Elfshot (a Machine of Death short story)

The Duke of Oxford’s events were the highlight of the season, and this year’s Midsummer’s Ball was no exception. For one night, the low earthworks that were all that remained of Uffington Castle were transformed into a fairy-tale marvel of gypsy caravans, Arabian pavilions and enchanted forests. A giant beanstalk of brass and paper rose in the centre of the castle, bearing multicoloured lanterns in its branches. Beneath it was a silken canopy, under which a raised dance floor had been set. A hidden orchestra played a selection of waltzes as the lords and ladies in attendance twirled across the floor. Perfectly groomed young men slid gracefully through the throng, always ready with a tray of the finest champagne, or delicious morsels cooked by the finest chefs outside of London.

It was magical, but I’d seen behind the curtain. I’d been there when the scores of sweating men dragged the beanstalk up the hill. I heard the curses as it swayed, the arguments and hammering as the dance floor was set up, the muttered prayers that the rain would stay away, at least until the canopy was in place. Like all things in life, magic could only be bought with sweat and blood.

I, along with the other members of Gideon Darke’s Cavalcade of Curiosities, had been engaged for the evening to provide the entertainment at the edges of the ball. We were there to amuse those who had not the inclination for dancing, or those who wished their diversions with a sharper edge.

For Oxford’s events were legendary, not for their opulence, though no expense was spared, but for the way they rode the line between what was, and what wasn’t proper. And if they sometimes crossed that line, well, there were benefits to being exceptionally wealthy and second in line to the throne of England.

Our camp was set up at the edge of the earthworks, as far away from the centre as could be while still being within the walls. I wandered the edges of the camp, and the fringes of the ball proper along with my fellow freaks, jugglers, stilt-walkers, acrobats and clowns. Those curiosities who couldn’t walk, or were of a more exotic nature, stayed safe in their tents, while their barkers lured in the punters.

Food and drink flowed freely, though not the dainty fair offered on silver platters closer to the centre. Here you could get whiskey, beer, absinthe, and other, stranger and stronger intoxicants. (If you knew the smell, your nose could easily lead you to the hashish and opium tents.) The food looked like rough peasant fare, whole roast chickens, bread torn in chunks from the loaf and served on tin, sausages and haunches of venison, turned on the spit. But make no mistake; this was no more peasant food than the guests who wandered around were peasants. I was looking forward to gorging on the leavings when all the fine folk had gone home.

I had my cards, tied up in silk. I had my basket, full of sprigs of “lucky” clover, picked that morning in the fields at the bottom of the Ridgeway. I wore heavy brass rings in my ears, with more clanking on my wrists. My eyes were kohled, and my skirts trimmed with coins that clinked as I walked. And I wore my shawl low, displaying the tops of my breasts and the black text of my mark.

I approached a group, like I had many times that evening. They were the usual mix of young ladies in white muslin, some newly out for the season and no more than fifteen, and young men in an assortment of uniforms.  I readied my patter.

                “Lucky clover, ladies and gentlemen? Or perhaps a glimpse of what the future holds?”

One of the girls gasped, and clutched for her friend’s hand.

                “Her mark,” she whispered.

A young man stepped closer to peer at my chest.

                “Elfshot,” he read. “Is it real?”

                “Of course, milord,” I replied. “What else would you expect for the mark of a seventh child of a seventh child? A month after I was born I vanished from my cradle, only to be found, calm and at peace, asleep in the centre of a fairy ring.”

                “Are you meaning to tell me you’re some sort of changeling?” he scoffed.

I looked steadily at him, then shifted my eyes slightly down to his chest. Along with many others that night, he had chosen to display the latest, most daring fashion. On his chest, in graceful, curling script, was the words “Honour”.

It took no second sight to know that, unlike my own mark, his would come off with the application of soap and water.

The honourable gentleman sniffed in disgust at me, and the group moved on. But before they passed from earshot I clearly heard the first girl tell another:

                “How thrilling this is, meeting these common criminals!”

                “But dearest,” her friend trilled. “These are the uncommon ones!”

I’d heard variations on those words ever since the magistrate had handed down judgement for the pocket I’d been caught picking on the Prom. I was lucky, the Machine prediction had given me a whole new life as a fortune-teller with Gideon Darke’s freaks. I just wished the court tattooist hadn’t been so drunk when he needled my fate into my skin in clumsy letters.

I worked the crowd, a fortune told here, a sprig of clover there. To amuse myself I’d look at the guests with painted marks on their chests and decide their true fates.

I read a future of wealth and auspicious marriage for a lady of an age perilously close to old maid. She wore “Love” on her collarbones. (“Laudanum” thought I.)

A young military officer, showing off in his uniform and wearing “Gloriously in battle” looked straight through me. (“Pox”, I decided.) His companion, a simpering chit of a thing, wore white lace and “Broken Heart”. (“Consumption”)

The sun was setting, and long shadows lay across the fields below the castle, when the Master found me.

                “Oxford has asked to meet you,” he told me. “He’s curious about your mark, and wants it tested.”

I sighed.

                “I hope he’s paying well for the privilege.”

                “Oh, he is, m’girl,” said Gideon. “And you’ll get your share. Just don’t get his back up.”

His Royal Highness, the Duke of Oxford and another man were drinking in the tent where, until a few moments ago, dancing girls had been contorting with veils in front of a lustful audience. In the centre of the tent a table had been set, with the Machine resting on it. It looked out of place there, amidst the fine surroundings, worn and battered amidst the luxury.

Gideon introduced me:

                “Your Royal Highness, your Grace, may I present Myfanwy, Oracle, seventh child of a seventh child and marked as Elfshot.”

I swept as graceful a curtsey as my heavy skirts would allow.

                “Thank you, Darke,” said Oxford. “You may go.”

