Armistice: Part Two

by Bayeux

Stupid. He had been so very stupid to jeopardize his mission by punching that man, but he had been so angry all his careful planning and professional detachment had failed him . . .

Not that he'd had that much in the first place, he reminded himself as he rested his forehead in his cold hands, but riotous indignation was preferable to absolute lack of control. He was lucky that Sparks woman hadn't called it off then and there.

The "cell" the man with the ruby eyes had shown him to was, at least, halfway decent even by normal living standards. It contained a bed, chairs, a bureau, and an adjacent washroom. The dim light was supplied by a series of rectangular windows that lined the top of the room's wall. The room, like most of the shiftship, was very cold, at least to him; he had not even removed his duster.

After a time Enrico de Medici raised his head from his hands and stared at the far door. Beneath it shone a crack of light, brighter than that which the windows supplied. He had checked; the door opened only from the outside, so escape was futile. If he had wanted to escape, that is, which he didn't . . .

Although, truth be told, he was rather irked at his treatment. It was an absurd thought -- by comparison it barely scraped the surface of his other concerns -- and yet it rankled him on some deep, subconscious level.

He rose from the bed and began to pace the dim room. Around the table, to the door, circle the chairs, back to the bed and around again. It was his professional pride, he supposed -- he was a diplomat of no small prestige, and there was something inherently . . . unprofessional . . . about the current state of affairs.

A small part of him was gaping in slack-jawed amazement at this train of thought. He had slid himself into a dimension between dimensions, demanded help from the woman who had been responsible for the emasculation of the former head of government, struck down the one responsible for the destruction of his country, and now he was worrying about ettiquette? Enrico wondered if all the tedious vaccinations he had undergone before his trip were beginning to have an adverse reaction.

With a sigh he ceased his pacing and leaned against the door, resting the back of his head against the cold metal paneling. What he really wanted right now was nothing more than to be home in his house in Florence, being held by Oriana. He was feeling every day of his forty-eight years, and so very, very tired. He wanted nothing more than to lay down at his Oriana's side and rest . . .

But she was dead.

Enrico pressed a hand to his forehead and slid down the door until he came to a sitting position. He barely noticed. Hot tears, defiant in the face of their cold environs, slid down his cheeks and stained his shirt collar. He knew, deep in his heart, that he must not let his personal feelings interfer with the task that had been appointed to him, and that he must work with these strange people for the sake of Albion.

But how could he work with those who had killed his wife?

"What a goddamn awful day."

Jenny Sparks sprawled across the couch in her quarters, resting one hand over her eyes. Playing Mother Theresa to Sliding Albion had definitely not been on her list of things to consider, let alone things to do. Inevitably her mind began to stray towards the varied and potent alcoholic beverages she kept in her liquor cabinet . . .

Jenny jerked her thoughts away from that. Alcohol had been what had contributed to this whole mess in the first place, or at least parts of it. The wonderful hangover she had given herself earlier had made her careless, irritable . . . not, she reminded herself, that her "teammates" hadn't done their fair share to contribute to that mood, but it certainly hadn't helped matters. With her metabolism it had taken a hell of a lot of alcohol to get herself properly pissed, and she hadn't thought it would come into play nearly as much as it had. Of course, she hadn't thought they'd get an extra-dimensional ambassador begging favors and slinging accusations, either, but at this point she knew she really shouldn't have been surprised.

No more lapses, girl, she told herself firmly. Can't afford to drink away your troubles again, not this time. It wouldn't do to bugger up what you've got just because you're getting soft in your old age.

This thought, unsurprisingly, did very little to sooth her troubled conscience. For weeks she had told herself that the destruction of Sliding Italy had been necessary -- which, as she had told the Doctor, it had been. She had certainly had no compunctions about killing Regis, bastard that he had been, but a whole country . . . well. That was stepping things up a bit.

Truth be told, Jenny was beginning to have her doubts on the decision she had made. She knew about patriotism and the pain of having your country ripped to shreds while you watched, powerless to stop it. By God, did she know the pain of it; she had paid for it again and again in blood and sweat and tears, and she knew would do it all again in her time. But now . . . now it was bigger than England, wasn't it? It was the whole earth, not just a single country. And that meant sacrifices must be made.

