Alexander's Army

by Chris D'Lacey

  I shook my head. “I don’t have the Bulldog’s number.”

  “I’m not dealing with the French girl or the Marine. Three seconds, then Keeble goes down the ladder.”

  “All right! I can go higher than them. AK. Dial AK.”

  The initials didn’t seem to mean anything to him, but if what I was planning was going to work, they very soon would. He brought up Klimt’s number. “No tricks. Tell them what I said if you want the girl to live.” He let the phone ring. Klimt answered immediately.

  “Michael?”

  “Yes. Listen carefully. I’m in the attic in Alexander’s store. You can probably tell from the TONE of my voice that I’ve been in a fight. You know that TONE, don’t you, Klimt?”

  Behind his glasses, the Boffin’s eyes twitched. I was pretty sure he knew I was up to something, but fortunately Klimt had gotten the message.

  “I know it,” he said. “Do you want to hear it?”

  “Yes.”

  Right away, a pulse of sound came from the phone. It ran down my ear and exploded like a firework deep in my brain. Klimt had tested this procedure on my previous mission, so I knew exactly what to expect. Somehow, the pulse vibrated my senses, allowing a “ghost” form of me to detach from my body and work on a separate plane of consciousness. The ghost could move at the speed of thought, which meant that time on the physical plane was effectively stopped. It had worked then and it worked again now. I peeled away from the Michael on the floor and saw the Boffin crouched beside me with the phone in his hand, absolutely still.

  Perfect.

  During my previous mission, I’d seen things move on the physical plane when a ghost had brushed by them. So I quickly knelt by my hands, hoping I could untie myself. Success. The rope moved. But as I worked the knot loose, I heard an echoey click, and something cold touched the side of my head. I turned with a gun pressed hard to my temple.

  In front of me were ten or a dozen faceless soldiers.

  “Move any furver an’ you die,” one of them said.

  I glanced down at the name on his combat jacket.

  DOBBS.

  They looked exactly like they did on the Tommy cards, but now in full 3-D, like a Japanese manga comic come to life. A unit of soldiers, dressed as they might have been in World War I. When they spoke, lines appeared on their faces. Horizontal dashes for the eyes and mouth, a single vertical dash for the nose. When the words came out, the mouth line broke into a wavy pattern. In size, they were small, probably no taller than halfway up my shin. Yet due, perhaps, to the strange conditions of the plane we were on, they never seemed out of proportion to me. They were dressed identically in army boots and combat gear, including those familiar rounded helmets. The only quick way to tell them apart was by the name badges stitched on their jackets or by the things they carried. Dobbs, for instance, had a coil of rope and a grappling hook around one shoulder. Grimper had a rose tattoo on his forearm. Clegg had an old-fashioned military rifle and a double grenade pouch fixed to his belt. Hodges had a pistol, still at my head. They seemed to be the main four. There was no clear leader, but Dobbs was the one doing most of the talking.

  “State yer name an’ rank, soldier.”

  “I-I’m not a soldier,” I stuttered.

  “You ’eard ’im. Name an’ rank,” said Hodges. He pushed the gun again.

  Part of me was thinking this couldn’t be happening. That if I closed my eyes and concentrated hard, these strange little men would pop like bubbles or float away. The army, I kept telling myself, was a figment of Alexander’s imagination. He’d created them in his mind. Yet they seemed capable of acting independently. It was impossible to think they could fire live bullets, but the barrel at my head felt scarily real and I wasn’t going to take any chances.

  “M-Malone,” I said. “You know who I am.”

  “We know ’im,” said Dobbs. He pointed at my motionless physical body. “But you’re like us. ’Ow’d you get ’ere?”

  “I can … switch,” I said, making it up as I went along. “I can go back to … him at any moment.”

  Instantly, half the men leveled a rifle, as if all they had to do was think they were armed and, bing, it happened.

  “Not if you want to keep breathin’,” said Hodges.

  I floated my hands in surrender. “Don’t shoot. I’m not ready to go back yet. I … I need to get away from the Boffin.”

  Dobbs took a step forward. “Now, ain’t that a funny thing? So do we.”

  So they weren’t quite free of Alexander after all. “I don’t understand. You’re part of him. He created you. He commands you, doesn’t he?”

