Spiral (47 page)

“She’ll be fine. She can come with us on the journey — she looks healthy enough,” Drake argued.

“Yes, she’s healthy enough,” Mrs. Burrows said a little curtly. “But do you really expect her to have her litter on the hoof?”

Everyone turned to look at the Hunter who, aware of the sudden interest in her, stopped purring.

“Litter?” Will said.

“Yes, Bartleby’s offspring,” Mrs. Burrows answered. “Why do you think she’s put on so much weight?”

Drake sighed. “Look, let’s see what the situation is in the Colony, then we’ll work something out. OK?”

“OK, I suppose,” Mrs. Burrows said.

They all held back as Sweeney and Drake checked the door into the airlock for booby traps, then opened it.

As if she couldn’t wait to find out what state the Colony was in, Mrs. Burrows was right behind the two men.

Sweeney was halfway across the corrugated flooring when he suddenly missed a step and staggered. He was groping for the side of the airlock as if his legs couldn’t support him. Drake was immediately on the case, pulling the larger man back with him.

“No! Colly!” Mrs. Burrows shouted. The Hunter had collapsed beside her. She was out cold.

“Get the cat out!” Drake yelled at the Colonel and Will.

Sweeney seemed to recover as soon as he was helped toward the elevator. Colly, however, remained completely unconscious.

“What is it?” Mrs. Burrows said. “We can’t have this — she’s pregnant!”

Drake pointed to his ear. “It’s a subaural field. They’ve put one around the door to stop anyone using it. Sweeney was wearing his plugs, but he’s hypersensitive to most frequencies. And, of course, Colly had no protection at all.”

“But she’ll be all right?” Elliott asked, running a hand over the cat’s plump stomach.

“She should be,” Drake replied. “Now, you’re all going to get as far back as you can, because — in time-honored fashion — the Colonel and I are going to blow our way through.”

IN MARKET SQUARE,
a large paved area at the center of the South Cavern, people were gathering to hear what the Board of Governors had to say. Word of the forthcoming meeting had gone around, and most, if not all, of the remaining occupants of the subterranean city were turning up.

The Governors hadn’t been much in evidence lately. But since the Styx had abruptly vanished, they’d crept out from wherever they’d been hiding, clearly with the intention of reasserting their authority over the Colony.

Before the recent troubles, the square had thronged with people on market days, purchasing goods from the numerous rows of carts. But now these carts had been wheeled to the side to make room, although a few people were standing on them to get a better view of the Governors.

And almost the full complement of Governors was present on a hastily erected platform. There should have been twelve of them, but one of their number was unwell; Mr. Cruickshank was suffering badly with gout and hadn’t been able to leave his bed. The rest, all decked out in their tall stovepipe
top hats, formal black coats, and gray pinstripe trousers, were sitting stiffly behind a long table on the platform. When it was time for the meeting to start, the eleven men removed their top hats from their heads and placed them on the table before them. Then, Mr. Pearson, the most senior Governor, rose to his feet.

With his lugubrious expression and the painfully slow way he spoke, he began to lecture the people about “Keeping order” and how it was “a Colonist’s duty to his neighbor to obey the age-old laws.” Sir Gabriel Martineau’s name kept cropping up as Mr. Pearson wittered on; he obviously believed that frequent references to the Colony’s founder would resonate with the audience and make them more compliant.

But although the crowd was listening, they weren’t pleased with what they were hearing. The Governors had been the puppets of the Styx, merely putting into effect whatever the real ruling class ordained. And with the Styx out of the picture, it was inevitable that there wouldn’t be the same degree of respect for these officials.

“We have . . . ,” Mr. Pearson proclaimed, one hand tucked into his waistcoat as he wagged a finger at the rock canopy far above, “we have known hard times for these past months. We have all been parted from family and neighbors, although we don’t yet know the reason for this. And we don’t know where they have been taken or when they will be returned to us again.”

“Never,” a woman in the crowd muttered.

“And when our lords themselves return, you can be assured that we, the Board, will ask them these very questions,” Mr. Pearson said in answer to the woman.

With this reference to the Styx, a ripple of disapproval spread through the crowd.

“And until the status quo is restored, we will ensure that our daily routines are back to normal and that we are not troubled by outbreaks of lawlessness from the small handful of malcontents in our society,” Mr. Pearson said. “For down here, we have only each other. We are one big society, and we look after our own.”

With great ceremony, he turned to the Governors on his left, and then those on his right. All ten officials were saying, “Hear, hear,” with great emphasis, and nodding like a row of drunken monkeys to show their agreement.

Mr. Pearson addressed the crowd again. “We have all been in the same boat. In recent months, we have all known the turbulent waters. . . . We’ve been hungry, confused, and frightened by the inexplicable changes taking place in our lives. But never you fear, the Board is here to reinstate law and order.” He paused, as if expecting a cheer from the crowd, but the only reaction was stony silence.

