Ace Books by Charles Stross
SINGULARITY SKY
IRON SUNRISE
ACCELERANDO
THE ATROCITY ARCHIVES
GLASSHOUSE
HALTING STATE
SATURN’S CHILDREN
THE JENNIFER MORGUE
WIRELESS
THE FULLER MEMORANDUM
RULE 34
THE APOCALYPSE CODEX
NEPTUNE’S BROOD
THE RHESUS CHART
THE ANNIHILATION SCORE
THE NIGHTMARE STACKS
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Copyright © 2016 by Charles Stross.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Stross, Charles, author.
Title: The nightmare stacks / Charles Stross.
Description: New York, NY : Ace, [2016] | Series: A laundry files novel ; 7
Identifiers: LCCN 2015049582 | ISBN 9780425281192 (hardcover) |
ISBN 9780698195271 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Vampires—Fiction. | Intelligence service—Great Britain—Fiction. | Demonology—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Fantasy / Contemporary. | FICTION / Fantasy / Paranormal. | FICTION / Horror. | GSAFD: Horror fiction. | Occult fiction
Classification: LCC PR6119.T79 N54 2016 | DDC 823/.92—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015049582
FIRST EDITION: June 2016
Cover illustration by Larry Rostant.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
IN MEMORY OF TERRY PRATCHETT,
WHO SHOWED US ALL HOW IT’S DONE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank first and foremost my usual crew of test readers for kicking the tires and spotting the obvious defects before they ran over my feet. And in particular I’d like to single out Nelson Cunnington for his sterling work on untangling the timeline of the last half of the novel, Squadron Leader Simon Bradshaw (retd) for his insights into the likely complications of dragon v. Typhoon engagements, Martin Sinclair for advice on Army maneuvers, and all the other ex-forces folks who pitched in on this one.
I’d like to apologize to the Leeds International Animation Festival for moving the date of their event by several months, citing dramatic license in my defense.
I’d also like to apologize to the folks working on the Barnton Quarry Restoration Project for appropriating the details of their ROTOR R4 bunker, folding, spindling, and mutilating it, and using it for the Leeds War Room Region 2 site. (Which wasn’t part of the ROTOR air defense network, but dates to the same era . . .)
CONTENTS
ACE BOOKS BY CHARLES STROSS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
EPIGRAPHS
PART 1: RELOCATION PLANS CHAPTER 1: OH I DO LIKE TO BE BESIDE THE SEASIDE
CHAPTER 2: INTERLUDE: ADVERSARY
CHAPTER 3: THE GATHERING STORM
CHAPTER 4: INTERLUDE: FORWARD RECON
CHAPTER 5: THE DOOM THAT CAME TO HAREHILLS
CHAPTER 6: INTERLUDE: ENEMY TERRITORY
PART 2: MEETING DR. RIGHT CHAPTER 7: MEET CUTE
CHAPTER 8: INTERLUDE: INVADERS MASSING
CHAPTER 9: ALEX IN LOVE
CHAPTER 10: INTERLUDE: MALHAM
PART 3: MANEUVERS IN THE DARK CHAPTER 11: WHAT TO WEAR TO THE END OF THE WORLD
CHAPTER 12: LA CAGE AUX FOLLES
CHAPTER 13: THE BUNKER
CHAPTER 14: THE NIGHTMARE STACKS
CHAPTER 15: RAIN OF STEEL
CHAPTER 16: SCHWERPUNKT
PART 4: BLOOD OATHS CHAPTER 17: STATE OF SIEGE
CHAPTER 18: SCORPION STARE
CHAPTER 19: ASYLUM
Treason doth never prosper: what’s the reason? Why, if it prosper, none dare call it treason.
—John Harington (16th century)
No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man’s and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. With infinite complacency men went to and fro over this globe about their little affairs . . . No one gave a thought to the older worlds of space as sources of human danger . . . Yet across the gulf of space, minds that are to our minds as ours are to those of the beasts that perish, intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against us.
—H. G. Wells, The War of the Worlds
PART 1
RELOCATION PLANS
1.
OH I DO LIKE TO BE BESIDE THE SEASIDE
A vampire is haunting Whitby; it’s traditional.
It’s an hour after dusk on a Saturday evening four weeks before the spring gothic festival. Alex the Vampire strolls along the sea front, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his tweed jacket. There’s a chill breeze blowing onshore, and he has the pavement to himself as he walks, eyes downcast and chin tucked into his chest, lost in thought.
What profound insight does the creature of the night contemplate as he paces along the North Promenade beside the beach, opposite a row of moonlit houses? What ancient wisdom, what hideous secrets haunt the conscience of the undying?
Let’s take a look inside his head:
Alex is fretting about his Form P.764 Employee Travel and Subsistence Claim, which he will have to fill out once he returns to his cramped room in a local bed and breakfast. The form looms as large and sinister in his mind’s eye as a vision of his own lichen-stained gravestone. Nevertheless, it provides a welcome distraction from the eldritch undead horror that is his Student Loan Company statement.* And that, in turn, pales into insignificance compared to the worst dread of all: how he is going to explain everything that has happened in the past few months to his parents. Or at least those bits that aren’t classified government secrets.
