Ace Hawkins and the Wrath of Santa Claus
Byron Starr
Creative Guy Publishing
Vancouver | Canada
Ace Hawkins and the Wrath of Santa Claus
Byron Starr
©2007 Byron Starr
Published by Creative Guy Publishing at Smashwords
All rights reserved
ISBN 9871894953542
First Edition – ebook
Illustrated by Bret Jordan
all images ©2008 Bret Jordan
The characters and situations portrayed in this book are fictional.
Any similarity with persons, whether living or dead, or creatures, whether historical, folklorical or imagined is entirely coincidental.
Ace Hawkins and the Wrath of Santa Claus
Byron Starr
Creative Guy Publishing
Vancouver | Canada
Chapter 1 President Claus
THREE FIGURES IN HEAVY white arctic suits stepped out of the tracked sled and started toward the largest of dozens of domes that made up this strange city in the middle of a vast glacial wasteland. The outlying domes were quite large in their own right, most of them averaging around twenty acres inside. The domes had once been painted white and lined with red and green lights. Now they were a dingy grey color, and the factory-domes, with their smoke stacks belching flame and soot into the northern sky, were almost completely black. Several of the domes appeared broken, like monstrous cracked eggs lying half buried in the snow; judging from the smoke still tapering out of their cracks the damage was recent. Despite their size, these outlying structures were dwarfed by the massive central dome which covered several square miles and rose several hundred feet in the air.
A pair of twenty foot tall pillars, crooked at the top, flanked the heavy metal doors that served as the main entrance to the massive structure. In better years these iron pillars had been striped red and white to look like candy canes. Now the paint had peeled away, revealing the black wrought iron underneath and numerous indentations, marking where bullets had ricocheted off the surface.
Outside the massive doors, just inside the black candy canes, two soldiers in heavy arctic suits stood guard. Behind them lay a pair of tiny one-room guardhouses, with doors much too small for either man to enter. It was difficult to imagine that this place had once been guarded by jolly elves, armed only with a smile.
Seeing the three men approach, both guards shouldered their M16s and gave a quick salute. The guard on the left turned and shouted a password into an antique looking intercom. A metallic clacking sound came from the other side of the wall. Iron and steel groaned as the heavy metal doors slowly creaked open.
Once the doors were open, the three men quickly made their way inside the dome.
The temperature inside was a comfortable sixty degrees, a stark contrast to outside, where it was fifty below. Ace began removing his heavy arctic suit; the two guards flanking him did likewise. He glanced around, taking in his surroundings; his cold grey eyes absorbing every inch of this new environment. The inside of the dome was in somewhat better shape than the outside. Here, at least, an effort had been made to hide much of the combat damage and haul off most of the excess debris. The inside of this, the Palace Dome, was laid out like a moderately sized town with numerous brick buildings making up the interior of the dome. The buildings were laid out in a grid system, just like that of any other town. The massive walled Presidential Palace stood at the center, fully taking up fully a quarter of the dome's inner surface. Ace placed his suit in a small compartment set into the interior of the dome's wall. Underneath the suit he was wearing his trademark attire--a battered leather jacket and khaki pants. His hair, which had started turning grey over a decade ago, was pulled back in a short ponytail. Even past his prime, Ace Hawkins was still one of the deadliest men in the world.
As usual, Ace was armed to the teeth. A sawed-off double-barreled shotgun was slung over his back along with a razor-sharp katana; a semiautomatic Colt .45 hung from his hip--and these were just the weapons that were visible.
Giddy with excitement, a nearby mercenary started spreading the word. "It's Ace Hawkins!" he said in a peculiar tone that was part whisper and part shout. He scampered inside a nearby store called Potpourri and Hand Grenades and shouted, "He's here! Ace Hawkins is here!"
A dozen mercenaries stumbled over themselves as they clambered out of the shop. For several seconds the grizzled veterans in arctic-camo fatigues gazed at their hero with stupefied wonder before scurrying over to him, giggling like schoolgirls.
Word spread like wildfire--mercenaries started arriving by the truckload. Four armored personnel carriers arrived; the APC's riders unloaded and joined the crowd while their crews opened the top hatches so they could enjoy a better view. The adoring crowd became a shifting mass of humanity as the fans in the third or fourth row pushed and shoved at the first and second row for a better view, while the first and second row pushed back, trying not to accidentally bump into the mythic adventurer before them. Behind the fourth row it was even worse--a mass of surging chaos. Some ingenious mercenaries in the rear tried standing on each others' shoulders, but the constant flux of the mob before them meant that these human towers were short-lived.
Ace affixed the crowd before him with a crooked smile that was one part amusement, one part condescension, and all cocky. He fished a .45 bullet out of his jacket pocket, rolled it around in his hand for a few seconds, then tossed it into the crowd. The mercenaries dove after the bullet with all the enthusiasm of Metallica groupies diving after a Hetfield guitar pick. A small melee developed as several mercenaries fought each other for possession of the trophy. From the back of the crowd a voice called out on a megaphone,
"Okay, boys, that's enough. Calm down before you piss him off and he ends up killing every one of you."
Ace thought he recognized the voice. He craned his neck to see if he could catch a glimpse, but the crowd was too thick. It took several minutes before the man with the megaphone--the mercenary leader--could force his way through the crowd. The newcomer was dressed in white fatigues similar the other mercenaries, except instead of a helmet, he wore white baseball cap with a Colonel's eagle on the front. He smiled at Ace as he stepped into the open. The artificial light overhead reflected off the tiny metal surfaces in his mouth.
"I'll be damned," Ace said with a smile. "If it isn't Metalmouth Wallace."
