Part 2 - Chatter 15

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Black Dog hollered, encouraging the Tommies to eat up, grouching that an army marches on its stomach. Young gung-ho whippersnappers piled their plates high with bacon, eggs, baked beans, chips, mushrooms and toast from the bain-marie. Older marines dotted around the mess hall stuck to cereal, fruit and tea. Abuzz with the clamour of hunger and humour, of cutlery scrapping plates, teaspoons stirring sugar into mugs of tea, there were bawdy jokes and idle boasting. A dozen or so snot nose, buzz cut boys jostled each other, their colourful language peppering the air.

"Oi Twisterella, chuck us the ketchup," one lug of lad yelled down the table. The ketchup bottle was flung and fumbled, knocking over a mug of tea. There was raucous laughter and Bronx cheers.

"Mind your bleedin' manners," Black Dog barked gruffly, raising her fistful of knuckles. "Or you'll all be sucking your next meal through a straw." Black Dog made herself comfortable next to an older fellow named Snowblind, whose face was grizzled and melted like a burnt candle. For a moment, the young soldiers ignored the sergeant until the older man spoke most deliberately and the mess hall fell deathly silent.

"Back in my day, the young 'uns obeyed the rank," Snowblind said in a treacle-thick West Country accent. "The sarge used to say, quite humbly, 'ignorance is bliss'...just before he'd throttle the bejesus out of you."

Amongst the dozen, Grey Cell Green, Twisterella, Unbelievable, Def Con One, Fools Gold and Doubt immediately stopped mucking about for when the old codger Snowblind spoke, the younger soldiers obeyed. Snowblind was the sniper and could shoot a single bullet through a Polo mint from a mile away and was also completely and utterly bonkers. As he masticated, Snowblind disconcertingly rolled his one good eye - 'good' being a euphemistic way to describe his rollicking lazy eye embedded in a face that had been splashed with acid. Even if he looked like a half ruined Madame Taussaud's mannequin, Snowblind was not one to be ignored.

"Appreciate the ketchup," Grey Cell Green thanked, erring on the side of caution and Snowblind continued devouring his bacon buttie dripping butter and HP Sauce. Black Dog pointed split fingers at her own eyes then pointed at the six young soldiers, silently warning them she was watching them all. The blokey banter slowly returned as the soldiers continued with their breakfast whilst down the end of mess hall table, Alistair watched on as he ate his porridge. He frowned because Delilah had denied him a chance to partake in the greasy fry-up whilst Capt Baker fixed a mug of coffee then marched across and knelt down beside him.

"It's on, buddy," Capt Baker clarified in a half-whisper. "They've agreed to an exfil."  The boy was confused and after a brief explanation, Alistair was relieved; Capt Baker indifferently chewed on a fingernail then swigged his black coffee.

"This is going to be one Christmas never to forget," he mused before walking away, deep in thought. Alistair finished his breakfast, cleared his plate and avoided Delilah, who found herself being chatted up by a soldier. He followed after some Tommies as they headed down to the Drill Rooms and was intercepted by Chelsea, who rushed up to him in a state of manic nirvana. With tired eyes, she had burnt the midnight oil studying and Chelsea shoved her Handy in to his hands.

"Go on, read," she ordered, with a smug look. "It's not going to bite."

Alistair skimmed the pages using the fingertip toggle whilst Chelsea stood a little too closely and read over his shoulder. Clearly the notes were hastily cobbled together; excerpts of the life and times of the Tower of London and inter-related pieces woven together to provide Alistair a rough history of King George VII, Beefeaters, Crown Jewels, gruesome tortures, callous executions and the Ravenmaster. Devouring the notes, he read of the Ravenmaster that had held the responsibility of maintaining the welfare of the Tower's resident ravens, with an old legend foretelling the monarchy's demise should the ravens ever vacate the Tower.

