Chapter Seventeen: An unexpected kidnap

Chapter Seventeen

An unexpected kidnap

Bunco clambered awkwardly into the cockpit of the Red Kite and flopped, red faced and panting into the pilot's chair. He, wordless, breathing heavily for nearly a full minute before the metallically feminine tones of the Red Kite finally broke the silence.

"Been overdoing the cucumber sandwiches, Sir Bunestrum?"

The red faced little man grinned, in spite of himself. "That and the Steak and Ale pie, Red m'dear!" He wriggled into a more comfortable seating position and then began to fiddle with the straps of the harness. "Truth is I'm not really designed for all this climbing ladders and squeezing into aeroplanes. That kind of thing is much more up Tris's alley."

"In that case you will be pleased to know that three very unhappy looking engineers have already stowed your equipment in my hold, so we're ready to go whenever you want to tell me where we're going?"

The machine's intonation made it clear that this was more of a question than a statement, and that answers were expected, rather than requested.

Bunco snapped his harness shut and settled back into the seat. "If you don't mind, red old girl, I'll get you to do the flying, you're better at it than I am. I'll take care of the shift at the end though."

The metallic reply held just an edge of frustration. "Of course, Sir Bunestrum. If you would be so good as to give me the destination?"

"Tris needs us to meet him at the Broch."

"Very good."

Without further comment the Red Kite dropped out of the hanger bay and unfurled her graceful wings as she plummeted into the night sky.

-oOo-

Brian and Vicky drove silently through the darkened streets. Vicky had always regarded Brian as a bit of a creep, but he'd offered her a lift home and she'd rather have his company than none at all. Besides, he had been on Coca-Cola all night. The awkward silence continued to be awkward, however.

She'd been with Mike for seven years, and had never openly disagreed with him in all that time - in spite of his opinionated rants and dogmatic views. It certainly wasn't the first time she'd disagreed with what he'd said, and she had no idea why she'd spoken out in defence of Ellie - why she considered to be patronising and stuck up, and in support of Brian, who she considered to be a creepy little weed.

But the silence was becoming oppressive and she couldn't bear it much longer. Vicky thrust her hands deeper into her pockets and sought for some small talk she could use to lubricate the situation. "So, what do you think happened to Ellie then?"

Brian's silence did not break for almost a minute.

When he finally he responded his voice was slow and thoughtful. "I don't know. Something."

Suddenly he pulled his little Micra roughly to the side of the road and turned off the lights. Vicky was startled - even more so when Brian placed a hand on her shoulder, but she relaxed a little when she realised his attention was not in any way focussed on her, but on a scene unfolding about twenty yards further down the street.

Outside the little parade of shops a few yards ahead a black clad man in a bowler hat was apparently arguing with a much larger man standing beside a souped up VW Camper.

"What's going on?" Vicky was bemused - Brian was not known for unpredictable behaviour.

"Shhh!" Brian leaned forwards in his seat, trying to get a better look. "That's where Ellie's flat is!" he hissed.

Vicky shook her head, the large gold hoops in her ears clanking against her neck. "So?"

The Copper that came and spoke to me after she disappeared, he asked if I'd seen a man wearing all black with a bowler hat!" He gestured to the shorter of the two men beside the camper van. "I hadn't. But I have now! It looks like he's back!"

-oOo-

"You said you wanted to help!" Tristian stood next to the open door of the camper, hands raised in frustration that was also reflected in his voice.

"I do!" Samar's face was set in something resembling a growl. "But that was before you wanted me to go to Scotland for goodness sake!" He ran an agitated hand through his hair.

Tristian turned to face the bigger man. "Look, if we're going to get Ellie back I'm going to need equipment and a stable base of operations. I can't do it here - certainly not without putting your mother and everyone in this city in danger." he gave Samar a shove. "Now get in the bloody 'van!"

-oOo-

Twenty yards up the street Brian and Vicky watched as the man in black seemingly forced Samar into the back of the 'van. Brian growled. "Something's up!" He was already clambering out of the car. "Call the police Vicky - I'm going to find out what's going on!"

He was out of the car and halfway towards the camper van before Vicky could object.

