“Patrick?” Maynard asked. “Who the heck is Patrick? And what’s going on here?”
“It’s all right, Maynard,” the new First Officer said as he emerged from what was now his office. He tried again to recall the former First Officer’s name, but it wasn’t there, so he pointed instead. “He’s taking a break, so I’ll be in charge for a while.”
“Mole flaps!” the former First Officer exclaimed, his expression pained. Cleaver and Squeaky dissolved into roars of laughter at hearing him use the swearword. Even Gappy Mulligan, who everyone had assumed had passed out from the drink, because she was lying under the table, began to cackle. “Nope, I ain’t never coming back,” the former First Officer insisted. “Never, never, never.”
“Never,” Squeaky added in his nasal squeak, laughing.
“I heard you say ‘magic,’” the new First Officer asked. “What do you mean?”
“No such fing,” one of the other prisoners commented, and was shushed immediately by Cleaver.
“Listen t’the man,” he urged, in his rumbling baritone voice.
“My boy and me and some others were planning to go through a portal, and up Topsoil to collect a bit of food for everybody. We’ve got some Topsoil money left, and we figured we’d use it to buy a few basics: bread and milk and the like. There’s almost nothing left in my pantry, you know,” he said.
The new First Officer nodded sympathetically. “I know how it is. We have to do something, although we should get ourselves organized first. But what do you mean by ‘magic’? What happened?”
“I’m telling you — it’s Styx magic,” Maynard insisted.
“You’d better show me,” the new First Officer said, taking his truncheon from the peg on the wall and then going through the open counter.
“I’ve got to see this magic for myshelf,” the former First Officer slurred. He had somehow managed to get to his feet, all the prisoners rising with him — even Gappy Mulligan, although she was swaying unpredictably from side to side and singing softly to herself.
Danforth had restored power to the main circuits, so the Complex was no longer lit by the emergency lighting. After her examination, Elliott had gone straight to her quarters and refused to come out, despite Will and Chester’s best efforts. So instead they took it in turns to bring her food and drink.
On one occasion, when Will had turned up with a mug of tea, he found her before the full-length mirror in the wardrobe door, simply rocking up and down on her feet as she looked at herself.
“Are you OK?” he asked, as she continued to regard her reflection.
“I’m not sure I know who I am anymore,” she said to him. “I thought I knew, but I don’t.”
Before Will had time to ask what she meant, she fixed him with her piercing dark eyes. “Do you think differently about me now?” she said, stretching an arm above her head in a balletic movement. Then she let it flop at the elbow, so her fingertips touched the bandage across her back.
“Of course not,” he replied without hesitation.
“But Danforth found early signs of the Phase in me, and that makes me feel like a monster. It makes me something ugly.”
“That’s just silly —” Will began.
“But you don’t look at me in the same way now,” she interrupted. “When you held me earlier on, I could sense it.”
“That’s a load of rubbish,” he puffed indignantly. “And you know it is. You’re just a bit confused.” He remembered why he’d come to see her in the first place, offering her the mug. “You should drink this. Drake told me to put some extra sugar in it — he said it’ll help you get over the shock.” She took the mug, but as Will tried to touch her arm in a gesture of reassurance, she snatched it away, spilling her tea.
He looked down at the tea as it soaked into the carpet. “You’re my friend,” he said. “That will never change. You’re Elliott. And that’s all that matters to me.” Not knowing what else to say, he left the room.
The strange party had followed Maynard up through the tunnel network until they came to the portal. As the new First Officer threaded between the crowd gathered there, he saw Maynard’s son was on the ground, some ten feet from the riveted steel door of the airlock. It was rather unfortunate because the boy was very chubby, and he’d fallen facedown on the ground with his well-padded bottom sticking in the air.
“No closer,” Maynard warned, catching the new First Officer’s arm. “It’s bewitched.”
The new First Officer heeded the advice. “So what happened? Tell me precisely,” he inquired, as he saw the pickax lying on the ground beside the plump boy.
