The young mage opened his eyes and glanced across at Xylox. The senior Questor seemed quite at ease; his breathing pattern was slow and regular, and his face wore a mask of serene detachment. Grimm felt a momentary pang of envy at the implacable thaumaturge's calm, stony impassivity, but this was soon overwhelmed by the increasing agony in his spine. He gave up the meditation exercise as beyond him.
I never was any good at this meditation malarkey, he thought.
Disentangling his numb lower limbs with some difficulty, Grimm got to his feet and massaged them vigorously. When sensation returned, he put his hands on his hips, his fingers curling towards his back, and he performed a series of rolling, stretching exercises until the ache abated.
Xylox had not changed his position in the least, and he seemed unaware of his younger colleague.
Grimm moved to the shallow depression he had made in the wall of the chamber. He inspected the white substance visible where its metal sheath had been eroded away by the Disintegration spell. It was smooth, dense, gleaming and seamless, yet somehow familiar. The mage laid a hand on the pale mass; it was cold, cooler even than the metal surrounding it, and he felt a sudden, icy shock of recognition.
It's some sort of ceramic, like glazed crockery!
Despite intensive reading into the properties of various materials, allowing him to visualise the bonds that held them together, Grimm had never studied ceramics, and so his Questor spell of dissolution could have no effect on this pallid sheet. Nonetheless, it did not take the training of a Mage Questor to realise that one of the primary attributes of such a substance was its brittleness.
Grimm raised Redeemer and tapped its brass head against the white material. The contact produced a sound quite unlike the clang of metal striking against metal; a dull chink that revealed the density and homogeneity of the substance and confirmed his suspicions.
"Questor Xylox!” Grimm hissed. He suspected that Armitage was somehow spying upon his prisoners, and he did not wish to raise his voice any more than was necessary. The older man did not react, still adrift in his blissful, contemplative reverie.
Grimm repeated the call with more urgency, tapping Xylox on the right shoulder for emphasis; this time, he obtained a response.
"What is it, Questor Grimm? Why must you disturb my meditation? I am attempting to discover a solution to our plight,” Xylox said in a peevish voice.
"I may have found it,” Grimm whispered, rolling his eyes in an attempt to communicate his suspicion that their conversations and actions might be under observation. Xylox was not stupid, and it was plain that he had understood.
"Speak, Brother Mage,” the older mage replied in a conspiratorial murmur.
Grimm moved close to his colleague, whispering into Xylox's ear. “I believe the substance that defeated my spell of Disintegration is nothing more than some form of ceramic, sandwiched between two layers of steel. If so, a series of stout blows from a Mage Staff might shatter it. If you were to strike the blow while I stood by, I could dissolve the metal on the far side of the wall, allowing us to escape."
"Your plan may have some validity, I suppose,” was Xylox's grudging response. “However, I feel at a loss as to why we must mutter like thieves and conspirators in place of normal discourse."
"I believe Armitage may be spying upon us by means of some sleight of Technology,” Grimm muttered. “I have read about such devices during my studies, and you must admit it would be better if our escape remained undiscovered for as long as possible. We do not know how many of these dire cells remain poised to descend upon us between here and the hub of Haven, where our prey is surely hiding. Given a sufficient number of such distractions, I could run out of strength before we reached Armitage."
Is that wordy enough for your consideration, Xylox? he wondered.
Xylox rubbed his chin in apparent consideration.
"You wish me to employ a Glamour spell, giving the impression to an external observer that we are still here, and that the cell is still intact. Am I correct?"
Grimm nodded. “I have little facility with such magic, and my energy will be required for the spell, or spells, of Disintegration we may need to achieve our escape. Are you experienced in the use of magical Glamours?"
Xylox snorted, puffing his chest out and pulling his shoulders back. “I am Xylox the Mighty. No magic is beyond my ken."
Except for spells of Disintegration, thought the younger mage, suppressing a grin at his senior's earlier, reluctant admission of a chink in his magical armour.
