Revenge (100 words)

Napoleon, who would rather die than be seen to lose face, thought that revenge was a dish best served cold.

Illya, who combined the education of a scientist with the dark instincts of the Russian soul, believed that you could make medicine of great revenge to cure deadly grief.

Mr Waverly, who had lived longer and seen more than either of them, knew that revenge, at first though sweet, bitter ere long back on itself recoils. Which was why UNCLE had firm policies against acts of vengeance.

He did not consider the war against Thrush to be vengeance, as such.

Death, Be Not Proud (100 words)

Illya was a survivor. Having grown up under jackboots, he knew how to bow his head and eat dirt if he had to. Keep your head down, give them what they want. It was only a mask, it didn't touch who you were inside.

Napoleon was different. Napoleon would walk right up to the jackboots and thumb his nose at them.

At first Illya thought his new partner was crazy. Later he believed he was the bravest man he'd ever met.

It was years before he realised Napoleon was less afraid of death than he was of his own demons.

Traumdeutung (50 words)

Napoleon has been having bad dreams.

Awake, he dislikes recalling details from the mission:
Illya, glassy-eyed, robotic, entirely subject to an alien intent.
Illya, his arm raised to shoot, his face blank and unresisting.
Illya, forced to act against his will.

In his dreams, he is the one Illya obeys.

Ficlets:

All for the Want of a Horseshoe Nail

Mr Kuryakin recently informed me that physicists have identified a phenomenon called "sensitive dependence on initial conditions", meaning, when applied to an organisation as complex as UNCLE, that tiny errors can have incalculable consequences. I am all in favour of advances in the sciences - where would UNCLE be without technological innovations, both its own, and those acquired from Thrush? - but in this case I believe the old nursery rhyme got there first:

For want of a nail the shoe was lost,
For want of a shoe, the horse was lost,
For want of a horse, the rider was lost,
For want of a rider, the battle was lost,
For want of a battle the kingdom was lost,
And all for the want of a horsehoe nail.

If the loss of a nail can lead to the downfall of a kingdom, it behoves a man in my position to be alert to the tiniest changes, the quietest whispers, the most innocuous signs, that can indicate treason in the offing.

He was very clever about it at first. He did nothing that would overtly undermine my authority, and he always had a plausible excuse. The whole of HQ knew that Mr Solo couldn't help being at the mercy of his hormones, so was it any wonder that he was unreachable at odd hours, that the occasional voice in the background suggested communications were being overheard, that outsiders became rather intimately involved in missions? A microdot sent by the wrong courier? Just a misunderstanding arising from a kindly impulse towards a female colleague. A clandestine meeting with a Thrush agent? Just the usual testosterone-driven dalliance. All harmless incidents taken individually, but over time suspicion began to grate upon my nerves. I saw the looks exchanged with Kuryakin, I saw the contempt behind the smiles, the questioning of my orders beneath a façade of cooperation. I tried keeping tabs on him, but who could I trust? Certainly no-one at UNCLE. I enlisted my brother-in-law's aid, and we turned up a traitor, but to this day I do not know if Solo contrived for him to take the rap, or if the rot was already spreading. I used, God forgive me, my own niece as a honey trap, but he evaded the nets I spread for him.

He had not yet poisoned Kuryakin, though. I constructed a test of his loyalty, sent Solo on a mission blind, and without UNCLE resources, and instructed Kuryakin not to relay vital information. He did as he was bid. Solo came through with flying colours, but I knew it was a front when he failed to lodge an official protest at his mistreatment. He was biding his time, not yet ready to issue a challenge.

I knew he had his eye on my position, that he was wheeling and dealing, forming alliances, acquiring friends, with a view to stabbing me in the back and making himself Number One. Like a politician canvassing for votes, he was friends with everyone. From the tea ladies, to the head of intelligence, to the boffins in research, his contacts were everywhere; but he was careful not to make an overt move until he was certain public opinion would be with him. And when it came, he contrived to make his challenge in a public place, in an open corridor, with witnesses passing and security cameras to record my response. Right there, in front of everyone, he challenged my authority, declared that he would flout my expressed wishes and go in ahead of the UNCLE helicopters to rescue Kuryakin and the young lady. I stood my ground, stood for what I believed was right, but as he turned away I saw the hangdog expression covering his victory grin, saw the lie in his eyes, and lost my nerve. In pretended pity for his pretended grief, I gave him permission to take over the mission. What else could I do? It was on public record that an innocent life was at stake. But he had finally shown me his true face, and from then on I had no doubt about what I must do.

