Differently Morphous

by Yahtzee Croshaw

  Elizabeth remained as stiff as a board. “Really.”

  “Yep. They said that between them they could probably take over all the functions of Extradimensional Affairs. Probably need a consultant here and there, but in the long run we might even save money out of it.”

  “You propose to leave supernatural defense in the hands of untrained politicians and civil servants,” said Elizabeth flatly.

  “Why don’t we order lunch, find a booth somewhere, and have a nice, relaxing chat about how much shit you’re in? Two cheese-and-pickles, Abdul.” Anderson addressed the man behind the counter who had been standing with a “Can I help you?” ready for deployment.

  Moments later, they had commandeered a booth at the back of the café. The Extradimensional Affairs people cleared out of the space when they saw Elizabeth approaching, and everyone else did so at the sight of Anderson. A bubble opened up in the middle of the lunchtime rush, whose walls were no more penetrable for their intangibility.

  “Now, let’s make one thing clear straightaway,” said Anderson, when the two of them were settled on the booth seats in the middle of their private space. He was leaning in and illustrating his hushed statements with constant movements of his meaty hands. “The government took a risk, letting ex-Occultism bods form a department. Did I mention what would happen if any of you let slip that you’re ex-Occultism?”

  “I believe you did, yes,” said Elizabeth, sitting back with arms folded. “With very colorful language.”

  “Just checking. The point is, we trusted that you could handle this loony magic bullshit better than anyone else in government. All we needed you to do was show better results than someone randomly picking courses of action out of a hat. Right now, DEDA’s not up to that standard.”

  “Dee-duh?”

  “D-E-D-A. Department of Extradimensional Affairs. It’s called an acronym. It’s a thing we have here in the present day.”

  “The main thing affecting Dee-duh’s ability to function, Anderson, is interference by untrained outsiders,” said Elizabeth patiently. “Are you proposing to replace us entirely with them?”

  “Take it you’re complaining about Dr. Pavani,” sniffed Anderson. “I know she’s got some weird ideas about those mutant kids, but I doubt it was Dr. Pavani who lit that forest on fire. I doubt it’s because of her that you still haven’t got a whiff of the Fluidic Killer.”

  “What happened in Dartmoor was an unintended result of our agents attempting to apprehend said Fluidic Killer. The investigation is continuing, and they will not escape a second time.”

  Anderson was pouting, eyes rolled back in his head, and didn’t seem to be listening. He cocked his head to one side. “You think I’m bluffing, don’t you. About taking DEDA apart.”

  “Frankly, yes,” said Elizabeth. “You could replace the Department, I don’t doubt, but it’s the school and the field agents that do the bulk of the actual work.”

  Anderson’s smile widened. “I’m so glad you brought that up. That was the other meeting I had this morning. You ever heard of Shield Solutions?”

  Elizabeth’s folded arms tightened further. “The private military corporation.”

  “Oh, I think they prefer to say ‘security contractor’ these days. Especially since that unfortunate business in Gabon. They’ve got some very interesting ideas for how to keep things orderly. Well, I say ideas. It’s more like one main idea applied in various different ways.”

  Elizabeth’s deep breathing was her only outward sign of emotion. “Privatizing occult defense would result in total disaster.”

  “Oh yeah, a disaster,” scoffed Anderson. “A bigger disaster than setting an entire forest on fire? Than committing fluidic genocide for centuries behind the government’s back?”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes. “You cannot possibly be serious about this.”

  Anderson softened. He leaned back in his seat, rested one elbow on the tabletop, and switched to his low, hushed, serious voice. “You’re right. It probably would be an even bigger disaster. So imagine how poor your department is looking that the PM’s considering it. Off the record, him being old schoolmates with Shield Solutions’ CEO isn’t working in your favor, either. You’ve got one more chance. That’s why we’re having this lovely talk here, rather than in your office with two big lads either side of me to escort you from the building.”

  “And what is it, exactly, that you expect from us?”

  “Oh, sorry, apparently I didn’t make this clear. I expect you to do your job.”

  “Dr. Pavani—”

  “Your job being,” steamrolled Anderson, “to maintain public faith in the government’s handling of magic. Internal feuding stops now. Catching the Fluidic Killer is your priority.”

  “So that’s it?” said Elizabeth. “Catch the Fluidic Killer, and we’re back in good graces?”

  “Just give me a suspect, at least. That gives me enough leverage to talk the heat down. And figure out what you’re gonna do with the school. You and Pavani.” He displayed his hands. “You’ve got two weeks. PM wants a time frame. If there’s no progress after a fortnight, there’ll be no talking the heat down; you’re all in it for a good, long simmer. We’ll find someone else to cock it all up.” He shifted his weight, relaxed.

  “And that’s your final word?” asked Elizabeth, still stiff as a board.

  “Yep.”

  Elizabeth glanced sideways. “Don’t you normally storm out at this point?”

  He frowned, jerking a thumb towards the counter. “I’m waiting for a sandwich, Liz. Loosen the hell up.” He shifted again, gave a deep sigh of contentment, and his gaze did a complete circuit of the room before returning to her. “Following the footie at all?”