Furthermore, Chelsea had discovered that King George VII had decided to form an elite squad of soldiers and redesignated the Lion's Guards call sign to the team, whilst the Ravenmaster's position was reappropriated to be George's man-at-arms. Previously, crack soldiers and espionage agents were assigned to MI9 but George's newly created Ghost Ops, were hand picked and seconded to the King, combining a range of skill sets to combat anti-British terrorists and racist local militias who were sprouting up across the country, belching extremist neo-fascist codswallop.

"It looks like King George VII wanted to be prepared for the worst," Chelsea noted. "Pity the worst came from within." Alistair thought the same. Turning the page, Chelsea tapped the screen and expanded a picture.

"Now look at this."

The picture was of the Crown Jewels which were once housed in the Tower of London. The Crown Jewels had been publically destroyed by the Futurists as a symbolic gesture that the monarchy was extinguished. However, they never admitted to the disappearance of the Crown, which lead some naysayers to conclude that perhaps one Royal had survived and it was they who now possessed the crown. For years, the Futurists had kyboshed this notion and in subsequent, it fell from memory as the Futurists effectively erased the Loyalists from history.

"Now this," Chelsea pressed, swishing pages to the "I found out that they used to do a 'Ceremony of the Keys'. Each night, the Chief Yeoman Warder would meet an escort of Guards to secure the Tower's gates. Upon their return, the party stopped by a sentry who asked for their identification."

Chelsea had highlighted the role play:

Sentry: Who comes there?

Chief Warder: The keys.

Sentry: Whose Keys?

Chief Warder: King George's Keys

Sentry: Pass King George's Keys. All's well.

Chelsea continued. "After that, the party continued on to the fortress, through the Bloody Tower Archway and on to the Boardwalk Steps. Halting, the Tower Guard would present arms and the Chief Warder would raise his hat, proclaiming: God preserve King George, to which the Sentry would reply: Amen. The Chief Warder returned the keys to the safety of the King's House whilst outside the Last Post was sounded."

Alistair tried to figure the relevance.

"Apparently, the ceremony had been standard practice since the 14thCentury until 2038." Scrolling down the text, Chelsea tapped another image and Alistair instantly recognised the Lion's Head keys.

"Yep," Chelsea clapped, telepathically agreeing.

"Where an we do more research?" Alistair asked excitedly.

"I thought you'd never ask," Chelsea beamed. "Julian's owns half of the British Library that was supposed to be banned and burned. Come on, follow me."

**********************

Using Chelsea's Handy, Alistair and Chelsea gophered the Wayback Machine with the tin box contents spread across the coffee table. Having swiftly matched the Lion's Head keys to Chelsea's pictures, discovering where the locks were now was proving nigh on impossible. Delilah delivered mugs of hot tea and a plate of cherry Jaffa cakes; without any further ado, she let them be, happy they were reading and getting along. As their research hit a dead end, Alistair lounged, sipping his tea whilst petting Balderick, who sat cosily in his lap nibbling some of the orange jelly filling.

"It's useless," he groaned as Chelsea flicked her finger, turning pages, exploring the text vainly. "We'll be reading forever, just to glean a clue."

"I just wish X marked the spot," Chelsea said as she turned off her Handy. Shuffling Archie's playing cards, she tried to manufacture a mental breakthrough.

"If only we could extrapolate the information quicker," she wished, despising the censorship limitations inhibiting her Handy.

"It's not worth having without the hard work," Alistair reminded, quoting Archie. Throwing her feet up on to the table, Chelsea inadvertently kicked over her cup of tea. Balderick flapped for cover as the hot liquid pooled across the tabletop and the children managed to snatch almost everything before the beverage could do any real damage. However, the Handy's wet circuits were frizzled and the sheet of plastic paper was sodden.

"Drats," Alistair moaned as Chelsea apologised profusely, wiping the fob watch on the leg of her trousers. A fine condensation had formed on the inner side of the glass face and Alistair took it back, fretting the watch was now damaged. Chelsea darted to the kitchen and returned with a roll of paper towel, soaking up the spill before using fresh sheets to pat dry the plastic paper. As Alistair sighed and began to put everything else away in the tin box, he felt Chelsea pinching the flesh of his lower arm, and he flinched with an ouch.

