“Sit down, Mr. Howard!” booms Lockhart, in a stentorian tone that is familiar to sergeant-majors everywhere.
I sit, hastily, balancing on the edge of the visitor’s chair in his office.
“Your point that nobody else on the DRESDEN RICE committee has been cleared to know about persons infected with OPERA CAPE is well-taken.” Lockhart moderates his voice. “But has it occurred to you that there might be a reason for that?”
“I can think of several.” I cross my legs. “Mostly ranging from the inane to the criminally irresponsible.”
“Do enlighten me, then. What options do you see?” The hairy caterpillar balanced on his upper lip hunches its back in a sneer.
“Where should I begin? Sally thinks it’s a training exercise, testing processes for developing procedures for handling fresh meat. That’s a good blind, but it doesn’t explain why none of them believe in vampires. Except for Basil, of course, good old Basil and his Romanian vampire blancmanges. Um. Someone decided to nobble the process so that the recommendations it comes up with bear no resemblance to actual reality on the ground, in furtherance of some hitherto-unimagined bureaucratic death-match designed to disgrace and discredit a rival? Or someone at the top, despite notionally being cleared for OPERA CAPE, didn’t read the fricking daily pooled intel assessment and still doesn’t believe in fang fuckers so they’re treating it as a joke. Or. Or.” I brandish my email again. “But they minuted it! They set me homework!”
“Do calm down, old boy. What’s so bad about a spot of homework?”
“(Jesus Fuck)—” I subvocalize, rather than inflicting my Tourette’s on Lockhart’s unreliable and occasionally prissy ears. “They reached a consensus that the best way to go about working out the requirements of vampires was to do a literature survey. They then decided that a bunch of amateurs had obviously already done the legwork for them, so all that was necessary was for me to”—I take a deep breath—“read the complete works of Brian Lumley, Anne Rice, Jim Butcher, and Laurell K. Hamilton, and draw a fucking”—I can’t help myself, it just slipped out, honest—“entity-relationship diagram of the hierarchy structures of all the vampires portrayed therein, while documenting their vulnerabilities, kill rate, dietary needs, and so on and so forth as if they’re not all works of fiction.”
I get louder towards the end, until I’m blaring. If Lockhart was of the feline persuasion his ears would be back and his eyes slitted. And as I wind down I half-expect him to deliver a royal bollocking: Lockhart’s military background doesn’t predispose him to handle insubordination delicately. But, for a miracle, he holds his tongue for a while and just looks at me speculatively. The hairy caterpillar is sleeping, or maybe paralyzed with indecision—
“That does indeed sound somewhat irregular, Mr. Howard. Would you mind passing me those papers?”
Lockhart takes the printed-out emails from my nerveless fingertips, then reaches into his desk tidy for a pair of half-moon reading glasses. He scans the pages, lips sagging slightly as if in the grip of the muscle-memory of long-ago readings-aloud in class; and then he shuffles the pages and reads some more, then refers back to the first page. Then he glances up at me. “Why are you still here, Mr. Howard?”
“Because I—” I stop. It’s Lockhart. Of course. “Because you haven’t told me to piss off, yet.”
“Oh. Well, you can leave now. You were absolutely right to draw this to my attention, but the matter needs to be handled delicately. In particular, even you should comprehend the need to understand why the committee was so misconfigured before any remedial action is taken. So I suggest you suck it up and proceed as directed, until you hear otherwise. In the meantime, I shall make enquiries.”
“What, you want me to—”
“Yes, Bob, I rather thought entity-relationship diagrams were your sort of thing. You’re the expert in Visio, aren’t you? Drawing up UML diagrams of fictional vampire brood hierarchies should keep you out of trouble for a while.” His momentary grin is utterly lacking in human warmth. “I’ll call you when I have something to pass on. Now do piss off; don’t you have some in-placement recruits to be monitoring, or something?”
