Chapter 2

The safest road to hell is the gradual one - the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts. - C. S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters.

Coming out of a null-space wormhole is pretty mundane at the best of times. None of the fancy swirling colours, streaks of starlight shrinking to points, juddering or nausea that the old fantasy writers predicted. Just you are not there, and then you are. No sensation of movement. No more displacement of air than moving forward normally gives you. Space travel is even more anticlimactic. The ship popped us back into real space at 2 planetary diameters out, found the Rome beacon, queried traffic control and started it's descent. All done automatically. There is no chance at all to be the intrepid space pilot that kids still dream of being – try to land on manual anywhere on an inhabited planet and the police will be over-riding and delivering you to a holding cell before you can descend half a kilometre. Like so much of this technological society, it is all totally safe. Totally bland. Totally boring.

A long queue at the orbital defence grid, as usual, where all incoming ships are examined for hitch-hikers. Ships are in null-space long enough for some of the smaller and faster denizens to catch hold of the hull and be carried along into real-space. Only small guys, mainly imps and piru with the odd afreet thrown in, but they are annoying. It is easier to banish them in orbit, before they can cause mischief on the ground. There is some grumbling going on from decontamination, directed at the ship as I calmly queue jump, but not much. Operative Class 12s do not question even a Class 5, and certainly not a Class Zero. Regimented societies have their good side, at least when you are at the top of them.

It was raining hard when I landed. Two minutes to weapon up, and I was ready to leave.

“Thank you, Ship.” It doesn't always kill me to be polite, especially to those who cannot resent your behaviour. “You made this rehab session tolerable, for once.”

“Do you have any further needs, Operative Stevens? Or shall I repair and restock for our next outing.”

“Repair and restock, Ship. And see if you can requisition some honest-to-Him meat based meals for next time.”

“Meat based consumables are prohibited on Society vessels, sir.” I sigh – a typical bureaucratic mindset. “However, as dietary stimulation is a valuable adjunct to intensive therapy, it will be possible to obtain a small amount of the foodstuffs desired. A wine to go with each meal has also been requisitioned.”

Well, what'd ya know! Computers can be corrupted by example!

Whether the heavy rain was natural or part of the subtle art of discouraging onlookers, there wasn't a soul in sight as I stepped out onto the landing dock and made my way to a small, unmarked door. Ciampino Starport is busy pretty much 24/7, as it is one of the three main departure hubs for colonists. And the safest, since not only is there is no wormhole transit within 10 kilometres, but it is entirely staffed by Society Operatives.
That busyness has it's downside. Zeros make the evening news a lot, which usually means a crowd of the curious and the thrill seekers whenever we go. Unless we are working, of course. Those times, the curious, the thrill seekers and pretty much everyone else screams, runs and hides – or gets eaten. We are not really antisocial, but the crowds that always gather explains why we do therapy in a singleship as far from people as we can get.

The door, as always, is unlocked. Quickly look around to make sure no one is watching – lead idiots not into temptation is one of my mottoes - then duck through and start walking down a sloping tunnel. Small, almost subliminal, movements in the walls as the security systems check my biometrics, my implants, my armament, my aura and my odour. Satisfied that I have the right to be there, the targeting systems stand down and the weapons stop tracking me and swivel back towards the door. No need for the door to be locked. Everyone knows what happens to unbelievers trying to enter the Vatican Free State.

At the bottom of the access tunnel, I grab an electric cart and punch my destination. Sublevel 13, Quadrant C. Demon central, we call it, where every incursion is tracked, analysed and logged, before the appropriate operative is dispatched to deal with the problem. The passenger lanes are almost deserted at this hour of the night, though the cargo lanes are still busy enough with carriers shuttling goods to and from the landing field. I slow pass a pair of maintenance techs, working on the air system and give them the wave you always give others who are awake and working in the early hours of the morning. One waves back. The other waits, then hastily sketches a cross in the air. I barely have time for the ritual response, a prayerful bow of thanks, before I am past them. Techs always put a smile on my face – cheeky sods sail right up to the edge of disrespect, but never over it.

