by Will Hill
“There won’t be any,” said Allen. “They’re not really hostages. They’re a human shield.”
Guérin nodded. “Has NATO decided on a response?”
“As of this moment, the priority remains evacuation. We get the city clear before the deadline, then reassess the situation.”
“Has a tactical strike been ruled out?”
“For now,” said Allen.
“I saw what was done to Château Dauncy,” said Guérin. “Is a similar result not possible here?”
Allen smiled. “Château Dauncy was a unique situation, Captain,” he said. “There was only a single non-vampire inside, and he was a serving member of Blacklight who was aware of the risks. Here we have more than a hundred civilians at the primary location, plus thousands more in the surrounding area. Neither NATO nor the government in Paris think our first response should be to flatten a city, and I can promise you that Beijing and Washington agree with them, at least for now.”
“I understand,” said Guérin.
“General?” shouted a voice.
Allen turned, and felt his smile widen into a grin. During the five minutes he had been talking to the French Captain, a large grey building had appeared in the centre of the field, seemingly out of nowhere. The woman who had shouted, a Technical Division Specialist named Luisa Ramirez, was standing in front of it.
“Yes, Operator?” he asked.
“We’re up, sir,” said Ramirez. “Ready for your inspection.”
Allen nodded. The compound would eventually sprawl far beyond the single structure that had been erected so far, but getting the nerve centre up and running, less than ten minutes after landing, was outstanding.
“Excellent,” he said, and turned back to face Guérin. “I’m going to ask you to be part of my command team, Captain. Can you handle that?”
“Yes, sir,” said Guérin, and smiled proudly. “Thank you.”
“All right,” he said. “I’ll keep you informed. Dismissed.”
Guérin saluted, turned sharply on his heels, and strode away towards the white tents. Allen watched him go, then walked across to the grey building, and pushed open the door.
The majority of the wide room was piled high with boxes and cases and coils of wires, but a space at the far end was immaculately tidy. There, a wide bench had been bolted to the metal floor, upon which sat five networked terminals and a dozen screens showing satellite images of Carcassonne, rotating feeds from the city’s CCTV network, French and American twenty-four-hour news channels, various comms windows, and the remote-access screen for the NS9 network.
“Everything’s hot,” said Ramirez, emerging from behind the bench with a soldering iron in her hand. “Secure lines in and out, radar and radio and satellite surveillance. All the comforts of home, sir.”
Allen grinned. “Great work, Operator,” he said. “Let me get settled in.”
Ramirez nodded and exited, closing the door behind her.
Allen dragged a chair across to the bench, sat down, and cycled quickly through the CCTV feeds; he knew what he was going to see, but needed to check for himself. The screen showed a series of monochrome images of the shopping streets of Carcassonne, train and bus stations, bars and restaurants, then turned black for almost a minute. He noted the numbers of the cameras until the screen came back to life with a shot looking up the hill towards the medieval city, and checked their locations against the list that had been loaded on to his desktop.
As I expected, thought Allen. All the cameras in the old city are down. He doesn’t want us watching him.
He looked back at the screen. The walls of medieval Carcassonne reared up, thick and wide and seemingly impenetrable, topped with impaled bodies that were even more gruesome in grainy black and white. Had it not been for the parked cars visible at the bottom of the frame, he could have easily believed he was looking at an image that was hundreds of years old; a medieval castle, bristling with ghastly trophies, ready to repel invaders.
The NS9 Director sat back in his chair and pulled his radio from his belt. He keyed in a frequency, pressed SEND, and held the handset to his ear.
“Sir?” said a voice, instantly.
“I need to see you in the command centre,” he said. “Right away.”
“On my way, sir.”
Allen cut the line, and got up from his chair in time to see Danny Lawrence step through the door.
“Everything OK, sir?” asked the Operator.
“Fine,” said Allen. “Did I see you send the squads to check the camp?”
