Chapter Thirteen: "We're needed"
PRESENT DAY
GERMANY
Mike Gambit and his wife Purdey sat around the table in their hotel suite, pouring over the material they had brought with them to discuss the bid for the Alternities contract. They needed this job - it would not break the firm if they lost the contract but it would very likely drop them out of contention for similar jobs in the future.
They'd had a day of productive talks yesterday...without the key decision maker, who would be at the meeting the next day. It was they whom they truly had to impress.
Mike was in short sleeves, unself-conscious of his prosthetic right arm. He sipped tea, then looked at his watch.
"Almost time for the BBC news, Purdey."
Purdey picked up the remote control and turned on the television. Most of the channels were in German, of course - which both she and Gambit understood - but there was also the BBC news channel and it was to this she turned.
She went back to her studying, occasionally tapping some information into her laptop computer, when the name Tibet-By-The-Sea caught her attention. Her head lifted in unison with Mike's and they looked at the screen in shock.
... this morning," the presenter said.
"Tibet-By -The-Sea is home to a naval base, and that entire base seems in the thrall of some kind of sleeping disease...everyone on the base from Naval personnel to civilians has been found fast asleep.
Today was the day that the HMS Triton was supposed to head to sea for its sea trials, and it did, so apparently the crew aboard ship were not affected.
And in other local news, an entire coach party of old-age pensioners from the Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center have gone missing! Their transport has been found at the naval base, but they themselves haven't been seen."
Very quietly, Purdey reached out and turned off the TV. She turned to look at Mike.
"It doesn't necessarily mean anything," she said. "Steed might not have gone to the naval base. He might be safe and sound in his flat right this minute, playing bridge with Mrs. Peel and the rest of them."
Gambit opened up his cell-phone. He'd put in the chip for Germany as soon as they'd arrived, so it fired to life immediately and he speed-dialed Steed's number. It rang and rang until he got Steed's answer phone.
"No reply," he told Purdey. He cut the connection and then dialed Emma Peel's number in London. Again...the phone buzzed and buzzed. "No reply."
"He's on that ship, Mike." Purdey said quietly. "You know he is."
Gambit nodded. "Depend upon it. But Mrs. Peel, Mrs. Gale...Tara...they're probably with him."
Purdey nodded. "Probably. But..."
Gambit nodded again. "The more help...the better. We've got to go. Look up flights while I pack."
After a few minutes Purdey said, "We can get a flight to London in two hours. I've booked us already."
"Good." Gambit tossed in the last of his clothing - he was quite dexterous with that prosthetic arm and hand. "I'll call Alternaties. They're gone for the night, I have no doubt, but I'll leave a message on Herr Reinhardt's answer phone."
"What will you say?"
"Simply the truth. Some old friends needs our help."
Purdey nodded grimly. "I hope they don't. But we need to be there in case they do."
"Right. Let's go."
PRESENT DAY
FORT KNOX, KENTUCY USA
Cathy Gale curtsied to the sound of applause emanating from the audience and walked off stage, flushed with pleasure. There was nothing like that feeling, she thought to herself. She'd given pleasure to a few hundred people and they showed their appreciation with enthusiastic clapping. It was as heady a drug as liquor.
Another curtain call, this time with the entire cast.
Then the audience began filing out of the auditorium and the actors retreated to their dressing rooms. Since this was a charity operation all the women shared one dressing room, the men the other.
An hour later Cathy was back at her sister's house, relaxing on the sofa with a drink, watching the news. Patrice sat opposite her, idly paging through a copy of Private Pilot. Patrice had led a group of stunt pilots in her early years - now she operated an airfield and flew charters.
"Just in time for BBC World News," Cathy murmured, sipping her drink appreciatively. "I wonder what new crisis the world finds itself in today..."
"Same old, same old," Patrice said dismissively. The world goes on and the problems remain the same.
But on this occasion, the news was a bit different:
It was the same clip, had Cathy Gale but known it, that had aired an hour earlier in Germany and in Canada.
Cathy didn't even bother to call Steed's number. She knew he'd be on that ship. Of course he'd be on it.
"Patrice," Cathy looked at her sister. "How fast can you get me to London?"
Patrice glanced at the screen. She knew that Cathy's old friend John Steed lived at Tibet-On-The-Sea, and she knew her sister. "I've got a pretty fast jetr - the Auric. I can have it fueled and ready to go in an hour. File our flight plan and we'll be away."
"Right. I'll start packing."
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
The Last Avengers Story, Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve: The Avengers
PRESENT DAY
MONTREAL
Tara Truffaut (Tara King that was) sat with her captors at the table, dining on delicious pressed duck. Henri was a gourmet cook, she'd give him that.
Things had not gone bad so far, Tara thought to herself. She'd had to ride in the back of a closed-in van so she'd been unable to see where they were going, and Henri (for that was whom she had hit over the head watched her with gun at the ready at all times. She had sat quietly, eyes closed, paying attention to the left and right turns, and the time between those turns, and the sound of the van speeding down a highway.
They'd come to a halt and she'd been ordered out, to see that she was at a country house. Henri jerked the gun for her to enter the house. Tara tensed up as she did so, eyes darting this way and that assessing possible weapons. If they were going to shove her into an airless closet with a bag over her head, she would have fought back tooth and nail.
But they turned out to be gentlemen after all. They gestured her to a living room with television and bookcases and told her to make herself comfortable. Henri had returned his gun to his shoulder holster and gone into the kitchen to make dinner. The other man poured glasses of wine from a decanter and handed one to her. Tara accepted it cautiously. Since it had been poured from the same decanter odds were it wasn't drugged, and she could certainly use a drink.
She also noted that the man moved close to her without fear. He obviously wasn't expecting her to try anything. She thought about that. She was getting good looks at each of them, and she knew their names. Either they expected their ploy to catapult them into the safety of power immediately, or despite their politeness they did not intend for her to survive to be able to identify them.
For the rest of that evening, Tara King played a difficult game. She didn't want to appear without fear - that might give them ideas that they'd better be a bit careful about how close they got to her. Nevertheless she didn't want to appear like a spineless jelly fish, either.
"The thing is," she said now, placing another piece of delicious duck into her mouth, "that terrorism accomplishes nothing. Terrorists kill a lot of innocent people, and may end up getting what they want. Then another group of people decide that they don't like the way things are, and they turn terrorist. It's a never ending cycle, don't you see?"
The other man, whom Henri called Gerrard, merely shrugged his shoulders gallically. "We want what we want, and we shall force the current government to give it to us."
Tara shook her head and gritted her teeth in frustration. You just couldn't reason with people.
After dinner, they returned to the living room.
"Would you like to play cards, madam?" said Henri.
"I'd much rather watch television, if you don't mind," Tara responded. "It's almost time for BBC news."
"Oh, yes." Henri and Gerrard exchanged looks. "Our colleagues will have delivered our ultimatum to your husband by now. We will see if you our on the news, n'est pas?"
He turned on the set, and punched the channel for BBC news.
After about ten minutes of dialog that Tara listened to and didn't hear, the news presenter suddenly reached out as if handed a sheet of paper and began to read from it, out of sight.
"Strange goings-on in the town of Tibet-By-The Sea this morning," the presenter said.
Tara's ears pricked up. That's where Steed lived.
"Tibet-By -The-Sea is home to a naval base, and that entire base seems in the thrall of some kind of sleeping disease...everyone on the base from Naval personnel to civilians has been found fast asleep.
Today was the day that the HMS Triton was supposed to head to sea for its sea trials, and it did, so apparently the crew aboard ship were not affected.
And in other local news, an entire coach party of old-age pensioners from the Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center have gone missing! Their transport has been found at the naval base, but they themselves haven't been seen."
Whatever else the presenter might have said was lost as Tara's face went white and she flopped back in her chair, gasping for breath. "I'm...oh, dear...I feel faint. Please...please, a glass of wine."
Henri moved quickly, pouring a glass of wine and bringing it to her. He bent over her, holding the glass to her lips.
Tara King's hand moved faster than a striking snake. She reached up as if to steady his hand on the glass, and then darted to remove the gun from his shoulder holster. Then she placed her foot in his chest and shoved.
Tara was on her feet in an instant. "Drop your gun now, Gerrard," she commanded. "If I have to tell you twice I will shoot you instead. Don't believe I won't do it."
Gerrard grinned. "Oh, please, madame."
Tara pressed the trigger and a bullet whizzed past Gerrard's ear. His face went white and wordlessly he took out his gun - very slowly, and placed it on the floor.
"Kick it over here. Gently."
Gerrard did so. Tara bent down to pick it up, while keeping her head up and her eyes on the two men. She placed the new gun in the waistband of her trousers.
"Now, your car keys."
Gerrard blinked. "Quoi?"
"Your car keys, man. Give them to me."
Gerrard pulled his keys out of his pocket and slid them along the floor as well. Tara picked them up, and began backing towards the door.
"All right, gentlemen, listen closely, because I will say this only once. I don't have time to turn you in, right? I've got to catch a plane. But I shall inform my husband that you released me of your own volition, because you saw the error of these kinds of tactics. Right?
Now I'm going to go visit my friend..." and she shook the barrel of the gun rather raggedly in the direction of the television before bringing it back to bear on them..."and if anything has happened to him I will personally track you both down, stick your heads into that duck press and press them until all the juices run out. Get it?"
And then she whirled and ran out of the room, out of the house, into the van, and gunned the van down the road.
Her two former captors stood staring at each other, their arms still raised in the air.
PRESENT DAY
MONTREAL
Tara Truffaut (Tara King that was) sat with her captors at the table, dining on delicious pressed duck. Henri was a gourmet cook, she'd give him that.
Things had not gone bad so far, Tara thought to herself. She'd had to ride in the back of a closed-in van so she'd been unable to see where they were going, and Henri (for that was whom she had hit over the head watched her with gun at the ready at all times. She had sat quietly, eyes closed, paying attention to the left and right turns, and the time between those turns, and the sound of the van speeding down a highway.
They'd come to a halt and she'd been ordered out, to see that she was at a country house. Henri jerked the gun for her to enter the house. Tara tensed up as she did so, eyes darting this way and that assessing possible weapons. If they were going to shove her into an airless closet with a bag over her head, she would have fought back tooth and nail.
But they turned out to be gentlemen after all. They gestured her to a living room with television and bookcases and told her to make herself comfortable. Henri had returned his gun to his shoulder holster and gone into the kitchen to make dinner. The other man poured glasses of wine from a decanter and handed one to her. Tara accepted it cautiously. Since it had been poured from the same decanter odds were it wasn't drugged, and she could certainly use a drink.
She also noted that the man moved close to her without fear. He obviously wasn't expecting her to try anything. She thought about that. She was getting good looks at each of them, and she knew their names. Either they expected their ploy to catapult them into the safety of power immediately, or despite their politeness they did not intend for her to survive to be able to identify them.
For the rest of that evening, Tara King played a difficult game. She didn't want to appear without fear - that might give them ideas that they'd better be a bit careful about how close they got to her. Nevertheless she didn't want to appear like a spineless jelly fish, either.
"The thing is," she said now, placing another piece of delicious duck into her mouth, "that terrorism accomplishes nothing. Terrorists kill a lot of innocent people, and may end up getting what they want. Then another group of people decide that they don't like the way things are, and they turn terrorist. It's a never ending cycle, don't you see?"
The other man, whom Henri called Gerrard, merely shrugged his shoulders gallically. "We want what we want, and we shall force the current government to give it to us."
Tara shook her head and gritted her teeth in frustration. You just couldn't reason with people.
After dinner, they returned to the living room.
"Would you like to play cards, madam?" said Henri.
"I'd much rather watch television, if you don't mind," Tara responded. "It's almost time for BBC news."
"Oh, yes." Henri and Gerrard exchanged looks. "Our colleagues will have delivered our ultimatum to your husband by now. We will see if you our on the news, n'est pas?"
He turned on the set, and punched the channel for BBC news.
After about ten minutes of dialog that Tara listened to and didn't hear, the news presenter suddenly reached out as if handed a sheet of paper and began to read from it, out of sight.
"Strange goings-on in the town of Tibet-By-The Sea this morning," the presenter said.
Tara's ears pricked up. That's where Steed lived.
"Tibet-By -The-Sea is home to a naval base, and that entire base seems in the thrall of some kind of sleeping disease...everyone on the base from Naval personnel to civilians has been found fast asleep.
Today was the day that the HMS Triton was supposed to head to sea for its sea trials, and it did, so apparently the crew aboard ship were not affected.
And in other local news, an entire coach party of old-age pensioners from the Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center have gone missing! Their transport has been found at the naval base, but they themselves haven't been seen."
Whatever else the presenter might have said was lost as Tara's face went white and she flopped back in her chair, gasping for breath. "I'm...oh, dear...I feel faint. Please...please, a glass of wine."
Henri moved quickly, pouring a glass of wine and bringing it to her. He bent over her, holding the glass to her lips.
Tara King's hand moved faster than a striking snake. She reached up as if to steady his hand on the glass, and then darted to remove the gun from his shoulder holster. Then she placed her foot in his chest and shoved.
Tara was on her feet in an instant. "Drop your gun now, Gerrard," she commanded. "If I have to tell you twice I will shoot you instead. Don't believe I won't do it."
Gerrard grinned. "Oh, please, madame."
Tara pressed the trigger and a bullet whizzed past Gerrard's ear. His face went white and wordlessly he took out his gun - very slowly, and placed it on the floor.
"Kick it over here. Gently."
Gerrard did so. Tara bent down to pick it up, while keeping her head up and her eyes on the two men. She placed the new gun in the waistband of her trousers.
"Now, your car keys."
Gerrard blinked. "Quoi?"
"Your car keys, man. Give them to me."
Gerrard pulled his keys out of his pocket and slid them along the floor as well. Tara picked them up, and began backing towards the door.
"All right, gentlemen, listen closely, because I will say this only once. I don't have time to turn you in, right? I've got to catch a plane. But I shall inform my husband that you released me of your own volition, because you saw the error of these kinds of tactics. Right?
Now I'm going to go visit my friend..." and she shook the barrel of the gun rather raggedly in the direction of the television before bringing it back to bear on them..."and if anything has happened to him I will personally track you both down, stick your heads into that duck press and press them until all the juices run out. Get it?"
And then she whirled and ran out of the room, out of the house, into the van, and gunned the van down the road.
Her two former captors stood staring at each other, their arms still raised in the air.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
The Last Avengers Story, Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven: The Cruise
PRESENT DAY
THE TRITON
Mr. Honeywell stood on the command deck of the Triton, gazing out into the harbor through the thick glass that surrounded the deck. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Mr. Quarl and Mr. Hausen move from position to position, fiddle with switches and then exchange looks and nods. Finally Quarl returned to Honeywell's side.
"It's all here, Mr. Honeywell," he said happily. "The engines, the steering, the navigation...it can all be controlled from this deck...it's all automated, as per advertised. For our purposes, a crew of five will be quite sufficient."
Honeywell nodded. Absently, he placed the fingers of his right hand between the third and fourth buttons of his vest and lifted his chin the slightest bit. "I can feel the power, Mr. Quarl," he said softly. "All of these tons of machinery, all the weapons, at our beck and call. The mere press of a button and this great leviathan will do anything we want it to do."
"With the right codes," said Mr. Hausen, who had seated himself in the main engineer's chair. "The captain has to input those codes, remember, and he's asleep."
"Not to worry, Mr. Hausen," said Honeywell cheerfully. "Mr. Strange should be here any minute with the solution to that problem."
Hausen nodded. He swiveled his chair back around and ran his eyes over the control panel once again.
The sound of footsteps caused him to look up.
The elderly Admiral Forrestal entered the deck room, followed by the black-clad Mr. Strange, an ugly revolver in his hand. Behind him was Mr. Charon.
Forrestal's face was white and he was shaking, but it was not from old age. His eyes were smoking with rage.
"Mr. Strange," said Honeywell chidingly. "You shouldn't have pulled a gun on our honored guest. Put it away, please."
Strange did as he was bid, then went to stand by the hatch, arms folded across his chest.
"What's this all about, sir?" demanded the admiral. "What's going on here?"
"Admiral, I intend to borrow this ship for the day. Take it for a little cruise."
Forrestal's eyes bulged. "Don't be absurd, sir! You need a crew of 500 men to run this ship! And it seems you've killed them all!"
"Oh, not killed, Admiral, not killed. They are merely asleep...they'll wake up in 48 hours none the worse for wear."
Forrestal took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. "Well, that's something, anyway. But you've scuppered your own chances of taking this ship for a 'cruise' as you put it. Without 500 men this craft isn't going anywhere!"
Mr. Honeywell clicked his tongue. "You insult my intelligence, Admiral. The Triton is the latest experimental craft - practically all of its operations can be controlled by radio...from this command deck. I know all about its capabilities, so don't try to pull any silly games with me."
"Well, aren't you the clever one then," snarled Forrestal. "Go ahead, start the engines and head for open sea then, why don't you?"
"I will, as soon as you give me the codes which will enable me to set the machinery in motion."
