Chapter 4

Message in a Beetle

‘. . . AND THIS MORNING’S top news once more,’ drawled the holovid newsreader. ‘Following yesterday’s discovery of a toxic leak at the derelict Epsilon power station, the Board of Directors has announced that an exclusion zone has been set up around the reactor. Members of the public will not be allowed within three kilometres of the site. In a statement last night, the Chairman said that this measure was one of several being taken by Perfect Corp to ensure the continued safety of Nu-Topia’s citizens.’

Hoax looked up from his bowl of lukewarm nutri-gruel and gave a snort.

‘Safety, my backside! He’s up to something out there on the Limits, or I’m a Venusian.’

Rake took a final reluctant mouthful from his own bowl of grey gloop, then shoved it away in disgust.

‘Certainly smells a bit fishy, doesn’t it?’

‘What?’ smirked Hoax. ‘The leak story or your porridge?’

Snow sat opposite the two boys on one of the long benches of the Academy canteen. The hall was warm and airless, and filled with the chatter of the many cadets and Gladiators who lined its tables. For anyone who had had very little sleep – like the three young Armouron – it was an unpleasant atmosphere. The mornings after their secret night-time training sessions were always a struggle.

The news update was being projected in the centre of each table. The three friends watched bleary-eyed as the bulletin continued. The familiar face of the Chairman suddenly occupied the space before them.

‘The situation, though serious, has been brought under control by the swift and courageous action of our White Knight task force . . .’

‘Kettles can’t be courageous,’ grumbled Hoax. ‘They’re androids.’

‘We know that,’ said Rake. ‘But the rest of Nu-Topia still buy the Corporation’s line – that they’re “elite human troops”. They’ll be cheering them on too.’

Hoax shook his head despairingly.

‘. . . under General Decimal’s direction,’ oozed the Corporation boss, ‘a state-of-the-art containment field – an electromagnetic barrier – has been set up around the danger area. Nothing can pass through it. The handling of this crisis once again shows that under Perfect Corporation management . . .’

The Chairman gave his trademark smile.

‘. . . it’s a Perfect World.’

As the holovid winked out, Snow pulled a face.

‘Urgh! That man’s oilier than canteen custard!’

The boys chuckled their agreement.

‘I wonder where Oddball is,’ said Rake. ‘He never came to bed. Must’ve been up all night tinkering with that beetle thing.’

‘Well, if anyone can figure out what it is, Oddball can,’ said Hoax. ‘Nobody knows their way round mechanical stuff better than he does.’

‘Do you know what I reckon it is?’ mused Rake. ‘I reckon—’

But the others never heard his theory. At that moment, the tall, thin figure of Brand came striding towards their table, a severe expression on his face.

‘Right, you three!’ he snapped. ‘You’re to come with me immediately. Punishment detail!’

A hush fell over the hall as the cadets on the neighbouring tables stopped chattering. They were keen to see what had got Brand fired up.

‘Punishment?’ asked Rake, puzzled. ‘What for?’

The wiry supervisor gave him a nasty look. ‘You know what for, boy! Master Salt has heard about the little stunt you pulled in the Arena yesterday.’

He nodded to where the Gladiators sat at the top end of the hall. Stamper was watching them with a satisfied sneer on his face – and a very obviously blackened left eye.

‘I don’t follow,’ protested Rake innocently.

Brand leaned towards him.

‘Either you or one of your friends here was responsible for tampering with a Gladiator’s equipment,’ he hissed. ‘If it wasn’t you, then perhaps you’d care to give me a name . . .’

Rake shrugged.

‘Sorry – dunno what the clack you’re talking about. I heard Stamper was just so clumsy he whacked himself in the eye.’

Hoax and Snow tried, unsuccessfully, to hide their smirks. Brand’s face reddened.

‘I imagine the three of you will be less pleased with yourselves once you’ve spent the next three days engaged in the task Salt has devised as your punishment.’ He gave a cruel smile. ‘Cleaning out the stinking, rat-infested drainage tunnels in the bowels of our Academy’s ancient foundations. No breaks, no meals, no sleep.’ His leer widened. ‘That will be fun, won’t it?’

