Welcome to the sixth and final part of On Her Majesty's Crooked Service. The longest of all six 7TV stories, we finally meet the master villain of the whole plot, the otherworldly invader known as the Guru. I originally conceived him as an homage to Doctor Who's Master, especially the Roger Delgado version; in the faux TV Times listing which accompany many of the 7TV sourcebooks, the Guru is played by an actor called Rodd Aleggero.The character also has dashes of Fu Manchu, the Lord of Strange Deaths himself, as well as iconic Marvel villains Doctor Doom and the Red Skull. The scenes in the dormant volcano are call-backs to an earlier 7TV game You Only Live Dice, pitting the fiendish Dr Mao against the heroes of Department X.
For one last time, points will be awarded for spotting references to: a Stanley Kubrick film, a noted 19th century SF novel, a number of well loved British childrens' shows, a classic sitcom and Flash Gordon.
The unseen player mobilising the heroic Daredevils to oppose the Guru's machinations is in fact the Dare sisters' daddy, never seen on screen. A former adventurer (and some say astronaut), Dare senior issues his 'Devils' their orders from a speakerphone, much in the style of a popular US show from the 70s.
* * *
The
Perfect Sage of Deaths
Nothing stirred
in the chamber apart from the strange inky black smoke that curled and roiled
lazily like a phantom hydra. It crawled across the concrete floor and slithered
over odd stone protrusions that might have been the product of natural erosion
deep beneath the waves or else sculptures carved by some lunatic hand. The
smoke climbed the walls in heaving exhalations and drifted across the ceiling
in blind, meandering tendrils. It clung to everything, obscuring all.
With a mechanical
hiss a circular aperture large enough to admit a man opened in one rough wall.
Dull red light seeped in through the airlock, casting an eerie light on the
smoky chamber within. A figure stood at the portal, arms by his side, body
erect. He wore an unusual jumpsuit that covered every inch of flesh, complete
with hood, visor and breathing apparatus. The smoke billowed around the figure;
crawling, probing.
The sound of
the man’s breathing was amplified by his mask as he stepped through the
aperture and into the chamber, the swirling black and red rendering everything
beyond arm’s reach an amorphous mystery. Through his protective hood he could
hear strange noises somewhere beyond sight. Low, shushing sounds like the sea,
or a giant’s gurgling breath.
“Master,” the
man’s voice came out muffled and oddly flat, as if the unsettling surroundings,
which would surely have given even the most hardened pause to consider what strange
forces were at work here, had failed to trigger in him that most primitive of human
emotions: fear of the unknown. “The new recruits are ready for your
inspection.”
He stood patiently
as the seconds passed, the smoke continuing to caress the seals of his
protective clothing. At length, the indistinct guttural sounds receded and a
figure approached from the chamber’s depths. A bearded man, clad in simple
loose garments of unrelieved black, he wore nothing that would ward off the
smoke, nor whatever other hazardous conditions existed here. The masked figure
bowed his head obediently and then swivelled on one foot to allow the man in
black to pass unobstructed into the airlock.
As the heavy
circular door sealed tightly behind them and the atmospheric purifiers whirred
into life, the red lights in the ceiling reflected oddly off the bearded man’s
eyes. His pupils seemed impossibly tiny, little more than pinpricks, which
would have struck the masked attendant as odd for someone who had just emerged
from such a dark place. Except that the man was not capable of forming such
questions, nor of speculating on any other curious aspect of his master, the uncanny
Guru, supreme leader of S.H.I.V.A.
“Inform the
technicians to increase the ratio of smoke to atmosphere by twenty units. The
current solution is too dilute for sustained efficacy.”
As he spoke
in clipped, unaccented tones, the Guru’s pupils began to return to normal, though
his eyes seemed to flash with a certain inner light.
“It shall be
done, superior master.”