• • •
“GOOD EVENING, EMMA.” OSCAR MENENDEZ IS EXPANSIVE bonhomie personified as he marches into Emma MacDougal’s den and looks around. It’s well after five, and HR are usually punctilious about observing core office hours and minimizing overtime, but he shows no sign of recognizing the special honor that he has been accorded. Addison Lee minivans with blacked-out windows might be normal in the City, but they raise eyebrows if sighted on a government expenses report without a good reason. Emma has signed off on them for Mhari’s new recruits on grounds of medical necessity, but if Oscar thinks he can take her approval for granted he’s in line for a nasty shock.
“Good day, Mr. Menendez.” Emma MacDougal smiles from behind the armor of her Dior-framed specs, carefully not showing him her dental work. “Mhari has been filling me in on your people.”
“Yes.” Oscar sits down without being invited, taking the comfortable armchair opposite Emma’s desk as his of right. “We’ve got a number of rather unusual requirements. And while I appreciate your organization’s need to identify and evaluate new talent and find a pigeonhole to file everyone in, the trading arm of one of our nation’s three largest financial institutions depends on the system my team is responsible for developing and supporting. So I hope you can agree that it would be in everybody’s best interests to expedite our in-processing and let us get back to our critical roles as soon as—”
“Mr. Menendez.” Emma’s smile widens, revealing her teeth. They’re not filed to points, but judging by Oscar’s reaction they might as well be. Emma has switched from sanguine to sanguinary in a matter of seconds, and in Oscar’s experience that’s not supposed to happen; but then, Oscar is not as proficient at manipulating minds as his previous successes have led him to believe. And Oscar has never before tried to use his power of conviction to twist the thoughts of a woman who is wearing a discreet Laundry ward on a silver chain under her blouse. Much less a Laundry Human Resources manager to whom attempts at mind control are as routine as arbitration requests over gender or ethnic harassment allegations. “Stop that at once!”
“Stop what?”
The velvet-skinned smile slips, revealing a glimpse of the steely skull within: “You know perfectly well what you’re doing, Mr. Menendez. You’re new here but you should be aware that it is at a minimum a disciplinary offense, and at worst grounds for prosecution for common assault. We take a very dim view of using a glamour to obtain consent for unlawful activities, and furthermore we are prepared for and defended against it. So I advise you to drop it right now and refrain from doing it ever again in my presence. Do I make myself clear?”
Oscar’s face is a perfect death mask of shock, every muscle hanging slack. “But you, I mean, I didn’t—”
“Oscar,” Emma hisses. “Drop it. I’ve got your number. You can’t win this fight.” Her ward is hot against her skin and she’s having to work hard to contain her anger. “You do not walk in here as a new recruit and try to roll your manager. Am I making myself understood?”
Oscar finally manages to nod, jerkily.
“Good. And in answer to your other point: we’re the government, and we are engaged in a, a covert state of hostilities. If you would prefer me not to mince words, we’re at war. This country abolished military conscription for the conventional services in 1960, but an exemption clause in the Act authorizes us to co-opt without limitation individuals who meet certain criteria, set by ourselves but principally defined by their awareness of and ability to program or control metaphysical phenomena.
“Now, the healthy functioning of the organization for which you used to work”—Emma does not miss the startled microexpression that flickers across Oscar’s face—“is clearly aligned with the interests of the State, but as I mentioned, we are at war. It’s
a secret conflict, a wizard war if you like, but we are under threat of invasion by entities and agencies from beyond spacetime, ancient horrors that would make your toes curl and your hair turn gray overnight if you met them and were lucky enough to survive the experience. And not losing that war is vastly more important to the nation than ensuring the bottom line of an investment bank. Even if your annual bonus is at stake. Am I making myself clear?”
“But I—” Oscar swallows it. “I see,” he says slowly, “that you believe there’s a war on. And you have emergency regulations out of the 1940s to help you fight it. But is all this strictly necessary?” He hand-waves around the office, as if to encapsulate the dusty warrens and cubicle farms of the New Annex beyond. “Has anyone tried talking to these, ah, ancient horrors? Investigated what, if anything, they are after and looked for a compromise solution that would allow us to get on with business as usual? Your organization is—”
“Stop right there, Mr. Menendez, it’s your organization now. You’re subject to its lawful authority and subordinate to its goals. If we decide to let you go, you can go back to your bank. Until then, it’s my job—one of my jobs—to evaluate the extent of the contribution you can make to the defense of the realm. As to your question, we’re several steps ahead of you. Now, I will admit”—she pats the cardboard folder, so fresh it’s barely dog-eared, that sits beside her monitor—“I’m a little perplexed. Some of my colleagues opine that your team, um, ruck, um—”
“Scrum?”
