The other gave a sputter of protest, but his colleague talked right over him.
“Don’t deny it,” he said. “I’ve seen you poking around. Asking questions when the odd bods come. You’ll mess it up for all of us. So cut it out.”
“You’re not curious?” said the Welshman. “You don’t want to know why we’re doing this?”
“Cloning, I reckon,” said the Londoner. “Illegal, probably. It’s like I said: asking questions will just ruin everything, so—just for once—shut your Welsh cake-hole.”
“Charming, I’m sure,” said the other. “Ever the sparkling conversationalist, aren’t you?”
“They don’t pay me to talk, and they don’t pay me to push buttons and top off the fluids every four hours,” said the Londoner, an edge of menace in his voice. “They pay me to keep an eye on things, and that includes you, so unless you want a knuckle sandwich, I’d button it.”
Darwen shifted and found Alex on the other side of the doorway staring at him and mouthing soundlessly “What do we do?”
Darwen had no idea. It sounded crazy, but though he was used to the peculiar Silbrican perils of scrobblers and gnashers, people—ordinary men like these two—scared him.
The Londoner was talking again. “I’m looking to get promoted, anyway, me,” he was saying. “No more sitting around this dump with you.”
“You’re not serious!” said the Welshman. “Just let them send you wherever and tell no one where you are or what you’re doing? Sounds dodgy to me. They never come back, you know, the people they promote off-site. One day they’re here, the next they’re gone, and no one ever hears from them again.”
“You should see the benefits package they’re offering,” said the Londoner. He whistled between his teeth. “I don’t care where they send me or what I do. And it’s not like I’d be leaving anyone behind to miss me, except you, Owen.”
“Oh, yes,” said the Welshman wryly. “I’d miss you terribly.”
Darwen thought furiously. They couldn’t just walk in and pretend they belonged there. And they certainly couldn’t hope to overpower two men without a weapon of some kind. Darwen guessed it was these two he had seen through the observation mirrors in Mr. Peregrine’s watchtower, and if so, the Londoner was a particularly big bloke.
Darwen felt an insistent nudge and, turning, found Rich at his elbow, eyebrows raised, hefting something carefully in one hand. It was a slab of slate the size of a book. Darwen knew what he was thinking. If Rich could get inside quickly or stealthily enough, could get behind the two men, preferably while they were still sitting, could raise that hunk of stone over their heads . . .
Darwen shook his head fiercely. The memory of what had happened to Blodwyn was too present in his mind.
“Checking the perimeter,” muttered the Londoner, with a scraping of chair legs. “Try not to do anything stupid while I’m gone.”
“Always a joy to work with,” said the Welshman.
Darwen listened to the bigger man’s receding footsteps, then the creak and clang of a heavy metal door. He waited barely a second before pushing the door open and stepping into the control room, leaving Rich and Alex gazing at each other, flabbergasted.
For a moment Darwen just stood in the doorway, his eyes flashing around the room. There were two chairs, close to a bank of old-fashioned controls: knobs, switches, and levers set into a slab of thick black metal whose wires trailed all over the room. Sitting in one of the chairs was the man in the white lab coat who Darwen had seen in the watchtower. He was reading a newspaper and sipping tea from a chipped mug. He hadn’t noticed Darwen, who was standing quite still and silent only feet from him. Darwen probably could reach back to Rich, take that slab of rock from him, and cross over to the man before he got out of his chair. . . .
No. He would not do that.
“All right?” Darwen said.
The man in the chair started so violently that he spilled his tea all over the newspaper and leapt to his feet. “What are you doing in here?” he gasped, his Welsh accent even stronger in his astonishment.
“I came for the tour,” Darwen answered simply, using the same excuse they’d fallen into back at the lighthouse in Conwy.
“There are no tours of the deep mine anymore,” the Welshman began, but then he caught something in Darwen’s eyes and his face became a mask of suspicion. “Who are you?” he said, rising.
“My name’s Darwen.”
He could almost hear Alex and Rich rolling their eyes behind him.
“Why are you here?” the Welshman replied, still suspicious. He was about forty, getting thick and soft around the middle, fair hair thinning fast so that the scalp showed through, pale blue eyes in a slightly chubby face. “No one comes in here. And if he catches you, you’ll be in serious trouble. You need to get out before he gets back.”
“He?”
“George. My co-worker, George Tomlinson. I say co-worker, but he’s little more than a hired thug.”
“And what kind of work do you do, Owen?” asked Darwen.
The man seemed taken aback by this use of his name, and he looked distracted as he replied, “Oh, this and that. I’m just a tech, really. Just, you know, monitoring the equipment, running the train, and making sure the current stays according to the protocols in the manual . . .” He caught himself, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Why am I telling you this? You need to get out before George gets back,” he added, nodding to the door at the far end of the room. It was metal, unpainted, and dotted with reinforcing bolts. It looked like the kind of door you might see in a prison cell or a submarine.
“How long will George be?”
Owen shrugged and glanced at his watch. “Two or three minutes,” he said. “Five if he goes to the bathroom.”
“And can you lock that door from the inside?”
