

Inchoate (Short Stories Volume I)

Lazlo Ferran

Copyright © 2008 by Lazlo Ferran

All Rights Reserved.

Visit the Lazlo Ferran blog to see what I am currently working on: http://www.lazloferran.com

You will find an Urdu translation of Inchoate straight after this English version.

# Inchoate

Copyright © 2008 by Lazlo Ferran

All Rights Reserved.

Okay. Fuckit! yes! I was there. I spent enough time in the last few par-weeks denying it, and since you have become my confidante, let me admit it now. I was there.

So now the shit had hit the fan, and humankind had reached their Check-point Charlie wassisname on their biggest planet - Jupiter I think it's called – a few million years too early, and we hadn't been ready for them. So somebody has to pay. And it looks like it will be me. Not sure really if I am guilty, but there it is. Soon the trial will be over, and the whole damned quadrant – if not the Universe – will know, and then I will really be screwed.

But anyway, when are they going to change the broken light like I asked? This constant flicking on and off every few seconds in a ten-by-eight seribdenum cell gives me nowhere to hide, and already claustrophobic, now I am getting a damned headache.

Ha! Ha! It was so funny on the first day of my defence when I came right out and said it. Said it out LOUD. They were expecting lies, and I have to admit, I had spent almost all the time since my arrest thinking of plausible alibis, but none would give me as good a chance of getting off as admitting the truth - or most of it. The bit I wouldn't admit was the main reason I did it; that I was bored.

***

"Mr As-qinov, your company records show that on the day in question, 4 August in the year -2.4BE you were indeed assigned to the sector in Northern Texas - on supposedly strictly observational duties."

I had just denied I was anywhere near the area - had in fact gone home one day early on leave as I was not feeling well. The Council for the Prosecution paused, took off his VisGogs and glanced down from his dais with disdain at me before staring knowingly at the Jury. That was the point at which I admitted I was there, know what I mean?

"Yes Okay. Okay. I was there. I remember now. I have been under stress you know, and I thought at first the day you mentioned was actually the day after I left. Okay, so I think I know how it must have happened, but it was really nothing. I never meant any harm and really with the god-damned – sorry, with the boredom I had to endure, I just made a simple mistake!"

I turned to the audience for the full effect. "You see a Mole's job is to mix in with the natives and observe how far advanced they have become – to fill in the Cryme's Register accordingly and not to interact with the locals any more than strictly necessary."

I had been there weeks. WEEKS! And I was sick. Eating tough rancid bison – or whatever those damned things were called - meat every day - bison stew, barbequed bison and bison à la salt every day was really getting me down. And on TOP of that this hairy old whore called – as near as I can make out, Ung-dwid, was all over me, know what I mean? All over me. She stank!

So I was bored and fed up, and these hairy dudes were all sitting around late morning after a night's hunting, partying and screwing, and I could see trouble brewing. I was scared!

Dug-fa-ah; these damned names, don't they get you? He was the big alpha-male and as dumb as a fish but built like a brick-shit-house. Even I was scared of him, and I had a taser in my hidden pocket. Anyway, he was loping around cuffing some of the others – Zuu-gug and the tall one, whose name I can't remember – and then he just starting beating Zuu-gug with this damned club. Just kind of recreationally, it seemed to me. Then his dark beady eyes set on me, and I just had to act. I had holiday coming on full-pay, 'cause I had done a full year without a break, and it's just not done to cause a fight among the natives, know what I mean?

So there I am 2.4 Million years before proper civilization on this damned backwater planet, under the searing heat of a pre-historic sun among the conifers, dressed in a stinking, itchy, lice-infested goat-skin and big hairy wig – I haven't washed for nearly a month, and suddenly I had this idea.

'Get them distracted' I thought to myself, so I decided to confuse them a little bit.

"Umm ... unan ... shey," I said out loud, sweeping my arms around encompassing all the dudes there – but not the women. That was the phrase that meant, 'Okay let's call a board-meeting.' Old Dug, he looked at me curious for a moment, and then a kind of smile came across his hairy face, and he grunted, grabbed a hunk of meat of some other dude, and we all went off to the sacred fire to have this pow-wow.

I had this idea I would give them something to really test their brain-power – you know - might contribute to my own personal research documentation, and then I chuckled to myself. They all looked at me, and Dug banged his club on the ground. I kind of wished I had my little phrase-pod in my hand then, 'cause some of the phrases I needed were tricky, but anyway I started formally as you do.

"We need to discuss something very important," I said in a loud voice. They were all looking at me now, all thirty-six of the dudes. Some were picking their noses, or ears, or playing with stones, but mostly they were listening. Most of them had been confused by my appearance wearing the tribal icons a few weeks before. With these they had to accept me, but they still couldn't figure out where I came from, and it made them extra-interested in anything I said.

"We need to consider a mystery. Something that other tribes have considered, but they are not like us. They cannot find the answer, because they are too stupid." I thought this would really get them on side, and it seemed to work. I totally had the floor now. They were mine. I pointed to a stone on the ground.

"See that stone? It is there. I know it is there, because I can see it, and I can pick it up."

I demonstrated the veracity of this for the dimmer in the audience by picking it up.

"See the mountain?" I pointed to it. "We know it is there, because we can see it and walk to it."

"But now we have a more difficult question. A bigger mystery!"

I looked at Dug, his mouth hanging open with rapt concentration. He noticed I had seen his childlike curiosity, closed his mouth and bit an extra-large chunk of bison from the haunch.

"And the question is, do we exist?" I swept my hand around taking in all the dudes there, know what I mean?

I waited for effect. There was stunned, dumb silence. I looked at Dug. Nothing going on behind these eyes. Okay I would need to clarify.

"What I mean is, we can touch each other and talk to each other, but how do we know that our friends are not just dreams? How do we know, no wait \- how do I know that I am not a dream?"

Dug looked quite angry at this point, and there were stirrings - some of the guys were starting to get restless, and one or two looked like they were thinking of leaving. Then suddenly at the back a quiet dude, later I found out his name was Ung-dun-pwi, stuck his hairy finger in the air.

You could have cut the air with a stone knife. Everybody stopped what they were doing and looked at him. Even Dug stopped mid-bite and cast his beady eyes toward Ung.

"Um. You mean; am I awake?" he said, using the sounds that meant that.

"Um. Not quite, but you are close," I said. I was quite shocked that he was even this close, and I was beginning to feel a little queasy. I realized I had unwittingly broken one of the first laws of my profession.

Then a quizzical expression crossed Ung's upturned face, and he said in a loud, proud voice, "Am I sitting here, under the Sun?" he said.

"Yes," I said. "That is the question." This confused them slightly, because they thought Ung already had the answer, but he looked triumphant. He guffawed to himself and sat looking at me intently. He was now my star-pupil, and I didn't know whether to laugh or cry for the fun of it.

"So that is the question for you to consider now," I said. "I don't think you will find the answer today but perhaps you will over many meetings, many meetings and maybe even the meetings of your sons."

And with that I quickly left the scene. I didn't really think much more of it, you see," I told the audience. "It was just intended to defuse the situation."

"But it may have been the turning point Mr As-qinov – the point at which Humankind became conscious."

'Fuckit!' I thought, and wagged my antenna a little bit to give the impression I felt confused. I knew now exactly what I had done, and as far as they were concerned, the only thing left to do was sentence me.

So now it is night, and here I sit, talking to you. And soon they will start to ask a bigger question. If As-qinov went back in time to the earliest civilisation and changed when the dudes will reach the Check-point Charlie thingumyjig – which was built by nobody-knows-who, then who created the consciousness that eventually led to Mr As-qinov? And that's why when they check my cell again in the morning they will find me gone.

***

Read more science fiction in The Jesus Monster, right after this Urdu translation of Inchoate.

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# The Jesus Monster

Copyright © 2013 by Lazlo Ferran

All Rights Reserved

Author's Note: This story was written live on twitter over a weekend. I have now reedited it.

I first saw the Saint beneath the two road signs just outside Kintore settlement: Darwin 1180 Miles; Adelaide 1182 Miles. When the white-haired stranger grabbed ma wrist, painful tight, demanding water, I knew it had finally found us. The stranger had that madness, like we seen on the news, before the news stopped.

But then his eyes cleared. He seemed to see me for the first time. "Fire!" he demanded. "I need fire!"

"Are you crazy old man ay? Look like you need water, not fire."

I shoulda left him to die, but I couldn't.

I took him in me arms, he weighed almost nothing, like a paper doll, and I carried him back to the settlement.

While I carried him, he wept, "Too late! Too late!"

The brothas told me to, "Put him down!"

But when they saw his face, they went strange, quiet, and let me carry him to the infirmary, once Winkiku Restaurant. After he had drunk almost a gallon of water, slept for a day, ate a full shoulder of goat and shaved off his white beard, he was desperate to tell us his story. The whole mob gathered that night around the single, fly-battered blue light, pulsating unevenly while somebody rode the bike to power the generator. We wore cotton masks over our noses and mouths, hoping this would save us from the bug, but nobody questioned why I brought him back. We all wanted to understand what had happened to the World. Gemima, a little sista, tried to touch his hair, so unlike our own fuzzy black hair.

"I should have died ... ." He shook his head and licked his still-parched lips. "But I'm grateful now ... . It's given me the chance... to help you! I know how to kill it!"

"The bug?" asked Gemima. She coyly sucked her index finger.

He smiled. "You might be the last people alive on Earth. You have to listen to what I say. It's your only chance!"

"Where did you come from, mister? Adelaide ay?" asked one of the young gang of brothas, the last we had allowed into Kintore. Since then we had turned away, or shot, any brothas or gubbas. It was the only way. But something about this gubba was different.

"No. I came ... from the sky. I was flying ... looking for you. We crashed. I was so thirsty, and the sun ... . It blinded me!"

"Common enough, alright!" said Jim Dunne, spitting on the red earth to emphasise his wisdom. He was a whitey too.

"What's the bug like? What it do ay?" I asked him.

His face contorted in remembered pain. "It's terrible! Terrible. At first, though, it's sweet. It comes through the air. All you want to do is good ... . I'm a priest. I've seen terrible things. I've seen men cut their throats, just so a child could eat bread! It feeds on altruistic thought ... ."

"What's 'altruist?'" Gemima started to ask, but her mother quietened her with a shake of her tiny shoulder.

"You eat less and drink less, but you don't notice. The sweet bliss of becoming a Saint is intoxicating. It's a pleasure I can't describe. But I saw a programme on TV ... . I knew it was false. The neurons associated with higher thinking and sacrifice make it fertile, and it lays its eggs inside your brain. But then it needs the body to sustain its young, so you finally want to die! Ed and I were the last ones left ... . We crashed. Knew I was infected ... Looked after Ed until I became delirious. That's when I had a vision. Suddenly, I knew how to survive. The bug wants us all to be Saints. Oh God!"

The stranger was gasping for breath.

"But there's a way to fight it ... ." he continued. "It can't stand bad thoughts and Evil. I believe I had my vision, because God wants us, his children, to survive. So I did a terrible thing!"

"What?" I asked. But me voice was drowned out by screams outside the tent.

"Jimmi! Jimmi!" Ol' Martha was screaming.

The rest of the crowd quickly followed Mr Sissons out of the tent. He had once been a Missionary. He was always drinking the whiskey now, but he was still white. We didn't have a mayor, but we looked up to him as our leader. I didn't want to follow.

A hand grabbed me wrist. It was horrible tight. I looked, and it was the stranger.

'Oh no! Not again,' I thought.

"You must leave! Just go! Any place!"

I pulled me arm free. "But I can't! I have a sister!"

"It doesn't matter. She probably has it already," the stranger said, seeing me fear.

"It's the bug, isn't it?" I asked, desperate. "But what can we do ay? We don't want no sorry business here! And if we do nothing, there will be nobody left!"

He looked me straight in the eye. "Kill me! You must. I don't want to live anyway. I have done something a priest can never do!"

I shook me head and turned to leave.

"Wait!" he shouted. "You must do this. One of you might survive, and there will be others. Eventually two people who cannot bear to kill each other might survive! Or the virus might die, or leave!"

"Nah!"

"It's all in my journal! You... you must read it son." He tapped his chest pocket with his hand. He spoke quiet, but then there was a fire in his eyes. It looked like he was looking up to that white man's Heaven. Then his hand let go of me, and he suddenly grabbed my knife from my belt. He planted it, right in his stomach, and he was dead!

"Hey!" I shouted. The gubba! A few drifted back, but when they saw he was dead, they lost interest. They had expected a stranger to die, and he did.

I did a funny thing. I dunno why I did it. I never done such a thing before. I took the little black book right out of his pocket!

Then I followed 'em out. Ol' Martha was screaming and crying. Mr Sissons and the others had followed her to the corner of her shack. She was pointing to something. I couldn't see clearly but somebody told me it was the body of her grandson, Jimmi. He lay dead, with a half-plucked chicken next to him. His head was split open by Ozzie's axe. The blood was spreading on the tarmac next to his head, and the axe lay in the pool. His shoes were missing.

'Funny,' I thought. 'Jimmi hasn't got any chickens.'

It made no sense because Jimmi was good and simple; he would never think of stealing.

Later, in a council meeting, we learned the truth. Jimmi had sold his new shoes for five dollars and bought four chickens from the Tanners.

Bob Tanner said, "Jimmi told us he wanted the chickens for Ozzie and Ol' Martha.

When Ol' Martha was angry with Jimmi, he said; the chucks were for presents. Jimmi was too simple to lie, ever. Ol' Martha said he looked so happy, she couldn't be angry no more.

Maybe Ozzie told Jimmi he was hungry.

But Ozzie killed him for the other chickens. It was Ozzie's axe, and Jimmi must have fought back. We couldn't find Ozzie anywhere. He had run! There was no government anymore, where we were, so Mr Sissons said it was, 'Accident by Misadventure,' and that was that.

That wasn't the last strange event in the Kintore either. In fact, it was the beginning of a wave of every type of crime. At first it was mostly theft. But soon there were many acts of violence and, finally, murders. It was out of control. It wasn't long before there were only half of us left. A terrible madness had overcome us. I guessed it was the bug. It had come for us at last. I had to kill twice to keep me sister, Samantha, alive. Lots of the men wanted to do terrible things to her. Some just wanted to kill her and me. Finally, it was just me sister and me left.

Then Sam stopped drinking anything and asked me to kill her. I knew she had the bug.

"No," I told her.

We argued all of last night, sometimes with knives in our hands and sometimes clinging to each other, as if we could 'love' the bug out of us and onto some altar-rock where we could finally sacrifice it.

I found the journal!

I had hidden the stranger's journal, I guess other things distracted me. Like staying alive!

But the stranger's last words, "So I did a terrible thing!" kept coming back to me in quiet moments.

So I looked for it.

At first it was just everyday stuff. But then, about a week before the day I found him, it became more interesting. The last page had the following written in it:

I killed Ed! Oh, God! Will you ever forgive me!

Nobody is safe!

What I have to write, I could not say to anyone! Yes, you can survive, but you have to commit murder, cold-blooded murder!

When you ... do it ... it comes out. It cannot stand to be inside you, so it comes out. The pain is unbelievable, it hurts like Hell, and it takes hours, but eventually it comes out. You can see it on the ground. It's like a pool of silvery water. But it screamed on the hot rock. I don't think it likes heat. I think that's why the people here have survived. Apart from its remoteness, this is one of the hottest places on Earth. They must burn it! Fire is the only thing that destroys it!

I felt sick. I read on:

It moves through the air. Spores or something. But I think it needs time, hours, to generate the spores once it's out. I don't know!

All the good people are gone, all the bad people have murdered each other for what's left. The virus has nowhere left to go. That's why it's here.

I told ma sister what was in the black book. I think she understood, but she just looked at me and cried.

I knew what I had to do. I was never going to kill my sister, even if the bug finally got me too! I would rather die than kill her. I filled a jerry-can with gasoline and plugged it with an oily rag. Then I curled up next to Samantha for a while. She moaned from a pain inside her. She knew she should kill me, but she would never do it! Me sister gripped me around the waist, and I put me arm around her. But then I picked her up and carried her out to the desert, along with the jerry-can. There, both in a nightmare of thoughts, we finally fell asleep. We clung on.

Just now, I woke, and I looked at Samantha, lying on the red desert earth next to me. She was still.

'I must have killed her,' I thought.

Everything natural is either red or blue here, sky or soil, and I looked for her blood. It should have stained her white dress, but there was none. Then I noticed something shining, on a rock beside her. It was a silvery liquid. I remembered what the stranger's journal had said and poured gasoline from the jerry-can onto the rock. I lit the oily rag and dropped it on the rock, laughing. The strange liquid crackled and sizzled and made a sound like a scream for a moment, before becoming silent.

Sam woke up and smiled at me. Then she caught the peculiar smell of the fire. "What's happening?" she asked.

"It's gone!" I told her.

We are walking hand in hand now, down Gary Junction Road. Of course, we won't try and walk all the way to Alice Springs, but we just wanted to escape the settlement, for the first time in ten years. We won't ever forget the stranger, whom we will call the Saint. We will tell others about him if they are out there and if we can find them.

The End

If you like supernatural monsters, read the first chapter of the occult thriller Ordo Lupus and the Temple Gate, right after Henry's Car. And if you want more science fiction in the first chapter of Too Bright the Sun, right after the first chapter of Ordo Lupus and the Temple Gate.

#

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# Henry's Car

Copyright © 2010 by Lazlo Ferran

All Rights Reserved.

"God's body man, giveth me the fourth gear! Now!"

"Press the damned clutch you madman!" I shouted back over the reverberating din of the V8 Chevy block, attempting some humility and knowing 'damned' was the only swear-word King Henry VIII would actually acknowledge.

The large, pallid face broke into a toothy grin. "Raymond. You are an impertinent, what is the modern phrase, jackass, but I like you!" His big foot, somewhat incongruously contained in a size 14, Nike trainer, pressed clumsily down on the accelerator, and I slammed the gearstick into fourth. A moment later, the King, hunched over the royal Sparco steering wheel, turned the car to the left. As dirt spurting from the drifting rear wheels, we emerged from the turn, I realised we were actually going to finish in third place. Not yet a win, but for a man new, not only to the sport, but to the century, it was not a bad effort. Henry roared his approval as we crossed the line.

***

Ah, the memory of it is a delight to me even now. It all seemed like a dream until I saw the article in the The Richmond and Twickenham Times: Archaeologists in Richmond dig unearth mysterious 'fuel can.'

At once I was engrossed and read on.

Archaeologists digging up a 16th Century hunting lodge are mystified by a fuel-can buried in the mud below the remains of the floorboards. Barry Deancliff had the following to say to reporters last night:

"It is most reminiscent of refuelling cans used in stock car racing in the 20th century. Moreover, it has been carbon-dated and appears to be 400 years old, give or take. I am completely mystified!"

I checked the paper every day after that for months, but there was never another mention of the mysterious refuelling-can. A letter to the British museum elicited the following curt reply: "Professor Barry Deancliff's team will be spending many years analysing the finds from the dig, and as yet, he has no further comment to make about this particular item." Eventually it seemed to have been buried: an awkward item that simply did not fit the picture the esteemed museum was looking for.

Racing has always been in my blood, my father being an engineer on Grand Prix cars in the 1990s, before children made him settle for a more mundane job. The thrill of it never left him though, and we would often stand in the rain for hours at Silverstone watching the Formula 1 cars screaming past. Now I raced cars for a hobby in the Muscle-car Stock class all around England at weekends.

This particular New Year's' day, it really seemed as if nothing could possibly happen to me. Most of my friends were visiting parents, an obligation I had already fulfilled on Christmas day, or they were slumped, lifeless in front of their 3-d screen. I despondently checked the listings for anything that might interest me. My mobile vibrated on the table.

"Hi Dave. Good to hear from somebody. Fancy a drink?"

"Listen Ray. I forgot I have two tickets to the banger racing at Wimbledon Stadium. I didn't think I would be going, but now my sister's ill, and so Don thinks it's better if I leave it a few days. So I am going. You wanna come?"

"Banger racing! Ha! Ha! It's not really my thing, but what the hell? It's better than brain-death in front of the 3-D. Okay. You pick me up?"

"Sure."

The banger racing was a hoot! We both chose cars, based on their form in the two-page guide we bought on the styles.

"I won again! That's it Dave. That was the last race, and I have the most points. Your round I believe?"

"Ha! Ha! Okay. Let's go. It's getting pretty parky anyway."

We drove to a pub Dave knew nearby with Sport TV on a big screen and watched whatever came on out of the corners of our eyes, while getting steadily more and more inebriated.

"Been a good year Ray."

"Speak for yourself mate!"

"Cheer up! You're always one to moan, but you ain't got it too bad. Good job, nice flat and a jag outside.

One more drink, and its home to the wife! Ah married life."

Although I didn't need a pee when we left the pub, according to that inextricable law of nature that rules all bladders, I was desperate after the second roundabout.

"Stop here!" I shouted as Dave swerved either side of the broken yellow line in the middle of a road next to Wimbledon Common. His swerving wasn't helping my bladder at all!

"No way man! You can last till we get home."

"Dave! I am warning you! If you don't stop before the end of this road, I will unzip my flies and do it here!"

"Nah! You wouldn't."

I reached for my flies

"Okay man! Cool it! I am stopping"

I was out of the car before it had stopped and nearly slid under the wheels. I ran into the night looking for any tree but could only find a newly planted sapling about eighteen inches tall. I stood dutifully astride it and smiled modestly as a woman walking her poodle glared at me while the stream of hot liquid watering the new sapling.

I went back to the car, but Dave had gone.

"Dave! Dave, where are you!"

I stumbled around on the common in the twilight of a half-moon looking for my friend.

"Good evening Sir!" A large hand gripped my shoulder from behind. "Arretez! Parlez-vous français?" The voice was loud, gruff and unfamiliar.

"What?" I said spinning round, trying to focus.

"Ah! Verily an Englishe gentleman." Now the voice was overly solicitous but relishing its own sound."

"Yes. Can I help you?" I said, rudely.

I was beginning to make out a large grin in a very big face, with a strange hat and what looked like a very large fur coat.

"Ah! Yes. Where are we France or Englande! Only some things are very unfamiliar here."

"England mate. Wimbledon in fact. Do you need a lift anywhere?"

"Lift? Ah no. You see I don't have a horse."

"What mate? You mean you had one?" My drunkenness was taking away my will to think properly and take part fully in the conversation."

"Yes. Yes, I had one," he said uncertainly.

"Jeez. I know who you are! You are, or at least you look like Henry VIII! Ha! Ha!"

"Yes! Yes, I am your King. Don't laugh at me!"

"Aah! Sorry. It was just so funny. Come on. We better give you a lift. Dave!"

King Henry followed me dutifully while I found Dave, who was vomiting cheerfully into a clump of grass next to some bushes not far from the car.

"Dave. I found a straggler. Looks a bit worse for wear, but dig the fancy-dress!"

"Cool! I feel better now. All in!"

We climbed into Dave's battered Vauxhall Astra Mk XIV and saw Henry staring wide-eyed at the car.

"Come on mate! It's not that bad. It goes!" shouted Dave.

"God's body. What is it?" said the furry-coated one.

"2031 Vauxhall Astra mate!" shouted Dave proudly.

"Is there a horse in there? Or perhaps large dogs or something?"

"Yep! 285 horses in old money, but it's electric really. Measured it myself on a dyno."

"Dyno? 285 horses! I don't believe it! This is some kind of joke?"

Dave turned the ignition and gunned the engine. Henry jumped back.

"Come on Henry! Jump in," shouted Dave.

For a moment Henry seemed deeply torn between his pride as a king and his wariness of the roaring beast-machine. He looked from the car to Dave and back to the car again and then finally he mastered himself. Walking up to the car he addressed Dave curtly. "Subjects, however brave do not address me by my Christ-given name unless I have given permission."

"Right," said Dave watching Henry sliding his bulky form into the back seat, so that he could press the button to close the door. The smell of cheap perfume was overpowering.

"By God's mother, this chariot is most fast!" offered Henry, pressing his face against the glass as lamp-posts flew past.

"He's a character!" said Dave out of the corner of his mouth. "Where do I drop him?"

I asked Henry, and this led to an argument which still wasn't resolved by the time Dave dropped me at my door in Kew.

"Well he can't come home with me!" Dave glared at me, looking much the worse for wear now, and I gave in to a feeling of guilt.

"Time to disembark Henry!" I said.

"You mean dismount, um ... . What is your name Sir?"

"Ray. Raymond. But most people call me Ray."

"Good day Sir!" he said to Dave, and then there we were, standing on the pavement outside my front-door.

Henry seemed thoughtful for a moment as cars sped by, looked up and down the street for a moment and declared in a loud voice, "It worketh! It worketh truly! What year is this?"

For a moment I thought about telling him he couldn't come in, but I was too drunk to care. "2035. Why?" I unlocked the front door, and Henry followed me into my semi-detached. He barely squeezed through the door.

"Travel in time, travel through the ages. Just as Paracelsus said!"

"What? You are mad, man. Stop blabbering. I will make you a strong black coffee and then I am going to bed. You can have the sofa."

"Is it worth something?"

"Oh God! Just watch the 3-D, and let me make the coffee." I used the remote to turn on the 3-D and pressed the buttons on the machine to make us two coffees. When I returned with them moments later, Henry's mouth was wide open, and he was transfixed on the 3-D. Something in my eyes told me he wasn't acting.

But he could be mad.

"Henry ... ." I made my voice sound solicitous.

"Raymond! What is that?"

"It's a 3-D viewer: it plays images which are sent to it from a central station, and we all watch them for information. It's like a talking book."

What am I saying? I am starting to believe him.

I drained most of my coffee and felt it banging at the inside of my forehead. After a few minutes my mind seemed slightly clearer.

"Henry. Sit down and tell me all about your ... time travel. Henry?"

I turned off the 3-D. He suddenly noticed me and calmly placed his enormous backside on the sofa.

"Well Raymond. It's like this ... ." He sipped the coffee and frowned before beaming a smile at me. "I pray thee, tell me what this beverage is called?"

"I told you; coffee. Now the story?"

"Well, I have a small parchment which I purchased from a seller this Michaelmas which has a spell written down by Paracelsus, I met him once when he was travelling in France. Interesting man ... . Anyway a' was bored with weapons and star-gazing. I fancied something different, so I tried this spell. Nay, I never thought that it would succeed. I stood in a field late at night and lit the small pile of substances, listed by name and verily a task to find and then said the words, and here I am!"

"Hm. Well which year did you choose to go to?"

"Oh, I did not. The choices were back and for'ard. I chose for'ard."

"Can you show me the spell?"

"Ah. That is a calamity! I dropped it with all the violent spinning I was hurled in to!"

"So you cannot go back?" I thought I had spotted the weakness his subterfuge.

"Yes, I am able to ... . I am wont to think tho' less convinced than I ought. The parchment said in a small note at the bottom, that if all went wrong I would return to 1523 after a period of forty-five days."

"Can you prove you are King Henry VIII of England?"

"Of course. The Royal Seal!" He thrust out his hand to show me the gold ring on his little finger. It looked genuine, but I didn't know anything about gold or much about jewellery.

I could see mileage in believing him for now. Working as an IT consultant in a Newspaper office had taught me the value of a good story.

I fetched some blankets from a chest of drawers upstairs and turned the heating up.

"Good night Henry." I was drunk and tired.

"But where is my bed? Where art my servants and more importantly, where art your women?"

"This is your bed Henry," I said pointing to the sofa. "And there are no women, or servants."

With that, I left him, still grumbling as I climbed the stairs.

In the morning I awoke to find that Henry had eaten almost everything in the fridge and had been sick all over the kitchen table. Now I definitely believed his story, and I hurriedly checked that he hadn't relieved himself somewhere he shouldn't. I was lucky. I quickly showed him the toilet and how to use it.

"Today is a holiday Henry. We can just take it easy. What would you like to do?"

"Take it easy? Take what easy?"

"It means to relax. Let's relax."

"Ah! Tell me more of the 2031 Vauxhall Astra. Do you know I am one of only a few people that can count that far. Cromwell says he can count, but he can't even multiply two duo-digit numbers together! Sans cerveau!"

"Okay. Well I have plenty of films of cars, and I love to watch them too. I race them for a hobby."

"Hobby? Ah yes! A horse. I did think me so. So really the device be a mechanical horse?"

"Kind of. It's called a car. Or motorcar to give it its full name."

I played some 3-d back to him of some of my races which completely enthralled him. Once or twice he suddenly stood up to peer behind the 3-D and quickly sat down again, sheepishly. I showed him how to operate it, and he quickly got the hang.

Then I showed him a Formula 1 race, with the cars screaming around Silverstone at nearly 250 mph.

"God's body! I want to try that!"

I ended by showing him the original 'Gone in 60 Seconds' and 'Bullitt' movies. He was spellbound.

Henry stood up and patted his ample belly. "Now I am parched. The hour is ripe for a pot of ale, methinks."

Oh no! This could be trouble.

But Henry could not be easily deflected, and I was dying for a pint myself. I called Dave.

