Elizabeth opted to remain standing, leaning on her cane. “What do you want?”
“I want to have a chat. About the future of your little operation.”
“The Hand of Merlin are the masters.”
“Yeah, my gran keeps telling me that her cats own her, and she’s off her head as well. Let’s say goodbye to the bullshit van. Goodbye, bullshit van!” He waved theatrically to a spot in the middle distance. “There, it’s gone. Now I won’t bullshit you, and you don’t get to bullshit me. So don’t give me any more of that about you not having your hand right up those raddled old finger puppets in there.”
Elizabeth eyed the grand entrance to the Hand of Merlin’s chamber to be doubly certain she had closed it properly. “What kind of trouble is the Ministry in?”
“Don’t know if you noticed down here in the make-believe bunker, but there are sentient puddles from another dimension up top appearing on chat shows and generally being lovable and popular. And they keep talking about this Ministry of Occultism thing that was trying to murder them all. A lot of people are asking the government some very angry questions.”
“It was a misunderstanding,” said Elizabeth through tightened lips. “We assumed they were hostile until now because we had no means to communicate with the shoggoths—”
“You do not use that word, you psycho!” shouted Anderson, aghast. “That is the new N-word! Overseas Development used it in an interview this morning, and I had to kiss every bollock on Fleet Street to get it spiked.”
Elizabeth tottered a little. “They only appeared yesterday. How can there already be—”
“Yeah, welcome to the age of instant communication, love. They’ve already got slurs, an equal-rights movement—I hear they’ve got a sketch show starting on Channel 4 in the new year. But the fluidics aren’t your biggest problem. They were just what shone the light on you. People’ve found out about the tampons.”
Elizabeth reddened slightly. “I see.”
“Yeah, was that your idea? Pretty smart, hiding your funding in the budget under ‘women’s sanitary products.’ Nobody ever questions that one. But now some twat online’s done some adding up, and the press are demanding to know what we did with all the tampons.”
“Give me some time,” said Elizabeth, speaking slowly and firmly to penetrate Anderson’s confident stream of words. “I can reform the Ministry’s practices—”
“There’s no time,” steamrolled Anderson. “We are as of yesterday living in a world where magic is a thing. That means we need a government department for it. But the one we have is carrying too much baggage. We’re going to have to rebuild it. And before we do that, we have to take it apart. Preferably with dynamite. We’re gonna do a wicker man. A sacrifice.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“At the end of the week, the Ministry will be exposed by a leak containing the names of everyone in the Gandalf Club or whatever you called it.”
“The identities of the Hand of Merlin are a closely guarded—”
“Not a problem. Because you’re going to tell me them.”
Elizabeth blinked a few times, then finally took a seat in front of Anderson. “You need to explain how you imagine this taking place.”
He rolled his eyes. “Look, you’ve been very savvy here. I’m almost impressed. You’ve got us in a bind. The Ministry’s gotta go, but we still need a Department of Magic or whatever, and you and your lot seem to be the only lunatics who know anything about this stuff. The way I see it, we’ve got a ready-made scapegoat with your teddy bear collection in there thinking they’re in charge. We scrape all the bad stuff off on them and chuck them out the window for the wolves. Meanwhile, nice, new, smiley, open, nonsecretive government department opens, and we very, very quietly bring in you and all the other crazy bastards, preferably in an unmarked van.”
Elizabeth tightened her mouth even further. Her eyes flicked to the Hand of Merlin’s doorway, just for an instant, but not quickly enough to go unnoticed.
Anderson sighed, kicked his legs off the desk, and scooted the chair forwards. “Listen, love, there’s no negotiation here. It’s out of my hands. Wheels are in motion. You’ve got two choices. You can either be a ruthless psycho who’s still got a job, or you can be a loyal psycho standing proudly with the suckers while the nation pulls your panties down and has a good old rummage.”
She met his gaze. “I want to pick the ones that come with me.”