“Yes, sir,” said Danny. “I told them to report back at 1430.”
Allen checked his watch. Forty-eight minutes from now.
“All right,” he said. “I want a security perimeter in place as soon as possible, including a strict no-fly zone. News helicopters hovering overhead is the last thing we need. I doubt we can confiscate the cellphone of every resident of Carcassonne, but I want it made very clear to them that they are part of a military operation, whether they like it or not. I don’t want to see any photos of Operators on Twitter. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” said Danny.
“Good,” said Allen. “Bring me the compiled reconnaissance reports when you have them, then take a squad into the city and assess the situation on the ground. There are still four hours of daylight left, so don’t go anywhere near the old city, just get a sense of what’s happening in there. Clear?”
Danny nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
“How are you feeling about this?” asked Valentin, as the lift doors closed.
“About what?” asked Matt.
“Lining up your friends and colleagues to let me bite them.”
He grimaced. “How do you think I feel about it?”
The vampire shrugged. “I have no idea,” he said. “I would assume that you find the concept unpleasant, but that you intend to stiffen your upper lip and bravely carry on in the name of the greater good. But you seem largely unperturbed.”
“Of course I don’t like it,” he said, “but it’s necessary.”
“Necessary,” repeated Valentin, and nodded. “That word has been the justification for many of the worst things that have ever happened.”
“Can you just shut up?” he asked. “Please?”
Valentin mimed zipping his lips closed. Matt sighed, and stared at the wall of the lift, silently urging it to hurry. He hated spending time with the youngest of the Rusmanov brothers; it felt like walking a tightrope over quicksand, where one wrong step might cost him dearly. He was a scientist, a believer in facts and hypotheses, and the only certainty when it came to Valentin was that he could not trust a single word the vampire said.
Of course he didn’t like PROMETHEUS; it bothered him greatly, far more than he would have admitted to anyone other than Natalia and Paul Turner. He really did believe it was necessary, that it might be the Department’s only chance to face Dracula on anything like a level playing field, but he understood all too well the moral and ethical issues the project raised, especially the decision to make it mandatory. In the Zero Hour Task Force briefing that had just finished, he had refused to let Jack Williams back him down; he had stood his ground, as shock and disappointment rose on to the faces of his colleagues and friends, but the hail of shouted questions and protests had hurt him deeply. He would have had to be a monster for them not to.
He winced at the memory of the look on Jamie’s face as he realised that Matt had deceived him. It had been disappointment, rather than anger, which had been far worse; the look of someone whose heart was hardening behind his eyes.
Can’t think about that now, he told himself. You can fix things with Jamie later, if he lets you. Right now, you need to focus.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Mr Browning?” asked Valentin.
Mercifully, the lift slowed to a halt on Level C, and Matt slid through the opening doors without responding. He walked down the corridor with Valentin flying easily
at his side, and pushed open the double doors of the infirmary, which had been hurriedly emptied to make way for the launch of PROMETHEUS; testing of the cure had been suspended in the aftermath of Dracula’s attack on Carcassonne, and those civilians who had been recovering inside the long white room had been moved up to empty quarters on Level B.
The infirmary was now crammed full of beds, eighteen along each wall, each enclosed by a white privacy curtain; the turn could be a horrible, undignified experience, even with abundant blood and medical professionals on hand. The plan was to turn the first thirty-six Operators whose names had been selected at random, then the next thirty-six, and so on until it was done. The projection was that it would take three and a half days, although there were very few certainties where the mechanics of vampirism were concerned.
At the back of the room stood a sombre line of men and women. Paul Turner was at its centre, with two of the Loop’s medical staff on either side of him. To one side stood six Operators from the Security Division; they eyed Valentin with clear disdain as Matt led the vampire down the long room and stopped in front of the Director, who nodded.
“So,” said Valentin, grinning widely. “Where do you want me?”
Matt watched with growing unease as Operators, a large number of whom he recognised, filed into the infirmary.