"Okay. I presume you got rid of that joker in the fancy-dress?"

"Err, yeah."

"Right. Meet you in the King's arms in thirty minutes."

I managed to get Henry to remove his hat, not the one with the feather but still a conspicuous 16th Century affair and to put on a large pair of slacks, which my girlfriend Julia had left at my house, with a stretchy jumper of my own, but he still insisted on the ermine. As we sat at a table waiting for Dave, many eyes flicked over to Henry, but he seemed oblivious to the attention.

"Who are we waiting for?"

"Dave, my friend in the car."

"Ah the rude peasant."

"Careful. He is my best friend and my mechanic too." I had to explain 'mechanic' which absorbed Henry's surprisingly scientific mind, until Dave arrived. I grabbed the opportunity to accompany a grumpy Dave to the bar, leaving Henry smiling salaciously, but politely, and in a Royal way, at any 'comely' female he saw.

"Oh no Ray, you said you had got rid of him!"

"Dave! We are on to a winner here," I whispered. "This guy really thinks he is King Henry VIII. He is so convincing and has this beautiful story about time travel, he really is totally 4-D, I think we can sell the story and make a mint. We have just got to keep him out of trouble. I reckon we need to expose him just enough so he knows his way around and doesn't sound like an idiot, but keep him from getting too close to anyone else."

"Whaddaya mean, 'so he knows his way around'? Where is he from?"

"Well that's the thing. I think I half believe him. He says he bought the spell for time travel from some quack called Paracelsus, and well, here he is."

"You half believe him? But you are the- cynic. Mr I-don't-believe-it-until-it-hits-me-in-the-face."

"Exactly. And if I believe him then others will too."

Dave pushed a beer mat restlessly around on the damp bar. "Well anybody who is going to pay a lot of money is going to want proof. So what have we got?"

"Hm. Well he says he has to go back to his own century in six weeks-time. So he will disappear."

"Hm. Ha! Ha! Yes, it has possibilities. Hard to question somebody who is no longer around. We just have to make sure he really does disappear. How much are you thinking of?"

"Oh, I dunno for now. Thing is to keep him interested. Now he really likes girls, as you know, so we got to fix him up with someone. Do you know anyone?"

Dave looked sceptically at Henry. "Are you crazy? Who is going to go out with a 30-something, fat guy who looks like, and sounds like, Henry VIII?"

"Well. Let's just think about it. He also likes cars so we are going to take him racing next weekend."

It cost us a fortune getting Henry drunk. Too bad he was a King. He might have had some gold sovereigns on him otherwise.

As we were finally steering a reluctant Henry to the pub door, four packets of Mega-Doritos in his hand, a pretty blonde came in through the door. Henry's hand, apparently prehensile in his inebriated state, found its way to a position squarely placed on the poor girl's rather shapely bottom. Henry leaned in to plant a kiss squarely on her lips. "Ma chère belle fleur de la vie et de l'amour."

Dave and I cringed at the anticipated slap and lawsuit.

"Oo. You're a cheeky one, but I always fancied being a wench. Like in that film Oliver! You got anything planned tonight, lover?" This was delivered in a thick, but charming, Bristolian accent. We had to peel them apart quickly. Their hands being entwined affectionately and eyes joined in mutual amour.

"Shit. Dave! Grab his hands."

"Err. Right. Come on King. Nice King"

Henry leered and burped loudly, but we managed to drag him outside. "Rather a comely wench methinks!"

"Jeez Ray, we are gonna have some problems here! She was way out of our clas,s and she fell for him!"

"I know!"

Julia came round on the night of my first day back at work, Wednesday. I didn't even try to explain Henry's history but introduced him as someone I had met over the New Year. She took to him instantly, despite being an ardent feminist and railer against male chauvinism in all its forms. I was gob-smacked. Julia is not the sort of girl to see anything at all admirable or even moderately acceptable in the historic Henry VIII. In fact, on more than one occasion she has said she would execute him if she had the chance. So to find them holding hands after I had hurriedly visited the loo and then later find Julia offering to put him up, felt highly disconcerting.

We arrived in Dave's trusty Astra at Silverstone late. For once it had not been Julia who had caused the delay, but this time it was Henry. He had gone through everything in my bathroom to try and make himself look 'presentacious', apparently a favourite 16th century slang word among the gentry, for the event.

His teeth, unfortunately, were beyond repair.

"Now you stay with Julia Henry, until the race is over," I said after the pit lane closed to guests. I was sure Julia would be able to resist Henry for at least the duration of one race. I was in third place, two laps from the end and coming up behind Don Peroni when I made the mistake of glancing at Henry and Julia in the stand, where I had marked them, under the Romanian flag.

Jeez! They're snogging!

Henry had Julia wrapped in his ample arms and only her dainty white face was visible, plastered to his large flat one. I forgot that Don would be braking.

Shiiiiiiiit!

My fender bounced off his and sent my car careening into the crash barrier on the inside of the track. The front of the car disintegrated, while the rest spun round and back onto the track hitting the two cars behind me and causing an immense, smoking, petrol-gushing, pile up.

"What the hell! What the hell did you think you were doing?" shouted Brian Del Meyes emerging from the car behind. I treated it like a rhetorical question. Thankfully nobody was hurt, but the car was in a bad way. Dave was not happy.

"She was snogging him Dave! J-U-L-I-A, T-H-E F-E-M-I-N-I-S-T W-A-S S-N-O-G-G-I-N-G H-E-N-R-Y T-H-E F-U-C-K-I-N-G E-I-G-H-T-H!"

"Alright! Alright. Keep your hair on mate. I know how you feel."

"You know how I feel? Oh, do you? You had your girlfriend snogged by a time-traveling chauvinistic lothario have you?"

"Err. No, not lately."

"Well what am I going to do about it?"

"Well you'll just have to keep them apart. That's all."

"Thanks. Great help!"

"Invite your mother over. She ... . That should fix it!"

"I know what you were going to say; she would put off anybody ... . But you are a genius! Yes!"

At that moment Henry arrived in the pits, looking as innocent as a lamb. "Good day fellows. The Chevy's dead then?"

Dave and I looked at each other. "Where d'you learn the slang?" I asked.

"Oh, Julia has been teaching me."

"Yeah, not all she has been ... ." Dave grabbed my arm and stopped me mid-sentence.

"Careful Ray. Don't forget our little investment."

"It's not dead. We can fix it," I continued.

"So when do I get to drive it then?" asked Henry, hopping from one foot to the other.

"Yeah. Maybe you would be safer in than out," I mused out loud. "This week we will try you out, in Dave's Astra first though."

"Hey! Wait!" said a surprised Dave.

"Remember our little investment, I whispered." Henry didn't say a thing, presumably he was used to people whispering around him.

Dave dropped his car off on Tuesday evening, and I taped the new L-plates on the poor Astra. I had bought two sets and put one each on the side doors. I felt it was likely Henry would be so bad that it would be unfair to drivers either side of us not to warn them as well. Strictly speaking there was nothing in the Highway Code to say you had to take any special measures when taking out a 16th Century driver for their first lesson, but even so ... .

One could be forgiven for thinking it was a toy car, looking at Henry's huge shape, huddled over the wheel.

"Okay Henry. The first thing is to relax. There are no other cars likely to pass us in this street, because it is a cul-de-sac."

"Ah! So you do speak French."

"Not really. So grip the wheel firmly in both hands, and put your foot on that right-hand pedal."

"Expecting the car to move, Henry was nervous depressing the pedal, but when he heard the roar of the 3-litre engine, he pressed it again and again. Lights came on in the windows above. "Not so much!

Okay the reason the car is not moving is, because it's in neutral. It has something called gears which allows you to choose how fast to run."

"Ah gears. I know of them. We have gears in clocks and oftentimes in mills."

"Yeah well there are five of these gears. Reverse and four forward. And of course, neutral." I showed him the positions, but Henry wasn't interested in learning them.

"You do that, Raymond. You can be my head 'car-man.'" He thought the joke incredibly funny.

"Press the left pedal hard Henry and keep your foot there until I say. Now release slowly while pushing on the right hand peddle which we call the accelerator." The car lurched off.

"By God's mother, we are moving Raymond."

"So-ort of Henry. If you need to stop, put your right foot on the middle peddle which is the brake."

"Ah yes, truly it is most alike to a coach. I shall have no great difficulty learning this; we used to race coaches as you-ths!"

"Use the accelerator gently Henry. Now we are coming to a junction. Press the brake gently, and when we are almost stopped, press the left peddle which we call the clutch. That's it, all the way to the floor. Good." I pressed the switch on the wheel for the left indicator and changed to first gear.

Henry was a surprisingly fast learner, and we managed top gear once or twice without accidents that day. I had more problems reigning in Henry's enthusiasm and desire for speed, than with any lack of confidence on his part.

That evening, as planned my mother came round. Julia and my mother did not get on so it was the best way to keep Julia away, who was making threats to visit almost every evening, despite my protestations.

"Henry. This is my mother, Anna."

"Verily an honour Mademoiselle!" Henry bowed very low, dressed as he was in his finest ermine and the rest of the clothes he'd had on the night we met. I'd had them all washed.

"Oo! Henry the Eighth. What a pleasure!" She was playing along with what she thought was a fine charade.

Mother was a cultured woman and not easily thrown off balance by theatrical games. She curtsied low.

"Some music perhaps Raymond? And some wine? What is that saying? "Good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well used."

"Oh, do put on the Duran Duran Raymond. My favourite track?"

"The sound of the fretless bass came out of the speakers, over the top of the synthesizer and my mum got to her feet and started to spin. Henry looked nonplussed. He suddenly looked to me for help.

"What is this Raymond? A bagatelle perhaps?"

"It's called pop-music. It's modern. You won't have heard anything like it before." The comment was lost on my mother, who was too taken with her favourite song.

"Indeed." He stood up hopefully and watched my mother's moves for the rhythm.

'Her name is Rio, and she dances on the sand ... ,' blasted out of the speakers.

"Oh Lord! May I not be undone!" he shouted, raising his eyes ceiling-ward and then commencing a gyrating dance of unknown origin; perhaps his own imagination. It didn't quite fit the music, but he seemed to have caught the rhythm. He took my mum's hand, and soon the two were twirling like young lovers at a new year's party. I went to the kitchen to open a bottle of Bordeaux. Henry turned out to be a fascinating guest for my mum to entertain, and after an Indian takeaway which Henry enjoyed immensely after some initial misgivings, we settled to play a few rounds of scrabble followed by bridge. I was ready for bed after three games,

"Do you want me to call Dad to pick you up, Mum?"

"No, I am fine Ray. Henry and I are fine. Is there any more wine? I will call your father when I am ready."

"I thought it was a bit ominous when I heard the strains of Dark Side of the Moon, coming from downstairs when I was drifting off.

I awoke to the sound of my mobile vibrating on the little table next to my bed.

"Raymond! Ray!" Where is your mother?"

"Hi Dad. I don't know. Isn't she with you? She said she would call you. I went to bed early."

"It doesn't look like she came home. I went to bed at 11 o'clock, and I fell asleep. Should I call the police?"

"Wait. Let me check downstairs."

With half-open eyes, I felt my way down the stairs to the lounge. Lying on the floor, wrapped in all the spare blankets that I had was Henry. Wrapped in his arms, sleeping like a baby was my mother, with nothing on but one of my jumpers! What I could see of Henry, his massive shoulders were naked. I didn't know who to speak to. I put the mobile on 'private.'

"Mum! Henry!" They both opened their eyes, startled. Henry's mouth widened in a cheesy smile. My Mum looked coy. I picked on her first, with a penetrating glare.

"Raymond. You cannot tell your father. He wouldn't understand."

"No. He wouldn't! Don't tell me you ... ?" She buried her face in Henry's armpit. "Oh no. Henry, how could you?"

"Well, it just happened," he replied, nonchalantly.

"I haven't got time to get my head around this now. Dad is on the phone Mum, wondering what has happened to you. You will have to take it. Here!"

"Ronald? It's me. Sorry dear. I was really tired and fell asleep on Ray's sofa. His guest is really nice, and we stayed up so late talking!" It was a consummate bit of acting. She sounded really surprised.

"Yes, I will be soon and make your favourite breakfast. Raymond will call a taxi. Sorry dear. Bye!"

"You're despicable Mum. I didn't know you had it in you."

"Well when love calls Raymond ... ."

"Love!"

That weekend there was another race-meeting and an amateur event that Dave and I entered Henry in. We didn't take Julia. Henry wanted to take my mother, but she couldn't find a good enough excuse to leave Dad for the day.

"Okay Henry. We have borrowed this banger from a mate of mine. It had a blowout earlier and retired from his race, but we can run in the amateur race."

"Raymond! Thou art a marvel"

"Why does he talk like that?" said my friend's mechanic.

"Oh, don't worry. He is an actor," I whispered.

Henry finished the race, after hitting two barriers. I was quite impressed.

"Raymond!" He bear-hugged me. "That was a delight! The Camaro must me mine soon. When can I have it?"

"Err. No Henry. You can't have the Camaro." There followed a frothing of the mouth and stamping of 16th century Nike clad feet. I took quite some time to explain the concept of 'no' to the King, but in the end, I am not sure I succeeded.

"What you need is a car of your own." I suggested.

"Truly Raymond. I do. What is the price? For a small one?" He looked at his fat fingers and twiddled one of the rings.

"Expensive. I don't think a ring will be enough unless possibly ... . No, that's impossible. I was thinking of the cygnet ring, the seal, but it must be in some museum somewhere."

"Museum? Isn't that something to do with the Muses? Your Latin is good my friend."

"Never mind. What I mean is that your ring already exists here, somewhere else."

"But how can this be?"

"I will explain sometime. Do you have anything else?"

"Yes. This!" Henry parted his silk chemise and pulled out a large gold medallion set with a ruby and on a long heavy gold chain."

"Yes. Let's try that."

A jeweller gave us £42,000 for the medallion, and we bought a relatively intact stock-car Trans Am for Henry. In the mean-time, though contact at work, I was starting to close the deal on an interview with Henry for Men Today magazine. I felt sure this interview would lead to more.

The affair between Henry and my mother had stalled: although my mother said it was true love, Henry didn't seem quite so certain and his eyes were rather more fixed on many of the younger women on the fringe of my social circle. Dave and I had to be careful though, who we introduced him too. We didn't want to lose control of our prize investment. Time was ticking by, and now Henry only had three weeks left until he returned to his own century, if the spell worked. Then we would know if he was genuinely King Henry VIII of England or not.

The interview with Men Today magazine was scheduled for the Thursday, so on the Tuesday, I invited Jasmine round to prep Henry on presentation and dos and don'ts of interviews. I knew Jasmine though work, and she was highly qualified in the field. There was just one problem. Jasmine was a transsexual.

Henry was very distracted from the task at hand by everything about Jasmine: her perfume, her long shapely legs, luscious figure and figure-hugging skimpy black dress. He just could not keep his eyes off of her although he didn't dare touch her. As if her beauty were too fragile and might break if touched, he kept a wary distance.

"Of course! Of course! Speak clearly and create a good impression from the beginning. I understand," said Henry, eying Jasmine's slim but shapely rear behind her back.

"Now, I understand about your character portrayal da-ahling, but don't you think we should do a little shopping to find a nice suit for you before the interview. There will be a photographer there, because I have told them that is what we want. Donald, who is doing the interview, is a good friend of mine; lovely man!"

"Suit?"

"No Jasmine!" I interjected. I think he should keep the Royal Regalia," I said swallowing down my own duplicity. For a moment I thought Jasmine would say something rude about Henry's ermine, but she was far too astute for that.

"Well. A good dry-clean and a little perking up ... should do the trick," she said stroking the ermine cautiously. "Do you smoke?"

"Smoke? A pipe. Yes!"

"Well no I mean a cigarette."

"I haven't tried him on cigarettes yet," I added helpfully. "How would that help anyway?"

"Well if we are aiming at Time Magazine, then a touch of urbanity wouldn't go amiss. Gravitas. That's what we want." I could see where she was going with this, but I thought a fag was going too far.

"How about glasses and a good intellectual book?"

"Um. Yes. That might do it. Still maintains the 16th Century thing but still convincing too. A layer of 21st Century if you will."

"Oh, I will dear. I will," Henry said with the first of many slight leers. He was gaining confidence. I could see trouble brewing. My mobile went.

"Hello? Mother! How nice of you to call. No Henry and I are really busy. You are coming over anyway? Hm." This was a problem. My mother remembered Jason before he was Jasmine, but she didn't know about the transformation. Although she espoused the virtues of liberal-mindedness, she had had been a staunch conservative for years and was a leading activist in the local Conservative Party. To be seen with a trans-sexual or even to have been in the same room as one would not make her happy, and my relationship with her was becoming more strained by the day.

"Jasmine. Sorry about this. My mother, the arch Conservative, is coming over. If she finds you here she will go nuts. I will get rid as soon as possible, but would you mind having a little rest-break in my room for half an hour? Do your makeup or something."

"Oo, you are so bossy Raymond, but I like it when you are assertive. Just for you and just this once, Je suis obligé but only this once." She patted my cheek as she left the room.

God, I hope she doesn't hold it against me!

My mum arrived, and I did my best to get rid of her, but she was all-eyes for Henry and planted herself on the sofa whereupon he felt obliged to put his great arm around her.

"Henry!" My mobile went a second time.

"Hello? Oh! Hi Julia! What's up? No. I don't think that would be a good idea right now. Henry and I are really very, very busy." She hung up.

Oh no. Julia coming over here now! She sounds angry. What can she possibly need to talk to Henry about? Must be an excuse. Got to keep her away from him! Seeing him with mother will make things worse. Who knows what she will do!

What do I do?

As the minutes ticked by, my mind feverishly explored possible strategies and then hit on one that had a chance.

"Henry. Julia's just warned me that my father is coming over. I think it really would be best if you just hid for now in my office, the spare room. I know it's not comfortable, but I will get rid of him as soon ... ."

"Julia!" piped up my mum. How on Earth does she know if Ronald is coming over or not?" I mumbled something about a friend of hers living in my mum's road and ushered Henry to the spare room, a room littered with boxes of unread books and old clothes. He looked pretty glum as he planted himself on the corner of the old bed acting as a dusty shelf.

"Back soon!" I was just in time. The door-bell rang, and Julia stormed in, eyes eager for a sight of her paramour-to-be.

"Where is Henry? I thought you said you were both busy?"

"We were, but I sent him to do the shopping." I added quickly, "He had to meet somebody later, so I thought he could do that at the same time. He won't be back. Sorry."

"Oh Raymond! I only wanted to chat with him. Really, I think you are jealous!"

"Who me? Never!" I glanced at my mum, who was smiling innocently. It looked forced. "Sit down and chat with mum. I will make some tea. I have some cake somewhere too." I could see Julia wanted to leave, but now she felt compelled by her own rules of propriety to at least share a cup of tea with my mother, who she hated.

"How are you Anna?"

"Fine dear. So you have met Henry too? How did you find him?"

I didn't hear the answer as I had retreated thankfully to the kitchen. My head was swimming, and I put the kettle on without filling it. It hissed hysterically and started bouncing around on its old-fashioned plinth. "Damn!" My nerves frayed, I finally managed to make two cups of stewed tea and prepare a plate of stale Dundee cake, the only thing I'd found which could pass as cake.

The short repast was fraught, as I attempted to referee the mental fencing which Anna and Julia were engaged in. Julia seemed to have sussed that Anna was very interested in everything about Henry, and this made her even more curious about Henry's whereabouts. I prayed Henry would stay quiet.

Offering Julia another cup of tea was enough to push her over the edge. "I have to go Raymond. I will call tomorrow. Tell Henry I called." She glared at Anna, and Anna smiled sweetly back.

"Thank God!" I let out. I went to release Henry, but I opened the door on an empty spare-room. "Henry?"

Oh no, No, no, no.

I could hardly bare to open my bedroom door. Henry smiled innocently up at me from under my dishevelled covers. I couldn't see what was beneath his corpulent body, but I knew it was Jasmine. A drop of sweat fell from Henry's brow. "Oh no!"

I closed the door on them, partly in anger and partly from sheer refusal to deal with the situation.

With my last shred of good-will towards Henry I told my mum to wait for Henry to finish in the toilet.

She set about brushing her hair, and for the first time I could ever remember, I felt sorry for her.

"Has he gone?"

"Yes Henry. Mum has been waiting for you!" I layered my words heavily with meaning and glanced in my mother's direction.

"Ah Anna! I did miss you, sweetest flower of my dreams!"

Jasmine took some time to emerge and looked million-dollars as she made her excuses to leave. I was too weary to cope anymore and hadn't even bothered to try and get rid of mum.

"Who was that Raymond?" she asked incredulously. "You never told me you had a new girlfriend! She is gorgeous."

Thank God she didn't recognise Jason.

Later that night, I told Henry the truth about Jasmine.

"A man!" Henry shouted, enraged. "No! It cannot be! You are mistaken. She was beautiful. And feminine!"

He stormed around the house, shouting at the walls, shouting at the very spirits of love to release him from his anguish, but eventfully he calmed down and sat glumly looking at me. Then, suddenly a smile dawned on his broad face. "Ah well Raymond. It was fun anyway. Perhaps I had better stick to cars eh? How is the tuning, I like that word, it recalls to me the playing of musical instruments ... . How is the tuning of my Trans Am going?"

The following weekend Henry entered his new car in its first race. He didn't hit anything and finished third from last. It was an improvement. Mum was wearing an old mini-skirt she had resurrected from deep within her wardrobe and Julia, who I was unable to keep away, glared at her in between adoring smiles at Henry.

By now the whole racing scene was curious about this strange and over-sized driver who had a penchant for 16th Century royal fancy-dress. It was getting hard to keep the lid on his true identity. Dave and I brought the interview date forward to the Monday night.

Henry looked calmed and relaxed under the studio lights as the photographer worked his magic, but I could hardly stop myself from laughing. I had bought Henry a nice pair of Ray-bans, but somebody, probably Anna, had lent him another pair. The ludicrous pair of white framed plastic 80's shades looked quite bizarre and hilariously funny on a man dressed in 16th Century Costume. Henry must have thought them cool though, studying his copy of Henry Miller's Collected Plays Volume II, a choice that Jasmine and I had thought cool and slightly ironic. When the photographs were all taken, Donald showed Henry to a pair of plush leather chairs where the interview was to take place.

"So Mr Tudor – I believe that's how I am to refer to you? Mr Tudor, thank you for this interview. We have been led to believe you are a time-traveller from the 16th Century. It is a truly fascinating proposition, but why on Earth should anyone believe you?"

"You impertinent ... !" I clucked noisily and Henry fell into line. "Because it is true!" he said defiantly.

There followed a barrage of questions about life in the 16th Century which Henry answered, impatiently but with the authority a top historian could not hope to equal. At all times his accent was impeccable, and Donald could not find a crack in Henry's persona. His research had been thorough, and he looked almost convinced of Henry's true identity. Then he smiled slyly as he prepared the final question.

"So Henry, now I would like to ask you what every man will want to know in our century: what was Anne like in bed?"

Looking every inch the Renaissance Man, Henry took off the shades with his left hand and studied the fat fingers of his right hand. "Verily, she is as like as any other woman: warm as a summer's day when she's a-pleased with 'ee but dark as a storm if ye has crossed her. And mark 'ee, if the first, it lasteth as long as the sun peepeth from behind clouds." I thought he'd laid on the accent pretty thickly, but Donald looked pleased. I could almost see the Time Magazine cover already. Henry was a consummate self-publicist and well able to manipulate his own image, what else would one expect of a king?

The article in Men Today magazine was a raging success: My mobile was ringing non-stop, and Henry was inundated with requests for appearances. Historians everywhere were falling over to get an interview. Scientists who studied time were also starting to take an interest.

Once it became public knowledge that Henry was a keen car-racer, Recaro offered to build him a custom seat for free. Eighteen stone drivers were not common, but they weren't put off by his size. The next race Henry finished in fifth place, and he really was finding his feet in the sport now, not difficult to do since Nike had given him some handmade size-14 trainers with specially strengthened soles. Jasmine was close to fixing the Time Magazine deal when he finally came third in his race, with me now as co-driver. He just didn't like changing gear; it was beneath him he said.

"That was beautiful Raymond!" he said, slapping me on the shoulders as we stood side-by-side on the podium. Only Henry, with his celebrity status had been allowed a co-driver. It was a concession to his 'century' and a sign that people were starting to take him seriously.

"It was great Henry. A win has to be just around the corner!"

"Oh, a jest. Very good!"

"Here Henry. I don't think you will have come across this before, but it's very good. It's called champagne. Try some. That's it, straight from the bottle."

"Oh yes! I like this. Who invented it?"

"Err some monks in France I believe." I shouted over the roar of the crowds as Henry upended the bottle of Bollinger.

"Ah the French. And monks! It suprizeth me not. They are wanton creatures and the first to cry for a pot of ale!"

Now there was just one week left until his time in the 21st century was due to end, according to him anyway. Dave and I were nervous. There was a race on Saturday, a possible interview with Time Magazine on Sunday, and according to our calculations, Henry would disappear some-time around 10.30pm on Tuesday night, exactly six weeks since he had arrived. Of course, if he did disappear he would instantly become more famous, but then he would be gone. For us this was a distinct advantage, as Dave had pointed out to me, but I couldn't help feeling sad.

"It's Saturday, its one minute to twelve, and its Donnington Park Speedway. Folks it can only mean one thing. Its ti-me to ra-ce! Gentleman, start your engines!" The commentator's voice boomed over the P.A. System, I pressed the ignition and Henry pressed his great foot on the accelerator. He was using my Chevy Impala: he had become too good for the Trans Am.

"If Anne could see me now!" shouted Henry over the bellowing engine. The red lights went out ahead of us, and we were away.

"Giveth me second Raymond! Now!" I swore at the servility he had come to expect of me, but there really was no choice. At least Julia was safely out of his reach up in the stands somewhere. It was a 10-lap race, and we started in seventh. Henry barged us past two cars by the end of the third lap, and we were in the points.

"Raymond, we will win on this merry day, mark my words. We will!

"Henry, watch out for de Silver! He is coming up the inside."  
"No he won't. Just pull over here a little and tickle his sides like this! Ah!"

"Don't do anything illegal now Henry. You're not allowed to ... ." There was a mighty crunch. "Looks like you took off the fender." De Silver's orange Dodge Charger spun around behind us.

"Now pull in behind Number Seven. Get right in close."

"Why?"

"It's called slipstreaming. Remember? His car sucks air in behind it, and if you get in there it will suck us along. Trust me it works." Henry raised his eyebrows sceptically.

"Verily the world is a strange place Raymond!"

"Bloody hell! Watch it!" Number Seven, seeing what we were trying had slammed on his brakes, and Henry hadn't reacted fast enough. My teeth nearly came out of my mouth as we hit his rear fender. His car went spinning round, but fortunately Henry managed to keep the Chevy on the track. "Nice work!" I laughed. "Now let's get in behind the next car." It took us another lap to get right behind the car in third place.

"Now we are playing with the big boys!" I shouted. "Take him on the main straight Henry. We should be close enough!" We were, and Henry pulled out beautifully, just at the right moment and slid into the corner on the inside of the Camino we were chasing. "Second Henry! Damned second gear!" I grabbed his arm and shook him, almost knocking the car out of gear. He grinned. Four laps to go and two cars. Was a win possible? Cars one and two were both highly tuned Mustangs, and the Chevy would be hard-pressed to pass them. They were both close together though, and two laps from the end we were right behind the second-place car.

"What's that smell Raymond?"

"Burnin' Not good! Smells like oil on the exhausts. Just keep going. Maybe she'll make it. Just two laps. Go Henry!"

Henry stared at the back of the car in front, and we inched closer to it as we neared the home straight. Henry really was a very talented driver. He was clipping tenths of a second off his own lap times with each lap of the circuit. We came around the last corner before the straight in a classic four-wheel drift, with Henry hollering at the roof, and then we were so close to the Mustang that I felt I could touch it. I could see the shiny screws holding the boot closed, covered in glossy purple paint that shone in the sun.

"God's body Raymond. Give me top!"

"You have it!" Damn! Clutch Henry! Clutch!"

God's blood, I forgot! Now!"  
He slung the car first to the right and then to the left. It was a feint and caught Mike Duggan out. He braked too early for the corner, and somehow, Henry fought the slipping Chevy around the outside of the corner. The tyres squealed, and then we were on the grass and I closed my eyes. After a few jolts everything was calm again. Opening my eyes, I saw were on the track and close behind the leader. "Henry, you are a bloody hero! Even if we don't win!"

"We must win Raymond. Glory." He was concentrating too hard to finish the sentence. Time seemed to collapse as we both focused on the task at hand. The apple-green and yellow Mustang ahead of us, plastered with sponsor's stickers, flashed through the afternoon sun, jinking wildly through the corners, and we tried everything to catch him. It seemed hopeless: even cutting off every corner, so that we almost hit the bollards, we could not get close enough. Henry gritted his teeth. We approached the last corner, and I shouted, "Clutch!" so that we could down-shift.

