Even though he wasn't so very old, it felt like an age since Fields had been to a nightclub. And, even more so, that the fresh-faced kids chattering and laughing in the queue with him and Peregrine should be lining up for the school bus rather than entry to what apparently passed for a wild and crazy time after dark in Bundaberg.

He was also conscious of being overdressed, even though, at Peregrine's urging, he'd taken the reluctant and somewhat radical step of removing his tie. Judging by the amount of flesh on show, the dress standards of the Central Hotel—otherwise known to the locals as the 'Cenny'—leant very much towards the 'casual' end of smart-casual.

He tugged at his collar. "Couldn't we have maybe met up with this woman after she finished work?"

"Nah." Clearly at ease despite an outfit every bit as formal as Fields, Peregrine gave her partner a shoulder-bump (which for him equated to a bicep bump). "Where's the fun in that? No time like the present. Besides, like Crass said, we might even get a chance to see her in action."

Given the contents of their next target's resume were still disturbingly fresh in his mind, Fields really hoped not. Danielle Hau, aka the Spinster, was ex-military, a former commando with a startlingly long and impressive service record for someone of her relative youth. Equipped with a skillset both extensive and lethal, her blossoming career in the martial arts had been cut short by a training exercise gone wrong, resulting in her dismissal from the army for what was delicately termed 'emotional instability'. Although suspiciously sketchy on the details of the accident, the file did document several episodes of this instability, and the associated images had been enough to make Fields never want to see an example in the flesh. Particularly given the victims were all young, fit men of around his own age. It seemed the Spinster favoured a rather robust approach to inter-gender relations.

At last arriving at the head of the queue, Fields forked over his cover charge and, even though it wasn't even really his money, felt a twinge of annoyance when with a smile and a wink the burly guy on the door waved Peregrine through gratis.

At once engulfed by a wall of sound, dazzled by strobe lights and jostled on all sides, Fields began to remember just why it was so long since he'd been to a nightclub.

"What now?" he asked.

Peregrine leaned in closer to him. "Huh?"

"What now?" he bellowed, bending down to deliver the query directly into her ear.

She appeared to give the matter some thought. "Vodka martinis?"

Appalled to find himself just a little tempted, Fields shook his head. Peregrine was clearly rubbing off on him. "We need to keep our wits about us. No drinking."

"Huh?"

"I said, no drinking!"

"Gotcha. In that case"—to Fields' surprise, she took him by the hand—"we'd better dance."

He blinked at her. "Huh?"

"I said—!"

"No," he protested, trying—with a notable lack of success—to pull his hand away. "Not 'huh' as in what did you say? More 'huh' as in what the hell are you talking about?"

"What I'm talking about, partner"—with irresistible force, she began to drag him through the crowd and towards the dancefloor—"is you getting on up and shaking your groove-thang. We need to fit in, so if we're not drinking we'd better get dancing. Besides, I've never seen your moves before, so looks like this is a win-win."

Despite every instinct urging him otherwise, Fields was forced to concede her point. He already felt lumpish and obtrusive in his suit jacket and pants; at least on the dancefloor he might pass for some guy hitting the town after a day at the races, or maybe even a stray groomsman gone rogue.

Besides, in the course of his Section F career he'd ridden a dragon, bitten an anthropomorphic bear on the bum and busted a people-snatching pseudo-Santa Claus from Tau Ceti—how bad could a quick dance be? Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and stepped on to the floor.

As with most reluctant groovers since time immemorial, Fields' primary issue with dancing was not the activity itself. He could and often did dance by himself in the privacy of his kitchen or shower or even, on odd occasions, if the mood and the muzak were right, the elevator. It might even be said Fields liked to give his tush a good shake every now and then. No, what he didn't like was an audience. Or, more particularly, the awareness of an audience. The unwavering certainty that each and every eye in the nightclub/school prom/wedding reception was locked firmly on him and his semi-epileptic attempts to move in something approaching a rhythmic and coordinated manner.

In which case, as it turned out, Peregrine proved to be the perfect dance partner. Because the moment she hit the dancefloor, his epic and entrenched self-consciousness notwithstanding, Fields knew damn well not a soul in the place was watching him.

