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Unidentified forest, England

Once the adrenaline finally wore off, the Captain began to nod off almost immediately. Forcing himself to remain awake, he stood and walked from one end of the culvert to the other, using the motion to keep himself from falling asleep. Walking also helped with the cold, though not as much as he might have liked. He was thoroughly and completely exhausted by the time he woke IP-77 roughly two hours later; the moment the pilot was up and at his post, the Captain lay down on the hard cement, folded his body as tightly as possible to conserve warmth, and was almost instantly unconscious. It seemed no more than five or ten seconds later that a hand was shaking his shoulder, gently at first and then vigorously. Finally his eyes opened, and he sat up. "Report."

"Everything's fine, Captain," replied IP-101. "Sun's coming up…we should move."

"Roger that." SC-80 stood and winced as both muscles and bones gave protest…while he had slept soundly enough, he could certainly tell that he had been lying on concrete. He was sore, and cold. The Captain followed IP-101 to the end of the culvert; IP-77 was still rousing the Doctor and RA-48. The sky was a pale blue in the predawn light, and the ground was now covered by a layer of snow.

"Don't know when it started," 101 said, indicating the layer of whiteness that covered the forest floor, "it was already falling when 77 woke me up." His teeth were chattering as he spoke…for that matter, so were the Captain's own. Their uniforms held in heat, designed for comfort in the somewhat chilly environment of a spacecraft, but they were certainly not winter warfare gear.

"We're going to need some heavier clothes," the Captain said, and 101 simply gave a shivering nod in reply. Within three minutes, the five Oompa-Loompas were on their feet and walking, following the highway south…there were no belongings to pack, no fire to extinguish, and no food to eat either. They were tired, cold, and hungry, but there was nothing for it except to keep moving. The five walked in silence, keeping the highway in sight but remaining well back in the cover of the trees; there was almost no traffic, one car passing perhaps every ten or fifteen minutes. The morning was completely still, quiet save for the tramping of their feet through the snow…no one spoke, because there was not much to say. Finally, the trees thinned, and a town came into view off to the right side of the highway ahead; the Oompa-Loompas turned in its direction, but it soon became apparent that something was very wrong. They walked through the town, still following the direction of the highway, but it was obvious that they would not be receiving any help here. The community, which had likely been home to ten or twenty thousand people, was nothing more than ruins. More than half of the structures were heavily damaged, many of them torn apart by explosives; bullet holes pockmarked everything, and the burned-out wreckage of several armored vehicles lay rusting in the streets. There was no indicator as to who had been fighting here or why; any insignia on the wrecked vehicles had been destroyed by heat or rust. The surviving buildings stood bare and empty, vacant windows and doorframes yawning like open mouths at the five tiny travelers as they passed. Everything was eerily silent; there were no scavengers or vagrants, not even any birds nesting within the ruins of the dead town. No one spoke, as if fearing the consequences of breaking that dread silence. The few significant and nervous glances that the crewmembers exchanged were enough to communicate what all of them were thinking: Whatever happened here, it was bad. Thoughts whirled in the Captain's mind, considering the possibilities…invasion, civil war, insurrection…the Captain could only wonder just what sort of world he and his crew had gotten themselves trapped in.

The abandoned city gave way to more forest, and the Loompas again found their way back to the main road; after another two or three hours of walking, they found themselves at the crest of a hill, and more development came into sight ahead. It was by now perhaps nine o'clock in the morning, and the exhausted crew of Deepstar Five immediately began nursing notions of food and warmth as they followed the highway down the hill toward a broad spread of urban construction, tall buildings of steel and glass rising beyond an outer layer of suburbs. Only there was a problem. The forest terminated perhaps a hundred yards from the edge of the city…and the concrete wall which had apparently been put up around the entire development. The highway passed through a checkpoint ahead; while the gates were open, distant figures could be seen in the watchtowers at either side of the road. The Captain had no idea whether the men in the guard stations had anything to do with Chadworth Industries, but it was a risk he could not take. The Oompa-Loompas doubled back into the trees and headed east along the wall until they reached the entrance point for a smaller two-lane road; there was another checkpoint here, but it was empty. After several minutes of careful observation, the Oompa-Loompas calmly strolled down the shoulder of the road and into the outskirts of the city, hoping that their nonchalance would protect them if nothing else. The Captain could not suppress a wave of foreboding as he led his men through the heavy concrete wall…a decorative archway stretched over the road, the graceful wrought iron a stark contrast to the ugly and simple concrete. But what held the Captain's attention was the image worked in the iron: a sword, its point aimed downward, with graceful wings rising from the hilt.

