THE H-BOMB GIRL

by Stephen Baxter

  Mort hurried forward and pushed him off the map.

  Laura turned to Miss Wells. “But if you change history you won’t be able to go home again, will you? Back to your 2007. Because everything will be different.”

  “Oh, no,” Miss Wells said. She was smiling, but it was forced. “We will be stranded, the only survivors of our future. Just as Agatha is the only survivor of her timeline. But that doesn’t matter. My place would be here, to finish what we’ve started. To make the future perfect.”

  Bernadette said, “You’re unhappy, so you smash everything up. Is that what it’s all about, Miss Wells?”

  Miss Wells turned on her. “You won’t understand me if you live for a century.”

  “Time’s up,” the Minuteman said. “It’s now nineteen hundred local. Seven p.m. By twenty-one hundred I want Mort at angels thirty, thirty thousand feet, on his way to London.” He glared at Laura. “Decision time, missy.”

  Laura pulled the Key on its chain out of the throat of her coverall, and lifted it off her neck. It was a beautiful object, she thought, finely tooled, exquisitely made for its job. Just like the war machines stacked up around the planet, all waiting to be launched.

  “I think I wish Dad had never given this to me,” she said.

  “But he did,” Miss Wells said.

  The huge room went quiet, save for the chattering of the computers. Laura had the sense that everybody was watching her, even in the other war rooms and bunkers around the world. Everybody waiting for her choice.

  “But it’s not much of a choice,” she said. “Between a nuclear desert, Agatha’s world. And a planet that’s a huge prison, Miss Wells’s world. Either way my dad dies in the next few hours, doesn’t he? Well, no bombs have fallen yet. I want to keep it that way.”

  She boldly walked over to the nuclear pool and held the Key out over the water.

  There was a soft clicking all around the chamber, as weapons were made ready to fire.

  “Don’t do it,” Miss Wells said. “It’s only the Key that is keeping you alive, Laura.”

  “And you’re out of time, missy,” the Minuteman said.

  “Oh, shut your gob.”

  It was Nick. He was pointing a revolver at the Minuteman.

  Nick had been hiding behind a computer stack. He wore a technician’s NBC suit, which was how he had sneaked around the complex without getting caught. Now he had the hood pulled back, to reveal a bandage wrapped around his forehead. He was deathly pale.

  He grinned. “Glad to see me, girls?”

  Bernadette said, “You look dog rough. You sure you know what you’re doing with that gun?”

  “What gun?… I’m joking! You do fuss, Bern. Well, now, isn’t this nice? What shall we do? I know. I Spy With My Little Eye, something beginning with N.”

  “Nutters,” said Bernadette immediately.

  “Yeah. Too easy. Your go.”

  The Minuteman’s face was twisted with fury. He seemed to be straining to get out of his chair. Mort put a hand on his shoulder. The Minuteman said, “This changes nothing, you little faggot.”

  Nick said, “You don’t scare me, Pinky and Perky. Of course that could be the drugs talking.”

  The Minuteman yelled at Laura, “Girly, thirty more seconds and I’m going to prise that Key out of your dead fingers. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight.”

  For all Nick’s bravado, Laura knew she was running out of bluff. In seconds, they could all be dead, and a nuclear war inevitable.

  She reached for Mum’s hand, and grasped it.

  Then there was a crashing noise.

  Everybody looked around.

  It sounded like electric guitars, echoing from beyond the walls.

  Chapter 27

  That Saturday evening, Joel had broken the teenagers’ curfew.

  There had been no posters, no announcements on Radio Luxembourg, no new editions of Mersey Beat. But even in a city under military law, word of mouth still worked. If parents and teachers couldn’t put a stop to it, half-trained scuffers and squaddies certainly wouldn’t.

  And Joel had heard whispers of one last concert.

  So, with thousands of others, he crept through streets strewn with broken glass and bullet casings to the Cavern.

