by Tom Holt
From the glade opposite came sounds of hawing and female giggling. As he drew the gunbelt towards him, Regalian found himself wondering whether he’d completely misunderstood the situation after all. All his finely honed character’s instincts were shouting to him that this was the stage in the narrative where he rescued Skinner. The question was, did Skinner know that?
He had just managed to manoeuvre the gunbelt into a position where, with a bit of energetic wriggling and at the cost of taking all the skin off his wrists, he ought to be able to reach the gun, when a lean, dark figure who looked depressingly familiar (Jack Palance in green tights and sequins) stepped out of the shadows, flipped the Scholfield out of its holster, pointed it at him, and grinned.
‘Reach for the sky,’ he said.
Regalian, with whom the penny had just dropped, obeyed. The bounty hunter drew a knife from his boot, slit the ropes and said, ‘On your feet.’
‘No,’ Regalian replied.
‘You heard me. On your feet.’
‘Piss off.’
The bounty hunter’s grin widened. ‘The poster says dead or alive, mister,’ he said. ‘Guess you just made my mind up for me.’
He thumbed back the hammer, levelled the gun at Regalian’s head, and squeezed the trigger. There was a brief whirring noise, a flag inscribed BANG! popped out of the muzzle of the gun, and a small flame appeared on the top of the frame in which, had he been a smoker, the bounty hunter could conveniently have lit a cigar.
‘You see,’ Regalian explained, springing to his feet and kicking the bounty hunter savagely in the nuts, ‘the fairies put a spell on the gun which stops it working. That meant that at some stage in the adventure—’ The bounty hunter dropped to his knees, moaned and rolled over on to his side. ‘—it was inevitable, dramatically speaking, that someone would try and turn my own gun on me, only for it not to go off at the crucial moment. I think it’s one of the lesser isotopes of dramatic irony. Should’ve seen it coming,’ he added, stamping on the bounty hunter’s hand and retrieving the gun. ‘Silly of me. Ah well, never mind.’
He buckled on the belt and, with the air of a man who once again knows exactly what’s expected of him, strolled off towards the glade to do the rescue.
When Hamlet came round the second time, he’d learned his lesson. Instead of sitting upright and flexing his muscles he lay where he was, still as death, and waited for someone to hit him.
‘Ah,’ said a voice above his head, ‘you’ve woken up. And how are we feeling?’
Idiot, thought Hamlet. Up till then, the Golden Lemon award for the daftest question he’d ever heard had always been reserved for To be or not to be. Now, he reckoned, it had competition.
‘Give you three gue . . .’ he began to say; and then stopped himself as status reports from the various parts of his body began to filter through to his brain. ‘Marvellous,’ he said, bemused. ‘Never felt better in all my - well, never felt better.’
‘Splendid,’ replied the voice, which he recognised as that of the mad scientist chap. Rossfleisch? Something like that. ‘I’m so glad.’
‘If I sit up, is anything going to happen to me?’
‘Happen to you? In what way?’
‘I mean, is anybody going to thump me, or anything?’
‘Certainly not, my dear fellow. Please, do feel free to sit up as much as you like.’
‘Thank you.’
From a sitting position, Hamlet saw that he was still in the - operating theatre? Something like that. Maybe he just had theatres on the brain. Standing over him was a tall, straggly-looking man with big round glasses, a bald head, a white coat, carpet slippers and a little wispy grey beard; suggesting that either he was going to a fancy dress ball as an absent-minded professor, or he was one. A moment later, he introduced himself as Doctor Sebastian Rossfleisch.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Hamlet lied. ‘Look . . .’
‘Remarkable.’
‘Pardon?’
‘The way the isothermic membrane has taken,’ Rossfleisch explained (at least, presumably it was his idea of an explanation, just as the grey fluid you get in styrofoam cups at railway stations is somebody’s idea of tea). ‘I was so afraid there would be a positive reaction with the selenium nitrate. That would have been most unfortunate. ’
‘Would it?’
‘Profoundly disappointing,’ the Doctor replied. ‘One never really knows where one is with polymers, does one?’