(Alex hasn’t been a vampire for very long, and he isn’t very good at it yet. But at least he’s still alive—if that’s the right word for his condition—unlike several other members of his brood.)
The tides are coming in, along with the clouds. The wind is chilly on his skin, so Alex turns and begins to retrace his path towards the steps up to the high street, striding past the Pavilion and the whalebone ar
ch, past shuttered cafes and the museum. He walks towards the cliffside, wondering if he’s made a mistake. He’s not sure, if he’s honest with himself, that coming to Whitby was the right thing to do. He’s supposed to be in Leeds, where he’ll be working for the next few weeks. Someone in Travel had booked him a seat on a Friday afternoon train, the better to enable him to make it to the office at nine o’clock sharp on Monday. They obviously hadn’t got the memo about flexitime hours and Persons of Hemophagy.
Spending the weekend in Whitby was entirely his own idea. He’s never visited the small coastal village before: indeed, he only knows about it for two reasons. Whitby is famous from the novel Dracula (as the harbor where the ghost ship Demeter comes aground) and, more recently, it plays host to a number of goth festivals—themselves attracted to the village because of its famous fang-infested foreshore. Why Whitby, if not because of the obvious cliché? (For Alex is not a goth.) Well, Whitby has one other advantage. It’s not close enough to his home city that there’s any risk of him running into his parents or younger sister by accident.
Whitby is Alex’s excuse for not being in Leeds while he’s not working, and not being in Leeds is his excuse for not visiting his family, and not visiting his family makes it a whole lot easier not to tell them about the V-word, which is an awkwardness he’s been grappling with in ever-increasing discomfort for months now.
The season for goths and their steampunk siblings may not have arrived, but Whitby isn’t entirely devoid of the flagrantly ahistorical. There’s a group of drama students staying in one of the B&B’s on the high street, and as he’s passing it the front door bursts open. Alex suddenly finds himself adrift in a sea of Mina Harkers and Abraham Van Helsings, with a trio of diaphanously clad Brides of Dracula eddying around him. They giggle and laugh at some private joke as they swish past, bringing a flush to Alex’s cheeks. (He has a bad case of wandering male gaze, a side effect of his monastic upbringing. He is mature enough to find this mortifying, but not sufficiently strong-willed to suppress it in the presence of so much well-displayed cleavage.)
“I say!” Alex skids to a stop just in time to avoid colliding with a fellow in white tie and tails, a red satin-lined opera cape draped across his shoulders. “I say, old man!” The fellow doffs his top hat with white gloves that glimmer theatrically in the darkness. Obnoxiously dedicated to staying in character, he exudes a passive-aggressive politeness and assured self-confidence that suggests it is Alex, and not he, who is an intruder from the wrong century. Alex fights hard not to take an instant dislike to him as he continues: “I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Who are you supposed to be?”
Alex does a double-take. He’s not wearing a costume, but in the darkness his tweed jacket and open-necked white shirt (with a scarf worn cravat-style against the late March chill) could be mistaken for a period costume. An imp of the mildly perverse whispers in his ear: “Quincey Morris,” he tells the amateur Dracula, feeling slightly smug about knowing his Stoker (although in truth he just skimmed the Wikipedia plot synopsis on the train over).
“Capital!” chortles the fellow: “And I am Sir Arthur Holmwood, so I suppose that makes us rivals in love for the hand of the delectable Lucy”—a twitch of his chiseled chin indicates a robustly athletic student doing her best to portray a consumptive Victorian beauty—“at least until the fiend snatches her away, ha ha!”
“Ah, right.”
“Come! There’s no time to lose! We received a report by telegraph,” he adds confidingly, “that the fiend has been sighted up by the graveyard! We’d better head straight there—”
“Is Jeremy always this much of a ham?” the first Bride of Dracula (verdigris hair and a copper nose-ring, shivering in a strapless, pin-striped bustle dress) whispers in the direction of the second (straight-haired blonde: also shivering, in crimson corset and yards of tulle). It’s not meant to carry, but Alex can’t help overhearing.
“Not usually, but he was hitting the Red Bull and vodka pretty hard,” Bride Two observes sotto voce. She grimaces and adjusts her plastic fangs. “He uthually mellowth out oneth he getth hith groove on.”
“Follow me!” declares the bumptious Arthur Holmwood, gesturing theatrically as he strides up the cliff-side path.
“Are you coming?” Bride One asks Alex brightly.
“I suppose—” Alex checks his priorities and rapidly realizes that the alternative is a torrid date with his Form P.764. “Yes, of course.”
“Then would you lend me your jacket? I’m freezing!”
As they sashay towards the cliff Alex confesses, even as he hands her his outer layer, “I’m not a LARPer: I hope you don’t mind.”
