Deeper

16

Sarah hooked the leathery blind to one side to peer through the small window in the door of the cab. The journey took the carriage along a succession of darkened tunnels, until finally it turned a corner and she spotted an illuminated area ahead.

In the light shed by the streetlamps, she saw the first of many ranks of terraced houses. As they sped past, she noticed that some of the doors were open, but she couldn't see a single person in evidence, and the small lawns to the front of each home were overrun with tall clumps of black lichen and self-spored fungi. What had been the contents of the houses now littered the pavements; pots and pans and pieces of broken furniture lay discarded there.

The cab slowed to negotiate a cave-in. It was a serious one: Part of the tunnel had collapsed, and the massive blocks of limestone had tumbled down on top of a house, smashing in the roof and almost completely crushing the building.

Surprised, Sarah glanced at Rebecca, who was sitting across from her.

"This stretch is to be filled so we can cut the number of Topsoil portals. That's some of the fallout from your son's break-in to the Colony," Rebecca said matter-of-factly as the carriage accelerated again, jostling them from side to side with its motion.

"This is all because of Will?" Sarah asked, imagining how the people would have been cruelly forced to leave their houses.

"I told you — he doesn't care who he hurts," Rebecca said. "You have no idea what he's capable of. He's a sociopath, and someone has to stop him."

The old Styx beside Rebecca nodded sanguinely.

Through the twisting tunnels and cobbled tracks they went, lower and lower. As they began the final descent toward the Colony, there was no longer anything to see, and Sarah sat back. Feeling awkward, she lowered her eyes to her lap. One of the wheels rode over something and the carriage tipped precariously, throwing its passengers violently across the wooden seats. Sarah shot a look of alarm at Rebecca, who gave her one of those comforting smiles as the cab righted itself with a crash. The two other Styx remained impassive, just as they had been for the whole journey. Sarah stole furtive glances at them and couldn't suppress a shudder.

Imagine.

The enemies she had reviled with every fiber of her soul were a hairsbreadth away from her. They were her traveling companions. So close she could smell them. She wondered for the millionth time what they really wanted from her. Perhaps they were simply going to throw her into a cell when they reached their destination, and then Banish or execute her. But why go through with this charade if that were the case? The urge to escape was building irrepressibly in her once more. Her mind screamed at her to flee, and she began to calculate how far she might get. She was looking at the door handle, her fingers fidgeting, when Rebecca stretched out a hand and placed it on hers, stilling their movement.

"Not far now."

Sarah tried to smile and then, in the flash of light from a passing lamppost, she noticed the old Styx was looking straight at her. His pupils weren't quite jet-black, as they were with the rest of the Styx, but appeared to have an additional tinge to them, the slightest glimmer of a color she couldn't classify — between red and brown — that, to her, was darker and deeper than black itself.

And as his gaze rested momentarily on her, she felt an intense uneasiness, as if somehow he knew precisely what she was thinking. But then he was looking out the window again and didn't move his eyes from it for the rest of the journey, not even when he began to speak. It would be the only time he did so during the entire trip. His manner was that of someone wise with years; it was not the vengeful ranting Sarah was accustomed to hearing from senior members of the Styx. He seemed to weigh his words carefully, as if balancing them against each other before he let them past his thin lips.

"We are not that different, Sarah."

She jerked her head toward him. She was spellbound by the web of deep lines at the corners of his eyes that sometimes curled as if he were about to smile — although he never did.

"If we have a failing, it is that we do not recognize that a handful of people down here, the very few, are not that different from us, the Styx."

He blinked slowly as they passed a particularly large lamppost that shone into the cab so brightly it lit up all its corners. Sarah saw then that neither of the other two in the carriage were looking at the old Styx or, indeed, at her, as he went on.

"We set ourselves apart and, every so often, somebody like you comes along. You have a strength that singles you out; you resist us with the passion and fervor we expect from our own kind."

"You are merely striving for recognition, fighting for something you believe in — it matters not what — and we do not listen." He paused to take a long, considered breath.

"Why? Because we've had to dominate the people of the Colony for so many years — for the common good — and we tend to treat you all the same. But you are not all from the same mold. Although you are a Colonist, Sarah Jerome, you are passionate and committed, and not the same… not the same at all. Maybe you should be tolerated, for your spirit alone."

Sarah continued to stare at him long after he'd stopped speaking, wondering if he'd been inviting a response from her. She had no idea what message he'd been giving. Was he trying to show compassion toward her? Was this some kind of Styx charm offensive?

Or was he making some bizarre and unprecedented invitation for her to join the Styx? That couldn't be. That was unthinkable. That never happened. The Styx and the Colonists were races apart, the oppressors and the oppressed, as the old Styx had implied. And never the twain shall meet… and that was how it had always been and always would be, world without end.

A further possibility surfaced. Were his words simply an admission of the Styx's failure, a belated apology for the way she had been treated over her dying baby?

She was still pondering all this as the hansom drew to a halt before the Skull Gate.

She'd passed through it only a dozen or so times in her life, accompanying her husband on some official matter or other in the Quarter, where she had been left to wait outside in the street or, if actually allowed into the meeting, had been expected to remain silent. This was the way in the Colony: Women were not considered to be equal to men and could never hold positions of any level of responsibility.

She'd heard rumors that things were different with the Styx. And wasn't the living proof of it sitting across from her right now, in the shape of Rebecca? Sarah found it hard to believe that this mere child seemed to hold such sway. She'd also heard talk, mostly from Tam, that there was an inner circle, a kind of royalty at the top of the Styx hierarchy, but this was pure speculation. The Styx lived apart from the people of the Colony, and so nobody knew for sure what went on, although rumors of their bizarre religious rituals were bandied about in the taverns in low whispers, growing more and more exaggerated with each telling.

