Vantage Point

By Rouen French

Book One: Vis Inertia

 

Chapter Two: Varietist

 

"I think you'll come to find that you've made the right decision, Chief Inspector Stone," said Chancellor Ducane conversationally, one hand on Dominic's shoulder as the two men walked through the GPO Tower to the offices of the new project Dominic was to head up. "Not that I would presume to ask you to neglect your duties at the Nose--these are volatile times, after all, and the people of London must be protected--but I want to you give this project the highest priority possible."         

 

"Of course, Chancellor," replied Dominic neutrally.       

 

They stopped before a plain beige door, and Ducane studied Dominic critically, his hand on the door knob. His cold grey eyes made ice water trickle down the younger man's spine, but he did not flinch. Finally Ducane smiled. "Come meet your team, Inspector," he said, opening the door and ushering Dominic inside.

 

The heart of Project Macbeth looked like a fairly ordinary office, except that it was very large for the four people who would be staffing it. Two of the four desks had three computer monitors apiece, and the walls were lined with bookshelves, empty for the most part.

 

There were three people in the office, who all stood when the Chancellor and the Chief Inspector walked in. Dominic's eye was immediately drawn to a tall, masterful-looking woman with brown hair in a severe bun, wearing the red St. Lorraine cross of the Party on her left shoulder. An agent of the Finger. Bloody brilliant, Dominic cursed to himself.

 

"Inspector Dominic Stone, meet Special Agent Sykes." The two shook hands warily, already building up an air of cordial mutual loathing.

 

"You never mentioned the Finger would be participating in this project, sir."

 

"I would have thought it a given, seeing as the Nose and the Finger were already jointly involved in the investigation."

 

Dominic nodded, gritting his teeth, but he got the point: stop complaining and shut up.

 

He was next introduced to a youngish chap, whose shaved head was reluctantly growing out into tight blond curls, and whose handshake resembled a slap with a wet fish. "Mr. Lucas Palmer, your guide to the underworld of the British Interlink."

 

It took Dominic a moment to sort that one out. "You're a hacker."

 

Palmer grimaced; Ducane laughed. "One of the best Creedy had left in lock-up. I was lucky enough to track down the fellow before the rest were disposed of." Turning away from the former convict--whom Dominic was certain was here against his will--Ducane gestured to a handsome older woman. "And Rose Steerforth."

 

That name caught Dominic's attention. "Any relation to Isaac Steerforth?"

 

She nodded. "My youngest son." If not for the name, Dominic would never have guessed; the two looked nothing alike. He supposed the detective took after his father.

 

"Rose will be responsible for sifting through the hard copies, tracking down paper trails, that sort of thing. She was involved in research at Oxford for some years before the Reclamation, so she should be capable enough." Palmer bristled; Agent Sykes smirked. Rose Steerforth showed no reaction to being talked over as though she was not present, but it bothered Dominic to hear the leader of the government talking about someone being 'capable' the same way he'd describe a calculator as 'useful.'

 

"So what exactly is my function, sir?"

 

"I would have thought that obvious, Inspector," Ducane said genially, as though to a charming but impossibly dotty nephew. "You will use the information gained here to find this man and stop him. Simple as that."

 

Simple as a Chinese puzzle box, Dominic groused to himself. Still, it was a good position to be in, to help Evey and her 'chum,' to help the Voxers... the more he thought about it, the more he realized he did want to help them, if only to keep himself from ending up the way Finch had, tired and dead-eyed and glad enough to be assisted into death. "All right, sir."

 

"Good!" The spare, middle-aged man actually rubbed his hands together in pleasure. "Well, I shall leave you all to become better acquainted. Tomorrow, though... tomorrow, your work begins in earnest. Good night, Inspector, Agent Sykes." The Chancellor tipped an invisible hat to Sykes and departed, his pointed omission of Palmer and Steerforth noted by all but not commented on.

 

Dominic looked round at his new 'staff.' "So how'd the rest of you get roped into this?"

 

Palmer grunted. "Nice choice of words, that," he said darkly, before turning back to his computer screen.

 

Rose gave the young man a sympathetic glance before turning her attention back to her new superior. "The High Chancellor didn't give us much choice in the matter. Where we are now is decidedly preferable to where we were."

 

"A wise attitude, ma'am," said Agent Sykes tartly. "A pity your husband wasn't as cool-headed."

 

Again, Rose Steerforth showed almost no reaction to the jibe; her only response was a slight compressing of the lips. "If you will excuse me, Chief Inspector, I have some last paperwork to do before our work begins in earnest."

 

"Sure," Dominic allowed, uncertain of the strange new undercurrents stirring his little office. Rose seated herself at what was apparently her desk and took no further notice of Dominic or Judith Sykes. "Did he just pluck them out of prison or something?"

