Heroics for Beginners

by John Moore

  “I’ve worked in plenty of fortresses,” said Kevin. “They make the floor plan confusing on purpose, right? To slow down the attackers if the fortress is invaded?”

  “Right. But this one is more confusing than most. The windows, for example. From the outside there are five levels of windows, because it is designed to look like it has five floors. But actually there are seven, not counting the levels underground.”

  Kevin nodded. But he was still surprised. At first glance, there seemed to be plenty of men in the fortress. Certainly there were enough to hold the walls against a well-planned siege. But if Kevin was any judge, the Fortress did not hold enough soldiers to mount an attack against any sizable army. Was there really a threat to Deserae here? What could Voltmeter be up to?

  He pressed his mustache again. In front of him, Valerie knocked on a door, then opened it without waiting for an invitation. “Here’s Stan. Stan will get you an ID badge. Stan, here’s the man from the village I told you about.”

  Stan was a thin young man with an even tan, spectacles, and hair that was cut very short on the sides and kind of moppy-looking on top. He had a very tight, trim look, the body of a man who didn’t do sports but spent a lot of time working his abs. He wore a uniform, similar to that of Voltmeter’s soldiers, but without insignia. He was sitting at a desk in a small office, with an open copy of Ovid’s Metamorphoses in front of him. Other books were on the shelves around him. He rose to shake Kevin’s hand. “I’m the Chief Minion,” he said. “So let me know if there’s anything you need.”

  “You have a lot of books,” said Kevin, looking over the volumes of Plato, Homer, and Aristophanes that were stacked on the desk.

  Stan shrugged disparagingly. “I brought what I could. It’s a nice little valley, but you have to admit it’s pretty rural. It’s hard to find intellectual stimulation out here in the sticks. You don’t play chess by any chance, do you?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said the Prince. He actually played pretty well, but he didn’t think it fit in with his disguise.

  “Stan has a university degree,” said Valerie. “And he doesn’t like us to forget it.”

  “Two degrees,” said Stan. “Alas, they were both in the liberal arts. History and classical literature. They didn’t leave me much in the way of employment opportunities.”

  “History and literature?” asked Kevin. “I’m surprised. I thought there were plenty of jobs for waiters.”

  “Nah, the fine arts people snap them all up. We get the security guard jobs. That’s what I was doing after I graduated. Then I heard that His Lordship was interviewing for an educated minion, and the rest is history.”

  “You’re not a security guard here, then? The uniform had me confused.”

  “Well, the guards are better paid than minions, but minions don’t have to work shift. Except we’re on call one weekend per month.”

  Kevin turned to Valerie. “And you’re a minion also?”

  “No, I’m an Evil Assistant. So I don’t have to wear a uniform.”

  “But you do have a uniform, Valerie,” chided Stan. “And you’re out of it right now.”

  Valerie glared at him. “That is not a uniform.”

  “Call it a dress code, then.”

  “His Lordship was merely making a suggestion.”

  “Sounded pretty much like an order to me.”

  “How about if you just worry about your job, Stan, and let me worry about mine?”

  “Well,” said Kevin, “I’ll just get to work then.” An argument seemed to be brewing, and he wanted to stay out of it. He was eager to get away from their sight so he could start searching the fortress.

  “Fine,” said Stan. He took a card from his desk drawer, quickly filled it out, blotted it, and handed it over. Kevin clipped it to the pocket of his coveralls and wheeled his cart away. Stan waited until Kevin had turned a corner before speaking to Valerie again. “By the way, we caught another one in the ventilation duct. A babe. She could be trouble.”

  “Oh?”

  “She’s a comic sidekick.”

  “Oh?” Valerie said again. “Whose comic sidekick?”

  “Give me a break, Valerie. Who do you think?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, not really. Work her over and tell me what you find out. I didn’t get much of a look at her. She was covered with dirt and dust.”

  “That’s why we need this new guy.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, I commend her to your hot little hands. You can find out who she’s working with. Oh, yeah, check these out.” Stan stood up and unlocked a cupboard. A sword and scabbard were leaning up against the inside wall. He took them out and passed them to the Evil Assistant. “The guards took these away from her.”

