by Nancy Holder
“Why must you keep them in?”
Etta sighed. “Only a woman with no tummy would ask that question.” She held up an outfit for Diana to consider. Gray and rather baggy. “Conservative, but not entirely… unfun.”
Diana gave Steve a Do I have to? look.
“Try it on, at least,” Steve said.
“Very well.” It was her turn to sigh.
Then she started to take off her cloak. Etta’s eyes went wide and she rushed over to stop her from removing it.
As she led her away, Etta shot Steve a questioning look, as if to say, Where did you find this woman?
After putting on the outfit Diana stepped up to a full-length mirror. The garment was frilly, its layers upon layers of fabric giving her the look of a puffy cloud, the matching cap completing the illusion. It was ridiculous.
“How can a woman possibly fight in this?” she said, executing a side kick. She took off the hat and sniffed it.
“Fight? We use our principles,” Etta told her. “It’s how we’re going to get the vote. Not that I’m opposed to engaging in a bit of fisticuffs should the occasion arise.” With a twinkle in her eye, she limply positioned her hands for combat.
Diana went back behind the curtain to try on the second of Etta’s suggestions. Both the white blouse with its scarf such as the men wore and the dark skirt were quite tight.
Etta admired the fit and said, “Lovely.”
Diana tested the outfit by trying a front snap kick. It was impossible to kick higher than a shin in the dress, and the attempt caused the back seam to rip open. She shook her head at Etta: It just wouldn’t do.
The third choice was a virtual copy of what Etta herself was wearing. Diana yanked at the lace collar impatiently. “So itchy,” she complained. “And it’s choking me.”
“I can’t say that I blame it,” Etta muttered.
Diana returned to the changing room and began to put on yet another ensemble. She was nearly finished when through the velvet curtain she heard Steve’s voice as he walked up to Etta. “Where is she?” he said.
“Trying on outfit number two-hundred and twenty-six.”
Diana stepped from the changing room with her hair pulled back in a fashionable coil, dressed in a belted gray suit, black boots and a black felt hat. On any other woman the outfit would have been stylish, pleasant, but unremarkable. But on her, well…
* * *
Well. Steve himself had bought new clothes. He wore a wide-brimmed, dark gray fedora that matched his new tweed suit, a white shirt with a stiff collar and tie accented with a vest. Over that, a trench coat. It wasn’t difficult to remember the shape of his body beneath all the fabric, but she was bemused once again by how much clothing these people found necessary.
Diana shifted uncomfortably, disliking the restrictions the garment placed on her. Steve seemed to be staring at it fixedly, then snapped out of it.
He turned to Etta. “Miss Candy, the whole point was to make her less distracting,” he said.
Steve looked around the store, apparently searching for something. He moved to a nearby counter and picked up a pair of glasses. He gently put the glasses on Diana’s face. The lenses were plain glass so she could see perfectly through them. He stepped back to examine her and seemed very satisfied.
“Really, specs?” Etta said wryly. “And suddenly she’s not the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen?”
Diana looked into the mirror, took a deep breath, and settled into the clothes. The corners of her mouth turned up in a little smile as she adjusted her glasses. An effective way to blend in, she supposed. One must do what one must do.
With her hair up, in her glasses and new outfit, she picked up her sword and shield. The trio descended a short flight of stairs toward a revolving door. Diana crashed into it then backed up. Her sword caught.
Steve reached to help her, but Diana demurred.
“Let me try it by myself,” she said. She gauged the speed of the door’s turns, then stepped inside and exited successfully. In concert, Steve and Etta attempted to take her sword away.
Etta said cheerfully, “Why don’t I meet you at the office. Meanwhile—” she reached for the sword “—I’ll take this for safekeeping.”
Diana refused, brandishing the sword. But she was aware that people were staring at her. No one else on the street was armed with sword and shield. The point was for them to blend in so that Steve could deliver the notebook and take her to the Front.
“Diana, put the sword down, please,” Steve said.
“It doesn’t go with the outfit,” Etta said.
“At all,” Steve added.
It galled her to give up her weapons in this strange place. At least she had the Lasso of Hestia in the pocket of her jacket. “Promise that you will protect it with your life?” She was stern.
Etta nodded, but Diana wasn’t certain that she could trust her.
“Hand that over,” Steve insisted.
Diana let them take the sword.
“Shield.” Etta was insistent.
Diana relented. Etta struggled under the awkwardness of her parcels—Amazonian sword, shield, and shopping bag. The cloak alone weighed as much as a boat anchor, or nearly so.
“Thanks, Etta. See you soon,” Steve said.
* * *
What on earth, Etta thought. She watched this Diana, champion to secretaries everywhere, walk on down the street with Captain Trevor. Charming yet… eccentric.
Then her gaze ticked to a bearded man who seemed to be following the pair. Etta frowned.
And kept watching.
* * *
After they took their leave, Diana and Steve continued down Oxford Street. A few blocks on, Steve glanced over his shoulder and stiffened.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Hopefully nothing,” he replied, then steered her into an ally.
She looked up at him. “Steve, why are we hiding?”
“Ssh,” he cautioned. “Come on.”
