Author Note: Thanks for the nice reviews! I'm pleased that this series is being read and enjoyed and I hope you continue to like!
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When the Plutarkian Grand high Poo-bah Lord Camembert had given the order for an invasion force to take Mars through force if the inhabitants refused to accept the bribes they had so generously offered, it had been assumed that the initial confusion would force the civilians into a panic, forcing them to flee their homes and hide, easy pickings at a later date. To further their aims, the Plutarkian forces had swarmed every known Army base on Mars and slain each and every soldier they had found. In theory, the Cave Mouse population of Mars were finished, and the other sentient races on the planet were far more pragmatic about the Golden Gills on offer.
They hadn't counted on the Cave Mice forming a rebellion – the Freedom Fighters, of all the foolishness – and resisting the invading forces. What had seemed a relatively simple extermination and takeover had turned into a war. And although the Plutarkians were gradually gaining ground, they were a long way behind their anticipated schedule. Lord Camembert was unhappy and when he was unhappy, he liked to spread the emotion around.
As the overseer of the operations on Mars, it was Dominic T. Stilton who received most of the criticism for the delay in their plans and the constant interference of the Freedom Fighters. He would suffer this indignity in silence through the medium of the video link, then upon Camembert signing off would take out his frustrations on those around him.
As the old saying goes; shit rolls downhill. And at the bottom of the metaphorical pile was Lawrence Lactavius Limburger, an ambitious Plutarkian who hoped one day to advance up the chain of command, hopefully right the way to the top. Unfortunately for him, the situation on Mars was such that Camembert was unlikely to be handing out promotions for anyone involved in the problematic mess it had turned out to be.
The political process on Plutark was intense, everyone wanting to make their way up the ladder. Those at the bottom were more than happy plotting to knock those above off their rung in order to advance and those who had furthered their careers would be equally happy to rid themselves of their up and coming competition. Trust was not a commodity highly valued on their planet and what loyalties there were came out of fear and the ingrained urge to achieve power. If power could only be gained through the rigorous traditions of the planet, then that was the way in which power was obtained – at least to outward appearances. Treachery was commonplace, it being as hazardous for a Plutarkian to face one of their peers as it was one of their enemies.
Limburger understood all this perfectly. The only thing he lacked was leverage. If he had some way of speeding up the takeover of Mars or blackening Stilton's name – or, if he dared to dream, both – he would garner the favourable attention of the High Council.
To this end, he had plundered Stilton's Swiss Cheese account in vast amounts, paying whomever he thought would be able to aid him. Sometimes it had been successful, sometimes less so. His informant, who took a lot of these payments, had given him plenty of useful information on the Freedom Fighters, their operations and where they could be expected to appear. But many of the Mice plans were done on the spur of the moment and he found it vexatious. How was he supposed to set up a brilliant counter attack with so little forewarning?
If he ever took charge of his own operation – and he intended to ensure that one day he would be – then he wouldn't let a few rodents get in his way, oh no, unthinkable. And to get his own operation, he had to be noticed. He needed results and he needed them now.
He had to make Brimstone fall.
In almost four years, Stilton had been unable to pull off this little task, thanks to the Freedom Fighters. If Limburger could achieve it, Stilton would be out and a new age of leadership would be ushered in. It would be the start of his ascension to the top of the food chain.
The only question was how it could be achieved. That the Martians had held out this long was mystifying to Limburger, but it was clear that Stilton's overly fussy methods were not working. They were fighting dirty already – maybe what he needed to do was fight even dirtier…
It was reviewing past failures that gave him what he hoped would be the idea to defeat the Freedom Fighters, win Mars for the greater glory of Plutark and show that obnoxious Stilton just who was the better fish.
After all, the great gangsters from Earth history had gained power in both politics and the underworld simply by knowing the time to act, how to play the political game while retaining a financial stranglehold through lucrative, if illegal, dealings. And if anyone got in their way, the enemy would be ruined politically – or wasted in an entirely different way.
It was in deference to his idolised gangsters that he decided to boost his morale by looking the part, eschewing the traditional Plutarkian garb for a suit that might have been fashionable on Earth circa 1920. Just putting it on made him feel ready to conquer Mars, raise his standing within the hierarchy and finally be in the position to expose Stilton for the buffoon he was.
Standing at the window of Stilton's Castle, he looked out over the land he was soon to rule over – once his lucky break came up of course. "Ah… Mars."
"Let's see now, what is the most felicitous face for your conqueror to wear?" Limburger turned from the window and examined the rubber masks lined up before him, all extremely flexible and realistic, designed to fool the inhabitants of the Earth into believing the wearer was in fact one of them. After all, the Earth was the next planet in line after Mars and the Plutarkians were always thinking ahead.
"Ah, here's a handsome one," he mused, picking up the final one in the row, a thick-lipped, black-haired mask with an impressive set of jowls. Laughing smugly to himself, he slid it on his head, topping off the look with a rakish trilby, cigar and Tommy gun.
"Lawrence Limburger will conquer this angry red planet," he growled in his toughest voice, striking a pose. "With deceit, cunning and that pungent odour known as…" He pressed the trigger on the Tommy gun, blasting a row of bullet holes through his collection of posters, depicting his favourite gangster films of all time. …"The sweet smell of success."
"LIMBURGER! NOW!"
The shout pulled him out of his fantasy and back to the present – a present where he was not the biggest fish in the pond, but subordinate to and despised by everyone else in the Castle. And when that voice roared, it was in his best interests to jump.
For now.
"Coming sir," he said without enthusiasm, trudging off toward Stilton's office.