Tricksy buggers,’ Hamlet agreed, striving to be polite. ‘Look . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Where am I, and what am I doing here?’ Gosh, he reflected as he spoke, sounds like old times, me asking that. This time, though, I could really do with a sensible answer.
Rossfleisch shook his head, setting the wisp on his chin dancing. ‘Perhaps I had better put you in the picture,’ he said. ‘You see, I’d been hearing rumours for quite some time.’
‘Rumours?’
‘About Mr Frankenbotham’s experiments.’
‘You mean that strange chap in the shed? My, um, creator.’
‘Precisely. A remarkable fellow, some quite astounding intuitive leaps, and with the facilities he had available it was quite incredible that he was able to achieve as much as he did. Nevertheless, the whole project was basically ill-conceived.’
‘You mean me?’
‘Exactly. To put it bluntly, you were not well made. Without a thoroughgoing overhaul and some substantial rethinking of a number of fundamental aspects, there was a severe risk of terminal dysfunction.’
‘Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew, you mean? I think I get the picture.’
‘Indeed. Well, it would have been a tragedy to have let that happen. So I, er, stole you.’
‘I see.’
‘And,’ continued the Doctor cheerfully, ‘I’ve done the necessary work, and I’m delighted to say it would appear to have been completely successful.’
‘Golly.’
‘Quite. In fact, rather more so than I had anticipated myself. For example, the superhuman strength.’
‘What superhuman strength?’
‘In the original design,’ said Rossfleisch, ‘you were intended to have the strength of ten men.’
‘Gosh.’
‘As it turns out, that would appear to be a material underestimate.’
‘Blimey.’
‘The invulnerability, too. That seems to be . . .’ The Doctor blinked twice. ‘Very satisfactory. Very satisfactory indeed.’
‘When you say invulnerable . . .’
‘Allow me,’ said the Doctor, producing a huge revolver from inside his lab coat, ‘to demonstrate.’ He raised the gun, aimed it at Hamlet’s forehead, and fired. There was an ear-splitting noise, and Hamlet felt just the very faintest tickle.
‘Hey!’ he protested. Then he caught sight of something lying on his knee; a flat disc of lead, about the size of a twopenny bit. ‘Neat,’ he said, impressed. ‘People always told me I was too thin-skinned for my own good,’ he added.
‘Kevlar-reinforced synthesised plasma,’ commented the Doctor proudly. Although Hamlet had the feeling that the technicalities were so far above his head you could have bounced radio messages off them, he nodded.
‘Pretty slinky stuff,’ he said. ‘Probably saves you a fortune in sun-tan lotion, I bet. Next time you’re down the cash and carry, order me a bucketful.’
‘There are, of course,’ the Doctor continued, ‘a number of minor incidental sub-reactions which I hadn’t quite anticipated, but I feel sure that in the fullness of time, when we’ve had an opportunity to study them in depth, we shall be able fully to assimilate the ensuing data and adjust the methodology accordingly.’ He beamed encouragingly. ‘After all,’ he added, ‘you are, if I may say so, only the beginning.’
There was something about that remark which didn’t taste very nice. In fact, Hamlet reckoned, if that statement had been a piece of haddock he’d be picking bones
out of his mouth right now. ‘Come again?’ he queried.
‘What I mean is,’ the Doctor continued, ‘the rather - how shall I put it? - hit and miss manner of your construction does mean that there are certain very basic design flaws which I really can’t put right in you, but which I will rectify in, let us say, Marks Two and Three. You, of course, being Mark One.’
Hamlet frowned. He had lost the thread rather by now, and his name was Hamlet, not Mark, and he had a funny itching feeling that seemed to be coming from inside his head, which made him want to poke a six-inch nail through his ear and wiggle it about. ‘You mean,’ he hazarded, ‘like a guinea pig.’
‘A fine metaphor. Yes, certainly.’
‘I’m not sure I like that.’
He was about to expand on this theme when something made him put his hand to the side of his neck. His fingers touched metal.
‘You bastard,’ he hissed. ‘There’s a bolt through my neck!’