"No! I am going around in top."

"You will never make it Henry. Nobody can do that!"

"We will do it!"

"Oh God! Oh, bloody hell! Oh God of racing drivers everywhere, save me!" I closed my eyes. I could feel the car drifting, and I almost believed I could hear the commentator shouting what fools we were. The car shook as the rear left tyre went off the tarmac and onto the grass and then the front left, and then the car started to swing round in slow motion. Any moment now we would be in a spin, and then it would be all over: if not our lives then the race. There was only one tyre on the road now, and it seemed only a fraction of a second stood between us and disaster, and it probably was, but somehow Henry kept that one tyre on the road, and then slowly, painfully slowly, the car started to straighten out. Now there were two tyres on the road and then three. I found that I was holding my breath and gripping the seat with both hands. I couldn't let go. The driver in front, taken by surprise by our move, missed a gear and took a fraction of a second to correct. We were pulling alongside, and I could see the chequered flag raised awaiting us in the distance.

"Give it all she's got Henry" I shouted, my voice sounding weak and hoarse in my tight throat. Henry floored it, his Nikes almost pushing the pedal through the metal floor-pan. He growled, and slowly but surely, metre by metre, the Chevy pulled up level with the Mustang, and I could see the driver opposite me. He stared straight ahead. I was still staring at him when we crossed the line. "Did we do it Henry?"

"God's body! I don't know Raymond. How will anybody know! I think so!"

Sure enough, later the photograph showed we had crossed the line about two centimetres in front or about two thousandths of a second, but the fans already knew what they wanted to know. Around the whole circuit they went nuts, pouring on to the track and some of them getting on the bonnet of the car. Henry was a Hero. When we were finally reunited, Dave hugged the slightly nonplussed Henry and Julia and Anna forgot their rivalry, both hugging a very pleased looking Henry.

With a win finally under his belt the Time Magazine committed and sent us the requirements and suggestions for both the questions and the photograph, to go on the cover. Dave and I knew we had it made.

All too soon the photo had been taken of Henry dressed in Saville Row style but still with his trademark ermine, and the question and answer session had been recorded; all in their London studio and the night of Henry's departure had arrived. Dave, Henry and I had made a pact not to tell the women, who were now Henry's permanent appendages, that he might be going, although I still was not convinced he would. Henry had one last request, which, given that he had he had waived all rights to the cash from the Time magazine article and any publications that followed, we couldn't really refuse. He had asked to take two cars with him; the Trans Am and my Chevrolet Impala.

"What on earth are you going to do with them Henry." I asked

"Why race them of course!"

"But who will look after the repairs? Who will be your mechanic?"

"Ah well the Chief Armourer is a very clever gentleman. I will make him Royal Mechanic. He will not refuse."

"Are you sure you will be able to take them back? Did Paracelsus tell you how to do this?"

"No. But I came with my horse."

"Your horse? You never told us that! What happened to it?"

"Well I was holding it by the reins, but the beast was so smitten with terror that he clear slipped my grasp."

"You mean he is out there somewhere?"

"Yes."

I imagined this horse, taken in by somebody; perhaps in a stable somewhere.

"Oh Henry. Why didn't you tell me?"  
He studied his stubby fingers. "Well I didn't like to admit it."

"Okay, so if you are touching the cars, then maybe they will go with you. You realise how useless they will be in the muddy conditions not doubt prevailing in your century?"

"I will build a race track Raymond: a great race track in Richmond Park. It will be more fun than hunting deer at least."

We put several hundred gallons of fuel in the boot of each car and stuffed them with spares, including four sets of tyres tied to the roofs, and each car had a filler-can for petrol. We explained to Henry that the fuel would only last for a few races, but he didn't seem to care.

"I will find somebody who can make this petrol for me. He had a sly look on his face, and I guessed he had found the formula somewhere, but I couldn't see anyone operating a successful still in medieval London.

Finally, he stood there in the moonless gloom, a beam from Dave's torch illuminating his grin, as he stood, feet firmly apart in that classic Henry VIII pose and held protectively onto the two cars. Dave and I watched, expecting at about 11 o' clock for Henry to call the whole thing off and for us to take a disappointed and deluded man home, but suddenly, at 10.29 he and the cars disappeared.

We called Time Magazine and told them the good news the next morning. At first, they seemed impressed but then asked for photographic proof that Henry had 'disappeared'. We had none. How can you photograph somebody who is disappearing? They never published the interview or the photograph.

I still have this strange vision of Henry standing in Richmond park on a cold night in the 16th Century, his hands firmly on the doors of a Pontiac Trans Am and a Chevy Impala. I have another vision too: of a horse being transported back to the 16th Century at the same time as Henry, landing on top of some poor, unsuspecting commoner.

***

If you love Sci-fi you can discuss High Tech and Military Sci-fi in my Iron Series: High Tech and Military Sci-fi group on Facebook: http://on.fb.me/10GXYTo

Alternatively read Chapter One of Iron I: Too Bright the Sun after Chapter One of Ordo Lupus and the Temple Gate, next.

# Ordo Lupus and the Temple Gate

Lazlo Ferran

Third Edition

Copyright © 2010 by Lazlo Ferran

All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

"I feel so alone. Even though there's a whole city's congregation in the Cathedral, 158 feet below me, none of them know I am here or of the battle is about to take place above them. I crouch down behind the sarcophagus, right next to the builder's hoist, my hand near the knot that ties the rope to the massive oak roof-brace. And I wait. I am recording all this on the mini cassette recorder I have brought with me.

How did I get here?

Obviously, the little wolf-angel statues had led me to this place and time, and you could say that it started in childhood with the incident in Highgate Cemetery, but really, the hinge-point, or the point at which my life became unhinged, was the murder of my daughter, Annie."

I felt as if we were under water. The air around us rippled and shifted like the surface of a clear sea, seen from underneath. Suddenly a dark slit opened and something horrific came through it.

"Annie!" I screamed and threw her behind me, against the wall, crushing her there. A long, scaly arm whipped around me and took hold of her arm. It pulled her with a strength far greater than my own. In desperation I pulled against it but the arm and the hideous black body, topped with something like a giant snake's head that towered over me, pulled Annie into the slit.

With one last scream of, "Daddy!" she was gone and the slit closed up. I ran at it, clawing at the air, but there was nothing there.

"Please God, no!" I cried at the top of my lungs, the tears starting to fall. I did not understand what had just happened but the simple fact that Annie was gone was the only thing that mattered. I fell to my knees and wept for a few minutes before the will to search and do something gained strength inside me. I walked around sobbing, looking into every doorway, around every corner and eying every car suspiciously, before finally somebody saw the state I was in and spoke to me.

I couldn't speak for the sobbing and I started to hyperventilate. I was desperate for help but unable to get my emotions under control.

Hearing my confused mix of French and English, the middle-aged man spoke in English.

"Wait here Monsieur. I will get help! I will only be a minute." He ran to the end of the street and called out something in French. Several voices answered and he ran back. "Just a few minutes Monsieur."

The normally pretty, tree-lined, street of Nevers looked like a scene from Thérèse Raquin. Murder had taken place and all was black and rotten.

The Gendarmes arrived and one of them recognised me from the earlier accident when Annie had nearly been run down by a car. I explained as best I could what had happened, at first believing that truth was best, but when their faces looked back at me with indulgent sympathy I simply said that something or somebody had grabbed my daughter. A search was launched and before long I was in the police station with Rose, my wife of thirty-nine years, holding my hand. The whole of Nevers rang with the sound of sirens. Of course I was distraught, as was Rose, and at first she exerted enormous self-control to appear calm, but as each hour passed and nothing happened, she began to grow angry.

"You should have taken her on the main road. What were you thinking?"

Her angry words became a torrent and I felt an anger rising in me too. I had not told her what I had actually seen but finally I could take it no more. "It was a snake," I said quietly.

"What?"

I took a very deep breath before continuing. I felt a mad laugh forming in my mouth as I talked, as it dawned on me that my wife would not believe me.

"I don't know if the Gendarmes told you but Annie was almost hit by a car earlier. I pulled her out of the way just in time. It was that 'evil presence' again. That is why I took the side street. Then suddenly the air around us seemed to distort and there was a kind of slit in it. Out of this something came, maybe five metres tall, like a snake with, with wings. It had arms too and it reached for Annie and – and took her!" I burst into tears again as I finished.

To my surprise Rose put her arm around me. "Oh, Darling." She seemed to believe me and the relief was a release for me. I clutched at her and sobbed into her soft and sweet-smelling pink cardigan.

A uniformed Gendarme brought us each a cup of coffee and turned to leave us. We heard a chorus of loud voices starting up behind him and I stepped over to find out what was happening. The man who had given us the coffee stepped in front of me, blocking my path. "S'il vous plaît Monsieur. Asseyez-vous et attendez-nous."

"This is bad Rose. I know it!" I could see from the look of panic in her eyes that she agreed.

"Monsieur. It is very bad news. I am sorry." A well-dressed officer in plain clothes was addressing us but we hardly heard his voice. He said something to the effect that a girl had been found viciously killed and they believed it was our daughter. They would need us to identify the body as soon as we could.

We held hands as we looked at the little body. Even her face had been mutilated but we recognised our little girl. Rose couldn't look but I had the unbearable urge to lift the sheet and look at the body. The Coroner's assistant grabbed my hand to stop me but I gave him such a challenging look he pulled his hand away. The sight was enough not only to make me weep for Annie's soul but for my own, too.

***

The indescribable horror of it all left us feeling numb, and over the next few weeks which stretched like forlorn eternities, we simply sat around the house staring into space, going through the most basic routines to get through the day. We never looked at each other. Edward, my son and youngest child, had been sent to stay with my mother in London but even the burden of this guilt added to our sorrows. Mourning was so difficult because neither of us understood what had happened. However, it was only at the end of those two heart-broken weeks that I discovered exactly what it was that Rose didn't understand.

The Gendarmes' report, marked 20 August 1984 had made the case that Annie had been murdered by a perverted psychopath; although I had been helpful with my evidence, I'd had to avoid a description by saying I had not seen the killer's face in order that they conduct any enquiry at all. We had even made the national newspapers and we often read them, not so much out of a wish to find any new evidence but because it seemed to keep Annie alive in some way. We hated each other for doing it though, and when we spoke it was usually hateful or at best polite.

I was surprised then when Rose looked up from another article one evening and said, "You did the right thing."

"What?"

"Keeping quiet about that wretched snake thing."

"Oh. Well they wouldn't have believed me."

"No. But I need to know now, darling. I cannot wait any longer. What did happen?"

"What do you mean?"

"I have listened to your story for too long now. You are sick and we both know it. I have protected you but now I need to know. You have to give me that much. I will keep quiet. Trust me."

"No! I mean, no I am not sick. That is really what I saw. You know, about my special, talent! I have a special sense for evil and you have seen this happening."

"Oh you and your 'special sight'! Just stop it! I don't want to hear about it anymore. It's just luck or coincidence or whatever... It doesn't explain what happened to our little girl."

The way she spat the words 'special gift' sent my mind reeling. I had not kept what my grandfather had called my 'gift' from her and thought she understood. Now it seemed she had been patronising me all this time.

"You didn't see the body. You didn't see Annie. She looked like she had been squeezed by something!"

"It could have been anything. Who knows what a perverted psychopath might do to a body."

"You don't believe me?"

"Whatever it is, I need the truth." She screamed the word 'truth' with a vehemence I had never heard before in her, and with that she was weeping. I had nothing left I could add so I walked over to comfort her but she pushed me away.

***

We began to drift apart from this time on. Edward helped to bind us together but we were never close again. The last time we visited England together was to visit my parents and my grandfather's grave ten years earlier. We had missed the funeral because my parents hadn't told us. I assumed at the time it had to be because they thought we had too many other things on our minds. I had felt no urge since to visit his grave. Now I really wanted to see it.

There had been a bond between my grandfather and me. He understood certain things about me that no one else did. Once, on a visit to him when I was still a child, he gave me a rare and ancient book. 'A History of the Supernatural and Mythical Beasts and Customs of Central and Southern Europe' by Edgar de Boulon. I didn't understand why at the time and simply read the old book out of fascination with the subject.

Antonia, the younger of my two younger sisters at fifty-five, had brought along her new husband who was a curious late addition to the family for me. We had to spend some time getting to know him before finally visiting grandfather's grave.

My already fragile parents – now both in their eighties – looked nervously at each other when I asked where he was buried.

"Yes. We will take you there but you will be disappointed son." There was that ever-present frailty about my father as he spoke to me.

"Oh, why? Did you keep the money for yourself and give him a cardboard box?" I said laughing.

"No." My father smiled weakly. "But it will not be as you expect. It's a lovely spot though."

I felt a little angry now and confused. I had liked the old man a lot and knowing there was a rift between him and my father, I began to suspect the worst.

"It's not what you're probably thinking son. There was a supplementary part to the Will, something we couldn't show you. Your grandfather requested just an urn and stone tablet."

"You mean you burned him? But he always said he never wanted to be cremated."

"Yes. That's right."

"But I don't understand. What are you trying to tell me?" My father was sometimes infuriatingly incapable of giving a straight answer, especially when he was uncomfortable with something.

"Best we take you there," he said. My Mother nodded and smiled. I think she would have hugged me had Rose not been there.

The tablet was small, flat and of polished black granite, and lay under the shade of a hazelnut tree on the edge of the old graveyard. It had my grandfather's name and then said simply.

My spirit away to my family home,

My body too.

If you feel sad looking at me,

Then smile again for I look not at you.

My anger left me immediately. I understood somehow, that my grandfather was not here, and I also understood that there was a secret, which I would learn eventually.

***

To satisfy Rose I attended sessions with a therapist for six months with no progress. Either I was not insane or else he could not find what was wrong with me. I never told him that I was sure I wasn't mad or even damaged.

I began to look more closely at my grandfather's book and my own research so far into the occult powers in Southern Europe; in my trade as an antiques dealer I often came across books on the occult. At least the book offered me the glimmer of a possibility that I might understand what had happened to Annie.

It was the description of flying snakes at the end of the book which really caught my attention. I was desperate, and my memory of the creature's appearance could fit the description in the book. Understanding this became a passion for me, gradually overwhelming all other daily thoughts.

What I couldn't initially understand was the description in the book of all these 'snake like' things as wargs. In my experience – in the works of J. R. R. Tolkien and many other classical works – wargs were described as moving on four legs and looking like very large dogs – in other words, wolf-like. I researched the etymology of the word 'Warg' and finally found an entry that offered an explanation:

The Old English word 'wearg'.

Mary Gerstein, in an article, has attempted to equate the Germanic word 'warg' with 'werwolf, but many experts now reject this. Warg and wearg can be traced back to a root that may have meant 'strangler'.

As soon as I saw the word 'strangler', I thought of 'constrictor' and the family of snakes called 'constrictors'. Perhaps an eyewitness in Medieval Europe had described the serpents as constrictors or stranglers and the writer, not having seen what they were writing of described them as Wargs. But then this didn't make sense either. The only thing that did make sense was that the writer knew the true meaning of the word 'warg' and that the text was copied from a much older text, perhaps from as far back as the Dark Ages. The writer's name was Edgar de Boulon and I had tried many times to find out more about him with no success.

I didn't even know if he knew my family or not although my grandfather had claimed he had.

***

I was in my office, drinking coffee and browsing through Le Monde when the headline on page three caught my eye.

Young Woman's Mangled Body Found in Lyon Back Street

I read on. "The young woman, dressed in evening attire and now identified as Seline Godin was found on the night of Friday 11 July in the Rue Calas, a quiet street in Lyon. Police would like to speak to anybody in that vicinity around 11.40 pm. An intense police search is under way to catch the killer and although there is little evidence to go on, the body is described as being crushed, 'as if by a giant fist'."

Spluttering into my coffee, I swung my legs off the table and reread the article slowly. When I finished, I picked up the telephone and dialed our home number.

"Darling. Have you seen the article in Le Monde today?"

"No. What article?"

"I am coming home. Wait there!"

I slammed the phone down, grabbed the car-keys, and paper, and drove home as fast as I could.

"God, you look a mess!" She leaned close to me. "And you stink. Look at this." She pulled at my shirt front. "You lost a button."

I showed her the newspaper.

"Um hm. Yes it is interesting. You know what I think?" she said after quickly scanning the article.

"What?"

"Well I hardly like to say, really?"

"Go on?"

"Well it could be the same murderer. Perhaps he is back."

She looked nervously at me for my reaction. Obviously I knew she was thinking of a human murderer, but I didn't care. For now it was enough to have caught her interest.

The newspaper was dated Friday, 14 July, 1985. Rose, or the dragon as I now called her, and I had drifted apart and I spent more and more time at the office; often staying late to read my occult books and getting very drunk, mainly on ouzo. We were moving towards divorce and we both knew it. Since the day Annie had died our marriage had been a train heading for the buffers. Nothing we could do or say seemed to make things any better. My one slim hope of redemption, and thus of saving the marriage had been somehow to prove that I really had seen what I had described to her, but the very pursuit of this truth seemed to her further proof of my madness.

I didn't stay, and back at the office, I rifled through piles of documents looking for just one particular one with a telephone number on it. In the years between the death of Annie and now, I had joined several occult societies. One such society I had joined – the Venerable Order of St. John of Jerusalem, a revival of the Knights Hospitallers – had only gained general acceptance as a serious society in 1963, and through their newsletter I had started up a correspondence with a Henry de Silva.

Henry lived in France, in Lyon in fact, but had been born in England and served in the Army in World War II. Shortly after his wife had died of cancer he had moved to Lyon to pursue his passion for genealogy. He believed his ancestors to have been Huguenots although I always thought his family name sounded more Spanish, which would make them unlikely Protestant refugees. However he was a genial fellow and his knowledge of Medieval France and the Occult was impressive. I was sure I could recall seeing his telephone number on one of his letters and I wanted to call him straight away. After turning half the office upside down I found it.

"Henry."

"Yes?"

I reminded him who I was.

"Have you seen that article in Le Monde? About the girl who was found dead in Lyon? You must have heard of it?"

"Yes. Of course. How could I not. It's been all over the papers. Strange isn't it?"

"Strange? Well no. I didn't think so. It sounds just like what happened to Annie!"

"Ah yes. I thought you would say that. You shouldn't get too excited dear boy but I admit, it has potential."

"Listen. Can we possibly get together some time? I really need your confidence and I have a lot of stuff to show you."

"Well certainly. I would love to see you."

"When is good for you?"

"Well anytime. My social calendar is hardly full you know."

"Tomorrow? Midday?"

"Um. Yes I think so. I will have to get my cleaner to brush the house down a bit."

***

Henry gave me directions and the following morning I stuffed all the books, artifacts and documents I needed into my white Citroën DS and, after calling home to freshen up a bit, drove the 200 km down to Lyon.

I parked in the only space available, a few blocks down from a narrow four-story town house in the inner suburbs, painted in a pale shade of pink, with sky-blue awnings over the tall and narrow windows. I pulled on the antiquated bell-pull outside the paneled front door and a voice echoed in the narrow street from above.

"Push the door when you hear the buzz! Come up to the second floor."

On the second floor landing Henry was waiting for me, leaning on a silver-topped walking stick and wearing a cream-coloured suit.

His pointed white beard jerked up and down as he welcomed me. "Come in! Come in dear boy."

He followed me in to his flat but I noticed he moved very slowly and seemed in some discomfort. He was even breathless before he lowered himself onto a Windsor back chair next to a lovely oak dining table against the wall by the window.

"Angina dear boy. Too much good-living in the Army."

I chuckled politely. "Where were you based?"

"India until the War. Then a spell in Burma."

He didn't look at me as he spoke. I knew the fighting in Burma had been some of the most intense in the War. I also knew typhoid and malaria were rife.

"So good to meet you at last dear boy. I hope you don't mind if I don't stand. Sherry? Or something else?" His brown eyes danced and glinted behind a delicate pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez glasses as he spoke.

There was a small silver platter with a cut-glass sherry decanter in the centre and three clean glasses upturned next to it.

"Sherry is fine."

He reached painfully over the table and poured a glass for me.

"Now what wonders have you brought me to look at?"

The first thing I showed him was the book by Edgar de Boulon. I had inserted white cards to mark pages of interest and he read slowly, affirming what he read with quiet 'um hms' while I slowly slipped the sherry. It felt very pleasant with a nice cool breeze whispering though the window in the early summer heat. I watched his face closely as he read the section about flying snakes and how they were supposed to constrict space. His eyes looked up at me just once for an instant. He finished reading and sat back in his chair. I knew him well enough from his letters to know that he formed opinions slowly, and gave them seldom, so I didn't expect an immediate response. He still seemed to be waiting.

"That last passage interests me the most," I said grinning inanely at him. "I... Do you think I could possibly trouble you for another glass of sherry? Dutch courage!"

"Of course dear boy. Help yourself!"

"You know I was with Annie when she was... murdered? Well I told The Gendarmes that I had not got a good look at the killer but actually I did. My wife thinks I am insane but what I saw most resembled a ... snake." I hadn't told Henry the details of what I had seen – about the snake – before. A bead of sweat started rolling down my forehead. I knew I could lose a friend now, or gain an ally, if he believed me. "Annie's body was squeezed ... crushed as if by a giant fist or perhaps a large constrictor snake." I immediately felt the absurdity of what I was saying and felt powerless to back up my description.

"Tell me more about what you saw!" I looked up and Henry was leaning towards me, eagerly waiting to hear more.

I smiled, grateful and relieved at last to find a willing ear. "Well it was huge! It towered over us but you know... I couldn't see anything clearly. It was as if it were in a dream. Everything shimmered. In fact the air had seemed to be like water when it appeared."

"Yes. That would be so."

"What?"

"Don't mind me. We will discuss it later. Just tell me all you can about what you saw."

"Well. Obviously, once I could feel it take a hold of Annie I wasn't so interested in what it was. I just wanted to hold on to her but it was immensely strong. It was like pulling against a pick-up truck. There was no way I could stop it."

"But it was a snake you say? How did it take hold?"

"Yes sorry. Annie was behind me, against a wall but it seemed to have some kind of appendage, arms maybe. In fact in moments I felt it was more like a man than a snake. If it had eyes I could not look at them. It also seemed to be burning somehow, and I thought I could smell the stench of burning flesh. I am sure it must have made a sound like a scream or roar but I was shouting too and Annie was screaming so I cannot clearly remember that. I could not tell you about colours or even if it had wings. It was dark. That is about it really."

"Yes." Henry seemed to consider the information for a moment. "Yes I have heard of these, these Warg before. Actually I don't think of them as Warg at all but it will do as a term for now. The book of your grandfather's is very famous you know. In fact it is very rare and very valuable. I believe only five were ever printed. Actually the author is not Edgar de Boulon. That is just an alias for a Count, whose name escapes me right now, but what really interests me is this reference here." He turned the book to face me, open on another marked page and pointed to a book title mentioned in the text. "This is a book I have been seeking for years and I believe it is a book you really need to get hold of too. I have heard that two leaves of this book, of which only one copy is thought to have survived, is available on the black-market, for a very high price. I wonder if perhaps you might be interested in obtaining such a thing?"

I read the title – 'De Secretis Scientia Occultis'.

"Why is it of such great interest to us?"

"Well, dear boy. What I have heard is that this particular document has some secret information about the snake-demons, as most of us in-the-know call them. Of course the whole book is probably of huge importance to us but I only know of the two leaves that are available for now. Who knows why? Perhaps it's a copy. Perhaps the owner of the book needs to raise cash. Perhaps it's a fake. There is only one way to know for sure and that is to get a look at it. Of course it's way out of my price-range."

"Well how much would you need?"

"Well I think the bidding will start at perhaps 8,000 Guineas."

"Whew! For just one page?"

"Well four actually unless one is an end-leaf or we are very unlucky. There should be something on both sides!" He laughed at his little joke.

I pondered the amount, could I really justify spending that amount to Rose?

"I could raise it, possibly. My antiques business is very successful now. Let me think about it."

"Well alright. But don't think too long. These things have a habit of vanishing just as quickly as they appear." The wit of this comment was not lost on me. "Now is there something else you want to tell me?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Are you sure? What about any special abilities of your own?"

I looked at him suddenly amazed. "How did you know about that?"

"Ah ha! Well?"

"Well I am so used to my wife scoffing at everything lately I had begun to doubt it myself but you know during the War M.I.6 was very interested in my talents. In fact I think that's why they recruited me."

"Did they now?"

"It seems that I can sense the approach or presence of evil. Or at least bad spirits and usually I can avoid them myself although, unfortunately, that doesn't extend to my friends or close family. I wish it did. It seems pointless being the only one protected sometimes."

"Now, now. Don't get bitter old boy."

"Sorry."

"Anyway that's what I thought you might say. You see I know a lot more about you than you think, or than I thought until today."

"I don't understand."

"No. I am not sure either and until I am I would prefer to make a few enquiries but I can tell you one thing."

"Yes."

"This death in Lyon is not the first of its type recently."

"No?"

"No. I noticed a previous one five days before in Avignon and another a few days before that in Montpellier. Are you seeing a pattern here?"

"Well apart from the fact that each is a little further North than the last, no."

"That is it. The murderer, whatever or whoever it is, must be traveling north. Each murder victim is described as being badly mangled in a similar way to Seline."

"Why is it travelling north then?"

"Well I don't know. Perhaps it is looking for something?"

"Um. Maybe."

After showing Henry the rest of my documents and a sample of Romanian wolf statues I had brought with me, including the large one of snake and wolf man fighting, he in turn showed me some manuscripts and maps that he had. They were fascinating and I took my time looking through them and taking notes. By the time we had finished it was mid-afternoon and after a sandwich, I rose to leave.

"Henry. It has been a pleasure and very enlightening to meet you. I am going to seriously consider bidding for this book. I will call you tomorrow or the next day." Henry started to struggle to his feet. "Don't get up. I can see myself out."

"Such a pleasure dear boy. Such a very great pleasure for me. You are welcome any time."

As I left the room I noticed for perhaps the third time a very large crucifix on the wall above the ornate fireplace. I became conscious now of just how strange it was. Seemingly bolted together from two very misshapen cross pieces of some hard wood like oak, it was burned around the edges and carved loosely into some kind of relief design which I couldn't quite make out because of the damage. It seemed a very odd thing to be hanging in Henry's lounge. My instinct was to ask about it but my intuition was that it was too early to ask such intimate questions so I left with just a call over my shoulder. "See you soon Henry. Take care!"

I opened the door to his flat and stepped out onto the landing. Facing the stairs, I wondered how on earth he managed them. I walked down the corridor on the landing towards the back of the building and saw one of those old lifts in a wrought-iron cage.

As I walked back to the car, I had a very uncomfortable feeling that I was being watched or followed. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck and for a moment I felt sick.

***

It didn't take me long to reach a decision on 'De Secretis Scientia Occultis'. I was seriously wealthy by now although most of the money was wrapped up in the antiques business but it was my business and there was no reason I should not start to enjoy what I had worked so hard to build up. Also, getting involved in the intriguing world of black-market deals for rare arcane books was too much to resist. A few days after our meeting I telephoned Henry.

"Henry, I have the money and I want to bid for this page. What do we do now?"

"Excellent dear boy. How much?"

"I have 100,000 Francs – just over 9,000 Guineas but I don't want to bid above 8,000 to start with."

"No. We will start at 7,000 but I am sure it will end up more. Leave it with me!"

We drove towards Paris in my Citroën. In the driving rain around Troyes the radio reception became so bad I turned it off and listened to Henry talking – when he wasn't rustling the map.

"Typical French car, this Citroën; strange looking, but when all is said, it is well made." He tapped the dash with the head of his stick which he insisted on keeping between his legs as we drove.

I was feeling cramp in my legs as we had driven all morning and into the early afternoon. We hadn't even stopped for food, Henry passing me egg and ham or cheese sandwiches as I drove.

Shortly after passing through a little village called Vatry Henry called out, "Right at the next turning."

"Are you sure? We are in the middle of nowhere."

"Not nowhere dear boy; near to a beautiful rare manuscript!" His eyes shone as I glanced at him. The wipers were working overtime and I peered out into the watery gloom for the turning.

"There! I see it." We slowed and I turned the car onto a gravel track and stopped. "The instructions said to wait here, didn't they?"

"Um hm."

Just at that moment through a break in the clouds, the sun burst forth and the rain slowed revealing a beautiful rainbow arching across the gentle landscape before us. France had never looked more beautiful to me. We were in the Marne region of France, East of Paris and a major wine-growing region. Many of the fields we had passed had been vineyards but the fields here were green and fallow.

A figure in raincoat and galoshes appeared ahead of us and pointed behind him. I started the car and passed him, the car steadily crunching the loose stoned beneath its wheels.

"Wind down the window, Henry."

"Do you want a lift?" I called to the man.

"No, sir. It is only one hundred metres." The man spoke in English but with a heavy German accent, I thought.

"This looks dodgy Henry. What do you think?"

"Not what I was expecting. This dealer has a good reputation though. I wouldn't worry too much. Probably just wants privacy."

