by Andy Ritchie
Why?
Because, just below the bulb in its dusty glass housing whose pitifully inadequate light did little to diminish the deep gloom of the stairwell, there was a large green arrow and the words ‘Emergency Exit’ written in green letters next to it.
We were now in the stairwell, with Tukaal using the torch on his Multi-Tool to shine light both up and down the stairs. Behind us was the heavy metal door into the room with the mass of black stuff; a door, interestingly, that had no security features on it; no keypads, no retina scanners, no electronic locks. Just a normal handle.
A bit boring really.
Of course, Tukaal had checked the door with his SICPad, and the stairwell too, but here as well there had been no sensors, no cameras, no motion detectors. All there was was concrete steps and metal hand rails.
‘The air is stale,’ Tukaal commented.
It was indeed stale.
It was unpleasant.
And it was a little bit frightening.
We walked over to the staircase and looked down.
There were a lot of stairs, at least twenty flights that I could see, switching back on each other as they plunged into the depths.
Above us, there were eight, maybe ten flights.
‘This isn’t part of the power station, is it?’
‘A staircase leading a couple of hundred feet down into the ground... somehow, I doubt it. But then there’s only one way to find out!’
We looked at each other, and we both drew a long, deep breath.
Now, if that moment had been featured in a film, the director would have had a long, silent close up of the two of us staring determinedly at each other, and would then have followed it with a series of quirky angled shots of the two of us descending a seemingly endless series of stairs to the sounds of a groovy background melody, probably something by Ry Cooder or Skeewiff, or perhaps Felix da Housecat’s remix of Nina Simone’s ‘Sinnerman’.
Then again, maybe ‘Going Underground’ by the The Jam would have been more apt.
*
Like a schoolboy, I actually counted the number of flights of steps which we descended before we reached our first door.
There were 32 flights of steps in total, each flight containing 12 steps each. That’s 384 steps in total.
Assuming that each step was about 6 inches, that represented almost 200 feet.
And that wasn’t all because the steps didn’t end at the first door we came to. By the looks of things there were an additional 3 levels below the first one we had reached.
‘Have you any idea what is on the other side of this door?’ I asked Tukaal (somewhat pointlessly) as we both looked at a door that was almost identical to the door to what I have decided to call the ‘black stuff room’, far above us.
‘Absolutely none at all,’ Tukaal replied with a voice that sought to be light and humorous, but which betrayed his own disquiet at what we were discovering.
‘Does it open in the same way?’ I enquired as Tukaal once again checked things out with his SICPad before grasping the handle and turning it.
There was a click.
I guess that gave me the answer I was looking for.
As the heavy metal door started to swing open, Tukaal kept tight hold of the handle. He clearly did not want it to open too far, not until we had been able to gauge whether the door was in a deserted corner of whatever it was we had stumbled upon, halfway along a quiet corridor, or right slap-bang in the middle of some bustling control room!
The first thing that became obvious was that whatever was on the other side of the door was very well lit because uncomfortably bright light now flooded into the gloomy stairwell, making me squint until my eyes were able to adjust to the glare.
The second thing that became obvious as Tukaal allowed the gap to open up to, say, three inches, was that the door led out into some kind of corridor.
The third thing that became obvious was that the décor in the corridor was completely different to the dull grey concrete we had seen in the sub-station and in the black stuff room and the stairwell. Here the walls were a gleaming, polished white, reflecting the bright fluorescent lights of the ceiling that shone behind translucent plastic. It couldn’t be more different from what we had seen above. It looked and felt...antiseptic...
...that was it...it had the look of a laboratory, a research facility, the sort of corridor that mad scientists in white lab coats would walk along, deep in conversation about photons and neutrinos, their footsteps echoing hollowly on the white tiled floor.
But, for now, it was also a corridor that was silent and apparently empty.
I say ‘apparently’ because, having convinced ourselves that the coast was clear, Tukaal had just pushed the door wider and we were both moving forward out into the corridor when, from somewhere out of sight behind the door, something appeared.
I know I gasped out loud when I saw it.
Tukaal moved quickly, bundling me back into the stairwell and pulling the heavy door effortlessly closed again until there was only the merest crack through which we could watch the...thing continue its slow, unhurried progress down the corridor.
‘What the fuck is that!!!’ I hissed, my voice tinged with emotions such as shock, fear and disbelief.
‘It’s a Tofusbutt.’ Tukaal replied. ‘They’re from Foxus 4 in the Ganadian System. Don’t worry, they’re harmless, gentle creatures, a bit on the simple side really, fantastic at multi-tasking and following orders...’
‘But...’ I stammered, ‘Did you see it? It looks like an octopus stuck on top of a horse...with three-fingered hands...and blonde hair...and loads of eyes...’
‘If you look carefully, you’ll see that it actually has nine arms, and nine eyes.’
‘Okay, so that would make it a...nonopus...stuck on top of a horse... with three-fing...’
Tukaal interrupted my wild ramblings.
‘More importantly, Jeth, did you see that little metal box attached to the side of its head?’
