Dee Ariss
02-06-2009, 07:42 PM
ROW’S BRIGADE
Based on Tokusou Sentai Dekaranger© Toei 2004-05
XXX
[Opening Titles: “Man of Mystery” – The Shadows]
Episode 1 – “Earthbound”
Written by Scott D. Harris
~~~
High Command, primary headquarters of the interplanetary Space Police organisation, was located on the northern hemisphere of the beautiful planet Mayet, a great multi-level complex from whence came the galaxy’s greatest law enforcers. Among there number was Chief Inspector Gyoc Row, the Leonian maverick who had caused quite a stir with his bad habit of questioning superiors. He had raised considerable controversy upon unearthing the corruption in his former post on his home world of Leon Prime, wherein he had been dragged off the bloodied body of the station chief and would have faced a lengthy suspension if not for the intervention of his fellow officers who had aided him in discovering the truth. Presently, he was passing the time by sitting in one of the many waiting rooms within the building and staring out of the window at the glistening beyond outside, the blanket of the cosmos hung over Mayet’s emerald green ocean. He felt like he had been sitting there for an eternity before he heard the deep, raspy voice behind him.
“Chief Inspector Row, come into my office.”
Row stood up and turned to face High Commissioner Numa O. The white-feathered Horusian brave glowered at him with a look of both warning and underlying respect. They entered the office together and sat down on opposite sides of the curved, black, oak desk. The wall behind Numa O was decorated with portraits of former High Commissioners, all wearing the black-and-crimson uniform of office. Another wall was lined with framed flags from each planet on which the Space Police had jurisdiction. Row took a moment to look upon them, taking note that the flag of Leon Prime was gone. A sad thing indeed, but it was inevitable. The traitor had been a member of their organisation, now the Leonians were looking to stay native until further notice.
“Row,” said Numa O, “I’ve been looking over your records…and I cannot deny they are impressive. For all the years you’ve been with us, you’ve never once taken a bribe or broken the law to suit your own needs, but your reputation for discord within the ranks has caused many commanding officers to reject your application to join their divisions. So…I’d like to offer you an alternative. How would you like to command your own unit?”
Row blinked. He thought for sure his superior was joking, but of course, Numa O was incapable of joking, he didn’t have a funny bone in his body. So the only logical possibility was that he had misheard him.
“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t catch that.”
“You caught that perfectly, Row, I know you Leonians have highly developed hearing. I’m serious. I want to put you in charge of your own team. You will be in control. That means no dirty officers, nothing will go on behind your back, and if it does you can stamp it out personally. You will be privileged to carry a gold badge in your license. Do you accept?”
Row was silent, his dark eyes glistening as he contemplated this surprising occurrence. He met Numa O’s gaze and nodded.
“Where will my station be?”
“A planet called Earth. The Space Police have been working alongside the terrestrial law enforcement agencies to better our relationship with them. Earth’s positive contact with alien life has been…limited…and it just so happens, you may bump into an old friend down there.”
The High Commissioner’s beak curled into a wry smile.
“Pack your bags, Chief Inspector, your shuttle leaves at 0900 tomorrow.”
XXX
Detective Inspector S.D. Harris, of the Metropolitan Police Service, known amongst his circles as Harry of the Met, sat on the bonnet of his Mark I Ford Cortina outside a warehouse in Soho with a smug grin plastered on his face.
“You’re certain they’re in there?” asked a young Detective Constable.
“Indubitably,” replied Harry of the Met. “Is the D.C.I. ready?”
“Always,” said Detective Chief Inspector Strothard, a tall olive-skinned man with heavily gelled black hair and a goatee. He raised his pistol. “Let’s get these murdering bastards.”
“Readily,” Harry of the Met readied his own weapon. He slid off the bonnet and the two men, with the D.C. and their other officers in tow. They had men stationed at all the doors. No way where the murderers inside getting away. Strothard smashed the door open and primed his gun, “Flying Squad! You’re under arrest!”
The culprits, an up-and-coming quintet of criminals called the Norton Brothers, were caught completely off-guard. Them and their alien business partners.
“Shit,” Strothard cursed.
“I had no idea the Alienizers were involved,” Harry of the Met murmured. He caught sight of one alien raising his weapon, something like a rifle, and shouted, “Drop the weapon or we open fire, freak!”
The alien either didn’t speak English, or he just didn’t listen. He squeezed the trigger of his blaster and a bolt of green light shot out. The officers fell to the floor to avoid the blast. The alien said something angrily to the Nortons in his native language, grabbed a closed suitcase from the table and ran off, his two cohorts following.
“Harris, you go after the Alienizers,” Strothard ordered, “the Nortons are mine.”
“Yes, sir,” Harry of the Met hopped to his feet. “Webber! Staples! With me!”
With the Detective Sergeant and Detective Constable following, the D.I. raced out of the warehouse and into his Cortina as a black van screeched onto the road and left burning trails in the tarmac. Staples got in the front passenger seat and Webber in the back. Not bothering to pull on his seatbelt, or let his team-mates do the same, Harry of the Met kicked his faithful old car, Bessie, into action. The vintage car, modified clandestinely by its owner, rocketed into pursuit.
“Go for their tires,” the D.I. ordered. Staples wound down a window and leaned out, and Webber popped his upper body through the sunroof.
“They’re zig-zagging all over the bloody road, I can’t aim straight,” said Staples.
The D.I. gritted his teeth. Bessie was his pride and joy, he didn’t want to risk damaging her. She was a prize right out of the ‘60s, shaped into something unique. Of course, he also knew that those aliens and the Nortons had murdered a small group of wannabe drug dealers who were no more than small fish in a big pond. He was about to nail them when those monsters stepped in. Well…he’d make it up to Bessie later, nothing could get in the way of justice.
“Hold on tight, guys,” he said, and started following his prey, zigging when they zagged and zagging when they zigged. If anything, that would throw the bastards right off-balance. Within moments they were gaining. Next to him, Staples was focussed only on his gun. He was now able to predict where the other car would go next. Webber fired a shot and shattered a back window of the van. The driver hesitated, the van stayed in one position too long, Staples pulled the trigger.
BANG! BANG!
Two shots straight into the back tires. Spitting up sparks and screeching hideously, the van lost its balance and crashed into a lamppost. Bessie came to a halt just inches away and her three passengers emerged. The alien driver stumbled out of the door, only to be shoved up against the side of the vehicle by Staples, as Webber dealt with the other two aliens.
[B.G.M. End]
“You…are…S.P.D.?” the alien driver asked in an awkward fashion, being careful to speak the language correctly.
“No, son, we’re the Sweeney,” replied Harry of the Met, “and you’re nicked.”
As the handcuffs were slapped on, the D.I. could not help but notice the cufflink on the shirt one alien was wearing. He had no time to think upon it, however, for at that precise moment, the radio inside the Cortina crackled.
“Base to Alpha-1, base to Alpha-1.”
The D.I. sighed and picked up the radio, pressing down on the button, “Alpha-1 to base. Call received, what’s the message?”
“You’re needed back at the Yard, Boss,” said the voice on the other end. “Higher-ups say ‘now’.”
Harry of the Met frowned. What did those pencil-pushing bumblers want with him now? He had worked hard on this Norton case, he had wanted to see justice done, now he was going to miss the action.
XXX
Harry of the Met walked into the office of Sir John Morse, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police and highest-ranking lawman in the country. Morse – a square-chinned man who took great pride in his appearance, from his thin but neatly kept white hair and perfectly shaven face to the professional-looking tinted glasses he wore over his eyes – sat calmly behind his desk, fingers knitted together and elbows resting on the table.
“Take a seat, Detective Inspector,” said Morse. The younger officer complied, sitting down in the simple dark chair in front of him.
“With all due respect, sir, why am I here?” asked Harry of the Met. “I should really be with my team, making sure the Norton case is all sewn up.”
“Yes, I had heard you were on that. Good work, Harris,” said Morse, “but let’s get straight to business. Are you aware of the increase in Alienizer-related crime, not just in this country but all over the world?”
“I’ve heard things,” said the younger officer shrewdly. “What of it? I was led to believe they were being handled by the Space Police, and speaking of which, why did nobody tell me that the Nortons were in league with the Alienizers in the first place?”
“Red tape, I’m afraid,” explained Morse. “We’re already starting to feel the pressure from anti-extra terrestrial groups like An-ex-ter and the Planetary Front, and the Space Police have tried to handle it subtly.”
This struck a nerve in Harry of the Met, who stood up so fast he knocked his chair over and slammed his clenched fist down on the desk.
“That’s not good enough!” he boomed. “My team were walking into a situation where they didn’t know all the risks! We’re lucky those Alienizers didn’t blow us to kingdom come!”
Morse was unfazed by the outburst. A few officers gathered at the transparent glass panels of the office, watching the stand-off. They could hear nothing for the room was sound-proofed, but they could all see the electrical charge jumping between the two men inside. The silence seemed to last an eternity, and it was interrupted by a third voice, one that was deep, rich and slightly raspy, with a strange accent, which said, “You’ve got spirit, Detective Inspector.”
Harry of the Met straightened up as the speaker came into the room. He was an alien, tall, with broad shoulders, dressed in a smart black shirt and scarlet suit. His hair hung down his back and over his shoulders in a magnificent gold mane and dark eyes glistened in their sockets. For all the world, this speaker was a talking lion.
“Well stone me,” said the fair-haired D.I., unable to help feeling something like awe at this brilliant spectacle, then he gathered himself, “Uh, that is, thank you, sir. May I ask who I’m addressing?”
“Chief Inspector Gyoc Row, Space Police. It’s a pleasure,” the alien smiled, shaking him firmly by the hand. “I’ve been reading about your exploits. Cut your teeth on the Crippen Gang investigation. Well done.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Detective Inspector Harris,” said Morse, regaining their attention, “you were handpicked for the new squad being established as a joint partnership between S.P.D. and the Met. I’m not going to flatter you with clichés about being the best there is, you were chosen for your initiative and ability to self-motivate. You will be carrying out the same sort of work as you were with the Flying Squad, only now you will be concentrating solely on alien-related crimes. Will you accept the assignment?”
Harry of the Met closed his eyes and pondered this. He had a feeling there was more to this than what he was being told, but on a moral level, a level that told him he should jump at the chance to tackle this terrible new evil from beyond the stars, he did not see himself as having much of a choice. He sighed, looked first at Row, then at Morse, and said, “I accept, sir.”
“Excellent!” Row patted him on he shoulder. “If you’ll come with me, we’ll collect our other team-mates and head back to the office!”
