Ixeos: Book One of the Ixeos Trilogy (19 page)

“Why are there so many portals here,” Neahle asked. “And none at all in some countries?”

“Well, England is very old, remember. It seems like most very old countries did more with their underground spaces both in ancient times and in the modern era. It depended on what the substrate was made of—tunnels through sand don’t work very well. We haven’t found every portal yet, either, so you never know what else is out there. For us, the key isn’t why
,
it’s where. As long as we know where they are, that’s the only thing that matters.” Abacus threw a wad of plastic wrap into a rusted out trashcan and stood. “Let’s head out.”

They siphoned fuel out of a large delivery truck that sat abandoned and rusting in front of a small grocery store. Abacus pulled some fuel additive out of his pack and Clay put a measure in each tank.

“The Firsts drill for oil and refine it with slave labor,” Abacus said. “There’s already enough on the planet, in vehicles and tanks and refineries. Plenty for such a small population. But they’d have to collect it from all over the world, so they think it’s easier to just make more.” He sniffed the fuel and shook his head. “When it sits like this, you never know if it’s been contaminated. Best to be safe. We’ve got plenty of this stuff, at least.” He put the small plastic bottle back into his pack and zipped it up. “We’re off!”

It was nearly dark when they got to Amersham; Neahle’s rear end was as sore as she could ever remember. It was even worse than the time her family had gone on a trip to the Grand Canyon and did a two day horseback riding trip. They grabbed a quick dinner of hard-boiled eggs, cheese, and apples, then set off again without their headlights to light the dark night.

In forty-five minutes they arrived at the outskirts of Bletchley and followed old “Historic Site” signs to Bletchley Park. It was full dark and the manor house loomed in front of them. Looking like five disparate buildings stuck together, it was an impressive site. The white trim still shone crisp and clean in the dark, and the round verdigris copper roof of the leftmost section gleamed in the dim moonlight.

“This was a house?” Neahle said, almost whispering. “It’s enormous!”

“Welcome to the English manor house,” Abacus said, swinging his leg over the bike seat with a groan. He rubbed his backside. “It’s been way too long since I’ve been on a motorcycle…”

The McClellands followed suit and all three limped to an archway two-thirds of the way down the row of facades.

“Is this the front door?” Neahle asked, looking overhead at the brick vaulted ceiling.

“I have no idea. We just need a way in—we’re not paying for a tour.” Abacus tried a door to the right and Clay tried one to the left. Both were locked.

“Do we actually need an unlocked door?” Clay asked, eyeing the window in the door he had jiggled.

Abacus laughed. “No, not really. Just being polite, I guess. Give it a shot.”

Clay checked that the sleeve of his leather biker jacket was snapped, then hauled his arm back and thrust his elbow through the glass. Everyone held their breath, listening in the aftermath. They laughed nervously at the silence.

“I was waiting for an alarm,” Neahle said, feeling foolish.

“You and me,” Clay muttered, reaching in and unlocking the door.

Inside, the house was pitch dark. Abacus brought out a small flashlight and they began to explore the myriad small rooms. Most of the furniture had dust covers thrown over top; they could make out desks and chairs, a few sofas, tables of all sizes, and old fashioned lamps and rugs.

“I don’t think we’re going to find anything in the dark,” Neahle said.

Clay was reading a piece of paper. He held it up. “Tourist guide with a handy map. Come on.”

He took the flashlight and led the way through rooms and hallways; Neahle realized that the building was much larger that it had appeared from the front. Stopping in a narrow hallway in front of a small room, Clay held the flashlight up and illuminated a wall plaque. It said simply, “ENIGMA.”

Inside were display cases on metal tables. The floor was littered with glass shards, and the displays were empty.

“We got ‘em!” Clay yelled, fist bumping his sister.

“But they’re not here,” Neahle said, disappointed.

“Yes! That’s great! They’re gone!” A grin practically split his face in two. Seeing his sister’s confusion, he said, “Remember? This was the easiest place to find them. It’s why we came here first. If the M3s and the code books had been here, we were on the wrong track. But they’re not! They’re gone!”

“Over here,” Abacus called from across the room. “They didn’t take everything.”

Hurrying over, Clay could barely contain his excitement. “This is great. Seriously great! They left behind an earlier version, maybe one from the Army…” He leaned over and shined the flashlight on the card next to an old machine that resembled a typewriter. “It says ‘Enigma G, circa 1928.’ That’s the first military one, basically a copy of the commercial one. This is excellent.”

“So we’re leaving empty handed, but we know we’re on the right track, right?” Neahle asked, clarifying. “That was a long drive for nothing!”

“Maybe not nothing. There might be some informational material around here. We can look in the morning. Files or books that might help us use the machine. We’re spending the night here, right?” Clay looked at Abacus.

“I couldn’t ride another mile if I wanted to,” the man confirmed.

Clay consulted his tourist brochure. “Here’s some more good news. Hut 4, which was ‘originally used for Naval intelligence now contains the bar and restaurant.’” He looked at Abacus and grinned. “I say we check that out.”

In Neahle’s opinion, finding that the stove and griddle in the restaurant used propane and that there was gas in the tank was better than finding the Enigma machines gone.

“That’s great, but what are you going to cook?” Clay asked her, hands on hips.

“I don’t know yet. Something hot and fresh. Maybe we can find some chickens in town and fry up eggs in the morning.”

Abacus was happy to find several cases of Harps Lager behind the bar, as well as a case of Coke. He passed the McClellands a soda each and popped the top on a beer.

