by Nick M Lloyd
‘You go, Charlie,’ said Sam, shaking her head. Then her face softened. ‘Good luck. I hope you find peace.’
‘MacKenzie will get a warning. He’ll send Leafers. You’ll need to get onto the conveyor and crawl five metres. From there, an exhaust vent above you will take you out of the system.’
Without looking to Sam for agreement, Tim lifted Charlie onto the conveyor belt.
There was a look of beatification on Charlie’s face as he lay flat on the conveyor. ‘Thank you.’
Tim turned the dial and pulled the lever.
An engine whirred briefly and Charlie disappeared into the bowels of the machine. The engines within the conveyor system continued to whine for thirty seconds, then the lever reset itself to the neutral position.
Tim turned the dial all the way back. ‘Shall we crawl down the conveyor and up an exhaust vent, then?’
‘Before or after the swinging blades take off our heads?’ said Sam, now holding Charlie’s gun. ‘You don’t think it’s a trap?’
‘If the belts aren’t running, the blades don’t swing. It’s all mechanical,’ said Tim, deliberately checking the operating lever and the dial again.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But the blades are probably triggered on pressure mechanism, or a switch.’
‘I’m sure the first set of vents are well before the blades,’ said Tim, looking down the conveyor tube. He couldn’t see anything; the conveyor belt disappeared into darkness only a few metres in. The decision was an easy one. There was almost no scenario in which being caught would not result in their deaths … and most scenarios also included their brains being launched into space.
Sam looked at Tim for a few seconds. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘My arms are strong, but I may need some help. Pull is better than pushing for me.’
‘Me first, then.’
‘If I hear you gurgling,’ said Sam. ‘I’ll know you’ve lost your head.’
After helping Sam onto the conveyor belt, Tim clambered over the top of her and into the depths of the machinery.
For five metres the conveyor angled gently downwards.
Critically for Tim’s peace of mind, the belt wasn’t moving of its own accord.
‘You okay?’ he whispered over his shoulder.
‘Not really. But I’m still moving.’
Tim looked back towards her. She was dragging herself along, her face set in a rictus of pain. There was no point taking any painkillers; she needed all the feeling she could get to allow her legs to help the tiny amount they could manage.
‘You’re doing great,’ whispered Tim.
‘Yeah,’ said Sam. ‘I’m a real fucking trooper. Can you see anything?’
He couldn’t see much. What little light had filtered in from the main room had now almost petered out.
He crawled forward.
A minute later, his left hand brushed the vent.
Tim listened at it for a few minutes. Nothing.
The vent covering didn’t seem to be screwed into place. There were simple clips that Tim soon opened.
With the cover unattached, Tim pushed it into the vent and climbed after it.
‘Are you okay?’ Tim whispered over his shoulder.
‘Shhh!’
The narrow space was just wide enough for Tim to wriggle into.
Sam followed.
Tim moved slowly.
Silently.
The vent was pitch black, heightening all their other sensations. Tim could feel the smooth metal of the vent under his hand. He could hear every creak as they crawled. And almost every breath included the stench of dead flesh or disinfectant.
They crawled on.
A minute later, they heard the machinery behind them starting up, and the conveyors starting to run. Tim and Sam stopped and listened, but there was no sound of pursuit.
Hopefully, they think we went through the process.
They continued, the vent now bending around to the right.
‘You okay?’ Tim whispered over his shoulder. The vent was narrow. He couldn’t turn around, or even look around.
A hand grabbed his ankle and gave a gentle squeeze. ‘I’ll survive … stop asking!’
Up ahead, a small amount of light now filtered from a grill on the right-hand side.
Tim continued to crawl and peered through it. Whatever the underground configuration of the Hot Zone was, they were now at ground level of this new room he was looking into.
The room was empty. More than empty: it looked as if it had never been used. The floor was bare concrete, and there were small lights in the ceiling.
They could get out here, but they’d still be trapped deep inside the Hot Zone.
Tim kept going.
Ten minutes of crawling brought them to a point where the vent widened and split into two directions, left and right.
With a bit of grunting and shuffling, Sam brought herself alongside Tim.
Their heads were inches apart. ‘There’s a little light coming from that way,’ whispered Sam, indicating to the right. ‘And some noise. Should we look?’
Charlie hadn’t mentioned the fork in the vents. Instinctively, it felt like the left-hand branch would lead out under the fields, whereas the right-hand would stay inside the Hot Zone. But there was a little light from the right. It may give them some information.
‘I’ll slip down the right-hand tunnel for ten metres. You wait here,’ said Tim.
‘Just a quick look,’ said Sam. ‘Then wriggle back to me.’
He crawled back down the tunnel.
Now it felt as if the vent was angling downwards.
After a few more minutes of silent slow crawling, he reached the source of the light. Another grill led into a new room, this time at ceiling height.
Tim looked through. There were ten chutes emerging from the far wall. Coming out of each chute was a steady stream of blood emptying into its own shallow steel vat.
The fetid smell made Tim gag. He suppressed it. He had to, because amongst the vats were at least thirty people, ten Leafers and the rest workers – dressed head-to-toe in blood-covered overalls.
