Extraordinaires 1

by Michael Pryor

  Soames smiled.

  Soames dawdled over the selection of vials. He regretted the waste that was about to occur, every vial a fortune. For a moment, he considered revealing the girl’s plan to the Immortals. He was sure they could do something with the explosive.

  He snorted and continued to fill the leather case, stacking in as many vials as he could. Such an action would be foolish. A perfect way to cripple the Immortals had fallen into his lap. If the girl’s device did as she claimed, the Immortals would be without phlogiston. They would be helpless.

  Soames snapped the case shut. He liked serendipity, especially when he could wring it for his own ends.

  Soames had no idea what made him linger just outside the Hall of Immortals and wait for the explosion, after telling them he was off to fetch the boy. It wasn’t a business decision. It had no real benefit for him in monetary terms. It wasn’t even really an opportunity. He could only attribute it to sheer curiosity, a quality he’d forgotten he possessed.

  Of course, it would provide him with an opportunity to gloat, which Soames always found to be one of life’s great pleasures.

  For the rest of the hour, ignored by the Immortals – who were engaged in quiet, intense discussions about harvesting the animus generated at the Olympic Games – he pretended to be busy in the small living room he’d found earlier.

  Animus harvesting. That sounded like something he’d enjoy learning more about once the Immortals were gone.

  Even secreted away as he was, and without his lovely watch, Soames knew when the girl’s device went off. The round globes that lit the small living room flickered, then went out.

  The darkness in the underground chamber was absolute.

  Soames sat still, not daring to move, and from above came the sound of a great wind. He blinked, for the blackness momentarily shifted. It entered a region of sensation that was both more and less than emptiness, then it righted itself and Soames was alone again.

  Wild screeching came from the direction of the Hall of the Immortals.

  With infinite care, Soames edged out of the living room. One hand ran along the shelves of ledgers and accounts, some of the archives going back centuries, while he hefted the leather case with the other. He found the door after a few moments of throat-tightening panic, and made his way up the stairs by touch, guided by the hysterical anger of the Immortals, which had been joined by vacant, seagull cries from the Spawn.

  Soames blinked when he crept into the Hall of the Immortals. He could see, dimly. The pentagonal ceiling was like a window looking out on a snowy evening, a dull grey that was fading as Soames watched. He wondered if the girl had anticipated this effect of the liberation of all that phlogiston, or if it was the sheer amount of the magical fluid that was causing this phenomenon. Regardless, Soames thought that he’d lingered too long. It was time to leave.

  Before he could, he gaped, astonished. Three tiny figures were waddling on uncertain legs across the gigantic hall, their plump arms flailing.

  The Immortals had left their throne.

  It was upended on the other side of the hall. Then Soames saw that one of the Immortals – Jia? – had a single glowing vial in her fist. Cursing, the three reached the alcove that held the Material Manipulator. The cube was still rotating, but wouldn’t be for long, Soames knew. As soon as its inner phlogiston ran out it, too, would die.

  The Immortals flung themselves on the cube. Jia hammered at it with the vial she held. An eruption of green light and the Immortals were gone.

  Soames was alone in the rapidly darkening Hall of the Immortals, apart from a few dozen Spawn who were blundering about mindlessly, crashing into walls and each other, mewling and croaking.

  He’d overstayed his welcome.

  Just as Soames was about to set off, he felt a rumbling underfoot. With a sense of dread, he remembered the girl saying she had a second part to her plan.

  The doors opening into the hall crashed open. Roaring like a giant released, water cascaded through them, an irresistible flood sluicing through the openings, flinging streamers of spray high into the air and throwing the golden throne aside as if it were made of paper.

  Spawn were tossed about like sticks.

  Soames held the leather case to his chest as the water thundered towards him. He gaped, disbelieving.

  Jabez! It can’t end like this!

  He wished he’d listened to the girl.

