It advanced slowly towards us, as though uncertain whether to walk upright or lower its huge knuckles to the floor. The oversize muscles swelled with every movement, threatening to split the overtaut skin. I didn’t want to hurt it. Poor bastard had already been hurt so much. And even the biggest ape was no match for Drood armour, after all. So I moved forward to meet it, my arms stretched wide in a gesture of welcome. The ape grabbed one golden forearm and threw me the length of the hall with one snap of its overlong arm. I tumbled through the air, smashing through the standing cylinders, and finally slammed to a halt against the far wall. I was quickly back on my feet again, and scrambling through the wreckage. The ape was advancing steadily on Molly, the only one of us without armour.
She tried some basic magics, but none of them could get a hold. The ape had its own built-in protections. It kept advancing on her, shaking its head from side to side as though bothered by some pain it couldn’t reach, and Molly kept backing away. The ape growled at her, and there was nothing sane in that low rumbling sound, only rage and pain and horror. And then the Armourer stepped out of the shadows to stand behind the ape and punch it in the back with all his strength. It screamed, loud as any fire siren. The Armourer’s golden hand sank deep into the muscled back, and then he ripped its spine out in one swift movement. A great gout of blood splashed across his armour and quickly ran away. The ape crashed to the floor, twitched a few times and lay still. The Armourer looked at the bloody thing in his hand and opened his golden fingers to let it fall to the floor. Molly stared at him. I came over to join them.
“People tend to forget I was once a field agent,” the Armourer said calmly.
“You didn’t have to kill it,” said Molly.
“It would have killed you,” said the Armourer.
“You don’t know that!” Molly seemed suddenly on the brink of tears. “We could have saved it. . . . Taken it out of here . . .”
“Some things aren’t meant to be pets,” said the Armourer. “Come on; let’s go find your sister.”
But first, we went to see what the fighting was, in case we were needed. Didn’t take us long to find it. The Satanists had found and closed with the Drood forces, and the war was under way. Not that the Satanists had come in person; instead they sent something they must have found in Schloss Shreck when they first reopened it. Perhaps standing in rows of icy cylinders. A whole army of blond Aryan supermen in Nazi SS uniforms, all of them with the same arrogantly handsome face. Clones. Hundreds and hundreds of perfect soldiers, all made from the same man. Made to fight in a war long past. The Satanists had sent them out against us to see what they could do. And maybe soften us up a little. I wondered what the Satanists had told the clones; wondered whom they’d been told we were. Whatever it was, it seemed to have motivated them; their handsome faces were flushed with rage and fury.
They closed on us with every kind of weapon, moving inhumanly fast. They had everything from standard-issue Lugers to modern machine pistols to strange-energy weapons, none of them any use against Drood armour. Still, the sheer number of them slowed the Drood advance almost to a halt. We had to smash our way through them, striking them down and advancing over the fallen bodies. Two great forces went head-to-head in the massive stone hall, filling it with lunging bodies from end to end and wall to wall. Both sides strove against each other, no mercy sought or shown. Molly, the Armourer and I joined the fight to do our bit. We had no problem killing the clones; they might not be Satanists, but they were quite definitely Nazis.
The Sarjeant-at-Arms urged his people on, leading from the front, as always. I knew he had to be worrying that the clones were a distraction, there only to slow us down while the Satanists made their escape. They must have teleport capability, to get in and out of the Timeless Moment. We’d have to do something about that. . . . The fighting went on and on, golden fists and swords and axes striking down Nazi clones, while bullets and explosives and vicious energies strove in vain to pierce strange-matter armour. Blood spurted and bones shattered, and the same arrogant, hateful face fell before us again and again. Until finally . . . I ran out of Nazis to kill. I stopped and looked around, blood and gore dripping thickly from my spiked golden fists. I was breathing hard inside my armour, but it had felt good, so good to get my hands on the enemy at last. Or at least an enemy.
Molly was right there at my side, harsh magics spitting and sparking round her hands. And not one single bloodstain on her long white dress. The Armourer was nowhere to be seen, swept away from us by the tides of battle. There were Droods everywhere, up and down the hall, surrounded by the piled-up bodies of the dead. They might have been Nazis; they might have been hateful, hate-filled, hate-fuelled Nazi clones, urged on by a hateful philosophy . . . but they never stood a chance against us, not really.
A golden figure in smooth traditional armour worked his way over to join Molly and me. I knew it was William. His feet were still encased in golden bunny slippers.
“You have to help me,” he said. “Ammonia’s not far from here. I can sense her presence.”
“Isabella, too,” said Molly. “We must be close to where they keep the prisoners.”
I nodded. The Sarjeant was already calling his troops back to order, ready to press on. There were enough of them; they didn’t need me. And I was the one who’d come here to free prisoners, not get caught up in the killing. So I gestured for Molly and William to lead the way. I needed to feel that I hadn’t come here to kill people.
We found Ammonia Vom Acht first, sitting on her own in the middle of a surprisingly sophisticated laboratory dominated by a single huge machine that filled the whole room, spilling out from its central core to crawl across the floor and halfway up the walls. Growing and spreading like some malignant hothouse plant. Ammonia had been made a part of the machine, strapped firmly to a chair in the very centre of the thing, stripped naked so that tubes could be thrust into her mottled flesh, her head shaved so holes could be drilled into her skull to allow a great many wires access to her brain. The wires curled up into the higher parts of the machine, where softly glowing colours came and went like passing thoughts. Ammonia sat perfectly still, her face blank and empty, her eyes staring straight ahead. I don’t think she saw anything.
William armoured down and ran forward, forcing his way through the mess of cables and equipment to kneel before her. He put his face right before hers and said her name several times, but she didn’t know he was there. Molly and I looked thoughtfully at the single technician in the room, who’d retreated to the far end of the laboratory the moment we forced our way in. He wore the traditional white lab coat, with white latex gloves, and he was doing his best to hide behind the farthest reaches of the machine. He looked like he wanted to run, but we were between him and the only exit. I beckoned for him to come forward, but he wouldn’t. William raised his head and looked at the technician, who actually whimpered at what he saw in William’s face.
“Come here,” said William, and the technician came out from behind the machine and stumbled forward, almost against his will. He stopped behind Ammonia in her chair, trembling in every limb, his face wet with sweat. William nodded slowly.
“Talk to me. Tell me what’s happening here. What is this machine? And what have you done to Ammonia Vom Acht?”
“I’m Stefan Klein. I’m in charge of this—”
“I don’t care,” said William. “What have you done to her?”
“She’s been made a part of the great plan,” said Klein, swallowing hard. “There never was an influence machine. I can’t believe anyone ever believed that we had such a thing. I mean, a single machine that could influence every single mind in the world simultaneously? Hardly likely, was it? If we had such a thing, we wouldn’t have needed the Great Sacrifice; we’d have taken over. No, no . . . this is much better. Take the most powerful telepathic brain in the world, wire it up to the most complex mental amplifier ever and then let her do all the heavy lifting. Ammonia Vom Acht was always far more powerful than she ever allowed herself to be. That’s what ethics does for you.”