OHMCS: The Mountain

This fifth instalment of the On Her Majesty's Crooked Service collection takes us right up to the front door of the adventure itself, a remote, forbidding region of the Himalayas. At the end of the story, we meet the last of the three Dare sisters: Charlie, the tomboyish mechanic.

I was quite pleased with this story. Of all of them, this one started as the blankest canvas, with just a line in the original game about 'Charlie Dare and her mountain rescue team'. I tried hard to create a likeable group of credible, skilled good guys going about the business, whilst at the same time giving a decent impression of conditions up in the high peaks, and tingeing it all with a nameless menace lurking in the snowfields.

If anyone wants to to know what takes up the most time when writing a story for me, it's coming up with believable but not stereotypical names for the international cast of characters. You wouldn't believe how long I spent going through names of Sherpas.

* * *

The Mountain

Fabrizio cursed under his breath in his native Italian as he made his way slowly up the sheer mountain face. Below him were the rest of the hastily assembled rescue team, held together by lengths of rope which twisted distressingly in the high Himalayan winds. Tendzen’s rosy-cheeked face grinned up at him about twenty feet below his feet, with his brother Jangbu the same distance lower down. The others, Rikichi and Lorcas, were doll-sized figures even further below, slightly hidden by the outcropping rock. But he could feel the tension on the rope and knew he could trust them all. They were climbers, mountain men like himself. You had to rely on each other if were to survive the mountain. You just had to.

He repositioned his feet to get a better purchase and shifted his weight, probing with one hand for the next crevice. As he did so, Fabrizio could just see something above him. Something red and curved, quite out of place here in this land of grey and black and white.

“It is the tent. I see it!” he called down to the others. There were shouts of encouragement from below and reminders not to rush now that their objective was in sight. It was all too easy to forget yourself in the last few moments of any climb, to believe that all was well now. But the truth of the mountain was that you could never relax, never let yourself believe that nothing could possibly go wrong now, because that was when the mountain would remind you who was in charge.

He chuckled to himself at the superstitious, almost religious, way that he had come to think of life up here. But he knew he was not alone in that. They all had their little mental tricks or systems, things that they believed kept them safe from disaster. Rikichi had the polaroid of his girlfriend back in Osaka that he carried in his jacket pocket all times, fishing it out whenever they reached a summit, as if to show her the roof of the world. Lorcas would softly sing old Alpine folk songs to himself as he climbed, pretending he was still a boy, playing on the lower slopes of the Eiger. As for the two Sherpas, Tendzen and Jangbu often joked that their mother would kill them if anything were to happen to either of them. And having met their mother, Fabrizio knew that to be a threat even the mountain would have to respect.

Within the hour he had reached the tent. It clung to the side of the mountain like a barnacle, its brightly coloured man-made fabric bulging out and down from the weight of its contents. Fabrizio called out when he got closer, and was relieved to hear someone answering him from inside the tent, followed by a small but obvious shifting motion, like a baby in its mother’s womb.

The tent had been securely fastened to the rock wall at several points, but he could see that at least one of the pitons had worked loose, causing it to droop dangerously at one side. Surely the inhabitant was aware of the situation, but his reported injuries must have prevented him from reaching outside his flimsy shelter to secure the piton again.

Fabrizio positioned himself just to one side of the tent, forcing himself to look straight out from the rock wall at the cavernous nothingness that sometimes felt like a giant mouth about to inhale. He thought of Jonah and the whale, and of Pinocchio drawn into the great yawning maw of Il Terribile Pescecane. Then reminding himself that this was just another of the mountain’s mind games, he turned his head to one side, where Tendzen was making his way across the last few feet of rock to join him.

Together, they first secured the loose piton and then unzipped the tent’s flap carefully, all the while reassuring the man inside in a variety of languages. The emergency radio report they had received several days ago had been unclear as to his exact nationality, only that he was injured and in need of immediate rescue.

By a process of elimination, they determined that he was a Russian, part of a team attempting to claim the peak for the greater glory of the Soviet people. His injuries amounted to a broken leg, caused by a fall of some forty feet from a ledge above them, and a bloody gash across his shoulder, which looked more like someone had taken several knives to him than anything else. The man himself was cold, hungry and obviously in pain, but at least there seemed to be no hint of infection. Fabrizio and Tendzen both tended to his injuries as best they could, immobilising the leg and dressing the shoulder wound, then communicated to him that they were going to start lowering him down the rock wall to firmer ground, from where they would begin the long descent back to camp.

