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Chapter 20 - Shaken, but not Deterred

“This is a tough decision you give me here. Get my ass kicked or collect two hundred dollars. I could use a good ass-kickin', I'll be perfectly honest with you... no I think I'll just go with the two hundred.” - Vinny Gambini - My Cousin Vinny

 “… impossible …” breathed Frieda. “Nothing on Earth could possibly …”

“Earth has nothing to do with it,” boomed a voice. It seemed to come from all directions. The party cautiously sidled into the alien lab. The door they had attacked so furiously opened into a cavernous expanse. Almost every inch of floor space was occupied by enormous machines. Belts whirled, pulleys pulled, pistons pumped; the accumulation looked like an oversized Meccano set randomly assembled by Coco-Puff fuelled ten-year olds.

“Come in, come in,” beckoned the voice briskly. They looked frantically about, weapons drawn, desperately hoping for a target. Paulina, due no doubt to her extensive TOCKS training, was the first to locate the source of the voice. Bustling toward them was a small, officious-looking man. His dapper tweed suit, plaid bow tie and heavily gelled combover cast an aura of Lee Van Cleef-like command. “Welcome,” he boomed from five feet away. MacGuiness flinched from the aural onslaught.

“Put down the fookin’ megaphone ye pickle-penetrated pile o’ parrot pellets!” shouted the half-deafened engineer. “I’ll pound yer pale pate to Peru!”

Apparently astonished by MacGuiness’ command of alliteration, the small man turned off the electronic megaphone and tossed it clattering across the floor. “Yes, yes,” he proceeded. “Welcome to the maximum super top secret TICKS simulacrum manufacturing complex.” He paused for effect. The flummoxed silence seemed to suffice. “You may address me in hushed, respectful tones as Your Excellency, Highness or Most Esteemed Grand Vizier. My peers, if I had any on this planet, would call me Mr. Odysseus. In the grand tradition of evil overlords, I will kill you, but first I’ll tell you my plan.”

Paulina, striving to maintain control of the situation, interjected. “Kill? You couldn’t ice a cake, let alone us,” she declared. She calmly aimed her neutrino accelerator at the man and went down in a heap as he snatched the weapon from her hand and delivered a fatal solar plexus flurry. He straightened his slightly-askew bow tie and snapped his fingers. From out of the deep shadows came the sound of plodding footsteps. The remaining members of the party stood mesmerized as an android lumbered into their midst. The mindlessly-staring figure was elegantly turned out in an expensive pinstriped suit, silk tie and galoshes. With its face skewed to one side and the Inuit sculpture in one hand, the purpose of the monstrosity was no mystery.

“Not them,” gasped Frieda. “Not the blandest of quasi-socialist post-imperial colonies.”

“I’m afraid so dearest,” sighed Hargrove. “No one is safe from the TICKS infestation. We must find a way to disable this plant and destroy all the simulacrums replacing world heads of state.” They returned their attention to their host and would-be murderer.

“Reduce, reuse, recycle,” the tweed clad man addressed the automaton breezily.

Wordlessly, the robotic figure stowed the sculpture in a jacket pocket and scooped up Paulina’s body by the neck. He lugged the lifeless burden over to a large vat of frothy, burbling, puce ooze. It tossed in the body of the TOCKS commando and retreated back into the gloom. Paulina’s corpse slowly sank into the vat and then disappeared.

The shocked group gaped at the man. Weapons at the ready, primed for battle, yet they had never been more helpless. “I do hope no more of you will be so foolish. I have special plans for all of you. One less,” he mused. “Perhaps two of you could be half beheaded.” He paused considering. “Well, all it good time. Let’s begin the tour shall we? It’s really extraordinarily fascinating.” He rubbed his hands together briskly in anticipation. He had the mien of a museum curator on the first day of his job; convinced that his compulsions were universally appealing. Unable to do anything else they trailed behind him.