-oOo-

Samar slumped resignedly into the camper's bench seat raising his hands in mock surrender. "OK, OK, I'll call my sister in the morning and get her to come and give Ma a hand while I'm away and-"

He stopped talking as a figure blurred past the open door and knocked Tristian to the ground. Samar leapt to his feet but by the time he reached the door of the 'van Tristian was already on his feet holding his now unconscious assailant be the scruff of the neck. He gave Samar a bemused look.

"No idea what this chap's issue is, and we don't have time to find out. Can you keep an eye on him if I bung him in the back with you?"

Samar shook his head. "We can't just take unconscious people off the street!"

Tristian threw the dead weight of Brian over his shoulder, strode to the camper, and dumped him onto the vehicle's floor, pushing Samar out of the way as he did so.

"Look," he said evenly, fixing the big man with that steely gaze of his, "he attacked me. There must be a reason for that. Maybe he's just a common thief, but maybe he's with The Auditors, and if he is we can't afford to leave him behind."  Tristian slid the side door of the camper closed with a "thhhrump" that brooked no argument and clambered into the driver's seat. "Now, make yourself comfy," he called over his shoulder as he pulled away from the curb. "It's about eight and a half hours to where we're going, and I don't intend to stop!"

Twenty yards away, on the passenger seat of Brian's old Nissan Micra, a nearly hysterical Vicky tried to explain what was happening to a bemused 999 operator, who assured her that a police car was on its way to her location.

She dropped the phone and sobbed uncontrollably.

Chapter Sixteen: Frank Exchanges of View

Chapter Sixteen

Frank exchanges of view

"Absolutely NOT!"

Admiral Stoici towered over the relatively diminutive form of His Excellency Sir Bunestrum of the County Marches, hands planted on hips and feet planted firmly on the deck of the Fuga Libero's Command and Control centre. Around them black uniformed aircrew and black overalled engineers tried to go about their business without attracting their commander's notice. The Admiral's face was an alarming shade of purple and there was a bulging blue vein on his forehead that looked to be on the verge of explosion.

Bunco met the angry man's glare with an implacably calm gaze. In his time the rotund little man had faced down people a good deal more intimidating than the good Admiral. "Admiral, I appreciate that you may have some reservations about such a course of action," he began, his emollient voice like oil on water, "but -"

"RESERVATIONS?!" The word exploded from the Admiral's mouth in a shower of spit and incredulity. "Even if he wasn't a traitor responsible for the near destruction of this vessel," the Admiral was not shouting, that would suggest a lack of discipline, but his words were certainly being projected with great force, "he has now lost the Fulcrum to the enemy twice." The black uniformed hulk of a man levelled a beefy finger at Bunco's face as he growled "I absolutely forbid you to aid him in any way - and you absolutely will not return a classified fighter aircraft to him." He removed the finger, but stooped deeper, so that his scowl was mere inches from the smaller man's nose. "I trust I am absolutely clear?"

Bunco did not blink. "Sir!"

The Admiral smiled and resumed his full height. "Good." He smiled and adjusted the collar of his jacket slightly as he turned back towards his command chair, his voice returning to more normal levels "I knew you'd see reason -"

"You misunderstand me, Admiral." Bunco interrupted, voice calm but Arctic cold. "I meant that when you address me, you will address me as Sir!"

The Admiral stopped, his shoulders visibly tensing, but he did not turn around. Bunco continued, his tone dropping another few degrees. "You are an Admiral in the Black Guard. I am a Major. While we are in different branches of the service, I accept that in military terms you outrank me."

Now the Admiral did turn back, about to launch into a new tirade, but Bunco raised a silencing hand that Stoici simply could not resist. "However, Admiral, 'Major' is not the only title I hold in this rebellion, as well you know. It is merely my rank in the field, so we all know where we stand in combat situations. Were this an active combat situation I would defer to your command."

Bunco took a pace forwards, holding the Admiral's glare. It seemed that the Bridge of the Fuga Libero, perhaps even the world, had shrunk to exclude everything but this confrontation. Certainly every other member of the Bridge Personnel were trying very hard indeed to not be included.

