The Strangelove Gambit

by David Bishop

  "I have an old war wound," Dante announced, a little too triumphantly.

  And you need to pack it with ice once a day...

  "And I need to pack it with ice once a day..."

  To keep the swelling down, the Crest concluded mischievously.

  "To keep the, er..." Dante smiled. "To keep my injury from getting worse."

  Natalia was struggling to keep a smirk from her face. "Yes, I understand." She leaned forward and peered at the area Dante was trying to hide with the ice bag. "Well, then, your need is obviously greater than mine. I'd best find Helga and return this item of clothing to her."

  "A good idea," Dante agreed hurriedly. "Now, if you'll just excuse me." He began backing away from her.

  Natalia peered at one of his arms, her brow furrowing with thought. "Umm, Mr Durward?" she asked.

  Dante stopped and raised his eyebrows. "Yes, Natalia?"

  The student appeared to be planning another question, but changed her mind. "Nothing. I hope your, er, injury gets better soon." Natalia smiled helpfully. "It must be very painful."

  "You have no idea. Good day to you."

  Dante made it through the rest of the teaching day unharmed, except for the blows to his pride whenever students began whispering amongst themselves and giggling during his classes. He found himself looking forward to the evening meal when all the staff were gathered together, as it would offer another chance to assess Fabergè. So far the doctor had shown arrogance not uncommon in those who rate achievement above love or happiness. But how far did Fabergè's ambitions extend? The doctor's comments about the Tsar suggested Fabergè considered himself above the Empire's ruler, a dangerous belief for anyone.

  Having lost his first choice of clothing to the unscrupulous poker players, Dante selected a plain black linen suit and shirt for the dinner table. But when he entered the staff library, the collective mood was decidedly more downbeat than the previous evening. Neither Fabergè nor the Strangelove twins were expected at dinner, and Wartski had refused to unlock the drinks cabinet. The female tutors muttered darkly amongst themselves while Mould sat disconsolately in an armchair reading a textbook. Dante approached the five women and tried to strike up a conversation.

  "Hi! I'm the new self-defence and swordplay instructor. We didn't get a chance to talk during dinner last night."

  The female tutors looked at him with a mixture of disgust and disdain. Dante put on his most winning smile and turned up the charm.

  "My first day of teaching here was quite a revelation," he continued.

  "So we've heard," one of the women said with a scowl. Dressed in a severe woollen twin-set and a string of pearls, the pinched expression on her face left Dante wondering if she had been sucking lemons between classes.

  "I hope the students had good things to say about me, Miss...?"

  "Ms Ostrov," she replied coldly. "No, they didn't."

  "Oh!" Dante was surprised and rather hurt by this news. "I wonder why?"

  "We do not encourage card games at this institution," another of the women interjected. Dante almost thought she might be a disciple from the House of Rasputin, so thick were the black hairs adorning her top lip. "Nor do we favour flirting with the pupils. It's most unseemly."

  "This is a finishing school," Dante protested. "Isn't it, Miss...?"

  "Ms Zemlya," she said.

  "Don't you have a duty to prepare them for life in the real world?" Dante continued. "Flirting and games are part of that life."

  "Not at this school," Ms Ostrov snapped. Her four colleagues nodded. "We believe in the power of learning and knowledge. A good education enriches the mind. Your sort of teaching can only harm the reputation of this esteemed establishment."

  "Really? I thought I was bringing some fresh air to this place, blowing a few skirts up, injecting some excitement into the lessons."

  Ms Ostrov's hands dropped to her own skirt and held it firmly in place, as if worried Dante was going to make good on his notions there and then. "All skirts should remain in their proper positions at all times!"

  "I was speaking, you know, um..."

  Metaphorically, the Crest prompted.

  "Metaphorically," Dante said. "I was speaking metaphorically."

  "Nevertheless," Ms Zemlya bristled, "we would prefer if you kept your distance from us. We don't wish to be contaminated by your errant ideas." The other women all murmured their agreement and turned their backs on Dante. He walked away shaking his head at their attitude.

