Then a young woman walked in, also suited and businesslike. She was tall, voluptuous, and walking a little too close behind the elderly man. Denny read the body language as they walked behind Gould and Forster, concluded they were having an office affair.
That doesn't sound like Benson's style at all, she thought. I was wrong. Is this a coup or something?
Confirmation came in a flurry of movement among the British. Gould half-stood, Forster frowned in puzzlement, while Zoffany looked surprised.
They know this guy, but they've never actually met him ‘til now, Denny thought. Come to think of it, I've seen that face somewhere.
Then a second man entered, and Denny took in a sharp breath. The newcomer was tall, at least six-four, and thin. Not only his chest and hips, but even his shoulders seemed narrow for his height. His head seemed abnormally large by contrast. He walked with a smooth, long stride that suggested strength under tight control. The man's age was hard to judge from his smooth features, deep-sunk eyes and hairless cranium. Denny guessed he was over fifty, less than seventy.
Yep, this is him all right. Creepy as hell.
Benson looked straight at her, and she fought the desire to look away. Instead she blinked, cursed herself. But by now the chairman of the foundation was moving on. He stood at the head of the table, gestured to the two strangers, who took seats to one side.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Benson. “As you can see we have a distinguished guest. Those of you who know Sir Lionel will need no introduction, but for the benefit of our American friends …”
Denny found herself listening to the sound of Benson more than the words. The chairman's voice was startlingly deep, as if coming from some cavern under the earth. It was hard to believe it emanated from that narrow chest. Though almost expressionless, the voice was also oddly hypnotic. So intrigued was Denny that she almost missed the introduction of Sir Lionel Bartram. Benson did not mention the pretty, young woman, or give any indication that he acknowledged her existence.
“Sir Lionel, as I'm sure some of you know, is Minister of State for Internal Security at the Home Office,” Benson explained, then proceeded to make introductions. Denny and Frankie were 'Ms. Purcell' and 'Ms. Dupont', and now classed as Special Field Operatives. Denny resisted the urge to ask if that meant she would get a raise. She also wanted to ask the name of Bartram's PA, whose job seemed to consist of smiling prettily at the old man now and again.
After Benson had finished, Bartram rose somewhat wheezily to his feet and began to talk. He had an upper-class British accent but sounded to Denny like a politician from anywhere, and one that had enjoyed too much fine dining at the taxpayers' expense. After a few words of praise for the foundation and its 'brave paranormal investigators', Bartram talked in vague terms about the 'threat posed by non-human entities to our way of life'. Denny had to struggle not to zone out. She had heard so many similar waffling speeches as a young reporter, even the topic of shape-shifting monsters from another dimension could not make it interesting.
Wonder how much this guy really knows? Denny thought. Benson does not look the over-sharing type.
After Bartram had finished, Benson said nothing. Gould looked around the table, and then cleared his throat.
“I'm very glad the government is taking the Interloper threat more seriously, Sir Lionel,” he said. “But does this mean we will have more resources to tackle it?”
The minister leaned forward, but before he could say anything, Benson raised a long-fingered hand.
“I think,” he said, “that this is far too early to discuss funding and equipment issues, Mister Gould. The minister is simply here to get to know us, get a feel for our work.”
Benson stood up, and again Denny was surprised by the way the man did not seem to be built to the same scale as the room. Benson was like a normal, if deeply unappealing man, viewed in the distorting surface of a fun-house mirror.
An Interloper would do a better job of looking human, she thought.
“Forster,” said Benson. “Perhaps you could begin the tour by showing Sir Lionel our security arrangements?”
As Forster ushered the minister and the unnamed woman out of the room, Benson started to fire questions at Gould and Zoffany. It became apparent that research on the talisman had stalled.
“However, the survivors rescued from the Phantom Dimension,” Zoffany said, “have given us some useful data on the large organisms known as Soul Eaters.”
“Anything that can kill them?” Benson said, looking at his chief scientist from under drooping eyelids.
“Not as yet,” Zoffany admitted. “But realistically, given the size of the gateways we know of, these behemoths could hardly enter our world.”
The scientist looked over at Gould, evidently for support, but he did not meet her eye. Instead, he appeared fascinated by a point on the wall somewhere above his lover's head.
Oh crap, thought Denny. What have I been missing?
“Insufficient progress,” drawled Benson, dragging out each syllable. He walked over to the window, ran the tips of cadaverous fingers absentmindedly along the sill. “We need more data, preferably from captive Interlopers. If necessary, Gould, you and Forster's people must go into the PD and get them. Deploy adequate force. Professionals. Do not rely on amateur heroics in the future.”
Benson paused, looked at Denny for a moment, then turned his unblinking gaze back on Gould. Gould did not protest, merely looked miserably uncomfortable.
“Well,” said Benson, after a brief pause. “As we have had our introductions, I think it is time we all returned to our respective posts.”
He started to walk out of the room, then paused at the door, rubbing his fingertips with his thumb. Then he left. Denny heard quiet sighs of relief from the others, then realized she had joined them.
“Okay,” said Gould. “Back to what passes for work, I suppose.”