A distant church bell chimed ten o'clock as the five Oompa-Loompas cautiously made their way down the first street of the unknown city; this "suburb" in fact appeared to be a smaller town that had gotten absorbed by the larger metropolitan area as it had expanded. The Captain had never spent much time on Earth and even less in England…he had no idea as to what city this might be, and he found himself wishing that he had stopped to check one of the mileage signs along the highway. The Captain began sticking near walls and other potential cover points, his senses on edge. It was too quiet, silent save for the occasional distant sound of an engine. The occasional human pedestrian was walking here or there, but these few visible persons seemed ill at ease; no one seemed to want to be in the open any longer than necessary. The walkers moved rapidly, gazes fixed on the ground as they moved quickly from one door or alleyway to the next. One man suddenly came out of a door immediately to the right of the five Oompa-Loompas, swearing in surprise as he suddenly came face-to-face with the group of tiny people…RP-18 offered a "Good morning, sir," but the man only swallowed nervously and rapidly headed the other direction down the block.

"What are we looking for, sir?" IP-77 asked quietly but tensely, his hand on the grip of his blaster…the Captain looked over at him, and he could only shake his head.

"I don't know…not even knowing where we are…" he let the sentence trail off. The small group kept moving further into the city, the buildings here masonry affairs averaging five or six stories. Clearly, business was not good in this particular business district; most of the ground-floor establishments were boarded up, the office spaces above deserted or converted into shabby apartments. Only the presence of hanging laundry and the odd knick-knack in a window showed that this area was inhabited, however sparsely. The only constant presence was that of the same insignia: the winged sword. Posters and banners were pasted to almost every wall of sufficient size, many of them faded or marred by graffiti, but they all showed the same icon, painted in red against a black or white background. And a new sound was gradually pushing its way through the quiet, distant but growing louder: music. The Oompa-Loompas made their way to the end of another block, the music gradually swelling on all sides of them…and then they came to the source. Well, one of the sources, anyway. The street opened onto a square ahead, roads leading off in various directions…on the nearest street corner stood a device rather like a lamppost, only instead of a light it supported a wide television screen and a set of broadcast speakers. The screen was presently blank save for a background again showing the winged sword icon, and some sort of military march or anthem was humming out of the tinny speakers. Identical devices were dotted around the square and further down the adjacent streets, the combined effect of their synchronized speakers amplifying the quiet music into a mechanical choir.

"It's like a George Orwell novel," IP-101 muttered as the small group stopped to consider the public broadcast device. The Captain tried to place the music that was being played, but he could not. Whatever it was, he could not shake his growing suspicion that the government here was sure to be an unpleasant one. A car entered the square from the far side, and the Captain suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to keep moving.

"Come on, boys," he said, and promptly began crossing to the right side of the square. Just as the group moved away from the television screen, however, something happened that stopped RA-48…who was at the rear of the group. The anthem ended on a dramatic crescendo, and the screen suddenly changed to show a seated man…he was tall and very gaunt, thinning black hair slicked back over his head. His clothing was dark, somewhere between business suit and military uniform, and his piercing eyes stared out with frightening intensity from behind a pair of plain, dark-rimmed spectacles. Nothing was visible behind him except darkness, lights placed so that he alone was illuminated and seemed to melt out of the dark; it was an impressive effect, and more than a little ominous. The man spoke, his powerful demeanor somewhat diminished by a high, nasal voice. "My fellow citizens," he began, "it gives me the utmost pleasure to announce that…as of this morning…the most dangerous man in the world is at last within the custody of your government. All of us may at last breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that…." But RA-48 quickly lost his concentration on the man's words. What held his attention was the caption at the bottom of the screen: MINISTER TEAVEE CONFIRMS CAPTURE OF PUBLIC ENEMY NO. 1.

