Dark State (Empire Games Book 2) by Charles Stross

Author:Charles Stross [Stross, Charles]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan
Published: 2018-01-10T15:00:00+00:00

NEW LONDON, TIME LINE THREE, AUGUST 2020

The steps were not particularly steep. Nevertheless, Rita’s heart was pounding by the time she reached the reception desk in the echoing, imposing atrium. Inspector Morgan got there first. “Signing in a visitor,” she said, presenting her badge. “Rita Douglas, VIP code. She’s expected.”

The men behind the desk wore comic-opera uniforms but had the universal hallmark of security: a gimlet gaze Rita associated with cops, suspicious of everyone. “Yes, ma’am,” said the guard Morgan had addressed. His colleague turned to a Rolodex-like file. “Rita Douglas, for . . . ?”

“For Olga Thorold.”

A slight stiffening told Rita that this was both the correct answer, and a significant one. Guard number two pulled forth a printed card badge and a lanyard. “Wear this at all times,” he told Rita. “Stay with your guide. Good day, Inspector.”

“Good day,” said Morgan, as Rita slid the lanyard over her head. “Come on.” She strode toward a bank of elevators in the shadow of a wide, formal staircase. Rita hurried to keep up. Greg, the driver, followed behind. Stay with your guide, she repeated silently.

Despite the neoclassical exterior, this was clearly a more modern office, functional in design and lacking the intricate cornicework and classical paintings of the other building. There were fire doors and she caught glimpses of cubicle-partitioned office pools beneath old-style fluorescent tube lighting. There was background noise: telephones ringing (their tonal cadence and pitch unfamiliar) and people talking. Once, they passed a widening in the corridor that was occupied by photocopiers, giant hulking things operated by uniformed men and women who serviced the copy requests of the office workers. Their uniforms were weirdly retro—bicorn hats and blue wool tunics with gold frogging—but formal uniforms always lagged public fashions. What caught Rita’s attention was the way they were worn, with everyday touches seldom seen in theatrical costumes. Here a patched elbow, there a belt with a worn leather pouch, pencils and a ruler protruding. Some things, however, seemed to be universal—like the signs saying NO SMOKING.

They came to a closed door fronted by a desk and another security guard. “Passes, please.” Rita held up her badge. “Proceed.” The door hissed open in response to an invisible switch. Beyond it lay another corridor, this time decorated with thicker carpet, wooden paneled walls, and the paintings that had been missing from the outer offices.

They came to a door that was ajar: Morgan knocked. “Come in,” called a male voice. “Hello, Alice. I see you’ve brought us Ms. Douglas?”

Rita stared at the speaker. He was skinny, a little over six feet tall, and somewhere in the indeterminate thirties. He wore an expression of intense curiosity behind his pince-nez. His suit was a fusty black and looked decidedly lived-in: the only spot of color was a peacock-bright cravat, worn inside the black stand-up collar of his shirt. “That’s me,” she admitted. “Who are you?”

Morgan cleared her throat. “This is—” she began, just as the fellow said, “Your second cousin once removed, I believe.

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