The Apocalypse Codex lf-4

by Charles Stross

  I can’t help myself. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Lockhart’s cheek twitches. “For one thing, it means that she really does not like the Culto del Teschio Rosso and their playmates. And for another thing, if you ask her why she moved here, she will tell you that she conducted a rigorous survey of European occult defense agencies and concluded that we have the best chance of surviving CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN. In her opinion.” His tone is dry enough to curdle milk. “It would be unwise to confuse a finely tuned survival instinct with loyalty to the Crown, Mr. Howard, but it counts for something.”

  “So we’re her lifeboat and you trust her to bail if you hand her a bucket?”

  “Something like that. Or so I have been led to believe by Mahogany Row. And what’s good enough for them is, ipso facto, good enough for us.”

  “Jesus.” I shake my head. (So this is coming down from the very top of the organization: the stratospheric, secretive executive country that mere mortal scum like me don’t get to see even from a distance unless we’re very unlucky.) “So, let me see if I’ve got this straight. Ray Schiller of the Golden Promise Ministries is doing breakfast with the PM, and you’re a little upset because he’s disturbingly convincing and gives off bad vibes. We can’t snoop on the PM ourselves, so you point this loose cannon at the pastor—” I stop. “Oh no you don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” Lockhart’s face is as unreadable as a professional poker player’s.

  I’m on my feet and leaning over his desk; I don’t remember standing, and I am so damn angry that I’m shaking: “You’re setting me up! You’re going to spin it as a rogue operation with no oversight and if anything goes wrong—”

  “Calm down, Mr. Howard!”

  I’m not sure quite what it is about his tone, but his words are like a bucket of cold water in my face.

  “You are not being framed. Quite the opposite. Your role in this operation is to monitor and report on BASHFUL INCENDIARY’s officially unauthorized and unsanctioned activities; nothing more and nothing less. You will have…noticed…that at no point did I instruct BASHFUL INCENDIARY to act on our behalf. In fact I have no authority over her. What Ms. Hazard chooses to do next is entirely up to her. It is not impossible that she will decide to occupy herself with the Grand National and the Chelsea Flower Show instead. Or to emigrate to Brazil, or paint herself orange and join a Buddhist nunnery. The point is, she is not under our control. Not under yours or mine. You don’t have command authority; your job is to keep an eye on the external asset, not to direct it.”

  “But”—I begin to slow down: the implications are sinking in—“with what she knows, what if she’s a threat?”

  Lockhart looks at me grimly. “I think that is very unlikely, Mr. Howard, otherwise I would not have mentioned our little problem to her. However, in the hypothetical case that the loose cannon were to explode in our faces, your job would be to deal with the consequences as you see fit. If you happen to be one of the survivors.”

  “I”—squeak—“survivors?” It wouldn’t be the first time an operation has blown up under me with fatal consequences, but I really hate the way this is shaping up, with Hazard carrying the detonator and me trailing along with bucket and spade. But Lockhart evidently misunderstands the nature of my reservations.

  “This is not a game, Mr. Howard. Your new pay grade comes with strings attached; I am not referring to the management training. Further advancement as an officer within this service will put you in situations where you will be responsible for whether other people live or die—this is inevitable as we move closer to CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN. Worse: it is likely that you will encounter situations where you must choose who to save and who to cast adrift, answerable only to your oath of service and your conscience. I understand from your personnel file that you have been placed in situations where you have been required to use lethal force in self-defense. This is not the same.” He fixes me with a gimlet stare. “There is a huge difference between returning fire in personal self-defense and ordering an artillery strike on an inhabited civilian settlement suspected of harboring enemy forces. Do you understand?”

  I sit down. My mouth is dry. Lockhart’s gaze is directed through me, almost as if he’s talking to a younger version of himself. Military background, I think. It’s his personal metaphor. Nightmare, whatever. Then I have a flashback of my own, to a buried temple: writhing bodies, hungry revenants in the surrounding darkness, a sacrifice of souls. “I’m afraid I do,” I say slowly. “Too bloody well.”