  It was definitely a barbarian’s sword. Valerie saw that immediately. She could tell just from the handle and the scabbard. But it also looked familiar. She slid the sword partway out of its sheath, turned it over in her hands, and studied it. Now she was certain she recognized it. “I’ll see this woman right away.”

  She made her way down to the dungeon.

  The dungeon wasn’t much as dungeons go. The Fortress of Doom did not have a lot in the way of locking up captives. It was not a palace, after all, which is a seat of government. (If the king has a penchant for taking political prisoners, a palace may contain numerous cells. The dungeons of King Bruno of Omnia were reputed to extend for miles underground, with block after block of cells, elaborate barred gates, multiple checkpoints, and mood lighting.) The Fortress of Doom had not been designed as a prison either, where criminals were going to be held for trial and tortured for confessions. Prisons, of course, are nothing but cells.

  A castle, on the other hand, is merely a fortified personal residence, and a fortress is a military base. The Fortress of Doom had been built around a castle. It had only a single, short-term holding cell, and that was converted from a storeroom, one that had proved too damp to keep barrels of flour and sacks of beans. The Fortress of Doom didn’t need dungeons because Voltmeter didn’t believe in keeping prisoners very long. He preferred to execute them immediately.

  Valerie walked down the final flight of stairs and along the short hallway at the bottom. Various lightweight wooden doors led into storerooms. She chose one that had been retrofitted with a heavier door, with a new brass lock, and opened it to enter a small, dirty chamber. There were spider-webs in the corners and rat droppings on the floor. One wall held an old dartboard with a few darts, the feathers broken off, sticking in it. On the other wall was a faded calendar showing a busty girl holding a giant pipe wrench. The room was divided in half by a heavy iron grille. The grille had a small door, so low you had to crawl through it, and this was locked with an iron padlock around the bars. Outside the grilled area was a small table of unfinished wood, scratched and scarred, and a chair with one broken leg. Inside the grilled area, a disheveled young woman was standing against the wall, her arms chained over her head. Blond ringlets fell over her eyes. The chained arms forced her to stand with her breasts forward. Valerie felt her blood stirring. Unconsciously, she licked her lips.

  A single guard was in the chamber, leaning up against the bars. “No, missy,” he said. “It’s clowns. Two cannibals are eating a clown and one of them says, ‘Does this taste funny to you?’”

  “No, it’s clams,” said Becky. “I’m sure I have it right. Two cannibals are eating clams, and one says, ‘Do these taste funny?’”

  “But if it’s clams, the joke isn’t funny.”

  “It’s funny because cannibals don’t eat clams. They eat people.”

  “They don’t eat people all the time.”

  “Ahem,” said Valerie. The guard came to attention.

  “I’ll be questioning the prisoner.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The guard watched Valerie hook one booted foot behind the table leg and drag it over next to the bars. He watched her put the sword down on the table. Then he watched her lay down her riding crop, so she coul
d slip on a pair of search gloves, thin leather gloves that came to her elbows. She picked up the riding crop again. The guard looked from Becky’s lush body to Valerie’s slim one. “Whenever you’re ready, ma’am.”

  “Wait outside.”

  “If you’re going to do a strip search, maybe I better stick around,” the guard said hopefully. “She might have concealed weapons.”

  “That won’t be necessary. Wait outside.”

  “She could be dangerous.”

  “Out!”

  “Right.” The guard moved reluctantly to the door. “Well, I’ll be right here if you need any help.” He took a last long look at each of the two girls and closed the door behind him.

  Valerie took a ring of keys from her studded leather belt and unlocked the iron cage. She slipped inside and rose back to her feet in one single, sinuous movement, like a dancer doing a low dip, and stood so close to Becky that their bodies were almost, but not quite touching, staring into the prisoner’s eyes. Becky returned her gaze warily. She knew, of course, that Evil Overlords had Evil Assistants. But she didn’t have a clear idea of what an Evil Assistant actually did, besides look beautiful and evil. She did not expect, however, that being captured by an Evil Overlord was going to result in anything pleasant.

  Without a word, Valerie slapped Becky across the face.