As she looked from the girl to the old Styx and back again, Sarah caught herself thinking that they could be related in some way. If the hearsay was to be believed, the Styx didn't have traditional family units, the children instead being taken away at an early age and raised by designated guardians or headmasters in their private schools.

But Sarah felt that there was definitely a bond between the two of them as they sat there in the dark. She sensed some sort of connection that went beyond the Styx's allegiance to each other. Despite his advanced years and his inscrutable face, there was the vaguest hint of the avuncular about the old Styx's manner toward the young girl.

Sarah's thoughts were interrupted by a single knock on the door of the hansom cab. It flew open. A blindingly bright lantern shone rudely in, the glare making Sarah shade her eyes. Then came an exchange, in reedy clicks, between the younger Styx by her side and the lantern bearer. The light withdrew almost immediately, and Sarah heard the clanking of the portcullis as the Skull Gate was raised. She didn’t lean over to the window to watch, but instead pictured the pig-iron gate as it retreated into the huge carved effigy of a skull above it.

The gate's purpose was to keep the inhabitants of the huge caverns in place. Of course, Tam had found myriad ways around this main barrier. It had been like a game of Chutes and Ladders to him; each time one of his smuggling runs was discovered, he always managed to find an alternative route to get Topsoil.

Indeed, she herself had used a route he'd told her about to make good her escape, through an air-ventilation tunnel. With another pang of loss, Sarah smiled at the memory of the scene as the big man, with his bearlike hands, had painstakingly sketched her an intricate map in brown ink on a square of cloth the size of a small handkerchief. She knew that particular route was useless now — with typical Styx efficiency it would have been closed off in the hours after she'd fled to the surface.

The carriage surged forward, moving at an incredible rate, descending deeper and deeper. Then came a change in the air, and a burning smell filled her nostrils, and everything began to vibrate with a pervasive low rumble. The carriage was passing the main fan stations. Hidden from sight in a huge excavated space high above the Colony, massive fans churned away, day and night, drawing off the smog and stale air.

She sniffed, inhaling deeply. Down here, everything was more concentrated: the smoke and fumes from fires; the smell of cooking, of mildew and rot and decay; and the collective stench of the huge number of human beings segregated in several interlinking, albeit quite large, areas. A distilled essence of all life in the Colony.

The carriage made a sharp turn. Sarah gripped the edge of the wooden seat so she wouldn't slide along its worn surface and into the younger Styx at her side.

Closer.

She was getting closer.

As they continued down, she leaned expectantly forward to the window.

She looked out, no longer able to stop herself from gazing at the twilight world that had once been the only one she knew.

From this distance, the stone-built houses, workshops, storefronts, squat places of worship, and substantial official buildings which the South Cavern was composed looked very much the same as when she'd last seen them. She wasn't surprised. Life down here was as constant as the pale light of the orbs that burned twenty-four hours a day, week in, week out, for the last three centuries.

The hansom cab raced off the bottom of the incline and through the streets at breakneck speed, people stepping out of the way or pushing their handcarts quickly against the curbs so as not to be mown down.

Sarah saw Colonists regarding the speeding carriage with bewildered expressions. Children pointed, but their parents pulled them back as they realized that the hansom was carrying Styx. It wasn't done to stare at members of the ruling class.

"Here we are," Rebecca said gently. "Come with me."

She took Sarah's hand, guiding the quaking woman out into the dimness of the cavern. As she allowed herself to be led, Sarah lifted her head to look a the immense span of rock that stretched over the subterranean city. Smoke rose lazily from the stone canopy above, rippling slightly as the enormous vents around the walls fed fresh air into the cavern.

Rebecca kept Sarah's hand clasped in hers, drawing her on. There was a clattering and another hansom cab drew up behind the one from which they had just dismounted. Sarah stopped, resisting Rebecca and turning to look back at it. She could just make out Joe Waites through the carriage window.

She swung back to view the uniform row of houses stretching along the street. It was completely empty, which was unusual at this hour. Her unease grew again.

"I didn’t think you'd want people gaping at you," Rebecca said, as if she knew what was in Sarah's mind. "So I had the area cordoned off."

"Ah," Sarah said quietly, "and he's not here, is he?"

"We've done exactly as you requested."

Back in the cat's chamber in Highfield, Sarah had insisted on one condition: She couldn’t face seeing her husband, even after all this time. Whether it was because it would bring back memories of the dead baby or because she couldn’t cope with her own betrayal and abandonment of him, she didn’t know.

She still hated him and, when she allowed herself to be brutally honest, still loved him, in equal measures.

She walked as if she was in a dream. The appearance of her house was unchanged, as if she'd left it only yesterday and the last twelve years had never happened. After all that time on the run, living hand to mouth like some sort of animal, Sarah was home.

She touched the deep cut on her throat.

"It's all right, it doesn't look too bad," Rebecca said, squeezing Sarah's hand.

There it was again: a Styx child, spawn of the worst filth imaginable, trying to comfort her! Holding her hand and acting like she was her friend. Had the world gone mad?

"Ready?" Rebecca asked.

The last time Sarah had seen the house, her dead baby had been laid out — in that room there — her eyes flicked up to the master bedroom, where she'd sat by the cot on that dreadful night. And down there — she turned her attention to the living room window — flashes of her past life came back: mending her son's clothes; emptying the grate in the morning; bringing her husband tea as he read the paper; and smiling at her brother Tam's deep voice, as if heard from another room, his laughter soaring as glasses clinked together. Oh, if only he was still alive. Dear, dear, dear Tam.

"Ready?" Rebecca asked again.

"Yes," Sarah replied decisively. "I am."

They went slowly up the path, but as they reached the front door, Sarah shrank back.

"It's OK," Rebecca cooed soothingly. "Your mother's waiting." She pushed through the door and Sarah followed her into the hall. "She's through there. Go and see her. I'll be outside."

