The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [132]
“Shit,” I say again, startling myself. That’s it! That’s what I should have noticed earlier. The heroic pressure of the geas is no longer bearing down on me, skewing my perspective. I’m back to being myself again, the nerdy guy in the corner. In fact, it feels like I’m being squeezed into a state of fatalistic passivity, waiting for a rescuer to come get me out of this situation. The reason I feel so indecisive and like crap is, I’m going through cold turkey for heroism. Either that or the focus of the Hero trap has shifted—
I check the alarm clock again. It’s now ten past five. What did McMurray say? Sometime today. I pull out the chair and sit down in front of the Media Center PC. Jet Skis on C deck. They’re going to give me my phone back soon. What was the speed dial code? As soon as we’re untangled Charlie Victor is going to kill Billington. Gravedust systems. JENNIFER MORGUE isn’t as dead as McMurray seems to think. That’s the only explanation I can come up with for Billington’s behavior.
“Oh Jesus, we are so fucked,” I groan, and hit the boss key so I can see whether Mo, at least, is safe.
“IT’S LIKE THIS,” SAYS MO, CHECKING THE SEALS on her instrument case once more, “I can do it without attracting attention. Whereas, if you guys do it, you’re not exactly inconspicuous. So leave the job to me.”
She’s sitting on a gray metal platform slung over the side of a gray metal ship. A flashy-looking cigarette boat is tied up next to it, all white fiberglass and chromed trim until you get back to the enclosed cockpit and the two gigantic Mercury outboards in the tail. The man she’s talking to is wearing a wet suit, a bulletproof vest, and horn-rimmed spectacles. “What makes you think you can do it?” he asks, with barely concealed impatience.
“Because it’s what I’ve spent the past four bloody months training for, thank you very much.” She squints at the lock, then nods minutely and puts the case down. “And before you say it’s what you’ve spent the last twenty years specializing in, I’d like to remind you that there are any number of reasons why you shouldn’t go in first, starting with their occult defenses, which are my specialty. Then there’s the small matter of their point defense systems, starting with an Indian Navy sensor suite that Billington’s spent roughly fifty million on, upgrading to NATO current standards. The bigger the initial insertion the greater the risk that it’ll be spotted, and I don’t think you want them to realize they’re being stalked by a Royal Navy task group, do you?”
Barnes nods thoughtfully. “I think you underestimate how fast and hard we can hit them, but yes, it’s a calculated risk. But what makes you think you can do it alone?”
Mo shrugs. “I’m not going in without backup—that would be stupid.” She grins momentarily. “On the other hand, you know how this setup works. If I stay back at HQ it all goes pear-shaped. I think the smart money is riding on them already having retrieved JENNIFER MORGUE: the worst-case operational contingency is that, with Billington’s expertise in necro-cognitive decoding, he also knows how to make it work. I expect any first attempt we make to fail—unless I’m along for the ride and in a position to act out my assigned role in accordance with the geas he’s got running. I’m not trying to be sticky here, I’m just reading the rules.”
“Shit.” Barnes is silent for a moment, evidently running some sort of scenario through his mind’s eye. Then he nods briskly. “All right, you convinced me. One reservation: you’ve got a ten-minute lead, maximum, and not a second longer. If there’s even a hint of instability in the geas field, all bets are off and I’m taking both teams in immediately. Now, one last time—can you enumerate your priorities?”
“First, secure the field generator so Billington can’t shut