by John Ringo
There had been occasional moments in his job when George wished he could crawl under a rock and forget everything he knew about Special Circumstances. He knew he was the best guy to be sitting in the seat; he just wished he wasn’t. But there had never previously been a time when he wished he could just have a stroke, right now-go out quick and not have to hear the rest of a conversation.
He was feeling that way.
There were never very many SC investigations. So he read the field reports every morning. And he had a near-eidetic memory. Furthermore, not only were the Madness killings a major SC hot spot, the description of the jewelry the “hostess” wore was strangely hard to forget. He’d read Kurt’s report, including his reporting of Adept Three Everette’s reactions and suspicions.
And now he had found out that the US Government, specifically the DOD, had its fingerprints all over the Madness killings.
Oh. Joy. Might as well call Chattanooga “Raccoon City.”
There was only one thing to do. Dissemble.
“I can take care of that, I’m sure,” Grosskopf said. “But I’ll need the contract code, the SCAP box, and the name of the contracting company.”
“Why?” Roland said, frowning.
“To make sure we don’t stumble on each other again,” Grosskopf said, smoothly.
“Very well,” Roland replied. He pulled a file from his briefcase and laid it on the desk. “I rather thought you might need some of that. This is all that is transmissible for the purposes of this discussion. It’s a very sensitive project.”
“I understand,” George said, standing up and holding out his hand. “Sorry we had this little bump.”
“No problem,” Roland said, all smiles. “But to be clear, there are no more issues, right?”
Grosskopf knew what he should say but he just couldn’t do it.
“When you speak to the company representative, assure him that there will be no further interest from the FBI.”
“That’s not the same as there is no further interest from the FBI,” Roland said, a touch angrily.
“Dr. Roland,” the ADD said. “Let me be perfectly blunt. If you do not assure the company representative that there will be no further interest from the FBI, then you will never work in government service again. Or as a Beltway Bandit. When it comes to who meets the criteria for secure information, the FBI Deputy Director is God. And in certain matters, and this is one, I sit at his right hand. You. Will. Assure. The. Company. Representative. If you have to give an Oscar-winning performance to do so.”
“What is going on?” Roland asked, ashen.
George flexed his jaw muscles for a moment then smiled thinly.
“This is all that is transmissible for the purposes of this discussion. It’s a very sensitive project.”
“Satire…”
“Is all I’m willing to give you at the moment,” Grosskopf said, now furious. “Except one more thing. The next time DARPA decides to go fucking around with the supernatural, clear it with this department first!”
“How did you know…?” Roland asked then paused. “What is Special Investigations?”
“You are now beyond your need to know,” Grosskopf said. “But you can be assured that my DD will be talking to your Director by the end of the day. Good day, Dr. Roland.”
Grosskopf took several deep breaths after the door was closed, then picked up the handset of his STU and hit the red button.
“Sir, we have a serious problem…”
Germaine looked at the secure message from the Special Investigations Department and the added note from the Deputy Director and sighed. He had been dreading this day. Thus far, through careful manipulation, the Foundation had managed to head off most scientific inquiry into the realm of the supernatural.
The frank reality was that in most cases it simply wouldn’t work. Gods and demons did not care for humans prying into their secrets and would actively work against experimentation. “It seems a fact that miracles can only occur in an environment devoid of skepticism.” This was held up by scientists as proof that “believers” were simply deluded.
What scientists failed to appreciate was that they were trying to quantify something that active, thinking entities simply did not want quantified.
But there were occasional attempts, researchers willing to stake their reputations on quantifying “the paranormal.” And they almost invariably failed. If the powers that created such paranormal events didn’t ensure it, the Foundation certainly tried its best. In most cases, funding simply dried up. “Investigate ghosts? Get a real job.”
The “almost” usually had to do with demons. Some researcher would find a functional summoning method and use it. And usually end up dead or possessed. It happened to poor Tesla in the end.
This, however, was something different. The psychotics in Chattanooga were not even members of the test group. And the researchers apparently had managed to avoid possession. This, in fact, was a nightmare. The entity matched nothing he, even with his vast knowledge of the occult, recognized. But there was one lead.
And there were others, a very few, with more knowledge than he. And access to even more esoteric tomes and texts. He picked up the phone.
“Dr. Carson, it is Germaine. I would like you to look at a symbol and see if you can find any information on it…”
There was another call he felt he had to make. As he talked to Dr. Carson, he pulled out his pad and started typing in a message in Attic Greek.
The language of the Vatican.
Barb was frustrated. She knew that the plague affecting the area had something to do with the Art District. But a solid hunch was not enough for a search warrant.
They’d interviewed more counselors and determined that, whatever their differences, all seven of the Madders had “anger management issues.” But that was all they had. A hunch about the Art District, a trail of shell corporations and seven psychotics with “anger management issues.”
“We need a break,” Kurt said, looking at another set of field notes.
“We need to get a look inside those buildings,” Barb said.
“I mean a break as in ‘coffee,’” Kurt corrected. “Want anything?”
“No,” Barb said.
As if by timing, as soon as Kurt was out of sight her cell phone rang. It was the ringtone of the Foundation: “Amazing Grace.”
