The Fuller Memorandum

by Charles Stross

  14.

  THE MUMMY’S TOMB

  PUTNEY HIGH STREET, ABOUT FIFTEEN KILOMETERS SOUTHWEST of the center of the capital, is a bustling shopping and retail area, humming with shops and pubs and other civic amenities: the rail and tube stations, the local magistrate’s court, fire stations. Leafy tree-lined roads curl away behind the high street, host to uncountable thousands of houses and maisonettes, every curb crammed with the parked cars of commuter-land.

  Right now it’s early evening. A fire-control truck—bulky and red, its load bed occupied by a boxy control room—is drawn up on the drive-through parking area of the court, its nearside wheels on the pavement, blue lights strobing. A couple of police cars wait nearby, ready to clear the way if the truck starts to roll.

  Despite appearances, it isn’t really a fire-control truck: it’s owned by OCCULUS—Occult Control Coordination Unit Liaison, Unconventional Situations—that branch of the military that my employers call in when a situation, to use Angleton’s ladder of apocalypse, escalates above Rung One. And right now, its occupants are doing what soldiers frequently do best: waiting for a call.

  A short, wiry fellow with horn-rimmed glasses, wearing a tweed jacket with patched elbows over a green wool sweater, lounges in an office seat in front of a desk with a laptop and a bunch of communications gear bolted to it. He’s prematurely balding—he isn’t forty yet—and his skin is slightly translucent, as if aged beyond his years. There’s an olive-green telephone handset jammed between his shoulder and his right ear, and he’s twiddling his fingers impatiently as he waits on the line.

  “Yes? Yes?” he demands busily.

  “Connecting you now, sir ...” More static. The handset doesn’t lead to a phone, mobile or otherwise, but to a TETRA terminal dedicated to OCCULUS’s use: an early nineties digital radio technology, horribly obsolete, but one that the government has been locked into by a thirty-year contract. “Dr. Angleton is on the line.”

  “Ah, James! Are you there?”

  “Major Barnes?”

  “Yes, it’s me! Any word on our boy?”

  “We can find him.” Angleton’s voice is clear. Barnes sits up unconsciously expectant.

  Farther back in the OCCULUS truck, a man wearing a bright yellow HAZMAT suit glances up from the H&K MP5 he’s checking for the third time. Another HAZMAT-suited soldier, shorter and stockier, knuckles him in the back. “Hey, Scary, nobody ever tell you it’s rude to eavesdrop?”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Major Barnes ignores them: Angleton is talking. “I have a preliminary fix and I’m on my way over right now. I should be with you in about five minutes. Once I’m on location I can guide you to the target in person.”

  “Are you sure that’s advisable?”

  “No, but I’ll leave tactical command up to you; the problem is, I don’t have an exact fix to within less than a hundred meters. I need to be on the spot.”

  Major Barnes swears silently. “All right, we’ll have to work with that. What exactly do you think we’re facing?”

  “No idea,” Angleton says cheerfully, “but whatever we’re looking at, it’s been set up by a cell of the Black Brethren. If we’re lucky it’ll prove to be a safe house with just a couple of residents. If not . . . remember the Scouts’ motto?”

  “Be prepared,” Barnes echoes, wearing an expression of pained martyrdom. “Dib dib dib and all that. I hope this isn’t going to go pear-shaped . . .”

  “The good news is, I’ve raised a SCORPION STARE control order. So once we know what we’re looking at, you should have no trouble containing the outbreak.”

  “How wonderful,” Barnes says sourly. “Are you anticipating mass civilian casualties?”

  “Hopefully not.” Angleton pauses. “What I’m hoping for is low-hanging fruit. Ah, with you in a moment—”

  Another police car pulls up, lights flickering; as Major Barnes glances out of the truck’s side window, he sees the rear door open and Angleton unfolding himself. He looks back at the HAZMAT-wearers behind him. “Showtime coming up. Sitrep, Jim?”

  Warrant Officer Howe puts his carbine down and glances back at the seven other members of his half-size troop: “We’re ready, sir.” His unspoken question—ready for what?—hangs in the air, but he’s been working with Barnes for long enough that he doesn’t need to say it aloud.

  “Angleton’s coming up,” says the major. “So look sharp.”

