Slipping Between Worlds 10
The Hive site, Ankh-Morpork.
The ad-hoc "multi-disciplinary force" gathered around its nominated leaders, the Watch sergeant Angua von Überwald, and the Assassin Johanna-Smith Rhodes.
Pairing Angua and Johanna as leaders had been a good choice on the part of Commander Vimes. Angua was the de-facto third in command of the City Watch and used to high-level leadership assignments. Johanna was the only Assassin ever to have made it as a Watch special constable: she had once saved Vimes' life(1), against the usual run of his experience with Assassins, who had hitherto attempted to achieve the opposite. He had rewarded her with Watch membership, on the grounds that her particular talents would be occasionally useful; and also because he wanted to keep the only one of the buggers who had demonstrated she could come anywhere near inhuming him exactly where he could see her.
Johanna and Angua had been tasked with leopard-hunting together(2) and had built up a rapport and mutual understanding that made them obvious beat partners for those special animal-handling cases.
They looked over their operating team for the mission.
Watch constable Precious Jolson, brought along because of her physical strength, her ability to port heavy equipment, and because of her own unique animal-handling expertise - six foot six and over two hundred pounds of muscle and sinew and bone, in her spare time she bred exotic cage-birds with infinite gentleness and delicacy. Johanna had been trying to poach her as keeper for the Zoo collection for quite some time, but had to be content with her for one day a week. It was thought that the more animal-orientated minds on this expedition, the better, as somebody might be able to intuit something about the nature of the creature they were dealing with.
Dwarf sergeant Cheery Littlebottom, the Watch's forensic alchemist, with her axe in both hands and the valuable SOCO alchemy pack at her back. She was accompanied by the Watch Igor, whose anatomical knowledge would come in useful, as well as his medical skills.
Constables Brakenspear and Littlehampton, both Dwarfs. were each in full Knockerman rig, like mobile leather and silk cones, as they were both carrying the deadly flame-projecting tool originally devised to tackle pockets of firedamp in deep mines. Exported to Ankh-Morpork, the technology's applications as a lethal weapon had placed it on the banned list, alongside gonnes and one-shottes – it had taken special dispensation from Vimes and Vetinari to allow two such devices to be carried on this mission. They also carried slung axes as their personal weapons, in case the technology failed.
The Guild of Assassins had provided three senior students, a year away from obtaining their Full Black, who Johanna had trained in setting and safely exploding explosives charges. She also had its best theoretical mind, the licenced Assassin Arthur Clevedon Clarke.(3)
Like Leonard of Quirm, Arthur was a walking Ground Zero for inspiration particles. His fertile mind made him both an asset and a danger to the Guild, as in his study of Agatean "barking dog" weaponry, he had miniaturised the huge unwieldy Agatean cannon into a smaller, more practical, form that could be aimed and fired with one hand. Lord Downey, prompted by Vetinari, had impounded the prototype hand-cannon and sent Clarke to the University as a liaison officer on the Roundworld project, where he could be out of harm's way. Clarke was otherwise an example of the sort of enthusiastic and energetic young man who had relished the challenge of qualifying as an Assassin, but who had never practiced the Art after graduating. Johanna privately thought he didn't have a single killing instinct in his body, and that the climactic act of Assassination was totally foreign to him, but she admired his mind and intellect.
Which led her to…
Professor Ponder Stibbons, toting a back-pack full of equipment, and a borrowed Assassin waist-belt with ample pouches so that he could get to certain items quickly and at need. She smiled at him, reassuringly: she had very good, very personal, reasons for wanting to keep him safe and out of danger. Ponder wasn't built or trained for conventional fighting, although she'd made it her business to pass on a few basic Assassin skills to make her man more worldly-wise.
Ponder was talking into what looked like a lady's compact mirror and make-up accessory. She knew it was a shaped and framed fragment of an omniscope, which was tuned into a master console at the University that had originally been part of the same magic mirror. Both HEX, the University's thinking machine, and a duty watcher at the High Energy Magic Building, would monitor the progress of the expedition and be on hand to offer advice. The control team also included Assassins and Commander Vimes of the Watch.
"Roger on that, Sunray." Ponder said. He waited for the reply, wondering exactly why HEX had chosen those code-words for the Mission Controller. The face of Mustrum Ridcully swung into sight.
"Hearin' you loud and clear, Alpha-Papa-Whiskey!" boomed Ridcully.
"You are meant to sign off with "roger", Arch-Chancellor!" an unseen voice prompted.
"I blasted well hope he's not!" Ridcully boomed. "The lad and that gel of his should have their minds firmly on the job, not on this rogerin'. … the way they go on, they behave as if they blasted well invented it…"
Johanna flushed red. There were muffled giggles. At the other end of the omniscope, there was a whispered and indistinct conversation.