The rotund little man continued, his voice dripping icicles. "This is not an active combat situation, Admiral. It is a strategic  one. Must I remind you that I am also an Ambassador. That gives me the rights of a member of the Council of Skulls - and that, my bovine friend, means that you will not only address me as Sir, you will also kindly moderate your tone and refrain from issuing me with instructions!"

The vein in the Admirals forehead began to throb once again. His face purpled with barely contained rage and his eyes bulged from their sockets. Bunco pressed his advantage.

"The Viscount is no more a traitor than you or I. He's an idiot, I'll grant you that, and he showed poor judgement." The rotund little man paused for a moment and shook his head slightly. "Well, he showed compassion in point of fact, but I agree that in this case they appear to have been the same thing."

Bunco clasped his hands behind his back and stepped into the Admiral's personal space. Looking up at the glowering slab of career Airman he smiled sweetly. "I say, shouldn't you be standing to attention when being addressed by a superior?" The Admiral's snarl twisted further, but his huge frame snapped to rigidity and his bulging eyes faced directly ahead.

Bunco patted his elbow gently. "Jolly good. Now. It so happens that The Fulcrum is of massive strategic importance and I'm afraid of all the assets the Black Guard currently has at its disposal, myself and the Viscount are your best chance of getting her back. We will need the Viscount's 'van to do this, and we will also need his 'plane."

The little man took a step backwards and stood, hands still clasped behind his back and directed his gaze upwards. "A 'plane which, if you recall does not belong to the Black Guard in any case. Tristian built the Red Kite himself. The aircraft does not bear the Gear and Skull roundel. It is not a part of the Guard's Air Armada. Please do think carefully before exceeding your authority and presuming to requisition private property in future."

At this point the Admiral's rage was an almost physical presence. To be dressed down in this manner would have been intolerable in private, but here? In front of his crew? Such undermining of his authority was simply unconscionable.  Bunco smiled. "Now. I have already recalled the Red Kite. I imagine she will be docking in the next few minutes. I'll need to commandeer a couple of your engineers to help me transfer some of my equipment and then I'll be off."

He turned to leave, but paused momentarily and looked back at the apoplectic Admiral. "Obviously if I have any further instructions for you I'll let you know." He turned away again. "Now, I'm sure you have some duties to attend to. Carry on, Admiral."

The Admiral watched in impotent fury as His Excellency Sir Bunestrum of the County Marches strode off the Bridge with his head held high and the doors closed behind him.

-oOo-

"Oh come on Mike - this is serious!"

Brian looked at his scruffy haired companion with open disdain, but Mike was unperturbed. He waved his half empty pint glass in half drunken emphasis. The Spitfire pub had locked its doors long ago, but there were still many regulars putting some serious work into the following morning's hangover. "I am serious! The pakkies from the take-away said Ellie was being followed by a - and I'm quoting here 'a man in black wearing a bowler hat' - clearly Ellie had some info on Alien technology!" He planted his glass on the bar with a sense of satisfaction and looked to his audience for their applause.

It was not forthcoming.

Brian Barnes drew a deep breath. "Mike, even if the word 'pakkie' wasn't offensive-" he began,

"Which it is," interrupted Vicky, looking at her boyfriend with uncharacteristic disapproval.

"The Chatterjee's are of Bengali extraction," continued Brian, "Which is in India, not Pakistan. And as far as I know, all the Chatterjee kids were all born here." He paused to take a swig of his bitter and continued, "But even putting your casual racism to one side, the fact that they saw a man wearing black doesn't mean anything! If I was gunna stalk someone, I'd probably wear black too!" He rounded on the older man and wagged a finger in his face "You just keep harping on your fucking 'X-Files' conspiracy shite, while in the real world my girlf-" there was the briefest of pauses, "our friend is missing! Anything could be happening to her! This is not some bloody joke!"

Mike grinned a lopsided drunken grin, plonked his now empty pint glass on the bar and turned towards Brian, arms spread wide, as if in supplication. "Sorry mate," his words were not slurred, but were still heavy with alcohol, "either the men in black have got her or she's shacked up with somebody. Face it mate, some lucky bastard is probably shagging her senseless right now, and that must hurt - you as well as her, eh?!" He gave the younger man a conspiratorial nudge, "But c'mon, you've had your chance, time for some other bloke to have a go, eh? EH?"