“Mrs. Everette, it’s Augustus.”
“How are you, Mr. Germaine?” Barb asked.
“Busy. This will all sound very dramatic, but bear with me. I would request that you go, unaccompanied, to Our Lady of Perpetual Help Catholic church and see Sister Mary Katherine. The sister will introduce you to a man there. You should block out at least one hour for doing so. He has additional information for you on this matter.”
“Very well,” Barbara said, nodding. “I take it asking for a hint is pointless.”
“It is,” Germaine said. “Godspeed.”
When Kurt came back Barb was gone. He shrugged, set down the two cups of coffee and picked up another set of notes.
Our Lady of Perpetual Help church turned out to be a sprawling campus just off of Interstate 75 that included not just a church but a Catholic school and a large rectory. Barbara eventually found the nun she had been directed to find, and was led to a small residential building behind the main buildings and directed to a room at the end of the hall.
The man who opened the door was dressed in a pink polo shirt and green slacks and was tall, dark and handsome. Those were the three words that went through her mind along with a quick and strong stab of physical attraction. She suppressed the latter and said a very quick prayer of forgiveness. But he was just hot as hell. Latin, unquestionably, despite a definite northern US accent, bit over six feet, slender but strongly muscled with the face of a fallen angel who’d enjoyed the ride. The sole feature that was awry was that his nose had had somewhat poor reconstructive surgery. Faint scars of sutures laced the left side. And that, in fact, only add
ed to the look.
“I’m Barbara Everette,” she said, somewhat flustered. “Is this…?”
“Mrs. Everette,” the man said, smiling broadly in return. Nice teeth. Nice. He extended a hand, which turned out to be heavily calloused. “I am Brother Marquez. Welcome.”
“Brother?” Barb said as the man waved her into the room. There were two small suitcases and three ballistic nylon bags cluttering the double.
“Brother Karol Marquez,” the monk said, closing the door. “I am the team leader for Opus Dei Special Action Squad One.”
Barbara sipped some really excellent tea and watched the monk preparing his own coffee. His movements were quick and sure, but now that she was past her initial shock she could detect the sharp and semi-robotic motions of a person who had trained extensively on close-quarters battle.
“That’s an interesting coffee maker,” she said, wanting to slap herself for the inanity. But Brother Marquez had her thrown. She hadn’t felt this attracted to a man since she met Mark in college.
“With as much traveling as we do, I find carrying some small creature comforts to be lacking in sin,” Brother Marquez said, looking over his shoulder and giving her another movie-star grin. The coffee maker took small cup-like packets that made one cup of coffee or tea apiece in about twenty seconds. She made a mental note to get the name of the manufacturer. “Given that Indonesia is a coffee producer you would think you could get a decent cup. Such is not the case. And the idea of coffee that is taken from feces…There is a special circle of Hell, I am positive, reserved for people who give other people coffee made from rat droppings. Especially unawares.”
Brother Marquez took a seat on the end of one of the beds and pulled a file out from under one of the nylon bags.
“Germaine made a request of our cardinal superior to have us visit this area,” Marquez said, taking a sip of his coffee. From the smell of it, it made espresso seem weak. “And I cannot say that he was wrong.”
Barb flipped open the thin file and surveyed it.
“There’s almost nothing here,” Barb said. “Nothing we don’t have. The psychosis is supernaturally induced. We’d deduced that. It’s not even true psychosis. They’re simply dead. Soul-drained. But still vital. It has the potential to have a wider effect. Okay, we’d considered that. The source will be a demon or mystical device that will have a symbol…that’s the same symbol as Vartouhi was wearing. That’s just confirmation that she’s involved, and I was pretty certain on that. But a mystic symbol is not enough for a search warrant.”
“Indeed,” Brother Marquez said. “But that symbol is why we are here. The reason that that file is so…sparse is that it is what you can give your FBI contact. He’ll be sent a similar file though his channels, since the FBI is aware of the information. Upper echelons of the FBI are aware of…more. Some of it I do not have. Need to know, as they say. But some more I do. A tale I shall tell.”
“Go ahead,” Barb said, getting comfortable. “Does it start ‘Once upon a time’?”
“Given my background, I suppose I should start ‘So there I was, no shit…’” Marquez said with a grin.
“You were military?” Barb said, surprised.
“For my sins,” the monk replied. “Or, rather, I am now in this position for my sins during my military service and before,” he added with a shrug. “But I digress. So there we were, no shit. My tale starts with a group of French archaeologists in Syria in 1923. The proverbial shepherd boy had found some pottery fragments, which attracted the attention of a local magistrate. A small expedition visited the area. They found a city that had been destroyed, they believed, by an earthquake or possibly waters drying up or just drifted away. There were some fragmentary inscriptions of no known language. Almost everything was shattered, destroyed, gone. They only found one fragment that was of any value at all.”
The monk pulled a somewhat larger file out of a bag and slid out a picture. It was a copy of an old sepia-toned photograph that showed a piece of chiseled stone. The only thing that was clear on it was the symbol the hostess had been wearing. There might have been some human figures and flowing script, but it was so worn as to be illegible.
