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Chapter Nineteen - Hargrove's Magical Mystery Mayham

"If you hear an alarm during your visit...."  NRCan Safety Manual

“You rebel scum,” the first Trotsov intoned, a gloating smile flickering across her meaty (and hairy) lips.

Hargrove’s mind raced.  Faced with a lucky number of Trotsov’s, each toting a neutrino accelerator of alien manufacture, his party’s continued life expectancy seemed somewhat tenuous.  Still, there was a way out.  There HAD to be.  If only he could find it.  As Trotsov 1 raised her pricemarker-like weapon he squeezed every erg of brainpower he could pull together into solving the problem.

Don’t look at me.  You’re on your own this time.  Grumbling darkly about union breaks and vacations, his subconscious slammed a metaphysical door on his face and that particular subplot.

“NOT-“ shouted Trundle, leaping in front of the gun.  “-the girl,” he finished more sedately when the Russian woman (genetically speaking) raised the cylinder safely into the air.  Hargrove’s hand twitched, but there were six other high-energy beam weapons aimed carefully; one for each of their group.  The leader’s was merely a spare.

“Of course not the girl, you idiot,” retorted Trotsov as the Englishman moved to her side.  She licked her lips appreciatively, copied immediately by her duplicates.  Behind him, Hargrove heard Frieda begin to violently gag.

“Edmond!”  Paulina cried.  “What is this?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” inquired Hargrove, disgust seeping into his voice.  “Treachery.  What do you expect in a capitalist organization, where the members are brought together by a common love - money?”

“Too right, Hargrove old boy.”  The Englishman smiled dazzlingly.  “The other side DOES pay well, eh Trots?”  The android gave him a sour look at the diminutive.  “As long as I was in charge, we always knew where and when you planned your actions.  Who do you think gave away the Iga?  Lloyd?  Hardly.”          

[Thud]

"Frieda, step away from the others,” the massive Russian growled.

[Thud]

“Never!” the brave woman shrieked, leaping to clasp her arms around Hargrove’s neck.  His vision immediately went spotty as the flow of blood to his brain ceased.

[Thud] [Thud]

“What the devil?”  Trundle stared around just in time to catch sight of the fourth android falling unconscious to the ground. 

“CLONED FROM HUMAN TISSUE; STILL SADLY VULNERABLE TO THE BLACK BREATH.”  The voice of the Nazgul, filled with unearthly satisfaction and pure, distilled vitriol, was a terrible thing to endure.

Then it was four against five.

Neutrino Accelerators split the air with their cerulean beams; the infiltrators dove for cover, returning fire with their of mismatched weapons.  Sergei was both too slow and unlucky; he hung on the end of a ray like a pinned butterfly before dissolving into his component atoms.  Hargrove swung the G-11 AAR from his back and fired it one handed, pouring a stream of caseless rounds at his enemies as he rolled along the ground; the other was busy holding Frieda.  Paulina emptied her skorpion machine pistol into an cloned android; the alien servant jerked and bucked, the small caliber rounds having little effect beyond spoiling her aim.  Frieda, despite her giggles, managed to slam an APDSFSDPU round from her derringer between the eyes of a second android; Hargrove had a flash of Deja Vu as it collapsed.  His own bullets were having a deadly effect on the speaker; her weapon flew from a shattered hand as he corrected his aim.  Paulina’s machine pistol ran dry, and her target regained her balance just as the figure of the Nazgul, somehow unfolding from the shadows to its full height.  Hargrove could make out the flashes of her sidearm illuminating the area like a strobe, but nothing penetrated that inky cloak.  “NO FACEPAINT, WRONG WEAPON; I’M NOT TERRIBLY CONCERNED.”  The massive mace rose.

And fell.

Hargrove, his weapon finally drying out after a full ten seconds of sustained fire, sighed with relief as Trotsov 1, with nearly a hundred neat 4.7mm holes through her body, slowly dropped to one knee, then crumpled onto her face.  Next time, the Barrett, he promised himself.  I should have taken boom over peka peka peka..  “Where’s Trundle?”

