By Alan Morgan

Episode One - 'Caligula and Conurbia'

Part 1 of 'Day of the Dead'

"Dydyn ni ddim yn oer!" Rhys the Leek declared. He had been lumbered with dragging the bag for the last fifteen minutes and was not the least bit happy about it. He and Charlie Bittersweet had been pulled over by the police on Pall Mall and, having been caught with the struggling body, they had only possessed enough money to buy the charge down to dangerous driving.

"Speak the Queen's English, Mr. Leek. There's no point in moaning, we'll be there soon enough," Charlie answered his companion. Both were dressed in their brown removal-man coats and flat caps. You had to look the part after all, it was expected. Rhys remained silent but dumped the bag beside the Serpentine as their destination came in sight.

"Why'd they want it placed on the memorial anyway?" Rhys moaned, this time dropping his native Welsh. He was a big man, but middle age had marked him with a spreading gut and more than a little grey in his proud side whiskers. Charlie Bittersweet was much shorter with a ginger moustache and a pair of red caterpillars above his eyes that passed for brows. He was also shivering despite the fingerless woollen gloves he had fetched from the van when they had been forced to leave it at the Bow Street nick.

"Ritual I s'pose. You know the toffs - keeps them secure in the knowledge of their gawd given superiority over mere menials like us."

Rhys thought about this. "Wankers." He finally determined. The 'a' was drawn out as despite his twenty odd years in Mother London his accent had become, if anything, stronger. Charlie didn't seem to be paying attention though - following his gaze Rhys saw that there was someone walking towards them along the gravel pathway. They looked at each other, looked at the bag that lay between them, then back to the approaching figure. They hadn't the cash to pay off any more nosy policemen. Charlie took out his silenced Flatback and Rhys let the iron bar slide into his hand from the sleeve of his coat.

They didn't like killing people. Not for free anyway.

"Lovely night, boys." The interloper said in a cultured tone. Both men hastily put their weapons away and removed their caps. Charlie smiled and bobbing up and down agreed with the statement.

"Splendid night, Mr, Jakkal."

"Marvellous weather, Mr. Jakkal." Agreed Rhys.

"Feeding the ducks, Mr. Jakkal?" Charlie asked in a servile tone. Their voices were tumbling over one another now. "Can't ferget the ducks, Mr. Jakkal."

"Very appreciative animals, ducks."

"Very intelligent creature yer average duck, Mr. Jakkal." Mr. Jakkal was now very close to the pair and nodded happily at each comment, his suit Saville Row, his tie regimental. Liver spotted hands held a paper bag and a copy of the previous days London Times. Charlie and Rhys grinned like idiots as the moonlight caught Mr. Jakkal's high forehead and baggy grey skin.

"Popped out for a bite to eat, Mr. Jakkal?" Charlie said to fill the silence. Mr. Jakkal smiled back showing small, even teeth. Neither looked at the bag at their feet that was beginning to stir. Rhys managed a swift kick to one end without averting his gaze from their visitor. The bag shuddered and went still once again.

"Oh no." Mr. Jakkal answered, somehow coming closer to them without anything so gauche as actually moving. "No, I fed earlier thank you very much. Lovely girl, a Miss. Newton - we met at the opera. Thank you for offering though."

The moment stretched out. Rhys coughed loudly until Charlie caught the hint. "Is that a Guards tie, Mr. Jakkal?" Bittersweet asked.

"Indeed, I served in my youth. It was a man's life then of course - a proper army."

"See any action, Mr. Jakkal?"

"La Haie Sainte. Bit of a dickens that day, let me tell you!"

"La Haie Sainte?" Rhys asked, puzzled.

"Waterloo, dear boy, Waterloo."

Thirty minutes later saw Leek and Bittersweet arranging their subject upon the Albert Memorial. Tied down, the man stared wide-eyed at the pair as they unrolled a number of bundles and decided what form of death they would arrange. Charlie was chuckling as Rhys fidgeted, obviously embarrassed.

"I didn't know!" He sulked.

"Yeah, but honestly - 'What, the Railway Station?'" Charlie did a fair impression of Rhy's Welsh accent, "I almost pissed meself!"

"Shut the fuck up. Bloody vampires." Rhys held up a selection of small self-powered dentist's tools. "What d'you reckon, Oral? Postman? Handy Andy?"

"I wonder if I might just go now?" Sir. Arthur Streeb-Greebling asked in a quiet but really rather worried voice from his place in the lap of Queen Victoria's never-forgotten spouse.

"Handy Andy." Confirmed Charlie Bittersweet and fetched a small power-sander from within his coat.

"That new?" Rhys took his shoe off, removed a sock and pushed it into Sir. Arthur's slack-jawed mouth.

"Nice in't it! Got if off Five-Bob. New from Germany - completely self contained and silenced. Can't knock the krauts for their design work."

"Bosch?"

"Heckler and Koch."

"I didn't know they made power tools."

"Came free with the new MP440. Matching finish." Charlie explained holding it up to the dim light. "See the way it catches? Luvverly! So black it's blue. They've added the diopter sight for night work."

"Ideal. Where do you want to start?"

The Albert Memorial, Hyde Park, 8.53 am.

"The feet. They started at the feet and worked their way up. Nice of them to avoid the genitals, poor dead fucker."

"Bit early to say that yet, sir. Best to wait for the pathologist wouldn't you say? We'll find out when the Doc gets here how bad off the old gent is."

William Chandler stared down at the policeman who was hovering helpfully below. He had gotten the call from Harry Slater less than an hour before and he had made it across town this quickly only because the cab office downstairs knew his family. The Memorial was already sheeted off from a curious public and the sergeant on duty had been only too keen to let Chandler take charge.