"Ha!" crowed Forrestal. "You were too clever by half! Only the captain and his first officer know the codes, and they're asleep for 48 hours! So put that in your pipe and smoke it!"
Mr. Honeywell smiled at Forrestal sweetly.
"All the officers aboard know the code, Admiral," he commented. "Otherwise, they'd be in rather a bad way if the captain or first officer were killed during a battle...they'd be dead in the water, wouldn't they?"
Forrestal shrugged. "Doesn't matter how many of the crew know the codes - they're all asleep, aren't they?"
"Yes...all except you. So I need you to give me the codes."
"Me? Don't be daft! This is the first time I've been on this bloody ship!"
"To be sure, to be sure," Honeywell said, his voice as smooth as syrup. "But you spent the last two years of your career overseeing the design of it, and you are part of that cadre of senior officers who know...what is the technical term for it... oh yes...the override codes?"
Forrestal's eyes narrowed. So. These men were very well informed. Well, it wasn't going to do them any good. What did they consider him? "Get stuffed," he said, viciously. "I've lived a long life, I'm not afraid of pain, and I'm willing to die for my country."
Mr. Honeywell sighed. "Mr. Strange."
Forrestal straightened his shoulders and stared straight ahead. They could beat him bloody...they could threaten to put a bullet through his brain. He wouldn't talk.
A photograph was suddenly thrust in front of hies eyes. A photograph of his wife...his sweet, kind, beautiful, fragile wife, tied to a chair with a strip of plaster over her mouth. Her eyes stared at the camera in shock.
"Taken this morning, Admiral," Honeywell said softly.
Forrestal turned and lunged at Strange, who merely turned and guided the elder man down to the deck, not gently.
"We have more photos, Admiral," Honeywell barked. "And we have more than that. We have your son. Your daughter. Your grandchildren. We have them all."
Forrestal lay on the deck, gasping for breath.
"Mr. Strange, that was unkind. Please help the Admiral to his feet."
"Get your bloody hands off me," grunted Forrestal, standing up slowly. He stared at Honeywell. "I give you the codes. Then what?"
"That's my secret, Admiral. I will say only that there are many weapons on this ship, but there is only a chance that they might be used to kill innocent people, if certain governments don't give us what we want. But if you do not give us the codes, all of your family will most certainly die."
Forrestal stared at Mr. Honeywell. Then at Mr. Strange, who fanned a sheaf of photographs out across his chest so that Forrestal could see them.
"Alright, damn you," Forrestal said hoarsely. "All right. I'll give you the codes."
PRESENT DAY
THE TRITON - BELOW DECKS
John Steed sat quietly in one of the comfortable leather chairs, tapping his fingers slowly on a table, lost in . Peel, being mobile, had gone out to reconnoiter. He had remained behind to think.
Unconscious sailors could mean only one thing...someone was trying to take over the ship. Was that too great a leap to make on the basis of a bunch of unconscious men? No, not at all. He'd 40 years of experience with this type of thing and he knew in his water that that was what was happening. Someone was taking over this ship.
What could he and Emma do about it?
Emma moved as gracefully and powerfully as a woman half her age...but her days of going through a group of toughs like a dose of salts was long gone. And while he could despatch anyone who came close enough to him to be despatched, all the villains had to do was stay out of range and shoot him and that would be that.
No...they'd have to use all brains this time.
Mrs. Peel returned. She dropped into the chair next to Steed. Her face was grim.
"I've been through every room, every corridor. Men in heaps everywhere. Not dead...just...sleeping, it seems. But they won't wake up."
"Some kind of knockout gas," Steed said, nodding. "But why didn't it effect us?"
"Perhaps it came with us. From the Mulberry Retirement Home."
Steed grimaced. "That seems the logical explanation. I noticed an odd odor in the van. I paid no attention to it at the time...but perhaps it was something that inoculated us against this knockout gas."
"Us, and the ten attendants from Mulberry who came with us."
"Ten men, to hijack a ship? It doesn't seem possible."
"It must be possible, or they wouldn't be trying to do it."
"Well, we've got to..."
Steed paused. "Do you hear that?"
Emma cocked her head...then her liquid brown eyes met his. "The engines...I can hear the engines. Someone's turned on the ignition."
"That's right, Mrs. Peel. The ship's moving. And taking us with it. Somewhere."
"The question is, where?"
PRESENT DAY
THE TRITON
Mr. Honeywell stood on the command deck of the Triton, gazing out into the harbor through the thick glass that surrounded the deck. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Mr. Quarl and Mr. Hausen move from position to position, fiddle with switches and then exchange looks and nods. Finally Quarl returned to Honeywell's side.
"It's all here, Mr. Honeywell," he said happily. "The engines, the steering, the navigation...it can all be controlled from this deck...it's all automated, as per advertised. For our purposes, a crew of five will be quite sufficient."
Honeywell nodded. Absently, he placed the fingers of his right hand between the third and fourth buttons of his vest and lifted his chin the slightest bit. "I can feel the power, Mr. Quarl," he said softly. "All of these tons of machinery, all the weapons, at our beck and call. The mere press of a button and this great leviathan will do anything we want it to do."
"With the right codes," said Mr. Hausen, who had seated himself in the main engineer's chair. "The captain has to input those codes, remember, and he's asleep."
"Not to worry, Mr. Hausen," said Honeywell cheerfully. "Mr. Strange should be here any minute with the solution to that problem."
Hausen nodded. He swiveled his chair back around and ran his eyes over the control panel once again.
The sound of footsteps caused him to look up.
The elderly Admiral Forrestal entered the deck room, followed by the black-clad Mr. Strange, an ugly revolver in his hand. Behind him was Mr. Charon.
Forrestal's face was white and he was shaking, but it was not from old age. His eyes were smoking with rage.
"Mr. Strange," said Honeywell chidingly. "You shouldn't have pulled a gun on our honored guest. Put it away, please."
Strange did as he was bid, then went to stand by the hatch, arms folded across his chest.
"What's this all about, sir?" demanded the admiral. "What's going on here?"
"Admiral, I intend to borrow this ship for the day. Take it for a little cruise."
Forrestal's eyes bulged. "Don't be absurd, sir! You need a crew of 500 men to run this ship! And it seems you've killed them all!"
"Oh, not killed, Admiral, not killed. They are merely asleep...they'll wake up in 48 hours none the worse for wear."
Forrestal took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. "Well, that's something, anyway. But you've scuppered your own chances of taking this ship for a 'cruise' as you put it. Without 500 men this craft isn't going anywhere!"
Mr. Honeywell clicked his tongue. "You insult my intelligence, Admiral. The Triton is the latest experimental craft - practically all of its operations can be controlled by radio...from this command deck. I know all about its capabilities, so don't try to pull any silly games with me."
"Well, aren't you the clever one then," snarled Forrestal. "Go ahead, start the engines and head for open sea then, why don't you?"
"I will, as soon as you give me the codes which will enable me to set the machinery in motion."
"Ha!" crowed Forrestal. "You were too clever by half! Only the captain and his first officer know the codes, and they're asleep for 48 hours! So put that in your pipe and smoke it!"
Mr. Honeywell smiled at Forrestal sweetly.
"All the officers aboard know the code, Admiral," he commented. "Otherwise, they'd be in rather a bad way if the captain or first officer were killed during a battle...they'd be dead in the water, wouldn't they?"
Forrestal shrugged. "Doesn't matter how many of the crew know the codes - they're all asleep, aren't they?"
"Yes...all except you. So I need you to give me the codes."
"Me? Don't be daft! This is the first time I've been on this bloody ship!"
"To be sure, to be sure," Honeywell said, his voice as smooth as syrup. "But you spent the last two years of your career overseeing the design of it, and you are part of that cadre of senior officers who know...what is the technical term for it... oh yes...the override codes?"
Forrestal's eyes narrowed. So. These men were very well informed. Well, it wasn't going to do them any good. What did they consider him? "Get stuffed," he said, viciously. "I've lived a long life, I'm not afraid of pain, and I'm willing to die for my country."
Mr. Honeywell sighed. "Mr. Strange."
Forrestal straightened his shoulders and stared straight ahead. They could beat him bloody...they could threaten to put a bullet through his brain. He wouldn't talk.
A photograph was suddenly thrust in front of hies eyes. A photograph of his wife...his sweet, kind, beautiful, fragile wife, tied to a chair with a strip of plaster over her mouth. Her eyes stared at the camera in shock.
"Taken this morning, Admiral," Honeywell said softly.
Forrestal turned and lunged at Strange, who merely turned and guided the elder man down to the deck, not gently.
"We have more photos, Admiral," Honeywell barked. "And we have more than that. We have your son. Your daughter. Your grandchildren. We have them all."
Forrestal lay on the deck, gasping for breath.
"Mr. Strange, that was unkind. Please help the Admiral to his feet."
"Get your bloody hands off me," grunted Forrestal, standing up slowly. He stared at Honeywell. "I give you the codes. Then what?"
"That's my secret, Admiral. I will say only that there are many weapons on this ship, but there is only a chance that they might be used to kill innocent people, if certain governments don't give us what we want. But if you do not give us the codes, all of your family will most certainly die."
Forrestal stared at Mr. Honeywell. Then at Mr. Strange, who fanned a sheaf of photographs out across his chest so that Forrestal could see them.
"Alright, damn you," Forrestal said hoarsely. "All right. I'll give you the codes."
PRESENT DAY
THE TRITON - BELOW DECKS
John Steed sat quietly in one of the comfortable leather chairs, tapping his fingers slowly on a table, lost in . Peel, being mobile, had gone out to reconnoiter. He had remained behind to think.
Unconscious sailors could mean only one thing...someone was trying to take over the ship. Was that too great a leap to make on the basis of a bunch of unconscious men? No, not at all. He'd 40 years of experience with this type of thing and he knew in his water that that was what was happening. Someone was taking over this ship.
What could he and Emma do about it?
Emma moved as gracefully and powerfully as a woman half her age...but her days of going through a group of toughs like a dose of salts was long gone. And while he could despatch anyone who came close enough to him to be despatched, all the villains had to do was stay out of range and shoot him and that would be that.
No...they'd have to use all brains this time.
Mrs. Peel returned. She dropped into the chair next to Steed. Her face was grim.
"I've been through every room, every corridor. Men in heaps everywhere. Not dead...just...sleeping, it seems. But they won't wake up."
"Some kind of knockout gas," Steed said, nodding. "But why didn't it effect us?"
"Perhaps it came with us. From the Mulberry Retirement Home."
Steed grimaced. "That seems the logical explanation. I noticed an odd odor in the van. I paid no attention to it at the time...but perhaps it was something that inoculated us against this knockout gas."
"Us, and the ten attendants from Mulberry who came with us."
"Ten men, to hijack a ship? It doesn't seem possible."
"It must be possible, or they wouldn't be trying to do it."
"Well, we've got to..."
Steed paused. "Do you hear that?"
Emma cocked her head...then her liquid brown eyes met his. "The engines...I can hear the engines. Someone's turned on the ignition."
"That's right, Mrs. Peel. The ship's moving. And taking us with it. Somewhere."
"The question is, where?"
Monday, April 25, 2011
The Last Avengers Story, Chapter 10
Avengers Forever aka Die Hardest
Chapter Ten: Trapped!
Present Day - Tibet-By-The-Sea
I.
As the two minivans filled with oldsters headed towards the Naval Base, Admiral Forrestal (ret) and John Gascoine continued their animated discussion of the Battle of Jutland which they had begun over the breakfast table. While Emma could have contributed comments and opinions to the discussion, being well up on Naval history, she had spent her time at the table making inroads into the marzipan delights, and now on the bus she was surveying the scenery and wondering what, if any mischief, she should come up with in her role as Nurse Pray.
The men in the cab of the van, the driver and a passenger dressed all in black with a snazzy waistcoat, she noted, were having an animated discussion which she could not hear, and occasionally glancing back at their charges. Their was a strange aroma in the air, not unpleasant, but she couldn't place it.
II.
''The Sleep Gas antidote has been released in the back,'' Mr. Strange reported to the driver, Mr. Charon (whom we have not yet met in these pages). ''By the time we get to the Base they'll all be immune to the effects of the gas.''
''Thirty of 'em,'' Mr. Charon said. ''Thirty! It doesn't matter if their all conscious, we'll be a bunch of snails trying to chivvy them about.''
''Don't be foolish. We get them on the ship and we lock them all in a room and forget about them.''
Mr. Charon glanced back. ''We've got a couple of ladies back there. We can't lock them in the same room with the gents. Not for hours on end.''
Mr. Strange raised an eyebrow at this unexpected touch of delicacy from his colleague. ''You can bring that up with Mr. Honeywell once we're on board,'' he said.
III.
Emma Knight glanced affectionately at John Steed. She saw Steed - she could never think of him as Gascoine, why had he chosen such a ridiculous pseudonym? - at least once a month. Either she came to visit him in Tibet-By-The-Sea, or he 'made a break from the stalag' as he called it, and came up to London to visit her. But each time she saw him these days she always felt a pang. He had been five or six inches taller than she throughout his prime, now their eyes met on a level. His eyes were still the same, alight with mischief and intelligence, for all that they were set in rheumy folds. Each time she embraced him he was still wiry and strong, but that superb muscle tone had aged away. Time...Emma thought with an anticipatory shiver...time is not our friend.
What about me, fifteen years from now, when I'm eighty, she thought. Steed will surely be here, all the old gang...I'll have to get myself a toyboy to keep myself young...she chuckled at the thought and Steed glanced at her.
Steed, for this outing, was wearing his bowler of course, and a suit, and even carried his brolly. He used it more as a cane these days than anything else...she wondered if it still had a sword within...probably.
Admiral Forrestal (ret) went up to have a chat with the driver, and Steed came to sit beside her. (All the other seats were filled but no one had wanted to try to sit beside her girth which spread over two-and-a-half seats. Steed wouldn't have minded, even if he'd known his leg would be pressed against hers instead of against the rubbery folds of her fat suit. Indeed he sat down and shoved against her with his hip to make room.
''I can smell the tang in the air already,'' Steed told her. ''We're nearly to the base. Apparently we're going to get a tour of the Triton first - Forrestal's quite anxious to see it.''
''As am I.'' Emma looked at him, and smiled. ''I'm going to confess something to you. I'm rather glad Cathy and the Gambits were delayed. It's going to be nice to have you to myself all day.''
''You'll have me to yourself all night as well,'' Steed said roguishly.
Emma blinked at him. ''What do you mean?''
''Well...Tara's delayed as well, isn't she?''
''What?''
Steed stared at her. ''She called me last evening - left a message on my answer phone, said she'd be delayed!''
''That's odd,'' Emma said. ''She never called or emailed me. That's very odd.''
Steed's stare grew fixed as a horrible thought struck him. ''She called me John,'' he whispered. ''She called me John twice.''
They looked at each other in sudden understanding. None of Steed's associates ever called him John.
''We've got to get off this van,'' Steed said decisively.
But while they'd been talking the van had passed through the entrance gates to the base, with the driver flashing an ID and the guard saluting Admiral Forrestal.
''Wait til we're on board the ship,'' Emma said. ''We'll go off into a quiet corner for a few minutes. I brought your birthday present with me -'' she hefted the brocade bag. ''It's a lap top computer, all primed and ready to go. I'll text message various people through their cellphones and get them started on finding out what's going on, if anything.''
Steed nodded.
They spent the rest of the trip towards the ship in silence, each lost in thought. John Steed's thoughts were not pleasant ones. Tara was in trouble, and Tara had called him. She'd been in trouble since last night! And he'd failed her. She'd called him John, and obviously it had been a plea for help and how could it not have occurred to him that it was a plea for help? If anything happened to her because of his delay...
He felt Emma take his hand and squeeze it. He looked at her with a grateful smile. She knew what he was thinking.
Steed stifled his impatience as the two minivans came to a halt in front of the vast ship called The Triton, and very, very slowly all the oldsters oozed out of the vans and into a queue to board the ship. Navy brass waited patiently at the top. They were going to make a ceremony of the Admiral's retired. If he wasn't 80 years old, Steed thought, if he were only 70, he'd drag the driver out of the van, hop in it, and head back for town. But best to do this Mrs. Peel's way. She'd alert anyone and everyone, and by the time their tour of the ship ended they'd know whether they needed to be heading to London to take wing on a flight to Canada, or to her house. Steed took a deep breath.
The next several minutes, as they all walked up the gangplank, met and shook hands with the brass, and then started heading towards the wardroom of the ship, were a blur. When Mrs. Peel tugged at his arm they faded back to the end of the queue and then through a metal door. Down into the depth of the ship they went.
''All this metal is going to wreak havoc on sending anything from that computer of your, isn't it?'' Steed asked anxiously.
''It's the most powerful computer that could be got by someone with my connections,'' Emma told him. ''Not to worry. Here, this is a good place.''
Steed watched her while she opened up the computer, pressed a button, and watched the screen spring to life. She pulled up some kind of a program, typed a message which stated, quite simply, to check up on Tara Truffaut (Tara King that was) with all speed, and to use extreme caution. She then pulled up an address book, chose several names, and sent the message. Then she powered down and closed the computer.
