Imperial executive transport, approaching the Tower
Violet Beauregarde had known what was happening from the instant the communications blackout started. There was only one thing that could be happening…the Resistance was trying to free Bucket. Now, as her helicopter approached the Tower of London, dozens of additional aircraft were circling the building, many of them bearing the hated white fist. The pilot looked back at her. "Milady, we're not equipped to fly into that. We have no weapons and only one escort."
"That will have to do!" Violet spat, picking up a radio headset and keying in the frequency of the lone Tiger Mk. III escorting her own aircraft. "Whiskey Two, move ahead and punch a hole. It doesn't have to last…just give me time to land."
"Whiskey Two copies. Hellfires…going hot." The gunship leapt forward, releasing a pair of deadly rockets…two of the hovering Resistance choppers exploded one after the other, and the Tiger kept firing as it pulled hard to the right. Enemy aircraft scattered and then turned to engage, a break in their coverage opening up above the Tower's east helipads…
"There!" Violet jabbed a finger in the direction of the open pads, but her pilot was already angling in that direction. One of the circling Resistance gunships now spotted the incoming aircraft, rounds slashing past the lightly armored fuselage of the transport. The pilot swore nonstop as he dodged another volley, pulled hard to the left, and then dropped sharply, now directly over the helipad.
"My Lady," he started to say, but Violet had already thrown open the helicopter's side door and leapt the last seven or eight feet down onto the roof of the building, turning her momentum into a neat forward roll. She came up just in time to watch her helicopter take a direct hit and spin out of control into the courtyard below…A shame…that pilot really did have some spirit if he was willing to take an unarmed craft into a warzone. With a shrug, Violet turned and leapt down from the helipad, dropping down onto the main part of the roof. Several more gunships were now approaching, firing at the Resistance aircraft…a Resistance fighter stood up from behind a ventilation unit just to Violet's right, aiming an RPG. She vaulted over the obstacle, coming face-to-face with the startled man; a swift kick to the stomach knocked the wind from him, a second kick took out his right leg, and a quick sweep of Violet's hands cracked the man's head to one side, his own momentum breaking his neck. Another man shouted in alarm and started to raise a rifle…Violet rolled to one side, a stainless steel Desert Eagle emerging from the holster on each hip. The pistol in Violet's right hand bucked, and the Resistance fighter fell with a round cleanly through his forehead. Leaping back to her feet, the assassin chided herself…as much as she enjoyed this part of her job, she had more important things to attend to.
Moving swiftly and effortlessly through the pitched battle on the rooftop, pausing only to kill the handful of unfortunate enemies who got directly in her path, Violet swung herself up onto the top of a utility conduit. In an instant, she surveyed and assessed the entire progress of the engagement…her incompetent allies were faring even more poorly than she might have surmised…but then a surge of pure, hard adrenaline shot through her system. A helicopter was landing straight ahead, a group of men rushing toward it. Bucket was already out. Violet identified him in the center of the group…meat shields on all sides…but she was undaunted. Though she could no longer properly smile, the skin on either side of her upper lip pulled back as she raised her weapons. Bucket had a wide, flat stretch of open ground to cover, and she had a magnificent angle. She could not hope to pick him out of the middle of his guards using only handguns…he was too far away for that. But there was still the alternative. She would kill them all.
When General Bucket and his men emerged onto the roof, every crewman on every Resistance helicopter let out a cheer. But the celebration did not last long. As Bucket crossed the roof to the nearest landing platform, most of his troops spread out to provide cover, while another small cadre stayed immediately around the General to shield him from snipers. As fresh imperial troops exploded out onto the rooftop from various doorways, the Resistance forces completely overlooked the singularly deadly figure of Violet Beauregarde, who ignored the plethora of enemy targets around her to focus on the small group just ahead.
IP-101 ran, the Captain and 77 close beside him, following General Bucket and his guards. The General was making for a Black Hawk just ahead, the same Black Hawk that had brought them here…101 could make out the anxious faces of 48, Jonesy, and the Doctor watching from one side of the helicopter's main door. Two loud reports rang out, obviously from heavy-caliber guns; the two men immediately behind Bucket instantly fell, blood spattering the General's face as he turned involuntarily to look. Carver shoved the General past him and took position behind his leader, firing blindly at the enemy forces now pouring out of the Tower. Another three shots rang out, from the same weapon…the first round hit Carver in the front of his vest and knocked him off his feet. The second killed a Resistance fighter waiting to help Bucket aboard the helicopter; the third shattered the co-pilot's window and narrowly avoided taking off his face. With the helicopter taking fire, 77 zeroed in on the source of the muzzle flashes that had accompanied the shots and sprayed the remainder of his magazine…he had just run dry when the first round struck his left thigh. With a roar of pain, he collapsed, throwing his gun out like a crutch to catch himself.