Billy crouched over the naked body and prodded it with his pen. Apart from the hands, the face and (of course) the genitals the skin had been removed over the course of less than an hour. He could see what had happened in graphic detail.

Really see what had happened, it was a side effect of his state.

"Leek and Bittersweet. Any witnesses?"

"Ah no, sir."

"Well, could you put out a call to have Rhys Glendowar and Charles Bittersweet brought to the nearest nick for questioning?"

"Not much point really, sir. They were up all night playing cards with some of the lads. Actually," Sergeant Crier pulled out his notebook from the front of his Armourplas jacket, "it seems I was there. Yes, see, I've got it noted down from last night's briefing." Bob Crier offered the page to Chandler who ignored it, preferring to keep his gaze upon Crier himself.

"Good night, was it? Win much?"

"I couldn't really say, sir. I'm sure the Chief Inspector will let me know later on today." Crier looked away and coughed. He didn't mind the line of questioning but he wished this freak from Orbital would remember to blink once in a while. It made Crier's eyes ache just looking at him. "Anyway, we can't be sure the subject is dead yet."

"Dead? He's lost nine tenths of his surface area to a pair of loonies with a Black and Decker! You yourself are standing in five pints of blue blood. How much more dead do you want?"

"Not for me to say, sir. Look, the Doc'll be here in a minute, he'll be able to tell you." Crier looked at the short man who had arrived to take over the investigation. William Chandler was short, a little over 5'6" and wiry. His face was very smooth, the eyes heavily lidded. Short dark hair was spiked up in a severe flat-top and he dressed well though in the fashion of the mod revival of a few years ago. Despite the large coat he wore he didn't seem to feel the early morning summer heat.

"Bet your gun's the bollocks," Crier asked dreamily.

"Sorry?" Billy answered.

"Gun - you Orbital boys must get some 'triffic kit. They only give us these Armco 5.50's." Crier pulled out his stubby pistol from the holster that was moulded into his armourplas vest. "What you got? Flatback? Hard to see, very quiet the Flatback. Maybe a Stinger? Lovely shooter the Stinger - short ranged I'll grant you, but any gun that can throw a stream of fifty micro-rounds into a bastard in less than a second has to be worth having. Solid plas magazine I hear - pellets converted in the chamber. Got a Shredder? Eh, have you?"

"Yeah, something like that." Chandler answered, aware that he was in the presence of someone who read far too many editions of 'Big Fuck Off Guns'. In actual fact he wasn't carrying a firearm. He had one (a crappy Armco like Crier's) but it was in one of his desk drawers in the Amber 3 office down the road. Chandler patted his coat pockets to assuage Crier's interest and Crier winked back unaware that all Chandler had on him were a few memory-plas cuffs, a dictaphone, his mobile, a sharp knife, some fishing line and a surgical stapler. What he didn't have were smoke bombs, thermite charges or a Deadarang.

Chandler was rescued from the conversation when a flap in the sheeting was moved aside and an elderly man in corduroy, tweed jacket and cardigan was being shown through.

"Morning boys." Doc Morrisay called. Several voices answered on both sides of the barrier. "What's all the fuss about then, eh?"

Chandler climbed down and pointed up at the body that was splayed face down above. The head was arranged around the statue's lap. Morrisay looked at it from afar. "Dear lord, accident was it?"

"No." Answered Chandler.

"Maybe." Added Sergeant Crier nervously.

"No." Chandler said with more venom.

"Let's see then." Doc Morrisay climbed the short ladder and tugged on the body's foot. "Hello? Are you all right, old boy? Feeling chesty?"

Unsurprisingly there was no answer.

The Doc clambered down again. "Bit dead, I'm afraid."

"Safe to move him then?" Sergeant Crier asked.

"Oh, I should think so. Give me a call if he says anything. Moans, clutches his head - something like that."

"Nice one, Doc. Stamp! Roach! Get that body down."

Chandler watched as two large policeman ducked in and heaved themselves up onto the Memorial. With a shove the body slid sidewise then hit the ground with a slight squelching sound.

"There you are I was right, dead as ham." Doc Morrisay grinned happily. He only stopped when the body was turned over. "Good lord, it's Sir. Arthur!"

Chandler paused halfway through lighting his ciggie. "You know this man?"

Ministry for Secular Affairs - Orbital Division, 9.04 am.

Harry Slater stood in the wood panelled outer office of his Lord and Master. He had been awoken a few hours ago with the news of the Hyde Park Affair (as it was already becoming known) and sent one of his department to take care of things. Strictly speaking, he had put his whole department on the case - the personnel list for Amber 3 only stretching to two, one of which was of course himself.

"Any idea what the old man wants?" Harry asked his superior's secretary. Miss. Newton yawned but didn't answer. She was wearing a black silk scarf around her neck, Harry noticed. He had seen a display of the things in Woolworth's last Saturday, part of the 'Argent' range. Mary Slater had wanted to buy one of the striking black and mustard yellow outfits but he had managed to convince her otherwise.

One wall was hung with an original Horsely (no doubt on loan from the Tate) and Harry had begun to look at the lines when the buzzer on Miss. Newton's desk sounded.

"You can go in now." No 'sir' Harry noted. Miss. Newton had jumped at the sound of the buzzer. Her eyes flicked towards the office behind her nervously as the door opened.

"Ah, Slater - good of you to drop by." Price said cheerfully as his junior entered the plush office. "Mary well? Young, ah, Mandy fine?"

"Andy sir, yes - they're both in good health. You sent for me?"

"I did? I did! Yes, you were duty officer last night. This Hyde Park affair, phone call from the Club - bad business Tanner. Desecration of one of the capitol's monuments, y'see. I gather you put one of your lads onto it? Any joy?"

"As yet, sir - no. I think Chandler's just got there, I'm sure he'll phone in when he has news."

