Brains sighs. “Fuck.”
“Would you rather work with the real Jonquil?” Pete asks him. Jon tries to puzzle the meaning out of this question for the next couple of miles as they drive in silence, but it sounds like no question at all—a rhetorical question, the irate ghost of Jonquil’s memory calls it.
“Maybe,” Brains says tersely.
Pete changes the subject. “Why are you here, Jon?”
“I am an accident,” the part of her that is Yarisol recites placidly. “Papa get—got—loose in slave pens before other magi chop his balls off. Mama died in childbirth.”
“Wha—”
“—Too much inform—”
“—Female magi are troublesome, said the All-Highest—old All-Highest, All-Highest-before-last eighty-five times over—so in normal times there are only male magi in the Morningstar Empire.” Her voice flattens as she lapses from English into the Low Tongue. “This one is accident.” She bows her head and rocks.
“Forget I asked,” Pete tells her. “Jon? Jon? Can you hear me?”
She keeps on rocking, too disturbed to reply. Jonquil memories tell her that this is not neurotypical behavior and the realization brings a flood of disorienting insights. The urük have lots of words for this sort of not-normal. The urük don’t kill their not-normals as soon as they show their differences; they keep them around, even when they’re old and useless. The new All-Highest’s officer, the baroness, the one who found her—with a shocking stab of insight, Jon realizes that Mhari, too, is a blood-mage, one with high status and power, even though she’s not like Yarisol.
“Jon? Why did Mhari send you to us?”
Jon relaxes slightly and pulls the tattered shreds of her Jonquil persona tight around her as she allows the All-Highest’s words to escape. “This is the heartland in the middle of the forgetting empire. This is where the border is furthest and the geas is weakest. We are ordered”—by word of the All-Highest himself, who is meddling in Baroness Karnstein’s scheme—“to steal a sacrifice from the enemy, then with their assistance open a door that will let the Forgotten Emperor address his subjects. I am a mage: you are not, but all our skills are necessary.”
“The … Emperor?”
“How the fuck should I know what the Prime Minister was talking about?” Jonquil asks irritably. “That’s your job!”
She harrumphs as she crosses her arms and looks out of the window, falling fully into Jonquil’s character, so she doesn’t see Pete blanch in the mirror.
“Where is this sacrifice?” Brains asks skeptically. “What door?”
Jon blinks slowly. It’s nearly time. All-Highest’s instructions, delivered in His office at Downing Street, were most anomalously specific. Oracles are usually vague, but as All-Highest partakes of the nature of a god, perhaps this makes some sense …
“Turn on the radio?” she says. “Tune to WOCZ-FM? That’s where we will learn the name of the sacrifice we are to retrieve, on The Whatever Show at ten of the clock.”
* * *
OSCAR and his team have settled into the next safe house and Sam is busy moving the groceries from the back of the pickup to the kitchen when Mattingley finds him. “Sam, I’ve got an errand for you.”
Sam straightens up. “One moment, sir.” He turns and puts the pair of gallon jugs of milk he’s carrying on the table. “What do you need me to do?”
Matt nods acknowledgment. “You can finish unpacking first. But I need you to run over to the Metro station in New Carrollton and pick someone up.”
“Pick—” Officer Penrose comes to full alert. “Sir?”
The polite monosyllable is code for have you taken leave of your senses? But Mattingley pretends not to notice. “He’s a former federal agent, and OSCAR needs to hear what he has to say. Your job is to meet him, confirm he’s not a ringer, and get him here without picking up a tail. If he’s clean, then afterwards you’re to get him back to a Metro station.”
“A former—”
“—Not everyone has forgotten who or what they swore to protect, Sam. We’re isolated and undercover but we’re never alone, remember that.”
Sam blinks. His eye is watering and he’s only half-certain it’s because he’s been awake way too long.
