Department 19: Battle Lines (33 page)

He knew without looking that his console and radio would be dead; the protocol for any kind of internal attack on the Loop called for a complete lockdown, which only Paul Turner, as the Security Officer, and certain members of the Security Division would be exempt from. He checked them anyway and saw the blank, lifeless screens he had expected.

Jamie walked back across his room, his heart racing. Surely there was no way that the base could be under attack again? The frontal assault by Valeri and his vampire army had been successful because they had been supplied with information by Christopher Reynolds, the original head of the Lazarus Project who had been working for the eldest Rusmanov his entire life; his information had enabled them to evade the surveillance and warning systems that protected the base. They had all been reset and improved, and access to their specifics was now one of the most heavily guarded secrets that Blacklight possessed; if they had been compromised again, the implications would be unthinkable.

The pounding alarm stopped abruptly and was replaced by a familiar voice, amplified and broadcast via the speakers that sat above the door of every room in the Loop.

“Attention,” said Paul Turner. “There has been a security incident which has resulted in this facility being placed into lockdown. Please do not attempt to leave your location. The Security Division are investigating and the lockdown will be lifted as soon as possible. Thank you.”

Jamie waited for the alarm to begin again; if it did so, he intended to put his helmet on and set its exterior volume control to zero. But thirty seconds later the silence in the Loop remained total, so he poured himself a glass of water and sat down on the edge of his bed. His heart was racing, but he tried to ignore it, as he did his best to ignore what the voice at the back of his head was whispering.

It was telling him that the explosion had sounded like it had been on his level, from the far end of the curved corridor.

Where Kate lived.

*

Paul Turner was alone in the ISAT lounge when the explosion shook the floor beneath his feet; he had sent Kate for lunch ten minutes earlier, and was reading through the file of the first of the afternoon’s interviewees. He was on his feet instantly, throwing the file aside, sprinting across the room and grabbing the door handle, which refused to turn.

He swore, pulled his ID card from its slot on his belt, and pressed it against the panel beside the door. His role as Security Officer allowed him to override almost every lock in the Loop; the plastic square turned bright green as the general alarm burst into deafening life, and he hauled the door open. The Operator behind the ISAT reception desk looked at him with wide eyes as he strode across the semicircular space.

“Stay here,” he barked. He ran his card against the panel that controlled the security door, waited impatiently for the heavy locks to disengage, then stepped out into the chaos of the Intelligence Division.

Operators were on their feet beside their desks, shouting and gesturing, trying to make themselves heard over the siren. Their computer monitors had all gone dark, Turner was relieved to see; in the event of a security breach inside the Loop, access to the Blacklight system was instantly cut to everyone apart from the Security Division to protect the terabytes of sensitive information it contained. He pulled his console from his belt and saw its screen light up.

Good. That’s good.

He tapped the screen as he walked, asking the system to pinpoint the location of the explosion and provide a preliminary report, and trying to ignore the shouted questions from the Operators of the Intelligence Division.

“Stay at your desks!” he yelled, as he reached the door. “And stay calm, for God’s sake!”

His console beeped as he stepped out into the Level A corridor. He tapped the screen, opening the information he had requested.

PRELIMINARY INCIDENT REPORT

INITIAL CONCLUSION: DETONATION OF CHEMICAL MATERIALS (SPECTROANALYSIS IN PROGRESS).

CHARACTERISTICS: EXPLOSIVE TEMPERATURE RISE. HIGHEST RECORDED TEMPERATURE 812 DEGREES CELSIUS. CONCUSSIVE BLAST WAVE. DURATION 1.09 SECONDS. RANGE 112.2 METRES.

DAMAGE REPORT: SUPERFICIAL DAMAGE TO LEVEL B CORRIDOR. LEVEL B POWER SYSTEMS INTERRUPTED (BACKUPS ACTIVATED). LEVEL B ATMOSPHERIC CONTROL INTERRUPTED (BACKUPS FAILED). LEVEL B MONITORING SYSTEM INTERRUPTED (BACK-UPS FAILED). LEVEL B FREQUENCY SPECTRUM INTERRUPTED. BACKUPS WORKING AT 46% CAPACITY.