The Doctor nodded. ‘I know,’ he said, with a slight deprecating shrug. ‘Terribly crude, I know, but effective nonetheless. I’m working on a carbon-fibre version, but that won’t be ready until the third generation prototype at least.’
Hamlet wasn’t listening. He was looking at his feet. Just as he’d anticipated; bloody great big square boots. ‘Hey!’ he objected, ‘that’s not on. Get me a mirror, now. I want to see what else . . .’
It was the Doctor’s turn to frown. ‘With the very greatest respect,’ he said, ‘I really fail to see what business it is of yours.’
‘You . . .’ Hamlet felt his fists clench, and there was a cracking sound as his knuckles popped. ‘Just what the hell are you playing at, anyway?’
The Doctor gazed at him, mild as lamb stew with lentils. ‘My agenda, you mean? I would have thought that would be obvious by now.’
‘I’m thick, you’ll have to explain. I think my brain came free with twelve litres of lawnmower oil.’
‘It’s very simple,’ said the Doctor. ‘I’m going to rule the world, and you and your, um, subsequent models are going to make it possible.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. I shall build an army of invincible artificial humanoids, seize absolute power and reform human society on strictly scientific principles. It’s my life’s work, you know. Or at least,’ he added, ‘my life’s work for the last twenty-three years. Before that, of course, I worked for the soap powder people.’
Hamlet stood up, and as he did so he began to realise the extent of the changes that had been made to him since he was last on his feet. It was a strange and somewhat awkward feeling, but exhilarating, like taking a Challenger tank for a joyride. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said, ‘but no thanks. Don’t bother to show me to the door, I can probably walk out through the wall.’
The Doctor gave him a look, woolly but stern, like a cross between Judge Jeffreys and a sheep. ‘I really wouldn’t advocate that,’ he said. ‘Really, I wouldn’t.’
‘No?’
‘Quite. You see, I’ve planted a bomb in your chest.’
‘Oh.’
The Doctor nodded. ‘Only a small bomb,’ he went on. ‘Powerful, but small. There’s no danger unless I operate the remote control.’ He fished in his pocket and produced a small handset.
‘We’ll see about that,’ Hamlet replied; then he made a grab for the little plastic box, secured it and ate it. ‘All right?’ he said.
‘Actually,’ the Doctor answered, unfazed, ‘it doesn’t matter in the least about that one. The device is harmonically regulated.’
‘Huh?’
‘The bomb will go off,’ the Doctor translated, ‘in response to certain sounds. To be precise, a specific piece of music.’
‘Get away!’
The Doctor nodded. ‘A pleasing refinement,’ he said. ‘Anticipating a potentially hostile reaction, I thought it best to take sensible precautions.’
‘Which specific piece of music?’
The corners of the Doctor’s mouth twitched ever so slightly. ‘Buffalo Girl,’ he replied.
Hamlet frowned. ‘You what?’
‘Oh, you’d recognise it as soon as you heard it,’ the Doctor said. ‘It’s what’s always being played on the pianola in the saloon in Westerns. I’d hum it for you now, only . . . Anyway, it was a particular favourite of my late wife. I have the melody in question loaded into the intercom system here. If you make any further untoward movements, I can set it playing by using the remote control device built into the ring on my left hand.’
Hamlet sat down on the table he’d been strapped to when he came round. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Clever sod, aren’t you?’
‘You are too kind.’The Doctor shrugged. ‘In any event,’ he said, ‘for your own good I really can’t advocate your leaving this particular environment. At least, not until the side effects I mentioned a moment ago have had a chance to stabilise.’
‘Side effects? What—?’
‘Ah,’ said the Doctor. ‘I was coming to that.’
‘Excuse me,’ Jane said. ‘I’d like to report a missing person.’
The desk sergeant was a tall man, but he slouched, which meant he was six foot two (gross), five foot nine (net); and the only reason his knuckles didn’t trail on the ground was that he had his hands on the counter. He would have reassured Charles Darwin, but he didn’t inspire Jane with overwhelming confidence.
