The Apocalypse Codex lf-4

by Charles Stross

  “Can’t say I have.” The Home Secretary’s tone is avuncular, friendly. “Pleased to meet you.” He turns sideways, accepts the offered handshake, and stares into Schiller’s eyes: So this is the god-botherer Jeremy keeps banging on about? Doesn’t look like much. It’s always best to keep a weather eye on the PM’s joie du jour, however, lest one be caught out off-message by the carnivorous press. As Barry sizes up the preacher-man, Jeremy—the Prime Minister—keeps on with the grasp’n’greet routine. An aide behind him keeps the hand sanitizer ready.

  Schiller smiles and stares right back at the Home Secretary. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Jennings,” he says, his voice deep and rich. “I gather we have a mutual interest in saving souls.”

  Barry’s eyes crease slightly; then he smiles, slightly less warmly. Religious zeal is not a career asset in British politics; quite the opposite, in fact, and (like about half the members of the current cabinet) Barry’s church attendance is limited to weddings and funerals and affairs of state. “I’m sure you do,” he agrees, amiably enough. “But my job is more concerned with the here-and-now, I’m afraid. I can’t speak for the hereafter.”

  “That’s perfectly all right,” Schiller agrees, baring his expensively whitened teeth. “The one generally goes before the other in my experience.”

  Other breakfast guests are arriving: the chairman of the largest merchant bank still based in London, a columnist for News International’s leading broadsheet newspaper, the founder of a successful budget airline. Schiller turns his attention to them, working the influx discreetly and professionally. The Home Secretary pays brief attention. He always finds it informative to watch a high-level operator from a related profession at work, but something about Schiller irritates: a hangnail of the mind.

  It’s not as if he particularly wants to be here—there are never enough hours in the day when you’re running the Home Office—but it’s the PM’s idea, and Barry has to admit that he’s got a point. Jeremy’s got this bee in his bonnet about enlisting community support for rehabilitation of minor offenders—nothing new there; the twist is that he’s trolling for corporate support. He wants the private sector to pay for uniforms so they can take pride in their work while they’re busy picking up the dog turds and used condoms: “building structure for empty lives” is what the PM calls it. Workfare for chavs according to the papers. It’s easy to mock, but Jeremy has the same messianic zeal as his last-but-two predecessor, the Vicar. And Barry needs to back him up visibly on this one (as well as discreetly riding herd), lest he and his faction look weak in front of the 1922 Committee and the restless natives encourage one of the Back Bench Neanderthals to mount a leadership challenge. Which would be bad for the party, bad for the country, and very bad indeed for the Home Secretary. So: breakfast for thirty with businessmen and sky pilot. Barry takes a deep breath, and collects himself; then turns to glad-hand the newspaper columnist.

  Eventually everyone’s seated and greeted, the coffee is poured, the buffet is opened, and then—stomachs filled—the PM’s chief of staff rises and introduces the first guest speaker. Who is, predictably, the visiting American preacher. Barry sits back with his coffee and fakes up an expression of polite interest as Schiller gets fired up.

  “Good morning, my friends.” Schiller beams. There is the usual pro forma boilerplate burble, thanking Jeremy and his staff for delivering unto him a captive audience. Barry can time it to the fractional second. Then Schiller gets the bit between his teeth and everything is somehow different. “I’m sure we’re all happy to be here, and grateful for the great spread and our host’s hospitality—and the company. But I think we ought to spare a thought for the unfortunates who aren’t here today, and who never will be: the homeless and the abused, the poor and the sick—and the young men and women with empty lives who every day face an uncaring society that looks away…”

  Barry finds himself drifting off on a wave of—not boredom, exactly, which is odd, because boredom is what he would have expected—but euphoria. How strange, he thinks dazedly. Schiller, once he hits his groove, isn’t as annoying and preachy as he’d expected. Schiller’s got a vision, a vision of charity and joy that he wants to share with everybody. “Good works are central to faith,” he explains: “My creator wants me to do good, and rewards those who do good. And the best reward is another hard job. The job, my friends, is central, and our job here today is to work out how we’re going to raise tens of thousands of young people out of deprivation and debasement and lend new purpose to their shattered lives.”

