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Chapter 16 - Let the Circle be Unfocussed

“G-Force, five incredible young people with superpowers! … Fearless young orphans, protecting Earth's entire galaxy. Always five, acting as one. Dedicated! Inseparable! Invincible!” - Introduction - Battle of the Planets

The motley group staggered free of the shattered ship’s hulk. Fittingly, the blue skies of Armenia were rapidly darkening to twilight. A crowd of onlookers rapidly moved toward the ship. The strangers were greeted with curious stares, but most of their attention was concentrated on the remains of the HMS Hoobe-Entwhistle. Ninja^TM Fred led the way to the shadows of a nearby take-out tripe store.

“Not tripe!” exclaimed Frieda, her thoughts returning to an overlong stakeout in the wilds of Gairloch. MacGuiness’ stomach rumbled as he eyed the front window display speculatively. Ninja^TM Fred guided the group around to the back of the store. Frieda sighed with relief. The Scot glowered and managed to scrape Hargrove’s head along the stucco wall as he trailed behind.

Ninja^TM Fred set the one-legged operative gently on the ground and motioned the others to gather around. “We are surrounded by the enemy here. You must remain silent from now on. Follow my instructions instantly. Do not be alarmed by anything that happens, no matter how unexpected. Place your feet only where I have stepped. Do not touch anything. But above all remain absolutely silent,” he cautioned them seriously. “Is that absolutely clear?” he demanded, fixing each of them with a steely glare. They all nodded grimly. Satisfied, the shadow warrior contorted his hands, summoning the power of the Kuji~In. Instantly, two figures clad identically to Ninja^TM Fred materialized. 

“What the  f …” began MacGuiness.

“By the great …” began O’Lan.

“Who are …” began Frieda.

Three unwavering sword points appeared, one at each of the speaker’s throats, instantly cutting off their outbursts. Ninja^TM Fred sighed and shook his head. “It’s clear you are untrustworthy and incapable of following the simplest of instructions. You are the sort of simpletons who look at the sign, but tap on the glass anyway,” he chastised them sotto-voce. He gestured in the rapidly deepening gloom and the swords vanished. The two other black-garbed warriors moved back toward the wreck of the land-locked luxury cruise-liner. They watched as the two smoothly approached the gathering crowed around the ship’s battered bulk and then seemed to vanish. “Just try not to get lost,” grunted Ninja^TM Fred as he hefted Frieda and moved off down the street. The others followed closely behind.

He led the way slipping noiselessly from shadow to shadow. MacGuiness scuffed along in his wake kicking up dust and muttering to himself. O’Lan paused to look up into dusty shop windows and then scampered to catch up. After several twists and turns, their guide paused at an alley entrance. He glanced in several directions and then led the others to the blind end of the passageway. Heaps of rotting refuse assailed their senses. A scabrous cur growled and retreated into a Carefully balancing Frieda, he touched three bricks in succession. A section of the wall slid aside and they all moved inside. The secret doorway closed behind them with a barely-audible click.

“This is our only refuge here in the enemy stronghold,” he said, relaxing slightly. They worked their way past several pile of rubble. Sections of the dirt wall had collapsed. The passage smelled faintly of dust, mould and decaying rodents. The reached a second door which opened as they approached. A doorman, dressed in the Iga clan colours (black boots, black sharply-creased trousers, tailored black jacket, black cap and yards of black brocade) ushered them in with a low bow.

The group shambled in. Ninja^TM Fred gently set Frieda on the floor. She balanced on her remaining leg while she looked about her. The foyer where they stood reminded her of the ancient cathedral in Prague. The soaring vaulted ceiling, the gleaming marble floor, and the towering granite columns. The only discordant note was…

“By St. Patrick’s pipe!” exploded O’Lan. He glanced at MacGuiness, who too was gazing in rapture at the site. He dropped Hargrove in his shock and wonder. Across the foyer beckoned the welcoming sign of the Pernicious Penguin: the understated but promising logos over the door, the friendly gleam of the taps, the faint strains of Stan Rogers drifting across the polished expanse of floor... The two moved off directly. MacGuiness’ wrench swung jauntily.

“I rejoice at your safe return brother,” the doorman greeted Ninja^TM Fred. “The others are waiting for you in the solar.”

“Thank you Jeffrey. Please see that our guests are taken care of. Alert the medical team. Ms. Engels needs the services of the cybernetic lab. Mr. Hargrove requires surgery,” directed Ninja^TM Fred quietly.

“Certainly brother.” Jeffrey snapped his fingers and medical orderlies instantly appeared. They gently moved Frieda to a wheelchair and whisked her rapidly away down one of the corridors. Another two approached and hoisted the perforated detective onto a bed and wheeled him off in another direction.

____________________

Hargrove awoke with a start. “codeine … golden … Linnear-san,” he garbled. A hazy figure bent over him. A calming hand gently pressed him down.

“Shhh. Relax for a minute.”

The voice restored his focus. “Frieda,” he sighed. Then a look of concern crossed his face. “The ship … the guns … the Scotch.”