He led them toward the vat that had become Paulina’s temporary resting place. He turned to them and laid a fond hand on the edge of the vat. “This beauty,” he began, “is the Epsilon Emulsifier VIII. It reduces all organic material into a homogenous material which can be moulded by various cybernetic processes into any chosen advanced biotechnological form. We’ve chosen simulacra.” He walked off leaving them no option but to follow. Hargrove stole a look at the vat. No human remains marred the bobbing surface. He looked away wishing he’d had one less cabbage roll back at the Paplavok Café. Out of the corner of his eye he though he saw movement in the shadows but when he looked, whatever it was seemed to have vanished.

Their next stop was what seemed to be an enormous waterwheel. It turned slowly. As each bucket reached the bottom of its sweep, it scooped up a load of gelatinous goo from the vat. Up it swung with its load until it emptied into translucent cylinders which proceeded lock step along a conveyer belt.

“Here the organic material,” continued their guide, “is transported into these cryogenic tubes.”  Hargrove recalled the tube in which they’d fond Brashnikov. Finally all the pieces were coming together. Soon he would have to gather everyone together in the same room to announce how he had cracked the case. Of course, everyone already was in the same room and their wasn’t much of a mystery left, but if there was a chance to showcase his masterful abilities of detection and reason, he was going to take it.

The conveyor belt carried the tubes through a large, gleaming machine. A disorienting array of lights and dials flashed and spun. With a cheerful “ping” the cylinder emerged from the far side. “This machine,” said Mr. Odysseus dramatically, “is the Marvelon 4 Re-engineering Integrator. It transforms the organic material into the simulacrum we want. Heads of State, Celebrities, Professional Athletes … anything is possible with the Marvelon 4. He paused to gaze rapturously at the machine. Hargrove looked carefully at the cylinders. Shadowy figures of all shapes and sizes lay within the curved walls, waiting to be decanted. Waiting to spread the alien plague.

“The final touch,” continued their host, “is the addition of advanced, what you would call alien, intelligence.” As each tube advanced along the belt, it paused under a chute descending from the shadowy expanse above them. A small glassy globe complete with the alien brain and eyes and eight tiny silver claws was dropped into each cylinder. Hargrove remembered the alien controller tearing Santiago open from the inside and later, dissolving into a cloud of glass, metal and plasma as the round from the Webley blew it from its perch over the side of the ship. It seemed so long ago. A smile tugged at his lips. Those were the good old days, like the time in Corfu when he and a troupe of contortionists …

“Now that the controller is incorporated,” said Mr. Odysseus breaking Hargrove’s train of thought, “we can send the duplicate anywhere in the world, wherever it is needed most to spread our doctrine and to wait for the great uprising.” Hargrove and Frieda stood up a little straighter at the thought of an uprising but then slouched again dejectedly as they considered the source.

As each tube reached the end of the conveyor belt, a large claw descended and lifted off the tube, revealing a fully-formed simulacrum. Hargrove watched astonished as well known and as often reviled as revered personages stepped off a platform and down onto the main floor to join the ranks of their kind. He felt his gorge rise as he watched the parade of well-heeled capitalist swine. There seemed to be no end to the look-alikes: hockey players, ballerinas, actors, pop music icons, business magnates and politicians.  As his gaze travelled across the host, he again thought he something moving in the dusky vastness of the lab, but again was unable to pinpoint it.

“And now the jewel in the crown,” said Mr. Odysseus. He led them over to a large control panel, the size of a sound board operated by hearing impaired sound technicians at loud outdoor summer music festivals. The major difference, Hargrove observed, was that instead of dials, knobs, switches and lights, the surface of this panel resembled nothing quite so much as a detailed moonscape. “This is the bleeding edge of integrated control technology,” announced their guide with considerable relish. The Ultimatic 3.5 is a universal coordination interface that controls all lab functions including production, distribution and self-destruction.”

“Self destruction, Your Excellency?” asked Frieda choking on the title. “Isn’t that a bit unusual? And why bother telling us? You’ve given us the key to defeat you.”