Forty years ago Eugene Wallace had been a brace-faced nerd who sat in the back of his high school classroom reading Mercenary Monthly Magazine and Rambo Digest. An unrepentant geek, he told anybody who would listen that he was going to run away and join a mercenary unit. Needless to say, no one believed him until one day he did just that--he packed his bags and headed for Cambodia. His nickname stemmed from the fact that when he left for a wild life of adventure he still had braces, and, since none of the third world countries he'd served in since then have had an orthodontist, he had yet to get them removed. Over the years Metalmouth had served in various positions all over the world, rising to command Nigeria's Elite Para-Alpine-Frogman Battalion before being offered overall command of the mercenaries in the United People's Democratic Republic of the North Pole. Metalmouth hated cold weather and the North Pole was as cold as one could get, but the new job included a substantial raise as well as a promotion; he could hardly have turned down the offer.
The crowd of mercenaries fell silent at the shocking revelation that their commander was actually an old friend of the legendary hero. After a few seconds the soldiers started murmuring among themselves in disbelief. They had the utmost respect for Colonel Metalmouth and they knew he had a storied past, but they'd had no idea he knew Ace Hawkins.
Although some would consider it hypocritical, Ace actually didn't care for mercenaries. He was an adventurer, a loner by nature. Mercenaries worked in groups and were often uncontrollable and unreliable. Metalmouth, on the other hand, was a little better than most and Ace respected him for it.
"Ace, you old dog," Metalmouth said with a smile. "How long has it been?"
"Too long," Ace replied.
Metalmouth walked up to Ace and shook his hand while the now docile crowd cautiously shuffled closer for a better look at living legend Ace Hawkins.
"Please, follow me," the colonel said. The crowd of mercenaries parted before him as he led the way toward the massive palace standing in the center of the dome.
The metal cleats on Metalmouth's arctic combat boots echoed throughout the dark and spacious hall, but Ace's footfalls didn't make a sound. Although Ace appeared relaxed and at ease, his eyes continually inspected every dark nook along the way. Most people would feel safe inside the fortress of their employer, but Ace Hawkins had made too many enemies in his long career to let his guard down. Besides, he didn't exactly trust this new boss. His money was good, but he was known to be a manipulative backstabber.
The hall seemed to go on forever. After several minutes with only the echo of Metalmouth's footsteps to break the silence Ace asked,
"What do you know about the job?"
Metalmouth chuckled nervously. "You know the rules. I can't say a word."
"Now when have I ever played by the rules?"
"You can get away with it; it's a different game for me. I have to play by the rules. Sorry, Ace."
"Halls bugged?"
The mercenary colonel nodded, but didn't reply out loud. The hall ended in a pair of heavy ornate wooden doors. Without a word, Metalmouth opened the doors and motioned for Ace to enter. Once Ace was inside, the Metalmouth turned and left, closing the door behind him.
The office was exquisitely furnished. The furniture was made of the same dark mahogany as the doors. An elaborate Persian rug covered the massive floor and a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. The walls on either side were covered with Expressionist paintings that must have cost a fortune. Directly ahead, eight trophy-mounted reindeer heads adorned the wall, four on either side of the desk. Beneath each of these trophies was a brass plate, each bearing a familiar name--Donner, Blitzen, Cupid, and so on.
A small, emaciated man with a wispy lock of white hair atop his wrinkled head sat behind the massive desk at the other end of the room. His shoulder blades thrust upwards against the bright red cloth of the robe that was draped over his bony frame. Despite the deep laugh lines in his wrinkled cheeks, there was no sign of merriment. The years hadn't been kind to the President of the United People's Democratic Republic of the North Pole--the man known to the rest of the world as Santa Claus.
A snooty-looking elf in a grey Italian suit stood behind the desk on President Claus's left. Despite the fact that he was standing on a stool, the elf was only visible from the chest up. He must have been barely two feet tall, short even for an elf. He had a regal and lofty air about him as he casually glanced about the room, seemingly uninterested in the newcomer.
The man on Santa's right needed no stool. The hulking albino stood a full 6 feet 6 inches tall. He too was dressed in a sharp Italian suit, solid white instead of business-like grey. Two bulges protruded on either side of the albino's jacket--guns, no doubt. And from the size of the bulges they were probably something bigger than pistols. This was Santa's right-hand man, the infamous Mister Snowman. Ace Hawkins knew Mister Snowman quite well; they had crossed paths before the albino was employed as President Claus's bodyguard.
The albino's piercing pink eyes grew wide as soon as Ace entered the room.
"Ace Hawkins!" The Mister Snowman shouted. Moving amazingly fast for such a big man, his hands flashed inside his jacket, reaching for his guns.
The snooty elf suddenly became not-so-aloof. With a sharp squeal of fear, he jumped from his stool and dove under Santa's desk.
"Restrain yourself, Mister Snowman!" Santa snapped. Ace was unfazed. Although his right hand did inch closer to his pistol, the sarcastic smile never left his face as he spoke to his old adversary, "I see you haven't changed, still ugly as ever."
His hands still in his jacket grasping his weapons, Mister Snowman growled, "I should kill you right now."
Still smiling, Ace asked, "Let's see, where did I see you last? Oh, that's right, Nepal. How did you ever get out from under that avalanche?"
Mister Snowman didn't answer the question. "Let's settle everything right here and now," he said.
"I'm not too busy," Ace replied coolly. Still smiling, his hand inched closer to his pistol.
Santa's face was flushed with anger, but his voice was calm and measured. "Gentlemen, we have business to attend to."
Without taking his eyes from Ace, Mister Snowman spoke to Santa,
"You never mentioned hiring him. That wasn't part of the deal."
"Mister Snowman," Santa sharply replied, "I am the President of the United People's Democratic Republic of the North Pole. I, and I alone, make personnel decisions, especially during this time of national crisis. You will cease this display of insubordination at once."
Mister Snowman's hands slowly slid out of his jacket and away from his guns.
The snooty elf poked his head out from under the desk. He dusted himself off, adjusted the seams on his slacks, and then regained his position on the stool behind the desk. Despite having completely lost his composure only a few seconds ago, he once again lifted his nose and regained his regal bearing.
"I see you are already acquainted with my bodyguard," Santa said to Ace in a surprisingly calm tone. He motioned to the elf on his left.
