“How goes it?” the Fourth Officer repeated, more loudly this time in case the fans had drowned him out.
“The usual,” the Second Officer shouted back. “A rumpus in the North.”
The Fourth Officer nodded, then spotted the greyhound. “See you’ve made a friend.”
The Second Officer looked at his new companion and gave a shrug in response before continuing down the rest of the slope.
As soon as he came to the level ground at the bottom, he heard the sound of many feet striking the cobblestones in unison. A group of New Germanians — around fifty of them — were running in formation, as a Division soldier on horseback set the pace.
The greyhound hid behind the Second Officer’s legs as the group thundered past. The men were like automatons, staring straight ahead as they moved in perfect synchronization. He knew why their expressions were so vacant — they had all been heavily Darklit.
Maneuvers like this were a common sight in the Colony these days — and just as common was the sight of these men collapsing from exhaustion during their training, some even dying from heart failure. The Second Officer had heard through the grapevine that the Styx were pushing the soldiers so hard because they wanted to acclimatize them to higher levels of gravity than they were used to in their world.
“C’mon, boy. It’s nothing to be frightened of,” the Second Officer assured the dog as the soldiers retreated into the distance. He entered one of the outlying streets of the Colony. But rather than heading directly toward the North Cavern, he instead made a detour to his house.
As he walked in, Eliza emerged from the sitting room. “What are you doing back so early?” his sister demanded. “Do you kn —” she began, then her eyes fell on the little greyhound. “Oh no! You haven’t!” she exclaimed.
“I couldn’t just leave the little fella out in the cold,” the Second Officer said. He knelt down, his knee joints cracking like rifle shots, and stroked the dog. The greyhound’s nervous eyes met his briefly. “I’m expected in the North now, but I’ll find out where he lives when I come back.”
Eliza crossed her arms disapprovingly. “The patron saint of waifs, strays, and Topsoilers,” she fumed at him. “I would’ve thought you’d learned your lesson by now.”
The Second Officer grunted and straightened up. “Where’s Mother?” he asked.
“She’s upstairs, rest —” Eliza began, then interrupted herself as she remembered what she’d been wanting to tell her brother. “You’ll never guess what happened today. The Smiths were moved out.”
The Second Officer nodded. The Smiths were neighbors two doors down, and they’d lived there as long as anyone could remember — certainly for several decades before he was born.
“Mother’s taken it very badly. There are hardly any of us left on the street now.” Eliza frowned. “We’re being pushed out for all these New Germanian soldiers, and they never so much as answer if you speak to them. They act as if you’re not there. It’s not right what’s going on.” Her voice was wavering, she was so distraught, but she now lowered it in case someone overheard her. “I don’t even know if our people are actually being taken to the North or not — there are rumors down the market that whole families are disappearing, lock, stock, and barrel.” She put her hand on her brother’s arm. “Can’t you do something? Can’t you talk to the Styx?”
“You are joking? Me?” the Second Officer asked.
“Yes, you. The only reason we haven’t been uprooted yet is because the Styx believe you’re a hero, taking on those Topsoilers all on your own when they came to rescue your lady love.” The Second Officer found it hard to bear the withering look Eliza gave him. He may have been able to deceive the Styx, with his old friend the watchman from the Laboratories to corroborate his story, but his sister knew him too well. “And if they think you’re so bloody marvelous, perhaps they’ll listen to what you have to say.”
The Second Officer wasn’t sure if he was more shocked by his sister’s swearing or by her outlandish suggestion that he somehow tackle the Styx over what they were doing in the Colony.
He shook his head as he crossed to the front door, careful to shut it behind him because he didn’t want the dog to follow. He left the fuggy warmth of the house with huge reluctance, uneasy about what he would be expected to do in the North Cavern, and generally very unhappy with his lot in life.