  Kingsley ducked just as the time machine came alive, crashing with colours that strained reality, singing with the sound of metal on metal. He flung his arm up to protect his eyes when the machine sizzled and the room crackled with caged lightning. He went to run, but the entire room shook and he staggered, only to be caught by a fist of displaced air as the machine flashed again.

  Kingsley went to all fours and rose in time to see a stunned-looking Neanderthal standing above him on the platform of the time machine.

  He rolled to one side but the Neanderthal toppled on him.

  ‘Stay there, grub,’ the Neanderthal slurred in his ear. A fist clipped Kingsley on the side of the head. The light that burst inside his skull didn’t come from the time machine. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

  I may be the only stage performer ever to be twice flattened by Neanderthals, Kingsley thought, dazed as he was. He could hardly breathe, crushed under the weight of the creature, who smelled as if he hadn’t bathed for a lifetime or two.

  The Neanderthal stood, swaying a little, but dragged Kingsley up by his collar and delivered a slap that made his head ring. The Neanderthal held him at arm’s length while, with his other hand, he fumbled around under his jacket and withdrew a glittering belt.

  Kingsley’s thoughts were foggy from the blow, but he stared. Could this be the Neanderthal who’d been lost in the Immortals’ Temporal Manipulator? It was the sort of scientific puzzle that would drive Evadne into paroxysms of speculation.

  The Neanderthal towed him out of the workshop and into the main activity site, which was heavy with the smell of hot metal and steam. Workers ran about, shouting to those operating the gantry cranes to move great sheets of metal around. Showers of sparks fell like shooting stars while teams worked on welding and cutting. Smoke wound towards the ceiling where five great exhaust fans strove to keep the heights clear.

  The Neanderthal held Kingsley by the collar while he cast about, peering at the faces of those hurrying past until he saw one that made him cry out. ‘Rolf!’

  A black-bearded, leather-aproned Neanderthal wearing heavy dark goggles swung around. ‘Magnus!’

  The leather-aproned Neanderthal bounded over to Kingsley’s captor and took him in an embrace that would have crushed an elephant. They pounded each other on the back.

  Touching though it was, Kingsley wasn’t about to miss his chance. He jerked his neck. His collar detached. With a duck and a slither, he was away, leaving his captor gaping at the sorry-looking piece of cloth in his hand.

  Kingsley grinned at the shouts from behind him. They were meaningless in the general uproar where every second Neanderthal was raising his or her voice over the bedlam.

  Shouting was one thing, seeing was another. Reactions varied. Some Neanderthals threw tools at him while others dropped them in disbelief at the sight of an Invader scampering loose in the heart of their home. Kingsley galloped along the rows of machines, changing direction at random whenever a hostile Neanderthal appeared ahead of him. The blood rose in his ears. His body fell into a state that could carry him for miles, alert and ready, muscles working smoothly. His lips parted, baring his teeth as he sought about for both his foster father and a way out.

  He wheeled around a tall metal punch. His gaze fell on the pipes that rose from all the machines, connecting them to the ceiling. In this area of idiosyncratically designed and constructed machines, the constant was the network of pip
es criss-crossing the ceiling.

  Kingsley’s random course became more deliberate as he traced the pipes to their source at the distant far end of the workshop and a plan started to evolve in his mind. He vaulted conveyor belts and slid under benches, swerving around Neanderthals who blundered out of clouds of steam. He avoided any fisticuffs and backed off rather than come to close quarters. Keep moving. Keep moving.

  The source of the pipes was one and a half machines against the far wall of the workshop, underneath a complex delivery system of racks, tracks and containers. One of the machines was all brass and wood, a work of ornamental art. Its companion was still under construction and was more humble, composed mostly of gigantic rubber bladders strapped into a mesh of steel and pipes.

  Phlogiston extractors. Just as Evadne had predicted.

  Panting, Kingsley looked about for what he knew must be there. The pipework – where did it connect to the phlogiston extractors?

