by Will Hill
“On it, sir,” said Ellison, kneeling beside the staring, gibbering Chris Hollison.
Qiang stepped up next to Jamie, drew his torch, and turned it on. The bright white beam illuminated the shape lying at the base of the headstone, giving them their first clear look at it.
It was an old man.
His eyes glowed weakly, more pink than red, and his beard, which reached his chest, was matted grey. He was wearing a blazer that hung open to reveal an emaciated torso, and skin that was mired with grime and dirt. His trousers had once been blue jeans, but were now an indeterminate brownish-green, and his feet were bare, the nails at the ends of his toes curled and yellow like a bird’s talons.
Behind Jamie, Lauren and Isabel had stopped screaming, but were still sobbing and repeating, “Oh my God!” over and over. Wesley sounded like he was struggling to breathe, and Chris Hollison was still on the ground beside Ellison, making noises that didn’t sound completely human.
“Is he bitten?” asked Jamie.
“No,” said Ellison. “He’s fine.”
“Shame,” said Jamie, then chastised himself silently for such a thought.
“What was that?” shouted Lauren. “Seriously, what the hell was it?”
Jamie stepped aside and turned to face her. “That is what you were trying to summon,” he said. “Still think it was a good idea?”
Lauren shook her head, her wide eyes fixed on the old man. Jamie stared at her for a long moment, then nodded. He turned to face the vampire, twisting his comms back to internal and drawing his stake.
“I’ve got this,” he said, and took a step towards the old man.
The vampire leapt forward with a speed that took Jamie completely by surprise, crashing into his legs with the force of a runaway car, sending bolts of agony through his body and knocking him sprawling to the ground. Jamie heard Lauren and Isabel scream yet again, and twisted on the ground, bringing his head round to see what the hell was happening.
The old man shambled across the clearing, his eyes now blazing crimson, a thick growl rising from deep within him. Ellison raised her T-Bone and fired it with a bang of exploding gas; the vampire ducked his head, and the metal projectile tore through the air above him and rocketed away into the darkness.
Qiang backed away from the onrushing vampire, drawing his Glock from his belt. He brought it up, but the old man was upon him before he could pull the trigger, swinging a skinny arm that crashed into the Chinese Operator’s chest. Qiang was thrown up and back, his limbs flailing as he flew over gravestones and bushes and hit the ground, hard. His head missed the thick edge of one of the graves by millimetres, making Jamie wince behind his visor; even with his helmet protecting him, Qiang would have been in a lot of trouble if he had connected with the sharp stone corner.
Jamie scrambled to his feet and ran forward, the four teenagers forgotten. He drew his MP7 and aimed it at the fleeing vampire, but Ellison beat him to it. She stepped across him, aimed her Glock with steady hands, and squeezed its trigger three times. The gunshots were deafeningly loud in the still air of the graveyard; they echoed against the stone and wood and, in the distance, Jamie heard shrieks of fear. Then three bursts of red bloomed from the back of the old vampire; he tumbled to the ground and lay still.
“Nice shot,” said Jamie, trying not to let his relief appear in his voice.
“Thanks,” said Ellison. “I didn’t see that coming, sir. Not from him.”
Jamie shook his head. “Me neither,” he said. “Never underestimate a vamp, whatever they look like. We got lucky.”
Qiang emerged from behind the gravestone his head had so narrowly missed, moving slightly unsteadily.
“Are you OK?” asked Jamie.
“I am fine, sir,” said Qiang. “My apologies.”
“Nothing to apologise for,” said Jamie. “Take care of it.”
Qiang nodded, drew his stake, and set off towards the writhing vampire. Jamie turned to face the teenagers, who had huddled together at the foot of one of the larger graves, their faces white with panic, and turned his microphone back to external.
“On your feet,” he said. “You’re going to watch what being a vampire really means. And I don’t think you’re …” He trailed off, as something burst into his mind.
Isabel, Lauren and Wesley were looking up at him with clear and obvious terror.
There was no sign of Chris Hollison.
“Shit,” said Jamie. “Where’s your friend? Tell me.”