The man nodded, clearly eager to be moving, despite the inherent dangers in moving from his relatively safe position. He muttered something in Russian several times that neither he nor Tendzen understood, and then shook his head, as if dismissing a foolish notion. But he had spent days alone strapped to the side of a mountain, suspended above thin air, and Fabrizio knew full well how that might affect a man’s mind.

It took more than an hour to rig up a makeshift stretcher from the man’s sleeping bag, fixing extra pitons and carabiners, and passing extra rope down to Jangbu and the others to stabilise the bag as they lowered the man down. He winced and swore more than once as Fabrizio and Tendzen took the strain and played the rope out, trying not to let the bag bounce into the rock wall too often.

At length, and with more than a few close calls, the wounded man reached the firmer ground some hundred and fifty feet below, where Lorcas and Rikichi set about making a more thorough inspection of his injuries, breaking out the morphine and oxygen. By the time the others had climbed back down themselves, the Russian was much revived, though still unable to walk, and in deep conversation with Rikichi, who spoke Russian almost as well as his own Japanese.

Lorcas came over to Fabrizio and the two brothers, a puzzled expression on his weathered face.

“It is strange. The Russian’s injuries, they look like slash wounds, not from rocks, but blades. Or maybe a great cat or bear.”

“But there’s nothing that large at this altitude. Are you sure, Lorcas?”

“Definitely, mio amico. Three parallel incisions, some two inches apart. Claws, perhaps.”

At those words, Tendzen’s and Jangbu’s faces darkened and they exchanged worried looks.

“We go now. It is not safe here.” They both looked around as they spoke, and quickly set to collecting their gear.

As the team slowly descended to the pass, Rikichi moved up to join Fabrizio at the front, both of them planting their feet carefully on the packed snow. He looked eager to talk.

“What is it, Riki? Has he got worse?”

“His injuries? No. He will survive if we get him to the camp in time. No, it is what he says. About the attack.”

“Attack?” Fabrizio wasn’t sure his friend had used the right word.

“He says he fell because something was chasing him, that night in the snow. He had wandered away from his companions for some air, and caught sight of something strange in the distance. Lights, flashing on and off, high up on one of the more remote peaks.”

“Did he say which one?” Fabrizio knew there were still plenty of parts of the Himalayas that remained unconquered. But perhaps some other team was even now attempting the ascent of an as-yet unclimbed mountain.

“Mount Nirvana.” Rikichi replied, his voice flat. That particular peak was something of a local mystery, considered bad luck among the mountaineering community. Those who left to ascend it rarely returned, and those that did often spoke of freak accidents, avalanches and members simply… disappearing in the night.

“But what was chasing him? Did he see it?” In his mind, Fabrizio thought of the legendary yeti, the wen-di-go of the Himalayas, said to haunt these high, lonely valleys.

“It was dark, he said, but whatever it was moved quickly and softly, hunting him across the snowfields until it caught him on the shoulder as you saw. He staggered back to his team’s camp where they did what little they could for him, without medical training.”

“So they hung him over the side and left? Dio mio.”

“He said they were scared Fabi, in fear of their lives. Whatever it was had come for them twice more in the night. With their own wounds, they could not hope to move fast with an injured man, so they put him where they thought he would not be easily reached, and made their own way down at first light and headed for the nearest village. Whatever attacked them, it’s still out there, somewhere in the snows.”

They both shivered, and not from the cold.

The team pressed on, making good time in spite of their wounded burden, Jangbu making jokes in broken English and Lorcas singing his Swiss tunes to raise their spirits. But still they all felt unsettled, as if unseen eyes were upon them, from somewhere up in the rocks. That night, they took the watch in pairs.

In the morning, the sun glinting off the icy peaks above, they continued their descent, negotiating treacherous narrow ledges and crevasse-strewn ice bridges, ever aware that they were not quite alone. Even Tendzen had stopped smiling, and had his knife out as if expecting an attack at any moment. They were all tense, hardly speaking except to point out natural hazards.

They felt it first as a vibration, a low rumbling, and all feared an avalanche. Then it became a noise, grinding, squeaking and clattering. It was Rikichi who spotted it first, lumbering up the whitened slopes to meet them, belching smoke and churning the snow beneath its great treads.

Fabrizio drew his pistol, unsure what to expect. A vehicle, up here? But there was no such rescue machine within five hundred miles. And who would be mad enough to drive up here anyway?

As it rumbled closer, the team could make out a figure inside the snow-machine’s cabin, wrenching the steering controls left and right with seeming abandon. Unseen attackers on the mountain, strange lights on the peaks, and now this? Perhaps altitude sickness had claimed them all.