  “Good.” His shoulders relax like an over-wound spring. “I trust that you were not suffering from the misconception that your promotion was directed towards a routine management role.”

  “This doesn’t sound very routine to me.” As a joke, it falls flatter than a Brick Lane chapati.

  The caterpillar twitches. “Ninety-eight percent of management work in this organization is routine. The other two percent is a tightrope walk over an erupting volcano without a safety net. Congratulations: here’s your balance pole.”

  I lick my lips. “So what exactly am I managing?”

  “Trouble.” Lockhart glances at his wristwatch. “Hmm. Well, I must be going—I have a meeting at four. I suggest you take the rest of the day off. Go home, check your go-bag, that kind of thing.” He looks at me again. “Make sure to wear a suit tomorrow.”

  “What?” The phrase wear a suit does not fill me with joy.

  “Be here tomorrow morning, nine thirty sharp. We’ll start by collecting your new passport. They’ll need to photograph you. Then we have a field trip.”

  “New passport?”

  “In all probability this operation will require you to travel outside the country.” Lockhart picks up the BASHFUL INCENDIARY file and bends over his office safe, putting his back between me and the keypad. “In which case you will need a passport with a diplomatic visa. In my experience, when pretending to be a diplomat working for the Foreign Office it usually helps to look the part.” He glances over his shoulder at me. “Well? What is it?”

  I put my brain back in gear. “Where am I going?”

  “Probably the United States, because that is where Schiller’s Golden Promise Ministries is headquartered—but in any event, wherever Ms. Hazard leads you. Remember: economy class on flights of less than six hours duration. Oh, and don’t forget to write.” He flicks his fingers at me. “Shoo.”

  I shoo.

  I AM IN THE BEDROOM PACKING MY GO-BAG WHEN MO GETS home.

  There is a clattering from the front hall, then more noises from the kitchen—cupboard doors, the fridge, a dirty coffee mug rattling in the sink. Finally a loudly pitched question mark: “Bob?”

  “Up here.” Five pairs of socks, six, or hit M&S for a new one-week pre-pack? I hear footsteps on the stairs.

  “Who died?” she asks from the doorway.

  “No one,” I say, straightening up. She’s seen the suit.

  Actually, I own two suits these days. The other one is a black-tie job for formal bashes like the Institute of Chartered Demonologists’ annual ball. This one is my Reservoir Dogs Special. It does duty for all occasions that require a suit—court appearances, weddings, graduation ceremonies, funerals, and those situations when work absolutely requires something other than a tee shirt and jeans. It’s the kind of suit that is worn at arm’s length by a suit refusnik; the kind of suit that trails a screaming neon disclaimer overhead, saying: the occupant of this garment is clearly alive only because he wouldn’t be seen dead in one of these things; the kind of suit whose afterlife is destined to be spent surrounded by mothballs in a charity shop window display. I did not buy it willingly: when it became half past obvious that I needed one, Mo dragged me round the shops for seven solid hours until I finally surrendered.

  “They’re sending you somewhere,” she says. “Diplomatic cover?”

  “Er—”

  Laundry employees are not supposed—in fact, not allowed—to discuss their work with civilians. But Mo is not
a civilian. And (I don’t think Lockhart knows this) she and I have a special waiver to our binding geas to allow us to vent on one another’s shoulder. But this business with Raymond Schiller and BASHFUL INCENDIARY is a cut above the ordinary, and I’m not even sure she knows about Externalities and Lockhart’s little sideline.

  While I’m vacillating over how much I can tell my wife, she works it all out for herself and nods, briskly: “Well, if they’re running you under FO cover they’ll want you to look like a junior FO staffer, and that won’t do. Let me see what you’ve got so far, then we can work out a shopping list to fill in the gaps.”

  “A shopping—”

  “Oh Bob.” She looks amused. “What do you think they pay me for?”

  “Personal shopper?” It’s a bad joke; of course I know what they pay her for. Mo owns several suits, because part-time university lecturers are expected to look the part—and when she isn’t teaching, or researching, she’s traveling on business with one of the aforementioned diplomatic visas.

