Department Zero

by Paul Crilley

  “Poetic. Still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you’re being willfully stupid.”

  “Nothing willful about it.”

  “You said it, moron. But you get the idea. An infinite number of worlds means someone has to watch over them. Hence, the Company. And an infinite number of worlds means an infinite number of crimes. Which is where the Interstitial Crime Department comes in. See . . . a lot of people know about these shifting realities, and you know what people do when they see an opportunity like this?”

  “Somehow use it for sex?”

  “That’s another department,” says Graves crisply. “No, they use it for crime. Say . . . a crime lord somehow gains access to multiverse-jumping technology—which is pretty hard, I’ll tell you—there are only a finite amount of masks, and we’re always trying to track them down.”

  “Masks?”

  “The masks we wear? They’re actually parts of skulls. Of the Elder Gods. Long dead now, but they were able to step between realities.” Graves sighs and rubs his face. “There’s too much to explain. You know Cthulhu? The Old Ones? The tentacled beasties? The Shadow over Innsmouth? H. P. Lovecraft? All that?”

  “I’m familiar with them.”

  “They’re all real. The Old Ones, Cthulhu and his brothers and sisters. They were put in a prison a few million years ago by the Elder Gods. A place called the Dreamlands. And in every single multiverse the Cthulhu mythos exists. The Old Ones and their stories are the one thing that is consistent between all the alternate realities we’ve visited.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “No idea. But the Elder Gods, they were here first, right? They created the Old Ones. They could travel between these realities. And their skulls retain this power. You following?”

  “Barely.”

  “The ICD has most of the masks, but there are more out there, scattered across the multiverse. Hell, some say there are still Elder Gods out there, hibernating. Waiting for the time they’re most needed.”

  “Like King Arthur?”

  “No. Nothing like King Arthur. Wherever the Elder Gods died on their travels, that’s where their bodies stayed. We try to track them all down, but it’s difficult. Lots of people would love to get their hands on them. Think about it. A reality where Leonardo da Vinci isn’t famous. So someone could get their hands on his paintings and sketches for next to nothing, step between realities, and sell them for millions. Or . . . a mob boss loses his wife. So he searches through realities until he finds one where he exists and so does his wife. But she’s still alive. So he knocks her out. Kidnaps her, brings her to his reality, and boom, problem solved.”

  “Does she know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That she’s been taken to another . . . reality?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Not the point. The point is what he’s done is illegal, so we have to track him down and arrest him.”

  “How do you know he’s done something illegal?”

  “The ICD headquarters. We call it Wonderland. Or the Maze. Or the Rabbit Hole. Or Hell. Depends on how bad a day you’ve had. We have people there who can sense intrusions into realities. If they’re not officially sanctioned, we get sent in to sort it out.”

  Graves gets up and orders two beers. He brings them back and downs one of the beers in a long gulp, then takes a hefty gulp from the second.

  I blink, decide to say nothing, and raise my hand at Todd the barkeep to bring me my own beer.

  “So . . . you’re a cop? A . . . cosmic agent?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Interesting. And you really have no idea why these Cthulhu monsters are in every reality?”

  “None. We have a specialized department for Cthulhu-based crime. The CBC. Pretty much the highest you can go in the ICD. They deal with the offspring of the Old Ones. Their minions, the secret societies that spring up, all that stuff.”

  I sense a bit of bitterness in his words there, but decide not to ask about it. My head is still reeling from what he’s said.

  “So,” says Graves. “You up for it?”

  I wait, expecting something more. But he just stares at me expectantly. I shake my head, confused. “Up for what?”

  “Joining the team!”

  “Wait—you’re really offering me a job?”

  “Yes, idiot. What do you say? The pay’s shit, but it’s never boring.”

  I stare at him in amazement. “No!”

  “No?”

  “No! Shit no! Hell no!”

  “I don’t understand. You’re saying you don’t want the job?”

  “No! I want to forget! Can you do that? Can you make me forget everything I saw?”

  “Why would you want to forget?”

  “Because I can’t sleep! I’m terrified that something is going to leap out of the shadows and steal my kid! I spent six years telling her there aren’t any monsters under the bed—”

  “Why would you do that?” Graves asks. “That’s incredibly irresponsible parenting. In fact, there’s a reality where the monsters under the bed have eaten all of humankind—”

  “I don’t want to know! I treasured my ignorance, thank you very much! You took it from me, and I want it back.”

  Graves stares at me for a while. “You really want to forget?”

  “Yes!”

  “Because I can do that. I have this magical device thing. Blanks peoples’ memories. For when they see things they shouldn’t. But . . . I just don’t get it. You’ve seen behind the curtain! You should want to come with me. Adventure! Dead bodies. Travel. More dead bodies.”

  “Sounds charming. But I just want to go back to my normal life.”

  “You think that’s the best thing for your daughter?”

  I frown at him. “What do you mean?”

  “You say you’re terrified of these things hurting her. Yet you want to wipe your memory clean? Wouldn’t it be better to learn everything you can instead? Gain as much knowledge as you can and use that to protect her? You honestly think hiding your head in the sand is a feasible survival strategy?”

