by T. K. Malone
“Not too bad once you’re down here,” he muttered. “Do you think rats will have survived here?”
“Kenny,” Molly admonished.
“But a valid question,” Kenny persisted. “Doubt it, though. It’ll be good news if they have.”
“How?” asked Connor.
“Well, let’s assume that there were no rats last week—you know, when it was all abandoned. We can assume that because there’ll have been no food. So, if we’ve got rats now then there’s a way in, and if there’s a way in—”
“There’s a way out,” Sticks said from up front. “Trouble is, Kenny, you ain’t gonna fit in no mousehole.” Gino and Joe grunted a laugh.
Connor wondered why he’d let Byron stay with Croft, though the commander had been quite adamant. He’d sought to get up to speed on everything he’d missed and was especially interested in Kirk and the command structure, especially interested in his take on the world outside and the future it may hold. But Connor was beginning to rue his choice and craved Byron’s insight over Kenny’s. He eased himself past the others and into the front.
Directed by Sable, he continued along the gantry until he came to a flight of descending metal steps.
“Down to the bottom—there are three levels marked on the plans, but it looks like the steps go down farther,” Sable informed him.
The cables and pipes that had lined the walkway had twisted and turned in all directions, but the level below was filled with yet more, and what looked like vast batteries, rows of tanks, and huge stop taps linking metal pipes the size of a man’s torso. Down they went, down in silence other than the odd whir of a pump or the clank of a valve, and light after light flickered on as each sensed their presence, down and down into the bowels of Project Firebird.
“This is the last level on the plans.”
Connor hesitated. He was now standing on a broad, metal-mesh platform about twenty feet square. Another ladder led down into the uncharted gloom below.
“What the hell?” he said, looking around. This level appeared to have no use, just an empty platform. Sticks took his flashlight out and shone it around. “Looks like they stopped excavating here. I can’t be sure, but I bet they broke through into a cave system and so couldn’t go on.”
“Then could there be a way out down there,” Molly said, and Sticks swept his flashlight into the dark depths.
The beam penetrated about thirty feet to what looked like an earthen floor. “That’s odd,” he remarked. “Looks like mud,” and he climbed onto the ladder and began the descent.
Joe and Gino both switched their flashlights on and followed.
“I’ve got a real bad feeling about this,” said Kenny.
“Can’t be mud,” shouted Sticks from below.
“Then what is it?” Molly called back.
Connor looked more closely through the mesh, deciding that what he saw was too shiny for mud. It looked more like leather, like loads of big, leather pouches, all stacked in ranks along what looked like a subterranean passageway. Then he realized what they were.
He grabbed Molly’s arm, but before he could say anything, Sticks hollered up, “Back up, back up. Up, up, Gino, Joe. Everyone, get out of here.”
“Why,” cried Molly as Gino jumped off the ladder and ran for the next.
“Do as he says, ma’am,” and he grabbed her hand.
Kenny followed, but Connor remained rooted to the spot. “What is it?” he asked Sticks as the man leapt back onto the platform, but he already knew.
“Explosives, Connor; looks like this whole place is rigged to blow.”
Connor felt his heart stop, his eyes irresistibly drawn back and down into the gloom. He made to turn, but his feet wouldn’t move.
“We can’t just leave it. I need to see,” Sable whispered in his mind, and at that, Connor made his way toward the ladder.
7
Connor’s Story
Strike time: plus 8 days
Location: Project Firebird
The door exploded in. Startled, Connor scrambled around in his bed, the light in the room instantly coming on, blinding him momentarily. Two huge beasts of men burst in and grabbed him, his resistance feeble against their overpowering force. They dragged him from his bed, through the dark studio, and out into the corridor. He screamed in protest, but they marched him on, on to Kirk’s quarter.
Pulled into a small, gray room, they dumped him on the floor, retreating through the door and slamming it shut. He heard the click of its lock. The room was completely gray, floor to ceiling, and seamless, completely so, as if formed from a single sheet of liquid. A small table was bolted in place at the room’s center, which Connor grabbed, pulling himself to his feet. There were a couple of chairs tucked beneath it, one of which he slid out and upon which he sat.