As the lift ascended, taking him into the office through the floor, he could overhear the tail end of the conversation between Stilton and his pet scientist Karbunkle – someone else who treated him like something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
"…impressive, but insufficient," Stilton was saying. "What use are so few against the frustratingly formidable Freedom Fighters?"
"I have the means of improving on that number – I merely await some more…guinea pigs."
The conversation between the two ceased as the lift pinged, signalling Limburger's arrival. The platform emerged from the floor but Limburger remained at feet level, grovelling his way forward.
"This on the other hand is a far less noteworthy kettle of fish," said Stilton as he regarded his fawning subordinate.
"You bellowed oh Dominic T. Stilton, greatest of Plutarkian leaders?"
"Limburger, why this tastelessly ridiculous outfit?"
"This?" Limburger glanced down at himself and noticed with chagrin that he was still clad in his gangster outfit. "Oh, this! Well, um…" He yanked at the mask, horrified to suddenly realise that somehow it had adhered to his face and refused to move.
Karbunkle rested his arm on Stilton as he leant forward, causing the germ-phobic fish to knock him away quickly and dust himself off with his ever-present handkerchief. The scientist pretended not to notice. "The locker room rollicks with ridicule over this over-ripe cheese puffs perverse preoccupation with Planet Earth's 'gangster period'."
Stilton bend, looking Limburger in the eye. "Overly ambitious, are we?"
"Oh not at all, oh vain, glorious vizier," lied Limburger. "My mask seems to be glued on!"
"Pity," sniggered Karbunkle, rubbing his hands gleefully. Limburger narrowed his eyes as he regarded the scientist. A move to make him appear foolish in front of Stilton, what else? More politics. But he bit his tongue and pretended he hadn't guessed the sabotage. He was getting the seed of an idea – and having Karbunkle on-side would be imperative to its success. Although the scientist helping him out of the good of his heart was laughable.
"You're pathetic Limburger," growled Stilton, kicking Limburger disdainfully. "Now explain to me – if you can – why Brimstone city has fallen. Well?"
Limburger grimaced as Stilton picked him up by the mask, hooking a finger up each nostril and pulling him forward. Suddenly very glad it wasn't his real face, Limburger started trying to remember the excuses he had considered so carefully since he had heard the news. "A most regrettable turn of events, totally out of my control…"
It had been easier practising the speech in front of a mirror, without Stilton's actions and Karbunkle's sniggering in the background.
"Rectify this faux pas, you lowest born of low lives. Or. ELSE!" With those sentiments, Stilton dropped Limburger and stalked off, Karbunkle trailing behind, leaving the younger fish stunned and dazed in the centre of the office.
Infuriated with the turn of events, Limburger returned to his own quarters and spoke to his informant via the vid-link – maddening how the one who called himself 'Deep Pockets' remained permanently enswathed in shadow – berating him for not taking care of the Freedom Fighters as they had arranged. But in truth, the fault lay with the Plutarkian ground troops who were no match for the Freedom Fighters, a fact that Limburger recognised.
It was while staring at his reflection in the darkened vid-screen, the mask still firmly stuck to his face, that he struck upon an idea. If the ground troops were incapable of defeating the Freedom Fighters, he would just have to call in someone who was – and ensure that Camembert knew exactly who was responsible for the final fall of Brimstone.
Unfortunately, it meant having to ask for assistance from an individual he would rather not.
On the pretext of needing something to loosen the mask, he went down to Karbunkle's lab, where the doctor was carefully adjusting the wiring in several small orbs on his desk, orbs that looked like eyes. Limburger was curious, but reminded himself of his main objective. To show Karbunkle the bait, then to reel him in.
"Oh, so sorry," said Karbunkle when Limburger asked, sounding anything but. "I'm all out of glue solvent."
"Oh, very well," said Limburger, faking reluctance, although in honesty he didn't have to fake it too much. He hated giving away his hard-embezzled money. Reaching into his jacket, he took out enough Gold Gills to keep Karbunkle in lab coats and rubber gloves for the next five years.
"It'll be shipped overnight interstellar express," said Karbunkle hurriedly, making a snatch for the cash.
Limburger yanked the Gold Gills out of reach. "But a bribe of this magnitude requires triple your usual treachery…"
"Who do I have to vaporise?"
"Oh, you misunderstand my malevolent MD! I want someone wiped in, not wiped out – a supervillain from Black Rock, right to Mars."
Karbunkle narrowed his eyes, finally succeeding in grabbing the Gold Gills from Limburger's hand. "A supervillain? What if I told you that I have something far better, right here in this lab?"
"I'd say prove it."
"Come with me." Karbunkle led the way from the room they had been in to another lab beside it, a dismal, grey room not dissimilar from several others that Karbunkle used for his work. This one had more equipment lying on tables, machines that flashed or beeped – but Limburger's attention was immediately grabbed by the occupants of the room.
There were five of them, all apparently sleeping, lying on steel stretchers. Limburger examined them curiously. He had known of some of the doctors more outrageous experiments, but had never expected anything like this…
"His Dairy Creaminess believes we need more," said Karbunkle, a touch of disdain in his voice. "But just one of these will bring that rabble of Freedom Fighters to their knees."
"Oh, well done Doctor," said Limburger, the mask doing nothing to hide the malevolence in his smile. "I believe after our next attack on those vile vermin, Stilton will no longer doubt the ability of your creations."
Not that he'll have any say in the matter, Limburger thought to himself gleefully. This move will propel me to my rightful place as the top Plutarkian on this planet – and send Stilton to the belching bogs.