by Will Hill
“How’s he doing?” asked Jack.
“No idea,” said Jamie, softly. “He was still transformed when they took him down, and still tranquillised. I’m going to go and check on him as soon as this is over, whatever it is.”
“A werewolf,” said Patrick, in a low voice. “That’s unbelievable.”
“I should have thought,” said Jamie. “I saw him get bitten, the night he fell. I just didn’t think about it, until it was too late.”
“Hey,” said Larissa, sharply. “It wasn’t too late. You found him and you brought him home. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“She’s right, Jamie,” said Jack. “He’s still alive, thanks to you. If we’d got there half an hour later, he wouldn’t be. That’s the thing to focus on.”
Jamie nodded, then peered through the window in the Ops Room door. He could see Cal Holmwood beneath the wall screen with Admiral Seward’s assistant; Marlow was typing furiously into a keypad, opening window after window on the huge screen.
“What’s going on in there?” he asked “Why aren’t they letting us—”
The words died in his throat as a second Operator walked across the Ops Room and stood next to Cal Holmwood. The face was even paler than usual, but the robotic stillness, and the piercing grey eyes were unmistakable.
It was Major Paul Turner.
“Jesus,” said Jamie, his voice low. “What the hell is he doing in there?”
Larissa and the Williams brothers turned to see what he was looking at. He heard Larissa gasp, as they saw what he saw.
“The man’s a machine,” said Patrick, his voice little more than a whisper.
“His son’s body is barely cold,” said Larissa. “You’d think he might take a morning off.”
“Why?” asked Jack, his voice solemn. “How would that help Shaun?”
The question hung in the air as the four of them watched Turner and Holmwood confer with each other, while Marlow waited for further instructions. Cal Holmwood suddenly turned towards the door, looking directly at them. They froze, caught, but Holmwood merely rolled his eyes and beckoned them into the Ops Room.
Jack pushed open the door, and they filed in, taking seats at the desks nearest the front. Behind them, the clamour of conversation dwindled as the throng of Operators followed suit. Holmwood and Turner stood beneath the huge screen, waiting for them to settle. Once every Operator was seated, Jamie noticing painfully as they did so that there were a large number of ominously empty seats left over, Marlow clicked a series of commands on his console, and ten windows opened on the giant screen, containing the pale, tightly drawn faces of the ten Directors of the world’s supernatural protection Departments. White text sat at the bottom of each window, announcing the country that the person in the window represented: America, Russia, Germany, China, Japan, Canada, India, Egypt, South Africa and Brazil.
“Can you all hear me?” asked Cal Holmwood. The ten Directors affirmed that they could, and he continued. “As Deputy Director of Department 19, it falls to me to lead this briefing. It is not a job I relish, nor one I have ever sought. I have been proud to serve one of the greatest men in the history of this organisation, who was taken from us last night. Admiral Henry Seward.”
There was a murmur from the assembled Operators, and from the ten men on the screen.
“The situation is still unfolding,” said Holmwood. “And details remain sketchy. But this is what we know so far. Last night, a vampire army led by Valeri Rusmanov attacked us; the specific purpose of the attack is not yet clear, although the capture of Director Seward can be assumed to have been at least one of its objectives. In the course of repelling the attack, sixty-eight Operators of this Department lost their lives, and a further fifty-three were injured. This, as you all know, accounts for more than half of the Blacklight roster.”
There were audible gasps, both from the black figures inside the Ops Room and the foreign Directors on the wall screen.
Sixty-eight, thought Jamie, his mind swimming. I never could have believed it would be so many.
Larissa squeezed his hand, as Holmwood continued.
“The attack was successfully halted only by the deployment of a last-resort weapons system that was unknown to anyone in this Department beyond the Director himself. I am now given to understand that his fellow Directors were aware of its existence?”
“That’s correct,” said General Robert Allen, the Director of the American NS9. “It was a Director-only protocol. As you said, it was last resort only.”
