However, there was this little problem of how to achieve this transportation without being extinguished in the process. The channelway's opening into the eye was not a manned point. But just about everywhere else was: a maze of corridors, escalators and elevators, thickly populated with Kanker's troops. There was only one possible solution that stood any chance at all, a solution that would put Madeleine's life at so much risk that it bordered on the suicidal. But it was what they had planned, and what they had agreed before the mission commenced. And they had no alternative. It would be futile to try anything else.
It was a diversionary scheme. And Madeleine would provide the diversion. Not because she'd drawn a short straw. Nor even because she was a woman. But because she was a Dust cop, and only a Dust cop stood any chance of doing the necessary biz. Because it involved her swapping the comfort of the eye's clean, clear, breathable air for the appalling dust-laden variety that swirled about outside its skin. She was going to leave her colleagues in the Godhead's eye and scale its rear outer surface. And all the time she would be enveloped in that terrifying, thick black soup. Nothing less than total immersion in Satan's satanic-type breath.
It was a simple idea: create a whole string of diversions up the rear side of the eyeball by punching holes in its skin - on as many different levels as possible. The skin wasn't especially thick, as it only divided the clear from the filthy; there was no pressure difference between the air-conditioned atmosphere of the eye and the dust-poisoned atmosphere of the rest of the Godhead. And the holes could be punched with a little of the explosive plasticine that had already proved so useful and of which they had plenty. But it had to be done from the outside. No way were the occupants of the eye going to let Madeleine make her way unimpeded from one level to another inside the construction.
'Oh, hello. Just passing through. Hope you don't mind, but I just want to fix this explosive to the wall here. Yes, that'll do it. Thanks very much. Oh, and by the way, don't go too close. It goes off in sixty seconds. So you will be careful, won't you? Well, thanks again. And 'bye for now. I'm just off upstairs.'
No, it was definitely not an inside job. This sort of sabotage could only be conducted as an external assignment.
If successful, its results would be dramatic. Although there was no pressure gradient across the wall of the eye, dust from the outside would “flow” in immediately. It was inevitable. As the eye's air-con system circulated the air within the eye, it would pull in more of the contaminant from the outside - and at an alarming rate. Within minutes, areas at the rear of the eye would be blackened with dust. And this would spread further into the eye for as long as the holes in its skin were left open. So they would have to be repaired as quickly as possible. And that would take people.
Hundreds of Kanker's troops would have to be thrown into the job of plugging the holes, a difficult task under ideal conditions, but a pig of a task in a “dustout”. It would take them forever. And it would also take them from the front half of the eye. The eye's population would, in theory at least, shift from its front to its back. Parts of the front would become virtually abandoned, as its non-essential occupants were directed into the burgeoning task of damage repair. Others would be thinned out considerably - enough it was hoped to allow Meitchars, Grader and Boz to steal their way - and if necessary to fight their way - to the bridgeroom and then to the mote.
Meanwhile, Madeleine's backpack - the one she'd have been using to make her powered ascent of the eye - would be giving out. This is when she would use her last hole in the eye's skin as her port of re-entry. She would come back into the eye, probably into one of its middle levels, and then she would… well, she would be on her own and four miles from the bridgeroom.
Then the plan was simple again. She would improvise. That's all she had to do. So no problem there.
Boz checked her explosives pouch, her backpack and her dust cap, the special helmet that would allow her to breathe in the air/dust emulsion. It also gave her a little visibility. It had a laser-torch mounted in its top. But it wouldn't be much visibility. No more than about twelve to eighteen inches at the most.
Everything was in order. There was nothing more to delay her. Only the goodbyes.
She looked at Boz. He was obviously beside himself with anguish. She could only imagine what was going on in his mind. First Renton and now her. There were going to be no words to cope. What could she say? What could Boz say to her?