"Hey, stop that," he scowled, but then he saw it too. Holding up the acetate sheet as tea dribbled off the edges, the hitherto blank page was bleeding colours of red, white and blue and eventually, the Union Jack materialised before their very eyes. Chelsea finished dabbing away the moisture as words began to appear right across the page.

You're now part of the secret we all keep.

They looked at each other and Chelsea had a glint of mischief in her eye.

"Secret?" she whispered. "What secret?" Alistair turned the page landscape, pinching the corners as the colours bled to the edge of the page.  Alistair, Chelsea and Balderick brought their heads together to study the revelation.

"It's gotta be heat sensitive ink," Alistair surmised, trying to figure out the trick. "No wonder we couldn't read it."

"You're such a Sherlock," Chelsea disparaged, before smiling with triumph, stubbing her finger on the centre of the Union Jack. "And... X marks the spot, eh?"

"Lucky you're so clumsy," Alistair thanked and Chelsea dug her elbow in his ribs. Squirming, Alistair pointed to the images of two ravens in the top corner and Balderick cawed, nodding, his chest puffing up a little. Trying to nut out the note though, it made absolutely no sense.

::: NOTE ::: Not final artwork :::

Tasted Algae? What's that all about?" Chelsea posed, highlighting one of the eight boxes containing nonsense." However, Alistair read aloud the four-line poem and hairs raised on their necks.

"The Crown of England is yours to take," they both repeated, re-reading the final line in a hushed tone.  Chelsea jumped to a conclusion, squeezing Alistair's shoulder.

"What we have here is a treasure map," she exclaimed. "And that means only one thing: a treasure hunt!"

Balderick croaked advising caution and Alistair agreed with his chum.

"Oh don't be such worry-warts," Chelsea chastised them both. "Seriously...we have to work out where the crown is and go and fetch it."

"That could be dangerous," Alistair remarked.

"What's a little danger?" Chelsea boasted. "Think about. If we find QEIII's crown, we'll certainly be in her good books. We could get knighted," Chelsea considered dreamily. "Not that she hands out knighthoods anymore...but she might reconsider for both of us...with her crown in hand."

"I'm sure she'll be happy but won't that mean having to sneak out? We could be in all sorts of trouble," Alistair added with a touch of meekness. "And I don't think I'm supposed to be sneaking out at a time like this."

"Oh come on, that's the nega-tron talking," Chelsea argued, placing her hands on her hips in semi-defiance. "It's the crown of England, Alistair!" And as if to emphasise her point she said it again in a low voice as she picked up the page and waved it in his face: "Let me remind you: The Crown! It's the symbol the oppressed can unite behind to finally bring down the Futurists! Aren't you at least a little bit excited? Fortune favours the brave pal. Sitting at home like a chicken will get us nowhere."

Alistair clearly was keen but had trouble reconciling the repercussions.

"We can't get anyone else in to trouble over this. It'd be us, and only us."

"We won't," Chelsea maintained. "Remember: it's our secret!"

"And we'd have to find a way out of here without anyone knowing," he countered.

"Leave that to me," Chelsea said confidently, before goading. "Are you a scaredy cat?"

"No," Alistair denied.

"Good! Don't tell anyone!" she ordered. "I can do without your fussy domestic coming down on us like a ton of bricks. And Col Rose doesn't need to know either."

"Alright," Alistair conceded. "But if this is a treasure map and if it leads us to the crown of England" Alistair continued, stabbing his finger in to the heart of the page, "then we're going to have to work out where 'X' is."

"Leave that to me," she said enthusiastically as she began tossing the contents back in to the tin box and squeezed the lid closed. Chelsea yanked his hand, pulling him towards the doorway.

"Don't vex! Somehow, we're going to have to make this final breakthrough."