 

"Or something. Ducane's a smart man. He knows that no matter how dangerous the government may label a person or a group of people, there is always something to be mined from a disenfranchised people." She contemplated him thoughtfully. "You're very fortunate, Chief Inspector Stone, I hope you realize that." Agent Sykes' blue eyes were remarkably cold and shining, more like glass than real human eyes. "The new High Chancellor is the type of man who keeps any item or individual that he finds useful, no matter how high the potential for betrayal." Her gaze darted to the other members of Dominic's new staff.

 

"So that makes me fortunate, does it?"

 

"Oh, yes. You won't have to work nearly as hard as your predecessor to keep your head off the block." Her eyes continued to probe him as though he were a troublesome laboratory specimen. "You don't like me, Chief Inspector."

 

"That obvious?"

 

"That mutual. I have my personal reasons for wanting this man stopped, as I'm sure you have." She had an oddly deep voice for a woman that might have been compelling, if there had been any warmth in it at all. "I've heard some... interesting rumors... about Eric Finch's last moments." Dominic refused to rise to the bait, only practiced being phlegmatic and British. Agent Sykes shrugged. "I don't want to be stuck here; I had... other plans for my career. But I'm here now."

 

*** 

 

V looked up from his silent contemplation of his dying roses to discover Evey watching him, or apparently doing so. "What are you doing here, Evey?" he asked softly, the low growl in his voice making it perfectly plain that he wanted to be alone.

 

"Not bothering you, I hope. I was just thinking." Her eyes shifted to something behind him, and she walked slowly around the bed of roses--it was a tight squeeze, but she managed to pass him without touching him--towards the back wall of the shrine. Stopping before the Salt Flats poster, Evey stood in unconscious imitation of V himself, legs apart, hands folded in front of her abdomen, and stared up at the poster, thinking V knew not what, for so long and so intently, that he simply had to speak.

 

"What are you doing, Evey?" he asked again, this time without rancor. "What are you thinking about?"

 

"Perception," she answered after a moment. "Matters of reference points. Do you know," she continued turning abruptly, "it's been almost nine months since I first read Valerie's letter?" The seemingly sudden change of subject caught V off-guard, and he didn't answer. "It's strange, but you know what never occurred to me until this morning? Valerie's age. I never made the connection in my mind."

 

"I don't think I see your point."

 

"When I first read that letter, I thought Valerie really was in the cell next to me, that she was there. Her letter said she was born in 1985; I was picturing a middle-aged woman. Then you told me that the letter was twenty years older than I'd thought. But the reality didn't hit me until today. I don't know why. But his morning, I just... knew. She was around my age when she died, maybe only a few years older. Just like you were."

 

"I?"

 

Evey smiled slightly. "I know you'd prefer if I didn't think about it, but you were somebody before you were V, even if that person doesn't matter now."

 

"I do prefer not to think of it. It's counterproductive."

 

"For you, maybe," Evey conceded. "But it makes me think."

 

Now V was intensely curious. She thought about him, about the past he himself disregarded completely? How much was this a cause for concern, and how much simply natural inquiry on her part? "How so?" he asked cautiously.

 

"Thinking about what you might have been like as a young man, as a boy, realizing how young Valerie really was when she died... it makes me wonder just how much of what I know--what I think I know--is really true, and how much is just a matter of perception."

 

"And what do you conclude from this deduction?"

 

Evey reached out and touched one of the wilting roses. The fragile petal curled and crumbled into dust under her fingertip. "That even if you think you're telling me the truth, I've got to make my own decisions."

 

***

 

That bottle of whiskey was beginning to look better and better, Dominic thought grimly, fighting down a jaw-cracking yawn. Thirteen hours at New Scotland Yard, then over to the GPO tower to meet with his new team to hear the reports of their first week of work, the hopefully home to catch a few hours of sleep--unless one of the Voxers signaled him on the way back to his apartment, in which case he'd be in another meeting, most likely until dawn.

 

He stepped off the lift, hoping desperately that there was a coffee maker in the project offices. God there had to be coffee somewhere in this building, despite the hour... what was it? Two a.m.? Three? "Evening, all," he grumbled as he walked into the main room and chucked his coat in the vague direction of the coat rack.

 

"Good evening, Chief Inspector," replied Rose politely. Agent Sykes nodded curtly at him; Palmer only grunted in greeting. The three of them were clustered about one of the computer monitors.

 

"What's up?" Dominic asked, squeezing in to join them. "Find something interesting?" At first glance, though, there was nothing apparently helpful, just columns and columns of numbers--an accounts program, he realized, noting the pounds and pence symbols. "Breaking into government financial records. You think Codename V's cooking official accounts?"

 

Sykes shook her head. "I'm not certain this has anything to do with V just yet." She reached over Palmer's shoulder to tape a few keys; several new windows popped up. "But it is interesting..."

 

Dominic frowned; the display now showed account summaries and annual money transfers for the last several years for the Oscar Sutler Memorial Sanitarium. Shit, he swore, this are the Tumbrels accounts. "Bit off-topic, though.

 

"Possibly not," Sykes contradicted thoughtfully. "Rose. Go pull up the residents list for the sanitarium in Stratford." Rose moved to her computer and began typing rapidly. "Any number of once-influential scientists are incarcerated at that hospital," she added, by way of explanation.