He turned; a man stepped from the shadows, pointing a gun at Steve’s head.
“Captain Trevor,” he said in a thick German accent, “I believe you have something that is the property of General Ludendorff.”
Diana now knew what guns could do. Aware of the danger she and Steve were in, she waited for an opening to attack. The man waved the gun threateningly and backed the two of them deeper into the alley. There were two more men there. Another two joined.
That made five adversaries—three of whom had their guns out.
“Ah. It’s the bad guy convention,” Steve said.
“Give us Dr. Maru’s notebook,” the man snapped.
Steve moved in front of Diana as if trying to block her from the line of fire. He patted his coat pockets. “Where did I put that thing?”
Stepping in front of her got him that much closer to the man with his finger on the trigger. Steve head-butted their primary attacker, who fell back. When Diana started to advance, Steve held up his arm protectively.
“Stay behind me!” he shouted.
The gunman fired. Diana swung her right arm up in front of him. It was not a conscious act. It was automatic, reactive, as if her body knew something she didn’t. With a loud crack and a spark the shot ricocheted off her bracelet. Steve opened his hand, revealing a piece of the bullet in his palm.
The German spies and Steve looked at her in astonishment.
“Or maybe not,” Steve said.
The gunman examined his pistol, then pulled the trigger again. One of the men blocking the alleyway fired at them almost simultaneously. Diana’s reflexes sped up, which made it seem like the bullets were slowing down. She raised both bracelets, easily deflecting the bullets to either side. One went high, the other low. They surrounded her, shooting in all directions. She spun, deflecting every projectile. Her glasses whipped off, were crushed underfoot.
Steve knocked aside the weapon of a mustachioed attacker and slammed his forearm into the man’s throat. The man dropp
ed his weapon, choking, clutching his neck with both hands. He backed up until he hit the alley wall, then Steve punched him with a straight right that snapped back his head and slammed it into the bricks.
The bearded man had wheeled around and was trying to get a shot at Steve. Diana grabbed the barrel and twisted it up. The shot went off harmlessly in the air. The German reached for something in his left coat sleeve, but before he could grab it, Diana smashed her bracelet into the side of his head. His hat went flying and as he fell to the wet pavement, his eyes rolled back in his head.
The remaining gunman got off one shot at close range. But close or far didn’t matter to Diana. The bullet crawled towards her and she knocked it aside with her bracelet.
“Is there anything else you want to show me?” Steve said in amazement.
She smiled at him victoriously. She had a feeling that there were more surprises to come.
The last three spies summoned their courage and rushed Diana and Steve all at once, hoping to overwhelm them. Neither of their targets budged. Diana slammed her fist into the face of the man leading the charge. The combination of his momentum and her compact punch sent him sprawling to the cobblestones. Steve took on the next attacker, blocking a big roundhouse swing and stepping into his counterblow. The impact of fist against chin lifted the man off his feet and he crashed flat on his back.
The second to the last gunman standing clicked his weapon; he had run out of bullets. Click click click, he stared at the useless gun.
“Tough luck,” Steve said. He punched him and the man dropped.
Their last attacker—the man with the beard—made a run for it, but Etta appeared, blocking him.
“I thought you looked suspicious,” she said.
Diana whipped out the Lasso of Hestia and caught him by the leg. He fell to the ground. The lasso began to glow as Diana knelt at his side. His eyes were wild. She put a compassionate hand on his chest. In her mind, his actions were not his own. He was a puppet of the God of War.
“I am sorry,” she said. “You are clearly under his control. Let me help you get free. Where will I find Ares?”
But before the power of the Lasso could take full control, the spy popped something between his teeth and bit down. She caught a whiff of bitter almonds as his body fell into a violent seizure. It was over in seconds.
“He’s dead,” she said, looking up at Steve and Etta.
“Cyanide,” Steve filled in.
The dead man’s mouth foamed. Diana silently promised him that Ares would pay for his death. She gazed up at the dirty London sky.
For that, and so much else.
9
Because of the attack, Steve’s movements through the city took on more urgency; Diana kept pace easily with him. Throughout the city, horns blared; the populace was anxious, busy. They reached the War Office, an enormous building filled with people who were employed in every aspect of war, from tactical decisions to provisioning Britain’s three enormous armies—combined, a total of four million men.
They entered the vast edifice with its marble floors and stairways, and domes flowing with watery English sunlight, reminding her very little of the council chambers back home. The only war council held in recent memory had been the one in which Diana argued for Steve’s life to be spared.
Steve pulled back one of the heavy double doors leading to the assembly hall. It was not a huge room, clubby and stuffy with rows of seats on either side of the main aisle behind heavy wooden bannisters. There were paintings of men in stupendous hats on the walls. The occupants were all male, some dressed in military uniforms resembling Steve’s German uniform, decorated with rows of ribbons, only made from fabric in shades of brown; others wore tailored three-piece suits such as he wore now. The object of their ire was a kindly looking man, older than Steve, but not as old as some others in the hall.
“Stay here,” Steve said.
Diana nodded that she would. But as soon as he started down the central aisle, she proceeded to follow him, running her hand over the bannister, smiling at the dumbfounded men who were staring at her.
