The Fuller Memorandum

three pages, held together by a paper clip.

Mo peers at the top page. “Wait, I can’t read—”

“Ah. Just a moment.” Ford waves his left hand across the paper and mutters something unintelligible under his breath.

Mo blinks. “Was that entirely safe?”

He grins. “No.”

“I, uh, see.” She peers at the abstract. “That’s interesting. Let me paraphrase. You’ve tried to quantify memetic transmission effects among a population exposed to class three abominations and find . . . belief in them spreads? And it’s a power function?”

He nods. “You must understand, previous models all seem to have looked at how possession spreads through a sparse network, like classical epidemiological studies of smallpox transmission, for example. But that’s flawed: if you posit an uncontrolled outbreak, then people can see their neighbors, random strangers, being possessed. And that in turn weakens the observer-mediated grid ultrastructure, making it easier for the preta to tunnel into our reality. It’s a feedback loop: the more people succumb, the weaker everyone else’s resistance becomes. I modeled it using linear programming and the results are, well, they speak for themselves.”

“And the closer we come to the Transient Weak Anomaly the more outbreaks we’re going to see, and the—it contributes to the strength of the TWA?” She looks at him sharply.

“Substantially, yes.” Dr. Mike shuffles uncomfortably in his chair.

“Well, shit.” She folds the paper neatly and slides it into her handbag. “And here I was hoping Andy had gotten the wrong end of the stick.”

“Second-order effects are always gonna getcha.” He shrugs apologetically. “I don’t know why nobody looked into it from this angle before.”

“Not your problem, not my problem.”

“Says Wernher von Braun, yes, and who says satire is dead?”

“Tom Lehrer. Or maybe Buddy Holly.”

“Right. But you said something that interests me strangely. How did the Black Brotherhood—or whoever wants us to think they’re the BBs—get the news?”

“That’s what a lot of people are asking themselves right now.” She gives him a peculiar look. “It made quite a stir, unfortunately. Lots of wagging tongues. Unfortunately Oscar-Oscar are drawing blanks and they can’t Audit the entire organization—at least not yet. We’ll have to examine the second-order consequences if the cultists learn they’ve got a turbocharger, though. If you can come up with anything . . .”

“Angleton would be the one to talk to about that,” he says slyly. “After all, he’s the head of the Counter- Possession Unit.”

“Angleton’s missing—” Mo freezes.

For a moment they sit in silence. Then Dr. Mike raises one preposterous eyebrow. “Are you certain of that?”

I’M GLAD I’M NOT CLAUSTROPHOBIC.

Well, I’m not very claustrophobic. Lying on my back in a coffin-sized railway carriage, rattling down a steep incline in a tunnel less than a meter in diameter that was built in the 1920s is not my idea of a nice relaxing way to spend an afternoon. Especially knowing that the station staff are zombies and I’m barreling headfirst into the depths of a high security government installation with only my warrant card to speak for me, on a mission of somewhat questionable legality.

Pull yourself together, Bob. You’ve been in darker holes.

Yes, but back then Angleton at least had the good grace to tell me what the fuck I was supposed to be doing! This time around it’s just I want you to be my tethered goat. That and the 440 volt DC rail fifteen centimeters below my spine give me a tingling sensation like my balls want to climb right up my throat and hide. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that there’s a back door into the stacks, or that it’s a hinky little narrow-gauge tube system constructed by a Quango and forgotten by everyone except train spotters, but to find myself actually riding it . . . that’s something else.

Angleton had the decency to scribble me a written order, and a good thing too, otherwise I would have thrown a strop. The librarians don’t appreciate unannounced visitors, much less informal withdrawals, and like so many of our more eccentric outposts they have their own inimitable and unspeakable ways of dealing with vandals and intruders. If they catch me, a signed order from a DSS ought to make them pause long enough to give me a fair hearing before they rip my lungs out; but, really and truly, it is usually best to just put in a request and wait for the little man with the cart.

I try not to think too hard about everything that can go wrong with Angleton’s plan. Instead, I lie back and think of libraries.

The Laundry keeps its archive stacks in a former tube tunnel. It was originally going to be a station, but during World War Two it was converted into an emergency bunker and in the end they never got around to connecting it up to the underground network. There are six levels rather than the usual three, two levels built into each half of a cylindrical tunnel eight meters in diameter and nearly a third of a kilometer long. That makes for a lot of shelves—not quite in the same league as the British Library, but close. And it’s not just books that occupy the stacks. We store microfiche cards in binders, row after row of them, and there are rooms full of filing cabinets full of CD-ROMs. There’s a lot of stuff down here, a lot of moldering secrets and fatal lies: a complete transcript of every numbers channel transmitted since 1932, the last words of every spy hanged during the Second World War, every sermon preached by a minister in the Church of Night—our minister—before his followers found out and tore him toe from nail . . .

The train tilts so that my feet are raised, and the clattering rush begins to slow. I’ve only been here for three or four minutes but it feels like hours in the roaring dark. I cross my arms around my body, hugging myself, and try not to think about premature burials. Instead I try to remember more secrets and lies: such as the recordings of every spy and defector executed by Abu Nidal. (Famously paranoid, if he suspected a recruit of spying he had them buried in a coffin, fed through a tube while being interrogated: after which they would be executed by a bullet fired down the same pipe. I gather he killed more of his own followers than any hostile power.) The last confessions of every member of the Green Hand Sect arrested and interrogated by the Kripo in Saxony in the late 1930s. (Which led to secret and unsanctioned executions—which the Occupying Powers declined to investigate, after a brief, horrified review of the Nazi-era records.) There is even a sealed box of DVDs containing high-resolution scans of the mechanical blueprints from the Atrocity Archives. (That one was my own contribution to the stacks, I’m afraid.)

The carriage squeals to a halt. A few seconds later, I hear the clatter of lids being raised. I take this as my cue and, bracing myself, I push against the roof.

I sit up to find myself in another room, this time with a rounded tunnel-like roof and raw brick walls. It’s dimly lit by red lights set deep in shielded sockets; it smells of corruption and memories. A pair of residual human resources are lethargically unloading the wagon in front of me. I lever myself off the bench seat and clamber over the side of the carriage, trying not to bash my head on the low, curving ceiling. There are human-sized doors at either end of the platform, but I don’t dare try them at random—I’m pushing my luck just by being here. Instead, I approach one of the shambling human figures, and thrust my ink-stained forearm under what’s left of its rotting nose. “Document,” I say, stabbing my opposing index finger at the numbers: “File me!”

Leathery fingers close lightly around my wrist and tug me towards a half-loaded handcart. I grab onto the edge of it and the hand drops away; I suppress a shudder. (One of the office unions is currently taking HR to court over the use of residuals, claiming it’s a violation of their human rights; HR’s argument is that once you’re dead you have no rights to violate, but the union’s lawyers have said that if they lose the case they’ll bring a counter-suit for interfering with corpses—either that, or they’ll demand equal pay for the undead.)

After a couple of minutes, one of the working stiffs shuffles over to a control board on one wall and starts pulling handles. With a grumbling buzz of motors and the screech of steel wheels on rails, the mail train rolls forward into the next tunnel mouth, on its way back to the realm of worms and darkness. Then they take their handcarts and shamble slowly towards the farthest door.