  Barry submerges again, diving in the torrent of words. Which he finds mildly astonishing because, as a sixty-year-old cynic (risen to the second-highest ministerial tier, but too old to raise his aim to the PM’s office itself) with no little experience in rhetoric himself, he has long considered himself immune to such blandishments. But they feel so good. Schiller is painting a picture of redemption, of a joyous coming-together in pursuit of the commonweal that reminds him momentarily of why he went into politics in the first place: the conviction that he can make a difference, change things for the better.

  When Schiller finishes, he claps with the rest—then shakes his head, dazed. Schiller is obviously right about something. What is it? The Caring Society initiative? Or could it be something deeper? Barry finds it hard to think, because now the airline founder is standing up, striking a pose, outlining his plans to bootstrap a network of community-centric work exchanges to match up the needy with the jobs they so obviously desire—there’s no time to think about Schiller’s inspirational words, and by the time Mr. McGready is wrapping up his pitch the actual neon-limned words themselves have faded into rosy memories.

  On the way out, he makes a point of clasping Pastor Schiller’s hand once more. “We’ll have to talk again some time,” he says effusively.

  Schiller smiles. “I’m sure we will.”

  * * *

  A CAR IS WAITING OUTSIDE NUMBER TEN TO WHISK RAYMOND Schiller away. It’s a stretched BMW limo with mirror-tinted windows. Roseanne, his current number one handmaiden, is waiting in the jump seat with his briefcase. A blonde and high-cheeked twenty-something, dressed in a trim gray skirt-suit with only modest makeup, she could easily pass for a lawyer or a political aide. Schiller approves silently, letting his gaze rest on her. There is a flash of futile lust, but nothing more, for which he is duly grateful. The lust often tries to overwhelm his will right after he has worked a blessing, testifying before the Unsaved. She waits until the driver starts the engine before she opens the case. “How did it go, Father?”

  “It went well, Daughter.” The formalities of their relationship reaffirmed, he sinks back in the leather and closes his eyes. His stomach is full: not gluttonously so, but enough to make him torpid and lazy. Two sins in one. “Hmm. Make a note: I need to focus on Barry Jennings. His heart is open.”

  “Barry Jenning?—Or with an ‘s’?”

  “He’s their Home Secretary. Like the Attorney General, only more powerful. One of the top five posts in the administration. He’s ripe for a weekend retreat. Phase one, of course.”

  “Yes, Father.” Roseanne has some kind of high-tech digital pen; she can scribble notes and add them to his BlackBerry without re-typing anything.

  The car sways heavily on its suspension as it noses past the barriers at the end of Downing Street and turns into Parliament Street. They’re heading towards Victoria Embankment, and then out east in the direction of Docklands, less than fifteen kilometers away, but three-quarters of an hour through the heavy Central London traffic.

  “Another note. John McGready. We need to invite him, too.”

  “The airline executive?”

  “Yes.” He hears Roseanne flip pages on her notebook. “A letter to the prime minister. Begins. Insert appropriate salutation. I’d like to thank you once again for inviting me to breakfast today. I found it deeply humbling and moving to discover a kindred spirit in you; truly the Lord moves in mysterious ways, and it is our duty
to perform wonders on his behalf. I look forward to contributing to your Caring Society program, and if there is anything I can do on your behalf I would be delighted to help. Insert appropriate conclusion. Send.”

  “Got it.” Roseanne clears her throat tentatively. “Father, Lindsay sent an update on yesterday’s correspondence while you were inside…?”

  Ray opens his eyes and looks at her directly, showing no outward sign of the turmoil in his soul. Gluttony, sloth, lust: it’s a good thing he’s Saved. Even so, some prayer is indicated. And mortification. These excursions into the carnal world of the fallen are increasingly wearing, but also increasingly hard to avoid as the mission proceeds. “Tell me the news,” he says evenly.

  “Yes, Father.” Roseanne glances down at the tablet computer in the briefcase. “Item: Operation Castitas. There has been a suspected security breach, level two, in the research and development conclave. One of the external contractors—a researcher in an essential post—has apparently been talking to his sister by phone. We don’t have a log of what’s been said but he has made an increasing number of long calls to her from within the campus. Security first verified that there was no change in her family circumstances—no babies, no deaths, no obvious explanation—then escalated. Fowler wants to know how to proceed.”

