"Drexelica; you're beautiful. I like you a lot. I think you're… that is, I…"
He was spared the need to finish his haltering explanation by a sudden cry from the girl.
"What's the matter with them?"
The magic-user turned his head, to follow the direction of Drex's pointing finger, and he saw the cause of her agitation. The two security guards, Emerson and Tattler, were standing just around the corner, motionless and unresponsive. They were still breathing and blinking, and they swayed on occasion, but they stood like marionettes held up by a somnolent puppeteer.
"I have no idea," confessed Grimm, shrugging. Almost everything about this place was beyond his understanding.
"It must have been that fat pig, Deeks," Drex declared. "He said he was going to set all the guards on you, to kill you. Perhaps they're just frozen here, waiting for his command."
"All they seem to be killing is time," the young sorcerer replied. "They do not seem like much of a threat to me now. Look, we must get back to Xylox and the others. They will be worried."
The girl nodded. "Yes, do let's. This place scares me."
They went back down the main corridor to the hub, with Grimm favouring his left leg and trying not to grimace at each step. When they reached the alcove where the rest of the guards had been huddling, he saw they were as immobile and glassy-eyed as Emerson and Tattler, frozen into various uncomfortable positions. Whatever spell Deeks had placed upon his two erstwhile escorts seemed to have affected the rest of the security detail.
They reached the Control Room, their breathing fast and shallow, their faces pink with exertion. Through the ragged hole in the metal door, the giant albino, he saw Tordun sitting with his great sword balanced across his lap. His usual pale complexion was suffused with a delicate shade of cerise, and shadows licked across his face in intermittent waves as the damaged overhead illumination flickered and flashed.
"Ah, Questor Grimm, welcome back," said the swordsman. "I'm glad to see your mission was successful."
"It is becoming stifling in this place," declared Grimm, mopping his dripping brow. "What is happening here, Tordun?"
Tordun shrugged, his discomfort plain on his flushed face. "Better ask your colleague," he suggested in a listless voice.
Inside the shattered Control Room, Armitage sat at his console, his fingers scuttling over the letters and symbols on the panel. Xylox and Crest stood over him. It was the half-elf who reacted first.
"Questor Grimm; It is good to see you and Drexelica back, safe and sound!" he said, flicking his damp hair from his eyes. "I'm surprised the guard chief hasn't come back to pursue his other demands."
"All the guards seem to be standing around like statues," the mage replied. "It is some sort of Technological spell. The person who cast it, a Technician called Deeks, is dead, so I cannot imagine what still holds the poor victims in thrall."
At this pronouncement, Armitage raised his head from the glowing console and addressed the senior Questor, craning his head to meet Xylox's gaze. "I just can't get in through this terminal. Even my back doors aren't responsive; he's not only taken my sysop status, but he seems to have disabled all system access from this terminal."
As with much of the hated Administrator's jargon, this meant nothing to Grimm, and he was confident that it meant no more to Xylox or Crest, but he stayed a demand for explanation as the older magic-user spoke.
"So, Armitage, it seems that, regardless of your earlier protestations of superior skill, you can do nothing. Is that what you are saying; that we will all die, despite your proud boasts?" Xylox's grip tightened on Nemesis.
"Not at all, Questor; not at all." The arch-Technologist's denial was hurried and nervous. "I just can't do anything from here. It sounds as if I could get access from the lab. If you want to live, I suggest that you allow me to go there. I should be able to access all relevant protocols from that terminal, including the ventilation and security systems."
Xylox raised his eyes to the ceiling and tapped the brass head of his staff into his left palm several times.
"Very well, Armitage," he said. "We will all visit this laboratory of yours. I do not trust you in the least, and I wish to stand over you whilst you carry out your work."
Grimm thought of the narrow, snaking path through the ceiling void that Thribble had found for him. The heavily-built senior mage and the titanic swordsman would never be able to navigate through that cramped maze of wires, conduits and stanchions.
"Questor Xylox," the young thaumaturge said, raising his hand to attract his senior's attention. "The path is very constricted and sinuous. Even Drexelica and I found difficulty in squeezing through. I am confident that Crest and Armitage will be able to do so with some difficulty, but you and Tordun are likely to become trapped. I suggest that Crest and I will prove to be an adequate escort and restraint."
Xylox looked at Armitage, who waited by the console, a quizzical expression on his face, and then at Grimm. Long moments passed, and the quality of the air deteriorated by a small but perceptible amount.
"Very well, Questor Grimm," Xylox said, leaning on his staff. "Tordun, the girl and I will remain here while you visit the laboratory. I counsel you to keep Armitage's aura in view at all times, looking for the least trace of deception or intended treachery. Kill him without mercy if he appears to deviate in the slightest from the task at hand: the lowering of these detestable barriers. Be quick."
Grimm gave his superior a respectful nod. "It will be as you command, Questor Xylox. Armitage, Crest; be so good as to accompany me."
****
The air in the laboratory seemed to have taken on an acrid, almost metallic, taint. The temperature within the small room was oppressive, and Grimm had to fight to keep his outward composure.
"To the task, Armitage," he croaked. "Remember: I will sense any deceit within you in a heartbeat, and I will not hesitate to destroy you if I do."
Armitage grunted, saying nothing. He staggered over to the console, beside which lay the contorted corpse of Deeks, whose face was locked into a death mask of agony. Oblivious to the grisly remains of the Technician, he leapt into the green chair and began to batter the cartouches on the panel with something approaching fury, his flushed face running with perspiration.
"That ought to do it," he gasped, snatching his hands from the panel like an organist at the conclusion of the final, triumphant crescendo of a recital. As he did so, there was a perceptible weakening in the awful, oppressive miasma, and Grimm's sensitive ears detected a gentle rumbling noise from the ceiling as a cool, fresh atmosphere began to flood the room. Grimm gasped as a wash of sweet, breathable air flowed all around him, and he almost, but not quite, took his eyes off Armitage.
A sudden surge of colours in the Administrator's aura indicated that treachery was afoot as he grasped the metal stalk at his side and raised it to his mouth. Grimm patterned his mind for a destructive spell, but Crest was quicker. A single throwing-knife flew towards the dictator before Armitage could speak, and he toppled to the floor, the silver blade protruding from his chest.
"Well done, Crest," Grimm gasped, shocked but very impressed by the speed of the elf's reaction.