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Chapter 12 – To Flee or Not to Be

“Horror. Horror has a face, and you must make a friend of horror. Horror and moral terror are your friends. If they are not, then they are enemies to be feared.” - Commander Kurtz - Apocalypse Now

The motley group stumbled as the ship lurched. The bow was definitely leading the way to the bottom. Several passengers who had been cowering near the stern lost their grip slid past on the slanted deck, leaving the echoes of their piteous cries and a trail of disposable cameras, glossy brochures and greasy snack wrappers in their wake. Clearly vacating the ship was the top priority.

“Quick,” the Captain ordered, “there is one more lifeboat station further aft. It’s our last hope.” Hargrove and MacGuiness managed to heave Serapion and the crate containing the robotic Captain onto a wayward deck chaise and began pushing their burden toward the back of the ship. The others trailed behind carefully grasping the rail and whatever other handholds presented themselves. The occasional passenger swept by oblivious to their surroundings.

“Ahoy, Avast, Chips Ahoy, or whatever it is you say on a boat,” came a call from behind them. Together they turned. An eight-foot tall, fuzzy red lobster was clomping toward them determinedly. Hargrove noticed the mascot from the all-you-can-eat crustacean bar. It pressed forward until it reached a nearby stairwell housing. The lobster rested against the housing. With it’s hands free it reached up and slowly removed the lobster head. The woman combed the sweat-matted scraggle out of her face with callused fingers. She plugged one nostril and forcefully ejected a viscous stream of mucous past stained, chipped teeth into the face of a portly young man as he slid past. His shout ended abruptly but his passage did not. Hargrove revised his opinion. This was not the bubbly, energetic mascot beckoning gleeful patrons to dine. No, this lobster had a much more sinister agenda.

MacGuiness felt his breath catch in his throat. He took an involuntary step toward the new arrival as if gravity were drawing his closer. He halted as she spoke. “Fancy meeting you here Hargrove,” she said as she lit a match on her cheek. Her voice evidenced no surprise whatsoever. “Manila, wasn’t it?” she inquired rhetorically. “Those were good times.” She lit a black, twisted cheroot.

“A long time ago Trotskov.” Hargrove noticed a look from MacGuiness. The man was green but the experienced sailor was not seasick.

“So formal,” she replied. “It wasn’t always so.” She turned her attention to Frieda. Her penetrating gaze slowly traveled up the long, muscular legs, the slim waist, and the ample bosom and finally came to rest on Frieda’s tear-stained, stricken face. Then they returned to her chest. Trotskov, slowly and deliberately peeled off the lobster outfit. Broad shoulders and thickly muscled limbs were revealed. She wore a classic Mao uniform.

Her eyes never wavered. “So our pretty mule is here, and so is the package,” she said gesturing with a discarded claw at the crate. “You have done very well. I have a special reward in mind for you.” The tip of a cankerous tongue traced scabbed lips.

MacGuiness shot a look between the two women. He took a half step back. That might have been a tear on his cheek, but it was more likely sea spray. Bitter, salty sea spray. Frieda clung hard to Hargrove; molding her body to his. His professional demeanor was sorely challenged.

“She isn’t one of your doxies,” declared the detective. “Why not save us the trouble and hurl yourself over the side?  It’s obvious,” he continued “this little reunion isn’t just to relive old times. I admire, as always, your fashion sense, but your motives are suspect. Since you know about Frieda’s role here and about the Captain, you must be instrumental to the plan.” Then it struck him. “Armenian TICKS!” he gasped. In frustration he kicked Santiago at the woman. With a shrill cry, he smacked off the stairwell housing, clattered to the deck and then slowly righted himself. He began to slowly crawl to the top of the housing.

Trotskov chuckled merrily; a sound somewhere between a band saw and a car alarm. “You were always such fun to watch work. Never knew when a flash of insight would wash away the fog of ….” She trailed off. Hargrove and Frieda winced. The grating voice and noxious cigar were bad enough, but the mangled metaphors…

Trotskov kept her eyes locked on Frieda. “Once again Hargrove, you’ve seen through all attempts at succulence … er … subterfuge.” Her eyes never strayed. “Of course it was TICKS, The Insidious Communist Kornilovist Soviet. Once glorious Mother Russia went Capitalist,” she spat “only we in Independent Armenia could return the glory of the heaving … heroic past when Russians were Russians and capitalists were to be shot and pissed on like the diseased dogs they were.”