XXX
Doug May was an Irishman by birth, but had operated in Liverpool for as long as he could remember, though he had his sights on Soho. At the heart of London’s West End, it had more vice rings than you could shake a stick at, a perfectly lucrative area of business. He was currently on his way there now, sitting in the back of a car, eyes closed, dreaming of success. He would set up a lieutenant there and through him control as much of Soho as he could get his Irish mitts on. The car pulled up outside the home of said lieutenant, one given the unfortunate name of Jimmy Savile. The meeting took place exactly two weeks before the Nortons, a small group of upstart dealers trying to make a name for themselves, were arrested by the Flying Squad.
XXX
S.P.D. had been granted office space within Scotland Yard itself, and for a small division like theirs, it was roomy. Harry of the Met sat on one of the desks, looking at the two other members he and Chief Inspector Row had picked up. The first was a thin man with wavy, gold-brown hair, pale skin and green eyes. The second was a short woman with long brown locks and dark eyes. They wore simple kits, shirts, ties, that sort of thing, and the D.I. did not seem overly impressed. He had just been told that the man was one Sergeant Jack Cox of the Vice Squad, and the woman was Detective Sergeant Susan Ranson of C.I.D. A sniffer and a pencil-pusher, as far as he was concerned.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the saviours of Earth,” he remarked dryly.
“Well maybe now people will take the police a bit more seriously,” D.S. Ranson countered. “I’m sure you take just as much flack from the public as we do, Sweeney-boy.”
“Well I’m glad to see you’re all getting along nicely,” Row interrupted. “Now listen, as I told you all before, the three of you have been chosen because each of you exhibits valuable traits. Detective Inspector Harris, it was through your determination eight months ago that the Driscoll Brothers were brought to justice and their crime ring smashed, Sergeant Cox, your ability to perceive every angle helped the most in bringing down the biggest exxy smuggling ring in history last year, and Detective Sergeant Ranson, your intimate knowledge of the criminal underworld was what foiled Dexter Dudley’s alien slave ring five weeks back. All major cases, all solved through the abilities of extraordinary individuals. I salute you, and welcome you to the Space Police.”
“It’s an honour, sir,” said Sergeant Cox, “but why set up a Space Police branch here in London? I thought Earth-side your lot were operating out of Singapore.”
“I knew that would come up,” Row nodded. “Right now, S.P.D.’s biggest concern is the Alienizers, an umbrella term for interstellar crime families. Correct, the earliest known gangs were discovered in Asia, but like any crime ring they’re eager to expand their territory, and some Alienizers are now operating in Europe. It seems the Metropolitan Police Service were happy to accommodate us on the grounds that if alien technology and crime is involved, we would be better suited for both field and consulting work.”
“It’s true,” said Harry of the Met. “About the Alienizers being in this country, I mean. Turns out the Norton Brothers out of Soho were cutting some kind of deal with them.”
“We’d heard things in C.I.D. as well,” added Ranson. “Aliens or not, we’re the police, so if teaming up with S.P.D. is required to stop them, then I’m all for it.”
“Agreed,” said Cox. “What happens now, Guv?”
Row smirked. ‘Guv.’ That sounded…well, it sounded cool. Reaching down behind one of the desks, he retrieved a silver suitcase, set it down on top, and popped it open. Inside were three black-and-white rectangular objects, each one topped with two dull red lights. There was a sliding lever on the side with three settings – ‘Change,’ ‘Phone,’ and ‘Judge.’
“These,” Row explained, “are your S.P. Licenses, Space Police standard issue. They carry proof of your identity, so don’t lose them, even for a moment, and can act as a mobile phone between team members or use a complex computer system that reads a suspect’s bio-rhythms to discover if he or she is guilty of a crime.”
“No trial, then?” Cox sounded put-off.
“Oh there’s a trial,” Row said. “The scanner sends the bio-rhythm records straight to High Command, where a team of senior officers make the decision, which is then beamed back to the License. If the blue circle is illuminated, the suspect is innocent of serious crime but can be detained for questioning, if the red cross is illuminated, the suspect’s rights are immediately revoked and they are to be immediately executed.”
“There are a lot of bastards who get away with it,” said Harry of the Met, a hint of disgust in his voice. “Scum who take lives, then go off, write books and make their fortunes.”
“Not sure I’m comfortable with being someone’s executioner,” Cox murmured.
“It’s a harsh concept, I know,” Row sighed. “More often than not, people who aren’t directly involved with the Alienizers are marked with the blue circle. High Command’s undergone a real purge after I kicked up a stink about corruption on my home planet, we’re confident we’ll get the right sentence. Think of it as…people who are too dangerous to be around people get the red cross.”
“That only makes me feel slightly better,” Cox sighed.
Ranson ran one finger down the side of her license. “So we know what the ‘Phone,’ and ‘Judge,’ settings are for, but what about ‘Change,’?”
“That’s the fun one,” Row tittered.
XXX
Doug May wasn’t the only one who wanted Soho. The Norton Brothers had been dealing with members of a gang headed by the Gamidomard crime family, a notorious Alienizer outfit intent on becoming the top extraterrestrial dog on Earth. Volvox Gamidomard, also known as the Godfather, sat in a booth at a club he owned on Greek Street. It was a private place, members-only, hidden behind a completely legal Italian restaurant that served as a cover. As one of his girls polished the bovine horns curving out of his head and a couple of others massaged his arms and shoulders, one of his own lieutenants approached.
“Godfather,” said the lieutenant, “there’s someone trying to muscle in on our patch. Irishman, name of May.”
“May? Doug May?” the Godfather snorted. “That dirty paddy bastard. Okay, Nicky, take Luke and…” He took a puff of his cigarette and blew smoke through his nostrils, “Teach him a lesson, okay?”
“Right,” said the human lieutenant, Nicky Watkins. “He’ll be out of your hair soon, Godfather.”
The horned alien smiled. It was good to be the boss.
Doug May was found dead the next morning in a Soho hotel the next morning by the cleaning lady. He had been greedy, wanted to expand his territory and take over bandit country. That had been his downfall.
XXX
The body of the victim had already been sent to the coroner’s office and the autopsy performed. It now lay on the metal slab, covered by a white sheet. The only source of natural light was a single window high up on one wall, but in the middle of the day, it was bright enough to not warrant switching on the artificial light. Dr James Aggas, a tall man with a square-ish face and curly, coal black hair, led the four S.P.D. officers inside.
“I’m still confused as to why you took such an interest in this, Chief Inspector,” Dr Aggas addressed Gyoc Row. “I thought your department concentrated solely on alien crimes.”
“That’s right,” said Row, “and there are plenty of aliens in Soho. We’re just being cautious.”
“Understandable,” shrugged Dr Aggas, pulling on a pair of sterile gloves and adjusting his glasses. He removed the white sheet to reveal the pale, bald-headed corpse underneath. There was a dark hole in his chest and forehead. “The victim’s name was Doug May, car dealer from Liverpool.”
“Yeah right,” Sergeant Jack ‘Sniffer’ Cox snorted. “This guy was an outside dealer for an exxy ring.”
“Well, be that as it may,” said Dr Aggas, “for some reason, Mr May here was found dead at a flat he owned on Dean Street. He was shot twice, the first bullet pierced his right lung. The second one struck him dead centre in the forehead, no doubt that’s the bullet that killed him.”
“You’ve removed the bullets, right?” asked Detective Sergeant ‘Suzi’ Ranson.
“Of course,” Dr Aggas retrieved a metal dish with two crumpled lumps of metal inside. “Similar in design to a soft-point 9x19 Parabellum, except the alloy is different.”
“I’ll say,” said Harry of the Met, “these things are white.”
“Alienizers,” said Row. “I’ve seen these bullets before. They’re made of holium, best quality comes from planet Grom. Standard material in that star system.”
“Then our first step is to find out who’s been transporting holium bullets to Earth,” Jack remarked. “Can’t imagine it being legal, so we’ll have to scour our underworld connections.”
“I’ve got a few grasses,” said Harry of the Met. “I’ll make the rounds, shall I, Guv?”
“You do that. Suzi will accompany you” agreed Row. “Jack, you seem to be familiar with our corpse here, so I want all the information you have on him, legal and illegal.”
XXX
Mickey Bunce was a born grass. For the right price, he’d tell you if Paris Hilton was secretly shagging Shergar (whether it was true or not was a different story). When it came to the pigs, Bunce (also known as ‘Buncy’) knew not to pull any stupid tricks, not that he didn’t occasionally try it anyway. He was terrified of the man coming into his doorway right now. The dirty blonde hair, the tinted glasses, the blue overcoat, Harry of the Met was a demon wearing human skin. The woman coming in with him, obviously a pig just like him, had a stern face that silently said, “Brace yourself, we’re going to screw your day right up.”
“N-Nice to see you again, D.I. Harris,” said Buncy in a small voice. “Either of you two fine officers fancy a cuppa?”
“Don’t get familiar,” said Harry of the Met. “Sit your arse down, Buncy, we’re here on business.”
When the skinny creature in front of him failed to sit down, the D.I. gave him a light shove, pushing him into the armchair behind him. The woman leaned against the wall and took out a notepad as Harry of the Met took a seat on the sofa opposite him.
“W-What’s happened, Boss?”
“Doug May was killed in Soho with holium bullets,” said Harry of the Met, “and as far as I know, holium is the preferred ammo of certain extraterrestrial parties. Put simply, Buncy, I want to know who’s running the heaviest alien outfit in that area.”
“You know how I operate,” Buncy told him. “I need payment before I release any info.”
“Tell me and I won’t break your scrawny little neck,” Harry of the Met sneered, “and don’t even think about claiming it as police brutality. The moment you let it slip that you’ve been talking to me, everyone’s going to know you’re a grass and they’ll be cueing up to cut you open.”
Buncy knew he was beaten, and reluctantly gave in. He scratched the side of his head and flicked a bit of dandruff from his bare shoulders.
“The Gamidomards have a lot of influence round these parts,” he said. “They’re moonies, Bovisites from the Grom system. You’d be mad to go up against them. They reckon the one in charge ain’t scared o’ nothing. And you and me both know that that don’t just make him hard, it makes him a total psycho.”
“Right…ta, Buncy,” said Harry of the Met, reaching into his pocket and putting a £10 note on the table. “Spend it well, mate. We’ll see ourselves out.”
“M-My pleasure, D.I. Harris,” Buncy forced a smile onto his face. “You have a nice day, now.”
The two officers left the flat. As they walked down the stairs together, Suzi looked at her superior officer and asked, “Why didn’t you ask him about Doug May?”
“Never give out too much information,” he replied, “especially to grasses, never know when they’ll turn on you. We know Doug May was a small-time gangster, I reckon there are two reasons he’d come all the way to Soho. One, he was on the run and trying to re-establish himself somewhere else, which isn’t likely because since the exxy ring was broken up, he wasn’t much of a threat, just wheeling and dealing.”
