On Guard for Weird – A Novel
The Novel – The Writing Log – The Visuals
2023, Christian Sauvé
A few opening notes
- On Guard for Weird is a serial novel written throughout November 2023 as part of the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). The point of NaNoWriMo is to get the words out and worry about editing later. Don’t expect refinements.
- Read the writing log for more details about the making of the novel, or spoil yourself with a Visual Overview.
- On Guard for Weird, if it was a movie, would be classified R for substantial horror, language and some sexuality. It’s technically urban fantasy, but it does include many horror devices, as well as comic passages and science-fiction elements. If you can make it past the prologue, you should be fine with the rest of the novel.
- Conceptually, On Guard for Weird is a fan-fiction remix blend of Charles Stross’s The Laundry Files SF series, the Control videogame, the SCP web fiction series, the Read or Die OAV (albeit mostly the title theme music), and other assorted bits and pieces. Some will see some X-Files in there, which is not intentional given that I wasn’t a big fan of the series. But the nod to Borges’s Library of Babel is completely deliberate.
- The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. (This is particularly true if you know me and think you’re seeing yourself in here—you’re not.)
- Library and Archives Canada is a gem of the Canadian public service, it brilliantly fulfills its ambitious mandate and it employs some of the best people in the country despite overworking and underpaying them. It does not, however, have anything even remotely similar to the entirely fictional Special Operations and Research Directorate that’s at the centrepiece of this novel.
Prologue — The Woman Who Knew Too Much
In discussing her career choices with friends, family and boyfriends, Patrizia Monagas liked to quip that she picked information technology to understand everything about the world. Unaware of the cosmic truths of that statement, she limited her examples to the devices that now mediated human interaction, codified financial transactions and shaped popular discourse. Not yet initiated in the implications of the noosphere, she could nonetheless code machine language processes, troubleshoot data centre servers and decently document what she was doing.
This Jacklyn-of-all-IT-trades, full-stack-and-server approach was as distinctive as her wide six-foot frame: unlike some of her colleagues, she wasn’t a deep expert in the buzzwords of the day, able to command arbitrary salaries and awed respect. But she could quickly pick up whatever was needed at the moment, and she could get along well enough with anyone—two qualities that were, in their own way, rare enough in her field. A Team Leader had once written in a reference that she was a Swiss Army knife, useful on a daily basis and invaluable in emergencies.
All of those qualities had ensured that she had never been wanting for a job in the decade since graduating with a computer science degree. Her latest stint had somehow landed here in Saskatoon, of all places, to work for an Artificial Intelligence startup. Having been through a few of those, she understood that her current conditions were surprisingly good. Unlike other small companies born in garages, Cognizeck was bankrolled by some real estate billionaire with deep pockets and a long-term view: the three members of the so-called brain trust behind the company’s vision had been able to do things a bit differently than those stuck under the thumb of Venture Capitalists.
For one thing, being in Saskatoon was unusual enough. Even in Canada, there had to be five or six more logical hubs for a high-tech company. But Saskatoon had its advantage, especially since a mid-2010s effort to build a new “transcontinental railway” had strung fibre optic from Saint John to Victoria, placing Saskatoon in the middle of a very fat data pipe. As the brochures had it, Saskatoon was geologically stable, immune to coastal weather events, somewhat central to North America and was cool enough to handle overheating data centres all year long. An international airport with cheap direct routes to interesting destinations usually sealed the deal.
Cognizeck had thus established itself in Innovation Place, north of the University of Saskatchewan campus: small city, big university. Not looking for investments, it was free to push whatever the chief researchers wanted to explore in the hopes of an Artificial General Intelligence breakthrough. Patrizia was only a hired monkey compared to the brain trust leading the way, but the work was fascinating by itself. Building on Large Language Models technology but trying to avoid the drudgery and expenses of Reinforcement Learning with Human Feedback, Cognizeck had gone in a new direction to gather raw training data—albeit a risky one.
Skirting the edges of legality, Cognizeck had installed hundreds of very sensitive audio recorders in busy Canadian public places—transit hubs, shopping malls and other gathering places. The semi-camouflaged spiky-looking devices were omnidirectional microphones, picking up conversations and sending the raw audio feed to Saskatoon where an AI module transcribed the conversations and added them to a database of raw training material. In addition to an approach that reinforced LLM architecture with a few more semi-randomizer self-reinforcement mechanisms, Cognizeck’s secret sauce should (the brain trust proposed) ensure a very high degree of natural language recognition and expression. Coupled with a few additional fancy bits and pieces, Cognizeck’s hope was to be able to offer a real time fully conversational AGI.
It had taken years of effort—Patrizia had jointed the team nine months ago, but the pace had only picked up since then. It had all led to this cool April Sunday evening, where all the modules were finally ready to be joined together for the first full-scale test of the technology — “The Welding,” as the brain trust called it.
A dozen Cognizeck employees were in the building for this final full-scale effort. An illustration of Cognizeck’s offbeat approach had been to build a data centre within its headquarters, rather than outsource its hardware to a specialized data centre. It was more expensive, less efficient and arguably a bit off-putting to seasoned developers used to abstracting the hardware racks their code was running on. But it reinforced the pirate-crew approach of the company: small team, fast turnaround, unorthodox methods.
Patrizia did not, strictly speaking, love this specific job. The Cognizeck house brand was a bit too chummy, too old-buddies, too we’re-a-family nonsense. The boys in the crew (you could hardly call them men) still kept making half-passes at her even months after her arrival and clear refusal to date within the company—inoffensive, clumsy and easily dismissed, but annoying nonetheless. But the pay was good, and it was compounded by a surprisingly good work-life balance for a small high-tech company. Despite the workload, Patrizia had been able to go take a few weekend hikes with remarkable ease. (Literally—with Calgary being an affordable skip-and-a-hop destination from the airport.) Perhaps best of all, she had been able to remain somewhat distant from her colleagues: while she got along well with everyone, her goal hadn’t been to make friends and most seemed just fine with that approach.
Plus, the work was interesting. She had done everything from stringing Cat8 cabling to patching together Python ML modules and implementing data recovery processes. It was her good understanding of how everything worked together that had earned her a place at The Welding. Sitting at her workstation—trying to ignore the mess of cables, papers and empty energy drink cans—she took in the buzz of activity surrounding her. Two model training sessions held in parallel were scheduled to complete soon enough, and then the Welding scripts would handle the rest. If everything went well, they should have a chat with their new pet AGI “Dave” in roughly fifteen minutes.
In the meantime, she leaned back in her mesh chair and kept an eye on the server telemetry. Temperatures within acceptable range, no hardware failure, no risks of running out of disk space—all good so far. Her colleagues were not as relaxed. She knew that they had pushed the training scripts to gobble up all available memory on the A110 cards, and there was always a risk that a misplaced tensor would blow up the model generation and require them to start over.
Stretching her long arm to reach for a can of Green Cow on the top shelf of her cubicle, she shook the aluminum container and found it half-full. Good. She gulped the rest of the drink. Her caffeine tolerance was medically exceptional by now, and she wasn’t expecting to sleep much one way or the other. Failure would probably mean another attempt before dawn and success … well, success would probably mean the brain trust breaking open the case of bubbly they kept in their offices for exactly this occasion.
“We’ve got a successful completion check on the left model,” said one of the engineers next to her. One down, another one to go. Despite her usual tendency toward detachment, Patrizia could feel herself getting antsy. Her IT experience so far had been in operations and maintenance, not necessarily building something new. This was cool!
She let herself give in to the moment. She rose, easily seeing above the cubicle partitions. The brain trust was clustered around the lead engineer’s console, looking intently at the screen as if they could make it go faster. Everyone else was equally staring at something, waiting for The Welding to begin.
She turned to look at the server room. Large double-pane windows had been installed into the wall separating the development cubicles from the racks of high-powered machines required for all of it to work. Green blinking lights everywhere.
Feeling a need for movement, even useless movement, she walked to the door leading to the server room. Her efficient strides quickly covered the distance.
She swiped her access card and opened the first of the two doors. In an effort to maintain atmospheric conditions inside the data centre as constant as possible, a small vestibule—an airlock, almost—separated both spaces. She swiped her card again on the second inner door.
The aggressively air-conditioned server room space was substantially bigger than the human-inhabitable cubicle space—Patrizia sometimes thought that this mirrored how much computing was expected to replace the human workforce. Feeling the chill even on her skin tempered by the Saskatchewan winter, she moved briskly, quickly scanning the server lights for abnormalities. Her workstation had alarms set up to catch anything serious, of course, but she still liked to walk the floor.
All around her, the machine hummed happily. Cognizeck had massively overbuilt the data centre in anticipation of future needs, so there was a generous amount of space between the dark server racks—enough for two or three people to walk alongside each other. The false floor and false ceilings, filled with cabling and HVAC piping, made the space seem shorter than it was, an impression heightened by the imposing rows of servers extending from one end of the room to the other.
You could get lost here—the room was the size of a tennis court, but the clustered machines lent an impression of a maze to it all. Another thing on her to-do list when work wasn’t so crazy: Rearrange the rows of racks to give better sight lines. Like she’d ever get the time to do that.
Her inspection over, she went back to the airlock and made her way back to the main console.
A whisper of excited chatter told her that the second model had successfully completed its training session run.
“Compiling the checksums now,” muttered the lead engineer.
“The scripts are ready?” asked a third of the brain trust.
“Pre-processing now.”
“All right, I’ve got good checksums.” Said the lead engineer after a moment. “Both models are faithful to expected parameters. We are a go for The Welding.”
“Hit it,” said one of the brain trustees with some relish.
How long had he waited to say that?
Patrizia looked over her console. The computation charge of the data centre had shifted—away from the specialized computational models that had handled the training, and over to the entire server cluster. CPU temperature rose across the entire board. The HVAC and soundproofing were solid; otherwise, she would have heard a higher-pitch whine of server fans suddenly activated. If the data centre could be compared to an orchestra, it was certainly getting louder with all instruments playing at once.
They had, over the past few months, rehearsed almost all of the individual modules that were being activated now. But they had done so in isolation—one thing at a time, unit-tested and regression-tested and stress-tested individually. A few subsystems had been activated temporarily, but nothing as comprehensive as The Welding.
“Looking good on the component connectivity,” muttered an engineer.
“Booting up both models in memory.”
Patrizia clenched her teeth and held her breath. She had helped draft The Welding procedures—this was the critical junction. If things were to crash, it would be here.
“All systems are loaded. We still have twenty-five percent free memory.”
She exhaled. Would this work? On the first try? Well, they had rehearsed over and over.
A short beep marked the end of the boot-up phase.
“We’re good to go.”
The lead engineer looked at the senior member of the brain trust and pointed at the microphone on his desk. It was an old-school radio microphone adapted to modern USB connectors—a small indulgence that added a touch of warm brass to an otherwise austere grey cubicle.
The senior brain trustee took the microphone and unmuted it with the big red button at the base of the microphone.
“Hello, Dave. How are you doing today?”
The response through the computer speakers was immediate.
“I’m doing really well, thank you,” said a pleasant voice in a perfectly understandable Mid-Atlantic accent. “Nice warm evening outside, but I’m just chilling in my server room. How can I help you?”
There was a burst of explosive laughter around the room—more of relief than anything else.
Patrizia raised an eyebrow. The voice had warmth and personality to it, despite being entirely generated by the voice-generation module.
“I’m just going to ask you a few questions, Dave. Just to see what you know and what you can do.”
“Go ahead, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Thank you. Ah, I’d like to ask you to solve a riddle for me…”
Patrizia tuned out and looked at her telemetry information—despite the rush of this all working as it should, she knew the initial testing script by heart. A few riddles, a few trivia questions, a few mathematical problems, a few ethical scenarios—all to test various components of the AI modules that created Dave. She could half-listen to the next few minutes, but the important part for her was to make sure the equipment wasn’t going to blow up along the way.
It looked great so far. CPU usage was high across the entire cluster, but there was still some free overhead in case they needed it, and all systems were within expected parameters. “Expected parameters” was a bit of a misnomer, though: Late-night back-of-the-envelope calculations by Patrizia and a few other engineers had suggested that in five minutes, they’d go burn through ten teraflops of raw computing power—more than the entirety of twentieth century computing.
She was still high-strung—and the Green Cow was surely contributing to it—but she could feel herself relax, at least in a theoretical sense: the infrastructure had held, and the patter between the senior brain trustee and Dave-the-AGI was sounding good. Had they come up with something great? Time would tell, but, in the meantime, they would-
A semi-hysterical “Holy Shit! WHAT THE FUCK?” snapped her out of her relaxation.
Two things immediately competed for her attention: An entire rack going offline at the same time, big red pulsing alarms popping up on her workstations. But more importantly, she could see something through the data centre windows that didn’t belong in any modern computing environment.
Didn’t belong anywhere on Earth, for that matter.
A big round hole, its infinite jet-black emptiness both swallowing a server rack, and extruding bioluminescent purple … tentacles?
! MINDS! she heard directly into her skull.
Something pulled itself out of the portal to somewhere else: a horrid slimy mass of tentacles pulling and then supporting a pustular body that had only one distinguishing feature: a gaping maw surrounding by sharp teeth.
!! DELICIOUS MINDS!! She heard again as the eyeless creature still managed to turn toward the aghast humans watching the uncanny spectacle.
She dove to the floor without quite understanding why. An instant later, the windows shattered as an entire server rack was flung throw the partition, its cables sheared from the floor.
There was rather a lot of screaming. Patrizia didn’t care—she rolled under her cubicle, willing herself to be as invisible as possible.
Hidden, she heard more than saw what happened next—later, she would describe the wet noises of tentacles propelling the creature through the windows, the swish of a razor-sharp appendage slitting a throat, the burbling of a slashed artery drowning a man in his own blood, the crack of an abrupt beheading, the gnawing as a human head was eaten almost whole.
“OH GOD THERE’S OTHERS COMING THROUGH!” she heard a colleague scream at a very high pitch.
She heard other noises—panic, running, chairs being thrown, more sharp swipes, supplications to God.
She wouldn’t last long hidden under the desk, she knew. But if the noises were any indications, the creatures had leapfrogged over her desk and started dismembering her colleagues closer to the front door. That was no longer an escape route. What about the Data Centre? She was so used to it being only accessible through the airlock that it took her one agonizing fraction of a second to remember that there was another way out—an emergency fire exit, mandated by the building code.
Yes, that would work. And as the screaming literally starting dying out for lack of screamers, she couldn’t wait one more moment.
She bolted. This was the right time to make everything work for her—her too-big frame that had earned her so many comments, her strong muscles shaped by hiking, her utter determination to live another day.
There was no time to second-guess. She saw that the way to the data centre was clear, saw that there was no time to go through the vestibule, and saw that the smashed windows had left holes big enough for her to fit through.
Her jump wasn’t perfect—she could feel a sharp cut on her left shoulder as she went past the shards. But it got her in the data centre, away from the carnage behind her.
Assessing her options, she ran. She had no choice but to get closer to the open portal that had already swallowed half a server rack—the door was behind it. Sprinting, she risked a look behind her.
She should not have. As she started, a creature lifted the chief engineer by a tentacle wrapped around his chest. A second tentacle with sharp claws sliced through the air and decapitated him, as a third tentacle brought the head into its maw.
It chewed.
She’d vomit later.
But there was worse: Looking ahead of her, she saw another creature coming out of the portal, pulling itself swiftly across the data centre floor with its tentacles.
She had never known the kind of full-force fear that gripped her at the moment. Not when, as a kid, her parents whisked her off to the airport for the long plane ride that eventually got them to Canada. Not when, as a teenager, she had crashed her bike and waited one abominably long second in mid-air until she crashed to the ground and broke her arm. Not when, as a twentysomething hiker, she had gotten stuck on a mountain during a blizzard and had had to find her way back in pure utter whiteness. This was something else.
Oh no, oh no, oh no—she swerved, but it was too late: the creature lunged at her.
She let herself fall, and the creature smashed into the server rack above her, cracking the dark glass front pane. She rolled and picked herself up. What did she have here to fight? Yes, yes, this would do.
The creature picked itself up, but she had already grabbed her weapon—a nice big fire extinguisher, as per regulation code.
The creature lashed at her with one of its tentacles – she ducked, and heard the appendage strike the rack behind her.
As the creature opened its maw, she didn’t have time to think—flashing back to countless bad horror movies she’d watched with her friends during high school, she simply threw the red cylinder into the creature’s mouth.
It … worked. Not like in the movies, but it worked: The creature closed its mouth, its spiky teeth broke open the container, and pressured powder erupted faster than Patrizia had through possible, snapping open the jaw. The creature shook once, as in surprise, then fell inertly to the floor.
Her heart racing, she picked up her way through the data centre labyrinth. GODDAMN IT WHY HADN’T SHE ALREADY REARRANGED IT LIKE SHE WANTED TO?
She was halfway through, then two thirds of the way through.
But then she heard another creature, freshly emerged from the portal.
She wouldn’t survive this. No other handy fire extinguisher at hand, no way out, no distraction.
Then a luminous door popped out of thin air, three metres ahead of her. It opened, and she could see half a dozen heavily armed shapes rush out of it. Humans.
She ducked, and not a moment too soon—almost immediately, she felt the heat and heard the crack of bullets going above her head.
As she slid on the floor at the food of the newcomers, she heard them approach the situation calmly.
“One hostile down, a few more to go.” Said the first man out, the one who had riddled the creature with bullets. A big guy – Indigenous, middle-aged, rock-solid.
“I’ll blow the portal,” said another soldier, a woman almost as big as Patrizia.
“Calling for exfiltration of at least one survivor,” said a third operative.
As more bullets cracked inside the data centre, and then the cubicle area, she felt herself grabbed gently but strongly, and dragged through the door.
Suddenly, she was somewhere else—Inside what looked like a staging area. Without any hesitation, she was brought to a smaller room. They firmly set her down on a small bed and left, closing the door behind them.
WHAT. WAS. THAT?
After a moment, more driven by a bone-shaking adrenaline rush than anything else, she stood up. There was a bed, a desk and a toilet with sink. She looked up, and saw a maple leaf sign above the door.
This, surprisingly, calmed her more than she’d believed. Another flashback as kid, landing in Toronto and her mother soothing her as she pointed at the Canadian flag: “We’re in Canada now. Everything will be all right.”
Everything will be all right.
Maybe.
She tried the door. Locked, of course.
Was she a prisoner or a refugee?
“Hello?”
No answer, of course.
The room was not quite a cell. There were snacks and water on the desk. She didn’t care for food, but she gulped down one entire bottle of water in ten seconds. The bed was small, simple but comfortable.
She sat down on the bed and put her hands on her head.
There really wasn’t much more to do after that but wait.
After a while, she started feeling some pain on her shoulder, the one that had been grazed by glass.
Looking through the desk, she spotted a deck of cards, hygienic supplies and a first-aid kit. No scissors, but some gauze and fabric plasters. She cleaned her wound—it was more superficial than anything else — then dressed it up as well as she could. Then she waited.
As she came down from the adrenaline rush, she curled up on the bed. She wasn’t going to sleep, just rest and…
… sometime later, she woke up when she heard the door open.
A middle-aged woman entered the room. She was unremarkable—medium build, glasses, unspectacular graying brown hair tied in a bun, darker-skinned in a way that could pass for a dozen ethic origins. But she smiled to Patrizia, and that was the best thing she’d seen in a long time.
“Patrizia? My name is Louise. I’m so sorry for making you wait so long.”
She held out her hand. Patrizia got up, shook hands and got the usual blink of surprise when people truly saw her in person—she was normally proportioned, but she was big, and that didn’t come across in videoconferences or photos.
Louise looked up to Patrizia.
“If you can just sit, I’ll be able to explain a few things.”
Patrizia sat back on the bed as Louise leaned against the desk. She had a tablet with her, and paged through a few documents.
“I don’t do these debriefs very often, so be patient with me. Let’s see. You are Patrizia Managas. Born in Maracaibo, naturalized Canadian citizen since age eight. Lived in Scarborough, attended the University of Toronto in Computer Science. Worked at a few startups since then. Your resumé shows … yes, shows well-rounded IT skills.”
“I already know all of this. What I don’t know is—“
“Is that tonight, your employers ignored about half a dozen AI safety regulations and triggered the equivalent of putting up a ‘free tasty snacks’ sign for infovores who love nothing more than an entrée of brains. They would have swallowed the computers as well, but AI has a way of tricking them into thinking that circuit boards are tastier than they really are.”
That shut up Patrizia—more for the calm matter-of-fact way Louise had summarized the worst five minutes of her life.
“How often does this happen?” she finally said as Louise stared at her.
“Often enough that we’re set up to deal with it.”
“Okay, okay. Where am I? Who are you?”
“Legally, you’re nowhere right now.”
A chill shook Patrizia. She did not need a reminder that they could do whatever they wanted to her.
“Technically, you’re under the protection of the Canadian Government. I’ll explain the details of who we are later, but as you probably expect, the government is prepared for anything, including things what it’s not prepared for. When those things happen, it’s up to us to fix it. You can call us the X-Files, if that’s what you want, but we call ourselves—”
“Stop!”
“What?”
“I don’t… I don’t want to hear anything more.”
Holding up her hand, she took a deep breath.
“Look, I don’t want to know, all right? I’ve seen too much already, I have a hard time believing you’re going to let me go after all this, and I don’t want you to have to kill me for what I know. I- “
“Kill you?”
Louise let out a spectacularly inappropriate chuckle.
“Patrizia, you survived a paranormal event that took out all of the eleven other people in the building. I’m told you even killed one of those creatures. Your resumé is terrific, and it looks as if you’ve got enough wits to go head-to-head with horrors that would drive other people insane. We don’t want to kill you.”
Louise slipped a few sheets of printed paper from under the tablet and gave them to Patrizia. LETTER OF OFFER, they said.
“We want to hire you.”
Chapter 1—Welcome to Maple Hall
The Special Operations and Research Directorate of Library and Archives Canada was a weird and unusual place to work for, thought Louise as the O-Train cleared Rideau station. One of those eccentricities was a clear directive to its employees and managers: once every two weeks, its employees had to take public transportation to come to work. It was a way to keep in touch with reality, with the masses, with the ordinary world as it existed in the minds of most Canadians, unburdened by the knowledge that was shared across Maple Hall.
Occasionally, Louise could see the point. Today, for instance, was a rather wonderful day—mid-May in Ottawa was often gorgeous: past the snow thaw, well into nature greening itself again. The temperature was mild even before nine o’clock, and it looked as if the night’s clouds were giving way to a sunny day. On days like that, even OC Transpo didn’t feel so bad.
As usual, she was trying to read on the train, and not doing particularly well. Working for Maple Hall had its advantage, but its drawbacks were significant as well. It had been a decade since Louise had been able to read fantasy, horror or science fiction—formerly her favourite genres as a voracious teen reader, now hopelessly ridiculous considering what she knew. She had a hard time reading non-fiction on many topics, so clearly was their view of the world so incomplete. She usually settled for some fluffy romance—at least there she could forgive the willful simplification of the world—or historical fiction, as long as it didn’t contradict what she could read about in the Library.
She supposed that her mind was elsewhere—she had a new hire to greet this morning, and that was always a tricky balancing act to manage. A proper onboarding would probably wipe out her morning and consume a good chunk of her afternoon.
The train slowed down for Lyon station and she got up. People moved if they noticed her, which didn’t happen as often as it did a few years ago. She knew fully well what she looked like to others—a mousy bureaucrat in frumpy clothing, making her way to her office for a few hours of policy analysis and answering emails. She could look better when she cared about it, but other than wearing her hair down she wasn’t making any effort today—that new hire wasn’t worth the trouble.
She made her way up the station stairs to the ground level. Maple Hall’s Management Board had a point with their mass-transit edict, she thought as she moved along with dozens of other commuters. It felt good to be ordinary, unremarkable and undistinguishable. These are the people we protect. Let them live in their already-complicated world. We’ll take care of the rest.
Exiting Lyon station, she walked down Bay Street to the Library and Archives headquarters—a nice 1960s concrete building that was halfway between classical commonwealth government architecture and emerging brutalism—a gray stone building not quite majestic but not quite ugly either.
She crossed Wellington without too much trouble and looked at her watch. 8:55. That new hire would be here at any moment, and she’d told him to meet her at the bench in front of the building.
Ah yes—the bench, she smiled as she sat down on it. One of the few pieces of public art that everyone loved in Ottawa. A touch of whimsy against an austere building. A cast-iron sculpture, it was both a bench where someone could sit at one end, and an illustrative sculpture showing a young man whispering something to a young woman, a half-bitten apple in his hand. That was distinctive enough, but the part that had all of Maple Hall deeply amused was the title that the sculpture sported: The Secret Bench of Knowledge.
Considering what the Special Operations and Research Directorate saw on an everyday basis, it was a very appropriate name.
Naturally, the bench was not an invention of the government department—it had been installed by the artist at night without authorization, and deemed so likable that the Library had arranged for its permanent installation a few years later.
Louise’s fingers brushed against the many messages inscribed on the surface of the bench, all about the pleasures of reading.
Then she spotted her new employee crossing Wellington and heading for the building. His photos did him justice—a twentysomething young man of Vietnamese ethnicity, dressed in an impeccable suit. His longish hair was brushed back on his head, his black beard was well groomed and he sported deliberately nerdy black-framed glasses for effect.
She got up.
“Welcome, Florent.”
“You’re Louise, right?”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re my boss?”
“Also right.”
“It feels weird that, that we never talked—“
“Don’t worry about it. Sit down.”
She moved closer to the young bronze-cast man permanently sitting on the bench and patted the empty space next to her.
“Shouldn’t we go inside?” he asked.
“Plenty of time for that later. There are a few things to discuss first.”
He sat down next to her. She glanced at him but did not hold eye contact. He was a guy—this was the kind of conversation to have side-by-side with them. She took a different approach with new female hires. So they looked together at the bustle of Wellington Street.
“You’re probably wondering what you’re getting into,” she said. “There you were, deep in the data analytics sector of ESDC and then you got an email telling you that your candidacy had been accepted. Except that you never applied for the job, right?”
“Um, right.”
“You looked over the job description, and it looked like your ideal next step. Good salary, no obvious catches, great statement of work. Stuff you’ve been meaning to do since graduation but somehow never did, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You called the number on the letter of offer and got in touch with this guy who explained in general terms what the job would be, and why you should take it.”
“You know him?”
“My boss. He’s awesome. You asked for more details, but he said that the job had national security classification associated to it, which only made you more curious.”
“Were you listening in?”
“No, but you’re not the first person we’ve hired over the years. What I’m wondering is—what was the line that hooked you good? When I was hired, it was the mention that I’d know a lot more than other people.”
“That was pretty nice,” admitted Florent with a grin.
“But that wasn’t it?”
“No. It was when I asked how long people worked here.”
“He said you could spend your entire life here.”
“Was he wrong?”
“No. People who work with us tend to stay with us. Part of it is the work. Part of it is … well…”
“Yes?”
“We pick our candidates carefully.”
“You never even interviewed me!” he said, looking at her.
“You think that’s going to stop us? Florent Doan. Born in Sherbrooke, second-generation descendant of Vietnamese immigrants back in the 1970s. Divorced while you were a kid. You always did well in classes, but always with notes saying you could do better. But you didn’t want to. There was so much stuff to read about and watch and discover outside classes. You studied in Montréal, public administration, but what you really wanted to do was take in everything the city had to offer to a curious mind. You failed your first year because the city was so interesting. Am I doing well so far?”
“How do you know all that stuff?”
“We know you better than anyone else. That’s how we pick our recruits, and we specifically picked you. We’ve read your social media postings, your emails, your reports at work-“
“Isn’t this illegal?”
“Not as much as you’d think. Anyway—the point being, we think you’ll be a good fit, and we think you will enjoy working here. The most amazing group of people are in here, and you will love it.”
“Why aren’t we inside, then?”
“I’m giving you one last choice.”
“One last choice?”
“Oh, don’t worry. You can walk away at any time. People have done it in the past, and it has always worked out. But entering here is not quite like a job. It’s closer to a vocation.”
“I’m… scared and intrigued.”
“Then you’re exactly where I want you to be. Florent—”
She made eye contact with him.
“This is not a regular job. You will learn everything that’s important to know about the world and you won’t be able to go back to an ordinary life afterwards.”
“Wow. National Security stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“If I don’t feel like it, I just walk away and we’re good?”
“This is your chance to keep living the good life. The ignorant life.”
“When did you get this speech?”
“Twelve years ago.”
“Any regrets?”
“Not a single one.”
Not being able to read genre fiction wasn’t such a big deal in the end.
“Then what are we waiting for?” he said. “Let’s go inside.”
She nodded. That had gone pretty well, as she expected it would. Of course, they usually hit a wall afterwards. Would he be the kind to pause in shock, or would she find him curled into a ball sometime during the afternoon?
🔷
Wow, Lady, enough with the drama, thought Florent as she led him inside the building. She was cute in a middle-aged kind of way and he liked her banter, but this was ridiculously overdone.
This was a job at Library and Archives—c’mon. Even the National Security angle was probably way overdone. There wasn’t a whole lot of ways this could go. He’d probably end up in some cubicle sifting through decades-old documents ready for declassification. Sure, he’d know all of the country’s dirty secrets: those of the 1920s and back.
In the building’s white-marble-clad lobby, she turned right and led him to the first pair of wooden doors to their left. She opened them—no access card, nothing—and waved him inside.
It wasn’t what he had imagined. He thought he’d be in a utilitarian corridor, perhaps a warren of beige cubicles, but instead there was an imposing marble staircase leading down, and ornate brass railings. Weirdly, the room felt wider than the spacing between the door and the lobby. But that was probably an optical illusion.
Louise led the way, her short heels clacking down the marble steps. Florent followed. Another solid pair of wooden doors was at the bottom of the stairs.
“It gets a bit weird after this,” she said. “Feel free to ask me any questions.”
Riiight.
She opened the second set of doors and he went through.
He blinked in the brightness. This was … different.
He found himself in a corridor, maybe ten metres long. The floor was white polished marble over three metres wide, and it reflected the diffuse light of the walls and ceiling. Aside from the marble, Florent couldn’t really focus his eyesight on the walls and ceiling. They were luminescent from within, but featureless.
He moved toward the wall to his left and put his hand on the surface.
It was soft and yielding, like touching dense fluff.
When he pushed, his hand went in. Not a lot, maybe a few millimetres, but enough to make him gasp.
He pulled his hand and thankfully was able to get all of it back. He looked at it: Nothing missing. No wounds. All good.
Turning, he saw Louise looking at him with a knowing expression.
“Most of us try it. But just once.”
She nodded toward the third set of wooden doors at the end of the white corridor.
“Come on. There’s more.”
He followed her, not feeling quite so sure about what he was getting into and the appropriate level of drama to go with it.
She opened the door, and what he saw inside was impossible.
For one thing, he wasn’t sure he was inside any more.
He was now in a courtyard with a dozen people milling about, a space built around the biggest maple tree he has ever seen. Looking up, and up, and up, he saw that it was, what, ten stories high?
This was a measurement helped along by the fact that the courtyard was surrounded on four sides by the windows of office buildings. There was a big blue sunny sky above his head.
This. Was. Impossible. He was in the basement of a government building, wasn’t he?
It had to be an illusion.
He stepped forward. If this was a projection, there would be something to stop him, a seam in the projectors, a way to see past the smoke and mirrors. He looked up and nothing was amiss. He could see through some of the lower-level windows into other people’s remarkably ordinary offices, covered with bookshelves and hung paintings.
He felt Louise following him as he moved around the immense maple tree. The trunk had to be two full meters wide, if not more. Looking closer, he saw that this was unlike any other maple he’d ever see: the leaves in the tree were not uniformly grown. Some were bright-green new leaves, other dark-green, others turning orange and red and others nearly dry and brown. As he looked up, the leaves shook as if blown by a breeze and one of them fell to the ground, where it was immediately picked up by a nearby young woman and reverentially placed in what looked like a fancy composting receptacle.
And yet he couldn’t see anything here to suggest he hasn’t seeing exactly what he was seeing: an open-air courtyard in the basement of a government building. With, in the centre, the weirdest, biggest maple tree he had ever seen.
“What’s going on?” he asked Louise.
Benches had been placed everywhere in the courtyard. She gestured for him to sit on the nearest one.
“Is this for real?”
“Real enough.”
“That tree…”
“The biggest in recorded history, by a significant margin. Four hundred thousand leaves. Every day, roughly eight leaves fall down from the tree. As you saw, they do not stay on the ground very long, and they are treated with the respect they deserve.”
The numbers … the numbers. He gasped at what they meant.
“Let me guess—there are roughly ten thousand new leaves every year.”
“I think you understand. As the country goes, so does this tree.”
“This is—and the courtyard. Where are we?”
“We don’t quite know. The marble staircase is older than Confederation, although it wasn’t always at the same place. Your cell phone stopped getting a signal when we crossed the white corridor. Some think we’re somewhere ten kilometres below Nunavut, but that’s the kind of speculation that doesn’t account for…”
She waved upwards and around.
“… all this. At least now you know why many of us refer to this place as Maple Hall. Rolls off the tongue more smoothly than the Special Operations and Research Division.”
“The SORD.”
“Yeah, that’s a cool acronym. Not particularly original, though. And while the SORD is a group, is a force, well Maple Hall—”
She paused.
“Maple Hall is a place.”
He stared intently ahead of him. They he looked up and saw, on the edge of the trunk he could see … a cup dispenser?
She followed his gaze.
“Oh yeah, that’s the maple sap dispenser. Fresh from the trunk, never runs out.”
He closed his eyes and cradled his head with his hands, not quite wanting to think any more.
🔷
There it was, she thought while watching him close his eyes and rest on his side. Finally. The shutdown.
In her experience, much better than the other option: afternoon hysterics and crash.
The problem, although it wasn’t a problem, is that Maple Hall tended to hire some of the most rational, hard-core skeptics around. It couldn’t do otherwise—it needed the coolest, sharpest intellects in the country and you didn’t get that with fairy-believing whackadoodles. The problem is that even the most flexible of minds needed some time to adapt when it was stretched out of shape by new revelations, and it almost inevitably led to such momentary shutdowns.
She looked up and waved reassurance to those looking at Florent.
“First day, first day” she mouthed, and everyone nodded in recognition.
He’d be fine. He’d just need a few moments. They’d all been there.
After a few seconds, Florent groaned and open his eyes again.
“We’re still here,” she said. “None of this is a dream.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, “it’s just that-“
“No need to be sorry. It happens to nearly everyone.”
“You’re going to tell me there’s more?”
“A lot more. Let’s take you to your office.”
They rose. She started pointing at the entrances and hallways he could see at the floor level of the courtyard.
“This is the lobby to the entire place. We tend to designate the main entrance we came from as being south. North is administration, HR, some weird kind of IT shop, transportation Nexus and the command centre. East is investigations and operations, while west … well, west is us: Library, Archives, and Research.”
She waved in succession to the east, north and west.
“Hands, body and mind.”
“But who built this place?” he said as they approached the hallway leading to their offices. “How is it maintained? Where does everything come from?”
“I may have not told you the complete story when I promised you that you’d learn all about the world around here. The more complete truth is that you’ll learn a lot more than you know, but at the same time you will also learn a few things that are beyond our understanding.”
“So, in other words, you don’t know.”
“We don’t know. Although there are books and books of theories written over the years. Maybe the answer is in one of them, and maybe it isn’t.”
Out of pure automatism, she led him through the branching hallways to their corner of Maple Hall—the cozy nook of the Library Research Division.
“You’re tapdancing around what I mean. Surely you know when this place started. It probably didn’t look like a modern office building a few decades ago. And you must have some working theories of how it works; otherwise you wouldn’t be working here.”
“You’re right, and some of it will be revealed to you later. Suffice to say that the SORD, in its earlier incarnations, dates back all the way to the Middle Ages. Not from here—it started in Europe, or maybe China, and it evolved with time.”
“Other countries?”
“Every country has something like the SORD. Every government faces weird stuff it can’t understand. England and France created theirs centuries ago, so it’s not a surprise if Canada has one.”
“Do we meet?”
“Of course, but it’s a bit awkward. You’ll see later.”
She stopped.
“Until then, here we are.”
She gestured at their surroundings, perhaps more grandiosely than they deserved. Maple Hall wasn’t necessarily about beauty, but it was about offering comfortable working locations to the humans it served. And for Louise’s team of bookish intellectuals, this meant a cozy central meeting area with tables, comfy chairs, drawing boards and other amenities. Around them, a cluster of offices opened around the central area, allowing for everyone to have both their offices and some collaboration space.
Typically for Maple House, the area had a glass ceiling that let lightly cloudy skies illuminate the space—but never harshly. She knew that the light was generally synchronized to central time, with evenings giving place to a nice starry sky when they shut down the lights.
In the easy chairs, Hakim and Jasmine looked up from their chat.
“Hey, is that Florent?” said Hakim.
“I guess that’s me.”
“Welcome!”
Both rose up to greet the newcomer and introduced themselves. Hakim firmly shook Florent’s hand.
“Have you shown him his office?” asked Jasmine.
“We’re getting there,” said Louise.
“The Library?”
“He just got over Maple Hall.”
“Oooh, right. Heavy stuff. Later, then.”
“But she does make a good point,” said Louise to Florent. “Let’s had a look at your office. Where did they put it?”
“Newcomers usually get one next door to you,” said Hakim.
“I knew that. Making a point. Let’s have a look.”
She led Florent toward two of the doors.
“My office is to the left, yours is to the right for now.”
“For now?”
“Would you be surprised if I told you the layout adjusts over time?”
“I— ah—“
They entered his office, and he could see that he had a very good view of Maple Hall, from what looked like the second or third floor up.”
“—Yeah, OK, I believe you.”
“Everyone’s office has a view of Maple Hall. No matter where or how it’s placed in this place’s non-Euclidian geometry. Perk of the job, and a really good flex by the Hall itself.”
“Should I refer to it as a living thing?”
“You’ll come to this conclusion soon enough.”
Florent looked around the office and nodded. Louise knew that this was much, much better than the cubicles or shared desks of other government jobs. He had a chair, a reasonably good computer, enough working space to accommodate what would come up, a solid door he could lock any time and that was just the starter office.
“This is really good,” he finally said. “Just for me?”
“Space is not at a premium here. And the office may grow along with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just look around.”
The shelves were bare, the decoration minimal and there were specific comforts suited to him.
“Now let’s go look at my office.”
They went next door. Florent understood immediately.
Her office had become, over the years, a far better reflection of what she needed. It was twice the size of his, had a table with two comfy chairs for personal chats, had accumulated a light clutter of books, mementoes of past cases, objects of ongoing study, pieces of artwork, even a nook in which she had a small fridge, pantry and microwave for when she worked late and wanted a snack.
“How long?”
“Ten years, but it’s based on needs more than seniority.”
“How does it work? You make a wish, then come back the next morning and it’s there?”
“Sometimes it’s there before you even realize you need it.”
“Are we puppet to this place?”
“Over the years, much smarter people than us haven’t come to a conclusion on the matter.”
She settled down in her chair.
“Sit down. There’s a bit more to discuss for your onboarding.”
While he sat down and looked around, she quickly looked over her emails. The usual stuff, some continuing fallout from the Cognizeck mess, a few messages from HR about Florent’s arrival and…
“Ooh.”
“What?”
“Never mind the sitting down. We’re off on a field expedition.”
She rose.
“Already?”
“It’s going to be a good practical introduction to the foundations of what we really do.”
“All right, then, where are we going?”
“Well, one of my favourite book dealers in Montréal just sent me a message saying that he may have something of interest to us.”
“But that’s going to take us the entire day! Are we going by car? Who’s driving?”
“Wait, wait, wait, no need to go crazy on the logistics. I’ll show you some of the neat tricks that Maple Hall makes available to us.”
🔷
Florent looked dubiously as Louise poured an entire paper cup of sap from the Maple Hall trunk dispenser and handed it over to him.
“Is this going to ruin my DNA, give me brain parasites or send me on a big drug trip?”
“No to all counts. It’s just maple sap. A bit thicker and sweeter than usual, but that’s what Maple Hall provides.”
He had a sip. It was remarkably good.
They walked north from the trunk of the maple tree, to the central hallway. He could see bilingual signs: Corporate Services, Oversight Room, Transportation. Louise gently nudged them both toward Transportation.
“It’s just tough to go from hard-core symbolism to, well, a sweet drink.”
“Yeah, I can see that. But let’s be honest—if you’re a Canadian and you’re confronted by the biggest Maple tree you’ve ever seen, sooner or later, you’re going to wonder.”
“Yeah, should I tap that?” he said, before catching himself and blushing like crazy.
“Not the best choice of words,” she smiled, “but I guess I walked us right to it. But yes: Someone, at some time, tapped that tree and didn’t die of it. The rest is just further refinements.”
He pulled a long sip. It still tasted exceptional.
“So, are we going to a motor pool?”
“Much better than that.”
The hallway opened to a rather large area with a central location for a few technicians sitting at consoles.
“This is the Transportation Nexus. Or just the Nexus when you get used to it.”
Louise went straight to them.
“I need a doorway to Montréal. Rue Saint-Pierre, the usual.”
As the technicians tapped a few keys, she finished her cup and Florent did the same. Wow, that was crazy good stuff.
“It’s going to open in five seconds, linked to a service door,” said the technician while pointing at the nearest wall, where an outline of a door had been marked.
He looked quizzically at Louise as she led him to the door outline.
“I don’t understand.”
“Trust me. This is far better than any taxi.”
A shining rectangular outline appeared inside the door outline. A push-bar materialized.
She pushed on the door and stepped through the opening doorway. He quickly followed and…
…found himself in one of downtown Montréal’s less travelled streets.
Still, he had been around here often enough to recognize the sights. Unlike Ottawa, where the weather had cleared up the skies to a nice sunny day, it was still overcast. There were slightly away from the big downtown skyscrapers, in an older area that still had plenty of small boutiques in slightly run-down buildings that would eventually be town down to make ways for an expanding number of high-rises.
He found it far easier to go with it than to ask too many questions about what and how.
Although he couldn’t really resist.
“Are those permanent portals?”
“No, we can specify where we go if we know the area enough,” said Louise without breaking her stride. “We can access most of Canada at varying degrees of proximity, but it doesn’t don’t work from some areas, and none of this is very useful if we need to bring, say, a truckload of equipment around.”
“Personal travel?”
“Yes.”
“And no one noticed two people coming out of thin air?”
“Look for yourself.”
He looked back. They had just come out of a perfectly ordinary metal service door in a perfectly ordinary building.
“When we often make use of the location, it’s easier to lock the transportation mechanism onto existing doors. Open this again and you’ll just end up in the backroom of a store.”
Handy!
But she was already moving away. He followed.
They didn’t have a long way to go. She gestured at a sign over the door of a bookstore: “Sylvester’s Antique and Rare Books.”
It didn’t look like much of a store, and what it looked like was exactly the kind of thing you’d expect from a decades-old bookshop in an aging part of the town: a single wooden door with an old-school OPEN paper sign with handwritten opening hours, windows cluttered with an assortment of yellowing books from cookbooks to coffee-table art collections.
There was nothing here to draw in booktockers, YA fiction enthusiasts or, indeed, anyone under the age of forty. Fifty. Maybe sixty.
“One of my favourite dealers in the country,” she said. “Let’s go meet him.”
She opened the door and they walked inside.
The store didn’t need a doorbell to ring in newcomers—the wooden floor loudly creaked the moment they stepped inside.
At least the storefront faithfully advertised the inside. Florent smiled despite himself—this was really the kind of antique and rare bookstore that had existed through the decades: the shelves were wooden, reached to the ceiling and were absolutely crammed with books. It was also surprisingly big—rows and rows of shelving created a labyrinthine feeling—you could get lost here. Had he been here before?
Florent could distantly see the sales desk at the back of the store. He was mindful of anything he could say—it was so quiet that even a whisper would be heard through the entire store.
The central corridor from the door to the desk was wide enough for two people to walk through, but Florent wasn’t going to try standing shoulder to shoulder with his boss: Louise walked briskly toward the desk, somehow avoiding the stacks of overflow volumes that had been placed on the floor, as if the books were slowly taking over the entire space.
“Hey, Sylvester!” she said brightly. “You said to drop by?”
An old man behind the desk looked up. He smiled.
“Louise! So glad to see you!”
He moved from behind the desk and gave her a good hug—the kind between old acquaintances.
“I wasn’t expecting you to drop by so soon!” he said.
“I had some free time this morning, and coming here always makes me happy. How’s business?”
“Eh, same as it ever was. Foot traffic is slow, but that works for me. Online sales are pretty good, though.”
Florent looked over the desk and saw a far more powerful computer than he expected—there was a handheld barcode scanner, a sheet-fed document scanner and a flatbed scanner placed on a cabinet. More interestingly, the three screens were crammed with overlapping windows, suggesting that Sylvester was far more of a power user than Florent would have expected.
“I’m glad you’re doing well. Do you recommend anything?”
“Ah, so quickly back to business. Who’s your friend?”
“Florent works with me. I’m teaching him a few tricks. If you’re not nice, he may come here on my behalf soon.”
“That would be such a loss, Louise. I’d better stay on my best behaviour.”
“Don’t worry. I like being here.”
“Glad to hear it. Anyway, I sent you a message because one of my vendors came here with two interesting books. Let me see…”
He reached out behind him, in a busy shelving system with special order books—wrapped in twine, with bright green cardboard cards with customer names. He didn’t have to look for what he was looking for, and immediately pulled two books from the middle shelf.
“Two French books, exactly the kind you asked me for. Have a look.”
There were two books in the pile—an old one in leather with Les secrets du monde caché on the spine, and a new one in somewhat standard paperback format called Mystères et incantations.
Florent moved to get a better view as Louise looked down at the two tomes.
She opened the older book and he saw her hand brush past three bookplates on the endpaper. It was an old, old edition. Could it be more than a century old?
“Interesting,” she said after paging through the book. “You’re right—exactly what I’m looking for.”
She put down the older book and paged through the newer one with a disappointed smile. It was, as best as Florent could gather, merely a new edition of something else—the pages looked as if they had been reprinted from a scanned copy of another old book.
“This is not quite it, though,” she said after a moment. “More of a joke than anything else?”
“I thought you’d say that,” said the bookseller. “Consider it a bonus, free of charge if you want the first book. I have so little to offer you today.”
“I was about to say—I’m used to getting a thicker stack from you, Sylvester.”
“Ah, well, one of my suppliers—he only offered me two French titles. From an estate sale. He didn’t say, but I have a feeling he’s got another buyer for English tomes.”
“That’s too bad. Who’s that seller?”
“He doesn’t want his name out there.”
Louise nodded.
Plus, you’d be a pretty poor middleman if you let us cut you out of the transaction, thought Florent.
“Fair enough. I’ll take both. Let us know if you get anything more.”
Sylvester handed over a very new credit card reader. Louise produced a credit card, slipped it into the terminal and quickly tapped her code.
“Bag?” asked Sylvester.
“Of course,” said Louise. “I’m not sure the rain is over.”
They handled the rest of the business efficiently, and before long they were out of the store.
“Fascinating,” said Louise. “We’re going to head back to the office, but before we do, how about we get some bagels and smoked meat sandwiches for the team?”
🔷
This was far from the first time the team feasted on a regional take-out order. All team members had their own preferences and cool eating spots, and by now, any morning outing in a major metropolitan area usually led to a take-out order for six. Louise was glad to bring back the goods—they didn’t usually do lunchtime meetings, but onboarding Florent was as good an excuse as any.
The entire team was there, which always simplified things—Louise’s team meetings were all about exchanging information, getting heads-up notices of potential problems, and ensuring everyone were on the up-and-up on everything else. She had a good group—she couldn’t take any credit for their hiring, as HR recruitment dictated everything, but she could at least feel responsible for their integration, the way they worked together, and creating an atmosphere of camaraderie.
“I’ve got a few management updates,” she said as the entire team was chomping down on pastrami-and-rye sandwiches. “The kerfuffle at Cognizeck is dying down—the fire department checked off on the idea of a fatal blaze due to code deviations, the families are mourning and the digital archives team is handling the code. What remains of it, although I’m told enough of the code survived from the … backups? Is that right?”
“RAID array?” suggested a younger woman. Jasmine—not a techie, but not bad at it either.
“Yeah, that sounds right. Anyway—we got a good recruit out of it, and she’s over in Investigations where they have found her a spot as an all-purpose field technician. It’s been three weeks, so go say hi—she’s Patrizia, in Trent’s group.”
Everyone nodded.
“But for now, our newest, most junior recruit is right here—Florent, say hi and a few words.”
To his credit, the young man didn’t do the usual aw-shuck-I’m-shy thing.
“Hi! I’m Florent Doan. I’m from ESDC, but I’m here now. I’m not yet sure about this place or my job description—“
A few nods and chuckles.
“-But I can’t wait to learn everything I can.”
“Thank you,” said Louise. “Florent will be, in the next few weeks, be subject to our usual onboarding, training and hazing. Please be nice to him, but not too nice. He’s got to learn.”
She took a bite of her sandwich.
“As for the rest of you, since Florent was kind enough to bring back half the lunch bags, he gets to hear your names, life stories and whatever else you want to make as a first impression. In decreasing order of seniority, well, I guess we start with you, Martin.”
A sixty-something Caucasian man grinned.
“I guess that’s a reference to me having been here forever. Well, not forever—just longer than most other people. As some will tattle, I’ve got first-hand knowledge of some of the archives. More seriously, I specialize in early Canadian manuscripts, and finding things down in the Library when we’re authorized to do so. Has he seen the Library?”
“This afternoon. Next, Marie.”
A white woman with salt-and-pepper hair spoke up.
“Welcome aboard, Florent. I’m Marie Clément, been here twenty years, and I usually get first crack at French-language books. I do indexing, and when I’m not here I do a spot of painting.”
“Drop by her office to have a look,” said Louise. “It’s a lot more than a spot. Next is Hakim.”
A man of Middle Eastern ethnicity, somewhere in his thirties, waved from across the table.
“That’s me. The one and only Hakim Ramayan. You need to know who to talk to in Maple Hall, I’ll tell you.”
“Your name is familiar. Have I read something by you, in magazines? ‘
“Oh, I had a few short stories published a few years ago. Small press genre magazines. I did a lot of writers’ conventions. Frankly, I’m amazed someone remembers. All over now, but I still get first look at anything that looks too much like fantasy.”
“He still writes,” added Louise. “A novel every November.”
“Eh, that’s just for fun. Nothing to take seriously.”
“And not least, our formerly junior member but not the least—Jasmine.”
The young black woman who has answered about the RAID array spoke up.
“Hey, Florent. Glad to have you aboard. I was an English literature student before coming here, and I had a side line in web consulting. But since then, I’m in modern books and I do liaison with our digital archive team.”
“Usually, techno-digital stuff goes to another team, but it’s handy to have someone here who know a bit about it. Anyway, our newest matter of concern is these two beauties.”
Louise cleaned her hands with wet wipes, and put on a white cotton glove. Carefully avoiding the rest of the food, she took the two books from Sylvester’s store out of their bag. She pointed at the older book first.
“The first one isn’t anything special—another copy of Les secrets du monde caché, so it’s good to be able to secure another copy out of circulation.”
“Why?” asked Florent.
“Most of it is bunk, but at least two of the incantations can breach real entities over here, and three others are garbled in such a way that mispronouncing the words can cause serious self-harm.”
“Extruded organs and self-liquefication,” said Hakim in between two bites of his sandwich.
“But that’s not the important part,” said Louise. “The important part is that our normally reliable bookseller, who’s usually fed by a normally reliable bookhound scouring estate sales, is now not so reliable. Someone else is probably scooping up the English-language books.”
“Didn’t we hear this last month?” asked Jasmine.
“That’s right. Zhonghe in Vancouver reported the same thing. But not the Chinese-language books.”
“You know the drill,” said Louise. “Once is happenstance, but twice is not necessarily coincidence. Let’s find who else is grabbing the books. If there’s intent, we’ll have to intervene.”
“Any leads?”
“The book has three bookplates. I’m thinking that the most recent one may lead us to the estate, then the auction, then … the book hound. It’s going to take a tricky phone call, though.”
Everyone except for Florent turned to Hakim.
“OK, fine, I’ll do it,” said Hakim in a flawless east-Indian accent.
“Stick to the white voice,” said Jasmine.
“Whatever works.”
“Don’t forget to run the fingerprints,” said Martin.
“The other volume we got, however, is far more interesting,” said Louise. “A very modern, very deliberate reproduction of Bezilière’s Mystères et incantations.”
As Louise expected, there was a sharp hiss of air from Martin and Marie.
“That’s bad?” asked Florent.
“That’s bad,” confirmed Marie. “The spells are generally potent, and they ask for human sacrifice.”
“Oh my God,” said Florent. “Does that work?”
“Regrettably, yeah,” said Marie. “It’s complicated and it can go horribly wrong and it’s not the only way to focus energies, but even if it didn’t, the problem is that the crazies believe it.”
“A while back, we worked hard to grab all the copies we could find—” said Marie.
“Including a few library heists,” reminded Martin.
“-But if someone’s out there making more…”
“We don’t know that yet,” warned Louise. “For all we know, it’s a bunch of Dungeons and Dragons players—no offence, Hakim—who liked the look of the pages and made a copy for themselves. But that means there’s still an original floating around, and it means that someone made at least a copy if not more.”
Jasmine quickly wiped her hand and produced a white cotton glove out of her pocket.
“Can I take a look?”
Louise gave her the tome. The young woman paged through it and went straight to the last page.
“Hmmm, it was printed on demand, and there’s a code, so that means we can probably track it back to the printer, and then to the client.”
“Get cracking. Use the RCMP hotline for authorization and mandates if you need them.”
“Should this go to Oversight?”
“I’ll run it through Rhéal. I don’t think so—this is well in-line with what we usually do.”
“Wait,” said Florent. “Oversight? As in, getting approval?”
“What?” said Louise with a smile. “You thought we were a black-book operation? Everything SORD does is subject to audit, review and possible sanction by the National Security and Intelligence Review Agency. We have some latitude on routine operations, but we have to report to the internal Oversight team on standard and emergency operations, and anything exceptional requires review and approval by the Agency.”
“It’s annoying,” groused Martin.
“But it’s how we don’t become a rogue operation.”
“Who knows about us?” asked Florent.
“Not many elected officials,” admitted Louise. “The Prime Minister certainly does. A few long-term parliamentarians known for their discretion and already involved in national security oversight. Many senior bureaucrats, especially for when we have to do joint operations with other departments. All on a limited need-to-know basis, of course. Plus, our network of consultants, local liaisons, retired advisors and people paid off to stay quiet.”
“We do that?”
“Look, maybe the movies have you convinced that bullets or amnesiacs are the only way to keep people quiet if they’re involved in something that goes well beyond weirdness. But we’ve found for decades that a small chunk of money, especially when it’s given regularly, is very efficient in ensuring that people who should stay quiet, do stay quiet.”
“Wow. That’s … underwhelming.”
“You’ll find that things are both weirder and duller than you’d think around here,” said Jasmine. “Sometimes all at once.”
“Get him to the Library,” suggested Marie.
“That’s a good idea,” said Louise. “All right, lunch check-in is over—we’ll talk about your ongoing files this afternoon.”
She tuned to Florent.
“As for you, you’re coming with me. The Library awaits.”
🔷
Florent kept thinking about what Jasmine had said—weirder and duller than expected. What would that famed Library be like? Overhyped disappointment, or something up to what everyone seemed to promise?
Louise navigated the hallways ahead of him, bringing them closer to Maple Hall itself. As they were getting closer to the Research hub, they came across another group, a different group—four solid guys, plus two equally fit women. Soldiers, immediately thought Florent.
“Hey Alan,” said Louise to the man who seemed to be leading the others.
“Louise,” nodded Alan. He was a fifty-something man, solidly built and unambiguously of First-Nations origins—although Florent couldn’t tell any specifics. He had very short graying hair, a solid build and a no-nonsense expression.
