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Post By The Hooded Hood finally gets to post that damned Candia story Fri Sep 02, 2005 at 08:33:42 pm EDT |
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#232: Untold Tales of the Glorious People’s Republic of Candia: Flesh and Mud | |
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#232: Untold Tales of the Glorious People’s Republic of Candia: Flesh and Mud “Welcome to Vosna, glorious capital of the Glorious People’s Fraternal Republic of Candia,” the Candian political officer assigned to the visiting Legionnaires declared, taking a deep ingratiating bow and somehow managing to look overingratiating and slimy at the same time. “I am Borin.”“I am sure you are quite interesting when people get to know you,” the Manga Shoggoth replied, reaching out a squelchy hand to demonstrate once again why you don’t shake hands with elder protoplasm. Borin’s damp palms were no competition for a loathsome elder beast. “Vladimir Borin,” the political officer answered a little stiffly. His diplomatic training hadn’t included the best ways to surreptitiously wipe slime from one’s hand. “Of course, Comrade Borin,” Amber St Clare said hastily, handing him one of the handkerchiefs she carried just for this purpose. Jay and the Shoggoth had a mission here in Candia. Amber’s job was to stop war happening afterwards. Or during. “We’re already feeling at home. The, ah, the turnip parade in Numnutz was especially inspiring. I don’t think we’ve seen such prodigious root vegetables before, and in such amusing shapes.” Hatman was definitely suffering from ox-cart lag. It had taken the better part of a day on the glorious people’s trains, boats, buses, and animal wagons to get to Vosna, and this was the VIP treatment. But he forced himself back to alertness as a professional courtesy as he was introduced to the rest of the delegation waiting for him. “And these are people’s glorious heroes of Candia,” Borin went on. “Representing the Glorious People’s Crimefighting Apparatchik we have Zvesti Zdrugo and Dr Roentgen.” The two agents of GloPCrAp were certainly distinctive. Dr Roentgen was seven feet tall, swathed in a heavy lead-laced nuclear containment suit. His eyes glowed a sickly radioactive green through the smoked lenses of his helmet. His companion was a slender russet-haired beauty straight from the catwalk, dressed in brown leathers trimmed with fur. “How do you do,” Jay Boaz greeted his counterparts. “No, don’t feel you have to shake hands with the Shoggoth. Really.” “Thank you, Hatman,” Zvesti Zdrugo said in a husky accented voice that almost curled the capped crusader’s toes. “We wish to add our welcome to that of Comrade Political Officer Borin.” “We’re in the same line of work,” Hatman smiled at her. “Please call me Jay.” “Thank you, Sir Jay,” the woman smiled back, “I am Zdenka.” “Just Jay is fine,” Hatty told her. “I don’t usually use the knighthood title.” “You may address me as Doctor Roentgen,” said the hulking figure next to her. His voice had an unpleasant multiple buzz to it. “You humans do seem to spend an awful lot of time trying to distinguish yourself from the rest of your genetic biomass,” the Shoggoth noted. “Of course, Dr Rontogen isn’t strictly human anymore, more a sentient radiation shaped into a containment suit.” “I have evolved beyond mere humanity,” Dr Roentgen told the elder being with ill-concealed dislike. “Well, isn’t this splendid,” interrupted Comrade Borin. “Perhaps we should show our honoured guests to the people’s glorious guest quarters?” “I think that would be a good idea,” agreed Amber. Hatman fell into step beside the more personable of the Agents of GloPCrAp. “So what’s Zvesti Zdrugo mean in English?” he asked the woman in brown. Zdenka Zarazoza looked a little uncomfortable. “I am not too much English,” she explained. “It is wolf, yes? Rabid wolf.” “Your codename is Rabid Wolf?” The Shoggoth had been doing some reading. “Rabid wolves are sacred in Candia,” he observed. “They are a totem animal, prevalent in the legends about the Candian people migrating here long ago across the northern land bridge over the Bering Straights.” “This is true,” Zdenka admitted. “Also I turn into rabid wolf. To fight crime.” “Okay,” Jay Boaz told her. “I wear hats.” Dr Rontogen said nothing. He just glowered. The main office of ZOXXON Oil was a ninety-floor reflective-glass skyscraper in Houston, Texas, and the second to-top-floor, right beneath the boardroom level, was the personal offices of CEO and Managing Director Montiver Hole. “Shereen!” Hole called as he stormed into his football-field-sized office. “Get me Security, Extramural Affairs, and Sales and Marketing! Scrambled lines.” “Right away, Mr Hole,” the attractive blonde replied, and tapped in the appropriate codes on her console to set up the teleconference. “Right!” the angry CEO demanded of his staff. “What