''There we go, Steed,'' she said. ''Forces in motion.''
Steed nodded. ''I'm not going to be able to enjoy the rest of this tour, my dear. But I suppose we must go through with it. Once the ceremonies for Forrestal are out of the way I'll plead shortness of breath or something and see if we can't get away.''
Emma nodded. She opened the door to the hallway again, and then as suddenly closed it.
''What's wrong?'' Steed hissed.
Emma looked at him. ''There are two men in sailor uniforms, unconscious, lying on the floor of the corridor. They didn't look like they'd been in a fight. They looked as if they had just...fallen over.''
Emma opened the door again very cautiously, looking to left and right. The corridor spanned a long way, and in the distance she saw a couple of other heaps of bodies. Steed's chin brushed her hair as he took a look too. Then they pulled their heads back into the room and stared at each other.
''Something's rotten in the state of Denmark,'' Emma said.
Steed nodded. ''Yes. Here, too.''
They looked at each other. Simultaneously they took deep breaths.
''Well,'' said Steed, ''let's get going, Mrs. Peel. We're needed.''
Chapter Ten: Trapped!
Present Day - Tibet-By-The-Sea
I.
As the two minivans filled with oldsters headed towards the Naval Base, Admiral Forrestal (ret) and John Gascoine continued their animated discussion of the Battle of Jutland which they had begun over the breakfast table. While Emma could have contributed comments and opinions to the discussion, being well up on Naval history, she had spent her time at the table making inroads into the marzipan delights, and now on the bus she was surveying the scenery and wondering what, if any mischief, she should come up with in her role as Nurse Pray.
The men in the cab of the van, the driver and a passenger dressed all in black with a snazzy waistcoat, she noted, were having an animated discussion which she could not hear, and occasionally glancing back at their charges. Their was a strange aroma in the air, not unpleasant, but she couldn't place it.
II.
''The Sleep Gas antidote has been released in the back,'' Mr. Strange reported to the driver, Mr. Charon (whom we have not yet met in these pages). ''By the time we get to the Base they'll all be immune to the effects of the gas.''
''Thirty of 'em,'' Mr. Charon said. ''Thirty! It doesn't matter if their all conscious, we'll be a bunch of snails trying to chivvy them about.''
''Don't be foolish. We get them on the ship and we lock them all in a room and forget about them.''
Mr. Charon glanced back. ''We've got a couple of ladies back there. We can't lock them in the same room with the gents. Not for hours on end.''
Mr. Strange raised an eyebrow at this unexpected touch of delicacy from his colleague. ''You can bring that up with Mr. Honeywell once we're on board,'' he said.
III.
Emma Knight glanced affectionately at John Steed. She saw Steed - she could never think of him as Gascoine, why had he chosen such a ridiculous pseudonym? - at least once a month. Either she came to visit him in Tibet-By-The-Sea, or he 'made a break from the stalag' as he called it, and came up to London to visit her. But each time she saw him these days she always felt a pang. He had been five or six inches taller than she throughout his prime, now their eyes met on a level. His eyes were still the same, alight with mischief and intelligence, for all that they were set in rheumy folds. Each time she embraced him he was still wiry and strong, but that superb muscle tone had aged away. Time...Emma thought with an anticipatory shiver...time is not our friend.
What about me, fifteen years from now, when I'm eighty, she thought. Steed will surely be here, all the old gang...I'll have to get myself a toyboy to keep myself young...she chuckled at the thought and Steed glanced at her.
Steed, for this outing, was wearing his bowler of course, and a suit, and even carried his brolly. He used it more as a cane these days than anything else...she wondered if it still had a sword within...probably.
Admiral Forrestal (ret) went up to have a chat with the driver, and Steed came to sit beside her. (All the other seats were filled but no one had wanted to try to sit beside her girth which spread over two-and-a-half seats. Steed wouldn't have minded, even if he'd known his leg would be pressed against hers instead of against the rubbery folds of her fat suit. Indeed he sat down and shoved against her with his hip to make room.
''I can smell the tang in the air already,'' Steed told her. ''We're nearly to the base. Apparently we're going to get a tour of the Triton first - Forrestal's quite anxious to see it.''
''As am I.'' Emma looked at him, and smiled. ''I'm going to confess something to you. I'm rather glad Cathy and the Gambits were delayed. It's going to be nice to have you to myself all day.''
''You'll have me to yourself all night as well,'' Steed said roguishly.
Emma blinked at him. ''What do you mean?''
''Well...Tara's delayed as well, isn't she?''
''What?''
Steed stared at her. ''She called me last evening - left a message on my answer phone, said she'd be delayed!''
''That's odd,'' Emma said. ''She never called or emailed me. That's very odd.''
Steed's stare grew fixed as a horrible thought struck him. ''She called me John,'' he whispered. ''She called me John twice.''
They looked at each other in sudden understanding. None of Steed's associates ever called him John.
''We've got to get off this van,'' Steed said decisively.
But while they'd been talking the van had passed through the entrance gates to the base, with the driver flashing an ID and the guard saluting Admiral Forrestal.
''Wait til we're on board the ship,'' Emma said. ''We'll go off into a quiet corner for a few minutes. I brought your birthday present with me -'' she hefted the brocade bag. ''It's a lap top computer, all primed and ready to go. I'll text message various people through their cellphones and get them started on finding out what's going on, if anything.''
Steed nodded.
They spent the rest of the trip towards the ship in silence, each lost in thought. John Steed's thoughts were not pleasant ones. Tara was in trouble, and Tara had called him. She'd been in trouble since last night! And he'd failed her. She'd called him John, and obviously it had been a plea for help and how could it not have occurred to him that it was a plea for help? If anything happened to her because of his delay...
He felt Emma take his hand and squeeze it. He looked at her with a grateful smile. She knew what he was thinking.
Steed stifled his impatience as the two minivans came to a halt in front of the vast ship called The Triton, and very, very slowly all the oldsters oozed out of the vans and into a queue to board the ship. Navy brass waited patiently at the top. They were going to make a ceremony of the Admiral's retired. If he wasn't 80 years old, Steed thought, if he were only 70, he'd drag the driver out of the van, hop in it, and head back for town. But best to do this Mrs. Peel's way. She'd alert anyone and everyone, and by the time their tour of the ship ended they'd know whether they needed to be heading to London to take wing on a flight to Canada, or to her house. Steed took a deep breath.
The next several minutes, as they all walked up the gangplank, met and shook hands with the brass, and then started heading towards the wardroom of the ship, were a blur. When Mrs. Peel tugged at his arm they faded back to the end of the queue and then through a metal door. Down into the depth of the ship they went.
''All this metal is going to wreak havoc on sending anything from that computer of your, isn't it?'' Steed asked anxiously.
''It's the most powerful computer that could be got by someone with my connections,'' Emma told him. ''Not to worry. Here, this is a good place.''
Steed watched her while she opened up the computer, pressed a button, and watched the screen spring to life. She pulled up some kind of a program, typed a message which stated, quite simply, to check up on Tara Truffaut (Tara King that was) with all speed, and to use extreme caution. She then pulled up an address book, chose several names, and sent the message. Then she powered down and closed the computer.
''There we go, Steed,'' she said. ''Forces in motion.''
Steed nodded. ''I'm not going to be able to enjoy the rest of this tour, my dear. But I suppose we must go through with it. Once the ceremonies for Forrestal are out of the way I'll plead shortness of breath or something and see if we can't get away.''
Emma nodded. She opened the door to the hallway again, and then as suddenly closed it.
''What's wrong?'' Steed hissed.
Emma looked at him. ''There are two men in sailor uniforms, unconscious, lying on the floor of the corridor. They didn't look like they'd been in a fight. They looked as if they had just...fallen over.''
Emma opened the door again very cautiously, looking to left and right. The corridor spanned a long way, and in the distance she saw a couple of other heaps of bodies. Steed's chin brushed her hair as he took a look too. Then they pulled their heads back into the room and stared at each other.
''Something's rotten in the state of Denmark,'' Emma said.
Steed nodded. ''Yes. Here, too.''
They looked at each other. Simultaneously they took deep breaths.
''Well,'' said Steed, ''let's get going, Mrs. Peel. We're needed.''
Friday, April 22, 2011
The Last Avengers Story, Chapter 9
Avengers Forever aka Die Hardest
Chapter Nine: Der Tag. Der Meeting.
Present Day - Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center in Tibet-By-The-Sea
John Gascoine's eyes darted this way and that desperately, but there was no place he could run (fast enough) and no place he could hide from the very large, very loud woman in front of him. There was one solution (a quick karate chop across the throat) but he was too much of a gentleman to do it and besides there were too many witnesses.
He'd been up betimes with some of the other residents of the Retirement Center, practicing Tai Chi on the 13th tee of the quite, quite fantastic miniature golf course. It was a morning exercise regimen that Cathy Gale had suggested when she'd visited Steed there for the first time a couple of years ago, and the residents had taken to it. Like true Britons, they'd continued to do the slow, steady movements even as he'd been button-holed by the very large woman dressed in a nurse's outfit, looking like a Scottish dreadnought.
''Och, Mistair Gascoine,'' she'd said cheerily, pinching his cheek, ''I'm glad to see thee up and about this marnin. Let me introduce myself. I'm your...'' she dropped her voice to a terrifyingly throaty whisper, ''birthday present.'' She beamed at him.
''I...I don't think it's my birthday today,'' Gascoine said feebly.
''Och, ye darlin' man. Of course it is. Yer friends will be coming to see thee tonight, and I'm here to get you ready. I'm to give you a complete physical checkup, ginger you up a bit, tho I must say...'' she ran her eyes up and down and smiled quite terrifyingly, practically a leer, Gascoine thought.
John Gascoine was quite a connoisseur of women, and found beauty in all shapes and sizes, but the dreadnought in front of him was not only too, too daunting but too dreadful as well, with very white teeth which she flashed at him and a gleam in her eyes that he did not like at all. Not this early in the morning, and he hadn't had his first glass of champagne yet.
''Let's go, Mistair Gascoine,'' she said, taking his arm and practically yanking him off his feet.
''I...really, I...I don't think I caught your name,'' Gascoine said, feebly.
''I'm Nurse Pray,'' she told him.
''Pray? What a nice and...er..appropriate name, Nurse. But you see, Nurse, I don't have time for a checkup this morning. There's been a special outing planned for us - for some of us here, I mean to say, for the ex-military men here, to go to see the Naval Base...and the bus is going to be leaving in half an hour. I can't possibly miss it, but of course I can't ask you to come. Ladies aren't interested in military things, are they, and we'll be gone quite four or five hours, I'm sure.''
''Och, ye darlin' man,'' Nurse Pray brayed. ''How can ye say such a thing? Me own father trod the decks and had a heart of oak, didn't he?'' She broke out into a terrible falsetto: ''Hearts of oak are our ships, jolly tars are our men, we'll all stand together, steady lads steady.'' She thumped her chest, ''We'll fight for our honor again and again!''
''It will be a joy to visit your wee Naval Base,'' she told him. ''I'll serenade the darling passengers - I know quite a lot of sea chanties, you know. In fact I'll lead us all in song.''
After hearing that, Gascoine looked around wondering if any of his fellow Tai Chi-ans were ready to jump on the woman, but either they hadn't heard her terrible promise or they weren't going on the tour and had no pity for those who were.
''Nurse Pray,'' Gascoine drew himself up, ''I can deceive you no longer, much as I was tempted at first sight. But you're too kind, I can't do it. I am not John Gascoine. You have the wrong man. I think he's out for his early morning constitutional - you might try the 18th hole.''
She waggled a finger at him. ''Ye can't fool me, me friend. You were described to me...tall, dark and handsome, they told me you were.''
''How kind of them,'' Gascoine said.
''Yes, wasn't it. Now, into your room with ye, and let's have you out of those clothes.''
Gascoine put his arms across the door jamb. ''Nurse Pray, no. Thirty minutes, you remember. Only thirty minutes before the bus leaves. We can't possibly do anything in thirty minutes that would justify entering my room and removing my clothes.'' He paused, but he couldn't help it. ''Or yours, either,'' he said with a roguish wink.
''Och, ye daaaarrrrrrrrrlin man,'' Nurse Pray simpered. She put her arms around him, actually lifted him up a couple of inches, and carried him back onto his bed where she landed on top of him.
Her face was so close that Gascoine was forced to gaze into her eyes...''Mrs. Peel!'' he cried.
The large woman on top of him started to laugh. She rolled off him onto the floor and her body shook with mirth.
''Mrs. Peel!'' Steed said reproachfully.
''Oh, I'm sorry, Steed, I...'' she dissolved into laughter.
Steed got off the bed, and closed the door. He leaned his back against it. ''Right,'' he said meaningly.
''No, Steed.'' For all her bulk, Emma rose to her feet lithely. ''We've only got thirty minutes, remember.''
''Only thirty minutes?" Steed said, his eyes narrowing. ''I don't think I like the way you said that. I'll have you know...''
''No, no,'' Mrs. Peel said, ''But it'd take me half an hour to get out of this costume, and half an hour to get into it again. And we can't miss that bus, remember.''
''I wouldn't mind if we missed it,'' Gascoine said sulkily.
''But I don't want to miss my chance of annoying everyone on the bus with my rendition of Hearts of Oak.''
Gascoine laughed. ''I always knew you were a frustrated actress, Mrs. Peel.''
They embraced, and then arm and arm walked out of the room. Mrs. Peel, remembering her ole as nurse, disengaged her arm quickly.
''Let's go see Admiral Forrestal,'' Gascoine suggested. ''He's the big cheese, the head Stilton, who managed to wangle us this tour of the Naval Base, and the latest battle cruiser called The Triton. I'm looking forward to seeing that.''
''Lead on, Macduff,'' Nurse Pray said in her penetrating voice. ''I'll be delighted to meet the dear man.''
''And he'll be delighted to meet you, I'm sure.''
Chapter Nine: Der Tag. Der Meeting.
Present Day - Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center in Tibet-By-The-Sea
John Gascoine's eyes darted this way and that desperately, but there was no place he could run (fast enough) and no place he could hide from the very large, very loud woman in front of him. There was one solution (a quick karate chop across the throat) but he was too much of a gentleman to do it and besides there were too many witnesses.
He'd been up betimes with some of the other residents of the Retirement Center, practicing Tai Chi on the 13th tee of the quite, quite fantastic miniature golf course. It was a morning exercise regimen that Cathy Gale had suggested when she'd visited Steed there for the first time a couple of years ago, and the residents had taken to it. Like true Britons, they'd continued to do the slow, steady movements even as he'd been button-holed by the very large woman dressed in a nurse's outfit, looking like a Scottish dreadnought.
''Och, Mistair Gascoine,'' she'd said cheerily, pinching his cheek, ''I'm glad to see thee up and about this marnin. Let me introduce myself. I'm your...'' she dropped her voice to a terrifyingly throaty whisper, ''birthday present.'' She beamed at him.
''I...I don't think it's my birthday today,'' Gascoine said feebly.
''Och, ye darlin' man. Of course it is. Yer friends will be coming to see thee tonight, and I'm here to get you ready. I'm to give you a complete physical checkup, ginger you up a bit, tho I must say...'' she ran her eyes up and down and smiled quite terrifyingly, practically a leer, Gascoine thought.
John Gascoine was quite a connoisseur of women, and found beauty in all shapes and sizes, but the dreadnought in front of him was not only too, too daunting but too dreadful as well, with very white teeth which she flashed at him and a gleam in her eyes that he did not like at all. Not this early in the morning, and he hadn't had his first glass of champagne yet.
''Let's go, Mistair Gascoine,'' she said, taking his arm and practically yanking him off his feet.
''I...really, I...I don't think I caught your name,'' Gascoine said, feebly.
''I'm Nurse Pray,'' she told him.
''Pray? What a nice and...er..appropriate name, Nurse. But you see, Nurse, I don't have time for a checkup this morning. There's been a special outing planned for us - for some of us here, I mean to say, for the ex-military men here, to go to see the Naval Base...and the bus is going to be leaving in half an hour. I can't possibly miss it, but of course I can't ask you to come. Ladies aren't interested in military things, are they, and we'll be gone quite four or five hours, I'm sure.''
''Och, ye darlin' man,'' Nurse Pray brayed. ''How can ye say such a thing? Me own father trod the decks and had a heart of oak, didn't he?'' She broke out into a terrible falsetto: ''Hearts of oak are our ships, jolly tars are our men, we'll all stand together, steady lads steady.'' She thumped her chest, ''We'll fight for our honor again and again!''
''It will be a joy to visit your wee Naval Base,'' she told him. ''I'll serenade the darling passengers - I know quite a lot of sea chanties, you know. In fact I'll lead us all in song.''
After hearing that, Gascoine looked around wondering if any of his fellow Tai Chi-ans were ready to jump on the woman, but either they hadn't heard her terrible promise or they weren't going on the tour and had no pity for those who were.
