“That would work.” Persephone glances at me. “If they knew we were here.”
“Yes, well.” I tap the pizza box. She swears loudly and swerves. “It shouldn’t be able to talk. I put wards on this box that are strong enough to gag a death metal band. But if it’s found some kind of back-channel—”
Persephone isn’t listening to me: she’s chanting something in a tonal language that makes the hairs on my arms stand up, and her eyes are shut. I’m about to make a grab for the steering wheel—we’re beginning to drift out of our lane—when she turns her head to the box, then turns sharply frontwards and opens her eyes again. “Merde.”
“Yes?”
“It is leaking. Bleed-through in the Other Place.”
“The other—” Oh. That’s one of the things about ritual magicians; they use visual or tactile metaphors instead of nice standard well-defined terminology. The Other Place, the astral plane, the land of dreams—it’s not a real place like, say, Walsall. But it’s a metaphor for a mathematical abstraction, a manifold containing an n-dimensional space where everything is the product of geometrical transformations, including mass and energy and time. Leakage between dimensions occurs there: it’s how we summon demons from the vasty deep, communicate with aliens, and try to extract our tax codes from the Inland Revenue. And if she says it’s leaking—“I should have grounded it there, too?”
“That might not have worked.” Her fingers are white on the wheel. “It has an astral body: separate the two and it’ll probably die. It’s connected to something in the distance off and to the right. Like a spiderweb. I think it’s in the compound near Palmer Lake. Which is the next turnoff.”
Signs blur towards us, warning of a junction: turn right for the Air Force Academy. Without indicating, Persephone crosses lanes and brakes hard, dragging us into a sharp turn before merging with a main road below the grade of the interstate. “Hey!” I say.
“We’re going to Palmer Lake,” she says firmly, “to pay a visit to the Golden Promise Ministries compound while Schiller’s people are attending their revival show. Besides, it’s lit up like a lighthouse in the Other Place.”
“But the church service—”
“Is fuel for Schiller’s invocation, yes, but do you think he’ll have set up the major summoning itself in the middle of a mega-church?”
It’s like arguing with a madwoman, except she’s not mad. “But he might have—”
“No. He hasn’t had the free run of the mega-church until very recently. If he had, he wouldn’t be using it to attract new victims. They’d already belong to him.”
It’s hard to argue with her logic because it fits the pattern that’s emerging, but I really want her to be wrong. A few months back, Mo came home in meltdown after closing down CLUB ZERO in Amsterdam—a circle of cultist fanatics (from this neck of the woods, now that I think about it) who’d decided to summon up something unpleasant. The venue for the summoning was a deconsecrated Lutheran chapel, but the fuel was the kindergarten on the other side of the road. Linked by a path through the Other Place—exactly the MO Persephone is proposing. I really want Persephone to be wrong about this.
“If he’s got the summoning grid set up in his own compound, then there’ll be a connection via the Other Place to the church,” I reason aloud. “This is the shortest route to Schiller. Bypasses his muscle, too.” I’m whistling past the graveyard at this point, you understand. “As long as he hasn’t already woken the Sleeper.”
“The Sleeper.” She takes her eyes off the road ahead long enough to spare me a sharp glance. “What exactly do you know about it?”
I look at the pizza box on my lap. The complaints department is quiescent, locked down by occult manacles. “It’s not human. Dead but immortal. Sleeps in a temple on a high plateau, surrounded by a lovely necromantic picket fence constructed by a genocidal maniac more than ninety years ago. On a planet that’s definitely not in our neck of the woods, if not in our universe.” I shiver. “It’s sometimes known as the Opener or the Gatekeeper.” I know more about it than that, but I’m not sure how much Persephone knows and I don’t want to provoke my oath of office again.
“That’ll do,” she says absent-mindedly as she wrestles the car through a sharp left turn onto a narrower street where the snowfall is outpacing the traffic’s ability to turn it into slush. “You’re mostly right, although I hope your analysis is wrong. Disturbing the Gatekeeper would be bad. Not so much in its own right, but because of what’s on the other side of the gate.” With that encouraging sentiment she hits the gas again; the wheels spin for a few alarming seconds, then we’re back on course.
