Analog SFF, July-August 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Really?”

  “The scuttlebutt is this volcano stuff is bubbling up all over. But I haven't had a chance to make a call.”

  “Well, we'll try to fix that when we get back from the city.”

  “I'd appreciate that. Not that I'm worried. Tina is a take-it-on-the-chin kind of kid.”

  “Hmm. Should think she'd have to be, attached to a chap like you.”

  “Yeah, you got a point there. Hey, what's that red glow up ahead? Sunrise, you think?”

  “I'm afraid not, Sergeant. That's Newcastle burning. See if you can get a bit more ummph out of this old banger.”

  The engine roared and the truck surged ahead.

  * * * *

  Winston said, “All right, Mum, let me get you lifted into this.”

  “You're joking me. That's a bairn's pram!”

  Thelma smiled. “Well, now it's a custom-built sidecar, Mrs. Stubbins. And we've strapped it onto the bike quite firmly with these broom handles—see? Anyway you're small enough to fit in.”

  “Oh, am I? Just as well I've left me other leg behind, isn't it? Winston, you can go and raid old Porky Harris's garden shed.”

  “What for?”

  “He keeps a can of petrol in there for his bubble car. He's off on holiday at the minute, he won't mind.”

  Thelma said, “That's very sensible, Mrs. Stubbins.”

  “And while he's out of the way, Thelma, you can give me a hand to the khazi. Best to spare the lad's blushes. Come on. We only ever had an outside bog and with any luck it's still standing. You lead the way, I'll hop along after.”

  * * * *

  After an hour's work, Jones, Tremayne, and Clare made their way back to the command centre.

  Godwin paced, glowering over his operators’ shoulders. “Still wasting time, gentlemen?”

  Jones ignored him. “I think we've squeezed just about as much out of these fragments of data as we're going to manage. Now we're going to look at the results. Ready, Tremayne?”

  “I have the computer output patched through to here.”

  “Just remember—all of you,” Jones said, gazing around at them. “Open your eyes—and your mind.” He threw a switch. A cathode-ray monitor powered up with a heavy clunk.

  Clare peered at the display. “It's a big circle. Is that the Earth? Looks like a radar display. But what are those flying shapes?”

  “This is the anatomy of the planet, Clare. A world within a world. This is the core. Here you can see the layers of the mantle surrounding it.”

  “Where's the crust, the continents?”

  “Too thin to see on this projection. Remember, Clare—all the world you know is just a shell.”

  “And those shapes, washing to and fro. What's that, static? Echoes?”

  Tremayne leaned to see. “They seem to be rising up from the surface of the core. Like rockets launching.”

  Jones said, “That's a very apt comparison, Tremayne. See how they sail all the way to the surface—I mean, our surface—and sniff around a bit before falling back. Of course this is a very time-accelerated view.”

  Godwin laughed. “Rockets? Oh, this is all—”

  Tremayne said, “They're purposeful. There's no doubt about it. Whatever they are—purposeful and intelligent.”

  Jones slapped his back. “At last you see it.”

  “And there's a sort of seismic wake that precedes them.”

  “Signals, Tremayne. They communicate through seismic waves passing through the rock, just as you and I talk using sound waves rippling through the air.”

  Clare asked, “What are they, Doctor Jones?”

  Jones said, “My department has evidence of these entities going back to the work of the first geologists. Charles Lyell himself came away from a trip to Sicily with suspicions, never confirmed . . . Evidently they inhabit the surface of the planetary core. To them the mantle rock, the magma, is as thin as air, a medium through which they fly. We call them Magmoids.”

  Tremayne said, “Magmoids!”

  “Well, we had to give them some sort of label. You understand they are firmly within the Linnaean Paradoxa class, Tremayne. We had no firm evidence of their existence—but no proof of their non-existence either. And our brief, as DS8 and its predecessors, was to keep a weather eye on them. They probably never even knew human beings were here. Not until you started letting off your bombs high in their rocky atmosphere—and with your Hades bombs, firecrackers finally big enough to get their attention.”

  Tremayne said, “And that explains the ninety minutes.”

