Nikki knew she was coming. The guys in the tunnels, the men melded to the digger, had just been entertainment. Nikki knew Jane would make it to Level Zero, and prepared a welcome.
Jane heard a scratching sound behind her. Another fuel-soaked crewman trying to spark a Zippo. She snatched the claw hammer from her pocket and shattered his head. She crouched over his body. She ripped a kerosene bottle from his chest and slipped it into her coat pocket.
White tiles. Shower heads.
The school changing rooms. Hiss of water. Thick steam. Five girls jeering, chanting, screaming. ‘ Stinky bitch. Stinky bitch.’ Pelting their victim with soap. A small, Asian girl cowering fully clothed in the corner of the communal shower. Jane among her tormentors. ‘ Stinky bitch.’ A shameful memory. A reminder that Jane wasn’t always a righteous victim. Sometimes cowardice made her join the herd.
There was a steel lid in the floor like the turret hatch of a tank.
She heaved the hatch aside. A deep, vertical shaft. Flickering light at the bottom.
She checked her watch.
‘You’re nothing special,’ she told herself. ‘You’re not a hero. You’ve been a coward and a victim all your life. But plenty of others would turn and run right now. The girls who made your schooldays hell. That jeering, hateful crowd that drove you to the ends of the earth. None of them would have the courage to walk into this bunker and battle their way to the lowest levels.’
We are what we do.
She could be riding Rampart home. Instead she walked into hell to rescue a friend.
She climbed into the shaft and gripped the wall-rungs. She recited Byron as she began to descend.
The Hive
Approaching footsteps. Dancing flashlight beam.
Nikki grasped Nail by the ankle and dragged him down the tunnel. She was half Nail’s body weight, but possessed a maniac’s super-strength. He sobbed and begged. His fingers raked concrete. Punch could hear Nail pleading as he was dragged away down the corridor. Echoing screams.
Punch adjusted his grip on the sharpened coin. He cut as fast as he could. The cord binding his wrists had started to fray.
Nikki returned and untied him from the girder. She dragged him down the tunnel. He didn’t scream. Whatever horror Nikki planned for him, he resolved his last words would be ‘Fuck you.’
There was an office chair in the middle of the tunnel. Nikki tied him to the chair and pushed him down the tunnel.
‘Where are we going?’ demanded Punch.
‘To meet the family.’
Nikki kicked open double doors and propelled Punch into some kind of operations centre.
The room was rippled with liquid metal like melted candle wax. Hyperion passengers were melded to the walls and ceiling like flies trapped in a web.
Hyperion crewmen stood sentry round the walls. Drones. Worker bees. Officers in brass-button uniform. Deckhands in striped tunics.
A figure at the centre of the room. A body lying in state. A Russian cosmonaut in a scorched pressure suit, part cooked by thermite but still intact. Canvas hanging in charred strips, under- suit ribbed with cooling tubes. The helmet visor was raised. Metal tendrils snaked from inside the enamel helmet, hung from the table, wound across the floor and fused with the wall.
Nikki parked Punch at the back of the room. He craned to see past Nail. A figure tied to a chair.
Ghost.
They both leaned forward so they could talk. Nail sat between them, sobbing.
‘How the hell did you get here, Gee?’
‘I came across the ice,’ said Ghost. ‘I came to help Jane. They caught me in the tunnels. Two of them. Thought they would kill me for sure, but they dragged me down here. It was like they had orders.’
‘Are you okay? Are you infected?’
‘I’m all right.’
A wall screen pulsed static. A figure was fused to the screen.
‘Who’s that?’
‘I think it’s Rye,’ said Ghost. ‘What’s left of her.’
‘Thought she was long dead.’
‘She was on Hyperion all the time we were living it up. She was down below with the passengers. Guess she survived the fire.’
Nail kept sobbing.
‘Nail. Hey, Nail.’
Nail didn’t look up.
‘Forget him,’ said Ghost. ‘He’s lost it.’
‘Have you got your knife?’
‘She took it.’
‘I can’t get my hands free.’
‘Jane is around here some place,’ said Ghost. ‘The best we can do is stall for time.’
Jane checked her watch. The final seconds.
Turn-around time. If she wanted to save her own skin, she should forget Punch and head for Rampart before it drifted beyond reach. Take a guaranteed ride back home.
She unbuckled the watch and threw it away. Fuck it.
Jane stood at the end of a corridor. She guessed the lower levels of the nuclear waste repository hid some kind of doomsday, continuation-of-government facility built during the cold war. A minor synapse of the Soviet command structure. Perhaps regional control for the submarine fleet.
She passed a communal shower.
She passed a powerhouse. Three rusted diesel generators. The generators appeared dead. She laid a hand on the metal housing. Cold. No vibration. Output dials smashed, needles at zero. So why were the lights on? The ceiling strip-lights pulsed like a slow heartbeat. She wondered if something had infiltrated the ducts and conduits. Perhaps the bunker itself was somehow alive and sentient.
She glanced into a side office. A pin-board map faded sepia. Canada, Norway and Alaska, the rest of the Arctic Circle. The stand-off zone. The theatre of war. Chart coordinates of the Soviet armada, the bomber fleet, patrolling the frontier, waiting for the order to attack.
An infected crewman from Hyperion stood in the corner of the room beneath a mildewed portrait of Lenin straddling the Arctic Ocean like a colossus. The semi-decomposed figure stood sentry like he was waiting for instructions.
Scattered equipment on the floor. New stuff. Tin mugs. Balled socks. Russian Playboy. Jane kicked through
