caused an unexpected chill to run its fingers down his spine, until he shook his head at his own foolishness. As though what were essentially glorified puppets could ever threaten anyone!
Just then someone let out a mighty scream and pointed in horror at something in the display which 105 was unable see from his vantage point. He began to move towards the disturbance, just as another terror-filled wail joined the first.
The demon couldn’t be far away now. A moment before – or, perhaps, an hour before – he’d been sure the creature was toying with him, allowing him a taste of freedom before crushing him at the last moment. He wondered if he’d really heard breathing nearby, and thought he’d seen red eyes in the darkness. The little man swam through the snow, increasing his pace even as his energy levels decreased, like a man flooring the accelerator in his car in the hope it will reach its destination before the gas runs out. He could just about make out his goal a few yards ahead, but the snow was a blizzard now and sheets of freezing sleet disoriented him, turned him around and made any forward progress difficult.
There! His fingers closed over the communicator at the same time as the snow all around him melted away as the demon blasted the area nearby. Boiling water burned as it touched Cupid’s skin, and he was forced to use the very last of his energy in order to roll out of the way, lest he be boiled alive. But that done, he was a spent force and so, with a sigh like the air leaving an unstrung balloon, he let his one good eye close and his limbs relax into the all-embracing snow drifts.
Before he blacked out completely, however, he did the one thing he still could. He pressed the orange button on top of the communicator. A low, deep hum came off the device, which brought a smile to Cupid’s ruined face. He might be in a tight spot, but Señor 105 was coming.
Later on, Rodrigo described the look on Señor 105’s face as comical. Reacting to the screams and with the thought of blood-thirsty killer robots still fresh in his mind, he had bundled half a dozen men out of his way in his haste to prevent the otherwise inevitable slaughter. With one final mighty heave he leapt right over one man, grabbed the first of the screaming women, shoved her behind him and twisted back round, fists raised, ready to defend the good people nearby from whatever assailed them. As the screams turned to laughter, 105 gaped at the latest addition to the festive tableau.
An animatronic jaguar carrying a red trident, and wearing a papier-mache headpiece, painted with the face of a devil, jumped and capered underneath one of the waterfalls. A clean square of flooring showed how the feline devil had entered the display. 105 supposed it would have given any woman of a nervous disposition a shock, though he did wonder exactly what the beast was intended to represent. He shrugged inwardly – Comandante Riri’s displays frequently made little actual sense, when examined closely. 105 raised an apologetic hand to the people he had manhandled and sheepishly made his way back to his friends.
‘Better to check such alarms and risk looking foolish than to ignore them and so allow innocents to be harmed,’ he said and then, realising how pompous that sounded, smiled beneath his mask and continued, ‘Why don’t we go shopping now? I have gifts to buy!’
With an excited Rodrigo leading the way, they made their way to the big double doors of the mall and went inside.
The sun had set by the time the little party returned home. Sheila had intended to wrap her presents immediately and then place them beneath the Christmas tree which dominated the lounge. Rodrigo, however, had no patience and saw little reason to wait for Christmas Day. He had insisted that both Sheila and 105 open their presents at once and, not wishing to disappoint the eager youngster, they had agreed.
Sheila had been delighted with the set of tartan ribbons Rodrigo had bought her; 105 could hear her now, laughing upstairs with him as she tried first one then another on against her shiny red exterior. As for his own present…
Señor 105 lobbed the book onto the seat opposite him. Even across the room, the blocky, red text of the title glared accusingly at him.
THE CHARIOTS OF THE GODS?
He appreciated the fact that Rodrigo had attempted to get him a gift which would appeal to his twin interests in prehistory and futurism. The perfect combination of topics, 105 had called it when he had opened the gaily-wrapped gift. Rodrigo had beamed with pleasure and 105 had given himself a mental pat on the back for the quality of his own feigned enthusiasm. It was not that he disliked the festive period – far from it – but he was aware of the book and its controversial author and, if truth be told he found the man’s theories more than a little disturbing. For one reason or another, he had some personal experience of historic times – though not quite so far back - but surely this Von Daniken could not have even that advantage?
