Department 19: The Rising

by Will Hill

  The thought was nauseating, and Jamie forced it away. The pale, stoical former SAS Sergeant was many things, terrifying not the least of them, but he was as loyal to Blacklight as anyone; he was married to a descendant of the founders, to Henry Seward’s sister no less, and his son was a serving Operator.

  No way it’s him. It just can’t be. So who the hell is it?

  “There is a second matter I need to raise,’ said Seward, and Jamie refocused on the two men in the room with him. “It concerns you both, for different reasons.”

  The Director picked up the console which controlled the Ops Room’s facilities and pressed a series of keys. The giant screen, which covered the majority of the flat wall at one end of the room, burst into life. The Department 19 crest appeared, then the system ran through its series of automatic safety checks.

  Not much point in it doing them now, is there? thought Jamie.

  The home screen of the Blacklight system appeared: a series of folders and file trees, above a complicated dashboard of controls and programs. Seward clicked more keys, and an audio program loaded, filling the screen with a long waveform track and a series of control buttons.

  “This was left on my secure line overnight,” said Admiral Seward. “It’s from the Field Investigation Team.”

  He clicked the PLAY button, and a voice boomed out through the Ops Room.

  “Operator Ellis, Christian, NS303, 47-J, coding in. Commanding officer, Field Investigation Team 27-R. Twelve-hour status report, submitted at 0055 hours, January 22nd. Report begins. A spectroscopic survey of ninety-five miles of the Northumberland coastline, a value suggested by the atmospheric and oceanic conditions present on the date of the disappearance of Colonel Frankenstein, proved negative. There is no evidence, analytical or anecdotal, to suggest that Colonel Frankenstein returned to the British mainland, either alive or dead. Analysis of the tidal patterns around Lindisfarne on the night in question, along with general oceanic conditions present at the time, confirmed the possibility of Colonel Frankenstein having been washed out to sea, as the currents break around the island of Lindisfarne on a sharp east–west line. Such conditions could have sent the Colonel out to sea, while returning the lycanthrope to land.

  As a result of said information, my team were despatched to the main home ports of the fishing fleets of the North Sea, as rescue by a passing boat appeared to be the only likely remaining survival option for Colonel Frankenstein. Negative reports were filed from all the main Belgian and Swedish ports. However, anecdotal evidence provided by the residents of Cuxhaven, in northern Germany, described the appearance of a large figure of unknown origin, who arrived in the town aboard a small fishing boat named the Furchtlos. The vessel is currently at sea, so questioning her crew has proved impossible thus far. In my opinion, this represents the only viable lead we currently have. I am therefore formally requesting that FTB approval be secured, so that we might officially enter German territory, and continue our search. Report ends.”

  The array of speakers positioned around the Ops Room fell silent, as the audio file reached its end.

  “Have you spoken to the FTB? Are the Germans going to help?” asked Jamie, his voice trembling.

  “They have already granted permission for the team to enter their territory,” said Seward. “I’ve transmitted that to Major Ellis. They should be on the ground by now.”

  Jamie’s head spun. His heart had felt as though it might break when the voice had announced that there was nothing to suggest that Frankenstein had ever been returned to the mainland; in his mind, that was the likeliest conclusion, that if they were to find him, they would find him somewhere in northern England, maybe hurt, or incapacitated, or even captured by vampires.

  Jamie had not allowed for the possibility that his friend could have been washed the other way, out into the cold vastness of the North Sea. He would not have believed that it would be possible for anyone to survive more than a few minutes in those waters, but then Frankenstein was hardly just anybody; he was ageless, apparently immortal, and if anyone might have survived such an ordeal, Jamie believed it would be him.

  But if he was put ashore in Germany, thought Jamie, if the person the townspeople are talking about really was him, then why hasn’t he made contact? Why hasn’t he told us to come and get him?

  “Let me go and help them,” said Jamie. “I can be there in an hour. Please.”