"Oh, I see. Different sort of "roger". I'll never get the hang of this, Sam."
Vimes took control.
"Reading you loud and clear, Alpha-Papa-Whiskey. All set to go? Roger." Then Vimes went on: "Alpha is "A". For Assassins. Whiskey is "W". For Wizards. My Watchmen are Papa. That's "P" for "Police", as "W" is already taken. There's a logic to it, Mustrum."
"All systems clear and equipment checked. Ready to go in. If reception downstairs is a washout, I'll establish a relay station. Roger!" said Ponder, who had also flushed a guilty red.
"Roger and out, Alpha-Papa-Whiskey. Good luck!"
Johanna detailed the mission's third wizard to act as surface guard, look after an omniscope fragment with his very life, and be prepared to act as relay if necessary. She didn't like Doctor Bernard Goatly. Ponder had told her Goatly had only got his doctorate by effectively blackmailing his Head of Department(4), and she did not like his cocky manner one little bit. He seemed to think wearing the skull-ring of a necromancer made him a babe-magnet, and she had already slapped down one clumsy pass. ("When I'm dead. I'll let you know. And even then it's still going to be no, alright?")
Goatly had still been able to fire off one last piece of sexism, at Watch Constable Jolson.
"Hey, Precious, have you ever been mistaken for a man?"
She turned a narrowing eye to him, and replied
"No, Have you?"
Precious Jolson, a naturally shy and retiring girl, had toughened up on the streets and learnt to give as good as she got. Her comeback neatly silenced Goatly and provoked laughter.
Johanna then turned to the mission's third Wizard, who was standing in a miserable huddle, with a briefed Assassin Clarke standing behind him with a drawn sword. Clarke was abstractedly talking to him about how steel from Toledo was probably the best in the human world, matched only by Agatean sword craftsmanship.
"Lead the way, Professor Rincewind!" she commanded.
Rincewind would be as good a danger detector as a canary in a dwarf-mine. This made him indispensable. He appeared to be counting on his fingers, as if expecting something to be said or done.
"OK, people. Let's rock!"
Rincewind nodded, soberly, and stopped counting.
"That's exactly what I'm afraid of!"
The mixed assortment of adventurers then entered the subterranean, alien, world of the Hive. One by one, with the very reluctant Rincewind amiably jollied along by a block of Assassins just behind him, they descended the curious flowing-metal steps and vanished into the dark. Goatly nervously reached for his cigarettes, still stung by the put-down. It was going to be a long, lonely, wait…
Londonderry. Rossville Street. Evening.
There had only been a handful of minor incidents on the patrol. Holtack wondered if the sheer weight of Army on the streets was acting as a deterrent to any serious activity. Groups of girls, and lads emboldened by the girls, waiting for buses into the City so serious drinking could begin, had fired the usual sorts of abuse at the Toms, who had replied in kind as only irritated Welshmen can.
One of the more incautious ones had refused to move out of the way for Fusilier Powell, playing a kind of "chicken" with him on the pavement. In the end, virtually nose-to-nose with the yobbo, Powell had grabbed him by the scruff.
"Let's make this clear, boyo" Powell had said, lifting and shaking him one-handed. "On those here streets, you makes way for me. You do not (shake) try to walk through me. (shake) You walks around me. (shake) Am I making myself understood yere?" (throws yob bodily into gutter).
Holtack nodded, appreciatively. While the yobs got the message and shrank back into the walls as the section passed, the first badly-thrown stone landed behind them as they put space between the army and the locals.
He had resolved this by calling forward Forty-Seven Williams and Own-Goal Owens, who had the riot round dischargers rather than SLR's.
Faced with retaliation by plastic bullet, the yobbery quickly melted away.
And a little further on, they'd seen…
… the old black-clad bag-lady with the shopping trolley.
"Williams, Powell, try to detain her!" Holtack had called to the nearest Toms. "But be gentle and don't let her lead you into any dark corners!"
The two Fusilers had chased her to St Columb's Well, a notorious side-street, narrow and with two wicked right-angled bends. Patrols had been bounced in there before. Things had been dropped from overhead.
Williams came back, shaking his head. Powell not far behind.
"She's vanished".
"Pity. I was hoping she might solve the mystery that kept us up all night. Ah well, there'll be another chance!"
They followed a distant rumbling noise up towards Rossville. There had been very little traffic on the street. And the locals had been silent and largely absent. Holtack put the two together.
He wasn't surprised to see hastily parked police and Army vehicles, and a cordon of soldiers strung out blocking the road. Riot barriers were being hastily erected. Holtack's patrol moved into the relative safety of the enclave delineated by the vehicles and two lots of riot barriers, some four hundred yards apart.