Paulina pointed at the fleeing figure, now halfway to the Embassy rear entrance. 

Hargrove began to fumble with his ammunition pouch.  “You see Frieda?  That man is no friend of our cause!  I knew it all along!” he crowed triumphantly and inaccurately.

“Forgive me, my love!”  Frieda clasped his hands in an iron grip, frustrating his attempts to reload.  “I observed him debating the merits of adding yak gristle to german sausage with a suspected member of TICKS at a fast food convention in Munich last year!  There was no way to warn you without alerting him; besides, all I had were my suspicions.  I felt by staying close I might be able to confirm his involvement, one way or another.”  She released his hands and Hargrove continued more slowly, staring sadly at Trundle’s fundament vanishing through the massive doors. 

“Yes, well, no harm done.”  The Nazgul let out what would probably be a snicker from any other being, but sounded like cheerful hobbits being fed into a meat grinder.

“What the hell were you talking about, street mimes?”  Paulina asked it.

“OH, THAT.  BACK IN THE OLD DAYS, AFTER NUMENOR WAS DESTROYED, SAURON TOOK US OUT FOR CHINESE TO CELEBRATE.  WHEN WE WERE ALL STUFFED ON BAD EGG ROLLS AND GUY DING, THEY SENT AROUND THOSE LITTLE COOKIES.  EACH ONE TURNED OUT TO HAVE A PROPHECY ON IT - NUMBER ONE HAD THE BEST - ‘NO WEAPON HELD BY LIVING MAN WILL HARM YOU’.  I GOT ‘DUDE - WATCH OUT FOR CHAINSAW WAVING MIMES’.  EVERYONE LAUGHED.”  The terrible satisfaction crept back into its crushing tones.  “AFTER NUMBER ONE GOT THE AXE, EVERYONE ELSE WAS WISHING THEIRS WERE AS SPECIFIC AS MINE.”

Hargrove shook his head.  “Interesting, but not terribly helpful.  We still need to get close enough to fire a non-existent grenade through the ventilation hatch.”  His ribs were acting up again.  Mentally, the detective added it to the list of Things Gone Wrong With the Mission.  It was becoming quite impressive.

“My love, without a launcher, what will we do?  We have no weapons which could cause enough damage from out here.”

Hargrove peered ahead.  “Then we’ll just have to go in and tear it apart from the inside.”

“That won’t be easy,” Paulina protested.  “They’re expecting us.”

“No,” began Frieda slowly, “they’re attacking us!”

The rear doors of the embassy burst open, disgorging a horde of armed androids.  Trotsov, Santiago, Serapion time ten;  all cheerfully blasting away with their alien beam weapons.  The intrepid group, lead by their fearless leader, hit the ground, once again rolling for cover.  All except the Nazgul.

“GO.  FIND THE ENEMY WITHIN AND DESTROY THEM.  I MUST ATONE FOR MY EVIL.”  It strode forward, particle beams, plasma bolts and neutrino emissions cutting into the black clothing; each blast caused it to jerk, but It broke into a run, the massive mace coming to bear, implacable as an avalanche of sharp edged obsidian.  I MUST TO ATONE, It thought, and sniggered again.  GOOD ONE.  It was looking forward to a bit of uninterrupted mayham; no flaming mountains, no spirits-turned-wizards, no bloody sickening elven princes or lost heirs with magic blades, and best of all, no white-faced morons pretending to be trapped in an invisible box.  With a last surge of speed It hit the clones like a bomb, hurtling broken bodies in every direction. 

Hargrove gaped at the brave creature’s sacrifice.  “It must not be in vain!” he roared, sprinting to circle the vicious melee.  Paulina followed, discarding her skorpion in favor of a neutrino accelerator; Frieda struggled to keep up as she affixed a 24" barrel extension to her derringer.  A last clone burst through the door ahead; Hargrove brought him down with a long burst from the G-11.  Serapion, he thought with grim satisfaction, nudging the body with his foot..  Your crimes against philosophy and my eardrums end here.  He glanced through the entry, then rolled inside, Frieda slapping a stock on the derringer and covering him.

