I shake my head. “Cross my heart and hope to die, it was an honest fuck-up.”
“Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “I’m just here to fill out the forms with you and ask you the questions. If a decision is made to pursue an enquiry I will declare a conflict of interest and withdraw. Are you happy with that?”
For a moment I feel a flicker of gratitude amidst the gloom and dread. “Fair enough.”
Iris returns, pushing another rickety office chair through the door. (I approve. Most of my previous managers would have sent a minion to do that for them; actually mucking in and getting stuff done was beneath the dignity of their station. I’m still taking notes on Iris’s style, although right now my career doesn’t exactly look to be on course for promotion.)
“Are you ready to begin?” Jo asks.
I nod.
Jo pulls out a notepad and a voice recorder, then her official warrant card. She holds it up and my eyes are drawn to it, with a swelling, stabbing sensation in my forehead as if a swarm of bees have taken up residence between my ears. “By the power vested in me in the name of the state, by the oath of service you have sworn under penalty of your mortal soul, I bind you to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
Not ask, or order, but bind. My tongue feels swollen, as if I’m having an allergic reaction. I manage to nod.
“State your name, rank, and date of birth.”
I feel my lips move and hear a voice reciting. Iris is watching me closely, her expression hard to read. It’s okay: I feel comfortably numb. I want to tell her, but my voice isn’t having anything to do with my mind right now.
“Yesterday morning, June fourteenth, you met with Detached Special Secretary Angleton in his office. Describe the meeting.”
It’s funny, I didn’t realize I could remember that much detail. But the geas drags it out of me over the course of an hour and a half, and by the end of it Jo is grimacing and wincing as her hand spiders back and forth across the pages of her report pad, filling it in verbatim—I’m not the only one whose muscles aren’t under my own control while the report field is in force.
Finally she draws breath again. “Is there anything you’d like to add for the record?” she asks, turning over a new page.
My mouth opens again, almost without me willing it: “Yes. I’m very sorry.” My jaw shuts with an audible click.
She nods sympathetically: “Yes, I suppose you would be.” She closes the report pad with a twitch, says, “The report is now over,” and switches off the voice recorder.
Iris sags. I follow suit a moment later, then Jo makes it a threesome. The wards on the cover of her R60 pad and voice recorder are glowing almost as brightly as the haunted instrument panel in Hangar Six. “Whwhat happens now?” I ask. My throat feels gravelly.
Jo glances at Iris, who raises that eyebrow again—the one that can shut down committees or terrify demons to order.
“I take this back to Oscar-Oscar, and have copies created under seal. One goes to Human Resources”—I try not to cringe—“one goes to the Auditors, and one goes to Internal Affairs. Everyone else involved in the incident gets the same treatment. IA put the collected transcripts—and the special coroner’s report on the victim—in front of the Incident Committee, who investigate and determine the cause of the event.”
I lick my lips. “And then?”
Jo shrugs uncomfortably. “If they find that the cause was negligence they throw it back at HR for an administrative reprimand. If they attribute it to malice they may action Internal Affairs to prosecute the case before the Black Assizes, but that requires evidence of actual criminal intent. Oh, and they copy Health and Safety on their findings, so H&S can issue guidelines to prevent a recurrence. Meanwhile the Auditors get a chance to muck in if anything catches their eldritch eye. But that’s basically it.”
She delivers this with her best poker face.
“And in practice . . . ?” Iris nudges.
“Do you really want to . . . ? Well, hmm.” Jo looks at me sidelong. “I’m not going to try to second-guess the Incident Committee, but it sounds to me like a straightforward mistake made by an overworked employee who hadn’t been fully briefed and was in a hurry to get back to his other duties. If it turns out that the victim wasn’t authorized to be in Hangar Six, the employee in question would be off the hook—up to a point. But Jesus, Bob!”
Her composure cracks; I hang my head before her dismay.
“I’ll not make that mistake next time,” I mutter, then try to swallow my tongue.
“There won’t be a next time,” Jo says vehemently. “What were you thinking, Bob?”
“I don’t know!”
Iris stands up. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Sullivan.” She angles herself towards the door, transparently urging Jo out.
“I’m out of here,” Jo says defensively as she stands up. “I’ll see you around, Bob. Hopefully under happier circumstances.”
I nod as she leaves. Iris sits down again and looks at me, frowning. “What are we going to do with you?” she asks.
“Um. I don’t understand?”
“To start with, you’re taking the rest of the week off work,” she says, and her expression tells me not to even think about arguing. “And when you come back in next Monday and not a day before, you’re off active duty for the rest of the month.”
“But Boris is shorthanded and Angleton needs—”
“They need you sane and fit for duty next month as well,” she says sharply. “And next year. You can pick up the cabling job you were speccing out, and the routine server upgrade, but you’re not to go tearing around banishing demons and shooting up cows until further notice. A couple of months of boredom won’t do you any harm, and more importantly, if it takes the stress off your shoulders so you’re less likely to make mistakes I’d call that a win. Wouldn’t you?”
I wince, but manage to nod.
“Good.” She unwinds a fraction. “You’re probably wondering why I’m giving you the velvet glove treatment. Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, you’re now the focus of a fatal incident enquiry. You may or may not come out of it with your honor intact, but it is going to place you under stress. When people are under stress they’re more likely than usual to make mistakes, and I don’t think you’re any exception. So I’m not going to let you take on any hazardous jobs until this is sorted out. If you screw up and get yourself killed then—speaking as your line manager—I will follow you all the way to hell and kick you around the brimstone pits. Because letting you make further screwups due to stress would not only be an avoidable, hence senseless waste—it would be a black mark on my record.” There’s a peculiar, dangerous gleam in her eyes. “Are we singing from the same hymnbook yet?”
I nod again, slightly less reluctantly.
“Good. Now piss off home and leave the damage control to me.” She pulls up a strained smile, and I could cry. “Go on, it’s what I’m here for. Scram!”
I can take a hint: I scram.
IT IS A TRUTH UNIVERSALLY ACKNOWLEDGED THAT A SANE employee in possession of his wits must be in want of a good manager.
Unfortunately it’s also true to say that good management is a bit like oxygen—it’s invisible and you don’t notice its presence until it’s gone, and then you’re sorry. The Laundry has a haphazard and inefficient approach to recruiting personneclass="underline" if you know too much you’re drafted. The quid pro quo is that we have to make do with whatever we get; consequently it should be no surprise to learn that our quality of management is famously random, governed only by the tiny shred of civil service protocol that sticks to the organization, and Human Resources’ spasmodic attempts to cover up the most egregious outrages.