At the front of the queue was Angela Darcy, her face pale and determined. Five or six places behind her was Dominique Saint-Jacques, and near the back was Lizzy Ellison, whom Matt had never actually spoken to but felt like he knew from Jamie’s many stories about her. All of a sudden, PROMETHEUS felt very real; something that had started out as a distant hypothetical was about to actually happen, and the thought churned his stomach, particularly if he glanced at the expression of hungry delight on Valentin’s face.
Near the doors of the infirmary, one of the doctors was checking names off a list. When she was finished, she made her way down to the front of the room and spoke to Paul Turner in a low voice.
“Thirty-four, sir,” she said. “Lester and McCluskey aren’t here.”
Turner nodded, then turned to the Security Operators. “Have them found.”
The squad leader nodded, pulled his radio from his belt, and spoke rapidly into it.
“This is actually happening, then?” asked one of the queuing Operators. He stepped out of line and stared down the infirmary, his eyes narrow with anger. “It’s not a joke? You actually expect me to let that piece of shit bite me?”
“Ouch,” said Valentin, a smile on his narrow face. “That hurts my feelings.”
“Your orders were clear, Lieutenant,” said Turner, ignoring the vampire. “Get back in line and be quiet.”
The Operator stepped forward, his face flushing red with fury. “You can’t make me,” he said. “This is bullshit. It’s inhuman.”
“Your concerns have been noted,” said Turner. “Now get back into line. Don’t make me tell you again.”
“My concerns have been noted?” said the Operator. “Have they really? That’s great. That’s absolutely bloody fantastic. Why do I have to let him bite me, when everyone knows they turned the Broadmoor patients with injections? Why can’t you at least do that?”
“That is not an option at this time,” said Turner, his voice full of ice.
“Why not?” demanded the Operator, and pointed at Valentin. “Because he wouldn’t agree to it? Because he wants to bite people and you’re just going to let him?”
Valentin’s smile widened into a grin as Turner visibly fought to control his temper. “You have two choices, Lieutenant,” said the Director. “You can follow the order in hand, or you can go to the cells. Which is it going to be?”
Matt stared, his heart pounding. PROMETHEUS hadn’t even started, and already it was going wrong.
The red-faced Operator walked slowly towards the Director, every pair of eyes in the room on him as he moved, and put his arms out before him, his wrists together.
“I’ll take the cells,” he said. “Better that than this. Much better.”
“Fine,” said Turner. “Have it your way.”
He looked over at the Security squad, and nodded. Two of them stepped forward and zip-tied the Operator’s wrists, then led him silently towards the infirmary doors. Matt watched them go, then looked at the remainder of the line, wondering who was going to be the next to protest; if they all made the same decision as their colleague, PROMETHEUS was going to be dead in the water.
“Anyone else?” shouted Turner, causing a number of the queuing Operators to jump. “Anyone else unable to follow a simple order? Before you make your decision, I would urge you to think about why this is happening. Do you think it’s because we like putting you through something unpleasant? Or because we believe it gives us our best chance, perhaps our only chance, of defeating Dracula? I understand that it’s unusual, that nothing like this has been done in the history of the Department, but you all know that we now have a working cure for vampirism, and your orders make it perfectly clear that PROMETHEUS is a temporary measure. But they are still orders, and I expect you to follow them. So raise your hand, right now, if you’re unwilling to do so.”
The colour had drained from a number of Operators’ faces, but nobody moved, and Matt breathed a silent sigh of relief.
“Thank you,” said Turner, and turned towards him. “Carry on, Lieutenant Browning.”
Matt nodded, and looked at Valentin.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Of course,” replied the vampire. “I’m positively salivating with anticipation.”
Matt grimaced. “All right then,” he said. “Let’s get started.”
Angela Darcy stepped forward, her eyes slightly narrowed. Matt, who had spent his first months at the Loop in the grip of an overpowering crush on the deadly former spy, swallowed hard and forced a small smile.