We haul ass through snow-capped suburbia for a few silent minutes. Side roads with scattered houses roll by every few hundred meters. I stare at the pizza box in my lap, nervous and upset and simultaneously keyed-up. The thing inside is in communion with its master: they’ll know we’re coming. It’s probably a directional beacon, too. But by the same token, I ought to be able to use it to probe what’s going on ahead. If I dare to shut down part of the firewall I’ve built around it and stick my head up against it, of course. That option does not appeal.
I’ve been keeping my mind inside my own head ever since the incident back at the hotel, because to say I don’t like my new-found proficiency at soul-sucking is a bit like saying that cats don’t like swimming. But there may be no alternative, if I want to try spoofing our location.
I take a deep breath. “Persephone. Your map. Can you show it to me?”
She chuckles grimly. “All you need to do is open your eyes, Mr. Howard.”
“But I don’t—” I stop. No more excuses. The inner eye, the vision thing, that’s what let me know there were monsters on the other side of the door, isn’t it. That’s how I saw the feeders under Brookwood last year.
“You’re a necromancer, Mr. Howard, not just another button-pushing computer nerd. That’s why they sent you here with me. You have the aptitude for ad hoc invocation and control. I think you would be extremely powerful, if you get over your squeamishness. It makes you as useful as a heart surgeon who faints at the sight of blood.”
I stifle the urge to swear at her. Instead, I close my eyes as we tear down the highway towards Palmer Lake and the turnoff for Schiller’s compound, and force myself to gaze inwards. There is a sudden shift of perspective as the world changes. And then I see—
IN THE MIDDLE OF THE TABLE SITS AN ANTIQUE ROTARY-DIAL telephone. It dates to an age when telephones were made of wood and brass, crowned with the royal crest of George the Fifth’s Post Office. A separate speaking horn carved from yellowing bakelite or some other more organic substance hangs by a hook from its side, connected by a length of cloth-wrapped wire.
Four people sit at one side of the table: Angleton, Lockhart, and the two Auditors.
The phone sits in the middle of an elaborate double ward, concentric Möbius loops of eye-bending power wrapped around its base. There is no sign of a power source or telegraph wire connected to it. Nevertheless, the audience watch with abated speech as Angleton carefully lifts the speaking horn and dials a series of digits.
“Hello, I’d like to speak to Overseas Liaison, please.” He leans across the table, placing his ear close to the speaker. “Yes. This is Angleton. I am calling on behalf of SOE on official business. I would appreciate an immediate conference call with a representative of your Internal Affairs department. This concerns current events in Colorado Springs and Denver.” He waits for almost a minute. “Yes, that is correct. As I said, we would like to discuss this matter with you—oh very well.”
He hangs up the speaking horn and sits back, arms crossed.
“Well?” asks Lockhart.
“They’ll call us back.”
“Really.” The female Auditor’s lips are a thin line. “This is preposterous—did they give any indication as to how long they would take? We have an operation to run—”
Silently, without any fuss, the walls of the meeting room dissolv
e. The conference table extends, doubling in length, but the far side is ash-gray and the three figures that sit behind it are indistinct shapes, shrouded in cloaks and cowls of black mist, their faces in shadow.
Angleton, clearly unimpressed, nods at the new arrivals. “Good evening. Can you identify yourselves?”
There is silence for a few seconds. Then the leftmost of the wraithlike figures nods, a slight inclination of the cowl that hints at a skull within. “I am Officer Black. This”—a band of mist that might conceal a hand, or some other, less human limb, gestures to its right—“is Officer Green. And I have the pleasure of introducing Patrick O’Donnell, formerly of the Hazard Network, subsequently one of our freelance informers, now deceased.”
The phantom limb stretches alarmingly past Officer Green and flips back the hood covering the wreckage of O’Donnell’s head.
