Free The Apocalypse Codex by Charles Stross Page A

hand.
    Gosh. He’s offering to shake hands . For a moment I hesitate and almost glance over my shoulder to see who’s behind me: then we shake.
    “I trust you had a good weekend, Mr. Howard? Recovered from last week’s dog and pony show?”
    I roll my eyes. “It was very educational.” I am officially educated: it says so right there on my personnel record. I’m not sure I learned anything, but that wasn’t exactly the object of the exercise. “It’s good to be back at work.”
    He gestures at one of the visitor chairs—opposite his desk, not off to one side, I note. “Have a seat.” I sit down; it’s better than standing. “I suppose you’re probably wondering what this is about. And if you’ve got any sense, you’re wondering why it involves you . Aren’t you?”
    His manner is precise, fussy with an edge of ex-military discipline to it. But thanks to last Monday evening’s encounter I knew what to expect, so I ironed my trousers and wore a clean and un-scuffed pair of trainers. I see the ghost of a frown of disapproval at my lack of a tie, but he’s almost making a point of not mentioning it. Which is interesting in its own right. “Yes, I’m curious. I’ve never been assigned to Externalities before. Or worked with your people.” I draw the line at asking What exactly is it that you do? Sometimes people can be a bit touchy about that sort of thing.
    “Your reluctance to sound ignorant does you credit, but there really is no reason to dissemble, Mr. Howard.” Lockhart’s cheek twitches, nudging the hindquarters of the hairy caterpillar that is sleeping on his upper lip. “There’s no reason for you to have heard of Externalities, and every reason why you shouldn’t; need to know and all that.” He clears his throat. “You’ve been to see Angleton, of course. What did he tell you about me?”
    That’s easy: “He didn’t.”
    “Good.” Lockhart’s sudden smile is feral. “And what does that tell you? Feel free to speculate.”
    “Oh?” Now I glance round, just in case a couple of blue suits from Operational Oversight have sneaked in behind me. “Well…Externalities is a really suggestive name for a small subdepartment, isn’t it? Utterly ambiguous—meaningless, really. There’s a box on the org chart under Facilities, and a couple of dotted lines leading to Ways and Means and Human Resources, and that’s it . Small staff, boringly mundane subdivision of the paperclip police. Nobody would ever look twice at it, except…”
    “Yes?”
    I take a deep breath. “You’re borrowing Angleton’s assistant. I think that says it all, doesn’t it?”
    “Don’t get above yourself, Mr. Howard.” His smug expression belies his tone. “Just so that you know where you stand, everything I am about to tell you about this particular asset is classified BASHFUL INCENDIARY. Dr. Angleton is on the approved list, and—now—so are you. Your line manager (that would be Mr. Hinchliffe this month, would it not?) is not so cleared. Neither are your barber, your wife, or your pet cat, and I’d appreciate your cooperation in not spreading the magic circle. Under pain of your oath of office.”
    I nod, jerkily. This is some heavy shit he’s drawing down. The oath of office here in the Laundry is rather draconian: forfeiting your eternal soul is only the beginning. “Uh. You asked for me for a reason. Can I ask why?”
    “Hmm. I did not ask for you. You were recommended , and after due discussion it was agreed that you were eminently qualified for, and in need of the management experience that you can gain in, this posting.”
    Management experience? I feel an oh-shit moment coming on. “Um. Question mark?”
    “Here in Externalities, we monitor organizational assets that are largely outside the usual lines of control—beyond regular management.” Lockhart smiles blandly.
    “Paperclips? Attached to interdepartmental memos?” That’s improbable enough on the face of it. Most intelligence