The cheerful grin expanded across his face like a bloodstain spreading from a bullet-riddled corpse. He waggled a finger. “Oh, I like you, Lawrence. Everyone here’s mad, but you’re evil as well. Evil I can work with.” He slapped both hands onto the desktop loudly and pushed himself back onto his feet. “Get a list together by the end of the day. I’ll see myself out.”
Elizabeth remained precisely where she was, legs crossed demurely. When Anderson stopped and spun around, halfway to the door, she slightly turned her head.
“Oh, almost forgot,” he said. “Are there wizards?”
She hesitated. “You . . .”
“Been getting a lot of reports from the public, now the fluidics are out, about magic shit. Lots of insane bollocks, obviously, but I just want to check this one thing. Are there wizards? Witches? You know. People with magic powers.”
“Yes, there are people with magical infusions,” said Elizabeth, after only a moment’s pause.
Anderson tensed up. The only movement in his body was the accelerated throbbing of the veins on his neck. “Please tell me you nutters don’t kill them as well.”
“Of course not,” said Elizabeth, affronted. “We would never kill human beings. We provide guidance, education, and . . . protection, to the taint . . . to the magically infused.”
Sean Anderson gave a long, relieved sigh and let his shoulders drop. “Cool. No offense. Didn’t want to assume anything. As long as there aren’t any nasty surprises waiting for us there.”
18
From: Sean Anderson
To: Office of the Prime Minister
Re: Re: Re: Ministry of cultism(?)
Les—Went over Lawrence’s list. Thankfully she didn’t want to bring over any of the weirdos in the robes, maybe there’s hope for her yet. Managed to get some alone time with most of the key psychos, wrote up some notes for you. The rest are mainly office monkeys, probably not worth fretting about.
Richard Danvers (“Swordkeeper,” read: fieldwork administrator): bit of a hiccup in that he’s the son of one of the Gandalfs, but we probably can’t say no since he’s got the contacts for all the field agents (should probably see if we can properly organize that lot into an official magic police force or whatever—something to think about for further down the line). Plus he’s about as normal as this freakshow gets.
Archibald Brooke-Stodgeley (“Scrollkeeper,” read: archivist): Old boy, chummy with most of the Gandalfs, some very toxic views on our new magical friends. Lawrence says we need him because he’s instrumental to the Intelligence wing, but I think that’s only because no one else understands his filing system. Recommend keep until we can get all the records digitized, then drop like hot potato.
Alison Arkin (Lawrence’s assistant): Personality like a sheet of cardboard, but Lawrence was weirdly insistent about her and I’m not bothered. Young pretty face might be useful for image purposes if she keeps her trap shut.
Victor Casin/Adam Hesketh (“Swords,” read: senior field agents): Bit of a surprise, here was me about to suggest getting some token magic bods in the new department, only to find there’s already a couple. They act like they’re about to start accusing each other of laying down the eggy fart in English class, but they’re good ink however you look at it.
Doctor Diablerie (senior field agent): Very impressive success record speaks for itself. Might be worth grooming as public face of efficient paranormal services? Didn’t have a chance to meet today but might catch them tomorrow.
Sean
P.S. Are we still allowe
d to say “paranormal”? Haven’t checked Facebook today.
From: Sean Anderson
To: Office of the Prime Minister
Re: Re: Re: Re: Ministry of cultism(?)
MET DIABLERIE. SCRATCH PLANS. DO NOT LET HIM GET IN FRONT OF ANY CAMERAS FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.
THREE MONTHS LATER
19
“KEEP OUT,” said Adam Hesketh, reading aloud the signs as he and Victor walked straight past them. “EXTREME DANGER. SURVIVING TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. I think this is the place.”
Victor, playing with his phone, grunted in acknowledgment.
After ignoring three layers of security fencing, they were at the entrance of a long-abandoned tin mine. The grassy terrain sloped gently upwards to admit a circular tunnel held up with ancient wooden supports, like a hobbit slum dwelling. It had once been boarded up, almost certainly with the boards that were now scattered in pieces on the ground near the tunnel mouth.