  36

  Shield Solutions internal communication:

  Successfully secured Mouila with assistance from government forces. Have been greeted by local populace with jubilation and cheer. Several individuals slightly too overcome with jubilation and had to be restrained. Twelve civilians killed by accidentally shooting themselves while attempting to hug and kiss Shield operatives. Requesting food and water supplies for trade, ammunition, and a crate of plastic garbage bags.

  37

  In a small newsagent’s shop in the town of Doncaster, South Yorkshire, Alison Arkin stood with her phone against her ear, as her free hand tapped nervously upon a display of pork-scratching packets. Through the front windows of the shop, she could see Diablerie by the car, standing rigidly in one of his usual dramatic poses, one hand emerging from his tightly wrapped cloak to hold his cane. Several passersby had already dropped loose change at his feet.

  “Alison, wow. I can’t thank you enough for introducing me to Jessica,” said Nita Pavani on the other end of the phone line. “She’s exactly the kind of story we need to get the school shut down.”

  “Great,” said Alison, as brightly as she could manage. “I just wanted to make sure I’d told you that she needs to stay anonymous? She did escape from the school, and it’s still technically against the law not to take her back . . .”

  “That will almost certainly not be the case for long,” said Nita proudly.

  “I know, I . . . I’d just feel more comfortable if . . .”

  “Don’t worry, it’ll be total secret witness. Black silhouette, disguised voice, the whole package. At least until the school changes.”

  “So you’re doing a video this time?”

  “Yep. Viral. That’s the audience we really need to reach, anyway, the nonestablishment market. It’s gonna be like Kony 2012 but with a better follow-through. And you and I will be able to say we were here at the start. Wow. Some of this is still getting through to me.”

  “That’s the other thing,” said Alison, stomach tightening. “You can’t tell anyone that I introduced you. Is that okay? I really went totally behind Ms. Lawrence and Mr. Danvers and everyone to keep her secret.”

  There was a thoughtful pause from the other end. “You know, Alison, you should stop
worrying about offending people like that. History’s going to leave them behind. The older generation have to get out of our way sooner or later. Who cares what they think?”

  “Right,” said Alison uneasily. “Just, don’t tell them anyway? You know. While they’re still around.”

  “Hm? Oh, sure. Gotta go, Alison, I’m calling around for a crew. Thanks again!”

  Alison stared at the blank screen of her phone and heaved a sigh that made her entire mouth vibrate. She had hardly slept a wink since making the introduction between Nita and Jessica. She kept imagining she could hear the sound of Richard Danvers shouting in apoplectic rage, underlaid with the steady, sarcastic drone of Elizabeth.

  When she opened the newsagent’s door and was startled to a quiver by the jingling bell, she felt it was time to calm down. She took deep breaths in time with her slow steps towards Diablerie and the car. You can’t please everyone. In the confines of her head, she chanted it like a mantra. You can’t please everyone. She wondered who had come up with the phrase. Probably not someone who had had to worry about future career prospects.

  Diablerie was making a series of bizarre gestures with his hands when Alison returned, chanting his usual stream of random, mystic-sounding nonsense. He concluded by circling his thumbnail around his entire face and flicking it forwards, finishing his chant with a triumphant roar as he did so. “Thy household is cursed to the eighth generation! May your forebears live to regret the insult you have made upon Diablerie!”

  Alison followed his gaze and saw a young woman in a puffy anorak walking speedily away, with a ten-year-old boy on one arm tottering to keep up. “What happened?”

  “Another wretched mouse scurrying about this refuse tip of civilization,” said Diablerie, still staring at the mother’s retreating back. “Of the opinion that her offspring’s age grants him license to insult with impunity. From this day forth, they shall know the Curse of Humiliating Prickle!”

  “Oh.” Alison searched her phone for the email Danvers had sent along.

  “Yes!” sneered Diablerie. “When every doctor’s appointment becomes rife with intrusive questions, then we shall know who is truly the ‘tosser.’ ”

  Alison gave a little cough to signal the change of subject. “The address should be just around the corner . . .”

  “Yes, what trivial task awaits Diablerie, now that I lie in disgrace for having failed to intuit that Lawrence thinks me some glorified babysitter?”

  “Um. We’re supposed to be going to the address where the Fluidic Killer YouTube video was uploaded from.” She read from her phone. “And Mr. Danvers wants us to particularly see if there’s anything that links it to someone called Mike Badg—”

  “A simple divination!” crowed Diablerie. “The forces of Beyond shall guide us to the forsaken place. The cloud of guilt that hangs upon it shall mark it on the spiritual map like an ink stain.”

  “Erm, we already know the address. It’s . . .” began Alison, before looking up to see Diablerie already stalking down the pavement, making mystic hand gestures in front of his face in a way that, from behind, looked like he was thumbing his nose.

  She gave a little sigh and jogged to catch up. He seemed to be heading towards the right street. She suspected that he already knew perfectly well what the address was, as she had read it aloud more than once while programming the GPS.