“Gentlemen,” said the small man. “Germany is an immensely proud nation who will never surrender. The only way to end this war and restore world peace is to negotiate an armistice.”
The majority of the assembly roared its disapproval. Diana took note—peace was an unpopular subject. More evidence of Ares’s meddling.
Steve seemed to be looking for someone in the audience. He leaned over the rail and said, “Colonel!”
Six men in nearly identical uniforms turned their heads to look at him.
“Sorry,” Steve said. “Colonel!”
Another uniformed man turned his way. He had white hair and rows of medals on his chest and he appeared amazed and relieved to see Steve. Steve nodded towards the exit, indicating the need for a private word.
The small man pressed on, addressing the group. “Our only aim at this moment must be to achieve peace at any cost.”
That brought another roar of disapproval. Then, as Steve and Diana entered more deeply into the room, the cries momentarily died down. She understood at once that they were taken aback that a woman had entered their sacred domain. Diana chose not to take umbrage. This was not her world and Steve needed to find the correct person to give the notebook to. Then he could get her to the Front.
Finally Steve took her arm and led her out of the assembly room, murmuring, “Sorry, excuse me…”
The discussion resumed. Through the open door Diana could hear the man insisting, “Gentlemen, I beg you, please, if you’ll just hear me out…”
“Why will they not let him speak?” Diana said, pulling open the door to the assembly room to observe. “He’s talking peace.”
The white-haired man followed them into the hallway. “Trevor?” he began. “What the hell were you thinking bringing a woman into the council chamber?”
Though indignant, Diana kept her cool and said nothing, preferring to attend to the immediate matter. Steve held up his hand for calm, then addressed the colonel. “I’m sorry, Colonel Darnell, but the intel I’ve brought back is very time sensitive. We need to get it to cryptography. And I need an immediate audience with the generals…”
Speaking over Steve, the man said, “You don’t just barge in here like this and demand an audience with the cabinet. Cryptography takes time and…”
Steve was persistent. “Sir, with all due respect, if what I saw—”
The small, older man who had been arguing for peace walked out of the chamber through the doorway. “Captain Trevor!” he said. “I’d heard you were lost on one of your missions, yet here you are. And you’ve brought a friend.”
He smiled pleasantly at Diana, and she smiled back. She preferred him to the challenging warrior who seemed more interested in placing obstacles in Steve’s way rather than listening to what his own spy had to tell him.
Steve inclined his head. “Our deepest apologies for the interruption, Sir—”
“Nonsense,” the man cut in. “Thanks to this young woman, the room was finally quiet enough for me to get a few words in.” He made a humble bow to Diana and added, “Sir Patrick Morgan, at your service.”
Diana inclined her head in response. “Diana,” she said. “Princess of…”
Steve broke in before she could finish. “Prince,” he said. “Diana Prince. We… she and I… we work together. She helped me get this notebook here. From Maru’s lab…”
Steve reached inside his coat and pulled out the notebook, which he presented to Sir Patrick. The man accepted it eagerly and began to riffle through it.
“I think the information inside will change the course of the war, sir,” Steve added.
Sir Patrick looked from one of the pages to Steve, his brows raised, eyes wide. “‘Dr. Poison’ herself? My God,” He turned to Colonel Darnell. “Shall we assemble the war cabinet so they can tell us more?”
Darnell hesitated, then nodded in agreement.
&nbs
p; Steve’s relief was palpable, and Diana, content that the situation would surely soon resolve itself, silently thanked Sir Patrick for his intercession.
* * *
Inside her laboratory, Dr. Isabel Maru picked up a green metal canister from the hangar floor and carried it over to a small glass chamber on her lab bench. The chamber contained the very latest in British-issue gas masks. Chemical weapons had not been deployed in any war of the modern era, and the English had spent time and money attempting protect themselves against her increasingly lethal gases rather than developing their own. What irony it would be for them to discover that they had completely wasted their resources. If her current calculations were correct, nothing would save them.
She connected the fitting on the top of the canister to one in the side of the chamber, then turned the wheel on the canister’s valve.
General Ludendorff’s imposing figure filled the space; as regal as a king, he watched with her as the newly created gas hissed into the containment vessel. A virulent mist filled the chamber and enveloped the gas mask.
Let it work.
Maru clenched her hands and held her breath. She hadn’t slept in three days. The Fatherland—and the general—were counting on her to perfect an aerosolized weapon so insidiously caustic that there was no defense against it. A weapon that would turn the tide of the war and bring Germany’s enemies to their knees. A weapon with her name on it, which would kill millions. She had run the calculations hundreds of times, testing on paper her chemical formula against the molecular structures of the mask’s components. But the results of paper tests could be misleading. Sometimes in real life what should have happened didn’t, for reasons unforeseen. But with General Ludendorff by her side, success must be hers.
As she and the general looked on, the mask began to disintegrate. The glass lenses cracked; the rubber turned brittle; the metal deteriorated. The sequence of events and their severity seemed unchanged from the previous formulation of the gas. Maru had a moment of doubt. How many failures would Ludendorff overlook? How many failures would his superiors overlook? The general’s neck was on the block, same as hers.
