The Apocalypse Codex

by Charles Stross

  I dash off a quick “arrived alive” message to Lockhart’s publicly visible email address, then catch myself yawning. A quick glance at the bedside alarm radio tells me it’s only half past eight. Shit. If I succumb to sleep before 10 o’clock I’ll be up with the birds, which is not exactly my kind of lark—I should really go downstairs and get some food and hang out in the bar. Except both food and alcohol, in my current condition, will make me sleepy. If I want to stay awake, I need company. It’s way too late to phone Mo, but—

  Aha.

  My IronKey is loaded with an address book. I send a quick email to Johnny McTavish, attaching my US phone number and hotel room: Are you on site yet? Need to meet stat. It’s the tattoos: I should have passed them over before they left—but he and BASHFUL INCENDIARY lit out for the Golden Promise Ministries’ bible study and brainwashing B&B too soon. But there’s still a chance he can get one to her before she checks in, if I get them to him immediately.

  Clearly McTavish is on the ball, because I’m listening to the coffee maker gurgling and choking into a mug five minutes later when my phone rings.

  “McTavish here.” He sounds alert.

  “Howard.”

  “I’m in Denver.”

  “You are? Me, too. We need to meet up as soon as possible.”

  “Huh.” A pause. “Meet me at the corner of Colfax and Fourteenth. Half an hour?”

  “I’ll do my best.” Luckily I have Google Maps on the JesusPhone…

  “Over and out.”

  He cuts the call. I guess I’m not the only one around here who finds jet lag eats away at the social veneer.

  Colfax turns out to be the main east-west drag in town—the nearest thing to a high street in central Denver, all wall-to-wall shops and daytime diners. My hotel in the central business district is only about half a kilometer away, and while the weather’s a bit chilly by my standards it’s moving out of the depths of winter—the sidewalks are scraped bare of snow, and there’s only the odd grimy mound in the gutters to remind me that I’m in the middle of a continental deep-freeze. So I pull the overcoat out of my suitcase, drag my shoes and jacket back on, stuff the book of tats and Pinky’s funky little camera in my jacket pockets, and head downstairs to pound pavement.

  We’re on a plateau halfway up a mountain range, and I can feel it on my chest before I’ve gone three blocks. It’s dusk: the cloud base overhead is low, and a lazy wind cuts through the streets, working its way through my coat. I’m wishing for a hat by the time I pass Thirteenth and start looking for Johnny. There aren’t many people out, and traffic is light: either the center of Denver on a spring evening with a smell of snow in the air isn’t the best place to hang out, or I’m missing a big ball game.

  “Wotcher, Bob.” I nearly jump out of my skin; for someone who’s most of two meters tall and built like a brick shithouse Johnny is surprisingly hard to notice.

  “Yo,” I manage, glancing round quickly. I see no sign of anyone tailing us, and relax slightly. “There’s something I need to fill you in on. Got ten minutes for a coffee?”

  “This way,” he says, and disappears into the murk between street lights. I do my best to follow him.

  He leads me to a small indie coffee shop that, for a miracle, is both open and hasn’t turned itself into a restaurant in time for dinner. We find a booth with padded vinyl seats and a good view of the doorway and slide in. I unzip my coat and rub my hands together. I’m cold; I didn’t realize it until we got indoors. A waitress ambles over while I’m still shivering. “What’ll it be?”

  “Mug of Joe,” grunts Johnny.

  “Mocha venti with an extra shot for me, no cream,” I add.

  “Anything else?”

  I shake my head and she wanders off. Johnny looks suspicious. “Since when do you speak Starbucks?”

  I shrug. “It’s not as if I can help it; they’ve got our office surrounded, and they don’t like it if you try to order in English.”

  We wait in silence until our coffees arrive and the waitress departs again. Then Johnny asks, “What’s the problem?”

  “A little something for the weekend.” I pull out the tat book. “You guys left before I could hand these over.” I slide it towards him.

  “Not our fault, the travel agent was most insistent…” Johnny opens the book. “Hmm.” He squints at the contents. “That’s neat. Are these what I think they are?”

  I sip my coffee. “I don’t know. What do you think they are?”

