“Oh, go on then,” said Molly. “Mindless violence and extreme behaviour it is. Twist my arm . . .”
The approaching soldiers slowed their pace as they drew near, spreading out to surround us. Molly and I moved unhurriedly to stand back to back. The soldiers formed quickly into ranks, covering us with their automatic weapons and barking orders at us from behind their anonymous black-visored helmets. I turned my golden mask back and forth, and soldiers flinched away from its eyeless gaze. It was one thing to hear all the stories about Drood armour, and quite another to have to face it in the real world. The soldiers in the front ranks tried to back away, but the ones behind were having none of that, and held them there. A few scuffles broke out, until their officers got them back under control.
And Molly and I hadn’t even done anything yet. I just stood there, my spiked golden fists held out before me, while Molly’s magics flickered dangerously around her, full of nasty possibilities. Finally, one of the officers came forward to face me. His uniform had no markings, but there was a silver badge on his helmet, just above the visor. He stopped a more than respectful distance away, his automatic weapon trained on my armoured face. For psychological value, no doubt. His back was stiff, his head held high, and when he finally spoke his voice was sharp and authoritative.
“Eddie Drood, surrender yourself and your woman, and give yourselves over to the authority of MI 13. Do it now, before things get ugly.”
“You’re already ugly,” I said. “I’ve seen how your people handle innocent bystanders.”
“And what’s this your woman crap?” Molly said loudly from behind me. “I am Molly Metcalf, wild witch of the woods and a supernatural terrorist in my own right! And a serial transformer of piggy little men who annoy me into squelchy little snot things!”
“She really is,” I said. “I’d back away now and ask for new orders from someone higher up the food chain, if I were in your shoes.”
“I don’t take orders from rogue agents and witches with delusions of grandeur,” snapped the MI 13 officer.
“I do not have delusions!” said Molly very loudly.
“You’ve upset her now,” I said to the officer. “I’d start running if I were you. Not that it’ll do any good, of course . . .”
“We have orders to take both of you in, dead or alive,” said the officer. “Guess which we’d prefer.”
“Why can’t people just be reasonable?” I said plaintively to Molly.
“No good asking me,” said Molly. “I never did get the hang of reasonable.”
I smiled, and shrugged at the officer. “Sorry, but you see how it is. Tell you what-why don’t you and your uniformed bully boys just put down your weapons and surrender to Molly and me? And then we won’t have to do terribly unpleasant things to all of you, that will make the survivors scream when they wake up at the hospital.”
“Survivors,” said Molly. “Always the optimist, Eddie.”
The officer stepped back, and gestured sharply to a nearby soldier, who stepped smartly forward out of the ranks and aimed a rocket launcher directly at me. I started to say something, and he fired the thing at me, at point-blank range. The shell shot across the few yards separating us at incredible speed, the sound of its rocket blast almost overpowering. The sensors in my mask kicked in immediately, speeding up my sight and reflexes till the world and everything in it seemed to be moving in slow motion. I grabbed the shell out of mid-air and cradled it in my arms, hugging it to my chest. It exploded almost immediately, and my armour soaked up every bit of it. There wasn’t even a shock wave to affect the soldiers around me. I’m considerate like that, sometimes. I’d crouched a little, to be sure of smothering the blast, and when I straightened up again, the soldiers made low, shocked sounds as they saw that my armour was entirely unmarked and unaffected.
The officer gestured quickly again, and another soldier came forward, this time armed with a flame-thrower. The fuel tank had all kinds of magical symbols scrawled across it, so I assumed the flames had been specially treated. Given the effect of the specially prepared ammunition earlier, I decided not to be impressed. So I just stood there, my arms casually folded, and let the soldier get on with it. He bathed my armour in a blast of roaring flames, sweeping the jet back and forth across me, and I didn’t even feel warm.
Good to be a Drood.
The soldier gave up, turned the flame off, and stomped back into the ranks, where some of his friends patted him consolingly on the shoulder. There then followed something of a pause, as the officer quietly debated with his troops over what to do next. I don’t think they’d expected there to be a next. There was even more discussion going on in the ranks at the back, most of it of a somewhat dispirited nature.
“You might have warned me about the flames,” said Molly, behind me. “I mean, yes, I have been to Hell and back and there isn’t a fire on this world that could actually get to me, but a warning would still have been the polite thing to do.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I was thinking . . . whoever sent these herberts out to annoy us must not have known much about Drood armour, or your magics. And given that this is MI 13, who have tangled with us before, to their cost . . . you’d expect them to know better.”
I broke off, as Molly started chanting behind me. I could feel magical energies tingling on my armoured back. There then followed a series of explosions, and a whole bunch of screams, and then it all went quiet again. The soldiers in front of me looked past me and Molly, saw what she had just done, and appeared very upset. Several ripped off their helmets so they could be suddenly and violently sick.
“Well?” I said.
“Fine, thank you,” Molly said cheerfully.
“You’re being extreme again, aren’t you?” I said.
“They started it,” said Molly. “I believe in getting my overreaction in first.”
“I have a strong feeling,” I said thoughtfully, “that this-all of this-is just a distraction. Expendable foot soldiers, never expected to actually bring us in or take us down. They’re just . . . something to keep us occupied until the really heavy shit turns up.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” said Molly. “I wonder whose it is . . . Who’s in charge of MI 13 these days?”
“Officially, Alan Diment,” I said. “But he made it clear to me, back at the Wulfshead, that he’s not much more than a figurehead. Being steered and pressured by people higher up.”
“I think we should find those people and give them a good talking-to,” said Molly.
“Sounds like a plan to me,” I said. “Hello . . . something new is coming our way.”
Molly came round to stand beside me as the ranks of soldiers parted to allow Alan Diment to approach us. He still looked like a minor civil servant, out for an afternoon walk and not at all happy about it. He kept his back straight and his head high, but he still gave the impression that he should be waving a large white flag. He passed through the soldiers, and stopped a very respectful distance away from me and Molly. He looked from me to Molly and back again, and when he finally spoke he sounded scared but determined.
“You know I didn’t want any of this,” he said. “None of it was my idea. I’d have known better.”
“But you’re here,” I said. “Why is MI 13 so determined to take us down, dead or alive?”
“Because you destroyed our operation at the Wulfshead Club,” said Diment. “And embarrassed my current lords and masters. You’ve made them lose face in the Intelligence community, and made them seem weak and useless to the Government that funds them. You must have known my masters would be just waiting for a chance to get back at you, and you gave them the perfect opportunity when you invaded the Department of Uncanny and slaughtered everyone there. What were you thinking? Did you really believe you could get away with that, just because of who you are? Every organisation in the hidden world is after you. Because if you’d turn on Uncanny, and your own grandfather . . . Well, nobody’s safe. The word is, whoever takes you down gets a free pass from the Droods. And everyone wants that. Your family is really disappointed in you, Eddie. You let the side down by getting caught. Now the British Government wants you. And you too, Molly; don’t feel left out. Both of you have been declared fair game. And MI 13 got here first.”