The Apocalypse Codex

right at home! Help yourself to the spread and Ray will be right along in a few minutes to introduce everything. Meanwhile, why don’t you circulate?”

Persephone nodded and thanked Julie fulsomely, then went about putting her advice into practice. If bonding was the name of the game, then over the next twenty minutes she scored: a property developer called Barry, a local TV anchor called Sylvia, a state senator, and a newly minted partner in a corporate law firm— work that smile!—half the men were divorced or newly upgraded to wife 2.0, so it wasn’t entirely a gold-digger’s paradise, but they were all united by a common factor: the need for something else in their life.

Persephone was discreetly pumping Senator Martinez about his stance on right-to-work legislation when she felt a sudden change in the atmosphere in the room. Allan Martinez wasn’t looking at her anymore: his gaze tracked over her shoulder, and she turned, following his eyes round towards the doorway. Which was open, to admit Raymond Schiller, beaming, and a couple of assistants—a bald man in smoked glasses and a gray suit, and a homely-faced, middle-aged woman in a blue dress.

“Hello, everyone!” Schiller called, raising his arms. His suit was immaculately cut, his white shirt worn with a power tie, a small silver cross pinned to his lapel. “Welcome to the Golden Promise! I’m glad you all could make it here today. I mean to make it worth your while. I think this could be the most important meeting of your lives—and by the time we’re through, I’m hoping you’ll find your way to agreeing with me.”

He clasped his hands together—not in benediction, but in a gesture of defensive self-deprecation. “I want to wish you all a very warm welcome. Some of you may be wondering, ‘Hey, what have I gotten myself into?’” A ripple of nervous laughter spread around the room. “Well, don’t worry. We’re not here to pressure you; you can leave any time you want. This might just not be the right time for you. That’s okay; you can leave whenever you like, and come back whenever you like. Nobody’s going to stop you. It’s a free country.”

Once started, Schiller kept going for nearly a quarter of an hour, tickling his audience, playing on their nervous curiosity with self-deprecating humor, bringing himself down several pegs until he presented himself as seeing eye-to-eye with them: no longer a mega-famous preacher on a pedestal, but a down-home fellow the men in the audience could see themselves sharing a beer with. Persephone nodded along, happily in her element, taking mental notes. There were tricks here, flickers of eye contact, hand gestures designed to manipulate the onlookers’ perceptions. His focus wandered the room, meeting eyes and engaging like a jolt of lightning recognition from the base of the spine. When he spoke to the women his spin was slightly different, less overtly masculine, stressing the mystical; when he spoke to the men his manner became more laconic, less emotionally loaded.

He’s brilliant, she realized, with a flash of admiration normally reserved for a deadly freak of nature like a black widow spider or a sleeping tiger. He hadn’t even gotten started on the subject of the course—the Omega, humanity’s destiny, the answer to the greatest question, as the promotional pamphlet put it— and he was already establishing himself in his audience’s minds as a trusted guide, an old and reliable friend, leader, and helpmate.

Ray was good: it went beyond being an inspirational speaker. He had a grip on his audience’s attention span and interests, not just their ears. The talk was more like an afternoon chat show than a sermon. Stomachs full of cake and coffee, heads full of questions, and the audience were nodding along with him enthusiastically rather than nodding off to sleep. Schiller was going to supply the answers—but not until after dinner.

Persephone leaned back and waited for her opportunity, a vacant smile fixed to her face.

I BLINK AND OPEN MY EYES. “OW,” I MUMBLE VACANTLY. THE tat on the inside of my left wrist aches and shimmers before my eyes, my bladder’s full, my neck’s stiff and sore, and while I’ve been sitting in this bloody chair the sky has begun to darken in the west. I shake myself and stand up, wobbly from being in one position for too long. Slide time—I must have been experiencing the show in real time with Persephone.

