by Eoin Colfer
Otto Malarkey dragged his thighs through the sewage, bearing Riley aloft as if he were nothing more significant weight-wise than a Gladstone bag.
Up ahead, behind his lumped ramparts and crenellations, sat King Rat, eyes a-gleaming, whiskers twitching with mild curiosity.
“You ain’t about to be liking this, Yer Washup,” said Malarkey to the rodent, testing the tunnel wall with his fingertips and finding the vibration he expected. And as every tosher worth his canary knew, vibrating walls had more poison behind them than the skin of a plague blister; steer well clear of vibration in the underworld, as no good ever came of a tremble.
No steering clear this time, thought Otto.
“Come out, my beauties,” he called, and he threw all his weight and prodigious strength behind a charge directly at the center of the humming wall, knocking out a chunk of masonry and revealing a furred darkness behind. And to incite the necessary frenzy, he put his boot to the belly of King Rat himself, sending him skimming along the stream, chittering his indignation.
We are under attack, he doubtless squeaked. To arms, brethren. To arms.
The rats erupted from the hole in a wave of claws and teeth, their squeals of outrage sounding eerily like human baby squeals. They flowed like a shoal of fish in a tight funnel that crashed over the heads and shoulders of Box’s men, drawing horrified screams from even the hardiest soldier.
“Hey ho,” said Malarkey, his momentum carrying him past the rat stream, and as he was hefting Riley, the boy was also clear.
Riley hung suspended from his regent’s grasp, watching from his upside-down position as their pursuers made a lightning transition from hunters to hunted. They began firing their weapons, sending bullets ricocheting from the walls and ironworks, but their efforts were futile. They may as well have been shooting the wind. The rats seemed to flow around their gunfire and latch on to their presumed enemies with tooth and claw. It was a sight that matched anything Riley had previously witnessed for pure horror, made all the more ghastly by the gloom and darkness, which left the brain free to shade in its own details.
The sounds, thought Riley. The sounds of nightmare.
Flesh being torn by sharp teeth and muffled screams.
They dare not open their mouths, he realized.
And suddenly Riley was on an upward arc, swinging toward the top section of the ladder into a shaft of blessed light.
“Grab on, boy!” shouted Malarkey.
And grab on Riley did, as though not just his life but the fate of his soul depended on it. He threaded his arms and legs through the rungs, pressing his cheek to the cold steel, taking a second to gather his faculties before attempting to climb to safety.
Below him in the sewer, a black river of vermin writhed past, bearing Box’s troops along like logs in a flood. They screamed now, their resolution not to open their mouths having been trumped by terror, and Riley felt a ray of pity in his cloud of revulsion. These were men, after all, and no man deserved to die in such a horrible manner.
Otto Malarkey laughed aloud as they avoided the grim stripping of their bones by mere inches.
“I spent some time in the circus, lad,” he said, his mood positively ebullient. “As a catch-man on the trapeze, I was stationed mostly. Observe.”
Anchored only by the tips of his toes, Malarkey swung his torso downward, thrusting both arms deep into the deadly tide of red eyes and vicious teeth. He closed one eye as his hands scrabbled among the tails and fur, as though searching for the shining shilling in a lucky dip.
“Gotcha,” he grunted after a moment, and he hauled his hands out of the rat river, each bearing a prize. Farley and the future lady. The ladder creaked under the extra weight, and several bolts popped from their holes. Malarkey’s muscles were stretched tight as piano wires and his eyes bulged from the effort.
Farley’s nose was busted flat to his face and his eyes were wild.
“Otto, please,” he said, desperately, knowing there was surely nothing he could say to extricate him from this particular circle of hell. “I can help you.”
“You can help me,” said Otto calmly. “You can help me live with myself, knowing I have avenged dear Barnabus.”
And as he was not essentially a cruel man, Malarkey delayed proceedings no further and simply dropped Farley into the furred pit of certain death, where he was instantly subsumed by the ripple of tails and shadows.
