by David Bishop
- Extract from Britannia's Lost Landmarks, Carolyn Steele
Flintlock ducked to avoid being pelted by a tomato, but straightened up again in time to be hit by an airborne pineapple instead. The impact nearly knocked him out of the hover-cart in which he and Spatchcock were being paraded through the streets of London. "You'd think people would have the decency to throw rotten fruit," Flintlock complained. "That pineapple almost took off my head!" Princess Marie-Anne had purchased all the capital's fruit and vegetables, then given them away free to anyone who attended the public execution in Trafalgar Square. Since Londoners hadn't witnessed such an event for more than a century, the resultant throng had brought the city to a standstill. The Britannia Royal Constabulary was stretched to breaking point trying to control the crowds, policemen lining the route from the Tower of London.
"Stop whining," Spatchcock said between mouthfuls of tomato. "This is the first proper food I've had in days. Ripe will do me fine. Besides, I doubt they'll let you be decapitated ahead of schedule, it'd spoil everybody's fun."
By the time their hover-cart reached Trafalgar Square at a quarter to six, both men were soaked in fruit juice and covered with vegetable pulp. Two warders from the Tower had accompanied them on the journey, walking ahead of the cart. They threw buckets of cold water over the condemned pair until both men were clean. Then Spatchcock and Flintlock were marched to the empty plinth in the square's north-west corner, the shackles binding their hands and feet making each step precarious. The former aristocrat kept his eyes on the ground, but Spatchcock scanned their surroundings, taking everything in.
The square was thronged with people, all of them baying for blood. More crowds spilled out of the buildings overlooking the place of execution, chanting and howling abuse. A giant holographic screen was draped over the front of one building so everyone could witness the execution in close-up. Marksmen were stationed at every vantage point, watching the skies intently. Spatchcock nudged his friend. "See? They're still expecting Dante to rescue us. He could be here any minute."
"And dead a minute later," Flintlock said mournfully. "Face it, Spatch. We're doomed."
"Have a little faith! When has the captain ever let us down?"
"Frequently!"
Spatchcock frowned. "Come to think of it, you're right." One of the warders gave them a shove and they stumbled up a flight of stone stairs to stand on the plinth. Waiting for them was the princess in a radiant pink ensemble, and an executioner, clad from head to toe in black, a hood concealing his face.
Spatchcock sidled closer to the executioner. "How's it going, Nikolai? All set to spring your surprise rescue?"
"I don't think so," Marie-Anne snarled, lifting up the hood to show Spatchcock the dull-witted killer underneath. Last time she had been in this position was during the Battle of Britannia, when Dante disguised himself as the executioner to save King Henry from being beheaded. The princess was not making the same mistake twice. "Even if your cowardly comrade is foolish enough to try and save your worthless lives, my sharpshooters will gun him down. Nikolai Dante is as good as dead."
"Is there such a thing?" Spatchcock wondered.
Marie-Anne stroked the blade of the mighty axe held in the executioner's meaty fists. "You'll soon find out, won't you?" The princess's nose wrinkled in distaste. "What is that smell?"
Spatchcock grinned wolfishly. "A hint of things to come."
Penelope was piloting the ambulance south at maximum speed while Dante concentrated on finding out who had hired Boyle and Dobie to assassinate the king. The Crest took a sample of Boyle's DNA from the blood staining the front seat of the hover-vehicle, then created a genetic fingerprint enabling it to pose as the dead bounty hunter. The battle computer hacked its way into the Imperial Net via the ambulance's internal computer systems and ran a search for Boyle's bank accounts. No matter where he hid his money in the Empire, I should be able to find it. Proving the money was paid by someone wanting the king dead is another matter.
"Leave it to me," Dante replied. "A little bluffing goes a long way in my experience."
"That explains your alleged success with women," Penelope commented wryly.
He ignored the comment. "How long until we reach London?"
"Fortunately for us, this ambulance is among the faster hover-vehicles in Britannia. Unfortunately, the damage it sustained crashing into the Old Man of Hoy impaired its aerodynamics and this temporary windscreen won't hold forever."