Roughly one hundred yards on, I saw a sky-blue caravan beside the track and since there was no other possible meeting place I stopped the car there. I helped Henry out. The clouds were already scurrying away leaving blue sky in their place and colours and smells that seemed even more vivid in the afterglow of the rain.

Parked next to the caravan was a beautiful silver Rolls Royce Silver Cloud. A splash of mud on its gleaming wing was an affront, like a smudge of lipstick on a fashionably decadent model in a photo shoot.

The door to the caravan swung open and a black-jacketed arm with black leather gloves held it open while we climbed the three mini-steps to enter.

"Velcome Gentlemen! Sit down! Sit down!" This voice also sounded German but I couldn't yet make out the shape of its owner as there were no lights on. I could make out a small, thin table supported by one spindly leg with a briefcase on it and then, against the window behind it I started to make out the dealer. He had something like a trilby hat on and dark glasses. His pin-striped suit, although very expensive and probably Saville Row, struggled to contain any part of his massive frame, which I guessed to be all of twenty five stones. He also wore black kid-leather gloves and a white cane rested against the seat, to his right. He seemed to be blind.

"Champagne, Gentlemen?"

"That would be very nice," said Henry, lowering himself very carefully onto the stool indicated for him in front of the table. I sat on mine, next to him. I thought, and I guessed Henry thought too, that we must look quite comical perched on such fragile stools at such a fragile table.

"André. Pour please." said the large man.

The black-suited and gloved André, who must really have been a bodyguard, produced a silver tray from somewhere. The tray had three filled flutes of Champagne Bollinger, nestled beside the opened bottle on it. The champagne was delicious. André's piercing blue eyes looked bored but he was polite.

Suddenly the whole caravan started rocking from side to side gently and a might roar and whistle filled the air. A train rushed by somewhere nearby and I knew we must be right alongside a railway line.

"Now, Gentlemen. Let me show you something." A mantle of thick, silver hair flowed from under the hat of our host as he opened the case. I still could not clearly see his face. "Please use the gloves."

Two pairs of white archivist's gloves lay on top of the document and Henry and I both put on a pair each. Henry then lifted up the single, brownish top leaf with cursive Latin script on it. He held it close to his glasses. To my surprise the document had not be torn or even carefully cut from a book but unstitched, and it consisted of four, full pages of a book, with the stitch holes clearly showing down the middle seam. I managed to conceal my delight and surprise, and noticed that Henry did the same.

"Oh yes. It's beautiful."

"You read Latin Sir?"

"Yes. But the buyer does not."

"Ah." I think he smiled at me, judging by the curling of his lips. "Please, if you can read it, do not talk to each other from now on about the content. Once you have approved it, Monsieur de Silva, your friend will propose a price."

I guessed he was nervous; we were simply after the content and once we had deduced this we wouldn't want to buy. I kept quiet with difficulty until, I guessed, Henry must have read at least one paragraph. "Well? Henry. Is it what we are looking for?"

"Hm." He seemed miles away. "Oh yes. Yes dear boy. It is genuine as far as I can tell. The ink looks authentic and the vellum. It talks about what we are interested in."

"Alright," I said. "I am prepared to make you an offer. 7,500 Guineas."

"Well that would be fine Mr er?" Neither of us answered him. "That would be fine if I didn't know how interested you are in this." He was relishing this and I knew he would want to go a lot higher. I decided to try a gambit of my own.

"Well if the man who wanted to buy this was also hoping to, one day, buy the whole document, then he would be a fool to offer over what he could afford for the first few sheets."

The man laughed. "Touché!"

Henry smiled at me. He had noticed not only my ploy, but that I had already learned from him to use the word document, as a sign of respect, rather than 'book'. A book was an object, a document was a historical record, something much more vital.

"Point taken Sir. But I do believe you are prepared to offer a little more."

"8,200."

"Um. A serious offer. But I would have to leave now if that was your limit. André. Would you?" He pointed to the document and André took it gently from Henry, placed it back in the case and closed it. Henry looked a little flustered.

"Really, I cannot go much higher. But 8,400 I think is a very fair offer."

"André. Another glass of Champagne for us all." He sipped his and considered the offer. He took so long, I almost offered him more but managed to stop myself.

"Are you serious about the rest of the document, sir?"

"Yes. I would at least like to see it."

"How do you know I have it?"

"I don't. Do you?"

"I have access to it. A buyer who was to offer 8,500 for a single leaf would secure a viewing, say within a week?"

Now I smiled. He was probably now exploring how much he could get for the whole document. I waited for a very long time, considering this.

"8,500 it is then. And an appointment within one week?"

"Done, Sir."

I reached over to shake his hand but he pulled away. I knew then that he wasn't blind.

The exchange took place with me carefully counting out the money without revealing how much I had left. Then with the precious document in its case tucked securely under my arm I helped Henry while he rose stiffly from the seat with the aid of his stick. We clambered awkwardly out of the caravan and walked back to the car. The second bodyguard watched us while we started the car, turned around, and drove off.

***

We talked excitedly as we drove. Henry told me that the first paragraph had given him a possible explanation for the phases of strange deaths, from crushing, every sixty years.

"It says something about the heartbeat of God."

"Yes. Go on!"

"Well, it says the victims of these demons called Warg are usually, but not always, crushed, and that they are summoned by the Devil." He looked at my face for a reaction.

"Well none of that is really surprising, although it is a bit vague and par for the course for 13th Century superstition, don't you think?"

"Yes but the really good bit is this. It says, and I am not sure of this so I need to get home and check my Latin, it says that the serpents appear as if from water in the air! I feel sure that the next paragraph will reveal more. I caught a few words but that André fellow took it back from me before I could really see anything much."

We argued about what this might mean for a while, and after stopping for petrol, perhaps two hours later, I could bare it no longer.

"I really need to know what it says. Let's stop now and read it. I can't wait." I pulled the car over at the next entrance to a field, and we stopped right in front of the old wooden gate. The sun was lowering in the West, although it was still early and a cloud, like a bloody gash, stretched across the sky just above the horizon. I opened the boot, passed the case to Henry, and then paced up and down in the early evening while Henry read the pages of 'De Secretis Scientia Occultis'.

"It says here something about an order called – Ordo Lupus. Yes. Notice that it distinguished between wolf and warg. Did you also notice how it said serpents earlier when talking about the water in the air?"

"No, I don't read Latin, remember?"

"Yes, sorry. It also mentions something about a counter-brotherhood of some sort, and a Catholic priesthood who were violently opposed to both, believing them both heretical. There is something else about some kind of potent symbol or something but I cannot really make much of it."

"Tantalising but it doesn't really help us very much. I guess that's just what he wanted, the old scoundrel. Did you notice he wasn't even blind?"

"Oh yes. It's just a ruse, so that he can watch us better. I have seen other dealers do all sorts of strange things to get an edge. Didn't you feel me kick you under the table?"

"Don't you think it's an awfully big coincidence that this one page just happens to have information about the Warg, the one thing I am most interested in? How did he know that?"

"Yes, it is too much for a coincidence, but you haven't noticed the most significant thing about recent events at all, have you?"

"Haven't I? What's that?"

"Well it's so obvious I am not surprised you haven't seen it."

He was being coy so I walked over to the driver's side door and stuck my head in. Henry looked at me sheepishly.

"Go on."

"Well I don't like to point this out to you really because I know how you are suffering inside. At least I think I know. I haven't lost a child myself, both of mine are grown up and married, but I lost many friends during the war and I am sure your suffering is worse." He chose his words carefully and I was touched.

"Henry. Just say it. Right now I badly need to understand things – understand just something. Anything to make sense of all this."

"Alright, dear boy. Well, what struck me was that this serpent targeted your daughter at all. I mean, why you? You say you can sense evil and I believe you. From what you say, your grandfather had connections to this society, Ordo Lupus, who seem to be opposed to these Warg. So why somebody close to you?"

"Yes. Yes, I never thought of that. I see what you mean. Perhaps that means something?" My heart lifted just a little, at the thought, for the first time since starting down this mysterious road to explain Annie's death. At the same time, a cold thrill ran down my spine. What was I dealing with here? Was a demon actually baiting me?

"Henry. You're a genius! Now let's get home and have some of that excellent sherry of yours." The countryside in the dimming light suddenly seemed threatening.

Henry, even with the aid of his Latin reference books, could deduce no more from the four pages of 'De Secretis Scientia Occultis', but he received an invitation for me to view the whole book seven days later.

Henry telephoned the evening before the meeting was to take place. "I have some bad news dear boy. The meeting has been cancelled. Mr Kalmus has sold to somebody else."

"Somebody else! Well, who?"

"I don't know yet. I am trying to find out."

"Why the hell did he sell? I don't get it. Why offer it to us and then just sell." Shit! I wondered if I could sue for breach of contract. The viewing had been part of the deal, hadn't it? But then how do you sue someone working on the black market?

"Hi, Henry. What have you found out?" I was answering an answer-phone message from Henry a few months later.

"Well, I never did find out who the buyer actually was, but a friend has told me something very interesting. Apparently the Bibliothèque Nationale now has a copy. Now I know they didn't have a copy a few years ago but I don't know how recently they acquired it. They have kept very quiet about it and considering that most experts think there are only three copies in existence and possibly just the one, it is most unusual."

"So is it possible to see it?"

"Well yes apparently it is. It's held at the François-Mitterrand Library in Paris. You have to go there and see it."

***

Also by Lazlo Ferran:

# Too Bright the Sun

Lazlo Ferran

Copyright © 2011 by Lazlo Ferran

All Rights Reserved
Prologue

It's been over ten years since Gary Enquine sent my friend Przeltski to a certain death. Not one day has gone by without the memories of that battle prowling my mind like a waking nightmare. Many times, I have woken in a cold-sweat thinking about it. I will not rest, cannot rest, until Gary Enquine has been brought to justice and been forced to pay for his cowardice. Ten years; it's a long time but I can be patient. Personal journal entry of Jake Nanden for 2101, Feb 3. 1.

***
Chapter One

The little voice asked, after peering out of another portal at an earlier moment in his life, "Is it possible to time travel for I perceive that I can?"

"Only after you leave this life," a voice, high and mighty, said.

Then the little voice changed its tone for it had grown angry. "But that's not fair! For, the one thing I wish I can't have."

"Until you leave this life," the high voice said.

"Yes."

"Then now you can see advantages to moving beyond this life you have."

And the little voice perceived that all his previous angers, about matters of the flesh and daily living were not proper angers. A proper anger is the anger that desirable things lay beyond the portal of death. And so from that moment on his struggles to survive, to fight against the current, seemed improper to him and yet he could not help himself.

Two of the Ionian Militia sat on top of Przeltski, ripping his helmet off while another aimed his laser at his eyes. In the vacuum of Io's atmosphere, Przeltski mouthed the words, 'save me' but it was too late. I knew I couldn't and had to try and save myself. I turned to get away but I could still see his eyes half closing, then looking up and his mouth rapidly shaping the words of the 'Hail Mary.' The IM would turn their lasers down to the lowest setting and first shoot out the eyes, then take off the arms and, if he was lucky, then they would aim for his heart. If he wasn't lucky, the dismemberment could go on and on for as long as they wanted. I wanted to look away but I couldn't. I struggled and struggled and then I woke and knew it had been the nightmare.

An eye opened. It was mine. The blurry horizon crystallised into the edge of the pillow as I realised where I was; Io. Being a commander has its perks, one being your own private cabin, but it was small and cramped. I closed my eye, reached up for the ledge of the sill above me and hauled myself out of bed. Feeling for the sanicube-handle opposite the bed, I released the cube from its folded position against the wall, selected 'L' and stepped in but then had to open my eyes to use it without spilling. A tube dispensed a sterilising solution onto my hands and the stream of water became hot air to dry them. Yawning enough for tears to clear my eyes, I took one step over to the n-gen, sitting on the white work surface above the bed. I selected 'Fried,' then 'Coffee, black' and clicked on the com centre. I had disabled the voice but I could see the display said, "2101, Feb 4. 2 – 06.30 I. 2 messages. Download?"

I waited for the 'ding' that would tell me my breakfast was ready. I knew I had just had another weird dream but I couldn't quite remember it now. I tried. The n-gen 'dinged' and I opened the white door to reveal the plate of hot, fried food and a mug of black coffee. I looked at the food dubiously and lifted the dark blue mug to my lips. The caffeine rush to my head felt good. Putting my left hand on my hip, I arched my back and then looked down at the pallid skin stretched over my late-twenties belly. 'Bigger,' I thought. 'But only slightly.' I picked up the plate of fried; bacon, eggs, potatoes, beans, fried-bread and mushrooms, all preselected as my personal preferences and lifted some mushrooms and potatoes to my mouth with the forkette. My buds tested the taste; it had that slight hint of mint or something metallic about it. "Damn," I said out loud. For a few days now, breakfast had tasted like this and I wasn't sure if it was a fault with the n-gen or this batch of plasma. My n-gen was civvy and another one of the perks allowed to commanders; I'd had it for nearly five years and it had been everywhere with me. Normally they didn't last longer than three years.

Balancing the plate in my left hand, I picked up the remote, pressed 'Monitor,' chose 'North elevation,' then 'R' for recording and 'Dec 9, 11.00,' morning on the day we had arrived, a date I chose out of habit. I pointed the remote at the panel, shaped like a window, on the narrow wall behind the pillow of the bed and it filled with the image of the ground to the north of the command-post. Just like a window, you could even see 'around' the window frame, if you wished to put your head that close to it. Yellow and reddish sulphur stretched away between the rocky silicates to a jagged horizon, a few hundred yards above the level of the command-post and perhaps two miles away. In places, the silicate rock looked white and in others a beautiful emerald green. If it hadn't been for the bright purplish glow of the morning aurora above, I could have believed I was in the Mojave Desert on Earth, a memory I had of visiting my grandparents once. Taking bigger mouthfuls, with my nostrils closed to avoid the nasty after-taste, I downed the breakfast and alternated my gaze between the landscape on the wall and the contents of the room. I took in the half-finished bottle of vodka next to the empty glass on the narrow table across the gang-way from my bed. I saw the open notepad next to it with a few scrawled lines at the top of a new page. Writing pulp crime-novels was my weakness or my hobby, depending on one's generosity.

I had finished the fried so I continued sipping black coffee and put on the Trion head-band, activating it by flicking a tiny black switch next to my left temple.

"Record," I said. Most company commanders, at least in USAC, were obliged to record their activities for viewing by paid subscribers; part of a deal USAC had made with the Amtel branch of RA. Most hated doing it but at least you could choose what to record and I never gave the leeches anything of real interest. The recording had been made by a cam in the com so a leech couldn't see anything on my heads-up.

"Download," I said. A red light flickered once on the com. The first of two messages scrolled on the heads-up display in front of my left eye:

Contact: Jena Ω "Hi Jake. I know you're trying to make me jealous by not replying to my last messages but then again you could just be under attack and I'm supposed to be the rational woman so I can deal with that. I might just be too busy this week to record anything for you too. My boss wants me to prepare a legal-briefing for our merger with a company which has connections with Riccard-Amtel! Can you believe it? Oh I know we try not to bring business into our relationship but I couldn't help myself. The consequences could be so far-reaching. Promotion, relocation. Who knows? Umm. In answer to your question last time; okay I've held out for quite a while haven't I but, yes, women do feel that sometimes. I suppose... Tell me more about what you do... Not during the day (with the boyz and grrls) but after. Are you still writing? Chloe misses u too. xx" End.

Contact: Mary "Hi darling. Mum here. How's the (censored) winter? I know this will probably be censored but I don't care. There's lots to tell you but I'll keep it short for now. I'm just off to a local council meeting and later there's an art exhibition; Raccauld, which Justine and I are going to. Actually, I'm meeting her for coffee at lunchtime. I think she wants to do some shopping. You know what she's like; you can't stop her once hubby has been paid. The Gazette had a nice photo of you the other day, which I have stuck in the photo album. You're a hero around here. The young boys talk of nothing else but the Iron Cross; I hear them when we go for picnics by the river. Oh yes and Robert O'Flannery has been elected Mayor again and has approved redevelopment of the area by the river. Office block I believe. Such a shame. One thing I was going to mention. A peculiar thing happened the other day..."

I heard a loud banging on the cabin-door which made me flinch. "Stop record," I said and ignored the rest of the message in the heads-up. I took two steps to the door and opened it. Sergeant Stone's chiseled face, topped with a brown flat-top and with shaving foam around its cheeks, confronted me. He stood, dressed only from the waist down.

"Yes Sergeant?" I tried to sound patient.

"Sir. Seismic activity detected 700 yards east of perimeter. About 100 feet down."

"Okay. Pick four men and get packed. I'll be with you in five."

"Sir? We can investigate if you want. You don't need to come."

"No but I want to come. I need the exercise."

"Sir." He didn't salute. I liked to be informal with my troops most of the time in combat situations, especially the officers and Stone in particular, who had been with me a long time.

***

"Lieutenant Osei, you have the comm."

We were in the port airlock five minutes later, myself unshaven, all in full-combat gear and Sergeant Stone handed me a Trion X.50. As the red light moved to 'Gravity-local,' we all grabbed the hand rails. Gravity on Io was about one fifth of that on Earth or about the same as the Moon and without the S-Grav, the rocking motion of the lift as it took us down to the surface would throw us about. The hatch opened and I led the team out into the moonlit night. I could feel the crunch of sulphur and silicates under my boots but all I could only hear my breath and the steady beep, every two seconds of the uplink indicator. We used a two-step canter to move over the terrain in a defensive pattern of two columns of three, ten feet apart. That was enough separation to give covering fire in all directions without hitting each other if needed. We were looking for any sign of a drill rig at the indicated distance of 700 yards. The Ionian Militia normally didn't have the resources for automated rigs so there would be two or three poor bastards manning it, armed with A.M. 27s most probably. They would be targeting our S-Grav singularity, 1000 feet below the MCS – a known Mob. Command Station weakness. Our MCS had been fitted with, as standard, S-Grav Type 4; a lot more stable than the Type 3. Its governor was accurate to 14-10 Volts, which it had to be to keep the singularity weak enough to be safe but strong enough to work effectively.

***

Database download on the Ionian Militia: The Ionian Militia (IM) was formed by miners on Io, moon of Jupiter on June 1 2089. Their living conditions were already tough, but falling iron prices led to smaller pay-rises and longer hours. They went on strike and in the long summer of 2080 Earth News bulletins were full of items about iron shortages and skirmishes between USAC troops and miners on IO. Led by Richard Ortega, the miners demanded some concessions, most prominent being that their families could live with them. This was granted but shortly after their families arrived, the miners were subjected to further pay-cuts and reductions in supply of essential equipment. From the Ionian Iron Miners Union was formed the Ionian Miner's Union, led by Ortega. This powerful union then began receiving equipment and other supplies directly from the Rebel Alliance on Earth, a move that was seen as highly provocative by the USAC forces, then in administrative control on Io and then attempted to block these supplies and suppress resistance using overpowering force. From the Ionian Miner's Union Ortega then formed the Ionian Militia, a small but highly trained and well-equipped force which operated using guerrilla tactics against USAC. The force gradually grew in size and strength until, ten years later, they are a significant force on Io, controlling one half of its surface. Only a few mines remained loyal to USAC, raising Solar System prices of iron and putting an end to the building of the great J stations. End Download.

***

Micro-singularities were inherently unstable anyway, for safety reasons, but the governor itself created the only real vulnerability in the Type 4. Located, by necessity, in the column only a few inches from the singularity, it could be damaged by a small explosion. Then, there would be a good chance the singularity would run away and, if it grew rather than shrank, the result would be a massive explosion. Several MCSs had been knocked out this way.

The militia squad wouldn't be a problem but I wanted to be fully alert. Things still looked a bit blurry to me so I blinked a few times and squeezed my lids shut to lubricate my eyes. My stubble itched on the fabric inside the helmet.

500 yards out, I raised my hand and we stopped. I pointed to the Sergeant and two of the corporals in their tan-coloured combat suits and motioned for them to move south of the target location which appeared to be behind a slight bluff. I motioned to the other two officers to follow me north. I felt sure Stone would spread his men out a little, standard procedure, and I did the same as we flanked the bluff. I thought I could see a faint plume of yellow dust rising, the usual tell-tale sign of a drill-rig, but, still very faint I couldn't be sure of it. I crouched down and tapped the shoulder of the soldier in front of me. I pointed at the faint plume, he turned to face me and nodded. We tried not to kick up any dust ourselves when we rounded the shoulder of the bluff and the soldier in front held up his hand just before stopping. This was it. They were there. His gloved fingers counted down three, two, one and then he moved forward. He aimed his X.50 at something while I followed him, pointing mine in the same direction. When I emerged into the dip behind the bluff, I saw what I had expected; a low wall of sulphur-dirt around a square dugout, perhaps ten feet along each side, with a cover slung over it to collect the dust. One helmet peered through the gap, straight at us. I saw the red sighting beam from his A.M. 27 strike the helmet of the corporal and then the beam turned green as the plasma shot was fired. But he moved too slowly. The corporal had already jumped, done a one-eighty and come down with his X.50 blazing green. I fired too. The poor armour of the Ionian's helmet couldn't withstand the X.50 rounds. It split and little globules of red blood floated out from under the cover.

The intercom crackled. It was Stone. "Our man taken down sir. Going in for a look." That meant there had been another guard on the south-side and he had now been disabled. The rear guards stayed back while the leading four of us reached the entrance to the dugout, on its east-side. Stone poked his X.50 inside. He immediately backed out, saying:

"Two grubs."

By now I could barely see the dugout entrance for yellow dust so we waited for the two miners to emerge from the cloud. They came out with their hands up and Stone made them turn through 360 degrees before making them sit up against a rock, a few yards east of the entrance. While Stone, recognisable by the over-sized dagger he usually wore, stood with his X.50 pointing at the two prisoners, one of his team dipped into the entrance to check all equipment had been switched off before placing a small charge.

During daylight hours you could not normally see the faces of other men through the visors, because the filters would reflect the sunlight but I could see the two faces of the Ionians. One looked full of hate but the other looked strangely sullen, scared even. I decided to question him.

I tapped his wrist, where intercom units used to be, and drew 220 in the air with my finger, the standard Red Cross frequency. Of course he had to activate this inside the helmet verbally and might not choose to do so. I turned my frequency to 220 and waited patiently. After a minute or more, the intercom crackled and I heard a sullen, "Yes."

"Greetings Ionian," I said jovially. "It's your lucky day. You are definitely going to live and you might retain all your limbs if you answer a few simple questions."

"Smith, Corporal, 00001," he said. His name, rank and serial number included the obligatory 00001. All Ionians used the same serial number. In effect, they had no serial numbers, which they felt confused USAC.

I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the other Ionian glanced nervously at Smith, several times.

Is he afraid this one will reveal something?

"Well Mr. Smith, Corporal Smith if you prefer ..." I was digging and waited for a response.

"Smith will do."

"Mm. You don't seem so attached to the Militia as your friend there. How long have you been mining?"

"A few months," came the terse reply. The other Ionian winced.

"Uh-huh. Have you targeted a Type 4 before?" The other Ionian looked surprised.

"I dunno. Maybe."

"Maybe? It's the latest type. What sort of charge were you planning to use?"

"What do you mean? I don't have to answer these questions. Look, if you want to get it over and done with that's fine by me."

"What charge?" I made it sound angry and pointed my X.50 at his upper right arm.

"Hey! Wait. I dunno. Four pounds, maybe. We hadn't decided."

"Oh. I don't think so. Okay sonny. So I know you are not a miner so that raises a serious question. What are you doing here?"

Interesting. Is he an observer? A news reporter? Not sure.

"No. Listen. I am just a miner. Okay, so I have only been doing it a week. This is my first time. Training courses are hard to come by these days." He laughed.

"An ironic sense of humour... I like it! Shows intelligence. Maybe too much intelligence for a grub."

My men were gathered around now, tuned to 220, listening in. I could hear their breathing and their smirks from time to time.

I tapped the shoulder of the one nearest to me. "Stay on the proper frequency, corporal."

"He's undercover sir," one of the other corporals said. I recognised the voice; Opinnskey. A bit of a joker by all accounts but clever.

"Undercover Opinnskey? Why do you say that?"

"Look at those arms sir. He hasn't ever lifted an A.M. in his life. Daddy is probably a high-up, I reckon." He squeezed Smith's scrawny arms and the others laughed. The other Ionian looked very scared now.

"Maybe he is. Maybe he is. Maybe his daddy is high up in the army." I thought I saw just the slightest flicker of his eyelid through the visor. "Did you want to see some active service? Blow up an MCS to impress a girl? I bet that would get you a few nights in bed with that pretty girl." He looked uncomfortable.

"Okay Stone. Take care of the other one."

Stone turned the dial on his X.50 to minimum ballistic charge and pulled back on the trigger. He aimed the red bead at the Ionian's right shin. He pulled back further on the trigger and a green shot of plasma pierced the Ionians shin. The shot left a neat black hole for a second which quickly ejected red bubbles before the suit sealed itself. I could see the Ionian was screaming but we couldn't hear him. Stone repeated the shot on the other shin and then on both forearms. We couldn't take prisoners and the Ionians wouldn't take prisoners. But we didn't want to kill so we just disabled the soldiers. Most of them would never see active service again so we were doing them a favour really. Their medics would pick them up quite quickly once we had broadcast the standard Red Cross distress signal for them. Of course, some of the other USAC companies were less lenient.

I could see Smith grimace in anticipation of the pain that would surely come. Perhaps he thought he could get a lighter punishment.

"Well?" I asked.

"Well, what?" he said.

"What's the explanation for you being here?"

"I've told you everything. Just get it over with."

I crouched down and looked into his eyes. I could see a different kind of fear there now. It wasn't fear for his physical safety.

"Take the other one away Stone."

I gestured for the rest of our men to go with him and I waited while the writhing Ionian was dragged around the corner of the bluff.

I spoke to Smith. "Okay now we are alone. Anything you tell me will have been extracted under duress. You won't have been responsible. I used a dose of SPA on you okay? Now all I want do know is; who's your father?"

"Okay. I will tell you something, something big but you gotta give me something. Leave my arms okay. I heard some guys lose the use of their fingers. I need them, you know?"

"Okay. I tell you what. I will just lightly graze one arm but I better hit the other one or people will be suspicious. Don't worry. I know just where to hit it. I can reduce the pain too. Deal?" I looked at him. "Deal," I repeated. He already looked like he regretted it.

"Shit. Okay. My father is Anatolian Smith."

"And who is he?"

"You haven't heard of him?" He seemed astonished. "He is the General, effectively, of the Ionian Militia for the whole of the northern hemisphere of Io. Nothing happens up here without his say-so"

This was a supreme stroke of luck and I had to force myself to breathe deeply.

Trying to sound calm, I asked, "So what is it you were gonna to tell me?"

"You wanna know something big? I'll tell you. There is an offensive planned. We have twelve new SU 401s and they're gonna to hit your mines at Ruwa Patera. Soon. I think maybe next month."

"SU 401s?"

"You didn't know that did you?"

"Twelve? When did you say? In March?"

"As far as I know."

"How? What weapons? Will there be ground troops? What is the strategic objective in all this?"

"I don't know all that. I told you what I know."

"Okay. I am going to give you a little 'general.' I'll put it in your feed now. Relax." I took a small plastic container out of my Medi-pouch and took off the lid. I screwed the end to the connector of the emergency intake on his respiratory unit and pressed the button to release the general anaesthetic into his system.

I waited for a minute. Then I stood up, aimed my X.50 at his shin and fired a shot through his tibia. A neat black hole filled with little red bubbles which drifted out into the thin Ionian atmosphere. Then a silver liquid, the sealant, trickled into the hole before it finally sealed the suit, leaving just a few red and silver bubbles floating away.

He moaned but he didn't scream.

"Are you right-handed?" I asked.

After a moment he answered, "Yes," through clenched teeth.

I fired a shot through his left forearm and then, as I had said I would, I grazed his right arm with the final shot. I saw a lot more blood so I called Stone over and told him:

"Get one of the men to put a tourniquet on him."

I stood up.

Well. This is a turn-up. At last a real piece of luck. A chance for real glory. With this I get promoted another rank, maybe two, and then we will see.

A cold thrill ran through my spine but, for fear of it reaching my finger tips and making me dance around like a fool, I confined it to quarters.

After dragging the two casualties a safe distance away, we detonated the charge and started back for base. I saw some commotion off to my right; it looked as if two of the officers were arguing on a private link, one of them stamping his foot and shaking his X.50 but I ignored them.

I wondered what the landscape would look like with trees or even some grass. Riccard was rumoured to be working on a strain of grass that could grow in these conditions. For a moment I fancied myself as the governor of Io, with plans to geo-form it in some way but I caught myself. My life's path had been decided for me a long time ago and creativity wasn't a big part of it.

