“They’re all coming back to life!” said Molly. “Armourer, what did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything!” said the Armourer, looking wildly about him. “I didn’t touch anything! We have must have restarted the systems when we walked in here.”
“We don’t have time for this,” I said.
I smashed the nearest equipment panel with one blow of my golden fist. The light inside the cylinder snapped off, and the contents stopped moving. I made my way steadily up and down the rows, smashing each control panel in turn, until my arm ached even inside my armour. There was a series of small explosions, a few fires, some drifting smoke . . . and one by one the systems shut down. The ice was still melting and running away in streams, but inside the cylinders, eyes closed, mouths closed, fingers stopped moving.
“Are they all back to sleep now?” said Molly, when I finally finished my work and returned to her.
“They’re all dead, Molly,” the Armourer said quietly. “We put them out of their suffering. Sometimes that’s the only mercy we have to offer.”
Molly put a comforting hand on my golden arm. “You did what you had to, Eddie.”
“I know,” I said. “Lot of that happening recently.”
I looked round suddenly. Off in the distance, I could hear sounds of fighting, conflict, gunfire and explosions. It seemed the Droods had come to grips with the enemy at last. But whom were they fighting? I moved back to the open door to find out, and that was when one of the largest cylinders suddenly exploded, shooting vicious glass shards through the air.
The Armourer and I moved quickly to shelter Molly, and when we looked round it was to see freezing gases boiling out of the shattered cylinder, falling to crawl along the floor like heavy ground fog. And out of the remains of the cylinder stepped a massive apelike creature. I have to say apelike, because it was another patchwork creature, roughly stitched together from a dozen different species, not all of them apes. It was huge, a giant, nine to ten feet tall and broadly built, its piebald skin stretched tautly over bulging muscles. Its fur had fallen out in great patches. So much time and effort, just so Nazi scientists could create the killer ape of myth and legend. Its head had been shaved, and jagged scars ran across the bulging augmented forehead. Steel bolts circled the skull, sparking static electricity. Its eyes were wild, full of suffering and the knowledge of what had been done to it.
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.”
“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.