Colonel Bismarck nodded as Drake went on, “And, yes, you’re right, Will. The Colonel’s aware he could be a risk to us. He’s agreed that he’s going to be kept under lock and key while he’s here.” Drake glanced at the map on the wall. “Particularly now he’s got an idea where we are.”
Parry was regarding the Colonel with interest. “Willkommen,” he said. It was apparent that he recognized another military man like himself.
“Danke,” Colonel Bismarck replied.
“And how did you come across the Colonel?” Parry asked his son.
“Someone here was a bit free and easy with the emergency number to my secret server.” Drake smiled. “Luckily, the Colonel had it on a scrap of paper tucked in his belt kit, and the Styx didn’t find it.”
“You hope,” Will said under his breath.
Drake ignored the comment. “And the Colonel left a message for the certain someone in this room.”
Everyone glanced at each other with bemusement until Elliott spoke up. On the receiving end of a sharp look from Will, she mumbled, “I was hoping he’d never need to use it. But I had a hunch that he and his men would show up here on the surface before too long.”
Will was about to say something, but Drake got in first. “Well, I’m just glad you did, Elliott. The Colonel gives us another card in our forthcoming fight with the Styx. And we’ve got a pretty lousy hand at the moment.”
A mile away, Bartleby was scaling an ancient oak, his long claws gouging into the bark as he went higher and higher. He finally reached a cleft in the trunk, then meowed down to Colly, who meowed back and immediately began to climb after him. When she, too, had reached the cleft, Bartleby edged along a bough that overhung the perimeter wall to Parry’s estate. The humans might have understood how important it was that they didn’t wander too far, but this was meaningless to the Hunters, with their voracious appetite for fresh prey.
Left largely to their own devices since being let loose in the grounds, they’d had the time of their lives mopping up Parry’s grouse, which he bred specially for the shooting season. In fact, the rather dopey birds had had very little idea what had hit them as the two cats stalked and ate their way through almost the whole population. And now that the grouse were rather thin on the ground, it was the Hunters’ natural instinct to hunt farther afield.
Once he was over the top of the wall, Bartleby continued a little farther, the bough bending under his and Colly’s combined weight. He flicked his broad head, indicating to Colly that she should jump first. She’d have smiled if she’d been able. Bartleby was such a considerate mate — he didn’t want her to harm herself by leaping from too great a height, particularly not in her condition.
She landed safely, but her departure caused the branch to spring up. Caught on the hop, Bartleby was forced to jump before he was ready. His tail spinning wildly to try to control the fall, he touched down with an ungainly thump. Right away, Colly scampered over to him to rub her cheek affectionately on his.
Bartleby let out a small whine and, like any male, milked the moment for all the sympathy he could get from his partner. He made a big show of licking the pad on his forepaw where it had been hurt by a sharp stone. After a few seconds of this, Colly had had enough and cuffed him gently on the head.
That did it — Bartleby concentrated on the business in hand. First thing first, he chose a suitable spot to cock his leg and spray with copious amounts of urine. After the new territory was well and truly marked, he began to advance with his nose to the ground as he relied on his highly developed sense of smell to locate their next meal.
But it wasn’t easy — they were on the fringes of a dense pine forest that extended up the hill before them, and the aromatic tang given off by the decaying needles on its floor made it tricky for him to pick up a trail. But this didn’t deter him in the slightest. Although the Hunters had trapped only a single roe deer that had made the fatal error of taking a shortcut across Parry’s estate, they’d caught glimpses of a herd of them grazing in this forest. Saliva hung in necklaces from the Hunters’ maws at the prospect of more of the delicious venison. But, for Bartleby, the ultimate prize would be the stag he’d heard at nightfall as it made its distinctive roaring sound to keep its harem of females together.
Bartleby ascended the hill, crossing back and forth over the ground as he attempted to pick up a scent trail. Colly followed, but made sure she maintained a gap of twenty feet between herself and Bartleby. Every so often, they’d stop to seek each other out through the trunks of the pines.
Parry and Drake would have been proud of their tactical skills; the way the cats worked was to perform a pincer movement on their unsuspecting prey, surrounding it back and front. The one Hunter would charge in, and the prey would panic and bolt straight into the open jaws of the other Hunter.
Somewhere a bird squawked, and the sound of its wings beating against high branches made both Hunters peer above themselves. But then, as a breeze filtered through the trees, Bartleby fixed his eyes on the slope ahead. He slunk down, his nose twitching as he surveyed the area. A flick of his ears told Colly all she needed to know.
He was onto something.
Bartleby’s shoulder blades rose and fell as he began to advance, carefully positioning each paw as he went.
Colly soon lost sight of him in the trees. Still she waited — hunting was all about patience and timing. Then, when she’d decided he must be in position, she began to edge forward, making no sound above the rustle of the branches in the wind.
She froze as she heard a small thud. A cone had dropped to the ground. It was nothing to worry about, so she began to move again.
