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Authors: Jonathan Wood
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shake my head. It’s a denial aimed as much at the universe as it is this unpleasant stain of a human being. This seriously can’t be. We save the world and this guy is our reward? “Shaw is the director,” I say. I demand.
But, apparently, the universe is about as interested in my assertions as it usually is.
“Lippy bugger, are we?” Coleman shoves out his chest. “And evidently not at the top of the food chain when it comes to information dispersal. Maybe because you’ve forgotten this is military intelligence. There is a chain of command. Information and orders flow big man to little man. And you are a little man and you would do well to remember that.”
It doesn’t happen with any degree of regularity, but I think I am about to lose my temper. I open my mouth—
“George, please.” Shaw, the placatory voice of reason, trying to find the balance point in the room. Sensible. Rational.
“Yes,” I say. “Please piss off.”
Felicity turns to me. She has a pained expression. “Arthur,” she says. Something between an order and a request.
And this is one of those moments she talked about last night, where I don’t like her lead.
But I’m not willing to break my promises this early. I’d like to wait at least six hours before I kick out one of the foundations we’re building this relationship on.
I bite back my bile.
“Come on, George,” Felicity says. “We can do this without the territorial pissing match.” She forces a smile out. “This news is a bit of a shock to everyone, that’s all. I’m sure we can all find it in ourselves to act like mature adults.”
Coleman finally retracts his chest, apparently mollified.
“Now,” Shaw says, “perhaps we can have a brief word in private.”
Coleman’s mustache quivers like an enormous electrocuted caterpillar, then he turns on his heel and stomps out of the room.
Felicity hesitates for a moment, her professional mask flickers. A glimpse of a woman worried and worn. I want to reach out to her as a colleague, a friend, a boyfriend.
Except there’s rather a large audience for that.
“You shouldn’t take this,” I say, restraining myself from stepping toward her. “This isn’t right.”
Her lips twitch in the imitation of a smile. But she doesn’t answer me. She just slips out the door after Coleman.
“This isn’t right,” I inform the room in general. Not that anyone seems to care. They’re all too busy shooting daggers at each other.
And that’s not right either. Something just happened that’s bigger than personal battles. Some ground shift.
Of course getting anyone to see it is going to involve stepping into the middle of the Tabitha-Devon divide. And to be honest I think I’d rather face another zombie T-Rex.
Screw it. I’m field lead. In the office, I’m not touching this crap with a ten-foot barge pole. “I’m getting a cup of tea,” I say as I head toward the door. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
For a moment I think I’m going to get away clean but then Devon says, “I’ll come too.” I can feel Tabitha’s scowl scouring the back of my neck even as the door swings closed.
The MI37 kitchen is a small nook of one corridor with an electric kettle balanced on top of a microwave, balanced on top of a mini-fridge. A few mugs, a box of tea bags and a jar of instant coffee sit in a sink waiting for everything to fall apart.
I shove a bag into a cup. Everything seems to be speeding up just when I’d like it to slow down. Just a few days to wrap my head around my new reality. To get to grips with this relationship thing. Except now there are Russians, and bombs. And it’s not just my relationship that needs to be adjusted to. And on top of it all, this Coleman prick. He has to be someone’s idea of a joke. A very, very, very bad joke.
I stare at the teabag. Just five minutes to get my head together.
“Did you know?”
Devon, it seems, has no intention of letting that happen.
But… God, I
But, apparently, the universe is about as interested in my assertions as it usually is.
“Lippy bugger, are we?” Coleman shoves out his chest. “And evidently not at the top of the food chain when it comes to information dispersal. Maybe because you’ve forgotten this is military intelligence. There is a chain of command. Information and orders flow big man to little man. And you are a little man and you would do well to remember that.”
It doesn’t happen with any degree of regularity, but I think I am about to lose my temper. I open my mouth—
“George, please.” Shaw, the placatory voice of reason, trying to find the balance point in the room. Sensible. Rational.
“Yes,” I say. “Please piss off.”
Felicity turns to me. She has a pained expression. “Arthur,” she says. Something between an order and a request.
And this is one of those moments she talked about last night, where I don’t like her lead.
But I’m not willing to break my promises this early. I’d like to wait at least six hours before I kick out one of the foundations we’re building this relationship on.
I bite back my bile.
“Come on, George,” Felicity says. “We can do this without the territorial pissing match.” She forces a smile out. “This news is a bit of a shock to everyone, that’s all. I’m sure we can all find it in ourselves to act like mature adults.”
Coleman finally retracts his chest, apparently mollified.
“Now,” Shaw says, “perhaps we can have a brief word in private.”
Coleman’s mustache quivers like an enormous electrocuted caterpillar, then he turns on his heel and stomps out of the room.
Felicity hesitates for a moment, her professional mask flickers. A glimpse of a woman worried and worn. I want to reach out to her as a colleague, a friend, a boyfriend.
Except there’s rather a large audience for that.
“You shouldn’t take this,” I say, restraining myself from stepping toward her. “This isn’t right.”
Her lips twitch in the imitation of a smile. But she doesn’t answer me. She just slips out the door after Coleman.
“This isn’t right,” I inform the room in general. Not that anyone seems to care. They’re all too busy shooting daggers at each other.
And that’s not right either. Something just happened that’s bigger than personal battles. Some ground shift.
Of course getting anyone to see it is going to involve stepping into the middle of the Tabitha-Devon divide. And to be honest I think I’d rather face another zombie T-Rex.
Screw it. I’m field lead. In the office, I’m not touching this crap with a ten-foot barge pole. “I’m getting a cup of tea,” I say as I head toward the door. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
For a moment I think I’m going to get away clean but then Devon says, “I’ll come too.” I can feel Tabitha’s scowl scouring the back of my neck even as the door swings closed.
The MI37 kitchen is a small nook of one corridor with an electric kettle balanced on top of a microwave, balanced on top of a mini-fridge. A few mugs, a box of tea bags and a jar of instant coffee sit in a sink waiting for everything to fall apart.
I shove a bag into a cup. Everything seems to be speeding up just when I’d like it to slow down. Just a few days to wrap my head around my new reality. To get to grips with this relationship thing. Except now there are Russians, and bombs. And it’s not just my relationship that needs to be adjusted to. And on top of it all, this Coleman prick. He has to be someone’s idea of a joke. A very, very, very bad joke.
I stare at the teabag. Just five minutes to get my head together.
“Did you know?”
Devon, it seems, has no intention of letting that happen.
But… God, I
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