Department 19: Zero Hour (10 page)

“It’s all true,” said Justin, tearing his gaze away from the screen and fixing Simon with a solemn expression. “I’m sure of it. It fits together too well to be anything else. Blacklight are real, just like Kevin McKenna said they were, before someone killed him. They’re real, and we found them.”

“Send it,” said Simon. “The images, the links, the whole thing. Send it and let’s see what happens.”

Justin opened an email and began copying and pasting the images and URLs, feeling a trickle of excitement make its way up from his stomach, a trickle that felt like it was on the verge of exploding into a roaring torrent. When the attachments and links were in place, he wrote three words in the subject line.

Check this out

Justin clicked on the RECIPIENTS field. “Who should I send it to?” he asked.

Simon smiled. “I think everyone in the PhD programme would be a good start.”

“Every PhD candidate in the college?” asked Justin.

“In the university,” said Simon. “The entire university.”

Justin reached for the keyboard, then paused. “I’m logged in as me,” he said. “They’re going to know I sent it.”

Simon shrugged. “Log out and send it from a public access account. But you did the searches from your login, so I reckon you’re already screwed if someone decides to take a close look.”

“Thanks,” said Justin. “That’s really reassuring.”

“Just send it, you pussy,” said Simon, and clapped his friend hard on the back. “Do you want to live forever?”

“That was the plan,” said Justin, forcing a weak smile. He loaded an email group called CAM_EDU/PHD/ALL, took a deep breath, and clicked SEND.

“Done,” he said, and exhaled loudly. “It’s out there.”

“Awesome,” said Simon. “Now we wait.”

“For what?” asked Justin.

Simon smiled. “For the shit to hit the fan, mate. That’s what.”

Jamie Carpenter paced back and forth in the lift as it rose steadily through the Loop, trying to convince himself not to be angry with his mother and Frankenstein.

You know where it comes from. You know it’s them worrying about you, wanting to protect you. You know it isn’t as patronising as it sounded.

He
did
know that, deep in his heart, and in his bones. But it did nothing to dampen the fire that was threatening to burst through him and burn everything in its path.

Looking for a father figure to replace Dad. Such bullshit.

Jamie had told the truth in his mother’s cell; for a long time, he had been furious with his dad for leaving them, but had reached a place where he had been able to forgive him. He had never believed the stories that had been spread about Julian, about the plot he had supposedly been involved in, but there had clearly been
something
going on that he and his mother had been in the dark about. Now he knew what, he was able to understand, and forgive.

What still made him angry was the posthumous canonisation of his father; he was discussed in revered tones as some kind of superman, a legendary Operator, one of the great men of his generation. Which may all have been true – in fact, part of Jamie hoped it was – but did nothing to lessen his belief that his dad’s death had been completely avoidable. The frame that Tom Morris had placed round him had clearly looked convincingly damning, but Jamie didn’t believe that it could have withstood serious investigation, not with the resources the Department had at its disposal. If his dad had turned himself in to any of the men Jamie had suggested to Frankenstein, he was certain the truth would have been uncovered. Which might have meant that the whole chain of events that had seen his mother turned into a vampire and Frankenstein turned into a werewolf played out differently, or not at all.

Instead, Julian had run for home, attempting to deal with the threat on his own instead of asking for help, and had been killed by the very men who would have stood beside him if he had given them the chance. His behaviour had been reckless, and stupid, and entirely predictable; he had walked right into Tom Morris’s trap, the opening move of a plot that would not be fully revealed until a dark night on Lindisfarne, more than two years later.

He should be here now, helping me through this. Not dead because he was too stupid to trust the Department he gave his life to.

Jamie had lied to his mum about one thing: he did miss his dad, terribly so at times. But the torture had not yet been devised that would have compelled him to admit so to anyone.

The lift doors slid open on Level A. He stepped out and set off on a walk he could have done blindfold; he had long since lost count of how many times he had been summoned to the same small suite of rooms, occupied first by Henry Seward and now by Cal Holmwood. As he strode down familiar corridors, he allowed himself a moment to dwell on the other thing he had overheard as he stood outside his mother’s cell, the thing that had
really
made his blood boil.

How dare they talk like that about Larissa? And Frankenstein claiming it’s just some clichéd teenage rebellion? How dare he? How dare either of them?

Jamie strode round the corner, nodded to the Security Operator, and pushed open the door to the Interim Director’s quarters. Cal Holmwood looked up from behind the mountain range of files and folders that seemed to permanently cover the surface of his desk, and beckoned him forward.

“Jamie,” he said. “Christ, get in here. Give me an excuse to stop all this bloody reading.”

Jamie grinned, feeling his anger start to subside. “Aren’t you enjoying life behind a desk, sir?”

“Watch it, Lieutenant,” said Holmwood, but he was smiling as he spoke. “I’ve threatened to have you court-martialled more times than I can remember. Don’t make me actually go through with it.”

“Sorry, sir,” said Jamie. He walked across the room and stood at ease in front of the Interim Director’s desk. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes,” said Holmwood. “That’s why I sent you a message telling you to come and see me. Was that too subtle for you?”

Jamie’s smile widened. “Apparently so, sir.”

“I’ll use shorter words next time,” said Holmwood. “I’m going to activate your squad today, if you tell me they’re ready. That’s why I wanted to see you.”

“They’re ready, sir,” said Jamie, instantly. His stomach had already contracted into a tight ball of excitement at the thought of returning to the active roster, of being back out there helping the Department instead of stuck in the Playground watching Ellison and Qiang being run ragged by Terry, the fabled Blacklight instructor.