Mike would probably have said more, but Brian's punch to the jaw knocked all the words out of his mouth.

-oOo-

Samar was still not full of the joys of spring. He was sitting in the back of Tristian's camper van outside the darkened Bengal Spice Take-Away, having extricated them both from Ellie's flat when his mother had bustled upstairs to tidy away the "tea things" and seen the mess Tristian had made on the carpet. It was nearly one in the morning. He was tired, he still didn't trust this black clad lunatic - and he had to say the stupid bowler hat with the flying goggles wasn't helping - and he was still not really sure what he was dealing with.

He shifted uncomfortably on the thin padding of the bench seat - so very different from the enveloping comfort of the driver's seat - and looked at the so-called Viscount who was fussing around a teapot. Finally the big man's patience cracked. He reached a hand out and pushed the teapot firmly to the table.

"Stop." He met the Viscount's startled gaze with an uncompromising scowl."Just stop. Put the damn kettle down and tell me what we're going to do."

Tristian prised the tea pot away from the big man's hands, grabbed one of his paper thing porcelain cups and deftly grabbed a small container of milk from the tiny 'fridge, dropping a glug into the cup with the same move. With his other hand he filled the cup with fragrant amber liquid from the teapot and threw in a couple of sugar lumps from a bowl on the counter top.

With an irreverently sweetened cup of Earl Grey in his hand The black clad man turned to his incensed interrogator.

Trisitan stared impassively at Samar for a long moment and then, very slowly, very deliberately, took a long sip of his tea. Then he delicately placed the paper thin porcelain cup onto its saucer, removed a crisp black linen handkerchief from the top pocket of his waistcoat, daintily mopped at his top lip and secreted the kerchief back into its pocket. All of his movements were conducted with deft precision and almost glacial slowness. And all without breaking eye contact.

And then, with an equally deliberate pace, He outlined the plan.

Samar listened.

-oOo-

Mike stood, hand pressed against his jaw, a look of primal hatred on his face. He had always seen himself as the Alpha Male of his little group, and this violent challenge from Brian - a man he'd credited with negative personality and less backbone had some as something of a shock.

Even as he rounded on his unexpected assailant though, he felt something wrong, some shift in the dynamic of the room. Fists clenched and still dropped into a fighting stance he flicked a sideways look at Vicky, the charismaless dumpy airhead whose worship he had taken for granted for so long. She was standing, arms folded, with an unforgiving tight lipped expression that bore down to his very essence.

He looked again at his opponent, boring Brian. A man he had always dismissed as a loser. A 'Beta' at best. And yet here he was, staring him down, unafraid, as a reaction to what? A joke about a bit of skirt? A bit of skirt that the loser wasn't even shagging? He simply couldn't understand it.

Mike ran his hands down his chest, smoothing down his faded blue denim shirt. He wished he'd been at home so that he could have ordered this upstart to leave, but they were still in the pub, so what could he do? Drawing himself to his full height he extended a hand to Vicky. "Brian," he purred, "I think you might have had a bit too much mate. Me and Vicky will be going now."

He gave his girlfriend  a knowing look and moved towards the pub door. He'd walked nearly ten yards before he realised he was alone. Startled, but trying hard not to show it he turned back and beckoned. "C'mon Vic!" His voice rang with hollow confidence, "Let's be off!"

Vicky didn't move.

Fixing his confused and angry stare with an utterly impassive visage she merely said "I'm off back to mine. I'll call you tomorrow."

For a moment Mike was frozen almost incapable of comprehending the defiance. Then he snorted, turned on his heel and stepped out into the warm late spring night.

Chapter Fifteen: Lines of Communication

Chapter Fifteen

Lines of Communication

Samar Chatterjee plodded down the tree lined street, his big hands thrust deep into the pockets of his blue Kolkata Knight Raiders hoodie. The aroma of early barbecues scented the air but the big man was not full of the joys of spring. His head was down and his brow was creased into wrinkles of annoyance. He wanted to help Ellie, but even with her assurance he still didn't trust the mysterious man in black.

