by Tim Waggoner
Tilde gave her parents a look that said she was surprised by their formal dress as well, but she said nothing. She gave them a quick curtsey before stepping forward to air-kiss them, first her mother, then her father.
Eggsy bowed to the queen, then to the king, and addressed them in Swedish.
“It’s an honor.”
The king gave him an amused, condescending look.
“I think we should do you the favor of conversing in English, yes?” he said.
Eggsy smiled, but inwardly he groaned. It was going to be a long night.
* * *
Tilde had told Eggsy they would eat in one of the palace’s smaller dining rooms since it was just the four of them, but the king and queen led them to a large banqueting hall with a long table capable of seating at least fifty people, maybe more. There was a series of chandeliers hanging from a curved ceiling upon which scenes from Sweden’s history had been painted. Eggsy felt as if he were standing in a museum instead of a place where people ate. A gigantic white tablecloth covered the table, and the plates and cutlery were made from silver so well-polished they practically glowed. The glassware was made from the finest crystal, and a gold candelabra sat atop the table close to where their places had been set. Four uniformed servants—one for each of the diners, Eggsy realized—stood against the walls, silent and immobile, as if they were part of the architecture. But when the king and queen entered, they sprang to life, pulling red leather chairs away from the table so everyone could sit. The queen was seated first, then the king, Tilde, and last, Eggsy.
And then came the food: roasted Bresse pigeon with Jerusalem artichoke, roasted onion, pickled elderflower capers and creamy green peppercorn sauce. And for dessert: lemon cheesecake with sabayon, meringues, and sour cream ice cream. There was also wine, and plenty of it, which Eggsy was profoundly grateful for.
They ate in silence for a time, but Eggsy knew it wasn’t good manners for a guest to remain quiet throughout an entire meal.
He turned toward the queen and said, “This is delicious, your Highness.”
The king cut in before his wife could respond. “You may address my daughter as ‘your Highness.’ Please address the queen as ‘your Majesty.’”
“Pappa!” Tilde said. “This is a family dinner, not some state function.”
The king smiled at Tilde, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge her words.
Eggsy understood what was going on here. He’d met a few girls’ dads before, and it didn’t matter if they poured drinks at the local pub or were bloody royalty. A dad was a dad. The king was suspicious of his daughter’s boyfriend, and this wasn’t merely a get-to-know-you meal. This was intended to be an interrogation, and the king decided to get on with it.
“So, Eggsy,” he said, “what do you make of the current situation in the Indian financial markets?”
Tilde gave Eggsy a worried glance and then turned to scowl at her father. She knew exactly what he was doing, and she didn’t like it.
“Pappa…” she said in a warning tone.
The king ignored her and stared at Eggsy, waiting for a response.
“I… I don’t think we can underestimate the impact of the ECB’s quantitative easing measures. And of course, the liquidity wave from the US Federal Reserve rate-hike getting pushed back.”
The king, the queen, and even Tilde looked surprised. Eggsy speared a caper with his fork, popped it in his mouth, and smiled. And from that point on, the battle was joined.
“Frida Kahlo?” the king asked.
“Besides the 1939 acquisition by the Louvre, she wasn’t acknowledged until the Neo-Mexicanismo art movement of the late seventies.”
He frowned. “The Battle of Stalingrad?”
“The Germans lost more soldiers taking Pavlov’s house than they did taking Paris,” Eggsy said.
The king leaned toward Eggsy, eyes narrowing. “Moorish Revival.”
Eggsy sat back, perfectly relaxed. “The Palazzo Sammezzano in Tuscany.”
“Bluetooth technology,” the king said through gritted teeth.
“Which of course got its name from the legendary Danish king Harald Blåtand—which translates to ‘Bluetooth’ in English,” Eggsy said, sounding a trifle bored.
The king’s brow was furrowed, his cheeks red with annoyance. But Tilde grinned from ear to ear, and the queen smiled approvingly.
Eggsy heard Roxy’s voice in his ear:
“And the Bluetooth logo is his initials, in Norse runic symbols.”