In the end she settled for the biggest hug he'd ever given her and a short mutual weep. Then she turned to the two knights and nodded. They didn't just nod back, but they bowed. They bowed slowly. Madeleine knew what that meant, and she immediately felt embarrassed. After all, she wasn't that brave. At least she didn't think so…
Then she was in a storeroom and on her own. Her colleagues had gone. Time to detonate the first charge. Time to make a hole in that wall that separated her from the dust.
It was done. The room was immediately black - and cold. The soup was not a warm one; it was space-icy cold - another problem for the eye's inhabitants. They would have to get into their space gear before they could get anywhere near the damage zones. But there was only one of these zones at the moment. And there needed to be a lot more.
So Madeleine turned on her power-pack and edged towards the gash in the wall. She could just about see its outline. And by careful manoeuvring around its jagged edges, she eased herself out of the eye and then up - but very slowly. She had to learn about the outside surface of the eye, how it felt, how smooth it was. And also about the dust, how it moved, how it swirled - how it might suck her away from the wall.
She was too busy to be scared but busy enough to learn what she needed - very quickly. Indeed so quickly, that within five minutes she was fifty yards above the first hole and setting a second charge. Not bad, and now she wasn't scared at all - even if she'd stopped to think about it.
She moved up, all the time maintaining contact with the wall and using her power-pack gently, not just against the Godhead's gravity but also against the slight wave-like surges within the envelope of dust. She could see virtually nothing, and she could hear nothing. But she was managing. She was managing well. She was a Dust cop in her element. Another fifty yards and the third charge was set and she was away for the fourth. And then that was set, again after about fifty yards. And then the second charge detonated. She was leaving them on nine-minute fuses - to give herself time to get far enough away. And it was working; she hardly felt a thing - just a slightly larger surge.
She was relieved. Despite her appalling situation, she had developed a sustainable pattern, which she could repeat over and over again. And she stood a damn good chance of achieving her primary objective. And that made her feel very good. Hell, even if Kanker and his cronies determined the pattern, what could they do about it? Not a great deal. And maybe sod all.
Within her dust cap she started to smile. She felt that good about her progress. But then she stopped smiling. She'd just remembered Renton - and the airlock.
Time to get back to business. Time to occupy herself usefully once again. Time for number five - and then maybe another fifty-five.
And then maybe she could improvise!
59.
Kanker was about to experience some dramatic mood changes.
Shrubul was just over three hours away from its new future as a lifeless speck in the cosmos. And he was feeling happier than ever. It was all going to work. His dream was coming true. Nothing could stop it. Nothing.
Then the next message from the doomed planet arrived. It was full of aggression. It demanded a meeting. There were implied threats. Immediately his mood changed to anger. Anger then rising to rage.
'How dare they?' he screamed at the mote's window. 'How dare they fucking do that? How can they be that fucking stupid? It's unbelievable. Jesus, they should be grovelling. Not bloody threatening me. Me! Kanker! Their new master!
His fury sizzled on like this for a full five minutes, exclamations of
disbelief gradually giving way to assorted abuse, all directed at those most unfortunate people of that most unfortunate planet.
But then it was exactly three hours to go, and a little pink light lit up on the mote's central console. Kanker's fury evaporated in an instant. And there in its place was now pleasure. A sudden jolt of the stuff. Undiluted, laced-with-satisfaction pleasure. Because that pink light was a point of no return. The bellows system had now come on stream. Over the next three hours, it would “fill its lungs”. It would equip itself with all the puff it would need for that first massive breath. And at the end of the three hours it would expel it - automatically. The process was unstoppable. No matter what the people of Shrubul now did and no matter what he now did, that cloud of deadly dust would be leaving the Godhead's mouth in precisely one hundred and eighty minutes. And that was for sure. So why shouldn't he feel pleasure? Why shouldn't that shift into certainty not give him a burst of pure joy? Why not indeed? And infinitely preferable to fuming over some nonsense message from a load of stupid peasants. Yes, he'd ignore them from now on. And he'd definitely not respond to their latest affront. They could stuff themselves. But they could come to that decision on their own. He wouldn't stoop to suggest it. No, not any more. Because now he was occupied with other things. Enjoyment. Satisfaction. And above all, Pleasure - the warm soothing waters of Pleasure. They could lap round his mind as they wished…
Unfortunately, this didn't last very long. Within a very short time, somebody pulled the plug out, and the waters rushed away. And only a nasty rim of unwelcome Apoplexy remained. It was Madeleine, of course. She'd pulled the plug.