Sarah looked at the familiar green-striped wallpaper upon which hung the stern pictures of her husband's ancestors, generations of men and women who had never seen what she'd seen: the sun. Then she touched a smoky-blue shade on a lamp on the hall table, as if making sure that everything was real, that she wasn't in the throes of some bizarre hallucination.

"Take as long as you want." With that Rebecca whirled around and, in prim steps, exited the house, leaving Sarah standing alone.

She drew a deep breath and, walking stiffly as an automaton, made her way into the living room.

The fire was lit and the room looked as it ever did, maybe a little more worn and discolored by smoke, but still warm and welcoming. She padded quietly over to the Persian rug and the winged leather armchairs, edging slowly around until she could see who was sitting there. She still thought that at any moment she'd wake and all this would be over, dimming in memory like any dream.

"Ma?"

The old lady raised her head feebly, as if she'd been dozing, but Sarah knew she hadn't when she saw the tears on her wrinkled cheeks. Sarah felt her body go limp with all the emotions that were sweeping through her.

"Ma." Her voice gave out and all she could manage was a croak.

"Sarah," the old lady said, and stood up with some difficulty. She raised her arms to Sarah, who saw she was still crying and couldn't stop herself, either. "They said you were coming, but I didn't dare hope."

Her mother's arms were around her but the embrace felt frail, not the strong grip she remembered. They stood, holding each other, until her mother spoke.

"I need to sit," she gasped.

As she did so, Sarah kneeled down before her chair, still holding her mother's hands.

"You look well, my child," her mother said.

Sarah fumbled for something to say in response, but was too overwrought to speak.

"Life up there must suit you," the old lady went on. "Is it really as wicked as they tell us?"

Sarah started to answer, but once again words failed her. She couldn’t begin to explain and, at that moment, it really didn't matter to either of them, anyway. It was being together, being reunited, that counted.

"So much has happened, Sarah." The old woman hesitated. "The Styx have been good to me. They've been sending someone to help me to services every day so I can pray for Tam's soul." She lifted her eyes to the window as if it was too painful to look at her daughter. "They told me you would be coming home, but I didn't dare believe them. It was too much to hope that I might see you again… one last time… before I die."

"Don't talk like that, Ma, you've got a good few years in you yet," Sarah said ever so softly as she shook her mother's hands in a gentle reprimand. As her mother turned her head back toward her, Sarah looked deep into her eyes. It was heartrending to see the change, as if a light had gone out. There'd always been a vibrant sparkle to them, but now they seemed lackluster and vacant. Sarah knew that time alone had not been responsible. She know that she was partly to blame, and felt she had to account for her actions.

"I've been the cause of so much, haven't I? I split the family. I put my sons in danger…" Sarah said, her voice trembling. She took several rapid breaths. "And I have no idea how my husband… John… feels."

"He looks after me now," her mother said quickly. "Now that there's nobody else."

"Oh, Ma," Sarah croaked, her speech becoming broken. "I… I didn't mean for you to be left alone… when I went… I'm so sorry—"

"Sarah," the old lady interrupted, the tears flowing freely down her lined face as she squeezed her daughter's hands. "Don't torture yourself. You did what you thought you had to."

"But, Tam… Tam's dead… and I just can't believe it."

"No," the old lady said, so softly as to be barely audible against the crackle of the fire, and bowed her grief-stricken face. "Neither can I."

"Is it true…" Sarah hesitated in midsentence, then asked the question she had been dreading to ask. "Is it true that Seth had a hand in it?"

"Call him Will, not Seth!" her mother snapped, her head jerking toward Sarah, who jumped at the outburst. "He is not Seth, he is not your son anymore," her mother said, her swift anger tightening the sinews in her neck and making slits of her eyes. "Not after all the harm he's done."

"Do you know that for sure?"

Her mother became incoherent. "Joe… the Styx… the police… everyone knows it for sure!" she spluttered. "Don't you now what happened?"

Sarah was torn between needing to know more and not wanting to upset her mother any further. "The Styx told me Will led Tam into a trap," Sarah said, pressing her mother's hands consolingly. They were tensed and rigid.

"Just to save his own worthless hide!" the old woman spat. "But how could he?" Her head sagged, but her eyes remained fixed on Sarah. The anger seemed to desert her for that instant and was replaced with an expression of mute incomprehension. For a moment she was closer to the person Sarah remembered, the kindly old lady who had spent her whole life working so hard for her family.

"I don't know," Sarah whispered. "They say he forced Cal to go with him."

"He did!" In an instant, her mother had resumed the vengeful, ugly mask, hunching her already rounded shoulders in a show of anger and snatching her hands away from Sarah. "We welcomed Will back with open arms, but he'd become a foul, loathsome Topsoiler." She thumped the arm of the chair, her teeth clenched. "He fooled us… all of us, and Tam died because of him."

"I just don't understand how… why he did that to Tam. Why would any son of mine do that?"

"HE'S NOT YOUR SON!" her mother wailed, her small chest heaving.

Sarah recoiled — she'd never heard her mother yell before, not once in her whole life. And she feared for her mother's health. She was in such a state of distress, Sarah was worried that she might do herself harm.

Then, becoming quiet again, the old woman pleaded, "Whatever you do, you must save Cal." She leaned forward, tears streaming down her wrinkled face. "You'll get Cal back, won't you, Sarah?" her mother said, a hard, steely edge creeping into her voice. "You are going to save him — promise me that."

"If it's the last thing I do," Sarah whispered, and she turned to stare into the hearth.

This moment of meeting her mother again, of which she'd dreamed so many times for so long, had been desecrated by Will's duplicity. The depth of her mother's conviction that he was responsible banished any reservations she'd had. After a span of twelve long years, Sarah's strongest connection with her mother was their overwhelming need for vengeance.

