The Atrocity Archives (35 page)

One unwilling foot goes down in front of
another. I keep an eye on my dosimeter, just in case: there's not going
to be much secondary radiation hereabouts, but you can never tell. The
first of the cows looms up at me out of the darkness. She's painted
black and white, and this close up there's no mistaking her for a
sculpture. I pat her on the nose. "Stay cool, Daisy." I should be
safely tucked up in bed with Mo—but she's away on a two-week training
seminar at Dunwich and Angleton got a bee in his bonnet and called a
code blue emergency. The cuffs of my jeans are
damp with dew, and it's cold. I reach the next cow, pause, and lean on
its rump for a zoom shot of the target.

"Ground zero, range twenty metres. Subject is
bovine, down, clearly terminal. Length is roughly three metres,
breed … unidentifiable. The grass around it is
charred but there's no sign of secondary combustion." I dry-swallow.
"Thermal bloom from abdomen." There's a huge rip in its belly where
the
boiling intestinal fluids exploded, and the contents are probably still
glowing red-hot inside.

I approach the object. It's clearly the remains
of a cow; equally clearly it has met a most unpleasant end. The
dosimeter says it's safe—most of the radiation effects from this sort
of thing are prompt, there are minimal secondary products, luckily—but
the ground underneath is scorched and the hide has blackened and
charred to a gritty, ashlike consistency. There's a smell like roast
beef hanging in the air, with an unpleasant undertang of something
else. I fumble in my shoulder bag and pull out a thermal probe, then,
steeling myself, shove the sharp end in through the rip in the abdomen.
I nearly burn my hand on the side as I do so—it's like standing too
close to an open oven.

"Core temperature two six six, two six
seven … stable. Taking core samples for isotope
ratio checks." I pull out a sample tube and a sharp probe and dig
around in the thing's guts, trying to tease a chunk of ashy, charred
meat loose. I feel queasy: I like a well-cooked steak as much as the
next guy, but there's something deeply wrong about this whole scene. I
try not to notice the exploded eyeballs or the ruptured tongue bursting
through the blackened lips. This job is quite gross enough as it is
without adding my own dry heaves to the mess.

Samples safely bottled for analysis, I back away
and walk in a wide circle around the body, recording it from all
angles. An open gate at the far end of the field and a trail of
impressions in the ground completes the picture. "Hypothesis: open
gate. Someone let Daisy in, walked her to this position
near the herd, then backed off. Daisy was then illuminated and exposed
to a class three or better basilisk, whether animate or simulated. We
need a plausible disinformation pitch, forensics workover of the
paddock gate and fence—check for exit signs and footprints—and some
way
of identifying Daisy to see which herd she came from. If any livestock
is reported missing over the next few days that would be a useful
indicator. Meanwhile, core temperature is down to under five hundred
Celsius. That suggests the incident happened at least a few hours
ago—it takes a while for something the size of a cow to cool down that
far. Since the basilisk has obviously left the area and there's not a
lot more I can do, I'm now going to call in the cleaners. End."

I switch off the camcorder, slide it into my
pocket, and take a deep breath. The next bit promises to be even less
pleasant than sticking a thermocouple in the cow's arse to see how long
ago it was irradiated. I pull out my mobile phone and dial 999.
"Operator? Police despatch, please. Police despatch? This is Mike
Tango
Five, repeat, Mike Tango Five. Is Inspector Sullivan available? I have
an urgent call for him … "

REPORT 3: Friday October 9th, 1942

CLASSIFIED TOP SECRET GAME ANDES,
Ministry of War, October 9th, 1942

RECLASSIFIED TOP SECRET REDSHIFT,
Ministry of Defense, August 13th, 1988

ACTION THIS DAY:

Three reports have reached SOE
Department Two, office 337/42, shedding new light on the recent
activities of Dr. Ing Professor Gustaf Von Schachter in conjunction
with RSHA Amt. 3 and the inmates of the Holy Nativity Hospital for the
Incurably Insane.

