She shakes her head in disbelief. “It’s hard to credit. You’re certain the attackers all work for that thing? The Sleeper in the Pyramid?”
“As certain as can be.”
“Well,” she mumbles, “now nothing makes sense.”
The SA sighs. “There’s a historical precedent.”
“Oh? Do explain, please.”
“Japan, in August 1945.” He frowns. “The popular wisdom is that after the USA dropped two atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan surrendered to avoid being nuked into oblivion. But that’s not actually the whole story. A few days before the first atom bombing, the Soviet Union declared war on Japan, and within days the Red Army had shattered the Japanese army in Manchuria. It’s hard to exaggerate how devastating the attack was: it was one of the biggest, most successful land offensives of the Second World War, although it’s virtually unknown in the West. The Americans and British were preparing to invade Japan in November, which was bad enough, but the Japanese government was even more frightened of the prospect of an invasion by the USSR. The atom bombs allowed them—gave them an adequate excuse—to make their peace with the lesser evil.”
“You’re telling me—”
The SA straightens, his eyes angry. “The Sleeper is not the lesser evil! It’s—” He catches himself. “There are no good guys in this war,” he says, forcing himself to measure out his words calmly, “but at least your master wants us alive. Some of us,” he corrects himself grimly. “Your master is happy to indulge his willing servants with a semblance of freedom, and to ignore the rest; the Sleeper leaves only soul-raped slaves and walking corpses behind.”
Iris gives him a sidelong look. “Trust me, Doctor, currying favor isn’t going to work. He’ll see right through you. He’s not just a sharp suit and a witty quip for the cameras, he’s one of them. He’s totally out of your league. If you try and play games…”
“He’ll win, yes, I know. We’re not stupid, Iris, we are Mahogany Row and we are aware that the only way to win this game is not to play. Nevertheless.” He tilts his head towards her. “We have been dragged, kicking and screaming, all the way to this scaffold; all that is left is to do the thing gracefully. Take the house and the money, Iris. Think about what I said. The new agency is going to need sound leadership, and you, at least, have no particular reason to fear our new Lord and master.”
* * *
It’s the Friday before HUMMINGBIRD and Mo and I have sallied forth from the safe house together to attend a meeting. I am in a good mood, and even the constant urge to look over my shoulder and cringe at the sight of CCTV cameras can’t dampen it. She holds my hand; she’s in a good mood too, I think.
So I book us an Uber to the railway station, then take a taxi for a trip around the block fetching back up at a bus station, then take a beaten-up old Stagecoach over to the next town, then she orders an Uber on her account to break continuity … and eventually we fetch up in a rented hotel office with the other waifs and strays (Mhari, Johnny, and Persephone), drinking coffee from a thermos and chatting about nothing in particular while Johnny checks the room out for listeners and other occult bugs. The jitters only cut in when he gives us the all-clear and then nerd-boy vampire and his maniac pixie dream girl slip through the door; she gives me the stink-eye for no reason I can establish, and Mo raises an eyebrow at me. She looks tense now. The gang’s almost all here, for values of gang that approximate to the active members of the INDIGO HUMMINGBIRD team. A couple of other bodies filter in and stack against the wall—we’re up to standing room only—then the SA arrives, closes the door, and bars it with a word that makes my back teeth ache and my vision blur. He clears his throat.
“Johnny, would you mind pulling back the curtain? Yes, it’s just the television, if you please.”
Dr. Armstrong looks as tired as I feel, as if he’s been up all night struggling with his conscience. Mo takes hold of my wrist. “This is going to be tough,” she whispers in my ear. “Try not to sound off until you’ve heard him through, okay?” She sounds tense, and that in itself is enough to curdle my stomach.
“What’s going—” Alex is immediately shushed by three different people, including Cassie, who wraps a hand around his mouth.
“Parliament Live,” says the SA. “The Public Administration and Constitutional Affairs Committee in session, as of half an hour ago. Norman Grove, minister without portfolio, is addressing the committee”—he fiddles with the remote—“aha.”
