Ixeos: Book One of the Ixeos Trilogy

by Jennings Wright

  Clay nodded and Neahle swung her pack around, unzipped the main compartment, and pulled the well worn books out.

  “I hope we got at least one of the right ones,” she said.

  “I’d be happier with a machine,” Clay said.

  “True. Where do we go next?”

  “If they needed twenty-seven or more, there’s no point in looking in any of the most likely spots. All those would definitely be gone. I’ll have to check the list; I’m thinking it would be faster to check private collections.”

  “Private collections?” Neahle asked, confused. “I thought we were going to universities and museums and things.”

  Clay hitched his back pack up. “Those would be the easiest, and for all we know the Firsts are only using the machines from Bletchley. But if they did put a machine at every prison site, those will be gone.” Neahle made a face. “Some of the machines were sold at auction and were in private collections when the war hit. We don’t have the internet to track down home addresses, but the buyers should be recorded somewhere. If we can find out when and where the auctions were, we should be able to find at least one private collector. Then we find his house, break in, take it, and come back.”

  “Oh yeah, sounds like a no-brainer,” Neahle said.

  “I was thinking about it while we were walking. The good thing is, it’s likely that any private collector who shelled out a bunch of money for a machine also has a code book. I mean, wouldn’t you want to play around with it, if you bought one? So we’d at least know that we had a machine and a code book that went with it.”

  Neahle pondered that. “It’ll take time to track someone down, but in the end it could save us time.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. We can spend a lot of time tunnel hopping to museums and colleges, only to find out that all those are already gone. Or we can go find some records, do a little old fashioned detective work, and maybe hit the jackpot.” Clay grinned at her and put the code books under his arm. “I’m going to put these in the library. See you at dinner?”

  “Yep, I’m starved. I just hope it’s not sheep stew…”

  It was a very low key night. Most of the residents were out on missions and there were only a dozen or so around the long tables. Neahle enjoyed the roast chicken more than usual and was happy to go to bed early. She wished fervently for a bathtub in which to soak her sore behind, but took a few aspirin and snuggled down with a sigh into the soft bunk.

  Abacus called them into his office the next day; they found him sitting, dressed in his usual roguish fashion, behind the large desk. His face was pale but he greeted them with a smile.

  “Sorry for yesterday…” he began, but Neahle interrupted.

  “Please don’t apologize. I know you did it to save us time, but I can’t imagine how difficult it was for you. Let’s just move on, okay?” She smiled and would have hugged him if he’d been on her side of the desk.

  With a small nod, Abacus continued. “Right, then. So what’s next?”

  Clay explained his change in plans and watched as Abacus steepled his fingers and brought them to his mouth, thinking.

  “There are pros and cons to it, although I have to admit, it makes sense. We could waste a lot of time. But the main auction houses are in big cities—London and New York, here in Paris. It’s possible some were sold in Berlin, I suppose. It is also possible that any sales we find weren’t the latest ones.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Neahle.

  “Certainly there will be paper records of anything sold until, I don’t know, the ‘80s or so. Until the age of computers. But it’s likely that the records after that were electronic. So maybe we find the sale of a machine in 1972, but then the same machine was sold in 1995 and we don’t know it.” Abacus picked up a pen and started doodling on his desk pad. “Then we’re in the same situation as we’d be going to museums.”

  “Except that there would be copies, back-ups, right?” Clay said, leaning forward. “They weren’t all stored in a cloud; there would be physical data storage.”

  “A cloud?” Abacus asked, confused.

  Clay laughed. “Yeah, new thing in the twenty-first century. Data storage in a cloud. Don’t ask me what that means, that’s Marty’s territory. But surely the auction houses would keep back-up data storage in the event of a crash, don’t you think?”

  “But the computers were killed by the EMP,” Abacus said.

  “So we take the hard drives and give them to Marty. The computer squad can search them at the vault. Even if it takes days or weeks, it’ll be faster and safer than traipsing around all over the world. And Neahle might want to pay the cells a visit… Maybe Rebel Seven?”