Without another glance at his brother’s killer, Otto switched his attention to the lady.
Malarkey took her in a two-handed grip by the collar of her strangely-cut greatcoat, and she in turn gripped his forearms. They hung like that wordlessly for a moment, and then the lady twisted one hand free and reached for her sidearm.
Plucky, thought Otto. A true revolveress.
“I ain’t going to drop you, lady,” he said even as the gun swung toward him. “We can go down for the big tumble together.”
The future soldier took a bead on Otto’s forehead. The gun spoke of death, but her eyes told another story.
“I am Otto, at your service,” he said, trying not to let the strain of bearing this magnificent creature’s weight show on his face.
“King Otto,” she said, and then she shook her head slightly, sending the red sunset rays flickering along the length of her hair.
I’ll be damned, thought Otto. I’ll be damned if she ain’t feeling this strange feeling too.
“I am Lunka Witmeyer,” said the Amazon. “Thundercat.”
“Thundercat,” said Otto. “I do not doubt it.”
Malarkey made a decision then to finally use the muscles built by his years on the French catch trapeze to bring a moment’s happiness to his turbulent life.
And so, with the malodorous gas from sewerage bubbles rising, and with the rustle and squeak of rat stampede gushing around Witmeyer’s boots, Otto strained and huffed, heaving Lunka Witmeyer slowly higher, inching her toward him, pulling her into the light.
It is more beautiful she gets, he realized. Her eyes are like to drill holes in my heart.
Witmeyer knew what was coming. Three times in her life men had attempted to kiss her. One was dead from trauma, one from shock, and the third survived but walked with a limp.
She felt herself tense, but not from the usual revulsion. She was suddenly nervous, anxious. She half wished to be dropped and half wished to never be let go.
For his part, Malarkey, who had kissed a hundred lassies, suddenly wondered if he should practice the mechanics on someone else first. What if his technique failed to impress? What if he kissed this girl once and never again? Should he not be reveling in his righteous vengeance? Was this new obsession disrespectful to the memory of Barnabus?
Riley called from above. “In the name of heaven, will you kiss or quarrel? I am for quitting this blasted hellhole.”
Impudence indeed, but it did the trick.
It’s now or never, thought Otto.
Now, now! thought Witmeyer.
And so Ram kissed Thundercat, and suddenly neither bed of roses nor mountain slope could compare with Her Majesty’s sewer for romance. In fact, from this moment on, Otto Malarkey could never so much as sniff a chamber pot without a faraway look creeping into his eyes.
Forever they kissed—or perhaps it was merely five seconds. At any rate, the sinews in Otto’s tree-trunk arms began to sing, and Malarkey was forced to deposit his sewer-catch on the tunnel floor, now that the carnivorous tide of rodents had passed.
“Remember me, Lunka,” he said softly as he swung himself upward and quickly scaled the ladder.
Witmeyer watched this man disappear into the sun—or so it seemed from her vantage—and long after he had gone she called after him.
“I will remember you, King Otto.”
And it never occurred to her then or later that she should have shot him.
On the street, Otto lay on his back, tears of pain running down his cheeks, holding his agonized biceps.
“Do you think the angel saw?”
Riley stood over him, nonplussed. “Saw which, my king? The crybaby tears, or the puppy-dog weakness in your limbs?”
“Either.”
“She saw neither,” said Riley. “The angel was blinded by your…majesty.”
Malarkey smiled and breathed deep of the fetid air. “Good. Very good. How looks my hair?”
Riley remembered once hearing Chevron Savano use an adjective most sarcastically.
“Awesome,” he said. “Totally awesome.”
“Excellent, Ramlet. Excellent.” He raised one hand. “Now, help your king to his feet. It is the least you can do. And don’t think that my brain is too addled to have registered that crybaby comment. Puppy-dog weakness, was it? Quelle sauce, as the French would say.”