Unless…but all further thought on the matter was curtailed by a blaring sound which suddenly emitted from a panel set into the armrest of his chair. 105 flicked a switch and turned a dial to the left, tuning in the receiver in order to identify which of his friends was in trouble, and where. As soon as the location identifier highlighted the North Pole, 105 was out of his chair and on his way to his helipad, shouting as he ran for Sheila to prepare the house to receive an injured man.
‘Come on, ma petite. Sit up for Sheila and take a little soup.’ Sheila‘s string was wrapped around the bottom of Cupid’s bed; a slight breeze coming through the open window made her bob up and down slightly. Cupid, opening his eyes for the first time since the day he had been brought to this…hospital?... thought it made her look as though she were smiling. He pushed himself up with his elbows, trying his very best not to wince in pain.
The soup bowl sat on a curved, pale yellow plastic tray which itself remained upright on the bed due to extensible legs with wide, flat feet. The bowl was made of the same material and in the same color as the tray. Cupid picked up the provided spoon and was surprised to see, inset into its side, the flicker of a digital time display. 4.27.
‘Is that time in the afternoon or morning, Mademoiselle Sheila?’ he asked. They were old friends, but he retained a rather formal mode of address when speaking to the Sentient, both because he thought it appropriate and because he knew she found the formality more attractive than his usual Rat Pack cum surf bum chat. Cupid preferred females of all species to find him attractive. It was his defining quality, a friend had once said.
Shelia bobbed to one side in the soft breeze. Like she’s tilting her head, Cupid thought. ‘In the afternoon, of course. I would not wake you in the middle of the night, not even for this delicious French onion soup.’
Cupid took a sip of the soup, carefully, since it still hurt to move. ‘This is wonderful,’ he said.
‘Why, thank you, my friend!’ The warm sound of Señor 105’s voice enveloped the room as he strode in, just in time to misunderstand Cupid’s praise. ‘I bought the entire set – tray, bowl and cutlery – at a Futurist Show in Mexico City. In fact, at the very show where I battled Andy Warhol and his Fifteen-Minutes-of-Fame Machine. You remember, Sheila? Warhol turned out to be under the control of his hair dye and we had to shave him bald to save his life. He never thanked us. ‘
'In the confusion, I actually left the set lying on a table in the dealers’ room, but luckily some kind soul sent it on later.’
Taking care not to brush against Cupid’s still wounded body, 105 sat down on the edge of the bed, and examined the more visible of the little man’s injuries. ‘You seem to be healing quite well.’ He was loathe to tire Cupid out any more than he had to, but he was very conscious of the fact that several days had passed, and he still had no idea who had attacked his friend, or why. When he had arrived at the Pole, he had discovered Cupid unconscious and near to death amidst the signs of battle, but there had been no time for anything but a cursory investigation. The winged man had regained his senses for long enough to recognise his rescuers, but had then fallen into a deep, healing sleep, from which he had not woken until now.
‘When we foun
d you, you mentioned a demon? 105 asked softly. ‘But you did not mention a name, nor a reason for the assault. I have to ask – is this something to do with the Defence?’
Cupid started in surprise at 105’s words, and glanced worriedly at Sheila.
‘It’s OK,’ 105 continued, noticing the look. ‘Sheila knows that you are one of the Defenders. I felt I owed it to her to explain why you were so important, over and above being our friend.’
Not entirely satisfied, but willing to trust 105 for the moment, Cupid relaxed back into the plump pillows and began to tell his story.
“You know that he’s been obsessed for months with the idea that Pitch is back?’ Cupid began obliquely. ‘But we didn’t believe him. Not even when he assembled the entire Defence and showed us his ‘dossier’. We all thought the same thing – the old man’s going senile, seeing danger where there’s none. And the dossier was just some blurry photos of some dude in red. Coulda been Pitch, coulda been some hippie in a red jacket. Coulda been the old man himself, for that matter, if he dropped a hundred pounds. But the old guy insisted it was Pitch, large as life and back in town. Well we played along, but nobody took him