Parry shot a glance at Colonel Bismarck, who merely nodded. “But what the historians don’t know is that these teams weren’t entirely autonomous. Major initiatives were to be orchestrated from the tactical ops room right here in the Complex, known as the Hub. It’s still here, and we still call it that.”
“So what’s the Complex used for now?” Mr. Rawls asked.
“It’s kept ticking over just in case it’s needed at some time in the future,” Parry answered. “And I reckon that time has come.”
He stopped speaking as they all heard a clanking sound. It seemed to be coming from behind the armor-plate door, although it was difficult to tell because it was so distant. The sound came again, only louder this time, then was repeated several more times.
Then the large door in front of them slowly ground open. Chester and Colonel Bismarck shone their flashlights into the square passageway, its walls painted cream white and its floor a waxy green. But their beams didn’t penetrate very far down it, and beyond was an ominous and unbroken darkness.
Then lights came in the far distance.
“How long is it?” Chester asked, as he squinted at them.
Parry didn’t reply as more banks of strip lights flickered on, coming closer each time.
They heard a whirring noise from somewhere in the unlit portion of the passageway.
“What’s that?” Mr. Rawls asked, stepping back with concern.
“The last remaining Knight Protector,” Parry chuckled.
The strip lights came on in the room where they were all standing.
In the same instant an elderly man on a mobility scooter shot into view before them, executing a sliding stop on the linoleum flooring with a squeal.
Stephanie giggled.
Behind him more than a dozen cats, all of different colors and ages, were scampering along the passage as they hurried to catch up with him.
“Sergeant Finch,” Parry said, going over to give the old man a hearty handshake. As if somehow he’d shrunk, Sergeant Finch’s fawn beret seemed to be several sizes too big for him, flopping forward over his bushy white eyebrows. He was dressed in a khaki-colored cardigan, and a pair of crutches was tucked into a sling at the back of his scooter.
“Commander, ’ow very good to see you again, sir.” Sergeant Finch grinned. “Apologies for not getting up, but me legs aren’t what they used to be.”
“You and me both,” Parry said, raising his walking stick.
Sergeant Finch glanced down at a cat that had made itself at home between his feet on the scooter. “An’ apologies for the formalities at the front entrance. You know I ’ave to follow protocol.”
“Of course you do,” Parry assured him.
Sergeant Finch was looking around at everyone. His gaze came to rest on Colly, who’d taken several tentative steps from behind Mrs. Burrows to sniff at one of the more courageous cats. “That’s not a dog, is it, Commander? Can’t ’ave no dog running loose down ’ere. Not with my c —”
“Don’t worry — she’s a cat, too. Just rather a big one,” Mrs. Burrows spoke up.
It was odd to watch Colly towering over the other cats who, smelling one of their own, were rapidly overcoming their fear. They began to throng around her, rubbing themselves against her and mewing.
“What will they think of next?” Sergeant Finch exclaimed. “’Ad no idea that cats like that were being bred back in the world!” Shaking his head, he leaned forward in his seat to take some clipboards and a batch of cheap ballpoint pens from the pannier attached to his handlebars. “First things first. I need you each to sign this form in triplicate before I can allow you to go any farther.”
Parry made a face. “Oh yes, I forgot all about the paperwork.”
“So what is this?” Mr. Rawls asked as he took a clipboard and scanned the form.
Sergeant Finch wagged a finger at him. “No, no, sir — you can’t read it. You’re not permitted to read it. It’s the SOSA — the Special Official Secrets Act,” he explained.
“What?” Mr. Rawls burst out. “If I can’t read it, then how do I know what I’m agreeing to?”
“You don’t,” Parry said, smiling. “It’s so top secret that you’re only allowed to read it after you’ve signed it.”
“Barmy,” Mr. Rawls muttered, dashing off his signature, then turning to the next copy on the clipboard.