Parry waited until they had all gathered in the hall. Elliott was the last to arrive as she floated down the stairs, wearing a red dress, and her glossy black hair done up in a chignon. She’d grown considerably since she’d arrived Topsoil, putting on several inches of height and even adding a little weight to her boyish figure. This may have been a result of Parry’s overgenerous helpings at mealtimes and his insistence that they all eat well, or perhaps it was because of her age. Whatever the reason, to Will and Chester she’d never looked so feminine before, and they were now doing their best not to gawk at her. For her part, she didn’t look at anyone in particular, least of all either of the boys.
“Right. Come along,” Parry announced, swinging open the heavy oak door to his study. They filed in without speaking, glancing around the room they’d been forbidden to enter until now. It was larger than Will had expected, with a row of safes along the paneled walls — one of these was open, and Will could see files stacked inside.
“Hi, Dad,” Chester said, and Mr. Rawls, in his crumpled clothes and a day’s growth of stubble on his chin, rose from a chair beside the ancient printer. It was still rattling away, accompanied by a grinding sound as a roll of paper with perforated edges fed its seemingly endless appetite.
Will saw some computer displays on a bench beside the printer, but they were all dark. There was another screen on a desk in front of the far wall, but it was pointing away so Will couldn’t tell if it was turned on or not. And on the far wall itself was a large map of Scotland, with the highland and lowland areas depicted in pastel shades. With the exception of Mrs. Burrows, everyone’s gaze had come to rest on it.
“Yes, you’re in Scotland,” Parry said, raising his voice to be heard over the printer. “Sixty miles due north of Glasgow, to be precise.” He aimed his walking stick at the point on the map. “Just about there.” The hairs pricked up on the back of Will’s neck; it obviously no longer mattered that they’d be able to identify the location of the estate, and that was a little ominous. Parry opened his mouth to talk, but then clucked. He swung to Mr. Rawls. “Put that bloody thing on pause, will you? Can’t hear myself speak.”
Mr. Rawls swiped a switch on the printer as Parry perched on the edge of the desk and continued. “You’ll doubtless be wondering why Jeff and I have locked ourselves away in here for the last twenty-four hours.” He glanced at Mr. Rawls, who gave a small nod, then Parry tapped the floor twice with his stick. “I asked him to help because I needed someone to man the telex. I’m still on the distribution list for the COBRA bulletins.” Parry smiled, but it wasn’t out of amusement. “The powers that be keep me in the picture. In my former line of work, you never really retire.”
Mr. Rawls saw that his son was frowning. “COBRA is a government committee convened whenever there’s a security risk to the country,” he explained.
“Wouldn’t it be quicker to get the information over the net?” Will asked, looking from the aged printer beside Mr. Rawls to the computer screen.
“The web is never secure,” Parry said. “The only way to trace this telex would be to dig up the miles of dedicated trunk line it’s connected to.” He took a deep breath. “So where do I start . . . ? My son — who you know by the preposterous moniker of Drake — has always steadfastly refused to allow me into his struggle against the Styx. He’s even been going around telling everyone I’ve popped my clogs, just to protect me.” Parry raised his eyebrows. “But my safety isn’t an issue anymore because the game’s changed. Would you take them through t
he latest COBRA bulletins?” he said to Mr. Rawls.
“Of course. Just over a day ago, reports began to surface of incidents all over Europe — multiple assassination attempts on heads of state and key political figures. In France, the President and his wife escaped death by the skin of their teeth, but two further attacks on the Spanish and Italian parliaments killed several dozen politicians. And in Brussels a room full of assorted MEPs was taken out.”
“But there wasn’t anything about this on TV last night,” Will said.
“And we couldn’t even get the news this morning — most of the channels had this notice up that they’re not available,” Chester added.
“I’m not surprised,” Parry said. “But first things first. Please go on, Jeff.”
“Sure,” Mr. Rawls said. “The news of these assassination attempts has been suppressed because of the sensitivity surrounding them — they all originated from here.”