Major Wynne Parry-Jones, the second in command, was holding an impromptu O-group in the shelter offered between two armoured vehicles. Holtack went to report in, deploying his patrol to help cover the southern barrier.
"Ah, Philip!" he said, happily. "Remember Intelligence reported there'd be an attempt to plant a car-bomb tonight to spoil Doctor Paisely's day out in the sun tomorrow? Well, I think we've found it. Or at least a candidate. We're just making safe and waiting for friends from the Ordnance Corps to join the party."
"It looks as if the Provos have already put the word out to evacuate the area and go and see their old granny, or go to confession, or something." said Tim Endion-Williams, thoughtfully. We tried to knock on doors and advise the locals to evacuate, but it seems we've been beaten to it. Apparently "community representatives" got there first!"
"Which is why we're taking it extremely seriously!." the Major added. "Well, we've cleared and secured the area, there's a bit of fuss higher up from some hotheads who aren't happy we're not allowing them to return to their homes as yet, and your Toms are watching the southern approach, good. Can't do a damn thing now until the licenced lunatics from Bomb Disposal get here."
"Isn't it a bit of an own goal for them, sir? I mean, blowing their own streets up?"
The major laughed, mirthlessly. "Philip, for somebody with an admirably skewed mind, you can be surprisingly innocent! Look around you. Remember part of the back history of this whole sorry mess is that the Catholics were complaining, back in sixty-nine, that they were discriminated against for housing and the Prots were porking the best for themselves. Looking at these poky little slums, it's not hard to agree they might have a valid grievance Yes? I bet not much has been done to these since they were built by way of improvements and upgrades. Prot-dominated city council, need I say more? They've evacuated, so nobody on their side gets hurt. Blow a block up, and with the eyes of the world upon them, the Unionist-dominated Londonderry City Council has to bite the bullet, and rebuild their council houses. And to an acceptable standard. London insists on that."
The Major nodded, sagely. "A bit extreme, I suppose, but if your local council can't or more likely won't upgrade its council stock on this side of the river, then…" he shrugged.
"And it also puts a crimp in the Prot parade route for tomorrow if the street they want to march on is blocked by rubble. From PIRA's point of view, a win-win situation. Now where's that blasted bomb disposal crew?"
He turned to pep up his radio operator, who was in the relative safety of a Landrover.
"No, no, that simply won't do, Pritchard! What have you all been taught about using Welsh en clair? It was a nice idea in 1940, and I concede the Yanks learnt it from us when they trained Apache Indians or whatever damn tribe to be their radio operators, but it's become a smaller world since. People have got wise to it! I mean, the local university teaches Welsh, for one thing, and look at the number of copies of "Teach yourself Welsh" our house-searches persist in turning up! By rights, there should be more Welsh-speakers in this city than in Anglesey and Caernarfon put together! Pritchard, do use the standard codes, as taught? Thank you so much!"
Holtack grinned. It was true. The Regiment had foxed the Germans, the Italians and later the Japanese by using Welsh-speaking radio operators. And the first American observers had thought creatively about the principle involved, by recommending Navaho Indians be trained as signallers for the American Army. But it had come to an abrupt halt in 1943 when it had been belatedly realised, after a couple of operational setbacks, that a major Berlin university taught Celtic Studies(5) and the Wehrmacht had Welsh-speakers available to it. As well as a fear that some disaffected Welsh Nats, like their Irish counterparts, had thrown their lot in with Germany. It had still been used by the Regiment's signallers in the Far East, as the chances of there being Welsh-speaking Japanese was held to be vanishingly small.
And the University of Ulster at Coleraine, just up the coast, had its Department of Celtic Languages…
With seeming innocence, the Colonel had proposed to the local Sinn Fein councillors that as so many people we meet, in admittedly less-than-ideal circumstances, seemed keen on learning Welsh, we'd be happy for volunteer soldiers to lead lessons. Call it an exercise in giving something back to the community, perhaps? We're pleased so many of you appear to be making the effort! The offer had been politely and diplomatically refused.
There was a commotion higher up the street. A landrover was making its way into the enclave, waiting patiently as Fusiliers pushed back the crowd of locals, allowing it to enter. It motored past the suspect vehicle with barely a glance – Holtack admired the driver for his nerve – and parked up close to the other vehicles. A large, confident-looking, officer in his forties bounded out of the cab and rushed to make himself known.
Holtack thought there was something odd about the officer; his beret did not have a recognisable cap badge on it, and the rank badges on his epaulettes were…
"Who's in charge here, laddie?" the newcomer asked him. Holtack glanced down at the rank badges again. White and silver bands, one looped, on a dark blue background… Of course. Royal Navy.
"Follow me, sir. Er… Lieutenant –Commander?" I hope I got that right. I haven't done Navy ranks since that test at Sandhurst.