CONTAINMENT: FIRE EXTINGUISHED BY HALON SYSTEM.

LOCATION: LEVEL B, ROOM 261.

Turner read the report, his stomach churning with cold, furious outrage.

A bomb. A bomb inside the Loop. How dare they?

He typed a new request into the console, asking who lived in Level B, room 261. The system returned the information immediately.

OCCUPANT: RANDALL, KATE (LIEUTENANT)/NS303,78-J.

McKenna walked down the short corridor that connected his kitchen to the living room of his small flat with a four-pack of lager in his hand, flopped down into the armchair beneath the window, and opened a new can.

“So that lot that visited me this morning,” he said, taking a long swig. “They weren’t the police, were they? They were the ones you told Johnny about. The secret department.”

Albert Harker nodded at him from the sofa on the opposite side of the room. “Department 19. Or Blacklight, as they are often called.”

“So how come they came to see me?”

“I presume they visited the last known address of Mr Bathurst, found the same correspondence that I found, and made the same enquiries that I made. And since you are the sole named beneficiary of Mr Bathurst’s estate, they likely assumed that I would attempt to make contact with you.”

“They told me a released prisoner might try to contact me. They said I should phone the police.”

Harker smiled. “Of course they did. That’s what they do, Mr McKenna. They lie.”

“Why?”

“To keep you and everyone else in the dark, under the guise of keeping you safe.”

McKenna drank deeply from his can and levelled his gaze at the vampire. “And what is it that you want, Mr Harker?” he asked. “You’ve got the tape and the transcript, and I give you my word that I won’t tell anyone about you. I don’t have anything else.”

Albert Harker smiled broadly. “Mr McKenna, that is exactly the opposite of what I want from you. I
want
the world to know about me, and others like me. I want to expose Blacklight and all its lies, and I want you to write the story that pulls back the curtain. How does that sound?”

“It sounds nuts,” said McKenna. “It sounds like the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Harker’s face darkened and a red flicker appeared in the corners of his eyes. “It’s the biggest story in human history,” he said, his voice low. “The greatest exclusive in the history of journalism, and I am giving it to you. I would expect you to be more grateful.”

Grateful
, thought McKenna.
Sure. There’s a vampire sitting in my living room. An actual real, walking, talking, breathing vampire, who threatened to tear my face off my skull less than an hour ago. And I’m supposed to be grateful?

Then his eyes narrowed.

A vampire. An actual vampire, because they’re real. A real vampire.

Despite himself, his mind started to turn it over.

Forget long-lens tits and cheating celebrities. He’s crazy, but he’s right about one thing. This could be the biggest story ever. And I could be the one to break it.

“It’s a big story,” he said, carefully. “I’m with you there, no argument whatsoever. But you have to see that there’s not a chance in hell anyone would ever print it. You’re sitting right there on my sofa and I only half believe it. My editor is going to laugh his arse off for about a minute and then he’s going to fire me. I’ll never get another byline as long as I live.”

“I understand your concern,” said Harker. “And you’re right, we will need more than the word of one man if we are to be convincing. We need evidence, testimonials from men and women who have encountered my kind, or the men who are supposed to protect them from us.”

“How do we do that?” asked McKenna. “Where are we going to find these people?”

Harker smiled. “We don’t need to find them, Kevin. They’ll come to us, willingly. You have a blog, yes?”

“You know what a blog is?”

“I was in a hospital, Kevin, not on the moon. I am familiar with the internet. Do you have a blog or not?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. You will write a post asking for people who have lost friends and family members, but who have been threatened not to talk about what happened to them. Ask for their stories, of figures dressed all in black, or men and women with sharp teeth and red eyes, and guarantee their anonymity.”

“And you want me to do this when?”

“Immediately. There is no time to lose.”

McKenna considered the vampire’s plan. His initial reaction was that most people would laugh their heads off at him if he wrote the post that Albert Harker had described, and the ones who didn’t laugh would feel sorry for him. Then, for the first time in a very long time, he pushed his self-loathing aside and was honest with himself.

