Operation: Minerva
Simple but effective.
Data taken from
the Carey‑Construct's mind had indicated what course of action the Weller
unit might adopt, and to this point in the linear time‑line, the Weller
unit's actions were bearing the data out. This analysis was positive; accuracy
early in this phase generally extrapolated toward attainment of the phase
objective, though this was ever subject to principles of uncertainly ‑
random events were not only possible, but also probable. Behaviour of the human
Whole was easier to predict than the behaviour of any human unit...
Nonetheless, the
subject sectors and units were conforming to parameter. Units of the Spectrum
sector had consulted with the Whole and reacted according to procedure. This
was typical and expected ‑ the Spectrum sector itself was now attempting
to collect data; a task that was proving difficult, as the Weller, Prince, and
McLaine units were actively denying the desired data to the individual Spectrum
units. This, too, was accurate according to the information stored in the Carey‑Construct's
mind. The Shonbeck‑Weller sector was not functionally connected to or
under the authority of the Spectrum sector, and the Whole seldom stirred itself
to mediate inter‑sector communications. It was some kind of low‑level
function; an exploitable weakness that had operated to the humans' general
detriment in previous phases of the War.
The Carey unit
had been studying the other three. The Spectrum sector was not aware of
this ‑ and it left them at a slight disadvantage, though it was possible
that the Carey unit's mate could have supplied this data on request.
Significance of such a request had not yet been established, and the request
had not materialised.
The Carey‑Construct's stored
knowledge was proving both valuable and, indeed, essential. The Weller unit's
simple but effective strategy---to physically separate functional portions of
the Minerva Project---had to be circumvented, and circumvented, moreover,
without alerting units of the Spectrum sector that this would be a compromise
of their procedures. Attainment of the phase‑objective would be lost
should the Spectrum‑sector learn of the objective's true form too early.
The Carey‑Construct had been tasked to formulate a counter‑strategy,
and once the Carey- Construct had been returned to origins and collected its
own data, it had done so in a remarkably short interval of linear time. The
Carey unit had been an intelligent and well‑organised one; its function
had been management of many subordinate units in the hierarchy of the Shonbeck‑Weller
sector. Unlike many other previous Constructs, the Carey unit, and therefore
the Carey‑Construct, possessed little skill with or access to the sort of
offensive technologies that it might otherwise utilise against the Spectrum
sector...so its counter‑strategy drew instead on its experience and
directed other resources toward the achievement of its goal.
Simple, but
effective...
'Busywork.'
Scarlet did not quite spit the word out.
But he came close, Colonel White mused, reflecting on the past few days and the
mounting levels of frustration that were all too quickly becoming a hallmark of
Operation Minerva.
'At ease, Captain.' Colonel White motioned
Scarlet into one of the stools before his desk. 'And I'm afraid that's an
accurate assessment too, Captain. We've had another report ‑ one more
positive ID on Todd Carey.'
Scarlet did not bat an eye. He nodded,
unsurprised. 'And where ‑ dare I ask ‑ is the elusive Mr. Carey
this time?'
'Auckland, New Zealand.'
'He was positively reported in Copenhagen
just three hours ago. Sir, even we can't move that fast.'
'No, and I'm rather beginning to suspect
that Todd Carey can't either.'
'Shall I check‑'
'No, Captain, thank you, but the local
agents can chase the report down. I'm not going to have you barking up the wrong
tree again.' Moody, even at the best of times, the last few days had served to
put Scarlet in, to say the very least, a poor frame of mind. Colonel White had
yet to see it affect Scarlet's professional judgment negatively, though it
sometimes sharpened up his focus ‑ to an enemy, Scarlet mad
translated as Scarlet dangerous...
Scarlet had been in a bad mood ever since
Captain Black had stood him up the other day, and it hadn't helped either that
the hijacking incident had proved to be a very effective diversion, tying up
Spectrum's attention while Todd Carey had quietly taken himself elsewhere.
There was little doubt in Colonel White's mind but that the man had been killed
and Mysteronised ‑ nothing else could possibly explain the man's
unexpected disappearance and the subsequent sightings made worldwide. Black's
tactics at the time had served to activate the security grid in every airport
within the radius of Flight 904's fuel capacity, and the stand‑down
orders had been typically, bureaucratically slow in issue, even after Black's
apparent destination had become clear. Security had been tightened up on
incoming flights ‑ looser, therefore, on those outgoing, and Todd Carey
had slipped out of Nairobi on a flight to Pretoria. In the relevant time‑frame
it was possible he'd boarded other flights connecting to Cairo, Bombay, or
Perth. After that, the list of possibilities simply proliferated ‑ Carey
had given Spectrum the slip under cover of Black's hijacking of Flight 904, and
the strategy had worked for the Mysterons.
It would have helped too, if only Spectrum
could prove conclusively that Todd Carey was, in fact, now a Mysteron agent. So
far, Magenta had not been able to turn up the original's body. Kenyan
authorities had had no more luck ‑ which led then to the question of just
when and where Carey might have been murdered. Evidently, not in Nairobi or its
immediate vicinity. Magenta, and Lieutenant Indigo, whom he'd dispatched to
help, was now touring game reserves with an increasingly more distraught Mrs. Carey;
and it was a lot of ground to cover. With the lengthening passage of time it
became less likely that whatever remains might be found would be easily
identifiable. The African heat and scavengers doubtless would take their toll.
It wasn't going to be pleasant, but still Colonel White was hoping that the
news would come soon. Doctor Weller was demanding confirmation of the suspected
event, however unpleasant, and was still being, again to say the very least,
unco-operative in his approach to Operation Minerva.
Scarlet smiled wryly. Even under pressure
he could be good‑humoured about his own bad‑humour. 'Busywork,' he
said again, with less venom. 'Carey just can't be in all those places. Is it
possible that the Mysterons are feeding false data into the security records in
any or all of these places?'
'I'd certainly say it's a possibility ‑
digital corruption of the vid records has to be simpler than teleporting the
man around the globe ‑ and we've seen that they can do that when they
like. I'd give a great deal to know how it's done.' It was one of the more
difficult and perplexing sides to the entire War of Nerves ‑ the
Mysterons obviously had and sometimes did display abilities far beyond anything
that Spectrum, or any human agency for that matter, could ever hope to match.
Possessed of such superior technologies and science, the Mysterons nonetheless
seldom employed those advances to end the War of Nerves, applying their
abilities instead to tax and coax their human opposition along. It lent grim
credence to certain think‑tank speculations which proposed the Mysterons
were simply playing with mankind for their own unfathomable reasons. It wasn't
a hypothesis he liked personally--- it implied theoretically that all Spectrum
could ever do was to prolong the agony---until the Mysterons themselves grew
tired of the game.
'I'll ask Captain Black when I catch up to
him, sir.' Scarlet remarked. 'If ever. Slippery devil, that man.'
'Well, that we've known for some time,
Captain. But for now, I think we'd be further ahead to focus our energies on
Todd Carey.'
'The wrong tree again? Although Auckland to
Honolulu to Anchorage would put Carey back into Demeter's general
neighbourhood, and he does have to be somewhere. What do we know about the man,
Colonel? Are we missing something obvious?'
'We've been asking those same questions,
Captain.' Colonel White picked up the file that was sitting on his console and
handed it across the desk to Scarlet. 'There's not much there that looks
especially enlightening.' He gave Scarlet a moment to scan through a few pages.
'Todd Carey is forty‑eight, married, happily it seems, no children, has a
background in General Science and Business Administration. He's been working
for Shonbeck‑Weller in various managerial positions for twenty‑three
years. He's been the senior Director of Demeter R&D for the last nine years
and evidently does a fine job of it. He has a number of academic interests,
enjoys the outdoors and he and his wife travel extensively, hiking and camping
in exotic places.'