"How long?" Dante demanded.
"Twenty minutes, tops."
"Flintlock and Spatchcock will be dead in less than fifteen."
Penelope grimaced. "I'll do what I can but miracles are beyond even me."
Found it, the Crest announced. Boyle, Raymond. Banks with the First Imperial Bank of Vanuatu - a somewhat obscure tax haven in the South Pacific. A joint account, shared with Dobie, first name Lewis. A wire transfer for twenty million roubles was paid into the account last week.
"Where did the money come from?" Dante asked.
Checking... Alas, whoever commissioned the hit has covered their tracks rather well. The funds were originally held in an account controlled by the Britannia civil service. Beyond that, it's impossible to say.
"King Henry's own government paid to have him murdered?"
You misunderstand. The money was embezzled from government funds. What I cannot determine is by whom and how they did it. Dante relayed what the Crest had said to Penelope.
"So Princess Marie-Anne could be behind the hit after all?" she asked.
"Or anyone else within the civil service," Dante replied. "For all we know, it could have been your old boss, F - she would have had little trouble diverting that much money."
"If F wanted someone dead, she would have used the Rippers and then launched a full investigation that conveniently covered up the truth." Penelope studied the vehicle's navigational displays. "We're passing Nottingham."
Dante, I've found something attached to Boyle's account details at the bank. It seems the bounty hunters maintained a virtual safe deposit box there.
"A what, Crest?"
The principle's the same as a normal safe deposit box in a bank vault, but this is for storing valuable digital data - computer files, important communications and documents.
"Can you get access to it?"
Already done. Boyle was meticulous in his record keeping: dates, prices - everything. There's even a file marked McKray. Yes, this is it: confirmation Boyle and Dobie were hired to make the hit on King Henry. The client wanted the assassination to take place while you were present, so you could be a scapegoat as extra insurance for the real killers.
"Who hired them?" Dante demanded. He shook his head when the Crest told him. "There must be some mistake. Check it again."
"Passing Watford," Penelope said, glancing across at Dante. "Well, who ordered the hit?"
"The Crest is confirming that now," he replied, then nodded. "Okay, okay, I believe you. Can you transmit that information to Britannia Intelligence and Scotland Yard? Well, why not?"
A proximity alarm sounded from the ambulance's controls. Penelope looked out a window and cursed. "Somebody knows we're coming," she said. "There's six Rippers here to meet us."
"The Crest says our transmission is being jammed. It's got proof all of us are innocent, but somebody doesn't want that information getting through," Dante snarled.
"Who is it?" Penelope asked. "Who's behind all of this?"
When Dante told her, she still didn't believe him.
The crowd in Trafalgar Square was getting restless. Everyone had come to see an execution, but instead were being treated to a long, self-aggrandising speech from Princess Marie-Anne. "This woman could bore for Britannia," Flintlock muttered. "It'll almost be a relief when they chop off our heads." A sloppy sound emitted from the posterior of his fellow prisoner. "Heavens above, man! Can't you control yourself?"
Spatchcock shook his head. "I fart when I get nervous. Waiting to be executed isn'
t doing a lot for my intestines."
"Nor for my nasal membranes," Flintlock replied. "What a way to die! Having my head chopped off in front of millions with the stench spilling from your arse the last thing I ever smell!" A single tear spilled from Flintlock's right eye and his chin wobbled.
His malodorous comrade shuffled a little closer. "Are you crying?"
"N-No. A-absolutely not!"
"Look, since we're at the end, why don't you put me out of my misery, eh? Tell me what you did that was so bad it got you kicked out of the country."
Flintlock glared at Spatchcock. "Do you promise never to tell another living soul?"
"I'll be dead any minute, if her royal bitchiness ever shuts up - who could I tell?"
"All right." The former aristocrat leaned closer to Spatchcock and whispered in his ear. The flatulent runt's eyebrows shot upwards and his mouth dropped open in amazement. When Flintlock finished, his partner in crime looked at him with new-found respect.
