Thunder over the Grass

by Steve Turnbull

  Maliha closed her eyes. Once more she felt the intense desire to simply run and never come back. The child cried again. Not the full-throated demand for food, or the simple complaint of discomfort; this was a child without hope.

  She braced herself and opened her eyes. The sound had come from the second bed. She forced her legs to move and walked hesitantly across the room. As she approached the high solid end of the bed she saw deeper into the cot. Her nerve almost deserted her. She resisted the desire to close her eyes again as she moved forward.

  A dark-skinned child of less than six months lay on its back in the cot, pressed up against the bars on the further side. It wore a simple smock with streaks of dirt across it. It was very thin. Each of the digits of its hands and feet were perfectly formed. Its hair was short and bristly. The proportions of its head seemed a little too large but that might have been a trick of the dim light. Its eyes were closed.

  It opened its mouth and whimpered again, showing its white teeth. The child looked normal and seemingly unhurt.

  “Hello,” Maliha said quietly. The child gave no indication it had heard her. After a few moments it waved its feet a couple of times then stopped. It had not moved its arms at all.

  “Hello,” she said again louder. There was still no response. She tapped on the metal of the end of the bed with her fingernail. It did not make much of a sound so she rapped on it using her engagement ring from Valentine.

  The clink of metal penetrated the room and she glanced at the entrance instinctively then back at the child. There was no reaction, until it whimpered again but she was sure it had not been because of the sound. Was it deaf?

  The child appeared normal but there was something about its behaviour she found unnerving. She felt guilty about it but could not shake the curious loathing she felt for the whimpering creature. She had no desire to touch it. She cast around until she spotted a pole lying near the broken chair. She fetched it and wiped the excess moisture from it.

  She checked the ends and chose the smoothest one. She rested the length against the end of the cot and let it down. She guided the end and touched it against the sole of the child’s right foot.

  The moment the end of the pole made contact its eyes snapped open and it made a kind of straining sound. There was something wrong with its eyes. Instead of irises surrounded by white the ball was completely black with pin-prick dots of white in the middle.

  Maliha barely suppressed her own cry of horror. Panic hit her. Still clutching the pole she ran from the cavern. The creature still uttered the guttural growl that should never come from a child’s throat. One part of her watched in a detached way as she fled back up the passage and, when she reached the junction, it was that part of her that forced her to stop.

  She leaned against the wall. The thing that had once been a child was now moaning. She pushed her fingers into her ears to block the sound but the memory of its alien eyes would not move from the forefront of her mind. Once again she thought about simply leaving then she remembered the sounds of the rats, and Valentine’s hyena. And the men that were doing this.

  Now she knew that Timmons’ fleet of secret vessels carrying colonists to who-knew-where were connected to the strange hyenas and the killing of children here. The colonists were most likely being taken to either Venus or Mars. Mars had very limited life, being as cold as it was; Venus was the complete reverse and teemed with plants and fungi. Both places, not to mention other planets, were so unexplored it would be easy to create secret colonies.

  As she thought it through she recalled a reference in a report by a Dr Sidor Mikhalkov about the similarities in structure between certain types of Venusian fungus and the brain. This was the same scientist who had suggested a technique for copying mental patterns from one brain to another for the purpose of pacifying violent criminals.

  She wiped the combination of perspiration and condensation from her face. They kept this place hot and damp and the only reason for that would be to emulate the conditions on Venus. The child was deaf and blind. If one were to introduce a fungus directly into the brain one would do it by the most direct of routes: through the ears and eyes.

  Whatever their purpose this was not about eugenics; they were experimenting on combining the human brain with these fungi. Their monstrous behaviour must be stopped, but she needed to understand why.

  vi

  Valentine found himself face down against the windscreen of the flyer. His arms ached and there was a pain in his forehead. Though he found that by lifting his head from the lump of metal pressing into his forehead the pain reduced.

  He pushed himself up. His lower body and legs were higher than his head and resting on the central control panel. He was disoriented until he realised the air-plane had come to rest nose down and he had fallen forward. He untangled himself from the controls then reached up to the door lock and unlatched it. The door fell open to the sound of breaking twigs. He crawled out across it and on to the soaking wet ground. The rain had stopped but the air was heavy with moisture.

  “Give me one good reason not to shoot you, mate.”

  The voice was Australian.

  “Jonathan Dyer, able seaman, reporting for duty,” he said and climbed unsteadily to his feet. “Sorry I’m late.”

  The man was a shadow against the massive dark bulk of the voidship behind him. Faint light shone through its portholes.

  “You wrecked your plane,” he said with a laugh in his voice.

  “Wasn’t mine,” Valentine growled.

  “Ha! March, limey,” said the man. “We’ll see whether you’re wanted for duty or not. And if not, you’ll be out the hatch faster than a roo with a dingo on its tail.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Thanks for what, mate?”

  “Not shooting first and asking questions later.”

  “Move it.”

  “Which way?”

