World of Fire (Dev Harmer 01)

by James Lovegrove

  “Well, if there are still moleworms around, they know we’re coming,” Stegman groused.

  “To think Sunil Banerjee himself came this way,” said Trundell as they filed through the gap in the barricade. “The Lidenbrockers must have thought he was crazy.”

  “Probably they admired him,” said Dev. “Crazy for them is like genius for you academics.”

  Two hundred and fifty metres, said Dev’s commplant.

  Moleworm bones were scattered on the tunnel floor. Some, Dev noticed as he stepped over them, showed gnaw marks. He guessed other moleworms had scavenged the flesh off their fallen kin.

  The supposition was borne out by the various piles of dried-up dung that accompanied the bones. These brittle, mould-wreathed mounds were now host to colonies of pale, pulpy termite-like insects which Trundell identified as Isoptera coprophagia alighieriensis.

  “Commonly known as ordure ants, more vulgarly known as shittermites. They make their nests in moleworm excreta, which they live on until there’s none left, and then they move on.”

  “They eat themselves out of house and home,” said Dev.

  “In a manner of speaking. But don’t tread on the dung piles if you can help it, because ordure ants respond to a perceived attack in force. Their mandibles are a centimetre long and razor sharp. You’ll know if one bites you, and it’s more likely to be a hundred of them at once.”

  “Gotcha. Don’t step in poop. Duly noted.”

  One hundred metres.

  Residual light from beyond the barricade was waning. The tunnel floor was uneven, the tunnel itself full of haphazard twists and turns. Dug by moleworm rather than man.

  Trundell produced a flashlight, warning the others to look away before he switched it on.

  Even through closed eyelids, Dev found the sudden burst of brilliance dazzling, painfully so. It took his Alighierian vision a full minute to adjust.

  Trundell trained the flashlight around. The beam fell on a ledge some ten feet up, illuminating a flock of squirming winged things that flitted away into the darkness.

  “Bats?” said Dev.

  “Birds, actually. Blindwarblers. Harmless. Ordure ants are their staple food. Banerjee mentioned them. ‘A pest,’ he said, ‘but if cooked, palatable.’”

  “Don’t tell me. They taste like chicken.”

  “Pigeon, I think he said.”

  “He went kind of native, didn’t he?”

  “Eating bushmeat is common practice for a zoologist in the field. And there.”

  The flashlight picked out a hemispherical shape ahead.

  “That’ll be the hide.”

  27

  THE HIDE WAS a dome made up of triangular panels, essentially a self-assembly, flat-bottomed polyhedron, just tall enough at its summit for a person to stand up in. Most of the panels were opaque, a few transparent, and all made of lightweight reinforced acrylic. Their edges were lined with covalent smart-bond strips. Once pressed together, the strips formed a solid, airtight seal which could be undone later, when the hide needed dismantling, by the application of an electric current from a special wand.

  The structure was intact, though covered in a thick encrustation of blindwarbler droppings like some sort of lumpy icecap. The guano obscured the transparent panels, making it impossible to look in through them. It gave off an eye-wateringly acrid smell.

  Dev located the entrance, a hatch at the base. It was code-locked.

  No time for niceties. He took out the hiss gun and punched a hole through the latch, disabling it. Then he kicked until the latch broke and the hatch swung inward.

  A stench wafted out of the hide, mustier than the guano but no less pungent. Dev recoiled, nose wrinkling.

  “Ugh. Hobo reek. Someone’s camping in there. Someone with poor hygiene and presumably no sense of smell.”

  Trundell tried to peer in, but the stench proved too much for him. “That’s rancid.”

  “Who’s going inside to take a look?”

  “You are, Harmer,” said Stegman. “You’re in charge of this expedition, aren’t you? You’re acting like it, anyway. So you take the lead.”

  “I thought Kahlo sent you along to keep an eye on me. Doesn’t that make you the man in charge?”

  “I’m supervising, yes, but you’re the one calling the shots.” Stegman, gleeful, made an ushering gesture in the direction of the hatch. “All yours, sir.”