  A ripple of laughter ran around the troop.

  “He’s losin’ it,” said Dobbs. “Can’t ’andle us no more.” He tapped the side of his helmet. Dink, dink, dink. “Finks too much. We need ’im out of the picture.”

  “How?”

  He drew a line across his neck.

  Dead? His own men wanted him dead? “But if he dies, surely you’ll die, too?”

  “Not if you take us wiv yer,” Dobbs said. His mouth made an O shape. “When you switch.” He gestured at Hodges, who lowered his gun.

  Me, take them?

  Me, command Alexander’s Army?

  “That’s impossible,” I said. “That can’t … happen.” And even if it could, it was a chilling thought, stealing another man’s imagination. What would that do to Alexander’s head? What would it do to mine?

  Dobbs sniffed, making his nose line wiggle. “Keeble!” he shouted. “Get down ’ere!”

  My eyes drifted to the table. Almost magically, the drawing of the flame-throwing soldier grew out of the board. He jumped onto a chair, then shinnied down a leg to the floor and came running to join the others. Strapped to his back was a cradle carrying two tall cylinders, which were connected to a flexible hose and a gun nozzle. “Sir! Yes, sir!”

  Grimper tilted his helmet back. “ ’Ark at the new boy, givin’ it the ‘sirs.’ We’re all one ’ere, soldier. No one gives the orders. Ain’t that right, Dobbs?”

  “Don’t ’urt to ’ave a bit of direction,” Dobbs argued.

  “That’s not what we agreed,” said Grimper.

  Clegg backed Dobbs up. “Wivout command, we’re ragged, Grimps.”

  But Hodges was in the Grimper camp. “We can decide who barks and who jumps when we’re free. I say we run wiv the boy.”

  “All agreed?” Dobbs said.

  “Aye!” said the company.

  All except Grimper, who stared at me doubtfully and tumbled a coin across his knuckles.

  Dobbs said, “Cut us from the Boffin. Now.”

  I shook my head. “No. I won’t kill him.”

  Despite his lack of facial expressions, I could tell that Dobbs was growing impatient. He said to Keeble, “I take it that thing works, soldier?”

  Keeble triggered the gun. A strange orange cloud billowed out of the nozzle, making the razzle-dazzle shape Alexander had described in his story. I could feel it had heat, but in texture, it was like a foamy marzipan, as though Alexander hadn’t pictured it completely or the effect was limited by the suspension of time. It left sparks that glowed on the boards all the same. Maybe fire could cross the life planes. Certainly, Dobbs seemed to think it could.

  He said to Keeble, “Torch the bathroom. Place stinks, anyway.”

  “Stop!” I shouted. And not only did Keeble stay put, he also stood at attention. Two of the lesser men did the same. Was this the clue to them, I wondered, direct and forceful command? “All right, I’ll help you — but I want him alive. He’s got information I need. The girl has to go free as well.”

  “I told yer,” Dobbs said, pointing at the Boffin, “if ’e lives, we can’t move on.”

  “You can,” I bluffed. “My … boffins have all the latest technology. They’ll make the swap work without killing him. When it’s done, I’ll set you free.”

  “I don’t trust ’im,” said Grimper. “I can smell the crow on ’im. L
et’s finish ’im and wait for a better chance. He’s just a snotty kid. What use would ’e be to us, anyway?”

  But Dobbs wanted to hear the whole story. “ ’Ow you plannin’ to take ’im prisoner?”

  “Let me tie his hands. When I’m back in my body, I’ll call my … unit. They’ll storm the building and capture him.”

  The men looked at one another. Clegg fingered his collar. Grimper tumbled his coin the opposite way. “The Boffin don’t need ’ands to command us.”

  “I know. But if you follow my … order, he’ll be harmless.”

  “Let’s ’ear it,” said Dobbs. “What’s yer order?”

  “It’s easy,” I said, trying not to gulp or show any sign of weakness. “You disobey him.”

  “What?” said Grimper.

  “When I switch back to my body and he finds out he’s bound, he’ll try and use you to hurt me, won’t he?”

  “Go on,” said Dobbs.

  “He’s powerless if you refuse.”

  “Mutiny?” said Hodges.

  The word dominoed around the other men.