He stepped back and resumed his fierce scowl.

‘Now – move it!’

Brand was right – the old tunnels really did stink. The part of the Old School where the Armouron met secretly had a pleasantly cool, earthy atmosphere. But this area was altogether different. As Brand marched them along yet another dingy, damp passageway, the cadets wrinkled their noses against the foul smell.

From the shadows up ahead, an opening appeared in the passageway’s wall. Through it, a set of spiralling stone steps descended into darkness.

‘Down there!’ snapped Brand, giving Rake an impatient shove.

The stairs led to a small, badly lit chamber. There was someone waiting for them in the gloom. It was Salt, stony-faced. Oddball stood beside him, looking decidedly glum.

Salt said nothing by way of greeting, but nodded to Brand as he emerged from the stairwell behind them.

‘I found these three at breakfast,’ reported the supervisor. ‘I see you’ve already tracked down the other one.’

‘Yes. Thank you, Brand,’ growled Salt. ‘You may leave them to me.’ He cast a harsh gaze across the four youngsters. ‘As their supervisor, their foolish behaviour has caused me much embarrassment. I wish to oversee their punishment personally.’

Brand looked only too pleased to leave their company for the breathable air of the upper Academy. As the sound of his footfalls faded, Salt relaxed his frown. Oddball’s face brightened and he crossed to greet his friends.

‘Hi, guys. Glad you could make it.’

A moment later, a sixth figure emerged from a shadowy corner of the chamber. It was Tea-Leaf.

Rake looked puzzled. ‘What’s going on, master?’

‘Apologies for the necessary deception,’ rumbled Salt, ‘and for our rather . . . fragrant surroundings. I needed a way to get you away from your ordinary duties – and from general company – without raising suspicion.’

‘That’s OK, master,’ said Hoax. ‘When Brand said he was acting on your behalf, we kind of figured you were up to something. But how did you know about the Stamper thing?’

Salt raised an eyebrow.

‘Your childish pranks are the subject of much admiring gossip among your fellow cadets, young man.’

Hoax looked rather pleased with himself.

‘So why the cover story?’ quizzed Rake. ‘What’s up?’

Salt looked meaningfully at Oddball, who took his cue. He reached into his tunic pocket and took out the replica beetle.

‘I spent most of last night taking our little bug friend here to pieces, then assembling it again. I’ve never seen anything like it,’ enthused the gadget-mad cadet. ‘It’s a mechanical masterpiece.’

He released a catch on the beetle’s underside and its wing cases swung open to reveal its inner workings. They were incredibly complex – a mass of tiny interlocking cogs, gears, microscopic levers, cams and cranks. Every square millimetre of the casing was crammed with miniature mechanical components.

‘The whole thing – flight mechanism, navigation system, everything – is mechanical. Sophisticated clockwork, powered by an ultra-efficient coil-spring. And it has a cloaking device created by a clever combination of lenses and mirrors in its casing. There are no electrical components – so its activity won’t show up on any of the Corporation’s tracking systems.’

As his fellow Armouron peered at the beetle’s intricate insides, Oddball continued.

‘And it’s not a surveillance device. There’s no spying kit – no recording or transmitting apparatus. Just this tiny payload compartment.’ He used the tip of his little finger to point to a small silver cube. ‘This thing is a clockwork courier. It was set up to find its way to the Old School and deliver something.’

He pulled a slim metal rod from behind his goggles and used it to expertly prod another catch inside the beetle. There was a soft click and the top of the silver cube sprang open. Oddball tipped the bug over and something yellow, the size of a pea, dropped onto his palm.

‘This, to be precise,’ said Oddball. He held up the object for his audience to admire. It was a small, multi-faceted, semi-transparent stone.

‘It’s beautiful!’ gasped Snow.

‘But why would anyone want to secretly send you – or us – a gemstone?’ Rake asked Salt.

‘It’s not a gemstone,’ replied his tutor. He plucked the yellow object from Oddball’s palm and looked at it closely. ‘Watch.’

