Department 19: Battle Lines

by Hill, Will

  “I wanted to go, sir,” said Turner. “But I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I know who planted the bombs, sir. I was on my way here to tell you when the intercept came in.”

  Holmwood stared for a long moment. “Who was it?” he asked, eventually.

  “It was Valentin’s servant,” said Turner. “It was Lamberton, sir.”

  “How do we know? Are we sure?”

  Turner nodded. “Yes, sir. Security confirmed the presence of a vampire in Kate’s room about two hours ago. Valentin passed ISAT and we’ve just interviewed Marie Carpenter. She told us that Lamberton has been using one of our consoles in his room.”

  “What good would a console do him?” asked Holmwood, frowning.

  “It wouldn’t do him any good, sir,” replied Turner. “But it would be very useful for whoever is giving him orders.”

  “One of us?”

  “Has to be, sir. No one else would be able to get the console to him, and only an Operator would be at risk from ISAT.”

  “Do we know who?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Jesus Christ, Henry,” whispered Holmwood, dropping his gaze to his desk. “You never told me this was what being Director was like.”

  “Excuse me, sir?” said Turner.

  “Nothing,” said Holmwood. “I wasn’t talking to you.” He got up from his desk. “Let’s find out who was holding Lamberton’s reins,” he said, and headed for the door.

  The two veteran Operators stood silently in the lift as it descended.

  They had fought alongside each other more times than either could remember, had seen and done things that both of them wished they could forget, had suffered losses that would hurt until they stopped breathing in and out. But even as everything appeared to be collapsing around them, as revelation piled upon revelation and the pressure upon their shoulders weighed as heavily as it ever had, neither man would have changed a thing. They had lived lives of great wonder, lives that were varied and full, and they were proud to be what they were: soldiers of the light, descending into the darkness yet again.

  “What if Valentin knew?” said Holmwood. “That could be a real problem.”

  “I know,” replied Turner. “Can you see him taking orders from one of us?”

  “No,” said Holmwood. “But I don’t know if I believe a word he’s said since he’s been here. Nothing he did would surprise me.”

  “I agree with the second part,” said Turner. “But I believe he’s here for the reasons he gave. I don’t trust him, but I don’t think he’s trying to hurt us.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” said Holmwood. “Because I can’t see him being thrilled when we stake his servant.”

  There was a long pause.

  “There’s something else, sir,” said Turner.

  Holmwood laughed. “What else could there possibly be?” he asked. “Is an alien battle fleet about to enter the earth’s orbit?”

  “Not as far as I’m aware,” said Turner. “It’s Jamie’s rookie.”

  “Morton?”

  Turner nodded. “He’s gone after the vamp their squad was chasing on his own. Kate told me. Jamie and his other rookie have gone after him.”

  “I gave Jamie permission to put him on the inactive list.”

  “Apparently, he was going to,” said Turner. “Morton went before he got the chance.”

  “There’s nothing we can do about it now,” said Holmwood. “Jamie’s a good Operator. He knows what he’s doing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The lift slowed to a halt. Its doors slid open, revealing the airlock that controlled access to the cellblock. On the other side of it was the long corridor of cells, one of which, the ninth on the right, was the home of Lamberton, Valentin Rusmanov’s oldest companion.

  Cal’s right, thought Turner, as they approached the airlock. If Valentin stands by Lamberton, this could get ugly. Very ugly.

  Holmwood pressed his ID against the black panel on the wall. A green light appeared and he quickly tapped a series of numbers into its touch screen. The light changed to a bright purple, then both the inner and outer doors of the airlock slid open at the same time, in direct contradiction of the principle that governed them.

  “There’s no time,” said Holmwood, noticing Turner’s expression of surprise. “I have to be in the Ops Room in five minutes so I can send Jack Williams to clean up your mess.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Turner, and followed his commanding officer through the open airlock. The duty Operator, a member of the Security Division named Jess Nelson, had left her guard post when the airlock had hissed open and was staring at it with unease. Her face brightened as she saw the two men who stepped through it and on to the block.