"Good, good. I'd offer you a drinkie but I know you don't."

"Actually sir, I do, just that..."

"Nothing wrong with a drinkie Slater," interrupted Price, "makes a man of you. Lubricates the grey cells. Notice that your departmental budget hasn't been used up yet? Any reason?"

"Well, it's only June sir. Few months to go yet."

"Only everyone else is crying out for more cash, makes us look bad if one of the departments seems to have spare lucre. I'll transfer what remains to Bretnor and Gabriel, they're on important work. Need all the cash they can get it seems - had an invoice from one of their Superhero contacts. 'Odd Binz' his name is, typical costumed identity. Some sort of optical powers they claim. Still, good lads, got to rely on their judgement."

"If you say so, sir." Fucking Bretnor, fucking Gabriel.

"This feller - Chandler. Is he the one with super powers?"

"Of a kind, sir."

"Refresh my memory would you?"

Harry sat in the chair that was offered. He took out the notes he carried having expected just this, he had been forced to do the same thing each time over his last three visits.

"William Chandler, born Bermondsey, South London to Charles and Gerty. Father a cab driver, mother a cleaner. Attended St. Vera's Secure Facility for London Boys until the age of fifteen. Left, no qualifications."

"Bit of an oik?"

"I suppose so sir, yes."

"Remind me, Slater - you an Oxford or a Cambridge man?"

"Lewisham Polytechnic, sir."

"Knew a Slater once when I was in the field. Long haired bastard, wore jeans and a leather jacket. You remember him?"

"Ah no, sir." Tanner answered diplomatically. "Anyway, Chandler. He joined a private security firm, Horse Protection. The firm got the contract to guard Larkhill."

"Lord, don't tell me he's one of the Brood chaps?"

"No, sir. He did encounter the people you mentioned though when he wandered into the wrong part of the site. Lasted almost a full minute apparently sir, the record at the time."

"Oh dear, they catch him? Was it bad?"

"Quite bad, sir. They damn near killed him. Penrose (that was the man in charge of the site) was convinced by the boffins to let them have him. Bit of a cover up as you can imagine. They wanted to see what effect Muscle 7 would have on a man as he died. They waited until the final moment then pumped him full of the stuff."

"Filthy stuff, drugs. Can't be doing with 'em. Sure you don't want a drinkie?"

"Perhaps a small one, sir."

"Sorry, forgetting myself - total abstainer. Carry on, Slater, carry on."

"Well he remained dead for several hours. Then he seemed to get, ah, better. Penrose was most concerned when Chandler turned up at his office next morning demanding to know why he had woken up in the morgue. Had to tell him that he was dead."

"Aha - but he wasn't!"

"Actually, sir - he was, and Penrose had the P34C to prove it, there was nothing to be done. According to his social security, bank and employment records he was deceased. Just because he was walking about and shouting a bit didn't change a thing. The P34C had been correctly filed and that was that. He was dead. He tried to sue, but since he didn't exist the courts wouldn't recognise him for who he was. So he was passed over to Orbital. No one else could employ him!"

Price thought about this. "Thought he was some sort of super-hero?"

"Yes, sir. A week after his resurrection he threw himself off the roof of the Larkhill medical block, head first. He walked away with a head-ache."

"Good lord!"

"Indeed, sir. Well patently we were on to something and we brought him to London for tests. Chandler wasn't too happy about the whole thing but he'd signed the forms and so he had to do what he was told. We put him through a few, ah, rather direct tests."

"Sorry?"

Harry sighed. "We shot him several times, broke his neck with a lump hammer, weighted him down then threw him in the pool - that sort of thing. We even set fire to him once but instead of doing the usual he just ran around for twenty minutes screaming. In the end we employed a pair of independents who had a reputation for success in such things. They tried everything they could and eventually stole a meat-slicer from Mordacai's Deli."

"Old Mordacai's!" Price exclaimed.

"Yes, sir. They cut him apart and ran him through the machine until he was reduced to ten stone of sliced Londoner. It took him less than an hour to knit himself together."

"One moment, Slater." Price pressed the intercom on his desk that linked him to his secretary. "Miss. Newton? Yes, would you be so good as to cancel the lunch order. Thank you."

"You were having a sandwich today, sir?"

"Yes, roast beef. Local place, think you just mentioned it. So Chandler can't be killed? That's damn useful! We didn't make him wear a silly costume or anything did we?"

Harry pulled a six-by-eight from his notes and handed it over.

"Skull mask, black armoured body suit - what's with the scythe?" Asked Price.

"Powered fibre-point blade. We had it in stock from that super-villain Dr. Reaper."

"Reaper? Reaper... No, can't place him."

"He only appeared once. Tried to rob a bank, ran out of the place and straight into Bulldog Drummond. We had to remove the weapon from his rectum I believe. Chandler though wouldn't wear it, said it made him look like a 'right tosser'. We stuck him with his code name though, 'Lazarus'.

Price looked again at the photograph. "You have to see his point. Besides, it's not a very dramatic power is it? You can just read the papers can't you, Slater. 'British Hero isn't killed by Darknight!', 'Our Brave Boy doesn't die'. Imagine film footage on Newsnight - 'stop where you are or you'll shoot me, get away, and I'll get up again in a little while'."

"He has developed a few actual powers along the way." Harry defended his only agent.

"Energy beams? Sonic blast? Super breath? Telepathy? Acolyte of the Secret Source of Universal Destruction?"

"No."

"Well, he's no good then, is he? Granted he'd no doubt make a great field agent so he's probably best where is. Is he the last depository of ancient martial arts knowledge?"

"No. You're thinking of The Ghurka."

"Good lord, I remember The Ghurka. What happened to him?"

"He was shot, sir."