“I could bolt it,” said Owen, looking increasingly uneasy with the conversation. “Why?”
“Buy me a little time,” said Darwen.
“For what?”
“I need to go down into the mine.”
“You can’t do that!” sputtered Owen. “I’ll lose my job.”
“Good job, is it?” asked Darwen, meeting the man’s eyes and holding them.
Owen shrugged and glanced away, so Darwen pressed on.
“The kind of job you’re proud of? A job that makes you think you are doing something good for the world?”
The man’s mouth opened and his eyes seemed to glaze.
“Or do you not want me to go down there because you know I’ll find something I’m not going to like?” said Darwen, meeting Owen’s eyes. “Something that shouldn’t be down there?”
The man’s mouth dropped open still further.
“That’s what I thought,” Darwen persisted. “I’m looking for an old man who’s been hooked up to machines of some sort. He was kidnapped, drugged, and now you have him in that mine.”
“They don’t tell me anything, you know,” said Owen, his resolve crumbling. “I just monitor the fluids and—”
“But he’s down there?” Darwen exclaimed, his heart leaping. “He’s there and he’s alive?”
“Well, yes,” said Owen, starting to rub his temples anxiously. “But I don’t know what sort of shape he’s in.”
“Please, tell me what you do know,” Darwen insisted. “He’s my friend.”
Owen had been shaking his head, but that last phrase stopped him. He gave Darwen a long, worried look, then nodded. “He was alive, look you, at least till two days ago. But not conscious, exactly. It’s like a coma, really, but part of him has to still be awake for the process to work. I don’t know what it does. Some sort of medical experiment, I think. Cloning, George says. I just, you know, keep an eye on things so they don’t die. I didn’t know he’d been kidnapped or anything. . . .”
“The process keeps him ali
ve so the thing that looks like him retains a little of his personality,” said Rich, who had appeared in the doorway.
“The thing that looked like him?” Owen echoed, horrified.
“The flesh suit,” said Rich. “It looks just like him even though what it’s doing is the absolute opposite of what the real person—Mr. Peregrine—would want.”
“What kind of things?” asked Owen, his voice faint now.
“Abducting children,” said Alex, pushing her way in.
Owen stared at her, baffled.
“Murder,” said Darwen flatly.
“What?” Owen managed.
“Look at this place, Owen,” said Darwen, as calmly as he could. “Look at this equipment. You know that what we’re telling you is the truth. So you had better make a choice before George comes back.”
“Wait,” said Owen. “I’m telling you he was alive two days ago. I was monitoring the tank he was in. But then they took him. Transferred him to a deeper part of the mine I’ve never even seen. I don’t know why.”
Darwen’s heart sank. He had no idea what this meant. Rich and Alex looked at him, desperate and unsure, and Darwen resolved to go on anyway.
“Take us there,” he said to Owen.
“I don’t know exactly where—” Owen began.
“Then we’ll find the place together,” said Darwen firmly.
For a long moment—a moment they could not afford given George’s imminent return—nothing happened, and Darwen watched the confused interplay of anxious thought on Owen’s face. Finally the man took a great sighing breath.
“You’d better get on board,” he said. “I’ll transfer the controls to the train itself so I can come down with you.”
Darwen nodded, showing only the briefest of smiles. “Do it,” he said.
Owen pushed a button and turned a dial all the way around to zero. Immediately an alarm started ringing.
“That’s torn it,” Owen said.
Even as he spoke, they heard hurried footsteps beyond the metal door. Alex flew at it, hitting it hard with her shoulder just as it started to open. Owen ran to help her as a strong hand reached through from outside. The Welshman slammed into the door and the hand was snatched back with a grunt of pain. Alex shot the bolt home.
“How long will that buy us?” she asked, panting.
“Till George gets the oxyacetylene torch out of storage,” said Owen. “Not long.” He paused, pressed a button, and shook his head. “What am I doing? I’m going to lose my job!”
“Everyone here is about to lose their job,” said Darwen. “My friends and me? We’re shutting the place down.”
There was an ominous clang against the door. Someone other than George was trying to force his way in. Or something.
“Odd bods,” muttered Owen, and now he looked truly scared.
“Odd bods?” Darwen repeated.
“Big fellas,” said Owen. “Strong. Foreign, we think. Don’t speak English. They wear overalls and they always have their faces covered up, but some say they have big teeth and red eyes. . . .”
“Scrobblers,” said Alex. “Great.”
“Into the train,” Owen exclaimed, leading the way.
There was another bang against the door, and then a tiny prick of blue flame started to open a thin red gash along the door where the bolt was. The four of them raced out to where the yellow train cars stood weirdly poised to drill down into the earth. Owen sat at the back and started thumbing on controls as the others took their seats and pulled the glass doors closed behind them.
“Quick,” said Darwen. “They must be almost through.” As he said it, Darwen heard the snap and tinkle of the bolt on the heavy door breaking cleanly in half and falling to the stone floor.
“Diwdiw!” exclaimed Owen in Welsh, staring at the flittercrake, which had been perching on the outside of the train but had flapped in with Darwen and now clung to his shirt. “What on earth?”
“The scrobblers are coming!” shouted Alex as the door to the control room kicked open.