  The racks, the containers. The glowing vial that shot out of the maw of the elegant machine confirmed Kingsley’s guess. He wanted to cheer when it was dumped into a container, then was sucked into the network of pipes.

  Kingsley had seen a pneumatic capsule delivery system before in the House of Commons. In front of him was an eccentric, handcrafted version delivering phlogiston to the dozens of machines in the workshop.

  He had a target for Evadne’s anti-phlogiston.

  He didn’t hesitate. He took the vial from his pocket and sprinted at the extractors, desperation driving him forward. As much as he might feel sorry for the Neanderthals, he couldn’t let them proceed with their plan.

  They moved to block him but he wove between them, ducking, rolling and coming to his feet, squeezing between shuddering metal uprights before reaching his target. With a bound, he was on top of the more elegant machine while Neanderthals cried out in alarm. He ran along its length and then hurled himself at the shelves. He clung to a canister with one hand while a metal basket buzzed back and forth just above his head like a wasp. With dismay, he felt the canister start to tear loose from the rock, but before it could give way he slammed the tiny vial into the hole in the brass pipe.

  It disappeared.

  Within seconds, a vast metal press nearby where two Neanderthals were cutting a sheet of corrugated iron began to turn red. An instant later, it became a blazing white and started to melt. The operators fled, crying out in alarm.

  Then the giant extraction fans in the ceiling exploded, sending sparks and a hail of hot metal flying through the air.

  The Neanderthals working on the half-completed extractor gaped for a split-second and then downed tools more quickly than a well-organised strike. As one, they ran. The biggest grabbed an iron bar and hammered at anything in his path to raise the alarm, shouting, ‘Run! Run!’

  Kingsley had already dropped to the abandoned extractor, landing lightly. He dashed for the nearest stairs.

  Overhead, the feeder pipes were changing colour. The brass deepened, becoming ruddy, and a low hum emanated from them as they started to vibrate. The ominous change spread as the anti-phlogiston sought phlogiston to annihilate.

  Kingsley reached the stairs and risked a look back. The machines nearest the phlogiston extractors were shaking, rattling and casting parts about in the same way dandelions lose their fluff. They looked like children’s toys as they vibrated, torn apart from the inside.

  The chaos spread. Neanderthals were crowding the lifts and moving stairways, but the more wary ones avoided them knowing that they, too, were phlogiston powered and would be caught in the wave of phlogiston–antiphlogiston antagonism. Some were stampeding in Kingsley’s direction and he saw that even though his nimbleness would keep him ahead of the relatively ponderous Neanderthals, he shouldn’t tarry.

  He counted accurately and left the stairwell to find himself, blessedly, in the prison level. He sprinted up the slope, vaulted over the counter of the monitoring station and dragged the wheelchair out from under the desk. His hand trembled uncharacteristically as he worked at the lock; he couldn’t block out the unnatural screaming noise that was coming up through the floor at his feet, which was vibrating so hard Kingsley thought it might come apart.

  His foster father struggled gamely until he was sitting up. ‘Hello, Kingsley. Have we found a propitious moment?’

  ‘To escape? We certainly have. I have an appointment for afternoon tea.’

  The Olympic Stadium was a vast bowl full of noise. It was the noise of 80,000 people enjoying the afternoon sun, a crowd that had already had a fine day’s athletic entertainment but was looking forward to what promised to be a splendid awards ceremony. The band of the Grenadier Guards played what was meant to be selections from the national anthems of the competing nations, but which became, by force of repetition, a compote of brassy tunes. On the east side of the track, the second and third placegetters were assembling, readying to march to the Royal Box and receive their awards, many nations mixing in camaraderie unhindered by differences in language or background.

  It was an entirely civilised scene, but one that Kingsley was far too busy to bask in. ‘Screwdriver,’ he said to Evadne. ‘The short-handled one.’

  She passed the screwdriver over his shoulder. The access panel was awkwardly placed behind one of the pillars that supported the banks of seating overhead, but this location made it unobtrusive, something that Kingsley was sure the Immortals had planned.

