Half an hour later, he folds his newspaper, stands up, and leads me off the train onto a platform in Milton Keynes Central. I shiver and look around, counting cameras. “Where are we going?” I ask again.
“To an obscure industrial park on the outskirts of town,” he replies as he strides out of the front of the station, head swiveling in search of taxis like a vigilant blackbird after a juicy earthworm. We pause beside a row of pantone-colored concrete seagulls. “A place called Hanslope Park. Home to an organization called HMGCC.”
“Her Majesty’s GNU C Compiler?” I blink stupidly at the daylight.
“No, Her Majesty’s Government Communications Centre. Very much not open source, Mr. Howard.”
“Oh.” Something about the address rings a bell from years ago, but I’m not certain yet. I stare at the seagulls. My skin crawls; I have bad memories of Milton Keynes, but they mostly center on the concrete cows and a compromised research station that may or may not have been located close to Hanslope Park. A sign beside the station entrance tells me that the local schools are having a seagull parade, with a charity draw and a prize for the best avian paint job. “So we’re making the rounds?”
“It generally attracts less attention than an external request.” A taxi pulls up between a puce seabird with bright red eyes and a startled expression and another gull wearing authentic 1940s Luftwaffe insignia. We climb in.
HMGCC is one of those boringly standardized cookie-cutter government installations that look like a blighted industrial estate: crappy seventies brutalist office architecture and prefabricated concrete warehouses with an open car park behind razor-wire-topped fences and signs saying BEWARE OF THE DOG. For all I know it could be right next door to the unit where I had my happy-fun encounter with Mark McLuhan; these places are so anonymous they could be anything. A bonded whisky warehouse, a bank cash center, or a factory where they build nuclear warheads. Further back, behind the buildings and out of sight of the road, there will be satellite dishes and exposed runs of cabling and pipes between buildings, and stuff of interest to spies and trainspotters—but first you have to get inside.
Lockhart stops our taxi driver at the front gate, pays, and we walk up to an impressive set of wire gates that are overlooked from three directions by white masts bending under the weight of CCTV cameras and antennae. My skin is just about ready to crawl off my neck and sprint screaming up the street—I know what those cameras are for!—but Lockhart pulls out his warrant card and advances on the gate guard. “Gerald Lockhart and Robert Howard to see Dr. Traviss. We’re expected.”
Half an hour and the electronic equivalent of a body cavity search later—I swear they’re using me as a guinea pig for the scanners for next decade’s airport security theater—we arrive in a small, dingy office with high, frosted-glass windows and too much furniture. It’s clearly one of the graveyards where the MOD filing cabinets go to die. There’s a too-small meeting table, and three occupied seats. The occupants stand as Lockhart shakes hands. “Bob, this is Dr. Traviss.” A tall, gloomy-looking fellow in a suit and horn-rimmed glasses, Traviss seems only marginally aware of his surroundings. “This is Alan Fraser”—a government-issue scientific officer, subtype: short, hairy, and explosive, probably screeches all over the home counties on a monstrously overpowered motorbike every weekend to reassure himself that he still has a life—“and this is Warrant Officer O’Hara”—a blue-suiter, middle-aged, clearly along for the ride with orders to shoot the boffins if they try to think too hard. “Dr. Traviss, Bob is the individual you were briefed on yesterday.” Oh, really? I think. “He’s going overseas. Bob, these fellows are going to equip you for inventory tracking.”
I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. “You aren’t planning on using destiny entanglement on me, are you? Because last time—”
Lockhart cuts across me: “Nothing of the kind,” he snaps. “Destiny entanglement leaks. It’s a security violation waiting to happen.”
Warrant Officer O’Hara pulls a file folder out from under his blotter and extracts a fearsome-looking document. “Read this and initial each page please, Mr. Howard.” His avuncular smile draws some of the sting from his words, but it’s quite clear that I’m not going to hear another word from these folks until I sign.