"This is my chief butler and accountant, Rich Goldleaf."
The elf raised his nose a little higher as he feigned complete disinterest in the filthy adventurer before him.
Santa turned to Goldleaf. "Could you please assist me in briefing Mr. Hawkins on his mission?"
Goldleaf sniffed haughtily then hopped down from his stool, causing all but the top of his head to disappear behind the desk. He made his way to a screen against the far wall. He pressed a button in the wall, causing a hidden projector across the room to start playing. The film was black and white and quite jumpy, like that of an old reel to reel. There wasn't any sound. The first scenes seemed like an old propaganda film. Happy elves worked at their stations while fat, jolly old Santa looked on; he was a lot healthier in these pictures --the film was obviously made long before Santa's bout with cancer. There were scenes of happy children opening presents by the fireplace, and smiling parents waving from balconies as Santa's sleigh flew away into the night. There was even a scene in which Mrs. Claus lovingly kissed her jolly husband on the cheek. Santa watched this scene without the least sign of remorse, despite the fact that it was well known that he had ordered her put to death for selling trade secrets to a major toy company in the States.
"Okay," Santa said, and Goldleaf pressed the button again, stopping the film at a scene in which the happy elves were busy packing toys into bags and loading them into the sleigh for delivery.
"Those were the good old days." Santa said. "Sure, there were seeds of trouble here and there. In 1953 the elves in Workshop 17 went on strike, demanding that their hours be cut back to sixteen a day, but after a little public torture and a few executions everything returned to normal."
Santa turned to the wet bar behind his desk, and poured himself a tall scotch on the rocks. After taking a long drink, Santa turned back around and nodded toward his chief butler. Goldleaf press another button on the wall. The sound of busy movement came from the hidden room that held the film projector. Ace assumed that they were changing out the film. However, when the next picture to appear on the screen was a still shot, he realized that the film projector had been replaced with a slide projector. The picture was one of North Pole City itself--the Domed City. However, in this picture the signs of war were even more apparent. Almost every dome was in flames. Even the Palace Dome was cracked in two or three places.
"The elf revolt of '72 caught us by surprise." Santa said. "At that time the closest thing the North Pole had to a military unit was the police force, which numbered only around one-hundred and fifty men and a few loyal elves; they were mostly armed with clubs, sidearms, teargas and a handful of rifles. They could do little to stop the revolt as it spread to every workshop in less than a week's time. I was forced into exile in the United States.
"I wasn't off my feet for long. I returned with a crack mercenary unit and started slowly turning the tide of the revolt. Once peace was restored we gassed a few of the more troublesome workshops. Needless to say, this cut down on productivity, but we felt that sending the message that we wouldn't think twice about wiping out entire communities would discourage future rabble-rousers.
"At first it appeared to have done the trick. On the surface it seemed as if everything was back to normal, but the elves had tasted victory. After remaining quiet for only a few years the rebels surfaced again. This time it wasn't a full rebellion, just acts of terrorism and sabotage, but it was enough to force me to maintain a permanent mercenary force. This added expense, combined with increased competition from American and Taiwanese toy manufacturers, halved my profits by the early '80s.
I was able to rebound somewhat by informing the United States that the revolt had been backed by the Soviet Union. Fearing another communist uprising, the U.S. provided my mercenaries with better arms and specialized training. I was then able to regain some of my profit by joining forces with the Swedish Mafia in a lucrative drug trafficking ring in Alaska and Canada. Things were finally getting back to normal. The money was beginning to trickle in and it looked like I would be making a full recovery."
The next picture was of an angry elf grimacing as he aimed an assault rifle at a child who was kneeling and begging for mercy. The picture was an obvious fake. In fact, the forgery was downright terrible. The half of the picture with the elf in it had snow covered rubble in the background, while the picture of the child was a springtime setting with flowers and clouds in the background. Whoever had concocted the picture had probably used a picture from a church's prayer book for the child and attached it to a picture of an armed elf. However, it wasn't the picture itself that bothered Ace. He cleared his throat and said, "You do recall the deal we made over the phone."
"Yes," Santa replied, waving his hand as if it was an old topic he had grown weary of. "I knew full well about your connections with the elves when I hired you. While your mission indirectly deals with the rebellious elves, you will not be called on to attack them directly."
Santa pressed the remote that controlled the projector several times, quickly shuffling through several similar propaganda pictures. Even at such a quick glance, it was easy to tell they were all fakes. The projector finally stopped at a rather oddly out-of-place picture. At first it seemed to be a facial shot of a frostbitten corpse. The face was completely without pigment; it was bluish white skin with black frostbitten patches on the cheekbones, eyebrows, and nose. A tube ran out of the corner of its mouth. The oddest thing about the picture was the eyes. The eyes weren't cloudy like a corpse's; they were bright and alert. This "corpse" was very much alive.
"Are you familiar with Dr. James Frosenburg?" Santa asked.
"He was an eccentric scientist who pioneered cryogenic research in an attempt to gain immortality." Ace replied. "He died in 1963 while running experiments on himself."
"He didn't die," Santa replied. "This is a rare picture of the doctor without his protective gear. It was taken only two years ago."
"That's impossible. He was in his eighties when he died. He would have to be at least one-hundred and twenty years old."
"One hundred and twenty-eight, to be precise. And, yes, he is very much alive."
"So his experiments were successful?"
"In a way, yes. His life has certainly been prolonged; however, his obsession with immortality, combined with constant pain, caused the doctor's already precarious grip on sanity to slip away." Santa pressed the button again, changing the picture on the screen. "He now calls himself Jack Frost."
The figure on the screen looked as though he had been pulled straight out of the pages of a comic book. It was a dark blue suit of body armor, with splashes of light blue added in strategic locations in order to accent the muscles that were shaped into the suit. The helmet was wickedly demonic. The ears were pointed, and the chin thrust outward. Its eyes were large and colorless. A permanent evil smile was etched across the helmet's face.