I couldn't move against him openly, of course. That would have risked alienating Kuryakin, whose loyalty after the island debacle was debatable at best. I sent him to Berlin, and gave Strothers secret orders to use any means necessary to extract the truth, but Kuryakin sprang him, and Beldon went down. The rot was spreading indeed; just how many traitors does UNCLE harbour?

I could not allow him to destroy what it took me a lifetime to build. Fortunately, it still suited his purposes to pretend obedience to me - hypocrisy is the tribute that vice pays to virtue - and there are men working here who still understand the value of unquestioning loyalty. I ordered him to report to the psych lab for pre-emptive conditioning against a new Thrush truth drug, and he went.

The consequences of that visit are daily becoming more apparent, in errors of judgment, miscalculations, oversights. It is dawning on him now, slowly but inevitably, that he can no more trust himself than I can trust him. It cannot be long before one of those errors costs him his life, as one has already cost Kuryakin's. Small mistakes, yes; but small mistakes can have catastrophic consequences in a business like ours. We cannot allow one nail to lose us the kingdom.

Room 101

"All right, Mr Kuryakin, where is it?"

Illya transfixed his interrogator with his fiercest glare, then decided that misdirection was his only chance. He sighed in apparent defeat and opened his mouth - and, as Di Avolo's shoulders relaxed fractionally, shot forwards out of the chair.

Strong arms gripped him from behind, pinioning him into place.

"I was warned," said Di Avolo grimly, "that you might be... uncooperative. Must you make things so unpleasant for everybody? Very well," - as Illya clenched his jaw in response - "This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me. Boris, hold him there! Miss Payne, the syringe, if you please."

Beside the tray of instruments, the girl in the white coat smiled. Illya eyed her balefully. All women were sadists at heart, and this one looked like a particularly vindictive specimen, gloating at the prospect of the entertainment to come. But perhaps he could still spoil the show for her. If he could only get free from this gorilla, punch out Di Avolo, make it to the door - but "No," said the red light of the security camera, blinking smugly from the ceiling, "You wouldn't make it five feet."

He tensed automatically as Di Avolo rolled up his sleeve.

"Tsk tsk," said the man tauntingly, "You're only making things worse for yourself." Perhaps it was true. It hurt abominably as the needle plunged into his arm, but the effects were almost instantaneous. His limbs became sluggish and unresponsive, and the light directed at his face loomed huge and blinding.

"This is your last chance, Mr Kuryakin," said Di Avolo softly. "Where is..."

Illya blinked, and the man was suddenly half a metre closer, his face vast and ominous, something sharp and pointy glinting in his hand an inch from Illya's eye. He must have blacked out for a moment, Illya realised, panic rising in his throat.

"The dose was too big," Miss Payne was saying.

"Just as well," said Di Avolo. His free hand shot out and grabbed Illya's jaw, tipping his head back. Illya winced and blacked out again, then suddenly his mouth was full of blood, and he was choking and spluttering at his tormentor.

"This was your choice," said Di Avolo, "You wanted to do it the hard way..." He broke off and sprang backwards as Illya spat viciously in his direction. It was a magnificent leap, one any athlete would have been proud of, had it not brought him onto a collision course with the instrument tray. Man and metal crashed to the floor, the girl ducking frantically as assorted bits of sharp steel flew through the room.

"Remind me again why I agreed to work for UNCLE," Di Avolo groaned, struggling to his feet. "Come on, Mr Kuryakin, it would be so much easier if you would just tell me which molar has the abscess."