The workers were doing exactly what he’d been dreading. A couple of metres away, Tim watched as one of them reached into the steel vat and picked up a severed head that was resting on the central drainage grill. The mouth was wide open, fixed in an eternal scream. One eye was missing, and a trail of ligaments and arteries dangled from what remained of its neck.
Thankfully, Tim did not recognise the face.
Feeling bile rise in his throat, he desperately wanted to crawl back down the tunnel, but he knew he had a job to do.
The worker used a hose to spray the face and head with water, and then rolled it over so that the neck cavity was pointing upwards. Next the worker took a thin hose that was attached to his belt and fiddled inside the victim’s neck, obviously hunting for something.
Carotid artery …
The worker slid the tube into the artery and pressed a button on its nozzle. From such a close distance Tim could hear a pump start up next to the vat; this was clearly the chemical flushing stage. A white vapour started emanating around the head.
After a few minutes the worker, apparently satisfied, now placed the head into another plastic drum which was standing nearby.
Where the headless bodies were, he didn’t know. Tim assumed they were siphoned off the conveyor belt at some point.
The process clearly wasn’t perfect as a few severed torsos lay on the floor of the room.
His nausea rising, Tim took out his phone and, checking the camera function was set to silent with no flash, he took photos and video footage through the grill.
He wriggled backwards to Sam and gave her the news.
‘I didn’t expect anything different,’ she said. ‘We have to stop this.’
They took the other fork. The smell got worse, and they were forced to crawl over a series of holes where up-vents joined into the one they were following.
After mo
re crawling, they reached a shaft which led vertically upwards.
A ladder led three metres up to a heavy metal grill, through which Tim could see the starry sky.
He climbed.
Unfortunately, the grill was not only an industrial-strength grid of vertical and horizontal steel bars, it was also securely locked.
They were trapped.
CHAPTER 30
SpaceOp
For a few moments, Tim hung onto the ladder in silence, absorbing the situation. He checked his phone. The photos were clear and damning, but there was no signal, neither mobile nor Wi-Fi. He couldn’t tell anyone, but people needed to know.
Tim whispered over his shoulder. ‘The exit is welded shut.’
‘Back?’ asked Sam, who’d climbed, without much strength in her legs, halfway up the ladder on arm strength and willpower.
Through the steel grill, Tim could see the tops of some of the small surrounding hills and the stars twinkling in the night sky. ‘I don’t know.’
Sam reached up and gave his calf a gentle squeeze. ‘Let’s get our breath back, and then head back.’
The words gave Tim equal measures of strength and shame. He knew she would have been in agony for the last thirty minutes; her spinal injury did not allow easy movement. He even wondered whether she regretted not joining Charlie in his pain-free nirvana.
No. If she’d gone with Charlie, she’d be dead.
Tim knew that Transhumanism did push ideas of cryosuspension, but the thought that one’s self, one’s ego, survived decapitation was … a long shot.
Tim shook his head clear. If he didn’t find a way out they’d soon be dead anyway. The Leafers would find them stuck in the pipe and shoot them. Tim squeezed his hands open and shut three times, whilst breathing slowly and deeply. ‘I love you, Sam,’ he whispered.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘Nice time to bring it up.’ Again, she squeezed his ankle, and he felt her shuffle up towards him. She kissed him gently on the ankle. ‘Now get on with saving my life.’
Tim pulled himself closer to the steel cross-bars and looked. Was there any way of getting through or past them?
No.
‘Perhaps I can be of assistance.’
The sudden voice caused Tim to freeze.
Were they talking to him? Had he stumbled upon a midnight meeting?
A pair of shabby dark trainers came into view. ‘Mr Boston?’
The voice was muffled but vaguely recognisable.
A pistol came into view … and then a face.
Major Chen!
‘Move back down the vent as far as you can, Mr Boston.’
Tim called over his shoulder. ‘Shuffle back. Shuffle back.’ He started climbing downwards.
‘Careful, you just kicked me in the face,’ said Sam.
‘Sorry.’ He slowed his retreat.
They climbed back down, and around the first corner, back towards the stench.
From above came a forced whisper. ‘Shut your eyes.’
They did. There was a loud hissing sound and the acrid smell of burning.
‘You’ll have to wait for it to cool,’ Major Chen said down the vent.
A few minutes later, Chen climbed in and dragged first Tim, and then Sam, back up into the open air.
‘You need to see these,’ said Tim, holding his phone outstretched, displaying the photos.
Having given the phone to Chen, he crawled over to Sam and helped her into a sitting position. He saw pain etched all over her face.
‘You okay?’
‘Yes,’ said Sam. ‘But I’ll take an aspirin if you have one.’
Chen squatted down and swiped through the pictures, then let out a low hiss.
From the darkness, Tim heard a shuffle and a member of Chen’s team appeared, carrying a large radio backpack. Chen spoke to the man in what Tim assumed was Mandarin. The man spoke into his mouthpiece.
‘What will happen now?’ Tim asked.
‘Now, the British army will come,’ said Chen.
‘The Leafers may attack us before they get here,’ Tim said.
As he spoke, the whole Hot Zone lit up. Floodlights blazed to life along all four warehouses.
