The Live-Forever Machine (16 page)

“How do we know where to find him?”

“Down, down, down,” Jonah said, not looking back.

“Hey!” Chris yelled. “Come back!” But Jonah had been swallowed up in darkness. “That’s just great!”

“Forget it,” Eric said. “This must go down to the drain. Listen to the water.”

He took the first step, then another. After a moment he could hear Chris coming down behind him. Sweat trickled over his eyebrows, burning his face. The sound of water was all around them now, churning and rolling, booming like the sea.

“Underground river,” Eric breathed.

He shielded his eyes against the warm spray thrown off by the torrent churning through the storm drain. It ran down the centre of an immense concrete cavern, with walls that towered up overhead into darkness. Eric could make out distant pinpricks of glittering light—lamps or vent openings to the outside, he guessed. Somewhere up there was the metal platform he and Chris had stood on. They were a long way down.

Pipes were everywhere, clamped against the walls, thrusting up from the cement floor, spanning the cavern. Some fed directly into the storm drain, spewing out water from grates across the flooded city. Cables sagged from the walls or twined around the pipes, throbbing with electricity.

Clank! Clank, clank, clank!

The sound of machinery hammered through
the hot air. Eric peered into the twilight murk, trying to find the source. A moment later, a dusting of sulphurous soot stung his eyes and nose.

“He must have some wicked machinery to be spewing out crap like that.” Chris spit to clear his mouth.

Was it some kind of bomb, Eric wondered, as Alexander thought? He remembered Jonah’s babble over the storm drain grate: fire and brimstone. He imagined huge metallic limbs grinding against one another, sparks, electric eyes that glimmered in the darkness. What could Coyle have built down here?

“Come on,” he said to Chris, and they headed along the shore of the storm drain, sticking close to the cover of the pipes and cables. The water churned thunderously through the cavern. It must be raining like the end of the world up there, Eric thought.

“Look over there,” Chris said. “What is that?” He was pointing to the far side of the cavern. High up on the wall, above a network of sagging catwalks, were two rows of large spoked wheels.

“Maybe valves to control the water,” Eric guessed, looking at the pipes and cables knotted around the wheels. He could make out old-fashioned levers and lighted gauges with needles
clicking from side to side. Giant electric heart, he thought—the humming wires nerves, the zigzagging pipes veins, the storm drain an artery, pumping the water through the city.

“They look pretty ancient,” Chris said, shaking his head. His machine gun swung against a pipe, making a hollow clang.

Eric looked at it disapprovingly. “Why don’t you get rid of that thing?”

“I only wish it worked,” said Chris.

“It’s stupid,” Eric snapped. “It’s just going to get in the way. Get rid of it.”

Chris’s powerful shoulders hunched slightly, his arms tightened by his sides, and he turned slowly to face Eric. “Everything I do is stupid, isn’t it? You want to hear stupid? Being here! This is the stupidest thing I can think of, so don’t tell me
I’m
stupid.”

“You know why we came down here!” Eric shouted back. “It’s not stupid! We’re trying to save the museum. How many times do I have to explain before it gets through your thick head?”

“Should have listened to my friends,” Chris said. “They were right, you know. Know what they say about you?”

“I have a pretty good idea, but go ahead.” His heart was throbbing like a gyroscope. This was it, he thought; this was how it would end, with a big fight, right here on the storm drain.

“They’re always saying what a loser you are. They’re right, you’re a total wimp loser.”

“At least I’m not the one whining every step of the way like some blond Neanderthal!”

Something dark and sleek brushed past Chris’s head and swooped up into the cavern.

“What the hell was that?” Chris yelled, clutching his face.

Eric could make out a cluster of the dark shapes, darting erratically through the air.

“Bats,” he whispered.

They were wheeling, swooping back. There was something terrifying about them, even the thought of them, flying around your face, their leathery skin grazing you. Here they come. Eric threw his arm up over his face and turned his back. They whistled by, and he could feel the tips of their wings brush against his hair. Beside him, Chris shouted and cursed.

Then they were gone.

Chris had fallen to his knees with both arms covering his head.

“It’s all right, they’re gone,” Eric told him shakily.

Chris’s breathing was fast and shallow, and his eyes were widened in panic.