  “Who are you here—” she began, but Turner cut her off.

  “Grab a Daybreaker and come with us, Operator.”

  Nelson’s eyes widened; the Russian-made launcher was used in only the most dangerous of circumstances, and kept only in the hangar armoury and the cellblock guard post. But she did as she was told; she ran back inside and came out with the heavy black weapon settled against her shoulder, its wide barrel pointing at the ceiling.

  “Ready, sir,” she said.

  He nodded. “Good. Follow us.”

  Holmwood strode down the corridor and Turner fell in beside him. Nelson walked on the other side of the Interim Director, her eyes fixed on the cell that was home to Valentin Rusmanov.

  Almost, thought Turner, following her gaze. But not quite. Wrong vampire.

  The three Operators passed Valentin’s cell without slowing. The ancient vampire was lying on his bed, reading a page of sheet music; he looked up and frowned as the three black-clad figures disappeared from his view.

  They stopped outside Lamberton’s cell and looked inside. The vampire was at the rear of the square room, shining a pair of his master’s shoes with a pale cloth; his hands moved at such supernatural speed that the cloth was barely visible as it blurred back and forth over the leather.

  “Lamberton,” said Cal Holmwood.

  The valet looked up and stopped what he was doing. He placed the shoes and the cloth aside, then approached the ultraviolet barrier that was intended to keep him inside.

  It evidently poses him no more problems than it does his master, thought Turner. Although I’m looking forward to hearing how he got out of this block.

  “Mr Holmwood, Mr Turner,” said Lamberton, smoothly. “And I’m afraid I don’t know your name, Miss. How can I be of assistance?”

  “You can stand back,” said Turner, raising his T-Bone and pointing it at the vampire’s heart. “That will be a good start.”

  A flicker of annoyance crossed Lamberton’s face, but he stepped back, staring at the three Operators.

  “What is the meaning of this?” asked a smooth, friendly voice from the corridor beside them. Nelson spun round, saw Valentin Rusmanov leaning casually against the wall between Lamberton’s cell and his own, and gasped in shock. Paul Turner merely glanced in his direction. “This doesn’t concern you, Valentin,” he said. “Go back to your cell.”

  “Oh, I hardly think so,” smiled Valentin. “Not when you’re pointing your little gun at my companion.”

  Turner glanced at Cal Holmwood, who nodded.

  “All right,” he said. “Go and stand with your man. You should hear what we have to say to him.”

  “I’m all ears, my dear Major Turner,” said Valentin, and slipped effortlessly through the UV barrier and into his servant’s cell.

  “My lord,” began Lamberton, instantly. “I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “Be calm, old friend,” said Valentin, fixing his gaze on Paul Turner. “I’m sure our hosts will explain the meaning of this. Quickly.”

  Cal Holmwood cleared his throat. “Your associate is guilty of the attempted murder of Operators of this Department, Valentin. That’s why we are here.”

  “I see,” said Valentin, narrowin
g his eyes. “You have proof, I presume? I’m sure you do not expect us to take your word for such serious allegations?”

  “The proof is in this cell,” said Turner. Beside him, Nelson lowered her Daybreaker by a few degrees; it was not pointing at either of the vampires in the cell, but it was no longer pointing at the ceiling.

  Valentin looked round the sparse room. “I must confess that I fail to see it, Major Turner.”

  “Maybe you aren’t looking hard enough,” replied Turner, and stepped towards the ultraviolet barrier.

  A snarl emerged from Lamberton’s throat.

  Valentin looked at his valet, who was staring at the Security Officer with eyes that were now glowing the colour of old coals, and a tiny frown creased his forehead. “Present your evidence, Major Turner,” he said, softly. “I would see it, if indeed it exists.”

  “By all means,” said Turner, and stepped through the barrier. The shimmering wall of light tingled his skin as he passed through it and made his way towards Lamberton’s impeccably made bed. He knelt down, thrust his hands beneath the mattress, and instantly found what he was looking for.

  A hard rectangle, its size immediately familiar to his gloved hands.

