| Hargrove
the Marxist Detective and the Adventure of the HMS Hoobe-Entwhistle |
|
| Back to
Hargrove
|
"We do onstage the things that are
supposed to happen off. Which
is a kind of integrity if you look on every exit as an entrance, somewhere
else." - Tom Stoppard “It’s…” Paddy O’Lan turned red and
sputtered. “It’s…what the hell is that abomination?”
He crossed himself quickly, and stared in mute shock with the rest
of them. There was no machinery.
There were no wires leading to vessels or consoles, no cryogenic
storage tanks, test tubes, lab coats, white gloves, stainless steel
tables, mice in cages, or wispy trails of bubbling acids; in fact, no
recognizable cloning paraphernalia at all.
The atrocity in the center of the room WAS the lab, in a horribly
alien way. It was alive. That
much was evident in the heaving of the great fleshy mounds – rhythmic
muscular heaving. It was alive; but it wasn’t human. A shriveled, useless head topped the thing, and it
became evident after a while that it was reclining; the orifice at the top
was feeding from a trough designed for that very purpose, and an orifice
at the bottom…that orifice was slowly depositing a slime encrusted,
fully grown Trotsov. There was a dull smack as the clone dropped the final
few inches to the floor, and then a pause; with a twitch, the Trotsov
clone gasped, moaned, and dragged it’s way over to join a group of fresh
Trotsovs’ in the corner. “My God” Frieda exhaled.
“It’s beautiful!” They gaped at her.
“It’s what?!” Hargrove hissed, nervously. “Beautiful.” She repeated, firmly. “The miracle of birth, it’s beautiful. The rest of this…is horrible, so let’s get on with it!” The small Irishman pursed his lips and raised the
grenade launcher. “Aye.”
He took careful aim at the middle of the mass, and was beginning to
gently squeeze the trigger when he suddenly lurched. “What the bloody hell…”
Paddy began, sprawling forward into the wall as MacGuiness stumbled
into him. Somehow their legs
became entangled, and the combined bulk of MacGuiness and O’Lan went
down in a heap – the weapon on the bottom, and Paddy O’Lan squirming
awkwardly above that. Hargrove, Frieda, and Paulina slowly and painfully
untangled the mess of limbs, and helped the two to their feet. “Sorry, ya wee bairn.
Heh, I must be quite a clumsy oaf, tripping into you like that,”
said MacGuiness, brushing himself off.
Paddy grumbled, and reached for the launcher. “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” came the precise
clipped voice of Trundle from the doorway.
The group spun to face him; Trundle held a small barretta, and was
flanked by three Trotsovs and two mimes.
“That’s quite enough trouble out of you lot for the evening, I
dare say. Over here, away
from the weapons, if you don’t mind.”
He gestured them towards the wall with his gun. He called over his shoulder to the mimes.
“Retrieve their weapons please.”
The mimes walked against a fierce wind over to where the grenade
launcher and various heavy weapons lay, and then descended non-existent
stairways down to the level of the guns – picked them up, and returned
up the non-existent staircases. Once
back up, the weapons seemed to gain a life of their own, dragging the
mimes over to where Trundle stood. Trundle’s
expression of pain was reflected on the faces of the others.
“Thank you…now please leave us,” he said.
“NOT LIKE THAT. Ahem.
Sorry, thank you, yes, if you could just walk normally, yes, like
that, thank you…excellent.” He
turned back, his face an apologetic mask. “Terribly sorry about that.
Frightful, working with mimes.
Quiet, though.” Trundle
smiled a cheerful smile which melted into a bit of a leer as his gaze slid
across Frieda. “Well,
then. Come with me,
please.” “You won’t…” Frieda began. “Yes I will.”
Trundle said, impatiently. “One
moment…voila. Here we
go.” He tipped a rather
beautiful Ming vase from off the antique side table nestled into an alcove
beside the door. There was a
whirring sound, and then a humming sound, and then a section of the wall
clicked open and slid into the floor.
The group started, as the floor beneath them jerked into motion –
they had been standing on a large turntable section, which slid around
into the opening in the wall. The squelching and sucking sounds of the horrible
cloning beast faded, sounds replaced by the click and hum of technology,
and oddly, by the lapping of water. Traces
of conversations echoed around the room hollowly, leaving them with an odd
sense of space – odd because the room wasn’t that large. One whole wall seemed to be a communications center.
