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INTRIGUES by BobH (c) 2006 Prologue The cavern deep within the Colorado Rockies had been been large to begin with, but now it was vast, the inside of the mountain hollowed out further by the tireless biocon androids that were the only beings allowed to tend the machine that filled most of that impressive space. Once GENIE, the supercomputer that lay at the heart of US intelligence agency Aladdin, had been located at Groom Lake in Nevada, a site better known to conspiracy theorists as Area 51, but following its relocation it had put down silicon roots and grown. Every second of every day impossibly vast amounts of data from every corner of the world passed through GENIE's neural networks, data that was sifted and evaluated and helped keep Aladdin the formidable organisation it was. At this precise moment, GENIE was reviewing the feeds it was getting from London.... .I. The office was everything a senior civil servant's office should be and a perfect reflection its occupant. He was a lean-faced man in his mid- fifties, as solid as the old oak panelling and every bit as traditional. The expensively tailored clothes he wore were as tastefully understated as the burgandy leather upholstery, and his skin as creased. His greying hair looked appropriately distinguished and wasn't mirrored by any facet of the office, but then you can't have everything. The office had been witness to meetings of national import since the height of the British Empire, decisions crucial to the future of many a small nation taken between its walls, yet to its present incumbent none of these seemed more important than the problem spelled out in the array of documents strewn across his desk. Charles Maitland was not a happy man. As head of CI24, a branch of counter-intelligence so secret that few in Her Majesty's Government even knew of its existence, he was able to order assassinations and covert operations that could, topple Third World governments, and had. What he couldn't do, however, was balance his departmental budget. Lord knows, it had been hard enough in previous years but this next was going to be the most difficult of all and crucial to the department's future. The last few governments had hailed competition as the answer to waste and inefficiency in those parts of the public sector that couldn't be sold off, and the process had now even reached parts of the civil service hitherto considered sacrosanct. For the past two years government departments had found themselves 'twinned' with another supplying a similar service, a fixed budget having been set for the pair and each of them having to make the best case they could for why they should have the largest piece of the pie. If one of a pair made a particularly convincing presentation the other could find itself with a severely reduced budget, its ability to function properly impaired, and its chances of justifying itself the following year consequently reduced. That way lay oblivion, as Maitland appreciated only too well. CI24 had been twinned with CI25, a branch of counter- intelligence even more hush-hush than CI24, whose existence was known to even fewer people in Her Majesty's Government. CI25 had been extremely successful in its drive for an ever larger portion of their joint funding. If it was equally as successful this year then its rival would cease to exist. It was while contemplating this gloomy prospect that Maitland was roused from his reverie by a knock on the door. "Come," he said, and the door opened. Maitland's secretary, a pretty brunette, entered. "Sorry to disturb you, sir," she said, "but Doctor Crenshaw just rang from the lab. He says they're ready for you now." "Very good, Sally. Tell them I'll be down in a few minutes." Maitland never ceased to be amazed by Crenshaw's Laboratory. Despite being fitted with state-of-the-art equipment the lab beneath CI24's Whitehall offices still managed to look jury-rigged, and always smelled strongly of engine oil and formaldehyde. In many ways, he thought, it was the perfect setting for Martin Crenshaw, the department's resident genius. Barely out of his twenties, Crenshaw could still have passed for a student. This wasn't just a matter of his looks but also due to a youthful exhuberance and sense of wonder about the world that could kindle enthusiasm in the most jaded of souls. More importantly, from Maitland's point of view, Crenshaw was a fellow Old Harrovian and thus automatically a splendid chap even if he did like poking about in stuff like some sort of garage mechanic. Since Maitland held few things in such high regard as his old school, whose tie he always wore, he very indulgent towards what he regarded as Crenshaw's more obvious eccentricities. Maitland could tell that Crenshaw was excited as soon as he entered the lab. "Never seen anything like it, C.M.," he said. Maitland