 

Her chief wasn't satisfied. "How'd you come on this in the first place?" he wanted to know.

 

Palmer leaned back in his chair, his arms folded over his chest. "The Chancellor didn't give us much of anything to start with, so I went for finances. Trying to figure out where Guy Fawkes gets his funding. Went looked for irregularities in official tax records."

 

"And you found this?"

 

"Found a lorry-load more than this, but this blip has been consistent for over twenty-five years." He eyed the screen critically. "Awful lot of unmarked money for a state-run prison nursing-home."

 

From the corner of his eye, Dominic saw Agent Sykes nodding in agreement."

 

***

 

Fake IDs were wonderful things, Evey reflected as she sat in a reception room at the BTN, waiting patiently in her modest business suit and black wig for the next possible members of the Voxers to make contact.

 

The secretary picked up the ringing phone. "Ms. Creighton will see you now, Ms. Campion."

 

Evey quietly collected her briefcase and went into the indicated office. "Close the door," said the woman behind the desk. Evey did so. "Sit down, please." Evey remained standing. The two woman eyes each other warily.

 

Elizabeth Creighton was a tall, slender woman about ten years older than Evey, with long flaxen hair twisted into a bun at the back of her head and light grey eyes that peered keenly out of a long, pale face. She actually looked more like a bad imitation of a librarian than the head of programming and scheduling for the British Television Network.

 

"Are you done?"

 

Evey offered a half-smile. "If you are. You wanted to see me, Ms. Creighton?"

 

"You know, to hear Patricia talk, you were a lazy little juvie rec girl who couldn't put in a decent day's work if her life depended on it."

 

"This from a woman who threw a bitch-fit if I forgot the nutmeg shavings on her cappuccino?"

 

The older woman returned the smile. "Yes, Ms. Campion. I did want to see you."

 

Evey reached into her briefcase and pulled out the jammer. Flicking it on and setting on the scheduler's desk, she settled down into the chair, pulling off the uncomfortable black wig. "So you did. But what can I do for you?"

 

"I want to help you," said Creighton simply.

 

"Why? You seem to have things settled pretty well for yourself."

 

Creighton shrugged. "It's a job. It not as though I can put what I want on television."

 

Evey leaned forward, unconvinced. "There's more to it than that, I think."

 

"Do you?"

 

"I do. Because there's always more to it than that." Her own sharp eyes darted across Elizabeth Creighton's face. "Who did you lose? A parent? Sibling? Lover? Friend?"

 

"My father was taken when I was an infant. I don't remember him. But my mother... she divorced him after he was taken, and tried to rebuild her life with a new identity. But his arrest destroyed her, and living under this government killed her."

 

"It does have that effect on people."

 

Creighton stood abruptly; Evey jumped up, wary, but her contact only wanted to pace. "On a strictly professional level, I would welcome a change of regime, simply for the freedoms that could be returned to the studios. I don't know if you've noticed the absolute drivel on TV lately..." Evey grinned. "I do want to do something, Ms. Hammond--"

 

"Evey."

 

"Something for my mother, than she was never strong enough to accomplish." Creighton stopped her nervous pacing before a photograph hanging on the wall, a picture of a handsome dark-haired man and a smiling blond toddler. "Something for my son. I want him to have happier memories of his childhood than I have."

 

Evey certainly understood that sentiment.

 

"I can help your group, Evey. I can give you names of at least a hundred employees here who would be willing to join your organization. I can pass you dates and times for scheduled propaganda broadcasts, and the access codes to the national frequencies so you can override any program at any time." She grinned suddenly. "I can convince Roger Dascombe to join you."

 

"Bollocks!" Evey exploded. And this meeting was going so well...

 

"You don't think I can?"

 

"Not unless you're sleeping with him, but even then..."

 

Creighton only laughed. "I'm not Dascombe's type. But believe me, there's more to Dascombe than the government quite realizes," the head of programming smirked. "Not very much more, mind you, but just enough that he wants to keep some of his past, er, 'conquests' out of the public and political eye."

 

"So the man's had a mistress or two. Nothing unusual about that."

 

Snorting, Creighton crossed her arms. "I doubt he's ever thought about a woman like that."

 

Evey blinked. "He's gay?"

 

"In theory. As far as Roger Dascombe is concerned, sex isn't actually something people do, it's something people watch. But yes, his personal preferences are for well-groomed men, not half-naked women."

 

"You really think he'd join us."

 

"Roger's only loyalty is to this studio. He was the one who defused the bomb in the control booth, you know, that your friend left behind. Had no idea what he was doing, the madman... but his own skin is secondary to this facility. If we threatened to reveal his sexuality to the authorities, the idea of him being thrown in prison or even executed would be nothing to the idea that someone else might be given control of this station." She smiled sadly. "Gordon used to make some rather crude jokes about all the late nights Roger puts in. 'Overtime' and all that."