“Unknown race, unknown religion, the lost civilization, Terra X,” Brother Marquez said with a shrug. “The archaeologists catalogued their meager finds and took back the stone tablet. It was filed under ‘uninteresting’ in the French Museum of Archaeology, and moldered there for several decades.
“In the 1950s the Hittite language was finally deciphered, and it opened up a door into the past. A fragmentary codex of the Hittite history detailed the destruction of a race called the Osemi.”
“Never heard of it,” Barb said.
“That is because the Hittites were quite complete in their destruction,” Brother Marquez said, frowning. “And I cannot find them wrong in that. The Osemi were, according to the Hittites, worshippers of demons. And given that the Hittites were worshippers of Baal, that’s saying something. Let me correct, worshippers of a demon ess. Her name was not recorded by the Hittites, perhaps so that her name would be lost. But the Osemi were fanatical in her worship. And to them she gave, quote, great powers in battle. End quote.”
“Define,” Barb said.
“The Osemi were, apparently, the original suicide bombers,” Marquez said, grimacing. “Certainly suicidal in their attacks with, quote, the strength of ten men and caring not for harm. They would push themselves upon the spear to kill the spearman. End quote.”
“Ouch,” Barb said. “Sounds like… Actually, that sounds like PCP zombies.”
“Excuse me?” the brother said, confused.
“My FBI contact’s term for the seven…afflicted,” Barb said. “They act like they’re on PCP. They don’t have a pain response, among other things. As with any psychotic, extremely strong. Clumsy, but fast when they’ve got a target. And they just won’t stop. One reason being that they truly are undead. No soul at all. If you do fight them, don’t have any qualms. You’re not killing anyone, you’re just stopping some sort of flesh robot.”
“Joy,” Marquez said, frowning. “And we shall have to stop them if it comes to it. My story ends, as most do in our business, with more questions than answers. We only recently, as in today, found the link between the Osemi and the stone tablet. What the archaeologists had found was the civilization of the Osemi. But without the Hittite codex, that was impossible to determine. And ask me about the stone tablet.”
“What happened to the stone tablet, she asked with wide eyes,” Barb said, smiling tightly.
“Gone,” Brother Marquez said, shrugging. “Vanished from the Museum. When, no one knows. There is a high-level request in to Interpol to find out where it went. We will see what they turn up. However, this,” he added, pointing at the file, “indicates that someone, somewhere, knows somewhat more. We just don’t get to.”
“Joy,” Barb mimicked, sarcastically. “We’re trying to stop this…whatever is going on, and we don’t get all the information available?”
“Try pulling ops in the Rockpile in the same condition,” Marquez said. “You’re a military brat. You should understand need to know. Here’s the important part. You were involved in the action in Roanoke.”
“Yes,” Barb said, sighing. “It wasn’t fun.”
“So you’re aware that demons can control groups,” Marquez said. “But they normally can only make large groups…still. They may be able to make them move in a particular direction, to shuffle out of or into a room. But they cannot direct them to fight with any real functionality. They cannot force them to kill themselves.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Barb said, her brow furrowing. “What’s the point?”
“This demoness seems to be able to easily create very large groups of maniacal killers,” Brother Marquez said. “And according to something in the briefing documents with no attribution, to force large groups to act in more complex ways. Even if they are not sworn to her.”
“That…violates the doctrine of free will,” Barb said, frowning. “The Lord gave the earth to Satan but gave man free will. She can’t…”
“Well, welcome to the varsity, Mrs. Everette,” Brother Marquez said sarcastically. “Sometimes it’s more complicated than Catechism. I haven’t seen anything in the documents I have that show where the information came from, but I was given it by Germaine. And he wasn’t going to make a mistake that simple. She can control large groups, apparently against their free will. There may be a complication of which the…providers are not aware. It is possible that she or her acolytes can only control these flesh robots. But that’s the nature of intelligence. You go with what you have, not what you’d like.”
“Do I get to read the thicker file?” Barb asked.
“Yes,” Marquez said, handing it over. “But it’s not for your FBI contact. He’s simply not cleared for it.”
“And I am,” Barb said, bemusedly. “What fun.”
The thicker file didn’t have much more than Marquez had given her. Very little was known about the demoness or the Osemi, only the sparse data from Hittite records. And for some reason it was “a known fact” that she could control “groups equal to or greater than thirty” in complex actions. From the combination of “known” facts it was “highly probable” that a larger group could be turned into “directed or undirected” psychotic killers. Joy.
“Says here Kali can’t even do this,” Barb said. “And she’s thoroughly bound, right? A greater goddess of murder can’t turn large groups into psychotic murderers, and this minor demoness can?”
“That appears to be the case,” Marquez said, getting another cup of coffee. “Most such groups were definitely under the influence of drugs or simply in high-combat state. Berserkers with our newfound friend Frey, thuggees with our unquestionable foe Kali. Possibly the Jaguar Warriors of Quetzalcoatl.”
“And it violates free will,” Barb said. “I don’t buy that. Free will is…If there is no free will…”