  I look away. He has a point. How can I protect her if I don’t know what I’m protecting her from?

  “And it’s not as if we’re helpless. We do make a difference. Join up and you’ll have access to whatever you want. Grimoires, reality coordinates, maps, the differences between your earth and the others. The truth behind the conspiracies, the secret government cabals, the cover-ups, everything.”

  “You really have access to all that information?” I have to admit, my curiosity is piqued. I’ve always been interested in that kind of stuff.

  “Plus,” says Graves, speaking slowly. Laying his winning hand on the table. “Family of ICD employees are entitled to intra-dimensional protection.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means we know that ICD employees are vulnerable to . . . coercion, so we ensure their families are looked after.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “Surveillance. Hexes.”

  “Hexes? Like . . . magic and stuff?”

  “Yes. Magic and stuff. It works. Any of our hexes get broken and that triggers an alarm at the ICD head office. A rapid response team would be dispatched to nullify the threat.”

  I sit back in the booth, staring at Graves. Twenty-four seven protection from the monsters under the bed, or wipe my memory and go back to my boring life? Unemployed. Depressed. Lonely. . . .

  “Plus, there’s no commute,” says Graves.

  I look at him sharply. “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true. You own your own mask. We set up a Slip—that’s what we call the doors between realities—direct to your home. You wake up, put on the mask, step into the Slip, and you’re at work.”

  That really clinches it. I reach across the table, holding out my hand. “You got a deal.”

  Chapter Five

  I wake up the next morning wondering if it was all a d
ream.

  I roll over and see the mask lying on my bedside table, green glass eyes glinting in the dim light.

  Not a dream, then.

  I check the time. Seven thirty. Graves told me to get ready for an eight a.m. start. Plenty of time to get ready.

  I jump out of bed, light on my feet for the first time in months. Actually excited to face the day. It’s an odd feeling, and I pause halfway across my room to properly experience it. No worry. No fear. No regret. Just . . . anticipation. Nice.

  I shower then stand in the middle of my room, deciding what to wear. Graves didn’t say anything about a dress code, so I just pull on jeans and a T-shirt. If anyone complains I’ll dress up a bit tomorrow, but best to begin as I hope to carry on.

  I finish my second cup of coffee and check the time. Seven fifty-five. I return to my room and pick up the mask.

  I take a deep breath and start to lift it slowly to my face, remembering the way the mask attached itself to my skin last time. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.

  Still, I don’t have much of a choice. Not if I want to keep my kid safe. Not if I want this job.

  I close my eyes and raise the mask the rest of the way. It sucks gently against my skin. It feels cool and comfortable. Not like I remember it. But last time I was whirling around in a panic, trying to rip the thing off.

  I open my eyes. Everything looks the same. The green glass in the eye sockets doesn’t even tint my view. It’s as if there’s nothing over my eyes at all.

  Just to check, I probe around under my chin until I find the catch that releases the mask. It comes away smoothly and painlessly.

  I put the mask back on and check the time. Seven fifty-nine. Wonder if Graves is the type to be punctual or—

  A bright, blue-white light suddenly flares to life in my bedroom. I stagger back as a rectangle of light unfurls in the air before me, the size and shape of a door.

  A silhouette appears, a dark shadow moving against the glare. A hand extends out through the door.

  “Come with me if you want to live.”

  I frown.

  “Sorry,” says Graves, stepping into my bedroom. He’s wearing his mask, but I can hear the grin behind his words. “Always wanted to say that.”

  I point at the door. “How come that . . . Slip looks different? To the one in the street that time?”

  “Because that Slip wasn’t a Slip. It was more of a tear, what we call a Rip. Unsanctioned. Shoddy workmanship. This,” he says, stepping to the side and gesturing to the door like a magician’s assistant, “is an officially sanctioned intra-reality dimension Slip. And if you’d care to follow me through, we can get started with the workday.”

  He steps back through the door and disappears. I approach it slowly, my stomach fluttering with fear and excitement. This is it. This is really it. I’m going behind the curtain, and there’s no turning back once I’ve done it. Well, there is. Technically. I could just ask Graves to mind-wipe me. But I won’t. Not now. This is the beginning of a new life. One where Susan can be proud of me. One where I can protect her from the things that go bump in the night.

  I step through the door, and suddenly remember all those movies I’ve seen, where someone is dying and their loved ones shout at them to stay away from the light.

  Oh, shit. Maybe this is a huge mista—

  Too late.

  The door winks out behind me, and I’m plunged into a terrifying darkness. Not just darkness, but the complete absence of light. What I imagine the universe was like before the big bang.

  A blinking green cursor appears in my lower vision. I squint and try to focus on it.

  Two words appear. Please wait . . .

  Then, Syncing device with new bio-print.

  Analyzing . . .

  Analysis complete.

  Body in advanced state of tissue degradation. Cholesterol . . . through the roof. Blood pressure . . . dangerously high. Estimated age of subject based on analysis . . . sixty-four.

