“It wasn’t when we came through,” said Darwen. “It just started.”
“You think we triggered it?” said Rich.
“Let’s just get Mr. P and go,” said Alex.
“That generator thing over there,” said Rich. “The thing that has wires running to all the pods.”
“What about it?” asked Owen.
“Was that little red light there before?” Rich asked.
“Quick,” said Darwen, moving to the pods Owen had indicated. “Help me get these open.”
Owen pried free a series of catches and Darwen yanked the door of the casket-like pod. It opened with a long, pneumatic hiss and a gasp of steam that took a moment to clear. When it did, Darwen stepped back in horror.
Inside was what had been Mr. Peregrine. The clothes were still his, and there was something familiar about the face. But the skin was thick and greenish, the teeth oversized, the whole body hulking and brutal looking.
“He’s a . . . a . . .” Tears began to fill Darwen’s eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.
But he didn’t need to. Everyone could plainly see what Mr. Peregrine had become.
A scrobbler.
Chapter Thirty-one
Scrobblers Again
As Rich and Alex gaped in horror, Darwen stepped back, revulsion rippling through him like nausea. Blindly he stepped to another of the pods and turned to see what he could through the greenish window. It also contained a scrobbler—a blue-eyed scrobbler, but a scrobbler nonetheless—as did the next two. The fourth was something different. It had something of the scrobbler to it, but where the monster’s skin was green, this was pale, and the tusks were the merest extensions beyond the lips. It was obvious that it was, or had been, a man. There was a tracing of fair hair above the goggles, and the lips were slim. It wasn’t an inviting face, and Darwen had a powerful impression that those lips and eyes could become cruel without further transfiguration, but it was certainly human. The next pod held a woman. The goggles over her eyes were the only thing about her that suggested anything of the scrobbler at all, unless it was a certain hardness in the face.
“She was just promoted!” Owen exclaimed. “She worked with me, like George, but she got promoted and transferred off-site a week ago. I saw her go down the deep mine for some kind of training session, but I haven’t seen her since. What is happening to her?”
“A training session,” Rich repeated grimly. “And she never came out.”
Owen stared at him, then turned to Darwen for answers.
“She’s being turned into a scrobbler,” said Darwen. “What you call odd bods. I think I understand now. There are two separate processes. One of them makes and controls the flesh-suit disguises. The other does . . . this.” He swallowed. “The scrobblers aren’t born. They are made. Greyling takes people, ordinary people, and converts them.”
The flittercrake’s malicious grin had vanished. Instead the creature perched on top of the open pod containing Mr. Peregrine, glowering at them like a crow on a headstone.
Darwen looked into the greenish window at the top of the next pod and his stomach twisted again.
It was Blodwyn Evans.
And yet not quite. It had been her. Now it was a monster, a grotesque mockery of the person she had been.
“I should feel more relieved that she’s not dead,” said Alex, staring at the thing that had been Blodwyn.
“I know what you mean,” Darwen agreed. Being transformed like this was almost worse than if she had been killed.
“Greyling is building an army,” said Rich.
“No more sneaking bits of land from either world,” Alex agreed. “He’s going to invade both on a massive scale.”
The great cavern felt even colder than before.
“Can we change them back?” Darwen asked.
“What do you mean?” asked Owen.
Darwen turned on him, furious, and grabbed hold of the lapels of his white coat.
“Are they gone forever?” he roared into the Welshman’s face. “Or can we get them back to the way they were?”
“I don’t know!” Owen protested. “I don’t know what they become. This is a completely different operation from the one I worked on. The people who got promoted would go down and then they’d need new supplies and equipment.”
“Regularly?” asked Rich.
Owen shook his head. “Sometimes there would be shipments of supplies going down every few hours,” he said. “Sometimes it was days or weeks between deliveries.”
“Could be that the amount of time the transformation takes varies from person to person,” said Rich. “Maybe some resist it somehow.”