  Dev slipped off his undershirt and knotted it around the lower half of his face. On hands and knees, he crawled into the foetid hide.

  Inside, a sleeping bag lay in a messy pile, surrounded by archipelagos of soiled clothing, including filthy underwear and brittle socks. A camping stove with an induction hob stood sentinel over a stainless steel cooking pot. The floor around it was heaped with tiny, porous bones, many with shreds of flesh and gristle still attached.

  The smell began to get to him even through the bunched fabric of the undershirt. He retreated back out into the tunnel.

  “It’s so horrible in there, I can’t even crack a joke,” he said.

  “What did you find?” asked Trundell.

  “Somebody’s claimed squatters’ rights. He’s been living off locally sourced meat. I found what look like bird bones, most likely blindwarbler.”

  “Who do you think it might be?”

  “Some sort of Lidenbrocker reject, that’d be my guess,” said Dev, “though what you’d have to do to get kicked out of Lidenbrock City – the mind boggles. It could, I suppose, be someone who’s fallen out with one or other of the gangs and who’s lying low until the heat dies down. Question remains – how did he get into the hide? There was no sign of forced entry, at least not until I came along and forced entry. He’d have to know the access code, whoever he is.”

  “What if it’s a zoologist? Banerjee would have made the code available on request through the proper academic channels.”

  “I suppose. I’d have thought a scientist would be a little tidier and more considerate than that, though. Not leave food scraps and crusty clothing all over the place.”

  “Where’s this getting us?” Stegman said. “I don’t know about you, but I’d like to be heading back to the arcjet soon. Lidenbrock’s going to be crawling with angry Kobolds before long, if it isn’t already.”

  “We try another of the hides,” Dev said. “I was hoping for some handwritten notes, stuff recorded on an external drive, something along those lines. If there was any of that at this hide, the current resident appears to have tossed it out. The next hide is about –”

  “Movement.”

  This was from the laconic Zagat. He had been keeping lookout while Dev checked out the hide. The single murmured word brought silence and tension.

  Dev snatched the flashlight from Trundell and aimed it in the direction Zagat was staring, deeper into the tunnel.

  Something – someone – darted away from the beam. Dev caught a glimpse of ragged clothing and round, spooked eyes.

  Without hesitation, Dev hared off along the tunnel. The flashlight beam bounced as he ran.

  The figure ahead of him was running too, but with an awkward gait. Whoever it was kept tripping and once even collided with the tunnel wall. Dev quickly gained ground until he was within grabbing distance.

  He dived, tackling his quarry to the floor. He caught a whiff of unwashed body and of fabric permeated with the same stale aroma as the interior of the hide. He insinuated an arm around the person’s neck from behind, locking the hand into the crook of his other arm to reinforce the chokehold.

  His victim writhed, but Dev applied pressure. He heard gasping and wheezing.

  “Let’s do this the easy way,” he said. “You relax, don’t resist, I don’t asphyxiate you. Got that?”

  Frantic nodding.

  “I’ll ease off now. We both stand up. Any funny business, I tighten my grip again. I can make you black out if I’m feeling kind. I can also keep the hold going until the blood supply to your brain is stopped long enough to be f
atal. I’d like not to have to do that. I’ve got no beef with you. I just want to talk, that’s all. Okay?”

  More nodding.

  “Okay. Good. Up we go.”

  They clambered upright together. Dev swung the man round – the person was male, he could feel coarse, bushy beard against his forearm – and frogmarched him over to the hide.

  “Think we’ve found our squatter,” he said. “Maybe he can tell us if Banerjee left anything useful in there.”

  Trundell was agog.

  “What?” said Dev.

  “I– I think he can do better than that, Harmer.”

  “Huh? What do you mean?”

  “That isn’t any squatter,” Trundell said in slow, amazed tones. “That’s Professor Banerjee.”

  28

  “NO FUCKING WAY.”

  That was Dev’s immediate response. Banerjee was dead. He hadn’t been heard from in two whole years. Not a peep from him since submitting his paper. He had to be dead. How else to account for his silence?

