Down: Trilogy Box Set (108 page)

The day before the MAAC restart satellite trucks began arriving at Dartford shortly after Giles Farmer’s article appeared online. Stuart Binford, the MAAC press officer had been authorized to say only two words, “No comment” and he had said them hundreds of times that day.

A series of emergency meetings involving British and American officials had been hastily convened and during one of them Trotter had put forward his position that the Farmer piece had tilted the balance toward canceling the restart. But Leroy Bitterman and others had shot him down. Beyond doing the right thing by the brave men and women who had risked their lives to bring back the innocents, Bitterman had argued that Matthew Coppens’ newly improved software algorithm would shut down the collider within a few nanoseconds of the materialization of the returnees, or for that matter, their non-materialization once full 30 TeV power was achieved. That, he had said, would further mitigate propagation of strangelet-graviton fields. Even though their panel of distinguished scientists had failed to produce a workable plan to sever the dimensional connection, they had nonetheless agreed that limiting the duration of high-energy collisions to the absolute minimum was clearly in order.

When the discussion had moved on, Trotter had leaned over and whispered to Ben, “Thank you very much for speaking out on behalf of my proposal,” to which Ben had responded with nothing more than a weary, cheek-puffing sigh.

Trotter had been called into an early afternoon meeting at Downing Street to appear before the Cobra emergency response committee. The prime minister had decided that in light of the Giles Farmer revelations he had no choice but to widen the need-to-know circle to include the cabinet security committee. An incredulous group of government officials who had expected the government to rubbish the ridiculous assertions they’d read over morning coffee, had listened to the PM, Trotter, and energy secretary Smithwick tell them that Farmer had gotten things pretty much spot on.

During the course of the Cobra meeting the BBC had gone live to Lewisham where Giles Farmer had been spotted returning to his flat and had consented to an on-air interview.

The PM had directed the sound to be turned up and Trotter, while watching the young man haltingly but convincingly articulate his conspiracy theories had broken a pencil under the table.

“Perhaps Mr. Trotter might tell us whether MI5 or MI6 had anything to do with the deaths of this Mr. Moore and Mr. Hannaford,” the home secretary had asked when the TV was muted.

“To the best of my knowledge, neither agency had any involvement whatsoever,” Trotter had said, but he had thought, need to know, need to know, none of you have the need to know.

At dawn on the restart day, the sky over London was pink and promising.

Even at this early hour the temporary control room in the MAAC recreation center was loaded with technicians. By 8:30 the observers arrived. Leroy Bitterman took his place beside Karen Smithwick. George Lawrence, Ben’s boss at MI5, had shared a car from London with the FBI director, Campbell Bates and they sauntered in together. Trotter arrived on his own and found his seat without acknowledging Bitterman or any of the others. He was tired. He’d spent most of the night huddling with Mark Germaine, his operation’s man, trying to figure out if Giles Farmer might still be eliminated without fanning the flames of the conspiracy he’d painted. Henry Quint also cut a lonely figure. It pained him to be sidelined and he’d been wondering guiltily whether he’d be happy or sad if Emily Loughty never returned. The only one who was willing to associate with him was Stuart Binford, who pulled up a chair at the rear of the hall, but Quint didn’t care to reciprocate.

Matthew Coppens was in operational control. He worked through the start-up checklist with David Laurent. Around the huge MAAC underground oval twenty-five thousand magnets were cooling to 1.7K. Matthew looked at the schematics on the giant screen to see if any magnets were failing to cool properly. Blue was the color he wanted to see and all around the map of Greater London, blue dots lit the map like a necklace of sapphires.

By nine a.m. breakfast was collected from the detention cells. Murphy and Rix had been allowed to share cells with their wives.

“Last good food,” Rix said, scraping his toast into the last of the egg yolk on his plate.

“Last coffee,” Christine said. “I don’t want to go back.”

“Could be worse,” he said, patting her on the knee. “We’ve still got each other.”

Next door, Murphy was enjoying his post prandial teeth brushing. “When I was alive,” he said. “I never paid any mind to the marvels of toothpaste. Now it’s one of my favorite things. I’m going to miss it.”