The Missing Letter Affair (with apologies to James Thurber)

As his chamber gradually filled with sunlight, the UNCLE chief agent lifted his eyelids with the sure and certain feeling that things weren't right. He failed in identifying in greater detail whence the un-rightness feeling came, but it was definitely there. Thinking hard, he realised that he didn't remember his name. It began with N, he was sure, and ended with N as well, but the rest was misty and unclear. Dressing hastily, he hurried past the UNCLE HQ entrance, exhibiting in his haste rather less than his usual suavity, and hesitated at Mr Waverly's bureau. He knew it was imperative that he enter, and yet he was faced with an impenetrable barrier. "I must get in," he mused, "and yet I can't think what is barring my way." Luckily, at that very minute the barriers parted, granting him admittance. In an instant he was in Mr Waverly's inner sanctum.

"Aha, my CEA!" said Waverly with evident relief. "Thank heavens! We're facing a severe crisis. Thrush has invented a device that has sucked the 15th letter in the alphabet away. It is a dead letter. It has ceased being! What is even badder is, we can't use any lexemes that have that letter in them! We can't even imagine entities that have that letter in their names!"

"My deity!" exclaimed the nameless man, slapping his temple. "I knew a thing wasn't right when I ceased sleeping! I just had this strange feeling! What shall we undertake, if Thrush has nicked all the unutterable letters in existence?"

"We must use alternative lexemes," said Waverly. "What else can we undertake? In the meantime, I want Mr Whatshisname and Mr Kuryakin t– dear me, this sentence requires an infinitive, let me backtrack. Mr Thingumajig and Mr Kuryakin will attack the Thrush plant where we suspect they are hiding the letter-stealer and reverse the effects."

"Waverly has all the luck," the dark-haired agent grumbled at Illya. "His name lacks unspeakable letters. Like Illya Kuryakin, in fact. Why is it always me that suffers under these ghastly epithetical attacks? Why am I never spared? It isn't fair!"

"Cease griping and leave with me!" instructed Illya, pulling a martyred face behind his friend's back.

The Thrush plant was situated beside a large hill. The hazel-eyed chief agent and his sidekick penetrated its defences with practised ease and after much searching identified the chamber where the letter stealer was hidden.

"What means must we use in deactivating it?" asked the taller man.

Illya struggled with a few particularly essential lexemes, but since they all included an unspeakable letter he at length fell silent in disgust.

"Well?" his chief asked.

"Bang!" said Illya sadly. "These linguistic limits are dreadful!" Then his eyes brightened as an idea struck him. "What we need is Semtex-type stuff, except that Semtex hasn't been invented yet."*

"The big brass said reverse the effects," advised the suave UNCLE agent. "He didn't say make a great big bang with semtex-type stuff."

"But I will anyway!" said Illya, apparently insulted by the implied criticism. "Making a great big bang will reverse EVERYTHING!" Inside his pants** he had a small black plastic thing, which he carefully placed – which he stuck –

"Damn!" he exclaimed. "I find I am sadly lacking in a crucial grammatical item that will enable me t…" he fell silent, defeated by the truncated alphabet.

"Chuck it AT the machine," suggested his partner, understanding instantly where Illya's difficulty lay.

Illya's face lit up. "Better yet, I shall lay it BESIDE the letter stealer!" he cried, acting even as he talked. "Quick, we'd better leave here, else we shall make a bang as well!"

They were just exiting the plant when the semtex-type stuff blew the walls away.

"Oooooooooooooh!" said Napoleon, as a great cloud of letters poured out over the world. "Thank God that's over! I was beginning to wonder how I would ever come to terms with living in a world without love!"

*by which the eagle-eyed will infer that this tale takes place in 1965 at the latest
**American

A Better Way

Endings are easy.

Beginnings, however, are tricky things. Difficult to pinpoint. Reluctant to be extracted from the cascade of cause and effect.

Two people are swept away by an avalanche. Did it start with the crack of a falling rock, startling in the white stillness? Or with the footfall that dislodged it? Or with the decision that sent the owner of the foot up the mountain in the first place?

The trouble with history is that it is made out of people. And people make choices.