"Couldn't he catch a bullet with his bare hands? Ancient Nepalese technique?"

"He did catch the first one, sir. It was the other twelve that got around his defences. No, he isn't trained in anything formal. He's a bit 'tasty' though, as they say south of the river. One of the instructor's, Collins, tried to force him into the ring to teach him a lesson."

"Really? What happened? Collins gave him a damn good thrashing?"

"Not really, Chandler smashed the door into his head as they entered the Rumpus Room. He then proceeded to head-butt him whilst he was stunned. Two passing agents had to haul him off - Chandler was flattening Collins' bollocks with a fire extinguisher when they charged in."

"Bugger. So Chandler's on the case, then. Anything else you think I should know?"

"Yes, sir."

Sloane Square, Belgravia, London. 10.12am

"Well I was fantastic and it was a bloody good laugh!" Jeremy d'Arcy cried. His spiked hunting boots carved furrows out of the Loius XIV rosewood table as he stamped towards his sister. The room itself was vast and despite his elevated position, Jeremy's head was still a good five foot from the ceiling. Amelia d'Arcy smiled at her little brother as she neatly folded the leather hood on the table before her. Seated or standing about the table were four others, all of them in their own way of at least equal social position to the siblings who were the focus of their attention.

"He got away." Viscount Anthony Lucan said calmly. He himself was immaculately dressed in a reproduction 19th century 'white hunters' ensemble. His armourplas pith helmet hung behind him on the barrel of his Webley .303 hunting rifle - naturally enhanced with all the latest bells and whistles. Near the door Bullman was quiet - he knew he was to blame. Nanny Wetnurse slurped a bowl of kedgeree through her surgically widened mouth. It was on the turn but with no nose she was unable to tell. Everyone was more than a little frightened of her and each was loath to point out anything amiss.

"Not my fault - I herded him to King's Cross, it was that oaf who let him escape into the Market!" Jeremy pointed a white-gloved finger at Bullman who looked down. Despite being by far the largest one there, Bullman was much too shy to meet the gaze or challenge the accusation. Not that he could say anything in his own defence, Jeremy was telling the truth and they all knew it.

That night's fox had been a special case. The phone call had come from Lucan's father and it carried the weight of the Caligula Club. They knew that they and the other groups that formed the Chelsea Hunt were only protected because of the Club's influence. When it was found out that they had failed, that protection could well be withdrawn.

Lady Jocasta Hewitt stood up from the table, knocking her chair down behind her. She pulled her riding crop from one long boot and stormed towards Bullman. Slight pressure caused the crop to hum in her hand and she slashed it viciously across Bullman's chest, which was at a height equal to her shoulder.

"You prick!" She screamed at him. Bullman, big though he was, yelled as the whip ignited his pleasure/pain receptors and sent him gasping to his knees. "You fucking little prick!" She screamed again, lashing him once more across his now reachable shoulder. The swearing sounded odd from the young woman coming as it did in her immaculate Hampstead tones. "You know we can't follow the fox into the market. Camden's neutral by night - if we fucking went in there the Hunt would be the laughing stock of London! I am not having a bunch of filthy crusties laughing at me and shouting at me to 'get my tits out!'. How did you fucking lose him! He's over eighty!"

Bullman crawled across the floor on his vast knees and his specially made boxing gloves. Jeremy jumped down in front of him and pulled him up by the hair, getting brylcreem over his kid gloves.

"You know what I had to do?" He asked sweetly. "I had to phone up those assassins from that ghastly Peckham place. Good god, the one I spoke to was Welsh! I haven't had to speak to a bloody prole since Daddy made me take the chambermaid up the arse when she spilt the Port! Even then it was just 'fuck the proletariat'."

"Sorry." Bullman said, slowly trying to stand.

"Stay DOWN!" Hissed Amelia catching Bullman's neck with her multi-flanged whip. "You've been a very, very bad boy."

The phone rang clear and loud across the room. Whilst everyone remained still, like children caught in the sweety cupboard, Jocasta walked quickly over to the far table and picked up the receiver. For long minutes she said very little before replacing the receiver on the cradle.

"We're in deep fucking shit." She said. There was silence as everyone sat calmly back in their seats. "That was your father, Lucan. He says that Streeb-Greebling was placed on the Albert Memorial as instructed."

"Oh, good." Said Bullman encouragingly. "They don't know then?"

"Oh, they know. They know we fucked up! Did anyone actually tell that pair of lower-class mongrels what to do with Streeb-Greebling? Did anyone actually fucking tell them?"

Jeremy's face went ashen. Bullman smiled at him, pleased to be not the only one home to Mr. Cock-up.

"Jeremy..." Purred Jocasta, coming around the table until she stood behind him. "When you spoke to that pair of fuckers, did you tell him it was to be a ritual killing? Did you actually fucking mention to them about the dove and the twice-born raven? Did you fucking tell them to put the sign out in front, the one with 'Paracelcian Society Business - Safety of the Realm' on it. Did you?"

"Did you, sweety?" Amelia asked her brother. Jeremy found a lop-sided grin that he could use.

"Well, we were in a hurry. We were all panicking - you remember, girls?"

"I fucking remember you making the call and assuring us it was all 'humpty'! Well I'll tell you since it seems to have slipped your mind - no you fucking didn't !" Jocasta turned her fury on her new prey. "You prick, you fucking prick! Bullman fucked up - but Bullman's a fucking monkey! What's your fucking excuse?" The brown Hampstead voice sounded terrible now. "Well, the body was seen by some old-fuck of a peer on his way to White's and he phoned the Chief Constable and because this fucking peer was making a fucking noise about the desecration of a national landmark it was phoned through to some cloak-and-dagger department called Orbital!"

"What are we going to do?" Asked Amelia.

