"It seems as if we may have plenty of that on our hands, Brother Mage,” Grimm replied.
* * * *
Armitage felt relieved beyond measure that the thick security barriers had stopped the advance of the two Questors. He pressed a stud on his communication panel. “How's that damned gas coming, Terrence?"
After a few moments, the senior tech's face appeared on the monitor screen. “It'll just be a few more minutes, Administrator. You can't be too careful with this stuff: one little leak could kill all of us in an instant. How are the barriers holding?"
"There's a little damage, but no more than that. They seem to be meditating at the moment."
"I tell you, Armitage, when this stuff gets to them, they won't even have time to realise they're dead. They've just run out of time."
Chapter 8
Thribble In The Duct
Xylox rose to his feet and stretched. “How long do you think it would take you to bore a hole through this door with successive Disintegration spells, Brother Mage?” he asked.
"I do not think I can,” Grimm replied. “Behind this first layer of steel is a material whose constitution I cannot fathom. I can dissolve metal, wood, flesh and other such stuffs with which I am familiar, but this substance is outside my experience."
The older mage rubbed his brow with the flat of his hand. “There must be some possible means of egress,” he said. “If we do not find it in fairly short order, we will suffocate."
Grimm shook his head and pointed at a number of round, metal-barred apertures in the ceiling. “These openings are still blowing air into the chamber: they should provide adequate ventilation for the foreseeable future."
Xylox looked up. “Do you think you could disintegrate those bars, Questor Grimm? I will confess that, despite my considerable magical talents, I find myself unable to conceive spells of dissolution."
The tone of his voice sounded as if this minor admission, which reflected no discredit upon him as a mage, had been extracted only by the direst torture.
"I feel sure of it, Brother Mage,” Grimm replied, “but I cannot see that their removal will aid us much. The openings cannot be more than ten inches across, far too small to allow either of us to wriggle through."
"What of your pet demon? Such an aperture would prove no obstacle to him."
A familiar, grey head popped up from Grimm's pocket. “My name is Thribble, human, and I am nobody's pet,” the imp squeaked.
"I must apologise on behalf of my colleague, Thribble.” Grimm said. “He has higher matters on his mind, such as our escape from this cell and the defeat of our odious enemy, Armitage. I am sure he intended no slight. Are you willing to enter this duct in search of some means of obtaining our release?"
The netherworld creature gave a high-pitched snort that sounded like a lap-dog's sneeze. “I am more than happy to do so, mortal. This place is very boring. You need not disintegrate the bars; the clearance between them is more than adequate for me. Just lift me to the ceiling, and allow me to do the rest."
* * * *
Armitage seethed with impatience. “Terrence, just what is holding you up now?"
The Technician's voice crackled over the comms link, although the line distortion failed to hide a trace of annoyance.
"We're working as fast as we can, Administrator, but it just doesn't pay to be hasty with this stuff. Remember: just the tiniest leak in the system could spell death for all of us, and the air ducts aren't exactly new. We're just about to close the flame arrestor baffles, but I've decided to carry out a test run with a low-level radioactive tracer at five PSI overpressure before we dare try the nerve agent. If that checks out OK, we'll be confident enough to try the gas.
"What's your hurry, anyway, Administrator? Those mages must still be penned up nice and tight; you couldn't get an antitank shell through those armour-plated security barriers. It may take a little longer than I first thought, but better safe than sorry."
Armitage shot a glance at the monitor to his left. The younger specimen had been holding his hand up to the ceiling, perhaps sensing the flow of air through the ventilation shaft; however, it seemed his interest had waned, since he had now returned to his cross-legged meditation.
"Very well, Terrence, start your test. It doesn't look as if they're going anywhere in a hurry."