“… and the aliens …”

“Right you are again; promised to help us spread the doctrine of the Communist mammary … uh … Manifesto. If a few of us had to become hosts, what of it? The heaving … hordes of loyal Soviets are straining for freedom from the Lycra … ah … lackies of capitalist robber barons. By allowing a few visitors to piggyback on their central nervous systems, our courageous patriots have ensured our voluptuous … uh … victory.

“So France …”

“Obviously, was the natural choice to bounce … er … begin the triumphant repatriation of the enslaved masses. A country mired in its decadent cheese and wine, rich, buttery baguettes and retrograde cinema was ripe for the palming … picking. Soon French heads of state will be under alien control, and when that happens, France will join the TICKS.”

“ … but …”

“Of course, damn your confounded deductive abilities. We needed military might and military minds to consolidate our gains. We began seeking out the vast cadre of the disenfranchised Russian military. Many were willing to do their patriotic duty. Unfortunately others had gone into private industry and had been seduced by the Soft Side.” She paused to shake her head sadly. “Dental plans, stock options, medical benefits. Clearly they were beyond redemption and clearly they had to be exterminated.”

“ … but the …” he began.

“duplicates, yes,” she finished. “We realized that merely eradicating the traitors would be wasteful. Our influence would be strengthened if they could be replaced with our automatons. With their military knowledge, under our control, directed at a common goal, we could not lose. However, we needed someone who could make the switch for us. When we tracked down Brashnikov to this ship, Frieda was sent to bring the crate aboard. Santiago was here to make sure she followed orders. I’m here to tidy up the loose ends.”

With that, she produced a weapon identical to the one Serapion had used. She casually loosed a blast at the deck railing. A magenta beam shot from the weapon and a large section of the railing was obliterated. Tiny pieces of flaming shrapnel whizzed around the deck. Hargrove yelped as several of the jagged missiles tore through his pant leg. Blood began coursing down his leg and filling his shoe. He sighed. The linen was ruined.

“Frieda wouldn’t do her true patriotic duty without a certain amount of, shall we say, encouragement,” continued the armed woman, as though nothing had happened. At this Frieda broke into a fresh sobs. The tears actually may have actually improved the condition of Hargrove’s jacket, at least somewhat blurring the traces of blood leading from his injured right ear to his shoulder.

What could she possibly mean pondered Hargrove. He thought furiously, but it didn’t seem to help. Think, damn it, he told himself. He slammed the heel of his hand against his head. A fresh wave of dizziness brought the disorientation he needed to put his reasoning powers to work. As his vision swam and his gorge rose, he envisioned a possibility; her heritage. Her grandfather the great socialist thinker and collaborator with Marx, the Great Man himself was above reproach. Frieda herself was a stalwart a collectivist as could be hoped for in this hedonistic age. But of her parents she knew nothing, she was a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in very flattering clothes.

He turned her gently to face him. “Your father,” he said softly.

“Yes. He … he … once ate lunch with Joseph McCarthy,” she spoke in a rush. Trotskov broke into harsh, braying laughter as the young woman’s greatest shame was finally exposed. “He was trying to end the blacklisting and the persecution, but that didn’t matter to her,” she spat, gesturing at the laughing woman. She had photos of them entering the restaurant, sharing a toast even perusing the French desert trolley.” Suddenly Frieda straightened and stepped away from Hargrove. She glared at the other woman. “She threatened to release the pictures to the Marxist Ladies Lock and Load League. I would have been shunned utterly; my friends gone, my contacts vanished. How was I going to get the exotic ammunition I need with a voided membership? This woman has absolutely no scruples.”

Silently, Hargrove agreed. That ruthlessness had made Trotskov a formidable ally, and now, a daunting foe. And getting adequate rounds was a problem. He looked deep into Frieda’s eyes and saw the truth there. She had cut all familial ties to her father’s ignoble past, while at the same time, revering her grandfather. He knew he could trust her with his life and he knew that this time he would not let her go. His fingers itched to grab his Webley but Trotskov already had her, whatever it was, out and aimed. “How is this going to play out,” he asked Trotskov. “The ship is going down, you have cohort out cold and another one … resembling a kitchen utensil.”

“I also have a neutrino accelerator, the most powerful hand weapon ever made. I know what you’re thinking. How long does it take to recharge? To tell the truth I’m not sure myself. There’s just one thing you’ve got to ask yourself. Do I feel lucky? Well, do you Hargrove?” Hargrove slowly moved his hand away from the revolver.

