Geddis unclasped his seat-belt with an ease that made Sarah wonder if she needed to start revaluating her life choices. “Wish me luck, then,” he said, and got out of the car. He resisted the urge to turn around and give a thumbs-up, and instead strode from the visitors' car park and up to the booth by the central gate with the confidence of a man that wasn't hours away from his own execution.

  He dangled the ID card that he wore on a chain around his neck in front of the booth. Geddis didn't recognise the guard on shift, and the guard certainly didn't recognise him, as he went through the whole sorry process of checking and triple checking the ID. He scrutinised the photo for several long seconds and noticed it looked nothing like Geddis, which was exactly as expected. The thing that many people didn’t understand about photo ID is this: if the picture looks exactly like the person holding it, it's fraudulent. No technology was currently available that would allow a photo-booth to output an accurate photograph of, well, anything. For example, Geddis' photo looked very much like a grapefruit in a wig. This led a lot of people in the security industry to wonder why they even bothered in the first place.

  The guard put his glasses on and squinted at the card, then tapped a series of numbers into the device on the counter. He saluted, briefly thought about smiling, decided against it, thought about smiling again, then pressed the button that would open the barrier. “You have a good one – don't work too hard. I know I won't,” Geddis said. He put his hands in his coat pockets and ducked under the barrier before it was even halfway open. He took a quick glance at the map he definitely didn't have and that no-one else with maps they definitely didn't have noticed, then pocketed it and walked off whistling the most cheerful tune he could think of. Today was going to be a good day, and he hit most of the right notes in mainly the right order to prove it.

  ***

  Bosco opened his eyes and rolled over. He was still inside the pillow fort, the basement of which was now completely filled with drool; if he'd rolled an inch further, he'd have probably drowned. Harry had woken up some time before him and, surveying the situation, decided it best he go sleep on the battlements. Bosco grunted, Harry made a slightly different grunt, and they both agreed they'd have five more minutes. No sooner was the accord to sleep reached, the intercom above the door buzzed on. “Visitor. Stand away from the door,” the voice crackled. The door thudded its way through the opening process, the valve squeaked like a rusty tap throughout and made the possibility of getting back to sleep increasingly less likely. Harry hurled himself enthusiastically from the battlements and hopped across to the line drawn on the floor. He didn't like being here, but visitors broke up the boredom, and they were all so nice to him.

  By time the door began to swing open, Bosco had crossed the drawbridge and joined him, defiantly putting one toe across the line. In walked Doctor Sykes. He dispassionately spoke into a small recording device that he held in his hand and paid scant attention to the Tirrens themselves. He was flanked by two guards that they hadn't seen before, each towering above Sykes by a head and shoulders, their armour was clean and sleek and they carried weapons far removed from the rudimentary pipe rifles the rest of the men were issued with. Sykes had diverted funding away from the things he considered to be generally unnecessary, such as metal gates and the reassurance that the building won't fall down in an earthquake, and put the funds to much more useful endeavours. He was an important man, doing important research – and important men didn't have to explain why thirty-percent of the annual budget went towards a private security detail. The great thing about embezzlement, is that if you get it right, you don't, strictly speaking, need to explain it to anyone.

  “Addendum to log 7-13; the larger of the male subjects appears to in fact be six-feet-three inches tall as opposed to the six-feet-one inches on casual observation. Note to self: cross-reference the researcher and terminate them immediately. Note to lawyer: terminate as in end their contract. Further note to self: that was a lie.” As Sykes spoke, everyone around him found themselves suddenly less charismatic and, if they had tried to tell a joke, they'd have found they'd lost all sense of comedic timing. “I am Doctor Sykes,” he said, addressing Bosco in the same way he'd address a hat stand. He didn't care for a response, nor did he wait for one. “I will be interviewing you myself today. Your cooperation is mandated and your resistance not tolerated. Is that understood?” He took the answer as given and moved on with the conversation at his own speed. “You are to walk ten-feet behind me at all times, the adolescent is to remain here. Cuff him.”

  A guard stepped forward and locked a set of cuffs on Bosco. The doctor regarded Fort Pillow Fort and brought the recorder to his lips. “Subjects show signs of den-building behaviour. This animalistic behaviour seems at odds with their passing resemblance to human behaviour, such as the propensity to wear clothes. You, Simmons – have these pillows removed and burned immediately.”

  One of the doctor’s entourage stepped into the room, the very model of gangly insecurity and social inelegance. “Simons, Doctor Sykes, sir,” he said nervously as he fiddled with his glasses. “And right away, sir.” Simons immediately set to work breaching the walls of Fort Pillow Fort with a stepladder. “There appears to be lots of a viscous substance in the basement, Doctor Sykes. Should I take a sample?”