"We've been told - fucking told I might add, not asked, not suggested - told! We've been told to kill the story dead. That means we have to find this fucking peer and the fucking flatfoot who's looking into it all and fucking kill the both of them!"

Jeremy scratched his head and turned around to face Jocasta. "But if the trouble maker's a peer of the realm, why doesn't the Paracelcian Society tell him to stop bleating?" Jocasta grabbed Jeremy by his nostrils in two of her sharp nailed fingers and yanked his head back forcefully. She bent down and whispered in his ear.

"Because you little fuck, this peer, this fucking Lord Lupton, isn't a member of the Paracelsus. He's just a life peer, a fucking middle-class upstart, a fucking mill-owner given his title for 'services to industry'. They wouldn't have him in the Paracelsus unless it was to serve his fore-skin as a fucking hors d'oeuvres!" Jocasta let go and Jeremy tumbled to the floor.

"Alright," Jeremy said from the turkish carpet, "fine, so we kill them both and we'll all be off the hook. No problem."

"No fucking problem? You fucked up, you've made me look bad. You need to pay more than this." Jocasta picked up a silver bell and rang it twice. A liveried footman appeared from the double doorways beyond and enquired as to how he may be of service.

"Allouette still in the stables?"

"No m'lady. He is being transported back to the Buckinghamshire estate."

"Call the drivers, turn the truck about. Tell them to bring him back here."

The footman bowed and backed out of the room, pulling the doors shut behind him. Jocasta turned to Jeremy as he picked himself up again and tried to brush his blood off the hunting pink jacket he wore. "Allouette will be here in the hour. This is what we'll do. First we'll go down to the stables where you, Jeremy, will suck off my horse whilst the servants watch. Then we kit up, go to White's, find this fucking Lord Lupton and this plod and we'll kill the both of them. This time we'll remember to put the notices up! Yes?"

"Yes." The Chelsea Hunt agreed.

Ministry for Secular Affairs, Orbital Division. 10.15am.

"Good lord! A robot!" Price declared. Before him he saw an eight foot tall mechanical man projected on the far wall of the plush office. The technician had set up the slides after being sent for by Harry. Slightly transparent, the image showed a plated metal figure with a squat metal head - lenses projected from odd angles and both hands ended in short, powerful looking fingers that sat at an opposed angle to one another.

"The boffins call in an 'Ironclad', the army use the term 'Military Support Unit'. This is the Mark Three - the Britannia. It was designed to act in the heavy support role to infantry in the field."

"Looks a bit Heath-Robinson to me. Who was the designer? Gerald Scarfe?"

"Ah no, it was more of a committee."

"Look Slater, it's a big bugger I'll grant you - but it doesn't look all that impressive. I can see the weld lines around the armour, it's not even been painted."

"No, sir. You commented though on Chandler's lack of overt power, we gave him the Britannia to fill in the gap which you yourself so astutely pointed out. If you care to wait one moment..." He nodded to the technician who pressed a button on the projector. The image suddenly changed - the chest blew open along with half the face, tubular racks burst from the forearms and the head recessed into the neck until only the lenses remained, these were suddenly shielded by a triple layer of transparent armourplas."

"That's better!" Price grinned.

"As you can the torso is little more than a housing for the quad-linked mini-guns. Due to the shortened barrels they are not very accurate but ideal for the task desired, that of short range and room clearance. The arms hold the more long range weaponry, the left features a selective missile system for the anti-aircraft role and the right an Armstrong-Siddley Patriotic array."

"Ah yes! The shrapnel mine projector, too heavy for conventional use. Found its place I see, splendid. This is much better Slater, armoured of course?"

"Yes, sir. Ablative layer beyond the metal exterior, armourplas shell and each section is coated with bonded kevlar."

"Well, the boffins certainly get full marks this time. Why don't we have a few more of them? A couple of these in the front line would soon sort out bolshy Johnny-foreigner!"

"Well there lies a story. You note I mentioned that this was the Mark Three?"

"Yeees?"

"Well the project was under the auspices of the Tech boys. They were given the brief and a reasonable development budget. After three years they produced the Mark One - a machine so lethal it killed everyone in a two mile radius. Two years later they had covered this angle with the Mark Two. The Mark Two featured an AI so advanced it instantly decided that war was ultimately futile and became an armoured conscientious objector. With time running out, and funds a bit low, the boffins managed to patch together what we see here. The operational system is extremely simple - it reacts to a pre set action/response programme plus a basic voice recognition trigger."

"Plus it looks like something out of one of those early 'B' movies from the twentieth century!"

"Yes, a bit. The thing is sir - if the American's had made it, it would have been ten years late on the deadline and several billion beyond the initial budget. But it would have been a horribly efficient death-dealing battlefield winner. To be honest sir, we had to do the thing a bit on the cheap. Chandler found some clothes that fitted it and the thing just trolls along after him in case he gets into trouble. He calls it 'Mr. Clanky'."

"Doesn't anyone notice it?" Price asked, reaching for the decanter nearby.

"Well it seem that you haven't, sir."

"Eh? What do you mean, Slater?"

"Well Mr. Clanky has been at the last two Christmas parties, sir."

"Clanky? Clanky! I place the feller, large chap, didn't say much. We all thought he was a damn woopsie when he wouldn't go into the stationary cupboard with Mrs. Willis. Fine gel, good set of lungs on the woman."

"Think hard, sir." Harry urged. Price sipped his drink before his eyes widened in realisation.

"Good god, the feller had a metal face!"

"Yes sir. It's strange, he seems to trigger the 'ignore him and he might go away' response in the human mind."

"I can see why! Well, pleasure to see you again Slater. Let me know if Chandler and Clanky get anywhere."

Harry nodded, collected his notes and left with the technician.

