The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [159]
“Only six?” I lean forwards.
“Yes. Six hours.” She taps the memo again. “Bob. What are we paying you for?”
I shrug. “To put the hack into hack-and-slay.”
“Yes, Bob, we’re paying you to search online role-playing games for threats to national security. But you only averaged four hours a day last week . . . isn’t this rather a poor use of your time?”
SAVE ME FROM AMBITIOUS BUREAUCRATS. THIS IS the Laundry, the last overmanned organization of the civil service in London, and they’re everywhere—trying to climb the greasy pole, playing snakes and ladders with the org chart, running esoteric counterespionage operations in the staff toilets, and rationing the civil service tea bags. I guess it serves Mahogany Row’s purposes to keep them running in circles and distracting one another, but sometimes it gets in the way. Emma MacDougal is by no means the worst of the lot: she’s just a starchy Human Resources manager on her way up, stymied by the full promotion ladder above her. But she’s trying to butt in and micromanage inside my department (that is, inside Angleton’s department), and just to show how efficient she is, she’s actually been reading my time sheets and trying to stick her oar in on what I should be doing.
To get out of MacDougal’s office I had to explain three times that my antiquated workstation kept crashing and needed a system rebuild before she’d finally take the hint. Then she said something about sending me some sort of administrative assistant—an offer that I tried to decline without causing mortal offense. Sensing an opening, I asked if she could provide a budget line item for a new computer—but she spotted where I was coming from and cut me dead, saying that wasn’t in HR’s remit, and that was the end of it.
ANYWAY, I’M NOW LOOKING AT MY WATCH AND IT turns out that it’s getting on for lunch. I’ve lost another morning’s prime gaming time. So I head back to my office, and just as I’m about to open the door I hear a rustling, crunching sound coming from behind it, like a giant hamster snacking down on trail mix. I can’t express how disturbing this is. Rodent menaces from beyond space-time aren’t supposed to show up during my meetings with HR, much less hole up in my office making disturbing noises. What’s going on?
I rapidly consider my options, discarding the most extreme ones (Facilities takes a dim view of improvised ordnance discharges on Government premises), and finally do the obvious. I push the door open, lean against the battered beige filing cabinet with the jammed drawer, and ask, “Who are you and what are you doing to my computer?”
I intend the last phrase to come out as an ominous growl, but it turns into a strangled squeak of rage. My visitor looks up at me from behind my monitor, eyes black and beady, and cheek-pouches stuffed with—ah, there’s an open can of Pringles sitting on my in-tray. “Yuh?”
“That’s my computer.” I’m breathing rapidly all of a sudden, and I carefully set my coffee mug down next to the light-sick petunia so that I don’t drop it by accident. “Back away from the keyboard, put down the mouse, and nobody needs to get hurt.” And most especially, my sixth-level cleric-sorcerer gets to keep all his experience points and gold pieces without some munchkin intruder selling them all on a dodgy auction site and re-skilling me as an exotic dancer with chloracne.
It must be my face; he lifts up his hands and stares at me nervously, then swallows his cud of potato crisps. “You must be Mr. Howard?”
I begin to get an inkling. “No, I’m the grim fucking reaper.” My eyes take in more telling details: his sallow skin, the acne and straggly goatee beard. Ye gods and little demons, it’s like looking in a time-traveling mirror. I grin nastily. “I asked you once and I won’t ask you again: Who are you?”
He gulps. “I’m Pete. Uh, Pete Young. I was told to come here by Andy, uh, Mr. Newstrom. He says I’m your new intern.”
“My new what . . . ?” I trail off. Andy, you’re a bastard! But I repeat myself. “Intern. Yeah, right. How long have you been