  “Yes. I think the apparitions the local people called ‘Grendels’ are Magmoid probes—like space satellites—probably automated. They really are in orbit, Tremayne, literally orbiting through outer layers of rock so thin they may as well be vacuum. I wonder why they're drawn here, and why they have been visible for so long. Something to do with the deep geological flaws hereabouts, no doubt. And in Lucifer's Tomb you have a flaw on top of a flaw—as Winston Stubbins understood.”

  Tremayne was staring at the images. “How extraordinary. We thought we were alone. We looked outward, to the stars. While all the time there was a civilisation, whole and entire, under our feet.”

  “This is first contact, Tremayne. First contact.”

  * * * *

  The motorbike roared down a street strewn with rubble and rapidly becoming clogged with traffic. The city was wide awake now, and everywhere people were moving, clambering through shattered properties. Overhead helicopters flapped, sirens wailed, and Thelma heard the ominous crackle of fire.

  She said, “We're lucky we're on a bike. A car would never get through. It might get easier when we get back to the main road out of the city. But all the people—look at them. I wish there was something we could do for them.”

  “Don't fret, bonny lass,” Hope said. “You're doing your best. Woah! Ee, Winston, if I knew I was going on a dodgems I'd have worn me kiss-me-quick hat.”

  “Sorry, Mum.”

  Thelma said, “Look, through that alley. I think that's the way back to the main road.”

  “It'll be a squeeze. Hang on, Mum.”

  They pushed through the alley and emerged onto the main road—but Winston slowed the bike and turned off the engine. “Oh, dear God.”

  The road was crammed with people, a moving wall that blocked the exit from the alley.

  Hope called, “What is it? I canna see back here in the cheap seats.”

  Winston said, “People, Mum. Thousands and thousands of people.”

  “Men, women,” Thelma said. “Kids on their parents’ backs. Old people in wheelchairs.” She pointed. “Those look like hospital beds being pushed along.”

  Hope said, “It's the city, isn't it? The city emptying out.”

  “I'm afraid so, Mrs. Stubbins.”

  “It was like this in the last lot. When the bombs came a lot of people just walked out, in their bare feet some of them. You don't see that in the war films.”

  “Look, we're just going to have to make our way through this crowd.”

  Winston said, “It's going to be awful.”

  “I know. But we'll hit clear road when we get ahead of the crowd. Are you ready, Mrs. Stubbins?”

  “As I'll ever be.”

  Winston said, “Let's do it.” He started the engine and pushed forward. Reluctantly people made space for the machine.

  The ground shuddered.

  Winston called, “Did you feel that?”

  Thelma said, “I'm afraid I did. Another tremor.” She checked her watch; it was nearly three a.m. “And right on cue—another ninety minutes gone.”

  “We aren't going much faster than walking pace.”

  Hope said, “You'd gan on faster if you dumped this stupid pram with me in it.”

  Thelma said, “We're not about to do that, Mrs. Stubbins.”

  A voice came drifting from a loudhailer, distant but clear. “Thelma Bennet! Winston Stubbins! Thelma Bennet! Make yourself known. . .
.”

  Winston said, “Did you hear that?”

  “Yes. I think so. My name and yours. I think that's Captain Phillips.”

  “Come in, number seven, your time is up!”

  Winston said, “Hush, Mum. I think it's coming from that truck—see, it's shining its headlights this way.”

  Thelma said, “Stop the bike and I'll run up and see.”

  “Hurry back.”

  She clambered off the bike and began to force her way through the crowd. “Excuse me. I'm sorry. Please, excuse me, I have to pass . . .”

  * * * *

  Tremayne said, “The question is what to do about all this—I don't know—I just don't know.”

  Godwin smiled. “I have no confusion in my mind. Men like you see only problems. I see an opportunity—if there's anything at all in what you say.”

  Jones said, “Now why does that make my hair stand on end?”

  A phone rang and Crowne grabbed it. “Yes. Who? Oh. It's for you again, Jones.”

  “Give me that. Hello?”

  “Jones?”

  “Thelma! Goodness, I'm glad to hear your voice. Are you all right?”

  “I'm fine. I'm with Captain Phillips. And so's Winston—tell Clare. Although it seems to be starting up again.”