What the hell are you worrying about? People laugh at you now, behind your back. You know they do. You’re a joke. And worst of all, you’re a joke that pretends he isn’t. You’re nothing. You’re nobody. Why not go out with a bang, one way or the other?

He finished his beer, opened yet another, and reached for his laptop. It was sitting on the coffee table where he had left it that morning, when the world had been a different place, far smaller and safer than it now seemed.

Then a dreadful thought occurred to him. “So I write this blog,” he said, slowly. “And let’s say you get what you want, and we bring it all down. What happens then? You kill me?”

“Of course not,” said Harker, placing a hand across his chest. “I am not a monster, Kevin. I have no intention of hurting anybody.”

McKenna laughed, a short sound that was little more than a grunt. “It didn’t feel like that when you were throwing me across the garage.”

“I needed to get your attention,” said Harker. “If you refused to help, I had to make sure you were too scared to go to the authorities. I meant you no harm, I assure you.”

“How can you expect me to believe that?” asked McKenna.

“I can do nothing more than give you my word. Whether you believe it or not is up to you.”

“So what would happen if I decided to get up and walk out of here right now?”

“I would attempt to persuade you not to.”

“And if I insisted?”

“I would… prevent you from leaving.”

“How?”

“My friend,” said Harker, spreading his hands wide in a gesture that Kevin felt sure was meant to portray honesty. “Let us not dwell on such things. Can we not just say that we are here, and there is work for us to do? Great work, that future generations will thank us for?”

McKenna stared at Albert Harker for a long moment, trying to shake the feeling of dread that had taken up residence in his chest.

I don’t believe a word you say
, he thought.
I’ve known violent men, I’ve been around them. They have this look, this aura about them. Just like the one you’ve got.

“All right,” he said, eventually. “So I post a blog. Then what?”

Harker smiled. “Then we wait.”

“What if nobody replies?”

“Do not worry,” replied Harker. “If we are forced to do this alone, I have a plan for that eventuality. But I think it is remarkably unlikely that we will need to. I have faith that our call will be answered.”

McKenna opened his laptop, logged in, and accessed the dashboard of his blog. He was about to start typing when he paused, his fingers hovering over the keys.

“This matters to you, doesn’t it?” he said, looking at the vampire. “This isn’t just about revenge for what they did to you, or getting back at your family. You really want the public to know what’s going on.”

Albert Harker regarded him with an expression of naked determination. “You are quite correct, my friend,” he said, softly. “I was incarcerated for almost a decade with no hope of release, by people acting with total impunity from the law, but this is not about vengeance. This is nothing less than a crusade, against everything that Blacklight has done in the shadows, on behalf of all the men and women who died because they weren’t allowed to know the truth that might have saved them. And I promise you this, Kevin, right here and now. The day will come when you will be proud to tell people that you were there when it began.”

McKenna nodded, and began to type. As the words began to flow, more easily than they had in a long time, a tiny part of the fear that had filled him ever since he stepped into the garage beneath
The
Globe
’s offices evaporated. It was replaced by something else; something his long-jaded system found unfamiliar.

Excitement.

For a terrible moment, Paul Turner was completely unable to breathe; his eyes remained fixed on his console’s screen as his heart froze in his chest and his insides turned momentarily to water. Then his long years of experience kicked in; his fingers flew across the screen, ordering it to find Kate Randall’s locator chip. The console worked as Turner screamed silently for it to hurry, then returned the result of its search.

RANDALL, KATE (LIEUTENANT)/NS303, 78-J/LOCATOR CHIP NOT FOUND

Turner shoved the console into its loop on his belt and took off towards the Level A stairwell at a flat sprint.

It doesn’t mean anything
, he told himself as he ran.
Monitoring is down on B. If she’s there, then her chip won’t show up. It doesn’t mean anything.

As he pounded down the corridor, his boots echoing against the hard concrete floor, Paul Turner pulled his radio from his belt and entered his code on to its screen. The small rectangle lit up and he tapped a series of commands, activating a Security Division interrupt; this would cause the handsets of his Operators to act like speakers, broadcasting his voice whether they were switched on or not.