Secret History #02 - Daemons Are Forever by Simon R. Green

Author:Simon R. Green [Green, Simon R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Fiction, General
ISBN: 9780451462787
Google: Fs4gNQAACAAJ
Amazon: 0451462785
Publisher: Roc
Published: 2008-01-01T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TEN Various Voices, Prophesying War

Sometimes it seems to me that the whole of my time at the Hall consists of people marching up to me, determined to tell me things they already know I'm not going to like. There's a certain look I've learned to recognise; equal parts determination and it's-for-your-own-good glee. This time it was Callan Drood, emerging from a side room as I wandered back into the Hall. He looked not so much sunburned from his trip to South America, as sun-roasted. He headed straight for me, already scowling furiously.

Didn't mean it had to be bad news; Callan always looked that way. Even at the best of times, he gave the impression of someone perfectly prepared to walk through anything that got in his way, including walls, regulations, and, quite possibly, people. I just knew I didn't want to hear what he was so determined to tell me, but short of clubbing him down with the nearest blunt instrument and walking right over him, there was no way of avoiding the man. So I stopped, heaved a heavy sigh just to show I wasn't at all happy, and let him get on with it. "The Inner Circle wants to talk with you," Callan said bluntly. "It's nice to want things," I said. "I want several large drinks and a meat pie, followed by a nice lie down, and I think I'll go get them right now."

"Let me rephrase the message," said Callan. "The Inner Circle needs to see you right now, and I have been instructed not to take No, Go to hell, or even Fuck off and die for an answer."

"The Circle has already demonstrated that it can make decisions without me," I said flatly. "Let them get on with it."

"Sulking doesn't become you," said Callan. "So cut it out, or I'll slap you somewhere painful.

Right here, in public. This is important."

"This bluff-but-honest act of yours is really starting to get on my tits," I said. "How important?"

"Sphincter-clenching,

testicle-shrivelling,

end-of-the-world-and-everything-turning-to-shit

important," said Callan. "They're waiting for you down in the War Room. Probably crying and wetting themselves and trying to hide under things."

"Oh," I said. "That important."

So we went down to the War Room, threading our way through all the security checks, until finally we passed through the specially reinforced doors and into complete bedlam. The usual hushed air was gone, replaced by a tense, charged, and very noisy atmosphere, in which people ran from station to workstation, held rapid conversations, threw up their hands, and then hurried on somewhere else. The giant display screens covering the black basalt walls, showing maps of every country in the world, were thickly dotted with flashing red lights, indicating realtime emergencies and disaster spots. The farcasters and computer technicians were all shouting into their hands-free headsets while waving sheets of paper for messengers to pick up and take wherever necessary.

I actually stopped and stared for a moment. The War Room was always the cold, calm, and collected heart of family decision-making. I'd never seen the place so distracted, so openly close to panic.

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