Does it start here, with the dislodging of a pebble?

Captain Waverly ducks back into the trench as the stuttering rifle's rapid rattle signals a spray of bullets across No Man's Land. It's only one rifle, one last defiant pocket of resistance. Silence this one and they'll have gained mastery of the Jerry trench. At the cost of a mere 30,000 lives.

Exercising due caution, he sticks his head up above the wall of mud.

"Geben Sie auf!" he shouts, as the rifle falls silent. Its owner is reloading. Or out of ammo, although that's probably too much to hope for. "Sie sind der Letzte! Geben Sie auf!"

For a long moment he listens into the silence, the wind whistling around his ears. Then there's a crack and the ground beside his head spits up a mouthful of mud.

Waverly ducks back down into the sheltering trench, and pulls the pin out of a hand grenade with his teeth.

There has to be a better way than this, he thinks, as the little pineapple arcs through the air.

Or does it start here, at the moment when the crack of stone against rock echoes around the peaks?

Gabhail Samoy stands on the border watching the refugees, a diffuse flame of anger burning within him. In both directions, the columns stretch out to the dusty horizon, Hindus struggling into India, Muslims into what will tomorrow be Pakistan. Stupid. Stupid. Their shoulders are bowed with the weight of their disposession, their faces twisted with hatred. He turns to General Muburakh, standing beside him.

"We have had our chance," he says, and his words seem to shimmer in the heat, "And we have done no better than the British. Nationalism has failed us. There has to be a better way."

Or here, when the vast slab of snow groans into movement?

General Tarkovsky walks through the remains of the village in utter silence, the aide beside him barely daring to breathe, as he waits for the inevitable explosion. Alexei Tarkovsy, the Georgian Bear, one of Chairman Stalin's few close friends, and the man with the shortest temper on the general staff. A man to take things personally.

"Thrush, you say?"

The tone is even, but the aide still flinches. "As far as we can tell, sir. We believe they're testing some kind of earthquake machine."

"This is the third incident this year."

"Yes, sir."

"And yet we still have no intelligence reports on them."

"They operate out of the West, sir. The UNCLE keeps tabs on them but they won't hand the information over to non-member states, and given the current political climate..."

"What are you implying, Lieutenant?"

"Well, we can hardly be expected to contribute an agent to a non-Soviet organisation."

There are worse ways of dealing with a village full of dead children than rigid adherence to the party line, but right now, Tarkovsky can't think of one. He turns to face his aide, and his voice is as flat as the steppe.

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Get me Comrade Stalin on the phone."

Or here, at the crossroads to the road across the mountain?

General Finch glares at Colonel Morgan from behind the safety of his desk. He doesn't even touch the file the Colonel is holding out to him.

"I don't care who his grandfather is, Morgan," he says, between clenched teeth. "I am not having Solo on my staff."

"He's a good soldier," says Morgan obstinately.

"A good soldier, Colonel, is not undisciplined, is not argumentative, and does not regard orders as some kind of option. Solo always thinks he can come up with a better way of doing things, and maybe he can, but that's not the way the army works. And you know what? Grandfather or no grandfather, I'm going to write that in every application he ever puts in, anywhere. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a smartass."

Or is the true beginning the moment when the final choice is made, when there can be no more branching off from the path?

Illya walks through corridors lined with steel, like a trap, or a nightmare. Women hurry past him, their faces thick with make-up, their clothes clinging to every curve of their bodies. It isn't anything like the KGB headquarters in Moscow. It isn't anything like Cambridge. It's America, the heart of capitalist imperialism, and just as decadent as he's been led to believe.

Outside Waverly's office he hesitates, prepared for hostility and preparing to offer it, but the door slides open without his volition, disappearing into the wall like a sword down a sword-swallower's throat. No time to brace himself for the encounter. Waverly he recognises, but the man next to him, in a dark suit with radiant shirtcuffs, is a stranger.

A stranger who holds out his hand and smiles.

His grip is warm and firm, and there is no hint of antagonism in his eyes. Slowly, reluctantly, Illya smiles back. Perhaps, after all, this is the better way.