  Ray suppresses a sigh. “How replaceable is the contractor?”

  Roseanne glances down again. “He’s part of the core team working on the ventral tegmental area and the amygdala, Father. A parasitologist specializing in neurochemistry.” Her lips tighten in disapproval.

  “In other words, not.” Ray thinks for a moment. “All right. Tell Fowler to focus on the sister. Double-check for options, just in case—if we can save her, that will be sufficient. Otherwise, our Father will know His own.”

  “Yes, Father.” Roseanne makes a note. “Next, the arrangements with the New Life Church for next weekend’s mass outreach service need attention. Brother Mark is having problems negotiating with the PD for crowd management services, and we’re seeing some push-back from the Church board of overseers—a couple of them are not yet Saved and, reading between the lines, Gilbert managed to offend them during the negotiations. He hadn’t been briefed on the progress of our outreach mission to them.”

  Ray sniffs. “All right. Remind me to call him personally”—he glances at his wristwatch—“after six p.m., British time. I’ll need a printout of the report.” He pauses. “Anything else?”

  “A final note, Father. You asked me to remind you—”

  “About the presence in the audience at the arena on Sunday, yes.” He thinks for a moment. “I’m certain it was another of the elect: I’d recognize the scent anywhere. But there were too many people.” He frowns, frustrated. “Remind me again tomorrow. I shall make enquiries once we are home. If there is already a church cell in London, that would save us much trouble.” He breathes out. “Is there anything more?”

  Roseanne shakes her head. “That’s all from Lindsay.” The head of Ray’s office staff. “You’re set, Father.”

  Ray unwinds somewhat. Doubtless there will be more tiresome administrivia for him to render judgment over when they get to the airport—his staff defer to him as before the throne of Solomon—but for now he can relax. Everything is running along just fine, and in about half an hour he’ll be boarding a Falcon 7X bound for Baltimore. While he doesn’t own the executive jet himself, the Ministries hold a controlling interest in the fractional aircraft ownership group: enough to guarantee him a plane of his own whenever he needs one—and, more importantly, guarantee that it is kitted out to his very exacting requirements.

  He focuses on Roseanne, who is squaring away the travel kit in the bag. She is, he thinks, wholly delectable; a younger and wilder Ray would have jumped her bones as soon as look at her. Those days are long behind him, thanks to God and Mission, but she still inspires a ghost of possessive lust in his shriveled heart, if not his loins. Young and zealous. His pulse speeds. She closes the briefcase and looks at him evenly. “Yes, Father?”

  “I require mortification, Daughter.”

  “Ah. Of course.” She bites her lower lip. “Right now? We’re less than half an hour from the airport.”

  “Now.” It’s inevitable. He can’t tear his eyes away from her. If he has to wait, it could be too late for both of them.

  Her chest rises. “I hear the call, Father.”

  The seat belt clicks. His neck is abruptly damp with sweat. Blood speeding, he watches as she kicks off her heels and slides down to the floor of the limo before him to kneel in stockinged feet. She kneels as he begins to recite: “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit—”

  His handmaiden leans towards him, pure and terrible: clean and untouched, a virgin, just the way he requires. Have to marry her off soon, he thinks with mild regret. Slim fingers that have never seen nail gloss reach out and gently unzip his fly. Let her do her duty. He continues to pray, quietly awaiting her deliverance. The younger Ray would have risen for her, exulted as she went down on his manhood—or worse, he might have spoiled her, yanked up her skirt and thrust himself into her—unclean. I’m better now. So much better.

  She slides her hands between his legs, privy to his shameful secret, forgiving and obedient as she touches the place where his manhood used to be and performs the service he requires.

  “—mortify me, for I have sinned.”

  The pain is monstrous, but absolves all guilt.

  All guilt.

  6. JET LAG

  FORTY KILOMETERS AWAY, DANGEROUS MEN ARE STALKING A woman.