He turned the corner and saw the jet black VW camper parked up against the curb, exactly where the weirdo that had been with Ellie had told him it would be. In spite of himself Samar paused to take in the glossy finish and polished chrome. He whistled softly under his breath. "You have a cool ride man, I'll give you that..." 

He pulled the keychain out of his pocket, unlocked the driver's door and clambered in, looking around the interior with the critical eye of a motor enthusiast. Samar liked cars; his own heavily modded Mk 2 Golf was his pride and joy. Campers weren't really his thing, but he was impressed in spite of himself. The seat seemed to morph to fit his body shape and was more comfortable than any of the furniture in the flat he shared with his mother. Everything seemed to be either black or silver, but it was all showroom perfect and enticingly organic looking. He ran an almost reverent hand over the dashboard, then thrust the key into the ignition and fired up the engine.

That was when he really got a surprise...

-oOo-

The Duke showed no emotion as he wiped Ellie's spittle from his face with a perfectly laundered white linen handkerchief. He stepped back slightly and regarded his prisoner with calculating eyes.

"I really was hoping you'd see reason, Miss Sage." His raspy sandpaper-on-stone voice scraped on Ellie's ears as she returned his dispassionate gaze with a wrathful glare. "Your cooperation is not required, but it would have made things more," he paused, as if searching for the most appropriate word "palatable." He turned his back to her and continued. "As it is, I suppose I shall have to leave you here."

Without further comment he walked out through the seamless white wall, leaving Ellie paralysed, glaring at the cell wall in mute and impotent fury.

-oOo-

Samar had driven maybe a hundred yards, marvelling at the raw power he could feel under his right foot and the unexpectedly smooth handling of the venerable camper. "I dunno know what he's done to this engine," he thought to himself, "but this is sweeeet!"

The voice took him completely by surprise.

"Tris? Is that you?"

The voice was tinny and sounded far away - even a little other-worldly. He looked around sharply in the direction of the sound, which caused him to swerve the 'van slightly to the right - an action which earned some indignant honking from a Ford Fiesta approaching from the opposite direction.

As he raised his hand to wave an apology Samar caught a blur of movement in his peripheral vision and let out an involuntary cry of alarm. Hovering next to his right ear was a golf ball sized sphere which glowed a soft yellow from within. Samar pulled sharply to the curb.

The far away voice came again. "Who the bloody hell are you?!" Samar tried to catch the hovering orb, but it darted out of the way and zipped into the back of the camper, just out of reach. "I asked you a question!"  The disembodied voice was still distant and tinny but carried an unmistakable level of threat. Samar was about to reply when the engine of the camper cut out and the doors all locked themselves at once.

-oOo-

Bunco's hands flew across the mahogany veneer of the console. The image from the com-globe was unstable to say the least, but he could tell that he was looking at the inside of the camper-van. He was not looking at his friend however. The man with the shoulder length hair and the neatly trimmed beard was big enough to make at least two Tristians. In a few key strokes he disabled the vehicle's engine and locked the doors.

"I said, who the bloody hell are you?!" he demanded again, then flinched as a section of the console exploded in what he regarded as an unnecessarily melodramatic shower of sparks and a sharp smell of ozone. The damage to the Fuga Libero had been extensive, and although Bunco's equipment was heavily shielded it had not been immune.

The face of the big man loomed larger as he leaned into the back of the camper to get a better look at the com-globe, the small lens distorting his features, drastically foreshortening his face and making his nose look comically large. Bunco gazed at the flickering visage on his screen. The man was big, certainly, big enough to pose a physical threat even to a skilled combatant such as Tristian. But he didn't look threatening. If anything he looked confused. Bunco leaned in to the mike.

"Hello? Sorry to startle you, old chap. Name's Bunco. I'm a friend of Trisitan's. Who are you?"

The face on the screen peered closer.

"Samar. Erm,  I was picking up your mate's 'van?" his intonation rose as though his answer had in fact been a question. Bunco smiled and leaned back into the mike.