And then they were moving.
Chapter Thirty
The Deep Mine
The yellow cars descended into the earth with a low whirring sound that set Darwen’s teeth on edge. The flittercrake flattened its face to the glass and chortled malevolently, delighted by their evident discomfort.
“Can they come after us?” Rich demanded, peering back up the shaft.
Owen shook his head. “Manual override,” he said, tapping the train controls. “A safety measure. Never thought I’d need to use it. Once we get out, they can call the train back up and come after us if they want to. You think they’ll want to?”
Rich, Darwen, and Alex all looked at each other and said nothing.
“Right,” said Owen. “Well, I’m not sure how we’re going to get up again, but for now we’re in the clear.”
“If we can get Mr. Peregrine, we may not need to use the train again,” said Darwen. “There’s a portal down here,” he added, recalling what Weazen had said.
“A what?” asked Owen.
Darwen shook his head. “I’ll show you if we find it,” he said.
Further and further down they went, so that the light from the sky behind them faded to nothing, and then there was only the soft glow of the lamps in the shaft. The walls were first concrete, laced with cable and braced with girders, then reinforced stone, carved out of the ground itself. From time to time they saw platforms where they might get off or glimpsed open passageways chiseled out of the rock, but still they descended, the air getting steadily cooler as they went. They saw one last set of signs aimed at visitors, then nothing as the train burrowed deeper and deeper into the ground, finally stopping in a silence Darwen could almost see.
They opened the car doors and clambered cautiously out. Low- wattage emergency lights glowed on the walls, and by them they could see the long tunnel with its side caverns. The slate had once been quarried there by men using little more than picks and candles. Where the ceiling was low, Darwen could see the black smearing of soot and felt a pang of pity for all those who had worked down here in the dark.
Owen brought two boxy flashlights from the front of the train and handed one to Rich. “This way,” he said.
They passed through dank stone hallways flanked by square hollows marked by drill tips and strewn with refuse fragments of slate. Some of these rooms were small and regular, some cavernous, one with a broad and shallow pool that plinked from drops from the wet ceiling. They went up and down metal stairways, past still older wooden ladders that looked thoroughly unsafe, but just as they seemed to be following a well-trodden route, Owen pointed to the left.
Darwen didn’t need telling. Wherever Mr. Peregrine was, he was close to another portal. Darwen could feel its presence swelling in his mind like the hum of electricity.
They climbed over the guardrail and entered one of the quarry chambers.
“A century ago,” said Owen, his voice unwinding out of the gloom, “a man would work in a room like this his entire life. In the winter, he wouldn’t see daylight at all, working from before dawn till after sunset under the ground. Sounds like hell, doesn’t it?”
He was making conversation to calm his nerves.
“There is a portal down here,” Darwen whispered to himself.
The flittercrake nodded its agreement.
“It won’t help you now, though,” it said, grinning. “They took it offline when they left.” The flittercrake did a half loop, giving a simpering look from upside down.
“So we’re stuck?” said Rich.
“Let’s worry about that after we find Mr. Peregrine,” said Darwen. He had managed to do it before, but the idea of having to force a portal open when it wasn’t connected to either the Guardians’ grid or Greyling’s power supply sat like a great weight on his chest.
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They rounded a corner and found themselves in a long tunnel like the main route through the mine. On either side were the same stone rooms, though there were no safety lamps here and it was only by the beam of Rich’s powerful flashlight that they could see anything at all.
“This is where they transferred him,” said Owen in an awed hush. “I’ve never been down this far before.”
There were no tanks of liquid like the ones they had expected to find. Instead, the walls of the chamber were lined with metal objects the size and shape of oversized men, misty, greenish windows where the faces should be.
Darwen had seen this place before. “This is what the mirror in Mr. Peregrine’s watchtower showed,” he said to Rich. “I remember those weird pod things, except that then they were lit up from the inside. Why was he monitoring the very place they would take him?”
“They look like Egyptian sarcophagi,” said Rich, sounding excited. “You think there are mummies inside?” He shone his flashlight into the nearest window and took a gasping step backward.
It was as Darwen remembered. The face inside belonged to a scrobbler—or very nearly—oversized tusks and massive, brutal features. Only the eyes were wrong. Behind the brass goggles they were blue, not red.
“I don’t understand,” said Darwen. “Where is Mr. Peregrine?”
“Over here,” said Owen, standing beside one of the vertical pods. “These look to be the newest.”
“You’ve never seen pods like these before?” asked Darwen.
“Never,” said Owen. “I just worked with the fluid tanks. I knew there was another lab deeper in the mine, but no one talks about it and I don’t have clearance to come down. Only the odd bods work down here. What’s going on?”
“I’m honestly not sure,” said Darwen, “but I don’t like it.”
“I haven’t liked anything on this trip so far,” said Alex, “but this place takes the creepy cake.”
Darwen knew what she meant. Something down here in the dark was very wrong.
“Why are the pods plugged in?” Rich mused. “The lab—if that’s what it is—has been abandoned, but something is still running. I can hear it.”
Darwen Arkwright and the School of Shadows Page 25