  It’s a sunny day in Surrey, out beyond the M25 motorway, and the horizon-spanning urban sprawl has given way to ribbon development and scattered commuter dormitory towns separated by farms and green belt land and isolated strips of woodland. Many of these are privately owned; and the owner of one particular eighty-hectare chunk of ancient forest is in the habit of renting it out to murderers by the hour.

  The woman is clearly aware that she’s being pursued. Equally clearly, she isn’t prepared for this. She’s dressed for the office, not for a hike in the wild woods, and it’s a hot day. She’s slung her black suit jacket through her handbag’s straps and is walking barefoot through the undergrowth, smart shoes clutched in one hand. Breathing deeply, she backs up close to a three-hundred-year-old oak encrusted with ivy and lichen. Her eyes flicker from side to side, mistrusting. They searched her bag and took her phone—otherwise she could get a GPS fix and call for help. She’s unarmed; she has no idea how many men are pursuing her, but doubts there are fewer than two. And they will be armed. On the other hand, she knows there’s a perimeter wall. On the other side of it, there’s a main road—if she can get over it, she can flag down a ride. Or she can backtrack along it to the gatehouse, assuming her pursuers aren’t waiting for her there. If. If. She glances up at the sky, but the foliage is so thick she can’t spot the sun. She’s running out of options, and as she realizes this her heart beats faster.

  Less than a hundred meters away, her closest pursuer crouches on top of a muddy bluff and inspects the ground at his feet. Unlike his target, he’s dressed for the occasion in woodland camo and para boots. He wears a webbing vest and a helmet with headset, and carries a chunky machine pistol. Right now he’s examining a couple of telltale smears in the mud. Not boots. Not animal paw-prints, either; the only large animals he’s likely to meet in this over-tame forest are deer, and possibly the odd fox or badger. He taps his mike. “Found a trail,” he says. “Recent. Looks to be barefoot.” She came up here for a look-around, slipped and fell, he considers. Or did she? There’s no crushed patch of shrubbery nearby. He peers over the edge of the bluff, looks down three meters. If she’d gone over, I’d have heard. Probably.

  Hunting around, he spots a clump of nettles. The ground around them—someone or something has given them a wide berth and, in doing so, they’ve left traces: bent stems, broken twigs. He grimaces. Clueless. It’s not what he’d expect of
a smart fugitive. But nevertheless, it’s a trail. He follows it, scanning for more signs of passage. Careless, he thinks.

  It’s nearly the last thing he thinks. The trail winds close to the edge of the bluff again, then through a disturbed tangle of ferns and nettles between beech trees. As he steps close to it, something catches his eye and he drops into a crouch. It’s almost invisible when he’s standing, but from beneath…“Nasty,” he whispers. Stretching between the trees, about one and a half meters up, is a nearly invisible nylon wire, smeared with mud and vegetable sap. He taps his mike again. “Rabbit showing its teeth.” He tightens his grip on his gun and swings round. Which is why the woman’s field-expedient blackjack—doubled-over nylon hose filled with pebbles from the bed of the stream that feeds the ferns—catches him on the side of the helmet rather than on the back of his neck.

  They close and grapple and two seconds later it’s all over.

  “How do you score that?” Johnny is lying with his back against one of the beech trees, the paintball gun beside him.

  “The usual handicaps apply: I make it one all.” Persephone rolls over on her back. “You shot me, I cracked your skull.”

  “That tripwire was most unpleasant, Duchess.” Johnny sits up and rubs his untouched throat. “Where did you conceal it?”

  “Up top.” She sits up. “Hair extensions are one option; I can loop it through the roots in a continuous run. Takes ages to untangle, though. This time I just tucked it into the lining of my bag—metal detectors don’t see it, and if you do it properly even a trained X-ray tech will assume it’s just a seam.”

  “Right. And the cosh—”

  “Any sufficiently advanced lingerie is indistinguishable from a lethal weapon.” She smiles enigmatically, then holds up one of her shoes. “Heels, too.” Then she sits up. “Okay, back to base then we’ll run it again. This time”—she reaches out and taps him on the shoulder with the shoe—“tag, you’re it. Let Zero know, will you?”