“From Britain,” Parry clarified. “Ordinary English people have become suicide bombers. . . . They’ve turned into walking bombs. The nature of the explosives inside them — no ferrous components — means that conventional detection equipment is useless.”
“Walking bombs? How does that work?” Mrs. Burrows asked, frowning.
“A botched attempt at the German parliament in Berlin resulted in the capture of a live bomber,” Mr. Rawls said. “The woman was found to have had major body organs removed from her thorax and abdominal cavities.”
Parry reached over to the opposite side of his desk to retrieve a printout from the telex, then put on his glasses to read from it. “Lobectomy of the right lung.” He looked up as he explained, “The medical inspection revealed that an entire lung had been surgically removed from the woman.” Parry consulted the printout again. “And a cystectomy, splenectomy, cholecystectomy — that’s removal of the bladder, spleen, and gallbladder, respectively. Lastly, and this is the really grisly part, just about all of her upper and lower colon were missing and replaced with a makeshift bypass. Her intestines had been whipped out.”
Will noticed that Chester was grimacing and looking a little pale.
“She would have died anyway?” Mrs. Burrows asked.
“Yes, in a matter of days,” Mr. Rawls answered. “She was still able to drink and take in fluids, but she couldn’t digest any solids. Without specialist medical care, though, infection or the massive trauma she’d suffered would probably have killed her off even before the lack of nutrition did.”
“Like a fish that’s been gutted, she was eviscerated . . . emptied . . . ,” Parry said, removing his glasses and rubbing his brow. “Instead, inside her were a pair of plastic containers filled with chemicals. When mixed by means of a mechanical pull at the waist, the chemicals would’ve detonated with considerable force. And ceramic shot was packed around the explosive mixture to widen the kill radius.”
Mrs. Burrows was shaking her head. “So the Styx did this — they Darklit innocent people and then butchered them to turn them into these body bombs. But why?”
“Why?” Parry boomed with such ferocity that everyone in the room was taken aback. “So the British government can’t offer the world any explanation as to why its supposedly nonradical, run-of-the-mill citizens are embarking on these wanton acts of terrorism,” he growled. “Because of our lax border policies in the past, the US and many other nations have always regarded our country as a melting pot for dissident groups, anyway. The Styx are just fulfilling a prophecy.”
He regained his composure as he went on. “Accordingly, all UK borders are to be closed at one p.m. today — and all flights suspended. And it’s very likely that the country will be put under martial law.”
There was a chiming sound, and Parry slipped something from his pocket. The size of a pack of cards, it looked more like a paging device than a cell phone as he glanced at its small LED display. “Won’t keep you a moment,” he said as he leaned over his desk to glance at the computer monitor on it.
Chester took the opportunity to speak. “But what does all that mean?” he asked.
“It means that the shutters will come down on our small island, and we’ll be completely isolated from the rest of the world . . . and under military control,” Parry said, replacing the device in his pocket. “The army will take charge of the streets.”
“Then the Styx will make their move,” Elliott said in a low voice. It was the first time she’d spoken a word and she had their full attention. “I know how the White Necks think. They’re going to invade your country using all the New Germanians they’ve brought up with them. And your own soldiers, too, once they’ve been Darklit.”
“But even if they did command significant land forces, they’ve got one heck of a job on their hands.” Parry looked mystified. “No, it can’t be just that. There must be another ingredient in their plan that I’m missing. And it’s driving me bloody mad trying to figure out what it is.” Parry pushed himself upright from his desk and stood before them. He appeared to be extremely weary and not at all the bastion of strength that Will had known up until then.
“Whatever they’re up to, they can’t be allowed to get away with it,” Mrs. Burrows said.
“Precisely,” the old man replied. “And if not us, who’s going to stop them?” He twisted toward the open door of the study. “You made it up here in good time.”
As a black-clad figure wheeled into sight, both Will and Chester thought the worst — that it was a Styx — and they both began to react. But Mrs. Burrows caught her son’s arm to still him.