Our first report ref. 531/892-(i)
concerns the cessation of action by a detached unit of RSHA Amt. 3
Group 4 charged with termination of imbeciles and mental defectives in
Frankfurt as part of the Reich's
ongoing eugenics program. An agent in place (code: GREEN PIGEON)
overheard two soldiers discussing the cessation of euthanasia
operations in the clinic in negative terms. Herr Von Schachter had, as
of 24/8/42, acquired a Führer Special Order signed
either by Hitler or
Borman. This was understood by the soldiers to charge him with the
authority to requisition any military resources not concerned with
direct security of the Reich or suppression of resistance, and to
override orders with the effective authority of an
obergruppenführer.
This mandate runs in conjunction with his existing authority from Dr.
Wolfram Sievers, who is believed to be operating the Institute for
Military Scientific Research at the University of Strasbourg and the
processing centre at Natzweiler concentration camp.

Our second report ref. 539/504-(i)
concerns prescriptions dispensed by a pharmacy in Frankfurt for an
unnamed doctor from the Holy Nativity Hospital. The pharmaceutical
assistant at this dispensary is a sympathiser operated by BLUE
PARTRIDGE and is considered trustworthy. The prescriptions
requisitioned were unusual in that they consisted of bolus preparations
for intrathecal (base of cranium) injection, containing colchicine, an
extract of catharanthides, and morphine. Our informant opined that this
is a highly irregular preparation which might be utilized in the
treatment of certain brain tumours, but which is likely to cause
excruciating pain and neurological side effects (ref. GAME ANDES)
associated with induction of gorgonism in latent individuals suffering
an astrocytoma in the cingulate gyrus.

Our final report ref. 539/504-(ii)
comes from the same informant and confirms ominous preparatory
activities in the Holy Nativity Hospital grounds. The hospital is now
under guard by soldiers of Einsatzgruppen 4. Windows have been
whitewashed,
mirrors
are being removed (our emphasis)
or replaced with one-way observation glass, and lights in the solitary
cells rewired for external control from behind two doors. Most of the
patients have disappeared, believed removed by Group 4 soldiers, and
rumours are circulating of a new area of disturbed earth in the
countryside nearby. Those patients who remain are under close guard.

Conclusion
: The preparation
referenced in 539/504-(i) has been referred to Special Projects Group
ANDES, who have verified against records of the suppressed Geiger
Committee that Von Schachter is experimenting with drugs similar to the
catastrophic Cambridge IV preparation. Given his associate Sievers's
influence in the Ahnenerbe-SS, and the previous use of the Holy
Nativity Hospital for the Incurably Insane as a secondary centre for
the paliative care of patients suffering seizures and other
neuraesthenic symptoms, it is believed likely that Von Schachter
intends to induce and control gorgonism for military purposes in
explicit violation of the provisions for the total suppression of
stoner weapons laid out in Secret Codicil IV to the Hague Convention
(1919).

Policy Recommendation
: This
matter should be escalated to JIC as critical with input from SOE on
the feasibility of a targeted raid on the installation. If allowed to
proceed, Von Schachter's program shows significant potential for
development into one of the rumoured
Vertlesgunswaffen
programs
for deployment against civilian populations in free areas. A number of
contingency plans for the deployment of gorgonism on a mass observation
basis have existed in a MOW file since the early 1920s and we must now
consider the prospects for such weapons to be deployed against us. We
consider essential an immediate strike against the most advanced
development centres, coupled with a strong reminder through diplomatic
back channels that failure to comply with all clauses (secret and
overt) of the Hague Convention
will
result in an allied
retaliatory deployment of poison gas against
German civilian targets. We cannot run the risk of class IV basilisks
being deployed in conjunction with strategic air
power … 

By the time I roll into the office, four hours
late and yawning with sleep deprivation, Harriet is hopping around the
common room as if her feet are on fire, angrier than I've ever seen her
before. Unfortunately, according to the matrix management system we
operate she's my boss for 30 percent of the time during which I'm a
technical support engineer. (For the other 70 percent I report to
Angleton and I can't really tell you
what
I am except that it
involves being yanked out of bed at zero four hundred hours to answer
code blue alerts.)

