Chapter 8
Q fever
Kit's lying on the floor at home watching Jean watching him. There's a soft fuzzy glow about everything, and light streams through the tan window shades obliquely, casting a faint halo around Jean's head. They're lying propped up on their elbows, face to face - so close that he can feel her breath on his lips. So close that he can't see her lips, but he can tell from her eyes that she's smiling. It's a perfect moment, too perfect to spoil, and he wishes it could last forever. An eternity passes as they gaze into each others' souls, and then, with infinite care and slowness, she gently inclines her head forwards a fraction of an inch and...
... bites his brains out.
Bang. Explode to light. Pain. Head. Hurts.
Gnngh, Kit groans and curls into a fetal position on the cold stone floor.
"I think he's coming around, Sir."
"I can see that, Ding."
There're two pairs of boots standing directly ahead of him behind what appear to be metal bars.
The bars go up, and up, and up some more to the ceiling. Oh. I'm in a jail cell Kit thinks dully, and turns his attention to the boots. They're joined to blue trousers, and butts, and shirts, and the back of two heads capped by police hats.
They're facing away from him (just in case you haven't figured that out yet) looking into another jail cell.
There's someone else sprawled face-down on the floor, his trenchcoat looking slightly the worse for wear. From the looks of the little trickle of blood running down his chin, he hasn't been having a very good day. His fingers twitch once or twice then go limp again.
"Okay mister, quit playing dead. It's time for your trial. You're charged with the assassination of our Patrician, BG Lea. Get up you bloody murderer."
There's the rattle of a key in a lock and then the door swings open and one of the pairs of boots tramps into the cell.
"I said get UP." One of the steel-capped boots draws back to deliver a gentle message of encouragement - and the figure's eyes flicker open. He looks across the floor directly at Kit and winks.
The lights go out.
There's the distant thump and crackle of faraway fireworks, and a not-so distant thump of a body hitting the floor hard. Someone says "SIR?", and then groans and thumps to the floor.
The lights come back on.
Trenchcoat's standing in the middle of the room over the prostrate form of the badge named Ding, brushing down his sleeves.
"Ah, Kid. We meet again."
"I'm sorry do I know you?"
"Last night. You hired me. Don't you remember?"
"Hired? To do what?"
Trenchcoat gives him a long, level look.
"Ah. You're not with The Resistance are you? How'd you get roped into this?"
"What Resistance? And what did I hire you to do?"
"That letter you gave me, kid. It was a contract to assassinate the Prime Minister. I'm a professional killer."
"...grahrr."
"Look we don't really have time for this. I suppose you'd better tag along for now."
Trenchcoat reaches down, retrieves a keyring from Ding's belt and unlocks the door to Kit's cell.
"Come on."
"How did you do that anyhow? Make all the lights go out."
Trenchcoat smiles. "You could say it's a talent of mine."
He takes out a pair of geeky, thick-framed spectacles and hands them to Kit. "Here. Put these on."
"I don't know. They don't look quite me."
"Shut up. They'll help you see in the dark. Do try to keep up. It'll be such a bother if I have to kill you because you were slowing me down."
Time to run.
*****
A dark figure sits by a window, sillhouetted in the dim night of dusk. Hiss...purr. Hiss...
"My Lord." Tremulously speaks the shaking leaf of a petrified Senior officer of the Empire addressing the supreme leader of the Empire, The Mentor.
There's a whine and a hiss as an imposing helmet slides down from the ceiling and clicks into place. The Mentor's breathing apparatus continues to whine and purr and he makes no move to acknowledge his underling's presence.
"The Brigadier has been assassinated by the rebel scum."
Hiss... purr... hiss...
Slowly, the (Ikea, tm) armchair swivels around revealing the grotesque visage of The Mentor's facemask. The shiny black orbs of his eyes stare metallically at him, silently condemning him to an unimaginably horrible fate.
"The assassin."
"Escaped milord."
Black gloved fingures steeple deliberately, and thoughtfully together.
"Have you activated the Drizzletroopers."
"No milord, I came directly the second I heard the news."
"That displeases me."
"......"
"Guards, take this man away and execute him."
"Milord... nooo..."
"And flog him beforehand. 20 strokes of the rotan."
"AArrrrrg"
*****
Let's gloss over the hundreds of armour-plated, laser-rifle wielding, clanking, creaking drizzletroopers Kit and Coat dodge through the evil-blackened night, or the countless others that vanish mysteriously for the rest of their (rather foreshortened) lives during unexpected nationwide-blackouts that comprise the next five minutes of continuous and intensely boring footage that we're forced to endure by way of the artistic directors who're paying Drgoat good money to come up with this convoluted storyline. (okay, so they're not. sue me.)
Let's all stuporously yawn as yet another predictable fight sequence crops up, where, in a feat of amazing martial-arts prowess flawlessly blended with supercomputer-enhanced technical wizardry reminiscent of yet another cheap MatrixMovie wannabe clone, Kit and Coat, in intensely painful slow-motion moves that would have a taichee expert applauding rapturously in bullet-time, intrepidly flee from the enemy.
Let..s.mummblemumblegrmmph. Oh. Sorry, dozed off for a moment there.
Ah yes, where were we.
Kit spins around with his eyes wild and his hair gleaming. Or was it the other way around. His pigeon-chest heaves as he gasps to catch his breath. His legs feel like lead. And not of the HB variety either.