“That leaves option two,” said Suzi. “He wanted to expand his enterprise and turn himself into someone respected in the underworld, and if he can take over a crime cornucopia like Soho, he’ll be set.”
“A little exaggerated, but good guess,” said Harry of the Met, “so how about we go speak to these Gamidomard fellows?”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Jack’s report?” asked Suzi.
“Let him do things his way, and I’ll do things my way.”
XXX
Nicky Watkins stood before Volvox Gamidomard in the office above the gangster’s base of operations, a certain night club on Greek Street. To his left was his associate, a huge black man, name of Luke Marsh. Nicky was currently relaying to his boss what a mole in Scotland Yard had told him earlier that day.
“The pigs are onto us,” said Nicky. “I’m sure of it. There’s a new squad investigating May’s murder. Could be bad news for us.”
“Let them come,” the Godfather shrugged. “I’ve already made arrangements to leave the country for New York, and once I reach international airspace, there’s nothing they can do to touch me. We’ve more current business at hand anyway. You know Nemoxini’s Pizza?”
“Who doesn’t?” Luke remarked. “That’s Stavros Nemoxini’s gaff.”
“Precisely,” said the Godfather. “Up until now, I’ve tolerated Stavros, but now he’s crossed the line. He started an Ice Cream War the other day, ran one of our men right off the road and through a shop window. Poor man’s lying in hospital.”
“The bastard,” Luke scowled.
“Firebomb the place,” said the Godfather. “Burn everything, got it? I don’t want nothing left standing.”
Nicky and Luke smiled and nodded as one man, turned, and left to get supplies. The Godfather lit a cigarette and placed it between his thick lips. If that Greek shit wants a war, I’ll give him a F**king war, and no Doug May or copper’s gonna stop me. He took a long draw on the fag, and breathed smoke rings into the air. This was his territory. When you grabbed the bull by the horns, you were going to get hurt.
XXX
The Nemoxinis had inherited the pizza parlour from their parents. Their father was a Greek who believed in doing a day’s work for a day’s pay, their mother was a business-minded Italian rumoured to have family in the mafia. Stavros was more like her, always plotting their next move and making contacts (legal and otherwise), operating from the office upstairs, while his brothers Gino and Luigi ran the shop. Several hours had passed since the Godfather gave the fatal command, and three police officers rendezvoused inside. As Suzi Ranson bit into a slice of thin-crust pepperoni pizza and Harry of the Met took a sip from his mug of tea, Jack Cox relayed what he had uncovered about their unfortunate victim. They were sitting in a corner booth, where they had privacy.
“I started with Doug May’s birth certificate,” explained the wavy-haired policeman. “He was born in a flat here in Soho, mother was in too delicate a condition to move to a hospital. The two of them moved up to Liverpool after his father was killed by some two-bit hit-man, Butcher Banks, now serving a life sentence. If May was trying to move in on things down here, his motive could have been revenge.”
“Take over Soho and use his resources to make the rest of Banks’ life a misery,” Suzi surmised.
“Right,” agreed Jack, “but here’s the weird part. The Nortons named May during their interrogation. He was the one who set up the meeting with those Alienizers, who turned out to be Muscans.”
“A terrorist cell?!” Harry of the Met’s voice was a harsh whisper, but still conveyed his astonishment all the same.
“That meeting was supposed to be an act of goodwill,” Jack explained. “The Muscans would hand over weapons in exchange for a shipment of exxy, which is hard to come by off-world. May had never dealt with aliens before. I don’t think he even knew there were extraterrestrial families doing business here.”
“Up until recently, neither did any of us,” Suzi pointed out. “We were all under the impression that it was all going down in Singapore because that’s where the first S.P.D. Earth unit was established. The Alienizers obviously don’t have such a strong influence in Britain.”
“Yet,” said Harry of the Met. “So…the Nortons and the Muscans were connected through May, and according to Buncy the Gamidomards are the heavy hitters round here. So what’s going to happen if the Muscans decide to get even for their business partners plus their own boys being either imprisoned or snuffed out?”
Suzi put her pizza back on the plate, having lost her appetite. She gulped and said quietly, “If Gamidomard’s that intent on keeping control, and the Muscans come calling, we could have a mob war on our hands.”
The Molotov cocktails flew through the front window of the shop and erupted in a volcanic rush of flames. The customers screamed and flew around in a whirl of panic. Gino Nemoxini ducked behind the counter, but Luigi, who had been waiting tables at the time, was not so lucky, and was among those who suffered the wrath of the fire. Suzi threw herself across the room to the nearby fire extinguisher, tore it from the wall and unleashed the fire-retardant spray within, dousing everything within reach.
“Jack!” shouted Harry of the Met. “We have to get the civilians out! Now!”
[B.G.M: “Firestarter” – The Prodigy]
Jack coughed as he staggered through the smoke, leading as many people as he could gather through the front door, though some insisted on leaping through the much wider broken window instead. It didn’t matter. They were safe at least. Someone had already called the fire service, it seemed, as the distinctive sirens split the air and the long red-and-silver vehicles rolled into sight. Harry of the Met looked across the road in time to see two men, a white one and a black one, running towards a red Ford Granada.
“Filth!” snarled the black man. The white one growled at him, then took out a handgun and fired a shot at Harry of the Met. The officer barely dodged, the bullet nicked his bicep, and dropped to the ground. As the Granada took off, Harry of the Met scrambled to his feet and jumped through the open window of his faithful Bessie. Jack and Suzi joined him just seconds later and the Cortina gave chase. The two cars darted and weaved around the traffic-filled streets.
“You idiot!” Nicky Watkins cursed to Luke Marsh. “Why’d you have to shout like that?! That pig had no idea we were the ones who threw those cocktails until you gave us away!”
“I panicked!” Luke, the driver, shot back.
“Well now they’re chasing us,” Nicky growled. “Keep driving, I’ll deal with them.” He opened up the sunroof and stood up, priming his gun on the Cortina. The first bullet bounced off the bonnet, the second one made a crack in the windshield.
“My car!” Harry of the Met snarled. “Nobody does that to my car! Suzi, did we bring the new guns Row gave us?”
“Yeah, hang on…” Suzi reached under the seat and retrieved another one of the S.P.D. marked suitcases. Popping it open, she retrieved something from inside and handed it to Jack, before taking a second one for herself. The guns were white-and-black in colour, the area connecting the chamber to the grip vaguely resembled a wheel. These weapons, standard-issue firearms for all S.P.D. officers, were known as the Mark I S.P. Shooter. Harry of the Met was unsure if the same tactics he used on the Muscans that very same morning would work again, but it was always worth a go, right?
“Go for their tires,” he said. Suzi and Jack wound down the back windows and leaned out, S.P. Shooters ready. They squeezed the triggers simultaneously, and from the weapons came two bursts of dark yellow light. They struck the back wheels of the car and there was an almighty ‘BANG!’ as both tires were reduced to strips of rubber. The car skidded down a side street and hit a lamppost with a terrible crunching sound. Water gushed out of the radiator and one of the damaged wheels rolled away along the pavement. The doors popped open and the two men aside collapsed onto the street, dazed but unhurt. Bessie pulled up next to them and the three officers emerged.
[B.G.M. End]
“You’re nicked,” said Harry of the Met, pointing a gloved finger at Nicky Watkins.
Nicky groaned and got up onto his knees. He reached inside his jacket and retrieved something that resembled a silver tennis ball.
“Not yet, copper,” he sneered, pressing a panel on the side of the ball and lobbing it with all his strength. The three officers ducked as the ball struck the other side of the street and erupted in a small explosion, but rather than fire, it spewed out green-blue particles with a computerised effect. The particles clung together, forming a troop of black-clothed, silver-headed robots. There had to be about a dozen of them in total, all with flashing red lights on their foreheads and emitting a quiet buzzing sound.
“Anaroids!” Luke cried. “Kill ‘em!” The robots complied and marched towards the three officers. The trio gathered together. Row had warned them that Alienizer gangs used these illegally constructed robots as foot-soldiers, and in great numbers could be very troublesome. Thankfully, they were all carrying their black-and-white S.P. Licenses, and knew how to use them.
“I think it’d be in our best interest to use the licenses now, don’t you?” asked Suzi.
“If anything it’ll take the edge off if those things start hitting us,” replied Jack. Harry of the Met removed the S.P. License from his inside coat pocket and clutched it tightly, bringing it to eye level.
[B.G.M: “Tokusou Sentai Dekaranger” – Psychic Lover]
“Change, standby!” he barked. His fellow officers raised their own licenses and said as one man, “Emergency!”
They pressed down on the buttons on top of the little machines, and the front panels swung open. There was a blaze of shining light as they were engulfed in the shape-changing material known as ‘Deka-Metal.’ As the metal clung to their bodies and morphed into their new battle suits, the three officers raised their fists to the sky and gave the completion command, “Face On!” The whole process took about two seconds, and there in the broad daylight, the sun’s rays reflecting off the shining surfaces of their bodies, Britain’s defenders stood for the very first time.
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v315/FreddyKruegerJR/RowsBrigade.png
“11!” cried Harry of the Met, making a gun with his hand. “Deka Silver!”
“12!” cried Jack Cox, raising two fingers. “Deka White!”
“13!” cried Suzi Ranson, raising three fingers. “Deka Black!”
The Anaroids broke their once well-maintained march and charged like mad soldiers, swinging the blades attached to their arms. Deka White was the first to attack back, unleashing a lethal double-backhand. In his human identity, his hands would have bounced harmlessly off of the robots, but empowered by the Deka-Metal, he sent them flying. He followed up with a right hook to the face of a third and an elbow crunch to a fourth. Deka Black dropped low and let loose with a roundhouse kick, flooring another four with ease. She then stood up and front-flipped into the air, driving her heels in the chests of the closest two on her descent. Deka Silver grabbed a robot by the shoulder and began repeatedly punching it until its metal face caved in. He then threw it onto two of the others lying on the ground and pulled the black ‘D-Pistol’ from the holster on his right hip, firing a round of silver laser bolts into the three of them, blowing them to pieces. Two more grabbed Deka White by the shoulders and attempted to drag him away from the fight and kill him separately. Growling, he whipped the telescopic white ‘D-Truncheon’ from the holster on his left hip and swung around, slashing both of his assailants across the chests and knocking them off their feet. Deka Black pushed the barrel of her D-Pistol in the stomach of the last one, and she could have sworn she heard it mutter, “Uh oh,” before she blew a hole open in its torso.
[B.G.M. End]
“Bloody things are all bark and no bite,” Deka Silver smirked, looking at the bodies on the ground. The ones they hadn’t smashed up were writhing like worms. Maybe a dozen wasn’t so great a number after all.