the hell happened down in Colombia? I’m getting confused reports through the intelligence agencies that the Lair Legion dropped in on the materials transfer.” “I’m afraid so,” Extramural Affairs admitted. “We’re getting word that SPUD substituted one of their agents for VelcroVixen. Palanquez is in custody, and the rumour is he’s singing like a canary. The missiles have been captured.” “And where was Factor X when all this happened?” Hole demanded. “This kind of sloppiness isn’t what I expect, the kind of money I’m paying.” “He had the Mind’s Eye on the ground,” Security reported, “but there was no percentage in taking on half the Legion field team. Anyway, Vassilych has already arranged for replacements for the lost ordinance and the exchange took place in Bosnia an hour ago without any interference.” “We can still meet Count Fokker’s schedule,” Marketing and Sales assured his boss. “We have the delivery systems, we have the fissionable materials, we have the warheads. All we need to do now is to set up the conversion process and ZOXXON Oil will have created the very first home-grown transnuclear weapon on Earth.” Montiver Hole was somewhat mollified. “Well let’s not have any more screw-ups, boys. Double security on the conversion site. Hire in some special help. Recheck the integrity of every single person who’s involved in the operation. This isn’t an order we can afford to have go wrong. This isn’t an end user I want to piss off.” “We can take Fokker if we have to,” Security boasted. “Fokker’s not the end user, just an intermediary,” snapped Hole. “You don’t know everything.” And that, thought Julia Thompson, currently playing the role of Shereen the personal assistant, is something I need to pass on to Sam Wilson and Dan Drury ASAP. “This is more than just a ceremonial visit, following on from the exchange tour when Captain Mud and Nats swapped places a few months back,” Hatman began as he and the Shoggoth met with the Candians in the conference room. “I hope your political masters were not offended that we specifically asked for anyone but Nats this time,” Comrade Borin chipped in. “We don’t have political masters in the Lair Legion,” Jay corrected him. “Although the team is subject to judicial review and works harmoniously with the government of the Unites States of America where it is based and with the United Nations on behalf of the world,” Amber added quickly. “And also you are running dogs of the American industrial-military complex,” Dr Roentgen pointed, “doing the bidding of secret government seeking to establish economic and cultural stranglehold over whole of planet.” The Shoggoth was puzzled. “We only have one running dog,” he pointed out, “and she’s in the Junior Lair Legion programme. She does work for the American industrial-military complex, but she doesn’t try to establish economic and cultural strangleholds as much as steal biscuits from people’s plates when they’re not looking.” “I’m not even American,” Hatman pointed out. “But no less a running dog,” growled Roentgen. Zdenka Zarazoza leaned forward. “Have you got something against running dogs, Doctor?” she demanded dangerously. “Er, as I was saying,” Jay Boaz pressed on, “the other purpose of our visit in addition to exchanging crimefighting techniques and the like is to investigate some worrying leads we have about the illegal export of uranium from your country to create transnuclear weaponry.” “No Candian uranium would ever be used for such a thing,” Borin promised his guests. “Although of course the glorious people’s uranium is the finest in the world.” “We’re not making any accusations, Comrade Borin,” Amber assured the political officer. “We’re only here to conduct a joint investigation with your own fine superheroes to make sure that none of the, um, the people’s uranium is being used by regressive elements. Yes.” “We have received the information sent by your propagandist war computer Hallie,” Dr Roentgen declared. “We have arranged for investigation. Tomorrow we travel upcountry to people’s uranium mines.” “You might be right about the cultural stranglehold though,” the Shoggoth said, still wrestling with the earlier conversation. “On the other hand, Disney is distributing Hayao Miyazaki’s Castle in the Sky. That has to count for something.” “So what’ve we got?” Director of SPUD Dan Drury growled at his analysis team. “We got illegal sales of uranium from Candia, shipped via the Republic of Spango an’ North Korea, then through Ku Ku KaChoo in Egypt to some unknown destination. We got a flow chart that includes Elizabeth von Zemo, Akiko Masamune, BALD, the Ass-Raping Ninjas and probably the flamin’ Boy Scouts. We got an attempted sale of warhead delivery rockets by Factor X in Colombia, an’ an alleged successful sale of the same in Jilhava. And it’s lookin’ like the next link in that chain’s my old sparring partner Wolfgang Fokker. Remind me ta shoot