by Tim Waggoner
Satisfied, Poppy put the tablet away. The lights in the hall turned off. The show was about to start—finally!
The curtains pulled back to reveal a grand piano resting atop a white dais, and sitting at the keyboard was a grumpy-looking blond-haired man in his late sixties, wearing a gaudy red-feathered shirt and a pair of literally rose-colored glasses.
“‘Crocodile Rock,’ please!” Charlie called out.
“Fuck you,” said Elton John.
Elton’s legs were held to the piano bench—the metal bench—by padlocked leather straps. Poppy reached into the purse sitting on the seat next to her and pulled out a small remote control device. She pointed it at the stage and pressed a button. Elton’s teeth slammed together and his body convulsed as the bench sent an electric charge surging through him. Poppy kept the electricity going for several seconds before she pushed the button again and turned it off. Elton slumped forward, breathing harshly, but still conscious.
“Now, now,” Poppy chided. “Language, Sir Elton. Anyway, fabulous as your catalogue is, I feel like a bit of Gershwin right now.”
He looked toward her, and when he didn’t respond right away, Poppy pointed the remote at him once more. He sighed deeply, turned to the piano, and began to play “Rhapsody in Blue.”
“I still can’t believe you got away with kidnapping Elton John!” Charlie said.
“I know! But with Valentine abducting all those celebrities, it seemed silly not to take advantage of the confusion.”
The two settled back and enjoyed the music. After a while, Charlie frowned and leaned his head closer to Poppy’s.
“Is Elton… okay?” he asked. “What’s that rash?”
Poppy squinted, but she couldn’t see what Charlie was talking about. She removed her glasses from her purse and put them on. Once she did, her vision sharpened and she saw tiny blue dots speckling Elton’s neck and the backs of his hands.
“Lights!” she called out. The auditorium’s automated systems—programmed to obey only her voice—did as she commanded, and the lights came up. As soon as they did, Elton stopped playing.
“Elton! Did you get out of your cell again?”
He shook his head.
“You’re lying,” she said. “You took something. Look at your hands.”
Elton looked at his palms, and when he didn’t see anything wrong, he turned his hands over to examine the backs. His eyes widened with fear when he saw the blue spots there.
“What is it?” he said.
“Proof that my plan is going to work,” Poppy said. “And also the first sign of a slow, horrible death.”
Elton went pale, and Poppy hurried to continue. “But don’t worry. I can take care of it. On two conditions. First: you tell me who you partied with.”
Elton sighed. “It was the guy who brought my food. I wouldn’t usually but… I was depressed,” he added defensively, and then pursed his lips. “Unsurprisingly.”
“Huh,” Poppy said. “Not very angelic. Gonna have to clip his wings. And as for the second condition…”
She stood, moved past Charlie, and walked down the aisle. Elton groaned as she used a small set of side steps to ascend to the stage and went over to join him on the dais.
“Really?” he asked.
Poppy grinned. “Uh-huh. And this time, honey, you’re gonna do it like you mean it.”
Elton placed his fingers on the keyboard and grudgingly began to play.
Poppy sang. “Don’t go breakin’ my heart…”
Looking as if he were hoping the Angel of Death would take him right then and there, Elton joined in.
* * *
Tequila showed Eggsy to quarters where he could shower, and he had his clothes cleaned, pressed, and returned within short order. Merlin stayed to consult with Ginger, and Tequila took Eggsy to see Statesman’s leader, whose office it seemed was inside the whiskey bottle-shaped building. Tequila led him through a secret compartment in one of the barrels and down a short hallway until they came to an elevator. They rode it upward, got out, and walked toward a door at the end of another short hallway. Tequila knocked, and a gruff but not unkind voice called for them to come in.
They entered a large office where a man in his late sixties with silver hair and a hard-bitten face that made him look as if he’d just been magically transported from the Old West sat behind an antique desk. Like Tequila, he was dressed in western chic, but, unlike the agent, on him it looked natural. He wore a cowboy hat, a brown suit jacket, a gray vest, a white shirt with the collar open, and a kerchief around his neck in place of a tie. Jeans and brown cowboy boots completed his look, and for good measure he wore a gold S pin on his jacket lapel. Eggsy wouldn’t have been surprised if the man had been wearing a pair of six-guns on his belt.