Harriet is a back-office suit: mousy and skinny,
forty-something, and dried up from spending all those years devising
forms in triplicate with which to terrorize field agents. People like
Harriet aren't supposed to get excited about anything. The effect is
disconcerting, like opening a tomb and finding a break-dancing mummy.

"Robert! Where on earth have you been? What kind
of time do you call this? McLuhan's been waiting on you—you were
supposed to be here for the licence policy management committee meeting
two hours ago!"

I yawn and sling my jacket over the coat rack
next to the "C" department coffee station. "Been called out," I
mumble. "Code blue alert. Just got back from Milton Keynes."

"Code blue?" she asks, alert for a slip. "Who
signed off on it?"

"Angleton." I hunt around for my mug in the
cupboard over the sink, the one with the poster on the front that says
CURIOUS EYES COST LIVES
. The coffee machine is
mostly empty, full of black tarry stuff alarmingly similar to the toxic
waste they make roads out of. I hold it under the tap and rinse. "His
budget, don't worry about it. Only he pulled me out of bed at four in
the morning and sent me off to"—I put the jug down to refill the
coffee
filter—"never mind. It's cleared."

Harriet looks as if she's bitten into a biscuit
and found half a beetle inside. I'm pretty sure that it's not anything
special; she and her boss Bridget simply have no higher goal in life
than trying to cut everyone else down so they can look them in the eye.
Although, to be fair, they've been acting more cagy than usual lately,
hiding out in meetings with strange suits from other departments. It's
probably just part of their ongoing game of Bureaucracy, whose goal is
the highest stakes of all—a fully vested Civil Service pension and
early retirement. "What was it about?" she demands.

"Do you have GAME ANDES REDSHIFT clearance?" I
ask. "If not, I can't tell you."

"But you were in Milton Keynes," she jabs. "You
told me that."

"Did I?" I roll my eyes. "Well, maybe, and maybe
not. I couldn't possibly comment."

"What's so interesting about Milton Keynes?" she
continues.

"Not much." I shrug. "It's made of concrete and
it's very, very boring."

She relaxes almost imperceptibly. "Make sure you
get all the paperwork filed and billed to the right account," she
tells
me.

"I will have before I leave this afternoon at
two," I reply, rubbing in the fact that I'm on flexitime; Angleton's a
much more alarming, but also understanding, manager to work for. Due to
the curse of matrix management I can't weasel out completely from under
Bridget's bony thumb, but I must confess I get a kick out of having my
other boss pull rank on her. "What was this meeting about?" I ask
slyly, hoping she'll rise to it.

"You should know, you're the administrator who
set up the mailing list," she throws right back at me.
Oops.
"Mr. McLuhan's here to help us. He's from Q Division, to help us
prepare for our Business Software Alliance audit."

"Our—" I stop dead and turn to face her, the
coffee machine gurgling at my back. "Our audit with
who
?"

"The Business Software Alliance," she says
smugly. "CESG outsourced our COTS application infrastructure five
months ago contingent on us following official best practices for
ensuring quality and value in enterprise resource management. As you
were
too busy
to look after things, Bridget asked Q Division to
help out. Mr. McLuhan is helping us sort out our licencing arrangements
in line with guidelines from Procurement. He says he's able to run a
full BSA-certified audit on our systems and help us get our books in
order."

"Oh," I say, very calmly, and turn around,
mouthing the follow-on
shit
silently in the direction of the
now-burbling percollator. "Have you ever been through a BSA audit
before, Harriet?" I ask curiously as I scrub my mug clean, inside and
out.

"No, but they're here to help us audit our—"

"They're funded by the big desktop software
companies," I say, as calmly as I can. "They do that because they
view
the BSA as a
profit centre.
That's because the BSA or their
subcontractors—and that's what Q Division will be acting as, they get
paid for running an audit if they find anything out of order—come in,
do an audit, look for
anything
that isn't currently
licensed—say, those old machines in D3 that are still running Windows
3.1 and Office 4, or the Linux servers behind Eric's desk that keep the
departmental file servers running, not to mention the FreeBSD box
running the Daemonic Countermeasures Suite in Security—and demand an
upgrade to the latest version under threat of lawsuit. Inviting them in
is like throwing open the doors and inviting the Drugs Squad round for
a spliff."