''Nurse Pray,'' Gascoine drew himself up, ''I can deceive you no longer, much as I was tempted at first sight. But you're too kind, I can't do it. I am not John Gascoine. You have the wrong man. I think he's out for his early morning constitutional - you might try the 18th hole.''
She waggled a finger at him. ''Ye can't fool me, me friend. You were described to me...tall, dark and handsome, they told me you were.''
''How kind of them,'' Gascoine said.
''Yes, wasn't it. Now, into your room with ye, and let's have you out of those clothes.''
Gascoine put his arms across the door jamb. ''Nurse Pray, no. Thirty minutes, you remember. Only thirty minutes before the bus leaves. We can't possibly do anything in thirty minutes that would justify entering my room and removing my clothes.'' He paused, but he couldn't help it. ''Or yours, either,'' he said with a roguish wink.
''Och, ye daaaarrrrrrrrrlin man,'' Nurse Pray simpered. She put her arms around him, actually lifted him up a couple of inches, and carried him back onto his bed where she landed on top of him.
Her face was so close that Gascoine was forced to gaze into her eyes...''Mrs. Peel!'' he cried.
The large woman on top of him started to laugh. She rolled off him onto the floor and her body shook with mirth.
''Mrs. Peel!'' Steed said reproachfully.
''Oh, I'm sorry, Steed, I...'' she dissolved into laughter.
Steed got off the bed, and closed the door. He leaned his back against it. ''Right,'' he said meaningly.
''No, Steed.'' For all her bulk, Emma rose to her feet lithely. ''We've only got thirty minutes, remember.''
''Only thirty minutes?" Steed said, his eyes narrowing. ''I don't think I like the way you said that. I'll have you know...''
''No, no,'' Mrs. Peel said, ''But it'd take me half an hour to get out of this costume, and half an hour to get into it again. And we can't miss that bus, remember.''
''I wouldn't mind if we missed it,'' Gascoine said sulkily.
''But I don't want to miss my chance of annoying everyone on the bus with my rendition of Hearts of Oak.''
Gascoine laughed. ''I always knew you were a frustrated actress, Mrs. Peel.''
They embraced, and then arm and arm walked out of the room. Mrs. Peel, remembering her ole as nurse, disengaged her arm quickly.
''Let's go see Admiral Forrestal,'' Gascoine suggested. ''He's the big cheese, the head Stilton, who managed to wangle us this tour of the Naval Base, and the latest battle cruiser called The Triton. I'm looking forward to seeing that.''
''Lead on, Macduff,'' Nurse Pray said in her penetrating voice. ''I'll be delighted to meet the dear man.''
''And he'll be delighted to meet you, I'm sure.''
Thursday, April 21, 2011
The Last Avengers Story Chapter 8
Avengers Forever aka Die Hardest
Chapter Eight: Der Tag. Later that same Morning - Memories
Present Day - a Roadside cafe quite near Tibet-By-The-Sea
Emma Knight looked at herself in the mirror in the ladies lav. The pads she had stuffed into her cheeks swelled them out like a chipmunk, and the wig she had pulled over her own auburn hair was gray and piled in a high pompadour. Her bosom was tremendous under her nurses' outfit...Mt. Everest and K2 had nothing on them. The Annapurna of her rear end was quite a triumph, also. Emma smiled. Steed would never recognize her.
She folded up her real clothes neatly and stuffed them into her brocaded carpet bag, took a deep breath, and walked out of the lav into the cafe. No one paid her any mind. She exited the cafe, climbed into the van, and started the remaining five miles to Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center.
It had been an enjoyable drive up to Tibet-By-The-Sea, Emma thought. There had been plenty of people she could have called and talked to on her cellphone while she drove, but of course she didn't. Not because it was illegal to talk on a cellphone while driving in England (although it was, as was drinking a beverage or eating anything, even a candy bar!) but because Emma was nothing if not a good driver and she preferred to have both her hands on the wheel and her attention on the road in front of her.
But she'd been immersed in pleasant memories for all that. She'd turned on the radio and listened to a cricket match in progress. Steed was a devoted cricketer and he'd continued to play into his seventies - indeed he and his old friends had had quite a cricket match for...his seventieth birthday, that had been, Emma remembered. She'd accounted herself well with the bat, too.
Hmmm...yes, that had been the game where she'd brought along a couple of her Little Sisters. Emma had never wanted nor had children, but after her retirement from Department S and return to domestic life with Peter Peel - and managing Knight Industries, she'd joined Big Sisters-Little Sisters and acted as mentor for quite a few teenagers whom she'd turned from the path of boyfriend-pregnancy-council house into the path of university degree-job in a scientific field-nice house-boyfriend. Much the best way to feel a success in one's life.
Which isn't to say she'd never wondered what it would be like to have been married to Steed. Probably divorced in two weeks, Emma thought with a smile. Steed was simply not a one-woman man, and even for her - and she knew she held a special place in his heart - he would not have been able to settle down for more than a year or two. And much as she loved him - and understood him - she would not have put up with any roaming. And he'd have seen that as challenge! She grinned...it might have been fun at that. - keeping track of him, matching wits with him as he tried to deceive her by this or that strategem...breaking in at the crucial moment...
Emma laughed, and shook her head. Their friendship had lasted more than 40 years because they hadn't got married to each other. They'd remained extremely good friends, even rekindled the romantic part of their relationship after the death of Peter Peel - (only a few years after his return, from injuries suffered in his plane crash in the Amazon), but they had remained as two ships crossing continually in the night - if they'd ever married it would have been to collide...and sink.
''The best of both worlds,'' Emma thought to herself. ''That's what we've had. That's what we'll always have.''
She paused outside the gates of Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center, took a deep breath, and drove through the gates. No turning back now.
Chapter Eight: Der Tag. Later that same Morning - Memories
Present Day - a Roadside cafe quite near Tibet-By-The-Sea
Emma Knight looked at herself in the mirror in the ladies lav. The pads she had stuffed into her cheeks swelled them out like a chipmunk, and the wig she had pulled over her own auburn hair was gray and piled in a high pompadour. Her bosom was tremendous under her nurses' outfit...Mt. Everest and K2 had nothing on them. The Annapurna of her rear end was quite a triumph, also. Emma smiled. Steed would never recognize her.
She folded up her real clothes neatly and stuffed them into her brocaded carpet bag, took a deep breath, and walked out of the lav into the cafe. No one paid her any mind. She exited the cafe, climbed into the van, and started the remaining five miles to Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center.
It had been an enjoyable drive up to Tibet-By-The-Sea, Emma thought. There had been plenty of people she could have called and talked to on her cellphone while she drove, but of course she didn't. Not because it was illegal to talk on a cellphone while driving in England (although it was, as was drinking a beverage or eating anything, even a candy bar!) but because Emma was nothing if not a good driver and she preferred to have both her hands on the wheel and her attention on the road in front of her.
But she'd been immersed in pleasant memories for all that. She'd turned on the radio and listened to a cricket match in progress. Steed was a devoted cricketer and he'd continued to play into his seventies - indeed he and his old friends had had quite a cricket match for...his seventieth birthday, that had been, Emma remembered. She'd accounted herself well with the bat, too.
Hmmm...yes, that had been the game where she'd brought along a couple of her Little Sisters. Emma had never wanted nor had children, but after her retirement from Department S and return to domestic life with Peter Peel - and managing Knight Industries, she'd joined Big Sisters-Little Sisters and acted as mentor for quite a few teenagers whom she'd turned from the path of boyfriend-pregnancy-council house into the path of university degree-job in a scientific field-nice house-boyfriend. Much the best way to feel a success in one's life.
Which isn't to say she'd never wondered what it would be like to have been married to Steed. Probably divorced in two weeks, Emma thought with a smile. Steed was simply not a one-woman man, and even for her - and she knew she held a special place in his heart - he would not have been able to settle down for more than a year or two. And much as she loved him - and understood him - she would not have put up with any roaming. And he'd have seen that as challenge! She grinned...it might have been fun at that. - keeping track of him, matching wits with him as he tried to deceive her by this or that strategem...breaking in at the crucial moment...
Emma laughed, and shook her head. Their friendship had lasted more than 40 years because they hadn't got married to each other. They'd remained extremely good friends, even rekindled the romantic part of their relationship after the death of Peter Peel - (only a few years after his return, from injuries suffered in his plane crash in the Amazon), but they had remained as two ships crossing continually in the night - if they'd ever married it would have been to collide...and sink.
''The best of both worlds,'' Emma thought to herself. ''That's what we've had. That's what we'll always have.''
She paused outside the gates of Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center, took a deep breath, and drove through the gates. No turning back now.
Monday, April 18, 2011
The Last Avengers Story, Chapter 7
Avengers Forever aka Die Hardest
Chapter Seven: Der Tag. Morning
Present Day - London, Emma Knight's house
Emma Knight (Emma Peel that was) reached out her hand and turned off her alarm clock. She took a quick shower, then wrapped in her morning coat went into her study and turned on her computer. She took a quick look at her email and saw a message from Cathy Gale, saying she'd be a day late for the party - and that she'd left a message for Steed to that affect on his answerphone. She also saw a message from Purdey explaining their situation, and Purdey's hope that they would only be a couple of day's late for Steed's party. She said she'd called up Steed and left him a message on his answerphone.
There was no message from Tara King. Emma was surprised at this - first that Tara hadn't been delayed (it seemed to be a pattern) but more that she hadn't emailed to see she was leaving to catch her flight. Tara, as well as Cathy Gale and the Gambits, would be staying at her house in London for the week in which they were to celebrate Steed's birthday. Since the Underground went straight from Gatwick to downtown London there would have been no need for Emma to meet anyone, but Tara usually kept her appraised of her travel details.
Nevertheless, no message was all to the good. It meant Tara would be in London for Steed's birthday that night.
Their plan had been to take Steed to dinner in Tibet-By-The-Sea that night, than on to London for the entire week where they would go to see plays and visit a few touristy spots. In the back of Emma's van was a motorized wheelchair, with quite a few gadgets that Emma had designed personally. Not that Steed needed a wheelchair, but once he saw it Emma was sure he'd fall in love with it.
Emma sent email responses to Cathy and the Gambits, then switched off her computer. She dressed quickly in jeans and a sweatshirt, picked up the suitcase which contained her corpulent nurse's costume, and the large brocade bag which contained Steed's present of a notebook computer, as well as some other odds and ends, and went to her van. She checked her watch. She'd arrive in Tibet-By-The-Sea in good time, change into the nurse's outfit in a convenient restroom, and then see Steed. Him and her, all alone. What fun they would have!
Present Day - Tibet-By-The-Sea, Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center
Mr. Strange, his back to the tv that was lifeless at this time of the morning, ticked off a series of entries in his notebook. ''The antidote to the sleep gas will be released in the vans on our drive to the Naval station,'' he said. ''The drivers, and the passengers, including those Oldsters, will thus be immune to the Sleep Gas when we release it, but everyone else will be out like a light for at least twelve hours. Our men will man the gates and make sure no one gets in during that time.''
''Good,'' commented Honeywell.
Strange nodded. ''Our man on the Triton also has an antidote to the sleep gas. He'll be ready and waiting to escort us to the Weapons Bays.''
''And with all those weapons...and the codes to activate them...no one will be able to stop us.''
Strange nodded again and closed his notebook. ''Operation Triton begins in five hours.''
''Right.'' Honeywell glanced at the tv. ''Five hours. Strange, I think we have just time enough to watch Ocean's Eleven. The original, of course.''
''Of course.''
Chapter Seven: Der Tag. Morning
Present Day - London, Emma Knight's house
Emma Knight (Emma Peel that was) reached out her hand and turned off her alarm clock. She took a quick shower, then wrapped in her morning coat went into her study and turned on her computer. She took a quick look at her email and saw a message from Cathy Gale, saying she'd be a day late for the party - and that she'd left a message for Steed to that affect on his answerphone. She also saw a message from Purdey explaining their situation, and Purdey's hope that they would only be a couple of day's late for Steed's party. She said she'd called up Steed and left him a message on his answerphone.
There was no message from Tara King. Emma was surprised at this - first that Tara hadn't been delayed (it seemed to be a pattern) but more that she hadn't emailed to see she was leaving to catch her flight. Tara, as well as Cathy Gale and the Gambits, would be staying at her house in London for the week in which they were to celebrate Steed's birthday. Since the Underground went straight from Gatwick to downtown London there would have been no need for Emma to meet anyone, but Tara usually kept her appraised of her travel details.
Nevertheless, no message was all to the good. It meant Tara would be in London for Steed's birthday that night.
Their plan had been to take Steed to dinner in Tibet-By-The-Sea that night, than on to London for the entire week where they would go to see plays and visit a few touristy spots. In the back of Emma's van was a motorized wheelchair, with quite a few gadgets that Emma had designed personally. Not that Steed needed a wheelchair, but once he saw it Emma was sure he'd fall in love with it.
Emma sent email responses to Cathy and the Gambits, then switched off her computer. She dressed quickly in jeans and a sweatshirt, picked up the suitcase which contained her corpulent nurse's costume, and the large brocade bag which contained Steed's present of a notebook computer, as well as some other odds and ends, and went to her van. She checked her watch. She'd arrive in Tibet-By-The-Sea in good time, change into the nurse's outfit in a convenient restroom, and then see Steed. Him and her, all alone. What fun they would have!
Present Day - Tibet-By-The-Sea, Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center
Mr. Strange, his back to the tv that was lifeless at this time of the morning, ticked off a series of entries in his notebook. ''The antidote to the sleep gas will be released in the vans on our drive to the Naval station,'' he said. ''The drivers, and the passengers, including those Oldsters, will thus be immune to the Sleep Gas when we release it, but everyone else will be out like a light for at least twelve hours. Our men will man the gates and make sure no one gets in during that time.''
''Good,'' commented Honeywell.
Strange nodded. ''Our man on the Triton also has an antidote to the sleep gas. He'll be ready and waiting to escort us to the Weapons Bays.''
''And with all those weapons...and the codes to activate them...no one will be able to stop us.''
Strange nodded again and closed his notebook. ''Operation Triton begins in five hours.''
''Right.'' Honeywell glanced at the tv. ''Five hours. Strange, I think we have just time enough to watch Ocean's Eleven. The original, of course.''
''Of course.''
Sunday, April 17, 2011
The Last Avengers Story, Chapter 6
Avengers Forever - aka Die Hardest
Chapter Six: King For A Day
Montreal, Canada
Tara Truffaut (Tara King that was) opened the door of her walk-in closet and eyed the vast array of shelves with a critical eye. On the shelves were not clothing but mannequin's heads topped with a variety of wigs - over a hundred of them. Some women collected shoes, and outfits to go with the shoes, Tara had always collected wigs. Which ones should she bring with her on her trip to England?
Before she could make a decision or even give some thought to making her decision, her two grandchildren's voices called to her from below. ''We want to go feed the ducks, grandmama! It's almost time for mama to come get us and we want to go feed the ducks!''
Tara sighed. At age fifty-six she still retained her good figure, and one would not think to look at her that she was a grand mama, but today, after a day with her two five year old grandchildren, she was feeling very much like a grand mama. Fighting villains thirty years ago had never worn her out so much.
Nevertheless she trotted down the stairs at their request, slim and trim in corduroy jeans and a white button up shirt, helped the two darling little tykes collect breadcrumbs from the pantry, and then they set off for the pond behind her house to feed the ducks.
Tara had retired from Department S after only a couple of the years in the service, when she realized that Steed was not for her and that she wanted a husband and children. She hadn't decided that til she'd met the right man, Jean-Claude Truffaut, a French Canadian with ambitions for politics. Now he was a minister in the Montreal government and fighting a hard battle to keep Quebec in Canada.
When Tara and the tykes returned to her house, it was to find that her daughter had arrived to pick up the children. Tara didn't try to persuade her to stay for a cup of tea - she had packing to do and the tykes had been dropped on her unexpectedly that morning. Linda (Tara's daughter) handed her a small piece of Death By Chocolate Cake as a thank-you, and she drove away. Tara remained in the driveway returning the waves of her grandchildren, then turned her steps toward her house.
The front door was open. Surely she hadn't left that open when she and the grandkids had headed down to the pond? Tara sighed. She trotted back up the stairs and entered her room, with its open suitcase on the bed. Jean-Claude was not going to accompany her, which she thought was a pity. She'd spent little enough time with him these past two years...well, that was the fault of the Quebecois...
Tara reached up for one of her wigs when out of the corner of her eye she caught a movement in the shadows of the vast closet. Picking up the bust with one hand she turned sharply and shattered it over the head of the intruder. He collapsed at her feet.
''Well done, Mrs. Truffaut,'' came another voice, in French, this time from the door. She turned and saw that this one had a gun, which he pointed at her with a steady hand.
''What is it you want?'' she demanded, also in French.
''Your husband becomes a nuisance, madame. With you in our hands, he will no longer be a nuisance. Come, please.''
Tara assessed the situation critically. Could it be true? If they wanted to apply pressure to Jean-Claude, why hadn't they tried to kidnap his grandchildren? She did not want to ask this question for fear of putting ideas into their heads, but the man seemed to read her mind.
