Spiral (26 page)

PARRY LOOKED EVERY BIT
the military leader as he strutted up and down in front of the map displayed on the big screen in the Hub.

He now turned to everybody. “Right . . . the Phase is under way at this very moment, so the clock is ticking fast. We need some positive action to find it and put a stop to it. We need to move quickly!”

“We do,” Drake agreed.

“So let’s analyze what we know,” Parry said. “The Phase will be taking place on the surface, because that’s one of the preconditions. And it’s somewhere . . .” — he twisted to the map of the UK on the screen — “somewhere here, and probably at a single location.”

“Yes, that’s correct,” Eddie confirmed.

Parry tugged thoughtfully on his beard as he went closer to the screen and pointed with his walking stick. “But can we reasonably assume it’s in the London area? It might be in the home counties, or anywhere in the country for that matter. Would the Styx bother to venture farther than a hundred miles from London?”

“London and its environs make sense,” Eddie said. “Unless they chose somewhere remote because it would be more secure.”

“That doesn’t help us at all. It’s like searching for a poisonous needle in a haystack,” Parry grumbled to himself, tugging even more forcibly on his beard. “But we do know that the Styx need an ample stock of human bodies for the breeding process. Unless they’re abducting Topsoilers willy-nilly, that means Colonists and maybe New Germanians are being used as the living hosts. Which would suggest somewhere around London, because they wouldn’t want their supply chain to be stretched too far.”

“Particularly not with the disruption to the transport network
they’re
responsible for down in the southeast,” Drake put in. “Getting around isn’t as easy as it used to be.”

Parry drew in a breath. “Everyone put their thinking caps on. How, precisely, do we find the Phase site?” he asked, then spun to Eddie. “Can’t we snatch a Styx from the London streets and interrogate him?”

“Even if you could find one, you wouldn’t get anything,” Eddie replied.

Parry wasn’t to be deterred. “OK, then — what if one of your men returned to the Colony? He could gather the intel we need down there.”

“No, I told you — my men have cut all ties with our people and covered their tracks,” Eddie said categorically. “One couldn’t just show his face as if nothing had happened. He’d be executed the instant they laid eyes on him. It would give us nothing, and simply put them on notice that there’s a splinter group of disaffected Limiters.”

Parry went on tugging his beard until his fingers came away with a tuft of hair. “But what are the Styx doing at the Phase site that will put up a smoke trail we can spot?” He looked pointedly at his son, then at Danforth, who was copying the
Book of Proliferation
page by page on a scanner so he’d be able to translate it with Eddie’s help. “Come on, you two — you’re the tech specialists. Any bright ideas?”

Danforth glanced up from the scanner but didn’t reply, and Drake was slowly shaking his head.

“The Dark Lights,” Eddie suggested. “Thanks to Drake, we can locate them. And my people, wherever they are, are likely to be using them on an intensive basis.”

Drake was quick to answer. “But we’ve already considered that. Yes, we can detect Dark Light activity by using mast arrays, but it only works over relatively small areas. In order to increase the search radius, I’d need microwave antennae mounted up somewhere high, so there’d be uninterrupted line of sight out across the country.”

“You mean a whole cluster of bloody powerful parabolic dishes, and directional to boot,” Danforth added in a patronizing tone.

Drake gave him a weary nod; although the Professor was arguably one of the most brilliant minds on the planet, at times his sense of self-importance was difficult to stomach. “Then, in theory at least, we could identify any major Dark Light hot spots two or three hundred miles or even farther from the center of London,” Drake said.

“Well, that’s a start,” Parry said optimistically.

“We would also need to dispatch roving teams with battery-powered mobile detectors to help us pinpoint the precise coordinates of any hot spots.” Drake paused as he pursed his lips in a moment of contemplation. “Yes, we might strike gold, but it’s a hell of a long shot.”

“Hell of a long shot,” Danforth echoed, as he turned to a new page in the
Book of Proliferation
and placed it facedown on the scanner.

“High-powered parabolic dishes in clusters,” Parry summarized. “Now we’re getting somewhere. But where would we find that sort of setup in a hurry? The city? Canary Wharf?”

Sergeant Finch mumbled something.

“What?” Parry boomed, wheeling toward him. “What did you just say?”

Sergeant Finch was taken aback by Parry’s reaction. “It’s just what you were saying . . . it made me think of the Backbone
Chain,” he suggested sheepishly.

“What’s the Backbone Chain?” Drake asked quickly.

“It was a network of purpose-built concrete towers erected across the country by NATO to preserve communications after a nuclear strike,” Parry said. “The nearest tower to us here is at Kirk O’Shotts, and then there’s one at Sutton Common, and another at . . .”

Parry and Sergeant Finch looked at each other, speaking at the same time. “The Post Office Tower,” they chorused.

Parry strode over to Sergeant Finch and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You bloody genius!”

“You’re talking about the BT Tower in London?” Drake asked.

Parry waved his walking stick impatiently. “Stuff and nonsense! They will keep changing the blessed names of everything! Yes — the BT Tower — and we can get into it using the old emergency protocols, can’t we, Finch?”

Sergeant Finch was grinning. “We certainly can, sir — and I’ve got a cousin who used to work there, back in the good old days wh —”

“Raise him right now on one of Danforth’s satphones. Haul him out of bed if necessary,” Parry ordered. “And you two,” he said, setting his gaze on Drake, then Danforth, “how many mobile detectors can you rustle up for me at short notice?”

Danforth groaned; he didn’t seem to be particularly enamored of the thought of doing any work. “How many do you want?” he inquired begrudgingly.

“How many can you give me?” Parry said.

“But how can we mass-produce them here?” Drake put in.

“Simple as pie — if somebody gathers up all the Geiger counters in this place,” Danforth replied, “I can adapt them with components from the stores on Level 4. It’ll be bloody tedious, to say the least, but you can help me, Drake.”

Drake raised his eyebrows. “You can do it? With components here in the Complex?”

“In my sleep,” Danforth replied resignedly.

“And once the mobile detectors are ready, we’ll ship them down south and send patrols out. Your men can lend a hand,” Parry said to Eddie, “but there aren’t enough of them. It looks as though I’m going to have to bring the Old Guard into play. We’ll need quite a few bods to cover the country.”

“And we need to get ourselves down to London,” Drake said, “to the BT Tower.”

There were shouts from outside the police station and someone mounted the steps, taking them three at a time. The man reached for the counter as soon as he came in, propping himself against it as he tried to catch his breath.

“You have to come — been an accident,” he wheezed. It was one of the Colonists from the Quarter, a shopkeeper called Maynard. He peered with disbelief at the scene that greeted him — the former First Officer, in his sweat-stained shirt and with his suspenders hanging from his waist, holding court with all the prisoners as they supped from their tankards of Somers Town whisky. Maynard met Cleaver’s eyes, but when the grizzled visage smiled back at him, revealing his darkened stumps of teeth, he quickly looked away.

“Wass all the rumpus ’bout?” the former First Officer drawled, trying to pull himself up in his seat.

Maynard frowned. “It’s my son — the magic’s got him. I need your help.”

“I don’t work here anymore,” the former First Officer said, thrusting his tankard in the new First Officer’s direction and managing to slop drink over himself, which elicited giggles from Squeaky. “Ask Patrick.”

“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.