101 heard 77's wordless bellow and turned back just in time to watch the other pilot clumsily attempting to reload…101 was just starting back to help his wounded fellow when the second round exploded through the middle of 77's chest. The pilot's face bore a brief expression of shock as he fell, an expression that gave way to blankness as he hit…hard…and did not move again. 101 was no medical expert, but he knew instantly that 77 was dead. 101 looked up from the body toward where he imagined the killer must be positioned; just then, like magic, the smoke parted. A woman in a form-fitting bodysuit came into view atop a utility conduit, pistol raised. Something about her struck 101 as supremely odd, but he could not identify it…the only thing he cared about was killing her. He started to run toward his comrade's murderer, but strong hands seized him from behind. He turned toward whoever had grabbed him…and came nose-to-nose with the Captain. "Forget it!" 80 roared, his voice pained but resolute. "He's dead! We have to go!" 101 looked back; he wanted vengeance, but the Captain was right. Fighting his instincts, 101 turned and ran for the helicopter…Bucket and Carver were already climbing aboard, but the aircraft still waited for the two Oompa-Loompas. As they reached the door, countless hands grabbed them and hauled them aboard, the transition from roof to helicopter instantaneous. In the process of leaning out to grab the Captain's arm, however, RA-48 lost his balance and fell, narrowly managing to grab the helicopter's right-side wheel.
Under fire, the pilot instantly lifted off the second her passengers were aboard; 48 now hung beneath the vehicle, his face a mask of pure terror as he looked down at the drop below his feet. The Black Hawk flew roughly level with the top of the building, Carver seizing the door gun and raking the enemy troops with fire as the chopper approached open air…then something happened that no sane person could have predicted. The woman, the one who had killed 77, suddenly appeared from nowhere, a heavy silver pistol clenched in each hand. The Black Hawk was still moving at low speed, and she kept pace with it, sprinting along even with the aircraft as it approached the end of the roof. 101 instantly realized what had struck him before: for starters, the woman's skin was blue.
The pilot wondered for a brief instant if he was hallucinating…but then Carver started firing at the blue woman with the door gun, confirming that she did in fact exist. The rounds missed, seeming to dance harmlessly around her feet…Carver turned to shout to the chopper pilot, but it was too late. By now, the Doctor and the Captain had both seized 48's arms and were pulling him into the helicopter…the Empress's assassin saw her chance and leapt off the roof, throwing aside one of her guns as she hurled herself through the air and shot out her left hand to grab hold of the Research Assistant as she passed. The stunt was unbelievable, incredible, and utterly terrifying in its singleness of purpose: she was after the General at all costs, even that of her own life.
For RA-48, time seemed to slow. A tremendous weight suddenly yanked him down, nearly pulling him free of his companions in the chopper above…for a brief, horrifying instant, the grip on his arms slipped away completely, and his right hand swung free in space. Then the grip on his left arm tightened, redoubled…IP-101, Jonesy, and even the gray-haired man in the military uniform were all reaching down to help him, grabbing whatever part of him they could reach. The full weight of both the Oompa-Loompa's own body and that of his assailant was resting on his left arm, searing pain shooting through his shoulder; he tried to swing his right hand up, but to no avail. 48 looked down and felt pure terror shoot through him as he saw precisely what had seized him in its vice grip…the woman's face and hands were a shocking shade of blue, her entire chin and lower jaw replaced by some type of steel contraption that gave her the look of a mechanical bulldog. Her left hand was clenched around his right leg, her grip so tight it was painful…she was not looking at him, but rather at something above him, a manic gleam in her eyes as she raised the pistol still clenched in her right hand. General Bucket had inadvertently put himself in harm's way by reaching down to pull RA-48 aboard, the gun swinging up to aim directly into his face…48 kicked wildly, throwing off the assassin's aim…a round sparked off the side of the helicopter an inch from the General's head, and the assassin still held on. "Here, mate!" The voice came from just above his head, and 48 looked up to see Jonesy holding 77's knife out to him, the simple blade looking like some divine weapon of the gods.
48 swung his hand up and seized the knife, slashing wildly downwards. The first swing hit nothing, the assassin blocking the knife with the barrel of her gun and nearly tearing it from 48's grip…on pure reflex, the Research Assistant stabbed again, this time at the hand which held his leg. It was a miracle he did not jab himself with the implement…the knife stuck between the assassin's index and middle finger and slid down to the hilt, splitting the enemy's hand nearly in half. Violet Beauregarde could have ignored the pain…but not the sudden loss of strength which accompanied the severing of major tendons. The assassin fell free with the knife still lodged firmly in her left hand, firing at the helicopter with a wordless scream of fury as she plummeted into space…the Black Hawk was now over the Thames, and Violet struck the water with lethal force. There was a sickening impact, a tremendous splash, and the Empress's assassin disappeared beneath the rippling water.