  “Good guess.” She bends over the case. “Any idea how long you’ll be gone for? Or where?”

  “You missed an ‘if’ out of those questions.” I shrug. “I may not be going anywhere at all. Or I may be going several places, in a hurry.”

  “Oh, one of those jobs.” She frowns. “Okay, you pack for five days and work the hotel room service on expenses for priority cleaning if you overrun. Underwear, shirts, huh…is this your only tie?”

  “Apart from the bow that goes with the dinner jacket, yes.” It’s a black silk tie with Wile E. Coyote’s head embroidered on it in raised relief, black-on-black. I’ve had it for two years; I was forced to buy it for my uncle’s funeral after the last neck-strangulator was disemboweled by the washing machine. (How was I to know they’re dry clean only?) I was wondering how long it would take her to notice.

  “Jesus, Bob.” She shakes her head. “Okay, I’m taking you to work tomorrow. By tube, via the shops in Liverpool Street station. And I’m buying.”

  “Why?” I will confess to sounding a tad querulous at this point.

  “So you don’t end up with a diplomatic mug shot that makes you look like a hung-over hipster, that’s why.” She glares at me. “It’s work.”

  I deflate. “No, it’s management bullshit,” I say weakly.

  “Tell me about it.” For a moment her expression is bleak beyond anything her years entitle her to. And she’s five years older than me.

  I take a chance. “There’s a department called—”

  My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and a taste of acrid brimstone fills my nostrils. So, being me, I try again.

  “I’m working for—” There’s an immediate electric prickling in my eyes and a crawling on my scalp. Nope, oath of office ain’t having it.

  “Looks like our usual waiver doesn’t apply to this job.” The ward of office agrees and refrains from frying my ass for explaining this to her.

  Her eyes narrow thoughtfully. “You’ll forgive me for saying so, but that’s some serious shit you’re in.” I nod enthusiastically, which seems to be allowed. “Coming right on top of that course on, what was it, leadership skills…” She walks around the bed and prods disconsolately at the graveyard of trainers. “You’ll be needing a good pair of running shoes, then. And something that doesn’t call you out as anything other than your normal boring embassy desk pilot. Assuming you’re doing what I think you’re doing.” She pauses. “Have you been to see Harry yet?”

  “That was on my to-do list for tomorrow,” I admit. Harry is our armorer. “But if I have to tool up, everything will already have gone to shit.”

  “In which case you will need to be carrying, in order to evacuate and report.” She pauses. “Scratch Harry; if you’re going overseas, guns are a liability. I think you want to have a word with Pinky tomorrow. He’s been working with a new application of SCORPION STARE, and you might be an ideal candidate for beta tester.”

  I KNOCK ON LOCKHART’S OFFICE DOOR AT NINE THIRTY SHARP the next morning, wearing a sober suit and a new tie—one of three that Mo insisted on buying for me in Noose Hutch International on the way to work (which meant she got to vet them for cartoon wildlife first). It’s uncomfortable but I’m not panicking yet—I’ve got a compact Leatherman tool in my pocket, which means I can always stab it to death if it wakes up and tries to throttle me.

  “Ah, Mr. Howard.” Lockhart’s stare is judgmental. “Come on, we’re running late.” He sweeps out of the office and I tag along in his wake.

  Normally, when I apply for a passport I get some pictures taken in a photo booth, fill out a form, then go round to a post office and pay them to check the paperwork and send it off to the Identity and Passport Service. A couple weeks later a fat envelope flops through the letterbox. This is a bit different, and involves visiting an office about which we shall say as little as possible, because the Dustbin are not our friends (except when they’re arranging official cover documentation for our people, including shiny new passports with genuine diplomatic visas accredited by the US Embassy in Grosvenor Square without the need for an actual visit and interview).