There was a laptop computer on the desk and a digital stock ticker display on the wall behind it, but they were the only tech visible. There was an antique lamp on the desk and an equally antique mirror hanging on the wall, and several wooden chairs were placed in front of the desk. The room was decorated with framed paintings of serious-looking men wearing nineteenth-century suits. Statesman’s founders, Eggsy assumed. Shelves lined the walls, and on them bottles of whiskey and numerous trophies were displayed. Eggsy wasn’t sure what the trophies were for. Liquor competitions of some sort?
And the crowning touch: a bottle of whiskey and several tumblers sitting on a silver tray on the desk in front of him, and next to them a wooden cigar box.
Now that’s class, Eggsy thought.
The office’s most impressive feature was a large boardroom table surrounded by leather chairs. An intricate carving had been worked into the center of the table—a miniature version of the distillery enclosed with the Statesman logo. It was more…ostentatious than the dining table in Kingsman’s meeting room, but Eggsy had to admit it didn’t lack for style.
The older man looked at Tequila and spoke in a gruff voice. “At what point are you gonna start behaving like a Statesman? You wanna go back to being a rodeo clown?”
“No sir. I apologize, sir.”
The older man stood, removed his hat, and tossed it toward a large liquor bottle. The hat landed on the bottle’s neck, spun once, and came to rest. He offered his hand, and Eggsy shook it. He had a firm, friendly grip, and an easy smile.
“I’m Champagne, but anyone who knows what’s good for ’em calls me Champ.” He let go of Eggsy’s hand and gestured for him to take one of the chairs. He did, and Tequila took the other.
“Agent Galahad,” Eggsy said.
“I know,” Champ said. “I’ve been listening in. And I’m sorry for your troubles. As your American cousins, I’m placing all of Statesman’s considerably larger resources—” he indicated the screen behind him, upon which a series of numbers and letters incomprehensible to Eggsy scrolled by—“at your disposal.” He looked at Tequila. “Hey, Tequila, can you imagine us in the clothing business?”
“Sends a shiver down my spine, sir,” Tequila deadpanned.
Champ poured the three of them whiskey from the bottle on his table, and then turned his attention to Eggsy. “That said, you boys mentioned it was you who saved the world from Valentine. Impressive. We dropped the ball there.” He shot Tequila a glance. “And it happened here on our home turf, right under our noses, so maybe we shouldn’t poke fun. Kingsman’s clearly worth saving. I’ve given Ginger the go-ahead to rehabilitate your comrade. Now, how else can I help you?”
Eggsy was relieved by Champ’s words. Given how his and Merlin’s visit to Statesman had started out, he hadn’t expected the American spies to end up being so helpful. He took a moment to consider Champ’s question.
“Well, Agent Galahad always said—”
Champ frowned. “Wait, I thought you were Galahad.”
“He means butterfly guy,” Tequila said. “Used to be his handle.”
Champ nodded his understanding, and Eggsy continued.
“He always said, look at the big picture. Someon
e wanted Kingsman out of the way. We gotta ask why as well as who. Chances are, they’re planning something major.”
“So what do you know?” Champ asked.
“They’re a drug cartel, we think,” Eggsy said. “The name ‘Golden Circle’ came up.”
“We’ll look into them,” Champ said. “What else?”
“One of our ex-trainees is working with them,” Eggsy said. “Charlie Hesketh. Total prick.”
“Got any leads on him?” Champ asked.
Eggsy took his phone out of his pocket, called up a picture of a scruffy, pretty woman, and showed it to Champ.
“His ex-fiancée, Countess Clara Von Glucksberg. Hippy aristocrat. Been tracking her through social media. I believe they’re still in contact. And I know where we can find her: she’s gonna be at the Glastonbury music festival.”
Champ gave a decisive nod. “Good. Agent Tequila: grab your dancing shoes and get to the jet.”
Eggsy and Champ turned to look at Tequila and saw his skin was now dotted with a bluish rash.
“Damn,” Champ said. “Tequila, you feeling okay?”