I hadn’t. I’d been too busy looking at the eight...sorry, nine arms, and the horse legs and the weird blond hair.
‘They’re drones,’ Tukaal continued, not waiting for an answer, ‘carrying out instructions relayed to them through those devices on their heads. That’s why it didn’t react to the door opening or to us, because it’s not programmed to. It’s probably just programmed to carry out a simple, menial task, without question or argument. It appears that we’ve found the puppets; all we need to do is find the puppeteer...’
I’m sure I’ve seen a film where somebody comes out with a line like that. Still can’t think what it is, though.
In the gloom of the stairwell, Tukaal again worked furiously on his SICPad, presumably using it to try to pinpoint the source of the signal which was controlling the Tofusbutt.
It took him about a minute or so.
‘Got it,’ he said triumphantly, showing me the SICPad and pointing to an orange symbol in the upper left corner which pulsed rhythmically.
‘It’s two floors down, about a hundred yards into what I am assuming is the body of this complex.’
‘So do we go straight there, or do we have a look around up here first?’
Tukaal seemed to consider these two alternatives for a moment; then he said:
‘I think we should go to the control room. We could wander around for ages up here trying to figure out what’s going on and end up none the wiser...and all the time we run the risk of being spotted. No, I think it’s best to try to get to the centre of things. Hopefully, there will be someone there who will be able to give us some answers.’
I nodded in agreement.
Answers were what we had come to this place to find.
And so we descended four flights of stairs to the third level of this subterranean complex (no doubt the film version will have another quick burst of ‘Sinnerman’ from Felix da Housecat and a few more shots of our feet going down stairs).
Once on the third level, Tukaal
(as he had done twice already) clicked the catch of the emergency exit door and eased it open to check what lay beyond. It was an identical corridor to the one on the first level, gleaming white, brightly lit, and eerily quiet.
Again, as we had done on the first level, (but this time preceded by a deep breath on my part), Tukaal opened the door further so we could move into the corridor...this time, there was no Tofusbutt behind the door to scare the shit out of us and the corridor was thankfully deserted. It was also quite long, stretching a good fifty yards in either direction from where we stood, with at least six other corridors intersecting it at regular intervals along its length. The intersecting corridors, I noticed, were all on one side of the corridor, which meant that the stairwell down which we had descended was at the extreme edge of the complex.
‘From what I can figure,’ Tukaal said after another few moments studying his SICPad, ‘we need to take that corridor over there.’
He indicated the corridor closest to us, just off to our left, and so we began to walk cautiously along it, noting that it was, like the first corridor, gleaming white and well lit, just the sort of corridor you’d expect to find in a huge underground complex inhabited by aliens. As we progressed down it, we passed lots of doors which, I presumed, led to lots of rooms and each door was helpfully marked with a combination of letters and numbers:
S3-3-16, for example, was the last one we passed before reaching the door of what we hoped was some sort of control room. It was, after all, the room from where the signal controlling the Tofusbutts was emanating. It was also, Tukaal noticed, the only one which had any kind of security, though it was, according to Tukaal:
‘...just a basic keypad with a six-digit code...’
He set to work with his SICPad, commenting further in whispered tones as he did so:
‘Did you notice, Jeth, that there are no cameras or other surveillance devices in the corridors or at this door?’
I hadn’t. I’d been leaving all the security shit to him.
‘Clearly they don’t expect any visitors...fortunately for us...there, got it...’
Tukaal keyed in the six-figure key-code that his SICPad had somehow come up with, and the door slid silently open.
The control room (for that was what it indeed turned out to be) did not disappoint.
It was big, it was bright, it had rows and rows of consoles with screens on them and, along the entire length of the wall to our left (which must have been at least fifty feet long and ten feet high) there was the most massive display screen I have ever seen.
The display was alive with colours, shapes and flashing icons, far too much to take in with a single glance.
The far wall was covered with banks of large, electronic dials, the continuity of them only broken by a door directly opposite to the one through which we now entered.
To our right were a couple of small offices with large windows looking out on the control room and, a little bizarrely, something that looked like a mess room, complete with kettle, microwave and probably (if I looked hard enough) a copy of the Sun and a girlie calendar.
In fact, the only thing that was disappointing about the control room were the residents.
Firstly, there was only one of them.
Secondly, it was a man.
The man didn’t seem to have noticed us. This could have been for three reasons. Firstly, the desk at which he was sat was a little to our left, so the door through which we had entered was out of his line of sight. Secondly, his attention was firmly fixed on the giant display screen which continue to be alive with all manner of changing shapes, symbols, schematics and the like. Thirdly, he appeared to have earphones on and was moving in a manner which suggested he was listening to a chavvy-style of music, heavy with a throbbing bass beat (and no doubt light on meaningful lyrics).
In all three regards, we were extremely fortunate because together they meant we were able to walk, unseen and unheard, right up behind him.
Even when we were stood within a foot or so of the back of his chair, close enough to hear the repetitive beat of the music from his earphones (which must have been deafening for him, by the way), he was totally unaware of our presence.
Clearly, this was a man not at all used to unexpected guests in his control room.