The master bowed, and left. I stood there, feeling suddenly nervous. Both men stared at me with an intensity I found uncomfortable.

Oxford was young, slender and very handsome. His companion was older, big and solidly built.

                “How much of all that is true?” the other man asked.

                “As much as is required, your Grace,” I said.

He stood and walked around me, studying me. I felt small and fragile.

                “What’s your real name, girl?” he said.

He looked closely at my face.

                “It really is Myfanwy, your Grace.”

He reached out to take my hand, turning it over, looking at the palm, tracing the lines of scars on my fingertips.

 

                “Welsh eh?”

“Yes, sir, from Aberystwyth”.

His breath smelled of whiskey.

“And are you really the seventh child of a seventh child?”

                “Don’t know, sir.”

                “Foundling, eh?”

He touched my hair, rolling the strands between his fingers.

I nodded.

                “Well, one thing’s for sure, you’re no changeling. No such thing as fairies, right?”

He stood in front of me, staring.

                “No, sir.”

He touched my mark, running his fingers over it. I held my breath.

                “After all, it’s the age of rationality now, isn’t it? Science reveals all mysteries in the end, does it not?”

I nodded again, not trusting myself to speak. I clutched the handle of my basket, knuckles going white. Not again, I thought, please, not again. Not even for all the money Gideon was promised.

                “Oh, do stop tormenting the girl, Monmouth,” said the Duke of Oxford. “I don’t care if she’s a changeling, or a dancing girl from Xanadu. I just want to see her take the test, and verify that mark.”

                “Yes, your Highness,” said Monmouth, and he sat.

I took a breath, the first one in what felt like hours.

                “Mr Darke, you may come in,” Oxford called. “And you, young lady, you may sit.”

I sat as properly as I could on a cushioned bench while a good dozen of the Cavalcade workers were put to the test with Gideon’s Machine. The Master held his tongue at this mistrust, but I could see his annoyance in the set of his shoulders. He’d obviously been very well paid indeed.

Finally, it was my turn. But I wasn’t allowed near the Machine, instead a drop of blood was taken from my inner elbow by hypodermic needle and squirted into the machine where my finger would have gone. This came as somewhat of a relief, as the blade in the Machine that drew blood was old and blunt, and hurt more and more each time.

Monmouth took the piece of card from the dispensing slot and handed to the Duke without comment. He took a quick look at it, and set it to the side.

                “So,” he said. “It appears that at least your mark is true.”

I held my tongue.

                “You may read the cards for me,” he said. “Monmouth, you and Darke may leave.”

I felt my eyes widen in surprise. Monmouth paused, as if to protest, then shrugged his shoulders and left. The Master followed suit, but not before picking up the dead weight of the Machine to carry with him.

                “Do what you need to prepare for the reading,” Oxford commanded.

I set a chair opposite the Duke, with the small table that had recently held the Machine between us. I untied the silk cloth from around my cards and laid it on the table, placing the cards in a neat pile, face down, in the middle of the silk.

                “Are you ready, your Highness? Are you ready to pierce the veil of the future and see what is to come?” I asked.

He sighed.

                “Please dispense with the theatrics. I have seen the greatest actors in the world, and, charming though you are, you cannot compare.”

I blushed, chastened.

                “Yes, your Royal Highness. If it please your Highness, shuffle the cards in whatever manner you see fit, while thinking of the question you would see answered.”

He shuffled them desultorily, placed them on the silk. I took them up in my hands and turned the first over.

                “The first card,” I said, “shows the past. How things were.”

It was the Fool, jauntily walking, head in the clouds, oblivious to the fact that he was about to step off a cliff.

                “The Fool, representing cleverness without reason, the inner child, the dreamer and the seeker of beauty. In the past, you have been searching and dreaming, walking a precipice and not falling, poised between one world and the next.

                “The second card shows the present, how things are.”

I turned it over. The Fool. That wasn’t right. There was only one Fool in the deck, and this was my deck, not a trick one.

I turned the third card over without words. Again, the Fool. My hand twitched, and I dropped the whole deck, spilling the cards on the table and the floor. All the faces were the same, all the Fool.

I looked at the Duke. He watched me closely, like a cat watches a mouse.

                “What have you done to my cards?” My voice shook.

                “You may address me as ‘your Highness’,” he replied. His voice held an edge, a warning.

I stifled the urge to laugh like a crazy woman. This was the Duke of Oxford, second son of the Queen of England, not some street corner conjurer or card sharp.

 A man who could have me locked up in Oxford Castle before I could blink with no other reason than his whim.

                “I beg your pardon, your Highness,” I said, forcing myself to at least act calmly. “But, my cards...”

I trailed off, looking down at them, so many spilled Fools.

                “I don’t see anything wrong with them,” Oxford replied calmly.

I looked again, and a wave of tears welled from my eyes. I blinked frantically to clear them, and when my sight returned, the cards lying scattered all had their original faces.

I slipped from my seat, bending down in a low curtsey and holding it.

                “Your Royal Highness, I do most humbly beg your forgiveness. I don’t know what came over me, and I am truly sorry.”

                “Oh, do get up,” he replied magnanimously.

“Sit back down and have a drink,” he ordered. He drained the whiskey in his glass, and refilled it from the bottle by his elbow, handing the glass to me.

I sat as commanded, and, after a moment’s hesitation, I drank. It burned like fire and tasted of ash. I tried not to make a face, but failed.

                “No, definitely not a changeling,” said the Duke to himself.

 “It is whiskey from my family’s cellar, aged one hundred and fifty years,” he continued “Those few who have been lucky enough to taste it find it intriguing, but your palate is obviously woefully uneducated.”

He was watching me intently, not blinking. I felt paralysed, hypnotised by his gaze.