He approached one of the small oil lamps by which the chamber was lit. After scrutinizing the crystal-like stone for a few more moments, he held it close to the lamp.

As the lamplight passed through the stone, it was refracted by the prism’s angled surfaces. The beam spread, to be projected onto the wall of the chamber. Parts of it were more intense, creating flickering golden lines on the wall.

Snow was the first to realize what she was seeing.

‘They’re letters!’

It was true. All five children could now make out the flickering message:

CAGED IN EPSILON HAVE WINGS NEED DOOR GRIFFIN

‘It’s a message prism,’ said Salt. ‘An ancient technique. Words are inscribed in miniature on the prism. They’re only revealed when light is shone through the correct face.’

‘Epsilon . . .’ murmured Rake. ‘That’s the leaking reactor, isn’t it?’

Salt nodded. ‘Only I suspect that in reality there’s no leak. Judging by this, the Chairman is using his containment field to isolate an enemy, not dangerous radiation. Evidently, he doesn’t want the general public to know what he’s up to.’

‘No change there, then,’ put in Hoax.

‘So whoever sent this is “caged in Epsilon” . . .’ said Snow, ‘and wants us to create a “door” – an escape route, do you think?’

Salt nodded again.

‘That seems the most probable interpretation. And judging by the “have wings” phrase, I think it likely that the party in question has a ship at their disposal.’

‘But what about the “griffin” bit?’ puzzled Snow. ‘What’s that about?’

Tea-Leaf, who had been silent so far, now spoke.

‘It’s a name,’ she said softly.

The others looked at her enquiringly.

‘I remember it from my childhood, on the streets.’ She seemed uncomfortable discussing her past. ‘Most of the time I had to look out for myself. But when I was really little, there was this old man. A street-dweller, like me. He wasn’t around all the time or anything. But when things got bad – when I got ill or really hungry – he’d almost always turn up. He’d bring me food, or dry clothes. And he’d tell me stories. A lot of them were about a man called Griffin.’

Salt watched Tea-Leaf thoughtfully, as she continued.

‘He said Griffin was a freedom fighter, a sworn enemy of the Corporation. He thought a great deal of him. I can remember him saying that he valued Griffin’s life as highly as his own.’

‘He was right about him being the Chairman’s enemy,’ said Salt.

It was his turn to be the focus of five inquisitive stares.

‘I know something of a “Griffin” too,’ he explained. ‘It was the Gladiator name of one of my first pupils here at the Academy. A talented fighter and a decent man – and one of only a handful of people who would know they could reach me in the Old School.’

‘So he’s a friend of yours?’ asked Rake.

‘Was a friend,’ corrected Salt. ‘When the Corporation began to “arrange” more and more of the Arena results, Griffin spoke out against the fight-fixing. The Chairman couldn’t allow that.’ The old man’s tone was bitter. ‘Griffin vanished one night. Tonight is the first time I’ve heard his name in nearly ten years.’

He addressed Tea-Leaf.

‘Do you know where your street friend is now? Perhaps he could tell us more.’

Tea-Leaf shook her head.

‘It’s ages since I last saw him. He came to see me on my tenth birthday. Not that I’m really sure when my birthday is . . .’

Tea-Leaf looked down awkwardly for a moment, before continuing.

‘But I have heard Griffin’s name crop up more recently. There’s been a lot of street-talk about anti-Corporation activity on the outskirts. The word is that there’s an organized band of Skirters, based just beyond the Limits. They’ve been causing the White Knights a dunk-load of trouble. They’ve staged raids against some of the main power-generating facilities – like the solar furnace fields northeast of the city. And the rumours mention a leader: Griffin.’

Rake turned to Salt again. ‘So, let’s say your ex-Gladiator pal and his Skirter friends are being held inside the containment field and that they’ve somehow managed to get this beetle thing to bring us a cry for help,’ he summed up. ‘What do we do now?’

‘Do?’ growled Salt, raising his heavy brows. ‘I should have thought that was obvious. We get them out of there.’

His forehead creased once more in a frown.

‘The real question, my young friend, is how . . .’