Free The Rhesus Chart by Charles Stross Page A

(When your gaming PC malfunctions it doesn’t stealthily dump core in your shoes.) But I have made my bed and I must lie in it, so I pencil in a date at the nearest RSPCA shelter for next Saturday.
    On the other hand, for the first time in nearly a month I don’t get to sleep on the sofa-bed in the spare room. So perhaps the worst is over.
     • • • 
    TWO DAYS LATER I’M IN THE OFFICE, WORKING ON A PILE OF virtual paperwork (you would not
believe
how many hoops you have to jump through to gain access to the NHS’s core statistical data warehouse if you’re not a sixteen-headed committee from a designated Strategic Health Authority), when there’s a knock on my door. I hit “save” and look up, then mash my finger on the button that flips the red “secret” light to green. (What I’m working on isn’t actually secret in the first place; just mildly embarrassing. But secrecy is a reflex.)
    “Come in,” I call as the door opens, then I do a double take. “Pete?”
    His head is swiveling like a bird-scarer, taking in my twelve square meters of squalor. “Bob? They told me you worked here, but I didn’t quite realize . . .”
    “Come in, sit down.”
    I suddenly realize there’s nowhere to sit—the visitor’s chair is currently occupied by three broken computers. The uppermost one is a floppy-disk-only 286 lunchbox that somebody forgot to check back into inventory in 1994: I’ve already spent a couple of days trying to figure out a way to legally decommission it, because current regulations insist that all computers must have their hard disk or SSD shredded and disposed of securely, and any exceptions require sign-off by a security audit team which was unfortunately dissolved two years ago. I sweep the detritus onto the floor and turn the chair to face him. “You’re, uh, well, you’re here now . . .”
    Pete sits on the edge of the chair, his expression somewhere between mildly puzzled and pained. “Yes,” he says, and waits.
    That’s when the
oh shit
moment hits me.
    “This is my fault,” I say in a small voice.
    “Is it really?” His expression brightens abruptly. “I thought you probably came into it somewhere along the line. Was it that fragment you sent me?”
    I sigh. “How long since they swept you up?”
    “About three weeks. I had a visit from a couple of polite gentlemen who asked me to sign the Official Secrets Act. In
blood
.” Pete is clearly mildly perturbed by this, as so he should be: his faith doesn’t have much room for sanguinary magic, unless you count holy communion. “Then they explained that you do secret work for the government and if I talk about it to outsiders without permission my eyeballs will boil. Is it true, Bob? I mean, how true
is
it?”
    I oscillate for a moment between a frantic urge to run for the hills, a residual instinctive urge to flannel Pete with half-truths, and the doleful realization that it’s probably best to tell him the unvarnished truth. That way there’s no room for misunderstandings later.
    “It’s mostly true, I’m afraid. This organization, the Laundry”—I’m watching his eyes for any sign of surprise, and I don’t see anything, which means he already knows too much for his own good—“is the part of the secret service that deals with occult and magical threats. I’ve worked here for some time. Since before I met Mo, actually.” (About twelve years ago.) “I’m a, a specialist.” I can’t quite bring myself to say
necromancer
to a vicar.
    “Well, I suppose that brings me to my next question. Mo—does she work here, too?”
    “Part-time,” I admit. “Yes, we’ve been holding out on you. We were required to, actually. We deal with stuff that’s best not talked about in public.”
    I watch him, but he doesn’t look surprised. He just sits there, marinating in the ambiance of my most secret office, nostrils flaring at the faint pong of
essence de spook
.
    I crack first. “If we talked about it, it would