  Major Turner rolled his eyes, and Jamie was filled with a sudden compulsion to shove his thumbs against them until they burst like balloons. He fought it back, and looked pleadingly at Admiral Seward.

  “No, Jamie,” replied the Director, although he had the decency to at least make it appear as though it had been a difficult decision for him to make. “We’ve been through this. Not while the interrogation is ongoing. You told me you understood that it takes priority; were you lying to me?”

  Jamie tried to quell the rage, the familiar, joyous, black-red rage that was threatening to burst from the pit of his stomach and consume him.

  “No, sir,” he replied, through gritted teeth. “I wasn’t lying to you.”

  “So you do understand that Valentin’s interrogation takes priority?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And that the Field Investigation Team are perfectly capable of following this lead without your assistance?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” said Seward, smiling. “Then we are in agreement. I promised you I would keep you up to date with their progress, Jamie. I never told you that you would get to take part. Remember that.”

  “I will, sir,” spat Jamie.

  “Fantastic,” replied the Director. “In which case, we should be on our way to the detention level. The others will be waiting for us. But before we go, I need to give something to you both.”

  Jamie glanced over at Paul Turner, whose gaze didn’t so much as flicker from his commanding officer’s.

  “The two of you haven’t always seen eye to eye,” said Seward. “That’s OK. If I wanted robots instead of Operators, I’d have the Science Division working on them now. I haven’t always seen eye to eye with either of you myself. But until we find the ghost user, we are going to have to trust each other like never before. After Julian, things got bad, and if this gets out, they could get bad again. And we have to allow for the possibility that the person we’re looking for knows we’re looking for them, and may take action against us. With that in mind, I want you both to have these.”

  Admiral Seward picked up two laminated cards from his desk and handed one to each of the Operators standing before him. Jamie took his, and looked down at it. A ten-digit combination of letters and numbers was printed on the card in plain black text.

  “Sir, what is this?” asked Paul Turner.

  “It’s the Director level override code,” replied Seward. “It’s the key to the entire Loop. Use it only if you have to.”

  “This is highly irregular, sir,” said Turner, frowning at the card in his hand.

  “I know it is, Paul,” said Seward. “But the time may come when the situation changes too quickly for you to seek my approval to act. Or something may happen to me which means that you can’t. Either way, take them, both of you, and hope you don’t need them.”

  ‘Yes, sir,” said Major Turner, putting the card carefully in his pocket.

  Jamie didn’t reply; he was still staring at the numbers, a chill climbing up his spine as he thought about the awesome power they represented, and the incredible faith Admiral Seward was showing by giving them to him.

  “Jamie,” said the Director, sharply, and this time he did look up. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jamie replied. “Loud and clear, sir.”

  The three men journeyed down to the detention level in silence.

  To Jamie, it felt as though the plastic card was about to burn a hole through the pocket of his uniform, presenting itself for all to see, and there was more than a little bit of him that would have loved tha
t to happen. Once they were through the double airlock, they met the rest of the Zero Hour Task Force, who were waiting patiently outside the guard office.

  As they approached, Cal Holmwood studied the looks on the faces of the three men, and raised one eyebrow towards Admiral Seward, who gave him the briefest shake of the head, so brief it was almost non-existent.

  “Morning,” said Jack Williams. The levity in his voice was forced; he could see that there was tension between the late arrivals.

  “Morning,” said Admiral Seward, sharply. “Let’s get on with this, shall we? Paul?”

  Major Turner nodded, and led them down the corridor to Valentin Rusmanov’s cell.

  The ancient vampire was lying on his bed, reading a paperback book, the title of which was in a language that Jamie didn’t recognise. Valentin, who Jamie and the rest of the Task Force knew full well could hear their individual heartbeats from the moment they exited the airlock, peered over the top of the book and smiled, as though surprised to see them appear beyond the ultraviolet barrier he had already proven so conclusively was useless.

  “Gentlemen,” he exclaimed. “What a pleasure. I had forgotten we were continuing our discussion this morning.”

  There was silence from the line of Operators, and Valentin’s grin widened.