They're standing with their backs to the wall in a dingy little alleyway shared only by a nonchalently bemused and rather fleabitten Kucinta cat.
"We're cornered, like rats in a fishbowl, like fish in a maze, like... like... a fly in a Venus trap!"
Somewhere in the not-so-distance the heavy-shod sound of clomping boots approaches. Little tinny voices are saying nastily inauspicious things like "target acquired Sir" and "we're moving in for the Kill."
The first rays of sunlight stream sleepily into the alleyway as the overhead street lamp flickers automatically off, then on, then finally, as an afterthought, off again. (Made in Malyasea, aka Redland.)
"We're out of darkness!!! Shi* we're going to die! What are we GOING TO DO?!"
Trenchcoat smoothly and stylishly reaches into his breast pocket and takes out his mobile phone.
"Hello, I'd like to order a pepperoni pizza please."
"WHAT?? HOW CAN YOU THINK OF FOOD AT A TIME LIKE THIS!"
Coat looks askance at Kit and adds "and a happy meal. With fries."
Just as the first rifle-barrel rounds the corner, the floor swings up silently and swallows our heroes into the ground.
*****
The large, shiny metallic doors slide open with a hiss.
Don't ask how our dynamic duo have come to wind up here. One minute they're falling through the floor, and the next a pair of large, shiny metallic doors is sliding open with a hiss. This is called a cut-to. It's a cinematic tool, and doesn't require your belief to answer its existential anomi...anomo... anomollilissness.
A large sign conveniently situated on a random wall reads "RESISTeNCE SECRiT UNDERGRND FACILITy #1. SMoKING iS InHIBITED", ostensibly for the slightly less cerebral members of the resitance movement.
It's a veritable hive of activity here. All around them people in drab grey uniforms mill about, solemnly performing their little tasks - which upon closer inspection appear to involve making various repetitive and unconstructive movements cleverly choreographed to trick the viewer into imagining that they're actually working.
It's actually a little reminiscent of the Singalander Armed Forces HomeGuard, the voluntary-conscript force that the country proudly trains with the latest cutting edge military techniques imported from the middle-east to be highly motivated and competent cannon-fodder.
Coat and Kit glide unseen amongst them, as if in a dream. Nobody looks up from their clipboards or computer terminals to challenge them except a slightly frightened-looking poodle being worked on by four white-coated scientists (you instantly know they're scientists when you see them. Maybe it's because they have geek stamped all over them, or maybe it's the barcodes on their foreheads. No, wait those would be the engineers. My bad.) in a little re-inforced plexiglass shelter marked "BMX Group. (Biological Munitions and eXplosives.)"
A sad little frog looks imploringly up at them as they walk past before swelling out its throat and croaking in an explosive flash of light and sound. (croaking. pun. ha ha.)
They walk past a firing range and watch a Lucy Liu lookalike testing a prototype Hamster Gun. Don't ask. Good looking weapons experts are hard to find.
Then there's the cubicle marked "Weapons of Mass Destruction group" where a small group of George Bush clones lies dormant in their hibernation pods.
The MisInformation and Espionage group has a grinning Tony Blair clone wired up to a lie detector. Every now and then he glances adoringly out the window towards Weapons of Mass Destruction, and his heart monitor races a little earning dejected headshakes from the scientists surrounding him.
Oh and of course the Covert Rodent Guerilla Group deserves special mention. A two-foot mockup of the Angsana houses two small armies of heavily armed mice determinedly going through their paces obliterating each other in various entertaining ways. Kit feels particularly warm fuzzy thoughts about the one wielding a mini-RPG launcher and incessantly squeaking what sounds suspiciously like a swearword in Universal Rodent. It looks adorable in a slightly rabid way, and it doesn't seem averse to blowing up any of the mice on its own team. Hmm. Didn't know that mice could giggle - fancy that.
The facility is built in the shape of a giant wheel, with research labs forming the outer hub, and long corridors comprising the spokes that radiate inexorably ever inwards to terminate in a small metal chamber marked "Center Of Secret FacIlity. No TOIlets here."
Eight familiar figures in black suits and raybands are standing guard at the eight entrances to the center of operations. Kit's feet smoothly about-heel and scrabble futily on the white-marble tiled floor even as Coat's hand closes around his right bicep and draws him onwards in a vice-like grip. (whimper) Kit says quietly, knees knocking together tremulously.
Eight pairs of raybands simultaneously swing towards him and hold him trapped in their steady, impassive gazes.
"Halt. Identify yourselves" one of the suits drones imperiously, bringing up his hand smartly in that universal traffic-cop/wuxia motion that means to different audiences, either "Stop!" (append : in the name, of love for a really select audience.) or "My Lotus-Palm stance is superior to Your Drunken Prawn!"
The lights flicker out for a fraction of a second, and then come back on. PalmoSuit lies crumpled on the floor with his legs drawn up in agony, clutching his unmentionables. Coat smiles pleasantly at the other seven suits, who draw back in a wincing mixture of masculine horror and empathy.
The grip around Kit's arm eases, and together they push open the ornate gold-leaf double doors before them.
Silently, on well-oiled hinges the doors glide smoothly inwards and draw our heroes into the Inner Sanctum of the Resistance.