I’m not sure how long Tukaal and I stood behind him as he continued to watch the massive display screen and, every now and again, dance his fingers over some sort of touch-sensitive desk-top through which he could control and change whatever it was that the symbols and schematics on the massive screen represented, but I know it was long enough for the two of us to exchange three or four expressions of amused incredulity.
Inevitably, though, Tukaal grew tired of the man’s failure to recognise our presence, and eventually tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
The man screamed like a girl as he whirled round in shock, almost falling off his chair as he did so.
He looked up at both Tukaal and I with an expression that was a strange mix of shock, fear, annoyance and anger. But, within a heartbeat, the cocktail of emotions that his features had betrayed must have passed because his expression hardened, his eyes narrowed, his features became darkly determined, and he made to reach across to the top-right corner of the large, touch-sensitive display desk with the intent, I assume, of raising the alarm.
Alas, he was simply not quick enough, for even as he made to turn back towards the desk, reaching his left arm out in front of him, Tukaal had grabbed him roughly by the other arm and was hauling him off the chair.
The man resisted, and did so with a strength and resolve that seemed to surprise Tukaal a little, for my intergalactic associate had to put considerable effort into dragging the man away from the desk and across the white tiled floor onto which, with a slightly disdainful flourish, the man was eventually deposited.
But even as Tukaal released him, the man seemed intent on returning to the fight, spinning somewhat acrobatically on the floor and, in what was almost a Jackie Chan-style blur of movement, scrambling to his feet to once more square up aggressively to my alien companion.
I actually thought for a moment he was going to wade into Tukaal; his expression, all-wide-eyed fury and snorting rage, certainly seeming to suggest that that was his intention.
But then, almost as quickly as the manic features had appeared, they went, the man’s eyes, previously crazed, almost rabid, suddenly subdued, almost a little fearful.
I found myself wondering why his demeanour had changed so abruptly.
I found the answer by following the man’s eyes. They were no longer looking at Tukaal’s face, but were instead looking at the device he was holding in his right hand.
It looked unmistakeably like a weapon, but where the hell it had come from, I have absolutely no idea.
I decided that now was not the best time to start interrogating my colleague about where he had managed to get a ray-gun from, though I did find myself thinking that it would have been really fucking useful if he had had it with him at Debenhams in Manchester a few days ago, as the ability to fight off the dark-suits would have saved us both a whole lot of grief...and me a whole lot of pain.
My thoughts were broken by a request from Tukaal:
‘Jeth, would you please bring that chair over. I’d like our...acquaintance to be comfortable.’
Then he seemed to notice that I was looking at the weapon in his hand.
‘It’s a PWS, version 551,’ he said, as if that made everything clear.
I simply shrugged my shoulders and rolled the chair on which the man had been sat over to where he now stood, the noise of the casters on the tiled floor particularly loud in what had become a tense silence.
As I positioned the chair behind the man so that he could sit, I took my first close look at him...and was surprised and just a little disconcerted by what I saw.
He was old...and yet he was not.
His features were those of a young man, maybe thirty-five years old, dark complexion,
short dark hair and deep hazel eyes (like my own used to be!). He looked a bit like Antonio Banderas...but only a bit.
And yet, although his features were those of a young man, his skin appeared much older, more the skin you would associate with someone approaching retirement; lined, creased, almost ill-fitting, particularly around the eyes where the skin of the bottom eyelids seemed to have slipped too far down towards the cheeks and, in so doing, had exposed a disconcertingly large amount of the lower part of his overly blood-shot eye-balls. Elsewhere on his face, too, his skin appeared haggard and care-worn to a degree far in excess of that suggested by a first glance.
He had on a white lab-coat beneath which he wore a simple cream tee-shirt, a pair of jeans and a pair of rather battered Adidas trainers.
As he sat, he did so warily, almost grudgingly, his eyes, though odd-looking, still wildly alive, like the eyes of a recently caged big cat.
Something about him didn’t seem right.
‘There, that’s a more comfortable, isn’t it,’ Tukaal said once the man had finally settled into the chair.
‘Now, my name’s Tukaal, and this is my friend, Jethro, but you can call him Jeth. We’re sorry to interrupt whatever it was you were doing but both Jeth and I are searching for some answers and I thought we might just be able to get some if we sat down with your good self and had a little chat. Would that be okay with you?’
The man remained silent, staring coldly at Tukaal.
The Ambassador continued, unperturbed.
‘This is a fascinating establishment. It must be, what, at least two hundred feet below ground, quite a few different levels, very well lit, very clean, serviced by drone Tofusbutts, all seemingly managed from this very control room. Is there just you, on your own, or is there another operative working with you, out doing the rounds, taking measurements and readings and all the other things operatives do, perhaps on the lavatory...’
I could see what Tukaal was doing, and he was wasting no time in doing it.
His voice had adopted that subtle, melodic quality that seemed to wrap everything up in soft, fluffy pink clouds and whisper soothing sounds right into the very heart of the brain, breaking down the defences, demanding co-operation whilst threatening nothing.