  Johnny slides one of a pair of matching stabbed love-hearts out of its transparent sleeve. “Sympathy and contagion. If I wear one of these and you wear the other, we get a private walkie-talkie channel, right?” His gaze flickers back to me. “Whose bright idea was it?”

  I shrug. “Don’t ask me, Lockhart just thought they might come in useful. Dead-letter drops are so twentieth century, don’t you think?”

  “Huh.” Johnny is looking thoughtful. “Yes, I should think the Duchess will be most interested in these. Thank you kindly.” He raises his mug and takes what is clearly a throat-burning swig of coffee. “Well, I’d better be going.”

  “Wait!” I stop. “Firstly,” I take the book and leaf through it, removing the control tattoos, “I need to keep these. Secondly—what are you guys planning?”

  “We’re going to get Mr. Lockhart exactly what he wants,” Johnny says blandly. “Tomorrow, the Duchess is driving down to the Ministries’ compound to start the Omega Course. It runs three days, Friday through Sunday, and she’ll be there the whole while. Don’t expect to hear from us—I’m moving on as well. I’ll get in touch afterwards. In emergency”—he flips to a control tat—“I’ll page you. Okay?”

  Great. So just when Lockhart expects me to report back, all I can say is, They’ve dropped off the map. “And if I need to get in touch with you?”

  He taps the book with a thick, stubby finger: “Use the force.” Then he finishes off his coffee and vanishes, leaving me to pick up the bill.

  YR. HMBL. CRSPNDNT. DOES NOT HAVE EYES IN THE BACK OF his head. Also, he’s pretty shit at the whole spy tradecraft shtick.

  Which is why what I’m about to relate came to me at third hand, some time after the event.

  PERSEPHONE WATCHED THE DOORWAY OF THE COFFEE HOUSE from the far side of the road until she was sure the Laundry bureaucrat wasn’t following Johnny. Then she slid the Flex into gear and circled the block slowly, keeping a weather eye open for any sign of company. Half a block past the coffee house she pulled over and popped the passenger door. Johnny clambered aboard, a stray snowflake preceding him. “Drive.”

  Persephone headed south, sticking to the speed limit. Traffic was light; she hung a left, then a right, checking her mirrors each time. “We’re clear.”

  “Good.” Johnny slumped slightly in his seat. “Save us from innocents, Duchess, they’ve stuck us with a bloody amateur.”

  “You think?” Persephone’s lips peeled back from her teeth in a humorless grin.

  “Bubblegum sympathy tats and a trench coat. What is the world coming to?”

  “Never attribute to incompetence that which can be adequately explained by jet lag, my dear. So, these tats. What do you think?”

  “I think you’d be mad to wear one,” said Johnny. “They’re too big, and these fundie nutjobs got some whacky ideas about real tattoos—mark of Cain, stuff in Leviticus, that kind of thing—and if they strip-search you—”

  “They won’t.”

  “Or if they lift Mr. Chinless-Wonder and find his tat—”

  “They won’t.” Persephone spoke with complete assurance. “You underestimate Mr. Howard, his rap sheet’s nearly as questionable as yours. People underestimate him: that’s his game. Probably why it’s taken Mahogany Row so long to notice him, at a guess. If we’d met him, back in our Network days…Well. I’m going to, let’s see, burn myself on a steam iron? Blistered heel from running? Yes, that should explain the gel plaster. I’ll keep the tattoo covered. You don’t need to be so t
witchy.”

  “But—”

  Persephone turned to stare at him. “We are trying to get word out to Lockhart, aren’t we? It’s their preferred channel—and it’s a lot harder to eavesdrop on than a phone call or a dead drop.”

  He looked away first, helpless before her confidence. “I got a bad feeling about this whole deal, Duchess. Very bad.”

  Coming up on the intersection with North Speer that would carry them out to the interstate, Persephone floored the accelerator. Gas gurgled into the huge V8 as the big mom-wagon accelerated. “Your opinion is noted. So doesn’t reducing our risk of exposure help?”

  Johnny shivered, a surprisingly delicate gesture for one so outwardly stolid. “Yeah, but I’ve still got a feeling there is something wrong with the picture. We’re missing a piece. Something enormous.”