Oh yes, sacrifices, she sighed inwardly as she removed the band that held back her long, blonde hair and pushed the errant strands from her eyes. The bigger the game, the bigger the scale . . . and the bigger the sacrifice, too. Thought I'd 'ave learned me lesson after the 80's, wouldn't you . . .

Jenny had been called mad by many, and not necessarily because she was doing something particularly insane at the time. Her -- and she shuddered to call it this, but was obliged to for lack of a better word -- "idealism" was tempered in such a way that the lengths she went to in order to further her mad, wonderful dreams made it somewhat understandable why many would question her sanity. She supposed, intellectually speaking, that she should relent, or at least ease up a touch, but the thought of leaving the dream undone galled her on some deep, primal level. After all, if she didn't get the job done, who would?

Horrible things happened when she led teams. Horrible things happened when she didn't lead teams. Better by far, she thought, to light a candle than curse the darkness.

But Albion . . . Albion was tricky. Too much intervention on their part would almost certainly be counterproductive to whatever type of government that horrible little Italian was pioneering. The Authority could not be used as a crutch for their culture, nor could it be everywhere at once. Steps would have to be taken to ensure that a balance could be struck.

Why was she doing this? She wasn't entirely sure. On some level Jenny was forced to admit that . . . yes, she did want to help. Angie had caught her there, at least. It was a real pity; Jenny had hoped that her supply of guilt had been exhausted long ago, but, as with many things, this hope had been in vain. The destruction of Sliding Italy had been a difficult choice to make, but once she had ascertained that it was indeed the only solution she had issued the order without hesitation. The death of a country was a small price to pay for the freedom of the millions of people held under the iron glove of the blues, there was no question about that. And yet . . .

And yet. Jenny had fought many wars, both on the personal and national scale. She knew all about so-called "friendly fire" and the consequences it bore. Sometimes, late at night, her mind would be pulled towards thoughts of Sliding Italy, and the people who had lived there, blissfully ignorant of their fate until the ocean came rushing upon them, and what their final moments must had been like.

The drink helped. The drink always helped, that was the problem. She couldn't afford to become dependant on it now more than ever, and the side-effects of this relief had already become painfully obvious in the form of her carelessness and irritability. She never let herself become falling-down-drunk, of course, but she was coming perilously close to sliding into the old routine. A drink every now and then became a drink every day, and then, almost before you knew it, you were off the wagon and there were a dozen poor buggers burnt to a crisp in that pub outside of Glasgow and you still didn't know where your knickers had gone.

Right, ease up on the drink, Jenny thought with an internal sigh. Even if it's lookin' like events will call for mass quantities of it very soon. Especially with the century winding down . . .

So. What to do.

She had to prepare a strategy, of course. First off she needed to locate Apollo and the Midnighter and get them together with Shen for a quick briefing. Ideas were already beginning to occur to her, brittle little things that clamored for attention and served to greatly increase her headache. Strategies and suppositions flashed like lightning through her tired mind, and she started cursing the Italian ambassador in eight different languages now that she was certain she would get no sleep tonight.

Contact with Christine and Jackson wouldn't be too difficult -- Angie's nanodoor ensured that messages could be received via the Carrier and relayed to whatever dimension they were in. Communication would not be a problem. What made her uncomfortable was the concept of leaving the Carrier unattended for any long period of time. Something about the shiftship reminded her of a large, eager puppy, so long abandoned it welcomed even the slightest human presence on its decks. It responded the most to the Engineer and the Doctor, naturally, but it seemed to become . . . uneasy . . . without the presence of at least one of its "crew."

Jenny rolled herself off the couch and fell most un-gracefully onto the floor, cursing all the way. She picked herself up and wandered over to the old oaken desk she'd had taken onto the Carrier -- a desk she had owned since 1942. Predictably it was in less-than-perfect condition, its varnished surface decorated with the occasional scorch mark, bullet hole, and countless nicks and scratches, but she loved that damn desk. For one, one of its secret drawers contained a bottle of scotch that had been placed there in 1945. She was still waiting for an occasion special enough --or terrible enough -- to warrant its drinking.

She extracted a fountain pen and a pad of paper from one of the drawers and began to write. She had never quite cottoned to the idea of using computers for preliminary planning -- it lacked that "personal" touch that came only with forming words of ink on paper. Technology was all very well and good, but she'd be damned if she would let herself become dependant on it.

Time to sort things out, she told herself with a sigh of resignation.