Deep in the fields, Tim and the team remained hidden in shadow, but Tim didn’t know for how long. If the Ankor actively supported a search, then they would be found immediately. Tim looked upwards. They were there, and they knew what he’d done.
‘The army is coming based on you telling them about my photos?’ asked Tim.
‘We had doubts. Now we have proof. We’re uploading the photos.’ Chen turned to the radio operator and spoke again.
Tim looked over towards Mission Control. Unlike the Hot Zone, nothing material appeared to have changed; only the standard external lights shone.
What was Francis MacKenzie doing now? How would he respond?
Sam spoke up. ‘From what Charlie said, the … processing for RL3 is complete.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Chen.
‘As much as I am about anything,’ said Sam.
Chen gave a small nod to indicate her understanding and spoke rapidly to the radio operator.
‘Are we staying here?’ Tim whispered to Chen.
‘No. An attack is imminent.’
With the Ankor sitting in orbit above them, Tim felt exposed – and judging from Chen’s vigilant behaviour, she was similarly unconvinced that the shadow from the small hillock would be any use to them.
One of Chen’s team scurried over and reported. Chen looked around. ‘We have to move now!’
Tim turned to Sam. ‘Need help?’
‘Depends,’ she said. ‘I can crawl another two metres … is it further than that?’
‘I’ll carry you,’ said Tim, not really expecting to be able to. He was utterly exhausted.
Sam smiled and batted away his outstretched hand. ‘I’d have more chance lifting you.’
Seconds later, a Chinese commando had helped Tim to his feet, whilst Major Chen, all five foot nothing of her, had gently picked Sam up without apparently noticing the effort.
Tim stumbled after Chen, moving away from the Hot Zone, towards the Administration Zone. A few minutes after they started walking, machine-gun fire erupted behind them for a few seconds and then silenced.
Before the firing had stopped, Chen had put Sam down, pushed Tim down also, and scurried towards the gunfire with three of her team.
Not long after they left, more firing started.
Tim looked at Sam.
As one, they looked at the lone radio operator, who’d stayed behind. The radio operator, a middle-aged, balding man, had his service revolver out and a grim set to his face.
CHAPTER 31
Porton Down Army Base
Martel stood in silence, absorbing the information from the Chinese radio transmission. To his left, Captain Whaller was already tapping out messages to trigger the team of helicopters that had been on constant standby. The transmissions were distributed using a laser semaphore line-of-sight relay – highly skilled specialist soldiers from the Royal Signal Corps were distributed in tree tops, hill tops, and church steeples all across England.
Martel picked up his hot line to the prime minister, knowing the conversation would be intercepted by the Ankor.
‘Prime Minister,’ said Martel. ‘Orders?’
‘Contingency Two, courier with paper confirmation has been dispatched.’
Contingency Two was one of four different planned scenarios. The basic premise was that it authorised Martel to take control of SpaceOp with live weapons and, critically, to stop the current launch – securing the launch facility if possible, destroying it if not.
‘Understood.’
Click.
Grabbing his combat pack, Martel hurried out to the helicopters.
This was what the previous weeks of preparation – and the years of hypothetical planning – had been leading up to. As he’d briefed the prime minister a number of times, the British army had nuclear,
chemical, and biological options but, even if they secured the facility, they still didn’t have a method of delivering the attack into the Ankor craft twenty thousand kilometres above Earth.
Even if we can’t win, hopefully we can force a negotiation.
The Ankor had options too, in the shape of ten thousand potential nuclear bombs they’d smuggled into some of Earth’s most densely populated areas. Exactly how many of the A-Gravs were bombs was not yet clear, but even if it was just a few percent, they would still spell doom.
There were three helicopters from Porton Down, all carrying specialist teams and equipment. A further seven carrying SAS personnel were also heading in from other bases.
Each member of his team had multiple skills, and it was Lieutenant Richardson piloting the helicopter Martel clambered into.
As the blades started to whir, Captain Whaller sat down next to Martel. ‘All loaded, sir.’
Private Hunter, Martel’s personal guard, sat opposite, studiously checking and rechecking the workings of his assault rifle.
Martel took out a handwritten note he’d received from James Piper earlier that day.
Apologies. Washington has stood me down. WF
The note had been written about ten hours previously, when there was no explicit proof of the Ankor’s wrongdoing. However, ‘WF’, was shorthand for ‘war footing’, which meant that core elements of the American leadership had already decided the Ankor were hostile. The pressure of the Ankor’s arrival, and their subsequent behaviour, had caused significant fear spikes within America – more than in most countries.
What does war footing mean for the Americans?
Quite how the Americans would fight a war with the Ankor, who appeared conventionally untouchable, remained to be seen. However, Martel knew each member of the American armed forces would be stripping the electronics out of every piece of equipment that could be kept operational without them.
That was what the British forces had been doing.
Martel’s helicopter had the barest amount of electronics, and only one-way communication equipment. Every few seconds the co-pilot, Corporal Edwards, was tracking their position using dead reckoning with a compass and a paper map, whilst Captain Whaller listened to the long-wave radio on a basic receive-only radio.
