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titusnowlThe Fabulous Adventures of James & Bond
Part 3: You Only Die Once
Chapter 1
1600 words
An orange card, printed with "Do Not Disturb" and a stylized graphic of a masked figure holding a finger to his lips, hung from the doorknob to HQ Casino Hotel room 1402. The maid wheeled her squeaky-wheeled housekeeping cart past it as she had done for the past two weeks, with nothing more than a slight press of her lips at the thought of how slovenly the interior must be getting by now.
Inside the room, however, her assumptions were mostly incorrect. True, there were papers, two ashtrays and a few empty glasses scattered across the top of the drafting table, but housekeeping was under strict orders never to touch that particular piece of furniture anyway; the bed was unmade, and a single tie lay lank and limp upon the carpet where it had been discarded at the time the bed was rumpled; but everything else was neat, and the only other things which appeared slightly out-of-place were a pair of unpainted teleporters, one entrance and one exit, spinning in idle mode on opposite edges of the room.
The corresponding pair of teleporters was currently deployed in a small open room connecting the Control Room, with its array of softly-beeping, gently-whirring cabinet-sized computers, and the Observation Lounge, with its great glass dome of a ceiling through which the earth could be seen beyond the cratered curve of the moon's horizon.
This was James and Bond's moonbase.
With the ejection of the previous owner had come a few minor adjustments, to make the place more comfortable for their vacation. For example, one of the computers in the Control Room had a 33-rpm record forced onto a spindle originally meant for a magnetic-tape reel, and a bit of rather roughly-done duct-taping and wiring, along with the improvised application of a bit of lock-picking equipment to serve as a needle, allowed the sound of Frank Sinatra's voice to filter, somewhat tinnily, through the base's public address system. "Fly Me to the Moon" was on at the moment, appropriately enough, echoing against the steel and glass surfaces that filled the lair.
Bond was humming along with it from his carefully-arranged sprawl half-in one of the white plastic egg chairs in the Observation Lounge, while he worked on a dry martini and poked idly through his wallet in search of something interesting to think about.
James was sprawled out on the white flokati rug near his feet, his latest tinkering project (a better-designed replacement needle for the makeshift hi-fi) set aside for once. Bond had almost given up on teasing him about finding work to do on his vacation; Engineers, it seemed, were incapable of anything other than a busman's holiday (he would, and had, explained himself that the little projects were the holiday; something unimportant and mindless that would leave him with a working item and a sense of accomplishment - but Bond was as likely to understand that mindset as James was to understand Spy Logic), but occasionally he did stop working for a few minutes even without Bond's purposeful distraction.
The Spy thumbed through a small store of paper money from the various countries they'd travelled through recently, past the driver's license dated 40 years in the future and the green card even further out of date and the similarly-aged UIEEI License to Kill... "I really need to clean out my wallet. I don't need any of this stuff anymore. Just watch me get pulled over for speeding with a back pocket stuffed with anachronisms."
"I emptied mine out the first night," said James, so mildly that Bond shot him a glance to see if he were being passive-aggressively judgmental about it or something. The Engineer caught the look and shrugged as much as he could while lying on his back with his hands behind his head. "I had too much other shit to carry and not enough pockets without my workbelt."
"Yeah, well," said Bond. "I didn't want to leave my intel lying around or something." He flipped back to the front of his wallet, where his current License to Kill was stowed behind a plastic window, and studied it as if for the first time. He never really had looked at it after he got it; it worked to get him his perks as a Spy, and that was all that mattered. "I am a damn good-looking bastard," he observed, angling the wallet so the glare from the overhead lights stopped obscuring his photograph. "And - huh." The license number was just above the picture. He'd known he'd be getting a new one; his old one was 3675H95 (you're damn right he had it memorized; it had to be entered in three spots on every application for a contract transfer, and he'd transferred a lot when he was still in briefcase work), and with 50 years difference they were probably using shorter numbers back here, but this - this was just amazing.
But obvious, in retrospect.
"What?" asked James, unused to Bond going silent for any length of time.
"007."
"What?"
"Let me see your UIEEI ID," Bond demanded suddenly, bolting upright and getting that excited-kid grin again. James grumbled, but rolled over enough to free his wallet and hand over the bit of laminated oaktag. "I knew it! It's because we used the same form - look, we've got the same number. James. Bond. Double-oh-seven. Christ goddamn, we are amazing. Also, you look incredibly pissy in this picture, fucking hell."
"I do not," James protested automatically, sitting up and swiping for his card. Bond held it out of reach, grinning.
"You do too. Just look at yourself."
"Do not." James glared at him, making exactly the same face as in the mugshot.
Bond dissolved into laughter, and James smacked at the nearest leg. "Hey! See, I knew it would only be a matter of time before you were devolving into playing rough again - "
James pulled back his arm in a mock threat, but before the conversation could continue, Sinatra's voice was interrupted by a woman speaking over the PA.
"Bond, James, please come in. Repeat, Bond, James, please come in. Over."
"What the hell?"
James was already getting to his feet. "The communications systems are hard-wired into the speakers. Somebody's radioing us."