“You all right?” Eric asked, slumping down beside him. “They’re gone. Just bats. They’re harmless.”

“I can’t breathe.” Chris’s eyes darted frantically around the cavern and Eric was afraid he was about to bolt and run. “Can’t breathe!”

“Yes, you can,” Eric said, trying not to let his own fear show. “You’re just scared. Take a deep breath; go ahead.”

Chris shook his head desperately.

“I’m gonna die!”

“No, you’re not. Come on, Chris. You’re all right. You’re all right.” He didn’t know what else to say, so he kept repeating the same three words over and over until Chris’s breathing slowed and his eyes lost their terrified gleam.

“I thought I was going to die,” Chris finally said. “That was utterly scary.” He looked quickly up at Eric, embarrassed. “That’s never happened to me before.”

Eric just shrugged—it didn’t matter. He never thought he’d see something like this: sports superstar Chris, so afraid he couldn’t take a deep breath. But, it didn’t give him even a glimmer of mean satisfaction. He suddenly felt frightened himself. What
were
they doing down here?

Trying to save Alexander, he told himself as calmly as he could. Trying to save the museum, the Chinese tomb, the dinosaur gallery. But somehow the memories of those visits with his father weren’t the same anymore. Eric’s jaw
tightened. The two of them had probably wound up there just so Dad could brood over Mom, think about her while looking at all the old things.

“He’s crazy,” Eric said, choking out the words. “Dad’s such a freak.”

Chris was looking at him in alarm.

“What d’you mean?” he stammered. “He’s okay.”

Eric shook his head. “No, he’s not. He’s some kind of freak, just the way everyone thinks. Remember I told you my Mom died in an accident? That’s a lie. He lied to me. She jumped in front of a train—that’s how she really died. He never told me until a couple days ago.”

There, he’d said it. He felt numb.

“It’s been thirteen years and he still can’t forget her. He
enjoys
being unhappy. He’s crazy.”

“Must be a hard thing to forget,” Chris mumbled, as if he didn’t know what else to say.

“Thirteen years!” Eric exclaimed. “And why are you sticking up for him? He hates you; he thinks you’re an idiot!”

He was sorry the moment he saw Chris’s face.

Chris shrugged. “So do you,” he said coldly.

“What? That’s not true!”

“Every chance you get, reminding me how stupid I am!”

Eric felt a sick swirling in his guts. It was true.

“Why do you think I’m doing this, anyway?” Chris stormed. “So you won’t think I’m a moron. That’s the only reason—so maybe you’ll think I’m not just some sports dork with no brain!”

Eric stared at his knees; he couldn’t look at Chris. He’d never stopped feeling like a skinny geek around Chris—so he put Chris down to get even. He felt another wave of queasiness crash over him.

“Let’s go back,” he said.

He felt empty and alone. It was pointless. Even if they did get the scroll and stop Coyle, things wouldn’t be any different. His father would still think about Mom and never love him as much. And he’d keep on getting hurt. And Chris would still hate him. Nothing would change.

“No way!” Chris said, scrambling to his feet. He still sounded angry. “No friggin’ way am I going back now! We got all the way down here. And besides, I don’t want to give up my chance at being a big hero. You never know, I might even get on Split Second News!” He smiled a little, as if it was a joke. “You don’t want to go back, either.”

It was true. Eric nodded wearily. Had to try to save the museum, save the dates. They were the only things you could rely on. Invention of
photography, 1827. Michelangelo’s
David,
1501. He pushed himself up from the damp concrete and they started walking again.

Up ahead, a blue glow shimmered along the shore of the storm drain—pale at first, suddenly brightening, then fading again.

“Look,” said Eric, nodding his head in the direction of the gleam. In the distance was a huge, conical silhouette at the edge of the storm drain, backlit by the blue flicker. Chris, one hand steadying his gun, led the way deeper into the tangle of cables and pipes against the wall; Eric followed behind him.

“What
is
that?” Eric whispered as they drew closer.