            *            *

Ninja^TM Fred watched as the massive dark figure tore through the enemy like ice cream through a lactose intolerant child.  He shook his head.  Idiots.  Who needed a rabid fox when you had gaijin?  Didn’t they realise THEY were the diversion?  He hoped not; it would, after all, spoil the point behind deceiving them.

“<Strange, Exploding Dog,>“ one of his clanmembers remarked to him, scanning the area with infrared binoculars, “<I do not see the small one, or the engineer.>” There were muffled giggles from behind many a black mask.  For the thousandth time, Fred silently cursed the master for giving him his clan name while on the Suntory Scotch bender. 

“<It is unimportant,>” he replied, his voice rising.  “<We go!> Ikuze!” he shouted, leaping to his feet and raising a fist.  The other Ninja^TM raised eyebrows.  Fred felt his face grow hot.  “<Sorry,>” he whispered.  “<Just go.>”

They moved out, silently except for the occasional dissatisfied mutter: “<Fanboy’s gonna get us killed one of these days>.”  “Baka Otaku.”

*          *

The Nazgul was in its element, if bright fans of blood, showers of bone chips, and flying hearts torn from their bodies through the blackest of magicks (the ‘tough’ kind, with a ‘k’) could be considered an element.  “COME ON!” It thundered, shattering another skull, and burying the mace deep into the cloned Spaniard’s torso[1].  The incessant strikes from the scientific weapons were debilitating and agonizing, but hardly lethal; they but fed its rage.  Throwing back Its hood It howled a terrifying wail into the night sky.  A Santiago crumpled, and two Serapions turned and fled.  “IS THERE NOT A SINGLE ONE HERE WHO MAY PUT UP A DECENT BATTLE?   BY MORGOTH’S HAIRY CHEEKS, ARE THERE NO HEROES LEFT?  WHERE ARE THE HOBBITS?  GIVE ME BAGGINS!”  The ever-popular ‘Desert Curse’ Black Channel took care of the next two as their blood boiled in their veins, and a ‘Triad Nether Bolt’ smote the last Trotskov cleanly in her massive chest three times, tearing her body asunder and leaving only her boots smouldering wetly on the turf[2] .  The Ringwraith stood stock still for an instant, the sweet pain of Its wounds slowly seeping through Its twisted mind, then became aware of a new sound, filling the aftermath silence.  A pattering of dozens of stockinged feet.

[Deep within the mighty fortress, the commands went out.  The perimeter has been breached.  Unleash the Special Forces.]

The roaring of many small two-stroke engines brought the Nazgul’s hood up in a jerk. “OH BUGGER,” the shadowed soul had time to whimper before the mob of otherwise eerily silent black and white figures swarmed over It, waving their howling weapons.

            *            *            *

Frieda’s derringer hammered on full auto, exhausting the add-on clip; the muzzle break and recoil dampeners kept the laser dot right on target throughout the burst, dropping the latest Trotsov to the ground.  “And then some,” the beautiful agent muttered, fishing out a spare clip.  She’d run out of APFSDSDPU ammo a while back, and had downgraded to HEAT rounds.

“And not a moment too early,” exclaimed Hargrove, standing before a door marked ‘ladies’.  “For this, no doubt, is the bathroom we seek!”  Dramatically, he flung open the portal.  Paulina, leaping in with Accelerator deployed, let out a shout.

“Hargrove!  You imbecile!  This is a change room!”

Hargrove scratched the back of his head and searched for inspiration.  None came.  “Ah-heh.  Well then.  I propose....”  He giggled nervously.  Frieda awaited, and Paulina cocked her hip, a look of disgust forming.  “You know,” Hargrove began desperately, “I’m beginning to wonder about MacGuinness and Paddy.  If they had have showed up with the grenade launcher, we wouldn’t be in this fix.  First Trundle.... Who can we trust?”  When in doubt, he rationalized, shift the blame.