that bastard next time I meet him.” “Will do,” agreed millionaire industrialist Jamie Bautista, SPUD’s special technical advisor (and secretly ex-Legionnaire NTU-150). “It’s also possible there’s a link to that radiation that was syphoned from the Wastelands. There’s some nasty things that could be done to uranium if it was exposed to that radioactive energy under the right conditions.” “Crap,” spat Drury. “That’s all we need.” “The murder of General Vincento and the kidnapping of Sir Mumphrey Wilton and Ms Ashling may also be related,” ventured one intelligence weenie. “Of course it wus related,” Drury thundered. “Vincento wus sellin’ technical secrets from back-engineered alien an’ extradimensional gear to the highest bidder. We think that bidder wus Fokker. What we don’t know is who kakked Vincento or why. The MO of stomping him flat was characteristic of Musk Ox or Anvil Man but both’a them are still jugged up in th’ Safe after their Badripoor picnic.” He drew a long breath from his cigar in defiance of SPUD helicarrier regulations. “Fortunately, Fokker kidnapped Wilton so we’ll be getting’ more developments on that score pretty soon I’m guessin’.” “You expect to receive a ransom demand, sir?” “I expect Mumph to raise nine kinds of holy hell an’ make ‘em wish they’d never crawled outta their mothers. And then he’ll call the LL ter get absolutely mediaeval on HERPES’ collective asses. And then they’ll call me and I’ll get to kick Fokker’s skinny butt all over again. Sometimes life is good.” “But Wilton is Fokker’s prisoner.” “Sure.” The SPUD Director ignored his intelligence division and turned to his special technical advisor, millionaire industrialist Jamie Bautista. “Whut do we know about makin’ transnuclear weapons?” “We have the theory but not the capability,” the Filipino inventor answered. “A nuclear weapon is a catastrophic breakdown of atoms, cascading outwards with a consequent energy effect. A transnuclear weapon somehow controls that breakdown, allowing the effects to be shaped as programmed. It can be made to be directional, or to explode at specific wavelengths, or even to burn up most of its own after-radiation. The area northwest of Gothametropolis that was transnuked is even showing signs of vegetable and animal growth again now. Mostly giant mutant locusts, I admit, but it’s a start.” “But we can’t make these things yet?” “The key seems to be coding the atoms with extradimensional energies,” Jamie explained. “We don’t have the equipment to do that. Well, maybe Al B. Harper could come up with something, but he’s not into weapons manufacture.” “We’re hearin’ a rumour that maybe ZOXXON Oil have something they salvaged from the Technopolis War,” worried Drury. “That’s certainly possible,” Bautista admitted. “It looks like all the pieces are in place for someone to become the world’s first Transnuclear Power.” Vosna was a city of contrasts, a mix between Moscow and a village of mud huts. Parts of it had stunning old architecture, but all the new additions were in brutal concrete. Hatman’s best guess placed it where Quebec would be in his own native Canada. “I’d expected the landscape to be the same,” he told Zdenka as they travelled through the city towards the people’s glorious airport and chicken farm. “The same as my country, I mean. They’re both variants of the same land, separated by a single retcon.” “In Candia the difference is geological,” the local girl replied. “Many thousands of years ago, tectonic changes, yes? Some parts of Candia sink, to be mud swamps. Others rise to be mountains, make different weather. People walk over land bridge in great frozen north and settle here.” She glanced over to where Comrade Borin was watching her talking with the foreigner. “Then comes glorious people’s revolution,” she added hastily. “And then the Hooded Hood’s daughter used one of the retcons she’d stolen to drop Candia where Canada is, so that the two timelines coexist in the same space but different histories,” Hatman sighed. The American limousine he was travelling in now was a stark contrast to the horse-drawn agricultural vehicles that blocked all but the Party Traffic Only lanes of the capital’s throughfares. Jay wondered how intentional the shaping of this particular society had been in the cowled crime czar’s twisted mind. “There are some fascinating dimensional ramifications of the dual-narrative causality,” the Shoggoth bubbled enthusiastically. “For example, not all the roads that lead from the USA to Candia work all the time. There’s a kind of dimensional tidal effect that seems to stem from…” “So what do you know of these transnuclear weapons?” Dr Roentgen interrupted rudely. “How are they produced?” “Dr Roentgen was Candia’s foremost nuclear physicist before his… self-modifications,” Comrade Borin explained. “I’m not an expert on producing weapons of mass destruction,” Hatman admitted. “Only shutting