I read the first paragraph, clock that it’s the standard Official Secrets Act boilerplate with added Laundry special sauce that we use to bind people to silence under threat of a fate worse than prosecution, skim-read the rest to make sure there are no surprise whoopee cushions buried in it, and sign in blood, using the sterile lancet and pen that O’Hara provides for that purpose. The unusually heavy paper itches under my fingertips, a dry prickling sensation that reminds me of dead insects. O’Hara removes the form and slides it back into the folder as I apply a cotton wool pad to my hand.
“Now we can proceed,” says Traviss. He walks over to one of the filing cabinets and unlocks it, withdraws a zip-lock bag containing something that looks like a small photo album—the old dead-tree variety—and sits back down in front of me. He pulls the booklet out. “Mr. Howard. Have you ever seen one of these before?”
I squint at it. “A photo album. Yes?”
“Exactly.” Traviss looks glumly satisfied. “Nine pounds from WHSmith’s.” He carefully folds the first page open. “And this is a prepaid phone card.”
I nod, fascinated.
He flips to the next page. “This is a temporary tattoo.” Just like a million other tramp stamps sold on rolls of transfer paper in tat shops for kids who’re too chicken to let a weekend biker scribble on their skin with a needle gun. “And, oh look, another. Inventory tags, Mr. Howard.”
“Right.”
“The phone card goes in your wallet. There’s nothing special about it except that any call you make using this number will go through a switch that is monitored around the clock, so everything you say will be overheard.” He nods at Lockhart. “I believe Mr. Lockhart has a list of codewords for you to memorize.”
“Isn’t that a little crude?” I probe.
Traviss pulls a face. “There is a man behind the curtain but you should pay no attention to him, Mr. Howard. We’ve put a lot of effort into ensuring that if you ever use this phone card, nobody will pay it any particular attention. In fact, we encourage you to use it a lot—if you’re overseas, you can use it to call your wife.” I suppress a twitch. Clearly he doesn’t know that Mo is also a Laundry employee. “Would you rather engage in some cloak-and-dagger antics involving ad-hoc wifi networks running at set times in Starbucks, and laptops with hardware encryption dongles? So that when the black hats come to arrest you they find all your incriminating equipment and beat your password out of you with rubber hoses?”
I swallow. “I’m not used to that particular threat,” I admit.
“I suppose not.” Traviss looks satisfied.
“What about the tattoos?” I ask.
“Ah. Let’s see.” He flips rapidly through them: a goth’s trophy pentacle, a cherub’s kebab-skewer of love hearts, a hieroglyphic squiggle of ankhs and eye of Horus, even a couple of crosses. “Put these on your, ah, inventory items. They’re waterproof and will last until they rub off—typically three to six days, but possibly longer if the inventory items refrain from bathing or cover them with an occlusive dressing. The image itself is non-signifying—the ink contains suspended nanoparticles impregnated with—” O’Hara clears his throat. “Right.” Traviss pauses for a few seconds. “This is the master controller.” He flops to the back of the book and shows me a kitsch clockface tat. “Apply this and you can communicate with the satellite tattoos.”
“Um. How?” I ask.
“Contagion and blood magic,” says Fraser, with relish. He grins fiendishly. “Use a needle to prick yourself through the tat and you’ll be able to drop in on your subject. Or just use pain, in emergency pinch skin—but that can damage the tattoo. You can talk by subvocalizing or thinking the words—you can communicate silently.”
I blink. I
t sounds almost too good to be true. “What are the drawbacks?” I ask.
“Well, there’s some sensory leakage; while you’re connected, you can feel their emotional state to some extent, see through their eyes. And physical pain—that transfers much too easily. You really don’t want to call one of your satellites right after they’ve been shot in the stomach. The second real risk is that the opposition will find the tattoo and deduce what it is and what it’s for before one of you can remove it. Oh, and you really don’t want to activate it while you’re in proximity to an unshielded trophic resonator—soul-suckers, or demons, or anything that can get a lock on your nervous system—they’re attracted to such channels, and a ward won’t save you.”
I shiver. Suddenly it’s not looking that convenient after all.