"Capital - simply capital!" His fingers deftly caressed a couple of controls on his console to re-start the camper's engine. "Take me to him then, and let's get a move on," another shower of sparks erupted from a control panel on the wall behind him. "I'm not entirely sure how long I can keep this line open."

-oOo-

The paralysis ended so abruptly that Ellie's muscles were unable to adjust fast enough and she crashed face first into the floor like an unstrung marionette. She groaned as she felt the cartilage in her nose crunch.

"Bollocks!"

Gingerly she sat up and propped herself against the softly glowing whiteness of the wall. She licked her lips and tasted the copper salted tang of the blood that was running freely down her face. With a heavy sigh she pulled up the hem of her T-Shirt and wiped it away, tipping her head forwards, vaguely remembering that this was how you avoided choking on your own blood when you had a nosebleed.

Smacking her head into the floor had done little to alleviate the headache she'd had since Tristian had allowed The Duke to take her from her flat. She raised her fingers to her temples and gave them a gentle massage. It helped, but not much.

"So," she muttered to herself. "What the fuck do I do now?"

-oOo-

Samar hurried up the stairs to Ellie's flat trying to ignore the faintly glowing ball that hovered by his ear. The door to the flat was open, and Samar entered to find the Viscount perched on the edge of the sofa holding a steaming bowl of curry in one hand with a fork poised in the other. Laid out on a cloth on the carpet in front of him was a huge spread of naan breads, samosas and any number of other Indian take-away staples. He was looking at the feast with a comical expression of overwhelmed bemusement on his face.

The big man grinned in spite of himself. "Ma likes you then."

Trisitian looked up. "I think she might be trying to feed me to death!"

The com-globe emerged from behind Samar's head. "Pleased to see you've got your priorities in order old bean, but I could do with a sit-rep if you'd be so good?"

At the sound of his friend's distantly metallic voice the Viscount leapt to his feet, "Bunco-" he began, the joy in his voice instantly tempered by the Niagra of fish curry cascading down his trousers. He tutted at the mess and swiped ineffectually at it with the square of kitchen roll he'd been using as a napkin. Samar shook his head slightly and headed for the kitchen.

"Never mind your bloody trousers, man! The boat's in a bad way and I don't know how long this link will last!"

"Alright, alright, keep your wig on!" Trisitan sank back into the sofa, deftly catching the dampened towel that Samar had tossed him from the kitchen doorway. "It's bad Bunco. Ellie's back in The Office - or at least that's my best guess. Duke bloody Regimen came in and took her himself."

"Oh that's just wonderful!" The irritation in Bunco's voice was unmissable. "Why didn't you stop him?"

A slight snarl curled Trisitan's lip. "Well, goodness me - why on Earth didn't I think of that?" He scrubbed viciously at his stained trousers, "He had a bloody gun to her head and I was unarmed. And he's the bloody Duke! Where are you?"

"Undisclosed location in V594."

"You went from 607 to 594? Not a massive jump."

"Yes, well, the Libero is pretty banged up. Sorry if we didn't set any records."  The irritation in Bunco's voice was joined by an edge of sarcasm.

Tristian's expression sobered. "Finningly AS in 607 is gone. I left the Red Kite to do a survey of our other bases there, but I don't hold out much hope." He stood cautiously, carefully stepping over the now curry splattered feast on the floor before him. "Doesn't matter now though - we need to get Ellie back, and for that I need you. Let me have your coordinates and I'll come and meet up."

There was a pause before the globe spoke again. "Not such a good idea. Stoici is even more convinced that you're a traitor now. I'll call the Kite back and come to you."

Trisitian stepped forward, narrowly avoiding a plate of samosas, raising a finger at the globe as he did so. "You can't bring Red here you idiot! We need to keep a low-"

He stopped abruptly as the orb went dark and fell to the ground. Picking it up and dropping it into a waistcoat pocket Trisitian swore under his breath.

"How long have you two been married?"

The chuckling voice behind him made Tristian whirl in surprise. He'd almost forgotten Samar. "What?"

Samar grinned. ""You two. I don't know who this Bunco is, but you bicker like a couple of old women." His smile faded. "Which isn't helping get Ellie back home. So. Explain to me how we're going to do that.