Judgement Night: Bureau 13 Book 1

by Nick Pollota

  The approach was easy enough to find, a single break in the hedge offered access, however I could see no way to get across the moat. On the street, an old man was poised mid-step running from the direction of the armory. I gave him a quick inspection, but even with my sunglasses, saw nothing on him to assist me in gaining entrance. Just his wand. Did they fly over?

  My watch beeped. Seventy minutes remaining. Okay, fly it is. Slinging my rifle over my neck and shoulder so it couldn't drop, I pulled out my combat knife, retreated to give myself plenty of room, charged and jumped.

  The breath was knocked out of me as I hit the other side, my feet dangling dangerously over the edge. Plunging the knife into the grass, I managed to lever myself out of the moat and rolled away until safe. Standing erect, I now noticed a sprinkle of loose soil floating across the moat to the street. Suspicious, I kicked a bit more out there. It scattered and most fell, or rather the dirt in front of me disappeared with a hiss in the moat. The soil to the left stayed up. Gently prodding with my knife, I discovered the truth. An invisible bridge, set just off to one side. Coming in, you simply stepped to the left, crossed the moat, then stepped to the right. Pretty crafty. Anybody not paying attention would go straight to their death.

  Freeing my rifle, I judiciously began walking towards the pillbox. Suddenly, the air shimmered briefly as I passed an illusionary shield and the real armory appeared before me. Lord Almighty, these people didn't trust anybody. A stygian fortress completely filled the block, its outer walls constructed of stones bigger than a truck and lined with a good dozen turrets. Each roof was an indented parapet, in the style of a castle and between the square notches I could see siege arbalists, racks of gunpowder rockets and what appeared to be a Gatling Gun style rotating cannon. It was as if somebody had taken the old fashioned, muzzle loading, cannons from 14th century pirate ships and strapped eight of them together. The weapon must have easily weighed ten tons and yet it had a hand crank. Wow. I did not wish to see it in action. Or the operator.

  Entry to the fort was easy. The portcullis was raised a crack, and the riveted metal gates ajar. Maybe they were still in the act of closing behind the old man in the street. The courtyard was deserted of people, yet dotted with triwheel vehicles and on both side were penned herds of gargoyles, their stone wings clipped to prevent flight. Weakly, the skinny beasts growled menacingly. In a cavalier manner, I flipped ‘em the bird.

  Unexpectedly, the squat pillbox I saw earlier was still there, its recessed door closed, but unlocked. Inside, I found a bonanza of weapons; tall cabinets full of glass tipped spears—the hollow heads containing a fluid similar to the stuff in the bubbling moat, chests of transparent shields bearing the inverted triangle symbol, frames holding stainless steel body armor, a rack of chainsaw swords, a mound of black powder kegs and boxes of petards. The place was a treasure trove of deathdealers!

  An oddity was a tiny crossbow on a pistol frame. The weapon rested alone on a rack to hold ten of the things. It wasn't loaded, so experimentally I released the safety and pulled the trigger. There was a sharp twang and a miniature arrow shot from the end of the stock. Instantly, the feathered bolt expanded to normal size, double normal, triple! It became a baseball bat, a fence post...

  In a crash of mortar, the telephone pole arrow slammed through the pillbox wall, leaving a jagged hole gaping wide in its tumultuous wake. As a fine mist of dust rained from the concrete ceiling, I respectfully set the safety and place the gun in my backpack. Oh yes, this I kept.

  Not withstanding their lethal design, none of the other devices were really useful to me, armor was too small, except possibly for the black powder petards and I couldn't trust the quality. After a geological age, the powder might have lost its ginger and be about as explosive as coffee grinds. I had no wish to be hoisted on my own, as the saying goes. But was this crossbow what the genie sent me here to get?

  Thoroughly, I ransacked the place and behind a curtain on the rear wall found a quite modern style vault, with combination lock and everything. Cackling gleefully, I dug into my pack, located my stethoscope and merrily whirled the dial. This was child's play for a Chicago dick. Four clicks later, the vault unlocked and I pulled the massive portal open. Patiently waiting on the other side, was an enormous purple dragon, the splayed dorsal fins glowing red-hot in anticipation. Yikes! I tried to throw the vault door closed and failed.