                “It is called Elfshot,” he said.

I dropped the glass. I wave of heat swept over me and I gasped. I pushed the table over to the side as I staggered to my feet and backed away from him.

                “What have you done?” I whispered.

                “An experiment,” he replied.

My vision swam again, and I picked up my skirts and fled the tent. Straight into Monmouth’s arms.

He picked me up like a child, hand clasped over my mouth before I could scream. Ignoring my struggles, he carried me away from the festivities, out past the earthworks and into the darkness beyond. Down the hill a few paces to where the ancient form of the White Horse was carved into the chalk of the Ridgeway. He dropped me on its head.

I couldn’t breathe. I tried crawling away from him, the chalk of the White Horse cold under my hands. I only got a few feet away before I voided the contents of my stomach. Not enough, I was sure, and too late. Had Oxford poisoned me? Surely he was not so cruel as to deliberately trigger someone’s mark?

                “Why?” I croaked at Monmouth, who was still watching me.

He didn’t answer. The grass beneath me shook. The stars wheeled in crazy dances above me.

I collapsed back on the grass and waited to die. My breath slowed. My limbs grew cold.

So what if Oxford had poisoned me? Even if he wasn’t a crown prince by birth, by law no one could be tried for the death of someone who was marked, for their death was pre-ordained.

I could appreciate the irony, poisoned by a fancifully-named drink. My eyes closed. Time passed.

Monmouth nudged me with his foot, and my eyes snapped open.

                “Not dead from that,” he rumbled. “Pity.”

He turned on his heel and walked up the hill, leaving me there.

He was right. I wasn’t dead. And if I wasn’t, there was one thing I was sure of. I was going to get as far away from here as I could.

I pushed myself to my feet and looked past the White Horse, out to the road. It was fully dark, but the moonlight was bright enough so that I could be confident of what I was seeing. The fields that I had seen only that afternoon were gone. A vast forest covered the land below, stretching as far as I could see. There was no glimmer of any light from any of the villages that I knew were there.

I turned and looked back to Uffington Castle. The change here was even more dramatic. What had earlier been earthworks were now high stone walls. A vast tower stood in the centre, and the place blazed with light.

I had a choice. To take my chances in the forest, with only the clothes on my back. Or to look for answers amid the gaiety above.

A wolf howl echoed from the woods below.

I turned and walked back up the hill, towards the impossible castle.

Vast wooden and brass bound gates stood open, and I walked through. Darke’s tents still stood, pitched inside the courtyard, and guests and entertainers still mingled. But this time, scattered here and there amid the young ladies and their companions were far stranger figures.

In the centre of a group of young blades stood a man in heavy armour, with wild eyes and a red cap dripping blood down his face. A beautiful, very respectable lady hung on her companion’s arm with swan’s wings instead of arms. A young woman lay on her back on a bench, while her companion thrust industriously between her legs. His hairy legs had cloven hoofs and his little goat’s tail wagged excitedly in time with their movement. A few paces away a group of grey-skinned, twisted figures with enormous mouths urged each other on as they devoured a whole, raw, carcass of a pig.

No matter how much I blinked, or shook my head, these visions stayed.

I wandered through the castle. Naked figures, no bigger than my hand, and glowing with their own internal light, flew drunken zig zags around the crowd. A man with stag’s antlers on his brow cursed and waved them away as one dove for his drink.

The dance floor was set up in front of the main door of the tower. On the floor, normal people danced a genteel waltz while spinning, whirling, alien figures danced between them, mocking. The beanstalk clung to the walls of the tower like a climbing rose. As well as leaves of brass, silver, gold and coloured silk, it bore large, glowing bean pods. Human figures could be seen pressing against the inside of the pods.

 Sitting in state on a stage formed by several large beanstalk leaves was a figure who fairly reeked of power. His body was whipcord thin, his face angular cheekbones upswept and with a tilt to his eyes like a cat’s. And, like a cat’s, his eyes had no whites, with narrow slits for pupils. A golden crown swept his long hair up, and he wore flowing robes in iridescent white. In one hand he held a glass, the other rested on the handle of the sword that laid, naked-blade, on his lap.

Our eyes met, and we stared at each other for a long moment. With a start of recognition I realised, this was Oxford.

He raised his glass in a mocking toast to me, then turned to address the pair of ladies standing to his left.

His ears were pointed.

A word rose from the depths of my memories, from fairy tales whispered in the dark. Changeling.

But fairies didn’t exist!

I caught glimpse of the Master then, and I rushed over to him, heedless of the fact that he was deep in conversation with some guests.

                “Mr Darke,” I said, breathless. “Please, may I speak with you a moment.”

He carried on his conversation, as if he had not heard me. I spoke louder, to no avail. I grew bolder, reached out and shook his shoulder.

He absently brushed it, as if to shoo away a fly.

                “He can’t hear you,” spoke a female voice from behind me.

                “You’re not in his world anymore,” said another.

I recognised the voices; they were the girls who had been so thrilled to rub shoulders with criminals. But when I turned to look at them, they were the ladies who had spoken with Oxford. This close to them, I could see that they were beautiful and inhuman, with all the sharpness and elegance of a rapier. And they were identical in looks, down to the last freckle.

                “We’re lucky tonight, dearest,” said one.

                “Yes, we are,” agreed the other.

                “It’s not often we get a live human.”

They moved closer to me, one standing in each side. Once again I felt paralysed by their unblinking gaze.

                “Shame she’s not so pretty,” said one.

                “Oh now, be fair,” said the other. “I’ve heard she tells a good fortune.”

                “Shame she didn’t see her own,” the first giggled.

I found my voice.

                “What has happened to me?” I asked.

                “Why, you’ve eaten some of our food,” one said, laying one slender hand on my arm.