  He had been alone since Miss Wells and her tunnelling machine had swept in to “save” Laura and the others, and he had managed to slip away in the confusion. He had stayed in the shadows, lingering in holes in the ground, drinking from broken water pipes, eating whatever he could scavenge. For fear of being swept up by soldiers or scuffers, he hadn’t even dared go home. He was still trying to think of a way to tell his family he was safe.

  It wasn’t exactly fun. But he was getting good at it, he thought, this life as a human rat.

  But now there was this concert. One last huge gesture of defiance. And he decided he wasn’t about to miss that, curfew or no curfew, no matter who was after him.

  When he got to Mathew Street there were no queues of shop girls and schoolkids. The night was silent save for an occasional police siren, and, far off, angry shouts and cries. But there was the Cavern entrance, a deep dark mouth, waiting.

  When he thought there was nobody about, Joel took his chance and legged it over the road.

  He made his way down the steep, worn steps, slick with old sweat, so familiar from the hundred or more concerts he’d been to down here.

  No bouncers on the door. Nobody collecting any money, no Cilla collecting coats. It wasn’t like the Cavern’s owners to miss out on a bit of profit, but there you were.

  Inside, the Cavern’s gloomy arches were lit only by candles and what looked like oil lanterns. No power on. The vaulted ceiling made the place look like an old, run-down monastery. But the walls were still coated with tatty posters for Rory Storm and the Hurricanes and Gerry and the Pacemakers.

  And there were teenagers crowded in here. There must have been hundreds of them, shoved up against each other in the dark, hard to see in the dim light. They didn’t make much noise. Everybody spoke in whispers, if at all. Nobody mucked about or threw water bombs or wrestled. The faces, glowing in the candlelight, looked pinched, hungry, some a bit grubby.

  But they had all come in their finery, Joel saw, the girls in their beehives and stilettos and slacks, the Teds in their frock coats, the Mods in their parkas. While the adult world went mad above ground, everybody had come down here to celebrate what they had, one last time.

  “Hello, Joel.”

  Joel swung around.

  “Hey, take it easy. It’s just us.”

  Joel found himself facing the Woodbines: Mickey Poole, Paul Gillespie, Bert Muldoon. Even Billy Waddle, skulking at the back.

  Mickey said, “What are you doing breaking the curfew? Don’t you know there’s a war on?”

  Bert Muldoon, in his filthy sheepskin coat, looked as out of it as ever. “What war?”

  Billy Waddle, father of Bernadette’s baby, just looked shifty. He wouldn’t look Joel in the eye.

  “Where have you lot been?”

  “At home with my mum,” Mickey said. “What about you?”

  “Hiding. Long story.”

  “Where’s our lead singer?”

  Bert said, “What lead singer?”

  “Another long story. He took a good kicking that night, Mickey. Head injury, I think.”

  “Nothing serious then,” Mickey said, but the black humour was forced. “Do you know where he is?”

  “Sort of.”

  Mickey looked at him. “You on your own? Well, you stick with us. You’ll be all right.”

  Suddenly there was a crashing electric guitar chord, a howl of feedback. Electric light flooded, and Joel was dazzled. There must be a generator, then.

  Everybody turned to the stage.

  A thin, sardonic young man in a collarless jacket stood at the front of the stage, a rhythm guitar slung around his neck. Behind him, a big-eyed bass player patiently tuned his left-handed instrument. A young-looking lead guita
rist winked at the girls in the crowd. A big-nosed drummer played cheesy riffs on his snare drum. They were silhouetted by the lights, wreathed in ciggie smoke. Clean, sharp, intelligent, they looked like gods, Joel thought.

  The sardonic one with the rhythm guitar grabbed a mike. “Sergeant Lennon here and you’re all under arrest. Well, you lot sound happy, considering you’re all about to die…” That drew an ironic cheer, and there was a clatter of feet as everybody rushed to the stage.

  Joel was swept up by the excitement. But he’d learned caution, these last few hours of hiding. In the light from the stage he took a good look around the club for the first time.

  At the back there were some older men, half a dozen of them, big, beefy men in overcoats. Alarm bells rang in Joel’s head. They stood near another older man Joel had seen before. He was thin, posh-looking, maybe thirty, with a neat suit and an old-fashioned haircut. A word came into Joel’s head: dapper. Joel thought he was something to do with the group, their manager maybe.