***
Denny and Frankie spent the hour after the meeting briefing some of Forster's men on the Phantom Dimension. The questions they were asked ranged from dumb to not-so-dumb. But it was clear that the ex-military types recruited by the foundation had a fixed mindset as to what they were going to be dealing with. Denny sensed Frankie's frustration with the cocksure attitude of the security operatives as her friend's responses grew more sarcastic. But in the end, it was Denny that snapped.
“Look!” she heard herself shouting. “You're going up against shape-shifting creatures that are smart, fast, and can disembowel you before you can aim your fancy guns. And if the Interlopers don't get you, there are Black Stars that can swoop down and grab you from above. And that's before the Soul Eater scoops you up in its nice, big tentacles and swallows you like a really fat guy swallows a chocolate-coated peanut.”
There was a moment's silence. Then someone at the back snickered.
“Fine, be assholes, go and do the macho thing,” Denny sighed, then turned to Davenport. “I think we're done here.”
The friends did not speak as they made their way to the canteen and got what passed for coffee, plus some glazed donuts. After they had sat for a while, Frankie broke the silence.
“You think we blew our Christmas bonus?”
After she'd finished laughing, Denny leaned back, gestured with her half-eaten donut.
“I don't know if it's because we're women or American or both, but those guys–”
As often happened, having someone else to trash talk brought them together. They were laughing loudly when Gould appeared and asked if he could join them.
“Sure,” Frankie said. “How are things in your multiple worlds?”
That set the women laughing again. Gould gave a slightly strained smile.
“I see the implications of quantum theory continue to fascinate the layperson,” he said. “Well, as it happens, we may have made a breakthrough.”
“Some kind of anti-Interloper death ray?” Denny suggested.
Gould shook his head.
“Not my
field. No, we sub-contracted some theoretical work to a few people at Cambridge, and they came up with a remarkable algorithm that could be used in conjunction with a civilian satellite to detect anomalous microwave emissions–”
Gould continued to explain, but Denny could tell from Frankie's expression;
he thinks he's dumbing it down for us, she thought. His faith is touching in a way.
“Can we cut to the chase, professor?” Frankie interrupted. “What's this in aid of?”
“The gateways,” Gould said patiently. “We might be able to spot them from space when they open. We tested the system on the two examples we know and it seemed to work.”
“Seemed?” Frankie responded. “That's a fine old ass-covering word, Ted!”
Denny nudged her friend.
“Let's just say,” Gould went on, “that we've been getting anomalous readings.”
“I just love anomalous readings,” Frankie said, in a mock-seductive voice.
Gould sighed.
“Would you like to come and actually see the system in operation? Consider it an informal briefing.”
Now why would you want to do that? Denny wondered. You haven’t been an over-sharer before now.
She did not say anything, though, simply followed Gould and Frankie through a maze of corridors to a large room filled with screens and nerdy personnel. Denny noticed that one of the young men was playing a video game when they came in, but quickly minimized the window when he saw Gould.
Some things never change, no matter who you work for.
“Okay,” Gould said to the gamer. “You seem to have a spare moment; would you mind firing up Gatescan?”
The young man reddened as he followed the order. Denny and Frankie stood behind the tech guy's chair as a basic map of the Earth appeared. A dotted green line was the path of a satellite, Gould explained.
“Now zero in on any region at random, give us the latest sweep.”
Denny expected to see England appear but instead the young man clicked on a region of northern Asia. There were no national boundaries marked, so Denny guessed it was Mongolia, or maybe Siberia. The view zoomed in some more. A scale in the corner of the screen went from hundreds to tens of kilometers. Three sharp points of orange light appeared on the screen.
“Nothing to get excited about,” Gould explained. “Those will be short-wave radar installations. Very distinctive signal. We're looking for something a bit different, a fluctuating signal that's blurred at the edges.”
“I'll speed it up,” said the tech guy, clicking on a slider bar.
The orange lights remained steady, then one flickered out.
“It's running data gathered on the satellite's last pass,” Gould explained. “That was probably military radar being tested, so – What the hell is that?”
A diffused cloud, reddish-brown in color, had appeared on the edge of the screen for a split second, then vanished.
“Was that a gateway?” Frankie asked.
Gould did not answer, but reached over the young man's shoulder to rewind the video, then pause it. The ocher blue was, Denny saw, nearly ten kilometers across. She did a quick calculation, came up with over six miles.
“No way,” she said.
“No,” said Gould, in an expressionless voice. “As I said, it's experimental. We're still working the bugs out of the system.”
***
Harriet Zoffany swiped her ID card through the reader, then keyed in an eight-digit code. The door unlocked itself with a click, and she entered the Maximum-Security Area. The entire sub-basement was off-limits to all but foundation employees with top clearance.
But there's always a higher level of clearance, she reflected. Always more secrecy, more paranoia.
A small, naked body lay on a slab. It was open from throat to groin, flaps of skin folded back and pinned, rib-cage split open. A casual observer might not have noticed anomalies, but to Zoffany, the peculiarities of the creature's internal structure were always striking, and still somewhat baffling.
