"That is a good idea,” Grimm said, panting and wiping his perspiration-soaked forehead with a trembling hand. “Let's get back where we can breathe."
Chapter 14
Death and Departure
Fighting for breath and soaked with sweat, Grimm dropped from the access panel to the floor of the corridor, stumbling as his feet impacted the ground. It seemed just as muggy and stifling here in the main passageway as it had in the laboratory. His silk robes were grimy, torn and saturated with perspiration, and he felt a sharp pain in his right ankle, presumably caused by his awkward landing.
Without stopping to consider the ruin of his fine apparel, or the sharp pains now shooting up his leg, the mage extended his arms above his head.
"Lower yourself down and drop to the floor, Drex,” he called into the ceiling void. “Have no fear, I will catch you."
He had made a conscious effort to keep his speech formal, as he had promised Xylox he would do until the party had escaped the Technological hell-hole of Haven. Now the threat of being stripped of his Guild status had lessened, he vowed to do nothing more to jeopardise his position.
Without so much as glancing down, the girl slipped over the edge of the opening and dropped into his arms. It was as well that she weighed little, since even her slight impact sent sick, silver waves of anguish through his protesting limb. He felt his face growing even hotter as she clung onto him far longer than was necessary.
Her large, brown eyes seemed to become the whole universe to the thaumaturge, as they gazed into his. He forced himself to stand rigid and unresponsive until she released him.
"Don't you like me, or something, Grimm?” Drex asked, her head on one side, pouting. “You said you do like girls, so it must be me..."
Her carefully coiffed, dark hair tumbled over her shoulders in a silken cascade, somewhat dishevelled, but alluring nonetheless. Her blue dress might be grubby and torn, but it still clung to the curves of her body, causing vague, disturbed feelings within the mage, the like of which he had never felt before. Drexelica had been transformed from a scruffy street urchin into an image of feminine beauty, and Grimm cleared his throat, unsure of how to respond. He wanted to take the lovely girl into his arms and smother her with kisses, but he knew that this could never be; he had been warned that sensual dalliance with a female would lead to the weakening and eventual loss of his powers. How could he tell her this?
"Drexelica; you're beautiful. I like you a lot. I think you're ... that is, I..."
He was spared the need to finish his haltering explanation by a sudden cry from the girl.
"What's the matter with them?"
The magic-user turned his head, to follow the direction of Drex's pointing finger, and he saw the cause of her agitation. The two security guards, Emerson and Tattler, were standing just around the corner, motionless and unresponsive. They were still breathing and blinking, and they swayed on occasion, but they stood like marionettes held up by a somnolent puppeteer.
"I have no idea,” confessed Grimm, shrugging. Almost everything about this place was beyond his understanding.
"It must have been that fat pig, Deeks,” Drex declared. “He said he was going to set all the guards on you, to kill you. Perhaps they're just frozen here, waiting for his command."
"All they seem to be killing is time,” the young sorcerer replied. “They do not seem like much of a threat to me now. Look, we must get back to Xylox and the others. They will be worried."
The girl nodded. “Yes, do let's. This place scares me."
They went back down the main corridor to the hub, with Grimm favouring his left leg and trying not to grimace at each step. When they reached the alcove where the rest of the guards had been huddling, he saw they were as immobile and glassy-eyed as Emerson and Tattler, frozen into various uncomfortable positions. Whatever spell Deeks had placed upon his two erstwhile escorts seemed to have affected the rest of the security detail.
They reached the Control Room, their breathing fast and shallow, their faces pink with exertion. Through the ragged hole in the metal door, the giant albino, he saw Tordun sitting with his great sword balanced across his lap. His usual pale complexion was suffused with a delicate shade of cerise, and shadows licked across his face in intermittent waves as the damaged overhead illumination flickered and flashed.
"Ah, Questor Grimm, welcome back,” said the swordsman. “I'm glad to see your mission was successful."
"It is becoming stifling in this place,” declared Grimm, mopping his dripping brow. “What is happening here, Tordun?"