Riley reached out a helping hand and had managed to heft his regent half to his feet when a thought struck him and he dropped King Otto to the cobbles.
I have lost my bag.
This was of import not because of the little bag itself, a mere market-stall satchel, but because of the bag’s contents. For in Riley’s bag were the detonators, which were now doubtless in the gullet of some rat.
And without the detonators, the plastique was nothing more than a lump of malleable material.
Their great plan—to flood the Camden Catacombs and use the rising waters as cover to rescue Chevie—was sunk.
And their sack of woe was not yet full.
Six Ram foot soldiers appeared from behind the Regent’s Park trees where they had been skulking and surrounded their erstwhile king and his page.
“’Evening, Otto,” said one, training his rifle on Malarkey’s forehead. “We are what you might call a rear guard.”
Otto closed his eyes.
“Rats,” he said.
It is traditional for fictional antagonists to indulge in a lengthy confrontation toward the climax of their adventure. The villain of the piece will invariably reveal the nuances of his plan, thus arming the heroes with the information needed to foil the plot when they inevitably escape mere seconds before they are due to be executed in some overcomplicated fashion.
This being real life, Malarkey and Riley were not treated to a face-to-face with Colonel Box; instead they were roughly tossed into a cell in the rear of the catacomb labyrinth that was little more than a cave with bars. The floor was compacted mud over stone, and the walls were slick and uneven.
Witmeyer, who usually enjoyed needling captives, was strangely quiet. She stood wordlessly at the bars, simply staring at Otto Malarkey, taking in every inch of him from hair to toe.
It seemed as though she would say something, or do something. In fact, she took a step forward and opened her mouth, but the moment was shattered when the soldier Aldridge tapped her shoulder.
“The colonel wants a report before we set off,” said Corporal Aldridge. “He is a little upset about Farley being dead, and so forth. And you are to double-time it down to the main assembly, where the troops are mustered.”
Witmeyer did not respond; she simply stood staring at Otto. She was bewitched, under the spell of a new emotion that she could not fathom, having nothing to relate it to. She found it difficult to form thoughts or sentences, and Witmeyer did not enjoy this helplessness, as quick-wittedness had long been a forte of hers. And yet, she could not shake this warm feeling that had no place in the heart of a Thundercat.
And it seemed as though this magnificent man felt the same. He approached the bars and stood there, hunched beneath the cell’s low ceiling, and his eyes looked directly at her and also, somehow, somewhere distant.
“Lunka,” he said softly, “we did not part after all.”
“No,” she said. “We did not part.”
What happened next, Aldridge brought upon himself. For just as it is true that a sleepwalker should never be awakened in case he reacts violently, neither should those on either end of a thunderbolt be disturbed in mid-gaze.
“Did you hear me?” he said, tapping Witmeyer’s shoulder. “Let’s go, lady. Double-time.”
Witmeyer’s reaction was pure instinct, and it was over before her conscious mind had time to catch up. She reached up and grabbed Aldridge’s fingers, twisting them until they cracked; then she caught him by the armpit and heaved him high over her shoulder and into the cell bars. That was probably enough to knock the unfortunate soldier unconscious, but just in case, she slammed Aldridge onto the floor and punched him once in the forehead. If he hadn’t been out before, he was out now. Far out.
“Outstanding,” said Malarkey. “What sublime form, eh, Ramlet?”
“Quite,” said Riley, wincing on Aldridge’s behalf.
“Oops,” said Witmeyer as her brain realized what she had done. “Oh.”
Malarkey wrapped his fingers around the bars. “‘Oops, oh.’ Such poetry.”
Riley thought that the two adults had lost their minds, but he was wise enough to keep this notion to himself, as he had no wish to end up like the crushed man on the floor.
“Has the lady switched sides, then?” he asked the mooning Malarkey. “Are we safe to make a break for it?”