“Thank you,” replied Holmwood. “We are still assessing the damage that deploying the weapon may have caused, particularly as regards to the ongoing security of the Loop, and possible public relations risks. But it worked; for that much we are to be grateful.”
He’s furious, Jamie suddenly realised, as he looked at Cal Holmwood. He’s absolutely furious that only Admiral Seward knew about the weapon.
“We have come to the conclusion that Valeri’s attack was facilitated by the man we knew as Professor Richard Talbot, the former Director of Department 19’s Lazarus Project.”
Marlow punched a series of keys, and a photo of Talbot appeared on the screen, filling Jamie’s stomach with revulsion. “I know him,” said General Allen immediately, his voice low. “That’s Christopher Reynolds. He worked for us, a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry?” said Cal Holmwood. “He worked for you in what capacity?”
Allen looked uneasily into the camera. “He ran a special weapons division here in the desert,” he said. “Then he disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” asked Colonel Ovechkin, the Director of the Russian SPC. “How do you mean disappeared?”
“I mean disappeared,” replied Allen. “Emptied his labs, destroyed all his work, murdered his entire staff and disappeared. We’ve been looking for him for ten years.”
“And you never told us this?” asked Ovechkin.
“It was classified,” said Allen. “At the highest level.”
“That’s a shame,” said Cal Holmwood, tightly. “Because all twenty-three scientists of the Lazarus Project died last night, at this man’s hand. All the information was gone, and his work destroyed; only the actions of one of our Operators stopped him escaping again.”
“I’ve never seen the words Lazarus Project on any update,” said Allen. “You can’t blame me for you not telling me what you were doing over there.”
“You’re right,” said Holmwood. “Although I am not the Director, and the decision was not mine to make, this illustrates the central problem that has plagued our Departments since the beginning. We simply do not trust each other. Am I wrong?”
The ten foreign Directors stared at him, Ovechkin and Allen with faces like thunder.
“If we did,” continued Holmwood, “then perhaps this man could have been prevented from killing twenty-three innocent men and women last night, or from helping Valeri Rusmanov to cause the deaths of sixty-eight more.” His voice was rising, as he struggled to contain the rage that was building inside him. “So I’m going to ask you all a simple question, gentlemen. Are we on the same side, or aren’t we?”
There was complete silence in the Ops Room, as the Blacklight Operators hung on Cal Holmwood’s every word. On the screen, the ten Directors looked down from their offices, in every corner of the world, their expressions full of concern.
“I spoke this morning to my superiors in London,” said Holmwood. “They have authorised me to declare war on Valeri Rusmanov, and on his master, Count Dracula. From this point forward, this Department’s first priority is the recovery of Henry Seward from wherever Valeri Rusmanov has taken him. Its second is the destruction of both Valeri, and Dracula.”
He turned back to the screen. “From you gentlemen, many of whom I have fought beside over the years, I will expect nothing less than your complete support and assistance as we work towards these goals. If you do not feel able, or willing, to provide us with that, then tell me now, and relations betw
een us will be terminated. There is no more room for secrecy, or political manoeuvring, or distrust; we face a common enemy, and we will stand together, or we will fall alone.”
He fell silent, and stared up at the screen. The ten Directors looked at each other, their faces wide with shock. It had never occurred to any of them, as they received Holmwood’s request for an emergency conference, that he would present them with such an ultimatum, and it had left them reeling.
Colonel Ovechkin was the first to regain his composure.
“I do not appreciate your tone,” he said, slowly. “But I believe that you are right, that the time for rivalry has passed. You should consider the resources of the SPC at your disposal, Cal.”
Thank you, Aleksandr, thought Holmwood, relief bursting through him. The stoical, hugely experienced Russian Colonel had been the man whose cooperation he wanted more than any of the others, even more so than General Allen’s. The rest will follow now, just you watch.
He was right.