“What the fuck?” he grumbled, too shocked to be anything other than confused. “What the actual fuck?” he said, louder this time. “I searched everywhere for you and Charm,” he shouted at the walls, but they gave no reply.
“Calm down, Connor,” Sable soothed. “We are in the security quarter, some sort of interview room. No vantage will be gained by shouting at the walls. All communications devices have been removed.”
“It just feels better, that’s all, but you wouldn’t understand.”
Connor could make neither head nor tail of the last twelve hours. It had started when he’d walked along the floor of the cave, about a hundred feet or so, until he’d realized the rows of explosives on either side just went on into the distance, seemingly unending. Sable had located no detonator, no means to blow the piles up remotely, and also no trace of who’d put them there in the first place. It had—they’d both acknowledged—been but a cursory inspection. Of what lurked beneath, they’d no clue. Connor had reported their findings to Croft who’d immediately urged him to confront Charm, but when he’d gone to his room, he was nowhere to be found. Nor was there any sign of Kirk, anywhere, and even his troops didn’t seem to know where he was. Frustrated, Connor had reported back to Croft, who’d then ordered his troops to scour the military area. Connor, Molly, Kenny, and Byron had all agreed to keep an eye out for Charm, but had soon exhausted every nook and cranny they could think of. One after the other, they’d made their excuses, and Connor had, like the rest of them, eventually retired to his room.
The door lock of the gray room he was now in clicked and the door opened slowly. The man who then stood in the doorway could easily have been one of those who’d brought him here, such was his bulk.
“Mr. Clay,” he said. “I am Garrett, deputy to Compound Commander Kirk. I want to know what you have done with my boss.” He came in, followed by another man dressed in the uniform of the compound’s security. He pulled out the chair on the other side of the table and sat down. “So, pray tell.”
“Something’s happened to Kirk?”
Garrett stared at Connor. Although Garrett was clearly trying to be imposing, it was evident to Connor that the man just couldn’t carry it off. He had one of those homely faces which was all cheeks and wrinkles. He tried to fix his stare on Connor, who returned it with little fear, after which Garrett finally conceded.
“So, you didn’t have a hand in it? In which case, sorry about earlier. I suppose we were just panicking.”
“We’ve no better idea about what’s happened than you, but we searched for them last night, and nothing. So, Kirk’s really gone missing, and Charm, too?”
“Neither has been seen since yesterday afternoon.”
“Why did you think I’d something to do with it?”
“Because Kirk left a note on his desk, which simply said ‘Everything points to the DJ. He’s the root’. So, well, I thought—”
“What about Josiah Charm?”
“He’s gone, as well. When I couldn’t find Kirk… Listen, I’ve had all my people looking, they’re nowhere, not even the empty third floor. What in hell do I do now?”
“So, you’re saying both Charm and Kirk
have gone missing around the day Banks is due to start blowing the gates.”
“Yes.”
“And that puts you in charge?”
“So it seems.”
“Well, Garrett, you have a real problem.”
“Did you say ‘Blowing the gates’?”
“We have another issue.” Croft reached out and shook Garrett’s hand. “It seems my guess was about right: Banks is packing a lot of explosives against the first gate—looks like he’s just about ready. Please, take a seat…”
“Garrett, acting chief of the, er…” But Garrett was clearly distracted by the enormity of the Hell’s Gates, his gaze ineluctably drawn to the vast monoliths.
“Indeed,” said Croft. “Take a seat, Garrett. Connor, has Sable got any observations?”
Croft had pulled a couple of tables together, now the group was getting larger. Sticks, Molly, Byron, and Kenny were seated around one, Connor and Garrett with Croft at the other.
“So, Charm has vanished,” Croft said. “It doesn’t surprise me, and it does tell us one thing—well, a couple actually. There’s a way out of here, and it’s undoubtedly not through the explosives.”