The man chuckled slightly and then drew himself up as though caught committing an unconscionable social gaffe. “No, no. I value the traditions of whatever little backwater planet I operate on. I’ve observed that all evil scientist headquarters have an autodestruct sequence. I admit I questioned it at first but with the Ultimatic so easy to configure I set the sequence to destroy not just the lab complex but every simulacrum both here and around the world. It’s quite impressive. I couldn’t avoid tinkering," he added somewhat sheepishly. "Besides, you assume that you will around to use that knowledge. So true to form.” He shook his head, bemused. “Oh very well,” he added, as though reading from an overworn script, “I warn you a flawed attempt at deactivation will have … unpleasant repercussions.”

“Well that concludes our tour. I hope you’ve all found the experience as enjoyable and informative as I have. I’m afraid we do not have a gift shop, but in lieu I am providing you with the spectacle of watching your fellows die in a variety of unspeakably horrific fashions,” he said breezily. The party glared helpless at him. O’Lan hefted the MM1 grenade launcher. MacGuiness brandished the gift of the unionist Nazgul. Frieda clutched her Derringer. Hargrove tightened his grip on his Webley. All of them desperately wanted to rain death and destruction on the officious little extra-terrestrial but, all knew that the slightest aggressive move would bring instant death.

“DID SOMEONE SAY HORROR?”  boomed a voice from the doorway. The Nazgul, it’s visible sections dripping with the blood and viscera of mimes brandished its gleaming knife. “FINALLY SOMETHING I CAN REALLY SINK MY TEETH INTO.” The smile, though unseen, was apparent to all. The Ringwraith strode across the room toward the murderous bureaucrat. The fatalistic crew, knowing that in all probability they needn’t have renewed their mortgages but at least could die fighting, advanced on their captor.

Mr. Odysseus pulled a small remote control from his tweed jacket pocket. He quickly pressed a black button and stepped away from those advancing toward him. “Well, you’ve all deprived me of a very pleasant diversion. I can’t very well promise you all the lingering pain I wanted to when the scales have tipped in your favour so …” Out of the gloom the sound of footsteps reverberated as the jet setting host advanced. Hargrove and his intrepid companions were under attack by alien-enhanced duplicates of the very best and brightest of the political and entertainment worlds.

“To strike a direct blow for the proletariat against the bourgeoisie oppressor has been my finest dream since my tender days in the Leninist Youth League,” said Hargrove drawing a bead on the robotic French President. Suddenly, the shadows around them seemed to solidify. Ninja^TM Fred and the Iga warriors had arrived.

“Where the fook have you been, ye seaweed scarfin’ mongrels,” demanded MacGuiness.

“Actually we’ve always been here, waiting for the ideal moment to launch our attack. Silent, preternaturally aware, lethal …” As Ninja^TM Fred rattled on the other Iga began self-consciously checking their equipment and becoming unaccountably interested in their shoes.

“Shut yer rambling gob and fight, ye fookin night crawler!” shouted MacGuiness. Ninja^TM Fred shrugged and drew his sword from its concealed back sheath. The rest of the Iga followed suit and turned to face the rapidly advancing celebrity horde.

The Nazgul leapt 20 feet extending his knife toward Mr Odysseus. The Iga, and MacGuiness engaged the front ranks of the simulacra. O’Lan fired murderous blasts from the MM1 into the robotic host. Hargrove and Frieda began squeezing off selective shots, vicariously killing off the icons of capitalist excess.

“Take that Prince!” yelled Frieda, “And may your tiny country be swallowed by the truffle-sodden masses!”

“How’s that for eliminating a deficit?” asked Hargrove as he drilled a round through the forehead of an Albertan politician.

“Marvellous darling, but we must activate the self-destruct sequence. We won’t be able to hold out against such overwhelming forces for long.” She was right realized Hargrove. The sheer number of targets would quickly exhaust their supply of ammunition. The self-destruct sequence was their only hope of true victory.

They picked off a few more pet targets and then crossed quickly to the control panel and looked at its alien contours. There was no way to begin, no familiar context to provide a hint. “What was that about repercussions?” asked Hargrove rhetorically.

“It’s up to you love,” said Frieda. “You set the self-destruct and I’ll cover you. No matter what happens, remember that I’ll always be true to you. Hargrove looked her; eyes gleaming with excitement, skin glowing with a fine sheen of sweat, her criminally short kimono in disarray … He started to put his arms around her, recovered himself and handed her his beloved Webley.