White's (Gentleman's Club), West End. 11.57am.

"Lord Lupton will see you over luncheon." The flunky explained and showed Chandler into a small visitor's room to one side of the large hallway. White's was the oldest and grandest of the gentleman's clubs in the West End of London having been established in 1693. Catering mainly to politicians and successful businessmen it was a quiet place where affairs of finance were more readily debated and solved than in the boardrooms of the City itself.

Chandler sat in an overstuffed leather chair and watched as Clanky placed itself in the far corner beside a fringed lamp. He had come here after finally finding out who had reported seeing the late Sir. Arthur Streeb-Greebling on the Monument. The fact that Doctor Morrisay knew Sir. Arthur from White's just confirmed Chandler's decision to visit the impressive building.

Even the lowly room he found himself in reeked of old power and privilege and Chandler was not at all comfortable being here. Subconsciously he adjusted his tie and made sure his suit hadn't become creased by the morning's investigation.

He and Clanky were alone in the room apart from one other, a woman. Tall, she looked to be in her mid twenties though Lazarus could feel that she was almost twice that age. Expensive cosmetic treatment had been indulged in recently and the sculpted legs that emerged from the expensive La Perle skirt were not those she had been born with. The woman turned, feeling Chandler's eyes upon her and lifted one artificial eye-brow at the attention.

"Do we know each other?" She asked. Chandler took in the clear green eyes, paper-thin skin and narrow chin. None of it was real. She asked again and Lazarus saw...

Lying in an attic, the man/woman was old and wore little apart from a pair of cheap underpants, unchanged for months. The man/woman was in pain and the body wasn't right. The room was sealed and the only light came from a boarded up skylight high above. A crack in the window had let in the pigeons who had nested and shat about the thin body.

Chandler shook his head, the woman before him was dead. At least, the body was.

"Excuse me, I just asked you a question?"

The woman had died two days before. A combination of cocaine and heroin had made her lose her inhibitions at the party and the gorgeous man she had been watching all night had asked her what she wanted, really wanted! Laughing, she had dragged him to one of the many rooms upstairs and after savage sex that had left her blood collecting in the skin between his fingers he had asked again. She had made him release her from the leather binds but he had refused until she told him. The coke singing in her veins she had told him, told him how she craved power - her life remade, not just somebody's 'little wife'. Her husband dead she had used the insurance to make herself young again. The drugs soared again and horny still she had begged the young man to fuck her again but he had refused.

"Is there something wrong with you? Are you ill?"

"No." Billy managed. Lazarus saw her face was already partially decayed. Lazarus was intrigued, Chandler though was off balance in the elite environment and floundered.

'I can give you that.' The man had offered and snapped his fingers together. Philip had entered the room then, silent, a spectre in flesh. Her son-in-law was a powerful man, a rich man, a man with grace and favour enough for all. He needed someone strong with him, not that scrawny bitch of a daughter she had spawned - someone older, a mind of maturity in a body full of youthful energy.

'Do you agree to the terms? Such a little thing, you'll hardly miss it!' The man had asked and Anna had agreed hurriedly before the offer was taken away.

"You look troubled. Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?"

"No, please, who are you?" Chandler asked, standing now. Billy saw the beautiful face close to his - Lazarus saw the same but frozen in a mask of pain and sudden regret.

"Anna Christie. I'm here to see Philip Chesterton - you know, the banker?"

"Not really, no." His Bermondsey accent betrayed his origins and Anna backed off a little way. She still seemed intrigued though.

"I suppose not. Perhaps we could meet up for a drink later?" Anna asked. Chandler noticed that she was standing oddly, she was obviously a woman but held herself like a transvestite - an act, a caricature of femininity.

"I don't drink."

"A meal maybe?" She pressed.

"I - I don't eat." The combination of the surroundings, and Lazarus, still unbalancing him.

"Everybody eats!" Anna laughed, she came towards him again. "Surely you fuck?"

"Nah - I don't do that either." Billy answered.

"Then, what is it that you do?" Anna asked more forcefully. She touched his head with a surgeon-crafted hand. The fingers swiftly drew away almost immediately. Her brow was creased now, it was she who now seemed unsure. "There's something odd about you!"

"Yeah, there is." Lazarus said in a flat voice. Billy moved quickly towards the door but it was opened before he could reach it. The flunkey noticed his direction and stood to one side to allow his egress.

"Lord Lupton will see you now, Mr. Chandler."

As he hurried away, Billy saw the door close behind him. Anna had been standing there looking at him quizzically.

The River Tyburn, The Strand. 12.05pm.

"Locked beneath the fair walkways of Mother London, the Tyburn churns still on its journey from Haverstock Hill to Father Thames. No one remembers, no one knows, snee snee!" The thin voice snorted to itself as the bulk from which it came moved amongst the watered turds and the detritus of the centuries old sewers around it. "No one knows! Snee snee! No one can guess at the land that lies below their shallow and sun blighted lives! No one knows but me! Snee snee!"

The bulk moved slowly for it carried a great deal of rich fat, though less than it had weeks previously. A rare slash of light shone across the way ahead and the giant vermin huddled together at the sight that was revealed. Eighteen stone of man moved towards them, short and round and covered in the stitched hides of flayed seals. The medicine ball head was covered in a hood of the same rare leather and enormous eyes made a mockery of the darkness about him. The rats sniffed curiously as they detected torn flesh and came towards the wounded figure. With sudden quickness the razer-glove caught one up and bore it to the terrible blunt teeth above. The meal was a swift one.

"Snee, snee, snee! Little Jack-rat thinks to make a meal of bold Uncle Mole. Yes, yes! Run little rats and tell your Queen that the Uncle travels the realm of Tyburn! Snee, snee, snee!"

