Chapter Eleven - Encounters
Different footsteps. Not the remorseless march of the pair they'd seen before, nor the frantic running of the man with the gun. Cautious, stealthy footsteps. Trained footsteps? SSD? Help? Someone who could get him out of the suit?
He would never have believed he could be pleased to meet a Special Security agent.
If it wasn't one he was dead.
Nothing. Silence.
Whoever, whatever it was had stopped. Or had they just vanished?
Silence.
Still silence.
He was holding his breath again. Slowly he let it out.
Quiet empty dead air.
Where were they? Who were they? He could see nothing but the dead face of Paul Javer.
Had he imagined it? Would no one ever find them?
Panic. Claustrophobia.
Stop it. Have to think clearly. Have to be composed.
Footsteps.
Closer. Rapid footsteps.
Louder. Closer.
Where?
Silence.
Silence.
Unbearable silence.
'Paul!'
He jumped at the whispered female voice.
'Julia, is that you?'
Brozmam. Just as quiet. Just as urgent.
'Darren! Christ. What happened here?'
Darren. Darren Brozmam. She must be SSD. Could she get them out of the suits? His body was stiffening again. He twisted violently.
'Julia. Watch out,' hissed Brozmam tersely, 'there's someone with a gun.'
Fenton pointlessly froze in the suit.
'Check.' More silence.
An agonising moment of suspense.
'There's no sign of anyone, Darren,' she said softly, 'I'm going to try and get you out.'
'Be careful.' There was an unmistakable edge of concern in Brozmam's low voice.
'Suit's power down?
'Yes.'
'Then there might not be any energy for the emergency release. If there's not I'll have to risk a grenade.'
A grenade? Was she serious?
There was a series of assorted noises: clicks and grating sounds. It was impossible for him to see what was going on.
Frustration.
More sounds.
A familiar tone, she'd got something functioning.
'Hallelujah. We're in with a shout, Mr B.'
Mr B. Brozmam wouldn't like that.
'Stand by. Here goes.'
There was a piercing screech, deafening after the long period of silence and whispers.
Fenton tensed. That would bring them running. As if on cue there was the sound of rapid footsteps. Julia's. At least he hoped so. They stopped. The wailing continued. It was loud enough to wake the dead.
Paul Javer watched in aggrieved silence.
The siren was building.
It stopped.
A pause.
There was a muffled thump and then a shower of clattering sounds as if heavy metal fragments were raining hard down on the ground.
Silence again. Then faint sounds as if they were struggling with something.
Silence.
Brozmam and Julia stepped into view, leaning at the same crazy angle as Javer's freestanding corpse. Brozmam was stooped and limping. He was rubbing his arms and legs to get the circulation going again. He was dressed in the blue plastic underwebbing. It was a surprise to see him out of the massive spacesuit. He wasn't so vast now but he was still imposing, the taut garment emphasising his bulk. He was almost sorry he'd insulted him when he had the chance. Almost, but not quite. He'd enjoyed telling him exactly what he thought of him. He just wished he'd had the nerve to do it earlier.
Julia was beautiful.
She was tall and slim, a few years older than Brozmam, thirty-two or thirty-three maybe. Her dark hair was swept up and gathered at the back by a simple black band. It flowed down in a loose tail, hanging just past the nape of her neck. Inquisitive green eyes glittered above a fine nose and cheekbones. Despite the wary expression there was something benign about her, her mouth seemed naturally inclined to smile, but unlike Brozman's he could see her smile would be sincere, she could be trusted.
He must be mad. Trust her? She was SSD. Graeme was right: he'd fall victim to any pretty face. He couldn't trust any of them, they were all dangerous. And at that moment he registered the gun she was holding in her elegant long fingered left hand. It was identical to Brozmam's and pointing straight at his unprotected face. SSD to her functionally short but perfectly manicured fingernails.
She was dressed in black in what looked like a uniform: trousers, ankle length boots and a zipped up jacket, the only dashes of colour a green horizontal flash under the white dove logo etched across her left breast. Green: that usually signified science. The outfit wasn't form-fitting but it was clear the body beneath it was lithe.
She was poised, effortlessly self-assured.
A broad, functional belt encircled her slender waist, pouches filled to capacity. They held instruments and tools but he could make out a couple of compact grenades. Only the holster was empty.
'Fenton?' she asked.
'Fenton,' replied Brozmam.
'Does he know anything?'
'Other than what we already knew, no, I don't think so. He's been most accommodating considering the circumstances.'
So, they already knew Graeme had told him about this place. How? Surely Graeme would never have admitted to his masters he'd breached security, he wasn't that arrogant. He was surprised at Brozmam's underhand compliment and almost grateful. But he wasn't going to let Brozmam know.
'Well thank you, Mr Brozmam, that's most kind,' he whispered with harsh sarcasm.
Julia nodded and turned to Paul Javer. She looked up at him sadly. He towered over her in the massive suit. She paused for a second then kissed the fingers of her right hand. She reached up, stretching for his face. Gently she pressed them against his dead lips.
'Poor Paul. My friend 'til stars be dim and time runs dry.' She stretched higher on tiptoe. Tenderly she passed her hand over his staring eyes, closing them forever.
A friend. A mourner.
'Come on,' she said, holstering her gun as she turned to Fenton, 'let's get you out.' There was a harsh edge to her voice, hiding the emotion.
Julia and Brozmam dropped to their knees on either side of him. They grabbed him, then with an obvious effort slowly lifted his prone body. Fenton marvelled at their strength. They were rolling him over onto his stomach. They'd got half way when they let go. He fell the rest of the distance. The frozen arms and legs stopped him from crashing to the deck but the shock reverberated through his body, his head jerking. There was something wrong. He was balancing badly and something was missing. At least one of his limbs wasn't connecting with the floor. He guessed it was his left leg, but it was impossible to tell. All he could see was the metal floor.
There were the same sounds as before, assorted scraping and grating noises behind him.
'Hold on, Mr Fenton,' Julia whispered, 'get ready for a surprise!'
'What kind of surprise?'
'Just get ready.' Typical SSD.
He tensed his body. Squeezed his eyes tightly shut.
Nothing happened.
'Sod,' hissed Julia. Fenton relaxed. 'Powercells must be totally gone.'
He was never going to get out!
'Grenade?' suggested Brozmam, helpfully.
Would they try and blow him out? He'd rather stay trapped then risk it.
But what if they left him to the mercy of Pandemonium?
'Try again,' said Julia.
The siren screamed. Fenton arched his body as well as he could.
There was the sound of a man and woman hastily retreating. The pitch accelerated. The wailing peaked.
It died.
A long, agonised pause.
The suit exploded.
Fenton's body bucked, buckled, jumped, twisted. For a second it was as if he was being systematica
lly kicked by a phalanx of jackbooted sadists. Just for a second. Then mercifully it stopped.
It stopped the instant his freed and now unprotected body slammed into the metal floor with a bone jarring smash. His forehead hit the ground a moment later.
The lights went out.