“—Honorable friends, is why we have commenced the structural rationalization and replacement of SOE, anticipating the recommendations of the review process in light of the findings of the enquiry into April’s events in Yorkshire—”
Why is he showing us this? I wonder, because this is all old news—
“—Utilize a statutory instrument in accordance with the provisions of the Civil Contingencies Act (2004) to transfer those roles associated with the defense of the realm to the Ministry of Defense, and support and infrastructure responsibilities to—”
Statutory instruments are administrative orders that the government can use to implement secondary legislation, bypassing debate in Parliament. The CCA is the emergency powers law governing the UK in time of war or natural disaster, and it basically allows a designated minister to make it up as they go along. It’s tantamount to a declaration of martial law. I didn’t know the government had invoked the CCA, and I’m about to open my mouth to say so when Mo squeezes my wrist again.
“—Dangerous rogue agency is a thing of the past. Luckily we have the legislative instruments and, more importantly, the assistance of our American allies and their experienced private sector contractors to fall back on during the necessary period of upheaval that this restructuring will cause—”
Click. The SA freezes the livestream. “Observe.” He points at the screen with the knobbly remote, then fiddles with some buttons. The screen jumps, zooming in on Grove. He’s standing in the middle of the horseshoe-shaped table, but behind him I see a blonde in a power suit. “Seated, behind the minister’s left shoulder. Known to the public as Anneka Overholt, the minister’s special advisor. And known to those of us who have been keeping an eye on Target Three”—his cheek twitches—“as the Reverend Raymond Schiller’s former personal assistant, lately promoted to his deputy.”
The SA takes a deep breath. “I’m showing you this to demonstrate just how desperate the situation has become. A few years ago, some of you were instrumental in denying Raymond Schiller access to the cabinet. This time he—or the thing pulling his strings—has succeeded in suborning Parliament. This isn’t simply an attack on the agency and an attempt to place its operational assets under the control of a new ministry. We—that is, the Board—believe this is an active Category One swarm attack by the Sleeper in the Pyramid, that as before, the Sleeper is using engineered brain-control parasites to co-opt slaves. However, this time the parasites are rather more effective than the previous generation of neurotropic tongue-eating isopods, and the enemy’s plan is to amplify, exponentiate, and go pandemic. The parties at Target One are being used as cover for induction or implantation of individuals with a high degree of connectedness in their social graphs—the ideal vector for transmission. We thought until yesterday that we had about three months, that they were still keeping it to a recruitment gambit for the so-called Inner Temple of Sleeper cultist-slaves, but then we got hold of the guest list for tomorrow’s event. We were overoptimistic.”
Mhari clears her throat. “Schiller will be throwing another of his big parties this Saturday. He’ll be attending in person, and inviting half the cabinet by the sound of it—the half who aren’t already infested.” She sounds almost apologetic.
I’m still trying to get my head around his last words when he walks across to the TV screen, turns, and says a word that refuses to stick to the insides of my ears. I blink and see other people shaking their heads. It’s very quiet all of a sudden, and it takes me a moment to realize that the usual sub
liminal hum of minds all around has died down, so that I can only sense the people I can see in this room, not the rest of the building. I look round for confirmation and see a blank expanse of wall where the door I walked in through used to be.
Dr. Armstrong straightens his back and looks at us. “What I have to say next is not to be discussed outside this room; nor is it recorded or written anywhere. This agency has assets you are unaware of, deliberately so—compartmentalization is a fact.” He doesn’t even manage a self-deprecating smile, and that’s when I feel, in my guts, just how serious this is. “You will shortly be given orders of questionable legality, to the extent that, taken at face value, they would appear to violate the Treason Act. Measures are in train elsewhere to ensure that a separate statutory instrument is fast-tracked to retroactively grant immunity for any actions you are required to undertake in compliance with these orders.” (There are sharp intakes of breath all round.) “Moreover, whatever Mr. Grove thinks, this restructuring is not going to happen because Mr. Grove is not going to be around to carry it out.”
