Agent Shield and Spaceman

“So, let me get this straight,” said the technician, wiping a grubby, oil-stained sleeve across her brow. “You want us to let you into the control room. You want us to activate the over-pressure release command, while simultaneously shutting main valves B, C and E. Then, and this is the part that I really want to be clear about, you’re ordering us to stand back while the reactor overheats, melts down and carries the station down with it. Have I understood what you’re saying completely?” “Crazy orders, huh?” Col. Chapmann said, winningly. “There’s crazy and then there’s just plain insane. Who wants this done?” “The Command Director of the Anti-Cerebrists.” “He wouldn’t be able to get this past the executive committee. Who else?” “Sanislov Jarowski, Manuut Noruto, and Kethlen Von Delt.” “You’re just rattling off names.” “They’re the right names.” A voice came from further in the rattling clamor of the engine room. “Karla, does he have a work order?...

The three Section Starfire agents crossed another intersection and paused to get their bearings. Emerging from the tunnel they had been greeted by a thunderous alarm echoing through the corridors. There was another helpful map unhelpfully written in Cyrillic. Frankie knew a little Russian from his days in the CIA but couldn’t make much headway against imponderables such as “Section for the Dissemination of Critical Anti-revisionist Expulsion Media Center.” “That’s right up here,” D suggested, pointing at an obscure corner of the map. Shield, to Frankie: “Nothing that says ‘snake house,’ or ‘place where we keep dangerous reptiles’ or ‘Section Starfire Agents, please blow this lab up?’” “Well, there’s this group of labs right here that’s interesting. Not too far away.” “Yes?” “They have it labeled with jargon I’m not familiar with, ‘hidden-beast-study and relict-population-house. Russians usually save obscure words for things they want to keep extra mysterious.” ...

Four Months Ago The man awoke on a very narrow bed on a very thin mattress. His limbs were in awkward, improbable positions and he felt the ache of the sickness. The ceiling above him was more recognizable to him than the faces of old friends. Was he home? Looking around he decided he was. His mouth felt old, full of desert. It was a hot day and the sweat poured from his body. On the floor near the door of his room was a fat brown envelope. Some residual optimism suggested it was his pension, but he had made it very difficult for the Federal Government to find him. That someone had managed to find his address disturbed him greatly. He opened the flaps and peered inside. There were a few pages of vellum and what appeared to be a small plastic baggie. He reached for the baggie, sprinkled a white powder onto his palm. He really should not touch this stuff, he knew. It could be poison or weaponized anthrax. He dabbed a moistened finger into the powder and ran it beneath his...

Amateurs, Frankie thought. Goddamn amateurs. Was there anything worse than dying at the hands of the inept? If he gave them a few pointers they’d break him in a matter of minutes. Probably save them all a lot of grief. As it was, they wasted minutes wrestling him off of the chair into some great big metal apparatus in the front compartment. Frankie didn’t make it easy for them. When they had released one hand, he rabbit-punched the commando on his left. That drew a round of beating. Then, thinking him subdued, they tried lifting him off of the chair. He lashed out again, this time smashing a venom shunt on one of their heads. The commando shrieked, slapping at the bore-hole spurting viscous green fluid. He collapsed to the deck and stopped moving. Another torrent of blows followed, inexpertly administered but effective. They manacled him to the metal apparatus, his head clamped firmly inside a Mayfield surgical adaptor. If the commandoes were still fully human, this wou...

Marcus awoke bound to a chair in a cold room that shook violently around him. Looking around, he found Agent Two-eyes watching him with the enthusiasm of a man observing mushrooms emerge from a lawn. “They put us on a transport plane,” Frankie said, his voice indistinct in the cacophony. “A C-130 from the sound of it.” “You’re alive,” Marcus said. “You sound surprised.” “I’m not the one who voluntarily wrestled a pack of snakes.” “Ah, they were pussy cats,” Frankie said. “I wouldn’t be in this chair if she hadn’t knocked me out.” His eyes flicked to the side, signifying to Marcus where this agent of sabotage could be found. Marcus leaned forward as much as his restraints allowed, catching sight of Agent D slumped in her own chair to Frankie’s right. Her eyes were closed but moved fitfully beneath the lids. “What happened to her?” “Who knows? Maybe she exhausted herself putting a spell on me, maybe she’s hibernating. I don’t have much experience w...