Blinking lights, streams of ticker tape data output, various phones
manned by technicians. Portions
of the room were partitioned off into lounge areas, meeting areas, and a
small bar. The rest of the
room was home to a large aquarium which was both sunk into the floor and
protruding up from it; ladders on either side of a gantry led up beside
and over it. It was the mass
of water which lent to the feeling of space, causing sound to echo oddly
through the room. Trundle and the Trotsovs led them across the room, to
one of the lounges next to the aquarium.
“If you don’t mind..” Trundle
indicated some chairs. Nobody
moved. At a glance from
Trundle, the Trotsovs prodded them with the butts of their neutrino
accelerators, and the group sat. “Excellent.”
Trundle smiled. “Welcome
to the nerve center of the new humanity.”
His hand swept the room. “Everything
you have seen, has originated from right here.
Amazing, isn’t it?” “The aliens?”
Paddy protested. “Surely
aliens doan use these big bloody handset phones!” Trundle chuckled.
“Aliens. We get that
a lot really. There are no
aliens.” “I’ve seen them myself!” Hargrove said,
excitedly, moving to rise. One
of the more excitable Trotsov’s helpfully bludgeoned the back of his
head with her radioactive rifle, bouncing his head off the table and
opening up several nasty cuts. Trundle chuckled.
“I do suggest you stay seated, Mr…er Hargrove.
By the way…Hargrove – is that a first or last name?
We’ve checked, and there are no records. It’s
very odd. Nonetheless. There
are no aliens. I believe you
have met Mr. Borisovitch?” They
looked across the room, where indeed Captain Borisovitch sat at a console
in white rhinestoned glory, his odd knobby tentacle limbs working
furiously at what looked oddly like a telephone exchange panel.
Several eye stalks swiveled at the mention of his name, and Frieda
shrieked as one or two of them winked. “Mr. Borisovitch was an early result from our
genetics department. We found
the laws here in Armenia more…suited to our work than those Stateside. Before we perfected the process, the memory implants had been
dredged out of popular culture; spliced together if you will.
Captain Borisovitch is a rather unfortunate combination of Sean
Connery in ‘Hunt For Red October’ and a variety of Elvis footage.
The body, sadly, just didn’t come out right.
But he’s perfect for the switchboard.”
Trundle sounded almost affectionate. “And the mimes?”
Hargrove asked, painfully. “Various early stages.
We ended up with a lot of mutes, and a lot of deformities.
They spent many hours together in their tae kwan do classes, and
after somebody came up with the idea for the face paint it’s been pretty
much spiraling downhill.” He
sighed, and shrugged. “Still,
even evil needs the little happiness in life.” “But we were in the saucer!
Trapped in an inter-dimensional universe!” Cried Frieda.
“And for that matter, the entire HMS Hoobe Entwhistle was
transported above Yerevan and dropped on our heads, stopped only
by…by…” She looked
awkwardly at the other two. “By
Hargrove, I’m sure of it. There,
I’ve said it. Hargrove
stopped it with his mind.” Trundles laugh was both evil and pointed.
“A mix, I’m sure,” he said, “of the new high technology
airfleet, and our rather liberal use of phenylcyclidine.
Stopped a falling cruise ship with his mind.
Really, my dear, I expected more from you.” “This betrayal I expect from you, SIR Edmund
Trundle, puppet of the bourgeoisie,” Hargrove cried, “typical that
your fear of the power of lower classes results in cloning your own puppet
army and brainwashing them. It
won’t help you – this struggle will lead to an inevitable and unhappy
end for you and all your parasitic chums, sitting on their douches and
discussing the slavery of the brav – Argh.” The bang of the pistol wasn’t nearly as loud as the
sharp pained cry of the Marxist detective, who was gritting his teeth and
clutching his leg in pain. “That’s
quite enough from you, Mr. Hargrove.
Where was I? Ah yes. I was explaining the intricacies of the plot before I
dispatched you.” “TOCKS was clever, detective, planting you aboard
that ship. But not clever
enough – you never did solve the puzzle.
It’s all about the money – and now that Russia is on side, the
TICK organization cannot fail. It
is more than the USA, my dear man, capitalism in a global net of
corporations. Class isn’t a government anymore, it’s a corporation
executive, a board of directors, middle management.