  "I wouldn't contaminate any of you with a ten foot barge pole," he muttered darkly. "Have all the distance you want." Dante approached Mould instead, hoping to have more success with the ageing academic. The professor was examining a textbook about noble families and their lineage through the centuries. "Anything interesting?" Dante asked.

  "I've been trying to trace the name Durward in our historical texts," Mould replied. "I can't seem to find any mention of your family in the last two hundred years. Where did you say you came from?"

  "I didn't," Dante replied hastily. "Mould is an unusual name. Where does that originate from?"

  "It's an Anglo-Saxon name originally. My distant ancestors collected mould for use by apothecaries and alchemists."

  "That's fascinating." Dante glanced round the room, searching for a way out of this conversational hell. "I wonder what we're having for dinner?"

  A chime sounded and the faculty began moving into the dining hall. The seats normally occupied by Fabergè and Wartski remained empty, leaving Dante alone near the head of the table, with just Mould for company. The prospect of a long and tedious evening was crushing the last of his spirits when a familiar face appeared with the first course. An unusually clean and tidy Spatchcock entered from a side door, carefully balancing half a dozen plates of steaming, green soup on his arms. He served all the female staff first, then gave the final plate to the professor.

  By now Dante was more than hungry but had to wait several minutes before Spatchcock returned with the final bowl of soup. The stooped servant put it down before Dante and made a point of engaging him in conversation. "I do hope you'll enjoy the soup, sir."

  "I'm sure I will," Dante replied, picking up a spoon.

  "It's pea and ham."

  "Fascinating, I'm sure."

  "I took a bowl to Doctor Fabergè for lunch today."

  "Good for you." Dante wanted to make a start but Spatchcock's thumb remained on the side of the bowl, blocking his access.

  "He seemed to enjoy it. The dish was empty when I collected it from his laboratory later in the afternoon."

  "Yes. Good. Glad to hear it. Now, can I-" Dante tried to push his spoon past Spatchcock without success.

  "I hope you'll enjoy it as much," Spatchcock continued, winking at Dante.

  "I will if you'll give me the chance!"

  "Make sure you go all the way to the bottom of the bowl." Spatchcock's winking continued, becoming ever more exaggerated.

  "Yes, thank you. I get it. Enjoy the soup. Every last drop!"

  "Exactly, sir. That's exactly right." Spatchcock nodded at Dante several times, adding a few extra winks for emphasis.

  "Is there something wrong with you eye, Spatchcock? You seem to have developed a nervous tic."

  "Just finish the soup," the servant hissed.

  "I will, given half a chance!" Dante snapped, slapping Spatchcock's hand away from the bowl. "Now let me eat, why don't you?"

  "Fine!"

  "Fine!"

  "Good!"

  "Good!"

  By now Mould and the other teachers were all staring at this hissing contest, regarding the new arrival and his servant with disbelief. Dante realised he was being watched and offered the others a warm smile. "Please excuse us. My manservant can be a little possessive sometimes."

  Spatchcock rolled his eyes heavenwards. "Just eat the damn soup!"

  "I will!" Dante snarled. "Haven't you got a kitchen to go to?"

  "Fine! Choke on it for all I care!" The servant s
tomped out of the dining hall, slamming the side door on his way out.

  Dante gave an exaggerated sigh. "You just can't get the staff these days." He turned back to his soup and began hurriedly spooning it into his mouth. "Still, this soup is delicious. What flavour did he say it is?"

  "Pea and ham," Mould replied. "Don't see what all the fuss is about..."

  Dante was slurping his soup eagerly; dribbles of the green liquid covering his chin and lingering in his beard. The female tutors watched his slovenly table manners with horror, but he kept shovelling. Such was his enthusiasm he didn't notice the glint of crystal in the final mouthful. After sucking the spoon dry, Dante slammed it down on the tablecloth and smiled broadly. "Yes, that was quite delicious. I must ask Spatchcock for-"

  He stopped abruptly and grabbed at his throat. "Ackkk!"

  Dante? What's wrong? the Crest demanded.

  "Ackkk! Acckkk-acckkk!"

  I don't understand. Are you unwell?