Lockhart swears very quietly—but not so quietly that he escapes notice.
Officer Black emits a dry chuckle. “Remember our service motto? ‘Death is no escape.’ Now, who are you?”
Angleton points at Lockhart: “This is Officer Blue. And you can call these two”—he gestures at the two Auditors, who are watching, rapt—“Officers Red and Yellow.” A mirthless smile wrinkles the corners of his eyes but reaches no further. “You have a problem. We have a problem. And I think it’s the same problem.”
Officer Black folds his arms. The drape of the fabric suggests extreme emaciation. “However, your agents within the Continental United States are illegals, under Title 18 of the US Code—‘gathering or delivering defense information to aid foreign government,’ not to mention Title—”
“Bullshit!” Angleton snaps. “As you well know, the UKUSA Treaty exception takes precedence. What’s sauce for the goose will do for the gander.” He clears his throat. “And before you continue with your next point, we felt it necessary to act immediately. In the absence of evidence that your assets in the warded zone had not been turned by the opposition, and because of certain other considerations, we could not go through the bilateral coordinating committee. Your late colleague’s presence here”—he nods in the direction of O’Donnell’s ghostly wreckage—“suggests that we were right to do so. The situation is deteriorating by the hour, so I suggest we discontinue the bluster and concentrate on ways of preventing a meltdown.”
Officer Green’s hood twitches, but he—or she, or it—passes no comment. Officer Black, however, appears to be considering Angleton’s words carefully. Finally he nods. “Would you care to summarize your understanding of the situation?”
Angleton pointedly looks for the chief Auditor’s permissive nod before he speaks. “We are dealing with a particularly dangerous cult: Christian millennialists who are reading from some extra books in their Bible. They set up shop in Colorado Springs and have extended their influence through Denver and Colorado in recent years, but they were under our radar until very recently because of the resemblance to ordinary evangelicals. Our interest was triggered”—he glances sideways for permission to proceed—“by their missionary activity in London, and specifically by what appeared to be an attempt to suborn members of our highest level of government.”
Officer Black nods again. “Was your concern justified?”
“Yes, I think so.” Angleton laces his fingers together in a bony pile upon the tablecloth. He frowns thunderously. “Our officers secured a copy of the Bible used by the Inner Circle of the Golden Promise Ministries. Its apocrypha provide a recipe for performing a Class Five Major Summoning, and a theological imperative to do so. It’s a necromantic ritual, like most such pre-modern operations, and prodigiously wasteful—completely unoptimized. The body count just to open the portal is in the hundreds; to actually bootstrap the target entity to full immanence it’s in the double-digit millions. Oh, and there’s worse: Pastor Schiller has got his hands on a fertile tongue-eater, and is using its spawn to conscript and direct bellwethers. We ordered our assets to scram, but this morning they confirmed that they’re having difficulty evacuating and there are indications that Schiller is proceeding with the second stage of the summoning, the build-out. Hence this call.”
The Senior Auditor, who has been watching with an expression of distant amusement, takes Angleton’s silence as his cue. He abruptly raises his right index finger and points it at Officer Green. “I command you to speak,” he says mildly.
The robed and shadowed figure’s response is remarkable: it quivers spasmodically, shrinks in on itself, then expands back to original size, emitting a burp of foul-smelling bluish smoke as it does so. A hacking, emphysemic cough follows, which goes on for a long time. Finally, a thin piping emanates from the depths of its hood: “Fuck you!”
Angleton raises an eyebrow at the Senior Auditor, who shakes his head. “Ancient history.” He looks back at Officer Green. “I do not approve of your presence at this table. Explain yourself immediately!” He turns to Officer Black. “Your choice of colleagues does not incline us to trust your bona fides,” he adds icily.
Lockhart, who has been watching the exchange from the sidelines, leans back in his seat and fans himself, looking faintly aghast.
“I don’t work for you anymore, Michael,” Officer Green quavers. “Not this century, you bastard.” He stretches out an arm, lays a hooklike claw on the other side of the illusory shared table; it appears horribly burned. Then he raises his other claw and pulls back his cowl, to reveal a thing of horror.
