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  NIKOLAI DANTE

  HONOUR BE DAMNED!

  2673 AD: Russian outlaw and all-round daring rake Nikolai Dante is summoned to Britannia by crazy King Henry who believes assassins lurk round every corner. For once the king is proved right as one of the Royal Family's most beloved members is brutally slaughtered. But it is Dante and his sidekicks who get blamed for the bloody murder.

  The Russian rogue escapes but his friends are taken to the Tower of London, awaiting execution for a crime that - for once - they didn't commit. Britannia's borders are sealed and Dante becomes public enemy number one, a stranger in a strange land with only five days to find the real killers. To make matters worse he is stalked by DNA-sniffing sadists, every bounty hunter in the country, and Britannia intelligence's deadliest operative, the secret agent codenamed Goodnight. Britannia may rule the waves, but Dante waives the rules in this riotous romp!

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  For John Tomlinson, who first commissioned Dante.

  Nikolai Dante created by Robbie Morrison and Simon Fraser.

  A 2000 AD Publication

  www.abaddonbooks.com

  www.2000adonline.com

  1098 7 65 4321

  Cover illustration by Simon Fraser.

  Copyright © 2006 Rebellion A/S. All rights reserved.

  All 2000 AD characters and logos © and TM Rebellion A/S."Nikolai Dante" is a trademark in the United States and other jurisdictions."2000 AD" is a registered trademark in certain jurisdictions. All rights reserved. Used under licence.

  ISBN(.epub): 978-1-84997-064-8

  ISBN(.mobi): 978-1-84997-105-8

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  NIKOLAI DANTE

  HONOUR BE DAMNED!

  David Bishop

  ONE

  "Laws are not written for the lawless."

  - Russian proverb

  "2673 AD: King Henry Windsor McKray continues to enjoy his status as ruler of Britannia, despite openly supporting the Romanovs during their doomed revolt against Tsar Vladimir Makarov. It is the first time in Imperial history a monarch has retained powered by pleading insanity. King Henry remains popular among the majority of his people, but the ruling upper class consider his eccentric behaviour a grave embarrassment. They would much rather his daughter Princess Marie-Anne Britannia took charge, but she is still a prisoner in the Tower of London after being found guilty of conspiring against her father.

  The princess has sworn to avenge herself against Russian rogue Nikolai Dante, who supplied the evidence leading to her incarceration. Meanwhile Britannia remains a nation divided, its parliament stuck in a mire of political manoeuvring, scandal, sleaze and corruption. Some would say it was ever thus. The most popular member of the royal family was the Queen Mother, Barbara 'Babs' Windsor McKay. Her title stemmed from the fact she had been queen before Henry was born, but also acknowledged that she was mother of the current monarch. To confuse matters further, she looked younger than her son, thanks to the remarkable effects of ingesting royal jelly..."

  - Editorial commentary from The Imperial Times

  It was one of those days when it seemed to Nikolai Dante that all life, as someone put it, was nothing but a heap of six to four against.

  Dante prided himself on being a gambling man. He was prone to taking on impossible odds and winning through, escaping almost certain death to emerge smiling from the other side of any adventure fate might throw in his path. But diving from a stained glass window on the Palace of London's tenth floor without bothering to look first was pushing even his legendary good luck to its limits and beyond. If he had any doubts about this, the disapprovingly patrician voice inside his mind had little hesitation in confirming it.

  Dante, when I said evasive action, I did not think even you would be so foolish as to jump to your own death to avoid an assassin's bullet!

  "I was improvising," Dante replied as he plummeted toward the stone courtyard below.

  That much was obvious. The voice belonged to the Weapons Crest, a sentient battle-computer bonded to Dante's DNA. This remarkable piece of alien technology was created to train its genetic host as a potential ruler of the Empire. My presence may significantly enhance your body's natural healing abilities, the Crest observed, but even I cannot resurrect the dead. Seven seconds to impact, by the way.

  "At least I'm still alive!"

  Only for another five seconds.

  "Shut up, I'm trying to concentrate." Dante could see a row of flagpoles that protruded from the building below. The palace whistled past his face as he twisted in the air, trying to get close enough to grab one of the poles. Miss these and he would be a red smear in-

  Three seconds.

  "I said shut up!" His flailing hands missed the nearest pole, but got hold of the rectangular flag hanging beneath it. Dante's body jerked to a halt, the sudden deceleration nearly wrenching his arms from their sockets. "Gahhhh!" He hung grimly to the royal standard, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as the bitter taste of adrenaline filled his mouth.