Wesley shook his head, his eyes never leaving Jamie’s visor. “I don’t know,” he said, honestly.
Jamie looked around. The graveyard was dark, and full of places to hide, and he lambasted himself for having taken his eyes off the insolent teenager.
“I’m thermal,” said Ellison, her voice appearing directly into his ear. “No sign of him.”
There was a wet thud in the distance as Qiang staked the old vampire, but Jamie barely heard it; he was scanning the dark graveyard, concern rising in his chest as he desperately tried to tell himself it wasn’t a problem.
He signed the Act. He won’t say anything.
But he didn’t believe that, not for a single second. Keeping their mouth shut was not something that came naturally to boys like Chris Hollison.
“Shit,” he repeated, under his breath. “Shit. Goddamnit, shit.”
“What do you want me to do, sir?” asked Ellison.
“Talk to Surveillance,” said Jamie. “Arrange for police to go to his house and put the fear of God into him.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ellison.
“It is done,” said Qiang, appearing beside his squad mates.
“Good,” said Jamie. He stared down at the three frightened teenagers. “We’re done here,” he said. “Don’t forget this happened, but remember what I told you, and what you signed. Try and put it behind you.”
The teenagers didn’t respond; they looked silently up at him, their faces pale. Jamie could see them shaking in the light of the fire, shivering as though they were cold, the skin on their arms raised in gooseflesh. He twisted the dial on his belt and established a connection with their driver.
“Ready for extraction from insertion point,” he said. “ASAP, please.”
From the shadowy doorway of a looming stone mausoleum, Chris Hollison watched the three black figures walk through the gates of the graveyard and climb into the back of a waiting van.
His heart was thumping in his chest, his legs felt like jelly, but the hands that held his mobile phone were steady; its screen glowed in the darkness, REC flashing in red letters in its upper right corner. As the van pulled away, Chris tapped the screen with his thumb. Two words appeared: SAVE and DISCARD. He pressed SAVE, put the phone in his pocket, then set off for home at a run, his friends forgotten, his mind focused entirely on getting to his bedroom and uploading the footage he had just taken.
Nobody’s going to believe that just happened, he thought. Until they see it.
Operational Squad J-5’s journey home was quiet; the three Operators sitting in the back of the van had barely spoken by the time their driver guided the vehicle through the containment tunnel and on to the wide grounds of the Loop.
The remainder of the Patrol Respond had passed without incident. Jamie had seriously considered abandoning the operation after they left the graveyard, but had decided against it, for three reasons: if Chris Hollison turned out to be a problem, then it was his problem; his squad needed to gain experience of working together quickly; and they still had four hours before they were due to return to base. But as it turned out, he might just as well have followed his first instinct; the connection to the Surveillance Division had stayed stubbornly silent.
The atmosphere in the van wasn’t unpleasant, not exactly; it was more the quiet introspection that came from being reminded, as if it was ever possible to truly forget, that their work carried the constant prospect of injury and death. Qiang had not been seriously hurt when the old man attacked him, and t
he teenagers had survived their encounter with a vampire, the one that they had apparently been so keen to have, without any physical damage. Nonetheless, Jamie was already analysing his role in the incident in the graveyard, turning it endlessly over and over. It wasn’t just that Chris Hollison had got away; in the chaos of combat, particularly combat that involved civilians, such a situation was always a possibility. What was bothering him was the realisation he had let personal feelings affect his actions, at least in part, and he was already beginning to feel the dull heat of embarrassment in his stomach as he thought about what he had done.
Unprofessional. Bad example. Poor leader.
Technically, Jamie had followed protocol; when an incident involved non-supernatural civilians, they were to sign the Official Secrets Act, be made aware of the consequences of breaking it, and then sent on their way. This, if the raw facts were all that were considered, was what had happened.
What he had really done was abuse his authority, along with the power granted by his appearance and anonymity; he had used his position to punish a boy who reminded him of those who had made his and Matt’s lives so miserable. Chris Hollison had been a prick, no doubt about it: a loudmouth, know-it-all bully. But had he really deserved to be told that he was going to be watched and followed wherever he went, that his phone was going to be tapped? Had he deserved to be scared and humiliated in front of his friends?