Unfortunately the trees farther up the slope weren’t quite so numerous and didn’t provide much cover for her. So she took her time. She didn’t want to spook the prey too early — if it didn’t bolt back to where Bartleby was waiting, but to the left or right, the game was up. Their quarry would slip the net. But then she saw a felled tree on the ground ahead. She adjusted her path accordingly so the prey on the other side wouldn’t spot her.
Her chest was brushing the forest floor, she was so low to the ground.
What was odd was that she couldn’t get a clear picture of the prey from its scent. Both she and Bartleby were familiar with the smell of deer urine and droppings, and although there was the faintest whiff of these, they weren’t as strong as she would have expected.
But maybe it was a lone deer, and not the full herd. She didn’t mind; a single animal would provide them with ample meat for the night.
When she judged she must have gone far enough, she dug her feet into the ground in readiness. Then, hissing and growling and making as much noise as she could, she tore ahead at full speed.
Limiters aren’t like Topsoil soldiers.
Whatever environment they operate in, they live completely within it — using, eating, becoming what’s around them. The pair of Limiters smelled like the pine forest because they’d been hiding out in it for weeks. To sustain themselves, they’d eaten not just rabbit and any birds they could catch, but also fungi and the other abundant flora. In comparison to the Deeps, it was a veritable fast-food outlet. And, once or twice, they’d dined on the raw meat from a roe deer, the faint traces of which Bartleby had detected.
Colly had left the ground with enough momentum to clear the felled tree when she saw something that didn’t fit.
The glint of glass in a telescope. It was mounted on a tripod.
And from behind the telescope appeared the Limiter’s skull-like face.
A millisecond later she saw the flash of his scythe.
With a warning meow, she arched her back and flailed her legs in a desperate bid to alter her trajectory.
The felled trunk was in front of her. If only she could bring herself low enough to land on it — rather than go over it — she could use it
to spring away.
The Limiter had the scythe raised, ready.
As he began to whip his arm to throw it at her, she heard Bartleby’s rasping growl. In order to save his mate, he’d attacked. In a blur of gray skin and bunched muscles, he cannoned straight into the Limiter’s back, his claws piercing deep into the man’s neck.
But the scythe was already airborne.
With a single rotation, the gleaming blade nicked Colly’s flank. Glancing off her, it continued for a few feet until it imbedded itself in a tree.
It was only a superficial wound, but she still howled with shock.
Hearing this, Bartleby became a whirling tornado of limbs. He wrapped himself around the Limiter’s head, raking at the soldier’s face with his hind legs. The Limiter was wearing some form of woolly hat, and Bartleby was about to bite down on it when the second Limiter thrust his scythe into the Hunter’s neck, at the base of his skull. It was a skillful and well-aimed strike, the blade severing the spinal cord.
Bartleby let out a high-pitched wail that ended almost as soon as it began.
Ended with a death rattle.
The big cat was dead before he flopped to the ground.
Colly knew what that rattle meant.
She ran and ran, finding the tree they’d used to climb over the wall.
She ran all the way back to the house.
Parry was sitting at the kitchen table, peering through his reading glasses at a cookbook with a tattered and stained cover. “Baste the joint every . . . ,” he was reading but stopped when Colly shot in through the doorway, crashing against his legs as she hid under the table. “Bloody hell! Filthy moggies are after our food again!” he shouted, leaping up.
Mrs. Burrows inclined her head, inhaling sharply through her nose. “No, that’s not it,” she said quickly. She immediately swung around from the work surface, flour sprinkling from her hands. “Not it at all,” she added, as she crouched down beside the Hunter. “She’s very frightened.”
Wiping her hands on her apron, she gently touched Colly, whose skin was running with sweat. “What’s wrong, girl?” She caught the smell of blood on the Hunter. “Fetch me a clean tea towel from the cupboard, will you?” she asked Parry, who raised his eyebrows, then went off to do as he’d been requested.
“What happened?” Mrs. Burrows asked the cat, who’d lowered her head between her paws. She was still panting from the exertion of the dash home.
“Here you are,” Parry said, passing the towel down to Mrs. Burrows, who began to wipe the sweat and blood from the cat.
“Something’s definitely wrong,” Mrs. Burrows said again, as Colly rolled onto her side with a whimper.
Parry frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“I just know it. She’s very frightened, and she’s been hurt.”
“Badly?” Parry asked, getting down on his knees. “Let me see.”
“It’s not serious — just some grazes and a small cut on her side,” Mrs. Burrows told him. “But something’s not right with her. I can feel it.”
“Such as?” Parry said, as he watched her continue to wipe the animal down.
“Well, where’s Bartleby? They’ve been inseparable since the day they met. When do you ever not see the two of them together?”
Parry shrugged. “These bloody animals come and go as they please. Maybe the other one’s got himself trapped somewhere or had an accident?” He grunted as he got to his feet. “I’ll ask the boys to have a scout around for him.” He was halfway out of the room when he paused. “Maybe Wilkie’s seen him.”
As Mrs. Burrows laid a palm on Colly’s slightly extended belly, then took it away, a flour print of her hand was left on the cat’s smooth skin.
A knowing look came into her sightless eyes, then she frowned. “I do hope nothing’s happened to him,” Mrs. Burrows said. “Not now.”