  One of the heavies produced a lighter. The dapper man leaned, elegantly, to light his cigarette. The heavy’s coat fell open. Underneath was a camouflage jacket.

  Joel turned and ran.

  And he collided with a pillar of a man in a blue air-force uniform. Joel bounced off his chest and went flying back. He knocked down a couple of girls. One of them belted him with her handbag. “Oi! You with the head! Watch what you’re doing!”

  He ignored the girls’ squeals, and got to his feet.

  Two massive hands caught his arms. He struggled, but he was held, as if by iron bars.

  “Joel. It is Joel, isn’t it? Take it easy.”

  “Hey.” Mickey Poole challenged the man. “Get off him, Douglas Bader.”

  The big man didn’t take his eyes off Joel. “I’m not going to hurt you.” His face was grave, strong. “I’ve been looking for you. My name is Harry Mann. I’m an officer in the RAF.”

  “You’re Laura’s dad.”

  “Yes. And I need your help. Come on.”

  Harry led Joel to the back of the Cavern.

  The Woodbines followed, still suspicious.

  At the back of the hall, Harry nodded to his men, and shook the hand of the dapper man. “Thank you, Brian.” He said to Joel, “I had a feeling I’d find at least one of you here, when I heard about the concert. This gentleman was kind enough to point you out.”

  “What’s going on, Mister Mann?”

  “Tonight I’m Harry. Got that? And these chaps here are military policemen. We’ve got more troops outside. A few hundred actually.”

  “I didn’t see them,” Joe said ruefully.

  “Well, that’s their job.” His accent was almost comically Spitfire-pilot, like Terry Thomas or David Niven. He was immensely reassuring to Joel, now he was here, and in command.

  “You’ve come for Laura, haven’t you?”

  “I certainly have, and about ruddy time. She has a Key.”

  “I know about that.”

  “Yes, more than you should, I dare say. The point is that it has a little radio gadget buried inside the plastic. It gives off a tiny signal—not much, but enough to pick up if you know what you’re looking for.”

  “You tracked the Key.”

  “Precisely. And as it happens, the Key, I presume still in Laura’s possession—”

  “Yes.”

  “—is just the other side of that wall.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not at all. There aren’t that many tunnels under Liverpool, for heaven’s sake. And in a few minutes we’re going to go busting through the brickwork and then we’ll see what’s what. Eh?

  “Now, look here, Joel. We know we’re dealing with some rum coves here. I’ve been finding out about them since Laura told me she was having trouble with Mort. We know they are calling themselves the ‘Hegemony.’ Warmongers—there’s always a few of those bally fools about. There’ve been rumours of some kind of conspiracy that might even cross the Iron Curtain. Now they’ve been whipping everybody up, forcing through evacuation and martial law, making the authorities overreact to the whole Cuba mess. There’s really been no need for all this, and now we’re going to sort it out. What I need to know from you is what we’re going to come up against on the other side of that wall.”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Joel said. He couldn’t tell Harry that Miss Wells and the Minuteman were from the future. Laura’s dad or not, he just wouldn’t believe it, and they would all waste time. “They’re soldiers. A military organisation. I don’t know what they’ll have. But they’re armed.”

  “Well, so are we,” Harry said grimly. “Private Cooper here is carrying what can only be described as a bazooka. Don’t ask where he’s hiding it. One reason for your pinched expression, eh, Hen-coop?”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “We’re just waiting for this beat combination to start up their racket. They’re sure to be heard from the other side of this bally wall. That might distract our opponents while we blow in the brickwork, just for a second or two. Surprise, you see, Joel. A second can make all the difference.”

  “The difference between life and death?” Joel asked.

  Harry looked at him. “You know, you shouldn’t be here. Chaps like you are supposed to be protected from this sort of thing by chaps like me. You stick with me when the balloon goes up.”

  Mickey Poole stepped forward. “What do you want us to do?”

  Harry looked at him dubiously. “Thanks for the offer. Leave it to the professionals.”