Connor had brought Garrett up to speed on their way to this hastily arranged meeting. “How do you know?” Connor asked.
“You were down there about the time Charm supposedly vanished, and Gino and Joe took first watch straight after that. I’ve had men covering twenty-four seven since. No one’s come or gone, not that way.”
“How far back into the rock does it go?” Byron asked.
Croft shrugged. “Yet to get to the end of it, but it’s been down there a while by the look of it. The dust is half an inch thick in places. It’s almost like it’s been stored there for another reason.”
Byron scoffed. Croft tossed him a glance. “What?” But Byron shrugged.
“I have theories as to the reason.”
Croft stared intensely at Byron for a moment, but then pointed at the Hell’s Gates. “That’s taken over for now, whatever you may think, Mr. Tuttle, and I can’t even use the outside ordinance to slow them down. I want to save that until they’ve advanced through the blown gate, catch them in some heavy cross fire. Oh, and Banks knows he’s being watched, by the way. Bastard even smiled for the camera; gave us a thumbs-up.”
“I fear my explanation’s going to be a trifle more doomsday for you, though, Commander Croft.”
For a moment, Croft looked confused. “If you’ve got something to say—”
Byron held his hand up. “Apologies, but I’m not so used to being around people,” He cleared his throat. “My forte is looking behind the obvious—a curse and a blessing. So, let’s have a look at this logically. The place is going to be stormed by Army A at some point in the next few days. Army A’s objective is to capture the residents of Project Firebird for purposes unknown, agreed?”
Croft nodded. “That’s what we discussed outside.”
“So, let’s have a look at how things have progressed.”
Sitting back, Croft pulled out a smoke. Lighting it, his eyes never wavered from their study of Byron.
“We have,” Byron went on to say, “been abandoned by the architects of the compound, again, and for reasons unknown.” Byron tapped his fingers on his lips. “While I can’t hypothesize what Josiah Charm is up to, I can suggest this: the purpose of the military area—indeed, its sole purpose—is to eradicate both armies.”
“Both?” said Croft.
“Yes. Or, if not the intent, a by-product. Ever since I discovered this area, I’ve wondered why it was separated from the residential one—what sense that made. I’ve come to the conclusion it’s the bait. Assuming the only thing of value in the whole compound is in the residential area, then you’d have to acknowledge that is clearly the prize.”
“Byron Tuttle is making a lot of sense.”
“I think Sable is agreeing with you, Byron,” Connor said.
“Hold on,” said Croft. “Prizes aside, are you saying we were drawn in here as bait?”
Byron shrugged. “It makes perfect sense. Most likely you’d have been slaughtered outside had we not turned up, but seeing we did—”
“We were able to open the only entrance to here apart from those,” Sticks muttered, and pointed at the Hell’s Gates.
“Indeed, Mr. Sticks, and in opening the entrance, in displaying this trove of Black City survivors, Banks was baited into his final attack. Commander Croft retreated into the compound and sealed the only other entrance we knew about.”
“Other than Charm’s,” Molly pointed out.
“So, I still don’t get how we’re bait,” Croft said.
“Ah!” Byron held up his bony finger. “Well, that’s in the psyche. To Banks, his prey is cornered but he’ll have to fight once he’s inside. Imagine if he knew there was no such opposition. He could then take his time, blow each door, dribble his troops in, and search the compound before committing any further resources.”
“But with Croft’s surviving army inside…” Connor muttered.
“He has to commit, has to fight his way in.”
“Into the trap,” Kenny said.
Byron winked at him. “Correct, Kenneth Holmes; into the trap.”
“But won’t the explosives blow us all up?” asked Garrett.
“Well, that’s where my theory needs a little testing,” admitted Byron. “Like I said: I’ve wondered all along why the residential and military areas were kept separate, and if I’m correct, only connected by the one service stairway. From the strata survey, there’s a vast layer of igneous rock folded into this mountain. What if it separates one area from the other? What if the explosives blow and this place just sinks into the caverns below? What if this area was always a cavern, and into which the residential area’s been built, above the igneous shelf?” He looked straight at Connor. “Is it feasible, Sable?”