  “There’s a service hatch in the hull closest to us,” he said. “You walk, I’ll guide.”

  Two minutes later, after cycling through two sets of airtight doors, Valentine stepped out into a companionway. It looked as if it stretched the entire length of the ship. He was within twenty yards of one end but the other end was too far away to estimate. He shook his head; nobody built ships like this.

  The paintwork on a pipe running floor to ceiling caught his eye. It was painted in the same uniform grey as the rest of the vessel. There was rust around the joints but contours of the paint ran into deep holes and out again in rounded curves, where you would expect the edges to be sharp. There must be dozens of layers of paint on the pipe which meant this ship was very old indeed. With that in mind, the style of the hatches and the bulkheads, the size and shape of the rivets all made a kind of sense—though it was nonsense.

  If he had to guess, this vessel had been built before the 1870s, which was impossible. The first ship to enter the Void had done so in 1874 and that had been a modified atmosphere plane with a crew of three. This machine could not have existed any earlier than the 1890s.

  “All right, that’s enough gawking,” said his captor. “Start moving. That way.” He indicated the closer end of the companionway. Valentine walked ahead; he did not think he was likely to be shot but he did not plan on taking any chances. At the end of the companionway was an airtight hatch marked Bridge. This led into a small passage and another airtight door which would not open until the other door had been sealed.

  Valentine had only been into the Void twice and both times it was as a passenger, but he appreciated the need for airlocks when the hull might be breached at any moment by the debris that circulated through the emptiness.

  The bridge itself was a wide area with a crew of at least seven. Valentine recognised Captain Blake who was in discussion with the navigator. The captain glanced at them for a moment and then went back to his discussion. While he and his guard waited Valentine took the opportunity to memorise everything he could.

  The helmsman was at his post and there was a
navigator working an ancient-looking Babbage—its cogs were well-polished but much larger than one saw in modern machines. He guessed it had originally been steam-driven but the side of the machine was now penetrated by the drive shaft from a large electric motor at its side.

  On the far side of the room were the Faraday controls; for a huge ship like this it was more than just a single switch. By the look of it sections could be energised separately, a technique popular with the Germans for their big ships. Next to that panel was another with multiple switches and lights. He could not fathom their function although their proximity to the Faraday panel suggested some relationship.

  The Captain finished his discussion and strode over.

  “Dyer. You’re late.”

  “Yes, Captain,” he said as meekly as he could. “I am sorry but I did not receive your message until an hour and a half ago.”

  The captain’s eyes narrowed. “So you flew here at night, in the rain just to join my crew?”

  “I was keen to serve under you, sir,” he said with a hint of embarrassment which he hoped the captain would notice.

  “You mean you got yourself into trouble.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What sort of trouble, Mr Dyer?”

  “Woman trouble, Captain.”

  The captain nodded and laughed. “Welcome aboard Mr Dyer. Loading of the main cargo is complete but we’re lifting ahead of schedule because we have a little pick-up to do before we head out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The captain addressed Valentine’s captor. “All right, Benson, you can take your gun off him. Show him the way down to cargo and hand him over to Mr Cazarez.”

  Once they were off the bridge Benson turned to him and held out his hand. “Jim Benson.”

  Valentine shook it. “Jonathan Dyer.”

  Benson headed back along the companionway as a klaxon went off, sounding three times. “Going light in three,” said Benson. “You been on a company ship before?”

  Company ship? Valentine wondered, he shook his head. “No.”

  Benson grinned. “Been up there, in the black?” He gestured skywards.

  “Couple of times.”

  Benson continued grinning. “Well this should be interesting for you.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll see.”

  They continued down the companionway. The klaxon went off again, twice this time. Two minutes.

  Benson stopped by a hatch and undogged it. “Through you go.” It was another airlock system and they used up the next minute cycling through. The klaxon went off again. The other side of the airlock opened on to another companionway but this one had thick glass ports that looked down into a huge hold.

  Valentine had seen one of these ships before, on the ground with its hatch open—big enough to swallow a large fishing boat and have room to spare. The hatch was closed and a hundred men, women and children were camped out on the floor of the cargo bay. Some by themselves, some couples and the others by family.

  “We’ll wait here until we go light,” said Benson grabbing hold of a leather strap attached to the wall. “Watching the farmers when that happens can be a laugh. Though we got fewer than usual this trip due to the rush.”

  The klaxon rang out three times in quick succession and on the fourth beat the Faraday cut in.

  Valentine found himself floating off the floor.

  “Better grab a strap.”

  Valentine had experienced the sensation of no gravity but this was not quite the same. There was gravity but it was far less than you expected from a Faraday device. That settled it; the slavers could generate a Faraday effect that nullified almost all gravity.

  The British had their complete nullification effect but, as far as Valentine understood, it was completely different to the usual technique. This was a normal device but more effective. He found himself settling back to the deck. He bent his legs to avoid a rebound.

  Benson smiled and nodded. “Yeah, you’ve been up there. Good one.” He changed hands on the straps and pulled himself towards the door. “Let’s find Caz for you.”