* * * *
The narrow opening led to an eight-inch deep vertical shaft. Thribble braced his feet carefully on two of the steel bars, drew several deep breaths and launched himself upwards, his arms at full stretch. Just as it seemed he would fall back, risking death or injury, his tiny fingers grasped the rim of the shaft. Forcing himself not to look downwards at the vertiginous nine-foot drop below, he levered himself into a far wider, gently curved horizontal shaft, through which a faint breeze was blowing.
He allowed a few moments for his pounding heart to recover from its exertions before he started in a clockwise direction, going against the flow of air, although he found it no great impediment to his progress.
Assuming that this was an integrated network of tunnels carrying air to the whole of Haven from some central nexus, he should be able to find his way out into the main corridor. A momentary thrill of vertigo ran through him as he realised he had no idea how he could expect to drop through the next opening and survive, but he resolved to deal with that problem as it arose. He should be able to able to find his way to the Habitation Block, and perhaps he would find an aperture directly over a nice, soft bed that could break his fall without breaking him.
As he reached the next junction, a gleaming metal iris screwed shut in front of Thribble with a screeching, metallic hiss. It was so swift in its motion that it would have bisected him, had he not leapt back with alacrity. He attempted to use his limited powers of Translocation, but the barrier must be thicker than it looked, or perhaps there were several of them in close proximity: he found himself unable to exit his underworld cubby-hole, and he had to re-enter the mortal realm where he had left it
Looking backward along the shaft, he saw a similar valve blocking the previous junction. He had now only a single path left to him, so he took it.
His diminutive stature allowed him to proceed in a series of kangaroo-hops along the narrow tube, which he found a far more efficient means of locomotion over long distances than walking.
The tiny demon had no idea how long he had loped along the metal tunnels, but he saw no openings below him through which he could escape. On several occasions, he found tempting side-routes, but they all proved to be closed to him by the spiral valves. It looked as if his destination had been pre-determined for him by some strange, mechanical destiny.
After a few minutes, Thribble heard human voices ahead of him, signalling a nearby opening, and a faint, distant light showed a possible place of egress. He redoubled his efforts, panting with exertion, and he soon reached the source of the light.
Looking down, he saw a terrifying drop, and he swayed on the edge of the opening. Two humans stood below him, one of whom he recognised as the Technician, Terrence. With a dull sense of frustration, Thribble realised he dare not exit here, yet he saw no alternative means of escape from the metal duct. What could he do?
* * * *
"I think there's a rat up there!” a female Technician cried. “Must have escaped from one of the labs. Oh, it's gone now. There's no telling where it could be."
"It'll be gone for good in a short while, Tech Brunton,” Terrence said, “assuming this test goes okay. I hate rats just as much as you do, but a clean-up's on the way. The rodent and those two mages will soon be no more than a bad dream.
"I want you to connect up the manifold, but make sure you do the job properly; VX gas is the most lethal stuff you can imagine, and we want to be absolutely sure the ducting will contain it. I tried it out on a lab rat twenty minutes ago; the thing twitched a little and died in seconds."
Sue Brunton shivered. “Why do we have this gas, Sir, if it's so dangerous?” she asked. “And what'
s with all this elaborate ducting? I thought this was a rehabilitation centre, not a murder camp."
Terrence shrugged. “I guess the original Administrator had some pretty desperate characters in their care, and he just wanted to be sure they could deal with any threat, no matter how serious. We have bottles of several gases here, ranging from mild sedatives to heavy-duty narcotics. Most of the cylinders have corroded over the centuries, but the VX is in double-walled stainless-steel containers, the same material as these hoses."
Terrence shook his head and sighed. “You don't need to know any more, Tech; you have your orders, so carry them out. Quickly, now; Armitage is getting impatient."
Brunton climbed up a short step-ladder, lugging a large reinforced hose with a large, blue-painted metal gland on the end. Grunting as she hoisted the heavy mass to the ceiling, she mated the gland with the complementary bayonet fitted on the air duct, sealing it.
"It's on,” she said, sliding down the ladder.