“Just in case you run dry,” he said. She kissed him quickly on the lips and made the heavy revolver vanish somewhere. Given her mode of dress the possibilities hardly seemed limitless.

Hargrove returned to the control panel. It was clear once again that clarity of thought would be more of hindrance than help. He must achieve the correct degree of dissociation to instinctively unlock the secrets of the device before him. Despite the battle raging around him, he sank into a meditative state, musing over the many cornerstones of his socio-political philosophy; the maxims which gave his life meaning and importance.

Never let them see you bleed. No, no that wasn’t it. Guns for show, knives for a pro. No again, but getting closer. All men recognize the right of revolution. Yes. Those who suppress freedom always do so in the name of law and order. Indeed. His fingers began to cautiously explore the cratered and pocked surface. So like the disoriented righteousness of capitalist dogma, he thought. Bourgeois nationalism and proletarian internationalism are two implacably opposed slogans. A small beep emitted from the panel. He continued his casual exploration, seeking answers while rejecting intention.

He was dimly aware of the action around him. O’Lan had run out of grenades for the MM1 and now stood back-to-back with MacGuiness as they vigorously clubbed at the murderous automatons that swarmed around them. The Ringwraith had lost his knife and was trading devastating blows back and forth with Mr. Odysseus. Frieda sparingly picked off targets heading in their direction with her Derringer. The Iga hewed and sliced a devastating path through the replicas but were rapidly tiring. Hargrove sank deeper into the semi-trance.

Religion … is the opium of the people. Absolutely. Every class struggle is a political struggle. His fingers delicately continued their exploration, Intermittent beeps and whistles where heard and no unpleasant repercussions felt. Proletarian social revolution will … emancipate the whole of oppressed humanity.  Hargrove heard several clicks from within the control panel and felt the device tremble slightly. 

The Iga were withdrawing to regroup. Ninja^TM Fred’s suit hung in tatters. Several warriors nursed wounds or groaned under the labour of dragging wounded comrades clear of the onslaught. MacGuiness and O’Lan reeled, for a wonder from exhaustion, not drunkenness. Several times one went down and had to be helped up to continue the fight. The Nazgul and his opponent faced each other glaring with hatred. One of the Ringwraith’s arms hung at an disconcerting angle. Mr. Odysseus’ combover had become somewhat disarrayed. Frieda had discarded the Derringer and now used the Webley to cut down those who became over curious. The only slightly diminished host strode inexorably on, bludgeoning and stomping anything it contacted.

“You must hurry love,” warned Frieda. We’ll soon be overwhelmed. Out of the fog of war emerged a familiar but unwelcome figure. Edmond Trundle approached Frieda. He clutched a neutrino accelerator in his right hand but for now at least, had it aimed at the floor.

“Frieda dearest,” he said flashing his most disarming of grins. “It’s clear that things have gone somewhat awry. How about we abandon ship as it were, rather than going down with these rats,” he suggested gesturing at the ongoing struggles. We’re both free agents. We could discuss our future partnership over a glass of champagne in a nice, romantic café.” His smile broadened.

“Oh, Edmund,” she said swooningly. “You always bring out the devil in me.” He stepped forward, arms outstretched. She drove him back putting her last two rounds directly through his smile. “Sorry,” she addressed the corpse. “Abandoning friends is not my style.”

Hargrove’s reverie continued uninterrupted by the drama that had just occurred. [F]reedom can only be gained through the barrel of a shotgun. Several more clicks and beeps. The great common people of this country are slaves, and monopoly is the master. A slight whine began and then cut off abruptly. Insurrection is the most sacred of rights and the most indispensable of duties. The Iga drew together for the last stand. O’Lan and MacGuiness broke free of the inexorable enemy ranks and turned with resignation to stem the tide for as long as they were able. The other two combatants were locked in a torturous struggle, each looking for the fatal weakness in the other. Frieda, unarmed for the first time, balled her fists and strode to meet the aliens.