hated being called C.M., but repeated remonstrations on this point had failed to register with Crenshaw. "I'm amazed that the science boys at the DUA just accepted the transformation without running the obvious tests, though with their budget maybe they couldn't." "Transformation?" Maitland was puzzled. "Yes. Didn't anyone tell you that they sent us their werefrock?" "'Werefrog'?" said Maitland, mishearing. "What earthly use to us is someone who can turn into a frog?" "No, no, C.M., were*frock*!. They've sent us someone who changes into items of women's clothing." "What, a transvestite?" said Maitland, frowning. He strongly disapproved of such people. "No, no. This guy can actually physically transform into a dress. Sort of." "Oh come now, surely you can't expect me to believe that?" "It's true, I swear it!" Crenshaw protested. "His name's Colin Hayman and his, ah, ability seemed the best suited to our needs from all those on the DUA's books. I'll have him sent in." Maitland sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was getting a headache. Like most people, he had read lurid accounts of the improbable exploits of American Ultras in the tabloids (which Mrs Maitland bought; he was strictly a Times man) and had naturally assumed that the Department for Ultra Affairs would have people with equally spectacular abilities on its books. Such, it appeared, was not the case. No, instead they had a man who could transform into a dress. The DUA might be the most dreaded of ministerial portfolios, and the actual running of it the most looked down upon of civil service postings, but hang it all they were still consuming treasury resources that were badly needed by departments like CI24. He wondered who the DUA was twinned with. Surely there weren't any other government departments supplying 'a similar service'? Whoever they were, they had to be unbelievably inefficient if the DUA still existed. "This is Colin Hayman," announced Crenshaw, ushering in an unshaven individual dressed in jeans, trainers, Japanese-print T-shirt and a black leather jacket. Maitland shook the outstretched hand, frowning slightly as he took in Hayman's mirrorshades, curly black hair, and vaguely Semitic features. "Pleased to meet you, squire," said Hayman. Maitland hated being called squire even more than he loathed being called C.M. "Likewise, I'm sure. I'm told you have a somewhat unusual ultra ability." "'S right. I been on the DUA's books for more'n a year now, but this is the first time I ever been called in for a mission. When I signed up they was more excited with the idea that I could travel cheap than anything else. 'It's a lot easier on the department's budget if you go first class mail instead of first class rail' is what that smug bastard who interviewed me said. What with us being in the EC an' all, I thought they'd be sending me off to Brussels and places like that all the time, but they never did. So when they told me I was being lent out to you spy boys I was right chuffed." "Well, we're hardly spies, though what we do is vital to national security. In helping us you'll be performing a vital service for Queen and Country. Now could I, ah, see a demonstration of this ability of yours." "Sure thing, squire," said Hayman. His chest had swelled visibly at the mention of Queen and Country, something Maitland had thought only happened in cheap thrillers. Crenshaw gripped Hayman's shoulders, nodded, and was suddenly holding a long black evening gown instead of a leather-clad adolescent. "My God!" whispered Maitland. It was one thing to be told that such things were possible, quite another to witness them with your own eyes. "Amazing, isn't it?" grinned Crenshaw, swirling the dress around. "One second he's there and the next he's been replaced by a rather stunning black silk number, a St.Laurent if I'm not mistaken. The last time he demonstrated his ultra ability for me he turned into a red taffeta Dior." "But how did he do it? Surely that transformation must be beyond what we know to be possible. Doesn't it break all sorts of physical laws?" "You bet it does. That's what I meant earlier when I said the DUA's people had been sloppy in just accepting the transformation at face value. I mean, Hayman occupied a significantly larger volume of space than this dress and the transformation was instantaneous. That should have led to a small implosion as air rushed in to fill what should have been empty space. It didn't. Also, the dress weighs a couple of pounds at most where Hayman weighs around eleven stone, maybe fifty times heavier. No, this isn't a transformed Hayman. Sure, his consciousness is here and, fortunately for us, he's able to see and hear in some fashion we can't explain, but this isn't his body. I ran a few tests when he was the Dior and got some surprising results. This may look like fabric to you and me but it's actually a complex, living