Love for the Cold-Blooded (20 page)

“Sorry, bro,” he said apologetically. “Scheduling emergency. Won’t happen again.”

“Sudden urgent appointment?” Nick looked pinched and displeased, all priggishly tight brows and ridiculously straight posture.

Pat shrugged a vague affirmative as he plopped back down, scooping up his datapad with markedly less enthusiasm than before. His princess was still as glorious and awesome as ever, the frozen space battle still nearly as tangible as the superhero perched stiffly next to Pat. “Whatever. You change the settings?”

“Patrick.” Nick looked weirdly on edge, and his posture was still that of a man with the Star Shard up his ass. “Pat. I’ve been meaning to ask.”

Pat gave him the inquisitive eyebrow. For one long, weird moment, Nick just looked at him, expression tense and unreadable; then, he abruptly shook his head and turned away. “Never mind. We have a solar system to defend, so let’s get back to it.”

They tried, but neither of their heads were truly in the game anymore. Nick was sullen and distracted, glaring indiscriminately at enemies, allies and even their own characters as though all of them had personally offended him. As for Pat, there were too many thoughts swirling around his head to let him concentrate on the tale of Princess and Paladin setting the galaxy on fire. He had to rearrange his schedule for tomorrow, and for who knew how many days and weeks after. He might want to warn his professors he’d be missing a lot of classes. Maybe he’d have to take time off from his night job, too, and…

Usually none of this would have been much of a problem, but right this moment, it all seemed like way too much trouble. And for what, really? Sir Toby was cool, but… Pat just wasn’t feeling the minion thing.

Long story short: Everything was off, and it made him grumpy. Pat hated feeling grumpy. It was the worst.

When Princess and Paladin were trying to puzzle out a series of clues that were mostly incredibly annoying to Pat, he’d had enough.

“Ay, save the game,” Pat called, and tossed down his datapad. “I don’t know, I’m kinda off. Maybe I’m tired or something. We’re just gonna get killed like this.”

They watched a movie instead. Strangely enough, it was Nick’s idea, and he didn’t even put up a fight when Pat insisted on a recent action blockbuster he’d missed. The movie was awesome — chock-full of lengthy chase scenes, fights on top of moving vehicles, attractive people in skimpy clothing, and all manner of other cool things. The screens made it look amazing, like they were right in the middle of the action, and Nick’s critical commentary (“helicopters cannot fly through tunnels of this size, Patrick”; “it is impossible to remain active for this long when fully immersed in water of near-freezing temperature, Patrick, and no, being a total badass has no influence on the matter”; “the likelihood of not being hit when out in the open and fired on by five opponents with machine guns is practically the same as that of walking through a wall because of a fortuitous alignment of atoms, Patrick”) just added to the fun. Nick cheered right up too, perhaps bolstered by the joy of catching others in bad science, or else by being so utterly right.

Pat had no idea when he’d fallen asleep, or even how — the movie wasn’t exactly soothing, what with the constant explosions and firefights. He’d managed somehow, though, because he woke up slumped against Nick, face half-smushed against his shoulder, nose warmed by the side of his neck. Nick was dead to the world, face slack and mouth open, looking totally stupid with his head lolling back on the sofa’s backrest.

He was going to get a wicked crick in the neck if he slept like that for long. Pat extricated himself carefully and then pushed and prodded at Nick until he shifted; another moment of prodding, and he succeeded in getting the man’s legs up so he could stretch out lengthwise. Nick promptly rolled over and snuggled in against the sofa’s backrest, giving a sleepy grumble.

The AI had dimmed the lights and thrown a pleasant nighttime view of an artfully overgrown garden pavilion on the screens. It made this corner of the lab almost cozy.

Halfway out the door, Pat hesitated and changed directions. The door to Nick’s bedroom was closed and locked, but…

“Ay, he’s going to get cold,” Pat said softly. “I’m getting him a blanket. Unlock the door, will you.”

A second passed; then, the lock clicked and the door swung open soundlessly.

He was already back in the kitchen by the time the other thing occurred to him. He turned right around and went back up into the entrance hall, cavernous and almost eery-looking in the dim automatic lights the AI put on for him.

“Please note, Ay: Tonight’s visit by Padraig Ouest was free of charge.” Pat put his head back to look at the tiny, black optical pick-up in the corner by the stairs. “Not official. Just, you know. Don’t transfer any payment, okay.”