“Nah, that’s cool. Tonight’s the dress rehearsal.” The green-haired girl pulls his tweed jacket on over her bare shoulders. Alex remembers he’s supposed to extend his elbow, and feels a rare spasm of gratitude to his sister Sarah for having hijacked the living room telly for one too many Regency costume dramas in years gone by. She takes a firm grip on his arm: “I’m Cassie! Who are you?”
“Alex.” Alex feels himself carried along, out of control, as if he has indeed been abducted by the Count’s alien and seductive brides. He’s not totally unsocialized, but he’s the product of a single-sex schooling followed by graduate and postgraduate studies in a field with institutional gender bias. When you subject a statistically significant sample size of otherworldly male nerds to this treatment what you end up with is a certain proportion of twenty-four-year-old virgins. Also, all the female vampires he knows in real life (that’s both of them) terrify him. He therefore takes a moment to remember that most people would deal with the current situation by making friendly conversation rather than wigging out or freezing. “You’re rehearsing a performance of Dracula? For the festival?” he manages eventually.
“YesYes! It’s a strolling play.” Cassie leans close as they pick their way up the steepening incline. “Me, Veronica, and Louise are the Brides.” Her hand is warm, but behind the burbly front she sounds slightly distant, as if she’s translating every sentence from a foreign language before she speaks. “There’s a confrontation in the park, a fight scene in the graveyard, then we pursue the Count to the ruins of the Abbey for the big climax! It’s the whole vampire thing, very dramatic, very sexy . . . What brings you to town?” Alex spots her studying him sidelong, and his guts clench as he realizes she’s close enough to see that he isn’t in steampunk drag or here for the goth weekend experience: he’s just woefully unfashionable.
“I’m”—Alex’s brain freezes as he remembers the fearful oath the smiling man in the blue uniform made him swear as he signed the Official Secrets Act, using a calligraphy pen loaded with his own blood—“a mathematician. I work for the government.” Nerd out, fool, his socially adept superego swears despairingly.
“That’s funny.” Cassie stares at him: “You’re too short to be Alan Turing!” She means Benedict Cumberbatch, in the movie. “You mean for GCHQ, right? The, the spooks?” Again, that subtle pause in her speech, as if she’s reading from an internal script.
“Not GCHQ,” Alex says hastily, mortified. “No, it’s much more boring than that—” Which is what he has to say to the smoking hot girl on his arm, because if he tells her the truth his new superiors will be extremely disappointed with him. (The geas attached to the oath of office forces most Laundry employees to act in accordance with their perception of the organization’s best interests. As a vampire Alex is partially immune to such compulsions, but he is disinclined to explore the consequences of disobedience, for various reasons.) “No, really. I’m just here for the weekend, getting away from Leeds because that’s where work sent me.” A thought strikes him. “Do you really think I look like Alan Turing?”
They’ve reached the top of the hill and are nearly at the park as he asks, and Cassie releases his arm. “Hey, Ronnie, they’re already here! We’re late!” Veronica mumbles something inaudible around her cho
ppers. Cassie turns back to him: “I’m really sorry but we’re on in sixty seconds and I’ve got to get in character and I don’t have time—” She slides out of his jacket and hands it to him, and while he’s fumbling it on she opens a tiny clutch and pulls out a pair of plastic fangs. “Thorry about thith, thtick around for the afterparty?”
“Oh yes—” says Alex. Cassie nods, but she’s already turning away from him. She and the other two Brides of Dracula raise their arms and proceed to writhe languorously—for Jeremy is not the only ham here—towards a small clump of mostly black-clad onlookers in the middle of the park’s neatly manicured lawn. He watches Cassie’s enchanting back recede, and manages to stare, moon-struck, for all of thirty seconds before his phone begins to play the Ritt der Walküren.
What the— Alex pulls out his phone and sees a most unwelcome caller ID. It’s the head office. “Hello, Alex speaking, I mean, uh, Dr. Schwartz here. Who is this?”
There is a brief pause. “Please hold.” Another voice comes on the line: male, older, weary. “Dr. Schwartz, this is the DM speaking.”
Oh hell, what does the DM want with me? Alex has heard of the semi-legendary, reclusive Dungeon Master. He was covered in one of the Friday miscellanea sessions last month. These are briefings someone in External Assets has arranged to bring the surviving members of the vampire Scrum up to speed on their new co-workers. Alex racks his brain desperately, trying to remember what it is that the DM does for the Laundry. (Something to do with directing teams of agents in the field in realtime. Or was it running the world’s weirdest Turing-complete variant Dungeons & Dragons campaign using a rule set isomorphic with first-order transdimensional summoning algebra—Alex squelches the thought before it trails off into the mists of memory. “What can I do for you?” he asks.
“According to the Duty Officer you’re in Whitby. Are you in Whitby, Dr. Schwartz? If so, what are you doing there?”
The Nightmare Stacks Page 1