  Dante's face was rapidly turning purple, while attempts to clear his throat were proving fruitless. "Mykk throackkkk! Stuckkk ikk myyykkk throackkkk!"

  I can't detect any trace of poison in what you've ingested...

  "Mykk throackkkk!" Dante gasped, blue replacing the purple in his face. He stood up, knocking his chair over backwards and startling the other staff. "Stuckkk ikk myyykkk throackkkk!"

  You've got something stuck in your throat?

  "Yekkkk!"

  Mould looked up from his soup. "I say, are you quite alright Mr Durward?"

  Dante shook his head and pointed at his throat. "I cankkk breaffkkk!"

  "Sorry, I can't quite make out what you're saying," the professor replied.

  The Heimlich Manoeuvre - tell them to perform the Heimlich Manoeuvre on you, the Crest suggested. Dante just gurgled in response. Oh, I forgot, you can't talk properly. Sorry. Try miming it!

  Dante began performing an elaborate charade, all the while clutching at his throat and turning ever more blue around the lips. But his gestures for the other staff to help him were misinterpreted when Dante mimed one person thrusting themselves against another person from behind.

  "This is too much!" Ms Ostrov protested. "I don't care what your sexual proclivities are, Mr Durward, I will not bear witness to such a display at the dinner table! Kindly cease and desist immediately!"

  Dante gave up asking for help and instead began punching himself in the abdomen, trying to dislodge whatever was stuck in his throat. He did succeed in projectile vomiting viscous green bile across the table where it splattered Ms Ostrov's face and chest, but still could not shift the blockage.

  Try drinking water. That should force the object down your throat!

  Dante grabbed a carafe of water from the table and poured it down his throat, the liquid splashing against his features and soaking the surroundings. After one last swallow the obstruction was washed down his oesophagus. Dante collapsed on to the dining table, gratefully grasping breath into his lungs.

  All five women had retreated back against the walls of the dining hall, their faces aghast at this violent spectacle. Mould sipped quietly at his soup. "Hmm, tastes alright to me," he commented.

  "I had something lodged in my throat," Dante explained weakly. "Sorry."

  Ms Ostrov looked at the hideous bile staining her white top, rendering the fabric transparent. "I've never been so humiliated in my life," she shrieked and ran from the room, the other women following her out.

  Mould watched them leave. "Oh well," he shrugged. "All the more for us, eh, Durward?"

  "What do you mean you swallowed it?" Spatchcock shook his head in disbelief. "How could you swallow it?"

  "Believe me, it wasn't easy," Dante replied. After dinner he had gone down to the kitchens, ostensibly to pass his compliments to the chef. Scullion had already retired for the night, giving Dante a chance to consult with Spatchcock. They stood near the door to the external walkway but insisted Flintlock remain outside, where his stench was less likely to reach them. "What the hell did you put in my soup?"

  "It was a data crystal I took from Fabergè's laboratory at lunchtime. I thought you could have the Crest read it. Maybe the information stored inside would give us some clues to this Strangelove Gambit."

  "A good idea," Dante agreed.

  "But I needed a less than obvious way of smuggling it to you."

  "So he put the crystal in your soup," Flintlock chipped in. "I told him not to but Spatch wouldn't listen to me, as usual."

  "You could have warned me," Dante said.

  "I did warn you," Spatchcock wailed. "What did you think all that winking and nodding in the dining hall was about?"

  "Muscle spasms?"

  "Muscle spasms!" Spatchcock threw his apron across the kitchen in despair. "I give up, I really do!"

  "Can the Crest analyse that crystal while it's still inside?" Flintlock asked.

  Unfortunately, no, the Crest said. The crystal is a sealed data storage unit. I'll need to access its contents via your biocircuitry, Dante, and that can only happen once the crystal is outside your body.

  "Crest says no, not until I've expelled the crystal."

  "In that case, may I suggest you keep a close watch on everything coming out of you?" Flintlock said. "I don't fancy having to sort through all the sewerage this place generates to find the crystal again."

  "Good idea," Dante conceded. "How long will it take to come out?"

  That depends, the Crest replied, on what you eat for the next day or two. Plenty of roughage is the key that will help drive the crystal through your lower intestine and then out of your bowels.