No, thought Jamie. He didn’t deserve that. None of them did.
Operators were not perfect, nor were they robots, and Jamie would be the first to admit that he was not always able to remove his personality, and its many flaws, from the work that he did. He had learnt to live with such failings. But this felt like he had crossed some kind of line, like he had done exactly what he had always hated seeing done to others; used his power to terrorise those weaker than himself. Looking back on it, he could see that he had handled it badly. With hindsight, he knew that he had let himself down. But at the time? As he watched the smug face of Chris Hollison change when he realised that he wasn’t in control of a situation, maybe for the first time? When he had seen the impotent rage fill the teenager’s face? That had felt good. Great, even. And that was what was worrying Jamie now.
This isn’t some way for you to settle old scores, he told himself. This is the light, what’s left of it, standing against the darkness. This is the most important thing in the world, and you have to be better than that. Your squad mates need you to be better than that.
The van rolled into the Loop’s hangar and pulled to a halt in one of the bays along the right-hand wall. Jamie and his squad mates unclipped themselves from their harnesses and got up from their seats, stretching their arms and rotating their necks. It was just after two in the morning, relatively early by the nocturnal standards of Blacklight, but Jamie was tired; the operation had drained him. He pushed open the door, stepped down on to the concrete, and waited for his squad mates to join him. They came quickly, exiting the vehicle and standing at sharp attention in front of him. Ellison’s blond hair waved gently in the night breeze, while Qiang looked for all the world as though he’d just stepped out of the pages of a magazine; he didn’t have so much as a hair out of place.
“Good work,” said Jamie. “That wasn’t the mission any of us were expecting, not one that anybody is going to tell stories about, but it was what it was, and there’s one less vampire in the world than before we went out. So consider that a good night’s work, and I’ll see you both tomorrow when our orders come through. Until then, dismissed.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Qiang. He nodded, almost smiled, then turned on his heels and walked quickly towards the double doors that led into the rest of the Loop.
Ellison stayed where she was. She ran a hand through her hair, then pulled off her gloves and smiled at Jamie.
“Strange one,” she said.
“No kidding,” said Jamie, and grinned. “I don’t think Qiang was particularly impressed that he ended up getting flattened by some vampire pensioner. We’re going to have to up our game tomorrow.”
Ellison laughed. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Qiang is a tiny bit in awe of you, so you’re fine.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“It’s true,” said Ellison. “He told me.”
“Really?” said Jamie. “I wasn’t sure he talked. What did he say?”
“That it’s an honour for him to work alongside a descendant of the Blacklight founders,” said Ellison. “And that he hopes to do a good job. I think he’s feeling the pressure of representing PBS6.”
“He’s got nothing to worry about,” said Jamie.
“That’s what I told him,” said Ellison. “Goodnight, sir.”
She turned and strolled away across the hangar. Jamie watched her go, his mind mostly full of the incident with Chris Hollison, the report he had to write for the Interim Director, and whether or not his girlfriend was back from her operation, but still able to commit a small part of its processing power to admiration for his squad mate.
I got lucky with Ellison, he thought. Very lucky.
He walked across the hangar, pulling his console from his belt. He was about to start typing a message to Larissa when the plastic rectangle vibrated in his hands. The screen changed, displaying the new message icon. Jamie thumbed it open, and grimaced as he read the short line of text Cal Holmwood had sent him.
MY QUARTERS. NOW.
“What the hell did you think you were playing at?” shouted Cal Holmwood. His face was bright red, and he was gripping the edge of his desk with such force that his knuckles had turned white. Beside him, Paul Turner stood silently, his face as impassive as ever. “How could you be so utterly stupid?”
Jamie winced. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, forcing himself to maintain eye contact with the Interim Director. “I lost control, sir.”
“Lost control?” bellowed Holmwood, his face darkening to an alarming purple. “You were filmed by a civilian. You’re on the bloody news, you stupid boy.”