“They’re getting away!” cried Deka Black, pointing up the street as Nicky Watkins and Luke Marsh turned the corner.
Deka Silver cursed loudly and took off in pursuit again. He lunged forward, pinning them down with his weight as his companions rushed over, removing the S.P.D. handcuffs (or ‘D-Whoppers’) from the compartments in their belt buckles. The cuffs were clapped around the wrists of the struggling gangsters, closing up to accommodate their sizes.
“W-Who the hell are you?!” Luke demanded.
“Bastards!” Nicky hissed.
“That’s right, we’re bastards,” sneered Deka Silver, “we’re three great big bastards called the Dekarangers, and you’re coming with us, son.”
XXX
“Interview of Nicholas Watkins conducted at 6:30 P.M. In attendance are Detective Inspector Harris, Sergeant Cox, and Mr Watkins’ lawyer, Mr Dean Simmons.”
“Mr Watkins,” said Sergeant Cox, “I want you to cooperate with us. You were arrested not only on a confirmed account of using illegally built Anaroid robots manufactured by a clandestine off-world robotics company, but also because you and your associate Mr Luke Marsh are under suspicion of firebombing Nemoxini’s Pizza, killing ten people, including Luigi Nemoxini.”
“And your reason for suspecting him on the latter of these charges?” Dean Simmons of Simmons, Wright & Mason interrupted. He was a scrawny man with long fingers, a bristly chin and black hair with far too much gel.
“Because…” said Harry of the Met in a smug tone, “his friend shouted ‘filth!’ and they legged it like the bloody Roadrunner. If they had nothing to do with it, then why run? In fact, wouldn’t they more likely be the ones to call the fire brigade?”
“What’s your motive, then, Detective Inspector?” Dean Simmons challenged.
“Firebombing’s a mob tactic,” Harry of the Met answered immediately, “and the Nemoxinis are among several criminal families operating in Soho, in fact they’re business rivals to your employer, Mr Watkins. Volvox Gamidomard. The Godfather.”
“I work for Mr Gamidomard as a runner,” said Nicky in a calm voice. “I have no knowledge of his less legitimate operations.”
“I’m sorry, Mr Watkins,” said Jack, “but we have good reason not to believe you.” In saying that, he produced a plastic evidence bag with a cheque inside. “This cheque was found in the front passenger seat of the car you fled in. It’s for £3,500 and is signed by Volvox Gamidomard. Now, answer me this…who the hell pays a runner that much for one week’s work? Nicky, if you don’t cooperate, you’re only making things harder for yourself.”
“Are you threatening my client?” demanded Simmons, his voice dripping with venom.
“I don’t believe Sergeant Cox made any such remark,” Harry of the Met sneered. “Observational note; Mr Simmon’s hearing and/or sense of logic is to be brought into question pending Mr Watkins’ trial.” He looked over at the lawyer, who was trying to burn holes into him with his stare, and wiggled his eyebrows in response.
XXX
They had finished the interview about half an hour ago, Nicky Watkins had been returned to his cell and Mr Simmons had stormed off back to his office mumbling about police mind-games. Suzi found Jack enjoying his dinner in the canteen and sat down at the table.
“How’d it go in there?” she asked.
Jack swallowed a mouthful of steak, took a sip of his tea and replied, “We have enough to prove Watkins is part of Gamidomard’s gang, and once Chief Inspector Row brings back the C.C.T.V. footage we should have enough to pin today’s attack on him and his partner too. No luck on where he bought those Anaroids from.”
“Well, at least we made a bit of progress,” said Suzi, nicking a chip off his plate and taking a bite out of it. He didn’t protest. “That attorney didn’t sound too pleased on his way out.”
“Blame the Boss,” sighed Jack. “He made a note about that guy’s hearing just because he knew it’d get under his skin. Good copper or not, I have my doubts about him. He’s takes too many unnecessary risks, and if he goes by procedure then it’s only to suit himself…and as I remember, he was the most enthusiastic when the Guv told us about how the Space Police’s Judgement system works.”
“He’s from the Flying Squad, Jack,” Suzi reminded him. “I’m not going to tell you they’re all ‘hard bastards,’ like everyone says they are, but they are a ruthless lot. They handle heavy cases, and I guess sometimes they don’t know how much force is really needed.”
“That’s a very astute analysis.”
“I studied psychology at university, comes in handy when you work in C.I.D. Anyway, maybe we should give the Boss a chance before deciding to report him for bad behaviour or whatever. Once he’s been with us a while he might mellow.”
“Not in a million years, Pencil-Pusher,” said a voice behind her. Suzi turned as Harry of the Met approached. He nicked a chip off of Jack’s plate. This time he protested a little with a furrowed brow and a nearly audible, “Oi.”
“You don’t put vinegar on your chips?” Harry of the Met murmured in disgust. “That just ain’t right. So, who here’s up for putting the jeepers up old Gamidomard?”
“What do you mean?” asked Suzi.
“I just been round to see Stavros Nemoxini,” the D.I. explained, “and as it turns out, the two of them have been butting heads for the past few years now, and he admitted to starting an Ice Cream War the other day. That would provide ample motive for Gamidomard to strike back by attacking their brothers’ place of business. Now, I have no idea when the Muscans will get their bad news and react, if they haven’t already, so we need to sew this up spit-spot.”
“So what’s the plan, Boss?” asked Jack.
“Get some rest kiddies,” said Harry of the Met. “Tomorrow morning, the Dekarangers ride out.”
XXX
Gamidomard paced up and down his office, his heavy Doc Marten boots leaving marks in the shag pile. He was mumbling to himself, somewhere between being deeply contemplative and outright enraged. His right-hand man was rotting away in a prison cell, and as if to rub salt in the wound, two of the Nemoxinis had survived the attack and when the police came calling, they would be more than willing to bend over backwards, because it would mean shoving a red hot poker right up his bovine bottom. They would come…damn it, he would have to move now. He had chartered a private plane to New York for the end of the week, but now he would have to rearrange it for the next morning, as early as possible, and set up a trap for those meddling Space Police! He stiffened for a moment, then started rushing around, grabbing up every important file – every list of clients, partners and associates, ever invoice, every documentation of his important business moves, even the receipts he had kept – and sticking them into suitcases. When he had finished, almost an hour later, he opened his now otherwise empty desk drawer and retrieved a blue metal ball. It was looped by two rings in a cross formation, like a trendy Saturn. He chuckled to himself.
“Party time.”
XXX
The early birds tweeted in the dark blue sky of the new morning. It was not yet dawn, but that would approach in due time. Bessie was parked across the road from the club (they had forced the address out of Luke Marsh, who was very easily spooked by police) where Gamidomard was based, and Harry of the Met led Jack and Suzi towards their target, S.P. Shooters at the ready.
“I’m assuming we have a warrant for raiding the place, right?” asked Jack.
“Of course, boy,” replied Harry of the Met. “I do have some respect for procedure, you know.”
“Oh, you heard that…” Jack murmured, unable to make eye contact with his superior officer for some reason.
“You can pass judgement on me however you want, sonny,” said Harry of the Met, “because frankly, so long as I’m arresting villains and helping the innocent, I don’t give a monkey’s.”
They reached the door of the club and Harry of the Met raised his booted foot, struck out and smashed it in. The door bounced against the wall and dropped off its hinges. Inside, there were no patrons, which was expected considering the time, but there was something standing there in front of them. It was another robot, very similar to the Anaroids, except most of its heavier components were sky blue, and its head was crossed by two loops in an ‘X’ formation. Its eyes and mouthpiece were glowing a dangerous red. It clutched a silver grenade in each hand.
“Oh crap,” said Suzi. “You get the feeling our man was expecting us?”
“Change, standby,” said Harry of the Met, raising his S.P. License.
“Identified: Space Police officers,” said the blue robot in a digitised voice. “Begin operation command: destroy.”
“Bring it on, you bucket of bolts,” said Harry of the Met. “EMERGENCY!”
XXX
[B.G.M.: “Breaking the Law” – Judas Priest]
Gamidomard’s private plane was awaiting him at Heathrow Airport, and Gamidomard was shocked to find the place full of policemen. He pulled out the handgun tucked into the waistband of his trousers. They would not get him. Never! No way! He snorted and stamped his feet…and charged. Like a juggernaut, he sent people flying as he smashed into them. The officers attempted to hold him, and while he did indeed begin slowing down, he didn’t stop .He started firing, and they dropped like flies around him. He smashed through to the airstrips and made a beeline for his plane, clothes torn apart by the men behind him. It struck him that Nigel, his pilot, was not standing and waiting for him aside the vehicle even though the door was open. He peered in, and gasped in shock. Nigel was inside, handcuffed.
“Sorry, Godfather,” the pilot said nervously. Gamidomard growled but fell silent when he felt the cold circle of a gun barrel against the back of his head.
“Volvox Gamidomard, a.k.a. the Godfather,” said Chief Inspector Gyoc Row, “you are hereby under arrest. You do not need to say anything, however I must warn you that anything you do say may be taken down and used as evidence against you in a court of law.” Gamidomard snorted, then sighed, and closed his eyes.
“It’s a fair cop.”
[B.G.M. End]
XXX
The day was won. The Godfather admitted to killing Doug May, his criminal empire was brought to a screeching halt, and with his arrest, the Muscans decided not to waste their resources by taking their revenge…at least not yet anyway. The remains of the Anaroids and their blue-clad leader were hauled away for examination. In their office at Scotland Yard, the four members of S.P.D. congratulated each over on the success of their first case.
“How exactly did you know where Gamidomard would run to, Guv?” asked Suzi.
“Bit of a guess really,” Row chuckled. “We’d gathered enough evidence and testimony through the two cronies you caught to at least warrant an investigation, but an obsessive like the Godfather wouldn’t let us get him that easily, so it made sense to assume he had a way of escaping our jurisdiction. I just did a little research into any transport purchases he could have made, which is how I discovered he’d hired a personal pilot and plane. The only problem was that I was warned he may have changed airports from Heathrow to somewhere else, so if he hadn’t have been there, we’d be in trouble.”
“I’m glad we found those robots before anyone else did,” said Jack. “If any of the staff had walked in, we’d have even more innocents dead.”
“You can stop the bleak imagery right now, Sergeant,” said Harry of the Met. “Our first case as a team was a success. Now, Chief Inspector Row, I propose we go celebrate properly. The Red Lion, and that’s not a joke.”
[Closing Titles: “Man of Mystery” – The Shadows]
[b]Guest Starring
Jim Broadbent as…the voice of High Commissioner Numa O.
Bill Nighy as…Sir John Morse.
Peter Serafinowicz as…Volvox Gamidomard.
Mackenzie Crook as…Nicky Watkins.