  The covered way that ran beneath and behind the banks of seating allowed access to dressing rooms, refreshments, committee facilities and offices, and also provided a full perimeter around the huge stadium. A perfect location, Evadne had calculated, for the Immortals’ harvesting devices to absorb the outpouring of positive animus that the culmination of the Olympic Games would produce.

  Kingsley gingerly removed the last screw and eased the metal plate aside. ‘You’re sure this is the last one?’ he asked Evadne, without taking his eyes from his task.

  ‘My Ether Disturbance Monitor says so.’ She put a hand on his shoulder, leaned, and waggled a shiny object in front of his nose.

  ‘I still think it looks like a tobacco tin with some holes cut in it.’

  ‘It may once have been a tobacco tin, but Westminster Abbey was once a heap of rough stone lying about in a marsh.’

  ‘I withdraw my observation. It’s a cathedral among monitors. Now, if you’ll just take it away I’ll be able to see what I’m doing here.’

  A wave of applause and cheering came to them, but Kingsley didn’t look up. He was secure in the fact that almost everyone in the vicinity was out watching the parade and readying for the award ceremony – and any who were left would hardly notice them in the Demimonde accoutrements Evadne had provided. When he’d finally helped his foster father to her refuge, exhausted and filthy after their flight from the Neanderthals’ home, he’d wanted nothing more than to sleep, but she had thrown these clothes at him and dragged him out – leaving Dr Ward under the medical care of the mysterious and stately Lady Aglaia, who Kingsley would have enjoyed questioning about Evadnes past.

  He didn’t like the way the grey flannel coat fitted him, while the cloth cap was itchy on his sweaty brow. Evadne, however, looked a treat with her hair tucked under the cap and the sleeves of her coat folded up. The outfit was a veritable guarantee that they could work away unnoticed and undisturbed, especially with the toolbox each had, and the sheaf of forms that Evadne tucked into her coat pocket. Brandishing these would be certain to turn away any half-interested official or policeman, convincing them that they had more pressing business elsewhere.

  He leaned the metal plate against the wall and peered into the space he’d revealed. The tangle of wires was almost familiar after the four other devices they’d removed. It was more like a nest than a logical array of elements, and sitting in the middle of the nest was a fist-sized dodecahedron
, its pentagonal sides glowing a baleful red.

  Kingsley licked his lips. Inside, his wild self was wisely insisting that he cut and run. He soothed it by promising himself that was just what he’d do – making sure Evadne was ahead of him – if the object moved, changed shape, or started talking.

  A shocking thought pushed itself on him. Could the Immortals have been planning to take advantage of the extraordinary gathering by turning it sour, setting troublemakers loose in the crowd, sowing discord and ill-will, setting spectator against spectator? Could that provide an outpouring of hateful animus ready for gathering?

  Music seeped through the stands: ‘See the Conquering Hero Comes’. Sprightly, happy, greeted by cheering and a rolling wave of laughter. No hateful animus there, just the bonhomie of people assembled to give thanks and acclamation to the strong, the fleet and the nimble from all around the world.

  No, whatever the Immortals had been planning, it wasn’t something as vile as that.

  Satisfied, fingers extended, he gently plucked the dodecahedron from its surrounds. It came away easily, and immediately the blood-red glow began to fade, exactly as had happened with the other four.

  ‘All safe?’ he asked Evadne.

  A pause. Then: ‘The ether has calmed. All is steady.’

  Kingsley sighed. Unwilling to leave a job half-done, he screwed the access plate back. He stood and gave the inert harvester to Evadne. She took it solemnly and placed it in a bag in her toolbox.

  ‘I think I know what they were collecting,’ Kingsley said.

  A roar shook the stands above them. Had Queen Alexandra arrived?

  ‘High spirits?’ Evadne guessed. ‘Good nature? Jollity?’

  ‘Civilisation. It’s as Kipling said: this is the greatest expression of the influence of civilisation of this age.’