by Tim Waggoner
“It might lead to a cause,” Ginger said. “Exactly. Already fired off a bunch of emails. But thanks, Merlin.”
He felt embarrassed. Ginger was one of the most brilliant people he’d ever met. Of course she’d thought of that. He was trying to come up with a graceful way to apologize when the Alpha Wave Stimulator finished its work and went silent. Merlin and Ginger hurried over to the device and pulled Harry’s gurney out of it. Ginger detached the wires, and Harry sat up and rubbed his head.
“Harry?” Merlin said. “Do you remember me?”
Harry looked at Merlin for a moment, his one eye narrowing. Merlin allowed himself a moment of hope, but then Harry dashed it.
“Very sorry, old chap,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve met.” He grimaced and rubbed his head again. “And I’ve got the most wretched headache. Can I go now?”
Ginger put her hand on Merlin’s arm and spoke to him in low, comforting tones. “It’s a process. The alpha waves are just part of it. Triggering access to his old memories is the key now.”
Merlin nodded and turned back to Harry.
“Harry, I’m Merlin. We were colleagues. Friends. You had a brain injury.”
Harry smiled vacantly. “Well, that explains my headache. But otherwise, I’m quite fine, I assure you. As Mother always said, nothing should be perfect or one won’t appreciate it.” He paused, then tilted his head to the side, curious. “Are you a lepidopterist?”
Merlin tried not to let the disappointment he felt show in his voice. “No. I’m sorry.”
“Oh. You said we worked together. I assumed you were going to take me away from this awful place.” He gave Ginger a scowl, as if he blamed her personally for keeping him here.
“Soon, Harry,” Merlin said. “We’ll bring you back soon. I promise.”
Merlin prayed it was a promise he’d be capable of fulfilling.
40,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean
Eggsy lined up the shot and tapped the cue ball. It rolled into the eight ball and sank it in one of the corner pockets.
He grinned at Jack. “Six in a row, bro.”
They were aboard Statesman’s private jet, well on their way to England. The main cabin had plush leather seats, a full bar, and a pool table, upon which Eggsy had been absolutely decimating the American spy.
“You’ve been spending way too much time in bars, kid.”
“Bollocks, I never go to bars.” Eggsy paused, then added. “Pubs, yes. And we play snooker, not pool. Much harder game. Much bigger table.” He glanced around the cabin. “Probably still fit in here, though.” He changed the subject. “Tell me something, Jack: why do you think the founders of Kingsman and Statesman never told their agents that there were two organizations? Obviously, they knew about each other. So why keep us apart? We could’ve been working together ever since World War One. Think of all the good we could’ve accomplished.”
“I’ve been asking myself the same question, Eggsy, and you can bet Champ has been too. Best I can figure it, since both our agencies are independent, we’ve got no oversight. The good thing about that is no politicians looking over our shoulders or trying to use us to help them get re-elected. The bad thing is there’s no one to keep an eye on us and make sure we don’t cross the line. The way I see it, our founders intended us to be each other’s oversight. If one agency went rogue, the other would eventually learn about it and take the necessary steps to shut them down. Kinda hard to do that if you’re best buddies, y’know?”
“Makes sense,” Eggsy said. “But the founders wanted to make sure we could help each other out if things got bad enough.”
“Yep. And that’s why they came up with the doomsday scenarios, so we’d have a way to find each other when we had to.”
Agent Whiskey—who liked to call himself Jack Daniels—had the same good-ole-boy attitude as Champ and Tequila combined with a no-nonsense professionalism. He exuded the calm confidence of a man who could handle himself in any situation, whether he was sweet-talking a woman or slicing an enemy’s throat. He reminded Eggsy of an Old West gunfighter, and he had no doubt Jack was as deadly as any sheriff who’d ever stared down an outlaw in the middle of a dusty street at high noon.
The captain’s voice came over the PA. “We’ll be landing in sixty minutes, gentlemen.”