It’s what drives everything; you can’t be worried about some
pathetic rabble in some exotic place working a few too many hours for much
too little. That is short
sighted, and it misses the goal entirely.
It’s why the Kyoto accord will never wash; there is no money in
environmentalist blather, my dear man.
There has to be a bottom line, you see.” “The motherland would never agree to this,”
Hargrove said, through clenched teeth, “there are too many true to the
cause in Russia.” “Some concessions had to be made,” Trundle
agreed. He smiled. “Which
is why they are at the head of all this; they are in charge, actually. The Russian economy isn’t what it used to be, they really
had no choice. We told the
loyalists what we had to – a puppet state in France, we told them, then
Armenia. The original Trotsov
never knew. I think you’ll
find the newer Trotsov’s are a sturdier and truer lot.” “And now. Before
we put the replacement heads of state into place, I believe it is time to
tie up the loose ends. Mr.
Detective Hargrove, meet the minnows.”
Trundle indicated, and one of the red shirted security people who
had been standing at the wall approached the tank.
Picking up a bucket from beside the staircase, the security officer
climbed up to the platform , and looked back. “That will do, thank you!”
Trundle called up. “One
second…I’ll tell you when…” He
pressed a button on what looked like a TV remote, and a trap door
underneath the guard opened up. With
a cry, the man disappeared, struggling into the water.
There was a brief pause, and the mans head appeared above water,
and he frantically began struggling towards the edge.
After a mere two strokes, the water around the man began to boil,
and the screaming was cut short as the head disappeared underwater. Other security officers around the perimeter shuffled
their feet awkwardly and avoided eye contact. Trundle smiled.
He pursed his lips and cocked an eyebrow.
“You see, Mr. Hargrove, our methods are direct, if a little
unorthodox.” Hargrove’s eyes narrowed.
“Typical abuse of the innocent worker,” he muttered.
“But there is…just one more thing, before you send me to
die.” “And what, pray tell, is that?” Asked Trundle. “How long did you really think that I would be
ignorant of the truth?” Hargrove
stood, awkwardly, and this time the Trotsovs let him. Trundles’ smile deepened.
“Actually, I’ve no idea what you are talking about.” Hargrove turned to MacGuiness. “You’ve been awfully quiet, haven’t you?” “Me? I’ve
no idea what you mean. You
pansies with your capitalist this and your working class that – I dinnae
care before, and I doanna care now.”
MacGuiness spit at Hargrove’s feet. “I’ve had my doubts about you already, MacGuiness,”
Hargrove said, “but the fact that the Russians are leading this clinches
it. Why was I aboard the
ship? Why didn’t Largent
know who Frieda was, even though he said she was his specially invited
guest? Who bombed the HMS Hoobe Entwhistle, and why does it seem
like our every move has been predicted?
Alas, it is too late to save Sensei Lloyd and the Iga NinjaTM,
but you were the common thread – I realised that when you ‘stumbled’
into O’Lan earlier. If
there is one thing I know about the Russian military intelligence, it’s
the trademark KGB lead – always look to the least important player.
Inevitably they are in charge.”
Hargrove’s voice went as hard as the faux granite table top. “Tobermorry brought me aboard to flush you out. You
planted the bomb. Largent
reported to you, and you were present and instructing Largent when we
questioned him. You betrayed
the Iga NinjaTM. You
are a sickness in the ranks of the proletariat; posing as the pillar of
the worker ethic – an Engineer. For
shame.” There was a long pause.
Trundle looked at Hargrove, and then at MacGuiness.
A sick expression crept across his face, as he mentally reviewed
his comments about Russian involvement. MacGuiness began a low chuckle that jarred the ears
of his company. To ponder
intellectually was one thing, but concrete evidence, this hard
confirmation of treachery…they sat stunned. “Very good, detective.”
There was no trace of Scottish in the engineer now.
“I told them that we underestimated you.
No matter, soon even that risk will be eliminated.
No need for more of this charade.
Just as well; Trundle, you talk too much.” MacGuiness rose.
“We’ve waited long enough.
Take him. And the
little Irish traitor. Frieda
comes with me, under guard. I’ve
got plans for her.” His
smile was frightening. Several security officers who couldn’t look away
quickly enough were picked at random and brought forward to escort the
prisoners. They hadn’t
taken more than a couple of steps when they were brought up short by a
dull pounding sound, followed quickly by the buckling of a section of
rotating wall. Various
weapons trained immediately on this threat, and so very few people
initially noticed the materialization of Ninja Fred and the Iga Ninja from
the corner shadows of the room. The
security men in red, closest to the captive party, were the first to go. Weapons whistled quietly through a growing fog.
