BOULDER, CO

10 NOV 2011, 18:30 MST

“Please don’t splash any more of our planes,” sighed General Shepard.  “Can you just deal with the missiles if they launch?”

“Only because you asked nicely.  This is getting tiresome,” grumbled Duncan.

A few seconds later, two missiles lanced out toward them, one from each fighter.  Out of curiosity, Duncan raced upward, and saw that the missiles changed course to match.  “Credit to your engineers, their mage-seeker works well.”

They tested a quick blink next, jumping a kilometer west.  That put them over a much less inhabited area, and closer to the largely deserted hills.  The missiles banked toward them, so Duncan led the missiles a merry chase into the hills, finding a nice rocky outcrop to aim them toward.  Just before the missiles would impact, Duncan blinked away, and a half-second forward in time.

They watched the explosion, studying the effect of the death magic, silver, and other assorted nasties.   “Pretty,” decided Donna after a few seconds.  The various additives had lent all kinds of colours to the explosion, spraying out like fireworks.

“But it would have been distinctly unhealthy to be at ground zero,” chimed in Dia.

“Surely not worse than the nuke?” asked Donna.

“It would have hurt more, unless we’d put up heavy shielding,” mused Duncan.  “That was a lot of death magic.”

“Two more missiles inbound.”

The same trick dealt with those as well.  The fighters had no more mage-killers, so they turned away.  Duncan glowered at them as they left, and the engine of one started to smoke.  “Whoops.  Still there, General?”

“Yes.  No harm done, I hope?”

“Only to my temper.  Have you figured out how this new mess happened?”

The General sighed.  “They’re from Peterson.  Notionally under my command, but I did not order them to attack you.  Nor was I aware of the existence of magic-homing missiles.  Apparently we have a modest inventory of such, and someone ordered the combat air patrol armed with them for tonight.  I can’t imagine why...”  The last was laced with sarcasm.

“Yeah, yeah, it seems everyone wants a piece of me.  At least this shot didn’t take out any civilians.  Who ordered the shot?”

“Well... that’s the problem.  They tracked you like we did, since you seemed like a threat.  When they got in range they called in for confirmation on the shot.  And on the record, it sounds like I authorized them to take the shot.  I assure you, I did no such thing.”

Duncan sighed.  “Great.  How’d they fake your voice?”

“We’re working on that now.  Probably a recording, it’s not like I don’t say ‘permission granted’ fairly regularly.”

“That seems like a really big security problem.  You might want to get on that.”

“Duly noted.”

Duncan sent one last glare toward the fighters.  The one with the smoking engine was still smoking, but appeared likely to make it back to base.  “Too many distractions tonight,” he muttered as they headed back toward Walt’s hideaway.

“Tell me about it,” chirped Gwen.  “The Crimson Kitten’s busier than I’ve ever seen it before, and no Donna here for the Donna Specials.”

“Aww,” pouted Donna.  “What’d I miss?”

“Your kitsune friend came in, and told me of all the good deeds she’d been doing, so I gave her another tail.”

“Eeee, good for her.  What sort of stuff did she do?”

“Basic stuff, volunteering at one of the local food banks.  She’s working on a fundraising drive for them, and I might have offered her another tail if she makes her goal.”

“Good, good.  She’s a sweetie, and deserves good things.  Any other fun things?”

“A couple of boob jobs, one temporary body swap, and a ‘can you keep my husband from snoring all night’.”

“Oooh, tricky.  What’d you do?”

Gwen giggled.  “Gave her a remote that could turn him into a pillow.  It’ll only work for a few days.”

“Thanks.  Sounds like you’re having a way better night than I am.  Hey, you might enjoy this though.  Can you see what we see?”

“Oooh, pretty.  That’s... an awful lot of spells.  Pretty sure going in the front way isn’t going to work.  What’s that little shadowed spot in behind?”

The triumvirate flew around behind Walt’s place.  “Looks like a little stone outbuilding.  Sturdy steel door.   No magic?  How odd...”

The lock was fiendishly complex, beyond anything they’d ever seen.  “I’m not sure that’s actually a lock at all,” groused Donna after their dozenth attempt failed to produce any movement at all.  A moment later the door opened thanks to using a bit of hardened air to push on the inside knob.

Inside, a series of lights came on to illuminate a stone stairway heading down.  Curious, they followed it to another steel door, identical to the first.  This one opened on silent hinges as they approached.

“Trap?” asked Duncan.

“Trap,” agreed Donna and Dia.  A moment later, Gwen concurred.

They peered through the doorway without entering, when a sudden push shoved them inside.  The door closed with a clang, leaving them in a square stone room, ten feet on a side.  Each wall had an identical door in it.

Duncan cursed.  “Silver lined.  We’re cut off.”

Several moments later they heard Gwen’s voice through their link.  “Are you okay?”

“Give me a moment.”  Duncan sent a low-power laser at the doorway, but it reflected off.  “Shielded.  We seem to be quite stuck.”

“Welcome!” boomed a voice Duncan found familiar.  He’d heard it many times before as a child, watching the Wonderful World of Disney.  “Are you friend or foe?”

“Friend,” replied Duncan promptly.

“Proceed, friend.”

The door in front of them opened.  Seeing nothing better to do, Duncan stepped forward into an identical room.  This one, however, had a colorful figure within.  Mickey Mouse, in full regalia as the Sorcerer’s Apprentice.

Duncan chuckled.  “How appropriate.”

The statue animated and smiled at him.  “Thank you.  To proceed, you must answer me these questions three.”

“And if we fail?”

“Doom.”

Duncan narrowed his eyes.  “This seems familiar.  Ask your questions.”

“What is your name?”

They hesitated a moment.  “Dia, Donna and Duncan Faulkner.”

Mickey peered at them curiously.  “Interesting.  What is your quest?”

“We seek information on the Worldstone.”

“Oh!  Well, you have come to the right place for that, indeed.  But before you pass, you must answer one final question.”

“Yes?”

“What... is the airspeed of an unladen swallow?”

“African or European swallow?” asked Duncan in reply.  “Are we really doing this bit?”

“Nah.  Go ahead.”  The door behind Mickey swung open silently.

“May I ask you a question?”

Mickey nodded.  “That only seems fair.”

“What would have happened to us if we failed?”

Mickey grinned at them impishly.  “Nothing.  But you would not have reached the next room.”

“Whew.  This place feels a little like a trap.”

Mickey shrugged.  They progressed through the door, and as it closed Mickey added, “that room is the trap.”

Duncan cursed and darted for the door, but it shut before they could escape.  “Damn it.  Gwen?”

There was no answer.