 

Evey laughed, but her heart wasn't in it.

 

Elizabeth Creighton studied Evey for a moment. Then, "Daddy Deitrich was quite the stuffed bear, wasn't he?" she commented softly.

 

If she knew about Gordon, Evey reasoned, she knows how to keep a secret. Maybe it was stupid of her. Maybe it was irrational, and probably it was dangerous. But more than anything else she had said, it was that comment, off-handed and sad, that convinced Evey that this was a woman she could trust.

 

"Tell me more about Dascombe..."

 

***

 

Dominic pulled the rolled print-outs from his overcoat and handed them to Dr. King. "What's all this about?"

 

King flipped through the account sheets and turned pale. "How did you come across this?"

 

"One of my project staffers had the bright idea to see if Codename V was embezzling government funds. The agent from the Finger is keen on this, King."

 

The doctor swore. "It's been so long... I was hoping it would just melt into the red tape and stay ignored."

 

"What's all this money for, though?" A horrible thought crossed Dominic's mind. "Oh, God... King, please don't tell me you're experimenting on the patients here..."

 

"Eh? No, nothing quite so blatant."

 

"What, then?"

 

King moved stiffly to his office window, spreading his hands on the sill, and stared out at the grey, rain-soaked countryside. "This facility was originally a country estate," he said, though what the point of the comment was, Stone didn't see. "But it's been built up so much over the past thirty years--for security purposes, to keep the patients in--that it's practically a fortress now.

 

"The Tumbrels may be named for Adam Sutler's father, but it was originally set up by Seth Vickery, the former head of Covert Intelligence, before the Finger took over the division." Dominic nodded; he remembered Seth Vickery's name, though he'd never met the man himself. "He joined the Finger after that, was Peter Creedy's right-hand man. He put a lot of time and effort into this facility; he wanted to be certain that the people who ended up here, stayed here.

 

"Before Seth Vickery retired from power, he gave us government funding for an arsenal, Stone. A fully stocked, fully operational arsenal. High-powered rifles, ammunition, tear gas, riot gear. Everything. Ostensibly, it was so that we--the staff--could protect ourselves if they--the patients and prisoners--were ever to rise up and try to take over the hospital.

 

"But aren't most of the staff here prisoners, too?"

 

King nodded. "It was a bribe, Stone, and a warning. Vickery wanted these people locked away--not killed, not destroyed in a camp--just kept quietly out of the way somewhere, until he needed them."

 

Dominic grimaced. "Just like Ducane."

 

"Maybe. He gave me the weapons to protect myself and my staff should there be a need. But. If we ever tried to use the arsenal against the government, not even God Himself would be able to help us. He wanted us all to remember that we were alive because Seth Vickery wanted us alive."

 

"It still seems an awfully big chance to take."

 

"Vickery was always a firm believer in great risks and great sacrifices. Inspector, he knew many of the prisoners here personally, was instrumental in getting some of them removed from camps and brought here. Perhaps he thought they would be useful. Perhaps they had information that he needed, or that he thought might hurt his career. I don't know."

 

"But if they could blackmail him, why didn't Vickery just have them killed?"

 

Dr. King took a minute to answer that, and his response, though honest, was not very helpful. "Seth Vickery didn't trust dead bodies to stay dead." He shook his head sharply. "I am the only person in this facility who knows about the gunnery."

 

"You've never had to use it?"

 

"We've never had a need. As long as I keep the patients within the walls and grounds, I can treat them however I choose. And I choose to treat them well," he added pointedly. "But I am the only person here who knows about it. Vickery knew, obviously, but I never knew whether or not he told Creedy. The money never stopped, so he either knew and approved... or he didn't know at all. He wasn't as... I hesitate to use the word 'forgiving' to describe Vickery, but it's the only one... Creedy wasn't as forgiving as Vickery was. He wasn't about to let state prisoners be armed, for any reason. Your agent from the Finger, what's his name?"

 

"Her name. Sykes, Judith Sykes."

 

"Shit."

 

"You know her?"

 

"I know her name. Oh, God... this isn't good." Dr. King moved to his desk  and unlocked a drawer, rummaging through it, his light blue eyes searching frantically. "Judith Sykes was Creedy's hand-picked successor. You have no idea how surprised I was when Abelard was announced as the new head. But if Creedy knew about the arsenal, then Sykes definitely knows. And if he didn't know... she'll suspect something now, that's for certain."

 

Dominic's head was reeling; was everyone in the know but him? "How in hell do you know that Sykes was Creedy's successor?"

 

King looked up briefly. "Part of Creedy's duties was to make a yearly tour of this facility. Sykes often came with him."

 

"That doesn't mean a damn thing."

 

"A woman doesn't stick to a man like that unless she's got something to gain." That was a train of thought Dominic did not want to pursue. "Inspector, the weapons can't stay here."

 

"Why not?"

 

"If Sykes finds out, she'll confiscate them. I told you--Creedy would never allow state prisoners to be armed, for any reason, and neither would she."

