Abruptly, Raymond’s chapel isn’t so small anymore.
The floor is still flagged with slabs of limestone as broad as a man’s arm is long, and the altar waits before him. But the walls have receded into the distance and faded to the color of time-bleached bone, and the ceiling overhead is open to the starry night. Alien constellations sparkle pitilessly against a backdrop of whorls and wisps of blue and green gas, the decaying tissues of a stellar corpse hidden from view by the horizon. Closer, a dusting of silvery specks flicker and flare as they drift across the vault of the sky—the skeletal remains of vast orbital factories, although Schiller is unaware of this.
If Schiller were to rise and walk to the walls, he would find a doorway in the center of each one. And if he were to venture beyond one of the portals, he would find himself leaving a temple atop a step pyramid towering above a desert plateau that stretches towards the distant, parched mountains in every direction that the eye can see.
And he would be able to see the moons, orbiting low and fast, which are blocked from his gaze by the walls.
***Report.***
The words thrust themselves into his mind like knife-sharp icicles rising from the thing that feeds between his legs, as a vast, chilly awareness slams up his spine and usurps his brain’s speech center to give voice to its demands. A bystander would hear nothing, but to Schiller, the still, small voice of his god is louder than thunder.
“I am a damned soul and a miserable sinner…”
***We will be your judge. But not in this time and place.
The force of the demand drives Schiller to his hands, abasing himself before the sarcophagus-shaped altar (which has grown longer and broader, and is now of pale gray stone, embossed with intricate and disturbing knotwork elements that confuse the eye of the watcher).
“Lord! The mission to the leadership of the British government has been an unconditional success! The introduction we seek will be forthcoming within days, and with an endorsement from the Prime Minister, the chair of News Corporation will have no alternative but to see us. Once Mr. Murdoch is one of ours, we will have full access to the largest satellite and news broadcasting organization on Earth to bring our ministry to—”
***There is a disturbance in Sheol. Are you responsible?***
“Lord? I don’t understand…”
***Four of the hosts I placed at your disposal are missing. Three have been destroyed but another is offline. Report.***
Schiller racks his memory, then realizes what his Lord is asking. “Ah, we have a small problem. A cell of spies dispatched by an autonomous arm of the British state has attempted to infiltrate us. We repelled their attack but three of our people were killed in the process. We are now searching for the apostates—”
***Three hosts are destroyed but one is offline. What befell the offline host?***
Schiller is baffled and terrified. A wind blows through his mind, a desiccating ice storm from an arctic valley where it hasn’t rained for a million years, drying up his will and freezing his brain in mid-thought. Then it subsides, as quickly as it blew up: his Lord has satisfied himself that Schiller has no answer to give and is still, at heart, entirely a creature of faith.
***Two active hosts were with your minions when they went to apprehend the British spymaster. One of them is dead. The other is beyond my awareness. Searching…
Schiller’s body shudders, muscles twitching spasmodically as the most distant echo of his Lord’s unhuman emotions bleeds through his amygdala, triggering a fit. Seconds pass; Schiller lies still for further minutes, recovering, before the inner voice addresses him again.
***What of the Task? Report.***
“As soon as I was informed of the attention we were attracting, I ordered Operation Multitude brought forward. It’s very early, but I felt I couldn’t take the risk of waiting any longer. So we are bringing forward the ministry to the people of Colorado Springs, and have invoked the miracle of Fimbulwinter, as instructed. The airports are closing, the Great Ward is in place, and we have arranged for highway patrol checkpoints on all the roads we can reach. Tomorrow we will perform the Rite of Awakening and the Harrowing of the unbelievers for the first time before a congregation of seven thousand. If it works as expected, we’ll ramp up from there—Colorado Springs today, the whole of the continental United States by this time next month. It will take longer and entail more risks than the original plan, but we can start tomorrow—”
***A hundred million souls must be Saved, Raymond, in order to free my mortal husk from this tomb.***
“Yes, my Lord. Thy will be done.”
***Then shall I bring about Heaven on Earth. And all shall be Saved who will accept my host into their heart.***
“Thank you, Lord!” Schiller prays fervently.
***Bringing you here and protecting you from the forces of darkness that assail me saps my strength in this enfeebled state. Go now, and bring to me the pure of heart that I may take strength from the power of their faith. Go now, and detain the British spy Howard and his employees against my immanent return. Go now, and prepare the Rite of Awakening. Glory to God in the highest!***
“Glory to”—Raymond rocks forward on his feet and finds himself once again in a small oak-paneled basement room—“God in the highest!”
IN THE BASEMENT OF THE NEW ANNEX, DOWN A DUSTY STAIRCASE with fire doors at the top and along a corridor painted institutional beige and lit by ancient tungsten bulbs (some of which have failed), there is a green metal door. There is no room number or name plate on the door: just a keyhole, an ancient brass handle, and— above the lintel—a security warning lamp, currently switched off. Were it not for the lamp it might be a janitor’s closet or a power distribution board. And despite the lamp, the delicate, almost invisible runes of power traced across the surface of the door ensure that most of the people who pass along the corridor mistake it for such.
Lockhart approaches the door with some trepidation. He pauses on the threshold, and an observer would conclude that he is nerving himself before he knocks, briskly.
The door opens.
“Come in,” says the room’s occupant.
“Thank you.” Lockhart steps inside the office and sits down in the visitor’s swivel chair opposite the strange metal desk with the hulking hood like a microfilm reader. As he does so Angleton locks the door with a strange silver key which he returns to a matchbox-sized wooden case, sliding it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
“What’s he done this time?” Angleton asks as he stalks back towards his chair behind the projection turret of the Memex.
Lockhart exhales explosively. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “Possibly nothing, yet.”
“Hmm.” Angleton glances at the elderly analog clock above the doorway. “It’s nearly twenty-one hundred hours. Not like you to be burning the midnight oil over nothing, is it? Can I ask why?”
“I’m afraid not.” Lockhart’s mustache twitches, caught somewhere between a smile and a sneer. “But I was hoping you might be able to help me with a question of character.”
“Character.” Angleton doesn’t seem at all put out by Lockhart’s refusal; he leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “There’s a word I don’t hear often enough these days. Especially coming from you.”
“Of course not.” Lockhart is dismissive. “It’s a subjective value judgment and those don’t sit comfortably with ticky-boxes and objective performance metrics. It only comes into play when one is off the reservation.”
“And is Bob—” Angleton catches himself. “Of course he is. Ask away, ask anything you want. I can’t promise an accurate answer in the absence of exact details of the situation, but I’ll do my best.”
An observer, familiar with the internal pecking order of the Laundry, might at this point be justifiably taken aback. Here is Gerald Lockhart, SSO8(L), a middling senior officer in the backwater that is External Assets—a