  “I know. We felt it here.”

  “We have the data you wanted.”

  “Oh, well done, Thelma, well done.”

  “I just hope it's worth it. Have you worked out what we're dealing with yet?”

  Jones said, “Magmoids, I think. An infestation of the core of the Earth. Get back here, Thelma. Bring that information. Just be safe!”

  He put the phone down, breathing hard. He was more relieved to have heard her voice than he wanted to admit. Gradually he became aware of his surroundings again—the command centre resounding to the noise of murmuring voices, the ringing telephones, the clattering teletypes, the sharp, warm smell of electronic valves. He was remarkably tired, yet he knew he couldn't sleep even if he had the chance.

  Once again the floor shuddered and metal walls creaked.

  Crowne called, “More reports coming in. More damage in Newcastle. Tremors in other locations near Hades bases. Ankara, Turkey. Seville, Spain.”

  Godwin said, “Fatalities?”

  “It seems so, sir. But the comms are flaky, and the ground situation is kind of chaotic.”

  Tremayne said, “What do you suggest, Jones?”

  “There's not much we can do until Thelma gets back here with her data. I'd certainly be trying to get a warning out through your chain of command. Tell those in charge to prepare for disturbances like this, probably worsening, coming every ninety minutes until further notice. We may still be able to get out of this without a great deal more damage being done. To the Magmoids humans are an irritation, at best. A bit of bad weather, high in the rocky sky. But any more bomb blasts and they will deal with us. You must ensure above all that no more of these monstrous fireworks of yours are let off.”

  Crowne turned to Tremayne. “Professor? Do you endorse that?”

  Tremayne said, “To be truthful, I am barely clinging on to the coattails of Doctor Jones's analysis. But there is clearly a link between the Hades emplacements and our own detonation with the timings and locations of these tremors. It is only prudent to get Doctor Jones's warning out.”

  Crowne said, “Very well—”

  Godwin drew his revolver. “Belay that, Major.”

  “Commodore!”

  Tremayne said, “What on Earth are you doing, Godwin?”

  “Taking control. This is clearly a global crisis. If these ‘Magmoids’ exist at all, and I'm not ready to concede that yet, we ought to be thinking in terms of striking back.”

  Jones said, “Striking back? By all that's holy, man—”

  Crowne said, “Commodore, I really think I should pass this up the command line—”

  “To what end? This is the focus of the Magmoid attack. This is where the intelligence is gathered—here, in my hands. And nobody is better qualified to make the profound decisions that now face mankind. Crowne, obey my order. Step back from the console.”

  Crowne took a deep breath. “Sir. With respect. No, sir. Commodore Godwin, I am the senior US officer on the base here. My commander-in-chief is President Eisenhower—not you. We work together, sir, we are allies. But in the final analysis I have to exercise my own judgement. And I won't allow the base to be cut out of the chain of command. No, sir.”

  And Godwin pulled the trigger. The noise of the revolver was shockingly loud in the enclosed space. Crowne fell back and lay still.

  Clare cried, “Major!” She knelt down and felt for a pulse at Crowne's neck. “Commodore Godwin—you killed him!”

  Tremayne said, “For God's sake, man! What about duty? What about the oaths you swore to serve Queen and country?”

  “Oh, I serve a higher cause than that, Tremayne.”

  All the operatives in the command centre—every one of them a soldier, Jones reminded himself—had turned, shocked, at the sound of the gunshot. But Godwin snarled, “Back to work, all of you.” They turned back to their consoles.

  “Now to business,” Godwin said. “I am confident that the American troops within this base will continue to obey my commands. But I must decide what to do with you. For you're either with me or against me, it's as simple as that. You'll be confined, Jones. Obviously. As for you, WPC Baines—”

  “I won't submit to your threats, Commodore.”

  “I admire your spirit. Well, you'll be confined too. And you, Professor Tremayne—I expect your cooperation. This is your baby, you know. The bombs of Project Hades are your design.”

  “But I never wanted this killing.”

  Jones said, “I might ask you what you expected when you devoted your life to weapons design, Professor.”

