Magma streams from the planet’s molten core blasted up through these chutes towards the surface at irregular intervals. If it wasn’t for these pressure releases, the Earth would have shaken itself to fragments aeons ago. The LEP had harnessed this natural power for express surface shots. Recon officers rode the magma flares in titanium eggs in times of emergency. For a more leisurely trip, shuttles avoided the flares, ascending the chutes on hot-air currents to the various terminals around the world.

Holly slowed her pace. There was nowhere for the goblin to go. Not unless he was going to fly into the chute itself, and nobody was that crazy.

Anything that got caught up in a magma flare got fried right down to sub-atomic level.

The chute’s entrance loomed ahead. Massive and ringed by charred rock.

Holly switched on the helmet’s PA. ‘That’s far enough,’ she shouted over the howl of core wind. ‘Give it up. You’re not going into the chute without science.’

Science was LEP-speak for technical information. In this case, science would be flare-prediction times. Accurate to within a tenth of a second.

Generally.

The goblin raised a strange rifle, this time taking careful aim. The firing pin dropped, but whatever this weapon was firing, there wasn’t any left.

‘That’s the problem with non-nuclear weapons, you run out of charge,’ quipped Holly, fulfilling the age-old tradition of firefight banter, even though her knees were threatening to fold.

In response, the goblin hefted the rifle in Holly’s direction. It was a terrible throw, landing five metres short. But it served its purpose as a distraction. The triad member used the moment to fire up his wings. They were old models — rotary motor and a broken muffler. The roar of the engine filled the tunnel.

There was another roar, behind the wings. A roar that Holly knew well from a thousand logged flight hours in the chutes. There was a flare coming.