They listened to the crackle of the fire. There was nothing to be said, and neither felt like talking anymore, consumed by the pure hatred they shared for Will.

Outside the house, Rebecca watched the horses champing impatiently and rattling their harnesses as they shook their heads. She was leaning against the door of the second carriage, in which Joe Waites sat nervously, hemmed in by several Styx. He stared at Rebecca through the small carriage window, his face taut and strained, a sheen of unhealthy sweat on his forehead.

A Styx appeared at the door of the Jerome house. It was the same Styx who'd been sitting next to Sarah for the coach journey to the Colony and, unbeknownst to her and her mother, had stolen in through the back of the house so he could monitor their conversation from the hallway.

He raised his head high to Rebecca. She nodded back once in acknowledgment.

"Is that good?" Joe Waites asked quickly, edging closer to the carriage window.

"Sit down!" Rebecca hissed with all the vehemence of a disturbed viper.

"But, my wife, my daughters?" he said hoarsely, his eyes pathetic in their desperation. "Do I get them back now?"

"Maybe. If you're a good little Colonist and continue to do as you're told," Rebecca sneered at him. Then, in the clicking, nasal language of the Styx, she addressed his escort in the carriage: "After we're finished here, put him in with his family. We'll deal with them all together when the job's done."

Joe Waites watched apprehensively as the Styx by his side acknowledged Rebecca, then gave her a sardonic grin.

Rebecca strolled back to the first coach, swaying her hips in a way that she'd seen precocious teenage girls do when she'd been Topsoil. It was her victory walk; she was reveling in her success. It was so close now, she could almost taste it, her mouth filling with a gush of sticky saliva. Her father would be so proud of her. She'd taken two problems, two strands, and was setting one against the other. The best outcome would be if they neutralized each other, but even if one remained at the end of the play, she could snuff it out so easily. Ah, the elegance!

She came alongside the first carriage, where the old Styx sat.

"Progress?" he asked.

"She's swallowing it, hook, line and sinker."

"Excellent," the old Styx said to her. "And what about the loose end?" he queried, tilting his head at the carriage behind.

Rebecca smiled that gentle smile she had used to such effect on Sarah.

"When Sarah's safely on the Miners' Train, we'll shred Waites and his family and spread them over the fields in the West Cavern. Compost for the pennybun crops."

Sniffing, she made a face as if she'd smelled something distasteful. "And the same for that useless old crone in there," she added, jabbing her thumb toward the Jerome house.

She chuckled as the old Styx nodded approvingly.

17

"Food… no doubt about it… it's food," Cal said, tilting back his head and flaring his nostrils with a heavy inhalation.

"Food?" Chester reacted immediately.

"Nah, can't smell a thing." Will looked at his feet as they dawdled along, not really knowing where they were going, or why. All they knew was that they had been following the canal for miles and had not yet come across anything that even vaguely resembled a track.

"I got us fresh water, in the old Styx house, didn't I? Now I'm going to find us some fresh supplies," Cal declared with his usual cockiness.

"We've still got some left," Will replied. "Shouldn't we be heading for that light ahead or finding a road or something, not going where there might be Colonists? I say we should try and get down to the next level, where my dad's probably already gone."

"Exactly!" Chester agreed. "Especially if this wasted place is going to make us glow in the dark."

"Now," Will said, "that would be really useful."

"Don't be daft." Chester grinned at his friend.

"Sorry, I don't agree," Cal said, cutting across their banter. "If this is some sort of food store, we may be close to a Coprolite village."

"Yeah, and…?" Will challenged.

"Well, your so-called father… he's going to be on the lookout for food, too." Cal reasoned.

"True," Will agreed.

They walked a little farther, their feet kicking up dust, until Cal announced in a singsong voice: "It's getting stronger."

"You know, I think you're right. There is something," Will said as they drew to a halt, sniffing.

"Hmmm, a fast-food place, maybe?" Chester suggested wistfully. "I'd give my little finger for a supersized Mac Meal right now."

"It's like something… sweet," Will said, a look of intense concentration on his face as he took a further succession of deep sniffs.

"Whatever it is, let's not bother," Chester proposed. He became nervous, darting cautious glances around him so that he appeared a little like a strutting pigeon. "I really don't want to meet those Coprolite things."

Cal turned to him. "Look, how many times do I have to tell you? They're completely harmless. People in the Colony say you can take what you like from them, if you can find them in the first place."

Since Chester didn't make any sort of response, Cal continued. "We have to investigate anything unusual. If we've noticed it, Will's father might've, too, and that's what we're sort of here for, isn't it?" he finished sarcastically. "In any case, we had to stay on this side of the canal because you didn't want to get your feet wet." Cal bent to pick up a stone, which he threw aggressively. It hit the water with a loud splash!

"You never let up, or shut up, do you?" Chester groaned.

"Oh, yeah?" Cal replied.

"Well, it's funny, but I didn't see you stripping off and jumping in the canal headfirst." Chester glared at the younger boy. "What's the saying — lead by example? "

"What do you mean, lead? We don't have a leader; we're all in this together, remember?"

"Could've fooled me."

"C'mon, guys," Will pleaded. "Knock it off. We don't need this."

The trio lapsed into an aggrieved silence as they set off again, the bickering between Cal and Chester suspended for the moment.

Then Cal peeled away from Will and Chester, taking a route perpendicular to the canal.

"It's coming from over here."

He stopped as the beam of his lantern caught a rocky outcrop. Next to this was an opening, a naturally formed slit in the ground, like a large letterbox.

As the other two peered into the opening, Will happened to catch sight of a cross staked into the earth by the side of the outcrop. The cross was fashioned from two pieces of wood, bleached as white as bone and somehow bound together.