Tordun shrugged, his discomfort plain on his flushed face. “Better ask your colleague,” he suggested in a listless voice.
Inside the shattered Control Room, Armitage sat at his console, his fingers scuttling over the letters and symbols on the panel. Xylox and Crest stood over him. It was the half-elf who reacted first.
"Questor Grimm; It is good to see you and Drexelica back, safe and sound!” he said, flicking his damp hair from his eyes. “I'm surprised the guard chief hasn't come back to pursue his other demands."
"All the guards seem to be standing around like statues,” the mage replied. “It is some sort of Technological spell. The person who cast it, a Technician called Deeks, is dead, so I cannot imagine what still holds the poor victims in thrall."
At this pronouncement, Armitage raised his head from the glowing console and addressed the senior Questor, craning his head to meet Xylox's gaze. “I just can't get in through this terminal. Even my back doors aren't responsive; he's not only taken my sysop status, but he seems to have disabled all system access from this terminal."
As with much of the hated Administrator's jargon, this meant nothing to Grimm, and he was confident that it meant no more to Xylox or Crest, but he stayed a demand for explanation as the older magic-user spoke.
"So, Armitage, it seems that, regardless of your earlier protestations of superior skill, you can do nothing. Is that what you are saying; that we will all die, despite your proud boasts?” Xylox's grip tightened on Nemesis.
"Not at all, Questor; not at all.” The arch-Technologist's denial was hurried and nervous. “I just can't do anything from here. It sounds as if I could get access from the lab. If you want to live, I suggest that you allow me to go there. I should be able to access all relevant protocols from that terminal, including the ventilation and security systems."
Xylox raised his eyes to the ceiling and tapped the brass head of his staff into his left palm several times.
"Very well, Armitage,” he said. “We will all visit this laboratory of yours. I do not trust you in the least, and I wish to stand over you whilst you carry out your work."
Grimm thought of the narrow, snaking path through the ceiling void that Thribble had found for him. The heavily-built senior mage and the titanic swordsman would never be able to navigate through that cramped maze of wires, conduits and stanchions.
"Questor Xylox,” the young thaumaturge said, raising his hand to attract his senior's attention. “The path is very constricted and sinuous. Even Drexelica and I found difficulty in squeezing through. I am confident that Crest and Armitage will be able to do so with some difficulty, but you and Tordun are likely to become trapped. I suggest that Crest and I will prove to be an adequate escort and restraint."
Xylox looked at Armitage, who waited by the console, a quizzical expression on his face, and then at Grimm. Long moments passed, and the quality of the air deteriorated by a small but perceptible amount.
"Very well, Questor Grimm,” Xylox said, leaning on his staff. “Tordun, the girl and I will remain here while you visit the laboratory. I counsel you to keep Armitage's aura in view at all times, looking for the least trace of deception or intended treachery. Kill him without mercy if he appears to deviate in the slightest from the task at hand: the lowering of these detestable barriers. Be quick."
Grimm gave his superior a respectful nod. “It will be as you command, Questor Xylox. Armitage, Crest; be
so good as to accompany me."
* * * *
The air in the laboratory seemed to have taken on an acrid, almost metallic, taint. The temperature within the small room was oppressive, and Grimm had to fight to keep his outward composure.
"To the task, Armitage,” he croaked. “Remember: I will sense any deceit within you in a heartbeat, and I will not hesitate to destroy you if I do."
Armitage grunted, saying nothing. He staggered over to the console, beside which lay the contorted corpse of Deeks, whose face was locked into a death mask of agony. Oblivious to the grisly remains of the Technician, he leapt into the green chair and began to batter the cartouches on the panel with something approaching fury, his flushed face running with perspiration.
"That ought to do it,” he gasped, snatching his hands from the panel like an organist at the conclusion of the final, triumphant crescendo of a recital. As he did so, there was a perceptible weakening in the awful, oppressive miasma, and Grimm's sensitive ears detected a gentle rumbling noise from the ceiling as a cool, fresh atmosphere began to flood the room. Grimm gasped as a wash of sweet, breathable air flowed all around him, and he almost, but not quite, took his eyes off Armitage.
