The Fuller Memorandum (Laundry Files, #3)

by Charles Stross

But I digress. The thing about Angleton is that, despite (or in addition to) being the honorary departmental monster, he has a sense of humor. It bears about the same relationship to mirth that his cadaverous exterior does to Paris Hilton’s—but it’s there. (He has the heart of a young boy: keeps it in a reliquary under the coffin he sleeps in.)

besides, all smartphones are shit these days. It’s the one industry where progress is going backwards in high gear, because the yakking masses would rather use their phones as car navigation systems and cameras than actually make phone calls or read email.

“So you bought an iPhone, rather than bugging Iris to sign off on a replacement PDA.” “If you must put it that way . . . yes.” Mo rolls her eyes. “Bob loses saving throw vs. shiny with a penalty of −5. Bob takes 2d8 damage to the credit card—just how much did it cost?

I choose my next words carefully: “The house is a level two secure site. The only other resident is my wife. Dr. O’Brien isn’t certificated for firearms, but she has other competencies and knows not to play with other kids’ toys.”

Now, it just so happens that Angleton has officially been declared missing. And I am his assistant trainee tea-boy. In a more paranoid working environment I might just be under suspicion of having disappeared him myself: perish the thought and pass the ammunition. But Angleton is reckoned to be sufficiently formidable that . . . well, let’s say it’s unlikely.

Welcome to the dead man’s boots: hope you don’t find them too tight. You are one of only four people who have access to this machine (and at least two of them are dead or dying of K Syndrome). You may: read all files not flagged with a Z-prefix, search all files not flagged with a Z-prefix, and print any files flagged with a prefix from A to Q. You may not: read or search Z-prefix files. Print files flagged with a prefix from S to Z. Dismantle or reverse-engineer this instrument. WARNING: LETHAL ENFORCEMENT PROTOCOLS ARE ENFORCED.

“I’ve got the path.” A third voice, female and coldly controlled. Maybe she’s an A-Team player assigned to ride herd on the clown car. (She can be Minion #2 until proven competent.) “You walk the—” No plan survives contact with the enemy—especially when the enemy is invisible, within earshot and taking notes—but

“James.” Boris’s face is ashen. “What are happen?” (Boris isn’t Russian and the accent isn’t a fake; it’s a parting kiss from Krantzberg syndrome, brain damage incurred by performing occult operations on Mark One Plains Ape computing hardware—the human cerebral cortex.

“You appear unduly upset ...” “Yes.” She looks at her hands. “The missing officer is my husband.” Panin puts his glass down and leans back, very slowly, with the extreme self-control of a man who has just realized he is sharing a table with a large, ticking bomb.