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
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.”
“And I led you people right to her,” I said, “when I tracked her down to her hiding place in Cornwall.”
“Hardly, old thing,” said a familiar voice. “That was all down to me.”
We all looked round, and there, slouching elegantly in the doorway, with a really big drink in his hand, was Ammonia’s husband, Peter. His smile was as vague as ever, but his eyes were clear and sharp. He smiled benevolently on us all, toasted us with his glass and took a long drink, deliberately making us wait to hear what he had to say. When the glass was empty he tossed it casually to one side, and didn’t even look round when it smashed on the floor.
“I’m afraid I got rather tired of the old girl,” said Peter. She really was very needy, very clingy, and she was such hard work: always having to comfort her, and look after her and be a shoulder for her to cry on. I never used to drink, you know, before I met Ammonia Vom Acht. And look at me now. . . . It’s the only thing that helps, so I’m able to stand her overbearing presence, her never-ending needs. And never any money for me! Oh, no, no . . . Not a penny for poor old Peter.
“She made millions, but I had to remind her to hand over my allowance! And we had to live like hermits, at the end of the world. I used to have friends; I used to go out; I used to have fun! Finally it all got a bit too much. So I contacted the satanic conspiracy. They weren’t difficult to find; the Internet is a wonderful thing. . . . And they were very understanding. So I needed to wait for the right moment to set her up—too soon and people like you might figure out what they wanted with her, and try to stop them. But once you’d come sniffing around, it was clear we couldn’t wait any longer. So when she came back from Chez Drood, all tired and worn-out, there I was with a very special nice hot drink waiting for her. And once she was safely snoring in her chair, I shut down the defences and told the nasty old Devil worshippers to come and get her.
“She sort of woke up when they were manhandling her out of the house. She looked at me, wondering why I was doing nothing to stop them, and when she understood, she cried and cried and cried. Ah, you have no idea how good it feels to be free of the old bat at last.”
“You utter shit,” said William, and his voice was cold and collected and quite deadly. He rose to his feet to glare balefully at Peter, who didn’t seem to give even the smallest of damns. William headed straight for him. “She had a magnificent mind!”
“Oh, boo-hoo,” said Peter. He took a gunmetal flask from inside his jacket. “Sorry, old sport; do I know you? Do I care? No, I don’t think I do, actually.”
William armoured up, the golden skin sweeping over him in a moment. “You can be made to care, for what you’ve done.”
“No,” said Peter. “I don’t think so.”
He held up his other hand and showed us a simple metal clicker like the one Roger Morningstar had back at the Cathedral Hotel. And before any of us could even react, Peter clicked the thing, a sharp, metallic sound in the quiet, and William’s armour disappeared, driven back into his torc by an irresistible command. My armour disappeared, too, and I was suddenly exposed and shivering in the cold of the laboratory. Molly stepped quickly forward, but when she raised her hands to unleash her magics, nothing happened. She tried a few simple chants, but the words fell awkwardly into the quiet, doing nothing. Peter smiled patronisingly at her.
“Magic won’t work here, dearie. All such subtle energies had to be suppressed, so the machine could do its work.”
“I don’t need my armour to beat the crap out of a treacherous little tit like you,” said William.
“Just as well I’ve got a gun, then,” said Peter. He shook his gunmetal flask once, and suddenly it was a Luger. Peter giggled happily. “Now, that’s what I call a transformer. Marvellous little toy, isn’t it? My new masters have been very generous.” For all his studied vagueness, his hand was very steady as he covered the three of us with the Luger. We all stood very still. None of us doubted he’d use it.
“I’ve already summoned security,” said Peter. “Oh, dear, now that my flask is gone I don’t have any booze anymore. I should have told them to bring a bottle. . . .” He smiled at us all easily. “We’ve all got clickers here, you know. Lots and lots of them. The rest of your people are in for a really nasty shock, once they’ve got past those