The light caught the torn hide across the shoulder and breast where the Yardie bullets had entered and become lodged in the thick fat beneath. One of the rats ignored the squeaks of its companions and snarled at the intruder as the remains of his meal were tossed away.

"What's this?" The Mole exclaimed, taking a long silver tube from his belt and clipping it to the back of his hand. "What's this? A young Jack-bravo come to champion for the Queen? D'yer challenge Uncle Mole, brave Jack-bravo? Do you come to defy me? Snee snee snee!"

The Mole flung forward his arm and a sprung tungsten net flayed the area before him. With a pull he heaved his enemy aloft amongst sweepings from the passing sewer. The rat struggled to free itself but the fine metal mesh just cut into its body and gashed bloody lines down its flanks and snout.

"Ha ha, Jack-bravo! Defeated you are! Snee snee snee! Shot by lead but not yet dead, what else have we in there with thee?" The Mole held his net aloft and spied the contents. "A boot, some stools, a broom and thee - then we shall have rat and sewer soup for tea!"

The Mole released the clasp from his glove and hung it from the wall. He swept out his arms and raised his snouted mask to the ceiling.

"I am The Mole! Hear my roar! Squeeeeeeeeeek! Snee, snee snee!"

White's (Gentleman's Club), West End, 12.47pm.

"Sure you won't be tempted?" Lord Lupton asked. Billy shook his head at the indicated trolley.

"Nah really, I ate before I came here." The pair sat opposite one another on a corner table in the dining room. Lupton had put away a large bowl of Windsor Brown, trout and a steamed meat pudding. The food was very traditionally cooked - which meant that everything had been boiled for several hours before serving. "Thank you for seeing me."

"That's quite all right, young man." Lord Lupton was in his late fifties with greying hair and a face that was slightly too large for his head. "I'm just pleased to see that Jonathan took my call to heart. Disgraceful really, leaving a dead body on the Albert Memorial. I didn't get where I am today by leaving bodies on the Albert Memorial you know."

"I don't doubt it." Chandler answered.

"Now, may I ask how your investigations are going?"

"You may - if you don't mind answerin' a few questions yourself?"

"Not at all!" Lord Lupton beamed. "Do we know who the poor bugger is who was killed?"

"That was part of the reason I came. Do you know a Sir. Arthur Streeb-Greebling?" Chandler asked. Lupton looked surprised.

"Sir. Arthur? I most certainly do. We didn't really move in the same circles you understand - his title was inherited. Mine, as you probably know, was given to me for 'services to industry'." Billy nodded slightly though in truth he hadn't. "You've heard of the Paracelcian Society, of course. The haunt of the powerful - dedicated to the security of the realm and all that rot. I didn't get where I am today by being able to join the Paracelcian Society!"

"You don't approve?"

"Oh I accept that they act in the manner they see best for the country, but I don't really believe that they're so puritanical in their patriotism as they profess. All sorts of stories come out of there y'know. Strange lot, old money and old ties. Orgies, debauchery - the usual nonsense I expect. Sir. Arthur was quite high up in the Society I believe. Shall we take a little air to aid digestion? I didn't get where I am today by not having a little air to aid digestion!"

Billy nodded, it was an excuse to get out of White's if nothing else. Following Lord Lupton he passed by Anna who was talking to an arrogant looking young man over soup. She looked up as he passed but Chandler kept his gaze straight ahead as Lupton ordered their coats brought.

Jermyn Street, Piccadilly. 1.04 pm.

"It's the middle of the afternoon, Jocasta - we don't hunt by daylight!" Protested Jeremy d'Darcy. Jocasta smiled at the pale youth.

"We don't have any fucking choice do we? You fucked up so badly all our necks are on the line. With any luck we won't be needed. Lucan's got that fucking great rifle of his on top of the Savoy and we know the pair of them'll be coming out of White's at some point. Unless your lack of ability has become contagious we can wait here and then fuck off home."

All five of the Belgravia Chelsea Hunt sat within the lush confines of the executive aeroflot. The chauffeur had fetched them from enough of their nightly excursions to know when to remain quiet and merely looked straight ahead as the traffic passed him by.

Billy Chandler came out of the refurbished doorway of White's behind Lord Lupton, leaving his coat open in the summer sun. Clanky lowered his head to pass the opening, which shut quietly behind them.

"Tell me," asked Lupton, "have you always been part of this Orbital lot that Jonathan told me about?"

"Jonathan?"

"Sorry, Sir, Jonathan Peel - the Chief Constable of the Met?"

"Oh right - nah. I was a security guard after I left school. Looked after this place in the sticks that I can't really talk about."

"I understand, restricted information and all that, eh? I didn't get where I am today by not understanding about restricted information! Do you go to the ballet at all? Can't understand it myself but there you go." Lord Lupton's voice pattered on, not really listening to what Chandler himself was saying.

"No." Billy widened his stride to keep up. "No, I just don't think you'd believe me. I don't go to the ballet either - I'm dead you see. I went to Haiti last year on holiday, really freaked out the locals an' all. They were doin' this voodoo thing for the tourists only one of the priestesses must have really been tuned into it 'cause she took one look at me and dropped 'er chicken. Spent the next week with all the Haitians shakin' when they came near me. They gave me this 'triffic top hat to keep the sun off and everythin'. Thought I was some sort of Baron - I told them - 'I'm from south of the river, pal, we ain't got any lords, in fact we ain't got any places of religious significance'. You get it? When I said, 'lords' I was playin' on the word - you're ain't listenin' to me are you?"

Lucan pulled the bolt back on his hunting rifle. He had fitted the No.5 chamber, the one that took the solid toxin darts and had just shot one into the neck of the first target. Even now it was spreading venom into the system that would replicate simple heart failure - the penetration mark was already sealing up and the gelatine dart was dissolving in the fatty tissue. The second target had stooped over the first and Lucan brought the gun up to his shoulder once again. The receptors hummed as they locked on and guided his arm till the prime spot was found. With a slow squeeze he fired again.