One by one, the other Directors offered their cooperation, and their support. Cal Holmwood thanked them all, in turn, and told them he would speak to them when he had an implementable strategy for the recovery of Admiral Seward. Then he instructed Marlow to sever the conference link, and turned back to face the men and women of Blacklight.
Somewhere to Jamie’s left, an Operator began to applaud. It was a lone sound for several seconds, before it was joined by a second pair of hands, and then another, and another, until the room was full of deafening acclamation for Cal Holmwood.
“Thank you,” he said, waving his hands in an attempt to quieten them. “Thank you.” Eventually, the applause subsided, and he regarded them solemnly. “The operating protocols of this Department state that I, as Deputy Director, assume the post of Interim Director in circumstances such as these,” he said. “I assure you, I take no pleasure from this temporary promotion. The protocols also state that any member of the Department may challenge this, and suggest an alternative candidate. Anyone who wishes to do so, please speak now.”
The silence in the Ops Room was deafening.
“I appreciate you placing your trust in me,” said Holmwood, the tiniest suggestion of a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. “I will not let you down.” He stared out at the rows of black-clad figures, and felt his heart swell with pride at the sight of them.
“Operators,” he continued, his voice firm. “We are facing the greatest challenge that humanity has ever faced, and as always, we must carry the burden so the public doesn’t have to. If Dracula is allowed to rise, if he is allowed to regain his full strength, then life as we know it on this planet will cease to exist. There will be dark times ahead; I would not lie to you and tell you otherwise. But I am proud to fight alongside each and every one of you, and face what is to come.
“I have never been more proud to be a member of this Department than I am this morning, and I tell you this now: we will stand and face Valeri, and Dracula, and we will prevail. We will push back the darkness, as we always have, and we will emerge from the shadows triumphant, or we will die in the attempt. Each of you will have a part to play in what is to come; individual and squad briefings will begin this afternoon. Until then, you are all dismissed.”
The Operators rose as one, and applauded their Interim Director. Cal Holmwood stood where he was, a quiet, determined smile on his face, as the first of the black figures made their way through the door, and out into the Loop.
52
ONLY FORWARD
ONE HOUR LATER
Jamie, Larissa, Kate and Matt stood outside Interim Director Holmwood’s quarters, waiting to be called inside.
They had gathered in Jamie’s room after the briefing had ended, their excitement at Cal Holmwood’s words tempered by Kate’s grief over the death of Shaun Turner. She had sat on Jamie’s bed, able to talk, and even laugh with the rest of them, but there was something unmistakably different about her, something altered from the girl she had been the previous day.
Jamie, Larissa and Matt all knew loss; they had left behind friends and loved ones as their lives had taken the twists and turns that had led them to where they found themselves, some of which had been voluntary, some of which had been thrust upon them, without warning.
But only Jamie was intimately acquainted with what Kate was going through; in the days after his father had been killed, he had found himself entirely at the mercy of his own unpredictable, unreliable emotions. One minute he had been his usual self, able to talk coherently to his equally devastated mother, the next he found himself in a fit of absolutely uncontrollable sobbing, which was far beyond his power to stop.
What was worse, though, was the way his own brain, conditioned by the social protocols of death, and grief, had responded to his emotions; when he was able to function, his brain had chastised him for being able to do so, accusing him of not having loved his father, because any son whose father died shouldn’t be able to talk to their neighbour about the weather, or the Arsenal result. But when his emotions overcame him, when he cried, and sobbed, and wailed, sometimes for hours on end, his brain told him to stop being pathetic, that he was embarrassing his dad, who would never have wanted to see his son like this. It was an uncertain torment, and the only thing that fixed it was the passage of time.
Jamie looked at Kate, and knew there was nothing he could really say to her that would make any difference; all he, and Larissa, and Matt, could do was be there for her when she needed them, and wait for time to heal her wounds.