Frankie took a step backward, keeping his eyes on the serpents as they writhed on their hooks. While still out of striking range, the snakes lashed from one side to the other, desperate to sink their fangs into his skin. Two choices and two choices only. The first was letting them enter the pit and taking a few down quickly and wear down the rest. That might be the smart move if his opponents were smaller but the sheer size of the snakes argued against that approach. So, on to Plan B. While the snakes still descended into the pit, Frankie dashed forward, leaping in the air. His knife flashed and two of the snakes hung limply, blood raining down. Another jump and he caught a third by surprise. A fourth snake nearly caught him in the shoulder but he deflected it. He landed badly, out of position for the remaining serpents as they dropped from their hooks. Normal snakes might have slithered away but not the tiger snakes. Frankie snap rolled right, dodgi...

After this cynical observation, Shield felt the residual enjoyment of the party drain away. Fatigue – for the party, for these people – settled into his bones. Time to call it a night. “Tomorrow will be the tough part,” he murmured in the room he shared with Agent LeHaze. “We have the information, now we have to find some way of acting on it.” She cast skeptical eyes towards him. “Or,” she paused. “Or, we could turn this over to the regular law enforcement agencies. The FBI, the Texas Rangers, hell, the Fish and Wildlife Department would work…” “Fish and Wildlife, are you kidding me?” Shield gave up pulling off his left shoes and flopped back on the bed. “That agency is hopelessly compromised with Eisenhower appointees. Asking them to close down the Thulewaite Ranch is like asking Richard Nixon to run the Justice Department.” “Be careful what you wish for,” said LeHaze, brightly. “That’s not a wish,” he growled back and then exhaled sharply. Shield had a sudden...

“You did what?” Shield nearly dropped his gin and tonic. Leaning over the railing on Zanzibar’s patio, Frankie spoke low to hide the sounds of their conversation. “You wanted to find the serpents, I found them.” “Alright, great and now they’re going to kill you.” Frankie sniffed, wounded. “Hardly,” he set aside his Riesling. “I hate to sound cocky, but I’ve handled more dangerous creatures then a couple of snakes.” “And the concept of a set up didn’t dawn on you?” “What set up?” laughed Frankie. “It’s a pit match. Me in a hole with a bunch of snakes. That’s good clean fun. If we were in trouble, they’d just line us up behind a barn and be done with us. They’re going to bring out some real, live Bhutan Tiger Snakes, and then you’ll have the proof you need.” “Burmese,” Shield rolled his eyes. “And we already have the proof. I spoke to Suliman, they have a small colony of the animals in the exhibit hall. We know they’re here; it’s time to move to the operatio...

D listened intently as Marcus and Agent LeHaze filled her in on the mission. “And these tiger snakes, they are the source of the toxin?” “That’s what the evidence points to, yes,” Marcus said. “Your role will be mission support,” LeHaze added, handing over a cover identity dossier. “Spaceman is responsible for finding the snakes, Agent Two-eyes and Shield will secure them.” Agent D flipped through the folder before handing it back. “Unneeded.” LeHaze's jaw tightened. “You will need a cover.” “Agreed,” Agent D said. “And I’ve brought my own.” She handed over a driver’s license with her photograph but the name Caroline Humphreys. He was about to point out that a cover identity was not the same thing as a fake ID when he realized he knew Caroline Humphreys. They had gone to the same high school and their mothers were in the same book club. He knew her favorite drink was cognac and that she had once been a recognized dressage rider which is where...

The inside of the Spiny Toad was a poorly lit haze of beer signs, sweaty back-lit faces and pool cues held like ceremonial spears. Agent Shield wound his way through the locals, careful not to make waves. Melissa did not help him in this. She had done something in the car, thrown some kind of switch. The men in the tavern watched her pass with keen intensity. He followed at enough distance to make sure the interest was casual, not professional. Shield set up station at the far end of the bar. The bartender, a whiskered, half-bald man cowboy set down two trays of peanuts and waited expectantly. “What do you have on draft?” asked Shield. “Beer,” said the bartender and if he meant this as a joke, his face betrayed no sign. “The local beer then.” He nodded hesitantly, as though Shield had offered to repaint his house. “You won’t like it.” “Why, because it’s strong?” “No, because it tastes like piss. We have...