Stephen Baxter: Project Hades

Sunday 30th October, 1960. 2210.

Clare Baines parked her motorcycle outside the Reiver’s Arms and climbed off. She took off her helmet, replacing it with her police cap. The October night was pitch black, and a wind moaned off the moor.

When she opened the pub door she was dazzled by the bright light. Sweaty, smoky air spilled out, and a jangle of overamplified guitar music: Johnny Kidd and the Pirates. She braced herself and walked in.

A punter, brimming pint in hand, lurched towards her, one arm outstretched. “Watch your family jewels, lads, it’s the lady copper!”

Clare said, “Bonny lad, that wandering hand is going to get shoved so far up your jacksie you’ll be picking your teeth from the inside.”

The drunk backed off. “All right, lass, no offence.”

Winston Stubbins approached her, tall, gangly, earnest, wearing a duffel coat and boots. “Clare. I don’t suppose you fancy a Newkie Brown.”

“I’m on—”

“Duty. Yes, we can all see that.”

“I hope you’re not going to give me any trouble, Winston. You and this lot of boozed-up non-conformists. I’m just here to keep the peace.”

“Peace? That’s a bit ironic, isn’t it? Considering that tonight the largest atomic weapon ever tested in western Europe is going to blow up not a mile from this bloody pub.”

“According to our briefings it’s all perfectly safe.”

“Safe? Clare, the geology around here—”

“ ‘—shows signs of instability.’ ”

“So you did read my letters.”

“My sergeant made me. Look, Winston, what makes you think you know better than all the boffins?”

“I’m here. They’re not. Clare, it’s an American base out there. Americans don’t tell us anything.”

A tall, slim man in an American army uniform worked through the crowd towards them. “Did somebody page me? Good evening, Clare.”

“WPC Baines to you, Buck.”

Winston goggled. “Buck? Sergeant Grady, you’re actually called Buck?”

“And you’re actually called Winston. You limeys slay me. Clare told me about you. The old boyfriend with a bug up his ass.”

Clare said, “He was never my boyfriend. I’ve been trying to tell him the test is perfectly safe.”

“So it is, Winston. Aldmoor may be an American base, but Hades is a British programme, as designed and managed. The chain of command is intertwined right to the top.”

“Cobblers.”

Clare said, “Sorry, Buck. He has issues about Americans. His mother was a GI bride—”

“That’s got nothing to do with it,” Winston said hotly.

Buck said, “Look, Winston, I have a sort of public liaison role. That’s why I’m here in the pub—not for the beer, believe me. Here, take my card. Give me a call in the morning.”

“What good’s that? By the morning the bomb will have gone off, won’t it?”

Buck said, “Single-minded sort, isn’t he?”

Clare said, “No. Strong-willed. There’s a difference.”

Buck said, “Quite a crowd you’ve gathered here anyhow, Winston. Who are they—CND?”

“Some. They’re mostly locals. All with valid concerns about the test.”

“Well, there’s a couple more waiting out the door. See, Clare, the old guy in the dodgy coat and the posh young lady? They don’t look local to me. Reporters, you think?”

Clare said, “Oh, great, that’s all I need.”

Chapman Jones closed the doors of the Ministry car. Somewhere an owl hooted. The car pulled away, disappearing into the night. Jones shivered and closed his trenchcoat tighter. “So this is Aldmoor. And Halloween! Always an eerie time.”

Thelma Bennet peered through the pub window. “They all seem to be wearing black in there. Do you think it’s a funeral, Jones?”

“No, no. It’s just the fashion. No offence, Thelma, but this is your age group—a whole generation doomed to wear black polo-neck jumpers. Makes me rather glad I’ve passed fifty.”

“So they’re followers of fashion even here in Northumberland. I hope we’re not wasting our time.”

“Well, the anomaly report cluster was credible enough to have dragged us all the way up here from London—”

A military jet roared overhead, flying remarkably low, startling them; Jones glanced up to see its lights receding.

“Something to do with that, perhaps,” he said. “This is a militarised countryside—a cockpit of the Cold War, Thelma. No wonder people are a bit paranoid—”

And another noise fled through the air overhead, like a shriek, and again they flinched. Looking up, Jones saw an odd light sliding across the sky, misty, a roughly spherical cloud.

Thelma said, “Look, do you see that? A sort of glow.”

“Yes. It seems to be tracking the aircraft.”

“Something to do with the aircraft’s wake?”

“Hmm. I doubt it,” Jones said. “But what was it? Ball lightning—or some other plasma effect? It had a fairly definite shape, didn’t it?”

“Yes. And denser towards the centre. Layered, like an onion—”

“Or like an eye in the sky. How odd. Well, it’s just as the reports described. At least we know we’ve got something to get our teeth into. Come on, let’s go inside.”

A young policewoman met them at the door. Not tall, with her black hair neatly tied back, brisk, evidently competent, she smiled at them. “Good evening. Can I help you?”

“Well, that’s the first time the police have helped me into a pub as opposed to out of one.”

Thelma said, “Don’t be childish, Jones. Good evening. My name’s Thelma Bennet, and this is Doctor Chapman Jones. And you are—”

“WPC Baines, 534. Are you here for the protest?”

Jones said, “No, no. We’re here from the Ministry of Defence. Following up anomalous sightings.”

Baines grinned. “Sightings of what? Flying saucers?”

Jones sighed.

Thelma asked quickly, “What protest?

A gangly young man approached, trailed by a US army soldier. “Against the bomb test,” said the youngster. His accent, like the WPC’s, was thick and local—Geordie. He struck Jones as earnest, agitated.

“They call it Hades,” said the American. “An international programme of thermonuclear detonations planted deep underground.”

The boy said, “And the one they’re about to blow up here is in an abandoned mine shaft at a place called Lucifer’s Tomb. Appropriate name, isn’t it?”

“We haven’t been introduced,” said Thelma.

The tall soldier bowed. “Sergeant Buck Grady, US Army. And this is Winston, ah—”

“Winston Stubbins.”

Thelma introduced herself and Jones.

Buck smiled. “So, Doctor Jones, you came all the way to northern England, in October, because—?”

“Fishing to see if we’re here to cause you trouble, are you, Sergeant?”

Winston said, “What trouble? All these people have turned out because they don’t want a megabomb going off underneath their homes. The farmers’ ewes are already pregnant with next year’s lambs. And the miners are worried about safety down the pit.”

Buck’s grin widened. “Oh, Winston here thinks if we set off the bomb the planet will go pop like a party balloon. Right, Winston?”

Winston scowled. “The geology’s unstable. They don’t know what they’re doing.”

Jones said, “And you do? Are you a geologist, Winston?”

“He’s a coal miner,” Clare said. “And a geologist. Self-taught. Buck, you leave him alone.”

Jones said, “There’s nothing wrong with self-taught. I’m self-taught in most subjects myself. Tell me, Winston—how far to this Tomb of Lucifer?”

“A short walk, west of here.”