“Let’s get to work,” Jack said. They returned their cues to the wall rack, and Jack pressed a button on the side of the table. In response, the tabletop rose upward and flipped over to reveal an impressive display of weapons and gadgets.
Very nice, Eggsy thought. Nothing like one-stop shopping.
“Now… gear for tomorrow,” Jack said. “Take your pick of defense items, just in case.”
“My turn,” Eggsy said. “I brought us some clothes.”
Jack raised his eyebrows. “Clothes? From Kingsman? I’m good, thanks. I don’t figure I’m gonna need to dress like a limey stiff.”
Eggsy gave him a look and walked over to his steamer trunk, which he’d brought along on the trip. He opened it to reveal an array of casual streetwear.
“We’re going to a festival,” he said. “We gotta blend in. And I’ve sorted our tickets too. My contact’s staying at a hotel near the festival site, so we can grab ’em on the way.”
He smiled. He couldn’t wait to see his “contact.”
Chapter Six
Merlin stood in Statesman’s interrogation room, watching Harry through the two-way mirror. When Jack had questioned Eggsy and him in here, Merlin had assumed someone was on the other side of the mirror watching, but it turned out that all the watching was done from this side. Harry was sitting on his bed, quietly reading a book about—what else?—butterflies.
Ginger entered the room carrying a folder. She placed it on the table and opened it. Merlin joined her, and she spread pages out on the table’s surface for him to examine as she spoke. Prominent among the material was a photo of a beautiful woman with long red hair and striking green eyes.
“Poppy Adams,” Ginger said. “Background in the military. Business degree. Looks like she’s our woman: head of the Golden Circle. But she’s going to be hard to find—no record of her whereabouts in the last decade.” When Merlin didn’t respond, she added, “I’ll pass this on to the agents.”
Merlin remained silent, looking at the material Ginger had brought, none of it really registering with him.
“Merlin,” Ginger said, concerned, “you okay?”
He turned to look at her. “No, that’s… excellent. Useful. Very good find. Hats off to you.” He returned to the window. After a moment Ginger joined him, and they watched Harry read for several minutes.
After a time, Merlin said, “Ginger, I’m not sure about this.”
Harry looked so relaxed, so peaceful. He had no idea what was about to happen to him.
“You think we should try a test he’s unfamiliar with instead?” she asked. “I mean, we have plenty that you guys don’t.”
“No. It’s not that. It’s—”
Ginger cut him off. “I thought we agreed. Not only do we engage the fight-or-flight synapse paths, but it could directly stir memories of his past. His training.”
They had agreed. The logic was sound, if speculative, but that wasn’t the problem. Merlin wasn’t certain he could put Harry—this Harry, the mild-mannered lepidopterist—through what was coming. He wondered what his Harry would say about this test if Merlin could somehow ask him. Would he agree to it? There was no way to know, so in the end Merlin merely nodded and hoped he wasn’t making the wrong decision.
Ginger pressed a button on the control panel next to the window, and it began.
Come on, Harry, Merlin thought. I know you’re in there somewhere.
At first, Harry wasn’t aware of the water coming into the room. He continued reading as it swiftly covered the floor and began rising, and it wasn’t until it flowed above his ankles and began to soak through his tracksuit that he realized something was horribly wrong. He looked around t
he room in shock as water rushed over his legs, the level continuing to rise past his stomach, up to his chest. He stood on the bed, attempting to keep his head above the water’s surface, but the room was filling up so fast, he only delayed the inevitable by a few moments.
“Oh god!” he cried out. “What’s happening? Help!”
And then the water rose all the way to the ceiling, completely engulfing Harry and cutting off his oxygen supply. He flailed in the water, panicking, bubbles gushing from his mouth as he continued shouting for help.
Merlin couldn’t take this anymore. “Get him out. Now.”
“Hold up,” Ginger said. “His instincts could kick in at any moment…”
Merlin forced himself to watch for several more seconds, but as Harry’s exertions began to lessen, Merlin knew that his friend was drowning. He reached past Ginger and slammed the abort button on the wall panel. The water began to quickly drain out of Harry’s cell, leaving him lying on the floor, terrified and gasping for breath.