//Sparks to Swift, Apollo, and Midnighter,// she thought, utilizing the nanite-born machines Angie had constructed to allow them constant radio contact, //Have your arses in Comms by oh-eight hundred tomorrow. Auntie Jenny's got a little surprise for you . . .// a nasty smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, // . . . and later you can all thank Jack and Angie for interrupting your vacations.//

Enrico was awakened quite rudely by a hard, sharp rapping on the door.

"I hope you're decent, ambassador, because Colonel Sparks is coming in," Jenny's voice came right before the door slid open. Enrico pulled himself into a sitting position, straightening his vest and wondering how long he had been asleep. The light outside the windows had become a vibrant orange, and his cell looked as if it had been soaked in honey. Jenny walked in without hesitation, now dressed in a tight black shirt and beige khakis. She was alone.

"Now," she said as the door slid shut behind her, "let's get right to it, shall we?"

"To what, Ms. Sparks?"

"Colonel Sparks. And you know what I mean. If we're expected to help you we need to know what we're up against."

Enrico ran a tired hand down his narrow face. "Oh, where to start?" he sighed. "All right, Colonel, the basics. As you may have surmised, we are in the midst of a rebellion. Regis' expansionist tendencies are known to you, of course . . ."

"Don't pussy-foot around with me, de Medici. I have six people to brief in about three hours, each one fully capable of decapitating you faster than a Frenchman folds at the sound of a capgun. I don't have time to play games."

"Very well." Enrico reached one hand to his breast pocket and came away empty. He sighed. "Colonel, do you perhaps have a cigarette?"

"Yes."

"May I have it?"

"We'll see. Speak."

"Very well." Enrico reached into the coat pocket of his duster and withdrew a roll of battered paper, which he handed to Jenny. "Here is a map of my world, the red marks marking Regis' current strongholds," he explained as Jenny unrolled it and took a look. "These are the places that our need is greatest."

Jenny whistled. "Busy little bugger, wasn't he?" she said after a moment of inspecting the map. "Christ. Hardly spared a continent."

"Unfortunately, no." Enrico massaged his temples. "There are no territories left in Africa . . . but nor is there life in all but the outmost fringes. It was irradiated and rendered uninhabitable twenty years ago, you see."

"Shit." To his surprise, Enrico could see an statement of true rage spread across the woman's features. "That fucking bastard. What's the current population of Albion?"

"It is . . . very low," Enrico confessed. "We have estimated it is perhaps a little less than half of your earth's. No more. Most of it is centralized in the Asias . . ."

"In the rape camps," Jenny finished coldly. Enrico nodded.

"Yes. There were established territories in the Americas, but they did not take well. Smallpox and Aeanic fever destroyed many of the natives--"

"Aeanic fever?"

"A disease brought by the original settlers of the blue. Europeans had been immunized to it fairly quickly, but the Spanish brought it to the Americas. Much like your smallpox and the American Indians, I understand."

"Ah, right." Jenny rubbed her left shoulder. "So that's what that especially painful vaccination was for in 1923. I wondered why it smelled like a five-day-gone cat. Go on."

"Well," Enrico said, bending forward to look at the map, "The Indian Islands are well off. They are trade territories, but even so they are fairly self-sufficient. It is Europe that was hit the hardest."

"Always is." Jenny reached into her back pocket and extracted a cigarette, which she handed to Enrico. Slightly taken aback, he accepted it and allowed her to light it for him. The tobacco tasted strange and the smoke was particularly foul, but the simple habit helped calm his nerves.

"I believe you were present in 1953 when Albion opened their doors and showered your London with bacteria," Enrico continued, coughing slightly as he exhaled the harsh smoke. Jenny nodded.

"I saw the doors open, and all the carnage that followed it," she replied, lighting a cigarette for herself. She closed her eyes and breathed in the unfiltered smoke.

"That night -- Schwartznacht, as the Germanic regions call it -- was the beginning of the end for the blues. Biological warfare in Albion was never done by halves. Their scientists married the most potent human and blue plagues and unleashed them on Europe. Unfortunately, they reckoned the vectors of the winds incorrectly, and the plague spread out of control. Those humans who were not killed were greatly weakened by it. I'm not sure if you know about the current situation of the blues . . ."

"If it's something that came up after the mid-fifties, I'm up the bloody creek. We thought the entire place was dead after the doors shut."