'Any firearms training?'
'Virtually none ‑ they do maintain a
stock of hunting rifles at Demeter for use with the local bear population, but
Carey isn't a sports hunter, no. A bit of survival training is all that's in his
background. He doesn't own or collect guns, has no interest in them at all.'
'He's a scholar, then. Caught away from
home, no arms, no obvious resources to use against us ‑ what have the
Mysterons got in mind?'
'A good question, Captain, if a rhetorical
one. I wish I could say.'
'What's at Demeter, then? He's got the
outdoors experience to hike in there. Biohazards? I'm reminded of the Judy
Chapman incident ‑ and she did eventually turn up in the hazard area.'
'It's not the nature of the threat, but it's
been looked at. Grey says not... Demeter just doesn't do work with military
application, they concern themselves primarily with agriculture and medicine.
Which is not to say that any number their of products couldn't be perverted to
other uses. Yes, there are a number of biohazardous substances in use at
Demeter, but they're more in the nature of tools, as opposed to weapons. Due
precautions are in place.'
'And our next move, then, Colonel White?'
'Get some rest, Captain. We have to wait
for the Mysterons to give us a hint what they're up to ‑ and I've a hunch
it won't be too much longer in coming...
The coffee was good, and so was the
doughnut. Todd Carey sat in the corner of the doughnut shop and stared out at
the early morning crowds on a busy city street in downtown Toronto. He has gone
to school not far from here, had lived not much further and had grown up
locally. It was all familiar; it was, though he hadn't lived there for many
years, still home.
He glanced up to the stylish wall clock.
Soon the morning crowds would be cleared out and he would have to pay a bit
more mind to the loitering limit. Use of the lavatory facilities and the
purchase of another coffee would delay the inevitable heave‑ho, but Todd
was not concerned about that yet. He had no trouble to cause, not here and not
yet. There were many rather rowdier customers that would catch the management's
eye long before he did. He spent time,
like many of
the other patrons,
sitting very quietly sipping the excellent considering‑its‑source
coffee and leafed through one of the daily newspapers that the establishment
provided as a courtesy.
There was little news in the daily to
interest him. The front pages and the editorials all failed to mention the
Mysterons, Spectrum or the current threat to global security. He did find a
brief notation on the second last page of section one stating that the
authorities had the matter well in hand; the target had been established and
appropriate security measures had been put in place. An official from Spectrum
HQ Public Relations was in town, to prepare and co‑ordinate press
releases. As of this time, there was little news to release, the official had
said. Efforts were being made to locate the suspected Mysteron agent or agents.
Aside from the minor flap that the sudden arrival of several Spectrum elite in
the city four days ago had caused, there had been no action to report. Events
more exciting and newsworthy had taken place elsewhere and elicited little
concern with the bulk of the populace; they had gone back to minding their own
business.
Spectrum was playing the current threat
very low‑key, it seemed.
Todd Carey noted the name of the reporter
that had filed the brief, back‑page update and folded the paper, tucking
it under his arm (so as not to lose it to another inquiring patron) as he
bought and paid for the second coffee. Further perusal pinpointed the other bit
of information he needed. He finished the coffee at leisure and then sifted
through his pocket for some proper change. He nodded a banal acknowledgement to
the counter girl's cheerful farewell and made his way to the vid‑phone
booth in the corner of the front vestibule. Inserting his proper change, he
punched in the number that had been listed in the back of the paper and waited
while the connection was made. He felt a small, irrational gratification that
he'd memorised the number correctly when the receptionist on the other end
confirmed the successful placement of his call.
'Good morning,' he replied in response to
the pleasant female voice. 'I wonder if I could possibly speak with one of your
field reporters, please?'
Guinevere had long blonde hair. She was
tall and athletic‑looking, with long lean legs. Her eyes were very brown
and very expressive. She was quiet and well‑mannered and evidently a
patient, live‑in listener for Arthur Prince, who loved her dearly.
Vermillion was even becoming somewhat fond of her.
Captain Blue himself didn't feel that way.
Gwen was not deliberately a problem. Gwen was just turning out to be a part of
the whole annoying tapestry and after four seemingly unending days Blue was
finding his own patience fraying dangerously thin with the entire thing.
Irritated, he picked another half‑handful
of long blonde hair from his trousers, mildly cursing the unalterable fact that
it was springtime and Guinevere was shedding something awful. She appeared to
be a purebred Afghan Hound or something very close; she was a bit
broader across the nose and shoulders than he thought a purebred should have
been. But then again, he was no expert on dogs. He wasn't even especially fond
of the things, and he'd learned young to dislike the succession of psychotic
poodles that his mother had doted over, much to the rest of the family's
dismay. The poodles had generally reciprocated the animosity and Blue found
himself quite at a loss for an appropriate response to Gwen's much friendlier
demands for attention. Arthur had trained her to believe she was a lap
animal it was impossible to sit down anywhere
without getting a very hopeful and bodily snuggle from Gwen.
Arthur Prince fawned all over her, and had
spent a significant proportion of the past three days brushing and coddling the
thing, throwing hostile glances at any Spectrum officer daring to shoo the
animal out of the way. Arthur worried about Gwen, and so did Captain Blue,
because Guinevere was very pregnant and it looked, even to his utterly
untrained eye, that she might just whelp those pups at any second and if she
did, he suspected that she would likely do it in his bed...
The dogs were everywhere.
Ochre was contending with one and so too
was Grey. Merlin and Lancelot respectively, with Lance, evidently, being
responsible for Guinevere's condition. Doctor McLaine---Gwen's attending
physician---had also evidently long since removed Merlin's options in such
matters personally, an exercise in historical fact that she had gone into and
explained in some considerable detail to a less‑than‑enthralled
Captain Ochre and a polite but discomfited Lieutenant Russet. She had lectured
deliberately and with thinly disguised delight, he understood, from his
colleagues' accounting of it. It was a surgical procedure designed to unsettle
the male of any species.
There was an upside to the whole Gwen‑thing,
however. She kept Arthur's time occupied with something other than the
interminable political diatribes that Arthur would lapse into on the scarcest
of excuses. Get Arthur going on any subject and it would eventually be bent
around into a lecture on the shortcomings of the planetary socio‑economic
structures and political frameworks. Lectures that were very one‑sided
discussions, because Blue refused absolutely to be drawn into them and
Vermilion had learned---via the school of hard knocks---that Arthur was not one
to debate lightly. Vermilion had never studied political science.
Every attempt the Lieutenant had made to
engage Mr. Prince in a conversation about electronics ‑ an interest that
the two of them shared at the very least ‑ had failed utterly, because
Arthur absolutely wouldn't be drawn very deeply into those. There had been
several such pseudo‑discussions and most had ended abruptly whenever
Arthur had decided Vermilion was asking too many of the right questions and
that divulging any more than had been said could well prove hazardous. Knowing
Arthur as he did now, Blue thought it a probable, misdirecting put‑off.
Mr. Prince obviously preferred not to lie. But he was pretty good at omissions.
At the moment, the Lieutenant was having
another good‑spirited go at Arthur ‑ Vermilion wasn't one to give
up easily and it seemed that in spite of their political differences, Vermilion
and Arthur liked one another. It was something in the genotype, Blue had
concluded; they were both relatively tall, underweight, angular, and both ‑
they claimed ‑ were lousy at sports. Blue rather suspected they had each
spent their teen years communing with microchips. But whatever the reasons,
they were just plain compatible and even if Arthur wouldn't answer them, Arthur
tolerated questions from Vermilion that Blue seriously doubted he would have
tolerated from Blue himself. It had settled into a kind of guessing game;
Vermilion was testing Arthur out subject by electronic subject, hunting clues
about the Minerva gizmo. Today the topic was biochips.