His question went unanswered, and so Riley reckoned to take a chance on it, as doubtless someone would come to check the chamber soon. He rolled up the leg of his trousers and began to pick at what looked like the flesh of his calf, but it was not flesh—it was a layer of glue, which soon came away from the skin in a flap. Beneath the glue, a burglar’s key sat pressed into the skin of his leg.
“Come on now,” he said, plucking strands of glue from the key’s single tooth. “Don’t let old Riley down today.”
The key was one of Riley’s favorite bettys. A midsize pick that could open anything from manacles to a basic safe. It took a measure of jiggling, but soon the cell door swung open before them. Otto stooped to grab a handful of Aldridge’s shirt, then casually tossed him to the rear of the cell. Now nothing stood between Lunka and Otto.
Lunka, thought Riley. I shall not be voicing my opinion on that particular name.
Malarkey took Witmeyer’s hand in his, and the hands were much the same size.
“Tell me, woman. Are you with us now?”
Witmeyer felt like she was in a dream, and in this dream she was an entirely different person, who didn’t crack skulls unless she felt like it—or the owners of the skulls were blocking her view of Otto Malarkey.
“I am with you, King Otto,” she said.
“I could listen to you call me King forever,” said Otto. “And it makes me want to be king again.”
“I want that too,” said Witmeyer. “You should take back what is rightfully yours. I will fight at your side.”
Otto drew her close. “Together we could take on the world.”
“Together,” agreed Lunka, and they kissed once more.
Riley thought he would choke in this love cloud.
“When you two have done with the cooing,” he said, picking up Aldridge’s bowler hat and dragging the coat off his back, “we should quit this lurk before the scoundrel colonel has pennies on all our eyes.”
Malarkey broke contact for a moment. “Just a sec, lad. Be right with you, but when you get older you’ll understand that a man must coo while he can.” And he shook out his hair and went back in for another kiss, leaving Riley to stand there, shifting on his feet like a fellow with a bad dose of worm itch.
Sometimes I feel like people aren’t listening to me. I spend ninety minutes up here talking about the dangers of time travel, advising you to stay the hell away from time travel, and the first question I get is “Do you think time travel will be available commercially?” Then again, I spend every waking hour bent over quantum equations, so I guess I don’t listen to me, either
.
—Professor Charles Smart
The savior of the world.
Clay Junior.
Colonel Box.
But he hadn’t always been a colonel. That only came after his administration of what used to be quaintly called a “wet work” team, as if the only discomfiting fact about working in that unit was getting water in your boots.
In the early 1980s, Sergeant Clayton Box was part of Operation Bright Star, training with Egyptian forces in the Sinai. He made such an impression with his accurate forecasting of terrorist attacks that he was drafted into a newly minted CIA–Green Beret team that was tasked with counterinsurgence in El Salvador. While there, Box drew up a model that diagrammed terrorist groups and could be applied anywhere in the world—except Scandinavia, where people thought differently. This model was called the Box Parallelogram and was the gold standard for understanding terrorist groups for decades.
Box really could not understand what all the fuss was about. He simply put himself in the insurgent leader’s shoes, imagined himself a little less intelligent than he was, then ran his unit as efficiently as it was possible with his diminished IQ. The results were astounding. Box could predict where rebels would strike. He could predict who was likely to be recruited and where they would be approached, and most important, he could predict with reasonable accuracy which foot soldiers would rise to the top. The CIA liked that last bit. They liked it a lot, and embarked on a series of apparently baffling hits on low-level targets, which, according to Box, were the equivalent of time-traveling assassinations.
Box liked it, too. The system was efficient.
Time-traveling assassinations. The Box Parallelogram earned him his colonel’s wings, and it was whispered in the halls of power that he was being groomed for brigadier general before forty. Almost unheard of.
Box’s phrase time-traveling assassinations was catchy and it hung around Command Headquarters; and when the Charles Smart project seemed like it might actually be science fact instead of science fiction, Box was called in for a chat.
Tell me, Colonel, a man in a plain black uniform asked him. How could the Box Parallelogram be made more efficient?