The buckling wall burst, the ball of a mace poking in and then
wrenched free; followed quickly by a gloved hand and finally, an entire
wounded Nazghul. “HELLO?”
The massive voice thundered, “IS ANYONE HOME?”
A dark chuckle. “I
CRACK ME UP.” A black
gaseous cloud poured out of the Nazghul’s laughter, enveloping the
nearest screaming guard. The Nazghul fought its way over to the knot of
resistance fighters, it’s huge ball of spiked death raising and falling
in an almost hypnotically deadly beauty.
The ninja cleared a space around the party, and Hargrove, Frieda
and Paddy fired madly into the fog. Trundle
poked his head out from behind the bar, and fired quickly, then ducked
back under cover. Paddy cried
out, and then fell limply to the floor.
Frieda dashed to his side, and was cut nearly in half by a spray of
bullets from a group of midgets sporting extra arms sprouting from their
foreheads. “Frieda!” Hargrove
screamed, and leapt to her side, dragging her body back to their cover.
“My love! Are
you…did you?” “I’m okay. Ruined,
but okay.” Frieda sounded
extremely annoyed. “I swear this whole business is costing me a fortune!
My dear – you’re wounded!” “Just a flesh wound,” said Hargrove, tucking bits
of his stained dinner jacket into the gushing hole in his side.
“Nothing serious, really. It’s
really getting quite foggy in here. Er...isn’t
it?” He asked, suddenly worried. Through the growing fog the battle raged; centered on
the Nazghul, who was pounding at the enemy like an enraged smith at an
anvil. As the last of the red
shirts fell, MacGuiness, Trundle and two Trotsovs were all that remained,
huddled behind the bar. The
Iga Ninja fanned out, and the Nazghul turned his attention to the TICKS. “A LUNCH STAND,” the dark warrior intoned,
“I DON’T CARE WHO CLONED ME, OR WHERE MY MEMORIES ORIGINATED.
A LUNCH STAND WASN’T MUCH TO ASK.”
In the minds of the listeners, the chilling voice spoke of small
happy animals being churned mercilessly in a wood chipper. The black hood turned slightly, and the horrible
blackness focused itself on MacGuiness.
“YOU? THE HOBBITS
WERE RIGHT AFTER ALL.” He
said, completely meaninglessly. MacGuiness’ reply was cut short by the two stroke,
carburated roar of death, as a dozen mimes poured into the room from the
breached wall. There was a
brief warm-up dance of high snappy kicks and cartwheels, a pause while a
few unpacked themselves from invisible boxes, and then one of them raised
his arm, formed a silent ‘Hiyah!’ with his mouth, they swarmed
forwards into the waiting ninja. Ninja Fred spun, his hand flicking shiruken at
blinding speed. He gave an
incoherent shout, and several of the Ninja simultaneously tossed something
into the air. There was a
great flash, and then the room was empty of the Ninja, leaving the mimes
milling in confusion – a horde of black clad white faced mayhem with no
target. As one, they
redirected their fury at the Nazghul, and charged at him with chainsaws
held high, snapping random kicks as they came. Another flash – this time both in front and behind
the enemy. Those in the rear,
wheeled, confused, spinning with back-fists and crescent kicks into the
silent black clad blender that was Sensei Lloyd.
A few Ninja fell beneath the renewed assault of the chainsaw
wielding mimes, but eight of the mimes were quickly dispatched, and the
ninja rushed to the aid of the Nazghul. It was too late – a long day of battle had taken
its toll, the Nazghul had slowed. The
chainsaws bit savagely, two mimes falling to the black breath but too
late. The thud of the Nazghul
hitting the ground echoed through the room, through the minds of the
defenders, through the spirit of the Iga Ninja.
“IT HURTS US,” The valiant black warrior said, “HO
HO. NO, NOT REALLY.
STINGS A BIT, MAYBE – YES, PERHAPS THAT.” And then nothing. Seconds later, the Iga Ninja had cleared the room of
all but MacGuiness and Trundle, who were immobilized at sword-point. Ninja Fred and Sensei Lloyd helped Hargrove to his
feet, and sat Frieda up on a table as best they could.