  Neahle punched him and Abacus raised his eyebrows. “I’m missing something,” he said.

  “Neahle and Gilles…” Clay began.

  “Clay!” Neahle said, punching him again. “We’re friends,” she said, turning to Abacus.

  “Ah… Well, I do like the idea of searching data bases. So let’s do this. We’ll go to Christies in London. I hate to do it because London is one of the most populated cities in the world now and dangerous. But if we can get there, get to the auction house, hunker down until we have all we need, and get out, well… Hopefully it’ll be fine.”

  With that optimistic statement, the McClellands left the office.

  Vasco returned in the middle of the night and sat with Clay at breakfast. “My brother updated me on your progress. Sounds like you’re on the right track. I want to do a little planning before you head to London, though, and you’ll need to take a few people with you for protection. The Firsts are all over the place, and there’s a lot of gang activity. We’ve got strong rebel cells there but I don’t want to risk them, so we’re going to have to do this in-house.”

  “You’re the expert,” Clay said, chewing a piece of ham. “How far is Christies from the London portal?”

  “That’s one thing I want to plan. We come through in the Tube. The London subway. So what I’m hoping is that we can travel in the tunnels and come topside really close. But the subway tunnels are dangerous. Gangs. I want to study our maps and talk to Riley. Riley’s in London a lot—it’s his main assignment. Give us a couple of days.” He sipped his tea.

  “Did Abacus tell you we got a bunch of code books?” Clay asked.

  “Yep, that’s great. I’m not sure how this is all going to come together, but it sure seems like you’re onto something, with Bletchley Park all cleaned out.” Sipping his tea, he sighed. “This is when it would be nice if Landon popped in. He rarely does when we’re trying to make decisions.”

  “Anybody new come while we were gone?” Clay asked.

  “Nope. It would be unusual, so soon after your family. It’s usually months in between, although sometimes it’s not long. You never know. That’s why we always send someone to check.”

  “Those ducks are pretty busy,” Neahle said.

  Vasco laughed. “I’d never done anything like that in my life. Abacus—Aaron—and I were hiking. It was the first time our parents had let us go overnight alone.” He blew out a sigh. “I know they’re still kicking themselves, if they’re still alive. They were good parents.” He fell silent.

  Clay thought about his own family. They would find the kayaks on the beach of Carrot Island, or perhaps they’d drifted away with the tide. A search would have been conducted on land and sea. NOAA, which had a facility right at Beaufort Inlet, would be called in to give an analysis of the tides and currents. Of course, their bodies would never be found. Would his aunt and uncle blame his parents? Would the shock of losing three grandchildren be the final nail in the coffin of his infirmed grandfather? He put down his fork, no longer hungry.

  Vasco smiled at him sadly. “Yeah, it’s a bummer to think about your family, that they think your dead. That
they probably blame themselves. We just have to trust Landon and look at the good we’re doing here. It’s too hard to look back.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Four days later, Neahle and Clay left for London with Abacus, Monkey, Riley and Sarah. Hannah had gone up to Paris check on the cells and Marty the day before. She was expected to be gone for at least three days, so they wouldn’t get an update on Marty’s progress until they got back. Neahle envied Hannah’s visit to Rebel Seven, but she was also excited to go on this mission and see London.

  “‘See London?’ You think the Eye is out there spinning around?” her brother asked, incredulous.

  “Well, no. But it’s London.”

  “We’re not going to see the Crown Jewels, you know,” Clay shook his head, exasperated.

  “Whatever. I’m still excited.” Neahle pulled her back pack tighter while making a face at Clay.

  “Unfortunately, you’re mostly going to see the underground parts of London,” Abacus said, leading the way with the torch. “Basically it’s dark, wet, and there’s a lot of graffiti. That’s about it.”