“Whoa!” Chester exhaled as he and Will recognized the man with the completely bald head and goatee.
“Who’s going to stop them?” Drake said, repeating his father’s words. “We bloody well are.”
Elliott rushed forward and flung her arms around him, then she stepped back, a huge grin on her face. It was a flash of the old Elliott — the Elliott that Will and Chester had been missing so much. “You look like a real renegade now,” she said, chuckling. “A mean and nasty one at that.”
“Hah! But look at you,” he replied, admiring her dress and the way she’d done her hair. “Quite the young lady.” Drake moved into the room, greeting the boys, Mrs. Burrows, and Mr. Rawls, and then took his place next to Parry.
“So you’ve been allowed into the inner sanctum.” Drake flicked his eyes around the room before addressing them again. “Some late-breaking news for you,” he began. “Just before dawn, there were simultaneous strikes on television transmission centers, Internet hubs, and several of the main phone exchanges.”
“That’s why we couldn’t get anything on TV,” Chester said.
“Quite so — it’s denial of service — the Styx are targeting our comms and information hubs. And it’s really bad down there in London, I can tell you. People are running scared — there’s panic-buying in the shops, which aren’t being restocked. And public services are erratic, to say the least — streets are piled high with rubbish, schools have been shut, and hospitals are being run by skeleton staff. And there’ve even been a couple of power outages — whole areas of London have had intermittent electrical supplies for the last week. Yes, it’s really rough down there. And there’s also the odd rumor or two knocking around that a number of cabinet ministers have gone missing.”
“Decapitation. Textbook stuff,” Parry put in. Will and Chester glanced toward each other as they both wondered if he was referring to his favorite tome on insurgency by Frank Kitson. Parry drew his hand across his throat. “You remove those at the top — the head — and the rest of the country — the body — hasn’t got any idea how to organize itself.”
“Except that in all likelihood the head will be put back on,” Drake said, “but it’ll be a Styx head.”
“I don’t understand. With what’s happening, can’t we just go to the authorities and tell them who’s behind
it?” Chester suggested.
“That would be a very quick way to get us all killed,” Drake answered him. “The problem is you can’t tell who’s been got at already. You don’t know who you can trust.”
Parry clapped his hands together. “I do,” he said. “It’s time to wake up some old ghosts.”
Drake met eyes with his father as if he knew what he was referring to, then held a finger up as he remembered something. “Talking of old ghosts, I’m forgetting my manners,” he said as he strode back to the doorway. He was gone for a second, then reappeared with a man with a hood over his head. Everyone in the room knew what that felt like — Drake had insisted they wear them when he’d driven them to his father’s estate.
The man’s hands were bound together with a plastic tie, which Drake sliced through with his knife. Then, with a dramatic flourish, he whipped the hood off.
There was a sharp intake of breath from Will and Elliott.
“Colonel!” the girl exclaimed, immediately recognizing who it was even though he was dressed in an expensively tailored but rather ill-fitting double-breasted city suit.
“That’s the New Germanian who helped you?” Chester said to Will, who didn’t respond as he stared at the man distrustfully. Although Colonel Bismarck had delivered him and Elliott from the clutches of the Styx in one of his helicopters, Will knew the only reason he was now Topsoil was that he must have been part of the attacks in the city.
The Colonel blinked in the unaccustomed light as he stepped fully into the room. With a formal bow and a click of his heels, he took Elliott’s hand. “An honor to see you again,” he said, then acknowledged Will, who made no move to shake hands with him as he continued to eye the man with undisguised suspicion.
“It could be a setup — a Styx trap,” Will said. “You should never have brought him here. He’s been Darklit.”
On the contrary, Drake appeared to be completely relaxed about his presence. “Yes, although he must have been heavily programmed, it seems that a blow to the head snapped him out of it. He saw what the Styx were doing to his men — using them to do their dirty work — and for that he wants revenge.”
Spiral Page 4