 

"But you said you were the only one who knew the location--or even that the weapons are even here!"

 

King froze. Then, very softly, "I'm not as young as I was when I was brought here. I could withstand a lot back then. I can't anymore."

 

Dominic balled his fists, thinking rapidly. The Tumbrels was home to a lot of brilliant people--people who had suffered under Norsefire, many of whom had already made clear their Voxer sympathies. If and when the revolution exploded into full-blown civil war--a possibility Evey had hinted would come--the Voxers would need some place to retreat, to tend their wounded. And even if it never came to that... this hospital was filled with British citizens who could not protect themselves, from either Norsefire or the Voxers. And whatever else Dominic Stone might be, he was a Brit, and a cop. "I can't let you get rid of the arsenal. I can't let you and the rest of the residents here be completed unprotected from whatever comes."

 

That led off into an argument which lasted for several hours, Dr. King wanting to remove the weapons for the safety of his patients and staff, and Dominic wanted them to remain for the very same reason. Finally, knowing that part of King's issue was his fear of being the one to betray his fellow inmates, Dominic offered a compromise. 

 

"Give me the access code to the arsenal. I'll change it, and give it to people I know we can both trust."

 

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "Winterley and Parker?"

 

"That suits me fine. And then if Sykes tries to get information out of you, you can at least know you won't betray the others. That way everyone will be protected."

 

King sighed. "All right. I can agree to that." Then he grinned sardonically. "And you might as well tell Ciaren Foreman, in the south wing, since he'll figure it out on his own eventually."

 

"Who's Ciaren Foreman?"

 

King went to his file cabinet and pulled out a folder. "Dr. Ciaren Foreman was the first director of operations at the Neverdale detention facility in Yorkshire, where they eventually developed the St. Mary's vaccine. He was outspokenly opposed to the use of prisoners as subjects, and for about eight months, the camp was in lock-down under his orders. He outright refused to continue the work on the vaccine until he was given willing experimental volunteers. The government rode in, took over, and he was sent here, although he likes to tell our visitors he was hauled off for being an eighth Irish."

 

"Why was he kept alive?"

 

"The usual, I suspect. Too dangerous to kill. His father was involved in some very hush-hush military dealings in the early part of the century, under Prime Minister Jones. I have no idea if Ciaren was privy to his father's information, but Vickery may have believed he was."

 

"Can he be trusted?"

 

"'Trust' isn't a word I'd use for Ciaren. He's my lieutenant here, and he despises Norsefire. But he's always got three other agendas besides the one he admits to."

 

Dominic grimaced; he knew a lot of people like that these days.

 

***

 

Evey climbed down into the disused tube tunnels, taking care to be certain no one was following her or watching her movements. Such precautions were done almost unconsciously now; she wondered sometimes if she was strengthening a sixth sense she'd always had, or if it was an entirely new talent, to just know when someone was following her. She was inclined to believe the latter; such foreknowledge hadn't saved her from marauding Fingermen last year.

 

V had.

 

She slid down a ladder and landed with a splash! in a puddle in the decayed concrete. She grimaced and wished--not for the first time--for a pair of V's leather jackboots. Aside from being what the younger Voxers gleefully referred to as "arse-kickin' boots," they were enviably more sturdy than her rotting trainers. She shoved her hands into her pockets and hurried down the tunnel, still flinching occasionally at the random little noises in the growing dark, but grateful that she at least knew her way around the Underground fairly well by now.

 

She was cold, wet, and tired, and just wanted to go home to a bath. Home... the Shadow Gallery. Yes, it was hers, V had made that very clear, with his rapid mood swings and his insistence of behaving like a glorified border. But with him acting so strangely... it didn't feel all that home-like these days.

 

Something had happened inside V's head. He had changed. Subtly, but surely, his mood had shifted from depression to slowly foaming anger. It oozed from every movement of his body, dripped from his words and permeated the damp air of the Gallery, and living with V was rapidly becoming like living with a ghost--a silent, angry, resentful ghost.

 

Evey had learned to avoid the library and the training room unless she was actually spoiling for a fight; granted, Winterley had said not to let V get too comfortable, but she figured it was also prudent to give him his space.

 

She was no psychologist, but it didn't take much effort for her to discern the reason behind V's sudden change in temperament. Simply put, he was angry. At her for imprisoning him in his own home, with his own words--his treacherous words--and at himself for speaking the words that had allowed her to trap him in this life, like a fairy in an old myth, or a selkie that had lost its skin and so was condemned to a life on land. He had relinquished control of his life to her, and now he hated both of them for it.

 

She stared at the heavy oaken door to the Gallery resentfully, sensing the man behind it. What a welcome home. But she had nowhere else to go but her dingy little flat in Brixton and as unfriendly as V had become, she was too damp and exhausted to just turn around and forsake him for the night. So she squared her thin shoulders, took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and prepared to do battle.

 

The first thing that struck her when she entered the chamber was the smell.

 

Bacon.

 

V had made food. And judging by his opinion of her, these last several days, it probably wasn't food for her.