  “They’ve got our pals in there.” He glanced at Joel. “And our lead singer?”

  Joel nodded.

  Private Cooper murmured, “Extra bodies wouldn’t hurt, sir, if it comes to hand to hand. And besides, when we blow the walls in half this crowd of capering kids is going to fall through with us.”

  Bert Muldoon growled, “Hand to hand? Fist to goolie more like.”

  Mickey Poole grinned. “Woodbines to the rescue. They’ll make a film out of this.”

  Joel saw that Billy Waddle was trying to back off. “What about you, Billy? Bern’s in there. With your kid inside her.”

  “It wasn’t my fault. It’s up to the bird not to get up the duff.”

  The other Woodbines glared at him.

  Joel said, “You’ve run out on her once before. You going to run again?”

  “All right, all right,” Billy said. “Count me in.”

  Harry looked at the group on stage, who were still fixing their instruments, messing with their amps, mucking about with the crowd. “Take their time, don’t they?”

  “That’s musicians for you,” Joel said.

  “If you can call them that. Not my cup of tea, I’m afraid.” Harry grinned at the dapper man. “Do you think your boys will make enough noise to cover us?”

  “Oh, I think so. That’s the one thing they’re good at, above all else.”

  “Thanks for all your help, Mr Epstein.”

  That sardonic voice sounded from the stage again, now hugely amplified. “Well, we’re in tune. Or as much as we ever are. Thanks very much for coming. Or if you didn’t come, thanks for nothing, but you’re not here, so what do I care. The four minute warning’s just sounded, but George has been taking his slimming pills so we should be able to pack in a full set…”

  The crowd roared, and surged forward again. On stage, smoke curling around them, the dazzling light caught the musicians’ hair and profiles. Before the stage, under the Cavern’s brick arches, shining young faces swayed like flowers.

  “Our first number’s called ‘I Saw Her Standing There.’ One two three four!”

  A guitar lick crashed down from the brick roof, and the group just launched themselves into the music. The song was a driving rocker, and the words, blunt and direct, were about sex and lust and joy. Everybody screamed, and the noise and the energy in the Cavern rose and rose.

  Joel stopped thinking. He gave himself up to the music, and jumped and yelle
d with everybody else. Just for a few seconds he forgot everything in his complicated life except the primal force of the song. Just for a few seconds, he was at home.

  The group crashed into a howling middle eight, and everybody screamed louder.

  And it was back to business.

  “This is it,” Harry yelled over the din. “Joel, you stay behind me. Behind me, got that? Cooper, you others, you know what to do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “OK. Tally ho.”

  Cooper raised his bazooka.

  Chapter 28

  The wall blew in, showering old bricks and bits of silver panelling over the computer banks.

  And a horde of Liverpool teenagers burst through the hole in the wall, like rats from a broken sewer. Girls with pencil skirts or slacks and towering beehives, and Teds with quiffs and drainpipes, ran screaming across the floor of the computer pit. Surrounded by the silver walls and fluorescent lights and flashing computer panels, they were laughing and yelling, full of youth and energy. All this to a drive of rock music, belting in from the dark spaces beyond the broken wall.

  Laura’s group just stood and stared, amazed.

  Then the fighting started. Two Teds caught one of the Hegemony technicians and ripped off the hood of his NBC suit. Some of the girls took off their stilettos and began smashing at monitors, and they ripped reels and paper tapes out of the computers. Telly screens flickered and went blank.

  Among the youngsters there were soldiers, Laura saw now. Big men taking off overcoats to reveal camouflage uniforms with “MP” arm bands. They had guns.

  But so did the Hegemony people. Mort produced a pistol and began firing in the air, trying to scare the crowd. The teenagers screamed and scattered. But they kept fighting, and hacking at the equipment.

  Laura looked around. With Bernadette, Mum, Agatha and Nick, she was still backed up against the nuclear pool. There was nowhere for them to run.

  The Minuteman had got his chair moving. His face was a mask of pure hatred. “I’ll beat you yet, you little witch!” He drove his chair straight at Laura.