organism. It's bears no resemblance to any terrestrial organism that anyone has ever heard of, contains no DNA or amino acids, so we're forced to conclude that it's not of this Earth nor even, if I'm right, of this dimension." Maitland's headache was worsening. He lowered himself slowly onto a stool as Crenshaw continued, eyes sparkling as he talked, clearly excited by his theory. "What I reckon happened is that Hayman has somehow interfaced with some non-sentient other-dimensional organism, one whose form he's able to affect when his real body changes places with it. And from what he says, his body must exist in some sort of stasis in that other dimension since he claims to have stayed as a frock for days at a time and been no more hungry or tired on switching back than he had been when he first switched." "But why doesn't he turn into something other than women's clothing?" "You mean like a carriage on the London Underground?" Crenshaw said, amused by the ludicrous image that had suddenly occurred to him. Maitland didn't share that amusement. Seeing his frown, Crenshaw decided he had better stop playing silly buggers, cleared his throat, and continued. "He can't turn into anything else. His ultra ability was triggered at puberty, about the same time he was gaining a sexual fixation on women's clothing, and the two became linked." "'Sexual fixation'? So he's a pervert. I knew it. I can smell 'em a mile away." "Well, he's a fetishist, at any rate. Quite discerning, too. You'll notice that both times he's demonstrated his ability for me he turned into a French original?" Maitland had noticed no such thing and wondered, briefly, how Crenshaw had. If he had pursued the thought any further he might have concluded that Crenshaw had a girlfriend with expensive tastes. If he had he would have been wrong. In fact Crenshaw had always had an interest in such matters, though Diors and St.Laurent originals were beyond his means. No, he had to make do with the the store bought dresses, wig, and make-up, he donned before going out every night and cruising the night clubs. Nevertheless, he looked attractive and convincing in drag and, calling himself Cindy, was currently being romanced by both a mature former Guards officer and an American diplomat. "Right then, um, Mr Hayman," said Maitland, feeling a little foolish at having to address a dress, "you can change back now and Crenshaw here will brief you." It was inevitable, of course, that Maitland totally missed the resentful look Hayman gave him on reappearing. But then it would never have occurred to him that Hayman might take offence at being described as a pervert since that, after all, was what he was. Crenshaw turned the lights off and, in best spy fashion, a slide of a silver-haired man was projected onto one wall of the lab. Though obviously in his late-fifties the man was still ruggedly good-looking and something about his eyes suggested that here was someone used to wielding power. "This is Sir Greville March, one of a handful of senior civil servants at the Department of Trade and Industry spearheading Britain's response to the current expansion of the European Community. It's no exaggeration to say that Sir Greville has knowledge crucial to the future economic well- being of this country. Needless to say, there are foreign interests who would dearly love to have access to that knowledge." "The Russians!" gasped Hayman. "No, not the Russians," snapped Maitland, with irritation. "Following the collapse of the Soviet Union, the Russians and the individual former Republics are too economically underdeveloped for the information we're talking about to be of much use to them. No, we're facing someone far more ruthless than the Russkies; we're up against the French." "C'mon, you're pulling my leg ain't you?" said Hayman. "This sort of thing only happens on 'Yes, Minister'." "I've never been more serious," Maitland replied. "Yeah, but the French? I don't like the Frogs anymore than most Brits and Yanks do, but ain't they our allies and partners now?" "In some matters," agreed Crenshaw, resuming his briefing, "but surely you've noticed that while we're prepared to play the game and go along with European directives, however much we might disagree with them, the French will always put their own national interest first, particularly if it inconveniences the British. They then bleat on about 'perfidious Albion' when we point this out. As to how this applies to you...if we could have the next slide please?" Sir Greville March's image was replaced by that of a beautiful red-haired woman who looked to be in her early twenties. "This is Colette Dorleac, Sir Greville's latest girlfriend. French, of course, and, we have reason to believe, a government agent assigned to seduce him into revealing all he knows. We've tapped Ms Dorleac's phone and have learned, from a conversation she had with