The Apocalypse Codex (41 page)

Persephone high-steps towards the front door of the big house, holding some sort of gadget in her left hand (a ward, perhaps, or a smartphone with some nonstandard firmware). Her right hand is buried in her coat pocket. I rush after her. My mood is dismal: I’ve been trying to keep a lid on it and mostly succeeding, but since we set off on this journey I’ve had a continual sense of foreboding, and it’s getting worse by the second. We should be getting
out
of this rat trap, not burrowing deeper into the darkness. This is a job for the Black Chamber, along with the Colorado National Guard and maybe the USAF, not a couple of deranged external assets (whatever
they
are) and a junior manager who’s so far out of his depth—

Persephone is at the front steps when the door opens and a figure bundled up in cold-weather gear leans out. “Can I help—” It begins to say in a woman’s voice, as I raise my camera and try to focus past Persephone, who is standing too damn close for the smart autofocus to get a clean lock on. I can
feel
it in the back of my head, feel the sleepy hunger in its mind as it recognizes the thing in the pizza box I’m holding in my left hand and begins to turn towards me, reaching for its gun—

Persephone’s right hand lashes out and the figure drops. She’s holding some kind of compact dumbbell; she turns and beckons me forward urgently with it. “Get her inside before she freezes.”

“It’s one of—”

“I
know
. Keep a tight hold on that pizza box.”

The complaints department is twitching and writhing in the cardboard, kicking up a fuss: it knows where it is. I join Persephone in the octagonal lobby of an expensively furnished house. Reception rooms open off to either side, and there’s an alarm panel behind the door. The one she dropped used to be a fifty-something woman. Now it’s a husk with a silvery carapaced horror for a tongue. I can see it, shining green inside the victim’s mouth and throat. I can hear its panicky mindless scrabbling for escape now that its carrier is unconscious. I bend over the body and before Persephone can stop me I do whatever it is I did to the missionaries in the hotel (it feels like
biting
) and the host dies. Trying not to think too hard about what I’m doing I push my fingers between the unconscious woman’s lips and tug, tug again until the corpse of the parasite tugs free. (The complaints department kicks up a racket, scritching at the inside of the pizza box lid as if it thinks I’m about to eat it, too. Silly mind parasite!) I wipe my hand vigorously on my coat and catch Persephone staring at me. “What’s the problem?”

“We have a”—she coughs quietly—“job to do.”

“Oh, right.” I look around. “Where—” The answer is obvious. Going by the nacreous glow from below, whatever is waiting for us is downstairs in the basement. Of course, they sent the wrong man; this is the sort of job Agent CANDID handles best, preferably in conjunction with a house clearance team from the Artists’ Rifles. (But would I really want to put her in my shoes right now if I could make a wish and swap places with her? Probably not…) There’s a staircase leading upstairs, and a wooden door in the side of the panel behind it which probably leads down to the cellar. I’m about to go that way when Persephone gets in front of me and starts mumbling and waving her hands around animatedly, as if holding a conversation with a deaf Italian-speaking alien.

There’s a pop and a flash from the door handle. “Clear,” she says quietly, glancing over her shoulder at me. I peer at the door. Yes, there was some kind of ward there; Persephone shorted it out with her semaphore ritual.

I raise my pizza box. “Okay, you,” I say. “Lead me to your taker.”

The complaints department scritches and shuffles round, nudging urgently towards the cellar door. Persephone holds it open and I duck through. There’s a light switch just inside the door and I thoughtlessly flick it, do a double take, and shudder. I lucked out this time—no booby traps—but I am
so
unprepared for a black bag job that it’s not funny.

A WORD ON THE SUBJECT OF BLACK BAG JOBS:

Don’t.

I’m not a cop and it’s not my job to enforce the law, any more than it is the job of any other citizen to do so. (Yes, I know about Peel’s Principles: nevertheless, there’s a good reason we mostly leave the job to professionals.) I am, however, a civil servant, which means I work for the government, who
make
the laws. Consequently, lawbreaking is something I’m supposed to avoid unless there’s an overriding justification in the national interest, and it’s not up to me to define what that means.