  “Very likely.” Her fingers whitened on the steering wheel. “But it’s our job to find out, isn’t it? That’s what we do.”

  MEANWHILE, SIXTY KILOMETERS AWAY…

  Off US85, about seven kilometers north of the Air Force Academy in the vicinity of Palmer Lake, there’s a road leading due west into Pike National Forest. It looks like a dirt track, winding around the wooded hillsides, but once it’s out of sight of the township there’s a fence, and a gate bearing the sign of the cross, and then single-track blacktop hugging the hillside above the Lower Reservoir until it reaches another discreet fence, and turns into a proper road, with driveways leading off either side to landscaped car parks and low buildings. One building is surmounted by a trio of large satellite dishes; another cluster is backed by a complex of specialized gas supplies and air conditioning units that would do justice to a small hospital. There’s a mansion, a motel, a 7-Eleven, and a surprisingly small church.

  Welcome to the Golden Promise Ministries compound.

  Whenever the gates down near Palmer Lake open to admit a vehicle, eyes up in the security center track them on closed-circuit TV screens, check their registration plates online on license databases. Golden Promise Ministries has its own fire service, ambulance, and police force. Golden Promise Ministries has its own kindergartens and schools. It’s the hub of an entire town, in miniature: a gated community with its own rules and regulations.

  And the prophet is coming to town.

  A black stretched Lincoln with mirror-tinted windows is rumbling up the blacktop path, preceded and trailed by a pair of black Explorers, also with mirrored windows. A police department cruiser leads the way, lights flashing in lazy salute. It’s been a long day’s journey, chasing the terminator around the spinning globe, but Raymond Schiller is finally coming home.

  It’s late in the evening when the Lincoln draws up outside his combination office and residence, a neoclassical-styled mansion fronted by a horseshoe-shaped drive at the end of the road; but his people are there, waiting for him. Here are his secretarial and administrative staff hoping for an audience at this late hour, a Judgment of Solomon in some cases. Next to them are a gaggle of trimly uniformed nursemaids and teachers from the crèche and kindergarten, vital handmaids to the progress of Project Quiver; a small group of visiting cadets from the Air Force Academy, doubtless here for one of the workshops the junior outreach ministry run in his absence; and a double-handful of other onlookers, well-wishers and members of the flock come to welcome him home.

  Raymond musters up a broad smile as he climbs out of the limo and stretches his travel-stiffened muscles. He raises his hands: “What a welcome! Thank you, my friends. Let us pray together. Oh Lord, we thank thee for this safe homecoming…”

  It’s what they’re here for, and he appreciates their thoughtful welcome, although a bath and his bed would be more welcome at this point. Benediction complete, he strides towards the front door. As he does so Alex Lockey slides into place at his side, a slim attaché case clamped under his elbow; to his other side, Doctor Jensen waits impatiently. “Can it wait?” Schiller asks quietly.

  “No, sir.” Alex matches stride as the door opens; Jensen echoes him. They move in convoy towards Schiller’s office, leading a comet-trail of followers: his handmaiden Roseanne, Sheriff’s Deputy Stewart, one of the senior teachers. “We’ve had a heads-up from the FBI in Denver…”

  “And I need a moment of your time, too,” Jensen says snippily. “Clinics don’t run on air and promises, you know. We’re getting an earful from a busybody at the Joint Commission over our accreditation and they’re threatening to send an audit team.”

  “Intolerable.” Schiller keeps his voice low. “Unless they are fellow travelers.”

  “Well yes.” Jensen’s gaze flickers to Brooks: “That would be Alex’s department, but in the meantime what do I tell them? They’re threatening to revoke our certification.”

  Schiller suppresses the urge to utter a profanity. “Can these items wait for two hours? I need to compose myself for the midnight communion; these are temporal matters, are they not? I’ll see you both after the service.”

  Alex takes a deep breath, then nods. “Sir. It can’t wait. It’s critical.”

  “How critical?” Schiller focusses on his security coordinator.