them down.” “Your enthusiasm for undercover sex is going to get us killed,” Sam Wilson warned Julia Thompson. “Hey, you can leave the janitor’s cupboard any time you want, hero,” Pigeon told him. “But somehow I don’t think you’re going any where for… a little… while… longer… Ahhhhhhhh.” Around five minutes later, when he could speak again, Falcon said, “So what’s the big security coup this time? Or were you just getting a bit mission-horny and felt the need for a little relief?” “You’re not so great that I would risk breaking cover just to meet you in a closet, lover.” “Sure I am. But I’d like to think we were doing this secret agent stuff for more than the sex thrills.” “It’s just a fringe benefit, having a lover along on the deep cover cases,” Julia assured Sam. “Besides, I bet you’ve already leaked to the other security guards that you’re banging the boss’s PA. I’ve had other offers.” “Makes sense to establish an alibi if I get caught in the secure zones,” Falcon shrugged. “Besides, my character Trenton Clay’s a bit of a dick when it comes to boasting about girls.” “Sure he is. Anyway, listen. I think I’m one step closer to finding out who’s behind Fokker and where the big refining plant is based. There’s a secret meeting tonight on the top floor. Can you make sure you’re point man on the security detail?” “Panchez and Brogan won’t mind catching the game instead. But I’ll need an excuse.” “Use me. As the excuse I mean. Tell them you’re… using me.” “Yeah, that’d work. Okay, so we try to listen in on Hole’s little rendezvous?” “We have to. Things are going too fast, Sam. I don’t like the way this stuff is headed. Um, did you see where my panties went?” The people’s glorious uranium mines were up in the northwest, somewhere between what would have been the Yukon and the Mackenzie Mountains if this had been Canada. The different climate here had made this land into great salt-mud flats, and this was the flooding season. Huge turbines had to work constantly to drain the deep quarries gouged out of the landscape. Thousands of ragged workers slaved away with picks and shovels to drag ore fragments from the soggy earth. It was the slaving away part that annoyed the Manga Shoggoth. “These people are being worked to death,” he bubbled ominously, beginning to seep through the bandages that kept him in humanoid shape. “They are mostly starved and they are working in unsafe conditions, unprotected from the ambient radiation levels in the area which will have unpleasant side effects on the human physiology in the long term.” “These are dissidents,” Comrade Borin assured the elder beast. “These are people,” Hatman chimed in. “We’re not here to judge Candian society though, are we?” Amber St Clare cut in hastily. “We’re here for a more urgent mission, remember?” “There is no more urgent mission than teaching you humans to start being human,” the Shoggoth gurgled. “Slavery is wrong, and these people should be released right now.” “Or what?” Dr Roentgen asked dangerously. “Or I shall take over your country and displace the mortals who are responsible for this with others who understand how to treat each other better,” the Shoggoth explained. “So perhaps you could lead us to your administration block so we can check mining manifests against shipping schedules?” Amber asked brightly. “Wouldn’t that be nice? Let’s go. Right now.” “An’ I say we gotta bust her out,” Trickshot repeated, trying to keep his voice down. He wasn’t afraid of being discovered as an undercover superhero posing as a new trainee at Jethro Screwdriver’s Caribbean training school for supervillain minions. He just didn’t want the rep of being the kind of guy who met other guys in the communal shower block in the middle of the night. “Lisa’s fine where she is for now,” Messenger told the irritating archer. “Things were getting a little bit hot between her and HuntingJustice DeathMarrow and the Captor popped a clip of neural tranquillisers into her head. Now she’s in solitary confinement till she’s paid her dues.” “She’s in a four foot square metal cage in the courtyard,” Trickshot pointed out. “This is Bridge Over the River Kwai stuff.” “Lisa can handle herself, and I say that with the shudder it deserves. But we still have to find a way into the computer files here and take a look at Screwdriver’s client list. We need to know where the last class of goons was sent, because…” “Because that’s likely the place where the bad guys are tryin’ ta brew up a nasty transnuclear weapon, yeah. I was at the briefing. So why the hell aren’t we tooling up and beating the snot outta the Captor and his little god-of-archers pal before somebody recognises Lisa or something?” “Nobody’s going to recognise Lisa with this many clothes on,” the postman answered reasonably. “And if we start doing full-on attacks somebody’s just going to hit the emergency file delete button and we’re back to square one. We