No Hero

by Jonathan Wood

  AN HOUR LATER

  The glory of the sunrise fades the deeper into the earth I go. Cold rock and dirt envelop me. I find myself wishing there had been a Starbucks near the apple tree. They do seem to be pretty much everywhere else.

  Kayla leads the way, as that only seems sensible, then me, grubbing along on my belly just like the snake, post-Biblical curse. Then it’s Tabitha because, and I may have used Hollywood logic here a bit, in most movies that seems to be the safest place to be. Surprised no one called me on that... Then there’s Clyde to occupy the being-picked-off position. But I think he might have volunteered for it because it means he can stare at Tabitha’s legs some more.

  I’m beginning to suspect Tabitha’s noticed the increased level of attention, though I’m not sure she’s interpreting it correctly. I overheard her asking Kayla if there was a stain on her shorts.

  We’ve gone about a hundred yards and I’m starting to think that while he knew all about ancient apple trees, Olsted’s author might have known less about hidden Peruvian temples, when finally the space opens up ahead. The light on my headlamp spills out, first over Kayla’s ankles, and then, as she steps out the way and I fully emerge, over craggy moss-dotted rock. Tabitha and Clyde emerge as I swing my headlamp around, illuminating the massive cave.

  Four beams of light reach out from our helmets, like the fingers of some giant hand. They trace the limits of the walls. And some of the dawn’s beauty is recaptured as we stand there in the darkness.

  The cave’s ceiling seems incredibly distant—a great cathedral-like arc. Roots have pushed through the rough rock, some dangling like patches of fur, others that are great thick twisting things, broad as I am, which, admittedly, is not particularly broad or anything to be remarked at in a person, but which in a root may, I think, be noted as being of significance.

  We circle the space slowly. And then, one by one, the fingers of light come to rest on the same point: carved into one massive slab of rock—an archway. And it’s not just something somebody hacked away, even though that would hardly be an achievement to be sniffed at, but someone really went above and beyond here. Twisting, carved figures, baroque details, pictogram script. It’s beautiful.

  Tabitha is the first to speak.

  “Bugger me,” she says.

  And somehow the arch has enough poetry in it to make up for Tabitha’s lack.

  While it’s tempting to just stand and stare, the headtorches are on battery power and we’re trying to conserve that for Clyde. So I give Kayla the nod, and she’s not one to stand around gawping, so off we go again. I ask Clyde to walk in front of Tabitha this time. I hope it’s not obvious, but I have the feeling we’re going to need him undistracted later on.

  The corridors of the place are choked with roots. As we pick our way between them we catch occasional glimpses of intricate wall carvings—people lost to time frozen in poses, raising livestock, tilling fields, worshiping absent gods.

  Here and there in the carvings I see a giant figure dominating all the others. The muscles are curiously exaggerated and I think of the magically twisted creatures that the Progeny seem to employ as shock troops. There is something different here, though. The figures are more graceful. Still, it’s doubtful any of the art is truly representational. These giant figures, for all their decoration, have utterly blank faces, not a single feature described—seems unlikely we’ll have to worry about them.

  After ten minutes or so of twisting between the roots I see light up ahead. The space opens up into a square carved as decoratively as everything else we’ve seen. The roof has two long cracks that shed trickles of rainwater onto thick patches of moss. Massive roots hang down like so many stalactites.

  At the center of the room are four statues, far more detailed than anything we’ve seen before. Four representations of the faceless figures. They’re no longer giants. Just average-looking men. At least, in the way Arnold Schwarzenegger is an average-looking man. They all sit, muscle-bound and silent, back to back in a tight square, one facing each corner of the room.

  “I’ve seen them,” Clyde says, “on the walls.”

  “Probably religious,” Tabitha says, squatting, opening the laptop. “Or royal. More important than most. Why they’re carved so big.”

  Kayla circles the room, giving the statues a wide berth. I’m inclined to agree with her trepidation, but on the other hand there’s a slim chance I may have seen one too many action movies. Clyde, however, does not seem to feel any caution. He peers at one’s face.

  “They’re masks,” he says. “They’re wearing masks. That’s why the faces look so blank.”