“We thought the Styx might have welded the portal shut, so we were preparing to force our way through,” Maynard replied. “My boy Gregory was the first to reach the door. He’s been very hungry lately and a bit difficult at home. Anyway, he was rushing toward the door and just fell over — like the magic had struck him down.”
“Styx magic. They placed a curse on the portal,” a man in the crowd piped up.
“We’re all doomed,” a woman wailed, which sent a ripple of disquiet through everyone gathered there.
“Poppycock! The Styx don’t have magic,” the former First Officer drawled. “Fat boy passed out from his hunger.” As he wheeled unevenly around, his eyes fell on the prisoner nearest to him. “Cleaver, show them,” he said.
“Cleaver, show them! Cleaver, show them!” Squeaky and the other prisoners began to chant.
Delighted to be the center of attention, Cleaver strode toward the portal in lumbering, confident steps. As he glanced over his shoulder at the other prisoners, they all chanted even louder, cheering him on.
“Cleaver, show them!” the prisoners continued.
“Shaver, clove them!” Gappy Mulligan screeched.
Cleaver was clearly basking in the moment, a big grin pasted across his face. He built up speed, his thick legs pumping as he ran. But as he came to where the plump boy lay, he, too, crumpled to the ground, as if he’d been poleaxed.
As if he’d run straight into an invisible barrier.
All the prisoners ahhhed with disappointment, their chanting immediately dying out.
“It’s magic, I’m telling you. I did try to warn you. The Styx don’t want anyone to escape,” Maynard said. “So what now? We have to get my boy back and see if he’s all right.”
“From now on, nobody goes near any of the portals,” the new First Officer ordered the assembled people. “Is that understood?”
The crowd murmured their agreement.
Turning toward the portal again, the new First Officer took off his helmet and scratched his head for a moment as he thought. “Right . . . I’ll need a grappling hook so I can drag these two out. And someone else fetch a doctor, if there’s still one left in the Colony.” He regarded Cleaver’s huge body, which dwarfed even the vastly overweight boy slumped beside him. “And you’d better make that a big grappling hook,” he added.
Elliott had stripped her rifle down to give it a thorough cleaning. She was in the process of putting it back together again when Stephanie pranced past the open door of her quarters.
“Oh, hi there,” the girl said. “I didn’t know you had this room.” She was wearing a white T-shirt identical to the one Elliott had on, but Stephanie had tied the bottom in a knot so it looked rather more stylish on her.
“I’m so glad you’re all right,” Stephanie said vaguely, eyeing the thick gauze on Elliott’s back, which was difficult to miss. She had begun to follow up with “And not a . . .” but decided better of it and closed her mouth. For once.
Elliott made no effort to reply as she slotted the bolt back into the rifle’s receiver, then worked it several times.
Uncomfortable with the silence between them, Stephanie announced, “I shoot, too.”
“Do you?” Elliott replied quietly. “Not with anything like this.”
“Oooo, can I see?” Stephanie asked eagerly, entering the room in little steps, her hands outstretc
hed.
Elliott sighed. “I suppose so. Just be careful with it — it’s heavy.”
Stephanie took the weapon and, without any hesitation, put it to her shoulder. “It is heavy,” she agreed. “At school I mainly use a .22 for target practice. What caliber is this?” she asked, sliding back the bolt. Elliott had risen to her feet to stop her, but it was unnecessary — Stephanie appeared to know what she was doing. “I guess it’s like a .303 or something,” the girl continued, peering inside the chamber.
Elliott nodded. “You’re close. It’s a .35 and uses a special cartridge with a long casing, so it can take an extra load.”
“Right,” Stephanie said, turning her attention to the bulbous scope mounted on top of the weapon.
“That’s a light-gathering sight; the only place you’ll find anything quite like it is down in the Colony, where they’re hand-built for the Styx. This is a Limiter rifle, and I’ve shot and killed at least ten of them with it. Maybe more, but I wasn’t close enough to know if I’d hit the mark,” Elliott said. When Stephanie didn’t react to this, Elliott frowned. “I’m curious . . . do you mind if I ask you something . . . ?” she began.