''We are not barbarians, madame, and we do not war on innocent children. Now, please, come.''
Tara took a deep breath. She'd go along with it - for a while anyway, until she could escape. But first...
''Look, you see I'm packing. I'm supposed to be taking a plane tonight for England.''
''You will miss your flight, madame.''
''Yes, yes, the point is I was going there to attend a friend's birthday party. He is going to be eighty years old on Sunday.''
''My felicitations, madame.''
''Thank you. The point is, you simply must let me call him and tell him I'm going to be delayed. He'll be terribly hurt otherwise.''
The man with the gun looked skeptical.
''Look,'' said Tara. ''There on the dresser. See that white-haired gentleman with his arm around me? That's him. Look there - look at that letter from a Mrs. Emma Peel. It gives all the details of the birthday party. I'll show you his phone number in my address book and you can dial the number for me if you like.''
The man in the closet had regained consciousness by this time, and his compatriot ordered him to verify Tara's words. At a nod from him, the man with the gun said, ''Zut alors. Make your telephone call. But be very, very careful. You will say only that you are delayed due to a crisis with your husband, and that he is calling to you even as you speak.''
''Right,'' said Tara.
The man without the gun dialed the phone number, then handed her the receiver. The man with the gun held it in a menacing manner. Tara took a deep breath as she heard the phone chirping away on the other end. No answer...then Steed's answerphone clicked on.
''John,'' said Tara, ''this is Tara. I'm terribly sorry, John, but Jean-Claude took a bit of a fall this morning.'' The man jerked his gun warningly. ''Nothing serious,'' Tara said hurriedly, ''but I am going to be delayed. I'm terribly sorry to miss your birthday, but I'll try to see you as soon as I can. Au revoir, John.''
She hung up the phone.
''Right,'' said the man with the gun. ''Let's go.''
Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center, Tibet-By-The-Sea
The man known to the inhabitants of the Mulberry retirement Center as John Gascoine yawned and stretched. Tomorrow was the day, a day he'd been looking forward to for a long time. Not because it was his birthday, but because all his old friends were coming to visit him.
He turned and saw the light blinking on his phone. He pressed the button, and heard Tara King's recorded message. He listened to it, his brow furrowed. Why on earth was she calling him John? Perhaps to clue him in that it was a practical joke? Because it was, of course. First Cathy, then Mike and Purdy, now Tara, all telling him that they were going to miss his birthday. What a mean practical joke for them to play on an old man. They'd probably jump out from behind a door or something and serve them jolly well right if he had a heart attack.
He poured himself a brandy and changed into his silk pajamas. Now it only remained for Emma Peel to call him and give him her regrets.
But as the night hours passed on, Emma Peel did not call.
Chapter Six: King For A Day
Montreal, Canada
Tara Truffaut (Tara King that was) opened the door of her walk-in closet and eyed the vast array of shelves with a critical eye. On the shelves were not clothing but mannequin's heads topped with a variety of wigs - over a hundred of them. Some women collected shoes, and outfits to go with the shoes, Tara had always collected wigs. Which ones should she bring with her on her trip to England?
Before she could make a decision or even give some thought to making her decision, her two grandchildren's voices called to her from below. ''We want to go feed the ducks, grandmama! It's almost time for mama to come get us and we want to go feed the ducks!''
Tara sighed. At age fifty-six she still retained her good figure, and one would not think to look at her that she was a grand mama, but today, after a day with her two five year old grandchildren, she was feeling very much like a grand mama. Fighting villains thirty years ago had never worn her out so much.
Nevertheless she trotted down the stairs at their request, slim and trim in corduroy jeans and a white button up shirt, helped the two darling little tykes collect breadcrumbs from the pantry, and then they set off for the pond behind her house to feed the ducks.
Tara had retired from Department S after only a couple of the years in the service, when she realized that Steed was not for her and that she wanted a husband and children. She hadn't decided that til she'd met the right man, Jean-Claude Truffaut, a French Canadian with ambitions for politics. Now he was a minister in the Montreal government and fighting a hard battle to keep Quebec in Canada.
When Tara and the tykes returned to her house, it was to find that her daughter had arrived to pick up the children. Tara didn't try to persuade her to stay for a cup of tea - she had packing to do and the tykes had been dropped on her unexpectedly that morning. Linda (Tara's daughter) handed her a small piece of Death By Chocolate Cake as a thank-you, and she drove away. Tara remained in the driveway returning the waves of her grandchildren, then turned her steps toward her house.
The front door was open. Surely she hadn't left that open when she and the grandkids had headed down to the pond? Tara sighed. She trotted back up the stairs and entered her room, with its open suitcase on the bed. Jean-Claude was not going to accompany her, which she thought was a pity. She'd spent little enough time with him these past two years...well, that was the fault of the Quebecois...
Tara reached up for one of her wigs when out of the corner of her eye she caught a movement in the shadows of the vast closet. Picking up the bust with one hand she turned sharply and shattered it over the head of the intruder. He collapsed at her feet.
''Well done, Mrs. Truffaut,'' came another voice, in French, this time from the door. She turned and saw that this one had a gun, which he pointed at her with a steady hand.
''What is it you want?'' she demanded, also in French.
''Your husband becomes a nuisance, madame. With you in our hands, he will no longer be a nuisance. Come, please.''
Tara assessed the situation critically. Could it be true? If they wanted to apply pressure to Jean-Claude, why hadn't they tried to kidnap his grandchildren? She did not want to ask this question for fear of putting ideas into their heads, but the man seemed to read her mind.
''We are not barbarians, madame, and we do not war on innocent children. Now, please, come.''
Tara took a deep breath. She'd go along with it - for a while anyway, until she could escape. But first...
''Look, you see I'm packing. I'm supposed to be taking a plane tonight for England.''
''You will miss your flight, madame.''
''Yes, yes, the point is I was going there to attend a friend's birthday party. He is going to be eighty years old on Sunday.''
''My felicitations, madame.''
''Thank you. The point is, you simply must let me call him and tell him I'm going to be delayed. He'll be terribly hurt otherwise.''
The man with the gun looked skeptical.
''Look,'' said Tara. ''There on the dresser. See that white-haired gentleman with his arm around me? That's him. Look there - look at that letter from a Mrs. Emma Peel. It gives all the details of the birthday party. I'll show you his phone number in my address book and you can dial the number for me if you like.''
The man in the closet had regained consciousness by this time, and his compatriot ordered him to verify Tara's words. At a nod from him, the man with the gun said, ''Zut alors. Make your telephone call. But be very, very careful. You will say only that you are delayed due to a crisis with your husband, and that he is calling to you even as you speak.''
''Right,'' said Tara.
The man without the gun dialed the phone number, then handed her the receiver. The man with the gun held it in a menacing manner. Tara took a deep breath as she heard the phone chirping away on the other end. No answer...then Steed's answerphone clicked on.
''John,'' said Tara, ''this is Tara. I'm terribly sorry, John, but Jean-Claude took a bit of a fall this morning.'' The man jerked his gun warningly. ''Nothing serious,'' Tara said hurriedly, ''but I am going to be delayed. I'm terribly sorry to miss your birthday, but I'll try to see you as soon as I can. Au revoir, John.''
She hung up the phone.
''Right,'' said the man with the gun. ''Let's go.''
Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center, Tibet-By-The-Sea
The man known to the inhabitants of the Mulberry retirement Center as John Gascoine yawned and stretched. Tomorrow was the day, a day he'd been looking forward to for a long time. Not because it was his birthday, but because all his old friends were coming to visit him.
He turned and saw the light blinking on his phone. He pressed the button, and heard Tara King's recorded message. He listened to it, his brow furrowed. Why on earth was she calling him John? Perhaps to clue him in that it was a practical joke? Because it was, of course. First Cathy, then Mike and Purdy, now Tara, all telling him that they were going to miss his birthday. What a mean practical joke for them to play on an old man. They'd probably jump out from behind a door or something and serve them jolly well right if he had a heart attack.
He poured himself a brandy and changed into his silk pajamas. Now it only remained for Emma Peel to call him and give him her regrets.
But as the night hours passed on, Emma Peel did not call.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
The Last Avengers Story, Chapter 5
Avengers Forever - aka Die Hardest
Chapter Five: The Security Gambit
Covent Garden, West End, London
It had been a magical evening for those patrons who attended Covent Garden's production of Nijinsky's The Faun ballet, with Mikhail Baryshnikov in fine form. The tuxedo-clad men and evening-gowned women filed out of the Garden in an orderly manner, chatting amongst themselves about the beautiful scenery and the exquisite dancing and the tragedy of Vaslav Nijinsky who had created magic for many years and then gone mad.
The woman once and forever known as Purdey, tall and slender, with silvery blond hair and the effortless movements of a former ballerina, walked along on the arm of her husband, Mike Gambit. It was his left arm. He had lost his right arm twenty years ago, not in the service of his country, which would have at least made it palatable, but to a drunken driver on the M1 motorway. That the drunken driver had killed himself in the same crash was scant consolation.
Gambit had been forced to retire from Department S, even though the prosthetic arm he wore was a marvel of technical virtuosity, and had set up a business, with his new wife Purdey as equal partner, as a security consultant for businesses and private individuals throughout the world.
As they walked through the cool night air toward Charing Cross Hotel, where they were staying the night, Purdey seemed in a dream, and Gambit knew she was reliving the last two hours, picturing Baryshnikov and his company of dancers leaping about the stage, and how it would have appeared if the lead dancer had actually been the incomparable Nijinsky.
''Oh,'' said Gambit.
''What?''
''I had a call, while we were in the theater. Let me get out my phone. I had it on vibrator.''
Purdey released his good arm and he reached into his pocket for his cellphone. He pressed a few numbers and then held the phone to his ear. He listened for a few moments, his face growing extremely grim, then he snapped the phone closed. He stopped and faced Purdey, taking her hands in his.
''That was Marius, in Germany. The Alternities People have got their knickers in a twist and they absolutely insist that we fly over there for a series of meetings...that are going to last until next Monday.''
Purdey looked at him, stricken. ''But Steed's birthday is on Sunday!''
''I know. But I don't need to tell you how important Alternities are - not just to us as a business but to the civilized world as a business, and if they've got good reason to be worried...''
Purdey nodded. She bit her lip. ''It's not like no one else will be there. Cathy Gale. Tara King. Emma Peel. They'll all be there. And we'll be there the day after, and we'll be able to spend the whole week with him.''
Gambit nodded. ''That's right.''
Purdey nodded, and they started walking again. ''But to miss his eightieth birthday party,'' she murmured. ''When a man gets to be eighty, every day is precious. Every day might be...der Tag.''
''Nonsense.'' Gambit said robustly. ''Steed's in great shape, except for that arthritis of his. He'll live until he's 90. And if he doesn't...'' he glanced sideways at his wife and she glanced at him. ''Emma Peel will be there.'' he repeated.
Purdey allowed her lips to quirk into a grin. ''That's right. If they...um...and he...um...well, at least he'd die happy.''
''Nonsense,'' Gambit said again. ''One kiss from the lips of Emma Peel and Steed would wake back up quicker than Sleeping Beauty.''
Purdey hugged his good arm. ''Still,'' she said sadly, ''I wish this hadn't happened. But he'll understand. I'll call him tomorrow and let him know.''
Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center, Tibet-By-The-Sea
Mr. Honeywell covered the mouth of the receiver and glared at his short, black-clad associate. ''It is very distracting, Mr. Strange, to try to talk on the phone whilst in the background there is the constant sound of popping popcorn, not to mention that aroma. It's positively making my mouth water and I'm trying to concentrate here.''
''Sorry,'' said Mr. Strange.
Honeywell forebore to answer that he didn't sound sorry, and took his hand away from the receiver. ''What was that again, Adrian?''
Honeywell nodded several times, and made a few notes on a pad by his elbow. ''Right, I've got that.''
He hung up the phone and brought the pad over to his chair by the large screen tv. Mr. Strange had taken the popcorn bags out of the microwave and emptied them into two large bowls. Honeywell helped himself to a handful as Mr. Strange shoved Gambit, (starring Michael Caine and Shirley MacLaine) into the VCR, and turned it on. He put the mute on and turned attentively toward Honeywell.
''It's all working out so very well,'' Honeywell told him. ''The Sleep Gas has been delivered. My contact tells me the crew of the Triton have all been given weekend liberty. On Sunday there will be nothing but a skeleton crew aboard the ship - not to mention the naval base itself.''
''Oh, yes,'' Strange said appreciatively, licking butter from his fingers. ''That will make things easier.''
''Quite. And, the brass that are going to give Forrestal and our group the tour of the Triton have actually ordered that wheelchair ramps and other devices be placed in strategic areas, to assist in our little lambs getting around easier!''
''You're joking!'' Strange exclaimed.
Honeywell grinned. ''Admiral Forrestal, retired,'' he said. ''It's amazing what doors open when you can drop the right names.''
Strange returned the grin. ''And what doors can slam shut,'' he smirked.
The two men nodded at each other, then turned their attention to the television screen. Mr. Strange reached out a hand for the salt cellar.
Chapter Five: The Security Gambit
Covent Garden, West End, London
It had been a magical evening for those patrons who attended Covent Garden's production of Nijinsky's The Faun ballet, with Mikhail Baryshnikov in fine form. The tuxedo-clad men and evening-gowned women filed out of the Garden in an orderly manner, chatting amongst themselves about the beautiful scenery and the exquisite dancing and the tragedy of Vaslav Nijinsky who had created magic for many years and then gone mad.
The woman once and forever known as Purdey, tall and slender, with silvery blond hair and the effortless movements of a former ballerina, walked along on the arm of her husband, Mike Gambit. It was his left arm. He had lost his right arm twenty years ago, not in the service of his country, which would have at least made it palatable, but to a drunken driver on the M1 motorway. That the drunken driver had killed himself in the same crash was scant consolation.
Gambit had been forced to retire from Department S, even though the prosthetic arm he wore was a marvel of technical virtuosity, and had set up a business, with his new wife Purdey as equal partner, as a security consultant for businesses and private individuals throughout the world.
As they walked through the cool night air toward Charing Cross Hotel, where they were staying the night, Purdey seemed in a dream, and Gambit knew she was reliving the last two hours, picturing Baryshnikov and his company of dancers leaping about the stage, and how it would have appeared if the lead dancer had actually been the incomparable Nijinsky.
''Oh,'' said Gambit.
''What?''
''I had a call, while we were in the theater. Let me get out my phone. I had it on vibrator.''
Purdey released his good arm and he reached into his pocket for his cellphone. He pressed a few numbers and then held the phone to his ear. He listened for a few moments, his face growing extremely grim, then he snapped the phone closed. He stopped and faced Purdey, taking her hands in his.
''That was Marius, in Germany. The Alternities People have got their knickers in a twist and they absolutely insist that we fly over there for a series of meetings...that are going to last until next Monday.''
Purdey looked at him, stricken. ''But Steed's birthday is on Sunday!''
''I know. But I don't need to tell you how important Alternities are - not just to us as a business but to the civilized world as a business, and if they've got good reason to be worried...''
Purdey nodded. She bit her lip. ''It's not like no one else will be there. Cathy Gale. Tara King. Emma Peel. They'll all be there. And we'll be there the day after, and we'll be able to spend the whole week with him.''
Gambit nodded. ''That's right.''
Purdey nodded, and they started walking again. ''But to miss his eightieth birthday party,'' she murmured. ''When a man gets to be eighty, every day is precious. Every day might be...der Tag.''
''Nonsense.'' Gambit said robustly. ''Steed's in great shape, except for that arthritis of his. He'll live until he's 90. And if he doesn't...'' he glanced sideways at his wife and she glanced at him. ''Emma Peel will be there.'' he repeated.
Purdey allowed her lips to quirk into a grin. ''That's right. If they...um...and he...um...well, at least he'd die happy.''
''Nonsense,'' Gambit said again. ''One kiss from the lips of Emma Peel and Steed would wake back up quicker than Sleeping Beauty.''
Purdey hugged his good arm. ''Still,'' she said sadly, ''I wish this hadn't happened. But he'll understand. I'll call him tomorrow and let him know.''
Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center, Tibet-By-The-Sea
Mr. Honeywell covered the mouth of the receiver and glared at his short, black-clad associate. ''It is very distracting, Mr. Strange, to try to talk on the phone whilst in the background there is the constant sound of popping popcorn, not to mention that aroma. It's positively making my mouth water and I'm trying to concentrate here.''
''Sorry,'' said Mr. Strange.
Honeywell forebore to answer that he didn't sound sorry, and took his hand away from the receiver. ''What was that again, Adrian?''
Honeywell nodded several times, and made a few notes on a pad by his elbow. ''Right, I've got that.''
He hung up the phone and brought the pad over to his chair by the large screen tv. Mr. Strange had taken the popcorn bags out of the microwave and emptied them into two large bowls. Honeywell helped himself to a handful as Mr. Strange shoved Gambit, (starring Michael Caine and Shirley MacLaine) into the VCR, and turned it on. He put the mute on and turned attentively toward Honeywell.