'Biochips don't work,' Arthur muttered,
responding to the Lieutenant's question without even looking up from the brush
he was pulling across Gwen's back.
'But they've improved so much lately,'
Vermilion argued. 'The early ones weren't much good I'll admit, but they've
improved ‑ I know ‑ I'm from Silicon Valley and I've got a big
sister working in the field.'
'Hope she can keep her job, then. Biochips
don't work. I don't think they ever will.'
'AI, then. That's what drives the chips.
And that's come a long way too.'
'AI is another chimera. They've been
playing with AI for nearly a century and it still doesn't work. AI is as
limited as the biochips are. You don't want artificial intelligence. You want
intelligence that's real.'
'It's a matter of time.'
'It's a waste of time.'
'You have better ideas, maybe?'
Oohh... Blue thought. Nice try, Lieutenant.
But Arthur could recognise a leading
question when he heard one, and he transfixed Vermilion with a deadpan stare.
'Maybe. Go back to square one, Lieutenant. You're the one chasing chimera now.
The gizmo's not biochips and it's not AI. End of discussion.'
Blue sighed. And Spectrum still knew
nothing more than Weller had said. Or would yet say. The Minerva gizmo was
still a mystery, a fact that was worrying Colonel White more and more by the
hour and ticking off Scarlet supremely; Blue hadn't seen Scarlet so annoyed
since he'd had to spend that day with President Roberts... That operation had
had a short deadline; the Mysterons had said nothing about a time‑frame
on this one.
Mysterons must mean it as harassment, Blue had long since decided. Or
they're waiting for those pups to happen along just to complicate the matter,
or else...
His train of thought was interrupted by the
beep of his shoulder epaulettes, unaccompanied by a coloured signal flash. A
general communication from Security then and not a call from Cloudbase.
Which did not imply any non‑urgency,
however.
Vermilion answered it, speaking quietly
into his cap mike, and leaned over to peer out of the front window. The Lieutenant
gestured his attention to the slanted vertical blinds of the living room
window.
'Got some woman walking the street ‑
she's just cruised by the house for the third time,' he reported, obviously in
touch with the Spectrum Security agents parked in an unmarked vehicle at the
end of the street.
It sounded suspicious to him. 'Looking for
an address?' Blue asked, checking his weapons as he turned to glance across the
room toward Arthur Prince ‑ whose present brush and coddle had just come
to a nervous halt. Arthur missed very little, and the alert coupled with his
own reaction to it had left Arthur looking suddenly as if he was the one about
to have pups.
It might be nothing. It might be just some
woman with legitimate business checking for a local address. But then again, it
might not be, and he'd personally seen Mysteron agents self‑destruct
violently before...
In either case, he'd much rather be safe
than sorry.
'Stay down, Mr. Prince,' Blue instructed the
young inventor calmly, advice which served only to distress Arthur as
thoroughly as it ensured his immediate compliance. Blue moved to the window,
flexing the fingers of his right hand while he peered cautiously through the
half‑closed blinds, taking a visual fix on the pedestrian in question. It
was all quiet suburbia out there, an older but well‑maintained
residential neighbourhood with little traffic flow mid‑day. Any working
neighbours were at the office, the schoolkids were still in class and any stay‑at‑homes
were indoors, because it was early spring and the weather was wet and blustery
today. The lone woman was therefore easy to spot, moving away from the house at
the moment, not glancing back with any interest and maintaining a casual pace.
But she did stop at the corner and pause,
and then she turned and started back up the street again.
'Lieutenant Vermilion.' Blue said, looking
over to see that the Lieutenant had already second‑guessed him and was
pulling on an oversized sweater to hide the uniform.
'Sir?'
'Let's take her in for questioning...'
It was the blasted media!
Typically, the media gave Scarlet
headaches. Nosy bloody reporters. He put up with them because he had to, not
because he liked them. Some of them were very good, and most of them were only
trying to do their jobs, but as often as not their jobs simply complicated and
interfered with his and invariably they bothered him..
And he was bothered, because this
reporter was protecting her source.
Scarlet had to give the woman credit,
peeved though he was by the entire incident. She had plainly been tipped‑off,
had been promised a scoop on what had, so far, been a rather dull story as far
as the media had been concerned. There had been some minor buzz of enquiry when
Spectrum had first flown in ‑ Angel escort and all ‑ to pick up
Andrew Weller the other day. The fuss had been minimal; it had been the middle
of the night after all, but Spectrum's presence had been noted and questioned
and concerns had been raised over public safety.
HQ had already dispatched an officer from
their Public Relations staff to handle all of that and the Mysterons themselves
had diverted public attention south to Cape Town and Rio. Things had been
relatively quiet since and Spectrum's Toronto‑area operations had gone
unobtrusively to ground. The bright red Saloon Cars had been replaced by
unmarked vehicles, and all of Spectrum Security's officers had gone
plainsclothes. Effectively, it seemed, because for certain the reporter had
been surprised when Vermilion had accosted her on the street and she'd been
unceremoniously hustled into the back of the innocuous‑looking mini‑van
for an on‑the‑spot interrogation. She had toughed that out and
demanded her one obligatory phone call;
they'd had to give her that, because the Mysteron detector had checked
negative, both for the woman and for her photographer, who'd come charging to
her defence when he'd witnessed the apparent arrest. They had both made a good
deal of noise about legal counsel.
Said legal counsel had arrived just ahead
of Scarlet, in the company of the reporter's senior editor. Those two grim‑faced
men watched him with stony determination as he entered the detention area in
the lower level of the police station. The local authorities had been co‑operative
throughout the Operation so far. Spectrum had no complaints to air on that
account ‑ the police had a good working relationship with the media and
things had remained cool, despite the reporter's somewhat voluble protests and
self‑confident assurances that the incident was not going to be glossed
over.
She would change her mind. Scarlet
had little doubt about that. He nodded politely with the stony‑faced
gentlemen and moved across the room to shake hands with their own PR rep, who
handed over a bulky envelope after the greetings had been exchanged. He scanned
the contents quickly ‑ everything was in order. No need then for further
delay.
Within minutes he was seated across the
table from the reporter, her editor and their staff lawyer. He planned to be brief and he produced his ID officially
to get things started.
'Captain Scarlet, Spectrum,' he began,
nodding once at the woman. 'Miss Sauder. Gentlemen. I'd like to begin by
thanking you for your prompt arrival. Time is very often a critical factor in
Spectrum's investigations.'
'Are you here then, Captain, to further
question Miss Sauder? She's already given her statement.' It was the lawyer
that asked, as he picked up and looked over the ID.
'No sir, I'm not here to question, Miss
Sauder. I understand that she's made it perfectly clear in that statement that
she is not willing to divulge the identity of the person or persons that
disclosed to her information regarding the location of one of our security
operations.'
'That is well within her rights, Captain.'
'In this jurisdiction, that's very true.
I'm not here to dispute that, though I personally happen to disagree with that
position strongly. Based on the nature and accuracy of the information that she
received, Spectrum has good reason to believe that Miss Sauder has been in
contact with a suspected Mysteron agent. I'm here to try to trace the present
whereabouts and activities of any such Mysteron agent.'
'There's been no conspiracy for you to
investigate,' the reporter snapped. 'I was following a lead.'
'Our paper, and Miss Sauder personally,
have a reputation to protect,' the editor chimed in. 'Breach of confidence
could have very serious and damaging repercussions for us in the future.'
If there is a future, Spectrum has
to protect that; why can't these people see things any further than their own
interests?
'Spectrum isn't asking for a front page
story with pictures, sir,' he stated patiently. 'Nor are we implying that your
paper has any direct connection to or is co‑operating with this suspected
Mysteron agent. Failure to locate this Mysteron agent could also have a few
very damaging repercussions to our security operations.'