Santa continued. "After the accident Frost tried to return to his experiments, but found that even inside his protective suit he was unable to stand the heat of normal temperatures. He moved his lab to a more comfortable climate, the North Pole. From this new hideout, his experiments became even more sinister. He performed experiments on elves, turning them into hideous mutants," Santa said, sadly shaking his head. "At that point I ceased all contact with the evil Doctor."
"Wait a minute. I believe I'm familiar with this part of the story,"
Ace said slyly. As always, he knew more about his assignment that he was letting on. He hadn't known the identity of Jack Frost, but he was already aware of some of the circumstances surrounding Santa's dilemma. Ace continued, "You sold him the elves, knowing full well what his intentions were. In fact, you only stopped supplying elves when he refused to pay tribute to your government."
At first Santa seemed caught off guard. Then he once again waved his hand dismissively. "That's beside the point," Santa pressed on. "Not long after our falling out, he began supplying the rebels with military arms. We had enough trouble while the elves were limited to whatever they could build in their workshops--mostly slingshots and BB guns, and an occasional crossbow or explosive device. Now that they have access to military arms, the revolt has reached a new peak."
Santa turned to Ace. "This is where you come in. I want you to kill Jack Frost."
"Easy enough."
"No, it's not. Jack Frost's hideout is one of the most heavily guarded facilities in the world. That's why I must insist that you take this mission with Mister Snowman as your assistant."
"Like hell. I make it a point never to work with anyone whose shoe size is higher than their I.Q."
Mister Snowman growled, but didn't say a word. Santa reached under his desk and brought out a hard, leather-bound briefcase. "Perhaps this will change your mind." He opened the briefcase and spun it to face Ace; it was filled with gold bars. "You will work this job my way, or you can go home. It's your choice."
Ace, of course, went with the money.
After seeing Ace to his quarters, Metalmouth returned to the Palace. When he stepped into the main office Santa, Rich, and Mister Snowman were deep in conversation. However, as soon as the colonel entered the room all conversation ceased. Metalmouth stood at attention before the desk, wondering just what exactly they had been discussing before he entered.
Santa glared at Metalmouth from behind his desk before finally saying, "At ease, Colonel Wallace."
The colonel relaxed only slightly.
"How long do we have before the troops are ready?" Santa asked.
"The training is coming along rather well, but we need a few more weeks. I'd say a month and we'll be ready to go."
"You have two weeks."
"Begging your pardon, sir," Metalmouth said cautiously. "I need more time to properly train the men. They need to acquaint themselves with the new equipment and once a plan is devised we will need to practice the operational aspects..."
"It's not open for discussion, Colonel," Santa said, "You have two weeks."
"Yes, sir."
"And keep our new guest occupied," Santa added. "I don't want him sneaking around."
"Yes, sir."
"Now, if you'll please leave us, we have important matters to discuss."
Metalmouth didn't move at first. He knew they were probably discussing the mission, and he wanted to tell them that as the head of the military forces he should be a part of that discussion. However, he couldn't build up the nerve to speak out. He didn't want to cross the president. Santa Claus could be quite vindictive and ruthless with those who didn't please him.
"Colonel Wallace," Santa said, now with some firmness in his voice, "You may take your leave."
"Yes, sir."
Metalmouth saluted, turned on his heels and marched out of the office.
Chapter 2 Hell on Earth
THE TOURING CARRIAGE WAS a ridiculous contraption built to carry visiting dignitaries from dome to dome throughout the city. In his usual fit of twisted nostalgia, Santa had ordered that it be constructed to look like a one horse open sleigh, but, as always, the end result looked downright silly. The rigid metal horse used a large set of wheels that were situated between its unmoving legs to pull the vehicle. The carriage was also much taller than its designers had anticipated. This was due to the fact that while there was a driver in a top hat holding the reins, the real driver was an elf below in a cramped compartment. The one saving grace was that the carriage did have a bubble canopy that protected the riders from the harsh elements. However, this canopy didn't extend to cover the poor ornamental driver. Although his position was for appearances only, Santa felt it was an important touch. The tuxedoed driver rarely lived through one or two trips outside, but President Santa Claus always got his way. Besides, he viewed it as an easy way to get rid of troublemakers in his military. A "promotion"
to carriage driver was the equivalent of a death sentence in the United People's Democratic Republic of the North Pole. Metalmouth sat on one side of the carriage, smiling as he tried to play the part of the happy tour guide. He would have much rather been training his men--it wasn't like they had a lot of time to prepare. However, Santa had decided that letting Ace inspect the mercenaries would occupy the adventurer's mind and keep him from getting into trouble. And, of course, Santa always got his way. Ace sat on the other side of the carriage, slumped in his seat. It was obvious that he too wished he was somewhere else. The metal rails grated loudly and sparks flew as the motorized sleigh went from packed ice to concrete upon entering the Barracks Dome. Metalmouth had to raise his voice almost to a shout to be heard over the racket, "The troops coming up on your right are the U.P.D.R.N.P. Infantry Regiment. They're a rag-tag group, but they get the job done. In fact, they've proven to be quite a match for the rebels--they can even hold their own in tunnel warfare."
The troops stood at attention in a mostly organized column. Decked out in a mishmash of arctic camo and dirty white fatigues, they were armed with a mixture of Soviet and Chinese arms. Their faces were every bit as mixed as their equipment and uniforms: a blend of all races and even their ages varied from late teens to middle-aged.
"So they can beat toymakers in a stand up fight. Big deal," Ace muttered.
Metalmouth pretended not to hear the sarcasm. Once they were past the Infantry Regiment another group came into view. This smaller group of soldiers was dressed similarly to the first, but only wore sidearms.
"This is U.P.D.R.N.P. Heavy Artillery Battalion," Metalmouth said, still trying to sound like a jolly tour guide. Ace glanced at them, then sarcastically commented, "I'll bet heavy artillery comes in really handy in tunnel warfare."