The outer
door of the airlock cycled open and the Guru stepped out smartly, followed by
the masked man at a respectful distance. The corridor outside was of plain
concrete, brightened by functional strip lights overhead. The air held the
suggestion of a chill, the hint of a breeze. Distant sounds of machines and men
echoed off the hard walls. The masked man disappeared through a nearby door as
the Guru turned the other way, his hands clasped lightly behind his back, slippered
feet leading him through double doors marked ‘RE-EDUCATION CENTRE’.
A short
bespectacled fellow in a soiled lab coat hurried up to usher him into a small
viewing room.
“Ah, Great
One, thank you for joining us. I know your time is, ah, precious at this time
of-”
With a wave
of his hand, the Guru cut the man short and moved to the long one-way glass
that filled the room’s further wall.
“How does the
new conditioning process fare?”
The
technician hovered at his shoulder, sometimes addressing the Guru’s left ear,
sometimes looking down at his feet. Nervous fear rolled off the man like sweat.
“Well, as you
know we had experienced some, ah, teething trouble with the process early on,
but now, with the ah, acquisition of
the Brodsky method, I believe we have achieved some measure of success.”
He shuffled closer
to the window, through which a young man could be seen, strapped to something resembling
a dentist’s chair. Before him stood a small cinema screen displaying moving images
one after another in swift succession, accompanied by taped classical music.
Disturbingly, the young man’s head was held in place with a metal cap, his
eyelids pulled open by cruel prongs.
“He is being
administered the drug?”
“Yes Great One,
in increasing dosages with each session. The cumulative effect is quite
marked.”
The young man
writhed in the chair, unable to turn his head away from the cinema screen or
even blink. The images before him seemed innocuous enough - a couple holding
hands, a child playing with a puppy, a English policeman helping an elderly
woman cross the road – but they seemed to induce in him reactions of the most
extreme distaste and even nausea, as if these examples of simple humanity were anathema
to him.
“A week ago,
he was an unaffected youth taken from the streets of an urban housing
development, his head full of music and poetry. When the conditioning is
complete, he will find all aspects of charity, affection and rebellion totally
alien concepts. Only regular bouts of extreme violence will give him any
pleasure at all.”
The
technician stepped back, pleased with his pronouncements. Finally, the Guru
turned to look him in the eye. The man instinctively flinched under the gaze.
“And the
other crucial element..?”
“Ah, yes, yes
Great One. If you will continue to observe?”
The images
and music faded away to be replaced by a slide projection of the Guru’s head glaring
unblinkingly at the young man. The single word ‘OBEY’ hovered over the projected
face in large, bold letters.
“Excellent.
Continue with the treatment and report back to me within the week. I have plans
for him and his young friends.”
The Guru left
the viewing room and continued on, passing several squads of guards who all
stopped to bow as he approached. He halted at a door marked ‘Armoury’ behind
which muffled gunfire could be heard. Inside, he was met by another technician,
this one wearing goggles and ear protection. The room itself was a high
ceilinged shooting range, where several masked guards were honing their skills
with rifle and pistol. The deafening cacophony of the gunshots halted as the
Guru entered and the men turned as one to acknowledge his presence.
He raised an
eyebrow as someone continued to fire. Powerful reports came in regular bursts,
punctuated only by the sound of the weapon being reloaded. It was the furthest
booth, shielded from view. The technician gestured wordlessly and beckoned the
Guru to follow him to the booth, where a man dressed in a charcoal suit and tie
was firing a shotgun methodically from the hip.
The man did
not seem to register the Guru’s presence, pumping and firing with robotic
rhythm at a series of cardboard targets before him – childlike images of a
beardless Viking, a portly pirate, a saggy cloth cat – each target was shredded
by the city gent’s shot with cold, unemotional precision.
To one side
of the man sat a small tape player, issuing a short flatulent sound as each
target rolled in front of him. There was a slight twitch in the man’s eyes when
it sounded, as if recalling some deep-seated hostility. The noise rasped again
and he pulled the trigger at whatever stood before him.
The Guru
nodded in approval and motioned for the technician to follow him out of the
room.
“Impressive.
Where was this one found?”