“It’s a tool,” O’Hara explains slowly, as if to a particularly stupid schoolboy, “to allow you to silently and untraceably talk one-on-one with field operatives, or snoop on their activities. In enemy territory, under the nose of the bad guys. It is not a magic wand. There are countermeasures, and if you are not careful and run into them it can betray you as thoroughly as being caught with a shortwave radio and a code book. But not to civilians.” By which he means the likes of the FBI and police.
I take a deep breath. “Got it. Is there an FAQ?”
“I’ll email it to you.” Traviss’s words are directed to Lockhart. “You can share it with Mr. Howard, I’m sure.”
I do not like this. I do not like the way Lockhart takes the slim flipbook and pages through it, frowning thoughtfully—the caterpillar is disturbed—or the way these cowboys are tag-teaming us. “Is that all?” I ask sharply.
“Is that all?” Traviss sounds appalled.
“Yes, Bob, that is all.” Lockhart stares at me with watery, dyspeptic eyes. “I think we’ll be going now,” he says, sliding the book back into its bag. “Thank you, gentlemen.” He stands, and we file out.
LOCKHART DOESN’T SAY ANYTHING UNTIL WE GET BACK TO THE New Annex; he takes the admonitions about careless chatter so seriously that while we’re out and about he’s as conversational as a badger that’s been dead for three days. Once back in his office he opens up—in my direction, unfortunately.
“You will not discuss our operational parameters in the presence of members of external organizations ever again,” he says coldly. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Uh?”
He walks around me where I stand, more or less rooted to his office carpet. “You mentioned destiny entanglement, Mr. Howard. How do you know that Dr. Traviss and his companions were cleared to know about that technology?”
I blink rapidly. “My geas didn’t—”
“No, it didn’t, Mr. Howard. But you should not rely on your oath of office as an infallible guide to the perimeter of our security cordon. It relies on your own cognizance of threats to determine what level of security to apply. You of all people should understand that there are individuals who your geas would passively allow you to talk to who are nevertheless enemies—moles, enemies within who have official clearance. It may be that Dr. Traviss and Mr. Fraser and Warrant Officer O’Hara are familiar with destiny entanglement tools like the one you used in conjunction with agent RANDOM a few years ago. Very probably they are, because the inventory tracking tags rely on a very watered-down version of the same technology—one that does not risk your mind fusing with that of your target if it isn’t forcibly disconnected after a handful of days. The problem is that they now know that you too are familiar with such tools.”
Enlightenment dawns, somewhat too late. “Oh. Shit.”
“That is the correct word, Mr. Howard. Most likely it is an insignificant slip—but if, for example, Mr. Fraser turns out to be a mole in the employ of the Thirteenth Directorate, you have just delivered valuable information about your own capabilities to an unfriendly organization. Security is not just an externally directed process, it must be an internal one. Do you understand me?”
I nod jerkily. “Good.” He makes a cutting gesture with one hand and suddenly my feet can move again. “You’re a smart lad. If you have any concerns, you can bring them to me whenever you like. I will not mock you for asking stupid questions; we all have to start somewhere. But I would appreciate your keeping them private.”
“Um,” I say again.
“Yes?”
“If I’m going overseas, do I have any defensive issues?”
“Are you expecting to be physically attacked?” He raises an eyebrow.
I pause for a few seconds. “I am not expecting anything,” I say slowly. “But I try to be prepared for all circumstances. I really don’t like being held at gunpoint. And it’s happened before.”
For a few long seconds Lockhart stares at me. Then he nods approvingly. “Use your discretion,” he finally tells me. “No firearms; remember you will be traveling under diplomatic cover.” I wonder why he’s so certain about that, but now is probably not the time to poke him. “I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes. Go. I’ll send you the FAQ on the tracking tags when I receive it.”
I can take a hint; I go.
* * *
I HATE FIGHTING. I’M NOT PARTICULARLY GOOD AT IT, COMPARED to some of my acquaintances. Hell, I’m not even as good at it as my wife. If you have to fight, it means things are already badly out of control. So I generally try to avoid physical confrontations; my preferred defensive tactic is to run away. However, I can handle a Glock 17 and a Hand of Glory, and I’m certified for certain classes of occult self-defense. Mo said something about a device that Pinky and the Brain are testing over in Facilities…so after grabbing a quick lunch in the canteen I bail out of the office and head across town to what they used to jokingly call Q Division.