Paulina, her look of disbelief deepening, suddenly leaped into the air, shrieking angrily.  Frieda’s laser sight searched hungrily for a victim.   The little red dot settled on the forehead of O’Lan, standing behind the resistance warrior, a sheepish look plastered across his face.  “Sorry.  A bit o’the drink, and I lose all of me self - control.”

“Paddy!” exclaimed Hargrove.  “You....we....I....”

“Save it,” grunted the midget spy.  “I heard it all.  D’ye think I’d go traitor on ye?  I’ve a bit more honor than that.  I think me ma would be a bit perturbed if my gravestone read: “Paddy O’Lan: Turncoat.”

“We would never think such a thing,” Frieda assured him.  Hargrove whistled and twisted his toe on the ground.  “But where is your comrade in arms?”

C                                             *            *

Another mime fell, but there were always more, and their gas powered razor chains bit deeply.  The Nazgul groaned; Its strength was fading.  Soon It would be drawn fully into the world of shadows, never to return.  DAMN.  IF ONLY I COULD...PUT...ON...MY...RING.... NEWTON....MY BOW....  Like a falling tree It crumpled, pinning a devilish mummer beneath and draining away its life.  But there were more.  There were always more.  It watched, fatalistically, as a saw began its final decent towards Its hood.  OH WELL.  AT LEAST I GOT A SPEAKING PART THIS TIME.

A wrench pulverized the back of the mime’s head.  “Ye unwashed pile o’street mongrel’s maggots!” MacGuinness, with short, vicious swings of his tool of destruction, cleared a small area of space around the fallen lieutenant of darkness.  The mimes drew back in disarray, then parted to reveal one of their own, slowly walking against the wind towards the fearsome Scotsman.  As the drunken engineer charged, the mime opened his mouth wide, put his hands against his cheeks in surprise, and spun into a vicious high kick, shattering the carbon steel head of the wrench with a single blow.  MacGuinness staggered away, narrowly missing having his skull suffer a similar fate.  Tae Kwon Do!  The trump of all martial arts!  He desperately avoided a flurry of powerful snappy kicks, realizing that without his weapon, even his mastery of the Scottish art of Fu’kyew would provide no assistance against this most deadly foe.

“HERE.”  The monolithic mace settled into the Scotsman’s hand as if molded for his grip alone.  An malefic energy filled his body;  a bloodthirsty grin spread across his puffy lips.  This....this was the ULTIMATE wrench.

Ten seconds later it was over.

The engineer dropped to his knees beside the mangled cloaked figure of nightmares.  “Get oop.  We’re leavin’.”

“NO,” whispered the Ringwraith.  “I WANT YOU TO TAKE OFF THIS MASK.”

“But ye’ll die then,” whispered the engineer.

"IT IS...TOO LATE FOR THAT, NOW.”

MacGuinness wrestled with the hood briefly. 

“I can’t get the bloody thing off.  Besides, I’m not leavin’ ye,” urged the engineer.  “I came t’save ye.”

“YOU ALREADY HAVE.”  Something inside the hood seemed to curl into a smile.  “YOU WERE RIGHT ABOUT ME.  TELL YOUR SISTER, YOU WERE RIGHT.”

Time seemed to stand still.  MacGuinness picked his nose thoughtfully and stared down into the hood.  “What the bloody hell are we talkin’ aboot?”

“I HAVE NO IDEA.”  The massive form placed a gauntleted hand on the scotsman’s shoulder.  Surprisingly light, it easily lifted itself to its feet.  “I’M NOT REALLY THAT BADLY OFF.  I OWE YOU MY THANKS, CRUDE ONE.  WE COULD HAVE USED YOU WHEN GIL-GALAD AND ELENDIL CAME CALLING.”

“Me pleasure, tearin’ apart this city filth.”  The engineer, fulfilling a bizarre Scottish oath sworn in childhood, spat on the corpse of each mime in turn.  “Maybe ye’d let me keep this for a moment or two longer?”

