by David Bishop
F watched the twin homing beacon signals on a holographic display screen in her private office. As head of Britannia Intelligence she was expected to have a state of the art communications centre at her private residence, to ensure she was never out of touch with events. Happily, the cost of this equipment and its installation was borne by Britannia's taxpayers, so F had arranged for the conversion of a small space adjoining the library into her comms centre. In centuries past the chamber had been a panic room for Fforbes-Lamington family members paranoid about home security. Before that it had been a priest hole, a hiding place for clerics on the run from religious oppression. Now the room gave F an armchair view of the world.
An entire wall was devoted to a hundred holographic displays set in a ten-by-ten grid that reached up to the ceiling. In front of them was a control desk and black leather swivel chair. F sat forward in her chair, manipulating the security cameras carefully placed around the grounds. Alas, having such a sprawling estate made total coverage impossible. Dante and Agent Goodnight had fled into an area that defied F's eager gaze, but she could still monitor their progress thanks to the homing beacons hidden on their bodies.
F activated the microphone on the control desk and barked an order to the hunt leader, an ageing cabinet minister fond of wearing women's lingerie and being sexually misused while sucking a satsuma. "McClory! Your targets are headed due west, away from the lake. They have half a mile head start, but you should be able to see them once you clear the next hedgerow."
"Understood, ma'am," a wheezing, groaning voice responded.
F sat back in her chair and smiled. She would dearly love to be leading the hunt personally, but her status as queen bitch of the Cadre Infernale in Britannia forbade her from mingling with members of a lesser rank. She must appear imperious and aloof at all times, otherwise her air of mystique would be forever tainted. F let her fingers wander between her legs, searching for a distraction. Vicarious enjoyment was all very well, but hands-on action was better.
They ran away from the lake, crossed a field of golden grass and scrambled through a hedgerow of box and hawthorn. The duo emerged from the other side, their skin and clothes covered in tiny rips and tears from the thorn-laden hedge. The sound of yapping hounds still rang loud in their ears, so Dante and Penelope kept running. They reached the far side of a cornfield and took shelter in a hedgerow before their stalkers came into view. Despite the fact both fugitives were well hidden, the perverts continued to unerringly follow their path, as if they already knew what direction to take. "So much for your Bitch theory," Dante observed.
Penelope frowned. "I was sure they must be..." Her words trailed off, realisation lighting up her features. "Stupid, stupid!" Penelope began patting herself down, examining her body through the catsuit's torn and tattered fabric.
"I like to watch a woman enjoying herself if you know what I mean," Dante commented, "but I'm not sure this is the time or the place."
Penelope's fingers paused over her belly button. "There!" she said excitedly and tore down the zipper holding her catsuit together. paying no attention as her breasts spilled out.
"I see you've got freckles in all sorts of places," Dante said appreciatively.
Penelope extracted a small silver disc from her belly button, then did the catsuit back up. "If I've got one, you probably have as well," she said.
"Got one what?" Dante wondered.
Penelope tore his shirt apart and pointed at a silver disc hidden inside Dante's belly button. She plucked it out, removing several black, curly hairs at the same time. "Bojemoi," he protested. "Watch what you're doing!"
She showed him the identical discs. "Homing beacons. No doubt F had them put on us before we were released out. She's been helping the hunters track us."
"And you said I stank of Bitch?"
"Not as bad as her," Penelope conceded. She drew back her arm, ready to fling the beacons away, but Dante stopped her.
"I have a better destination in mind for those."
I'm getting too old to be a pony girl, Muriel told herself. Getting dressed in the beastly equipment had been exciting once upon a time, while letting herself be groomed by several breathless young women was joy unconfined. Even galloping around courtyards or acting as willing steed for some burly, sweaty man had been acceptable, no matter how foolish it made her feel, because she could look forward to a treat at the end of the day. Perhaps some frolicking with the other pony girls amongst the hay bales in the stables, or being pleasured with the specially tailored end of a riding crop. Pain and humiliation, they went hand in hand with pleasure and desire for Muriel.