After everyone had completed the requisite forms to Sergeant Finch’s satisfaction — including Mrs. Burrows, who had to be shown where to sign — they all followed him down the passage. It was several hundred feet in length, and along the sides were racks of battered metal helmets, gas masks, bicycles that looked as though they dated from the 1940s, and similarly old-fashioned radios in canvas haversacks.
As they went, Sergeant Finch used a control on the handlebars of his scooter to activate the section doors in the passageway behind them. With a press on each numbered red button, another slab of heavy metal would grind across with the clanking noises they’d heard before, sealing the way out.
“So Danforth’s here already?” Parry asked.
“Yes, the Professor’s in the Hub, sir,” Sergeant Finch replied. “He’s been connecting up his new gizmos.”
Parry nodded. “We’d better go and check on how he’s doing.”
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Finch acknowledged, the wheels on his scooter squeaking on the linoleum flooring as he picked up speed down the slight incline. Colly trotted along quickly in front of the human contingent, all the cats flocking after her in a herd. The Hunter seemed to be more animated than she had been in a long time, but that was probably because a playful kitten kept attempting to jump on her with its tiny claws extended.
Danforth barely glanced up as they entered the Hub, transfixed by the screen of his laptop. “You need to see this,” he said. “It’s the main item on all the US channels.”
The Hub was a large circular space, and in the middle were five banks of long desks that supported old telephones and oak boards dotted with clunky-looking dials. Down one whole side of the Hub were Perspex screens, which extended the full height from floor to ceiling and on which various maps of the British Isles had been painted in heavy black outlines. Chester hovered by one that showed the south of England and right across the Channel to the French coastline.
Danforth was at the very front of the room. From a panel in the wall next to him spilled a tangled spaghetti of cables, and these twitched as he fiddled with something behind his laptop. “If I can just get this redundant piece of junk to work,” he muttered, waving a hand in the direction of a large screen on the wall above him, “we’ll all be able to watch in glorious Technicolor.”
The screen suddenly swam with rapidly moving jagged lines. “Almost got it,” Danforth said as the image of a person loomed from the static, then was gone again. Changing a setting on his laptop, Danforth announced, “And if we apply a little attenuation . . . hey presto!”
“CNN?” Parry asked as he frowned at the picture on the screen — a news anchor behind a desk — although as yet there was no sound. “Is this what you wanted us to see?”
“Yes,” Danforth replied. “The item’s running on all the news channels over in the US CNN, Fox, ABC — take your pick.”
Sergeant Finch was gawping openmouthed at the picture. “Is this the TV? I’ve never ’ad the TV down ’ere before.”
“The whole electricity pylon up top was designed to be a powerful radio antenna, but there are also a couple of satellite dishes concealed in it. I managed to tap into the feed from one of them,” Danforth said. “And . . . with a bit of Heath Robinson ingenuity . . . finally . . . we should have sound.” There was an earsplitting screech from the speakers around the walls as he tweaked another setting on his laptop.
Everyone had gathered before the large screen except Mrs. Burrows, who was kneeling beside Colly as she kept the overzealous kitten away from her.
The anchor wore a grim expression. “Only now are details being released by the Department of Home
land Security about the explosion that killed three members of the Senate and four other people outside a government building on Capitol Hill late yesterday. Erroneous reports had been circulating that a car bomb was responsible for the explosion.”
There were shots of American military personnel manning a barricade across a road. Then the camera zoomed past them for a close-up of several burned-out cars around which people in white forensic suits were milling.
“But this is now known not to be the case. Security footage has revealed that the explosive device was carried by a middle-aged man who appears to have been operating without accomplices.” The anchor came on-screen again. “A few hours ago at a press briefing, Homeland Security released this statement.”
A woman was at a podium, a sea of reporters in the long room before her. “The alleged bomber has been identified as an American citizen —” A loud ripple of amazement went through the reporters as hands shot up. “Please — I’ll be taking questions in a moment,” the spokesperson said, and waited for the reporters to quiet down again. “Thank you,” the woman continued as the clamor subsided. “Identified as an American citizen who has resided in Great Britain for the last five years, where he worked on television documentaries.”
