In which Tom is particularly unwanted except by the wrong people.  The OPS agents were waiting for Tom as he came out of the elevator. “Thomas Black?” asked Abby St Germain, for form’s sake since she recognised the subject from his security dossier. She showed her badge. “I’m Special Agent St Germain of the Office of Paranormal Security. This is Special Agent Dawes.”Lester Dawes removed the magnum of champagne from the subject’s hand in case he turned violent. “If you’d just step into your hotel room for a moment, sir, we can talk in private.” “I was heading for my room anyway,” Tom Black pointed out, “but it wasn’t you I was intending a private chat with.” “We just have some routine questions, Mr Black,” St Germain told him. They flanked Tom back to his penthouse suite in the Croque D’or, Paradopolis’ most exclusive hotel casino. There was another pair of agents already in his room, keeping an eye on Regret of the Damned. “I wish you’d warn me when you’re wanting to do group,” the demon temptress told her employer. “We’re almost out of videotape.” “Have they told you why they’re bothering us yet?” Tom wondered, “or are they hoping to make us nervous and put us off guard by keeping us in suspense?” He kicked off his shoes and launched himself to land on his back on the king-sized bed where Regret was already reclined. “We’re acting upon information received that you may have an unregistered metahuman power,” Agent Dawes explained in an official humourless monotone. He could recognise a smart-ass when he saw one. “Received from whom?” Black demanded. He didn’t expect them to tell him, but it was fun to make them explain that. “We can’t reveal our sources,” Abby St Germain answered. “It’s like the Spanish Inquisition all over again!” Regret said delightedly. “I confess to having intercourse with the devil. Lots of them.” “Perhaps you would be so good as to move into the next room, ma’am?” suggested Dawes. “This is a private interview.” “Ms Kiskilla is my private secretary,” Tom explained. “But not my amanuensis. We have sex. I require her to stay as a witness. I wouldn’t want my civil rights infringed. I wouldn’t even know what to pack for a trip to Guantanamo Bay. Bathing trunks, maybe?” “According to our sources, ‘Ms Kiskilla’ is of extraplanar origin and has no entrance visa to the United States of America,” noted St Germain. Regret gestured with her thumb. “Top drawer of the nightstand,” she offered. “Underneath the cat-o-nine-tails and the baby oil. U.S. Passport, citizenship papers, the works.” She smiled sweetly at the OPS agents. “I had to work very hard with a number of judges and senators to get them. I’m very proud that I became an American the old fashioned way.” “If this is an official interview I might also wish to have my attorney present,” suggested Tom Black. “This is just a preliminary enquiry, sir, to determine whether you do indeed have unregistered metahuman traits,” Dawes pressed on. “I thought Special Resolution 1066 had been repealed?” objected Regret. “There are still provisions to log and register foreign nationals with metahuman abilities visiting our shores,” St Germain clarified. “Mr Black is here on a tourist visa, and he didn’t declare any superhuman gifts or undergo any of the consequent appropriate clearance procedures to ensure public safety.” “I didn’t have any metahuman gifts when I came to your country,” Black argued. “If I’ve picked any up since I came here then it’s your country’s fault. I might sue.” “Who set you up to do this?” demanded Regret angrily, glaring at the OPS personnel. “Simonides Slaughter? Mumphrey Wilton? The Lair Legion?” “If you could just answer the question, sir,” persisted Dawes. “Do you possess metahuman abilities? And please bear in mind that we have the right to undertake a battery of tests to determine whether you are concealing the truth.” Black grinned at them. “When are you going to tell me that my visa’s revoked and I’m going to be deported?” He could tell from the agents’ faces that he’d jumped one step ahead again. “You have been deemed an undesirable alien,” agreed Special Agent St Germain. “Your access to the United States has been terminated. After this interview you will be escorted to the airport and placed on a flight back to your native England.” “And I think this interview is just about done,” Black told the government men. “I’ll go and pack, shall I? I hope you haven’t creased any of my suits while you were searching my suite.” “We’re going to England?” Regret perked up. “I love to travel.” “You’re staying here,” Tom told her in a low whisper. “I’ve got a job for you to do.” Transatlantic flight BA-19957 left the main terminus of PD-X Airport at 2217 local time, heading straight for Heathrow. An air marshal escorted Tom to his seat and made sure he was on board when the plane took off. Tom had annoyed his security detail by upgrading his seat to Executive Class but he arranged for a bottle of poor-quality champagne to be sent back to them in Economy. He watched the lights of Paradopolis fading in the distance then reached into his pocket for his slimline mobile phone. The tiniest application of luminous green kaos energy scrambled it to thwart any surveillance before he dialled a number. It was almost quarter to six in the evening London but Nick Bosco was still at his desk. Tom knew his former co-worker’s habits. Nick preferred to work late to avoid the rush on the tube. “Section Z,” came back the reply. “Codewords please.” “Nick you bastard, it’s me Tom. Codewords are ‘I know all about that little trollop on the Old Kent Road and your wife doesn’t.’” “Tom? Tom Black?” “How many other Toms have had to cut you free from the