Honour be Damned

by David Bishop

  Agent Goodnight strode north across Westminster Bridge towards the most famous clock in the Empire, Big Ben. The covert operative moved unnoticed among the tourists crowding the bridge, each visitor battling for the best position to have themselves pictured in front of the legendary landmark. None had a clue the secret HQ of Britannia Intelligence was a few metres away, the agent thought, but then it would hardly have been a secret if they did. Goodnight nonchalantly descended a stone staircase on the bridge's eastern side, close to the Houses of Parliament.

  The staircase passed an inconspicuous green metal door in one of the bridge's support columns. Goodnight rested a hand lightly against the door for five seconds, letting hidden circuitry identify and compare the palm-print, heat signature and DNA likeness with that held on file. Once the computer-controlled system was satisfied, the secret agent had permission to enter, the door slid open with a sigh and Goodnight slipped inside. Moments later the door was closed, nearby tourists still blissfully unaware of what they had missed.

  There was a tiny elevator the other side of the doors, no bigger than a broom cupboard. It plunged thirty metres into the ground, far below the level of the Thames and the old Underground train tunnels. The elevator shuddered to a halt and a new door opened, allowing Goodnight access to Britannia Intelligence's headquarters. The secret agent strolled along the corridors, nodding to other staff members, saluting whenever a senior officer strode past. In less than a minute Goodnight slipped into the main briefing room, where the lights had been dimmed in anticipation of F's arrival. Dozens of other operatives and HQ staff were gathered in the musty chamber, most seated in rows of stiff-backed chairs. Those who had arrived late lined the walls, all facing the small podium at the front of the briefing room.

  Agent Golightly noticed her colleague's arrival and sidled over. "Cutting it fine?"

  "I made it, didn't I?" Goodnight said with a smile. "Where's the ice queen?"

  "Due any second now. How's the ambassador?"

  "I had to pull out at the last minute." Goodnight slid a hand across the other agent's buttocks, gently massaging them. "And we both know how frustrating that can be."

  Golightly shook her pretty head, a rueful smile on her pursed lips. "Tease! Always leave them wanting more, that should be your motto."

  "I'll try to remember that when I commission my epitaph," Goodnight replied. The low murmur of voices around them died away as their commander approached the podium.

  When Dante came round for the third time, he was lying on a cold metal floor, chains and manacles binding his wrists and ankles together once more. The first thing to enter his mind was an after-image of the last thing he could recall. Rucka had arranged for Dante to be beaten unconscious again once the princess had left the White Room. "It's the only way to make certain you can't escape before we get you to the Tower," the inspector explained as truncheons pummelled Dante. "After that, you cease to be my responsibility. You will be what one of our greatest authors called an SEP - Somebody Else's Problem."

  Dante made a mental note to kick the crap out of Rucka if they should ever meet again. The inspector was the worst kind of bully, one who gets other people to do their dirty work, the sort who rarely sullies their own hands. But dealing with Rucka would have to wait. Dante had more pressing problems now, such as finding a way out of his situation.

  Whatever you do, don't speak. Don't do anything to let the guards know you're conscious - they'll only beat you senseless again and your enhanced healing abilities are still struggling to mend a fractured skull and severe concussion. So, for once, keep silent and listen to me.

  Dante nodded his head imperceptibly to let the Crest know its words were understood.

  Good. You're in the cargo hold of a police hover-van called Black Maria. By my estimation the vehicle should arrive at the Tower of London within minutes, so there isn't much time. There are three guards in here with you, and three more in the front. All except the driver are armed. Relax your mental defences and cede control of your bio-blades to me.

  Dante willed himself to relax but involuntarily tensed as the Crest flexed inside his mind.

  I said relax! If you don't escape before this van reaches the Tower, you may not get another chance. Empty your mind of all intelligent thoughts - an easy task for you, of all people.

  Dante ignored the jibe and concentrated on thinking about nothing. Gradually the Crest claimed control of his nervous system, an uneasy sensation akin to having a dozen spiders running back and forth across his brain.

  That's better, the Crest said. Extruding bio-circuitry... now.

  Dante watched as ripples of purple and silver danced below the skin of his hands. His fingernails slowly stretched themselves out into elongated talons, before curling round to infiltrate the locks on his manacles. Within moments each binding was undone. Dante tried to move but the Crest said for him to wait.

  Your limbs are stiff and sore. Allow thirty seconds for your restored circulation to revive them, it urged. All the guards are wearing body armour, but it only extends down to their thighs - they don't expect to be attacked at floor level. There are two men directly behind you within striking distance, and a third beyond them. He's the most dangerous target as you can't reach him straight away. Dante gave another nod to show his understanding. Good. Your arms and legs should have recovered. I'm releasing control of the bio-circuitry. Do your worst.

  Dante allowed himself a grim smile, extended his bio-blades to their full length, and then went on the attack. He swiped his swords across the floor, neatly severing the feet of the two guards within reach. They went down screaming, their blood spraying the air. The third man was still drawing his weapon when Dante dived full-length at him, bio-blades pinning the guard to the back door. When Dante ripped his blade free, the dead man slid mutely to the floor. "Three down, three to go," he muttered. "Crest, how far are we off the ground?"

