The Delirium Brief

by Charles Stross

  Meanwhile, Mo is differently nervous. She sits in the back seat of a Bentley, checking her foundation in a makeup compact for the third time. She wears her one black evening gown, with borrowed jewelry glittering at throat and wrists. In her clutch she carries a gilt-edged card acquired—at some personal risk—from a certain high-flying Metropolitan Police officer with a guilty conscience. Cassie’s way in is below stairs, but hers is strictly ballroom. “If you can score me an invitation I can go in separately and rendezvous with Cassie once we’re both on-site,” she pointed out in one of the planning sessions. “It has the advantage that it gets Zero in too.” (The uniformed chauffeur behind the Bentley’s wheel, taking a catnap while they wait for the go signal, has been Persephone’s Oddjob for as long as I’ve known them both. I’ve never seen him wearing a steel-brimmed bowler hat but there’s always a first time, and it’s the sort of thing that would appeal to his sense of humor.) “Nobody will think twice about us stashing our driver round the back, so we’ll have muscle and a rapid evacuation route if it all goes to shit before the cavalry can reach us,” she added, sealing the deal.

  But despite all the planning, despite the backroom crew and the extraction team, when she finds herself dressed to the nines and waiting in the car for London Central to fire the starting pistol, she’s jittery. Stage nerves. “I’m getting too old for this Mission: Impossible crap,” she tells the microphone concealed in her corsage.

  “Could be worse,” Zero chirps; “you could be prepped for Mission: Impossible and find yourself in a teen slasher movie instead.”

  She shudders and pulls her silk wrap closer around her shoulders. “Don’t even think that.”

  “Mind you, the way things work around here The Prisoner is more likely than either…”

  Mo screens him out—Zero is an aficionado of spy thrillers—and glances at her phone again.

  “Alex. Talk to me?”

  “Dr. O’Brien.” He sighs noisily. “What can I do for you?”

  “How are you feeling?” Mo isn’t nervous on her own account—she’s done this sort of thing plenty of times before, although not as frequently since her CANDID cover was wrecked on national TV—but she gets edgy whenever she knows that I’m in play, and she’s very aware that Alex has gotten into deeper waters far faster than she or I ever did. It’s not some sort of mother hen instinct; she’s just concerned that the least experienced member of her team might be out of his depth.

  “Mostly worried about Cassie.” Alex pauses. “Huh. Tracker on the Transit says the minibus is about three kilometers out. As long as it doesn’t go off the road, or—”

  “That’s not going to happen. She knows what she’s doing, Alex. How about you?”

  “What about—? Sorry. I’m easily distracted.”

  “Don’t be.” Mo pauses to collect her thoughts. “Worrying about your girlfriend won’t help. You’ve got a job to do—focus on that, and you’ll make everyone safer, her included.”

  “Yeah … I guess so. How long until it’s time to go in?”

  Mo glances at the dashboard clock. “Zero and I will probably be on the move in about another ten minutes. You don’t move until you get the signal, but it won’t be long, I promise.” Not unless there’s an abort on Target Two or Three, and that doesn’t bear thinking about, but she decides against reminding him of this. Nervous PHANGs make everyone else extra twitchy, and it’s a vicious circle. “Hang tight, try to chill, and call me if anything comes up. Bye for now.”

  Mo leans back, closes her eyes, and sighs. The SA has taken her into his confidence and explained just how high the stakes are. If he is right about the real agenda behind Schiller’s parties and backroom meetings, then the cost of failure is too nightmarish to contemplate. So, with the heavy-hearted assent of the Board, he has made a deal with the devil; and the hell of it is that she can’t see what else he could have done. It’s up to her to keep the Laundry’s side of the bargain tonight, and to that end he’s given her a blank check to do whatever she thinks necessary. Time to face the music and dance, she thinks mordantly, feeling a reflexive stab of nostalgia for the eldritch strings of an instrument she’s lost forever, then she begins once more to go through the trigger words for the summonings and wards that her smartphone is keyed to activate on command—

  “Why’s the kid nervous?” asks Zero.