The rest of my waking hours that day were spent communicating with USAC Command, first through my superior officer, Lieutenant Colonel Roanald, and then with Central Intel. Of course, at first they were all sceptical about the provenance of my information but they had to admit it was brilliant, if thought up on the spur of the moment. They confirmed the identity and rank of Anatolian Smith. Finally, around 20.00 hours, a decision had been taken. I would lead a task force of three companies in a covert mission to prevent the taking of Ruwa Patera, close to Anderstown, capital of the USAC territories on Io. Covert, because it was hoped we could surgically remove much of the cream of the Ionian Militia in this one operation if they weren't expecting us.

***

As I left the mess for my cabin, with a grin on my face, some of the officers were still arguing over something but again I ignored them. Closing my door, I put the ruby ring, a present from Jena, on my second finger on my left hand and yawned before putting on the headband and saying, "Download." I skipped the message from Jena but played the entire message from my mother:

"A peculiar thing happened the other day. I was in the main terminal, collecting your cousin, when this army type, tall, dark-haired and good-looking, tapped me on the shoulder and asked for directions to Frisco South. Well, it is really obvious to anybody with a modicum of intelligence, it's right there on the board, so I was suspicious. I thought, forgive your old mother for being vain, but I thought that maybe he was chatting me up so I humoured him. We chatted for a few minutes actually. He asked me what it was like living on J5 and then he asked if I knew any other army types. I thought perhaps I should say that I didn't know any at all but he seemed very charming so I mentioned you. He asked about you and I really felt quite uncomfortable at this point. He seemed far too interested in you so I cut it short. He was polite enough and I didn't think too much of it. The funny thing was that he was unshaven and looked as if he had been sitting there for days. He had shiny glasses on so I couldn't see his eyes but there seemed to be something familiar about him. I couldn't place him though. Perhaps I have seen him in a paper or something. Anyway, I wouldn't have thought any more about it but two days later, I could swear I saw him again loitering on a street corner while I was doing the shopping. I could be wrong. Do take care. Love Mum x"

I lay on the bed and closed my eyes.

***

The Ionian day is 42.5 hours so the next time I woke, it was still the same Ionian 'day.' We marked time in Earth hours and dates followed those of Earth but we divided the Ionian 'day' into two 21.25 hour 'working' days, too short for the human clock to endure for long periods. This time, when I awoke, it would have been dusk outside if I had put the monitor on and left it on 'Real Time.' Final arrangements had to be made with Stone before I left for the USAC Station 5, in orbit around Jupiter and not far from the orbit of Io. There, I had been invited by Roanald to take part in the planning meeting for the operation at Ruwa.

"Stone. I am leaving for S.5 within the hour. I want you to prepare the MCS for exit tomorrow morning. Something has come up and I am not sure we will leave tomorrow but best be ready."

"Yes sir!" He swiped a salute at me, grinning. I guessed he had some idea it had something to do with the Intel from Smith.

The shuttle had been prepared for me and, as the rockets fired, lifting the shuttle against Io's weak gravity, I looked down at the grey MCS, settled on the only plateau in a flat sea of sulphur, which stretched for hundreds of miles. I looked at Jupiter, orange bands around a creamy sphere filling half of the view from the port with my face pressed close, and looked for S.5 but I couldn't make it out from this distance.

As the little craft drew away from the moon, I became aware of the Io Flux Tube, a glowing torus of green, blue and orange light wrapped around the orbit of Io. A field of highly charged particles, it made radio-silence a necessity while escaping the little moons weak atmosphere.

After four hours strapped into the tight space of the shuttle, I saw the lights of Station 5, twinkling in the night.

"Major. What is your opinion?" asked a bald colonel with a salt-and-pepper moustache, on the opposite side of the large black granite table in the lavish Ops Room. The convention seemed to be to stand up when speaking, more, I felt, to assert one's self in this room of giant egos than for auditory reasons so I stood up to speak:

"Sir. There is a way to do this. It's not conventional and may take a little longer to get into position but I think it can work."

"Well? What is it?"

"We drive sir. The MCS has four backup diesels which are hardly ever used. We only use them for very short distances or when the fusion reactor is broken down. In fact, many MCSs never use any apart from one, which is generally used for some life support systems. If we drive to Ruwa, then the IM won't pick us up on the radar, at least I don't think they will. They are not used to seeing anything moving across the salt-flats, as we call them. If we use the fusion reactors, we cannot get into position without somebody, somewhere, noticing, as you rightly point out."

"How long will it take?"

"Well. 1200 miles at roughly 10 miles per hour is 120 hours; five days sir."

"Five days? Well rather you than me Major. Good luck with your men." He chuckled and I heard general laughter around the table.

The MCS stood only about ten feet tall, even when the wheels were down and in motion and I didn't think the Ionian Militia radar, patchy as it was, would pick us up. But now that we were moving, I was nervous about my strategy. A great cloud of sulphurous dust plumed above and behind us and I just hoped that some observant IM grub wouldn't see it. What made things worse was that there would be two other such plumes and all three traveling on convergent headings.

On the third day, the second Ionian day, the bald colonel's words came back to haunt me. I was sitting, leaning forward in my mess seat straps next to the window and looking at the desiccated desert outside. I enjoyed these moments of calm. I often spent hours watching the surface of Io roll by, with the arc of Jupiter stretching from the horizon up to the seventy degree mark. Stone's face appeared next to mine. I could smell his breath and feel it on my cheek.

"Sir?"

"Yes. What is it Sergeant?"

"What in Hell are we doing sir? Any more of this fuckin' desert and the men will mutiny. On and on it goes and why? Does any other company ever, I mean ever use the diesels for motive power? Nope. For five days? Nope. So why are we the gullible idiots who are letting you do this to us?"

"Sorry Sergeant. It's all part of my cunning plan."

"Cunning? Cunning? I could make a dirty joke using that word that might be closer to the truth. Sir!"

I laughed. "Go and sit down. Just relax."

I stared out at the sea of sulphur, totally flat and featureless, save for the occasional cracks, some of which were large enough for us to have to drive around. If you stared at it long enough, you started to feel that you were underwater, or floating in yellow and rust-coloured clouds.

Just after the Ionian noon on day five, we were finally in position on the flanks of the great volcanic mountain of Ruwa Patera, inactive for many years. As the lead MCS, we were placed only about 400 yards from the main mine entrance and slightly above it, next to the track. I hadn't seen the other two MCSs which were now under my command, each with a small company of 50 men inside but we had been in radio contact all day and now all three were in position, spaced evenly around the flanks of Ruwa.

"Okay Sergeant Stone. Let's dig in. Disengage the PODs."

"Yes sir."

I felt the fusion drive building to full power and then the teeth-loosening vibration began as the MCS started digging itself down into the sulphur so that only the top few inches would be left visible. Although the grunts hated it, the manoeuvre would only last a few hours and activating the S-grav immediately afterwards was always a relief that compensated for the discomfort. The vibration's amplitude, less than half an inch, only shook the MCS severe enough to tip cups off the tables. We still found it possible to work in the MCS. Indeed, working was necessary because, often at this point in a mission, we would be vulnerable and need to secure the perimeter using radar, deployed squads and covering fire. The eight tracks; four in a row on each side of the vehicle, were now turned through 90 degrees, using their variable teeth to cut through the sulphur and shift it to the side of the MCS. From there, compressed air jets forced it to the surface and out into defensive banks. Blue U.V. cabin lights came on as the sulphur rose over the windows.

Our MCS wasn't the very latest type but only a year old. It looked like a long, low tank without a main turret or perhaps a heavily-armoured, single-storey military building on tracks, 126 feet by 64 feet. There were turrets at all four corners and a row of small windows either side of the port turret, one of two, each half way along each of the long sides. The two Protective Ordinance Deploys, PODs, engaged half way along each long side and could be detached and deployed with their nuc-lasers to protect the MCS. Called fondly 'decoys' by the men, their crews of ten had one of the most dangerous jobs in the USAC Army so the role rotated among the crew of thirty on the MCS. The decoys were also useful to provide extra power to get the MCS out of sticky situations, or when stuck in difficult terrain. They were able to operate as tractors or simply contribute their own traction. The skin of the vehicles were coated in an electrolytically-controlled film which could take on just about any colour or pattern. On Io it, the colour would almost always yellow. Of course, when fully submerged, all you would see from above would be a few unusually shaped boulders.

"Deploying S-grav," came a voice over the speaker in the mess finally. I heard a mighty roar of approval from the men.

All the hammocks and fold-aways were stowed and an impromptu game of football ensued. I kicked the ball around myself for a while before helping Stone break out the four crates of beer we had smuggled on board after the last shore-leave.

"So what's the plan Cap?" asked Stone pulling the tab on a can of Viper X, releasing a spurt of gas.

"Well, the main briefing will be tomorrow morning, early, and we have a few days to hang around but basically; ambush. Ambush the Ionians."

"Yeah? Cool. Why here though. I mean why this mine?"

"You'll find out..."

Two of the officers had been having a heated discussion in a corner of the mess and now one of them stood up and prodded the other in the chest. They both shouted and the commotion caught my attention.

"Stone. Isn't that the two who were arguing the night before we left?"

"Yes sir. I think so."

I walked over to them, holding my hand up to stop the football. By this time, one of the Corporals had grabbed the other's wrists. "DeTunne, Walsh, what's this about?" Walsh looked angriest so I asked him again.

"Nothing sir. Sorry sir."

"DeTunne?"

"Walsh has been griping since that little raid on the grubs the day before we left. His X.50 jammed and he blames it on poor equipment but I told him he should have checked his weapon before we left."

"I could have been killed sir!" Walsh said. "A grub guard pointed his piece directly at my face; just luck that DeTunne covered me. It's shit equipment! Same as usual. We shouldn't have to check everything all the time."

He knew I hadn't checked my X.50 before we left, the one handed to me just before we entered the airlock, but he wouldn't dare say it. Normally I would have cut this conversation short but the looks on the faces of men, now surrounding us, told me that he wasn't the only one to feel this way. I sat on the arm of a foldaway.

"Well it's best to get this out in the open and for once we have time." I pulled the rings on two more cans of Viper and handed them to Walsh and DeTunne. "Let's hear it."

"Well sir. When I joined USAC I thought I was joining the best. I thought we that we had the best men and we would have the best equipment. Now I see that we do have the best men but we do not have the best equipment. Constantly, we're being let down by stuff that doesn't work or is just badly made. I mean my old man's dad used to talk about cars being made on Friday afternoon, having loads of faults. Some of our gear is like that. I mean look at this thing!" He pointed to the ceiling. "There isn't one civilian transport on this moon that uses diesels. Nothing uses diesels any more. Everybody knows solar fusion is better; smoother, quieter and more efficient. But no. The army still uses diesels. Man, that technology is like the Stone Age. I mean, the only innovation I can remember is that we use Diesel'o now and that's a laugh! Diesel'o. You can't buy it anywhere, even on the black market. Only USAC use it and that's only because Riccard-Amtel make it. So this army is owned by Riccard-Amtel." Feeling he had scored a point, he lifted the Viper to his mouth and took a long swig.

"He's got a point sir," Opinnskey said. "Why are we even here? Another cruddy mission like the last one. We spent fifteen weeks holed-up on the side of that rock just waiting for any IM traffic from the mines. Why the hell would they bother? There's nothing there! All we were doing was watching no-man's land. Border guards. That's all we were but that's just cos we are R-Company." There was general laughter from the men. Our name was K-Company but we were known colloquially as R-Company.

"Ah, now you're talking!" DeTunne said. "I agree that all we are is border guards. We get all the shit jobs, and I hope this job's gonna be better but I don't agree about equipment and I don't agree about what you say about USAC."

"Republican!" shouted one of the other officers.

DeTunne swung to face him. "No! Yeah I know that USAC is short of cash. Every government's short of cash these days but I don't think we're owned by RA."

There were a lot of shouts from the grunts and officers and the word 'Diesel'o' from somebody; a private.

"Speak up!" I said to him.

"Well everybody knows the oil barons were desperate for one last fix so they created Diesel'o."

"Yeah and we're the only buggers who use it!" added Walsh.

Everyone grew silent.

"There are more Iron Crosses in K-Company than any other company on Io," DeTunne said quietly, his head down, as if reading from a book. His long nose suddenly looked noble to me.

"Yeah. Another invention by Riccard-Amtel," spat the grunt who had mentioned the oil barons.

"No way stoopid," the grunt next to him said.

"Yeah. You moron," added DeTunne, with a flourish of his mech hand. "You think I lost this for RA? The Iron Cross goes way back. Second World War I think. Germany?" He looked at me for confirmation.

"Further back I believe," Lieutenant Khan said, with precise, clipped diction.

"Napoleonic Wars I think, and Prussia originally, not Germany," I added. "It was made more famous by Germany though in the First and Second World Wars. It faded from use after that but you have a point, Emphill, isn't it? It was re-popularised at the beginning of the Ionian Wars. I think they needed something with more gravity, if you'll excuse the poor joke, than the Medal of Honor; something that sounded tougher and the core of Io is Iron so it seemed appropriate. Iron medal for iron men on an iron moon. At least that's my interpretation. And don't worry, some of you may well win one in the next few weeks."

There were lopsided smiles from some of the men at my rousing speech. They had seen many of my press-interviews and didn't buy the character I portrayed for the public: super-tough soldier with few ambitions but to win the Iron Cross with all its embellishments.

"The Major has won the Iron Cross five times, all on Io," added Osei irrelevantly.

"Yes. Ten years, since I was a grunt," I said. "It's been a long ten years. Okay. Five-a-side soccer match with the winning side getting a bottle of vodka I happen to have stashed away."

I made my excuses soon after and retired to my cabin.

Sitting at the desk, I took up the pen and stared at the last line of my novel; 'Dusty picked up the scrap of paper and looked at the address scrawled in a neat, feminine hand.' I had only recently settled on the name Dusty. I had tried Rusty but decided it sounded too immediate. I thought Dusty sounded better for a private eye who specialised in cold cases but I still felt unsure. I wrote; 'The faint smell of a Turkish cigarette, held between perfumed lips hung in the ...' and then threw down the pen. I just wasn't in the mood.

I glanced at my left hand. It shook. I tried to stop it and then looked at my right; steady as a rock. I laughed out loud for a moment and then felt the coolness of a single tear, rolling down my cheek.

I sat there for some time, thinking, trying to master my fear, before taking a shower and lying flat on the bed. I closed my eyes and, as I drifted off, a powerful memory came to me.

My dad was taking me out of the dome on his hoverbike to watch a sunset on Mars, soon after a big dust storm. Of course, you could see sunsets from the dome but the U.V. protection took out most of the colour and I had nagged him for weeks to take me outside to see one. In my little hand-made spacesuit, I clung to his waist. My heart thumping in my ears as we covered a few miles across the ochre desert. The hoverbike skittered easily around the few rocks we saw and I laughed inside my helmet. I knew I was a lucky kid. No other kid had a dad rich enough to have a child-sized spacesuit made. I loved him so much I wanted to squeeze him but my arms weren't strong enough. I wanted the trip to go on forever but eventually my dad stopped the bike and it sunk silently to the ground. He lifted me off and I turned to look for the dome but I couldn't see it any more. This would be the first time I had been out of site of the dome and it felt strange. I felt a moment of fear but then my dad's hand on my shoulder made me turn and look up at his helmet. I couldn't see his face, only the reflection of the lowering sun in the visor. It was like a burning disk of white. He took my hand and we climbed together to the top of a steep bank. There we waited. When the Sun was almost touching the horizon, he said:

"Now Jake! Lift up your filter."

With difficulty, because my fingers were so small, I lifted the outer U.V. filter and gasped. The white disk of the sun almost burned a hole in my head, its white so intense it seemed almost blue. The blue became a corona as my eyes quickly looked up and away from it. The corona gradually faded into a riot of colour that filled the rest of my vision. The purples and oranges were deeper than those in a bowl of the freshest and most tangy grapes and peaches. For a moment I almost lost my balance and felt myself falling forward into a forever-sea of spectral light. We stood on the edge of time, until the Sun had completely disappeared below the horizon and then, eventually, my dad sighed and said:

"Let's go."

My briefing to the men had to be made early. In conclusion, I pointed the laser to the nearest warehouse indicated on the map, projected on the front wall of the mess and said:

"Our nearest five tanks are hidden in this warehouse. The other ten are here, in this warehouse and in a third here, five in each. Now, we don't know exactly what is going to happen but I can tell you personally that our Intel is much better this time. There will probably be twelve SU 401s, no more, and I would guess a few hundred IM grubs and grunts, no more; they cannot spare the troops and anyway any more would be too hard to conceal."

I heard a quiet, "Shit!" from one of the grunts sitting at the back.

"Yes soldier? Your point?"

"Sir. Did you say twelve SUs? We will be slaughtered! How come our force is so small?"

"Good question. There are two points here. The first is that the USAC can't spare any more troops, or armour either. The second, and most important for us, is that we know how the SUs are equipped and we will be concealed. Don't worry. Now, my guess is that they won't try the main entrance here, which is protected by our five tanks. They will try to tunnel down to the shallowest tunnel in the mine. Some of those old tunnels go all the way back across the slope to here. I pointed to a point nearly five miles closer to the IM front line. If they can get in here they have full access to the mine. But we will be listening for any seismic activity and I don't need to remind you we have the very latest equipment. Concealment: you all are wondering what I have in mind here. Well the mine has been told to leave us a nice pile of slag near the entrance which we can use to cover the MCS. I know you will all want to volunteer to do that but don't all rush at once." I could see a lot of the faces grinning back at me. "The slag, in case you didn't know, is a bi-product of raw iron production and is strongly magnetic so the SU air-to-ground radar will miss us. Of course, it may pick up the PODs but they like to take risks." More jeers from the audience. "Finally; two points; of course ours is the lead MCS and so we will be in overall control of the tanks. Their crews and commanders may well visit here at time for briefings and as usual, we offer a place for men to unwind on long missions. I don't mind you fraternising, indeed I can't stop you, but that doesn't mean I want to hear about a lot of drug-induced comas while on duty. We will be on yellow alert from our zero hour, midnight tomorrow, and that means none of you do anything that stops you being ready for action at ten minutes notice. Understood?"

I heard a discordant and disapproving chorus of "Yes sir," from the men.

"Finally, I want all of you in your suits at all times from now. We don't know when they are going to attack or how they are going to attack and there's no point taking risks. That's all. Any questions?"

I heard an even louder chorus of disapproval at the last point but no questions.

"Dismissed." Two of the men sat down. "When I said, 'suits now,' I meant now." Irritably, they started pulling their suits from their lockers which were set into the side of the mess, over the officers' cabins.

"Osei and Khan; I need to speak to you both privately in the Office." The 'Office' was actually the corridor, beside the washroom on the starboard side, which led to my own cabin. We used it for storage but there was no other possibility for privacy on the ship beside my own cabin. The two lieutenants lounged on crates while I addressed them.

"In my briefing with Roanald, I found out some other things which, in my opinion, it's useful for you to know; all strictly confidential of course and, in fact, for now, secret. What we know is that recently the Mine Director, Choi was his name, was sacked when it was found out he'd been handing over information about the mine to the IM. Now, unfortunately, this is particularly relevant in this mine because only recently they discovered a rich seam of iron ore right underneath Anderstown suburbs and have dug a tunnel to reach it. The IM know this now and they know if they can get into the mine from any of those points not too far from their own front-line, they can quickly get right under Anderstown and, from what I have heard, it's no great task to get into some of the old sewers from there. What I haven't told the men is that we have to stop the IM at all costs, even if it means destroying the mine. For that reason charges have been placed on the IM side of the mine, close to the main access shafts and also half way between the access shafts and Anderstown, in this new tunnel. It's called Tunnel M and if this goes badly wrong and any one of us is left alive, it will be up to them to make sure these charges are blown. I'll take you down there and show you them in more detail in the next twenty-four hours."

There were nods from the two men.

"Osei, get ten men together and take one of the PODs over to the mine to pick up the slag. Then deploy the PODs in good defensive positions."

***

Database Download: Mobile Command Station (MCS) – Mark 6

The MCS officer's cabins were at the rear with the flight-deck sandwiched between the two shuttle bays. Behind the flight-deck and also between the shuttle bays was the reactor and behind this the mess where the private soldiers spent all day, sleeping in hammocks. The mess was to the left of the MCS with windows along one edge next to a row of benches, raised to cover one of the four backup diesels. On the other side of the mess was the wash-room for the grunts and a door to a short corridor to the commander's cabin. This was in the right rear corner of the vehicle and the other officers had, or shared, smaller cabins next to this along the rear edge of the MCS. The beds in the smallest cabins covered a second backup diesel; the third and fourth being underneath the flight-deck.

Mobile Command Station (MCS) – Mark 7

Very similar to the Mark 6 but entrance was through a hatch in the centre of the front which led straight onto the flight-desk. The Mark 7 had the new anti-laser refracting armour which looked like so many polygonal scales on its skin. The pods were now grouped in pairs at the front and back, to provide protection in the event of high-speed impact, a move that many of us had called for, which gave it a bug-eyed look from the front and from the side it looked like a truncated centipede, squatted on the deck. From the gantry, its top surface was still a mass of pipes and vents but slightly less messy now with more armour plating covering it. My initial impressions of it on the testing flight had been good with the reservation that the cabins were all even smaller than the Mark 6 and that the extra armour plating had made it heavier and less manoeuvrable. End Download.

***

We didn't have to wait long for the attack. On the third day, night on Io, an operator picked up a single SU 401 on the radar, coming in high and fast. He didn't wait to be shot at and probably took a few nice photos of empty ground around the mine.

As Khan called out the intruder over the intercom, the men jumped into action. Plates and dice were dropped as men reached for their weapons but it turned out to be a false alarm.

"Only reconnaissance!" Khan's voice crackled through the speakers.

Moans of frustration from the men filled the fetid air in the ship.

"Don't get complaisant!" I told them. "They are coming... soon!"

I had been more accurate than I had expected.

Thirty minutes later, we heard a sudden flash from somewhere outside and then the MCS shook.

Khan's voice, calm but urgent, announced the obvious, "Incoming!" and then the not so obvious, "I think they've spotted us!"

"Khan! What's happening?" I shouted when I reached the flight-deck hatch.

In the red light, I could see Osei's open mouth, saying something to me but another explosion drowned out his words.

"What?" I yelled.

Both Osei and Khan together shouted, "MCS Bravo is hit!"

"How?"

"Dunno. Infra-red? They know where we are! Look"

I looked in the direction Khan, sitting in the driving seat, pointed. The radar screen showed seven blips, SU 401s, and smaller blips streaking from them towards all three positions of the MCSs.

Somebody has ratted on us. But who...

"Coming at us!" shouted Khan.

This was it. My worst nightmare had come at last. I didn't hesitate. I reached for the red Evac button and punched it. The Evac button bi-passed all other safety procedures so there could be no time to prepare. Instantly the hot air in the MCS started rushing out through the open hatch.

"Lids!" I screamed pointlessly. Every man would have already taken a deep breath and be closing his visor. The escape hatch lay just inside the mess and I could already see men lunging up the ladder.

"Come on!" I shouted to Osei and Khan but I already knew we would be too late. I waited for the stream of men to escape and as the seconds ticked by, each like an eternity, my heart beats grew louder and my breaths fewer.

Crash! Everything went mad as the missile hit. My helmet hit the rim of the mess hatch and I couldn't see. Instinct kicked in and I groped for something so that I could pull myself towards the ladder. Somebody grabbed my arms and then I saw Stone's face, blurry but distinct, grinning at me.

"Hit the rear!" came over my intercom. Within moments, I had clambered out and stood on the roof of the MCS. Multiple explosions lit the night sky with white flashes, which cooled to red and yellow, eerily silent.

As I jumped up onto some slag to quickly survey the battlefield, I saw troops of IM snaking over the ridge of the volcano. Laser-fire streaked out towards some of the PODs near us.

Laser-fire hit a lump of slag near Stone's head and he dived for cover. The lump glowed, reddish black.

Our position had been under a bluff just above the main approach track to the mine entrance. This sloped up from the south along the side of the volcano before turning ninety degrees into the mine entrance. Most of the terrain looked harsh and slag-strewn but the track offered a chance of escape.

"To the track, men." I said over the intercom calmly. "Regroup near POD 5; half way between here and the mine entrance. Stone. Where is Osei?"

"I saw him with a group of men, taking up defensive position the other side of the MCS Cap!"

"Osei. Get onto S.5 now. We need air-cover and we need it now."

"Osei's voice crackled through the interference from the battle."

"Sir!"

"Then get your men to the rendezvous. We are going to launch a counter attack. Where is Khan?"

"Don't know sir. I think he stayed in the MCS."

"What? Stone, I want to know what our status is and that of the other MCSs. Okay?"

"Yessir!"

"But stay with me. Use one of the other frequencies if you have to."

I looked at the front corner of our MCS and could see the far-side POD turret moving.

Khan seeking targets for the laser cannons. Idiot.

"Khan! Khan get out of there. Now! That is an order!"

"Will do sir. Just one more incoming. Everyone clear of the MCS!"

"Khan!"

I saw the whitish streak of the missile's liquid hydrogen exhaust streaking straight towards the MCS from the south. An SU 401 banked after releasing it and climbed for cover of height. There would be no time for Khan now.

The laser cannons moved to aim at the missile and it grew in my visor until it grew too big and too close. I closed my eyes. I saw an enormous flash of white, which lit up the inside of my eyelids. Thrown to the ground, I watched pieces of MCS flew over our heads until again I heard silence.

I could see helmets shaking in disbelief.

We moved quickly, using short hops to POD 5, where at least there would be a few weapons.

The voice of DeTunne came over the intercom from the POD. "Nice to see you, Cap. POD 3 has bought it. And I think one of those warehouses, with our tanks in, has been hit."

"Losses?"

"Still assessing sir. Help yourself to lasers."

"Tell the other PODs to start clearing a path between us and the southern ridge of the volcano. That's where we're going because that's where their troops are coming from. That's where they'll be attempting to get into the mine."

"Yessir!"

"Osei? Where is the air-cover?"

"On its way sir."

"How long?"

"Twelve minutes."

Shit! What was the point of all this secrecy if they knew we were here anyway?

"Osei. Anything from the other MCSs?"

"Nothing sir. POD 1 and 4 say all comms have stopped. Probably gone sir and all in them, God rest their souls."

All remaining men regrouped by POD 5 and then we started over the small ridge above the road and on, eastwards towards the ridge of Ruwa Patera. Half way to the ridge, we came across the first concentration of IM that the remaining PODs had not yet cleared.

Stone came on the line. "Status reports sir."

"Go ahead."

"Our MCS; five dead. Other MCSs all gone sir, far as we can tell. Some good news though."

"Yes?"

"Look to your left Cap, about three o'clock."

I looked and, surrounded by sulphurous dust, came a glorious sight; eight of our own tanks.

"Where are you Stone? I need you here."

"With you in a moment Cap."

"You!" I tapped a grunt on the shoulder. "Break out the lasers from the POD."

The panel had fallen open on the side of the POD, released from inside, to reveal five X.50s. It was a start. The grunt handed one to me, kept one himself and handed out the other three.

Stone came up from the column behind me, just as a line of IM militia stood up on a ridge to our right. Twenty of them opened fire on our double-column, now of only forty-five men, loosely spread out and with flankers. I knew our flankers would soon have this covered. While we lay behind rocks for cover, I tried to think through my strategy.

Don't know how many men they have but since they must have come the last five or ten miles on foot they would have had the chance to spread themselves very wide and we could easily be walking into a trap. Do we have a choice? No. We have too few men to split up.

"Air-cover?"

"Four minutes sir."

"Okay. We wait here."

The flashes of laser-fire grew less frequent and then stopped. Stone tapped me on the shoulder. I looked in the direction of his pointing finger. I saw Walsh wave from the ridge where the IM had been.

"Get over here Walsh and take cover."

We waited for our air-cover. It came not a moment too soon. The SUs had concentrated on destroying the remaining tanks and had hit three. Our three FA 217s struggled to cope with the outdated, but still fast, SU 401s. Left over from the age of the first conflicts between what was once Russia and USAC on Mars, the SUs were built for speed. Even though their avionics and weapons systems were completely obsolete, their speed still made them dangerous. We watched while the little white fighters fought each other. Within seconds, a missile caught an SU, which exploded in a galaxy of light motes.

***

Database Download on the SU 401: As with most modern space-fighters they were pencil-shaped, with engines in four pods, separated from the main hull by wing-lets. The pods allowed the engines to be used for propulsion in any direction and the main difference between the SUs and the FAs was the wing-lets. These were bigger on the SUs for some direction stability in the thicker atmosphere on Mars. End Download.

***

"That's evened the odds up a bit!" I said over the intercom.

I stood up.

"To your feet men!"

All remaining men stood up. I beckoned them to follow. We had covered more than three of the four miles to the ridge. I couldn't see any IM this side of it. We made good progress over the next twenty minutes. Passing near some of the PODs, we picked up more X.50s until every man had been armed.

Passing over onto the other sides or Ruwa and towards the dawn, as it rushed over Io's surface towards us, we could see what all the fuss was about.

An IM Fortriss digger sat vertically in its cradle after having just exited a shaft in the surface below it, about four-hundred yards in front of us. It would be right over the position of one of the shallowest tunnels in the mine, if the IM ground-radar had been accurate enough.