“Scrum—I’m afraid rugby was never my strong point—contains individuals who exhibit highly useful abilities in the areas of higher mathematics and necromancy, but the medical side effects of your condition present us with something of a conundrum. And then there’s an irritatingly large community of our co-workers who refuse to believe that people like you can possibly exist in the first place. I’m afraid decades of being the go-to monster for second-rate Hammer Horror movies and the like have not predisposed the public to be accepting of persons of hemophagy. So for the time being you and your friends”—(Emma’s deliberate mischaracterization of Oscar’s relationship with his staff causes him to bristle satisfactorily)—“are going to have to pretend to a slightly different status. We have a cover story: you’ve been infected by a virus transmitted by an annoyingly biocompatible extradimensional intrusion which causes you to be photophobic and to succumb to sunburn and skin cancer in daylight. Your actual status is classified as confidential, and you should not discuss it with people who do not have the codeword clearance OPERA CAPE unless there’s an emergency, such as needing to evacuate a burning building during hours of daylight. Do you understand?”
“Oh for—” Oscar’s exasperation boils over. “What do you expect me to do?” he snaps. “I thought this induction was a formality! Over in two weeks and we could all get back to work. Instead we’re stuck in a bad 1960s situation comedy, while my line managers will be expecting a report on the first week trading results of our new investment account, which is currently completely adrift. It could be in the hole for millions, for all I know, and I’ll be held responsible!”
“You won’t be.” Emma MacDougal speaks with complete assurance. “Your head of quantitative trading is Sir David Finch. One of our people will have a quiet word with him. The bank may have bought back most of the shares that HMG acquired during the distressed trading a few years ago, but the Treasury is still into them for a sum that can be offset against any reasonable losses that your unit’s experimental trading account can run up in a few weeks.
“As for how we’re going to use you—well, that depends. You’re familiar with the Territorial Army, or the Army Reserves as they’re being renamed? In all probability, once we’ve assessed your capabilities and come up with a tailored action plan and general orientation package, you’ll be conditionally discharged back into civilian life. You will remain liable for activation at short notice and will be expected to spend a month a year operating for us whatever else happens, but as far as the bank is concerned . . . you’ll all be in the TA. It’s a serious criminal offense to dismiss an employee for taking time out for TA service, and we can take steps to stagger your duty cycle so that there is minimal disruption to your business unit’s operations. But all of this depends on your willing cooperation. If it isn’t forthcoming, I’m afraid we may have to deal with you severely, Mr. Menendez. Do you understand?”
“I understand that this is blackmail.”
“No, Mr. Menendez, this is war. It’s a shame we had to have this conversation, and so soon in our relationship, but I think it’s best that we know where we stand, don’t you?”
Oscar inclines his head, not meeting her eyes.
“Well then.” Emma smiles again. “Reading your file I notice that among other things, you’ve had some dealings with commercial intelligence services; at least, you’ve been paying STRATFOR an awful lot of money if all you were getting for it was their weekly newsletter. So. Why don’t you tell me about it?”
• • •
“GOOD MORNING, MR. SCHWARTZ!” SAYS THE TRAINER. “I haven’t seen you around before. I assume that means this is all new to you, and probably a bit confusing. So what are you expecting?”
Alex shuffles his feet uneasily. “I don’t know. I was just told to come to room 118B after lunch for some sort of evaluation. This is room 118B, right?” Somehow he resists the urge to add, Is this the room for an argument? While there is something Pythonesque about the terribly old-fashioned British ambiance of this organization, something tells him that displaying inappropriate and irreverent humor could get him misfiled, drastically and permanently.
