by Tom Holt
‘We’re fairly straight on that bit,’ interrupted Chardonay mildly. ‘I think it’s the actual burglary where we’re all still a bit at sea.’
Wish you were, thought Prodsnap savagely. ‘What’s so hard to understand?’ he replied, demonstrating his contempt for the minor problems that confronted them with an airy gesture. ‘We cut the wire, smash down the doors, go in, help ourselves. The pink bloody panther could cope with that. Now then, Slitgrind, you’ve got the wirecutters. Snorkfrod, you’re doing the big hammer stuff. Holdall, you’re the smallest, you climb in through the window of the main office and nick the keys. Chardonay, you go into the fusion chamber and lift the actual stuff...’
‘Wilco, boss.’
‘Chardonay, what the Shopfloor are you doing?’
‘Saluting, boss.’
‘Are you taking the ...?’
Chardonay sounded genuinely hurt. ‘No, boss. I want you to know that whatever happens, I’ll be in there giving it my best shot. Sir,’ he added.
Prodsnap shuddered. ‘After that, it’s just a matter of running for it. If we get separated, we meet up back at the van. All right so far? Splendid. Slitgrind, the wire.’
Snip. Snip. The alarm went off.
‘Oh.’ Prodsnap’s face fell like a drunken trapeze artiste. ‘That’s a pity. Um...’
‘Sir.’
‘Not now, please—’
‘Sir,’ Chardonay insisted, ‘I’d love to volunteer to locate and disable the alarm. I’d also be thrilled to bits if you’d let me stalk and neutralise the guards who may be hurrying to the scene. If that’s all right with you.’
Prodsnap could feel one of his headaches coming on. ‘Yeah, right,’ he said. ‘Whatever you...’
But Chardonay wasn’t there any more. He’d already scaled the fence—it was electrified, but as far as a demon’s concerned the difference between an electric fence and an inert one is the same as between thermal and standard underwear - and was inside the compound. Inside his own personal cloud, he caught a fleeting glimpse of silver.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘that seems to have got rid of him. Snorkfrod, you wouldn’t mind just nipping after him, make sure he’s okay? Right, see you later.’
As Snorkfrod’s fishnetted leg vanished over the top of the fence, Prodsnap counted up to five and rubbed his claws together.
‘Looks like we’ve got shot of both of them,’ he said perkily. ‘Come on, lads, we’ve got work to do.’
Slitgrind frowned. ‘Where’re we going?’
‘Round the front gate, of course. Come on, guys, let’s move it.’
The main gates of the compound were manned by three large men and two Rottweilers. The dogs were no trouble - in Hell, they’d have been relegated to tartan-collar-and-knitted-jacket status. The guards would probably take some finessing.
‘Excuse me.’
The guard’s neck swivelled. ‘Halt!’ he snapped. ‘Who goes...?’
‘Excuse me,’ repeated the voice from the darkness. ‘I’m coming towards you. Don’t do anything hasty, I just want a quick word.’
Prodsnap advanced, smiling. As he stood under the floodlights, the guard made a funny noise in the back of his throat and started to edge away.
‘Evening,’ Prodsnap went on. ‘You can see me all right, then?’
‘What the fuck...?’
Prodsnap nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘No oil painting, huh? Bit on the weird side, too.’
Just sufficient motor function control remained in the guard’s body to enable him to nod. Prodsnap extended a hand, but the guard didn’t respond.
‘I’ll ask you to imagine,’ Prodsnap was saying, ‘what you’re going to tell your sergeant when you report this incident. Think about it.’
The guard was already thinking.
‘The way I see it,’ Prodsnap said, ‘I can picture you tapping on the office door. “Well?” says Sarge. “Sarge,” you say, “the compound’s overrun with horrible-looking devils.”’ Prodsnap paused for effect. ‘Not much good for a bloke’s career, is it, getting a reputation for seeing things? Now we both know you’re not imagining this, but—’
‘Pass, friend.’
That, however, was about as far as Prodsnap’s plan took him. Somehow he’d imagined that once he was inside the wire, finding the uranium would present no great problem. He didn’t know what he expected - a glow? Fingerposts saying This Way To The Nukes—but he’d expected something. What he found was a settlement, certainly no larger than Manchester.