Minister Teavee…RA-48 could only stare. Like every clone, he had been taught the history of the Wonka Company during his conditioning. And he had only ever heard of one individual with the last name Teavee…Was it possible? Mike Teavee…American…One of the five children who participated in the tour of Willy Wonka's factory…involved in an incident in the Television Chocolate Room…

"48, stay together!" came the sharp voice of IP-77, breaking him out of his reverie. 48 started to point to the screen, but the pilot had already turned his back and was heading after the others across the square. Unable to do anything else, 48 hurried after him. The crew was headed diagonally across the square, passing by yet another iteration of the mysterious government insignia…in the center of the square, the winged sword was displayed yet again. Obviously, another statue had been removed at some point in the past to make room for the single, monolithic piece of weather-beaten steel that now stood in its place…the blade of the sword was twenty feet high, the span of the upswept wings equal if not larger. Just past the statue, the Captain suddenly stopped, staring intently. As the car that had previously entered the square disappeared down a side street, something else entered. It was, unmistakably, another Oompa-Loompa, dressed in some manner of civilian clothing. He rapidly crossed the far side of the square and turned down another street, his movements quick and furtive. The Captain called out "Excuse me, sir!" in a loud voice, but the other gave no indication of having heard; now the Captain changed direction and quickly followed.

"Where are we going?" IP-101 asked pointedly.

The Captain glanced back over his shoulder. "Even in our own time and place, it's odd for one of us to be walking around out in public…but that man earlier didn't seem overly surprised to see us. If Oompa-Loompas are part of the regular citizenry, then we might be able to find someone willing to help us; if nothing else, he might give us some information." The crew of Deepstar Five rapidly followed the other down a series of streets and through an alley; despite another attempt at gaining his attention, he was either very intent on his purpose or was deliberately ignoring them. Finally, he turned sharply into a gateway just ahead, entering an enclosed courtyard surrounded by several apartment blocks. A door opened and he entered quickly, taking a single glance back at those following him. "Well, he knows we're here," the Captain said, carefully observing the door that the other had left open behind him. "It looks like he wants us to follow."

"Or he's leading us into a trap," IP-77 growled.

"Possible," the Captain said slowly. He drew his blaster and handed it to IP-101. "Stay here and watch our backs," he said, indicating the arched gateway. "Just in case anyone tries to get behind us."

"Sir." 101 accepted the weapon and took up a concealed position in the gate.

"Everyone else with me," the Captain said. "You've got point, 77." The other pilot nodded and led the way across the courtyard, his eyes sweeping the windows of the surrounding buildings. He moved through the doorway first, drawing his weapon. 77 carefully checked left, then right…stairs creaked above, and the pilot gestured for the others to follow as he crossed a corridor and started up the staircase directly ahead, gun held at his side. The Captain and the others followed, giving 77 sufficient room to lead…they moved up several flights of stairs to the third floor, where another door lay open across the landing. 77 moved through, passed several rooms, and then turned a corner into one of the apartments. Not wanting to lose visual contact, the Captain hurried ahead, 48 and the Doctor close behind. The three Oompa-Loompas moved quickly into the apartment behind 77…only 77 was not there. The door to the apartment slammed shut, another door exploding open to the right. RA-48 shouted from behind the Captain and the officer started to turn…only something cold and hard pressed against the side of his head. He froze instantly. Moving only his eyes, he looked over to see another Oompa-Loompa holding the shotgun that was presently resting against his temple, the other's face split in a broad grin. "Welcome to our humble home, bro." The weapon spun around, the stock crashing into the Captain's solar plexus; bent over double and struggling just to breathe, he was unable to resist as he and the others were seized and roughly shoved forward through several rooms, down a corridor, and into the living room of another apartment.