have to do this sneaky, and we have to find a way in to the secure admin suite. What we need is…” “The keys and a security pass?” Lisa asked, slipping out of the shadows to join them. “What, you thought I was going to stay cooped in that box while you had all the fun?” “Okay, spill it,” Trickshot demanded. “Howd’ya get outta that tin box?” “Oh please. The guards let me out as soon as it got dark. I think they intended to have their wicked way with me. They really should have asked first, and then I might have let them. As it is it must be a bit crowded in that box right now.” “Fine. But we still have no way of getting…” “I summons Fleabot” said Lisa, and suddenly Visionary’s robotic flea companion was right there on her hand. “About time,” Fleabot said. “I was getting worried. Well, bored.” He released a wave of mass-changing particles to restore the bow and quiver and the razor letters and parcel bombs he carried back to their full size. “Now I summons base computer manager Hiram Levi,” the first lady of the Lair Legion declared. “Messy, see if you can convince Hiram to loan you his key-card and to co-operate on things like retina scans, will you?” “Hello, Hiram,” loomed the Messenger. “Welcome to the team.” Around 5.40am Hatman was woken by a knock at his cabin door. He grabbed his Steelers cap and answered the summons. Zdenka Zarazoza was there, dressed in a jogging suit. Her breath steamed in the pre-dawn chill. “May I come in?” she asked in her husky accent. Jay stepped back to let her into the cabin. “Good morning,” he said to Rabid Wolf. “An early run?” “Yes,” agreed the Candian superhero. “I wondered if you would like to join with me?” “Um…” “For the run?” “Oh, sure. I’ll just grab a jacket or something. And some pants maybe.” “I will wait.” Zdenka looked down at the pile of hats Jay had laid out on the sideboard. “You have hat of Minnesota Timberwolves?” she asked. “Oh sure,” came back Jay’s voice from the bathroom. “Third pile from your left, fifth cap down.” When he came out ready for jogging he found the slim Candian beauty modelling the hat in question. “Is very good,” she told him. “I may have this, please? As gift? To keep?” “I guess I can always get another one,” Hatman told her. “Thank you,” Zdenka told him. “What happens when you wear of hat?” “Well, I take on the properties of whatever cap I wear. When I use the Timberwolves cap I get kind of hairy and my senses improve for tracking and stuff.” Zdenka handed him the cap she’d been wearing. “Try of it now,” she suggested. Jay pulled on the black cloth hat with the growling wolf logo. It was a different experience to usual. He felt his body shifting to new shapes before finally compromising on something he could best describe as punk Lon Chaney. “Of course,” he growled. “Now it’s your hat, so I’m taking on your shape.” “Not yet,” Zdenka frowned. “Let us try this also.” She leaned over and touched her lips to Hatman’s forehead. And suddenly he was a wolf, a great black predator, senses ablaze, full of wild energy. “Is better,” Zdenka approved, admiring the capped crusader’s lupine magnificence. She casually shifted into a silver she-wolf of equal beauty. “Now we shall have our run,” she said. “You are a dead man already, Wilton,” Count Wolfgang Fokker told the leader of the Lair Legion. “I am looking forward to slaughtering you with my own bare hands. But the girl… you can spare the girl a horrible fate if you will tell me what I wish to know.” “Is he for real?” Asil asked Mumphrey. “Does he think his sad Nazi act is going to be scary? I was held prisoner by the Hellraisers.” “He’s a rather out-of-date villain now,” Sir Mumphrey admitted. “I’m starting to feel a bit sorry for these pathetic chaps that haven’t got the idea that the world stamped on Nazism sixty years ago and that sorry little ideology has no place in modern civilisation.” “Take me seriously, Englishman. You are trapped deep in our most secret headquarters, our greatest and most terrible Squidship. You have no means of escape, no weapons, no secret plans. You and your woman are utterly at my mercy. One way or another you or she will tell me who killed General Vincento.” “Well we might have found that out,” Asil pointed out, “if you hadn’t sent that ridiculous assassin to kidnap us from our investigation.” “Well since you’ve gone to all this trouble to bring us here I suppose you might as well answer a few questions for us,” Mumphrey told the Supreme HERPES. “Vincento smuggled information to you about the location of alien technology, what?” “I ask the questions, Wilton!” Fokker screamed. “You don’t know the questions to ask,” Asil pointed out. “Just go along with us for now. You can torture us later.” “Vincento sold us the locations where certain equipment was stored,” the terrorist leader sulked. “The hordes of HERPES then retrieved it and used it to develop our awesome arsenal, which shall one day