracks that pull into and out of and diverge off the main tracks into St. Pancras. It’s an ideal waypoint to inject some confusion, particularly since we’ve had some time to set up some surprises in the two weeks leading up to this. Fortunately, those two weeks were a lot of Puo’s practice with the rogue squiddie.

  That’s the problem with a smash and grab; it always leads to a chase. And if the chase isn’t immediate, then the authorities are quickly hunting you down as the trail hasn’t had time to cool off while you make your getaway. This is why most of our jobs are the subtle kind—by the time the authorities learn of the theft, we’ve already split town and moved the goods through a fence. So with a smash and grab you have to have a strategy in place to give yourself more time to escape. And while we planned for a chase, we didn’t plan for it to be happening so quickly.

  Puo, Liáng and I approach St. Pancras from the southeast—a different (and longer) direction than we originally intended. We switched tracks at the first underground station after the one where the lone squiddie got away to report to its masters. And then switched again for good measure at another station.

  The three of us (and the group of slaved squiddies) travel into the underground station of St. Pancras. The tight curved tunnel opens up to an underground platform with higher curved ceilings. Square signs and billboards dot the wall. Stairs in the center lead upward. A plopper sits still at the entrance to the stairwell—Puo’s squiddie shoots ahead to dismantle it. Fortunately, outside the British Museum, ploppers aren’t networked together, so the Muppies won’t know for some time it’s been dismantled.

  “Toady,” I say, unclipping from the rider, “head upstairs and sniff around.” My shoulders ache in a good way now that the strain is gone from holding on to the rider.

  “Roger, that,” Puo says. Puo’s squiddie swims off toward the stairwell. The converted squiddies stay behind, floating there dumbly, awaiting orders.

  I wiggle a bit to get the equipment bag off my back with the two balloon bags tied to my waist.

  “Plump Panda—” I start.

  “I am not plump!” Liáng suddenly snaps.

  “Take it easy—” I start to say.

  “What is the plan?” Liáng demands to know, frustration boiling over. “You’re not telling me anything.”

  “No, Wei Jing,” I say, using his name from the newspaper article of his arrest, “I’m not. Toady and I have no desire to end up as someone’s lackey. I’m sorry that happened to you, but it is not going to happen to us.”

  Liáng doesn’t respond at first, but then says more quietly, “I am not plump.”

  “No. You’re not.” That plump thing really gets to him. I half wonder if he was fat as a kid—kids can be brutal. “I tell you what. When we get up into the station, you do what I tell you, when I tell you, and when we come out of this we can discuss a new moniker.” Look at me being diplomatic.

  I retrieve my DPV and tie my two balloon bags to it. A quick glance back at Liáng confirms he’s following my lead.

  “What’s going to happen up there?” Liáng asks, a petulant undertone to the question.

  “Distraction and diversion—” I start to answer.

  “Oh, crap!” Puo yells on the line.

  The converted squiddies suddenly launch themselves toward the stairwell after Puo.

  “Toady—?” I start to ask.

  Puo rushes, “There’re squiddies waiting in the station! Not a lot, but they were right there waiting. They’re running, not engaging.”

  Shit. The Muppies are going to know we’re here much earlier than I hoped.

  “Panda,” I say, “Stay close to me, and do what I do. The key is, get as many set up as we can before they arrive en masse.”

  The DPV whirs as I accelerate it to full speed. After the slapdash of the riders, the DPV feels like driving with Grandma on her meds. Gaa!

  “Get what set up?” Liáng asks. His DPV whirs up behind me.

  “Balloon bags,” I answer him, “on automatic riders. We’ll also attach some to the converted squiddies if we can manage.”

  I angle the DPV up the narrow stairs. My dangling fins brush the top of the dead plopper as I hurry over.

  Liáng asks, “Are the balloon bags the distraction, or the diversion?”

/>   The stairwell turns ninety degrees upward. “Do you always take what I say literally?” I ask. Technically it’s the distraction. But it’s not what we should be focusing on. “There are automatic riders attached to all the railways, and two duffle bags of empty balloon bags should be waiting for us in the arcade. Grab one of the duffle bags and then proceed to the lower level railways and attach and inflate the empty balloon bags. Once done proceed upstairs and help with the upper-level tracks. Understood?”

  “Do I activate the automatic riders?” Liáng asks. Then he adds, “And why say both distraction and diversion? They are different techniques you know.”

  “Yes, I know Bob. They’re different techniques,” I say and ignore the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. Winn and I have had this conversation before. The distinction comes from the theory of stage magic, something Puo and I have been interested in for obvious reasons.

  “But don’t activate the riders,” Puo breaks in on the line when I trail off in thought. “I’ll take care of that.”

  “Understood,” Liáng says.

  There’s another silence on the line before Puo says, “Queen Bee, how many of the converted squiddies do you want to attach balloon bags to?”

  I can tell by Puo’s tone that that isn’t the question he really wants to ask me. He wants to ask me if I’m all right, if the déjà-vu-bait on the theory of stage magic rattled me at all. It didn’t. It’s just like pushing on an old scar, where you feel the edges of the scar but no pain. It’s a perfectly natural response that’s completely out of my control.

  “Four,” I answer confidently. “All to go separate ways when the times comes.”

  “Roger, that,” Puo answers.

  Liáng and I emerge out of the underground tunnel into a shopping center in the lower level of St. Pancras. White block tile with a low level of silt spreads across the floor left and right. Across from us is a row of abandoned stores. Their glass fronts are mostly intact, and several have their metal security gates down as if they one day expected to open back up for business.

  We steer the DPVs to the right and glide past several of the empty stores: a perfume store, a woman’s clothing store, a luggage store. It’s eerie to think of this place once full of people.