He looked puzzled. “Maybe a little tired, sir, but fine. Thanks for asking.” He downed his whiskey and placed the tumbler on the desk before turning to Eggsy. “Ready, Galahad?”
“Tequila—your face.” Champ sounded worried. “You got a…” He trailed off, at a loss for words.
The agent raised his empty tumbler and examined his reflection in the glass. He gasped when he saw the patches of raised blue skin on his face.
“Go to the sick bay and have Ginger check you out, okay?” Champ said. “And give Eggsy your glasses before you go.”
Tequila gave a hasty nod. He removed a pair of wireframe glasses from his shirt pocket and handed them to Eggsy before practically fleeing the room. Whatever was wrong with Tequila, Eggsy hoped Ginger would be able to make him well. “Put ’em on,” Champ said, and Eggsy did so. Champ removed a pair of glasses from his desk and donned them as well.
“Your lucky day, kid,” Champ said. “You get our finest senior agent joining you instead.”
Champ gestured to an empty chair. But with Tequila’s glasses, Eggsy saw the holographic image sitting there—a mustached man in his forties dressed all in black: black cowboy hat, black jacket, black tie, black pants, and black boots.
“This is Agent Whiskey,” Champ said. “Right now he’s in our New York office.”
“You can call me Jack,” the man said. “As in Jack Daniels.” He gave Eggsy a smile. “Looks like we’re hooking up with a chick at a rock concert. My favorite kind of mission. I’m sending my jet to pick you up.”
“Boys?” Champ said. “You make sure that the only Golden Circle vexing me is the one my glass leaves behind on the table.”
* * *
In the beauty parlor, Poppy and Charlie sat in sumptuous recliners. Beautybot was giving Poppy a manicure, and they both had their bare feet in glass tanks filled with water. Little Garra rufa fish swam around, nibbling away at their dead skin. Absolute bliss, Poppy thought. She held a computer tablet, and she was scrolling Twitter, reading tweets aloud.
“‘Doc said maybe allergy to laundry detergent, but two of my coworkers have it too! Hashtag blue rash.’ ‘Wanna bet it’s something in the water supply? Another governmental disgrace. Hashtag blue rash.’”
“We have a hashtag now?” Charlie asked.
Poppy smiled as she continued scrolling through tweets. “We’re trending, Charlie.”
Charlie grinned. “It’s so refreshing to be working with someone who doesn’t think capitalism is a dirty word. Not like that tree-hugger Valentine. We’re getting so close now, I can almost smell my new fortune.”
Poppy stopped scrolling, glanced up from her computer screen, and gave Charlie a dangerous look. “Working for, Charlie. Not with.”
Charlie looked properly chastened, but before he could begin groveling, Angel walked in, flanked by Bennie and Jet.
Poppy beamed at her newest employee. “Ah, Angel. Glad you could join us.”
Charlie lifted his feet out of the tank one at a time, then stood and gestured for Angel to take his place. Angel looked at the tank, shrugged, then removed his boots, sat in the recliner, and tentatively slipped his feet into the water. The Garra rufa went to work immediately. He stiffened at first, as if he found the sensation of the tiny fish eating his dead skin disquieting.
One of Beautybot’s fingers became an airbrush, and she began applying color to Poppy’s nails.
“Just wanted to have a catch-up,” Poppy said. “See how you’re settling in.”
Angel squirmed a bit in his chair, but he didn’t remove his feet from the tank.
“They tickle, don’t they?” Poppy said. “Anyway, I’m hoping that by now you’ve had a chance to see first-hand how much work goes into running the Golden Circle.”
“Si, Señora Poppy,” Angel smiled at her and some of the tension left his body. The effect the Garra rufa had on people was truly remarkable, Poppy thought.
“Great, great. Because I think that will make it easier for you to understand why it’s so frustrating for me when someone breaks the rules. It can feel a li’l bit like a lack of respect for everything I do. Y’know?”
Beautybot stopped working on Poppy’s nails. Her airbrush attachment slid back into her finger, and she quickly stepped behind Angel, her arms extending until her hands clamped his wrists to the chair. A panel slid open in the bottom of the tank, and from a tube hidden beneath the floor, half a dozen piranhas swam upward, and the predatory fish immediately began devouring the Garra rufa.
