Something rotten

'Hello, Millon. How's the stalking going? I brought you a cup of tea and a bun.'

'Pretty well,' he said, marking down in his notebook the time I had stopped to talk to him and budging aside to make room for me in the laurel bush. 'How are things with you?'

'They're mostly good. What were you waving at me for?'

'Ah!' he said. 'We were going to run a feature about thirteenth-century seers in Conspiracy Theorist magazine and I wanted to ask you a few questions.'

'Go ahead.'

'Do you think it's odd that no fewer than twenty-eight Dark Age saints have chosen this year for their second coming?'

'I'd not really given it that much thought.'

'O-kay. Do you not also find it strange that of these twenty-eight supposed seers only two of them — St Zvlkx and Sister Bettina of Stroud — have actually made any prophecies that have come remotely true?'

'What are you saying?'

'That St Zvlkx might not be a thirteenth-century saint at all, but some sort of time-travelling criminal. He takes an illicit journey to the Dark Ages, writes up what he can remember of history and then at the appropriate time he is catapulted forward to see his last 'Revealment' come true.'

'Why?' I asked. 'If the ChronoGuard get wind of what he's up to he's never been born — literally. Why risk non-existence for at most a few years' fame as a washed-up visitor from the thirteenth century with a host of unpleasant skin complaints?'

Millon shrugged.

'I don't know. 1 thought you might be able to help me.'

He lapsed into silence.

'Tell me, Millon — is there any connection between Kaine and the ovinator?'

'Of course! You should read Conspiracy Theorist magazine more often. Although most of our links between secret technology and those in power are about as tenuous as mist, this one really is concrete: his personal assistant, Stricknene, used to work with Schitt-Hawse at the Goliath tech division. If Goliath have an ovinator, then Kaine might very well have one too. Do you know what it does, then?'

I laughed. This was exactly the news I wanted to hear.

'You'll see. Tell me,' I added, my hopes rising by the second, 'what do you know about the old Goliath bioengineering labs?'

'Hoooh!' he said, making a noise like any enthusiast invited to comment on their particular field of interest. 'Now you're talking! The old Goliath labs are still standing in what we call 'Area 21' — the empty quarter in mid- Wales, the Elan.'

'Empty metaphorically or empty literally?'

'Empty as in no one goes there except water officials — and we have wholly uncorroborated evidence which we peddle as fact that an unspecified number of officials have vanished without trace. In any event it's all off limits to everyone, surrounded by an electrified fence.'

'To keep people out?'

'No,' said Millon slowly, 'to keep whatever genetic experiments Goliath were working on in. The whole of Area 21 is infested with chimeras. I've got files and files of dubious stories about people breaking in, allegedly never to be seen again. What's your interest in the Elan plant anyway?'

'Illegal genetic experiments on humans undertaken covertly by an apparently innocent multinational.'

Millon nearly passed out with conspiracy overload. When he had recovered he asked how he could help.

'I need you to find any pictures, plans, layout drawings, anything that might be of use for a visit.'

Millon opened his eyes wide and scribbled on his notepad.

'You're going to go into Area 21?'

'No.' I replied, 'we both are. Tomorrow. Leaving here at seven in the morning, sharp. Can you find what I asked for?'

He narrowed his eyes.

'I can get you your information, Miss Next,' he said slowly and with a gleam in his eye, 'but it will cost. Let me be your official biographer.'

I put out a hand and he shook it gratefully.

'Deal.'

I walked back inside to find Landen talking to a man dressed in slightly punky clothes, brightly coloured spectacle frames, bleached blond hair and an infinitesimally small goatee firmly planted just under his lower lip.

'Darling,' he said, grasping the hand that I had just rested on his shoulder, 'this is my very good friend Handley Paige.'

I shook his hand. He seemed pretty much the same as any other SF writers I had ever met. Slightly geeky but pleasant enough.

'You write the Emperor Zhark books,' I observed.

He winced slightly.

'No one ever talks about the decent stuff I write,' he moaned, 'they just ask me for more and more Zhark stuff. I did it as a joke — a pastiche of bad science fiction, and blow me down if it isn't the most popular thing I've ever done.'

I remembered what Emperor Zhark had told me.

'You're going to kill him off, aren't you?'

Handley started.

'How did you know that?'

'She works for SO-27,' explained Landen, 'they know everything.'

'I thought you guys were more hooked on the classics?'

'We deal with all genres,' I explained. 'For reasons that I can't reveal, I advise you to maroon Zhark on an uninhabited planet rather than submit him to the humiliation of a public execution.'

Handley laughed.

'You talk about him as if he were a real person!'

'She takes her work very seriously, Handley,' said Landen without the glimmer of a smile. 'I'd advise you to consider very seriously anything she happens to say. Wheels within wheels, Handley.'

But Handley was adamant.

'I'm going to kill him off so utterly and completely that no one will ever ask me for another Zhark novel again. Thanks for lending me the book, Land. I'll see myself out.'

'Is Handley in danger?' asked Landen as soon as he had gone.

'Quite possibly. I'm not sure the Zharkian death ray works in the real world, and I'd hate for Handley to be the one who finds out.'

'This is a BookWorld thing, isn't it? Let's just change the subject. What did your stalker want?'

I smiled.

'You know, Landen, things are beginning to look up. I must call Bowden.'

I quickly dialled his number.

'Bowd? It's Thursday. I've figured out how we're going to get across the border. Set everything up for tomorrow morning. We'll muster at Leigh Delamere at eight ... I can't tell you . . . Stig and Millon . . . see you there. 'Bye.'

I called Stig and told him the same, then kissed Landen and asked him whether he'd mind feeding Friday on his own. He didn't, of course, and I dashed off to speak to Mycroft.

I was back in time to help Landen scrub the food off Friday, read him a story and put him to bed. It wasn't late but we went to bed ourselves. Tonight there was no shyness or confusion and we undressed quickly. He pushed me back on to the bed and with his fingertips—