  The door opens and Angleton steps inside the truck. He smiles, cadaverous. “Ah, gentlemen. I wish I could say it was good to see you again; we really need to stop meeting like this.” That gets a chuckle from Sergeant Spice. Angleton walks forward towards Major Barnes’s area, his head bowed to avoid the overhead equipment racks. “We’re very close,” he says quietly. “I can smell it.”

  Barnes knows better than to roll his eyes. Dealing with the spooks often involves playing nursemaid—to a particularly paranoid witchfindergeneral, in this case. “If you could just tell the driver where to go, sir?”

  “Certainly.” Angleton squeezes past the back of Barnes’s chair, and slides into the front passenger seat.

  The driver glances at him sidelong. “Sir?”

  “Kill the blues, then pull out. I want you to drive up the high street slowly. I’ll tell you when to pull over.”

  The truck lurches heavily off the curb, bouncing on its suspension as the driver pulls it through a U-turn—just missing being T-boned by an oblivious minivan driver, her mobile glued to her ear. It rumbles back towards the Richmond Road intersection.

  Angleton’s nostrils flare. “Keep going.” He peers through the windscreen, searching. The driver tries to ignore his hands—he’s fiddling with something small that seems to bend the light around it. “Slow down, it’s just ahead. On our right. There—no, keep going. That was it. That building . . . it’s in the library.” He swears under his breath, words of painful power that make the driver wince.

  “You want us to raid a public library?” Major Barnes is incredulous. “What are we looking for, an overdue book?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Angleton sounds weary. “Gentlemen, I believe we may have been led on a wild-goose chase. I am tracking a missing classified document. I was expecting it to lead us to a nest of cultists, but it seems they’ve learned how to use a photocopier and this”—his over-the-shoulder wave conveys world-weary regret—“is their idea of a joke. Unfortunately the document in question is classified, and we can’t ignore it. We can’t ignore the possibility of an ambush, either, but at least it ought to be easy enough to evacuate. Alan, would you mind contacting the local fire control? I think a snap inspection of the library sprinkler system ought to get our feet under the table.”

  Barnes nods, wordlessly, and starts to call the fire-control room on one of the other handsets. In the back, Warrant Officer Howe nods at his men: “Strip.” The HAZMAT suits come off, to reveal regular Fire Brigade overalls underneath. “Okay, as soon as we get the go-ahead ...”

  Angleton waits tensely in the front passenger seat, fidgeting with something small and dark. Nobody is watching him. But an observer might think, from his behavior, that he’s worried they’re too late.

  WHILE ANGLETON AND THE OCCULUS TEAM ARE GETTING READY to raid a public library in search of a missing document, Mo is midway through her second glass of lemonade in a wine bar with the man who would be Panin, and I am phasing in and out of consciousness, in airless darkness and pain, in the boot of a speeding car.

  Regrets: I have them.

  For instance, I never wrote to my MP to express my displeasure at the widespread deployment of sleeping policemen around the capital. It never occurred to me to do so: Mo and I don’t own a car, and speed bumps are a rarely sighted problem in our world. But right now I am learning to hate the things with a livid passion usually reserved for broken software installers and lying politicians. My abductors appear to be incapable of slowing for obstructions, and every time we bounce over a speed cushion or crunch down off a ra
ised speed table or swerve through a chicane I take the full force of it on my right arm. That goatfucking cannibal cultist arsehole Julian packed me in the boot damaged side down; I don’t have the strength, the room, or the leverage to turn myself over. I swear, when I get out of this thing I’m going to run for mayor, and the first item on my manifesto will be to order the transport planners to scrape the fucking things off every road in London with their tongues. Second item on the agenda: making it legal to shoot any cultists seen in the city after sundown with a bow and arrow. Sort of like that bylaw York has, the one about Welshmen. Or was it Scotsmen? Where was I—

  Oh. I blacked out again. This is bad. My wrist feels damp . . . think I’m bleeding again.

  They got my phone. I don’t have a ward. If I’m lucky Mo or Angleton got my messages and they know I’m in trouble. (If Angleton finds my phone I’ll be in trouble. How much trouble? How much do you think—running classified software on an unauthorized system?) How long will it take them to figure out I’m missing? What time is it, anyway? How long have the Goatfuckers had me? Hey, why am I scrunching up—

  Fuck. I hate roundabouts.