"Osei? I want you to organise the vehicles. I want the tanks and PODs to go around the back of the IM and give us covering fire from there. Keep them well out; their longer range should keep them safe. Once they're in position and covering us, we will go in, in small groups. The ground's rough down there and I can't see how many men they have."

"Stone. I've seen more than one shot come from that ridge on our right. Draw their fire while we circle around them."

After we eliminated them, Stone rejoined us. All the while, the tanks and PODs circled around behind the Fortriss and moved into position.

"Sir! Look!" A Grunt called Dunne pointed way to the right, in front of me and ahead of the digger. I just caught a bright flash of orange light from the corner of my eye. We were only about fifty yards from the digger and under heavy fire as we moved. We had taken shelter for a moment behind a large lump of slag on the lip of a shallow gully.

"What the fu...!"

"Laser sir?"

"I dunno but whatever it is, it's big and just took out one of our tanks. The IM shouldn't have equipment like that... not that they can carry around. I haven't seen any vehi..."

That was when I realised my big mistake.

Looking to the right of the field of battle, I saw more IM coming in on the opposite side to that of the first attack. They were all armed with laser-knives. We were caught between two lines. They had laser-knives because they didn't want to hit each other. But more significant was the fact that they knew, and we knew, they couldn't win. It had to be just a delaying tactic.

In the instant the real situation registered in my over-busy mind, I stood still, watching another orange explosion beyond the digger.

Another tank or POD.

There are always moments like this in any battle for a leader; the moment when you perceive the deepest strategy of your opponent and have to take stock of what you have remaining and what's achievable. It's a moment of complete silence and clarity. That is, your mind becomes silent and, if you are a good leader, you find you have plenty of time to work out a strategy which has a chance of winning. The moment came and went and I acted.

"Stone!" I shouted into the intercom. "Watch the rear. Keep it open!"

"You think I didn't know that?" Stone always became angry in the heat of battle.

The first wave of IM grunts leaped over the lip of a rise and clashed with my flanking men. Carnage followed with the IM losing every man.

I knew now that we were surrounded. Seeing it as their last chance to trap us, the IM had delayed us and now we were probably seconds away from slaughter. I weighed the distance to the digger and wondered what forces were between us and it.

"Sir! Osei here. Sir. Something's wrong!"

"Yes I know. We're in trouble. What is it Osei? Quick!"

"The digger sir. It's stopped digging. Also, we're too close. If they still needed it, would they pick an ambush point this close?"

"Yes." It was irrelevant now. We had to get out of the ambush or lose our lives and the mine. The digger had been down again since we'd first seen it but now it sat again, motionless in its cradle. That meant that they already had broken through to a shaft and most likely already had a squad on their way down.

So near yet so far.

"Back! Retreat!"

The second wave of laser-knife armed IM had reached us and it was a question of survival for now. I aimed my laser at a grunt and pulled the trigger. It seemed senseless but I just kept picking them off while slowly shuffling along the gully with my column of men. When the last of the disposable IM grunts had fallen, the real attack started. Incoming green laser-fire forced us to the ground. I found myself looking at a lump of slag next to a piece of silicate, coated in fine sulphur powder, only an inch from my visor. For a moment, I thought how beautiful the yellow of the powder looked against the red flecked black of the slag and the variegated, speckled silicate.

"Stone? I spoke into the intercom, almost in a whisper."

"Here Cap. Things are bad aren't they?"

"Yes. How is it back there? Is there a way out?"

"Er. Let me see sir. Won't be a moment." I heard the muffled sound of heavy fire in the intercom a moment later than I heard the same sound through my helmet; it sounded curiously as if I stood in an echo-chamber.

"Only one way sir."

"Yes?"

"We need a precision hit from one of the tanks. Osei can do it sir."

"Osei? Can we do it?"

"Er, maybe sir. It's risky. Very risky."

"This is risky Rick."

"Yessir."

"Tank 14. Do you read me?" I heard Osei call.

Laser-fire scorched just above our heads and I heard a few screams over the intercom while Osei waited for an answer.

"Not sure if any of the tanks are still operational..."

"Tank 14. We're here! Just. We been hit. We can barely move."

"We need a hit. I'm gonna give you a map reading. But it's a guess. If your navigator thinks I am wrong let me know. Map reading 21, 61, 42 North, 90, 01, 52 West. Aim about one hundred yards west of the digger tip. You got that?"

"Yessir. Wait a moment. Incoming!" I heard the sound of an explosion over the intercom and coughing.

"You there 14?"

A few more coughs were followed by, "We're still here but not for much longer. Wait a moment."

"Jesus!" muttered Osei to himself.

The sound of laser-fire from Stone's end of the column increased.

"Make it quick guys!" Stone yelled.

The suited body of a grunt fell across my knees. I shook him but he lay dead. I saw a rent in his suit, about a foot long.

"Okay we got you. Nav. thinks you are off by fifty yards. Says the digger is at 90, 00, 02 west. Which makes your spot about 01, 44."

Osei looked at me. The intercom fell silent.

"It's yours Rick. Don't worry, if you are wrong, most of us won't feel a thing."

A weak smile creased his lips. "Okay I'm with your Nav ... Take the shot."

"Okay. Fire in the hole. Three, two, one. Charge away!"

"Incoming!" Osei shouted as loud as he could down the intercom. Heads ducked down even further.

A mountain of slag and dirt lifted from behind a slight rise and I watched for body parts. There were plenty of them.

"Stone? Was that a hit? Are you alright?"

I heard silence for a moment and then:

"Phewee! That was mighty cool! Bang on target! Remind me to buy that Navigator any drink he likes! And all night long too! We got a way out of here now! Come on Cap. Let's go!"

"Not that easy Stone. With you in a moment. Okay men. You around me at the front of the column. As far as I can tell, there are about twenty of us left. There is at least one hundred of them. Our only chance is to run for it. That rise, to our rear, is home and dry for you. Get there and you'll be okay. When I say, go. We stand, and give them everything you got! Okay, ready... Go!"

Every man stood up, firing at anything and nothing. Most of us couldn't see much because of the blinding wall of laser-fire slicing into bodies all around us. Those that could, ran and those that couldn't, crawled. Some dragged their companions but only ten of us made it over the rise. Beyond it, we had no time to stop. Stone stood there, directing us down the line to another shallow gully which offered good protection from incoming fire. Once in it, we had a chance. We moved in hops as fast as we could back over the ridge towards the mine entrance. Only twenty of us were left when we approached the mine entrance. The remaining PODs, slower moving than the tanks, had been taken out, trying to defend our flank. Only two tanks were left. Tank 14 wasn't one of them. As we had reached the top of the ridge, I had turned for a moment to look at the battlefield. I could see an ant's nest of at least one hundred and fifty, perhaps two hundred, IM milling about on the field.

Lucky to get out of that one. Very lucky.

"Back the tanks up against the entrance Osei!" I ordered. "I don't want anything getting in behind our backs. Okay, let's go."

I punched the code and the great mine-gates, big enough for coal-trucks, opened ato let us in. When they shut behind us, the air pressurised in the air-lock. We raised our visors and breathed real air. The inner doors opened and a portly man stood there in the gloom, on his own. I recognised him as the Mine Manager.

"Sir, what is the status... I mean what can you tell us?" I asked, approaching him. He looked deathly pale and clearly very shaken.

"They are already in Tunnel M. But there is a short-cut. You have to move fast. Follow me."

While we followed him down the long tunnel, he told me all I needed to know.

"The others are all in the shelters, except two. The IM caught them trying to put up a barricade. We blocked the main entrance to Tunnel M from the central access shaft yesterday but they must have found out how to get in from my two men. But you can still beat them, I think."

After a distance of about four-hundred yards, we came to a small door labeled 'Fire Exit' on the left. Here the Manager stopped.

"Go in there, follow the tunnel to the lift and take the cage down to the thirteenth level. Out of the lift, and the tunnel behind you is Tunnel M. You know your way from there. Good luck."

"You're a brave man. Thanks!" I slapped him on the shoulders and opened the door.

We moved at a fast trot down the long, sloping corridor to the lift-shaft. All twenty of us managed to fit into the cage. I pressed the button for the thirteenth level.

"He could be lying sir," Dunne said.

"Yes." I looked at him grimly.

"Why the hell don't we have backup?" shouted Stone behind me. "Anderstown is only a few miles away and S.5 should have something there. And their own troops can get here in twenty minutes. I don't understand it!"

"Me neither Stone." I answered.

The cage rattled to a stop and everything grew ominously quiet.

"Weapons!" Every man raised his weapon. I stepped out of the cage. We were at a tunnel junction. Here a side tunnel crossed Tunnel M but I guessed we were about one third of the way along it. The IM could be ahead of us or behind us. I peered around the lift shaft corner into Tunnel M. The dimly lit tunnel looked clear of IM.

"Let's go. Fast as we can." If we were behind them, we had to catch them.

"Sir! I saw something! Behind us," yelled the rear-most grunt.

"Where!"

"Behind us!"

I raised my hand; the signal to stop. I ran to the back of the squad and peered into the tunnel on the opposite side of the lift-shaft. After a few seconds, I saw them; little lights bobbing up and down.

"They're coming! Fast as you can!"

I broke into a flat-out run, hoping we were all fit enough to stay ahead of the IM. We had a long way to go. We had gone perhaps nearly a mile when the same grunt shouted that they were gaining on us. My men were almost exhausted. Clearly the IM weren't carrying so much weight.

"Come on! Come on! We have practiced this!"

"Not for a few years Cap!" added Stone.

"Come on! Come on! Just another half mile to go."

There were a few flashes from behind and a seribdenum roof-beam above my head glowed red. Men started to drop; one, two and then I couldn't look any more. We had to keep going. Sweat streamed down my face and I struggled for every last gasp of breath. The men around me weren't doing much better.

I glanced at the sides of the shaft-props but couldn't find what I sought.

"Keep going!"

I glanced again at a prop and saw, marked on it, number 573. I knew from my visit, days before, that we needed to get to prop 613.

"Nearly there! Another one hundred yards!"

I think!

I counted down the props. 600, 601, 602 and 603.

"Stop! Help me!"

Every mine shaft has spare props in case of collapse and I knew there were some at prop 603. I pulled the spare props out from the wall and laid them across the tunnel between two vertical props each side of the tunnel. In less than thirty seconds we had ten props, overlapping each other, forming a low barricade right across the tunnel.

"Okay. We will make our stand here! The charges are about another one hundred yards down the tunnel. Osei. Get five men together. You will blow the charges. I want ten men on the ground behind the props, five men each side, crouching and standing. We have the advantage here; there are too many of them to all fire at once. Militarily, it's called a bottleneck!" I reminded them, hoping to sooth the men's nerves.

The IM halted in the distance and took up positions as they opened fire.

"How many do you think Stone and Osei?"

"Forty!" Stone replied, from the right wall.

"More like fifty." Osei, whose eyesight had always been keener, said.

"Osei. Get going!"

"Ahhh!" Stone had been hit in the leg. The shot had almost taken his leg clean off. It hung by the material of his fatigues and a thin sliver of muscle. He stayed on his one good leg but leaned against the wall, panting.

"Stone! Your laser! Do it!" I shouted.

He nodded. He pointed his laser at the exposed femoral artery of his stump and fired a short burst to cauterize the wound and seal the artery. In shock, and with such an unwieldy instrument, his fired haphazardly and he burned quite a bit of flesh as well. He gasped in agony and dropped the laser. Grasping his leg, slumped to the floor.

Glancing at Osei, I watched him tap five good men on the shoulders and break into a run but just as he reached the first prop, a shot hit him and he went down.

"Osei!"

One of the men with him shook his head.

Shit!

"Stone! Are you okay? Can you move with assistance?"

"Are you kidding? I'm fucked. Look for crissake!" he shouted

"Take him!" I beckoned to two of the men Osei had chosen.

"Leave me here! I can still fire a laser!" he shouted through gritted teeth.

"Don't argue."

The two men returned, took an arm each and hauled Stone off, up the tunnel.

"Prop 613 Stone! You know what to do. Don't fail! And you lot; defend him to the last man!" I watched them become smaller as they struggled down the tunnel with Stone.

A laser shot whizzed by my ear, making the air sizzle. I smelled burned hair, my own.

A long shoot out, with many twists and turns, followed I had been right; even though we were outnumbered, we lost men at about the same rate as the IM until their leader, with more men, decided to risk a trick. Nobody ever throws grenades in a mine unless they want to bring the roof down or die. But the IM were desperate. A grenade landed right in front of the barricade, skipped across the dirt and came to rest against the props.

I dived away from the blast, down the tunnel, and a man landed on top of me just as hell came down around us. When, at last, silence fell and I realized I must still be alive, I pushed the man from on top of me. He still breathed too and didn't look too badly hurt. One other looked alive. The rest of my men were dead. Through the cloud of dust, I saw that the joist of the tunnel had split and bent out of shape, as had the vertical props. Somehow the tunnel still remained largely intact.

I heard a great cry of, "Charge!" from the IM and then they ran towards us.

I stood up, found a laser that looked like it might fire and aimed it at them. Thinking this might be the end, I decided to go out on a high. I started walking toward the IM. A laser shot fizzed past me from behind; I knew that it came from one of my men, one of the other two survivors.

I kept walking as laser-fire ripped into my right leg. There seemed no question of feeling any pain or reacting to it. My blood was high; I couldn't feel the pain and I didn't care. I felt my leg hit a number of times but the IM were using single shots now and my leg still held me up. Another shot hit my arm as I took down two IM with a single sweep of fire from my laser. Coming at me in two columns, I had no trouble picking off as many IM as wanted the mortal bite of fire. They fell as if they had practiced it, each being replaced by a man who, with the dust and debris in the air, took too long to pick out his target and fire. I had taken down nearly thirty before they hit me in the chest and fell to the ground, face down in the dust. My head swam while I tried to force my body to move one last time. At first, it wouldn't and to my surprise I felt, rather than heard, the sound of IM boots passing over and around me. Then I heard the high-pitched squeal of two shots.

I tried again to move and, drawing on all my reserves, managed to turn myself over. Seeing my laser near my hand, I grabbed it and fired at the back of the last IM, running along the tunnel. He went down and something rolled away from his hand.

Grenade! Oh no, not again!

But it didn't go off. Frantically I dragged myself, with my good arm, towards the grenade and picking it up. I pressed the firing button with the usual IM combination; two long presses, followed by a pause and then three long presses. The red warning light flashed and I smiled. Getting to my knees and nearly passing out from the pain which swept over me, I threw the grenade as far as I could, just catching some of the rearmost IM in the resulting blast. Then I leaned against the tunnel to wait for whatever would come. I smiled again at the IM sense of humour. The IM firing combination was the Morse code for 'M-O,' the first two letters for the name of the Greek god of sleep, Morpheus.

"Come on Stone! Blow it!"

Becoming delirious, I laughed at my own pun and then it came. A huge explosion jolted me and then a huge plume of dust snaked down the tunnel.

Yes Stone! Yes!

I waited and, when the jolting subsided, the tunnel became as silent as a tomb. But there would be one more surprise for me. I heard voices, IM voices.

Shit!

If I wanted to live I would have to think fast. My stomach wound was bleeding badly and would be fatal if I didn't get help soon.

The IM took their time returning, no doubt contemplating their failure and whether they could do any more.

They came, sauntering down the tunnel, chatting and looking surprisingly relaxed. The dead IM grunt with the grenade had one more hanging from his belt. The only place to hide, so that I could be sure to hit all of the IM; a shallow alcove that had been created when the first explosion had taken out some loose rock. It might not conceal my legs properly but the lights above the scene of the explosion were mostly out; few still blinked sporadically. I took up position, balancing my weight on my good leg and, when they were close enough, I threw the grenade into their midst.

They seemed very surprised. The leader had just enough time to stare angrily at me before his head exploded and the IM squad became a chaotic cloud of blood and flesh. It didn't matter to me now if the tunnel collapsed but it still held.

No good, these IM grenades!

As the cloud of dust rolled past me, so too did the sound of feet. Some of the grubs, no doubt fed up with the sight of death, made their escape. I didn't care, I had no more energy left so I let them go.

The next thing I remembered, I woke up in the USAC hospital on S.5.

***

"It is with great honour that I award the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross, with Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds to Major Jake Nanden, the most highly decorated field officer on Io. A brief description of the action on Io at Ruwa Patera mine, in which the award was won, will now follow."

A slight, wry smile creased my mouth involuntarily at the inclusion of Io; a small and reluctant nod to K-Company I thought. I looked up to the roof of the vast amphitheatre of S.4, the Mars station of USAC, and at the crowd of twenty thousand, largely military faces, watching me. I smiled for them. The large monitors picked up my grin, displaying it, magnified thousands of times.

A voice started reading out a brief description of the action:

"On the second of March, 2101, eleven jets of the IM attacked the mine at Ruwa Patera which was only protected by a single ..."

As he read, I saw the events in my own mind, the deaths of Osei and Khan, and wondered what the action had really been about. Why had there been no backup? How had the IM known where the MCSs were? These questions burned holes in my mind but for now, I just had to smile.

The Voice concluded, "However, the remaining enemy fled and later, the badly wounded and unconscious Major was retrieved by a small rescue force from a nearby outpost." The reader looked up, prompting the beginning of a long, standing ovation from the audience for perhaps seven minutes. I felt relieved to get away.

My new, mech leg still felt a little stiff and I hobbled slightly as I reached Sergeant Stone, waiting back stage. We both headed for the expressway that led to the Terminal. Our suitcases had been sent ahead. Stone hardly glanced at my new medal.

"I heard the mention of Io, the subtle reference to the repo-battalion." Stone laughed hoarsely. "Is that all they can do? Us replicants will get recognition one day. They can't ignore us forever!"

I smiled wryly at him.

"Naah!" he cried. "You gonna see your lady?"

"Sure am. Haven't seen her for nearly twelve months. You seeing Martha?"

"Yep. And the kids."

"How old are they now?"

"Naylor is five and Don, two." He paused. "Sir, why do you stay in this business? I mean you could do anything. You have a degree in engineering. Why do you go on taking such risks all the time? It can't be the medals."

I pulled his cap down over his face. "You worry about yourself and let me worry about me."

"Well this is where I get off. See you in six weeks-time. They have gone soft on you. Just cos you got a slight scrape on the tummy."

"Rules is rules. Six weeks for stomach wounds, especially when it's a winner of the Iron Cross."

He laughed at that and stepped off the conveyor onto a slower, side-conveyor which would take him to the gate for Mars. I stayed on until the gate for Earth.

During the seven days of my journey to Earth's orbit, I hired a blanker. Blank-Replicant's were not cheap and in the Army, only officers of my rank or above could afford even the cheapest, Sensels. The name even sounded cheap and sexual to me but I wanted to spend as much time with Jena as I could so, shortly after boarding, I used my credit scan to pay for one and then went to the booth indicated on my heads-up. One enters a drug-induced coma while using a blanker, which is why they are forbidden while on duty and why I had not spent any time at all with Jena since the previous May. During the hour it took for the drug to take effect, I reclined on the comfortable lounger and thought about Jena.

She had requested a vid-link with me the day before the attack and I had accepted for late in the evening.

The link activated and I found myself looking at Chloe, blue-eyed and staring back at me.

"Hi Chloe!"

Her eyes widened and she crouched, ready to make her escape. Her long, white feline ears pricked up and then a pair of hands stroked her long white fur once, before lifting her out of view. She was replaced by Jena.

"Hi Jake!" She sounded upbeat.

I laughed "Hi! How's Chloe?"

"As you can see, she is exquisitely adorable; doing what cats do. She misses looking into your green eyes and extracting as many of your inner thoughts as possible so that she can pass them on to me."

"Well, she's not a fool like you. She knows there are no thoughts there."

"According to Hansegger, only replicants who are blanks or study Buddhism have no thoughts."

"Well Hansegger has got it wrong."

A long silence followed while we both weighed each other up, like two opponents trying to assess each other's general combat readiness.

"How's it going with the deal?" I asked.

"Oh that!" She looked embarrassed. "I hope you didn't mind. I just had to tell you baby."

I laughed. "It's fine. So?"

"Yes. Going fine. Tell you a little more but not too much, when it happens." She indicated how much with a pinch of her thumb and first finger.

Jena looked great. She reclined and hooked her legs over the arm of her favourite leather chair. She lay, wrapped in a white cotton bath-robe. She had brushed her newly washed blonde hair back over her ears. Her inquisitive blue eyes tried, as usual, to penetrate my expressions for a quick advantage, speaking of her own insecurity I thought.

"So in answer to your question, yes women do like to be 'claimed' sometimes."

She looked slightly uncomfortable revealing this. I hadn't expected her to talk about it, especially since she had already answered me in message a few days before. I felt a small sense of triumph. I didn't say anything, hoping she would go on.

"Satisfied?" she said.

"Not really," I said "But that's another matter." As if wanting something in return for her intimacy she asked, "So what has your god been saying to you?"

"My god?" I stalled while I thought of which defense to try. Jena had one weakness that I knew of; she was impatient and so she became vulnerable if I didn't respond to her messages or vid-link requests. However, she knew my weakness too and mentioning God was like cracking a walnut with a sledgehammer.

I tried my best defense. "I don't have a god Jena. You know that. I never have had."

"But I don't believe that. How do you stay sane?"

"Who says I am?" I smiled at my facetious joke. She didn't smile.

"How do you get through ... you know ... what do you do?"

I straightened up. "I live for one thing; getting back at Enquine. I don't need God."

"You have Enquine?" She smiled ruefully. "Not that again. I think it's a defense. I don't think that's a real answer and I don't think you're being honest with me!" She looked affronted and her tone had become acerbic.

I tried the little boy approach. "But it is true Jena."

"And I suppose you really were too busy to respond to my messages for the last two weeks?"

"Yes. Things have been pretty busy." I needed to be cautious. She had changed tack.

"Yeah, yeah. Pull the other one. I am on to you Jake."

I laughed. "Oh Jena. I miss you!"

"Yeah? Prove it Jake. Let me see."

"See?"

"Yes. Let me see you. Unless there is someone else in the room with you. Katie perhaps?"

I laughed. "No."

"Well then..?"

"Jena. Not tonight. I'm really not in the mood."

"She became silent and seemed to be brooding, her face smouldering, her mouth fixed closed."

"Good night Jena." I said, "End transmission," and the com centre blanked the screen. I brooded myself for a minute. I didn't like falling out with Jena and I wondered whether she would now be sitting in that chair sulking or laughing.

When I had heard of the Iron Cross ceremony on Mars, I had immediately left a message for Jena telling her when I would be in and that I wanted to visit her. Later I received her reply. "Love to. Any time and stay. xx"

***

The drug started to take effect and I found it harder to order my thoughts in any way.

Gods? What god had Jena been talking about? His god, your god, their god, the god out there but no god for me.

Mech, the god for all A.I. beings, as robots and androids were now permitted to call themselves, lived in a red world of dust which corroded him and he had three sons, Iron, Tin and Wire. They lived in the desert for they were afraid of the sea but one day Iron, who was the eldest son, committed a sin by openly doubting Mech and Mech banished him. Iron wandered alone until he came to the sea and left his mark upon a rock but no more was ever heard from him again.

The Myth of Mech went around my head until I said 'No!' For a while I had been curious about the android god but he wasn't for me. Neither the Christian God, nor Allah, nor Yahweh were for me. Many replicants, like me, were not able to find faith. When you didn't trust your own memories, it was hard to find peace. The memory of the sunset on Mars typified this. If it had been real, I would have been six at the time and I know the event happened but not to me. Most replicants were 'grown' until the age of sixteen before being bought, or 'adopted,' to use a more acceptable term. Of course, if you had the money you could adopt earlier or later. But sixteen was the most usual age, the age at which most felt a rep child would be psychologically stable and provide the least trouble for prospective parents.

Parents were encouraged to call the first day a birthday and do something distinctive so that the rep would remember it clearly. In my case it was a picnic by the river in Frisco East with my mother Mary, stepfather and sister, Justine. At first, I had believed all the implanted memories of my early years but soon, taunts of other children made me ask my mother what a replicant was. She told me and, later at college, when I met other replicants, I soon learned the truth about our memories. It hurt.

For all this, the memory of the sunset on Mars seemed the most vivid and it didn't stop coming.

***

While in the trance, I lived through the blanker, which had been sent to Jena's apartment. We spent five days together doing the sites of the Moon. Most couples used this method while traveling, to spend more time together. It had some hilarious results. While using a blanker, the time-delay often became a problem. While feeding the baby mammoth, star-attraction at Collins Zoo, my blanker couldn't react fast enough and had his hand bitten off. We lost the deposit of course. On the seventh day, I arrived and returned the blanker to the vendor.

***

You can buy NOW the complete Kindle or paperback version of Iron I: Too Bright the Sun online.

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Also by Lazlo Ferran

# Attack Hitler's Bunker!

Copyright © 2012 by Lazlo Ferran

All Rights Reserved

# Chapter One

At precisely 4.15pm, Michael eased back on the throttle and let his Bf 109E settle on her cushion of air. The silver ribbon of the Thames Estuary opened up below and ahead of him, as they emerged from below the cloud that had concealed the three aircraft for the last few miles while crossing the English Channel.

As planned, in the distance ahead of he could see the tiny bursts of flame and drifting smoke of the diversionary attack on West London by Heinkel He 111s. Everything seemed to be going to plan. Above him the glorious afternoon sun beat down in an almost clear blue sky on the Perspex of the cockpit. He twisted in his seat, first to his left and then right, to check Gustav and Joachim were in position behind him. Joachim, to his right waved once and stuck his thumb up, grinning. Michael turned back to look ahead and then took a deep breath.

'This is it!' he thought.

From 24,000 feet, he pushed the nose gently forward. As Gunther, his chief-mechanic had warned him, Daisy felt a little sluggish, loaded with 850 kilogrammes of the latest explosive, W-salz, packed in behind the pilot and fuel-tank. To compensate, rather than remove the heavy 20mm engine-cannon as well, they had left it in place. He heard the Daimler-Benz engine revs climb as the shaking needle on the airspeed indicator indicated 480 Km/h, 500, 520...

As the roaring slipstream started to shake the compact fighter the little Donald Duck Anna had given to him before the War started swinging violently from side to side, until its head started hitting the bullet-proof windscreen. He had to reach up and steady it to satisfy some strange inner urge. He pushed away the image of Oxford's old University buildings framing Anna's beautiful face, which came into his head unbidden, and focused instead on the image of all three aircraft flying smoothly between the span of Tower Bridge. He lined up the yellow nose of his beloved 109 Emile on the centre span and led the three Messerschmitt's, screaming, down to just ten feet above the choppy brown waves. Ack ack fire burned hot slices in the air all around them as they dove, but they were quickly too low for the desperate aim of the gunners.

***

Just before dawn on the 12th July, 1943, Oberleutnant Michael Dorfmann had swished aside the dewy grass with his leather boots as he walked up to the yellow nose of his Messerschmitt. Today would be the day of the attack and the first time he had seen Daisy since she had emerged modified from the Jagdgeschwader (JG) 26's workshops at Vendeville. The other two modified 109 Es, called affectionately Emiles, squatted menacingly in the grass either side, but both their pilots were still in their beds.

Michael reached up and patted the yellow spinner and then ran his left hand down one of the black propeller blades lovingly. His hand left the blade and flew through the air to land on the yellow-painted lower cowl of the engine. He patted her as if patting a lover's chin. Then he ran his hand along the leading edge of the port wing as far as the leading-edge slats. As his fingers passed over them, he ran his index finger around the glued patches over the machine gun ports. Although he hated war war, it seemed an injury that his aircraft had had her guns removed. She had been designed for one thing and one thing only; shooting down other aircraft, one of the things he didn't like about her. But love is able to accept a flaw.

She looked beautiful. She had also turned out to be the last 109 E in JG 26. Michael's old III Group had been using them when he had been posted to the Eastern front to command a new Group for the Russian invasion, but then re-equipped with Focke Wulf 190As while he had been away. Out of all groups, the III's pilot's had been least happy with the 190s and switched back to 109s, to the new 109 Gs by the time he had been posted back for this one, special operation. Somehow, Michael had been able to cut through red tape at every turn to keep Daisy. Being an ace had helped.

She came with the model's unique configuration of three cannons, two on top of the nose and one between the two banks of engine cylinder; a configuration, along with the 109's great manoeuvrability that Michael thought gave him the edge in battle.

He ducked under the wing and kicked the port tyre gently. Her stalky, splayed undercarriage made her look as awkward as a heron on the ground, but in the air she performed like a swallow. Only the British Spitfire could be compared for beauty.

Gunther stood by the cockpit, cleaning oil from his ham hands with a blue rag.

"Taking her up, then Oberleutnant?" asked Gunther, his red-haired mechanic.

"A-ha. I bet she's a mess inside, but she still looks great! You did a good job. Thank you."

