Tunnels 01, Tunnels

Topsoil again, or--"
    "No, not there," said Cal right away.
    "I'm not saying it's going to be easy to get you there," Imago admitted. "Not with three of us."
    "No way! I couldn't take it!" Cal raised his voice until he was almost shouting.
    "Don't be so hasty," Imago warned. "If we did make it Topsoil, at least you could try to lose yourselves somewhere the Styx can't find you. Maybe."
    "No," repeated Cal with absolute conviction.
    Imago was now looking directly at Will. "You should be aware..." He clammed up, as if what he was about to say was so terrible that he didn't quite know how to put it. "Tam thinks" -- he quickly corrected himself with a grimace -- " thought that the Styx girl who passed herself off as your Topsoiler sister" -- he coughed uneasily and wiped his mouth -- "is the Crawfly's daughter. So Tam just killed her father back there in the City."
    "Rebecca's father?" Will asked in a nonplussed voice.
    "Oh, great," Cal croaked.
    "Why's that important? What does--" Will managed, before Imago cut him short.
    "The Styx don't leave be. They will pursue you, anywhere you go. Anyone who gives you shelter -- Topsoil, in the Colony, or even in the Deeps -- is in danger, too. You know they have people all over the surface." Imago scratched his belly and frowned. "But if Tam was right, it means that as bad as your situation was before, it's worse now. You're in the very greatest danger. You are marked now."
    Will tried to absorb what he'd just been told, shaking his head at the unfairness, the injustice of it all.
    "So you're saying that if I go Topsoil, I'm on the run. And if I went to Auntie Jean's, then..."
    "She's dead." Imago shifted uneasily where he sat on the dusty rock floor. "That's the way it is."
    "But what are you going to do, Imago?" Will asked, finding it impossible to grasp the situation he was in.
    "I can't go back to the Colony, that's for sure. But don't you worry 'bout me; it's you two that need sorting out."
    "But what should I do?" Will asked, glancing over at Cal, who was staring at the opening in the floor, and then back to Imago, who just shrugged unhelpfully, leaving Will feeling even worse. He was at a total loss. It was as though he were playing a game where you were only told the rules after you made a mistake. "Well, I suppose there's nothing Topsoil for me, anyway. Not now," he mumbled, bowing his head. "And my dad's down here... somewhere."
    Imago pulled over his satchel and rummaged inside it, fishing out something wrapped in an old piece of burlap, which he passed to Will.
    "What's this?" Will muttered, folding back the cloth. With so many thoughts racing through his head, he was in a state of confusion, and it took him several seconds to appreciate just what he'd been given.
    It was a flattened and solid glob of paper, which easily fit into his fist. With torn and irregular edges, it had evidently been immersed in water and then left to dry, the pieces clumped together in a crude papier-mache. He glanced inquiringly at Imago, who offered no comment, so he began to pick away at the outer layers, much as one might peel the desiccated leaves from an ancient onion. As he scratched at their furred edges with a fingernail, it didn't take him long to separate the pieces of paper. Then he laid them out to inspect them more closely under his light.
    "No! I don't believe it! This is my dad's writing!" Will said with surprise and delight as he recognized Dr. Burrows's characteristic scrawl on a number of the fragments. They were mud-stained and the blue ink had run, making very little of it legible, but he was still able to decipher some of what was written.
    " 'I will resume,' " Will recited from one fragment, quickly moving on to the others and scrutinizing each of them in turn. "No, this piece is too smudged," he mumbled. "Nothing here, either," he continued, and "I don't know... some odd words... doesn't make any sense... but... ah, this says 'Day 15' !" He continued to scour several more fragments until he stopped with a jerk. "This piece," he exclaimed excitedly, holding the particular scrap up to the light, "mentions me!" He glanced across at Imago, a slight waver in his voice. " 'If my son, Will, had,' it says!" With a puzzled expression, he flicked it over to check the reverse side but found it was blank. "But what did Dad mean? What didn't I do? What was I meant to do?" Will again looked to Imago for help.
    "Search me," the man said.
    Will's face lit up. "Whatever he was saying,