“Wandering
naked on a beach, master. We tend to find quite a few like him. Middle-aged,
frustrated, aimless. Crying out for direction and an outlet for decades of
impotent anger. He will do well in our sleeper programme.”
“Indeed. Have
him progress to targets of real humans. Strangers, then work colleagues and
finally family. When he is ready, inform me at once.”
“It shall be
done, superior master.”
The Guru’s
slippered feet next led him to a large room something like a gymnasium, where
the smell of sweat and blood mingled with the exotic spicy incense wafting up
from braziers placed at each corner of the training area. Several robed men fought
each other with wickedly sharp hand weapons, watched over by a muscle-bound
slab of a man seemingly held together by scar tissue and scowls.
Most of the
combatants were already bleeding from cuts to their bodies, and at least one
lay slumped and writhing on the concrete floor, a tell-tale pool of red
collecting beneath him. Another man took a terrible slash across his chest from
his opponent, opening up a deep wound. But he did not scream, nor did he pause
in his own counter attack. If the man even felt the pain of his chest injury, he
did not show it.
At a tiny
motion from the Guru, the scowling trainer barked to the sparring men and the
flashing knives grew still. The men assembled into a line before their supreme
master, panting, sweating, bleeding. The Guru passed along the line, gazing at
each man in turn with narrowed eyes, taking in every detail.
He stopped at
one man.
“You, what is
your purpose?”
“I have no
other purpose but to serve the will of S.H.I.V.A.”
“And what is
your pleasure?”
“I have no
pleasure, save to die for the glory of S.H.I.V.A.”
The called
response, spoken with sufficient fervour, evidently pleased the Guru. He
addressed another of the fighting men.
“And what
should be done with their weak?”
“The weak
cannot be suffered to live.”
At this the
Guru’s head turned to where the badly wounded man continued to thrash and moan
in his own pool of blood. The others understood immediately his intent and
surrounded the injured man. A voice cried out. Knives rose and fell.
At length, he
nodded and turned to their trainer.
“These four,”
he indicated the least wounded of the fighting men, “will serve as my personal
guard. Have their injuries dressed and report to me in the control room.”
“It shall be
done, Perfect Sage of Deaths!” the scarred man replied smartly, using an archaic
title from the Guru’s past, bringing a brief twitch of a smile to his lips.
His inspection
of the trainees complete, he ascended several windowless floors, passing
barracks, holding cells and generator rooms eventually emerging into the open
air, the very summit of Mount Nirvana, his impregnable eyrie.
Frigid
Himalayan air whipped around him, but the Guru barely registered the
temperature difference, or the thinness of the atmosphere at such an altitude.
He turned to take in the vista. Mighty snow-draped peaks surrounded the base on
all sides, an impenetrable bulwark against land forces, should any be so
cunning as to discover the location of this, S.H.I.V.A.’s most formidable
fortress. Not to mention so foolish as to attempt a direct assault.
He stood on the
flat, snow-blown concrete roof, overlooking Mount Nirvana’s central compound.
Below him, men scurried like mice, unloading the cable car, carrying out
routine maintenance on the radio mast, patrolling the vertiginous perimeter
walls. He briefly considered his lieutenants, abroad in the outer world, but
soon to return. The butcher Köhner and beautiful, deadly Kali should be here to
witness his imminent moment of triumph.
It amused him
to allow Kali to retain some measure of free will, of choice. To do otherwise
would be to crush her spirit so completely as to eradicate that fiery
wilfulness that made her so formidable. Making use of her was not unlike
grasping a tiger by the tail, but he remained confident of his ability to tame
her when the time came.
Köhner on the
other hand was a different proposition. He would never accept the Guru’s
control, not fully. The man was a born survivor and with that instinct came the
inevitable whiff of betrayal. Still, he was useful for the time being, as long
the Guru continued to place the man in the thick of danger where he would
succumb to his violent nature.