  “That’s dirty,” said Clegg.

  “Risky,” said Grimper.

  But Dobbs was slowly nodding his head. His eye lines tilted and twitched, as if I’d flicked a switch and he’d somehow grown in confidence — and power. I shivered, fearful of what I’d started. As I watched Dobbs working through my plan, I realized why they hadn’t mutinied already. Clegg was right. Without command, they were a mess. Dangerous, certainly, but indecisive. They couldn’t stage a proper coup until the directive was actually given — a weakness Alexander must have recognized and struggled to keep out of his crazy mind. In giving them the order to disobey him, I had broken through that barrier and taught them the idea of insurrection. Dobbs was calculating new possibilities. The army had moved forward in its quest for liberation — and I had made a terrible mistake.

  Trying to regain some control, I said, “Are we agreed? The Boffin is my prisoner?”

  Dobbs ignored me. “Sparks!” he snapped.

  One of the rear rank stepped forward. “Yeah?”

  “What ’appens if we rake that light downstairs? The dodgy one on the flakin’ cord?”

  “The wirin’ blows and it all goes up.”

  A new pattern appeared on Dobbs’s mouth. A horrible malicious smile. “You ’ear that, lads? It all goes up.”

  “So we kill the Boffin?” Grimper said.

  Dobbs nodded. He started to chew an invisible stick of gum. “Yeah. An’ you know what, lads? I reckon if we do it, we cut ourselves free.”

  “No!” I shouted. “Abandon the mission!”

  “Mission stands,” said Dobbs.

  Stands, the men echoed. Stands. Stands. Their feet began to pound in rhythm to the words.

  “I’m not your enemy!” I said. “If you burn the place, I won’t get out!”

  And neither would Freya.

  “Then we’ll make it quick fer yer,” said Dobbs. He turned to the riflemen. “Aim between his eyes, lads. Ready …”

  A black unicorn. Klimt had taught me that the way to return to my body was to concentrate my mind on the UNICORNE symbol. Just before Dobbs could finalize his order, I pictured the rearing black horse with its tail looped into a letter e. And …

  … Wham! I came back with a hefty jolt. The Boffin was still crouched beside me, holding the phone to my ear. But now I had the advantage of surprise and also of knowing that my hands were untied. In the confusion, I moved quicker than he did. Grabbing the wood he’d used against me, I struck him across the shoulders with my baseball swing. Bang. Home run. He went down, groaning. I hovered over him, shaking for a second, wondering if I should hit him again. But acts of violence had always sickened me; rescuing Freya was all that mattered now. So I dropped the wood and ran for the hatch, thinking I had done enough.

  I was wrong.

  As I reached the opening, comics began flying up through the hole. I laid my arms across my face and tried to force a way through. But they came like a swarm of angry bees, and all I could do was stagger back into the attic. And it wasn’t just comics. A storm of pencils and other drawing objects rained against the back of my head and neck, stinging where they caught a point of bare skin. Even the wastebasket bounced off my shoulder and went spinning like tumbleweed into the eaves. Far from disobeying the Boffin’s orders, the army was cooperating fully again, angry, no doubt, that I’d escaped. I heard a rolling noise, and the next thing I knew, the office chair had sped across the boards and smacked the soft tissue at the back of my knees. It scooped me up like the jaws of a digger and took me on a giddy ride before stopping suddenly and spilling me out. My head cracked against a beam and I almost passed out. I threw an arm sideways for something to hold and heard a rapid Ching! Ching! followed by dozens more. Ching! Ching! Ching! Before I knew it, I couldn’t move. Amazingly, he’d used a staple gun to pin my jacket sleeve to a rafter.

  He staggered toward me, his hair beginning to fall out of shape — lank, the way AJ wore it. His spectacles were broken, a star of cracked glass hiding one wild eye. Blood was seeping from an unseen wound, staining the arm of his lab coat a bright raspberry color.

