Phoebe Harkness Omnibus Page 5
“Of course, Doctor. I’ll let them know you have business upstairs,” Miranda said helpfully.
Upstairs is figurative at Blue Lab, of course. Of the many subterranean levels, those with the tightest security are the lowest. Our high up’s work deep down in the burrow, which we affectionately refer to as ‘the pit’. But we still call it ‘upstairs’ officially. It makes us feel more like we work for the good guys rather than on various levels of Dante’s Inferno.
“Shall we?” Harrison said, somewhat impatiently, and he guided me to one of the many elevators, one of his Ghosts having already summoning it like an MI5 bellboy.
Some people are just naturally guilty by nature. You know the kind, driving along and a police car passes and suddenly they’re all nervous and sweaty-palmed as though they expect to be pulled over for some hideous crime or other. The face of authority is enough to make some people sweat even if they’re innocent. Miranda, practically jittering in the presence of Cabal members and their entourage, was clearly a prime example, but in her defence they were quite intimidating.
I’m not one of those people, however. I don’t like being pushed around, or ‘escorted’, by less than friendly Ghost agents, and I wasn’t particularly cowed by Servant Harrison and his ‘stern-headteacher’ act. I was more irritated. But I’m also not entirely stupid, and sometimes even I know well enough when to keep my mouth shut. At least until I have some clue as to what’s going on. Not all the time … but sometimes.
So I got in the elevator with the old man and his dark-suited muscle like a well-behaved and meek lab drone, and rode down further than I’d ever been before, feeling like Alice being frogmarched down the rabbit hole.
“Can I ask what this is about?” I queried, as the floors whooshed by. We were already ten levels lower than my own lab and still descending. My ears had popped. “My supervisor usually deals with anything outside of the lab, you see. I’m more the mad scientist type.” I tried a smile. It wasn’t returned, and in the withering atmosphere it kind of died on my face.
Servant Harrison did not reply immediately. Indeed, for a moment, I thought he wasn’t going to at all.
“I am aware of this, Doctor Harkness. Indeed, as will soon become clear, I have good reason not to be going through the usual channels of Ms Trevelyan.”
My inner ten year old sniggered at this, but I was too spooked to find it really funny.
The elevator, after what seemed an eternity, finally stopped and ejected us into a long low corridor, which was nicely appointed in expensive, if bland, corporate tastes. Charcoal walls, soft but dull carpet underfoot, recessed soft lighting. We marched to a kind of sub-reception, where a desk jockey, a young Asian man I had never even seen before, barely glanced at Servant Harrison’s clearance before directing us onward. There were lush and healthy pot plants in the little lobby down here and elegant grey seating. I was pretty sure the plants were real. We didn’t even get decent coffee in my lab. How the other half lived. I was impressed.
The corridor beyond the reception hub led to various offices, some glass-walled and all nicely appointed. There were no labs or heavy machinery down here, as far as I could see. I figured this was where the paper gets pushed. The expensive paper I mean, not the filing which even Trevelyan and her svelte assistant have to deal with like the rest of us mere mortals.
Harrison led me into one such anonymous office, through some silent instruction leaving his cheerless buddies outside in the corridor. Standing guard? That was reassuring.
There were two people already waiting for us inside, seated behind an outrageously big desk of some very dark and highly polished wood that I immediately ached to mar with a fingerprint. One of the people I didn’t know, a forty-something man, rather overweight, but the tailoring of his suit was expensive enough that it hid it well. His skin was a pallid greyish colour, his face rather slack and bored looking. I was guessing he didn’t get out much. The other person present, to my mute horror, was Servant Veronica Cloves herself.
“Dr Harkness, have a seat,” she said, as Servant Harrison closed the door behind us. She was wearing a pale grey business suit, rather more muted than the jungle flower plum ensemble from the previous evening, but the glittering black choker was still present around her throat. What wasn’t present was the sweet-natured and earnest expression she had worn during her DataStream interview. He face today was severe and cool. No media-pleasing masks for a private audience, it seemed.