"I will have to cast the spell on a magic-permeable object, so that a focus for the magic remains when we have departed this dismal chamber,” continued the prideful Xylox. “I suggest you leave your own staff here and allow me to cast the spell on it, since my own will be employed in the destruction of the wall. I need your complete acquiescence in this matter; otherwise the spell will not take."
Grimm felt loath to give up his only means of protection beyond his dwindling skills as a Questor, but he accepted the wisdom of the older man's words. Without speaking, he handed Redeemer to his senior. Xylox began to mutter in his strange, unique spell-language, his grey brows knitted in concentration.
Long moments passed.
"It is done,” Xylox said, in a calm voice. “Should Armitage be spying upon us, he should see only a scene of placid, resigned submission."
Taking his staff with both hands, he swung it against the white circle. Cracks appeared in the material, and a few small chips flew from the circle. After several, more concerted, blows, the ceramic shattered into tiny fragments and dust, revealing a second layer of gleaming metal.
Grimm launched his spell, but his face fell as he saw another layer of the white ceramic lying underneath it.
Each potent incantation took a little more of the young Questor's inner store of energy, and he now knew he might need to cast several more of them before the two magic-users were free. Steel might lack pure iron's resistance to thaumaturgy, but it was far from an easy substance to sunder.
Another blow of Xylox's staff revealed yet more steel. The five-foot wide depression in the door was now approximately two inches deep. Grimm took a deep breath and prepared himself for another spell.
* * * *
Terrence checked the pressure gauge on the yellow canister: there was plenty of the deadly gas inside it. Closing the cylinder's valve and unhooking the manifold from the ventilation duct, he looked into the end of the hose, seeing a white mass of material wadded within it.
"How did that get there?” he muttered to himself.
He reached out for a pair of tweezers with which to remove the compressed matter, but he stopped himself. If he lifted out the offending substance, enough of the lethal nerve agent would be released from the freed hose to contaminate the entire room; just opening the door to the lab might spread VX throughout the complex, killing everybody in Haven. As it was, he would need to ensure complete decontamination of the room, the air-ducts and the suits before he felt safe to disrobe.
"Brunton!” the senior Technician cried. “Put this cylinder in the maximum containment store, and bring me another. Don't be tempted to try to clear this blockage; even a thimbleful of compressed gas trapped in the pipe would be more than enough to kill everybody here. Be careful."
"Don't worry about that, Tech Terrence. This stuff scares the hell out of me."
The blue-suited female Tech rolled the cylinder away on its trolley, her measured tread making her look as if she were walking on eggshells.
Terrence hit the comm stud for the Control Room.
"We've hit a small setback, Administrator,” he said, “but we're on top of it. How are the subjects?"
"It looks as if they've given up trying to escape. They're just sitting there, contemplating their navels," came the crackling, distorted response from the speaker.
"That's good news,” the senior Technician said. “We'll be back in business in another ten minutes or so, and then you can rest easy."
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* * * *
Thribble's lungs burnt in protest at his exertions, and his tiny body protested indignantly at the demands he had placed upon it. He had tracked Tordun's scent from his room in the Habitation Block through to a door in the orange-coloured sector, and he waited outside whilst he caught his breath. He saw no sign of human encroachment, although he could hear a conversation taking place behind the nearest door, and one of the voices sounded familiar.
Gathering his courage, the diminutive demon stepped into his underworld cubby-hole, and moved two inches to one side. Returning to the mortal frame, he found himself inside the door.
Tordun sat shackled to a metal chair, his sweating face a mask of defiance. Another of Haven's white-garbed Technicians stood at a metal console with an expression of sublime indifference to the withering, hateful gaze the giant albino directed at him.
"Believe me, my friend,” the Technologist said, “I can keep this up for as long as you want. However, if you continue to resist me, I'll step up the impulse; I'll enjoy it, too. This dial has a range from one to ten, and the last jolt was at strength four. Each step is one-and-a-half times stronger than the one before.
"Now, again; to whom do you owe your loyalty?"
