The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [26]
“Angleton.” Mo’s voice goes flat and cold, and the hair on the back of my neck rises. She blames Angleton for a lot of things, and it could turn very ugly if she decides to let it all hang out. “I should have guessed. It’s about time that bastard faced the music.”
“Don’t go after him!” I say urgently. “You’re not meant to know this. Remember, all you know is I’ve been sent off somewhere to do a job.”
“But you want me to keep my ear to the ground and listen for oncoming train wrecks.”
“That’s about the size of it. I’m missing you.”
“Love you, too.” A pause. “What is it about this spook that’s got you so upset?”
Whoops. I’m no good at hiding things from her, am I? “For starters she’s crazier than a legful of ferrets. She’s seriously bad magic, wearing a perpetual glamour—level three, if I’m any judge of such things. The only thing keeping her on track is the geas that ate Montana. She’s not a free actor. Actress.”
“Uh-huh. What else?”
I lick my lips. “Boris, um, applied some sort of destiny-entanglement protocol to us. I didn’t run away fast enough.”
“Destiny—what? Entanglement? What’s that?”
I take a deep breath. “I’m not sure, but I’d appreciate it if you could find out and tell me. Because whatever it is, it’s scaring me.”
IT’S STILL EARLY IN THE EVENING, BUT MY ENCOUNTER with Ramona has shaken me, and I don’t much want to run into Pinky and Brains again (if they haven’t already packed up and left: there’s quite a lot of banging coming from next door). I decide to hole up in my room and lick my wounded dignity, so I order up a cardboard cheeseburger from room service, have a long soak under the shower, watch an infinitely forgettable movie on cable, and turn in for the night.
I don’t usually remember my dreams because they’re mostly surreal and/or incomprehensible—two-headed camels stealing my hovercraft, bat-winged squid gods explaining why I ought to accept job offers from Microsoft, that sort of thing—so what makes this one stand out is its sheer gritty realism. Dreaming that I’m me is fine. So is dreaming that I’m an employee of a vast software multinational, damned and enslaved by an ancient evil. But dreaming that I’m an overweight fifty-something German sales executive from an engineering firm in Düsseldorf is so far off the map that if I wasn’t asleep I’d pinch myself.
I’m at a regional sales convention and I’ve been drinking and living large. I like these conferences: I can get away from Hilda and cut loose, party like a young thing again. The awards dinner is over and I split off with a couple of younger fellows I know vaguely, which is how we end up in the casino. I don’t usually gamble much but I’m on a winning streak at the wheel, and all the ladies love a winning streak; between the brandy, the Cohiba panatelas, and the babe who’s attached herself to my shoulder—a call girl, natürlich, but classy—I’m having the time of my life. She leans against me and suggests I might cash in my winnings, and this strikes me as a good idea. After all, if I keep gambling, my streak will end sooner or later, won’t it? Let it pay for her tonight.
We’re in the lift, heading up to my room on the fourteenth floor, and she’s nuzzling up against me. I haven’t felt smooth flesh like this in . . . too long. Hilda was never like that and since the kids the only side of her body she’s shown me is the sharp edge of her tongue: serves her right if I enjoy myself once in a while. The babe’s got her arms around me inside my jacket and I can feel her body through her dress. Wow. This has been a day to remember! We cuddle some more and I lead her to my room, tiptoeing—she’s giggling quietly, telling me not to make a noise, not to disturb the neighbors—and I get the door open and she tells me to go wait in the bathroom while she gets ready. How much does she want? I ask. She shakes her head and says, Two hundred but only if I’m happy. Well, how can I refuse an offer like that?
In