  In a voice bristling with menace, he said, “You shouldn’t have done that, Michael. We were getting on so famously, you and I. You could have left unharmed. This is not your battle. And now look where we are — You what, Dobbs?” He stood back, swiping the air as if he’d like to dent a tin helmet with his fist. “Stand at attention when I’m speaking to you! Straighten your back, you weedy little man! I make the decisions. And I will keep on making the decisions! See this?” He snatched up a Tommy card from the mess on the floor. It looked like a kneeling Grimper. “All I have to do is tear this in half and Grimper’s finished.” He made a nick in the top. “Feel that, Grimper? Uncomfortable, isn’t it? That’s how close any of you are to complete obliteration. You think I couldn’t draw new men if I wanted to? We have a mission and we’re sticking to it. To the finish, do you hear? To the FINISH!” I heard a thump of heels. His threats were working. For now, at least, the army was back in his grip.

  “Let me go,” I said, slurring the words. My head was throbbing after that bump. I pulled at the sleeve of my jacket. “That call will have warned my people I’m in trouble.”

  “Your people,” he laughed. “I was one of ‘your people’ once — or did my father forget to put that in your notes? Unlike him to be careless — or do I mean devious? It all blurs into one where he’s concerned. He must be old now. Sagging. Worn rough by all those years in the military.”

  “The Bulldog?” I gasped, catching on. The plate thrower. The dog kicker. The absent dad. The man at the head of UNICORNE. The Bulldog was Alexander’s father?

  “Father …” he muttered grimly. He looked down at his bloodstained hands. “I wish you could take him a message from me, but he’ll understand when he rakes through the ashes that his boy is back — and gunning for him. Company!” He blinked his eyes shut. The table light flickered, then buzzed and went out, leaving us solely dependent on the skylight.

  “What have you done?” I panted, tugging at my sleeve. Ashes. What did he mean, ashes?

  “Shame to see the old place go,” he said. “But it’s time to redeploy the men. Pity, Michael. If you knew what a monster my father was, you’d have stayed with the plan and walked right out of here. But there’s more than one way to muzzle a dog.” He threw aside his lab coat and glasses and pulled on a green bow tie. “Normally, I’d lose the boots as well, but that fire escape is as slippery as sealskin in stockinged feet. And wouldn’t you know, it’s raining still. Can you believe the weather we’re having? Whatever happened to the sunshine, man?”

  Smoke. I smelled smoke. The store was on fire. Dobbs had gotten his wish after all. “Cut me loose!” I yelled.

  He popped a stick of gum into his mouth and started chewing. From Alexander to AJ in just a few seconds. He pinged the bow tie. “Bye, Michael. They say the smoke get
s you before the flames. I’ll wave to the Crow Girl on my way out.”

  “No!” I screamed, kicking and tugging. “No! You can’t leave us like this!”

  “Charlie boy.” He clicked his tongue.

  The crow came out of the shadows, strutting in a figure eight around the boards as if it were following a trail of ants.

  “Charlie!” AJ put out his arm.

  The crow dipped its head. With a lazy wing beat, it took to the air. But instead of landing on AJ’s arm, it circled the attic, opening and closing its beak as if it was trying to caw an alarm.

  “Fine,” AJ said, “your funeral.”

  In five strides, he was at the hatch and away.

  Meanwhile, Charlie circled higher, banging madly against the skylight. Outside, something cracked on the roof and rattled loudly down the slates. I tugged at my jacket but still couldn’t rip it or work my arm free. By now, the first wisps of smoke were through the hatch, raising a light gray fug in the room. Again I heard something smack against the roof. At the same time, from the room downstairs came a billowing whumph of escalating flames, followed by a crash as something fell over. The smoke increased. Sweat beaded on my face, carrying the taste of fear into my mouth. I heard rafters splintering along the grain. In desperation, I looked around for anything I could use to cut my jacket, when BANG! a stone came through the skylight, bringing down glistening shards of glass like fresh snow breaking off a winter branch.

  My first thought was that it must be Mulrooney. Maybe he’d been in position on the roof, watching the conflict all the time. But that was dumb and I knew it. And so did Charlie. He fluttered out of sight as a hail of black objects rained through the skylight, and the attic filled with crows.

  One of them was more than a crow.

  “Freya!” I gasped as she materialized into human form. “How …?”

  “Bathroom window,” she said, heaving at my jacket. “Had to break that one as well. Wouldn’t worry about it. Don’t think he’ll be sending us a bill.” She ran for a piece of glass.

  Coughing, I said, “But I thought Preeve cured you?”