  “Oh, dear,” he said, softly. “I sense tension in the ranks. Did someone forget to lock the doors last night before you went to bed?”

  “Valentin Rusmanov,” said Major Turner, giving no indication of having heard the vampire’s comment. “We are here to continue our interview with you, as agreed. May I enter and speak with you?”

  “Of course, my dear Major,” said Valentin, sitting up and placing his book aside. “Let’s have at it, by all means.”

  The vampire stood up from his bed, stretched his long, slender arms above his head, then let them drop back down to his sides. He walked quickly across the cell, and sat down in one of the chairs. Major Turner stepped through the barrier, and lowered himself slowly into the other.

  “Fire away, Major Turner,” said Valentin, smiling broadly.

  “Thank you,” said Turner, his politeness both impeccable and obviously false. “Mr Rusmanov, your late brother, Alexandru, was responsible for the sequence of events that led to Thomas Morris betraying this Department. To the best of your knowledge, was that an isolated incident, or have vampires attempted to infiltrate Blacklight at other times in the past?”

  “That, Major Turner,” replied Valentin, “is an excellent question. Excellent.”

  “Would you care to answer it?” said Turner.

  “I’m just considering the best way to do so,” replied Valentin. “Your use of the word ‘attempted’ implies that you are asking about plots to infiltrate your Department that were unsuccessful, and I must confess I don’t know about any such plots.”

  A chill ran up Jamie’s spine, and he looked over at Admiral Seward. The Director didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as move a muscle, but his face had drained of all colour; he looked suddenly like a ghost.

  “I’m sorry,” said Major Turner. “Are you suggesting that you have knowledge of successful attempts to infiltrate us? Beyond the case of Thomas Morris?”

  Valentin leant back in his chair, and smiled cruelly.

  “My dear Major,” he said, softly, “I do not know everything, so I cannot be sure of every spy that has been placed in your midst. But what I am telling you, what I know for an absolute fact, is that my brother Valeri has had at least one agent inside your Department at all times for the last sixty-five years.”

  40

  VISION QUEST, PART III

  CALIENTE, CALIFORNIA, USA YESTERDAY

  The man who was calling himself Robert Smith waited as patiently as he was able for Adam to finish his cigarette. When it was little more than a glowing stub between his fingers, Adam dropped it to the floor, ground it beneath the sole of his shoe and continued his story.

  “I never found out what happened to Emily,” he said. “Never knew whether she left me, or whether she killed herself. The way she had been talking, the things she said, things that I didn’t notice at the time, make me think the latter. She loved me, I know that with all my heart, and I don’t believe it was me she was tired of; it was life itself. But to this day, I still don’t know. And not knowing has been the worst part.

  “When she was gone, I lost myself for a while. I drifted into this circle of vampires in the Tenderloin, savages really, who killed and maimed for sport, not even for sustenance. I trawled the streets of San Francisco with them, and I did things I can never be forgiven for, for which even what was done to me later is not punishment enough. I killed, and tortured, and I drank from humans for the first time in my life.

  “And I learnt why most vampires are incapable of stopping themselves from committing the horrors they do: because there is nothing more powerful, more intoxicating, more overwhelming, than running human blood. It made me feel like a god, and I took my anger and my pain out on men and women who didn’t deserve it. I’ll never forgive myself for the things I did; thankfully, I was stopped before I was able to do more harm.”

  “What do you mean, stopped?” asked Smith. “Stopped by who?”

  “We were living in a tenement building in the Tenderloin. The place had been abandoned for years, and there were about fifty of us in there, like rats. One morning, about ten minutes after the sun had come up, the door was blown off its hinges, and suddenly the building was full of black figures, firing weapons I’d never seen before. Vampires were exploding all around me, bursting into flames, and I was running, trying to get away. Someone was screaming ‘NS9! NS9!’ over and over again, and then something sharp slammed into my leg, and when I woke up, I was somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “I have no idea. I was on the floor of a glass room, a cube really, in a laboratory. There were doctors in white suits and masks staring at me, and then this one doctor, a tall guy with grey hair, even though he couldn’t have been more than forty, pressed a button on a handset and the cube was filled with ultraviolet light. Every millimetre of my skin caught fire instantly, and I screamed until my vocal cords were burned away. I fell to the floor as the purple light dissolved me, and the last thing I saw was the grey-haired doctor making notes as he watched me die.

