The drone stopped in mid-cut. Two things occurred to it: one, that dammit there was a funny noise; and two, that just supposing there had been an alarm sounding on the control deck, not only would none of the humans be able to hear it, there was also a good chance that Yalson’s helmet mike would not relay the high-pitched whine, either.
But wouldn’t there be a visual warning, too?
Balveda turned at the side window, without looking out properly. She sat against the console there, looking back.
“…on how serious you still are about looking for this damn thing,” Yalson was saying to Horza.
“Don’t worry,” the Changer said, nodding at Yalson, “I’ll find it.”
Balveda turned round, looked at the station outside.
Just then, Yalson and Wubslin’s helmets both came alive with the urgent voice of the drone. Balveda was distracted by a piece of black material, which was sliding quickly along the floor of the station. Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened.
The gale became a hurricane. A distant noise, like a great avalanche heard from far away, came from the tunnel mouth.
Then, up the long final straight which led into station seven from station six, light appeared at the end of the tunnel.
Xoxarle could not see the light, but he could hear the noise; he brought the gun up and aimed along the side of the stationary train. The stupid humans must realise soon.
The steel rails began to whine.
The drone backed quickly out of the conduit. It threw the cut, discarded lengths of cable against the walls. “Yalson! Horza!” it shouted at them through its communicator. It dashed along the short length of narrow tunnel. The instant it turned the corner it had hammered in to make passable, it could hear the faint, high, insistent wailing of the alarm. “There’s an alarm! I can hear it! What’s happening?”
There, in the crawlway, it could feel and hear the rush of air coursing through and around the train.
“There’s a gale blowing out there!” Balveda said quickly, as soon as the drone’s voice stopped. Wubslin lifted his helmet from the console. Where it had lain, a small orange light was flashing. Horza stared at it. Balveda looked up at the platform. Clouds of dust blew along the station floor. Light equipment was being blown off the pallet, opposite the rear access gantry. “Horza,” Balveda said quietly, “I can’t see Xoxarle, or Aviger.”
Yalson was on her feet. Horza glanced over at the side window, then back at the light, winking on the console. “It’s an alarm!” the drone’s voice shouted from the two helmets. “I can hear it!”
Horza picked up his rifle, grabbed the edge of Yalson’s helmet while she held it and said, “It’s a train, drone; that’s the collision alarm. Get off the train now.” He let go of the helmet, which Yalson quickly shoved over her head and locked. Horza gestured towards the door. “Move!” he said loudly, glancing round at Yalson, Balveda and Wubslin, who was still sitting holding the helmet he had removed from the console.
Balveda headed for the door. Yalson was just behind her. Horza started forward, then turned as he went, looked back at Wubslin, who was setting his helmet down on the floor and turning back to the controls. “Wubslin!” he yelled. “Move!”
Balveda and Yalson were running through the carriage. Yalson looked back, hesitated.
“I’m going to get it moving,” Wubslin said urgently, not turning to look at Horza. He punched some buttons.
“Wubslin!” Horza shouted. “Get out, now!”
“It’s all right, Horza,” Wubslin said, still flicking buttons and switches, glancing at screens and dials, grimacing when he had to move his injured arm, and still not turning his head. “I know what I’m doing. You get off. I’ll get her moving; you’ll see.”
Horza glanced towards the rear of the train. Yalson was standing in the middle of the forward carriage, just visible through two open doors, her head going from side to side as she looked first at the still running Balveda heading for the second carriage and the access ramps, and then at Horza, waiting in the control deck. Horza motioned her to get out. He turned and strode forward and took Wubslin by one elbow. “You crazy bastard!” he shouted. “It could be coming at fifty metres a second; have you any idea how long it takes to get one of these things moving?” He hauled at the engineer’s arm. Wubslin turned quickly and hit Horza across the face with his free hand. Horza was thrown back over the floor of the control deck, more amazed than hurt. Wubslin turned back to the controls.
“Sorry, Horza, but I can get it round that bend and out of the way. You get out now. Leave me.”
Horza took his laser rifle, stood up, watched the engineer working at the controls, then turned and ran from the place. As he did so, the train lurched, seeming to flex and tighten.
Yalson followed the Culture woman. Horza had waved at her to go on, so she did. “Balveda!” she shouted. “Emergency exits; go down; bottom deck!”
The Culture agent didn’t hear. She was still heading for the next carriage and the access ramps. Yalson ran after her, cursing.
The drone exploded out of the floor and raced through the carriage for the nearest emergency hatch.
That vibration! It’s a train! Another train’s coming, fast! What have those idiots done? I have to get out!
Balveda skidded round a corner, threw out one hand and caught hold of a bulkhead edge; she dived for the open door which led to the middle access ramp. Yalson’s footsteps pounded behind her.
She ran out onto the ramp, into a howling gale, a constant, gustless hurricane. Instantly the air around her detonated with cracks and sparks; light glared from all sides, and the girders blew out in molten lines. She threw herself flat, sliding and rolling along the surface of the ramp. The girders ahead of her, where the ramp turned and sloped down to one side, glittered with laser fire. She got half up again and, feet and hands scrabbling for purchase on the ramp, threw herself back into the train fractionally before the moving line of shots blasted into the side of the ramp and the girders and guard rails beyond. Yalson almost tripped over her; Balveda reached up and grabbed the other woman’s arm. “Somebody’s firing!”
Yalson went forward to the edge and started firing back.
The train gave a lurch.
The final straight between station six and station seven was over three kilometres long. The time between the point the racing machine’s lights would have become visible from the rear of the train sitting in station seven, and the instant the train flashed out of the dark tunnel into the station itself, occupied less than a minute.
Dead, body shaking and rocking, but still wedged too tightly to be dislodged from the controls, Quayanorl’s cold, closed eye faced a scene through sloped, armoured glass of a night-dark space strung with twin bright lines of almost solid light, and directly in front, rapidly enlarging, a halo of brightness, a glaring ring of luminescence with a grey, metallic core.
Xoxarle cursed. The target had moved quickly, and he’d missed. But they were trapped on the train. He had them. The old human under his knee moaned and tried to move. Xoxarle trod down harder on him and got ready to shoot again. The jetstream of air screamed out of the tunnel and round the rear of the train.
Answering shots splashed randomly around the rear of the station, well away from him. He smiled. Just then, the train moved.