“Even old and warm, it’s still great…” he sighed.

“Hey, I know! Do we still have apples?” Neahle rummaged in her back pack. She fished out two, and Clay handed her two more. “I’ll be back!” she said as she ran back to the kitchen.

A half hour later she came in with three bowls. Steam was rising from each; the smell was sweet and syrupy. She handed them around and sat at the table, taking forks out of her back pocket. “Ta da!” she said. “Grilled apples.” She took a bite and smiled happily.

The men stared at her, then down at the bowls. She’d sliced the apples and cooked them on the griddle, then put them in a pan with brown sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg she’d found on the shelves. It could have used butter, but no one complained. It was hot and delicious and made the night feel like a celebration.

Chapter Twenty-Five

A
s soon as it was
light, Neahle got up from the sofa on which she’d been sleeping and crept outside. She cocked her head and listened to the sounds of daybreak. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed. Grinning, she set off.

She’d walked a half mile when the rooster crowed again; she adjusted her direction, turning down the next street on the left. Humming to herself, enjoying the time alone and the fresh morning breeze, she didn’t realize what she was hearing at first. She hadn’t been away from her own world long enough for new sounds to trigger her inner alarm bells. Suddenly she stopped, cocked her head, and pushed herself against the brick wall to her right.

What she heard was the sound of a small engine. It wasn’t big enough for a vehicle, she thought. She closed her eyes. No, not a vehicle, not even a scooter. Something small, almost like an appliance. Creeping forward, she followed the sound.

A block down, she peered around a corner, ready to flee back to Bletchley Park at the slightest hint of danger. Halfway down the lane, three young girls, the oldest about twelve, were standing on the lawn of a house, gathered around whatever machine was making the noise. They were dressed in simple dresses and were obviously sisters, with their matching blonde ponytails. As Neahle watched, a blonde woman in her thirties came out of the house and spoke to the children. She reached down, picked up a bucket, then went back inside.

Neahle stayed where she was and thought for a moment. If there were children there was a man somewhere nearby. He would definitely be armed. These were not rebels; it was a family trying to live off the grid, trying to be free. They probably wouldn’t welcome her, or, at the very least, they would be afraid of her. As much as she longed to talk to them, she decided to sneak away and return to the manor house.

“It’s good you left them alone. If you’d talked to them, they probably would have moved as soon as we left. There are thousands of these kinds of families, even small communes, where people just want to be left alone. They scratch out a living the best they can. They are afraid all the time of everyone. Perhaps, if we can free Darian, they’ll join us; they’ll believe there’s hope,” Abacus said. “We’ll make sure that this family’s location is recorded for the future.” He chewed a piece of grilled bread thoughtfully.

“They looked so… normal,” Neahle said. “Seeing children was great. I haven’t seen any kids since we got to Ixeos. I didn’t want to intrude.”

“You did the right thing. And you make a pretty mean cinnamon toast; I’ll forgive you for not finding any eggs.”

After two hours searching the manor house, they came away with a dozen different code books. Since the books were written in German, they had no idea if they had the right ones or not. Two had the name of the German navy,
Kriegsmarine,
imprinted on them, however, which was promising.

“That’s it, let’s hit the road,” Abacus said at ten o’clock. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

“Are we headed back to Corsham?” Clay asked, tucking half of the tall black code books into his back pack.

“I had a thought last night; I’ve been pondering it all morning. We have a tunnel in Northampton. It comes out in a place called Shipman’s. It’s a pub.”

“Is that close?” Neahle asked.

“Maybe the same as Corsham or Winchester, but almost due north.” Abacus threw his leg over his bike. “We’ll need fuel, whatever we decide to do.”

“So what’s the deal with Northampton? You don’t seem like you want to go there.” Neahle clipped her back pack across her chest and watched the older man.

Abacus looked at them for a long moment, then looked down. “A couple of reasons. We haven’t set up a Depot there, so someone will have to come back and move the bikes…”

“Or we can set up a Depot there,” Clay interrupted.

“True.” He paused. “The other thing… We lost someone there, the first time we went. A long time ago. No one really wanted to go back.”

“Lost someone?” Neahle asked. “Who?”

Abacus cleared his throat. “My wife. Theresa. She and I were exploring the tunnels in Paris, spending time alone. We found a new portal and we went through, coming out in the cellar of the pub. Shipman’s.” He brushed his hand across his eyes, his forehead furrowed at the painful memory. “We wandered around Northampton, visited the old churches, the Guildhall. We spent the night at a country club in the fancy rooms.” He paused. “We were young and we didn’t pay attention. It was like a honeymoon, and we didn’t pay attention. We left the country club and rode bicycles back into town; I didn’t see the First. I never even suspected there was anyone else there.” He paused. “Anyway, we got off the bicycles at the pub and were laughing and making jokes and the next thing I knew Theresa fell forward into me. I thought she had tripped. But I looked down and she had a knife hilt sticking out of her back. The First had thrown it; he stood ten feet up the street looking at me with those dead eyes, sizing me up.” Sliding his hand down his face, he continued. “I lost it; the next thing I knew the First was dead on the ground. I’d picked up a cobblestone and beat him to death.” Abacus looked at his hands as if he could still see the blood there. “She died in my arms. I never knew why that guy was in Northampton or why he didn’t kill us both.” He sighed. “I carried Theresa all the way back to the living quarters in Paris. We buried her that night in a little park just down from the Garnier Opera House.” He stopped talking and started his motorcycle. “I never went back to Northampton.”