handcuffs and find where your pants have been hidden?” “Tom, this isn’t that secure a line.” “It is now. Trust me.” “Not in a billion years.” Nick Bosco swallowed hard. “Tom, I don’t think I’m supposed to speak with you. You’ve been flagged as a risk.” “Too bad, Nick. Because if you don’t keep me occupied with a nice long chat I’ll have to dial somebody else. Managing Editor of the Daily Star, perhaps? Or the Sun? ‘Secret spy love-nest scandal. Home secretary asked questions in the House.’” “You know we could stop any such nonsense ever seeing print,” Nick argued. “That’s what D-notices are for.” “And you know that always costs in the long run, and there’s only so many fat Fleet Street editors lusting for knighthoods. I don’t think having to co-ordinate such a big cover-up is going to make Bradbury love you any more, is it?” Nick shuddered at the idea of Sir Ian Isaac Bradbury’s reaction to having to bail a senior intelligence analyst out of some kind of sordid press story. “Technically you’re still on Department Z staff,” Bosco argued. “And you’ll always be covered by the Official Secrets Act.” “You and a tart in a walk-up knocking shop isn’t an official secret,” Black countered with a chuckle. “Besides, I’ve been flagged as a risk. You said so.” Nick sighed as he realised that every conversation with Tom Black ended like this, with Bosco’s utter surrender. “What do you want?” he asked, trying not to whimper. “Oh, there’s all kind of files on a few old supervillains I’ll be needing a squint at,” Tom suggested. “I’ll text you a list to send to a dead drop later. Nothing that’ll compromise Her Majesty, I promise. Some Badripoor stuff. Something called a Judas Box. But for now I want to know why I’m flagged and whether old Ian set me up to get shipped back to Blighty.” “Sir Ian’s not going to tell me if he arranged for your deportation,” Nick countered. “But you knew I’ve been deported,” noted Tom. “So you’ll know if I’m to expect any kind of reception when I land.” “Well… I did hear that Project: Pendragon might have scrambled a team.” “Containment or sanction?” “I don’t know. Honestly, Tom. They seem to be anxious to see you, that’s for sure.” “Okay Nick. You’ve been really helpful. I’ll send you some more instructions later.” “Later? There’s not going to be a later, Tom. There’s a Pendragon team with your name on it waiting at the terminal. I just hope to God they shoot you before you can confess how much I’ve breached security talking to you.” “Yeah, best wishes to you too. And the lovely wife. Bye, Nick.” Tom Black ended the call then reclined his seat and had a doze. Tom was awoken by the olive-skinned man sitting down next to him. “Mister Black?” the newcomer ventured. “Mister Black, may I speak with you?” Tom glanced at the clock at the front of the cabin. 02:21 EST. Even though that made it only twenty past nine in London most of the travellers were still on US body clocks and were dozing in their chairs. The flight was due to land in about an hour. “Mister Black, I am Saladiya Hussein abd Ramah. I work for the Egyptian government.” “I know. I saw you watching me when I was brought on board. I noticed as you slipped that knock-out pill in the coffee of the air marshal I’m not supposed to have spotted two rows back. I’ve been listening in on your phone conversations with Egyptian Intelligence Services for the last half hour.” “Then you will know I am truly who I say I am. I’m your contact.” “Everyone seems to want contact with me these days. It must be my new aftershave.” “Mister Black, you must know by now that the Americans and your own government do not mean you well. You must know that you are flying towards imprisonment at best, perhaps death.” “Or they might just want to take me to tea at Downing Street,” Black suggested. “It could happen.” “Mister Black, we warned you that this thing would happen. That your own spies would turn against you. That the gift you have received would make you an outcast amongst your own.” “I am very interested how you know about that,” Tom admitted. “I’m especially interested in what you know about the ‘gift I have received’.” “Then you will do well to accept the invitation that I bring from my government, Mister Black. We know things about the ‘kaos energies’ within you that you do not. We know something of the history of the item you seek, this Judas Box. And we have a high place in our society for a man who would wield the powers it has conferred for the good of our nation.” Tom considered this while he unwrapped a travel mint. “I require a little bit more information before I decide. Be honest with me. Who’s behind this? Who’s really running the show in Egypt these days?” Saladiya abd Ramar shifted uncomfortably. “Mister Black, you were an intelligence officer. You know who is the power in our country once again.” “I still want to hear you say it. There’s all kinds of unconfirmed rumours. Strange stories that came out during the Parody War. You were the only nation except Candia that suffered no casualties from Avawarrior raids. Over the last couple of years your internal politics have become so stable and quiet that your tourist industry is up 70%. But there’s something else, isn’t there? Something behind all that.” “This is a public place, Mister Black, even if most people here appear to be sleeping. I cannot discuss this with you here and now. If you will come to Egypt, meet with our leader…” “Tell me who your leader is, abd Ramar. Give me a name. Tell me who he is so I know why he’s interested in having me on his team.” The emissary paled some more then leaned in close. He mouthed the words so quietly that almost no sound came out from his lips. “My master, lord