“Oh yeah?” Molly said. “Don’t fancy using a leaf anymore?”

He rinsed his mouth. “What if their bollocks machine doesn’t work and we have to stay here?” he asked.

“Then you get to brush your teeth to your heart’s content.”

“You know what I mean.”

She went to the sink and took his hand. “Then I suppose we’ll be locked up somewhere—not together, mind you—until we grow old and die and then we’ll wind up back you know where.”

“In that case I hope their bollocks machine works,” Murphy said, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

Ben came to the detention level and slid open the Plexiglas windows on each cell door to announce that everyone would be taken down to the transport room in thirty minutes. The men from Iver, imbecilic as always, stared blankly, as if Ben had made an announcement to a couple of hamsters. Alfred and his Heller mates swore and made their usual ruckus. Mitchum, the rover, had recovered from his bullet wound well enough to be eating solid food for the last week and he protested that he didn’t want to go anywhere. But Murphy, Rix, and their spouses greeted Ben warmly, as one might a friend and colleague.

Rix put his face next to the window and said, “You were square with us, Ben. Sorry we had to muck you about.”

Ben nodded by way of accepting the apology. “You were, no you
are,
a good copper, Jason. However, I wish you hadn’t killed Jack Mellors.”

“That’s because you’re not an evil bastard, Ben. You’re one of the cowboys who always wore a white hat. Take care of yourself and don’t do anything in your life that lands you on my patch.”

The sky over Dartford was about as bright as John had ever seen it in Hell, a monochromatic whitish-gray that modestly constricted his pupils. Try as he might to keep that image of a ticking clock in his mind, he had lost track of it during their transfer from the galleon to a longboat and during their passage to the south shore of the Thames. They were somewhere in the fourth hour since the dawn but he was unsure how much time they had until 10 a.m.

Now, with the Iberian ships coming about and sailing toward the estuary, they were on dry land and they were running. John had Sam in his arms and Trevor had Belle.

John looked over his shoulder. Delia wasn’t keeping up.

“Help her!” John shouted and Martin and Tony fell back and each took one of her hands.

“There it is!” Emily shouted when the thatched roofs of the village came into view across the meadow. “We’re almost there.”

Ben led the security procession from the detention level down to the old subterranean MAAC control room which they had begun calling the transfer room. All the Hellers were shackled and dressed in cotton jumpsuits to spare them the indignity of nakedness on the other side, which according to Molly was a nice touch. Because the young rover, Mitchum, worried Murphy and Rix the most, his wrists and ankles were also bound with natural hemp so that they could deal with him safely if and when they transferred.

In the well of the control room they were chained to iron loops bolted to the floor. Thirty feet below their feet, the giant synchrotron was nearly at full power. Eleven Hellers stood there, sizing each other up, Murphy and Rix trying to keep things light for their ladies.

No one at MAAC had any idea whether John and Emily and Trevor and Brian had been able to find Delia and Arabel, Sam and Belle, the Ockendon eight. No one knew if anyone had managed to get back to Dartford for the exchange. No one knew what would happen if an attempt was made to exchange eleven Hellers for sixteen people. Would five of their own be left behind in Hell? Leroy Bitterman had grown fond of saying at high-level government briefings, “Politicians seem to think that saying the following is anathema but scientists embrace it: ladies and gentlemen,
I don't know what’s going to happen
.”

Ben stood before the Hellers and looking only at Rix, Murphy, Christine, and Molly, he said, “Fifteen minutes to go. Godspeed.”

The control room was locked and the guards were withdrawn from the level.

Ben chose not to join the dignitaries and technicians in the recreation center control room. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. He walked through the MAAC lobby, the windows and doors frosted to keep out the prying telescopic lenses of the media camped outside the perimeter fence. Ben had grown comfortable with John’s security office. He went there and with a sense of detachment that matched his mood, he watched both the control room and the transfer room on closed-circuit monitors and wondered if he could ever be as close to his wife as Murphy and Rix were to theirs.

The muddy road outside Dirk and Duck’s cottage was deserted. A few wisps of white smoke puffed from their chimney.