It was the first time in Connor’s life someone had addressed Sable directly without going through him. It felt odd, weird, as though Byron had sidestepped him. He could sense Sable processing the question. He could see the strata map which Byron had once analyzed, and in his mind’s eye, he could envision the exact position of the residential area.
“Yes,” he said. “She says it’s entirely feasible. There is only one small point where the two overlap, and that’s right at the back of the cavern.”
Kenny shuffled uneasily. “I don’t get it. What possible gain… What could Charm gain by wiping out his own army?”
Byron turned to Kenny. “Who’s to say that Croft commands Charm’s army of choice? I’ve already hypothesized that more than one will already exist out there. Who’s to say he hasn’t nailed his colors to a different mast?”
“So, you think Charm’s a traitor?” Kenny pressed.
“A traitor to whom, though?” Byron asked. “If we don’t even know which side we’re on, never mind which side Charm’s on, how can we know if he’s a traitor or not?”
“But he’s left us here to die,” Kenny pleaded.
“Question should be: ‘What’s the prize?’” Sticks said. “Strikes me that a few hundred gridders ain’t worth dyin’ over, not when you could smoke ‘em out.”
“Smoke ‘em out, Sticks?” Croft asked.
“Sure. Whatever Byron says, ain’t no way Banks is in a hurry cos he’s got some kind of red mist. He’s on a timeline…and I think he’s to blame.” Sticks pointed at Connor.
“Blame?” Molly gasped, edging away from Sticks. “How can you blame Connor? He saved your life.”
Sticks huffed. “I’m well aware of what he’s done and hasn’t done. Don’t change nothin’. Remember what I said when we was runnin’? I said something like ‘He’s safe, they ain’t shooting to kill him’. Remember the sniper who missed him? Question is: if Connor’s so valuable, why did Charm let him out?”
“So, I’m to blame?” Connor said. “I’m to blame for them being a lousy shot?”
“Yep, mostly because
you’re the one they want.” Sticks tapped his temple. “I’ve seen that sniper nail one of our men through a crack in a fence—with you he missed on purpose. He herded you back here, back where Banks wanted you, and the drone, remember that? It shooed you along like a cattle dog. I think they wanted you back inside, contained, where they could keep you.”
“And I take it all that considered view was to go into that report I never got from you?” Croft asked.
Sticks shrugged. “Was busy not dying.”
Croft huffed. “Until we understand all this, we need some interim plans. For those of you here who don’t know, Connor’s AI healed Sticks. We know she’s something special, and if what Sticks has said is accurate, we know she’s valuable in some way to someone, or some entity—”
“It’s just we don’t know why,” Byron interrupted. “It’s the why we have to find out.” He then pointed at the gates. “I’m just not sure we have time.”
“So, what do we do? Do we fight?” Garrett asked, as though cutting through his lack of understanding to something more suited to his practical military mind.
Byron reached over and took one of Croft’s cigarettes. Lighting it, he took a puff and stood, then went over to the balcony’s metal balustrade. “Let’s look at the options. We fight and hope the military area isn’t blown—basically, we fight while standing on top of a bomb. Or we retreat to the resident’s area and seal the stairwell—only issue with that is if we can’t find a way out, we’ve effectively buried ourselves underground. Or we let Banks win and take our chances.”
“And end up caged like animals,” Molly muttered.
“Infinitely better than being buried in a mountain,” Kenny pointed out.
The explosion lit up the monitors before they heard the rumble. When it did come, the whole balcony trembled, the loading area shivered and silence fell heavy in its wake. Connor held his hands to his ears, a ringing resounding around his head, like it had in the sewer pipe. Kenny was on the floor, his arm twisted at a strange angle. Sticks was on top of Molly; it looked like he’d pulled her down. Croft was still standing, holding onto the balcony wall, looking toward the gates. Byron had toppled backward, now holding his head, blood seeping through his fingers. Garrett was still seated, as if immovable, but looking around, clearly dazed beyond measure.