The vehicle ground to a halt and disgorged its driver, a smallish figure bundled up in a curiously designed jumpsuit. Twirling a large spanner as another might idly flip a coin, the figure stomped through the snow toward them, a pony-tail visible beneath her woolly hat. Fabrizio could only stare in sheer disbelief. A girl..?

“Hello chaps, Charlie Dare. I was in the area and heard you might need a lift. Hop in and I’ll explain what you can do for me in return.”

OHMCS: Soldier on Watch

In this short story, we meet Eric Köhner, late of the SS and now right hand man of the malevolent menace known as the Guru.

I thought it would be fun to write a piece as viewed through the eyes of the master villain's deputy, someone who is all too aware of the short life expectancy of your average 'baddie's minion'. Unlike the deadly Kali, Köhner is a pragmatic mercenary, rather than a brainwashed loyalist to the Guru's cause. He cares little for his employer's devilish master plan; he's only here for 'the money and the bloodshed' (itself a shout-out to an obscure mercenary character played by In At The Deep End's Paul Heiney in the comedy film Water (1985).

The title of the story is taken from the original German title of Lili Marleen, Köhner's favourite song. Note the foreshadowing of the short story The Perfect Sage of Deaths, when Köhner muses on the Guru's apparent game-playing. Biberswald is the name of the town in a German textbook I read at school (hey, if Dr Who can reuse Latin textbook character Caecilius in Fires of Pompei...).

Köhner is one of those old Nazi officers who never quite salutes properly, as identified in this classic Smith and Jones sketch: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U_Z6tv7cQmM

Points will be awarded for naming the homage to a classic 20th century adventure novel in the opening lines, as well as identifying the origins of Köhner's two dogs.

* * *

Soldier on Watch

Köhner returned to base at 1500 that midwinter day with a mood as black as the old SS uniform he kept in his quarters. He had now spent some twelve weeks in the mountains and was thoroughly sick of the place.

Disembarking from the cable car and stepping out into the frigid air of the high Himalayas, he scowled at his surroundings and stamped his boots in the snow.

Mount Nirvana was the base of his employer’s latest project, some nonsense to do with satellites that he only pretended to understand. That sort of thing was best left to over-educated scientists and the Guru himself, who seemed to revel in every little technical detail of his infernal schemes. To Köhner, it often seemed that his uncanny master saw these plots and schemes as little more than a game, some ridiculously complicated game of chess with thousands of pieces and a board the size of the world.

And what did that make Köhner himself? A pawn? Certainly not. Was he not a former Scharführer of the infamous SS, the so-called ‘Butcher of Biberswald’? Had he not commanded troops of his own, leading his men into the teeth of battle? Had he himself not ordered the deaths of countless others, be they armed enemy units, bothersome captives or simply intransigent local peasants? No, no pawn he, but not a king either, not while he leapt to the strange, often unknowable, whims of his cruel employer.

Köhner mused for a moment at his own self-delusion. To think of his relationship with the Guru as that of employer and employee, or even general and captain, was to put far too pleasant, far too civilized, a face on matters. Nobody ever left the Guru’s service, nobody ever mustered out or moved on to other opportunities, not even valued personnel such as Eric Köhner. To his knowledge, the only way anybody ever left S.H.I.V.A. was by their death.

As he marched across the icy compound to the bunker entrance, he found himself mentally tallying the staggeringly high mortality rate of S.H.I.V.A. personnel by the Guru’s own command: whether it was trial by deadly combat, to relieve his boredom or to blood a new assassin, as a hapless test subject for some new laser device or sonic cannon, or far too often, slain by the Guru’s loyal, beautiful shadow Kali as punishment for some failure to please.

How Köhner himself had survived this long in S.H.I.V.A. was nothing short of a miracle, though he liked to think it had a little to do with his unique combination of ruthless efficiency and a willingness to sacrifice an underling in case of disaster. Survival was all to Köhner, survival and the glorious roar of battle.

The bunker’s interior, shielded from the freezing temperature and merciless winds outside by several feet of concrete, was a welcome shelter from the elements, which Köhner had noticed had become even harsher since the Guru had begun experimenting with his latest electronic toy. He shook the snow from his outer garments as two guards saluted him sharply, as he had drilled them to do.