“Totally,” Stephanie answered brightly, lowering the weapon to her hip and twisting from one side to the other as if she was spraying an invisible foe with a submachine gun. To make matters worse, she blew through her lips in an imitation of rapid gunfire.
“Ha.” Elliott swallowed, trying to resist the temptation to cuff the girl.
“What did you want to ask me?” Stephanie said, unaware of Elliott’s scornful expression.
“Will briefed you on the situation, so you know about the Phase and how serious things are. And because you’re with us, you’re marked by the Styx. There’s absolutely no way you can go home now,” Elliott said with overbrutal directness.
Stephanie looked inquiringly at her.
Elliott continued, “You’re OK with all that? Being holed up in this place until it’s all over. Or if we don’t deal with the Phase and beat the Styx, spending the rest of your life — however short it might be — constantly living in fear. Constantly on the run.”
Stephanie took a breath and passed the rifle back to Elliott. “You couldn’t make it more obvious you don’t like me,” she said, flicking her beautifully groomed hair from her face. “But I’m, like, not some little sissy who screams or faints at the first sign of trouble. I’m tough, you know.”
Elliott laughed harshly. “You are, are you? You don’t look it to me.”
Stephanie held the other girl’s stony glare. “Come on, then. If you think I’m such a waste of space, why don’t you have a pop at me?” Taking several steps back to give herself room, she kicked her shoes off. “Try me.”
Elliott laughed again, then stopped herself. “You’re serious?”
“Totally, like, serious,” Stephanie replied.
Elliott put her rifle down. “Well, if you insist, but Drake won’t be pleased if I hurt you or anything.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, either,” Stephanie countered. “Is your back better? I don’t want to damage it.”
“Don’t you worry about me. I’ve got Styx blood. I heal fast,” Elliott said. She squared up to Stephanie, who seemed completely relaxed. Then Elliott launched herself, grabbing the girl’s neck with both hands.
Stephanie reacted with complete precision, swinging her arms up to break Elliott’s hold, then hooking her leg. Elliott was spun around like a top, and dropped facedown on the carpet.
Stephanie backed away, allowing the other girl to pick herself up.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Elliott asked, narrowing her eyes.
“Well, Parry was, like, this huge influence on my dad when he was growing up on the estate, and he got him into military intelligence,” Stephanie explained.
“Not another spook?” Elliott said.
“Something like that. Dad’s been stationed in loads of trouble spots across the world, and my mum and brothers and me have followed him to most of them. I haven’t exactly led a sheltered life.” She gave Elliott a small smile. “Try me again, but really give it all you’ve got this time. Chester’s not the only Olympic champion around here.”
“He’s not?” Elliott replied, her confusion obvious.
“No, and if they had judo or aikido on Britain’s Got Talent, I’d win hands down. Come on, grumpy — try and hit me,” Stephanie urged. She waggled her fingers, beckoning Elliott toward her. “And do your worst this time.”
Elliott attacked in earnest. Her full-bodied punch was aimed directly at Stephanie’s chin. But Stephanie deflected the blow, caught Elliott’s wrist, and threw her onto her back in a single, fluid movement. It didn’t end there — as Stephanie dropped to the floor beside Elliott, she had one of her arms in a lock. Elliott was pinned to the ground and completely in the other girl’s power. “Got you!” Stephanie said.
“NO!” Chester cried from the doorway.
The boy’s sudden appearance distracted Stephanie sufficiently that Elliott managed to twist free. She swung her legs up and caught Stephanie around the neck in a scissor grip. Then Elliott heaved her to the floor, where the other girl was trying all she could to break free. But now Elliott had her in an iron grip.
Chester was reaching in to separate them. “Stop it! Stop it at once!”
Elliott relaxed her grip, and they both sat up.
“Nice move — wasn’t expecting that,” Stephanie complimented Elliott.
“What do you think you’re both doing?” Chester demanded, huffing with concern as the girls stared up at him.
“You sound like my dad.” Stephanie giggled.
“It wasn’t for real,” Elliott said.
“It looked real enough to me,” Chester came back. “Besides, you should watch out for your back,” he said to Elliott.