Fighting the urge to flee the office, I sat down slowly in the large chair on the near side of the desk. The leather creaked alarmingly.
“Would someone mind telling me what I’m doing here?” I asked, as politely as I could. I felt like I was going to be court marshalled, or possibly sacrificed. What worried me most is that, of the three powerful people in the tastefully lit room, under whose scrutiny I now sat in my big hot winter coat, I only knew two of them. The overweight, sickly-looking guy hadn’t even spoken or looked up from the glass monitor he was currently streaming. He acted as though we were not even there, like he was tuned out on standby or something. I’m quite good at vibing a hierarchy, and if Harrison and Cloves were here, I was guessing they lined into this unknown quantity. It was quite possible I was in the presence of a Level One. A minister. They don’t do public PR, and I couldn’t help wondering why one would want to speak with me over exploding rats.
Of course, it was bound to be nothing to do with the rats. It would be to do with the GO from last night, Allesandro. Nothing puts you under the microscope like a run in with the vampire population.
“Dr Harkness,” Harrison said, still at the door. “It is imperative that you understand that you are here under Cabal security clearance, and as such, you will not repeat, reveal or discuss anything said in this office beyond these four walls. Is that clear?”
“What am I not repeating?” I asked, aware that I was being irritating on purpose. I was too hot in my coat and the pristine tabletop was bugging me. I could see the numerous chins of Mr Maybe Minister reflected on its surface.
“When did you last speak with Vyvienne Trevelyan?” Cloves asked me curtly.
I stared at her confused. “Trevelyan? The night before last. Well, technically, yesterday morning, around 3am. Why?”
“You are required to answer questions at this juncture, Doctor, not ask them,” Cloves replied dismissively. “And this was in the lab? BL4, yes? Toxicology.”
I nodded. “She called us all into the lab in the middle of the night,” I explained. “There was something of an incident with the Epsilon strain which … she felt needed our attention.” I was really hoping they were not going to pry on that. I had been very careful to keep the R&D findings vague in the presentation the night before. I didn’t want to have to baldly admit that one of our rats blew up and we had to come and mop it up.
“We’re aware of the exotherm; we’ve read the report you filed with Trevelyan yesterday,” Harrison said impatiently. “This was the last time you saw your supervisor? In the lab? You did not hand her your report later that morning?”
“No,” I said, thoroughly confused. “She wasn’t in her office when I went to drop it off. I left it with her assistant. I think she’d gone home by then.” I looked from Cloves to Harrison. “Is that what this is about? Is she still missing?”
They both bristled at this. I wasn’t sure what I’d said wrong. “Look,” I said. “I haven’t seen her since. I had to do the R&D presentation because she didn’t show up. Even her assistant couldn’t get hold of her.”
If Trevelyan was still missing, that was indeed strange, but it was much stranger that two – no, three (don’t forget fat silent man) – bigwig Cabal Servants would give a damn. She was only a department supervisor, after all. It was like the Pope worrying personally about the ill health of a church organist in Surrey.
“Dr Harkness…” Cloves drummed her fingers on the desk. “What level of interaction have you had with the GOs who call themselves vampires?”
“What level?” I almost laughed, but guessed from their expressions it wouldn’t be wise at all to do so. “No level. Level zero. I hadn’t even seen a GO in person before last night. I’ve studied them genetically, of course, along with the others, the Pale, the Tribals, even Bonewalkers, but I don’t even go to their part of the city to be totally honest.”
My three inquisitors exchanged silent glances. “Are you aware of your supervisor being … mixed up … in any GO business?” Harrison asked me, choosing his words carefully.
This seemed the most outlandish statement so far. “My supervisor isn’t really the caring-sharing type, sir,” I said, quite truthfully. “We don’t really talk much about any interests outside of work. In fact, I’d be surprised to hear she had any interests at all outside of her job spec, but I’m fairly certain she would be the last person to be on friendly terms with an GO. From what I gather she’s very much a … humans … person.”