'Which are?' The editor became indignant.
'Which are not for public disclosure.'
'The public has a right to know if it's at
hazard, Captain!' It was Miss Sauder objecting this time, and she was all
righteous indignation Certainly she was not prepared to budge from her adopted
and unfortunate defiant stance.
'The public was not at hazard, Miss Sauder,
and if it was then Spectrum would have moved it's operations elsewhere. However, I can say that the breach of
security has changed our local operations. The matter has now been isolated and
removed from the city as a precautionary step.' He did not say that Russet had
been re‑assigned, that they had brought in a tanker from Buffalo and at
dusk last night had whisked Arthur ‑ and Guinevere too ‑ out of
town. Aloud, he went on, scarcely missing a beat. 'The public's best interests
have always been Spectrum's first concern.' Scarlet opened the envelope he'd
placed on the table before him. 'Pursuant to those concerns, I have been duly
authorised to present you with the following documents.'
Documents that they weren't going to like.
'On the direction of the World Government
and under terms of current treaties covering member jurisdictions, you are
hereby ordered to cease publication of information or articles pertaining to
the present Mysteron threat or Spectrum's operations in dealing with situations
arising out of such circumstance...'
A gag order. The editor knew it and fumed,
stifling a protest as Scarlet continued smoothly, dropping the relevant
document on the table in front of the lawyer. Miss Sauder's eyes had widened in
a dawning outrage.
'...which may be rescinded pending the
outcome of...' he pulled yet another document forth '...Spectrum's official
interrogation of Miss Leanne Sauder, who is hereby subpoenaed to report under
military escort to Spectrum Cloudbase immediately to undergo
questioning...'
Interrupting, Miss Sauder squared her
shoulders. 'I've already been questioned!' she objected loudly.
Scarlet continued, non‑plussed:
'...to undergo questioning with or without the administration of hypnophoric
serums as deemed necessary and appropriate by members of Spectrum's medical or
security staff--‑ '
'That's illegal!'
'---‑as is allowed under terms of the
International Securities Act, Section VIII, Subsection II, a copy of which is
appended to this subpoena and which supersedes all local jurisdictional
regulations. We have a Spectrum Passenger Jet standing by to convey Miss
Sauder, with or without your company, sirs ‑ Spectrum has no objection to
the presence of a witness or legal counsel ‑ to Spectrum Cloudbase without
further delay. I'm sure you can appreciate that time is indeed of the essence
in this investigation and on Spectrum's behalf I'd like to thank you in advance
for your co‑operation.'
Scarlet rose to his feet, signalling his
intention to end the meeting as the editor gathered an argument and the
reporter sat motionless in a quickly crumbling bravado. She had blanched at the
mention of hypnophoric serums ‑ truth drugs in common parlance ‑
and he had little doubt but that she'd be co‑operating fully once the SPJ
touched down on Cloudbase. He did not give any of them time to object
and gathered up his ID from the spot the lawyer had left it on the table.
Pulling down his cap mike, he summoned a waiting Lieutenant Vermilion and the
security escort to collect their media detainees and be gone with them. The
editor had mustered a weak protest that the lawyer had silenced with a curt '...it's
in order, Craig...' and the presumption of authority that his professional
opinion carried under the circumstances.
In all, it had been the most satisfying
encounter of the week so far. Generally, he disliked having to flex Spectrum's
muscles that way ‑ until it became necessary and as far as Operation
Minerva was concerned, he would very gladly have seen the entire book dropped
on Andrew Weller's head. The problem with Andrew Weller was that, at least
ostensibly, the Doctor was co‑operating with Spectrum and there were
therefore no legal grounds on which to nail the man or his secret project down.
He knew because he had asked ‑ and been told that not only had it already
been looked into, Weller's SWC legal advisors had also contacted HQ with ‑
again ostensibly ‑ an offer to 'aid' Spectrum's investigations in
whatever way they could...
Meaning Weller was ready for anything that
could be thrown against the Corporation's no‑doubt‑formidable resources.
It was all paperwork and fortunately it wasn't usually Scarlet's job. Legal
doubletalk was just not forthright enough an approach to take when dealing with
the Mysterons, and Scarlet intended to be quite forthright with the next item
on his agenda.
He had just one more harpy to deal with.
She favoured showy, dangling earrings and
pale frosted lipsticks. The week‑long wardrobe had been casual to an
extreme and if Tylan McLaine owned anything other than jeans and sweatshirts,
Ochre had yet to discover it. The hairstyle and the make‑up both were
likewise light and natural and all easy care. Especially the curls, she'd
confessed yesterday morning, lamenting the fact that those were, alas,
maintained solely through artifice. Fragrance, like the earrings, came in a
seemingly endless and oft‑changed array, and Ochre was convinced that
she'd been testing them out, looking, not very surreptitiously, for the one
that might catch his attention. He had tested that particular hypothesis,
complimenting her on a fruity green‑apple scent that had (in truth)
caught his fancy yesterday afternoon. She had settled on it thereafter and he'd
chalked himself up a point on the mental scoreboard he was keeping.
Godzilla McLaine was not utterly
unpredictable after all.
She had been housekeeping. Spring‑cleaning,
even. The weather had turned, had gone for the most part all warm and sunny and
she'd flung every window in the place open for both the fresh air and for a
thorough scrubbing. She had washed walls. She had, though she'd claimed to
detest it, dusted, albeit rather sporadically on only the upper levels,
disdaining to apply the duster to the collection of gleaming and expensive
exercise equipment, stylishly arranged in a very European spa‑like
setting in an elegantly refinished basement. Andy's stuff, all of it,
she'd sniffed, dismissing a suggestion that she work off a bit of that energy
down there. I just hate exercise...
She had also vacuumed with a vengeance ‑
and somehow she'd managed to buzz through each and every single time he tried
to make a report.
'Zil,' he'd finally complained. 'Do you
mind?'
To which she'd replied, smiling, up one
point. 'Yes, actually, I do mind. A great deal. So please do move your feet,
Och'.'
Stupid question. He'd refused after that to
let the very deliberate vacuuming bother him and had made his reports while
supervising Merlin out of doors. He'd had to give her the point, however
reluctantly. And then he'd awarded it back to himself when Russet had
afterwards told him that she'd moaned bitterly that she couldn't eavesdrop on
the reports any more, since they weren't allowing her out of the house for the
duration of the crisis.
He'd been smug for the rest of the day, and
she'd practised her wiles on Russet in the meantime.
Russet's auburn hair and green eyes had not
gone unnoticed and the very instant that he'd come through the door she'd sized
the Lieutenant up and down with, he'd learned, that typical McLaine
thoroughness. Then she'd confused poor Russet altogether by asking ‑
hopefully ‑ if Andy had perhaps sent him?
And so, Ochre had added fickle to
his list of descriptive terms, though the interest seemed short‑lived
enough. She was thirty‑two and not a cradle robber, she'd said, with much
regret upon learning that there was another very identical twin to go along
with Russet. That revelation had turned over a few gears and elicited another
contradictory comment that twenty‑three wasn't all that young, after all,
and that she would also very much like to do a comparison at the earliest
opportunity.
It was a wonderful Act ‑ and Act it
was. A previous career with the World Police ‑ much of it spent doing
International Undercover Drugs and Vice ‑ had left Ochre often too well
acquainted with humankind's sleazy underbelly; he'd met nymphomaniacs and
exhibitionists and despite all the innuendo, suggestive stances, brush‑bys
and come‑hither eyework, Zil McLaine was no nymphomaniac, and no
exhibitionist either. The casual wardrobe was too modest by far and that, if
nothing else, flat‑out gave the act away.