  “Someone back at HQ thought giving him a cup of coffee to make him extra alert this afternoon—he usually works nights—was a good idea. He thought it was decaf. Caffeine and PHANGs—most of them—go together like bankers and cocaine. He’s still coming down and twitchy.”

  Zero does a double take in the mirror as Mo opens her eyes again. “And his girlfriend is point on this? Is that entirely wise?”

  Mo swears softly. “No it isn’t, but it’s our least-bad option right now. We’re shorthanded, and he’s one of the few halfway-trained combat thaumaturges we’ve got, even if he is wet behind the ears. Anyway, he’s not the only field support we’ve got in play tonight.” Her phone vibrates and a message bubbles up on the screen. “Okay, that’s our go signal. Showtime.”

  Zero pushes the go button and the big V8 purrs to life. “Death or glory. Break a leg. Your next mission—”

  “Stick a cork in it and drive.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He peels out of the parking slot and turns the limousine towards the tree-shaded lane that leads towards the mansion as Mo takes a deep breath, and wonders how many unpleasant acquaintances she’s going to have to smile at before the night is over.

  * * *

  As Schiller’s car heads towards the M40 and Mo’s Bentley drifts up the long gravel drive leading to Nether Stowe House, I am sitting in the back of what appears to be an airline caterer’s truck while the guys from the Artists’ Rifles check their weapons. Every thirty seconds or so there is a titanic growl of jet engines as a couple hundred tons of airliner throws itself along the runway and claws its way into the sky, passing directly over our heads. They’re low enough to rattle the panels of the truck. This is Heathrow, one of the ten busiest airports in the world, and we’re inside the perimeter fence, parked just to one side of the general aviation stand.

  The boys from Hereford have finally gotten the message that I don’t like guns; praise whoever you believe in, it’s a huge relief not to be expected to tow one of the bloody things around and make sure I don’t accidentally drill a hole in my foot. Instead, I’m strapped into a Kevlar-and-ceramic corset, otherwise known as a bulletproof vest. Along with a helmet, night-vision glasses, and a spare set of fatigues, that’s me kitted out. Well, it’s that and a Hand of Glory (pigeon-surplus, lab produce), a heavy-duty defensive ward, a booklet of Angleton’s patented door-stoppers, and a brace of memorized Old Enochian couplets. Plus of course my phone and a two-inch-thick attaché case full of legal paperwork.

  “Are you sure this is all in order?” I ask Chris.

  She smiles at me tensely. “It had better be; if it isn’t, the judge will tear me a new one.” She’s wearing a business suit. Her only concession is that she’s in sensible shoes rather than heels, the better for stepping over broken glass and groaning bodies to serve the court order. Otherwise she looks as if she’s ready for a day in court, minus the gown and wig. It’s not every day I get to go on a raid team with a barrister. “Captain, where are we at?”

  Captain Partridge, predictably, is paying attention to the job at hand, namely making sure that the snake eaters have all brushed their teeth, combed their hair, and remembered to pack stun grenades rather than frag or Willie Pete. After a final mike check to confirm they’re all dialed into the correct troop frequency he turns to make eye contact with Chris and myself. “We’re ready when you are,” he says mildly. “It’s coming up on 1800 hours, so the day staff will be clocking off in the next—” He raises a hand, pausing, and listens. “Roger that.” Turning back to us, he continues. “—minute, the front door’s open.” He keys his microphone. “Driver, proceed to objective. Team Red, t
ake point on arrival. Team Blue, follow through. Civilian staff, stay with me.”

  Johnny gives the back of the captain’s neck a mulish stare, but holds his tongue. He’s not taken the Queen’s shilling so he’s a civilian for legal purposes. We shall draw a polite veil over the utterly illegal pistol he’s packing in a shoulder holster. I’m sure the folder Chris gave me to carry has a suitable piece of paper to cover that, too.

  The engine grumbles into life and we drive forward. “What level of risk do you anticipate?” Chris asks.