‘Bugger,’ he said.
Because the sirens were still yowling themselves silly, nobody much was about; there were a few harassed-looking types running around, jumping in and out of vehicles and shouting orders into walkie-talkies, others sedately walking, ticking things off on clipboards. Some men in overalls were creosoting windowframes. Four men in suits were eating sandwiches out of tupperware lunch-boxes. No uranium on display anywhere.
Oh well, only one way to find out. ‘Excuse me.’
A tall, thin girl, big shoulder-pads, wearing what was either a skirt or a belt (impossible to say which), turned her head, double-took and said, ‘Eeek!’ Prodsnap advanced a step, wisely decided against smiling, and instead said, ‘Hi.’
‘Um. Hi.’
‘Wonder if you could help us,’ Prodsnap went on. ‘We’re looking for the, um, core. Do you happen to know where...?’
The girl backed away, her eyes big as melons. ‘The core,’ she repeated.
‘That’s right.’ Prodsnap let his mind freewheel. ‘We’re the inspectors. You saw the notice, presumably?’
‘I don’t think I ... Inspectors?’
Prodsnap nodded. ‘You don’t think we were born like this, do you?’ he said, in a tone of voice that suggested that any further references to appearance would constitute gawping at the misfortunes of the disabled. Good ploy; a microsecond later, you could have sworn the girl hadn’t noticed anything at all out of the ordinary in their appearance. ‘Anyway,’ Prodsnap went on, ‘there was supposed to be someone here to meet us, but I think there may have been a bit of a mix-up...’
‘Actually,’ the girl said, ‘I only work in Accounts, I don’t actually know here they keep the, er...’
Prodsnap shrugged. ‘Never mind,’ he said, ‘thanks anyway. There isn’t a map or anything, is there?’
The girl thought for a moment. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you could always try the Visitors’ Centre, I suppose. You know, where they have all the tourist stuff. It’s just over there, by the gift shop.’
It was Holdall’s idea to steal a van. The first one that came to hand was a mobile canteen, with tea-urns, film-wrapped sandwiches, KitKats and packets of crisps. Slitgrind parked it outside the Visitors’ Centre with the engine running while Prodsnap went in. He’d found an overcoat and a cloth cap in the back of the van; it was like putting an Elastoplast on a severed limb, but it was the best he could do.
‘Excuse me...’
‘Eeek!’
Suddenly, Prodsnap felt very weary. His mind went blank. All he could think of was the direct approach. Only the one woman behind the desk. He cleared his throat.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you’re right. I’m a fiend from Hell. Actually, my name’s Prodsnap, and although I do live in Hell I’m really only a wages clerk, and right now I’m on holiday, off duty. Have you got a problem with any of that?’
‘N-no.’ The woman seemed to be frozen rigid. Had she pressed a hidden buzzer or panic button? Well, only time would tell on that one. ‘How can I h-help you?’
‘A map of the complex, please. Is there a guided tour, anything like that?’
The woman looked at him. Hadn’t, she enquired, the company who organised his tour dealt with all that? She produced a roster. Which group did he say he was with, exactly?
Oh, the Shopfloor with it. ‘Listen, love,’ Prodsnap growled. ‘The purpose of our visit isn’t exclusively tourism.’
‘No?’
Prodsnap shook his head. �
�Actually,’ he said, ‘it’s theft. Tell me where the uranium is and everything’ll be just—’
‘EEEEK!’ More bloody alarms, sirens, the works. Paranoid, the lot of them. Just happen to mention you wanted to swipe their uranium and the whole place goes apeshit.
‘Thank you,’ Prodsnap said, ‘you’ve been most helpful.’ He was about to run when an idea struck him. He slowed down, strolled nonchalantly outside and leaned up against the side of the van, trying to look like a hideous mutant Maurice Chevalier.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Slitgrind hissed, ‘what do you think you’re doing? Can’t you hear the ...?’
Prodsnap nodded. ‘Any second now,’ he replied, ‘security’ ll turn up. They’re bound to know where the core is. We’ll ask them.’
‘But—’
‘Who do you reckon’s likely to be more scared? Us of them, or them of us?’