Merlin and Ginger rushed into the cell, and Merlin knelt next to Harry.
“Harry! Are you okay?” he said.
Harry coughed several times before he managed to speak. “What… happened?”
“You’ve forgotten who you are, Harry,” Merlin said. “We hoped… we hoped that this might jog your memory.”
“You’ve done this before,” Ginger said, “when you were young. You escaped.”
“You used a toilet snorkel,” Merlin added.
“I used a what?” Harry said, incredulous.
Merlin continued. “To get air. You put the shower tube down the toilet to get air!”
“In our exercise, the subject is just supposed to break the two-way mirror,” Ginger said.
Merlin took hold of Harry’s arm and gently helped him onto his feet.
“Look, Harry, when you were younger, you had a choice: to either become a lepidopterist or join the army. You chose the army. And that led you to Kingsman. You became a Kingsman agent.”
Harry pulled away from Merlin and glared at him indignantly. “I very much doubt that I’d work for anyone who drowns their employees. I want to go home. I want to see my butterfly collection.”
Merlin exchanged looks with Ginger. This was going to be harder than either of them had thought.
* * *
Eggsy and Tilde lay in bed, enjoying a post-coital cuddle. The hotel was a beautiful country house, and the room was decorated in a rustic fashion, with brick walls, wooden floor, thick ceiling beams, and a soft brown duvet on a bed with an old-fashioned metal frame. The box springs were a bit squeaky, but considering the workout the couple had put them through, they’d held up well enough.
Tilde traced circles on Eggsy’s chest with her index finger as she spoke. “So I told my parents you lost a friend in the London bombings and that’s why you freaked out. I said you got a text. They were totally fine with it. They liked you a lot. So much, I thought maybe… we could go house-hunting.”
Eggsy would miss living in Harry’s house, but it was gone now, and he needed somewhere to live. He liked the idea of Tilde and him choosing a place together, having an opportunity to make a home that was truly theirs.
“Jag alskar dig,” he said in Swedish. I love you.
Tilde pulled him close and they kissed.
When they parted, she said, “Oh my god, I missed you so much.”
“Likewise,” Eggsy smiled.
Tilde gave him a mischievous smile. “You want your present now?”
“I thought getting to see you was my present. There ain’t anything I want more.”
She gave him another quick kiss, climbed out of bed, and walked across the wooden floor to the bathroom. She opened the door and a tiny pug puppy ran out, toenails skittering on the floor.
“Oh my days!” Eggsy said. Delighted, he bent down, and the little dog leaped up to enthusiastically lick his face.
“I know he could never replace JB,” Tilde said. “But I hoped he might make you happy.” She smiled. “And give you another reason to come home soon.”
The pug rolled over on his back and Eggsy scratched his tummy.
“I love him.” He gave Tilde an adoring smile. “But trust me, darlin’—I never needed another reason.”
Eggsy had left his phone on the nightstand, and it buzzed now, indicating he had a text. He stood and walked over to the nightstand to check it out. The text was from Jack—and he was not happy. Eggsy put the phone down and began to pick up his clothes from the floor. They’d been in such a hurry to get in bed that they’d disrobed as fast as possible, and their clothes lay wherever they’d fallen. He began to dress quickly.
“So sorry, babe. Left someone waiting and he’s getting pissy.”
Tilde sighed in disappointment, but she managed a smile. “Gotta go save the world?”
“Yup. But I’ll come back tonight if I can.”
Her smile turned seductive. “If you save the world… Well, you know what that means.”
He did indeed.
* * *
Poppy was seated in a black leather chair on the concert hall stage, the lighting on her soft, but not too soft. She wore a yellow blouse, black skirt, and glasses. She hoped the combination would strike the balance she was looking for: serious, but with a hint of warmth. It was important to project the right image when making a sales presentation.
She had just finished her latest take, and the director yelled, “Cut!”