Jamie’s eyes widened. “I’m what, sir?”
“Take a look for yourself,” shouted Holmwood. “Christ, I should put you in a cell for this. I’ve had the bloody Chief of the General Staff on the phone, telling me the Prime Minister wants you court-martialled. I’ve got bloody politicians trying to tell me how to do my job, all thanks to you.”
The Interim Director hammered a series of commands into the terminal on his desk. The screen on the opposite wall of the room bloomed into life and Jamie turned towards it, panic creeping up his spine.
The news? The Prime Minster? A court martial? Jesus, what the hell is all this?
Holmwood opened a list of civilian broadcast channels, scrolled down to BBC NEWS 24, and hit ENTER. A rectangular window filled with a live feed of the news network, and Jamie gasped.
Playing in the centre of the screen was camera-phone footage of the Our Sister of Grace cemetery, where he and his squad had been barely five hours earlier. As he watched, the old vampire, a growling, shambling shape, sent Qiang spinning through the air, before the dark figure of Ellison fired her pistol, bringing him down. Jamie saw himself standing beside her, his MP7 in his hands, his purple visor turned towards the camera.
The footage was horribly, awfully clear.
“Shit,” he whispered.
Below the video, which appeared to be playing on a loop, the red and white news ticker scrolled relentlessly from right to left.
MOD DENIES EXISTENCE OF SECRET ANTI-VAMPIRE ORGANISATION | APPEARANCE OF ALLEGED MEMBERS MATCHES DESCRIPTION OF THE LATE KEVIN MCKENNA | CAMBRIDGE EMAIL FORWARDED MORE THAN FIFTY THOUSAND TIMES
“How did this happen, Lieutenant?” asked Holmwood. “How did you manage to screw up a simple Patrol Respond so badly?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said Jamie, his panicked mind racing with worst-case scenarios. “It was a routine Echelon intercept, four kids lighting fires and splashing blood around, trying to summon vampires. I warned them off and made the
m sign the OSA, but we were attacked by a vamp. One of them disappeared in the confusion, sir.”
“You didn’t look for him?” asked Turner.
“Of course we did,” said Jamie. “There was no sign of him. But he’d signed the OSA, so I ordered a police visit to his house and carried on with the operation. I had no idea he was filming us.”
“Well, he was,” said Holmwood, and pointed.
Jamie followed the Interim Director’s finger and felt his heart stop in his chest. On the wide screen, standing outside a large detached house with a man and woman who looked like the dictionary definition of suburban middle class, was Chris Hollison. He was wearing a smart blue shirt and his blond hair was neatly combed as he looked into the camera, EXCLUSIVE scrolling rapidly below him. At the bottom of the screen, the rest of the day’s headlines cycled past in turn; one item caught Jamie’s eye, even as horror at the sight of Chris Hollison flooded through him.
BREAK-IN AT BUCHAREST MUSEUM – AUTHORITIES REFUSE TO CONFIRM MOTIVE WAS THEFT
“Joining us now,” said the newsreader, “is the young man who shot the footage that we’re bringing to you exclusively tonight. Chris Hollison, can you hear me?”
There was a tiny delay, then the teenager nodded. “I can hear you,” he said.
“Chris, can you tell us how you came by these remarkable images?”
“Certainly,” said Hollison. “Some friends of mine and I were hanging out in the cemetery at Our Sister of Grace after school, but we lost track of time, so when we tried to go home the gates had been locked. We were going to climb the fence when the three people you can see in the video appeared and started threatening us.”
“Threatening you?” asked the newsreader.
Hollison nodded. “They claimed we had assaulted somebody, which was ridiculous. I asked who, and they wouldn’t tell me. Then one of them, the leader, pointed a gun at me and said we had to sign the Official Secrets Act.”
“I’m sorry?”
Hollison shook his head. “I know it sounds crazy,” he said. “It sounded crazy to me at the time. So I told my friends not to sign it, because we hadn’t done anything wrong and I know my rights, you know?”