  When I’m mayor of London I’m going to require all cars to have transparent boot lids, on pain of—on pain of pain. So what if you can’t leave your shopping in the car while it’s parked? Fuck ’em, why won’t they think of the kidnap victims? Oof. That was a bad one.

  Where are they . . . where are they taking me?

  To see the mummy. Dust from the mummy’s tomb, ha-ha. A line of bandage-wrapped can-can dancers high-kick in the gallery of dreams. Brotherhood of the Black Pharaoh: how strange . . .

  Whoa. We’ve stopped. Engine running—traffic lights, damn it. Maybe that means we’re on a main road? Pull yourself together, Bob: Observe, Orient, Decide, Act, rinse, spin, repeat . . .

  I’m facing forward, arms handcuffed behind my back. If there’s an emergency child latch in here, it’ll be behind me. Chance of grabbing it: effectively nil, might be a different story if my right arm wasn’t fucked. Inventory of useful shiny occult tools: zero. Inventory of weapons: zero, unless you count my head. Give ’em head-butt . . .

  Ow, fuck. Speed bump, traffic planners, red-hot pincers, you know the drill. It’s stiflingly hot and noisy in here, and it smells bad. They won’t get my blood out of the carpet in a hurry, hah! Forensics’ll have a field day if ... if ...

  Oh. For a moment there I was hanging on that pole, staring out across the gray wasteland towards a distant pyramid. There’s an eye in the pyramid, but it’s sleeping. I’m terrified that it’s going to open and see me . . .

  They’re taking me somewhere specific. When they get there and open the boot of this car, I’ll be in the open for a while. That’s when I’m going to have to make my run. Won’t get a second chance. Observe, Orient, Decide . . .

  Boris sent me on a course on evasion and escape a couple of years back, after the mess on Saint Martin. Said it might come in handy sometime—I thought it was only going to be useful for keeping out of Human Resources’ sights, but you never know. Trouble is, ninety-nine percent of the game lies in not getting caught in the first place. Once the bad guys get their claws into you everything gets a lot harder.

  Harder. How desperate am I to escape? Depends. Because I’m not totally without resources; I’ve still got my head. Yes, but if I start down that road I won’t have it for much longer. I’m an experienced computational demonologist; I can program zombies, plan the perfect Pet Shop Boys album . . . but running code in your head, that’s a one-way ticket to Krantzberg syndrome. It’s like the Queen, and her magical power over Parliament; she can veto any law she likes, but it’s a card she gets to play once. Am I willing to risk a one-way trip to the secure wing at St. Hilda’s?

  Hell, yes—if the alternative is to be the center of attention at a cannibal cultist dinner party.

  Ah. Lost it again. Roundabouts—I feel really sick. The smell in here isn’t helping; need to concentrate on not throwing up. What procedures do I know that are simple enough to iterate in my head and effective enough to—

  We’re slowing. Too soon. Shit.

  It’s hard to deal the imaginary tarot cards when you’re being thrown about the boot of a car that’s braking hard, then turning. The road noises under me change to a crunching of gravel, which goes on interminably. Then there’s a long stationary pause. Just as I’m about certain that we’ve arrived, the car starts moving again, bouncing slowly across more gravel. It goes on and on—if this is a stately home or a public estate it’s huge. But after a brief eternity, we turn through a tight circle and then stop. The engine dies, and in the quiet I hear the ping of cooling metal. Then footsteps.

  Fresh air blasts across my back as the boot lid swings open. The interior light comes on, showing me gray carpet centimeters from my nose. “Is he—”

  “Yes. Get his legs.”

  I tense, ready to kick, but they’re too fast for me. They slide something—feels like a belt—around my ankles and I can’t pull them apart. Someone else pulls a canvas bag, smelling faintly of decaying vegetables, over my head. Then too many hands grab me and lift, and drop, with predictable consequences.

  When I surface in the sea of pain, I find I’m lying on my left side—a small mercy. I’m not sure what I’m lying on: it feels like a trolley, or possibly a stretcher. It’s cold and smells of disinfectant and it’s rolling over a hard, smooth surface. I can’t see: my arm is a monstrous, distracting wall of ache, I’m still handcuffed, and now they’ve hooded me and pinioned my ankles. So much for making a run for it. They’re obviously taking me somewhere indoors—

  Indoors?