I didn’t want to say flat out that Trevelyan hated GOs and considered them all dangerous freaks, which was what I had always assumed from her demeanour. Cabal themselves are fiercely Human First, but they have political red tape to dance around, and would never openly admit dislike of the GOs. I was swimming in very murky waters here.
Completely forgetting I had been instructed not to ask questions, I asked. “You don’t think Trevelyan has gone AWOL with a secret vampire lover, do you?” It was a joke. I make poor jokes in serious situations. It’s a bad survival instinct. I’m the sort of person who gets nervous giggles at funerals.
“Vyvienne Trevelyan is not missing.”
The large man had spoken for the first time. His voice was like gravel, his words a little slurred. I wondered if maybe he’d suffered a stroke in the past. He sounded like the godfather. “She was … until this morning. She’s next door now.”
I was now deeply confused. “Then why on earth are you talking to me? Why not just ask her yourself?”
Harrison crossed the room and opened an adjoining door, which evidently led into the next suite. “Please come through, Dr Harkness, and you will see that your suggestion is quite impossible.”
With no small amount of trepidation, I followed Harrison into the adjacent room. Cloves followed at my heels. Nameless godfather guy stayed where he was behind his desk with his chubby fingers laced together in front of him – either too important to join in whatever version of show and tell was happening here, or else simply too damn lazy to get up.
The room beyond was not another office. It was brushed stainless steel, steel sinks, tiled floor with drains inset. One whole wall had a plethora of small rectangular doors, like oversized gym lockers. Interesting. This level may not have any labs, but it did, apparently, have a morgue.
“What the hell?” I asked.
Harrison crossed to a locker and opened the door at chest height. My blood ran suddenly cold, and I was convinced the sliding drawer was about to reveal the corpse of my supervisor, exiting the wall on a smooth gurney like a pizza out of a stone bake oven.
There was indeed a gurney rattling noisily from the drawer, but to my surprise, there was no body on it, no sheet. Wisps of cool dry ice curled out from the dark opening, suggesting that this was refrigerated storage of the highest order, but all that was on the shining metal slab was an incongruous and opaque Tupperware box, as though someone had a very morbid place to keep their lunch.
“I must remind you, Dr Harkness, of the security level clearance you have been temporarily granted, and the implications once more of revealing to the outside world what is discussed down here today,” Servant Harrison said in a calm and measured voice as he donned a pair of bright blue surgical gloves.
The implication, as far as I could gather, was that I would end up in one of the freezers here.
He prized the lid from the medical grade Tupperware box, and beckoned for me to approach, which I reluctantly did, not sure what to expect.
“This morning, we received an anonymous package by mail,” he explained. “Within the package, there was a DataStream message clip, and these items. We find this worrying.”
I peered into the box as the last of the dry ice dissipated. I’m not sure what I had braced myself for, but it certainly wasn’t what I saw. A cluster of small white pellets, jumbled together like mints. It took me a moment to recognise what I was peering at.
“Teeth?” I glanced up. Harrison regarded me steadily, his expression unreadable. Cloves stood behind me, uncomfortably close, her arms folded.
“Thirty two teeth to be precise,” she said coldly. “It’s all we have found of her … so far.”
Her? I blinked and stared back into the suddenly macabre box. “These are…” I faltered.
“They belong to your supervisor,” Harrison said bluntly. “We have dental records, and much more, of every employee of Blue Lab. At 6am this morning, just before sunrise, someone delivered the entire contents of Vyvienne Trevelyan mouth to us, neatly packaged, if rather … crudely extracted. I imagine the experience was not a pleasant one for her.”
My hand covered my mouth involuntarily. I felt sick. “Oh my God. What … what the hell?” My boss was never going to win my nomination for hero of the month, but I wouldn’t wish dental torture even on her. “Who did this? Why?”