The situation is murkier when I’m working overseas in other jurisdictions, but I’m normally supposed to obey
both
sets of laws, HMG’s and the host nation’s. Unless compelled by overriding justification in the national etcetera, of course, or subjected to cruel and unusual circumstances where they contradict each other.

Anyway. Black bag jobs—burglary, bugging, and breaking in—are by definition forbidden, most of the time. Especially since the Spycatcher business. They may be authorized in the interests of national security, but that happens at a level well above my pay grade, all the way upstairs. When I get sent to run a little errand, it has generally been pre-cleared by a committee, or it’s covered by standing orders relating to what we euphemistically call “special circumstances.” In which case there
will
be an enquiry after the event and the Auditors
will
be there to ask pointed questions and wield the clue-bat if I’ve exceeded my authority.

This is one of
those
jobs.

I’ve been ordered home, the mission terminated. Unfortunately the external assets I’m here to shadow have decided that the mission is
not
over, and in any case my withdrawal route is blocked. So I am unofficially tagging along to keep an eye on them and make sure they don’t do anything…no, scratch that. It’s the
official
truth, the
pravda
, but it’s not the real deal. What is going on is that Lockhart wants Persephone and Johnny to be here, raising hell, but he doesn’t want to be held responsible for the consequences: it might create a stink when the Black Chamber find out about it. At least, I
think
that’s the subtext.

Me, I’m here because I can’t get out, and while I’m locked in the asylum I might as well take notes on the inmates. That, and obey standing orders if I run into any of the aforementioned special circumstances. As seems regrettably likely right now.

So, you see, Persephone has to do the door-breaking. If
I
break down doors without orders, I might just be breaking the law. She is too, but she isn’t accountable for her actions as long as the other side don’t catch her; I’m not a cop, remember?

Listen,
I
didn’t make these rules—I just have to work within them.

Nobody said this job was going to be easy…

THE MISSIONARY LEADS JOHNNY FROM THE PARKING SPOT TO
a side door, through the teeth of an icy gale. The door opens onto a narrow, windowless corridor curving around the side of the sanctuary. Johnny hears many voices raised in song, their joyous words muffled by the echoing acoustics of the bare concrete walls.

They come to a door that opens into the sanctuary.

“Please come this way,” says the missionary, head cocked to one side as if listening to words inaudible to others. “Our father will see you in the vestry.”

“Uh-huh.” The music is louder near the door, backed by instruments: an organ or synthesizer and electric guitars. It’s like a rock concert singalong, but Johnny can’t make out any of the words. “Lead on,” he says, palming his throwing knives. They feel as if they’re writhing between his fingers, reluctant to be here.

“Do not be afraid,” the missionary adds, “nothing here will hurt you.” Then it opens the door.

Visualize a church.

Make it a
really big
church, the size of a large cinema, with a funnel of gently sloping terraces set with rows of theater-style seating that converge to focus on a stage decked with altar, pulpit, and rock band. In the walls all around, stained-glass windows backed by halogen lights shine the glory of the Lord; overhead floodlights and stage spots illuminate the brilliantly gowned choir and the musicians on stage.

The soundproofing on the door is excellent, because inside the sanctuary the voice of the crowd is nearly deafening as they stand, chanting along with a holy rolling rock anthem. Johnny’s ward squeezes against his breastbone, beaten back by the passionate strength of the congregation. There are thousands of them—most of the seats would be occupied if the occupants weren’t on their feet, singing their hearts out. But there’s something odd about it, because they’re not stomping: they’re mostly swaying in place, hands clasped before them in attitudes of prayer, and though they sing—

Johnny squints. He can’t see to the front of the stage, but follows the missionary along one of the aisles leading round the outside of the congregation. Something is
wrong
. The skin on the back of his neck crawls. There’s a glamour here, a monumentally powerful one, stupefying and cloying. He’s seeing and hearing what he’s meant to see and hear, thousands of churchgoers singing and clapping along to a wholesome Christian rock band between prayers led by the pastor at the front, a joyous act of collective worship.

