Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Forty-Nine

It took three elevators to reach the bowels. The first was of the more or less regular office variety, and bottomed out at a level marked B2. The second—much colder—felt more like a freight elevator, oversized and dim, knotty boards lining the sides, rumbling, knocking. We rode with a crew in hardhats.

Disembarking this second car, Yves led me over a fine gravel path to ride number three. We passed active construction sites with cage-lantern lights and hydraulic diggers. Grit and sawdust clogged my nose.

In the last stretch of the gravel path, wood-paneled sides gave way to bare rock—the limestone skeleton of Roche Rivard. The path ended another ten feet on in a void of blackest black.

Yves twisted back, wringing his hands. "On most occasions the wait is short."

I inched up to the void, keeping my nicest work clogs safely on gravel. This close, I could see the shaft better. It was irregularly shaped, wider on the left than right, with a thick cable dropped down its center. Frigid air coursed from below—I felt my wig blowing at the temples and wondered if there was some subterranean air pusher at work.

Quaid and Durwood had mentioned the bowels in prep, the partially-developed foundation of Rivard LLC's headquarters that was rumored to house the darkest of the company's many dark projects. Henri Rivard's controversial oubliette. Exotic plasma weapons. Dalliances in genetic engineering.

"All the James Bond stuff," Quaid had said. "I don't buy half of it."

Durwood had cleared his throat.

I was just thinking about Durwood—his doubts about Yves Pomeroy and belief the man would turn on us the moment he saw a benefit in it—when a clank from the shaft startled me.

Soon after, from far below, came grinding sounds.

I skittered back into line with Yves. Together we watched a thick, irregularly-tarnished platform ascend. The platform wobbled and whinnied and knocked against the short side of the shaft.

When it stopped before us, the gap was three feet.

"One must jump," Yves said, staggering his stance.

He dashed sprightly to the platform, causing it to dip and the cable to creak. Yves recovered from one knee to offer me a hand.

I made the jump by myself.

My shoes' impact echoed up the shaft, returning as a staggered cacophony. Yves reached up for a knotted rope, which dangled beside the cable, and pulled it leftward.

The platform began descending by harsh, sudden jerks.

I pulled Yves's coat tighter around my shoulders.

The last leg of the trip took roughly ninety seconds. This elevator—if you could call it an elevator; it felt more like a half-built amusement park ride to me—seemed to have just two stops. I saw no other gaps in the shaft, and our abrupt stop could only have come from the platform hitting solid rock.

Yves grimaced and touched the base of his spine.

Stepping off, we found ourselves in a limestone tunnel—dark and gently sloped, spiraling deeper into the earth.

"We must hurry!" Yves said, racing on. "It is another six levels to the archives."

I hurried after. Cold stung my face, and the tunnel's corners showed either frost or cobwebs. Distant plops seemed to come from above and below us at once.

We passed several chambers without doors. Inside one, I saw a kind of table-mounted scope or laser. We passed other chambers with only makeshift doors covering what appeared to be fresh-hewn openings.