Darwen’s revulsion surged again. “Get him out of there,” he said, nodding at the thing that had been Mr. Peregrine. “Turn the machine off and get him out.”
“I don’t know what that will do to him,” Owen protested.
“I don’t care!” Darwen exclaimed. “Get him out. Now.”
Overwhelmed by Darwen’s anger and certainty, Owen began unplugging leads and cables, throwing switches and releasing restraining clamps. A moment later, Owen and Darwen were dragging the limp and strangely distorted form of Mr. Peregrine from the pod. He was heavy, as if his clothes were soaking wet, and Darwen laid him down on the stone floor, panting. Owen opened the old man’s mouth, exposing those terrible, tusklike teeth, and pulled some kind of tube from Mr. Peregrine’s throat.
“This is the same system we use in the tanks,” he said. “Which means . . .” He looked around the pod and proclaimed, “Aha!” as he snapped a large syringe from a bracket on the back. He checked the label, then placed the needle directly over the old man’s heart.
“What are you doing?!” Rich demanded.
“This is what we use for emergencies in the lab,” said Owen. “If they’re using the same method for keeping him in stasis, this should wake him up.”
“Wake what, though?” Alex said.
Though it was wearing Mr. Peregrine’s clothes, burst now at the seams, the thing on the floor was a scrobbler in almost every respect. Rich looked unsure. “I don’t know, Darwen,” he said. “Maybe he’s gone. Maybe we were just too late and we should—”
“What?” Darwen demanded. “Leave him?”
“Look at him!” said Alex. “It’s not Mr. P. Not anymore. And that means he’s not going to help us fight Greyling.”
Darwen looked down and for a second he thought they were right, but then he stooped to the greenish face and raised the right eyelid. “Blue,” he said. “The eyes are blue. He hasn’t changed completely. Wake him.”
The flittercrake fluttered down and clung to Darwen’s shoulder to watch. For once, the creature wasn’t grinning. It looked worried.
Owen pushed the point of the needle into the old man’s chest and depressed the plunger.
Nothing happened.
“Come on!” said Darwen.
“I don’t think he’s coming back, Darwen,” said Rich.
“He has to,” said Darwen, staring at the strange-looking figure on the floor.
Its eyes snapped open. They were still blue, but they were wild and uncertain, flashing madly around. The mouth opened and a great, hungry snarl emerged from the thing that had been Mr. Peregrine.
Everyone took a step back. And then it was sitting up, drawing itself into an awkward and menacing crouch as if it might be preparing to spring, looking around like the teachers at Hillside had when the lights dimmed. Its eyes found each of them in turn, lingered on them, and flicked on till they reached Darwen. Then they stopped and held him.
Mr. Peregrine—if that was still what the creature in front of them was—kept very still for a long time, and then, without warning, it lunged at Darwen, face-first, tusks bared as if poised to bite. Horrified, Darwen raised his hands to fight back . .
.
But then it stopped. Its broad, greenish nostrils flared, and Darwen heard it inhale.
“It’s smelling you,” said Alex. “Why is it smelling you?”
Darwen kept very still and said nothing. He could feel the power of the thing inches from him. If it chose to attack him now, he would be powerless to stop it. He held his breath.
“Mister Octavius Peregrine,” said Alex in a soothing voice. “Mister Octavius Peregrine.”
“What are you doing?” hissed Rich.
“Reminding him who he is,” said Alex. “Mister Octavius Peregrine.”
And then the strangest thing began to happen: the creature’s face started to change. Darwen wasn’t sure if it was the name that did it, but the eyes lost something of their frantic, hunted look, the hunger replaced by something only humans could express: deep and lingering sadness. “Mr. Peregrine?” Darwen said hesitantly, the hope evident in his voice. He watched as the creature raised its huge, heavily nailed hands to its face and studied them, the grief in its eyes touched with horror.
“You are Mr. Octavius Peregrine,” Darwen said, cautiously stepping closer and reaching for those massive hands.
“Darwen!” said Rich. “Be careful.”
