After thirty minutes of scuttling down abandoned corridors and another ten arduous minutes of crawling through muck, the trio of Joe, Lawrence and Harvey arrived at the door of the subbasement to the Requisitions Building. The rusty portal appeared to be nothing more than a Maintenance access with a double lock and a keypad.

Pinching their noses from the lingering wretched sewage fumes, Harvey spoke through gasps. “I know that nothing I said before can prepare you for who you are about to meet, but please keep it in mind.

Joe was pale as a ghost, quivering against the wall.

“Is he OK?” Harvey asked.

“I don’t know,” said Lawrence. “Sector Chief, what’s wrong?”

“Cigarette! I need a VirCorp Family cigarette! Now! Any brand will do. El Burro, Erasmus & Luther, Cunning Red, Churchill, Dunleavey or Pell-Mell. Something. Anything! After all that crap, I need something for the shakes.” He bit the heel of his hand.

“The King, ah…A.J. smokes,” Harvey offered. “I’m sure if you ask him nicely enough he will give you one. Once we finish with the introductions, we’ll get you a cigarette and some clean clothes. OK?”

“The King?” Joe nodded warily, the wild look of an addict teeming in his eyes. Lawrence patted his arm gently.

“Yes, Sector Chief. We’re going to see the King.”

“Oh. O-OK.”

“When we get past the anteroom, please follow a few steps behind me. Are you ready?” Both men nodded, as Harvey fished a set of keys from his trousers. As he punched a long sequence into the keypad, he readied his key for the door. At last there was a click and a hiss as the lock disengaged. In rapid succession, Harvey twisted his key into the locks. The door creaked open an inch. “Remember, stay behind and bow your heads. There’s no telling if he’s himself or the King. This way, please.”

Harvey swung the door wide and stepped through into an airlock. After Joe and Lawrence came through he shut the door and tried the handle. It had locked back into place.

In the claustrophobia, bits of frayed cable littered the floor and massive struts intertwined with the web of fiber optics. Opposite the entrance was a massive vault door. Harvey walked over to a massive vault door at the other end of the airlock and pressed a button on the intercom. After a moment, a frazzled voice came through in code.

“Twinkleberry?”

“Twinkleberry, Nutkin. Epsilon Delta Kappa Nonsense I Palindrome I. Three blind mice request three on the floor, courtside.”

“We have three courtside for those who have paid the toll.”

“We have paid the toll.”

“Do you want fries with that?”

“Yes, please. Supersize the cat-flap wobble-bottom.”

“Just a moment.” The door buzzed loudly and Harvey grabbed hold of the handle and tugged hard, pulling it wide enough to accommodate the party. He stepped into the gap, motioning to Lawrence and Joe to follow. Once through, Harvey grappled with the door, wrestling it shut.

Inside the vault was a large converted storage room. Moving boxes were stacked eight high. Empty food packets were strewn about the dirty floor. In the upper left corner was a kitchenette. Opposite was a double bed covered with pillows and historical novels. On the far right wall there was a bank of computers, into and from which all manner of cables ran. In front of the console sat a disheveled man in a cheap office chair. From where he stood, Lawrence could see he was grey at the temples. The man was staring into space, stroking his stubble and smoking a cigarette. Harvey politely cleared his throat.

“Sire, the fugitives are here.”

Slowly, the figure turned around, a deranged twinkle in his eye. “The Prodigal Sons hath returned! Had I the wealth to celebrate thy arrival!” He stood and staggered toward Harvey, arms outstretched.

They embraced tightly, Harvey nervously patting the King’s back. Lawrence tugged Joe’s arm, taking them a few steps closer to the door.

“How are you, sire?”

“Splendid, now that thou hast arrived safely after thy precarious travails. We trust that all is well? Neither the Duke’s nobles nor spies have followed thee?”

“Prior to disembarking from the third drop-point, I switched off all communications, sire.”

“Excellent. We are delighted with both thy alacrity and caution by which thou hast traveled hither.”

“Sire, may I present Sector Chief Joe Noone and his boon companion Master Lawrence. Gentlemen, please step forward.” Harvey gestured benevolently toward the King with open palms.

Lawrence took Joe by the arm and led him, whimpering, forward. Joe’s frantic eyes shot this way and that. When they were a few paces away, Lawrence lowered his head and bowed. Joe stood there, trembling.

“Simon Lawrence, milord.”

“And this must be Joseph. I daresay he looks familiar to us. What seems to be the matter with him?”

Harvey politely coughed, now in full charade mode. “I am afraid that the…Duke’s nobles…got to him first, sire. They have poisoned in his mind.”

“How unfortunate. This complicates matters greatly, I’m afraid. What may we do for him to ease his suffering?”

Joe was shaking violently now, huffing, eyes bulging. “Cigarette! I need a cigarette.”

“Ah. That we can provide for. Here,” the King spoke warmly, digging in his jacket for the cigarette case. “We roll our own. Given the insidious tariffs that have been levied by our enemies, we are fortunate to save fifty dollars a carton.” The rumpled man extended the open case. “I am afraid our flint torch has dry. All we can offer is the use of our firebrand.”

Joe reached for the cigarette case, then froze. Something buried deep within him stirred. His eyes finally focused on the King, studying his face. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

The King nodded thoughtfully. “Methinks we are experiencing the self-same déjà vu. Thou look’st a mess. Please, allow us to light thy tobacco for thee.” The King opened his matchbox and extracted a timber, drawing it along the surface till it sparked. He held out the open flame, cupped in his other hand. Joe took a step forward and leaned in to draw on the flame. As he dragged, there was a familiar taste in the tobacco. Joe looked up to nod his thanks.

As their eyes met, Joe’s mind raced—waves of recognition crashing over his psyche. This man called the King, only wearing a VirCorp Security uniform, appeared in his mind’s eye. He couldn’t shake it. He remembered the long walk down the once magnificently landscaped pathways surrounding the research complex after his first day as a security guard. The VirCorp angel choir screamed for validation in his head, but Joe’s subconscious fought it bitterly. The familiar taste of the tobacco was overpowering.

Lightning thoughts clashed like swords. Overcome with renewed weakness, Joe collapsed to the ground in a heap, staring up at the gentle King. He did a double take, mouth opening and closing.

The King regarded Joe with concern, kneeling down to comfort him. “What is the matter? It is OK to speak your mind among your fellow man, provided your conversation partner is a fellow man,” he chuckled. “You have nothing to fear here, son. You’re safe now.”

“Al? Al Jablonski?”

The King screwed up his eyes as if in pain. When he opened them, there was new warmth in his eyes. “J-Joe?”

“Al?” The color drained from Joe’s face. Overwhelmed, he fainted.

Harvey coughed politely. “So, apparently you two know each other.”