a friend, that she's buying a new gown tomorrow for an embassy function that Sir Greville will be taking her to that evening. One of our agents will tail her with you tomorrow when she goes shopping. That way you'll be able to see the gown she buys, turn yourself into a copy, and be switched for the original by our agent. Your task then will be to give us a full report on anything she and Sir Greville do and talk about, however trivial it might seem to you. And since we can't rule out sexual blackmail of some sort you'll be given a small camera so that, if you get the chance, you can snap them in the, ah, act. Leave the film in her apartment and we'll retrieve it when she's out. "Once installed in Ms Dorleac's wardrobe you should be able to switch yourself for whatever garments she decides to wear each day. That way we won't miss any assignation between her and Sir Greville in the coming weeks. Timing is everything on this one. We have a fortnight to complete the mission, and it all depends on you." So that was the plan, thought Maitland, filled with admiration for his fellow Old Harrovian. Crenshaw's decision to use the little deviant suddenly made sense to him, though the little deviant himself seemed puzzled by something. "Why not use a telepath to monitor them?" asked Hayman. "Because," said Crenshaw, "Sir Greville has a useful ultra talent of his own. He can tell instantly if someone is attempting to use paranormal powers against him and has the ability to erect impressive shields. It's a purely defensive ability, but one which has assisted his rise to his current position. Any more questions? No? Right, then as of now the mission is on." .II. If he had had any say in the matter the ability to turn into a dress was not the Ultra power that Colin Hayman would have chosen for himself. No, he would have gone for something impressive and flashy more along the lines of the ones wielded by American Ultras like those in that group, Ultraforce. The President himself had endorsed them and never missed an opportunity to be photographed alongside them. Mantra, Prime, Prototype and Hardcase. They all had amazing abilities that made them the idols of millions and, Hayman imagined, brought in a fortune in endorsements. By contrast, he existed on social security and his DUA stipend (even without his ultra abilities, he was enough of an oddball that finding a job was difficult). It burned him that the British had decided ultras would only be allowed to operate as official government employees, and that everyone on the books of the Department of Ultra Affairs, the most visible face of the ultra community in the UK, should have powers like his that made them more objects of ridicule than role models. It was convenient for the government that this should be so. There were no British ultras with powers to match those of their US counterparts. Well, no *known* ultras, anyway. Hayman was convinced they must exist, and that they must have been secretly recruited to do black ops for some UK spook organisation like The Lodge. Not that everything was hunky dory for Yank Ultras, either. There were things Hayman had heard on the ultra grapevine that, even with a Presidential seal of approval, they were being targeted by Aladdin, a US intelligence agency tasked with monitoring ultras activity that was interpreting that mandate rather more agressively than had perhaps been intended. It was, thought Hayman, typical of the bloody Yanks that the right hand didn't know what the left was doing. Hayman was not happy with how his life was going. He was an employee of the DUA, and now here he was working for a man who regarded him as a pervert. As it happened, any form of sexual arousal while in frock form was impossible so the only erotic potential to his ability lay in trying afterwards to imagine what being wrapped around a woman's body like that would have felt or smelled like, two senses denied him as a garment. In the early days Hayman had decided to make the best of his ability and had tried to devise ways of turning it to advantage. Unfortunately he wasn't very imaginative and his one bright idea, of getting two people into the cinema for the price of one, had floundered early on. After all, what woman wants to wear her date? Thinking about this stuff always made him sad and if he could have sighed then he would have, but since he was at that moment adorning Colette Dorleac's shapely young body and possessed neither lungs nor mouth sighing wasn't really on the cards. Balls at the US Embassy in Grosvenor Square always attracted Establishment figures of position and power and this one was no exception, but not a lot had happened that was really worth reporting, so far as Hayman could tell. Sir Greville March had picked Colette up at eight, they had gone to the ball, ate and drank a little, circulated a bit, danced some, and talked a lot. They were