I’m acutely aware of her self-image, her body feel mapped onto my own—I feel odd, squat and narrow-hipped and dumpy. It’s quite strange; I thank my lucky rabbit’s foot that she’s not having a period. I waddle to the bathroom and empty my bladder, worrying. Am I going to have to do this the whole time? Sixteen hours a day in a chair (hell no, I ought to be in bed) kibitzing on someone else’s sensorium? How about—

Huh. I completely forgot about Johnny. Should I call him up, too? But not like that; I just need to talk to him, make sure everything’s running to plan. Traviss said I could use the tats to talk. I try to remember the protocol; unlike the straight over-the-shoulder monitoring function, it requires a drop of blood and a minor invocation.

There is this to be said in favor of posh hotel rooms: they come with handy stuff like an adjustable shaving mirror in the bathroom, a sewing kit (for needles), and most of the stuff you need in order to whomp up a field- expedient summoning grid (class one, minor). I take my time, puttering around for half an hour as I round up the ingredients, jot down a recipe, take the time to step through it in search of fatal errors, jot down a second—this time, non-fatal—version, then execute.

It’s a good thing I took my time and I’m sitting down because for a moment I can’t see. I know my eyeballs are still where they belong—they haven’t fallen out or anything—but I’m not registering what they’re looking at. Then, with a really uncomfortable mental crunching of gears, I land back in my own head. Except I’m hearing things. Like: ***Wotcher fuck d’you think you’re doing, fuck-head?***

It’s Johnny. And he’s not terribly happy.

***Testing, testing, one, two, three, Peter Pepper picked a—***

***Fuck off, son. You trying to cause an accident? Coz I’m on the highway, overtaking…***

Whoops. ***Sorry.***

There is a pregnant pause. ***Fuckin’ A.*** A longer pause, synonymous with a sigh. ***Okay, say your piece and get out of my head.***

***Update from head office: they say to avoid all contact with law enforcement, especially the FBI.***

***No need to teach your grandmother to suck eggs.*** His disgust is palpable. ***Got any other good advice for yer maiden aunt?***

I rack my brain and apply some spare rusty pilliwinks to my thought processes. ***I’ve been kibitzing on your boss’s session. Trouble is, there’s just the one of me and no shift relief. So I’m going to have to rely on you to alert me if anything goes wrong. Hence the chat.***

***Kibitzing—*** I have the most peculiar feeling that he’s rolling his eyes. ***Jesus, son, that’s not clever. The Duchess has a short way with snoops when she finds them: if yer skull’s still intact that’s only ’coz she were distracted. Knock before entering, wipe yer feet on the mat, and wash yer hands on the cat, do I have to draw you a diagram?*** Another pause. ***Anyways. You’re calling ’coz you want me to drop everything and page you if Schiller takes a crap. Right?***

That draws me up sharp, and I do a double take followed by a brisk self-test. ***No.***

There is good management and bad management: good management is like air—you don’t know it’s there until it’s gone away. Looking at the back of my head, I have a feeling I’m not being a good manager right now. So I take a deep breath and try to explain myself: ***I’m hanging out alone, in an information vacuum, and it’s doing my head in, so I’m acting out. Right now I have no idea what you two are planning or what you expect me to do if things go adrift and you two have to cut and run. Or if there’s any support you need.***

There’s a long silence. ***Like that, huh?*** He sounds thoughtful. ***Okay, Howard. It’s like this: you don’t know where I am because I don’t want you to know where I am. And we haven’t asked you for any support yet. And if we have to run, you’ll know about it. Like this.*** I scream and clutch my upper right arm. Bastard feels like he’s twisting it between his hands—not hard, but he got the scar that Jonquil left in it last year. ***If you get that, it means you want to leave town now, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred kilos of China White, because everything has gone to fuck. Got that? ***

***Jesus,*** I mutter verbally. ***I get the message. But use the other arm, please.***

***Any particular reason?***

***No.*** I might just be a bit snippy right now. My eyes are certainly watering. ***Just do it. In case I’m pointing a gun at someone.***

***You and guns don’t mix, unless I mistake my man.*** The bastard sounds amused.

He’s not as right as he thinks he is, but I pass. ***Next. I gather the course is outside the GPM compound, so your boss is looking for a way to get in and plant her bug. Which is fine, if she can do it—but I don’t want her to