She smiled and pressed the remote bed control. Hargrove’s head elevated until he was sitting up comfortably. “We’ve joined forces with the Iga Ninja^TM. We’re in their stronghold. We’re safe.”

“Not the Japanese,” exploded Hargrove as forcefully as he was able. “Don’t you remember what happened in Kyoto? The sampan, the pachinko parlour,” he recalled with a shudder. “To this day, I still can’t stand the rustle of paper fans.”

“Easy, love. We’re safe here and it’s the only way to destroy TICKS. I know it’s not ideal but there’s no other way.”

“But the Japanese …” he beseeched her. She frowned and nodded knowingly. The stratified society, the capitalist powerhouse of the modern world. The common man must scrape by while the high-tech robber barons decide who lives and dies. The whole island should be annexed by China he thought. “You don’t suppose we could call some friends in Canton instead?” he asked in a final attempt.

“No time love. Look on the bright side. The Iga have you all patched up. Back in Canton they’d be trying to stitch you together with pig bristles.” Hargrove looked down the top of his hospital gown. The hole he dimly recalled being punched through him appeared to have disappeared. He gently palpated his stomach. There was no pain whatsoever. It irked him immensely. His memory was returning. “What about your leg?”

She stood up from the bed. Frieda was somewhat dressed in a black kimono just long enough to brush the tops of her thighs. Her legs; long, muscled - and mechanical he reflected, appeared to be at least as good as new. She turned a tight pirouette. The kimono twirled up a couple of inches as she did so. Hargrove found he had gotten out of bed without realizing it. He also had his arms around the sultry operative. His gown wasn’t fitting the way it ought to.

“They gave me a new leg and tuned up the old one. And in this,” she added smoothing the black silk, “I can show them off.”

A slight cough from the doorway brought their heads around. Jeffrey bowed slightly. “Your presence is requested in the solar.”

“Of course, of course,” blustered Hargrove desperately trying to conceal the manifestation of ardour. “Now where is my suit?”

“Sir, your ‘suit’ as you call it is little more than a rag. Please accept alternate clothing.” He made a minute gesture and a servant rushed forward holding a kimono identical to Frieda’s, except for the length.

“No, no I couldn’t possibly,” he protested. “You’ve been far too generous as it is.” I won’t be able to live with myself if I freeload off these capitalist swine any more. Their fancy gifts wouldn’t corrupt him as it had so many others. Abdominal and spinal reconstruction was one thing, but a kimono was something else altogether. “Sorry, but I must insist on the clothes I arrived in.”

“Hargrove, you really ought to accept …”Frieda interceded

“No. Sorry,” he repeated. “That suit has seen me through a great deal and it will see me through what is to come,” he said grandly.

Jeffrey waited for more pontificating. None forthcoming, he made another tiny hand movement. The first servant withdrew and another appeared, carrying his suit on a hanger – at arms’ length. The once crisp, white linen jacket and trousers now resembled two Jackson Pollack paintings using misshapen sacks as canvas and phlegm, blood, bile, vomit and other assorted gore as pigment. More than the starch had gone out of his shirt. It too was liberally sprayed with various body fluids. It also featured a fist-sized hole through it. His bow tie was a bedraggled scrap of material which might have once been red, but now only aspired to a mottled grayishness. Hargrove accepted the hanger, and with as much dignity as he could muster, turned his back and pulled on the suit, repressing several shudders of revulsion. Seldom had his commitment to the cause and to his own principles been so sorely tested.

Turning back to the others, he forced a smile. “Let’s go.”

Jeffrey led them from the hospital wing. They followed the green line until it met the blue line, took the yellow line to the green line and turned right. They emerged into a cavernous corridor. At irregular intervals, signs were posted: swimming pool, equestrian centre, aerodrome, IMAX theatre. Several times he was able to glance through windows to gaze with growing anger at the arboretum, the animal sanctuary and the Formula 1 racetrack. As they strode along, black-garbed men women passed. Each time, Jeffrey halted and bowed.

“Subjugating himself to the oppressors,” Hargrove whispered to Frieda. “And look at this opulence, the sheer flaunting of greed. It’s disgusting. What’s going on in the solar anyway?” he demanded brusquely.

“Battle preparations, love. Don’t let the trappings alarm you. This is a true fight for the cause.”

He lapsed into fuming mumbles. “… obsequious … technocrat … sushi …”

At length they were led to the solar. Their guide paused at the door, bowed and departed. The door opened. Another doorman festooned with black brocade bowed and bade them Enter.

“Enough!” shouted Hargrove, beside himself with indignation. “Stand up man. The noble proletariat have been forced into this ignominious servitude by the weight of ages-long custom, perpetuated by the idle ruling class. Cast off these trappings of caste, stand up and …” The man remained bowing. Inscrutable faces turned toward him. A voice barked out, the man turned abruptly to the speaker, bowed even lower and then spun and strode from the room. Dignity restored.

“You uncultured Gaijin are a constant embarrassment. Unfortunately we have need of your services or your head would be displayed on a pike in the square outside the planetarium,” said an elderly man from across the room.

