Tunnels 03, Freefall

further along the Pore broke away with a low rumble. Tons of rock and soil, which had been loosened from the shelling, detached and slid into the abyss. Although it had been a close call for them, the soldiers simply picked themselves up and resumed their duties, apparently unruffled by the event.
    The old Styx returned to contemplate the darkness at the top of the slope. "It was Sarah Jerome who took the twins over with her."
    "Who else could it have been?" the old Styx snapped, shaking his head. "And what's remarkable is that she managed it even though she was mortally wounded." He turned to his young assistant. "We were playing with fire when we set her against her sons and, quite simply, we got our fingers burnt. Nothing is ever straightforward when it comes to that Burrows child," changing it quickly to ' came to that Burrows child,' because it also presumed Will was dead. He fell silent with a frown, drawing a long breath before he spoke again. "But tell me -- how did Sarah Jerome make it down here? Who was responsible for the area?" He thrust a finger at the upper slopes. "I want them to answer to me."
    His young assistant bowed his head to acknowledge the order, then left.
    Another figure immediately appeared in his place. It was so distorted and hunched it was difficult to tell at first glance whether it was actually human. From beneath a shawl stiff with filth, a pair of gnarled hands twitched their way out into the light. With birdlike movements, the hands lifted up the shawl to reveal a head horribly deformed with bulbous growths, so numerous that in places they seemed to grow one upon the other. Limp tufts of dank hair framed a face in which two perfectly white eyes were set. Devoid of irises or pupils, they swiveled about as though they were able to see.
    "Condolences, 'n' that, on the loss of..." the figure wheezed, tailing off in a respectful silence.
    "Thank you, Cox," the old Styx responded, now speaking in English. "Every man is the architect of his own fortune, and unfortunate things happen."
    In a sudden movement Cox swiped at the string of lacteous saliva dangling from his blackened lips with the back of his wrist, smearing it across his grey skin. He held his spindly arm in mid air, then, with a jerk, raised it further up his face and tapped the melon-sized growth on his forehead with a clawlike finger.
    "At least yer girls did for Will Burrows and that sow Elliott," he said. "But yer still going to purge the rest of the Deeps for the last renegades, ain't yer?"
    'Every last one, using the information you gave us," the old Styx said, then shot him a knowing look. "Anyway, Cox, why do you ask?"
    "No reason," the shapeless lump replied, quick as a flash.
    "Oh, I think there is... you're worried because Drake has so far eluded us. And you know that sooner or later he'll come after you, to settle the score."
    "'E will, and I'll be ready for 'im," Cox proclaimed confidently, but a snaking blue vein throbbing under one of his eyes told otherwise. "Drake could throw a spanner--"
    The old Styx held up a hand to silence him as his young assistant double-timed it back with three Limiters in tow. The trio of soldiers formed a row and stood rigidly to attention, their eyes set straight before them and their long rifles at their sides. Two of them were youthful subalterns while one was an officer, a grizzled veteran of many years' service.
    His fists clenched, the old Styx walked slowly down the row, stopping as he came to the last man, who happened to be the veteran. He turned fully to him, and with their faces separated by mere centimeters, the old Styx held the position for several seconds before dropping his eyes to the man's battle tunic. Three short cotton threads of different colors protruded from the material just above the veteran's breast pocket. These bright threads were decorations for acts of bravery -- the Styx equivalent to Topsoiler medals. The old Styx closed his gloved fingers on them, tearing them out and then flinging them in the veteran's face. The veteran didn't blink or show the slightest reaction to this.
    The old Styx stepped back, then gestured towards the Pore as casually as if he was waving away a bothersome fly. The three soldiers broke from formation. They leant their rifles against each other in a pyramid. Then they unbuckled their bulky belt kits and deposited them in a neat pile before the rifles. With no further command from the old Styx, they trooped in single file to the