                “Or drank some of our drink,” said the other, mirroring the actions of her twin.

                “Once you’ve done that, you can never leave,” they said together.

                “Why?” I asked. I couldn’t think of anything else.

                “That’s why,” said one, waving a languid hand at my mark.

                “We couldn’t risk your fate coming true,” said the other.

                “So you’ll just disappear, and be forgotten,” said the first.

                “We wouldn’t want the humans finding out about us, would we dearest?”

                “No, dearest, it would take all the fun out of it.”

                “So, little human,” they said, wearing identical predatory smiles. “Welcome to Faerie.”

I wept then, distraught, and the fairy women licked the tears from my cheeks like they were nectar.

Sorcha McCall, 8^th July 2011

(submitted, but not chosen for inclusion in the Machine of Death Volume 2)

SAOS: Postscript:

      Ok, that's it. No more story. You can go now. Thanks for paying attention. I hope you enjoyed it.

      What, still here? It's over, quit hanging around!

      Sorry? Forgotten something? No, I haven't! I'm certain!

     

      No, I haven't. Look, there's nothing left for me to tell you here. Story's over. The End.

      I really mean it... I'm going to get upset in a minute. And you really wouldn't like that, now would you?

      Alright, what is it I'm supposed to have forgotten then?

      Ah...

      Um...

      Er...

      Ok, I'm really sorry, slipped my mind completely. When you're as old as I am, you forget things. Fact of life.

      Besides, you've already sussed out who I am, haven't you.

      Come on, admit it...

      Yup, you got it. But just to confirm, I'll sign off with my proper name. And thanks again folks, you've been a wonderful audience! Thank you, and good night!

                              With love and kisses,

                                    Richard

                              (aka "Snow White"

                               aka the young man in the glass cabinet

                               aka the second disk of mother-of-pearl)

                  THE END (and it really is this time. Honest.)

Post-post script:

      KIDS!!! Making clockwork creatures and using them to attempt to take over the world can be dangerous, and should only be attempted while under the supervision of a trained professional, or other suitable evil genius. Please do not try this at home!!!

*Post-post-post script:

      The management (and especially not the author!) accept no liability for any physical, emotional or psychological damage experienced as a result of reading this story. Readers are warned that they do so at their own risk. All of the above is fictional, and none of the characters were based on or were intended to be representations of real people (except possibly for the President of the United States, but let’s not tell the Secret Service, ok?).

      Filmed in glorious Technicolor, with original score and lyrics by the author, and Richard Wagner. Your mileage may vary. No purchase necessary. Stocks may go up as well as down. Always read the label. Subject to terms and conditions. Thank you for reading the small print, and have a nice day.

SAOS: Chapter Thirty: Epilogue

      So, you want to know what happens next then? Well, it'll all go a little something like this:

      The press will fall over themselves to convince everyone that Mr Cuckoo's announcement was a complete hoax, though they'll never manage to produce a perpetrator. The President of the United States will have a "heart attack" a few days later and will retire on the grounds of ill health.

      The Chinese restaurant, Scarlet Town will be shut down due to health code violations. The building will be reopened as a high class pet grooming establishment, which acts as a front for the Agency. Seeing as it's so conveniently situated, complete with underground hidden lair, the Agency will move its New York branch of operations there completely.

      Our heroes will discover that there are a huge pile of Agency operatives waiting for them, who will take Sam and Jeremy off their hands and send them home (not by first class though).

      Jeremy will be thoroughly debriefed, and then offered a job with the Agency's special equipment department. He will accept in gratitude, but will always be watched very carefully. Sam will have several meetings with an eminent canine psychologist, who will conclude that the effects of his possession are not permanent, and caused no lasting damage, except for perhaps making him slightly more intelligent than the average dog. She recommends that he be allowed go home as her tests have shown beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was coerced and really, truly is a good dog.

      It will take Spud several days and sixteen cans of white spirit to get the mime makeup off his face. His mother will be very pleased that he's finally cut his hair.

      Spud will make his report, which'll be written in runny ink on the back of a paper napkin from the in-flight meal. The front of the napkin will have some mushed banana sticking to it. He will get bawled out for sheer stupidity on any number of occasions, as well as failing to report in immediately he suspected a double agent in the Agency. And he'll also be given a medal and a promotion, but not a pay rise. He'll sulk about this for weeks.

      Spud will also develop an ingrown toenail, but will get it sorted out before it becomes fatal, after much nagging from Nics.

      Nics and Chas will go back to their lives, which will be as normal as they can be considering that she's a clockwork woman, and he's the reincarnation of a female spy. Nics will still have her phobia of mice, but both will show a healthy respect for ducks. The Agency will try to recruit them, but will be told in no uncertain terms to get stuffed.

      It will take both a few weeks to stop flinching every time they hear "The Ride of the Valkeries". Or see a clock.

      They will pay another visit to Sven Jorgensson, the silversmith, and thank him for the pendant that saved Nics' life. Sven will pat her kindly on the hand and pretend to know nothing at all about what she's talking about. They will also sit happily through the mice's new medley of Broadway show tunes. Chas will show especial appreciation for the one mouse who does a solo of "Fly me to the Moon", awarding him with a standing ovation and a large block of cheddar.

      Mr J. Bradford, the not-quite-deceased will pass away quietly in his sleep a few weeks after Mr Cuckoo's death. His funeral will be attended by his grieving family, a few friends and Agency operatives and Chas, Nics and Spud, who mainly are there to be absolutely certain that he is really dead (though they don't say this to any of the grieving family). The dog, Sam, newly adorned with a plain brown collar and silver name tag, will piss up the back of Mr Bradford's tombstone when no one is looking.

      No one will hear or see anything of the clockwork woman, Barbra Allen, or her golden lion or tarantula for a very long time.