“They did this,” said Adam, crouching to inspect the splintered wood with his third eye.
“Yeah, probably,” said Victor, leaning on the nearest wooden support.
“No, hang on.” Adam squinted, then pushed a few of the wooden pieces aside. “They came through here, but they didn’t break the boards off. Something mundane did that.”
“Yeah, I’d’ve thought so.”
Adam glanced at his partner, who was completely motionless but for the occasional swipe of his thumb. “Could you please switch to on-the-job mode?”
“Yeah, I totally agree.” He swiped again and grimaced. “Ugh. Jake Hotblood’s closed his Twitter account. What the hell is wrong with people?”
“Well, it was his own fault,” said Adam, peering through the mine entrance and wiggling his head as if shaking excess sugar off a cupcake. “Come on. They’re about twenty feet further down.”
“Oh, don’t pin it on him,” spat Victor as they made their way down the sloping tunnel, idly fencing with flashlight beams. “It’s all these social-justice warriors online that piss me off. They’re just looking for excuses to lynch people.”
“What was it he said? ‘Shout-out to all my niggas, noggas, and shoggas’?”
“So? He’s black.”
“I think it’s the shogga part that caused the offense.” He shone his flashlight down a side tunnel. “Wow. People could really get lost down here.”
“Yeah, other people probably would,” said Victor, bored. “Which way now?”
Adam pointed. “Trail leads this way.”
“What the hell happened to free speech, that’s what I want to know,” continued Victor. “Whatever happened to ‘I don’t agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it’?”
“I don’t think that applies to hate speech. Something’s getting closer. It knows we’re here.”
“Hate speech? He was being friendly, for Christ’s sake. Maybe if these screeching harpies spent their energy going after people who say the bad words and mean them, they might actually make a bloody difference.”
From somewhere up ahead, what sounded like a metal gate opened violently, smashing against a rocky wall with a clang that reverberated through the entire mine. Adam and Victor simultaneously adjusted their step to stroll towards the sound.
“It doesn’t matter what his intention was if people were offended,” said Adam, slowing his pace a little to allow Victor to walk in front. “He doesn’t get to decide if they were offended or not.”
Victor blew a little raspberry. “You know something? I’ve never heard of a single fluidic being personally offended by shoggoth. I don’t think they care. It’s all online busybodies getting offended on their behalf. The only thing Wollstone ever said was that they prefer to be called fluidics. He didn’t say anything about slurs.”
“Wollstone doesn’t speak for all of them,” said Adam.
“He might. They’re a hive mind.”
“No, they’re not. They’re, like, a bit hive mind-y, but I think it’s more complicated than that. Ten meters, just past the next turn.”
“Either way,” said Victor. “None of them are gonna die of shame and fear because someone on Twitter said shoggoth.”
He stopped at the junction. In the tunnel ahead, a naked, vaguely humanoid creature lay in a sprawled crouch, skinny arms and legs twisted into an unnatural crab walk. It had no lower jaw, but its teeth were numerous and long enough to make up for it. It fixed its black, beady eyes on Victor and gurgled with sudden interest.
“I don’t know why calling people nasty names is so important to you,” said Adam, who was taking cover around the corner.
The creature leapt. Its legs pushed it into the air with the power of a flea, and all of its teeth and claws curled outwards, ready to pull flesh and bone apart.
Victor extended a hand, and the entire tunnel burst into flames. The creature screeched and attempted to arrest its leap by grabbing the nearest wooden beam, but Victor projected the fire, sending a wave of living flame along the passage, flash roasting the beast alive.
“It’s not!” he said, looking at Adam. “See, you’re twisting my words. This always happens. That’s what makes it impossible to have a conversation about this.”
“Victor!” admonished Adam.
“What?”
“You didn’t say the words!”