  “Ow! What was that for?”

  “Quiet!” Valerie reached out and tore open the front of Becky’s blouse. This was done in a dramatic way, a common softening-up move that interrogators use before questioning. They believe that forcing a woman to expose her body increases her feelings of defenselessness. Thus Valerie was taken aback to find a chain-mail bra, and one that clearly was not going to be just ripped off. She recovered quickly, though. Stepping forward, she placed one gloved hand around Becky’s throat and pushed her head against the stone wall. With her other hand she unbuttoned the blond girl’s skirt and let it drop to the floor, at the same time kicking her ankles apart.

  “What . . . what are you doing?”

  With her head pushed up, Becky couldn’t see Valerie’s other hand, but she could feeling it sliding over her thighs. Valerie now had the whole length of her body pressing Becky to the wall. Her mouth was only an inch from Becky’s ear, and her breath was coming in quick pants. “Searching you for weapons.”

  “You’re not going to find anything there!”

  “No?” Valerie murmured. She pressed harder, and Becky squirmed beneath her hands, feeling the heat coming off the black leather. “I’ll be the judge of that.” She gave a sudden push that left the Princess weak at the knees. Then she stepped back suddenly and held up the sword. “Where did you get this?”

  “Hmm? That sword?” Becky’s voice was a bit faint. She strove to collect her thoughts. “I found it.”

  “Really? Where, pray tell?”

  “Um, in a flea market.” The Princess was also a girl who recovered quickly. “The dealer was asking ten crowns. I offered him five, because you know how it is, you never accept the first price in these places, and . . .”

  Valerie slapped her again, harder this time. “This is the sword of Thunk the Barbarian.”

  “Right,” said Becky. “Thunk the Barbarian. Yes. He gave it to me. I’m his comic sidekick.”

  “Of course you are. And where is Thunk?”

  “Right around here, somewhere,” said Becky. “Getting ready for revenge. You don’t suppose a little beating will keep down a barbarian hero, do you? Ha! Now he’s got this whole place figured out, and he’s coming back to kick your butt.”

  “I doubt that very seriously,” said Valerie. But she was thinking hard. So Thunk was alive. This was important news. Even a wounded Thunk was a dangerous man. He knew about the Diabolical Device. And the Ancient Artifact. It could change all their plans.

  She left the prisoner and went to tell Lord Voltmeter.

  When the plucky daughter of the kidnapped profesor

  demands to accompany you on the rescue mission,

  grab her by the shoulders, turn her around,

  and send her right back to that boarding school she

  came from. It’s okay to boff her first. She’s not an

  Evil Assistant, after all. But on no account should

  you let her follow you into the Invincible Fortress.

  —HANDBOOK OF PRACTICAL HEROICS BY ROBERT TAYLOR

  Kevin pushed his cart of brooms and brushes through the narrow halls. He was wearing loose black coveralls, black cotton gloves, and a black top hat. He’d had a busy morning in Angst, collecting all this stuff, as well as making a quick trip to the local printer. It was worth it, though. Now he was inside, and his Fortress of Doom temporary ID badge, clipped to his breast pocket, was effectively giving him free rein of the Fortress. Of course, from what he had learned in Angst, they might not be inclined to let him go when he was finished, but the Prince was prepared for that. His sword, in a plain wooden scabbard, was in the cart. It was hard to see with all the other stuff, but Kevin had wrapped it loosely with dust rags to make it even more inconspicuous. He also had other tools, in deep pockets so bulges didn’t show beneath the coveralls.

  Rolled up and tucked under his arm was a sheet of foolscap. It held a rough sketch of the Fortress of Doom. He was searching the Fortress as systematically as he could, and when the halls were empty he would take out a stick of charcoal and add to the map he was drawing, putting in not only the hallways and rooms, but the chimneys and ventilation ducts as well. He tried every door he passed. Almost all were unlatched, but very few were empty. They invariably contained men who were preparing for battle—repairing and cleaning weapons, repairing and cleaning uniforms, repairing and filling packs, measuring out rations, or checking equipment lists. Uniformed guards were everywhere. Kevin would look the room over, putter around a bit with his brooms and mops, and say that he would come back later. This generally met with approving nods.

