'If you're that feart, take the bullets oot it.'

'Aye, an' if we run intae the bad guys I'll just ask them tae gie us a minute while I put them back in.'

Lexy pulled his torch from his pocket and switched it on, Murph following suit a couple of seconds later.

'No' baith at wance,' Lexy said. 'The batteries.'

'Fuck's sake, you're worse than ma maw for naggin'.'

'Shhh.'

'That as well.'

They made their way up the incline, the water noticeably widening to fill more of the channel as they progressed. For a while they walked closer to the sides, trying to stay above it, but before long they were ankle- deep.

'Fuckin' freezin' man.'

'I know.' Lexy pointed upwards with his torch. 'We're nearly at the next ladder.'

'Hing on, I'm confused.'

431.

'Whit?'

'How come the watter's gettin' deeper, but we're walkin' uphill? Is this like the Electric Brae or somethin'?'

'It's gettin' deeper 'cause there's a flow noo. Did you no' hear it? They must be drainin' somethin'. Maybe one o' the big pipes fae the dam. They're no' generatin' though. That's for sure.

'How, whit would be happenin' if they were generatin'?'

'We'd be gettin' flushed doon this pipe by a thoosand gallons o' watter.'

'Shite, man. Don't say that.'

'Better hurry an' get up that ladder then.'

They had to haul themselves up slowly by their hands for the first few bars, then made the rest of the ascent far more rapidly. Lexy's gun clanged against the metal of the ladder as he climbed on to the platform, giving him another minor heart attack. He stretched down a hand to help Murph up the last wee bit, then went to the door at the end, which turned out to be locked.

'Aw, away tae fuck,' Lexy moaned, shining his torch up and down the blocked exit.

'Whit aboot thon wee tunnel?' Murph asked.

'Whit wee tunnel?'

'Back doon there.' Murph pointed his torch down at the side of the channel, from where they'd just come. There was a small opening at about waist height, which Lexy hadn't seen, having been focusing his torch and his eyes squarely on the platform ahead. There were times when he had to be grateful that Murph had the attention span of a two-year-old, always on the look-out for new distraction. Of course, that was what had got them into this shite in the first place, but it was a bit late to be worrying about that.

432.

They climbed back down and pointed their torches into the smaller tunnel. It was big enough to crawl into on all fours, though this was at the cost of damp trouser-legs, as the concrete-lined floor had water running along it too.

'I think it's a drain,' Lexy said.

'Llmmm-mmmm,' Murph replied, putting his tongue under his bottom lip in the now standard insult that followed a totally obvious remark.

'I'm just sayin'. If it's a drain, this is the outlet, so there must be an inlet.'

'It doesnae look big enough for an adult tae crawl through,' Murph observed.

'They could, but they'd be slower. I 'hink this could be our best shout.'

They crawled along, Lexy first, splashing through the cold water, the sound of the turbines still drowning all other noise. Murph's torch confirmed that the entrance was out of sight behind them due to the curvature of the tunnel, but they kept going until Lexy could see light up ahead, shining in from above. He shut off his torch and told Murph to do the same, before crawling close enough to get a look up. He could see a mesh panel, presumably in the floor of a brightly lit room, from where the turbine noise was louder than ever. Just past that, the tunnel bent sharply to the left, leading to other drains, other rooms.

'Go back,' Lexy whispered.

'How?'

'If we sit aboot haufway, we've got two escape routes. If somebody starts crawlin' in fae either end, we bomb it for the other. Meantime, we sit tight.'

And they did, in the dark with their torches mostly off, getting colder and more nervous as the time steadily passed. The running, climbing and crawling had been a lot 433.

easier than the waiting, but they both knew this was the least risky option, particularly after Murph turned his stolen walkie-talkie back on and they heard the baddies' reaction to their handiwork.

'You'd be better shooting whoever fucked our equipment.'

'I will, I promise, if we ever find the bastards.'