Noel Clarke as…Luke Marsh.
Based on Tokusou Sentai Dekaranger© Toei 2004-05
XXX
[Opening Titles: “Man of Mystery” – The Shadows]
Episode 1 – “Earthbound”
Written by Scott D. Harris
~~~
High Command, primary headquarters of the interplanetary Space Police organisation, was located on the northern hemisphere of the beautiful planet Mayet, a great multi-level complex from whence came the galaxy’s greatest law enforcers. Among there number was Chief Inspector Gyoc Row, the Leonian maverick who had caused quite a stir with his bad habit of questioning superiors. He had raised considerable controversy upon unearthing the corruption in his former post on his home world of Leon Prime, wherein he had been dragged off the bloodied body of the station chief and would have faced a lengthy suspension if not for the intervention of his fellow officers who had aided him in discovering the truth. Presently, he was passing the time by sitting in one of the many waiting rooms within the building and staring out of the window at the glistening beyond outside, the blanket of the cosmos hung over Mayet’s emerald green ocean. He felt like he had been sitting there for an eternity before he heard the deep, raspy voice behind him.
“Chief Inspector Row, come into my office.”
Row stood up and turned to face High Commissioner Numa O. The white-feathered Horusian brave glowered at him with a look of both warning and underlying respect. They entered the office together and sat down on opposite sides of the curved, black, oak desk. The wall behind Numa O was decorated with portraits of former High Commissioners, all wearing the black-and-crimson uniform of office. Another wall was lined with framed flags from each planet on which the Space Police had jurisdiction. Row took a moment to look upon them, taking note that the flag of Leon Prime was gone. A sad thing indeed, but it was inevitable. The traitor had been a member of their organisation, now the Leonians were looking to stay native until further notice.
“Row,” said Numa O, “I’ve been looking over your records…and I cannot deny they are impressive. For all the years you’ve been with us, you’ve never once taken a bribe or broken the law to suit your own needs, but your reputation for discord within the ranks has caused many commanding officers to reject your application to join their divisions. So…I’d like to offer you an alternative. How would you like to command your own unit?”
Row blinked. He thought for sure his superior was joking, but of course, Numa O was incapable of joking, he didn’t have a funny bone in his body. So the only logical possibility was that he had misheard him.
“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t catch that.”
“You caught that perfectly, Row, I know you Leonians have highly developed hearing. I’m serious. I want to put you in charge of your own team. You will be in control. That means no dirty officers, nothing will go on behind your back, and if it does you can stamp it out personally. You will be privileged to carry a gold badge in your license. Do you accept?”
Row was silent, his dark eyes glistening as he contemplated this surprising occurrence. He met Numa O’s gaze and nodded.
“Where will my station be?”
“A planet called Earth. The Space Police have been working alongside the terrestrial law enforcement agencies to better our relationship with them. Earth’s positive contact with alien life has been…limited…and it just so happens, you may bump into an old friend down there.”
The High Commissioner’s beak curled into a wry smile.
“Pack your bags, Chief Inspector, your shuttle leaves at 0900 tomorrow.”
XXX
Detective Inspector S.D. Harris, of the Metropolitan Police Service, known amongst his circles as Harry of the Met, sat on the bonnet of his Mark I Ford Cortina outside a warehouse in Soho with a smug grin plastered on his face.
“You’re certain they’re in there?” asked a young Detective Constable.
“Indubitably,” replied Harry of the Met. “Is the D.C.I. ready?”
“Always,” said Detective Chief Inspector Strothard, a tall olive-skinned man with heavily gelled black hair and a goatee. He raised his pistol. “Let’s get these murdering bastards.”
“Readily,” Harry of the Met readied his own weapon. He slid off the bonnet and the two men, with the D.C. and their other officers in tow. They had men stationed at all the doors. No way where the murderers inside getting away. Strothard smashed the door open and primed his gun, “Flying Squad! You’re under arrest!”
The culprits, an up-and-coming quintet of criminals called the Norton Brothers, were caught completely off-guard. Them and their alien business partners.
“Shit,” Strothard cursed.
“I had no idea the Alienizers were involved,” Harry of the Met murmured. He caught sight of one alien raising his weapon, something like a rifle, and shouted, “Drop the weapon or we open fire, freak!”
The alien either didn’t speak English, or he just didn’t listen. He squeezed the trigger of his blaster and a bolt of green light shot out. The officers fell to the floor to avoid the blast. The alien said something angrily to the Nortons in his native language, grabbed a closed suitcase from the table and ran off, his two cohorts following.
“Harris, you go after the Alienizers,” Strothard ordered, “the Nortons are mine.”
“Yes, sir,” Harry of the Met hopped to his feet. “Webber! Staples! With me!”
With the Detective Sergeant and Detective Constable following, the D.I. raced out of the warehouse and into his Cortina as a black van screeched onto the road and left burning trails in the tarmac. Staples got in the front passenger seat and Webber in the back. Not bothering to pull on his seatbelt, or let his team-mates do the same, Harry of the Met kicked his faithful old car, Bessie, into action. The vintage car, modified clandestinely by its owner, rocketed into pursuit.
“Go for their tires,” the D.I. ordered. Staples wound down a window and leaned out, and Webber popped his upper body through the sunroof.
“They’re zig-zagging all over the bloody road, I can’t aim straight,” said Staples.
The D.I. gritted his teeth. Bessie was his pride and joy, he didn’t want to risk damaging her. She was a prize right out of the ‘60s, shaped into something unique. Of course, he also knew that those aliens and the Nortons had murdered a small group of wannabe drug dealers who were no more than small fish in a big pond. He was about to nail them when those monsters stepped in. Well…he’d make it up to Bessie later, nothing could get in the way of justice.
“Hold on tight, guys,” he said, and started following his prey, zigging when they zagged and zagging when they zigged. If anything, that would throw the bastards right off-balance. Within moments they were gaining. Next to him, Staples was focussed only on his gun. He was now able to predict where the other car would go next. Webber fired a shot and shattered a back window of the van. The driver hesitated, the van stayed in one position too long, Staples pulled the trigger.
BANG! BANG!
Two shots straight into the back tires. Spitting up sparks and screeching hideously, the van lost its balance and crashed into a lamppost. Bessie came to a halt just inches away and her three passengers emerged. The alien driver stumbled out of the door, only to be shoved up against the side of the vehicle by Staples, as Webber dealt with the other two aliens.
[B.G.M. End]
“You…are…S.P.D.?” the alien driver asked in an awkward fashion, being careful to speak the language correctly.
“No, son, we’re the Sweeney,” replied Harry of the Met, “and you’re nicked.”
As the handcuffs were slapped on, the D.I. could not help but notice the cufflink on the shirt one alien was wearing. He had no time to think upon it, however, for at that precise moment, the radio inside the Cortina crackled.
“Base to Alpha-1, base to Alpha-1.”
The D.I. sighed and picked up the radio, pressing down on the button, “Alpha-1 to base. Call received, what’s the message?”
“You’re needed back at the Yard, Boss,” said the voice on the other end. “Higher-ups say ‘now’.”
Harry of the Met frowned. What did those pencil-pushing bumblers want with him now? He had worked hard on this Norton case, he had wanted to see justice done, now he was going to miss the action.
XXX
Harry of the Met walked into the office of Sir John Morse, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police and highest-ranking lawman in the country. Morse – a square-chinned man who took great pride in his appearance, from his thin but neatly kept white hair and perfectly shaven face to the professional-looking tinted glasses he wore over his eyes – sat calmly behind his desk, fingers knitted together and elbows resting on the table.
“Take a seat, Detective Inspector,” said Morse. The younger officer complied, sitting down in the simple dark chair in front of him.
“With all due respect, sir, why am I here?” asked Harry of the Met. “I should really be with my team, making sure the Norton case is all sewn up.”
“Yes, I had heard you were on that. Good work, Harris,” said Morse, “but let’s get straight to business. Are you aware of the increase in Alienizer-related crime, not just in this country but all over the world?”
“I’ve heard things,” said the younger officer shrewdly. “What of it? I was led to believe they were being handled by the Space Police, and speaking of which, why did nobody tell me that the Nortons were in league with the Alienizers in the first place?”
“Red tape, I’m afraid,” explained Morse. “We’re already starting to feel the pressure from anti-extra terrestrial groups like An-ex-ter and the Planetary Front, and the Space Police have tried to handle it subtly.”
This struck a nerve in Harry of the Met, who stood up so fast he knocked his chair over and slammed his clenched fist down on the desk.
“That’s not good enough!” he boomed. “My team were walking into a situation where they didn’t know all the risks! We’re lucky those Alienizers didn’t blow us to kingdom come!”
Morse was unfazed by the outburst. A few officers gathered at the transparent glass panels of the office, watching the stand-off. They could hear nothing for the room was sound-proofed, but they could all see the electrical charge jumping between the two men inside. The silence seemed to last an eternity, and it was interrupted by a third voice, one that was deep, rich and slightly raspy, with a strange accent, which said, “You’ve got spirit, Detective Inspector.”
Harry of the Met straightened up as the speaker came into the room. He was an alien, tall, with broad shoulders, dressed in a smart black shirt and scarlet suit. His hair hung down his back and over his shoulders in a magnificent gold mane and dark eyes glistened in their sockets. For all the world, this speaker was a talking lion.
“Well stone me,” said the fair-haired D.I., unable to help feeling something like awe at this brilliant spectacle, then he gathered himself, “Uh, that is, thank you, sir. May I ask who I’m addressing?”
“Chief Inspector Gyoc Row, Space Police. It’s a pleasure,” the alien smiled, shaking him firmly by the hand. “I’ve been reading about your exploits. Cut your teeth on the Crippen Gang investigation. Well done.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Detective Inspector Harris,” said Morse, regaining their attention, “you were handpicked for the new squad being established as a joint partnership between S.P.D. and the Met. I’m not going to flatter you with clichés about being the best there is, you were chosen for your initiative and ability to self-motivate. You will be carrying out the same sort of work as you were with the Flying Squad, only now you will be concentrating solely on alien-related crimes. Will you accept the assignment?”
Harry of the Met closed his eyes and pondered this. He had a feeling there was more to this than what he was being told, but on a moral level, a level that told him he should jump at the chance to tackle this terrible new evil from beyond the stars, he did not see himself as having much of a choice. He sighed, looked first at Row, then at Morse, and said, “I accept, sir.”
“Excellent!” Row patted him on he shoulder. “If you’ll come with me, we’ll collect our other team-mates and head back to the office!”