"Now?"

"Yes, now! Not a moment to lose." Grabbing his arm, Chelsea yanked him off the settee, and in a flap of Balderick's feathers, the game was afoot.

**********************

Julian's environmentally controlled library was mind-bogglingly big, brimming with bulging shelves and crammed crates full of weighty tomes, reference material and frivolous fiction, so much so that all day, Alistair had had to pinch himself to remember he was burrowed underground.

Loyalists had rescued all the literature before the Futurists burnt down the British Library during a time when the Futurists discontinued all national public libraries and began controlling all information for public consumption

As Chelsea pored over books, Alistair and Balderick, like cheeky schoolboys, immersed themselves in hardcover Beano and Viz annuals until Chelsea cleared her throat and directed their attention to proper reading material. Surrounded by thick volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, Alistair refocussed, jotting down the occasional pertinent fact. Chelsea had encircled herself with a mountain of books; she chewed her pen whilst lying on her stomach, mindlessly kicking her feet, sleuthing her way through reams of information in an attempt to discover the 'X' and the why.

"These clues are quite silly," Alistair yawned, flipping yellowing pages.

"Uh-ah," Chelsea agreed. "Why couldn't they just have said 'I hid the crown here' and be done with it?"

The secured door hissed apart and Julian wandered in to the library.

"I wondered what was in here," he said with an air of surprise as Alistair closed his book, sandwiching the note amidst the encyclopaedia pages. "You've been so quiet, I thought maybe you were playing tonsil hockey," Julian giggled. "But instead I find you darlings taking the initiative and educating yourselves."

They both glared at Julian.

"One moment I was the centre of attention, the next I've been cut off like a sausage. Now, those bothersome soldier boys have all gone out," Julian confided. "And the Captain, Elvis and Delilah are off doing their own thing, me being ignored is so tiresome. So while the rats are away, shall the cats play?"

Both children were non-committal as a pouting Julian ran a varnished fingernail across a leather bound copy of the collected works of Lord Jeffrey Archer.

"My dearies, I thought perhaps we could be civilised and take tea. I've baked scones and I've clotted some fresh cream." And as if to tempt them further, Julian held up a large jar of orange marmalade. "It's the last pot from the pantry. If you like your scones sweet and sticky...follow me."

Balderick agreed by means of a loud squawk and at first, Julian turned his nose up, slightly peeved, but he finally relented.

"Fine, you can partake too," he told the raven before addressing the children. "Come my dearies, what more could you possibly want?'

Chelsea folded, needing no further enticement and followed after Julian as he swished out of the library. Alistair waited a second or two then slipped the note out of the encyclopaedia and tucked it back in his jacket pocket. Chasing the others up to the living room, Julian had moved aside the coffee table and had spread out a blue and white check picnic blanket. There was a brown glass bottle chilling in an ice bucket and Alistair spied plates, glasses and a large silver three-tier tray holding a stack of plump scones. One glance at the bowl of fresh cream had him salivating and he heard Chelsea eagerly smacking her lips together.

"Ta-dah," Julian smiled and they all sat down on the blanket and made themselves comfortable. Julian plucked a glass bottle from the ice bucket and in a deft twist, snapped off the bottle top with a pop fizz.

"Ginger beer?" Julian offered, filling their glasses. Sampling the brew, Julian puckered his lips before suggesting they hoe in to his scones.

Selecting his scone Alistair smelt the warm dusty cake and followed Julian and Chelsea's lead as he tore it in to two halves, spread cream and marmalade on both sides and took a bite. For a moment, Alistair forgot the ills of his world.

Balderick pecked at Alistair's ankle and the boy responded by breaking up another scone into raven friendly, nibble sized pieces. Dolloping cream on a spare plate, Alistair placed it down in front of Balderick and the bird snapped up the treat like a greedy-guts.

As they munched their way through the scones and slurped down lashings of ginger beer, Julian seemed to drift off dreamily. Chelsea

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