  But Trundell was adamant. This straggly-bearded, shaggy-haired individual Dev was holding was the moleworm expert.

  “I’d recognise him anywhere,” Trundell said. “He’s lost a ton of weight, he’s a mess – but it’s him. It’s you, isn’t it, Professor Banerjee?”

  The man stirred, muttering something inaudible.

  “What’s that?” Dev demanded, giving him a shake. “Speak up.”

  “I said I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not this Banerjee person.”

  “You are,” said Trundell.

  “You’re mistaken.”

  “You live in that hide, right?” said Dev. “Don’t deny it. You reek of it. You were coming home, saw us standing here, panicked, ran. If you’re not Banerjee, how come you know the access code?”

  “I’m... I...”

  “You’re a bad liar, prof. Trundle’s IDed you. Time to come clean.”

  “Trundell,” said Trundell. “My name’s Ludlow Trundell, professor. Big fan. I’m actually in the same line of work as you, more or less. Xeno-entomologist. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

  Banerjee shrugged. “Since I’m not this Banerjee you seem to think I am...”

  Dev shook him again, more roughly. “Let’s cut the crap, Banerjee. You’re a respected zoology bigwig, but you’ve been hiding out here in the moleworm tunnels for two years, living like an animal. What’s going on?”

  “I’m just a cave dweller. Look.” He pointed to a net bag that hung from his belt. In it were the carcases of three scrawny birds. Their plumage was smoky grey, their eyes blank white. “I snare blindwarblers for food. Would a professor do that?”

  “He would if he’d turned hermit and didn’t have any other supply of protein.”

  “What happened to you, professor?” Trundell asked, sounding almost plaintive. “How did you end up like this? Why didn’t you return to Earth once you’d finished your work here?”

  “All good questions,” Dev said. “Answer him.”

  Banerjee drew a deep breath, expelling it as a heavy sigh. “All right. I’ve no idea who you people are, but I don’t suppose it matters. You’ve found me. I knew this day might come. I can easily imagine why you’ve come looking for me, too.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “One or more of you, I strongly suspect, is from Interstellar Security Solutions.”

  “One is,” said Dev.

  “The aggressive one. Of course. You’re on Alighieri investigating possible Polis Plus activity. The trail has led you here, to Lidenbrock, to me. Let me go, and I’ll be compliant and tell you what you want to know. I don’t see that I have a choice, and perhaps it will do me good to unburden myself to you. To confess.”

  “Works for me.” Dev relinquished his grip on Banerjee. “I should remind you that there are four of us and only one of you, and we don’t take any crap. Clear?”

  “As crystal.” Banerjee rubbed his throat tenderly, turning to give Dev a reproachful look.

  Now that Dev could see his eyes, he understood why Banerjee’s attempt to flee had been so hamfisted. He was wearing image intensification contacts like Trundell’s. The unexpected flare of the flashlight, catching him full in the face, had overloaded them. He had been running dazzled, half-blinded. The afterimage of the flashlight bulb was probably still imprinted in his retinas.

  This was the great zoologist, though. Dev had no doubts about that. He pulled up an image of the man from his commplant for comparison. The Banerjee in the picture was neat and plump, with sleek hair and a confident smile – a tenured professor snugly ensconced at Harvard. The Banerjee in front of him was a gaunt, tattered scarecrow with grubby skin, an unkempt beard and wild, matted locks. But the nose was the same, the prominent forehead identical, the deep-set eyes...

  “I am,” he said, “Sunil Banerjee, and until two years ago I had everything to live for. I was pre-eminent in my domain. I had a wife and two daughters. I was inquisitive and, without wishing to brag, intrepid. I lectured all over the Earth, and off it, too. I conducted field research on eight worlds. I was even among the select few who took part in the Sanctuary Conference on Europa, where it was decided to make the moon the first ever whole-planet game reserve.”

  “So now tourists can go under the ice in submersibles and gawp at the deep-sea beasties,” said Dev. “All very commendable, prof. You were at the top of your game. What went wrong?”