soon give us ascendancy over the world!” “Did he give you the specifications for that Technopolis machinery Al B. Harper modified for the Wastelands force-field?” asked Asil. “Yes, but we sold the information on to Factor X as part of an exchange deal. I hear he hired those robot nuisances to raid the radiations there.” “Did the General direct you to the isotope-refining machinery that can transform uranium into material suitable for transnuclear weapons?” demanded Sir Mumphrey. “Yes,” agreed Fokker. “He did all that he was told. We had certain photographs and videotapes…” “Not interested in your sordid hobbies, Fokker,” Mumph told him. “But I am interested in why someone wanted to deny you access to that kind of technology.” “SPUD was beginning an investigation into the amount of technology thefts from supposedly secure and secret bases,” Asil offered. “Perhaps somebody wanted to keep Vincento quiet?” “Show me the amounts you paid him,” Mumphrey demanded suddenly. He studied the files Fokker reluctantly opened for him and snorted. “Asil, look at these accounts. Didn’t Bookman trace rather more money than this entering the general’s Cayman Islands retirement fund?” “Rather more,” agreed Mumphrey’s amanuensis. “So Vincento was selling his secrets to more than one customer.” And just like that Sir Mumphrey Wilton knew at least one way that Musk Ox or Anvil Man could murder Carlos Vincento in cold blood and still have them back in their Safe cell by sunup; and who that meant had ordained the general’s death. “You are up early,” Comrade Borin remarked worriedly as he came down to breakfast (the people’s turnip porridge) and found the Manga Shoggoth pouring over account legers and mining logs. The political officer was supposed to keep an eye on these foreign metahumans. He’d argued that he would need more than two of the CloPCrAps to do that, but he’d been over-ruled. “I don’t sleep,” the Shoggoth pointed out. “Sleep is for Fairly Great Old Ones.” Borin found the spoonful of porridge he’s just taken make a bid to come back up. “Where is Dr Roentgen?” he asked. Roentgen was assigned to keep tabs on the Shoggoth. “He is in People’s Mine #91-D, arguing about worker safety and the long term effects of radiation poisoning on the human genome,” the Shoggoth answered. “His dialectic is somewhat faulty and based upon inherent and unfounded prejudice. His mind is not as brilliant as he believes it to be.” “Dr Roentgen is supposed to be here,” Borin frowned. “He is supposed to be working with you.” “He is,” the Shoggoth said cheerfully. “I am with him at People’s Mine #91-D. I am pointing out the flaws in his arguments to him.” “You… are in two places at one time?” Comrade Borin started to see a place for himself in People’s Mine #91-D, complete with the glorious people’s pick and shovel. “Time is a human concept,” the elder being explained. “I can show you how meaningless it is if you wish, but then most humans prefer to go to small cubicles with soft walls and exercise by jumping off them for many years. I am with Dr Roentgen in People’s Mine #91-D. I am with Senior Engineer Nuvalov in People’s Mine #29-F. I am with the collective workers who quarry People’s Mine #67-C. I am with the files clerk in the Department of Heavy Metals Production. Are you choking on that porridge, Comrade Borin?”” The junkyard outside Goth Haven was a graveyard of agricultural machinery, piled high waiting for the crusher. Yuki Shiro found the shabby trailer cabin that doubled as office and home for the site’s operator, Gears Grogan. “You’re insane, kid,” the rusting old robot told her, squeaking as he reached for another cigar from a battered box on his cluttered desk. “A nice piece of equipment like you don’t want to get involved with the Machine Shop.” “Why not?” Yuki demanded. “I’m strong and fast, top spec when it comes to physical tasks. And I want to do something for the robot cause.” “Master Machine don’t care squat about the robot cause, sweetcogs,” Gears warned her. “Oh, I know what they say about him at the roadhouse after a few heavy-weight oil fractions and lots of cheap battery acid. But really the only cause that hardchip’s interested in is Master Machine.” “Humans and robots can’t interact together like this forever,” Yuki said, continuing her cover of a slightly naive young mechanical rights fanatic. “Somebody has to do something. I want to join the Machine Shop.” “Nobody ‘joins’ the Machine Shop, toots, so don’t get all lubed at the idea. “Industrial Machine designs ‘em custom-like, each one unique with their own special abilities. It’s not the Girl Scouts. You can’t just join up.” “I heard…” the cyborg P.I. whispered, “I heard that sometimes they accept a promising robot and… adapt them?” “If it’s adaptation you’re lookin’ for, hot-circuits, I got some kit here that’ll get your subroutines running.” Yuki sneered at the rusting scrap robot. “I doubt if