But every five or ten seats in the rows there’s one who doesn’t feel
right
. There is something about them that Johnny recognizes: the taint of the old school, the stolid soulless stance of the missionary in front of him. The crowd is seeded with the possessed, positioned behind and scattered among the congregation like fence posts surrounding a flock of sheep. The shepherd has sent his own to bring the flock home. There’s a faint smell, too, aromatic burning incense overlaying something slightly fishy, like burning electrical insulation. A powerful glamour lies over the whole congregation like a stifling blanket, leaking into eyes and ears and warping perceptions. His knives are uneasy for good reason: created to cut, oblivious to mercy and mistruth, they are themselves shrouded in this gummy, foggy cloud of mind-sticky deception. And the music, the singing, the chant is deafening—

The chant.
Johnny focusses on it, trying to make out the distinctive words that the congregation are repeating. They slide away from his ears, half-masked by the glamour:
Latin?
No, this isn’t a Catholic mass.
Think, sonny!
he tells himself, tightening his grip on the soul-stealer knives as he follows the missionary around the next block of seats.
I’ve heard this before.

At the O2 Arena in Docklands. On the stage. Glossolalia, speaking in tongues. Specifically: Old Enochian.

“Hell and damnation,”
Johnny mutters to himself in near-shock, as the glamour falls away from his eyes and ears and he sees what is going on around him with unclouded senses. It exceeds his worst imaginings. For he is indeed in church, but the shift in perception shows him what lies beneath the glamour.

The pastor still stands behind the altar, but his chant is a continuous incantation in the formal language of magic, and he, too, is one of the missionaries, driven and controlled by the host of an alien Lord. It is a chant of control, binding and compelling, coercing and demanding obedience and submission in the name of the Sleeper.

The rock band and the choir are still there, but they’re not playing and singing of their own volition: they’re puppets dancing to an alien tune. The sound swells from somewhere deep beneath or behind them, using their voices and their instruments as a vehicle to penetrate the wall between the worlds. Johnny is still far enough back that he has to squint—but there is blood on the guitarists’ fingertips, and the choir members eyes are rolled back in their heads as they sway, unconscious in the grip of something that only looks like rapture when seen through glamour-fogged eyes.

The plain steel cross behind the altar is gone, replaced by an iron hoop three meters in diameter, standing on edge. He knows without having to examine it that the rim will be inlaid with glyph-like circuit patterns, connected to external signal generators; different shades of darkness shimmer within the gate’s heart. He feels the ghostly fingers of the wind from the abyss pulling on his mind, urging him forward towards it.

The missionaries aren’t there to herd the congregation forward, they’re in the crowd to hold them
back
, lest they rush the gate and trample each other in the crush.

“Oh, Duchess,” Johnny mutters, “I hope you know what you’re getting into.” Then he tightens his grip on his knives and follows his unwitting guide, down towards the side door at the front of the aisle that leads backstage, where Schiller is waiting to receive his long-lost cousin.

PERSEPHONE STEPS IN FRONT OF ME, CLOSE ENOUGH THAT I
can feel her breath on my face. “The Hand of Glory,” she whispers; “now would be a good time to restart it.”

I fumble in my pocket lining, which has become twisted around a disgusting jumble of bits of scorched pigeon toes, a cigarette lighter, and other peculiar odds and ends. The camera dangles and spins from the lanyard around my wrist as I try to rearrange things—luckily it’s in standby mode—until I manage to extract the pigeon’s foot. I’m about to light it when Persephone helpfully fastens an elasticated grounding strap to my wrist, and takes hold of the other end. “Thanks.” The click of the lighter and the sudden flicker of the butane flame seem deafening in the twilight at the top of the stairs. Then the claw is burning again, sputtering a foul trail of smoke, and everything around us acquires the very slight pallor that tells me it’s working. “Okay, lead on.”

She doesn’t speak, but takes a couple of steps forward, towing me along at the end of the grounding strap like a leashed panther.

There’s a fat bundle of cables and some narrow insulated pipes slung from a shelf suspended from the ceiling above our heads as we descend the stairs to what proves to be a narrow corridor with doors to either side: a basement that’s been partitioned off into rooms. The complaints department is scritching excitedly at the inside of the warded pizza box and I can feel its eagerness to be reunited with…what? Something down here, that’s for sure. I have a surreal sense of déjà vu, as if I’m trapped in a live-action game of Dungeons and Dragons or something. It’d be funny if my skin wasn’t crawling.