  About a hundred metres. Diving out the back door is not an option.

  "Guess I'll have to land this thing instead." Dante strode to the front end of the cargo hold and flattened his hands against the wall. "How far am I from the other guards in the front seat?"

  Half an arm's length. Why?

  The woman known as F would never be described as beautiful. True, a mischievous sparkle sometimes appeared in the corner of her eyes and her bosom had a comely aspect to its sway, but her looks were no aphrodisiac. She knew her face was haughty and arrogant, with its high cheekbones and prominent, almost Grecian nose. Her mouth was unusually wide but it rarely had a chance to smile, such was her stern demeanour. She kept her body hidden behind an armoury of tweed skirts and polo neck jumpers, her hair clipped into a curt bob. Everything about her outward appearance indicated she meant business. Only the stiletto heels of her black, knee-length leather boots hinted at anything out of ordinary - sensible shoes were not F's style.

  Power turned her on; the getting of power, the wielding of it, the delicious delight of having dominance over another human being. She savoured it as a gourmet enjoys fine cuisine. Her rise to prominence within Britannia's intelligence community had not simply been a matter of career fulfilment or proving she was the best of her generation. No, for F the acquisition of authority was a way of sating her most rapacious desires. Every order she gave, every memo she drafted, every underling she disciplined or humiliated - each of these acts was a dirty little thrill. Addressing a gathering of every available operative in Britannia, commanding their attention, holding them in her thrall... that was a multiple orgasm for F. But none of her staff would ever know that from her expression.

  She glared at those assembled, hands clasped together behind her back. "By now you will have all heard about the tragic events at the Palace of London last night. The king remains in a critical condition, with surgeons offering little hope of recovery. The Queen Mother's body is being worked on by the finest undertakers. Once fit to be seen by the public, it will lie in state at Westminster Abbey before a full state funeral is he
ld. With the king incapacitated, her royal highness Princess Marie-Anne has been released from the Tower of London and is already assuming responsibility for many of her father's day-to-day duties."

  There was a murmur among the agents but it was silenced when F cleared her throat. "I do not recall asking for anyone's opinion," she snapped, a shiver of delight running down her spine. "Questions will be asked with regards to how the assassin got through our defences, why we did not anticipate this attack and what we could or should have done to prevent it. No doubt heads will roll, but not from within this department, you may be assured of that. However, we must remain vigilant, keeping one step ahead of the police investigation, to ensure the intelligence community does not take the blame for this lamentable incident. Your individual controllers have specific assignments for each of you. All other investigations and assignments are temporarily suspended until this matter is resolved. This is a black day in the history of Britannia - let our conduct show that we can respond to the situation with the verve and skill required! That is all."

  F nodded curtly, then stepped down from the podium, moving among the operatives and headquarters staff as they filed out. Her eyes lit upon a particular agent who had been at the back of the room. "Goodnight!"

  "Yes, ma'am?"

  "Wait here, please - I have a special assignment for you."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Once the room had emptied, F gestured for Goodnight to sit down. But the head of intelligence remained standing, to reinforce her position of dominance. "First of all, I must remind you of our policy regarding sexual harassment - groping fellow agents like young Golightly may help pass the time in staff meetings, but it is strictly prohibited under Britannia Intelligence's rules and regulations. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes, ma'am," Goodnight said meekly, eyes not meeting F's gaze.

  "You may be our finest seducer, but that does not give you leave to practice on my staff."

  "No, ma'am."

  "Very well," F said, moderating her tone slightly. "Now, this special assignment - you have been requested by Princess Marie-Anne for an unspecified task to be undertaken on her behalf. No matter what she asks of you or offers you as a reward, remember where your true loyalties lie. An unmarked hover-car will transport you to the palace. In the meantime, I suggest you have a shower and change into something suitable."

  The agent frowned. "How can I know what's suitable if I don't know what this task is?"

  F smiled. "Use your imagination. I'm told it's one of your strong suits."

  Constable Jackson Shaw loved to fly. He loved to fly in planes, in hover-vehicles, even in airships. All his life he had been obsessed with flying, but his limited intellect had prevented him becoming a professional pilot. Shaw was big, he was burly and he was thicker than concrete, all of which left one career opportunity to him: Shaw became a policeman in the Britannia Royal Constabulary. His passion for flying soon shone through and he was given the job of ferrying prisoners in a Black Maria hover-van. It was poorly paid, often mind-numbingly dull work, but when Shaw took to the sky he felt a little closer to heaven.

  Today's trip to the Tower of London was unusual, but not unheard of. The government was not afraid of locking away political prisoners in the ancient dungeons there. The poor sod in the back was supposedly the most dangerous man in the Empire, or so Shaw's boss had told him. That must be why the prisoner had been beaten unconscious for the journey, but it didn't sit well with Shaw. He didn't have the stomach for handing out punishment beatings. He preferred being behind the wheel of a hover-van, zooming across the sky.