  Before long, though, he was finding it hard to judge exactly where he was, as the hallways tended to twist and branch off, rarely going in the same direction for more than a few yards. Often they would dead-end. Even more often they would end at a short set of stairs that would lead up or down to another level. There seemed to be no end of stairs. Kevin estimated that he had gone up and down six levels, crossed the Fortress at least once, and was now close to the main entrance. He opened an unlocked door and found two surprises.

  The first surprise was that the room was devoid of people. He had not come across very many empty rooms in the Fortress—most of them were quite busy. The second surprise was that this room was considerably less gloomy than the rest of the Fortress. It had a high ceiling and apparently was built on an outside corner, for two of the walls had large windows that let in plenty of light. At present the brunt of the sunshine fell upon a shelf stacked with circular black objects. Kevin moved closer for a better look, then picked one up. It was a coffee mug, cheap black ceramic with the words FORTRESS OF DOOM painted in large red letters. Underneath was the slogan ENSLAVE THE PLANET. And then he understood where he was.

  He was in the Fortress of Doom gift shop.

  He moved around the edge of the room, sliding past counters piled with ashtrays, tee shirts, caps, fountain pens, shot glasses, and commemorative Fortress of Doom beer steins. He picked up a golf shirt with the Fortress of Doom logo embroidered on the breast pocket. It was kind of nice-looking. For a moment he considered getting it as gift for Winslow, then smiled and shook his head at the thought. Don’t be ridiculous, he chided himself. If you buy this you know what will happen. Later you’ll find the exact same thing in the village, and the price will be lower.

  He concentrated again on his mission. There were a lot of doors in this room. It had the shape of a rough octagon, not quite symmetrical, with a door in each wall. He tried each door in turn. Seven of the doors had simple latches. They opened into hallways or stairwells. One was locked.

  It was the door with the sign that said STAFF ONLY.
It looked like a ruse to Kevin. He was sure he was onto something. The door looked solid enough, but Kevin thought he could force the lock if it came to that. He stepped back and examined the wall. Above the door was the grille of a minor ventilation duct. He pulled a table over to the wall, set a chair on top of it, climbed up, and removed the grille. It was tight, but his shoulders fit into the duct. He took a selection of brushes from his cart and tried them out, until he found one that fit the opening nicely. Then he pushed it into the duct and slid in behind it. The brush blocked his view of where he was going, but that was okay. It would trigger any booby traps, and it was too dark to see anything anyway. The brush also had the advantage of cleaning the duct ahead of him, so he didn’t have to breathe a lot of dust.

  Worming his way with his hips, and pushing with his toes, he slid along for some dozen yards before he came to another opening. Carefully and quietly he slipped the grille from its brackets and set it inside the duct. He stuck his head outside but found he couldn’t see anything. He was facing a wall, and there was no room to change position inside the duct. He slid the brush out the opening and let it fall. Then he wiggled himself out until he was hanging by his fingers and dropped to the floor of the alchemist’s lab.

  He didn’t recognize it. Kevin had never been in the laboratory of an alchemist, and this place didn’t quite fit his mental picture of what a laboratory would look like. He expected to see a lot of flasks and beakers, with multicolored liquids boiling away. He expected mortars and pestles for grinding powders, delicate brass balances for weighing them out, bottles of acid and alcohol for dissolving them, and strange, cryptic texts in Latin and Arabic.

  Instead he saw a place that looked more like a clock-maker’s shop. The center of the room was taken up with a long, heavy workbench. It held a vise, a foot-cranked drill press, and a foot-cranked lathe. Scattered around them were a number of calipers and precision tools. There was a rack of shelves set against one wall, filled with technical manuals, with a couple of golf trophies serving as bookends. The top shelf held a very accurate mercury clock, and a spring-driven nautical clock. The rest of the wall space, every inch of it, was taken up with complex drawings, large sheets of vellum covered with numbers and blue lines, of some intricate piece of equipment. There was a large black boiler in one corner, with a scuttle of coal beside it. Iron pipes ran to it, and brass tubes radiated from it, and tiny valves on the tubes hissed puffs of steam.