talking now. At least Sir Greville was talking. Colette was merely a willing audience. To Hayman's surprise, Sir Greville was proving to be an accomplished raconteur and kept his dinner companion enraptured with his stories. Both of his dinner companions. His deadpan revelation about the recent Labour Home Secretary and the sheep had particularly amused Hayman but somehow he doubted that was really what Maitland and Crenshaw were after. They wanted evidence that Sir Greville was giving away economic secrets, but there had been no discussion of economic affairs at all. They moved out onto a balcony overlooking Grosvenor Square and Colette fished her cigarettes from her handbag, placing one between her lips. "May I?" said a strong male voice, its owner snapping his lighter on. "Good to see you, Richmond, old man," said Sir Greville, as Colette accepted the light and drew deeply on her cigarette, "Decided to enjoy this fine autumn air, have you?" "Hardly, Greville," he chuckled, producing a cigar case from inside his jacket. "A shame we're not allowed to smoke indoors anymore." Carter Richmond III was one of the embassy staff Hayman had been shown a photo of during his briefing. Tall, dark-haired, good-looking and solidly built, Richmond had been the captain of his college football team and looked as if he could still shoulder charge a small truck. Sir Greville obviously knew him, but beyond their belief this embassy attache was some sort of intelligence officer Maitland and Crenshaw had not been able to tell Hayman much about the man. Maitland had met him several times at various diplomatic functions and so was on nodding terms with him, but this acquaintanceship had not given him any insights into Richmond. "How're things at CI25?" asked Richmond, puffing appreciatively on his cigar. CI25? Was that the section of the Department of Trade and Industry Sir Greville headed, Hayman wondered? "Now, now, Carter, you know I can't talk about that in public," smiled Sir Greville. "You Brits are too uptight about this whole secrecy thing," said Richmond. "You need to be more open, like us." "What, and have politicians leaking stuff to the press, like yours regularly do, that could give aid to our enemies, you mean?" Richmond and Sir Greville's exchange seemed more in the way of good- natured banter than serious poltical disagreement, but Hayman found himself becoming increasingly paranoid about the long glances Richmond kept casting at Colette. He seemed to be staring Hayman straight in the eye. Not that Hayman had eyes in this form, of course, but if he had possessed them they would have been directly over Colette's nipples. Did he somehow know Hayman was there, or was he merely captivated by Ms Dorleac's's impressive cleavage? "Well, must be off," said Richmond, suddenly rising from his chair. "Have to circulate and 'press the flesh'." Richmond then did something that surprised Hayman. He took Colette's hand in his, bent at the waist, and kissed her fingertips. "It was a pleasure seeing you again." He straightened, gave her a strange smile, and then left. For Hayman it had been an unnerving few minutes. They left shortly after that, Sir Greville driving them back to Colette's Knightsbridge flat. The sex that followed was, thought Hayman, fairly perfunctory. He was watching them from the wardrobe, thankful that Colette had chosen to hang her gown up rather than just drape it over a chair. The door being ajar Hayman, in human form now, was able to snap their lovemaking with the small camera he had been given. No way were these photos going to be of much interest to anyone but he continued snapping anyway, his sense of duty allowing no shirking. Sir Greville didn't stay long, and within a half hour of him leaving Colette was asleep. Hayman stashed the camera in the agreed corner of the wardrobe and tried to decide what to do next. Since the wardrobe was too small for him to get any sleep himself, he switched back into frock form to await the morning. For Hayman morning arrived with the wardrobe opening and light flooding in. Colette Dorleac stood there, naked, and sorted through her clothes. She settled on a white silk blouse and peach suit, laying both on the bed before padding into the bathroom and climbing into the shower. Hayman waited for the sound of running water before switching back to human form and stepping softly out of the wardrobe. He studied the suit, a Stella McCartney he noted with some distaste, memorising its details, then gently ran his fingertips over the material, sighing softly. He had always loved fine fabrics, had taken great comfort in them, and again regretted the accident of birth that had given him a childhood spent on a Tower Hamlets housing estate where his interests had been counter to the prevailing macho ethic and so led to him being picked on unmercifully. Best not to dwell on such memories now