Unlike HMGCC, which is not part of the Laundry, Field Support Engineering is, and my warrant card is enough to get me inside. Whereupon I make my way through a drab corridor floored in carpet tiles that look to be a decade past their replace-by date, to an office door with a frosted-glass window and a No Entry sign. A pair of concrete seagulls to either side serve as gate guardians—these ones are unpainted, and unpleasantly lifelike—and there’s a bumper sticker instead of a name plate. Q: What are we going to do tonight, Brains? A: The same thing we do every night, Pinky: Try to take over the world!
I enter, and close the door behind me. Pinky—not his real name—is hunched over his computer’s screen, messing around with a digitizer pen. After a moment he blinks and looks up at me. “Bob?” He grins enormously and comes bounding out from behind the desk. “Bob!”
“Long time no—”
“Bob! You really must see this! It’s brilliant!” He zips across the room and begins sifting through a mountain of what looks at first sight like junk (but probably isn’t). “You’re going to love this,” he promises, turning round and offering me a slim box. After a second I recognize it.
“It’s a camera, right?” Digital, subtype: compact. I take it.
Of an instant, Pinky’s expression is all concern. “Hold on a minute! Don’t switch it on yet.”
I turn it over in my hands. “Huh.” There’s a legend on the front: Fuji FinePix Real 3D. Suddenly I remember the seagull gate guardians and my blood turns to ice. “Jesus, Pinky. Tell me this isn’t what I think it is?”
“I don’t know, Bob.” He cocks his head on one side. “What do you think it is?”
I lick my suddenly dry lips. “What happens if I turn it on?”
He shrugs. “It switches on.”
“And what happens if, say, I took a photograph of you?”
He shrugs again. “It takes a rather crappy 3D photograph. Why?”
“Where’s the special sauce?” I ask tensely.
“On this.” He produces an SD memory card with a flourish. “It’s just a 3D camera until you reflash it with this special firmware.”
“And then…” I lick my lips again. “Don’t tell me. It’s SCORPION STARE in a box that looks like a consumer digital camera. Right?”
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“Yup.” And Pinky, the idiot, looks indecently pleased with himself. “Mo said you might be needing a personal defense weapon and, well, you’ve used a basilisk gun before? Only bigger, bulkier, and much crappier.”
You could put it that way.
Most of the magic we work with here in the Laundry is about using computational transforms to send messages that induce certain entities from outside our universe to sit up and pay attention. But sometimes there’s cruder stuff.
We’ve known for years that sometime soon we’ll be living through a crisis period; magic gets easier to perform the more people are around to perform it. It’s a computational, cognitive process and humans are cognitive machines…so are computers. We’ve got a population bubble, and a computing bubble, and they coincide. For the next few decades conditions are right for rupture and invasion by entities from outside our universe.
Some folks (ritual magicians) actually do the symbol-manipulation thing in their heads, risking death by Krantzberg syndrome and worse. It’s not an approach to defending the realm that scales, because you can’t take a random reasonably bright teenager and reliably turn them into a sorcerer. But you can turn some of them into computer scientists—and a whole lot more into IT support drones who can use a canned toolkit to perform a limited range of occult manipulations.
One of the weapons Her Majesty’s Government is developing to deal with the threat is the SCORPION STARE network. Two or more observing viewpoints—cameras—feeding the right kind of hardware/software network can, shall we say, impose their own viewpoint on whatever they’re looking at. In the case of SCORPION STARE, about ten percent of the carbon nuclei in the target are randomly transformed into silicon nuclei as if by magic. Messy pyrotechnics ensue: gamma radiation, short-lived muons, some really pretty high-energy chemistry, and lots of heat. We worked out how to do it by reverse-engineering basilisks and medusae—animals and unfortunate people suffering from a peculiar, and very rare, brain tumor. Now we’ve got defensive camera-emplacements on every high street, networked and ready to be controlled centrally when the balloon goes up. Street cleaning by CCTV-controlled flame thrower.
The Apocalypse Codex Page 9