XXX
Doug May was an Irishman by birth, but had operated in Liverpool for as long as he could remember, though he had his sights on Soho. At the heart of London’s West End, it had more vice rings than you could shake a stick at, a perfectly lucrative area of business. He was currently on his way there now, sitting in the back of a car, eyes closed, dreaming of success. He would set up a lieutenant there and through him control as much of Soho as he could get his Irish mitts on. The car pulled up outside the home of said lieutenant, one given the unfortunate name of Jimmy Savile. The meeting took place exactly two weeks before the Nortons, a small group of upstart dealers trying to make a name for themselves, were arrested by the Flying Squad.
XXX
S.P.D. had been granted office space within Scotland Yard itself, and for a small division like theirs, it was roomy. Harry of the Met sat on one of the desks, looking at the two other members he and Chief Inspector Row had picked up. The first was a thin man with wavy, gold-brown hair, pale skin and green eyes. The second was a short woman with long brown locks and dark eyes. They wore simple kits, shirts, ties, that sort of thing, and the D.I. did not seem overly impressed. He had just been told that the man was one Sergeant Jack Cox of the Vice Squad, and the woman was Detective Sergeant Susan Ranson of C.I.D. A sniffer and a pencil-pusher, as far as he was concerned.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the saviours of Earth,” he remarked dryly.
“Well maybe now people will take the police a bit more seriously,” D.S. Ranson countered. “I’m sure you take just as much flack from the public as we do, Sweeney-boy.”
“Well I’m glad to see you’re all getting along nicely,” Row interrupted. “Now listen, as I told you all before, the three of you have been chosen because each of you exhibits valuable traits. Detective Inspector Harris, it was through your determination eight months ago that the Driscoll Brothers were brought to justice and their crime ring smashed, Sergeant Cox, your ability to perceive every angle helped the most in bringing down the biggest exxy smuggling ring in history last year, and Detective Sergeant Ranson, your intimate knowledge of the criminal underworld was what foiled Dexter Dudley’s alien slave ring five weeks back. All major cases, all solved through the abilities of extraordinary individuals. I salute you, and welcome you to the Space Police.”
“It’s an honour, sir,” said Sergeant Cox, “but why set up a Space Police branch here in London? I thought Earth-side your lot were operating out of Singapore.”
“I knew that would come up,” Row nodded. “Right now, S.P.D.’s biggest concern is the Alienizers, an umbrella term for interstellar crime families. Correct, the earliest known gangs were discovered in Asia, but like any crime ring they’re eager to expand their territory, and some Alienizers are now operating in Europe. It seems the Metropolitan Police Service were happy to accommodate us on the grounds that if alien technology and crime is involved, we would be better suited for both field and consulting work.”
“It’s true,” said Harry of the Met. “About the Alienizers being in this country, I mean. Turns out the Norton Brothers out of Soho were cutting some kind of deal with them.”
“We’d heard things in C.I.D. as well,” added Ranson. “Aliens or not, we’re the police, so if teaming up with S.P.D. is required to stop them, then I’m all for it.”
“Agreed,” said Cox. “What happens now, Guv?”
Row smirked. ‘Guv.’ That sounded…well, it sounded cool. Reaching down behind one of the desks, he retrieved a silver suitcase, set it down on top, and popped it open. Inside were three black-and-white rectangular objects, each one topped with two dull red lights. There was a sliding lever on the side with three settings – ‘Change,’ ‘Phone,’ and ‘Judge.’
“These,” Row explained, “are your S.P. Licenses, Space Police standard issue. They carry proof of your identity, so don’t lose them, even for a moment, and can act as a mobile phone between team members or use a complex computer system that reads a suspect’s bio-rhythms to discover if he or she is guilty of a crime.”
“No trial, then?” Cox sounded put-off.
“Oh there’s a trial,” Row said. “The scanner sends the bio-rhythm records straight to High Command, where a team of senior officers make the decision, which is then beamed back to the License. If the blue circle is illuminated, the suspect is innocent of serious crime but can be detained for questioning, if the red cross is illuminated, the suspect’s rights are immediately revoked and they are to be immediately executed.”
“There are a lot of bastards who get away with it,” said Harry of the Met, a hint of disgust in his voice. “Scum who take lives, then go off, write books and make their fortunes.”
“Not sure I’m comfortable with being someone’s executioner,” Cox murmured.
“It’s a harsh concept, I know,” Row sighed. “More often than not, people who aren’t directly involved with the Alienizers are marked with the blue circle. High Command’s undergone a real purge after I kicked up a stink about corruption on my home planet, we’re confident we’ll get the right sentence. Think of it as…people who are too dangerous to be around people get the red cross.”
“That only makes me feel slightly better,” Cox sighed.
Ranson ran one finger down the side of her license. “So we know what the ‘Phone,’ and ‘Judge,’ settings are for, but what about ‘Change,’?”
“That’s the fun one,” Row tittered.
XXX
Doug May wasn’t the only one who wanted Soho. The Norton Brothers had been dealing with members of a gang headed by the Gamidomard crime family, a notorious Alienizer outfit intent on becoming the top extraterrestrial dog on Earth. Volvox Gamidomard, also known as the Godfather, sat in a booth at a club he owned on Greek Street. It was a private place, members-only, hidden behind a completely legal Italian restaurant that served as a cover. As one of his girls polished the bovine horns curving out of his head and a couple of others massaged his arms and shoulders, one of his own lieutenants approached.
“Godfather,” said the lieutenant, “there’s someone trying to muscle in on our patch. Irishman, name of May.”
“May? Doug May?” the Godfather snorted. “That dirty paddy bastard. Okay, Nicky, take Luke and…” He took a puff of his cigarette and blew smoke through his nostrils, “Teach him a lesson, okay?”
“Right,” said the human lieutenant, Nicky Watkins. “He’ll be out of your hair soon, Godfather.”
The horned alien smiled. It was good to be the boss.
Doug May was found dead the next morning in a Soho hotel the next morning by the cleaning lady. He had been greedy, wanted to expand his territory and take over bandit country. That had been his downfall.
XXX
The body of the victim had already been sent to the coroner’s office and the autopsy performed. It now lay on the metal slab, covered by a white sheet. The only source of natural light was a single window high up on one wall, but in the middle of the day, it was bright enough to not warrant switching on the artificial light. Dr James Aggas, a tall man with a square-ish face and curly, coal black hair, led the four S.P.D. officers inside.
“I’m still confused as to why you took such an interest in this, Chief Inspector,” Dr Aggas addressed Gyoc Row. “I thought your department concentrated solely on alien crimes.”
“That’s right,” said Row, “and there are plenty of aliens in Soho. We’re just being cautious.”
“Understandable,” shrugged Dr Aggas, pulling on a pair of sterile gloves and adjusting his glasses. He removed the white sheet to reveal the pale, bald-headed corpse underneath. There was a dark hole in his chest and forehead. “The victim’s name was Doug May, car dealer from Liverpool.”
“Yeah right,” Sergeant Jack ‘Sniffer’ Cox snorted. “This guy was an outside dealer for an exxy ring.”
“Well, be that as it may,” said Dr Aggas, “for some reason, Mr May here was found dead at a flat he owned on Dean Street. He was shot twice, the first bullet pierced his right lung. The second one struck him dead centre in the forehead, no doubt that’s the bullet that killed him.”
“You’ve removed the bullets, right?” asked Detective Sergeant ‘Suzi’ Ranson.
“Of course,” Dr Aggas retrieved a metal dish with two crumpled lumps of metal inside. “Similar in design to a soft-point 9x19 Parabellum, except the alloy is different.”
“I’ll say,” said Harry of the Met, “these things are white.”
“Alienizers,” said Row. “I’ve seen these bullets before. They’re made of holium, best quality comes from planet Grom. Standard material in that star system.”
“Then our first step is to find out who’s been transporting holium bullets to Earth,” Jack remarked. “Can’t imagine it being legal, so we’ll have to scour our underworld connections.”
“I’ve got a few grasses,” said Harry of the Met. “I’ll make the rounds, shall I, Guv?”
“You do that. Suzi will accompany you” agreed Row. “Jack, you seem to be familiar with our corpse here, so I want all the information you have on him, legal and illegal.”
XXX
Mickey Bunce was a born grass. For the right price, he’d tell you if Paris Hilton was secretly shagging Shergar (whether it was true or not was a different story). When it came to the pigs, Bunce (also known as ‘Buncy’) knew not to pull any stupid tricks, not that he didn’t occasionally try it anyway. He was terrified of the man coming into his doorway right now. The dirty blonde hair, the tinted glasses, the blue overcoat, Harry of the Met was a demon wearing human skin. The woman coming in with him, obviously a pig just like him, had a stern face that silently said, “Brace yourself, we’re going to screw your day right up.”
“N-Nice to see you again, D.I. Harris,” said Buncy in a small voice. “Either of you two fine officers fancy a cuppa?”
“Don’t get familiar,” said Harry of the Met. “Sit your arse down, Buncy, we’re here on business.”
When the skinny creature in front of him failed to sit down, the D.I. gave him a light shove, pushing him into the armchair behind him. The woman leaned against the wall and took out a notepad as Harry of the Met took a seat on the sofa opposite him.
“W-What’s happened, Boss?”
“Doug May was killed in Soho with holium bullets,” said Harry of the Met, “and as far as I know, holium is the preferred ammo of certain extraterrestrial parties. Put simply, Buncy, I want to know who’s running the heaviest alien outfit in that area.”
“You know how I operate,” Buncy told him. “I need payment before I release any info.”
“Tell me and I won’t break your scrawny little neck,” Harry of the Met sneered, “and don’t even think about claiming it as police brutality. The moment you let it slip that you’ve been talking to me, everyone’s going to know you’re a grass and they’ll be cueing up to cut you open.”
Buncy knew he was beaten, and reluctantly gave in. He scratched the side of his head and flicked a bit of dandruff from his bare shoulders.
“The Gamidomards have a lot of influence round these parts,” he said. “They’re moonies, Bovisites from the Grom system. You’d be mad to go up against them. They reckon the one in charge ain’t scared o’ nothing. And you and me both know that that don’t just make him hard, it makes him a total psycho.”
“Right…ta, Buncy,” said Harry of the Met, reaching into his pocket and putting a £10 note on the table. “Spend it well, mate. We’ll see ourselves out.”
“M-My pleasure, D.I. Harris,” Buncy forced a smile onto his face. “You have a nice day, now.”
The two officers left the flat. As they walked down the stairs together, Suzi looked at her superior officer and asked, “Why didn’t you ask him about Doug May?”
“Never give out too much information,” he replied, “especially to grasses, never know when they’ll turn on you. We know Doug May was a small-time gangster, I reckon there are two reasons he’d come all the way to Soho. One, he was on the run and trying to re-establish himself somewhere else, which isn’t likely because since the exxy ring was broken up, he wasn’t much of a threat, just wheeling and dealing.”