  I remember that she has some kind of military background. I’m not sure what it is, but it means she’s less likely to freeze or panic than a raw newbie—like I was when I first got dragged into this, too many years ago for comfort—so I give her my unvarnished best guess. (She’ll already have read the briefing.) “Schiller’s operation is a security company. One of their jobs is personal protection; another is trans-shipment of munitions. Also, he tends to employ true believers in security-critical positions. This is the UK and we’re inside the terminal security cordon so we’re probably not facing firearms, but it’s a really bad idea to make assumptions. So we’re prepared for the worst case—aggressive resistance by deeply unreasonable men with guns. Say, 10 percent probability. In which case, get down, stay back, and leave Captain Partridge and his merry men to clean house before you call in the scene-of-crime folks to nail down the evidence.”

  What I’m hoping for—say, with 20 percent probability—is a janitor with a jobsworth attitude. That leaves a 70 percent likelihood of something in between (for example, a deeply unreasonable janitor). I console myself that at least Mo can expect a polite welcome when she gets to make her big entrance; it’s one less thing for me to angst about. Last time I went on a door-breaking run with an OCCULUS crew I ended up picking bits of sergeant out of my hair for days because I didn’t anticipate armed resistance in Watford. Won’t fool me twice: these are Schiller’s people, I’ve had a run-in with him before, and if there’s any sign of trouble I’ll … well, there’s a reason I don’t carry a gun on armed raids, it’d only slow me down.

  The truck grumbles and sways as it trundles around the taxiways and service roads of Heathrow Airport. Eventually we come to a security gate leading to a fenced-off section of the cargo terminal. This is where they keep the warehouses, many of them guarded and separately fenced because they contain high-value bonded merchandise or military cargo—munitions and explosives, supplies for overseas missions, that sort of thing. Not far from here is the site of the old Brink’s-Mat warehouse, where thirty years ago thieves carried out what was then the biggest robbery in British history: three tons of gold bullion, plus diamonds and cash worth a few million on top.

  Cops with automatic weapons who had their sense of humor surgically excised at birth patrol the airport: you do not want to pick a fight with SO18. However, if everything is going according to timetable, then about half an hour ago they were told in no uncertain terms to go into three wise monkeys mode with respect to this particular corner of the facility. Presumably the Board burned one of our rapidly dwindling stock of one-time-only party favors, otherwise this op would be impossible, and if the Aviation Security unit turns up while we’re going in there’s going to be blood everywhere.

  But as it happens, we drive right up to the front door and park outside without any trouble. The door opens, and there is a cry of “Go! Go! Go!” as Partridge’s gang jump out and serve their no-knock warrant—a shotgun with a breaching round into the front door lock, followed by a size twelve boot. This is not Anytown USA and our guys aren’t a steroid-enraged SWAT team, so they do not follow through with flash-bangs and indiscriminate gunfire, but there is a lot of shouting and brandishing of automatic weapons as they rush the lobby.

  Chris and I watch the streaming camera feed from Sergeant Harry’s helmet as he grabs a look around the corner of the door. It opens into a corridor with other doors—offices, by the look of it—to either side. The walls are flimsy partitions with windows backed by venetian blinds: not exactly defensible. I’m climbing down from my seat when someone finally opens one of the doors, takes a look up the corridor, and slams the door with a muffled shriek of terror. Okay, so not a janitor, but not a suicidal gunman either. The sergeant followed by Johnny and three soldiers race into the corridor and take up defensive positions while two more apply boots to the door, which the presumed-harmless occupant vanished into. And then I’m out of the truck, Ms. Womack tagging along behind me, and we get inside.

  “Police!” shouts one of the soldiers, which is not entirely untrue—several of them hold commissions in the Royal Military Police—“on the floor, get down! Who’s in charge here? No, stay on the floor and don’t move!” There is much thundering of boots as doors are slammed open to either side until the sergeant and his backup confirm that there is nothing here but offices, and that the only person they’ve found is—surprise—a very confused janitor.

  “I think this is my cue,” Chris comments as she steps past me and addresses the janitor. “Ah, hello there. Are you the only person here right now, or is there someone in charge? I have a court order to serve—”

  I stay in the corridor because something is not quite right. I can tell it by the prickling in my thumbs and the whispering voices in the back of my head. The guy Chris has pounced on is harmless enough, but the crackling paper-dry dreams of the deep-dwelling tongue eaters that have haunted me ever since Denver are close to the surface here.