She was of medium frame and height; her
shoulders were broad and there was a generous curve at her hip. She moved with
a solid confidence and he suspected a lean, athletic build lurked under those
baggy sweatshirts, whatever she did or did not claim to like about exercise.
Her hair was an unremarkable medium brown, her features average, symmetrical,
with no outstanding, distinguishing marks or characteristics. At first glance
there was nothing about the person of Tylan McLaine that was particularly eye‑catching.
Closer observation revealed a nose that was straight but not hawkish, lips that
were neither too thin or pouting, teeth straight and white, a slightly higher
than average cheekbone. She had a strong jawline and an intriguingly long‑lashed
profile. Handsome, rather than pretty, Ochre had at last concluded, and had
then put Zil's physical attributes---real and imagined---out of his head
entirely. Dealing with the mind behind
the pretty blue‑grey eyes was enough of a full‑time occupation...
It had been a few quiet but interesting
days here in his corner of the present Operation. Security personnel and their
surveillance equipment had gone into place around the property early on, and to
date, the only things to trip those alarms had been birds and squirrels and, of
course, Merlin. The dog, friendly, dumb, and perpetually hungry, made a round
of the security posts two or three times a day in a friendly, and perhaps not‑so‑dumb,
search for whatever handouts of food or affection were to be had from the Security
guys out there. Leftover sandwiches
were sometimes to be had and the
ear-sratches and belly-rubs---on-duty and necessarily brief---were willingly
dispensed and Merlin sent on his way.
It was a deal that Zil had literally cooked up; she was exchanging
more-than-decent home cooked food for the dog-walking duties that Spectrum was
currently not allowing her to perform.
It was a genius, he had to remind himself,
running the scam that wore well-ordered domesticity for a facade and plied
nothing less than plain, old human nature with tantalizing aromas from the
kitchen. The results were
palate-pleasing and in every way superior to the fast-food and automated
dispenser stuff that was the dietary mainstay on Cloudbase. This was a corporate guest-house and its
well-funded pantry was stacked to the rafters, primarily, it seemed, to tickle
Zil’s whims to cook. If it was a hobby,
she was delighting in it; she had, in the short term, as did Arthur Prince, a
captive audience. For his part, Ochre
could only be glad that she was a wanna-be chef, and not a wanna-be political
activist.
More obviously, and just in case the
stomach was not the quickest way to a man’s heart, she had also continued to
massage deliberately at base male instinct and her specialty scamming was aimed
below the belt. Not a day had gone by
that she hadn’t asked him when he would finally be off-duty. Certain offers were, apparently, still open.
All of which was very ego-boosting, but
Ochre did not altogether trust it, or her.
He had personally seen to warning Lieutenant Russet and each of the
Security men to mind their p’s and q’s.
To be Professional at all times and to re-read the conduct regs. For the good of those under his immediate
command, he did what he could to keep himself in that potentially hazardous
position of dealing with her face-to-face and not always at arm’s length. She was too clever by far, and she had
already threatened legal action the once.
He did not doubt that she’d do it again, not if it meant
protection for Minerva, a single useful word of which she’d yet to breathe in
anyone’s presence. Other than, that
was, to say that if he wanted to know all about Minerva, he’d just have to
seduce it out of her.....
On that occasion, he’d settled for helping
her to drag the winter cover off of the pool, another task on her rapidly
shortening list of domestic chores.
He’d allowed that the patio enclosure just outside of the living room’s
vast floor-to-ceiling windows was as safe as the house. On that same occasion he’d needed
something to distract her from so very competently hitting on the nearest
available Spectrum officer---
And it had, as he’d suspected, proved to be
about as effective as a cold shower too.
Captain Grey had noted early on that Andrew
Weller’s penchant for mythology was not restricted to the classics of ancient
Greece and ancient Rome, though the Demeter facility was well and liberally
graced with the image---carved, cast and otherwise rendered on canvas---of the
goddess for which it had been named.
Certainly it was impossible to miss the 12-foot high statue of the
goddess herself, placed prominently right outside the panoramic glass doors at
the front of the Administration building.
Scantily clad in flowing robes of stone-gray, she bore the elements, her
symbolic sheaf of wheat cradled in arm as she gazed across the narrow valley to
the Rocky mountain peaks beyond the airfield.
Her presence there made sense, considering
that agricultural pursuits were the primary business of the place. Themes diverged widely from there
however. The posh grounds, gardens and
fountains were accented by Totem Poles, statues of mythical beasts and one
towering Egyptian obelisk. Inside the
panoramic glass doors of the Administration building, Demeter’s reception area
gleamed---a spacious enclosure of stone and marble, nicely complemented with
tropical plants and even a small, Corporate Art Gallery, that housing a further
variety of mythically-inspired pieces.
Overall, there did not seem to be any central theme.
But there did seem to be a current one.
And speaking just for himself, Grey could
have done with a little less influence from the Arthurian pantheon. He was not getting along well with
Lancelot. Certainly not much better
than he was getting along with Doctor Weller.
Things with the Doctor had gotten off to an
exceedingly poor start and he still hadn't been able to decide where the blame
for that ought to lie. Just one of those things, that none of Demeter's staff
had seen fit to warn him about the dog. Lance was a local fixture and when out
of sight, was out of mind. And so, Grey had learned about Lancelot the hard
way, when the SPJ bringing Weller from Cloudbase had touched down and
taxied to a stop at the edge of the small airfield. He'd been there in person
to greet Andrew Weller and he'd just been approaching the SPJ as Weller had
disembarked, nodding at him with a smile, one hand coming up to shake his own,
when Lance had chosen to put in a typical appearance--- to no‑one's
surprise except his own.
All Grey had seen had been a large and
charging brown and grey projectile hurtling from the pine brush at the edge of
the tarmac. A bloody big wolf for God's sake, arrowing directly for
Doctor Weller, and he had reacted ‑ too quickly, as it turned out ‑
to the perceived threat. He'd shoved Weller bodily to the ground, whipped his
pistol out and taken aim.
Weller, shouting, had physically knocked
his arm aside; the shot had gone skyward and Grey had found himself struggling
to get Weller off his arm and his back before it was too late for him to deal
properly with the attacking wolf.
'No, you idiot, don't shoot! That's my
dog, dammit!'
That one wayward shot had been enough to
stop Lance so abruptly that the animal had tripped over his own big feet and
toppled sidelong into a rolling skid. He picked himself up and bolted, tail
tucked, back into the bush from whence he'd come.
A shouting match had commenced from there,
Weller alternately admonishing Grey for the trigger‑happy reaction and
calling after Lance in a vain attempt to coax him back out of the woods. At
equal decibels Grey had argued back that no such thing would be permitted until
after a very thorough security check.
It had been a heated exchange, but Grey had
won it, because even Weller had to admit that the possibility existed that it
might not have been Lance. The Doctor had even apologised for the 'idiot'
reference once the matter had been cooled down and sorted out, and (hours
later) when Lance had both re‑appeared and been checked negative on the
Mysteron detector. Weller had accepted, with grudging grace, that Grey had only
been doing his job ‑ and doing it well besides. Good reflexes,
Weller had commented at the last, and had forgiven him for the introductory
debacle.
Lance, however, had not. Not even after Weller had summoned the dog
over and insisted that Lance sit nicely while Grey made his acquaintance.
Dog, Weller had reiterated, though it was true that Lance
has some wolf in his ancestry. Canine,
was all Grey had granted of that, and he might have guessed that the animal was
almost full-blooded timber wolf from the look, the size of the paws and the
coarsely coated, solidly muscled frame.
Lance had sharp white teeth and a predatory, suspicious glint in the
eyes that had never left him throughout the supervised snuffle. Lance now went out of his way to avoid Grey;
Grey just shrugged it off did his best to let Lance be and got on with his
work.