  “Masks?” Tabitha asks, looking up from the glare of her computer screen.

  “Yes,” Clyde says, nodding. “I can see straps round the back. Two of them: one above the ear, one below. About an inch thick. Bald heads beneath. Workmanship on these is pretty much amazing. I don’t think stonework like this should have even been possible.”

  “Masks. Two straps.” Tabitha taps more. “Fuck. Please tell me they’re not wooden. I cannot be dealing with the Monks of Queatel today. Not tomorrow either.”

  The elevator operator in my stomach presses the down button. Here we go. Kayla keeps circling the statues.

  “Don’t know,” Clyde says, “looks like stone.” He reaches out a hand.

  “No!” I bark, but it’s too late. His knuckle taps the mask. A hollow, distinctly wooden sound.

  The statue moves instantly. I barely even see it stand up, but suddenly it’s vertical, a hand gripping Clyde’s extended arm. His face distorts in pain. Then a fist or a foot, or something else too fast to see, buries itself in Clyde’s midriff and he flies ten feet across the floor.

  The other four statues are on their feet. Quick as blinking. Not statues at all. Or if they are, they move like men. Four colossal monks, wearing masks, sitting utterly still, covered in dust and grime, waiting. And waiting. And now they move. I see their muscles move. Flesh and bone, just like me. But they move so bloody fast. Move a way I never could. They move like Kayla.

  She comes at them with terrifying speed. Inhuman speed.

  She is not what you think she is.

  Her sword comes up. Comes down.

  And one of the bastards catches it.

  He claps his hands together and holds the blade there suspended three inches from his face.

  Kayla grimaces, pushes. I see the muscles in the monk’s arms knot. And I’ve seen this movie. This is the bit where he snaps the blade, attacks her with the tip.

  Kayla goes with the motion. Her face relaxes. She jumps, moves with the monk’s straining muscles, and spins in the air. He carries her up over his head. She twists. Her knees clamp tight. Locks them around the back of his head. And she brings him down. Lands kneeling, crushing his head between thigh and calf.

  But another masked figure is there. He slams a fist at Kayla. She blocks, pushing it aside, as the monk she’s sitting on bucks and thrashes beneath her. Then the third figure comes in, then the fourth. Blows rain down. Kayla’s hands and blade are a blur. And then there is a cracking sound and Kayla flies out of the group. The four figures rise, limbs flexing, as Kayla is tossed aside like so much firewood.

  29

  Clyde comes around at about the same time Kayla lands next to him. Her head cracks against the stone floor. Blood flows. Not good. Not even vaguely good. Way beyond bad, even.

  The four masked figures start spreading out, a loose semicircle fanned out before us.

  Clyde rolls over, vomits onto Tabitha’s knees. She’s kneeling next to him. I’m not sure how she got there. It doesn’t seem very Tabitha-like. Especially not when she wipes the corner of his mouth with one frilly sleeve.

  “Get up,” she says to him. “You stupid bugger.”

  Kayla beats him to it. An abrupt kippup and she’s on her feet, heading off toward the clenching fist of figures. At first I think my vision is still off. Everything is a blur. But then I realize that it’s not me, but
the speed the five of them are fighting at. I can’t track a single limb. They’re all moving at fantastic speeds and I can only catch glimpses of movement. A raised sword. A fist drawn back. A deflected kick wheeling away.

  There is something breathtaking about the whole thing, something almost as wonderful as it is horrible. Something like ballet. But, when I glimpse it, I can see a look of absolute fury on Kayla’s face, something desperate and something terrified.

  I think of the Twins. I think of Ephie saying quite calmly that Kayla can’t save Ophelia. That must be what Kayla is thinking now. She’s being held in place. Total stalemate.

  “We have to do something,” I say. Helplessly. Because I can’t think of any way to help.

  “Be my guest.” Tabby stands, supporting Clyde. And despite the flippancy, I can see anxiety and frustration written all over her face. Because I’m right.

  “Rocks,” I say. “We need to throw rocks.”

  “What?” Tabby shakes her head. “What if you hit Kayla?”

