UNMENTIONABLES #1
Underground Rules

The tooth-rattling whine wound down into a series of nasty crunches. Boring Machine reversed into the subway tunnel, caterpillar tracks crunching as he edged his huge cylindrical body over long-disused rails. When the robot miner’s business end emerged from his freshly-cut side-tunnel, his rotating disc of blades and grinders still spun slowly on the central axle; as it came to a halt he unfolded stumpy arms and a great head like a stainless steel dustbin. His eyes glowed orange in the gloom.

“Good job,” said Professor Manyarms. His flashlight played over Boring Machine’s panels, thick with rock dust, and glittered off the robot’s crown of corundum drillbits. “We’ll take it from here.” He called his team-mates along with an impatient wave of hands three through six.

Razor Ballerina was quickest, nimbly tippy-toeing along the rusting Metro rail. The Florist followed cautiously behind, leaning on the tunnel’s damp and dripping wall for balance, beige corduroys hitched halfway up the shin. Then came Expired Warranty, wading unconcerned and ankle-deep through foetid water and floating detritus.

“Boring Machine will hold this position,” announced Manyarms. “The rest of you have your instructions. We go in, we do the job, we come out.”

The four ducked into the new tunnel and followed its gentle upward slope. It ended in a deeply-scored circle of concrete still warm to the touch. The tunnelling robot had withdrawn as soon as he hit the building’s understorey. Manyarms grunted his satisfaction. He chose a spot about shoulder-height and scratched a neat cross with one titanium thumb. “Miss Koslowski. If you’d be so very kind?”

Razor Ballerina curled and flexed the fingers of her left hand. The already pale flesh became almost translucent, knucklebones popping and realigning as a long, slender spine grew from her palm. She drove it into the concrete three, four times and withdrew a narrow plug of concrete. Beyond this hole was darkness.

“Perfect,” whispered the multi-limbed malefactor. “Sheer poetry. Mr Sinclair, what do we have?”

Expired Warranty put one dark-adapted undead eye to the hole. “Storage,” he croaked. “Filing. Document boxes. Bicycles. A painting of Joan of Arc. And wine, lots of wine.”

“And?”

“Gimme a minute. Aha, motion sensor. Up in the corner. Looks like a... ComSec J30? Hey, what is this off-the-shelf crap? You said there’d be good stuff.”

“You call it crap,” said Manyarms, “but our source says this is actually a bespoke evolution of the J30, based around a microfine calcite pulse-prism. Whatever that is.”

The zombie tech-Jonah straightened up. “Hm. I guess that's an improvement.” Even at this begrudging approval, something deep in the sensor's wiring went ping.

“But what’s really clever,” continued Manyarms, “is that this whole building compares results from two independent circuits to catch failures and actively diagnose tampering.”

“Well now, that does sound smart.” Upstairs, a thin curl of smoke rose unnoticed from the monitor box.

“Yes it is. Any hint of sabotage and the police are alerted immediately.”

“Splendid,” agreed Expired Warranty, and the entire system crashed beyond retrieval.

Professor Manyarms swapped his flashlights into flesh-and-blood hands; with the others he punched clean through the remaining concrete. The team followed him through the jagged hole, over the rubble and into the cellar. Except –

The multi-limbed malefactor directed a flashlight back down the tunnel. Florist still stood there, hand hovering hopefully over his satchel of seeds. He smiled weakly. “I’ll let you know,” growled Manyarms. Then, into his throat mic: “Control? Field team. Nous sommes arrivés.”



FOUR HOURS EARLIER

Expired Warranty raised a shrivelled hand. “So for clarity’s sake, we’re not actually going to France?”

Harmanda Barriere thumbed a control on the briefing room table and waited for the projector to warm up. “You have a question, Mr Sinclair?”

“More an observation,” said the undead tech-fetishist. “I was expecting a mission in France. I believe you used the word 'invade'.”

Harmanda chuckled. “A little mischief on my part.” By now the screen behind her showed a limestone-fronted building in the Pierce Heights district, all columns and colonnades and bomb-proof glass. “This, boys and girls, is the French Consulate-General in Parodopolis. While it's de jure American soil, for reasons of protocol...” She said protocol like she might dysentery. “...it’s treated like French sovereign territory. For instance, we can’t send in American military or law enforcement without unleashing seven exciting flavours of diplomatic hell.”

There was a beat while this sank in. The Florist spoke first. “And we’d need to do that because...?”

“Three days ago, we received intelligence of an unusual shipment to Parodopolis aboard a French military aircraft. These photographs were taken soon afterwards.” In a city alleyway, smooth black crates were being unloaded from a truck by a team of white-gloved mimes. “A mystery cargo, transferred by dead of night to the French Consulate-General. The material was couriered by a fugitive from U.S. justice.”

The next shot was grainy, taken from some distance as its subject directed proceedings. He was tall, with a striped jersey and beret. A string of onions hung around his neck. His face was in shadow, but a twirly moustache and haughty expression of disdain were clear enough.

“I know him,” said the Florist. “It’s Jean-Pierre. We worked together under Balefire.”