77 was already in here, his blaster taken from him and now lying on the corner of a large desk which dominated the far side of the room…the space had been transformed into a sort of office, bare save for the desk and some cheap, Oompa-Loompa-sized folding furniture. The desk had been extensively modified, lowered for easier use by its owner; all of the figures in the room were Oompa-Loompas, seven armed men against the Captain and his three crew members. In disconnected fashion, the Captain could not help but notice the strangeness of his opponents, having been accustomed to nothing but the uniformity of clones his entire life. The hostiles were all male, but that was the only similarity; their heights, builds, facial hair, clothing, and hairstyles varied wildly. The Oompa-Loompa they had followed stood off to one side of the desk and pointed, speaking in the strangest accent the Captain had ever heard…the closest comparison that SC-80 could think of was Jamaican, but even that was not nearly right.

"Dese de ones followed me, boss."

The Oompa-Loompa seated behind the desk sat forward and took a long, hard look at the intruders…just as the crew of Deepstar Five took a long, hard look at him. He was like nothing they had ever seen; his cheap, dark suit made a striking contrast with the extensive braids and dreadlocks into which his hair was pulled. The seated Oompa-Loompa drew a gold-plated pistol and sat back in his chair, idly resting the gun on the desktop…for the first time, the Captain noticed the small heap of white powder piled on a tiny glass plate beside 77's blaster. When the Oompa-Loompa spoke, his accent was even stronger than that of his associate. "Well, well, what we got heah, eh?" he asked, smiling as he gazed calmly at his prisoners. "You boys look like some kind of guv'ment to me. That what you are, eh? Workin' 'gainst yo' fellow Oompa-Loompas…tinkin' de big bosses gon' reward you for rattin' out yo' kin?"

The Captain cleared his throat. "Sir, we mean you no harm. We…"

"You gon' speak when I tell you to!" the other said, his gold-plated sidearm whipping up to aim directly at the Captain's forehead. SC-80 did not flinch. The other grinned. "Well, he's a brave bastahd, I give 'im dat much. Wot you tink?" he turned to his associate.

"I nevah seen uniforms like dem deah, boss. Maybe dey some kind o' Resistance."

The other snorted. "Rebels don' wear de colors in broa' daylight, mon! Not if they wanna live, anyway. No, dey somethin' else. Maybe our ol' friends downtown tryin' to butt in on our oprashuns again."

"Sir," SC-80 tried again. "We are travelers. We came here hoping to find help. If we were here to harm you, why would only one of us be armed? We have no reason to interfere in your business dealings…truthfully, we don't even know what it is you do."

The other's eyes narrowed, and he reached over to pick up the small glass plate with its heap of white powder. He placed it front and center on the desk. "You mean to tell me you don' know nuttin' 'bout dis heah, uh? You don' know what dis is?"

"Powdered sugar?" The terrified RA-48 blurted. Instantly, all of the armed Oompa-Loompas burst into raucous laughter.

The man behind the desk gestured with his golden gun, which the Captain now recognized as a Loompa-scale Colt 1911. "Taste it, mon." RA-48 reached a trembling hand forward and gently touched his finger to the top of the pile; pulling it back to his mouth, he grimaced.

"It's stale or something!" he said, drawing renewed howls from the captors.

RP-18 squinted at the Loompa behind the desk. "Sir, if you've just introduced my associate to a toxic substance, I assure you the consequences will be grave."

The other ignored him, staring around at the prisoners. "You really don' know what dis is, do you?!" His voice had gone up an octave in disbelief. He looked at RA-48. "You really tink dis heah is powder shugah?"

"What is it then?" RA-48 said helplessly.

"Dis heah ain' no powdered shugah, mon. Dis heah is de cocaine…de good shit, straigh' from Loompaland. Whole country is one big coca field dese days."

"You're using our homeland to grow drugs?" IP-77's shock and anger were evident in his voice.

"Mon, what de hell else you wan' do wit it, eh?" The drug dealer laughed. "Once de Big Empire done burn down all de forests and take away all de people as slaves, deah ain' nuttin' left!"