Hargrove turned forming a retort concerning the self-defeatism of the Kaisho, but fell silent at the sight. The room was large with a gleaming marble floor and walls. Tapestries depicting Musashi wielding his two swords against seemingly indestructible armies covered walls. Gathered around a large circular conference table, completely concealed in black from head to toe and bristling with weapons, were the combat elite of the Iga clan. Hargrove had to concede they presented a fearsome sight. As his eyes took in the rest of the room, he encountered a welcome sight. Stacked neatly on burled walnut racks in a corner, were the guns from the crate which had magically appeared in the ship. Hargrove eyed the instruments of destruction hungrily.

“I am, well, forget my unpronounceable last name. You may call me Sensei^ã Lloyd,” the old man introduced himself to the new arrivals. He turned to Ninja^TM Fred. “Where are those other buffoons?” he demanded.

Just then the door swung open. MacGuiness took an unhealthy swig from his bottle of Glen Fujiyama and leaned heavily on O’Lan, planting a meaty hand on the tiny Irishman’s head. The Scot belched a hearty greeting to the general assemblage before staggering over to a chair and collapsing. O’Lan tried step dancing, gave it up as totally beyond him, and shuffled over to the conference table and clambered up, careful not to spill any of his Ichiban Hammer Triple-Distilled.

Hargrove and Frieda each took a seat. Frieda comfortably crossed her legs causing the kimono to ride up her thighs. The warrior next to her performed the RIN finger cut, interlocking his hands while leaving his index fingers extended. He fervently concentrated on strengthening his mind and focussing on what was to come.

Sensei^ã Lloyd spoke again. “Now that everyone is here, more or less,” he began. We can finalize our plan of attack against the TICKS headquarters. He nodded to Ninja^TM Fred.

“Thank you Sensei^ã. Two of our brothers returned these plans of the enemy stronghold.” Unexpectedly, a hologram burst from the conference tabletop. O’Lan looked bemusedly at the colours playing across him, staggered and fell off the table. He managed to climb onto a vacant chair.

The table projected a slowing rotating hologram of a Sudden Stop variety store. “Of course this is only a cover,” said Ninja^TM Fred. The picture changed showing the secret underground tunnels radiating outward from the store. “Our success lies in sealing each of these tunnel entrances. That’s easy enough, but there is one more obstacle.” Once more the picture changed, overlaying the electronic sensor beams that covered all approaches to the target. Our resources are stretched too thin to seal the tunnels, storm the building and disable the sensors all at the same time.” He turned to the Irish man. “That’s why we need you,” he said disappointedly. O’Lan smiled and sat up a little straighter. He cradled the almost-empty bottle of Ichiban Hammer in the crook of his arm.

“There are three main battle groups attacking the building at the same time. As soon as the tunnels are sealed and Paddy O’Lan turns off the sensors at this control box,” he said indicating a spot on a telephone pole next to the building, “one group will go through the skylight, one through this small window at the back of the building, and the last through the front door. The last group of course will be our three remaining non-Iga,” he finished glancing at MacGuiness, Hargrove and Frieda in turn. Hargrove looked at him questioningly. “Ninja^TM do not attack through doors,” he scoffed. Hargrove scowled but could not fault the plan, so remained silent.

Sensei^ã Lloyd took over the briefing. “We attack at 0200, when the enemy will be at their lowest ebb.” He looked icily at O’Lan. “Will you be able to do your part you miniscule drunkard?” he asked. The Other Side said you were their best at covert pole climbing.” O’Lan tipped up his bottle and drained the last of the whiskey. He sighed contentedly and waved two fingers at the Iga. The old man mistakenly took the gesture as a V for victory.

“Very well then. I suggest everyone gather up the weapons they need and get some rest. We need everyone to be katana-sharp for this mission to succeed.”

Hargrove and Frieda were already moving toward the gun racks when the door opened. Jeffrey bowed very low. “A thousand pardons, sensei, but we have unexpected visitors,” with that he fell forward. A dark puddle expanded slowly underneath him.

Shouts, running, gunfire and the ringing of weapons against each other filled the air with the unmistakable din of battle – or a K-Mart blue light special on children’s’ sandals. “It’s the TICKS!” shouted Sensei^ã Lloyd. “Somehow they have surprised us.” He drew his sword from his back sheath.  Hargrove snatched the first weapon on the rack he encountered, the H&K PSG1. He flipped the selector to the three-round burst setting and turned to face the enemy. A flung shuriken grazed his cheek as he turned and he felt the familiar hot flow of his own blood. He raised the weapon as the Iga launched themselves into the fray, pulling out kusari fundo, kusari gama, kyoketsu shoge, kama yari and chigi riki as they went. His eye landed on the Musashi figure in the tapestry, fighting on valiantly, unwilling to accept the possibility of defeat. He lined up his first target, and squeezed the trigger.

What will become of our heroes? Will they prevail in repulsing this surprise attack? Will TICKS succeed in replacing the heads of state with alien infiltrators? Is industrial collectivism a viable alternative to the privately held socio-industrial construct?

On to Chapter 17