Sure enough, security arrived; about fifty of them, armed to the teeth and looking distinctly apprehensive. To counter all their weaponry, Prodsnap had a smile, which he’d been able to practise once or twice in the van’s wing-mirror while he was waiting. He ambled up to the fiercest-looking bloke he could see, said ‘May I?’, took his gun and ate it.
‘My name’s Prodsnap,’ he said. He waved his talon. ‘And this is Slitgrind, and this is Holdall. We’re from Hell. Could you take us to where the uranium’s stored, please? Sorry to bounce you like this, but we are in rather a hurry.’
‘Fire!’
Prodsnap closed his eyes. No point expecting to see edited highlights of his past life because there wasn’t time. Idly he wondered whether what was about to happen to him would be death or just some kind of extremely rapid transdimensional lift.
Nothing happened. A thousandth of a second became a hundredth, a hundredth became a tenth. That’s the bummer with long-distance travel, he reflected, all this standing about waiting.
He opened his eyes just as the gunfire started. About time too, he muttered to himself, then he realised that nobody was shooting at him.
They were shooting upwards, at the dragon.
By the time Mike and Bianca got out of the police station it was lunchtime. Since there was nothing else they could usefully do, they decided to go for a curry.
‘On balance,’ Mike said over the pappadoms, ‘I can’t say I’m all that bothered. Never liked the old body much, after all. I’m not exactly crazy about this one, but a change is as good as a rest. Could be a whole lot worse, after all.’
Bianca nodded. ‘Glad you see it that way,’ she replied. ‘Wish they’d hurry up, I’m starving.’
‘You can have the last pappadom, if you like.’
‘Thanks, I will.’ She did. ‘What with one thing and another,’ she went on, ‘I can’t remember the last time I had a proper meal. Plays hell with your metabolism, all this meddling in the supernatural.’
Mike shrugged. ‘I’m all right,’ he replied. ‘Saint George must have had something to eat quite recently. I know I only met him briefly, and under peculiar circumstances at that, but I can well believe he wouldn’t be the sort to neglect his carbohydrates.’
‘Me too.’ Bianca dipped the last fragment in the mango chutney. ‘Does it feel odd?’ she asked. Mike nodded.
‘A bit,’ he replied. ‘The arms are a bit short and the waistband’s on the large side. Still, like my mum used to say when I was a kid, I expect I’ll grow into it.’
‘Can’t really say it suits you. Mind you, neither did the old one.’
‘That’s me all over. Leading fashions, not following them. You’ll see. In six months’ time, everybody’ll be trying to look like this.’
‘I knew a girl once who had her nose done. You know, cosmetic surgery. Had a crisis of identity about it, so she said. Mind you, if I’d forked out ten thousand quid to be made to look like a parrot, I’d probably be asking myself all sorts of difficult questions.’
The food arrived. ‘Now there’s a thought,’ Mike suggested. ‘If only we could suss out exactly how this bodies-and-statues thing worked, we could make an absolute fortune.’
‘The word We, in context...’
‘It’d be amazing,’ Mike went on. ‘You know; for a modest fee, you too can have the body of a young Greek god. The hell with nose jobs, we’re talking total physical remodelling here. Have you any idea what the total revenue of the slimming industry amounts to in an average year?’
‘Mike—’
‘Not to mention the private health care aspect. Is your body clapped-out, leaking oil, slow to start in the mornings? Chuck it away and get a new one.’
‘Mike,’ Bianca said, ‘just what the hell are we going to do?’
‘About the dragon?’ Mike replied. ‘And Saint George and the fabric of reality as we thought we knew it? Who says we’ve got to do anything?’
‘I do.’
‘Bianca.’ Mike did his best to look serious, although he wasn’t entirely sure he knew how to do it in the new body; he hadn’t yet worked out, as it were, which lever was the indicators and which was the windscreen wipers. ‘I don’t think it works like that. People like us aren’t supposed to get involved in this kind of thing. Rescuing the planet’s not down to us. Save three worlds and you don’t get a free radio alarm clock.’
‘Nevertheless.’