RP-18 spoke then, his tone genuinely horrified. "Did you say Oompa-Loompas are being taken as slaves?!"

The drug dealer slumped back in his chair, his look of amusement now turning to one of plain disbelief. He and several of his associates conversed rapidly, this time in atrociously-accented Loompanese; even thought he was fluent, the Captain could distinguish nothing of what they said. Finally, they switched back to English.

"You right, boss. Dey craz' or somethin'."

The expression on the drug dealer's face was no longer remotely amused.

"I don' know what de hell dese fellahs tink de doin'…but I don' cahe. Dey' bringin' guns into my place o' bis'ness, and dot's all I need to know." The drug dealer gestured. "I don' wan' dem talkin'."

The Loompa beside the desk turned to look at his boss again. "Crowley and dem know we heah already."

The dealer snorted. "And if dese fools go talkin' and word done spread, den de big bosses gonna put pressure on Crowley to shut us down. You tink he gonna have a second thought, eh?" He gestured with his golden gun. "Now take dese bastahds down to de rivah and put dem out o' my mis'ry."

There was only one way to interpret what the dealer said, and instantly members of the gang moved in on the five crewmen. "Please, sir!" the Captain said, "You don't understand!" But it was too late. Several members of the gang stepped in and grabbed for the prisoners. The Captain lunged forward, thinking to seize the blaster pistol from the drug dealer's desk…guns were coming up on all sides of him…but then something else happened, something which none of the figures in the room expected. A voice crackled through a walkie-talkie sitting on the dealer's desk, the single word "Boss!" followed by a crackle of static and the sounds of a loud struggle in the hallway outside the apartment. Several of the gang members started to turn, alarmed at this new noise…the dealer was bringing his gun to bear on the Captain's head when the door exploded off its hinges.

Something black and round hurtled into the room and rolled to a stop in the middle of the assembled criminals; the entire Wonka contingent knew what it must be, and so threw themselves to the floor with eyes closed and hands clenched tight over ears. The drug dealer fired, missing the Captain, who likewise threw himself to the rough wooden floor…there was a tremendous report, a blinding flash, and figures collapsed in pain and disorientation. The Captain turned his head to see an enormous figure shouldering its way through the door, its features completely obscured by a gas mask and heavy riot armor which bore the word "POLICE" across the front in thick block letters. More armored men were coming close behind, their own shotguns looking like howitzers beside the weapons of the Oompa-Loompa criminals. One of the henchmen fired a shot and the lead policeman answered it, his shotgun blasting the Oompa-Loompa to bloody pieces. The rest of the gang threw down their weapons and dropped to their knees, hands on their heads.

The Captain and his crew sat up but did not bother to rise from the floor, RA-48 staring in horror at the splattered form of the hapless criminal. The only one not on his knees was the drug dealer himself, who still stood atop his desk, his weapon not quite pointed in the direction of the officers. "DROP IT!" one of the policemen snarled, shotgun trained on the drug dealer's defiant face. At that moment, however, a new man entered the room; he was dressed in full combat gear but lacked a gas mask, revealing a pale, clean-shaven face. Instantly, the dealer's hard expression split into an oily grin; he lowered the gold-plated Colt and allowed it to drop onto the desk, holding his arms out in a gesture that suggested he was about to embrace the newcomer.

"Crowley, my mon! How you doin'? I hope you ain' heah for yo' money, 'cause I don' have none. I have it fo' you next week, like alway'."

"Awolowa Mugabe," the newcomer said, obviously the officer in charge, "you are under arrest for distribution of illicit substances." He turned, pale blue eyes imperiously regarding the Oompa-Loompas cowering on the floor before him.

The dealer stared at him, still smiling. "Crowley, you know I hate jokes. What de hell is dis?"

The other's voice remained cold. "The daughter of a prominent Party member nearly died after overdosing on your product. This is the end of your business, I'm afraid. Take him."