''It's all working out so very well,'' Honeywell told him. ''The Sleep Gas has been delivered. My contact tells me the crew of the Triton have all been given weekend liberty. On Sunday there will be nothing but a skeleton crew aboard the ship - not to mention the naval base itself.''
''Oh, yes,'' Strange said appreciatively, licking butter from his fingers. ''That will make things easier.''
''Quite. And, the brass that are going to give Forrestal and our group the tour of the Triton have actually ordered that wheelchair ramps and other devices be placed in strategic areas, to assist in our little lambs getting around easier!''
''You're joking!'' Strange exclaimed.
Honeywell grinned. ''Admiral Forrestal, retired,'' he said. ''It's amazing what doors open when you can drop the right names.''
Strange returned the grin. ''And what doors can slam shut,'' he smirked.
The two men nodded at each other, then turned their attention to the television screen. Mr. Strange reached out a hand for the salt cellar.
Friday, April 15, 2011
The Last Avengers Story, Chapter 4
Avengers Forever - aka Die Hardest
Chapter Four: The best laid plans
Present Day - Fort Knox, Kentucky, USA
Cathy Gale stood in the darkness, her entire body rigid with terror. ''This is ridiculous,'' she told herself. ''Get control of yourself. You've faced psychotic villains without a qualm, you've played roles before, roles that if you weren't convincing would result in you being shot in punishment. Here, all you'll get are rotten tomatoes.''
Cathy took a deep breath. She'd played roles before but only in front of one or two psychotic killers, never in front of 500 people with a spotlight on her and their ears hanging on her every word.
''We need someone with a British accent,'' her sister's daughter's husband had told her, ''A posh accent. You'd be perfect, Cathy. You don't have to be a trained actress. We're putting on the show for charity, after all. You'll be splendid. '' If he were in front of her now she'd strangle him. Was that her cue? Cathy felt a cold ball of ice slip from her throat down her chest to her belly. No, no, not yet.
Cathy took another deep breath, and put her long cigarette holder in her mouth. Blast these laws in America that wouldn't allow her to smoke in the wings, let alone on stage. How silly she'd look on stage with an unlit cigarette in a cigarette holder clenched between her teeth.
Richard - her sister's daughter's husband, came up to her at that point. Cathy's hands itched but she kept them at her sides.
''How're the butterflies?'' he whispered.
''They've churned into sour cream by now,'' Cathy hissed at him.
''Oh, not to worry,'' he hissed back. ''Once you get on stage just concentrate on your fellow actors. You've done it all before in rehearsals, haven't you.''
Cathy's fingers went for him, but Richard intercepted them and kissed her knuckles. ''You're a trooper, Cathy. Oh, there's your cue! On you go.''
''And she got a standing ovation at the end,'' her great grand-niece continued to bubble, once the actress and her entourage had returned to their home. ''Her Mrs. Tweed was the hit of the show, and they're going to do it for three more nights!''
''Something's Afoot for three more nights? How splendid,'' said her twin sister, Patrice (known as 'Pussy' during her wilder days) Galore.
''I was in shock when I agreed to it,'' Cathy told her, accepting the very large whisky and soda that Patrice had prepared for her.
''But, Cathy! You were leaving for London three days from now.''
Cathy nodded. ''Like I said, I was in shock. Well, I'll just put off my trip for one day. I'll call up the friend I was going to visit, and tell him I'll be a day late. He'll understand.''
''Why call? Why not just email him?''
Cathy laughed. ''My friend is a Renaissance man, but his area of mechanical expertise end with the motor car engine. He tried to fix a toaster for a friend once - the bread charred and the toaster itself ended up in orbit. We're going to try to pull him into the 21st century on this visit.''
''We?''
''Well, it is his eightieth birthday party. A lot of his old colleagues are gathering to wish him well. People he's worked with over the years. Ste... I mean, Gascoine, for that is his name, is well-loved by all who knew him. He's getting a notebook computer and we're not going to rest until he knows how to use that email feature and promises to do so.''
''You're going to be a day late for his eightieth birthday party?''
Cathy grimaced. ''It's just a day, Patrice. A day that he's going to spend peacefully at home, and the most excitement he'll get will be if he manages to beat Mike Gambit at a miniature wargame. It'll be fine.''
Patrice Galore nodded, and stopped herself from saying, ''If you say so.'' It wasn't as if Cathy weren't going to call the chap on his birthday, although if he was as old-fashioned as she let on, it was a surprise he'd have a phone. Perhaps he used one of the old-fashioned kind.
Cathy made her way up the stairs to her room, stripped off her clothes and stepped under the pins and needles of an ice cold shower. She was only a couple of years younger than Steed, and she didn't have any intention of dying yet awhile. Steed would be just the same. And by arriving a day late she'd have more time to spend with him alone, anyway. Cathy nodded. Yes, the fact that she'd be a day late wouldn't matter at all.
Present Day - Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center
Mr. Honeywell and Mr. Strange stood around a large table, upon which resided a very large scale model of the Tibet-By-The-Sea Naval Station. Mr. Quarl sat in his chair, watching Return of the Pink Panther on the television set. It must be said that most of his attention was given to the vast array of guns he had spread over the settee, which he was cleaning meticulously one by one.
Chapter Four: The best laid plans
Present Day - Fort Knox, Kentucky, USA
Cathy Gale stood in the darkness, her entire body rigid with terror. ''This is ridiculous,'' she told herself. ''Get control of yourself. You've faced psychotic villains without a qualm, you've played roles before, roles that if you weren't convincing would result in you being shot in punishment. Here, all you'll get are rotten tomatoes.''
Cathy took a deep breath. She'd played roles before but only in front of one or two psychotic killers, never in front of 500 people with a spotlight on her and their ears hanging on her every word.
''We need someone with a British accent,'' her sister's daughter's husband had told her, ''A posh accent. You'd be perfect, Cathy. You don't have to be a trained actress. We're putting on the show for charity, after all. You'll be splendid. '' If he were in front of her now she'd strangle him. Was that her cue? Cathy felt a cold ball of ice slip from her throat down her chest to her belly. No, no, not yet.
Cathy took another deep breath, and put her long cigarette holder in her mouth. Blast these laws in America that wouldn't allow her to smoke in the wings, let alone on stage. How silly she'd look on stage with an unlit cigarette in a cigarette holder clenched between her teeth.
Richard - her sister's daughter's husband, came up to her at that point. Cathy's hands itched but she kept them at her sides.
''How're the butterflies?'' he whispered.
''They've churned into sour cream by now,'' Cathy hissed at him.
''Oh, not to worry,'' he hissed back. ''Once you get on stage just concentrate on your fellow actors. You've done it all before in rehearsals, haven't you.''
Cathy's fingers went for him, but Richard intercepted them and kissed her knuckles. ''You're a trooper, Cathy. Oh, there's your cue! On you go.''
''And she got a standing ovation at the end,'' her great grand-niece continued to bubble, once the actress and her entourage had returned to their home. ''Her Mrs. Tweed was the hit of the show, and they're going to do it for three more nights!''
''Something's Afoot for three more nights? How splendid,'' said her twin sister, Patrice (known as 'Pussy' during her wilder days) Galore.
''I was in shock when I agreed to it,'' Cathy told her, accepting the very large whisky and soda that Patrice had prepared for her.
''But, Cathy! You were leaving for London three days from now.''
Cathy nodded. ''Like I said, I was in shock. Well, I'll just put off my trip for one day. I'll call up the friend I was going to visit, and tell him I'll be a day late. He'll understand.''
''Why call? Why not just email him?''
Cathy laughed. ''My friend is a Renaissance man, but his area of mechanical expertise end with the motor car engine. He tried to fix a toaster for a friend once - the bread charred and the toaster itself ended up in orbit. We're going to try to pull him into the 21st century on this visit.''
''We?''
''Well, it is his eightieth birthday party. A lot of his old colleagues are gathering to wish him well. People he's worked with over the years. Ste... I mean, Gascoine, for that is his name, is well-loved by all who knew him. He's getting a notebook computer and we're not going to rest until he knows how to use that email feature and promises to do so.''
''You're going to be a day late for his eightieth birthday party?''
Cathy grimaced. ''It's just a day, Patrice. A day that he's going to spend peacefully at home, and the most excitement he'll get will be if he manages to beat Mike Gambit at a miniature wargame. It'll be fine.''
Patrice Galore nodded, and stopped herself from saying, ''If you say so.'' It wasn't as if Cathy weren't going to call the chap on his birthday, although if he was as old-fashioned as she let on, it was a surprise he'd have a phone. Perhaps he used one of the old-fashioned kind.
Cathy made her way up the stairs to her room, stripped off her clothes and stepped under the pins and needles of an ice cold shower. She was only a couple of years younger than Steed, and she didn't have any intention of dying yet awhile. Steed would be just the same. And by arriving a day late she'd have more time to spend with him alone, anyway. Cathy nodded. Yes, the fact that she'd be a day late wouldn't matter at all.
Present Day - Mulberry Luxury Retirement Center
Mr. Honeywell and Mr. Strange stood around a large table, upon which resided a very large scale model of the Tibet-By-The-Sea Naval Station. Mr. Quarl sat in his chair, watching Return of the Pink Panther on the television set. It must be said that most of his attention was given to the vast array of guns he had spread over the settee, which he was cleaning meticulously one by one.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The Last Avengers Story, Chapter 3
Avengers Forever - aka Die Hardest
Chapter Three: Countdown to danger
The man who called himself John Gascoine relaxed in the billiard room of the Mulberry Senior Citizens Luxury Retirement Center. He had poured himself a brandy and sat in an overstuffed leather chair by two of the vast French windows, warming the brandy with the palm of his hand and listening with gentle enjoyment to the murmur of voices from the players and the sound of billiard and snooker balls being hit with cues and bouncing off each other and the sides of the tables. The pleasantness was increased by the occasional sound of thunder and flashes of lighting coming from the windows, and raindrops pattering against the glass. A typical day in England, John Gascoine (Beresford Steed) thought to himself happily. He sipped his brandy.
Two men wandered by, deep in discussion of cricket scores. They were discussing Wisden (the cricketer's almanac) and complaining about a volume from 1964 missing from the Library. Scandalous!
A wild-white-hair-maned Professor Stephenson, born and bred in England who for some reason affected a German accent (and tried his best to look like Albert Einstein), entered the Billiard Room and came across to Steed's chair. ''My dear fellow,'' he said cheerfully, ''I'm sorry I'm late. But I see you have been using the time to advantage.''
''Certainly, Professor,'' Gascoine told him with a smile. ''Would you like a brandy before we start our 18 holes?'' A particularly loud roll of thunder and a bright flash of lightning accompanied his words.
''No, no, I must keep a clear head if I am to have any chance of beating you. Are we ready?''
Gascoine finished his brandy and rose, slowly, to his feet. ''Let's go. Through here, shall we?''
Gascoine opened one of the French windows, and he and Professor Stephenson stepped through, and into the sunshine of a bright English morning. Gascoine closed the window behind him and the sound and light effects began anew. Gascoine and Stephenson left the pleasures of a rainy English morning behind them and entered the bright sunshine, with the expectation of a day of 36 holes of golf in front of them.
The Great Golf greeter, clad in plus fours and a bulky sweater, greeted them at the starting gate of the Great Golf Game Center, and helped them to select the golf clubs they would need. They were playing the Greatest Golf Holes in the World, so they'd need clubs for snow, for ice, even for underwater. The vast panorama of the Miniature Golf Course, with its fairways and putting greens and exotic scenery, spread out before them. It was this Great Golf Game Center, more than any other amenity the Mulberry Luxury Retirment Home offered, that drew residents to it like flies to honey.
Professor Stephenson gestured for Gascoine to start first. Gascoine smiled and gestured that Stephenson really must be the first to tee off. Stephenson nodded his head in acquiescence and placed his ball on the tee. He took his stance as he assessed the various obstacles that stood between him and the cup.
''Have you heard about next Sunday's outing, Mr. Gascoine?'' Stephenson as he addressed the ball.
''To the Naval Base? Yes, I've heard.''
Stephenson brought his club up to the ball slowly, then took it back. He brought it up slowly again, then took it back.
''I can't remember. Is it an old sea dog that you are?''
Gascoine smiled. ''I was in the Navy briefly during the War,'' he commented (for men of Gascoine and Stephenson's generation, there was only one War).
''So you are going to attend?''
''I'm not sure. That day's my birthday, you see, and I'm rather expecting to have visitors.''
''Oh, is it so? Splendid. But surely you can bring them along?''
Gascoine nodded. Any visitors he'd have, male or female, would probably be quite delighted to get a tour of the nation's latest naval base, with all its mod cons and futuristic equipment.
''I'll issue them an invite, of course. Professor, I think that ball's about to grow moss.''
Stephenson looked down at the ball he had still not hit, smiled, and the next time he brought his golf club to meet it, golf club head met ball with a satisfying smack. ''Four!'' roared the Professor.
Chapter Three: Countdown to danger
The man who called himself John Gascoine relaxed in the billiard room of the Mulberry Senior Citizens Luxury Retirement Center. He had poured himself a brandy and sat in an overstuffed leather chair by two of the vast French windows, warming the brandy with the palm of his hand and listening with gentle enjoyment to the murmur of voices from the players and the sound of billiard and snooker balls being hit with cues and bouncing off each other and the sides of the tables. The pleasantness was increased by the occasional sound of thunder and flashes of lighting coming from the windows, and raindrops pattering against the glass. A typical day in England, John Gascoine (Beresford Steed) thought to himself happily. He sipped his brandy.
Two men wandered by, deep in discussion of cricket scores. They were discussing Wisden (the cricketer's almanac) and complaining about a volume from 1964 missing from the Library. Scandalous!
A wild-white-hair-maned Professor Stephenson, born and bred in England who for some reason affected a German accent (and tried his best to look like Albert Einstein), entered the Billiard Room and came across to Steed's chair. ''My dear fellow,'' he said cheerfully, ''I'm sorry I'm late. But I see you have been using the time to advantage.''
''Certainly, Professor,'' Gascoine told him with a smile. ''Would you like a brandy before we start our 18 holes?'' A particularly loud roll of thunder and a bright flash of lightning accompanied his words.
''No, no, I must keep a clear head if I am to have any chance of beating you. Are we ready?''
Gascoine finished his brandy and rose, slowly, to his feet. ''Let's go. Through here, shall we?''
Gascoine opened one of the French windows, and he and Professor Stephenson stepped through, and into the sunshine of a bright English morning. Gascoine closed the window behind him and the sound and light effects began anew. Gascoine and Stephenson left the pleasures of a rainy English morning behind them and entered the bright sunshine, with the expectation of a day of 36 holes of golf in front of them.
The Great Golf greeter, clad in plus fours and a bulky sweater, greeted them at the starting gate of the Great Golf Game Center, and helped them to select the golf clubs they would need. They were playing the Greatest Golf Holes in the World, so they'd need clubs for snow, for ice, even for underwater. The vast panorama of the Miniature Golf Course, with its fairways and putting greens and exotic scenery, spread out before them. It was this Great Golf Game Center, more than any other amenity the Mulberry Luxury Retirment Home offered, that drew residents to it like flies to honey.
Professor Stephenson gestured for Gascoine to start first. Gascoine smiled and gestured that Stephenson really must be the first to tee off. Stephenson nodded his head in acquiescence and placed his ball on the tee. He took his stance as he assessed the various obstacles that stood between him and the cup.
''Have you heard about next Sunday's outing, Mr. Gascoine?'' Stephenson as he addressed the ball.
''To the Naval Base? Yes, I've heard.''
Stephenson brought his club up to the ball slowly, then took it back. He brought it up slowly again, then took it back.
''I can't remember. Is it an old sea dog that you are?''
Gascoine smiled. ''I was in the Navy briefly during the War,'' he commented (for men of Gascoine and Stephenson's generation, there was only one War).
''So you are going to attend?''
''I'm not sure. That day's my birthday, you see, and I'm rather expecting to have visitors.''
''Oh, is it so? Splendid. But surely you can bring them along?''
Gascoine nodded. Any visitors he'd have, male or female, would probably be quite delighted to get a tour of the nation's latest naval base, with all its mod cons and futuristic equipment.
''I'll issue them an invite, of course. Professor, I think that ball's about to grow moss.''
Stephenson looked down at the ball he had still not hit, smiled, and the next time he brought his golf club to meet it, golf club head met ball with a satisfying smack. ''Four!'' roared the Professor.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
The Last Avengers Story, Part 2
Avengers Forever aka Die Hardest
Chapter 2: Enter Emma Peel
Emma Knight (Emma Peel that was) finished stuffing her auburn hair (which owed something to Art at this stage in her life) under her bright blue bathing cap, that matched her bright blue swimming costume. She glanced at herself in the floor to ceiling mirror - very briefly, for Emma had never been a vain woman or one obsessed with her looks. She hadn't lost the tan she'd acquired after spending a fortnight's vacation in the Florida Keys, and while she was 65 years old her skin was as firm and toned as a much younger woman. She didn't work hard at keeping fit, but she worked hard at having fun and the one took care of the other.