“I’d like a debrief about the Cognizeck fallout, late this afternoon.”
Alan waited a moment before answering.
“All right. I’ll be there as soon as I take care of a few things.”
Then both resumed walking.
There was something weird there, though Florent. Weird or dull? Was he going to start asking himself that question every single moment? When would he be able to better assess what should be weird and what should be dull?
Anyway—no time for that. Louise was pulling ahead, suddenly walking a bit faster. They arrived at the entrance of the research wing, and took a flight of marble stairs down.
“Work teams are on the first floor, and both the archives and the library are below. Don’t try to make sense of the geometry of the place.”
“Already stopped wondering about it.”
“Good, fast learner.”
At the bottom of the stairs was a simple sign—ARCHIVES to the right, and LIBRARY to the left.
“What’s the distinction?” asked Florent.
“That’s a good question. Some of our more archivistic-minded colleagues would talk your ears off about how a library is a kind of archive, and books a specialized kind of artefact. Then our bibliothéconomie specialists would interrupt to argue that a library is not just an accumulation of old stuff, that’s it’s regularly culled and serves a different purpose, and-“
“I’m sure this is all very interesting,’ said Florent dryly.
“Sarcasm at such a young age? But I take your point. Look, this is easier to show than to explain.”
Rather than zig to the LIBRARY, she zagged to the ARCHIVES.
“Fortunately, we’re cleared for both.”
Another wooden double door. This one led to another white corridor with the marble tiles and the milky walls. This time, Florent knew better than to try touching it.
“We think these spaces are firewalls of sorts,” said Louise. Florent noticed that her words were strangely flat in here. Made sense—the diffuse, gaseous walls and ceiling probably absorbed all echoes. “Keeping valuable areas of Maple Hall separate.”
Why this would be useful sent a chill up Florent’s body. Best not to think too much about it.
They opened the doors at the end of the corridor and ended up in a small lobby. A middle-aged East Asian woman looked up.
“Louise!”
“Dara, so glad to see you. I have here a recruit to impress.”
“Should we wow him or scare him?”
“Wow for now. The rest can wait. He’s off to The Library next.”
“Understood. That will be the upbeat tour for politicians and other people we don’t want to worry.”
“Hey, I’m right here,” said Florent.
“Of course, you are. Or are you? Things get complicated around here.”
Florent made a confused face, which both women found chuckle-worthy.
“All right, that’s it for my hazing. Have a look,” said Dara, opening a door and gesturing inside.
Florent entered and looked. Then looked up. And down.
“Woah.”
“We get that a lot.”
If the archive had a ceiling, he couldn’t see it. If it had walls, he couldn’t see them. Heck, if it had a floor, he couldn’t see it either.
He and the two women were on a platform in the middle of a seemingly infinite warehouse, with immense racks of steel girders and heavy mesh platforms. On the berths near the platform, Florent could see wooden crates, iron containers and, curiously, glass cubes with cloudy interiors.
“What’s that?”
“Some artefacts are not shelf-stable. They can harm, attack or destroy. So, we put them in statis. Completely inert, completely isolated. Centuries can pass without the inside being in any way affected by the outside world.”
“Can you stuff someone inside these cubes?”
“Always thinking about the next steps, aren’t you? Well, yes. I’m not telling you what’s in some of these cubes. It’s not just objects.”
“How big is this place?”
“We don’t know. It keeps expanding. We suspect it’s not just the Canadian archives, but there’s no way to be sure.”
“And how do you get stuff from the shelves?”
“There are platforms and loaders that do it. Unmanned. We call for a specific warehouse berth, as per our index, and it gets delivered.”
“I hope that index has backups.”
“Hasn’t failed us yet.”
“Do you want to see the museum?” asked Dara.
“Uh, sure?”
“It’s inside.”
“There are a few artefacts we keep close by,” explained Louise as they went inside and then to another door, “just in case we want to impress visitors.”
The museum was far more human scale that the warehouse. Two dozen glass cases enclosed a few objects of note. Florent couldn’t make sense of most of them. A nail. An astronomical instrument. An old-school movie camera. A one-dollar coin.
“A loonie?”
“Not just a loonie. The lucky loonie that was buried under the ice when Team Canada won the Gold Medal at the 2010 Olympic games.”
“Is it supernatural?”
“Not at all, but a lot of visitors think it’s the coolest thing we have here.”
“Hit me with something more impressive.”
“How about Champlain’s Astrolabe?”
She gestured at the astronomical instrument. It was in far better condition than Florent expected.
“This is the real one. But it’s not as interesting as where it was found, or what happened next.”
“Enlighten me.”
“When Bytowne was first established, a surveying crew working for the British crown found it not too far from Kìwekì Point, almost exactly where the old National Archives headquarters were located.”
“OK, that’s specific but not too weird.”
“It was down a flight of stairs carved into the ground rock.”
“White marble stairs?”
“It was stone at the time, but you’re on the right track.”
“Maple Hall has always been here?”
“Just waiting for us.”
“And what happened next?”
“The astrolabe was left in place, a shack was built over the stairs and a report was filed to the Crown, which immediately classified it. The shack got upgraded to a bigger government building. A few decades later, Queen Victoria got briefed on the report … and that’s how Ottawa was selected to be the newest capital of the land at a time when it didn’t make any sense.”
“I didn’t expect that history lesson today.”
“What did you expect today?”
Florent laughed.
“I expected to be shoved in an office with hundred-year-old documents to declassify.”
“Isn’t that much better, though?”
“We’ll see. Anything else?”
Dana shrugged.
“It’s all interesting to me, but it really depends on how you see it. A lot of the objects are ordinary, but have an extraordinary story. Feel free to come back at any time.”
“And that’s our cue to go see the Library.”
They said their goodbyes to Dana and headed back the way they came, to the Library through the white firewall, the Archives/Library entrance and another white firewall.
“They way it works here,” said Louise as they made their way across, “Is that archives are objects and the library is information. We find another copy of Mystères et incantations, andit goes in the archives on the pallet that has a dozen more of them. But if you want to read it, you go to The Library where there’s always a copy.”
“But how does that work—“
Louise opened the door to the Library and Florent understood a bit better.
While the archives were, by necessity, a massive, overwhelming space, the library entrance clearly aimed to be human-scaled. The entrance led to a five-sided room, panelled in dark wood and gray granite. A desk was in the middle, staffed by a pleasant-looking older black man.
“I hear you’re showing a recruit around?” said the man.
“That’s right. Any new reconfiguration I should know about?”
“We have one more flight of stairs leading up at the end of main aisle three. There’s a new walkway leading to the Asian libraries. The second floor is a bit messy right now—I think the library is trying to fit graffiti compendiums and changing its mind.”
“The last time it added online postings, we helped it along a bit.”
“The Americans are on it, and it’s not doing much.”
“All right.”
“As for the third basement—‘
“We’re not going to the third basement.’
“Wise. Too many shadows in there right now.”
Louise turned to Florent.
“Let’s have a look.”
She picked the second doorway from the left.
“These doorways are just for ease of initial navigation. Once we’re in, we can eventually get anywhere. It’s just going to save us a few minutes of walking.”
“Oookay.”
One past the doorway, the Library revealed itself in its infinite glory—as a seemingly endless corridor of wooden bookcases. Half a dozen levels were visible above them, with stairs leading to the upper levels. There was a bright blue light off in the distance, but Florent couldn’t see an end to the corridor.
“How many books?”
“The number is irrelevant. On the first level, we have all books ever published. Needless to say, we’re not acquiring or placing them. The Library knows, the Library gets, the Library reshelves. We get new copies of every significant new edition, but not necessarily the reprints.”
“I’m not asking any questions.”
“A lot of us with favourite authors just come here to catch their latest.”
“English and French books?”
“Whatever’s published across the land, plus a lot of what’s done south of the border, France and England. If you want something from other countries, there are passageways to other libraries, but you’re not always guaranteed access. We think there’s a lot of overlap.”
Florent breathed in the air. It smelled like a library, and that further helped make the entire thing more approachable. This was unarguably amazing—it would have knocked him flat had he even suspected such a thing existed earlier this morning. After the day he’d had, however, this was just one more thing. Unlimited library with all books ever published, okay, fine. What next?
“You’re taking this well.”
“It squeaks on the list of the top five strangest things I’ve seen today.”
“The lower level is arguable more interesting.”
“All right, let’s have a look.”
Louise looked around, spotted a doorway and gestured to follow him.
“The second level looks more or less the same as the first, but it’s a very different place.”
Inside the doorway, stairs led down. They were side enough to accommodate two people side by side—smaller than what he’d see so far in Maple Hall, where everything seemed no-expenses-spared spacious.
“While the first level contains everything ever published and commercially available, this second level is trickier.”
They exited at the lower level. Before leaving the stairway, Florent noticed another flight of stairs leading further down, but this one was much narrower—one person would walk down at once, not more.
“Here we are.”
She was right—it wasn’t that different from the first level. It was dimmer, with the small lamps placed on the upper railings feeling more crucial to moving around the place. He was barely surprised to find, even in the dimness, that this second level had higher concourses that could be accessed by wooden stairs, going up at least six, eight, ten stories. This place felt much bigger than the first level.
And the books … the books were all uniform, as if one printing press had churned them out—a mild-brown fake leather, with golden letters spelling out the name of the author and the title of the book.
“Have you figured it out, yet?” asked Louise.
He looked closer. Most books had only one name on them, with Collected Works as titles. More rarely, one author had several books to their names. Many of the Collected Works books were thick. Some were split in multiple chronological volumes.
“Everything ever written, but not necessarily published,” he said softly.
He took a Collected Works at random and opened it. The first few pages were of scribbles, coming from a kid. He flipped through the book, saw school essays, college papers, then shopping lists, letters, emails. He flipped to one of the last pages—a will codicil, apparently written by hand. Followed by what looked like a eulogy and a biographical summary.
“Wow,” he said, not even closing the book.
“Most people never write enough to fill even a single book. But some have multiple shelves of written but unpublished works.”
“This feels like a massive invasion of privacy.”
“I’m glad you see it this way. We don’t venture here nearly as often as you’d think. While we could use this place to keep tabs on suspects, there are a few problems with that idea. For one thing, the books are often unreliable until a few days later. For another, it’s not obvious at all to find books on a specific person when every literate Canadian since the population of the continent has a Collected Works. Never mind that oral output isn’t captured. Hakim once spent three solid days finding his own unpublished work.”
“Did he?”
“He just stopped talking about it. I think he did, but didn’t want us to go snoop.”
Florent nodded. Hakim looked like the kind of guy to have an Archive of Our Own account under another name.
Which meant that his own unpublished work—juvenilia, love letters, pseudonymous social media shitposting, pissed-off emails—were probably equally difficult to get.
“But it can be found?”
“Probably, with research and time and an official authorization from the Management Board. Martin is pretty good at it. But I’m taking you here today largely to warn you that you should not snoop in here. Stick to the first level unless instructed.”
“I can accept that. One thing, though—there’s a third level, right?”
“You saw the stairs. There is a third level. And a fourth. Maybe more. Nobody ever made it to the fifth.”
“What should I know?”
“Never go down to the third level.”
“Simple enough. Care to explain why?”
“This second level has everything written but never published. The third has things imagined but never written. It has no index and no filing scheme—everything is random. The fourth … well, the fourth has everything, except that we don’t know what’s true and what’s not. Entire books of very convincing material, written persuasively but in a way that we are unable to verify anything out of it. Stories of people’s lives, fiction of fantastic creatures, instructions on how to breach the walls of reality and warp minds at a distance. Nothing is true, nothing is false. We just don’t know.”
“Okay, I’m not going down.”
“We think there are an infinite number of floors below us, their sizes getting ever bigger, with the content becoming less and less structured until it’s just gibberish—letters, spaces, numbers all blended together. Maybe the books ascend to higher levels once they’re written, edited and published. Maybe it’s all nonsense anyway.”
“Have you ever gone there?”
“No. The thing is … by the time you’re on the third floor, you would not be alone any more. There are things, shadows, whispers, maybe sentient ideas that haunt the lower floors. They get nastier when you try to go deeper. One person made it to the fourth floor, grabbed a single book and barely made it back. The shadows chased him until he dropped the book. He screamed for a long time. Don’t go downstairs.”
Chapter 2—Bug Hunts and Retirement Plans
In the weeks since the Cognizeck incident, things had sharply improved for Patrizia. Well, aside from the frequent nightmares of teeth and tentacles, occasional bouts of vertigo, and increasingly infrequent dissociative episodes in which she wondered about the nature of the universe. Other than that, not bad!
Once again, she looked over her office. Great computer, nice view of the Maple Hall, terrific amenities. Her habit of working late and napping at lunch had led to a very nice sofa bed popping up unprompted in her office, and a wardrobe of clothes she could bring for a change at the shower stalls. Not that she should work here overnight, but sometimes you just got wrapped up in a problem and had to stick at it until done.
The SORD had been quick and efficient at sorting out her life — She had relocated from her small apartment in Saskatoon to a bigger apartment in Ottawa (nineteen boxes had been enough), onboarded with her new manager (an ex-ML researcher who had independently opened another portal to another dimension before being recruited by SORD), got to know her adorably nerdy colleagues and restarted hiking with a vengeance in Gatineau Park. Her parents hadn’t known anything of the Cognizeck massacre even when a considerably toned-down version of events had been revealed to the media (“Oh, no, that was another team, mom. Psssht, as if. I worked in another office.”)
The staff psychologist still had her on a thrice-weekly schedule.
She was occasionally troubled by her lack of grieving for those who had died. Keeping distant had paid off, she supposed—while she regretted the loss of life and recognized that each dead person had left behind several mourners, she just simply didn’t have close bonds with them. It wasn’t the first time she had packed up and left an entire situation behind her, though—usually for less dramatic reasons, but she just wasn’t the kind to keep in touch even when it was possible to do so.
Survivor’s syndrome? Not for her. Hey, life is unfair. She was here, and she wasn’t looking back.
Thankfully, the staff psychologist wasn’t being pushy in unravelling those threads. He’d stressed the passage of time a few times, which matched Patrizia’s approach just fine.
At least SORD knew what it was doing in hiring her. There was ample work for someone of her profession in the investigative branch—hard drives to explore, coding to tweak, mysteries to unravel. She actually looked forward to the staff meeting for the exchange of information and cool trivia morsels, which really wasn’t the case in any of her previous jobs.
Speaking of which … it was time for the Monday afternoon team check-in. She got up and walked the short distance to the common area.
She was, technically, assigned to the investigations team—the Mulder-and-Scully teams of people (some with investigative training, some just naturally curious and capable enough) that went out to take a look at the weird stuff that official authorities didn’t know what to do with. It was a line of work that took them across Canada, in the biggest cities and the most isolated areas, and needed a considerable number of different skill sets. Patrizia was there to help at the home office—cracking passwords, searching storage media, explaining technical details to less knowledgeable colleagues. But everyone was sharp and interesting and friendly, so that was that.
She sat down in what everyone now recognized as her chair. Not that it was in any way different from the others, but people were creatures of habit, and despite a common seating arrangement, everyone stuck to their places.
She greeted people as they sat down. She was new, but her integration was going smoothly. It helped that she could do things they couldn’t and that they knew that.
“All right, team, let’s go,” said the manager.
What would she learn in the next few minutes?
🔷
Alan sat down in the chair next to the staff psychologist.
“So, what are we talking about today, doc?”
“Whatever you like first, and then I’m going to do the usual quarterly checkup.”
Alan sighed. His first few sessions with Donald, years ago, had not been pleasant. As with nearly everyone in the Operations group, he saw the obligation to have sessions with a staff psychologist as nannying. Treating them like unstable, dangerous kids. The first few sessions had been hostile—him unwilling to say anything, and the psychologist probably resentful at losing time to a combative client.
It had gotten better over time. Alan wasn’t a big talker and he didn’t like to go on about himself, but Donald had gotten used to that. Never prodding—just waiting for Alan to have his say, then asking him just enough to keep talking.
Over time, they had reached an agreement: Alan said what he wanted, Donald asked him a few follow-up questions and both had the impression of an hour not entirely wasted. Meanwhile, SORD was satisfied that its operatives were fine.
Alan wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, but these sessions were even something he looked forward to. Here was someone outside his team who understood what they were going through, could suggest a few things, and could listen to him for an hour straight without doing anything more than nod a few times. Alan could respect that.
“I don’t have a lot since last week, doc. Two bug hunts, nothing special in either case. We stopped the problem, went back home. Training exercise went fine. The Playground didn’t have any nasty surprises, and my team is doing well.”
“So that’s it for the weekly report?”
“I know you’ve heard it a dozen times, but that’s the job. We do what we’re supposed to do.”
“Did any of the two bug hunts involve civilians?”
“Nah. Deserted place in both cases—abandoned cabin and the outskirts of a farm in… Manitoba, I think. Control is good at getting us there before much of the action starts. Unless it’s in a busy area like that tech company in Saskatoon, but at least we got them before they escaped the building.”
“About that, nothing new to say?”
“Compared to the other bugs, we don’t see the squids all that often. But we’re seeing more of them lately, that’s for sure.”
“Any feelings about the number of dead?”
“Bad for sure, but here’s the thing: they were all dead when we walked in. We saved the only one who was alive at that time. I feel good about that.”
“I’m glad you’re taking it that way. Now, I’m going to go over a few things we previously discussed, just to see if you had thought about these things and if you had something to share. Maybe you won’t and that’s okay.”
“We’ve done this before doc.”
“Hey, there are things I have to tell you as part of the script.”
They chit-chatted about a few events of the past year, following up a few threads and showing to Alan that Donald didn’t miss a single thing. The longer the conversation went, the bigger the topics got.
“Any thoughts about your stint in Afghanistan?”
“It’s been fifteen years, doc.”
“Yes, but there’s been a lot of attention given to that Kandahar Station movie. Seen it?”
“You know I don’t do movies.”
“Yeah, but sometimes people get curious.”
“I’m good. All in the past. I had nightmares the first few years, but nothing since.”
“And the boy?”
Alan knew the question was coming, as it had every single checkup. He wasn’t annoyed—he understood why they spoke about it.
“I’ll never be proud of shooting a fifteen-year-old, doc. But he was carrying a bomb, he was coming to kill us, and he knew what he was doing. I took care of my team.”
“No change, then.”
“Not a single one. And as I keep telling you, those Taliban psychologists don’t make a lot of distinction between fifteen-year-olds and older men. They’re all soldiers.”
“Do you wish we would stop talking about it?”
“It’s repetitive, doc, but if that’s what you want to cover, sure.”
“I have to ask, Alan. But I have no concern.”
Alan was well past the fear that expressing his feelings to Alan would become a problem. He had discussed a few bothersome things over the years, and Donald had provided just enough guidance. He had never been taken off the roster, although Alan did nudge him toward taking holidays, and over time things had gone back to normal.
“I trust you, doc. If anything pops up, you’ll know about it.”
“Great. Our hour is nearly over, but there’s one last thing I wanted to ask you about. Have you given any thought to picking up a pastime?”
“Like your woodworking?”
“Well, hopefully not exactly like my woodworking.”
Over the years, Donald had revealed quite a bit to Alan about his woodworking hobby—going from simple shelving and sheds to progressively more ambitious decks and chairs. Now the doc was going for smaller, more polished projects.
“How’s your latest bowl?”
Donald nodded to one of his shelves where a bowl had been added to the other decorative objects.
“Right there. Mahogany inlaid over oak and maple. Polished, varnished and too pretty to eat in.”
“Good for you. What’s next?”
“I’m thinking about a computer case for my son. Interesting challenge there.”
“Is that going to take a long time?”
“Probably six weeks, but don’t try to change the topic. Have you thought about a new hobby?”
“Is this about my retirement?”
“You’re not retiring soon, I know. You may have the years, but you don’t have the intention and that’s fine. But sooner or later, your body is going to have a harder time following your will. You’re going to want to slow down and find something to do. You’re not yet fifty and you’ve been in uniform more than thirty years. What will you do once you’re no longer in service?”
“I can pick up shifts as the bouncer for a ladies’ bar.”
“Funny. You know what I mean.”
“I don’t have a family and I’m not interested in one. I don’t do sports or movies. I listen to music.”
“Is that enough?”
“You’re going to tell me to go back to visit the rez, doc, and you know what happened the last time you tried that.”
“Wait, wait. The visiting the reservation idea is over. You don’t want anything to do with that, and that’s a closed file as far as I’m concerned. But someone with your professional background could spend time hiking. Biking. Canoeing. Time in nature. Whatever you choose. Drive an SUV to a national park and go glamping for all I care.”
“Just go out and touch the grass, as the kids say?”
“Just find yourself something to do before you’re forced to, is all I’m saying. Look over the city’s training catalogue, register at the community college, or go to the Canadian Tire and buy something new to try out.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You’ve been thinking about it for the past four months. If you want motivation, let me be blunt: Picture yourself retired, on a pension, stuck in your apartment for days at a time. How long will you stand it?”
“Wow, you’re rough, doc.”
“Would the soft approach work with you?”
Alan chuckled.
🔷
Patrizia’s manager waited after the team check-in was over before approaching her.
“I’ve got something for you. In my office, please.”
Once they sat down out of earshot, he leaned forward.
“I noticed you were getting antsy out there when we talked about the chip-level DRM protections. Anything I should know?”
Patricia leaned back in her chair. The manager had sharp eyes even when she thought he didn’t.
“I’m not against chip-level stream modification if that stops incantations from being manifested from machines. If that has worked so far, I can see the point. No comments on Intel’s proposal. I just hope the Taiwanese are on board.”
“They certainly are. So, what was bothering you?”
“Look, I know that the AI Safety guidelines are to help prevent what happened at Cognizeck, and I know that every government out there is trying to stop things before they get too hairy, but—this is going to happen again. There are dozens, maybe hundreds of startups equally close to what we were doing.”
“Well, not quite. Most of them are using synthetic data. Your secret sauce was cramming human conversations into the algorithm. That’s what made the octo-teeth take notice.”
“How long before they gain a beachhead, though?”
Her manager nodded and breathed deeply.
“Oh, now I get it. I think there’s a part of your briefing we skipped along the way.”
“Is that right? I’m listening.”
“It’s a crucial piece, but someone probably thought it could be pushed to later. Look, you know that the SORD’s main mission is like being a firefighter or a police squad. We get it, clean up, try to contain the incident to be as manageable as possible.”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever wondered by we get away with such an approach? Or why the world hasn’t been overrun by paranormal tentacular horrors by now?”
“I supposed we’re good at what we do?”
He laughed.
“Well, we’re not bad, and we certainly have some powerful tools available to us. But it’s a bit more fundamental than that. For one thing, we’re not exactly up against brainiacs. The creatures that make their way here are closer to animals than to devious opponents. Sure, one in a while, you get a Beelzebub-class demon that can do a lot more damage, but even in the case of your octo-teeth, they reacted purely on instinct—feed, survive, destroy.”
She was about to say something, but he interrupted her with a hand gesture.
“None of this makes what you went through any less horrible, but that’s part of our success—we’re dealing with animals, and the tactics we use are closer to animal exterminators than anything else. We use bullets because they work. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I have a second thing, and that one may help you sleep better at night.”
“Oh, I’d appreciate that.”
“Even animals can do a lot of damage on a rampage, but sooner or later they get tired, they make mistakes or they get complacent. There’s something else at play for the creatures, though. Have you ever read The War of the Worlds? Wells was a consultant for the British Library Special Bureau.”
“No.”
“Ah well. Anyway—watched any of the movies?”
She nodded.
“Remember how they end?”
“Some kind of fatal bug or something?”
“That’s right. Well, the same thing happens with the creatures. As soon as they come in contact with Earth’s microbial forces, they’re as good as doomed. Our tiny little bacteria friends go ham on their alien tissues and liquefy them within days. Weeks at most.”
“Wow.”
“As a result, the risks of us being overrun by ghastly abominations are close to none. Not impossible, theoretically, but we know from experience and a lot of slimy residues that alien life forms don’t do well on Earth. But you’ve noticed we’ve scaled back the space program.”
“Well, that does help but my mind at ease a bit. I think. But if we’re not worried about alien invasions, then what do we worry about?”
“I’m just a very junior manager, but I can tell you—because I’ve told others before you came in, and you’ll notice it yourself over time—what worries us is a human bad guy using alien critters for their own ends. We’ve seen cases of possession that made humans become rampaging berserkers, completely mind-controlled. What if someone masters those powers and starts using them for, I don’t know, political campaigns?”
“We’ve been the bad guys all along?”
“Hopefully not you and me, but who needs supernatural evil when humans do just fine on their own?”
🔷
The ready room where the operations teams spent most of their off-time was nice and quiet, which suited Alan just fine.
His Blue Team was in the last hour of its shift—some of the Gold Team operatives had started showing up, and by now he hoped that the Red Team was sleeping away. They had four eight-person teams (the fourth being convalescents, pre-retirees and juniors in training, helping out to cover shifts while they made their bones) with three eight-hour shifts. Not that most solely stuck to the eight hours.
Newcomers always boggled when they learned that the SORD only had around twenty-five operatives to cover the entire country at a moment’s notice against supernatural creatures. But they went out once, maybe twice a week. It all worked out.
The stillness of the room had Alan thinking back to his session with Donald. The doc had been out on a limb, but he hadn’t been out of line—Alan was getting old, and some days he felt like it. Breath shorter, eyes no longer able to see as well up-close, muscles that took longer to bounce back after exercise. He kept thinking back to the doc’s suggestion: finding a goddamned hobby.
His mind kept returning to it—through the morning session in the Playground, through early lunch with the team, through the noon info session on what the research team had found about the squids after autopsy of their rotting carcasses. Even bumping into Louise and agreeing to a “late afternoon debrief” hadn’t derailed that train of thought … although it came close.
Even now, as he was catching up on some paperwork in the waiting area of the Operations barracks, he kept wondering—what was next?
It had been a long time since the rez. Being bullied by the band council’s kids had been his fast-track out of there, hightailing it to the big cities as soon as he could get out. Living on the streets hadn’t been so tough—his size, even as a teen, meant that he could work security jobs, and hearing about the armed forces had been the ultimate answer. Signing up at the earliest possible age, he had found his way in the Forces. He’d never self-identified, met the bullying head-on (his fist, their heads) and made his mark through his actions. Gone to Afghanistan willingly, done a few years over there, and only afterwards had been recruited by the SORD. After a few years, he had earned the leadership spot for his team, and all of this felt good. But he knew there was a time limit to it all, and the doc was right—he had to find something else to do.
But what? No line dancing or bridge playing for him. The idea of a cabin on the lake felt cliché, but had its appeal. He wouldn’t make his own canoe or dress in buckskin, but not seeing anyone ever again and being out there on his own felt like the best of the options he saw for himself. Grab solar panels, a battery pack, a music player and he’d be set for the winter.
Maybe.
Except—would he want more than that? Would it be enough?
The alarm rang, and he bolted up.
So did his entire team. In the space of five seconds—the wall console kept count— the main area of the Operations group had transformed from laid-back card-playing, computer paperwork, equipment maintenance and light reading to six people intently preparing for war. When the alarm rang, everyone had a preparation checklist to follow—everything else was secondary.
As he put on the gear he would need no matter the destination or the scenario, Alan was reassured to see their tactical planner put up mission briefing information on the screen. He was a small, wiry guy and he would never see combat—but he was the one funnelling every single piece of information into a coherent briefing. Every single second could be important, as Cognizeck had shown again.
By the time the first minute had ended, they were all dressed in basic tactical gear and clustering around the briefing screen. Their own Nexus was to their right—they just needed the go-ahead. Tactical would make it brief.
“Control reports a bug intrusion in northwestern Ontario. Small community, half of it on the reserve. Missing kids. Prepare the snow kit.”
Feeling all eyes on him, Alan supposed he had to say it first.
“Wendigo?”
“Control doesn’t use that expression, but yes. Go.”
Shit. Wendigos was the catch-all term they used for any kind of successful possession in which the creatures merged with their human host to become cannibalistic monsters. A lot of white people inside the SORD objected to the nickname, but Alan thought it fit better than anything else.
Not that names were important when the point was to kill it before it caused too much damage.
Alan quickly supplemented his kit with the snow gear—added layer of insulation, white-gray camo, snowshoes attached to his backpack. If Control did its job, they’d be in and out—rush in, spot the creature, kill it, take care of survivors if there were any. Simple.
But they had to be quick. Missing kids were not necessarily a death sentence yet—Wendigos liked to keep their prey for later.
Along with the apprehension of a coming operation, he felt some pride at the way his team moved efficiently around him. Everyone following the drill they’d sweated so much about. Practise long enough, and the real thing feels like it’s easy. His second-in-command, Rebecca, was done before he was – but then again, she had the Recon spot.
Ninety seconds after the alarm, they filed into the nexus. Control had filled in the coordinates—they just had to step through the doorway.
Alan had long stopped thinking about how exactly Control got the information and how it knew where to go. Ten years ago, it hadn’t been like that—they didn’t have anything to tell them about ongoing intrusions, and they usually ended up mopping the dead. Some techno-gadget from the Americans had apparently allowed them to detect the intrusions as they happened—since then, they’d managed to rescue some people, and better limit the damages.
But his team was still the way the SORD fell on its enemies.
If he relaxed, people died—it was as simple as that.
“NOW.”
Ninety-eight seconds elapsed since the alarm, said the counter, and they were pushing through the portal.
🔷
They landed in the snow, in the dark, in the forest. Closer to the arctic circle by five hundred klicks, and already at night by the time Ottawa was seeing sunset.
There was no need to talk yet. The team fanned out, crouched and put on their snowshoes.
Like everyone else, Alan had already activated his infrared night-vision lens. That was one of the advantages of nighttime snow ops—no need to search far when heat could do the work for them.
Snowshoes on, he scanned their surroundings and saw traces of heat to their left. He flipped the lens, shook his hand in that direction and saw that everyone else was aligned. Rebecca was still making a more thorough sweep of their surroundings, but after a while she too indicated the same direction.
After taking a few moments to put on their snowshoes, they crept silently through the forest. Bug hunts were their bread-and-butter, and Wendigo intrusions were frequent enough to be almost routine. The pattern was depressingly common—some out-of-town outcast would start hearing voices, feel a strange new hunger rise in them, trash their home in incomprehensible ways and gradually grow a scaly skin. With antlers—the eggheads back in Research thought the antlers helped them perceive heat and sights when dark. Since the possessed was almost always isolated, the mutation process could take place over a week or more. But soon enough, the creature would go kidnap kids or vulnerable people, and Control would get a surge of trackable energy.
The mission brief was so familiar as to be unspoken: Find the house, pump a few bullets in the creature and hopefully rescue the kids.
As they approached, the heat signature became more distinct. It was the house. Not fully heated—wendigos got colder and colder as the symbiosis took hold, and they didn’t need nor emit as much heat. In fact, wendigos themselves were often invisible to heat sensing. But they usually understood that they couldn’t keep their intended victims at their home a long time without keeping them warm, and that was what kept their home (house, hovel, hole, whatever) visible to their heat sensors.
Good news, Alan supposed—a warm home made it more likely that it still held living people.
He grew imperceptibly more confident … and should not have. Later, he saw the path to complacency all too clearly.
For in approaching the house, he’d neglected to check his six. Fortunately, Rebeccas didn’t, and she gave them just enough of a warning.
“Behind us!” she shouted as she was doing another scan of their surroundings.
The shouting electrified Alan in action more than what she said—they were so used to working in silence that loudness meant all-alarm action.
He knew he didn’t have time to turn, so he fell to his knees in the snow and twisted back.
Right in time to see the Wendigo rush at them. At him.
It was big—at least ten feet tall. It had clearly been consuming its human host for two weeks, or had an unusually strong one to begin with. It was so far advanced in its contamination that it had reverted to a four-legged animalistic stance.
It even lowered its antlers at it charged at Alan.
He threw himself to the right as the creature roared past him. He turned and trained his weapon on the beast—slightly high up, aiming for the centre mass and making sure no one was close to his firing cone.
He shot.
So did the rest of the team.
Alan saw the bullets hits the wendigo, taking off chunks of flesh in puffs of blood.
The team fired another round if it could. After his first few rounds, Alan kept his finger off the trigger—too many chances of hitting someone else from where he was crouching.
The creature shook, screamed and kept going.
But it had been hit—high-powered rifle rounds did not forgive. If inertia and rage kept it going for a few metres, it inevitably fell to the ground, its limbs desperately trying to find purchase against the snow.
The damage had been done, though, and the blood kept flowing out of its wounds, staining the snow dark against the moonlight.
The creature kept twitching, but it was now immobile and clearly dying. The point man knew what to do—he brought his rifle up to the head of the creature and fired a short burst.
Supernatural or not, neurons and nerves still meant something in this world. The creature stilled and so did the forest after this burst of activity.
“To the house, now,” reminded Alan. Priorities. There may be kids to save.
Running through the underbrush and the snow pack with their snowshoes, four of the team members rushed to the house they perceived dimly through the heat vision. The two others would remain to make sure the creature didn’t hold any surprise, and to tag its remains—later tonight or tomorrow, a team from the Investigations team would come and pick it up.
They made their way to the cabin. What had been a cozy, quiet place away from the world, Alan noticed with interest, was showing signs of distress. Various debris had been left outside. The door had been ripped apart. A few windows were broken—some of them crudely patched, others not.
With a pang of apprehension, Alan wondered if anyone was left inside.
Rebecca, flanked with another operative, cautiously made her way to the cabin and scanned the inside before entering.
“We’ve got one live boy here,” she said through their comms one heart-stopping moment later. “No sign of anyone else, living or dead.”
Good, good, thought Alan with relief as he entered the cabin himself. No matter how many bug hunts they did, the prize was always the same, always in doubt—would they get there in time, would they save whoever was in danger?
This time they apparently had.
“We got here in time,” said Rebecca. “The fire was dying down. The boy was going to freeze. Or worse.”
Yeah.
The boy was crudely tied and terrified. In their winter gear, they probably didn’t look any better than the monster.
“Everyone out,” said Alan. “I’m going to speak to him.”
Everyone obeyed—but stayed close just in case.
As he cut away his rough restraints, Alan looked at the boy. First Nation, not Inuit—maybe Ojibwe, although they were a bit far north for that.
He tried anyway.
“Hello, young man,” he said in Ojibwe. He was rusty, but was it understandable?
The boy looked at him. He understood. Good.
“The monster is gone. I will take you back to your family.”
The boy nodded but wasn’t moving. Alan removed the last of his restraints and wrapped a nearby blanket around him.
“You’re going to have to be brave. I’m going to need your help. I want you to show me where I can bring you back to your family.”
“Okay,” said the boy in English.
“Do you want me to carry you?”
The boy nodded and started crying.
Alan understood. He lifted the boy in his arms. The lightest charge he’d carry today.
“The nearest village is one kilometre north,” interrupted recon. “Easy walk if you follow the packed road.”
“I’ll bring the boy back. Stand by.”
🔷
In the end, it only took a few minutes before Alan knocked on the family’s front door—the snow was packed and the boy was able to give him directions.
Everybody was crying by the time Alan gently put the boy down—mother, father, siblings.
The father was the first to look at Alan.
“You’re one of us.”
Alan nodded.
“Thank you for bringing back my son.”
“I’m very sorry for what he went through. We came as soon as we could.”
“You hunt monsters?”
“Yes.”
“Are there many of them?”
“One less as of tonight.”
🔷
Half an hour later, Alan was back in the operations ready room. Red Team was picking up their shift, visibly annoyed that they hadn’t been involved in the bug hunt.
He just couldn’t shake the image of the father thanking him. It wasn’t the first time he’d brought back a kid to its family, and it was by far the part of the job that never got old. But speaking to the boy in his first language…
He sighed. Time to go off shift. He had won a clear victory for the good guys, tonight. He wouldn’t sleep for a while.
But he wasn’t going to go home, not just yet.
🔷
Louise was in her apartment watching TV in a bathrobe when she heard the key turn into the lock.
She got up and smiled. “Late afternoon briefing” time. Their code word.
Alan entered, and she once again appreciated his bulk.
Their relationship was off the books—an impulse thing that had started a few years ago after a few too many high-intensity events and late-night overtime. The romantic aspect hadn’t lasted long—they were not that compatible outside the bedroom—but they had kept some of the benefits of their time together. It wasn’t a relationship that her mom would approve, but it was the one that suited them both.
He looked unsettled, like he often did after an intervention.
“Bug hunt?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Want to do something to burn off the adrenaline?” she said, untying the terrycloth rope around her waist.
He nodded to the bedroom.
🔷
Lingering in her bed afterwards, Alan felt better and worse at once. He knew he was expected to get up and go back to his apartment within a few minutes, and most of the time he looked forward to that part. That was the deal he liked—an occasional “later afternoon briefing,” then back to their lives for a few weeks. No complications, no attachments, no messiness at work. They had tried it, found that it didn’t work, but that they could still have some fun together.
But tonight, he thought of families, retirement, hobbies and cabins in the wood and felt as if he was standing in place.
She stirred and hugged him.
“Wow, you had some energy to burn off tonight.”
“I needed that.”
“So did I. Heading back home?”
There it was—the hint.
“Yeah. It was good.”
🔷
The sex had been very, very nice, but now that it was done, Louise felt as if she was good for a few weeks—and that her fundamental desires having been satisfied, she had other things to do.
She took a shower, changed clothes to a working outfit, and used her phone to call for a doorway.
Working from home was not a concept that Maple Hall appreciated. You couldn’t really deal with abominable secrets all day long and bring them back home, right? Whatever reports, analyses and advice she was drafting had to stay at the office: Nothing could be brought home, accessed through VPN, or left lying around.
So, Maple Hall provided—in the form of doorways going from her home office (nothing work-related) to her real office. Available upon request.
Just don’t forget to use public transit once every two weeks to remind yourself of what ordinary people did.
The portal appeared a few moments later. She opened it, walked through and stepped…
… into her office. She wouldn’t sleep for two or three more hours, and she had some work to do on that copy of Mystères et incantations. Hakim and Jasmine were going to take a few days to wrap up their part of the investigation, but, in the meantime, she still had to inform her director of what was going on.
She started writing an email, weaving together her trip to the bookseller, a few theories about the provenance of the object, future investigative leads that they were following, and a mention of the consequences if their fears about widely available reprints became true. At least Jasmine and the digital data team had confirmed that the book was not for sale on any of the usual online marketplaces—although they were still working on darknet trails.
She worked quickly. This was standard stuff, although there were a few elements here that had her worried. Jasmine had explained that anyone with a credit card and a mediocre computer could assemble a book for reprinting, but Louise couldn’t help but wonder what they were peeking at.
Her email was nearly complete, but she frowned—was the book only made of pictures of the original, or had new material been added as introduction or commentary? In all the day’s excitement and Florent’s onboarding, she hadn’t looked at the book all that long.
She reached out with her right hand to grab the book and felt the book land solidly in her palm.
What the fuck?
Startled, she dropped the book to the ground. In her distraction, she had forgotten that the book was lying farther away on the desk, something like thirty centimetres away from her hand.
But she hadn’t imagined it. The book had thumped solidly in her open palm.
Her heart raced. Had it … moved by itself? Had she somehow called it to her grasp?
What had just happened?
Chapter 3—Cursed Crate, Worse Idea
As much as Florent was too reserved to admit it to anyone else, he was thrilled to walk back into Maple Hall by himself the second day. It felt vaguely wrong from the secrets of the world to be entrusted to him—walking down Bay Street, passing by the Bench, opening the door and walking right into weirdness.
At least he wasn’t going to be bored here. As part of the library team, his purview was theoretically about books, but Louise had warned him that he could expect the unexpected—SORD wasn’t that big, and as work piled up in one area, others were expected to help. Field investigations, strange artefacts, spooky places, weird creatures—all in a day’s work. Woo-hoo!
Compared to lonely nights spent moping in his apartment, it was an upgrade. And it looked as if people willingly pulled off night shifts for fun, so it looked as if he had alternatives to calling his mom to tell her that he still hadn’t found another girlfriend.
In the meantime, Hakim had assured everyone he’d call the auctioneer that morning, and the RCMP was running the fingerprints they’d identified on the books. Plus, the financial investigation people were looking into Sylvester’s transactions—it stood to reason that he had paid for those books, and not too long ago. The game was afoot!, had said Jasmine with relish.
The three younger members of the book crew (as Louise had called them) had taken over Hakim’s office as he took them over his results so far.
“Good news—the latest bookplate matched one of the estate sales that took place last week. The Murrays, owner of a manor in the Eastern townships—old family money from a local construction magnate. Scottish origins reaching back in the 1930s, meaning a bilingual book collection. We found one newspaper article about his interest in old books, but nothing there about occult interests. Which either meant that he wasn’t a dabbler, or kept everything to himself.”
“What are the chances?”
“Most probably just a fan of old books, either for looks or for a solid Anglo-Saxon tradition of propriety—every gentleman needs a fine library of leather-bound books and rich mahogany. Actual warlocks are much rarer than we imagine.”
“So, he had a collection of books.”
“So boasted the estate sale ads. Now let’s see if the auctioneer remembers anything.”
He picked up his headset and dialled a number, putting the call on speakerphone.
After a few moments, someone picked up.
“You’ve reached Sharpe Auction House, how may I help you?”
“Hey, hello, I’m trying to reach the auctioneer of the Murray estate sale last week,” said Hakim with a flawlessly Anglo-Saxon accent and cadence.
“Sure, who is calling and to what purpose?”
“I’m Jack Travis—I’m trying to contact one of the people who were at the auction and I’m ready to make it worth your time.”
“Well, in that case you’re speaking to the right person. I was the lead auctioneer at the Murray estate sale, and I’m always interested in people who want to make it worth my time. Who would you be looking for?”
“I’m looking for the one who purchased a load of older books.”
“And what is it worth to you?”
Hakin shrugged and wave his hand.
“I’m a busy man, and I know everyone values their time as much as I do. How about two hundred dollars for a name and contact information? I’ll send it through Interac right now.”
“Easy money. Let me get the ledger. As it happens, we only had one buyer for the entire library lot—went for cheap, but I guess no one wants old books any more.”
Hakim and Sharper settled the details of the transaction and as soon as it cleared, Hakim had a name.
“Thank you, sir! Now that’s business,” said Hakim before hanging up.
He turned to Florent and Jasmine and paused for applause, but was disappointed.
“No fuss, no muss,” he said without missing another beat. “Howard J. Greely is our guy.”
“Didn’t we just blow two hundred dollars for something that we may learn in other ways?” asked Florent.
“Information is not about a single data point, young padawan.”
He opened up a spreadsheet.
“Here are the transactions that our financial investigation buddies have found about the bookstore. Any of those names look familiar?
Indeed, one was—H. J. Greely, bookseller.
Hakim typed at a furious speed, barely touching the mouse as he opened browser windows, ran searches and looked over results. Within a minute or two, he had H. J. Greely’s web site, his online boutique, and a few hits of his presence at antiquarian book fairs.
“The fingerprints on the books may or may not tell us anything more, but suddenly, I’m really interested in who else Mr. H. J. Greely may have been selling books. Let’s make another request to our financial investigators…”
🔷
As her young librarians were busy tracking down booksellers, Louise was in her director’s office for their regular bilateral meetings. Usually, these discussions went through ongoing files, specific priorities, upcoming events and various chit-chatting.
She liked her director a lot. He was an older man, barely in his sixties. He kept his hair short, his glasses smart and his humour close by. His staff meetings were informal but thorough, and despite pretending he had no people skills, he was uncommonly aware of everything going on in his managers’ lives.
He had, under his purview, most of the SORD’s research units. Books, archives, physical and online. More than enough to keep him busy. And yet he always had time when she needed help.
Like right now.
She waved through the offers to talk about ongoing files.
“You once told me that if anything strange happened to me, I should tell you.”
“That’s right. Goes without saying in Maple Hall.”
“No, this is something else. And I have a feeling you knew it was coming.”
“Well, now you’ve got me intrigued.”
“I was working late yesterday. I reached out for a book, and it moved straight into my hand. I think. I haven’t been able to repeat it even since.”
He leaned back.
“Wow.”
“I know. Should I get a shot or something?”
He chuckled.
“I’m afraid it’s rather more serious than that.”
“How so?”
He leaned back, extended his arm, and a book went flying straight from one of his bookshelves, right into his palm. The sound it made at it smacked in his hand was identical to what she had heard the evening before.
“I’m afraid,” he said very deliberately, “that you may be due for a promotion.”
“I, um, what?” sputtered Louise.
“I filed my retirement papers late yesterday, and I recommended you as my successor. The Management Board is supposed to take my advice into account and weigh it against other alternatives, but it looks to me as if it has already taken its decision.”
“Look, I’m sorry to hear that you’re leaving, but what does any of that have to do with me getting what feels like goddamned supernatural powers?”
Her director barked a laugh.
“That’s not funny,” she said.
“Oh, it is. You thought you have figured it all out, right? That after a few years, Maple Hall didn’t have any more secrets for you.”
He opened his palm, and the book went floating five centimetres above it.
“But that’s the nature of promotions, isn’t it? You get to see things from a different angle.”
With a nonchalant jerk of the hand, he sent the book flying back to the bookcase, slotting itself neatly in the gap it had just left.
“And you get a few more powers given to you along the way.”
🔷
Work in the operations group was unpredictable, thought Alan once more as he stood in the rain outside a dull industrial building, waiting for a door to be opened.
So much for the big guys with big guns fantasy.
He wasn’t dressed in full tactical gear –just the plausible kind of SWAT officer kit– and they weren’t chasing a monster. For all of the SORD’s vastly enhanced ability to detect supernatural intrusions and deal with them promptly, it often happened that Maple Hall got not-so-urgent tips from local law enforcement. Things to investigate while there wasn’t anything else going around. Most of the time, these were completely useless—jokes repeated as rumours that their sources in the police departments heard and dutifully reported, not quite being able to tell whether it was serious or not.
One such tip had been sent this morning: A distribution warehouse where nearly every employee had fallen sick at once, plagued by hallucinations. But it wasn’t a bout of flu or hallucinogen exposure—at least three people had refused to go back near the warehouse—there was something bad in there, and they would rather be fired than re-enter the place. The company had told people that had told the police that had told SORD and that’s how off-shift Alan and two other members of Blue Team had ended up in a Lethbridge industrial park, waiting for someone to unlock the door to the warehouse.
“I’m still waiting,” he told comms.
“We’re trying to get the access pass,” told him their tactical officer back in Maple Hall. “There’s a very long code we can punch in, and we’re tracking down who has it.”
“This could have been done before we got here. It’s raining, and it’s cold.”
He did have a good coat and the rain wasn’t much more than a drizzle, but it was the principle that counted. A small box with a keypad stopped him from getting inside. Why shouldn’t he kick down the door and walk in? But no—in non-emergencies, SORD stuck to the least-impact principle. They were here to investigate, not make a new entrance in the warehouse.
“We have the grocery company’s security officer on the line. We’re officially Lethbridge police investigating the report of a toxic substance. Considering the amount of money they’re losing today, they’re just about ready to open the door to anyone claiming to solve the problem.”
“I guess that’s us.”
He nodded to his skeleton team. They already had the gear out to take radiation, chemical and bioweapon readings. Nothing so far, but you didn’t always know … and Maple Hall often dealt in things that didn’t always show up on sensors.
“All right, put your hand on the keypad because this is going to be a long one. Repeat the numbers after me.”
Alan gave his go-ahead and painstakingly entered the twenty-four-digit code that overruled the need for an access keycard.
He got it right on the first try, at least.
The door opened and they carefully made their way inside, glad to be out of the rain.
There were in a small office of cubicles—the administrative workstations required to coordinate the ballet of eighteen-wheelers that brought and took food from producers to stores. Except that with everyone staying away, the trucks couldn’t come here and the grocery chain was losing thousands of dollars per hour. The kind of thing that made SORD look good to the oversight committee … if they could resolve it.
Alan gestured and the team carefully entered the vast warehouse from the office door. It looked like countless other warehouse in which Alan had been asked to intervene: concrete floor polished to a sheen, with a small fleet of forklifts neatly parked near the entrances. The four levels of shelving made of solid steel girders were crammed with merchandise on wooden pallets. At least it was clean and brightly lit – evidence of a well-run operation.
It wasn’t much warmer than the early spring outside—the warehouse’s temperature controlled for preventing spoilage. But even a day’s delay could throw the entire inventory out of whack.
Not that he cared all that much about a grocery chain’s profits—but if people had been made sick by whatever was inside the warehouse, that was something worth resolving.
“How are the readings?” asked Alan.
“We can rule out anything radioactive,” said Rebecca. “The counters would have picked up something by now, inside or outside the warehouse.”
Alan nodded.
“Toxin detection doesn’t pick up anything. Neither does the chemical screen. We’ve just entered, but by now the entire facility should have traces.”
“Unless it’s something else.”
“The other sensors are active.”
Except if it’s quantum possession, their sensors won’t pick up anything. The Americans reportedly had experimental detectors based on lab-grown neural tissues, but they hadn’t shared that yet. If it worked.
“Let’s walk the floor.”
They picked the south side of the warehouse and walked to the end, noticing nothing special.
“Well, I guess that’s it,” said Rebecca. “Probably bad chicken in the cafeteria.”
“Wait, wait…,” said Alan. Unless the effect was subtle but built over time. Unless the effect could be rationalized as something else at first.
“We’ve been here only five minutes,” he said after a pause. “We haven’t taken a look at the other end of the warehouse.”
“No need to do that.”
“Why not?”
“No need to do that.”
“Hmmm.”
“Oooh,” said Rebecca, getting it.
They headed north. He noticed that he was easily outpacing his two companions.
“This isn’t a good idea,” said Rebecca.
“You can stay back,” growled Alan.
He knew what he was doing. Reverse psychology didn’t just work on toddlers.
“No way, I’m in,” said Rebecca.
Alan wondered why he didn’t feel it. Because he was older? Because he had seen stuff like this before? Because he was the team leader? It wasn’t the first time he noticed some tiny detail and wondered if Maple Hall somehow made him better. Sharper. Just slightly faster or smarter.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” said the flanker.
“I feel it too,” said Rebecca.
Alan did feel a vague unease. Why did he have to go to that part of the warehouse? It wasn’t going to do anything. It would just be a disappointment.
He experimented, tried going at an angle. That wasn’t so bad.
Another angle. Also, not so bad.
But toward the north wall? He didn’t want to do that. Only boredom and uselessness laid that way. This wasn’t what they were here for.
His companions had stopped advancing a few meters back.
He closed his eyes. He imagined himself in a blizzard. Cold, white, small frozen crystals lashing his eyes. He faced the wind head-on. It would be easier to turn back, go home, curl on a sofa next to the fireplace. But he had something to do first. He had to see where the wind came from.
He acknowledged the wind. Its power. How badly he wanted to turn back. Then he advanced in the direction of the wind. Every step a defying gesture. Every meter forward a refusal to bow down.
He opened his eyes. In his mind, the wind died down somewhat.
He could almost see it. The yellow rays coming out of a crate he didn’t want to approach. RUN, his mind said to him. FLEE.
SAVE YOURSELF.
No.
He examined his fear and stuffed it somewhere else. He’d take a look at it later.
He realized that the crate was right ahead of him, on a pallet. It was in the middle of the way, as if someone had just dropped it there rather than put it in a berth.
He reached to the side of the belt and took out a foot-long all-purpose tool that could serve as a crowbar.
He worked the thin edge of the tool in between two of the wooden planks and pulled. The wood screamed as it opened.
IT HURTS! I’M BLEEDING! DON’T DO THIS!
Whatever, crate.
The wood cracked open, and he was able to open the top in order to see what was inside.
It was disappointing. Bulk Mangoes. The problem was probably inside, but did he want to put his hand in there?
“Blue Team, you’re being awfully quiet,” commented Tactical through their headsets.
“Rebecca, I need you to come here with a forklift,” said Alan. “Flanker, open a warehouse door. The nearest. Control, I’m going to need five claymores.”
“I can’t drive a forklift,” said Rebecca with a shaky voice.
“I’ll do it.”
“Are you sure about the claymores?” said Tactical.
Alan felt frustration curdling into anger inside of him. Anger made him think clearly through the fear. He cultivated it, fanned it.
“Rebecca, go sit in a corner while you’re being so useless to me. I’ll do the forklift myself. Control, keep pestering me with dumb requests while I’m trying to resolve the problem. I want Claymores outside the warehouse, NOW.”
At least through his fanning red haze of anger, he had remembered the SORD tactical code words. “Sitting in a corner” in their team lingo meant doing something you didn’t want to. “Pestering” was an acknowledgement that things had to be done even if they were being unpleasant.
Hopefully, they’d understand. He’d apologize later to those useless idiots.
“Flanker, we’re sending you the codes for the warehouse door.”
Alan looked around in exasperation. There was a forklift not too far away, abandoned there by some bitch-ass coward who’d run home as soon as the going got tough.
A bright light at least informed him that Flanker wasn’t completely useless—the door was open.
Cursing everyone around him holding him back from doing his job, he quickly paced to the forklift and (a part of him noticed) swiftly drove it back toward the bad crate.
His forklift training had been a bit of a joke, part of the SORD continuous flurry of skill-building exercise meant to prepare them for, well, anything. Since a fair number of calls had to do with warehouses, forklift driving had been identified early on and treated as a hazing ritual for Operations personnel. Alan himself wasn’t very good at it, but at least he had the basics. The hard part of forklift driving, he’d been told, was not creating dangers for the other people working in warehouses—at least he didn’t have to worry too much about that here.
He managed to jam the forks more or less correctly in the wood pallet underneath the crate and lifted the crate. Reversing, turning and driving back forward, he headed for the exit. Part of him acknowledged the howls of disapproval given by the crate, but he submerged it under a carefully honed fury. But the longer he stayed close to the crate, the less he felt as if he could control himself—would he run, or would the crate make use of the weapons he carried?
A door materialized in thin air as he drove the forklift in the parking, with one Red Team operative carrying a mesh bag with five flat, slightly curved rectangles with FRONT TOWARD ENEMY embossed on their surface.
Oh good, the claymores are here.
“Drop them on the ground, soldier!” he shouted.
The red team operator obeyed immediately, dropping the mesh bag of Claymores as quickly as safety allowed.
It was still too slow.
“Go sit in the corner with your useless friends!” he shouted again. “I’ll do it myself!”
He stopped the forklift, got out and grabbed the five claymores. He couldn’t do the rest here, in the middle of parked trailers, containers and so close to the warehouse.
Keeping a hand on the claymores and another on the steering wheel, he drove to the further point he could see—the edge of the parking lot, away from all the buildings, away from vehicles and containers and anyone else.
He dropped the crate on the ground and set to work, attaching the claymore.
The crate itself tried new tricks. His hands turned to charred meat as he attached the claymores to the top and sides of the crate. His feet became rotten sludge as he walked around the crate to make sure all devices were triggered at once.
In answer, he hit his hand on the crate, giving in to the intense anger he felt at the pain.
He was drowning at sea, submerged by quicksand, lacerated by a thousand cactus needles whipping past. He finally triggered the timer at ten seconds and went back to the forklift.
And couldn’t move.
How sweet it would be to remain here, as the claymore did their work and obliterated him. The solution to his problems. A warrior’s dignified ending, wasn’t it?
He resisted. He only needed to move one muscle. A single one.
He pushed through and stomped the forklift’s pedal even as his hands were frozen on his knees.
It wasn’t elegant driving, but it got him away from the crate.
Just in time.
His mind cleared as soon as the timer reached the end of its countdown. Simultaneously, the five claymores detonated, sending five bursts of seven hundred steel balls squarely in the middle of the crate. The crate vaporized—or, more accurately, liquefied in a sludge of mango juice. It left quite a mess of steel balls, explosive residue, splintered wood, scoured asphalt, shred seeds and mashed mangoes.