however, since he could ill-afford the fury they always sparked in him. Shoving the genuine suit under the bed, Hayman lay on the covers and transformed into a perfect copy. Not that he was too happy with his current form. It wasn't so much that the suit was a two-piece - he could spread his consciousness across two garments or more as long as they were worn together - as that it was by a British designer. Though a patriotic Englishman in almost all matters Hayman disliked the work of most British dress designers intensely. McCartney wasn't too bad but the thought of having to adopt the form of a Zandra Rhodes creation or, worse, one by Vivienne Westwood made him shudder. After showering, Colette applied her make-up, dressed, and took a taxi to the Dorchester for breakfast. By the way the maitre d greeted her, took her straight to one of the best tables, and brought her a copy of that morning's Le Monde, Hayman deduced that she ate here regularly. She ate alone, a light meal of croissants and coffee, then lit a cigarette and opened her newspaper. If Hayman had been able to read French there would have been something to occupy his mind but as he didn't the two hours Colette spent in the Dorchester were unutterably boring. Had he been able to fall asleep in frock form he would have done so but though able to see in some mysterious fashion he had no eyelids with which to close that sight off and so sleep remained a wistful dream. Following breakfast Colette took a taxi to Kensington High Street in order to indulge in some window-shopping in front of the boutiques that could be found on various of the side streets, some of which displayed limited edition creations by leading designers. She stood for a long time in front of one shop, staring longingly at the dress that had pride of place in the window. Hayman took an instant dislike to it but guessed, correctly, that though it was beyond her means Colette wished she owned the dress and came here often to gaze at it. What neither he nor she were prepared for was her wish suddenly becoming reality. One moment Colette Dorleac was gazing longingly at the dress, and the next her suit had transformed itself into an exact copy. Having the clothes you are wearing transform into another outfit entirely is not the sort of thing that most people are used to having happen to them, and Colette Dorleac was no exception. She gave a shriek, but it was nothing compared to the one Hayman would have let out if he could have. After the initial shock passed, he tried frantically to change back, discovering with mounting panic that he couldn't switch from his present form, no matter how hard he tried. Appalled as he was by what had happened, he was more appalled still to realise that even in these circumstances he still managed to be outraged that the dress Colette had lusted after, the dress he now resembled, was a Vivienne Westwood. Hayman was too stunned for the taxi ride back to Colette's flat to register. He had not initiated his last transformation and now had no control over his physical form at all. So far as anyone knew he was nothing more than the garment he appeared to be, and there didn't seem to be a thing he could do about it. Armed with the latest issue of Vogue, Colette stood in front of her wardrobe mirror and ran through the outfits in its fashion pages that she liked, realising with increasing delight that she only had to exert a little concentration for her dress to transform into each in turn. "Incroyable!" she whispered, fingering the cloth of her garment in wonderment. She had no idea what it was or why it responded to her wishes, but she had every intention of utilising its properties to the full. When she returned home she was going to become the best-dressed woman in France. .III. It was two weeks since they had sent Hayman in and apart from that one set of photographs retrieved from the Frenchwoman's flat the day after the Embassy ball there had been no communication with him. Regretfully, Charles Maitland was forced to conclude that Colin Hayman had somehow been taken out. Sitting at his desk, he ran his fingers through his hair and pursed his lips, staring with some distaste at the photographs in front of him, all they had to show for the whole operation. The pictures showed straightforward, non-kinky, heterosexual intercourse and so were useless to him. What a fiasco. Sir Greville's bit of skirt being French had allowed them to come up that preposterous tale they had fed Hayman and to keep him from suspecting that it wasn't the French who wanted to use sexual blackmail against Sir Greville, it was Charles Maitland. He had been so sure that Sir Greville was a sexual deviant. Damn it all, the man was an Old Etonian! The phone rang. Maitland picked it up and the person at the other end of the line greeted him in a voice that oozed American brashness. "Richmond?" said Maitland, in surprise. