Charles Stross - The Atrocity Archives

The other door bangs open of a sudden and a tubby middle-aged guy in a cheap grey suit and about three day's worth of designer stubble barges out shouting, "Who are you and what do you think you're doing here? This is private property, not a paintball shooting gallery! It's a disgrace-I'll call the police!"

Josephine snaps out of her trance and steps forward. "As a matter of fact, I am the police," she says. "What's your name? Do you have a complaint, and if so, what is it?"

"I'm, I'm-" He focusses on the no-longer-twitching demon receptionist, lolling on top of her box like a murderous shop mannequin. He looks aghast. "Vandals! If you've damaged her-"

"Not as badly as she planned to damage us," says Andy. "I think you'd better tell us who you are." Andy presents his card, ordering it to reveal its true shape: "By the authority vested in me-"

He moves fast with the geas and ten seconds later we've got mister fat guy-actually Dr. Martin Voss-seated on one of the uncomfortable chrome-and-leather designer sofas at one side of reception while Andy asks questions and records them on a dictaphone. Voss talks in a monotone, obviously under duress, drooling slightly from one side of his mouth, and the stench of brimstone mingles with a mouth-watering undertone of roast pork. There's purple dye from Andy's paintball gun spattered over anything that might conceal a camera, and he had me seal all the doorways with a roll of something like duct tape or police incident tape, except that the symbols embossed on it glow black and make your eyes water if you try to focus on them.

"Tell me your name and position at this installation."

"Voss. John Voss. Res-research team manager."

"How many members are there on your team? Who are they?"

"Twelve. Gary. Ted. Elinor. John. Jonathan. Abdul. Mark-"

"Stop right there. Who's here today? And is anyone away from the office right now?" I plug away at my palmtop, going cross-eyed as I fiddle with the detector controls. But there's no sign of any metaspectral resonance; grepping for a match to the person who stole the Range Rover draws a blank in this building. Which is frustrating because we've got his (I'm pretty sure it's a he ) boss right here, and there ought to be a sympathetic entanglement at work.

"Everyone's here but Mark." He laughs a bit, mildly hysterical. "They're all here but Mark. Mark!"

I glance over at Detective Inspector Sullivan, who is detective inspecting the lamia. I think she's finally beginning to grasp at a visceral level that we aren't just some bureaucratic Whitehall paper circus trying to make her life harder. She looks frankly nauseated. The silence here is eerie, and worrying. Why haven't the other team members come to find out what's going on? I wonder, looking at the taped-over doors. Maybe they've gone out the back and are waiting for us outside. Or maybe they simply can't come out in daylight. The smell of burning meat is getting stronger: Voss seems to be shaking, as if he's trying not to answer Andy's questions.

I walk over to the lamia. "It's not human," I explain quietly. "It never was human. It's one of the things they specialise in. This building is defended by guards and wards, and this is just part of the security system's front end."

"But she, she spoke…"

"Yes, but she's not a human being." I point to the thick ribbon cable that connected the computer to the pentacle. "See, that's a control interface. The computer's there to stabilize and contain a Dho-Nha circuit that binds the Dee-space entity here. The entity itself-it's a lamia-is locked into the box which contains, uh, other components. And it's compelled to obey certain orders. Nothing good for unscheduled visitors." I put my hands on the lamia's head and work my fingers into the thick blonde hair, then tug. There's a noise of ripping Velcro then the wig comes off to reveal the scaly scalp beneath. "See? It's not human. It's a lamia, a type of demon bound to act as a front-line challenge/response system for a high security installation with covert-"

I manage to get out of the line of fire as Josephine brings up her lunch all over the incredibly expensive bleached pine workstation. I can't say I blame her. I feel a little shocky myself-it's been a really bad morning. Then I realise that Andy is trying to get my attention. "Bob, when you're through with grossing out the inspector I've got a little job for you." He pitches his voice loudly.

"Yeah?" I ask, straightening up.

"I want you to open that door, walk along the corridor to the second room on the right-not pausing to examine any of the corpses along the way-and open it. Inside, you'll find the main breaker board. I want you to switch the power off."

"Didn't I just see you splashing paint all over the CCTV cameras in the ceiling? And, uh, what's this about corpses? Why don't we send Dr. Voss-oh." Voss's eyes are shut and the stink of roast meat is getting stronger: he's gone extremely red in the face, almost puffy, and he's shaking slightly as if some external force is making all his muscles twitch simultaneously. It's my turn to struggle to hang onto breakfast. "I didn't know anyone could make themselves do that," I hear myself say distantly.

"Neither did I," says Andy, and that's the most frightening thing I've heard today so far. "There must be a conflicted geas somewhere in his skull. I don't think I could stop it even if-"

"Shit." I stand up. My hand goes to my neck automatically but the pouch is empty. "No HOG." I swallow. "Power. What happens if I don't?"

"Voss's pal Mark McLuhan installed a dead man's handle. You'd know all about that. We've got until Voss goes into brain stem death and then every fucking camera in Milton Keynes goes live with SCORPION STARE."

"Oh, you mean we die." I head for the door Voss came through. "I'm looking for the service core, right?"

"Wait!" It's Josephine, looking pale. "Can't you go outside and cut the power there? Or phone for help?"

"Nope." I rip the first strip of sealing tape away from the door frame. "We're behind Tempest shielding here, and the power is routed through concrete ducts underground. This is a Q Division office, after all. If we could call in an air strike and drop a couple of BLU-114/Bs on the local power substations that might work"-I tug at the second tape-"but these systems were designed to be survivable." Third tape.

"Here," calls Andy, and he chucks something cylindrical at me. I catch it one-handed, yank the last length of tape with the other hand, and do a double-take. Then I shake the cylinder, listen for the rattle of the stirrer, and pop the lid off.

"Take cover!" I call. Then I open the door, spritz the ceiling above me with green spray paint, and go to work.

I'M SITTING IN THE LOBBY, GUARDING THE lamia's corpse with a nearly empty can of paint and trying not to fall asleep, when the OCCULUS team bangs on the door. I yawn and sidestep Voss's blistered corpse-he looks like he's gone a few rounds with Old Sparky-then try to remember the countersign. Ah, that's it. I pull away a strip of tape and tug the door open and find myself staring up the snout of an H amp;K carbine. "Is that a gun in your hand or are you just here to have a wank?" I ask.

The gun points somewhere else in a hurry. "Hey, Sarge, it's the spod from Amsterdam!"

"Yeah, and someone's told you to secure the area, haven't they? Where's Sergeant Howe?" I ask, yawning. Daylight makes me feel better-that, and knowing that there's backup. (I get sleepy when people stop shooting at me. Then I have nightmares. Not a good combination.)

"Over here." They're dressed in something not unlike Fire Service HAZMAT gear, and the wagons are painted cheerful cherry-red with luminous yellow stripes; if they weren't armed to the teeth with automatic weapons you'd swear they were only here because somebody had phoned in a toxic chemical release warning. But the pump nozzles above the cabs aren't there to spray water, and that lumpy thing on the back isn't a spotlight-it's a grenade launcher.