“And I’m sure you’re aware the Bluetooth symbol is his initials,” Eggsy said.
Eggsy imagined Roxy sitting at her desk in her London apartment, a dozen windows open on her laptop as she furiously researched whatever topic the king brought up next and relayed the information to Eggsy via the tiny receiver in his ear.
“Oh my god, Eggsy. Why isn’t he eating his fucking pudding? I need to research this gold tattoo. I’ve found records of other people with the same body modification. All of them have high-level involvement with crime and international drug trafficking. And there’s rumors of something called the Golden Circle.”
Using the AR display on his eyeglasses, Eggsy sent her a quick text using eye movements to “type” the message on a virtual keyboard.
UR DA BEST ROXY
“Best agent or best friend?”
Eggsy could hear the smile in her voice. He sent another text.
BOTH. X
The king finally stopped asking Eggsy questions and, grimacing as if suffering from indigestion, took a bite of his cheesecake.
* * *
Brandon was happy to dog-sit for Eggsy. He loved dogs—not counting the creepy stuffed one Eggsy kept around for some strange reason—and since he didn’t have any pets of his own, he was glad of the opportunity to borrow the pug for a bit. And of course it was nice to have a whole house to himself. It made a welcome change from the cramped apartment he shared with Jamal and Liam. But the main reason he liked dog-sitting for Eggsy was that he got to get a taste of what it was like to be his friend. Not that he was jealous of Eggsy’s good fortune. He was genuinely happy that Eggsy had done so well for himself. Great job, new place, fantastic girlfriend… And he had changed so much! These days Eggsy had a newfound confidence, a strength that Brandon knew had always been inside him, but which had needed some coaxing to be brought out. And unlike some people who went through a time of major growth and change in their lives, Eggsy hadn’t lost sight of the person he used to be. He was still the same Eggsy at heart, and he hadn’t forgotten his old mates.
JB had been a bit out of sorts since Eggsy and Tilde left, moping about the place and whining softly. So Brandon had decided that a quick game of fetch might lift the little dog’s spirits. He found a ball and led JB to the upstairs hallway. It was the longest open space in the house, and since they could hardly go outside and play in the dark, it would have to do. He stood by the stairs, JB sitting at his feet, and threw the ball.
JB looked up at him as if to say, Are you serious? But the pug got up and trotted after the ball. It hit the far wall and bounced back, and JB intercepted it before it could roll past him. He snatched it up in his mouth, but instead of taking it back to Brandon, he looked at a door nearby. A second later, he dropped the ball, ran toward the door, and began scratching at it.
Brandon walked over to JB and looked down at him.
“Come on, JB. Give it a rest, mate. Eggsy ain’t here.
Stop scratching at the door. I’m gonna get the blame!”
But JB continued scratching, almost frantic now. Brandon sighed. Maybe one of JB’s favorite toys was in there, and if he could get it, he’d settle down. He tried the knob and found it locked. He was about to give up and try the ball again, when he decided to see if one of the keys Eggsy had left him would unlock the door. He pulled the key out of his pocket and found the right one on the second try. The door unlocked, he pushed it open, and JB rushed inside. Brandon turned on the light just in time to see JB c
url up in a dog basket in the corner. It was then that he realized this was Eggsy’s study—the one room he’d asked Brandon not to go into.
JB lowered his head to his paws and closed his eyes.
Brandon understood what was going on. Since this was Eggsy’s study, it probably smelled like him. Being here made JB feel close to Eggsy, and because of that, the little dog didn’t want to leave. Brandon considered letting JB stay here with the door open so the pug could leave whenever he wished. He’d go back downstairs, get a beer from the fridge, maybe watch a little telly… But a trio of framed pictures on the wall caught his attention. No, not pictures. They were the front pages of tabloid newspapers. Why the fuck would Eggsy have those? Curious, he stepped into the room.