But today's hunting, it was hard work and nothing more. Chasing some unseen quarry across fields and streams, that was all very well for the riders - but what about the pony girls? Muriel was used to carrying someone on her back for a few minutes, not a few hours. It was when they reached the first fence after skirting the lake that Muriel refused to go any further. Her rider, an ugly brute from the Inland Revenue with a fondness for the whip, was unceremoniously unseated and Muriel couldn't have cared less. Good riddance to bad rubbish. He was no kind of master for a fine mount like me, she told herself. Besides, I'm pink with sunburn, my knees and hands are rubbed raw and my back hurts. Enough is enough!
So, while the rest of the hunters hurried onwards, Muriel sat down under a tree to peel off her pony girl harness and bridle. She heard a twig snap behind her and found a pistol pointing at her face. Beyond it were the two fugitives, a woman in a battered black catsuit and a bare-chested man in a kilt. He looked at her thoughtfully, making Muriel blush with embarrassment.
"I've seen you somewhere before," the man said, then cocked his head slightly to one side, as if someone was whispering in his ear. "Of course - the customs official at Dover!"
At that moment Muriel wished the ground would swallow her whole. "Yes," she whispered. "Please don't tell anyone you saw me like this, they'd never understand."
The female fugitive produced a pair of small, silver discs. "We won't talk if you'll do us a favour or two in return. First of all, what's the quickest route from here back to the main house?" Muriel pointed north, her upper arm wobbling slightly. "Very good. The second favour is of a more... intimate nature. Turn around." Muriel did as she was commanded. "Touch your toes." Again, she followed the woman's orders, straining to reach past her knees. "That'll do," the fugitive commanded. "Now, brace yourself, while I find a suitable repository for these homing beacons."
Boyle brought the Capri in low over the boundary wall of the Fforbes-Lamington estate. He was too busy admiring the leather posing pouch, PVC corset and black peaked cap worn by his partner to notice the laser cannon emplacements in the wall's ancient stonework. "You should wear that sort of thing more often," he said. "Think of the work we could pick up around Brighton."
"That's not all we'd pick up," Dobie agreed, gesturing toward Boyle's black rubber body stocking. "Think of all the tight young-"
Suddenly a beam of light lanced through the vehicle's bonnet, slicing the engine in two and turning the rest of the flying car into a hunk of tumbling metal and glass. Boyle had time to scream before the remains of the Capri plunged into ground, gouging a mighty divot from the earth before the vehicle flung itself end over end over end. On and on it rolled, before finally coming to rest upside down by a scarecrow in a field of brutalised corn.
Four dull thuds were audible inside the car as both bounty hunters used their handguns to deflate the Capri's airbags. They smashed out the side windows and crawled from the wreckage, each leaving a trail of blood on the ground. Neither had got more than a few metres when the car exploded in a fireball, setting ablaze the surrounding corn.
"What the hell was that?" Dante wondered. He and Penelope watched a fireball curling into the sky from several fields away, followed by a mushroom cloud of black smoke.
"I don't know and I don't care," she said, tugging at his arm. "I need to find F. She can clear my name, tell the authorities I
had nothing to do with the assassination attempt."
"How do you know she wasn't the person who implicated you?"
"She probably was, the vindictive old cow," Penelope conceded, pausing to check her small pistol was ready. "I'm going to convince her that was a mistake."
Muriel was running from the hounds when she saw the car fall out of the sky. The rest of the Cadre Infernale had been unwittingly hunting her across field after field of head-high grass and corn, ravenous dogs leading the pack of perverts ever closer. Muriel considered stopping to explain her predicament, but the savage barking of the hounds terrified her too much. Now, as her last reserves of energy were close to exhaustion, she saw a Phord Capri tumbling from the sky at her. Muriel dived amidst the corn and prayed for mercy as the metal meteor shrieked by.