  “But I have always believed in the power of reason. Oh, you can put your gun away as far as I'm concerned, Godwin. I'll work with you. But I'll be working to make you see sense!”

  Godwin said, “Sergeant at arms, take these two away. And clear up this—umm, unfortunate incident. We have work to do. Come, Professor Tremayne.”

  As Jones and Clare were led away, the room shuddered.

  Clare muttered, “Here we go again.”

  * * * *

  A blur of light washed over the crowded street, a noise like a shriek. People cowered, bewildered by such strangeness on this terrible night.

  Buck said, “Woah. Anybody see that?”

  Winston goggled. “Yes! Wow, that was fantastic, I've never seen a Grendel so close. It's like an eye in the sky—it seems to watch you as it goes by. No wonder people thought they were living things.”

  Phillips called, “Coming up to the bridge.”

  Buck said, “And it's still intact. Thank cripes for that—”

  There was an explosion, somewhere ahead. People screamed.

  “Holy smoke, that was bigger than ever. I can't see the bridge. Is it down?”

  Phillips said, “No. There, see, through the smoke? Hold on—”

  The truck bounced and rattled onto the bridge. Another shriek rolled down from the sky.

  Hope said, “What's that up in the sky? Angels?”

  Winston said, “Not angels, Mum. They're called Grendels.”

  “My word,” Phillips said, “they're all along the length of the bridge.”

  Thelma peered ahead, over his shoulder. The strange squashed-sphere shapes of the Grendels hovered over the bridge's superstructure, like Christmas lights, illuminating the streams of refugees struggling to cross.

  Buck said, “Can you smell sulphur?”

  Hope grumbled, “Yeah. And I'm sweating fit to melt.”

  Buck looked down, peering out of his window. “Gee, the water is glowing.”

  Thelma peered down at a crimson, smoking river. “That's not water, Sergeant. That's lava. The valley of the Tyne is full of molten lava!”

  * * * *

 
; 4

  0309.

  Once again Jones and Clare found themselves in a cell. This time they were cuffed back to back and set on a bunk.

  Jones said, “Charming ambience once again. Battleship grey must be in this year.”

  “This isn't funny.”

  “No, I know. I'm sorry to have gotten you into this. An hour or two of this and our shoulders are going to ache like billy-o.”

  “I wish I could have stopped Professor Tremayne working with Godwin. The Professor seemed—dazed.”

  “Yes. Stunned by the implosion of his dreams. But it might be useful to have Tremayne out there with the Commodore rather than in here with us. He's an ally, if a tentative one. After all Tremayne didn't know about Godwin's secret control room, you'll remember.”

  “So now what, Doctor Jones?”

  “I would say the first priority is to get back to that secret room and find out what Godwin's really up to.”

  “And how are we going to do that? I can't pick these locks. We were searched—our pockets emptied—”

  “Perhaps we can improvise. Clare—if I scrunch around like this, can you get your hand into my jacket pocket?”

  “It's not easy lifting my hands behind my back.”

  “I know. Just try. Now have a dig around.”

  “They didn't leave you much. Pack of cards. Match book. Reading glasses—”

  “That's it. A wire frame, you'll see—it comes apart rather easily if you give it a tug.”

  “It's not an accident you have such a thing, is it, Doctor Jones?”

  “Well, I have been in a few scrapes in the past. Now, if you can just use the pieces of the frame—”

  “Done.” There was a double click, and the cuffs that joined their wrists opened. They fell away from each other with gasps of relief. Clare worked at the other cuff on her wrist. “Now what? It may be trickier getting through that door; it looked like a magnetic lock.”

  “Ah. But I suspect we're right next door to the computer room—if my sense of geography's right. And those wall panels, with the bolts in the corner, look vulnerable to another souvenir they left me with.” He dug in his pocket and produced his threepenny bit. “Open sesame!”

  * * * *

  Once out of the city, the refugee flow was foot traffic mixed up with cars, trucks, buses, ambulances—even tractors and bicycles. But the flow was always slow. Phillips, however, insisted they were better off sticking to the tarmac track rather than risk going off-road. Frustration and anxiety gnawed at Thelma.