The evacuation of Demeter HQ had gone
smoothly. Some four hundred and sixty-odd souls called Demeter home, and it had
taken nearly a full two days of frantic activity to pack everyone up and out of
the place. Scientists and research assistants had scrambled to suspend and
shelve their work; clerical and administrative staff to tidy their desks and lock
their files; maintenance and support workers, spouses and families to pack
their bags and board the hastily arranged and Spectrum Security cleared charter
flights that SWC had booked for either Edmonton or Vancouver. The Corporation
had arranged to put everyone up in top‑class hotels for the duration of
the crisis, all expenses paid. Few had complained ‑ it was a bit of an
adventure for most, and a novel change from the routine for all. Demeter was
now down to a skeleton crew. Weller had hand‑picked an aide or two out of
the senior staff, had approved a couple of volunteer maintenance people to keep
the power plant running at minimal levels and assigned only three of Demeter's
own Security staff to stay and advise their Spectrum counter‑parts about
the facility. All air‑traffic and communications functions had been
handed over to Spectrum.
The Residency was now shut down and all
remaining personnel had been isolated in Administration; guest quarters and air‑traffic
were being handled there. Everything Spectrum considered operations‑critical
was located in the Admin building,
either above or below ground. The security perimeter was up and running. The
Angels were patrolling the area, maintaining a twenty‑four hour no‑fly
zone around the clock three of them on a rotating schedule of flight/refuel and
layover out of CFB Cold Lake, Alberta,
just a short easterly flight away and a damn' sight handier than Cloudbase
for the purpose.
By and large Grey was satisfied with just
about everything ‑ except for the fact that Weller still hadn't come clean about Minerva. Such staff as had been questioned
about the project had stared blankly at its mention. They knew Prince and
McLaine, who, yes, had been working at the facility for the last couple of years and who still maintained reserve
quarters in the Residency. But, no, they weren't sure what they'd been working
on, except they'd been in different departments ‑ Prince in the technical
wing and McLaine in both biomedics and comp‑sci ‑ and so had been
considered to be working on separate projects. There seemed to be no
pretence---Demeter's staff simply didn't know.
Grey's footsteps echoed in the vast, silent
foyer of the Administration Centre as he crossed it. The quiet was tomb‑like
after the past few frenetic days. He hoped that the quiet would last, but he
did not believe it; by Weller's own admission whatever the Mysterons were after
it lay at Demeter R&D. Grey was expecting something to break, very shortly;
he had just had the report from Cloudbase, and he was on his way to see
Doctor Weller with the news.
Captain Magenta had finally found what he
was looking for in Africa.
They were going to run another scan.
Andrew Weller tipped his seat back and made himself comfortable for the duration,
feet slung onto the corner of the desk, a pen in hand. The pen he tapped
deliberately on the edge of the desk, persistently and loudly because he was
annoyed.
Earlier that morning Captain Grey had made
a request to see him; bad news, apparently. Now that news had been delivered:
Spectrum had found what they supposed was left of Todd... Remains in an ugly
state which had been recovered and were now being sent for forensic
identification. Dental records were what they'd been after and he'd had to do
the digging in the personnel records himself to set them on the right track.
Poor Todd. Poor Shelley.
He just trusted that they had not asked
Shelley to identify those remains. His heart ached for Shelley Carey in her
grief, and if what Grey had told him was true, it was no way for the woman to
have to remember her husband. He'd
arranged for a corporate security escort to retrieve Todd's widow. While it had
not yet been positively confirmed that the corpse located belonged to Todd, he
strongly suspected it. The gruesomeness of Grey's report had disturbed him
anew. He'd accustomed himself to the idea that this was a worst case scenario,
and he could not for the life of him imagine anything else that would have sent
Todd off AWOL, which was completely out of character. So he had to
assume the worst and that Spectrum was right about the man's unfortunate ending. He had liked Todd. A good man, a
trusted colleague, a relatively close friend. Shelley would be well taken care
of. He'd already set that in motion.
Confirmation of Todd's death, well ‑
that would change everything. Worst case, he thought again. I must
talk to Zil.
He would see to it, somehow, that Todd's
loss would not be an empty one.
Andrew Weller had been thinking hard and
grim since, and he did not appreciate this renewed intrusion.
'I can assure you, Captain, that your scans
are not going to reveal anything different than they did the last time you ran
them. This is a completely unnecessary exercise.'
Captain Grey, a paragon of patience, smiled
back at him politely as Lieutenant Roan activated the scanning device in his
hand and began to run it across the nearest wall. 'Procedure, Doctor
Weller.' It was the standard reply.
Weller sighed. 'Every day?'
'Yes, Doctor Weller. Things can change,
sir.'
He wanted to laugh and decided against it.
'Captain Grey. As you know, this office is located several levels underground.
What is it you're looking for? A secret passage?'
Grey raised an eyebrow. 'Would I find one,
Doctor?'
The man was altogether too quick. It was a mistake
even to give him such ideas. Grey had also hounded him, until he'd finally
given in and shown him what was left of Minerva's prototype ‑ a pile of
now abandoned electronic bits and pieces that Arthur himself had dismantled and
stowed in a plain and innocuous cardboard box in the main vaults downstairs a
level. Grey had not believed him, though it was true.
Too quick, this one. Captain Grey had his suspicions, and they
were not entirely unfounded. I must stop being so glib...
Still, Weller was not yet prepared to
sacrifice all.
'Rock, Captain,' he stated into a carefully
measured silence. They were looking for something. He suddenly wanted to have a
long, private discussion with Zil. 'Quite solid for the most part--‑'
there now, that wasn't a lie. '‑--you'll find ventilation ducts,
electrical wiring, power conduits, framing and drywall. All the usual stuff,
I'd imagine.'
It would never do to tell the Captain just
what was behind those walls. He
wondered if Spectrum's last scan had shown up some anomaly. He earnestly hoped
not, he'd gone to such pains...
But that was military hardware in Roan's
hands, cutting edge technology and the military was so often, but not always,
one step ahead of its civilian counterpart. He hadn't thought it held true, not
for scan‑shielding...
'Imagination is fine, Doctor,' Grey said.
'But I'm afraid I need to know what might be behind that drywall. This facility
was once a mining operation and the blueprints did indicate the presence of a
number of cross‑connecting air shafts.'
My God... Weller thought. He's checked!
'I see... You've been digging through old
records then. I am sorry to disappoint you, but those were dealt with some time
ago. Biotech regulations do not permit secret passages of any kind. The
microbes are not allowed to leave by anything other than officially sanctioned
means.' Just see if the Captain caught on to that one.
'We're above the quarantine levels,
Doctor,' Grey said drily.
No fooling this one, no, not at all...
'Just testing, Captain,' he nodded affably,
making light of it. 'You pass.'
Grey, for his response, merely waited
again, while Lieutenant Roan completed the scan over the walls and finally
reported it negative.
That was nice to know. Weller's faith was
restored. Scan‑shielding by Aultmann Industries, an SWC affiliate,
best in the world, Captain...
Grey signalled Roan out, turning to leave
the office himself, with one parting comment. 'It's not the microbes I'm
worried about, Doctor Weller. It's the Mysterons.'
Weller smiled a tight smile. 'Ah, yes, but
you've been doing such a fine job ‑ I haven't seen any hereabouts,
Captain.'
'With all due respect, Doctor Weller, it's
not the ones you see that get you.'
And that one comment made Andrew Weller
more nervous than any anomalous scan could possibly have.
This was not what he'd anticipated.
