Stephen Baxter - Project Hades

Godwin ran forward, onto the minefield and out of reach. Phillips and his soldiers raised their weapons uncertainly. Godwin clattered the key at random. “Magmoids! I challenge thee on behalf of all humanity—” A rattle of explosions.

Jones struggled to his feet. “No, no—they’ll take the randomness as simply another attack—”

Tremayne said, “Something’s happening. Around Godwin.”

It was a kind of rippling in the churned-up dirt, like a converging wave.

Jones yelled, “Godwin! You don’t know what you’re doing! Get back, man. Look at the ground!”

Godwin said, “Hear me! ‘I’ll make thee roar that beasts shall tremble at thy din—’ ”

A tremendous eruption burst from the ground, engulfing him. Once again Jones was knocked off his feet.

Thelma staggered through a cloud of dust. “Jones! Jones!”

Jones stood, winded, and grabbed her. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

“But that explosion—”

“It was the Magmoids. They destroyed him. They destroyed Godwin! I must have said just enough. Either that or they don’t like Shakespeare.”

Phillips found them. “Jones. The Magmoid attacks are subsiding—”

But Grendels shrieked, hovering overhead.

Clare, Tremayne, Winston with his mother, all emerged from the subsiding dust. Clare looked up. “The Grendels. What are they doing?”

Tremayne said, “I think they’re gathering over us.”

Phillips said grimly, “Not again.” He raised his rifle. “This will do little good, but—”

Jones cried, “No! No, Captain, it’s all right. Look. They are ascending.”

Winston said, “They’re leaving us alone.”

“Yes, they are, Winston.”

Tremayne said, “Then let’s hope it’s for good.”

1110.

When they opened the door, the Reiver’s Arms was crowded and noisy.

Jones said, “Well, Thelma, I don’t think I’ve ever been in a British pub at eleven in the morning before.”

“Don’t complain.”

Phillips came pushing out of the crowd. “Jones, old chap! And Miss Bennet. What are you drinking?”

Thelma said, “After a night like that I think I could risk a brandy.”

“Carrot juice for me, Captain Bob. Er, and that bottle of Newcastle Brown on the bar—”

“That’s for Buck Grady. He had a fiancée, in Long Beach. I phoned her.” He handed over their drinks.

“What selfless heroism he showed. You know, war brings out the best and the worst in us—the cruelty and madness of a man like Godwin, Buck’s astonishing laconic courage.”

“Yes. But ironically the example of men like Grady may be the reason why we humans will never give up war.”

Thelma raised her glass. “To Sergeant Grady.”

Tremayne came looming through the crowd, staggering slightly. “Jones, old bean! Quite a night!”

“You seem merry.”

Tremayne raised his glass. “This single malt is going down rather well—especially as it’s on the house. Look, there’s a couple of people who simply must see you.”

The crowd parted to let through a wheelchair.

Thelma said, “Mrs. Stubbins!”

“Hello, Thelma. What do you think of me new wheelchair? Courtesy of the US Army. About time they gave me something back.”

Winston said, “Oh, Mum—”

Jones said, “Winston. Quite a night for you—you did rather well.”

Tremayne said, “He did better than that. You know, after this grisly business I’ve decided to go back to university life. That’s enough of the military for me! Of course I’m going to need a batch of fresh students. Now then, Winston, are you free for the next three or four years?”

Winston goggled. “Professor—are you serious?”

“Never more, and I still will be when I’m sober.”

Thelma said, “Well done, Winston. You deserve it.”

“It’s unbelievable. The start of a whole new life.”

Clare Baines walked up, in a clean, fresh uniform. “In more ways than one.”

Jones said, “Constable Clare! I wondered when you’d show up.”

“Doctor Jones, I’ve got good news for you. In consideration of the fact that you saved the world, the local constabulary have decided to drop all charges.”

“Well, how jolly decent of them. But I’m surprised to see you joining in this festival of law-breaking.”

Thelma said, “I rather think she’s blinded by the diamond on her finger, Jones.”

Jones noticed the ring for the first time. “You don’t mean—you and Winston—well, well.”

Winston said, “After an experience like last night—”

“You don’t have to explain, dear,” Thelma said.

Jones said, “So, happy endings all round for once. Do you know, Thelma, I rather think that’s our cue to leave. Come on, drink up.”

He led Thelma out into the fresh air, where their Ministry car was waiting. Somewhere a bird was singing. “Look at that huge Northumberland sky,” Jones said. “I do love this part of the world.”

“It was an extraordinary night, wasn’t it, Jones?”

“One for the memoirs, I’d say. But what an extraordinary time we live in—when we don’t know if totalitarianism will triumph over democracy, or command economies will out-perform capitalism—a time of martial madness, when we’re probably as close to destroying ourselves utterly as we’ll ever be—and yet it’s a time when scientists like Frank Drake are making perhaps the most sublime gesture ever dreamed up by the human species.”

“Before you go, Doctor Jones—” Clare Baines had followed them out.

“Yes, Clare?”

“I need you both to sign these bits of paper.”

Jones took the forms. “What on Earth—this is the Official Secrets Act!”

“There’s a cover story being put together, about an industrial accident in Newcastle that provoked the evacuation.”

Jones said, “What? But how can you cover up all the volcanism?”

“Marsh gas.”

“Marsh gas? Oh please, not marsh gas! If you knew how many of our sightings have been explained away that way, and the files hidden or shredded—”

Thelma took his arm. “Come on, Jones. Maybe it’s better this way. We don’t want any awkwardness.”

“Oh, we can’t have that, can we? What a very British disaster in the end!”

But Clare wasn’t listening. She was looking up, into a bright blue sky, where Grendels were swooping and diving in a rosette formation, high above the tranquil land.