"What does that mean?" he asked, pointing it out to Cal.

"Bet it's a Coprolite marker," his brother replied, nodding enthusiastically. "If we're in luck, there could be a settlement down there, and they're certain to have some food. We can help ourselves to all we want."

"I'm not too sure about this," Will shook his head.

"Will, let's just forget it and keep going," Chester urged his friend, staring into the hole apprehensively. "I don't like the look of it, either."

"You don't like the look of anything," Cal spat at him. "Why don't you stay here while I take a look," he said, and scuttled down into the opening. After a few seconds, he shouted up to them that he'd found a passageway.

Will and Chester were too weary to say anything to stop him, knowing full well they'd get into another fight. With reluctance, they both followed him in. Clambering down, they found themselves in a horizontal gallery. Cal hadn't waited for them and was already some distance farther into it. They went after him, but it wasn't easy going. As the gallery pinched down to a small passageway, Will was forced to dump his backpack, next to where Cal had already shed his.

"I hate this," Chester groaned. Both he and Will were breathing hard as they pulled themselves along, sometimes dropping onto their chests to squeeze through the places where the passage ceiling lowered.

Chester was struggling. Will could hear his friend's labored breathing as he wormed his way along. He still hadn't recovered from the months of incarceration in the Hold, despite the brief rests on the Miners' Train and at the old Styx house.

"Why don't you turn around? We'll meet you back at the entrance," Will suggested.

"Nah, it's OK," Chester puffed, grunting with the effort as he forced himself through a particularly narrow gap. "Got this far, haven't I?" he added.

"OK, if you're sure."

After a couple of minutes, Will was relieved to find that the height of the ceiling was increasing, and they were able to stand once again.

And there was Cal, some fifty feet away, poised before the entrance to another long cavern. As Will and Chester stretched their limbs, he waved to them. Then he was off, brandishing his lantern before him. Will and Chester watched him go.

"He's fast, I'll give him that. I reckon he's got some rabbit in him," Chester said, breathing more steadily.

"Are you feeling better?" Will asked him, noticing the pained way Chester was rubbing his arms and how the perspiration was running down his face.

"Sure."

"We'd better catch up to him, then," Will said. "I don't like this smell at all. Really sickly," he added, wrinkling his nose.

They came to the spot where Cal had been standing and looked in.

They could feel the dryness in the air and the smell had become even more intense. It wasn't pleasant; there was an insubstantiality to it, and warning bells were beginning to ring in Will's head. He knew instinctively there was something false about it, something saccharine.

Cal was now exploring an area of the floor that was dotted with many large, rounded boulders. On these were clusters of pipelike structures protruding upward, some reaching several feet in height. Each cluster had a few larger pipes in its center, each about five inches in diameter, and around these were groupings of smaller ones, all radiating outward.

The pipes were slightly lighter in color than the rocks on which they stood, and from where he was standing, Will could see that the outsides of these pipes had definite rings circumscribing them every inch or so. To his eye, this suggested that the extensions secreted their casings as they grew. He also observed that they were anchored to the boulders by some sort of resinous secretion, like an organic glue.

They were living creatures.

Fascinated, he took a step closer.

"Will, do you think this is safe?" Chester said, grabbing his arm to hold him back.

Will just shrugged, and was peering back into the cavern when they both saw Cal lose his footing. He grabbed at the top of one of the tubes to steady himself, but withdrew his hand quickly. There was a sound, as if someone had snapped their fingers, but sharper. Cal recovered his balance and straightened up.

"Ouch," he said quietly, looking at his hand with a mystified expression.

"Cal?" Will called.

For a heartbeat the boy stood there, his back to them, still examining his hand.

Then he simply crumpled to the ground.

"CAL!"

Will and Chester exchanged frantic glances, and Will started to move forward but found Chester was still gripping his arm.

"Let me go!" he said, trying to detach himself.

"No!" Chester shouted at him.

"I have to!" Will said, struggling.

Chester released him, but Will halted after a few steps.

"What the…" Chester gasped.

They could hear it. More snaps, growing louder and more frequent. Muted, dry-sounding clicks, getting faster and faster until they merged into one resounding barrage. The terrified boys turned this way and that, trying to figure out where the throbbing percussive cacophony was coming from. But they couldn't tell; nothing appeared to have changed in the cavern where Cal lay.

"We have to get him out!" Will yelled, and started forward.

They both rushed to Cal's side. Chester eyed the columns around them with caution as Will squatted down to roll the boy over onto his back. He was limp and unresponsive, his eyes open and staring.

At first they thought he had just been stunned, but even as they watched, livid purple lines, accenting the network of capillaries beneath his skin, spread from under each of his eyes, much as ink permeates through water. With terrifying rapidity, the bruises grew larger, until they were encroaching upon his cheeks. It looked as though he had two huge black eyes.

"What's going on? What's wrong with him?" Will shouted, his voice hoarse with panic.

Chester looked blank. "I don't know," he said.

"Did he bang his head on something?" Will yelled.

Chester examined Cal's head, running his hand over his crown and down to the nape of his neck. There was no sign of any injury. "Check his breathing," he muttered to himself, trying to recall first-aid procedures. Tilting back Cal's head, he leaned forward so his ear was over the boy's nose and mouth, and listened. He pulled back slightly, vexed. Then he leaned forward again, forcing Cal's jaw farther down to check that his airway wasn't blocked by an obstruction, and once again cocked his head to one side to listen. Blowing through his lips, Chester sat back on his haunches and placed his hand on the boy's chest.

"Will! I don't think he's breathing!"

Will grabbed his brother's limp arm and shook him.

"Cal! Cal! Come on! Wake up!" he cried.

He placed two fingers on the boy's neck, feeling for the artery and frantically trying to find a pulse.