The Senior Auditor looks at him evenly. “To betray your oath of office was your decision, not mine.” He looks at his colleague, who is shaking her head, appalled: “I don’t think there’s any point continuing with—”
“Please wait.” Officer Black speaks. “This will be investigated.” His tone is much less self-assured. “You are correct in your inferences about the Golden Promise Ministries. More to the point, they have raised a ward against us around a substantial part of central Colorado—from south of Colorado Springs to north of Denver. Your people appear to be able to move freely across it because it was programmed to detect our sigil of office. Which is highly suggestive of an internal rogue element, but that is not your concern; Internal Affairs will investigate in due course. That is not all, however. Yesterday an artificial weather system blanketed the area, and all flights are grounded. They have also suborned the highway patrol, the Denver police department, and the local FBI office.”
“What about the military?” asks the female Auditor. She leans forward intently. “Aren’t there any units within the area that can intervene?”
“No. The only major installation within the zone is the Air Force Academy.”
“Well, can’t you use them? Arm the students and—”
“The Academy is under investigation for discrimination against non-evangelicals,” Black says dismissively. “The faculty and student body must be presumed hostile.”
“So you’re locked out of the area,” Angleton muses. “I take it O’Donnell here was your last remaining asset in Denver?” O’Donnell’s shade nods. Something grayish-pink peeps briefly at the world through the shattered eggshell of his skull. “If our people can deactivate the ward from the inside, how well positioned are you to follow through?”
Officer Green pipes up: “We have assets sleeping in place.” He grins, heat-cracked ivory flashing in a carbonized jaw. “You are not the only soul-eater, Doctor.”
The female Auditor clears her throat. “We want our people back. Preferably alive.”
Officer Black looks at her. “If they survive, we will not prevent them leaving.”
“Forgive me for saying this, but your people have a reputation for not playing well with allied—”
But she is talking to a blank wall, for Officer Black has vanished into the Other Place from which he came, taking his horror show companions with him.
“Well, I think that went reasonably well, all things considered!” The Senior Auditor remarks to the suddenly small and dingy room, as he reaches for the water carafe to
fill a tumbler with a hand that is only very slightly shaky.
Angleton shakes his head. “Longer spoon next time,” he murmurs.
The female Auditor is visibly frustrated. “They’re relying on our assets to do their dirty work, and they won’t even guarantee safe passage!”
“Then they’d better be up for the job, hadn’t they?” Lockhart shows his teeth. “Mahogany Row sent them—except for Doctor Angleton’s secretary, of course. Who is not without resources of his own.”
“One may hope so.” Angleton reaches for the table water. “But I admit I wasn’t expecting him to have to deal with a challenge of this magnitude so soon.”
* * *
ANOTHER PROBLEM WITH GODHEADS, JOHNNY REFLECTS, IS that they can’t quite understand how anyone could not believe their shit. (He knows this because he started out as one, although he lost his faith before his balls dropped.) Consequently, they have immense difficulty in grasping, at an intuitive level, that someone who used to be one of them might no longer be completely in tune with their ideology.
Here he is, sitting snug in the leather-lined baseball catcher’s mitt of a luxury-trimmed Suburban, surrounded by fake walnut veneer and cup holders and power sockets, staring out at a blizzard through tinted windows. Up front a godshattered man in black with a cymothoan parasite in place of his tongue wrestles with the power steering. (At least it isn’t one of the hypercastrating variants, Johnny notes with relief; those things give him the cold shudders.) It is apparent that Schiller’s people have caught up on their research: they’ve worked out who and what Johnny is, which is why they’ve switched from shoot-on-sight to the velvet-glove treatment, like it was all a bad mistake and they want to kiss and make up. It’s that damned summoning recipe from the Book of Apocalypse, of course. If Schiller popped out of nowhere then it follows that he may be short on willing elders to help with the ritual.
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