Free The Annihilation Score by Charles Stross Page A

Admiralty my cheek is twitching and, if I had my choice of superpowers, I would cheerfully sell my soul for the ability to turn my driver’s head into a cafetière.
    I’m so tense by the time we arrive that I forget to ask for a receipt when I pay. But swearing won’t help and I don’t feel like running after the taxi, so I make my way stiffly to the front desk, where a splendidly uniformed doorman waits behind a desk carved from the timbers ofan eighteenth-century man-o-war. I present my warrant card: “Dr. O’Brien. I’m here for a meeting in room 4102.”
    It sounds so much better than
disciplinary hearing
.
    â€œIf you’d care to sign here, ma’am . . . now stare into the camera, just for a second.” It’s one of the ubiquitous eyeball-on-a-stalk webcams, disquietingly like something I once met in a hotel hallway in Amsterdam. I try to will the lens to crack, but I’m not quite ugly enough. “Jolly good, now I’m just going to print you out a badge. Remember to wear it at all times and return it when you leave. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave those bags here. You can check them into the cloak room, but I’m afraid we’ll have to scan them—”
    â€œYou can take the suitcase, but the violin has to stay with me.” I put it on the desk. “You’re welcome to inspect it right here, but I can’t let it out of my possession. It’s rather valuable.” I tense up, anticipating a fight.
    â€œReally?” He smiles over gilt-framed half-moon glasses. “Well, if you insist, I can hand search it.” Bless the Corps of Commissionaires: they’re ex-military enough to know when to bend the rules.
    We deposit my suitcase, I show him Lecter and let him hand-check the sides and back of the case, then I take my badge and go in search of the borrowed conference room.
    It’s funny how the mere anticipation of a verbal confrontation can be worse than life-and-death combat: my stomach is hollow and chest a little fluttery. The floors in this building are paved in Italian marble, uncarpeted, utterly lethal if you slip, and liable to cause permanent hearing damage if you walk on them for too long in heels. It’s enough to make me long for the beige institutional carpet of the New Annex—
    And then I’m standing in front of a pair of imposing black double doors framed by Corinthian columns, surmounted by an arch with painted putti blowing on the sails of ships of the line. I take a deep breath and knock, twice.
    Vikram opens the door; he looks nearly as nervous as I feel. “Oh good, we were getting worried,” he says.
Worried?
    â€œIs there a problem?” I ask cautiously.
    â€œYes, we’ve been running interference from upstairs, but . . .” He steps backwards. “Come on in. We have coffee and refreshments.”
    I follow him into the room. It’s about the size of an aircraft carrier’s hangar deck, with baroque gilt-encrusted benches and side-tables drawn up against wood-paneled walls that have fossilized under the weight of their decorative plasterwork. The floor-to-ceiling windows admit a waterfall of golden afternoon light that floods the room and washes across a hand-woven Persian carpet that must have cost a prince’s ransom.
    â€œAh, Dr. O’Brien.” I nearly jump out of my skin: It’s Dr. Michael (never a Mike) Armstrong, the Senior Auditor. He smiles like a tired crocodile. “What a relief. Are you well?”
    I manage not to stagger under the weight of his regard: he actually looks
concerned
. “Have you spoken to Bob this morning?” I ask.
    â€œYes—wait, not since the early hours.” His left eyebrow wrinkles. “Is something the matter?”
    â€œUm.” I glance round. He’s brought a couple of admin bodies I don’t know, but some faces I expected to see are absent. “Yes, but I’m