“That leaves option two,” said Suzi. “He wanted to expand his enterprise and turn himself into someone respected in the underworld, and if he can take over a crime cornucopia like Soho, he’ll be set.”
“A little exaggerated, but good guess,” said Harry of the Met, “so how about we go speak to these Gamidomard fellows?”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Jack’s report?” asked Suzi.
“Let him do things his way, and I’ll do things my way.”
XXX
Nicky Watkins stood before Volvox Gamidomard in the office above the gangster’s base of operations, a certain night club on Greek Street. To his left was his associate, a huge black man, name of Luke Marsh. Nicky was currently relaying to his boss what a mole in Scotland Yard had told him earlier that day.
“The pigs are onto us,” said Nicky. “I’m sure of it. There’s a new squad investigating May’s murder. Could be bad news for us.”
“Let them come,” the Godfather shrugged. “I’ve already made arrangements to leave the country for New York, and once I reach international airspace, there’s nothing they can do to touch me. We’ve more current business at hand anyway. You know Nemoxini’s Pizza?”
“Who doesn’t?” Luke remarked. “That’s Stavros Nemoxini’s gaff.”
“Precisely,” said the Godfather. “Up until now, I’ve tolerated Stavros, but now he’s crossed the line. He started an Ice Cream War the other day, ran one of our men right off the road and through a shop window. Poor man’s lying in hospital.”
“The bastard,” Luke scowled.
“Firebomb the place,” said the Godfather. “Burn everything, got it? I don’t want nothing left standing.”
Nicky and Luke smiled and nodded as one man, turned, and left to get supplies. The Godfather lit a cigarette and placed it between his thick lips. If that Greek shit wants a war, I’ll give him a F**king war, and no Doug May or copper’s gonna stop me. He took a long draw on the fag, and breathed smoke rings into the air. This was his territory. When you grabbed the bull by the horns, you were going to get hurt.
XXX
The Nemoxinis had inherited the pizza parlour from their parents. Their father was a Greek who believed in doing a day’s work for a day’s pay, their mother was a business-minded Italian rumoured to have family in the mafia. Stavros was more like her, always plotting their next move and making contacts (legal and otherwise), operating from the office upstairs, while his brothers Gino and Luigi ran the shop. Several hours had passed since the Godfather gave the fatal command, and three police officers rendezvoused inside. As Suzi Ranson bit into a slice of thin-crust pepperoni pizza and Harry of the Met took a sip from his mug of tea, Jack Cox relayed what he had uncovered about their unfortunate victim. They were sitting in a corner booth, where they had privacy.
“I started with Doug May’s birth certificate,” explained the wavy-haired policeman. “He was born in a flat here in Soho, mother was in too delicate a condition to move to a hospital. The two of them moved up to Liverpool after his father was killed by some two-bit hit-man, Butcher Banks, now serving a life sentence. If May was trying to move in on things down here, his motive could have been revenge.”
“Take over Soho and use his resources to make the rest of Banks’ life a misery,” Suzi surmised.
“Right,” agreed Jack, “but here’s the weird part. The Nortons named May during their interrogation. He was the one who set up the meeting with those Alienizers, who turned out to be Muscans.”
“A terrorist cell?!” Harry of the Met’s voice was a harsh whisper, but still conveyed his astonishment all the same.
“That meeting was supposed to be an act of goodwill,” Jack explained. “The Muscans would hand over weapons in exchange for a shipment of exxy, which is hard to come by off-world. May had never dealt with aliens before. I don’t think he even knew there were extraterrestrial families doing business here.”
“Up until recently, neither did any of us,” Suzi pointed out. “We were all under the impression that it was all going down in Singapore because that’s where the first S.P.D. Earth unit was established. The Alienizers obviously don’t have such a strong influence in Britain.”
“Yet,” said Harry of the Met. “So…the Nortons and the Muscans were connected through May, and according to Buncy the Gamidomards are the heavy hitters round here. So what’s going to happen if the Muscans decide to get even for their business partners plus their own boys being either imprisoned or snuffed out?”
Suzi put her pizza back on the plate, having lost her appetite. She gulped and said quietly, “If Gamidomard’s that intent on keeping control, and the Muscans come calling, we could have a mob war on our hands.”
The Molotov cocktails flew through the front window of the shop and erupted in a volcanic rush of flames. The customers screamed and flew around in a whirl of panic. Gino Nemoxini ducked behind the counter, but Luigi, who had been waiting tables at the time, was not so lucky, and was among those who suffered the wrath of the fire. Suzi threw herself across the room to the nearby fire extinguisher, tore it from the wall and unleashed the fire-retardant spray within, dousing everything within reach.
“Jack!” shouted Harry of the Met. “We have to get the civilians out! Now!”
[B.G.M: “Firestarter” – The Prodigy]
Jack coughed as he staggered through the smoke, leading as many people as he could gather through the front door, though some insisted on leaping through the much wider broken window instead. It didn’t matter. They were safe at least. Someone had already called the fire service, it seemed, as the distinctive sirens split the air and the long red-and-silver vehicles rolled into sight. Harry of the Met looked across the road in time to see two men, a white one and a black one, running towards a red Ford Granada.
“Filth!” snarled the black man. The white one growled at him, then took out a handgun and fired a shot at Harry of the Met. The officer barely dodged, the bullet nicked his bicep, and dropped to the ground. As the Granada took off, Harry of the Met scrambled to his feet and jumped through the open window of his faithful Bessie. Jack and Suzi joined him just seconds later and the Cortina gave chase. The two cars darted and weaved around the traffic-filled streets.
“You idiot!” Nicky Watkins cursed to Luke Marsh. “Why’d you have to shout like that?! That pig had no idea we were the ones who threw those cocktails until you gave us away!”
“I panicked!” Luke, the driver, shot back.
“Well now they’re chasing us,” Nicky growled. “Keep driving, I’ll deal with them.” He opened up the sunroof and stood up, priming his gun on the Cortina. The first bullet bounced off the bonnet, the second one made a crack in the windshield.
“My car!” Harry of the Met snarled. “Nobody does that to my car! Suzi, did we bring the new guns Row gave us?”
“Yeah, hang on…” Suzi reached under the seat and retrieved another one of the S.P.D. marked suitcases. Popping it open, she retrieved something from inside and handed it to Jack, before taking a second one for herself. The guns were white-and-black in colour, the area connecting the chamber to the grip vaguely resembled a wheel. These weapons, standard-issue firearms for all S.P.D. officers, were known as the Mark I S.P. Shooter. Harry of the Met was unsure if the same tactics he used on the Muscans that very same morning would work again, but it was always worth a go, right?
“Go for their tires,” he said. Suzi and Jack wound down the back windows and leaned out, S.P. Shooters ready. They squeezed the triggers simultaneously, and from the weapons came two bursts of dark yellow light. They struck the back wheels of the car and there was an almighty ‘BANG!’ as both tires were reduced to strips of rubber. The car skidded down a side street and hit a lamppost with a terrible crunching sound. Water gushed out of the radiator and one of the damaged wheels rolled away along the pavement. The doors popped open and the two men aside collapsed onto the street, dazed but unhurt. Bessie pulled up next to them and the three officers emerged.
[B.G.M. End]
“You’re nicked,” said Harry of the Met, pointing a gloved finger at Nicky Watkins.
Nicky groaned and got up onto his knees. He reached inside his jacket and retrieved something that resembled a silver tennis ball.
“Not yet, copper,” he sneered, pressing a panel on the side of the ball and lobbing it with all his strength. The three officers ducked as the ball struck the other side of the street and erupted in a small explosion, but rather than fire, it spewed out green-blue particles with a computerised effect. The particles clung together, forming a troop of black-clothed, silver-headed robots. There had to be about a dozen of them in total, all with flashing red lights on their foreheads and emitting a quiet buzzing sound.
“Anaroids!” Luke cried. “Kill ‘em!” The robots complied and marched towards the three officers. The trio gathered together. Row had warned them that Alienizer gangs used these illegally constructed robots as foot-soldiers, and in great numbers could be very troublesome. Thankfully, they were all carrying their black-and-white S.P. Licenses, and knew how to use them.
“I think it’d be in our best interest to use the licenses now, don’t you?” asked Suzi.
“If anything it’ll take the edge off if those things start hitting us,” replied Jack. Harry of the Met removed the S.P. License from his inside coat pocket and clutched it tightly, bringing it to eye level.
[B.G.M: “Tokusou Sentai Dekaranger” – Psychic Lover]
“Change, standby!” he barked. His fellow officers raised their own licenses and said as one man, “Emergency!”
They pressed down on the buttons on top of the little machines, and the front panels swung open. There was a blaze of shining light as they were engulfed in the shape-changing material known as ‘Deka-Metal.’ As the metal clung to their bodies and morphed into their new battle suits, the three officers raised their fists to the sky and gave the completion command, “Face On!” The whole process took about two seconds, and there in the broad daylight, the sun’s rays reflecting off the shining surfaces of their bodies, Britain’s defenders stood for the very first time.
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v315/FreddyKruegerJR/RowsBrigade.png
“11!” cried Harry of the Met, making a gun with his hand. “Deka Silver!”
“12!” cried Jack Cox, raising two fingers. “Deka White!”
“13!” cried Suzi Ranson, raising three fingers. “Deka Black!”
The Anaroids broke their once well-maintained march and charged like mad soldiers, swinging the blades attached to their arms. Deka White was the first to attack back, unleashing a lethal double-backhand. In his human identity, his hands would have bounced harmlessly off of the robots, but empowered by the Deka-Metal, he sent them flying. He followed up with a right hook to the face of a third and an elbow crunch to a fourth. Deka Black dropped low and let loose with a roundhouse kick, flooring another four with ease. She then stood up and front-flipped into the air, driving her heels in the chests of the closest two on her descent. Deka Silver grabbed a robot by the shoulder and began repeatedly punching it until its metal face caved in. He then threw it onto two of the others lying on the ground and pulled the black ‘D-Pistol’ from the holster on his right hip, firing a round of silver laser bolts into the three of them, blowing them to pieces. Two more grabbed Deka White by the shoulders and attempted to drag him away from the fight and kill him separately. Growling, he whipped the telescopic white ‘D-Truncheon’ from the holster on his left hip and swung around, slashing both of his assailants across the chests and knocking them off their feet. Deka Black pushed the barrel of her D-Pistol in the stomach of the last one, and she could have sworn she heard it mutter, “Uh oh,” before she blew a hole open in its torso.
[B.G.M. End]
“Bloody things are all bark and no bite,” Deka Silver smirked, looking at the bodies on the ground. The ones they hadn’t smashed up were writhing like worms. Maybe a dozen wasn’t so great a number after all.
