It was substantial, with large-gauge railway tracks running alongside a basin of water. (I believe that the Coprolites were responsible for the construction of the track for the Miners' Train and for digging the canal system, both tremendous undertakings.) At the quayside, three canal boats were docked, and I was delighted when the Coprolites boarded the nearest one. It was fully laden with recently mined coal. The vessel was powered by a steam engine — I watched as they shoveled coal into a furnace and lit it with a tinderbox.
When sufficient pressure had built up, we set off, traveling out of the basin and along mile after mile of enclosed waterways. We stopped several times to operate the locks as we came to them — here I was able to step off the boat and onto the bank and watch as they hand-cranked the lock gates.
As we went, I thought much on how these people and the Colonists rely on each other, a sort of slipshod symbiosis, but I would say that the fruit and light orbs are little recompense for the vast tonnage of coal and iron ore that the Colony receives in return. These people are master miners, laboring with their heavy, steam-driven digging equipment (see Appendix 2 for my drawings).
We went past some of the areas of intense heat I've described before, where lava must flow close behind the rocks. I dread to think what temperature it was outside my dust suit. We eventually emerged back onto the Great Plain, making good speed now that the furnace was roaring, and I was beginning to feel rather exhausted (these suits are intolerably heavy after prolonged use) when we saw a group of what I can only assume were Colonists on the canal side.
They categorically weren't Styx, and I believe we may have startled them. There were three, a motley crew from what I could tell, looking a bit lost and nervous. Couldn't see very much, since the combination of my glasses and the light orbs around the eyepieces of the suit produces such a glare, it impairs my vision somewhat.
They didn't look like full-grown Colonists, so I haven't the foggiest what they were doing so far away from the train. They gawped at us, though the two Coprolites accompanying me typically took no notice whatsoever. I tried to wave at the trio, but they didn't acknowledge me. Perhaps they, too, had been Banished from the Colony, just as I would have been if I hadn't actually wanted to go into the Interior.
Dr. Burrows reread the last paragraph, then his eyes glazed over as he began to dream again. He imagined his battered journal, open at this very page, in a glass case in the British Library or perhaps even the Smithsonian.
"History," he said to himself. "You are making history."
Finally he'd put on his suit and, moving the trash-can-lid door aside, climbed down the steps carved into the wall. At the bottom, as he stood on the well-raked dirt floor, he peered around, his breathing loud in his ears.
His hunch that change was in the air had been right.
The settlement was uncharacteristically dark.
And completely deserted.
In the center of the communal area, a single, flickering light burned. Dr. Burrows began walking toward it, keeping the wall to his side and glancing up at the roof spaces above him. The twin beams from his suit revealed that all the hatches to the other living spaces were open. The Coprolites never left them like that.
The encampment had been evacuated while he slept.
He approached the light. It was an oil lamp suspended above a tabletop of polished "snowflake" obsidian, which was set into a rusty iron frame. Like a mirror, the highly polished black surface, dappled with diffuse white patches, reflected the flame, and he could see that something was on it, eerily lit by the shifting light. Rectangular packets, neatly wrapped in what appeared to be rice paper, were arranged on the table in a row. He picked up one of these, weighing it in his hand.
"They left me some food," he said. Moved by an unexpected swell of emotion through the thick layers of the suit. He shook his head quickly, ending the moment. He was distrustful of such outpourings of sentimentalism. If he gave in to them, he knew he would begin to feel pangs of guilt about the family he'd deserted, about his wife Celia, and his children, Will and Rebecca.
No. Emotion was a luxury he couldn't afford, not now. He had his purpose and nothing was going to deflect him from it.
He began to gather up the packages. As he lifted the last of these, cradling them in his arms, he saw that a scroll of parchment had been left between them. He quickly replaced the packages on the table and opened the scroll.
It was a map, drawn up in bold lines and with stylized symbols dotted around it. He rotated the parchment first one way and then the other, trying to work out where he was. With a triumphant "Yes!" he recognized the settlement he was now in, and then traced a fingertip around the heaviest outline on the map, the border of the Great Plain. From the edge of this, tiny parallel lines ran on, evidently marking tunnels that ran off it. Next to their courses were many more symbols that he couldn't immediately understand. He frowned, totally engrossed.
These quiet, self-effacing creatures had given him what he needed. They'd shown him the way.
He clasped his hands together and held them up in front of his face, wringing them in a prayer of gratitude.
"Thank you, thank you," he said, his mind already buzzing with thoughts of his onward journey.
Part Two
The Homecoming
16
Sarah hooked the leathery blind to one side to peer through the small window in the door of the cab. The journey took the carriage along a succession of darkened tunnels, until finally it turned a corner and she spotted an illuminated area ahead.
In the light shed by the streetlamps, she saw the first of many ranks of terraced houses. As they sped past, she noticed that some of the doors were open, but she couldn't see a single person in evidence, and the small lawns to the front of each home were overrun with tall clumps of black lichen and self-spored fungi. What had been the contents of the houses now littered the pavements; pots and pans and pieces of broken furniture lay discarded there.
The cab slowed to negotiate a cave-in. It was a serious one: Part of the tunnel had collapsed, and the massive blocks of limestone had tumbled down on top of a house, smashing in the roof and almost completely crushing the building.
Surprised, Sarah glanced at Rebecca, who was sitting across from her.
"This stretch is to be filled so we can cut the number of Topsoil portals. That's some of the fallout from your son's break-in to the Colony," Rebecca said matter-of-factly as the carriage accelerated again, jostling them from side to side with its motion.
"This is all because of Will?" Sarah asked, imagining how the people would have been cruelly forced to leave their houses.
"I told you — he doesn't care who he hurts," Rebecca said. "You have no idea what he's capable of. He's a sociopath, and someone has to stop him."
The old Styx beside Rebecca nodded sanguinely.
Through the twisting tunnels and cobbled tracks they went, lower and lower. As they began the final descent toward the Colony, there was no longer anything to see, and Sarah sat back. Feeling awkward, she lowered her eyes to her lap. One of the wheels rode over something and the carriage tipped precariously, throwing its passengers violently across the wooden seats. Sarah shot a look of alarm at Rebecca, who gave her one of those comforting smiles as the cab righted itself with a crash. The two other Styx remained impassive, just as they had been for the whole journey. Sarah stole furtive glances at them and couldn't suppress a shudder.