"Here… No… Where is it?… Nothing… WHERE IS IT?" he yelled. "Am I doing this right?" He looked at Chester, his eyes wide with the wrenching, screaming awareness that he couldn't find a heartbeat.

That his brother was dead.

At that very moment, the clicks were replaced by another sound. A soft popping similar to that of champagne corks going off, but gentler, as if heard through a wall.

A streaming, fluxing whiteness instantly filled the air. The deluge engulfed the boys, catching in the beams of their lights and clogging the space. These particles, like a million tiny petals, spewed forth in torrents. They could have been coming from the tubes, but it was so dense it was impossible to tell.

"No!" Will shrieked.

With a hand clapped over his nose and mouth, he began to heave his brother by his arm, trying to drag him toward the entrance of the cavern. But Will found he couldn't draw breath; the particles were like sand, blocking his mouth and nostrils.

He arched his back and swallowed a little air, enough for him to shout a few words at Chester. "Get him out!" he cried over the incessant popping.

Chester didn't need to be told, but was floundering under the onslaught, blinking and shielding his eyes as the dry, snow-like material continued to spurt forth. The air was so thick and impenetrable that, as he waved at Will, his arm left swirling eddies behind it.

Will slipped and fell to the ground, coughing and choking. "Can't breathe," he wheezed with what little air he had left in his lungs. Lying on his side, he struggled to fill them again, cursing inside as he thought of the gas masks he and Cal had used in the Eternal City. They'd dumped them, figuring they would be of no further use. They'd been wrong.

With his hand held over his face, Will stayed on his side, panting, unable to do anything. Through the deluge he saw Chester hauling Cal along, the boy's body leaving tracks behind it in the whiteness.

Will forced himself to crawl, his lungs aching from lack of oxygen, his head spinning. He couldn't think about his brother; he knew he was going to succumb if he didn't get out of the cavern. His throat and nostrils were blocked as if he'd been buried in flour. With a supreme effort he staggered to his feet and managed a few steps. Chester, his back to Will, was still pulling and heaving Cal's lifeless body.

Will launched himself forward, propelling himself only a couple of paces before collapsing to the ground again. It was enough. He was away from the worst of the swirling maelstrom of whiteness and able to suck in some clean air.

He continued at a slow crawl but hadn't gone very far when he doubled up and coughed so much he was sick, uncontrollably so. To his horror, his vomit was awash with the minute pale particles and small slugs of blood. With the single thought of survival in his mind, he forced himself down the passageway on his hands and knees, pulling himself blindly through the narrow stretch, and didn't stop until he'd reached the letterbox opening.

He heaved himself back out onto the Great Plain and lay coughing and spluttering and throwing up a mottled fluid. But his ordeal wasn't over yet. Where the white specks had stuck to the exposed skin of his neck and face, they began to irritate it, the irritation very quickly transforming into the most excruciating burning sensation. He tried to scratch off the particles, but this just seemed to make things worse: As the white specks came away, they took the skin with them. Soon blood was smeared all over his fingers.

Not knowing what else to do, he grabbed handfuls of dirt and scrubbed furiously at his face and neck. This seemed to do the trick, the intolerable itching and pain easing a little. But his eyes were still on fire, and it took him some minutes to wipe them clean using the inside of his shirtsleeve.

Then Chester appeared. He scrambled up through the opening, staggering around blindly. As he fell on all fours and coughed and retched, Will saw that he had been dragging something behind him. Through his watering eyes, he thought it was Cal. But his heart sank as he realized it was just the rucksacks.

Chester howled, clawing at his face. He was completely covered in the white particles, his hair matted with them and his face furred where they had stuck in his sweat. He howled again, scratching violently at his neck as if he were trying to tear off his own skin. "It burns!" he cried in a strangled, tortured wail.

"Use the dirt, rub it off!" Will yelled.

Chester immediately did so, seizing handfuls of soil and scouring his face with it.

"Make sure it's out of your eyes!"

Chester rummaged in his pants pocket and, bringing out a handkerchief, dabbed urgently at his eyes. After a short while his movements became less frantic. Snot streamed from his nose, and his eyes were still watering and rimmed bright red. His face was a mixture of streaked dirt and blood, as if he were wearing some ghastly mask. He looked at Will with a haunted expression.

"I couldn't take it any longer," he croaked. "I couldn't stay in there… I couldn't breathe." He broke into a racking cough.

"I've got to get him out," Will said, starting toward the opening. "I'm going back in."

"No, you're not!" Chester snapped, leaping to his feet and seizing hold of him.

"I have to!" Will protested, trying to pull away.

"Don't be stupid, Will! What if these things get you, and I can't get you out!" Chester shouted.

Will grappled with his friend, struggling to break loose, but Chester was determined not to let him go. In sheer frustration, Will made a halfhearted attempt to punch Chester, and then began to sob. He knew what Chester was saying made sense. His whole body went limp, as if all his strength had suddenly deserted him.

"OK, OK," Will said in an unsteady voice, holding his hands up to Chester, who released him. He coughed, then threw back his head as if looking for the sky, even though he knew it was hidden from him by many miles of the earth's mantle. He sighed a sigh that shook his whole body as the realization sank in.

"You're right. Cal's dead.," he said.

Chester fixed his eyes on Will, nodding once.

"I'm sorry, Will, I really am."

"He was just trying to help. He was trying to find us some food… and now look what happened." Will's shoulders sank and he bowed his head.

As his raw skin continued to burn, Will rubbed his neck, his hand touching and unconsciously closing around the jade pendant that hung there. It had been given to him by Tam minutes before he was slaughtered by the Styx. "I promised Uncle Tam I'd take care of Cal. I gave him my word," he said bleakly, turning away. "What are we doing here? How did all this happen?" He coughed, and then spoke in a small voice. "Dad's probably dead somewhere just like that, and we're idiots and we're going to die, too. I'm sorry, Chester — game over. We're done for."

