Not even the near-collapse of the Union could drive holidaymakers from the streets of London. The city had always drawn visitors from the world over, and they still frequented the more orderly parts of the capital. Oxford Street still rang with the bustle of consumers, whilst the Strand and the Mall continued to draw crowds of gawkers, come to pay tribute to Admiral Nelson or take a walk along the Mall. The Tower sat on the edge of the ‘secure’ part of the city, but it still drew in tens of thousands of visitors each day. Their routes were more restricted, the White Tower having been given over to the City’s defence, and to enter the castle they had to navigate a checkpoint of metal detectors and armed police officers. They came to see the Tower’s main attraction, the Crown Jewels of innumerable Kings and Queens, but more and more preferred to turn their eyes skyward and hope for a glimpse of the city’s defenders.

Alexander had expected to navigate his way through these teeming crowds, but as the Tower loomed above him, he was struck by just how empty it seemed. The perimeter had been expanded by the army, and unformed soldiers patrolled the walls in greater numbers than he had ever seen. A steady stream of tourists were turned away from the entrance by exasperated officers, and the well-wishers of the world were limited to gazing at the tower from behind its moat. A steady stream of vehicles in Army green or Police white passed in and out of the new perimeter, and helicopters circled overhead.

None of these measures could bar Alexander’s path, as he clambered over the prefabricated fence to avoid the metal detectors. He was still invisible, and he moved through the security forces like a ghost. As he passed by small groups of soldiers and officers, he caught details of their private conversations. The soldiers were in a state of agitation; they had been unnerved by yesterday’s attack, and they were taken aback by the sudden flurry of activity. The tower had remained open throughout worse attacks further out in the city, and the rumour mill spoke of some significant development taking place at the tower.

Most of this speculation was useless, and Alexander simply accepted many of the theories as the product of the exaggerated game of Chinese whispers that every private soldier played. He moved past these guards, determined to see how far he could take his abilities. The Tower of London had been an impregnable fortress for centuries, and part of Alexander took pleasure in defeating such a fortress. The evidence of this fabled impregnability was clear to see as he walked up the avenue that ran beneath the inner curtain wall. Every wall was manned, and each tower held surface-to-air missile sites. A light tank had been parked atop the hill, and the small road thronged with armed figures.

His ghostly walk brought him past a small jetty, built behind an imposing gatehouse that sat over a water gate. The heavy wooden doors were locked and secured by modern metals, but Alexander was drawn to it nevertheless. This was Traitor’s Gate, where the enemies of the Kingdom were brought when they passed into the Tower. Innumerable traitors had passed through this gate, but the historical significance mattered little to Alexander. For a hundred years the road that ran along the river had blocked access to the tower but, in the orgy of bloodshed that followed the Gunpowder Plot, the road had been blasted so that a final captive could be brought through the notorious archway. Fawkes had been borne through Traitor’s gate by a police launch, dragged to the base of the White Tower, and summarily executed by a firing squad. No Londoner who visited the Tower could pass this spot without being moved.

It took the rumble of a truck to bring Alexander out of his reverie, and he quickly stepped aside to avoid the tons of metal that drove past him on his way out. He was fairly confident that the driver would stop, but that wasn’t something he wanted to check. As he turned to continue his ascent, he caught a glimpse of the truck’s cargo; two rows of soldiers sitting on benches, their rifles gripped in their hands. With a last slip past a final checkpoint, Alexander stepped out into the Tower’s main courtyard, the White Tower looming overhead.

This was the home to London’s defenders, human and superhuman, a central hub in a fortified position that can project power across the entire metropolitan area. The various police forces and army brigades each maintained their own, smaller, fortresses and headquarters but it was here that General MacAllister set up his headquarters, and it was here that all the disparate agencies and organisations coordinated their efforts into a cohesive strategy. Amidst the chaos of the Gunpowder Plot, the stone walls of the tower provided shelter to the desperate defenders of the city. It was here that a rag-tag collection of military forces, superhero teams, police officers and civilian volunteers had formed to push back against the roving bands of anarchists and traitors. The Tower of London had been the centre of that desperate resistance, and so it stayed the centre of the City’s defence.

At present the entrance to the tower was guarded by two Yeoman Warders in their black and red uniforms, aided by a small group from the Military Provost Guards Service. Normally their job would be to turn back overeager tourists, and watch the crowds for threats, but the crowds had gone, and instead the Tower’s guards stood in idle conversation as Alexander skirted past them. Inside, the walls of the White Tower retained their original fixtures, interspersed with obviously modern computers and displays. Offices had been built in and around the rooms of the Old Tower, but a quick glance at the new-looking lift revealed that an additional eight floors had been built beneath the building. It seems that William the Conqueror’s keep was little more than a distraction, while the real fortress lay underground.

