The Apocalypse Codex

by the same token, I ought to be able to use it to probe what’s going on ahead. If I dare to shut down part of the firewall I’ve built around it and stick my head up against it, of course. That option does not appeal.

I’ve been keeping my mind inside my own head ever since the incident back at the hotel, because to say I don’t like my new-found proficiency at soul-sucking is a bit like saying that cats don’t like swimming. But there may be no alternative, if I want to try spoofing our location.

I take a deep breath. “Persephone. Your map. Can you show it to me?”

She chuckles grimly. “All you need to do is open your eyes, Mr. Howard.”

“But I don’t—” I stop. No more excuses. The inner eye, the vision thing, that’s what let me know there were monsters on the other side of the door, isn’t it. That’s how I saw the feeders under Brookwood last year.

“You’re a necromancer, Mr. Howard, not just another button-pushing computer nerd. That’s why they sent you here with me. You have the aptitude for ad hoc invocation and control. I think you would be extremely powerful, if you get over your squeamishness. It makes you as useful as a heart surgeon who faints at the sight of blood.”

I stifle the urge to swear at her. Instead, I close my eyes as we tear down the highway towards Palmer Lake and the turnoff for Schiller’s compound, and force myself to gaze inwards. There is a sudden shift of perspective as the world changes. And then I see—

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE TABLE SITS AN ANTIQUE ROTARY-DIAL telephone. It dates to an age when telephones were made of wood and brass, crowned with the royal crest of George the Fifth’s Post Office. A separate speaking horn carved from yellowing bakelite or some other more organic substance hangs by a hook from its side, connected by a length of cloth-wrapped wire.

Four people sit at one side of the table: Angleton, Lockhart, and the two Auditors.

The phone sits in the middle of an elaborate double ward, concentric Mobius loops of eye-bending power wrapped around its base. There is no sign of a power source or telegraph wire connected to it. Nevertheless, the audience watch with abated speech as Angleton carefully lifts the speaking horn and dials a series of digits.

“Hello, I’d like to speak to Overseas Liaison, please.” He leans across the table, placing his ear close to the speaker. “Yes. This is Angleton. I am calling on behalf of SOE on official business. I would appreciate an immediate conference call with a representative of your Internal Affairs department. This concerns current events in Colorado Springs and Denver.” He waits for almost a minute. “Yes, that is correct. As I said, we would like to discuss this matter with you—oh very well.”

He hangs up the speaking horn and sits back, arms crossed.

“Well?” asks Lockhart.

“They’ll call us back.”

“Really.” The female Auditor’s lips are a thin line. “This is preposterous—did they give any indication as to how long they would take? We have an operation to run—”

Silently, without any fuss, the walls of the meeting room dissolve. The conference table extends, doubling in length, but the far side is ash-gray and the three figures that sit behind it are indistinct shapes, shrouded in cloaks and cowls of black mist, their faces in shadow.

Angleton, clearly unimpressed, nods at the new arrivals. “Good evening. Can you identify yourselves?”

There is silence for a few seconds. Then the leftmost of the wraithlike figures nods, a slight inclination of the cowl that hints at a skull within. “I am Officer Black. This”—a band of mist that might conceal a hand, or some other, less human limb, gestures to its right—“is Officer Green. And I have the pleasure of introducing Patrick O’Donnell, formerly of the Hazard Network, subsequently one of our freelance informers, now deceased.”

The phantom limb stretches alarmingly past Officer Green and flips back the hood covering the wreckage of O’Donnell’s head.

Lockhart swears very quietly—but not so quietly that he escapes notice.

Officer Black emits a dry chuckle. “Remember our service motto? ‘Death is no escape.’ Now, who are you?”

Angleton points at Lockhart: “This is Officer Blue. And you can call these two”—he gestures at the two Auditors, who are watching, rapt—“Officers Red and Yellow.” A mirthless smile wrinkles the corners of his eyes but reaches no further. “You have a problem. We have a problem. And I think it’s the same problem.”

Officer Black folds his arms. The drape of the fabric suggests extreme emaciation. “However, your agents within the Continental United States are illegals, under Title 18 of the US Code—‘gathering or delivering defense information to aid foreign government,’ not to mention Title—”

“Bullshit!” Angleton snaps. “As you well know, the UKUSA Treaty exception takes precedence. What’s sauce for the goose will do for the gander.” He clears his throat. “And before you continue with your next point, we felt it necessary to act immediately. In the absence of evidence that your assets in the warded zone had not been turned by the opposition, and because of certain other considerations, we could not go through the bilateral coordinating committee. Your late colleague’s presence here”—he nods in the direction of O’Donnell’s ghostly wreckage—“suggests that we were right to do so. The situation is deteriorating by the hour, so I suggest we discontinue the bluster and concentrate on ways of preventing a meltdown.”

Officer Green’s hood twitches, but he—or she, or it—passes no comment. Officer Black, however, appears to be considering Angleton’s words carefully. Finally he nods. “Would you care to summarize your understanding of the situation?”

Angleton pointedly looks for the chief Auditor’s permissive nod before he speaks. “We are dealing with a particularly dangerous cult: Christian millennialists who are reading from some extra books in their Bible. They set up shop in Colorado Springs and have extended their influence through Denver and Colorado in recent years, but they were under our radar until very recently because of the resemblance to ordinary evangelicals. Our interest was triggered”—he glances sideways for permission to proceed—“by their missionary activity in London, and specifically by what appeared to be an attempt to suborn members of our highest level of government.”

Officer Black nods again. “Was your concern justified?”

“Yes, I think so.” Angleton laces his fingers together in a bony pile upon the tablecloth. He frowns thunderously. “Our officers secured a copy of the Bible used by the Inner Circle of the Golden Promise Ministries. Its apocrypha provide a recipe for performing a Class Five Major Summoning, and a theological imperative to do so. It’s a necromantic ritual, like most such pre-modern operations, and prodigiously wasteful—completely unoptimized. The body count just to open the portal is in the hundreds; to actually bootstrap the target entity to full immanence it’s in the double-digit millions. Oh, and there’s worse: Pastor Schiller has got his hands on a fertile tongue-eater, and is using its spawn to conscript and direct bellwethers. We ordered our assets to scram, but this morning they confirmed that they’re having difficulty evacuating and there are indications that Schiller is proceeding with the second stage of the summoning, the build-out. Hence this call.”

The Senior Auditor, who has been watching with an expression of distant amusement, takes Angleton’s silence as his cue. He abruptly raises his right index finger and points it at Officer Green. “I command you to speak,” he says mildly.

The robed and shadowed figure’s response is remarkable: it quivers spasmodically, shrinks in on itself, then expands back to original size, emitting a burp of foul-smelling bluish smoke as it does so. A hacking, emphysemic cough follows, which goes on for a long time. Finally, a thin piping emanates from the depths of its hood: “Fuck you!”

Angleton raises an eyebrow at the Senior Auditor, who shakes his head. “Ancient history.” He looks back at Officer Green. “I do not approve of your presence at this table. Explain yourself immediately!” He turns to Officer Black. “Your choice of colleagues does not incline us to trust your bona fides,” he adds icily.

Lockhart, who has been watching the exchange from the sidelines, leans back in his seat and fans himself, looking faintly aghast.

“I don’t work for you anymore, Michael,” Officer Green quavers. “Not this century, you bastard.” He stretches out an arm, lays a hooklike claw on the other side of the illusory shared table; it appears horribly burned. Then he raises his other claw and pulls back his cowl, to reveal a thing of horror.