His captor smiled. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I will kill Brashnikov, and Santiago, Serapion and I, along with our curvaceous guest will take the last lifeboat. You and the Wookie with the wrench will be going down with the ship.” She brandished the neutrino accelerator. “This is the part where I tell you to drop your weapons and kick them to me.”

“I’ll not, ye Medusian spittoon,” roared MacGuiness. He waved his wrench above his head in one hand as he wiped … sea spray from his face with the other. The weapon in Trotskov’s hand fired again. A magenta beam lanced through the air and vaporized the head of the wrench. MacGuiness stared at it in disbelief. The wrench, his Excalibur, his beloved implement of destruction, was no more. All that was left was a section of twisted, knurled pipe. More sea spray appeared on his cheeks.

Hargrove gently laid the Webley and the derringer on the deck. He nudged them forward enough that he could still lunge for them if necessary. Trotskov produced a small device from a pocket, looking remarkably like a TV remote control.

She pressed a button and the robot Captain sat up in the remains of the crate. He looked around, saw his quarry and laboriously stood, sweeping splintered planks away. He took a step toward Frieda, arms extended. “Not her you idiot!” shouted the woman with the remote. “Him,” she instructed waving in Brashnikov’s direction. The robot glowered at her, but moved to comply. It stepped over to the Captain and clubbed the injured man to the deck. He crawled painfully across the deck. His duplicate raised its arm again for the killing blow.

At that moment, MacGuiness’ grief boiled over. With a tortured yell, he hurled the remains of the wrench at Trotskov. Instinctively, she ducked and fired her weapon. Another magenta beam leapt from her hand and destroyed the improvised missile with a resounding bang. The engineer seeing his wrench destroyed yelled again and began propelling himself toward Trotskov. He crashed to the deck before he reached his goal. Serapion had revived and tackled the man.

Hargrove snatched up the Webley and leveled it at the duplicate’s head. He quickly emptied the chambers. The rounds caromed off the alien alloy skull and ricocheted wildly around the deck. The assault dented the robot’s head somewhat but didn’t slow the monster. One shot bounced off the skull, then off the railing and tumbled toward Santiago resting comfortably on the stairwell housing. (A forty-five caliber bullet and a mason jar. You do the math.) The tiny alien shattered in a spray of glass shards and protoplasm. Trotskov uttered a strangled protest “… nooooo …” as she watched the eyes, spiraling through the air on their severed stalks dim and drop into the sea.

Frieda seized the moment and leapt at Trotskov. She executed a perfect dragon palm to the back of Trotsov’s turned head. The larger woman when down in a heap. Frieda neatly snatched the remote control away and pointed it at the robot. She pushed buttons frantically, but her target pursued the captain the last few steps and raised its arms for the last time.

Meanwhile, Serapion had lifted MacGuiness and was energetically trying to break the engineer’s back in a crushing bear hug. MacGuiness reared back. He struggled mightily but the massive arms around him seemed to be made of steel. With his wrench gone and his own arms pinioned to his sides, he seemed helpless. “By the time your bloated carcass bobs to the surface,” snarled the priest/Irish Special Forces commando/Armenian sympathizer, “I’ll be ordering another order of truffles and champagne.”

The engineer glared at the man, fire rekindled in his eyes. “Be sure to order extra lark’s vomit, ye great heap o’ frog lovin’ mule dung.” He snapped his head forward smashing the alien abettor across the bridge of the nose. Blood fountained in all directions. Serapion, barely clinging to consciousness dropped MacGuiness and fell to the deck groaning. The heartbroken Scot began kicking the fallen man as hard as his steel shod feet would allow. One did not survive in the rough and tumble world or cruise ship maintenance without the ability to defend one’s own person. Many were practitioners of a martial art. MacGuiness was a master of Glaswegian Fuck You.

The Captain knew he had only seconds. He frantically groped in front of himself for anything he could use as a weapon. Suddenly he hand encountered an oddly shaped object buried in the debris. After a moment of confusion, he realized that he held the neutrino accelerator dropped by Serapion when he was attacked by MacGuiness. He twisted about onto his back and brought the weapon to bear. The android above him had begun its final swing. Brashnikov touched the button under his thumb and the robot seemed to explode. Bits of advanced technology blurred through the air. A flaming chunk of robot spleen smacked Hargrove squarely in the sternum leaving a smoldering welt. He felt the sudden need to sit down. He did.

On to Chapter 13