Alexander did not take the lift, he feared that people would notice if it began to move of its own volition, instead heading down the flight of stairs, conveniently marked so as to comply with fire safety regulations. The under-fortress, for want of a better name, was built like bunker should be, with bare concrete walls, pipes and wires running along the ceiling, and long rows of steel doors. Officers in crisp khaki, white and black Police uniforms or the blue of the Royal Air Force moved in and out of these rooms and as they passed each door Alexander saw banks of advanced machinery, holographic displays and great maps of the city illuminated with troop movements. The under-fortress had the familiar bustling sounds of a busy office, reminding Alexander of simpler times.

On the lowest floor Alexander found a short exit tunnel that led to a concealed underground station, marked with the distinctive red and blue roundel of the tube. As he watched, an underground train two cars long pulled into the station, and a cluster of figures left the opening doors. Unlike the occupants of the tower, most of these figures wore suits. Only two of them wore uniforms, and both were known to Alexander. The first, a short woman whose black uniform bore red check and gold trimmings, was Angela Scanton, Commissioner of the City of London Police while the second, a man of average height in the uniform of the Metroplolitan Police, was Sir Andrew Lanfield, commissioner of that force.

As before, this crowd simply flowed around Alexander as if he wasn’t there and he turned himself to follow them. It wasn’t everyday that someone got a chance to eavesdrop on two of the city’s most powerful figures, and he was determined to make the most of the opportunity. The gaggle of senior officials moved through the under-fortress as the bunker’s staff pressed themselves against the walls to make way. The uniformed soldiers offered salutes to the two police officers, who responded with a half-hearted effort that spoke of their inexperience with martial traditions. Eventually they filed into a large conference room in which a suited man with thinning grey hair was already sitting. He was unknown to Alexander, but he rose to greet the two police chiefs with a friendly handshake. Once the group was seated, the stocky Scottish figure of General Macalister strode into the room, the seated dignitaries rising as he entered.

‘Sit back down, this isn’t the time for formality.’

His accent was thick and, as he spoke, he took his seat at the head of the table. An aide moved around the room, giving each seated person a small folder of assorted papers. Alexander positioned himself over the City’s Commissioner’s shoulder, reading his notes without fear of being noticed.

‘It should be blindingly obvious why you’re all here. Someone’s played us for fools, and I don’t intend to let them get away with it.’

The folders were opened to reveal photographs of familiar faces. Bodies scattered across the floor of a London law firm, each a friend and colleague.

‘What you may not know,’ the General continued, ‘is that this attack was matched by simultaneous attacks in Lisbon, Dublin, New York and Chicago.’

‘That rules out the RIRA.’ Lanfield spoke up, his hand stroking his chin in contemplation.

‘Exactly. GCHQ intercepted a communication between their leadership and the Irish government disavowing responsibility. The American ambassador has told us they’ve received a similar message.’

‘Then why the green uniforms?’ Scanton questioned, ‘Why the shouts of Tír na nÓg?’

‘Unknown at this time,’ One of the suits, a weaselly man unknown to both Alexander and, apparently, the others as well.

‘Might I introduce the esteemed representative of the Security Service.’ Macalister interrupted.

This agent of MI5 didn’t introduce himself, instead opening his folder to a report marked Top Secret.

‘You each have a copy of our preliminary background investigation. Of the bodies found, only four were known to us as risks. One Islamist, two Anarchists and a member of the British Union of Fascists. The remainder were a seemingly random collection of citizens. Many gang affiliations, but that’s the rule rather than the exception nowadays. Our current working theory is mind control.’

Instantly the mood changed as the assembled experts groaned or quietly swore under their breath.

‘The testimony of the SAS strike team supports the presence of a superhuman threat. A grey skinned woman who flew across the battlefield and dissolved into ash when killed. According to the commandos, she was immune to gunfire but dissolved into ash when stabbed with a length of broken metal.’

This last statement was delivered with a touch of sarcasm, and Macalister immediately spoke up.

‘The testimony of my soldiers is beyond question, officer. These men are not prone to exaggeration.’

‘As you say sir,’ the agent spoke, though he did not sound reproached, ‘but if this new villain does have telepathic abilities then they could have been influenced to see their bullets having no effect. What concerns me, however, is the report from our Belfast office, and intelligence shared by the FBI, that their attacks were also led by a grey skinned, ethereal figure. The attacker in Lisbon was male, but exhibited exactly the same abilities as our woman and the two attackers in America.’

His words were met with silence, until it was broken by the man who had been seated in the room from the start.