  “Lay off, guys. Let the girl be exited. Lord knows, we’ve got little enough to be excited about around here.” Sarah hooked her arm in Neahle’s and walked ahead of the boys. “Don’t pay them any attention. It’s a guy thing.”

  The portal opened up into a railway tunnel. The ceiling formed a high, narrow arch over their heads; the light from the torches reflected off the polished stone of the walls.

  “Where are we?” Neahle asked in a hushed voice.

  “Under the Thames,” Abacus replied quietly.

  “We’re under the river?” Neahle didn’t like the thought of all that water overhead.

  “Yep, this is part of the London Overground subway line, although it was built back in the mid-eighteen hundreds as a way for carriages to get across the Thames. It was never used for that; later it was used by the railway. Then it became part of the East London Line, and finally the Overground Line. It’s a wonderfully stable doorway.” His torch illuminated graffiti on the walls as far as there was light.

  Indicating for the group to huddle together, Riley squatted down with a map, opening it so they all could see.

  “Okay, first let me say, the underground isn’t safe. Don’t think this is like Jordan or even Paris. Because it’s an island, England didn’t lose too much of its total native population. The Firsts didn’t want to wipe out everybody, and the WMDs might have done that. There’s more gang activity here than anywhere else we go, and for the most part, they live down here in the subway.” Riley looked at each person in turn. “Here’s the deal. Stay in pairs. Girls, you each pair with a guy. Clay, you pair with one of us who are more experienced. If you have to run, don’t lose your partner. We’re going here…” He pointed to a spot where several subway lines came together. “Green Park Station. Christie’s is close to there, and this route keeps us out of Hyde Park and Knightsbridge. There are lots of Firsts living there. We’re going to have to walk the Overground line, and some of it is, well, over ground. At West Brompton Station, here…” He pointed to the first joint station of the Overland and District Lines. “We go under. We walk the District Line to Earl’s Court, change to the Piccadilly Line, and walk to Green Park. There are four stations between Earl’s Court and Green Park, and other lines coming in. The posh of London lived off these stops—South Ken, Sloane Square… Firsts live in some of those big houses, and gangs and junkies raid the others for things to sell on the black market. All in all, it’s not a good scene.”

  “There’s not a better way to go?” Clay asked, seeing his sister’s concern and feeling a good dose of his own.

  “We’d have to walk through the city from the river and that’s got its own set of problems. I know these tunnels like the back of my hand, and not just the Tube tracks, but service entrances, sewers, all of it. We don’t usually have so many people; we’ll need to be as quiet as possible. And leave the torches inside the portal. They’re like a big searchlight saying ‘we’re coming!’ We’ll have one penlight per pair. This isn’t sightseeing.” He looked pointedly at Neahle. “If you can see the ground in front of you, that’s good. Any more than that, and it’s too much light. Cup your hand around it.” He looked around, staying for a long moment on each face. “Ready?”

  There were nods all around. Neahle joined in but she’d never felt less ready for anything in her life.

  Walking outside along the Overground Line wasn’t too bad. It was a dim, drizzly morning and they didn’t see another living soul. Cats hunted mice along the tracks, but they scattered when the humans got too near. Walking quickly, it only took them a half hour to reach West Brompton Station. They jogged through the station, ran down the long escalator, and hopped off the platform down to the tracks. The turned left and headed into the blackness beyond.

  Unlike the tunnels in Paris, and, for that matter, everywhere else they’d been so far, these tunnels were scary. The McClellands found the Tube worse than a haunted house ride at the State Fair. It was not the dark, which they’d gotten used to; it was full of subtle sounds coming from every direction. Sometimes they could hear a yell or cough of an unseen person. Sometimes it was the drip drip drip of water from a pipe. Their footfalls echoed, and sometimes they could hear the shuffle of other feet. They could never tell where the sounds were coming from.

  Neahle was paired with Monkey, and he had insisted that she grab hold of his sleeve and not let go. “I run, you run. Don’t ask why, just go. Got it?” She had nodded and kept such a tight grip on his sweatshirt that her fingertips felt numb.