  Spreading its huge jaws, the leviathan vomited a boiling gout of orange flame towards me. Frantic, I kissed the floor as the fiery plasma blast washed overhead. Aw, nuts! I had wolfbane with me, but no dragonbane. Unlimbering my rifle, I launched my last 40mm round at the stomach of the beast probing for a weak spot, followed by a burst of the M16. There was a tiny squeal amid the war-noise and the big dragon vanished.

  Eh? Hesitantly, I rose to my knees. Laying dead in the vault was a tiny lizard, chained in place next to a bowl of gnawed sticks and a nest of rags. It didn't make any sense until I realized there had not been any heat from the flame, nor was there the usual smell of brimstone. So the little guy had been an illusion dragon. Mighty dangerous those. It could have made me see anything it wanted to: a writhing Medusa, charging manticore, oncoming freight train, anything at all. If I believed what I saw, the illusion would kill me. I wondered how many died using dragonbane against a lizard to whom the herb would be only tasty shrubbery. Thank goodness for area-effect weapons.

  Then I almost hurt myself with a grin. If the mages of Atlantis had this deadly an animal guarding the vault, what incredibly valuable goodies must be on deposit?

  The vault chamber was merely a plain cube, the rear wall covered with an empty pegboard slotted for different size magic wands. I knew where those were. Scratch marks on the floor showed where something big and heavy had been dragged away and a couple of topless barrels smelled strongly of blood. Yuck. In a stout wooden case, I found a melon sized crystal ball with a short fuse dangling from the top. This I placed in my shoulder pouch for easy access. I wondered who powerful the bomb was? It might even replace my lost nuke.

  A pair of plain swords in cheap leather scabbards hung of opposite sides of the vault and their Kirlian auras told why. One was solid white, the other solid black. As there was nothing else of interest in the place, I took down the white sword for inspection.

  "Is there evil to be vanquished?" a booming voice asked in my mind.

  After a moment, I said yes and inquired as to its name.

  "Justice," the sword spoke in a stentorian bass. "When fighting for a worthwhile cause your skill will increase tenfold, no poison can harm, no spell bewitch. I shield my holder against heat or cold and any lethal conjuration will be returned to the enemy caster twofold."

  Replacing the sword to its peg on the wall, I crossed the chamber and, using a fingertip, fleetingly touched the handle of the black sword.

  "Are you my new master?" a soft voice asked in my mind.

  This time prepared, I avoid the question and asked for a name.

  "Revenge," the voice said. "Anger and hatred fuel my magic. In any battle, I will guide your arm to kill swiftly. No matter the wounds, you will fight to the end. I eat the souls of the defeated, none but my master may wield me and survive, and I will come to your grasp when called, no matter the distance."

  Saying I heard somebody call my name, I placed it on the peg and stepped away. Whew. These were some serious swords. Each possessed unheard of abilities. Hmm, Justice, or Revenge? What the hey, with both I could defeat an army!

  Taking the black sword, I started to walk across the vault, when in the middle of the chamber I found myself treading floor. No matter how hard I exerted, my boots slid frictionless on the textured metal, as if I was doing the classic mime routine “walking in a strong wind.” Suspecting the reason why, I laid the black sword atop a barrel and discovered I could advance again. Claiming the white sword, the same happened. They refused to get within ten feet of the other.

  In a weird way this made sense. Justice and Revenge were n
ot likely to be pals. I had to choose. Maybe I could drag one on a rope behind me? No, dumb idea. I could see it catching on doorways and getting entangled in bushes at awkward moments. Well, if I was limited to only a single sword, I knew which.

  Returning the Sword of Justice to the wall, I appropriated the Revenge and strapped it around my waist cattycorner to my pistol. Normally, I would have nothing to do with a solid black weapon. I had passed by dozens in the street. But this was an emergency and the sword offered a straight enough deal, the use of its magic for a soul-feast. I just had to keep careful watch that it didn't go after mine. Besides, I honestly did not know if my mission was a worthy or just cause, but it damn sure was based on hatred. I was out to commit genocide on the island folk and Justice might fink out on me would I needed it the most because my motives were not pure enough. Revenge would revel in the bloodshed.