 

Unzipped her jacket, she went into the kitchen. Sure enough, a greasy pan sat in the sink, and a loaf of bread had had a few slices haphazardly hacked from it. Evey stared at the dirty dishes and utensils, feeling unnerved. Eating was good. But he was the tidier of the two of them; many arguments in the early days of knowing each other had stemmed from her doing just this: leaving dirty dishes in the sink. It had taken Evey a good two weeks to be able to just make herself a sandwich without getting a round scolding from Nanny V about picking up after herself. God, he'd been able to make her feel like a five-year-old sometimes.

 

Now the habit was just too ingrained to be ignored, so Evey turned on the tap and washed the greasy pan and the dish and the bread knife. Before she'd turned the water off, the back of her neck told her he was watching her.

 

"You ate something," she said without preamble, wiping her hands on a dishrag. "I'm glad."

 

"Well," V drawled sardonically, "since I am yours to do with as you please, and it pleases you to keep me fed, it seemed the done thing to do."

 

Evey rolled her eyes; she didn't like it when he drawled. It sounded sloppy, coming from him. "If you're that pissed off about not being dead, are you sure you really wanted to die in the first place?" she asked him, turned around and leaning back against the countertop, purposefully nonchalant.

 

"I was the king of the twenty-first century. I was the bogeyman. The villain.... The black sheep of the family."[1] V lifted his hands and let them fall limply to his sides, and Evey noted that he was wearing the belt with the sheathes; since when did he stalk the Gallery armed to the teeth? "What am I now? A glorified houseguest."

 

"Do you always whine this much when you don't get your way?" V said nothing; Evey fancied she could see his upper lip curling in disdain beneath the grinning mask. "If you're looking for sympathy from me, V, you're not gonna get it. You know better."

 

"No, no tea and sympathy from you, Evey. Not tonight." His head made an odd oscillating motion, almost like a snake. "Are your efforts progressing?"

 

The wording of the question put Evey on guard. Not friendly inquiry, but curiosity with an underlying purpose, most likely unpleasant. "Ours numbers are growing," she answered cautiously. "And I met with a promising contact today. We're almost ready to start making our presence known."

 

"Ah."

 

When nothing else was forthcoming, Evey carried the ball into his court. "Why do you ask?"

 

"Because I have a question for you, my dear. One that I neglected to ask you when I passed this torch on to you." He walked forward slowly, great deliberation behind every step, until he was mere inches from her. "You can't fight the good fight without becoming what you hate most--that which you fight against. Are you prepared to do that?"

 

"I've already become what you hate most," Evey pointed out. "Your prison."

 

"But are you willing to ignore everything you were ever taught to think and feel and believe?"

 

"You seem to think I am."

 

"I know you will do what you think is right. But are you willing to become what I am? Are you willing to become a monster?" He pulled one of his knives out with a sharp shick! "You told me once that you would not kill. Not again. Not even for me." V flipped the knife into the air, caught it by the blade and held the hilt out to Evey. "If you're going to lead a revolution, woman, you'll have to go back on your word." Evey took the knife, eyes narrowed. V pulled the high neck of his vest down, exposing the thick yet vulnerable red-and-white scar tissue of his throat. "Best to start now."

 

The expression on Evey's face didn't change, as her eyes shifted back and forth from the knife to the Guy Fawkes mask. Then she smiled slightly. "You're not getting out that easily." And she walked away, still carrying his knife.

 

*** 

 

For a former head of a government facility, Dr. Ciaran Foreman looked terribly young, not even old enough to be out of medical school, but he listened to King and Dominic's proposal with composure, if also with a slight touch of derision. "I can't say it's the most brilliant plan I've ever heard, but it's definitely a start," he shrugged, accepting the passcode disc that Dominic handed him.

 

"You've got a better idea?" Dominic asked defensively. Covering a smile, Dr. King laid a placating hand on the chief's shoulder.

 

"Don't take it personally--he's always like this. Cuts himself shaving, does half an hour on people he's cleverer than."[2]

 

Foreman seemed not to have heart the insult. "Once you're through plotting the righteous downfall of evil dictators, King, I've got some specimens from the women's wing you need to take a look at."

 

"What kind?"

 

"Blood and tissue samples from some of the girls who came from the reclamation schools. Some most odd anomalies..."

 

"And you're stumped?"

 

"Bite your tongue, man! I just happen to want a second opinion." He brushed his incredibly messy brown hair out of his eyes.

 

"Er..." said Dominic. He had a feeling--a not uncommon feeling, these days--that he had just walked into a situation composed of many, many things he had no knowledge of. "Well, everything's settled, I'll leave now, shall I?"

 

***

 

Roger Dascombe yawned hugely. "Can't this wait until morning, Liz? I've been up since half past three."

 

Elizabeth Creighton closed her office door and very quietly locked it. "Sorry, Roger, but this is rather urgent."

 

"Indeed," came another voice, one that Dascombe had heard before. "We need to talk, Mr. Dascombe."