  “Are the records we need here?” asks Captain Partridge. “Or are there more offices deeper inside?” He catches my expression and shrugs. “Had to ask. Smith, McIntyre, up here; Mr. Howard, could you help Mr. McTavish check the floor—”

  “Got a feeling about this, ’ave we?” asks Johnny as I approach the end of the corridor, where he’s crouched beside Sergeant Harry.

  I raise a finger, then close my eyes and listen.

  Without the distraction of other senses, it’s a lot clearer. Beyond the end of the corridor there’s a larger space, and wards, and beyond the wards I sense the faintly discernible flavor of decomposing souls, minds half-dissolved by the parasitic hosts that have captured them. “Contacts thataway,” I murmur, pointing off to the left of the door, then moving my hand to indicate an upper floor. “Multiple contacts, at least three groups moving, and there’s a, a spawning pool—” I can hear the narcotic crooning of the host-mother surrounded by her immature offspring, a giant underwater wood louse from hell. It wants me to open my mouth and take it in so that it can make me complete, to bring me into communion with its god. “Ward up, it’s going to be messy.”

  “So that’s a yes, then,” Johnny says grimly, shouldering his monstrous assault shotgun.

  My sense that things are about to go wrong suddenly comes into sharp focus. The sources of chittering white noise are moving, and while some are upstairs there’s something below us. “Take cover!” I shout, and stop being Bob as I open myself to the Eater of Souls. And then everything goes to hell.

  * * *

  “HUMMINGBIRD One confirms Schiller’s party has arrived at their target,” Gary announces. “He’s out of the game for now.”

  “And the guards?” Mhari leans across the desk towards him.

  “Guards could be problematic,” Persephone comments from the far side of the lounge area, near the short corridor leading to the lobby. She’s peeled back the carpet and underfelt and is marking out an intricate circular design about a meter in diameter on the exposed concrete with a conductive pen, connected by wires to a couple of small project boxes stacked neatly to one side. She’s swapped her usual couture style for a cut-price ninja outfit: black leggings and sweater worn under a military webbing vest slung with equipment pouches. “I’m nearly through here. Could do with a hand, Madge?”

  “Don’t call me that.” Mhari’s voice is even and overcontrolled.

  Persephone flashes her a feral grin. Her eyes sparkle; she’s clearly having the time of her life. “Got yo
ur attention, didn’t it? Johnny was right.”

  “I will strangle that man, I swear it.” Mhari stalks over to the circle. “What do you need?”

  “A drop of your blood.” Persephone produces a sterile needle.

  “You cannot be … eep! Serious!”

  “Can and am.” Persephone holds Mhari’s finger over the circular grid until a drop of blood splashes onto it, then passes her a pad of cotton wool and a plaster. “My turn.” She stabs herself with a fresh needle, baptizes the grid, then flicks a switch on one of the small black boxes. “This is really neat: it’ll only let as many people come back as go down, so if we land in a nest of hornets we just climb up again and they can’t follow us. It’s good for about two hours.”

  “Then?” Mhari stares at her as the silvery lines inked on the concrete turn black and begin to glow and warp, as if sucking the light out of the air around them. A faint chittering tickles her nerves, rising from the trapped cognitive parasites in the storage ring.

  “Then the batteries run down and I have to set it up all over again. Only the next time it’ll take rather more blood.”

  “How much more?”

  “About three PHANGs full. So let’s not do that.”

  Now Persephone plugs the other breadboard box into the first one, and adjusts a dial on the front. “Underfloor space is fifty centimeters, then there’s twelve of cement, then underceiling space of thirty, then a three-meter air gap to the next concrete level, twelve centimeters of rebar and cement, then another underceiling space of thirty, then we’re into Schiller’s suite—call it two-fifty centimeters to the carpet. I make that six eighty-five. If I set this for a drop of four-fifty that should bring us out about a third of a meter under the ceiling. Advantage of that is that it’ll be too high for us to decapitate ourselves if we walk into it edge-on by accident. Disadvantage: we’ll need a chain ladder. Like, oh, this one I packed earlier.” Persephone gives Mhari a grin that is every bit as sharp as a PHANG’s canines. “And it completely bypasses the ghosties and ghoulies roaming the floor below us.”