Mrs. Burrows was on her feet.
“A recent photograph of the alleged bomber has been released,” the spokesperson continued as a picture flashed up on the screen.
“Can you see him? Will you describe him? Please!” Mrs. Burrows demanded anxiously.
Everyone in the Hub was looking at her, except Parry.
“Late thirties, about two hundred pounds, longish curly hair, beard . . . ,” Parry began.
“Ben,” Mrs. Burrows gasped, realizing it had to be the American television producer she’d befriended in Highfield.
Parry didn’t need to complete the description as the spokesperson continued. “According to the passenger logs at JFK, Benjamin Wilbrahams arrived on a flight from London in the early hours of yesterday morning, and then drove a rented car from the airport to Washington, DC. Although all commercial flights to and from the United Kingdom have been suspended for the past two weeks, Wilbrahams was on one of the special US Air Force repatriation flights. He was subjected to a full security check before being allowed to board. A device was not detected in his luggage or on his person; however, it is believed that he might have had it concealed inside his body, similar to the Human Bombs dispatched from England to other European countries, which have been all too numerous in recent weeks.”
The reporters at the media briefing in the long room were now completely silent.
The news anchor reappeared on the screen. “Following the oil spill debacle on the American Gulf Coast, hostility toward Britain has never been higher than in the past few years. And this incident, in which one of our own citizens has somehow been coerced into perpetrating a horrific act of terrorism on US soil, has taken anti-British sentiment to a new high. There have been demonstrations outside the British Embassy in New York and several British consulates across the country.”
The picture switched to a heaving crowd bristling with placards.
“Our American sons gave their lives to help England conquer Germany in the last war. And this . . . this is how they repay us!” a man fumed as he brandished a fist at the camera.
“Just look at all the terrorist factions they’ve let into their country. This was going to happen — it was only a matter of time,” another man said.
Then a woman began to chant, “Nuke the Brits! Nuke the Brits!”
“Very clever. The Styx have made sure there’ll be no help coming from our cousins across the Atlantic,” Danforth said.
“That’s enough,” Parry decided. “Turn it off.”
As the screen went dark, everyone turned to Mrs. Burrows. “They used Ben. He must have been Darklit to oblivion,” she said quietly, her head bowed. “He didn’t deserve to die like that.”
Parry cleared his throat uncomfortably. Exchanging a glance with Old Wilkie, he went over to Stephanie. “I think the time has come for you and me to have a proper chat.”
Stephanie didn’t respond with any of her usual shrill exuberance, but instead nodded meekly. Chester felt a surge of sympathy for the girl — it was obvious that she hadn’t yet been told quite how serious the situation was.
“And the rest of you check in with Sergeant Finch about your rooms,” Parry said. “At least you’ll be comfortable here — the sleeping quarters in the level below aren’t far off a five-star hotel.”
WILL HAD NEVER seen Drake look so worried, as he drew his gaze up to Eddie’s face and then spoke. “Tell me something,” he said. “How do you know for certain that this so-called Phase is really taking place? Have any of your men seen it with their own eyes? And where’s it going on?” he asked in quick succession.
“Oh, it’s going on all right, but we don’t know where,” Eddie replied. “If you’re a Styx, it’s the most powerful force you ever encounter. . . . You can sense it with every single cell in your body. All my men can. We’ve known it was on the way for a while. And the Styx women, wherever they are, will have felt it long before us. The urge is far more powerful in them. It’s the irresistible and overwhelming summons to reproduce. It’s . . .” — Eddie paused as he chose the right way to express himself — “it’s as though a clarion call is transmitted through the air . . . a chemical trigger.”
“Pheromones,” Drake suggested, drawing in a breath.