All along the length of Doctor
McLaine's laneway was planted a series
of very ridiculous, very hastily scrawled signposts. The cardboard placards,
fixed rather insecurely with masking tape to rough wooden stakes read, in
order:
YOU ARE ABOUT TO ENTER A
MAXIMUM SECURITY ZONE
VISITORS REPORT TO THE MAIN
ENTRANCE
PLEASE HAVE YOUR SECRET
PASSWORD READY
and lastly,
It was not amusing. It was unmitigated, utter
silliness and while Ochre may have appreciated the Doctor distracting herself
with that sort of nonsense, Ochre ought not to have been encouraging it to the
point of posting that nonsense on the front lawn. Perhaps she'd conned
Lieutenant Russet into planting the blasted things on his way out the door to
Buffalo ‑ Russet and Roan themselves being fresh from a stint of
legendary pranksterism of Koala Base.
Ochre, however, knew better. This hinted at
a loss of control over the situation. A loss of control that seemed to be
running right rampant across the board ‑ because Blue was going stir‑crazy
locked up with Arthur Prince, and Grey's hair was going to be, well, grey
by the time Doctor Weller was through with him...
Scarlet pulled the saloon up beside that
final sign and parked it there, getting out and uprooting it with undisguised
irritation. It pulled loose from the dirt easily and came up with a small
plastic bag dangling on a piece of string tied to the bottom end.
What the hell is this now?!
Scarlet brushed dirt from the plastic,
revealing a note in unfamiliar hand‑writing which warned:
You'd better not
be reading this...
'Not funny!' Scarlet cursed out loud,
marching up to the front door, staked placard in hand. God help him, there was
a Mysteron threat current and unresolved, there were Mysteron agents loose and
on the prowl, there was a serious lack of co‑operation from the intended
victims, and ‑ and now, this; this sort of flippancy was rife and
running wild and it was damn near time
that someone wrested control of the situation back.
It was all going to stop. Right here and
right now.
He did not knock. He did not ring the
doorbell. Scarlet stormed into the front entranceway and stood there bristling
until a bloody, blasted horse came galloping down the stairs to greet him.
He'd heard all about Merlin, and he'd left
the door open behind him in anticipation of the canine charge.
'You ‑ out!' Scarlet gave the
command in no uncertain terms; to his immediate satisfaction the dog's ears and
tail went down and the thing went slinking out of the opened door behind him.
Easy.
He slammed the door and turned, looking up
a short flight of stairs toward the living room---where one overly insouciant
Doctor McLaine was now standing, regarding him with folded arms and mild
disapproval set in her features. Ochre appeared at her shoulder, some mild
alarm giving way to something else that looked to be an interested
anticipation.
Ochre was obviously having too much fun at
Operation Minerva, but he would address that issue later and less
publicly. He did not allow himself to
stray from his purpose.
He held up the home‑made signpost and
shook it. 'Doctor McLaine,' he stated the woman’s name icily. 'Just what the hell do you call this?'
They had sent in the heavy guns.
And Andy hadn't lied either ‑
obviously there were lots of
good‑looking Spectrum officers to choose from.
Ochre was handsome in an average, down to
earth sort of way. Tylan had found herself gravitating to those marvellous deep
brown eyes. He was fun, too. Had a good sense of humour. So far, Ochre was her
favourite; he played her games and wasn't for one instant fooled by them.
She'd only seen Blue on the vid a few times
‑ but that was okay. Nice Scandinavian blond; rugged, outdoorsy, athletic.
She would complete her assessment later ‑ Blue was bringing Arthur in,
and would be there for dinner.
And then there was Lieutenant Russet of the
auburn hair and the enchanting green eyes. Exotic, good‑humoured and
wickedly intelligent. Possessed too of an identical twin, which sounded twice
the fun.
And now...now here was Captain
Scarlet.
Ochre had spoken highly of this one and
seemed to like and respect him. This one was Often In Charge, apparently he had
some special rank or something, though whatever that was did not immediately
concern her, not in her initial first impression. Hmmm. Tall, dark and
handsome. Oh, my ‑ just devastating good looks with those finely
sculpted, flawless features. A classic textbook hunk, if ever she'd
encountered one, right down to the adorable little cleft in his chin and eyes
of deep, clear sapphire blue.
Sapphire blue ice, that was.
She met the hard, cold look with one of out
and out interest, a regard that simply annoyed him further.
'Excuse me, Doctor, but I said 'what the
hell do you call this?'' The voice ‑ all tenor silk and old‑time
movie star smooth ‑ was level and cold and insistent. He shook the sign again, fairly oozing
authority....
She sighed. Oh dear. Regrettably, he
would have to be put in place. ‘Excuse
me,’ she began. ‘Please
don’t assume that I’m deaf or ignoring you, Captain’
‘Foolish of me to have forgotten! You just don’t
answer civilized questions, do you, Doctor McLaine?’
Oooh. Snarky when peeved. That comment had been all scathing sarcasm---indicative
that perhaps he did have a sense of humour lurking under the authoritative
exterior. There was a simple test for
that. He’d already taken the bait.
She tossed the question back at him just to
prove she’d been listening. ‘What
do I call that, Captain?’ she asked, waggling an unconcerned finger at
the signpost. She leaned against the wall casually. 'I call that private
property, Captain. Vandalized private property.'
Sudden realisation cracked the sapphire
ice, recognition that he was, in that instant, at a serious disadvantage. She
had no real intention of lodging a complaint, but she wanted to make it clear
that such possibilities existed.
Trumped‑up or not, a charge of willfully defacing private property
could not look good on anyone's record.
'Doctor McLaine,’ the voice had gone
glacial cold, like the eyes. ‘May I take a moment to remind you that we
are in the midst of a very serious security situation, a crisis of globe‑threatening
proportions that‑--'
She raised her voice. ‘I will thank you,
Captain, not to insult my intelligence.’ she countered, going on
the offensive before he got too far down that tangent. ‘I am very well
aware of the situation. Better versed
in it than some, I might add.’
‘And that’s another matter I intend to address, Doctor.
And may I also remind you, Doctor McLaine, who is in charge here---’
'Oh, please do save your breath,
Captain Scarlet ‑ I already know you're in charge.'
He must have been expecting her to protest
that, because her confirmation that the
In-Charge post was his seemed to catch him unawares. He opened his mouth to retort, but she beat him to the next
remark.
‘That is true, isn’t it?’
Hint of suspicion in the eyes now. ‘Yes,
it is true, Doctor.’
Absolute agreement. In fact, he wanted to
press the point. It was the perfect
answer.
‘Well, then---’ She stepped forward
and pulled the placard from his hands. 'So just what do you think you're doing
wasting your time with this nonsense? You should know better. Get to work
before some Mysteron gets me!'
He saw the trap. 'What?!'
'Work, Captain. It’s what they pay you for. This---'
she opened the front door and tossed the signpost out. ‘---shouldn’t be
distracting you from your job.’
She closed the door and sighed with satisfaction,
pretending not to notice the flush that was crawling up his cheeks, fit to
match the colour of his uniform. But
she didn’t want to argue anymore, and she truly didn’t want to alienate him
either. That had never been her
intention, and it was bad policy besides.
So she changed the subject abruptly.
‘What do you like with your steak, by the way?’
Outflanked again. Whatever argument he’d
been gathering was derailed. ‘Steak?’
She stated the obvious. ‘Yes, steak,
Captain. We are having company to
dinner, a party of at least three more.
I shall barbecue steak. The
question was, what do you like to have with it?’
Ochre, at long last, stepped into the
breach, rescuing his still speechless colleague. ‘He likes mustard.’ Ochre offered.
Scarlet’s shoulders finally slumped,
recognition of the inevitable. ‘Dijon,’ he added. ‘I’ll take dijon mustard, if that’s
all right.’
She smiled sweetly, and turned for the
stairs again, heading kitchenward all aglow with success. The blathering
technique usually worked.