  Something tells me that, yes, we are indoors now. Maybe it’s the lack of fresh air, or the echoes, or the ground beneath this trolley’s wheels. We must be nearly there. I distract myself, trying to recall the transition table for Cantor’s 2,5 Universal Turing Machine—the one with the five chess pieces and the board. I was always crap at chess, never really got into it deeply enough at school, but I understand UTMs, and if I can hold enough moves in my head before the gray stuff turns to Swiss cheese I might be able to code something up. Damn it, Bob, you’re a magician! Think of something! But it all blurs, when you’re in pain. Like most of my ilk I work best in a nice warm office, with a honking great monitor on my desk and a can of Pringles in front of me. I start swearing, under my breath, in Middle Enochian: cursing is the only thing that language is good for. (That, and ordering the walking dead around.)

  We stop, then there’s a scrape of doors opening. I bounce across a threshold—a lift, I think. Then we begin to descend. Shit, a lift. We’re underground. That’s all I need. I’m angry. I’m also terrified, and in pain, and light-headed, and dizzy. My heart’s hammering.

  “Are you awake, Mr. Howard?” chirps Jaunty Jonquil, the demon princess of Sloane Square.

  “Nnnng,” I say. Fuck you, would be more appropriate, but in my current position I’m feeling kind of insecure.

  “Praise Pharaoh!” That’s someone else: a male voice, not Julian. Observe, Orient—okay, you’re tentatively designated Goatfucker #3. “What happened to his arm?”

  “Midnight snack, don’t you know,” Julian replies from somewhere near my feet. “Is All-Highest in residence yet?”

  “Yes,” says #3. “You are expected.”

  “Ooh!” squeals Jonquil. She pokes me in the ribs, harder than necessary: “You’re going to see Mummy now! Isn’t that exciting?”

  I realize that a “no” might offend, and keep my yap shut. I’m trying to string together Words of Command for making the undead repeat a behavioral loop—hey, Mummy? Visions of a can-can line of cadavers in windings bounce through my imagination. Fool, they’re going to kill you. Focus! The part of me that’s on-message and plugged-in to this very unpleasant reality game is panicking at the languid detachment that’s stealing over the rest of me. He makes a bid for my lips: “Where . . . are ... ?” I hear myself croak.

  The lift g
rinds to a halt and I feel a cool draft as the doors open.

  “Brookwood cemetery. Have you been here before? It’s really marvelous! It’s the biggest necropolis in England, it covers more than eight square kilometers and more than a quarter of a million people are buried here! This is our section—it used to belong to the Ancient and Honourable Order of Wheelwrights, back in the eighteen hundreds—”

  “Quiet,” says #3. “You shouldn’t tell him this thing.”

  “I don’t see why not,” Jonquil says huffily: “It’s not as if he’s going to escape, is it?”

  That’s right, remind me I’m doomed, see if I care. Hey, isn’t Brookwood where the Necropolitan line used to terminate? Oh, that figures. The cultists have built their fucking headquarters right on top of the power source for that ley line they trapped me with. And, let’s face it, it’s a nice neighborhood. There isn’t much of a crime problem here, community policing keeps a low profile, it’s dead quiet—

  They wheel me out into what I’m pretty sure is a sublevel. A lift, in a mausoleum? Doesn’t make sense. So this is probably a mortuary building, abandoned and re-purposed. I try to give no sign of the cold shudders that tingle up and down my spine as they roll me along a short passage, then stop.

  “Greetings, Master,” says Jonquil, an apprehensive quaver in her voice for the first time: “We have brought the desired one?”

  I can feel a fourth presence, chilly and abstracted. I have a curious sense that I am being inspected—

  “Good. The All-Highest will see you now.” The voice is as cold as an unmarked grave.

  I hear a door open, and they wheel me forward in silence. Abruptly, someone leans close to me and pulls the canvas bag up and away from my head. It’s dark down here, the deep twilight of a cellar illuminated only by LED torches, but it’s not so dark that I can’t see the All-Highest.

  And that’s when I realize I’m in much worse trouble than I ever imagined.