The Apocalypse Codex

“I’ll email it to you.” Traviss’s words are directed to Lockhart. “You can share it with Mr. Howard, I’m sure.”

I do not like this. I do not like the way Lockhart takes the slim flipbook and pages through it, frowning thoughtfully—the caterpillar is disturbed—or the way these cowboys are tag-teaming us. “Is that all?” I ask sharply.

“Is that all?” Traviss sounds appalled.

“Yes, Bob, that is all.” Lockhart stares at me with watery, dyspeptic eyes. “I think we’ll be going now,” he says, sliding the book back into its bag. “Thank you, gentlemen.” He stands, and we file out.

LOCKHART DOESN’T SAY ANYTHING UNTIL WE GET BACK TO THE New Annex; he takes the admonitions about careless chatter so seriously that while we’re out and about he’s as conversational as a badger that’s been dead for three days. Once back in his office he opens up—in my direction, unfortunately.

“You will not discuss our operational parameters in the presence of members of external organizations ever again,” he says coldly. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Uh?”

He walks around me where I stand, more or less rooted to his office carpet. “You mentioned destiny entanglement, Mr. Howard. How do you know that Dr. Traviss and his companions were cleared to know about that technology?”

I blink rapidly. “My geas didn’t—”

“No, it didn’t, Mr. Howard. But you should not rely on your oath of office as an infallible guide to the perimeter of our security cordon. It relies on your own cognizance of threats to determine what level of security to apply. You of all people should understand that there are individuals who your geas would passively allow you to talk to who are nevertheless enemies—moles, enemies within who have official clearance. It may be that Dr. Traviss and Mr. Fraser and Warrant Officer O’Hara are familiar with destiny entanglement tools like the one you used in conjunction with agent RANDOM a few years ago. Very probably they are, because the inventory tracking tags rely on a very watered-down version of the same technology—one that does not risk your mind fusing with that of your target if it isn’t forcibly disconnected after a handful of days. The problem is that they now know that you too are familiar with such tools.”

Enlightenment dawns, somewhat too late. “Oh. Shit.”

“That is the correct word, Mr. Howard. Most likely it is an insignificant slip—but if, for example, Mr. Fraser turns out to be a mole in the employ of the Thirteenth Directorate, you have just delivered valuable information about your own capabilities to an unfriendly organization. Security is not just an externally directed process, it must be an internal one. Do you understand me?”

I nod jerkily. “Good.” He makes a cutting gesture with one hand and suddenly my feet can move again. “You’re a smart lad. If you have any concerns, you can bring them to me whenever you like. I will not mock you for asking stupid questions; we all have to start somewhere. But I would appreciate your keeping them private.”

“Um,” I say again.

“Yes?”

“If I’m going overseas, do I have any defensive issues?”

“Are you expecting to be physically attacked?” He raises an eyebrow.

I pause for a few seconds. “I am not expecting anything,” I say slowly. “But I try to be prepared for all circumstances. I really don’t like being held at gunpoint. And it’s happened before.”

For a few long seconds Lockhart stares at me. Then he nods approvingly. “Use your discretion,” he finally tells me. “No firearms; remember you will be traveling under diplomatic cover.” I wonder why he’s so certain about that, but now is probably not the time to poke him. “I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes. Go. I’ll send you the FAQ on the tracking tags when I receive it.”

I can take a hint; I go.

*     *     *

I HATE FIGHTING. I’M NOT PARTICULARLY GOOD AT IT, COMPARED to some of my acquaintances. Hell, I’m not even as good at it as my wife. If you have to fight, it means things are already badly out of control. So I generally try to avoid physical confrontations; my preferred defensive tactic is to run away. However, I can handle a Glock 17 and a Hand of Glory, and I’m certified for certain classes of occult self-defense. Mo said something about a device that Pinky and the Brain are testing over in Facilities…so after grabbing a quick lunch in the canteen I bail out of the office and head across town to what they used to jokingly call Q Division.

Unlike HMGCC, which is not part of the Laundry, Field Support Engineering is, and my warrant card is enough to get me inside. Whereupon I make my way through a drab corridor floored in carpet tiles that look to be a decade past their replace-by date, to an office door with a frosted-glass window and a No Entry sign. A pair of concrete seagulls to either side serve as gate guardians—these ones are unpainted, and unpleasantly lifelike—and there’s a bumper sticker instead of a name plate. Q: What are we going to do tonight, Brains? A: The same thing we do every night, Pinky: Try to take over the world!

I enter, and close the door behind me. Pinky—not his real name—is hunched over his computer’s screen, messing around with a digitizer pen. After a moment he blinks and looks up at me. “Bob?” He grins enormously and comes bounding out from behind the desk. “Bob!”

“Long time no—”

“Bob! You really must see this! It’s brilliant!” He zips across the room and begins sifting through a mountain of what looks at first sight like junk (but probably isn’t). “You’re going to love this,” he promises, turning round and offering me a slim box. After a second I recognize it.

“It’s a camera, right?” Digital, subtype: compact. I take it.

Of an instant, Pinky’s expression is all concern. “Hold on a minute! Don’t switch it on yet.”

I turn it over in my hands. “Huh.” There’s a legend on the front: Fuji FinePix Real 3D. Suddenly I remember the seagull gate guardians and my blood turns to ice. “Jesus, Pinky. Tell me this isn’t what I think it is?”

“I don’t know, Bob.” He cocks his head on one side. “What do you think it is?”

I lick my suddenly dry lips. “What happens if I turn it on?”

He shrugs. “It switches on.”

“And what happens if, say, I took a photograph of you?”

He shrugs again. “It takes a rather crappy 3D photograph. Why?”

“Where’s the special sauce?” I ask tensely.

“On this.” He produces an SD memory card with a flourish. “It’s just a 3D camera until you reflash it with this special firmware.”

“And then…” I lick my lips again. “Don’t tell me. It’s SCORPION STARE in a box that looks like a consumer digital camera. Right?”

“Yup.” And Pinky, the idiot, looks indecently pleased with himself. “Mo said you might be needing a personal defense weapon and, well, you’ve used a basilisk gun before? Only bigger, bulkier, and much crappier.”

You could put it that way.

Most of the magic we work with here in the Laundry is about using computational transforms to send messages that induce certain entities from outside our universe to sit up and pay attention. But sometimes there’s cruder stuff.

We’ve known for years that sometime soon we’ll be living through a crisis period; magic gets easier to perform the more people are around to perform it. It’s a computational, cognitive process and humans are cognitive machines…so are computers. We’ve got a population bubble, and a computing bubble, and they coincide. For the next few decades conditions are right for rupture and invasion by entities from outside our universe.

Some folks (ritual magicians) actually do the symbol-manipulation thing in their heads, risking death by Krantzberg syndrome and worse. It’s not an approach to defending the realm that scales, because you can’t take a random reasonably bright teenager and reliably turn them into a sorcerer. But you can turn some of them into computer scientists—and a whole lot more into IT support drones who can use a canned toolkit to perform a limited range of occult manipulations.