The director—a wild-haired bad boy who was as famous for his off-set antics as he was for his films—stood behind a film camera on a tripod, with Charlie sitting next to him in a director’s chair.
Poppy looked at the director, nervous. Beside him, Charlie held his breath, seemingly just as anxious.
“I mean… if you agree, Poppy,” the director said. “Or did you want to go again?”
“Think I need to?” she asked.
He thought for a moment. “No, no. That was pretty good.”
She bristled. “Pretty good? Listen, I’m introducing myself to the world here. Pretty good won’t work. So how about you do your job and direct me? Was I too informal? I feel I could be a bit more businesslike, you know? Like Michael Douglas in Wall Street? Or… what? You can be honest with me.”
The director didn’t respond right away. The man usually crackled with energy, but when he finally spoke, he was subdued, almost fearful. “Okay… Then I’d say actually let’s try for one that’s more… animated? Right now you’re maybe a little… monotone?”
Poppy’s smile was strained. “You bet. Let’s go again.” She paused. “You must be exhausted after all these takes! I insist that after we’re done, you let Charlie here take you to my salon for a nice relaxing mani-pedi.”
This time her smile was genuine.
* * *
Merlin, Ginger, and Harry were outside on the Statesman grounds. Above them the sun shone bright in a cloudless blue sky. It was a bit on the warm side, perhaps, but a gentle breeze was blowing. Quite a pleasant day, Merlin thought. Too pleasant to be doing what they were about to do.
Harry lay on the grass between two horses facing opposite directions. Ropes were tied to the pommels of their saddles, the other ends wrapped around Harry’s wrists and ankles. Harry looked confused and miserable, and Merlin didn’t blame him one bit. The horses remained absolutely still, looking more like statues than living animals, until Ginger shouted a command.
“Go!”
The horses charged forward, drawing the ropes taut and lifting Harry off the ground.
Harry cried out in pain. “Ooww! OWWW! STOP! PLEASE!”
Merlin looked at Ginger, horrified. “This is your interrogation test?”
“Yeah,” she said, sounding far too calm for Merlin’s liking. “It should give us that fight-or-flight state we need. Jump-start the primal brain.”
The horses pummeled the ground with their hooves as they tried to move forward, pulling harder on Harry’s limbs.
&nbs
p; Harry turned to Merlin, a pleading look in his eye. “You said you were my friend! Why aren’t you helping me?”
This was just another version of the flooded room scenario. But Harry wasn’t a damn guinea pig, and this wasn’t a lab test. This was torture.
“Enough.” Merlin removed a large pocket-knife from his trousers and ran toward Harry’s feet. He pulled out the blade—which he kept sharp at all times—and quickly sawed through the rope wrapped around Harry’s ankles. The rope came apart easily, but now with nothing to stop them, the two horses galloped off in different directions. Unfortunately, since Harry’s wrists were still bound to one of the horses, that meant he went with it, howling in pain as the animal dragged him behind.
Merlin watched as his friend was carried away. “Jesus wept,” he said. Could this possibly get any worse?
“Merlin,” Ginger said, her voice concerned. “What the hell is Tequila doing?”
At first he had no idea what she was talking about, but then he turned to look in the direction she was facing, and he saw Agent Tequila—wearing a cowboy hat and boots with his hospital gown, skin covered with the blue rash—dancing on the grass a dozen yards from where they stood. Sort of dancing, he thought. The moves he made, while graceful enough, were… odd. He contorted his body in ways that should’ve been painful, but he seemed unaffected, smiling blissfully the entire time. If he kept going like that, he could end up breaking his own bones.
What the fuck was that rash, and what had it done to poor Tequila?
* * *
After Merlin got Harry settled in his room and tended to his scrapes and cuts—of which there were many—he went to Ginger’s lab. Tequila lay on a rolling hospital bed, eyes closed, and hooked up to various pieces of medical equipment. An IV was in his arm, and sensor leads were attached to his head and chest. Ginger stood before a monitor screen, peering intently at the information it displayed. John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads” was playing over the lab’s sound system, and Ginger was singing along.