  “Yes, Simmons,” Sykes managed to say entirely during an impatient exhalation. “Label them properly this time.” He made sure to continue to call him Simmons, because doing otherwise would be to admit he was wrong. He turned and left without saying another word, and everyone felt wittier for him having done so. Without further instruction, the first of the guards turned and followed, while the second clasped Bosco by the shoulder and shoved him forcibly towards the door.

  Harry trembled lightly at first. As he saw his papa led out of the door and it slam behind him, he set himself to full vibrate mode. He didn't have his papa, he didn't have his pillow fort – he didn't have the happiness he had only a moment earlier. Not for the first time since he'd arrived, he curled up in the corner and cried.

  ***

  Geddis straightened his tie and tucked his shirt in, which felt like a strange thing for him to do, having never really done it at any point during the last ten or so years. He felt like a different person already. To add to this, he produced a comb from his pocket and attempted to reign in the hair that had roamed wild and free across his scalp for a lifetime. He was the wrong side of forty, and he'd probably agree with that if you pushed him, but he was very proud of his hair; it was thick and lush and, quite frankly, should be allowed to roam free anywhere it pleased, with the exception of his pillow and the plughole. He felt like he was doing nature itself a disservice by slicking it back, but now, for possibly the first time in ever, he looked professional. And that was what he needed; he had the authority, he was joint Director, but he lacked the credulity. Whenever he asked someone to do something, they'd give him a blank look and walk out the door, after which, they'd call up Sykes on the intercom and ask him what that was all about. Geddis needed people to do as he asked today and not run off and ask questions. Of course, it would get back to Sykes eventually – sooner rather than later – but by then, he'd have done what he needed to do. He hadn't quite gotten to the consequences part, but there were going to be consequences whether he did something or not. Project Cadia was Sykes' baby – if he could shut it down, there was no way Sykes would come off not covered in shit. Parnell would have his head, literally, before coming after Geddis. He quite reckoned that part of the plan was a given.

  What he hadn't worked out yet was how he was going to survive any of this, even with the help of that Ostler woman. He took a sip of his coffee and quickly spat it back into the plastic cup. A good sum of it dribbled down his beard and momentarily ruined the aloof in control image he was trying to give out. “The bastard switched the machines to decaffeinated,” he spluttered while he scraped his tongue clean. “He really has gone too far now.” He stuffed a handful of paper napkins into the cup to soak up as much coffee as he could, then he dropped it into, well, nowhere. He indignantly marched off towards the holding cells with his cup of coffee-napkins. If all went well and he survived long enough to be sole Director, the first thing he'd do is have at least one really good bin.

  Geddis approached the door of the holding cell, his request for the Tirrens to be moved into a larger room, unsurprisingly, hadn't been granted, but after a back and forth with Sykes, the old twister conceded that keeping them together would do no harm. He was less won over by the humanitarian argument and more by the promise of having one less guard to pay. That Brandon feller with the gammy hand had been sent back to his unit this morning, poor bugger. He wasn't too proud to let Geddis help with the door sometimes, which was just as well, because he'd still be waiting outside otherwise.

  The intercom buzzed and the familiar pre-recorded message filled the room in all its tinny, crackly glory, but Harry didn't much feel like being excited. He shuffled listlessly from the corner and over to the yellow line painted on the floor. It might have been his papa, but he barely had the energy to stand, let alone entertain the possibility. Even the door sounded like it was just going through the motions and would have much rather been anywhere else.

  “What do you mean Sykes is still bloody here? Where is he?”

  The guard shrugged and muttered, “Not my sodding job.”

  “Leave the door open, I won't be long.” It took Harry a moment to realise the man with the neat shirt, straight tie and normal hair was in fact Geddis. He didn't like it – it made him more like the other man. He waddled pitifully towards him, his legs still bound in irons, his arms outstretched in a bid for reassurance. Geddis knelt down and met his gaze, placed a hand on each shoulder and squeezed gently.

  “Do you know where they've taken your dad, love?”

  “Interview,” Harry said. He tried to sniff up the trail of snot that had emancipated itself from his nose. Geddis didn't know what was going on, so he was undecided on whether or not he should or shouldn't like it. Best case scenario, he thought, old Lard Corelious told Sykes to bugger off. He comforted himself with that idea for several happy moments before he disabused himself of the notion. Sykes was pivotal in the success of Project Cadia. Corelious was high on his own farts, but he knew Sykes was the only way they were getting anything done. What he was, however, painfully aware of, was that he wasn't going to get a second chance at this.