 

Perplexed, Dascombe turned, only to be confronted with the barrel of a pistol, held six inches from his forehead by Chief Programmer Creighton. "Dear God..." Another woman was standing next to Creighton, slightly shorter, with a shorn head and gleaming brown eyes. "You--you're Evey Hammond, aren't you?"

 

"Nice of you to recognize me, seeing as how I used to work here and all."

 

"What's the meaning of this?" Dascombe whispered.

 

"Simple enough. We need your unconditional cooperation. And you'll cheerfully give it, if you want to come out of this revolution alive and with all your parts intact."

 

"Me? Help the Voxers? You're a bloody loon, girl. Spent too much time with men in masks, eh?"

 

"I can't speak for her taste in men, but I happen to know a good deal about yours, if you get my meaning, Roger," Creighton interjected with a humorless grin.

 

He turned a delicate shade of green. "How did you...?"

 

"Oh, you'd be surprised at the things I've learned about you over the years, Roger." She drew the pistol away from his head but kept it trained steadily on him. "So unless you want me to publish, you'll be helping Miss Hammond here in any way she asks."

 

"This is blackmail!" Dascombe sputtered.

 

"No, Roger. This is a reckoning." Evey watched, impressed at Elizabeth Creighton's cool, how she exerted almost instant control over the situation. "Do you think I've forgotten how you stood silent when Gordon Deitrich was arrested and executed?"

 

"You didn't do anything either!"

 

"You're head of the British Television Network! You report directly to the chancellor! You could've said something, done something--!"

 

"I could've gotten my brains blown out, which would have happened if I'd said anything in Deitrich's defense. He violated the Collier Act, Liz! One word from me and I'd've been dead, for even thinking about condoning his actions. You think I wanted him dead? The man was my biggest ratings draw!"

 

Creighton all but bared her teeth at him, but Evey smiled suddenly.

 

"It's all about the station with you, Dascombe. All about the ratings. Because after all--what's more important than good TV?"

 

"R-right," he stuttered, not sure where this apparent digression was going.

 

"Except your life?" Right on cue, Creighton raised the gun again. Dascombe only stared at Evey, sweating. "All right, I'll make you a better offer. You help us--you give us access to propaganda, dates and times of critical broadcast, and round-the-clock clearance to studios and equipment, and not only with Liz here not publish... I'll let you maintain control of your facility." Dascombe paled abruptly and swayed, but Evey saw that it was with relief, not horror. "That's what you want most of all, isn't it, Roger? You don't care who's in charge of England or what state the country is in. All you want is the 6 o'clock news on the air on time and chockfull of tabloid scandal and society gossip.

 

"And I'll let you keep that. As long as you help us."

 

She waited, giving him ample time to make his decision... but in her heart, Evey knew that she had given him to decision to make.

 

He swallowed with some difficulty. "All right."

 

***

 

Stopping at the Macbeth office on the way home, Dominic discovered that his staff had all departed for the night. But the office was still lit by one computer terminal, currently in use by Chancellor Oliver Ducane.

 

"Sir," greeted Dominic with real surprise, "I didn't expect to see you here."

 

Ducane didn't look up from the monitor. "One of the problems with confidential information--particularly information that is supposed to have been destroyed years ago--is that one can't just have copies of everything lying around for perusal at one's convenience." The Chancellor was in his shirtsleeves, his tie half undone, an empty coffee mug at his elbow; he looked rather weary. "I gave your project everything I'd accumulated in my tenure as Minister of Objectionable Materials and as Sutler's personal aide. Everything. So, if I want to read these files, I have to come here." He finally raised his eyes to smile, tiredly and coldly, at the head of the Macbeth Project. "I don't like having my work read over my shoulder. Better to come after hours." He pressed the monitor's power button and stood up, stretching. "I hadn't expected you to return either, Chief Inspector. Such a long day you've had. I know after a visit to the Tumbrels, the first thing I do is go home and take a very hot shower. Was your visit profitable?"

 

Dominic noted that Ducane didn't ask what the purpose of the trip was. It was either supreme confidence--and stupidity--on the part of the Chancellor, and Dominic didn't suspect for a moment that Ducane was stupid. "After a fashion, I suppose." He waited for the debriefing to begin. When it didn't come... "Sir, may I ask a question?"

 

"You may ask."

 

"Why did Seth Vickery put those people in prison?"

 

"You know my methods by now, Stone. It is often more dangerous, in the long run, to destroy a document," replied Ducane, somewhat enigmatically, by way of explanation. "Much easier to spirit it away, til it's needed again."

 

"You're saying Vickery felt the same way about people."

 

"In essence."

 

Which was more or less precisely what King had told him that afternoon. "But how dangerous could most of these people be? They're cripples, invalids--Ciaran Foreman must've been all of six years old when he was incarcerated!"