UH-60 Black Hawk "Ranger One," heading south over Greater London
"What the hell was that?" Jonesy panted as RA-48 was heaved aboard, the other Oompa-Loompa almost landing on top of him.
"You mean Metalmouth?" Carver said, shooting a dark glare at where the assassin had been an instant before. "That, good sir, was Violet Beauregarde…Salt's private grim reaper."
"Salt." SC-80 said the name quietly, unable to lose the sinking feeling in his stomach.
"Salt, you know?" The other door gunner said. "As in Empress Veruca Salt." The Deepstar crew only glanced at each other.
"Well, she's dead now, in any case!" Jonesy crowed, his voice carrying a certain perverse pleasure…but Carver only shook his head.
"We'll be seeing her again soon." Jonesy looked baffled, but Carver said nothing further.
"I'm sorry about your friend," General Bucket said, addressing himself to the five Oompa-Loompas seated on the floor of his helicopter. "He died bravely. And I know it doesn't help, but just remember that you aren't the first to lose a friend in battle…and you won't be the last." Bucket placed a firm hand on the Captain's shoulder, rested it there for a moment, and then turned to Carver. "How many of ours?"
The other man met the General's gaze evenly. "Seventeen, sir."
Bucket swore. "Seventeen in exchange for me…damn it all."
"We weren't about to leave you, sir." This came from the pilot, and was spoken with such force and finality that no one added anything after it. The helicopters whisked low over the countryside and out over the expanse of the English Channel; a few distant explosions marked where the fighter cover engaged something, but the main squadron of helicopters went unchallenged. Whatever disruption the Resistance had performed on the enemy's communications, they had done it well. The four Oompa-Loompas from another world…of whom there should now have been five…transferred themselves from the floor into seats, each of them lost in his own thoughts. There did not seem to be any words for what had just happened, and even Jonesy could not think of anything to say. RA-48 was still in a state of shock after narrowly avoiding death. SC-80 could only think of the fact that IP-77 had died in the course of rescuing him, and what should have been a gain was instead only an exchange…one life for another. I lost one of my men. But perhaps the greatest burden fell on Research Physicist 18. No matter how many times the rational part of his mind told him that it was an honest mistake…there was no way that any of them could have known…he could not shake the horrible feeling that this, all of this, was his fault. I should have known, a voice growled within his head. I am the scientist…the theoretical physicist, no less. I should have foreseen what would happen if we landed on Earth, if we were allowed to meddle with the past. I should never have allowed it…and now whatever happens is on my head. And though the idea was unfairly harsh, RP-18 did not bother to cast it off. Bitterness helped him think.
The helicopter turned east and continued over the water for some distance before land finally came into sight ahead. Finally they stopped, hovering over what appeared to be an empty expanse of forest below. But then the forest canopy began to open, the trees literally sliding apart to reveal a wide expanse of level dirt beneath. The choppers eased down one after another and powered down, crews and passengers disembarking. As soon as the last of the aircraft was on the ground, the forest canopy slid back into place…on the ground, men pushed huge wheeled frames covered by camouflage netting and artificial treetops back into position, creating the illusion of an unbroken tract of wilderness. Men gathered around Bucket's helicopter, cheering as they welcomed the General. As he left the aircraft, Bucket turned to the Oompa-Loompas. "Thank you for your help, my friends. Thank you all." He pointed to a tent to the right of the landing field. "We have food and hot coffee over there…not exactly gourmet, but it looks as if you chaps could use something to eat. Head over and someone will help you out."
The Captain nodded. "Thank you, sir."
The exhausted Loompas climbed down from the helicopter and followed the General's direction, taking a table at a sort of field mess that had been erected under the tent. The food was a bland brown stew with canned side dishes, but it still tasted delicious after over twenty-four hours without anything to eat. When they had nearly finished, a camp orderly passed the table and set out five small, white tablets in a paper cup. "For fatigue," he said with an understanding smile. Under other circumstances, the Captain and his men might have been more cautious…suffering from both tiredness and the aftereffects of battle shock, however, they popped the capsules into their mouths without hesitation. Jonesy promptly started trying to cut his in half with a fork to see if there was anything inside; after the military personnel fearlessly swallowed their pills, however, he followed suit and popped the capsule into his mouth. Five minutes passed and nothing happened…then, quite abruptly, the Oompa-Loompas began to feel even worse than before. Despite their best attempts to shake it off, the welcoming arms of sleep embraced the exhausted Deepstar crewmen and instantly drew them in. IP-101 managed the words "Pills were…a…sedative" before his head dropped onto the table. Jonesy stood up from the table and managed several drunken steps toward the orderly…who was returning, accompanied by three other men…The Oompa-Loompa clenched a fist to make some menacing statement but then promptly fell forward, narrowly avoiding planting his face in the dirt as the orderly caught him. Now solidly unconscious, the five Oompa-Loompas remained oblivious as they were loaded gently into the back of a truck.