It was unlike any machine he’d ever seen, old and new at the same time. It was shaped like the spire of a Gothic cathedral. It bristled with copper wires and electronic components, multicoloured bundles of cable, tiny video screens, panels of twinkling lights, long levers and pistons like something from the undercarriage of a locomotive. Turning cog-wheels meshed like the insides of an old-fashioned clock. A spiral of steaming tubing surrounded the base of the machine, funnelling water in from pipes along the storm drain.

As Eric and Chris watched, one of the contraption’s massive levers began to turn slowly—
one, two, three clanking, deafening revolutions, and then a huge burst of black smoke exploded from its innards into the cavern.

“I don’t know,” Chris was shaking his head in amazement. “I don’t know what that is.”

Blue light flickered over the machine, over the water’s tumultuous surface. Eric moved cautiously forward for a better look, ducking around the cavern’s steel undergrowth. He shoved a cable out of his way.

About twenty metres beyond the machine tower sat a pyramid of fifteen televisions flashing out commercials, soap operas, game shows, Split Second News spots, a video shopping program. In front of the
TV
pyramid, at a long table covered with electronic equipment, stood Coyle, staring intently into a glowing computer monitor. Occasionally, without looking away, he would type something onto the keyboard, adjust a switch. He stood very still and straight, his whole body bathed in the light of the screen. Bars of green flickered across his chest, red symbols danced over his face. Then the colours changed, sweeping over him in broad swaths so that he seemed to be made of light, a projection from the screen itself.

Beyond the television pyramid, Eric could see rubble and metal debris strewn across the floor, and a dark, jagged opening blasted in the cavern
wall. Right into the cellar. Tools were spread out nearby—a jackhammer, picks and crowbars, a sledgehammer. Must have had dynamite, too, to make a hole that big.

“Amazing.” Chris’s eyes were darting over the machinery assembled on Coyle’s table.

“Explain all this to me,” said Eric, his voice all but drowned out by the roar of water. “What’s that?” He pointed to a large machine that looked like a photocopier. A slab of light moved rhythmically back and forth across the glass surface.

“Optical scanner,” Chris told him. “It’s bigger than any I’ve ever seen, too. Must be really precise. Look, he’s got the scroll feeding through it. The scanner reads it—all the letters, or whatever it’s written in—and shoots it all back into the computer.”

“Where it gets translated, right? Is that the computer there, the screen he’s watching?”

“Part of it, anyway,” Chris answered, squinting. “There’s got to be more than that, though. He’s got a couple of external drives, maybe some decent hard memory inside …” He shook his head, confused. “Not enough. For what he’s doing, there’s no way it’s enough.” His face went blank for a second. “Geez,” he muttered.

“What?”

Chris nodded at the huge tower of machinery on the shore of the storm drain.

“That’s
the memory.”

“That?”

“The computer feeds right into it. Look, follow the patch cables. It must have eight or ten stacks. That’s big, Eric, really big. Enough to hold, I don’t know, an entire library—more, even.” There was admiration in his voice. “It all makes perfect sense. Unlimited power supply from the electrical grid, lots of water to cool the thing. Perfect. I can’t believe he built this thing himself. He must be some kind of genius.”

The optical scanner emitted a rapid series of beeps, and the bar of light slowly faded out. Coyle lifted the shield and pulled out a long scroll of parchment. The live-forever machine.

“Is that it?” Eric asked, worried. “Is it finished?”

“The scanning is, yeah. Everything’s gone into the computer, but it can’t all be translated yet.”

Coyle quickly rolled up the scroll and slipped it back into the white canister. He looked back at the monitor, touched the keyboard and then walked away from the table, towards the hole leading to the museum cellar. He disappeared through the gap.

“We’ve got to grab the scroll,” Eric said.

“Not that simple,” Chris told him. “It’s in there now, too, remember?” He jabbed a finger in the direction of the memory tower.

“Can we shut it off?”

Chris snorted. “Even if we could, it wouldn’t help. A memory like that would still hold onto everything. It’s like a vault.” His eyes moved slowly up and down the machine. “Yeah, it must be smart as anything.”

“Well, maybe you could figure something out if you’d stop gazing at it so lovingly!”

“It’s an incredible piece of machinery, that’s all!”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, well.” He was still looking at the machine. Its huge levers were turning again; clank, clank, clank, and then the billowing smog. “A power surge might do it,” Chris said.

“Would that erase the memory?”