Köhner flicked back a casual salute of his own, too pre-occupied with his thoughts to register their faces, though it scarcely mattered. Why waste his time with the names and faces of men who could be dead by next week? Or tomorrow? Or within the hour, should the Guru’s mood take him? Besides, they were hardly soldier material, little more than uniformed thugs better suited to guarding the doors to some dingy Hamburg nightclub. Not like his old squad in Der Zweite Weltkrieg, his dogs of death. Now those were real soldiers; well-trained, well-armed, well-led. Not like this scum.

He turned down a concrete corridor and caught sight of a guard standing at ease by a laboratory door. Köhner came to a halt in front of him and looked the man in the eye. Snapping to attention far too late, the fellow fairly vibrated on the spot, beads of nervous sweat breaking out beneath his visor, his hand quivering against the butt of his shouldered rifle. He held the guard’s gaze for a few more seconds, leaning in slightly and breathing down his nose.

“As you were.” he drawled, and moved on. Spineless wretch. How could he hope to lead such as that into battle? Fear was a palpable presence in Mount Nirvana, as it was in all S.H.I.V.A. bases. It was something Köhner understood, and harnessed as best he could, though even he felt its debilitating effects scraping away at his well-ordered mind.

He came to the guards’ barracks and stood at the open door, nodding to his sergeant, an American brute called Cobb who had distinguished himself, though his former superiors in the U.S. Army might have said ‘disgraced’, by his bloody activities in Southeast Asia. A useful man, Cobb stood to attention, dropping an oily rag he had been using to maintain his sidearm, currently in pieces on an upturned packing case. Glad to see someone as eager as he for action, Köhner nodded to his subordinate and let the man get on with his work.

Before reaching his personal quarters, the Scharführer paused at some kennels, where two of the base’s savage attack dogs instantly leapt at the bars of their confinement, snarling and biting, their claws grating against the metalwork.

“Ach, you are hungry, yes?” inquired Köhner, squatting down to the beasts’ level, careful to keep just out of reach as they continued to snap and slaver with a near rabid fervour. He fished in the pockets of his outer coat and pulled out something red and ragged. “You like this, Struppi?” He dangled the scrap before one of the dogs, which lunged forward eagerly, teeth flashing inches from Köhner’s face. He grinned. “And you Blondi, you want this too, hein?”

Now both hounds jostled for the meaty morsel as he tossed it between the bars and let them fight for the treat, tearing it to pieces between them in seconds.

Seconds passed as he took in every detail of this ferocious, primeval scene. “We are not so different you and I,” he said, standing and idly wiping his reddened fingers with a handkerchief. “Like you, I hunger, for battle, for the glorious rush of the blood, the sound of men struggling for their lives, for their deaths!”

His voice had risen considerably in volume during his address, and a little self-consciously, Köhner nodded to the squabbling dogs and let himself into his quarters, closing the door with a satisfyingly well-oiled click.

The room was small - he did not require much space for comforts - but furnished according to his needs. A bed, a clothes stand where his old uniform hung, a wall-mounted rack for a few automatic weapons, a dog-eared, black and white photograph of Eichmann and an ageing gramophone player. He put a record on and moved the needle over. Scratchy, familiar words crackled out of the speaker as Köhner shrugged off his outer coat and sat down on the bed, closing his eyes to better take in the music.

“Ah Lili, it was always you, only ever you,” his mind drifting back across the years to a younger man, a soldier alone on the front. Köhner’s whole body began to relax, the months of inactivity up here in the mountains, the endless drills, the capricious cruelties of his master, the utter monotony, all melted away with the music. Now he was at peace, now he could-

The Mount Nirvana security alarm sounded, drowning out the tinny old record. Harsh, insistent klaxons which could only mean that there was a security breach. Köhner became instantly alert, eyes now wide open, hands reaching for his weapons with practised fluidity.

Bursting from his quarters, he raced along the stark corridors of the bunker heading toward his assigned defensive position, as he had long trained – dare he say hoped? – for.

Men scrambled from the barracks and other points, converging on Köhner, looking to him for leadership.

“You, you, you and you, with me, to the communications mast. Cobb,” the sergeant loomed at his side, “take two men and secure the radar array.” The American grunted and loped off across the compound.

“And somebody bring the dogs. Schnell!”

OHMCS: Kali's Angels

In this short story, I introduce the deadly Kali - 7TV's Elektra-as-Bond-villainess and her loyal, lethal Daughters of SHIVA. We witness Kali's formidable skills and divided loyalties, as well as learn a few tantalising clues to her origins which ties in with other 7TV characters.

As with all the OHMCS stories, I tried to build in references to their characters' actual skills and equipment, as seen on the game's stat sheets, obsessive that I am.