  The two men beside him in the front seat had resisted all attempts at conversation. The Black Maria started its final approach to the Tower, the driver gave up trying to talk with them. Surly buggers, he decided. Let 'em rot. Shaw didn't notice when a pair of purple and silver blades stabbed through the metal wall behind his passengers, neatly slicing their spinal chords. Both men slumped backwards in their seats, as if dozing off. They'll get a right rollicking if they're still asleep when we land, the driver thought.

  Moments later the passenger side door was ripped open and one of the guards fell out. "What the hell-?" Before Shaw could finish his thought, a hand reached in and extracted the second passenger. The Black Maria swerved across the sky as Shaw struggled to control his amazement and terror. Then the prisoner climbed in from outside, slamming the door behind him.

  "Who are-? How did you-? I mean, that's- T-That's impossible!" Shaw spluttered.

  The prisoner smiled. "I always try to do six impossible things before breakfast."

  "But it's nearly midday..."

  "I haven't had breakfast yet." The prisoner pointed a hand at Shaw and the driver felt a razor-sharp blade press against his neck. "Now, either you land this thing or I throw you out and try to land it myself - you choose."

  Shaw loved to fly, but he didn't fancy trying it unassisted.

  Dante waited until the Black Maria had landed before disabling its systems with his bio-blades. The driver was quaking in his seat, a wet stain round his crotch ample evidence of the man's terror. "Look, I haven't done anything to you, okay?" the policeman pleaded. "I'm not even armed. You go and I promise not to raise the alarm for at least ten minutes. Better still, knock me out and then I can't raise the alarm, can I?"

  Dante aimed a bio-blade at the driver's throat. "I could just kill you."

  "All the others had guns, you had to kill them to escape. I'm letting you go. Kill me and it's murder. Do you want that on your conscience?"

  He's right. Killing him will only confirm you're a murderer doing anything to flee Britannia.

  "I don't need your advice," Dante said.

  "I know," the driver said, closing his eyes. "But if you're going to kill me, at least make it quick - like you did with the others, okay?"

  Dante drew back his bio-blade, then punched the driver in the head, smashing him sideways against the van door.

  Dante slid out of the passenger door, looking round in search of a landmark. "Where am I, Crest?"

  Two minutes from the Tower, but if you're planning a rescue mission for Spatchcock and Flintlock, you'll need help. The cells are in the most heavily guarded and fortified section.

  "Which way is the Tower?"

  To your left.

  Dante retracted his bio-blades and strode briskly away to his right.

  Your other left, the Crest sighed.

  "I'm not going to the Tower," Dante replied curtly, "and I'm not planning a rescue mission."

  Why not?

  "Why should I?"

  Spatchcock and Flintlock are your friends.

  "Spatchcock and Flintlock are two good-for-nothing parasites who latched on to me after the war. The only thing they care about is themselves."

  Mr Kettle, allow me to introduce you to this black pot.

  "Spare me the riddles, Crest. Where's the nearest heliport or international train terminus?"

  I was alluding to the fact you are frequently just as guilty as Spatchcock or Flintlock of the charges you accuse them of. Aren't you even going to try and save them? Flee the country and that will be taken as final, irrevocable proof of your guilt. Those two parasites, as you disingenuously describe them, will be executed in your stead for a crime they didn't commit.

  "I never asked them to tag along after me."

  No, but you never told them to go away, either. You were their commander during the war, you kept them alive when others could not care less. They respect you, consider themselves your friends and they would not abandon you like this.

  Dante laughed bitterly as he quickened his pace. "Flintlock is a craven coward and Spatchcock thinks only of himself. There's been plenty of times when they've left me to die!"

  True, but there have also been occasions when they risked their own lives to save yours. What about on Fabergé Island, when they helped you stop that madman's experiments? Or at the Forbidden Citadel - they could have fled when the Imperial Black troop
s attacked.

  "Diavolo, I was there, I know what happened!"

  Yet now you choose to ignore it. What kind of man are you?

  "You said it yourself, I can't break them out of the Tower single-handed."

  Then prove their innocence - and your own - before it is too late.

  Dante rounded a corner and saw the London International Train Terminal ahead. "At last!"

  Running away won't solve anything, the Crest insisted.

  "Spare me the sermon," Dante replied as he approached the train station. "I gave up praying long before I reached puberty."

  Perhaps. But I doubt getting out of Britannia will be as simple as you surmise.

  Goodnight was escorted into Princess Marie-Anne's private office after passing numerous security checks. The princess gestured grandly to a chair, motioning for the secret agent to sit down. Marie-Anne remained behind an antique black desk lavishly decorated with gold leaf and elaborate carved motifs. Spread out across its surface were swatches of fabrics, dozens of vibrant colours fighting with each other for attention. To Goodnight's eyes it seemed the whole office had been decorated to match the desk, a sinister opulence about the black walls and golden ceiling. The high-ceilinged chamber was thick with the scent of expensive perfume. "Excuse the vile decor in here," the princess said, waving blithely at her surroundings. "My father had it done to irritate my late mother, who hated this desk. I intend this room to be my new seat of power so, of course, I've having it remodelled immediately."