      Nics' brother, the young man Richard stays with them for a little while, then strikes out on his own. But that's a different story. Nics' challenges her parents and discovers that yes, she was adopted. They have no idea of her special nature though. She will leave it that way.

      And one clear winter's morning, after a frosty night, Chas and Nics will be walking across the park near their home. And they'll watch a very smug duck paddle gently across the pond and off into the sunrise.

SAOS: Chapter Twenty Nine: Cuckoo's End, or, What Have I Told You About Playing With Fire?

      From the relative safety of the hole in the lab wall, the mouse with the disk of mother-of-pearl in its mouth watched as the Valkerie climbed to the very top of the back wall of the laboratory. Of course, there were no steps up to the ceiling, but that didn't stop her. She simply rammed each giant foot into the brick and concrete to make her own steps.

      The mouse twitched its whiskers anxiously as she lifted the giant hand still holding Spud and Chas, and drew it back to punch her way out through the ceiling. Once through it, she'd be free to roam unchecked through the city of New York, maybe even climbing a tall building or two, causing chaos.

      Some of the concrete dust trickled down to Nics' nose. At exactly the same moment as the Valkerie was about to connect with the ceiling, smashing Spud and Chas into a bloody pulp with the impact, Nics sneezed. And the roof exploded inward.

      The orchestra hidden behind the scenes burst into the full blown version of "the Ride of the Valkeries" drowning out the tinny music box tune that accompanied the robot wherever she went. And in time with the music, a squadron of highly trained attack ducks came flying through the ceiling and into the lab.

      There was no time at all to think before the attack ducks dropped a nasty surprise. Squadrons of parachuting mice got dropped from each duck, landing quickly and swarming over the clockwork dragons. At the same time a highly trained group of stealth rabbits shoved a very large, very slippery banana skin under the outstretched hand of the Valkerie as she reached for her next handhold.

      There was one single moment when the Valkerie's head eclipsed the sun as it shone directly into the cavernous lab below. Then her grip slipped, and frighteningly slowly she tumbled backwards into the lab. The two men in her grasp screamed, or at least the mouse assumed they did. It was a bit hard to hear over the noise of the orchestra.

      She landed hard on top of the pile of lab benches and tables that Nics had climbed up to reach the man in the glass case, and flattened them. Mice and ducks scattered out from underneath her, escaping. But many of the clockwork dragons weren't so lucky.

      Thinking quickly, Nics grabbed the body of the young man, and shoved him out of the way of the fight. He slid across the floor until he came to a stop, conveniently near the mouse hole, and the mouse with the second disk of mother of pearl.

      Jeremy was cowering in a corner, surrounded by ducks. Barbra and her lion were ignoring the ruckus, and were carefully picking up every last piece of the shattered tarantula.

      Mr Cuckoo was in shock completely, his hard metal eyes bugging out, and his skin pale as death. He lifted his head and yelled:

      "My creations, help me!"

      The red gem on Nics collar flashed, and she walked towards him, heedless of any of the mice or ducks in the way. Nics herself was near-catatonic in a state of total denial, muttering to herself:

      "Mice - no - no mice, no mice at all. It's all a bad dream!"

      She flinched as one ran over her foot, and started hyperventilating.

      A mouse suddenly shot out of the hidden orchestra pit, accompanied by a loud and totally out of key tuba blast. The orchestral music dissolved into cacophony and screams, before subsiding completely.

      The Valkerie's grasp had been loosened by the fall, enough so that Spud and Chas could scramble out. Chas dashed across her face to freedom, Spud tried the same, but was too slow. Her massive mouth opened underneath him and he fell into it. It snapped shut around him. Spud had been swallowed.

      The Valkerie heard Mr Cuckoo's command, and rose to a sitting position. She turned her head to look at her master, slowly, twitched and stopped.

      "Valkerie!" Mr Cuckoo screamed at her. "Come here!!!"

      She made one final twitch, and then there was nothing. It was like she was a bizarre form of modern art, rather than the working creature she'd been a few moments before.

      Mr Cuckoo gnashed his teeth in rage and swore at the mice and ducks around him. His golden clockwork dragons were being well and truly trashed by the mice and ducks (with the help of some of the stealth rabbits) and he himself was being steadily pushed away any points of escape, to the very centre of the lab.

      Nics and Barbra reached him. Sam, the gold tag on his collar flashing in the light had been snapping and growling at the mice. They'd been keeping a safe distance from him, but they still had him surrounded.

      At Mr Cuckoo's call, he looked up, and backing up a few paces he took a running jump over the ring of mice that held him prisoner. Only to be rugby tackled out of the air by Chas and knocked to the ground again.

      Sam growled, and struggled, and bit Chas hard on the arm. But while he was hanging on, Chas managed to use the other hand to tear the collar from around the dog's neck.

      The effect of this was immediate. Sam dropped Chas' arm instantly, and bowed down low on the floor, whimpering and showing his tummy. The red gem on the dog tag still flashed as Chas dropped it on the concrete floor and smashed it under one heel.

      He reached down and petted Sam gently. Sam wagged his tail hopefully.

      "It's alright," said Chas. "I know it wasn't your fault. Now, off you go, and keep an eye on Jeremy."

      Sam wagged his tail again, and did what he was told. Not that Jeremy needed much watching.

      Mr Cuckoo, along with Nics and Barbra, stood in the centre of the lab, ringed by ducks and mice. All the other fighting was pretty much over now, but Mr Cuckoo still had one trick left up his sleeve.

      He flicked a switch in one massive clockwork arm and a flamethrower rose out from his forearm. He cackled maniacally as a bar of flame spurted out from it and washed over the ground in front of him.

      The mice and ducks took a hurried few steps back.

      "Come now," he told the two clockwork women. "Time to leave. We'll return to fight another day."