He half expected he was going to have to wrangle the system for that one, but when he got back to his post, shed the metaphorical cloak of Padraig the Hooker and reassumed the identity of Patrick the Night Manager, the AI had already flagged the evening’s companionship as ‘complimentary (promotional offer / customer service)’. It had also bumped Padraig’s agency up a little more in the overall rankings. Looked like good customer service was rewarded in the Andersen household.

Promotional offer? Yeah, sure. Close enough, Pat guessed.

~~~~~

“P
atrick! It’s wonderful to meet you at last. I have heard so much about you. We all expect great things of you, my boy.”

Sir Toby was shorter than he looked on TV, and somewhat more plump. He was considerably more imposing in person, however, which should have been impossible, considering his cheeks were ruddy with good cheer and he was beaming benevolently in a manner never seen in any of the highlight reels or showdown battles.

Personal magnetism, Pat decided — the kind you could never achieve if you didn’t have it from the start. Sir Toby had it in spades, enough to make even the mustache work. Every other mustache Pat had seen in his life had looked hopelessly douchey, but on Sir Toby, it was distinguished. The salt-and-pepper thing he had going helped too, of course.

Pat squeezed a little too tightly as he shook the man’s hand. He was slightly flustered, although he didn’t know why. He had no idea what kind of great things Toby had been led to expect from him, though. It seemed unlikely they were connected to urban planning, so it was probably better not to inquire.

Sir Toby wore a tailored afternoon suit of the highest quality, jacket open over a tastefully striped waistcoat. An emerald-colored silk scarf was slung around his neck with a seeming negligence that spoke of impeccable good breeding. As he turned to welcome the next minion to arrive, Pat noted the scarf was a perfect match for his flawlessly tucked pocket square.

“Catalina, my dear, I’m so glad you could make it. I assure you the experience will be well worth the trip you undertook to get here.”

Pat drifted off to mingle, and to look around a little. Sir Toby was holding the meeting in a conference center downtown, the sign outside proclaiming the room was booked for the “Workshop: Youth in Municipal Politics”. Sir Toby had probably chosen this cover because it sounded so boring that nobody was likely to try listening in.

Several bite-sized canapés and a tiny bottle of apple juice later, Pat had caught up with everyone he knew and chatted a bit with a bunch of the others, and was feeling somewhat better about the entire thing. There was the usual mix of challengers’ kids of suitable age to start out on minion duty, with the youngest being Cassiopeia’s fifteen-year-old daughter Klytemnestra (“call me Nessa”). There was also a decent-sized contingent of Sir Toby’s loyal lower-level employees, and — as Pat was relieved to note — no mercenaries.

Good. The presence of mercenaries inevitably announced a rather more brutally militaristic plot than Pat was comfortable with. Pat hadn’t considered it likely Sir Toby would go that route, but it was good to know for sure.

Once everyone had arrived and been personally welcomed by Sir Toby, they found seats among the rows that had been set up facing the podium. Pat sat next to the tall girl who’d come in after him — Catalina, Toby had said.

“Yo,” he greeted her, and held out a friendly fist. She obligingly bumped it with her own, giggling. “I’m Patrick, Serpentissima’s son. Call me Pat, everyone does.”

The girl’s eyes widened a little at the mention of Pat’s mom. “Wow, nice. I’m Catalina — Cat. My dad’s Jaguar.”

She giggled again as she extended and retracted her claws for him. Pat made appropriately awed noises while inwardly struggling a bit with the weird disconnect of the super hot, built guy he’d lusted after since puberty — the guy he’d, not to put too fine a point on it, jerked off to more often than he could count — being a father with a kid almost as old as Pat. A kid who was, at this very moment, giggling helplessly over having inadvertently sliced open the cushion of the chair in front of her.

“So what has your dad been up to? Is he okay?” Pat’s sisters were always exhorting him to network, and that’s what this was, making contacts and picking up any and all info he could get. What else?

“Oh yeah, he’s great! I have two brothers and a sister, and we live near my mom’s home town in the rain forest. I’m not supposed to say where, but it’s a really cool place. Dad’s retired, except for his rain forest activist thing, and recently he’s gotten really passionate about bird watching.” Cat giggled, for no particular reason that Pat could make out. “Did you know there are more species of parrots in the world than —”