All of the Earthers, save the children, were bilious and gasping from the stress of the day and the exertion of the run through the meadows. Tony said he was going to throw up and Martin patted his back. Delia could no longer stand. She dropped to the road and sat cross-legged with her head in her hands. Tracy sat beside Delia and held her. Arabel took Belle from Trevor and Emily took Sam.

“This the spot, guv?” Trevor asked, between pants.

John caught his breath to say, “This is it. I hope to God we’re not too late.”

“We’re not too late,” Emily gasped.

“How do you know?” John asked.

“I just don’t think we are. Sorry, not very scientific.”

John called over to the cottage. “Hey Dirk, it’s John Camp. Where’s my beer?”

The cottage door opened.

Every door up and down the road opened.

English soldiers with muskets poured out, lining both sides of the lane.

John told his people not to move.

“So close,” Delia panted. “We were so close.”

A large man dressed in finery appeared in Dirk’s door, a mug in his hand. “Here is your beer, John Camp,” King Henry said, “and I am drinking it!”

When Henry stepped into the road others followed. Cromwell was there, looking pensive. Solomon Wisdom glanced fearfully at John and gave the impression that were it not for all these armed soldiers, he would be nowhere near the place. Dirk and Duck, awed by the presence of their monarch, still looked sad their friends had walked into a trap.

John pointed threateningly at Wisdom and said, “Last time I show you mercy, Solomon. Last time.”

“You burned my house,” Wisdom shouted. “You stole my silver and gold. Did you think I wouldn’t find a way to get even?”

“You have no idea what I’m going to do to you one day,” John shouted, causing Wisdom to retreat behind some soldiers.

Cromwell called out, “Throw all your weapons down, if you please.”

John told his people to empty their belts. A small pile of swords, knives and pistols were dropped into the mud.

Henry stepped forward.

“Who is that?” Delia asked.

John said, “Delia and Arabel, meet King Henry.”

“Tell me,” Henry demanded, “what became of Queen Matilda?”

Delia asked for help to stand and Martin lent an arm. Tracy rose too.

“I’m afraid she didn’t make it out of Strasbourg in one piece,” John said.

“A pity,” Henry said. “After so many years I felt a modicum of fondness for her. But these, these marvels will wipe away my lamentations. Behold these children! I do wish to have all you persons to reside at my court, and yes, good physician, my leg is much improved thanks to your medicinal tea,” he said with a nod toward Martin. “But the true reason I am come here is these children! More precious than jewels, more precious than gold! Now come one and all. We will return to Hampton Palace. Guards, take them!”

“Sixty seconds to full power,” Matthew announced. “Seventeen TeV, eighteen, nineteen …”

There were too many faces for Ben to watch at one time. He chose two: Leroy Bitterman who was biting his lip and Jason Rix who was smiling at his wife.

“No, wait!” John shouted. “You don’t want to frighten them, do you, Your Majesty. Why don’t you take the boy? You can hold him. His name is Sam. You always wanted a son, didn’t you? Almost everything you did in life, all those wives, all those murders, you did them to have a son.”

Henry wiped at his cheek and looked at the moisture on his finger, as if remembering something long forgotten.

“John, what are you doing?” Emily said.

He didn’t answer. He kept addressing the king. “You only had one son. Do you remember how happy you were when Edward was born? He was only ten when you died. You only had him for ten short years. This boy, Sam, can be yours for much longer. Would you like to hold him?”

Arabel said, “No,” but Emily fell in with John. “It’s okay, Arabel. Don’t worry.”

Henry began to walk through the mud.

“Your Majesty, please,” Cromwell said.

“Hold him up, Emily,” John said.

“John, are you sure?”

“Do you trust me?” he asked her.

She held Sam, wriggling, by the armpits and straightened her arms out.

Henry reached for the boy. In one fluid motion John bent to retrieve a knife from his boot and stepped forward to wrap an arm around the king’s neck.

He pressed the knife to Henry’s jugular and shouted at the soldiers to stay back. “One move! One move from any of you and I will spill his blood.”

“Fifteen seconds,” Matthew said, “twenty-five TeV, twenty-six …”