Leaving his lantern behind, he walked away from Chester, stumbling toward a boulder. There, in the dark, he sat down and stared into the nothingness before him, as it stared back into him.

18

With a loud lash of the whip, the carriage left the Jerome house. It passed through the cordon as a barricade was hurriedly pulled aside by some policemen. A small crowd had gathered farther down the road, and Colonists were doing their best to appear to be going about their everyday business. They failed miserably, craning their necks toward the cab in a bid to see who was inside, as indeed many of the policemen.

Sarah gazed vacantly through the window, oblivious to the faces and their curious stares. She was utterly exhausted from the reunion with her mother.

"You do realize you're somewhat of a celebrity," Rebecca said as she sat by the old Styx, the younger one having remained behind at the Jerome house.

Sarah gave the girl a glassy-eyed stare before turning to the window again.

The carriage rattled through the streets to the farthermost corner of the South Cavern, where the Styx compound stood. The compound was encircled by a thirty-foot wrought-iron fence, and within it was a huge, forbidding building. Its seven stories were carved from the very rock itself, and it had two square towers at either end of its frontage. The building, known as the Styx Citadel, was functional and stark, its rough stone walls without a single decorative feature to relieve its geometric simplicity. No Colonist had ever set foot in it, and nobody knew exactly what went on inside or quite how big it was, since the structure penetrated so deep into the actual bedrock. There had been talk that the Citadel was linked to the surface by various tunnels so the Styx could make their way up whenever they wanted.

Also within the compound, to the side of the Citadel, was a large but far squatter building, with ranks of small and regularly spaced windows dotted through its two stories. Referred to as the Garrison, it was generally thought to be the center of the Styx's military operations. Unlike the Citadel, Colonists were permitted into this building and, indeed, a number worked there in the service of the Styx.

And it was to this building, the Garrison, that the carriage went. Disembarking, Sarah unquestioningly followed Rebecca to the entrance, where a policeman in a sentry box touched his cap respectfully, his eyes averted. Once inside the Garrison, Rebecca handed Sarah over to a Colonist and promptly left.

Sarah, her head hanging with fatigue, managed a glance at the man. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to reveal massively powerful forearms, and he was deep-chested and stocky, like many of the men of the Colony. He wore a long black rubber apron upon which was centered a small white cross insignia. His scalp was almost clean-shaven, with the odd stubble of white hair beginning to show through, and his enormous brow overhung two perfectly pale blue but rather small eyes. With similar coloration to Sarah herself, he was a "pure stock," to use the local term for the albinos, the descendants of some of the original founders of the Colony. He, like the policemen, had acted very deferentially toward Rebecca, but now he kept stealing glances at Sarah as she trailed listlessly behind him.

He led her up a flight of stairs and through several corridors, their footsteps clacking on the polished stone floors. The walls were plain and unadorned, interrupted only by the numerous dark iron doors, all of which were closed. He came to one of these and swung it open before her. The stone floor continued in, and she saw that a bed mat lay in the corner under a slit window set high into the wall. There was a white enamel bowl beside her bed, filled with water, and by it were a similarly enameled mug and some slices of pennybun fungus, stacked neatly on a plate. The simplicity and bareness of the room gave it the feel of a monastery or some sort of religious retreat.

She stood on the threshold but did not make a move to go in.

The man opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it. He did this several times, like a beached fish, and then seemed to summon up enough courage.

"Sarah," he said, ever so gently, as he inclined his head toward hers.

She looked slowly up at him.

He checked up and down the corridor, making sure no one was close enough to overhear. "I shouldn't speak to you like this, but… don't you recognize me?" he asked.

She crinkled her eyes as if trying to focus on him, and then a startled look of recognition came over her.

"Joseph…" she said in a whisper. They were of the same age, and as teenagers had been close. She had lost contact with him when his family had fallen on hard times and been forced to relocate to the West Cavern, to work the fields there.

He gave an uneasy grin, at odds with his great ham of a face and strangely all the more tender for it.

"You should know everyone understands why you went, and… we…" He fumbled for the right words. "We never forgot you, some of us… me."

A door slammed somewhere in the building, and he glanced anxiously over his shoulder.

"Thank you, Joseph," she said as she touched his arm, then shambled into the room.

Joseph muttered something and closed the door softly behind her, but none of it registered with Sarah, who dropped her bag on the floor and crumpled onto the bed mat. She stared at the burnished stone of the wall where it joined the floor, seeing in it the outlines of many fossil forms, mostly ammonites and other bivalves, their subtle traces appearing as if some diving designer had drawn them in with a china marker.

As she tried to organize her different thoughts and emotions into some semblance of order, the massed remains of the fossils, caught for all time in their frozen attitudes, almost made sense to her. It was as if she suddenly understood them, as if she could read a pattern in their chaotic arrangement, a secret key, which helped to explain everything. But then the moment of clarity passed and, in the abounding silence, she drifted into a dead slumber.

19

The first rays of the sun tipped over the horizon, suffusing a narrow strip of sky with a dawn palette of reds and oranges. Within minutes, its nascent light was stretching low across the rooftops, pushing back the night and marking the start of a new day.

Below in Trafalgar Square, a trio of black cabs jostled away from traffic lights as a lone cyclist weaved recklessly between them. Beyond the far corner of the square, a convoy of red double-deckers came into sight, pulling up at the bus stops. But very few passengers could be seen getting on or off at the time in the morning. The rush hour was yet to come.

"The early bird catches the worm," Rebecca laughed mirthlessly, scanning the sidewalks below as she picked out the odd pedestrian walking there.

"I think not of them as worms; they are worse than senseless things," the old Styx proclaimed, contemplating the scene with his glittering eyes, which were every bit as alert as Rebecca's.