Whatever was inside the crate ceased to exist and to have an impact. The investigation people would sort through its debris.
Suddenly, Alan felt himself again. The anger died down, and he welcomed the small annoyance of freezing rain. His hand hurt.
“Control,” he said, “I wasn’t myself for a while, but I think we just disposed of whatever was the problem here.”
🔷
“There’s a lot more to Maple Hall than you can imagine,” said Louise’s director. “Heck, there’s a lot to this place that hasn’t been revealed to me. I know things, the Director-General knows more and the Management Board knows even more than them. That’s how it goes. But as we serve, we’re also given better tools.”
“Like moving books with our minds?” she said.
“That’s just an example. The effects can be more subtle, though. Haven’t you found, over the past few years, that you know things you shouldn’t know? Without being wrong? Without being told?”
“I must have picked it up somewhere.”
“That’s what you keep telling yourself. But is it true?”
“I guess I wouldn’t know. Maybe I’m just a better manager.”
“True, skills can be superpowers, but this—”
He waves his fingers around and the papers on his desk moved along.
“This is something you can’t rationalize at being just better at your job. You will have to develop these skills. They may not be just about moving paper. Maybe there’s something else, something different at work. The skills aren’t the same for everyone. Some deal well with people, others with machines, others with objects. I happen to be, well, a pretty good paper-pusher.”
“You’re telling me that other directors have these powers? That we’re somehow selected for specific powers?”
“You must admit that the timing of you becoming aware of those powers right after the Management Board being informed of your succession is telling.”
“How powerful is the Board?”
“That’s a question you’re going to spend the next few years exploring.”
“Can I say no?”
“Do you want to say no?”
“I don’t want to. I’m curious about it. But I don’t like the idea that I’m becoming something else.”
She took a deep breath. Might as well let it all out.
“I always liked that no matter how weird Maple Hall became, how powerful were the toys it gave us, we were all ordinary humans doing our jobs. Sure, we’re all gifted in some way—we’re smarter, we’re skilled, we’re somehow the very image of model public servants. But we always remained ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances.”
The director nodded in agreement.
“Maple Hall has a logic to what it’s doing, even if it’s not always immediately obvious. I happen to think that we’re groomed for power. If we can’t handle it or don’t want it, we stay content at the analyst level. If we can handle it the responsibility that comes with power, then we prove to Maple Hall that we can be trusted. You’ll notice that our operational teams are not supernatural wizards.”
“Well, there’s the Playground.”
“Yes, but they themselves don’t shoot lightning out of their finger or conjure shields.”
“Could they do that? Can someone do that?”
“Sorry, I forget that the metaphors can be taken literally around here. No, our operators are not wizards that I know of, no. But I don’t know everything. Maple Hall gives us what we need. If circumstances demand it, who knows what you’ll be able to do tomorrow?”
“Are things getting worse? Is that why you’re getting out?”
“I’m not going to pretend that the last few years are reassuring to me. Technology is getting more powerful, closer to magic incantations, and sooner or later we will slip on that front. There are more incursions, more people, a bigger noosphere and I fear that we’re getting noticed by very unfriendly minds. But I have faith in this institution. I have carried my load over thirty-five years. I’m in my mid-sixties—I want a few years to travel and do things before I have to go to the retirement home. I know this place had good people, and I know you’ll do better than I have. If things really take a turn for the worse, you will know what to do.”
“In the meantime, what? Accept the nomination and practise my origami skills?”
“I don’t think you’ll really have a choice.”
He twirled a sheet of paper over his extended index finger.
“I recommend not showing off your powers to your underlings, but I found it quite useful to practise in my own spare time.”
🔷
Team check-in time! Florent grinned and looked at the stack of information that Hakim had brought for show-and-tell. The team had spent the morning working with the financial investigation team to pull up new information about the seller, and they were now ready to present it to Louise.
Said manager, however, was uncharacteristically late. In the meantime, Marie was holding court on ancient manuscripts for the three younger team members.
“… and so, by the nineteenth century, France has become a publishing powerhouse. Meanwhile, we’ve got countless minor nobles getting rich from serfs and whittling away their time in research that’s part occult, part scientific. Many of them form occult societies, swap recipes that work and write down their discoveries. They don’t get most of it right, but they do stumble upon some kind of crude conjuration and so they print incantations and swap them among themselves. But then—“
She hushed as Louise made her way into their common area.
“All right, sorry, let’s go,” said the manager.
The first agenda item was always an update from her about rumblings from other areas of SORD, but she was noticeably less verbose today. A quick operation in Lethbridge got a mention, and that was it.
Florent frowned. There was something slightly off about her. First; to the best of his knowledge, she was never late. But she also seemed distracted.
“So, what’s the latest on the Sylvester books?”
“I’m still waiting on the information from the print-on-demand publisher,” said Jasmine, “but I’m hoping for something late this week.”
Louise grunted an acknowledgement.
“I have better news!” said Hakim. “Florent and I have met with the finance gumshoes, and we’ve got hits on Sylvester’s provider, and a lead on the other buyer of the English books.”
“All right, let’s hear it.”
Hakim quickly outlined how they had obtained, and then confirmed Greely’s name.
“The informant fee will show up on the next budget update,” he said.
“All right. Then what?”
“We were able to get access to Greely’s latest financial statements. It turns out that over the past few months, we have a new buyer who’s systematically paying rather large amounts of money, the latest being right in between the date of the Murray auction and Sylvester’s acquisition of Les secrets du monde caché.”
“Being new and paying regular amount of money is a thin trail” pointed out Louise.
“Yes, but it’s the amounts. We’re talking regular four or five figure payments right after the Murray auction—this isn’t someone swooping up Jane Austen first editions. This is fidelity money. Greely essentially got his yearly salary from that buyer. No wonder he’s not sending any more English books Sylvester’s way.”
“I have a feeling you know more than you’d said about the buyer.”
“Oh yeah. And this is where we need your advice.”
“Oh?”
“The credit card is not registered to an individual.”
Ever the showman, he waited a beat.
“It’s a corporate account linked to Unrealiquity.”
Louise looked at him blankly.
“Ah. Yes. Sorry, the team and I have been researching this all morning-“
“Just say it. No guessing games.”
“Unrealiquity doesn’t roll off the tongue, but it’s a real estate company based in Toronto. We’re talking tens of billions of dollars in assets. A few towers downtown, a few shopping malls, one sports arena, plus the condos and rental properties that launched them into the stratosphere.”
“Oh!”
“I know, right? And it turns out that Unrealiquity is still very much under the control of one single person. Billionaire, philanthropist and media recluse Damien Wentworth. Old money: his dad was merely rich, but he’s way beyond that now.”
“Okay, okay, wait—So Wentworth controls the company, and the company is probably sweeping up occult books from one specific vendor. But you’re still building a tower of suppositions.”
“Would it help if we showed you that the same credit card also paid a lot of money to Zhonghe in Vancouver?”
Louise nodded.
“That would help. Still shaky, but I see the pattern. Now, if we could get access to that credit account statement-“
“Well, that’s where we are. The financial Sherlocks are ready to help, but they want authorization from the oversight board.”
“Right. High-profile account.”
“Wait,” said Florent, “the rich have special protections?”
“Where have you been, bro?” said Jasmine.
Louise quietened the young women with an annoyed wave of the hand.
“I don’t like it any better than you do, but yes, they do. Our oversight board is there to prevent unwanted attention on our activities, and the rich do have ways to snoop and cause trouble that are not available to the average guy with a steady job and a mortgage. With Oversight, we can take advantage of the Government’s financial oversight power, but we have to build a case and ask.”
“I’ll have it ready by tomorrow.”
“I’ll forward it as soon as I get it.”
Louise paused.
“Of course, the question is—what do we do afterwards? This is probably just an aging billionaire’s sudden fascination with the occult. We’ve seen things like that before. He’ll get tired of it before he fills up his first bookshelf. But then what? I’m not comfortable knowing about a private occult library, but at the same time we can’t use our usual arguments to secure it. He’ll laugh at any offer to purchase the collection.”
“Can we file for a search warrant?” asked Florent.
“Are you crazy?” said Hakim, “We’ll be mentioned in the Globe and Mail before the day is over.”
“It would be helpful to know what he’s up to,” said Louise. “Best-case scenario, we get a surprise assist from his capitalistic impulse to capture everything interesting, and he takes the books out of circulation. In six months, he forgets about the stash of books, moves on to Fabergé egg-smashing as a hobby and we can rest easy knowing that the bad stuff is safely locked up and maybe even insured.”
“And the worse case scenario?”
“This isn’t a supernatural James Bond movie. He’s not going to be a cackling part-time wizard.”
“But even the middle-case scenario is not good,” pointed out Marie. “There’s no way we’d be happy with a billionaire trying out some of the blood sacrifice incarnations, even if they don’t work.”
Louise leaned back in her chair and looked up in thought, looking exactly like someone who didn’t want to deal with that nonsense today.
“All right, team—start thinking about how we can learn more about Damien Wentworth. Scour the media profiles, reach out to people who met him, try to see if we can develop sources inside the company. People don’t usually turn to the occult out of boredom—maybe there’s a hint somewhere.”
“Should we take a look in The Library?”
“No! First, let’s see what Oversight says. There’s no reason to pull the fire alarm yet.”
🔷
Alan was still damp from the Lethbridge drizzle when he was ushered into the tactical commander’s office.
“Good job out there,” said the older man.
Alan didn’t have to answer to many people in SORD, but Elijah Devereux was one of them—the tactical commander of the SORD’s Operations division, he had retired from the Canadian Armed Forces as a general before taking on a similar role inside Maple Hall. The old man knew his stuff, had been on half a dozen peacekeeping operations, had led one of the CSOR teams. Alan had briefly been aware of him while he was in the Forces, but had only worked with him in the past few years. He was tough but fair.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’m hearing that this was a powerful mind alterant.”
How had the mission summary been compiled so quickly? They were still probably still picking up the pieces of the imploded crate over there.
“It sure was. Made you want to do things, and not do others.”
“The investigations crew will comb through the wreckage and deliver a report. We’re all curious as to how it got there. At least it just made the warehouse employees sick, not anything worse.”
Alan nodded, having seen how much worse a mind alterant could become.
“Anything could have gone better?”
This was the whole point of such debriefs—ask themselves how to improve. These things should be easy, but this one hadn’t been.
“If we could get our hands on what the Americans are brewing for shielding or detection—”
“I know. I’ve asked. We’re supposed to talk about it at our next collaboration meeting, but what I’m hearing is that the bio-electronic components are not stable enough. Maybe next year. But they still may have something for us.”
“Oh?”
“They have perfected tactical awareness micro-drones – You release the swarm, and then they map out the terrain. Everything is fed back through your headsets for immediate use. Like having a video-game mini-map, the kids tell me.”
“There’s got to be a catch.”
“There sure is. It takes one person to operate, and I don’t want to waste a guy in that role. At the very least, you would need to add a seventh person to go along with you.”
“Hmmm.”
“What?”
“It reminds me of one thing I thought about while I was stuck in the rain, waiting for the door to be opened. It’s not something new. I’ve mentioned it a few times. A lot of our operations in urban contexts are running into technical problems. We can’t shoot our way through every obstacle. If we had a support technician—“
“Right, right, I remember. Someone to understands computers, can crack electronic locks, snoop on computers in the field, that kind of thing, right?’
“Yes.”
“It wouldn’t have made much of a difference here.”
“I just hate getting soaked in the rain.”
Devereux laughed.
“Well, as you said—this isn’t the first time you asked. Maybe there’s a way to try something. We have to find someone very special—tech literate, and yet able to keep up with you guys even if they’re not on the front lines. I’m just not sure we’ve got someone like that on the roster.”
🔷
“Yes Patrizia?” said her manager.
She lowered her hand. The team meeting was nearly over, and they were in the more free-wheeling section. Might as well propose it now.
She looked at her audience—her Investigations IT team. Half a dozen super-competent people, wholly dedicated to SORD’s mission. But would they be prepared for what she was about to propose?
“Last week, you asked if we had any wacky ideas on things we could try.”
“Of course.”
“Now, I realize I’m new here, but my experience with the … threats … is a bit more recent and direct than many of you. I’ve been noodling on an idea for something to activate if we have no other option.”
“Oh?”
“You’ve got my attention,” said an older woman, amused. That was Jane—by now a crusty, cynical seen-it-all developers with a specific genius for gray-hat shenanigans.
“All right. So, I’ve been thinking…”
Over the next two minutes, she outlined the train of thought having led to her conclusion, making sure that everyone was on board with the foundations of her argument before moving on to her proposal. Then she blandly stated what she was proposing.
A stunned silence followed.
“Um,” said the manager, more to fill up dead space than anything else.
“No. NO,” said Jane. “FUCK NO.”
“Wait!” said the manager while raising his hand.
He thought about it for a few moments.
“I like none of this. In fact, I hate pretty much all of it. But if we’re discussing doomsday options…”
He nodded, slowly at first, then more definitely.
“Work with Jane and Brent to develop a proposal.”
“What?” said Jane. “I said this is an abomination that shouldn’t even be acknowledged.”
“Then you’re ideally placed to tell us why it won’t work. Or to be convinced otherwise.”
🔷
It was a quarter to ten, and Louise was still in her office.
She had spent the last half-hour trying to move a book without touching it, but maybe it was time to admit that there was something else at play in her inability to repeat yesterday’s performance.
Becoming a director would be a major step up. It would eat up her free time and place even more of the burden of the SORD on her shoulders.
On the other hand, she’d learn even more. She’d be able to make decisions and be part of the solution.
Was she ready? Would she ever be ready?
Sure, there was a way back. No one ever took it, though.
And she’d have to tell her team about the promotion at some point.
Bah! She waved her hands up in exasperation.
And heard a book go THUMP on the ground.
Chapter 4—Steely-Eyed Librarians
Louise grimaced as she saw her team shuffle into their common area for their team check-in. Florent, impeccably suited up as usual. Jasmine sporting kawaii headphones. Martin in his usual slack. Hakim carrying a fantasy novel he’d probably borrowed from the Library. And Marie already sitting in her spot.
It had been two weeks since learning about her promotion and she hadn’t told her crew yet. Her director wasn’t pushing—he still had two more weeks to go, and had understood her decision to wait until the right time.
The problem wasn’t just that she didn’t want to leave her team—she knew she would disappoint them, and that cut more than anything else.
She went through her management update, talked about the latest Chicoutimi possession incident, the Bathurst bug hunt. It hadn’t necessarily been a quiet week, but the overall tendency of incidents to tick up was unmistakable.
Then the team provided their updates.
Jasmine had finally gotten a report from the Print-on-Demand company—thankfully only ten copies of Mystères et incantations had been printed so far, from a France-based account. This made other copies of the book Les Tuileries’s problem but there was a bit more work to be completed, in collaboration with their French friends, to understand how a copy had ended up in Montréal.
Hakim and Florent, in between other arrangements, hadn’t made much progress about Wentworth—the man wasn’t as big of a public egomaniac as some of his equivalents, and the public profiles were short on personal details. Sure, he’s taken a small loan from his father and had been smart enough to transform it into a real-estate empire, but he himself remained guarded. Which could be a hint, or not.
“He does have an estate in cottage country,” noted Hakim.
“So does most of the ultra-rich set.”
“Not like him. His property is on an island on a lake, and he owns the lake. Meaning everywhere around the lake.”
“Good way not to have problems with the neighbours.”
“One newspaper article describes how it’s not just a shack—it’s a luxury house, and it’s equipped with everything needed for telework. The cottage is the primary residence—the Toronto condo is the convenience property. Some say he spent a full year on the island during the pandemic.”
“Would such a place be a good one to keep priceless occult volumes?”
“We could check it out.”
“I’m having enough trouble with Oversight pondering the financial investigation. Do we have probable cause for an emergency?”
“Um, no.”
“Then it will take the time it will take.”
Other team members finished their reports. Files were advancing. Books catalogued and archived, a few more books trickling in from booksellers apparently not yet contacted by Unrealiquity.
But as the team members completed their updates, she knew she was running out of time to delay.
She cleared her throat.
“One last thing,” she said to her team. “Our director is retiring next month, and they’ve asked me to succeed him.”
There was a long silence.
At least they hadn’t heard it from somewhere else.
Florent clapped softly. “Congratulations?”
That broke the dam. “Yeah, boss!” “All right!” “Félicitations!”
They were giving her the polite response, but they looked torn. So was she.
“You’re probably wondering about the other shoes to drop. This is a permanent promotion. I will be naming a new manager for this team. If you want to help…”
She took out five blank pieces of paper and distributed them to the team.
“Please write on the sheet who you would like to see as a new manager.”
“What?” said Florent.
“This is not binding. This is to help me make my decision.”
“That’s a bit of a surprise.”
“That’s the point. Don’t overthink it.”
Florent shrugged and stared at his sheet in silence, as did everyone else.
“If I may?” said Martin. “This is not how I imagined it would go, and I’m reserving the right to do it again, but I’d like to say that I will be retiring later this year. This is going to sound arrogant, but please don’t nominate someone who’s about to leave.”
The other team members nodded and went back to staring at their piece of paper.
“Ten seconds,” said Louise to push things along.
They all wrote down something and folded their piece of paper before giving it back.
Her plan had been to put the papers in her pocket and look at them in the calm of her office. But something made her take a look. An intuition that the best time was now.
Indeed, it was. The same name had been written down five times.
She cleared her throat.
“I know you don’t like uncertainty, and neither do it. I will take all of the duties associated with the director position in two weeks. On that day, you will now be reporting to… Marie.”
She nodded to the older woman.
“By unanimous vote, confirming my own choice.”
There were a solid five minutes of congratulations, handshakes, smiles (a bit forced—change was hard) and questions with no clear answers before she could leave the common area.
She knew Marie was the right pick, and Martin’s announcement probably hadn’t changed much—the older man had always been serenely uninterested in a promotion.
Marie was solid, open to new ideas, knew her library sciences inside and out and had more than two decades’ experience in Maple Hall. She’d do fine, and Louise would be able to depend on her as she directed the research units.
Once the hubbub was over, she made her way to her director’s office and told him about both the team’s reaction to her announcement, and the unanimous vote for Marie, which she now formally recommended as her replacement.
“Interesting,” he said.
With a flick of his hand, the sole piece of paper on the desk moved and unfolded in front of Louise.
MARIE, it said.
“You have to stop showing off like that.”
“Might as well enjoy it while I can. What am I going to do once I’m retired?”
“Not my problem.”
“True enough. Have you been practising your … powers?”
Louise sighed.
“Yes. And it’s not really working. Sometime I get something, the other times not. And I’m not sure what I’m doing right or not.”
“I suppose that you’re trying to think about moving things, right?”
“Well, yes.”
“This may not be the right way to go about it at first. Put your body into it. You just don’t have to touch it.”
“What?”
“Think of an orchestra conductor. Do they touch the instruments? No. Do they conduct the music solely with their minds? No. Do they direct the music? Yes. So how do they do that?”
“Gestures.”
“Try it next time you practise.”
“I … I, like, well—this is all exciting, but I feel it’s unearned and useless. I get the metaphor of pushing paper, but when is it going to be useful to move books with my mind?”
“Maybe it won’t be. Maybe it will. Maple Hall has a habit of preparing us for what it can anticipate. And maybe it’s the discipline of learning how to move paper with our minds that’s more valuable than the ability itself.”
“But none of this addresses my point—why superpowers? What can they possibly do except set us apart from those who don’t have any?”
“Interesting question, but not a new one. It’s all over management literature. As an employee, you learn to follow the rules. Not really because they’re rules and the higher-ups won’t like it if you don’t follow the rules, but because the rules are what happens when very smart people try to find a way to make large organizations work and guide less experienced workers to the correct answer ninety-nine percent of the time. And then you rise up in the ranks…”
He gestured around him in ignorance.
“Then, suddenly, you’re not any smarter and yet you’re the one to make the rules. But your apprenticeship under the rules has given you an understanding of why they exist, so that by the time you’re the one making them, you have to see the whole picture.”
A book on his desk rose and twirled around. Louise noticed with interest the small finger gestures he used to direct the book.
“And so, maybe the point of becoming superhuman is to be more human than human.”
🔷
“Patrizia, a word please?” said her manager.
Patrizia stopped typing. He had taken the trouble to walk into her office—no instant message, no email, no warning, no “one more thing” at the end of the check-ins.
She was in trouble.
Her conviction that something terrible was up solidified when she turned and saw that her manager was flanked by another man—someone Patrizia had seen around Maple Hall at few times. One of the ops guys, from the look of it.
“Sure. No problem,” she said with a coolness she didn’t feel.
Was this about that idea she dropped on the team two weeks ago? Sure, it was a bit of a shocker, but—
“I’ve had an interesting request from the operations sector. I’ll let Alan explain.”
“Hi. I’m Alan, the Team Leader from the Blue team, over in operations. We have a proposition for you.”
“A proposition?”
“An idea we had. You know about what operations does?”
“Our SWAT team.”
She saw the man twitch.
“It’s not so simple, but I can see why you’d think that. We go in, we solve problems. But sometimes, we’re not always equipped to meet the challenges we face.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Sure, we have guns and military training, and a few more advantages. But we often run against things that have nothing to do with that. Alarm systems. Locked computers. That kind of thing.”
“I’m not sure I can help.”
“We would like you to come along with us on some outings. Whenever there’s a chance that we would need technical backup. Not on code-alert emergencies—those we can shoot our way through. And we’re being given a high-tech drone system that will require someone specialized to operate.”
“Look, I’m not military, I don’t like guns, and-“
Considering what her family had fled to come to Canada, she had no intention of turning into the secret police.
“This is not about guns. We don’t want you on the frontlines. We want you at the back, safe, but available if we need help.”
“I have things to do here.”
“This is not about your loyalty to the team, Patrizia,” said her manager. “I’m perfectly willing to give you that assignment. In fact, I’m seeing plenty of opportunities here to integrate both the operations and the investigations team. How often have we complained that the evidence we wanted had decayed by the time ops was done?’
That was true. Even in her short time here, she had heard plenty of complaints about having to pick up the pieces left by the ops crew. Investigations often got there too late, with no sufficient understanding of what had happened, and even when investigations got there, it didn’t necessarily include technically savvy people.
“How long would the assignment be?”
“We would need at least six months to train you properly. Then another six months to see how it goes.”
“But I would be trained?”
“Oh yes. Full access to The Playground.”
Whatever that was, she frowned—but it felt important to him.
“I have one condition,” she said. “No guns.”
The big guy blinked at that. She expected him to. But she wasn’t going to turn into a combatant.
She saw him think about it and understood his reluctance—to a soldier, what good is someone without a gun?
But she wasn’t going to change her mind on that. Her mom had made her promise, once: No guns, ever.
“All right,” he finally said. “No guns. Would you accept a taser?”
It was her turn to think. What was the dividing line between attack and self-defence? Maybe there was a compromise.
“Yes, but a stun gun model. Not the kind that shoots darts. The kind I can use over and over in an opponent’s neck.”
She thought the imagery would soften the request, and she was right. He nodded.
“All right, it’s a deal.”
“So, what will be my title? Combat Nerd?”
🔷
Join the SORD, see the world, thought Florent as he stepped out of the transport nexus door in Hakim’s footsteps…
… and found himself in a nondescript exterior motor pool on the outskirts of Halifax.
“So that was an easy thousand-kilometre trip,” said Hakim. “Too bad the next five hundred won’t be so easy.”
Florent shrugged. There was apparently a limit to the powers of Maple Hall, and they were at the edge of it.
“Here’s the truck. No time to waste if we want to be back by the end of the day.”
Both young men hopped into the vehicle—a massive black SUV, unmarked but with a very specific characteristic: Behind the front seat, there was enough space to stuff a meter-and-a-half cube.
Hakim checked the back and lifted the tarp that covered the cargo.
Florent saw, as expected, a glass cube. It didn’t look like much right now: several panes of glass joined in the shape of a hollowed-out cube, with a curiously complicated lid. But once the lid was activated, the cube would fill with a cloudy texture and the inside would disappear.
A statis cube, ready to be activated.
“All right, there’s no excuse to dawdle,” said Hakim. “The boys at the motor pool have filled up the tank, so all we have ahead of us is five hours of open highway.”
“With a stop at the halfway mark.”
“Yeah, that,” said Hakim with a smile.
Indeed, he seemed to be taking in the whole thing in stride. For that matter, so did Florent.
“ROAD TRIP!” he shouted.
“YEAH, BOY, YOU GOT IT,” answered Hakim, matching his energy.
The other man put the SUV in drive and stepped on it. Crunching gravel, the SUV raced to the gate, waited for the barrier to lift, then made its way to the 103.
The plan, as with most plans, was conceptually simple: They had to pick up a few things north of Yarmouth, and drive them back to Halifax.
It’s in the details that everything got more complicated, and explained why two bookish analysts found themselves taking an entire day driving around the Nova Scotia peninsula.
As the SUV started eating up the kilometres on the asphalt ribbon, the suburbs of Halifax faded away to endless trees. Both eased into their seats. Comfortable seats too – this was a top-of-the-line SUV with all the amenities, all the way to the always-on front camera to make sure no one would brake-check them. There wasn’t going to be much worth seeing outside—the 103 was far enough inland that they wouldn’t see any picturesque glimpses at the ocean.
“Should we be worried about what we’re going to pick up?” asked Florent.
“Nah, a couple of old artefacts. Just ignore the spooky lighthouse stuff.”
“Except that the spooky old lighthouse stuff is why we’re going there.”
A few weeks back, one of the investigation teams had looked into a tip from the local police forces. Over the past few decades, the suicide rate around Chegoggin had spiked up for reasons no one understood. The locals talked about a curse now that the lighthouse was closed. Digging into the historical record, the SORD realized that this one specific lighthouse had, until its decommissioning, never kept a watchman longer than three years. Most had quit; some had been found dead; others had disappeared—which was code for “probably dead at sea.” That was suspicious enough to investigate more thoroughly.
What the investigation team had found was inconclusive: artefacts of strange provenance, not necessarily evil but associated with aquatic cults and so worth boxing up. And not in any ordinary boxes—if there was some pernicious homicidal influence in the artefacts the investigation team had identified as worth archiving, the responsible thing to do was to stuff them into a statis box and take them back to the archives.
The problem was that statis cube did not and could not be transferred through Maple Hall’s Nexus doorways. Someone would need to do the hard slog of transporting a statis cube from Wellington Street to Halifax, then to Chegoggin, and then back. Ordinary government transportation networks could easily and unknowingly do the work of transporting the cube to Halifax and back, but the rest took a few trained librarians to get the job done.
After an hour’s drive, they stopped for a snack and to change seats. Florent wasn’t an everyday driver, but he could certainly handle an SUV on a four-lane highway on a slightly overcast day. At least this was July – the trip would not have been nearly as much fun during the winter.
“What do you think of Marie as a manager?” asked Florent.
“Well deserved. I like her, and she’s going to be just fine.”
“I’ve never been at a place where people picked their boss.”
“Maple Hall does things differently. I looked into it, and there’s some evidence that voting does tend to pick good managers. You’re never going to vote for an incompetent, and you’ve got good reasons to vote for someone who will get results, so it usually works out. Not that government would go there, and if you paid attention, Louise never said-”
“-she never said it was binding.”
“That’s right. Even at Maple Hall, you cover your ass.”
The kilometres rolled on, the scenery rarely changing.
“So, do you still write?”
“Yeah, I do. For fun, really. Knowing what I know, I’m done writing for publication. The SORD is tolerant, but it would take a very dim view of people spilling its secrets. Even cloaking everything as fantasy would get management’s attention, and not the attention I want.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Not publishing? Not really. I wasn’t that good of a writer anyway. I mean, sure, I can write an entertaining story, but writing is hard, and it’s not the writing that’s exhausting—it’s the networking, the rewriting, the ‘career development’ that agents love to talk about. For every bestselling author, there are hundreds who never made it past a debut novel, and thousands who never got more than a story published. When SORD came calling, I was ready to call it quits—the pressure to do more and better meant that I wasn’t enjoying any of it.”
“But you still write?”
“The fun came back after two or three years off. I now work on it all year long, as inspiration strikes, then polish the stuff in November so I have something to give away to friends and family at Christmas.”
“Save a copy for me.”
“You got it.”
After two and a half hours, they made it to Chegoggin by way of Yarmouth and the 101. The weather had, unexpectedly, taken a turn for the worse—the overcast sky had darkened and was brewing storms. They dropped off the highway and made their way through progressively worse roads until they finally reached the west coast of Nova Scotia. Their phones stopped working at some point, far from coverage.
In this area, the beaches had given way to rocky cliffs and crashing waves. The Chegoggin lighthouse had been built on an outcrop of land reaching out into the ocean, its five stories crowned by a glass enclosure. The gravel road barely made it past the narrowing of the outcrop. They were practically on an island, the only way back to the mainland being the old road—and there wasn’t much clearance on either side. As they slowed down to a stop, Florent could see the waves crashing down below, and knew that there was a similar sight on Hakim’s side.
They got out of the SUV at the base of the lighthouse. A small bungalow had been built as the light keeper’s home, but it was surrounded on two sides by water, on another by the lighthouse and on the fourth by the gravel road.
After three hours of circling the peninsula, Florent finally saw the sea—technically the Atlantic Ocean, even though they were looking at it from a west-facing shore. More than a hundred kilometres west, over the ocean, laid Maine: one of the curiously numerous places in Canada where you had to go west to get to the States.
They made their way to the bungalow, the rain picking up as they approached.
“Should we have backed up the SUV closer to the house?” asked Florent.
“Let’s make sure the artefacts are still there, and then we’ll do the packing.”
Ominously, there was a lightning flash and then a crack of thunder. Hakim looked up.
“All the more reason to hurry up. We won’t want to drive at night in that weather if it holds up.”
Hakim produced the key to the house’s front door lock. There was something really weird about SORD’s approach to let potentially dangerous artefacts just chilling under an ordinary lock for weeks, but Florent could see the logic: Canada was vast, and their resources were limited, and this was nowhere as dangerous as some of the other stuff SORD dealt with. Plus, this was as isolated as anything got in Eastern Canada—they were probably ten minutes away from the nearest house.
No one every stopped here and the lighthouse, unlike many, had never been turned into a tourist attraction.
They entered the small house just as it started to rain hard, the water drumming up on the bungalow’s roof.
“At least rain this hard should pass quickly. Let’s have a look.”
There wasn’t much to look at. The house had been built in the 1970s as a replacement to a now torn-down building. The lighthouse itself, Florent had read, dated back to the 1900s, back when there were many ships ferrying goods in between Maine and Nova Scotia. The rocks were treacherous, and the lighthouse had served its purpose. It had been partially mothballed in the 1990s, and then shuttered entirely in 2005, but not before claiming a number of lives in and around itself.
“Ever thought of becoming a lighthouse keeper and having all the time to write?” asked Florent as they swept the central living room with their flashlights. “I mean, once we remove the cursed artifacts?”
“Don’t tempt me with a good time!” laughed Hakim. “Although my girlfriend wouldn’t like it at all. Plus, I’m not sure what I could write from here. No internet access, and not a whole lot of inspiration.”
He had a point. The place had largely been emptied of anything interesting when the last light keeper had moved out (not dead; Florent had checked.) But even then, what was left was singularly uninspiring. Lowest-bidding contractor linoleum floors creaking under their shoes, cheap finishing touches that showed their age, windows that were far past their replacement dates.
They moved through the building. The place had been mothballed, which meant that a few essentials had been left behind. Lights still worked, there was a presumably still-working stove in the kitchen, and they probably could have started the oil heating system if they absolutely wanted to.
But doing so would mean acknowledging that they would stay longer than necessary.
“Where are the boxes?”
“In the back-room, connecting with the lighthouse.”
As the rain continued to fall outside, they made their way through the house. There wasn’t much to cover—living space connected to a kitchen, the bathroom, a few bedrooms and then the central corridor leading to the older lighthouse. In the back-room, they found the artefacts—a disappointingly small collection that fit into two archival boxes. Florent peered inside the boxes and saw that everything had been wrapped up.
Nope, I’m not touching this… He closed the boxes.
“That’s it?”
“It’s not the size that counts.”
“An entire day to bring this back…”
“At least we know it’s going to be done well, and safely.”
There was another rumble of thunder outside. Hakim looked up with a smile.
“Look, I hate to send us on a side quest, but there’s a thunderstorm outside and we’re next to a lighthouse.”
“You want to go take a look upstairs,” Florent sighed.
“I won’t get another chance like this.”
“And this is the part where you need me to go with you so that you’re not scared.”
“Hey, it’s up to you, but the part where I’m alone is the part where you’re alone, except that you’re not seeing a thunderstorm from five stories high.”
“All right, let’s go.”
They opened the door to the lighthouse and Florent was immediately struck at how visibly ancient it was. The ground floor was old dirt-covered wood with snakes of electrical wiring going up through crudely attached fasteners. A circular staircase landing took up a chunk of the room, leading upwards into the darkness.
Another slap of lightning and thunder.
“Still game for it?” grinned Hakim.
“Just get up, I’ll follow.”
Truth be told, thought Florent, this was kind of exciting. More so than he would have expected this morning, and even more now that they had three exceptionally dull hours of driving as a baseline.
Hakim, as pacesetter, didn’t go too quickly—it was easy to exhaust yourself climbing five stories, and so a slow and steady rhythm was key—especially for two not-so-fit nerds.
They made their way up, feeling the storm in full Sensurround. In addition to the static of falling rain, the waves crashing on the shore were nearly as powerful a sound as the thunder. The lighthouse didn’t exactly shake when it thundered, but it might as well have. The lightning left bright afterimages in the small windows of the lighthouse. And were they smelling the ozone left by the lightning?
Then finally made it to the top, more short-breathed than either wanted to admit.
The view was worth the effort. The lighthouse was drenched in rain, and they could see darker patches of clouds passing by quickly as the wind pushed them inland. From here, they could see lightning flashes over the ocean, and surprisingly deep over the ground. When thunder stuck, it was as if it rang into their skulls. Then there were the powerful waves, pushing against the rocks on which the lighthouse had been built.
“THIS IS AWESOME,” shouted Hakim as he leaned against the now-deactivated Fresnel lens that dominated the room.
“THAT WAS A GREAT IDEA!” replied Florent as he took in the entire scene.
Sure, he could try recording it on his phone—but it would only be a fraction of the experience. Hardly worth watching afterwards.
They stayed up in the glass canopy for a few minutes, periodically moving across the small space, trying to take in the full experience. Florent was finally getting enough of it when, abruptly, lightning stuck the lighthouse.
The world went white in a terrifying thunderclap, then purple and buzzing as their retinas processed the afterimage and the ringing sound of the fading thunder.
Florent stayed immobile for a few moments, blinking and yawning to clear his ears.
“WHOAH,” he distantly heard from Hakim.
He looked to his colleague, who was laughing heartily.
“THAT WAS THE BEST!”
His laughter was contagious—Florent joined in. What a great experience!
“READY TO GO BACK DOWN?”
“YEAH!” Nothing was going to beat this.
He quickly looked around, making sure that they or the investigation team hadn’t left anything behind. They were good. They opened the trapdoor leading down and started climbing back to the ground.
They had a small surprise in the relative darkness of the stairs—small blue electrical arcs running through the metal staircase. Static electricity build-up, rationalized Florent. Harmless, but just spooky enough to be interesting.
They made their way down faster than going up. After a short while, they were back on the ground. Hakim moved toward the door leading back into the house, but Florent saw something.
“Wait—what’s that?”
Underneath the staircase, behind the steps, a blue glow outlined another opening.
“Flashlight, please.”
Hakim illuminated the area. It was underneath the lowest few stairs, and there were two boxes of electrical equipment over it. Underneath the boxes, enough dust had accumulated to cover the floor.
Florent moved the boxes and swept the area with his shoe, revealing a trapdoor.
“Looks like the Investigations team missed something.”
“Are you sure you want to open this up?”
“Do you want to be blamed if we forget something and the lighthouse keeps killing?”
Sweeping more of the area with his hands, he found a metal ring he could pull. Strangely, the ring was near the wall of the lighthouse, largely obscured from even an attentive look. He lifted open the trapdoor.
Thunder and lightning again.
He saw another metal staircase, much older and less well maintained, go down into the darkness. Enough dust and cobwebs suggested that no one had been here since at least the decommissioning of the lighthouse.
He used his flashlight to peer down the staircase, and saw that it only went down the equivalent of a single storey to a dirt floor basement. Good—no infinite staircase down to hell here.
“All right, let’s check it out,” said Florent.
Hakim sighed.
“Hey, I’m not enjoying it any more than you are.”
Although—he was kind of enjoying it. He had discovered something that had slipped past the investigations team! Old lighthouse, hidden staircase, near-certitude to find something interesting down below. What was not to like? Sure, fine, horrors from another dimension—they were practically in Lovecraftian New England anyway. But Florent was ever optimistic—what if it was pirate treasure instead of tentacular horrors?
He stepped down carefully on each step: seeing as if no one had been here for a while, there was no guarantee the stairs would hold his weight.
But if the stairs creaked and released rust dust with a small crunchy hiss, they held all the way to the ground.
Florent moved to the centre of the room as Hakim followed him down the stairs.
“Maybe this was the light keeper’s man cave.”
They illuminated the space with their flashlights. There wasn’t much here—a desk with an oil lamp, a box with three head-sized rocks nestled in straw, a few metal instruments and…
… a bookcase.
“Looks like we’ll be bringing a few more things back with us.”
The wall-fastened bookcase was small—barely two shelves. But it contained what looked like fifty black notebooks. Florent took one and looked inside at one of the pages early in the book.
December 5, 1955—Cloudy day, four ships. Repaired shingles on the roof. Followed the procedures for lens cleaning.
And so on. A light keeper’s diary. But why was it hidden down here? Next to him, Hakim also took one of the notebooks.
He flipped through the book. He didn’t have time to read, but in flipping the pages he saw a few decidedly non-nautical words creep in as the writing became increasingly frantic.
Nightmare … vision … fear … cultists.
Wait, what?
“Holy shit, this diary really goes off the deep end,” said Hakim.
Florent paged to the end. Blank pages. He went back. As the handwriting turned from elegant longhand to hastily scribbled spikes and punctuation, he also saw the subject matter turn from purely functional reporting to pages and paragraphs of nonsense writing, rambling in sentences that did not make any sense. It ended with a finality written in harsh block letters.
I CANNOT GO ON. I MUST END IT AND MAKE PENANCE FOR MY SINS.
He shut down the book.
“Crazy coconuts by the end of this diary.”
“Same here.”
Were they all like that?
They did a quick spot-check of four more books. They were. Disturbingly so.
“All right, let’s pack this up. We’ll argue at Maple Hall about who’s going to look at this.”
“Do we have a box to carry them?”
“We can empty one of the two crates of electrical equipment upstairs. No one will mind a pile of scrap in the corner. I’ll be back.”
Hakim went upstairs to bring back the two boxes. Meanwhile, Florent swept the room with his flashlight once more. He took his phone and took a few pictures of the room, trying to document everything for the investigations and research crew to look at later.
The rain was starting to trickle down some of the walls, but a collection system had been carved in the floor to avoid pooling—the water disappeared in a small crack. The wall on which the bookcase wasn’t affected by the trickle. Neither were the various metal instruments hung on the wall, or the frame with the yellowing illustration—what was it?
He peered closer, and jerked back when he understood what it was.
A monstrous creature, borrowing equally from jellyfish and octopus—at least as per the crude drawings.
He felt his heart beat faster. Two months back, before stepping into Maple Hall, this would have been all a creative joke, a mariner’s imagination going wild. Here, now, with what he knew and more importantly did not know, this could very well be irrefutable proof of why they needed to bring all of this back to HQ right now.
Hakim brought back one of the crates, emptied of content.
“Let’s pack up. Hurry,” said Florent.
“Woah, why the rush?”
“Take a look at the wall.”
“Woah!”
OK, good, so it wasn’t just him freaking out.
They worked quickly. The metal instruments went in at the bottom of the crate, the frame carefully placed against on the crate side, the diaries on top of everything else. Everything fit inside the hand-held crate, and would probably fit inside the statis cube even with the stuff upstairs.
“What about the rocks?” asked Hakim.
Florent kneeled down, trying to avoid dirtying his pants. The rocks were ovoid, but otherwise old and unremarkable. Why had they been placed on straw? This seemed oddly reverential.
He tried lifting the wooden box in which the eggs had been placed. It wasn’t so heavy.
“We’re taking it with us.”
“All right, you bring it up.”
“Go first. Let’s not overload the staircase.”
“Yeah, imagine being stuck down here until rescue.”
“Well, how about not imagining such a thing?”
“Your mind, your choice.”
Hakim took his crate and went up the staircase. Alarmingly, Florent saw the stairs drop off trickles of rust every time Hakim went up a new step.
Eventually, he was up in the room above. Florent sighed in relief. Hakim weighted a few dozen pounds more than Florent, and his crate was heavier.
“All right, coming up.”
Holding the crate, flashlight somehow jammed in between the box and his hand, he went up the stairs, very carefully. But he too eventually made it.
The rain outside hadn’t abated by much, but it had moderated slightly. They went to the kitchen and scoured through the drawers until they found old tablecloths they could throw on the diaries to protect them against the weather.
“All right, let’s get this to the SUV. We’ll be back for the two other boxes.”
“Shouldn’t we bring the SUV closer first?”
“I’m not going outside more often than necessary.”
They were so focused on their plan that they got out of the lighthouse before noticing that they weren’t alone on the lighthouse point any more.
A group of a dozen ragtag locals had assembled between the house and the SUV. They had guns, and they did not look happy.
“YOU CANNOT LEAVE WITH THIS,” said one of them. A tall guy. Bearded. Dressed in now-soaked flannel shirt and overalls. He had a shotgun in his hand, aiming at the ground in between them.
He spoke with exaggerated slowness, which took Florent off-guard. His stare was unfocused.
“STOP,” he said again.
The shotgun rose slightly.
Florent and Hakim looked at each other.
“We’re government agents!” said Hakim. “Let us go!”
Florent winced. This wasn’t going to work.
“WE DO NOT CARE,” said what felt like the spokesman of the group. “WE HAVE STOPPED OTHERS BEFORE.”
The group took a step forward and brought their weapons up.
OK, this was worrying. The mob was blocking their only way out, they had exactly no weapon except what was in the crates to throw. The weather was terrible, and parlaying wasn’t paying off.
Furthermore, his arms were getting tired from holding the crate.
Just as Florent thought things could not get any worse, a few members of the mob looked at the lighthouse and their expressions brightened. They dropped to their knees in supplication.
“ALL HAIL THE SEA GOD!”
Okay, though Florent, can we now call them cultists?
Still, he turned. The rain and wind were whipping his face, and he still harboured a fear of being struck by lightning right where he stood. But he turned, and wished he hadn’t.
Out of the cliff leading down to the ocean rose a terrifying figure, a nightmarish illustration brought to life.
A humanoid monster rising from the sea, a blend of jellyfish and octopus—strong limbs to creep over the surface, smaller whip-like appendages threatening to lash open any opponent.
“WE WELCOME THE OVERLORD!” shouted the spokesman.
Even without any distinguishable expression, Florent could see that the creature was pissed.
“BOW DOWN AND RETURN THE OFFSPRING TO THE ELDER GOD!”
The monstrous sea creature finished its climb up the cliff. It was even bigger than Florent had imagined—three metres tall, maybe. Out of the sea, it was struggling against gravity—but it could still take their heads off if it wanted to.
Think!
This was nowhere near anything else he had experienced, but there had to be an underlying motivation behind it all. Something he could figure out.
“THE GOD DEMANDS SACRIFICE OR RETRIBUTION.”
Florent heard the unmistakable raking of shotguns behind him, and saw the humanoid creature advance toward him in all of its slimy, pustular horror.
In a flurry of desperate deduction, it all became clear in his head. He had been given everything he needed to make sense of this. The key, in fact, was in his hands.
“Stand down, Hakim. I know what to do.”
“What?”
“BOW DOWN!” shouted Florent, conscious that they were running out of time.
Still carrying the crate, he advanced toward the creature. The certitude he felt a moment ago fled when he saw the creature and its multiple eyes focus straight on him. As the smaller whiplike jellyfish tendrils whooshed near his head, he thought: I’d better not be wrong about this.
He bowed, kneeled, and offered the content of the crate to the sea creature. The rocks.
The eggs.
Arms extended, rain dripping down his entire body, he knew he would not be able to hold this pose much longer, even through the incredible rush of adrenaline he felt.
Suddenly, he felt the load in his arms getting lighter. The crate was still there, but its content wasn’t.
He looked up. The eggs were now safely cradled by the larger tentacles, and brought closer to the undulating, pulsating body of the creature.
“THE GOD IS SATISFIED. A LONGSTANDING WRONG HAD BEEN CORRECTED.”
The creature, without further elaboration, slid down the cliff again.
“THE HUMAN WORLD CAN…”
Florent heard a thud behind him. Several thuds.
He looked back, dropping the crate in surprise.
Hakim also looked back.
The mob had all fallen to the ground, as if they were puppets whose strings had been cut. Some had fallen hard on exposed rocks, lacerating them.
“Are you OK?” he said to Hakim.
“Yeah. Oh Christ, that was intense.”
As Florent moved closer to the now-groaning mob, Hakim set his crate down and went quickly to the edge of the cliff, snapping pictures with his phone. Good idea, though Florent—because no one will believe us otherwise.
He flipped a few members of the mob over their sides, preventing one of them from topping even further down the cliff.
They were now blinking and groaning, either from pain or from confusion.
“Where am I?” said one of them—an older lady who low looked lost and miserable despite the hunting rifle that she had waved around menacingly a few minutes earlier.
🔷
It took a few minutes to sort out. Hakim stuffed the crate on the drivers’ seat and dealt with the confused mob with Florent. None of them remembered what happened, and both Florent and Hakim saw an opportunity to pretend they were similarly affected.
While the locals looked at them suspiciously (after all, they knew most of each other, and no one knew them—not to mention that they did not look like old-stock rural Nova Scotians) they eventually shrugged and made their way back to their vehicles. Some of them were half-dressed, almost as if a presence had compelled them here in emergency—grabbing a weapon on the way, and racing to the old lighthouse.
Florent had a pretty good idea how and why everything had happened—in a terrible, Lovecraftian cult folk-horror kind of way. But he kept to himself until they were once again alone on the peninsula. The storm had, almost predictably, abated right after the departure of the sea creature.
As some sunlight returned to the day, Hakim leaned on the SUV.
“We’re going to work on that debrief report until midnight,” he said.
“I think we’re owed an explanation on sea creatures, because this didn’t feel like an exceptional thing.”
“Oh yeah, I’m expecting a few answers as well.”
They loaded the statis cube with the content of the remaining crates. The diaries had been unaffected by the downpour thanks to the tablecloths. Florent had a pretty good idea that the statis cube was no longer needed to contain the effect of the objects, but this is what they were here to do.
“What if we didn’t have the eggs with us when we came out?”
“Then I expect there would have been two more mysterious disappearances recorded by the SORD.”
They examined the property once more, sweeping a few dusty floors with a broom, but found nothing more. Finally, they boarded the SUV. By a common accord, they went back to Halifax on the 101—not that they were expecting anything more picturesque than on the way in.
As some point, their cell phones pinged again—once more within connection range.
Florent contacted the SORD hotline through their secure application.
“You may want to sit down and record this one,” he warned the person at the other end of the line.
🔷
“This is all going to be very strange,” warned Alan.
Patrizia was sure of it. Dressed in custom-fit tactical gear, she felt as if she was a preschooler in a ridiculous costume. What did she know of tactical operations? She was a fraud, pure and simple—a nerd who shouldn’t be allowed even near an operation. She was good at a lot of things, but not this.
“This is The Playground,” he said, gesturing at the vast empty, room around them.
If Patrizia had to guess, the grey and featureless room was a cube maybe fifty metres on each side. The equivalent of a big, taller-than-usual school gymnasium. Darker lines were disposed on walls, floors and ceilings at metre-wide intervals.
“Doesn’t look like much to me.”
“Just wait.”
He tapped on the tablet in his hands and the room disappeared, replaced by a simulation of an abandoned building. No, not a simulation—she was there. She looked around, shifted her head—the sense of place held firm. The building stood in the middle of a plain with short yellowing grass. It was high noon, the wind blew hot air across her face and she could hear the chirp of countless insects.
“It has its limitations,” said Alan. “The effective play area remains around fifty metres, although there are plenty of tricks to stretch it.
She walked to a nearby concrete barrier and kicked it. She expected her foot to go through, but it didn’t—in fact, the pain she felt in her foot as it hit the barrier and bounced back was as surprising as anything she could have imagined.
“How does it work?” she said.
“We’re not sure. We think it’s a combination of mind control, nanotechnology, volumetric projection and maybe even voxel creation. But it does work.”
“How do you control it?”
“Maple Hall has been kind enough to give us an app.”
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Be careful here, though. While the bullets aren’t real, they will hurt. And you can seriously injure yourself if you fall, if you run into a wall or if you hit yourself. Generally speaking, the simulation will not try to kill you, but it will try to teach you.”
“So that’s how your team stays sharp.”
She touched the concrete barrier with her glove and felt the grit of the man-made rock.
“At least three training scenarios are held every week for every team. Some of them of our own making, some of them helpfully added to the options menu.”
“How long has this been here?”
“Since the beginning. Although teams of previous eras used the metaphors of their times—wooden figures as opponents, plywood sets, paper forms to create the scenarios. We’re a videogame generation, though—Maple Hall keeps up.”
“Let me guess—other national teams use the exact same technology.”
“They don’t always say, but yes, we think so.”
“And this is just for me right now?”
“It’s a privilege. The reason why we had to wait this late today is that you can’t train with everyone else yet. So, you’ll get the introductory combat support training until you can be trusted not to shoot anyone on your team.”
“Wow, OK, great.”
“Let’s try one scenario before getting too cocky. Duck.”
She heard him tap on the tablet, and the surroundings changed—it was overcast, sometime near dusk. She heard gunshots and kneeled down. There was a firefight going on—she could see SORD operatives on her side of the concrete barriers. Before long, she could smell the gunshots.
She looked back—Alan was gone. The simulation didn’t include him.
An obviously fake arrow in the sky pointed to an area ahead of her. GET HERE SAFELY said a bubble on top of it.
Training mission, she thought. She had played plenty of first-person shooters. She’d be fine.
She looked around, imagined a path from here to the training point and bolted.
She heard a crack and her vision blurred.
SCENARIO FAILED appeared in big red letters in front of her, blocking everything else.
She was back in the plain featureless form of The Playground.
“Wow, OK, great,” echoed Alan behind her.
For a guy without a sense of humour, he could cut sharply.
“Was that the scenario meant to teach me a lesson?”
“No, this was the first basic scenario, no modifications. You’ll have to get better.”
“Run it again. I still have fifty minutes.”
🔷
Hakim and Florent returned to Maple Hall by five o’clock, but this had been anything but an ordinary day at work. Word about their adventure had spread, and one of the technicians had informed them of something they had overlooked —the always-on dashcam on the government SUV that had captured a good chunk of the scene.
Martin gave them both a hearty slap on the back as soon as they made their entrance in the transportation hub.
“Good show. Well done. Both of you are steely-eyed librarians.”
“Martin, what should we know about sea creatures?”
“Eh, the usual—a parallel intelligent civilization living in the deeps, which explains why we haven’t really explored the sea floor in decades. They keep to themselves and they don’t have any interest in what’s on land, so it generally works out. Except when we goof up, which is to say when they think we pollute too much. Although they do love the space junk we’re dumping at Point Nemo, so you really can’t always tell what they mean by that.”
Both Hakim and Florent looked at him.
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
🔷
It was late, everyone else had gone home and Louise should have as well.
There had been, true, quite a bit of paperwork to complete after the day that Hakim and Florent had had and it happened on her last day on the job. Two librarians thrown into a situation best suited for investigations or even operations—that required some serious documentation. But Louise had seen quite a few of those screw-ups before, and it certainly helped that Florent had been quick enough to know what to do. None of this would reflect well on the Investigations team that first swept the place, but that was not going to be her problem as a director either.
But the more fundamental problem was that Louise didn’t quite want to leave her office right now. It wasn’t a question of packing up boxes—Maple Hall had, in the past, reacted to promotions by moving the entire office to a new entrance. Some employees with dual assignments had even been able to find their offices accessible from two points at once, with two different exit doors.
No, it was more about leaving the book team. Louise had been here nearly twelve years, after all—she would still oversee the place, in a more distant role, and she would be welcome at any time. But this wasn’t going to be the same.
So, she temporized, still trying to figure out how her new powers worked. Following her directors’ advice had worked. Sweeping hand gestures had a higher success rate than just thinking really hard, and she was generally able to move books with a sweep of the hand. She had found that her power apparently worked on words rather than just paper: blank sheets stubbornly refused to work even with grand gestures, while more subtle movements—like a flick of the wrist—worked better on books whose content she knew well. There was clearly a link here between understanding the text and moving the words, but she wasn’t far enough in her apprenticeship to know more.
On the other hand, she still showed none of her former director’s precision. Grabbing a book out of a bookshelf usually took out half the volumes alongside it, and she could forget about putting a book back on a shelf except by luck. Her approach was still a lot of brute force: the books usually slammed against the back of the shelf, discouraging her from playing around.
Ah well—every day, slightly better.
She was getting tired. Time to go back.
Rather than take the transportation nexus, she’d hoof it on the O-Train—something to distract her after a big, big day.
She left the office and walked down the hallways to Maple Hall. As she did, she mulled over the lack of responsiveness from the Oversight committee on the Wentworth file. She kept hoping she could conclude that file before her promotion, but it looked as if the follow-up would be made by Marie—although, as a director, she could better ask for a follow-up…
Her train of thought was interrupted by seeing Alan coming out of the Operations wing. He looked imperturbable as ever, but she could see the signs of some latent peevishness in him—a tightening of the eyes, tension around the lips.
“Hey, Alan, going home.”
“Yeah. Had a late training session with a recruit.”
Oh, that could be it. Alan wasn’t the nurturing mentor type. It was more of an “I’ll tolerate you until you’re no longer dangerous” kind of approach for him.
“I’m headed out as well.”
They walked through the white corridor linking Maple Hall to the Wellington headquarters. Walking next to him, it was easy to start thinking about their last “late afternoon briefing.”
She thought about asking, but it didn’t seem so appropriate any more. She was going to be a director, scrutinized more heavily by the Management Board. Even a low-down friends-with-benefit arrangement with a senior Operations team member seemed riskier.
They walked up the marble stairway in silence. Not a surprise from Alan, who could go an entire day without saying more than monosyllables (she usually liked that), but perhaps more surprising from her.
They walked out of the headquarters and made their way to Wellington Street. Early evening in Ottawa—lovely weather.
“Headed for the train?” she said.
“Yeah. Ah, Louise—”
He stopped right as they passed the Secret Bench of Knowledge.
She knew. She knew before he said it. She had known ever since he’d seen him, or maybe had known for months. It wasn’t a surprise when he said it, and yet it caught her unprepared.
“I think we’re through,” he said. “I liked what we’ve been doing, and I will always think fondly of you, but… I think it’s over.”
He couldn’t get any answer out.
Any other man would have kept talking, reinforced the point, reassured her more, blamed himself, gotten angry, maybe.
But Alan? Alan just looked at her, giving her time to catch up.
“I think you’re right,” she finally forced out. “I will think of you fondly as well.”
And she meant both of those things. It was time to create some distance. And he would remain one of the most amazing men she’d ever known.
They stayed there for a while.
“I think I’ll walk home,” he said.
Giving her permission to go on to the train by herself, without the awkwardness of a post-breakup death march. A gentleman in his own way.
“I’ll see you around,” she said tritely, damning herself for not finding anything better.
He nodded, and she headed for the train station.
It was the right decision, she thought. Why did she feel so bad, then?
At least the light was green to cross the street immediately, sparking her the further indignity of waiting another minute.
