A descendant of the founders. Like me.
This member of the legendary Holmwood family was a small, neat man in his thirties. He wore clear, rimless glasses, and he had the face of an academic rather than a soldier, but when Jamie took his outstretched hand, the grip was strong.
“Mr. Carpenter,” Holmwood said. His voice was the very definition of politeness, but there was warmth there as well. “It’s a shame we are not being introduced five years from now, but circumstances are what they are. Welcome to Blacklight.”
Jamie thanked him, and Holmwood moved aside.
“Jacob Scott,” said Frankenstein.
“Let’s have a look at him then,” said a loud voice, shot through with a streak of Australian accent. The man it belonged to stepped out from behind Frankenstein and grinned at Jamie. Scott was in his sixties at least, his tanned skin weathered and creased, but his eyes were bright, and the grin on his face was wide and welcoming. He grasped Jamie’s hand and held it tight, squeezing until the bones creaked and Jamie pulled his hand free.
“Not bad for an old boy,” said Scott, cheerfully. “Eh?”
Jamie smiled, massaging his throbbing hand, and the old man playfully punched him on the upper arm. Jamie rocked slightly and forced his smile to remain where it was. Scott peered at him, then looked up at Frankenstein.
“I like him, Frankie,” he said. “Got a bit of grit in him. Respects his elders too.”
“You can tell him yourself, Jacob,” smiled Frankenstein. “He’s right there.”
Scott returned his gaze to Jamie. “You need anything, boy, you just let me know. Don’t be shy.”
“I won’t,” said Jamie. “Thank you.”
The man walked stiffly away toward the armchairs, and Jamie watched him go, overwhelmed. Had these men all known his father? He supposed they must have, yet they were obviously pleased to see him. Jamie suspected that the word Carpenter was working for him rather than against him for the first time since he had arrived at the Loop; he believed these men were proud to see another member of one of the founding families joining Department 19.
“Paul Turner.”
Jamie started. In front of him, standing motionless and exuding the same sense of menace that he had felt last time they had met, was the major from the cellblock. Jamie gulped, hoped that it hadn’t been visible, then extended his hand. For a moment, it hung there, pale even in the warm lighting of the mess, then Turner shook it briskly and smiled at Jamie.
“Nice to see you again,” he said, and Frankenstein glanced at the major.
“You, too,” replied Jamie.
“You did well,” said Turner. “I haven’t seen a debut like that in a long time. Reminded me of my own.”
Jamie examined the man’s face for an insult, but didn’t see one. Instead the major was still smiling, and he smiled back.
“Thanks,” he replied. “I still screwed it up at the end though.”
“Everyone fails the first time. Better to do it in here than out there. No second chances in the field.”
“I’ll be careful,” said Jamie.
“Do that,” replied Turner, and stepped away.
Then everyone was talking at once, and Jamie was about to ask Frankenstein whether he could go to bed when suddenly the room fell silent.
The men were looking past Jamie, toward the door. He turned around, and found Major Harker standing in front of him. The old man walked deliberately up to Jamie, stared into his eyes for a long, precarious second, then slowly, ever so slowly, raised his right hand and held it out. Jamie took it, cautiously, and the major leaned in and spoke four words.
“Don’t let us down.”
Then, as suddenly as he had arrived, he released Jamie’s hand, spun stiffly on his heels, and walked out of the mess.
Behind Jamie there was an audible exhalation of relief, and the group of men began to disperse, chatting among themselves, some heading toward the chairs in front of the TV, some making their way toward the bar. Only Frankenstein and Thomas Morris stayed where they were, and Jamie took a step toward them.
“It’s been a long day,” he said. “I think I might go to bed.”
Frankenstein told him that was fine, but Morris looked slightly agitated, casting glances between Jamie and the monster.
“What is it, Tom?” asked Frankenstein. His tone was impatient, and Morris flinched slightly.
“There was something I wanted to show Jamie,” he replied. “It won’t take long.”
Frankenstein shrugged and looked at the teenager. “It’s up to you, Jamie,” he said.
Jamie looked at Morris’s earnest, excited face. “OK,” he replied. “As long as it won’t take long. I really am tired.”
“Great!” replied Morris. “Fifteen minutes, I promise you no longer than that. Let’s go!”
He threw an arm around Jamie’s shoulder and led him toward the door. Jamie cast a look over his shoulder at Frankenstein, then they were through the doors and out of the mess.
Jamie was led down gray corridors to one of the elevators. While they waited for it to arrive, Morris talked incessantly, telling Jamie facts and figures about Department 19 that he knew he had absolutely no chance of remembering. Eventually, as his companion took a microscopic pause for breath, he interjected.
“Mr. Morris,” he said. “Where are we going?”
“Tom, please,” replied Morris. “I’m sorry, of course I should have told you already, I’m just a little excited. I hope it doesn’t show. We’re going to see our ancestors.”
“Our ancestors?”
“That’s right.”
The elevator doors opened, and Morris stepped inside. Jamie followed him, and they descended in silence, the excitement seeming to have either worn the Blacklight officer out or taken him over so completely that he could no longer speak at all.
They emerged on Level F, into a corridor as gray as all the rest, but mercifully Morris stopped at the first pair of doors on the left, tall smoked glass with the word ARCHIVES printed across them in black type.
There was a rush of air as the doors were pushed open, and Jamie’s arms broke out into goose bumps as the temperature dropped appreciably. The room was long and extremely wide, and looked like a cross between a library and a meat locker. Tendrils of cold air snaked around his ankles as he walked forward between two long metal sets of shelving. Racks of studded metal and clear plastic extended away on both sides to the distant walls. There were at least forty of them, and each one was loaded with books, folders and manuscripts, hidden behind clear plastic doors that each featured a small nine-digit keypad next to them.
At the other end of the room, the end that Morris was leading him toward, a glass partition separated the climate-controlled racks from a comfortable-looking study area; blond-wood tables and padded chairs, rows of computer terminals, and a wall of black filing cabinets. Morris slid open a glass door, and as they entered this area, Jamie felt warmth creep back into his skin. In the middle of the wall at the back of this second area was a large stone arch, beneath which was a heavy-looking wooden door. There was no keypad here, just an ornate brass handle, which Morris turned and, with an audible grunt, pushed the door open.
The atmosphere inside this final room was like that of a church. It was almost silent; the only noises that could be heard were their breathing and the clatter of their boots on the hardwood floor beneath them. The room was a narrow gallery, with dark red walls and ceiling. It was at least a hundred feet long, and the walls on both sides were covered in painted portraits. Jamie looked at the first one on his right and saw a young man looking down at him, his body at a quarter turn, his uniform identical to the one Jamie was now wearing, a small smile of what looked like pride creeping into the corners of his mouth. He looked at the gold plaque below the portrait and read what was engraved there. GEORGE HARKER, JR. 1981-2007
“What is this place?” he whispered.
“It’s the Fallen Gallery,” Morris replied, also lowering his voice as he did so.
“These are all the Blacklight operators who’ve died?”
Morris laughed, then put a hand over his mouth for a second, as if afraid he was about to be chastised for