 

"Well, he's about fifty-four now, so he was actually in his mid-thirties. He is a disgustingly young-looking chap, though, isn't he?" Ducane chuckled. He picked up his coffee mug and studied the empty bottom, as though debating whether to refill it. Apparently deciding against it, he set the mug down again. "He did hold up work at Neverdale for the better part of a year, with his misguided morals. The reason Vickery had him locked up was that Foreman's father was involved with some highly top secret military installation at the turn of the century, a facility whose location and exact purpose are still unknown. Vickery believed Foreman had knowledge of that project."

 

"So he locked the kid up until he was willing to talk..."

 

"Or until Vickery felt it was time for the information to be forced out of him." The Chancellor scratching his scalp with his long fingers, ruffling his auburn hair. "Once the rebels are put down, I may authorize Foreman's transfer to a more secure facility. But right now, I just don't have the brain power to deal with old government conspiracies..." He yawned. "I'm spent for the moment." He picked up his jacket from the back of his chair. "Good night, Chief Inspector Stone."

 

"Sir? Aren't you going to ask me why I was at the Tumbrels in the first place?"

 

Ducane shook his head. "I want results, Inspector," he reminded Dominic, shrugged back into his jacket. "I don't care how you get them, and I do not wish to know. Just get them."

 

***

 

A few hours later, Dominic stumbled tiredly into his apartment, dropped his wet coat to the floor, turned on the lights--and jumped about five feet into the air. "Holy shit!"

 

Evey Hammond grinned innocently up from her perch on the couch. "Evening, Chief. Tough night?"

 

"How in hell did you get in here?"

 

"My chum taught me a few tricks before he closed up on me." She shifted over to make room for him. "Have you ever shot anyone, Dominic? In the line of duty?"

 

Dominic took the bottle of Scotch from the coffee table and poured himself a tumbler. "Yes. I have."

 

"Does it bother you?"

 

"Yeah. Mostly when I sleep." He snorted. "I ain't Codename V after all. My job and my conscience don't always agree." He took a sip of whiskey. "Why?"

 

"My chum said something to me tonight that I hadn't thought about before. That to do the right thing, you've got to become what you fight against. People are going to die in this conflict, Dominic. Maybe a lot of people."

 

"Yeah." He drained the glass, refilled it, and handed it to Evey. "Well, one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter." Like an old hand, she knocked back the whiskey in one gulp. "Wars aren't won by people wondering if they're doing the right thing."

 

Evey grimaced at the burn of the alcohol. "Wars are won by politicians. They're fought by normal human beings, with families and hobbies and crippling moral problems."

 

Dominic shrugged.

 

"What? You think I'm over-thinking this?"

 

"Yup."

 

Evey drew her knees up to her chest. "You have no idea how nice a change it is to talk with a man who doesn't think, speak and breathe in quotations. Then again, he hasn't been doing much talking at all lately."

 

"Y'mean he's always like that?"

 

"Yup."

 

Dominic chuckled.

 

"How's work at the Project progressing?" He filled her in on the week's work, including his trip to the Tumbrels and the changing of the armory passcode. "So now we've got an arsenal," she commented, pocketing the passcode disc. "That'll be fun. What did you think of the new man, Foreman?"

 

"A weird bird, but since his principles ruined him, he's probably okay. I had Palmer do a check on him and his facility, and what King said about Foreman checks out. He forgot to mention one thing, though--why the facility was abruptly closed down, about two years after Larkhill was destroyed."

 

"That couldn't have had anything to do with Foreman, though, could it? You said he was incarcerated long before that."

 

"He was, but it's still an interesting side-note. Neverdale was Larkhill's sister facility; it was where the vaccine for St. Mary's was developed. Antigens and vaccines work in different ways, so you need whole separate testing grounds to develop them. Neverdale closed down under nasty circs; two female prisoners escaped from the hospital, killed six guards and escaped onto the Yorkshire moors."

 

"And they were never found?"

 

"Not a trace. It was like they just vanished."

 

"'Vanished.'" Evey frowned. "That's a word I've learned not to trust. How did the guards die? Did the women have weapons?"

 

"Hands and teeth. All six guards had their throats ripped out."

 

Evey made a considering noise, deep in her throat. "And are we supposed to blame them for that? After the way they were most likely treated?"

 

A sidelong glance from Dominic was the only response; he was in no fit mood for rhetoric. "How's your week been?"

 

Evey snorted. "Well, Dascombe's joined the Voxers under threat of blackmail, I've now got moles crawling through the BTN, my chum and I had yet another shouting match, and apparently now I've got enough weaponry to equip a small army."

 

"Just a week in the life, eh?" Dominic chuckled into the tumbler.

 

"Right." Evey took the glass and stared into the golden depths. "What I wouldn't give to have my old life back. Just for five minutes..."

 

"'For better or worse,'" Finch had said, "'she's stuck with him.'" Dominic swallowed a smirk. Chief, if you only knew...

 

At that time, they thought she was as much of a hardened criminal as he was, and here she was claiming to be just a victim of circumstance. Bloody little Oliver Twist. The worst part was, Dominic believed her.

 

Because now he knew exactly how she felt.