  “Right, then. Let's go on a little trip, you and me.” He scooped Harry up with one arm and turned and marched out of the door. Harry had partly untucked his shirt and readjusted his tie by time he got there, but he still managed to muster more than than a reasonable amount of authority when he spoke. “We're going for an interview. If you run off and tell Sykes about it, I will absolutely have your bollocks in a sling. You'll beg for me to terminate your contract by time I'm through with you. Am I making myself clear?”

  The guard coughed, looked at the floor and shuffled nervously like a scolded child. To Geddis' surprise, he then stood bolt upright and saluted. “Yes, sir, Mr. Director.”

  Geddis thought about it, and this was absolutely something he would never get used to. He reached into his coat pocket and produced the map and a digestive biscuit and handed them both to Harry, who now looked around excitedly and made faces at the guard. He felt a little more like himself.

  “Right, hold one for me and eat the other, please – I'll let you decide which.” Harry giggled with a nervous energy and popped the entire biscuit into his mouth, then looked expectantly at Geddis. “I was saving these for later. Fine, but don't stuff them in your gob all at once, yeah, your dad'll kill me.” He produced the remaining half packet of biscuits and handed them to Harry, who happily snaffled them away and tucked them down the front of his paper suit like a slightly confused squirrel that didn’t have any rocks. Harry held the map out in front of Geddis and they both set off in pursuit of a small, blue rectangle.

  This early in the morning, the corridors of Trinity Park were mostly clear, though there was the odd late-comer frantically scurrying around the warren-like maze in a desperate bid to find where they were meant to be. They all had their maps out and, as was common, everyone with a map out suddenly became somebody else's problem; simply brandishing a map of the facility acted like a very effective form of invisibility, so they were able to reach the small, blue rectangle without incident or attention. The rectangle in question was a payphone. Of course, Geddis never had to pay. Well, he did have to pay, he just never did. One of the biggest perks of Directorship in the eyes of Nathaniel Geddis was the unlimited access to coffee, snacks and everything else from anything else with a coin slot.

  He took a small, square key from his pocket and opened the box below the receiver; a single coin was enough to pay for his call, but he took a couple more for luck as well as an extra one for more luck – and another five because he really needed to be lucky today. He dialled the number and held the phone between his shoulder and the side of his face while he readjusted Harry, who now started to become slightly heavy. Harry didn't quite understand what a payphone was, or what a phone was, or really what the word pay meant.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “Hello,” Geddis said.

  “Hello,” Harry repeated, adopting the same sort of sing-song voice Geddis had. He'd played a game like this before, just without the payphone.

  “There's an echo on the line, you're breaking up, Geddis,” Danielle said.

  “Oh, no, that's my little friend here. Look, we've hit quite a little snag here. You know – eagle is still in the nest, pig is still in his pig-house, I guess. That sort of thing.”

  “Sykes is still there!?”

  “Yes, but I was being all covert about it. I have someone with me and I need somewhere for him to be so I can go do something that I presume to be very stupid.”

  “Hello?” Harry said again, this time in his own voice. There was a loud bump as Sarah scored a small victory against her seat-belt and lurched towards the phone with scant regard for either her own safety or that of the interior of the car. “Harry!”

  Harry made a noise that came somewhere between an awoog and the screeching trail of a firework; it was loud and attention-getting, but he was still holding the map, so all people noticed was a wonky fire alarm. There was a chorus of thumps punctuated by Erica trying to wrestle Sarah away from the door as she attempted to leave the car.

  “Shut up and listen, would you? We can't do what we planned today, maybe ever, I don't know. But what we can do is get them both out of here and away from Sociopath of the Year. Give it five minutes and go to the front gate, start making a fuss, we'll be out.” Geddis hung up the phone and checked the map for a supply closet.

  ***

  “What did he say? Is Harry okay?” Sarah had calmed down somewhat, partly due to the adrenaline leaving her system, but mostly because Erica had slightly too tight a grip around her neck.

  “Your friend seems fine, if that’s the word for it. Geddis didn't mention anything being wrong with him, anyway. They'll be out in five minutes, you stay in the car. Both of you.” She checked her watch, then got out the car and started a slow walk up towards the booth by the front gate. The guard saw her approach and vigorously thumbed through the manual; it was a small, three-page affair but he'd supplemented a lot of the material himself, and now flicked through close to a ream of paper that consisted of several hundred-thousand words and a questionnaire.