Let the ruling classes tremble at a communistic revolution. Clicking and whirring under his probing fingers. The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. A hum. A circle of light appeared on the console; green at the top and fading through warmer hues until it reached bright red at its terminus. They have a world to win. A blinking light appeared at the top of the circle. WORKERS OF ALL COUNTRIES, UNITE! A blatting klaxon sounded and the blinking light started moving around the circle from green to red. The simulacra began shuddering and toppling heavily to the floor. .

Hargrove snapped out his intuitive trance. “Oh darling, you were wonderful,” cried Frieda. She wrapped him in a tight embrace with both arms and one long, shapely, bare leg. He returned the embrace while taking in the carnage that had occurred while he had been using his powers of intuition. O’Lan, and the Iga began moving toward them. MacGuiness hurried over to the unmoving  Ringwraith still locked together with the alien controller.

The battered Scot slowly rolled the Nazgul away from his foe. Mr. Odysseus was certainly deceased as evidenced by his missing throat and the large oozing hole in his temple. But how fared his friend? “Y’ve got te move lad,” he said. “The whole place is about te blow. She canna take no more o this.” The Nazgul gazed at the fellow mace wielder.

“IT’S TOO LATE. I’VE FULLY ATONED. TAKING THE LIFE FORCE OF THIS OTHERWORLDLY INVADER HAS REDEEMED MY SOUL. I GO NOW TO VALHALLA.” He composed himself for his final departure and added, “OH YEAH, YOU CAN KEEP THE MACE. CRUSH WELL.” With that the union organizer and veteran of the epic battles of Middle Earth vanished.

MacGuiness sighed deeply and then realized he was surrounded by the others. Hands helped him to his feet. There was an awkward silence. “Well, don’t just stand there gawpin’. This whole buildin’s aboot te go orbital.” With that he raced out of the lab, the others right behind him. As explosions began to shake the building’s foundations and the giant mechanisms of global domination, including the Epsilon Emulsifier VIII, the Marvelon 4 and the wondrous Ultimatic 3.5, began to fly apart, the simulacra were dissolving back into the ooze they were moulded from. The famous features of emblazoned on tabloid covers across the world melted and ran.

The robotic aliens, unexpectedly free of their synthetic forms scuttled about disoriented on their tiny silver legs. The brains inside the glass domes pulsed frantically and the eyes scanned vainly for possible exits. The self destruct sequence had indeed been programmed for thoroughness. The fragile domes began popping like overloaded light bulbs, scattering their slimy contents.

Across the world the scene repeated itself as famous personages reverted to their alien state and then perished. In the Mattel boardroom, during a heated discussion over the new Lesbian Biker Chick Barbie, the CEO collapsed, dissolved and exploded. The press release described the cause of death as overwork. Five members of Italy’s favourite boy band “Just like Mamma” met a dramatic and untimely demise during an encore of “You’re Love is Thick and Zesty”. Italian authorities reported a dramatic upsurge in spontaneous combustion among musicians. In Canada, several senators were investigated for prolonged absences from the Upper House. Most were found taking extended vacations in luxury resorts. Wherever evidence of the foiled alien invasion was found it was quickly swept under the rug by unsuspecting spin doctors. The apparently isolated incidences were soon forgotten.

Hargrove disentangled himself from Frieda’s sated form. “I found the last one,” he declared, brandishing a tiny throwing dart.

“Oh you’re so sure of yourself, I hate to shatter your illusion,” purred Frieda. But if you check very closely near my …” Her statement was interrupted by the intrusive clamour of the phone. She languidly slid across the bed and answered.

“Hello … Yes … Oh it’s you … Fantastic …” She looked at Hargrove. “Yes all healed after four months.” Hargrove smiled and brushed her thigh with the dart. “You don’t say … Well of course we are … We’ll be there.”

She hung up and cuddled close to the Hargrove. She whispered in his ear the words the famed Marxist Detective loved to hear. “That was O’Lan,” she said. “The Other Side has encountered a mystery and they require your unique skills to solve it.”

Hargrove squeezed her tightly in response. “Let’s start packing.”

THE END

 On to Chapter 20 Version 4