"Right, let's go,” Terrence snapped into his microphone. “Stations, everybody: keep your eyes on the alpha monitors, all sections. Inject."
* * * *
Thribble saw the human female's gaze flicker upwards and fasten upon him for one heart-stopping moment. He made a swift side-step into the blind end of the tunnel, relieved that no great clamour arose from below; however, his relief turned swiftly to dismay as the light was extinguished. Was he about to be eliminated by a sudden inrush of some noxious gas? He had no idea
The demon's worst fears seemed confirmed, as a loud hiss pervaded the metal tube. The tiny imp drew a deep, convulsive breath, and his cheeks blew out until his head looked like a grey marble. His lungs began to burn, and he shut his eyes, determined to resist for as long as possible. The hissing sound persisted, and his sensitive ears began to pain him as the pressure increased within the duct. At last, he had to obey the overpowering, urgent message from his tortured body, breathing out with explosive force, but still refusing to inhale.
Bright sparks and speckles sparkled before his tightly-shut eyes as he fought to control the howling demands of his body. His head twisted from one side to the other as he denied his lungs the air they craved. The pain in the imp's ears rose to an agonising peak, and the thrumming in the darkened tube increased to an overwhelming tumult. After struggling to stem the relentless imperatives of his stem-brain for what seemed like an eternity, he succumbed, drawing a mighty, spastic breath.
Thribble forced himself to remain calm as he assessed the reactions of his aching, yearning body to the intake of the potentially poisoned air. No new pains arose; no wracking, scorching pains in his chest, no palpitations of his heart. Whatever the intentions of the humans below, it seemed they were not introducing toxic substances into the tunnel at this time, although their actions were completely beyond his understanding.
The loud hiss reduced to a peevish squeal, followed by brief silence. The minuscule demon dared to take a breath, and then another. He heard a loud clanking noise from the chamber below, and the flow of air reversed for a few moments, causing Thribble's ears to pop again. After this, another loud mechanical noise heralded the welcome return of light to the duct, and conditions returned to their previous state.
* * * *
"Okay, everybody; heads up,” Terrence said, after clapping his hands to attract the attention of his subordinates. “The nasty stuff comes next. Get into your suits and perform a full pressure check on each other; if you value your lives at all, don't be tempted to skimp. There are no second chances with VX; am I clear on this?"
A nervous chorus of assent arose from the gathered techs; although previously unacquainted with VX, Terrence had told them all in great detail of the awful powers of nerve agents when he summoned them.
Terrence tried to preserve an air of confidence and competence, but he knew the protective suits had lain deep within the Haven stores, unused, for many decades. The test he had ordered carried out gave him some assurance that the ancient, patched ducts would do their duty, but the smallest pinhole anywhere in the sealed air system would spell death to anyone in its vicinity.
* * * *
Thribble dared another glimpse down the ventilation duct opening, seeing the white-clad backs of the Technicians as they trooped out of the room. If he were to have any chance of escaping from the metal tube, he would have to move quickly. He lowered himself from the lip of the aperture and dropped onto the reinforcing lattice.
Lying prone on the grille, he scanned the room for possible soft-landing sites, or means of climbing to the floor. For a moment, it seemed to be hopeless; a nine- or ten-foot chasm yawned beneath him, at the bottom of which lay a floor of hard tiles. However, at the corner of his field of view, he saw a large bucket of water. The tiny demon felt sure he would survive a dive into water from this vertiginous height, but it was not directly below the opening.
There was only one thing for it; Thribble quailed inside at the thought of what he must do, but he had no intention of letting down his human friend, Grimm. He had one power that, until this moment, had seemed a spectacular example of uselessness, but which seemed to be ideally suited to his current situation. He wrapped his prehensile tail around one of the metal bars and dropped. Thribble began to swing back and forth, like some bulbous, grey pendulum-bob, extending his tail little by little, until his body described great arcs across the room.