  “There are more monks,” I say, even as I realize I’m not really thinking straight. “We’re more likely to hit one of them.”

  “But what if you hit Kayla?” Tabby’s question has grown teeth while I answered.

  “I hate to be constantly siding with Tabby against you, Arthur,” Clyde starts.

  “I know,” I say. “I know. But something. There has to be something...”

  We stand helplessly, like absurd spectators as the four masked men pound on Kayla’s ever-twisting defense.

  Can we just slip by them? While she holds them at bay? Leave her keeping this problem trapped in stasis?

  Except... well, sod it, she may have come too late on the rooftop for Alison, but she did come. She tried. So unless I know for sure she’s Progeny, no, I can’t leave her behind. There’s got to be something we can do.

  “Tabitha,” I say, “we need to know about these things. Anything. Everything. Whatever we can.” I grab her by the shoulder. “Right now. Please.”

  She blinks, nods, disengages from Clyde who is clinging to her like a drowning man. She grabs her laptop.

  Behind me I can hear Kayla grunting with exertion, her breath coming in whoops and gasps.

  “OK,” says Tabitha. “Monks of Queatel. Masks... Recorded memory. Very advanced. Close to magic. Maybe magic. I’m not sure.”

  Behind us steel smacks flesh and flesh smacks steel back.

  “Come on,” I say.

  “Circuits beneath the wood. Old monks’ brains written in zeroes and ones. Put on the mask, put on the monk. Personality override. So you train one bugger instead of generations.”

  A shower of sparks lights up the room as Kayla’s sword rebounds at speed, carving a jagged channel through the stone.

  “So...” The gears of my brain churn more than my adrenaline wants them to. “Take off the masks. Turn off the monk.”

  “Kick the bloke’s arse,” Tabitha supplies.

  All five figures are off the ground. Limbs pinwheel in midair. Limbs snap out at awkward angles. Knuckles pound skin and wood.

  “How do we take the masks off?” I say. Next logical step.

  “Erm...” Tabitha says. I echo the sentiment.

  Kayla lands first, whips out her sword. Monks land on the flat of the blade, balance there. Impossibly. Kayla dodges kicks to the head.

  “I have an idea,” Clyde says. He speaks quietly at first, hesitant.

  “Yes?” Tabitha and I both wheel on him. He half recoils. I nearly grab him by the lapels. This is not the time for tentative modesty.

  Kayla ducks as four blows reign down in a single instant. The monks’ fists slam together. I feel the shock wave where we stand.

  “Well... it’s probably not a good idea...”

  “Tell us!” My voice almost cracks as I yell.

  “Sorry,” Clyde says, then sees the expressions Tabitha and I are wearing and finally spits it out. “Well, the masks... magical, electric. There is a chance that I could, so to speak, in a sort of manner—”

  Kayla reels back as a kick catches her in the stomach. Another grazes her lips. Enough to draw blood. She catches the third blow but the monk twists away. She barely ducks the fourth.

  “Say it!” Tabitha does grab Clyde by his collar.

  “I think I could hack one.”

  Tabitha and I exchange a genuine look of astonishment.

  Kayla lands a blow. A monk staggers into another. She lands a kick. Then a monk has her leg and the dance begins again.

  “Say again?” I say to Clyde.

  “Well,” he says, “with Tabby’s laptop, the wireless stuff, I could perhaps... it’s a form of, erm, well in layman’s terms it’s sort of astral projection, spirit leaving the body sort of stuff. Never really tried it before. Read about it. Get my, you know, mind, soul, spirit thing out of the old flesh and bones—” he taps his chest “—and into the mask. Then I just overwrite what’s written there with my own personality, which, I have to concede is a little short on the ninja monk training. Probably obvious really. Good on French composers of the twenties to be certain, but again, a little lacking in ninjujitsu and so forth. So then, while that masked chappy has his posterior handed to him by Kayla, hopefully breaking the deadlock, I hoof it back to the old body thing and hope I haven’t made a really bad mistake.”

  “Mistake?” I say. “What sort of mistake.”

  Kayla goes down for a moment. Four savage punches later she’s on her feet but one side of her head is caked in blood.

