Tunnels 04, Closer

over the matte surface of its longest side, he thought he could make out a dim light coming from or through it.
    Eddie's voice crackled in his earpiece. "Mica panel," it said.
    Drake heard a squelch beside him, and Eddie appeared from nowhere as he stepped into his field of view. Drake was so startled that he instinctively whipped his rifle up.
    "Easy," Eddie said.
    "Sorry," Drake replied. "But if you will sneak up on me..."
    "I didn't," Eddie countered.
    Drake realized then that Eddie probably hadn't meant to take him unawares; the Styx was in his element here -- he'd been trained to operate in environments such as this, and stealth was second nature to him. "You said something about mica," Drake asked him.
    "Yes, it's a translucent mineral," Eddie answered. "These are graves -- the Bruteans laid their dead warriors to rest behind the closest thing they had to glass, possibly so their grieving relatives could come and watch the bodies decay."
    "Novel idea... like Death TV ," Drake said, looking around at the graves which, as he thought about them, resembled a bunch of widescreen televisions all facing in different directions. He chuckled. "Certainly is a welcome departure from Big Brother , but I can't see it catching on. Unless there's more audience participation." He glanced over at the city. "More to the point -- any sign of Division activity?"
    "Nothing -- seems clear," Eddie replied, as he stooped to grab a handful of the dark weed from a sludge-filled depression in the ground. "Rub some of this over yourself to cloak your scent. It'll help keep the stalkers off our trails."
    "Okay," Drake replied, following his example. When he was finished, he took a pair of what appeared to be wristwatches from his pocket. "Here are the locators so we can find each other," Drake said, activating the devices before handing one to Eddie, who buckled it on.
    Drake examined the small screen on his. 'I've got your marker."
    "Check -- I've got yours too," Eddie confirmed.
    "Fine... so we'll use these to make sure we RV on the other side of the city," Drake said. "As we discussed, just do your best to plant the canisters at regular intervals as you go -- although it won't matter too much if we get the intervals wrong and clump them." Wiping his eyepieces, he peered up at the swirling showers above them. "The air currents in here are stronger than I thought they'd be -- they'll do an excellent job of dispersing the pesticide." He looked at Eddie, standing there in his Noddy suit. "And if it doesn't work and some lucky Plague Snails make it through, we can always try something else."
    "It'll work," Eddie said confidently. "Good luck, Drake, and I'll see you on the other side."
    "Yep, barring any of your mates gatecrashing our party," Drake laughed.
    Then, with a final wave, they set off around the margins of the city, heading in opposite directions.

28

    Chester and his father were carrying a trunk between them as they entered the alleyway leading into Dean's Yard.
    "Morning," the porter announced as he stepped straight into their path.
    "And good morning to you," Mr. Rawls replied with forced cheerfulness. "I'm just delivering my son to the school. I'm afraid our charter flight from Switzerland was plagued by engine problems, so we had to make a detour to Paris-Orly for emergency repairs. As a result we didn't touch down until an hour ago, and my son's awfully late for school. Aren't you, Rupert?"
    "Yes, father," Chester responded, trying to sound as if his mouth was crammed full of marbles.
    "Awfully late," the porter repeated. He slid his eyes over Mr. Rawls, then Chester, taking in the striped rugby shirt and jeans the boy was wearing. He didn't appear to be convinced.
    Mr. Rawls coughed, raising his head toward the square in a gesture of impatience.
    "Can I ask your surname, sir?" the porter said.
    "Prentiss," Mr. Rawls answered.
    Having noticed the initials RP painted on the trunk, this piece of information was enough to settle the porter's suspicions. "Of course, gentlemen, you must be worn out. Please come through," he said. "Can I give you a hand with that, sir? Looks heavy."
    "No," Mr. Rawls answered a little too quickly, then slowed down. "Thank you... jolly kind of you... but we can manage."
    "Very good, sir," the porter said, stepping to the side and allowing them to pass. As Chester and his father went into the square and out of earshot, the porter muttered 'private jets... Paris Oily... how very la-di-da ,' under his