you could even get your piston working. Look, they said at the truck stop that you had contacts with the Machine Shop. I want to talk to Master Machine. I want to get an interview. If you can’t help me….” Gears looked discerningly at the petite instrument leaning over his desk. “Well, I guess I know a phone number,” he conceded. “What are you willing to do to earn it off me?” “Well,” Yuki said seductively, “I could not rip your head off for starters, then rip your circuits out one by one while spreading your wiring across the floor like tangled spaghetti, and we could take it from there.” “That was incredible!” Jay Boaz pulled off the Timberwolves cap and dropped panting to the ground. Rabid Wolf shifted back to her human form and dropped down beside him, laughing. “It was,” she agreed. “There is nothing like a run in the mountains in the fresh early morning.” “I mean, being a wolf. It felt like I could run and run forever. Everything was so… real. I could smell and see and hear the whole world.” “It is fine thing to see world from other perspective, yes?” Hatman grinned at his companion. “I guess it is. Thanks, Zdenka. That’s one run I’ll always remember.” “Is not finished yet,” the shapechanger promised him. “So far I do not think you are liking Candia. You see very poor people in very poor houses doing hard work, lorded over by very rich people who tell poor people they are being rich for the poor people’s benefit. You see big scar in Earth where prisoners dig through freezing mud for radioactive stones. But that is not Candia.” “That’s part of Candia,” Jay warned her. “And it’s not a nice part, and it doesn’t do your nation credit.” “I agree,” Zdenka admitted. “But this is also Candia. Look.” And the sun came up over the icefield and painted the mountains. The salt lakes and distant forests lit up as if on fire. The snows shone luminously as they greeted the dawn. “This is Candia,” Zdrugo Zvestny sighed. “My Candia.” They watched the sunrise in silence for a while, then Jay asked, “So are you a mutate or what? You can change into a wolf at will…?” Zdenka shrugged. “A goddess, I think. I was found as a baby in the far north on a night when the Lights danced low in the skies. I can take shape of any native animal of Candia. But not so many people are impressed if I call myself Dung Beetle.” “I guess not.” Her face became more serious. “Do not judge my country by those small men who keep the people in fear. One day that will change, and then you will see what we really are.” “I don’t like tyrants,” Hatman admitted. “Nor I. But if I and the other… superheroes, yes? If I and other superheroes of the Apparatchiks get together and overthrow government, who is going to be next government? Will be just as bad soon. Until people here learn to want better government. Then is time to get rid of what we have now. But people are still learning.” She smiled at Jay. “That is my way of saying please do not topple the Commissar, Mr Hatman of the Lair Legion.” “Okay,” the capped crusader agreed. “But your country does need changing.” “My people are not bad people,” Zdenka assured him. “They are poor and uneducated, yes, but they love their children and they take care of each other. Is more generous to give when you have so little to give, yes? But they give. Is more hard to love when so many bad things are happening to you, but they love. Are not those things I should be proud of?” “I think they are,” Jay agreed. “So,” the goddess of the north said in a satisfied tone. “Now tell me of Canada, and of the whole world.” Hatman realised that Zdenka Zarazoza had never been outside her native land. “You’re not allowed to travel abroad?” “Is not possible,” Rabid Wolf told him. “We are not allowed contamination by outsiders. Because of our special geography we do not get American TV broadcasts or any other decadent communications except World Weekly News. And the people’s heroes are rarely given permission to leave Candia.” “You could come to Paradopolis, as an exchange visitor. They sent Captain Mud.” “Dmitri is a special case,” Zdenka answered. “He is most trusted Apparatchik. Also, he is not too bright, yes? Comrade Borin and the others, they think that I think too much.” “Nobody can think too much,” Hatman answered. Zdenka’s smile was like the Candian sunrise. “I think I would like visit to Paradopolis, even if it meant then being kidnapped and dissected by your military-industrialist complex to learn Candian secrets. I would like to see Twin Parody Tower. They say it is over five stories tall.” “Oh yes,” Jay agreed. “Quite a bit over.” The woman looked back down at the distant uranium mines. “We had better be getting back. Comrade Borin will be getting suspicious.” “Are we going to run as wolves again?” Hatman asked, dragging on his – Zdenka’s – Timberwolves cap. “Is fastest way. Is best way.” “I’m game.” “Good.” Zdenka kissed him on the forehead