As a study, there wasn’t much to it, really. A wooden desk, a closed laptop resting on the surface, a couple of pens, a clamp-on desk lamp, two framed photos: one of Eggsy and Tilde laughing on a beach, and one of an older guy in a suit whom Brandon didn’t recognize. There was also a martini bar in the room, which—cool as it was—seemed out of place. And that was all. But then again, Eggsy worked in a tailor’s. It wasn’t like he needed a fully equipped home office. Brandon walked over to the tabloid pages and examined them. The headline on the first read BURGER OUT OF ORDER! It was dated the same day as V-Day, but the paper had come out before the world lost its mind, so it hadn’t covered the story yet. The headline on the second was WELL HUNG! And the headline on the third and most recent asked WHERE IS ELTON?
Unable to make sense of why Eggsy would frame such nonsensical shit and hang it in his study, Brandon decided to check out the martini bar. It seemed too old-fashioned for someone Eggsy’s age, but maybe he was on some kind of nostalgia kick. On top were several bottles of vodka—different brands—a decanter of amber liquid, martini glasses, and tumblers. He picked up the decanter, removed the stopper and took a sniff. Scotch. And from the smell of it, damn fine stuff! He poured himself a couple fingers in one of the tumblers, but before he could drink it, he noticed what looked like a small button on the edge of the bar. Frowning, he touched his index finger to it, pushed, and felt it click.
In response, the wall on the far side of the room slid upward to reveal what appeared to be a weapons cache of some sort, with items hanging from hooks or resting on shelves. There were a couple of handguns with what looked like sawed-off shotgun barrels attached to the underside. There were several regular guns: rifles and submachine guns, two apiece. There were also several wardrobe items and accessories: watches, sovereign rings, fountain pens, lighters, an umbrella, and a pair of fancy men’s dress shoes. There was also a pair of eyeglasses like the kind Eggsy sometimes wore.
Brandon couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “You a gangster now or something, Eggsy?” And the weirdest thing of all? JB hadn’t so much as stirred in his basket, as if the wall sliding upward was a perfectly normal thing to him. Brandon was beginning to get the idea that his good mate Eggsy might not really be a tailor after all.
Brandon picked up one of the strange pistols and examined it. Then he put it back and picked up the glasses. What was so special about these that Eggsy would keep them locked and hidden in his study? They were just fucking glasses. He decided to see for himself, so he put them on.
* * *
The ordeal that had been dinner with Tilde’s parents was over at last, and everyone was finally drinking coffee. Eggsy was beginning to think he was going to make it to the finish line without any major mishaps, and for the first time all evening, he began to relax a little.
“I must say, you’re really not as I expected,” the king said in a tone of grudging acceptance.
Eggsy tried not to sound too pleased with himself when he responded. “Thank you, your Majesty.”
He then heard a voice in his ear—one that didn’t belong to Roxy:
“Eggsy? That you? What the hell are these glasses? Fuck me, is that Tilde’s mum and dad’s house?”
Brandon appeared as a holographic image in Eggsy’s eyeglasses display, overlapping where the king was sitting.
Eggsy knew at once what had happened. Brandon had gone into his study and stumbled on the switch that revealed Eggsy’s miniature home armory. The AR display on Eggsy’s glasses activated, and he saw Brandon’s hands reaching for one of the lighters in the weapons cache: lighters that were actually grenades in disguise. Horrified at the thought of his friend accidentally activating the grenade, Eggsy pointed at Brandon—which meant he also pointed at the king.
“Put that down!” he shouted.
The king—who’d been about to take another sip of coffee—looked at Eggsy, startled, but he put his cup down on the table.
“Why?” he asked, frowning in puzzlement.
But Eggsy didn’t hear him. He was too busy watching Brandon flip open the lighter’s lid. Now activated, the grenade began to beep, signaling its countdown had begun.
“Shut it!” Eggsy said, practically screaming the words. “Fucking shut it, now!”
Tilde and her parents were staring at Eggsy aghast. He was dimly aware of their reaction to his words, but he was too focused on keeping Brandon from blowing himself to bits to care right now.
“I beg your pardon?” the queen said.
“Eggsy!” Tilde shouted.
“All right. Chill yer boots.” Brandon snapped the lighter closed and the beeping stopped.