"She will be sluggish, especially in turns. Anyway, I think it the right decision to keep the cannon, but even with this, and only half a tank of fuel, she will still tend to be tail-heavy, especially as you get low on fuel. You have about sixty kilos less fuel than the others, but as you say... you won't need it." Michael looked at his mechanic's piercing grey eyes and both faces broke into wry, boyish grins. "Still, your take-off will be longer so watch out for that. And don't tell anybody I left the cannon in. I will be court-marshalled and Heidi will have my guts in a sausage!"

Michael loved Gunther's pithy remarks. Though he tried, he could never match them. "If ... I survive."

"You will," mumbled the mechanic, turning his back on the young pilot and walking away. "Don't be late for breakfast. Schnapps!"

Michael turned and stared down the length of his aircraft's yellow nose, past the gothic black 'S' insignia of JG 26, to the yellow spinner and beyond to the horizon where the red streak of dawn's first light cut the sky like a gash.

"Red sky in the morning ... ," he said idly, forgetting the rest of the English saying. He took one more glance to the rear, past the yellow '1' on the rear fuselage indicating his rank, to the tail and then climbed onto the low wing and into the cramped cockpit. Gunther always checked Daisy over thoroughly. Normally Michael would go right around the aircraft, checking everything, but his stomach felt like the Gordian knot. He could not unclench his abdominal muscles. Not having slept for fear of the day's mission, he wanted to take her up and get used to her new temperament. At least that would be one less 'unknown.'

He lowered himself into the prototype seat which had two steel tubes protruding from either side at its back. The smell of a BF 109 cockpit, a combination of leather, acrid cordite, rubber, high-octane fuel and oil at first repelled one. But once you were inside, the warm aromas closed around you like the smell of your favourite old lounge chair.

Checking his mirror, Michael stared at his own head, dark, wavy hair above penetrating green eyes that suddenly seemed too serious and world-weary for the boyish face that contained them. He shook his head and went through the start-up procedure carefully. Because of the new forward position of the seat, he struggled to reach the engine primer control and could only operate the elevator trim wheel with the tips of his fingers.

'Not good!' he said to himself.

Putting on his leather helmet, goggles and gloves, he tapped Donald once for luck, as he always did and gunned the Daimler-Benz engine into noisy, rude life. The twenty-four hungry cylinders ripped apart the silent air over the airfield and Michael laughed at the sheer joy of it. He forgot his fear as he taxied across the wet grass carefully and turned onto the long, flat strip of short grass of Vendeville's runway. As he taxied gently towards its end, slowly weaving, so that he could see over the long nose, he passed three of the newer Focke Wulf 190A's. He admired their smooth, aggressive lines, but he felt glad he had been allowed to hold on to Daisy for this last mission. It would be a fitting end for his companion, who had been with him since 1939.

Taking a deep breath after turning around at the end of the airstrip, he pushed forward the throttle with his left hand and waited for the tail to come up. It took much longer than usual. His airspeed hadn't increased enough when he reached half way down the grassy causeway to the sky. He swallowed.

'Eight hundred kilos of dynamite behind my ass! Oh well, at least I only have half a fuel tank under me!' he said to himself.

Michael eased back on the stick as late as he dared and the aircraft lifted lightly into the air.

'Just needed a little speed, eh baby?'

***

Now Michael led the formation, diving on London. They emerged from under Tower Bridge, almost line abreast. Michael saw how little the City had changed. Apart from the preponderance of men in khaki uniforms, barrage balloons and slit covers on car headlights, it really hadn't changed at all. For just an instant, he wished he could walk down Charing Cross Road with a pocket full of shillings and half-crowns. And then all hell broke loose. Two destroyers were moored on the right bank of the Thames and somebody had told them what was coming.

"Damned Tommy luck again! Just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Planners didn't tell us about this!" he said out loud.

40 mm and 20 mm cannon fire as well as 0.50 inch machine gun bullets sliced the air all around the little Messerschmitts and ahead little black clouds started to pock-mark the sky above the bridges from the ineffective Ack-ack.

"We're too low! You'll hit your own buildings!" Michael shouted inside his cockpit. But the British gunners were reckless in their determination to down the Nazi attackers.

Tracer from the cannons ripped through the air in a line just ahead of his aircraft's nose and Michael instantly banked to the right. He didn't have to worry about his two wing-men; Joachim had been with him since France during 1940 and had the rank of Oberleutnant Staffelkapitän. Gustav, much younger, still flew a 109 better than any other pilot Michael knew. Joachim had been a natural choice as yellow-2, but it had been a surprise when Gustav volunteered for such a dangerous mission. They jinked left and right, almost in unison, as the destroyers spat orange flame and black smoke.

'Wonder if Gunther left any ammo in this thing?' Michael wondered.

As the bow of the furthermost destroyer glanced the bead of the sight, Michael pressed the firing button on his joy-stick. The nose of the 109 juddered as the MG FF cannon opened fire, sending tracer arching into the water just short of the ship. As he turned left again, Michael lifted the nose slightly and had the pleasure of seeing a few hits on the hull of the ship and a panic of activity on her fore-deck.

"Thanks Gunther!"

London Bridge came up fast and Michael began to think they would make it when he felt a mighty explosion behind him. He had no time to look.

"God help us!" he muttered, just as Daisy's wing-tips passed under the modern bridge. As the sky went dark for a moment, he glanced to his right and breathed a sigh of relief. Joachim's aircraft still shadowed him, although black smoke poured from his engine and Michael could see a lot of damage to the top of the nose.

'You won't last long, Joachim. Better ditch!' he thought.

But he knew his friend wouldn't give up while there seemed a way to keep his bird in the air.

The gunfire stopped at last and they passed under Southwark Bridge and then Blackfriars.

"Now!" he shouted.

Michael pulled up on the stick and yellow-1 pulled lazily up, away from the muddy Thames. Steering to the right, Michael lined up on Somerset House, which looked just like the models they had studied. He peered down over the cockpit edge, looking for The Strand. Its long curving gully stretched out below him while he slowed to 380 Kmh, as they had practiced. The slower speed would be necessary to allow more accurate aiming when they reached the Palace. Behind him the others would be slowing even more to create a big enough gap that if any of them crashed or blew up in mid-air, the explosion wouldn't take the others out.

The Adelphi Theatre flashed by to his right. Michael smiled at the pleasant memory of an evening there. Recalling the practice runs over streets marked out in chalk on fields near Audembert, he peered through the windscreen, watching for Trafalgar Square.

"There it is!"

In a blink of an eye he passed it by and flicked the nose of his aircraft up, slightly more than he normally would, to clear Admiralty Arch. Only then could he drop below roof level since reconnaissance and spy-photos had shown there were no telegraph wires crossing The Mall. As he pushed the nose down, the engine coughed twice and then continued its snarling scream.

"Out of fuel."

He felt a massive explosion rock the tail of the aircraft and knew that Joachim had met his maker. A moment later red and yellow light flickered across the edifices and shadows of the pale building along The Mall, making them blush in the early afternoon. Michael closed his eyes involuntarily for a moment. Then he forced himself to focus. Somewhere behind him, he hoped Gustav still followed, so he had to get this right. He eased back further on the throttle and saw the airspeed indicator touching 330 Kmh, the correct speed for the attack.

Somebody fired at him. A machine gun round pinged harmlessly off from the nose armour in front of the cockpit. He aimed the nose of the aircraft in the general direction of the fire and pressed the trigger, emptying the last few cannon shells into the unseen target. The entrance to Churchill's bunker, the secondary target, flicked past on the left, but his stare fixed on Buckingham Palace, half a mile in front of him. In that moment, all suddenly seemed quiet and calm. Michael could barely hear the engine and an image, unbidden, came into his head of Anna's soft red lips. He tried to push it away, but then he heard her crystal-clear laugh, just as he had last heard it in Oxford.

"Not now!"

He tried to focus and went through the procedure in his head, all within a fraction of a second.

'Arm. Press cockpit release. Aim. Eject. This is it. No!'

The exclamation seemed spoken by an unfamiliar voice, a part of him he didn't recognise.

Suddenly he saw himself, back in Oxford, on the day he and Anna had borrowed two bicycles and ridden out to the country for a picnic. England looks at its blooming best in June and they had found a field, laced with white daisies and poppies, to eat in. After, they had laid on their backs looking at the scudding clouds. He began trying to teach her how to make a Jewish-harp from a blade of grass, stretched between her flattened palms and they gave up, laughing.

"What do you want to do when you leave Oxford?" she asked.

He rolled over to look at her beautiful face with her hazel eyes, floating mysteriously under a bewitching wave of ebony hair. Until then, they had only been friends, but that wasn't as the way he had wanted it.

He put the tip of the blade of grass in his mouth. "Oh, I don't know... Go back to Germany perhaps... There seems to be a lot of opportunities for physicists over there..."

"No, I mean what do you want to do with physics?"

"Oh... I want to know how the universe works and what makes stars and all about light and..." He looked at her, but she seemed lost. He continued, "But what I really want to know, is what makes women the way they are. What makes them work?"

She smiled and he felt a curious tightening in his stomach. "I think you will need more than physics for that!"

"I suppose you mean meta-physics, or... or something." He nearly said 'biology,' but that would have been too awkward.

"I will show you, if you like." She looked down at the grass, but then seemed suddenly emboldened. "I will show you everything!" She looked at him and their eyes met. "Then you will know," she added.

How could you not fall in love with a girl that offered to show you all her secrets?

Suddenly, Michael felt released. He has been focused for months so totally on the mission, his real mission that he had forgotten for a moment the motivation that had driven him; his desire to see Anna again. Now he just had to focus on getting down.

'Strange that only now I stop pretending! Did I really think the others could tell from the way I flew?' he wondered.

He knew the untried ejector seat might go off during a rough landing, either crushing his head against the canopy frame or cutting his neck with shards of Perspex. He pulled the nose of the Messerschmitt up to soar above the Memorial to a German Queen, in front of the Palace gates, up and over the Palace itself and pulled back the canopy eject lever to his left. An instant later, the canopy jettisoned. The sudden, violent flow of air whipped around the cockpit's remaining armoured windscreen and slapped at his face. Through squinting eyes, he throttled back as far as he dared and lowered the flaps.

'I hope this explosive really is as stable as they say!' he said to himself.

In the distance, just where he aimed for, he could see the flashes from the AA guns in Hyde Park. When he had studied the maps, the only possible place for a landing proved to be a narrow strip alongside The Serpentine. Even then, it seemed much too short for a wheels-down landing. On such uneven ground and with possible obstacles, the delicate undercarriage of the 109 would collapse and send the aircraft cart-wheeling or tumbling end over end. It had to be a belly-landing.

As the tree tops of first Green Park and then Hyde Park floated by, Michael searched hard for the head of The Serpentine. Somewhere behind him, he knew Gustav would be about to eject and he expected a loud explosion any second.

'I just pray the ejector-seat works for him.' he said to himself

The engine coughed a few more times, shaking the whole aircraft and then the engine note shifted down a few octaves before one last cough and then it grew silent. The blades continued to turn. Michael turned the pitch control to the coarsest setting, to get a little less resistance from the wind-milling blades. He floated, only about thirty feet above the ground now.

To his left, where he hadn't expected it, he suddenly saw the reflections from water, the lake. He banked gently to follow its northern shore and squeezed the wing-tips between an old building and the bank of the lake, where it turned to the north. He banked gently to the right and eased the aircraft down into the soft, English grass. The impact nearly wrenched his teeth out of his mouth and his head hit the soft padding on the gun-sight, designed to cushion just such a blow. He felt completely disorientated for a moment as clods of grass clattered against the rear fuselage and tail-plane. With one last judder the aircraft came to a halt, rocking slightly from side to side. He shakily released the harness and stood up in the cockpit. He jumped to the grass just as a blinding flash assailed his sight from behind Daisy. A moment later, he saw a burst of light from a gigantic fireball rising in the sky behind The Palace. The sound of a thundering explosion, ripping the air apart, followed, a moment later.

Michael looked back at the ugly brown furrows in the grass that marked the trail the Messerschmitt had left behind. Some way back they appeared to twist right round. It seemed that the aircraft had spun through a full circle on the hard, July soil when the wing-tip hit a park bench and then continued on. Either side of the crashed aircraft, not far apart, were two AA guns, pointing to the sky. They had stopped firing and the gun-crews looked with gaping mouths at the German pilot and his aircraft.

'Passed right through them!' he mused.

"Sorry old girl," he said, patting the side of Daisy. He started to walk towards the gunners, taking a Regie 4 Brand cigarette from his silver case in his shaking hand and putting it in his mouth.

"Have you a light, please?" he said in precise English, as he approached the nearest man. But at that moment, two men in khaki uniforms brandishing Enfield rifles stepped up to him from behind and shouted "Handy hock!"

It was 4.29pm.

***

At 7.20pm, Archibald Gates stopped outside the large oak door to his superior's offices in the Security Services. He had been told not to go home, but wait until summoned by telephone. The telephone call had come and now he stalked down the corridor. Archie, as his friends knew him, had achieved the status of a middle-ranking civil servant. Flat-footed and from a wealthy family, he had read too many Biggles stories before the War. He had no known talents other than patience, a certain smooth and easy obsequiousness and a keen aptitude for chess. He mused downwards, looking at his scuffed black, patent leather shoes. His feet were two inches too long for his five feet eight frame.

The door opened and a hand waved him into the room. From behind the dazzling light of a desk-lamp, pointed vaguely in his direction his director spoke.

"The Palace affair earlier..."

Archie nodded.

"Winston sees it as a counter-threat after Operation Upkeep, that Dams affair. He wants a response. I have seen everybody else in your department..." A smiling face replaced a mop of spare blonde hair, for a moment, when the director looked up from the memo in front of him. "Sorry for keeping you late Archie. I don't have much hope you will come up with anything, you're not a creative individual, but I need every brain we have on this."

Archie nodded.

Wonder why he always has to have that damned lamp shining in our faces. Swine!

"Well that's it. Go away and think about it. Come back tomorrow with an idea. Oh, one other thing, the pilot who survived, a ... Oberleutnant Michael Dorfmann, keeps asking for an Anna Styles. The usual thing... won't give more than name, rank and number, but then asks for her."

Archie nodded again, furrowing his brow.

"Could be significant. We located her. Pick up the dossier from my secretary. That's all we have. Good night, Archie."

***

"Anna! Anna! There's somebody to see you, from the Ministry!"

Anna looked up from her final scribbled decode attempts of the day and laid her pencil squarely next to the pad. She stood up and walked to the door.

"Which Ministry?" she asked.

"I don't know."

The tall man with slickly greased black hair look very tired, but he smiled at her and extended his hand. He twisted hers slightly as they shook, in an old-fashioned gesture of gentlemanly solicitude, as if he were about to kiss it.

"I drove straight here from London, but what with the constant air-raid warnings and checkpoints, it took a lot longer than I would have liked. Sorry."

Anna shook her head in confusion. "But what are you here to see me about?"

"You need to come with me. Orders, I'm afraid."

"But..."

"Sorry, but you are needed in London. Anything you need will be sent later."

"Oh well! If I must. Wait just one moment."

She returned to her desk and took her pastel-blue jacket, a gift from her Uncle in Venice, from the back of the chair and returned to the hut entrance. The man held the door open and guided her to a large, black car. She climbed in the back and sank into the leather seats, luxuriating in their scent, but crossed her arms to indicate her disapproval.

On the drive to London, the man attempted to engage her with platitudes and light discourse, but when she asked for clues about their destination, he remained silent.

By the time he woke her, they had reached London, cloaked in blackout, night without stars. She stepped, sleepily, out of the car, through a black door and followed him up a narrow staircase to a rude little room, painted only in green and brown. The driver smiled once and left her with another man, grey-haired, whose white shirt and purple tie looked as crisp as if newly pressed.

"Please sit," the man said with the authority of a new doctor. "Miss Styles?"

"Yes."

"I want to ask you a few questions." The door opened behind her and an elderly lady brought a cup of tea and placed it in front of her. The blue and white porcelain cup rocked delicately on its saucer and two digestive biscuits sat beside the cup. "Sorry. There's no sugar," he continued. "But I know you have milk with your tea." She nodded. "Anna Nicoletta Styles; mother, Italian, father, English. One younger brother. Hm." The man, older than the driver and with hair going silver, cleared his throat as a punctuation. "You graduated at Oxford with a first in Mathematics... Brilliant student with great potential... Hm. Praise indeed." The man lifted up his face from the single double-spaced, type-written sheet of paper and smiled. His cold, blue eyes sent a shiver down her spine.

'He thinks I'm an uppity female!' she mused.

"And now you are work at Station X?" The sentence had only the faintest hint of a question in its inflected ending.

"Yes?"

"Well... what do you think of it there?"

"I don't know what you mean." She still felt half asleep. She lifted the porcelain cup to her lipstick coated lips and sipped. The tea was only luke-warm, so she drained it. It tasted stewed and she repressed a little shudder.

"Do you like it?" He seemed to be getting impatient.

"Oh. Yes. Most of the time it's really rather fun. I like the work too. Useful, I mean, I feel that I'm doing some good."

"Good," he echoed. He drew the sheet towards him and turned it over. It had type on the back, too. He leaned back in his chair and made a church with his fingers.

"If I was to ask you whether you would like to make a more ... useful ... contribution to the War Effort, what would your first thought be?"

Stunned, she lifted a digestive from the saucer and nibbled it. "Well, I would have to know what it was, of course. If it wasn't ... too dangerous and was really useful, then I don't see... I mean, I would like to help."

"Um. Your parents were both interred at the beginning of the War and were released in March. Regrettable mix-up with your father, but of course he had taken Italian Citizenship. Have you ever wondered why you were recommended, and accepted, for X?"

"Yes, actually. Many times."

"Quite. You have talent... and we wanted to keep an eye on you. Part of the reason your parents were released early was because of your performance." She nodded nervously. "But of course," he added slowly, "they could soon be sent back."

"But..."

"Does the name Michael Dorfmann mean anything to you?" He knew it did. Her heart skipped a beat.

"Yes. We dated at Oxford. He was a physicist. I ... we, were in love."

"Today, at about 4pm, an attack was launched on Buckingham Palace, you will no doubt have heard of it on the Home Services. Oberleutnant Michael Dorfmann crash-landed his aircraft in Hyde Park and has been taken prisoner." He paused to watch her reaction. She stared at him, as if at a ghost. "He has, of course, only given his name, rank and serial number ... but he keeps asking for you."

"I ... I see."

"We would like you to meet him, but we want his co-operation. I don't know if you know this, Miss... Styles, but we have quickly learned, during this War ... in this department, that even good German officers can often be persuaded to give us at least some information and help us. Do you see where I am going with this?"

"I ... I'm not sure ... ."

"Well, let me be specific. We want your Michael Dorfmann to tell us all about the attack; the explosives they used, how they planned it, who authorised th- ... in fact, anything he can tell us. He is, after all, a high-ranking officer. All we are asking is that you pick up where you left off. We will do the rest."

"Then, what you said about my parents..." Her brow creased and she looked darkly at the man opposite her.

"War can be unpleasant Miss Styles. I just wanted to make it quite clear where we stood. Are we clear?"

"Bastard," she said quietly, once, under her breath. The man did not react. "Yes. Yes, I would like to meet him. How soon can it be arranged?" she asked, quite composed.

***

Archibald Styles couldn't sleep that night. He had finally come up with one good idea, the first in his life, and he knew it would propel him to the top of his career ladder.

Waiting to catch a late train home from Euston, he had been pacing up and down at the end of the platform, going over what he knew of the raid that day on the Palace, Oberleutnant Michael Dorfmann and Anna Styles. As it often did, his mind played out various classic set pieces from the best international chess championships, in the background, a mental twitch he couldn't control. Another pacer interrupted his thoughts when they both met head on. Both shifted in the same direction, so blocking each other's path again. It irritated Archibald, but as he finally passed the man, muttering, a double-bluff move he had once seen sprang into his mind.

He heard himself say, "That's it!" quietly. Then the whistle of a train eased it from his mind. His own train then arrived and he had traveled half way to Aylesbury before he managed to retrieve the idea.

"Do exactly the same to the Germans! Attack the Bunker!"

His idea, in the form of a single line memo, lay on the desk of his superior at 8.45am the following morning. By lunchtime he had started to think it wasn't such a good idea at all and by 4pm he accepted that his idea would not be the one chosen. He was, therefore, very surprised when his phone rang and that familiar, supercilious voice asked him to, "Come at once."

The familiar desk lamp shone in his face as his superior delivered the verdict. "Archie. I never thought I would say this, but your idea is exactly what we need. Winnie likes it. The project is yours. What do you need?"

Archibald felt too taken aback to say anything, except, "Give me half an hour."

In the following thirty minutes, repeated images of his favourite hero, Biggles, screaming down from the sky in furious attacks on Jerry, invaded Archibald's mind while he tried to come up with the bare bones of a project that might work. He didn't even know how to fly, let alone the techniques needed to bomb the Bunker. One thing he had learned in the Civil Service; if you didn't know something technical, there would always be somebody to ask. So in the end, he knew he needed one thing and he wrote it down on the memo he took back to his superior: a pilot expert in low-level flying. By noon the following day Archibald had his list of eligible pilots. He could only see one name on the list.

***

2am 14th July. Telephone call from Adolf Hitler's office in the Reichtag to the office of Reichsmarschall Herman Göring:

"First you lose the Battle to dominate the British skies and then you insult them with a secret mission to attack their Royal Head! And you don't even tell me! Imbecile! I should have you shot for insolence! You had better do better defending Italy, or you will regret not having been shot!"

The Hurricane's propeller stopped spinning and Richard Earlgood could only hear one thing; the 'tick, tick,' of hot metal cooling down. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest, revelling in the ecstasy of survival. He didn't move until his ground-crew clambered on the wings and tapped on the canopy.

"You alright, sir?" said Beattie, as Richard pulled back the canopy.

Richard's jut-jawed, but down-beaten, face creased in a big smile that always cheered those around him like rays of sun. Pale marks around his blue eyes contrasted with his oil-covered cheeks as he ripped off his leather flying helmet and goggles, releasing his black wavy hair. "Yeah. I think so. Sorry about the ol' gal, though!"

His crew Chief's joined the face of Beattie, peering down at him. "She's a bit of a mess sir, but we'll have her right as rain by tomorrow. The old Hurri may be slower than a Spit, but at least the cannon-rounds go straight through! Tea's up in the mess and there's somebody to see you."

"Really? Who?"

"Don't know, rightly. Funny looking chap. Ministry type."

"Oh."

"You been up to your tricks again, sir?"

"No. Not lately. I want to make Squadron Leader, before Jerry gets me."

With a pained glance at the large holes in the fabric on the rear fuselage, Richard headed for the green-painted, wooden hut where tea awaited.

If it had been a Spit, I would be dead now!

"They told me your plane's been damaged! Are you alright?" An awkward, gangly young man with clean white skin, tightly cropped brown, curly hair and very large feet, welcomed Richard with a mug of tea.

"One of those Focke Wulf 190 jobs. Fearsome. We were jumped! Only three of us made it back! These damned raids over France do more damage to us than the enemy!"

"Ah yes. The Butcher Bird! Isn't that what you chaps call it?"

"Well, yes, some of us chaps do!"

Richard perched on the edge of a large oak table and reached over to pick up one of the three white cups of muddy tea which had just been poured.

"D'ya get one, Mister Earlgood?" shouted the station cook.

"Nope." After a few sips of tea, he put the cup down and drew off his gloves. "So what's cookin' then?" The young man's forced use of 'chaps' inclined him to be suspicious, but Richard, being 'different' himself, had learned not to make fast judgements.

Archibald blurted out, "Low level pilot! I need one. And I hear you're the best!"

"Ha! Who told you that?"

"Eiffel Tower, 14th May 1940? Wellington Bomber. Leeming airfield, August 1940? Short Stirling, I believe?"

"Ah, well the lowest span of the Tower is hundreds of feet high, plenty of headroom there! The Stirling was fun though." Richard sucked in his breath at the memory of his punishment after flying underneath one of the new Stirlings coming in to land on a windswept Yorkshire airfield during the height of the Battle of Britain. He had emerged under the nose, his cockpit between those great wheels only seconds before they squealed on the concrete.

"Well, you clearly have talent. Hr-hm. If I may say so," Archibald whispered, leaning closer, conspiratorially. "It may have been a thorn in the side of the RAF, your... er... practice before, but right now it's exactly what we need."

Richard looked at him suspiciously.

"It would mean promotion ... ?"

"Oh well, that's it then. No problem! Are you telling me, with my history, that they're willing to promote me! I'm probably the only pilot in the RAF, from the Battle of France who still isn't a Squadron Leader! It must be suicidal! Not that I care much, but I do want to survive... Sorry, I am really very tired. I haven't had leave for what seems like years". He stroked a greasy smudge on his forehead.

"All I need, initially is somebody to help me plan it. I have very little technical knowledge of planes... Apart from a few stints in a Tiger Moth, paid for my my father I might add, I know very little. I need somebody who knows technicalities and tactics... And low-flying of course."

"Aircraft. A pilot never calls it plane. It's an aircraft."

"Right."

"All you need is a planner?"

"Yes. For now. And your name is the only one on my list."

"Where do I sign up?"

"Good. Glad to have you aboard." Archibald thrust out his hand. Richard shrugged and then took it.

"I understand you will need to get the release from your C/O. Then grab your things and I will drive you to London."

"One thing before you go," said Richard's C/O as he picked up the signed release form in the cramped office. "God knows why, and given your antics under my command, this isn't my decision, mind... but I have been instructed to promote you to temporary rank of Squadron Leader. As of now! Good luck. Maybe at last your low-level flying skills will have some use!"

***

Anna' heart fluttered uncontrollably as she fumbled for the last cigarette she knew nestled in her handbag.

"You can go in now. Five minutes. No more. I will knock on the door when your time is up."

To her surprise, she had been told Michael waited in the very same building in which her interrogation had taken place. In fact, he waited only a few doors away, but she couldn't meet him until he had been fully debriefed. She had been given a room at a cheap hotel nearby and brought back the following afternoon. There, a guard led her to an adjoining room with a few hard chairs and asked to wait.

She stood up, straightened her skirt, snapped shut her handbag and smiled at the man, who led her down a short length of corridor to a door which he opened. Stepping through it she immediately stopped, seeing a tired looking man in flying uniform, sitting on a chair. He jumped up and the door closed behind her.

"Anna!"

"Michael?"

"Anna, dear." He rushed over and clasped both her hands between his. "I can't believe they have... I mean..."

"No. I know what you mean..."

"Well, let me look at you!" He spun her round him. "You haven't changed one bit, apart from your hair being shortened and... yes... you are even more beautiful..."

She blushed. "Thank you, Michael. I ... I don't have long. Just five minutes, they said. I know you can't tell me much. But what have you been doing? How are the family? Heidi and your mother?"

"Fine! Fine. I have been doing well, Oberleutnant now! Or was! I have no idea what will happen to me now. I flew on a raid against your Palace, but I couldn't do it! I ... ."

"Yes. They told me ... ."

"Anna! I missed you," he said after a long silence. "I wanted to see you so many times!"

"Did you?"

"Yes. I know... I was a young fool, believing the Third Reich needed me and, more stupidly, believing the Third Reich stood for something fine and grand!"

He drew her down to a chair next to his, not letting go of her hands. He gently massaged them between his and she felt some pain, some bitter resentment, ever-so-slightly melt inside her. She resisted the feeling. They sat for some time, looking into each other's eyes, reading thoughts and half-lost memories.

"I thought about you a lot Michael, but you left me in a lot of misery. You can't expect me to..." She gathered all her resolve for one moment. "Why did you ask for me?"

He looked confused for a moment. "Why did you come?"

She felt at a loss.

'He suspects me. What do I do?' she wondered.

"I ... I'm not sure. I suppose ... maybe I was curious... I don't even know why I'm here. Why they brought me, I mean."

"I know. Don't worry, soon we will spend more time together."

"You think so?"

He stared at her for a long moment, drinking in her beauty and flinched once at the look of lost innocence in her eyes.

She heard a sharp rap on the door. She turned and walked out of the room.

***

Richard drove from London up to his old digs in Yorkshire for the last time. There were only two suitcases to pick up in the annex to the farm where he had been staying. He knew it would be a long drive and he had been on the road for seven hours already. Dusk approached when he drove into a storm.

With the tiny Austin Ruby's single wiper blade struggling against the torrential rain, he regretted not taking his things with him before. As usual, he found his mind pondering the strange conundrum Archibald had landed on him.

He didn't know the target, he didn't know the weapon and he didn't know the terrain. So far, all he did know that he had to find a way to get a fighter to a location five hundred miles away, have time to make a circuitous approach to a difficult target at ground level and then fly four hundred miles back to a safe landing somewhere.

Once at the target, the aircraft had to be able to negotiate narrow flight paths between obstacles as little as thirty yards apart and drop a weapon-load of at least one thousand pounds.

Automatically, he had thought of the Hawker Hurricane. Not only did he have considerable experience with it, but in theory it could carry two five hundred pound bombs. The snag? A big one. It only had a maximum range of six hundred miles, barely enough for the outward leg of the mission. After he, Archibald and a pair of civvie-street ordinance experts, had gone over the rough idea in a Whitehall office, he had spent the next three days racking his brain to think of a solution. So far, he had none.