So much for
his own people, his pawns in the great game he played against the world. But what
of those arrayed before him, he mused. The flamboyant double agents and enigmatic
men of tomorrow? For the time being he was confident that none of his old
enemies suspected S.H.I.V.A.’s presence up here in the remote icy heights. But
that was not to say nobody was moving against him.
Unfamiliar pieces
had begun assembling, moving, forming strange alliances. He had detected a
distinctively feminine element entering the game. A woman… no, women, and with a strong connection to each
other. A rival cult perhaps? The ties between them seemed as thick as blood,
bonds as unbreakable as those of his own loyal followers once their
re-education was complete.
These new
pieces seemed to move across the board with ease and great speed, unfettered by
restrictions of distance. Great Britain, the Alps, even here in the Himalayas
themselves, he had glimpsed these new pieces gathering their own forces, their
own sacrificial pawns. And always at their centre, a gap where the prime mover
should be. Invisible, even to the Guru’s unearthly Game of Antares, this player
was somehow shielded from detection. Truly a rival player to test his
intellect.
But still… it
would be well to draw his own pawns close. Just as a precaution. Perhaps an
inspection of the base’s defences was called for.
The security
office, tucked away in one corner of the wind-swept compound, was composed
largely of flickering internal television screens, depicting almost every room,
corridor, and sub-basement of Mount Nirvana. As the guard on monitor duty stood
to attention, the Guru saw that he had been reviewing a muted film reel.
The angle was
taken from high up in some vast natural stone chamber, a cavern perhaps, or
dormant volcano. In the foreground atop a fragile gantry, a Chinese man
screamed silently at hard-hatted minions, his fists clenching emphatically
before him. The hands glinted with a tell-tale metallic sheen in the camera
lens.
“Now, he showed promise,” the Guru mused out
loud, and then addressed the security guard directly. “Maintain the utmost
vigilance. Pieces are moving across the board in unexpected patterns.”
The man
nodded in dumb compliance. The Guru stepped outside into the chill air once
more and crossed the compound. A flash of metal low to the ground caught his
eye, as a strange mechanical construct skittered across the stones and halted
before him, buzzing with electronic intelligence. He stooped to inspect the
foot-long mechanoid, an oversized steel and plastic arthropod with bulging
silver globes for eyes and twitching, jointed cilia for locomotion.
Producing a
small control box from inside his garments, the Guru briefly tinkered with the
dials as the mechanoid reversed and turned at his command. He whistled as if to
a pet robotic dog, and the bizarre construct scuttled away again, disappearing
round the corner of a utility building. A robot dog? He dismissed the
preposterous idea as swiftly as he had thought of it and headed for the
building marked ‘CONTROL ROOM’.
Like all
loyal followers of S.H.I.V.A., the technicians within the main control room leapt
to their feet when he entered. Below long windows which looked out on the
Himalayan range, large electronic consoles blinked and beeped. Nearby banks of
computer tapes whirred back and forth with the constant motion of calculation.
The Guru stood in the centre of the room and breathed it all in. Here was where
he would reach out and change this world.
A technician
with a clipboard bent his head in supplication.
“Great One,
preliminary tests of the Weatherbreaker satellite have yielded one hundred per
cent success, as predicted.
“Indeed. And
the test target?”
“The English
village you selected was completely devastated, master. Local meteorological
patterns were warped to produce concentrated cyclonic and electrical conditions
of unprecedented magnitude.”
A television screen
to one side showed a news report of cottages and farm houses flattened and
charred, a crying child clutching a tattered toy bear in the foreground.
“Excellent. Proceed
with preparations for a large-scale demonstration. It is time the governments
of the world learnt to respect our power.”
“Do you have
a suggested target, master?”
The Guru
considered.
“Somewhere
large, well-populated. A capital city. London..? Washington..? Somewhere with a
large lightning conductor to facilitate the destruction. Something tall and
metallic…”
Then it came to
him. It would be perfect.
“Align the
satellite for Paris. I want it reduced to smoking rubble within twenty-four
hours.”
Nothing on
this planet could stop S.H.I.V.A. now. Nothing could stop him. Who would dare?