  "It could take hours or it could take days," Spatchcock complained. "How long before the Tsar arrives?"

  "The Imperial Palace is due to arrive on Sunday. That's six days," Flintlock calculated.

  "What about some sort of laxative?" Dante asked. "Get things moving more quickly through my system."

  "That crystal will take its own time," Spatchcock sighed.

  "Maybe some liquorice?" Flintlock said. "Isn't that supposed to give you the runs?"

  "I thought it made you more constipated?" Dante countered. "No, we'll just have to wait for nature to take its course. In the meantime, keep your eyes and ears open. Anything you can find out, anything at all could be valuable information. Spatchcock, get closer to Scullion, find out what she knows."

  "Thanks a lot," the kitchen hand scowled. "Getting closer won't be any problem. It's keeping her away that's the hard part."

  "Flintlock, I want you to investigate Madame Wartski. I've heard a few dark hints about what she does in her private quarters, maybe it's related to this Strangelove Gambit. Get in there and find out, okay?"

  "Why don't you do that?" Flintlock asked. "Your quarters are much closer to her."

  "I'm not exactly popular with the female faculty at the moment," Dante admitted. "I don't know what the girls have been telling them about me, but none of it has been positive."

  "You couldn't keep your pants on for a single day, could you?" Spatchcock asked.

  Dante shrugged. "These things always happen to me. I don't know why."

  A classic case of denial if ever I heard one.

  "What will you be doing in between trips to the toilet?" Flintlock enquired.

  Dante smiled. "I think it's high time I paid a little more attention to Tempest and Storm. Since this weapon is called the Strangelove Gambit, it's a fair assumption the twins are involved in its development."

  "They were working with Fabergè in his laboratory," Spatchcock recalled.

  "I wonder if the Furies would be interested in joining me for a little mènage à trois action?" Dante asked.

  "A little what?" Spatchcock looked to Flintlock for an explanation.

  "In your gutter parlance," the exiled aristocrat replied. "He fancies having a three-in-a-bed sex romp."

  "You lucky devil! And with twins, too!"

  Dante smiled broadly. "It's a dirty job but someone's gotta do it."
/>
  Dante only remembered the rendezvous with Helga after returning to his private quarters. He hurried to the gymnasium, trying to think of some elegant yet subtle way of letting Helga down gently. If he was going to take on both the Strangelove twins, he would need all his energy. But the gymnasium door was firmly locked and Dante could see no sign of Helga through its glass window.

  "Looking for someone?" a booming voice demanded. Wartski was stomping towards him, her nightgown flapping in the breeze. He caught a glimpse of what was hidden inside and hurriedly averted his eyes. The sight of that many warts on the human body was more than repulsive - it was obscene.

  "No," he replied. "I left a piece of equipment behind when I was teaching in the gymnasium earlier and wanted to retrieve it before morning."

  Wartski regarded him suspiciously and then peered in through the window while trying to door handle. Satisfied the gymnasium was both secure and empty, she folded her gown round her voluminous torso. "That area is locked for the night. Whatever is inside will still be there in the morning. I suggest you come back then to collect it. In the meantime, you should return to your room. Doctor Fabergè frowns upon new staff wandering the hallways at night. Better for your future here if you respect that."

  "Of course," Dante agreed. "Well, I'll say goodnight then."

  Wartski grabbed hold of his arm as he turned to leave. "Unless you wanted to come back to my private quarters for a night-cap? I have an interesting selection of sherry and sweet wines there, Mr Durward."

  Dante yawned with great vigour. "Thank you for the kind invitation, but I think I'll follow your sage advice and retire to my room. Some of us need more beauty sleep than others."

  Wartski withdrew her hand sharply. "What are you inferring?"

  "Nothing, nothing at all," he replied quickly. "Well, goodnight!" With that Dante scurried away, counting his blessings at having escaped the matron's attention. He did not envy Flintlock the job of finding out more about her. Dante returned directly to his own room and fled inside, locking and bolting the door after himself. He listened intently for movement outside. A few moments later heavy footsteps approached the door and someone tried the handle. Unable to gain entry, they walked away again.