Two points of yellow light suddenly flashed in the slit-beam of the car headlights, too close to avoid by braking. He swerved and nearly turned the car over on the slippery road before skidding to a shuddering halt.

"Damn! What the hell was that?"

He climbed out of the car and, pulling his jacket collar up against the driving rain, walked back along the road. There, forlorn on the rough tarmac, sat a bundle of brown fur. Clearly it had been wounded and his first instinct made him want to walk away.

"Damn!"

He walked around the shape and saw that it was a rabbit. Its nose twitched in the rain and it looked down at the road, avoiding his gaze. Its ears were back against its head and it shook violently, terrified.

Again, he had the urge to walk away, but before he could think any more about it, he had bent down and scooped the frightened ball of fur up in his arms. He saw blood on its right, front leg. It squealed when he touched the leg.

"Seems to be broken. There now, it's alright."

It seemed too exhausted to struggle much. After a few feeble wriggles, it lay still. Richard walked back to the car and put the creature on the rear seat. He went to the boot, took out a picnic blanket and wrapped it around the poor animal.

As the car rumbled on in the rain, he was reminded of one Christmas day, ten years before, when he and his older brother, Martin, discovered a starling, frozen into the snow. They had brought it inside and warmed it up in a bed of straw lined with woolen sheets, placed near an old boiler. To their surprise the starling recovered quickly, but showed no sign of wishing to leave. It had stayed, fed and kept warm, in their house until Boxing Day when it finally showed it's readiness to leave by pecking on the window pane. The memory made him laugh.

"You'll be alright, little one," he said to his new passenger. "Richie will take care of you." This suddenly reminded of his brother, Martin. Only Martin called him Richie.

A tear wetted the corner of his eye. Martin's first card had arrived in January:

Reached Southampton. Can't wait to see you and the family. Want to fly again. Martin.

The week before that, a telegram from the Foreign Office had been the first indication that he was still alive, after his Stirling had been shot down over Holland. Richard couldn't wait to see him and hear all about his adventures. He never tired of Martin's stories of hairy 'wizard wheezes' in Stirlings.

"Just like a builder with vertigo! Only good for lifting and dropping heavy weights from a low altitude, that's what the powers-that-be now say about the Stirling!"

"That's it!" Richard suddenly shouted out loud in his car. "The Stirling! There has to be some use for the old crates!"

He drove on, singing to himself all the way to the farmhouse where he picked up his things. He left the rabbit with the Shentons, who owned the farm, and promised to pay the vet's fees to have its broken leg fixed. They pleaded with him to stay the night and shelter from the storm. Saying good bye to the protesting farm-owners, he left with the two suitcases on the long drive back to London.

He wouldn't arrive back in London until 3am. This didn't leave much time for sleep before the next briefing. It had been foolish to drive, but he so rarely had the chance to drive the Austin these days and loved the Yorkshire Moors. On the way he wondered about Short Stirlings, the rabbit and a pair of black, nylon panties he had found under the bed. He had packed them too, so as to save Mrs Shenton the embarrassment.

Must have been a girl who was dating one of those Yanks on the nearby B-17 base. Funny I don't remember. Must have been too drunk!

***

Richard could barely contain his excitement as he took his place around the enormous oak table in the planning room at Whitehall. At the end of the room, a large-scale map of Europe completely covered the wall. A ladder, on rails, rested to one side beneath it. Archibald introduced Richard to his own superior; a tall, spare man in his fifties with blonde hair and a melodious, but dark, baritone voice.

Two planners, both from MAP, the Ministry of Air Production were there. Richard also saw a man with grey hair and a purple tie, rather astonishing in such austere times and such austere company.

Richard listened patiently to Archibald's briefing on progress so far and a summing up of the difficulties. He could contain himself no longer and, not knowing Whitehall etiquette, stuck his hand in the air for permission to speak. All faces swung towards him.

"Yes, Richard?" said Archibald.

"I think I have the solution, how to get a fighter there, wherever 'there' is."

"Well," said the man with blonde hair. "We're listening."

Suddenly Richard wasn't so confident. The idea seemed ludicrous. "Well sir, I was thinking about it last night and a fighter, such as a Hawker Hurricane, could be carried to the target by a bomber, maybe the Stirling, and then fly back. What's the maximum load a Stirling can lift?"

The sentence sounded way too short and the silence following it alarmed Richard. He had the urge to apologise, but bit his lip just long enough. The blonde haired man began to nod, slowly. "Archie?"

"It's brilliantly simple. Yes! I think, perhaps it could be done." He turned to the two MAP men. "What do you chaps think?"

"No way! It's never been tried. And in the time we have..." said the younger man, who had a slight American twang.

"Hang on Andy" said the other. "Don't forget that Liberator affair. And also, Short's have experience with this, the Empire flying boat and Mayo. A Stirling can lift roughly the weight of a Hurricane. I would need to check ... ." The other raised his eyebrows, but acquiesced.

"What's the Liberator affair? And what's Mayo?" asked Richard.

"Dan?" said the acquiescent Ministry-man.

"Oh... the American's have been messing about with a Liberator carrying a fighter. They tried a Hurricane, the only fighter we have tough enough and light enough, but the Hurricane pilot was killed. Pylons detached, along with the Hurri in a slight dive after a long flight. They used a modified Hurricane, I think..."

"One of those Hurricanes modified for catapult launch by the Navy?" asked Archie.

"Yes. Something like that. All hush-hush. Even I don't know much. The Yanks aren't talking about it."

"And the Mayo?" prompted Dan.

"Yes. You may remember, before the War, 1937 newsreels, Shorts had an Empire flying boat modified to carry a four-engined mail aeroplane called the Mercury. Worked quite well, actually. Ha! Anyway, if anybody could do it, Shorts could. The Sunderland is a development of the Empire class and the Stirling has basically the same wing."

"There you go!" said Richard. He picked up a pencil in front of him and slammed it down for effect.

"So what we are actually talking about here is a Super Weapon!" said the man with blonde hair. "Winnie will love that! Our answer to Big Ben! But wait a moment... As you may have heard Andy imply, we have a deadline for this mission. The date is critical! It must be executed on or before 2nd September. That's forty-eight days from now until D-Day."

"Why then?" asked Richard. "And what's Big Ben?"

"I can't answer the second question. The first; because Intelligence tells us that the work on the Bunker is due to be finished by then. After that date it will no longer be possible to penetrate inside the bunker with a bomb. But there is another ... more pressing reason. Winnie thinks, that even if the operation fails in its primary objective, this mission will create maximum embarrassment for Göring, who authorised the attack on the Palace. If this happens, and he may even be removed from command by Hitler, it might just disrupt the Luftwaffe enough to hinder, or even stop them resisting an invasion we are planning." Everybody in the room suddenly sat bolt-upright. The hairs on the back of Richard's neck stood on end at the word 'Invasion.' "We believe that anything which might cause division within the German High Command is worth the risk." Silence fell in the room. He continued, "Are you sure this can be done? Can we actually find a way to transport a fighter on top of a bomber, test it and fly the mission in that time?"

Archibald swallowed once. "We have to."

"Good," answered the blonde man. "Now, I have something to add. In the room next door, we have a young woman, Anna Styles, who was, before the war, the girlfriend of the pilot who survived the attack on Buckingham Palace..."

"But... I thought all three died!"

"That's a rumour we've been deliberately spreading. In fact, contrary to the rumours, this was not a suicide mission. Each aircraft had been fitted with something called an ejector-seat; a seat fitted with rockets to throw the pilot clear of the aircraft. Despite this, our pilot, their leader, seems to have decided not to attack the Palace and instead crash-landed in Hyde Park. He's quite well and in our keeping." He paused for this to sink in. "He has been asking for Anna by name and we believe he may be persuaded to help us plan this mission." Richard's eyes widened as the penny dropped. "Yes, Squadron Leader, I think you might now guess what the mission is ... and the target. If you do, it would be most wise to keep that guess to yourself. In time, of course, you will be told clearly the target, but since this mission depends on surprise and the utmost secrecy, you are bound, by law, on punishment of death, to keep everything you learn of it to yourself. Is that quite understood?"

"Of course, but ... ."

"Let me continue. In a moment, you will meet Anna and we would like you to liaise with her and Archie, so that she can gain as much useful information from Oberleutnant Michael Dorfmann as possible. Archibald?" Archibald placed a brief case on the table and took out a single white sheet. He slid it across the table to Richard. "On this sheet is all we know about the attack on the Palace and Michael Dorfmann," the blonde-haired man continued. "There is also all you need to know about Anna Styles. Memorise it and destroy it before you leave here." He concluded the meeting. "Gentlemen, we will meet again in one week's time, precisely. By then, we must have a detailed plan and an itemised list of everything you need; men, aircraft, equipment. Is that clear?" Everyone nodded. "Good. Good day to you, Gentlemen."

While Archibald spoke with his superior outside the office, Richard studied the single sheet of paper.

Two details interested him most besides the 'ejector-seats;' the explosive used and the Wing of the pilot. The report detailed the explosive as '850 kg of RDX.'

What on earth is RDX? And how do you get that much into a Bf 109?

The Wing of the German pilot; JG26, had been one of the two most infamous German Wings of the Battle of Britain.

At last I get to meet one of them, face to face!

Archibald led Richard out into the corridor and to the door of the next room. He fought off the pilot's questions. "But Archie, how can I plan this if I don't know..."

At that moment he saw Anna for the first time and was silenced. She smelled of Pears soap.

"Richard, this is Anna Styles. Anna, this is Richard Earlgood."

"Hello," she said, smiling. She held out a well-manicured hand. The man facing her clearly appreciated her looks. Unimpressed by this, she looked beyond his stare. He had the lived-in good looks of a square-jawed film star, but there seemed something coy about his gaze. 'He slouches!' she also noted to herself, scoffing. However, his smile, which broke out as soon as she spoke to him, made her want to smile back.

"Hello," Richard finally replied. "Er ... pleased to meet you."

Anna's mood of confusion momentarily lifted and she smiled, appreciatively. All three sat at a small table and Archibald outlined the situation.

"This must be difficult for you. Are you still in love with him?"

"Richard ... ?" Archibald protested.

"Sorry ... . I am always too direct. Born in the country, you know," he said to her.

"Oh, it's quite alright. As a matter of fact, I prefer a little directness. Just lately things have got so complicated. No ... . I don't think I am."

"So what do you want me to do?" he asked.

"Well, actually this may be simpler than we all imagine. I think Michael wants to help. I don't think he any more considers himself a Nazi. If it were possible to secure his release ... ."

"Yes?" asked Archibald.

"I think he would tell you everything he knows about how the mission was planned and who was involved. In return for guaranteed safety of course, for him and me. That's what he said in my second meeting with him this morning. You see, there are German spies here, who might have him killed ... ."

Richard looked at Archibald, who replied, "Let's start with some simple things. Richard, if you were working with this Oberleutnant Dorfmann, what would be the first thing you would want to know?"

"Well, what did they practice on? How long did they practice and how do these ejector-seats work?"

"That's three. Let's just start with one. The first one: what did they practice on? Miss Styles, if Michael is willing to give us that answer, we would consider that the first step to his rehabilitation and possible release. How does that sound?"

"I will try," she replied.

***

"My brother's on Stirlings. Why don't we go and see him?" Richard's casual comment in the back of a black Riley, travelling down the Mall, had been met with a frosty stare from Archibald. "What?"

The meeting in Whitehall a week after Richard met Anna, had gone equally well. Richard had his list prepared of what he needed; five Hurricanes which included one in reserve and one for experimentation; four Stirlings, again including one in reserve; three good fighter pilots experienced in low level flying; three good Stirling pilots and crew; an airfield with a secluded hanger, mess and accommodation and an area of countryside to practice low-level flying over.

"You must surely guess that we can't involve your brother. He was the first British airmen to travel all the way out of Holland, across France to Spain using the French evasion line. He can't fly over France again, at least not for now. He knows too much." Archibald's face softened to a smile for a moment. "I did think of him. Knowing your family's history, it was one of the first thing I thought of. But it wasn't long before I found out about his gung-ho adventures!"

"Archie. Has anybody ever told you, you talk like Biggles sometimes?"

"Ha. Funny you should say that. I've read all the books. I'm an enormous fan!"

"It doesn't surprise me. But listen. Martin may not be able to actually fly on the mission, whatever it is, but we need somebody to advise us on Stirlings and there's not much he doesn't know. He's one of the best we have. He's training pilots at a Heavy Conversion Unit in Suffolk now, No. 1657 at Stradishall. Let's drive up tomorrow and see him?"

"Well ... we do have to start somewhere. And now we know pretty much what we want ... I will have a word with the boss."

As a result of his conversation, they both found themselves on a train to Bury St. Edmunds the very next day. An RAF staff car met them at a station, whose signs had all been removed, and took them to the vast airfield at Stradishall. Soft rain had just started to patter on the tarmac from a grainy sky when they reached the gates and showed their passes to a guard.

As the car sped along the perimeter, Richard remembered the girl in Whitehall. "Has Anna come up with anything yet?"

"I'll tell you later. Is that Martin?"

A taller version of Richard, with the same angular face, but with blonde, curly hair and a livid patch devoid of hair at his right temple, jumped up and down, waving both arms at the approaching Riley.

Richard wound down the window and Martin's woolly head poked inside the car before it had stopped. The two brothers grabbed each other and bellowed with delight.

"Richie! You little devil. So you are on special ops at last, eh? So bloody good to see you. It's been so long and so much has happened. Couldn't get down to London, I'm afraid!"

"Ha! Bloody Hell! Marty. How the hell did you get back? After pranging a Stirling, you hardly deserve it. Don't know why they're letting you fly another! How's mum and dad?"

"Fine! Fine!" By this time the car had stopped and Archibald had stepped out of the opposite side of the car. The driver waited patiently until Richard had climbed out and then sped off.

"Come on, chaps! You're just in time! Just taking this old bird up!" He strode towards a Short Stirling, parked facing them on the tarmac, one hundred yards away. Even at that distance Richard thought it looked big. "Just had her two-hundred-hour inspection check, so I need to take her up. Thought you might like to come along!"

"Martin, this is Archibald. He's the chap from Whitehall who masterminded this operation. My boss!" Richard grinned at Achibald, who was obviously even younger than Richard.

"Pleased to meet you!" shouted Martin over the sound of the port outer Bristol Hercules engine, which had just been started up.

"She's a monster!" shouted Richard. "Bigger than a Lanc."

"You haven't seen one before?"

"In the air, but not close up on the ground. Of course you know the rumours. Not sure I'm keen to try..."

"Nonsense. Queen of the Skies, she is. Once you get to know, her she is a real Lady. Tough as old boots, too."

Richard swallowed and glanced at Archibald, who looked very pale.

The aircraft stood like some oblique monumental piece of architecture on its formidable undercarriage. It seemed to be poised, leaning forward, and had a bullish, brutish look about it.

As they avoided puddles and passed between the undercarriage, stooping for no good reason apart from reverence and fear, Richard noted that the top of the great wheels were above his head. The second engine had started and now a third. The air throbbed and hummed cyclically as the engines reached the same pitch. The noise grew intense, but the vibration felt not unpleasant. The fourth engine started just as the three men reached the rear entrance hatch in the fuselage, near the tail.

They climbed a short ladder and stepped into the dry interior of twenty tons of aluminium and steel.

The sheer space inside impressed Richard immediately. He had been inside a Wellington once, but this seemed like a whole different concept.

Even a ladder up to the top turret! It's vast!

"Wrong name for it then!" shouted Archibald in Martin's ear.

"What?"

"Short!"

"Ha!"

"That old scarf! You still have it," said Richard, pointing to a tatty blue strip of knitted wool around his brother's neck.

"Ha! Not the original. I lost that in France."

"You haven't changed ... !"

Passing the rest bunk, they edged past the Flight Engineer's seat, the Navigator's seat and climbed up a short ladder on the left side to the two pilot's seats under the greenhouse-sized canopy.

A man in oily blue overalls climbed out of the pilot's seat and squeezed past Martin, shouting, "All yours! Number One engine has two new cylinder heads and Number Three has a new oil cooler! We ran her up earlier! Keep the revs down a bit for the first hour or so!"

Martin took the pilot's seat on the left and pulled on a flying helmet from the dashboard. He passed one to Richard, who sat in the second seat. "You're second pilot. Do what I say as we take off."

Archibald leaned on the seat backs and peered out over the airfield. "We must be thirty feet up!"

"Parachutes are underneath us! Archie, there is another one and a helmet stowed by the Bomb Aimer's position, down there!" He pointed through a narrow entrance under the main control panel, through which they could see the Perspex Bomb Aimer's window and the nose gun-turret. "But you won't need them! Pretty reliable, these old crates!"

A head suddenly appeared by Archie's ankles, from beneath the raised flight deck. A bleary-eyed man with brown, curly hair, clutching a tattered crime thriller paperback, grinned up at him. "Just having a nap! Tell Martin I'm taking up position!" Archibald passed on the message.

"That's 'Cloudy' Callum! My Navigator! Never go up without one!"

"I already did ground-checks ... and pilot's checks!" shouted Martin in Richard's ear. "Engineer's checks are done!" After checking the oil pressure and temperature for each engine and going through the remaining pre-flight checks, Martin set the flaps one third out, set the trim tabs to 'neutral' and kicked the rudder left and right. "Is it moving?"

Richard peered down the considerable length of the fuselage and nodded, confirming the correct movement of the rudder. They repeated the procedure for the elevators and then ailerons, although Martin did his own visual check for these. He leaned out of an open panel in the canopy and waved to the ground-crew, who pulled the chocks from the main undercarriage wheels. Taking all four main throttle controls on the centre column in his fist, he slowly moved them forward in the gate, the right pair slightly ahead of the left to counter the Stirling's tendency to swing to the right. The rev indicator showed 2000 rpm. The engine roar rose and slowly the aircraft began to bump along the rough concrete pan. He manoeuvred the aircraft onto the taxi-way towards the end of the runway and spoke into his mike, calling the control-tower. "J-for Jessica. Requesting clearance for take-off." He grinned at Richard. Only Martin heard the response. He boosted the engines slightly and the aircraft turned until it lined up on the main runway. There, it stopped. Martin closed the canopy panel and wriggled in the seat, making himself comfortable. Archibald noticed a fresh tattoo of a love heart and the name Francine on Martin's bare forearm. His heart pounded with excitement, tinged with apprehension, at the prospect of take-off in the RAF's first heavy bomber.

"This is the best bit!" shouted Martin in Richard's ear "Put your hands on the throttles below my hand! Whatever happens, keep them evenly spread and if anything happens to me during take-off, push them all the way forward smoothly. Wait until the airspeed is at least 100 mph! Then pull back on the control column! Don't forget your flaps and the undercarriage, considerable air resistance from them! Not like the early Hurricane! You don't have to wind them up yourself! Just push this lever forward here!" He indicated a lever on the left side of the main throttle console, retained in the down position by a catch. "Safety catch here! Then select 'Up.'" He pointed to a switch on the main control panel. "Ready?" Both Richard and Archibald nodded vigorously. "Right then! Off we go chaps!"

Martin pushed the four throttle levers gently forward in their gate. The engines roared and the Stirling rumbled down the long runway. It took quite a distance to reach any great speed and then Martin eased the control-column forward to lift the tail. The sound from the engines, as Martin pushed the throttles all the way forward, was deafening. The end of the runway approached fast and Archibald felt the urge to close his eyes. At the last moment, Martin eased back the control column and the great aircraft lifted gracefully into the air. The trees of Suffolk whizzed under the wings as they slowly climbed into the blue July sky. Martin retracted the undercarriage, then the flaps and trimmed for flight. They gently banked to fly north and at 12,000 feet he levelled out. "On the ground she's a duck, but now she's a swan!" He throttled back and the engine note became just a pleasant rumble in the background. "Here, Richard. You take her." With dual control, the two pilots didn't even have to swap seats and with a barely noticeable dip of the wings, Richard took control.

"She's lovely!"

"Well, not all would agree with that. She has her moments."

In a clearing sky, a flight of Spitfires passed them, flying south, the leader waggling his wings in greeting. After a while, Martin suggested Archibald have a try.

"Oh, no, not me."

"Go on!" Archibald, pale faced, but grinning like a school-boy, climbed into the co-pilot's seat and gripped the control-column as if his life depended on it. "Just hold her steady. Okay. You have control. We train pilots who have flown twin-engined jobs; Blenheims, Wellingtons, some Whitley crews not many of those left now. It's bloody more dangerous than Ops, I can tell you! Two crashed in the last month, both crews lost. All of them." Archibald's hands shook slightly. "Okay, now turn gently to port. That's it, pull back slightly or she will dip a wing too much and you might slide." Martin gave the Stirling a little more throttle to keep the nose up, too. "That's great." After they completed the turn, he took back control. "I have it. What's that? Oh, okay. Navigator says there's heavy weather over the wash. Better strap yourselves in."

Archibald twisted round and glanced at Cloudy. Leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, he looked for all the world as if he were fast asleep.

"But..." said Archibald.

"Archie, old boy. Go to the Bomb Aimer's position and lie flat. There are brown paper bags if you need them, to your right." When Archibald had got into position, Martin grinned at Richard. He put the Stirling into a gentle dive and let her build up speed to her maximum of 255 mph. "You know, with these short wings, she's no good at heights and not so good at many things ... , but she is good at this... Ha! Ha!" With that, he pushed the throttles suddenly forward and turned the steering wheel on top of the column to the right. The Stirling executed a complete, elegant roll and came back to level flight. "You can't do that in a Lancaster!"

Richard's eyes were popping out of his head. "But! You mad bugger! You're not supposed to do that! It's not supposed to be possible!"

"I know. There's some chap actually loops a Lancaster though. We need to keep up! And she's quite good at this too!" With that he executed a barrel-roll and again came back to level flight before executing another one, in the opposite direction. This time he held her upside down for a few seconds and loose items in the cockpit fell from the floor to the canopy, floating past their faces and random directions as he put her into a slight, inverted dive.

"Stop it Martin! You'll kill us!"

"Ha! A-ha! That's it for now. Some boys actually looped a Sunderland, so that should be possible too, but I never tried it yet."

"You're mad! No more. I need to check on Archie. Keep her steady, okay?"

"Fine."

Richard clambered down through the opening in the control panel, to where he could see Archibald prone on the floor. He had pressed his face against a brown paper bag and was retching. Richard shook his shoulders. "You alright, Archie"

Archibald turned around, face was white with terror and shaking violently. "Just been a little bit ... sick. Should we have done that?"

"No. To be honest, I didn't even think it possible. You mustn't tell anyone."

"No." With that, a pale grin passed over Archibald's wan face.

They landed safely back at Stradishall, the Stirling flouncing along the runway before settling unceremoniously on the concrete and rolling almost to the end. As soon as they were out of earshot of Martin, Archibald turned to Richard.

"We must have him." A strange look of recognition came in Archibald's eyes and suddenly he said, "Yes, we must have him!"

***

Archibald called Richard to tell him to meet Anna for tea in Claridges, the next day.

"How's it going with her? Has she come up with anything?" he replied

"Oh yes. That Dorfmann chap is most co-operative. He has come up with everything we wanted to know and much more. Seems he can't keep quiet. Almost too good to be true, really. I would like your opinion on Anna, whether you think we can trust her..."

"Alright. I'll use my best detective skills to probe her inner motives!"

"Be serious, Richard. Just be subtle."

He found her waiting patiently, sipping tea with white gloves on and wearing a grey three-piece with a matching hat. She looked gorgeous. He thought her Italian ancestry showed in the way she looked, dressed and carried herself.

Class!

"You look smashing!"

"Thank you. I took the liberty of ordering a pot for two and two buttered scones! Well of course, it's not butter ... since the Ministry is paying ... . Real sugar too!"

"Oh, right!"

"I used to come here with my parents when they did their main shopping trip before Christmas! A childhood memory..." he added, lamely with a faint blush.

"How wonderful! My parents never brought me to London when I was little. I had quite a sheltered childhood." She, too, blushed.

"Hm. So how has it all been going ... ?"

"You mean my work? I... I can't spea- ... "

"No. I meant with Michael."

"Oh. Sorry. Yes, you're right. Down to business."

"No! I ... sorry. It's just that..."

"Don't apologise." She gave him such a direct look and he became lost for a moment in the variegated hazel colouring of her irises. "I think it's been going well. I mean, I'm not an expert at these things, but Michael quickly answered your main question. They practiced on his airfield with the roads marked out by rope, buildings too, although some were fabricated out of cardboard and plywood. He's happy to talk about the modifications to his aircraft, a Messerschmitt 109 E." She pronounced the aircraft name accurately and easily, as if familiar with the name.

Maybe she's in intelligence, Air Intelligence. Or maybe an Ops. Room plotter.

"I see." Richard leaned back in his chair. "Doesn't it worry you a bit? He seems awfully forthcoming."

"No, Mr Earlgood, I mean Squadron Leader Earlgood... I know Michael. I think he genuinely has become disillusioned with Hitler's war-machine and wants to help. However, he won't give any information about personnel, or the location of his Wing. Firstly, we know this anyway and he knows this, but I think he wants to protect his friends. He seems happy to talk about the actual technicalities of the mission, called Blue Flower, and the command structure above him."

The sting Richard had felt at her use of formal titles in her response, made him take a risk, to win back her trust. "He must really be in love with you ..."

"I beg your pardon?" she asked, smoothly, but politely.

I'm too common for her. Oh well.

"Sorry. My mistake again. I assume too much, sometimes. What did he say about modifications to his aircraft? Of course I know the details..."

She laughed. He wasn't sure why. "He said, and I quote, 'She handled like a pig, or like a sow, isn't that the word? Like you when you had eaten too much at Oxford!'"

Richard raised his brow, shocked at her challenge. "Okay I didn't expect such detail." He smiled. "Any more details?"

"Yes. He said the 'C of G' was too far back, but that the MF FF cannon in the engine, and some ammunition left in it, helped counter this. He wished he'd had a radio, so that he could have talked to his friends before they died. Let's see, oh yes and he said the ammunition came in handy because he could shoot back at the two destroyers. He wanted to know if he hit anything. And why they were prepared to fire across river when they might have hit a building or civilians. Oh and he asked, 'Did they save Donald?'"

"Donald?"

She smiled again. "I may tell you, one day. It's a private joke."

"Oh." He thought for a moment. "So why did he do it, volunteer for a mission that he didn't even intend to carry out. Surely he could have just flown over and landed on any RAF airfield, they would have loved to have him!"

"Yes, that's something I'm working on. I'm not sure yet. At least I'm not sure of the truth. It will take more time..."

"Oh. I see ... ."

"But I'm glad you asked. At least you're direct." She suddenly flexed her shoulders and he could see a great tension released within her.

"It must be tough. I cannot imagine what they're putting you through."

"Yes. It's not much fun, to be honest. I ... I could do with a bit of light relief."

Wary of her formidable intellect, and a trap, Richard hesitated before speaking. "What are you doing tonight? We could do a show, or just ... dinner?" He held his breath.

"No ... I don't ... I don't really feel like doing any of that. What were you going to do?"

He laughed. "Well, to be honest, I had planned, sometime this evening, to drive up to Yorkshire. I have a patient who I need to bring with me to our new digs tomorrow. Archie and I are going to our new base in Stradishall."

"Patient? What patient" She looked intrigued.

"Well, a rabbit actually. I found him, or her, wounded on the road. Some friends, my old landlords, are looking after him, but I promised to pick him up. I'm not sure what I'm going..."

"Oh, how sweet! May I come?"

***

You can buy Attack Hitler's Bunker! Online.

Visit the Lazlo Ferran blog to see what I am currently working on: http://bit.ly/YJZzdi

Biography of Lazlo Ferran

During Lazlo Ferran's extraordinary life, he has been an aeronautical engineering student, dispatch rider, graphic designer full-time busker guitarist and singer (recording two albums, one of Arabic music featuring the rhythms of Hossam Ramzy). He has traveled widely and had a long and successful career within the science industry but now left employment in the public sector to concentrate on writing. He has lived and worked in London since 1985 and grew up in the home counties of England.

Brought up as a Buddhist, in recent years he has moved towards an informal Christian belief and has had close contact with Islam and Hinduism. He has a deep and lasting interest in theology and philosophy. His ideas and observations form the core of his novels. Here, evil, good, luck and faith battle for control of the souls who inhabit his worlds.

He has traveled widely, living for a while in Cairo during 1982. Later, he spent some time in Central Asia having various adventures, one of which was getting married in the traditional Kyrgyz style. He has a keen interest in the Far East, Middle East, Asia and Eastern Europe - the latter informing his series of books about vampires and werewolves. He keeps very busy writing in his spare time and pursuing his other interests of history, genealogy and history of the movies.

From the author:

Thank you for reading my story and I hope you liked it. I value very much feedback from people and need this if each book is to be better than the last, so if you could take the time to post a comment on my blog or simply email me, I would appreciate it.

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Blog: http://www.lazloferran.com

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