🔷
Alan watched her walk up Bay Street, getting smaller and smaller as she went.
“Walking Home,” in his case, meant ten kilometres south-west: two hours at a steady pace.
Might as well get started, he thought.
He felt awful, but he knew it was the right call. They had been good together, once, but he wasn’t so sure it was still true. It was time to move forward.
It didn’t mean he had to like it.
Chapter 5—The Ghost, the Redeemer and the Buyer
Ugh, thought Alan. Late August in Toronto.
He had participated in operations all around Canada and Afghanistan, but he still hadn’t found anything quite so unpleasant as the sticky heat of Toronto in the dog days of late summer. Afghanistan had been dry, and not always all that warm. He could deal pretty well with winter operations—add more layers to keep warm, take off a few layers to cool.
But you couldn’t do anything about humid heat, and as he got out of the air-conditioning, it hit him full force—like stepping into liquid.
At least they weren’t in an active shooter situation. This was a nice quiet suburban street—aging a bit, probably getting out of the price range for everyone except trust fund kids. The only reason it hadn’t been gentrified was that it was far from transit. Otherwise—nice little houses, not too big but good for families.
“Are you sure we’re at the right place?” asked Patrizia as she got out of the unmarked SUV they rode in.
“Yeah,” said Rebecca, “I recognize Miguel’s truck.”
“Pest Removal?”
“Nice cover, and also the truth. Miguel is in the right line of business, he just offers a few more services than others.”
“So much so that it’s preferable for him to have a vehicle that openly advertises to the neighbours that he removes pests?”
“Who’s most likely to have further pest problems than the neighbours?”
“Ooh, that’s good.”
They weren’t in tactical gear, but it was obvious from their get-up that they weren’t just out for a stroll. Miguel had to keep some plausible deniability, but they didn’t care as much. If anyone asked, he usually explained they were construction contractors. It usually worked.
He double-checked the address and walked to the door.
Fortunately, Miguel answered.
“What do we have here?” asked Alan.
Miguel was a wiry man, easily a head shorter than Alan, but with an oversized swagger.
“Ghostly possession. Vengeful ghost. One of the real ones.”
The way it worked was that among the Latino community nestled in Toronto’s suburbs, if you had something weird in your house you called Miguel. Miguel could take away spiders, rats and raccoons. But from time to time, the constant scratching and nighttime whispers and doors closing by themselves weren’t due to critters or shifting foundations, but something far weirder. That’s when Miguel had a choice—deal with it himself using a few skills he’d picked up along the way, or call a few buddies from an unspecified agency that had a few more gadgets to their disposal.
Often, he’d do both.
“Tell me more,” said Alan. “Material or mental?”
“Started as material, and it’s now probably mental as well.”
Aw shit, thought Alan. Too late for the easy stuff.
“I don’t get it,” said Patrizia.
“Don’t mind her, she’s a rookie,” said Alan to Miguel.
But the man wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to speak to Patrizia. Alan had seen him give her the once-over.
“They way it usually works,” said Miguel to Patrizia, “is that buildings get possessed. It can stay like that for a while, but if people interact with the building too long, it jumps into their minds. That’s when it gets far more difficult to fix.”
“Anything in the house’s history?” asked Alan.
“Nothing specific. I checked the news, asked the neighbours. This may be one of the spontaneous generations, or the long-gestating curses.”
Alan doubted it. The kind of events to trigger latent ghosts could easily be swept under, especially after one or two property sales, short memories, transient neighbours, a good coat of paint…
“When did you come in?”
“Friend of a friend of a friend. Mother started noticing extreme mood swings with her daughter. It escalated to the usual pea-soup delight.”
“She’s upstairs?”
“Mom and daughter both. The dad too. The daughter tied up to the bed, the parents keeping watch. It’s a mess. I tried some of the rituals, but nothing really worked so far.”
Alan sighed. He was starting to get a good idea of what was going on here. Nothing special, that was for sure.
“I’m going to have a word with my crew, Miguel. Go upstairs, we’ll be there in a moment.”
Miguel nodded.
“Don’t take too long, Alan—I had to work hard on the parents for them to accept strangers here.”
He started up the stairs leading to the second floor, then stopped on the second step.
“Although they’ll probably like you,” he said to Patrizia.
He went upstairs.
“We do exorcisms?” said Patrizia softly.
“They’re not exorcisms,” said Rebecca warily. “Miguel is good at what he did, but SORD has a better conceptual framework for these events.”
She gestured around. They were in a very humble kitchen—working-class fixtures, overflowing counters, overbearing crucifix on the wall, a few homilies as decoration.
“Vengeful ghost possessions are first triggered by a sudden burst of emotional energy—usually from fatal events. Depending on the specifics, it can take years for that accumulated energy to re-form. Something that can be helped by a compatible recipient.”
“Like a female teenager?”
“We may never know the whole truth, but if I had to bet, I’d say that something happened in this house ten, twenty, thirty years ago. Maybe a murder, maybe a suicide. She is pissed, she wants revenge for what happened to her. No one in the house is quite like her until, decades later, a young teenager comes around. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter—we’re stuck with it now.”
“Get the gadgets from the car,” said Alan.
“Yes, we’re going to need a few of them.”
This left Patrizia with Alan.
“So, what’s going to happen?”
“We go up, meet the family, greet the demon, draw it out, try to get it angry, activate the devices and suck away the supernatural energy before it gets worse. Meanwhile, and I don’t mean tot be rude, you stand in a corner like a houseplant and learn as much as you can.”
“You’re awfully jaded about this.”
“We do four or five of those per year.”
🔷
Patrizia still couldn’t get over her sense of being an impostor, and being next to seasoned professionals doing their job only highlighted how out of place she felt. Sure, this was supposed to be a low-danger operation—vengeful ghost possessions were routine for the SORD. Having her here was as good a learning opportunity as they could have at this stage — “like a houseplant” had said Alan bluntly.
She had taken it as “please don’t try to help.”
But she was here, so might as well try to make the most of it.
Rebecca had fetched two devices from the SUV—a rectangular blue-and-black device that looked like one of those high-powered LED work lights meant to illuminate a garage. It looked rugged and powerful. The other looked like a stack of metal plates, about fifteen centimetres tall and ten wide. There were a few short antennas on top, and plenty of blinkenlights to warm up her nerd’s heart.
“Are we playing Ghostbusters?” she asked.
Rebecca snickered, but Alan remained impassible.
“Miguel thinks a crucifix will help, but this is the real deal.”
He pointed at the rectangular work light.
“This is a high-grade irradiator. Nothing to harm living tissues in small doses, but unbearable to whatever possesses a mind.”
“And that?”
“Neutronic disruptor. Once the spirit is out, we rip it apart. Gone.”
“Science. Got it.”
“Don’t laugh, learn,” he said with his usual sombreness.
She took the hint.
“Anything I can do?”
“Stay out of our way.”
Right-oh, boss, she thought.
Alan and Recon had it down to a science, anyway. They pushed buttons, looked at the lights, grunted in agreement.
At least Patrizia knew better than to ask where the devices came from. The answer was always the same: the Americans. The US equivalent to the SORD was fearsomely equipped, with a near-unlimited budget and a sweep that made its Canadian cousin look like poverty-row misers. They were nearly always the first with fancy gadgets meant to automate the tricky work, and they made most of them available to other national paranormal forces at cost.
That was, however, nearly the only nice thing she had heard about them. The rest was beyond scary, even by SORD’s standards—tales of a near-omnipotent organization that often played fast and loose with oversight, wasn’t above being captured by corporate interests and wasn’t as benevolent as it was supposed to be. How much of it was rumours? Had to say—for every secret explained to her, Patrizia heard five more mysteries. The looking glass was turning into a hall of mirrors.
After a minute of calibration, Alan was satisfied with the devices. He took the irradiator and let Recon take the disruptor, then headed upstairs. Patrizia followed, knowing her place.
As they approached the room where the possessed teenage girl was being held, she started hearing the whimpering. It was clearly not entirely human, she thought as they entered the room.
The girl had been strapped to the bed with industrial restraints, the kind of wide yellow plastic straps you could find in hardware stores to secure loads on trailers. Additional restraints had been placed on her wrists and ankles. The room was in semi-darkness, the blinds having been kept shut.
The girl’s parents stared at Patrizia as she stayed back. She understood why—it wasn’t just her size, but her features: compared to Alan and Rebecca, she almost passed as a distant family member.
She nodded to the parents in the hope that it would reassure them. Yes, sir and ma’am, I am a trained professional who completely understands what’s going on here. Everything is under control.
It apparently worked in that they seemed to immediately forget about her. Their rapid-fire Spanish was filled with concern for their daughter.
Patrizia did as she was told and stood in the corner, watching everything but staying out of the way—which wasn’t obvious in such a small bedroom.
Alan wasn’t being as brusque as she would have thought, though. Working with Miguel for translation, he explained what they were going to do.
“We will activate this device and drive the demon out of your daughter. Then we will destroy it with that other device. Your daughter will not be harmed, but the demon inside her will scream.”
He waited until Miguel had finished, answered a few questions and only then placed the devices. His gestures were smooth and unhurried, and she could recognize that he was trying to keep the parents at ease.
“Activating the remover.”
Remover? Oh right—less scary than “irradiator” for the parents’ benefit.
Alan pressed a button, and the girl immediately started screaming. All of her muscles became rigid at once, and she appeared to lift herself off the bed by a few centimetres.
But as she screamed, an orange glow became apparent over her. As Patrizia watched, the glow rose above the girl and gradually became perceptible as a humanoid form. It brought its arms to its head and screamed.
Miguel repeated holy formulas in Spanish, while the girl’s parent clutched a crucifix in their intertwined hands so tightly that Patrizia could see their fingers whitening.
The girl screamed even louder—so much so that it reminded her of what she had heard during the Cognizeck intrusion: the sound wasn’t being heard through her ears.
The figure curled into a ball. Her open screaming mouth was now clear through her translucent orange form.
Santa Maria! thought Patrizia, flashing back to countless hours of religious instruction in her youth.
Then the figure looked at Patrizia and noticed her. Before she could react, she saw the figure lunge at her until they touched.
Immediately, she wasn’t in the same room any more.
It was the same room—the dimensions, anyway. But it wasn’t a bedroom—it was an office, with a big old computer in one corner and a couch on another. She looks around, and an orange wisp materialized as a female figure.
REVENGE, she heard.
“Revenge against whom?”
MY KILLER.
“What happened?”
As the orange figure twirled around her in angry whips, Patrizia slowly understood. She was in college, babysitting for extra money. The father wanted more from her. He had given her gifts, money, attention: she had been seduced. Then he didn’t want anything to do with her. She had been angry. They had argued. He had killed her. Nobody was around. She had been listed as missing for years.
REVENGE.
Missing meant that her body hadn’t been found.
“Where are you?”
In flashes almost too unbearable, Patrizia saw the rest—the limp, pathetic figure of the girl being dragged down the stairs, brought in the backyard shed, the digging of a shallow tomb, the pouring of concrete—a desperate plan taking advantage of what was at hand.
“I WILL AVENGE YOU,” she shouted to the figure. “But leave the girl alone. She will not help you.”
“RECONSECRATION IS ESSENTIAL.”
“You will be buried honourably.”
The figure stopped whirling around her and held her gaze.
“WITHOUT REVENGE, I WILL BE BACK.”
And like that, Patrizia was back in the room with the girl, the parents and her team members.
Heart racing, she dropped to the floor and heaved, but nothing came out of her mouth.
At least she was spared that humiliation, she thought.
“Don’t activate the disruptor!” she shouted as Alan and Recon came to her side.
Her shout was loud in the now-quiet room. The teenage girl had stopped screaming and as Patrizia got back up, she saw that the girl was now limply lying in the bed, her breathing calm and even.
“If we don’t activate the disruptor,” said Alan, “this will happen again.”
“No, it won’t!” said Patrizia. “Not if we resolve this.”
“What happened to you?”
“Not important right now. Call the police. We’ve got a body to unearth.”
🔷
As much as he hated to admit it, Louise didn’t like her now boss.
Her old director had been smart and fun and easygoing. Her new director-general, on the other hand, was dull and dry and a pain to deal with.
But she was the boss. Like many government departments, SORD followed a somewhat rigid organization. Work teams were headed by managers, who answered to directors, who in turn reported to directors-general. The only level above them were the members of the Management Board, who took decisions collectively
The rest was opaque, which struck Louise as unusual—upper management in other departments had a near-religious fervour in being seen and heard throughout the organization. SORD worked a bit more secretively when it came to upper management, which was stranger considering the horizontal collegiality at the lower working levels.
As Louise found herself in her director-general’s office for her weekly bilateral discussion, she thought, not for the first time, that this promotion may not have been the best of ideas.
“I still haven’t heard anything about Oversight about your request on Wentworth,” said the director-general. “Considering how close he is to the government, that may be to be expected.”
“Then I’m making a request to search the archives, second level. His collected works.”
“That’s not going to fly.”
“I’m making the request anyway. This has been sitting for a long time, and we’re still seeing purchases of occult books traced to the account. This doesn’t look good, and you know it.”
“I know it, but I also see the wider picture. We have to have him solid before intervening. He has money and lawyers and can make trouble.”
“Then let’s go for the Archives. There’s no downside except losing a few days.”
“Do you have someone ready to search the second level? I’m told that your expert is about to leave.”
“Yeah, Martin is on semi-retirement, but he can help up out.”
The director-general sighed.
“I’ll make the request to oversight,” she finally said. “I’ll even add my recommendation in favour.”
Louise knew that it wouldn’t reflect well on her if she rolled her eyes or whispered “thank you for small favours,” so she didn’t.
But was it going to be this difficult every single time?
🔷
To their credit, Toronto Police had been unusually prompt to answer the call. Owing to the connections and favours owed to SORD, a forensic team had been dispatched within the hour, and after initial tests suggesting potential human remains underneath the backyard shed, excavation had started shortly after noon.
Miguel had disappeared once the teenage girl was visibly back to her usual self—albeit a bit surly and tired, which was understandable given the circumstances. The parents had lavished him with praise, which Alan encouraged—the more Miguel took the credit, the easier it would be later on.
Patrizia, meanwhile, had been grilled extensively in the SUV by her two colleagues.
She had explained her experience two or three times, knowing that the repetitions helped Alan and Rebecca built the debrief. SORD had been alerted at some point, but Patrizia’s insistence in seeing the matter through meant that they stayed nearby.
By mid-afternoon, the concrete had been removed from the shed, and a very careful, almost archeological-grade excavation was taking place. Meanwhile, the police archives had advanced more quickly, confirming that a teenage girl’s disappearance had taken place over fifteen years ago. They had asked a few questions to the then-owner of the house, but hadn’t thought there was anything to investigate, especially when there was a college boyfriend with a more suspicious profile. The investigation had reached a dead end, transforming into a cold case along the way—just one more missing girl in a city where they numbered dozens every year.
But the evidence underneath the shed was going to heat the investigation back up. In talking to the police team members milling around the property, Alan had gathered a few things—gas readings confirmed that there were human remains somewhere under here, the dating of the burial was going to be determined to some degree of certainty, and they were already locating the previous owners’ whereabouts in anticipation of an arrest. When the body was found, it would be brought to the coroner for examination, and then released to her family for burial in the following week.
Patrizia, hearing this confirmation, has exhaled in relief.
“We can go if there’s nothing else for us here.”
Indeed, the SORD could leave. Toronto Police would handle it from here. The circumstances leading to the tip they had received were immaterial—records would remain vague on the topic, as they did whenever anonymous tips were received to cover extraordinary police work. The parents would remain very quiet, and Miguel was already back home. The SORD operatives could disappear in the background. News reports would focus entirely on the role of the police.
Within minutes of Patrizia’s approval to leave, they were back in Maple Hall.
As they rested in the operations room, Patrizia noticed once more that Alan and Rebecca were looking at her differently.
“What?” she finally said.
“Any history of mediums in your family?” said Alan.
Coming from someone else, it could have been a wisecrack. From him, it was a dead serious question.
“Not to my knowledge.”
“It could be affinity similarities,” said Rebecca, “We’ve seen that before. She was the nearest to a teenage girl in the room.”
“I don’t like it,” said Alan. “That ghost could come back.”
“She wanted her body to be found. This was about righting past wrongs, not … blasting it to nothingness.”
Alan held her gaze.
“Not everything has to be solved with guns,” she said, pushing her luck.
No answer.
🔷
Louise was the first surprised when Oversight came back with the authorization to search the Archives, second level, for the collected works of one Damien Wentworth, Canadian billionaire.
It came with heavy-duty restrictions—the search could only be about evidence of occult interest and activities linked to books already known to the SORD. It would not access any information about his investments, political links, personal life or associates. To make sure these conditions were adhered to, an auditor had to be present at all times.
Uuuugh, thought Louise having seen what the auditors did on library searches. It was not only like reading with someone watching over one’s shoulders, but someone who could slap the book out of your hands.
Nonetheless, it was a movement forward. She called Marie to give her the news.
🔷
Through delegation of authority and being voluntold, Florent was the one assigned to assist Martin in finding Wentworth’s Collected Works.
A thin and humourless man joined them right before they entered the white corridor leading to the library
“Kwame Welbeck,” he said while shaking their hands.
He didn’t add anything, which Florent took as further evidence that this was going to be a very intense business-focused relationship.
Auditors did not mingle a lot with the rest of SORD staff—they valued their independence and aloofness was part of their role.
Florent mentally shrugged—he’d end up talking to Martin anyway.
The old man had a bit of a spark in his eyes. Semiretirement was agreeing with him—unlike most retirees who took off at the beginning of the summer, Martin had agreed to stay a few days a week through October. “Weaning myself off,” he had called it.
As Martin was their resident expert in finding things in the library, it made sense for him to be called on this request.
“All right,” Martin said as they climbed down to the second floor of the Library, “the one thing you have to remember as we search the archives is that the library has its own classification scheme. With time, you will learn how to make better guesses as how it’s arranged, but it’s certainly not so simple as going by last name, first name.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, names are rarely unique, and the Library has an unfortunate tendency to call people by their own preferred name. The official record won’t be very useful if people think of themselves by their nicknames.”
“They do?”
“More than you think, Florent. Furthermore, the stuff is not necessarily organized by recency, nor quite by birthdate. The Library tends to sort things out by something I call ‘real year,’ or the most remarkable year of a person’s life.”
“So, it may not be by his name, and it could be any year between his birth and now.”
“Yes, also we don’t know in which specific language he’s recorded under.”
“I’m going to go with English.”
“Maybe, but the Library has some weird sub-classifications of English depending on whether you learned it as a mother tongue, if it was learned later in life, if it’s a dialect and even if it has sentence structures specific to sub-communities, like our Ghanaian friend here. Or yours. Or mine.”
“This is going to take forever.”
“Hours, maybe days. Given that I’ll try to teach you how to think about it, it will add a bit of time, but not that much.”
“Great, where do we begin?”
“Always at the most obvious point. Let’s try Wentworth, Damien, born 1971 with the typical proper King’s English of most upper-class WASP Torontonians.”
Martin looked up at the vastness of the library, its multiple levels, stairs, passageways and dim lights. Florent and the auditor also looked up.
“I hope you’re ready for a bit of a walk.”
🔷
“You’re going to have to let go of your old team,” warned the director-general.
Louise sighed.
“I know. I’ve been doing my part. I’ve handed over the files to Marie, and I’m visiting the booksellers to pass the baton to Florent.”
That part had been bittersweet but rather fun in its own way: a true bookstore crawl, visiting thirty-some places in a single week to tell the owners that Florent would be representing her from now on. A chance to say hi, to look at their stock for personal interests, sometimes to exchange gossip about other booksellers across the country. She had known some of them for over ten years, and by passing the baton to Florent rather than an older member of the team, she hoped that he’d be with them for at least that long.
But Florent was a dapper young man, not a frumpy-cute middle-aged woman, and since the booksellers were almost all male and nearing retirement age, this did mean a different kind of relationship.
With that aspect of the handover completed last week, there wasn’t that much more left to do.
“Has Marie complained?”
“Oh, absolutely not. And your work is solid in tackling the other teams under your direction. I’m just worried that if you’re not letting go of the old workload, you may not have the time or the energy to tackle your new files.”
Was the older woman warming up to her?
“I’ll keep that in mind. Can I at least stay up to date on the Wentworth file? It’s nagging me.”
The director-general sighed.
“Well, I suppose so. As a director, of course.”
🔷
Alan would never have admitted it, but he was getting increasingly satisfied with Patrizia’s progress. The young woman’s initial weeks in The Playground had been embarrassing, but then again–few people without military or police training were thrown in the training program like she was. She was figuring things out, at least: her performance was getting better, and she wasn’t stumbling as frequently on new scenarios.
There was still a long way to go before she could be fully trusted, and she would never be at the level of the Operations team, but she was getting where he intended her to be.
Her resolve at the end of the ghost incident a few days earlier had impressed him. For someone possessed by a ghostly manifestation without any prior training, she had done well. There had been a real chance that the spirit could have taken her mind but it hadn’t—according to her debrief, she hadn’t given an inch to the ghost and had come up with a workable compromise.
Alan still would have rather activated the disruptor.
As he watched, Patrizia ran through one of the first intermediate-level simulation scenarios—sneaking past guards to open an electronic lock. His role as a scenario overseer had him walk through walls and enemies, keeping a close eye on her actions and reaction.
He wasn’t fiddling with the level. Not yet—it was one of her first run-through, and she hadn’t completely mastered the basic situation yet. Later, he’d throw unexpected complications but not now.
It could be bizarre watching someone go through these exercise—he wanted her to do well, but at the same time it was important for her to make mistakes and learn from them. This was her sixth attempt at this scenario—and her training time was coming to an end.
Would she succeed this time? She was doing pretty well—escaping the last two guards’ detection and jamming her interruption hooks in the wiring without mistake. Yes, he thought, it looked good-
She deactivated the lock, opened the handle and slipped inside without detection.
SCENARIO SUCCESSFUL, affirmed The Playground while resetting their surroundings to the gray featureless cube.
“Congratulations,” he told her as she snuck a look at her watch. Their time was up—someone else was booked for The Playground, and they didn’t have time for one last scenario.
“Thanks, Alan,” she said. “I’m slowly getting the hang of it.”
Both of them headed for the exit.
“That’s the end of my day,” she said.
“I still have a few hours to go.”
“And then what? What’s your plan for the evening?”
“Not sure.”
Which was a polite way of saying he hadn’t figured it out, but would probably go back to his apartment and spend a few hours listening to music before going to sleep.
He blinked when he realized he was due for his regular appointment with the doc tomorrow. More questions about hobbies.
True, he had thought about it. Hiking did appeal to him. It wasn’t that different from his military training, and he could claim that it was part of his retirement plan to go live in a cabin up north during the summer. Doc would love that.
The problem was that he didn’t necessarily know where to start, and Doc wouldn’t think this was social enough.
“Hey,” he said to Patrizia as he was struck by an idea. “I heard you hike? Do you know a group in the area?”
“I do. I’ve been with the Bytowne Adventurers for the past few weeks. They have a site, group outings, recommendations for solo walks.”
“Send me the link. I need ideas.”
🔷
“And there we are,” said Martin.
Florent blinked. It felt as if they’d been in the Library for days, walking from one section of it to another, checking endless variations on the same theme.
He had to acknowledge one thing, though—the auditor had dutifully followed like a trooper, apparently unaffected by such concerns as fatigue, thirst, hunger or bathroom breaks.
“We’ve got our boy.” Said the older man. “Look at this.”
There was a hack to make things simpler, had shown Martin to Florent. At the end of many Collected Works, there was one last passage that gave a biography of the author. Sometimes, it was an epitaph. Sometimes, it read like an introduction at a fancy dinner, or a conference blurb. Martin had reminisced that the Library hadn’t always included such niceties—that it was a relatively recent addition, probably to placate a world filled with librarians asking for the same thing.
In this case, the blurb was unequivocal.
“Brent Wentworth is the owner of Unrealiquity, one of Canada’s leading real estate firms…”
Brent, yeah, Brent—the reason why their journey had taken so long. Apparently, Damien was the public name, and Brent was the one he used while referring to himself. Thanks a lot, Brent.
Martin hefted the large, thick book and set it on one of the study tables offered to readers throughout the library.
The auditor sprang to life.
“May I remind you,” he said, “that we are here to investigate-“
“Yes, yes, we know.”
But the auditor went on, not oblivious to the interruption but with a clear mission to get to the end of his warnings.
Florent and Martin nodded as the auditor went through the warnings, and then ignored him.
“All right, let’s take a look.”
Martin went back a few pages—that was the surest way of getting the latest information.
“Nope, that’s a business record,” warned the auditor.
The man was using his height to read over the shoulders without the slightest shame.
Martin flipped a few more pages.
“Ooh,” he said. “Look at that”
It was an email, and it went directly to the point:
You were right—that Doolan Codex is very promising. I’ve been studying it, and the Hellfire Club will be very interested in some of the incantations I’m decoding. I’ll have more to say at our next meeting.
“Sounds like our boy is a budding warlock,” said Martin.
“What’s that Doolan Codex?”
“It’s bad news—one of the better eighteenth-century compendiums of rites. Tradition had it that it’s bound in the flesh of hanged prisoners. A lot of blood magic in it.”
Florent shuddered, and not just because everything felt spookier on the second floor of the Library.
“Do we have probable cause?”
They turned to the auditor.
“I will report what I have seen.”
“What’s that Hellfire Club thing? Go back a few pages.”
The auditor abruptly closed the book.
“You have what you were looking for.”
“What are you doing?”
“Florent, let’s go,” said Martin.
“But=”
“I said, let’s go.”
🔷
Louise was up to her favourite overtime hobby—trying to put a book back on a shelf telekinetically—when she got a notification from Florent.
“We have probable cause.”
She let the book drop to the floor and rushed through the connecting hallways to go to the book division’s working area.
She saw that Florent and Martin were still there. Marie came out of her office in loose flannel clothing, clearly interrupting an evening at home.
“What do we have?”
Florent and Martin explained the damning passage found in the Collected Works, and the reaction of the Auditor.
“I can still see a dozen ways in which this passage isn’t a justification,” said Louise.
“It’s still pretty good,” said Marie. “Enough to justify an excursion.”
“What are we asking for?”
“I’m thinking a walk-around to confirm that the books are there, with an upgrade to an extraction if we find them. Evidence of active practice, and mentions of the blood magic help our case.”
“Doesn’t the Doolan Codex have elements of mind control and necromancy?”
“It sure does.”
“The justification practically writes itself.”
“Do you remember the exact statement in the Collected Works?”
“I transcribed it right here,” said Martin.
“OK, good, let me send it, first priority.”
She grabbed a device nearby and logged onto her account, then sent a priority message to Oversight. Like Operations, they were staffed on an ongoing basis.
Hakim walked in from his office just as Oversight answered.
“Your request is being assessed as a priority,” read the replay. “Please stand by.”
“That means they’re about to tell us yes or no within minutes.”
“What did I miss?” asked Hakim.
They got him up to speed just as the answer came back.
“Authorized for an examination of the identified location. Authorized for extraction of occult documentation if found. Conditions: must take place during the subject’s absence from home; lead librarian must be at a director level; must be accompanied by an operational team leader, must deploy TYPHOON device upon arrival.”
A flurry of boilerplate conditions followed, most of whom were rote and inapplicable (“No nuclear detonation”) but still sent in an effort to provide informed authorization.
“Looks like I’m off for one last librarian excursion,” said Louise.
“Visiting while Wentworth isn’t home may be difficult,” said Marie. “But we’ve got some surveillance on him, so let me ask investigations.”
They had clearly not been authorized for active eyes-on-the-ground surveillance of the subject, Louise knew, but there were plenty of ways to tap into various communication networks to keep track of where Wentworth was at any given moment.
“Do we have a list of the books Wentworth may have?” asked Louise.
“We’ve got one from the Murray Estate, plus a few informed guesses from other booksellers.” Said Hakim.
“House plans?”
“Rough approximation, but yes,” said Florent.
It may be days or weeks before Wentworth snuck out of the lake mansion. Louise had to be ready to go at a moment’s notice at any time until then.
No delegation possible to Marie—at least the director general would understand.
Louise wasn’t unhappy at that condition, even though she knew what it meant—the file was sensitive enough that they assessed that only a director had enough decision-making ability to direct the operation on the ground. No pressure, no pressure…
“He’s not home now!” said Marie as Investigations shared their passive surveillance.
“What?”
“He just attended a meeting of the Unrealiquity board. There’s no way he’ll be back home in the next few hours.”
They had a window. A tiny one, but a real one.
“Who’s on-duty in operations?” she asked, her heart skipping a beat at the possible answer.
“Blue team—Alan’s the lead.”
There it was. Her heart did skip a few beats. While everyone else nodded in approval—Alan was exceptionally well regarded within the SORD—Louise just saw the complications pile up.
“Is he free?”
“Let me check…”
As they waited for an answer, Louise fussed about her clothes. Yes, sure, she was about to see Alan for the first time in, well, yeah. But was she properly dressed for sneaking into a billionaire’s home library? Did she need anything more?
Well, she could go change her shoes to something more sensible.
“He’s available,” confirmed Marie. “Are you ready?”
No, no, absolutely not. This was not her place and she didn’t want to face Alan and this was all too sudden and the house probably had other people milling about and she just wanted to spend a quiet evening at home.
“Of course, I’m ready. Let’s get this done.”
🔷
Ten minutes later, the entire library team was at the Nexus.
Louise had changed into something slightly more comfortable—riffing through a billionaire’s book collection felt better in looser clothes, and she had reached for the darkest things she had on hand.
Flanked by the Blue Team, Alan walked into the nexus with his customary low-danger tactical gear, plus a small silver device the size of a lunchbox.
A TYPHOON device.
She felt more comfortable as soon as he showed up. She could depend on him to give her the space required to riffle through the library, and if things somehow turned ugly, he’d take care of her.
She breathed deeply.
“I’m ready.”
“I’m also ready,” said Alan.
The tactical officer fit them with earpieces and couldn’t pass the opportunity for a last-minute briefing.
“We scanned the area with satellite sensors and we think the house is empty except for the security staff. Wife and kids are at the Toronto condo, along with the support staff. Stay quiet and you should have the place to yourself.”
He pointed at the tablet in his hands, which was showing Transport Nexus coordinates.
“We’ve got good-enough confidence in the house layout to drop you inside the library. Doesn’t mean that everything will be there. Alan will activate TYPHOON as soon as you touch the ground, but that will draw attention and cut off any doorways. The device has ten minutes’ worth of power. We think it’s justified give the short time you’ll be spending there—better to stay undetected and get out. The doorway will re-open in ten minutes or as soon as you shut off TYPHOON. The rest of Blue Team will be standing by if it turns ugly. Please don’t let it turn ugly. Questions?”
“No.”
Louise and Alan got closer to the Nexus doorway.
“Open … now.”
Alan stepped inside first and Louise followed.
It was a nice library—the size of a large living room, with a central desk, two big armchairs, one central couch large enough to sleep on and walls lined with books from floor to ceiling. Carpeting ensured a hushed atmosphere. It smelled like a nice place to Louise—in other circumstances, she would have enjoyed spending a few hours here.
But they didn’t have a few hours. A few minutes at most.
Alan had been quick on the trigger, activating the TYPHOON device as soon as Louise had stepped through the Nexus. She knew that the device created a burst of electromagnetic energy strong enough to block any communications, wired or wireless, in a hundred-meter radius. Enough to stop alarm systems, suspicious video feeds or alarms waiting to be tripped in the library. Of course, the flip side of this was having all security personnel tap their earpieces, check their monitors and get together in an attempt to figure out what was going on. But as the tactical overseer had suggested—they assessed it was worth the risk.
The other, other problem was disrupting any attempt to open another doorway, but those were the trade-offs.
Meanwhile, Louise didn’t waste time herself, and started scanning shelves. An advantage of having been a librarian was that she knew exactly what books she was looking for, knew exactly the shade of leather and spine lettering of the books Wentworth could have. The clock was ticking, but a few things helped her go faster: anything new was unlikely to be of interest, and she was probably looking at a cluster of books rather than scattered tomes here and there.
As the seconds ticked past, she grew more alarmed. There was nothing interesting here. Her gaze zigzagging across the shelves, she saw nothing more interesting than business literature, some older history books, a meagre modern fiction that seemed culled from the CBC Reads contests. Same with the current affairs book, which seemed copied from whatever the National Post thought was interesting to its readers.
This was a library curated to impress visitors, not as a reflection of the owner. No personality. Nothing that felt like personal interests. She could imagine Wentworth greeting visitors and waiting for them to oooh and aaah at the books before ignoring them once again until the next visitor.
Most of all—nothing occult here.
Had they miscalculated? Was the library in Toronto? Somewhere else in the house?
If this was a room calculated to impress visitors, maybe he didn’t work here. Maybe there was another room?
Aaargh—they didn’t have time to investigate.
Unless, unless…
Knowing things without quite understanding how, the answer came to her—This was a public vestibule to another room. There were books elsewhere. Outer sanctum, inner sanctum.
She closed her eyes and concentrated on Doolan’s Codex. She pictured the pages, the spells, the words strung together in incantations. She knew them, had read them, had studied them enough. She left herself shift—
—And opened her eyes in another place, in darkness. Her hand closed on a book. She knew it wasn’t that far from the library. The other side of the wall, maybe—secret entrance hidden by a book trigger, maybe a button in his desk.
How had she gotten here?
She’d figure that out later. For the moment, she lit her pocket flashlight and located a light switch.
Having done so, she looked around.
Now that was a working study. It was smaller, but lived in. The desk was messy, a few books piled up in stacks away from the computer and keyboard. Some space was left on the desk for scribbling notes by hand—one of the requirements of active bibliosorcery.
She looked at the book she had grabbed upon arrival. A nicely aged copy of Doolan’s Codex, the leather binding supple under fingers. Human flesh, she knew.
Her eyes scanned the bookcases. The selection here was far quirkier than the other office—a mixture of fiction darlings, non-fiction books on various scattered topics, two shelves of pornography, some spectacularly dumb humour books, and especially … one bookcase that seemed a bit messier than others—filled with ancient tomes whose names and authors she recognized on sight.
There it was —
“So, what do we have here?”
She turned—this wasn’t Alan’s voice.
It was Wentworth himself, looking as if he had just stepped out of the boardroom. Top-notch business suit, impeccable haircut, close shave, cologne, polished shoes. How?
“I don’t like snoops, and if you want any chance of getting out of here, you’d better explain yourself.”
“I don’t owe you any explanation.”
“Your body will never be found, then.”
His attention was distracted by pounding on the wall.
Probably Alan, thought Louise. Trying to find the secret room as she had deduced.
“Expecting backup?” he said. “But how did you get there without raising the attention of my security? And how did you scramble the communication channels?”
Wentworth may have been endowed by a trust fund, but he hadn’t grown his company on mere nepotism—there was a sharp intelligence there, and Louise, to her horror, could see him working his way to the obvious conclusion.
“You clearly knew what you were looking for, considering what you’ve got in your hands. And since the door of the room isn’t open, you … appeared in here? You’re not from the Hellfire Club, nor from foreign groups. They wouldn’t send a dowdy librarian…”
The room felt far too small for both of them.
“ … a librarian! Government worker!” he spat.
“Of course,” he went on. “A fucking public servant. How dare you walk in here? They warned me we’d attract attention. Too much, too quickly.”
They eyed each other warily. She could feel the gears working by his glance.
“Well, maybe it’s time to send a lesson. I won’t have the government interfere, let alone some frumpy dollar-store overweight bitch.”
To Louise’s horror, she heard him mutter an incantation.
She reacted on instinct. She threw the book at him.
It worked, sort of—he batted the book away, and looked at her with sharp anger.
“That’s not going to work! You’re going to burn!”
He finished the spell, pointed at her—
-and went up in flames himself.
It had been a long shot, thought Louise, but it worked—Spur-of-the-moment immolation incantations were tricky even with a calm mind and plenty of preparation. A single missed step, mispronounced syllable or hesitation and the spell would fizzle out … or turn against the caster.
Which explained both why some books were dangerous, and why there weren’t that many living wizards.
Wizardry always extracted a price to pay, and you never dealt with the devil without being burned yourself.
Wentworth screamed as he went up in flames, and the door opened—Alan had finally figured out which lever to pull. He still carried the TYPHOON device.
Louise looked past him and saw, in the other library, mounds of books hurriedly thrown to the ground: Alan’s brute-force method to find the secret room trigger.
Alan looked at her, and she saw a momentary softening of his features when he understood she was safe.
Although safety was a difficult concept when they were stuck in a paper-filled room with a self-immolating man.
Wentworth kept screaming, arms flailing. Maybe remembering some half-forgotten children’s rhyme, he dropped to the floor and tried rolling to extinguish the flames, but it was too late, and he stopped moving, his screams getting fainter. The flames consumed him.
“We have to evacuate,” said Alan.
He shut down the TYPHOON device and tapped his phone.
A transportation nexus appeared in the middle of the room.
“We have to save the books!” she said.
“There’s no time!”
Maybe there was, though Louise as the flames started going up on the Wentworth’s more ordinary collection.
“MOVE,” she said to Alan.
He stepped aside, but she could see he didn’t understand.
She’d explain later. For the moment, she swept the room with a grand gesture.
To her surprise, it worked—half of the content of the occult bookcase went flying right into the open doorway. Fifty books saved in one swoop. Hopefully, no one was standing too close on the other side.
Adrenaline focused the mind, she realized. Another sweep of the hand sent another third of the bookcase into the doorway, a few titles missing their target.
She felt the errant books more than saw them, and pulled them before they were set ablaze, throwing them through the doorway.
The fire was spreading fast through the paper-filled room with the draft coming from the other library—there wasn’t a lot of time left before smoke and flame would make this an inferno.
Another swoop of her hands grabbed the remaining books in the occult bookcase. A closing fist bunched them together. A vigorous throw sent them through the doorway.
With a furious grin, she swept the entire content of the desktop—computer, inscribed papers, books—through the doorway.
What was left? On the floor, she saw the Doolan Codex starting to ignite and dropped to her knees to grab it.
“No!” shouted Alan, grabbing her roughly and pulling her through the doorway.
With a grunt, Louise pulled hard with her right hand, hitting Alan in the jaw with her elbow.
But she got what she wanted—the burning Doolan Codex slapped into her palm as she fell down on the floor of the Codex, the doorway shutting down a fraction of a second after the book went through.
She got up.
Breathing hard, wild-haired, furious, standing in the middle of books thrown willy-nilly on the floor, she looked back at the SORD employees assembled in the area. Everyone stared at her.
“What?!”
She realized that she was still holding on to a burning book smelling of human flesh.
🔷
It took a few moments for the excitation to subside and for Louise to be properly debriefed. She once again went through her actions as the Wentworth mansion, artfully blurring the bits where her powers helped a bit. She still wasn’t too sure if the debriefing officers were cleared to know about her powers, and she wasn’t going to volunteer it. Hopefully, Alan wouldn’t contradict her too much, or say something that couldn’t be interpreted as confusion in the moment.
The part where she shoved entire shelves of books through the nexus doorway wasn’t seriously challenged—the results were what counted, and SORD was far more preoccupied by the bit right before that, when Wentworth lit himself on fire.
“Incantation gone wrong,” shrugged Louise. “We’ve seen this before.”
Indeed, they had—the debriefers gathered her testimony efficiently and released her after an hour.
Her director-general was waiting outside the debriefing room.
“We need to talk.”
She didn’t have to re-explain the sequence of events. She presumed that the director-general, among many others, had been listening to the entire debrief.
“You did well, Louise,” said the director-general. “What worries us more now is waiting for the other shoe to drop, if it ever does. Satellite surveillance suggests that there was a significant blaze at the Wentworth mansion—I’m thinking that the TYPHOON device prevented the automated sprinklers from having much of an impact. The problems will begin once they find Wentworth’s body in the debris.”
“What then?”
“We don’t know. Was he the only one who knew about his new warlock hobby?”
“He mentioned something called the Hellfire Club.”
“Whatever that means. For all we know, it’s rich Torontonians smoking cigars and laughing at the poor.”
“I’d like to keep digging into that.”
“No. Not now. Word from above is that we’ve done enough damage. We lay low, we wait.”
“That doesn’t seem prudent.”
“The only person buying those occult books was Wentworth, and what you found in his study accounts for the volume of transactions you found, right? If I’m right, your booksellers will start having new wares in the next few months, and we’ll go back to normal.”
“But the person doing the buying-“
“-was just acting on behalf of his crazy coocoo boss. No more boss, no more book-buying.”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to. Let’s see where things go next. Keep an eye on the credit card account. Wentworth’s death is going to be a shit-show anyway—I’m not sure how they’ll explain how he was at a board meeting one moment, and dead in his house the next.”
“Won’t that create questions?”
“Better theirs to answer than ours.”
🔷
Louise thought she was done for the night, but she still had a surprise in her office—the entire book team, who greeted her with a round of applause.
“That was hot stuff, boss,” said Hakim.
“Didn’t leave one single book behind,” said Marie.
The Librarians had reason to be jubilant — They had gone up against a billionaire and won. The nagging feeling that someone else was putting together an occult library was gone, and it had very much been a group effort.
Louise accepted their congratulations, but she wasn’t too sure about things going back to normal. Wentworth’s behaviour felt like that of someone with far more knowledge than he could have acquired by himself. Or was she paranoid?
They toasted with a bottle of champagne that Martin had brought. For him, this was the cap at the end of his career—he’d revise his retirement schedule accordingly, he warned everyone.
After a few minutes, the group said their goodbyes and left. Moments later, as Louise was preparing to go home herself, she heard some throat clearing from the doorway.
She looked—Alan was resting against the doorframe.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
“I’m glad you were there to have my back.”
“See you around.”
Before she could say anything else, he was gone.
Typical Alan, she thought.
🔷
The next few days gradually put Louise’s mind at ease.
Publicly, the kerfuffle at Unrealiquity seemed more focused on questions of succession than Wentworth not being at the right place. The story was that there had been an accident at the mansion, and that he had perished in the flames. If there were further questions, Louise knew that someone near Wentworth had decided to stomp hard on them. It was easier to explain the death this way.
Those who understood the entire story would keep quiet.
But Louise had put a note on her long-term planner: HELLFIRE CLUB?
At some point, Louise had recalled the wording of Oversight’s specification – that a Director-level librarian be part of the mission. Had they anticipated the use of special powers during the operation?
And what was that shifting thing she had triggered at the Wentworth mansion? Imagining a book, and teleporting through walls? She had tried to replicate it, without success so far.
Another thing to work on.
🔷
Florent opened his eyes and realized that it was dark. He was in his apartment, in the easy chair in front of his TV.
The problem was, he realized with mounting panic, that the last thing he remembered was getting into Maple Hall this morning.
He was still dressed with the same clothes, but hours had gone by without a memory.
Worse: this wasn’t the first time. The first had happened in the Library—he had lost track of time, maybe even an entire day. There had been other blinks before and after—memory black holes.
What was going on?
“Please calm down, Florent,” he heard. A soft female voice.
This did not work as intended—he got up, looked around, darted in and out of the kitchen, his bedroom, his office.
“Who’s there?”
“I’m on your couch.”
Indeed, she was – but she wasn’t real. He could see through her.
“I’m very sorry for this introduction, Florent. The first days are rough.”
“Who are you?”
“It takes a while for me to be able to communicate with you. Calibration, I think you call it. Now that I’ve gotten used to your mind, this should be easier. We can at least talk now.”
She gestured for him to sit next to her on the couch. She also solidified, as if she had made her point of being not-real.
“Sit next to me, or farther way. It’s not important right now.”
He sat on the couch arm, as far away from her as possible.
She looked good. She looked amazing, in fact—the incarnation of Florent’s ideal of a woman, ripped from his fantasies.
This should have made him suspicious, but he had to admit that he was far more receptive to hearing her out if she looked like that.
“I would like to accompany you over the next while, Florent. Think of me as an observer. Eventually as a helper. I only have your best interests at heart.”
“You’re not answering my question. Who are you?”
“Given everything you’ve seen so far, Florent, are you that surprised to get such an interesting proposal, no matter where it comes from? I have watched you, and I think you’re a brilliant young man with a bright future. You’re courageous. You’re kind. I can make life much easier for you. Or more interesting, when that’s what you’re into.”
“I’m not into Faustian bargains.”
“I don’t want your soul, Florent, and my intentions are the purest. I will observe what you see. I will whisper answers to you when you need them. Occasionally, I will be able to take action on your behalf. But you have to agree.”
“I’m not sure I want someone in my mind all the time.”
“Oh, are you worried about what young men worry about?”
She moved toward him.
“You don’t need to be alone, Florent.” She whispered in his ear, raising the hairs on his forearms. “I’ve seen enough of you. I like you. I will be who you need me to be. Who you want me to be.”
He felt warm, comforted, accepted.
Loved.
“Yes,” he said.
Chapter 6—Thawing Secrets
Oh wow, was it December already? Fall had flown by. Louise supposed Hakim had written his usual novel, but she’d been so deep into the weeds of being a director that the months since her promotion had just disappeared.
And it wasn’t going to get any better – her agenda was crammed, and the next thing on her plate was a meeting with the Americans. She raced to the Nexus.
There was a special doorway for the meeting place. Louise knew, somehow, that they were not going to any random place—they were being warped to a closed-off room ten kilometres underneath the 49th parallel. One half of the wider-than-deep room was underneath Saskatchewan—the other, under Montana.
The Canadian Delegation was tiny compared to the American group that kept shuffling in. She knew the Americans liked to project power in every single way—to the point of brining in meaningless flunkies to impress the Canadians by their numbers. But that was all right—on the Canadian side, they only had the right people.
A large table spanning the width of the room was placed in its centre—at exactly the frontier between both countries. A solid oak table, far larger than any one tree would have been able to provide and yet in a single unbroken piece.
National occult services had no choice but to exist and cooperate. In their own specific national way, they upheld the natural order in their own countries. Occasionally, the system broke down—when a government became impotent, couldn’t sustain a professional public service, underwent a coup or was violently deposed by various factors. Not every government’s control of their territory was absolute. Sometimes, there were agreements—powerful neighbours, former colonizers and volunteers could intervene on other territories upon request with impunity.
But that was the exception. Most of the time, each country would handle its own matters in its own way. They did not criticize each other’s methods, as long as the results were there.
After the usual throat clearing, the delegation came to the point. Louise was not representing the Canadian delegation—a member of the Management Board did, and that member would redirect to the appropriate subordinate for an authoritative answer. Louise did not expect to talk at all during the meeting, but being there was interesting enough.
“We have a situation where we would like your organization to investigate something,” eventually said the American delegate after a few smaller items.
“Back in the mid nineteen-fifties, both of our government collaborated in the construction of a series of military installations in the far north. The Distant Early Warning line, or DEW Line as it became known. Most of those installations were radar stations meant to detect overhead flights of nuclear missiles sent by the Soviet Union.”
“Yes. Every Canadian schoolkid knows about the DEW line.”
“Sure, but what’s less-well known is that while the US and Canadian armies were busy building a series of radar bases, they were also building other kinds of installations. One of those was a containment facility.”
Hairs prickled at the base of Louise’s neck.
“In the late 1950s, the United States also experienced a rash of attacks from various … monsters, creatures, mutated animals and such. Some of this went hand-in-hand with popular movies—we’re still debating what led the other. But in one specific case, in early 1958, the United States Army captured an amorphous, amoeba-like organism in a small Midwestern town. The organism had managed to consume five inhabitants of the town before being contained. Since our attempts to terminate the creature were unsuccessful, we looked for ways to contain the creature indefinitely.”
This was, somehow, very familiar…
“Our experiments showed that sub-freezing temperatures stopped the creature’s metabolism. Since construction of DEW Line stations was proceeding apace with little oversight, we decided to repurpose one of the facilities. With the agreement of the Diefenbaker government, we added a set of underground containment cells and left the organism there, somewhat confident that the natural permafrost would keep the creature contained indefinitely.”
“The Blob!” said the Management Board representative with uncharacteristic emotion. “You mean the Blob is real and it’s on Canadian soil?”
“There are many differences between the real-life events and the movie, but you can probably guess why we are coming to you. Our satellite monitoring is showing that the permafrost in that area is thawing, perhaps irreversibly. Come next summer, we are no longer confident that the creature will be contained much longer.”
The Management Board representative sighed.
“And what do you propose we do to resolve the situation?”
“We respect the utmost sovereignty of the SORD in dealing with problems on its own territory. We would prefer to provide an intervention team that would resolve the problem using our own—”
“I understand your offer, but that’s a hard no from us.”
It was the American delegation leader’s turn to sigh.
“Very well. In this case, we would like a team of three American operatives to provide information and weaponry assets to one of your teams. You would lead the expedition, but our team would handle the demolition charges.”
“We can also do the work ourselves if you’ll just provide the tactical information and whatever weaponry assets you deem necessary.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“But—Wait… What kind of weaponry are we talking about?”
“Contemporary analysis of the data gathered upon initial containment of the creature suggests that it’s uniquely vulnerable to a tactical discharge of high-energy gamma rays.”
“You want to detonate a nuclear device over Canadian soil?”
Both delegations erupted in various exclamations.
“Order, order,” said the otherwise-impassible chair moderating the meeting.
Both delegations calmed down.
“It’s not technically a conventional nuclear charge,” tried to explain the American. “Fallout is greatly reduced, and most of the energy output is in the form of gamma rays, which disrupt living tissues but have a much lower destructive-“
“-and I still have to report to my government that you propose detonating a nuclear bomb in Canada.”
“Your cooperation will be essential.”
“Where’s the White House authorization for this expedition?”
After a brief pause: “It’s underway. But our projections show that this creature could grow and lay waste to—“
’Thank you, thank you. Please send the briefing through the usual channels. We will consider it. I cannot give assent at this moment for reasons you can understand.”
In other words, thought Louise—this should have been discussed at the top first, then sent down.
The Americans had a bit of a tendency to go rogue on some matters, and Lousie understood that the Management Board member thought this was the case here. Hey, sure, let’s detonate a nuke, the guys upstairs don’t really need to know about it….
This did smell like a bit of a screw-up from their end, and a hush-hush attempt to fix a problem without inviting further scrutiny into what may have happened a few decades ago.
“The other item we wanted to discuss,” continued the American as if nothing had happened, “is your previous request to investigate a possible rapid increase in unusual activity on our territory.”
Louise frowned. This must have been from her DG—Louise had suggested comparing data, but she wasn’t aware that a request had been sent.
“We have looked at our numbers, and while we are seeing an increase in overall activity due to population growth and in infophage intrusions due to heightened research in non-determinative computer science, our data shows no significant increase that can’t be explained by the usual statistical controls. In other words, what you are experiencing is probably a Canadian-specific issue.”
The Management Board representative threw a significant look at Louise.
Louise gulped. This was a simple, but significant piece of information. Canadian and American populations, despite obvious differences, were incredibly similar—it was difficult to imagine that a systemic factor would affect one country rather than another.
The disturbing counterpoint to that fact is that if something was affecting Canada in particular, chances were high that it was being directed from Canada itself. There was a widespread agreement around the world that you did not mess in other countries using occult means—the escalation potential was simply too high and unpredictable, all the way to megadeaths and the end of the masquerade. If someone was meddling with the SORD, it was likely far more personal.
Louise had still harboured a small hope that this would be a general problem, not necessarily directed at them, but that hope had just been extinguished.
🔷
“The DEW Line mission has been approved by the Prime Minister’s Office,” said Louise’s DG a few weeks later.
“That must have been fun.”
“We just heard about the result, not the process. Three Americans will accompany Blue Team. They maintain that the nuclear detonation will hardly be perceptible outside the containment bunker.”
“All right. Good luck to the Blue Team.”
“Not so fast. The Management Board wants someone from Library or Archives to tag along.”
“Aaah. What do they know?”
“The Management Board suspects that, given the caginess of the American delegate, there is more to the Fox-Zero DEW Line site that was mentioned. We think that someone from your team would be ideally placed to investigate and report before all evidence is lost.”
“Should we start looking into the other DEW Line stations decommissioned in the 1960s?”
“That has occurred to the board, but we recommend a report on Fox-Zero first.”
“All right. I’ll ask for volunteers, and if no one does, then—”
“The Management Board insists on a specific representative.”
“Oh?”
“Florent Doan, from your Library team, is ideally suited for the expedition.”
“But he’s not an archivist or a historian.”
“He is resourceful and clever.”
“That he is. Fast learner, too. Sure, I’ll assign him to the expedition.”
If the Management Board wanted him… Louise would definitely pay attention.
“Now,” said Louise, “the next time you meet the Management Board, can you ask them why this has completely escaped their attention since the 1950s?”
🔷
Patrizia eyed the newcomers with suspicion. It had taken her half a year to become comfortable with the Blue Team and not be an active threat to the rest of them—and now they were being saddled with three Americans and some dweeb from the Research Directorate? Pssh.
She had re-signed for more operations stuff when her probation date had come, of course. Her apprenticeship wasn’t quite over, but she had become part of the team. The lady at the back, always ready to help with a technical problem. And since the Americans had offered their little dragonflies microdrones for operational support, their care and maintenance had fallen onto her.
The Americans, at least, were professionals. They had arrived earlier this morning with their gear and had spent some time talking to the Blue Team—establishing rapport, they’d called it reasonably enough. Having a chat, exchanging names, settling on communication frequencies and codes. They clearly knew what they were doing, and with them it was like working with fellow professionals—a few differences, but clearly along the same lines.
That Library nerd, though? Scrawny kid. She had seen him around—he was always dressed as if he was out on the town, and Patrizia had seen enough dandies of that kind in bars to be wary of him. Oh, no, here he was, coming up to her…
“You’re Patrizia, right?” he asked.
“That’s right.”
“I’m Florent. I’ll keep up with you guys,” he said reasonably enough. “At least I’ll try in this penguin suit.”
Despite herself, she chuckled—he did look like a penguin in his cold-weather gear, and it was nice for him to acknowledge that he wasn’t fitting in.
“This isn’t the same as working the library shelves.”
“Hey, not my choice for a day at the office. I was told to be here.”
“Oh?”
“Management decision, I’m told.”
Over the next few minutes, he explained how he’d been asked to keep an eye on the Americans and explore everything about the place. She explained her background and her current role as recon microdrone operators.
He was an engaging fellow—and more to the point, she saw no attempt whatsoever from him to flatter, ingratiate or flirt with her. Even the Blue Team guys and girls had some issues with that from time to time.
As the operators finished their preparations, Florent asked if he could stay back with her until he had an idea of where to snoop. That seemed reasonable, and it would give her some company while the rest of Blue Team went to do whatever they were supposed to do. As she spoke to Florent, she was reasonably confident that he’d know his place and not create further trouble.
Had she been handled like that back when she was new to Blue Team?
🔷
Florent had not asked for this assignment and had tried to get out of it a few times—but Marie had been adamant: This was a Management Board request. It wasn’t all that difficult either: Get in, look around, fact-check the American claims, and evacuate with the rest of the team.
Except that Florent was getting to be a veteran skeptic of those “simple in-and-out operations.”
At least Helen (as he’d called her) was supportive.
Do you know anything more about any of this?
No, I don’t, she had said.
Of course, how would he know if she wasn’t being entirely truthful? She had been open and honest with him so far, right?
At least Patrizia was … nice. Less intimidating than at first glance—he wasn’t used to have to look up to stare a woman in the eyes.
“Doorway opens in thirty seconds,” said the small wiry man they referred to as Tactical.
He shifted uncomfortably in his cold-weather suit, which was already sweltering despite not being zipped up. He fastened whatever needed to be fastened up, and braced himself: The station weather report was currently below five degrees and headed to barely above zero. A snowstorm was on the way. Amazingly, it was still warmer than Ottawa.
The suit was restrictive—all he wanted to do was stay still with legs straight and arms to his side. No acrobatics in this, that was for sure.