  "Are you my new master?" it asked softly in my mind.

  “Yep,” I replied.

  "Then taste of the power. Draw me."

  I did, and suddenly all of my doubts fled like ghosts from the sun. What was there to worry about? With my training and weapons, I didn't need my team. Bunch of pansies, anyway.

  Striding from the vault, I headed for the street, my steely gaze boldly daring somebody to cause trouble.

  "Master, are we soon to do battle?"

  “Yes. Within mere minutes.”

  There was a telepathic sigh. "At last."

  Once more, my wristwatch sounded its warning. Fifty minutes till the missiles flew. I sidestepped across the moat and at nigh Olympic speed I sprinted through the crowded city. Destination: the coliseum.

  FIFTEEN

  My boots pounded a savage disco beat on the pavement and the city flew by in a blur. Of course, I made it to the temple in record time. How else?

  The place resembled your typical coliseum. An endless series of gray stone columns about a hundred feet tall supported an elaborately carved colonnade. Only a single doorway was apparent, at the top of a broad expanse of white marble stairs wide enough to march in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sideways.

  Bounding up the stairs, I jumped a turnstile, and proceeded along a mosaic tile corridor, past a lavatory and a snack bar with a flashing neon beer sign. Okay, maybe these island guys weren't totally evil. Briefly, I checked both doors. Nothing special about either. Where was the entrance to the mountain top?

  At the end of the corridor was a huge, brass double door, the surface adorned with mystic symbols, and blocking the entrance, was a guard twice my size. He was dressed in a suit of polished red armor, the style a wild mixture of a dozen cultures, its every attribute seeming to be offensive. Held before him, the point resting in the light gray floor, was a long sword some two meters in length. The blade a shiny black material, its edges feathered with rippled wafers that glinted as prisms in the fluorescent light.

  “Hold!” the dire sentry commanded.

  Without missing a step, I shot Armor Boy once through the tiny mouth slit and cut off his head with a backhand swing, eating the soul before the body pieces hit the floor. Battle, yes! We loved to fight! Lived to fight!

  I didn't bother to check and see if the door was locked. Just blew her open with a grenade to announce my presence with authority. But there was no mountain, just the inside of the coliseum.

  Sheathing the blade, I marched forward. The whole interior was one vast room, to be measured in acres, not meters. Truncated walls became the ceiling, leaving the stupendous central span free of obstructing support columns. And the cool expanse of the marble abyss was totally bare, except for a lone chair and a man.

  At the far end of the palatial room, dominating the entire scene, was a true giant, sprawled asleep on a mammoth throne of metal bound stone. A humanoid dinosaur, the being must have been fifty, sixty feet tall, totally defying the Inverse Square Law of biology. Only primordial magic of the most puissant kind could support this voluminous a life form.

  His smooth skin was dark purple and totally hairless. Great club hands rested on oddly formed knees, with hooked claws tipping each blunt, powerful, finger. His head was cleft, almost split in two, the pig-like nostrils separated and the bulbous closed eyes seeming to point in different directions. There were no ears. A jagged crown of gold encircled his head. He was stark naked and blatantly male. It would take an army of rabbi's armed with chainsaws to make this guy Jewish.

  So this was the king of Atlantis. I was not impressed, having seen similar giants before, although not on such a grand scale. The grotesque physical mutations were a permanent side-effect of using far too many Growth potions, mixed with Strength and Anti-Aging. Everybody wants to be an immortal superman, but are always too damn dumb to realize that there will be a price.

  Promptly, I dubbed him “Fred,” after a schoolyard bully I once beat the living snot out of for bothering my kid sister. Ugly and big don't make them tough. I was tough.

  Completely unafraid, I advanced and drew my sword. Or rather, I tried to draw the black sword, but it was stuck in the sheath. Hey, why had I sheathed it in the first place?

  "Him, Master? You want to fight ... Him? Lord O'Don?"

  Odin, shmoe-din. I pulled harder. “Yes!”

  "The being that created me? Forging my blade from lifeless metal, bathed in the fire of his own soul?"

