Tunnels 03, Freefall

himself and, beset by alternating waves of claustrophobia and dread, he broke out into a cold sweat.
    Then, as he lay there, a small voice in his head told him he couldn't just give in to his fear. He stopped gabbling. He knew he had to liberate himself form whatever held him like quick setting cement, and find the others. They might need his help.
    By a process of tensing and relaxing and squirming, it took him ten minutes to partially work his head loose and to gain a measure of free movement in one shoulder. Then, as he contracted the muscles of his arms, there was a disgusting sucking sound, and one of them was suddenly released from the spongy, clinging material.
    "Yes!" he cried. Although the movement of his arm was limited, he took a moment to feel his face and chest with his hand. He came across the straps of his rucksack and undid both the buckles on them. Then, as he concentrated on freeing the rest of his body, heaving and grunting, he became hotter and hotter with the exertion from these micro-movements. It was as if he was breaking free from a mould. Nevertheless, it slowly seemed to be working.

    * * * * *

    Many kilometers above Chester, at the top of the Pore, the old Styx stood peering into it while water fell in a constant drizzle around him, and somewhere in the distance packs of dogs howled.
    Although his face was deeply lined, and his hair flecked with silver, age had not brought frailty to this man. His tall, thin body was stretched as tightly as a bow under the long leather coat buttoned up to his neck. And, as the light caught them, his small eyes glittered like two beads of highly polished jet, and a sense of power emanated from his whole being, which seemed to pervade the darkness around him and hold it in his thrall.
    As he gestured with his hand, another man stepped up beside him, so that the pair of them stood shoulder by shoulder on the very edge of the void. This second person bore an uncanny resemblance to the old man, although his face was as yet unlined, and his hair was so black and tightly raked back that it could easily have been mistaken for a skull cap.
    These men, members of a secret race called the Styx, were investigating an incident which had taken place a short time before. An incident in which the old Styx had lost his twin granddaughters, who had been swept over the edge of the void.
    Although he knew there was little chance that either of the girls was still alive, the old Styx's face revealed no trace of sorrow or anguish at their loss as he fired orders in a staccato bark.
    There was a renewed flurry of activity as the Limiters around the Pore obeyed him. These soldiers, a specialized detachment that trained in the Deeps and undertook clandestine operations on the surface, wore dun-colored fatigues -- heavy jackets and bulky trousers -- despite the high temperatures prevalent at that depth in the Earth. Their lean faces were impassive and intent as some of their number used the light-gathering scopes mounted on their rifles to probe the depths of the Pore, while others lowered luminescent orbs on cables to check the upper reaches. It was unlikely that the twins had managed to stop themselves from plummeting to their deaths, but the old Styx had to make certain.
    "Anything?" he barked in his own tongue, a nasal and rasping language. The word echoed around the Pore and carried up the slope behind him, where other soldiers, with their usual efficiency, were already dismantling the large field guns that had caused so much destruction in the very spot where he now stood.
    "They've obviously perished," the old Styx said quietly to his young assistant, then immediately shouted orders at full volume again. "Concentrate all your efforts on finding the phials!" He was counting on the fact that one or both of the twins had had time to unhook the small glass vessels hung around their necks before they were taken over the edge. "We need those phials!"
    His uncompromising gaze fell on the Limiters who were crawling around him as they combed every inch of the ground. They were painstakingly checking under each piece of shattered rock and sifting through the churned-up dirt, which still smoldered from the residue of the explosive in the shells that had struck there. Every so often this residue ignited and small flames would rekindle and sprout from the ground, and just as soon vanish again.
    There were shouts of warning, and several Limiters threw themselves back as a strip of land