A sudden surge of colours in the Administrator's aura indicated that treachery was afoot as he grasped the metal stalk at his side and raised it to his mouth. Grimm patterned his mind for a destructive spell, but Crest was quicker. A single throwing-knife flew towards the dictator before Armitage could speak, and he toppled to the floor, the silver blade protruding from his chest.
"Well done, Crest,” Grimm gasped, shocked but very impressed by the speed of the elf's reaction.
"Believe me, Questor, it was a pleasure,” the thief replied, pulling the blade from Armitage's body. “I'll be only too happy to get out of here."
Grimm stepped to the door and put his hand on the panel to the right of it, as he had seen Armitage do on previous occasions. This time, instead of an admonitory beep, the door slid open to show a corridor free of obstructions, and he breathed a sigh of relief. There was still the matter of the group finding its way down the mountainside, but at least it seemed as if the worst of their troubles were over. As if to mock his confidence, a strident alarm began to blare, and red lights concealed in the ceiling began to flash.
Crest, who had been cleaning the blood from his knife with a rag, glanced at the terminal screen. “Questor Grimm, I think you should take a look at this."
Grimm hurried to the elf's side. The screen was flashing the words 'SYSTEM SHUTDOWN—59 MINUTES. COMMENCE EMERGENCY EVACUATION' in red on a black screen. As he watched, the number changed to ‘58'.
"Well, that doesn't look right,” Crest said, with a wry smile.
"It is almost as if the place is dying with Armitage,” the Questor observed. “Let us get back to Questor Xylox."
* * * *
Within a few minutes, the main corridor became a hubbub of activity. People ran back and forth in a state of panic, and the security guards now seemed free of their spell of immobility. Emerson and Tattler stood in the centre of the passageway, their weapons raised as they tried to impose discipline over the lemming-like people, but their expressions looked no calmer than those of their charges.
Grimm tapped one of the guards on the shoulder. “What is going on, Emerson?"
The security man swung round, his face angry. “This is your doing, isn't it, mage? The damn place is shutting down, and if we don't get out within the hour it's going to become our tomb. Thanks a lot!"
Grimm bit off a retort; the guard seemed oblivious of the extent to which he had been under Armitage's control.
"But why is this happening?” he demanded.
"Don't ask me, Questor. It's got to be your fault somehow. Everything has gone crazy since your lot came."
He turned to face a wide-eyed woman with a white coat. “As far as I know, Tech Shenley, they've all congregated in Blue Nine. I'm sure they won't leave without you, but you don't want to hang around. They said they'd wait until there were ten minutes left, but no longer, so hurry!"
As the woman ran down the corridor, Emerson turned back to Grimm.
"Are you satisfied, magic-user?” he snarled, his face twisted in anger. “If there's any other way I can be of help, please don't hesitate to get lost!"
The stream of milling people thinned out as Grimm and Crest approached the hub. Tordun, Xylox and Drexelica were waiting outside as they approached.
"Questor Grimm, what is going on?” Xylox demanded. “What have you done?"
Grimm shrugged, opening his hands wide.
"Armitage is dead,” he said. “He was about to commit some act of treachery, but I think the whole place was somehow linked to his life. The moment he died, this alarm went off. We have maybe forty minutes left in which to escape this place, before everything shuts down, or worse."
"What can we do?” Tordun asked, his face showing grave concern. “We won't last long on the mountain."
"Foster,” Grimm said. “Somehow, we must contact him, if he's still here."
"I know how to do it,” Thribble squeaked, from the depths of Grimm's pocket. His tiny head popped into view. “There is a green tile on the console in there. Deeks showed me where it was."
"Show me, demon,” Xylox said, and Thribble leapt onto the hem of the mage's robe, scrabbling up to sit on his shoulder. “Into the Control Room, Questor,” the imp piped and, for once, Xylox did not bridle at being told what to do by another.