Dobie and Boyle found each other ten minutes after their vehicle exploded. Both men were singed, but otherwise unhurt. The aroma of barbequed corn on the cob mixed with scorched rubber and gasoline in the air. The bruised and bloody bounty hunters surveyed the charred wreckage of their Capri with fond sadness. "We've been through a lot in that car," Dobie said wistfully. "Killed our first target in the back seat."
"Had our first kiss in the front seat," Boyle recalled.
Dobie smiled at the memory, before frowning again. "What the hell hit us?"
"The estate must have the mother of all security systems round its perimeter. We're lucky to have got out of that alive." He brushed broken glass out of his curly hair, then adjusted Dobie's peaked cap to a jauntier angle. "Our normal clothes were in the boot, you know."
"Yeah, and all our other guns. I've got this pistol and five clips of ammo."
Boyle checked his handgun. "I've only got this, but I'm nearly out of bullets. You better give me two of your clips."
"Get your own ammunition, you lazy sod!"
"From where? In case you hadn't noticed, we're in the middle of a burning cornfield on a country estate. I doubt there's many dum-dum stockists around here."
"Moan, moan, moan - that's all you ever do, Raymond."
"I've told you before, don't call me Raymond. My father called me Raymond and I bloody hated him for it, amongst other things."
"You know I only do it to wind you up," Dobie said.
"Well, don't, okay?"
"Okay, Raymond."
"That's it!" Boyle exploded. "I have had a gut full of your sly innuendoes and little digs."
"Well, you know my policy - innuendo and out the other," Dobie quipped.
"Hey, you there!" An aristocratic voice interrupted the bounty hunters' bickering. They quickly concealed their weapons, then swivelled round to see a cluster of perverts in leather and rubber marching towards them. "What the dickens do you think you're doing on this estate? This is a Sabbat of the Cadre Infernale, not a come-as-you-are party for any passing rough trade!"
"Rough trade?" Dobie snorted derisively. "Look who's talking!"
"Come as you are?" Boyle added. "You think we dress like this normally?"
"I don't care how you dress," the leader of the pack replied sternly. He was over sixty, flat-chested and wearing a selection of frilly pink lingerie. His right hand was clenched around the butt of a black leather whip, tapping it against his stocking-clad thigh. "Clear off, or else we'll be forced to give both of you a short, sharp shock - the more shocking the better!"
The bounty hunters exchanged a glance. "Oh, piss off, grandad," Boyle warned.
The old man's face quivered with rage. "Why, you little swine! Right, you asked for this - now you're going to get it. Brothers! Sisters! Let's show these gatecrashers they're not welcome!"
The perverts advanced as one towards Dobie and Boyle, pushing their way through the blackened heads of corn. Boyle looked at his partner. "Do you want to sort this, or shall I?"
"Let's do it together," Dobie suggested with a smile. The bounty hunters opened fire.
F was surprised to hear gunfire drifting in through the library doors from outside. "Oh, for heaven's sake! I specifically forbade anyone from taking sidearms on the hunt to avoid exactly this sort of incident," she muttered. The head of Britannia Intelligence wandered outside onto the balcony to see if she could spot the culprit and remonstrate with them. Instead she felt the barrel of a small pistol pressing against one side of her head.
"I guess somebody didn't get the memo," Penelope commented. "Call for help and I redecorate these doors with your brains. Nod if you understand." F quickly indicated her obedience. "Good. Let's go back inside - you first."
F returned indoors, followed by Penelope and Dante. "You'll never get off this estate alive," the mistress of the house said in a matter of fact voice. "My droids conduct a random sweep of the building every few minutes, so they're bound to discover you sooner or later."
"Not if you disable the security system," Dante pointed out.
"I can't, it's controlled from another location," F insisted.
"Liar!" Penelope snapped.
"Can you be sure of that?" her boss replied. The sound of mechanoids moving nearby was audible and getting louder. "As you can hear, my droids are close by - they could come in here any minute. You have me at gunpoint, but you're the ones trapped - we are at an impasse."