Trundle had lost his pompous, confident air; MacGuiness, who had
perfected stony-faced silence, was motionless and unreadable. Hargrove looked at Trundle.
“I told you this was inevitable,” he said. “The workers utopia isn’t a dream of the future, it’s a
necessity of the Now; your bourgeoisie arrogance blinds you to the... ARGH.”
Hargrove looked down, stunned, at the neat hole in his leg, and
then up to where MacGuiness, holding Frieda’s smoking derringer, began
to gag and crumple. The spreading red stain beneath where MacGuiness fell
did nothing to shake the massive mans spirit.
“Oh shut your festering gob, for go...” the end of this was
choked off by the blood welling out of the slice across his neck. A giggle broke the ensuing silence.
A small, stifled giggle. Trundle
looked surprised; and then giggled again.
A short nervous giggle, which shook his shoulders but never touched
his eyes; his eyes spoke of a desperation and defeat, a loss not just of
the battle but the war. A
snort erupted with the next giggle. “Has he snapped?” Sensei Lloyd asked.
“I never know with westerners.”
He turned to Hargrove. “This
doesn’t seem altogether…normal, though.” Hargrove reached out and slapped Trundle hard. Trundle’s mouth opened and closed several times,
like a fish, but it was no good - the fits of laughter choked off the
words. Helplessly, reduced to
pathetic girlish giggles, he pointed at a large red button on the floor
beneath the table, by MacGuiness’ body.
Then, shaking with laughter, to a large digital readout on the
communications wall, which was counting rapidly backwards from five
minutes. Hargrove gasped.
“Is that what I think it is?”
He cried, grabbing Trundle by his lapels.
Trundle giggled helplessly, and nodded.
“Can you stop it?” Trundle
shook his head, tears forming in the corners of his eyes, his shoulders
trembling. “We must flee this place.
Our clan must survive,” Sensei Lloyd said. At his hand signal there was a final flash and the Iga Ninja
were gone, leaving only Ninja Fred. Frieda coughed.
“I’m sorry, boys, but I won’t be fleeing anywhere.
Do you mind?” Hargrove took a step towards her, and stumbled.
He caught his breath, gritted his teeth, straightened, and with the
help of Ninja Fred half dragged, half carried Frieda past the fallen mimes
and wreckage of the room and through the shattered wall. Hargrove turned for one last look – over the
littered mime field, to where Paddy O’Lan lay, to where the heroic
Nazghul had fallen, to his traitorous comrade’s body, lying with his
wrench at the ready. Hargrove’s
minds eye saw MacGuiness at the pearly gates, shaking his adjustable Home
Hardware Excalabur at St. Peter, demanding that he cut the crap and just
open the bloody door. The
vision made Hargrove smile despite his grief, as he recognized the
barriers of illusion that his mind was erecting.
He had no need of this crutch, that was for the mentally infirm,
not the intellectually illuminated; the Marxist detective shook his head,
and the instant was lost. As
he left, the images of his fallen comrades were replaced by the single
image of a helplessly amused Trundle watching them go, the digital readout
behind him forever frozen in his memory at three minutes, thirty two
seconds. None of that mattered now. They stumbled through the corridors with their human
cargo, Fred unerringly both guiding them and protecting them.
As they neared the rear entrance, there was a dull booming sound
from behind them, deep within the complex.
They threw open the doors, and not a moment too soon. The whooshing sound was all the warning they got, and
a great sea of fire broke out the doors behind them. The shock wave forced them forward to their faces on the lawn
of the embassy, scorching their backs and singeing their hair.
They lay there motionless for a second. A second was all they got.
“Hold it there! Dinna
move! This is Inspector
Mullet, Interpol. I want to
see hands!” Hargrove turned over, incredulous. “Mullet? Mullet
of the yard? Inspector
Mullet, detective and socialist? It’s
Hargrove! Don’t shoot!” Mullet squinted into the gloom. “Hargrove? Is
that you? My god!” He
turned and called out into the darkness.
“I need an ambulance over here!” The last thing Hargrove saw from his vantage point
collapsed on the grass, as his vision grayed, was Frieda; poor, beautiful,
damaged, Frieda, surrounded by doctors, mechanics and estheticians, all
working frantically over her still body. And then the gray enveloped him completely in its
warm, soothing embrace The End |