Icehouse

Marguerite shuddered at Abigail’s words, but she nevertheless sat back in her seat.  She tried to relax, but she was too nervous, and though she forced her shoulders back and tucked her stomach in she looked like she was trying to do yoga in the seat rather than relaxing into a trance-state.  That didn’t stop the trance-state from stealing over her as she opened her mind to it though, and in moments her eyes were open, unblinking, and staring off into a distance that only she could see.

“The Ambassador,” said Abigail, quietly but firmly, aware that Marguerite’s mind could wander in these states.  “Where is the Ambassador?”

In Marguerite’s vision coloured motes swam and danced against a grey background that she instinctively identified not as a colour itself, but as the absence of colour.  She began to hear a high-pitched piping like a flute or a recorder, and then everything seemed to swirl around faster and faster.  From somewhere far off she thought she heard a name, the Ambassador, and with that thought the coloured mote began to fuse together and form a coherent picture.

A short man, squat, with a braced leg appeared in the centre, and she knew without knowing how that this must be the Ambassador.  When he turned to someone he was standing near and smiled she could see his face, and his smile was amazing, it was as though he was smiling at her and only her, telling her how wonderful she was.  She wanted to listen to him, to hear what he was saying and help him out.

The picture broadened and she could see a path of broken pieces of stone laid out across long grass like stepping stones leading to a single-storey building.  The building was built from brick and had no windows, though she could see the junction box for the electricity supply.  It was protected by a wire mesh box that had two padlocks on it and the cables disappeared into the ground.  The Ambassador had turned his face and that amazing smile away from her now and she could think about other things more easily again.  There were people around him, but they were shadowy and indistinct because none of them were as important as him.  There was another shadow though that was important, that was somehow part of the Ambassador, but that was trying to avoid her seeing it.  When she looked for it it slid away, hiding round the other side of the Ambassador every time.

The Ambassador and his party reached the building, and one of the shadows around him stepped forward and solidified.  They were holding a bunch of keys, and Marguerite saw now that the door to the building was padlocked and had two sturdy-looking locks of its own.  The woman holding the bunch of keys had a flushed face and three moles on the side of her neck.  Her hair was brush-cut as though she was military, and black with little white hairs flecking it here and there.  A name appeared momentarily, overlaid on her in a little box, identifying her as Wilhelmina Brabanta, and then it changed to just Billi.  She unlocked the padlock and set it aside, then unlocked the other two locks and opened the door.  The door seemed heavy, as she pulled it open the muscles on her arms stood out and it moved ponderously slowly.  It was dark inside the building and Marguerite saw nothing at first, but then on another level altogether she saw the radiant energy boiling out of the door, washing over everyone who stood in front of it like a wave crashing down on a beach.  They seemed oblivious to it, its power and its danger, and started to go inside, but the shadow that was part of the Ambassador was revealed by it, glowing and growing as it basked.  Marguerite could see a hundred eyes and as many teeth on a lumpy, bag-like body that extruded tiny, fine spikes that attached it all over to the Ambassador, and then its eyes lit on her.

She started screaming.

*

When Marguerite started screaming Abigail slapped her face.  For a moment it looked like she’d have to slap her again, and then her eyes refocused.  Her mouth stayed open, and Abigail wondered for a disconcerting moment if Marguerite was no longer screaming here, but in whatever place her trance had taken her to.  Then, slowly, her mouth closed and tears appeared, shining at the corner of her eyes.

“Where is the Ambassador?”

“He’s at an icehouse,” said Marguerite, her voice shaky.  “With someone called Billi.  Billi Brabanta.”

“Sergeant Brabanta,” said Abigail as though correcting a mistake.  “An icehouse?”  Marguerite nodded.  “Hmm.  Tell me everything you saw.”

Ambassador to the Faith

The headquarters of the Unconscious Ministry was located in an old farm silo and was a grey tower of a building.  A staircase wound its way round the outside, with warning signs at various points on the wall, and gates that had men stationed at them to ensure that no-one using the staircase wasn’t supposed to be there.  There was a door at the bottom, originally intended for grain-trucks to drive through, and a smaller door inset that had been installed for people.  The top of the silo was hidden by advertising hoardings that proclaimed the message of the Ministry to anyone who cared to look up, and listed dates of significant gatherings nearby.

The land around the silo was also owned by the Ministry, after a slightly protracted legal battle with the original owner.  She had insisted that she’d only ever leased the land to the Ministry, and that the documents they’d produced showing that it was actually a long-term purchase order with a good-behavious clause (that they’d scrupulously adhered to) were forgeries.  The Ministry had been patient and restrained throughout the whole trial, unlike the land’s owner who had had hysterics, made wild accusations, and at one point thrown herself across the courtroom at a lawyer and attempted to bite him several times.  Ultimately though it was the independent expert’s opinion that the documents were genuine, and the judge’s opinion that the contract was fair and well-written that carried the case, and the ministry gained a further two-hundred and forty acres.  This was now fenced around, with discrete electric fencing at the boundaries, then more substantial wooden fencing further in.  The headquarters possessed a three-quarter circle of brick walls that enclosed a set of lovely gardens and were claimed to be essential for the micro-climate, but the real guards were hardly ever seen and drifted around on the land as they saw fit.

The car halted at the boundary gate, where two young men who were neatly dressed in white shirts and dark suits smiled winningly and came out to greet the car holding booklets of Ministry material.  The bony woman waited while the driver lowered the electric window on her side, and then smiled at the young men almost as nicely as they were smiling at her.

“Abigail Malonde,” she said.  “Here to see the Ambassador to the Faith.  I believe I’m expected?”

One of the young men bobbed his head and disappeared back into the little steel security hut at the side of the gate.  The other smiled a little wider.

“Marcus will get the guest list and check you off,” he said.  “In the meantime, could I perhaps interest you in a little reading material?  Or for your friend, perhaps?”  He angled his head, trying to see inside the car and get a good look at Marguerite.  “The drive to the headquarters is still another fifteen minutes.”

“Thank-you, but I already have reading material,” said Abigail.  She gestured, and the young man tried to see inside the car again.  This time he caught sight of the jackalope and took a step backwards.

“Ah,” he said, his eyes growing wide.  “Of course, that’s not a problem.”

Marcus reappeared, holding a red clipboard with a couple of white A4 pages clipped to it, and a pen on a string dangling down.

“Abigail Maldone?” he asked, presenting the clipboard to the car window.

“Malonde,” said Abigail.  She sounded pleasant but firm.  She took the clipboard and glanced at it.  Then she reached into her inside pocket and produced a steel pen that she uncapped with her teeth, and used to sign in a small box on the form.  She slipped the pen back into its cap so she could speak clearly again.

“There, I think that’s all in order.  Tell me, is the Ambassador available early?”

The two young men looked at each other, both clearly confused.  Finally Marcus looked back.  “We’ve had no word of the Ambassador’s movements,” he said, and there was an element of care in his words that seemed unnecessary.

Abigail smiled.  “Of course, it was just an idle question.”

She sat back and the window slid up again, and the gate started its slow slide across its track to let the car pass.  Abigail looked over at Marguerite.

“Well,” she said.  “Much as it pains me to do this, I think you need to use that little talent of yours.  Tell me where the Ambassador is.”