The sailor laughed, appreciatively.
"So you pongoes do get taught about things that matter!"
"Good Lord" said the Major, "Is the Army running out of bomb disposal officers?"
"Hardly that, Major" said the sailor. "We pointed out that the Royal Navy and the Air Force also have bomb disposal officers, and it made operational sense for us to be posted out here to take some of the burden off our Army colleagues' shoulders. Also good for rounding out our training."
"You volunteered for a tour of duty? Good Lord!"
"There is a precedent, Major.. We lend you the Royal Marines to do their share of tours out here, and you also get the RAF Regiment, when they can spare time from all the ceremonial drill they do. And I did a tour in the Falklands after the war, making safe those minefields the Argies planted everywhere but somehow forgot to map."
Christ. I forgot about the Falklands when I was wondering where we'd be posted next. And it'll be midwinter down there.
"Anyway. We'll get the robot out of the back, and set up to check this suspect of yours."
The cheerful sailor looked down the street towards the suspect van, two hundred yards away. Holtack saw it was posted outside a bookies. And a very familiar looking Post Office. His heart sank. He'd been here before, in a bad dream. And there was also…
"Could this bright spark of yours, who knows his Navy ranks, do something about that old lady?"
But Holtack was already running, to intercept the old woman with the shopping trolley, pulling down the visor on his riot helmet for all the illusory safety it gave him, like the other talismans he carried. She had appeared in the street, crossing, pushing her trolley, perilously near to the suspect bomb…
Just do the job that's in front of you…
Something went spang! on the tarmac and skeetered screaming off to his right. A crack followed from over to his left.
And now a sniper. Lovely!
Anger and fear fuelled him as he zig-zagged to the old lady, who appeared taken by surprise. He grabbed her arm, trying not to gag at the unwashed old-lady smell.
I probably smell as bad to her…
To his surprise, she resisted.
"Not without Guilty!" she cried. Holtack reflected. Maybe there was enough metal in that trolley to at least deflect a bullet.. he dashed around, putting the trolley between him and the direction of the shot, and ducked low, pushing it for dear life, practically dragging the old lady by the arm. . Blood pounding in his ears, he heard distant shouts, then shots.
Upstairs right-hand window, house painted pale green! See it? Muzzle flash!
Another bullet impacted and danced past Holtack. Although he knew the returned fire was putting off the sniper, who if he had any sense should have been over the roofs and far away by now, he wondered how long his luck was going to last. He saw Powell and Hughes racing up to hem, with Hughes adding his weight to ther trolley and Powell grabbing the old lady, Hughes assisting in pushing the trolley out of the line of fire. Sergeant Williams was there, loudly indicating which way to run. And Fusilier Riujterman was calmly, steadily, matching the invisible sniper round for round.
Cor, sir, she does not half stink!
And then the sound of a bullet, ripping through the air with a noise like tearing paper. They said if a round was so close you could hear it, you were too close. And the other thing about a round passing so close…A high-velocity bullet heats the air as it passes. It creates a localised channel at around 3.000ºC around itself. Although this quickly cools and extend no further than a couple of inches out from the round, it could still lacerate flesh if it passes closely enough.
And on top of that, a screaming maniac polecat or something, maybe a ferret or a weasel or a wolverine, chose now to leap out of the unspeakable depths and attempt to claw a hole in his face… it was prevented by the clear Perspex of the riot helmet visor, which had partially melted on one side as it warded off the near-miss. Sergeant Williams was suddenly in there, dragging the animal off as the woman screamed incoherently and tried to reach her trolley.
And nearby, a cheap digital clock ticked away the last few seconds. As it reached 0000, a relay tripped and a switch activated to close a circuit.
Mrs Tachyon lunged forwards and slapped one of the black bin-bags in the trolley. There was a whoosh as of escaping air…
And an electrical impulse passed into the detonator. Setting off a mathematically precise sequence of events.
And to an accompaniment of mind-buggering noise, Mrs Tachyon, Guilty the cat, her shopping trolley, and an officer and five men of the British Army, all ceased to exist on a Northern Irish street.
It was said afterwards that six hundred pounds of explosive had probably been overkill. But as it was, not a trace of Lieutenant Holtack, P, Sergeant Williams, D, or Fusiliers Ruijterman, H, Hughes, P, 47 Williams, E, and Powell, J.J., was ever found in the rubble. Nor the mystery woman Holtack had selflessly tried to save, for which he'd been awarded a posthumous medal.
(1) See my story Nature Srudies
(2) See my story Whys and Weres
(3) Arthur C. Clarke makes his debut in my story …but not forgotten.
(4) Refer to Terry Pratchett's Making Money.
(5) "the dawn languages of the pure Aryan peoples on the fringes of Europe…"