But people are always mentioning it. Well not always. Due to the uncommon-ness.” She glances away. “Yes,” she concludes.
Then she levels her death-stare at Tabitha once more.
I look from Devon to Clyde. God, there are two of them now. My chances of understanding anything at all ever are rapidly diminishing.
“Was saying.” Tabitha’s pointed statement has grown claws. “Antimony. Used by Russians at Chernobyl. Catalyst metal. But we know Chernobyl doesn’t work. So: coincidence.”
“That seems a bit of an assumption,” Devon starts, still booming but with even less friendliness, “in my opinion that is, which, well I realize I’m still proving the usefulness of that, being the new person and all. No one wants to lick the new flavor of lollipop until a friend has tried it. Not that I want to be licked. Horrible image. Just making a metaphor. Licking always seemed a dirty habit to me, anyway. Always preferred a soft chewable candy myself. Why make food you can’t bite? Doesn’t make any sense.” She pushes her hair back from her eyes furiously. “Anyway, I was just saying that it just seems to me that making assumptions about coincidences without fully investigating all the angles may be a little shortsighted.” She blinks. “As I understand the situation.”
I’m not sure she knows what she’s talking about, but I am pretty sure that she doesn’t care.
Tabitha remains unfazed. “Coincidence because Russians know intradimensional magic doesn’t work. Which you’d know,” Tabitha sneers, “if you’d done any fucking research.”
Kayla makes an odd noise. A sort of click of the tongue.
Did she just tsk Tabitha?
For some reason Shaw doesn’t seem about to step in. But, because it feels like MTV’s Real Life: Supernatural Horrors is about to be unleashed in the conference room, I think someone has to. I open my mouth and say—
“Well, you can’t trust the bloody Russians to do anything right.”
Except I don’t say that. Someone else says it. And I don’t recognize the voice.
“Incompetent buggers, the Russians,” the new voice adds.
Every eye in the room turns and stares.
A tall, heavyset man stands in the doorway. He wears a brown tweed suit and a red tie that hangs awkwardly to where his waistline is losing its integrity. Ruddy brown hair is cropped close to the sides of his skull and a mustache the size of a seal pup balances on his upper lip.
“Oh God,” Felicity says. “Oh no.”
“Still,” the man says, apparently oblivious to the impact of his sudden presence, “can’t trust the sneaky bastards. Always up to something.” His voice booms as loud as Devon’s but is muddied by the sheer volume of his mustache. “You,” he points to me. “Tall, dark, and ugly. And you, the one with the Halloween mask.” The sausage finger points to Clyde. “Next to the weird chick.” I have to imagine he means Tabitha. “Off to the British Library, would you? We need the Chernobyl papers.”
“What the hell?” I manage through my confusion. I sure as shit don’t move.
“Come on,” the man snaps. “Ondelé, ondelé, or whatever it is those bullfighting nancies say. Chop-chop. Queen and country. Go, go, go. London. Library. Lots of books. Can’t miss it.” He squints at Clyde and I. “Spreken zee English?”
“George,” says Felicity, her voice like a knife’s blade. “What are you doing here?”
She knows him. The collective stare swivels to her. It registers. She swallows. “This is George Coleman,” she says to us. “He works for MI6.”
The man called George smiles. “Not any more actually. Bit of a promotion. Top brass seem to think brinksmanship with aliens isn’t the smartest of plays. Steadier hand at the tiller and all that.” He thumbs his own chest. “Co-director of MI37 as of about,” he checks his watch, “thirty minutes ago. And now,” he points to Clyde and I, “directing you two to London. Fucking yesterday already.”
“No.” I
Then she levels her death-stare at Tabitha once more.
I look from Devon to Clyde. God, there are two of them now. My chances of understanding anything at all ever are rapidly diminishing.
“Was saying.” Tabitha’s pointed statement has grown claws. “Antimony. Used by Russians at Chernobyl. Catalyst metal. But we know Chernobyl doesn’t work. So: coincidence.”
“That seems a bit of an assumption,” Devon starts, still booming but with even less friendliness, “in my opinion that is, which, well I realize I’m still proving the usefulness of that, being the new person and all. No one wants to lick the new flavor of lollipop until a friend has tried it. Not that I want to be licked. Horrible image. Just making a metaphor. Licking always seemed a dirty habit to me, anyway. Always preferred a soft chewable candy myself. Why make food you can’t bite? Doesn’t make any sense.” She pushes her hair back from her eyes furiously. “Anyway, I was just saying that it just seems to me that making assumptions about coincidences without fully investigating all the angles may be a little shortsighted.” She blinks. “As I understand the situation.”
I’m not sure she knows what she’s talking about, but I am pretty sure that she doesn’t care.
Tabitha remains unfazed. “Coincidence because Russians know intradimensional magic doesn’t work. Which you’d know,” Tabitha sneers, “if you’d done any fucking research.”
Kayla makes an odd noise. A sort of click of the tongue.
Did she just tsk Tabitha?
For some reason Shaw doesn’t seem about to step in. But, because it feels like MTV’s Real Life: Supernatural Horrors is about to be unleashed in the conference room, I think someone has to. I open my mouth and say—
“Well, you can’t trust the bloody Russians to do anything right.”
Except I don’t say that. Someone else says it. And I don’t recognize the voice.
“Incompetent buggers, the Russians,” the new voice adds.
Every eye in the room turns and stares.
A tall, heavyset man stands in the doorway. He wears a brown tweed suit and a red tie that hangs awkwardly to where his waistline is losing its integrity. Ruddy brown hair is cropped close to the sides of his skull and a mustache the size of a seal pup balances on his upper lip.
“Oh God,” Felicity says. “Oh no.”
“Still,” the man says, apparently oblivious to the impact of his sudden presence, “can’t trust the sneaky bastards. Always up to something.” His voice booms as loud as Devon’s but is muddied by the sheer volume of his mustache. “You,” he points to me. “Tall, dark, and ugly. And you, the one with the Halloween mask.” The sausage finger points to Clyde. “Next to the weird chick.” I have to imagine he means Tabitha. “Off to the British Library, would you? We need the Chernobyl papers.”
“What the hell?” I manage through my confusion. I sure as shit don’t move.
“Come on,” the man snaps. “Ondelé, ondelé, or whatever it is those bullfighting nancies say. Chop-chop. Queen and country. Go, go, go. London. Library. Lots of books. Can’t miss it.” He squints at Clyde and I. “Spreken zee English?”
“George,” says Felicity, her voice like a knife’s blade. “What are you doing here?”
She knows him. The collective stare swivels to her. It registers. She swallows. “This is George Coleman,” she says to us. “He works for MI6.”
The man called George smiles. “Not any more actually. Bit of a promotion. Top brass seem to think brinksmanship with aliens isn’t the smartest of plays. Steadier hand at the tiller and all that.” He thumbs his own chest. “Co-director of MI37 as of about,” he checks his watch, “thirty minutes ago. And now,” he points to Clyde and I, “directing you two to London. Fucking yesterday already.”
“No.” I
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