THE BUTTOCK & FILE, one of the most popular watering holes in the Colony, stood at the intersection of two main roads. As the Second Officer passed by, it was completely deserted. It had once been a lively tavern — a meeting place for the Colonists after a day’s labors — but now the doors were bolted and the place silent.
Several streets later, he turned the corner and immediately stopped. The area was one of the poorer ones and not well lit, and although the front doors of all the terraced houses were wide open, they were completely dark inside. But this wasn’t what had brought the Second Officer to a halt. Along the side of the street was a fifty-strong squad of uniformed New Germanians. As though they were shop mannequins, they waited in a single line, their wide, staring eyes to the front.
There didn’t seem to be a Styx in attendance, but in the distance the Second Officer could see the Garrison building within the Styx compound. From the windows of the squat building came tiny sparks of purple-tinged light, like faraway stars glinting in an unknown constellation. The Second Officer shook his head — he’d never seen Dark Lights used on this scale before.
A little while later he passed through the short access tunnel that led into the North Cavern. The cluster of huts was visible in the distance, ringed by a number of luminescent orbs on stands set up around the perimeter of the shantytown. The North Cavern was an agricultural area where much of the Colony’s produce was grown and, up until recently, the least densely populated of all its caverns. As he came nearer, he saw that even more of these basic dwellings had been built, taking the total number to at least several hundred. But despite the size of the new town, there were very few Colonists out in the open.
The Second Officer had that sixth sense that those in police enforcement develop. If there had been any trouble, it was all over now. A crushed, thick silence hung over the place. As he continued down the track, in a clearing between the hotchpotch accretion of huts, he spotted the Third Officer slumped on the ground. He was holding his head.
“You all right?” the Second Officer said as he immediately strode over to him.
“Took a couple of punches,” the Third Officer replied shakily. “Nothing serious.”
As the man raised his head, the Second Officer noticed the blood on his face. “Who did this to you?” he asked.
The Third Officer pointed at the area beside one of the huts. “They did,” he said.
Spotting the corpses, the Second Officer unclipped the police lantern from his belt and went to investigate.
There were three of them, sprawled among rotting penny bun mushrooms that had been trampled into a gray mush. Not far from the bodies, a collapsible table lay on its side, cards scattered in the mud. “Cresswell,” the Second Officer said under his breath as he rolled the nearest corpse onto its back. “The blacksmith. He’s been shot in the neck.”
The Third Officer mumbled something. Despite the fact that he was injured, the Second Officer ignored him. He had no time for the man — the Third Officer was a dullard, not at all suited to the job of policeman. An uncle on the Board of Governors had propelled him up the ranks, and for that he was universally disliked by his fellow officers.
The Second Officer was the first to admit that he wasn’t the brightest orb in the Colony, but he had what his sister called “Earth Smarts” — he was streetwise and shrewd enough to get by. And he’d been promoted to his current rank based on his determination and years of sheer hard graft.
The Third Officer was mumbling again.
“Shush a minute,” the Second Officer silenced him, moving on to the next corpse. “Grayson . . . a stonemason,” he said. As he rolled the body over to inspect the gunshot wound in it, the ace of hearts slid from where it had been concealed in the man’s sleeve.
Clutching his forehead, the Third Officer had staggered to his feet and was pointing at the last of the bodies. “And Cresswell’s cousin, Walsh,” he said.
“Yes, so I see. Another precise shot to the neck,�
�� the Second Officer observed. It was indeed Heraldo Walsh, a heavily muscled, squat man with a distinctive red scarf tied around his neck. The Second Officer scratched his chin as he pieced the scene together. “So Cresswell and Grayson were playing cards . . . gambling with these packs of tobacco as the stakes,” he said, inclining his head at the foil packets lying among the scattered cards. “They argued, probably because Grayson was trying to bamboozle him, then Walsh came to his cousin’s aid.”
“When I stepped in to break up the fight, all three started on me instead,” the Third Officer said. “And a mob had formed — I thought they were going to lynch me.”
The Second Officer blew through his lips. “These days people have no respect for the law,” he said, knowing there was a single and rather crucial piece of the puzzle still missing. He thought he knew the answer, but he had to ask the question. “And who fired the sh —?” He clammed up immediately as he became aware of the Limiter. The soldier had materialized behind him like a ghost, his rifle at his shoulder. This was no great surprise in itself; it was general knowledge that Limiters had been drafted to stop pilfering from the penny bun fields deeper in the cavern.
And the Limiter’s presence explained how the men had been killed with such extreme precision, but the Second Officer was still more than a little bemused by one of the deaths. It was generally known that Heraldo Walsh had been in the pay of the Styx, snooping on Colonists for them and occasionally stirring things up when it suited them. Not exactly a model citizen, Walsh had led a charmed life until this moment, getting away with far more than most Colonists because of the latitude the Styx granted him.
“Took your time getting here,” the Limiter snarled in a low voice. The Second Officer was about to explain that he’d traveled all the way down from the Quarter, when the Limiter kicked Heraldo Walsh’s head.
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