"It's not somebody, it's Lotta," said Bond. "It's not like she doesn't have a pretty distinctive voice, you know." He was out of his chair and at the radio station in the Control Room before James, even though the Engineer had been quicker to react. "Wait, how do I work this?"
James nudged him out of the way and leaned over a panel at the computer bank, holding a button down and speaking into a large chrome-mesh microphone. "This is James, we read you. Over."
"I want to talk," Bond protested rather petulantly, and got himself in place at the microphone during the brief pause while the radio waves travelled to earth and Lotta's reply made its way back up to orbit.
"I am very sorry to interrupt, but are you free this evening? Over."
Bond checked his watch for the first time in days. The current time in Las Vegas didn't matter much on the moon, after all. He shot a look at James, who checked his own watch, glanced toward the teleporter room, and shrugged ruefully. "Well, it does mean taking a break from our vacation, but I wouldn't want to turn down a lady's invitation. Are you at HQ? Over."
Three second's pause again, and James sighed. "I was almost done with that needle."
"Yes, and I have a friend I would like you to meet. He has things to discuss. Over."
Bond laughed and tried to sound hurt. "A beautiful woman interrupts our time off to make a date, and she wants to bring some guy along with her. Lotta, you're breaking my heart."
A pause, and James leant over to hit the button. "Over." He let go of the button and rolled his eyes at Bond. "You have no idea how to use a radio."
"Right, because I've had to have so much experience in that before," he protested, but cut himself off when Lotta's voice came back in, sparkling with her own repressed laughter.
"Ah, bambino, you know I always have a place for you. Do not be hurt. You will be there? The Cloak and Dagger, nine o'clock. Over."
"We'll be there. ... Over." An indignant waggle of the eyebrows at James, met with another roll of the eyes.
"Si, roger that. Over and out."
"Did you seriously just say 'roger that'?" But the connection was dead, and Sinatra was singing again. "She seriously just said 'roger that.' I can't believe it."
James just rolled his eyes again and headed toward the lavish bedroom that had once been a supervillain's. "So much for taking a break. You'd better pack your own shit, you're too picky about how you fold your shirts for me to even touch it."
Bond trotted after him. "You're always wrecking your collars. You have no regard for the proper care and feeding of fine tailoring. Besides, don't feel too bad about cutting it short. We were almost out of strawberries anyway."
James paused and exchanged knowing smirks with his partner before getting back to the business of packing. Bond was already excited, and they didn't even know for certain that an adventure was ahead.
But then, with Bond, an adventure was always ahead.
Part 3: You Only Die Once
Chapter 1
1600 words
An orange card, printed with "Do Not Disturb" and a stylized graphic of a masked figure holding a finger to his lips, hung from the doorknob to HQ Casino Hotel room 1402. The maid wheeled her squeaky-wheeled housekeeping cart past it as she had done for the past two weeks, with nothing more than a slight press of her lips at the thought of how slovenly the interior must be getting by now.
Inside the room, however, her assumptions were mostly incorrect. True, there were papers, two ashtrays and a few empty glasses scattered across the top of the drafting table, but housekeeping was under strict orders never to touch that particular piece of furniture anyway; the bed was unmade, and a single tie lay lank and limp upon the carpet where it had been discarded at the time the bed was rumpled; but everything else was neat, and the only other things which appeared slightly out-of-place were a pair of unpainted teleporters, one entrance and one exit, spinning in idle mode on opposite edges of the room.
The corresponding pair of teleporters was currently deployed in a small open room connecting the Control Room, with its array of softly-beeping, gently-whirring cabinet-sized computers, and the Observation Lounge, with its great glass dome of a ceiling through which the earth could be seen beyond the cratered curve of the moon's horizon.
This was James and Bond's moonbase.
With the ejection of the previous owner had come a few minor adjustments, to make the place more comfortable for their vacation. For example, one of the computers in the Control Room had a 33-rpm record forced onto a spindle originally meant for a magnetic-tape reel, and a bit of rather roughly-done duct-taping and wiring, along with the improvised application of a bit of lock-picking equipment to serve as a needle, allowed the sound of Frank Sinatra's voice to filter, somewhat tinnily, through the base's public address system. "Fly Me to the Moon" was on at the moment, appropriately enough, echoing against the steel and glass surfaces that filled the lair.
Bond was humming along with it from his carefully-arranged sprawl half-in one of the white plastic egg chairs in the Observation Lounge, while he worked on a dry martini and poked idly through his wallet in search of something interesting to think about.
James was sprawled out on the white flokati rug near his feet, his latest tinkering project (a better-designed replacement needle for the makeshift hi-fi) set aside for once. Bond had almost given up on teasing him about finding work to do on his vacation; Engineers, it seemed, were incapable of anything other than a busman's holiday (he would, and had, explained himself that the little projects were the holiday; something unimportant and mindless that would leave him with a working item and a sense of accomplishment - but Bond was as likely to understand that mindset as James was to understand Spy Logic), but occasionally he did stop working for a few minutes even without Bond's purposeful distraction.