Points will be awarded for identifying Kali's roguish quarry, the location of this jungle encounter and characters from an obscure 1970s martial arts/blaxploitation movie.

Note: In the original version of this story, she chops the snake's head off. My dear serpent-loving partner found this needlessly upsetting, so I crumbled and changed it so that Kali shows mercy. I imagine Peter Benchley faced similar issues with Jaws.

* * *

Kali’s Angels

She remained perfectly motionless as the python coiled up her leg. Its green and black scales glinted in the jungle light as the snake wound around her in muscular pulses. Though not venomous, the python could still inflict a nasty bite, and was certainly strong enough to slowly squeeze the life out of her, if she let it.

Kali kept her heart rate steady and concentrated on maintaining small, slow breaths. Pythons hunted by heat-detection, and she didn’t want to let out a sudden gasp of hot air and in so doing trigger the creature’s attack reflex prematurely.

The diamond-shaped head moved up over her chest as she clung to her perch atop an old statue at the edge of the ruined temple. Slowly, ever so slowly, she brought one hand up, mirroring the motion of the python as it inched up to her neck. A probing tongue flickered against her cheek, feeling her, sensing the minute vibrations of her breath.

At the edge of her vision, she saw the python’s great head drawing back, and felt quivering vibrations up and down its coiled length, the precursor to the strike. But Kali was faster, almost superhumanly fast. Before the snake could bite down on her face, her hand whipped forward, seizing the creature just below those awful, widened jaws.

She gripped hard, straining her sinews against a killing machine comprised almost entirely of muscle, and locked eyes with the python. Seconds passed with neither moving, the serpent held out at arm’s length. The jungle seemed to pause.

Then just as suddenly as it struck, the snake’s jaws snapped shut and the coils around Kali’s body began to loosen, its tiny brain finally realising that it had chosen this prey unwisely. With rhythmic, unhurried pulses the python spiralled down the statue to the leaf-strewn floor, and soon disappeared into the undergrowth.

Kali looked around to see if the brief disturbance had given her position away. But with the exception of a few fluttering birds and a couple of hooting monkeys over the far side of the old temple courtyard, there was no movement, though she knew she not alone.

Across the winding pathway through the vegetation, a few stone pillars and lintels remained upright, casting strong shadows in the setting sunlight. Anyone passing this way would be sure to walk directly beneath them, as she had planned. She made a small hand gesture, and several shadows below the stonework responded in kind. Good. The Daughters were in place.

She mused at the strange series of events that had brought them down from their mountain base high in the Himalayas. How an enemy from the world outside had succeeded in planting a double agent within the ranks of the S.H.I.V.A. faithful. And how the Guru, in his limitless wisdom and piercing insight, had sensed the viper in their nest and flushed him out.

The man had done well to get this far, this fast. Escaping from Mount Nirvana itself had been an impressive enough feat, costing the lives of several guards during his flight, not to mention several more when news of the security breach reached the Guru’s ears. Doubtless the spy had employed some clever device to effect his escape, a small explosive concealed in a shoe perhaps, or possibly an electronic lock pick in his cufflinks. Kali was endlessly amused by the wonderful toys the enemies of her master brought with them.

They had tracked him down the treacherous mountain passes, through the high valleys and foothills and down into the jungle, where he doubtlessly planned to use the heavy tree cover to hide his progress from S.H.I.V.A.’s eyes in the sky. That was clever of him, but it would not be enough to save him from the Guru’s long reach. Kali lived to serve her master, and to remind their enemies that the price of standing against him was death.

A sound brought her back to the present. Several pairs of feet moving carefully but quickly along the jungle path. It must be the spy, and whoever was aiding him. She pressed herself closer to the head of the statue, a rearing stylised leopard. A brief glance to the shadowy archway indicated that her companions were also ready and as still as the stones themselves. She indicated that they should wait and close the trap behind the intruders.

Presently a small procession emerged from the foliage. Several men and one woman. Most of the men were locals, armed with machetes and laden with supplies for the journey. They were led by a native policeman by the looks of his uniform, doubtless one of handful of the local law authorities to have foolishly resisted the Guru’s influence.

Influence… the thought brought a long-buried memory to mind. An image of herself, somewhat younger, standing before the Guru in some nameless hidden fortress. Bruised, bleeding, but defiant, her clothing – a school uniform? – torn and bloody. Had there been an accident? A crash? She could not recall. The younger Kali, though that was not yet her name, said something to the Guru, challenging him, scorning this strange being’s authority.