“Remarkable coincidence,” said Harmanda. “You work with a guy, learn all about his methods and abilities, and by sheer chance you get picked for a job like this.” She brought up another image; a formal head-and-shoulders of Jean-Pierre. “So he’s a product of the French Super-Stereotype Programme, with a long record of subversive activities on American soil. Of course we’ve requested that the French hand him over; naturally they deny any knowledge of his whereabouts but promise full-co-operation. Protocol, that word again, means that we can’t take it any further.”

Expired Warranty raised his hand. “Pardon my saying... I’ve never heard of this guy. But if he’s used to taking orders from Balefire, why are we even discussing him as a credible threat? No offence,” he added in the Florist’s direction.

“None taken, I'm sure,” replied the former Minion.

Harmanda’s glare slid from one to the other. “That any diplomatic service is harbouring a wanted criminal should be cause enough for concern. But when he and his mystery cargo arrive amid gleeful cable traffic about something called L’Opération Grande Boum, we have to act.” She paused. “So there’s no appetite for the political shit-barrage that would follow military or police intervention. But it’s no fault of the U.S. Government if, let’s say, some gang of reckless supercriminals break in one night for who-knows-what nefarious purpose.” She placed her palms on the table and smiled darkly. “And so: welcome to Taskforce LLAMA.”

She noted the Florist’s frown. “That’s Lateral Logistics: Arms-length Metahuman Assets. We, uh, we don't write that one down.” The Florist meekly capped his pen.

Professor Manyarms looked around the table. Throughout Harmanda’s briefing he’d mostly ignored the screen and studied instead his putative team-mates. Expired Warranty, sitting erect in his wraparound sunglasses and black turtleneck sweater, picking idly at loose flaps of decomposing flesh; the plant-manipulating Florist in shirt and garish tie, peering through thick spectacles as he hung on Barriere's every word; and Razor Ballerina, stroking all the surfaces within reach, sniffing the air, wriggling in her seat, grinding her teeth, tugging at the black plastic collar round her pale throat.

The Professor put aside two origami cranes and a freshly-rolled cigarette. He leaned forwards to address the terpsichorean tearaway. “Miss,” he murmured. “I’d leave that thing alone for now.” She twisted her body to look at him, head tilted to one side, long bony finger still curled underneath the collar. Manyarms sat back and smiled, eight hands spread in appeasement. “Just saying.”

Razor Ballerina stopped for just a moment as she found all eyes on her. She took a deep breath and the words tumbled out. “And but iffy we do job ya we still is bye go free okay? Ya?”

Harmanda replied with exaggerated slowness. “You’ve all got sentence reviews coming up. You show willingness to conduct yourself in a manner that serves the national interest, that will be taken into account.”

Expired Warranty scratched some fungus out from behind an ear. “Meaning: not this time.”

“Meaning, you show your worth and we’ll see how we get along.”

Professor Manyarms tapped a mechanical finger on the tabletop. “Point of interest. What’s the deal if we go out on your mission and one of us...” Here he looked straight at Razor Ballerina. “One of us decides to get extra-curricular?”

“Excellent question,” said Harmanda. “Glad you brought it up. Those stylish collars you’re all wearing?” She gestured towards the mirrored glass that made up the far wall. Each collar gave a little kick before settling again. “We monitor the whole operation from Llama Control. I’ll be in contact with Manyarms as field leader. And first inkling I get that one of you idiots is going off-script, zap. Powerful electric discharge. The first is only painful. Subsequent charges, you’re looking at permanent damage, and worse.” She stared at the deadly dancer. “And they’re made of crazy outer-space stuff, so they don’t come off. Not until I say so. Better’n you have tried, and it didn’t end pretty.”

Razor Ballerina scowled, but she folded her hands in her lap.

Harmanda turned back to the screen. “So here’s the fifth member of your team.” This clip showed a large metal cylinder squatting on chunky caterpillar tracks. One circular face was packed with vicious-looking grinders, whirring and gleaming as he prepared to plunge the assembly into a rockface. “This is Boring Machine.”

“Not good at small talk?” suggested Expired Warranty.

Harmanda rolled her eyes. “You can judge for yourself in a few hours. He can’t join us right now, largely because he’s the size of a Winnebago and weighs eleven tons. But he’s working a side-tunnel off a disused Metro line and that’s your ticket in.” She changed the slide. “Which leaves only your objectives. First, apprehend the Frenchman and bring him in. Second, investigate and if necessary bring back the contents of those crates. Third, leave nothing behind that will identify this as an act of the American state.”

Harmanda turned off the projector. “And just so we’re clear about this: should you be detected, we will deny any knowledge of or responsibility for your actions. But after long and bitter experience of Parodopolis, the French won’t be taking any prisoners. They are fiercely, fiercely protective of their sovereignty. Any mishaps and you can expect to meet with deadly force.”

“Pfft,” said Expired Warranty. “The French. Really, how hard can this be?”



Next:

FIVE VILLAINS WILL PUT THEIR LIVES ON THE LINE FOR THEIR COUNTRY.

ONE OF THEM ISN'T COMING BACK.