He'd found Peregrine tended to approach most activities—fighting, ribbing, driving, the pursuit of carbs, etc—with a manic energy and unquenchable enthusiasm both exhausting and inspiring in equal measure. And it turned out her dancing was no different. Where it did differ, however, was in one key area—her ability. Because while Peregrine was good at all those aforementioned activities, not to mention a host of others—often very good—she was not good at dancing. She was not good to an extent that bordered on disturbing. Bordered, invaded and in fact took full possession.

It looked to Fields as though she'd taken everything she'd ever learned, heard, watched, supposed or even imagined about every kind of dancing ever and synthesised it all into one frenetic, limb-flailing and frankly dangerous mashup of movement. Even to his untutored eye there were evident hints of hip-hop, traces of tango, disturbing dashes of dirty dancing and what he could only assume were spasmodic snatches of the sprinkler. In a widening circle of her own creation, oblivious to the consternation of her fellow clubbers, Peregrine danced like there was no tomorrow, and if there was, she was going to scare the bastard away.

After watching on in appalled fascination for a few moments, Fields decided perhaps drinking wasn't such a no-no after all and, given its effects on short-term memory, might even have some benefits. He was trying to to get close enough to his partner to drag her to the bar (without losing an eye in the process) when his progress was blocked by another man stepping between them.

"Hey, baby," said the newcomer, in a not entirely successful attempt at a sexy shout. "I like the way you move. Wanna get out of here?"

With a brief smile to acknowledge this obvious display of good taste and appreciation of fine dance, Peregrine spasmed on. "No, thanks," she replied, twitching her head in Fields' direction. "I don't think my boyfriend would like that."

The stranger turned to inspect this unexpected speedbump on the road to romance. A little older than the average Cenny-goer, probably late twenties or so, he had a few inches on Fields, both in height and circumference and was clad in jeans and a T-shirt tight enough to display the ripple of muscles underneath as he placed his hands on his hips and glared down in contempt at his newfound rival.

"Get lost, boyfriend."

Feeling a curious relief to be back on safer territory—and to have something other than Peregrine's dancing to look at—Fields made an attempt at a conciliatory smile.

"Look, it might be best if you move along and try your luck somewhere else, okay? We don't want any trouble."

"Is that right?" The stranger cracked his knuckles, although the sound was lost behind the incessant beat of the music. "Well, maybe I do. Now, listen up, runt. You got two choices. You can walk out of here, right now, in one piece. Otherwise, you're leaving in a body bag. What's it gonna be?"

Fields sighed. Why did it always have to be the hard way? Surely, by sheer logic, the very existence of the hard way meant there must be an easy way. And, by the same logic, the way with which Fields was presented should sometimes, even if only now and then, be the easy way.

But no. It seemed it was always the hard way.

"Neither," he replied. "I'm staying right here."

"Oh, yeah? That's what you"—although recognisably an uppercut, the punch was clumsy and telegraphed from the next state, allowing Fields to sway calmly out of its way—"think!"

Spun off-balance by the force of his swing, the big man was wide open for Fields to land pretty much any of the extensive arsenal of blows taught to him by first the Agency, then by Peregrine and finally by the Section F School of Very Hard and Frequently Dirty Knocks, but he held back, still hoping for a peaceful resolution.

"Okay," he shouted, in as soothing a manner as the background racket allowed. "Nice try, but I think we've established I'm not going anywhere. Now, how about you—"

The haymaker was even wilder than the uppercut, with even less chance of making contact. Contact with Fields, that is. Drawn by the prospect of a fight, the circle of clubbers driven back by Peregrine's alarming take on interpretive dance had once again closed in, so while Fields was able to step aside without trouble, the spectator crowding behind him was not so fortunate. Although mostly spent, the punch still cannoned into his side with sufficient force to send the glass he was holding flying from his grip and cartwheeling across the club in a staccato, strobe-lit arc directly towards the wide-eyed face of a somewhat inebriated girl standing by the edge of the dancefloor.

Wincing in anticipation of the impact, Fields just had time to shout a forlorn warning before, to his astonishment and relief, just millimetres from crunching into its unwitting recipient, a hand shot out and snatched the glass from the air.

A hand, attached to the arm of a young woman clad in a black polo and cap marked 'security', who delivered the glass to a passing waiter and then strode towards the dancefloor, the sea of revellers parting before her imperious passage.