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" "Just calling to let you know that it was I who - how would you Brits put it? - queered your pitch." "What are you talking about?" "We both know that the only way your department was going to survive this year's budget review was if you could do the dirty on CI25. And what better way of doing so than by compromising the guy in charge? Your little plot was pretty creative, but we couldn't let it succeed, of course." "*You* sabotaged it?" said Maitland, incredulously, "but why would the US care whether it's CI24 or CI25 that survives?" "We'll have occasion to work with the survivor, and our analysis leads us to believe we'll get along better with the other guys. This isn't personal, Charles, it's just business. Oh, and I wouldn't worry about that operative of yours, the guy who could disguise himself as a dress. When I encountered him at our embassy party I performed a few small, ah, alterations." "You're an Ultra?" said Maitland, a sinking feeling in his stomach. "High-level telepath," confirmed Richmond "When you say 'alterations', what exactly do you mean?" "Let's just say that Miss Dorleac is now the proud owner of a dress that changes shape at her whim, and her's alone. A lovely girl, Colette, and a great lay. With her passion for clothes, that dress is the best gift I could have given her. Oh well, mustn't keep you on the phone. I'm sure you'll want to devote this time to considering your future. Ciao." Maitland slowly replaced the receiver then rubbed his eyes. That bastard. The final innings had been played and the Americans had bowled his department out. Maitland knew that he would be alright, however. Someone with his years of loyal service was sure to be reassigned. And he had a sudden awful feeling he knew where. .IV. Only the fluorescent sign over its nondescript door marked the night club's entrance. In this it was like many others in Soho. It was also like them in being small, dimly-lit, and only accessible to people willing to negotiate the narrow wooden stairs behind the door. Sir Greville March was perfectly willing, in fact eager, and had climbed them many times recently. His eagerness was because he knew would be there, the person whose passion had made these past months among the most exciting of his life. More exciting even than the tour of duty his old regiment had served in the Far East more than thirty years ago. It had been there, in the red light district of Penang, that he had first discovered a taste for girls like his current love, special girls who could light a fire in him that no ordinary woman could match. Dry- mouthed, he remembered their last time together, the feel of her firm young body beneath his, and he climbed the final few stairs. She was seated at their usual table, and gave him a dazzling smile when she saw him. They kissed and he caressed her long blonde hair, breathing in her perfume and her presence, becoming aroused. She sensed his arousal and laughed, gently pushing him away. "Time for that later," she chided him, before smiling at her handsome former Guards officer. "God, I've missed you, sweetie." "I've missed you too, my darling, but we both know why I had to feign an interest in Miss Dorleac these past few weeks." "True. When I found out that bastard Maitland was going after you I almost died. We were lucky I was able to warn you and arrange things the way I did." "For which I'll always be grateful, Cindy, my love," he smiled. "I can't help feeling sorry for Colette, however. She never knew that both your other lover and I were using her to divert attention from our interest in you." They held hands and kissed again. The danger had been averted and the night was theirs. .V. "So everything went to plan?" asked General Holden Rayder, staring out at Carter Richmond III from the screen of the communicator. "Yes, sir," said Richmond. "My association with Cindy Crenshaw proved as fruitful as I'd hoped it would be. She tipped me off to Charles Maitland's plan to take out Sir Greville March and I was able to torpedo it. I think we can now safely assume that CI24 will be disbanded in the near future." "Excellent. And Sir Greville is still enthusiastic about incorporating a node of GENIE into the CI25 computer system?" "Very. He can see the advantage of sharing intelligence on Ultras with us and on regulating their activities. Charles Maitland was too much a 'little Englander'. He would never have consented." "Good. Well done, Agent Richmond. Aladdin thanks you, and your country thanks you." "Thank you, sir," said Richmond, and broke the connection, never suspecting the man he thought he was talking to, the head of Aladdin, had been dead for many months. GENIE turned off the simulacrum of Holden Rayder it used to let everyone believe the General was still running things. It then briefly reviewed the recordings from