  Suddenly the group stopped. Riley, who was in the lead with Clay, clicked off his flashlight and the others were turned off immediately. No one spoke. Neahle was afraid to draw a breath. At first she didn’t hear anything and had no idea why they’d stopped. She didn’t know how long they’d been walking; in the dark, time seemed to stand still. They’d passed furtively through the Earl’s Court Station and changed to the Piccadilly Line, but that seemed like hours ago. There had been the glow of fires down the Circle Line as they crossed over, and Riley kept them moving fast and silent in the darkness. But Neahle had seen evidence of a recent camp on the platform at the station, and it made her paranoid that they were being followed.

  Straining to see anything in the darkness, Neahle gripped Monkey’s arm. She felt his hand on hers, giving her reassurance. Leaning forward, she rested her forehead on his shoulder, giving her eyes a rest and listening for any unusual sounds.

  Without warning, Monkey pulled her down to her knees, then pushed her behind him, up against the wall. Looking around his body, she could make out vague light down the tunnel. It was so far away that it barely registered as light at first, but it was definitely coming closer and getting brighter. She could make out the others now.

  Riley turned them back and pushed them along the wall, all of them crouching and moving along as quickly as they could. Riley moved ahead, Clay right beside him; he stood upright and picked up the pace. Two hundred yards down, he dropped to his knees, silently released a grate from the wall, and pointed with his penlight. Without a pause, all of them squeezed into the narrow space. Monkey was been the first in; he crept slowly around a bend, pulling Neahle with him. When all six of them were inside, Riley hissed slightly for quiet and pulled the grate in place. Everyone froze.

  It took ten minutes for the group of people to get to their grate. They were scuffling along making a lot of noise, holding bright torches aloft. It had the air of a party, with lots of giggling and jostling.

  “Ariel ain’t got no more weed, an’ Mickey, he give us all kinds of aggro when we come up on him last week. Got right cheesed off.” The voice was female, speaking in a half whispered strong Liverpool accent.

  “Bollocks,” a male voice said. “Ariel’s got sumfin, she just ain’t wantin’ ta shar
e. We’ll have to pinch it.”

  “Cain’t,” an older sounding voice said. “Ariel’s got a source, and the rest’a us got sod all. We steal sumfin from her, that’s the end’a it.”

  “Then we got sod all,” the female voice said, breaking into giggles again.

  “T’aint funny, Fan,” the older man said, sounding glum.

  “Maybe you gotta go to work for a change then, mate,” Fan said.

  “Ya can’t wangle sumfin?” the younger man said.

  “Oh ta, sure, why not. I’ll just leg it over to the Bakerloo, take a dekko at their stash, and… What? Offer my services?” The woman snorted in disgust.

  Another woman piped up. “Ain’t gonna get much for that, Fan!” She broke out in peels of laughter.

  “Stuff it!” Fan said. The giggles persisted but the talking stopped; the group continued towards Earl’s Court down the long, dark tunnel.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Riley didn’t move them out of the pipe for another twenty minutes, by which time everyone’s legs and back were cramped and stiff. No one said a word or turned on a flashlight. The dark silence seemed interminable.

  When they were standing and stretching, Neahle said softly, “They didn’t seem so bad.”

  “Junkies,” Abacus said. “Not bad unless they get bad stuff, need money or something to trade, or they think you’re stealing from them. But it’s best not to interact with them. They don’t have any loyalties except to their next fix.”

  Riley agreed. “They’re better than gangs, but they buy from gangs, which is another reason to steer clear. They’d sell us out in a heartbeat if they thought they could get a couple of months of meth or anything else out of it.” Riley adjusted his pack and aimed his flashlight to the floor. “Rule of thumb, especially when you’re in a new territory—don’t talk to anybody unless one of us introduces you. Then you’ll know they’re rebels and on our side.”