General Bucket shook his head as he watched the five small figures being carried away from the field mess, the right sleeve of 48's tunic covered in coffee. "Shame we had to do that."
Carver shook his head. "You won't think it's a shame if we figure out they're spies, sir."
"After Beauregarde shot down one of their men, you still think they could be enemy agents?"
Carver shrugged. "It would make a damn good cover, and it wouldn't be the first time that Nova Britannia sacrificed an Oompa-Loompa or two…or several thousand."
Bucket nodded slowly, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose with one hand. "You're right, I suppose. But what's the world coming to when you have to treat every friend as a potential hostile?"
"That's exactly the world we're trying to get rid of, sir."
Royal Genetic Institute, London
Empress Veruca Salt stared at the figure floating behind the glass, a human shape obscured by the translucent membrane of the synthetic cocoon which surrounded it. "She turned out very nicely," the voice of the head doctor said nearby. "We were able to purify her genetic code, removing that damned blue color, and of course all of the damage to her face is gone." The fluid surrounding the cocoon was slowly draining away, attendants moving forward as the transparent cover of the birthing pod slid open. The umbilical had already been removed from the clone, leaving only the cocoon; with quick, precise movements, the two technicians sliced it open and peeled it away, revealing the naked form of a twenty-year-old Violet Beauregarde, still curled in the fetal position. Instantly, her eyes shot open and she tried to take a shuddering breath, choking on the fluid in her lungs…the two attendants helped clear her respiratory tract, cleaned away the residue from her birthing, and performed a battery of basic tests to verify proper brain development. Finally, they stepped back, the resurrected Violet now seated on the side of her birthing pod and swathed in a thick blanket.
"Leave me with her," the Empress said, and the doctor and his attendants bowed and quickly left the room.
Violet looked up at Veruca Salt, pain in her eyes. "I failed, Your Majesty," she said, her voice now the gentle tone of human vocal cords rather than the grating of a machine. "Bucket escaped."
Veruca gently shushed Violet, pressing a finger to her own lips. "I don't want any of that, my dear…the General's escape was a setback, nothing more. You did everything you could…you jumped off a roof for me, and I certainly can't ask you for more than that. It wasn't your fault, and I won't have you blaming yourself." Veruca knelt in front of the assassin. "Look at me." Violet did so, and Veruca smiled, a finger tracing its way down Violet's cheek. "I do like you this color, not that there's anything wrong with blue."
"Am I…" Violet started to rise, frantically looking around for a reflective surface. Finding none, she turned back to the Empress. Her voice was a hopeful whisper. "I'm back to my normal color again?"
"Yes," Veruca replied softly, "and you have your face back, my love." She was now leaning quite close, one arm sliding around Violet's waist.
"My Lady…" the assassin said weakly and tried to pull away, but not with any conviction. She was trembling.
"I have missed these lips," Veruca crooned gently, stroking a finger down over Violet's mouth.
"I've missed you," Violet whispered, and there was no longer any pretense. Their lips met, and Violet slowly leaned into the Empress, the blanket starting to slip from her shoulders.
"Your Majesty." A nasal voice spoke from behind, and Violet pulled away from the Empress with a startled little cry. Veruca turned only her head, her expression venomous. Mike Teavee and Augustus Gloop stood side by side…or rather, Teavee stood and Gloop floated. Seen together, they looked like two opposite halves of a comedy duo…Teavee incredibly tall and thin, with a studious air…Gloop short by virtue of being always seated, absurdly fat, and with a permanent look of silliness thanks to his bulging cheeks. The Minister of Information bore the bland look which he usually wore when not on the air; he seemed to regard the scene of two lovely young women kissing with a clinical detachment. Gloop's eyes, on the other hand, looked as though they might pop out of his head. "Your Majesty," Teavee repeated, "I apologize for disturbing you, but our communications are back on the air and people want answers. What shall I tell them?"
"The truth," Veruca said softly. "Tell them General Bucket has escaped, and give them assurances that he will be recaptured soon. Put his face on every television screen in the world, and offer twenty million pounds to anyone who provides information leading to his capture. We'll see how many friends he has then. There will be thousands of false leads, but I'm sure our intelligence division has the resources to sort truth from fiction. Speaking of which, what of Mr. Black?" Veruca sighed. "He gave me his word that Bucket could not escape."
"He has committed suicide," General Gloop said with a nervous gulp, "in order to avoid ze…alternative."
"Very well. Thank you, Minister…General." The two men turned to leave, Gloop shooting one furtive glance backward. The door closed, and this time Veruca swiftly crossed the room and secured the electronic locking mechanism. She turned back to Violet, grinning wickedly.
"Now…where were we?"