again; and then she kissed him on the lips. “They’re in there?” Sam Wilson demanded as he joined Julia in the top floor reception area of ZOXXON Oil’s Houston skyscraper. “Hole went in alone. But he’s talking to somebody.” “Okay. Let me just deal with the rest of security and then we’ll take a look.” It was a simple matter to approach the other guards and take them down with a close-range neural relaxant. The security men would lapse into a mild sedated state, literally asleep on their feet, for the better part of an hour. “Right,” Falcon told Pigeon. “Let’s go see who the big bad is this week.” The doors of the conference room opened as they approached them. The big bad looked out at them. “That,” said the Hooded Hood, “would be me. Good evening Mr Wilson, Ms Thompson.” “Oh s*&$,” said Pigeon. “Suddenly it all makes sense,” Falcon realised. “Major baddies jumping to work together, devious fallback plans when the good guys interrupt part of the plot, left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing. It was you!” “Indeed,” agreed the cowled crime czar. “And congratulations on coming so close to intercepting my gambit. I’m sure Montiver had no idea he has two of SPUD’s top agents in deep cover so very close to his side. “Shereen?” gasped Hole. “But you let me…” “You let him what?” Falcon scowled at his girlfriend. “I was in character,” Pigeon hissed back. “Anyway, I hardly noticed.” “But… but…” stammered the CEO of ZOXXON. “Guards!” “The guards will have been neutralised,” the Hooded Hood advised him. “Falcon and Pigeon are very efficient. Unfortunately, in this case they have stumbled onto a truth I would prefer was not made known to their SPUD employers.” “Too bad,” Falcon told the archvillain. “Pigeon, run. I’ll hold him off while…” The Hooded Hood’s eyes flashed greenly, and Falcon was gone. “What did you do?” Julia demanded. “Bring him back!” “I have removed him from the board,” the Hooded Hood replied, “until such a time as I elect to bring him back.” “Bring him back now!” Pigeon backed her words with a compact .22 drawn from her handbag. “I think not. However, if you wish it I can send you to be with your lover where he is waiting.” “I have a mission to do, buster. Sam comes second.” “I will ensure that he is aware of your decision,” the Hood replied, then retconned Pigeon to be with Falcon. “Now Mr Hole, I believe we were discussing delivery schedules…” Next time: Lisa vs HuntingJustice DeathMarrow! Trickshot vs Apollo, demigod of archers! Messenger vs the Captor! Mumphrey vs Baron Fokker! Yuki vs the Machine Shop! And Hatman continues to liase with Rabid Wolf! Things tend to blow up, in Breaking Cover (And a Lot of Other Things). A Riddle Wrapped in a Conundrum Wrapped In a Footnote: The People’s Fraternal Republic of Candia is a very large, muddy nation, renowned for its barren, inhospitable landscape. Its hard-working, sheep-like population of 134 million are kept under strict control by the oppressive administration, which measures its success by the nation's GDP and refers to individual citizens as “human resources.” The enormous, corrupt government - a sprawling, bureaucracy-choked morass – exists only to carry out the absolute commands of the Commissar and the Party Elite. The private sector is led by the mud export business, followed by voleskin products and uranium mining. Guns are banned, citizens are barcoded to keep track of their movements, and crime is totally unknown, thanks to the all-pervasive police force and progressive social policies in nailing offenders to the doors of public libraries. Candia's national animal is the dung beetle, which is also the nation's favourite main course and which teeters on the brink of extinction due to widespread deforestation. It’s currency is the Looney. The Lair Legion first visited Candia in UT#108: Candia, My Candia. Candia’s greatest hero, Captain Mud, visited Paradopolis in Dancer’s UT##109½: Captain Mud Joins the Lair Legion. The Falcon (Sam Wilson) and Pigeon (Julia Thompson) are deep-cover agents for the Super-Menace Principle Undercover Directorate (SPUD). Falcon is a former Legionnaire. Falcon and Pigeon have been infiltrating ZOXXON to get the goods on Montiver Hole since their departure after Untold Tales #201. Unfortunately, they won’t be reporting any time soon. Falcon leaves behind a teenage sister, Lindy Wilson. Fleabot is a prototype spying device created by Dr Vizhnar for Baron Heinrich Zemo, but has long since broken his programming and become a companion to Visionary (and recently, an occasional advisor in the rogue nation-state of Badripoor). Fleabot has a limited ability to generate size-changing particles. 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 © 2005 reserved by Ian Watson. Other Parodyverse characters copyright © 2005 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. |
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