“Oh, for . . .” He folded his arms, directed his gaze at the ceiling, and adopted a passive-aggressive singsong voice. “We are official representatives of the Department of Extradimensional Affairs. If you are sentient, please state your intentions immediately, and we will provide whatever medical services or transportation you require.”
The sizzling creature responded by tilting its discolored head like a quizzical dog, then it reared up and unfurled its teeth again with a hiss. Victor promptly atomized it, turning the section of sandy ground around it into a circle of glass.
“There’s two more of them, further down,” said Adam, squinting and apparently looking at the floor. “I really think there’s a big flaw with this policy.”
Victor snorted so hard he made himself cough. “Yeah, I completely agree. Having to stand here like an unused prick gabbing off while the monsters are flying at my face—I’m seeing a few big flaws with that one.”
“No, I mean . . . we didn’t know the fluidics were intelligent at first because we couldn’t communicate, right? But we still expect these things to understand a statement in spoken English.”
“It jumped at my face screaming with its claws out. I call that pretty sodding universal language. Where’s the next one?”
Adam nodded towards a rusted metal gate that was hanging off its hinges, which had been the source of the clanging noise earlier. “Down there. You blasted that thing without even a word. Maybe it didn’t know you were intelligent.”
In Adam’s mind’s eye, the trails indicating the movements of the remaining creatures hung in the air like glowing red streamers and lent a much-needed festivity to the tunnels, which were only getting grimmer. They were entering the oldest tunnels now, the ones that had probably been abandoned even while the rest of the mine was active, and signs of human construction were becoming less and less frequent.
“Oh, sure, how could it have possibly figured it out,” said Victor. “I mean, here I am walking upright and dressed in manufactured clothing, but I suppose I could have been a ravenous monster that nicked the coat. Torn it off someone with my teeth and accidentally put it on while trying to wipe my bum with it. That was the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”
“All right, all right . . .”
“And hey, crawling around naked in an abandoned mine doesn’t mean these things aren’t intelligent, sure. After all, it’s a well-known hallmark of intelligence. Noam Chomsky’s down here every other bloody weekend . . .”
“One’s coming at us,” pointed out Adam helpfully.
Victor peered ahead, and his flashlight reflected off a generous cluster of expanding fangs. “Of
ficial representatives, Department of etc., state intentions.” One fraction of a second later, he filled the passage with boiling flames from floor to ceiling.
“Victor . . .”
“What? We’ve got to be efficient, haven’t we? Don’t my instincts count for anything? Where’s the last one?”
“Sneaking up on us.”
Victor coolly pointed his hand over his shoulder, and the pair of them were bathed in violently flickering yellow light for a moment, before something that had been crawling on the ceiling hit the floor with a wet crackle. “Can we go now?”
Adam scowled. “Look, we can’t just slack off on the sentience checks. Maybe it was obvious this time, but it only takes one mistake. One mistake and the Department gets raked over the coals again.”
“Can. We. Go. Now.”
“No. There’s . . .” Adam frowned as he consulted his inner eye. “There’s something else. It’s . . .”
Victor watched Adam impatiently as his brow furrowed further and he turned on his heel, psychically sniffing the air. “It’s what?”
“It’s back there. It’s something, but it’s really faint. Just a trace.”
“Fine. Lead the way.”
Adam did so, taking point as the duo turned back towards the newer tunnels. “This is something different, so make sure you do the sentience check properly.”
“You were the one who said the sentience check was pointless ten minutes ago! Do you even listen to yourself?”
“I did not say that it was pointless,” said Adam, with a tolerant sigh. “I said that there were flaws with it.”
“Well, you should have said it was pointless, because it is.”
The trail was weak, but peaked in the long entrance tunnel from which most of the smaller routes branched. Even then, it wasn’t much more than a series of muddy brown particles that were already winking out of existence, but there were enough to indicate toward the tunnel’s far end. “So just because the solution isn’t one hundred percent perfect, you’re willing to throw it away and go back to zero percent?” said Adam.
Differently Morphous Page 10