  The street was narrow, with the bare minimum room for two lanes of cars and pavements just wide enough for single file, so that the denizens of the terraced shops and maisonettes could have tapped on the windows of their opposite neighbors if they had had an extendable ladder or two taped-together brooms.

  The address that Danvers’s directions led to was a door beside a small takeaway shop. The frosted glass in the window did little to disguise the fact that it led to a poky staircase, in turn leading to the maisonette above the shop. Diablerie was about to walk straight past it when he stopped dead and thrust his walking cane towards the door. Alison, still hurrying to keep up, was very nearly smashed across the nose.

  “Here,” he intoned. “It is here that the darkness gathers.”

  Alison tried the handle of the door. Locked, which hardly came unexpected. She looked up at the first-floor windows. They were darkened, but the blinds were open.

  “Hey!”

  The door to the takeaway was open, and the head of a straggly haired middle-aged woman poked out. She had angry little black eyes buried in the folds of her face, and the kind of voice that sounded like she was trying to use her statements as offensive weapons. “You friends with Chris?” she asked, firing the words from her chubby mouth like shotgun blasts.

  “What?” said Alison, guiltily releasing the door handle as if it had become red hot.

  “You tell ’im, if he’s gonna rent my upstairs, I expect ’im to use it more than once a bloomin’ fortnight. I could be having someone else using it when he’s not in.”

  Diablerie had gone into boggle-eyed, cloak-wrapped-around-face mode, so Alison took charge of the discourse. “Erm, we don’t know them, actually,” she said. “Do you know where we can find them?”

  The folds of the shop owner’s brow crumpled with concern as she looked Diablerie up and down. “You coppers?”

  “N—”

  “We are agents of the Crown!” announced Diablerie, hurling his cloak aside with a flourish. “We have come to investigate the deeds of he who most recently occupied these rooms. We fully intend to poke our nose in all associated places. Reveal your secrets, good woman.”

  “Oh.” The shop owner’s fingers drummed on the door frame. “I don’t know nowt. Never seen ’im. He . . . he works funny hours or summat.” She disappeared back inside, slamming the door closed so violently that the blatantly unrepresentative picture of a tasty-looking kebab partially came away from the glass.

  “I don’t think she’ll open up to us now,” said Alison, with a hint of reproach.

  “Ha! Do you never tire of lying face down in the wet sand at the shores of the ocean of foolishness?” He paired his usual boggle eyes with a wolfish grin. “The wheels of Diablerie’s scheme are in motion as we speak. Come, join me in the buffet car, and I shall salve thy ignorance.”

  38

  jess: hey

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: Hello!!

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: Thank you again so much for agreeing to this. I really think this can be the beginning of a whole new world for interdimensionally gifted persons like you and your brother.

  jess: ok

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: No need to be nervous!!

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: You can talk completely freely here on private chat. All we’re going to do today is fill in some details. I’d like to ask some broad questions that you can answer in your own time in as much detail as you want.

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: Is that OK?

  jess: yes

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: Great!!

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: So how exactly were you first brought to the school?

  jess: they just came and took us away

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: The Ministry agents?

  jess: think so

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: Okay.

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: Remember, you can answer with as much detail as you want.

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: How did they become aware of you and Aaron?

  jess: well

  jess: they came the day after i went to the doctor about my sweating

  jess: and aaron had just made everyone at school think mrs irving was a duck

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: Okay.

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: If it’s not too painful to remember, why don’t you tell me about your first impressions of the magic school.

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: Take your time.

  jess: well we got there

  jess: and we got taken to this office

  jess: and there was a man there

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: Can you tell me what the man did to you, Jessica?

  jess: he said there was something very s
pecial inside us and he was going to show us how to use it

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: And then?

  jess: and then he gave us mars bars

  jess: and showed us our room

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: Okay.

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: What was your room like?

  jess: small

  jess: there was hardly anything in it but two beds

  jess: two desks

  jess: and a connecting bathroom

  jess: with a bidet

  jess: and one of those little fridges they have in hotels

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: Hang on a second, I just want to clarify

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: We are talking about the prison school, here?

  jess: oh

  jess: sorry

  jess: this was the first school

  Doctor_Nita_Pavani: ...How many schools are we dealing with?

  39

  Diablerie and Alison rented the room above a pub opposite the suspicious maisonette. The owners of the pub had been trying to turn it into a trendy youth-oriented venue and weren’t in the business of letting rooms, but Diablerie’s persistence—and the holes his walking cane were leaving in the multicolored dance floor—eventually won them around. Alison found herself by the window in the upstairs storage room, perched on a crate of fruity vodka drinks. Diablerie stood nearby, eyes closed and hands waving as if listening to classical music.

  The pub had been the nearest place, and describing it as “opposite” the maisonette was somewhat overgenerous. It was a good eight or nine doors down, but the maisonette was still visible if Alison partially leaned out of the window and used the binoculars that Diablerie had produced from some mysterious pocket in his suit.

  “You . . . said you would fill me in on the plan?” prompted Alison warily.

  Diablerie’s hands froze and his eyes snapped open. “Ready to turn thy back on the oceans of ignorance?”