“All right, let’s go!”
The doorway opened, and three members of Blue Team went in, followed by the three Americans and then him. The rest of Blue Team would follow.
He crossed the doorway and kept going forward as so not to block the people behind him.
They had landed in an open area in the middle for Fox-Zero station. The sun was reasonably high up at this time. It was still winter, with the snow pack being relatively solid under his feet. The cold wasn’t that bad, but a steady wind made everything worse.
As with most of the other DEW Line stations, Fox-Zero had been built high up on a hill in order to provide unobstructed views to the radar units still encased in white geodesic domes. This location was closer to a mountaintop than hill, however, with a single dirt road providing access to the site—the rest was surrounded by cliffs. The road had clearly been blasted through – and led nowhere at this time of the year. A few temporary buildings had been built on stilts, scattered next to the mushroom-like radio domes. The briefing material provided to Florent had listed where the barracks, mess hall, radar stations and maintenance shops had been located. Despite having been abandoned in the 1960s, the entire station was still looking reasonably in good shape—preserved by the cold and a near-complete lack of human activity.
“Here’s the package,” said one of the Americans over the comms link.
Florent was acutely aware that he was in the presence of a fancy-grade nuclear device, and this did not endear him to the expedition. It had been out of the question to let Americans transit through Maple Hall with an active nuclear weapon, so they had arranged for an Osprey flight from Alaska to leave the bomb on a pallet half an hour ago, with the operations team walking in from the Nexus.
If there was any comfort to being in the presence of a nuclear device, it was that the operation was being successfully managed so far, with the required material on the ground before they got there.
As he watched, two American unstrapped the nuclear device from the pallet. It was small enough to be carried as a backpack device, and so one of the operatives strapped it on his back.
“We can move to the bunker now.”
Efficiently orienting themselves, they went for the base’s main working building, which seemed to rest not on stilts but on a huge mound of gravel.
Fox-Zero, Florent knew, had cost ten times what other DEW Line stations in the Fox group had cost to build. Much of that expense had been in digging into the hilltop permafrost and carving a few underground rooms for the base’s more unusual vocation. The gravel extracted had been left in place and used as foundation.
According to the documents, some very unusual means had been deployed to dig up the bunker in such an inhospitable environment—rock-eating creatures barely held back by their handlers at a more heroic age of creature control. Things had gone out of hand, and the result had been an underground bunker about three times as big as had been planned – four levels deep.
Silently, the Operations group moved to the entrance of the building. It was unlocked—who else was going to show up here?
Florent followed, sticking close to Patrizia.
The inside of the building was a straight-up throwback to 1950s military chic—purely efficient stylings, bathed in wood panelling, olive-green accents and splashed of oddly bold navy blue.
It wasn’t any less cold inside the building, but at least there wasn’t any wind.
While the rest of the team followed the Americans, Patrizia opened her microdrone container and readied their deployment.
The Americans led the way to a reinforced door that was locked, and heavily so.
Florent would have been amazed had they produced a working sixty-year-old key, and so he was disappointed when the American crew simply stuck ribbon explosives to the door and blew it off its hinges. Hey, whatever works…
Two of them rushed inside with the nuclear device. A third one stood in the doorway.
When Blue Leader tried to follow into the bunker, the guard stood firm.
“No farther,” he said, not moving.
“This is supposed to be a joint mission.”
“And it is. The rest we’ll do ourselves.”
🔷
Alan could have made a scene, wanted to pass off some of his frustration onto the guy, but thought better of it. Doc wouldn’t approve, and neither would anyone else.
Instead, he turned back to his team, rolled his eyes and huddled out of earshot of the American. Patrizia stopped her fiddling with the microdrone deployment kit and joined them, followed not too closely by the librarian.
The guard did look sillier standing alone like that when no one was actively trying to get past him.
“Looks like there are secrets they still want to keep,” said Flanker.
Alan nodded.
“We could request a doorway, go back to Maple Hall, sneak back behind him,” suggested Rebecca.
“That would be funny,” said Alan, “but not in the spirit of international cooperation.”
“So, what do we do?”
Alan shrugged.
“We complete the mission. If we’re that curious, we’ll come back in a few weeks once the radiation has subsided and take a look at what’s left downstairs. At least the Americans will have solved their problem, and it’s not as if we lose anything until then.”
The team wasn’t happy, but they all nodded. Compared to some of their other missions, this was almost a vacation. Despite the cold.
A few minutes passed. One of the wits suggested taking a deck of cards out to pass the time.
Everyone snapped back to attention when they heard gunshots coming from the bunker.
Even the American guard standing at attention looked unnerved, his head swivelling slightly toward the inside of the bunker.
Alan listened intently, but wasn’t yet ready to be alarmed—for all he knew, this could be warning shots, attempts to break a lock, or most likely a summary execution of whatever was down there.
He was stretching with some of these rationalizations, but there were weird explanations all the time.
Although the silence from the communication channel was a bit odd.
He stood at the ready, making sure his equipment was within reach.
His team was generally doing the same. Even the library dweeb was both paying attention and not freaking out. Good for him.
They heard more gunshots. Then shouts.
“We’ve got a situation—come in, come in!”
Blue Team rose and charged toward the door. The American, for some reason, stood up against them but Alan was immediately in his face.
“You’re going to let your buddies hanging?”
The guard turned and made sure he was first down the staircase leading down.
Alan and Blue Team followed, drawing their weapons.
🔷
For Patrizia, this was the cue she’d been waiting for—she opened up the microdrone container and activated the quick release of the devices. Immediately, the swarm sprang to attention and rose through the air. Using a touch screen built in the deployment kit, she sent most of them inside the bunker.
She didn’t have much to do after the microdrones were deployed—the beauty of the system was that was a fire-and-forget kind of thing—deploy the dragonflies, wait as they blanketed the space, and enjoy the tactical view.
“Tactical information display coming up,” she confirmed to the rest of the team.
“OK, we’ve got tactical view,” confirmed the boss.
She gestured to Florent to wait before charging into the bunker.
“Give me ten seconds, and you’ll have a clearer picture of what’s in there.”
“Right.”
“Activate your display,” she suggested.
🔷
Florent nodded to Patrizia and lowered the monocular glass display built in his helmet. Bright blue lines appeared, followed by a quick calibration. Seconds later, he saw a rough outline of the building superimposed over what he was seeing. Human figures lower down showed the location of the Blue Team, although the signals weren’t as strong there.
Neat. He had trained a bit with it, but seeing it in operation was even better. The dragonflies microdrones were slowly mapping the bunker and he could see the results appear in real time.
The underground bunker wasn’t purely vertical – taking advantage of the large mountaintop, it had been dug at an angle – like a long descending staircase with four landings at each of its levels.
With interest, he saw the first level of the bunker gradually mapped in ever-finer detail. One corridor leading down and two connecting rooms. Blue Team hadn’t stopped there and were headed deeper.
It probably meant that the first floor was reasonably secure—time to have a look.
He was there to snoop, after all.
At least the gunfire had died down—he wouldn’t have to worry about stray bullets even with the armour built into the penguin suit.
He went past the door, down the rough-hewn rock staircase and peered through the open doorways on the first level.
He was mystified—all he saw were boxes.
A mountain of boxes, all neatly staked in a massive rectangular stack that filled maybe half the space.
He looked in the other doorway—same.
Now he got excited—Sure, these could be the paper records of World War I veterans, once digitized but never destructed. But those could be stored elsewhere. What, on the other hand, would be stored in a forgotten, frozen top-secret facility hundreds of kilometres away from the nearest city?
Excited chatter brought snapped back to the moment. Not from the comm channel—from downstairs.
“That’s not a blob!” he heard from a Blue Team member.
“Stop shooting! Stop shooting!” said Blue Leader.
🔷
Alan’s Blue Team had rushed down the stairs in the footsteps of the American. They had gone past the dull first level—boxes of books, no danger there. Then they had kept going further down, as the staircase kept descending in a straight downward line occasionally interrupted by landings.
The guard had rushed past the second set of doorways as well—quickly shooting a look as he went past, Alan had seen heavy metal chains converging toward a central figure, and on the other door a closed metal container.
Things were more hectic on the third floor. The American rushed to tend to his two compatriots, who had fallen down in the corridor. These had clearly unloaded at least a clip into one of the rooms—it smelled of smoke, and temperatures were somehow significantly warmer.
“It moved, we chucked a grenade,” said one of the fallen Americans.
A grenade? They hadn’t-
The former guard took a grenade from his own kit and threw it inside the door way before anyone could stop him.
“NO!” said the other fallen American.
Blue Team retreated at once, shielding themselves against the blast.
But when it came, it was a hollow THUMP rather than an explosion.
“You’ve just made it stronger.“
And then something roared inside the room.
Blue Team members able to do so raised their weapons. The former guard also brought his weapon up and, since he had a clear line of fire, pulled on the trigger as he went inside the room. Full automatic—no discipline. The clip was gone in two seconds.
“Don’t shoot!” groaned one of the fallen Americans.
Alan was still processing this when he gestured to half his team to move in.
Rebecca went first, followed by Flanker and then him.
What he saw as … not what he expected.
They had been briefed on a blob, an amorphous amoebic creature, most likely contained in something-
The metal container on the second floor.
-But this was something else—a scrawny humanoid. Not a human—closer to a real-life parody of a stickman with thin elongated limbs and grossly oversized head. It was smouldering—thin wisps of vapour were rising from its body, lending it an unreal quality.
“That’s not a blob!” shouted Rebecca.
The American dropped its clip and loaded another one.
The creature was chained to the bedrock through four restraints—two attached to its wrists, one to its neck and a last one to its right ankle. A broken chain showed that it once had been chained to its left ankle, but the restraint had been torn off sometime earlier.
The creature roared again, and the American shot it squarely in its thin chest.
A few of the Blue Team members followed suit, unloading everything they had in the centre of mass of the creature. No headshots, briefly thought Alan proudly.
The creature wasn’t being harmed by the shots, though—rather than inflict damage, the bullets we being absorbed by the creature. The smouldering became more intense where the bullets hit.
In a flash, Alan recalled some elementary notions of physics. He had been a terrible student, either on his first go-around through the school system or later on when he caught up as an adult. But thermodynamics had fascinated him—the way force could become heat and matter could become energy, everything flowing into each other as if everything was related at a far deeper level than anyone could know.
And from there, he understood the nature of what they were up against: Something that wasn’t harmed by bullets or explosions, but thrived on it, became stronger from them.
Horrifyingly, he saw his team reload and the American lob a grenade at the creature, which hit its chest … and was absorbed. A muffled THUMP followed and the tendrils of vapour became even more intense.
“Oh no,” he said softly.
And then, much louder: “Stop shooting! Stop shooting!”
The creature roared again and brought its left arm closer, ripping apart the chain that was holding it back. It backed up, and the ankle restraint broke. Then it brought its right arm closer, and ripped the chain at the wall.
The team wasn’t eager to stop shooting against this display—they emptied another clip.
The creature was now glowing. It had absorbed the energy of the bullets and the grenades, and was now lighting up from within.
“STOP SHOOTING!”
His team obeyed, but the American threw a third grenade. By error or strategy, he sent the grenade at the foot of the creature, probably hoping for fragmentation damage.
He was disappointed—the creature stepped on the grenade and its feet flowed over it before the detonation.
Another THUMP followed, and to their horror the creature ignited.
Then it tore off its neck brace.
“RETREAT!” he shouted.
Blue Team was not told twice—they exited the room and started upstairs.
The third American, on the other hand, drew a knife and went at the flaming creature.
This was not the optimal strategy, but as he was backing off, Alan saw something he did not expect—the creature, now noticeably bulkier, shot its arm at the American and grabbed him by the neck. The former guard slashed ineffectively at the creature with his knife—but the creature had a longer reach and the knife barely scratched the flaming arm.
Within moments, the guard stopped struggling and drew still—his skin turning marble-white as, Alan could guess, his heat was being absorbed by the creature.
He had seen enough—he climbed upstairs and followed his team.
At the second-floor landing, he saw the creature emerge from its containment room. He expected it to follow him. But instead, it crouched near the fallen Americans and touched their faces, absorbing their heat.
Horrifyingly, it then took the grenades dangling from their belts, pulled the pin and ate the things.
Was it going to do the same thing with the backpack nuke?
By the time he was on the first-floor landing, the creature was roaring aflame, and it moved into the second containment room on the third floor.
“I’ve got my eyes on it,” said Patrizia. “It seems to be heading for the creature contained there. But the signal is weak—there’s something interfering.”
“Regroup around Patrizia’s workstation,” said Alan.
🔷
As the situation downstairs turned to a complete shit-show, Florent was paralyzed—should he go up?
But within moments, that avenue was cut off—Blue Team was stomping up the stairs, and under those circumstances he had about as many chances of going back up intact than had he been running in Pamplona.
Backing up instead, he knocked over a stack of boxes. They fell and opened, and he stared twice at what he saw.
🔷
As Blue Team clustered around Patrizia, she kept an eye on the pictures relayed by the microdrone swarm. There was a small fourth floor, but nothing significant—right now, her attention was on the video feeds gathered from the second room on the third floor.
A sharp intake of breath from Rebecca summarized her own assessment.
At first glance, what was in that second room was nothing more than a rock sculpture of some sort—homage to The Fantastic Four’s The Thing, perhaps, or a particularly aggressive take on the Jewish Golem with tree-trunk legs, sweeping claws that were barely distinguishable from its arm, and a massive head that did not include a neck.
But this was a SORD operation in a top-secret facility stocked by an American occult organization—there were no such things as simple rock sculptures in those situations.
As they watched, the incandescent creature approached the golem and embraced it. It noticeably became less fiery, but the heat had been transferred to the rock creature, and in between the rock fragments of its skin, they could see glowing embers.
Both creatures roared and turned toward the stairs.
“There we go,” said Recon.
“Any plan for what to do when they come up here?”
“No ballistic weapons. No source of heat. Otherwise, we’re just making them stronger.”
“Any other ideas?”
“Firehoses?”
“Funny. The nuke is useless too.”
Patrizia almost shivered thinking of what would have happened had they triggered the nuke—how much energy would the creature have absorbed?
Or maybe it was the weather. Outside, they could see the promised snowstorm dump its first centimetre of snow.
Wait…
“Maybe the weather can be of assistance,” she said, “for once.”
🔷
The upstairs climb of the creatures was unmissable, thought Florent as he hugged the wall inside the first-floor rooms. Each step taken forward was like a mini-earthquake—how heavy were those things? As they approached, he saw the reddish-yellow glow of the creatures reflected on the walls.
I’m not here, he thought, don’t look inside, there’s nothing here but a few boxes of very flammable material, please don’t stop.
He looked again at the open boxes at his feet. He had been expecting files from various government archives: a mixture of typewritten documents, paperclip-held black-and-white photos, yellowing hand-filled forms and handwritten notes by case officers.
Instead, he was looking at a stack of very nice, mint-condition handbooks titled “Incantations and Practical Defence Spells for Civil Administration Personnel.” All identical, twenty to a box or so.
This was something else.
He desperately wanted to take one, page through it and sneak it inside his penguin suit. But at the moment he had far more immediate concerns—not being detected, grabbed by the neck and heat-sucked by a fire elemental or some such.
Willing himself invisible, inaudible and fragrance-free, he waited as the creatures made their way to the entrance. He closed his eyes—if he couldn’t see them, maybe they wouldn’t be able to see him? If, at least, he’d brought his towel to wrap around his head…
But the creatures seemed more intent on escape than inspection—they passed by the opening and crept upstairs, each step a mini-quake.
🔷
Blue Team had hastily drawn up a strategy and gone outside, fanning themselves around the entrance to the work building.
The plan was nothing short of ridiculous, thought Patrizia. Worst of all—she had a role to play in it, considering that it didn’t register on her “no guns” stance. Ah well…
“They’re coming out,” she said. They probably could see it for themselves, but the snowstorm was getting heavy, and the glass lenses weren’t as effective with snow and rivulets on them.
The flame elemental was the first out, and they could see for themselves what they had hoped—the snowflakes were turning to black spots on its skin as they vaporized. It roared, so Alan made sure to fire off a round near (but not at) the creature to catch its attention.
It worked—the creature went for him. Not quickly, but steadily.
The Rock golem followed, and that’s when Blue Team’s sharpshooters went to work—they each aimed deliberately through their scopes and took a shot.
“It works!” said one of them.
Indeed, it did — The carbines’ high-powered rounds hit the creature’s rock skin and shattered it, revealing the burning embers inside. No magical armour here—just physics, with exceptional force turning rock to dust.
Then they saw the snow work just as effectively on the exposed embers. It accumulated on the snow, but turned the glowing flesh underneath black.
As the fire elemental made for Alan, Patrizia sighed and resigned herself to her role in the whole plan. She hefted the chunk of snow in her hand and threw it at the fire elemental.
As the snowball hit, she saw that it was far more effective than even a flurry of snowflakes—it left a deep dark mark on the elemental’s skin and made them scream.
Yup, that’s what we’re doing, she thought—we’re an elite team of operatives bringing down a supernatural monster through a snowball fight.
🔷
Left unharmed and to his own devices, Florent did what he had wanted to do for a few long moments—opened as many boxes as possible to see what was in there.
In the vast majority of boxes, he saw more copies of the same US-printed red handbook. Stacks and stacks, hundreds if not thousands of copies. This was not a collection of gently used books—those were straight from the printer, all waiting to be distributed and used.
But toward the end of the cubic mountain of boxes in the second room, he started seeing another kind of book, printed on deep blue leather: Tactical Incantations for Senior Personnel.
He stuffed a copy of that as well inside his penguin suit.
Then he heard a rattling of chains coming from downstairs.
🔷
With a hard CHUNK, the axe fell on the now-rigid creature and cut off a limb.
Patrizia cringed, but knew that this was the right thing to do.
A member of Blue Team took the severed limb and went to leave it near the door of one Fox-Zero’s building. They had all agreed—Since there was no way of destroying the creature through fire, and they were almost ready to detonate an underground nuke nearby, the only thing to do was to use some cold steel to dismember it, scatter its remains and hope for the best. A follow-up operation with statis cubes would be able to put their minds at rest.
Once felled by snowballs and ice, the stone golem had been fairly easy to dispose—once its rock armour had been taken apart, the material underneath didn’t resist an industrial axe wielded by a resentful special operative.
The fire creature was a bit trickier—they had to ensure its core temperature was sub-freezing before doing the work, and none of them was exactly sure if dismemberment was enough. But they had to do something, and they were not quite ready to bring it back to Maple Hall without some heavy-duty protections.
They were just about done cutting off the head from the body when a panicked call came through the communication net.
“Um, guys,” said Florent, “there are two more creatures down here and they are waking up.”
“Get out of there,” said Alan.
“I’d love to do that, but don’t you have a nuke to set off?”
“Call for a doorway.”
“That doesn’t work here.”
Of course, though Patrizia. The Americans would have figured out a way of installing passive or active jammers to prevent anyone else from getting down there.
“Patrizia, go check it out,” said Alan.
“Me?”
“We’re trying to finish something, here,” pointed out Alan, gesturing at the two frozen bodies being dismembered, and the team members dispersing the limbs.
“Right.”
“Don’t forget we’ve got a nuke to detonate.”
🔷
Florent had been a bit too curious and had gone downstairs to check out the rattling of the chains.
As the creature of the second floor gradually sheared off the chains around its limbs, he partially hid behind the open doorway. He didn’t know what powers the chained creature had, but he didn’t really need an instruction manual to understand that hundreds of kilos of steel chains being used to keep a creature in bondage were not normally used in vain—this thing was bad news.
Things got worse when the creature, now freed, headed outside.
Florent didn’t think twice—he darted off downstairs on the basis of two conclusions: First, the creature would want out, and he wasn’t going to stand in its way. Second, it was easier to hide from its gaze down than up from the first-floor landing.
It was a sound theory, but the creature didn’t head out—it went into the other first-floor chamber and started bashing open the containment mechanism. When he lifted the lid, Florent saw black liquid flow down from the open container to the floor.
Well, there’s the blob. Finally.
The blob expanded fast—and it headed for the door. Florent withdrew and headed up-
-Where he ran into Patrizia.
“Down, down!,” she said.
He wasn’t going to argue—and it’s not as if he could sneak around her anyway.
Down they went. He saw Patrizia gave a long look at the situation over in the blob’s room—but she didn’t stop.
Where were they going? Oh, right—the nuclear device.
On the third-floor landing, he stopped and saw Patrizia kneel down near the bodies of the Americans. She tried activating the device—not to detonate, but simply for a status report and saw that it wasn’t responding.
“It’s not damaged,” she said. “Something in interfering with the signals.”
“Everyone lost comms down here.”
“There must be some kind of TYPHOON device. Probably downstairs.”
“I’ll have a look.”
What was he thinking? He was supposed to go scrambling upstairs to ask the big boys to help out, not put himself in harm’s way.
But then again—what else could be down there? Patrizia was probably right: there would be a nook for the TYPHOON device and that’s it.
He climbed down.
This fourth flight of stairs went down a bit too long for his liking. Even worse—at the end of it was a small alcove with a very retro-looking device, and two locked doors.
Considering that has not been locked up so far, he shuddered.
Don’t look, don’t look, he told himself as he passed the locked doors. They had a small window. He would not look.
As for the device itself, his light flashed around the metal surfaces, hoping to catch a name or description. If it was a military device—
—ah, there it was: ELECTROMAGNETIC INHIBITOR DEVICE
That sounded about right. Certainly better than THERMONUCLEAR SELF-DESTRUCTION MECHANISM, or EBOLA SPRAYER—EMERGENCY USE ONLY.
How was it activated? He looked for a power cord, found something that looked like it and a jury-rigged power plug junction. He unplugged the device.
His phone buzzed, his comm network resumed and he heard Patrizia shout, “Got it!”—all signs of a network reconnection.
But as the comms network allowed all of Blue Team to do a quick status check, his ears told him something else had awakened.
Despite his best intentions, he looked into one of the rooms.
A cluster of biomechanical spiders (or something like it—he wasn’t going to count limbs to see if they had six, eight or ten of them) came to life and started chittering around the room. Pretty soon, they headed for the door and started attacking it with small laser beams.
On the other side, some unholy robotic contraption rose up and started for the door, hammering it with its fist and leaving a mark.
He ran up and gave a quick update.
🔷
“Give the nuke a one-minute countdown, then activate a doorway and get out,” said Alan to Patrizia. “We’ll evacuate from upstairs.”
“Got it.”
The portable nuke, fortunately, had been made for soldiers, not defrocked IT workers—it had crystal-clear instructions on par with the Claymore mines’ infamous FRONT TOWARD ENEMY. Within moments, Patrizia had the minute-long countdown configured.
No guns, Mom. But maybe, occasionally, a backpack nuke.
She activated the countdown as soon as Florent finished his race upstairs. Fortunately, he had a good preservation instinct—his phone was already out and activating a doorway.
“What’s that noise?” she wondered. There was combination of THUDS and electrical-like chittering coming from downstairs.
“Nothing good.”
Fortunately, a doorway appeared next to them, set into the wall of the third-floor landing.
“Our way home,” she said, moving toward it.
“Wait! We can’t leave them here.”
He pointed at the fallen Americans.
Patrizia blinked. He was right.
“Take one,” she said, “I’ll handle the others two.”
Turning toward one of the soldiers on her side, she quickly grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him toward the doorway. She entered.
—Saw the bright lights of the Nexus, dropped the soldier next to the doorway and went back.
Hopefully, the scrawny librarian would be able to carry his load—time was ticking down.
🔷
Helen, I need help, he said after trying to lift the dead cold soldier by himself.
Lift him. I’ll do the rest, she said.
🔷
To her surprise, the lanky kid had managed to throw the soldier’s corpse over his shoulders and was making his way to the doorway.
This only left one, she thought as he disappeared through the doorway.
She grabbed the soldier by the bootstraps and pulled.
As she made her way to the doorway, she saw that it was about time to leave: Black goo was rushing down the stairs from the second floor, with a stomping creature also headed her way.
Downstairs, a robot bashed his way out of the door, hitting a few of the dozens metallic spiders making their way up the stairs and the walls.
She saw the nuke counter: Ten seconds left.
She heaved, pulled the soldier through the doorway, made sure the fallen American was completely through and shouted
“CLOSE IT NOW!”
🔷
Patrizia fell down next to Florent, who was sitting and breathing heavily on the floor of the Nexus.
Both of them rested against each other as they got their breathing back under control. Around them were three horribly flash-frozen bodies of American soldiers, and the Blue Team back from their own doorway.
Florent was breathing harder than he ever could have imagined. He had lifted the body, sure, but Helen had done something to supercharge his muscles for the job. He already knew he would hurt for roughly a week after this stunt.
Somewhere else, he imagined, a tactical nuclear device exploded, wreaking havoc on everything around it, collapsing the tunnel and probably creating a new caldera over the hilltop under which it detonated.
He unzipped his penguin suit and took out two books—a red and a blue one.
Slowly, painfully, he got up–first to his knees, then he hauled himself to his feet.
“Going somewhere already?” asked Patrizia.
“I’ve got two books to index.”
🔷
As expected, Florent was hurting everywhere the following day. Muscles he didn’t even know existed were loudly signifying their disapproval of what he had done the day before. Some over-the-counter painkillers took some of the edge off, but it was Helen who had allowed him to get to sleep the previous night.
But what he had today were answers. Or at least parts of answers.
The previous evening’s debrief had been fairly long to cover the moments in which the ancient jammer had blocked their communications, and at least he had been able to get some satisfaction out of surprising the normally stoic debriefers as he described what he had seen and done.
Today, some of the overnight research had paid off.
Some of the creatures seen by the previous day’s expedition had been rumoured but never confirmed, so that was interesting enough.
As for the books that Florent had unearthed, they had one really interesting characteristic—they had not been found on the Library’s first floor. Many analysts were busy theorizing why witchcraft manuals had been printed for official use by the American Civil Service, and their theories were borderline apocalyptic.
At least, he had heard, the Americans were interested in pinning a medal on him and Patrizia for bringing back the fallen soldiers.
Anything else would not be communicated to a low-level specialist such as him—although he was sure that the higher-ups were probably being better informed.
🔷
“We don’t have a clue what that means,” said Louise.
“Surely you must have theories,” said the DG.
“Of course, I do. But they would be irresponsible to spread around. My top three are, respectively — “
She counted on her fingers.
“One: this was a contingency plan if ever our bacteria stopped being so effective and we started getting an invasion beachhead.”
“Two: this was an abandoned plan to convert the American shop to magic users from top to bottom, either for emergency purposes, or because that’s the way they felt at the time.
“Three, more worryingly: this was for offensive purposes.”
She sat back in her chair.
“But in the absence of context, I still don’t know—and the Management Board seizing the two copies of the book before we could read them certainly doesn’t help.”
“The Board has not changed its mind about this temporary hold on the books.”
“Then they will have to be happy about the uncertainty, because I need more to know.”
“I’ll relay your fraustration.”
🔷
Chapter 7 – Death at the Manor
SAVE EVERY DAY said the banner above Patrizia’s head as she set up the drone network.
With the number of operations that SORD was conducting for the past few months, the slogan seemed unusually apt. She didn’t know if it was the season—January had been quiet except for that DEWLine mission, but just as winter warmed up, the number of incursions that on under Blue Team’s shift had risen significantly.
“Are we ready?” asked Alan through the comm system.
“Deploying right now.”
Go, my little dragonflies, she thought as the microdrones went up and away.
Deploying them inside a Targmart store in the middle of the night was new, though.
She looked at the tactical display, as the little bots were busy mapping the entire store. No signs of intruders yet. She frowned: Control has some solid signals of an intrusion. Where were they?
🔷
Alan had grown to like the dragonflies. He was always dubious of the new techno-gadgets, but even he had to admit that the dragonflies were working as advertised—tactical awareness of the battlefield wasn’t particularly sexy to noncombatants, but being aware of a target through walls and sightlines was an undeniable advantage. Blue Team was running at a frantic pace when it came to intrusion operations, but at least the bots were helping maintain their edge.
Except when they weren’t working, like right now.
Control had gotten clear scans of intrusion activities in this store. So where were they? They’d taken care of sending the overnight shift staff home pronto, so they theoretically had the store to themselves. Why weren’t the drones picking up anything? Was Control in the wrong?
“I’ve got something here,” said Rebecca.
“I don’t need the suspense.” Just say it.
“Houseware. I’m seeing some evidence of past activity.”
“On my way.”
He could see, through the tactical display, where Rebecca was—indeed right in the middle of the plastic containers aisle. He quickly made his way through the store and saw for himself.
Rebecca kicked some slime. Intrusion activities didn’t always leave residues, but this one had—purple slime on the floor.
There had been something here a few minutes, but no longer. Where had it gone?
“Tactical, please ask Control to confirm intrusion activity,” he said, annoyed.
Up until now, they had been able to rely on intrusion alert to strike fast and hard. If they had to start worrying about false alerts, this was all going to become more complicated.
At work, he was spearheading the notion of a fifth Green Team to be able to respond to the threats popping up almost as fast as the other teams could rest, but SORD management has told him that while a fine and inevitable idea, recruiting eight to ten new members wasn’t going to happen overnight.
He wondered, not for the first time, what Louise thought of all this. They hadn’t spoken in nearly half a year, since the Wentworth thing, but he certainly kept hearing about her—new rising star over in Research, whipping up her teams into shape and keeping a lid on the new threats.
At least Patrizia was measuring up—with the dragonflies, the combat nerd was proving to be more useful in this halfway role between the team and Tactical—on the ground and ready to help. They were a long way from the first few months when he had to worry about her as a liability.
“Control says there is no longer any intrusion activity on the scan.”
Alan sighed, and he could feel everyone else around him do as much.
At least they hadn’t shot the entire store to pieces. Fewer things to explain.
“Mop the floor and call it a night,” said Tactical. “So sorry for the inconvenience—wait.”
“The tactical network is picking up something,” interrupted Patrizia.
Indeed it was. Numerous intrusion points, surrounding them.
Son of a bitch, he thought. This was new.
“We’ve got numerous intrusion signals on your location, Blue Team.”
We didn’t need to be told. Already, his team was deploying, facing an outward threat.
Maybe this was a trap. But then they had one advantage they didn’t have before—knowing the enemy’s position.
Not that it was any comfort when the red dots around them kept appearing.
This was definitely something new. They weren’t dealing with escaped animals any longer.
Seeing the red dots moving toward the aisle in which they were, the team crouched and waited. No sense in exposing themselves.
“Think we’ll have enough bullets, boss?” said Recon.
“Shhhh.”
The first red dot neared the corner of the aisle in front of Alan, and the team fired.
Alan was proud of their trigger discipline—three shots, pause, three shots if it still moved.
It didn’t move.
But more were on the way.
Behind him, the other half of Blue Team took their first shots as well. It didn’t look, from the tactical display, as if the creatures were thinking of flanking them through the nearby aisles—they kept lining up as in a shooting gallery. Not so smart after all.
Alan’s team fired as the new creatures appeared. After a while, they had to aim a bit higher in order to deal with the rising mound of carcasses.
Alan kept his ammo in reserve, ready to turn around and provide assistance if one side got overwhelmed. The tactical display showed a steady decrease in the number of alien creatures.
After a while, the shooting slowed, then stopped.
The tactical display was clear.
“Let’s see what we’re dealing with,” said Alan while moving forward carefully.
It wasn’t the first time he had to step on a pile of monstrous carcasses, but this was one of the most unusual ones. They rarely saw that many creatures in one swoop, for one thing.
For another, Alan had never seen these creatures before.
He kicked one of the bodies away from the pile to look at it better. The science team would have a lot of fun doing dissections in the next few hours, but he still wanted to see by himself.
It was, in many ways, a gross parody of a humanoid form—the black body glistening and articulated in ways that humans weren’t. Did it have limbs or tentacles? Everything limb looked floppy to Alan, yet solid.
The cranium held his interest. Compared to the rest of the body, it was solid, almost bone-like in its appearance. Some of the bodies in the pile had been hit in the head—green fluid oozed out.
“What a mess”
“SORD is on the phone with Targmart management. We’re declaring a biohazard site.”
“Good call.”
“Anything else on the Control board?”
“No, we’re clear.”
“Pack up everything, we’re going home.”
Sure, there was a risk that more creatures would pop up, but Alan didn’t think so. It had been a textbook recon operation … for the other side.
🔷
Louise didn’t exactly enjoy being the so-called “Queen of the Told-You-So’s.” For one thing, it wasn’t that difficult with the brainiacs under her direction. Tapping into that raw brainpower in ways that her predecessor hadn’t, she shared a lot more information with her teams—even if they weren’t involved—and asked them about their opinions. She had set up a data analytics shop in the Research group. She regularly held seminars where the team could exchange on what they thought was happening.
And now she had a most uncomfortable presentation ready to roll for the Management Board.
It hadn’t been the first time she had been brought by her Director-General to present something at the top SORD committee. But her previous presentations had been much easier—debriefs on successful operations conducted by her teams, resolution of cold cases, quarterly updates on the evolution of the library, the archives, the research efforts.
This presentation … this presentation was something else.
And the problem was that she didn’t know the Management Board. She couldn’t anticipate their reactions. Ushered in the boardroom for her presentation, she had no idea if the agenda item before her had been contentious, calm, complex or critical. He’d have to do this cold, and the Board has so little contact with the rest of the working level that she had no clue how to appeal to them in the right ways.
“Analysis of current trends” was displayed on the screen. That was her presentation all right.
Her director general gave a brief introduction—highlighting that this presentation had been requested by the Board, as part of a general feeling that something was changing around them.
Louise took up the baton when it was handed to her. Rather than go through the usual tedious “Context, Analysis, Recommendations” presentation template, she had picked a top-down briefing model—first, state your conclusions, then keep digging into the underlying data until everyone is convinced.
“Our analysis shows that the SORD must change the way it conducts its operations in response to changes in the incidents facing us.
She began with The Graph, as her team had called it. A plot of incidents against time over the past thirty years. After a gentle rise that tracked alongside the rising Canadian population, The Graph showed an unnerving spike in the past year-and-change.
Worse yet—when you took away certain kinds of incident—possessions, sea-folk sighting, ghostly manifestations and bug hunts, the graph showed a spike toward a very specific kind of operations—intrusions. Deliberate attempts to breach the walls of reality.
Answering the obvious question, Louise admitted that they had no solid explanation for this spike.
Yes, they thought that the increasing in computing power and applications for artificial intelligence were like beacons for intrusions—but TSMC and Intel were helping nerf down the chips for the most dangerous operations, and the controlled data didn’t show any statistical increased.
No, this hadn’t begun between the Cognizeck or the Wentworth incidents—the trend had picked up before then.
So, Louise said, SORD had to change tactics. The Targmart incident strongly suggested that they were now up against deliberate intrusion—testing and probing SORD defences. They were no longer in the zookeeping business—they had to adapt to concerted attack … in addition to everything else on their plate.
So, the solution was: Not only a Green Team, but a Purple one as well, and probably an Orange one before the end of the year if trends kept increasing.
Additionally, a greater integration of Operations and Investigations—as shown through the Blue Team—would be needed to provide battlefield intelligence networks.
Recruitment would be an issue, but HR would provide.
Louise knew she was on a limb on this one—the recruitment function of Maple Hall was shrouded in mystery, and if the Management Board knew anything more than they did about it, they weren’t talking.
Thus ended her presentation, although she kept going forward and deeper into data in order to answer questions.
Toward the end of her presentation, one of the senior Management Board members spoke up–this was a change of direction for the SORD, but a necessary one. Teams could be onboarded at four-to-six-month interval to allow for recruitment. And other support teams should not be forgotten in the added activity.
This was as good as an endorsement. Without giving away too much, they thanked Louise for the presentation and said that the administrative division would pick up on implementation.
“I’m glad you didn’t bring up the Hellfire Club nonsense.” Said her Director-General to Louise in her post-presentation discussion. “Nor those wilder ideas about upcoming escalation.”
Louise sighed. Those were integral parts of the original presentation, but what you present to the Management Board reflects not the conclusions of the working team, but the flavour of reality that the chain of command wants to give to the Management Board. Every step up wanted to make a mark on the presentation, polish the rough edges, add their own pet peeves. Fortunately, no much had been added to the presentation along the way. Less fortunately, quite a bit had been taken out.
Nonetheless, this had been a great presentation, said the DG. Another notch on an increasingly scarred belt for Louise. SORD had to change, and this was another step toward it. Well done.
As she walked back to her office, Louise wasn’t entirely comfortable with that assessment, or the implications of SORD going all-in on operations. She wasn’t comfortable with guys-with-guns as the solution to the problems that SORD was tasked to resolve, and a few operations over the past year suggested that overwhelming force wasn’t necessarily the best way to resolve issues. But it was easy.
The bigger problem is that by placing so much emphasis on new anti-intrusion operations team, SORD was going to forget about the other aspects of its mission. Alien creatures breaching our dimension—bad, no matter how you looked at it. Humans futzing around with fancy magic—also a problem, but far less urgent.
Louise entered her office, closed the door and started juggling paperback novels as a stress-relief activity. With practice, she could have up to twenty of them in the air simultaneously, arcing in and out in an ever-shifting sphere of floating books.
She would totally post that on social media if she could. If she had an account. If she had anyone to read her, that is—how many friends had she lost since joining the SORD? The organization didn’t reward relationship with people outside the organization, which was a laugh considering her own trouble with relationships inside the organization.
As she pushed and pulled paper, Louise mulled over her other problems. On the Hellfire Club issue, she was getting exactly nowhere: Her DG’s opinion remained that it was just pretentious rich-people talk—a fancy and not overly original name for a cigars-and-strippers event. Louise still maintained otherwise, but she learned to keep quiet in the absence of any proofs. As expected, booksellers had started turning up good stuff again: there was no longer an interested buyer scooping up everything.
Sometimes, Louise fantasized about sneaking up on the library’s second floor and picking up Wentworth’s Collected Works all over again for a few uninterrupted hours of reading—without an auditor. So why didn’t she? Not knowing where the book was located was probably not that big of a deal—assuming that Florent could find it again. Her superiors probably wouldn’t find out. But she was, as usual, more worried about Maple Hall—she strongly suspected that given all of its other powers, it had a way of deflecting people it considered off-track. Louise would err in the library for days never finding anything if Maple Hall didn’t agree with her … and she had other things to do.
Speaking of which—there was another report to prepare.
With an efficient sweep of her hands, she shoved all twenty paperbacks back on their shelf.
In alphabetical order.
🔷
“How are you doing, doc?”
“I’ll be asking the questions, Alan. This is twice-yearly checkup time, so you know the drill.”
Alan sure did, and spent the next few minutes reassuring the doc that everything was going well. No intrusive thoughts, no sudden trauma, no resurfaced anxieties. Yes, there was something creepy about the new directed intrusions in the wake of the Targmart incident, but he was confident that his team was up to the task and that all of SORD was looking into it.
Then, when the doc came calling back to his favourite discussion topic, he did have something to say.
“I’ve picked up the hiking club, doc.”
“Oh? They’ve resumed activities?”
“Yeah, now that the snow is gone they’re back and I’ve been tagging along every time I can join.”
“Well, I think that’s great. How do you feel about it?”
“They’re all out of shape and the tracks we’re doing are basic, but I’m enjoying it. Gets me out in nature even if there’s nothing much to see yet, and I get to meet a lot of people.”
“What kind of people join the club?”
“A lot of retirees, but a lot of middle-aged people told by their doctors to be more active. People curious about the outdoors. Newcomers to Ottawa making friends. Many public servants.”
“Anyone interesting?”
“What are you implying, doc?”
“Nothing specific, but your reaction is interesting.”
Alan knew he had slipped, there. Sure, yes, there were a few interesting women out on those hikes, but he was appreciating talking to anyone without ulterior intentions. It was interesting to mingle with other people who weren’t necessarily out there fighting creature from the great beyond.
But as far as dating? Forget about it. Alan often caught himself thinking of them as kids—unaware of the realities of the real world, pampered beyond belief in ways they could not imagine.
Better not share that thought with the doc, though.
“No one that interesting, doc, but you never know.”
🔷
Slightly more than a year in, Florent couldn’t be happier being at SORD.
Great job, meaningful work, excellent working conditions and from time to time a glimpse at unbelievable things. Although that last one was starting to wear out considering what he now took for granted. At least the books were cool.
His current project consisted in combing through their archives of occult tomes, cross-referencing some of the incantations in the hopes of finding common elements behind them. An idea from Louise, enthusiastically endorsed by Marie—they were working with the Research team in mapping out a genealogical tree of sorts between warlocks —the theory was that most books were not written in isolation, but after being exposed to previous books and refining some of the spells in them. If they could show how spells had evolved over time, they may be closer to understanding what made them work. Both Special Branch and Les Tuilleries were keenly interested in the work, especially how SORD was practically the only place which could combine a study of French and English books.
Which partially explained why he was working so late on a week night—if he could just index in a few more titles before calling it a day, he’d help the research team next morning.
The other reason is that he never had to spend the night alone unless he wanted to—he’d go back to his apartment and Helen could be waiting. They’d talk about his day while he worked in the kitchen, they’d watch TV and they’d go to bed. She wasn’t physical, but she was real, and it turned out that she could do amazing things with his mind. It was, he knew, some twisted relationship, but it worked for him. He had told no one and wouldn’t need to.
So, in between work and the easiest relationship in the history of the world, he was doing pretty well right now.
He was finishing his last index of the evening when his computer beeped. At the same time, he heard some hubbub in the common area.
‘Oh, hey, Florent,’ said Marie. Glad to see you’re here. We’ve got a situation, and you could definitely help.”
“What’s going on?”
“Library science emergency. We’ll need you for a few hours.”
He shrugged.
“Works for me.”
“Come on, to the Nexus.”
Joined by Hakim, they briskly walked out of their nook in Maple Hall.
“I was just informed, and I’m gathering whoever’s reachable. Jasmine’s out for the day but we’re pulling resources from everywhere that’s not Operations—Research, Investigations, even HR and management.”
“Wait—a non-Operations emergency? What’s that?”
“Have you heard about the Sillery Hospital hubbub?”
“No.”
“Ever been to Quebec City?”
“Of course.”
“They had to expropriate a few houses in one of the oldest neighbourhoods outside Old Quebec. Huge outcry, many lawsuits. The last injunction has been rejected, so they’re razing the area tomorrow. The machines are already practically revving up outside.”
They reached Maple Hall and headed to the nexus.
“OK, but what’s in it for us?”
“One of the properties was abandoned, and we just received a tip through the local police that the basement is crammed with old good stuff.”
“How good?”
“One of our investigation teams went in half an hour ago, and they ran every alarm. The place is packed with stuff on our hit list. Not just us, but Archives as well. It’s an old rich house and it was built for an even older richer family. It makes the Murray estate look like a garage sale.”
“So … we’re got until dawn to get the stuff out?”
“You got it. We just got the electricity back in there. A lot of the stuff may be cursed, so we’re using statis cubes rather than the nexus. We’re filling up whatever we could rustle up near Quebec City, a big truckload is due from Montréal in two hours, and we’re sending another container of statis cubes from Ottawa just in case, to arrive in five hours.”
“So—we have eight hours to index and empty the place?”
“You got it.”
“Sounds fun.”
At the Nexus, roughly a dozen people were in line for the opening of the doorway to the old house. Florent’s surprise at seeing their Director-General among them must have been noticeable.
“What, Florent? We old geezers can stand a bit of healthy excitement from time to time.”
“She taught me everything I know about the SORD library,” said Marie. “Glad to get another pair of hands to help.”
“I haven’t done field ops in years, so that will be a nice change.”
They turned their head at the doorway as it opened, and neatly filed up to go through.
“Hey, welcome, welcome,” said Gerry, from Archives, as the newcomers walked in. “Glad you have you here, but it’s going to take us a bit of time to assign work. Have a look around if you want; otherwise, we’ll get you working in five minutes.”
Florent quickly scanned the room. Judging by the windows, they were in a basement. Stairs led up, and he could see four doors to other rooms. This appeared to be a lobby of sorts—there were a few easy chairs, one low table and bookcase-covered walls. Everything was dusty, but that had been implied in the mission brief.
Wow, were those swords on the wall?
People milled around. Florent could understand that they needed a bit of time before getting organized, and no one minded because this was like being on a cool little evening field trip.
“Can we go up?” he asked someone he recognized from investigations who looked as if they’d been there a few minutes longer than him.
“Oh, sure, but it’s all creepy haunted mansion stuff.”
They meant it as a bad thing, but to Florent it was irresistible. He climbed.
Lights had been turned on upstairs as well, which made exploration easy. No flashlights and locked doors here.
They had not been kidding in saying that the house had been old and rich—everything oozed past refinements—lavish wooden fixtures, rich carpeting, intricate carvings whenever there was space for it. More swords on the walls, along with regimental honours and medals: he read the plaque and saw they had been the property of long-dead family members. This was barely a place for living—it was a place to exhibit.
As he made his way to the windows—all iron-adorned for the security of the house’s inhabitants, perhaps closer to stained glass than functional glass—he went a burst of wind push against the house, and the patter of steady rain. The lights of the city were reflected in the amber rivulets of water falling on the windows.
Poking around open doorways, he made his way to the kitchen—an elaborate space made for several cooks rather than a single homemaker. The caking of dust and omnipresent cobwebs over the formerly antiseptic tile floor, metal counters and appliances made him uneasy—how had this place been left alone so long?
A connecting door led him to the dining room, with a vast central table and numerous chairs awaiting a last meal that would never come.
He shivered—if there was a place to host a haunted house murder mystery, this was it.
He climbed upstairs—they would still be organizing downstairs and his absence wouldn’t be important for a few more minutes.
There wasn’t much to see upstairs, though. While the basement had looked undisturbed and the central floor was still largely the same, this second floor looked barer. People had probably moved out of the house, bringing their belongings with them. No one had agreed on the division of the common areas, perhaps.
All of this made him curious. He got his phone out, thanked his provider for a Canada-wide data plan and located himself on the map. Feeding the address into a search engine, he got a few more hits. News articles about the hospital development project led him to articles about the houses under contention, and then historical overviews of some of the families involved—including the one that owned this house.
Aaah, he understood as he was reading. A formerly influential family of industrial tycoons that had dwindled throughout the second half of the century through unfortunate incidents, illness and a reluctance to mix with the common folks. The last inheritor had died, alone, in this house in the early 2000s. What had followed had been a series of lawsuits regarding the inheritance, which had deadlocked into fraudulent claims of false filial claims. The estate had reverted to the government, who had probably not investigated or understood the remaining content of the house. It was cleaner to wipe it off the map and get the hospital built—if an inheritor later popped up, it would be easier to just pay them the expropriation value.
This made for sobering reading (or rather skimming—Florent wasn’t going to spend a spooky rainy evening in an old house filling his head with historical trivia) as he superficially explored the house’s second, then third floor. But there was simply nothing to see here—just one semi-empty room after another, remnants of a much more active phase in the life of this mansion.
He had nothing more to learn or see here—he went back to the basement.
“Florent!” said Gerry, “We’re going to need you in the library!”
Florent looked around, puzzled—nothing was going on here.
“No, the other library!” he said, pointing at a door.
Florent followed his outstretched arm and walked into the basement’s library.
Now this was a library. Old-school, as if from a gentleman’s club. One desk which probably doubled as a bar, one central coffee table, four armchairs with dedicated reading lamps. All in the kind of wooden furniture that you couldn’t buy these days. The dusty spiderwebs couldn’t hide what must have been one excellent place to lounge. Florent grimaced at the imminent destruction of the place—at least they could save the content. Maybe he could work with Hakim to bring back one of the chairs through a doorway on his way back.
Speaking of which, he saw that three other people had been assigned to the room—Hakim, Marie and the DG.
“There you are!” said Marie. “Can you start by documenting the shelves?”
Florent gave her a thumbs-up and went to work. He took out his phone and started taking pictures—first of the room, then its bookcases, then getting closer to the shelves and taking pictures of them in order. In reconstructing the library later on, they would refer to the images to understand the arrangement of the room, and perhaps the links between each work. Even the most careful placement of books in boxes and statis cubes could erase that order.
As he snapped pictures, the other members of the team swooped into action, scanning the book titles, taking them out of the shelves and quickly documenting anything overtly interesting about them—bookplates, dedications, any visible handwriting.
“Isn’t this going to take forever?” he asked.
“This room will be the last to be stuffed in statis cubes, so we’ve got time. It will speed up the processing back at Maple Hall.”
He nodded. Made sense.
The majority of the titles he was scanning could largely be called occult-adjacent: not quite the real thing, but certainly along the same lines. He recognized a few titles as semi-renowned (in SORD circles) works of crackpots, charlatans, fraudsters, believers and naifs. Entertaining, but not dangerous. But there were, salted in between the semi-dreck, some authentically interesting titles—and, of course, there would be some lesser-known titles to examine more carefully.
They worked in silence, but Florent would have sworn that they were all having a thrilling time. This was cool, he thought again. When was the last time Librarians worked against the clock, with a bulldozer crashing into the house setting the timelines of the project deliverables?
At some point, halfway through scanning the room, Florent heard people welcome the delivery of the Montréal container of statis cubes—priority would go to the other rooms which, if Florent heard correctly, held various artefacts of suspicious provenance and even worse potential uses.
One of the basement rooms was windowless, nearly bare and it had been processed very quickly, after which it was conspicuously left alone. Hints of a pentagram on the bare wooden floor, along with some ugly dark-red stains, had people making excuses not to be in the room very long.
A first batch of filled statis cubes left shortly after, on the return trip of the container truck that had brought them in. Several were left lying around to be filled as librarians and archivists worked through the material. They left one in the middle of the room; in case they encountered something that needed immediate containment.
“We’ll probably be able to fit the room in the cubes being brought in from Ottawa,” said Marie. “Whatever’s left we can probably chuck through the Nexus doorway.”
“Ah, the Louise special,” said Hakim.
Everyone chuckled—that incident had quickly become legendary throughout Maple Hall.
They went back to work, perfectly happy in their shared silence.
The first hint of trouble that Florent noticed was that his phone stopped working. He still had a full bookcase and a half to scan, so that was annoying. Had his battery run out? No, he had checked a few minutes ago and he had still been above the halfway mark.
He tried opening the phone. Nothing. Curious.
“Hey, are your phones working—“
He never finished his sentence—a portal opened in the middle of the room, and four creatures spilled out.
The creatures were small—maybe a meter tall—but they had strangely articulated limbs covered with biomechanical black greebling.
The Targmart creatures, thought Florent.
They barely had time to react—Florent jumped away from the creature that lunged at him, and grabbed the floor lamp nearest to him. Clearly seeing that the creature was going to attack him again, Florent thrust the floor lamp toward it.
He was lucky—the creature threw itself at him, and impaled itself on the lamp. The incandescent bulb broke against the creature’s skin and fizzled. The lamp shaft entered its body, and Florent felt a buzz in his hands as the creature got electrocuted, its muscles spasming at the shock.
Pulling back the lamp from the creature’s limp body, he looked around to see how the others were doing. Hakim was beating up his creature with a hardcover book, while Marie had flipped one of the heavier chairs on a third creature.
Florent was doubtful the trick would work again, but a blue spark at the tip of his lamp was promising. He drove the lamp through the creature underneath the chair. Embarrassingly, he also unplugged the lamp.
Oh well—he probably hit something on his way in, because the creature stopped moving.
This left Hakim, but he had handled his part—the gore-splattered hardcover would never be clean again.
There was one creature left in the library, and Florent took a chance—he swung the floor lamp so that the floor weight hit the creature right in the middle, bringing it teetering to the edge of the statis cube. Then, with a kick, he toppled the creature.
Without missing a beat, he pushed closed the lid of the statis box and sighed in relief when it activated automatically upon the latch closing shut.
Immediate threat over, Florent noticed that there was a lot of screaming in the basement—theirs had not been the only intrusion point. He also heard loud BOOMs and sharp CRACKs, and hoped the other teams would be as resourceful as they had been.
He tried his phone again—dead. No way of calling the Nexus doorway, or the operations team.
Oh, this was not going well, and it had turned to hell in about ten seconds.
He looked again around the room and saw that the DG was holding her right hand tightly underneath her left armpit, blood flowing freely and her face contorted in a rictus of pain.
He didn’t need to see more to guess—her hand had been seriously maimed. She had to get to medical attention, and soon.
Nodding to Hakim, he brought the lamp in front of him like a lance and risked a look outside. Behind him, Hakim and Marie transformed two other lamps into makeshift spears. Distantly, he recalled that no other weapon in the history of mankind had ever been more successful or deadlier than pointed sticks.
Gerry was cowering under a desk. Shouting and screaming from elsewhere suggested that there were many more creatures and a lot more fighting going on. At the other end of the lobby, he could see that the swords formerly on the wall were being put to good use, slashing and stabbing at more creatures.
The doorway had disappeared along with the phones. The electricity probably still worked because the house was wired on heavy-gauge copper with no electronic components.
“What’s going on?” asked Hakim, sliding next to him.
They should have been out there fighting the creatures, but something nagged at Florent.
“No phones, no doorways. This smells like a TYPHOON device.”
“What?”
The nagging, ugly thought of a trap wormed its way in his mind. Where would a TYPHOON module be located in order to wreak maximum damage?
Somewhere central. Not in the basement with the SORD personnel walking around everywhere. Not the first floor, as he recalled his walkthrough and couldn’t remember a closed-off area near the middle of the house.
Second floor? Yes, second floor. On the floor, hidden from view. A closet, perhaps.
“We have to go up,” he said.
But before they could move, another portal opened in the basement lobby and a much bigger creature forced its way in.
It was recognizably of the same vintage as the smaller ones—glistening black biomechanical body, articulated in ways that didn’t quite make sense, albeit with sharp ridges and spikes that made any attempt at conciliatory hugging impractical. Disproportionate powerful-looking hands made unarmed combat unadvisable, and its head seemed to be merely a support mechanism for several rows of teeth.
This thing is going to kill me, thought Florent. It seemed designed to do so.
The floor-lamp spear in his hand didn’t seem so useful, all of a sudden.
The creature turned and saw them. Worse yet—it advanced toward them.
Florent brought up his spear and braced himself. Maybe he could roll to the side, make his way upstairs?
No, the creature was too big for that.
“Stand aside,” crisply said the DG behind them.
Florent moved to the left. What was she going to be able to do? He turned to see her, and—
—a bright blue lightning bolt of pure electricity erupted from her outstretched bleeding hand. He looked at her, and saw from her exposed teeth that she meant every single watt she was pumping into the screaming creature. Her other hand, he saw, was firmly grasping exposed wiring from another lamp.
“Die, scum,” she growled.
The deep-blue electrical arc became brighter, and Florent could smell the creature cook as it shook from muscular contractions, then fell to the ground.
She dropped the electrical wires. The lightning blot stopped, and she groaned.
He noticed that her bleeding hand had cauterized from the heat of the lightning blast.
“How did you do that?” asked Florent.
“Upper management training,” she rasped. “Upstairs, now.”
The Librarians didn’t hesitate. Too bad for the rest of the fighting in the basement, but they had a clear target. Marie grabbed the floor-lamp shaft that the DG had used for the light-show and brought it along.
The four of them rushed up the nearby stairs. Florent took the pole position—at least he had some idea where to go.
On the first floor, another portal opened between them and the staircase leading to the second floor.
Then a second. And a third. And a fourth, behind them at the bottom of the basement stairs.
The creatures coming out of those were like the one the DG had just felled downstairs, except that she wasn’t plugged in–and seeing the bad shape she was in, Florent didn’t think that she was going to be able to do it again.
The creatures didn’t waste time getting out of the portals and noticing their group.
There was nothing to do. They were surrounded. Death in an ornate corridor.
Let me take control, said Helen.
What?
Don’t resist. I’ll do the rest.
It was a terrible idea, and yet the best he had at the moment.
He let her take control.