“Shh,” said Darwen, taking another tentative step. When he was close enough, he took one of the creature’s hands gently in his. Some of the green had even begun to fade from its cheeks. Darwen looked once more into its eyes. “It’s okay,” he whispered.
A flash of pain went through those eyes and the figure crumpled to the ground, grunting in obvious distress.
“What can we do?” Darwen asked Owen, still holding Mr. Peregrine’s hands, but the Welshman just shook his head and shrugged.
“I’ve never done this before,” he said.
“Darwen, look!” exclaimed Alex.
Darwen returned his gaze to Mr. Peregrine, whose back was arching in agony. The man who had been his mentor whipped back and forth with frenzied speed where he lay, moving impossibly quickly and emitting an awful screeching sound that changed, very slowly, into a simple, human sob. The body looked like it had collapsed in on itself, become smaller, as if part of it had melted away, until where the scrobbler had been there was what was clearly an exhausted and beaten-looking version of Mr. Octavius Peregrine.
He opened one eye, then his mouth, though it took several attempts before he could speak audibly enough for them to hear what he was saying.
“Hello, Darwen,” he whispered. “I knew you would come.”
Chapter Thirty-two
The Awakening
“Okay, this is weird,” said Alex.
Owen gave her a look. It was clear from his face that he thought he had been having a very strange day for some time now, and the prospect that there was some new weirdness seemed to alarm him.
“What is weird?” Rich returned.
Rich, Alex, and Owen had moved away from Darwen, who was squatting on the stone floor beside Mr. Peregrine, as if by silent agreement that they needed a little space. The flittercrake was perched on Darwen’s shoulder, holding on with its tiny bat-like claws, silently watching Mr. Peregrine. Alex was considering a curious piece of equipment.
“Looks like a conveyor belt,” she said. “Runs all the way down the hall to that massive machine down there.”
“Shouldn’t we be leaving?” asked Owen. “You got what you came for.”
“If Darwen’s right,” said Rich, “and this is some kind of scrobbler factory, then we need to free the people if we can . . .”
“And destroy the equipment,” added Alex. “Greyling won’t be taking over the world with this army. Not if I’ve got something to say about it.”
“Do you ever not have something to say about, you know, anything?” asked Rich.
Alex just shrugged, unoffended.
“Come on, farm boy,” she said. “Let’s put those muscles of yours to good use.”
The two of them strode purposefully off down the cavern, and Owen, apparently unsure what to do, followed them apprehensively. Darwen stayed where he was beside Mr. Peregrine with the flittercrake. The old man was sitting up now, breathing carefully as if afraid he might lapse into some painful coughing fit. From time to time, he would consider his hands, as if puzzled by the memory of their greenish hue only a few minutes before. There was so much Darwen wanted to say, questions, challenges about why Mr. Peregrine hadn’t told him of Greyling’s mirroculist past, but for now he would keep them to himself. The old man looked far too fragile.
Darwen plucked the compact mirror from his pocket and pushed the button on the side. Eileen’s face faded into view. Her hair was unusually disheveled and she looked tense. “What’s going on?” she said.
“We have him,” said Darwen, grinning. “Mr. Peregrine. He’s alive. But he was being changed.”
“Changed?” said Eileen, her momentary relief sputtering to a halt. “Into what?”
“A scrobbler,” said Darwen.
“What?” Eileen exclaimed, her face pale. “How is that possible? I thought scrobblers were native to Silbrica.”
“I’m not sure,” said Darwen, “but as far as we can tell, scrobblers aren’t born; they’re made. They’re just regular people until Greyling transforms them.”
“But . . . why?”
“I don’t know, but I think his plans are larger than a few conversions here. He’s moved most of the operation out, but I don’t know where he’s taken it.”
“You need to get back,” said Eileen.
“Not till we’ve smashed this lab up,” said Darwen. “We need to make it so Greyling can’t build any reinforcements. Not here, anyway. I’ll let you know when we’re done.”