Officer Haas gives Sam a quick briefing. He finishes unloading, then types the rendezvous into his phone’s turn-by-turn navigation app. This should be a straightforward job, but something about it sets his teeth on edge. The President’s security is too important to risk, especially under current circumstances. The way everyone forgets about him, forgets the entire goddamn Executive Branch, every time they go to sleep—so that even his own personal protection detail have to be reminded who and what he is whenever they wake up—scares the crap out of him. Scenarios for a single point of failure breed like fever dreams in the corners of his imagination. All it would take is a canister of fentanyl in the HVAC and then, even if the knock-out gas didn’t kill them, the presidency would be over. They’d be sitting around with their thumbs up their asses while the black hats stormed the premises. Sam isn’t paid to have an imagination or anticipate unconventional threats, but even he can see how precarious their situation is. What this must be like for Senior Officer Mattingley—he shakes his head as he puts the truck in gear and moves off.
Driving through the outer suburbs of DC and across the state line into Maryland, Sam forces his mind onto the job. His phone is maddeningly insistent about taking the direct route, but at least it recalculates the route rapidly when he deliberately detours onto side roads, doubles back on his path, and checks for signs of pursuit. Not that there are any. It’s mid-afternoon of a late winter/early spring day in the south. The air outside is a chilly sixty degrees, but at least there’s no risk of sleet or snow—Maryland roads turn into apocalyptic chaos at the first hint of icing conditions. By the time he’s made the RDV and got his man, it’ll be getting dark. Sam pushes back tiredness, scans the traffic immediately in front of and behind him again, and drives on.
It’s early rush hour when he gets to the station, and the big park-and-ride is starting to empty out. It’s not hard to get in, but finding a parking space involves lots of frustrating queuing as he waits for tired commuters to get their wheels on and leave.
Parking, Sam pulls on a baseball cap, the brim low over his forehead, then heads for the station lobby. A train has pulled in and people spill across the platform, for this is the last stop on the line. He walks over to the kiosk and buys a Pepsi, then positions himself alongside the doorway to wait. Don’t mind me, he thinks, just another ride-share pickup here. It’s method acting, of a kind. Occasionally he glances at his watch, or pretends to check the baseball score on his phone. His side-eye scan relies on positioning and reflections in windows rather than direct gaze, and he’s at pains not to present his face to the CCTV cameras.
The stars and stripes hang on the wall above the steps down to the platform, but something about the flag makes Sam itch: it’s wrong. Eventually he works out what it is: there are too many stars, and they don’t have the right number of points. If he looks at them too long they begin to swirl like pearlescent whirlpools, sucking his gaze into their black-hole hearts. He shudders. At least there are no silver mannequins standing watch in the shadows here.
Trying not to let his eyes close is a torment, but eventually an office worker emerges from the platform in the wake of the crowd from the third train. Middle-aged, once muscular but running to fat, something about him screams civil servant to Sam. Also, he’s looking around. Too damn conspicuously, in Sam’s opinion, so Sam moves to head him off. “Gil Tancredy?” he asks.
Tancredy jumps. “That’s me!”
“This way.” Sam waits until they’re on the wheelchair ramp outside. “Do you have some ID?”
“You’re supposed to take me to the President, aren’t you?”
Sam’s voice hardens. “ID, please.”
Tancredy seems extremely nervous—as well he might. “I’m going to reach into
my coat pocket,” he says, before slowly pulling out a wallet. Sam nods and keeps his hand well away from his waistband. So far, so good. Tancredy pulls out a badge: “Postal Inspector. Yeah, I know it’s cancelled. I’m with—was with—the Comstocks.”
This is the correct answer. Sam quickly scans their surroundings. “Follow me,” he says, then heads for the truck.
His contact doesn’t balk until they get to the black crew-cab pickup. “I haven’t seen your ID,” he challenges, wary of getting into a truck with a total stranger.
Sam doesn’t have the heart to tell Tancredy he could have shot him just about any time after he entered the station. “You want to see the President, that’s Arthur Savage, previously Governor of California and chair of the Screen Actors Guild?” He raises an eyebrow. “Head of the Executive Branch, in case you’ve forgotten it, like everybody else?” He squeezes his eyes shut briefly, resisting the gathering headache. It’s making him slightly short-tempered.