Eggsy breathed a deep sigh of relief. Disaster averted.
“What’s that sound?” Brandon said. He walked toward the study’s window.
While Eggsy could see what Brandon saw via the connection between their eyeglasses, he didn’t hear anything. At first he was afraid the lighter’s countdown had somehow started up again, but that didn’t make sense. Obviously, whatever Brandon heard was coming from outside. And then Eggsy heard it too: a whooshing sound that grew louder with each second. He then heard something else: JB whine with fear.
Eggsy went cold when he realized what was making that sound. It was a missile, and it was heading straight for the house.
“What the fuck is—” Brandon’s voice was drowned out by a loud explosion, and Eggsy saw a bright burst of flame in his AR display. Then the link between the two pairs of eyeglasses was severed, and both the audio and visual feed from Brandon’s glasses cut out.
Eggsy cried out in shock, and then he heard Roxy’s voice in his ear. She must’ve kept the link between their glasses live in case he needed more of her help.
“Eggsy? What’s wrong? What—”
The visual feed from Roxy’s glasses activated in time for him to see the room around her disappear in fire and thunder.
* * *
Arthur sat in the Kingsman dining room, chairing an evening meeting. All agents—with the exception of Eggsy, Roxy, and Merlin—were present in holographic form.
“So,” Arthur said, “for our next order of business. Agent Percival—you’ve looked over the Drummond files?”
Percival opened his mouth to speak, but then his holographic image shuddered and vanished.
Arthur frowned. “Percival?”
A second agent vanished, and then a third.
“Seem to be having a spot of bother with my glasses,” Arthur said. He reached up and fiddled with the frames, but agents continued disappearing, one after the other, until Arthur was alone.
He then saw a message flashing on the wall screen. WARNING: INCOMING MISSILE.
“Oh fuck,” Arthur said.
For a split second Arthur was engulfed in noise and flame, and then he was gone.
* * *
Eggsy stumbled into the hallway and tore the glasses from his face. He had no memory of getting up from the dining table, crossing the room, and pushing open the door. He couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe… But then he thought of his friends. He put the glasses back on and found his voice.
“Brandon? Can you hear me? Roxy? Roxy, are you there?” Deep down, he knew it was useless, that they were no longer alive, but h
e didn’t know what else to do.
Tilde rushed out into the hall to join him.
“Eggsy, what the fuck is wrong with you? It was all going so well!”
He tapped the controls on the side of his glasses.
“Merlin? Merlin?” No response. “Shit! Comms have gone dark.” He turned to Tilde. “Sorry, but something terrible’s—” He didn’t want to say anything further, as if by doing so, he’d make it real. “Stay here, it’s safe. Babe, I have to go.”
Her expression softened, and she put her arms around him. At first he tried to pull away, but then he hugged her back tightly.
Chapter Four
Poppy—her hair in a ponytail and wearing a short-sleeved yellow bowling shirt and black trousers—lifted her ball, eyed the pins at the end of the lane, and started her approach. She took several smooth steps forward, curved her body to the side, and threw the ball. It rolled down the lane fast and true, and with a sound that she thought was not unlike a missile explosion, knocked all the pins down. Strike! She wasn’t all that thrilled with her achievement, though. She was used to throwing strikes. She’d gotten damn good at it given all the time she had to practice.
She turned around to see Charlie, who stood close by, applaud her strike by pounding his hand against his chest. She smiled in acknowledgement, and then turned to look at the large-screen TV in the corner, which was silently playing a news channel. The on-screen ticker read: SUSPECTED TERRORIST ATTACK IN LONDON.
She grinned. “Kingsman is crumpets! Like toast? But British. Get it?”
“That’s actually quite a good joke.”
Charlie chuckled, but Poppy could tell he did so only to be polite. She decided not to make an issue of it. That joke had been kind of lame now that she thought about it. As the pinsetter got a new batch of pins ready, Charlie walked over to the ball return and lifted his ball one-handed. He’d actually been doing fairly well with just the one arm. His balance was a bit off, and of course he was nowhere near as skilled a bowler as she was, but overall she was impressed.