I used to be one, a long time ago. When things were a whole lot simpler.

* * *

We never lived in Vatican Free State when I was growing up. My Dad was in a Rapid Response Unit, so we moved from base to base every couple of years. Mom was a teacher. She was also an underground priestess, in her case devoted to the Goddess, but in those years, religious comfort was religious comfort, no matter who gave it. When I was 17, with tech aptitude scores hovering around a score of 3.9, Dad got transferred again, this time to Paris, probably because the sniffers were closing in on Mom again. He used to wangle transfers whenever she got a feeling, meaning we moved around a lot. I had the choice – go with them, or stay and complete my education as a metallurgist in San Diego. I chose to stay. Two days after they moved, Mom was killed in Place de la République by a demon. Dad was killed in the panic caused by it's appearance. It was devastating, especially to a shy, awkward, slightly different kid suddenly on his own. I went sullen and brooded. Got into fights over real or perceived slights, and with the lessons Dad had taught me, the fights usually went one way. Got very competitive and aggressive.
And when, three days after my 20th birthday, a demon popped out through a cargo wormhole in the foundry I was contracted to, I killed it with a chunk of H section Titanium reinforcing rod. Not banished it, dissolving its body into a puff of dust and vapour while sending its soul back to Hell – I actually killed it.
40 minutes later, my contract bought off by the Society of the Faithful, I was on my way to Rome to begin training.

* * *

Shake my head as the cart pulls into C-13 parking bay. The past, as we are always told, is a constant threat to our stability. It is part of us, formed us, and can easily destroy us if it is not held under control.

Vault out of the cart – you never know who is watching. Although difficult, even in here people can play host to a dybbuk, sent to spy on the enemy. So never show weakness.
Some people think Zeros are both cocky and arrogant. After killing something that outweighs you 20 to 1, with teeth the length of your arm, I figure you have the right to make an entrance if you wish. I set my shoulders, adjust Pain to millimetric accuracy, check my gun belt and stride through the entrance to demon central.

Jones is waiting inside. I always forget how damn big he is. 2 .15 metres and about 200 kilos – none of it fat. His suit looks like, and probably was, made for a guy about half his size. There is nothing to knock your confidence back like looking like a child next to some office dweeb who wouldn't know a sword from a bus. Yeah, I know I am unfair. So sue me. He tries to intimidate me – and fails constantly. I took him out on his qualification run. And he blew it, badly.

I can forgive a guy for failing, that happens to the best of people. I can almost forgive a guy for holding back and saving his own ass at the expense of someone else. I can't forgive a guy who cuts and runs when he is desperately needed. Shake, panic, puke, shit yourself – all fine and understandable and all things that every Operative does at least once in their career – but never, ever, ever, abandon your team mates when they need you.

He looks down at me. I look back with studied indifference. The silence stretches out, tension increasing every second. Another stupid dominance game – who will speak first. I can wait all day if necessary. I see the subtle shift of his muscles, the ever so slight sag of the face that tells me he knows this. I have won this round. Jones clears his throat.

“The Old Men will see you in two hours. That gives you time to go through the briefing material.” Him damn it, he never stops trying to give me orders! You'd think he'd learn eventually. “I have cleared and privacy locked Room 4 for …”

“No.” I turn left and step three paces away. “First things first. Where are the bodies, and have they been examined yet?” He pales slightly. He has a problem with the forthright approach to death.

“Yuli and Francis are in the morgue. Preliminary scans and sampling have been done. We waited for you before running a full examination, thinking you would want to observe. Tanekawa – sorry, we haven't found anything of her at all. Just her flamer.” He sounds honestly grieved at that – everyone loved Tanekawa, just as she loved everyone.

Shit. “OK, I am heading to the morgue. Have the guide meet me there in 90 minutes to take me to the Old Men.” I spin on my heel and walk off, to pay my last respects. And to see what my dead friends have to tell me.