‘Uh?’ he said.
‘A missing person,’ Jane said. ‘I’ve lost a person and I’d like him found, please.’
‘Jussa minnit.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Jussa minnit. Finda pen.’
Jane opened her handbag and produced a biro. ‘His name,’ she said, ‘is Hamlet, he’s a Danish citizen, I think, but he speaks very good English, some of the best there is, in fact, and he’s about five foot eight, slim build, I don’t know what his face looks like because he wears a paper bag over his head all the time, but you’ll know him when you see him because he smells of embalming fluid. He was wearing an old raincoat. I think he’s been stolen.’
‘Name.’
‘I just said, Hamlet, that’s H-A—’
‘Your name.’
‘Oh. Armitage. Jane Armitage.’
‘Address.’
Jane gave her address, and the policeman wrote it down in slightly less time than it would have taken to do a page of the Lindisfarne Gospels. ‘Right,’ said the policeman. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’d like to report a missing person, please. Preferably,’ she added, ‘before he dies of old age and the whole thing becomes academic anyway.’
‘Name.’
‘Whose?’
‘His.’
‘Right, it’s Hamlet, that’s H—’
‘How do you spell that?’
‘H-A-M-L-E-T.’
‘Just the one T?’
‘Yes, please. And two sugars.’
‘You what?’
‘Nothing. Look, can you get a move on, please? I’m worried.’
The policeman turned his paper over. ‘And when did you see him last?’ he asked.
‘Last night. Well, about half past two this morning, actually. Like I said, I think someone’s stolen him.’
‘You want to report a theft?’
‘I suppose so . . . Look, can I just—?’
‘Name?’
Jane drew a deep breath, thanked the policeman nicely, and left. Probably just as well, she reflected as she drove home again. She was no expert on immigration law, but she had the notion that it might have something to say about buckshee imaginary Danes occupying home-made bodies. She parked the car, let herself in and switched on her screen.
There was, she realised, rather a lot more there than she remembered.
Her first reaction was annoyance. Many a time she’d gone to bed in the early hours of the morning secretly wishing the writing fairy would come while she was asleep and knock off ten or so pages for her; and now, apparently, it had, and it wasn’t a publishable
book.
Then she read what was on the screen.
Regalian stared.
He was not, all in all, a happy character. He’d just crawled three hundred yards, noiselessly, through thick brambles, right under the noses of a number of very fierce-looking fairy guards, and he was currently lying flat on his stomach in a bed of the most virulent stinging nettles it had ever been his misfortune to encounter. He was observing Skinner, the man he had been sent to save. He was wondering why the hell he bothered.
In fairness, the mortal wasn’t doing anything he wouldn’t be doing himself if he were in Skinner’s position; but that, he felt very strongly, was beside the point. It was aesthetically right that Skinner had to be saved, PDQ. And it was artistically inevitable that he, Regalian, was going to have to do the saving; which was a pity. Left to himself, the most he’d be inclined to save would be green shield stamps, and then only if there was something in the catalogue he actually wanted.
Skinner, of course, was a mortal, and so he had no instinctive knowledge of what was and wasn’t right. More than that, he was an author; and any character will tell you that those dozy buggers wouldn’t know an aesthetic necessity if they found one in their breakfast cereal.
Ah well, Regalian muttered to himself, publish and be damned. He looked around, and started to put together his plan of campaign.
What I need right now, he told himself, is a good diversion.
. . . Such as might be caused by an angry, still partially concussed bounty hunter crashing through the undergrowth on the edge of the glade, clutching a Winchester rifle and not looking where he’s going. And, talk of the devil . . .
The bounty hunter, too, was not happy. As he entered the glade, tripping over a root as he did so and very nearly shooting himself in the foot, he looked like Jack Palance waking up to find the freezer had defrosted itself in the night and flooded the kitchen floor. The fairy who tried to impede his progress got the butt of the Winchester in his solar plexus, together with a very unfriendly look.
‘You,’ he snapped at Skinner, who was on his knees scrabbling frantically for his trousers. ‘On your feet, or the broad gets it.’