  Gahhh? Not quite what I'd call famous last words, the Crest commented dryly.

  "Why... W-Why should they be... famous last words?"

  The flag to which you're so gratefully clinging was not designed for such violent use. I estimate the fabric will tear itself free at any moment...

  Dante looked up in time to see the material ripping apart. He tried to grab hold of the flagpole, but that only accelerated the disintegration.

  ...now, the Crest concluded as Dante resumed his rapid descent.

  "Bojemoi!"

  Mildred Barnstaple despised tourist
s. For thirty-seven years she had been a guide at the Palace of London, welcoming visitors to its grand halls and galleries, politely answering questions, aiding the helpless, the hopeless and the hapless. But never once in all that time had one of these ungrateful wretches thought to say thank you. An only child, both of Mildred's parents had died in a freak zeppelin accident over Walthamstow when she was twenty. The resulting inheritance had ensured she never need work, but left the young woman with a lifetime to occupy. A quiet passion for the beauties of the past led Mildred to the Britannia Heritage Society, a voluntary organisation striving to preserve the country's finest historic buildings. Since then she had more than done her bit - baking cakes, organising whist drives and running raffles. To her eternal shame, Mildred had even agreed to pose for a nude calendar. The results had proved an underwhelming failure and so Mildred had returned to her post by the green velvet canopy outside the Palace of London's entrance, wishing something exciting would happen.

  "Look out below!" a voice screamed from the heavens. A man was plummeting towards the canopy, his arms and legs flailing violently as if he were trying to fly. Mildred took an involuntary step back and tumbled over, her eyes still fixed on the bizarre descent. The man fell on the taut green canopy, which bounced him towards Mildred. The man landed with a heavy thump, his face burying itself into Mildred's crotch.

  "Oh my word!" she shrieked, suddenly aware of hot, masculine breath warming her in a way she hadn't experienced for at least a decade. At first she was shocked, then affronted and soon rather excited.

  Mildred craned her neck forward to study the manly windfall positioned between her legs. He was around thirty in age, with a taut, athletic figure and shapely buttocks. Skin-tight grey trousers clung to his thighs before disappearing inside a pair of supple brown leather riding boots, while a crimson jacket with golden braid hugged his back. He had a thick mane of black hair, but his face remained hidden. Mildred felt her inner thighs being tickled by his beard. "I say," she sighed happily and clenched her legs together.

  It took Dante more than a minute to prise apart the thighs holding his head captive. When he succeeded, a soft moan of disappointment issued from the middle-aged woman who had cushioned his impact. Dante scrambled to his feet, grinning sheepishly at her. "Normally I don't like to leave a lady unsatisfied, but my presence is required elsewhere - sorry!" He noticed a line of hover-taxis waiting on a nearby rank and waved at the first one.

  "Take me with you!" the woman pleaded.

  "Not today." Dante made a run for it, diving into the black cab. "But thanks for the soft landing!"

  The taxi sped into the sky. "Can you take me to Nelson's Column?" he asked the driver.

  "No problem, guv," a surly voice replied. "They've just finished rebuilding it after what happened during the war. Bloody disgrace it was."

  "That's where the assassin fired from," Dante muttered darkly. "Take me there!"

  Are you sure this is wise? the Crest enquired. If the sniper was trying to kill you, getting closer only makes you a bigger target.

  "I don't think they were shooting at me."

  "You talking to me?" the driver asked.

  "King Henry suspected someone was planning to kill him," Dante continued, ignoring the cabbie. "Princess Marie-Anne can't wait to take his place on the throne. She must have hired an assassin to speed up the process."

  "What you muttering about back there?" the driver demanded. "You got something to do with what happened at the palace? They was talking about it on the news - some kind of shooting."

  "I was with the king when he was hurt," Dante admitted.

  "Why'd you do it?"

  "I didn't do anything!"

  "What? You stood by and let somebody murder him? That's worse, you bloody coward!" The cabbie twisted round to glare at Dante, not bothering to watch where his hover-taxi was headed. Nelson's Column was looming ahead of them.

  "There were two shots, moments apart," Dante protested. "By the time I reacted, the king was already down, blood everywhere. I saw what direction the shots came from, so I decided to go after the shooter. Now, will you watch where you're going, please?"