In the growing light, his face was so pale and unyielding it could have been carved from a block of ancient ivory. And with his ankle-length leather overcoat and his hands clasped behind his back, he resembled a conquering general as he stood by Rebecca on the very edge of the roof of Admiralty Arch. Both of them showed not the slightest fear at the sheer drop immediately before them.

"There are those who would oppose us and the measures we are to take," the old Styx said, still regarding the square. "You have begun to cleanse the Deeps of renegades, but it does not end there. There are reactionary factions both here on the surface and in the Colony, in the Rookeries, of whom we have been far too tolerant for far too long. You have brought your late father's plans forward and, now when they are so finely poised, we cannot allow a fly in the ointment."

"Agreed," Rebecca said, giving no clue that the decision had been taken there and then to kill several thousand people.

The old Styx closed his eyes, not because the gathering Topsoil light bothered him, but because he had been struck by a thought that was tiresome.

"That Burrows child…"

Rebecca opened her mouth to speak, but held her tongue as the old Styx continued.

"You and your sister did well to pull in the Jerome woman and neutralize her. Your father was not one for unfinished business, either. Both of you have his instinct," the old Styx said, so softly that it could have been construed as affection.

His tone resumed its usual hardness. "That being as it is, we have scotched the snake, not killed it. Will Burrows is contained for the moment, but he may yet become a false idol, a figurehead, for our enemies. They might seek to use him in their opposition of us and the measures we intend to take. He cannot be allowed to continue to roam unchecked in the Interior. He must be flushed out and stopped." Only then did the old Styx swivel his head slowly toward Rebecca, who continued to gaze down on the scene below. "And the boy might yet piece together what we're doing and sideline our plans. This is to be avoided… at all costs," he stressed.

"It will be dealt with," Rebecca assured him with unerring conviction.

"Make sure of it," the old Styx said and released his hands from behind his back, swinging them in front of him and clapping them together.

Rebecca took her cue from his gesture. "Yes," she said, "we should get under way." Her long black coat billowed open in the breeze as she half turned to the troop of Styx waiting quietly behind her.

"Let me see one," she ordered as she left the roof edge and strode imperiously toward the rank of shadowy men. There were perhaps as many as fifty of them in a perfectly straight line, and from this a single Styx snapped obediently to life, breaking from the formation. He kneeled down to slip his gloved hand under the lid of one of a pair of large wicker baskets that he and every one of the Styx on the rooftop had by their feet. From the basket came the soft sounds of cooing. He plucked out a pure white dove and closed the lid again. As he passed the dove to Rebecca, it tried to flap its wings, but she took it firmly in both hands.

She held the bird on its side to inspect its legs. There was something around both of them, as if the bird had been ringed, but these were more than mere metal bands. Made from an off-white fabric, they sparkled dimly as the light caught them. Each band had tiny spheres embedded in it, which had been designed to degrade upon several hours' exposure to ultraviolet light and shed their load. The sun itself was the timing mechanism, the trigger.

"They are ready?" the old Styx asked as he came alongside Rebecca.

"They are," another Styx confirmed from farther down the line.

"Excellent," the old Styx said as he began to stroll along the rank of men, each one melding with the next in the weak light as they stood shoulder to shoulder, all wearing identical black leather greatcoats and breathing apparatus.

"My brothers," the old Styx addressed them. "We're done with hiding. It's time to take what is rightfully ours." He was silent for a moment, allowing his words to sink in. "Today will be remembered as the first day of a glorious new epoch in our history. It is a day that will mark our eventual return to the surface.

Drawing to a halt, he punched his fist into the palm of his hand. "In the last hundred years we have made the Topsoilers atone for their sins by unleashing the germules they call influenzas. The first was in the summer of nineteen eighteen." He gave a sour laugh. "The poor fools called it the Spanish Flu, and it took millions of them to their graves. Then we gave them further demonstrations of our power in nineteen fifty-seven and nineteen sixty-eight with the Asian and Hong Kong variants."

He punched his palm with even greater force, the slap of his leather gloves resounding around the rooftop.

"But those epidemics amount to nothing more than common colds compared to what is to come. The Topsoilers' souls are rotten to the very core — their morality is that of the insane — and they ruin our promised lands with their excessive consumption and greed."

"Their time is drawing to a close, and the Heathen shall be purged," he growled like a wounded bear, scanning from one end of the rank to the other before he began to walk again, his boot heels clicking on the lead flat of the roof.

"For today we test a reduced strain of Dominion, our holy plague. And through the fruits of our labors, we will confirm that it can be spread throughout this city, throughout this country, and then to the rest of the world." He raised his hand, splaying his fingers at the sky. "Once our birds take flight, the sun will see to it that air currents carry our message to the evil masses, a message that will be written in blood and pus across the face of this earth."

Reaching the last man in the rank, he swung around to return down it again, silent until he neared the midpoint of the line.

"So my comrades, the next time we find ourselves here, our cargo will indeed be deadly. Then our foes, the Topsoilers, will be laid low, just as it is decreed in the Book of Catastrophes. And we, the true heirs to the earth, shall regain what is rightfully ours."

He came to a dramatic halt and addressed the Styx in a lower, more intimate tone. "To work."

There was a flurry of activity as the troop got ready.

Rebecca took over. "On my mark… three… two… one… go!" she commanded, pitching her dove high into the air. The Styx immediately heaved open the baskets by their feet and the birds took to the wing, a white swarm flapping from between the amassed men and lifting from the rooftop.

Rebecca watched her dove for as long as she could, but the hundreds of others caught up with it, and it was soon lost in the flock, which seemed to linger for a second over Nelson's Column before dispersing in all directions, like a cloud of pale smoke fanned by the wind.

"Fly, fly, fly!" Rebecca called out after them, laughing.