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27
To say that the passage had collapsed was to baldly understate the situation. There was a wall, still settling in places, of shattered stone and twisted metal like a dense plug in the neck of a giant bottle.
Half the Ministry of Finance had been crushed like an eggshell, while the other half lay untouched, but for billowing dust. In the dim light of red emergency lanterns, the offices looked ghostly and abandoned.
Gordon and Virgil did a swift walk-through just the same, calling softly and sweeping the shadowed rooms with narrow flashlight beams. Those who could do so, had already fled, leaving an open, fitfully winking laptop behind as the only sign of life. On his datapad, Virgil labeled the area 'clear' , then collected his younger brother and returned to the wall of debris.
There was no way to tell, from this vantage, how far back the cave-in went, or how many people waited for help, beyond. The Mole, with her ground-penetrating radar, lay three-quarters of a mile behind them, and John was busy elsewhere. He had other options, though.
After listening at the barrier for a bit, hearing nothing but the trickling shift of sand, Virgil unslung his nylon equipment pack and dug into a marked inner pocket. There, folded neatly away to the size of a deck of cards, was a modular robot 'snake'.
He pulled it out of the pocket, knelt upon the ground, and set the thing down. A touch of his thumb to a topside contact plate turned the robot on. All at once, the thing quivered, lights and circuits coming to life deep within. Scanning its surroundings (dark passage, tired humans and piled rubble), the robot came apart into component units, then reassembled itself, shifting from rectangular box to flat, serpentine explorer.
Virgil scooped it off the floor, then set the little robot on a projecting chunk of wall board. Gordon, meanwhile, had already activated a portable air compressor, and now attached its long, light hose to the snake's rear segment. As the robot clambered its way from chink to crack to crevice, burrowing through the wall, it would drag the hose along, bringing fresh air to those trapped behind.
It looked just a bit like one of those imported wooden toys, the sort composed of flat squares held together by interlaced ribbons, that could be folded and snapped open into a hundred different shapes. Except that this one could scan its surroundings, make rudimentary decisions about speed and direction, and restructure itself to fit hazardous situations.
Dragging its hissing line, the snake formed many sets of tiny, pointed legs, and began climbing through the cave-in. Gordon and Virgil monitored its progress on the equipment pack's comm unit. The screen was split; one half showing a 3-D 'snake track', the other a televised view of what the robot itself was seeing. Concrete chunks, broken glass, copper wiring...
"What's that?" Gordon asked quietly, craning to see past Virgil's broad shoulder. Virgil 'accidentally' decreased lighting and magnification, hoping he'd been quick enough to block his brother's view. There had been torn cloth, a jagged, pinkish-tan bone fragment, and what looked a lot like part of a wrist watch. A lifeless hand.
Gordon folded his arms across his chest, but said nothing further, and Virgil found himself thinking,
'He ought to be at school, sitting in class somewhere, thinking about girls and sports...'
Not underground, staring at body parts through a robot camera. But, given the choice, Gordon had stayed; just like the rest of them.
The snake made it through, at last. A distance of seventy-nine and five-eighths yards horizontally, with a lot of vertical distance adding time to its long crawl. The important thing was, there was a way through, and people on the far side.
Virgil and Gordon had been joined by the Civil Defense crews, and the lot of them watched the monitor as the snake's camera broke through a crack and into open space. A face came into view; a man's. He was dirty and blood-smeared, and appeared to be wearing some sort of military uniform. Marine Corps?
To judge by the camera's motion, he'd prodded the snake, then picked it up for a closer look. His mouth moved.
Virgil silently cursed the lack of an audio feed. Why hadn't they thought to include a damn microphone? The man's lined face shrank suddenly, as though he were now holding the robot at arm's length. Then the view rotated, panning across a small huddle of crowded refugees. The fellow was clever enough, whoever he was, to figure out the snake's purpose, and show its operators the situation.
"15..., maybe 20 people, looks like," Virgil muttered over the whirring compressor. "Fire up the cutter, and we'll...,"
"I'll go first," Gordon interrupted. "I'm smaller, and it looks t' be a tight fit."
Virgil hesitated, then gave him a quick nod.
"Be careful," he said, equipping his brother with a caver's lighted helmet, eye protection, and a pair of stout gloves. "Take it slow, and don't pull anything dumb."
"Me? When 've I ever...?"
"I could fill a book. Just think first, and if you have any doubts, call in. Got it?"
The look on Gordon's smudged face, clear as a roadside billboard, declared that he really wished everyone would stop treating him like an infant.
"Sorry. Just be safe. You've got about a football field of rock to cut past, and air's already getting through. The immediate danger's over, so don't rush."
"Right. Sure. Stop worryin', Virgil. I got this."