  The cabbie lunged over the back of his seat to grab hold of Dante's jacket. "Don't you tell me how to do my job, you bloody foreigner! Look at you, in your fancy clothes! Come over here, telling us how to live our lives. There used to be a British Empire, you know, long before you bloody Russians started sticking your noses in-"

  Dante, this cab is on a collision course with-

  "I know, I know!" he said.

  "I don't care what you know," the driver snarled. "I'm going to teach you a lesson!"

  Dante-

  The assassin was so intent on watching the palace he didn't notice the hover-taxi careering across the sky. The assassin clung to the statue on top of Nelson's Column, one eye closed while the other peered through a high-powered sniper's sight. It was only when a dark shape blurred across the his field of vision that he belatedly realised how imminent danger was. "Bloody hell!" The assassin reached back to pull the ignition toggle on his jetpack but he was too late.

  The hover-taxi smashed nose-first into the column, neatly severing the replica of Nelson from its base. The sundered statue fell on top of the taxi, impaling the vehicle on the specially reinforced column below. The assassin clung on to the statue, but his weapon tumbled to the ground far below. The shooter cursed in frustration; this had not been part of the plan. His client had been quite specific: a single shot, two at most - kill the king and get out of sight without attracting any attention. I doubt this qualifies, the assassin thought ruefully. But when he reached back to fire up his jetpack's twin engines, another hand was already resting on the ignition toggle. "Going somewhere?" a Russian-accented voice asked.

  Not for the first time today, Dante was grateful for the augmentations he gained from being bonded with a Romanov Weapons Crest. Enhanced healing abilities had protected him from a brutal concussion when the hover-cab collided with Nelson's Column. The Crest also gave Dante the ability to extend razor-sharp swords of bio-organic circuitry from his fists. One swipe of these cut a path out of the crushed cab, enabling him to intercept the escaping assassin.

  The two grappled on Nelson's toppled statue, the violence of their struggle threatening to send the golden effigy tumbling from its precarious perch. The assassin was wearing a slate-grey bodysuit and mask that hid everything but their eyes. "Who are you?" Dante demanded to know. "Why did you try to kill the king? Who sent you?"

  The assassin tried to wriggle free, but Dante kept one hand clasped on the jetpack. "I won't let go until you tell me!" he warned. A lithe foot kicked Dante's groin with a sickening thud. He doubled over in pain, his grip loosening involuntarily. The assassin broke free and ran to the other end of the horizontal statue, one hand activating his jetpack. Still wincing, Dante flung himself at the killer as they lifted off. His clasping fingers caught hold of the assassin's flat-soled shoes and clung on. Then the two men were flying across London's twilight sky, the setting sun colouring the horizon in hues of orange and pink.

  A magnificent vista, even if it is probably a localised side effect of air pollution levels.

  "Crest, this is no time to be admiring the view!" Dante snapped. By now the assassin was kicking and thrashing his legs, trying to dislodge his unwanted passenger.

  I fail to see what else I can do. You seem determined to kill yourself today, so I thought it best if I savoured my remaining moments. Sightseeing was the obvious option at this height.

  "Diavolo!" Dante snarled as a knee connected sharply with the side of his head. "You could suggest some ways of bringing this bastard down to earth!"

  I don't think that will be an issue for much longer, the Crest replied.

  "Why not?"

  In your earlier struggle you dislodged the jetpack's fuel line. It's been venting ever since. I doubt there's enough left in the tanks to keep both of you airborne for more than a minute.

  Dante
looked down and realised they were several hundred metres above the ground. If the jetpack cut out now, both of them would fall to an exceedingly unnatural death. He crawled up the assassin's still thrashing legs and yanked the jetpack sideways, sending them into a rapid, spiralling descent. Below, the Thames grew larger as it got nearer. Most of London's greatest attractions had been relocated to a cluster on the river's north bank, making it easier for visitors to savour the best of Britannia. As a result the Houses of Parliament, the Tower of London, Big Ben and New Covent Garden all stood cheek by jowl with each other, competing for tourist roubles.

  The assassin flailed at Dante with both fists, pummelling him repeatedly until his tenacious grip began to loosen. When Dante thought he could hold on no longer, the jetpack's engines began to splutter and cough. Fortunately, they were now less than ten metres above the flower stalls of New Covent Garden. Beneath them a trader was trying to shift a cartload of yellow roses. "Five big bunches for a rouble, guaranteed thorn-free!" she cried out in a gravelly voice. "Get your roses. Show your good lady wife how much you love her!"