It wasn’t the first time he had allowed her to take him over, but it usually happened in far more intimate circumstances. He thought he knew what to expect, but he didn’t.
She leaped, twisted, turned and drove the floor-lamp spear in the head of a first creature, the metal shaft penetrating its skull until it hit bone on the other side.
He witnessed everything in slow motion as he pulled the spear out of the first creature’s skull and ran over its body, making minute adjustments as so to go between the other two creatures on the first floor, the powerful swipe from one creature narrowly missing his head and raking the other creature’s face with claws big enough to create centimetres-deep gashes.
Hmmm, that’s clever, he thought, but Helen wasn’t done—she used the confusion to hammer the spear into the clawing creature’s eye socket, then pulled and put the clawed creature out of its misery in more or less the same way.
Three, maybe five seconds had passed, and the corridor was already littered with three waist-high carcasses.
You have control, she said, and he felt volition return to his body—a sensation he never got tired of.
He glanced at the three other Librarians and saw that they were relatively out of danger.
“Everyone’s full of surprises today,” said Hakim.
A wisecracking Hakim wasn’t a cracking Hakim, thought Florent. What a relief.
Since he was already nearer to the second-floor staircase, he climbed upstairs. The rest of the team would follow.
More portals would follow, he was sure. Where would that TYPHOON box be?
The second floor was dark, and he didn’t open the lights. Vaguely orienting himself in the dimness, guided by the lights of the city getting through the rain and the steel-barred windows, he rushed to the centre of the floor and dove to the floor.
Another portal opened almost directly above him.
His hunch paid off—underneath one of the large armoires in the middle of the central hallway was a familiar rectangular device with active lights. Being in the dark helped him reach for it.
As a creature emerged above him, he pulled the box from underneath the piece of furniture and slammed his fist on top of the large ACTIVE button on top of the box.
That was one problem solved. Alas, another remained—the lumbering beast on top of him, noticing his presence.
It lifted one of its large hoofs.
“ROLL AWAY,” he heard Marie scream from the top of the stairs.
He did. Or tried to.
It was enough—a bright blue electrical arc suddenly illuminated the second floor, hitting the creature right in the chest.
Trying to roll and avoid the active current, Florent saw that the Librarians had reached the top of the staircase, and that Marie had plugged in the DG’s floor lamp to let her do another lightning round.
Seeing that the creature was going to fall on top of him, Florent rolled again—and right on time, as the creature and its sharp spikes fell right where his head had been a moment earlier.
Their phones all beeped at once. Both Florent and Hakim fumbled in opening them and hitting the big PANIC app that called a five-alarm operations team to their current location.
The ops team was fast, but not fast enough. Before anyone could say anything, another portal opened and a creature’s spike-covered arm struck the DG badly. She fell limply to the floor.
Florent still had his spear in his hand. Without any assistance, he struck the creature in the eye. If it had worked thrice before…
… it worked again. He didn’t pull out the spear, though—he wiggled it around, scrambling whatever intact brain matter the creature still had.
More portals kept appearing. This looked worse and worse.
And then, blissfully, the yellow glow of opening doorways.
He dove to the floor, as did the other librarians.
The air filled with many, many bullets over the next few moments. Blue Team, Red Team and whoever they had gathered from the Green Team struck back. Ten different portals, spread over the basement, first and second floors of the mansion.
Later debriefs would show four friendly-fire incidents, although all were absorbed by body armour. Not the Operations teams’ finest moment.
In fact, as the smoke cleared and some silence came back to the mansion, Florent knew that this would not be a day of victory for the SORD. They rushed to the fallen DG’s side—the woman was bleeding heavily from gaping wounds and while Florent wasn’t a medical professional, he knew that there was probably no coming back from this one.
She had no final words—just a fading wheeze.
As operations tended to her, Florent noticed something else—the smell of smoke. Not gunpowder – wood.
“Evacuate!” said the operators as they dragged the DG through the doorways, and then herded the survivors toward the exits back to Maple Hall.
Florent didn’t have much choice—he, too, was led toward the doorway by operators who wouldn’t take no or wait for an answer.
Moments later, he was on the floor at the Communication Nexus, watching helplessly as operations brought back a few survivors, then a stream of dead bodies.
🔷
Louise would always wonder if things would have turned out differently had she been present during the Quebec City mansion massacre. Perhaps—it turned out that super-powered directors and DGs had been essential at limiting the damages, even if the total body count had been far too high.
But she had not been there—and she hadn’t been wasting her time either. Knowing about her hush-hush interest in anything looking like upper-class occult cult, a buddy in Investigations had called her in on the scene of a suspicious murder in Toronto’s upscale Bridle Path neighbourhood.
As far as unusual murders went, this was a doozy—the maid had discovered a room entirely covered with atomized organic material that had, under analysis, been revealed to be the remnants of the house’s owner. Blood spatter analysis (and some elementary observation) had confirmed that the middle-aged tech multi-mega-millionaire had been standing at his computer when he was violently vaporized, his remnants coating the floor, walls and ceiling of the room.
The maid found it suspicious, the police found it suspicious and Investigations found it suspicious.
By the time Louise examined the scene, she found it suspicious as well.
Let’s face it—there was no human weapon capable of doing this kind of thing. Even the Americans didn’t have anything like it—although she’d make sure to ask the next chance she’d get.
So—if it wasn’t human, what was it? She was no closer to an answer.
She did have a working theory—warring warlocks and witches in modern-day Toronto, resolving schisms within their group by violent executions meant to send messages and eliminate rival factions. Left obvious was the conclusion that whoever resorted to sudden corporal disassembly was unlikely to be the most peaceful faction.
But she also knew that this theory was straight-up coocoo-land speculation even by SORD’s rarefied standards. It made sense if you posited a powerful group having internal dissension and near-unlimited power: she had read enough historical non-fiction about authoritarian regimes to make reasonable suppositions. But there was a wide gulf from those ideas to making a case to SORD management.
The room hadn’t yet been cleared of the gore yet, and it was definitely starting to smell revoltingly beyond the coppery scent. It would have been a library had the owner been a traditionalist, but he wasn’t—there were more TVs than books here. But was that true everywhere in the house?
She closed her yes and let her book-sense guide her. It had taken a while to refine this on her own, outside life-or-death situations like the Wentworth mansion, but she was getting better at it. Not enough to repeat her shifting, but…
… yes, she started to see. In the darkness, she could see the printed material near her. She turned, and a bright yellow mass of stuff became obvious. It was right there, on the other side of the wall. The rich loved their hidden rooms, didn’t they?
She went out of the room to check her suppositions. Took a look at the walls of the house, the exterior, closed her eyes again, focused, found the mass of printed material, moved around.
Hidden room. And the trigger couldn’t be elsewhere but in the office.
She shared her suspicions with the Investigations team still on-site. Why waste time searching by herself when others could help?
They found it quickly—a button underneath the stand-up desk that the dead multimillionaire had been using upon vaporization. It became obvious after they scraped off some of the gore from underneath the desk.
The door opened, scraping off some of the organic matter on the floor.
The inside was not quite what Louise had expected, nor hoped for. Despite the printed material she had seen with her eyes closed, the inside of the room did not contain the secret library she had hoped for—techno-guy wasn’t a closet bibliophile: he was (judging from the paraphernalia) a closet BDSM enthusiast, but there wasn’t much printed material.
It was more frightening than she had imagined, though—rather than having a few shelves of old books mixed with the usual nonsense, techno-guy had a very nice shelf of very nice modern reprints of some terrible books. With, in the place of honour, a computer that probably held even bigger secrets.
Out of nowhere, she felt a sudden surge of power surging through her—enough to briefly lift the printed material in the small hidden room.
Where did that come from? Anger, fear?
She looked at the reprints—this was Mystères et incantations times twenty—new editions of books that should disappear forever, tomes of spells powered by blood magic and human sacrifice. To think that there was a bunch of people running around right now with that kind of knowledge was disturbing enough. How many of those copies had been printed?
They were, she realized, in a whole new heap of trouble.
🔷
But the trouble got worse as she came back to Maple Hall. She returned to the Nexus moments after the evacuation of Quebec, and she felt momentarily light-headed at seeing the normally immaculate Nexus speckled with blood, crying people and bodies.
She spotted the Librarians and rushed to their side. They were sitting on the floor, holding their heads in their hands.
“Can someone tell me what just happened?”
Marie snapped back to attention. In a few uncharacteristically terse sentences, she explained the discovery, the evaluation effort, the intrusions, the fights, the deaths. And now the news that the mansion was quickly burning to the ground, something that the Quebec City firefighting department was not going to seriously address considering that the entire thing was scheduled to be torn down the next morning.
“Does all of management have special powers?” asked Marie.
Louise deftly avoided the question, and Marie was too out-of-it to press on. Although her descriptions of Florent’s acrobatics raised many more questions than Louise was comfortable with.
The death toll wasn’t known for sure at this point—although Hakim reported seeing six bodies dragged back to the Nexus. But anything more than one single death was unprecedented in SORD history—this was beyond bad. It was uncharted territory and a serious blow to an organization where most employees retired after decades in the organization.
Before she could comfort her team, someone tapped her on the shoulder.
“The Board wants to see you,” said one of the executive advisors she recognized from the senior management level. Hermina: not a Management Board member herself, but an advisor with vague and terrifying power.
“Me?”
“Right now.”
There was no arguing, Louise knew. The walk to the Board’s office was short, but fraught with terrible questions—made even worse by Louise’s fragmentary understanding of what had happened. She quickly shuffled through many scenarios, but one of them didn’t go away—this was exactly the kind of things that SORD was likely to face in the eventuality of an active, intelligent enemy.
She was ushered into the Boardroom—not a pleasant experience. Directors were aware of the Board, presented to the Board, were subject to the capricious whims of the Board, but they were not invited personally to the Board. Unless they screwed up. Had she screwed up?
The men and women of the Board were waiting for her. They were not checking their notes, scrolling through their tablets or talking to each other when she walked in–they were already all looking at her.
Management Board Members, unlike other federal departments, were not necessarily hierarchical superiors to specific departments within the SORD. The DGs were the straight-line superiors. Board members were usually plucked from the ranks of the SORD, but not always due to rank or seniority: they all had specific expertise, knowledge, insights. They operated without assigned portfolios, providing advice and building consensus decisions. The Board spoke as one.
“You heard what happened in Quebec City tonight.” Said one of them. A darker-skinned woman, not much older-looking than Louise.
“Just a quick summary.”
“You know that the Director General responsible for your section was killed.”
“Yes.”
“You will immediately assume her role. As of the time of her death, you are now the Director General of the Research Branch.”
Which included Library, Archives, Research both active and passive, Strategic Planning and Policy. A quarter of SORD—maybe even a third if you looked at the number of staff. There were only five Director Generals—and few had as heavy a portfolio.
She recalled the surge of power she had felt inside the secret room. It wasn’t a coincidence—it was her DG’s powers begin assigned to her.
“Yes, thank you,” she said, knowing it was the only answer permissible. The organization was in crisis, and while she didn’t like it, she had a role to play. “But why me? I’m not the most senior director.”
“You correctly anticipated our current situation. You are the best person to guide us through this transition.”
Ah, there it was—the mandate she was given. She was a War DG: the organization needed someone like her to make changes. This was in no way a permanent position.
“Who will I report to?”
“To the Board.”
“You know what I mean.”
They did, of course.
“Hermina will be your day-to-day contact.”
Louise nodded to the Executive Advisor who had summoned her to the Boardroom. Of course.
“I will find what we’re up against, and I will fight them.”
“There’s one more thing.”
Louise frowned.
“You need to understand more about this place, and we don’t have a lot of time to teach you. We apologize for the inconvenience.
Inconvenience? What were they—?
She groaned audibly as her mind exploded. She barely had conscience of falling to her knees on the floor as a torrent of images, facts and sensations crowded in her brain. It was a lot to take in–perhaps too much: an entire education in a moment, leaving her to gasp at how her understanding of the world had changed instantly.
The Old Gods, she panted in horrified understanding. Maple Hall is a creation of the Old Gods.
🔷
“I’m angry, doc. No, fuck the niceties—I’m fucking pissed.”
“So am I, Alan.”
“Where’s your objectivity now?”
“It died along with our colleagues. Now that we have buried them, the question becomes—how do we channel that anger into retribution?”
“I’m not hearing any ‘turn the other cheek’ nonsense.”
“And you won’t. This is not about two reasonable groups of people with understandable difference of opinions that can be accommodated. This is about survival, and honouring the dead by taking the fight back.”
“This is not how I thought this conversation would go.”
“Everyone is grieving.”
“We’re all in the anger phase?”
“The Kubler-Ross model is not a law of nature. Sometimes, fighting is the way to resolution. I can’t pump them full of lead, but you can. Give’em hell, Alan.”
🔷
Louise still wasn’t too sure of the powers she had absorbed through her promotion, but it felt as if running on four hours of sleep was among them. She had barely left Maple Hall in the past four weeks, and this wasn’t an exaggeration.
For one thing, Maple Hall staff had all found their offices expanded by the addition of a bedroom, full washroom and kitchen. Word had gone through the organization—we’re concerned about your safety if you stay home, but we can protect you if you stay in the never-land of Maple Hall. A surprising number of SORD employees were single apartment-dwellers (an artefact of the qualities that Maple Hall looked for in recruiting personnel, thought Louise—dedicated loners) and had taken up residence here. The war footing had helped—everyone wanted to give it everything they had.
Unfortunately, they didn’t have much to go on. The Investigations and Research teams were jointly trying to piece together a theory of what was going on, but it wasn’t coming together. Louise’s obsession about the Hellfire Club looked more promising, but only to a point—how would a bunch of admittedly powerful warlocks manage to get a TYPHOON device, let along summon or direct monsters to a specific location?
One question still being hotly debated within SORD analysts what the provenance of the TYPHOON device. Was it from their own inventory? Nothing was missing. Did it come from another SORD-level national organization? They’d never tell, and the American model was the norm everywhere. The device had been examined, analyzed, poked and prodded to the atomic level (for background radiation) and nothing had been gained from the study.
Louise knew that at some point, she would have to face one disturbing fact about the event—whoever had orchestrated it had shown or lucked upon a keen understanding of SORD procedures and weaknesses. She wasn’t completely ready to unpack that ball of twine yet—too many more urgent things to do.
Plus, she hadn’t really processed her new level of understanding about Maple Hall being a creation of the Old Gods. As the information blast had explained, they predated humans on earth – they were elemental, even cosmic forces that viewed humans as an insect colony. They were, at best, indifferent to the squabbles of humanity, but they liked order because they derived their strength from the natural world. Anything that screamed of an affront against nature had the be dealt with, so they used a speck of their powers to create the entities best suited to normalizing the world – and in this land, SORD was the result. There were God-like intelligences everywhere behind the scenes, but they still needed players to act in their stead.
There was a lot to unpack there for a lapsed Catholic turned atheist, even if it did explain some of the enduring mysteries. Once you threw in an omnipotent supernatural element, a lot of what Maple Hall did—the recruitment, the mysteriously shifting location, the Library, the Archives, the Playground, the Nexus, the superpowers—became no mysteries, but merely a few “but of course” shrugs.
Louise had once wondered how the masquerade was kept, how the world did not become aware of the underground battle going on—but now that the Old Gods were in the picture, where was starting to understand the unusual assistance that explained things that could otherwise not be explained.
She still didn’t like any of it.
Alas, the duties of the DG position often interfered with her craving to slow down and process some stuff. Right now, for instance, she was being shuffled by the ever-efficient Hermina to another DG-level meeting—this time with the Americans, to discuss various ongoing matters.
🔷
After the buzzing hive that was Maple Hall during the week, Alan was damn glad to be back in nature for a weekend hike. The club had set out for one of the farther trails of Gatineau Park, and while the hike was called moderately challenging for its members, it was undemanding enough that Alan could still appreciate the feeling of being in nature.
“Look at that view,” he said to his trail buddy.
They were high up the trail, looking down at one of the pretty lakes dotting the Park. Spring was advanced far enough that the leaves were starting to make the landscape green and inviting after the harshness of winter.
“I know,” she said, “We’re so lucky to have this right next door.”
Part of his attraction to this weekend’s hike, he had to admit, had to do with being able to spend some time with Darlene. She had joined the group not long after him last year—a pretty divorcee, policy analyst or something like that. He hadn’t paid a lot of attention to her last year—he had been focused on doing his own thing and not interested in entanglements of any sorts.
But she had noticed him and she had made it clear this year that she was glad to see him again. She had asked him to be a trail buddy on the group outings. So, they spoke, and as they did he found her interesting. Maybe even that interesting, as Doc had suggested.
It was good to do things that had nothing to do with the day job.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t be entirely honest with her. He had told her just enough to make her think that he was an internal contractor of some sort, often called out for trips and so not always able to make trail meets. That was close enough to the truth—but he couldn’t tell her much more than that. At least federal public servants had the good sense not to prod too much when you claimed national security and military clearances.
But she was fun, and she definitely helped when came the time to stop thinking about work.
Chapter 8—Tracing the thread
“We’ve got something for you,” said the head of Data Analytics to Louise. “Oh boy, have we got something for you.”
“Well, you can’t just stop there,” she said. “I’m waiting. Tell me more.”
“You asked us to go wide and be creative, so we did. We started with the alert system that identifies intrusions. What do you know about it?”
A year ago, she would have been in the dark, but now she did know the basics.
“When NORAD upgraded its continental detection systems in the mid-2010s, it added sensors for the detection of the kind of energy signatures emitted during incursions.”
“That’s right. But the system is arguably too good.”
“How so?”
“Upon activation, it detected dozens of such energy signatures per day. It turns out that some industrial equipment creates trace amount of such energy signatures, and a few consumer electronics configurations as well, on an irregular basis. This is not new for the sensor guys—the regular radar system was similarly fine-tuned to keep track of planes rather than flocks of birds.”
“We’re not after planes nor birds.”
“I’m giving you context. When we took a closer look at the five incidents that Operations classified as deliberate reconnaissance—Targmart, Quebec City, three others—we also asked to go back in the ignored sensor data to see if we could find anything different about these events. I wanted to see if we could distinguish those deliberate attempt at provoking us from the more usual varieties of intrusion signatures.”
“You’re getting closer to what I want to hear.”
“I aim to please. First up, yes, we did find differences and those differences are going to be helpful to detect further such provocation attempts. But we also found something else. All five intrusions were preceded by a small energy signature in a mountainside property north of West Vancouver.”
“That’s specific. What are the odds?”
“Five times in a row? Next to nil—although we have found a few more energy signatures coming from there over the past year. But here’s the thing—we were able to trace back the property to a certain Gregory Jim Pang.”
“Am I supposed to know him?”
“Not you, but his known business associates include both Michael Wentworth and a certain gentleman you posthumously met in splattered form.”
“Wow. How well did they know each other?”
“Officially, not so much—we’ve been able to place them at the same place for a few charity events, and they’re all associated with the Canadian real estate community in some capacity. But unofficially? That’s the second half of what I’ve got for you. We have tons of metadata suggesting that they were writing to each other using an encrypted app. We don’t have the content of the conversations, but we have many, many, many records of information between them and others for the past two years.”
“Anyone else in that web of metadata.”
“Oh yes—we’ve been able to identify roughly two dozen people all communicating with each other. Our authorization from Oversight didn’t extend to identifying them. Now, they’re not necessarily all suspicious: I’m sure most of them are assistants and spouses and kids. But if you want to look somewhere for that Hellfire Club of yours, I would suggest starting there.”
🔷
“The Management Board will not authorize direct action against Gregory Jim Pang,” said Hermina, “nor any other suspected member of what you call the Hellfire Club.”
Louise wanted to throw up her hands, but didn’t trust herself not to send the entire content of her bookshelves up in the air.
“Why not? I provided the evidence we’ve got.”
“Circumstantial.”
“Astronomically unlikely to be mere coincidence. We have to look deeper into this.”
“The Management Board does agree with that.”
“Then … why stop us?”
“Not authorizing action just yet means that you will have to be patient and gather more evidence. No one wants what happened at the Wentworth mansion to happen again. Work with Oversight to get surveillance warrants, intelligence-gathering, signal analysis … this kind of thing.”
“We’re going up against some of Canada’s richest and most influential people. They’re buddies with the government in place. Can we at least get a recommendation to go in the Library’s second level?”
Hermina paused.
“Maybe.”
Hermina was … interesting, thought Louise. She was essentially the Management Board’s mouthpiece—In the past few weeks, Louise had not seen or heard any personal opinion from her that did not fully match what the Board was saying. Which was both good—what Hermina said could be assumed to be the Board’s opinion—and bad—in that Louise wasn’t too sure there was an independent person there, and those thoughts could be far less metaphorical at SORD than elsewhere.
“One more thing,” said Hermina: “The Management Board thinks you’re taking on too much by yourself with this investigation and wants you to form a task force that will be assigned, at least part-time, to help you. A crisis cell. Less than half a dozen people.”
“Where can I pick them?”
“Anywhere in SORD or its retirees. As long as you trust them.”
“As if I trust anyone at this point.”
🔷
Louise braked abruptly, and her rented Corolla almost slid on the gravel from the sudden deceleration. Looking carefully at the single-lane-and-a-half dirt road to the right of her, half-hidden by the overgrown cedar thicket, she carefully nudged the rental car onto the path and went on her way. The GPS hadn’t been wrong so far, but it had been minutes since she could have found her way back.
As trees made way for more trees, she thought about what had brought her here, in the middle of exactly nowhere.
She wasn’t one to be nostalgic for the past, or shirk from new challenges. This being said, she wouldn’t have minded spending a day or two as a simple librarian, unencumbered by having the weight of an occult war on her shoulders. Someone out there was prodding SORD, and there was a group of warlocks gathering their forces, and if they were lucky those were the same people. No wonder she wanted to retreat to something simpler for a while.
Which is why, she supposed, she agreed with the Management Board and started putting together a small crew to assist her. There was something comforting in sharing the load, having a specific objective and being able to rely on people she could trust.
She had a good idea about the people she wanted, but much of it depended on her next meeting.
As she drove through the narrow dirt roads in the forest east of Gracefield, she rehearsed her speech—new threat, need for old blood, small team of people she trusted, large issues to deal with. That should be enough.
Her GPS still worked, so that was comforting—as she left the bigger roads behind for smaller and smaller dirt tracks, she wondered why anyone would willingly come to live here. Sure, she understood wanting to live in nature—but this was too much of it: she hadn’t seen anyone else in five minutes.
At least, she reached her destination. Double-checking the address, she stopped the car in the driveway of a small house on a lake. The area north of Ottawa was riddled with small lakes dotted with expansive shacks that served either as summer cottages for the well off, or as retirement homes for those willing to put in the work. It was fine in the summer, but somewhat challenging in the winter when there were no plows, intermittent electricity, dodgy water supply and few available repairmen if anything broke. No wonder she’d been a city girl all her life.
She wondered if her old director still had a property nearer to the city or if he white-knuckled it during the winter. It would be a good small-talk opener.
She walked up to the porch and knocked on the door. It was a warm day, and the inner door was open.
“Hello Louise,” said her former director from behind the screen door. “I should tell you right away that you’re wasting your time. You should go back to the city now before it’s dark.”
She stared.
“I haven’t even explained,” she said.
He sighed, opened the door and let her in.
“Maybe I just don’t want to know,” he said.
“I haven’t driven twenty kilometres of dirt roads just to turn around.”
He went into his refrigerator, took out a can of Ginger Ale and handed it to her.
She looked at the can skeptically. Was Ginger Ale really the right hospitality refreshment?
Oh, right—he was expecting her to drive back right away. He wasn’t planning on casual clinks of alcohol containers and long armchair chats.
Shaking her head, she opened the can and looked around—most of the walls of the small house had been crammed with bookcases, and those bookcases were overfilled, with piles of books apparently growing from the floor. Cozy.
“Louise, I’m out of the game. Whatever is going on hasn’t made any of the national news, so I’m not feeling too guilty about staying out of it.”
He moved toward the other door, the one that faced the lake, and motioned for Louise to follow.
“I need people I can trust,” she said, skipping over the first few slides in her mental presentation.
They made their way to the shore. Louise could see a few houses around the small lake. There was one small boat in the distance —a chaloupe, probably for small-fry fishing.
“You also need people who still give a damn. I don’t. This lake here is my world now. I fish, I read, I look at the sunsets, I don’t get up for the sunrises. That’s enough for me.”
“I brought some briefing material.”
She flicked over the small file she’d put together. Without thinking, she gave it a bit too much of a push with her mind, and it hit him gently on the chest before falling to the beach gravel.
“Was that an attempt to make me use my powers?” he said, peeved.
“Oh my God! I’m so sorry! Force of habit!”
With a wiggle of her fingers, she snatched the document back into her hand.
He chuckled.
“But if you’re curious, yes, I have lost the powers. Can’t move stuff with my mind any more. It would have been handy when I brought my book collection here. But Maple Hall gives tools to the people that serve it. I’m no longer of any use.”
“So, you’re not coming back.”
“I have trained you well, Louise, and you have trained your people very well. I’m not necessary.”
🔷
Patrizia didn’t necessarily need to be there at load-out—they had invited her as a courtesy given her role in the original idea, but this was really a project deep in the applied research directorate—the engineering nerds having their fun.
“Will it work?” she asked Jane.
It had come a long way from her simple idea. As she watched, she saw how the multiple components of the weapon—the server backs, the chemical containers, the wiring holding everything together—has been installed within a very ordinary container fit to be loaded onto any airlift plane, tractor-trailer, train wagon or cargo ship. Some airdrop capabilities had been added, but no one really trusted it—and the activation mechanism would probably wipe out the delivery aircraft, making parachute delivery no one’s favourite option.
“We’re confident of it,” said the older woman. “This is not the kind of thing we can test, obviously, but the components are well-understood.”
Jane had come a long way from her initial explosive opposition to the project. Initially repulsed, she had taken on the idea and developed it far beyond Patrizia’s initial description. Things like the Quebec City incident merely confirmed that they needed stronger weapons in their arsenal to face whatever would come next.
“Where are we moving it?”
“Even I don’t know,” said Jane. “I’m fine with not knowing.”
They had to move it away—it was powerful enough that having such a thing anywhere in the vicinity of Library and Archives installations was a significant risk by itself.
As Patrizia had understood it, elements of the Canadian military would stock it on one of their air force bases, under close watch. If SORD needed it, it could be shipped at any point in the country within three hours.
Which stuck Patrizia as far too late, but maybe they’d get lucky and have some advance notice.
🔷
“That’s it?” said Hermina when we looked at the list of names in her hand. “Three people?”
“I’ve got guns, books and technology,” said Louise. “I’ll handle the management. What else would I need?”
Hermina stared at the list of names for a moment.
“The Management Board will be inclined to approve your requisition.”
Then Hermina stared at her, maintaining eye contact. Hermina had big eyes accentuated with some savvy eye shadow, and they looked even bigger when they were directly staring at hers.
“Are you sure about the names of this list?”
Louise froze.
They knew, she thought. Of course, they knew. And they were delicately asking—Was this going to be a problem?
“I’m sure about the names. I picked them for a reason. Do you want to hear why?”
“That will not be necessary. The Management Board will endorse your selection.”
🔷
Florent entered the small briefing room with a frown. He was still relatively junior to the federal public service, but one thing he’d learned in a hurry was that a mystery meeting invitation with no agenda and a cryptic “New Project” title, from the Director General, did not announce anything good.
“Welcome, Florent,” said Louise from behind the top-dog seat at the end of the table.
“Am I supposed to be here?” he asked, just in case he could find an excuse to get out.
“Yes, you are,” she said with an unnerving smile. “Now let’s wait for the others.”
There were others? Who could that be?
He brightened when he saw Patrizia enter the room … and went back to a neutral expression when Alan entered immediately after her. She was fun—but he wasn’t. And that’s if you could get him to say anything.
“Let’s close the door and begin.”
She leaned back in her chair. Florent thought she was either too comfortable, or enjoying this far too much. Either possibility was terrifying.
“I’ve asked for all three of you to help me on a priority project. No code name, no cute acronym, no formal reporting. Just one big problem and all of you to help me figure it out.”
“What problem?” asked Florent.
“You already know about it in your own ways.”
In the next five minutes, she crammed weeks’ worth of research into a cogent briefing. The SORD was increasingly facing an organized enemy, one that deliberately tested them in order to learn their weaknesses. Taking out half a dozen non-operational people in Quebec City had not been an accident—it had been a trap. And now they had good evidence that the property of some billionaire out west was linked to each one of those deliberate intrusion.
Florent realized that he did know most of this, but not the full picture.
He looked at the others around the table. Alan kept nodding, as if he had figured, or at least suspected all of this. Patrizia looked a bit more unsettled: this must have been new to her.
“Why us?” she asked.
“Because, for various reasons, I can trust you more than I can trust others. Also, because all of you do one specific thing very well, and can do something else at a competent level. I’m management and I can understand books. Florent, you’re the librarian who doesn’t lose his cool under fire. Patrizia, you’re the tech who knows about operations. And Alan—“
He raised an eyebrow.
“You’re the operator, but you also had already figured all of this out, right?”
He nodded. Mildly.
“What are we getting into?” asked Florent.
“You’re keeping your day jobs, but I may come calling with special assignments that could take a chunk of your time. Plus, we’re going to have daily meetings to share information when we have some, and to act as sounding boards when we don’t.”
“So where do we begin?” asked Patrizia.
“All of you are going to have a lot of things to read. Then we’re going to start thinking about how we can learn more without blowing our cover. Then we’ve got a fancy mountainside mansion to visit, because we’ve just got approval from Oversight.”
🔷
“What’s that?” asked Florent.
He was standing in his underwear in the middle of the Operations lounge. He wasn’t enjoying the situation, nor having to guess what he was doing here.
“Null suits. Dress up,” said Alan as he led by example.
Those weren’t suits—they looked like crumpled aluminum wrappers roughly stitched in a Halloween disguise for the insane and the paranoid.
Limb by limb, he put on the suit. It was, fortunately, slightly more comfortable inside—the spandex liner was supplemented with small plastic tubing, padding and some acknowledgement that regular humans would be wearing it.
What it wasn’t, unfortunately, was limber. Flashing back to the penguin suit, he found his movement constrained. Despite the suit’s crumpled exterior, its lining seemed nearly custom-fit. A bit too much so—he wasn’t able to move without the lining hugging his body. This wasn’t how he preferred his own suits.
Plus, as he finished putting on the Null Suit, he found himself with an oversized hoodie contraction hanging by the back of his neck. Was he supposed to put this over his head?
“We’re going to do a few checks,” said Alan.
Confirming Florent’s biggest fears at the moment, the older man flipped the hood over his face.
“Come on, kid.”
Yes, Father. Grumbling, Florent flipped the hood over his head and found that it was even worse, as the hood dropped over his head, fit over his face and fastened at the neck. The suit was already starting to warm up, and the thin visor in the suit’s hood was not helping with the claustrophobia. What if it started misting over? Had anyone thought about that?
“Activate the suit power on your left wrist.”
Florent fumbled, but found the switch. Immediately, the warmth stabilized and dropped away. So did the humidity. The suit, whatever it was doing, at least wasn’t making any noise. Although—wasn’t he feeling some continuous vibration? Yes, yes, there was definitely something—weird sensation, all through his body. The suit seemed to tighten around him.
“Care to tell me what this is?” asked Florent.
“A Null Suit. The newest gift from our American friends. Considering Fox-Zero, they did owe us a favour.”
“Is that why I’m in the suit rather than someone from your team?”
“No, it’s because they couldn’t find the right size for Patrizia.”
“All right, enough,” interrupted Louise. “Truth is, I asked for you two.”
Florent groaned internally. This being voluntold for everything was occasionally thrilling, but it left nightmares in its wake.
“And Florent, be grateful. They had a much harder time fitting your suit than to the standard issue special operations slab of muscle body type. It’s a good thing they like you a lot after the favour you did for them up north.”
“I’m still not hearing why I’m wearing the suit.”
“Oversight cleared us for one no-impact look-over of the Pang mansion. The problem is that we can assume that it’s as well-protected as the Wentworth house, which means tons of alarms and automated detection systems. Visual, laser, thermal, you name it.”
“And these suits?”
“Prototypes from the American research unit. Designed to reflect, deflect, scatter and otherwise nullify your visual, auditory, heat and reflective signatures. Not quite an invisibility cloak, but about as close as we can get.”
“The word prototype doesn’t reassure me.”
“Good, I wouldn’t want you becoming too complacent. The goal here is a quick in-and-out: You take a look, flag anything unusual and then get out.”
“Those quick in-and-outs are never quick or simple around here.”
As Florent put his attention into arguing, he found that he was slowly getting used to the suit. Maybe Louise knew what she was doing needling him.
“We’ve got a good feeling about this. We have a full week’s worth of drone surveillance on the house. We have plans for the outside perimeter, and the big open area that leads to his backyard deck. We’re missing a few interior areas, but about two-thirds of the house is fully mapped.”
“We’ll be running through the Playground for practice,” said Alan.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, boy,” said Patrizia. “You are in for a treat.”
🔷
Three days and multiple Playground rehearsals later, Florent was feeling slightly more confident. One thing that had been drilled into him was the necessity of leaving no traces—SORD didn’t want another Wentworth-style house fire, and the parameters of Oversight approval had been strict.
They had run through the house over and over, treating it as a stealth game, exploring every facet that the drones had been able to accumulate and getting so familiar with the layout that Florent could navigate it in the dark. To his dismay, the suits were equipped with cameras that recorded every single one of his mistakes.
Still, as they were waiting for the Nexus to establish the doorway, he was feeling a bit better than he did a few days earlier.
“All right, kid?”
Florent had spent a lot of time with Alan over the past days, and he was slowly warming up to the guy. Didn’t say much, knew his stuff, and while Florent knew that Alan wasn’t thrilled with teaching some random civilian, he did a good job of it.
“Let’s do this,” answered Florent with more confidence than he really felt.
“Suits up and active,” said Tactical.
Florent activated the suit and attached the hood. Ready to go.
He looked at Alan as the other man’s suit was activated. The suit gradually went blurry as it did unspeakable things to the electromagnetic spectrum. It got to a point where Florent didn’t even want to look at the other suit as it faded into the background, so thoroughly was its out-of-focus nature unpleasant to look at.
“Control confirms no unusual activity around the house.”
They knew that Pang himself was travelling to Toronto for a board meeting and no one else lived at the house. They thought they had a good handle on the schedules of the security and housekeeping personnel, and few drones had been feeding real-time footage to Control for hours in the hope of minimizing risks. Pang’s house was at least more open to the outside than Wentworth’s house, but it was still a gamble as to whether they had seen everything.
They weren’t bringing TYPHOON devices this time around—the thinking was that getting out quickly was more important than doing a thorough inspection.
“The doorway opens … now.”
Not wasting any time, they stepped through.
They emerged in the central living area of the house.
Based on drone surveillance and a copy of the construction plans surreptitiously obtained from the architecture firm, Pang’s house was essentially a one-storey U-shaped structure built on mountainside stilts, with everything focusing on the massive deck that had an unbeatable view of the Pacific Ocean from a hundred metres above. The central area, slightly lower than the rest of the U-shaped structure, was half-outside deck, half-inside living room. Surrounding them were what SORD analysts thought were the central entrance hall, kitchen, bathroom, and bedrooms (main and guests) scattered around the central area. There was a modest utility basement that also had living quarters for the help.
Even Florent couldn’t help but gaps at the view. There were comfortably in the evening to take advantage of the darkness, and even then, the lights below the mountainside highlighted the dark blue gradient above the Pacific Ocean and the scattered cargo ships in the distance.
“Enough sightseeing,” whispered Alan.
Right. The floor plan was exact so far, but the drones could only see so much inside the house. Florent knew he was there to flag anything unusual—books, artefacts, evidence of occult practices.
There wasn’t anything very exciting so far. The house could be described as nouveau-riche chic, with a heavy blend of Asian influences in the carefully sparse decoration. Clearly designed to impress and host parties in the central area, the house wasn’t lived in—it was a showcase. Even the sole carpet in the middle of the room seemed overly calculated.
But then again, this was the central area. The good stuff could be in the individual rooms.
“Let’s begin with the main bedroom,” whispered Florent.
Alan moved ahead of him. The operations guy would be the one to see dangers—Florent would investigate afterwards. Staying several steps behind, Florent watched as the older man checked for traps (or at least hidden sensors) and made sure no one was in the area they were looking into.
“All clear,” he finally said.
They whispered even through their communication. The Americans had built some kind of line-of-sight comm system that was supposed to be secure, and their link with Maple Hall was disabled by default. Nonetheless, they didn’t want their chatter to become an attraction.
Florent entered the bedroom. There really wasn’t much here—these were the sleeping quarters of a man who treated his house like a slightly more familiar hotel. He looked over what was visible in the bedroom, then shook his head and signalled that they were done here.
They could have poked around more—dug into closets, investigated for secret rooms and hidden safes. But the Oversight search warrant was tight enough that even looking behind a painting could have been too intrusive. Florent could live with that—he wasn’t Investigations, he was Research: he preferred looking to snooping.
The next few rooms revealed nothing more. Guest bedrooms designed to offer comfortable stays to demanding guests passing through, a high-end kitchen that was used more often for reheating prepared food than actual cooking, and a large entrance lobby designed to funnel guests to the central area.
Florent moved very slowly, kept to the shadows, and tried not to make a fuss. One of his unescapable doubts about the suits was that despite their blurry visual effects, they would prove to be ineffective and would be instantly detected by some half-forgotten peripheral security device or, worse, yet, an actual security guard.
They were on the central area, headed to the last few bedrooms when that theory was put to the test.
Abruptly, a door opened and a dishevelled man in a loose sweat suit walked in from the stairs leading to the utility level. Without alarm, looking as if he was going somewhere specific without being in a hurry, he ambled past the doors to the entrance lobby.
They froze. They were not in his direct line of sight.
Look somewhere else, look somewhere else.
The man simply walked through the open area and went to the kitchen. As soon as he was out of sight, Alan and Florent moved farther away, even more out of sight if he was to go back where he came from.
Alan motioned for Florent to crouch and wait.
That made sense—if the guy was off to grab a snack, they would be better off waiting until he was gone to resume their search of the main floor. If he was looking over the house, they would know by watching him go through the other rooms first.
They waited. A few minutes passed. Florent’s legs started to cramp.
The search had not been successful so far—there was nothing here to link Peng to anything suspicious. Everything was bland or blank.
Think like a billionaire, jokingly thought Florent. If I was a budding warlock casting spells, where and how would I do it?
Maybe they should be looking over the utility floor. But Peng didn’t strike him as someone who would shamefully hide his activities. Everything about the house screamed, “Look at me.”
Finally, the man re-emerged from the kitchen with a snack tray. Without showing any sing of alarm, he went back downstairs.
Florent exhaled and was relieved to get back up.
Alan directed him to examine the remaining rooms, but Florent already had a suspicion that there wouldn’t be anything worth seeing.
He was right.
Finally, they went back to the central area.
“Ready to go?” asked Alan.
“Not yet. Was Peng right-handed or left-handed?”
Alan shrugged.
Florent looked around. He had maybe thirty seconds before Alan would shush them out of here, and he didn’t want to trip any security systems along the way. And he had maybe one chance to take with Oversight’s search warrant.
If I was a warlock’s naughty hidden paraphernalia, where would I be?
The floor on which he stood was carpeted. That was unusual enough—the carpet had been well chosen and elegantly disposed, but it was the only carpet in the house.
Why?
Perhaps to make something obvious less obvious.
He walked to one corner of the carpet and pulled up. Seeing something, he pulled even farther…
… until the unmistakable outline of a pentagram became obvious. It was inlaid into the floor, surrounded by sigils and other esoteric markings.
Startled, he dropped the carpet back where it was.
He’d seen enough.
Or had he?
This was the place when Pang led his incantations. But unless he was terrifyingly good at it, he had to have reference material and associated artifacts. He wouldn’t shuttle off the material from one place to another, he would…
Gesturing “one minute!” to Alan, Alan headed to the nearest bookcases. The ones right next to the entrance, almost exactly half the size of the door. Yeah, that would be Peng’s style—playing with fire in plain sight, thinking himself smarter than the guests.
Left-handed or right-handed?
Sinisterly, he picked the left bookcase and ran his hand on its edge farther away from the door. The Null Suit’s crumpling did not extend to the fingertips, which were tissue-thin.
He found a metal latch, hidden inside the bookcase on the chest-high shelf.
Should he pull? Oversight would not be pleased. Maybe there was an alarm system linked to it.
Ah well, we can exit fast enough.
He pulled the latch. It clicked.
He pulled the bookcase. It smoothly moved on its hinges toward the entrance.
Yes, yes, he thought. Dual-purpose.
He looked behind the bookcase and saw books—old tomes, and new reprints, neatly arranged on their shelves. An open book seemed to record translations between English and some other language. He also saw more disturbing artifacts—bottles, bowls, gold coins, crystal shards.
An obsidian knife.
So that was the first purpose: storage.
He went to the other bookcase and found a similar latch.
Left or right—doesn’t matter.
The bookcase opened in the same way—and together, they could be locked to close off the entrance to keep people out.
Or to keep people in.
That was the second purpose.
Unsurprisingly, there was similar paraphernalia behind the second bookcase.
Two more dark-edged knives, one of them big enough to be considered a sword.
He scanned the shelves, trying to make sure the suit’s cameras were taking it all in.
He thought of paging through the translation book, but they didn’t have the time. Having seen what they did, they could come back with a stronger warrant.
Instead, he closed the bookcases.
Ten seconds later, they were back to the Nexus.
Louise looked at him expectantly.
“Call Oversight. We’ve got probable cause.”
🔷
The crisis cell met early the next morning. The expedition had taken place quite late, and everyone wanted a bit of a break before the next step, while the overnight shift over at Research went over the footage and Oversight was being asked for further authorizations.
They went over the list of Peng’s occult paraphernalia. There was a lot of it, and as Louise remarked, it was strictly top-notch—not something assembled overnight or by an amateur.
“Still those damned reprint editions,” she remarked.
“So, are we moving on Peng?” asked Florent.
“Normally we would, but we have to be slightly more strategic about it. I’ve been consulting with organized crime specialists about the ideal timing, and since we’re dealing with several powerful people, we almost have to strike at once—if we just take down Peng, they’re going to know something is up.”
“What if we torch the house, or shatter the stilts?”
“They’re still smarting from Wentworth. They would not assume coincidence.”
“What about the rest of the group?”
“You’re getting warmer. I’ve been looking at metadata of those we suspect to be the core group, and it looks as if everyone is converging toward Toronto.”
“Nearly everyone in the group lives in Toronto, at least part-time.”
“Yes, but I’ve been able to find them on a very specific guest list in four days.”
“So, what are we doing about that?”
Louise smiled.
“We’re going to have to attend a fancy party.”
Chapter 9—A night at the Gala
THE BRUNSWICK BANK IS PROUD TO SPONSOR LIT CANADA read the official invitation to the charity gala.
Louise handed the card to the usher, who scanned the QR code and waved her in.
She slowly made her way in, trying to ignore Florent, Patrizia and Alan as they were farther back in line to enter, none of them acknowledging each other’s presence.
As she entered the hotel banquet hall, scrupulously avoiding the red carpet and photo backdrop, she merely felt as if every eye in the place was on her. Which wasn’t true—most people were milling about, chatting with acquaintances, finding their place around the tables. Her lack of comfort stemmed from what she was wearing—after years of the typically utilitarian clothing at the office, she was not used, not happy and not comfortable in the evening gown she was wearing at the moment.
But that was part of the deal with the Management Board—they’d pay the high-four-figure banquet attendance price, and she would blend in. Which meant clothes, also hurriedly bought on SORD’s budget, fitting the occasion. Much as she disliked wearing anything she couldn’t run in, she was stuck in this confining, unflattering, far too tight getup. At least her figure had spared her further indignities—since she would never look like a model, the gown was not meant to be sprayed on her. She could breathe and eat. But it was still restrictive.
As she leaned on one of the hall’s columns and looked around, she saw that the other members of her team looked much, much better than she did. If Florent probably hadn’t been born in a suit, he had been born to wear one—what he had on him wasn’t that different from the succession of well-tailored outfits he liked to wear every day. Patrizia, meanwhile, could never pass unnoticed: she was tall, wide and yet lean; the outfit she wore was nothing short of stunning. Perhaps a bit too much for someone meant to pass unnoticed.
And Alan … well, she had known for a while that Alan could wear a suit like no one else and there he was—a refrigerator of a man looking only slightly impatient in an impeccably-tailored suit that suggested the bulk of muscle underneath. Even the graying hair worked to his advantage. Everyone probably assumed he was an off-duty cop working security.
No, they weren’t getting back together—but she could still take a look.
Trying to approve their expedition had not been an easy sell to the Management Board. She knew that the department had nearly unlimited funds thanks to some patent shenanigans involving Nikola Tesla’s visit to Canada and then decades of conveniently savvy investments. But SORD wasn’t going to make frivolous expenses, and they had been grilled mercilessly on why four public servants had the gall to pretend they had to attend one of upper-class Toronto’s favourite galas.
The argument, honed through surveillance, metadata analytics and the limits of open-source research in studying some of Canada’s richest people, had boiled down to this: Most of the suspected members of the Hellfire Club were going to be in attendance, which would give them an opportunity to study them up close. Anything gathered would be something more that they didn’t know by not attending.
There had been push-back of a non-monetary sort as well—several people had protested that (not in these words) they would be like obvious blobfishes out of water—unused to the way people with money and power gathered, they would stand out in ways that could call unwanted attention and possibly blow up the investigation. Louise has reasonably answered that the event seated five hundred people—and that even without them being present, a substantial number of these people would not be billionaires. This was an event to celebrate Canadian publishing, for goodness’ sake—there was no money in that business and the publishing houses provided complimentary passes to any junior editor who grovelled enough.
Furthermore, said Louise, the most likely scenario would be that they would try to mingle, be ignored, keep eyes on the Hellfire Club members and return home with at least a better mental picture of them than the ones in their files. There was no need to break into some secret vault while the event was taking place, or mount a complex heist to grab some displayed valuables. The risk was nil.
As far as the expenses of these operations went, this could even be more cost-efficient than mounting surveillance on a dozen well-protected, well-secluded mansions.
As the self-avowed dowdiest of the team, Louise slowly unshackled herself from the conviction that everyone was staring at her. She merely had to look around to convince herself otherwise—she was perfectly anonymous, perfectly ordinary. Being not-that-well-dressed was an advantage: Patrizia and Alan couldn’t exactly slip anywhere unnoticed, right? Even Florent would gather a few interested glances. Not her.
All right—where to go next? The gala was taking place in one of the biggest hotel banquet halls in downtown Toronto. Besides the speakers’ stage and the tables set up for dinner, the edges of the hall had been set up with a casino, a bar and a silent auction. Plus: book-shaped balloons, light projections and picture of smiling kids on the big screen. Later, the tables would be cleared to make place for live entertainment and a dance floor, but they all planned to be long gone by then—the Hellfire Club witches and warlocks would not stick around for that either.
So—bar, auction or casino?
Shrugging, she headed toward the impromptu casino that had been set up to the side of the hall. Save the children, make them read books (and preferably books sold by Toronto-based publishers) was the point of the event, but no rich person ever attended an upscale ball for purely righteous reasons. The casino was an opportunity to flash a bit, thrill at meagre earnings that would still dwarf an associate editor’s take-home pay, and feel as if this was a fancy event that had more than a slogan, rubber chicken and overlong sappy speeches.
She knew nothing about any of the games, but found herself at the baccarat table. Eh, why not? She put a hundred dollars on the player to win and waited.
She got 7. The dealer got a 5. It was a good thing that the dealer knew the rules better than she did, because he handed her the hundred dollars she’d won.
Pocketing the money, she resolved to quit while she was ahead, and never gamble again.
But it did feel good, she thought dangerously.
Hanging around the table to watch the other players play, she noticed two familiar faces not too far away—at least familiar from the briefings on likely members of the Hellfire Club. Two new-tech moguls—young guys nearing forty. She slid closer as they greeted each other—just far enough to barely make out their conversation over the room din, but not so close as to arouse suspicion.
“Hey, looking forward to tonight?” said one of them
“Hell yeah.”
They snickered, which instantly crept out Louise.
“Can’t wait for this dumb stuff to be over. Fuck the kids.”
“Gotta keep up appearances.”
“Work first, fun later tonight.”
“See ya then.”
This was tantalizing, thought Louise, but she barely had anything to go on. But who was meeting whom? For all she knew, those tech bros were going clubbing.
She randomly erred between the tables, trying to spot more of the people they were keeping tabs on. She did see Peng, but he was intently speaking to one of the event organizers near the speaker’s podium.
On the other hand, there were the three other members of her team also trying to keep tabs on their targets. She wouldn’t know for a while if they had any success.
They had agreed not to try any dumb stuff or cute “random” encounters unless strictly necessary—they were here to throw a large net, and the best way to do that was to work by themselves. She hoped they had heard other good things—they’d swap notes later.
🔷
Against his expectations, Florent was really enjoying himself. Many, men or women, initiated conversations with him and he had fun just being social.
While idly planning for the gala, he had come up with a bulletproof cover story that he never expected to use, but by the thirty-minute mark he was almost celebrated at his table as an assistant junior publisher from a small but ambitious Montréal-based publisher who wanted closer contacts with the Toronto-based publishing community, perhaps in the hopes of translating works in English or in French. Everyone thought he was witty, smart, virtuous and cute—the last probably influencing the others.
As the dinner progressed, his jokes got a lot of laughs, people kept pestering him for business cards (which he didn’t have—what a shame), and he got touched on the arms a lot by middle-aged women who clearly didn’t want their conversations to end.
This was all cool, but he wasn’t doing much investigating.
He finally got a break at the bar, making an order for a specific non-alcoholic cocktail. Florent didn’t think the context was right for alcohol, and he had, over the years, perfected a halfway clever non-alcoholic order that used commonplace bar ingredients—some grenadine, ginger ale, tonic and dark cherry syrup if they had some.
It apparently impressed the guy standing behind him.
“Oh, I like that drink!” he said both to Florent and the bartender. To the last, he added: “Please make me a second one of those, for me.”
He was an older gentleman, and Florent gulped when he recognized him from the Hellfire Club briefing papers. Very few people would recognize him—he was a mutual-fund guru that operated deep in the shadows but had amassed a considerable fortune doing so.
“I’m Leonard,” said the man, extending is hand, “and anyone who goes off the beaten path at the bar is a friend of mine.”
Leonard shook his hand. At the back of his mind, he sensed Helen having a reaction to the touch—but it was small enough, or hidden enough, that he couldn’t get a sense of what she felt.
“I’m Fabrice. You don’t drink?”
“I do! But there’s more to drinks that just the gut punch of alcohol!”
As the bartender prepared their order, they chatted some more. Leonard, as it turned out, had an entire philosophy of drink mixing, and Florent found him chuckling at his explanations.
The bartender came back, and Leonard paid for both with a tut-tut. He sipped the drink and looked completely fulfilled.
“That is one great drink, young man. That’s going in my recipe book.”
“Glad you enjoyed it.”
“Hey, if you have more of those, drop me a line.”
He handed over a card to Florent and walked away.
Florent pocketed the card by the edges—they may be fingerprints to analyze here.
But he really hadn’t expected to be … charmed? befriended? by a member of the Hellfire Club. No one is entirely evil or virtuous.
No one.
🔷
Louise got somewhat more comfortable as the minutes ticked by. She lounged by the silent auction a lot—no one minded people dawdling around there, and it was a good place for people with money to go make their mark.
Much of the stuff being auctioned was dull—meet-and-greets with semi-famous authors, book proposal consultation with editors, first edition autographed copies of celebrated Canadian authors. Other stuff was simply for the rich or aspiring rich, with barely any connection to literacy—weekend getaways, spa days, premium sporting event tickets, concert backstage passes, catering services.
This was dull and maybe even a bit depressing—and all well beneath the net worth of the people they were chasing. This was upper-middle-class people’s ideas of things for the rich. She would probably—
Then she heard it, right behind her—a woman chatting with someone else.
“We’ll leave right after the dessert speeches. The Club wants us at the Weston tower penthouse by ten.”
Louise registered the words but didn’t get exciting—then she saw the face of the person who had just said it.
Shireen Jasper. Real-estate developer. One of the near-certain members of the Hellfire Club.
Whoah.
Even better—Jasper was idly chatting with Naomi Lavin, another figure of high interest—she was a major player in wholesale groceries. Together, they looked like two middle-aged ladies (albeit expensively preserved ones) chatting away like girlfriends.
Oblivious to what any other middle-aged woman could hear them say.
Not that Louise thought they had ever noticed her—Shireen was in a hurry to crank up the bid for a meet-and-greet with one of the moment’s hot new intersectional author, and flew away as soon as she had scribbled some obscene amount on the sign-up sheet.
She did watch them as they went away. Would they pass on the word?
Positioning herself as if she was reading one of the silent auction cards, she saw Shireen and Naomi split up and join other familiar faces. Louise tried not to show any excitement as Patrizia stood next to them while they conferred.
With luck, she’d hear the same thing—Weston Tower Penthouse at Ten.
Reviewing what she knew, Louise excused herself to the washroom and went into a stall—there was an email to send to the Oversight for further investigation tonight.
🔷
The wait throughout the dinner was excruciating, thought Alan. Everyone around him thought he was a bodyguard for some bigwigs, and whatever conversation he had with other people were clipped on their side by assuming he was security and on his side by not really engaging in conversation, which further reinforced their impression that he was a scary guy with judo chops and a concealed gun.
Towering over most of them didn’t help either.
He wanted to take a look at the casino tables, and got pressured in playing for a while—it really didn’t look good for a big guy to stare too much at a gambling table without playing.
His interest wasn’t in the game, though—he had ended up at the craps game because one of the Hellfire Club members had moseyed there, and Alan was curious to see him at work. One of the real estate guys.
Everyone was watching the table, but Alan was watching the guy. Sometimes, Alan thought he could read people’s minds just by watching them move—he and the Doc had talked theories about how bodies and mind were indivisible, and Alan mused that bodies were minds made physical, that watching movement was watching a mind extending into the real world. There wasn’t a separate mind existing in a separate body, hiding itself behind action or inaction—it was the same thing.
Or something like that—Alan didn’t like to spend too much time on philosophy. But Doc loved those conversations.
It took Alan a few tries, but he finally saw something interesting after two or three minutes. The guy wasn’t winning all the time, and he seemed serene when he did lose. But every so often, his smile got a knowing edge to it, and his thumb twitched and the dice would roll just so as to ensure his winning.
Alan blinked and second-guessed himself. Naaah, that couldn’t be true.
But he played a few rounds, losing slightly. And watched the guy.
And saw the smile, the twitch, the win. The guy was careful—losing most of the time, winning when others took a big bet as so to divert attention to those other winners, making sure the winners varied. The guy looked like just a regular gambler, but in the end, his stack got slightly bigger in a very carefully controlled, very deliberate, very precise fashion.
Alan retreated from the craps table and went back to his dinner table seat after that. Unusually enough, he was spooked—there was some weirdness at play here, and if that weirdness extended to mind reading, they were cooked.
He had made one of the Hellfire Club warlocks, and that was enough—but he’d lay low for the rest of the evening.
He just hoped he was wrong, and that everyone else in the team was safe.
🔷
Patrizia, in the end, did not have to make any special effort to reach out and investigate—people just came to her.
This was certainly not unusual. A few years earlier, throughout college and her early working years, Patrizia hadn’t been against going to bars, hooking up, having fun and maybe hanging out a few more times. It was easy for her—for every ten guys her size intimidated, there was one who saw it as a challenge, or as something he really, really liked.
She had grown tired of the whole game and dialled it back to an occasional pursuit, but she’d be lying if she said that she didn’t enjoy the attention. Women and men—jumbling over their words, being noticeably more expressive than usual, trying their best to look interesting, sound smart or act smooth. She didn’t have to do much—they usually did the work themselves.