The four of them had discussed the implications of Cal Holmwood’s speech; it had been less a briefing and more a call to arms, a declaration of war on Valeri and on Dracula, and the four young Operators were ready to lead the charge if asked, which they hoped they would be. Larissa and Kate had told Jamie and Matt about the attack on the Loop, Larissa steering the tale away from what had happened to Shaun; there was no need for Kate to actively relive that terrible moment, even though the vampire girl was sure it was playing incessantly inside her friend’s head.
Larissa described the fight between Valeri and Valentin, trying to articulate the sheer power that had been on display, the ancient, unstoppable power; she had felt like an insect as she watched them, like a Greek hero standing beneath two warring gods. She explained how Valentin had tried to help her, had fed her his blood, noticing the colour rise in Jamie’s cheeks as she did so. Then Jamie had told the other three what had happened in Paris.
He had considered leaving out certain parts of the story; he was extremely aware, in the cold light of day, that some of his behaviour had been at best reckless, at worst unacceptable. But in the end, he told them the whole story. When he was finished, he asked them if they wanted to come with him to check on Frankenstein, but before they got the chance to reply, their consoles burst into life, summoning them to Cal Holmwood’s quarters.
“You can go in,” said the Operator stationed outside the Interim Director’s room.
Jamie nodded, and pushed the door open. The room beyond was far smaller than Admiral Seward’s quarters; it was, in truth, barely bigger than his own. Cal Holmwood sat behind his desk, a vast mountain of files, boxes and reports teetering on its wooden surface. He looked up as they entered.
“Come in,” he said, then leant back in his chair and looked at them as they arranged themselves in a line before his desk. “Kate,” he said, softly. “I’m very sorry about Shaun Turner. I know the two of you were friends.”
It was clear from the Interim Director’s face that he knew they had been more than that, but also that he had no intention of embarrassing Kate by letting her know she had been breaking one of Blacklight’s fundamental rules. Jamie felt a rush of gratitude towards the man behind the desk.
“Thank you, sir,” replied Kate. Her face crumpled momentarily, but she held it together, and Holmwood nodded.
“Until yesterday,” he continued, “there were almost two hundred Operators on the roster of this Department. A
ll of them highly skilled, experienced men and women, the very best of the very best. And yet, it always seems to be the three of you at the centre of everything. The four of you, in fact, given the events of last night. I wonder why that is?”
“Bad luck, sir?” suggested Jamie.
Holmwood grinned at him. “Perhaps, Mr Carpenter. Perhaps. For whatever reason, the four of you were intimately involved in everything that happened last night, both here, and in Paris. For that reason, I’m going to tell you certain things that I’m not telling the majority of your colleagues. I’m hoping I’m right to trust you?”
Jamie, Larissa and Kate exchanged a quick glance, a half-smile that contained a thousand unsaid words.
“Yes, sir,” replied Jamie. “I think I speak for all of us, sir.”
“Good,” replied the Interim Director. “The first thing I should tell you is that as a result of my own observations, and a series of recommendations that have been made to me this morning, I am proposing all four of you for the Order of Gallantry, Second Class. In different ways, your behaviour and conduct last night was in keeping with the very highest standards of this Department, and did not go unnoticed. There will be a ceremony in due course, but I thought you should know now.”
Jamie felt himself sway on his feet; he looked at his three friends, and felt a surge of love for the boy and the two girls standing beside him.
“Thank you, sir,” said Larissa, proudly.
“Thank you, sir,” said Kate, her eyes shining fiercely.
“Thank you, sir,” said Jamie.
“But…” said Matt. “I didn’t do anything, sir. Jamie almost got killed coming to find me. I don’t deserve a medal.”
“Mr Browning,” said Holmwood, kindly. “The CCTV logs showed me what you said to Lieutenant Carpenter when he entered the Lazarus Project laboratory, when you had Professor Talbot’s gun to your head. Not ‘Help me’ or ‘Run’, but ‘Shoot him’. Your concern for your own safety was secondary to your desire to see an enemy of this Department apprehended. You should be very proud of yourself today, Mr Browning.”