“My back’s completely — ” she started to reply but stopped as Stephanie failed to stifle another giggle.
“What’s so funny?” Chester demanded, becoming quite irate now.
“You didn’t think we were fighting over you, did you?” Stephanie said.
Blushing, Chester made an about-turn and fled from the room. Muttering to himself, he hunched his shoulders and stomped down the corridor.
As he was approaching the elevator area, Will rounded the corner, a piece of paper in his hand. “I was just on my way to find you,” Will said. “I went up to the Hub and they’re all busy with whatever they’re doing, but I did speak to Sergeant Finch and . . .” Clearly excited about whatever was on the piece of paper, Will was about to show it to his friend when he sensed that all wasn’t well with him. “You don’t look very happy. Are you all right?” Will inquired.
“Peachy . . . just peachy,” Chester spat, his face stiff with anger.
Will caught Elliott’s and Stephanie’s animated voices, then Stephanie’s shrill laughter. “Wow! Am I really hearing that?” he said. “I never thought those two would ever hit it off. What are they laughing about?”
Chester pulled a face. “I haven’t the faintest idea — they’re girls, aren’t they? What did you want me for, anyway?” he asked curtly.
“This,” Will said, flashing the sheet of paper in front of his friend. “Sergeant Finch told me there are some interesting rooms on Level 3. We should go and have a look.”
At Chester’s insistence, they took the stairs rather than the elevator. As they entered the new level, they immediately spotted a difference. There might still have been linoleum on the floor, but it was a rich blue, and the walls of the corridor were covered with a fine gold-and-green-patterned wallpaper.
“What’s this all about?” Chester asked, looking around. “I thought we’d been given the luxury floor?”
“You just wait,” Will replied, consulting his piece of paper as he walked ahead of Chester, checking what was on the doors. “Ah, here we are,” he announced, pushing one of them open and turning on the lights.
Inside, there was a suite
of four interconnecting rooms, two with four-poster beds, their canopies swathed with red velvet, and on the walls tapestries depicting hunting scenes. The antique furniture was incredibly ornate and looked expensive — it was in a different league from anything in their own quarters.
“Was this for someone important?” Chester asked, running his eyes over the gilded chairs and a large divan.
“You’re getting warm. It was for someone really important. Go on — have a guess,” Will challenged his friend as they passed into a small side room, which was very basic and utilitarian compared to the bedrooms. With a butler’s sink in the corner, it had several small pens along the longest wall.
“Any ideas?” Will asked.
“Nope,” Chester said, his patience growing thin. “Come on, Will, stop messing around. Who were these rooms for? And why are we stopping in the kitchen?”
“It’s not a kitchen. If I told you these pens were specially built for corgis, would that help?” Will said, stepping into one of them.
“Corgis?” Chester repeated, then the penny dropped. “You’re joking! This was for the Queen!”
“You got it! And that’s not all!” Will exclaimed, leading him back through the rooms and out into the corridor again. He groped in his pocket for a key, which he slotted into the solid-looking door of the next room. As it ground open on its chunky hinges, the boys stepped inside. Will turned on the lights, and he and Chester were met by the sight of a whole room of glass display cases on pedestals. The cases were empty, but from the satin-covered stands in the bottom of each of them, it was clear that they’d been constructed to house something specific.
“This is where the crown jewels would have been brought if we’d been invaded,” Will informed his friend.
Chester was smiling and shaking his head. “That’s wild. So what else is on this level?”
“Sergeant Finch said that all these rooms were for the VIPs,” Will said. “And you’ve got to see this next one.”
Farther down the corridor, there was a door with pm painted on it. Chester was unimpressed because the room itself was rather cramped and completely unremarkable as he walked around it. On the desk was a blotter where someone had begun to draw a wall, brick by brick, underneath which the sentence Where are you, Mrs. Everest, when I need you the most? had been written. When he gave the desk drawers a quick check, Chester found nothing, so he took another look around the room, even going as far as investigating the bathroom. He came out brandishing a newspaper — an ancient, yellowed copy of the Times.