Stephen Baxter - Project Hades

“Like a mine?”

“Something like that. But there are no mines around here.”

A blur of light shot overhead, shrieking.

Buck stared. “Doctor Jones called that a ‘Grendel,’ didn’t he?”

“I don’t like the look of this, Sergeant. Fall back, fall back!”

The detonations were like approaching footsteps.

Jones said, “Hear that, Godwin? The bangs getting bigger and bigger? That’s the Magmoids, man. They’re hitting back at the base—at you. So it begins.”

“Let them come. My strategy is panning out.”

“I actually believe you’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Godwin? Makes up for all your failures, does it?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You were involved in Suez, weren’t you? Tremayne told me. What a cock-up that was. The end of empire—and the end of your career too? You’re just a poor boy from the north of England, aren’t you, Godwin? Who had to make his way in an armed force ridden with class and privilege. Chip on your shoulder, have you? You’re just a sad little boy who wants to get back at the bullies who tormented you.”

“Oh, this is all—hot in here, isn’t it?”

“What?”

Godwin stood, pushing back his chair. “Will you join me in a drink, Jones?”

The air was full of Grendels now.

Phillips, dug in as best he could with his troops, said, “Up there, corporal. Two rounds if you please.”

The corporal obediently fired; the bullets sang through the Grendel without effect.

Buck ran up, breathless. “Sir.”

“Situation, Sergeant?”

“Well, the British are shooting at the Americans, and the Americans are shooting at the British, and we’re both shooting at these—ghosts. I’ve had word from SHAPE. All the other Project Hades bases, worldwide, are under attack. Just like this. From underneath. There’s no sign of ordinance. No shells or mines. Just explosions. Somehow they can make the ground just burst open under you.”

“I suspect Professor Tremayne or Doctor Jones would say these are seismic effects, Sergeant. You can feel it in your gut. And we can’t do anything about those Casper-the-Friendly-Ghosts up above. I suspect they are only spotters, anyhow. The explosions follow where they have been hovering about.”

“Yeah. But how do you strike at something that comes at you out of the ground?”

“This is war, isn’t it? Man against the Magmoids. Sounds like a bad B-Movie, doesn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir. I go for romantic comedies myself. Doris Day, Rock Hudson—”

“You have hidden depths, Sergeant.”

The Grendels screamed and swooped lower.

Orderlies hurried into the tent with boxes of gear.

“Ah, the calculators!” Tremayne opened a box, selected a specimen, and began happily turning its handle. “Ever used one of these beauties, Winston? Here are the registers, the carry key, and to perform the computation you turn the handle. Now, what we’re going to perform is a deconvolution integral.”

“Professor, I got kicked out of school long before O-level maths.”

“Well, that’s of no consequence to me, your mind seems more than adequate.”

“It does?” Winston felt unreasonably pleased. “So what’s a deconvolution integral?”

“The principle is simple. We’re going to take all this data and try to separate out the signal from the background noise. All right?”

“What do I do?”

“Just multiply this list of numbers by that list, and total up the products. All right?”

“I guess so.”

“The sooner our battery of clerks gets here the better, but we can make a start. Off you go!”

The truck rushed down the A-road to the refugee camp. It was a fast trip as the road was now being kept clear by police and military, though the refugees still clustered to either side.

When she got to the camp Thelma had identified, Clare wasn’t surprised to find Hope Stubbins, sitting on a canvas chair, at the centre of operations.

“Police Constable Baines. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Winston told me I’d find you.” Clare glanced around. This had evidently been an improvised soup kitchen, with big tureens, mobile gas stoves, and tin plates, but soldiers were now packing the stuff up. Outside, people milled around, picking up blankets from the ground and waking reluctant children. “They’re moving you?”

“Ay, well, they say we’re a bit too close to the fighting at Aldmoor. Clare—how’s the lad?”

“Winston’s fine.”

“He’s back at that base, is he?”

“Yes. There is fighting, but he’s well away from it. He’s working with a professor.”

“Is he now? He always was a bright lad.”

“Listen, Mrs. Stubbins, I need your help. The army wants office clerks who can work a calculating machine. There must be a few in this crowd.”

“Office lasses, eh? Well, there’s Mabel over there for a start. She works at the Baltic, don’t you, dear? And little Annie there works the turnstiles at Saint James’ Park. How do you fancy cuddling up to a few soldier boys?”

The girls laughed.

“Thanks, Mrs. Stubbins. What about the rest of you—where will they take you?”

“Oh, they’re not telling us that. Miserable business, like. To move once is all right, and you think you’re through with it, and you get settled, you know? Then you’ve got to do it all again. Hard for the bairns.”

“Will you be all right?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. Listen. Just tell them buggers in the Army to get this lot put a stop to, all right?”

“I’ll get the trucks ready.”

“Clare.”

“Yes?”

“You couldn’t leave us a walkie-talkie? I’d like to know what’s going on with Winston.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Another crash rattled the room.

“Do you know, I think I’ll have another. You sure you won’t join me? You look like a G&T man to me.” Godwin walked to a cabinet at the back of the room. “I always keep a decanter. Visiting officers, you know.”

“Umm—actually, on second thought—fine. Make it a large one, will you?”

“Certainly.”

“Got any ice?” And now, while Godwin’s back was turned, Jones had a chance. He found a tannoy microphone and flicked a switch, and spoke urgently but quietly. “This is Doctor Chapman Jones. I’m speaking from the command centre. Godwin is planning a second strike against the Magmoids. Repeat, a second strike. The first strike will have provoked a limited Magmoid response against military facilities. The second response will be global. Repeat, global. The base must be breached. Godwin must be stopped. Repeat. This is Doctor Jones…”

Jones’s voice, relayed by a tannoy, floated out of the besieged base, above the crack of gunfire.

Phillips said, “Grady! Can you hear that?”

“Yeah. It’s that little guy in the trenchcoat—Doctor Jones.”

“A second strike, eh?”

“If the Magmoids strike at other cities as they’ve already struck at Newcastle—”

“We really have got to put a stop to this.”

“You can say that again, sir. But how? We just don’t have the manpower to storm the place building by building. And these damn Magmoid attacks are disrupting everything we try to do…”

“There is one option.”

“Sir?”

“Air strike. Just bomb the place to smithereens. That would put a stop to all these shenanigans. Messy, of course. Best avoided if possible. But still… All right, let’s fall back and regroup.”

Buck said, “Casper overhead!”

A Grendel wailed, and bullets tore through it.

Jones kept repeating his message. “The first strike will have provoked a limited Magmoid response against military facilities. The second response will be global. Repeat, global. The base must be breached. Godwin must be stopped—” A heavy glass smashed down on his hand, and the shards cut into his flesh. He cried out.