Emma stepped under the shower for a few moments, then left the locker room and went out onto the pool deck. It was her pool, or at least as Knight Industries she had contributed the funds to get it built in the west London suburb near her home. The pool was Olympic-size, with three diving boards of varying heights on the far end. Tthere were only a few people in the pool. Emma dove in without preamble, and swam a couple of laps to warm up a bit. Then she side-stroked to the ladder, climbed out, and then made her way up the 60m diving board ladder. She walked out to the tip of the board and looked down at the silvery blue water far below. She took a deep breath, stayed very still, as she reran in her mind the procedures for a front pike dive. Then she flexed her legs and soared into the air.
An hour later, Emma walked out of the Knight Diving Center with a long stride and a cheerful smile. Her swimsuit had been stuffed into a large brocade carpet bag which she swung against her thigh with insouciance. Emma moved with purpose - she had a lot to do. She strode briskly down the street toward the first of two stops she had to make before returning home.
Her first stop was at the Quantum Computer store, where she picked up a Quantum notebook computer - their deluxe, big screen model. In length and breadth it was four inches bigger than a typical notebook, but extremely light and thin. Emma browsed through the software aisles and chose some software and games which she felt would appeal to a very old friend.
The clerk at the counter totted up her purchases and smiled at her broadly. ''Looks like you're going to be set for everything,'' he commented. Emma smiled at him and handed over her credit card.
Next she went into Teddy's Theatrical Costumiers. ''Hi,'' she told the clerk cheerily. ''I need a nurse's costume, please.''
The clerk ran an eye over Emma's measurements, in a quite respectful manner. ''Size 6?'' he suggested, and made as if to turn.
''Um, no,'' Emma said with a smile. ''I'd like a size 20. And padding to go with it.''
''Oh, yes?'' said the clerk.
''Yes, plus a gray wig, and some cheek pads. And the appropriate make-up necessities.''
The clerk smiled. ''The Mrs. Doubtfire look, eh?'' he commented.
Emma grinned. ''It's a friend's birthday in a couple of days. I'm going to give him a gift he'll never forget.''
As Emma walked back to her car, which she had left at the carport at the Dive Center, a reminiscent smile played around her lips. Her old friend had delighted in impersonations, and outrageous characters, while sticking her in dull and boring spots like hotel clerk, store clerk, teacher and nurse. Well, this time she was going to give him a nurse that he would never forget.
Emma stowed her parcels in the boot, and accelerated towards home.
Chapter 2: Enter Emma Peel
Emma Knight (Emma Peel that was) finished stuffing her auburn hair (which owed something to Art at this stage in her life) under her bright blue bathing cap, that matched her bright blue swimming costume. She glanced at herself in the floor to ceiling mirror - very briefly, for Emma had never been a vain woman or one obsessed with her looks. She hadn't lost the tan she'd acquired after spending a fortnight's vacation in the Florida Keys, and while she was 65 years old her skin was as firm and toned as a much younger woman. She didn't work hard at keeping fit, but she worked hard at having fun and the one took care of the other.
Emma stepped under the shower for a few moments, then left the locker room and went out onto the pool deck. It was her pool, or at least as Knight Industries she had contributed the funds to get it built in the west London suburb near her home. The pool was Olympic-size, with three diving boards of varying heights on the far end. Tthere were only a few people in the pool. Emma dove in without preamble, and swam a couple of laps to warm up a bit. Then she side-stroked to the ladder, climbed out, and then made her way up the 60m diving board ladder. She walked out to the tip of the board and looked down at the silvery blue water far below. She took a deep breath, stayed very still, as she reran in her mind the procedures for a front pike dive. Then she flexed her legs and soared into the air.
An hour later, Emma walked out of the Knight Diving Center with a long stride and a cheerful smile. Her swimsuit had been stuffed into a large brocade carpet bag which she swung against her thigh with insouciance. Emma moved with purpose - she had a lot to do. She strode briskly down the street toward the first of two stops she had to make before returning home.
Her first stop was at the Quantum Computer store, where she picked up a Quantum notebook computer - their deluxe, big screen model. In length and breadth it was four inches bigger than a typical notebook, but extremely light and thin. Emma browsed through the software aisles and chose some software and games which she felt would appeal to a very old friend.
The clerk at the counter totted up her purchases and smiled at her broadly. ''Looks like you're going to be set for everything,'' he commented. Emma smiled at him and handed over her credit card.
Next she went into Teddy's Theatrical Costumiers. ''Hi,'' she told the clerk cheerily. ''I need a nurse's costume, please.''
The clerk ran an eye over Emma's measurements, in a quite respectful manner. ''Size 6?'' he suggested, and made as if to turn.
''Um, no,'' Emma said with a smile. ''I'd like a size 20. And padding to go with it.''
''Oh, yes?'' said the clerk.
''Yes, plus a gray wig, and some cheek pads. And the appropriate make-up necessities.''
The clerk smiled. ''The Mrs. Doubtfire look, eh?'' he commented.
Emma grinned. ''It's a friend's birthday in a couple of days. I'm going to give him a gift he'll never forget.''
As Emma walked back to her car, which she had left at the carport at the Dive Center, a reminiscent smile played around her lips. Her old friend had delighted in impersonations, and outrageous characters, while sticking her in dull and boring spots like hotel clerk, store clerk, teacher and nurse. Well, this time she was going to give him a nurse that he would never forget.
Emma stowed her parcels in the boot, and accelerated towards home.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The Last Avengers Story
14 days of an Avengers story, before Eroica by Bravo continues. I'm an Avengers fan and wrote this several years ago.
AVENGERS FOREVER - aka DIE HARDEST
PRESENT DAY
I. TIBET-BY-THE-SEA
It was Sunday, and the village of Tibet-By-The-Sea (along with its sister villages Upper Tibet, Lower Tibet and Tibet Magna) had braced itself for the weekly invasion from the Mulberry Senior Citizens Retirement Center.
The man who called himself John Gascoine walked, very slowly - feeling his way with a very sturdy umbrella - down the main street of Tibet-By-The-Sea. He cut quite a figure, with the bowler hat perched on his snow white head, a light gray jacket over a black turtleneck sweater that slimmed an only slightly overweight 80-year-old figure, and light gray shoes that matched his light gray trousers. The deeply set eyes that looked out from under heavy lids twinkled with an enjoyment of life.
''Life at Mulberry isn't bad,'' John Gascoine told the victim that he had chosen for that day - a barber who plied his trade on Mackiedockie Street. ''The ladies are quite taken with me. Of course they would be, what with the exciting life I've led, and all.''
''Is that so, sir?'' said the barber, opening a drawer and bringing out a cut-throat razor. He turned back to Gascoine and suddenly the hand which held the razor was caught in a vise-like grip. ''Ouch!'' exclaimed the barber.
''Oh, I'm terribly sorry,'' Gascoine said with a sweet smile. He released the barber's hand. ''It's just that you shouldn't go waving dangerous weapons like that about near the hands of a trained killer.''
''A trained killer?'' the barber said, with just the right expression of interested fear in his voice. He'd been in Tibet-By-The-Sea for ten years and had dealt with many a visitor from Mulberry Senior Retirement Center. He set his lips into an interested and inquiring smile, and listened with half an ear as Gascoine told him of his adventures as a super secret agent, many, many years ago.
II. THE TRITON PROJECT
In an inner office of the Mulberry Senior Citizen Retirement Center, two men relaxed with tea and biscuits while they sat in comfortable chairs and watched the big screen television in front of them. Scenes from Topkapi played out on the screen. ''That Peter Ustinov, he's a right treat,'' said Mr. Honeywell, the head of the retirement center. Indeed, he looked a bit like a young Peter Ustinov, with a great deal of weight which he carried well, curly black hair and a pencil-thin moustache. Mr. Quarl sipped his tea. ''Oh, no, it's that Melina Mercouri who makes this film,'' he said, ''I love that voice of hers.'' Mr. Quarl was a big man, with big muscles. Fans of old movies might think of him as the ex-boxer turned actor, Mike Mazurski.
They stopped short as there came a knock on the door. Mr. Honeywell pushed the mute button on the remote, and then another button. In a corner of the screen, the exterior office was shown, and the face of Mr. Strange appeared. He was clearly alone in the outer office.
''Come in, Mr. Strange,'' Honeywell called.
Strange entered. He was a short man, but well built, with a tendency to wear black clothing at all times, enlivened only by brightly-colored waistcoats. On this occasion he carried a briefcase.
''Report, Mr. Strange,'' said Honeywell.
''It's all arranged, sir. The Naval Base is going to open its doors to a visit from the Mulberry Senior Citizen Retirement Home next Sunday. It was my mentioning that we've got Rear Admiral Forrestal, retired, here now that did it.''
''Excellent, excellent. I told you, Mr. Quarl, that this Retirement Center is simply a vast spider's web, and our prey has finally arrived. Rear Admiral Forrestal, retired, indeed.''
nodded. ''How many of the old folks do we have to bring next Sunday?''
''I said twenty-five.'' Strange said.
''Twenty-five? Are you mad?''
Strange shrugged. ''We'll be slow moving to begin with, but once we get into the Base, what's it matter? And twenty-five old age hostages - if we need to play that card - why, it'll be a dawdle.''
Quarl looked grimly at Honeywell, but Honeywell did not seem to find the figure of twenty-five senior citizens excessive.
''At least you're going to run background checks on everyone we bring, aren't you?'' he asked.
''Background checks?'' scoffed Honeywell. ''Now it's my turn to ask you if you are mad.''
''But some of them might be ex-military.''
''I'm sure most of them will be. In fact, if he's to be believed, we even have a super secret spy living with us. What of it? They're all over seventy years old! They pose no danger, even if they did find out what was going on.''
Quarl folded his arms across his broad chest.
''Come, come, Mr. Quarl,'' Honeywell said soothingly. ''Our residents play card games, and go for long walks, and sit on chairs and watch the world go by, and you could snap anyone of them in two with your fingers. Now come, Strange. You're just in time to see the last half of Topkapi. Sit yourself down.''
Strange poured himself a cup of tea. ''Seven days,'' he murmured. ''Seven days to Project Triton. It's been a long time coming.''
''And we are well prepared,'' Honeywell said. He raised his teacup. Mr. Quarl and Mr. Strange followed suit. They touched cups with a musical ring. Then the three men settled down and devoted all their attention to the television screen.
AVENGERS FOREVER - aka DIE HARDEST
PRESENT DAY
I. TIBET-BY-THE-SEA
It was Sunday, and the village of Tibet-By-The-Sea (along with its sister villages Upper Tibet, Lower Tibet and Tibet Magna) had braced itself for the weekly invasion from the Mulberry Senior Citizens Retirement Center.
The man who called himself John Gascoine walked, very slowly - feeling his way with a very sturdy umbrella - down the main street of Tibet-By-The-Sea. He cut quite a figure, with the bowler hat perched on his snow white head, a light gray jacket over a black turtleneck sweater that slimmed an only slightly overweight 80-year-old figure, and light gray shoes that matched his light gray trousers. The deeply set eyes that looked out from under heavy lids twinkled with an enjoyment of life.
''Life at Mulberry isn't bad,'' John Gascoine told the victim that he had chosen for that day - a barber who plied his trade on Mackiedockie Street. ''The ladies are quite taken with me. Of course they would be, what with the exciting life I've led, and all.''
''Is that so, sir?'' said the barber, opening a drawer and bringing out a cut-throat razor. He turned back to Gascoine and suddenly the hand which held the razor was caught in a vise-like grip. ''Ouch!'' exclaimed the barber.
''Oh, I'm terribly sorry,'' Gascoine said with a sweet smile. He released the barber's hand. ''It's just that you shouldn't go waving dangerous weapons like that about near the hands of a trained killer.''
''A trained killer?'' the barber said, with just the right expression of interested fear in his voice. He'd been in Tibet-By-The-Sea for ten years and had dealt with many a visitor from Mulberry Senior Retirement Center. He set his lips into an interested and inquiring smile, and listened with half an ear as Gascoine told him of his adventures as a super secret agent, many, many years ago.
II. THE TRITON PROJECT
In an inner office of the Mulberry Senior Citizen Retirement Center, two men relaxed with tea and biscuits while they sat in comfortable chairs and watched the big screen television in front of them. Scenes from Topkapi played out on the screen. ''That Peter Ustinov, he's a right treat,'' said Mr. Honeywell, the head of the retirement center. Indeed, he looked a bit like a young Peter Ustinov, with a great deal of weight which he carried well, curly black hair and a pencil-thin moustache. Mr. Quarl sipped his tea. ''Oh, no, it's that Melina Mercouri who makes this film,'' he said, ''I love that voice of hers.'' Mr. Quarl was a big man, with big muscles. Fans of old movies might think of him as the ex-boxer turned actor, Mike Mazurski.
They stopped short as there came a knock on the door. Mr. Honeywell pushed the mute button on the remote, and then another button. In a corner of the screen, the exterior office was shown, and the face of Mr. Strange appeared. He was clearly alone in the outer office.
''Come in, Mr. Strange,'' Honeywell called.
Strange entered. He was a short man, but well built, with a tendency to wear black clothing at all times, enlivened only by brightly-colored waistcoats. On this occasion he carried a briefcase.
''Report, Mr. Strange,'' said Honeywell.
''It's all arranged, sir. The Naval Base is going to open its doors to a visit from the Mulberry Senior Citizen Retirement Home next Sunday. It was my mentioning that we've got Rear Admiral Forrestal, retired, here now that did it.''
''Excellent, excellent. I told you, Mr. Quarl, that this Retirement Center is simply a vast spider's web, and our prey has finally arrived. Rear Admiral Forrestal, retired, indeed.''
nodded. ''How many of the old folks do we have to bring next Sunday?''
''I said twenty-five.'' Strange said.
''Twenty-five? Are you mad?''
Strange shrugged. ''We'll be slow moving to begin with, but once we get into the Base, what's it matter? And twenty-five old age hostages - if we need to play that card - why, it'll be a dawdle.''
Quarl looked grimly at Honeywell, but Honeywell did not seem to find the figure of twenty-five senior citizens excessive.
''At least you're going to run background checks on everyone we bring, aren't you?'' he asked.
''Background checks?'' scoffed Honeywell. ''Now it's my turn to ask you if you are mad.''
''But some of them might be ex-military.''
''I'm sure most of them will be. In fact, if he's to be believed, we even have a super secret spy living with us. What of it? They're all over seventy years old! They pose no danger, even if they did find out what was going on.''
Quarl folded his arms across his broad chest.
''Come, come, Mr. Quarl,'' Honeywell said soothingly. ''Our residents play card games, and go for long walks, and sit on chairs and watch the world go by, and you could snap anyone of them in two with your fingers. Now come, Strange. You're just in time to see the last half of Topkapi. Sit yourself down.''
Strange poured himself a cup of tea. ''Seven days,'' he murmured. ''Seven days to Project Triton. It's been a long time coming.''
''And we are well prepared,'' Honeywell said. He raised his teacup. Mr. Quarl and Mr. Strange followed suit. They touched cups with a musical ring. Then the three men settled down and devoted all their attention to the television screen.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Interlude - Whom Love Destroys - Garth/Kirk Slash Fiction
Due to family issues I still haven't been in the mood to do any writing, so I thought I'd share some of my fan fiction. I wrote this many years ago - its up at Fanfiction.net.
Whom Love Destroys
Another note: The entire episode isn't reproduced here. Just selected scenes with a new slant. Depending on the reaction, if any, I'll expand it into a full episode. Vox populi.
[No one at FanFiction.net wanted it expanded.... ; ( ]
Part I – Queen to Queen's Level Three
The U.S.S. Enterprise entered orbit around the prison planet Elba II.
"Captain's log, stardate 5718.3. The Enterprise is orbiting Elba II, a planet with a poisonous atmosphere where the Federation maintains an asylum for the few remaining incorrigible criminally insane in the galaxy. We are bringing a revolutionary new medicine to them. A medicine with which the Federation hopes to eliminate mental illness for all time. I am transporting down with Mr. Spock, and we are delivering the medicine to Dr. Donald Korry, the governor of the colony."
Captain James T. Kirk pressed a button to turn off the recorder. He then gazed at the green, noxious looking planet on the viewing screen. To think…to think…that Garth of Izar was trapped down there, incurably insane…
Mr. Spock was completing a few duties at his station. Uhuru had just finished transmitting their arrival message to the facility's governor, Dr. Korrie, and they'd received permission to beam down. Now, she'd be sending an announcement of their arrival to Star Fleet command, then continue monitoring subspace communication in the area.
Sulu and Checkov sat at their consoles, relaxing after bringing the ship into proper orbit. They were also gazing up at the projection. Kirk wondered what they were thinking about. For himself, he always got a cold grue whenever he had to perform one of these missions. Prison planets for the incurably insane…insanity…how horrible that must be… and to have happened to Garth of Izar…a man he'd admired for decades…a man whose life he'd patterned his own after…it was inconceivable.
He shivered a little.
His command chair beeped. Kirk glanced down at the pad, then hit a button. "What is it, Bones?"