She'd now inflicted some serious hurt to the rear of the eye. And Kanker had been told. But all he knew was the nature of the damage and not how the damage had arisen. And he therefore ascribed it to some malfunction, some teething problem with his giant new toy. The thought of it being the result of some offensive action didn't even enter his mind. After all, any assault on his command module would be from the outside, not from the inside of his Godhead. And certainly not from within that revolting broth of dust.
So while he was more than a little angry when he broadcast the news to his crew - and what action they were required to take - he wasn't particularly concerned. And he conveyed to them no sense of external threat at all - other than to their own existence if they failed to perform…
'Listen here,' he intoned through the speaker system. 'There are ruptures in the eye-wall - at its rear. I repeat, there are ruptures in the eye-wall at its rear. Damage limitation programme three is initiated. Programme three. All programme three personnel stand by for instructions from your floor leaders. I repeat, stand by for instructions from your floor leaders.
'And no fuck-ups. If anybody screws up, they'll be answering to me. In person. And they won't much like it, I can tell you. Now get on with it!'
He switched off his microphone and sat back in his seat. Now that he'd dealt with that, he would try and scrub away that filthy rim of Apoplexy - and refill his bath with more Pleasure.
Although it wouldn't be easy.
Not with a plughole with no friggin' plug…
60.
Meitchars had expected the blast in the storeroom to set off an alarm. But there was nothing - due, of course, to that blinkered Kanker thinking. After all, why have an alarm system to warn you of something that would never happen?
This was good news. It meant that they would now have time to pick their way through the labyrinth of the lower eye and away from where Madeleine had lit the diversionary fuse. So when the conflagration was eventually discovered, they would be well on their way. Meitchars was understandably very relieved.
However, after a little while this relief began to turn to concern. There had still been no alarm, and Meitchars wasn't privy to Kanker's blinkered thinking. He was just as sure in his mind that an assault on the rear of the eye would be detected - and announced - by some alarm system. So he was beginning to fear that Madeleine had succumbed to the dust. Something should have happened by now; he was sure of it. But still there was nothing. And he could see that his colleagues shared the same concerns. Boz looked subdued and Grader looked positively distraught.
Fifteen minutes passed, and then twenty. And now they were leaving the unpopulated depths of the eye, and approaching a level where there were bound to be people: the power system control complex. And still no alarm, no sign of anything at all.
Then Kanker's announcement. Madeleine had done it! The fuse had burnt through after all. And the fire was now lit! And Kanker didn't even appear to realise it was arson. What a bonus! What an unexpected boost to their chances! There'd be no hue and cry. No hunt. And they'd still have surprise on their side. It was brilliant. Meitchars was ecstatic.
So were his colleagues. As was obvious when they spoke…
'Women!' pronounced Grader. 'What have I always said? If you want something doing properly, get a woman to do it. Wow!' he whooped. 'And what a woman. What a star! Remind me to kiss her when this thing is over. Even if it's only her feet.'
Boz grinned. 'Yeah, she's quite somethin', ain't she?'
'Yes, she sure is,' agreed Meitchars. 'But now it's up to us. And we can't let her down.
'So here's what we do. We wait here for five minutes - to give all those damage guys a chance to clear off. And then we go up. And if they haven't all gone… well, bad luck for them!'