"Actually, these boys will be important in the upcoming fight with Jack Frost. Their six-inch howitzers will be able to bombard his fortress while staying safely out of range of his lighter 155 millimeter pieces." As they passed the artillery unit, Metalmouth added, "There was also one battalion that was unable to attend the review--a security battalion based in the Palace Dome itself."
"I saw them earlier. Not very impressive."
Metalmouth nodded but kept on smiling. "I admit the security detachment is our weakest link, but you're about to see one of the finest units in the world."
With its skids still screeching and throwing sparks, the Touring Carriage made a turn around a building and entered the parade grounds. A small unit of about three-hundred-and-fifty men stood at rigid attention here. These troops were different from the first two. They were smartly dressed in winter camo and were all armed with the latest American arms. Even, the soldiers themselves even seemed uniform. Instead of a mix of all breeds of mercenaries, these were all tall, lean ebony faced soldiers with grim expressions.
A little over two dozen boxy armored personnel carriers were lined up behind the troops. Although these APCs had recently been painted white, the dark green camo coat was still visible through the solitary white coat of paint.
"And this is my pride and joy," Metalmouth said with a smile. "This is the U.P.D.R.N.P Mechanized Battalion. When I left Nigeria, about half of my men came with me. I used those veterans to form a crack, hard-hitting mech unit. We just received our new APCs, but my men are taking to them nicely. We should be ready to roll in a few days."
"New?" Ace snorted. "Those are M113s--Vietnam era equipment. What did you have before, halftracks?"
Metalmouth stammered and actually blushed at this comment. Ace had hit the nail on the head; two weeks ago they had been equipped with WWII-era halftracks. Santa wasn't exactly a generous spender. The colonel finally gained his voice and said, "Um, well, actually, these APCs have had their armor reinforced and the command APCs are equipped with the latest in electronic countermeasures. They also are geared to run almost fifteen miles per hour faster than their Vietnam predecessors."
"Nice," Ace muttered, obviously still unimpressed. The god-awful grating and the shower of sparks decreased as the Touring Carriage slowed. Metalmouth quickly typed a brief message into his armrest, telling the driver to keep going. The plan had been for Ace to inspect the troops, but the adventurer didn't seem the least bit interested. There was very little other entertainment available in the North Pole. Ace probably wouldn't be interested in the safaris or the arcade. The only thing available to hunt was elves and the occasional flying reindeer, and the only functional game in the arcade was Wack-a-Elf, which was similar to a popular game back in the States called Wack-a-Mole except that Wack-a-Elf used live elf prisoners and a real hammer. Metalmouth had planned the tour of a Workshop for the next morning, but it appeared that if he was to keep Ace busy he was going to have to proceed with the tour today. Santa would not be pleased. The sparks ceased as the Touring Carriage left the concrete floor of the Barracks Dome and returned to the icy glacier outside. Metalmouth typed another message into his armrest and the sleigh turned to the right.
"Where to now? The gift shop?" Ace grumpily asked, still slumped in his seat.
"We're going to tour one of the Workshops," Metalmouth said with a friendly, yet nervous smile.
Ace sat up. It was only a slight change in posture, but Metalmouth was almost overcome with joy. Maybe this wouldn't be as bad as he had expected.
"Which one?" Ace asked.
"Workshop 1," Metalmouth answered. His face beaming, he was practically giddy with excitement. "We'll be touring the..."
"Oh, hell no."
"Huh?" Metalmouth replied, now thoroughly crushed and confused.
"Don't forget, I've been here before. I know Workshop 1 is the tourist stop. It's where Santa's fat and lazy loyalists pretend to work for the entertainment of the visitors."
"Well, we could..." Metalmouth started, in a sheepish, confused tone.
However, the colonel was cut short when Ace slammed his boot down on the floor of the carriage.
"Ow!" A voice yelped from below. "What?"
"Take us to Workshop 13," Ace said.
"Okay," the voice replied.
Now Metalmouth slumped in his seat. Santa was not going to be pleased. Nope, not at all.
Workshop 13 loomed ahead on the white landscape like a black, broken egg, its stacks belching a constant flow of filth into the northern sky. So much grime covered the dome that one could barely make out the slogan that had been etched above its arched doorway. The slogan used to read 'Peace on Earth,' but some clever elf had changed the word Peace to something more appropriate. The slogan now read, 'Hell on Earth.'
Back in the Revolt of '72 Workshop 13 was one of the first strongholds of the rebellion and was among the last to hold out when Santa's mercenaries retook the Domed City. At first Santa ordered Workshops 13, 29, 44 and 46 gassed for their roles in the rebellion. However, Workshop 13 proved too valuable. Two very important commodities were produced in Workshop 13. The first was the various dolls and stuffed toys that parents tended to fight over during the Christmas rush. Although they had different names in the States, in the North Pole these toys were known by their original names such as Pumpkin Patch Kids and Tickle Me JoJo dolls. Workshop 13 was also the home of the Vidiots. While Vidiots were considered second class citizens in elf society, they had become quite valuable in the new toy market. These elves made the all-important video game systems and the game cartridges that went with them. Even as far back as the early 1970s Santa had been aware that these toys were going to be major sellers from the 80s on, so in order to spare Workshop 13 he secretly ordered that Workshop 14 be gassed by a so-called error. Poor Workshop 14 actually remained neutral during the revolt; their failing was the fact that they produced only hula-hoops, jump ropes, and marbles--not very popular items. After executing the scapegoat who supposedly ordered Workshop 14 gassed, Santa ordered that Workshop 13 be spared. However, he then descended on it with a vengeance, turning it into a hellhole of a sweatshop. The Touring Carriage came to a halt outside the gates of the dark domed structure. Ace assumed the gate would open as soon as they approached, but it didn't. They sat in the carriage while the arctic wind howled around them.
"What's going on?" Ace finally asked.
"We need to wait for an escort," Metalmouth replied as he typed another message into his armrest.