"Crest, can you hack the security system, take it out of action?" Dante asked.
Not while you wear those cuffs. Most of my functionality is disabled by their influence.
"Well?" Penelope asked hopefully, but Dante simply shook his head.
F smiled. "Let me offer you a solution. I must insist upon Dante's execution going ahead as planned, but there's no need for you to sudden the same fate, Agent Goodnight."
"That's not what I call a solution," Dante said.
"Keep talking," Penelope told her commander.
"Hey!" Dante protested. "I thought you were on my side!"
"Since when?" she replied tersely. "Just because we're handcuffed together, that doesn't mean I believe a word you've told me. We've been forced to work together to stay alive, but that's as far as loyalty to you stretches, Dante. I couldn't care less whether you live or die, and I have no interest in ever knowing you better. Get that through your thick skull!"
Oh yes, you're definitely winning her over, the Crest observed tactfully.
"What's your solution?" Penelope asked F.
"It seems her royal highness is getting impatient. She's brought forward the execution of Dante's two accomplices to Saturday afternoon. No doubt she is hoping this Russian renegade will be foolish enough to attempt a rescue mission."
"I wouldn't put it past him," Penelope said. "So?"
"As I said, Dante must die. But your fate need not be so... fatal." F took a step closer to her operative, one hand reaching forwards to stroke the side of Penelope's face. "Submit yourself to me for a year and I will quash all suggestions that you were any way associated with the assassination attempt. I can guarantee you a handsome promotion, your pick of future assignments at Britannia Intelligence and a lifestyle any sane woman would envy."
"What do you mean by the word 'submission'?"
"Exactly what I say. You will become my slave for the next twelve months, giving yourself over to my will, doing whatever I command without question. At the end of that time you will be a free woman, considerably richer and with a much broader experience of all life can offer." As F spoke she let her hand slide down from Penelope's face, passing off the secret agent's right breast and abdomen, before coming to rest between her legs. "Give yourself to me and I promise a sexual education that will make your hair curl."
"Don't do it," Dante urged. "You said it yourself, this bitch can't be trusted!"
"If I ever break my word to you," F told Penelope, "you have my permission to shoot me."
"All right," the secret agent replied, pressing herself against F's hand. "I'll do it."
"How delightful!" F said, giving a tiny squeak of pleasure. "I can't wait to get started."
Penelope shook her head. "You misunderstan
d me." She aimed her pistol between F's lips, a finger reaching for the trigger.
"No, don't, I-"
But F never finished her sentence, the words ripped away along with the back of her skull and much of her brain. The middle-aged woman's body tipped over backwards, the remains of her head hitting the marble floor like a wet flannel. Penelope spat on the corpse.
"I'm nobody's slave, bitch!" she snarled at the dead commander.
Dante rubbed the back of his neck. "You could have told me you were going to do that! You really had me going with all those lies about not caring if I lived or died."
Penelope's eyes narrowed. "What makes you think I was lying?"
"Oh. Right." He looked round the empty library. "So, how do we get out of here without setting off the security system? We outwitted the perverts, but I doubt the droids are that gullible."
Penelope crouched beside F's corpse. "When she escorted us through the house, I noticed F was using an old fashioned retinal scanner to confirm her identity. So, all we need do is borrow a little something from her and then we can walk out of here unscathed." She glanced at Dante. "Which eye should I pluck out? The left or the right?"
TEN
"The day is over and death is nearer."
- Russian proverb
"It goes without saying that Dante became a far more formidable opponent after he was bonded with his Romanov Weapons Crest. But an examination of his earlier career as a thief, adventurer and brigand proves he was no slouch in unarmed combat before his unexpected augmentation. For example, Dante's first encounter with the Tsar came after the renegade was charged with fighting and besting an entire squad of the highly trained hussars. His skills as a fighter should never be doubted or downgraded. Nikolai Dante is a worthy adversary for any man."