In reply the Nazgul drew a cold, dark slice of the night sky from its cloak.  The blade seemed to drink the light, drawing one’s eyes in, further, hypnotizing the prey, rendering it helpless before the icy bite of the-

“STOP THAT.”  A black gloved hand slapped the dagger; abashed, it returned to normal steel.  Though it did flicker balefully at the Scot when its wielder wasn’t looking.

MacGuinness and the Nazgul sprinted into the embassy, making sure to stomp on as many corpses of mimes as possible.

                *                *                *

“Do you know where the bathroom is, Paddy,” inquired Hargrove hastily. 

“It’s hardly the time, my love,” put in Frieda rather tartly.

“The bathroom is not th’problem, lad.  We don’t need to blow the bloody bathroom up if we can just get to the exact laboratory now.  We’re in the building, friends!”

The other three considered this.  Somehow the thought had never occurred to any of them.

“All right,” continued the Marxist detective gamely.  “Where’s the room in question?”

“Well, twasn’t hard finding the Embassy after we got off the train one stop late.  I snuck in through the air conditioning ducts - they were too small of MacGuinness.  I’ve been standing here waiting for you for the last twenty minutes, near.”  The midget waved the golf ball sized aperture of his grenade launcher at the steel door across the hallway from the ladies change room.  It was marked heavily with biohazard stickers, radiation symbols, arcane runes, and a set of ‘icicle’ Christmas lights someone had evidently forgotten to take down.  Dear god, I detest that, Hargrove thought, staring at the ugly display of misplaced quasi-religious fervor.

“The problem is, I don’t have a key to the bloody lock.  I could use the MM-1, but confined space explosions are bad for me health.”

“Frieda!” snapped Hargrove, the dreadful symbols of the capitalist holiday having renewed his devotion to the socialist cause.  The beautiful cyborg turned to the door, hammering shell after shell on automatic from her augmented derringer.  The door rang like a bell under the impact of multiple shaped charge rounds.  Dents appearing, then full fledged craters.   Everyone covered their ears against the noise; Frieda, unable to do so, gritted her teeth and peeled her bee-stung lips back in a savage snarl.

The door, vibrating like a coke addict with the runs, its structural integrity fatally compromised, literally tore itself apart; there one moment, gone in a flurry of metal shards and dust an instant later.  Hargrove stared in awe at the devastation.   Where in the name of the Marx’s sacred jockeys was she hiding all of that? he wondered.  His hands itched to find out.  Frieda carefully reloaded her hotshotted derringer with her final clip - Hargrove made out the symbols on the side of the clip and swallowed deeply.  Microjet heatseekers.  Evidently she’d been saving up for a rainy day.  Well, if my love is pulling out the big guns...  He dropped the G-11, drawing his trusted Webley as his eyes attempted to peer through the smoke.  A frisson traveled down his back; instinctively he ducked, and the twisted mace smashed in the steel panel of the wall beside him.  MacGuinness had the good sense to at least look abashed. 

“Sorry, ye vile hunk o’snail excrement. I could nae help me reflexes - they wanted a piece of yer pansy arse.”  He paused and reflected on his words as the entire group studied him with wide eyes.  “Well, not like that.  Ye ken what I means, dammit!” 

Screams and shouts in the distance, along with faint, unearthly laughter, bespoke of the Ringwraith’s continued job satisfaction.

“Silence,” admonished Paddy as everyone began to chuckle nervously.  “Inside is the dreaded headquarters of TICKS.  Finally, after all of our cross-dimensionally hopping, and the regrettable demise of the HMS Hoobe-Entwhistle, our goal stands in sight.”  He raised the MM-1 revolving grenade launcher.  “Prepare yourself.”

They tried.  Oh, they tried.  But nothing, no Special Forces training, no devotion to the Socialist cause, no iron will, no alcohol induced haze could prepare them for the sight which greeted them.  Transfixed, they could only stand and stare in disbelief as the smoke cleared leaving the room before them opened to their vision.

Someone found the strength to whisper.  “It’s.....”

On to Chapter 20 (Version 1)