  “Fuck off!” I exclaim.

  Please proceed through the tunnel. If you can make it without dropping dead.

  What the hell? Is this thing modeled on Graves’s personality or something? I start walking. The darkness lightens after a few steps, and I see I am indeed in a tunnel. Similar to the one I’d passed through three weeks ago. I don’t hesitate this time, but walk quickly through the darkness, not looking left or right.

  After a few moments a rectangle of light appears up ahead: another door. I hurry toward it and step through, stumbling down three steps onto a tiled floor.

  I straighten up and look around.

  I’m in a massive room. Like, football field massive. Behind me is the blue-white door, but it’s not the only one. Receding away to either side are hundreds more, some of them flaring to life, others winking out of existence. People come and go through the openings, chatting to each other as they go about their business.

  “This going to take long?”

  I turn and find Graves seated on the edge of a cluttered desk, one of many that take up the far side of the huge room. Behind the desks are computers and employees, typing away and talking into headsets. In charge of the Slips?

  Graves isn’t wearing his mask anymore, so I reach up and thumb the catch beneath my chin. The mask falls away into my hands. I hold it up accusingly. “This . . . thing has an attitude problem.”

  “Ah. That’s the operating system. It runs our internal systems, ferries comms to agents in the field, that kind of thing. It’s a database of all the realities. When you go to a new alternate, the mask should have the background info ready for the operative. That way you don’t go making a fool of yourself by doing something stupid.” He hops off the desk. “Come on, we’re already late.”

  He turns and walks away. I start to follow, but then stumble to a stop, distracted by the view out the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  I walk forward, my hand coming to rest against the glass. Outside . . . outside is the night sky, but like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s shown in such detail it’s like seeing something in super high definition after watching old, crappy Betamax tapes for your entire life. The stars and nebula are crystal clear, strewn across the night sky like bright fairy lights hanging above the table at a hipster dinner party.

  Then my attention is drawn downward. The building I’m standing in is obviously huge. Like, bigger than the Empire State Building huge. And it . . . I peer down through the glass—yup, the building has been placed smack dab in the middle of a maze. An honest to God labyrinth.

  If my perspective is right, the maze is easily the size of a city, receding into the distance on all sides of the building. There are lights in the maze, enabling me to see the twists and turns. Some of the lights are moving. People are walking through the maze. Every once in a while I see a flare of blue-white light, like the one I experienced when the door appeared in my room.

  “Welcome to Wonderland,” says Graves, appearing at my shoulder.

  “What is this place?”

  “A pocket dimension. Owned by the ICD.”

  “You can own a dimension?”

  “We can.”

  I gesture at the maze. “And that?”

  “The Elder Gods built it.” He nods at the flashing lights. “Those are the doorways we use to get to various realities. The ones the Elder Gods used before they died out. All programmable from the ICD offices.”

  “So . . . you’re saying you guys have to find your way through a maze to actually respond to an emergency call? Not very efficient.”

  “It’s not like that. We’re guided through the labyrinth by the masks.”

  “Still seems a very roundabout way to do your job.”

  “I’m not disagreeing. Like I said, not our idea. The system was in place when we got here. Come on, sport. You need to clock in.”

  I drag my eyes away from the view below and follow Graves as he heads directly for a bank of elevators. We move around the ranks of desks, most of them occupied by men
and women looking as bored as any other office worker on the planet.

  There’s another bright flash behind me, and I glance over my shoulder to see a woman step through one of the doorways. She’s dressed in a pants suit and sipping from a coffee cup, ready for a day’s work.

  “Top floor is where all the employees arrive and depart from,” says Graves as he hits the call button. A door slides open three elevators over, and we step inside. Graves punches a number, and we start to descend. The elevators are attached to the outside of the building, soaring down the glass exterior.

  “What floor is the ICD on?”

  Graves winces, turns, and leans up against the side of the elevator. “Yeah. About that.”

  “What?” I say, with a sinking feeling in my stomach.

  “You know how I said I wanted to recruit you into the ICD?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “I may have bent the truth there. A little bit.”

  “How little?”

  “Actually, a lot. A whole lot. You know that whole thing with that globe you broke?”

  “You mean the one you dropped?”

  “The one you broke, yes,” says Graves. “Well, the thing is, turns out that was kind of an important case. And when the globe was shattered, some people who had it in for me used it as an opportunity to . . . put me out of the picture.”

  “Wait—you’re saying there are people here who don’t like you? I’m shocked.”

  “Funny guy. But the thing is, I . . . we . . . the team got demoted.”

  “To where? Desk job?”

  “Even worse. Department Zero.”

  “What’s that?”

  “DDICS.”

  I try to remember what that stands for. He’d told me. Back at the crime scene. “Disposal . . . Department for . . .”

  “Interstitial Crime Scenes.”

  “Which is?”

  “Basically? We clean up intra-dimensional and supernatural crime scenes.”

  I stare at him for a moment then burst out laughing. “Seriously?”