  “Polis Plus, that’s what went wrong. I was here at Lidenbrock, preparing to leave. My plan was to head back to Calder’s Edge, wind down operations there as well, collect up my belongings, then hop aboard the next available cruiser home. I was looking forward to seeing my dear Anji and my two little girls again, holding them in my arms, hugging them. I had missed them so much. I swore to myself that I would never again be apart from them for such a long period...”

  Banerjee swallowed.

  “Then one day he appeared,” he said. “I had no idea what he really was, at first. None at all. He sidled up to me while I was on a supply run in the city, stocking up on drinking water and food rations. He engaged me in conversation. He seemed to be interested in me, my work. He was well-informed, articulate, erudite.”

  “Not a Lidenbrocker trog,” said Stegman.

  “Absolutely. That’s absolutely what I thought. Another outsider, like myself. A smart one, what’s more. It was pleasant to have intelligent conversation again, after so long without. We went for a drink. He was charming. And yet... there was something off about him. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what. Perhaps I should have been more guarded. He was so nice, though. So keen. So complimentary.”

  “Flattered you, huh?” said Dev.

  “I have to admit, he played on my vanity, yes. But you must understand, too, that I had been starved of good company. Emailing with family, friends and colleagues is all very well, but you can’t replace the joy of one-to-one, real-time interaction. Our topics of discussion ranged across all the sciences, different disciplines, and my interlocutor repeatedly deferred to my judgement, calling me ‘wise’ and ‘insightful.’”

  “He have a name, this brown-noser?”

  “Jones. Ted Jones.”

  “As unimaginative as they come. An alias only a Plusser would choose.”

  “But I didn’t realise he was a Plusser, not until later, much later. I’ve no experience of them, unlike you, Mr...?”

  “Harmer.”

  “To me, he was just Ted, and he wasn’t a Lidenbrocker and therefore I wasn’t worried that he was going to pick my pocket or stick a knife in me for looking at him the wrong way or try to sell me drugs. I was simply glad to have met him – someone I could talk to on an equal footing, someone who said he found Lidenbrock as unruly and intimidating as I did. I did enquire as to why he was in this city, of all places.”

  “And?”

  “He told me he had wound up here through a misunderstanding. He was a medical supplies sales rep, he said, and he had received a tip about
Lidenbrock. Allegedly it was an untapped market, great potential, virgin territory. Within a week of arrival he had had all his samples stolen and his life threatened twice. He was waiting for the next cruiser to dock so that he could go. ‘Worst lead I’ve followed ever,’ he said. ‘I thought the work associate who gave it to me was an ally. Seems he’s a rival instead.’ He also blamed himself, saying he should have done his homework better.”

  “Poor Ted,” Dev drawled.

  “We spent an enjoyable evening together. We made plans to meet up again the next day. As we parted, however, I began to feel unwell.”

  “He’d spiked your drink.”

  “Must have; some sort of soporific. Next I knew, I was in his apartment, bound to a chair. And a nightmare began.”

  “This isn’t a date rape story, I hope.”

  “You mock. It was worse than that. Ted, my new-found so-called friend, subjected me to hours – days – of torture. It wasn’t physical. It was mental. My mind...”

  Banerjee shuddered.

  “What did he do, professor?” Trundell asked, but Banerjee was so overcome by the horror of the memory, he was finding it a struggle to continue.

  “He hooked you up to a hypnagogic exposure template,” said Dev. “Is that it?”

  “I don’t know if that’s the name for it, but it sounds right,” said Banerjee haltingly. “Somehow, through my commplant, he forced me to undergo continuous dreams. Vivid waking dreams of the worst possible kind. I saw myself degraded, disgraced, fallen. My work was discredited and I become a laughingstock, my reputation in tatters. Over and over. And I also saw things done to my wife and daughters, hideous things, the most awful things imaginable. Sometimes it was me – I was the one doing the things. Other times I was watching, helpless, as humiliations and desecrations were inflicted on them.”

  “Hypnex pulls imagery from your subconscious and stimulates the amygdala at the same time,” Dev said. “It overlays private thoughts with fear responses. Takes the worst you can imagine and makes it seem real.”