That wasn't the worst moment, though. The worst moment was when the turbines shut down, joint equal with every moment since. A hush fell over the place, so still that they could even hear the flow of the water back in the tailrace tunnel. Their breathing seemed now to be amplified by the walls, and it was easy to imagine the drainage tunnel carrying the sound directly to the men searching for them. Murph's 'bricking it' remark was therefore as dangerous as it was unnecessary. Lexy would have been justified in returning the 'lmmm-rnmm' insult, though perhaps not at such potential cost.

The tension built with every silent second, until Lexy was almost hoping for discovery to at least end the uncertainty. Until, that was, the uncertainty ended, with a faint glow of light in the darkness behind Murph.

'Oh fuck,' he couldn't stop himself from saying.

Murph turned his head to look too. By this time there was a play of light and shadow where the tunnel curved out of sight, accompanied by a sound of shuffling. Both of them froze, until spurred back into motion by a loud burst of static from Murph's walkie-talkie, which Lexy had fruitlessly asked him to turn off. If their pursuer hadn't heard them already, then he'd definitely have heard that; maybe it had even been his intention.

'All units, this is Strummer. They're ahead of me in a drainage tunnel, headed into turbine area, lowest level.'

Lexy slung the machine gun around his back by the strap 434.

and began scrambling along the tunnel, panic causing him to lose his footing and sprawl face-first on to the wet ground.

'Fuck's sake, hurry,' Murph said, almost falling on top of him at the rear.

Less hurry, more haste, sounded in Lexy's mind in the voice of his old Primary Six teacher. He picked himself up and proceeded more steadily, reminding himself that they could move faster in this confined space than an adult, at the same time as trying not to think how long it would be before the adult had a clear line of fire.

He reached the mesh and got into a crouch, then pushed upwards with his hands. It wouldn't budge.

'Fuck.'

'Use the gun, man,' Murph urged. 'Go ram it.'

Lexy took a firm hold of the weapon in both hands, pointing the muzzle away from his body, then slammed it upwards with every fear-multiplied ounce of strength he could muster. It flipped open on a hinge, then slammed shut again through its own weight. Lexy heaved to once more, this time following through with the butt to prevent a repeat, then levered it fully open and pulled himself up. He stepped clear and bent down to offer Murph a hand, but the wee man shot up through the hole like he had a trampette down there.

Lexy slammed the cover closed and looked around for something to place on top. They were in a short, curving, dead-end passageway with a bank of dials on one wall and several large chemical drums against the other.

'Come on,' Lexy said, running to one of the drums and attempting to push it. Murph joined him on the other side and between them they slid the hulking aluminium barrel on top of the drain.

435.

Lexy panted from the effort and took hold of his gun again, turning just as a man in khaki combat trousers and matching jacket rounded the curve in front of them. He looked like a Nineties refugee, except Lexy didn't imagine The Gap ever sold machine guns as accessories.

Reflex took over; it had to, because Lexy's brain had no idea what to do. He dropped to his knees next to the drum, aimed his weapon and pulled the trigger.

It wouldn't move. Murph, still standing, had the same degree of success.

Everybody in Khaki levelled his machine gun at chest height. 'A hundred lines, boys,' he said. 'I must not leave the safety catch on. Now drop the guns.'

They both complied without delay, tossing the weapons to the floor and raising their hands without being prompted.

'Oh Christ,' said Wee Murph, his voice choking up.

Lexy was too scared to cry. His heart sounded like a trance mix and he was breathing in and out about twice a second.

'Mercury, this is Mick Jones,' Gap Man said, his voice coming at them both from his mouth and Murph's radio. 'I've got them.'

His accent didn't match his name, and neither did his tanned and swarthy face. Wee Murph would probably have said he looked Turkish, but that was because Murph said everybody foreign looked Turkish, it being the only foreign destination he had ever visited.

'Mercury here. The guns?'

'Those too. You won't believe it. It's a couple of kids.'

'Couple of wee neds, more like.'

'Will I bring them in?'