At the peak of one such arc, the minuscule imp relaxed his tail, and he flew across the room. Thribble's arms, legs and tail flailed at random as he flew through the air; he banged his shoulder painfully on the inner wall of the bucket, but he landed in the water. Although the impact knocked the breath out of him, the netherworld imp knew he was not badly hurt as he swam to the surface and spluttered.
Although he could not reach the lip of the bucket, the thin metal from which it was constructed allowed him to use his limited powers of teleportation to escape; his few inches’ range of inter-dimensional travel were more than adequate. In a moment, he dropped a few inches and found himself standing safely on the floor.
He still had not the slightest idea of what he could do to rescue his friends, but he knew that the closure of the metal barriers in the duct could not be a random act. It must be intended to direct the poison straight to the metal cell imprisoning the two Questors.
Thribble guessed that Terrence and his ‘techs’ had introduced some harmless substance into the pipe, perhaps as some kind of test; the next vapour they introduced might not be so benign. He turned to see a yellow cylinder on a rack, covered with meaningless numbers and strange symbols. However obscure the labels, one stood out: a stylised representation of a human skull resting on a pair of crossed bones.
This cylinder must contain the deadly substance, thought Thribble.
He realised he had no chance of reaching Grimm and warning him before the noxious vapour was released into the tube and carried towards his friend. Somehow, he must sabotage the operation without drawing attention to his actions. The cylinder was fitted with a long hose which trailed to the floor, and at the end of this was a large metal cup. The diameter of this corresponded well with the openings in the ventilation duct, and Thribble surmised that it was screwed onto the underside of the aperture.
What could I possibly do to disable this canister of death?
Then it struck him, as he saw an open bag of what looked like cotton waste lying in the corner of the room. Running to the bag, mindful of the little time that he might have, he grabbed a double-handful of the fibrous material and raced back to the cylinder, ramming the cotton deep into the hose with all the strength at his command. After a dozen repetitions, Thribble managed to compress the matter until it was a solid, impassable lump at the base of the hose.
The imp worried that the gas, if it were under any great pressure, might force the cotton from the tube, but he could only hope the blockage would hold. Hearing movement in the anteroom to his right, Thribble bounded to the main door of the room and teleported thro
ugh it. He knew where he was in relation to the cell; he hoped to make his way back there and find some means of lifting the imprisoning walls that held Grimm and Xylox. Then he realised that his best bet might be to enlist the aid of the large white-haired human, with his prodigious strength, or the half-elf, Crest, with his lock-picking skills. He had no idea where either of them was, but he thought he should be able to follow their scent trail from the Habitation Block, and he knew where that was.
* * * *
"It's all set up, Terrence,” Technician Brunton said. “You can start the pump whenever you want."
"Very well, Brunton,” the senior tech replied. “I'll leave that privilege to you."
The slender, grey-haired woman stepped up to a console. “I'm activating the pump now,” she intoned. “I pity the poor fools at the other end of this. They won't know what hit them."
Terrence hit a stud on his comm panel. “Administrator, the gas is on its way. Your subjects are already dead."
"What are you talking about, Terrence?" Armitage snapped from the Control Room. "They're still alive. Something must have gone wrong with your set-up. Get it sorted out right away!"
"Will do, Administrator; must be some kind of blockage in the line. We'll soon have it clear."
"Just see that you do. This rigmarole has already gone on for long enough. Finish the job, man."
Chapter 9
Racing Against Time
Grimm found he could no longer ignore the discomfort caused by sitting in the cross-legged meditation position on the cold, hard metal floor of the chamber. After spending a few minutes trying to clear his head of all extraneous thoughts, a low, nagging ache arose at the base of his spine. He attempted to drive it from his mind and concentrate on the matter at hand, but the dull throbbing intensified until he felt knife-like spasms of pain shooting along the length of his vertebral column, consuming all his attention and making solemn, single-minded introspection all but impossible.
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