The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [120]
I AM JUST BEGINNING TO GET MY HEAD AROUND the fact that Mo is not only out here, but she’s a player—and she isn’t going to follow Angleton’s instructions—when there’s a pounding on my door. I hammer the boss key and spin round in my chair, slamming one leather-padded arm into my right kidney as I try to stand up; then the door opens and the black beret is pointing his mirrorshades at me, lips set in a disapproving scowl. “Mr. Howard, you’re wanted on deck.”
I scramble to my feet dizzily, wincing and rubbing my side. It’s probably a good thing I whacked it—I don’t think I could avoid looking disturbed or guilty if I wasn’t actually in physical pain. I don’t know what the hell Mo thinks she’s doing, but it doesn’t look like she’s planning on following orders and going to the mattresses until Alan calls for her. And what’s Alan doing here anyway? I wonder as I follow the two guards up the stairs to the deck.
Angleton only calls Alan in when there’s some serious head-breaking to be done. He’s OIC for the Territorial SAS squadron tasked with supporting Occult Operations in the field—some of the scariest—not to mention most eccentric—special forces soldiers in the British Army. I’ve been along for the ride when they went right through a rip in space-time to head-butt an ancient evil that was threatening to squirm through; I’ve seen them secure an industrial estate in Milton Keynes with a suspected basilisk on the loose; and I’ve had the dubious pleasure of being rescued by them on exercise at Dunwich. Maybe Angleton’s sent the heavy cavalry, I decide, hopefully: it’s easier to swallow than the alternative, which is that Angleton’s written me off as beyond hope and has called them in for Plan B.
The guard up front surprises me when we get to deck level, by turning away from the door to the conservatory and instead opening a hatch onto a narrow green-painted corridor leading aft. “This way,” he tells me, while his backup guy hangs behind.
“Okay, I’m going,” I say, as agreeably as I can manage. “But where are we going to?”
Mirrorshades man opens a door at the far end of the tunnel and steps through. “HQ,” he says over his shoulder.
I emerge, blinking, onto a stretch of deck I hadn’t seen before, sandwiched between a big outboard motorboat and a whole bunch of gray cylinders sticking out of the superstructure beneath a rack of masts and antennae. The motorboat hangs from some sort of crane affair. It’s getting crowded here: the space is already occupied by Ramona, in company with McMurray, his designer-clad thugette Miss Todt, and a couple more black berets. “Ah, Mr. Howard.” McMurray nods at me. “Feel up to a little cruise?”
“Where are you—”
My guard pokes me in the back with a finger. “Jump in.” The black berets on deck are setting up a control station for the crane. McMurray gestures at the boat: “This won’t take long. We’re nearly there.”
“Where are we going?
“To the Explorer.” McMurray seems to be in a hurry. “Go on, it doesn’t do to be late.”
“Come on.” That’s Todt. She clambers over the motorboat’s side and jumps down inside.
Ramona follows her, not without a murderous look at McMurray. ★★Can you—?★★ I begin to think, then I realize I can’t hear her inside my head. Shit. I glance round and the guard who led me up here nods significantly at the boat. Double-shit. They must have come up with a portable version of the jammer they used on me and Ramona last night. I climb over the side of the boat and sit down next to Ramona, at the opposite side from Todt and McMurray.
“Where’s the jammer?” I ask quietly.
“I think he’s got it.” She doesn’t meet my eyes. “They don’t trust us.”
“If our positions were reversed, would you?” asks Johanna. I startle. She smiles: it’s not a friendly expression.
“I’d trust you anywhere, darling,” says Ramona: “I’d trust you to fuck up.”
“You—” Todt turns a peculiar shade, as if she