Tordun breathed heavily, never taking his eyes from his white-coated adversary. “To Tordun, and to nobody else, you stinking sack of ordure,” he shouted. “I am my own man."
"I'm sorry you think so,” the Technician said, examining his fingernails with an exaggerated expression of boredom. “This is strength five, white-arse! Get ready for it."
His hand poised over the control, taunting the giant, whose defiant glare suggested he refused to grant his tormentor the satisfaction of flinching in anticipation.
Thribble craned his head to look at the Technician's identification badge. He had heard the distorted sound of human voices through Haven's communications system before, and he mimicked it now.
"Technician Muller!" he screamed at the top of his voice in a crackling, tinny voice that was a perfect imitation of an angry Armitage's, heard through the communications loop. “Stop what you are doing immediately, and report to the Control Room! When I say immediately, I mean right now, tech! Move it!"
Muller looked at the trussed, raging giant with an expression of frustration. “Believe me, big boy, you are mine. You spat at me, and I won't forget that. We have a date, you and I; don't go anywhere, will you?"
The Technician blew a kiss at Tordun, who strained against his metallic bonds with ineffective fury.
"Haven man, you will die slowly, at my hands; I swear it,” the white-haired titan breathed.
"I think I'll go to strength seven when I get back, pink-eyes; let's see how much fight is left in you after that,” the Haven man snarled. “You aren't going anywhere, so get used to it. You have two prospects: increasing pain or submission. It's up to you. My bloody job's on the line here, and I want to keep it; so don't think I've just turned into the Easter Bunny or something."
Thribble dodged to avoid a huge human foot as the Technician stormed from the room, and he barely avoided being crushed as the door was flung open. A decisive slam marked the departure of the albino's torturer.
After ensuring no other Haven personnel were present, the small imp called out to Tordun, who still strained at his bonds to no effect.
"Good day, human!"
"Not really,” growled the oversized swordsman, ejecting a glob of bloody spittle onto the tiled floor. “Where and what are you?"
"It is I, Thribble,” the demon squeaked. “I imitated Armitage's voice."
"Oh, Questor Grimm's little demon friend. What can you do for me? They plan to put some metal thing in my head, but I understand they have to soften me up first; this fellow, Muller, seems to enjoy his work, and I would sooner not be trussed up like this when he realises he has been deceived."
Thribble hopped towards Tordun and inspected the metal chains binding him to the chair. They were constructed of thick steel links, and they looked proof against even the swordsman's mighty strength. The chains were fastened together by a single lock; this looked more promising.
"Did you see where Muller put the key for this lock, Tordun?” the imp squeaked.
"Not where I would have shoved it, I can tell you,” the albino growled. “He had all his keys on a chain at his waist, so we have no luck there."
Thribble felt cold, bitter pangs of frustration running through him like a spring stream. My cunning ruse to decoy the Technician may not last long, he thought. What I need is a mortal who can pick locks...
"What about your friend, Crest? Did you see what they did with him, Tordun?"
The albino nodded. “I think he's in the next room to my right. If you could somehow free him, I am sure he would have these chains off in a trice."
"I shall return in a few moments,” the demon said in a resolute tone, and he bounded over to the wall. It took but the work of a moment to cross to the other side.
Crest lay slumped in his chair, his long, black hair matted with sweat, his head hanging to one side. The female Technician standing beside the half-elf did not appear to be a sadistic tormentor in the mould of Muller: Thribble saw gleaming traces of moisture at the margins of her eyes, and he knew this to be a harbinger of sadness in these strange beings.
The demon noted several creases on the Technician's reddened face, and Thribble knew this indicated that she was not in the first flush of youth. Her white hair was screwed into a tight bun at the base of her neck, and a pair of D-shaped lenses in a gold frame perched half-way down her nose. Under her white coat, she wore a starched white blouse and a long, black skirt that reached her ankles. She looked more like Crar's resident schoolteacher than a tormentor.