Captain Scarlet wasn’t apt to ask about
Minerva again until at least tomorrow morning.....
For a long moment. Scarlet just stood
there, dumbstruck and wondering how he had ever lost control of that conversation so quickly. He watched Doctor
McLaine vanish upstairs and then turned to Ochre, bouncing out of the
indignity. ‘What was that!?’
he demanded.
‘That---’ Ochre informed him. ‘Is what
happens when you cross her turf with an Attitude. The nick-name, Captain, is Godzilla---and you’ve just been
stepped on.’
He could only mumble a gruff
concurrance. ‘Harpy!’ he
breathed, cursing darkly and feeling better for it. ‘And you can stop enjoying yourself so much now!’ Ochre’s features were serious, but Scarlet
was convinced that he was howling with
mirth inside---the joke was too good, even he could see that---and he knew
Ochre too well. ‘What were you
thinking, putting those damn signs out on the lawn anyway?’
Ochre did not grin, but he did shrug
casually. ‘I was thinking that
she’s awful damn smart and she’s bored. I was thinking it was
time-consuming, harmless and irrelevant.
And I didn’t think you’d bother.
It’s a molehill, not a mountain. Take it as a lesson, Scarlet---and do
yourself a favor---don’t pick up any more of the bits of rope she leaves
laying around.’
Lesson.
Scarlet smiled suddenly himself,
perspective restored, thinking on water gun battles and antique alarm
clocks. Ochre had still owed him for
that one. ‘Even score,’
he capitulated, a comment that did crack the grin onto Ochre’s face. ‘Is she serious about the steak?’
‘Blue will love it, if he hasn’t already wasted away to
a rack of bones. Even I’m feeling sorry for him. Beautiful day for it too.
Yes, she’s serious about the steak---but we’ll have to look over the
barbecue first and make sure it’s working---she has a few doubts.’
‘Well, we don’t want to disappoint Blue.’
Scarlet was looking forward to seeing his regular partner. It had seemed a long few days on his side of
things but he had a good deal more sympathy for Captain Blue. Less than an hour
with Arthur Prince the other day had set his own teeth on edge. Adam had been
stuck with the opinionated young inventor since, and had no doubt earned more
than one paltry steak dinner on perseverance alone. At Blue's last report the
tanker had pulled over for yet another roadside pit‑stop on Gwen's
account. No puppies yet. But, Blue had lamented, the interior carpet would be
damaged if the pitstops weren't frequent enough. ‘Speaking of Blue, time
to check in again; the security vehicles should have made rendezvous by now.’ Scarlet put dinner to the back of his mind,
where it belonged. It was time to get
back to work.
Before the harpy came back and told him to....
Another uneventful two hours went by. The motorcade had formed up without incident
and was on its way to the first checkpoint.
He listened idly to the routine radio
chatter between the escort vehicles and Lieutenant Russet behind the wheel of
the tanker, casting his glance from time to time outside to the patio enclosure
and the lively discussion that was taking place over the not quite functional barbecue. Godzilla
McLaine’s suspicions had been borne out---the thing wouldn’t start. Talk of ‘needed tools’ was accompanied by
widely animated gestures, pointing fingers and Ochre eventually adopting a
stance of finality with his hands planted firmly on hips as he attempted to
stare the woman down.
‘All right then!’ she conceded, not very
gracefully. ‘I’ll go and get one---but
all you really need is a damn dime!’
With melodramatic effect, Tylan McLaine threw her arms up. ‘You,’ she instructed Ochre
with a departing toss of here head, ‘will please let the dog out.’
The conversation drifted in, carried on a
cool, fresh and pleasant breeze off the Lake. It was a perfect early spring
day, unusually warm for the season, according to Ochre, who ought to know.
Hell, the man was practically home ‑ Detroit being only a few
hours west by car. Ochre was therefore surprisingly familiar with this neck of
the woods, and that doubtless accounted ‑ at least in part ‑ for
his colleague's settled‑in composure. Great Lakes boy, that was the
proper pigeon hole. Grey would likely have behaved the same; Chicago was only
one more Great Lake further west yet. Like those that grew up near salt oceans,
the Lakes seemed to be something that got into the blood...
A door banged open as Doctor McLaine headed
for the basement and a toolbox, going with feigned animosity for the tools
Ochre had asked for. Academy
performance. Ochre had been right about
that business; and right too about the fact that it was a beautiful day for a
barbecued steak. It was sounding more
and more appealing all the time.
Scarlet soon enough found himself hoping that Ochre would get the
recalcitrant barbecue working in fairly short order. For poor Blue's sake, if
not for his own ‑ Arthur thrived on frozen dinners, and he shared them
with considerable zeal. Ochre stared after the Doctor’s retreating form with an
expression of good-humoured but strained tolerance, watching until she’d
vanished inside before turning to let Merlin out through the patio’s back
gate. The big mutt had waited patiently
for the moment of attention, and thumped his tail in gratitude for the release
when it came. Merlin sauntered off
towards the bluff and Ochre pulled down his cap mike to advise Security’s
duty-officer that the dog was loose and likely to set off the perimeter alarms.
Again.
And so, Scarlet thought, the whole
Operation was becoming unbearably tedious. Aside from the bit of excitement
with the media ‑ which could turn out to be yet another false alarm ‑
everything had been much too quiet since Black's hijacking escapade nearly a
week ago. Following up on reported Todd Carey sightings had been a singularly
pointless exercise ‑ a repeat of the Judy Chapman scenario, with several
reported positive ID's being made in far flung locations and at impossibly
short intervals. None of those reports had borne out and Spectrum had simply
withdrawn matters to target proximity---if the Mysterons wanted Minerva they
would have to come and get it.
It was pressure of a different kind ‑
fighting off the tedium was in many ways harder than fighting through a direct
attack. Scarlet leaned back in his seat, feeling trapped by circumstance and
wished for something interesting to happen.
A wish that was granted almost at once.
Sudden nausea gripped Captain Scarlet and
all thoughts of grilled steak vanished in a cold sweat.
Mysteron! Scarlet thought fiercely, fighting back the
unmistakable sensation. He rose unsteadily to his feet, dizziness washing over
him in successive waves. Shaking his head to clear it and failing, he tried
instead to focus, to pinpoint the source...
Outside.
Close...
Tylan McLaine was walking across the patio
again, outbound this time with an assortment of screwdrivers and wrenches in
hand. Ochre had closed the gate and turned.
A small but perceptible motion caught
Scarlet's eye, chilling him with a swift and terrible realisation ‑ he
reached for his cap mike, wrestling desperately to get past the near‑crippling
dizziness and the nausea...
'Ochre!' he managed to hiss through clenched teeth. 'The
propane tank!'
At the warning, Captain Ochre's gaze jerked
immediately to the barbecue's fuel tank ‑ and the dismantled gas‑line
fitting whose valve was spinning itself open ever more quickly, releasing a
deadly and volatile flood of propane into the patio enclosure. Ochre moved
instantly, breaking into a sprint toward Tylan McLaine, who looked up in
startlement at the sudden movement. Simultaneously, the barbecue's auto‑ignite
clicked once, audible, even from where Scarlet was swaying inside at the
balcony, and then clicked again ‑ attempting a spark in close proximity
to the hissing gas leak.
No! No dammit just pray the bloody part's broken they're too close there's nowhere to hide there's nowhere to go there's nothing I can do there's----
In a split second of uncannily heightened
awareness, a potent, overwhelming sense
of impending disaster sent Scarlet diving instinctively for cover, just as---‑
Just as the propane tank detonated,
obliterating the whole of the patio enclosure in a violent, all consuming
fireball!
OTHER STORIES BY SIOBBHAN ZETTLER
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