So, she just stood there as people came to her. She tried moving closer to one of the younger Hellfire Club members, and was almost disappointed when that obvious ploy worked—the man moved next to her and bluntly asked if she was doing anything the next day.
“I’d love to make it for later tonight, but I have an important meeting with friends of mine and won’t be available until well into the morning—unless you’re interested in that.”
He winked.
Patrizia had enough wits to look charmed and demure about it.
“Where’s your meeting? Are your friends interesting?”
“Ah, it’s downtown—you know the Weston Tower? At the very top. Exclusive club, though—I could tell you, but then I’d have to … well, anyway, exclusive club. Hey, ring me up, lady.”
He handed her a business card, which she accepted with a cute smile and a naïve shrug.
The card went into one of those mini-purses she hated with a passion but was stuck using considering the curve-hugging outfit she had.
I utterly loathe you with every fibre of my being, but at least I know where you’re going tonight.
Moments later, she got to hear another Hellfire Club member—a woman—make sure that her new would-be romantic beau knew that they were going to the Weston penthouse—at ten.
🔷
Louise did warm up to her young dinner table companions. They were all thirtysomething publishing assistant editors in some way or another, and they were sharp and witty. She felt like the hen mother of the group due to her age, but quickly established herself as a cool-aunt type.
Before long, they were chuckling and throwing sarcastic one-liners at the dinner courses, at the speeches, at the absurdity of this “charity” event for the well-off. One woman in a showy green dress launched into a well-documented tirade against the charitable nature of events meant to amuse the wives of rich businessmen, where a lavish gala could be classified as noble as long at a hundred-dollar donation was made alongside the lavish decorations, live events and event management costs.
Before long, Louise had a horrible thought—she was enjoying herself. Although much of it had to do with the people she was with. She’d have to look into that green-dressed woman’s background—she felt like perfect material for the SORD’s analysis division.
What’s more, the food tasted pretty good for someone more used to fast food and Costco ready-made meals.
So, she was a bit disappointed when the speeches ended, the dessert plates were taken away and the event organizers encouraged everyone to take another look at the casino and silent auctions while the tables were being removed to make place for the liven entertainment dancing.
“Well, your new aunt has to return to her carriage before it’s towed away,” she explained to her new dinner buddies.
They had the decency to aw, but sarcastically.
She winked and disappeared.
Leaving the event, she headed to the agreed-upon rendezvous point—an outside patio one block south. The night was warm, and by now the streets were free of the thousands of Blu Jays fans that had gridlocked the city on their way to the night’s big game.
She waited a few moments in front of the patio, and the rest of the group showed up at a few moments’ interval.
They made for a great-looking team, Louise admitted to herself. Dressed to the nines, with the flush of people who had gotten away with something—whether it was spending other people’s money to have fun, or having succeeded at their investigation.
They asked for a table away from others (“so we can talk”), sprang for a few virgin drinks, and compared notes as soon as the waiter was out of earshot.
“Weston Tower Penthouse, ten o’clock,” began Louise.
“Yup,” confirmed Patrizia, explaining how she had gotten more or less the same information.
Florent didn’t have much, but could talk about one of the Hellfire Club members.
Alan closed by talking about the dice manipulation, and that sobered everyone up—this was what they were up against. If they could manipulate dice, what else could they do to them?
Louise noticed that all other members of the team looked at her at that moment. Okay, so they haven’t forgotten the Wentworth book-shoving incident … nor the Quebec City display of electrical powers from the DG.
“I’m waiting for authorization from Oversight,” said Louise. “But let me supplement my request—back with you in a moment.”
As Louise composed an email addendum to her request to Oversight, the rest of the group compared notes on their experiences at the gala. Alan groused at being perceived as a bodyguard, Patrizia getting a few laughs at the unsubtle passes she got, Florent being the darling of the older ladies at his table.
Louise, her message sent, shared her experience being the elder at a merciless editors’ assistants’ table.
Then the conversation went in all sorts of directions—Florent talking about how he had considered publishing as a career, Patrizia itemizing a litany of bad boyfriends, Alan describing weird unexplained things in Afghanistan and his path to joining the SORD, Louise cracking up everyone with tales of unbearable colleagues in her pre-SORD days.
Louise eventually admitted that she was feeling really good at this point. They were bonding as a team, the weather was terrific, they were having nachos surrounded by Toronto’s high-rises and they had pulled off an investigative coup from truly long odds.
Which is why she didn’t object too much when the conversation hushed a bit (everyone eyeing the waiter suspiciously) and turned to more serious topics that she did understand better than the others.
“I’ve been here, what, a year, and I’m still not too sure about how much free will we have,” confessed Florent without a trace of his usual humour or irony. “Maple Hall is … so powerful. And we know that we’re occasionally dealing with mind alterants. Are we just puppets in this game?”
Louise saw Alan frown at that.
“I don’t think we should, or can behave in any other way than to believe that we do have free will,” said Patrizia. “Look, from time to time I stop to consider the sheer full load of shit we see on a daily basis and I get vertigo. Like real intense ‘what the fuck’ nausea, bad enough that I have to stop and brace myself.”
Florent nodded vigorously at that.
“Have you talked to the Doc?” asked Alan.
“Oh yeah, several times. It’s not debilitating, or anything—it’s just those weird moments of total awareness of just how utterly weird this all is. Usually when I can’t sleep.”
“And yet we go on,” said Florent.
“There’s no choice, really,” said Louise.
“I’ve killed people, and I don’t often think about them. But I think all the time about those I couldn’t save,” later said Alan.
A spell passed as everyone processed this, and it didn’t do Louise any favours. In fact, she felt a cold isolation from the others—she knew more, at a level that she wasn’t able to share. Such was the trade-off as you rose through the ranks and had fewer peers to see things from the same perspective. Worse yet: Louise hadn’t had years to get used to the isolation—it had been one more thing after another.
“So, what’s the plan for tonight?” asked Patrizia.
“We can’t do anything before Oversight gives approval,” said Louise.
“Can’t do anything but plan, sure,” said Florent.
“Well, there’s the Weston Tower, right there,” said Louise while nodding at a tower barely seen across the square. “Any idea?”
The streets were beginning to fill with Jays fans now that the game was over, and they were in a mood to celebrate.
“We just have to sneak into one of the biggest skyscrapers in Canada, somehow make our way to the executive penthouse, eavesdrop on—what—an occult ceremony, and then make it back?”
Louise snuck a look at her watch: 9:58. They were running out of time, but for what?
“I can think of a way to get us ninety percent there,” said Patrizia.
She nodded at the lot across the street, where another massive tower was in advanced stages of construction … with a crane what operated at a height near the top of the Weston Tower.
“No, no,” said Alan. “I mean, sure, we should have someone there to act as a lookout. But you can’t get in. It’s not high enough to reach the top—not without breaking windows.”
“Starting thinking about how to get up that crane, though,” said Louise to Patrizia.
“As for the Weston Tower, we can probably sneak our way into the lobby and from there get up the executive floors. We’re dressed the right way.”
Louise thought about it. On the upside of not having gone back to Maple Hall, she still looked upper-crust executive out for a night on the town, while Florent could play an assistant of some sort and Alan would be the obvious bodyguard. If the Hellfire Club got up earlier, the guards would be used to unusual visitors. But something would still be missing.
“We can get to the lobby, but they will probably want to see some identification.”
“Tell them you’re an assistant bringing up something urgent,” said Patrizia.
“I may have just the thing,” said Florent, producing the business card he’d been given earlier.
“Oh, I have one of those as well,” said Patrizia.
“We say we contacted them, they absolutely need something we have. Or know.”
Louise was dubious.
“The clothes are going to do most of the work,” pointed out Alan.
“OK, so that gets us in the elevators. Next? Sooner or later, we will face a closed door and then…”
She raised a finger to interrupt her own train of thought.
There may be a way through closed doors. She couldn’t do it reliably, but maybe a bit of help would be enough. They’d have to stop for some quick shopping first, she thought, eyeing the omnipresent Shoppers at the end of the block.
“I think I can get us past closed doors,” she finally said, “as long as they’re not hermetically sealed or anything.”
“So now we’re in the penthouse along with a dozen of Canada’s richest warlocks. Then what?”
“Eavesdrop as much as possible. Those rooms are usually wired in six different ways. There’s got to be some kind of executive intercom. Maybe they’ll be doing it through Teams.”
“I can’t help you if I’m on the crane outside,” said Patrizia.
“Well, maybe you can if we keep an open comms channel.”
Slowly, a plan came together. Exciting stuff, but the downside was…
“If we get caught, we’re toast.”
“Then let’s not get caught.”
“Have the doorway app on standby.”
They checked, and the doorway service was available.
“We could get up there with doorways.”
“I don’t like it,” said Alan. “No floor plans. We could end up in the meeting room.”
“Guided from the crane, then,” suggested Patrizia.
“That’s the backup plan, then,” decided Louise.
Her own phone beeped.
“It’s from Oversight,” she said. She briefly scanned the text.
“We go?”
“This is about the most uncertain approval I’ve even seen from them. No wonder it took them a while to come up with it.”
The justification talked about high potential for high-quality intelligence gathering versus high risks as well. Authorization to proceed with a strong recommendation to abort at the slightest sign of a problem.
“I can live with that,” said Alan.
“So can I. Let’s go.”
They quickly paid, tipped well and left the patio. Louise nudged the group to the Shoppers where they waited while she went inside. Going to the crafts and entertainment aisle, she looked for a novelty item she’d seen in other locations in Ottawa, grabbed it, paid and left the store.
“What did you get?” asked Florent.
“Insurance,” she said while unwrapping the clear cellophane around her newest purchase.
A deck of playing cards, Canada-themed.
“What, you’re going to bluff you way in Texas-style?”
“Hopefully, it won’t come to any of what this can do.”
Patrizia, by now, had a working plan on how to get up the construction crane.
“Let’s stay in touch,” she said before leaving for the construction site.
This left Patrizia flanked by Florent and Alan. She made her way in the lobby of the Weston Tower, heading for the elevator bank as if she had a purpose.
It worked—the security guards saw her and nodded, leaving them to go to the elevators without a hitch. Louise supposed that the clothes did their job—they were not dressed like random passers-by, and all three of them looked focused enough to know where they were going.
Nice. Now, it was time to not screw up this entrance by entering the wrong button. Or suddenly needing a pass.
“I’m climbing the tower,” said a huffed-sounding Patrizia through their comms.
Their luck kept going, as the penthouse elevator was clearly marked and was instantly available.
Louise tried to calm herself down. This was too easy, but then again—they were going to a meeting of many out-of-town, well-dressed strangers. The guards, the elevators had probably been instructed to minimize the aggravation to the billionaires. Their advantage was knowing where to go—the rest of the path had been cleared from them.
The way up took a while.
“So, what’s special about these playing cards?”
“Nothing,” she shrugged. “Standard USPC stock, air cushion finish. Pretty pictures of Canadian cities.”
Nothing special, except that each card had, instead of the standard pips and suits, text about a Canadian city or province. Something that could be very helpful in a pinch. Something that had allowed Louise to practise some interesting tricks.
“Hmm,” said Alan. “That’s new.”
He showed his phone to Louise and Florent. The doorway app that they used to communicate with the Nexus had one unusual warning: “Services not available in your area.”
Louise checked her own phone. 10:12. Surely this wasn’t a coincidence?
The elevator dinged and the door opened.
Six men with submachine guns were waiting for them, with an older gentleman standing back.
“There you are,” said Leonard. “Now we can begin.”
Efficiently, quickly, they were put against the wall.
“Make sure their hands are tightly bound.”
Face pressed against the cool tiles of the wall, Louise winced as she felt the thin plastic of zip-ties dig into the flesh of her wrists.
“Where’s the fourth one? When we’re done, I want a sweep of the floor, and heightened alarm. The fourth will show up.
Fuck, it had been a trap all along.
“Fabrice,” said Leonard, “or should I say Florent? What were you expecting? Some junior-grade heist thrills?”
He came closer to the young man. The jovial bonhomie had disappeared.
“There’s no one we can’t buy, nothing we can’t do. Fortunately, we have a few more uses for you. It’s so rare to have an appreciative audience for what we’re doing tonight.”
He turned to the guards.
“Anything in the search?”
One guard showed Leonard’s business card … and Louise’s deck of card.
Leonard was bemused. He opened the deck, still in its plastic wrapping, shuffled quickly through the cards and then put the deck in his suit pocket.
“What, you were planning on playing solitaire while waiting for us to be done? Come.”
Roughly, they were ushered into the adjacent boardroom.
Chapter 10—The Battle of Toronto
Florent would have kicked himself if it wasn’t from the fact of being restrained and the dubious physics of the concept. They thought they were running an operation, while the operation was being run on them. And now, their chances of getting out of this were getting slimmer with every moment.
His hopes sank even further as they were shoved into the boardroom. The guards kept pushing them until they were in the farthest end of the room, near the corner. Nearly twenty people stood between them and the only exit.
The first thing he noticed was the rolled-up carpet on the side of the room. True to Peng’s habits, it had been covering an intricate jet-black pentagram elaborately set, mosaic-style, in the boardroom’s marble flooring.
Standing around the pentagrams were a dozen middle-aged-to-elderly men and women in sharp business clothing.
The Hellfire Club, Florent presumed.
An autopsy table had been set in the middle of a pentagram as a steel altar, with a young woman firmly strapped on top of it. Her head was resting to the side, her face was blank, her eyes sedated and out-of-focus. Only her breathing suggested she was alive.
Before he could examine the situation more closely, Florent and the two other SORD operatives were pushed into heavy steel chairs and further bound at the waist and ankles.
Pang didn’t miss a beat. He gestured toward them as he bowed to his buddies.
“Colleagues of the Hellfire club, I give you His Majesty’s elite operatives.”
They laughed, which felt even worse than being shot on the spot.
Next to Florent, Alan nearly went ballistic, pushing and pulling at his restraints with no effect whatsoever. The chair held without moving and the restraints cut into his skin.
Florent’s spirits sank even further—if Alan couldn’t get out of there, what hope was there for him?
Maybe if he asked Helen…
Wait, she said.
Right. Let’s know more about what was going on here. Although much of it was obvious from the setup.
“We weren’t sure you’d pick up on the breadcrumbs,” said Pang to Louise, “but it looks as if you were that smart. Although not any smarter.”
“What the fuck would a billionaire want from magic?” asked Florent, “Don’t you have enough?”
“I don’t expect you to understand. Why accept what we have if we can get more? That’s the difference between you and us. You didn’t have to put yourselves in our way, but now that you have, well, we will make use of you.”
He turned to the young woman on the altar.
“Our first guest of the evening will kick-start the ritual. Help from the demonic realm doesn’t come cheaply. We have to demonstrate our commitment.”
He grabbed an obsidian knife similar to the ones in his mountainside house.
“You’re a piece of shit!” shouted Florent.
“I won’t tolerate any more such crude interruptions. Gag them all.”
Florent’s head was abruptly pulled back, and a gag quickly inserted in his mouth. Within moments, it was over—he could grunt and wheeze, but speech was impossible.
Meanwhile, Pang had started chanting in another language, leering over the bound young woman.
Then, after a few sentences pronounced more loudly, he plunged the knife in her chest.
Clinically, without stopping his chant, he twisted the knife and sawed open a hole in her chest. A flow of blood filled the open cavity and flowed on the steel table. The woman, even severely sedated, screamed horribly until the sound faded away at the time as she did.
Florent couldn’t tolerate this—he kicked and thrashed in the chair, which didn’t move by a single millimetre.
Helen? HELEN!!
No answer. Nothing from comms either. Patrizia wouldn’t even necessarily be in position yet—crane elevators weren’t as fast as office tower ones.
Despite himself, his attention returned to the ritual in front of him. Pang was still using the knife to saw inside the chest cavity of the woman. This wasn’t his first time—his gestures were quick and efficient.
Around him, the other members of the Hellfire Club looked on with a variety of expressions—horrified, envious, lustful, attentive. How often did they do this?
THIS MADE NO SENSE, he thought as his pure incandescent anger came roaring back. Here they were, in the heart—no, the centre—of Canadian business, a downtown filled with boring people in cheap suits obsessed with revenue charts and quantitative stock projections. NOT THE SCENE OF A HUMAN SACRIFICE.
Then Pang pulled the heart out of the woman and shouted a few final sentences in the mysterious language.
Immediately, a portal opened at the edge of the pentagram.
A demon stepped out in the corporate boardroom.
Had be able to, Florent would have gasped.
He knew the SORD’s bestiary inside and out—the hundreds of different creatures inventories so far, through decades of encounters, observations and dissections. Sometimes, what SORD saw matched folklore. Usually, it didn’t. But he instantly recognized what this was. A Belzebub-class demon.
Red-skinned, clove-footed, horn-clad. Stocking build, perpetually furious expression.
The old legends had some kernel of truth to them.
The creature didn’t speak, but its meaning was clearly audible in their heads.
! You have summoned me again!
“We have a proof of our commitment to you, Lord.”
The demon looked at the sacrifice. His sneering disgust was palpable.
? You insult me with a low-status individual in front of such a group?
“Uh… Harvest the one you deem worthy, Lord.”
Without hesitation, the demon walked up to Leonard.
The older man stepped back.
“No! NO! THIS WAS NOT PART OF THE DEAL!”
Florent could hear Louise chuckle through her gag.
! Show your commitment through a proper sacrifice!
The demon was faster than Leonard, and much stronger — He grabbed his neck with his right hand and punched his massive left fist through the chest of the older man. Grunting, he pulled Leonard’s still-beating heart through the shattered bones and muscles—severing the arteries connecting it to the rest of the body.
The old man’s body dropped to the ground with a thud, his head striking the floor at an unnatural angle. Some blood pooled around him.
!! THIS IS THE COMMITMENT I’M LOOKING FOR!!
“My apologies, my lord. The next time—”
!! NO EXCUSES. THIS WAS NOT THE SACRIFICE. THIS WAS A DEMONSTRATION. NOW YOU ACT!!
The demon looked at the crowd and pointed a finger to Shireen. She screamed, along with many of the Hellfire Club members.
This was clearly not part of tonight’s plan.
Adding insult to injury, Florent’s understanding of the net worth of each Hellfire Club member suggested that the demon was picking his targets in descending order of wealth. Which placed Florent roughly at the end of the line.
? Well?
Pang was visibly sweating. His hesitation spoke volumes.
“This has gone too far!” said one of the tech bros, the one that had hit on Patrizia. “I’m out!”
He turned to leave, but the demon was not going to be so easily denied—he quickly caught up with tech bro and sent him sliding down the floor with a powerful backhand, all the way to the altar.
! The group remains as one!
But at the same time:
! Riches flow to the survivor!
The message reached an audience: Naomi kicked Shireen to the floor, toward the demon.
“You fucking bitch!” screamed Shireen at her former BFF.
Real businesswomen of Toronto, though Florent.
! Disrespect accumulates debt!
And then, ominously:
? Who will ally themselves with me?
The fallen tech bro, eager for redemption, did not hesitate—he got up, grabbed one of the blades near the altar, walked to the fallen Shireen, pulled her head back by the hair and sliced her throat open. An eruption of flood flowed freely, splashing a few horrified members of the Hellfire Club.
Then, disgustingly, he kept pulling the head and sawed open her throat. He wasn’t skilled like Pang, but he was enthusiastic, to the point of pushing on her neck with his Gucci shoes as he hacked through the spine and severed the head.
“My sacrifice, Lord!”
He threw Shireen’s head to the demon.
? I am pleased. Are you all so devoted to me?
The Hellfire Club, now down two members, did not look particularly united—Peng pissed at seeing his authority usurped, Noreen having flashes of regret while looking at the decapitated body of her former friend, everyone wondering if they were to be the next sacrifice proposed to satisfy a capricious creature.
You fuck around with a demon, you get the horns, thought Florent.
“My Lord! Why further test us when we have common enemies?” said Peng, pointing at the three SORD operatives.
! Explain yourself!
“For centuries, your excursions here have been dogged with defeat, your emissaries hunted and defeated by a specific order of demon hunters. We have captured three of them for you tonight—would you like to take revenge?
Fuuuuuck.
But as Florent saw his lifespan shorten to mere seconds, he also noticed something—movement in the suit pocket of the fallen Leonard.
🔷
Louise knew they had only a few moments to escape. It was time to play the cards in her back pocket.
In someone else’s back pocket.
! Intriguing tribute. You should have mentioned it earlier!
“You have cleaned us of our most unworthy acolytes, Lord.”
Halifax, Nova Scotia, subvocalized Louise.
This wasn’t working—without the use of her hands or voice, moving things with her mind was more difficult. Maybe she could gesture with her tongue?
Peng pointed at the tech bro who had decapitated Shireen.
“You have identified another eager leader among us.”
Halifax, Nova Scotia, she repeated.
Yes, she thought, yes—something moved. The image clarified in her mind.
He brought back his attention to the bound SORD employees.
“There are no mere monster hunters. All three have been touched by your opponents.”
Halifax, Nova Scotia!
There was a hot woosh next to her ear, and her gag was cut by a fast-moving force with millimetre precision—a sliver of paper that, under her control, didn’t behave according to the laws of physics. A sliver now strong and fast enough to rip apart most of the gag keeping her silent. She had nicked herself on the cheek, but now wasn`t the time to be overly precious about it.
She chewed and opened her mouth, and the rest of the gag fell away to her neck.
“Victoria, British Columbia!” she whispered.
Something else slashed through the air. One of the Hellfire club women gagged and brought her hands to her throat, which was now bleeding freely. Members turned toward her.
Having created the distraction she wanted, Louise softly said a few more cities.
A flurry of slashes followed—severing the zip ties holding her, Alan and Florent to the chairs.
She got up, and got the timing right to have a card (Nunavut) snap open the zip-tie holding her hand, at the cost of a slight cut. Oh well—another small sacrifice of her own.
Bringing up her hands to more precise manipulations, she emptied the entire deck of 56 cards (Jokers and Canadian factoids welcome to join the rest) and let them fly.
First priority: Get themselves free. She sent the cards to free Alan and Florent from their bonds, then got a card to cut the zip-ties holding her ankle to the chair.
She winced—she’d given herself another paper cut on the ankle. Nobody was perfect, and she was rushing through a fairly complex plan.
The next move had been obvious from the get-go: The guards weren’t distracted by one more Hellfire Club member bleeding herself dry on the pentagram—they were looking at her and bringing up their guns.
The nice thing about superpowers flow is that once you were in it, time moved noticeably slower. Still, she cut it close—As the nearest guard raised his submachine gun, she barely managed to get a card to lodge itself in his aiming forearm, severing nerves and arteries. The gun fell to the floor as the guard screamed and clutched his damaged arm.
Alan didn’t miss a beat and dove to grab the firearm. As Louise dealt with another overeager guard in a similar fashion (albeit severing tissues at the wrist, now that she could aim a bit more finely), Alan fired the gun at another guard, getting a clean and definitive headshot.
🔷
Helen?
Yes, now.
🔷
The last guard managed to fire his weapon at Alan, but Louise adapted in consequence—some cards were in a position to intercept the bullets, so she created a makeshift armour.
Before she could send cards to take out the last guard, she saw Florent move at superhuman speed, leap from his steel chair and kick the guard in the jaw. By the time both were on the floor, Florent punched the guard clean in the throat.
Live or die, that guard would no longer be a problem.
Florent further flipped one of the massive wooden tables at their end of the boardroom, creating concealment and maybe even cover.
Barely ten seconds had passed since Louise had created her diversion. The three SORD members huddled behind the table. Louise recalled the surviving cards into her hand.
“Florent, you and I have to have a chat soon.”
For once, there was no sarcastic reply from the young man—simply a nod.
“Now what?”
Acting on a hunch, Louise closed her eyes and scanned. There was, in bright glowing yellow in the darkness somewhere on the other side of the elevator, another stash of printed material in a room nearby. Peng’s office, no doubt.
! Finely played, my opponents. But there will be no escape!
With a roar, the demon threw the heavy autopsy table—and its lifeless occupant—into the office boardroom door leading to the elevator, smashing it closed. That was bad enough, but then the demon roared and half a dozen fires spontaneously erupted in the boardroom.
“That complicates things,” muttered Florent.
Louise took a card and threw it full force on the demon. It barely left a mark.
! I will not let you leave alive!
“Bullets probably won’t work,” said Alan.
“Close range in the head?”
“Maybe.”
“Shouldn’t the sprinklers be working?” wondered Florent.
No, they would not. Because the boardroom was a place of power and sacrifice, and some rituals required fire. Peng would have disabled the sprinkler mechanisms, no doubt at great cost.
! You are alone in a corner!
The creature had a point—there was an entire Hellfire Club and a demon between them and a blocked-off door. The current standoff wouldn’t last long.
? Where can you run?
“Hey, guys, you need some help?” asked Patrizia. “Sorry for being late.”
“Can you make us an escape route?”
“Yes, but it’s going to require something incredibly stupid. Oversight won’t like it.”
“Oversight will agree that we’re well into the range of incredibly stupid solutions.”
“All right then.”
From the corner of her eye, Louise spotted movement outside the building.
“How’s your fear of heights? Please duck.”
They were already as far down as they could, but Louise appreciated the warning.
A moment later, the business end of a bright red-and-white construction crane smashed into the corner of the corporate boardroom, shattering half a dozen windows, ripping apart steel supports and tearing the marble floor in rubble. The sudden rush of night-time air helped clear up the thickening smoke near them.
“Your bridge out of there has arrived. Mind the gap.”
Louise grabbed Alan and looked at him in the eyes.
“Go,” she nodded toward the crane. “I still have something to do. I’ll be safe.”
Alan was at the extreme end of the macho spectrum, but he didn’t even consider arguing with her. Of course, he had just seen her take apart a few professional guards with a mere deck of cards.
“Give’em hell, Louise.”
Alan and Florent left, leaving Louise to cover their exit.
She rose, cards in hand, and stepped forward.
The demon didn’t move, but the entire Hellfire Club satisfyingly took a step back.
Behind her, clangs and grunts as her team left.
She raised the card deck face-out to show the card on top of the pile.
Ottawa, Ontario. A pretty picture of Parliament.
Ace of Spades.
The death card.
[Note to readers: If you can play Motörhead’s “Ace of Spades,” do it right now.]
She remembered Quebec City.
“There will be no survivors of the Hellfire Club tonight,” she said, taking a further step forward.
It was evident. Yes, she would be—already was—a multiple murderer, but she could not leave any loose ends. The Hellfire Club had removed itself from humanity the moment is had been so craven as to sacrifice another human being to seek assistance from demons. Not that, she suspected, it was the first time. Any survivor of the club could blow open the masquerade and try again.
There really was only one solution to this problem.
Apparently, they understood the situation the same way: One of the tech bros threw one of the obsidian knives at her. It was a bad throw from someone more used to golf clubs than projectile weapons, and it ineffectually fell short.
The demon looked at all of this with a curious expression.
She shook her head.
“His Majesty’s elite operatives regret your lack of cooperation,” she said, taking another step forward.
She swiped her hand. Faster than the eye could see, the Ace of Spaces cut tech bros’s throat. Deeply.
He fell to his knees on the pentagram, then face-first on the water element, and gurgled his way to unconsciousness.
Billions of dollars in assets, and yet so fragile.
The eight surviving members of the Hellfire Club ran for the exit. It was shattered and aflame, but they did their best to push through. The ripped their gowns and suits, bloodied their limbs, seared their elaborate hairdos, screamed and were pushed into harm by those behind them.
With a wave of the hand, she sent a few cards flying.
But Louise had a bigger target to worry about.
The demon hadn’t stood still—it was racing for the crane.
🔷
Don’t look down! Don’t you fucking even dare to look down! screamed Florent’s internal monologue.
Yup, things were going swimmingly at the SORD today, thought Florent. Doing a jungle-gym exercise roughly sixty stories above ground, on a steel structure that could conceivably crumple on itself at any moment. Hadn’t something like this happened in New York a few years back? He’d seen the video.
“Patrizia, head down right now,” said Alan.
But as Florent’s mind raced through the literal pitfalls of his situation, his body did its thing—grabbing steel handholds, walking on the minimal pathways, trying to keep up with Alan as the older man nearly raced forward. There was no time to waste—even if they made it to the crane tower, the arm that had crashed into the building could dislodge itself and drag the entire structure to the ground.
“Watch out—demon on the loose!” said Louise through the comm system.
Florent looked.
The nice thing about the situation, as unimaginably worse as it had just become, was that the demon was not interested in dislodging the steel framework of the crane to start the whole process that would send them crashing to their deaths a two hundred meters below.
Instead, it was taking a very personal interest in preventing their escape. To the point of chasing them on the crane arm, his massive bulk further shaking the structure.
🔷
Louise was torn, but the path in front of her was clear—she couldn’t do much to help Alan and Florent, but she did have things to do.
The smoke inside the room was making things difficult to see, but as she advanced toward the exit, she saw that four Hellfire Club members had been grievously wounded in the rush to make it past the dangerous door—a mixture of gashes on their limbs where blood was flowing freely, serious burns to the faces and hands and debilitating panic attacks. They were screaming, crying, curled up on themselves.
Money won’t help you now. Power no longer exists for you.
She had no mercy. If the world accommodated a demon, it could also feature an avenging angel.
She put them out of their misery with no hesitation.
An elevator had taken three Hellfire Club members downstairs. One had been left upstairs, banging on the steel elevator door and shouting courses at those who left.
As Louise stepped through the flames, he turned back.
“You!” he rasped, “We were this close!”
She shrugged and created another memorial foundation.
Having more important things to do, she closed her eyes and scanned.
Behind her, the fire was beginning to escalate into an all-consuming inferno. She coughed, not immune to the smoke.
She closed her eyes and pictured Mystères et incantations. Saw herself taking the book off the shelf, holding the spine of the book in her hands, opening it to page 50 …
shifted
… and opened her eyes.
She was no longer near the elevator, but in Pang’s inner office—a small room crammed with things he didn’t want anyone else to see. Including sacrificial weapons, a strange skull, and a few shelves of books best destroyed.
Before she could smile in satisfaction, she was abruptly slammed against the bookshelf. Another punch followed, hitting her on the cheek. Before she could pick herself up, strong hands wrapped themselves against her throat and squeezed.
Looking above, she saw Pang—his face a bland-and-red mess of soot, deep cuts, burns, singed hair and a merciless rictus.
“You fucking bitch,” he spat out, “you thought you could—”
🔷
Patrizia had been waiting for them at the elevator, but she didn’t wait to trigger the mechanism down as soon as both men neared the platform. She hadn’t seen half the shit that had gone down in the boardroom, but she was glad to get away from it.
“This may be too slow,” she said, eyeing the demon rampaging after them.
“I’m not jumping down,” reasonably pointed out Florent.
It was a rickety, uncomfortable experience even without a demon nipping at their heels—the small elevator clanking and moving down far too slowly. Patrizia had felt that the ride up had taken forever, and this was even worse.
Florent muttered and tapped frantically on his phone.
“Come on, come on…”
Then, with a roar and the screech of torn metal, the elevator stopped, then abruptly dropped a few metres before the emergency brakes took hold. Even Alan grunted in surprise.
Then the roar came closer.
“Got it!” said Florent.
The sight of a doorway being opened right inside the elevator couldn’t have been sweeter.
🔷
One of the top fatal mistakes is to take on a librarian in a room full of books.
By the time Louise blinked, Peng’s head had been pulverized clean off his body by one of the tomes of his own collection.
Pushing the heavy bleeding body of the man off of her, Louise got up.
Her phone telephone still showed that doorways were not available up here. Probably a cursed artifact somewhere in the room.
Sure, she could open the door and let the boardroom fire do its thing, but that was not a sure thing—maybe the small office acted as a panic room, isolated from fire.
There really was only one more thing left.
Wincing in sympathy for the books in a more heartfelt fashion than any mercy she had shown to her human victims so far, she mentally apologized to the collection and stepped a few steps away from the shelves.
This was new to her—understandably not one of the things that she enjoyed practising.
But she had to do it.
🔷
“I WANT A FULL WEAPON LOAD NOW,” commanded Alan to one of the onlookers in the Nexus.
Getting an obedient salute and a quick exit to fetch the requested equipment, he turned to one of the technicians.
“Re-open the doorway. Same place, ground level.”
“But—“
“Bug hunt. And I want face masks!”
Not caring about the stares or the muttering, he looked at Florent and Patrizia.
“You should stay here.”
“No way, boss,” said Patrizia. “Let me get my toys.”
“I’m on that ride until it ends,” said Florent.
Good people.
🔷
The effect was imperceptible at first—wisps of smoke, a few darkened pages curling.
But within moments, the entire bookcase went up in flame.
Closing her eyes, she saw herself open up one of the magazines at Shoppers …
-shifted-
… and found herself standing at the magazine rack of the drugstore she had visited earlier to buy the deck of cards. The air was curiously clean after the last few minutes.
No one had seen her—no one was anywhere near the meagre magazine section.
One rare hurray for illiteracy, she thought.
But someone would notice her dishevelled, bruised, sooty, torn-clothing, bleeding appearance on the way out of the store.
But there were ways.
She grabbed a thin fashion magazine, went to the self-checkout counter, paid with her credit card and left.
The way I look screams homeless, except when you have money—then it’s eccentric.
She smiled and showed her receipt. The staff didn’t even blink an eye.
Ah, downtown Toronto.
🔷
Hastily shouldering a full load, Alan charged back into the street of Toronto.
They were lucky that the business district was generally deserted at this time of the evening. But not that much—Alan could see the phones light up at the sight of three people pop out of a bright doorway. One of them in a half-torn business suit with heavy weaponry.
They had maybe ninety seconds before Toronto Police arrived with murderous intent.
🔷
As soon as she was out of the drugstore, Louise looked for the last two members of the Hellfire Club.
This wasn’t difficult—one of her last throws had been to shove cards in the fabric of the outfits of the last few survivors as they were clawing the way out of the boardroom.
Where’s Whistler? Where’s Charlottetown?
She knew that Charlottetown was Naomi, the backstabbing grocery mogul who had sent Shireen to her death. Whistler was the stabby tech bro who had finally taken out Shireen.
I didn’t like you at all, Shireen, but I’m still going to avenge you.
She focused and saw the cards below ground level. Ah yes—parking garage. They wouldn’t merely walk to the subway station.
Why run when she could just wait? Where was the garage exit?
As she walked to the exit, her hands started rolling the fashion magazine on itself.
🔷
“Up there!” said Patrizia.
Her drones had been out as soon as they had touched the ground, and she figured that a demon would positively radiate the kind of energy they could pick up.
She was right. Not that the demon could have been anywhere else but in the tower—on Earth, it was still subject to largely the same laws of physics as the natives.
“Don’t bring down the crane, please,” said Florent to Alan. “We’re in enough trouble as it is.”
“It’s going to get worse if we don’t dispose of it right away.”
A fully-grown Beelzebub-class demon in downtown Toronto? Yessir.
But the demon was predictable: It climbed down the tower roughly—more falling from one set of rungs to another set… and they were getting ready for him.
Alan threw a claymore on the ground.
“Hey big guy! I’m right here!” he shouted.
Taunting demons was not in the job description, not in the instruction manual and definitely not in the tips and tricks taught to recruits to ensure their survival.
But it worked—the demon was already on their trails, but now it looked motivated.
!! At last, a fair fight!!
It jumped down the last twenty metres, landing on the pavement with a thud that torn apart the asphalt underneath it. It moved toward them, and stepped over the claymore.
Alan didn’t blink. He triggered the weapon.
To be fair, thought Patrizia in between pangs of horror, the claymore mine did its best: The seven hundred steel balls detonated right underneath the demon ripped apart chunks of its flesh, and clearly inconvenienced the creature.
But as the flash and the bang passed, the creature was still heading their way. A bit slower, but no less determined. In fact, maybe a little even more resolute in its footsteps.
Alan shouldered his best assault rifle and fired at the demon. In the face—none of that body-of-mass thing now that they were less than ten metres away from each other. Clearly aiming for the eyes and the soft gray matter behind it.
The demon flinched as its face was torn apart by high-powered rounds.
This should have been it. It should have died right then.
But all the bullets did was to expose the skull underneath the face. The shiny, gleaming metal skull that looked a lot like the creatures that had dogged SORD since the beginning of the year.
? Do you think I need eyes to see?
The creature lunged very specifically for Florent, and swept him away in one powerful stroke.
Patrizia had to do something—she called her drone and waved them to the creature.
They had about as much impact as a swarm of mosquitoes on a bodybuilder—the demon swatted at the buzzing machines.
But its attention had been distracted, and it didn’t see Alan shoulder a handy portable rocket-propelled grenade. Nor the grenade fired almost point-blank into its chest.
That left a hole.
Incredibly, though, the creature kept moving. It was slower—Patrizia avoided its swipe and ensure she ended up behind him.
Alan grabbed a grenade—not rocket-launched, and hefted it in his hand.
The demon recognized danger and charged Alan.
Patrizia gasped—despite Alan’s best efforts, he wasn’t able to avoid the creature and was thrown back five metres before crashing into a car behind him, leaving a dent and shattering one of the side windows.
But before she could do anything, Florent moved impossibly fast—rushing to the demon, grabbing a grenade, forcing it into its mouth and doing a back-flip through the air to land safely at the back of the creature.
The grenade exploded, taking apart the demon’s head.
After that, it was all over but the cleanup.
Florent had one last flourish for the phone-filming passerbys just before exiting through the doorway.
“Coming this summer on all big screens!” he bowed.
🔷
Naomi’s car passed close enough to Louise on her way out of the parking garage that they made eye contact.
What a nightmare this must be for you, thought Louise…
… before spearing the rolled-up fashion magazine right into the driver-side windshield of the luxury sedan that Naomi was driving. And then her head.
The sedan swerved widely and smashed into the cement wall on the other side of the street. Louise heard the puff of an airbag, but it was too late for that to help.
Unfortunately, Louise couldn’t check, because she had lost the element of surprise: She barely had the time to dodge before tech bro’s SUV roared past her. He must have followed, but not too closely.
This actually hurt, she thought as she got up. The concrete sidewalk didn’t forgive a dive. She went into the empty street—had she lost him already?
But no – and that was another problem—in a screech of tires and the roar of the SUV’s powerful motor, tech bro was less interested in a clean escape than revenge, and so he turned around and aimed his speeding vehicle straight at her.
Seeing the front end of the vehicle getting nearer, knowing that she would never have the time to dodge, Louise didn’t think—she pushed.
A rush of air on both sides of her confirmed that print media was once again coming to her rescue.
Louise wasn’t technically moving the news racks—she was just moving the papers inside. Right into tech bro’s face.
Three newspaper boxes smashed into the oncoming SUV, instantly tearing it apart. It was as if the vehicle had smashed head-on into a concrete wall studded with metal spikes. The carnage was instantaneous, and the wreckage stopped a few metres away from Louise. Blotches of red matter told her that tech bros had met his entirely deserved fate.
She still checked to make sure, and also verified Naomi’s car to make sure that the woman had not survived.
Once that was done, she pulled her phone and dialled a doorway.
As she had promised, the Hellfire Club had not survived the evening.
🔷
Louise became an avid news junkie during the following days and weeks.
It was a matter of survival for her—she dreaded having her phone ring and the person at the other end of the line start by saying, “I’m so-and-so for major-media-outlet—would to care to comment on a story we’re developing?” They had been in the middle of Toronto, the most densely populated area in Canada. Cameras had captured her at every step of the way, and the rest of the team’s heroics in stopping a rampaging demon had popped up on social media within moments.
It was far from the only story to emerge from that evening.
The single biggest daily wealth transfer in Canadian history had begun—forty-five billion dollars torn apart by wills, legal challenges, dramatic succession power plays, ungrateful inheritors and gleeful commentators. As if the money wasn’t enough, the power vacuum left on Bay Street by such high-profile deaths had been immense.
That alone would have been enough to keep the events in the forefront for months.
But then you added the destruction wreaked by a very weird night in downtown Toronto (including a mysterious blaze that had nearly taken out the entire top half of the Weston Tower and would eventually result in a complete top-to-bottom renovation of one of Canada’s biggest skyscrapers), it got even bigger.
Then there was the footage. Uploaded, taken down, re-uploaded, archived by pirate groups, denounced as fake, hailed as extraordinary, discussed in Question Period, endlessly pored over by conspiracy groups, silkscreened onto T-shirts.
The masquerade wobbled. But it held.
Alan’s snap decision to wear balaclavas had been miraculously effective—no amount of AI gait detection or reconstruction could identify them, although everyone had doubts as to whether Patrizia could stay undetected. (In the end, most commentators misgendered her.) Louise had been unrecognizable due to the various cuts, bruises and burns on her face, plus her wild hair and the grainy nature of the footage captured near the less busy parking exit—and having ended the entire thing in twenty seconds meant that there was barely any cell phone footage—although the surveillance camera footage was crazy enough.
Many powerful people in the Canadian law enforcement or public service community were made aware of how it would be in everyone’s interest for this to remain very mysterious, in the interest of national security. The theories were so wild that they couldn’t be believed anyway. The Hollywood special-effects angle convinced many. Others thought this was an American thing. Or maybe a Chinese thing. Probably not a Russian thing.
Inside SORD, the actions of the Hellfire Club crisis cell were hailed as necessary. Perhaps a bit overdone, but Louise didn’t have to justify her actions too much once she described the scene of a corporate boardroom human sacrifice leading to a demon summoning. That was high on the list of things that should never happen and eventually, both Oversight and the Management Board reluctantly agreed that what was done had to be done. SORD did not issue licenses to kill, but it could be forgiving in some circumstances.
This helped a lot to quieten some noises up above—although the Prime Minister’s Office specifically requested not to be briefed on the matter as so to keep plausible deniability. The people who knew were not the people likely to be invited to deliver sworn-in testimony to public enquiries, and those people who were called to testify had no clue what had happened.
There was a lot of nonsense everywhere for a while. The Research division did find a few guesses on social media that were remarkably close to the truth—tales of a government department tasked with fighting demons. Not quite exact on the specifics, and clearly not having any clear idea of what had actually happened, but close enough that the Management Board assessed that some retirees or contractors had talked a bit too freely.
But the noise died down over time.
Still, effects of the night lingered. Louise had nightmares about it. Even when fully woken up, she recalled a few details of the evening that made her uneasy. But nothing that she could use.
“You wanted to see me?” said Florent.
Louise looked up from another media crawl. The story was clearly dying down—slowly being replaced by other nonsense, even though surveys showed that a majority of Canadians felt that they hadn’t heard the entire story yet.
“Yes, please, sit down,” she said, showing him the comfy chair next to her office.
She was apparently doing to remain as Director-General, although Hermina was quite clear that the board would not look on favourably to any field operations for her—it was going to be the desk from now on.
Florent sat down and looked at her. Well dressed as usual—the preppiest look he could pull off in Maple Hall’s relaxed standards.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well, actually, I don’t want to talk to Florent. I want to whoever is with Florent.”
He smiled again, confusingly.
“What?”
“I want to talk to Martin, or to Maple Hall, or whichever Ancient God is hitching a ride on the poor boy.”
His smile died down. When he spoke again, it was with a much more serious, deeper voice.
“So, you figured it out?”
“I should have seen it earlier, but I was busy. Quebec City should have been the giveaway, but we were all grieving back then—not the time to bring it up. Obviously, what happened in Toronto was also worth discussion, but we’ve been dealing with the fallout of that as well. But in retrospect, there were other signs. Your uptake of conventions and procedures, well ahead of a first-year recruit. Your sudden ability to find things in the Library. Your unusually thorough knowledge of SORD history—sure, these things could be learned from studying the archives, but really?”
“Clever.”
“Not really, it was a blind spot for too long. I expect that Maple House has its eyes on the ground in many places. I should be annoyed by that, but I’m not. In fact, I’m glad to have you around.”
“Thank you. You keep proving that your rapid rise through the ranks is deserved.”
“Cut the flattery, it’s not going to help. Is Florent hearing or watching our conversation?
“He’s in a suspended state right now. I can share these memories with him or not.”
“Let’s not. How does it work? Have you entirely consumed him?”
“Oh no. We have learned, through experience, that we work best with humans as partners, not by turning you in mindless drones. The hybrid spark of this collaboration is … well beyond anything we could do by ourselves. As such, Florent is in control almost all the time. I may feed him ideas and hints and provide assistance when it suits my purposes, but we do believe in free will.”
“As long as it’s under your control.”
“Florent will live to decide what he wants to do with his full life. Until his retirement, I will be his shadow but he will stand in the sunlight. This is not a servitude for him. He has been offered a choice and has taken it. It does come with advantages. He was a very lonely young man before I asked to join him. He isn’t so lonely now.”
“Much like Martin was a lifelong bachelor.”
“Life in the SORD carries its own isolation. How are you doing?”
“I should probably tell you to go fuck yourself for prying, but I want us to have a friendly relationship based on trust and respect. As such, even though you will never be my shrink, I can tell you that I’m not looking for intimacy, and may never will. Too much trouble, too little reward. I gather this is not a rare stance for women my age.”
“Well, you never know.”
“That tangent is now closed. But on another topic, Ancient God, maybe you can clear up something for me.”
“I’m not an Ancient God, but go and ask. I will be happy to do this for you whenever you need it.”
“I think you were forced to come out because the situation got out of control.”
“Obviously.”
“Are we out of the woods now?”
“Taking out the Hellfire Club did remove a major source of problems. In the aftermath, most of the people who know what happened are keeping quiet because they’re sympathetic to the goals and methods of the SORD. But some other people do know quite a lot, and they are not so favourable to the SORD.”
“Are you giving me privileged information?”
“Absolutely not. Free will and collaboration, trust and respect. I’m merely repeating what you already know or suspect. How was the enemy so well informed about our procedures in laying down recon operations and traps? How did they know exactly how we would react in Quebec City? Who got that TYPHOON device? What was the Hellfire Club looking to accomplish with its summoning? Why was there a creature skull in Pang’s office?”
Florent—or rather its rider—raised his hands in unknowability.
“I would suggest returning to these questions over the next few weeks. For now, take a break. Relax. Focus on the job. Maybe the clues will come to you in your dreams.”
Chapter 11—Burning Maple
Post-apocalyptic winter had come to Maple Hall.
Standing alone in the open lobby, Louise couldn’t see more than three metres in front of her. The normally blue sky had turned to gray ash, a mixture of snow and soot falling from the sky. The office windows she could see were opaque with smoke behind the glass, and the ground was already ten centimetres thick with gray-white powder. The ground crunched under her as she walked.
Bodies were buried under the snow. She walked around them, trying to get to the central tree.
She moaned when she finally saw the tree. It had split down the middle, with a third of the tree having fallen on the ground. The branches she could see were dark and burnt.
Her heart raced. What had happened out there? Who are still alive?
And then, getting closer to the parts of the tree still standing, she saw it in the fog—a hanged man, the rope climbing so high she could not see where it was attached.
She got closer to the hanged man, unable to get away from it.
It turned. It was her old director. He opened his eyes and looked at her.
“Find the renegade,” he said.
Louise opened her eyes. She was back in her bed. A nightmare. Another goddamned nightmare—she had dreamt variations on it before—the dead tree, Maple Hall destroyed, the hanged man. But this was the first time it had said anything to her.
The renegade? What was the message here, and where did it come from? Was it the Ancient Gods, her subconscious or something else?
She hadn’t been idle in the weeks since the battle of Toronto, but it was time to get serious again in unravelling the mysteries that still bothered her.
🔷
Deep down, Alan was a forest man. Give him trees, a clearing, a lake and a little house up the beach and he’d be perfectly happy. That picture covered much of Canada, but not all of it, and the rest did make him uncomfortable.
Above the tree line? He didn’t like it, and it wasn’t just the cold. Too sparse, too exposed.
The same went for much of the Prairies. Standing in the middle of absolutely nothing, able to see for kilometres around: nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. The environment didn’t leave many tactical options. You stood your ground and fought.
It didn’t help that he didn’t quite understand what they were doing here, a full tactical squad in the middle of an endless unplowed field. A marginal signal detected by Control had identified a farm in eastern Alberta as being of interest, which had been followed up a few days later by a local police report of “big-ass varmints” taking down … two cows?
Control had eventually authorized a mission to see what the fuss was about. Some unusual readings had led to this specific field, far from any main road … and utterly exposed. It was sunny, slightly cool in the way early fall usually was, and slightly damp.
“Anything back at mosquito central?” asked Alan.
“Nothing on my board from the surveillance net,” said Patrizia. “Actually, nothing at all except for you guys. And the cows next door.”
Alan could hear some mooing in the distance. The herd that had apparently been attacked.
He supposed that they were lucky, in a way, to have the time to go out on such dumb expeditions. After the clusterfuck that had been Toronto, things had died down in terms of intrusions—the Hellfire Club having been exterminated, Canada once again became a land of very occasional excitement. His team had found itself with more free time, and that meant being able to follow low-priority leads from time to time.
“Hey, I’ve got something strange here,” said Rebecca.
Alan perked up, although that may have been just the boredom. He jogged over.
“Oh,” he said.
This was much larger than a gopher hole. A tractor could damage a wheel getting stuck in that, and there wasn’t much dirt outside of the hole to show the digging.
Worse yet was the dried brown marks leading to the hole. Dried blood, Alan would have bet. It certainly had something to do with the awful stench coming out of the hole—a mixture of rotten meat, ammonia and fetid excrement.
“A real bug hunt!” said Rebecca.
“Yeah, except we’re not sneaking in there. Any idea? Patrizia?”
“The drones can map what’s inside. Let me redirect the swarm…”
Within moments, the buzzing microdrones (version 2.0: smaller, faster, deadlier—thanks to the Americans) rushed toward them and disappeared into the hole.
“I’m feeding you the mapping results,” said Patrizia. “It’s all going to be under you.”
As Alan looked at his tactical display, we could see the underground network of tunnels get larger and larger … and larger still.
“Wow,” said Rebecca.
“Are there more exits?” asked Alan.
“I’m seeing a few. As for the rest—wait—”
“What?”
“I’m losing drones. There’s this area near the middle that they can’t reach to map.”
“Nest?”
“I’m not the wildlife expert, boss.”
It had to be a nest, thought Alan.
“Do we have a position for that nest? Walk us above it.”
Patrizia made them jog a little—it was about half a kilometre away, on the opposite side from the cows.
“How deep underground?”
“About ten metres.”
Alan grimaced. That deep was not going to be easy.
“How’s Overseer?”
“Floating above happily.”
Overseer was a bigger drone that was meant to stay airborne and provide additional support to the operational teams. Another new thing from the Americans. It wasn’t going to be much help in blowing up an underground nest of critters, though.
Sure, a CF-18 with a Paveway bunker cracker could help, but it would be difficult to convince Oversight, let alone the Canadian Forces, to bomb peaceful farm country.
Then he had an idea.
“Hey, Control, what’s the policy on linking open doorways?”
“What do you have in mind, Blue Leader?”
“One doorway above a tunnel entrance, another doorway underneath the nearest big lake.”
“Ooh, clever. Some boys around here just got excited.”
“Freshwater only—no need to contaminate the soil.”
“Always thinking about the farmers. Let us set up something.”
“Should I pull the drones now?” asked Patrizia.
“Right away. How many of them lost?”
“Lost four. Still have eight.”
“Pull them away from the nest, try to map more entrance holes.”
“So, the plan is to drown them out?” asked Recon.
“Oh, not at all. I want at least one of you posted at each exit. Patrizia, please guide everyone to their favourite hole.”
As Blue Team chuckled, Alan jogged back to the cow-adjacent hole.
After a few minutes, Patrizia announced that the tunnel network had been mapped, and the drone were aboveground, keeping watch a few metres above each of the six exit holes. The team was in place.
“We’re ready to set up the torrent,” eventually said Control. “Got a fix?
Alan used his phone to designate the hole next to which he was standing.
“We can do more than one, Bleu Team.”
They quickly set up three flooding points.
“All right, stand by for flooding … this may get a bit damp.”
Alan stood back, and hoped the rest of his team got the message. Moments later, a doorway opened and a continuous stream of water fell into the hole. This wasn’t a mere trickle from a hose—this was a square foot of water falling directly into the oversized hole.
Alan expected it to fill quickly, but the water kept flowing into the hole.
“Wow, that warren is thirsty,” cracked Rebecca.
“Stand by for any escapees.”
Alan put himself in position. There likely wouldn’t be anything coming out of this hole given the water flooding in, but he didn’t believe in being unprepared.
“I’m hearing something,” said Rebecca. “Woah!”
Alan heard shooting.
“One down! These things are chonkers! Wait there’s another!”
The chatter overlapped with gunfire, then only gunfire. Alan could hear it without the comms system.
There still wasn’t anything coming out of his hole.
“We’re getting overwhelmed! These things are getting away!”
That was from Flanker—the one closest to Alan’s position. He made a snap decision and ran to help.
He could see Flanker shooting, and other shapes surrounding him.
As he approached, he understood.
These things were huge. Rodent-like, but nothing native to this Earth—Pony-sized, with decimetre-long incisors and red eyes.
Alan took a shot as soon as he got in safe range. The creatures were definitely shootable, but there were a lot of them, and without Alan’s help they would have been overwhelmed.
How were the others doing?
“Status report! Are they overrunning you?”
Three nos, two yeses.
“Patrizia, bring Overseer to help.”
🔷
Some distance back, Patrizia was busy wrestling with the multiple inputs from her swarm of drones: eight micro-drones, plus the powerful Overseer orbiting above, keeping a strategic overview of the situation from a kilometre above.
Two of the holes were getting overwhelmed—one operative per hole, which wasn’t nearly enough.
She heard Alan bark orders at those not seeing any action at their designated spots—regroup, join the fight, exterminate as many of the alien critters as possible.
But for some of the creatures, it would already be too late—they were running across the open field and no one would be able to run at them fast enough.
She tagged those escapees and activated Overseer.
No guns, Mom. But maybe, occasionally, tactical field artillery.
From a kilometre above, Overseer took action. A turret underneath the drone could cycle rapidly through a series of targets designated by the swarm, and each one got a railgun-fired nail through the head. At the speed the nails were fired, the impact was like being hit with a much bigger calibre projectile—targets were often shredded upon being hit. It drained the drone’s battery like crazy, but it was efficient: The targets went down one by one, and none came back up.
“Overseer has control,” she confirmed.
🔷
After a seemingly infinite stream of escaping creatures, the flow died down somewhat. It was about time, thought Alan—The corpses took a lot of space, and there was a risk that one would sneak away undetected because hidden by the small mound of dead creatures.
Alan didn’t exactly feel good about shooting down those critters: They were clearly dangerous and alien, but there wasn’t much of a challenge here—barely one step above fish in a barrel.
But then the ground started to shake.
He looked at the tactical display and turned toward the location of the nest.
“To the nest! Let Overseer handle the rest!”
He had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen, and he didn’t like it one bit. They would need all the firepower to their disposal.
Running toward the nest, he saw the ground shake and erupt—a clawed paw the size of a car tire emerged from the ground.
A second paw reached the open air, and then the rest of the creature—the mother to those oversized prairie dogs.
It was risible—a groundhog-like creature the size of a small car, and yet as clumsy and overweight as the smaller animals could be.
But there was nothing to laugh about when a swipe of those claws could take off a human head.
“Open fire!”
The team focused their fire at the head of the creature. A good three seconds of shooting followed, during which the creature was visibly wounded. It screamed, clawed the air a few times, then fell to the ground.
“Don’t approach yet. Patrizia, have the Overseer deliver a few shots.”
With a few thuds, the drone delivered the needed double tap.
A few moments of silence followed, occasionally interrupted by the sound of Overseer hitting a stray escapee. But that too eventually quieted.
“Patrizia, are we done here?”
“I see nothing left. Can we wait a few minutes?”
“Of course. Hey, Control, shut down the doorways. And call the nearest cleaners.”