She looked from Fields to his assailant, somehow managing to ignore Peregrine, who still danced on in frenetic fury, seemingly oblivious to the fuss she had stirred up. "What's the problem here?" Even without seeming to raise her voice, the query was quite audible.

"Uh..." began Fields, glancing at Peregrine in the faint hope of some support—if this was their potential recruit, he may just need all the help he could get. "Well, you see—"

Shouldering him aside, his assailant looked the woman up and down with a large dose of unashamed appreciation, not to mention a healthy side-serve of douche-baggery. "Hey, gorgeous. There's no problem here. In fact, just the opposite."

She returned the man's look—in her case with a distinct lack of appreciation. "I'm relieved to hear it. Even so, time to leave." 

On closer inspection, Fields began to wonder whether this really was the Spinster. He found it hard to imagine this slip of a girl inflicting the damage he'd seen in the file. Although perhaps a little taller than Peregrine, she was more slightly built and with her fresh-faced, attractive features looked as though she should be partying with this young crowd rather than keeping them in line. And while catching the glass had been a neat trick, it took more than sharp reflexes to make a superhero.

"You want us to leave?" Clearly not one to take any hints not wrapped in a fist, the big man sidled closer to the young woman. "Happy to, baby. Your place or mine?"

Although the music continued, the background chatter of the club fell away. The circle of onlookers who had pressed closer for the aborted fight once again moved back. It seemed clear the crowd knew something Fields did not. He shifted uneasily.

Peregrine danced on.

The possible-Spinster appeared unmoved. "Sorry, just to be clear, am I right in thinking you're hitting on me? Is that what's happening here?"

"Beautiful and smart." The man moved even closer. "Just how I like my ladies. You can bet that sweet arse I'm hitting on you, darling. Now, how about we beat it?"

The woman removed her cap and tossed it away, releasing a shoulder-length cascade of glossy, jet-black hair. For the first time since her appearance, she smiled. While aware smiles were generally good things, reassuring things, things that suggested all would be well, Fields recognised straight away this was not that kind of smile. Without conscious thought, he found he was also backing away.

Smile never wavering, the Spinster reached into her pocket and pulled out a scrunchie—an incongruous neon pink in the club's UV light—and tied back her hair. "Don't mind if I do."

****

"A state of emergency? Ooh, I don't like the sound of that. Surely things aren't quite that bad?"

"The incident reports now number in the dozens, Prime Minister. I'm afraid we can no longer continue to dismiss these events as isolated occurrences or false alarms or the hare-brained delusions of crackpots and conspiracy theorists. We must accept the possibility we are facing a genuine threat to national security."

"Oh, come now. Disrupted birthday parties and traumatised pizza-shop workers? Mysterious aerial sightings and missing wheelie bins? Sheep snatching and spiders of unusual size? That's the kind of stuff that constitutes a national emergency these days?"

"Quite frankly, yes, Prime Minister. After all, this is New Zealand. It's not as though we're usually a hotbed of civil unrest. And according to our best intelligence people, the seemingly random nature of the incidents is quite likely an intentional ploy to prevent us from seeing them as part of a coordinated plot."

"Our best intelligence people?"

"Yes, Prime Minister. Well...person."

"I knew it. I thought this sounded like something Steve would come up with. Next time you see him, tell him to pull his head in, would you?"

"Uh...very well, Prime Minister. And the state of emergency?"

"Hmm. I suppose the media is all over this hoo-ha?"

"I'm afraid so, Prime Minister."

"Yes, of course they are. Right, in that case I suppose we'd better be seen to be doing something. Have the defence minister arrange for division or two of troops to head over that way and fly around in their choppers or wave their guns about or do whatever is it they need to do to reassure the public that all is well."

"Yes, Prime Minister. Only, I'm afraid we don't have a division of troops."

"What, available?"

"At all, Prime Minister."

"Right. How about, um...a brigade?"

"I'm afraid not, Prime Minister. After all, this—"

"Is New Zealand, yes, yes, I'm quite aware. After all, I do run the bloody place. Fine, just send whatever we can spare and have 'em put on a good show. And if they do happen to stumble on any wargs or wizards or other assorted escapees from around Mordor way, then tell 'em to bloody well keep it to themselves."