  Valentine glanced through one of the ports into the cavernous hold and glimpsed at least one person ejecting the contents of their stomach. Then he followed Benson through the next door.

  vii

  Maliha took a deep breath and looked at her watch. The cavalry would be arriving soon so she needed to move on. She continued along the tunnel deeper into the mine.

  The heat and humidity intensified. She was sweating under her layers of clothes.

  The next opening was on the other side of the passage and contained several beds. They were in good condition but stripped of linens. Each bed had a locker at its side of which two were open. The floor showed drag marks in the damp dust that coated everything.

  They were moving out, or had already gone.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  She turned to face the speaker. He stood beneath a light: a thirty year old man with a small moustache and wearing a rough tweed suit that had seen better days, a shirt and tie. He looked like a professor from a university. His skin was pallid and glistened with moisture.

  “Anderson,” she replied slipping her hand into the pocket of the coat. “And you?”

  “Are you our transport?” He sounded as if he was trying to make sense of contradictory information. He was expecting someone but that someone should not be a woman.

  “Are you ready to leave?” she improvised.

  “Yes, Dr Lang is just securing the samples and the rest of the equipment,” he said. “Everything else is packed.”

  Not only was he expecting someone but around about this time. “Take me to him.”

  After a moment’s hesitation he half-turned and gestured for her to go ahead. “Haven’t you forgotten something?” she said.

  He shook his head. “What do you mean?”

  She smiled. “You were here for a reason, not to meet me.”

  For a moment the confused look returned to his face then a realisation. “Oh yes, I was checking the nursery for anything left behind.”

  “Like a baby?” she suppressed any emotion in her voice.

  He snorted. “Another failure. It’ll be dead in a few hours.”

  “You could kill it.”

  “Too risky,” he said. “Tried that a couple of times but that strain of mycorrhiza generates spores when the host is threatened. We don’t have time to dispose of it properly.”

  “Doesn’t starvation count as a threat?”

  He shook his head and hesitated as if choosing his words carefully. “There is a different bodily response.”

  “The hormones of Bayliss and Starling?”

  He grinned. “You know their work? Yes, we think that’s what it is but we need many more tests and subjects to be able to confirm it. It seems the fungus only responds to a direct threat, if the host just dies the fungus goes with it.”

  She nodded and said. “Where are your associates?”

  “Third on the right,” he said and headed up the tunnel the way she had come.

  She sighed. In some ways she had hoped for a crazed and wild-eyed madman. That these crimes were committed by someone apparently sane was somehow more disturbing. She glanced at her watch again. She was running out of time but had most of the information she needed.

  With proper directions she moved forward with haste and ignored all other passages and openings—one of them was the source of the heat and air-bound moisture—until she came to the third entrance on the right.

  It was a cavern cut into the rock about the size of the main assembly room in Brighton: sufficient for one hundred and fifty couples to waltz at one time. Crates were piled near the entrance and marked with labels that she could not read but she guessed those would be the scientific equipment. A further pile of smaller crates stood near it. The samples perhaps. And finally a third collection made up of trunks for travelling.

  There were five men in the room still workin
g at clearing the numerous benches of equipment.

  The sound of a gunshot echoed along the passage and rang through the cavern. Almost as one the men jerked their eyes towards the entrance and saw Maliha in her long dark coat and hat. Maliha herself was confused; she had not expected firearms. “Take cover!” She shouted and hurried across to the crates.

  More gunshots. Screams.

  Maliha checked the labels on the boxes and shook her head in annoyance. They named the contents of the crates and the name of Dr Lang but they had no destination.

  A black man staggered through the entrance holding a spear, the light reflected from the bloodied blade and the red pouring from his chest. He collapsed.

  There were further gunshots, shouting in both English and, as far as Maliha could guess, one of the African tongues. There was a battle being fought in the tunnel and it must be between the Africans that Maliha had seconded for assistance through Mama Kosi and the people coming to collect the scientists.

  Despite the gunfire in the tunnels the cavern seemed relatively safe. Maliha looked around for the eldest of the scientists and spotted a white-haired fellow cowering behind the trunks. She listened to determine whether the battle was getting closer. It did not seem to be; if anything the gunshots were reducing in number. She doubted the natives had won the day. Her plan was in pieces; she would have to improvise.

  She stood and walked calmly across to the trunks and remained standing. “Dr Lang?”

  He stared up at her in astonishment though whether that was because she was apparently challenging death, or merely that she was a woman, she could not tell but he did not deny the name. She held out her hand. “My name is Anderson. I am here to assist your evacuation.”

  “About time,” he said. “I requested rapid removal.”

  “These things take time to organise, doctor,” she said.

  “And I want it understood that I consider the attack on the hotel to be ill-conceived.”

  “Duly noted.”

  Two Europeans with guns ran in through the entrance.

  With her hand still out Maliha smiled. “Shall we proceed, doctor?”