'No. Unfortunately for these little pricks, we're well fixed 436.

for hostages. I don't like people fucking with my property. Execute them and get yourself topside. You're added to the look-out roster. Use any lift: all the aqueducts are dry now. Mercury out.'

Lexy felt a slumping sensation in his stomach, as though his heart and lungs had collapsed inside him. He looked at the barrel of the machine gun, then at the man's eyes, where he saw no doubt, no conflict.

No mercy.

'You were a good mate, Murph,' he said, his voice dropping to a broken whisper as tears clouded his sight.

'You an' aw, Lexy.'

'Nothing personal,' their executioner told them, and pulled the trigger before Lexy could close his eyes.Simon heard the two bursts of fire echo up through the machine hall from their source somewhere below, and felt the beginnings of calm settle about him. Just one problem finally being solved was enough to thoroughly alter his perspective: when there is zero progress on all fronts, a sense of hopelessness unavoidably sets in; but all it took was a single element falling into place to restore both confidence and optimism. It was more than a matter of having one fewer thing to worry about: it reminded him that such worry was an essential part of the job. Going right back to that fake passport for flight 941, there was always one factor that didn't get sorted out until nail-bitingly close to curtain- up. In this case, it would be a pretty major factor, but it would happen in the end, and it would happen because he worried enough to make sure that it did.

Literally eliminating the unforeseen rogue elements had been the turning point; the intruders had been the source of all the problems, so it seemed almost poetic that their 437.

deaths should herald the onset of the solutions. He'd have to confess that it had therefore been a heart-in-mouth few seconds between the order and the kill. A turning point, yes, but one that could have turned either way. If Jones had chosen that as a highly inappropriate moment to grow a conscience, then it really would have been a sign that the mission was doomed.

As it happened, Jones didn't let him down, but you could never be sure with the kiddie factor. People could be so absurdly sentimental about it, especially face-to-face. Christ knew how many kids were going to die when the water hit Cromlarig, and nobody had a problem carrying out the op, but put one right in front of them and there was always a danger that their brains would spontaneously turn to mush. In fact, it wasn't merely absurd; the hypocrisy was sickening. People always made such a disproportionate fuss over the child victims, and bugger the rest. What was the cut-off point, Simon wanted to know, where they ceased to be eligible for special sympathy? Puberty? The age of consent? Or was there a sliding scale of tragedy about their deaths: maximum points for babies and toddlers, down to minimum in mid-teens, when they're moody and objectionable and therefore mourned but not missed?

These two certainly weren't going to be a great loss in the grand scheme of things. Two fewer sales for Limp Bizkit: what a fucking tragedy.

He'd order Lydon and Matlock to dispose of the bodies later, as their first lesson in the importance of keeping the truck locked and their eyes open. And unless they were suitably contrite, their second lesson would be a couple of bullets in the back of the head. Months of planning and reconnaissance, every component double-checked, every trace erased, every precaution taken, yet all it required was 438.

two inquisitive little bastards to sneak on board and the entire mission had been jeopardised. Jeopardised, but not thwarted, which luckily for them was the only thing that mattered right then. The turning point had come. Time and expertise, he knew, would do the rest.

And they did.

Over the next few hours, one by one the elements clicked tightly into place like a rifle being assembled. The production line at Deacon's improvised electrical workshop started rolling at around four, beginning with one operational drill and followed shortly after by the generator. Drilling got underway topside at four-forty, supplemented a little over an hour later by the second appliance, Deacon's initial pessimism proving misplaced.

The control-room phone started ringing just before six, the first of the dayshift workers based south of the road collapse waking up to the news on the radio and calling in to make his understandable excuses. Simon had the head engineer, one Michael Livingston, brought upstairs at gunpoint to take the call and to make a whole lot more. Livingston had to inform the visitor-centre staff that the place was closed and they had the day off, as well as ringing the nightshift's other halves regarding the compulsory overtime. He would also be required to field the inevitable calls from the Grid regarding the facility's temporary lack of output, in response to which he could accurately assure them that the water would definitely be in full flow by around three o'clock.