"I've finished work on the vials. If you're ready to go, I'll bring them down to the transporter."
"Very good, Bones. Scotty's already there, waiting to beam us down."
"Mr. Sulu, you have the con," said Kirk, as he and Spock headed for the elevator. "Scotty will be up here as soon as we've beamed down."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Just as they were about to enter the transporter room, McCoy arrived, and the three men walked in together.
"Here you go, Jim," Bones drawled tiredly, handing him a small container which held two vials. "Took me the whole danged trip, but I got what I needed."
Kirk accepted the vials, and passed them over to Spock. He looked at the doctor critically. McCoy had spent most of the journey attempting to synthesize some more of the drug for his own purposes. The Federation had only given them two vials, and McCoy had wanted to do some experiments of his own.
"You look out on your feet, Bones," Kirk said.
The doctor nodded. "Think I'll grab a couple of hours sleep. If you two think you can get along down there without me."
The Vulcan raised an eyebrow and was about to say something, when Kirk forestalled him with a grin. "We'll try to struggle along, Doctor."
"I'd like to be present when they administer it to a subject."
A subject? Thought Kirk. Garth of Izar – the most famous starship captain the Federation had ever had? Well, but that was how Bones looked at things. Coldly, clearly and analytically, when it came to patients and medicine.
"We'll talk with Korry, see what his schedule is. I know he's anxious to put this experimental drug to work as quickly as possible, but there'll be plenty of work for you down there, I'm sure."
McCoy nodded.
Kirk turned to Scotty. "Okay, Scotty. Let's use a chess password this time."
It was McCoy's turn to raise an eyebrow. "A Chess password?"
"Standard procedure, Doctor," commented Spock. "Whenever a starship approaches a prison planet, or one in the throes of martial conflict, and crewmembers beam down to the surface, a password system is utilized, to prevent unauthorized personnel from gaining access to the ship by hiding behind the landing party."
McCoy pursed his lips. "Sounds like a good plan."
"The sign will be "Queen to Queen's Level Three," said Kirk. And the countersign, "Queen to King's Level One"
Scotty nodded. "Very good, sir."
"You should do that all the time, though." McCoy said musingly. "Who knows when some martial conflict might not break out on a previously peaceful planet, as we have good cause to know."
"Suggestion noted, Doctor," Kirk said with a grin.
Kirk and Spock stepped onto the transporter pads. McCoy waited to see them dematerialize, then he and Scotty walked out of the transporter room. Scotty continued on to the bridge, McCoy to his quarters, where he slipped into bed without bothering to shuck his uniform.
Part II – The Passion
Kirk lay on the not-uncomfortable bed in a fetal position. One part of him disliked appearing so vulnerable, but he was in so much pain that appearances could no longer be considered. That chair…that torture chair…had done its work well.
But this pain was no more than he'd deserved. He'd let Dr. Kory suffer through that chair for minutes…he could do no less.
He forced himself to breathe through gritted teeth. Don't fight the pain, go with it…let it flow….let it dissipate…
Jesus…
Suddenly, he felt gentle hands on his shoulders…a cool hand caressing his face. He forced his eyes open and saw the Orion girl, Marta, seated beside him, her dark eyes liquid with concern.
"You're in so much pain," she whispered.
There was a different note in her voice…it sounded low and concerned…and sane.
"Just a bit," he gritted.
The girl laughed. A low, tinkling, understanding laugh. "Always the stoic captain," she whispered. "But in the privacy of your own room, you can let go…seek some comfort…"
She bent down, and brushed her lips over his hot face.
Cold, soothing lips… and her hands, cool…making the pain go away.
Kirk began to return her kiss…
Incredibly, the pain was dissipating…evaporating…as he lost himself in her kiss and her embrace.
He was able to move again, and seemingly of their own volition his hands moved to embrace her, feeling her cool flesh. He had never felt like this before, with any woman he'd ever been with… it was incredible… how could this poor insane girl make him feel so alive…he couldn't…he musn't….she was making the pain go away…he reached upward to slip off the straps of her dress…
Garth of Izar had not intended to kiss Kirk at all. He had assumed the shape of Marta and had intended to help Kirk escape, bring him to the command chamber, and have him give the countersign that would enable him to get off this hell-hole and out into the galaxy where he belonged.
But he had felt strangely touched, when he'd entered the room to find Kirk in a fetal position. He'd watched, unmoved, when he'd been inflicting the torture on this man, in that chair, but now here was the aftermath.
He'd moved across the floor as lightly and gracefully as a dancer, sat down next to Kirk, placed his hands very gently on those arms…and felt the musculature beneath the shirt. Kirk kept himself in shape. And he was burning up.
Garth's mind was a welter of colors, and sounds, and shape. All together it was a cacophony, a kaleidoscope, that no one but he could hear or see..he had to make it stop. He focused his mind, brought it to bear very gently on Kirk's, as he rubbed his hands softly over the man's shoulders and chest.
He felt Kirk's body relax as the pain went away, he felt Kirk's desire for this woman's body…he leaned down and kissed him on the lips…
And felt…pleasure…Kirk was embracing him, gently, comfortingly also, and kissing him, for a few seconds the colors, the sounds, the shapes, they seemed to fade away…
And for a second his concentration slipped…
Kirk's eyes widened as he realized he was kissing not Marta but rather Garth of Izar. For a few seconds he continued on, lost in the pleasure of it, but the sheer shock of seeing the psychotic Garth just a few inches away was too much.
Shock..anger…even fear…
The impulses lashed over Garth, and the tender emotions of a second ago were washed away as if they had never been.
He got up, grinned at Kirk…his monomaniacal, charismatic grin, and then he walked jauntily from the room.
Behind him…even as the pain returned, Kirk was thinking of the pleasure he'd gotten out of that embrace.
Part II – The Shapeshifter
Kirk and Spock sat in the recreation room, sharing a cup of coffee as the Enterprise headed for its next destination at Warp speed.
"You have sent your report to Star Fleet, captain?" asked Spock, musingly.
"Not yet. I'll be writing it up later this afternoon."
"And I expect Dr. Cory will be submitting his own report."
"I expect so. What are you getting at, Spock?"
"I am concerned for Captain Garth's safety, sir."
Kirk leaned forward. "What do you mean?"
"Captain Garth can assume the shape of any person he wishes, at any time. He could assume the shape of the President of the Federation, or of any ruling body."
"Yes, and that had been his plan, eh. But with that new drug…he's sane now…"
"What is sanity, Captain?"
"Well…"
"In any event…the question is not whether we think he is sane, or even whether the Federation does. The question is…will they fear his power?"
"His shape-shifting abilities, you mean? Well, frankly, I don't think there's a problem. There are retina scans, thumb prints, voice matches. Garth may be able to assume their form, but those minute little details…they'd trip him up…"
"Garth is not a shape-shifter."
Kirk stared at him. "Explain."
"A shape-shifter would be someone who can shift his shape into any design he wishes, granted. But Garth did more than that. His clothing changed as well. I think it is rather obvious that he does not shift his own shape. He controls other people's minds, so that they see what he wants them to see. Perhaps he does it unconsciously, perhaps it is an adjunct to the shape shifting, but the fact remains that he must be able to control people's minds."
"I see," murmured Kirk.
Spock nodded. "Now that he is no longer… raving mad…he may be able to consider his abilities in a sane light. If he realizes the extent of his powers…who knows what he might do? If he can refine that power…"
Kirk sipped his coffee. He was remembering, back in that cell, how Garth had made his pain go away. At the time he'd just thought…the power of a woman's touch…and then, just the power of Garth's touch….but now…
Garth…he thought. I want to be in your arms again…
Kirk finished his coffee. "Point noted, Mr. Spock. I'd better go write that report."
Whom Love Destroys
Another note: The entire episode isn't reproduced here. Just selected scenes with a new slant. Depending on the reaction, if any, I'll expand it into a full episode. Vox populi.
[No one at FanFiction.net wanted it expanded.... ; ( ]
Part I – Queen to Queen's Level Three
The U.S.S. Enterprise entered orbit around the prison planet Elba II.
"Captain's log, stardate 5718.3. The Enterprise is orbiting Elba II, a planet with a poisonous atmosphere where the Federation maintains an asylum for the few remaining incorrigible criminally insane in the galaxy. We are bringing a revolutionary new medicine to them. A medicine with which the Federation hopes to eliminate mental illness for all time. I am transporting down with Mr. Spock, and we are delivering the medicine to Dr. Donald Korry, the governor of the colony."
Captain James T. Kirk pressed a button to turn off the recorder. He then gazed at the green, noxious looking planet on the viewing screen. To think…to think…that Garth of Izar was trapped down there, incurably insane…
Mr. Spock was completing a few duties at his station. Uhuru had just finished transmitting their arrival message to the facility's governor, Dr. Korrie, and they'd received permission to beam down. Now, she'd be sending an announcement of their arrival to Star Fleet command, then continue monitoring subspace communication in the area.
Sulu and Checkov sat at their consoles, relaxing after bringing the ship into proper orbit. They were also gazing up at the projection. Kirk wondered what they were thinking about. For himself, he always got a cold grue whenever he had to perform one of these missions. Prison planets for the incurably insane…insanity…how horrible that must be… and to have happened to Garth of Izar…a man he'd admired for decades…a man whose life he'd patterned his own after…it was inconceivable.
He shivered a little.
His command chair beeped. Kirk glanced down at the pad, then hit a button. "What is it, Bones?"
"I've finished work on the vials. If you're ready to go, I'll bring them down to the transporter."
"Very good, Bones. Scotty's already there, waiting to beam us down."
"Mr. Sulu, you have the con," said Kirk, as he and Spock headed for the elevator. "Scotty will be up here as soon as we've beamed down."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Just as they were about to enter the transporter room, McCoy arrived, and the three men walked in together.
"Here you go, Jim," Bones drawled tiredly, handing him a small container which held two vials. "Took me the whole danged trip, but I got what I needed."
Kirk accepted the vials, and passed them over to Spock. He looked at the doctor critically. McCoy had spent most of the journey attempting to synthesize some more of the drug for his own purposes. The Federation had only given them two vials, and McCoy had wanted to do some experiments of his own.
"You look out on your feet, Bones," Kirk said.
The doctor nodded. "Think I'll grab a couple of hours sleep. If you two think you can get along down there without me."
The Vulcan raised an eyebrow and was about to say something, when Kirk forestalled him with a grin. "We'll try to struggle along, Doctor."
"I'd like to be present when they administer it to a subject."
A subject? Thought Kirk. Garth of Izar – the most famous starship captain the Federation had ever had? Well, but that was how Bones looked at things. Coldly, clearly and analytically, when it came to patients and medicine.
"We'll talk with Korry, see what his schedule is. I know he's anxious to put this experimental drug to work as quickly as possible, but there'll be plenty of work for you down there, I'm sure."
McCoy nodded.
Kirk turned to Scotty. "Okay, Scotty. Let's use a chess password this time."
It was McCoy's turn to raise an eyebrow. "A Chess password?"
"Standard procedure, Doctor," commented Spock. "Whenever a starship approaches a prison planet, or one in the throes of martial conflict, and crewmembers beam down to the surface, a password system is utilized, to prevent unauthorized personnel from gaining access to the ship by hiding behind the landing party."
McCoy pursed his lips. "Sounds like a good plan."
"The sign will be "Queen to Queen's Level Three," said Kirk. And the countersign, "Queen to King's Level One"
Scotty nodded. "Very good, sir."
"You should do that all the time, though." McCoy said musingly. "Who knows when some martial conflict might not break out on a previously peaceful planet, as we have good cause to know."
"Suggestion noted, Doctor," Kirk said with a grin.
Kirk and Spock stepped onto the transporter pads. McCoy waited to see them dematerialize, then he and Scotty walked out of the transporter room. Scotty continued on to the bridge, McCoy to his quarters, where he slipped into bed without bothering to shuck his uniform.
Part II – The Passion
Kirk lay on the not-uncomfortable bed in a fetal position. One part of him disliked appearing so vulnerable, but he was in so much pain that appearances could no longer be considered. That chair…that torture chair…had done its work well.
But this pain was no more than he'd deserved. He'd let Dr. Kory suffer through that chair for minutes…he could do no less.
He forced himself to breathe through gritted teeth. Don't fight the pain, go with it…let it flow….let it dissipate…
Jesus…
Suddenly, he felt gentle hands on his shoulders…a cool hand caressing his face. He forced his eyes open and saw the Orion girl, Marta, seated beside him, her dark eyes liquid with concern.
"You're in so much pain," she whispered.
There was a different note in her voice…it sounded low and concerned…and sane.
"Just a bit," he gritted.
The girl laughed. A low, tinkling, understanding laugh. "Always the stoic captain," she whispered. "But in the privacy of your own room, you can let go…seek some comfort…"
She bent down, and brushed her lips over his hot face.
Cold, soothing lips… and her hands, cool…making the pain go away.
Kirk began to return her kiss…
Incredibly, the pain was dissipating…evaporating…as he lost himself in her kiss and her embrace.
He was able to move again, and seemingly of their own volition his hands moved to embrace her, feeling her cool flesh. He had never felt like this before, with any woman he'd ever been with… it was incredible… how could this poor insane girl make him feel so alive…he couldn't…he musn't….she was making the pain go away…he reached upward to slip off the straps of her dress…
Garth of Izar had not intended to kiss Kirk at all. He had assumed the shape of Marta and had intended to help Kirk escape, bring him to the command chamber, and have him give the countersign that would enable him to get off this hell-hole and out into the galaxy where he belonged.
But he had felt strangely touched, when he'd entered the room to find Kirk in a fetal position. He'd watched, unmoved, when he'd been inflicting the torture on this man, in that chair, but now here was the aftermath.
He'd moved across the floor as lightly and gracefully as a dancer, sat down next to Kirk, placed his hands very gently on those arms…and felt the musculature beneath the shirt. Kirk kept himself in shape. And he was burning up.
Garth's mind was a welter of colors, and sounds, and shape. All together it was a cacophony, a kaleidoscope, that no one but he could hear or see..he had to make it stop. He focused his mind, brought it to bear very gently on Kirk's, as he rubbed his hands softly over the man's shoulders and chest.
He felt Kirk's body relax as the pain went away, he felt Kirk's desire for this woman's body…he leaned down and kissed him on the lips…
And felt…pleasure…Kirk was embracing him, gently, comfortingly also, and kissing him, for a few seconds the colors, the sounds, the shapes, they seemed to fade away…
And for a second his concentration slipped…
Kirk's eyes widened as he realized he was kissing not Marta but rather Garth of Izar. For a few seconds he continued on, lost in the pleasure of it, but the sheer shock of seeing the psychotic Garth just a few inches away was too much.
Shock..anger…even fear…
The impulses lashed over Garth, and the tender emotions of a second ago were washed away as if they had never been.
He got up, grinned at Kirk…his monomaniacal, charismatic grin, and then he walked jauntily from the room.
Behind him…even as the pain returned, Kirk was thinking of the pleasure he'd gotten out of that embrace.
Part II – The Shapeshifter
Kirk and Spock sat in the recreation room, sharing a cup of coffee as the Enterprise headed for its next destination at Warp speed.
"You have sent your report to Star Fleet, captain?" asked Spock, musingly.
"Not yet. I'll be writing it up later this afternoon."
"And I expect Dr. Cory will be submitting his own report."
"I expect so. What are you getting at, Spock?"
"I am concerned for Captain Garth's safety, sir."
Kirk leaned forward. "What do you mean?"
"Captain Garth can assume the shape of any person he wishes, at any time. He could assume the shape of the President of the Federation, or of any ruling body."
"Yes, and that had been his plan, eh. But with that new drug…he's sane now…"
"What is sanity, Captain?"
"Well…"
"In any event…the question is not whether we think he is sane, or even whether the Federation does. The question is…will they fear his power?"
"His shape-shifting abilities, you mean? Well, frankly, I don't think there's a problem. There are retina scans, thumb prints, voice matches. Garth may be able to assume their form, but those minute little details…they'd trip him up…"
"Garth is not a shape-shifter."
Kirk stared at him. "Explain."
"A shape-shifter would be someone who can shift his shape into any design he wishes, granted. But Garth did more than that. His clothing changed as well. I think it is rather obvious that he does not shift his own shape. He controls other people's minds, so that they see what he wants them to see. Perhaps he does it unconsciously, perhaps it is an adjunct to the shape shifting, but the fact remains that he must be able to control people's minds."
"I see," murmured Kirk.
Spock nodded. "Now that he is no longer… raving mad…he may be able to consider his abilities in a sane light. If he realizes the extent of his powers…who knows what he might do? If he can refine that power…"
Kirk sipped his coffee. He was remembering, back in that cell, how Garth had made his pain go away. At the time he'd just thought…the power of a woman's touch…and then, just the power of Garth's touch….but now…
Garth…he thought. I want to be in your arms again…
Kirk finished his coffee. "Point noted, Mr. Spock. I'd better go write that report."
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Story resumes Monday
Sorry for the extra two delays with this story - family emergency! Pleae expect next chapter on Monday.
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