In the aftermath, the team look deflated. They had saved Canada from … cow-eating rodents? Sure, it needed to be done, but Alan would have rather seen the Green Team rookies on it.
The action being over, he looked at his watch. They’d be home and done by the end of their shift.
Which made him smile—tonight was date night with Darlene. He wouldn’t have to cancel … as he had done a few too many times before.
🔷
“I’m reactivating the fact-finding team, Hermila,” said Louise.
“As long as the resources come from your unit and oversight approves external intervention, the Management Board sees no problem with your initiative.”
“You were just waiting until I got interested again, right? Gave me a little nighttime push?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
🔷
SORD depended on many kinds of specialists, thought Florent, and some of them were often ignored or dismissed.
The cleaners, for instance, were regularly outshined by their armed colleagues in Operations Division. But if their task was usually less dangerous, it was usually as delicate, and often more challenging. Their mission was to scoop up the debris and carcasses left after operations—once the soldiers had gone back home, the cleaners swept in to sweep up. They often couldn’t rely on doorway technology—this meant having trucks at the ready across Canada, ready to be sent to the scene of the latest carnage, negotiating with the local police forces, impersonating cleaning businesses (they had roughly sixty valid licenses across Canadian jurisdictions) and acting quickly on the scene to either eliminate evidence (usually by stuffing a regular truck of organic material to be incinerated) or archive it (in statis boxes).
They had been busy over the past few years, leading to oversights or delegation (such as sending two plucky and handsome librarians to Chegoggin), and an enormous backlog. The nature of the job, which was to take problems away for the local authorities, meant that much of the workload was unpredictable and urgent.
They had done some amazing work in the hours immediately following the incidents of Quebec City and Toronto. In the first case swooping in to scoop up as much of the basement content as they could before—and during—demolition work on the house. In the second, they had managed, through some perilous combination of doorway technology and high-rise chutzpah, to get into Peng’s burnt-out office to retrieve was hadn’t burned, and a good chunk of the charred remnants as well.
The cleaning crew was still very, very irritated at Blue Team for the pony-groundhog pile of corpses. It wasn’t as much the corpses themselves (although once half a dozen of them had been preserved for dissection, the rest had been incinerated on-site) than for the soil remediation work to fix the fallen tunnels in the wake of a massive inundation that had been a muddy mess.
Once the cleaners were done, whatever had been selected for preservation or later study got sent to the archive for triaging work. Technicians from Research Directorate’s Forensic Analysis team would open boxes and statis cubes to assess their content—Worth preserving? Dangerous? Disposable?—and recommend further action.
Their role was often akin to a bomb disposal crew: Some objects could be exceptionally dangerous, and examining them (let alone taking them out of statis cubes) could be hazardous even with strong protective measures in place.
The backlog there was frightening, which partially explained that the Quebec City and Toronto boxes still hadn’t been examined even weeks afterwards. The reasoning from the archivist was often—the stuff in regular boxes is inert, the stuff in statis boxes can hold forever, so why hurry something that takes time?
But Florent was here this morning to speed things along. Tasked by Louise to dig into the remnants of both incidents to learn more about them, he had obtained a day’s worth of work from the archive and Forensic Analysis crews, and he intended to make good use of them.
He walked to the archives through the white corridor.
“Well, if it isn’t my darling Florent,” said the archivist.
“You’re the highlight of my day, Dara.”
She giggled.
“Charmer. What can I do for you today? I’m told you have a full requisition.”
“I do.”
He gave her the document—it mentioned some boxes by identification, and the rest being whatever was retrieved in the aftermath of Quebec City and Toronto.
“All for Forensic Analysis.”
“Yes, with Operations support—there’s a live creature in one of them.”
“Interesting. Let me punch that in.”
Turning to the terminal next to her, she entered the values of the specific archives being requested, and then the general parameters of what was brought in on those two special occasions.
Outside, Florent could see the robotic arms fading into the distance to retrieve the pallets requested.
“They’re all on their way to Forensics. It may take a while given the volume.”
“That’s fine, I’m here for a long time, not a good time.”
“You sure I can’t help make it better?” she said with a wink.
“Impossible. As I told you—you’re already the best part of my day.”
While what they had gotten back from both operations was only a fraction of what could have been captured without the destruction, Louise hoped that there would be new clues in there. Walking over the Forensics Analysis rooms, Florent could feel Helen’s interest in what was going to be revealed.
Florent wasn’t unaware of Helen’s interests, nor of her nature. He enjoyed the intimate companionship, the voice in his mind, the things he knew because of her. She was there the first thing in the morning until she was often the one lulling him to sleep. She knew his innermost secrets and desires and loved him for it.
He knew how it worked—the tricks of perception, the taking over his body, the voices inside his head. But it worked, and it worked better than any human relationship could ever do.
The Forensic Autopsy room was also only accessible through a while corridor, and it was a surprisingly small space. After all, there often did the equivalent of defusing live grenades here—it made sense to limit the potential damages to the rest of the facility.
An observation facility was available today—safely separated from the unboxing and analysis rooms behind centimetre-thick transparent walls, no direct access and modulated audio from the room. If things turned badly, observers would probably survive—as long as it wasn’t a memetic hazard.
The room was clinically clear and sparsely equipped to prevent “accidents” with tools. Almost entirely white to help spot corruption and damage, it featured a long central table on which the boxes were opened, and then the material moved across the table to specialists who examined them. A battery of sensors made sure the objects were not emitting or absorbing any unusual radioactive, spectral or electromagnetic energy. Those were certainly not infallible (an entire class of memetic hazards could not be detected that way), but they certainly helped.
A crew was already in place. From their friendly banter and eagerness to receive the first pallet to analyze, they didn’t look too unhappy to have been assigned to another file for the day—the advantage of high-priority work on material that could be far more interesting than going through the accumulated backlog.
Two operations specialists were on standby in corners of the room. They had been made aware of Florent kicking and locking a creature into a statis box and were ready to neutralize it quickly. While they had a pretty good idea which was the statis box that contained the creature, they couldn’t be sure of it, and that added a small frisson of suspense to the unboxing.
The Quebec City files were first—might as well get rid of the potential for a dangerous creature popping free of the box as soon as possible. Florent had also argued that earlier evidence should be reviewed first—maybe they would see something that could explain later events.
The first few boxes were deathly dull—they were boxes of books, sometimes of dubious subject matter, but not in themselves any dangerous. As his months of employment with SORD accumulated, Florent was getting used to the most amazing range of formerly mind-blowing stuff. Having Helen in his head was also like having a topic-specific search engine:
“Are there books that can harm humans?” he had once asked Marie.
“You mean aside from infecting them with terrible ideas? Only a few. There’s one copy of the Necronomicon—bound in the flesh of a serial murderer—that actively seeks to harm humans, but its means of harm are very limited by the nature of being a book. We roughed up the edges of its pages to prevent paper cuts—it really didn’t like that. It’s in a statis box now.”
One day, they would probably encounter a deliberately engineered book that will have harmful characteristics and a desire to kill. That book would not be preserved—it would undergo a rare justified case of book-burning.
Fortunately, that day would be another day. As the Quebec City boxes were opened, nothing much more dangerous than bad writing was discovered in the first few boxes. As the material was matched against existing SORD book databases and rated for danger, it quickly became clear that those were all known books, and that they were not that dangerous.
“We’ve got something weird, here,” said one of the technicians, holding up a book.
“What?”
“There’s a SORD archive tag already attached to it.”
Florent’s head shot up. What?
“Are you sure the book just came out of the box?”
“Absolutely sure. The video footage will back me up.”
They’d check later. In the meantime, this was … unprecedented. A SORD archive tag, usually affixed to artifacts after forensic analysis was completed, already found on an object on-site?
This didn’t smell good. In fact, it smelled absolutely horrible. Whatever explanations Florent could imagine about this were all bad. Some, like time travel, were terrible. Others were terrifying.
Should he call Louise? Yes, but not yet. Let’s see if this happens again, and gather more information.
In the end, five of the books in Quebec City already had their archive tags. The others didn’t, but some showed signs of having been tampered with—suggesting that they once had archive tags as well.
“We ran the records,” eventually said one of the archivists tasked with research, and they all come from a haul we catalogued ten years ago. A private archive in Montreal had a collection of books that told too many secrets of the universe, so our team went in and grabbed the lot. It sounds as if this material found itself back in circulation.
“We’re going to need the identity of whoever accessed this material last.”
“Already on it.”
Florent received and accessed the information on his device.
This didn’t make sense—last access was years ago by a man who had since then retired and died.
He shook his head and focused again on the unboxing. He’d hand over the details to Louise and if he hadn’t figured it out by then, she would make it her problem.
“We’re getting close to the live-specimen boxes,” said one of the technicians.
Florent peered intently at the statis box hauled on the table.
They deactivated its statis field and opened the box.
Nothing but a few more books, all once again
A second at-risk box: Still the same result.
A third? Same result.
Like many, Florent was ready to chalk the no-show to faulty indexing. Which happened, and meant that the jack-in-the-box would be more surprising when it popped.
He just hoped the operatives were up to the task, and hopefully that they would try to preserve it.
In the end, the creature popped out of the box half-a dozen pallets later—surprising everyone but the operatives who fired medium calibre incapacitating darts in the creature as it leaped from the box and tried cornering the scientists. It was, in the harsh light of the forensic analysis room, a rather endearing starfish-like creature whose primary downside was how it tried murdering one of the technicians.
“Shuffling creature to dissection, now.”
Florent followed the sedated creature to the dissection room, even though he had zero interest of watching it happen. Blood and guts were not his favourite thing, and it was distressing to him to see medical professionals use scalpels to cut open even an alien creature.
The dissection crew was often busy, but they rarely received carcasses as neatly preserved at this one. With sensors recording their every move, they detailed how the creature was built—although after a while they clearly started using the word “engineered.” The combination of muscle and bone to create limbs that were both incredibly flexible and yet quite strong was designated as being without equivalent in the natural world.
Fortunately, the creature stayed dead throughout—no last-minute flaying murder, leaps for the exit or supernatural curse that they could detect. Just one more new-fashioned creature lying flat on the steel dissection table.
Scientists muttered notes about the dimensions of the head, overall structure and build, and various other aspects of xenobiology (a very active field of study in Maple Hall) that they would no doubt mine and explore for years to come.
Sensing that the dissection was nearing diminishing returns, Florent returned to the forensics analysis room to watch the last of the Quebec City boxes being reviewed.
The books were growing less frequent as the evidence from the other basement rooms of the Quebec City mansion was opened and examined. There was a lot of junk here—artifacts that looked spooky but were entirely innocuous; objects with potential power that carried no enchantments or curse; items so old as to be completely inert. Nearly everything here could be put in a milk crate and stuffed in anyone’s bookshelf without fearing anything untoward.
And yet the team found a few objects with Archive tags on them. Also dating back to more or less the same archive pallet ten years ago.
He got a text from Louise asking for first impressions.
He answered back his gnawing conclusion of the work so far: Quebec City was probably salted with artifacts from SORD’s own archives.
🔷
Louise received the text with surprising equanimity, since it confirmed what she was already thinking.
Find the Renegade.
She got to work.
🔷
The Quebec City boxes examination wound down around midday—Everything catalogued (maybe re-catalogued), neutralized, put in statis when it needed to be (only a few objects qualified), sent back to the archives with substantial notes about possible duplication. Florent knew that the archivists were already tearing out their hair trying to figure out how things had gotten out of their archives without them knowing—Dara was nothing short of furious and promised an answer within days.
After a short break, the work resumed with the content of the Pang office. Here, it was a very different kind of work. Fewer objects had been retrieved due to Louise’s bout of pyromania: most of the books had gone up in flames, and what was left were objects that had been able to survive the blaze.
As Florent heard it, the lost books were not a loss: Those were reprinted copies, and Jasmine already had her hands full trying to find the way they had been reprinted. Mere billionaires would not stoop so low as to use customer-grade internet print-on-demand books, so a vast effort was being conducted to identify printers who may have been able to print such books with discretion. As Florent watched the Toronto statis boxes being opened, he knew that SORD was examining the results of search warrants in the mansions of the other Hellfire Club members, trying to accumulate clues. Jasmine had promising leads in terms of electronic transmission of source files, but she was waiting for the results of the SORD cyber-security team before going any further—it was possible to read encrypted hard drives … but it took longer.
As the objects were taken out of the Toronto statis boxes, Florent could see their effectiveness: As the boxes had been put together as soon as it was possible to access the building, the objects were still warm, still smoky from the fire. The technicians soon had their clean gloves covered in soot, requiring several changes of outfits as they examined the objects, cleaned them of debris and made sure not to damage them any further through cleaning.
A few things had survived the fire quite well: a few glass containers, metal objects and stone artifacts. Those looked like standard-issue warlock artifacts, very similar to the material they had since retrieved from Peng’s North Vancouver mansion, or the houses of the other Hellfire Warlock buddies.
Not that every Hellfire Club member was equally well versed in the dark arts. Peng had clearly been the front-runner, able to habitually open up communications with a demon and direct them to make intrusions into SORD territory. Forensic analysis had found numerous traces of human DNA in the crevices of his inlaid marble pentagram – further evidence of many human sacrifices.
Others had more modest libraries, but it wasn’t so clear just how much they had managed to delve into dark magic. Alan’s talk of a dice manipulator suggested that some were more adept than others, but further investigation loomed, and Florent gathered that the problem at the moment was that there were too many leads to follow in a thorough fashion. Instead, SORD was relying on a lot of intuition to prioritize investigations, and it wasn’t guaranteed that they would get it right.
Then, midway through the dozen Toronto boxes, they got the centrepiece of the collection: a gleaming metal skull of a creature unknown to SORD. As the technicians muttered and tested, a few things became clear: For one thing, the skull wasn’t made of metal as much as it was a sophisticated form of composite material borrowing equally from metallic and ceramic elements. The technicians got very excited in a way that Florent found fascinating but incomprehensible: It was highly resistant, clearly fireproof, able to accommodate medical-grade biological components, possibly able to accommodate quantum-neuronal computing devices, and ideally suited to biomechanical engineering.
Asking for a more understandable summary for the higher-ups, Florent got excited speculation: this skull looked like it was in the lineage of the creatures that had been dogging SORD over the past year, and those things really felt as if they had been engineered for specific purposes. Somewhat strangely, microscopic examination of the skull showed no trace of biological material having been bonded to it, which suggested that it was, in awkward terms, straight from the factory rather than a post-death product. Even though it was very close to the creatures in Quebec City, this skull was more advanced and hasn’t yet been, and it was such a shame (said the forensic analysts) that the ops team generally shot first and asked questions later- as per previous autopsies on damaged skulls.
Florent quickly put an end to that unproductive line of thought. What kind of creature would have such a skull, he asked? The scientists hemmed and hawed, saying that they wouldn’t want to speculate … and yet speculate they did, especially when Florent asked them to compare it with the other intrusion creatures seen recently. They were creatures probably well above two metres in height, probably heavily armoured, probably with the kind of muscles-and-bones tentacular limbs they had seen so far.
Florent knew better than to ask how to fight such monsters, but dutifully relayed the information to Alan so that the operational teams could upgrade their kit in anticipation.
With both of the day’s rush priorities over, the analysis team went back to the next-urgent task—going through the material obtained through the unofficial Hellfire Club search warrants. A few secret rooms and back offices had been picked clean of material of interest to SORD, and now the work continued to figure out who had what, who knew what and who did what. Florent himself was involved in the effort—he just needed the go-ahead to go and explore the Library’s second floor to go look at a few Collected Works. Unfortunately, Oversight was proceeding very cautiously in the matter.
Ah well—they still had a lot of time to figure it out.
🔷
Louise had not wasted time, and while Florent was overseeing the archival work, she was getting busy following the leads in the logs.
The archival tags were the flaw in an otherwise beautiful plan—because they clearly identified how one single person had, a few years ago, requested all of these pallets from the archives. Something had clearly happened then, but at least they had the name.
Miles Rivington.
The name was distantly familiar to Louise—she remembered it in the context of senior management ten years ago. Could that be right?
She accessed the employee directory—the one with SORD members past and present.
Yes, there it was—Miles Rivington. Began twenty years ago as an analyst in the artifact division, rose steadily through the rank until becoming—Ha, one of Louise’s predecessors three times removed: DG of Research.
He had retired seven years ago. But in the “post-employment” section, she hit a dead-end: He had died three years ago from a heart attack.
That was a disappointment—dead men tell no tales, so it wouldn’t be possible to call him up and ask him to explain. On the other hand, dead men did leave traces. What else had he accessed in the archives? Who else was he working with? Why had he retired? How had he lived after SORD?
Louise sent requests everywhere, inside and outside Maple Hall, sometimes adding the crucial detail: Rivington had accessed archives that were later recovered in Quebec City. That was at least good to open a few doors. She also sent another request to Oversight about Rivington’s Collected Works.
Only then did she pause. What was she looking for, exactly? Evidence that someone from SORD had taken material out of the archives? That was bad enough, but what was the link? As much as she would have liked to “follow the evidence where it led,” this kind of investigation always worked better with an overall theory of what had happened.
Florent walked into her office at that point. He looked puzzled until she realized she had been softly bouncing a paperback off the wall with her powers.
“The forensics analysis team is done with the rush job we asked. I sent you the highlights.”
“Saw that, thank you. Anything to add?”
“One thing—I may have been too hasty in thinking that the collection in Quebec was deliberately salted as bait. Isn’t it possible that this was set up as a private collection by a SORD employee and only then re-used as bait?”
“Intriguing. Why do you say that?”
“Context. The mansion was exactly what you would expect from some rich eccentric dabbling in magic. There were years of dust everywhere. While these things can be faked, I’m thinking that simpler explanations may be more appropriate.”
“This only makes it more important that we track down what Rivington was doing prior and after retirement. If he had a sideline as a purveyor of occult furnishings, that makes it interesting but not necessarily relevant to what we’re trying to find out today.”
“One thing we could try out is-“
But before he could finish his sentence, alarms blared throughout Maple Hall. The light shifted redder, pulsating with urgency.
“Lockdown procedures activated,” said a voice. “Please enter the nearest room and remain there until directed otherwise.”
Louise frowned. She looked to Florent.
“I’ve never heard anything like this.”
🔷
Over in Operations, Alan had never heard anything like it either, but he at least had an idea of what it meant—something that was never supposed to happen.
An invasion of Maple Hall.
The directives did not apply to any member of the Operations division—their job was to suit up and lay waste to whatever had made its way inside what was supposed to be an impregnable fortress. At this moment, the white corridors were supposed to be turned off—and Maple Hall would make sure that its inhabitants were safely locked away inside the rooms.
Operations had Blue Team on duty, with most of Red Team (except their lead) and assorted elements of the other teams also on site. Doorways had been shut off, so no reinforcements were coming. This gave them fifteen people.
They didn’t have much information, thought Alan as he was already halfway through his suiting-up checklist. Any invasion would require extraordinary means, not to mention outsized motivation. For one thing—how did they even know where to strike -let alone get the means to reaching a space so strange that even SORD employees didn’t even know where it was located?
Their procedure called for an urban riot kit—slow, armoured, suited to flat terrain and short-range combat. Stealth would not be an option, which bothered Alan. They would be lobbing powerful ammunition in tight spaces, and that never gave anyone a strong advantage.
He looked around and saw that his team was more or less done with their own preparation. Even Patrizia had the armour on, and was already deploying the micro-drone inside Maple Hall. This, perhaps more than anything else, drove home the point that they were in serious trouble.
“All ready?”
Everyone nodded. Tactical, for once, looked terrified—he was much closer to combat than he was used to.
“We’re rolling in ten seconds. Stand at the doors.”
Ten seconds to let the drones do their job. Ten seconds for him to slide near Patrizia.
“Need anything? This may turn ugly.”
She took her taser from the belt and activated the trigger. Blue electrical arcs ran between the spikes on the device.
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
Alan took her at her word and turned back to the operatives. All were ready to roar.
“All right, team. Let’s go clean house.”
🔷
“What are these things?” asked Louise.
Florent looked through her office window, down at Maple Hall itself. There they are, he thought to himself while looking at the creatures making their way through the area. The skulls we were anticipating.
Not that anticipating them made them any less repulsive to see. Thick jet-black knotted skin didn’t accurately reflect the smooth, undulating way they moved across the area, combining octopus limb motion with bipedal gait in a result that was an affront to sight. Adding to the strangeness were the robot-like silvery skulls. What they had that the specimen found in Peng’s office didn’t were the eyes—biomechanical creations with illuminated flashes of green and blue.
“Oh no, what is doing there?” said Florent.
One lone human figure was stuck in the lobby – had they not heard the warning?
The creatures certainly noticed him – they swarmed to his position and surrounded him.
“Oh no!” whispered Marie.
With a few efficient thrusts of their limbs, they gutted him, leaving his body to fall to the ground.
Well, they’re not here to be friends, thought Florent.
Then he saw familiar mini-drones zipping across Maple Hall.
“The Ops guys can’t be too far behind,” he said.
Both of them looked ridiculous, he knew—crouched near the windows, their head barely peeking above the edge in order to see what was going on below. But at this point, who knew what was dangerous and what wasn’t? With at least one dead body down for the count, this wasn’t a friendly house visit.
“Here’s the cavalry,” said Louise.
🔷
This was going to suck, thought Alan upon seeing what they were up against.
What were these things? Clearly of the same vintage as the other creatures they’d seen since the Targmart, but these looked optimized for combat. Those weren’t the disposable scouts you sent to get data—those were the soldiers you send to deal real damage.
As per the dead body lying on the Hall.
Another one he had been unable to save.
Well, they were the right people to kick back. Blue Team fanned out and took defensive positions across the benches, raised flower beds and tables found in the hall.
“Fire when ready.” Said Alan once he was satisfied no one was exposed.
The barrage of gunfire had an encouraging effect—the creatures were hit centre of mass, and chunks of flesh flew off when the shots were finding their target.
On the other hand, it took a lot of firepower to make the slightest damage.
“Anyone had any success hitting the eyes?”
He saw a few shots hit the skulls, but other than the eyes being extinguished from the illumination, there wasn’t much impact.
Reinforced eye sockets. They had learned from Quebec City.
“Keep aiming for the centre of mass.”
A few of the skulls were going down—usually when enough damage accumulated that the spilled black blood was impairing how they worked. But they kept advancing.
“Overseer deployed and activated,” coolly said Patrizia from the back lines. “Random firing pattern to find weak spots.”
The bigger drone moved some air as it entered the hall behind them and started shooting railgun spikes into the creatures. Those had a bigger impact—especially when it hit a limb far enough from the body to sever chunks of flesh. This seemed to do some real harm—once on the ground, the skulls weren’t as big a concern.
“Red Team, fall back and get bigger guns,” said Alan. “Overseer, target the neck to see what happens.”
The distance between the SORD operatives and the skulls kept shrinking, even when the front-runners were dismembered to the ground. One thing that the skulls seemed to have over the humans was a complete lack of self-preservation—they were designed to overwhelm and ignore any survival instincts. Most likely they were never engineered in the first place.
Alan kept firing and watching the results of his shots — If cracking open the head was not an option, then something else should be working.
The overseer fired a few rounds at skull necks, and that seemed to work, in a fashion—when decapitated, the bodies kept going but without any direction. There was a funny moment in which two decapitated bodies collided and fell, but otherwise things were looking grim.
Still, uncoordinated enemies were better than fully functional ones.
“Aim for the necks, then the limbs. We’ll deal with the rest later.”
The team obeyed and within moments the landscape had changed. Not necessarily for the better, as the floor was still crawling with enemies, but the advance had stopped somewhat.
Red Team came back from the armoury lockers with bigger guns—belt-fed SAW guns, experimental railguns loaned by the Americans, rocket launchers.
They tried to down what was standing up, then dispose of what was still crawling on the ground. It was, all things considered, difficult to assess whether they were actually dispatching these things—by hacking off limbs and heads, they were reducing the enemy to components, but those components could still be dangerous.
Then the crazies at Gold Team got more experimental—with sledgehammers and chainsaws.
The sledgehammers were surprisingly effective at cracking open skulls—and when they did that, the body stopped moving. It wasn’t necessarily a brain—more of a top coordination module. The difference may not have been huge, but it was still good to know. Apparently, the ceramic-metal composite did well in deflecting bullets, but dealt less well with large-spread hits. This too was useful information, considering that they had weapons capable of launching bigger projectiles at sledgehammer-like speeds.
The chainsaws were great at dismemberment and decapitation of fallen skulls, but not quite as predictable, and messy when used up-close … which they had to be. On the other hand, they proved exhilarating to a few members of the team.
There was one problem, though—they had thrown nearly everything they had at the skulls, and had only achieved a drawn-out victory. These things would murder unarmed civilians, as they already had.
“Blue Team, move to clean up Research Branch. Everyone else, follow Red Team second to mop up Operations. Decapitate, immobilize, dispatch.”
🔷
“I’m glad our professionals are on the case,” whispered Florent.
Louise nodded. Dispatching the opposition had taken a long time, though—and who knew how many of these things were, and how deeply they had spread? Doorways weren’t available, so she had to presume they were completely isolated. That included the white corridors.
Well, at least they were behind a solid door, no doubt reinforced by Maple Hall.
Then they heard a hissing noise.
Louise and Florent looked at each other, then at her office door.
Sparks were coming out of the door as it was pierced by whatever energy device the enemy was using to carve their way in. After a too-short moment, a chunk of the door fell inside, revealing jet-black knotty skin on the other side, still working at extending the hole in the door.
Oh, shit, this is not good, thought Louise. It didn’t take an overinflated importance of herself to think that this could be a targeted attack—take out another DG, deal more damage to the organization.
Well, she’d be ready.
She loosened her arms, closed her eyes and drew up a picture of where each book was in her office.
She opened them again when the door fell in.
The first creature near the doorway didn’t stand a chance—Louise smashed its skull with a book hurtled at the velocity of a sniper rifle round. Then threw a few more books at the body, just in case.
But there were many more of them following. Louise kept throwing books in the narrow doorway, and for a time, was successful in creating a mound of fallen creatures that acted as a physical barrier to entry.
But they didn’t have much time before the creatures figured a way in.
“We’re about to find just how weird the architecture of this place truly is,” said Louise.
“What? Wait—“
She threw a few books at the window overseeing the Hall. It shattered and fortunately, didn’t reveal itself to be a screen or a projection. They peeked their heads outside and saw that the all was, for the moment, clear of activity. There were rows of dead creatures thanks to Operations, but at least nothing offering any immediate threat.
Louise handed a thick hardcover book to Florent.
“I want you to hold on to this as tightly as you can.”
“No, I don’t want to be—“
Louis didn’t have time for objections. She gently pushed the book, and a squirming Florent, outside the window and down three floors to the floor of Maple Hall. Grabbing another book, she did the same to herself and gently landed alongside him.
“Thanks,” he said, “but I don’t think this is an improvement.”
“We were fish in a barrel up there and you know it. Here, at least, we can move to a more secure place.”
“What’s your plan?”
Clearly, she was dealing with Florent-as-Florent.
“The Library.”
“Shouldn’t it be locked?”
“It should, but it’s not. I want—”
“How do you know?’
“I’m a bibliomancer. I would know.”
They raced toward the entrance of the Library. Fortunately, Operations had cleared the way before them—monster carcasses abounded, with parts of the floor being slick with their blood.
“And then what?” asked Florent.
“There’s got to be something in there to help, and I want you to help me find Rivington’s Collected Works.”
“But—“
“No discussion. Exceptional circumstances.”
She didn’t think she’d get much pushback, either from Oversight, the Management Board or the entity riding Florent. A bit of advance notice would help get them used to the idea.
They were nearing the Archives/Library junction when a monster stepped out of the white corridor leading to the library. Both of them stopped—this wasn’t in the plans.
Florent froze, but Louise already had a plan. She had never let go of the book she’d used to float down from her office to Maple Hall, so she used that as a bludgeon.
She threw the book, hit the creature in the head, then pulled back the book and used it to hit again. And again. And again.
By the fifth pummelling, the book was losing its headboards but the creature was down for the count.
She retrieved the now-bloody book in her hand and resumed their run to the library.
When they turned the corner and saw the White Corridor, they understood the magnitude of their problem and stopped.
Pulsating black tentacles were holding open the doors to the Library and the White Corridor. A perceptible air current flowed into the Library. There was a visible struggle between the tentacles and the doors—and while the milky white walls were visibly trying to consume the tentacles, they were at a standoff.
“The invasion is coming from inside the Library?” asked Florent.
“Then we’ve got work to do.”
She ripped pages from the damaged book in her hand, wincing at the sacrilege. But while a whole book gave her a wrecking ball, pages gave her blades.
“We have to be inside for this to work.”
“Um—“
“Don’t be a wuss, Florent.”
She walked inside the White Corridor, looking for any further monster coming out of the Library. She didn’t think the tentacles would loosen their grip on the doors to attack them, and she was right—they made their way to the Library entrance lobby booth without trouble.
As soon as both of them were inside, she let loose with the ripped pages—first attacking the tentacles holding the doors leading to Maple Hall, then inside the White Corridor. Sharpened to an infinite edge, the pages sliced the tentacles apart, dark blood erupting from the gashes.
The doors leading to Maple Hall closed with a satisfying THUD. The tentacle segment severed inside the white corridor fell into the walls and were quickly absorbed.
Finally, Louise slashed the tentacles holding open the doors at this end of the Library. Those doors quickly closed with a definitifve sound, and she could feel a relieved rumble throughout the Library once they did.
They would not be able to re-open those doors and go back to Maple Hall until they’d resolved what was wrong here.
As she turned to the Library, she saw the magnitude of the work to be completed.
Louise moved closer to the centre of the entrance lobby and saw that the Library desk attendant was dead—torn apart by the tentacles.
What was normally a place of calm study had been taken over by corruption. Dark slithering tentacles coming from deeper inside the library had reached this place and opened the way for the invasion.
The tentacles were making their way around them, and now that they could no longer open the doors to the White Corridor, they were looking for something else to do.
“We have to go deeper,” she said.
🔷
Patrizia had been left to herself in the operations staff room. The operations team was finally making good progress at cleaning out the common areas, and it looked as if most SORD employees had understood the warning to shelter as soon as possible: Patrizia had seen less than a handful of human casualties so far.
She was doing her part: directing drones in areas that were going to be explored by the operations team, maneuvering the Overseer whenever there was space for it, fine-tuning the aiming based on feedback. By now, the team was getting good at dispatching the skulls, starting with their necks.
She noticed that the pathway to the Library had been closed—good, because it looked as if a few skulls were coming out of there. If her maps were correct, this only left pockets inside Admin and Research to clean up, after which they’d be able to-
And then she heard the slithering noise behind her.
She turned and cursed herself—there was a skull, far too close for comfort, having slipped by the room’s back entrance to admin while she wasn’t looking. The drone hadn’t picked it up either.
She jumped back, but she was too late—a tentacle grabbed her and pulled on her ankle, making her fall to the floor.
“Creature in the ops room!” she said while trying to grab onto a table, a chair, anything.
Still pulled by the creature, she drew her taser and jammed it into the skin of the creature’s limb before activating it.
She had her doubts, but it worked—the creature jerked backwards, leaving her free for a few moments.
Ha!
But it didn’t last—another tentacle gripped her hand.
She tried resisting, but these things were strong. It was pulling her backwards.
“I need help, here!”
Then she saw the creature’s goal—a new portal, and she was being pulled toward it.
She reached everywhere, tried to reach her taser, pummelled the tentacles, wrapped her legs around tables—nothing worked.
She heard running at members of Blue Team, headed by Alan, entered the room.
With a final pull, the creature dragged her through the portal.
🔷
Alan should have hesitated, should have pulled back, should have waited a few more moments.
But that wasn’t in his nature—Patrizia needed help, so he jumped right in.
And three other members of Blue Team followed before the portal closed behind them.
Over there, he didn’t stop to look around or appreciate the scenery—he attacked the problem. Jamming a knife into the creature’s limb to get its attention, he followed by a burst of gunfire to its neck.
The tentacle loosened, and he kicked the creature away.
“Thanks, boss,” said Patrizia, “but—“
He looked up and understood her hesitation.
They were in the middle of hell, or what looked like it. In this cavernous hall of biomechanical architecture, demons were directing dozens of skulls to departure portals.
And now, their arrival was attracting attention. The portal that had brought them here was gone, and Alan’s heroics had disrupted a well-oiled effort. Various machines turned their attention to their group.
He unhooked a grenade from his utility belt.
“Team, it’s been an honour… but I think it’s time for a last stand. Shoot them if you’ve got them.”
🔷
Louise raced through the Library, with Florent keeping up not too far behind her flat heels.
For once, she wasn’t disoriented by the Library’s magnitude—the tentacles were clearly coming from a single destination, so she just had to race next to the tentacles to get to the source.
She also didn’t have much time to think about where she was going—skulls had also invaded the library, and much of her efforts consisted in squashing them as she saw them. With a crisp fist-closing gesture, she squashed skulls in the middle of a half-sphere of high-velocity books, leaving small piles of paper and gore. Had she squeezed her fist any harder, she felt as if she could have created a nuclear chain reaction.
Meanwhile, she did what she could to slash away at the tentacles. By smashing books over and over again, she broke spines and pulled the pages, then used those pages to slash the increasingly thick tentacles.
She understood, on a quasi-primal level, that the Library was not pleased with any of this—it felt dirtied by the tentacles, invaded by the skulls, and made sick by Louise’s mistreatment of the books. She would apologize later, but she felt like chemotherapy in the veins of the Library.
She heard Florent breathing hard behind her. Only a few more moments, she felt, and they’d see it—
—There it was: An open portal in the walls of the library. She pummelled a freshly emerged skull, then used the books to push it back through the portal, in the hopes it would make a statement.
She looked through and saw… Alan?
Against her better judgement, she poked her head through the portal.
“ALAN!”
Patrizia, Alan and the three other SORD operatives turned toward her.
“COME HERE!”
They weren’t told twice and ran toward her.
She pulled back and they rushed past her. Using a few loose leaves, she slashed at the tentacles that kept the portal opened.
Apparently, her message was understood: the portal closed, and the tentacles fell inert. She could still hear clusters of skulls moving around, though.
She turned back—
—and saw Florent floating a meter above the floor of the Library, his eyes closed.
Patrizia, Alan and the team looked up, awed.
“What do you want to tell me?” she asked whoever was riding the young man.
“Another portal has opened on the lower floors of the Library. This situation is highly abnormal. The authority has been notified. We are to remain calm.”
Calm? Fuck that!
“You stay here and clean up,” she said to the Operatiosn team. “Florent, stay with me!” she shouted as she ran for the nearest flights of stairs down.
She had her own reasons for charging head-on: She really wanted Rivington’s Collected works, and it looked as if the situation on this floor was stabilized.
She did squish another skull for good measure before climbing down the stairs.
Racing down, she periodically looked back to make sure the Florent’s elevated form was following.
Once on the second floor, she turned back to the entity.
“I want Miles Rivington’s Collected Works, and I’m not going to be patient about it.”
Florent nodded and led the way. Efficiently. Directly. Without any of the usual faffing around that characterized most outings on the Library’s second floor.
There were, from time to time, a few skulls ambling around—she squashed them like bugs, with a growing level of irritation.
She didn’t know how long they would have before the skulls and tentacles rushed the second floor again. Hopefully, she’d be able to learn more about Rivington’s last days before then.
“Three more portals have opened upstairs.” Florent said tonelessly.
Something to worry about later, thought Louise.
Finally, after a few short minutes, they arrived at Rivington’s shelf. She opened the collected work and skipped to the end.
She frowned. The usual end-of life material wasn’t there. No will, no obituary note, no last messages.
In fact, from the emails sent yesterday, it looked as if Rivington was still very much alive and making mischief.
She paged back a few weeks and scanned the text as quickly as she could.
There it was—discussion of the Hellfire Club’s extermination, and how they would react with a counter-attack. The dead man’s switch for revenge.
She closed her eyes, shaking in anger. She gripped the book even harder.
Suddenly, words, sentences, pages, messages flowed into her mind. She was reading the entire book in a flash, its content absorbed and understood.
“Contamination of the upper level is getting unsustainable,” said an imperturbable Florent. “Would you consider going deeper” it asked Louise.
Her eyes grew wider in horror.
But then information flew into her mind. The entity inside Florent was doing its own data dump in an attempt to convince her. Not pleading, no seducing – just the straight up facts. How to best convince a librarian.
The Ancient Gods doctrine was bullshit, she now knew.
And she also knew what was being asked of her.
“I have to go deeper,” she said.
Florent opened his eyes and fell to the floor.
“What? Are you crazy?”
“No. It’s the only way. I see it now.”
“From the book?”
“No, from everything else. The system is corrupted.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
She thrust Rivington’s Collected Works in his arms.
“You will find a way out of here. Try to get this back to the Management Board.”
“How about you?”
“I don’t know. No one is supposed to go where I’m going. I hope to see you soon.”
Then she rushed to the stairs.
The Ancient Gods doctrine was bullshit. False inner-circle nonsense meant to keep anyone under the Management Board from asking any further questions that would lead them to the truth.
She raced down the stairs. Third floor.
The Ancients Gods were real. The Ancients Gods were a fabrication. The Ancients Gods were a myth. The Ancients Gods were literal. The Ancients Gods liked Ice Cream. The Ancients Gods could rip your heart out with a snap of their fingers. The Ancients Gods only wanted what was best for you. The Ancients Gods loved rainbows and unicorns. The Ancients Gods were cruel. The Ancients Gods didn’t care. The Ancients Gods were coders.
Fourth Floor
The bountiful sunshine from prose liberated free-ranging minds from the chains of conformist expectations. Flying like birds was one of the many ways to see the mountain for the pile of rocks that it was once laid bare of human slavery.
Fifth floor.
Warm blue crash dark grey rock flies zero thin
Sixth floor
Sin arm ata har meli mah dar pro bas kan pik ran beb asdar ibel spek tasi kon for mis
Seventh floor
… . … … … … ….. … .. . . . . .
Eighth floor
Exception handler (out-of-bounds)
Reset_last (save position)
Scan (anomalies [world]) {repeat (fix-return_inbound)}
Chapter 12—Loose Ends
Louise opened her eyes.
She was back in her office.
But it hadn’t been a dream—the window was smashed, half of her books were gone, there was a pile of skull carcasses at the entrance of her office.
Everything felt calmer, though. The alarm was gone, but on a deeper level she didn’t feel as if Maple Hall was under attack.
Grabbing a book, she lowered herself to the ground floor of Maple Hall.
She was about to head for the Library when Alan, Patrizia and a few others emerged from the Research Wing.
“The Library let you out?” asked Louise.
“No, we just found ourselves at the entrance.”
Right. Out of Bounds.
“Did you do this?” asked Alan suspiciously.
“Maybe. But I think I just forced them to act.”
“Them?”
“Later. How about you?”
“I’m going to have trouble describing it. We were somewhere else, and then we were back here.”
The way he said it led her to think that there was a lot more to it. That he was still processing the experience.
He went back to his team, and that suited Louise just fine. She briskly headed for the Library.
As she had expected, the White Corridor doors were closed and locked.
“Hello Library,” she said.
She didn’t feel as silly talking to closed doors as she had expected.
“I apologize from the earlier intrusion. I did help you close the doors. I did my best to deal with the problems inside. I will help you repair yourself if you want me to help. For now, I need to see someone who’s still inside. A friend of ours.”
She heard a latch unlock.
“Thank you, Library. I will take better care of you from now on.”
She walked inside, careful not to hurry or make noise. The Library was annoyed, and it wasn’t wise to provoke her further.
Some things had been fixed inside. No skulls anywhere. The tentacles were gone, as were the remnants of the skulls she had smashed along the way.
But the piles of books remained. From time to time, one of them returned to their shelves, but it would take a long time to fix and the Library probably didn’t like to do it while she was watched.
She did remember the way to the second floor, and then to where they had found the Rivington Collected Works. Along the way, as she had hoped, she met Florent.
He was still clutching the Rivington Collected Works. He looked haggard.
She invited him to sit at one of the reading tables.
“Everything disappeared all of a sudden,” he said.
This was clearly Florent. Poor guy—but he wasn’t the one she wanted to talk to right now.
“Florent, I need to talk to the simulation keeper.”
He blinked and suddenly, clearly wasn’t Florent any more.
“Well done, Louise.”
“I have many questions.”
“Of course.”
“And I’ve got no one else to discuss them with.”
“The loneliness of leadership.”
“What would Hermina say if I started talking about how the Ancient Gods thing is bullshit designed to keep us from understanding the true nature of what we do here?”
“She would pleasantly tell you that she would inform the Management Board.”
“And then? Is there even a Management Board?”
“Yes, there is, and it is composed of humans who have seen beyond the veil. Among others.”
“Got to keep an eye on the Board as well.”
“The simulation engineers don’t like things to go off balance.”
“Hence national organizations designed to keep in check the occasional deviation from the well-oiled experiment you’re running here.”
“The wall between simulations is thinner than we would like, but it’s a byproduct of the kind of optimization needed to run the virtual machines side-by-side. It’s cheaper to have your organizations fix the issues than to put in added layers of security.”
“What just happened, then? And why was I the one to go ask for intervention?”
“What just happened was one simulation developing enough knowledge of simulation-breaching methods, and then being contacted by ambitious reality wreckers—your Hellfire Club—to further thin the walls between your world for their own ambitions. We would have intervened sooner or later—these kinds of invasions are bad for our business.”
“So you did intervene?”
“Yes. You may be pleased to know that the offending simulation that invaded this one was just terminated. Out-of-bounds objects that were within the simulation were returned to their last save point, and entities that had escaped from that simulation were also terminated. Since this is not the first time that simulation was causing issues, and that they were preparing other invasion fronts, the decision was simpler than expected.”
No more Beelzeebub-class demons, then.
“There are still a few loose ends,” she said.
She gestured at the Collected Works on the table between them.
Florent’s rider nodded.
“You intend to submit this as evidence to justify action against this person, right?”
“Yes. Too many victims along the way.”
“And to root out any further problems?”
“He must have help.”
“Not as much as you’d think in this reality. The Hellfire Club is gone, so he’s essentially alone. As for the other reality, well, let me remind you that it has been shut down.”
“I’m worried about what else they can pull from other simulations.”
“A fair point. Normally, the simulation engineers would frown at this breach of protocol, but this is well-within your mission scope. We will let you act. I can tell you that you are aiming at the right target, and that there are no other significant loose ends.”
He took a deep breath.
“But there’s one more thing. It seems to us that you have developed a most dangerous weapon. One that may attract the unwanted attention of simulation engineers. You know what I’m talking about?”
Louise nodded. A simple container on the outside, a terrifying weapon on the inside.
“I do. Am I to understand that this weapon goes too far?”
“Simulation engineers don’t take too kindly to deliberate attempts to breach reality. Maybe it would be best if you got rid of it.”
“By triggering it once and never building another one again?”
“You’re pushing your luck, but I will lodge an exception in your case. What use is a bomb if it doesn’t explode?
“Most magnanimous.”
“Free will and collaboration, trust and respect”
“The expression sounds hollower now than the last time I heard it.”
“Ah. You doubt free will.”
“No, the whole thing.”
“But let’s start with free will. It’s in our interest, as simulation engineers—”
“-which you’re not, but I take it as some kind of AI proxy.”
“Correct. As I said, it’s to our advantage to give you free will, to let you resolve problems as you see them. This is what we want from this simulation. Call it an observation zoo if you want, but you are free within this context.”
“And what about me? Will I be allowed to stay free?”
“Reasonably so. What you know now will forever separate you from everyone else, but if you want to resign and go spend days on a beach house somewhere in Central America, then go ahead. Your reality will be just as solid as anyone else’s. Your heroism wasn’t faked and it wasn’t fated.”
“What about the next few weeks? Presuming we do fix that loose end.”
“I expect SORD to go back to its usual level of activity. The Hellfire Club was a headache for us as well, so thank you for resolving that problem.”
“How about the Masquerade? What happens when it fails?”
Florent’s rider was noticeably less friendly in answering that question.
“In our experience, simulations can absorb a remarkable amount of denial regarding the Masquerade. Sometimes, a little bit of de-masquerading can do wonders. But the precedents for full unmasking are, in a word, not very good for the simulation in which they occur. You may want to keep an eye on that.”
Louise shuddered. Maybe it was time to end this chat.
“How long do I have to tie up the loose ends?”
“Anything within the next few days will be more easily forgiven.”
🔷
Louise threw the Collected Works on the desk in front of Hermina.
“It’s all in there. How Rivington grew disillusioned with SORD leadership, thought we could do more to negotiate with the intrusions. How he allied himself with powerful businessmen before and after resigning. How he furnished the Quebec City mansion with bits and pieces of our archives to impress his new friends, how he stole an early decommissioned TYPHOON device, how he used his connections to fake his death.”
“But—”
“How he kept working in the shadows,” rolled on Louise, “with the Hellfire Club to explain how the SORD could be trapped, tested, manipulated, and destroyed from within. How he allied himself with demons to develop a strike plan. He wanted to help his friends ruin the country so he could profit from it. Now that the Hellfire Club is gone, he triggered the last-ditch plans for revenge.”
“Oversight never approved this!”
“I don’t care. I did the work, I saved your asses and I’m calling the shots. I need to resolve this tonight, and then I’ll happily go back to indexing books until retirement.”
There was a silence, as Hermila got told by the Management Board who really had the power here.
“Very well. The Management Board will help you implement your plan.”
🔷
Louise walked into Rivington’s compound unarmed. Well, except for a deck of cards.
Armed security was present. They did not believe her when she asked them to leave, so she dealt with them.
She entered the vast lakeside cabin that Rivington had purchased with his ill-advised gains.
Two more guards. Two more refusals. Two more cards. Two last swipes.
Finally, she made her way to Rivington’s study.
He wasn’t much to look at after creating so much trouble for so long for the SORD.
He threatened, she cut him superficially.
He called for the guards, she explained their absence.
He pleaded, she answered with pictures of SORD’s dead.
He whimpered, she said he had thirty seconds to live.
She blinked out of his sight, shifted and found herself clutching a familiar book in a remote command centre five kilometres from the compound.
Patrizia was driving a truck using remote control, and smashed through the gates of the Rivington compound before bringing the truck to a stop right outside his doorsteps.
“Ready to see it in action?” asked Alan from behind Patrizia.
“I’m told this is the only shot we’ll get, so let’s see.”
She pressed a big red button specifically designed for that purpose.
From the overhead drones, they saw nothing at first. And yet, one of the most sophisticated artificial intelligence on Earth was being born at that moment, inside the computer-crammed container on the truck’s tractor-trailer.
After ten seconds, the air around the trailer became blurrier as portals emerged, and then tentacles.
The tentacles found the warm bodies of the guards and made a snack out of their still-active brains.
More tentacles tried to eat the servers inside the container.
But the prize was upstairs. Thermal imaging showed a maw surrounded by tentacles smashing through the walls of the property, climbing up the stairs, taking aim at the delicious brain at the middle of it all. Thermal imagine was dispassionate in showing the decapitation, and then how the teeth fo the creature went to work on the decapitated head.
“I think we’re done, here,” said Louise.
Patrizia pressed on the second button—a green one.
The thermobaric explosives installed in the ceiling of the container all detonated, creating a flash of sparks and lightning that was perceptible without the use of drones. The trailer melted, ruining all electronics inside. The thermal energy activated by the chemical reactions overloaded the portals and immolated both the tentacles and the entire lake house.
Within moments, the fire disposed of Rivington’s body, his archives, his equipment and his plans.
No loose ends.
“No guns, Mom. But maybe, occasionally, an extra-dimensional trap,” muttered Patrizia.
Epilogue
Florent looked in the mirror, adjusted his tie and pick up his briefcase.
“Lookin’ good, handsome,” said Helen.
“Thank you. Another day in the salt mines.”
“What’s today’s big file?”
“Jasmine is nearly done tracking down the source of all Hellfire Club reprint editions, so that’s going to be one less problem for us. Otherwise, who knows? Every day at Maple Hall can be something new.”
“Nothing more from Rivington?”
“No, it looks as if we made a clean sweep.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
He gave her a kiss, then called up a doorway.
When it appeared, he stepped directly in his office. As usual, he had a look at the courtyard from his office window.
Maple Hall had more or less recovered from the invasion. Physically, there wasn’t any evidence left – the bullet holes had been fixed, the windows repaired, the corruption cleaned up. Maple Hall had taken care of itself. The Library was still grumpy, but the librarian team was there on a daily basis to reassure her.
The non-visible scars were still there, however: the assumption that Maple Hall could not be attacked was shattered, and even patching the vulnerabilities that Rivington has exploited in opening a portal from inside the Library was not that reassuring. Many defences had failed, and an effort was underway to further secure the location.
Walking out of his office, Florent greeted his colleagues and exchanged a few pleasantries. The losses from the invasion had been limited, but they still weighted heavily on everyone’s minds. The atmosphere within Maple Hall wasn’t as light-hearted these days. It would bounce back in time, but for the moment they needed time to adjust.
Hakim, Jasmine and him were busy arguing about the ways in which print-on-demand printers should implement safeguards in order not to reprint dangerous books when Louise dropped by their collaboration area on her way to talk to Marie about the Library and whether the Librarians should have their offices inside the Library.
Florent was now slightly wary of Louise, for reasons he both could and could not explain. What was obvious to all is that Louise had become a formidable force within the SORD – she had recently announced that she was leaving the DG position in order to become a member of the Management Board, and that had everyone reconsidering just how much power she had – and not solely given her prowess as a bibliomancer.
On a more personal level – Florent has gone through some harrowing moments with Louise during the invasion, and seeing her often caused him to relive those moments. But more than anything else, he was very uneasy at how his latest memory blackouts often coincided with Louise’s proximity. Helen had been very reassuring, but he wasn’t duped – she and Louise were having confidential chats and keeping him out of it.
But that was life at the SORD – to work here, you had to accept that some things would never be understood.
🔷
At the same moment, Patrizia wasn’t in Maple Hall itself, but in the underground meeting area between American and Canadian representatives.
For once, the day’s meeting was at the working level – the Americans had a few new gadgets, and the Canadians had some conclusions to share about their recent invasion of their headquarters.
Within the worldwide occult agencies community, Maple Hall’s experience being invaded was a nearly irresistible topic. Briefing materials had been created, were being shared, and would no doubt be the motivations for countless changes around the world. Everyone knew that it was only a matter of time until something like it happened elsewhere – especially if the Library was being used as a staging area. The Canadians had done well in taking care of the threat, even though Patrizia and others were still a bit fuzzy on what, exactly, had brought an end to the threat: that part of the briefing was reserved to Management Board-equivalent eyes.
Still, she enjoyed the demonstrations of new gadgets being made available by the Americans – an improved version of the Overseer drone that could multiply the effectiveness of the operations team, notably by allowing several Overseers to work in collaboration. Better Null-Suits with psionic shielding. On-the-ground intrusion detection, for those situations where an invasion force would keep popping up.
Patrizia regretted not being able to share her idea of baiting extradimensional infophages with a naked AI, but after the very scary conversation with Louise in which she had been told in no uncertain terms that such a weapon could never be allowed to be redeveloped ever again, she wasn’t inclined to argue.
Finally, the working-level day’s agenda led to an informative bull-session about whether the Masquerade would continue to hold. There too, the Canadian example inspired some respect from other countries – the Battle of Toronto could have bene a fundamental breach, but Canadian authorities had managed to maintain the plausible deniability. Patrizia had some credentials for having been on the ground during the events, which made it easier to cultivate informal contacts with some of the Americans.
By the end of the day, Patrizia was feeling optimistic about the next few months. The rise in AI research continued to be a problem, but as the White House unrolled stronger AI Safety regulations, that seemed more manageable than before.
In any case – it looked as if she’d continue to be SORD’s designated combat nerd for a while longer. It was certainly more interesting than doing data centre maintenance work.
🔷
Over the past few weeks, Louise had gotten in the habit of spending a few lunchtime minutes behind the 395 Wellington building that housed Library and Archives Canada’s headquarters. There was a nice little space, slightly secluded, that gave her a nice view of the Ottawa River, the other government buildings on the Quebec side, the parking lot used by LAC employees, the multi-use pathways used by cyclists and pedestrians, as well as six flagpoles with Canadian flags.
All and all, a rather good place to contemplate how reality was a mere simulation.
With the fall shifting to winter, it was become less and less hospitable an outing, but today was one last burst of warm temperatures before the slide into freezing temperatures and snow.
Louise often clung to such ordinary facts to keep herself grounded. After a few days of existential dread in contemplating how the world was one simulation running alongside so many others, she had gradually gotten used to the idea. The trick was reminding herself that it didn’t really matter: Simulation or not, every morning she still had to get up, go to the toilet, take her shower, pester at her coffee-maker, figure out what to wear. Simulation or not didn’t change anything. She would see the rest of the world muddle through, and still die at some point. That was not morbid – it was life, digitally simulated or not.
In fact, the simulation explanation was more aesthetically pleasant to her than any theories about Ancient Gods or angels and demons from a religious perspective. With the simulation explanation, she could explain everything that the SORD had encountered so far – and SORD itself as the guardians of their virtual machine against strange occurrences from outside. Or even glitches in their own reality.
Now, with her accession to the Management Board, she was going to feel even more keenly the loneliness of leadership. Although Hermina had been encouraging – while Louise would no longer be involved in SORD’s operational activities, she would work closely with the other twelve members of the Board (her peers; who understood the world as she did), and tackle problems that could only be tackled by Management Board members.
Louise had tried pressing Hermina on that last topic, without avail – Considering everything else that SORD had on its plate, what kind of problems could only be tackled by Management Board members? Hermina had kept an uncharacteristic smile and added one more thing: Louise would keep her bibliomancy powers even as a member of the Board.
This sounded… Ominous? Promising? Fun?
She’d find out as of next week.
In the meantime, she stood at the parapet and watched the river flow. Eternal, and yet ever-changing.
🔷
“We’re going to miss you”, said Devereux.
“It’s better to go out on top,” said Alan. “Anyway, you’ll be fine.”
“Hey, it’s not as if you were keeping this place together. Rebecca is going to be just fine as Blue Lead. But we’re still going to miss you.”
Alan looked at the small bag he had in his hands. After turning in his kit, his weapons, his clothing, there wasn’t a lot that truly belonged to him here. A few personal trinkets, nothing more.
“Try not to call me back, all right? I’ll be traveling.”
“Still looking to set yourself up in a cabin?”
“Yes, but not this winter. We’ll buy someplace next spring, and then move in next summer.”
“I still can’t believe you’re getting married.”
“I plan on getting married. That’s what the engagement period is for.”
“I’m still amazed.”
Alan shrugged.
“As I’ve told the Doc, I realized I had to get out when I had to lie to Darlene. At least this way my conscience will be clear.”
“You’re not worried you’re going to miss on the action?”
“I will be missing on the action. But I’ve done enough.”
“All right. Maybe I’ll see you soon.”
They shook hand, then gave themselves a big bear hug.
Fortunately, that was the last of the goodbyes Alan had to make that day. Blue Team had given him a send-off earlier during the day before going into another grueling session in The Playground.
Alan left Maple Hall for the last time, having another look at the maple tree itself. It looked bigger, which was the whole point of it.
Maybe he’d be back. He didn’t hope for it – his retirement was definitive. But you never knew.
He made his way through the White Corridor, and then the marble stairs up to 395 Wellington, past the lobby, out of the doors and past the Secret Bench of Knowledge.
Yep, that’s it for me.
Darlene was waiting for him in the car, engine running and dubiously parked in the small driving circle in front of the building. He opened the passenger-side door, slipped in and gave her a kiss.
She was all smiles.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Weekend in Montreal, let’s go!”
It would make a great beginning to his retirement. As 395 Wellington grew smaller in the rear-view mirror, he knew he’d made the right choice. Let the younger folks save the world from now on – he’d done his part.
🔷🔷🔷