  “Our sources in the FBI passed on a warning while you were en route: apparently during your time in London you were being monitored by a deep black intel organization, and now MI5—the British counter-intelligence agency—are asking questions on behalf of another department. The FBI don’t know who, which is worrying in itself. And then they got a tip-off from the DHS, that at least one British intelligence agent was tracked through JFK, en route to Denver.”

  “Didn’t they arrest him? Forget that, son, that wasn’t a question.” Schiller thinks for a moment. “You’re saying they’re on to us?”

  Alex nods. “It looks likely.” Time to give Schiller a nudge: “Almost certain, sir.”

  “But the hour cometh, and now is,” Schiller mutters under his breath. “Well, it’s earlier than I wanted, but I see no reason to delay; we’ll just have to bring everything forward as fast as we can. Schedule a meeting of the inner circle for tomorrow morning. Operation Multitude will simply have to go into effect as soon as possible.” He turns to Pastor Dawes: “I assume you have blessed the hosts?”

  “They’re in Stephen’s keeping. Tonight’s communicants are being prepared.”

  “Good.” Schiller unwinds slightly. “Doctor Jensen, I assume the certification matter will not actually impact your existing patients? It will merely hold up the admission of new cases?”

  Jensen nods reluctantly. “Yes, but the audit—”

  “Need not concern us; by the time they get around to sending someone, we shall have completed phase one of Operation Multitude and nothing short of the Antichrist in the White House ordering a nuclear strike on Colorado will be able to stop us.” Then he turns back to Alex. “As for your British agent—if you find him—” He smiled thinly. “I am innocent of the blood of this person: see ye to it.”

  AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER, IN THE CHAPEL ATTACHED TO the back of the residence, Raymond Schiller conducts a service of midnight communion.

  It’s a small chapel, and windowless, as befits its unusual purpose; the congregation is equally small, and not entirely willing. Schiller is slightly late, red-eyed and tired, but his vestments are nevertheless immaculate. Pastors Dawes and Holt conduct the service, leading the confession. Ray enters from the rear of the chapel, climbing the steps to take his place behind the altar, just in time for the climax: “The Lord Jesus Christ is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us of all unrighteousness; therefore you are forgiven!”

  He scans the upturned faces before him, the ecstatic joy of the Saved, the apprehension and fear of the new members attending their first communion. “You are cleansed of all unrighteousness, and you are worthy to participate in this holy meal!” A wave of fear so clear and cold he can feel it in his marrow sweeps through the twelve unshriven, kneeling in the two front rows between their guards. He smiles, beatific with the knowledge of their
coming salvation. Then he leads off: “The Lord be with you!”

  The congregants—those who are Saved—answer: “And also with you.” The others, the Unsaved, have a harder task of making their voices heard, for they are gagged: Who needs to hear the cries of the damned? They will be Saved soon enough, willing or no. “Christ has died. Christ has risen. Christ is coming again!”

  And finally it is time. Schiller licks his lips, shaking with emotion. “As Paul said to the Corinthians, I say to you: Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us. Let us keep the feast!” He gestures at the front row. “Let our new brethren be brought forward to join us…”

  At the other side of the altar, Brother Stephen lifts back the silver-trimmed white linen cover from the incubator that holds the supply of hosts for tonight’s ritual. The cymothoans are torpid, legs rippling along their pale flanks. Schiller accepts a pair of silver tongs from Pastor Holt and reaches for one of the divine isopods as two deputies frog-march the first of the unshriven up to the altar. A healthy young male hipster, now handcuffed, gagged, and robed as befits a first-time communicant, his eyes bulge with terror. Schiller feels for him, a keen stab of compassion and empathy: the poor fellow seems to think he is about to be murdered! Which is anything but the truth. Raymond leans forward and makes the sign of the cross. “May the Body and Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ keep you unto eternal life,” he says, and, as Pastor Dawes pushes the fellow’s head back and unhooks the ball gag, he shoves the host into its new home.

  The man convulses silently, choking in the grip of involuntary communion as the host goes to work, eager to save his soul. He’s unconscious already as the deputies carry him back to his pew. Then the next communicant is kneeling before Schiller, a young African-American woman with dreadlocks and scared-deer eyes.