Noon, November 11, 1918
Parkash and ffoulkes came through together, carrying an injured man on a stretcher. They handed him off to the nurses and ran back through the portal. They returned with a second stretcher. The medical group moved quickly towards the Aid Room.
"Gorman's coming, he said he'd hold back for a minute, didn't want to get in the way of the medical workers," Parkash called to Alan. "Here he comes."
But what came was a rush of demons. They charged into the War Room, met Security head-on, and the battle began. As the last of them entered, so did the false Gorman, looking satisfied – very briefly, before being caught from behind by Senior Johns.
Senior Johns jabbed him with a needle he'd gotten from the head nurse. The false Gorman emitted an outraged squawk and slipped bonelessly to the floor. Johns rolled him to the wall and got down to the business of the day.
All around them the demons yowled and screeched. Scythes and switchblades blessed with Angelfire swung and stabbed. Alan shut down the portal on a second wave of demons and ran to open the War Room doors onto the boobytrapped Operations area. He turned, surged into battle mode and flew back to help the other shark-toothed, glowing skeletons push the demons out into the battlefield prepared for them. Claws and teeth ripped and snapped, but they had not expected their foes to be ready for them. They were surrounded in a long and narrow room with only one way out, and the survivors took that chance. It led them into another long narrow room, half as wide as expected, with an obstacle course and barriers of upended furniture, where an army of battle-ready Reapers awaited them behind a wall of riot shields.
The demons screeched a challenge. The Reapers roared in reply. Battle was joined. Hellfire and Angelfire clashed. The Reapers knew their battlefield and had drilled on it. The demons were tripped and trapped by the obstacles and barricades, forced up against a metal wall that burned. There was a spray of some chemical that choked, sickened and blinded them. The Reapers' riot shields were quickly covered with it, and thus became weapons as well as protection.
Once the War Room had been cleared and its door slammed on the battle outside, Johns walked back to the closed portal to examine his sleeping prisoner. "Now I wonder who you are, fellow. You're none of mine, and I think none of London's, and none of Amritsar's either. I shall have words with Amritsar's Scythes department. They should have spotted you the minute you helped yourself to Gorham's equipment, you little weasel. You're making me miss a fine chance to test today's scythe."
Johns frisked the man, disarmed him, banished his weapons, tied his arms behind him, and heaved him over a shoulder. "Bradshaw? Open the closet!" The stranger went into the closet, a bucket over his head, the mop handle thrust between his bound arms and jammed hard against the walls.
Bradshaw locked the door. "If that was one of Medical's knockout shots, he'll probably sleep for several hours." Increased exposure to Wójcik kicked in. With immense dignity he continued, "If you would care to partake of the amusements currently available out in the main area, sir, I am quite willing to watch this door in case he is resistant to that particular sedative."
"My sincere thanks, Mister Bradshaw, that would indeed be most welcome. I shall return as soon as the festivities are over." Johns left, swinging his scythe happily. Bradshaw thought it looked something like a pitchfork. Experimental, perhaps? Definitely a new toy. Well, as long as he was here, he really should set out some tea and biscuits for the Maintenance cleanup crew. The War Room was going to be a job and a half for them, and Operations would be two more.
In the main room, the demons were being pushed toward the portal at the back. It offered escape, but to an unknown destination, and they had heard rumors of what the London Lab thought was an appropriate destination.
But approaching them were the London Reapers. The Great Scot was there, and Knox the Knife, and William T-For-Terrible Spears, shouting in rage. Where they were, the Red Reaper of London was seldom far behind. The Planning Reaper was fighting next to the Scot, and a great reward was set on him; but he was as dangerous in his way as his partner, and fighting among an advancing wall of known veterans with riot shields. The Learning Reaper was there as well, carrying a backpack from which he sprayed some unidentified fluid which burned them as Gorrezt had burned. They fled howling through a maze of desks and ladders in a room which had soaked up scythe contamination for centuries. They could dare the portal or die in this room. Most chose the portal. A group broke into Spears' office and were trapped and killed there by Spears himself with Slingby at his side.
Finally the last demon was slain. The portal flickered. An angel came through, an officer by his uniform. "Thanks. That all of them?"