“What do you need me to do?” she asked.
“Open your collar, please,” said Valentin. “And turn your head to one side.”
Angela fixed him with a disgusted stare, then unfastened the collar of her uniform, lowered its zip past her collarbones, and tilted her head. There was no fear on her face as the vampire stepped towards her, just a clear desire for this to be over and done with as quickly as possible.
Valentin took hold of her waist with one hand, and placed the other against her cheek. Angela shuddered, but stayed still as the vampire leant slowly forward, his eyes smouldering red, and buried his face in her neck. Her eyes flew wide, and Matt saw her fists clench as an awful sucking sound filled the room; he stared, appalled by the reality unfolding before him, until out of the corner of his eye he saw the Director shoot him a quizzical look, and remembered himself.
“That’s enough,” he said.
Valentin didn’t move. Over the vampire’s shoulder, Angela met his eyes.
“That’s enough, Valentin,” Matt said, his voice rising, and grabbed the vampire’s shoulder.
Valentin turned on him, his face a monstrous vision, and Matt felt his stomach turn to water. The vampire’s fangs were huge and gleaming, his mouth smeared with blood and twisted into a snarl, his eyes roaring with swirling crimson-black as Matt stared into them, frozen solid with terror. Then the glowing fire died, as suddenly as if a switch had been flipped inside the vampire’s head.
“I’m sorry,” said Valentin, his voice low, and released his grip on the Security Officer. Angela’s hand flew to her neck, but she didn’t back away; she stared at the vampire with hatred twisting her face.
“I’m sorry,” repeated Valentin. “It has been a long time since I tasted human blood. Especially human blood as sweet as that.”
The vampire smiled at Angela, who gave him a wide smile in return, then stepped forward and spat in his face.
Oh shit, thought Matt, and looked desperately at the Director. Turner was watching with his usual impassive expression, but his hand had gone to the grip of his T-Bone.
A deep growl rumbled from the vampire
’s throat. Slowly – dreadfully, ominously slowly – he raised his hand and wiped the spit from his cheek, his eyes locked on Angela as red flickered in their corners.
“Valentin,” said Turner, his voice low and full of warning.
The vampire and the Security Officer stared at each other for a seemingly endless moment, pregnant with the prospect of disaster. Then, with a casualness that was either genuine or a truly phenomenal piece of acting, Valentin broke their gaze and smiled at Matt.
“Next,” he said.
A doctor appeared at Angela’s side, pressed a bandage to her neck, and led her towards one of the beds. She looked back over her shoulder as she went, her eyes full of anger, until a curtain was drawn round the bed at the furthest end of the room, hiding her from view.
The second Operator in line stepped forward, a man in his early forties whom Matt didn’t recognise. His face was ghostly pale, but his hands were steady as he unzipped his uniform and turned his head.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Valentin, smiling at the man. “Roll your sleeve up, for heaven’s sake.”
The man frowned, but did as he was told. Valentin raised the Operator’s arm, gave the skin of the wrist the tiniest bite imaginable, and let him go.
“Next,” said the vampire.
Pete Randall put his car into gear and followed Greg Browning through the dark streets of Lincoln, keeping a safe distance between them.
He had tried to persuade himself that everything was fine, for mostly personal reasons; he was tired, and he wanted more than anything to believe in what they were doing at SSL, that it really was the force for good that Greg had pitched to him.
But he could no longer convince himself. His friend’s behaviour following the announcement of the cure had been the final straw, the tipping point for concerns that had been growing steadily for some time, not least the unsettling coincidences he had found in the call logs, the incident with the security guard at the blood drive in Peterborough, and Greg’s blatant lies afterwards.
Pete hoped there was nothing going on. He really, truly did. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to have to admit to himself that he was simply a paranoid fool who had clearly lost the ability to trust people.