  Thank God for that.

  Turner felt along the edges of the mattress, searching for the opening. Behind him, Lamberton was emitting a steady growl, like the noise made by a cornered dog. Just before they reached the corner, Turner’s fingers slipped through a neat slit and into the mattress itself; he shoved his arm in up to the elbow and felt his fingers close round the rectangle. He pulled it out, dragging strands of stuffing with it, then stood up and faced the two vampires, holding it out in his hand.

  “What is that?” asked Valentin.

  “It’s a portable console,” said Turner. He tried to suppress the elation he was feeling, tried not to let it show on his face. “They’re issued to every Operator. But not to vampire prisoners.”

  “What does that prove, Major Turner?” asked Valentin. “If my associate has stolen one of your little machines, then by all means slap his wrist, with my full blessing. I fail to see how it is proof of attempted murder.”

  “The Security investigation into the explosion on Level B was concluded this afternoon,” said Turner. “The results were unequivocal. A vampire spent approximately four minutes in the room in question, two hours before the device was detonated. There are only three vampires in this base at the moment. Valentin, you and I had a charming conversation yesterday morning, which cleared you of any involvement. And this afternoon, we interviewed Marie Carpenter, who was also cleared. She did tell us something interesting, though. She told us that on several occasions she had heard you, Lamberton, tapping on something that sounded as though it was made of plastic. She had also heard a beep that she didn’t recognise. I played her the new message tone on my console and she confirmed that it was the noise she heard.”

  Turner thumbed open the console and entered the messages folder. There were two, both read, both from an unknown sender; a string of numbers and letters filled the space where a name was usually displayed.

  “You planted the bombs,” he said, staring evenly at Lamberton. The vampire returned his gaze, his eyes boiling with crimson. Behind him, Valentin Rusmanov’s face had become even paler than usual; he was looking at his servant with an entirely unreadable expression. “You left your cell, left this block – although I must confess I have no idea how you managed that – and you planted two bombs. Bombs that were intended to kill Lieutenant Randall and myself. I challenge you to deny it.”

  Lamberton snarled again, but said nothing. Turner opened the console again and read the messages. One had been sent the previous morning:

  TODAY/B261/A86

  Mine and Kate’s room numbers, he thought. We’ve got you.

  The final one had been sent yesterday afternoon:

  YOU FAILED

  Damn right. Goddamn right you did.

  Turner threw the console across the cell towards Cal Holmwood. It had barely left his fingertips when Lamberton moved, a guttural howl erupting from his throat, and snatched it out of the air. He raised it above his head, his face contorted with hate, and was about to smash it to pieces on the hard floor of his cell when a voice as old and cold as death spoke a single word.

  “Lamberton.”

  The vampire froze, his arm raised. Then, ever so slowly, he lowered it, and turned to face his master.

  Valentin Rusmanov was staring at his servant with the most terrible look of disappointment that Paul Turner had ever seen. His eyes burned a pale, melancholy red and his mouth was curled downwards, as though he had just tasted something unpleasant.

  “Did you do these things?” he asked. “Do not lie to me, old friend. Not now.”

  Lamberton stared wretchedly at Valentin. His throat was working furiously, as though he was searching for some combination of words that would mean he could avoid lying to his master. In the end, what emerged was almost a shriek of misery.

  “I did, my lord,” he cried. “I’m sorry, forgive me, oh, forgive me, my lord. I did it for you.”

  Turner raised his T-Bone without realising he was doing so and levelled it at Valentin Rusmanov. Cal Holmwood, who had been watching the scene play out with a look of grim determination on his lined face, did the same, as Operator Nelson levelled her Daybreaker.

  “For me?” asked Valentin. He ignored the arsenal of weaponry pointing at him; his focus was entirely on his servant. “What do you mean?”

  “He came to me, my lord,” said Lamberton. He had begun to cry, great sobs that shuddered through his narrow frame. “One of them, he came to me while you slept and told me what he wanted me to do. He gave me the materials to make the devices and the console, and told me to hide them until it was time. He would have destroyed you, my lord, he said he would destroy you in your sleep. I had no choice, my lord. I had to.”

