Stephen Baxter: Project Hades

Jones said, exasperated, “All right. But at least just wait a bit until we can find out more.”

“I’m afraid progress has its own timetable, Jones.”

“And will you risk all these people’s lives for the sake of that timetable? Ah, that got through to you, didn’t it? I can see you have a conscience, Tremayne. Men like you always do, oddly. Scientists who go to war: Archimedes, Leonardo, Oppenheimer. I’ve studied them, and the dilemma’s always the same.”

“I won’t stop the countdown, sir. I can see I’m wasting my time.” Tremayne, looking oddly disappointed, turned and walked back towards the open gate in the fence.

Winston was agitated and unhappy. The people who had marched up behind him were growing restless, their vague drunkenness turning sour. The squaddies hefted their weapons uncertainly.

“One minute commit point approaching. One minute go no-go. Committed. Committed—”

Jones checked his watch. “One minute to midnight! How appropriate that the Devil’s coffin should be blown open at the stroke of Halloween.”

Thelma said, “So what do we do, Jones?”

“We need more information. Where’s the nearest university library?”

“Newcastle, I imagine. Why?”

“Get over there. Take Winston. Dig up all you can. Seismic traces and the like. Winston has his own records going back several years—fetch those too. And anecdotes, folklore about these Grendels. Anything you can find.”

“And how exactly are we supposed to get into Newcastle at this time of night?”

Winston grinned. “I can think of a way.”

“My best bet is that if that wretched bomb goes off we’ll have ninety minutes of grace before—whatever it is—responds. If you can report back before then—”

Thelma murmured, “A full research project in ninety minutes, eh? And what are you going to do, Jones?”

“See what I can learn about what’s going on here. Which means, I’m afraid, getting into that wretched base.”

“Now, Jones—”

“Go, go, shoo!” And he ducked into the shadows and ran towards the fence, chasing after Tremayne.

He heard Clare Baines calling after him. “Doctor Jones! Doctor Jones!” She came running, moving rather more rapidly than he was.

“Tremayne! Surely it still isn’t too late to stop all this!”

“Zero.”

The explosion was like a door slamming deep in the Earth.

Monday 31st October. 0012.

Jones, with Clare Baines, was hurried in through the gate and past the surface buildings of the sprawling base—Jones thought he recognised a softball field—and then taken down a flight of steps into an underground facility, a steel cave that echoed with shouts and sirens, and a deeper mechanical groan, the aftershock of the detonation. It was pretty obviously a nuclear bunker, Jones thought. They were led down corridors and pushed at last into a blank-walled holding room. Buck Grady took up a position by the open door, his hand resting on his holstered revolver.

Jones sighed. “Well, this is turning out to be a jolly Halloween night. Anyone got a pumpkin?”

Grady said, “Don’t push your luck, Jones.”

A senior Air Force officer approached—a commodore, Jones recognised—accompanied by the tweedy figure of Tremayne, and an American officer.

“Ah, Tremayne!” Jones called. “So who’s this chap with the fruit salad all over his chest?”

“That is Air Commodore Godwin, who’s in command here, and you’d better rein in those jokes of yours, Jones.”

The American said, “And my name’s Joseph Crowne, Major, US Army. Senior American officer here. And you are, sir?”

Clare said, “This is Doctor Chapman Jones—”

“Of Defence Secretariat 8, Ministry of Defence.”

Godwin said, “And what are you doing here?”

“I’m going to find out exactly what you’re up to here, Commodore Godwin,” Jones said. “And, if necessary, put a stop to it.”

Tremayne bristled. “By what authority?”

And Godwin said calmly, “Sergeant Grady. Draw your weapon.”

Buck hesitated. “Sir, his credentials do check out.”

“Just do it, soldier.”

Buck glanced at Crowne.

“Do as he says, Sergeant.” Buck took his revolver from a holster.

Clare said, “Commodore Godwin. That’s not necessary. I’m a police officer. This man is in my custody.”

“I’ll tell you why it’s necessary. Here we have a man who has just declared his specific intent to disrupt the operations of my base.”

“And I am a copper who sees a gun being drawn.”

“Little girl, you are out of your depth. Stand aside now or share his fate.”

Jones said, “You don’t need to do this, Clare.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Clare stood her ground.

Godwin snapped, “Then take them both down to a holding cell.”

Again Buck hesitated. Crowne said, “It’s all right, Sergeant, do as he says.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor Jones, Clare,” Buck said. “Let’s go.”

Jones called over his shoulder, “I can see we’re going to have some interesting chats, you and I, Commodore!”

Tremayne was saying, “You’ve exceeded your authority, Commodore. I’m going to report this to my own superiors at the ministry.”

“Do what you like. I’ve got work to do.”

Thelma Bennet had never ridden a motorbike in her life. As they plummeted along a darkened road she clung to Winston’s back like a child to its mother.

Winston called over his shoulder, “Fifteen minutes to Newcastle. You all right back there, Thelma?

“Not really! How come you learned to handle a police motorcycle?”

“Clare’s given me a few joy rides. Mind you, she’ll kill me for pinching this.”

“You are close, you two, aren’t you?”

“Oh, she’s much too good for me.”

“Don’t ever think that. And did Clare teach you how to hot-wire it too?”

“Not exactly.”

“You’re a complicated person, Winston.”

“It’s life that’s complicated. Woah!”

The bike swerved drastically, avoiding an oncoming truck by inches, and Thelma gasped.

“Sorry.”

“Where are we going first?”

“Home. Gateshead, over the Tyne. I’ve got some toilet rolls to pick up. And you can meet my mum.”

Outside the base, there was little disorder. But the protesters had not dispersed, Phillips saw; gradually sobering up, they gathered in little knots, blowing on their hands.

Buck Grady approached, drawing on a cigarette.

“Ah, Sergeant Grady.”

“Sir. Everything under control out here?”

“After a fashion. Listen, I couldn’t scrounge a ciggie, could I?” Phillips took a cigarette from Buck’s pack, found a match, and lit up. “Ah, that’s good. Gave all mine away to pacify the locals. Just farmers, mostly, fuelled by the local witches’ brew. But they’ve a right to be concerned, haven’t they, Sergeant? It’s the sense of powerlessness, you see. Even though the project is under nominal British control.”

“Not everybody welcomes us Yanks over here.”

“Yes, well, I remember enough of Hitler’s war not to share that view. There is one thing, Sergeant. Those two civilians in there.”

Buck said, “I’ll make sure they come to no harm.”

“Well, that’s good of you. Good night, Sergeant.”

“Yeah. Let’s hope the rest of it is as peaceful as this.”

Jones paced, footsteps echoing. He and Clare were in a prison cell. There was no other word for it. “A neat aluminium cube. A very space-age prison. But the lock in that door wouldn’t have stopped Charlie Peace, I shouldn’t think.”

“You’re under arrest, you know. Try anything like that and I’ll cuff you.”