He cleared his throat, then went on. “Our first act will be to find an open portal, so deliveries of Topsoil food supplements are resumed forthwith. But, just as importantly, the production of our staple foods — those foods on which we rely so heavily — will also be restored. Livestock breeding and rodent collection are a priority, and as I speak, the penny bun fields in the North are being prepared for sporing, and —”

“Ain’t seen you doin’ no diggin’,” a Colonist said loudly.

“Yeah, roll yer sleeves up yerself, Pearson,” a second added.

Mr. Pearson ran a finger inside his starched collar and ignored the hecklers as he tried to continue. But in the depths of the crowd, a Colonist coughed at some volume. Although it wasn’t a real cough.

The man had ducked his head and shouted the word
gazunder
.

The crowd tittered.

All but a few citizens of the Colony had dispensed with the rather archaic practice of using a gazunder, or chamber pot — the porcelain bowl kept under the bed into which they could relieve themselves during the night if the need took them. Instead they would make the effort to go downstairs to the water closet, usually to be found at the back of the house.

But not Mr. Pearson.

And, being one of the privileged class, Mr. Pearson was too high and mighty to swill out his own urine in the mornings. Because of his high standing, he’d always had a servant — normally a captured Topsoiler or, if one wasn’t available, some low-ranking Colonist who’d been pressed into service in his household — and it would be their unfortunate lot to see to the distasteful task. And on some days it had been known for the gazunder to be emptied rather late in the day, so its odors would circulate downstairs and permeate the rest of his house. It wasn’t pleasant.

Another joker in the crowd took his cue from the first. He pretended to sneeze loudly, although he actually shouted the word
potty
for all to hear.

The braver members of the crowd erupted with laughter.

Someone had dared to utter the most senior Governor’s nickname — he was widely known as Potty Pearson in the Colony. Or — on occasions — something rather more impolite than that.

This was a brazen display of lack of respect.

Mr. Pearson’s face went deep puce, and he bunched his fists. Since he resembled an overstoked boiler, one could almost imagine that steam was going to blast from his ears.

“I will not tolerate this boorishness!” he bellowed. “First Officer! Detain those people!” Mr. Pearson went even redder. “Where are you, First Officer? Report to me right now! I want those responsible locked up in the Hold!”

The new First Officer appeared at the side of the platform, then clambered up onto it. The planks of the makeshift dais creaked and shook under his bulk, and several of the Governors gripped the table as if they thought they might at any moment be plunged into the great unwashed before them.

By this time, Will, Drake, and Mrs. Burrows had reached Market Square and were moving slowly around the edge of the crowd. They were receiving some curious glances from the people on the carts, but on the whole these Colonists were far too engrossed by the public display of insolence unfolding before them to take much notice. In any case, with all the New Germanian troops billeted in the Colony over the past months, they had become far more used to seeing outsiders in their midst.

“Do your job! Arrest them!” Mr. Pearson insisted, stamping his foot, which caused the platform to shake all over again.

The First Officer scanned the faces in the crowd, noticing Cleaver and Squeaky close to the front. He hadn’t yet informed the Governors that his predecessor had released all the prisoners detained in the Hold. And he wasn’t looking forward to telling them.

Cleaver grinned, showing his missing teeth, and Squeaky began to jump up and down.

Another of the Governors leaped to his feet. “Do what you’re told, man! Apprehend those dissenters!” he shouted.

“But . . . arrest
who
precisely?” the First Officer asked. “Which ones?”

“I know that voice,” Drake said, as he helped Mrs. Burrows onto an unoccupied cart, which was covered with a few desiccated cabbage leaves. Then he climbed up beside her. Will was already on the cart, watching the stage intently and shaking his head.

The ranting Governor had turned on the First Officer, who was looking nonplussed. “Just follow your orders, you useless fool!” he snarled.

“That stupid, stupid old fart!” Will exclaimed loudly, making no effort to keep his voice low. The Colonists close to the cart twisted around to look at him.

“Keep it down, Will,” Drake warned, but he was intrigued by the boy’s unexpected vehemence. “Why did you say that, anyway?”

“Because that stupid spod is my father.”

“Your
what
?” Drake said.

“That’s Mr. Jerome,” Will muttered. “My real father.”

Mr. Jerome was strutting across the stage toward the First Officer. As he reached him, he began to jab a finger into the chest of the taller and far bigger man. “If you don’t do what you’re ordered, we’ll clap you in irons, too,” he promised.

The First Officer wasn’t intimidated, just perplexed. “But if I don’t know who called Mr. Pissy a potty, then how can I arrest anyone?” he asked innocently.

Rather than cheer at the First Officer’s fabulously confused sentence, a deathly quiet fell on the place.

“You blithering idiot!” Mr. Jerome snapped, drawing his hand back as if he was about to strike the policeman.

All of a sudden, there was a commotion at the front of the crowd. Cleaver was surging forward, pushing through to the platform.