But Pat didn’t hear the rest, distracted by the mental image of Jaguar as a staid bird-watching family man. That was just… bizarre. Yes, that was the word. Bizarre.

He was grateful when Sir Toby took the podium and the lights were dimmed for his presentation. If Jaguar had put on fifty kilos, grown a shaggy beard and taken to wearing sweatpants at all hours, then Pat emphatically did not want to know.

After the usual introductory slides (‘welcome, my minions’, ‘serve me faithfully and the rewards will be immeasurable’ and ‘fail me and your torment will never cease’), Sir Toby got right to the point.

“This is the Crystal of Power,” he said, the capitalization clearly audible. The picture of a large, oval-cut gemstone flicked onto the screen behind him. In the next slide, Sir Toby was dramatically holding the Crystal aloft; it wasn’t much smaller than his head. “It is a focus of great occult power, recently retrieved by an expedition from the eldritch tomb of an ancient god.”

Nobody reacted overtly, but Pat saw a few nodding heads in the rows ahead of him.

“As a power source, it is without equal. It is a key component of my scheme, powering my new invention…” The next picture showed Sir Toby standing in an underground lair next to a tall metal apparatus with a crystal canon mounted on top. Sir Toby was wearing an old-fashioned but entirely elegant cape lined with dove-gray satin, and was presenting the apparatus with the flair of a stage magician unveiling his most astonishing trick. “The Mind Control Ray!”

Pat was not ashamed to say he was one of the minions who gasped. Next to Pat, Cat punctured her notebook with her claws (judging by the way the thing looked, it was far from the first time this had happened).

Seriously, a mind control ray?
Wicked cool.

“Under the influence of my Mind Control Ray, every citizen in the entire city will be friendly, polite and non-aggressive, not to mention inclined to regard my wishes as tantamount. Building on this foundation…” And so forth. It wasn’t a hugely original scheme, except perhaps for the part where Sir Toby’s dominion would include a tribute of all high-quality imported teas and biscuits. But Pat liked the way Sir Toby looked when he explained how he planned to eject the entire top level of the present municipal government, remove corrupt structures on all levels, and instate proper regulations. He looked… not angry, but determined. Firm. Competent.

So, yeah. Pat wasn’t gonna lie, he was kinda disappointed at the lack of android dolphins, but he consoled himself with the mind control ray and the prospect of reasonable zoning policies.

Sir Toby wrapped up his presentation by introducing the official minion uniforms. They were simple, but tasteful — a choice between charcoal three-piece suits with emerald waistcoats and emerald sleeve dresses with charcoal jackets (“anyone with no documented experience of running, climbing and fighting in a dress will please note they are required to choose the suit, regardless of personal fashion preferences”). All tailored, of course; measurements would be taken immediately. The outfits came complete with tasteful green masks that Sir Toby assured them would not impede their vision in the slightest, and would hold fast during even the most rigorous physical exertion.

Pat very carefully kept a straight face all through the uniform intro. He was an adult, after all, and when Toby spoke of rigorous physical exertion, obviously Pat was not imagining anything other than rousing fights with superheroes, daring chases across rooftops, and wild scrambles through secret lairs and abandoned industrial facilities. Of course not.

“Lastly,” Sir Toby said, “I want you to meet my right hand, the woman who is going to be coordinating my activities and holding all the strings. You will afford her all the cowering fear and mindless obedience she is due as my second-in-command. Please welcome — the Lady Helena!”

Fortunately, the storm of applause and whistles entirely drowned out the sound of Pat saying “fuck me”.

Hell entered from the side, striding to the podium to take a gracious bow. She was wearing an emerald floor-length dress Pat had never seen before, complete with satin gloves and green jewels gleaming at her throat. No more time on the minion rotation for Hell… she’d graduated to trusted lieutenant.

Briskly, Hell sketched out the timeline of the operation, put down the principles for organizing everyone’s schedules, divided the minions into task-forces, and had lists of equipment handed out that every minion was to carry at all times. Practical to the end; Pat approved. He wasn’t sure why a toothbrush was on the list, but he could definitely vouch for the usefulness of a satellite phone, an emergency beacon, a fire blanket and some trail bars.