"An escort?"
"'Shop 13 is a nasty place. The rebels strike here at least twice a week. Everything from bombs to snipers to all out attacks. They know the Touring Carriage carries important visitors and they have spies everywhere. They'll probably know we're here as soon as we pull through the gates and there's a good chance they will try something." The colonel turned toward Ace, looked him in the eyes and said, "Your little side trip has just put our lives on the line."
"Good," Ace replied without the least hint of sarcasm, "I'm bored."
Metalmouth once again faced forward. Wringing his hands, his jaws nervously clenched and unclenched as he waited for the escort to arrive. His mind raced with the possibility of an all out confrontation with the elf rebels, and, worse yet, the inevitable confrontation with President Claus when he found out about the little expedition into a restricted area.
On the other side of the car Ace was as cool and collected as ever. He removed a toothpick from inside his leather jacket and began casually picking his teeth. His mind briefly pondered the stringiness of reindeer meat and how it always seemed to get stuck between his teeth. Scarcely a minute passed before Metalmouth muttered, "What's taking them so long?" He began typing on his armrest again. No sooner had he started typing than four arctic vehicles came into view. The Arctic Carriers were basically a cross between a classic army jeep and a snowmobile. Metalmouth, not Santa, had designed them, so they weren't decked out to fit some ridiculous theme. In fact, they were quite ugly, but they did provide suitable transportation for up to six mercenaries while providing protection against the elements and the rebels in the form of an armored canopy.
Two of the Carriers moved ahead of the Touring Carriage while the other two moved to the rear. As soon as they were in place, the heavy gates began slowly opening.
The heated air inside the dome met the freezing air outside, causing a sudden fog to roll out and surround the vehicles. Ace placed the toothpick in the corner of his mouth. His eyes carefully scanned the polluted, dull grey fog.
As soon as the gate was opened the Touring Carriage and its escorts moved inside. Unlike the Palace Dome and the Barracks Dome, the workshops were built directly on top of the glacier, as a result there were no sparks or loud screeching--the carriage slid smoothly and quietly as it entered Workshop 13.
Like the other domes, there were buildings throughout the structure. However, the work was not limited to inside the buildings. Elves on either side of the street wore shackles and worked at stations situated in the open, and even more elves worked on balcony-like platforms overhead.
Ace noticed that the elves serving as guards and supervisors all wore uniforms. Their uniforms were black with a patch on the arm depicting the severed head of a white rabbit. On the necks of their starched uniforms they wore a pair of small devices that depicted a pair of slightly slanted candy canes lying parallel to one another--it was certainly no mistake that the candy canes on this badge looked like a small 'SS'. The uniformed elves wore sidearms and carried cattle prods and whips. Several also had rifles.
"Those some of your men?" Ace asked.
Metalmouth wrinkled his nose in disgust. "No, the DEBBs answer directly to Santa."
"Debs?" Ace asked.
"The DEBB. It stands for Dead Easter Bunny Brigade. While my mercenaries respond to any major uprisings or attacks, the DEBB is responsible for day to day control of the Workshops. They're part political faction and part paramilitary. They're barbaric, ruthless, and totally unreliable."
As if to accent the brutality of the Workshop, just as the Touring Carriage passed by a long bench lined with lower level Vidiots an elf tripped over his shackles, knocking several tools from the table. A DEBB with a whip quickly went to work on the downed worker. Two more DEBBs arrived and began beating other elves that just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. One elf made the mistake of trying to fight back; he was hit with a stun gun and hauled away.
"With such tender care it's a wonder the elves are rebelling," Ace commented.
"The pay is good," Metalmouth said with a shrug. His tone was somewhat apologetic, but he dared not say anything else and Ace knew why--the carriage was bugged.
Metalmouth was no long the eager tour guide. In fact, he didn't say a word as they continued down the main central road of Workshop 13. Ace knew Metalmouth was in a tight spot; the colonel would probably catch hell for this little side trip, so the colonel wasn't going to add to the punishment by giving out more information than he was supposed to. The DEBB troops seemed oblivious to the fact that they had guests among them. Ace witnessed several more beatings as they made their way through the infamous workshop. It seemed that these beatings were often dealt out for no reason at all; a guard would just decide he wanted to use his whip or club and he'd pick a random victim. When they reached the far end of Workshop 13's main road the Touring Carriage and her escorts turned around and started back toward the main gate.
"I hope you've seen enough," Metalmouth commented. "President Claus will probably dock me a month's pay for this."
Ace didn't reply--something else caught his attention. Five remote controlled toy cars were darting in and out under the tables, weaving in and out through the legs of the elves. In order to match the dirty white surface of the dome's floor their bodies and even their off road tires were painted light grey. Ace noticed that these little cars were keeping up with the caravan as they made their way back to the gate. He also noticed movement in alleys and on rooftops.
Ace's right hand carefully moved to his pistol. His left hand felt along the canopy, trying to see if there was a window or opening he could use as a firing slit.
"What are you doing?" Metalmouth asked.
"We're about to be attacked," Ace replied calmly. The remote controlled cars suddenly burst out from under the tables. Each of the five cars picked out a target, one for each Arctic Carrier and one for the Touring Carriage.
Metalmouth pressed a button on his armrest and shouted, "Drones four o'clock!"
The ambush was brilliant. Everyone in the caravan knew what the drones meant--these squatty but fast remote controlled cars were loaded with explosives. Normally they could be picked off with small arms before they reached their mark, but it would be hard as hell to hit anything firing out of the slits in the cramped Arctic Carriers and if the soldiers opened the canopies for a better shot they would come under fire from the rebel troops who had taken up positions the alleys and on the rooftops. Worse yet, the Touring Carriage didn't even have firing slits.
The last three Arctic Carriers opened their canopies and opened fire. Of them only the one directly behind the Touring Carriage was unable to hit its drone; this carrier was blown high into the air and came down on its side. The lead carrier made a run for it, zipping away with its drone in hot pursuit.