Mike tried a different tack. ‘And besides,’ he said, ‘even if you were able to do anything about anything, how the hell do you know what’s the right thing to do? I assume,’ he added, ‘you’d insist on being tediously conventional and doing the right thing.’
‘Naturally. Oh come on, Mike, use your common sense, it’s obvious who’s in the right and who’s in the wrong.’
‘Is it?’ Mike took advantage of the high level of dramatic tension to swipe some of Bianca’s nan bread. ‘Go on then.’
Bianca frowned. ‘Well, the dragon, of course. Stands to reason.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Mike, that bastard stole your body. My statue. He tried to kill you.’
‘The other bugger succeeded in killing me. Or had you forgotten?’
‘But that was an accident!’
It was Mike’s turn to frown. ‘Sixteen people, Bianca, one of them me. All right, it wasn’t deliberate, but I don’t think the bastard actually cared very much.’
‘But George killed all the dragons,’ Bianca protested. ‘It was genocide. They were innocent people—’
‘Not people. Only humans are people. Innocent animals.’
‘Okay, okay. But they’d never done him any harm, and he killed them.’
‘Enjoying the lamb? My chicken’s nice.’
‘That’s different.’
Mike shrugged. ‘If you say so. Look, I’m not saying George is the good guy, either. Of course he’s not. All I’m saying is, it’s not precisely simple and straightforward. Most particularly, it’s not the sort of thing where you can make up your mind on the basis of which contestant’s cuddlier and has the nicest eyes.’ Mike paused, partly for effect, mostly because his food was going cold and he knew his priorities. ‘Appearances count for fuck-all in this. Particularly,’ he added, ‘since you made all the appearances.’
Bianca thought about that for a moment. ‘That’s the point, though,’ she said. ‘Surely. I mean, if anybody knows these guys, it must be me. It was me designed them. I made them what I wanted them to be. And I guess I always believed, deep down, that the dragon was somehow the good guy. I think I carved him that way.’
‘More fool you, then. You finished with the lentils? I’m hungrier than I thought.’
‘Mike,’ Bianca said, ‘I can’t explain it, I just know.’
‘I used to say that in exams, but they wouldn’t believe me. And I did know, too,’ he added. ‘Usually because I had the answers written on my shirt-cuff.’
‘Mike—’
‘Actually,’ he went on, ‘that’s amazingly profound. You see, my answers were right but they didn’t count because I made them wrong by cheating. T
he same goes,’ he added, with his mouth full, ‘for Life. And all that stuff.’
Bianca didn’t say anything. She seemed to have lost her appetite, and Mike finished off her pilau rice. It’s wicked, he explained, to waste good food.
‘All right,’ she said eventually. ‘So what do you think we should do?’
‘Have some coffee.’
‘OK. And then?’
‘I’ll know after I’ve had my coffee.’
‘Mike...’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘Bee,’ he said. ‘Shut up.’
The dragon swooped.
He could smell the uranium; a nasty, chemical smell that made his mouth taste. And he could smell demons.
And then he could see them. They had humans all round them, which was a nuisance because he really didn’t want to have to kill any more of them. It was the difference between stalking a man-eating lion in the long grass and running over a dazzled hedgehog.
Eggs and omelettes, he told himself. Omelettes and eggs.
Something like hail or sleet pinged off his scales and he realised that the humans were shooting at him. Bloody cheek. If they weren’t careful, they could put his eye out. He opened his wings, climbed, banked and came in again; a steeper, faster approach, making himself a very difficult target indeed. He knew; he’d had the practice.
‘Snorkfrod,’ pleaded Chardonay, ‘you’ll break him if you do that. Please put him down.’
The she-devil scowled. ‘He aimed a gun at you. I’m going to pull his—’
‘No you’re not. I’m responsible for all breakages. What you’ve done to their fence is bad enough.’
‘All right.’ The sentry fell two feet, hit the ground, squirmed like an overturned woodlouse and ran. ‘I love it when you’re masterful, Mr C,’ the she-devil simpered. ‘You remind me ever so much of Kevin Costner.’ Chardonay didn’t know who Kevin Costner was, but sincerely hoped he wasn’t litigiously minded. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I think we’d better head back to the van, this clearly isn’t going to—’