      He started walking for the door, periodically sweeping the ground in front of him with the flame to ensure a free path.

      Nics had stopped panicking quite so much now the mice were all at a safe distance. And she knew what she had to do.

      "Mr Cuckoo?" she said, stopping.

      "Come on!" he yelled at her. The gem in her collar flashed.

      He turned his back to her as she took the few steps she needed to catch up. At the same time she reached up and grabbed the red jewel in the gold collar and calmly crushed it between thumb and forefinger.

      Barbra had been walking next to her, and had seen every movement. But her blank impassive face didn't betray a thing.

      Nics reached one hand up and put it on Mr Cuckoo's shoulder. He stopped, shocked that anyone would touch him, and swung around to face her.

      His turn around worked neatly with the swing of her fist. Her blow caught him squarely on the jaw and sent him flying across the lab into a pile of strange machine parts, that fell on him, burying him completely.

      "Ain't free will a bitch?" Nics asked the pile of junk.

      Chas reached her, and swept her into a congratulatory hug.

      "Looks like you cleaned his clock good and proper, babes," he said grinning widely.  "So, what now?"

      "Guess we'd better take care of Barbra somehow," Nics said, turning to look at the woman. "And see if we can get Spud out of the Valkerie."

      Barbra simply stood where she'd stopped, doing a damn good impression of a clockwork toy that had run down. Mice ran all over her, but she didn't move at all.

      Nics looked queasy, and away.

      The orchestra were being shepherded out of their pit by a squadron of ducks. Some of the female players (and some of the male too) were looking quite shaken. They all carried their instruments with them, including the piano player, who had his baby grand piano carefully packed away in a hard black case with wheels and a handle.

      Several members were dressed in very shiny, very brightly coloured zoot suits. Nics gave in to temptation and shot a trombonist in a red suit a very dirty look indeed. He saw it and shuffled his feet, looking embarrassed.

      Every few minutes, their mission accomplished, a squad of attack ducks with their cargo of parachuting mice would take off and fly up out of the hole in the ceiling and away. Soon they were all gone.

      They very kindly had left Jeremy, Barbra and Sam tied up neatly in the corner. Barbra was pretty much cocooned in thick chain. The other two were tied up without that much worry about their ability to break free.

     

      There was a yelling and a muffled clanging sound coming from the Valkerie's head. Chas climbed up her front with a torch in his mouth, carefully avoiding the spiky bits of her breastplate, and taking a crowbar, levered open her mouth.

      Inside was Spud, blinking as Chas shone the light from the torch into his face.

      "Um," he said. "Can you get me out of here?"

      Chas squinted at him. "Are you stuck or something?" he asked, because he could see that Spud's arms and legs were free.

      "My dreadlocks," explained Spud. "They're caught in something."

      Chas climbed in.

      "Looks like we're going to have to cut you out," he said.

      "Noooo!" wailed Spud. "I've been growing those dreads for years!"

      "Well," said Chas, climbing down again to fetch a pair of shears or something. "You could just stay there."

      His head ducked down and he vanished from Spud's view.

      "No!" cried Spud. "Don't leave me here!"

      It took a lot of cursing and banging inside the Valkerie's metal mouth before Spud was free. He sighed with relief as he climbed down.

      "Her breath didn't half smell, did it?" he said to Chas.

      The mouse with the second mother-of-pearl disk had ventured out from its hiding place and carefully put the disk on the body of the young man.

      "Thanks for looking after that, mate," Chas told the mouse. "I seriously owe you, lots."

      The mouse twitched its whiskers and squeaked, almost as if to say "oh, think nothing of it". But it looked very pleased.

      Nics cautiously shuffled towards Chas, and the young man's body, and the mouse. The collar made of gold cog wheels hung limp from her right hand.

      "I am so going to enjoy watching this melt," she said, waving it at Chas.

      Chas picked up the mother-of-pearl disk, and held it up to the light. It was still flawless, for all its adventures.

      "Whaddya reckon?" he asked Nics, and Spud, who'd just joined them.

      "Give him his soul," said Nics. "It's what Jeremiah wanted."

      Chas knelt by the young man's head, and carefully opened his mouth, placing the disk on his tongue like the host in the Catholic mass. Gently he closed the man's mouth again and stood back.

      The young man's eyes blinked open, and he sat up, rubbing the back of his head.

      "Thanks folks," he said. "God, my head doesn't half hurt. And as for the rest of my body..."

      He trailed off and Nics interjected:

      "Er, hi. I'm Nics, this is Chas and this is..."

      "Spud," the young man interrupted. "Yes, I know, I've been travelling around with you for the past few days, remember?"

      "What, you remember?" asked Spud incredulously. "How can you remember?"

      "Don't know," the young man said, as the pile of machine parts that buried Mr Cuckoo shifted slightly. "I just do. And let me tell you, spending forty years at the bottom of the sea was not fun at all!"

      He stuck out a hand.

      "I'm Richard, by the way."

      Solemnly Chas shook it.

      "Thanks for finding me," Richard continued. "If it had been anyone else but you..." he trailed off.

      Chas looked uncomfortable. Thankfully, from his point of view anyway, the mouse squeaked a warning as the pile of machine parts shifted again, and from underneath it all a metal hand pushed through.

      The hand was shortly followed by the body of Mr Cuckoo, bleeding badly from a nasty gash to the scalp. He pulled himself free of the wreckage, and staggered the few steps that he needed to put himself directly in front of our heroes.

      He waved the arm with the flamethrower on it at them menacingly.

      "I am so going to enjoy toasting you all!" he said, his voice slurred and his feet unsteady.

      Richard noticed that, somewhat incongruously, there was a nut balanced on Mr Cuckoo's shoulder.