The group bundled back into the battered room. “Where is this tile, demon?"
"That console, human,” Thribble squeaked. “Just push the green cartouche and talk."
Xylox, who hated Technology with every fibre of his being, pressed the glowing stud and spoke into the strange tube. “This is Questor Xylox in the Room of Central Control, requesting help from Pilot Foster, who brought us here. If you can hear me, Foster, please contact me. I repeat: this is Questor Xylox..."
* * * *
The overhead illumination flickered, the alarm blared and the red lights flashed; these seemed to be Haven's death throes. The number on Armitage's former console changed to fourteen as Foster ran into the Control Room, cables and hoses flapping from his green suit.
"What is it?” he demanded. “There's very little time left. I don't know what's gone wrong..."
"We know all about it,” Xylox snapped, cutting off the pilot with a cutting gesture of his hand. “Can you take us out of here? We need to reach Glabra."
"Forget it, mage,” Foster said, shaking his head. “The weather on that side of the mountains is awful, and I won't risk it. I've been taking people down to the Griven side; much safer..."
"Glabra will be fine," Xylox insisted, his eyes boring into the pilot's, his brows lowered.
"Glabra should be okay, I guess,” Foster replied in a dull voice. He shook his head as if to clear some mental fuzziness. “Come on, there's no time to spare."
* * * *
The corridors were bare now; all the inhabitants of Haven seemed to have departed, as Foster escorted them to the helicopter area at a dead run. Grimm felt a flush of relief; much as he despised the whole, vile institution of Haven, he did not wish its hopeless minions any harm. The frigid shock of the thin mountain air and the impact of a thousand tiny needles of ice made him stagger, dressed as he was in thin silk robes, but he made it to the squat machine. The party clambered aboard sliding the door shut. Grimm had a sudden access of disappointment at the realisation that he was leaving behind his expensive silk robes, but he would not dream of going back inside for a moment.
"Okay folks, here we go,” Foster said, flipping switches. “I'm not sure if we've got enough fuel on board to reach Glabra or not, but I'll give it all we've got. Hang on, now, this could get bumpy."
At the moment the machine lurched into the air, Grimm saw the lights of Haven finally extinguished. The ancient institution was dead, and Grimm could not bring himself to feel sorrow at its passing.
Crash!
"Why on earth did I decide to take this route? I must have been crazy!" Foster said, yelling to make his voice heard over the tumultuous din within the protesting vehicle.
The metal conveyance bucked and trembled in the sky, creaking and groaning like some giant, wounded animal; it seemed as if it might be dashed at any moment into the unforgiving face of the mountain, which appeared far too close for comfort. At times, it would leap into the air as if possessed; at others, it would plummet downwards in just as capricious a manner. The overall effect was terrifying, as if the machine was being shaken in the hands of some angry gargantuan seeking to tear it to shreds.
At Grimm's right side sat Drexelica, her face white and drawn, and her eyes wide with fear. She clutched the young sorcerer's ragged robe in a white-knuckled grip, and her lips moved silently, as if in prayer. Grimm longed to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he was ever-mindful of the baleful presence of Xylox on his left. He was also aware that, should he give in to his emotions, he might well lose his hard-earned magical powers; so the laws and protocols of the Guild told him.
Although he yearned to seek solace from his fear in the girl's arms, he sat ramrod-straight on the bench, driving his thoughts away from his true desires.
Grimm glanced at Xylox. The senior Questor seemed as imperturbable as ever, although he rubbed his temples from time to time, his eyes closed in an expression of extreme discomfort. He displayed, however, not the slightest sign of anxiety.
On the opposite side of the rattling machine sat the two warriors. Tordun seemed to be devoting all his attention to dressing the already razor-sharp edge of his huge sword with a stone. Grimm eyed the massive blade with some trepidation, worried that it might fly from the albino's hand, but Tordun kept the sword pinned across his legs with an iron grip, despite the vehicle's violent jerking.
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