Donning the plasma cutter like a back pack, Gordon stepped forth, and began on the wall. At the press of a trigger, a narrow jet of glowing, ionized gas shot forth, hot enough to slice granite. Gordon wielded it like a big scalpel, slicing out chunks of stone and shoving them aside to create a low tunnel. The going was slow and hot, filled with a smell like ozone and a noise like high-tension wires. For awhile, Virgil's face was visible in the tunnel behind. Then his older brother faded from sight, lost in shadow and dust. Time passed.
Further along, he cut halfway through a metal support beam, which snapped all at once, releasing several large chunks of jagged stone. One struck his right shoulder, numbing it for several long minutes. The others missed.
Gordon had no conscious memory of the avalanche. He couldn't recall lying, broken and buried in snow, clutched tight to his dead mother's chest. But, somewhere deep down, the experience had left its mark. He shut off the plasma cutter and crouched at the end of his tunnel, listening to the low-pitched groan of sagging rock. The earth around him seemed to mutter and toss like a restless sleeper.
He was very far underground, Gordon realized suddenly, with half a mile of unstable mountain overhead, and a long way yet to go. He had to keep moving. And yet... where was it safe to cut?
Needing help, Gordon hit his wrist comm. What was it Scott had said?
"Thunderbird 5, from danger zone."
The response was immediate. An image of John Tracy flashed over the wrist comm's little screen, in full IR uniform.
"Thunderbird 5. Go ahead."
Of all his brothers, John was probably the most puzzling. Curious, focused and secretive as a cat, he preferred to keep his doings quiet, and his feelings, whatever they were, to himself. Just now, he looked rather distant.
"Sorry t' trouble you, John... but I'd wondered whether y' might scan the bit just ahead, and tell me where t' cut."
Very faintly, lasting just a second or so, Gordon felt a sort of weird, internal vibration. Then,
"Ignite the plasma torch. Looking 30 degrees left of midline,three feet above the tunnel floor, see a horizontally braced section of rock. Do not touch it. Cut below, using the horizontal section as a roof. Understood?"
Gordon nodded, and set to work, following instructions here, as he had on the freighter. Almost more than guidance, though, he was glad of the company. Perhaps ten minutes later, 'John' said,
"Stop. Take a position of comfort for five minutes, and rehydrate. Through perspiration and panting, you have lost a critical level of fluid. Disorientation may result if it is not soon replaced."
"Right... thanks." Pulling out his water bottle, Gordon sat himself down upon the flattened remains of a brick planter and asked, conversationally,
"Appreciate th' help, mate... but, who are you, really?"
The wrist comm's image flickered, briefly. Gordon (who hadn't realized how very thirsty he was), had the strong feeling that 'John' was quite surprised.
"Please explain the basis of your last statement."
Where to begin? Well...,
"You've not looked down, nor away from the screen, so much as once, in all this time. And y'r usin' too many words. John talks like he's bein' charged by the damn syllable. Also... you forgot th' eyebrow thing."
His brother's image remained expressionless.
"It seems that I have failed the Turing Test," the figure stated calmly. Then, "Explain 'eyebrow thing'."
Rubbing a bit of water on his face to remove some of the dust and ash and grime, Gordon replied,
"He does it all th' time... especially when I've said somethin' really stupid. I can't do it on that side..." Bringing a hand to his face, Gordon pushed his left eyebrow up. "Like this."
On the little screen, 'John' attempted to copy the gesture.
"No, too high... Right. That's it, exactly. And then wait a bit, as though y' really can't effin' believe I actually said that..., then carry on talkin'."
It was time to resume burrowing. But first, Gordon returned to his earlier question.
"So, who are you?"
"A computer, programmed by John Tracy to assist in his absence. You invoked my aid, when you requested Thunderbird 5."
Made sense. Enough, at least, to satisfy Gordon.
"Good job I did, too. Doubt I'd have got this far, without you."
The computer-John averted its gaze for the first time. Then, looking back, it said,
"Your appreciative sentiments are accepted. In return, I ask that you tell no-one of the substitution, and that you provide behavioral guidance, if called upon. There is much recorded data, but more seems to be required."
Thinking to help his absent brother, Gordon was quite agreeable.
With 5's assistance, he resumed cutting, heavy gloves and goggles mostly shielding him from the heat and searing light. Virgil called twice, after hearing ominous rumbles and cracks, but the remainder of the dig passed without incident.
At last, he broke through. The final bit of rock was sliced apart and shoved aside, allowing a tired, sore and cramped young rescuer to crawl from his tunnel and out into the broader passage beyond. Many pairs of hands helped haul the boy forth, and guide him to a seat.
After squinting past blue-white, plasma flare brightness, the corridor seemed almost coffin black, but blessedly free of ozone, heat and fumes. A breeze sprang up in his wake; air circulation had been restored.
Removing his goggles, Gordon wiped a sleeve across his damp face and looked around. Swimming in and out of focus in the ruby dark, he saw a knot of worried civilians, and an armed detail of American Marines. Sitting in their midst, under fierce, protective guard, was the WorldGov Vice President, Lady Murasaki Shikibu. Gordon recognized her despite the dust and darkness, because she'd officiated at the opening ceremonies of the Portland Olympics (one of the few things about the games he clearly recalled). There was something very wrong with one of her legs; the right one.