The Touring Carriage didn't open its canopy. Equipped with somewhat better armor, Metalmouth hoped they could withstand the blast. The drone zipped underneath and detonated. The explosion blew the Carriage onto its side and cracked open the canopy, but they were alive.
Ace rolled out of the carriage and took cover behind an overturned worktable. When he looked over the table he saw a scene of utter pandemonium. The DEBBs were reacting wildly, beating or shooting whoever was nearest to them. They made no concerted effort to stop the attack or come to the aid of the mercenaries who had been hit by the ambush; they were just using the confusion as an excuse to beat the workers. Most of the surviving mercenaries, including Metalmouth, had rallied behind the overturned Touring Carriage. Although there were only seven of them, Metalmouth was able to direct their fire and suppress most of the enemy fire from the rooftops and alleys. Ace noticed a group of elves in fatigues gathering a few tables down from him. From this vantage point they could rush the defenders from behind. Ace had a perfect shot, but held his fire. This wasn't his fight. The elves rushed in, firing as they ran. Three mercenaries went down before Metalmouth was able to redirect the remaining soldiers' fire to this new threat. Now with attention directed elsewhere, the groups in the alleys on the other side of the street were now becoming bold. They darted forward to better positions.
Just when it seemed like the mercenaries were about to be overwhelmed six armored personnel carriers came roaring down the street from the direction of the gate. As soon as they were in place, the APC's doors fell open and members of Metalmouth's elite mech battalion darted out, firing as they took up positions. Soon the tide had turned and the newly reinforced mercenaries began pushing the rebels back. As the fighting began to push its way into the alleys Ace stepped out from behind his table. One of the grim mech soldiers noticed him and asked, "Mr. Hawkins, are you okay?"
"Never better."
The businesslike mercenary nodded then ran into one of the alleys to join his squad.
The fight had moved on, but chaos still prevailed along the street. The mercenaries and the rebels were gone, but the DEBBs and the pitiful workers were still there. The black shirted DEBBs were administering beatings at complete random. Some focused on one victim, while others would work their way up and down a line of shackled and cuffed workers. Ace was not particularly thrilled at the scene, but he didn't want to alienate his new employer by stepping in.
However, while Ace didn't want to take an active role in the fight, he was curious about his attackers. He set off down the dark alleyways, following the sound of the fighting. The windowless alleys were littered with discarded Christmas decorations and partially burnt wrapping paper; they wound almost randomly between the twisted red brick buildings. If it hadn't been for his excellent tracking skills, Ace would never have been able to make his way through the maze to find where the engagement was taking place.
He came upon three mercenary soldiers pinned down by sporadic fire from a position at the other end of a long straight stretch of alley. One of the soldiers, a sergeant, was wounded in the arm and chest, but he was refusing to withdraw. The other two soldiers, probably privates, were following his instructions as best they could but were unable to pin down their adversary sufficiently to allow an advance.
"Mr. Hawkins," the sergeant said in a thick Nigerian accent, "So glad to see you. As you can see, we're in a bit of a fix. The main column is pinned down a few blocks away. We were sent on a flanking maneuver, but found ourselves pinned down before we reached the objective. Could you give us a hand here?"
"Nope," Ace replied flatly as he dropped to a knee and peered down the alley.
The sergeant affixed Ace with a questioning stare, "Just whose side are you on?"
"Mine," Ace replied. And with that he rose to his feet and retraced his steps away from the small firefight.
However, he only made it around the next corner before he stopped, turned to a nearby door, and kicked it in. The elves shackled to the long tables inside were cowering under the blows of the DEBB guards who, like the DEBBs out on the streets, were taking advantage of the chaos to administer beatings to any and all elves who were within reach. It was a scene of complete pandemonium, with pitiful screams mixed with angry cries along with the crack of whips and the thud of batons.
Then Ace kicked in the door.
Everyone stopped what they were doing. All eyes turned to the long shadow outlined in the newly opened door. The silence was deafening. Ace stood in the doorway for a few seconds, taking in the scene before him, his mind carefully recording every possible threat. When he finally stepped forward, he said, "This is not my fight. I'm just passing through."
"You one of Metalmouth's boys?" a grimfaced blackshirt asked in the telltale slur of one who is drunk on his own stupidity, "You not supposed to be here. I don't care if you ol' Braceface himself. This our turf."
"Yeah!" another DEBB called out from across the room. Several other DEBBs murmured in agreement. They weren't used to fighting people who weren't shackled, but with odds of twelve to one, they felt pretty sure of themselves.
Ace stopped. "The name's Ace Hawkins." Ace replied, coolly taking them all in one at a time with his steel grey eyes. "I don't want to kill you," he paused for effect, "but I'll do just that if you cross me."
Ace's right hand inched toward his pistol, while his left slowly reached over his shoulder for his sword. There was a long pause and Ace began to think he could make it through the building without a fight. He took one cautious step forward. Then another.
"Tall one's aren't supposed to be here!" another DEBB called out.
"Yeah, you get out of here! This our turf!" the idiot agreed. Still, no one made a move for a weapon.
A DEBB stepped into the path before Ace. This blackshirted elf wore a braid on his shoulder, so Ace assumed he was an officer; it was hard to tell since the DEBBs didn't seem to use any normal military ranking system. The little officer stood with his hands on his hips and his legs spread defiantly. It might have been impressive if it hadn't have been for the fact that he was only three feet tall. "You're not passing through my block. You can leave the way you came in."
"Get out of my way," Ace growled.
The once-bold officer faltered. It seemed as if he was going to make the intelligent choice and back down. Then the moronic elf who had spoke up first ruined any chance of a peaceful outcome by reaching for his pistol.