  After the photo-and-fingerprints session at Spook Central, Lockhart leads me outside the MI5 headquarters building and hails a taxi. Twenty traumatic minutes later we arrive at the sucking vortex of existential despair and chaos that is Euston, whereupon Lockhart hands me a rail ticket and leads me through the barriers. “Where are we going?” I ask. He ignores me, but pauses to buy a copy of the Daily Telegraph. The ticket, I note, is first class—something I thought was a strict no-no under our current hair-shirt expenditure controls.

  Half an hour later, he folds his newspaper, stands up, and leads me off the train onto a platform in Milton Keynes Central. I shiver and look around, counting cameras. “Where are we going?” I ask again.

  “To an obscure industrial park on the outskirts of town,” he replies as he strides out of the front of the station, head swiveling in search of taxis like a vigilant blackbird after a juicy earthworm. We pause beside a row of pantone-colored concrete seagulls. “A place called Hanslope Park. Home to an organization called HMGCC.”

  “Her Majesty’s GNU C Compiler?” I blink stupidly at the daylight.

  “No, Her Majesty’s Government Communications Centre. Very much not open source, Mr. Howard.”

  “Oh.” Something about the address rings a bell from years ago, but I’m not certain yet. I stare at the seagulls. My skin crawls; I have bad memories of Milton Keynes, but they mostly center on the concrete cows and a compromised research station that may or may not have been located close to Hanslope Park. A sign beside the station entrance tells me that the local schools are having a seagull parade, with a charity draw and a prize for the best avian paint job. “So we’re making the rounds?”

  “It generally attracts less attention than an external request.” A taxi pulls up between a puce seabird with bright red eyes and a startled expression and another gull wearing authentic 1940s Luftwaffe insignia. We climb in.

  HMGCC is one of those boringly standardized cookie-cutter government installations that look like a blighted industrial estate: crappy seventies brutalist office architecture and prefabricated concrete warehouses with an open car park behind razor-wire-topped fences and signs saying BEWARE OF THE DOG. For all I know it could be right next door to the unit where I had my happy-fun encounter with Mark McLuhan; these places are so anonymous they could be anything. A bonded whisky warehouse, a bank cash center, or a factory where they build nuclear warheads. Further back, behind the buildings and out of sight of the road, there will be satellite dishes and exposed runs of cabling and pipes between buildings, and stuff of interest to spies and trainspotters—but first you have to get inside.

  Lockhart stops our taxi driver at the front gate, pays, and we walk up to an impressive set of wire gates that are overlooked from three directions by white masts bending under the weight of CCTV cameras and antennae. My skin is just about ready to
crawl off my neck and sprint screaming up the street—I know what those cameras are for!—but Lockhart pulls out his warrant card and advances on the gate guard. “Gerald Lockhart and Robert Howard to see Dr. Traviss. We’re expected.”

  Half an hour and the electronic equivalent of a body cavity search later—I swear they’re using me as a guinea pig for the scanners for next decade’s airport security theater—we arrive in a small, dingy office with high, frosted-glass windows and too much furniture. It’s clearly one of the graveyards where the MOD filing cabinets go to die. There’s a too-small meeting table, and three occupied seats. The occupants stand as Lockhart shakes hands. “Bob, this is Dr. Traviss.” A tall, gloomy-looking fellow in a suit and horn-rimmed glasses, Traviss seems only marginally aware of his surroundings. “This is Alan Fraser”—a government-issue scientific officer, subtype: short, hairy, and explosive, probably screeches all over the home counties on a monstrously overpowered motorbike every weekend to reassure himself that he still has a life—“and this is Warrant Officer O’Hara”—a blue-suiter, middle-aged, clearly along for the ride with orders to shoot the boffins if they try to think too hard. “Dr. Traviss, Bob is the individual you were briefed on yesterday.” Oh, really? I think. “He’s going overseas. Bob, these fellows are going to equip you for inventory tracking.”

  I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. “You aren’t planning on using destiny entanglement on me, are you? Because last time—”

  Lockhart cuts across me: “Nothing of the kind,” he snaps. “Destiny entanglement leaks. It’s a security violation waiting to happen.”