Eddie appeared to be so deep in thought that he hadn’t heard. “The trigger instigates . . . coordinates . . . the Phase, whether anybody wants it or not. Our women transform into something different, something terrifying. And what they unleash — the Warrior Class — wipes the board clean of any species that aren’t regarded as food stocks. Out with the old.”
“Us included?” Drake said.
“Yes, any life-form that poses even the remotest threat to Styx dominance will be eradicated. That means open season on all humans.” Catching a movement outside the Humvee, Eddie noticed a red squirrel as it shinnied down a tree trunk. He pointed at it. “In the same way that species was once the dominant one, before the gray variety pushed it out.”
“But this Warrior Class you’re talking about — they’re still only physical. Even if they’re some kind of mega-Limiter, well-armed Topsoilers could stop them, couldn’t they?” Drake asked. “Particularly if we get ourselves organized.”
“That’s a monumentally big if. They thrive on chaos. They are chaos,” Eddie said. “And if you engage them, and somehow manage to gain the upper hand, there’s the possibility of a second stage.”
“I don’t think I want to hear this,” Drake groaned as Eddie hunted for a page in the Book of Proliferation, then held it up.
“What the heck are those?” Will asked.
The woodcut illustration occupied a full page but was divided into three boxes, which showed the sky, the land, and, at the bottom, an area of water covered in spume and waves, which was probably meant to suggest the sea. And in each of the boxes were inexplicable creatures. Other than the deadly teeth and claws, the only aspect the creatures had in common was that the artist had attempted to show they were transparent or semitransparent. Apart from this, each creature seemed to be adapted for its environment, the uppermost one with two sets of batlike wings, the middle one with three pairs of legs, and the aquatic one with fins.
“If all else fails, the success of the Phase is guaranteed by this,” Eddie said. “This is the backstop . . . this is the ‘Armagi.’ ”
“The Armagi?” Drake repeated carefully.
“It’s the basis for the word ‘Armageddon,’ which has nothing to do with a place where some mythical final battle is going to take place, as many faiths would have you believe. But it is sort of the end . . . the end of the humans’ time on Earth,” Eddie said.
“Sort of?” Will repeated, almost wanting to laugh because he couldn’t cope with what he was hearing.
“According to our legends, the Armagi are continually adapting organisms, capable of regenerating an entirely new body from even a tiny piece of tissue. You take one apart, and you give rise to a legion. In scientific terms you could describe them as entire clusters of neoblasts, with the gift of being able to differentiate into whatever configuration of genocide machine is required at the particular time.” Eddie closed the book with some force. “So even if you manage to get to the end of the first act — the Warrior Class — the second act will bring the house down. Without knowing it, Vlad the Impaler’s knights forestalled the Armagi because they cremated every single living cell when they torched the catacombs.”
“So we catch the Warrior Class before they’re able to disperse. And we use fire, too,” Drake reasoned. “We cremate everything — the Warriors and the Styx women.”
Will spoke up. “I know you might not think it’s as important as all this, but can I ask something?”
Eddie gave him a nod.
“Is this why the Rebeccas have so much power over the Styx?” Will said.
“All our women possess an ascendancy over male Styx, but the Rebecca twins are from our ruling family.”
“Right . . . and . . . um . . . ,” Will began but seemed uncomfortable with what he wanted to say next.
“Go on,” Drake encouraged him.
“Well . . . where does all this leave Elliott?” the boy asked.
Eddie looked blankly at him. “Where does it leave her? I honestly don’t know. Of course, she’s what the Colonists uncharitably call a Drain Baby since she’s a part-human, part-Styx hybrid. But which genotype is the dominant, I couldn’t tell you. All I can tell you is that she must be kept in isolation if the Phase is affecting her in any way. She’ll be a danger to anyone around her.”
Will swallowed nervously. “Right,” he said, wishing he hadn’t asked.
Sweeney was still guarding the Limiters when Will returned to the ford. The soldiers were all standing in precisely the same spot, and only Mrs. Rawls had moved. She was sitting on the bank with her legs drawn up.