of the Upper and the Lower Nile, secret ruler of Egypt, is the deathless sorcerer-king Koo Koo Ka Choo.” Tom allowed himself a satisfied smirk. “Take me to your leader,” he said. “We have a… a team awaiting at Heathrow airport,” abd Ramar told him. “They will neutralise whatever measures the British have put in place and…” “Really no need for that,” Black interrupted. “I think we can convince this plane to take us to Cairo.” He leaned back, peeling off a dozen witchfire orbs, each a little packet of malevolent sentience, and cast them out to locate and possess the key navigation controls of the aircraft. A few moments later, to its flight crew’s horror, the Boeing 717 changed course and set a new vector for Northern Africa. It completely ignored the frantic pilot and rose to 30,000 feet making a beeline for Egypt. Tom Black ignored the panic and opened a packet of peanuts. In a stately temple carved with bas-reliefs of crocodiles and serpents doing obscene things to each other, the lord of the Upper and the Lower Nile, secret ruler of Egypt, the deathless sorcerer-king Koo Koo Ka Choo sat in state and considered the secrets of the universe laid out before him on an orrery tray. He was a tall bronzed man, bald except for the white scalp locks which trailed almost to the floor. His fingernails were preternaturally long, and although he looked like a robust handsome man there was about him the faint smell of decay. He looked up from his studies as one of his priests approached him. “There is word from adb Ramah, O master,” the acolyte reported with a very deep bow. “The Westerner Black has accepted the invitation.” “Very good,” answered the deathless mage, rising from his throne and stepping past the pale lifeless chained women crouching at its base. “Very good indeed. Be sure to prepare the appropriate welcome.” In a wood-panelled Whitehall office distinguished only by its complete disregard for a national workplace smoking ban, Sir Ian Isaac Bradbury pushed a button on a silver plastic 1950s intercom to end the call he’d just taken. He looked across the curved desk at his guest and tapped out his pipe. “They you are, then,” the head of Department Z and Project: Pendragon said. “They’ve taken the bait. Black is in.” “Jolly good,” replied Sir Mumphrey Wilton. “Set a bastard to catch a bastard, what?” In a seedy walk-in on Ditko and Ploog the lights were still on despite it being well past the witching hour. Alto Tumour opened his Second Hand Occult Books and Postcards store late two nights a week to cater for those clients who didn’t enjoy direct sunlight. Very few of them were undead. Most just didn’t get up well in the mornings. Many of them were more allergic to soap than garlic. Regret of the Damned walked past the late night browsers with a superb contempt, her red four-inch heels clicking across the crunchy carpet. She ignored the staring Alto who sat transfixed by her little red dress and she headed straight for the alcove under the stairs which doubled as the business office for Gothametropolis’ cheapest exorcist and occult lifestyle counsellor. The young man with the unruly shock of hair down over his eyes looked up with amazement as the hot brunette interrupted his tax returns. “Vincent De Soth,” announced Regret Kiskilla. “I want you.” Continued in Tom Black #6: The Dreaming Sands “You know, nasty little footnotes such as yourself always get their comeuppance.” Tom Black accidentally became suffused with evil kaos energies that allow him to possess and control objects and people after discovering an artefact known as the Judas Box amongst the possessions of his evil ancestor. Now the former British intelligence analyst seeks to master the power before it masters him – and before his enemies slaughter him like a dog. Tom’s previous adventures are chronicled in Tom Black #1, #2, #3, and #4. Regret of the Damned claims to have once been a human woman, but has certainly been moulded to be a succubus temptress in the pits of hell. She is currently a refugee seeking political asylum on Earth rather than go back and face the terrible vengeance of the demon lord Sage Grimpenghast whom she betrayed. The Office for Paranormal Security is the US Government Agency tasked with keeping tabs on superhuman entities and events. Agents Dawes and St Germain first debuted in Mr Epitome #1. Special Resolution 1066 was the Act of Congress which compelled all metahumans to register their powers and submit to government supervision. It has since been overturned in the Supreme Court. Sir Ian Isaac Bradbury is a senior British intelligence officer, head of Department Z and Project: Pendragon. Rumour has it that he was once a CrazySugarFreakHero! in the 1950s. Koo Koo Ka Choo is a deathless ancient Egyptian sorcerer, awoken from his slumbers several years back, who has used his magic and his control over the undead to become the secret ruler of Egypt. More of him next time. He first appeared in Amazing Tales #24, #25 and #26 by Amazing Guy. Vincent “Vinny” De Soth is the despised white sheep of the De Soth clan of occultist and black magicians. Vinny ekes a living as an exorcist and occult lifestyle consultant from a walk-in storefront in Hogan, GMY. The Hooded Hood's Homepage of Doom Who's Who in the Parodyverse Where's Where in the Parodyverse Original concepts, characters, and situations copyright © 2007 reserved by Ian Watson. Other Parodyverse characters copyright © 2007 to their creators. The use of characters and situations reminiscent of other popular works do not constitute a challenge to the copyrights or trademarks of those works. The right of Ian Watson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. |