In her mind, the Guru bristled, stepped closer to the girl. His eyes seemed to flash with an inner light as she started with a shock and put a hand to her brow as if struck by a sudden headache. Then she straightened up and leapt for him, hands outstretched, fingers clawed. The Guru took a step back in surprise, then redoubled his mental efforts, his eyes boring into the girl with greater intensity. She froze in place, her hands inches from his throat, her mouth twisted in a frustrated snarl. The Guru tilted his head, as if studying a rare specimen of insect, and leant in closer, his eyes seeing into her very mind…

Blinking, Kali shook off the distracting memories and concentrated on the mission. Below her the procession had passed under the archway and into the temple courtyard. Now she could see the spy himself bringing up the rear, a local girl clinging to his arm possessively. It was often the way with these men, using their charms and gadgets to impress some gullible native into lending their aid. Doubtless she had romantic aspirations for herself and this man. A pity they were soon to be thwarted.

The man himself still wore the stolen garb of a S.H.I.V.A. cultist, torn but somehow stylish on his athletic frame. Whether it was a dinner jacket, a wet suit or a robe, his sort always managed to present themselves with a certain style. It must be in their training. How she hated him and his kind.

The spy seemed to sense the danger, but a moment too late. Kali brought her blowpipe to her lips and let fly a deadly dart, laced with poison from a rare plant found only in a remote region of China. A local man fell, clutching his neck with a wordless scream as the others shouted warnings and brought their weapons up, scanning the temple ruins.

As they had planned, the Daughters took this as the signal to strike. Deadly daggers flew out from the shadows, finding their marks among the men who had begun to fire wildly in all directions. As one, three slender female forms dropped from their hidden recesses among the stonework and landed gracefully on the temple floor. The Daughters of S.H.I.V.A. made their way swiftly and sinuously into the fray, each distinguished from the other two only by a unique decoration upon her sixth chakra; one of ebony, one of ivory, one of jade.

As the three Daughters drew swords and clashed with the machetes of the local men, Kali herself unwound from the leopard statue and somersaulted to the ground before the spy, holding her knife before her. The man seemed strangely unruffled by the attack, as if was the sort of thing that often happened to him. He patted the now-screaming native girl on the arm, whispered something reassuring and stepped forward to meet Kali.

“Kali. Looks like you can’t stay away from me after all.”

He spoke with a sardonic, roguish manner. Was he English? Scottish? It was hard to tell. He fiddled nervously with his wristwatch.

“You have stolen secrets from the Guru, the all-wise.”

“You say stolen, I say borrowed. Surely we can settle this in a more civilized setting? Say the Hotel Assam, Saturday evening?”

How he mocked her. She could feel a red rage rising up.

“You, you are a spy, the enemy. You have stolen that which is precious to my master. Nobody likes a sneak.”

Why had she said that last part? It was if words from her old, forgotten life were dripping through. Distractions, weaknesses. She would punish the smooth-tongued agent for confusing her.

Kali let the rage rush up over her like fire, and leapt in, her blade flicking out. The man’s eyebrow rose as she closed in, no doubt betraying his fear as he twisted the dial on his watch. With a click, a small jet of gas puffed out from the man’s wrist and engulfed her, choking and blinding. Kali cursed. Another toy!

Then from one side a small but vicious fist found her unprotected jaw and everything went black.

When she awoke, Kali’s first thoughts were of her failure to kill the double agent and the dreadful fate that the Guru meted out to those who disappointed him. Only afterward did she pause to consider that the spy had not killed her when she was defenceless, as she surely who have done in his place. A fool, a weak, romantic fool.

The three Daughters sat around her in a protective circle, their chakras glinting in the moonlight. The mountains seemed closer than they had been. They must have borne her some distance back to S.H.I.V.A.’s lofty abode, doubtless to face her punishment.

“Dark One,” one of them spoke, “Word has been sent from the Guru with new priorities. The spy has been allowed to make good his escape, as per the master’s great plan.”

Kali rose to her feet shaking her aching muscles loose and clearing her head of the gas’s after-effects. So perhaps she would not pay the price for failure after all, but still the denial of the kill weighed heavily on her. She indicated that the Daughter should continue.

“Others are coming, and in great force, to storm the gates of Mount Nirvana itself. We are required at the Guru’s side, to show them the folly of defying S.H.I.V.A.”

“Who? Who would dare?” Kali asked.

The answer, when it came, brought a wry smile to her lips.

“Then it is their deaths that will atone for my failure this day. Come, my angels.”