Spears, his hair mussed and his collar yanked askew, looked up and down the room full of wreckage and demonic bodies. "We believe so, sir. Please check on the Branch at Lahore, where these demons came from. Do you detect any survivors here?"
The angel went through the portal. They heard him call out, "Squad One; detection duty. Come in and do a thorough sweep. Squad two, start cleaning up the field. Everybody else, go to the Reaper Branch at Lahore and see if their Garrison needs any help there. Return here when done and help with cleanup." He came back with some grim veterans and began a slow walk through the ruins of Operations. The soldiers poked into every crack and cranny that might hide the smallest imp. The Reapers dragged demonic carcasses, tended their wounded and watched.
Alan gave his handkerchief to Dutch, who used it to bind up Sam's knuckles since his own was on Brewster's arm. Brewster's was around Forbes' head, and so on around the room. Mostly minor injuries.
"Where does that portal lead?" asked Sam.
"It's a training field for angelic troops, in the Human Realm somewhere. It sets off a 'free fun' alarm when activated. They class it as a surprise drill."
"Even if it's only used once in a millennium?"
"Time is different for true immortals. Once a millennium is just a seasonal treat for them." Alan lowered his voice to a whisper. "Now if you look very carefully, over by that angel – see that? Will is smiling."
"Really? That's a smile? Yes, by my Blade, it is. Dutch, look!"
"Shh! he'll hear you and assign you to the River Fleet collections for months. But yes, I saw it. An omen of something momentous, without doubt. Okay. Liz is okay, so's Marisa, there's Dorrie talking to Brock. They're opening up the doors to the Reaper offices. The shield wall will have to stay closed until the mess around it is cleared. Should we go check on Avram?"
"Avram's back in First Aid. He's fine. One of our Personnel crew took a hit and is waiting his turn to be seen. Ah, Senior Johns. Did you enjoy yourself?"
"Immensely, Senior Humphries. Never let it be said that Collections can't throw a good party. But I must tender my apologies, sir. It is dreadfully impolite of me to beat and run, but I need to trace our Junior Gorman. He never appeared on our List, so he may already have regained consciousness and found someone to port him to safety."
"Would you like to use my phone to check with your Division? I'll unlock my office for you."
"Yes, please, and then I shall take our prisoner out of the broom closet, if that is convenient. Supplies will hold him and arrange questioning."
Gorman was back in Scythes, healing and shame-faced about being ambushed. "Sorry, sir, careless of me. I was not expecting an attack from one of our own. We're pretty unpopular in that area. Human politics are bleeding into their Reapers. Demons are probably behind that. We found Mountjoy and Kendall hiding from the local Branch as much as from the demons, after they'd been refused treatment by the infirmary's triage team. I think they just reported Kendall dead and Mountjoy as seen-and-released. We had to go all the way over to Lahore to get help and a long-distance portal back. Couldn't have done it without Parkash Singh. He deserves a medal the size of a soup plate. Glad they're safely home. Sir, should someone really important mention to Uriel that this internal hostility is counterproductive?"
"Some investigation is indicated. I think we will start with the man who attacked you. Submit a full report as soon as you are sufficiently recovered. In return, you shall attend his questioning. Since an Angel will be present, we can submit our request for Uriel's attention to him. Now go home and rest. We'll see how you feel tomorrow."
Johns let himself out of Humphries' office – that window facing a brick wall was unsettling; painted shut, too; who had Humphries angered, to be confined in this airless cell? – and went in search of Bradshaw's keys and coffeepot. He found both at the center of a group of weary Reapers. Bradshaw poured him an excellent brew. Johns drank it down and asked for the prisoner.
Bradshaw excused himself, handed the pot off to another, and accompanied Johns to the broom closet. Several people followed out of curiosity. Bradshaw popped the door open.
The bucket was removed. The prisoner was untangled from the mop and laid out on the floor snoring.
"Well, well," said Dutch. "It's Fritzi. The lounge lizard who hangs out in bars asking questions about London."
"You know him?" asked Senior Richards, a dainty teacup in the hand that was not holding a truly majestic scythe of ancient design.
"Slightly, Ma'am," said Sam. "Fritz Sauer, late of Düsseldorf. Dismissed when cursed with Thorns. Came to London Hospice. Applied here for work, rejected. Hired by Chilwell, transferred to Nottingham, transferred to Billingborough. They were recently required to provide a team for foreign service, which would explain his presence in India."