And then the five minutes were up, and they made their move. By now, they'd discarded their spacesuits and wore just anonymous looking combat gear. It would be perfect. They had never planned to draw attention to themselves. And now, more than ever, they wanted to merge into the background. Much against their expectations they still had a covert campaign on their hands, and they wanted to keep it that way for as long as they could. They were commandos, not infantry; and they would proceed accordingly.
It looked hopeful. Meitchars' first sight of the new floor was of an empty corridor. And it stayed empty - as did the next one and the one after that. Only when they started to climb a staircase to the next floor, did they come face to face with their first thug. And he ignored them. There wasn't even a suspicious glance.
And so another pattern was set. As Madeleine was climbing methodically up the skin of the eye, so her three comrades were scaling the semi-deserted zones of its innards, meeting few people and no challenge. Indeed, only on three occasions were there any real “thrills” at all - and no more than mild thrills at that.
The first was when somebody greeted Meitchars. Not by his own name, but by the name of his look-alike, Simmercill. Meitchars had to assume that news had not yet reached the greeter that his old drinking buddy had long since bought his last round. So he simply acknowledged the greeting - with a silent nod. And it worked. The greeter looked happy and went on his way. And so did our trio - without much delay…
The second little dose of excitement involved Grader. He was propositioned. By a woman. On an escalator. She blew him a kiss. Then she pinched his bum. Then she started to get real fruity. She was being not so much suggestive as absolutely no-mistake-about-it instructive. But Grader stopped her in her tracks with a limp handshake, a lisp and an admission that he'd try anything once.
Quite what rôle she played in Kanker's army remained an unknown. But so too did Grader's identity - and his reason for being there on the escalator.
Then it was Boz's turn for contact with the enemy. This was a physical one. It was with a big insectal, who pushed Boz out of the way as he rushed past him on a staircase. Boz lurched forward and caught him by the ankle. Then he dragged him back down the stairs and punched him. So hard that he knocked him out.
As he stowed him in a fire locker, Boz explained to his two colleagues that he'd not meant to cause any trouble, and that he wouldn't do it again. But he so hated bad manners, and this little pillock needed to be taught a lesson. And well, it had just happened. But it wouldn't again.
It didn't. And nothing else did until they reache
d the bridgeroom floor. Then a few things did.
61.
Renton was feeling pooped. He'd jogged all the way up the incline to try and make up time. He was that desperate to catch up with the others. But they were not there. He was at the entrance to the eye and there was no one. And not a sound. He was still on his own.
There was only one thing to do. Carry on. Assume Madeleine was doing her stuff and start climbing up the floors of the eye. And with a bit of luck he might still find his friends. They couldn't be that far ahead.
So he started. He began the long ascent to the bridgeroom, looking carefully around every corner and listening intently for any noise, for the sound of approaching trouble. And soon he became conscious that there were no sounds, none at all. Madeleine's antics must be working perfectly. There wasn't a soul about anywhere. Not a soul.
62.
Kanker was considering a redundancy programme. Almost two thirds of his troops were now pissing around with damage limitation, and still everything was functioning. There wasn't a glitch, not the slightest wrinkle in the Godhead's super-smooth performance. Nothing.
So what the bloody hell were they all doing when they weren't limiting some bastard damage? Well, he'd find out - as soon as this Shrubul thing was over. Straightaway. No point in hanging about. And if they couldn't prove that they were needed, if they couldn't prove that they actually did something useful, then they'd be out. Hell, they were only a load of deadbeats anyway. Drifters, scumbags, some of them no more than friggin' meat-heads. Dummos, zombies - creeps who'd sell their own mothers if they had to.
No, he'd thin the sods out. No question. And then he'd talk to that Watney. Some genius he'd turned out to be. Couldn't even control some bloody dust. 'Pathetic. A complete load of tossers, the lot of them. Pity they're not down there on that Shrubul. Then they'd have something to cream their pants about, tossin' or no friggin' tossin'…'
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