The drug dealer's expression contorted with anger. "We had a deal, mon! It ain' my fault if some rich bitch don' know how to cut her portions right! You can' do dis to me!" He snatched his arm away as the first of the policemen tried to grab him, his eyes shooting furiously to the pistol now lying out of reach beside his feet. "You son of a bitch!" he snarled as he was seized, two officers forced to physically pick him up and carry him from the room. He continued shouting as he was taken outside and carried down the stairs. "Crowley, we can make a new deal, eh! YOU THROWIN' AWAY A LOT O' MONEY, MON! DON' BE A FOOL!" At a gesture from Crowley, the rest of the dealer's gang was herded from the room, the remaining criminals obediently following their restrained leader. This left only the crew of Deepstar Five, all of whom uncertainly rose to their feet. The man beside Crowley removed his gas mask, sharing his commander's interested stare.

"What the hell are they?"

Crowley shook his head. "Those uniforms don't look like anything I've seen before. Camps must have changed things up again."

"Think they escaped?"

Crowley glanced over at him. "Where the hell else would they have come from? Rebels don't walk around in uniform. If I had to guess…"

Another man suddenly appeared at Crowley's shoulder, pulling off his gas mask as he held out a field radio. "Sir, alert from Central."

Crowley took the radio and listened intently for perhaps fifteen seconds. He said "Yes, sir" once and then handed the radio back to his subordinate, staring at the Deepstar crew with frank curiosity.

"Can I ask what that was about?" the officer at Crowley's side asked.

"Persons of interest," Crowley replied. "Oompa-Loompas, no less." Ice fell into SC-80's stomach. Oh, well…too late to run now.

"Them?"

"Possible."

"They can't be Resistance, at least not all of them," the other said. He pointed to RA-48 and RP-18. "Those two are obviously civilians."

"I don't think we're looking for Resistance, to be honest." Crowley's eyes narrowed as he addressed the Oompa-Loompas for the first time. "You. Which one of you is in charge?"

SC-80 stepped forward calmly, fighting off a brief instant of apprehension. There was little point in deception; if interrogated, even his basic speech and mannerisms would quickly reveal him as the leader. Ignoring a pointed glance from IP-77, he spoke. "I am. SC-80, rank Captain." He expected Crowley to ask further questions, but there was only one. The officer gestured, and IP-101 was shoved roughly into the room.

"One of yours?"

"Yes." SC-80 said calmly. He glanced over at 101, who looked back at him miserably.

"I'm sorry, sir. There were too many of them. I never had a chance."

"Not your fault, 101."

"He was carrying this, sir," one of the policemen said, handing 101's blaster to Crowley; the officer looked down at it with interest, testing the weight of the gun's polymer frame.

"Thank you." Crowley looked over at the man beside him, apparently his second-in-command. "Change of plan. Take the officer and put him on a chopper to London, along with this." He handed the other man the blaster. "The rest of them will follow on the train. Let's move it out!" Crowley turned and marched from the room, the circle of black-armored police closing in menacingly…the crew of Deepstar Five tried to fight, but to no avail. The Oompa-Loompas were marched from the apartment and down the stairs, following the drug dealer and his gang. Just before they reached the door to the courtyard, there was sudden movement from the side, and the world disappeared as black bags came down over the prisoners' heads.

Though they were unable to see, there was no doubt as to what was happening. The five Oompa-Loompas first had their hands tied and were then marched into the street, stumbling off the curb in the process, and hoisted roughly into the back of a truck. They drove for at least twenty minutes, the hard wooden benches and stiff suspension making the ride extremely uncomfortable…finally, sounds of other traffic began to filter in from outside and the truck slowed before stopping entirely. The tailgate dropped and a voice said, "That one there;" it might have been Crowley, but it was difficult to tell. The Captain was hoisted to his feet and managed the words "Whatever happens…" before a rifle stock smashed into his gut and his sentence ended in a wheeze. Still blind and unable to use their hands, the other Oompa-Loompas could do nothing to help him; IP-77 swore in rage and started to rise, only to be brutally thrown back against the side of the truck. While he continued to curse, it was already too late. The Captain was thrown unceremoniously into the arms of the waiting guards; the tailgate closed again, and the truck started to move, taking the remaining four prisoners away without their leader.