request from a
dispatcher. Not unless you want to spend the next six months chasing phantoms
and “likely incursions” rather than actual incidents.
Birdie
Hubbard, who was generally responsible for my team’s assignments, was standing
up at her desk and leaning over her computer, blinking at me owlishly through
her thick-lensed glasses. “We were wrong?” Her voice was plaintive, almost
wounded—the tone of a child asking whether or not Santa Claus was real.
“You were
right about the incursion,” I said, walking back toward her. The other three
dispatchers were listening. They were trying to pretend that they weren’t, but
human nature wins out over almost everything else in this world. “There was
definitely a story trying to break through, and if you hadn’t sent us, it would
have succeeded.”
“But it wasn’t
a seven-oh-nine.” Birdie looked utterly ashamed of herself. “I’m so sorry. We didn’t
prepare you properly.”
“Hey. Sloane
confirmed your ID when she got to the scene. She said the girl was a seven-oh-nine,
and we followed the protocol accordingly. I saw our subject with my own eyes,
and she had all the hallmarks. We could have been cousins.” Not sisters, not
quite; you don’t get coloring as extreme as mine unless one or both parents
were also fairy tale–afflicted. Our latest Sleeping Beauty had been spared that
particular indignity.
Rather than
looking reassured by what I was saying, Birdie’s look of shame and confusion
deepened. “So you also thought that she was a seven-oh-nine?”
“Up until
people started passing out in the hospital lobby, yes, I did.” I frowned.
“Birdie? What’s wrong? This was a hard call, and you had to pick a type to
activate the system. The one you picked wasn’t quite right, but it was damn
close.”
“You don’t
understand.” She looked to the other dispatchers. “We need to tell her.”
“We’re not
ready,” said another dispatcher, a slim Asian man whose name I didn’t know. “We
need more data.”
“We have four
incursions,” countered Birdie. “How much data do you think we need?”
“I’m standing
right here, and I can hear every word you’re saying,” I said. “How likely do
you think it is that I’m going to walk away without one of you explaining what
the hell it is that you’re talking about?”
Birdie turned
back to me. “We’ve had four incursions recently that presented as one tale type
and turned out to belong to another part of the Index. In every case, the
original type was less dangerous than the actual type.”
I paused. If
it had been possible for me to go pale, I think that I would have. “You’re
saying that the stories are intentionally camouflaging themselves?”
Birdie nodded.
“We think so.”
“Do you have
any evidence to support this?” Evidence would be good. Evidence could be
refuted.
A lack of
evidence would be even better.
“There’s not
much, but we’re monitoring every incursion, and what we’re finding isn’t
encouraging,” said Birdie. “It’s getting to where we can’t reliably guess what
you might find out there, much less tell you what you will .”
“Okay, so this
is all terrifying,” I said, clapping my hands together. “Birdie, I want all
your findings on my desk at your earliest convenience. Jeff and I can go over
them together and see if there’s anything that we can confirm from a field
perspective that you haven’t already documented. Maybe we’re lucky, and this
will just turn out to be a period of memetic instability or something.”
“Do those
exist?” asked the other dispatcher dubiously.
I shot him a
quick glare. “Think about where you work before you ask me whether something is
real. If it means the Index hasn’t somehow started hiding itself from us, then
yes, we’re going to hope that memetic instability exists.”
“I’ll have it
all on your desk inside the hour,” Birdie assured me.
“Thank you.” I
sighed. “Now if you
dispatcher. Not unless you want to spend the next six months chasing phantoms
and “likely incursions” rather than actual incidents.
Birdie
Hubbard, who was generally responsible for my team’s assignments, was standing
up at her desk and leaning over her computer, blinking at me owlishly through
her thick-lensed glasses. “We were wrong?” Her voice was plaintive, almost
wounded—the tone of a child asking whether or not Santa Claus was real.
“You were
right about the incursion,” I said, walking back toward her. The other three
dispatchers were listening. They were trying to pretend that they weren’t, but
human nature wins out over almost everything else in this world. “There was
definitely a story trying to break through, and if you hadn’t sent us, it would
have succeeded.”
“But it wasn’t
a seven-oh-nine.” Birdie looked utterly ashamed of herself. “I’m so sorry. We didn’t
prepare you properly.”
“Hey. Sloane
confirmed your ID when she got to the scene. She said the girl was a seven-oh-nine,
and we followed the protocol accordingly. I saw our subject with my own eyes,
and she had all the hallmarks. We could have been cousins.” Not sisters, not
quite; you don’t get coloring as extreme as mine unless one or both parents
were also fairy tale–afflicted. Our latest Sleeping Beauty had been spared that
particular indignity.
Rather than
looking reassured by what I was saying, Birdie’s look of shame and confusion
deepened. “So you also thought that she was a seven-oh-nine?”
“Up until
people started passing out in the hospital lobby, yes, I did.” I frowned.
“Birdie? What’s wrong? This was a hard call, and you had to pick a type to
activate the system. The one you picked wasn’t quite right, but it was damn
close.”
“You don’t
understand.” She looked to the other dispatchers. “We need to tell her.”
“We’re not
ready,” said another dispatcher, a slim Asian man whose name I didn’t know. “We
need more data.”
“We have four
incursions,” countered Birdie. “How much data do you think we need?”
“I’m standing
right here, and I can hear every word you’re saying,” I said. “How likely do
you think it is that I’m going to walk away without one of you explaining what
the hell it is that you’re talking about?”
Birdie turned
back to me. “We’ve had four incursions recently that presented as one tale type
and turned out to belong to another part of the Index. In every case, the
original type was less dangerous than the actual type.”
I paused. If
it had been possible for me to go pale, I think that I would have. “You’re
saying that the stories are intentionally camouflaging themselves?”
Birdie nodded.
“We think so.”
“Do you have
any evidence to support this?” Evidence would be good. Evidence could be
refuted.
A lack of
evidence would be even better.
“There’s not
much, but we’re monitoring every incursion, and what we’re finding isn’t
encouraging,” said Birdie. “It’s getting to where we can’t reliably guess what
you might find out there, much less tell you what you will .”
“Okay, so this
is all terrifying,” I said, clapping my hands together. “Birdie, I want all
your findings on my desk at your earliest convenience. Jeff and I can go over
them together and see if there’s anything that we can confirm from a field
perspective that you haven’t already documented. Maybe we’re lucky, and this
will just turn out to be a period of memetic instability or something.”
“Do those
exist?” asked the other dispatcher dubiously.
I shot him a
quick glare. “Think about where you work before you ask me whether something is
real. If it means the Index hasn’t somehow started hiding itself from us, then
yes, we’re going to hope that memetic instability exists.”
“I’ll have it
all on your desk inside the hour,” Birdie assured me.
“Thank you.” I
sighed. “Now if you
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