      Mr Cuckoo lifted up the arm with the flame thrower and twiddled with it slightly. A flare of fire spurted out of it, nearly taking his eyebrows off.

      The flare made Spud jump, raising a thick cloud of the concrete dust that covered everything in the room. Just enough of it reached Nics' nose to make her sneeze.

      The nut dropped from Mr Cuckoo's shoulder, straight down the barrel of his flamethrower. He dropped his arm immediately and tried to shake it out, but it was well and truly stuck.

      The group in front of him grabbed the opportunity and dove for cover. Mr Cuckoo barely noticed them go, he was too busy staring down the barrel of his flamethrower.

      His arm was getting very hot, he shook it frantically, looking around for some tool that might help him.

      "Barbra!" he called, and her eyes snapped open. "Help me!"

      Casually she stood up and snapped the chains she'd been bound in as if they were threads. She walked towards him, and stopped in front of him, just looking at him.

      The end of his arm was glowing cherry red, and steam was rising from his body.

      "Help me, damn you!" he ordered her.

      She looked at him for another long moment, her face unreadable. Then, finally, when the glow in his arm had spread to the rest of his body, she said, very quietly:

      "No."

      Mr Cuckoo screamed in rage and dove for her, but she sidestepped him easily. He fell to the floor and lay there twitching as his horrible metal body started to melt into a puddle around him.

      His dying was mercifully swift. His last words?

      "Sic transit gloria mundi."

      "What did he say?" Nics asked.

      "Something about a woman called Gloria getting sick in a transit van on Monday," explained Spud.

      Chas caught Richard's eye and just about managed to avoid sniggering.

      Barbra watched Mr Cuckoo just long enough to be sure that he was dead, then, with her golden lion on her shoulder, she bent her knees and jumped straight through the hole in the ceiling, far far above.

      Spud ran after her, but he had no chance of catching her. She was gone

      "I have this horrible feeling that we've not seen the last of her," he said gloomily.

      Nics looked like she was going to be very sick indeed.

      "What a horrible way to go," she said, looking down at the remains of Mr Cuckoo.

      "Could have been worse," said Spud. "He could have regaled us with a dying aria."

      Nics shuddered. So did Chas and Richard. 

      "You're right," said Richard. "So, what now?"

      "Get out of here before the cops show up," said Chas, ever practical. "And I suppose we'd better bring Sam and Jeremy back to London with us, though I've no idea how we're going to manage that."

      "Ah, don't worry about that," Spud said. "I'm sure the Agency will sort something out."

      A different thought crossed his mind.

      "Damn! I am going to have so much paperwork to sort out after this one!"

      He kicked at a piece of clockwork dragon moodily, and sent it skittering across the floor.

      As they left the secret lair of Mr Cuckoo, Chas turned to Nics and said:

      "Hey babes?"

      "Yeah?" she replied.

      "I really think you should get something for that cold."

SAOS: Chapter Twenty Eight: Peoples Of Earth Your Attention Please!

      From behind one of the random clockwork machines against the walls of the lab, a hitherto unnoticed, very large door swung open.

      There was a whirr-clunk, whirr-clunk, whirr-clunk, and more; the sound of giant clockwork footsteps. Along with this noise came a very tinny music box rendition of "The Ride of the Valkeries".

      "I was going to save her for later," said Mr Cuckoo conversationally. "But now is as good a time as any to introduce Plan B."

      Our three heroes looked on in awe, and not a little fear as a thing walked out of the opened door. It had to bend almost double to get under the doorframe.

      It was a giant clockwork woman, patterned after the traditional stereotype of the big blonde Valkerie. She even came complete with a pair of long blonde braids and a horned helmet, all fashioned out of gleaming brass.

      She stomped up to Mr Cuckoo and stopped, awaiting further instructions.

      "Isn't she beautiful?" said Mr Cuckoo, reaching up as high as he could to pat one kneecap fondly. "My finest creation..."

      Nics stole a quick glance at Barbra. Barbra's eyes were black and hard with hatred and jealousy. Her clockwork lion crawled closer to her face, as if to comfort her. Her tarantula was nowhere to be seen.

      "Barbra," Mr Cuckoo snapped.

      "Yes, Master?" she asked. If she hadn't been so impassive, it would have been through gritted teeth.

      "Plan B, execute it now."

      "Yes, Master." Stiffly she turned and walked to the other side of the lab, fiddling with something on one of the benches.

      Jeremy was crouched down, looking at the shattered remains of the broken clockwork dragons. He sorted through the pieces, as if trying to find any salvageable parts, then gave up and stood up, dusting his hands. From the angle where Nics stood over the body of the young man, it looked like he'd rearranged the parts into a smiley face.

      As he walked away one foot came down hard on a loose red jewel and smashed it to dust. Nics saw him do it, and a light came into her eyes.

      Sam too was snuffling around the broken pieces of the clockwork dragons. He was getting close to the face, so Nics picked up a nearby large piece of random clockwork and threw it at him. It missed, but landed in the centre of the face, turning it from a recognizable pattern into a meaningless collection of junk once more.

      The dog growled at her, and she stared back at it, like a sheriff waiting for the outlaw to draw first.

      "Come any closer and I'll kick you. Try and bite me, and I'll break your teeth," she told him, levelly, adding "you traitorous cur" for good measure.

      "Now, now," said Mr Cuckoo. "There's no call for that. Apologise."

      The red gem on her collar flashed, and she forced the words out between gritted teeth.

      "I'm sorry, Sam."

      The contraption that Barbra was poking let out an almighty shrill whistle, which was cut off abruptly by the liberal application of a large wrench.

      "Message sent," she told Mr Cuckoo, who was still patting the knee of his valkerie lovingly.