My mouth is open. I manage to close it before I catch any flies; meanwhile Persephone speaks up. “We aren’t in the business of overthrowing the government,” she enunciates very carefully.
Dr. Armstrong stares at her. “Of course not.”
Cassie sits up very straight. “It all depends what you mean by the government, doesn’t it?” she chirps, doing a very good impersonation of a teacher’s pet. I stifle the urge to strangle her. Is it my imagination or is Mo actually relaxing next to me? “There is the Crown-in-Parliament, and there is the Queen, the person in the central seat, but there is also the government, as in Parliament, YesYes? And it is the individual members of the Parliament who have been suborned?”
She sounds really alien when she puts it like that, a green-haired Martian invader with pointy ears trying to get her head around humanity.
“Yes,” says Persephone. “What is our operational objective? Our exit strategy?”
“Your objective is to sterilize the source of infection.” The SA looks straight at me. “Secondary objectives are to rescue any members of the cabinet or other VIPs who have not yet been parasitized, and to verify that Schiller, or his people, are controlled by the Sleeper in the Pyramid—but we are already certain of this beyond reasonable doubt: it’s icing on the cake if you can do it. Other hands are taking care of the broader constitutional issues in the background; you need trouble yourselves no more over the niceties of the situation. I believe you have a plan, Mr. Howard?”
Gulp. “As directed, I’ve established and kept up-to-date an operational plan for simultaneous attacks on Schiller’s UK footprint,” I hear myself saying. “Is this the go/no-go point?”
“Yes.” The SA falls silent.
“Right.” I pause. “So if Schiller’s hosting his big push in the countryside we can be certain he won’t be in his apartment in Docklands. And it’s out of hours, so the facility at Heathrow will be empty or short-staffed. I assume we’re in a position to disrupt cell and phone service to Nether Stowe House, or at least prevent alerts from reaching Schiller’s staff during the black-bag stages of the operation. Anything else?”
“It’s those fucking cock-worms, isn’t it?” says Johnny. “Anything else we should expect?”
“Alas, yes.” Dr. Armstrong looks deeply uncomfortable. “Expect the worst. PHANG-like superparasites or other soul riders, class three or higher. I’ve arranged for backup from a class five or higher for the assault on Target One, but there’s no guarantee the Sleeper won’t be able to match or exceed it.”
The classification of occult parasites is esoteric and terrifying; the SA is referring to a logarithmic scale of power. Feeders in the night and tongue eaters are class one occult parasites; they eat minds retail, not wholesale. PHANGs are at least a class two and sometimes higher; I’m not sure what the Hungry Ghosts are, but the Eater of Souls is at least a class four, maybe a five. I have no desire ever to meet anything higher on the scale but I’m pretty sure the Sleeper, the Black Pharaoh, and their ilk start at a six and go up from there. It’s that Twinkie Singularity problem again.
“Happy joy!” Cassie seems delighted by this. “Can I come on this one too?”
I can feel Mo forcing a poker face, trying not to roll her eyes. “Sure,” I say, “you’re on the roster for Nether Stowe House. Waitressing again.” I manage not to smile at her evident disgust. “But it’s a vital job. We’re relying on you to guide the door-breakers on their way in…”
NINE
INDIGO HUMMINGBIRD
Midafternoon on Saturday finds Raymond Schiller relaxed and calm, back in the Docklands apartment after a lunchtime excursion to Claridge’s for an interview with a journalist from The Daily Telegraph’s financial pages (over lobster bisque followed by veal and wild mushrooms in red wine sauce). The luxury apartment is a convenience, close to hand for events in the city but sufficiently secluded that he can retreat to it for solitary contemplation and prayer, unlike Nether Stowe House where he is always the center of attention. But he can only retreat for so long. Therefore, after a brief nap he showers in the master suite’s bathroom and prepares for the ride back to this evening’s party and communion service.