Tancredy’s expression is that of a priest who, fearing himself forsaken by his faith, witnesses a true miracle: “Yes! That’s him!” He clears his throat, visibly holding back his excitement. “He’s still free! And you are?”
“Secret Service Officer Penrose. Come with me.” He may be lacking the dark suit, earbud, and shades but he’s still the real deal. He flips Tancredy a glimpse of his badge, discreetly searches him for weapons, relieves him of his phone, then climbs in and drives them away from the station.
By the time Sam has driven in circles for half an hour, with Tancredy head down with his coat over his head for most of it, it’s full dark. Sam isn’t an expert evasion driver but he’s done the standard course and kept in practice, and he’s pretty certain nobody’s following him. So he voice-commands his phone to dial Senior Officer Mattingley when he’s about five minutes out.
“Matt here. Report.”
“Penrose, I have a Gilbert Tancredy, Comstock group.”
“What’s your ETA?”
“Three minutes.”
“We’ll be waiting. Mattingley out.”
“When I pull up,” Sam says calmly, “I’m going to wind down the windows and I want you to keep your hands in full view on the dash. Treat it like a traffic stop. We’re all a little twitchy and sleep-deprived right now.”
The current safe house is much like the last: a bland McMansion with a discreet fence out front, set well back from the road behind a thick hedge for privacy. Sam drives up to the garage, winds the windows down, and puts his hands on the wheel with the cab light on while the gates whine shut behind him. Officers with drawn weapons close and check the truck out before Mattingley gives the all-clear. There’s a faint whimper from Tancredy: Sam looks round and sees his passenger staring.
“You’re clear to step out, Mr. Tancredy,” he assures the postal inspector.
“I—I’m not used to this,” Tancredy admits, dabbing at his forehead. “Second time this week, goddamn it.”
“Second time?”
“Guns.” Tancredy shudders, then steps out of the cab.
Sam leads him into the front hall, then the dayroom where—as usual—the curtains are drawn. Rather more unusually, the President is waiting for them. He rises from the sofa to offer Tancredy his hand. “Sir,” Tancredy croaks, visibly overcome. “It’s—I was having a hard time believing—”
“It’s all right,” Arthur says to Sam: “I’ll take it from here.”
“Yes, sir.” Sam notices Officers Haas and Cho are present, doing their best wallpaper impersonations while remaining ready to body-check Tancredy if he acts up. OSCAR is in safe hands. Sam steps back into the doorway and takes up his own position.
“I’m pleased to meet you at last, Mr. Tancredy,” says the President. “I’ve been told what your unit used to do for our nation.” A brief expression of pain flickers across his face. “You’ve got my undivided attention. What can I do for you?”
“Sir.” Tancredy draws himself up, almost standing to attention. “When the OPA initiated their takeover of the Postal Service in the run-up to the … broader … takeover, my team was ordered to disperse and go underground inside other agencies. We were hit by the same amnesia whammy as everyone else, but we continued to coordinate and work on the problem, and regained partial awareness a week ago.”
His grimace speaks volumes, and Sam stifles a sympathetic yawn. It’s bad enough being part of a team working shifts in the same base, able to reorient each other at every awakening. The thought of trying to maintain situational awareness if he were living at home, sleeping and waking in isolation each day, doesn’t bear thinking about.
“Yesterday we were contacted by an agent of the British government.” Sudden tension grips the room. “He said they’re concerned and don’t want you to fall into the hands of the, the Nazgûl—that’s what he called them—and they want to help. He says a high-ranking representative of the British government is in town and would like to meet you. I was given a burner phone—” He cringes at Mattingley’s expression. “I didn’t bring it here, I’m not that stupid!—but if you think it’s appropriate we can set up a meeting.”
“That’s very—” the President pauses. “Matt, you have something to say?”
Mattingley focuses on the Comstock guy. “Did the Brit say how he found you?” he asks.
“Uh, yes, sir? He said something about an Oracle. The Oracle told them where to find me and indicated I was their best channel for getting a message through to you.” Tancredy looks as hopeful as a puppy that’s just learned to pee on command.