The dart struck Chandler in the same place, the dart instantly dissolved and the toxin entered the muscle on the side of the neck.

Where it stayed.

Lazarus saw Lord Lupton die.

The killer stood up to see the effect of his shot, he was high above and slightly behind.

"Clanky! Wanker on the roof of the Savoy, fuck him!" Chandler yelled over his shoulder.

Clanky's coat burst open and his left sleeve ripped as weaponry shot forward. The targeting system scanned high and caught the figure standing there, mouth open, an archaic pith helmet pushed back on his head. System information closed links with one another as his right arm raised and tore that sleeve too. Too far for the miniguns, too small for the missiles a rain of tiny black specks were propelled upwards and scattered about the assassin who swatted the stings off as they landed upon him.

A signal was broadcast and the entire east roof of the Savoy erupted as each of the pin-head explosives detonated savagely, converting any solid matter within their short range into shrapnel that ripped in a shaped shower into the figure that Clanky held steady in his left eye. It was remarkably swift and left Lucan shredded. Even the armour sewn into his costume had been converted into munitions to be used against him. It was possible he could be brought in for questioning but they would need a mop and a very large bucket.

From the Aeroflot behind the Savoy the explosion was heard and Jocasta dialled up the footage of what had happened from the receiver in the now defunct pith helmet. Nothing there, she rewound swiftly until the last few seconds of Lucan's life could be seen projected amongst them.

"What the fuck is that!" She screamed pushing a finger into the hologramatic image of Mr. Clanky. "Give me the phone and get us the fuck out of here. We need a better plan."

Ministry for Secular Affairs - Orbital Division. 1.11pm.

"Amber 3." Harry said as he picked up the phone on his desk. "Chandler? How's it going?"

Pause.

"You did what? We're not meant to just kill people you know!"

Pause.

"Oh, well if he was a wearing costume that's all right."

Pause.

"No, no - don't worry I'll sort it out from here. Where are you going now?"

Pause.

"The Paracelcian Society? You off your nut, Chandler - you won't even get in."

Pause.

"Oh all right then. No, don't worry I'll call the local plod and tell them it's all official. You piss off and get on with it. See if you can clear it all up ASAP will you."

Pause.

"Yeah, we've just had some more work come in. Seems the guttering needs clearing. I'll speak to you later."

Temple, Victoria Embankment. 2.34pm.

"Right then - are you all ready?" Jocasta demanded of the Hunt.

"Ready." Amelia replied and zipped up the side of her leather mask. In one hand she held her whip lightly and let it tap against her high riding boots. Her coat was open and her chest heaved as she began to grow excited at the prospect of the fox.

"Ready." Said Bullman and pounded one head-sized fist into the palm of the other. His moustache was heavily tarred and shaped to a point, his bruises had healed and his muscles expanded as the drugs pumped around his body.

"Ready." Jeremy said softly and pulled the strap of his light helmet down over his chin. He was regally dressed in fresh pink and bleached jodhpurs, a horn was hung around his neck and the energy from his implants hummed in his ears.

"Time for bed!" Hissed Nanny Wetnurse, her face splitting length wise to show her many sharp teeth. Her goggles were pulled over her eyes and the breeze from the Thames moved her tightly buttoned dress about her. One hand was long and clawed with bone, the other held the bulky weight of her VP gun.

"Remember now, this is our last fucking chance. That little shit just tried to get in to the Caligula and if I get any more calls today then we'll be their supper tonight. They've found out who this Deadman is and we know about that fucking tin can that fucked Lucan. No mistakes."

No more than fifty yards away Chandler and Clanky strolled down the embankment. Billy was pissed off, having shown his Orbital ID he had been told to 'run along' by the doorman. Phoning hadn't helped and Slater had been no use at all.

"Wankers," Chandler muttered the Clanky. "Privileged wankers at that and they're the worst kind. They don't wank 'cause they 'ave to, they wank on some biscuit and pass it around. I know about their games - first wanker spills 'as to eat the bloody thing."

The Chelsea Hunt came out from around the parked Aeroflot and stood in a semi-circle, blocking his passage.

"Speakin' of wankers," Chandler said as he came to a stop, "what do you tossers want?"

"View-hulloo!" Jocasta hissed. "We have our fox!"

"View-hulloo!" Shouted Amelia, Jeremy and Bullman.

"Time for bed!" Gargled Nanny Wetnurse.

"Yeah right, piss off." Chandler said and leant against the Embankment walls. The tide was in and the dark waters of the Thames lapped past him only a few feet below.

"You get to run - we'll even give you a minutes head start. Then we'll catch you, you fucking little oik, Then we get to make your life a misery." Jocasta hissed. A few tourists began to take pictures but the locals began to move off.

"Oh yeah?" Chandler said with a grin. "What you goin' to do with me? Shoot me? Fuckin' hell I'm almost pissin' me pants with fear." He finished sarcastically.

"We know about you Mr. Lazarus." Jeremy drawled. "No, we're not going to 'shoot you', we're going to put you in a hole and fill it with concrete. You won't die but you should be stuck there for a century or two. Like the sound of that you uppity little shit?"

Chandler lost his grin and turned to Clanky but Jocasta spoke first. "MSU Britannia. Command override - 'Churchill'"

Clanky slumped where he stood, his head fell forward. Billy prodded him with a finger. "What have you done?" He asked more politely.

"Shut him down. The Paracelsus has access to anything it fucking wants to. After that thing killed Lucan his father made a few very pointed enquiries. You're fucked little man, care to beg?"