  “Who came to you?” asked Valentin. His eyes were darkening, becoming the colour of molten lava. “Who told you?”

  “I don’t know his name, my lord. He was here when we arrived. He stood with these men, the first time they came to talk to you.”

  Oh Christ, thought Turner, his heart stopping in his chest. The Zero Hour Task Force. We came down here together, the morning after they arrived. The morning I started the interrogation.

  “What did he look like?” asked Cal Holmwood. The ashen look on his face told Turner that the Interim Director had come to the same realisation as him.

  “Tall,” said Lamberton, between sobs. “Black hair. Stood at the back, near Mr Carpenter. That’s all I know, I swear it.”

  “That’s Brennan,” said Turner, his voice little more than a whisper. “He’s been in Zero Hour since the beginning, Cal. He knows everything.”

  Holmwood stared. “Has he been through ISAT?”

  “No.”

  “Find him. Run his chip.”

  The Security Officer pulled his console from his belt and searched for Richard Brennan. The system returned a result almost immediately.

  “He’s here,” said Turner, relief flooding through him. “On the grounds. Out by the runway.”

  An alarm rang out from Holmwood’s console; he swore and grabbed it from his belt. “I have to brief Jack,” he said. “Finish this, then find Brennan. Don’t let anyone else do it. You find him, Paul, and you bring him to me.”

  He turned and strode away down the cellblock without waiting for his Security Officer to answer. Turner watched him go, then pointed his T-Bone at Valentin’s butler’s chest.

  “Lamberton,” he said. “You are hereby sentenced to immediate destruction, for the attempted murders of members of this Department.”

  The vampire’s sobbing intensified, and he threw a pleading look at his master. “My lord, I beg you. I did it for you, to protect you. I could not let anything happen to you, my lord, after all our time together. I beg you, my lord, don’t let them kill me.”

  “You thought that I could no
t protect myself?” asked Valentin, his voice low. “You thought so little of me? You did not even think to tell me after you were approached?”

  “I dealt with it, my lord,” babbled Lamberton. “I did not want to trouble you, my lord, to bother you with something so trivial. I looked after you, my lord, like I always have, like I always will. What are two dead humans, my lord, what difference would they make? They are nothing, my lord, but you, you are my whole life, my lord, my everything. I could not take the risk, my lord. Forgive me, oh, forgive me.”

  “You were played,” said Valentin. “Your loyalty to me was taken advantage of and so, so easily. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “I am, my lord,” sobbed Lamberton. “I truly am.”

  “Stand clear, Valentin,” said Turner, sighting along the barrel of his T-Bone. “I have a sentence to carry out.”

  An expression of naked despair rose on to Lamberton’s face; he cast a final desperate glance at his master, who looked back impassively. Turner breathed out and squeezed the trigger of his weapon. The bang of exploding gas was deafening in the confined space of the cell, an echoing thunderclap that rang through his ears. The stake exploded from the T-Bone’s barrel and rocketed towards the vampire butler. A millisecond later, the wire that trailed behind it went slack as Valentin plucked the projectile out of the air.

  Oh shit, thought Turner.

  Valentin turned the stake over in his hand. “I cannot allow you to destroy my servant, Major Turner,” he said, without so much as glancing in the Security Officer’s direction.

  Lamberton breathed out a great bubbling mess of relief. “Thank you, my lord,” he sobbed. “Oh, thank—”

  Valentin moved.

  The ancient vampire threw the metal stake aside, stepped forward and thrust his hand into Lamberton’s chest. The servant’s eyes flew open as it disappeared up to the wrist; from inside him came the sickening crunch of breaking bone. Lamberton threw back his head to scream, but no sound came out; instead, an enormous jet of dark red blood erupted from his gaping mouth, spraying against the ceiling before falling to the floor. With a grunt of effort, Valentin pulled his hand out of his servant’s chest and held Lamberton’s beating heart up before his staring, stricken face.