“Glad to hear it,” said Holmwood, his smile fading ever so slightly. “What about you?”

Jamie frowned. “Me, sir?”

“A member of your last squad died, Jamie,” said Holmwood. “It wasn’t your fault, but it’s the kind of thing that can stay with an Operator for a long time. I need to know that you’ve let what happened to John Morton go.”

An image flashed into Jamie’s mind, unbidden; Morton, dead, his face a mask of agony, his guts piled beneath him as he hung suspended in a room soaked with petrol. He pushed it away, back into the dark corner of his memory where it was stored, never to be entirely forgotten.

“I have, sir,” said Jamie. “Morton was a good man, but he was a rookie who was a bad fit as an Operator. I tried to save him, and when I failed, I mourned him. Ellison did the same, and then we moved on, sir. Like we had to.”

Holmwood stared, his pale green eyes fixed on Jamie’s. “I hear what you’re saying,” he said. “And I have no doubt you mean it. But there’s still—”

“I’m sorry, sir,” interrupted Jamie. “But you’ll recall that I tried to have John Morton removed from the active roster several times. He was an unhappy ending waiting to happen, sir.”

The comment was a pointed one, and Jamie saw that its sharp edge had not been lost on the Interim Director; it had been Holmwood who had refused Jamie’s initial request to deactivate Morton, and who had only grudgingly agreed after a civilian girl had died. His smile disappeared entirely and his eyes narrowed.

“Is there something you want to say to me, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Jamie replied. “Qiang Li has been a PBS6 Operator for three years, with a flawless record. He’s nothing like John Morton, who was a man trying to prove he could handle something he couldn’t. I’m fine, sir, Qiang is good, and Ellison is great, really she is. She’s going to sit in your chair one day.”

Holmwood grunted. “She’s more than welcome to it,” he said. “Tell her she can start tomorrow if she likes.”

“I’m afraid I need her, sir,” said Jamie, smiling at his commanding officer.

“Fair enough,” said Holmwood. “So you’re telling me I have nothing to worry about. Am I hearing you correctly?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jamie. “I mean, there’s still Zero Hour and Admiral Seward and the Broadmoor escapees and the regular vamps getting bolder every day because Kevin McKenna told the whole world they exist, but as far as my squad is concerned, you have nothing to worry about.”

Holmwood burst out laughing, and Jamie joined in; sometimes there was nothing else to do but let the darkness be damned. Jamie would not have given good odds on himself, the Interim Director, or the building they were standing in, still existing in six months’ time, let alone a year. But he was certain of one thing: that his friends and colleagues, and all the other men and women who wore the black uniform of the Department, would give everything they had, everything that they were, to hold back the tide as long as possible.

They would succeed, or they would die trying.

“I might as well not bother activating your squad,” said Holmwood, grinning widely. “The three of you should probably just go on holiday instead.”

“That’s kind of you, sir,” said Jamie. “I’ve always wanted to go to California.”

“California’s nice,” said Holmwood. “But I was thinking more along the lines of grid reference 67-87?”

Jamie nodded. “Sounds lovely, sir.”

“Good,” said Holmwood. “Patrol Respond at 1800. I want a detailed performance evaluation of your new squad on my desk in the morning. And don’t roll your eyes and tell me that it’s just a Patrol Respond, because I know that, and I still want the report by 0900. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jamie. “It’s clear.”

Holmwood sighed. “Good. Your new squad’s designation is J-5. Go and tell Qiang and Ellison the news and leave me to my reading. If Dracula does take over the world, maybe he’ll need a secretary. I’m starting to feel like that’s mostly what this job is. Dismissed.”

Jamie nodded and headed for the door. As he reached it, he paused, and turned back.

“Sir?” he said.

Holmwood looked up. “What is it, Jamie?”

“Does it ever feel pointless to you, sir?”

“Does
what
ever feel pointless to me?”

“What we do, sir,” said Jamie. “Patrol Respond. Hunting down individual vamps when we know what’s coming.”

Holmwood shook his head firmly. “No,” he said. “It doesn’t ever feel like that to me and I’ll tell you why. Because we save lives, Jamie, and saving lives is never pointless. Understood?”

Jamie nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” said Holmwood. “Now get out of here.”

Cal Holmwood watched the door close and permitted himself a small smile.

There were a number of men and women within the Department whom it always heartened him to talk to; Paul Turner, perhaps surprisingly, was one of them, as were Angela Darcy, Patrick Williams and Victor Frankenstein. Jamie Carpenter, for all his flaws, was another; there was something irresistible about the young Lieutenant, a determination at his core that allowed Cal to believe, even just for a minute, that everything was going to be all right.

It won’t be,
he thought.
In all likelihood, everything is going to be very far from all right. But it’s good to think otherwise, every now and again.

Cal returned his attention to the reams of paper smothering his desk, and reopened a report containing the repair and upgrade schedule for the Loop’s internal power supply; he had tried to get through it three times already, and was determined that this time he would at least make it past the first page. He was labouring through a seemingly endless paragraph when the terminal on his desk beeped, informing him that a message was waiting for him.

Cal signed into the server, opened his secure inbox and frowned.

The address the message had been sent from was not one he recognised. But more disconcerting by far was the subject line, which read FAO: HENRY SEWARD.

He double-clicked on the message, opening it. It contained only four words, and no signature.

COME TO VALHALLA ASAP