Chapter Three

      The Armorer was restless as they made their way through the darkened corridors of the redoubt toward the elevator shafts and stairwells that led to the surface.

      “If there are still survivors up there, then they may be able to tell us about this so-called promised land…if they don’t try to chill us first,” he added with a wry inevitability.

      “Erewhon,” Mildred muttered.

      J.B. gave her a questioning look.

      “Sorry, John,” she answered him. “It’s just the name that journal gave it.”

      “An apt name,” Doc interjected dreamily. “A source of much pride to an ancient philosopher who should have known better. Would Samuel Butler smile at his Erewhon Eden being used for something that may be so apt?”

      Dean shot Doc a quizzical stare. “What does all that mean?”

      Doc smiled. “Erewhon, nowhere…just change a few letters. It could all be so apt.”

      They came out into a loading bay about forty feet square and ill lit by the one remaining, flickering light. It was dustier than the rest of the corridors, and the temperature dropped a few degrees in the wide concrete expanse.

      Directly in front of them were two large elevator bays, with the tempered-steel alloy doors closed. Small gatherings of dirt and dust on the floor swirled slightly in a faint draft, and collected at the point where the supposedly airtight door met. It didn’t encourage a belief in the working condition of the elevators.

      “Could be that just the seals have broken down,” Ryan muttered, hunkering down to feel the dirt, and to judge the draft.

      Krysty joined him. “Not good,” she whispered, almost to herself. “This isn’t just surface dirt—this is rock dust.”

      Ryan stood, noting that his own sense of unease was mirrored in the way Krysty’s hair had tightened to her skull. The one-eyed warrior examined the comp panels that had controlled the elevator. They were dead, blank screens failing to register any signs of life no matter how many buttons he pressed.

      “Guess it’s the stairs and maintenance shafts, then,” J.B. drawled, watching Ryan. “Good exercise.”

      Ryan smiled. “Guess so. Gonna be a hell of a climb, though.”

      “Why?” Jak asked.

      “These people were obsessed with getting deep into the earth, and this is much deeper than the usual redoubt. So we’re going to have to climb farther,” Mildred explained.

      “So the sooner we get started the better, I guess,” Dean said, looking around to find the access door to the emergency stairwells that were used to access a redoubt’s maintenance ducts.

      The unassuming entrance was hidden in the dark shadows of the bay, and wasn’t on the centralized comp mainframe for the redoubt. This had been a measure to insure that parts of the redoubt could be accessed by engineers in cases where the mainframe had gone haywire and caused a malfunction that jammed the sec doors or elevators. So each door accessing the shafts on every level was notable only for having no sec lock, but a large lever lock.

      For Ryan and his people, trying to get out, this became irritating, as they couldn’t just tap in a code, but had to blast the lock from the door and waste valuable plas-ex or ammo. J.B. complained bitterly to himself as he used yet more of the valuable explosive to blow the door. He had hoped that the armory would replenish his stocks, but was still sorely disappointed by what they had found.

      The door blew, swinging noisily on dry hinges.

      Coming forward to the dark hole that the stairwell formed, Ryan peered upward, his good eye trying to focus through the stinging dust. Form took shape in the blackness.

      “Still some kind of stairs or ramp, and it looks intact for as far as I can see. We’ll spread out and take it at twenty-yard intervals. J.B., you’re last. I’ll go first.”

      With that, Ryan stepped into the darkness.

      IT WAS crushingly claustrophobic in the service shaft. There was no way of seeing which way was up and which down; there was no way of telling where the ceiling lay, and how far in front there was actually a floor left. Ryan kept a hand out to his left, his fingertips brushing the side of the stairwell shaft so that he had some kind of bearing. To his right may have been a wall or a sheer drop as he continued upward.

      The air was fresher, suggesting that somewhere above them was access to the surface that was letting in air untreated by the redoubt’s defective conditioning plant. The problem with this was that a gap or hole letting in untreated air suggested that there had been a landslide of some kind. That in turn suggested the unpleasant thought that the shaft may be unstable.

      In the enclosed dark, Ryan could hear his combat boots on the concrete, coming down in measured tread, with only the occasional skittering of small stones, concrete chips and gravel beneath his feet. Behind him, he could hear Krysty, treading delicately on the concrete, measuring each step for danger. Her silver-tipped cowboy boots made a higher note on the sounding board of the concrete. Her breathing, like his, was slow and measured.

      Jak was inaudible, despite being third in line and only forty yards behind Ryan in the enclosed darkness. The albino had uncanny hunting instincts, and was able to move in silence amid the most impossible conditions.

      Doc, in the middle, was even more audible than Krysty. Despite his tenacious strength, the battering of time travel and torture had told heavily on Doc’s reserves of stamina and the way in which he could cope with such obstacles. His feet shuffled, his swordstick tapping rhythmically on the concrete floor. His breathing was regular, but hard and rasping.

      Dean, behind Doc, was out of hearing range, but Ryan could feel his son’s impatience, lest Doc slow too much and leave the party falling too far behind. With Mildred bringing up the rear, Ryan knew he could rely on her to be on hand to help Doc, and that J.B. would keep things together.

      So far, Ryan had resisted the urge to either call out to his people or to use one of the precious flares that he carried. Like so much other salvaged tech, the flares were inclined to be erratic when set off, and sometimes could fail to ignite…or would explode with enough force to take off the hand of whoever tried to ignite them.

      “Listen up,” he said in a low tone that he hoped would carry sufficiently to the back of the strung-out group. “I’m going to light a flare, see what the fireblasted hell is in front of us. So no one jump when the lights go on.”

      He had been unwilling to raise his voice. Since entering the service shaft and stairwell they had all maintained silence, broken only by the odd whispered word of warning to the immediate follower if there was an obstruction on the path that could cause injury, a raised piece of concrete that could turn an unwary ankle and hold them all up. Without a recce of the shaft ahead, there was no way of knowing if a sudden noise would set off a collapse of some kind. So they had all kept quiet. But the risk of startled exclamations and shouts when the flare went off was a greater risk than Ryan’s hoarse cry.

      “You okay, lover?” Krysty whispered.

      Ryan nodded, forgetting the dark. “Just about. But we need to see what’s ahead.”

      He took the flare from the canvas bag that was slung on the opposite side to his Steyr. The flare spluttered twice, small sparks illuminating Ryan’s concerned, concentrated visage, before seeming to die off. Then, when he was almost at the point of giving up, it