"Please co-operate, Master Crest,” the woman pleaded, wringing her hands. “You must realise I take no pleasure in hurting you. Relax, and tomorrow you won't even remember this. You'll be a contented citizen of Haven, without worries or bad memories. However, before we take you to the next stage, you need to have the right frame of mind, or it won't work. Co-operate with me, and this will all be over much sooner."
Thribble scuttled along the wainscoting and under a table, trying to read the name on the woman's identification badge. He realised he must have been a little too confident in his movements, as the Technician started and stared in his direction.
"More vermin,” the tech muttered, and she picked up a broom standing in the corner of the room.
Thribble knew she was not planning to sweep the floor as she closed on the demon's hiding place, her jaw set in a determined manner and her eyes narrowed.
As she knelt down to look under the table, Thribble saw what he had been looking for, and he threw his voice so it would appear to have come from the speaking box on the far wall.
"Technician Santini, stop whatever you are doing and report to the Control Room immediately. I repeat: report to the control room immediately!"
The white-haired woman got to her feet. A tender look washed over her face as she looked over at Crest. “I'll be back as soon as I can,” she promised, as if she expected the elf would be counting the seconds until her return. “Do think about what we've talked about, won't you?"
"I'll be thinking of little else,” Crest muttered, his head lolling on his narrow chest.
The Technician left the room, and Thribble scurried out from under the table. “Master Crest; it is I, Thribble!"
"Oh. Hello, demon,” the half-elf mumbled through cracked, swollen lips. “It's good to see a friendly face."
Thribble inspected Crest's bonds. Whereas the staff had taken the utmost precautions to restrain the mighty Tordun as best they could, Crest's arms and legs were merely tied to his chair with thin white strips that went around the chair uprights and legs. “Can you break your way clear of those white things, Master Crest?"
The thief shook his head. “They're thin, demon, but very strong. If you pull them, they just get tighter."
Thribble inspe
cted the bonds closely, and he closed his tiny, sharp teeth over the white strips. The material was soft and pliable, and Thribble managed to bite off a small piece of the strange substance. It was tasteless and odourless, for which Thribble was grateful; it made the task easier.
"I should have you out of those things in a few minutes, elf friend,” Thribble carolled as he got to work.
* * * *
"We are through at last,” Grimm gasped. There had been nine layers of material in all, five of them made of thick metal, and the young mage felt proud that his strength had held up. He wanted to keep some in reserve for Armitage.
"Let us depart,” Xylox said. “A reckoning is at hand, I assure you. Remember: if anybody should see us, we must kill or incapacitate them. We do not want word of our escape getting back to Armitage."
The two mages strode back into the corridor through the gaping hole in the metal cell's wall, with renewed urgency in their step.
* * * *
"How are we going, Terrence?" Armitage's amplified voice crackled from the speaker.
"We're nearly there, Administrator. The last cylinder had a blocked hose, and we're bringing a fresh one up from the containment stores. Ah, here it is."
"Okay, Administrator,” Terrence called. “We'll have the gas on in a couple more minutes."
"Very well, Terrence. It looks like there's nothing to worry about; they're as quiet as the grave in there. A very apt simile, don't you think?"
Chapter 10
Outbreak
Armitage glanced once more at the monitor linked to the mages’ improvised death cell; they were still motionless, sitting cross-legged in deep meditation. He felt sorry to be losing them, but he had decided that they were just too dangerous to keep alive. At least, when their bodies had been fully decontaminated, he would have a pair of dissection specimens. It would be interesting to see how the neural configuration, vascular organisation and gross structure of the Questor brain differed from that of an ordinary mage, and from the normal human encephalon.
The Administrator of Haven marvelled at the mages’ powers of concentration; they had been sitting in the same uncomfortable position for at least ten minutes now. A faint warning bell sounded at the back of his mind. He remembered how, perhaps twenty minutes before, the younger specimen had seemed distinctly ill at ease in this pose after only a few minutes. Yet, now, he sat poised, calm and relaxed.
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