      Spud and Chas had been having a quick conversation behind their bit of machinery, along the lines of:

      "Oh shit! Now what?"

      "You try and grab Nics, get that collar off somehow. I'll grab Cuckoo, once we've figured out what else plan B is," whispered Chas.

      "What else could it be?!” gibbered Spud. “As if we didn’t have enough to deal with, what with the Valkerie and Jeremy and Barbra and the dragons and lion and tarantula!"

      "Worry about them later!" hissed Chas. "Ready? Let's..."

      But before he could finish, the machine that they were hiding behind got lifted up from above as easily as if it was made out of sticky backed plastic and yoghurt pots.

      Chas and Spud didn't even have time to curse as the Valkerie grabbed both of them in one giant fist and carried them back to the centre of the lab.

      "So glad you could join us, dear boys," Mr Cuckoo told them. "You're just in time for a rather interesting announcement.

      Sure enough, the CCTV camera footage on the screens had changed, and was displaying a popular news channel with the sound off. For some reason they were showing pictures of pink plastic flamingos, but that was quickly cut off by a newsflash sign.

      Mr Cuckoo turned the sound up as the familiar face of the United States president appeared on the screen.

      "My fellow Americans!" he proclaimed loudly, as if he wasn't expecting that everyone would be able to hear him by way of the TV, and so had to compensate with added volume.

      "Today marks a historic and monumentalastic occasion for our nation. For today is the day when I can finally reveal myself and my true master, Mr Cuckoo. Effective immediately, all powers, rights and privileges of the presidency of the United States are his in perpetuity and forever. Congress and the Senate will move into a period of disbandization and Mr Cuckoo will rule our great and glorious country from the position of dictator for life.

      "I personally welcome him to the helm of our country, knowing that he will exceed all expectations in the role and work tirelessly to improve the glorificationization of our land. God bless America."

      The rather stunned looking newsreader put one hand up to her ear.

      "And, yes, we have managed to get in contact with the new leader of the United States, Mr Cuckoo."

      A small picture appeared in the corner of the TV screen. It showed an extreme close-up of Mr Cuckoo's face, smiling benignly.

      Chas looked down. The picture was coming from five of the dragons that were struggling to hold a full size video camera steady.

      "Mr Cuckoo," said the newsreader. "Please let me be first to congratulate you on your ascension to the presidency. But I'm sure that there are many people out there who are stunned by this sudden turn of events, and a lot more who will view this as completely irregular. Some may even be prepared to take drastic action. What are your views on this?"

      "Well," said Mr Cuckoo, "I appreciate that it will take time for people to get used to my rule, but I intend to make it as comfortable a changeover as possible. For instance, even though I am ruler of the United States for life, I don't expect the average citizen to start calling me master immediately, only within the first half hour or so. And I understand that this country has a number of fine citizens who will resist my appointment, but I will let them know now: Anyone who tried to overthrow or resist my absolute rule will be hunted down and killed in a very messy, painful and public manner."

      He smiled reassuringly.

      "But let me assure you, life in Cuckooland will be smooth and happy for those who agree to be bound by my every whim."

      "I'm sorry," said the newsreader. "Cuckooland?"

      "The name for our country, of course," he replied.

      "Thank you very much, Mr Cuck... er, Master," said the newsreader, visibly flustered. "News is just coming in of the reaction on the streets to this sudden announcement."

      Mr Cuckoo interrupted her, and said, almost offhandedly:

      "Oh, before people jump to the conclusion that I'm just a random madman with no method of backing up my claim, let me reassure them. I'm a very focussed madman, and proof of my genius will shortly be terrorising downtown New York City. Have a pleasant afternoon."

      One hand flicked, and the dragons dropped the TV camera onto the floor, breaking it. The little screen within a screen on the TV newscast fizzled into snow and the newsreader carried on.

      "Our roving reporter Mick Fillip is interviewing people on the streets at the moment. Over to you, Mick."

      The volume was muted as the newscast cut to a rather scruffy looking man holding a microphone. It was raining outside.

      Mr Cuckoo turned to his Valkerie and told her:

      "Activate plan delta."

      She spun on one giant heel and walked towards the back of the lab, still clutching Chas and Spud in one fist.

      "No!" cried Nics. "Chas! Spud! What are you going to do with them?!"

      "Shake them until the second disk comes out. Then throw them in the river," ordered Mr Cuckoo.

      There was a quiet crunch as the Valkerie took another step forward, and then stopped. Slowly and carefully she transferred Chas from one hand to the other. Then taking both lads, she dropped them both, caught them by the legs before they could bash their heads out on the ground and shook them vigorously.

      Nics didn't even have time to scream as she saw them fall, then get caught again.

      Onto the ground beneath them fell a vast array of stuff. From Spud's pockets fell half a dozen different lighters, a squashed banana, a half eaten Mars bar, a card for a pizza delivery firm, a few coins, a set of keys, a pencil, three pens, four shopping lists and a lock pick. By contrast Chas only dropped a wallet and a set of keys.

      The valkerie shook them both again, harder this time. Spud moaned:

      "I'm going to lose my teeth!"

      At that same moment, the second mother-of-pearl disk was finally dislodged from Chas' pocket and fell towards the pile of stuff on the floor.

      There was a brown streak across the concrete, and before the disk could hit the ground it was grabbed from the air by a mouse, which darted across the lab and into a hole in the wall.

      Sam was after it, barking gleefully, but didn't manage to catch so much as a whisker.

      Mission accomplished the Valkerie put the two men, still upside down, back in one hand. Slowly and methodically she began to climb up the wall.

      Behind her, Barbra walked over to the pile of junk that had fallen from Spud's pockets. There was just the faintest hitch in her stride when she saw the crushed remains of her gold clockwork tarantula, pulverised underneath the Valkerie's massive foot.