He snapped the mirror shut and returned his attention to Mr. Peregrine. The old man looked tired and sick, but he was alive, and that seemed beyond anything Darwen had a right to expect. Darwen smiled again, wider this time, laughing with sudden relief.
“Enjoy the moment,” said Alex as she marched back toward them. “’Cause our news? Not so much fun.”
“What did you find?” asked Darwen.
“This,” said Rich, holding out an iron helmet with a plate of heavy glass in the visor. To the back was fastened a box with a small green lightbulb and what looked like a coiled antenna. “The machinery back there produces these.”
“Lots of ’em,” said Alex. “Mass production.”
“How many?”
“Impossible to say,” said Rich. “There’s a pile of them that were broken or misshaped. If those are the ones Greyling discarded, but we assume the rest worked . . .”
“Hundreds,” said Alex. “Thousands.”
“And they’re not here,” said Rich. “Which means they’ve been taken somewhere to be used.”
“What do you think they do?” asked Alex, considering the helmet warily.
“Pretty much the same as these, I’d say,” said Owen, nodding toward the pods.
“But faster and more efficiently,” Darwen agreed. “He’s refined the technology. I think,” he said, finally committing to the idea, “that he’s been testing some new version of the system at Hillside. Think about those weird moments at school when the lights dimmed and the teachers started acting all . . .” He sought for the word.
“Argh,” said Alex, pulling a monster face. “Scrobblerish.”
“Right,” said Darwen. “Take the machine that did that, add in the helmets, and you’ve got yourself an instant scrobbler army.”
“Thousands of odd bods?” said Owen with a shudder.
“He’s planning global conquest,” said Rich. “Of both worlds.”
“The man needs a new set of interests,” said Alex. “Gardening, maybe.”
“And we know where he’s going to start,” said Rich, his voice laden with dread.
“The Hills
ide gala,” said Darwen.
“Our families will be there,” said Alex, her face ashen.
“I know,” said Darwen, rubbing his face with his hands as if trying to massage some focus into his mind. “We need to disconnect all the pods in this cavern from their power source and get the people out. Quickly. Owen, how much more of that stuff you injected into Mr. Peregrine do you have?”
“There’s only one more shot,” said Owen. “Looks like only the recently occupied pods are equipped with it.”
“Okay,” said Darwen, balling his fists. “So if we get the people disconnected from the pods but can’t wake them, will they turn back into people?”
“Perhaps,” said Owen. “If it’s like what we did with the tanks, then the process has to be maintained through electrical impulse and a kind of chemical cocktail that they get daily. Without those, it will reverse, but it could take days, weeks.”
“And I’d guess that if the transformation is complete,” added Rich, “they might not change back at all.”
“Better get to work, then,” said Darwen. “Give the last dose to Blodwyn: that woman there. Alex, you’re on that side with Owen. He’ll show you what to do. Rich, you’re with me.”
“What about me?” wheezed Mr. Peregrine with difficulty.
“Stay where you are,” said Darwen. “Rest. You’re going to need your strength soon enough.”
“Why do I not like the sound of that?” asked Alex.
“Disconnect the power and get them out,” said Darwen, adding with a glance at the flittercrake, “Stay with him.” The creature nodded fractionally and crept closer to the old man. Darwen got to work.
It wasn’t easy. Some of the pods seemed to have been there for ages and decades of rust had built up around their controls, ports, and locking mechanisms. Twice Darwen and Rich had to smash the fastening clasps off with a hunk of stone to get the pod open. One had, apparently, been damaged already, and the body inside was shrunken and lifeless, bone showing beneath the scrobbler goggles.
Darwen cursed under his breath. “Check the window at the top to make sure they are still alive before you start working to open the pod,” he said. To Rich he added quietly, “We’ll never get them all out. It’s taking too long. And we need to make sure the pods can’t be used again. Think you can wire them up so it would blow their circuitry or something?”
Darwen Arkwright and the School of Shadows Page 26