Simon was aware, he explained, that all of this provided Livingston with the opportunity to raise the alarm through some subtle form of subversion: calling someone by the wrong name, perhaps, or making an obscure reference that would communicate a surreptitious S O S.

439.

'So I just want you to know that if the authorities do show up, even by coincidence, the first thing I'll do is shoot you in the balls. Then I'll shoot you in the knees, and then the soles of your feet. And I promise I won't finish you off until I have to leave, which in a hostage situation could be quite some time. The alternative is that you're a good boy, you say your piece, we get our work done, and you all get to go home to your loved ones. Of course, you'll also get to give statements and descriptions to the cops, but we'll be long gone by then, so we won't hold that against you. You have my word.'

'What is it you want here?' Livingston asked, curiosity temporarily edging out fear.

'The less you know, the less reason I've got to kill you. Agreed?'

'Agreed.'

Simon had heard it said that some actors gave their best performances when they were at their most nervous. Livingston could now be considered among them. His voice barely wavered throughout, and it was unlikely he'd be able to think up anything esoteric while his thoughts were dominated by the protection of his family jewels.

With no word of police interest from Simonon topside, the shield door was reopened at 7:45, in time to admit those dayshift workers lucky enough (ha) to live at the right end of the loch. At 8:30, a headcount was carried out, minus the stranded Crianfada contingent. With all staff accounted for, the shield door was closed once again and the newly restrained dayshift group were placed with the rest of the hostages in the now thoroughly reeking storage chamber. (Toilet trips for hostages were filed under 'Negligence' in Simon's book. Aside from the security risk, people tended 440.

to feel a sight less defiant when their trousers were soaked with their own pish.) By midday, drilling was almost complete, with May estimating they would be fully ready to rock'n'roll at around half past one.

Simon resisted the temptation to say 'I told you so'. His abstinence was assisted by a reluctance to tempt fate, but he knew this was just irrational superstition. All the pieces were in place. The rifle was fully assembled, and would very soon be locked and loaded. After that, he only had to pull the trigger.

Nothing could go wrong now.

441.team deat hmatch: leet good guys [LGG] v terrorist llamas [TL].In the beginning, there was Doom.

Well, strictly speaking, in the beginning there was Castle Wolfenstein 3D, and if you wanted to get truly archeological about it, then in the beginning there was 3D Monster Maze for the Sinclair ZX81, requiring the optional 16k RAM pack, which was so heavy that its own weight frequently hauled it off the interface and crashed your machine.

To say it wasn't much to look at was an undeserved kindness that cleverly avoided the ancillary issue of it having absolutely no sound. What it did have, however, was a first-person, three-dimensional perspective; even if it was a first-person, three-dimensional perspective of an amorphous black blob that was recognisable as a dinosaur only to those who had read the cassette-sleeve and were sleep-deprived to the point of hallucination from staying up all night trying to play the fucking thing. The game was, nonetheless, genuinely creepy, with the lack of sound arguably adding to the effect: when you know there's an invincible enemy stalking you but you can hear nothing and can see only a long corridor stretching out ahead, the atmosphere can get absurdly tense. Throw in the constant anxiety that the ZX81 is about to crash and you've got the original high-adrenaline 3D gaming experience, which any history of the first-person shooter genre would ultimately lead back to.

The technology had advanced exponentially over Ray's 442.

lifetime, and with it, so had the boundaries of the programmers' imaginations. There were new genres, indeed whole new concepts developing, as ZX Spectrum gave way to Amiga, Amiga to PC, 486 to Pentium, CPU to GPU. Doom looked as primitive now as it had made its black-and-white antecedent look then, but when it came along in '94, it provided an experience far more frightening and ten times as involving as any horror movie; and it was enjoyed all the more by those who had once felt the hairs on their necks stand on end while exploring those black- and-white corridors, trying to evade ASCII-rendered death.