Mattingley nods. “Sam, would you mind taking Mr. Tancredy through into the, the kitchen”—he means somewhere out of earshot—“for a few minutes?”
“I—” The President pauses, then smiles blindingly at Mattingley. “Okay, fine, you tell me what’s going on?” He’s waiting expectantly, arms crossed, as Sam leads the Comstock agent out of the front room and closes the door behind them.
“Come on,” Sam tells Tancredy. “I don’t know about you, but I could do with a cup of coffee.” And something a little stronger.
“Copy that. What do you think is going to happen?” Tancredy asks, still slightly awestruck.
Sam forces himself to smile benevolently. “I wouldn’t like to guess. Go on, it’s through there.” As he steps behind the Comstock agent he crosses his fingers. Tancredy seems like a straight-up guy: he really hopes that, when OSCAR and the head of his protection detail finish tearing strips off each other over the unwisdom of bringing an untrusted person inside the secure zone, Mattingley won’t order him to take Tancredy out back and shoot him.
* * *
The Operational Phenomenology Agency maintains satellite offices in a number of cities, and a plethora of sites in and around Washington DC. In the wake of its takeover of other government agencies last fall, the OPA has expanded and taken on additional personnel, for whom new office space had to be obtained. As most of its new client organizations are part of the federal government, most of these personnel need to be based in and around the capitol.
Only one currently existing building is large enough to accommodate what the Black Chamber will become when the starry gates open and their Lord finally returns to resume his rule. So the Army Corps of Engineers is overseeing the construction of a huge new strip of office buildings along I-395—demolishing anything in their way—to hold the office workers who will presently be displaced when the Black Chamber takes over the Pentagon building.
Ninety feet directly beneath the center courtyard café in the middle of the Pentagon—previously known as the Ground Zero Cafe, because when the bomb dropped that was where it would most likely detonate—there is a deep subbasement office with ferroconcrete walls and a filtered air supply, accessible by discreet elevators and staircases from all five wings of the main building. It was designed as a deep command bunker back when the worst threats were raids by long-range Luftwaffe bombers bearing conventional explosives. Obsolescent since the morning of July 16, 1945—it
won’t withstand a direct ground burst from an atom bomb, much less more modern munitions—it still possesses certain uses. Being deep underground and equidistant from all the other wings, it was well suited as a switch for SCAN, the Army’s automatic switched communications system, and later for AUTOVON. AUTOVON led to ARPANET, the predecessor of the internet, and the secure exchange in the basement played host to one of the first IMPs—Interface Message Processors—outside of academia. By the early 1980s a lack of rackspace led the DoD to relocate their hardened exchanges to a site closer to the 1950s-sized mainframe halls. And it was then that the empty bunker was taken over by a shadowy affiliate of the National Security Agency, tasked with waging occult warfare against the enemies of the nation.
The past six months have brought some changes.
There is a pentagonal main room inside the bunker, and within it there is a ceremonial maze, inscribed in blood and silver that glows with a soft fluorescence, converging on a dais at the heart of the design. The labyrinth takes the shape of a pentacle aligned with the building overhead: at each corner stands a motionless sentinel clad head to toe in occlusive silver fabric. Robed in black and crimson silk and shod in slippers of disturbingly pale leather, the Deputy Director paces her way through the maze. In her left hand she bears a jewel-capped scepter carved from the femur of a dead pope, and in her right hand she bears a gold-plated chalice made from a skull that once served Josef Stalin as an ashtray. As she walks she recites a prayer of allegiance and propitiation, its cadences and grammar those of a variant dialect of Old Enochian.
It’s a large room—the blast-redirecting partitions have long since been removed—but it feels tight, almost claustrophobic, all sight lines converging on the throne that surmounts the dais at the precise center of the Pentagon. Below this room there is a subbasement crammed with backup generators and air and water filters, and above it is a floor packed with switches, network hubs, and a quantum computing mechanism that refuses to confirm or deny its own sentience—but this level is given over to the labyrinth which forms a powerful containment grid, and the grid encloses the dais, and the dais supports the wards and the cradle, and the cradle bears the backless throne.
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