When he steps out of the bathroom he finds his freshly dry-cleaned tuxedo waiting in the adjacent dressing room. He can sense Anneka and Bernadette beyond the warded bedroom door (there are four other bedrooms, and they have their own rooms) but the handmaids are sensitive to his dignity. To save time, Bernadette booked a visit from a stylist and a cosmetician. Schiller has little patience for such superficialities, but he understands the need for them to make the right impression, and is willing to pay.
As he adjusts his bow tie, Schiller hears the muffled chime of the doorbell. Listening, he hears captive minds buzzing and humming beyond his door, moving to intercept the visitors. He opens himself to his handmaid’s perceptions while he finishes up. Anneka is answering the door, gowned and immaculately coiffed for her greeter’s role at tonight’s event. Her visitors are three men in dark suits, dark glasses, and earpieces from the Personal Protection department. “You’re early,” she tells them tersely. “This way.” She leads them into the lobby. They follow her silently, their faces immobile. One of GP Security’s money-spinners on the side is providing security for VIPs and stars, and over the past week they have all been initiated into the Middle Temple, gifted with the Tongue of God behind their lips and the peace in their souls that they’ll need to see them through the more distasteful stages of the mission ahead.
Schiller gathers the reins of their hosts—the isopod-like parasites that have replaced their tongues and now control their higher functions—and sends them over to wait at the window side of the room.
“Father?” Bernadette asks, uncertainty in her voice: she senses the weight of his attention through her host. (Inner Temple initiates are far more useful than those of the Middle Temple, Schiller reflects, although the process of Elevation is painful and time-consuming.) “You have additional instructions for me?”
“Pack an overnight bag. After the party, you will stay at Nether Stowe House. You can take charge of the morning-after crew.” (Wild humans, uncaptured and uncut: little better than animals.) He feels her apprehension and adds, gently, “I have distasteful business to attend to after the party that would only add to your discomfort. Best that you are elsewhere.”
She nods, relieved. “I’ll pray for you, Father,” she says, and hurries into the bedroom to prepare. Schiller glances at Anneka and nods minutely. Bernadette had a poor—emotionally traumatized—reaction to her host implantation; once Schiller was able to inspect her soul he realized that she harbored weaknesses that were not obvious until too late. Her induction was a mistake, but not an irremediable one—her host will break her to her role eventually. But in the meantime, she is simply unsuited to tasks that require ruthless detachment. Anneka, made of sterner stuff, returns his nod, then accepts the reins of the pro
tection crew and gives them their detailed instructions.
“We will depart for Nether Stowe House shortly. Jack will ride shotgun in the car. Olaf, Barry, you will go to the room at the Hilton. Your task is to book the services of one of the contractors on the list”—she hands over a sheaf of laser-printed papers, ads gleaned from the internet, several already checked off from previous occasions—“get them to show up, verify that they match the description on their publicity material, then bring them here, and prep them for Dr. Schiller’s return. It is anticipated that we will be back no later than 3 a.m. tomorrow, at which time you may go off-shift.”
They incline their heads to Anneka simultaneously, like a string of puppets. Bernadette returns, clutching a slightly incongruous day pack. Schiller smiles. “Ladies. Shall we be on our way?”
* * *
It’s early evening on the Saturday of Schiller’s big party, and the Target One team are taking up their positions. Cassie is aboard the minibus ferrying agency waiters from the West London hinterlands to the big house, incommunicado for now (the agency insisted on everyone turning in their mobile phones for the shift, ostensibly to prevent unauthorized photography as well as to reduce goofing off). The bus has already dropped off two loads of shift workers; Cassie is part of the late evening shift, on duty until the early hours. But she won’t be alone once she arrives on-site. A mobile support truck and two cars are parked half a mile down the road at Nether Stowe itself. Alex shelters from the remaining sky-glow in the back of the truck, along with the special backup people Dr. O’Brien introduced him to earlier that afternoon. Brains, who has come from nursing his injured partner, Pinky, in Leeds just to help with this caper, swears at the array of receivers and data loggers in the rack beside him while Alex fidgets edgily. “Cheap cables, kid.” He wiggles an ethernet patch experimentally as one of the speakers crackles. “Bane of my life.”
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