  “Oh.” Clyde shrugs. “You know, usual. Completely failing to overwrite the mask, and having the monk dump his personality into my body as well. Which is pretty much sayonara for me and throws another monk into the mix. Standard we-all-die-horribly sort of stuff.”

  Kayla is against a wall. She looks tired. The monks don’t.

  “Anybody able to come up with a better plan in the next ten seconds?” I count to five and then just abandon that one. “You want to go for this, Clyde?”

  “Not particularly”

  Kayla dances against the wall, blows chasing her.

  Of course he doesn’t. Who would. “Can I—” I start.

  “I’ll do it,” Clyde says. “Has to be me. Specialization and copper wiring and all that. Tabby,” he turns to her, “I don’t suppose you could pass me the laptop, and then catch me when I fall over?”

  “I’ll catch the laptop,” she says.

  With it in hand, Clyde pulls out two thin strips of copper from a pocket. He jams one in on either side of the battery. He sits cross-legged with it on his lap. “Once I start,” he says, “I can’t let go. Otherwise the circuit breaks, inter-reality friction, and kablammo for everyone.”

  I remember the explosion that took apart the student in Cowley Road. “Duly noted,” I say

  Clyde starts muttering, one incomprehensible word, then another. Then he grabs the strips and immediately keels over.

  The four monks press Kayla harder. I can see her sword blows now. Slower. They’re wearing her down. Each time she slices with the blade a forearm, or a palm, or a calf, or heel strikes the flat of the blade knocking it off course. They constantly circle, two monks working high, raining down blows, while two strike low. She’s pinned in and she knows it. She tries to spin free but is forced to break into a series of parries and thrusts that the masked monks twist around.

  Clyde’s body convulses, once, twice. I see Tabitha biting her lip.

  Kayla jumps, a fist lands on the side of her head and she crashes down. She spins like a dancer. One monk jumps the kick, another, another.

  The fourth monk falls.

  He stands there staring dazedly at Kayla and then her legs smash into his. A jagged extra angle appears in his legs as the bone shatters. And then he falls, like someone pulled the plug from him. He crashes to the ground and her sword finds his throat as the mask rolls free.

  The other three monks pause. And that’s all Kayla seems to need.

  Suddenly her
sword blade is through the mask of one, protruding from the back of his skull. The front of the wound spits sparks, the back blood.

  The other two monks start moving, but Kayla is levering off the sword even as the speared man falls, arching up into the air. She catches her initial attacker with the same trick she first used, catching the mask behind her knees, crushing down. There is a splintering sound, a burst of electricity, and then the third monk goes limp.

  The fourth and final monk leaps at Kayla as she lands on her knees. She whips her legs out from under her so fast I can hear the wind cracking behind them. Her feet go into the man’s chest, keep going. She lifts him over her head, rolling onto her back, pivoting on her shoulders as she grasps his hands, swinging him down to earth in a vast curve. And still she holds him as his face plows into the rock. She holds on, rising up, flying over him. She lands between his flailing legs. Steps onto his back. Puts a foot onto his spine. She pulls his arms hard. The joints pop loudly and the shoulders dislocate.

  The monk lies insensible at Kayla’s feet, legs kicking. She flips him over, raises a foot, buries it in his face. The mask caves inward and he goes limp. Blood pools around his head.

  “There,” she says, “that’s you in your feckin’ place.”

  30

  Still Clyde just lies there. A low babble emerges from him, like the muttering of a mad man. Tabitha and I kneel, looking at his twitching lips, the hands clenched spastically around the copper strips attached to the laptop. The muscles of his arms are convulsing slightly. Drool is beginning to trickle down his cheek.

  It doesn’t look particularly good.

  “Come on,” Tabitha says. She puts a hand in his hair. A tender gesture. Not Tabitha’s style at all. “Come on, Clyde,” she says again.

  “What the feck’s up with him?” Kayla hasn’t approached, still stands over the collapsed body of the last monk.

  Tabitha stands. “Don’t fucking start. I don’t give a shit what you can fucking do. I’ll fucking neuter you. You fucking understand? Not the time for your fucking shit right now.”