  Danielle didn't know what she was going to say or do until she opened her mouth and started just doing things. She'd never been one for over-the-top theatrics, but as she started to yell, her arms seized upon to opportunity to flail wildly like a windmill. They were joined by her feet, which stomped like they belonged to an irate toddler. It was all very cathartic. It was like a class she went to once where they encourage you to yell at a wall, hurt your throat and give them lots of money for the privilege. This, however, was free and, by virtue of being free, it felt so much better. “Where's he at then? I know he's here!”

  The guard stood staring into the middle-distance. He was having an existential crisis because his manual didn't have any suggestions on what to do when a woman in her mid-thirties starts yelling and aggressively playing the pronoun game. “Erm, uh, who?” he meekly managed to say before jotting a brief note in the margins to add the appropriate section.

  “You know who!” Danielle foamed at the mouth in a way that suggested repressed anger issues rather than an unfulfilled desire to am-dram.

  “Miss, I am afraid that if you continue to make a scene.” He was writing this down as he went. “I will be fully authorised to escort you off the premises.”

  “Just you try!”

  He scratched out the last sentence and started again. “I will be fully authorised to have you escorted off the premises – from a purely supervisory position, of course.”

  “Hang about, Alan, is it?” Geddis sauntered down the ramp towards the booth, a small cardboard box in his hands. Thanks to Harry, he looked as dishevelled as he did when Danielle last saw him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right. Well, you've done a cracking job. I don't remember the manual being quite that thick.” He pointed to the neatly-bound stack of paper on the counter with a spare finger. “But you followed it to the letter. Do we have an Employee of the Month award? I feel we should. If we do, definitely putting your name down.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir. It's a pleasure to serve, sir!” Alan stood to attention and saluted. He always wanted the power and officiousness of being in the army but didn't like the idea of being shot at, so he opted for a career where he could yell at people from the moderate safety of a concrete booth. Although, with the rabid lady outside, he wasn't quite sure it was nearly safe enough.

  “That's great, so listen. This lady here, and I'm sure you understand that I use that term loosely-”

  “-Bastard!”

  “That's me, love. She is, or rather was, an employee. Janitorial – lavatorial, mainly, if we're being honest. If I had to guess what she'd been sacked for, I'd say using the cleaning products as a mixer. Anyway, this is the very meagre contents of her locker. I'm sure she'll politely piss off when she gets it back. Right, love?”

  “Right, dickhead.”

  “There you go, then.” Geddis carefully handed the box to Danielle, the weight shifted from one side to the other, and it giggled with each awkward titubation.

  “Okay, then,” she said, not quite sure what to say as her anger diffused. She turned and stomped back towards the car. The box giggled all the way.

  “There's a saying around here that I'm sure you're aware of, Alan: self-effacement is the better part of valour. We run a tight ship here, and I'm sure you know not to tell anyone about this, well, unpleasantness.

  “Oh, yes, sir. Of course. The secret is safe with me, sir.”

  “Just what I expected from the Employee of the Month, Alan. Right, that's me, then. I've things to get back to.” Alan saluted again, but Geddis was already off on his way back up the ramp.

  He did his best to tidy his appearance as he headed towards the interview rooms, and succeeded in the respect that he now looked like an entirely different mess that was neither scruffy Geddis nor smart Geddis. He had no idea, well, he had a working idea on what he was going to do next. What he needed to do was get the Tirrens to the Gate, pop them some sandwiches and tell them politely to bugger off home while he messed with various buttons and levers that he didn't really understand all that well. That in itself presented numerous problems; firstly, he knew of the very large goon stood in front of the Gate and, secondly, he knew there was a scouting party on the other side of it. It all hinged, of course, upon getting them into the Gate in the first place. That's where his plan deflated. Sykes was gunning for him, he didn't know why he hadn't left yet, maybe Lardy got hungry and ate himself, but he knew it was a matter of time before his Directorship was withdrawn and he was no use to anybody – especially not himself. Once he got Bosco out, if he got him out, the whole shebang would probably fall apart. No aliens, no evidence, no invasion. It would be nice to get things back to normal. Normal, he mused; normal was a crash course into the arse-end of oblivion. Fixing this, fixing Sykes, it didn't actually fix any of the problems that started this whole bloody mess in the first place. Not only had he run out of time, he’d also run out of corridor.

  Geddis liked to play fast and incredibly loose with rules, the interpretation of rules and the general concept of what rules even are. At this exact moment, he cared. He stayed his path towards the interview room door and veered into the observation room next to it. He wanted to see what he was even working with before he skipped straight to stupid. The room was dark and cramped, and like a lot of rooms in Trinity Park, it was repurposed from something else. He couldn't remember what from, mind you, but he could stretch his arms out and touch both sides, so it was probably a storage cupboard or a restroom. That would explain the drought of both.