  “That's the guy! Come on, let's take him!”

  "Fare thee well."

  ...and the madness departed, flowing from my body like sewage down a drain. When my mind cleared of the sword's influence, I stared at it in horror. Holy Hannah, what the fuck was this thing? The Amazing Blade of Stupidity? I unbuckled the belt, let the scabbard drop to the floor and kicked it away. Goodbye, so long, farewell.

  However, the blade had gotten me this far. Steadfast, I donned my Bureau sunglasses and got the second greatest shock of my life. The big guy's aura was orange and purple. Orange and purple? Impossible. What the hell did those colors mean? Just how far had this clown mutated?

  Sluggishly, huge eyelids began to flutter as Odin started to come awake. Was this caused by me blowing the door, or was something else rousting Fearsome Fred from his much needed beauty sleep? In response, my watch beeped. Forty minutes till the missiles fell. Damnation, where was that door?

  “Who are you?” the titanic goyim loudly rumbled, the rafters of the building shaking.

  The words did not match the motions of his mouth. Must be another built-in translator like the Gate. Okay, think fast, Alvarez.

  Removing my cap, I bowed. “A humble worshipper, Lord Odin.”

  Shit, wrong pronunciation, but he didn't seem to notice.

  An arm thicker than a Greyhound Bus rose and pointed in my general direction. “And what is that before you?”

  I gave the sword a little nudge with my boot. “A meager offering, Mighty King. A magic sword.” Well, sort of.

  The rubbery lips parted in a double smile. “Ah yes, I recognize the offering. It is the toy I built in my youth”

  Toy? He considered this sword a toy? Cowardly, yes, but it was no child's plaything. Or maybe it was to him. Gulp.

  “I was unaware that it has been missing,” the grotesque monstrosity continued. “How long have I been asleep?”

  Tactfully, I tried to change the course of the conversation. “Many years, your highness, but that is unimportant. There is trouble on the mountain and—”

  “Nothing I do is unimportant!” Odin bellowed, nearly deafening me. Then he blinked. “What happened to my door?”

  Yes! The door! No, the idiot meant the exploded front door. I wanted to shout at him to stop meandering. Fred was obviously not a morning person.

  “An accident, sire,” somebody said behind me. “We'll have the slaves clean it away immediately.”

  My heart stopped. That voice! Twirling about, I could only wordlessly stare with unabashed joy as the gang came walking towards me, Donaher picking his way carefully through the steaming ruin of the bronze door. Alive! They were alive! Jess, Mi
ndy, George, every blessed one of them! Wearing battle helmets and loaded down with all of our weapons. Including the stuff from the plane and even my briefcase! Yowsa, back in business!

  How the hell had they gotten that stuff? Briefly, I checked them out with my glasses to make sure they weren't zombies, or under mind control. Nope, auras read clean.

  “Who are these beings?” Odin said frowning, sniffing the air suspiciously.

  Damn. Momentarily, I'd forgotten The Amazing Colossal Nudist. The team needed to talk and fast. This called for emergency measures. I whispered, “Jess, love, do you feel able to do a Conference?”

  She smiled. “No problem.” Taking a deep breath, the telepath joined our six minds into mass communication.

  * * * *

  There was disorientation, and as the throne room disappeared I found my team standing on a cloudy plane. After heartfelt greetings were exchanged, I briefed them on what had been happening with me.

  Typical, Ed, thought Donaher in summation. Run around blowing up things.

  Thanks, I said mentally. What happened at the zoo?

  Satan Department agents swooped out of the sky on a flying carpet dropping gas bombs, sent Richard. A nasty new type of neuro-anesthesia. Our gas masks were useless. It worked by skin contact. We woke chained to a wall in a high rise building downtown. Things were getting ugly when George saved us.

  How?

  George broadcast a grin. They took every visible weapon and thoroughly searched us, but never considered untying our boots and looking inside.

  Before I could respond he continued. Oh, they found the Bureau derringer tucked in the boot, I said inside. Under my sock.

  Not surprising. In spite of their many positive features, Army boots take five minutes to get off. Any weapon hidden in there would be useless in the short term. And George's socks would dissuade even the most ardent examination.