He is, truth be told, confused and apprehensive about the whole secret government agency thing that Mhari and Oscar pulled on the Scrum with no advance warning to speak of. At first it seemed to make sense, after a fashion: once you’ve swallowed one unpalatable fact before your metaphorical breakfast—vampires exist, oh, and by the way, tag you’re it—then it is a short hop, skip, and a jump to accept that of course the government is aware of this inconvenient truthiness and has a secret agency for keeping it under wraps.
That Mhari used to work for this agency in her pre-banking days is perhaps an anomalous coincidence, but the revelation that magic is a branch of higher dimensional algebraic group theory is just plausible enough to explain why she ended up in Oscar’s circle, and why the PHANG syndrome emerged from the particular algorithms Alex and the pigs had been told to work on, like an exotic poisonous spider tumbling from a box of bananas on a supermarket shelf.
The past several days have been a trial and an ordeal for Alex, even though the institutional feel of the organization he’s been drafted into gives him persistent déjà vu flashbacks to encounters with the more arcane nooks and crannies of university administration.
“I’m Donald Paulson, and I’m part of our in-house professional skills development wing—staff training, if you like, or perhaps more accurately in-house higher education.” Paulson has an indefinable air about him that instantly puts Alex in mind of staff common rooms and polite but distant quizzing by his dissertation supervisor’s sanity monitors. Paulson smiles, apparently in an attempt to put Alex at his ease, but Alex finds the pulsing of his carotid artery too distracting. “I asked you here because as part of all staff induction processing we’re required to administer a set of aptitude tests.”
“Oh? What for?” Alex asks, leaning forward slightly, interested despite himself. “I mean, what traits are you examining?”
Paulson coughs into his fist. “Well, as an agency tasked with providing intelligence and countermeasures against paranormal threats, obviously we take a keen interest in computational demonology, inductive oneiromantic ontology, and the geometry of Riemannian manifolds, to say nothing of the applications of Kolmogorov complexity theory to topological . . .”
Alex realizes that Paulson is closely watching his expression while he reels off a list
of everyday topics of discussion over the Scrum’s coffee machine. So Alex nods, encouragingly. “And?”
“Well, I need to ask you to take a couple of multiple-choice tests. To see if you have an aptitude for the necessary abstract reasoning skills that we’d need to develop in order to train you up as an, ah, magician.”
“Oh, that’s all right then!” Alex says brightly. Alex likes puzzle challenges. “Out of curiosity, if your tests show I’ve got what it takes, what happens then?”
“Well, then we send you on a six-week training course. It’s actually fun, if you’re into that kind of thing; it’s a boot camp for higher mathematics, taught by some of our brightest people. They start with an introduction to set theory and first order predicate calculus, then tackle the lambda calculus and the halting problem. I don’t know if you’ve heard of them—”
Alex blinks. Words are coming out, but they don’t make sense. This is training-wheels stuff, taken for granted at his level. “You’re talking about a first-year undergraduate curriculum, yes?”
Paulson focusses on him. “Really?”
Alex blinks again. He said the necessary abstract reasoning skills for magic, he realizes. Kid’s stuff. The flash of insight is devastating: All I need is an entrypoint and I can probably figure this stuff out for myself . . . “Yes, of course.” He rubs his hands together. They’re very cold, and he’s been feeling hungry pretty much continuously ever since that Howard guy zapped him with the taser, but for the first time in days he barely notices the discomfort. “I’m ready for the tests, Mr. Paulson. Bring them on.”
• • •
“I CAN’T BELIEVE WHAT THAT BITCH DID!”
“Which bitch? Or witch bitch? Are we still talking about Emma Dearest?”
Oscar fumes quietly in one corner of the black leather sofa in the living room of the hotel suite. “Fucking bitch.”
“You’re the one who’s always telling everyone to quantify.” Mhari is coolly unsympathetic. She walks over to the sideboard and twists off the cap of the complimentary bottle of pinot noir, pours two generous glasses, and carries them across to the sofa. Her heels sink into the thick carpet; she hands one of the glasses to Oscar, then carefully kicks off her shoes. “What are your losses?”
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