  Coffee cups littered the small wall-mounted desk in front of the one-way mirror. A pitiful light came on to illuminate the small control panel, another such light was in the interview room itself, on Sykes' side of the table, so he would be well aware it was in use. As he expected, Sykes wasn't alone. Stood behind Bosco, like two man-shaped dildos, were his bodyguards; all sleek and shiny, silent and unmoving – and armed to the tits with weapon systems that he designed at least part of. They were the kind of guns where the projectile that hit you would go on to kill the wall behind you. The shiny helmets followed Sykes around like lapdogs; even if he couldn't see them, he just knew they were around a corner or standing solemnly in the next cubical. He sat down and pressed the red button next to the microphone – the cheap cloth cover hissed with static. He connected the headset next to him to the console and slipped it over his ears.

  “Director Doctor Nathaniel Geddis observing the interview conducted by Director Doctor Burgess Sykes, as per his authority.”

  A small sigh escaped Sykes' lips followed by a brief contemplative silence, followed by another brief contemplative silence where he strangled Geddis in his head. “Noted, Doctor Geddis. Let us continue, shall we?” It might have just been the microphone playing up, but Geddis thought he could hear Sykes grinding his teeth. “Where were we?” Sykes asked Bosco, though he knew exactly where he was. “Are you currently aware of, or have been aware of, any militia, law enforcement groups or significant military organisation within the confines of Cadia?”

  “I don't know where Cadia is.”

  “Where you are from.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since we named it.”

  “You don't get to name my home!”

  “We did, and we have the paperwork to prove it. Answer the question, Subject A.”

  “Ahem.” Geddis did his best to cough theatrically. “Director Doctor Nathaniel Geddis interjecting in regards to Subject A. He has a name, I will remind you, Director Doctor Burgess Sykes. His name is Bosco Tirren.”

  “Noted and disregarded, Doctor Geddis. Please refrain from interrupting again.”

  “My apologies, Director Doctor Burgess Sykes. No more interruptions from me, Director Doctor Nathaniel Geddis, with whom you are speaking, as per his authority.” Geddis turned off the microphone and left the observation room. The light in the interview room dimmed to nothingness and a surge of relief did laps of Sykes’ veins, then he heard the squeal of the valve handle and the clunk-clunk-clunk of the many ample bolts as they retracted into the door. Sykes sat for the full thirty seconds, his jaw clenched and a vice-like grip on the lip of the table.

  “For the benefit of the tape, Director Doctor Nathaniel Geddis, that’s me, hi, has entered the room and is now sitting in with Director Doctor Burgess Sykes in the interview of Bosco Tirren.” He pulled a chair from over behind the door. It wasn't heavy, but he dragged it across the tiled floor like nails down a chalkboard. “So, Mr. Tirren. My esteemed colleague asked you about the military, was it? I feel a yes or a no answer to be very definite, so unless you're absolutely certain, a don't-know is fine. It might take months to survey the area ourselves, sadly, but we understand you wouldn't want to cause us any trouble by giving a misleading answer. Isn't that right, Doctor Sykes?”

  “That is technically correct, Doctor Geddis,” Sykes said through gritted teeth. “Though I will remind you not to put words in the Subject's mouth.”

  “I don't know,” answered Bosco.

  Sykes tightened all of the muscles in his face. “Moving on for now. When last you discussed the matter with my… colleague, you said that you were not aware of any exploitable resources within the vicinity of your habitation. We have very generously given you time to rethink your answer. Now tell us the truth.”

  “Flowers,” Bosco said.

  “We have no need of flowers.”

  “Dirt.”

  “Dirt is not a resource.”

  “Depends what you use it for, Doctor Sykes,” Geddis said.

  “Sand,” Bosco continued. He was beginning to quite enjoy Sykes' growing frustration, though Geddis had begun to enjoy it less. Every awkward, dissatisfied tick on Sykes' face was met by a nervous twitch from the guards that stood opposite, like they were waiting for an excuse.

  “So,” Geddis said, changing the subject quickly. “I thought you had a meeting with Lord Corelious about now.”

  “I am a very busy man, Doctor Geddis, as is he. He appreciates my hard work and attentive nature, and he respects my time and commitment to a cause bigger than both of us.”

  “Something bigger than Corelious? Surely you jest, good doctor.”

  “That is why he is personally coming to see me, so that I may give him a tour of the facilities and allay any of the fears and concerns that tend to trouble great men. Not like you would understand, Doctor Geddis. The venue and the time has changed, but I assure you my agenda has not, if that is what you are inkling at.” Oh bugger, thought Geddis.