But then, she thought, a casual observer would more likely be freaking out over the fact that we have apparently dissected a child.
Zoffany leaned close, nostrils wrinkling. She never quite got used to the smell of disinfectant, despite working with it most days. But it helped mask the other smell, of Interloper slowly decaying. It was a stench that had filled her nostrils when she had cut Lucy up to try and find some reason for the creature's ability to survive in the human world.
God, what have I become?
The creature's eyelids flickered, opened, focused on the scientist. Zoffany jumped back, collided with a tray of instruments, sending scalpels and spreaders clattering to the tiled floor. No matter how often it happened, the reaction always spooked her.
I'm the most inept executioner in history, she thought. If time taken is a factor.
The dissection would have killed any earthly creature. Lucy had become inert, but tests showed that the alien tissues were still alive. The best theory Zoffany had was that Interlopers went into a state of hibernation when they experienced major trauma. In this case, she suspected, the body was too far gone to survive but was taking a long time to die. Zoffany was under strict orders not to kill it.
Benson had been keen to discover some equivalent of the talisman, a special object that created a protective field around the creature. But all Zoffany had found was bone, cartilage, organs, blood vessels. Not human, but getting there. She suspected that she knew what made Lucy and the other so-called 'endurers' different from the rest of their kind. But she had not yet told Benson. Actual data was proving elusive. And Zoffany was not sure she wanted to admit the truth, even to herself.
“Too … long.”
The words were croaked out of the cracked, black lips. The voice was still recognizable as that of a child, a perfect imitation.
“Too … long … dying.”
Zoffany swallowed, tried to keep her voice steady.
“You could tell me,” she said. “Tell me what we want to know, then I'll kill you. I have acid, hydrogen peroxide, cyanide. Something will work.”
The face that looked very much like a tormented child's, smiled up at her.
“So … generous. Humans. Killers … all.”
Zoffany composed herself and picked up the surgical instruments.
“If you change your mind, I'll be back to check on you tomorrow, same time.”
She was already opening the door when she heard the croaky voice repeating what had become a kind of mantra for the dying monster. Zoffany did not hurry, but was glad that the door slammed behind her before she heard the end of the familiar sentence.
“There … are … worse … things … than … us.”
Chapter 3: Fake News
Timandra Clay looked out over grassy expanse of Wimbledon Common. The great tract of open land was whitening rapidly just as twilight darkened the city. Behind her, the TV weather forecast informed her that the snow that had hit the western parts of the island had now reached London.
“Brilliant,” she murmured, and shivered in anticipation of her run. “Should have done it this morning. No help for it now, though.”
Lionel had gone back to his constituency for a meeting after their morning visit to the Romola Foundation. This had left Timandra on her own in the flat that Lionel paid for out of his expenses, in some convoluted way. She had asked him, once, when they were in bed together, if she were part of some kind of tax dodge. He had laughed, but not answered. Then he had left to attend a meeting of the standing committee on internet pornography.
One day, she thought, as she pulled on her running spikes, he'll leave his wife and marry me.
It was Timandra's unspoken mantra, repeated so often that some days she almost believed it. On this bleak afternoon, though, with the light failing, it had little force. She hit the street, jogged across the road, and focused on her run. Soon she was pounding along one of the footpaths, waving to other runners, saying ‘Hi’
to neighbors walking their dogs. Soon she was warm enough to almost forget the blizzard that was blowing in her face out of the darkness.
A dog started barking frantically, and Timandra felt a twinge of fear. She had once been chased and bitten by an untrained Rottweiler some idiot had let off the leash. But then she saw that this dog, a black bull terrier, was straining at the leash. Something near the path had set it off.
Rabbits, maybe, she thought, as she passed the cursing owner. Or more likely rats.
She checked her fitness tracker and saw she was still several thousand paces short of her daily target. She contemplated going further but then decided to go home and defrost a pizza instead. Retracing her steps, she passed the dog-walker again. The terrier was still pulling at its leash, trying to drag its diminutive owner off into the storm.
Timandra slowed, stared at the whirling flakes. Is someone out there? If so, they were moving fast. For a moment, she thought it was a runner, then it dawned on her that the figure she had glimpsed was not moving like a runner. It had been bounding like an animal, crouching low then leaping forward a few yards only to stop again. She thought of hyenas in wildlife documentaries, creatures with oddly short hind legs, long forelimbs.
A very strange predatory lope, she thought. But it must be one of these weird, fashionable dog breeds. They're everywhere.
She waited to hear the animal's owner shouting for it. No human voice came. One of the lamps that lined the footpath flickered, and she picked up her pace. She started to look around to see if any other people were ahead of her, walkers or runners she would pass on the way home. She could see nobody.
Because it's frigging February and blowing a bloody blizzard. You could have done this before work. Prize idiot.
Timandra reached the edge of the vast, open space without incident, though. The road was now busy with rush hour traffic and she waited impatiently to cross, glancing around, trying to look casual. A couple of times she thought she glimpsed the crouching, bounding creature. It was very pale, pale all over in fact.
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