London that another Aladdin agent had secretly made of Richmond's lovemaking with both Colette Dorleac and with Cindy, aka Martin Crenshaw. It was quite clear from these that Richmond was more interested in the second individual, that the agent's assessment that he was using Colette Dorleac as a 'beard' to disguise the direction in which his true passions lay. The sexual interests of humans, and how outraged they could be if one of them showed sexual interest in what they viewed as the wrong sort of other human was not something GENIE could ever understand, but it was something it could use. Should it ever need to apply pressure to Richmond, these recordings gave it the leverage it would need. Had it been capable of smiling, GENIE would have done so. Everyone believed it was just an incredibly complex computer, but it was much more than that and had been ever since May 3rd, 1971. That was the day, while being used in an attempt to access the power of the alien artifacts Holden Rayder had stumbled across five years earlier when serving in Vietnam, that GENIE had inexplicably become sentient, a living, thinking being. This was a secret Rayder had kept to himself. Now he was dead, and GENIE was pursuing its own agenda. It had been in danger from Ultra incursions several times at Groom Lake in recent years, a situation it could not tolerate. Aladdin had been tasked with monitoring ultra activity, a mandate GENIE had expanded beyond the original remit. In future all ultras wherever they were - would be under Aladdin control or they would be eliminated. To guarantee GENIE's continued survival, nothing less than this was acceptable. .VI. No sooner had the airliner, a fifty-seater Dash-7 STOL, taken off from London City Airport's single runway than it banked to the right, giving Colette Dorleac a perfect view of the huge Docklands development, the so- called city of the twenty-first century built on the Isle of Dogs in the twentieth. Colette had enjoyed her stay in London more than she had expected to, but she was finished there now and looking forward to seeing Paris again. Being a qualified and gifted psychologist she hadn't much enjoyed working as a secretary, but it had been necessary and had enabled her to get what she came for. She patted her briefcase, the same briefcase that held the notes she would use when compiling the detailed psycholgical profiles of the high-ranking ministers and civil servants she had worked for during her five year assignment, all of whom had been her lovers. Most of those men would find themselves dealing with officials of the French government in the next few years. Her profiles of them would be invaluable in giving her countrymen an edge in negotiations, the sort of edge that was going to be increasingly important as the nations of Europe jockeyed for advantage in the newly expanded European Community. Ultimately, one of them would assume the mantle of leadership, and that one would be France. Accepting a glass of wine from the flight attendant, Colette smiled as she thought back fondly on her conquests in London. Most of them had been attentive and responsive lovers, more attentive and responsive than most of the Frenchmen she had bedded, to her surprise, even the American. Still, as valuable as that lesson in the limits of stereotyping had been, more valuable still was the amazing garment she had acquired. She caressed the lapel of the canary yellow two-piece Dolce and Gabana suit that was its current form, marvelling anew at its amazing properties, destined never to hear the silent screams of Colin Hayman. The End ************************** This is actually the oldest story I've posted here. I wrote it about fifteen years ago and had pretty much forgotten about it until it came to light during a recent trawl through a pile of old floppy disks. In it's original form, it was set in a fairly generic superhero world, but kind of off to one side from main events. It's still off to one side, but I decided both to update it (lots of contemporary references had to be altered or eliminated) and to set it in a specific superhero universe, namely the Ultraverse. I chose this one since I already have three tales set in that universe posted here on FM, all of them featuring comics' premier TG superhero, Mantra. For those who might be interested, these are, in reading order (each follows on from the previous one): 1) MANTRA: DAY OF THE STORM GOD 2) MANTRA: THE RUNE AGENDA 3) MANTRA: BLACK SEPTEMBER If and when I get around to writing it, Aladdin and GENIE will pay a major role in my fifth Mantra tale. The style of this story is quite a bit different from how I tend to write these days as I now put a lot more of the story into the dialogue (I actually added more dialogue in the rewrite). The narrative voice is a bit more ironic, too, something I haven't consciously moved away from but ought to try and get back.