  “Then there was a light, and more pain, and I opened my eyes, and I nearly died again from shock. My body was a skeleton, blood was gushing on to me from vents in the ceiling of the cube, and as I watched, my muscles and skin were growing round the bones. The pain was indescribable. I screamed for mercy, screamed for it to be over, and then eventually it was, and I was myself again. Then one of the doctors fired a tranquilliser dart through a hole in the cube, and there was nothing.

  “When I woke up the second time, I was chained to the back of a glass cube, which was almost the same as the first one, but had two big differences. This one had no front wall, and it was outside. I was in a desert, a lot like the one we’re sat in now, and the sun was minutes away from rising over the mountains in front of me. The doctors were gathered around with their notebooks and their instruments, and the grey-haired man was standing beside the cube, looking at me. I pleaded with him, I begged for mercy, I asked him why he was doing this to me, and do you know what he did?”

  “What?” asked Smith, his voice trembling.

  “He smiled at me,” spat Adam. “Smiled at me, then carried right on making notes. Then he watched as the sun came over the horizon, and the light crept towards the cube, bit by bit. When it reached my feet, they started to burn. By the time it reached my waist my legs were gone below the knees and I was hanging in the manacles around my wrists, my mind completely gone, driven away by the pain. I stayed conscious until it burned through my chest, and then I died. And then they revived me again.”

  “They collected your ashes,” said Smith, quietly. “Didn’t they? Soaked them in blood, and brought you back.”

  Adam nodded.

>   “Nothing they did ever pierced my heart,” he said. “They were very careful not to destroy me. Just kill me.”

  “Jesus,” said Smith. “I’ve never heard of anything like that. To kill someone twice and bring them back is inhumane.”

  A look of surprise passed over Adam’s face. “I don’t think you understand,” he said. “They didn’t kill me twice. They killed me hundreds and hundreds of times.”

  Adam rolled another cigarette, and this time Smith asked whether he could have one too. He lit the neat roll-up, took the first mouthful of smoke into his lungs and waited for his host to continue.

  “The third time I don’t even know what they did to me,” said Adam. “They strapped me on to a gurney in the middle of the cube and injected me with something, a syringe of bright blue liquid. Nothing happened for about an hour, but then I started to feel pressure, like I was deep underwater. My limbs started to swell up, and I felt blood start to run from my ears and my nose. I passed out before it got too bad, but the last thing I remember is seeing my fingers burst.”

  “Jesus Christ,” whispered Smith.

  “They revived me again, and killed me again. They drowned me, dissolved me in acid, stabbed every part of my body with metal stakes apart from my heart, blew my limbs off with shotguns one at a time, put timed explosives under my skin and blew me to pieces, injected me with hundreds of drugs and chemicals. And every time, they brought me back and did it again. And again. I don’t know how many times, I don’t how long for. It felt like years, but I don’t know if it was. The doctors came and went, new ones appearing, others disappearing, but the one constant was the man with the grey hair. He was there every time I died, and every time I was reborn, watching me, smiling at me, making his damned notes.”

  Adam spat on the ground, and crushed out his cigarette.

  “One day I woke up and I was in the cube in the desert, just before dawn. I don’t know how many times they had burned me by then, so I wasn’t surprised. I didn’t even protest; I knew what was going to happen, and what it was going to feel like, and I could prepare myself for it. It was the new things, the drugs and the chemicals, that scared me. And by then I had realised that begging was useless. So I watched the sun rise over the mountains, I watched it crawl across the floor of the desert and I braced myself as it reached my toes. And nothing happened.”