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Authors: Charles Stross
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unless I want my hair to catch fire and my brains to leak out of my nose. The geas is intended to maintain internal security, but sometimes it has unpleasant consequences.
So I just sit there and take it, with a defensive grin on my face.
“It was grossly irresponsible of you to drag him into—whatever.” (So Pete hasn’t told her exactly what I asked him to do for me, which was to read a stolen scan of the appendices of a rather variant version of the Bible, and give me an opinion on the sanity of the cult who were using it. It turned out to be a road map for engineering the Second Coming—not of Jesus, but of an ancient undead nightmare from the deep cosmological past. The cult was a mega-church in Colorado Springs, yours truly was part of the team trying to stop them, and the consequences are classified GOD GAME BLACK.)
“Sandy depends on him. The kid”—due in three months—“depends on her. And he’s a vicar. You just casually poked a hole in his universe. Didn’t you expect that to have any consequences? He’s got a family and several hundred parishioners to look after, and regardless of what you think of his belief system”—misguided at best, because regular Christianity doesn’t have much space for the Black Pharaoh or the Sleeper in the Pyramid, or even the normal run-of-the-mill tentacular horrors we deal with—“he fills an important niche in delivering hope, comfort, and support to vulnerable people.
“And you tore down the curtain and exposed him to
our
world. Which is inevitably going to screw him up, and, indirectly, screw up hundreds of other people. Some of whom might go talk to the vicar if they’re feeling depressed or suicidal. Drop that stupid grin, Bob. By destabilizing Pete you could have killed people.
Civilians.
The people we’re supposed to be protecting.”
The skin on my face feels taut. I cross my arms.
How much can I say?
“Remember Amsterdam?”
“What, the first time? Or—” she pauses. “You aren’t allowed to talk about it?”
I manage to nod. My internal censor approves. “You can ask”—I check with my censor—“Gerry Lockhart, in External Assets. Please, Mo? I can’t defend myself. I can’t even apologize.
I am not allowed to talk about this.
”
“Well
shit
!” This is strong language for Mo. Her gaze flickers away from me, some of her electric anger seeking a new channel to earth. She knows about the geas, the binding compulsion to silence. We usually have a waiver that allows us to talk about work. A year or so ago she had to do a job in Amsterdam—wet work, because that’s what Agent CANDID sometimes does—and came home in pieces, because some idiot up the line had explicitly forbidden her from talking to me. I’m her support system: I’m not in the same line of work exactly, but I’m close enough to understand what she goes through and help her deal with it.
That
time I hunted down the idiot in question and sorted it out, probably saving our employers a very expensive medical leave bill.
This
time the boot is on the other foot. If I could tell her what happened in Colorado Springs she’d . . .
(Well, no, she probably
wouldn’t
forgive me. But she’d understand
why
, and take it into account, which amounts to much the same. Hate the sin, love the sinner: it’s hard to stay pissed off at someone for doing something wrong if you know you’d have done exactly the same thing if you’d been standing in their shoes.)
I shove a topped-up wine glass across the table towards her. “You need Pete and Sandy for your own reasons.”
She nods. Her neck muscles are still tense, but she takes the glass. “I can’t afford to lose track of normal, Bob. Most of our friends
aren’t
normal anymore—neither are we.”
I take a sip (okay, a mouthful) of pinot noir and swallow. “Dead right.” Pete (vicar) and Sandy (teacher) are some of our few remaining friends outside the organization. If I was a Harry Potter fan (and offensively stupid
So I just sit there and take it, with a defensive grin on my face.
“It was grossly irresponsible of you to drag him into—whatever.” (So Pete hasn’t told her exactly what I asked him to do for me, which was to read a stolen scan of the appendices of a rather variant version of the Bible, and give me an opinion on the sanity of the cult who were using it. It turned out to be a road map for engineering the Second Coming—not of Jesus, but of an ancient undead nightmare from the deep cosmological past. The cult was a mega-church in Colorado Springs, yours truly was part of the team trying to stop them, and the consequences are classified GOD GAME BLACK.)
“Sandy depends on him. The kid”—due in three months—“depends on her. And he’s a vicar. You just casually poked a hole in his universe. Didn’t you expect that to have any consequences? He’s got a family and several hundred parishioners to look after, and regardless of what you think of his belief system”—misguided at best, because regular Christianity doesn’t have much space for the Black Pharaoh or the Sleeper in the Pyramid, or even the normal run-of-the-mill tentacular horrors we deal with—“he fills an important niche in delivering hope, comfort, and support to vulnerable people.
“And you tore down the curtain and exposed him to
our
world. Which is inevitably going to screw him up, and, indirectly, screw up hundreds of other people. Some of whom might go talk to the vicar if they’re feeling depressed or suicidal. Drop that stupid grin, Bob. By destabilizing Pete you could have killed people.
Civilians.
The people we’re supposed to be protecting.”
The skin on my face feels taut. I cross my arms.
How much can I say?
“Remember Amsterdam?”
“What, the first time? Or—” she pauses. “You aren’t allowed to talk about it?”
I manage to nod. My internal censor approves. “You can ask”—I check with my censor—“Gerry Lockhart, in External Assets. Please, Mo? I can’t defend myself. I can’t even apologize.
I am not allowed to talk about this.
”
“Well
shit
!” This is strong language for Mo. Her gaze flickers away from me, some of her electric anger seeking a new channel to earth. She knows about the geas, the binding compulsion to silence. We usually have a waiver that allows us to talk about work. A year or so ago she had to do a job in Amsterdam—wet work, because that’s what Agent CANDID sometimes does—and came home in pieces, because some idiot up the line had explicitly forbidden her from talking to me. I’m her support system: I’m not in the same line of work exactly, but I’m close enough to understand what she goes through and help her deal with it.
That
time I hunted down the idiot in question and sorted it out, probably saving our employers a very expensive medical leave bill.
This
time the boot is on the other foot. If I could tell her what happened in Colorado Springs she’d . . .
(Well, no, she probably
wouldn’t
forgive me. But she’d understand
why
, and take it into account, which amounts to much the same. Hate the sin, love the sinner: it’s hard to stay pissed off at someone for doing something wrong if you know you’d have done exactly the same thing if you’d been standing in their shoes.)
I shove a topped-up wine glass across the table towards her. “You need Pete and Sandy for your own reasons.”
She nods. Her neck muscles are still tense, but she takes the glass. “I can’t afford to lose track of normal, Bob. Most of our friends
aren’t
normal anymore—neither are we.”
I take a sip (okay, a mouthful) of pinot noir and swallow. “Dead right.” Pete (vicar) and Sandy (teacher) are some of our few remaining friends outside the organization. If I was a Harry Potter fan (and offensively stupid
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