Poppy leaned closer to Angel. “Did you give Elton John a little something from the cookie jar?”
Sweat broke out on Angel’s brow as he struggled to free his arms, but Beautybot was too strong. The piranhas polished off the last of the Garra rufa, the tiny fish little more than appetizers for them, and then they started on the main course.
“No, Señora Poppy, I—” Angel screamed in pain as the piranhas took their first bites. He tried to yank his legs out of the tank, but Charlie placed his powerful robotic arm on the man’s legs, forcing him to keep his feet in the water.
“It’s cute that you felt sorry for him,” Poppy said. “But lying… in my book, that’s a big, big no-no.”
The piranhas went into a feeding frenzy then, the bloody water churning as if it were boiling. Angel screamed again, louder this time.
“Okay! I confess! I confess! I did it! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
Poppy continued talking calmly. “You can’t just go giving people treats, Angel. Especially when you don’t know what’s in ’em.”
Angel shrieked his next words, making them barely intelligible. “Let me go! I beg you! Forgive me!”
Poppy smiled as she reached out and patted one of Angel’s knees.
“Of course I forgive you.”
She nodded to Charlie, and he lifted his arm off Angel’s knees. But before the man could pull his half-eaten feet out of the tank, Charlie’s robot hand—moving faster than any human eye could track—took hold of Angel’s neck and gave it a swift, savage twist. There was the sound of snapping bone, and Angel’s body shuddered and went limp. Charlie released his grip on the dead man’s neck, and Beautybot removed her hands from his wrists. Angel’s feet remained in the tank, and the piranhas continued to feast. The fish had done good work, and Poppy thought they deserved to eat their fill.
She admired her manicure, which Beautybot had managed to finish before she’d needed to attend to Angel. The manicure was only the finishing touch, however. Poppy had been in the parlor for hours while Beautybot worked her magic on her hair, skin, and eyelashes. She rose from her chair and turned to Charlie.
“How do I look?” she asked.
“Gorgeous,” he said, and for once he sounded as if he meant it.
Poppy smiled with satisfaction. “Then go get my director, and tell him I’m ready for my close-up.”
* * *
Merlin and Ginger were in her lab, running tests on Harry. He was dressed in a hospital gown and lying on a gurney inside an Alpha Wave Stimulator, a contraption that looked something like an MRI machine, only this device was far more sophisticated—and twice as noisy, Merlin thought. Sensor wires were attached by pads to Harry’s temples, and Ginger and Merlin watched the incoming data flow across a console screen. But the machine wasn’t merely collecting information about Harry’s condition; it was actually transmitting signals into his brain in an attempt to repair his damaged neural pathways. The machine was only one of the many amazing pieces of scientific equipment Statesman possessed. Ginger’s lab, which resembled a combination medical bay and engineering facility—with a bit of junkyard thrown in—contained tech way beyond cutting edge, and while Merlin was impressed, he couldn’t help being a wee bit jealous. The things he could accomplish with these toys!
“Harry’s like a computer that needs to be rebooted,” Ginger said. “We just need to find the right start-up protocol.”
“You ever had success with this?” Merlin asked.
“Yes, but… never so long after the injury.” Her voice softened. “I just want to be straight with you.”
Merlin nodded. No one on earth could’ve gotten to Harry faster than Ginger and Tequila—and no one else would’ve had the technology to save him. He knew that, and he was grateful for what they’d done. A miracle had happened today: he’d found out that his old friend was alive! But then he’d learned that only part of Harry had come back, and there was a strong possibility that the remainder was lost forever.
“How’s Agent Tequila?” He asked this as much to take his mind off Harry as out of concern for the Statesman agent.
“Blue,” Ginger said, “but otherwise fine. Weird thing is, this doesn’t seem to be an isolated case of this skin condition. I’m finding reports online from all over.”
Merlin didn’t like the sound of that. Whatever the blue rash was, it sounded like it was spreading at a phenomenal rate. “We should try and contact other sufferers. If we can find a correlation—”