"All right." Enrico withdrew the cigarette and stared at it for a moment before continuing. "You know that it is extremely difficult for a human woman to not only conceive, but to bear a blue to term, correct?"

"Yeah, a lot of them used that as an excuse to screw like weasels in heat. I've been to some of the embassy parties."

"Well, that is why. The biological warfare unleashed on Schwartznacht has greatly weakened our people. I was born of a healthy family and well-cared for from birth, and yet two of my siblings did not survive infancy, and another died before reaching puberty. The connotations of 'healthy,' for our culture, is lamentably different from yours."

"So they were trying to get fresh breeders as well as our world." Jenny massaged her forehead. "Lovely. Going to use our pitches as graveyards, too, I'll bet."

"No, I believe they'd be more inclined to burn the bodies rather than waste land and energy with proper burials. That is what they did in Niger. And to make matters worse, the plague is still out there -- hidden. It is what they call a 'sleeper virus,'capable of laying dormant in its host for as long as five years before emerging again. South America, particularly in the jungles, is still deeply affected."

"How's it spread? Fleas, like the bubonic?"

"Sometimes." Enrico patted his coat pockets for a moment, then gave up. "I'm afraid I've left the vital statistics on the virus back in Albion. A pity. I confess that I am no virologist, but I do know that it is highly mutable. There are vaccines, but it is a gamble. You cannot be inoculated against every strain, and it changes constantly."

"I think I'll keep my team out of the biological hotzones if you don't mind," Jenny said dryly. "Give me something that we can hit without using a microscope."

Enrico smiled slightly. "I'm afraid that will be all too easy to come by," he replied. "There have been many riots since the destruction of Italy and our capital in Albion. The camps in China contain more dead than alive now. There were riots there, too, but this time against armed soldiers and halfbreeds who have become comfortable with the luxury of casual rape. They do not care that their government is gone -- they continue to terrorize the few small communities that still exist."

"That has possibilities," Jenny agreed. "The Midnighter is always whinging about not having a sufficient workout partner. This should be a bloody vacation for him."

The Italian raised an eyebrow. "Surely you cannot expect one man to defeat thousands of armed soldiers."

"Well, not on the first day. But give him a week or two and I'm sure he'll have the place cleaned up for you."

"If you say so." Enrico hesitated for a moment. "Colonel Sparks, there is one more thing to discuss. I would like to ask a favor."

"Jumping the gun a bit there, aren't you Ambassador?"

"Nonetheless, it must be addressed." He sighed, and removed the cigarette from his mouth. "Colonel Sparks, I beg you, do not slaughter the remaining blues."

Jenny blinked, looking offended. "Why would I do a thing like that?" she asked, straightening up. "I may be a fascist bitch, Ambassador, but I'm not genocidal. I don't attack civilians unless they decide to play silly buggers. Then the gloves come off and the steel-toed boots come on."

"Understood," Enrico nodded. "I have no love for the blues as rulers, but I do not wish for their destruction. I am related by blood to several prominent members of their society."

Jenny nodded. "De Medici. I should have known. Of course, that means you're related to my ex-husband, but I won't hold it against you."

"Thank you. How is Lorenzo, by the way?"

"Terrible. He's rotting in a cell under the nurturing eye of the British Department of Defense, no doubt being periodically sodomized by security guards."

"Good. My mother never did like him." He took another drag. "I must admit, Colonel Sparks, your attitude comes as a pleasant surprise."

"I've been ill." Jenny dropped her cigarette and stubbed it out with her toe. "Anyway, I'd best be on me way if you're done. I should get some sleep before one of those costumed altruists comes banging on me door in a few hours. You, too."

She turned to go, and Enrico suddenly moved to rise with her. She turned at the sound of his chair being pushed away from the table, eyebrows raised.

"Yes?" she said.

"Colonel," Enrico began awkwardly, "your cooperation is more than I dared hope, especially after my earlier actions." He bowed to her.

Jenny snorted. "You don't have to kiss the bloody dirt for me, de Medici," she said, tugging him upright. "I'm just doing my job, same as you. Nothing noble about it."

Enrico smiled. "Still, Colonel Sparks, I thank you. Sliding Albion thanks you."

"Then Sliding Albion had better have a hell of a lot of fags and quality alcohol over there waiting for me. Good night, Ambassador."

And then she was gone.

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