“They’re getting away!” cried Deka Black, pointing up the street as Nicky Watkins and Luke Marsh turned the corner.
Deka Silver cursed loudly and took off in pursuit again. He lunged forward, pinning them down with his weight as his companions rushed over, removing the S.P.D. handcuffs (or ‘D-Whoppers’) from the compartments in their belt buckles. The cuffs were clapped around the wrists of the struggling gangsters, closing up to accommodate their sizes.
“W-Who the hell are you?!” Luke demanded.
“Bastards!” Nicky hissed.
“That’s right, we’re bastards,” sneered Deka Silver, “we’re three great big bastards called the Dekarangers, and you’re coming with us, son.”
XXX
“Interview of Nicholas Watkins conducted at 6:30 P.M. In attendance are Detective Inspector Harris, Sergeant Cox, and Mr Watkins’ lawyer, Mr Dean Simmons.”
“Mr Watkins,” said Sergeant Cox, “I want you to cooperate with us. You were arrested not only on a confirmed account of using illegally built Anaroid robots manufactured by a clandestine off-world robotics company, but also because you and your associate Mr Luke Marsh are under suspicion of firebombing Nemoxini’s Pizza, killing ten people, including Luigi Nemoxini.”
“And your reason for suspecting him on the latter of these charges?” Dean Simmons of Simmons, Wright & Mason interrupted. He was a scrawny man with long fingers, a bristly chin and black hair with far too much gel.
“Because…” said Harry of the Met in a smug tone, “his friend shouted ‘filth!’ and they legged it like the bloody Roadrunner. If they had nothing to do with it, then why run? In fact, wouldn’t they more likely be the ones to call the fire brigade?”
“What’s your motive, then, Detective Inspector?” Dean Simmons challenged.
“Firebombing’s a mob tactic,” Harry of the Met answered immediately, “and the Nemoxinis are among several criminal families operating in Soho, in fact they’re business rivals to your employer, Mr Watkins. Volvox Gamidomard. The Godfather.”
“I work for Mr Gamidomard as a runner,” said Nicky in a calm voice. “I have no knowledge of his less legitimate operations.”
“I’m sorry, Mr Watkins,” said Jack, “but we have good reason not to believe you.” In saying that, he produced a plastic evidence bag with a cheque inside. “This cheque was found in the front passenger seat of the car you fled in. It’s for £3,500 and is signed by Volvox Gamidomard. Now, answer me this…who the hell pays a runner that much for one week’s work? Nicky, if you don’t cooperate, you’re only making things harder for yourself.”
“Are you threatening my client?” demanded Simmons, his voice dripping with venom.
“I don’t believe Sergeant Cox made any such remark,” Harry of the Met sneered. “Observational note; Mr Simmon’s hearing and/or sense of logic is to be brought into question pending Mr Watkins’ trial.” He looked over at the lawyer, who was trying to burn holes into him with his stare, and wiggled his eyebrows in response.
XXX
They had finished the interview about half an hour ago, Nicky Watkins had been returned to his cell and Mr Simmons had stormed off back to his office mumbling about police mind-games. Suzi found Jack enjoying his dinner in the canteen and sat down at the table.
“How’d it go in there?” she asked.
Jack swallowed a mouthful of steak, took a sip of his tea and replied, “We have enough to prove Watkins is part of Gamidomard’s gang, and once Chief Inspector Row brings back the C.C.T.V. footage we should have enough to pin today’s attack on him and his partner too. No luck on where he bought those Anaroids from.”
“Well, at least we made a bit of progress,” said Suzi, nicking a chip off his plate and taking a bite out of it. He didn’t protest. “That attorney didn’t sound too pleased on his way out.”
“Blame the Boss,” sighed Jack. “He made a note about that guy’s hearing just because he knew it’d get under his skin. Good copper or not, I have my doubts about him. He’s takes too many unnecessary risks, and if he goes by procedure then it’s only to suit himself…and as I remember, he was the most enthusiastic when the Guv told us about how the Space Police’s Judgement system works.”
“He’s from the Flying Squad, Jack,” Suzi reminded him. “I’m not going to tell you they’re all ‘hard bastards,’ like everyone says they are, but they are a ruthless lot. They handle heavy cases, and I guess sometimes they don’t know how much force is really needed.”
“That’s a very astute analysis.”
“I studied psychology at university, comes in handy when you work in C.I.D. Anyway, maybe we should give the Boss a chance before deciding to report him for bad behaviour or whatever. Once he’s been with us a while he might mellow.”
“Not in a million years, Pencil-Pusher,” said a voice behind her. Suzi turned as Harry of the Met approached. He nicked a chip off of Jack’s plate. This time he protested a little with a furrowed brow and a nearly audible, “Oi.”
“You don’t put vinegar on your chips?” Harry of the Met murmured in disgust. “That just ain’t right. So, who here’s up for putting the jeepers up old Gamidomard?”
“What do you mean?” asked Suzi.
“I just been round to see Stavros Nemoxini,” the D.I. explained, “and as it turns out, the two of them have been butting heads for the past few years now, and he admitted to starting an Ice Cream War the other day. That would provide ample motive for Gamidomard to strike back by attacking their brothers’ place of business. Now, I have no idea when the Muscans will get their bad news and react, if they haven’t already, so we need to sew this up spit-spot.”
“So what’s the plan, Boss?” asked Jack.
“Get some rest kiddies,” said Harry of the Met. “Tomorrow morning, the Dekarangers ride out.”
XXX
Gamidomard paced up and down his office, his heavy Doc Marten boots leaving marks in the shag pile. He was mumbling to himself, somewhere between being deeply contemplative and outright enraged. His right-hand man was rotting away in a prison cell, and as if to rub salt in the wound, two of the Nemoxinis had survived the attack and when the police came calling, they would be more than willing to bend over backwards, because it would mean shoving a red hot poker right up his bovine bottom. They would come…damn it, he would have to move now. He had chartered a private plane to New York for the end of the week, but now he would have to rearrange it for the next morning, as early as possible, and set up a trap for those meddling Space Police! He stiffened for a moment, then started rushing around, grabbing up every important file – every list of clients, partners and associates, ever invoice, every documentation of his important business moves, even the receipts he had kept – and sticking them into suitcases. When he had finished, almost an hour later, he opened his now otherwise empty desk drawer and retrieved a blue metal ball. It was looped by two rings in a cross formation, like a trendy Saturn. He chuckled to himself.
“Party time.”
XXX
The early birds tweeted in the dark blue sky of the new morning. It was not yet dawn, but that would approach in due time. Bessie was parked across the road from the club (they had forced the address out of Luke Marsh, who was very easily spooked by police) where Gamidomard was based, and Harry of the Met led Jack and Suzi towards their target, S.P. Shooters at the ready.
“I’m assuming we have a warrant for raiding the place, right?” asked Jack.
“Of course, boy,” replied Harry of the Met. “I do have some respect for procedure, you know.”
“Oh, you heard that…” Jack murmured, unable to make eye contact with his superior officer for some reason.
“You can pass judgement on me however you want, sonny,” said Harry of the Met, “because frankly, so long as I’m arresting villains and helping the innocent, I don’t give a monkey’s.”
They reached the door of the club and Harry of the Met raised his booted foot, struck out and smashed it in. The door bounced against the wall and dropped off its hinges. Inside, there were no patrons, which was expected considering the time, but there was something standing there in front of them. It was another robot, very similar to the Anaroids, except most of its heavier components were sky blue, and its head was crossed by two loops in an ‘X’ formation. Its eyes and mouthpiece were glowing a dangerous red. It clutched a silver grenade in each hand.
“Oh crap,” said Suzi. “You get the feeling our man was expecting us?”
“Change, standby,” said Harry of the Met, raising his S.P. License.
“Identified: Space Police officers,” said the blue robot in a digitised voice. “Begin operation command: destroy.”
“Bring it on, you bucket of bolts,” said Harry of the Met. “EMERGENCY!”
XXX
[B.G.M.: “Breaking the Law” – Judas Priest]
Gamidomard’s private plane was awaiting him at Heathrow Airport, and Gamidomard was shocked to find the place full of policemen. He pulled out the handgun tucked into the waistband of his trousers. They would not get him. Never! No way! He snorted and stamped his feet…and charged. Like a juggernaut, he sent people flying as he smashed into them. The officers attempted to hold him, and while he did indeed begin slowing down, he didn’t stop .He started firing, and they dropped like flies around him. He smashed through to the airstrips and made a beeline for his plane, clothes torn apart by the men behind him. It struck him that Nigel, his pilot, was not standing and waiting for him aside the vehicle even though the door was open. He peered in, and gasped in shock. Nigel was inside, handcuffed.
“Sorry, Godfather,” the pilot said nervously. Gamidomard growled but fell silent when he felt the cold circle of a gun barrel against the back of his head.
“Volvox Gamidomard, a.k.a. the Godfather,” said Chief Inspector Gyoc Row, “you are hereby under arrest. You do not need to say anything, however I must warn you that anything you do say may be taken down and used as evidence against you in a court of law.” Gamidomard snorted, then sighed, and closed his eyes.
“It’s a fair cop.”
[B.G.M. End]
XXX
The day was won. The Godfather admitted to killing Doug May, his criminal empire was brought to a screeching halt, and with his arrest, the Muscans decided not to waste their resources by taking their revenge…at least not yet anyway. The remains of the Anaroids and their blue-clad leader were hauled away for examination. In their office at Scotland Yard, the four members of S.P.D. congratulated each over on the success of their first case.
“How exactly did you know where Gamidomard would run to, Guv?” asked Suzi.
“Bit of a guess really,” Row chuckled. “We’d gathered enough evidence and testimony through the two cronies you caught to at least warrant an investigation, but an obsessive like the Godfather wouldn’t let us get him that easily, so it made sense to assume he had a way of escaping our jurisdiction. I just did a little research into any transport purchases he could have made, which is how I discovered he’d hired a personal pilot and plane. The only problem was that I was warned he may have changed airports from Heathrow to somewhere else, so if he hadn’t have been there, we’d be in trouble.”
“I’m glad we found those robots before anyone else did,” said Jack. “If any of the staff had walked in, we’d have even more innocents dead.”
“You can stop the bleak imagery right now, Sergeant,” said Harry of the Met. “Our first case as a team was a success. Now, Chief Inspector Row, I propose we go celebrate properly. The Red Lion, and that’s not a joke.”
[Closing Titles: “Man of Mystery” – The Shadows]
[b]Guest Starring
Jim Broadbent as…the voice of High Commissioner Numa O.
Bill Nighy as…Sir John Morse.
Peter Serafinowicz as…Volvox Gamidomard.
Mackenzie Crook as…Nicky Watkins.
Noel Clarke as…Luke Marsh.