The Spy thumbed through a small store of paper money from the various countries they'd travelled through recently, past the driver's license dated 40 years in the future and the green card even further out of date and the similarly-aged UIEEI License to Kill... "I really need to clean out my wallet. I don't need any of this stuff anymore. Just watch me get pulled over for speeding with a back pocket stuffed with anachronisms."
"I emptied mine out the first night," said James, so mildly that Bond shot him a glance to see if he were being passive-aggressively judgmental about it or something. The Engineer caught the look and shrugged as much as he could while lying on his back with his hands behind his head. "I had too much other shit to carry and not enough pockets without my workbelt."
"Yeah, well," said Bond. "I didn't want to leave my intel lying around or something." He flipped back to the front of his wallet, where his current License to Kill was stowed behind a plastic window, and studied it as if for the first time. He never really had looked at it after he got it; it worked to get him his perks as a Spy, and that was all that mattered. "I am a damn good-looking bastard," he observed, angling the wallet so the glare from the overhead lights stopped obscuring his photograph. "And - huh." The license number was just above the picture. He'd known he'd be getting a new one; his old one was 3675H95 (you're damn right he had it memorized; it had to be entered in three spots on every application for a contract transfer, and he'd transferred a lot when he was still in briefcase work), and with 50 years difference they were probably using shorter numbers back here, but this - this was just amazing.
But obvious, in retrospect.
"What?" asked James, unused to Bond going silent for any length of time.
"007."
"What?"
"Let me see your UIEEI ID," Bond demanded suddenly, bolting upright and getting that excited-kid grin again. James grumbled, but rolled over enough to free his wallet and hand over the bit of laminated oaktag. "I knew it! It's because we used the same form - look, we've got the same number. James. Bond. Double-oh-seven. Christ goddamn, we are amazing. Also, you look incredibly pissy in this picture, fucking hell."
"I do not," James protested automatically, sitting up and swiping for his card. Bond held it out of reach, grinning.
"You do too. Just look at yourself."
"Do not." James glared at him, making exactly the same face as in the mugshot.
Bond dissolved into laughter, and James smacked at the nearest leg. "Hey! See, I knew it would only be a matter of time before you were devolving into playing rough again - "
James pulled back his arm in a mock threat, but before the conversation could continue, Sinatra's voice was interrupted by a woman speaking over the PA.
"Bond, James, please come in. Repeat, Bond, James, please come in. Over."
"What the hell?"
James was already getting to his feet. "The communications systems are hard-wired into the speakers. Somebody's radioing us."
"It's not somebody, it's Lotta," said Bond. "It's not like she doesn't have a pretty distinctive voice, you know." He was out of his chair and at the radio station in the Control Room before James, even though the Engineer had been quicker to react. "Wait, how do I work this?"
James nudged him out of the way and leaned over a panel at the computer bank, holding a button down and speaking into a large chrome-mesh microphone. "This is James, we read you. Over."
"I want to talk," Bond protested rather petulantly, and got himself in place at the microphone during the brief pause while the radio waves travelled to earth and Lotta's reply made its way back up to orbit.
"I am very sorry to interrupt, but are you free this evening? Over."
Bond checked his watch for the first time in days. The current time in Las Vegas didn't matter much on the moon, after all. He shot a look at James, who checked his own watch, glanced toward the teleporter room, and shrugged ruefully. "Well, it does mean taking a break from our vacation, but I wouldn't want to turn down a lady's invitation. Are you at HQ? Over."
Three second's pause again, and James sighed. "I was almost done with that needle."
"Yes, and I have a friend I would like you to meet. He has things to discuss. Over."
Bond laughed and tried to sound hurt. "A beautiful woman interrupts our time off to make a date, and she wants to bring some guy along with her. Lotta, you're breaking my heart."
A pause, and James leant over to hit the button. "Over." He let go of the button and rolled his eyes at Bond. "You have no idea how to use a radio."
"Right, because I've had to have so much experience in that before," he protested, but cut himself off when Lotta's voice came back in, sparkling with her own repressed laughter.
"Ah, bambino, you know I always have a place for you. Do not be hurt. You will be there? The Cloak and Dagger, nine o'clock. Over."
"We'll be there. ... Over." An indignant waggle of the eyebrows at James, met with another roll of the eyes.
"Si, roger that. Over and out."
"Did you seriously just say 'roger that'?" But the connection was dead, and Sinatra was singing again. "She seriously just said 'roger that.' I can't believe it."
James just rolled his eyes again and headed toward the lavish bedroom that had once been a supervillain's. "So much for taking a break. You'd better pack your own shit, you're too picky about how you fold your shirts for me to even touch it."
Bond trotted after him. "You're always wrecking your collars. You have no regard for the proper care and feeding of fine tailoring. Besides, don't feel too bad about cutting it short. We were almost out of strawberries anyway."
James paused and exchanged knowing smirks with his partner before getting back to the business of packing. Bond was already excited, and they didn't even know for certain that an adventure was ahead.
But then, with Bond, an adventure was always ahead.