‘Someone’s finally done it.’ His voice was soft, but his tone was grave. ‘Someone’s figured out how to mass produce them.’

‘Are you sure, Director? It could be a family with similar abilities.’ Lanfield interrupted the mysterious figure, who only scoffed in response.

‘There’s no genetic component to their abilities. The idea that powers can be inherited hasn’t been corroborated, and for four people to manifest exactly the same symptoms is statistically impossible.’

‘It’s worse than that,’ the agent interrupted, ‘these four were essentially suicide bombers. They went in and caused as much damage as they could before they died. Whoever sent them clearly saw them as expendable, which means they have more. A great deal more. It’s too early to speculate as to who’s pulling the strings, but my organisation intends to find out and we’re running through the list of usual suspects, while the SIS does the same overseas.’

‘You think it’s the Warsaw Pact?’ Macalister butted in.

‘Too early to tell, sir.

Macalister sat in silence for a moment, surveying the assembled professionals, before speaking again.

‘This is bad, ladies and gentlemen. This attack took place on our doorstep, in the heart of the city. The Lord Protector himself has charged us with clearing this mess up before 2016. He wants the return of Parliamentary Government, and I agree with him. It isn’t natural for the army to be deployed on British streets, and it isn’t acceptable for us to expect the Commonwealth to pick up our NATO missions indefinitely. I don’t belong here, and the sooner I can return to some forest in West Germany the better.’

‘Attacks like this make a mockery of our efforts, and they only delay my departure. The people will expect action, but we don’t even know who our enemy is.’ He turned to the two police commissioners. ‘Step up aerial patrols, beg the RAF for surveillance squadrons if you need to. We need to be able to react in an instant if this happens again. I will be tasking my division with increasing our patrols into the hostile areas.’

The MI5 agent was now fixed in a steely glare. ‘We’ll knock over a few gangs, that should tide people over while your organisation finds out who’s responsible. Director Fielding, I have asked the Knights of the Round Table to deploy to the city. Coordinate your team’s efforts with theirs or at least stop them getting into pointless pissing matches. I don’t need to remind you of what we risk if we fail. Dismissed.’

People rose from the conference table, breaking apart into small pairs or clusters, before heading out into the bunker’s corridors. Most made for the secret underground station but Director Fielding, who Alexander presumed must be the handler assigned to the Bow Street Runners, made his way up to some of the higher floors. Alexander chose to follow him, out of curiosity and practicality. The lift brought the director and his unseen stalker to the sixth floor and as the director made a beeline for his office, Alexander chose to simply wander the halls. This section of the under-fortress was not as neat as the other levels, the military uniformity having been replaced by a collection of randomly sized rooms ranging from small sleeping quarters to an immense hall that must have carved chunks of the fourth and fifth floors.

Inside this hall, at the end of a makeshift firing range, had been placed a few slabs of concrete, wood and pig carcasses hung from hooks. The recognisable ragged form of the Plague Doctor stood ten metres back from these targets. His trademark mask rested on a table to his side that was littered with dozens of vials of strange liquids. Alexander watched unseen as he took up one vial and hurled it at the concrete. As the glass shattered, the concrete disintegrated in a titanic explosion that scattered chunks against the far wall. He repeated this process with dozens of vials that burst, burned or melted the targets. Some worked only on concrete, whilst others melted the wood but left the carcass intact. One horrifying concoction melted the carcass in an instant, and with an approving look in his eyes the Plague Doctor jotted a few notes in a leather-bound notebook before continuing.

In another room he saw the Raven running along a treadmill. He only recognised the man because, like many of the Runners, he wore no mask. His renaissance garb was gone, replaced by garishly coloured fluorescent sports shorts, and a t-shirt that bore some pithy joke. In another corner Feirefiz was lifting weights, his crystalline armour bulging and flexing like muscles as he raised a staggering amount of metal over his head. Alexander felt rather invasive, and a little intimidated, and he left the two demigods to their exercise.

Much of the remaining rooms were empty, save a few accommodation blocks and what was, if the smell was any judge, obviously Plague Doctor’s laboratory. The sixth floor was not what he had expected from the home of a Superhero team. There was none of the advanced technology or sleek white walls that dominated television shows. Indeed, these walls were made of the same rough concrete as the rest of the under-fortress. It must have been built in a rush after the Gunpowder Plot, when the Runner’s became another arm of the security forces.

His thoughts were interrupted as a familiar woman rounded the corner, dressed in a far more modest hoodie and leggings. Morgan the Fay stopped in her tracks as she saw Alexander, and his heart leapt when he realised that she could see him. They stared at each other in awkward silence, neither willing to be the first to speak, until Morgan offered a few hesitant words.

‘Are you alive?’