"Sam's in Personnel, he has to be discreet," said Dutch. "As an employee of another department, I can be uncharitable. Fritzi's an adequate Reaper, but considers himself superior to anyone else he meets. If you ask Nottingham, they'll tell you they sent him down to Billingborough because they ran out of people willing to work with him. Just the sort of person who'd be first on his boss's list for transfer or deployment."
Sam sighed. "We've had reports of him digging for information and spreading scurrilous rumors from any number of respected Reapers, including Reggie Wayland of Aldershot and Asa Kincaid of Portland, Maine. File a proper request for information with Judicial. I'll hand his files over as soon as we have their approval. But just in case he has an actual acceptable reason to be in this place, in this uniform, with this equipment and accompanied by demons, we need to follow all the rules."
"Quite so," said Johns, picking up the prisoner. "Marge, we need to get this man strip-searched and locked up before he wakens. The demons might have tagged his clothing. Shall I bring him along for you?"
"Yes, please, Joseph," Senior Richards agreed. She handed her cup to Bradshaw. "Thank you, Mister Bradshaw, that was most refreshing. Director Spears is fortunate to have such a skilled and thoughtful person in his employ." She laid her freed hand upon Senior John's shoulder and –zzzt– they were gone.
Bradshaw grinned at Alan. "Write that compliment into my record, please? Tea or coffee, sir? I'll bring it to your desk. I'll call the Cafeteria for a delivery for the Maintenance crew. They're sending everyone they have available. We haven't enough for them all. Shall I order them a dinner to be served here this evening?"
"Probably a good idea," said Brock, cup and macaroon in hand. "Just tell the Cafeteria to provide as necessary for the next two shifts and let them handle it. Maintenance won't have this place shoveled out and de-stinkified until half past midnight, and the Director won't let them leave before it's safe to swing the file cabinets out again and clean under them. They'll have to check all the pivots and latch bolts."
Alan agreed. "First, we have to clear the War Room enough to move our shift fighters in and out. But I am very glad we installed the Mark Eight cabinets. I don't think the Sevens would have held up to that onslaught. The Eights have just enough scythe metal in their composition to drive off a demon, even a panicking one."
Spears viewed the wreckage of his office dispassionately. His desk was scorched in several places, the finish bubbled, but not otherwise damaged. His chair had been thrown aside, covered with ex-demon sludge and burns, but was not broken. The table used for meetings was a total loss, as were two bookcases. The Book of Law was undamaged. All others were easily replaceable. He opened his window to air out the brimstone. The pigeons fled as the stink blew out. He turned to see that the chair reserved for Reapers who displeased him had been reduced to kindling. Slingby had used it as a weapon. Deliberately, of course. But Will was prepared for that.
"Mister Wójcik." Spears gestured towards the sad remains.
Anton ported out to a storage room on the floor below and was immediately back with another uncompromisingly straight, armless wooden chair without curves or cushions. Laying the chair on its side on his desk, Will drew his utility knife and pried the endcaps off the right front and left rear legs. He set the chair upright on the floor and wobbled it back and forth with grim satisfaction. Perfect.
"Mister Wójcik, I will need temporary quarters within Operations. Humphries' office will do. Move him into Meeting Room E. Furnish it with a cheap rental desk, to be returned when I move back in here. Speak to Maintenance. This office must be cleaned, deodorized and repainted. The floor may be sanded and refinished if the stains are too noxious. Please inform Housing that the meeting table and its chairs are to be replaced. The two bookcases are to be replaced by a single taller unit, six shelves, glass fronted, anchored firmly to the wall. Add an umbrella stand to serve as a map holder, and a small separate table to hold a tea service for larger meetings. My desk is to be cleaned of soot and ichor but otherwise left as is; my chair likewise cleaned and reupholstered, but the honorable scars of battle retained, as long as it is stable. Consult with Solway to make sure they provide goods of sufficient quality."
He looked around again. It had been an excellent fight, and if he wanted a few souvenirs, he had earned them. Something to show his dearest Grell when she returned. A good story to share over dinner. He felt quite pleased, cheerful even. He schooled his expression into its normal disapproval and went to see how the rest of the cleanup was faring.