In one fluid motion Ace dropped to one knee, spun to his right, drew his pistol and fired. The first shot hit the idiot-elf in the chest, sending him flying back onto the table behind him. Ace then turned to the officer before him standing with his mouth agape He put a quick bullet between the shocked blackshirt's eyes before moving on to the next target. A DEBB to the left already had his gun out and was preparing to fire while another brave soul was attempting to attack Ace from behind with a baton. Ace dropped with elf with the gun before he could squeeze the trigger and, as he did, he drew his sword with his left hand, slashing backward without even looking behind him. The katana tore into the elf 's torso, sending him to the dirty floor of the sweatshop in a pool of his own blood.
Seeing four of their number dispatched in about three seconds, the rest of the DEBBs understandably threw down their weapons and fled the building. Ace was content to let them go. Putting his pistol in its holster and his katana in its scabbard as he walked, Ace moved swiftly down the aisle toward the far door. Elves on either side of him pleaded from him to release them from their bonds, but their cries fell on deaf ears. This wasn't his fight. Besides, there wasn't money in it, and Ace Hawkins always went with the money.
Ace glanced outside the sweatshop and saw two elves firing around a corner down a long alley. These were obviously the elves who were pinning down the three mercenaries. They were so intent on their own gunfight that they hadn't heard the firing inside the building next to them. In fact they didn't even see Ace when he walked up behind them, approaching to within arm's length before speaking.
"So, how's it going?"
They spun around, but Ace was too fast. He grabbed the barrels of both guns and pointed them skyward.
"Easy, boys. I don't want any trouble." Ace said, then he asked,
"Who has rank here?"
The elves looked at each other, then the one on the left said, "I do."
Ace turned to the other elf, released the barrel of his gun and asked, "Can you keep the soldiers pinned while I talk to your buddy here?"
"Uh, sure."
"Then do it." Ace released the elf's rifle..
With a perplexed look still on his face the elf turned and start firing back down the alley.
Ace turned to the ranking elf and asked, "What's the situation?"
"We ambushed a column in the dome. Almost overran them but Metalmouth's special forces arrived before we could finish them off. Now we're trying to perform a fighting withdrawal."
"To where?"
"Uh..." the elf paused, trying to decide what he could and couldn't say, "to the tunnels."
"I know that. Where is the tunnel entrance?"
"I can't tell you," the elf replied, beads of sweat now apparent on his brow. A whistle blew loudly in the distance. "There's the signal. If we don't withdraw now, we'll be left behind."
Ace could tell the elf was desperate and he figured there was a chance he could get the information by simply holding the two of them and threatening to turn them in. However, he had another idea.
"You two had better hurry then," Ace said.
The elf looked at him in shock, then turned to his partner and said,
"Let's go!"
The two elves quickly placed rudimentary pipe bombs in various piles of debris near their position. Before they left, the ranking elf turned to Ace and gave a friendly word of warning, "We cover our retreat with these bombs. You'll do well not to try and follow us. In fact, if I were you, I'd get out of this alley. They'll start blowing in only a few minutes."
Leaning casually against the alley wall, Ace replied, "I'll manage."
"Suit yourself," the elf said. Then he turned and joined his companion, who was already halfway to the next corner. Ace waited until both elves had disappeared around a corner before turning to face the wall behind him. He jumped and caught his fingers on the ledge of a high window. Groaning as he pulled himself up, he couldn't help but realize how easy the same feat would have been twenty years ago. Once he was finally on the ledge, Ace once again propelled himself upward, grabbing the next ledge and pulling himself up onto the roof.
In the alleys below dozens of small bombs began sporadically detonating.
Ace moved along the rooftop, following the retreating elves as best he could. Occasionally he would have to make a running leap across an alley to keep up, but the alleys were narrow and easily jumped. Like most of the workshops, Workshop 13 was situated with an inner and an outer street. The inner street ran down the center of the dome and served as the main road for the entire dome. This was where the Touring Carriage and its escorts had been ambushed. The outer street circled the buildings in the dome, running around the inside of the dome wall with just a thin row of buildings located up against the dome wall itself.
Ace made it to the edge of the mass of buildings and looked down on the wide outer street. With all of the soldiers slowed down by the explosives in the alleys, the elves thought no one else was around. Unaware they were being watched, they streamed toward one particular building that was located outside the street and against the dome wall. They gathered before the door, but didn't go inside. As Ace watched, he noticed two elves that stood out in the crowd, each for an entirely different reason.
Clad in grey-and-white urban winter camo like the rest of the rebels, one elf needed no ornamentation to show that he was a leader. This elf made his way back and forth through the crowd, urging stragglers and checking on the wounded. He seemed to be everywhere at once. Every time a group emerged from an alley, he would rush over and ask for a report. Ace assumed this was the elf in charge of the raid. Decades ago this was the Ace's old friend Tif's job, but Tif was probably too old for active service now. The little guy was impressive, like Tif, he seemed to be a born leader.
The other elf who caught Ace's eye was another story altogether. He was decked out in green. Not green camo, mind you, but Kelly green set off by a green bowler with a shamrock in its brim. He made his way through the crowd behaving like a drunken fool. The leprechaun wannabe shouted various encouragements and swear words in the worst imitation of an Irish accent Ace had ever heard in his entire life. The other elves certainly weren't impressed. They seemed to be avoiding this elf as much as possible.
When the leader herded all of the rebels near the building Ace assumed he was about to see the elves retreat inside. However, the elf reached up and pulled a cord over the door, setting off a sudden boom and a blast from several smoke bombs that hid the area in a blanket of smoke. Ace guessed that this was an ingenious final touch to keep their escape a secret even if someone happened to see them. Sure enough, when the smoke cleared, the rebel elves were gone. Metalmouth stood before a hole that had been blown in the dome's outer wall. The hole had been found in the back of the building where the elves had gathered before they disappeared. Due to the hole, the temperature in the room was well below freezing. Metalmouth and the soldiers with him had put on their arctic gear, but Ace was still clad in only his leather jacket. He was cold, but he wasn't about to let it show. On the other side of the hole, outside the dome, more mercenaries were combing over the ground looking for the tunnel entrance.