“We were hoping you would be able to assist us with these questions, Dr Harkness,” Veronica Cloves said close to my ear, making me jump. “Someone has kidnapped, tortured and mutilated a member of Blue Lab One, and has now sent a rather enigmatic ransom note along with some of her body parts to us. Needless to say … this does not sit well with Cabal.”
I turned to face her, as much to not have to look at the box full of teeth as to confront the woman. “This is unbelievable,” I managed. “Good God, poor Trevelyan. Jesus.”
I’m articulate in a crisis, I know.
I shook my head, trying to clear it. The teeth glittered up at me obscenely. “But … I don’t understand why … I mean, I’m a blood doctor, I didn’t exactly swap Christmas cards with my boss, we hardly got on like a house on fire. I don’t know how you’d think I could shed any light on something like this?”
“Partly because we believe this crime was committed by a GO,” Harrison said behind me. “And they seem to have suddenly taken an interest in you.” I didn’t like that comment one little bit. It sounded like a trap, or an accusation. Or both.
“But primarily…” Cloves said, her voice like an icy razor, reaching into her suit jacket and withdrawing a DataStream clip, a kind of slim USB, which she brandished like evidence in front of me, “… because the message which came with the teeth, the message sent by who or whatever has taken and tortured our staff member … is addressed to you.”
10
When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a vet. Well, originally I wanted to be a ballerina, then there was a fire-fighter phase I went through, but it turns out I was neither coordinated nor inflammable, so time and again I returned to my main theme of vet. I pictured myself wandering around healing sick animals, the occasional bit of horse dentistry, birthing a cow, splinting the legs of cats. I was an animal lover, you see.
Of course, things don’t ever work out quite as we plan them. Fate and fortune led me down a very different and more specialised path. My father was a scientist once, before the wars, long before I was born. He was a medic later on. Trying to save the dying human population. I kind of followed in his footsteps after he died. I still, some would say, work with animals, if you could regard the genetically engineered rabid killing machines we call the Pale as such, but I would point out that it’s hardly the same thing trying to undo the Faustian meddling of the last generation. It’s a long way from caring for sick puppies. The only interaction with actual animals of the small and fluffy variety I get these days is with rats, and I tend to kill them – not always entirely by accident.
>
My point is that we never really know, no matter how sure we are of ourselves and our place in the world when we set out, exactly where it is we are going to end up. For example, even after accepting my fate as a lab drone, I had never expected to now be sitting in a subterranean office complex with three extremely important government Servants, corralled on all sides and wedged into a high backed and expertly leather-worked office chair, watching a DataStream clip which appeared to implicate me not only in extreme fraternisation with Genetic Others, but also with kidnappers and torturers. It was not what I would call comfortable viewing.
The visual on the clip, which Cloves had inserted into Fat Godfather’s monitor, was grainy and shaky. Handheld footage. Too old-fashioned to be any kind of cranial implant, which is what a lot of the news crews were using these days. It was hard to make out much other than a featureless, grey room, I was guessing a basement or storage locker. The walls were old blocks of stone, damp-looking. Like a crypt. The only thing on screen was my supervisor, tied to a run of the mill four-legged chair with generous amounts of duct tape. Her clothes were those I had last seen her in, though crumpled and dirty. Dusty looking, as though she had been dragged along the floor, the coat of her blazer torn. Her hair was in disarray, falling forward over her face, and her mouth was obscured behind yet more silver duct tape. She was missing a shoe. For some reason this detail stuck with me, a distressing sight. I had never considered my boss as a vulnerable person. She would have survived a direct nuclear hit, but the sight of her stockinged foot, bent at an odd angle to the chair leg, made her seem like a small child.
She was clearly out of it, either drugged or beaten senseless. It was hard to see. The light was so poor and the camera kept jiggling, like one of those annoying found footage horror movies which always give me headaches.
It lingered on her a moment or two, blurring and refocusing, and then a voice, so low and guttural it was almost a growl, echoed from the monitor’s speakers.