"I... I..." Spatchcock spluttered, shaking his head. "I've never heard anything so disgusting, so degrading, so completely and utterly revolting in my life! I'm shocked, honestly, I am shocked! I didn't know you had it in you."
"Remember what you promised!"
"Well, I lied," Spatchcock said. "Now, all we need is Dante to save our ugly asses and then I tell the world what you just told me - you dirty dog!"
The princess finally brought her speech to a close. "Now, I shall hand proceedings over to our royal executioner..." A cacophony of cheering came from the crowd as Spatchcock and Flintlock were shoved towards the twin chopping blocks at the front edge of the plinth.
Spatchcock searched the sky hopefully. "Come on, Dante, don't let me down - not now!"
The ambulance was flying less than a metre above the Thames, its hover-engines screaming in protest as Dante piloted the vehicle with reckless abandon. He had swapped places with Penelope, freeing her to shoot at the swarm of Rippers pursuing them. She leaned out of the passenger window, firing her pistols at the murderous hunters on their hover-bikes. Trying to target them was not easy with Dante flinging the ambulance about in the air. "Hold it steady!" she howled. "I can't shoot these bastards if you don't hold it steady!"
"Easier said than done!" Dante shouted back. He pulled back on the controls, sending the vehicle's nose up into the air so it skimmed above one of the bridges crossing the Thames, then flung it back down towards the water. No sooner had he straightened out again than a sailing ship floated directly into their path, forcing an abrupt swerve.
Penelope got lucky with her next shot, exploding the nearest Ripper's engine. The fireball of debris claimed two more Rippers behind it, leaving only three in pursuit, She tried to fire at them with one weapon, then the other, but both clicked repeatedly. "I'm out of ammunition!"
Dante glanced at his mirrors. "Let's see if I can't shake off the last of these bastards." He grinned at Penelope. "You might want to strap yourself in." Once she was secure, Dante wrenched the controls backwards. The ambulance shot underneath Westminster Bridge and then up into the air in a tight arc. But instead of levelling out again, Dante maintained the trajectory.
"These things aren't designed to loop the loop you maniac!" Penelope said, g-force pulling her lips back from teeth into an involuntary grin. Around them the vehicle was threatening to shake itself apart, glass fragments flying through the air inside.
"Now she tells me!" Dante replied through gritted teeth. The ambulance was upside down but it kept going, starting to plunge towards the Thames. "Hold on, this is going to be close!" Dante snarled, keeping the controls tight to his chest. The ambulance seemed certain to smash into the river's surface but somehow righted itself, once more racing along above the water. Ahead of them the remaining Rippers were looking back, astonished by Dante's death-defying manoeuvre. They didn't notice the barge crossing the Thames in front of them until it was too late. All three flew straight into the ship, exploding in a trinity of fireballs. Dante grinned at his wide-eyed passenger. "You know, I wasn't sure that would work."
Penelope shook her head in disbelief. "I can't decide if you're the bravest man I've ever met or the biggest fool in the Empire."
Probably both, the Crest observed.
Dante slowed the ambulance to a halt, then told Penelope to swap places with him. "Are hover-vehicles required to carry parachutes in case of emergency?"
"Of course, there's one under each seat - why?"
Dante removed the parachute from beneath his position and began strapping it on his back. "You'll have to drop me off over Trafalgar Square, we'll never land this thing close enough."
"Then what?" Penelope asked.
"Knowing the person who hired Boyle and Dobie, they won't be satisfied with leaving the king alive. I'm guessing they'll use the diversion of the public execution to take matters in their own hands. You're Britannia's best secret agent - you have to stop them!"
"What about a last request?" Spatchcock asked, stalling for time. "As condemned men, don't we get a last request? We haven't eaten in days!"
"If you're worrying about losing too much weight, I believe the imminent removal of your heads is, perhaps, a more pressing issue," the princess replied. Those in the crowd who could hear what she was saying laughed a little, but the rest were growing ever more impatient. Marie-Anne nodded to the executioner, who shoved Spatchcock's head on the chopping block next to Flintlock. The prisoners' manacles were attached to a taut chain on the plinth, preventing them from squirming around or escaping the axe when it came.