Getting to his feet, Gordon said to the Vice President, and the group in general,
"Ma'am, folks, I'm with International Rescue, and I'm here t' help you t' safety. If you'll start carefully through the tunnel, you'll find Civil Defense waitin' just beyond."
"International Rescue?" One of the Marines blurted, clearly startled, "But I thought..."
His officer cut him off with a sharp look.
"You thought wrong, Peterson." It was the fellow who'd first spotted the snake; like his men, he was battered and exhausted from shifting rocks, dodging cave-ins and protecting their all-important charge.
Gordon still had the medkit clipped to his equipment belt. Spotting it, the officer said,
"We need a medic, over here," and beckoned him to the Vice President's side.
Lady Murasaki was in her mid forties. She wasn't a tall woman, but very straight, with pale skin, delicate features and bobbed black hair tucked behind her ears. She came of Japan's powerful Fujiwara Clan, and the Marine honor guards' codename for her was 'Shogun'.
The leg, Gordon saw, was a total loss, crushed beyond repair from knee to ankle, and tied off to slow blood loss. It had to hurt like hell, but the Vice President gave no sign, beyond a slight tightening of her mouth, that she noticed his cautious examination.
As the civilians followed a spry Ministry of Education official through the small escape tunnel (they'd been cautioned to stay quiet, and move slowly), Gordon folded the Vice President's skirt out of the way, and cut through her mangled hose. He'd just swabbed down a spot on her right thigh, and was reaching for the last trauma patch, when Lady Murasaki stopped his explanations.
"This, that you intend to do," she asked, in perfect, barely accented English, "It will heal the damaged leg?"
"No, Ma'am," Gordon admitted, shaking his head, "I'm afraid not. It'll stabilize th' area, an' prevent nearby cells from dyin' off on account of th' others, but I don't believe there's much else to be done." Even nanobots had limits.
She accepted the news with grave, quiet dignity.
"Then, you must conserve this miracle device for one it can truly help." Turning to the officer, she asked, "Captain James, has anything been heard from the President?"
"No, Ma'am," The Marine replied grimly, his eyes startlingly blue in a dusty grey face. "The Swiss Guards aren't responding... and neither is 'Toreador'."
She folded her hands in her lap.
"Thank you, Captain. It seems he is unable, and I must assume that I am tasked with command. Therefore, I cannot be encumbered."
Focusing her attention upon Gordon, still crouched at her side, the Vice President informed him,
"I have no time for a useless limb, nor extensive medical care. If you have aspirin, Danshi, and if your cutting torch is swift, and able to cauterize, I instruct that you remove the leg."
Startled, Gordon looked over at the Marine officer, whose jaw had dropped nearly to his uniformed chest. Captain James started to object, but Lady Murasaki stopped his protest with a gracefully lifted hand.
"Captain, I will be in no greater pain without the limb, yet able to move more freely, bringing myself before those in need of leadership. I simply haven't the luxury of convalescence."
The hell of it was, she was making sense. At a time like this, someone had to take charge, and the Vice President couldn't very well do that, dragging a crushed leg.
So, with the Marines' worried consent (and nervous, trigger-tapping oversight), Gordon fetched the plasma cutter. Reducing its temperature setting, he tried to pretend he was facing an I-beam, or a tree branch. He'd have to be quick, but thorough. He didn't think he had the nerve for more than one attempt.
After she'd taken the aspirin, the Vice President looked away.
"Captain," she said levelly, "I find myself not wishing to observe the procedure."
James nodded.
"Ma'am," he excused himself, stepping forward. Putting a thin hand against the side of her face, the Marine knelt down and drew her head against his shoulder.
"Do it," he told Gordon.
The other guards had gathered in a vigilant circle, weapons drawn and off safety. A few faced outward, but most were watching Gordon, with very hard, intent eyes.
He oriented himself, took a deep breath and a three count, then ignited the torch and made the cut; a quick, clean slash that cauterized as it severed. Lady Murasaki trembled, sagging for just an instant against her guard captain's uniformed chest.
Then, mastering herself, the Vice President straightened again. Placing a hand on Gordon's arm, she gave him a simple,
"Thank you, Danshi," before returning to business.
"I must now reach the surface," she said, "and help to restore order."
Gordon swiftly patched a young Marine's head wound, then called forward to alert Virgil, and sent them on through. Once they were safely delivered to Civil Defense, Virgil would make the traversal with a second plasma cutter, widening and smoothing the tunnel for the next group of refugees.
Waiting for his brother, the teenaged boy sat down for a bit, meaning to drink some more water. After spilling nearly half the bottle, Gordon held a hand out in front of himself, and was surprised to see that it was shaking.
'Funny...,' he thought, 'I don't feel nervous.'
A faint scraping noise from the escape tunnel brought him to his feet again. At long last, someone was coming.