"That axe isn't sharp enough," Spatchcock complained. "I don't think it's been cleaned since the last time an executioner used it. If the blade isn't sharp enough, we'll be here all night with him hacking away. I don't want him finishing me off with a pocket knife."
"The axe is sharp enough to split hairs," the princess said, "as you will soon discover!" She turned to the crowd and smiled magnanimously. "Do the condemned men have any last words they wish to say before the sentence is carried out?"
"Yes," Flintlock replied. "I'm too young and too pretty to die!"
"You wish," Spatchcock cackled.
"Anything else?" Marie-Anne demanded.
"There was one thing," Spatchcock said. "Did you know there's a madman falling out of the sky towards you?"
The princess sighed. "I didn't think there were still people alive foolish enough to believe that 'look behind you!' misdirection still worked."
"I'll take that as a no. Oh, hi, Dante!"
Marie-Anne spun round but there was nobody behind her. She turned back to face the two prisoners, her expression sour enough to curdle milk.
"Made you look," Spatchcock smirked, winking at her.
"Kill them!" the princess shouted at the executioner. "Kill them now!"
Then the sharpshooters around Trafalgar Square opened fire.
"Your majesty, you should not be exerting yourself like this," Doctor Bhamra insisted, gesturing at the chaos surrounding her. The king had demanded a holographic display for his hospital room, along with a camera crew on standby in case he wished to broadcast a proclamation.
"Nonsense, my dear! How can I be expected to rule if I don't know what's happening in my kingdom?" Henry summoned the pretty young physician closer, so he could whisper in her ear. "This is still my kingdom, isn't it?"
"Yes, your majesty, of course it is."
"Jolly good show!" The king pinched the doctor's buttocks and gave her a friendly wink. "Now, what's on today? Not one of those dreary films about the royal family - can't stand them!"
"It's the public execution," one of the camera crew chipped in, "from Trafalgar Square, Your Highness. Two of the men who tried to kill you are being beheaded."
"Really? I don't remember signing any such decree."
"Your daughter did it, while you were incapacitated," Doctor Bhamra explained.
"Did she now? The cunning little vixen! We'll see about that. Start those cameras!"
The odd
s that none of these sharpshooters will hit you or disable your parachute are slightly greater than seventeen thousand to one - against.
"Never tell me the odds, Crest!" Dante shouted, struggling to hear his own words above the volleys of gunfire coming at him from every possible angle. He was dropping towards the place of execution in Trafalgar Square, having jumped out of the ambulance as it passed overhead. "One more minute and I'll be safely on the ground. These marksmen couldn't hit water if they fell out of a boat."
They may not be able to hit you, but eventually they'll realise your parachute is a considerably larger and easier target, the Crest predicted. Not sooner had it spoken than the sharpshooters shifted aim upwards. So much for beating the odds.
Dante's descent began accelerating with each fresh hole put through his parachute. "What I need is something soft to cushion the impact of my landing..."
Like everyone else in the square, the executioner was watching the spectacle of Dante's daredevil descent. He found it all but impossible to tear his gaze from the Russian renegade's groin, fully displayed thanks to the wind tugging Dante's kilt upwards. It took a slap across the face from Princess Marie-Anne to get his attention. "Chop off the prisoners' heads now or your head will be next on the block!" Eager to please her, the executioner drew back his axe in the air, preparing to swing it down on Flintlock's scrawny neck. But the sudden arrival of Dante's feet in his face proved something of a distraction. The executioner tipped over backwards, falling on to the blade of his own axe. It sliced neatly through his spinal column, proving just as sharp as the princess had promised.
Dante dropped into a crouch, his bio-blades already extending from each fist. He sliced one sword through the air, severing the ropes and straps linking him to the parachute. The other blade cut apart the manacles holding Spatchcock and Flintlock in place. The two men scrambled to their feet, all too aware of the numerous sharpshooters nearby.